It's in the hallway and I am thinking of your place. Your place is some fucked up ghost train of a home. I turn your card in my fingers, a magic trick. I will not look at you, not ever - in this hallway or anywhere else.
A grease grey trail of fingertips across the wall there and this punch of memory tenderly, here.
I walk funny; my centre of balance is off - too far forward or something - so I'm on the balls of my feet but one foot is overly hesitant and drags a little. It's kind of like how zombies walked, before they learned how to run. I'm not wearing any shoes. I have no idea why I walk like this. It looks stupid.
Two fingers of my left hand - the third and the fourth - drag across the surface of the wall. This wall is an institutional yellowish - with a double track, smudge and dirt, where generations of third and fourth fingers repeat and emphasise the same gesture infinitely, carving an imaginary gully - some river-bottomed ravine. I am cooling my fingertips in this rushing water.
I turn your card in my fingers. You've written these precise instructions, tiny and intricate like the tracks of little birds across the snow.
I don't know what they signify.
"Couldn't we - like go somewhere else? A hotel maybe - I have money?"
I mumble into the wall
birds track smudge
My voice cracks.
"Because you're - you're scared of my house?" this semi amused sneer. You leave without closing the front door.
Some complicated potion gives me the power to decipher this code or something - grants me some protection from the terrors of your house - I convince myself it does anyhow - and follow those little bird tracks across town with a stupid zombie stagger.
I'm not so sure now.
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once more, a not so eloquent WOW. I just love and envy the way ur using words. Where u born like that or...? Haha, i'm only asking to see if there's hope for me.
ReplyDeleteMy e-mail, in case you still don't have it: orestes.gr.m@gmail.com
hope i hear from you sooner or later
L.
This is great. I love how the house looms throughout . . . 'some fucked up ghost train of a home'. . . What a line!
ReplyDeletenerstes
ReplyDeletethank you - i feel I'm stumbling with these words & your comments are reassuring
i sent you a kind of protracted & silly email
Mc
paul
ReplyDeletei'm made up you liked it
i wrote some whole thing about that scary ass house but the blog seems to have eaten it
Changeling,
ReplyDeletegot your e-mail and i thank you for it, i have printed it and will study it carefully and every word you've written.
I know the feeling, stumbling with words, what an excellent way to put it, like trying to find your way through the dark, fucking words, they were supposed to be easier like that, after all we use them to express the simplest needs in life: eat, sleep, shit, whatever, they ought to be more co-operative, lol, even though it's not funny, i'm just making it sound ridiculous. It's hard, writing.
I can't believe your obvious intelligence would ever create anything silly. Just for the record.
You said sth in DC's blog about being addicted to writing projects, or was it writing co-ops, well, i'd love to read everything you've ever written. You mentioned sth about a hardcore porn class project (LOVE to read) and i remembered when, at school, during history, i had written a somewhat-ish hardcore lesbian-ish slash incest piece, my teacher caught me, he took my notebook and hen he gave it back the page was torn off, i suspect he either took it to show at the rest of the faculty or he kept to jerk off to, heh...
Will e-mail asap.
respect to you, my friend
L.
hey
ReplyDeletei got really fond memories of the mass participation school pornography. nearly everyone joined in - you had to write yr piece then fold it over so only the last few words showed then pass it on to the next person.
One glowing day the teacher tried to intercept it & it's current holder stuffed the whole thing in her mouth, chewed & swallowed. It was so cool.
I can't really vouch for it's hotness as a piece of lit tho - I don't know? I think my 12 year old self got off on 70s rock stars & a LOT of blood - that and falling from the top floor of a very tall Victorian shopping arcade in the town where I lived - we used to spit over the railing at the folks on the ground & fantasise that the velocity might kill someone.
one participant always used to curtail whatever sexual stuff was going on with the protagonists being eaten - or like aggressively nibbled - by fishes. you hardly ever get that in grown up porn - i look for it often.
did you ever get repercussions from the page torn outta yr notebook?
"we used to spit over the railing at the folks on the ground & fantasise that the velocity might kill someone." Why does a simple sentence like that make me so happy?
ReplyDeleteI am constantly worried that I'm annoying the hell out of you two, like a verbose kid intruding on a conversation of grown-ups. (Also I always feel terribly naive when confronted with both of your world weary disillusionment...)
The story made me scream with frustration at the fleetingness of the scene. I want to meet your characters, want to follow them to their encounters, want to share their pain and frustartion when things fall apart, as in your worlds they seem to be fated to do.
Or maybe it made me scream with the loneliness it left in my heart - not the loneliness of your stumbling, questing narrator, but mine when he passes me by in that spooky hallway, like some ghost condemned to only watch him, where I so want to hold his hand.
Kurwa. Your writing hurts, you know that.