Take the half eaten bagel as substitute for the words "stagnant" and "long." A patter begins to develop between a character on the stage. In time, a light shines and illuminates the solitary object on a table near the left: A computer.
Take the computer as a substitute for the words "memory" and "death." Displayed prominently on the monitor, a subset of the substitution of the word "computer" (not to be confused with the object, which is substitute for the words "memory" and "death") is a picture.
Take the picture as a substitute for the words "past" and "moment." The picture itself is a picture of the picture, or, to put it more succinctly, the picture, which in itself is a picture of the half eaten bagel, was taken at a certain time by a camera.
Take the camera as a substitute for the words "us" and "audience." In a certain way, these two things are the same. In a certain way, these two things are not the same. In time, the difference will become clear. In time, the difference will remain unclear, an unfinished journey down the road.
Take the road as a substitute for the words "time" and "inevitable." Earlier we had touched upon the camera, which is to say that the patter of character had touched upon the camera. In this, a sort of loop. In this, a sort of comfort.
Take the comfort as a substitute for the words "sleep" and "uncanny." To describe the way in which the picture was not the picture, but the idea of the picture; as result of the rumination of the camera; at a certain point along this road; of the half eaten bagel; displayed at once on the computer, in the comfort of the home.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Bowl
After three minutes of sitting in the dark: what about the bowl.
At seven the playground was flawless. At eight I began to grow bored, and found a hole. Following the hole led me not down but east until I was between the earth and the wood of the fort. The fort which was the central structure of the playground. It was perfect for pretend war. Everything was. Fruit became weapon. Pencils were medical in nature.
What about the bowl.
There no less stark than the present dark I saw the bowl. The bowl itself was oddly clean for such an ancient place. Around me was an extending lake of space, filled with forgotten air that yielded moist breaths which satiated the young brain only just. As I touched the rough porcelain the earth began to heat and a hissing emerged from everywhere. Holding the bowl beneath my chin I pretended to slurp Eastern Noodles and broth. They were the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
What about the bowl.
When the hissing reached an apex of volume there was a sudden stop and the silence became the noise which kept the silence in. I lowered the bowl and gazed into it. Slowly yet without warning I felt a liquid dripping from my face, from the brow, trickling around my eyes to the mouth and finally into the bowl. The liquid was watery, warm. A deep burgundy pooled within the bowl and I had the necessary satisfaction of becoming dyed the same color. There is no need to ask if it was blood, it was not blood. Though dark it may have been, when I plunged my hands into the bowl now resting on the warm earth the consistency was not that of blood, but something like water, but not quite water. Maybe the blue liquid barbers keep the combs in, yet I have never dunked my hands into those jars (as large as the want may have been) so this is pure speculation.
What about the bowl.
When I removed my hands from the burgundy liquid my wrists began to shrink, until they were both the diameter of a large knitting needle. The hands shriveled in turn until they stopped. The left formed a perfect loop, completing itself back into the wrist. The right formed a perfect hook, truncated into a sharp point. I began to place the hook into the loop, in and out, in and out, continually, as if practicing the threading of a large needle, and sat there doing so, for what seemed like ages.
At seven the playground was flawless. At eight I began to grow bored, and found a hole. Following the hole led me not down but east until I was between the earth and the wood of the fort. The fort which was the central structure of the playground. It was perfect for pretend war. Everything was. Fruit became weapon. Pencils were medical in nature.
What about the bowl.
There no less stark than the present dark I saw the bowl. The bowl itself was oddly clean for such an ancient place. Around me was an extending lake of space, filled with forgotten air that yielded moist breaths which satiated the young brain only just. As I touched the rough porcelain the earth began to heat and a hissing emerged from everywhere. Holding the bowl beneath my chin I pretended to slurp Eastern Noodles and broth. They were the most delicious thing I had ever tasted.
What about the bowl.
