Hour Three
If you didn’t catch it before, the headings are the number of hours that have passed since the beginning of the story. And so it continues:
————————————–
[Three]
Read the rest of this entry »
More WriMo 2007
Outside a breeze with no teeth silently swarmed as more people found their way out their doors onto the campus sidewalks. Deep breaths. Everything tasted like a wet noodle. Sort of smelled that way too. Indistinct. Undefined. Not remarkable: not to be remembered. What was I just doing? Or thinking? Doesn’t matter.
—Schwoooooooooooooooooo.
Alex turned around at the sound.
—What are you doing? he asked. A girl a few feet behind him had made the noise.
—Shoot, she said. I was trying to imitate the wind. I guess since you noticed it was me that means I still sound too much like a person trying to imitate the wind.
—Guess so.
Alex kept walking, stuffing his hands deep into his pants’ pockets. Just a leaf relying on the air, drifting aimlessly as he would be carried over all else. Isn’t that something.
—Can I walk with you? You might be able to help me with my technique. She hurried herself to catch up with Alex. He didn’t respond, but he didn’t say “no.” Schwewooooooo, she tried again.
—Why not more of a whooew? Alex offered.
—That works for short gusts, but I’m trying to make a sustained sound, she replied. Alex realized that he did not know who she was and that she had not offered her name. It wasn’t a big deal, but it struck him as odd.
—Oh.
Thinking back on the encounter, Alex wouldn’t remember much of it other than she was cute and had wanted to talk to him. He had been too distracted at the time to appreciate these details.
She took her long scarf in hand, and tossed it so that it wrapped around her neck an extra time.
—And he would consider it a grave error on his part for not having taken the time to talk to me.
—What? Alex asked, not fully understanding or hearing what she had just said. He figured she probably wasn’t actually talking to him.
—Oh, nothing, she replied, smiling as if she knew something that he did not. She veered off towards the music building, and Alex did not follow her. All she would have to have done was utter, “Come, Kinch,” and then he would have had to follow her to ask what “kinch” meant, and from there the love of a century would have undoubtedly blossomed into a garden of wonder akin to Eden. To live in the pleasure of possibility. Surely that is Heaven. Or perhaps Hell. Strange: there should be a thicker line drawn between those two. Dante would know. Or just look for the sign. Abandon all hope… Is there really a sign to be seen? Open up your eyes. Oooo, Oooo, baby, yeah. Problem of distinction in all old literature. Alison’s lusty body for example, never know where the damn thing was supposed to be.
A chance encounter. Maybe her name was Virgil. Too cute to be Virgil. Definitely not a party girl: she wouldn’t know: an easier fight to get clear of: a better chance at. Something. Oh well. Still hope. I have a face to go by. Somehow reminds me of Lily.
Alex stood before the music building and tried to take it all in:
The founders of the School of Music had clearly had a vision in mind. Stone steps led up to the double glass doors, like an old cathedral without the overwrought artistic expressions of cherubim, seraphim, niphilim, and so on throughout the hierarchy of angels. The most exemplary carvings were of course of the Saints, which embodied modesty when they were of the flesh, and now were glorified by being made into elaborate statuary. The music building had none of this. It just bore the skeleton that one might expect underneath such extravagant edifices. Still, gargoyles sat high up on corners, eyes wandering over the campus quad. They seemed disinterested with guarding the actual entrance. Even though the building was only a hundred years old or so, they were already bored with their job; clearly their mindsets were not so masterfully crafted by their creators. Weather-stains and crawling ivy, like human veins, aged the building even though it was not as old as it seemed. Still, the world of music was old and had always been old, so it seemed a more than appropriate façade. Off to the left a row of bushes obscured the brickwork, suggesting that, even in such a formal institution with its peculiar symbol system of lines and dots, there was an element of random, and that chaos was still given its place and apparently kept there. The illusion of creativity was preserved. Its truth was debatable. But isn’t everything? Yes. Yes it is. Maybe not gravity. But certainly everything else. Only gravity really has permanence: staying power. That’s not entirely true, but it’s close.
The bushes actually seemed more like an unspoken trash bin, obscuring cans and apple cores tossed aside. At least the matter was biodegradable. Leafy obscurity abounded just beneath the surface of needles that ran thick like skin. It seemed reasonable this was the reason that these particular bushes had been selected—they knew how to keep a secret and did so frequently.
Alex left the building behind. He headed back towards the house. He wasn’t really sure he had anywhere else to go just then. May as well see who’s awake. See who’s doing what. Find out what Elias is upto. He’s probably not even there. Off preparing for that fight. Who fights anymore? We all do. Feels like the right answer. I think it’s the right answer. Don’t know. Haven’t been in a fight since grade school. They say the average male has eight physical encounters in his life time. Is that what Elias does? Spends all his time preparing for those. No, he fights competitively. How is that practical? How is anything practical? Hafta remember to ask him: why he fights. Wonder if he knows. Would be strange for him not to know, but not that strange. Muhammad Ali said, “If you dream of beating me, you best wake up and apologize” — that’s Elias; not like Tyson’s “I could feel his muscle tissue collapse under my force. It’s ludicrous these mortals even attempt to enter my realm” — he’s never that bad.
