"'Truth is strange," you know, "stranger than fiction' - besides being more to the point" - Edgar Allan Poe

December 28, 2005

Last reflections

As we all assume (and what I now know) it always takes a bit to get back into the "groove" when you've not been writing anything for a couple of months. I look at the half-finished draft of the book, the blog that stopped abruptly, and the short story collection, and they're gathering digital dust, aching for new words, feelings and expressions that'll take them forward and into newer vistas (note to self: never use the word 'vista' again. Too icky.) I looked through a bunch of abandoned stuff on Layla and found these -

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(This one was on the blog I surreptiously started when Pispeak had "shut down". That effort, I'm sorry to say, went CrashAndBurn bigtime)

Backstage
Plink. Plunk. CMajor. StrumStrumStrumMuteStrum (but it's not plugged in, so you could be thumbing it like SRK, and nobody'd care). Plug into tuner. ebgdaE. Seems good. Repeat with the rest of the group. The bass is wuzzing a bit on the lower notes, but we're sure no one will care. Touch the strings with both hands and mumble an incoherent prayer. Regards to Hendrix, Berry, and the Prophet Satch. Bump knuckles with the rest of the band. Realize that there are five minutes left, so light up a doobie and watch the lights spread across the world (!). The vocals' are still mugging up the lyrics to the new song, and you think FuckIHopeTheyDon'tScrewUp and WhoLetTheseChicksIntoTheBandAnywayOhWaitWeDidDamn. You empty your pockets and leave only the three picks, including the stubby 'lucky' one. Laces tight, and the rip at the knee has finally decided to fray like it's authentic. Banter about the song order and argue about the inclusion of the chick song... one last time. Hell, atleast they can hold a damn pitch, and we've never been pelted before. (And they be fine, so why not?) The drummer's twirling his sticks, and even though it looks mighty impressive, you and I know damn well he's a nervous wreck. His woman's in the crowd, after all. The crowd is getting restless, and in that blank noise, the only (apparent) audible thing is the restless enthusiasm of a hundred stoned teenagers waiting for their buds to appear. ManIt'sStickyHere. And the strings aren't gliding so well. WipeWipeWipe. And again. Better. 15b17\15p13p12h13p12h13p12 and then a descending Emin run with a few stunts on the whammy. Again, not plugged. And nobody's watching. Oh well, on stage should be better. Hopefully X's looking out for you today. You KNOW you want to 'do' stuff to her, eh? Hell, after today, (the weed's hitting now)

You're gonna go far,
You're gonna fly high,
You're never gonna die,
You're gonna make it if you try;
They're gonna love you.
Well I've always had a deep respect,
And I mean that most sincerly.
The band is just fantastic,
that is really what I think.
Oh by the way, which one's Pi? (koff)
And did we tell you the name of the game, boy,
We call it Riding the Gravy Train.

It's our first show after all.

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(This one's also from that same failed attempt of a blog, and just goes to show how one can be unintentionally, yet horribly and obviously pretentious. Oh well, humanity.)

Somewhere in the universe it's raining lke there's no end. And with every drop that falls on the ground, a new story is born. Each story is worth a million emotions, and each a myriad array of thoughts. Every story only waits for it's essence to be spread across the minds of humanity, and be felt for it was to tell. In this world of rain, there's no distinction between a good yarn spinner and a sorry hack; no boundaries between profundity and the lack of any meaning at all. Every drop simply falls down, no distinct from the rest of the downpour, only to live as a memory in the earth-mind that will swallow it.

And every drop lives only for an instant, and every instant outlasts the memory of a thousand downpours.

That part of the universe is my mind. And those drops are but the passings of a neutered imagination, that's waited to long to exercise it's only habit - to think.

Welcome.

(I notice a lot of people who use this approach. Obfuscate with mental imagery, and then claim that their/ my own simplicity lies in their/my being to accept it. Usually elicits a lot of "wow" level comments. Ugh. Didn't like this post too much. And while we're at it, I might as well mention that posts that argue right vs wrong should be banned to hell. Anyway, this part followed it, and I liked it better-)


What is it with fantasy books anyway? Why the hell does everybody speak like they're playing a role on stage or something? I mean, when Nietzche said "Gaze into the abyss, and the abyss gazes back into you", I'm guessing he might have thought about it over a friendly beer with a few friends (possibly Wagner pre-Bayreuth) and he was wondering about why the preppy 'haute' woman in the corner was giving him an insolent eye. Just a thought. It's not like the man had a fake stage in his backyard, where he'd point one hand to the stars and say "And Zarathustra passed by me". I'm rather thinking it'd be four in the morn, and a splitting headache and a parched throat would produce the same remark (invective included).

(Hehe. In my head. a pharoah-ically bearded hungover FN goes "Oy daam, that [censored] Zaruthashtra, he pazz by me".)
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(Then there's this. It's the last part of what was supposed to be my best story ever, but never reached completion. Was meant to be a story for Db_, but went all over the place nonetheless. Really liked writing it. Forget about what the story was, I felt warm and fuzzy for about 5 minutes after typing it out. Buy me a beer and I'll narrate the whole tale to you.)

Irony - epilogue
We could be over Burundi, for all I know. Not important. The flight attendant's cleared the tray and my ears pop, so I figure I'll walk down the aisle; stretch my feet, that sort of thing. Or not. I drift off again...
...The women are stepping in, and I'm thinking which one is my date for the night. Could it possibly be...?
Yeah, it's her.
She's sitting next to me, and riffling through her purse for something, out comes a light pink lipstick that's applied quite sexily and she checks herself one last time, and looks at me. I melt.
"Hey you."
Hey gorgeous.
"Missed me?"
Oh yeah. Like mad.
(One hand of her reaches for my forehead, and pushes an errant strand of hair to the right.)
"Better"
...
"And Pi..."
Yeah, what?
"Don't leave me. Ever"
Never would, babe. Not for all the money in the world.

(Man, I'm such a sap sometimes.)
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(I've always wanted to post this next bit up, yet hesitant. Does it betray a little too much? Or is it some of that "frustrated artist" crap that Mike Noonan would've endorsed? I dunno.)

Maybe we don’t want to live in a world
Where innocence is so short
- SilverChair, Anthem for the year 2000


Happy new year, y'all. Please don't drink and drive.

3 Comments:

Saturday Night Takeout said...

surreptitiously, not surreptiously. It's the 'tit' that can make the difference :D

Saturday Night Takeout said...

dammit, turns out I'm not the only one doing this whole rummaging through their 'unfinished' folders on their comps. Fuck. Must do something new.

Finch said...

why?

what is the problem with conforming?
be different and admit you fucking conform no?

pah.

you try too hard!