So, because I'm very lazy this next piece of writing is very short ("very" is such a weak adjective). At least it's easy on the eyes and that. Kyna is pronounced Key-na by the way... you know how much I love the Irish. On with the show:
They are lying down on the bed.
"I love you. You know that right? Kyna tells Thaddaeus. He smiles at her and nods. He touches her arm. He feels the graze from the carpet on her elbow. He kisses her there. "Good," Kyna says, "As long as you know."
____________________________________________________
He is crying on the way back from the hospital.
He is lying on the bed. He is looking at a picture of her. He was still crying as he drank the water.
"I love you. You know that right?" Thaddaeus tells Kyna. He smiles at her and touches her face. He falls asleep.
____________________________________________________
He doesn't wake up.
Monday, 22 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
This Night Has Opened My Eyes
The following piece of writing is inspired by the film Up, which nearly made me cry. No fucking joke. It hasn't got a title.
Her husband goes out. He doesn't bother to ease the front door shut. He just leaves it to slam, shacking the foundations of the house. She jumps with expectant shock. Her eyes stay wide open, like a new born baby's, seeing the world for the first time. Only when she hears him drive away does she blink. She sits for a moment longer, thinking no thoughts.
Standing up, she walks through the hall. She glances up at the empty stairs. She climbs, it should be a struggle, but it isn't. It's too easy and that's what makes it too hard. Edging the door in front of her open slowly, she steps lightly inside. She eases the door softly shut.
She starts to stare with wide moist eyes again. A new cot sits before her, polished and painted, taking pride of place in the centre of the room. It's perfect, like in those TV shows, magazines and dreams.
She feels her stomach.
She feels the hunger within.
She feels dead inside.
Her only nourishment comes from the salty tears trickling, creeping down her cheek.
In the kitchen she searches through cupboards. She finds what she's looking for. She fumbles with the packet of cigarettes, so expertly hidden from her own personal patriarch. She lights the selected cigarette on the second attempt. She inhales and exhales, breathing heavily and consistently all the time. It doesn't matter now. The stress floats away with the smoke. But she knows, that as soon as the life of the ember is stubbed out, the pain is born again.
Her husband goes out. He doesn't bother to ease the front door shut. He just leaves it to slam, shacking the foundations of the house. She jumps with expectant shock. Her eyes stay wide open, like a new born baby's, seeing the world for the first time. Only when she hears him drive away does she blink. She sits for a moment longer, thinking no thoughts.
Standing up, she walks through the hall. She glances up at the empty stairs. She climbs, it should be a struggle, but it isn't. It's too easy and that's what makes it too hard. Edging the door in front of her open slowly, she steps lightly inside. She eases the door softly shut.
She starts to stare with wide moist eyes again. A new cot sits before her, polished and painted, taking pride of place in the centre of the room. It's perfect, like in those TV shows, magazines and dreams.
She feels her stomach.
She feels the hunger within.
She feels dead inside.
Her only nourishment comes from the salty tears trickling, creeping down her cheek.
In the kitchen she searches through cupboards. She finds what she's looking for. She fumbles with the packet of cigarettes, so expertly hidden from her own personal patriarch. She lights the selected cigarette on the second attempt. She inhales and exhales, breathing heavily and consistently all the time. It doesn't matter now. The stress floats away with the smoke. But she knows, that as soon as the life of the ember is stubbed out, the pain is born again.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
I've Got Knives In My Eyes, I'm Going Home Sick
Oh hey, want to read a completely made up story? Then you might want to read "Girl At Train Station." I love casually flirting with girls on trains. It's based on a dream. Maybe. Or an experience that would be pretty cool. Something like that.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked. Smiling, cautiously, but politely as I looked down where the girl sat.
She gazed up at me, as if she was only half paying attention to my question. She gazed at my face a little longer.
"Sure." She spoke softly. She was reading.
Not enough pretty girls read. She was pretty.