When the hissing reached an apex of volume there was a sudden stop and the silence became the noise which kept the silence in. I lowered the bowl and gazed into it. Slowly yet without warning I felt a liquid dripping from my face, from the brow, trickling around my eyes to the mouth and finally into the bowl. The liquid was watery, warm. A deep burgundy pooled within the bowl and I had the necessary satisfaction of becoming dyed the same color. There is no need to ask if it was blood, it was not blood. Though dark it may have been, when I plunged my hands into the bowl now resting on the warm earth the consistency was not that of blood, but something like water, but not quite water. Maybe the blue liquid barbers keep the combs in, yet I have never dunked my hands into those jars (as large as the want may have been) so this is pure speculation.
What about the bowl.
When I removed my hands from the burgundy liquid my wrists began to shrink, until they were both the diameter of a large knitting needle. The hands shriveled in turn until they stopped. The left formed a perfect loop, completing itself back into the wrist. The right formed a perfect hook, truncated into a sharp point. I began to place the hook into the loop, in and out, in and out, continually, as if practicing the threading of a large needle, and sat there doing so, for what seemed like ages.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
To Wake
Put tongue to wet metal. Felt nothing. Walked toward empty house. found rust, felt rust. Kept rust in sacred spot in mind. Next to Grandmother. Imaginary Yawns? The foundation of something larger. Whale songs. moooooooooorow. we are all cats.
With a distinct passage of time inside the puddles shrank. Sky became clouded, less arêtesque. Checked twitter in the dark. Shed light on little, little shed’s light large yet larger. Erudite fresh. Somewhere a door opening and closing. gesture plus empty time. moving with a wedding invitation.
Felt them drive by. Would later describe the winds as “succulent”. woods are never luscious, be they cereals or grains. within the house grew one with this notion of the ancient I. Hugh Jackman lost the superbowl once but gained the trust of a middle aged man with severe
Where then the conception of the self?
Prove the rule and lean toward the left while driving. realign this. Finger to the sky. empty gestures all the time. drive towards what. good eye good eye good good I. let the dogs out.
daylight comes and together we are --
With a distinct passage of time inside the puddles shrank. Sky became clouded, less arêtesque. Checked twitter in the dark. Shed light on little, little shed’s light large yet larger. Erudite fresh. Somewhere a door opening and closing. gesture plus empty time. moving with a wedding invitation.
Felt them drive by. Would later describe the winds as “succulent”. woods are never luscious, be they cereals or grains. within the house grew one with this notion of the ancient I. Hugh Jackman lost the superbowl once but gained the trust of a middle aged man with severe
Where then the conception of the self?
Prove the rule and lean toward the left while driving. realign this. Finger to the sky. empty gestures all the time. drive towards what. good eye good eye good good I. let the dogs out.
daylight comes and together we are --
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Vent
The giggle arrived from the vent around 3:15 in the afternoon. Not a peculiar time by any means. But this is the time the clock stated as I walked across the graying carpet into the bathroom, and present above me in some abstract gravity I could see the tiny pestles of two eyes staring. To say that he was smiling would be an obstruction of truth, but the skins on the sides of his eyes (the outer sides, that is, closer to the ears) were crinkled, with age but obviously not with age, a youthful unsmile. Crinkled as if to say I have only ever bathed in butter and the sound a fly makes when caught between a window and a screen. This happens a lot in my household. It is not uncommon.
After managing to find the correct type of screwdriver (in this case, a pair of scissors) I went to work attempting to divide the cheap browned plastic of the bathroom vent from the cheap browned wall paper, though being affixed to the ceiling one might call it paper here, in reverse. In any case, I found the scissors next to the bleach. The bleach itself was on the shelf called Roger, which in itself is a shelf designed for this sort of thing. Utility.
Perched on at least two chairs working there I began to hear a hiss. Not the sort of hiss that arises with an oven dominating its own internal, but the snake caught between the boot of a traveler and the ground of its home. Is the traveler a threat, or is it merely attempting to comfort the demon? Sources appear with differing opinions, and I am not one to complicate matters. (citation needed).
