The goal for the future is a freewrite with words that ring like church bells, signifying a new hour, not words that dig downward shoveling cold soil, preparing to bury death. Bells ring when times change. I don't see why I keep writing things like what I've written here (don't bother):
Absolutely postively nothing left except these words and now these but they may be filling up this space but they come from nowhere and they have no mass and so no matter what they may light up now, the energy runs out. Look at it isn't it amazing how I am writing on this fragile bread, repeating my thoughts over and over, hoping I take my own bait, poisoning everything with words, repeating repeating repeating. I feel nothing around me even though it's all there. There fire is out and the world is apocalyptic. Traces of what was, they linger, but they hide and shimmer only when the sun opens his eyes to peak at the earth, to see if it's still there. Hopefully soon it will be gone. This was a step in the correct direction. Destruction. Life's end. No more birds, no more songs. No more man-made musical instruments vibrating the ears of children and adults who should be spending their time doing so much more than what they do. They were never apologetic. Everything is covered in dark ash and when it rains it becomes wet and mixed. When it dries it crisps and breaks again, derivative derivative derivative and zero in the end no matter how much power you started with. Doing art shouldn't be taken for granted. Art shouldn't be taken for granted. I wish I could do art whenever I wanted. And I mean my own, not the art of the universe that begins where I end. That would suggest that I am just a reaction to the world around me, and therefore I do not exist. I am just a boundary that stops the universe from leaking out. If I step back, I may expose it. If provoked, I may do just that. It will fall out of time and the rest of time will be free and I will walk down that road in peace.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Socker
(I wrote this in high school too.)
My name is Lily. I am five and I go to Corpus Christ School. That means the body of Christ but you’re not cursing if you say it with “school” attached. I like to play socker and sometimes I am even good at it when I kick the ball away from my goal. I don’t want to go into the field far away from my goal in case they try to kick the ball inside and also I don’t want to kick the ball inside my goal. Our uniforms are blue with blue spots that are dark. They are too big for us and the shin guards make my legs sweaty even though it’s April.
I have been going to school for a long time and I am wondering when it will be over. I don’t think it will be that much longer, because I want it to be over so I can write books. I want to write books for little children because I know what kind of books little children like to read because I like to read books. I wrote a story once and I drew a picture of a cow and it was fat like when you call somebody a fat cow. Someone said that once and it made me feel bad when I heard it because sometimes kids and cows can’t help it. My cow was fat but it’s okay and it had two big teeth so it could eat a lot and it lived on the Empire State Building because it had to hang its teeth over the edge and they still touched the ground because they were so big. I like to draw pictures too so I drew the cow and I can draw pictures when I write my books. I don’t remember what happened to the cow in the story because I wrote it when I was four and now I am five and that’s a whole hand. Cows don’t have hands because they don’t need forks for their grass they just eat it. Cows don’t play socker though and I play socker so I can’t be a fat cow.
My mommy said to me she was having a baby and maybe I would have a brother or sister. Her tummy got bigger and I thought she was gonna be a fat cow but now I saw her tummy and it is small again. She told me to put my ball away in the house and she was mad so I was scared. She was crying and I said okay I won’t play socker in the house, never again, because mommy was so sad. And she said come here and I didn’t want to because she was mad and wet but I did it cause she told me to. She said honey I’m sorry but you’re not gonna have a brother or sister. She was crying and I was scared to ask why but I did because if I was gonna be a big brother or sister then I am supposed to be brave so I asked why are you crying and she said it’s nothing. I think nothing is what is in her tummy now instead of a baby because she said the baby is gone and daddy is gonna be sad. I wonder when daddy will be sad because mommy is already sad so maybe they have to take turns like when they take me to socker.
Daddy came home and he didn’t cry but he didn’t get happy either. I told them it’s okay I don’t want to be a big brother or sister and they looked at me and I got scared but then they smiled and they hugged me and mommy was still wet so I was double wet. They hugged me and they didn’t let go and I wondered when are they gonna let go until they squeezed too hard and I dropped my socker ball and then I looked at them and they weren’t smiling anymore and I cried. I promised not to play socker in the house anymore and I dropped it by accident like the baby dropped by accident out of mommy’s tummy, and I was sorry because kids don’t know how to be adults and they make mistakes. I didn’t want to be a liar so I picked up the ball and gave it to mommy and I said I don’t want it anymore.
