waiting

I started writing this piece last week but was interrupted by school, work and a social life. I had some time to continue the piece today but instead opted to re-write portions of it. I'm still left with the main question of where am I going with this piece. At first it just came out but as I was writing a couple "older" thoughts occurred to me, including a writing exercise from The Pocket Muse which suggests: Picture a jacket. Picture a pocket of the jacket. Picture what is inside the pocket of the jacket. I was also reminded of a character trait that was inspired by Little Miss Sunshine (if you haven't seen, you should run not walk to your local theater).

Michael slouched into the worn couch, waiting. He squirmed until he found himself in his customer position on the middle cushion. The rush hour traffic noise leaked through the open window in Angela's apartment living room. Michael listened to the parade of cars, trucks and buses rumbling by, scurrying home as quickly as their fellow drivers allowed. The window was cracked open, only allowing the noise to reach his ears, not the pleasant autumn air passing through the city. He stared at the window, trying to decide if he wanted to open the window more for the breeze or shut it to drown out the traffic noise.

Michael untangled himself from his seat, his hand lightly brushing the faded tan corduroy jacket perched on the couch's arm. Walking to the window he started at the sidewalk below, noticing an older woman wearing a scarlet scarf, vainly trying to cross the street. Something about her stride reminded him of Aunt Nancy. The breeze was pleasant as he stood there, so his fingers curled around the window pane to pull it open. He was rewarded with reddened fingers and flecks of white paint falling to the sill. Michael sighed as he adjusted his hands, forcing the window down.

"Mike, did you just close the window?" Angela's voice cracked from her bedroom. "You know how difficult it was for us to open it.

Michael could hear the exasperation in her voice, but ignored it. Sighing again, he shrugged at the small calico cat which appeared from Angela's bedroom. Michael shared a knowing look with Beckett before Beckett pounded across the hardwood floor into the kitchen. Michael fell back into the couch; this time his body sliding natural into his accustomed perch, waiting. Scanning the room for something to occupy his mind while Angela finished getting ready, his eyes noticed the strange imprint in the couch cushion next to him. Not for the first time did he wonder how many boyfriends had sat in a similar state waiting. Not for the last time did he push any further thoughts of ex-boyfriends out of his mind, ignoring the likelyhood that more than just sitting happened on this couch.

Anxiously Michael looked at his watch and found himself mesmerized by the ticking second hand. His right hand started tapping the next cushion. The smallest motion shifted his jacket from his perch. A muffled thud accompanied its collapse to the floor. Michael could also her the slight movement of Beckett, scurrying back into Angela's bedroom. He leaned forward to pick up the jacket, cradling it in his lap. Another muffled thud reached his ears as he felt something strike his right thigh. Holding the jacket before him, he quickly rummaged through all the pockets until his found a small book tucked in the lining. The book came free with some difficulty and Michael was sure he heard a rip. Oh well, he thought, it is not the first for this jacket. Faith loved.... Michael decided not to pursue that thought either but instead turn the book over in his hands. He had misplaced this book months ago, during the spring. With the cooler autumn air moving in he had only recently pulled out his warmer clothes.

It was an older printing of Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling. Michael thumbed through the worn, yellowed, dog-eared pages. Noting the hand-writing in the margin and the various pages with faded highlighter marks. Some pages were completely highlighted. Flipping through the pages he landed on a particular passage that caught his attention. [I haven't decided what the passage is yet, but it is v. important that I find the "right" one.]

blood and flesh, ink and paper

This too was another piece published on another blog. This piece I wrote last week. In the intial blog I included this extended introduction, which I will leave out of this posting. I will say that as part of my attempt to write more, I've been turning to a little book called The Pocket Muse. It was recommended by Cousin Molly. The following arose out of writing exercise that stated: Write about a noise or a silence that won't go away.

