Memory's Theater (1)

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We spent hours in my room when I was a kid, talking into a machine that looked more or less like this. We had to press the [play] and [record] buttons at the same time for reasons that have never been clear to me. And then we would talk, or sing, or just giggle.  We interviewed each other about things we didn't understand. We told stories about people who didn't exist.  

I say "we" because I need to remind myself that I wasn't alone all the time. In memory's theater, of course, I am the Diva, a shivering vixen of confusion alone in the lime light. But then, we are both more and less than our stage presence. 

Listen.   
We are 8^th graders doing a news cast that nobody will ever be able to find again, probably because the [record] button didn't stick.  Here is Linda saying, "Now down to earth..." because it seems the right transition to the weather report, and here I am, chiming in, "On Mars today, there was a party..." She gets the joke before I do. She's giggling out of control. 

Look. 
Here we are laughing hard in a 1970s bedroom with flowered comforters that match the curtains but not quite the wall paper, pretty sure we are the funniest, luckiest people on the planet. 

This is idle time that doesn't serve the plot. A set piece that will be cut from the final version. But I am taking notes, because I think it may form the back-beat of the soundtrack.