There are tiny moments that appear like packages of perfection, all the more wonderful and flawless for their lack of actual perfection, the question of their solidity and reality and believability. They are luminous and vaporous and yet somehow so solid and strong that they reach into your chest and with tiny, powerful fingers squeeze your heart. They are painful and magic. They make you crazy and make you sad and they put that little Mona Lisa twitch of a smile on your face because anything more would be too much something.
They are the moments that make the two factions of brain go to war. One flies the banner of "This is Wonderful. This is Real." The other carries the flag that announces "This is Too Good To Be True."
The problem is that both are right. This is the war that won't be won.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
funeral (fiction four)
I dreamt I was at my own funeral. Stylishly dressed women I didn't know were talking near me. I couldn't understand what they were saying - just enough to know it wasn't about me. Even at my own funeral, in my own dream, I'm not a topic of interest.
One woman turned to me - her face and words buzzy and indestinct. I had an impression of a pale face like a crescent moon, chin jutting out like a cartoon moon's sliver bottom edge. Her buzzing noise words are at me and about me but only polite murmurs of what is required at a time like this.
People I used to work with are folding some huge black cloth, thick and soft and somehow both dense and without substance. They are arguing about the proper way to fold it.
No one misses me.
I wake up because someone says my name, close, very near, a voice I don't know.
It seemed urgent, somehow needing, imploring.
No one was there.
One woman turned to me - her face and words buzzy and indestinct. I had an impression of a pale face like a crescent moon, chin jutting out like a cartoon moon's sliver bottom edge. Her buzzing noise words are at me and about me but only polite murmurs of what is required at a time like this.
People I used to work with are folding some huge black cloth, thick and soft and somehow both dense and without substance. They are arguing about the proper way to fold it.
No one misses me.
I wake up because someone says my name, close, very near, a voice I don't know.
It seemed urgent, somehow needing, imploring.
No one was there.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
a little less (fiction three)
She has a tiny notebook, just a few inches square, that she has with her at all times. It was purchased to have a place for writing phone numbers and other bits of information that need keeping. Instead she has started writing down the things she reads that are beautiful or inspiring. It's better than saying, "I read this thing that was so wonderful. I'll look it up and email it to you sometime." But really, who would she say that to? Either way, these are the real things that need keeping.
Next will be thoughts, fragments, bits of ideas that won't ever grow up into real things but should still be kept in some way.
She will find this too true to let go but too pretentious to keep.
Next will be thoughts, fragments, bits of ideas that won't ever grow up into real things but should still be kept in some way.
"We are beautiful the way rust is beautiful, the way crumbling bricks and abandoned buildings are beautiful. We exist because somewhere, someone did something and even if that moment of care has passed, we were spun into being because of it and it will remain an essential piece even when it seems like so much decay and destruction."
She will find this too true to let go but too pretentious to keep.
Monday, May 21, 2007
green (fiction two)
The green had been pressing in at the windows for about a week. The vines and leaves had first filtered the sun into every variance of the shade. Then the display of nature had become aggressive, flattening leafy fingers against the glass, seeming to desire entry. The pale tendrils curling from and back around the vines were delicately fashioned bits of jewelry, decorating the tiniest of green wrists and fingers.
Each morning she would inspect the changes made overnight. The growth was thicker, the sunshine less able to thread its way in, the pressure on the window more forceful.
One morning, at her desk, she felt the tiniest graze of movement on her ankle. When she looked down, her ankle was encircled with a perfect ring of green, miniature leaves shining like jewels. It was incredibly beautiful and she didn't remove it, only pulled back the curtain to find the place where the glass had finally given way.
By lunch time, her whole leg was enshrouded in green. She felt as if she had been attired by a royal dressmaker. The leaves hugged gently against her skin, clinging carefully through the material of her trouser leg. She remained at her desk through lunch, moving as little as possible, relishing her recreation as something magnificent and wonderful.
Each morning she would inspect the changes made overnight. The growth was thicker, the sunshine less able to thread its way in, the pressure on the window more forceful.
