Other forms

The Nothing

We are at the ocean: the boardwalk coated in salt and rust and the swirling scents of greasy sandwiches, deep-fried-fillets, close bodies slow burning in the haze. The benches are no good for sitting today, covered in vacation residue. Our home base becomes the corner by the stairs tracked with cryptogram shoe patterns of white-snow-sand. Waning summer air carries thoughts across the sea where they crash land on your face and you are reminded of changing seasons. You say this and wait. Press your hips against the red railing. A two foot drop into sand. Change like the tide mumbles from my lips and tongue onto that whirling dervish air. I am consumed in anticipation. You are deep in you.

You say yes and proceed to announce to the contents of the sunny summer day that you are worried about the nature of existence and whether the loops of doubt are ceaseless machines that jackhammer you into the queue of other surrendered souls, orbiting each other in anonymity—because it seems that you are freshly fitted with two cement sneakers that have anchored your scope in this little sphere by the shore which you claim you will never escape and that the ever ceaseless chiding monotone in the space between your ears and below your crest furiously feeds it's own fire with every failed endeavor—

I am against the ocean, observing a dog panting in a parked car like a forgotten grandparent. He watches me guilty and unsure why while his life dances at the picnic tables nearby. Everything is an illusion. Beyond you is The Nothing. When you are quiet, when you forget who you are, when you are quiet, when you chuck off the sad shambles of baggage hanging on your shoulder, when you are quiet—you are the nothing. Perfection is the void, devoid of all, without good we cannot conceive of bad.

Analysis

Sitting here, thinking about it (instead of finishing up my workshop story), I think the previous post illustrates an example of my greatest insecurity as a writer: purpose.

It's really hard to justify majoring in creative writing to myself sometimes, particularly with a workshop coming up and nothing new (good) to show for it. 

I could be studying history and political science like a good little pre-law student. That would certainly be the more promisingly lucrative option. But there is something refreshing about English and writing. 

It seems like a hipster thing to say but I feel like I'm not selling out by sticking to my creative passion instead of my intellectual passion. 

But I guess that's not really a bad thing. 

On a not necessarily unrelated not, I fucking love this song

Art of the Craft

The writer is eternally observant, lost in a cloud of mental notes and sound-clips—files preserved for that masterpiece that's just beyond comprehension right now. Dry-humping the notion that creativity is a spring-time song-bird with fickle tastes. That she delivers the goods only with a formula of equal parts precision and luck.

Lies.

All that time on the sidelines, watching other people's lives unfold in an effort to better relate to the human animal—as if the knowledge might somehow improve perspective.

The mind is a formidable opponent. Polymers of phrase-speak that play like radio commercials in grid-lock traffic, white-washing the internal space. Bright flashes of inspiration that tease the edges of the tip of your mind's tongue.

Doubt is the lovely confidant to your left. All opportunities for reminding you of her presence are taken.

Pride? Destructible. Words do not spare clarity. Honesty is currency in a system controlled by fiction.

The words roll out—analysis and comprehension of EVERYTHING YOU SEE AND HEAR.

Overload, constantly. Must learn to seek solitude—recharge. Perhaps learn to enjoy what has been compared to vomiting on a page.

Sometimes, there is the delusion that this is just about telling a story. That entertainment is the de-facto end game. 

And then I realize that this process is thousands of years old and that I'm no different from the large foreheaded ancestor in a damp cave, using crushed berries to illustrate the hunt. 

Look at what I did! Look at what I can do! You've gotta hear about the size of that fish!

We grope for realism by mining the dark places of our experience. To paraphrase Tolkien, sometimes we mine too greedy. Sometimes we mine too deep. There be monsters.

Giant, distorted beasts of things that once were--our perception stunted at this level like a failing torch in that humid cave air.  

Sometimes I think: being a writer is too painful. Too much soul on the palette to share with others. Too much time is wasted internally--observing, analyzing, filing for later. To what end? 

To entertain? To show off? To make a connection? Or to purge all that shit onto something examinable? 

So much win

It's a little long, sure. But honestly, on some real levels--this looks better than the original.
Leonardo DiCaprio. Bill Paxton. John Cusack. Jennifer Connelly. Jamie Lee Curtis. The guy from Full Metal Jacket!