They stopped hugging me so I went to my room and I tried not to play, but then in my room there’s only toys and clothing and I don’t like dressing myself so I used my toys. And there was a princess and a prince in a castle and I let them play there because I don’t want the princess to be far away because I don’t like it in books when bad things happen. I don’t want the prince to go rescue the princess. When I write books for children I don’t think I’m gonna put in any bad parts because instead I want to put in just happy parts like Saturdays, because there’s no school ever on Saturday.
I had dinner after I played and I didn’t want my vegetables and I wanted peanut butter but I didn’t say anything to mommy because nobody was talking so I don’t think I was supposed to talk. I think maybe everyone was in a time out. My potatoes were drooping on my corn like elephant ears like in the movie where his ears are too big but the mommy doesn’t care. I saw that movie and I asked my mommy why people don’t like the elephant. She said because it’s different and I said am I different and she said I Love You.
After dinner I watched the elephant movie and my mommy and daddy were there but I turned around again and they were gone so I got scared. I looked into their room and I saw my mommy and she had my socker ball and she put it in her shirt and she was crying. I felt something and my teacher says it’s called shame. I ran in and said mommy I promise I’ll never play socker ever again and when she saw me she took the ball out of her shirt and told me I can play socker every day if I want. And I said I don’t want to play socker if it makes her sad and she said I make her happy every day. I told her I want to play socker then because I like socker, but I told her she can borrow my ball again if she wants to keep using it even though you’re not supposed to put it in your shirt, you’re supposed to kick it but only outside of the house. She gave me the ball and she said it’s mine to keep and don’t lose it and never lose it and if I lose it it’s okay because I have my mommy and daddy and they could buy me a new ball if I want.
I want to find a baby for them because they lost my brother or sister and I think maybe I can find one at the park but all of those are taken. I think if I took a baby then the parents would be sad like my mommy and daddy. So I can’t take another baby. I go to my room and find my dolly and it’s my favorite because the clothes come on and off and when it lays down the eyes close and they are blue like mine. I wrap it in a blanket and I bring it to my mommy and I tell her I can’t find any real babies but this baby doesn’t cry so maybe it’s okay. She says thank you and takes my dolly and puts it down and takes me and holds me and cries again. I want to cry too and I don’t know why.
My name is Lily. I am five and I go to Corpus Christ School. That means the body of Christ but you’re not cursing if you say it with “school” attached. I like to play socker and sometimes I am even good at it when I kick the ball away from my goal. I don’t want to go into the field far away from my goal in case they try to kick the ball inside and also I don’t want to kick the ball inside my goal. Our uniforms are blue with blue spots that are dark. They are too big for us and the shin guards make my legs sweaty even though it’s April.
I have been going to school for a long time and I am wondering when it will be over. I don’t think it will be that much longer, because I want it to be over so I can write books. I want to write books for little children because I know what kind of books little children like to read because I like to read books. I wrote a story once and I drew a picture of a cow and it was fat like when you call somebody a fat cow. Someone said that once and it made me feel bad when I heard it because sometimes kids and cows can’t help it. My cow was fat but it’s okay and it had two big teeth so it could eat a lot and it lived on the Empire State Building because it had to hang its teeth over the edge and they still touched the ground because they were so big. I like to draw pictures too so I drew the cow and I can draw pictures when I write my books. I don’t remember what happened to the cow in the story because I wrote it when I was four and now I am five and that’s a whole hand. Cows don’t have hands because they don’t need forks for their grass they just eat it. Cows don’t play socker though and I play socker so I can’t be a fat cow.
