Dreams
November Seventeenth, Twenty-Ten.
I wish I could change my life. I mean, I could- I could run away, I could kill myself, I could do many things. But I cannot change my life in the way I want to. I am to young to be done with school, too young to start opening a shop in downtown Sanfransisco.
I wish I was eightteen, rather than sixteen. I wish I had a bank acount. I wish I had a studio. I wish I had endless amounts of fabric, and thread, and zippers. I wish I had a spool of lables, ready to sew into clothes. I wish I had a printing press, for screen-printing my own t-shirts. I wish I had more money to buy these things with. I wish I had more support from my parents, who think this is just a phase.
Watch, you two. Someday you’ll come across this big indie brand name, and you’ll look it up to find it’s owned by, and desingned by, your oldest daughter. Someday, you’ll see a beautiful blonde hiding her face behind large glasses, turned away from the flash of the camera, and you’ll think “she looks familiar,” as you read your middle daughter’s name, cause she did make broadway, as she’s an amazing actress. Someday, you’ll look at a gorgous panting in a show, and someone will tell you it was done by your youngest daughter. You’ll stand there, astonished, because last time you heard from her, she was screaming at you at the airport, about to leave for Japan to become a sushi chef. Someday, you’ll pick up a ‘Natinal Geographic’ with the headline ‘New Dinosour Discovered,’ and buy it for your son, thinking just how much he’d like it. You’ll glance at the article, and his name will be credited with the discovery. Someday you’ll sit down at the table in that stuco house you desinged for a two-kid family, next to our father, whom you continue to say you’ll divorce, but never do, and you’ll ask him how all your children left you so far behind. You know what? He’ll tell you. He’ll tell you how you were so damned busy every night of their teenagehood that it was all you could do to cook a decent dinner; how you cared more about your students than your own children. He’ll tell you how the four humans you created together had such great and valued talents, but you were to taken in telling them that fashion is not a skill that will get you anywhere in life; that you can only act if you you let people take pictures of you nearly nude, if you cake on so much makeup no-one can see your face. He’ll remind you of every time you said that girl couldn’t do a thing properly besides whine, of every time you told your son that dinosours were far and few between, and he’d be better off in construction. He’ll tell you of how their distaste for you lead them to fame, to success. He’ll tell you why your students continualy ask to meet your children, the four spawns you spent your life tuning our, forgeting you had.
You know something else? You won’t be proud. You’ll be pissed, casue they got there without any help from you. Cause they got to fame, and you hate fame. Cause your children made it somewhere you hoped you could, and then spent the rest of your life telling them was worthless because you were jelous of those who did make it. You’ll be pissed, because they aren’t sitting in some office, faces buried in books. You’ll be pissed, because everything you did to hide them from what is popular, like not ever having a TV, allowing very few kinds of music in the house, and dressing them in overalls every day, did not work. It backfired. Because now, your middle daughter’s name is plasted over the tabloids. Because now, your youngest daughter’s name is signing pantings worth millions. Because now, every five-year-old boy’s dream is to grow up like your youngest child. Because now, I live in some other country, and I have stores all over the world, each small yet sucsessful, like a chain of botiques, one in each large city and a website with a select few choices. And you still live in some small town in northern California, teacing highschool english to kids who don’t care.
I wish I was eightteen, rather than sixteen. I wish I had a bank acount. I wish I had a studio. I wish I had endless amounts of fabric, and thread, and zippers. I wish I had a spool of lables, ready to sew into clothes. I wish I had a printing press, for screen-printing my own t-shirts. I wish I had more money to buy these things with. I wish I had more support from my parents, who think this is just a phase.
Watch, you two. Someday you’ll come across this big indie brand name, and you’ll look it up to find it’s owned by, and desingned by, your oldest daughter. Someday, you’ll see a beautiful blonde hiding her face behind large glasses, turned away from the flash of the camera, and you’ll think “she looks familiar,” as you read your middle daughter’s name, cause she did make broadway, as she’s an amazing actress. Someday, you’ll look at a gorgous panting in a show, and someone will tell you it was done by your youngest daughter. You’ll stand there, astonished, because last time you heard from her, she was screaming at you at the airport, about to leave for Japan to become a sushi chef. Someday, you’ll pick up a ‘Natinal Geographic’ with the headline ‘New Dinosour Discovered,’ and buy it for your son, thinking just how much he’d like it. You’ll glance at the article, and his name will be credited with the discovery. Someday you’ll sit down at the table in that stuco house you desinged for a two-kid family, next to our father, whom you continue to say you’ll divorce, but never do, and you’ll ask him how all your children left you so far behind. You know what? He’ll tell you. He’ll tell you how you were so damned busy every night of their teenagehood that it was all you could do to cook a decent dinner; how you cared more about your students than your own children. He’ll tell you how the four humans you created together had such great and valued talents, but you were to taken in telling them that fashion is not a skill that will get you anywhere in life; that you can only act if you you let people take pictures of you nearly nude, if you cake on so much makeup no-one can see your face. He’ll remind you of every time you said that girl couldn’t do a thing properly besides whine, of every time you told your son that dinosours were far and few between, and he’d be better off in construction. He’ll tell you of how their distaste for you lead them to fame, to success. He’ll tell you why your students continualy ask to meet your children, the four spawns you spent your life tuning our, forgeting you had.
You know something else? You won’t be proud. You’ll be pissed, casue they got there without any help from you. Cause they got to fame, and you hate fame. Cause your children made it somewhere you hoped you could, and then spent the rest of your life telling them was worthless because you were jelous of those who did make it. You’ll be pissed, because they aren’t sitting in some office, faces buried in books. You’ll be pissed, because everything you did to hide them from what is popular, like not ever having a TV, allowing very few kinds of music in the house, and dressing them in overalls every day, did not work. It backfired. Because now, your middle daughter’s name is plasted over the tabloids. Because now, your youngest daughter’s name is signing pantings worth millions. Because now, every five-year-old boy’s dream is to grow up like your youngest child. Because now, I live in some other country, and I have stores all over the world, each small yet sucsessful, like a chain of botiques, one in each large city and a website with a select few choices. And you still live in some small town in northern California, teacing highschool english to kids who don’t care.