Once I managed to unearth the space between the vent and the ceiling, although in many ways I had only worked to earth it, unsky it, I was surprised to view so clearly that this thing, he, had not two eyes but perhaps more, directly next to his original pair of eyes (although I reckon now that these two eyes might have been there first). In any case, these eyes were directly about and between the ears and the buttered skin, and when they looked between the sink and the general area of my torso there was a great clacking, as if somebody was dropping marbles on a wood floor, or showing the quite unbreakable nature of unbreakable glass. The noise was loud, but manageable.
Odd it might seem, as the creature reach towards my face it was only the revelation of space that crossed my mind. The space of the vent, which reached in two directions: the bathroom and the not bathroom. Unable to make no assumption on the discretion of the creature to relate to the not bathroom, it then became present to assume that, had the creature been living here, it would have been privy to those moments called private, for when I am in the shower, I sing. Mostly I sing Every Little Star by Linda Scott. People comment on my voice, and I wear these things like a sash won at a local super market for being the one-millionth customer. It allows me to exit stores with something that is rare in this day and age: a feeling of success.
The clacking and grabbing was reminiscent of a larger iceberg, and this made me thirsty. The thirst that accompanies one who cannot drink, for I could not drink, but was playing host to this upward oddity. Certainly it had pressed my face with a modicum of grace, though the grace was violent. But in the mirror opposite of my cheek the drip of blood, descending rapidly, was a letter of not indignant presence, but instead a sort of autograph, and with a great rustle he was gone.
After managing to find the correct type of screwdriver (in this case, a pair of scissors) I went to work attempting to divide the cheap browned plastic of the bathroom vent from the cheap browned wall paper, though being affixed to the ceiling one might call it paper here, in reverse. In any case, I found the scissors next to the bleach. The bleach itself was on the shelf called Roger, which in itself is a shelf designed for this sort of thing. Utility.
Perched on at least two chairs working there I began to hear a hiss. Not the sort of hiss that arises with an oven dominating its own internal, but the snake caught between the boot of a traveler and the ground of its home. Is the traveler a threat, or is it merely attempting to comfort the demon? Sources appear with differing opinions, and I am not one to complicate matters. (citation needed).
Once I managed to unearth the space between the vent and the ceiling, although in many ways I had only worked to earth it, unsky it, I was surprised to view so clearly that this thing, he, had not two eyes but perhaps more, directly next to his original pair of eyes (although I reckon now that these two eyes might have been there first). In any case, these eyes were directly about and between the ears and the buttered skin, and when they looked between the sink and the general area of my torso there was a great clacking, as if somebody was dropping marbles on a wood floor, or showing the quite unbreakable nature of unbreakable glass. The noise was loud, but manageable.
Odd it might seem, as the creature reach towards my face it was only the revelation of space that crossed my mind. The space of the vent, which reached in two directions: the bathroom and the not bathroom. Unable to make no assumption on the discretion of the creature to relate to the not bathroom, it then became present to assume that, had the creature been living here, it would have been privy to those moments called private, for when I am in the shower, I sing. Mostly I sing Every Little Star by Linda Scott. People comment on my voice, and I wear these things like a sash won at a local super market for being the one-millionth customer. It allows me to exit stores with something that is rare in this day and age: a feeling of success.
The clacking and grabbing was reminiscent of a larger iceberg, and this made me thirsty. The thirst that accompanies one who cannot drink, for I could not drink, but was playing host to this upward oddity. Certainly it had pressed my face with a modicum of grace, though the grace was violent. But in the mirror opposite of my cheek the drip of blood, descending rapidly, was a letter of not indignant presence, but instead a sort of autograph, and with a great rustle he was gone.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Metaphor
When the phone rang asking me to describe The Metaphor I was building a table. The phone rang, and here I was up to my elbows in table legs. I had to gingerly avoid any and all table knees in order to emerge out of the swimming ocean of legs without angering the gentle balance of that majestic table. When grace is shouted it is usually the gazelle, the elk, perhaps even the commonplace deer that is used, projected in the mental foil of thought. Never the table, I think, perhaps in error. The fish, occasionally, but really only if one has ocean mind, which might be more common in ocean-bound-states such as swimming or Rhode Island but I have never lived in either. This is perhaps the difficulty of the situation of grace as fish, though I did not express the same desire of banishment of those gentle four legged woodland mammals, the thought is all the same. But: the table.
