Angles and Roundness
                      
                                          by Paper-Doll

        I saw Daisy. I saw Daisy skipping rope in the street and I drank my coffee
and made my art.
        Inspiration of an artist is an unhappy life.

        I saw Fiona, her womanly lips, long dark legs, black, tied back hair. I saw
Fiona seduce me. But I just wanted redemption.

        Character is desire. A character must want something.

        I saw Daisy riding her bike. I saw a poem too lovely, too painful, birthed
from my pen.
        I hid the abomination in the back of my dresser drawer.
        I saw the God of Information give forth only filth.
        I saw the floor and the stain of the spilt Guinness on white carpet.
        I saw the angles of Fiona’s face and knew cubists to be the epitome of a  
real men.

        Character has image.

        I saw myself write the beauty as defined through the eyes of a man that is
not me.
        I bought a paper shredder.
        I waved at Daisy. I melted at deep shining eyes and a smile like a flower’s
bloom or a...
        I faked a smile at Fiona poorly. She asked what was wrong, I contemplated
truth while she got undressed.

        Character should have a defining voice.

        Are all my writings lies?
        One can lie when writing, but personal experiences and truths as defined by
theme or thesis are required, if not impossible to extricate from any work
of art.
        I looked at a photo of Fiona and fished out my hidden poem from the back of
my dresser drawer.
        I turned on the paper shredding machine. I read the poem I had written. I
kissed it. I turned off the machine. I put the poem back.
        I turned down Fiona’s proposition that she come over for the night.
        I saw a tear darken my ultramarine blue pillow case.

        I went on a walk.
        I saw Daisy. I saw Daisy skipping on the sidewalk in a pink polka-dotted
skirt.
        I walked up to Daisy and said hi. Daisy said hi. I said your beautiful.
        She asked how beautiful.
        I said as pretty as a flower.
        She said beauty is relative.
        I said that I knew she was.
        She said she wasn’t dark like Fiona.
        I said it had nothing to do with color.
        She asked what then.
        Angles verses roundness I answered.
        Who is prettier she asked.
        You or Fiona?
        Yes.
        You I answered.
        You may not know it, she said, but you suffer extensively from
ethnocentrism, in that you think that all of the values, which are ingrained
into you by the processes of enculturation, are the most correct if not
God-given ways of all the ways that there are.

        But even you, she continued, culture-bound as you are, are incapable of
modal personality. You fight what you feel to avoid scrutiny, while creating
an unhappiness more potent than necessary for a writer or artist of any
kind.

        Character is desire I said under my breath.

        Feel what you feel she said.
        May I kiss you I asked.
        No she said. Laws are still laws and windows are still windows and streets
are still streets and Fiona is still your fiancée.

        I saw Daisy skip down the sidewalk, playfully leaving my company.
        I went home accepting desire, with enough unhappiness to write relative
truths.