I looked at the book she was reading, there was something about her that made me want to speak. A universal interest in literature and the art of words would probably rouse me to talk. The book was old, its spine badly bent and creased, the front cover worn down. Despite this the author of the collection of ragged paper was still visible. The authors name was Franz Kafka. I smiled out loud. This outburst of...something, knowing perhaps, or maybe satisfaction, I don't know...but it drew her attention away from the page. She looked at me shyly. There was so many ways to phrase the question I was inevitably going to ask, "Oh, I see you like Kafka?" or "Good choice, I like Kafka too. What's your favourite?" All of these endless options sounded stupid. I must have thought through a hundred, a million, different combinations of words to try and think of the right way to say the question. Words were gradually being pushed forwards by my tongue, towards my lips, that were, as I struggled to think, failing to hold the half finished thoughts back.
I can't remember what I said.
I probably erased it from my memory out of embarrassment.
Whatever I did say it seemed to have the desired effect, for we were soon in an in depth conversation about the context of "In The Penal Colony," which, in case you didn't know, my dearest reader, is a strangely beautiful story about capital punishment.
"A Dream" is her favourite. It's my favourite too. We talk.
We talk.
We talk.
Her eyes pierce me as the sun shines through them. The bench on which we sit beside each other is uncomfortable, but the conversation is not awkward. I can be a very awkward person. Art is my thing. When art is your thing it's very hard to have a human conversation. It means you are unwittingly pretentious. You write words in a completely different way to how you would usually talk. My vocabulary grows immensely when I sit down with pen and paper. Sarcasm and irony are all tricks I use to avoid being liked or being tricked into engaging in normal speech. Her eyes pierce me.
"I bet you're a real heart breaker," I tell her.
She smiles. She bites her bottom lip. This is her acknowledgment of my statement. Her eyes flick down for a moment. Not even that. I don't know how long a moment is. It might be just an unspecified amount of time that feels much longer than it actually is; in which case "a moment" would not be the right term to use here, because her eyes only flicked down for a very, very short period of time, less than a second at a guess.
"I bet you like heart breakers," she replies as her eyes glance back up and pierce me again. I go through the same motions as her automatically. Smile, bite my bottom lip and flick my eyes down for not quite a moment.
"I guess I do."
Her train pulled into the station and she got up from where she sat beside me. Her summer dress fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept across the platform as the incoming locomotive distorted the gentle air.
"I'll see you around," she said, closing her book, having carefully and elegantly placed her book-mark into the tattered collection of rough pages.
"Yeah," I said back, as I watched her long red hair come to a standstill from beneath her summer's hat, as the train finally came to a halt. I observed her as she climbed on board, minding the gap like the human-less voice from the public address system instructed her to do. As the train pulled away she looked out towards me. She smiled and waved. Her eyes pierce me.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked. Smiling, cautiously, but politely as I looked down where the girl sat.
She gazed up at me, as if she was only half paying attention to my question. She gazed at my face a little longer.
"Sure." She spoke softly. She was reading.
Not enough pretty girls read. She was pretty.
I looked at the book she was reading, there was something about her that made me want to speak. A universal interest in literature and the art of words would probably rouse me to talk. The book was old, its spine badly bent and creased, the front cover worn down. Despite this the author of the collection of ragged paper was still visible. The authors name was Franz Kafka. I smiled out loud. This outburst of...something, knowing perhaps, or maybe satisfaction, I don't know...but it drew her attention away from the page. She looked at me shyly. There was so many ways to phrase the question I was inevitably going to ask, "Oh, I see you like Kafka?" or "Good choice, I like Kafka too. What's your favourite?" All of these endless options sounded stupid. I must have thought through a hundred, a million, different combinations of words to try and think of the right way to say the question. Words were gradually being pushed forwards by my tongue, towards my lips, that were, as I struggled to think, failing to hold the half finished thoughts back.
I can't remember what I said.
I probably erased it from my memory out of embarrassment.
Whatever I did say it seemed to have the desired effect, for we were soon in an in depth conversation about the context of "In The Penal Colony," which, in case you didn't know, my dearest reader, is a strangely beautiful story about capital punishment.
"A Dream" is her favourite. It's my favourite too. We talk.
We talk.
We talk.
Her eyes pierce me as the sun shines through them. The bench on which we sit beside each other is uncomfortable, but the conversation is not awkward. I can be a very awkward person. Art is my thing. When art is your thing it's very hard to have a human conversation. It means you are unwittingly pretentious. You write words in a completely different way to how you would usually talk. My vocabulary grows immensely when I sit down with pen and paper. Sarcasm and irony are all tricks I use to avoid being liked or being tricked into engaging in normal speech. Her eyes pierce me.
