"No?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No, never."
"Well, what then?"
"I don't know. It's your choice."
"You know what I choose."
"That's not a choice."
"Then I don't choose."
"Fine, that's a choice too."
"Good. Good night."
"Good-bye"
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
The writing flows in fits
The leaves fell. Each breaking off the tree and gently floating to the earth to join its brethren on the ground. He walked slowly, shuffling his feet through the brown leaves. His dog trotted beside him, sniffing through the leaves.
The sky was the bright blue that only October had. The kind that cool evenings and sunny days brought. The kind you would long for in a few weeks, once November arrived, bringing with it a cold and bitter wind that drove rain and snow before it. The blue would return, of course, in December and January, but it would be a different blue. It would be a colder blue, while this blue, this October sky blue would still warm the heart.
The boy looked up from his study of the leaves. There was a girl walking the opposite direction about thirty feet up the path. He stopped. She was closer now. He looked at his feet. She was still closer. He looked up. She was there.
"Hi," he said. He blushed.
"Hi," she said. She blushed and smiled.
The sky was the bright blue that only October had. The kind that cool evenings and sunny days brought. The kind you would long for in a few weeks, once November arrived, bringing with it a cold and bitter wind that drove rain and snow before it. The blue would return, of course, in December and January, but it would be a different blue. It would be a colder blue, while this blue, this October sky blue would still warm the heart.
The boy looked up from his study of the leaves. There was a girl walking the opposite direction about thirty feet up the path. He stopped. She was closer now. He looked at his feet. She was still closer. He looked up. She was there.
"Hi," he said. He blushed.
"Hi," she said. She blushed and smiled.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Time
The clock ticked. He picked it up and wound it. Tightening the spring so it would count out his life for another day, hours, minutes, seconds. As it unwound, it ticked. His life slowly slipped away, he knew he'd be dead. He sat up in his bed and put his feet on the floor. It was cold. He yawned. His body was warm. The clock ticked, endlessly. Well, as endlessly as he was there to wind it. He reveled in that information. The clock needed him. Did he need the clock? If it stopped, would his heart also stop? Would the slow winding down of the clock mirror the slow decline of his own heart? He tried to wind the clock tighter. It got harder and harder to move the key. Finally, it stopped, it could not be wound any tighter. He pushed it too hard, and the spring snapped. He fell back onto the bed as his heart seized and stopped.
Spring
Spring was definitely here. There was still a slight chill, but all the accouterments of spring had arrived. There was the warm wind which carried the smells of warming earth and blossoming flowers down the hills to the lake which still had a rim of frost around it. The boy and his dog stood on the edge of the lake, looking at the tire swing attached to the gnarled old tree. Soon it would be summer and many hours of of many days would be spent swinging into the lake, engaging in the bonding all boys do, the all-powerful "dare."
"I dare you to do a flip!"
"You're on!"
And if ever a boy chickened out on a dare, he would be teased mercilessly, at least until the next boy failed to live up to his dare. All that was several months away, an eternity it seemed to him. So now he stood by the side of the ice-ringed lake, with snowbells and croucuses beginning their short flowering season, too soon to wilt in the heat that was to come.
"I dare you to do a flip!"
"You're on!"
And if ever a boy chickened out on a dare, he would be teased mercilessly, at least until the next boy failed to live up to his dare. All that was several months away, an eternity it seemed to him. So now he stood by the side of the ice-ringed lake, with snowbells and croucuses beginning their short flowering season, too soon to wilt in the heat that was to come.
Radio waves will continue into space long after we're gone
The faint sounds of a transistor radio could be heard wafting through the empty building. The tinny sounds seeming out of place somehow, almost too boisterous for the silent surroundings. It was a lively swing tune, full of brassy horns and trumpets. A single male voice crooned along, extolling the magnificence of being in love during the spring.
His voice echoed in the empty halls, bouncing around the rooms, devoid of people but not furniture. The old couches and chairs and tables and desks all sat, as they had without occupants for many years, the dust in thick layers on them, and in dancing motes in the sun light that made it in through the dirty windows. The song faded. It was ending. It was soon replaced by another piece, this one much the same, although slower, and with a female singer. She was sultry, smoky, and was probably on the piano as she sang.
He could see her in his mind. She was beautiful. He turned the handle of the faucet and soon the sound of running water echoed in the emptiness as well. He didn't know why he tried to warm it up. There'd not been warm water in this building for years. He splashed his face, the water trickling down his scruffy beard and back into the sink. As he dried his face with the threadbare towel, the song started to change again, but the radio went silent. The whole building went silent. The whole world went silent.
