The Great Gatsby

It's cliche and old-fashioned and unpopular but I really do love America. I think it's the one place where I could be a tattoo artist and chef and diplomat and no one would think twice. We're sort of made of those kinds of dreams; the ones that don't necessarily fit right. The ones that take sorting out and sometimes at the end they still don't fit, like chewed-on puzzle pieces shoved into place. But it's the ability to keep shoving, keep on going, that makes us different. It's the idea that if we shove hard enough, for long enough, someday those pieces will fall into place. No matter the pieces, the shape or size or vastness, they all will find a way to make a picture, a picture so wide and beautiful only we can see it--we, the individual--because it was always our dream to begin with no matter what outside forces mutilate it, no matter how it changes and withers over time, since in the end it was always originally our American Dream. And it always will be.

I think the things they should write on gravestones aren't dates or "Beloved" or "Father" but dreams. So when a stranger walks by the grave, they will stop to read each inscription and the person will mean as much to them as some distant relative who visits once a year. So that the person, whether they got their precious dream or not, will be remembered not for achievements but for intentions.

Which begs the question: what would your inscription read?

I believe in two American Dreams. I believe in the popular dream and the personal dream. The popular dream being what everyone thinks they should want: children, a good job, a nice car. The personal dream being a motorcycle, a silly tattoo, a one-night stand, a sailboat, a calm day, to survive a flood, to kiss a girl, to buy a mule and sell the house. The small goals that build and build, when taken individually mean little, but when stuck together with cement hope equates a skyscraper: a person.

Then we live and day by day the cement erodes from wind and rain and voices too loud and voices that won't speak anymore. Sometimes a tree crashes down and the building falls. Sometimes there are few cloudy days, sometimes there are nothing but cloudy days and the distant winter hope of a sun that never quite appears. For some, the dream is in every ray of sunshine, horded away and cherished. For others there is no such thing as sunlight.

What is my dream? I know it. I do. It lurks in me, behind every thought and word. It's there, right there in my chest where my soul is. It's in my eyes, but it never reaches my lips. If someone asked me what I want in life I'll say, "To live" because that's as far as I can define it. To live in a way no other has--that's a given. But to live in a way that at my deathbed I will not say "I did all I could" but I will say "Damn it, one more hour so I can finish this chapter." That's a life well lived.

I pray to the gods of dice that I get a decent roll. But I know if I don't I'll just roll again and again, even if I'm that one-hundred-billionth chance that never gets beyond a pair of ones. I know it because that's a part of my dream too. I will fail again and again and I will always try again, because it's my dream to try again and succeed. Everyone great has failed and tried again. More cement between the bricks, I say.

So when someone asks me what my dream is, "To live" is all they're getting, and maybe I'll point to my chest and say, "The soul wants what the soul wants".

I chose The Great Gatsby for Daisy. She's a ditz who fell out of love and in with money because she was too preoccupied reaching her dream to realize exactly what it was. Not money, or power, but Gatz. That moment when they realize they've given up the thing they want the most is terrible and poignant because it's true. True things always hurt and heal the most.