Making A Move

I like wordpress, but its not allowing me to do most of the things I love. I’ve decided to make a move!

黒い傘

Please continue to read, its much appreciated

The Flood

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Death In Vegas – Dirge

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First Day

The rain is pouring on my windows causing me to shudder rapidly in the cool crisp air of my home. The smell of outdoors fills the air, like a deep wooded forest lit on fire by the rain. There are birds fluttering about my windowsill, I can understand them completely. Even with what appears true freedom, comes pain and burden.

Second Day

I awoke to see the sun shining brightly, beckoning me to come outside. I wanted to so badly but the water had somehow creeped into my home and was laid to rest in my skin, in my pores. I could feel it. Creeping, crawling, saturating, decaying. I felt like a sponge left in a damp corner.

Third Day

Again. Sun. This time I throw my hands up in praise. I race to my dresser and pull out a nice sun dress. Today the sun will be my friend. He will soak up every ounce of water that found its way into my skin. I’m at the edge of the screen door now, ready to pounce. The grass is green, lucious, inviting. I’m forgiving, forgetting and wanting.

Fourth Day

My legs are picking up speed. Fast and fast as I tumble down my stairs, slide across the kitchen floor and out the screen door. I allow myself to fall into a barrel role into the grass letting out playful laughter-who cares no one can hear. Thats when I heard it. The lapping of water at the edge of my eardrum. I take my face slowly out of the grass and follow a trail of it to the edge of my house. The water had risen. The lake was now 5 times the normal size and was slowly creeping towards my house.

Fifth Day

I tried everything. I went down the water with a peace offering and asked it to move the other way, its trickle replied indeed but it has not moved. I began to dig a trench but the water would not swerve in line no matter how much I stomped my feet and yelled in the air. I threw rocks and twigs but still its attention was not had. I’m done with the water now. It had its chance.

Sixth Day

I sat solemnly on a pile of sandbags waiting for the sun to rise. I would need his help today, and days to come. They felt heavy and hard in my hands as I began to create a barrier around my home. The rough pastice concealing the sand moved like thin thread in my hands but cut whenever it had the chance. It was payment I was sure of that. Each bag was a load off my mind, each foot I got higher the weight lifted off my shoulders. Higher and higher, lighter and lighter.

Today I say goodbye to the water, I ask it to find a new path. It can stay in front of my home, and visit me anytime, but it can’t creep into my territory. The line was created for a reason.

Now I sit and wait for the next move.

Switchboard

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Nine Inch Nails – All The Love In The World

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Another day at the office. As bleak as any other day but rewarding still. I sit still in front of a giant switchboard, lit up like new years in new york. They represent phone lines, like an old 50’s call board. Its my job to listen to what people have to say, I live for it I honestly do. Sometimes I put the call through to another, sometimes I’m the messenger. I cancel a party line, and start up a fresh one. I give advice, I hear a rant, I save peoples days as best as I can.

In this small gloomy room there are no windows, just a bouncing industrial light casting odd shadows. The shadows reflect my mood today as I exhaustively put calls through and listen strenuously to what people have to say. I remember when this job was rewarding, when I would leave this little pit feeling good about what I had done. Today nothing matters.

Today is a bad day for someone else, not me. Today I ring through the calls, like yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Like I will tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that.

The lights flicker out as the calls begin to die down-its a sign that I’m done for the day. I leave some lights going, some that I know never will go out, others that I leave to tackle tomorrow. I walk somberly over to the harsh inner rock wall and take a small but long metal piece in hand. It’s rusty yet I remember a time it was as good as new. I scratch a line into the wall, just one more day.

I stumble up the stairs removing clothing as I go. First shoes, then socks, then pants, then shirt. I don’t bother turning the lights on, I know my way I’ve walked it everyday. I reach my room, a light breeze trailing in for the lightly ajar window. The bed is unmade and I’m happy for it because now I can just fall back into the pillows and matted mess of the sheets.

The moon is casting a shine on my phone, and my stomach knots up. I reach over slowly my fingers shaking with small tremors out of curiosity. I clutch the bright red receiver and pull it to my ear.