Once I moved out of the clutches of the legs of the table you might think I was free to run to the phone, ringing as it was. Was my urgency not increased by the amount of rings that had surpassed time into sonic death? No. Rather, my phone informs me that when an unknown number calls I am serenaded (and, in truth, those around me as well) with The Hungarian Dance, though I have never heard this tune outside of my phone, and in truth the actual acoustic melody could in fact be something else. At any rate, that quota for which a walk becomes a run vis-à-vis urgency had perhaps not filled, and I was unaware of the proper etiquette of these moments. Am I to cease all activity, and, hands covered in blood, sutures half sutered, dash for the ringing telephone after one and a half Hungarian Dances? Two and a half? The answer is not simple, and to complicate matters, my house is not littered with cloths eager to be soaked in blood, though you might assume otherwise. (Presumptuous reader, presumptuous author, for these are times which in we live.)
In any case, though I had escaped that which I believe can be conjured with the phrase leg pile only to be confronted by that enormous row of table surfaces—that is the segment considered deeply to be table, that which is without leg. Braying there as so many inelegant calves, half-thirsty and one/third scared, one/sixth simply bovine in the wind. And as they swayed with the gentle country breeze taking its leave of the Hudson River, the matted fur of each ampu-table bristled ever so slightly. In this moment I was reminded of several things, the most notable being the single white cassock made of horsehair I once found in a hotel room. The least notable was the notion that once in the future the opposite might be true—I may, upon my wedding day, be presented with a shimmering white cassock of grand equestrian hide and the re-premonition might instead be of this moment, and events would come full circle, the sky would appear cloudless, and a single glimmering tear might adorn the corner of my eye, black ink, representing the sole murder I had committed some years previous.
As the ampu-tables bristled within the room’s temperature, they lost all balance and (having no legs) were not able to right themselves again, pre-empting my Dancing phone in favor of their assemblage. However, in passing them, they perhaps made the realization that in lieu of legs they had arms, and began grasping at the baggy ceremonial woodwork clothes around my ankles. And in the moment that I tripped, or, perhaps more importantly, the table arms tripped me, I was able to grasp the woodworking staff my father had given me and began to beat at the arms once my gravity had married to the ground. In this way was I finally able to achieve position ready enough to answer the telephone, where in the middle of the fourth Hungarian Dance (that which rises, then falls, then rises, only to fall again, which is not to be confused with the ending or curtain call of the Hungarian Dancer which rises, falls, rises, and then rises further into silenced oblivion) I finally answered. Here the committee presented me with the request to define The Metaphor, to which I only thought to reply, “but I am but a carpenter, and there are tables here to mend.”
Once I moved out of the clutches of the legs of the table you might think I was free to run to the phone, ringing as it was. Was my urgency not increased by the amount of rings that had surpassed time into sonic death? No. Rather, my phone informs me that when an unknown number calls I am serenaded (and, in truth, those around me as well) with The Hungarian Dance, though I have never heard this tune outside of my phone, and in truth the actual acoustic melody could in fact be something else. At any rate, that quota for which a walk becomes a run vis-à-vis urgency had perhaps not filled, and I was unaware of the proper etiquette of these moments. Am I to cease all activity, and, hands covered in blood, sutures half sutered, dash for the ringing telephone after one and a half Hungarian Dances? Two and a half? The answer is not simple, and to complicate matters, my house is not littered with cloths eager to be soaked in blood, though you might assume otherwise. (Presumptuous reader, presumptuous author, for these are times which in we live.)
