Familiar, these dim pathways I trod with trepidation, with hesitant steps, and arms outstretched to feel sight during temporary blindness. Recognizable in that I comprehend I'm lost, anew, behind the enemy's line and far from the fight, inside that evil opponent's territory.
Normal is this hesitation of control, this second-guessing burned-hand syndrome from lashes and burns and bright white lies to cover...the scars. Eyes widened in panic, can't get the direction focused on the dial, inwardly rages meaningless debates that justify nothing, not even the wasted time spent upon their defense.
Routine is a worn groove of lapsing in fortitude, slipping in strength, sliding downward with storybook charmed hopes and disastrous words that bind this broken reality to sturdy joists beams of actuality, of regret, of whipped confidence. Leaving the chained fool, restrained and captured, on public display as the example for viewing: here droops broken hope.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Vine Project
Project Vine is the codename for my latest writing attempt. I'm practicing here on the da' blog and experimenting with different styles of writing. The storyline is nothing, truly nothing. The first two Vine installments were based on my last Friday Marta experience upon leaving my watering hole. They don't represent actual true life events. For example, I don't know if my observer in Vine 2 was actually horny. I just don't know. I do know that my friend Amber was on the platform but I don't know her state of arousal. Like I said, this is my writing experiment. Please be patient with me. This pic is a colored pencil piece I did in my shed. I scanned it and added a Photoshop filter to it. I like muscadines best of all berries.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Vine-2
This train is way too hot and I can't stand the pressure of the crowd. As I was starting to panic from claustrophobia I swirled around in agitation and saw him through the window of the train car as he stood waiting on the platform for his train. I lurched forward with the motion of the train's acceleration and watched him slip out of sight. He consumes my thoughts. Why him? Why did I lock onto him to feel the sentiments I hold inside when I'm around him? I shift from the heavy guy thumbing the wheel on his phone/pda thingy, and look around at the other passengers. Why him? I don't understand myself. Tonight I'm going home alone again and I don't want to be alone. I know he is a good person, but he's messed up. He's scarred and hurt and numb, yet...not brilliant...no, nothing like that. But his style of life is...engrossing, either watching the soon-to-be trainwreck or seeing him escape from near misses on all levels. I'm horny and stuck on a train to my lonely house and he's going the opposite way to destroy himself further, never knowing my care and concern and impression of him.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Vine-Me
Vine is a writing experiment I'm currently pushing myself to do for the greater good of my writing. This blog, with your apologies, understanding, and input, with help me with my project. The Vine is a long tendril holding many berry clusters. That is my idea for this project. I started with myself for the focus of this writing piece in the Vine project.
It was a quiet, even aloof, Friday evening for me. This caused considerable consernation in that it broke the drunken, ego-pandering routine of redundant familiarity. I left work, slugged down some quick cold ones at the closest decent bar, blathered enough to register inebriation, and in my departure I sweated under intense summertime heat while winding between the towering buildings that lined the roads to the public transportation station. Now, very alone in my thoughts and sensory dullness, I found myself engulfed into a tidal wash of human movement. 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, on the rail line in the city, meant swarms of folks of all stripes heading the Hell outta where ever the were just working, suffering, or loitering.
I slap my transportation passcard against the reader on the gates and merge through the barrier, moving into the awaiting crowd milling on the train platform. I see workers of all gradients of occupations, old folks, wheelchair-bound persons, visually impaired people sweeping canes in exploratory patterns, college students, troublemakers, withdrawn characters beaten until their faces can only grimace pain...and I join their midst. My appearance exudes professionalism, contemporary clothing, Friday relaxed office dress, a shoulder bag containing essentials, beer-tainted breath, searching eyes, hidden hurt. The train arrives and engulfs most of us waiting while dispensing only a few passengers.
We cling to this lateral forward motion in echoes of forced movement against our bodies; all present occupants of this train, patiently accepting our cramped confinement on missions to various destinations; this closeness to one another is not personal, or even preferred, but we know it to be necessary for our passage elsewhere.
