The blinds resume their steady flowing position once the wind dies down outside, and the sudden brilliant glow that lit up the room dissipates back into shards of light peeking through the slats. One of the beams skimming through falls onto a picture pinned to the wall. A picture of a girl standing alone in a park looking at the sky with her hand shielding the blinding rays of the sun from her squinting eyes. Her hand points to something off of the picture with determination to catch someone’s attention, but also with an affectionate tilt of her arm. She is dressed rather shabbily, but comfortable. The clothes hang loosely from her slender frame, and her sweater is slightly off kilter, revealing one of her shoulders. Not one’s typical idea of a pretty girl, but beautiful in an unconventional and undeniable fashion. Even though the bright gaze of the sun burns her eyes and causes contortions in her expression, her smile stands out from beneath her hand like a red rose on a snow bank. No ordinary smile, but one that sucks the breath right from the lungs, one that mesmerizes in a single glance and one that cannot be ignored. Her stance is slightly crooked with her toes pointed inwards towards each other, pigeon-toed, giving the appearance of discomfort or nervousness.
Was the girl aware of her picture being taken, or was this a candid photo of a random stranger? The truth was that the picture was found lying on the street before anything could scar and distort its artistry, so nothing could be gathered about the background of the image. The only thing that could be learned from it was the writing on the back that said, “La petite fille, tu es tres belle…” What do these words mean? Was it a lover of hers or just a wandering admirer? These are questions that are almost impossible to answer in any accurate fashion and can only be speculated on. Is it possible to love someone just from a picture? From the image, a life is created that can be entirely inaccurate, but wholly satisfying. It is true that one can speculate much about a person’s personality by their body language, dress and appearance. For this particular “petite fille”, she is perceived to be of a lower-middle class background, she is demure and soft-spoken. She doesn’t have many friends because she doesn’t trust many people and fears their judgment, but she likes many people from afar. Her favorite pastime is to go to a park and watch groups of people converse or otherwise go about their daily lives. She likes to pretend that she is there, part of the group, laughing along with them because she lacks the fortitude to actually attempt to speak with them. Sometimes she is caught laughing along with them by passersby who take her for being slightly off balance. Most of her time is spent at home reading, where she can travel off to far away places, meet interesting people, and go on exciting adventures without ever needing to subject herself to the torment of leaving the comfort of her home. This is the story that has been created for the girl in the picture because it suits her, and brings comfort in the idea that there may be others who think this way, a mirror image and a companion.
Apparently this sudden upright position that has been assumed was a mistake due to the after effects of severe discomfort and loss of vision. Falling back to the pillow with a satisfying sigh as the visible world recollects itself, but just as quickly dissolves into a warm fluid dream state. Random encounters with people throughout a lifetime pass by in fragmented images giving incoherent messages that are never to be remembered, but hold the answers to all of the questions to be asked. Such a cruel joke placed on mankind, to be given all of the evidence, the facts, and the reasoning for every question imaginable, but to have it just out of reach because of the waking moment’s deletion of these mid-slumber awakenings. This could be compared to a physicist’s finding of her grand unified theory, and placing it strategically onto a chalkboard only to have it erased during the nightly cleaning. Yet the human mind is totally ignorant of the absorbed facts during the night and thus has no reason to dismay unlike the struggling physicist. Why does this seem to happen? When one is dreaming it can be called an out of body experience for many reasons. That seems too limiting though for it is almost like an out of world experience. The waking conceptions of time and space are thrown to the wayside and perhaps a hundred lifetimes can be lived in only five minutes of “real” time. This sort of thing is something a four dimensionally constrained brain could not possibly deal with other than in imaginative speculation without any real acceptance.
Perhaps there is something much more significant going on in dreams and the brain simply does not want it to be remembered out of some sort of fear. But a fear of what? Wandering through the dream like a lost child in the woods, so much information is thrown upon the already burdened soul that it is a wonder one mind could bear such a bombardment. Suddenly there is calm and all of the incessant voices cease, and the surrounding space dims to a complete darkness. A figure slowly makes its way out from the shadowy infinity glowing seemingly of its own accord. It is the silhouette of the pictured and framed female walking forward staring at her shoes and chewing her lower lip in concentration of some great mystery. She looks up and her lips begin to move forming the words before they are spoken. Her voice drifts out like a cool breeze on a summer afternoon, floating and making its way across the empty space, “Où es-tu m’amour? Pourquoi m’as-tu trouvé encore?” Placing her head back down in its contemplative position she turns and makes her way back off into the darkness, chasing her is futile because she exists somewhere far off and out of reach. Then there is nothing again, but solitary confinement in an endless void of nothingness. Some say this is what hell is like, no fire and brimstone, just endless nothingness and eternal contemplation in the absence of the creator. Such an idea would truly be a most unbearable torment due to the human need for companionship; even the most lonesome hermit would like to have someone around to exchange ideas with.