“Hello? Um..I’ve never done this myself..before..He-hello? Is anybody there?”

Just another dead line.

The Shadow

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Notwist – Consequence

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I’m in a small box. It’s my apartment, but the size of it encompasses one room. A small kitchenette, a small bathroom big enough for me off to the side. My room is separated from the kitchen area by two half walls-no door. The paint is chipped, the bed creaks, the sink leaks, the fridge’s light doesn’t work, you have to hold the flush for more then a minute in the bathroom. It’s a seedy little place surrounded by a 100 other aparemtns of the same make up. But mine has character and I love it.

The door has 11 locks. I lock them tight whenever I leave and come home. The front window is compromised of 11 squares of glass. In actuality there are a lot more subtle things in my room that represent 11, however if I went through them all it would take a while and all of my secrets would be gone.

I fumble with the knife I have on the side table by my bed. I’ve gotten very good at using it, then again I’ve had a lot of practice too. Nobody will get through that door, through the 11 locks I’ve placed on it. No one will get past the front lines of my room, not without meeting my knife.

It’s only then that I see it. A dim shadow across the kitchen wall. As I clutch a hand over my mouth I see that it’s bleeding in through the bottom of the front door. How could I have been so naive? The 11 locks were shut tight and there was nothing in the window.

Tried as I might I made sure no whisper, no gasp, nothing could escape from my lips. Defensively I grabbed the knife not really knowing how one would kill a shadow. It crept closer, sweeping across the walls until it evidently reached my room. In such small quarters it was only a matter of time.

I could feel it closing in, the shadow ungulfing the only area in which I stood. Yet in that moment all of my fears and frustrations washed away. I was nervous yes, but it was different. I was scared and enjoyed it all at the same time. the knife became heavy in my grip, so heavy I wanted to let it slip through my fingers-but that would have been really naive. So I gripped harder forcing myself to think straight.

I knew it. It was too late. I was paralyzed. My eyes were locked on the target and it was impossible to let go. From the kitchen I could hear my cat meow, the most gentle inquisitive one yet. I wasn’t supposed to be afraid and I wasn’t supposed to cringe either.

I started to realize if I were to every fully embrace it only then would I see the shadow in its full form. I wished for that day to come.

For now I live with a shadow, and I enjoy every minute of it.

One Bullet At A Time

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A Perfect Circle – A Stranger

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Every now and then I get this feeling that life is ticking away. In every way there is always ten million fingers, ten million mistakes, ten million accidents, and ten million burdens pointing, directing, coming your way.

I nestled my face deep into my pillow happy about today, happy about the way life was going and then in a matter of seconds it all came crashing down.

I fell from the highest of heights through the clouds, past the hot sun, past the cool moon, through the starry creatures of the universe into the thin groping hands of the clouds. Further into the trees, through hard scratching clutching branches. With a smack I hit the gravel road, its small pieces of rock that looked so innocent from afar embedded cruelly into my skin. Moments later my umbrella came crashing down after me as if the world decided to throw me one bone.

Where was my beautiful room? My stitched house full of rooms from different worlds? Where were the people I loved? Somewhere in the back of my mind a voice told me they were falling too. Some of them have landed and begun to trudge on, others still plummeting somewhere else across this deserted forest of dark.

I decided the best thing to do was to pick myself up and hope for the best. I made it through the field of slicing prairie grass didn’t I? I could make it through this.

Like a live update obituary a voice narrated the deaths of all that I had, “Today we honor the death of Ada. She was fast and capable but with one small drop she broke our hearts.”

“Mac has been having some problems lately. It seems she suffers from old age. Her drives are low and her life power is draining. She must be hooked up to life support at all times or else her life power will drop to zero.”

I hated the voice, I tried not to listen to everything it had to say and instead concentrate on the direction it was coming from. When I found it I would destroy it.

“Min isn’t doing so well. It appears she has an infection that you should have noticed before. Have you not even looked? For your lack of attention we charge you with $1300.” It was blaming me now, costing me, had I really been that bad?