His voice echoed in the empty halls, bouncing around the rooms, devoid of people but not furniture. The old couches and chairs and tables and desks all sat, as they had without occupants for many years, the dust in thick layers on them, and in dancing motes in the sun light that made it in through the dirty windows. The song faded. It was ending. It was soon replaced by another piece, this one much the same, although slower, and with a female singer. She was sultry, smoky, and was probably on the piano as she sang.
He could see her in his mind. She was beautiful. He turned the handle of the faucet and soon the sound of running water echoed in the emptiness as well. He didn't know why he tried to warm it up. There'd not been warm water in this building for years. He splashed his face, the water trickling down his scruffy beard and back into the sink. As he dried his face with the threadbare towel, the song started to change again, but the radio went silent. The whole building went silent. The whole world went silent.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The train
I wrote this on a train in Japan, coming back late at night.
It was dark outside as the train flowed over the tracks, clacking as it went. A man sat in the third car from the front; he was the only passenger. The cityscape flashed through his reflection in the window as he gazed with eyes glazed by tiredness at the pinpoints of light streaking by. The scrolling cityscape slowed and stopped as the train drew to a halt. The doors opened and a single passenger got on. She wasn't particularly beautiful, nor was she ugly. She was the kind of a woman who got prettier the longer you looked at her. Her clothes were nondescript, but there was still something about her. He could not look away and she eventually felt his eyes on her.
Their eyes locked and the train rolled onward into the night, the brightly-lit train car an island in the dark.
It was dark outside as the train flowed over the tracks, clacking as it went. A man sat in the third car from the front; he was the only passenger. The cityscape flashed through his reflection in the window as he gazed with eyes glazed by tiredness at the pinpoints of light streaking by. The scrolling cityscape slowed and stopped as the train drew to a halt. The doors opened and a single passenger got on. She wasn't particularly beautiful, nor was she ugly. She was the kind of a woman who got prettier the longer you looked at her. Her clothes were nondescript, but there was still something about her. He could not look away and she eventually felt his eyes on her.
Their eyes locked and the train rolled onward into the night, the brightly-lit train car an island in the dark.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Winter
Ahh. The blog. Anyway, I figured I'd bestow upon you another piece of genius. This one was written on the plane returning from Japan.
Snow was falling, like it normally did. It was a good snow, with big puffy flakes that spun lazily down, each a work of art, before being assimilated into the growing mass that began to coat the ground. It was the kind of snow that would make magnificent snowballs or snowmen, depending on your fancy.
The trees around the field had long since been stripped bare of their leaves by the changing of the seasons and the wind. Now, however, there was no wind, giving the whole scene the muteness that only occurs in midwinter. The haybales seemed as sentinels in the field. These had not been sold or used, so now they sat, forlornly, being covered by the snow.
The boy, bundled against the cold, dragged a cord of wood on the sled that was attached to his mittened hand with a vice-like grip on the rope.
It was so quiet the boy swore he could almost hear the snow falling. His face, ruddy from the cold had the expression of a man on a mission. His blue eyes were fixed on a point far off in the distance that only he could see. The bit of downy fuzz on his cheeks and chin was not as warm as he had hoped or claimed it was.
The snow slowly filled in his tracks across the field as it continued to fall.
Snow was falling, like it normally did. It was a good snow, with big puffy flakes that spun lazily down, each a work of art, before being assimilated into the growing mass that began to coat the ground. It was the kind of snow that would make magnificent snowballs or snowmen, depending on your fancy.
The trees around the field had long since been stripped bare of their leaves by the changing of the seasons and the wind. Now, however, there was no wind, giving the whole scene the muteness that only occurs in midwinter. The haybales seemed as sentinels in the field. These had not been sold or used, so now they sat, forlornly, being covered by the snow.
The boy, bundled against the cold, dragged a cord of wood on the sled that was attached to his mittened hand with a vice-like grip on the rope.
It was so quiet the boy swore he could almost hear the snow falling. His face, ruddy from the cold had the expression of a man on a mission. His blue eyes were fixed on a point far off in the distance that only he could see. The bit of downy fuzz on his cheeks and chin was not as warm as he had hoped or claimed it was.
The snow slowly filled in his tracks across the field as it continued to fall.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Summer
It was hot. Looking down the road, the waves of heat rippled up off the pavement, causing the air to shimmer. The sounds of a cicada occasionally cut the heavy air, bringing some movement to the stifling day. Even the normally active boy was almost motionless, siting on the porch with an icy lemonade close at hand.
He surveyed the lawn that he had just mown, grass clippings sticking to his arms and legs. Reaching down, he picked up the lemonade and pressed the cool glass to his forehead, the almost too-cold sensation sending chills through his body.
