Tree trunks sauntered past as he was drawn down the sidewalk, shaking their orange leaves down overhead on the sidewalk. The revolving doors sucked him into the building. He didn’t feel like he had actually moved all day. The ball of earth was moving unpredictably and he was compelled to walk and sometimes drive to keep from falling off the top.
Frank scanned the library catalogue system plaque on the wall, then stepped into the elevator and pressed button six. Through the air a subtle but powerful aroma reached his nose. He broke the tense elevator closeness to look up at the woman whose perfume filled the chamber. His eyebrows lifted. Frank looked down at the thinly carpeted brown floor again. It was disconcerting to see the owner; somehow that scent belonged to a much older woman; he was certain. The incredible familiarity of something long past—it must have belonged to an elementary school teacher or another woman from childhood. His thoughts reached for another time in life’s memories, trying to connect two points that had never been continuously present. The two got off the elevator on the fifth floor.
They spoke.
Frank looked out the window at the falling snow and sighed. His breath fogged over the cold clear glass. They told secrets. The lights were off and snowed drifted over the room’s only window, making a whitish rectangle lit by the streetlights outside. Their eyes were heavy. Frank’s body ached from the day’s work. The heating vents hummed. The air he inhaled from near her skin was intensely electric and feminine. Maybe she had never been wearing perfume after all.
She was a nurse.
An injection always starts with a pinprick in the shoulder. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes and stretched his mouth wide in a silent scream, face pressed between her armpit and the mattress. Her fingernails give the finest drugs. Frank felt an internal rubber band snap away all its knotting twists and strain. Suddenly he was freed of a pain and pressure he hadn’t realized he suffered from. He momentarily thought of how pervasive the suddenly missing detriment had been, but then let that worry leave his new mind. The drug must have been a morphine injection to so powerfully leave someone feeling so warm, loved, and buzzing all over on a cold December night.
It was winter, and the world put on its soft flannel pajamas.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Black Friday
I know that being obsessive is the complete opposite of being cool, but sometimes I can’t help it.
Isn't it maybe pretentious to use such a serious name as "black friday" for a shopping holiday? I was out shopping too, not that I expected to find anything I wanted. I spent most of my time watching the other people. Well anyway, at one of the stores a little boy bumped into you, you said “excuse me sweetheart.” He was at least a foot shorter than you, and you were still almost that much shorter than me. It was clear that you were the one who was a cute little sweetheart.
Isn't it maybe pretentious to use such a serious name as "black friday" for a shopping holiday? I was out shopping too, not that I expected to find anything I wanted. I spent most of my time watching the other people. Well anyway, at one of the stores a little boy bumped into you, you said “excuse me sweetheart.” He was at least a foot shorter than you, and you were still almost that much shorter than me. It was clear that you were the one who was a cute little sweetheart.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Teamwork. If it doesn't make sense that's because it's extrapolated from reality. hah
Jim and John are forced by circumstances to live uncomfortably with each other. It's hard for an observer to infer what their ideal living situation would be, or what people they would prefer to live with. Their shared house is typical for America; white pine structure with drywall creating seven different rooms. Some areas were arranged into private space and some to public space. Guests rarely visited. Rodents found their own living spaces in the house. The characters are unaware of these parts of their story.
In the morning the two sat without speaking, past a normal breakfast time. Jim's hunger gradually overpowered his reluctance and he began cooking. He asked "did you want some too?" as an afterthought and then made almost enough food for two people, and left the used dishes on the counter. He intended to clean them after returning from work, but found his housemate hastily tossing the last of them into the dishwasher as he arrived, just in time to receive a patronizing lecture about learning to clean up your own messes. He vaguely remembered a similar lecture about learning to help out by cleaning up after the person who was kind enough to do a chore in the first place.
In the evening their dogs barked. It was the dog's way of requesting that a person open a door for them. Jim sat on the couch, awakened and drowsily hoping someone else would get up for the immediate chore. No one did, so he furiously walked around his couch and took the winding route through the hallways and doorways. Afterward, he went to the out-of-earshot part of the house to find John and accuse him of being a worthless lazy person who never helps anyone but himself.
