(This is the piece that I wrote for entry into IYWS. It has since been unedited)
I sit here alone, in a pitch-black room of reminiscence. Memories come and fade with the ticking of a clock. Moments of every depth play themselves around me like a firestorm of thoughts. A slideshow plays itself on the iris of my eyes. Words are screamed and whispered into my ears. It is an aura of insanity.
My legs have weakened and I am driven down onto my knees. Sweat drips from the tip of my nose, and spit drools from my lips. My eyes are dry in their sockets. I am here alone; that is my greatest punishment.
If a wish could ever be granted, may it be that I am able to see her again. Just once more is all I could ever ask for, but she will not come; I know it.
I sit here alone, in my dreamy sanctuary, awaiting the presence of another to settle my aching thoughts and throbbing heart. I lie here and wait. I lie here and wonder. I lie here and hope; but know it is in vain. I cannot expect it to come, like a bastard child waiting for his father to hold him it does not come. Who am I to think I deserve such a thing? I feel the hopelessness of it all, yet I still wait. Still wait so that I may see her once more. Still wait so that her eyes may capture me; see the contours of her face, the ridges of her smile; see everything of her that made me want her so much more.
I sit here alone, but I can almost feel her presence beside me; her finger traces the folds in my hand to tickle me, while her other hand cups it beneath. She sings a childlike tune as we sit together. Sometimes, at the high notes her voice cracks, and if I laugh she turns to me and teasingly hovers her lips just in front of mine. I would feel her breath palm my chin and neck as she makes my lips twitch with--
--No, that part of me is over. That is a scrap of my mind that has disappeared inside. I search through the binding labyrinth of my spirit with no destination, and find myself broken, for through the travels of my mind I am shocked, scorned, stabbed, spit upon with the turn of every corner. This wearing battle has sucked the life through my outstretched fingers. This piece is missing, and I can summon no further will to continue on without it.
My vibrant heart has faded with every poisonous sting. It has weakened and wrinkled, and no longer resembles anything of quality. I take every hit. I’ve grown accustomed to it. It has become my abode. It has become my only sanctuary. The pain is constant; there is no hope, so there is no letdown. How a heaven of such contradiction can exist is beyond logic, but hell does not give me an invitation to otherwise.
A picture flashes before my vision and embeds itself to memory. I see a man and a
XRIVO is a concept that has been shaped and refined over the last year - however, in retrospect the driving themes and values have remained the same…
> We all like to create; it takes on numerous forms and fashions, but at our core we are a being that seeks individuality and expression of such
> We enjoy taking in the creations of others - whether it be a good book, an instantly eye-catching sculpture, or the way someone has just that right view caught via the camera.
As I have discussed this new creative forum with literally hundreds of people over the last several months, what repeatedly struck me was the personal connection people felt with writing - whether in the form of scribbled notes centered on a theme or story, or an idea waiting to be developed.
Which is what I identified with from the beginning of this journey.
An overly seasoned entrepreneur and businessman, hell-bent on being the guy recognized for taking on the toughest challenges - hardly a writer.
And, like many, I have the folders of book ideas - stories I want to tell, lessons I’ve learned that I want to share, emotional happenings that are permanently implanted in my head that seek release.
My role in this endeavor has been to run the business - I’ll leave the creative stuff to others - but in a way I represent a mass audience….the less talented with the written word and creativity, but no less passionate about it.
This is for all souls.
I gotta say I'm not typically a writing exercise kind-of guy. In my classes, though, some interesting things always ended up coming out. You just end up writing something ridiculous , doesn't have a great deal of consitency. Oh, and plus there are the wonderful grammatical issues that happen when you don't allow the use of backspace! It's such an eeeevil limitation that just claws at you, because you also know that everyone is going to see this and be like 'ah! comma splice!' After that's finished, though, you might just wonder what you would actually write. Does it have purpose? I mean, it doesn't really need to. That's the wonderful thing about writing: it doesn't matter what you write, so long as you put words on paper, you're writing. I read a book by Natalie Goldberg (can't remember the title, right now) that described writing as a muscle that needs to be stretched. The more you write, the easier it becomes to put words on paper, the easier it flows from fingers to paper (or, in this case, a monitor). You start having conversations with your paper. I actually just tend to write down ridiculous dialogue that made me laugh. Just like this one time I was woken up by my two awesome, uppity, Russian roommates. Oh no, I can't tell that story on here, because I can't tab-indent. Uh-oh, just discovered a bug!
