richard the ambiguoust January 30, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Fiction.1 comment so far
richard put his face into the snow bank, it was nighttime. he stood there, unbalanced, most of his weight on the balls of his feet. he had wanted to plunge his face in the snow bank, something violent, but, in the end, it reflected his utter timidness to the onlookers. he stood there, his hands trembling the air, quivering; his back arched to keep his hands free from the burning snow. it was -41. at that temperature, the snow burns.
he stuck his hands into the bank. this pose a lot less awkward than the former one, but just as strange. he was a strange sight. was he a strange man? a stranger.
the watchers did not watch in silence, erie nervous laughter accompanied there cocked eyebrows and hazy stares. was he a strange man? of course. yet, did he pay natural gas bills? or take the bus? have a mortgage? did he go to the grocery store? was richard not entitled to one strange moment plucked out of his monotonous life?
he stood up, hands in the air, and as if being followed by a gunman, he walked into the darkness, hands in the air — his steady gate passed his steady frame through the dark door of night in the near off distance. his dress coat, that he had probably bought at moores (suits for men) to place over his moores (suits for men) suits, was the first to disappear, then the back of his darkish hair, bearing very little snow, passed. finally, his hands, still raised in a tremulous protest that no one understood, were erased by the dark.
i mostly expected him to just walk away, none of that hands-raised business. i guess that’s two strange things we can pluck out of richard’s assumed to be monotonous life. allthough, we can’t really know what richard shall do tomorrow morning, afternoon, or evening.
the imprint of his face remains in the snowbank,
crowned
by
his
forgotten
glasses.
sharing — can you hear it part II January 26, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Fiction.add a comment
::part II comes almost a year and a half after part 1 was published by a much younger me. this younger me was even more cryptic, but perhaps, in fleeting moments of clarity, much more apt at giving people a good sock in the gut. – is ’sock’ a word we have forgotten? i mean it in the transitive verb form: to deliver a forceful blow, or to strike – i was brash, and would say things like “my flare and charm are rubbish” or ”i’m crushing a lot of water bottles these days, i can’t write, i can’t think straight, i don’t know what to do. i wish it was 1 AM, then i would have an excuse for this ramble.” not only more brash, but i think i was less afraid of pouring out my heart, not being more honest because i am dreadfully honest in all my writing it seems, but i have never posted a piece like ‘J’ again, at least not to my knowing readers. and not untill now do i follow up ‘can you here it?’ ( http://www.xanga.com/telegraph_hill/523204110/can-you-hear-it.html ) so take some courage as you read this…i left you some as i took the large portion i needed to write it, and indeed, even larger portion to post it. i contemplated long about throwing the proceeding part II on the pile of ‘unknowing readers’ works. as to say, never to be read by people that know me. i have considered this for many reasons, none of which i will comment on, but i will say two things, and ultimately the two reasons why i posted it.
1) it is an earnest piece — you may find it hard not to read it as the most cheezy thing i’ve ever written, but its not. and if you still think its cheezy after you read it: you need to read the end again and realize your missing the point.
2) it’s about me growing up. i think as i look over my blog i think its cool how you have been privy to me growing up, steps forward and steps back (maybe even in the same posts). i’m so so far from there, but i can see a little progress as i read through my entires.
p.s. you need to read the part 1 to get the growing up part i’d imagine.
can you hear it? part II
a round scrub of grass muffles itself under his hiking boot. he turns to look back. the wild field stretches down the mountain side; a melody of wild grasses dotted with wild flowers, gently teeming with wild butterflies. the torrid light of the sun blazes a bright-bright yellow, casting its rays across rock and branch and joyful tributary. despite the stark light, the air is too thin here for the heat to rest near ones body. the altitude graciously robs the sun of its extravagant calefaction, for a more oddly subdued temperture. the promises of brilliant heat are given up for a comfortable warmth. all is bright-bright, vivid and alive.
he raises his eyes to gaze upon the opposing mountan, the brother that stands oposite to the one currently under his feet. the overseeing brother, or maybe even father, stands at a stately 90 degrees, a sheer cliff shaded from the direct sunlight. he has a large, wide face, old and wise. his rocky visage enriched with darkened streaks where water had trickled down and stuck to the grainy surface. like wide-wide tears they run from the incandescent lining of the his crown to the eloquent lake below. and as if it were aware of the eyes watching, the wind turns and overturns the ripples on the body of water, forming grand shapes and movements as the sun plays on the uneven surface. the poetic blue and green waltz and twirl, pull, push and pirouette.
he releases the scrub and it springs back to life. he uses his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, and continues up the toward the peak.
when he reaches it, his gate becomes more fluid and natural walking faster across the level ground. he makes his way to the opposite edge of the grassy plateau, stops and stares out over the miles and miles and miles and miles and miles that lay before him. the countless mountian tops, adorned with an even more countless numbers of trees, rocks, grasses and waters. ferns raised from the soil only today, lay atop the mountains, silent keepers born before adam and eve, the birds of the air, and the stars of the sky. the spectrum of life explodes before him in a rare, resonating brush with the face of God.
he motions to her, ‘come here,’ he says. she stands adjacent to him as he wraps his arm around her. his hand on her shoulder, he gives her a gentle squeeze; she smiles. ’share this with me?’ he asks.