"I bet you're a real heart breaker," I tell her.
She smiles. She bites her bottom lip. This is her acknowledgment of my statement. Her eyes flick down for a moment. Not even that. I don't know how long a moment is. It might be just an unspecified amount of time that feels much longer than it actually is; in which case "a moment" would not be the right term to use here, because her eyes only flicked down for a very, very short period of time, less than a second at a guess.
"I bet you like heart breakers," she replies as her eyes glance back up and pierce me again. I go through the same motions as her automatically. Smile, bite my bottom lip and flick my eyes down for not quite a moment.
"I guess I do."
Her train pulled into the station and she got up from where she sat beside me. Her summer dress fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept across the platform as the incoming locomotive distorted the gentle air.
"I'll see you around," she said, closing her book, having carefully and elegantly placed her book-mark into the tattered collection of rough pages.
"Yeah," I said back, as I watched her long red hair come to a standstill from beneath her summer's hat, as the train finally came to a halt. I observed her as she climbed on board, minding the gap like the human-less voice from the public address system instructed her to do. As the train pulled away she looked out towards me. She smiled and waved. Her eyes pierce me.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
The Inherent Purity Of Rain In May
Two posts in one day, it's almost as if I've got a history essay to do. Here's a little video of Jack Kerouac reading from On The Road. I made the mistake of reading through the comments as well, which is never advisable on any site where people express their own opinions. But then again, that's just my opinion.
Teeth Like God's Shoeshine
I think my recent exploits with codename: 'Dave the homeless' must have given me some bonus Karma points. Win. Anyway...
I came home the other day and washed the taste of whisky, tobacco and conversation off my stale tongue. The walk home had been a chain smoking affair. My mouth was dry. The juicy conversation had been extracted from it. Now there was nothing to say. There was nobody to say anything to. A frost had settled in on the ground. A glistening blanket that made a satisfying crunch underfoot. I looked at the now seemingly soft tarmac and saw a frost coated leaf. No... I saw the word leaf, covered by the word frost. I wanted to take the leaf home, but knew the frost would fade in time. I imagined a disappointed magpie. Nicotine coated my brain and wrapped the alcohol up underneath. Lonely cars passed me at speed. Pointless descriptions of the moment. I've said too much.
And that, my friends, was a true story.
I came home the other day and washed the taste of whisky, tobacco and conversation off my stale tongue. The walk home had been a chain smoking affair. My mouth was dry. The juicy conversation had been extracted from it. Now there was nothing to say. There was nobody to say anything to. A frost had settled in on the ground. A glistening blanket that made a satisfying crunch underfoot. I looked at the now seemingly soft tarmac and saw a frost coated leaf. No... I saw the word leaf, covered by the word frost. I wanted to take the leaf home, but knew the frost would fade in time. I imagined a disappointed magpie. Nicotine coated my brain and wrapped the alcohol up underneath. Lonely cars passed me at speed. Pointless descriptions of the moment. I've said too much.
And that, my friends, was a true story.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Rebirth Through Adaptation
Darling, you look delicious.
Dear Blog,
There's this man I sometimes see on my many walking adventures across town. He's homeless. I always put some change into his small black hat, that sits in front of him, which would otherwise remain empty. There's something about him that I find intriguing, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I would imagine his name is Dave. I think Dave suits him. He's remarkably tidy compared to the stereotypical tramp image that is evoked when someone mentions the word homeless. He has grey bristles covering his jaw, but even this doesn't seem unkempt. It seems to suit him, I think. His hair is the same colour, but very short, like his beard and is receding. Occasionally he sits in the underpass I walk through every day, with a quiet dignity that I highly respect, his hat out in front of him. I paused beside him before, whilst struggling to remove some change from my wallet, and he began to talk to me. His voice sounds like the voice of a dad. He looks like a dad a bit. He discusses the weather with me. The weather is of no real concern to me, the temperature drop that sets in as the evening draws on means nothing to me. I am, after all, only pausing by him for a brief moment, before I continue to walk back to my house, turn the fire on and waste away in front of the television.