The desire for something to happen to end this silence is quickly subdued as the battery of information resumes, and those random images return. This scenario is almost like a brainwashing session involving taped eyelids and a screen projector, without any possibility for escape. No happy medium is ever reached in these dreams, two polar extremes continually occurring in intervals that seem endless. This makes sleep a most undesirable activity (or lack there of), but one’s eyes can only remain open for so long before they give way to the heavy weights hooked onto them with each passing moment. And then there is relief in the form of equally paced violent tonal bursts from the electronic alarm clock across the room beckoning to be shut off.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Out of Apathy pt. 1
Light slips through the cracks in between the Venetian blinds creating various geometric shapes along the expanse of the blank texture coated wall. The open window allows the soft breeze from out side to pass through these blinds and their projection begins to dance and twirl on the wall much in the same fashion as pirouetting ice skaters on the surface of a frozen lake. As the wind dies so too does the extravagant display of gentle movement and the linear images of the blinds resume their horizontal station. An insect can be heard outside furiously buzzing and slamming its exoskeleton-adorned body into the screen. What is its reasoning for persisting so? Or a better question does it even reason? Continually smashing itself against the unmoving obstacle until the exertion wears the poor thing’s energy supply to barely enough to still be able to perch itself somewhere and prepare to continue the endeavor when it has recharged. The screen never budges more than the flex created by the impact of the insect’s body. At one point, the insect will die and despite its best efforts that screen will still be there, standing defiant, impervious to the best efforts of such a “lowly” species. Beyond the seemingly futile struggle the sound of children laughing can be heard along with the patter of bare feet along the concrete sidewalk. These sounds draw closer until they pass right under the windowsill and down the path, their pitch descending as they drift farther away. It appears that Mr. Doppler was right. Another sound can be heard in the distance, it is the sound of much commotion and jovial conversation.
Apparently there is a get together down the road, and these playing children’s parents are participating in all the binging involved. Who is watching the children? Right now it seems to be of little concern to those parents who are too busy fulfilling their own personal gratifications. Don’t they remember what happened to the little girl two years ago? That awful day, much like today, when the children were laughing and chasing each other about throughout the neighborhood while their parents inebriated themselves. A certain little girl must not have been paying attention when she was trying to avoid being taken hostage by the boys and a car coming around the corner captured her instead. From all appearances one would assume that she was fine because there were no visible signs of injury besides a few cuts and bruises, but an impact such as that can have devastating effects on such a young body. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a clever smirk on her face as though she was dreaming of the boy chasing her still, but there was no movement in her narrow breast. Her essence had escaped from her upon impact and dissipated into the atmosphere. Is this accurate though? Perhaps it didn’t dissipate at all and instead maintained itself in shape traveling along the threads of creation in between what is visible and what is not. Scientists of late often speak of small subatomic particles coming in and out of existence right before their very eyes. There is something nonsensical about one’s essence breaking apart and evaporating like a body of water in the hot sun. After all, shouldn’t this be the one thing that cannot be disintegrated into component parts? For how could there be any such parts to make up something like a soul? By the very definition of it, the soul should be constant and never less or more. It was quite some time before the parents could be located and notified about the condition of their child. The driver of the car had frantically come running out of her car to see the child’s lifeless body. She exclaimed, “She just came out of nowhere! I tried to stop, b-but she was right there. There was nothing I could do. Oh my…” at this point she trailed off into tears and broken sobbing, her heart full of sadness and anguish over such a terrible circumstance. Upon finding out about the incident, the parents were devastated, not only by what had happened, but by what they thought to be the driver’s apparent irresponsibility for the accident.
Yet responsibility seems misplaced in this circumstance because of a few facts. For one, the parents were not attending their child, for another their house was the one on the corner and they had allowed the hedges in their yard to grow to a point where visibility was considerably reduced. True the driver should have recognized this and slowed, but not all of the blame was hers alone. And here they are again doing the same thing, and the rest of the parents are allowing their children to do the same thing that that little girl was doing just two yeas ago. Maybe the human mind isn’t so different from that insect outside the window.