My mommy said to me she was having a baby and maybe I would have a brother or sister. Her tummy got bigger and I thought she was gonna be a fat cow but now I saw her tummy and it is small again. She told me to put my ball away in the house and she was mad so I was scared. She was crying and I said okay I won’t play socker in the house, never again, because mommy was so sad. And she said come here and I didn’t want to because she was mad and wet but I did it cause she told me to. She said honey I’m sorry but you’re not gonna have a brother or sister. She was crying and I was scared to ask why but I did because if I was gonna be a big brother or sister then I am supposed to be brave so I asked why are you crying and she said it’s nothing. I think nothing is what is in her tummy now instead of a baby because she said the baby is gone and daddy is gonna be sad. I wonder when daddy will be sad because mommy is already sad so maybe they have to take turns like when they take me to socker.
Daddy came home and he didn’t cry but he didn’t get happy either. I told them it’s okay I don’t want to be a big brother or sister and they looked at me and I got scared but then they smiled and they hugged me and mommy was still wet so I was double wet. They hugged me and they didn’t let go and I wondered when are they gonna let go until they squeezed too hard and I dropped my socker ball and then I looked at them and they weren’t smiling anymore and I cried. I promised not to play socker in the house anymore and I dropped it by accident like the baby dropped by accident out of mommy’s tummy, and I was sorry because kids don’t know how to be adults and they make mistakes. I didn’t want to be a liar so I picked up the ball and gave it to mommy and I said I don’t want it anymore.
They stopped hugging me so I went to my room and I tried not to play, but then in my room there’s only toys and clothing and I don’t like dressing myself so I used my toys. And there was a princess and a prince in a castle and I let them play there because I don’t want the princess to be far away because I don’t like it in books when bad things happen. I don’t want the prince to go rescue the princess. When I write books for children I don’t think I’m gonna put in any bad parts because instead I want to put in just happy parts like Saturdays, because there’s no school ever on Saturday.
I had dinner after I played and I didn’t want my vegetables and I wanted peanut butter but I didn’t say anything to mommy because nobody was talking so I don’t think I was supposed to talk. I think maybe everyone was in a time out. My potatoes were drooping on my corn like elephant ears like in the movie where his ears are too big but the mommy doesn’t care. I saw that movie and I asked my mommy why people don’t like the elephant. She said because it’s different and I said am I different and she said I Love You.
After dinner I watched the elephant movie and my mommy and daddy were there but I turned around again and they were gone so I got scared. I looked into their room and I saw my mommy and she had my socker ball and she put it in her shirt and she was crying. I felt something and my teacher says it’s called shame. I ran in and said mommy I promise I’ll never play socker ever again and when she saw me she took the ball out of her shirt and told me I can play socker every day if I want. And I said I don’t want to play socker if it makes her sad and she said I make her happy every day. I told her I want to play socker then because I like socker, but I told her she can borrow my ball again if she wants to keep using it even though you’re not supposed to put it in your shirt, you’re supposed to kick it but only outside of the house. She gave me the ball and she said it’s mine to keep and don’t lose it and never lose it and if I lose it it’s okay because I have my mommy and daddy and they could buy me a new ball if I want.
I want to find a baby for them because they lost my brother or sister and I think maybe I can find one at the park but all of those are taken. I think if I took a baby then the parents would be sad like my mommy and daddy. So I can’t take another baby. I go to my room and find my dolly and it’s my favorite because the clothes come on and off and when it lays down the eyes close and they are blue like mine. I wrap it in a blanket and I bring it to my mommy and I tell her I can’t find any real babies but this baby doesn’t cry so maybe it’s okay. She says thank you and takes my dolly and puts it down and takes me and holds me and cries again. I want to cry too and I don’t know why.
Phil
(I wrote this in high school.)
Phil was dead. He knew this but he decided not to blame Agnes, because she had not done it on purpose. Agnes was old and wasn’t a very good driver. She had grown shorter over the years and could barely see over the steering wheel.
Maybe if Phil had been taller, like if he had had different parents that had given him tall genes, then Agnes would have seen him and hit the brakes. But could she even reach the brakes? She shouldn’t have been driving, but it still wasn’t her fault that Phil was dead.
