Tuesday, November 17, 2009

writer's block

untitled, .littlegirlblue

outside it howls. wind. dark. the sky's revolution, at last, to reclaim the land. makes sense. blow hard as you can, once were mountains now dust storms. keep it up long enough we'll all realize there's nothing left to stand on. we're just falling ___or floating. _whichever. one or the other. either'll do.


at 6am i finally think, enough is enough and sleep. at 9:30am i think enough is enough and i wake up. shower. whatever comes next...


it's hard to write. i'm not doing anything so i don't have new stories to tell. i'm soo pilled-up i can't really think. it's just a... a stillness to the air. quiet. nonchalant.


one day when they finally discover all the laws of physics there'll be something about tea in the rulebook. about rainy afternoons. quiet rooms. [takes sip]


hi. i'm a penny for the old guy. i'm not actually that old. but for a while i thought i was. i dreamt the dreams of a septuagenarian. i think my writing owes something to Chopin, miniatures. fragments. i come home, put my hands in my pockets and throw it on the coffee table. a small black button that fell off a shirt. some change. ticket stub from the last movie i saw. a sunday smile. keys. black pen. lyrics of a Smiths song. jumble it all up, and try and write something about it. moons. dreamtimes. sexcapades.

things are different. for years when i walked through the front door i was already half undressed. couldn't stand to be in the house and not in PJs. or underwear. nowadays i just sit. walk in, sit. and sit. hours pass. hours. quarters of days you'd think they were oranges that's how easy they pass, my fingers sticky with sweat and rind and the sickly smell of citrus. ___(start to think you're a little more furniture than man after a while).

for years i felt lonely. when in doubt i wrote about that. explored it. most people don't know you can do that, you can. we're all Magellan. Copernicus. Columbus. explorers, model-builders, drifting in and out of ourselves, trying to grasp in the dark, empty, humid, vacant spaces of our lungs for things to claim: truth. definition. preference. take a deep breath, sip your tea, listen to Brahms, float away. hours later you startle yourself by sneezing. remember to breathe again. hold in your brain's hands something you can call me (whatever the hell that is). maybe just a smaller part of it. jigsaw piece. easter hunt. collect-them-all. sometimes people find something here, these song lyrics, they prove it, i am here. maybe just that i am. or just the i part.

but i don't feel lonely like that anymore. it's a little scary. i'm not sure whose bones i'm wrapped around.
___:: after all the things that we've been through :: ___that's my current preoccupation. it makes me emotional to think of it all. the love(s) and friendships. the car accidents and blowjobs on the beach while we shivered in our jackets and licked our lips. the thing about car accidents is the sound of them. 3 minute pop songs and roadtrips. 3am conversations, 4pm deadlines, 5 prescription refills. our drugs and our bottles and our prayer books, everyone's got a drug, just sometimes it's called coffee, large fries, midweek matinee, orgasm. but all the things that we've been through. i think of it collectively, like, a whole humanity worth. angry teenagers and widows and divorcees (and she says to me i love that your family's f*cked up, i don't even know what to say to people whose parents are together and i don't know what to say so i just kiss her forehead) (of course our parents too. bet they didn't think things would turn out the way they did). my dad eats nuts for dinner. dark tea in a beer stein. i don't check the answering messages anymore. boredoms and panic attacks, this one time, i almost threw up, bored outta my mind i had no idea what to do i walked into a store and bought a D&G suit. my eyes were strained and raw from insomnia and not going to the optometrist i squinted at the busstop trying to read the numbers, finally freaked out, covered in sweat and hyperventilating i walked into an alley, taking deep breaths... what the hell can you do?i called my mom was stuck there an hour before i calmed enough to go home. things we've been through. friendships and diving boards and conversations on planes. bookdeals and job promotions and standardized test scores and oh no big deal, it's just your typical teenage bulimia. __changing car tires. falling asleep at red lights and on trains. in laps. on chests. (we get in bed i turn away from her clutching my pillow, she says: no!. no!. i'm here you don't get to hug the pillow tonight. she weaves my arms around herself).


the wind's quietened down. light splatter of rain. it's humid. my tea's finished, nothing left but soggy jasmine leaves at the bottom of a transparent, oversized mug. Nina Simone plays the piano.

i'm struggling to reconcile myself with my body. i'm never sure if my skin's enough to contain me anymore... or if i've been severed completely, and spend days upon days as a phantasm, hiding out in my room, while a stitched together slab of driverless meat vessel walks around talking and driving and sweating and 'living' without me. like a surrogate. that'd be alright. i'll just sit here and keep Nina company.


somewhere here there's a story that needs telling. must be. eventually, when i unzip my fly or open my cardoor or take out the trash i'll discover it.

until then...

tell me yours: _, all the things we've been through.


Anonymous said...

Notastory offered with the precision of Google Maps attempting to piece together the non-industry rich segments of Siberia....

My father left the country for Australia, to play first div rugby there, a move that was greatly frowned upon by his family. His family would move on to large and larger sums of money whilst he eventually returned to teach at the town at the end of the road and live in a two room "house" with no running water or electricity. Frankly I think he got the better deal.

His children would be born into a house where the propane lamps were lit for light, rather than a light switch flipped. This situation begot some rather interesting conversations. How would you describe the transformer cartoon to a child that had not seen television? Better yet, would you, as a first grader, trust your new best friend when he told you that cars could turn into robots that talked?

It was an interesting situation for creating children that were outsiders in the only place that they had ever known. But outsiderdom has its benefits. Not the least of which is that there are few distractions, so this child spent some years as "that cat," and had some real and other imaginary medals bestowed. All of which was a strange exercise because one day the realization came that "I could possibly spend the next decade of my life attempting to be slightly faster at something that contributes absolutely Nothing to society," and promptly quit.

But the exercise in quixotic pursuits had allowed me to meet someone that had fled from across the world, through Pakistan's refugee camps to land in Winnipeg, Canada. The difference between his former life and his newly found one were symbolically represented by an 80C change in temperature from the beginning to the end of his flight. This person left Winnipeg and lived at the end of my street and originally struck me as ridiculous.

But hindsight reckons that it is possible that at least two generations of people’s choices allowed for the chance meeting of one eighteen year old goof ball who wore ridiculously fashionable clothes and would not go out in public without hours of prep. This struck me as more than a bit odd in a male.

For that chance meeting though, I have no words to express my gratitude. For he spoke strange sounding words that were gateways.

Bab? Really? "That's funny. I knew a bunch of Bob's back home. Most of them can't spell cat if you spot them the c and the t, but one of em's a pretty good carpenter......

Peace Q,


Anonymous said...

just write a book. then i could carry your writing with me everywhere i go.