Sometimes the words just pour out, spilling onto the page with such haphazard glee that I don’t know what to do with them. Sometimes the words are like spare change, spent and counted carefully in a manner calculated and controlled. Still other times the words need to be wrung from a towel, each one a drop that barely serves to satiate.
This is one of those times; Jack doesn’t like to share his words, his story.
He conceals his secrets inside, cloistered and kept, away from people who pry. But then when he finally wants to say something, it can’t seep through the shell that he has surrounded himself with, can’t break from the mask that has fixed itself to his face.
So I’ll start with a lyric, courtesy of Ms Haines.
The town where he was born, like the town where I was born, was built by white settlers seeking gold and other treasures.
We were born at different times, but I like to think that hasn’t degraded our relationship at all. I made my appearance in June, almost twenty years ago now. Romantics might state that it was one score ago, but there’s little poetic worth in that, now, is there? Jack, though, is but three. He’ll insist, like many his age, that he is three an’ a haf’, which makes him much more mature than three, doesn’t it. Agreement will stop his insisting, I promise.
But to say Jack is three an' a haf' would be terribly false. He may have appeared only that many years ago, but I'm quite sure he's been with me all my life.
In hindsight, I'm not all too surprised about Jack's sudden appearance. He surfaced just in time to meet a boy by the name of Trevor. Well, at seventeen he was a young man, I guess, but I hate that term to no end.
Jack was still new and naïve at this time, but he felt something in Trevor, there was a connection there that can’t be easily explained in words. If I had blank paper and a pen then I might manage to map Jack's feelings, but that, too, is unlikely.
So instead, I’ll shift to a medium I find more malleable: narrative prose. Though adapted to fit this tangle of perspectives, of course, and most likely not riddled with dialogues, as it would be unrealistic to quote things the way I remember them, as my memories are morphed into something I see fit, and further frustrated as I place them on pages for you to read. I can’t reveal everything, now, can I? And I hardly live a fairytale, so elaborations are needed, embellishments and exaggerations where fact turns to fancy.
Now I guess a hook is in order, a carrot to dangle at your forehead. Maybe, just as before, I’ll use a lyric. Tell ‘em, Brandon.
I’m comin’ out of my cage, and I’m doin’ just fine.