One morning, at her desk, she felt the tiniest graze of movement on her ankle. When she looked down, her ankle was encircled with a perfect ring of green, miniature leaves shining like jewels. It was incredibly beautiful and she didn't remove it, only pulled back the curtain to find the place where the glass had finally given way.
By lunch time, her whole leg was enshrouded in green. She felt as if she had been attired by a royal dressmaker. The leaves hugged gently against her skin, clinging carefully through the material of her trouser leg. She remained at her desk through lunch, moving as little as possible, relishing her recreation as something magnificent and wonderful.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
how it happens (fiction one)
he tried to breathe in and out in a slow and calming manner. the speed - or lack thereof - of the truck ahead of him was making that difficult however, as was the last few hours of his afternoon.
the brake lights on the orange truck ahead of him lit again, slowing the truck from the break neck speed of roughly 30 miles an hour to a painstaking crawl around the most gentle of turns the road could have possessed. not even a turn, he thought, more a suggestion of a curve.
his arm propped in the open window, he drummed his fingers against the hood of the car and again tried to instill himself with peace and calm and all that other zen bullshit. it wasn't working.
the road straightened again and he made a break for it, jabbing his foot against the old car's gas pedal forcefully and coaxing speed into the ancient steel bones of the tired thing. he whipped along side the orange truck, overcome for a moment with a feeling of good-naturedness enough to wave jauntily at the old man peering steadily over the wheel of his traffic-cone colored truck. the weathered face below the filthy truckers cap dipped slightly in recognition and he grinned and wished for his own filthy trucker cap as he slid a little over-zealously back into the proper lane.
the sudden rightward movement of his vehicle and the normal tendencies of gravity conspired to sling the little cardboard box on the passenger side of the bench seat leftward to thump against his thigh before toppling, spilling belongings he'd forgotten he owned into his lap and the floorboards of the car. he glanced down and the grin disappeared.
goddamn her, he thought for at least the fifth time that day. goddamn her for being so 'generous' and giving me back a bunch of useless crap just as i'd forgotten about her.
the t-shirt that now draped his leg had been a favorite at one time. now it was just a reason to picture her wearing it.
before he knew what he was doing his hand had reflectively grabbed the shirt and hurled it out the window. he watched it flutter for a moment before settling to the ground just in time to be caught under the tire of the orange truck now lagging further behind him.
his grin returned suddenly. so that's how it happens, he thought. i always wondered how those abandoned shoes and crap ended up in the middle of the road. must be something just like that.
the brake lights on the orange truck ahead of him lit again, slowing the truck from the break neck speed of roughly 30 miles an hour to a painstaking crawl around the most gentle of turns the road could have possessed. not even a turn, he thought, more a suggestion of a curve.
his arm propped in the open window, he drummed his fingers against the hood of the car and again tried to instill himself with peace and calm and all that other zen bullshit. it wasn't working.
the road straightened again and he made a break for it, jabbing his foot against the old car's gas pedal forcefully and coaxing speed into the ancient steel bones of the tired thing. he whipped along side the orange truck, overcome for a moment with a feeling of good-naturedness enough to wave jauntily at the old man peering steadily over the wheel of his traffic-cone colored truck. the weathered face below the filthy truckers cap dipped slightly in recognition and he grinned and wished for his own filthy trucker cap as he slid a little over-zealously back into the proper lane.
the sudden rightward movement of his vehicle and the normal tendencies of gravity conspired to sling the little cardboard box on the passenger side of the bench seat leftward to thump against his thigh before toppling, spilling belongings he'd forgotten he owned into his lap and the floorboards of the car. he glanced down and the grin disappeared.
goddamn her, he thought for at least the fifth time that day. goddamn her for being so 'generous' and giving me back a bunch of useless crap just as i'd forgotten about her.
the t-shirt that now draped his leg had been a favorite at one time. now it was just a reason to picture her wearing it.
before he knew what he was doing his hand had reflectively grabbed the shirt and hurled it out the window. he watched it flutter for a moment before settling to the ground just in time to be caught under the tire of the orange truck now lagging further behind him.
his grin returned suddenly. so that's how it happens, he thought. i always wondered how those abandoned shoes and crap ended up in the middle of the road. must be something just like that.
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