Maybe if Phil had watched for coming cars on the road before he crossed it, but this would have been hard as he was carrying large heavy bags of groceries for his wife and he couldn’t see over them. His wife shouldn’t have asked for so many groceries, but it still wasn’t her fault that Phil was dead.
Maybe if he had had better hearing he would have heard the car approaching—it was an old car and it rumbled when it was driven—but his hearing wasn’t very good so he didn’t hear the car coming. If only his parents had given him good hearing genes.
Maybe it was all on purpose, a homicide. You never know with older people. Phil thought that he should have been nicer to Agnes. They were neighbors and maybe he should have visited her once in a while, brought her a pie. There had been a pie in the bags of groceries he was carrying for his wife, and she had been planning for the family to eat it after dinner. If he had just invited Agnes to dinner she would not have been driving her car down the road. Instead she would have been choosing large pearl earrings and necklaces and the best old woman outfit she could find in her closet so that she could look nice for her dinner with Phil and his family.
Phil thought that it was definitely his fault he was dead. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to forgive himself, because he had liked life very much. Now Phil was all alone, no one around to talk to, and no one around to blame but himself. It wasn’t his fault though, according to everyone on earth. They all thought it was their fault and they wondered whether they could ever forgive themselves.
Phil was dead. He knew this but he decided not to blame Agnes, because she had not done it on purpose. Agnes was old and wasn’t a very good driver. She had grown shorter over the years and could barely see over the steering wheel.
Maybe if Phil had been taller, like if he had had different parents that had given him tall genes, then Agnes would have seen him and hit the brakes. But could she even reach the brakes? She shouldn’t have been driving, but it still wasn’t her fault that Phil was dead.
Maybe if Phil had watched for coming cars on the road before he crossed it, but this would have been hard as he was carrying large heavy bags of groceries for his wife and he couldn’t see over them. His wife shouldn’t have asked for so many groceries, but it still wasn’t her fault that Phil was dead.
Maybe if he had had better hearing he would have heard the car approaching—it was an old car and it rumbled when it was driven—but his hearing wasn’t very good so he didn’t hear the car coming. If only his parents had given him good hearing genes.
Maybe it was all on purpose, a homicide. You never know with older people. Phil thought that he should have been nicer to Agnes. They were neighbors and maybe he should have visited her once in a while, brought her a pie. There had been a pie in the bags of groceries he was carrying for his wife, and she had been planning for the family to eat it after dinner. If he had just invited Agnes to dinner she would not have been driving her car down the road. Instead she would have been choosing large pearl earrings and necklaces and the best old woman outfit she could find in her closet so that she could look nice for her dinner with Phil and his family.
Phil thought that it was definitely his fault he was dead. He wondered whether he’d ever be able to forgive himself, because he had liked life very much. Now Phil was all alone, no one around to talk to, and no one around to blame but himself. It wasn’t his fault though, according to everyone on earth. They all thought it was their fault and they wondered whether they could ever forgive themselves.
Untitled
Freewrite 04 – January 19, 2009
I’m fleeting dying falling do you know how fancy you are to be able to hand me this box wrapped in red ribbon and shining golden paper? It does not fool. Your smile does not fool. Your words certainly do not fool. I see through you like I see through air, air the sustainer of life but this is not what you are. Back off before I feed you your poison, for I know it will surely kill you too. All I must do is recount what you have done to me and you will see your regret like I see a wolf tearing me from the inside looking for blood and finding plenty. He has found a home and I keep him alive, but he leeches and in return I get nothing but a heaviness around my heart and a tail of fur and sharp strength wrapped around my soul threatening to squeeze until my life gushes in all directions and becomes truly irreparable. I feel more than most, I feel the sand between my toes hours after it has fallen away. I feel the sunlight on the sand as I walk, reflecting in all directions and creating a field of light, a field of strength and knowledge and truth, but without depth. Water drowns the field as well, seeping upward from underneath like the wolf in my insides, and seeping up from the sides, from the vast ocean of salt and animals and waves that beckon us to come inside and meet death. I do not go near the water. I walk on the sand and feel warmth and try to pick it up but it falls through my fingers. It leaves the places under my nails and between my toes and gets lost. Lost little grains find their ways all around the world and hope and pray that they may one day be reunited with their mother the field of truth, and their father the light from the sun. The shining beacon that appears every day without fail, sometimes masked and hidden, threatening the chance that it will never return. But the threats are empty for the sun is immobile. Though it is we that revolve around it, we also surround it and circle it and it cannot escape. It feeds us, whether willingly or unwillingly, and our only thanks comes in the form of our growth. And we grow to be warriors and we tear apart the sun’s creations and the rain falls over us. The snow falls over us and the cold tries to freeze us. Danger comes constantly from every direction. But in that danger is air that keeps us alive, assuring us that life is ours to have and assuring itself that we remain to face the dangers so that it does not have to. And for this reason the air is the worst creature of all. It knows, and it hides. We cannot see it, but its pressure is always there and its arms force our lungs to expand and to be thankful that we are alive. The wreckage is hideous. All we can do is watch with wonder, helplessly tied to eternity.