In any case, though I had escaped that which I believe can be conjured with the phrase leg pile only to be confronted by that enormous row of table surfaces—that is the segment considered deeply to be table, that which is without leg. Braying there as so many inelegant calves, half-thirsty and one/third scared, one/sixth simply bovine in the wind. And as they swayed with the gentle country breeze taking its leave of the Hudson River, the matted fur of each ampu-table bristled ever so slightly. In this moment I was reminded of several things, the most notable being the single white cassock made of horsehair I once found in a hotel room. The least notable was the notion that once in the future the opposite might be true—I may, upon my wedding day, be presented with a shimmering white cassock of grand equestrian hide and the re-premonition might instead be of this moment, and events would come full circle, the sky would appear cloudless, and a single glimmering tear might adorn the corner of my eye, black ink, representing the sole murder I had committed some years previous.
As the ampu-tables bristled within the room’s temperature, they lost all balance and (having no legs) were not able to right themselves again, pre-empting my Dancing phone in favor of their assemblage. However, in passing them, they perhaps made the realization that in lieu of legs they had arms, and began grasping at the baggy ceremonial woodwork clothes around my ankles. And in the moment that I tripped, or, perhaps more importantly, the table arms tripped me, I was able to grasp the woodworking staff my father had given me and began to beat at the arms once my gravity had married to the ground. In this way was I finally able to achieve position ready enough to answer the telephone, where in the middle of the fourth Hungarian Dance (that which rises, then falls, then rises, only to fall again, which is not to be confused with the ending or curtain call of the Hungarian Dancer which rises, falls, rises, and then rises further into silenced oblivion) I finally answered. Here the committee presented me with the request to define The Metaphor, to which I only thought to reply, “but I am but a carpenter, and there are tables here to mend.”
Sunday, August 9, 2009
The Meal
I opened the drawer and, finding the slot for knives empty, closed it.
I opened the drawer and extracted a fork and began to eat.
When the glass became full, I drank. When the glass became empty, I longed.
At the table the leaves were lopsided. I was afraid to put any sort of thing on them because they might collapse. I knew this would not happen and I did it anyway. Because of this my drink was closer to my plate than I might have liked.
It is not as though the glass was in the way of the repeated movements of my hand with the fork from the plate to my mouth. It is not as though this was the case in any way.
When the music stopped, I put my fork down for the first time since beginning the meal. Until this point it had seemed unnecessary.
Being unable to carry my fork to the CD player now that I had set it down both hands were free, and I carried my glass to the CD player and with my free hand pressed play again.
I had already finished listening to the album. However, being that I only had one free hand, the other being taken with the glass, I was unable to easily select a new disc, remove the old disc, and put the new disc in. Had I perhaps put my drink down, and, as a result, gaining a freed hand in addition to the hand already empty, I could have managed such a seemingly simply but perhaps difficult task (one handed), but the only available surface was the top of the CD player and, having vent holes and also being an expensive consumer electronic I was cautious and aware that putting my glass quickly covering with condensate on the top of this machine might have been a poor choice.
There was a stool next to the CD player where we put our keys, but it was covered in unopened and opened mail along with various items that were not flat.
This is to say, I could not put my drink on the non-flat items and did not want to put the drink on the mail. I hope you understand. In any case, though I had a free hand and perhaps removing those offending items from the stool would have suitably cleared the surface of any and all debris that might inhibit me from putting my drink down, this task seemed also that it might be unnecessarily long and temporary. I would have had to put the things upon the CD player, which would not have been as disastrous as placing the glass upon the CD player, but I would have had to have moved the things (mail and such) back to the stool at one point, because in the middle of the night I would awake and realize that if somebody turned on the cd player while it was covered in mail and things the vent holes might not vent properly and, though I believe this would not be an imminent problem, might shorten the life of the player.
Erroneously in paragraph eight I mentioned that, with my free hand I pressed play again: “with my free hand I pressed play again.” I did not intend for this to be misleading, but perhaps it was. This was the first time I had pressed play. The CD player which I purchased has a function that, when you insert a disc, plays automatically. At this time I had both hands free and was able to remove the disc previously in the player, and insert a new disc, the disc of which I referred to earlier. This I could not do now, because my hand was full of glass.
