All They Stand
300408
A group of strangers students unknown all they stand in wait an empty classroom locked shut closed at their feet. They will spend the next ten weeks three months season together here twice a week. In time friendship comradeship partnerships may be formed created grow break die decay – but for now all are unknown; strangers all they wait.
Balance
270408
It is a game of balance, urban transportation, subway streetcar bus to lose your step is to show touristic flaw incite embarrassment proper. “Subway surfing” is a game best played sober.
It is a game of balance, healthy living. Plants meats sugars what to eat when to eat where to eat how much to eat? The vegan the vegetarian the omnivore each healthy in their own way condemning the others. Exercise to gym to bike to jog to swim – too much and lose precious work-time; too little and lose needed body-time.
It is a game of balance, biking it is. Too slow you stop you fall you lose the flow; too fast you falter you fall you lose the ball.
It is a game of balance, life; the world that is. Nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game – it’s easy.
Flip-Blink Crazy
210408
Damnit, I’m too alive to sleep or study. I’m lying in bed reading a letter over time and time again, can’t stop reading it thinking of it thinking about everything. Alarm set for 5:15 but it doesn’t matter; exam at eight and that doesn’t matter either. This letter is just so… I don’t know. It’s life, and I can’t explain it.
I’m insane, zany, flip-blink crazy. Euphoric to the floor but with no reason for. I’m so very out of it. And not under the influence of anything, mind you. Tonight was a good night, methinks.
Cheers.
Of Mildred & Blandred
180408
THERE WERE TWO GIRLS. This was the early 90’s, mind you – coming out of an era of paranoia and fear society had turned its focus to racism, equality – a world of everybody-the-same-and-unique. These two girls – not twins, actually, though I could see how you’d confuse them to be – were of the names Mildred and Blandred. Yeah. I know. With societal focus on keeping things fair for all, children especially took this to heart and rebelled. I dare say you can imagine how two girls growing up in the 90’s felt with the assholery of children those days and names sounding as if they came out of the Brothers Grimm.
Mildred and Blandred came from a rather shoddy run-down house in the zone of the suburbs placed /just/ far enough away to still be part of the community on paper, though it was That area. You know what I mean. The perpetual feeling of never-quite-safe, neighbours who knew naught of each other which was all do-ya-fine for them. Everybody wanting their privacy and security an air of violence danger chaos in the streets though of /course/ nothing ever happened. Nothing was ever reported or brought attention to, of course. But I digress.
They lived with their mother, a haggard, rather eccentric woman. Note well that I don’t mean eccentric in the urban hipster graphic designer sort of way, I mean eccentric in, well, the evil step-mother meaning of the term. Which could imply that Mildred and Blandred were in a very Cinderella-esque situation – they weren’t. That would imply them to have a certain… /beauty/ to them, which they certainly didn’t have. Oh, they weren’t detestable or ugly by any means – they were absolutely lovely people despite their past – but they certainly were no Helen, I’ll tell you that.
Mildred and Blandred. Hailing from a family of no real money to speak of, no fame no popularity no overbecoming beauty – they were, suffice to say, pretty bloody average. There was no father. No reason for it – not that anybody at school, including the girls knew at least – there just was no father. The girls themselves both had shoulder-length, straight hair, though Blandred’s was just a tad darker brown than Mildred’s, which resembled a field of wheat in the high noon sun.
Thirteen months apart they had the same honey golden eyes speckled with flakes of olive minuscule tendrils branching from the centre of their eyes.
to be continued. maybe.
I seem to have learned a new feeling – discovered, if you will. It is of the family of agony – the agony felt when one has words to write but nowhere to write, a concept of graphics to realize but nowhere to sketch it, a design to plan out but no way to get the idea the creation the idea down – on paper or on screen. The irreplaceable unavoidable feeling that you have just /created/ something – an object of creativity and pure will – and now it is lost to the void never to be recovered. Or, if it is, not in its original, pure state. Lack of notebook by the bed at night, ‘inspiration’ while in the shower – the situation differs but the result is the same. One needs to record these ideas thoughts concepts and when a creator can not, it is the agony of creativity unrecorded. Horrid.
Of Charleton Jones
160408
AN APOLOGY. A pause, unsure if to try again. “I’m so sorry.” Reiterated with just slightly more so-called passion as if the words repeated would mean any more than the empty nothing they offer now.
“Hm? Yes, yes…” obviously disinterested he carries on in his notebook writing scrawling building words and worlds, visibly unaffected removed from the grief and tragedy surrounding.
You see, Charleton Jones was a Writer, and Writers don’t let the little things like maternal death get in the way of their wordsmithing. Charleton – Charlie to those who thought themselves his friends, though he knew nothing of this and if he had it wouldn’t have mattered, really – still lived with his parents – parent, now, sorry – though he was at the age of none-and-twenty. They never had that much money and so Charlie had to live at home while attending school. He hadn’t many friends, though nigh on everybody knew who he was.
–But I digress. There’s a funeral going on here and I am off on a tangent. Ridiculous.
“How’s he taking it?” a business partner of Charlie’s father asked of Charlie’s father.
“I’m not sure. He hasn’t spoken a word about it to anyone; he just keeps writing in that damned book.”
“Come, Richard, it’s just his way of dealing with it all. I’m sure he’ll be fine, he just needs some time on his own with it.”
This is all there is so far. I don’t know if I’ll continue it; I certainly don’t know where it’s going.
X
The Beat the Mad
130408
The untold want, by life and land ne’er granted,
Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.
Another world life wishes Megan and I speak of mad escapist dreams the thought of what if enough to inspire the will to carry on as if to some day live out enact the subjunctive. A small town far from all no machines no chaos no worries. A cabin lone in hidden removed woods no people no politics no society. Enter the woods; live deliberately. Take life for life settle not for dissatisfaction make your way as you would choose. Thoreau Kerouac Lennon; the Beat the Mad the land of Do-As-You-Please; one thing I can tell you is you got to be free.
The world is watching, waiting.
Go find it.