I’m fleeting dying falling do you know how fancy you are to be able to hand me this box wrapped in red ribbon and shining golden paper? It does not fool. Your smile does not fool. Your words certainly do not fool. I see through you like I see through air, air the sustainer of life but this is not what you are. Back off before I feed you your poison, for I know it will surely kill you too. All I must do is recount what you have done to me and you will see your regret like I see a wolf tearing me from the inside looking for blood and finding plenty. He has found a home and I keep him alive, but he leeches and in return I get nothing but a heaviness around my heart and a tail of fur and sharp strength wrapped around my soul threatening to squeeze until my life gushes in all directions and becomes truly irreparable. I feel more than most, I feel the sand between my toes hours after it has fallen away. I feel the sunlight on the sand as I walk, reflecting in all directions and creating a field of light, a field of strength and knowledge and truth, but without depth. Water drowns the field as well, seeping upward from underneath like the wolf in my insides, and seeping up from the sides, from the vast ocean of salt and animals and waves that beckon us to come inside and meet death. I do not go near the water. I walk on the sand and feel warmth and try to pick it up but it falls through my fingers. It leaves the places under my nails and between my toes and gets lost. Lost little grains find their ways all around the world and hope and pray that they may one day be reunited with their mother the field of truth, and their father the light from the sun. The shining beacon that appears every day without fail, sometimes masked and hidden, threatening the chance that it will never return. But the threats are empty for the sun is immobile. Though it is we that revolve around it, we also surround it and circle it and it cannot escape. It feeds us, whether willingly or unwillingly, and our only thanks comes in the form of our growth. And we grow to be warriors and we tear apart the sun’s creations and the rain falls over us. The snow falls over us and the cold tries to freeze us. Danger comes constantly from every direction. But in that danger is air that keeps us alive, assuring us that life is ours to have and assuring itself that we remain to face the dangers so that it does not have to. And for this reason the air is the worst creature of all. It knows, and it hides. We cannot see it, but its pressure is always there and its arms force our lungs to expand and to be thankful that we are alive. The wreckage is hideous. All we can do is watch with wonder, helplessly tied to eternity.