‘okay’ she says and gives him his moment. he kisses her on the hair, just above her ear. they stand still for a second, their feet planted in the ground as the wild flowers and wild grasses rise above and hedge around the thick soles of their boots — she is still giving him his moment.
‘only if you share this with me.’
she smiles, he smiles, she is clever and right, he laugh-laughs, the most natural sound ever meant to proceed from my lips — the most gentle way to be humbled.
the bed-time story January 24, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction.add a comment
david’s facebook status: david is weary, and with his imagination a broken down 1984 toyota carola, he is stumbling into bed as if it were 4 am.
that was 4 hours ago, at 8:30, and i am still awake. sometimes i think life is a joke that we will only truly appreciate laughing at when it is all over.
what i could use right now is a bed-time story. not a thomas bed-time story. thomas, my oldest brother, used to read to matthew (the middle child) and i, going on into what seemed like the wee hours of the silent morning. but it was probably just 9:30. i would listen to the story, usually a mythological world filled with rather dimwitted characters. the words falling upon interested ears as sleep evaded me. or i would listen to the story, a most eggresiously boring plot, the words falling upon my uninterested ears, and being one of short attention span, i would spend the rest of story time focused on my burning eyes, periodically whining about how the light burned my eyes, wondering how i could get thomas in trouble for keeping us up so late, and seriously contemplating yelling ’shut-up!’ at the top of my lungs. the problem with my last plan of action was that i knew that my father could yell louder than i.
as much as i did, for the most part, earnestly enjoy thomas’ story time, it was not the same as mother’s bed-time story.
my mother and, i imagine, all mothers have a bed-time story voice. something really physical, like a warm set of pajamas they also draped over our vulnerable childish frames. i can remember my mother’s bed-time story voice. i remember no stories just the voice. and not even the cadence or the personality, just the feeling, the softness mostly. my memory is blurry, like hearing a song booming through your living room wall compliments of the neighbor, or looking up at your old life from a watery grave.
i probably don’t remember any stories because i doubt i ever finished one. by the time the last page was to be turned i would be soundly asleep; mother’s bed-time story a soft but sturdy bridge into a world of dreams: dreams where we, alone, must confront our hope, faith, fear, our unbridled imagination, and our doubt — not unlike current reality.
courtney: 4 right handed wins, one left handed — david: 4 right handed losses, one particularly hard, and a long fought battle with the left (not in his favor) January 14, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction.2 comments
my arm hurts. do you know why my arm hurts? i was arm wrestling a girl. a girl named courtney, she is 14, i think.
she never made any facial expressions as she defeated again and again. i think the grand total was courtney: 4 right handed wins, one left handed — david: 4 right handed losses, one particularly hard, and a long fought battle with the left (not in his favor).
so i’ve decided to do more revaluation of my life, i’ve been doing an extreme amount of that lately. i mostly just run circles in my brain, but not in a funny way — a frustrating way. its like when i decided that i would face courtney with my left hand. i really thought that i could beat her. did i mention that there were probably 12-14 spectators, most that did not mind making fun of my classy but effeminate tendencies, before i decided to arm wrestle a junior high aged girl. but as we go to the left hand, i thought for sure, this is my event — this is my event. i lost after twenty or so seconds of agonizing pain, at a certain point i realized i had nothing left and gave up.
courtney holds another place in david’s favorite lore, but one in which they teamed up for a touch down to answer the question of matt merkly. i think we should stay as a team courtney, i just seem to embarrass myselft when i go against the natural order of things.
.
i want to write more, and write something more meaningful for my readers, something that makes sense, but nothing really seems to be coming. i’m sorry, but hey, hold out and maybe i’ll come up with something brilliant later this month. see, this post, it doesn’t answer the question ‘what do you do when you don’t understand why you keep loosing a brute strength challenge against someone with probably half your muscle mass?’ i don’t answer it, cause i don’t understand my life, i don’t understand why all my mental, physical and spiritual toil seems to be leading utterly nowhere. no where can be a frustrating place, as you stand there (which is nowhere) out of breath, painfully weary and alone.
i have so many more questions than answers. so i wait.
my writing and perhaps lack of writing might reflect this waiting, for the skies to clear — and maybe even the ice to melt. but hopefully i can spin off a poem or something like that later this month. deal? deal.
much love to my faithful readers (if you exist)