I keep waiting for it to stop. I wait for the rhythm to break and the silence to reassert its hold over me. If only for a second or two. It's nearly imperceptible that scratching noise. The finite tip of a fountain pen gliding across the surface of paper. Someone is writing, but who? And why does it not cease? I can hear the break as the writer completes a thought, adds punctuation or starts a new paragraph. But there is no sound of papers shuffling. No shifting of sheet on sheet. It is papyrus neverending. Or maybe the author is writing and rewriting every word. But i hear the hand movement as the palm braces the sheet. The timber changing as the weight of the sheet changes. What a heavy burden to write. If i were to write what would i say? What God cursed this neo-Sisyphus with such a task as this? And why can i not find the source of this incessant scratching? Ink on paper is flesh on bone. Or blood on flesh. What blood is spilt to write this saga! But who is to say it will never end, certainly not I. At night i think i think, maybe, the writer sleeps but i find my dreams inundated by the distant hum, that far too close sound. My own blood it is i write on these pages. When will I stop? If existence is not being nor becoming then i shall live forever in words and thoughts. Or maybe it is God recording, dictating, praying. What Kafka-prison traps me in words. Even the spaces are full as they signal difference between what is and what will be, or could be. The sound recedes now as it becomes part of my essence. I am the writer and the written. The noise and the silence. But only as long as I remain uncaptured by either. What is the difference between a sound that won't go away and the silence that remains?

all things made new

Here is a piece I wrote last year and was published on another blog. It is a place to begin. I have not looked at this piece in quite a while but I plan to re-read it, if for no other reason than to discover for myself what I am doing right (which is probably very little) and where I need to improve.

Alex hastily rose from the dinner table striding for the nearest exit, leaving his fellow dinner companions to their meal and their interminably boring conversation about local politics. Rachael was the only person at the table to note his absence, her eyes tracking him as he left the expansive room, obviously heading for the buildings exit. After a few more seconds she turned her attention to the conversation, occasionally glancing at the exit Alex used for his escape.

Alex wandered aimless down the darkened hallway outside the dining room until he came to the lobby of the large building. He noted the security guards behind the main desk, one seated and staring intently at something just out of Alex’s eyesight. He assumed it was some kind of camera. The other two guards were standing behind him, engaged in an animated conversation. The word “football” and some nearly unintelligible names escaped their lips as Alex stood passed their desk and walked out into the crisp, night air. Immediately Alex regretted his speedy egress as the January air assaulted his bared arms. He considered retreating to his room in the hotel, but opted to let his feet lead him down a darkened path.

He was not aware until he reached a rather tall fence that he was near the edge of the grounds of the complex, and close to the rocky crags overlooking the beach. Alex had just arrived in Greece and had not yet had the chance to see any of the local scenery. The ride from the Turkey border had been shrouded in darkness, and even now he could not make out much of the local scenery. The sound of the ocean lapping against the sandy beach drew his attention and Alex scrambled over the fence, landing ungracefully on the moist grass. He found a well worn path leading down to the beach. It reminded him of roads boats might use to reach a landing and upon his arrival at the base of the cliff he realized that it was indeed a place where locals could put to sea.

Alex wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to preserve whatever little body heat he could. The proximity to the water had caused the local temperature to drop several degrees and he was about to leave to seek warmer climes when his eyes glanced from the entrancing depths of the sea to the eternal mystery of the sky. As a boy, Alex had gone camping a few times with the Boy Scouts, and it was in those rare trips far away from the lights of the city that he would truly grasp the beauty of the stars. The 10 meter drop from the craggy heights above was enough of a block to the hotel and convention center’s lights to shield him from their unwelcome illumination. Alex was in rapture as he stared at the night sky so much like the one he remembered from his childhood, and yet so different. It was not merely the brightness of the stars, nor was it how they occasionally pulsated as he slowly craned his neck to see beyond the uneven shoreline. The sky looked “wrong.” There was no other way for him to describe it. The stars were not in the right place. Alex quickly identified the great Hunter of the sky, Orion but its position in the sky, his closeness to the sea felt wrong to him. And yet, it was oddly comforting to him because he was able to recognize most of the constellations in the sky. As he stared at the night sky he forgot about how cold his body was, and he was completely unaware of the tears streaming down his face. His eyes fixated on a faint bluish star just above the horizon. It was several minutes before he realized a hand was gently entwined with his left hand. Glancing up, blinking a couple times, he found his lips inches away from Racheal’s face. The tears that had lined his face had hardened on his cheeks, leaving a light sheen, faintly reflecting the starlight.