January 31st, 2008 at 11:13 pm
(Poetry/Prose)
I read these things and get excited.
This is fun,
These pretend pages.
I’m million men, I’m my own man,
I’m in charge.
I’m definitely riding a high.
I’ll not lose myself, however,
I’ll remember.
I’ll hold in my heart that old feeling.
Alone.
I’ll hold it and hope this is the way I get to be.
I’ll hold her and hope,
This is the one I’ll get to be with.
Smiling boy, mischief in your eyes.
Lazy grin, lazy fingers,
Ways to tell you how I feel.
It’s nice to know I can be this way,
Not alone.
It’s nice to know I’m loved.
I am taken care of.
Bless these days,
These raindrops.
Bless the heart that drives me.
No, not my own,
A half a dozen others.
Bless me to be the man they see.
The man I am,
Beautiful.
Let me touch lives.
Tender, glancing strokes.
Head-first, punishing blows.
These words are a gift.
As are these moments,
The ones before.
The ones yet to come.
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January 28th, 2008 at 8:54 pm
(Scene, Unfinished)
“Stupid mutt!” the younger man shouted, kicking up a cloud of dust.
“Your dog lose?” Asked an older man, weathered, just passing by.
“Every single time,” the young man shouted, “I train him, I feed him and he repays me by being totally worthless.”
“Sometimes you just lose,” the old man, fingering his ticket, “s’no shame in that.”
“What the fuck does that mean? No shame,” with a sneer, “maybe not for you, but I’m heading somewhere, man. I’m one dog out, one mutt worth half a damn to get my feet moving out of this town.”
“This place,” in more measured tones, “it ain’t so bad really. Once you get used to it, that is.”
“What shit, what a bunch of shit,” the younger man mocking, patience exhausted, “bein’ a failure’ll make a bunch of things suddenly acceptable.”
“Failure, it’s a wonderful thing sometimes,” the older man smiling, a single slip of paper snaking through his fingers, “just don’t forget to settle your bet. And stop gettin’ dirt all over my damn new shoes.”
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January 21st, 2008 at 9:39 pm
(Academics)
“Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in
that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it.”
Newton’s First Law of Motion, Isaac Newton
The works of Samuel Beckett reflect a strange sort of human momentum. Born in stasis, Beckett’s characters find themselves traumatically thrust into a world of filth and little purpose. The expelled figures conduct themselves with a terrible energy-in-decay, wandering not with direction, but only so far as their legs must take them. Compelled strangely from point to point, Beckett’s characters struggle against any sense of destination, aiming to achieve only a jaded peace brought about through enforced isolation. This isolation, however, must not be taken in a purely social sense, as Beckett’s characters attempt to divest themselves not only of physical human companionship, but of burdensome memory and active thought as well. Though they do conclude, Beckett’s aim seems far less to generate a solid sense of a closed narrative, but rather, the men wandering through his short stories pursue the resolution of the void. This progression of narrative voice, clear in many of Beckett’s works, is particularly evident in his 1946 short story The Expelled.
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January 15th, 2008 at 7:31 am
(Poetry/Prose, Unfinished)
It’s in the things I think to say. Half-formed but then forgotten. I smile and the moment passes. Slides right off my face.
I start to think. I stop. I start to think maybe I’m doing all of this the wrong way. There’s no real guidepost. Besides, I’ve always struggled with the unknown.
It’s this beastly thing. Horns, whip-tailed and mean. It’s in my closet, under my bed. It’s moving along under my skin.
So I peel back layers. Persistence is its own reward, it’s torture as well. One pass leaves skin white, flaking. Two draws blood and sooner or later I’m furrowing bone. I’m pulling myself apart. Sinews torn, bone and muscle separated. I’m blood and skin and the rotten inside. I’m a mess. I stain the ground.
I fade. I fall and scratch. Feverish, persistence will kill this boy. Drive and fear and longing and revulsion and I wonder if I can strip it all away fast enough.
I will tear it down. Tear me down. I will burn myself to the ground. Ashen, bloody, pulp.
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January 13th, 2008 at 9:38 pm
(Poetry/Prose, Unfinished)
The myth of change keeps them content. The fools, the short-sighted, the sainted hopeful, each clinging to what could be. Eyes towards the horizon, fixed atop fumbling feet, well worn shoes caked in mud, bathed in filth. The hope of tomorrow has little to do with what might happen, but rather, it rests on the simple principle that tomorrow, at the very least, is not today.
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January 11th, 2008 at 12:37 pm
(Scene)
Excerpts from an interview conducted with Mr. David Hall over a matter of nature, a question of small stature and an unusual personal affliction. The subject, it should be noted, was quite willing to chat. The individual was forthright and forthcoming, open minded and mouthed and eager to divulge the requested information. Doctors remain baffled; health professionals involved but without suggestion as the subject continues the stroke of life.
INTERVIEWER:
So you say that it’s…
DAVE:
Small, yes. Distinctive.
I:
So it sets you apart then?
D:
Yes. It’s come to be a sort of calling card I suppose.
I:
And how long, ahem, I mean…
D:
I know. Since I was young.
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January 2nd, 2008 at 10:57 pm
(Character Sketch)
Ojedo Acevedo liked to think of the world as a particularly well shaped box. He liked borders, adored walls and threw himself soullessly into little tasks with clear and simple goals. He loved beginnings; he loved endings and felt safe whenever the two existed within sight of one another. Ojedo was simple of mind, but devout in purpose and dedicated himself to the small assortment of tasks his modest copy-shop demanded.
Oh-Hey, as coworkers had quickly taken to calling him, walked to work, barring rain, and did so by the same streets every day. He’d started counting steps once, under particularly inviting springtime clouds, but had given the task up, intimidated by its scope, not trusting his uncertain steps.
Oh-Hey liked to write his address on little slips of paper. He ran them off at work, so many footsteps, wadded up and discarded wherever he happened to go. Each slip was a little thrill, a tingle and the suggestion of life beyond the confines of his delightful little box. Ojedo left traces of himself on the outside and lived in fear. He worked to keep his phone clean and uncovered, resting atop a single unoccupied table even as garbage began to accumulate in his little apartment.
Oh-Hey feared the phone might ring, might disturb him during dinner or his programs. It would be an obvious intrusion, as he seldom kept his television particularly loud. Ojedo could see himself turning, amazed at the sudden piercing intrusion. There would be a pause, two rings at least to properly gauge the situation, before he would fold his napkin, reorder his silver and pad quickly across his small apartment. Oh-Hey would feel his heart begin to race, note the rising tension in his thick frame and how it crawled beneath his skin. A strange ritual, Oh-Hey would wait, listen and wait to see who had found him.
No-one ever called.
Ojedo Acevedo sent letters as well. Boarding schools, correspondence programs and correctional institutions. Pen-pals and prisons, long-flowing prose, chopped up personal scribbling or whatever else seemed appropriate. His hand was open, affable and Oh-Hey seldom used phrases beyond his own below-average intelligence. He said hello to relatives, inquired after class schedules and vowed his friendship constant for the duration of punishment. Oh-Hey told tales. He listened to soft-jazz and thought of things he’d rather be doing, wrote them down and said in conclusion: “I sincerely wish to find my way into your acquaintance; I should hope to hear from you again soon, Mr. Ojedo Acevedo.”
Oh-Hey never checked is mailbox.
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