Sunday (485 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.3 on 20 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by marginwalker (View user info) at 2006-11-11 04:33:23 EST
She pauses, and looks up to where he is hunched over, the source of his ponder hidden by a six foot frame.
She wonders what puts the crease his forehead - what leaves him oblivious to the space between them.
There's snow on the ground, and the windows are coated with condensation. His eyes are crystalline this morning, always indicative of deep thought; a change in seasons.
She looks down at her mindless scribble on the page:
"omega";
And looks up once again.
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She has learned to approach him as foreign territory; tepid steps on unfamiliar ground. She had convinced herself he was uninhabited; this geography was hers to discover.
She took care to map out the paths of his expanse: the memories, history, regrets. The expressions distinct to certain emotions. The language of lovers.
She has drawn out elaborate guides by which she could always - no matter how far she wandered - find her way back home.
He feels her gaze. He looks up, smiles, and resumes discerning the words before him.
She sighs at her inability to decipher the vagueness of his face,
and begins to doubt the accuracy her crumb-trail.
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It's impossible for him to understand the logistics of her shift.
It's impossible for him to understand.
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Perhaps because of her close proximity, it was not obvious at first.
There were too many small things to focus on. So many tiny motions she had never seen consummated.
He had a grace about him; a sway - a way of moving the air around him to compliment even the simplest of gestures.
He spoke with eloquence that echoed a thousand tongues. His verbose demur of everything conventional held the eyes of those around him. It was his greatest source of confidence.
Perhaps this display of physique had distracted her from the obvious landmarks; from how very worn those paths were.
The domain was new, but not untrodden.
It was only that windstorms had covered traces of previous footfall.
Nothing here was meant to be permanent.
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With a precise dart of eyes, he can cover the slightest stumble. Quick to pick up the next beat, he's worried she knows it too well. Those ears are fine-tuned to skipped tempo.
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After love making, there's always a moment she is again lost in his motion, unable to find her rhythm in his echo.
For a moment there's only cadence.
Rolling over, she lights a cigarette,
And fumbles in the dark for the knob of the stereo.
User Reviews
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-07-19 15:45:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by DCWoody (user info) at 2006-11-20 21:12:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-11-20 20:34:44 (#)
Ranking: 0
"America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for
murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over
from Russia.
I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie
producers are serious. Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.
Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals
an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and
twentyfivethousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in
my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his
automobiles more so they're all different sexes
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they
sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the
workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party
was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother
Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have
been a spy.
America you don're really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power mad. She wants to take
our cars from out our garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader's Digest. her wants our
auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.
That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.
Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts
factories, I'm nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel."
-A. Ginsberg
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First time I saw that too
Submitted by nahnoneofit (user info) at 2006-11-13 05:51:14 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i liked this ALOT, felt like i could relate to it.
Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-11-12 04:24:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-12 02:55:19 (#)
Ranking: 0
I actually didn't mind the way this piece ended - with an action. It gives the impression that things are still happening in this alternate reality. My problem with it is that after reading all those words nothing really happened. Descriptive stuff is fine, if the reader cares about what is being described. Why should the reader care about these two people so much that they're willing to flesh them out in their mind?
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Point taken, and in some cases I agree. But there's different levels of appreciation when it comes to prose. This was a mere attempt to capture the emotional power of actual language, as opposed to the physical actions of the characters it's used to represent.
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-12 02:55:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I actually didn't mind the way this piece ended - with an action. It gives the impression that things are still happening in this alternate reality. My problem with it is that after reading all those words nothing really happened. Descriptive stuff is fine, if the reader cares about what is being described. Why should the reader care about these two people so much that they're willing to flesh them out in their mind?
But yes, I am just a dick on the internet.... grains of salt etc.
Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-11-11 16:31:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-11-11 16:11:10 (#)
Ranking: 2
Go see the Fountain.
You know that instead of CGI effects, they filmed microscopic chemical reactions in a petri dish?? Fucking amazing.
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Thanks gfh, I'll keep my eyes open for it.
And no Newty, nothing happened. It's just quick glances.
Submitted by Newty (user info) at 2006-11-11 16:27:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
it was written well, but I don't think anything actually happened...did it?
Submitted by goferforhire (user info) at 2006-11-11 16:11:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-11-11 11:37:49 (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-11 07:02:58 (#)
Ranking: 0
You like describing stuff. Don't. Writing is not a visual medium. More stuff needs to happen.
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Wrong. Writing is ABSOLUTELY a visual medium. Creating an atmosphere involves presenting descriptions by which to construct it. It's especially important in shorter pieces.
This was not intended to be "action-adventure" by any means. It was intended to communicate brief moments of time.
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Go see the Fountain.
You know that instead of CGI effects, they filmed microscopic chemical reactions in a petri dish?? Fucking amazing.
Submitted by marginwalker (user info) at 2006-11-11 11:37:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-11 07:02:58 (#)
Ranking: 0
You like describing stuff. Don't. Writing is not a visual medium. More stuff needs to happen.
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Wrong. Writing is ABSOLUTELY a visual medium. Creating an atmosphere involves presenting descriptions by which to construct it. It's especially important in shorter pieces.
This was not intended to be "action-adventure" by any means. It was intended to communicate brief moments of time.
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-11-11 10:18:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I would venture to say it has something to do with an inability to see past one level of things.
The author's sole purpose is not to tell you a story A-B, rather, to communicate ideas that pique your soul on some level; the author managed that with this piece, and I feel rather badly that you did not have a similar response.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-11-11 10:09:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
That's understandable; it just comes down to personal taste. I wanted to comment on the value of this style of writing, because it's one I enjoy.
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-11 10:04:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I really enjoy well-written descriptive pieces. There are many relevant moments in life in which you sit silent and still and your mind is at work taking in the world around you.
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Fine. But when I'm reading the piece all I see happening is a couple of people
I don't care about - who haven't anything to earn my interest - are sitting around looking at each other and doodling on bits of paper. Then it's implied that they have sex. It's boring. Nothing happens.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-11-11 09:20:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-11 07:02:58 (#)
Ranking: 0
You like describing stuff. Don't. Writing is not a visual medium. More stuff needs to happen.
===
I really enjoy well-written descriptive pieces. There are many relevant moments in life in which you sit silent and still and your mind is at work taking in the world around you.
I liked this. Some of the language struck me as if you were very focused on your choice of words; maybe that's what you were going for given the characters' relationship.
Submitted by Amontillado (user info) at 2006-11-11 08:52:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I really liked it, don't know why.
Submitted by Zampolit (user info) at 2006-11-11 07:02:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
You like describing stuff. Don't. Writing is not a visual medium. More stuff needs to happen.
But I am just some dick on the net; take that advice with however many grains of salt you wish.
Submitted by 8track (user info) at 2006-11-11 06:09:17 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
i fucken hate cunts who write stories on ubersite
Submitted by rad1101 (user info) at 2006-11-11 05:14:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this made me feel warm and sickly inside; kind of bittersweetish like if I was listening to the beatles when my dog died.
maybe not died.
Maybe if my dog had the flu while I was listening to oasis.
Submitted by Ducky (user info) at 2006-11-11 05:05:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I like the way you wrote this...it's almost surreal.
Submitted by Wildman (user info) at 2006-11-11 05:04:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
nothing a firm and fragrant fart couldn't fix
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2006-11-11 04:50:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 1