I don't like you, stinky breath guy, nor do I like loud-talker wig-wearing woman, nor space hogger, weird chin guy or fatty that has an odd porportional shape. I dislike the looming seated woman who can't quit staring at me with laser eyes that reflect no emotion and a face of stone to match that disattachment. I'm turned off by the girl whose hairline starts halfway back on her skull, yet she portends superiority or perceived attractiveness by her conceited display of her styling.
I'm edgy about the various jokers and oddballs with backpacks--who knows what those packs contain?--and the window reflections that become a hall of mirrors forces me to understand that I, too, am being judged, sized up, analyzed, social rejected and gauged by strangers glancing from multiple vector angles on the glass, and furthermore their scrutiny is beyond my ability to confront, engage, or return. I sink into the hopeful anonymity of us all: people, travelers, folks, still alive for this moment, yet overall gossamer mortals.
My emotions stir, and guilt weighs on my initial judgements of the collective of fellow riders; I am only human.
It was a quiet, even aloof, Friday evening for me. This caused considerable consernation in that it broke the drunken, ego-pandering routine of redundant familiarity. I left work, slugged down some quick cold ones at the closest decent bar, blathered enough to register inebriation, and in my departure I sweated under intense summertime heat while winding between the towering buildings that lined the roads to the public transportation station. Now, very alone in my thoughts and sensory dullness, I found myself engulfed into a tidal wash of human movement. 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, on the rail line in the city, meant swarms of folks of all stripes heading the Hell outta where ever the were just working, suffering, or loitering.
I slap my transportation passcard against the reader on the gates and merge through the barrier, moving into the awaiting crowd milling on the train platform. I see workers of all gradients of occupations, old folks, wheelchair-bound persons, visually impaired people sweeping canes in exploratory patterns, college students, troublemakers, withdrawn characters beaten until their faces can only grimace pain...and I join their midst. My appearance exudes professionalism, contemporary clothing, Friday relaxed office dress, a shoulder bag containing essentials, beer-tainted breath, searching eyes, hidden hurt. The train arrives and engulfs most of us waiting while dispensing only a few passengers.
We cling to this lateral forward motion in echoes of forced movement against our bodies; all present occupants of this train, patiently accepting our cramped confinement on missions to various destinations; this closeness to one another is not personal, or even preferred, but we know it to be necessary for our passage elsewhere.
I don't like you, stinky breath guy, nor do I like loud-talker wig-wearing woman, nor space hogger, weird chin guy or fatty that has an odd porportional shape. I dislike the looming seated woman who can't quit staring at me with laser eyes that reflect no emotion and a face of stone to match that disattachment. I'm turned off by the girl whose hairline starts halfway back on her skull, yet she portends superiority or perceived attractiveness by her conceited display of her styling.
I'm edgy about the various jokers and oddballs with backpacks--who knows what those packs contain?--and the window reflections that become a hall of mirrors forces me to understand that I, too, am being judged, sized up, analyzed, social rejected and gauged by strangers glancing from multiple vector angles on the glass, and furthermore their scrutiny is beyond my ability to confront, engage, or return. I sink into the hopeful anonymity of us all: people, travelers, folks, still alive for this moment, yet overall gossamer mortals.
My emotions stir, and guilt weighs on my initial judgements of the collective of fellow riders; I am only human.
Over
Time arches around established moments defined by emotions that serve as benchmarks in an undetermined, yet destined, walk on this planet.
Factor in love, hate, disappointment, regret, failure, joy, accomplishment, wonder, discovery, desire and determination and the journey from start to finish and those passing moments that click off coloring grid squared on a calendar and you have existence, ongoing.
Factor in love, hate, disappointment, regret, failure, joy, accomplishment, wonder, discovery, desire and determination and the journey from start to finish and those passing moments that click off coloring grid squared on a calendar and you have existence, ongoing.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Alligator Hole
I was out too late, and certainly my brother was too. He sat beside me in the backseat of the Oldsmobile, fighting the heavy lids of his eyes to capture the excitement. My teenage cousins had somehow managed to pry the car from the parents, most likely with talltales of seeing the beach at night from another end of the island. The real magic they wove to the parental units was the spell that allowed me and my kid brother to go with them on their joyride.
