Things overheard, forgotten, and systematically destroyed:
Hey guys! Believe me, I haven’t forgotten about you. In place of one contiguous entry today, I’ll instead paste a few abortions from the ol’ writing folder. I’m working on a book/short story thing right now, and it’s eating the plurality of my creative mind. So, these are either ideas not followed up on, or given up on. But I figured I’d share with you the process behind an unfocused blog of half heard strains and systematically destroyed concepts:
This is one of many “I overheard” writings. Sometimes they go somewhere, sometimes I write about the band “Jouney”.
Delicious as Novocaine-
I heard the previous line over the sound of a bad 70’s song. Some anthem rock by Journey or Foreigner, played as if ironic, yet obviously enjoyed by the head bobbing patrons of this particular gin mill. The girl down the way looks like conversation; the bartender is reminded of roller skating with training bras and the future firmly in front. We’re all swaying to the entropic blues, we’re all falling to pieces to the broken sounds of Journey, and the diminishing return of booze.
This is a little thing where I tried to equate drinking coffee with the passing of time, and the remembering of the past. It’s kind of showy and awful, but I think there’s something interesting hiding within:
It was once, and only then, that the coffee should find itself the trigger for the impulse to get back what came before. The coffee should know at this point it sits only as convenient metaphor, a means to a memory. Years ago, all caffeine and ideals, we sat and created the world through leisure cards and songs from our youth. It was then that certain things existed which are now some small points of light in an otherwise empty mathematical set. I guess we all go through this kind of thing eventually. When the days of before seem brighter, like something that was solid. But the ephemera of memory and the aether of the present are not at all dissimilar. The struggle that was the past changes into heroism and the struggle that is present sits like cancer.
Here’s en example of a lot of my “start” folder. It’s a description of someone too unbelievable to be real, who I met in a bar one night(I wish I had recorded him, he was fantastic):
So, there’s this guy who speaks like morning talk radio. All high energy and no content. He walked outside where I was smoking a lonely cigarette, 3 girls to my right. He came out, like the second break from commercials. “Where were you girls from before coming here?”. They answer discursive, he, unaware, presses on. They make vague reference to children, he goes on tangent about drooling children and 9 months of no sex. I hope for him to talk, so I can call him bad talk radio, and leave, with the flourish of an action hero, who walks from explosion of enemy death with a witty quip. He simply realizes he strike out and walks to the next unwitting listener.
I have no idea. Just one line with hyphens above and below to denote a full entry in the start file. “High five!” I wonder if it made sense at the time? Was I just overly hyper and thought that it would be fun to type “High five!”? I honestly have no idea.
A lot of what I write looks like what follows. I can usually pull something from the over dramatic miasma, in this case I didn’t bother:
She looked around, disenfranchised, uncomfortable, not knowing what or where her place was, but knowing it wasn’t there. The idea of conversation was key, but foreign at the moment. Only the small moments of sipping at a drink, staring at a bartender, and smiling at comments thrown at others but meant for her. Another beauty slipped between the cracks of self awareness and tension. The tension growing over nights spent alone, or alone in company; the tension of a problem forever too close to the surface. And yet, you sit impotent in body and spirit, too much the self aware coward to try and talk, to alleviate the commonality. Or, as the inner self would say, the commonality is false, is forced, from a point of being alone, a point of pushing out the inner to the outer.
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