Jim sat studying some important documents during the evening. He looked over John's shoulder at the television and noticed a commercial for a very interesting and informative program. He decided to leave the television on the channel that the sleeping John had chosen hours ago. As the clock changed to nine the satellite system suddenly ruined his plans by changing to the cartoon network and began automatically recording. It was an episode from a cartoon of which they had already seen every episode and owned on DVD. Much later while still studying, Jim had some interest in the show that was playing in his background. John woke up and said "are you gonna watch this I'm going to bed." He must not have cared to hear the reply "yes," and uncharacteristically turned off the television as he walked away.
Jim and john both had health threatening problems caused by constant stress and anger. Had their jobs been intellectually demanding their abilities would have suffered as well.
The two were identical and they were occasionally observed by a laughing, vengeful person who had cloned the undetectably younger of them into existence.
In the morning the two sat without speaking, past a normal breakfast time. Jim's hunger gradually overpowered his reluctance and he began cooking. He asked "did you want some too?" as an afterthought and then made almost enough food for two people, and left the used dishes on the counter. He intended to clean them after returning from work, but found his housemate hastily tossing the last of them into the dishwasher as he arrived, just in time to receive a patronizing lecture about learning to clean up your own messes. He vaguely remembered a similar lecture about learning to help out by cleaning up after the person who was kind enough to do a chore in the first place.
In the evening their dogs barked. It was the dog's way of requesting that a person open a door for them. Jim sat on the couch, awakened and drowsily hoping someone else would get up for the immediate chore. No one did, so he furiously walked around his couch and took the winding route through the hallways and doorways. Afterward, he went to the out-of-earshot part of the house to find John and accuse him of being a worthless lazy person who never helps anyone but himself.
Jim sat studying some important documents during the evening. He looked over John's shoulder at the television and noticed a commercial for a very interesting and informative program. He decided to leave the television on the channel that the sleeping John had chosen hours ago. As the clock changed to nine the satellite system suddenly ruined his plans by changing to the cartoon network and began automatically recording. It was an episode from a cartoon of which they had already seen every episode and owned on DVD. Much later while still studying, Jim had some interest in the show that was playing in his background. John woke up and said "are you gonna watch this I'm going to bed." He must not have cared to hear the reply "yes," and uncharacteristically turned off the television as he walked away.
Jim and john both had health threatening problems caused by constant stress and anger. Had their jobs been intellectually demanding their abilities would have suffered as well.
The two were identical and they were occasionally observed by a laughing, vengeful person who had cloned the undetectably younger of them into existence.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
epistolary blogfiction part two
John, what does the term "fast friends" mean? I think I want to use it if I can be certain. I enjoy talking with you.
It is so often unpleasant to listen to the daily stories of some of the family members about what they have done or seen that seems unreasonably important to them that day. There’s something so vulgar about how some people tell stories—do you ever think so? They can be summarized as “it’s all about me,” or “it’s always a forgone conclusion, as I said,” or the chronological story without any preface and other ways they tell a story without relating any meaning until the very end. They’ll even call to ramble about your dearest grandfather, the airbags, the broken glass, hospital, the shock, and so many other details, and after a few more agonizing minutes they’ll offhandedly say that he’s going to be fine.
Maybe that’s why I hesitate so much to tell about minute things myself, but maybe it’s helpful to a person’s health to put his own story out with the countless wearying others he has to hear. People like us can do it the right way can’t they?
Well today I didn’t have anything pressing to do, you know? As usual.
I went out with my father to visit his friend, the hard partying Scott, the one whose drinking and war stories are so amazing that if he tells the same one twice you still will listen without interrupting. Somehow, I feel sort of close to him in some way, but can hardly act on it since he’s really my father’s friend and not mine.
We went to the yard-sales that were happening all over Scott’s neighborhood. So many things can happen when you go to visit someone else in their own city can’t they? Well, I happened to be in a line and reciprocated smiles with a woman ahead of me. She wasn’t especially stunning and I only remember that her face was round, friendly and caring. She had curly dark hair and the hairline on her forehead was level.