Eyes Long Lost
Freewrite 03 – January 19, 2009
Step before my eyes. I cannot turn my head in any direction because I do not know what I will find. But I trust your voice, so you may step before my eyes and we shall make contact. The air in front of me is thick but I see through it. The air behind me is thin like a cloak that cannot resist strong winter winds, one that will not protect in danger, one that will not hide the one who wears it. A feeble cloak, almost as insignificant as one single moment separated and removed from time. You may think that to remove a moment is to change the course of history, or to break time, or to wrinkle it, but this is not so. Small motions have small reactions just as large motions cause trees to fall, rocks to tumble, eyes to tear, relationships to break. Your eyesight may need to be readjusted so that you can see what is small and what is large like I can see it. How many of you are there? I can sense only one but you never know for sure. Step into my vision so that I may see. I hope I can still distinguish you from yourselves, I may have lost practice. The air to the left of me is blowing toward me, a whistle reaching deep into my ear and sending vibrations throughout my body. The air is cold and the vibrations are difficult to bear at times, but we all have burdens. The air on the right is peaceful. It swirls in small tornados, predictable tornados that capture leaves and dust as they feebly grope for attention. They have never caused trouble and they keep themselves at bay. The air has been this way as far as I remember it. It has never mixed, has never intertwined, and has made no changes to its changes. Circular patterns like horses in chipped paint going around to the sound of agony masked by cheerfully high-pitched notes. The children laugh and squeal and the parents pretend not to enjoy themselves but fool no one. The air is my friend and I depend on it to sustain my life, for without it I could not exist. I remain in this shelter, this growth of trees like bars on a jail, blocking the sunlight from tearing through the holes in my skin. On kind days I ask for sunlight but it never comes, and so kind days turn to doubtful days that turns to miserable weeks. I grow here. I have roots that dig deeper and deeper into this soil, attempting to find nutrients so that I may grow more outward toward the heavens and inward toward the center of the earth. When the rains fall I drink like a desperately deserted man, and when they do not fall I try to think about the sunlight. Please come closer, I cannot see you if you do not stand in my line of vision. One at a time, for it is narrow and the patterns of your body and your life seeping and flowing into my senses will overwhelm me. But you do not come, and I fear you have already left. I fear you have not heard my words, and I regret my dishonesty. I should have pleaded for your help rather than pretending I did not need it. Oh sunlight, please come in millions of sharp daggers, cut away at the roof over my head and cut away at me. Grow me quickly and end me thoroughly and painlessly as only you can. Do with my remains whatever you like, they are yours for the taking. I have not been mine in years and cannot begin to claim myself now. A quickness. I need a quickness, to take in only half a breath. I must lose the chance to ever breathe a full breathe. There is air here only for a half. I dare not breathe uncharted air. I dare not.
Step before my eyes. I cannot turn my head in any direction because I do not know what I will find. But I trust your voice, so you may step before my eyes and we shall make contact. The air in front of me is thick but I see through it. The air behind me is thin like a cloak that cannot resist strong winter winds, one that will not protect in danger, one that will not hide the one who wears it. A feeble cloak, almost as insignificant as one single moment separated and removed from time. You may think that to remove a moment is to change the course of history, or to break time, or to wrinkle it, but this is not so. Small motions have small reactions just as large motions cause trees to fall, rocks to tumble, eyes to tear, relationships to break. Your eyesight may need to be readjusted so that you can see what is small and what is large like I can see it. How many of you are there? I can sense only one but you never know for sure. Step into my vision so that I may see. I hope I can still distinguish you from yourselves, I may have lost practice. The air to the left of me is blowing toward me, a whistle reaching deep into my ear and sending vibrations throughout my body. The air is cold and the vibrations are difficult to bear at times, but we all have burdens. The air on the right is peaceful. It swirls in small tornados, predictable tornados that capture leaves and dust as they feebly grope for attention. They have never caused trouble and they keep themselves at bay. The air has been this way as far as I remember it. It has never mixed, has never intertwined, and has made no changes to its changes. Circular patterns like horses in chipped paint going around to the sound of agony masked by cheerfully high-pitched notes. The children laugh and squeal and the parents pretend not to enjoy themselves but fool no one. The air is my friend and I depend on it to sustain my life, for without it I could not exist. I remain in this shelter, this growth of trees like bars on a jail, blocking the sunlight from tearing through the holes in my skin. On kind days I ask for sunlight but it never comes, and so kind days turn to doubtful days that turns to miserable weeks. I grow here. I have roots that dig deeper and deeper into this soil, attempting to find nutrients so that I may grow more outward toward the heavens and inward toward the center of the earth. When the rains fall I drink like a desperately deserted man, and when they do not fall I try to think about the sunlight. Please come closer, I cannot see you if you do not stand in my line of vision. One at a time, for it is narrow and the patterns of your body and your life seeping and flowing into my senses will overwhelm me. But you do not come, and I fear you have already left. I fear you have not heard my words, and I regret my dishonesty. I should have pleaded for your help rather than pretending I did not need it. Oh sunlight, please come in millions of sharp daggers, cut away at the roof over my head and cut away at me. Grow me quickly and end me thoroughly and painlessly as only you can. Do with my remains whatever you like, they are yours for the taking. I have not been mine in years and cannot begin to claim myself now. A quickness. I need a quickness, to take in only half a breath. I must lose the chance to ever breathe a full breathe. There is air here only for a half. I dare not breathe uncharted air. I dare not.