Cool car. An Audi. I think. Never was too good with cars. Never going to write in a car chase. Don’t know how the vehicles handle and whatnot. Steve McQueen could write a car chase. He knows all he needs to. I bet he still couldn’t write it out. That was the cinematographer’s job. The one with purple arms. Not his. Did he really work to tell the story then? Or just look cool? An actor is like a character manipulated by a writer. Then thanks to Hollywood they take on a life of their own, and things outside the film make us think about the character in the story. That doesn’t seem right somehow. Metafictionalizing. Metafilming. Somewhere along those lines. What did McQueen like to drive? Can’t remember. Fast machine. Just had to be fast. He was a charger—a Marco. An earthly star’s objection to false hope. An icon.
Leaves rustled as the wind picked up. Alex, key in hand, came up his front steps and let himself back into the house. The stairs directly in front of took him up to his room, but instead he walked into the living room off to the left and crashed on the loveseat. His legs dangled over the edge, but it felt comfortable somehow. It didn’t matter that he didn’t fit the couch, the couch fit him, and he quickly dozed off.
————————————–
Click here for the previous part!
Click here for the next part!
NaNoWriMo 2007 Part 3
This is the third segment from my NaNoWriMo attempt, full of video game magic!
————————————–
Read the rest of this entry »
The art of conversation…
More from my NaNoWriMo attempt this year:
————————————–
Read the rest of this entry »
And What of Me? — A Gamble at Modernism Gone Wrong, Part 1
Kicking off my posts from my modernist novel attempt for NaNoWriMo, here is the first segment I wrote:
————————————–
And What of Me?
Read the rest of this entry »
Where has the time gone?
I’m giving up on NaNoWriMo after about 16,000 words. I know I’m far behind anyway, and I’m currently trying to pull together a 15 page research paper arguing for the Ellesmere manuscript arrangement of The Canterbury Tales against the “Bradshaw Shift,” Pratt’s own version of the shift, and a purely thematic ordering. It’s not going that well, but hopefully that will turn around. Since I did not reach the goal, I will be posting what I did get done on my NaNoWriMo for 2007, as time permits. There are some sections I’m not sure about the formatting on, but it shouldn’t be as bad as posting some of my poetry. If you want to read a third of a rushed modernist novel, well I’ll be posting one here.
My One Liner of Slam
I have a slam poetry course coming up next semester, and I have an idea for a poem that focuses on using medieval siege warfare imagery to describe a Muay Thai fight, while also incorporating everyday imagery. I wrote a single line because I was overcome with anticipation, that uses siege imagery, a headkick, and cricket (of all things). Just thought I’d share:
wheeling like the arms of a cricket pitcher the trebuchet stone over high walls towards wicket skulls crushed beneath iron shinbone architecture forged in fire we lost after 400 years in the making
No Story is Complete Without Odin
Another piece of my NaNoWriMo. A bit shorter this time, but a good part, I think.
Could always sacrifice her to the old gods. We were taught by Odin to think differently about sacrifice. Sacrifice of ourselves to ourselves, in his image. Like saying God helps those who help themselves. Hung his body from a tree on the underside of all creation, suffering so he could learn poetry. And pass on the history and fate of everything. Made himself a god. Like Achilles. Gave his life at Troy instead of living happily ever after, so that he could live on in glory. Wonder if there was a guy forever ago. Tied himself to a tree for a couple of days, or said he did. People saw it or believed him, and thought he was something supernatural. Natural plus. Natural with a kick. Too natural. And then he gave them the legends. Or some of them that later branched off. When he felt feeble or got a wrinkle, realized what he had would end. Wanted to be remembered forever, so he goes off and kills himself in the woods. Here Lies Odin—He Sacrificed Himself unto Himself. That’s how pantheons are born. In the hearts of epic men. In the hearts of writers who give themselves over to glory. If Hemingway had been quieter about it, he would have been so fortunate.
NaNoWriMo Insanity Persists
I’m currently at around 9,200 words, and I need to get to about 12,000 today. I’m hopeful, but if I don’t make it, I’m pretty sure that I will be able to make up for lost time later. Here’s a snippet of one of the crazier sections of this modernist pursuit of mine:
All his life had brought him to this point. All of his human history moving in one direction. Because when that bell dinged, he would not rise to the level of his expectations, he would fall to the level of his training:
Sweat, blood, tears—the familiar favorites; although, he couldn’t remember many tears, or actually any at all. Dumbbells, barbells, kettlebells: high weights for muscle size, low weights for conditioning and toning. Same with clean and press, bench press: maxing out and building endurance. Five mile runs at six in the morning because the air is brittle and it feels good. Four miles of windsprints on the track: walk the curves, run the long stretches; four laps in a mile, sixteen laps in an afternoon: nothing but shin splints and ragged lungs—always worth it. Squat press, sometimes hard on the back, but always good for the muscles. Shoulders that can spread like eagle wings. A ribcage that cuts on contact. That all bones were more iron than ivory. Horns of dead beasts, killed by weapons of ancient tribes. Test the mettle, metal.