Rising up to look around the dim room, light peering in through the blinds provides subtle hints of objects scattered about. Nothing of real importance, just the essentials for comfortable living: a bed, a desk, a laundry basket, a chair, and various other insignificant items. The only things that hold any real value are the books stacked high along one wall of the room. Organized in a most meticulous fashion, they are categorized, alphabetized, and kept dust free and clean. But these cherished items are far from in peak condition. A certain affinity exists for worn down and well used types of readings; books that hold stories of their readers as well as what the author placed in eloquent words on the page. Worn bindings, torn pages, stains, folds, handwriting and other novelties create an image of previous perusers, their habits, and perhaps even their lifestyle. Even some discoloration of the covers and spines can show where volumes have been stored and whether they were kept solely for appearances or their literary worth.
An example of this is a group of works amidst the stacks that has a particular pattern on it. When all eight of the volumes are lined up, one next to the other, in ascending order there is the shadow of a cross along the spine of all the books much darker in color than the surrounding areas. This leads to the belief that these were placed next to a window and left for an extended period of time, where the glow of the sun had the opportunity to exert its bleaching power, diluting the dark maroon color of the books. Another conclusion could be drawn that these books were not used very often, and may have been kept by an individual who merely wanted to show that he had them. People like this enjoy the pomposity that comes from the envy of others who feel mentally inferior to them. Yet this could be a hasty judgment because, after all, many people do enjoy reading during the evening hours, which would leave the books in their position day in and day out. It is just these sorts of speculations that make owning such things a grand experience. One has the opportunity to create his own story about the previous owners, making them a villain or a hero, and sending them on many harrowing adventures. Many probably don’t think of it this way though. Most probably just see it as a worn book, ravaged by the sands of time. These people don’t understand the history of objects, and the meaning that they hold for some. Someone’s ragged old book was someone else’s most prized possession. Why can’t everyone understand these facts?
As the wind from outside gusts, the blinds are pushed far into the room cascading sunlight across the floor that jets its way towards the books. When the light finally shines on them, the one new printed book can be seen. Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” stands out brightly colored among the dull, faded, surrounding titles. This particular story needed to be an original copy, with no one else’s memories embedded within it, the starting point for the story of the book itself. Every reader needs at least one of these types of books. Though one can add to his previously owned book’s history, knowing the beginning in at least one can be quite comforting because he might not know where it will go from there. This particular novel makes for a good starting point because the author’s ideas come out so vividly within the story, and lend to the varying interpretation of different readers. Therefore, the story possibly affects the reader’s life in a way that they change the way they are living, maybe even who they are or what they believe. Without the essence of someone else in the book, absorption of the author’s words can become that much easier, at least for those readers who delve into this historical idea.
It is true that some can gleam the ideas from the book without the consideration of anyone who previously read the copy by ignoring the notes on the sides, the tear-stains, the folds on the page and the underlined sections. They pay no thought to any of these substantial features’ significance because these “memories” hold no bearing on their lives. Does this limit the reading experience? In some respects perhaps it does by not taking in another perspective as a possible interpretation, but on the other hand this may be an easier way to become totally immersed within the story, the background of the book might just cloud what the author is trying to say. Perhaps it only depends on the novel because sometimes a well-worn book will have a more interesting story than the writing itself. In the end, these are all trivial facts that only a small percentage probably thinks about. What really matters most is what the reader thinks, but how can those who don’t know about these little ideas make a decision if they are never exposed to them? For some it may be that they do not even know what they are missing out on because no one has lit the flame underneath their curiosity to let them know that there may be more that they are missing.
