Saturday, September 30, 2006

The Star Islanders

I’m not a Star Islander. In fact, it’s been ten years since I last visited. It was the night of my senior prom.

I stepped out of the limo and into a house built like a Moroccan temple, a maze of soft white walls and no corners.

The house belonged to a girl named Sea.

I sat, curled up on the couch next to my boyfriend (the Composer) and the other almost-adults. I think we watched TV, then fell asleep in separate beds.

The boyfriend: first in a line of boyfriends to become Important, to compose a talked-about symphony or front a band.

Now, when I flip open the Sunday Times, I half-expect to find a section: Francie's Great and Not-so-great Loves. Reviews of minor celebrities.

But this is my journal, not theirs. Once, a long time ago, I also graced the cover of a magazine. It was a story on the Next Big Thing and I was It, author of a hit off-Broadway play: The Proposal. Maybe you've seen it.
I've only recently moved back to Miami, so I feel a bit like a native tourist. This isn't a journal so much as a tourist guide. Point A to Point B and places off the map.

(If you were expecting a soap opera about botoxed housewives and Prada bags, you might want to stop reading.)

I’m not sure anymore what it takes to be a star, or even a Star Islander. I'd like to know, because I've never felt all glittering like the rows of mansions lining the Bay.

Even ten years ago. It was always amazing that between the two of us (the musical genius and the writer) we could never decide on a place to eat.

Friday, September 01, 2006

Prologue: Dear Readers

I’m typing this on the Device, because I’ve been told it’s the best way to reach you, my fellow travelers. Post after post, like lanterns, leading the way. In an instant, clouds shift, and my life is in your hands.

So to speak.