“It seems you can not control these problems very well Brass Petals. To learn from your ever growing mistakes we will continue to throw multiple curve balls at you. They will symbolize your strength, your self-esteem, your weight, your friends, and your ability to keep all of these.”

I thought it was a joke, until it began to hail. My umbrella couldn’t take the weight, it started to bend and thrash in pain. My skin already stinging from the rocks still clustered in my cuts begin to burn with fire as the ice stones hit hard. I could see up ahead that the path was empty, free of hail. Try as I might I clawed my way towards it but it seemed to move further forward as I moved forward. “Leave me the hell alone!” I cried.

The hail stopped.

I laid there panting. It was over, it was all over. I would close my eyes now and wake up in my bed again would I not?

“No.”

It heard my thoughts, it knew what I was thinking, and worst of all it couldn’t reply with good news.

“Now your family will suffer. There will be illnesses, financial problems, relationships that fall apart. Hate will grow in your heart, and anger will consume theirs. And just when you’ve become selfish enough to see the good again, we will pull the carpet out from under you and take you prized possessions away. Lets see how you do with one less car, one less job, one less dollar, one less privilege.”

Why, I thought, why me? Why my family? What had I seriously done that was so wrong?

Without a reply the hail fell again.

Whispers

}][{ ::: 06
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I’m sitting in my room, in front of my pretty little laptop, my aptly named WD book Verity Auger sits beside me. All should be well as I attempt to retire for bed and sink into the beautiful words of Alastair Reynolds as I crawl into the last few pages. It’s only now that I hear it. Small whispers, like a rodent animal nibbling at my ear drum, impossible to make out the words.

I feel a shiver down my spine as I run through the million possibilities for the sound. This moment has happened before, I feel it. Like cold fingers on my neck the whispers draw near and I realize whats busily scuttling through my room is a knot. I cal them knots because they are things I don’t want to bring up, things I wish had never happened, things I would like to pretend I don’t recall that tie my stomach into beautiful horrific displays of a stomach gone wrong, things that all belong in my suitcase and one is now free.

Observation Deck

}][{ ::: 05

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Its a lovely sunday. I can hear the birds chirping, their songs remind me of early mornings out in the country when we would go camping. The air was so fresh and the sounds so clear. Today I take a small trip to my observation deck, a weird name for it but thats really what it is.

Some would say its located deep in my mind, others at the very forefront considering all of the action it takes. What they don’t know is I have a special room for all of it. I shut off the lights of my home in rooms I no longer need as I walk towards the staircase. On my way I stop in front of my manipulative mirror. A horrible name, I know, but it has a horrible way of things as well-but thats another story.

I cautiously walk down the spiral staircase deep into the basement of my home, past the crawl space with my overflowing suitcase. I pause for a minute to take in the savory sound of it thumping and grumbling deep within the crawl space, it reminds me that its locked tight.

I come to an army based room. The decoration suits it, and I have a thing for the military what can I say. I open the heavy metal door with surprising ease and inside at a horizontal angle is a giant screen. With small flickers, images pop over the screen. They’re all recurring events from the past weeks, all of my encounters, and all of the encounters I silently watched. I wander through the images, organizing them into possibilities, problems, needs work, mistakes, etc.

It has occurred to me that there are a lot more images this week, subtle hints I noticed but did not take in. As I organize them I draw out plans of attack, peace operations, and confrontational warfare.

The best thing about this confined little space is how secretly kept it is. I’ve had my friends wonder about myself sometimes, when I know things they had not yet had the courage to tell me. Relationships blooming, problems occurring, whatever it is I have been observing and recording the entire time. Like an octopus my hands organize all the images so that I may better understand them with routine speed that requires no cognitive alertness. When the time comes I know what to do.

It’s not always so easy. This room is as solid as a bomb shelter, but as organic and naturally grown as the human body. The machine is moved by my mind, powered by my soul, and lately it hasn’t been working well, but I only realized this now. I gingerly pet the side of the machine, “Don’t worry things will get better.” And they will. I miss my old self, I miss this room, I miss the power it gave me.