The reason I did not ultimately remove the mail from the small wooden stool and place it upon the CD player is, in truth, because I was too lazy. Though later on I would tell myself it was because of the aforementioned vent/sleep issue I was merely lying to myself. In addition to this, I told myself it was because the glass would have then left a ring of wet, and I could not have easily placed the mail back on the stool because of this ring. This ring would have undone my careful longing to not get the mail wet. All that work for nothing, although in truth it would have not been nothing, but something, because this would have enabled me to free both hands and put a new disc into the player, something that requires both hands.
I forgot to mention that in between the extraction of the fork and my eventual consumption of the meal with said fork that I closed the drawer, and also moved across the room at an even pace to the table, where I pulled out my chair and sat. I believe during this time I glanced at the fridge, noticed a scratch mark near the handle on the left side of the door, and wondered how that had gotten there. This was not the first time I had noticed the scratch and, furthermore, not the first time I had wondered how it had gotten there.
I opened the drawer and extracted a fork and began to eat.
When the glass became full, I drank. When the glass became empty, I longed.
At the table the leaves were lopsided. I was afraid to put any sort of thing on them because they might collapse. I knew this would not happen and I did it anyway. Because of this my drink was closer to my plate than I might have liked.
It is not as though the glass was in the way of the repeated movements of my hand with the fork from the plate to my mouth. It is not as though this was the case in any way.
When the music stopped, I put my fork down for the first time since beginning the meal. Until this point it had seemed unnecessary.
Being unable to carry my fork to the CD player now that I had set it down both hands were free, and I carried my glass to the CD player and with my free hand pressed play again.
I had already finished listening to the album. However, being that I only had one free hand, the other being taken with the glass, I was unable to easily select a new disc, remove the old disc, and put the new disc in. Had I perhaps put my drink down, and, as a result, gaining a freed hand in addition to the hand already empty, I could have managed such a seemingly simply but perhaps difficult task (one handed), but the only available surface was the top of the CD player and, having vent holes and also being an expensive consumer electronic I was cautious and aware that putting my glass quickly covering with condensate on the top of this machine might have been a poor choice.
There was a stool next to the CD player where we put our keys, but it was covered in unopened and opened mail along with various items that were not flat.
This is to say, I could not put my drink on the non-flat items and did not want to put the drink on the mail. I hope you understand. In any case, though I had a free hand and perhaps removing those offending items from the stool would have suitably cleared the surface of any and all debris that might inhibit me from putting my drink down, this task seemed also that it might be unnecessarily long and temporary. I would have had to put the things upon the CD player, which would not have been as disastrous as placing the glass upon the CD player, but I would have had to have moved the things (mail and such) back to the stool at one point, because in the middle of the night I would awake and realize that if somebody turned on the cd player while it was covered in mail and things the vent holes might not vent properly and, though I believe this would not be an imminent problem, might shorten the life of the player.
Erroneously in paragraph eight I mentioned that, with my free hand I pressed play again: “with my free hand I pressed play again.” I did not intend for this to be misleading, but perhaps it was. This was the first time I had pressed play. The CD player which I purchased has a function that, when you insert a disc, plays automatically. At this time I had both hands free and was able to remove the disc previously in the player, and insert a new disc, the disc of which I referred to earlier. This I could not do now, because my hand was full of glass.
The reason I did not ultimately remove the mail from the small wooden stool and place it upon the CD player is, in truth, because I was too lazy. Though later on I would tell myself it was because of the aforementioned vent/sleep issue I was merely lying to myself. In addition to this, I told myself it was because the glass would have then left a ring of wet, and I could not have easily placed the mail back on the stool because of this ring. This ring would have undone my careful longing to not get the mail wet. All that work for nothing, although in truth it would have not been nothing, but something, because this would have enabled me to free both hands and put a new disc into the player, something that requires both hands.
I forgot to mention that in between the extraction of the fork and my eventual consumption of the meal with said fork that I closed the drawer, and also moved across the room at an even pace to the table, where I pulled out my chair and sat. I believe during this time I glanced at the fridge, noticed a scratch mark near the handle on the left side of the door, and wondered how that had gotten there. This was not the first time I had noticed the scratch and, furthermore, not the first time I had wondered how it had gotten there.
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