Excerpts from my Journals
[From 1995, overheard on the street of my suburban neighborhood as I was trying to fall asleep.]

[In the distance, barely heard voices talking - arguing.  One is a man's; the other a woman's.   The man is doing most of the talking, and the only word that can be made out if "fuck" and only because of its repetition.  The woman's tone is pleading.]

[The voices draw nearer and become clearer.]

Man: I don't fuckin' care what the fuck you want.  I'm fucking getting the hell out of here.

Woman: Please [almost whining], come one.  Talk to me.  Please!

Man: [shouting] I don't fuckin' care at all about you.  I'm fucking getting away at the first fucking chance I get.  I don't give a fuck about you.

Woman: But we're married...

Man: [shouting] I don't fuckin' care.

Woman: Wait, wait...I want to give you some money.

Man: I don't want your fuckin' money.

[The voices begin to fade as the woman's pleading is now louder than the man's curses.]

All these years later, coming across this torn out page pasted in another notebook, I feel the same tightening of my gut, feeling the desperation and the anger so raw that I felt that night as a thirteen year old kid hearing this from his window in the early hours of the morning.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 27th, 2008 and is filed under Excerpts from my Journals, Prose, Reflections. Comments are closed; the conversation is kept as it was.