“Does this make sense to you?”
“It all just sounds so vain”
She explains to Holden Caulfeild as he sits in her newly rearranged living room suspended above South Main Street.
“I am to assume I am Holden? Or is that forward?”
“No, you’re correct.. am I being too forward in naming you?”
She goes on in her own rambling hovering way about constantly talking about herself to herself and how she feels as though she’s been manically attempting to exorcize a being that is and all at once isn’t her.
Parallel lines that intersect inside out of herself. Lives simultaneously lived and not lived as if ‘Nicolina’ is merely multitudes of alternatives, half-full glasses and empty bottles. Just as Holden managed to fulfill the prophecy of both his and Mr. Antolini’s fates in a singular moment, Salinger himself (the smug fuck that he is), laughing from the grave.
Books turned to film turned to books turned to Inverted solipsism.
Where N equals the limit, however the limit does not exist even though there are a tangible amount of variables between N and i .
Variables that include, but are not limited to January 19th 2017: Nicolina sitting idle in a running car asking Holden if he was in fact who he said he was, or had he lied to her (December 31st 2016) : fully clothed -in her own bed- as a way to filter out her phony.
“I would and have assumed nicknames are terms of endearment, as I hold no value toward this name you must therefore find it endearing – ergo yea I’m ok with this at present”
Variables that include Nicolina as a space of occupancy.. A room with enough time to encase bathrooms of a double wide trailer where her mother hand washes diaper cloths and her father writes $2,000 personal checks from the driver’s side of a rented BMW. Where her older brother at six years old asks his cousin why he wears one leather glove on his right hand and the slamming of a Glock on Grandma’s kitchen table is his only answer…
Does this make sense to you?
“Yes I follow it quite well”
A room where Nicolina herself picks her outfit for the first day of school out of a hand-me-down bag on a screened-in porch while simultaneously deciding if she’d rather look Michelangelo in the eye or pray to the Aztec gods.
“Any where you’d like to go in the world” her father inhales as her mother exhales “I sent you twenty bucks, that’s all I got right now.”
“I love you” being held between both their teeth in each and every breath.
Her mother crying at 1AM in the driveway while her father laughs and pisses in the front yard.
Forty times Nicolina paces around that room above main street with ceilings the height of Jericho.
Forty times she and Holden ask each other “Am I making sense?” making pilgrimages across words and knocking on the doors of soldiers, poets, song writers, and philosophers to ask the same question.
Pilgrimages between the cost of their schooling and the average yearly salary of their friend’s fathers which is only Forty times half a semester’s worth of books and forced walks of atonement when their ‘silver spoons’ accidentally escape their mouths.
Forty times they attempt to build the bridge.
Forty times they’re forced begin again with shattered brick.
“a faction is kept out where a clique keeps out”—-“write that down”
“Everyone has a plight”
“No, only the working class..”
Does this make sense to you?
“Yes I follow it quite well i believe though I do not know where it leads; resting assured that it will be close to home”