I know only what my hands teach me. No. Yes. Jab > Circle right. Didn’t learn that that early. Didn’t teach me that in grade school. Shorthand violence as a child. Didn’t get it. Never was taught it. Jab > Jab. Just came naturally. Preternatural instinct. Dwindles in the genes of men. A Y we never needed. Focus. No one wants to live forever. That with all the armies of the world pitted against me I might find my match. Jab > Cross. Not so bold. Not so great as all that. Could be. Jab > Weave > Body hook. Maybe.
Etch my name. Head hook. Lily, and he: I. Still too much time. Too young to care. Plenty of time. Can make up for what’s lost. Jab > Cross > Hook > Uppercut. Happiness or glory? Still a long while to make that choice, to find that choice; it might not even come up. Achilles’ complex. Glory or happiness. That’s what it is. Build a sandcastle of yourself in reach of the waves. Permanence. Jab > Bob > Circle > Body hook. You will stay. Should I stay or should I go now? For some reason you will stand out: Cassius Clay, Tyson, Wepner, Ramon Dekkers, Bodhidharma, Gichin Funakoshi, Bushi Matsumura, Miyamoto Musashi, Muramasa, Masamune, Godfrey of Bouillon, Professor Kano, Foreman, Hercules, Alexander the Great, King Richard the Fifth, William Wallace, Sun Tzu, Ajax… Jab > Cross > Jab > Cross > Jab > Cross > Jab > Cross > Jab > Cross.
Bag’s cold this morning. Hurts to hit too hard. Need to just warm up. Focus. Jab > Cross > Hook. Headkick. Throw with bad intentions. Need the worst intentions. Need focus. Bad intentions. Not anger. Te glab lang :: mawashi geri.
Give it enough time. Push kick > Flying knee. A million years maybe. No humans left. No permanence. No purpose. Lost to the void. Elbow > Elbow > Drop elbow > Spinning back fist > Circle right. Whole universe expands and eventually explodes, nothing left, not even evidence that something may have mattered. To be remembered is to be forgotten. Liver shot > Overhand right > Bob left > Weave right. Meadow, grove, and stream: the things I have seen now, I can see no more. And a glory from the earth. Achilles and the promise of thousands of years. Was good enough for him, should be good enough for me. Can’t be sure of anything. Jab > Cross > Cross > Circle right. Never enough time.
Cold bag. Hands cracked at the joints. Broken fingers—joints spring up like tents. Have to be careful. No gloves; need to be careful. Left hook > left uppercut. Chill transfers to legs, like walking in winter. The body conducts. Directs the chorus. Raise all voices, filled with no-good intentions. Never do well. Or never knows best. Gang aft aglay.
NaNoWriMo BEGINS!
Just a quick post of me starting in on the first day of writing. Take a look, hope you like it. Modernism can be tough to follow, but it should be fun, just the same.
Modern Man-Maker
The body of one Alex Kartel lay stretching to the four corners of his bed with a set of blankets pushed out around him like parentheses. Slowly rising, he moved to push the covers off of him even though there were none there; his hand settled for scratching his stomach. Wake. Keine Lust. Just twenty more minutes. Red needs to stop moving. Enough time. Just don’t take too long to. Wake. Ineluctable modality of the getting-out-of-bed-ual. Too early to coin phrases for siblings. Po-tay-toe. Po-tah-toe. Some days they sound the same.
Deodorant is a must. But shower? It was cold last night—didn’t sweat. Did that before bed anyway. Clothes. Clothes. Clothes. Convenience would suggest the beige shorts and gray shirt next to the bed. Gray? Grey? Gray. Better shower anyway. Alex set his feet to the tile, stepping over a pile of papers accumulated next to the bed. Roommate: sleeping. Better shower anyway. Plenty of time.
Alex moved to his closet, shifting his weight in a stagger. Giants might walk that way. Cyclops too. He gathered his towel, shampoo, soap, and convenient clothes before heading out the door. Have to make sure it shuts. Otherwise it gets stuck on the carpet with the whole world looking in. Warren is sleeping. Easy to steal from. Early risers those thieves, catching the bird and taking the worm. Better take the keys and lock the door. Easy mistake.
The carpet of the hallway is padded and feels coarse under Alex’s still sleeping feet. He yawns uncontrollably, and the towel shifts on his naked shoulders. It drops. He bends over to pick it up and every bone in his body cracks. Sounds like a two second symphony. A compressed moment: intensity is important. Should do more toe-touches. Stretch before showering. Physical activity. Need to be loose. Loosey-goosey. Like the party girls. Those party girls. The ones. They. Not my best moment. Focus.
Need focus. Need coffee, but first, focus.
Thy leaf has perished in the green.
Is perished? Has perished? In, green or on, green? Has perished. On green. Must be—that’s how it’s remembered. And breathing sun, worldly credit, cold promises.
Here She Be -- The Battlements 