What Do You Really Want to Do?
I want to make big important gestures. I want adventure. I want to get wild and walk away from a burning car. I want to get political. I want to publish a novel. I want to write a novel. I want to come home one day and surprise my lady friend with tickets to Monte Carlo. I want the president of the United States to ask me to assassinate somebody or recover a precious jewel and then I’ll gravely hold up a hand and tell him I’m retired. For good.
I want to know that everything’s going to be okay for everybody that I know. To be assured that there is life after death, that somebody’s been in charge all along and there’s a good explanation for things like sadists, bullets, saxophone solos, and teal. I want to find my old Legos and I want to be big and strong and take up lots of space. Someday I’d like to hear somebody call me a pillar of the community. I’d like to have a pot of geraniums that I’ll water every morning and sometimes I’ll make small talk with my neighbor, a wizened old man who is cranky and despondent at first but soon proves to be intriguing and full of secrets. I’ll endear myself to him and he’ll invite me over for chess and teach me valuable life lessons.
I want to have fantasies that don’t come from the movies.
-James A. Reeves, from The Road to Somewhere: An American Memoir