“All that is changing now.”

Out of Town

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March 27th, 2009
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I decided to take a stroll today, further then the confines of my white picket fence. Down the street lined with all my favourite flowers, up around the curve by the pie shop full of sweets, across the street from the pepper shop full of bitter exquisite tastes. Down the valley by the lake full of white swans and only one black swan. I must make a point to talk to that swan more often, we have more in common then most of the swans I’ve ever met.

I notice the last house looming closer. I need to be strong, and open. As open as the skies are above me like a giant basin of water waiting to be tipped by the omniscient third party. I lower my black umbrella, close it completely. I don’t tie it up however, I’m scared of this open field and I take comfort in knowing I can hold my umbrella up at any time. The air is so fresh, so new. I smell traces of the old air still though, like a nice transition from closed to open. My white dress ruffles around toying with my legs like playful banter of my cat back home.

I haven’t noticed that I never stopped walking until the day gets darker. The omniscient third party pulled the wool over my eyes and left me moon less and uncomfortable in the vast nuance of the field. I openly admit, as no one could possibly hear, that I’m scared and I want to be back. My eyes take in the black darkness and I forget which direction I came from. I start to wonder if I’ll forget the feelings, memories and faces of everything I left behind if I’m left out here alone. In defeat I collapse into the prairie grass.

They’re still moving in the wind, attempting to reassure me that I’m not alone if they’re there. I scoff at them, they’re just weeds and dead grass, They may be moving forward in the wind, they may whisper sweet words to make me feel better, but thats all they can do for me. I reach down and pull my umbrella up to rest my head on her. I whisper that someone will surely come looking for us in the morning, but of course I say that to reassure myself more then her.

Thats when I felt it, the giant tare in the side of my umbrella. How did this happen? When? Had I not felt the snag while I walked? I want to cry and mend it but I can’t. The fabric falls through my fingers time and time again as I try so hard to hold it together. I realize there is no sun out here. I realize in walking out in the open I allowed the world to pull a black umbrella over me, and not the one I trust. With gusto I raise to my feet. I’m weak from distress, I can feel it, but it doesn’t matter. I close my eyes and imagine the walk over again getting a sense of direction. I spin around with vigor, this is my direction, it must be.

I pick up speed, running with my umbrella held tight to my chest. Everything will be ok when we make it back, I whispered over and over. We both needed to hear that one. As I run the prairie grass begins to cut my bare feet. They’re small slices start to hit my ankles, then higher over my legs. I keep running though, I fight the pain. What matters is whats waiting in the end. I laugh awkwardly and nervously to myself as I think of the idea of putting this whole event in my suitcase under the stairs, but then I realize I may never get the chance. Its finally when I stumble and hit the ground hard that I realized how much these cuts and slices truly hurt, and just how many I got. Without thinking of the condition of my umbrella I open and as I sling it over my head to shield myself everything is suddenly bright. I’m standing at the edge of the street looking out at the field. It daylight, and everything is as it was. It was just a dream, I tell myself. Suddenly the stinging returns and I realize I’m still covered in cuts and bruises, my hands are filled with nasty diced skin filled with earth and plant. My umbrella is still ripped and I can almost feel her pain too.

I close my eyes and think really hard. I think about the cool feel of rain on my skin. I think of the water washing away todays war leaving scars but no more. I think so hard that my hands start to tremble and bleed against the handle of my umbrella and suddenly as if the world stopped to listen it began to rain. I’m thankful for when it rains, you can never see my tears. I turn around and walk back to my house. I walk past the many houses, never the same one twice, past the black swan who is the only one left out in the rain while the other went and hid, past the closed pepper shop and the still open pie shop. I stumbled down the curved road past all the trees and cars and scenes that were always so familiar. There my house stood protected by my white picket fence.

It’s time to pay my suitcase a visit.