Thanks to the Helpful Man
Old men never know what they're talking about. But at least they stop. Old women just keep going on and on about the same things. He slouches. He doesn't eat enough vegetables (and he never did). When he was a kid an old man told him that adults eat vegetables all the time so he had better learn to do it now, and an old woman repeated it to him over and over for a while until everyone realized that vegetables don't taste especially good, and they left the matter alone.
He wanted to stop slouching, but he was forced—a hand appeared at each shoulder (like the good angel and the bad devil except these both stemmed from evil soil out to either side of the back of his neck), and they pressured him forward and his back curved like a crescent moon. The hands appeared every time he breathed in a vengeful thought of the old woman telling him to straighten his posture. Every time he saw an old woman walking down the street. But he really ought to straighten it, he knew that.
Slouching was what made camels and computer programmers, and he was neither of these things. He liked to write, sometimes about castles or detectives or children, but usually about old men and women. The age in their bodies and in their words, memories replaying in their eyes and ears and noses and spouting from their mouths when asked about their pasts. But people didn’t usually ask.
During the day he worked at a desk, where his hands did one thing and his feet tap tapped and his mind was in another world entire. Even he could not explain what he did to make money. His feet tapped to the beat he heard while he thought about his past—music playing so loudly that his ears had rung in happy memory for hours afterward, other smiling faces, all human but all so amazingly different, like a new cloud in the sky on a new day (slowly changing and molding and expanding, never staying long).
They were all gone somewhere, dispersed like a tipped jar of marbles on an old carpet filled with dust and crumbs and millions of footprints echoing almost silently. The marbles had all held vivid colored shapes, encased in glass and rounded, smooth and ready to roll if they felt the slightest tilt. The two boys had played with those marbles (with their knees digging into the floor, making four little impressions into time with explosive ease) until their finger prints had covered the entire surface of every marble ten times over, until they had lost them to the house, slowly and one by one, until they had gotten older and fallen with a gentle crash, landing apart and alone and far away from home.
(He lived in a giant castle and he was a detective and) he worked silently, not listening much if people spoke around him. As he grew older the castle grew only more elaborate, and the hedges around it grew higher. There was always something to do as a detective, studying fingerprints (the fingerprints grew too, as they had begun small as a child's, fitting onto little marbles) and dusting for clues.
Sometimes after work he would volunteer to sit with the older people in the big house across the street from his office, and when they weren't sleeping or repeating themselves he'd ask them about their lives. They spoke slowly and he took in every word, every breath, and the images formed in his mind like vines spreading around an ancient house. But when he went home everyone was alone once more, left with nothing but the strange itch of a new memory.
He grew old. His back hunched hopelessly despite the (fairly minimal) efforts he had made throughout his life to straighten it. He never found a love for vegetables. On some days he was visited by a younger woman who would ask about his life, and he would describe his castle and giant hedges (that eventually grew tall enough to become a maze) and most interesting murder cases. Her eyes would widen, trying to picture the stories in her mind, and when she left they both felt the itch. She began to come less often, or maybe it just seemed like less often to him, and then one day he realized she would never be back. He was left to talk to no one but the nurses and the other old people.
Have you seen my cane?
It's by the television
Have you seen my cane?
It's by the television.
Have you seen my cane? Have you seen....
The days passed in their slowness, their beige, their fluorescent light. The sky outside continued to house the clouds and stars, and sometimes he would sit outside and watch the universe spin around him. One night the crescent moon shone in unreachable distance. By the time morning came, it had lost the light to which it had been feebly clinging, and it could be seen no more.
On that night his breath had been slow and rasped, inhaling a bit of the world, exhaling a tangle of footprints into the gentle darkness.
