So…in my free time (which is quickly dwindling these days) I write; I am a writer. I want to put this in print, because it seems every asshole with a keyboard and a blog domain thinks he/she is a writer now-a-days; they aren’t. You are a writer when you feel naked without a notepad in your back pocket. You are a writer if you’re obsessed with the manipulation of language and the spread of ideas. You are a writer if, like myself, you feel compelled to describe everything and nothing all at once through text. You cannot become one: you are either born with a poet’s soul or you are not, and those of us who give into this moneyless fortune work very hard at our craft because born with a talent we may have been, but talent withers if not nurtured. Anyways, I mean all this as an introduction to some of my creative writing. And here I will proffer a word of caution: it’s the literary version of Fiona Apple’s music at times (you know what I mean: don’t make me write it out loud, folks). That said, here is a thematic trilogy that I pulled from the vault for you special people: enjoy.
Vintage Man
Man
He was succulent in every word and every way. In fact, he was more so the farther away he aimlessly strolled with his hands clasped loosely behind his back and his feet dragging contemptuously in the dirt. His tracks overlapped and obliterated his predecessors. He pulled at threads constantly: loosely unraveling the interwoven shreds of his mind– his childhood, his love of monarch butterflies, his crimson ’67 Ford Falcon, the black monotony of his wardrobe, the tarnished silver of his father’s wedding ring, his sister’s collection of Marilyn Monroe anti-epics, the confusion that is the phenomenon of picture within a picture, the self-contained euphoria in a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, his apathetic hatred of all things vegetable, his preference for the pictures that came with store bought picture frames instead of his own, his love of music that is uncorrupted by lyrics, his mission to erradicate the nation of all gyms but especially the ones entirely surrounded by windows, his mother’s vain attempts to tame the cowlicks at the foremost center of his hairline when he was smaller, the way his handwriting changed everytime and refused to repeat itself, his pathological admiration of maps of all sizes and hues, the way chalk from a rosin bag smelled after it combined with his sweat and his blood, and what else, well, the depths are too damp to fully explore. He attracted and released his women at a rate that would alarm some and amuse others. His dark dark sweaters were pilled with the memory of movements that had come before and stayed with him despite his best attempts to evade them. He prefered to fidget and indulge his oral fixation in any way available to him. He was a cardigan sweater man, through and through.
August Rodin's "Daniad"
Woman
She was an omniverous literature snob and she wore watches that no longer kept the time. She played the piano indiscriminately on any surface she could find. She was the kind of girl who could never find the time for a manicure but routinely cleaned her nail beds with the unevenly filed nails of the opposing hand. She followed her feet and earnestly believed she had no control over their choices. She had been a sickly child in her otherwise athletic youth and marveled at every day of health that adulthood had graced her with. She was never without a pen, the compulsive clicks of which droned on incessantly throughout the night when inspiration struck her. The nubile laugh lines around her mouth betrayed her ability to find humor in its subtlest incarnations. She had given herself to love at one time only to watch it crumble at her feet. Once, she lost her way in the Japanese Tea Garden so she sat down on a bench and imagined herself in Japan and had her own private Lost in Translation only she replaced Bill Murray with a faceless man. She liked to do that, imagine herself in movies, and that’s why she cherished her iPOD so: she was forever rearranging the soundtrack of her life. She found peace in the unmitigated movements of puppies but wasn’t responsible enough to own one. She spent most of her waking hours ordering the files of her life neatly in her head but was completely incapable of transposing that order onto her reality. The way she dressed, the way she walked, the way she highlighted her hair all combined to emit the wrong impression of her pith but she felt no need to correct the majority of those who had gotten her wrong: she saved her energy for those she deemed worthy. She went to bed each night not knowing whether or not she would awake to fits of depression or fits of expression but she woke up every day nonetheless.
Wegee: Exhausted Dancers
Woman Plus Man
Her neuroses were bountiful but fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He was dexterous and gentle if not a little impulsive at times and in his embrace she felt exonerated of her past indiscretions. His carefully constructed persona was obliterated by his love of her flimsy shoes, her silly little shoes that she rarely paid over $20 for. He knew about wars and she knew what caused them. And every time they thought they had perfectly defined one another they found they were wrong, much to their delight. His home was unfriendly but in her eyes he would build himself a new one. At times she shivered uncontrollably and he just left her to it, which always amazed her because that was exactly what she wanted, and she marveled at how he knew that. The undertow of their connection was erratic and fierce and neither of them were brave enough to be swept out to sea just yet. He would frequently tell her about his plans for the future and include bits of the untrue he knew would not agree with her so he could see her wrinkle and twitch her nose in defiance. He could never get enough of that unconscious homage to the television of her youth.