I was just foolin' around with my writing last night when this exercise started happening on its own. It turned into an interesting examination of sentence-building and micro-level structure development, the things that constitute what people usually call, "Your voice." It may not make for the best reading, but I think there might be something cool to learn from this one. This probably came out of my undying affection for the well-wrought long sentence, something I picked up from one of my central creative inspirations, James Agee. The problem with long, flowing sentences is that, the longer they get, however lyrical, the harder it gets to make sure the reader won't get lost and forget the point that got the sentence moving. A good long sentence develops with momentum, building on its theme to a logical conclusion, a point that both rhythmically and thematically satisfies both the writer and the reader. That's nice and all, but how do you get there? Even Agee would get so hung up on his language that you'd have no idea what he was talking about, by the end. The premise of the exercise is simple, but kinda tricky to explain. You start with a 3 to 4 word sentence ("I want to leave", in my case). From there, you elaborate on that sentence with a single thought (say, "I want to leave and head somewhere") so that it's still a complete sentence, but a different, more elaborative one. Then you elaborate again with another thought, turning it into a different, longer, complete sentence. You do that until you have at least eight distinct sentences, all branching from the original. I don't think that serves quite as well as an example. So here's what I got: I want to leave. I want to leave and head somewhere. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts. I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts but wild and unselfish.I want to leave and head somewhere I could love something without demands or expectations, not some weak supposition, no more broken concepts but wild and unselfish, built on the backbone and the tensile sinews of a stronger strain of mankind. The middle parts get a little weird and underdeveloped, but by the time you hit the last sentence, chances are you'll get a long sentence to be proud of. It may seem repetitive, but by constantly reminding yourself what the opening idea was, everything that followed will innately start referencing back to the original concept, allowing yo
She tiptoed quietly across the glassy, wet pavement in front of her home. She quickly stopped as she heard the sound of her front door. Breathing softly and quietly as she could, she turned around and saw a man stick his head out of the door, look around and re-enter the home. She looked down towards the street with a sigh of relief. She saw a pale, skinny girl, whose straight brown and hot pink hair slipped down into her tear-stained eyes. This couldn't be her, but it was. This was what she had done to herself. She looked up and continued to walk. Her walking slowly becoming faster, more hurried. Her phone rang and she slid her small hand into her pocket, pressing a button and answering it.
-"Hello?" No response.
Suddenly, whoever was on the other end began to softly cry.
-"I knew you wouldn't answer. It seems crazy, but I thought that if I heard your voice, you'd come back to me."
-"Jack?! Jack! I'm here! I'm fine!"
-"Your dad keeps looking for you. Everytime he hears a noise, he checks."
-"JACK! Why can't you hear me?! I'm here!"
-"I can't sleep anymore, baby, I need you here. I guess I'll never see you again. Some wishes don't come true. Besides at the funeral, I'll never see your eyes again. I love you always."
Her phone hit the cold, hard ground as she dropped to her knees. She really did it, this time...
and it's like a
laundry-list of acquaintances,
name-marked and chilled condiments;
squeeze-filled "hello!" embraces
or a clumsy slumberkiss.
impartial sandman relations and
impact to sway an axis;
care without condition,
unbiased opinions or
a scar-free appendage.
siblings. childhood friends.
a domesticated orca,
a drink void of caution,
a late night walk without keys in hand or
a beach in which to submerge my toes and
those scenarios premiering in dreamland;
a well-paid career [or
at least equal to that of a man's].
life without currencysocietyand
without the mundane, routine progression
of green, grey, gone;
singular sentiment, automated sleep,
parents capable of satiety and
a world lacking dishes and trash-taking.
winter white and frigid,
an early completion;
someone to wait on me
without an inevitable aberration.
the assuagement of afterlife, the
divine intervention of hands
the quiet murmur of ideals and desires within
the ear of some orphic entity
presumed to care.
a kiss clean of guilt,
solicitous reassurance, and
a sigh at the stars in the arms of a
it's like you:
something I can never have.
tendered flesh where your
found my skin—
[jaw lines, joints, appendages twixt]
indistinct regret as my
turnt my chin.
reminiscent of your essence,
everpresent in all my recollections
seeps between discretion.
you linger like a dream
lining my subconscious,
you stick to my clothes—
[jeans dirtied, hair tousled]
you re-emerge in inhalation and contemplation;
disrupt the surface with ease.
the smudges left,
the rubber burnt,
the charcoal scent stains
in a chest pit;
fueled with every
the skin-to-skin sensation
and each beat accelerated—
a feather-lined stomach
wont to sway in anticipation
stays its state
as if it were expected.
and to lie beside
is more than welcoming,
to sit with a firelit
until the morning; tempting.
loyal like a dog,
loyal to a fault,
like a wave
end over end over
throat knots and
she/ her/ you know,
nouns and adjectives.
could you believe it
still turns my stomach?
quickens the beat of bitter
and ripens resentment;
it doesn't matter,
Every find something you wrote years ago and you wince at how bad it is? Here's one that I thought was just so clever and witty and now....oh dear lord what have I done?
Some minimalist poems that I have been writing lately. I'm trying to better at concision.