Crooked Path

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March 14th, 2009
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I wandered off the beaten path. I don’t like it, but I’m strangely comfortable and unnerved at the same time. My black umbrella is enclosed at my side. I use it to count the beats of my steps as it hits lightly against my thigh as I walk.
In my mind I’m walking, steadily down a crooked path. Never tripping, stumbling or veering. The shade is getting dimmer with each tree I pass. A thought is what a chase, a distant murmur of my neurons firing. Deep down I know. I know I’m just standing there starring off an object in hand. What is it today? In front of the sink pouring out an already emptied kettle. Never placing it back or realizing its bone dry.

Maybe I’m at work. I’m at work and I’m shuffling to the fridge. I open the frigid door and step inside. For a moment I forget why I’m there and then I realize I need the tray of desserts. But I don’t want to grab it. I don’t want to move. In my mind I’m already moving, moving down a long path.

I’m tired of walking in this body, its so much easier to do it in my mind. This thought scares me however. My eyes blink slightly and I see traces of my surroundings standing still before I”m back on hte path. The trees are crooked now, snaking over my head covering up the light. I contemplate opening up my umbrella, hiding myself from what I don’t want to see. Its not that easy though. Its not easy because a part of me wants to see this, all of this.

If I hadn’t I wouldn’t be walking further into its depths right? I hear them now, firing between synapses. Its loud and thunderous, however muffled like I’m under water hearing sonar. What beautiful sonar it is too. Suddenly I feel my umbrella wriggling in my hand, why is she acting this way? She’s fighting me, she wants to go back. She wants to play her little games with the sun again.

For this moment I let her get her wish. I blink and I’m back where I was standing still. I realize I have to pick up my feet and continue on my way. Continue on a routine that never changes, with an end without a purpose. I know why I escape to the frightening path now. I escape to it for its meaning, for the purpose of the notion that lies at the end of the trail. One day I will reach it, and maybe that one day I’ll be able to stop walking entirely.

Until then I’ll stay with my umbrella out in the sun, waiting for the next opportunity to hear the lovely sonar of my mind…

This Side of the Blue

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March 09,2009
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For now I pull out a suitcase. It’s littered with stamps, stickers, pictures of places I have been, hearts I have touched and have likewise touched mine. The locks are rusted and stuck, I haven’t opened this box much, I don’t like to. Today I have to; today I open it up to add another piece of me. I hold the sides of it preparing for the wave of emotions that will try and escape.

One lock. I sigh, if not heave at the idea of touching the second lock. I hum lightly to myself to make this moment easier, although it’s all superficial. I grasp the second lock tightly and pull hard, it pops and dust flies out of every corner, and it’s been a very long time. I clutch the wriggling sensation of raw emotion and pain in my hands. I clutch this new shattering feeling between my fingers like a slimy poisonous thought. It’s trying to break free, but I won’t let it, it’s going in the box. With one quick movement I yank the lid as the dust billows out. Not dust. Every moment I couldn’t bear, every moment I was weak, sad, and pitiful. Every moment that made me less of who I am, billowing out in a cloud of dust. So many, so fine, too hard to grasp.

Quickly I throw this new knot from the pit of my stomach into the batch and slam the lid, only a few particles got out from the old ones. I sit on it, locking the lid slowly and surely. I would wait. Wait till I know this wriggling creature of guilt slowly crumbles and dissipates. Not completely, never completely, but enough that’s its just a passing haze in the air easily brushed aside with the sweep of my hand.

The suitcase, so beautiful on the outside, so dark inside, gets pushed into the crawlspace the door shutting tightly behind me. I toy with the idea of leaving it there forever, but I know that won’t happen. I’ll be back with new emotions, problems and stomach knots to place in its incredible hold. I think of the locks so rusted and old. For a moment I worry about their condition, what would I do if it broke? I almost want to open the suitcase and stick those thoughts in there, I don’t want to think about that every happening because it won’t, and can’t happen. I step up the stairs grabbing my jacket and slinging it over my shoulder, my black umbrella in my left hand.

I think its time to go outside, don’t you? That sun looks beautiful and the puddles on the ground are inviting. I wonder what my friends are doing? Thankfully I have a new smile for them today hidden under my black umbrella.