Tag: writing

I don’t know where I got the notion, but I’ve been thinking about the need to divulge every detail of an experience and why it isn’t always necessary. Rarely, in fact, unless it serves a specific purpose in the piece. In my case it’s about a night with a girl and how fucking fantastic it was.

My first instinct was to sit and write out the whole night in detail. I’m not usually shy in that regard if I feel it’s something worth writing about. I even told her that I might feel inclined to do so. Unfortunately, I was immediately blocked. What exactly should I write about? Dinner? Bed? Champagne? Dark hair in my hands? The elasticity of her flesh? How much or how little should I divulge? And, ultimately, would it be more interesting to be sparse with the detail in favor of keeping it as a raw and fleshy memory as opposed to a soft and romanticized nostalgia trip? These were considerations. Questions. I’m usually over and done with those by the time I’ve had breakfast.

So, back to my point of refrainment. I’m foggy on my motivation to notwrite about this. I haven’t consciously decided that this is something to keep private, but that might be the case here. Perhaps it is too boastful to spill it all like so much champagne on goose flesh. Or, I suspect, I was so blown away by the experience that I simply have nothing to write about. The dial turned to 11 and there’s no use in putting something like that into words. It couldn’t possibly compare.

Sticky Is A Slut: Woman Haters…

stickyisaslut:

He shared with me that, for a while, he was a woman hater. A woman hater is a man who seeks out women, dates them even, for the sole purpose of hurting them. A woman hater is not to be confused with a rebounder, or a player. A woman hater is a relationship masochist. He wants to make girls cry. He will see a girl regularly until he knows she likes him, then he disappears.

I was in Daly City the last time I became so angry that I couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Driving, that time. I wanted to rip the steering wheel out of its shaft and let my Jeep careen off the side of the road. I wanted fire to accompany my fury. I wanted blood.

I pulled over in a suburban neighborhood. I was still logical enough to know to stop. The walk home was long, as it required me to traverse through Daly City, South SF, and then turn north toward Brisbane. I wanted to find someone along the way and antagonize them. A woman, perhaps. Someone with her white skin and freckles. Dark, straight hair like hers. Nimble hands like hers. Confused soul like hers. I wanted someone to hurt and had no other way of letting it out. I made plans for myself to be better and excel for the sole purpose of revenge. I would unleash the pain on any woman who fell for me from then on. I was growing weary and ignored my aching feet. I raged in my mind and in my heart. The field of many broken hearts would sate me.

I walked for hours. The January rain poured and I marched on toward home. There was something pathetic and petty in me that screamed to be let out. I contained it so well that I lost all sense of passion, self, and love. It took years to recover a fraction of who I used to be.

Sticky Is A Slut: Woman Haters…

stickyisaslut:

He shared with me that, for a while, he was a woman hater. A woman hater is a man who seeks out women, dates them even, for the sole purpose of hurting them. A woman hater is not to be confused with a rebounder, or a player. A woman hater is a relationship masochist. He wants to make girls cry. He will see a girl regularly until he knows she likes him, then he disappears.

I was in Daly City the last time I became so angry that I couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand. Driving, that time. I wanted to rip the steering wheel out of its shaft and let my Jeep careen off the side of the road. I wanted fire to accompany my fury. I wanted blood.

I pulled over in a suburban neighborhood. I was still logical enough to know to stop. The walk home was long, as it required me to traverse through Daly City, South SF, and then turn north toward Brisbane. I wanted to find someone along the way and antagonize them. A woman, perhaps. Someone with her white skin and freckles. Dark, straight hair like hers. Nimble hands like hers. Confused soul like hers. I wanted someone to hurt and had no other way of letting it out. I made plans for myself to be better and excel for the sole purpose of revenge. I would unleash the pain on any woman who fell for me from then on. I was growing weary and ignored my aching feet. I raged in my mind and in my heart. The field of many broken hearts would sate me.

I walked for hours. The January rain poured and I marched on toward home. There was something pathetic and petty in me that screamed to be let out. I contained it so well that I lost all sense of passion, self, and love. It took years to recover a fraction of who I used to be.

Glass

“One and a quarter.”

He paid with a one, two dimes, and a nickle. It was offered as a pious man gives penitence. He wouldn’t have been out of place before an altar of the church. The clerk accepted the currency and parsed each piece into its compartment. He watched as his money returned to the fold and sighed on the inside. He took the brown paper bag and exited the store.