Apparently there is a get together down the road, and these playing children’s parents are participating in all the binging involved. Who is watching the children? Right now it seems to be of little concern to those parents who are too busy fulfilling their own personal gratifications. Don’t they remember what happened to the little girl two years ago? That awful day, much like today, when the children were laughing and chasing each other about throughout the neighborhood while their parents inebriated themselves. A certain little girl must not have been paying attention when she was trying to avoid being taken hostage by the boys and a car coming around the corner captured her instead. From all appearances one would assume that she was fine because there were no visible signs of injury besides a few cuts and bruises, but an impact such as that can have devastating effects on such a young body. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a clever smirk on her face as though she was dreaming of the boy chasing her still, but there was no movement in her narrow breast. Her essence had escaped from her upon impact and dissipated into the atmosphere. Is this accurate though? Perhaps it didn’t dissipate at all and instead maintained itself in shape traveling along the threads of creation in between what is visible and what is not. Scientists of late often speak of small subatomic particles coming in and out of existence right before their very eyes. There is something nonsensical about one’s essence breaking apart and evaporating like a body of water in the hot sun. After all, shouldn’t this be the one thing that cannot be disintegrated into component parts? For how could there be any such parts to make up something like a soul? By the very definition of it, the soul should be constant and never less or more. It was quite some time before the parents could be located and notified about the condition of their child. The driver of the car had frantically come running out of her car to see the child’s lifeless body. She exclaimed, “She just came out of nowhere! I tried to stop, b-but she was right there. There was nothing I could do. Oh my…” at this point she trailed off into tears and broken sobbing, her heart full of sadness and anguish over such a terrible circumstance. Upon finding out about the incident, the parents were devastated, not only by what had happened, but by what they thought to be the driver’s apparent irresponsibility for the accident.
Yet responsibility seems misplaced in this circumstance because of a few facts. For one, the parents were not attending their child, for another their house was the one on the corner and they had allowed the hedges in their yard to grow to a point where visibility was considerably reduced. True the driver should have recognized this and slowed, but not all of the blame was hers alone. And here they are again doing the same thing, and the rest of the parents are allowing their children to do the same thing that that little girl was doing just two yeas ago. Maybe the human mind isn’t so different from that insect outside the window.
Rising up to look around the dim room, light peering in through the blinds provides subtle hints of objects scattered about. Nothing of real importance, just the essentials for comfortable living: a bed, a desk, a laundry basket, a chair, and various other insignificant items. The only things that hold any real value are the books stacked high along one wall of the room. Organized in a most meticulous fashion, they are categorized, alphabetized, and kept dust free and clean. But these cherished items are far from in peak condition. A certain affinity exists for worn down and well used types of readings; books that hold stories of their readers as well as what the author placed in eloquent words on the page. Worn bindings, torn pages, stains, folds, handwriting and other novelties create an image of previous perusers, their habits, and perhaps even their lifestyle. Even some discoloration of the covers and spines can show where volumes have been stored and whether they were kept solely for appearances or their literary worth.
An example of this is a group of works amidst the stacks that has a particular pattern on it. When all eight of the volumes are lined up, one next to the other, in ascending order there is the shadow of a cross along the spine of all the books much darker in color than the surrounding areas. This leads to the belief that these were placed next to a window and left for an extended period of time, where the glow of the sun had the opportunity to exert its bleaching power, diluting the dark maroon color of the books. Another conclusion could be drawn that these books were not used very often, and may have been kept by an individual who merely wanted to show that he had them. People like this enjoy the pomposity that comes from the envy of others who feel mentally inferior to them. Yet this could be a hasty judgment because, after all, many people do enjoy reading during the evening hours, which would leave the books in their position day in and day out. It is just these sorts of speculations that make owning such things a grand experience. One has the opportunity to create his own story about the previous owners, making them a villain or a hero, and sending them on many harrowing adventures. Many probably don’t think of it this way though. Most probably just see it as a worn book, ravaged by the sands of time. These people don’t understand the history of objects, and the meaning that they hold for some. Someone’s ragged old book was someone else’s most prized possession. Why can’t everyone understand these facts?
As the wind from outside gusts, the blinds are pushed far into the room cascading sunlight across the floor that jets its way towards the books. When the light finally shines on them, the one new printed book can be seen. Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” stands out brightly colored among the dull, faded, surrounding titles. This particular story needed to be an original copy, with no one else’s memories embedded within it, the starting point for the story of the book itself. Every reader needs at least one of these types of books. Though one can add to his previously owned book’s history, knowing the beginning in at least one can be quite comforting because he might not know where it will go from there. This particular novel makes for a good starting point because the author’s ideas come out so vividly within the story, and lend to the varying interpretation of different readers. Therefore, the story possibly affects the reader’s life in a way that they change the way they are living, maybe even who they are or what they believe. Without the essence of someone else in the book, absorption of the author’s words can become that much easier, at least for those readers who delve into this historical idea.
