bourne-ed to death
i rent the movies, the Bourne movies, all three: Identity, Supremacy, Ultimatum with the Bourne Erection soon to follow. there he is, Matt Damon walking the walk, the Bourne walk where fast and steady wins all races. i think Kiefer Sutherland copied it whole, the walk, the look, the steady cam, the speed freak jump cuts and paranoia. i watch in the afternoon, my bird food cereal on my lap and a pint of Cafe Bustelo that will shuttle me to the shitter before half a cup is gone. i shut off the tv mid-stream so i can get my art- for-the-day underway, saving Jason for later. but here’s the kicker: my celluloid fantasy in perpetuity. as i stride down the hallway of my railroad apartment i do the walk. the Jason Bourne/Matt Damon bouncy heel walk, killer look, chin lowered, vigilant, a laser beam from my forehead to a red dot targeting the sink walk. sharp Karate moves wash the dishes with a no-nonsense attack to the most insignificant detail. i don’t even realize i’m doing this until i get it, me as Jason and i burst out laughing. my all-by-myself barking walrus, chin whiskers-in-the-air laugh at how incredibly not like Jason i am. i sneak a peek in the mirror only to catch the flouncy, over-conditioned stringy hair, no lips and 68-year-old yellow teeth that look asymmetrically filed down. there is no Hollywood here. no Matt Damon there. no Jason anywhere. just me. i do that a lot. leaving a movie theater i walk to my car, climb in and fire it up as if it was me up there on the silver screen. the after burn of the cinematic mind comes alive around me like the rainbow traces that follow the tails of sparrows in an LSD sky.
This is an excerpt from my book, The Paragraphs — Cutlass Press
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