The storm door opened behind him and the smells of home wafted out. His mother's baking, his grandmother's cooking, the smell of dust and age and books that belonged to his grandfather, the scent of fresh and youth that was his sister, and suddenly a large presence behind him that smelled of leather and tobacco and aftershave and all the scents that the boy associated with maleness and his initiation into manhood. His father sat down next to him, setting his own lemonade within arm's reach and pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and with it, the sweet scent of good tobacco. He carefully packed the bowl, worm smooth by the passage of years and the gentle handling it had received and struck a match, waving it over the bowl. As he gently inhaled, the ember slowly grew and and produced the smoke that conjured images of strength and protection in the boy's mind. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said.
The sky gradually clouded up, a storm of summer forming on the horizon and moving swiftly in, bringing rain and scrubbing the air clean. It passed quickly as those types of storms often do. In its wake it left a verdant sparkling world which smelled of fresh-cut grass and clean summer rain.
The boy drew in a deep breath, heavy with all the smells surrounding him and smiled.
He surveyed the lawn that he had just mown, grass clippings sticking to his arms and legs. Reaching down, he picked up the lemonade and pressed the cool glass to his forehead, the almost too-cold sensation sending chills through his body.
The storm door opened behind him and the smells of home wafted out. His mother's baking, his grandmother's cooking, the smell of dust and age and books that belonged to his grandfather, the scent of fresh and youth that was his sister, and suddenly a large presence behind him that smelled of leather and tobacco and aftershave and all the scents that the boy associated with maleness and his initiation into manhood. His father sat down next to him, setting his own lemonade within arm's reach and pulling out his pipe and tobacco pouch, and with it, the sweet scent of good tobacco. He carefully packed the bowl, worm smooth by the passage of years and the gentle handling it had received and struck a match, waving it over the bowl. As he gently inhaled, the ember slowly grew and and produced the smoke that conjured images of strength and protection in the boy's mind. Nothing was said; nothing needed to be said.
The sky gradually clouded up, a storm of summer forming on the horizon and moving swiftly in, bringing rain and scrubbing the air clean. It passed quickly as those types of storms often do. In its wake it left a verdant sparkling world which smelled of fresh-cut grass and clean summer rain.
The boy drew in a deep breath, heavy with all the smells surrounding him and smiled.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
*blows off dust*
Ah yes, the good ol' blog.
I've not used this for quite some time. January 20th, by its reckoning. It's most likely correct.
Welp, I've got it, I might as well use it. However, most of my life seems trivial now compared to the adventure I was having just a few short months ago. I guess this is the way of things. They come, they go.
I'll most likely be using this to post random thoughts that flit through my head. This means that some posts will be many paragraphs, and some (most likely more) will be a few lines. Quips, quotations, short vignettes, etc.
I had a date on Saturday. A real date. For the first time in over a year. My last real date was December of 2007. This most recent date was a double date. One of my friends set it up. It was him and me, and our dates were two Japanese girls. Quite a good time was had by all, indeed. I just wanted to share that news.
Now, something that I wrote on the plane over to Japan.
It was one of those too-warm days in autumn that bespoke of the summer that has so recently slipped by. The breeze gently stirred the leaves that had mostly changed but clung tenaciously to the trees. The surface of the lake mottled gently under the insistent breeze that slowly pushed the lone canoe across the water. At first glance, the canoe seemed empty, but an arm appeared over the edge, moving in the lazy arc of an exaggerated stretch as the boy in the canoe awoke from his doze and gazed at the fluffy white clouds that scuttled across the almost too blue sky. He yawned, stretched again, and carefully sat up before grabbing the paddle that had lain next to him. He dipped the paddle into the water and with practiced ease, urged the craft into motion.
As you can probably guess, I like to make images with my words. I'm a terrible painter and artist, so instead, I make you see what I can see in my head.
So, please, leave thoughts. Love you all,
I've not used this for quite some time. January 20th, by its reckoning. It's most likely correct.
Welp, I've got it, I might as well use it. However, most of my life seems trivial now compared to the adventure I was having just a few short months ago. I guess this is the way of things. They come, they go.
I'll most likely be using this to post random thoughts that flit through my head. This means that some posts will be many paragraphs, and some (most likely more) will be a few lines. Quips, quotations, short vignettes, etc.
I had a date on Saturday. A real date. For the first time in over a year. My last real date was December of 2007. This most recent date was a double date. One of my friends set it up. It was him and me, and our dates were two Japanese girls. Quite a good time was had by all, indeed. I just wanted to share that news.
Now, something that I wrote on the plane over to Japan.
