It’s 11:30…

July 3, 2008 at 10:49 pm (Random Writing, Uncategorized)

It’s 11:30 and I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. It’s some last ditch effort to remain a wild and crazy teenager. But, there’s no denying that some part of that has died. Now, I work, I come home tired, and all I want is rest. I want a shower, supper, pajamas, and a good book or dumb TV. Nothing more. No late night gallivanting, no speeding around the city. I’ve grown up (though I’ve still got the heart of a kid) and part of me realizes that it’s okay. I want to work, get through the summer, and get back to school. There, I can play and stay up till all hours of the night watching Disney. Or spend an evening splashing through puddles and mud. Or have a fight with fistfuls of frozen bubbles. But here, Nashville, is about Work. It’s about making the money I need to feed my habit (school and friends, that is). It’s about keeping connected to my family and brushing away the hindrances.

And so it’s 11:30 and I’m ready to fall asleep. But, that’s okay. I had a long day, but I’ll have a great weekend. That’s when I live. No responsibilities on the weekend, no early morning alarms. No kids running and screaming and begging to play just one more game.

I don’t even drive fast anymore. I enjoy going the limit, listening to music, and watching the road dwindle by under my tires. I know, it seems an odd thing to remark on. But, it’s one of the biggest changes I’ve noticed. Besides being constantly tired. That’s because I spend all day trying to wear out a six and three-year-old. The driving thing is something I decided on. It’s calming. I don’t drive for a rush anymore, but just to be. The journey is more important than the destination. It would, of course, be better if I had better company. Me and myself occasionally have a spat or two.

It’s 11:40 and my eyes are closing. There’s that pressure in my head that I know means it’s been working for too long now. It wants a break before it goes on strike. So I sip at tea and watch the numbers turn on the clock. Because part of me says I should stay awake a little longer. Push it a little farther. But, I’ll feel much better if I turn in now. I just finished my book, I just finished my tea, and the house is silent.

It’s 11:50 and I’m going to bed.

Advertisements

Permalink Leave a Comment

“I don’t write romances.”

April 27, 2008 at 3:53 pm (Random Writing)

Random writing that started over Christmas break. I’d love to know what you think. He’s a fairly unfriendly person, but oh well.

The blonde settled into the seat across from him, almost as if he had been saving it for her. He hadn’t been. In fact, company was perhaps the last thing he wanted right then. And while he didn’t advertise that fact, he had assumed it would be fairly obvious to anyone who really cared. There had been plenty of open seats, even at the plush couches that were a haven for those looking for another to hear whatever inflated opinions they had, but he had opted for the lonely corner table. Not to mention, he had been typing a way at his keyboard with quite a bit of zeal, even ignoring his own coffee. Yes, despite the cliché, he was writing in a chic little coffee shop nestled on a corner with soft jazz playing over the muted hum of conversation.
“You’re that writer, aren’t you?” twittered the woman. She was smiling far too widely. Had he been the type to feel any concern for others, he would have worried that she was about to pull something. Fortunately, he didn’t even pause to waste the brain cells to consider it.
“Yes. Jonathan Crown.”
“I’m Marguerite, and I love your books. I mean, they’re so…existential and full of…stuff. You know?” Her hand had been extended for the duration of the meeting, but he didn’t even look at it or her. Instead, his eyes trailed wearily over his screen. And, while he was pleased that his works were full of “stuff,” he really couldn’t find much of a reason to pay attention. She was gorgeous, he mentally conceded. And she apparently kept up with the world well enough to know that he was one of the more famous scribblers of the day, but there didn’t seem to be much ticking away behind those dimly gazing blue eyes. Had he needed someone to screw around with, and of course he meant that literally, the idea would not have been unpleasant. But, he had given up on such things.
“That’s nice to hear.”
“Are you working on something now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I could read it?” She tilted her head to the side a little, twirling a strand of hair slowly between her fingers. Her eyes tried to spark coquettishly, but the lack of attention was finally beginning to register.
“No.” He paused in his perusal of the few lines he had typed, staring her straight in the eyes. Her smile flared back to life and he mentally scolded himself for encouraging her. “Can I do anything else for you Maggie?”
“It’s Marguerite. But, that doesn’t really matter. It’s a hard name to remember.” He didn’t need much imagination to see her having fits with it herself. “I just wondered if you might want to grab some coffee. You know, get to know each other. I’m new in town.” So were half the other people wandering the streets. He didn’t go out to coffee with them, though, did he?
He picked up the paper cup at his elbow, tipped it towards her, and then took a quick drink. Cold. No, lukewarm, which was decidedly worse. “Thanks Margie. It was lovely.”
She was laughing, he was back to reading. That sound was obnoxious. It was like someone was throwing paper airplanes into his eyes, halting any attempt at concentration. “You are so funny!” She reached over and laid a hand on his arm, bringing her inches closer to him. He glanced at the manicured hand lying there, then back to the screen. She would move. “What about drinks?”
How had he forgotten? Of course coffee wasn’t a drink! Oh, modern language and it’s terrible ambiguities. “Listen, I’d love to. But I’m really afraid you’d get lost on the way there, and how could I live with myself then? So, for your own good, how about you go back to your friends and talk about how men are pigs and you just have to start working out because, dear God, you’ve put on a quarter of a pound, and you leave me to slave away and ponder what I let walk away.” Venom dripping, he let the conversation lie there and quake out its last throes of anguish. She got up after a second, the shock having sunk in, and huffed back over to her little clique. He didn’t look up, didn’t watch her walk away. He had work to do.
The hours slipped slowly away as the lines trailed farther and farther down the page. Still, it was slow going. Perhaps he could talk to the management about a change in music. Heaven only knew no one really liked the noise they played. But, the sun sank low on the horizon, disappeared, and night stole over the city with a deadly stealth. Judging by the obvious haste of those walking on the street, it must have turned terribly cold. Margie had gone long ago, her place filled by numerous other guests. He had to admit, none were quite as entertaining or temping. But, he was now the only person left in the shop. The table was littered by three empty cups and a scattering of change that glinted dully under the lights. But, it was closing time. Or so the annoyed employee seemed to imply as she glowered at him from behind the bar.