TWO THE SURFACE

D.A.R.E.

I just found this on my computer. It was part of a novel I started writing ages ago. It brings back good memories...though I can't say that I recall any at the moment. I find this funny because of how naive the writing is. I was trying REALLY hard to be deep.

Foster had a small fish tank on the book case with a glowing blue neon light that shone through the particles floating in the water. The little, microscopic bits of dust and excrement appeared as millions of little planets, floating through the murky abyss towards some uncertain fate down at the bottom of the tank, where the red pebbles appeared as shards of sharp rock, treacherous and unforgiving.
    The fish. How glorious those two little goldfish were. I stood there; my back hunched looking at the reflection of the blue light in the yellow scales, hunting for the faintest glow of green, created when the two colors came together at just the perfect wavelength. I must have stood there for half an hour, slack jawed, making little excited noises when one of the fish moved suddenly. This was beauty. This was real. This was everything in the universe, placed inside a plastic cage and illuminated with artificial light.  
    Emily finally stood up and walked to the door.
    "Would you like to go downstairs?" I looked at her sideways. She didn't seem to be holding still. Her whole body seemed to me like a watercolor painting that someone had forgot to bring in out of the rain.
    "Wh-what's downstairs?" I clenched my eyes shut quickly a few times to try and clear them.
    "People. I want to see people." I followed her wordlessly out of the office down the hall towards the stairs. The fish tank had changed things. I was in real time now, experiencing what I was seeing as it happened. As we approached the stairs, I got a little panicky. They seemed steeper than I remembered, and they were dark and difficult to see. I watched in horror as Emily was swallowed by darkness. I felt my way along the wall, making quick, staggered breaths and seeing her disappear farther and farther away.
    The floor appeared finally below my probing feet. Emily was there, looking down the hallway past the speakers and out the front door, which was open. I could hear people, people all around us. We were surrounded, this was the thick of it. Emily moved forward and my hand fell on her back instinctively. She guided me down the hall, through the dinning room where people were sitting and smoking from a bong. It was dark in there and their feet were on the table. They looked up at us when we passed but I couldn't see their faces. As we moved out of the room, I said:
    "Emily, I couldn't see their faces." I don't think she heard me, but I looked behind us cautiously as we moved into the living room. No faces. It wasn't right. It bothered me more than you can know.

Ethics

Let's talk ethics.

Exciting, right?

No, but it's cool. This is actually something pertaining to a lot of people.

See here is the dilemma: I own a bicycle. I also own a pair of walkin' legs.

My point is: I engage in equal parts cycling and pedistrianism (made that up) as a means of movement or travel.

So, what that means is that I personally can identify with both sides of the raging social battle between walkers and bikers.

I've been walking, casually distant, perhaps even enveloped in my music or some engaging internal dialogue--essentially minding my own, only to look up and witness a potentially near fatal collision betwixt myself and a speeding cyclist. 

Conversely

(that's a fun word)

I've been riding, of course obeying every law and following the "bikers-yield-to-hikers" maxim only to come upon a group of three or more individuals, walking next to each, completely blocking the sidewalk. 

Go around, you say.

What if you can't? What if leaving the sidewalks means riding into oncoming traffic (CERTAIN DEATH!)?

Stop and get off the bike, you say.

Sure. 

Maybe this is a bad example. 

Let's look at it like this: I'm riding towards the wall-of-humans. They see me and I see them. 

I slow. Pull to the extreme edge of the sidewalk. I can feel the wind from those cars brushing just past me. But the people WON'T MOVE OVER. 

Certain death.

This is just plain rude. 

I try to be a conscientious walker and biker.

The funny thing is, when either of the two scenarios mentioned above occur to me in some fashion (and on a busy college campus, they do...often), I find myself cursing the godless heathen clan of the offending party.

If I'm walking, everyone on a bike is out to run into me or make me look like an ass trying to get out of their way. 

If I'm biking, walkers are lazy bastards who toss their garbage in my path and spit on the ground after I pass. 

I'm a hypocrite. 

It's hard not to be though when one finds themselves in such a conflicting position. 

These are the kinds of things we have to deal with at college.