Someone said her name, I was too preoccupied to remember it, but I know it must be an uncommon female name that ended in a consonant.
Oh! In iambic pentameter, don’t they have something they call the “weak, or feminine ending” to a line and its vowels? Hah!
Well, as I was holding a pen and documents, occupied with my duty, I slowly believed I knew more and more about the perfection of such a look and face and the personality to which it was a twin. I paused and looked for her again, she was occupied, facing the other way, but her complete figure seemed to repeat the same insight even more loudly. I decided to make any excuse to talk with her and was certain that I could come up with plenty of them as soon as I came face to face with her. The moment I was freed from obligations; I rushed. She was gone, finished already, somewhere away from here.
After that I walked around with the guys, scorning yard-sales of glass, trinkets, and children’s clothes, and examining sales with cars, motorcycles, suits, and tools. I don’t think there was really anything I hoped to find though, not anything that can be found at yard-sales anyway.
We rode with Scott through unfamiliar neighborhoods. He has a funny way of grabbing the steering wheel with both hands at the top and then leaning as he turns. It reminds me of a downhill skier slaloming left and right around obstacles.
On foot Dad and Scott’s eyes darted over the possessions on display. Scott put his hands on his hips, lifted his lips toward his nose and darted his green eyes; then bartered for better deals and made small talk of the craziest half-truths without ever grinning.
We went to a section of town that was crowded with pedestrians. Old men searched the sidewalks alone with heads down, middle aged couples walked side by side with sunglasses fixed forward, and old women walked in packs.
Among all the tables and wares, my companions seemed to notice at least one person passing the other way. They elbowed and grinned and tilted their heads. She was skinny as a crackhead, had oily bleached hair and the straight hips of a starving man. Her boobs were unnaturally large and off balance for a woman of her size and she had a sharp cornered mouth.
Scott elbowed for a second or two and looked back to me for a moment of it, with a little less enthusiasm in his grin. That was after they whispered something to each other.
For the rest of the day I claimed that I was working. I made one of one hundred necessary phone calls, and stood up from my desk and felt tormented by missed opportunities. During that call I forgot why I held an ear to a telephone, what my goal and plans were, and how to say them. I guess must have spent several hours with my arms crossed walking back and forth between windows and listening to the sound of my soles squeaking on the tiles.
I hope you’re well. Adieu, fast friend.
It is so often unpleasant to listen to the daily stories of some of the family members about what they have done or seen that seems unreasonably important to them that day. There’s something so vulgar about how some people tell stories—do you ever think so? They can be summarized as “it’s all about me,” or “it’s always a forgone conclusion, as I said,” or the chronological story without any preface and other ways they tell a story without relating any meaning until the very end. They’ll even call to ramble about your dearest grandfather, the airbags, the broken glass, hospital, the shock, and so many other details, and after a few more agonizing minutes they’ll offhandedly say that he’s going to be fine.
Maybe that’s why I hesitate so much to tell about minute things myself, but maybe it’s helpful to a person’s health to put his own story out with the countless wearying others he has to hear. People like us can do it the right way can’t they?
Well today I didn’t have anything pressing to do, you know? As usual.
I went out with my father to visit his friend, the hard partying Scott, the one whose drinking and war stories are so amazing that if he tells the same one twice you still will listen without interrupting. Somehow, I feel sort of close to him in some way, but can hardly act on it since he’s really my father’s friend and not mine.
We went to the yard-sales that were happening all over Scott’s neighborhood. So many things can happen when you go to visit someone else in their own city can’t they? Well, I happened to be in a line and reciprocated smiles with a woman ahead of me. She wasn’t especially stunning and I only remember that her face was round, friendly and caring. She had curly dark hair and the hairline on her forehead was level.
Someone said her name, I was too preoccupied to remember it, but I know it must be an uncommon female name that ended in a consonant.
Oh! In iambic pentameter, don’t they have something they call the “weak, or feminine ending” to a line and its vowels? Hah!