“Parsimonious fuckery,” he said, staring off toward the lake. He needed to walk several miles to return to the den he shared with three other men and two women. His sleeves hung loosely and draped over his hands like drags of meat at a marketplace. The bag became partially absorbed in his clothes. He was a walking rag. No pigeons flew in the open when the wind was high and he walked. People in overcoats stepped around him. His dominance of the sidewalk cleared a path to Michigan.

“I… I’m as tired as my old balls.”

The rains threatened him like everyone else did.

His knees wobbled when the wind rose up out of Randolph Street. He stepped behind a corner and inhaled. He inhaled several times. Two minutes, three minutes, seven. He pressed against the building. It felt to him like he was drowning. He inhaled again and stopped when he nearly dropped the bag onto the ground.

“Jesus, mother of Mercy. Jesus cry.”

The wind continued. He turned onto Randolph and walked east. He could feel Etta already. She always waited for him. They slept together, her with her large breasts to his back and his coat wrapped around her. He walked to Etta’s warmth.

The birds all stayed out of sight when the winds were bad. They hid in cracks and corners. Sometimes, some damn fool bird didn’t hide. It died.

His old coat was nice for hiding inside of. Himself and all manner of things. His old flask that he washed with gutter water. A turban of cotton. Candy from the store. Forks, spoons. A knife he found once by the yacht harbor. He took it, assumed ownership. His pants worked as pants and this season’s winter boots were rubber. Those he bought off of Rory, who wasn’t at the den this season. He died.

There were cars lined up at Michigan Ave. Eye to eye cars. He crossed between them. The crosswalk sign holders held up a hand and made him stop. There were kids in bright puffy jackets and their parents. There were runners in spandex. There were suits and more overcoats.

He walked under the crossway where it was dark, to the same building and the same gap between the concrete foundation pylons. He walked further in with his hands against the cold and wet walls until he saw the light from the fire. He looked for Etta first and saw her. She was bundled. Her hat was on down her face so that most of her eyes weren’t there. All the rest but Finch were around the fire.

He walked over to Etta and sat.

“Didja, didja get it?”

“Yeap, I got it here.”

He lifted the paper bag and handed it to Etta. She ripped it open and held the bottle in her hand. The aspirin clinked as she shook it.

She grinned wide.

“You’re good to me, Jeffrey.”

He leaned in and kissed her wrinkled temple.

“Remember to save the bottle.”

Glass

“One and a quarter.”

He paid with a one, two dimes, and a nickle. It was offered as a pious man gives penitence. He wouldn’t have been out of place before an altar of the church. The clerk accepted the currency and parsed each piece into its compartment. He watched as his money returned to the fold and sighed on the inside. He took the brown paper bag and exited the store.

“Parsimonious fuckery,” he said, staring off toward the lake. He needed to walk several miles to return to the den he shared with three other men and two women. His sleeves hung loosely and draped over his hands like drags of meat at a marketplace. The bag became partially absorbed in his clothes. He was a walking rag. No pigeons flew in the open when the wind was high and he walked. People in overcoats stepped around him. His dominance of the sidewalk cleared a path to Michigan.

“I… I’m as tired as my old balls.”

The rains threatened him like everyone else did.

His knees wobbled when the wind rose up out of Randolph Street. He stepped behind a corner and inhaled. He inhaled several times. Two minutes, three minutes, seven. He pressed against the building. It felt to him like he was drowning. He inhaled again and stopped when he nearly dropped the bag onto the ground.

“Jesus, mother of Mercy. Jesus cry.”

The wind continued. He turned onto Randolph and walked east. He could feel Etta already. She always waited for him. They slept together, her with her large breasts to his back and his coat wrapped around her. He walked to Etta’s warmth.

The birds all stayed out of sight when the winds were bad. They hid in cracks and corners. Sometimes, some damn fool bird didn’t hide. It died.

His old coat was nice for hiding inside of. Himself and all manner of things. His old flask that he washed with gutter water. A turban of cotton. Candy from the store. Forks, spoons. A knife he found once by the yacht harbor. He took it, assumed ownership. His pants worked as pants and this season’s winter boots were rubber. Those he bought off of Rory, who wasn’t at the den this season. He died.

There were cars lined up at Michigan Ave. Eye to eye cars. He crossed between them. The crosswalk sign holders held up a hand and made him stop. There were kids in bright puffy jackets and their parents. There were runners in spandex. There were suits and more overcoats.