I saw him again the other day, but as I struggled to remove my change for slightly longer than usual, he talks to me for longer. And more seriously. He has a packet of biscuits in front of him, unopened. I imagine he savours them for before he retires to sleep. Wherever he does sleep. I imagine he rations them out and chews slowly. Patiently letting his saliva melt them away before swallowing. I smile at him as I crouch down to put my change into his still empty little black hat. I tell him to look after himself. Like an order. Like a child. Like he's some kind of pet. I feel stupid immediately for saying it, but he smiles back and says, "You too." He then thanks me. Not for the change, but for stopping. For treating him like a human. As I place my wallet back into my jean pocket and step away from him he adds, "God bless." I find his faith strangely Romantic and turn to reply, "You too," before putting my headphones back into my ears. I then walked home, sat in front of the fire and watched television.
Dear Blog,
There's this man I sometimes see on my many walking adventures across town. He's homeless. I always put some change into his small black hat, that sits in front of him, which would otherwise remain empty. There's something about him that I find intriguing, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I would imagine his name is Dave. I think Dave suits him. He's remarkably tidy compared to the stereotypical tramp image that is evoked when someone mentions the word homeless. He has grey bristles covering his jaw, but even this doesn't seem unkempt. It seems to suit him, I think. His hair is the same colour, but very short, like his beard and is receding. Occasionally he sits in the underpass I walk through every day, with a quiet dignity that I highly respect, his hat out in front of him. I paused beside him before, whilst struggling to remove some change from my wallet, and he began to talk to me. His voice sounds like the voice of a dad. He looks like a dad a bit. He discusses the weather with me. The weather is of no real concern to me, the temperature drop that sets in as the evening draws on means nothing to me. I am, after all, only pausing by him for a brief moment, before I continue to walk back to my house, turn the fire on and waste away in front of the television.
I saw him again the other day, but as I struggled to remove my change for slightly longer than usual, he talks to me for longer. And more seriously. He has a packet of biscuits in front of him, unopened. I imagine he savours them for before he retires to sleep. Wherever he does sleep. I imagine he rations them out and chews slowly. Patiently letting his saliva melt them away before swallowing. I smile at him as I crouch down to put my change into his still empty little black hat. I tell him to look after himself. Like an order. Like a child. Like he's some kind of pet. I feel stupid immediately for saying it, but he smiles back and says, "You too." He then thanks me. Not for the change, but for stopping. For treating him like a human. As I place my wallet back into my jean pocket and step away from him he adds, "God bless." I find his faith strangely Romantic and turn to reply, "You too," before putting my headphones back into my ears. I then walked home, sat in front of the fire and watched television.
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Archive It Everywhere
Part one of my novel is currently in the editing stage, just an interesting update and that. Anyway, here's a little poem for ya eyes...
785 aka Girl:
I hate fates cruel insistence
On forcing me to hide behind,
This man made sea wall.
Yes, I never learnt her name
Courage in the name of sweet love,
That girl on the beach.
Sometimes I wish I was Ezra Pound.
785 aka Girl:
I hate fates cruel insistence
On forcing me to hide behind,
This man made sea wall.
Yes, I never learnt her name
Courage in the name of sweet love,
That girl on the beach.
Sometimes I wish I was Ezra Pound.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Venezuela is Realised
Here's a short extract from the novel I'm currently writing. It's mainly description so it doesn't give too much of the plot away. Don't want no one stealing my ideas or nothink. I'll keep you updated on how it's going. Just give me a couple of years to finish it, yeah?
It was now time for the band to play. They stepped out on to the stage to a cheering crowd, clapping enthusiastically and greeting them with whistles and shouts; the air was already filled with excitement. A feeling of anticipation, a feeling of almost importance added to the atmosphere- the stench of beer. The hushed shouts of friends into each other’s ears, the sound dampened by the sound technicians insistence on playing inappropriately loud music between each bands set. Finally, he faded the music out, giving way to a brief moment of nothing, of serenity, the crowd silent in obedience. The silence penetrated them all; it only lasted a second, but stayed with them forever. When the first strings were plucked and the first notes tapped, when the first chords were played, the first time the pedal hit the bass drum, the first time the mic exploded with a sudden flurry of words, the crowd didn’t go wild, mosh pits didn’t erupt in the middle of the room, the walls didn’t collapse out of sheer energy, the floor didn’t give way from strain. They merely rocked their bodies back and forth, mostly in time with the music, although a few people couldn’t manage it. They changed the pace and style of their movements with the music, allowed it to flow through them. The whole room was focussed entirely on the sounds resonating from the speakers and subs that adorned the sides of the stage, facing out towards their subjects, who now lived by the sweet harmony being generated from them and would continue to do so until the band had finished playing.