Well, as I was holding a pen and documents, occupied with my duty, I slowly believed I knew more and more about the perfection of such a look and face and the personality to which it was a twin. I paused and looked for her again, she was occupied, facing the other way, but her complete figure seemed to repeat the same insight even more loudly. I decided to make any excuse to talk with her and was certain that I could come up with plenty of them as soon as I came face to face with her. The moment I was freed from obligations; I rushed. She was gone, finished already, somewhere away from here.
After that I walked around with the guys, scorning yard-sales of glass, trinkets, and children’s clothes, and examining sales with cars, motorcycles, suits, and tools. I don’t think there was really anything I hoped to find though, not anything that can be found at yard-sales anyway.
We rode with Scott through unfamiliar neighborhoods. He has a funny way of grabbing the steering wheel with both hands at the top and then leaning as he turns. It reminds me of a downhill skier slaloming left and right around obstacles.
On foot Dad and Scott’s eyes darted over the possessions on display. Scott put his hands on his hips, lifted his lips toward his nose and darted his green eyes; then bartered for better deals and made small talk of the craziest half-truths without ever grinning.
We went to a section of town that was crowded with pedestrians. Old men searched the sidewalks alone with heads down, middle aged couples walked side by side with sunglasses fixed forward, and old women walked in packs.
Among all the tables and wares, my companions seemed to notice at least one person passing the other way. They elbowed and grinned and tilted their heads. She was skinny as a crackhead, had oily bleached hair and the straight hips of a starving man. Her boobs were unnaturally large and off balance for a woman of her size and she had a sharp cornered mouth.
Scott elbowed for a second or two and looked back to me for a moment of it, with a little less enthusiasm in his grin. That was after they whispered something to each other.
For the rest of the day I claimed that I was working. I made one of one hundred necessary phone calls, and stood up from my desk and felt tormented by missed opportunities. During that call I forgot why I held an ear to a telephone, what my goal and plans were, and how to say them. I guess must have spent several hours with my arms crossed walking back and forth between windows and listening to the sound of my soles squeaking on the tiles.
I hope you’re well. Adieu, fast friend.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Tono Path
A brown path through an open field with mountains parallel. Tall weeds of tan and green. The buzzing insects. They say a wolf can change his color and hide in grass that's only four inches tall. Indescribable creatures spend their lives in the dim woods. It's a long journey by leather soles. It's hard to decide if you prefer the fear of the open terrain or of the closed forest. Difficult to pick a favorite of traveling in chilling cold weather, or sweating hot weather. It's always frightening to begin a journey on a cold day. Behind every tree trunk is a mystery and concealing shadow. In every fern lined streambed is a concealed path to ambush a lone traveler. Clouds puff over the open country, and finally a house, a sign of people, brings back the feeling of safety.
Letters
Hey John how have you been? You remember Tina right? We were great friends before she went away on that trip. I'm not quite sure when she returned by I think it was quite a while before the day I was finally able to talk to her again. She seemed to be disengaged. She made the minimum possible response. She also found nothing funny about my jokes. Should I even bother talking to her again? That's what happens I guess. Maybe girls aren't reliable as friends. Well, there is a lot of room for misunderstanding when you're talking on the internet. Maybe you just have to catch some people in the right mood--at the right time. God knows that I'm that way. Yeah, that could be it.
Her hair is the purest dark brown, without a hint of red or other corruption, just pure shimmering walnut-wood brown. We used to sit in relaxed conversation on the floor, intoxicated. Later during the nights she would end up resting on her side, and finally lying all the way down. Then she would play with her hair, spread out along the carpet. I always fantasized that the two of us are living together in a cozy shelter in Scotland in one-thousand B.C.
Her hair is the purest dark brown, without a hint of red or other corruption, just pure shimmering walnut-wood brown. We used to sit in relaxed conversation on the floor, intoxicated. Later during the nights she would end up resting on her side, and finally lying all the way down. Then she would play with her hair, spread out along the carpet. I always fantasized that the two of us are living together in a cozy shelter in Scotland in one-thousand B.C.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
ideas?
Each story should include everything about life entirely. That will make it more interesting. By tomorrow you'll have a whole new set of ideas about life and can make something new.
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