Upfront, behind the wheel, was my cousin Kevin, decidedly the most level-headed of the group. Riding shotgun was his brother Keith. Stuffed into the backseat was my cousin Jackie and her girlfriend, me, and my kid brother Gregg. Pink Floyd was loudly emitting from the radio and everyone but me and my brother were smoking cigarettes. The cool night breeze, salted by the ocean, slipped into the backseat from the door windows and slapped my hair onto my face while clouding me in the strange-smelling smoke from the teenagers' shared cigarette. Gregg, wedged between me and the girls, said nothing; normally we fought over our line of demarcation that divided his side of the backseat from mine, but tonight was something new and exciting and we suffered each other's closeness in silence.
The two-lane roadway that encircled the tiny 13-mile island was barren of cars or people, decorated only by eerie street lamps punctuating over-reaching shadows from the surrounding forestry. I remember wind, the words "Tear Down The Wall!", my cousins all laughing, and some soft background hum of crickets during the ride that June night. For some strange reason, I noticed green hills out of the windshield and felt the car lurch and dip under us. It took a minute or two, but we all realized soon enough that we had driven out onto the golf course. The car slowed near a small lake and we piled out into the night air and lumpy terrain of shadows.
My brother and I hung around the car while the others wondered off into the darkness, laughing and talking loudly. Soon they were out of reach of hearing and we were alone. I think my brother and I both placed where we were on the golf course, having been here many times with my father to go crabbing. We were next to the best crabbing spot on the course, known to all who have visited the spot, as the Alligator Hole. We slowly turned toward the water's edge and looked into the ink of liquid night. Two shiny spots reflected the light from the car's headlights. We were alone with the gator.
The lake had no fence or retaining wall, only a sloping bank and then the turf of the golf course. My brother and I were less than 50 feet from the water's edge and approximately 125 feet from the set of glowing eyes belonging to the bone crushing, death-rolling alligator. No words were spoken leaving sound to be filled by crickets, the lap of the water against the bank, and the resounding pulsations of our hearts' fear-induced rhythm.
Earlier that day our father and mother had taken us out for some crabbing. This process was as easy as weighting a line of utility rope, tying some raw chicken on the end, and attaching the rope to a roll for coiling. There are other ways to crab using metal traps, but we were doing it the old way. We dropped our chicken-baited ropes and let the crabs slowly make their way to the meal. Father pointed out the lazy alligator out in the shadows of the water's edge, languid and resting in the heat of the afternoon sun. Mom gave us Cokes and watched the golfers. My brother and I grew bored waiting for our catch and scouted around the area. The afternoon's visit was how I was certain of where we were on the golf course even now in the dark.
The time to pull up the ropes finally arrived and we were all rolling up the ropes around the tubular handle. Mom caught one, I pulled one up only to have him release his grip at the waters edge, my brother had his bait stolen, but my Father had something of an amazing catch. He was straining on his rope, the dry material pulling against his skin and cutting red lines into his taunt grip. His biceps flexed, he struggled, and we gawked in amazement of the imagined size of the crab that could give my Father such resistance.
My dad heaved, and nearly pitched forward into the water. My Mom braced him and me and my brother got close to the edge to help drag the rope ashore. With one final power surge my Father, the rope slicing deep into the skin of his hands, revealed the front nose, rough skin, and askew teeth of a sneaky, determined alligator, my brother and I being face to snout with the beast.
My Mother's scream disengaged my Father's frozen contest and the rope was tossed into the water. My brother and I had somehow moved 25 yards away as if we teleported, our hair standing on end and my Mother's blood-curdling scream still echoing in our ears and across our enlivened nerves. Our family silently packed up and headed back to the rental after that, quietly going to our room and sharing nothing of our bad luck, lost bait and rope, or our collective fearful episode.
Now, here my brother and I were again...back to face this fearful beast. Alone but for each other, our terror choking us into silence, our eyes unblinking and locked on the glowing orbs in the water, our nerves straining and our muscles so over-adrenalized that we were hoplessly inert. The blood drained from my brother's face and I moved us back into the car and closed the doors. I began honking the horn, bleating that alarm of fear into the drapery of night, ruining my cousins' fun, maybe even arousing the attention of the routinely bored authorities, but in my mind it was the cry for survival, for fortification of our young lives, for help.