It is true that some can gleam the ideas from the book without the consideration of anyone who previously read the copy by ignoring the notes on the sides, the tear-stains, the folds on the page and the underlined sections. They pay no thought to any of these substantial features’ significance because these “memories” hold no bearing on their lives. Does this limit the reading experience? In some respects perhaps it does by not taking in another perspective as a possible interpretation, but on the other hand this may be an easier way to become totally immersed within the story, the background of the book might just cloud what the author is trying to say. Perhaps it only depends on the novel because sometimes a well-worn book will have a more interesting story than the writing itself. In the end, these are all trivial facts that only a small percentage probably thinks about. What really matters most is what the reader thinks, but how can those who don’t know about these little ideas make a decision if they are never exposed to them? For some it may be that they do not even know what they are missing out on because no one has lit the flame underneath their curiosity to let them know that there may be more that they are missing.
On to the nitty gritty
A few years ago, I wrote a sort of novella entitled "Out of Apathy" that I am going to post in pieces on here amidst other things I will be posting. I will label the pieces with the title so that it is easy to find. Originally, I wanted to set up a filter to the main page to sort of parse it out so you didn't see it and say, "HOLY CRAP! WALL OF TEXT CRITS YOU FOR OVER 9000!!1!!2", but I can't seem to get the coding right. Maybe I will figure it out eventually.
This story came about over the course of two years. The title sums up the overall concept I feel and I did some playing around with the way it is written. In an effort to not be so abrasive, I will break up the paragraphs into more manageable chunks, since reading on a computer screen can be brutal. I should mention that this hasn't been fully revised or edited so there may be many grammatical errors and I apologize ahead of time. Please leave me comments to tell me if you like/hate it. I would appreciate it. Enjoy!
This story came about over the course of two years. The title sums up the overall concept I feel and I did some playing around with the way it is written. In an effort to not be so abrasive, I will break up the paragraphs into more manageable chunks, since reading on a computer screen can be brutal. I should mention that this hasn't been fully revised or edited so there may be many grammatical errors and I apologize ahead of time. Please leave me comments to tell me if you like/hate it. I would appreciate it. Enjoy!
Friday, December 17, 2010
First post!
Hello all. This is my first post to this semi-random blog! Exciting, I know. My intention is to post my thoughts and writings here. I have a few different fiction pieces that I've written. A little about me: I'm married to an amazing woman who cooks incredible food and sometimes posts her recipes here. We have been on many adventures including a stint out in Missoula, MT for about six months where we somehow came out unscathed and with all of our limbs attached. Through blinding snow we made our way back to the Portland area without too many mishaps. We settled in Portland/Vancouver to rest and recuperate in preperation for our next adventure, Seattle.
I guess it's really sort of only half an adventure. See, my wife was accepted to study Physics at the University of Washington (awesome, I know right?), but you know how everyone is talking about how the economy is bad and the job market is brutal, and well, it really is. So the dynamic duo has been temporarily split. We couldn't afford for me to quit, so I'm stuck in my Dad's basement (insert nerd joke here) during the week and drive up on the weekends.
I think that brings us up to date for the most part. Currently, I'm studying to be an Actuary and will be attempting to live university life over again through Deanne as she starts classes :-D I've always enjoyed literature and philosophy (probably why I majored in philosophy) and it has influenced my writings for as long as I can remember. I tend to do a lot of experiment with formatting and long paragraphing. However, seeing as this is an electronic format, I will try to break things up so it is easier to read. Hopefully, you enjoy reading what I post here and please leave comments!
TL;DR: Hi, welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoy reading my fiction, adventures and misadventures. Please comment generously. And here is a recent photo of my wife and I:
I guess it's really sort of only half an adventure. See, my wife was accepted to study Physics at the University of Washington (awesome, I know right?), but you know how everyone is talking about how the economy is bad and the job market is brutal, and well, it really is. So the dynamic duo has been temporarily split. We couldn't afford for me to quit, so I'm stuck in my Dad's basement (insert nerd joke here) during the week and drive up on the weekends.
I think that brings us up to date for the most part. Currently, I'm studying to be an Actuary and will be attempting to live university life over again through Deanne as she starts classes :-D I've always enjoyed literature and philosophy (probably why I majored in philosophy) and it has influenced my writings for as long as I can remember. I tend to do a lot of experiment with formatting and long paragraphing. However, seeing as this is an electronic format, I will try to break things up so it is easier to read. Hopefully, you enjoy reading what I post here and please leave comments!
TL;DR: Hi, welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoy reading my fiction, adventures and misadventures. Please comment generously. And here is a recent photo of my wife and I:
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