He walked under the crossway where it was dark, to the same building and the same gap between the concrete foundation pylons. He walked further in with his hands against the cold and wet walls until he saw the light from the fire. He looked for Etta first and saw her. She was bundled. Her hat was on down her face so that most of her eyes weren’t there. All the rest but Finch were around the fire.

He walked over to Etta and sat.

“Didja, didja get it?”

“Yeap, I got it here.”

He lifted the paper bag and handed it to Etta. She ripped it open and held the bottle in her hand. The aspirin clinked as she shook it.

She grinned wide.

“You’re good to me, Jeffrey.”

He leaned in and kissed her wrinkled temple.

“Remember to save the bottle.”

I took a minute to look outside while they ate their tacos and drank their cheap wine. It was one of the atypical sunny days we’ve had these last months. It was a windy autumnal fever. Some kids were rolling along in a cheap plastic car. One pushed the other. Someone behind me cackled. I got to thinking about how sad it is to lose my trust. All the effort to gain it and then throw it away. It’s like sport fishing, I suppose. Proper lure, something the fish are guaranteed to like. If it’s not quite right you slack the line or replace the lure with a different sort. Wait and catch and marvel in the end of a struggle. Throw it back. It’s all amusing to a point.

I took a minute to look outside while they ate their tacos and drank their cheap wine. It was one of the atypical sunny days we’ve had these last months. It was a windy autumnal fever. Some kids were rolling along in a cheap plastic car. One pushed the other. Someone behind me cackled. I got to thinking about how sad it is to lose my trust. All the effort to gain it and then throw it away. It’s like sport fishing, I suppose. Proper lure, something the fish are guaranteed to like. If it’s not quite right you slack the line or replace the lure with a different sort. Wait and catch and marvel in the end of a struggle. Throw it back. It’s all amusing to a point.

In other exciting news, Naughty Dog’s next project is a story of post-apocalyptic survival titled The Last of Us.

I love post-apocalyptic literature and fiction. The end of the world appeals to me immensely, both for misanthropic reasons and because I think a world where people are not the apex predator would be fascinating. Nature reclaiming the creations of mankind and all that.

I’ve been thinking about the characters they’ve introduced and my first thought was that they’re doing what everyone else does, which is an older grizzled man and usually younger character, either boy or girl. I’m waiting for a story of this sort that features an older grizzled woman who still (sensibly) wears as much as a male lead would, i.e. less gratuitous cleavage for the sake of tits for male gamers to gawk at. I’m sure they can develop such a character in interesting ways.

Or, instead of bitching about it, perhaps I should do it myself.

In other exciting news, Naughty Dog’s next project is a story of post-apocalyptic survival titled The Last of Us.

I love post-apocalyptic literature and fiction. The end of the world appeals to me immensely, both for misanthropic reasons and because I think a world where people are not the apex predator would be fascinating. Nature reclaiming the creations of mankind and all that.

I’ve been thinking about the characters they’ve introduced and my first thought was that they’re doing what everyone else does, which is an older grizzled man and usually younger character, either boy or girl. I’m waiting for a story of this sort that features an older grizzled woman who still (sensibly) wears as much as a male lead would, i.e. less gratuitous cleavage for the sake of tits for male gamers to gawk at. I’m sure they can develop such a character in interesting ways.

Or, instead of bitching about it, perhaps I should do it myself.

When I’m at work on a story, I never compose paragraphically. I write stand-alone sentences. I might fixate on three or four sentences a day. I’ll enlarge them to at least twenty-six-point type on the screen. I’ll futz around in their vitals, recontour their casings, and work a kind of reverse cosmetology on them to bring out any defining defects or birthmarks or swoonworthy uglinesses and whatnot. Only much later will one such sentence overcome its aloofness or diffidence and begin to make overtures to another sentence, which might be pages and pages away in the draft. The sentences eventually band together into paragraphs. The paragraphs, to me, are nervous little cliques or sororities of like-natured outcasts who put up with each other despite the friction. There’s a lot of rubbing the wrong way and very little mating of a peaceable kind. Getting something that might pass itself off as a story out of these uneasy alliances is in fact a pretty maddening and brutal ordeal. Among my deficiencies is a freaky neurological setup that keeps me from seeing wholes. So all I can see are parts, pieces, flickery fragments. I will never be up to writing a novel. It’s all I can do to even read one.

oh, Gary Lutz. (via meaghano)