And that’s what I’ve got. Yes, his thing is that he doesn’t write romances (not even for you). It comes into play later. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at a little romantic drama-comedy. Oh, and I hate his name right now. It needs to be different, but I can’t decide what…

Love ya.

Permalink 1 Comment

Writing…a Short Writing……..

April 13, 2008 at 10:13 pm (Random Thoughts, Random Writing, Real Life)

Written, irnoically enough, while supposedly studying in the library. I was taking a break…of course…

Writing can’t be forced. No amount of sitting before a blank page or blinking cursor will make the words come in the order of intent. Even if you have ten thousand images screaming for release, no man or woman can push them onto the page before they are ready. And that is the annoying, terrible, cruel thing of writing. Sometimes the best ideas must simply sit and ripen; all the while the writer’s fingers are itching to write something, ANYTHING of value.
Writing is a terrible and fickle master, as anyone can tell you. The days when life is crowding too full and you wonder if you even have room left to breath, those are the days when the call reaches its crescendo, demanding your immediate attention. Or on those nights when you have just neared sleep after a far too taxing day, like a clanging symbol writing roars and chases sleep away. Of course, when the hours are just ticking slowly past, dragging a long line of wasted moments in the sand of time, fingers can pause for hours over the keys, waiting. There is inspiration in the world, but nothing that will coalesce into something worthwhile. You can write, of course. Anyone can put words to paper. But, in the end, it won’t speak to you the way it should. It won’t remember you who formed it or speak to others concerning your hopes, dreams, goals. It will be one more piece of nothing.

Critique appreciated. As always.

Permalink 1 Comment

Specters

March 27, 2008 at 2:02 pm (Random Writing)

A little something that came to me. Or that I stumbled into. You know, it’s a lot easier to post things when I’m pretty certain no one’s reading! 😛  

We are specters passing in the halls. Mere creatures eroded to the brink of nonexistence by worries and fears, responsibilities and commitments.  Life slowly chips away at each of us, taking what it needs to survive. It pulls away passion and wears down zeal until we find ourselves treading the halls in a senseless domain. There is no light, no sound. The sun is a removed eye watching dispassionately. The wind a lover’s hand grown cold. Nothing means anything, nothing inspires anyone, nothing exists anywhere. Because the daily trudge has taken all it can grasp. It has required the full self-sacrifice just to survive. And we see each other, but there is no recognition. There is no light in our eyes. Instead they are darkened windows left vacant by a cowering consciousness. And I wonder if I really recognize you, because it was that light I knew. But it’s easier to bar the windows and pretend no one’s home than to try and handle everything. Because hearing laughter and feeling joy will reveal that every forced step we take gets us nowhere; it forces us deeper into the mire from which there is no escape. So we try not to realize as life becomes mechanical and humanity is worn away.

            Until we are nothing more than specters passing in the halls.

 

Permalink 1 Comment