He wanted to stop slouching, but he was forced—a hand appeared at each shoulder (like the good angel and the bad devil except these both stemmed from evil soil out to either side of the back of his neck), and they pressured him forward and his back curved like a crescent moon. The hands appeared every time he breathed in a vengeful thought of the old woman telling him to straighten his posture. Every time he saw an old woman walking down the street. But he really ought to straighten it, he knew that.
Slouching was what made camels and computer programmers, and he was neither of these things. He liked to write, sometimes about castles or detectives or children, but usually about old men and women. The age in their bodies and in their words, memories replaying in their eyes and ears and noses and spouting from their mouths when asked about their pasts. But people didn’t usually ask.
During the day he worked at a desk, where his hands did one thing and his feet tap tapped and his mind was in another world entire. Even he could not explain what he did to make money. His feet tapped to the beat he heard while he thought about his past—music playing so loudly that his ears had rung in happy memory for hours afterward, other smiling faces, all human but all so amazingly different, like a new cloud in the sky on a new day (slowly changing and molding and expanding, never staying long).
They were all gone somewhere, dispersed like a tipped jar of marbles on an old carpet filled with dust and crumbs and millions of footprints echoing almost silently. The marbles had all held vivid colored shapes, encased in glass and rounded, smooth and ready to roll if they felt the slightest tilt. The two boys had played with those marbles (with their knees digging into the floor, making four little impressions into time with explosive ease) until their finger prints had covered the entire surface of every marble ten times over, until they had lost them to the house, slowly and one by one, until they had gotten older and fallen with a gentle crash, landing apart and alone and far away from home.
(He lived in a giant castle and he was a detective and) he worked silently, not listening much if people spoke around him. As he grew older the castle grew only more elaborate, and the hedges around it grew higher. There was always something to do as a detective, studying fingerprints (the fingerprints grew too, as they had begun small as a child's, fitting onto little marbles) and dusting for clues.
Sometimes after work he would volunteer to sit with the older people in the big house across the street from his office, and when they weren't sleeping or repeating themselves he'd ask them about their lives. They spoke slowly and he took in every word, every breath, and the images formed in his mind like vines spreading around an ancient house. But when he went home everyone was alone once more, left with nothing but the strange itch of a new memory.
He grew old. His back hunched hopelessly despite the (fairly minimal) efforts he had made throughout his life to straighten it. He never found a love for vegetables. On some days he was visited by a younger woman who would ask about his life, and he would describe his castle and giant hedges (that eventually grew tall enough to become a maze) and most interesting murder cases. Her eyes would widen, trying to picture the stories in her mind, and when she left they both felt the itch. She began to come less often, or maybe it just seemed like less often to him, and then one day he realized she would never be back. He was left to talk to no one but the nurses and the other old people.
Have you seen my cane?
It's by the television
Have you seen my cane?
It's by the television.
Have you seen my cane? Have you seen....
The days passed in their slowness, their beige, their fluorescent light. The sky outside continued to house the clouds and stars, and sometimes he would sit outside and watch the universe spin around him. One night the crescent moon shone in unreachable distance. By the time morning came, it had lost the light to which it had been feebly clinging, and it could be seen no more.
On that night his breath had been slow and rasped, inhaling a bit of the world, exhaling a tangle of footprints into the gentle darkness.
Old Writing
I haven't gotten myself to do much focused writing lately, but rather just a freewrite whenever I feel like it. I guess the only way I can learn to share my writing with others is to begin by posting it on a blog (and telling no one, hah hah)... So far they're coming out as miniature abstract stories or just rambles about whatever's going through my head. But it's still fun to create. In fact, I recommend everyone try it out once in a while.
I'll also post some old stories that I did in high school writing classes. I really want to take more writing classes at City, but I guess I have to wait until this summer or even this fall. Ah well. Till then...
I'll also post some old stories that I did in high school writing classes. I really want to take more writing classes at City, but I guess I have to wait until this summer or even this fall. Ah well. Till then...
Saturday, January 17, 2009
They Say If You Just
Write and write then eventually it becomes harder to stop the truth from coming out. I suppose we will see.
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