The ride back to our rental was somber. My brother cried the entire time and had nightmares the next couple of nights, as did my Father, kicking the sheets and punctuating the calm of sleep with frightened, unintelligible exclamations. My Mother and I shared a bed, leaving them to suffer the lingering alligator's clutch together, but we had no rest.
I remember the look of discredit the older ones flashed to each other regarding us. "They were too young, we should have known.", they seemed to say. I didn't feel guilt for ruining their fun, though it surprises me today the feeling isn't in my recollection of the night, not even now that I could relate to what my cousins suffered through, both in the downer party interruption and, most likely, the sharp words they received from the older adults.
Instead I felt relief. I felt lucky. I now feel blessed that we didn't die to the droning tunes of Pink Floyd, amid open night air spiced by strange smoke and goofy, brazen teenagers, while alone on the edge of the darkened alligator hole, either by the beast's evil jaws or from the sheer horror created in our young imaginations.
Upfront, behind the wheel, was my cousin Kevin, decidedly the most level-headed of the group. Riding shotgun was his brother Keith. Stuffed into the backseat was my cousin Jackie and her girlfriend, me, and my kid brother Gregg. Pink Floyd was loudly emitting from the radio and everyone but me and my brother were smoking cigarettes. The cool night breeze, salted by the ocean, slipped into the backseat from the door windows and slapped my hair onto my face while clouding me in the strange-smelling smoke from the teenagers' shared cigarette. Gregg, wedged between me and the girls, said nothing; normally we fought over our line of demarcation that divided his side of the backseat from mine, but tonight was something new and exciting and we suffered each other's closeness in silence.
The two-lane roadway that encircled the tiny 13-mile island was barren of cars or people, decorated only by eerie street lamps punctuating over-reaching shadows from the surrounding forestry. I remember wind, the words "Tear Down The Wall!", my cousins all laughing, and some soft background hum of crickets during the ride that June night. For some strange reason, I noticed green hills out of the windshield and felt the car lurch and dip under us. It took a minute or two, but we all realized soon enough that we had driven out onto the golf course. The car slowed near a small lake and we piled out into the night air and lumpy terrain of shadows.
My brother and I hung around the car while the others wondered off into the darkness, laughing and talking loudly. Soon they were out of reach of hearing and we were alone. I think my brother and I both placed where we were on the golf course, having been here many times with my father to go crabbing. We were next to the best crabbing spot on the course, known to all who have visited the spot, as the Alligator Hole. We slowly turned toward the water's edge and looked into the ink of liquid night. Two shiny spots reflected the light from the car's headlights. We were alone with the gator.
The lake had no fence or retaining wall, only a sloping bank and then the turf of the golf course. My brother and I were less than 50 feet from the water's edge and approximately 125 feet from the set of glowing eyes belonging to the bone crushing, death-rolling alligator. No words were spoken leaving sound to be filled by crickets, the lap of the water against the bank, and the resounding pulsations of our hearts' fear-induced rhythm.
Earlier that day our father and mother had taken us out for some crabbing. This process was as easy as weighting a line of utility rope, tying some raw chicken on the end, and attaching the rope to a roll for coiling. There are other ways to crab using metal traps, but we were doing it the old way. We dropped our chicken-baited ropes and let the crabs slowly make their way to the meal. Father pointed out the lazy alligator out in the shadows of the water's edge, languid and resting in the heat of the afternoon sun. Mom gave us Cokes and watched the golfers. My brother and I grew bored waiting for our catch and scouted around the area. The afternoon's visit was how I was certain of where we were on the golf course even now in the dark.
The time to pull up the ropes finally arrived and we were all rolling up the ropes around the tubular handle. Mom caught one, I pulled one up only to have him release his grip at the waters edge, my brother had his bait stolen, but my Father had something of an amazing catch. He was straining on his rope, the dry material pulling against his skin and cutting red lines into his taunt grip. His biceps flexed, he struggled, and we gawked in amazement of the imagined size of the crab that could give my Father such resistance.
My dad heaved, and nearly pitched forward into the water. My Mom braced him and me and my brother got close to the edge to help drag the rope ashore. With one final power surge my Father, the rope slicing deep into the skin of his hands, revealed the front nose, rough skin, and askew teeth of a sneaky, determined alligator, my brother and I being face to snout with the beast.