It was one of those too-warm days in autumn that bespoke of the summer that has so recently slipped by. The breeze gently stirred the leaves that had mostly changed but clung tenaciously to the trees. The surface of the lake mottled gently under the insistent breeze that slowly pushed the lone canoe across the water. At first glance, the canoe seemed empty, but an arm appeared over the edge, moving in the lazy arc of an exaggerated stretch as the boy in the canoe awoke from his doze and gazed at the fluffy white clouds that scuttled across the almost too blue sky. He yawned, stretched again, and carefully sat up before grabbing the paddle that had lain next to him. He dipped the paddle into the water and with practiced ease, urged the craft into motion.
As you can probably guess, I like to make images with my words. I'm a terrible painter and artist, so instead, I make you see what I can see in my head.
So, please, leave thoughts. Love you all,
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Return to Normalcy?
So it's been a little over a month now since my return. Japan has now started to seem surreal, much like home seemed surreal when I was there. I find that I ask myself, "Was I really there?"
Yes, yes I was. It was an incredible experience. It will shape the rest of my life, I'm sure. Even now, I find myself launching into a story that starts with, "When I was in Japan..." with some sort of obscure and rambling anecdote following. I had an interview about Japan actually. She wrote everything down. I think it filled three or four notebook pages.
So things have settled back into my normal life. I go to class, do homework, call friends, go out, you know, all that good college kid stuff. But then I realize that this is my last year. No, not even a year, 6 months. I graduate in June. Weird.
I finally have my big computer back. This thing is huge compared to the computer that I've been using for the past 4 months. However, my car broke. Transmission. Balls. You win some, you lose some. So it goes, as I've become fond of saying. My father called me on that saying. He asked where it was from. I told him. He was suitably impressed. This, of course, launched us into a discussion of literature. Both he and I think Cat's Cradle and Slaughterhouse 5 are necessary reading. I added Sirens of Titan, but that one is optional. He mused about passing the made up title of something about Literature Expert or something silly to me. I'm slowly becoming my father. This isn't a bad thing, I suppose. He's healthy, happy, and about to get married actually. Weird. I'm his best man. I should start to think about a speech.
When I was talking to Dad, I told him of my job prospects. He said that it was truly unfortunate that I happen to be entering the job market at roughly the same time as he had 30+ years ago in the mid-seventies. He started to ask questions about the jobs; I didn't know how to answer. I told him what I could, but I'm just starting this real world person stuff. He agreed that this was the time for me to have an adventure. I'm single, with no real prospects, I'm used to living in small spaces, I don't have that much stuff. He figured that as long as I have enough money to pay the bills, buy food, and have some left over for a little bit of entertainment, I should be golden.
It's a little romantic to be able to tell people, "I have no idea where I'll be in 9 months." It's also incredibly nerve-wracking. Oh well,
So it goes.
Yes, yes I was. It was an incredible experience. It will shape the rest of my life, I'm sure. Even now, I find myself launching into a story that starts with, "When I was in Japan..." with some sort of obscure and rambling anecdote following. I had an interview about Japan actually. She wrote everything down. I think it filled three or four notebook pages.
So things have settled back into my normal life. I go to class, do homework, call friends, go out, you know, all that good college kid stuff. But then I realize that this is my last year. No, not even a year, 6 months. I graduate in June. Weird.
I finally have my big computer back. This thing is huge compared to the computer that I've been using for the past 4 months. However, my car broke. Transmission. Balls. You win some, you lose some. So it goes, as I've become fond of saying. My father called me on that saying. He asked where it was from. I told him. He was suitably impressed. This, of course, launched us into a discussion of literature. Both he and I think Cat's Cradle and Slaughterhouse 5 are necessary reading. I added Sirens of Titan, but that one is optional. He mused about passing the made up title of something about Literature Expert or something silly to me. I'm slowly becoming my father. This isn't a bad thing, I suppose. He's healthy, happy, and about to get married actually. Weird. I'm his best man. I should start to think about a speech.
When I was talking to Dad, I told him of my job prospects. He said that it was truly unfortunate that I happen to be entering the job market at roughly the same time as he had 30+ years ago in the mid-seventies. He started to ask questions about the jobs; I didn't know how to answer. I told him what I could, but I'm just starting this real world person stuff. He agreed that this was the time for me to have an adventure. I'm single, with no real prospects, I'm used to living in small spaces, I don't have that much stuff. He figured that as long as I have enough money to pay the bills, buy food, and have some left over for a little bit of entertainment, I should be golden.
It's a little romantic to be able to tell people, "I have no idea where I'll be in 9 months." It's also incredibly nerve-wracking. Oh well,
So it goes.
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