They moved through their set list with such energy, the music literally flowing forwards, washing over the crowd, cleansing them from the worries and woes of their week. This was a reason to live. This was the meaning of life- to see art before your eyes, to hear it, to be part of it. This wasn’t like the nightclub; this wasn’t girls breaking guys hearts, guys breaking girls hearts. This was completely different. There weren’t different groups of people here. This was one movement. A collective of people who were not only out to have a good night, but wanted to experience a feeling. A feeling better than anything alcohol, or any other drug, could provide. The music was a drug in itself. The crush of the bass on the ribs was brutal but addictive; the crescendo of the guitars and the vocals, climaxing together in harmony. The drums laid down the beat to the music and to everyone’s mood, as the tempo sped up so did their hearts, until they almost exploded. Lungs were intoxicated by the atmosphere, drowning in exhilaration. And after they had finished playing, the crowd stood still, lying down on the air behind them. Muscles weakened, adrenaline flowing, pure ecstasy filling the creative parts of their minds and brains. The band exited stage left, gleeful smiles across their faces. Smiling not because they were pleased with their performances, not because it was “a job well done” as they were told backstage, but because they had felt what the audience had felt- perhaps more so. The whole room had been banded together; even Leo and Theresa were one and the same during the twenty minutes or so of musical heaven, of creative bliss.
It was now time for the band to play. They stepped out on to the stage to a cheering crowd, clapping enthusiastically and greeting them with whistles and shouts; the air was already filled with excitement. A feeling of anticipation, a feeling of almost importance added to the atmosphere- the stench of beer. The hushed shouts of friends into each other’s ears, the sound dampened by the sound technicians insistence on playing inappropriately loud music between each bands set. Finally, he faded the music out, giving way to a brief moment of nothing, of serenity, the crowd silent in obedience. The silence penetrated them all; it only lasted a second, but stayed with them forever. When the first strings were plucked and the first notes tapped, when the first chords were played, the first time the pedal hit the bass drum, the first time the mic exploded with a sudden flurry of words, the crowd didn’t go wild, mosh pits didn’t erupt in the middle of the room, the walls didn’t collapse out of sheer energy, the floor didn’t give way from strain. They merely rocked their bodies back and forth, mostly in time with the music, although a few people couldn’t manage it. They changed the pace and style of their movements with the music, allowed it to flow through them. The whole room was focussed entirely on the sounds resonating from the speakers and subs that adorned the sides of the stage, facing out towards their subjects, who now lived by the sweet harmony being generated from them and would continue to do so until the band had finished playing.
They moved through their set list with such energy, the music literally flowing forwards, washing over the crowd, cleansing them from the worries and woes of their week. This was a reason to live. This was the meaning of life- to see art before your eyes, to hear it, to be part of it. This wasn’t like the nightclub; this wasn’t girls breaking guys hearts, guys breaking girls hearts. This was completely different. There weren’t different groups of people here. This was one movement. A collective of people who were not only out to have a good night, but wanted to experience a feeling. A feeling better than anything alcohol, or any other drug, could provide. The music was a drug in itself. The crush of the bass on the ribs was brutal but addictive; the crescendo of the guitars and the vocals, climaxing together in harmony. The drums laid down the beat to the music and to everyone’s mood, as the tempo sped up so did their hearts, until they almost exploded. Lungs were intoxicated by the atmosphere, drowning in exhilaration. And after they had finished playing, the crowd stood still, lying down on the air behind them. Muscles weakened, adrenaline flowing, pure ecstasy filling the creative parts of their minds and brains. The band exited stage left, gleeful smiles across their faces. Smiling not because they were pleased with their performances, not because it was “a job well done” as they were told backstage, but because they had felt what the audience had felt- perhaps more so. The whole room had been banded together; even Leo and Theresa were one and the same during the twenty minutes or so of musical heaven, of creative bliss.
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