My Mother's scream disengaged my Father's frozen contest and the rope was tossed into the water. My brother and I had somehow moved 25 yards away as if we teleported, our hair standing on end and my Mother's blood-curdling scream still echoing in our ears and across our enlivened nerves. Our family silently packed up and headed back to the rental after that, quietly going to our room and sharing nothing of our bad luck, lost bait and rope, or our collective fearful episode.
Now, here my brother and I were again...back to face this fearful beast. Alone but for each other, our terror choking us into silence, our eyes unblinking and locked on the glowing orbs in the water, our nerves straining and our muscles so over-adrenalized that we were hoplessly inert. The blood drained from my brother's face and I moved us back into the car and closed the doors. I began honking the horn, bleating that alarm of fear into the drapery of night, ruining my cousins' fun, maybe even arousing the attention of the routinely bored authorities, but in my mind it was the cry for survival, for fortification of our young lives, for help.
The ride back to our rental was somber. My brother cried the entire time and had nightmares the next couple of nights, as did my Father, kicking the sheets and punctuating the calm of sleep with frightened, unintelligible exclamations. My Mother and I shared a bed, leaving them to suffer the lingering alligator's clutch together, but we had no rest.
I remember the look of discredit the older ones flashed to each other regarding us. "They were too young, we should have known.", they seemed to say. I didn't feel guilt for ruining their fun, though it surprises me today the feeling isn't in my recollection of the night, not even now that I could relate to what my cousins suffered through, both in the downer party interruption and, most likely, the sharp words they received from the older adults.
Instead I felt relief. I felt lucky. I now feel blessed that we didn't die to the droning tunes of Pink Floyd, amid open night air spiced by strange smoke and goofy, brazen teenagers, while alone on the edge of the darkened alligator hole, either by the beast's evil jaws or from the sheer horror created in our young imaginations.
Friday, August 03, 2007
History of Writing
It was the beginning of the most important days in our history, truly THE history, the origination of light and dark and water and land and trees and birds and man or woman.
It was given to us by a smear, a dishonor, a way of separating one who wronged from those who would see this symbol and understand it what it meant, the consequences of a bad action.
This comprehension of a meaningful symbol lead to other symbols, and other methods of recording meanings, and making recorded history or business documents or transported correspondence or decrees of war or declarations of love.
Fastforward.
Eventually, it lead to my job as an editor and to my blog.
So I read ithe history of writing full circle: the murder, the mark, the symbols, then letters, then words, then languages, then a key to language translation, the advancement in various styles of writing, and the Bible as a record of events.
Fastforward.
Now I read the Bible, go to work, correct text in digital format for proper grammatical display on a monitor screen, print it to show my corrections with symbolic marks of red ink, come home and read the newspaper to unwind, and hopefully write the letters of my thoughts and emotions and dreams in this digital blog with hope or at the very least some relaxation.
All because God showed us a marked man, the murderer Cain, with his symbol for all to see, understand, recognize, and develop.
Writing is born of hindsight regret and condemnation for deeds that are unforgivable.
It was given to us by a smear, a dishonor, a way of separating one who wronged from those who would see this symbol and understand it what it meant, the consequences of a bad action.
This comprehension of a meaningful symbol lead to other symbols, and other methods of recording meanings, and making recorded history or business documents or transported correspondence or decrees of war or declarations of love.
Fastforward.
Eventually, it lead to my job as an editor and to my blog.
So I read ithe history of writing full circle: the murder, the mark, the symbols, then letters, then words, then languages, then a key to language translation, the advancement in various styles of writing, and the Bible as a record of events.
Fastforward.
Now I read the Bible, go to work, correct text in digital format for proper grammatical display on a monitor screen, print it to show my corrections with symbolic marks of red ink, come home and read the newspaper to unwind, and hopefully write the letters of my thoughts and emotions and dreams in this digital blog with hope or at the very least some relaxation.
All because God showed us a marked man, the murderer Cain, with his symbol for all to see, understand, recognize, and develop.
Writing is born of hindsight regret and condemnation for deeds that are unforgivable.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)