no more glass slippers (short story)
Current mood: calm
Category: Writing and Poetry
There was something of a spectacle on 3rd and Beebaum, about a quarter mile from the main financial district. Car horns had been blaring for about 10 minutes straight. Traffic was snagged. Nothing was moving….not even spectators.
Joe's was an outside coffee bar, but he sold booze, too, which ordinarily you couldn't get this early in the morning. Early rush hour traffic would only be worse if one could stop by Joe Side Café and Bar and grab a shot, then climb back into the car and drive off to work. A shot of cappuccino was one thing, but Double Espresso vodka, chilled in the freezer, was another. And so the freezer was off-limits.
Until today.
It's not so much that shot glasses were out and the Double Espresso was open and pouring that stopped traffic. It was more likely the white horse tied up to the parking meter, the blue trappings, the gold embroidery, the lilies weaved into the horses mane, the golden horseshoes. The horse paid the traffic no mind. It didn't even look out over Beebaum or react to the noise. It simply waited and listened to conversation under the dark brown awning that declared the environs therein were the property of Joe.
And at the moment, Joe was in deep conversation with someone he seemed familiar with. He poured another shot of the old DE, and sighed, looking up.
"Are you gonna spill or what?" he urged.
The figure opposite him, back to the sidewalk, the spectacle of the horse and the confusion and congestion of the street, couldn't look up. He stared down into the shot glass, seeing only the reflection of his baby blues. They were red and swollen – not his usual dashing look. Locks of blonde fell over his forehead and eyes, a considerable change from his perfect coifed coiffure of the night before. A hint of 8am shadow grizzled his face, and he stroked his chin, appreciating the coarseness of the whiskers.
"No more glass slippers, Joe." These were the only words he'd been able to bring forth since he'd arrived an hour before, dragging in, walking and leading Sterling by the reins, head drooping, shoulders sagging.
"No more glass slippers."
It was the sound of finality. It had that ring.
Joe reached up, for the first time with the courage to lay a hand on this man, and gripped his shoulder, squeezing the velvety softness of the gold lame, wondering for a moment at the contrast between the suppleness of the fabric and the steel fibers of muscles he felt underneath. The word on the street was right. The Prince was buff!
But the shoulders that often carried so much weight were droopy and soft today, despite the undeniable strength that could be brought to bear at any moment. In this moment, he couldn't have drawn his sword against even a butterfly. Even now it hung uselessly at his waist, dangling from his thick black belt. It clanked against the bar stool as his legs fidgeted aimlessly, bumping against the knee high black leather boots.
"Come on, kid. Out with it. PC, you need to get it together." He let go of the man's shoulder, giving his a little shove, a little shake, something to maybe get something out of the guy who'd he'd known for years.
Charming looked up, took a deep breath and pushed it out between his lips. "Let's do it," he said, forlornly, his gaze meeting Joe's, his fingers wrapping around the shot glass. It was a double this time – double shot, Double Espresso. Coffee was not on the menu this morning.
Joe winked and gave a little smile, his lip curling up on the left. It was a slightly sinister look, but it was sincerely warm. It was just crooked, and you just had to know Joe to know that he was on the level.
"No more glass slippers, Joe," continued the prince, and they tipped back the glasses and drank down the burning, cold liquid.
As the glasses cracked against the bar, Joe was quick to follow up. "So, spill already, kid. I got customers, and Margie can keep 'em busy for a while, but the courthouse and the Mayor's office will be open soon, and then I'll be swamped." Joe looked left and right, sizing up the clientele and how Margie was getting along, decided she was handling things ok, even with how her bunions were giving her trouble today.
Charming cleared his throat rather dramatically, but that was normal for him. He paused, twisting up his mouth, then blurted out: "She ditched me last night and went to the club down on 13th, Joe. She ditched me. She just didn't show up at the Ball. I had the glass slipper. I sharpened my sword just in case there was any trouble. I got my mani and pedi at the castle. I even brushed up my ballroom dancing with Winfred – made him pretend to be her for a few minutes while I was getting ready and before I would let him finish gathering the laundry. She ditched me, and all I got was a lousy text message."
Joe listened, chin in his hand, his normal stance, and the sign that he was truly listening. He'd picked up that look as a bartender over on B Street at, of course, the B Street Bar and Lounge. A good bartender, as he always said, shows you that he's listening and then actually listens. He twisted up his mouth as the prince poured out his night.
"I rode Sterling in – figured that might impress her. I stood at the front door, at the top of the steps, where I said I would meet her. I think I stood there for about an hour, watching everyone walk by, hand in hand, arm in arm, pulling my damned sword out of the way, trying not to let the corsage get crushed. Then around 10:30, I felt my phone buzz, so I reached into my tunic, and she'd sent like three texts."
"Yeah, yeah, and what did she say?"
"A lot. She said a lot. But primarily that she liked me and thought I was great and all, but she just didn't think I was the right guy." Charming looked away, starring down again into the depths of the tall shot glass, wondering if there would be more DE. He inhaled, a long, deep draw of breath through the nose, and eased it out through his mouth silently. His heart was pounding, and he thought he might need another shot.
"No more glass slippers." This time it was Joe who spoke. "No more, PC. Got me? No more. Nowadays girls aren't ready for that kind of thing. You always try too hard. You are sincere and honest about the way you feel, and that's good, but it scares a lot of people. And you just try too hard. Come on, you know as well as I do. People are just damned afraid of getting hurt nowadays. They don't want to take the chance. It's too dangerous."
"But I have a sword, Joe. I-"
"No, silly man, that's not what I mean. So what you have a sword! So what you can slay a dragon! So what you have a great life, you are well-educated, you are smart and sexy and fun. So what! So what you can ballroom dance and can ride a horse! PC, that's not the point. That's not the point, bub!"
Charming looked up calmly. "What is the point, Joe, oh purveyor of wisdom?"
Joe wrinkled his nose at the sarcasm. "Yeah, yeah, it's too damn early for your sarcasm, Highness. But listen up, listen good. Girls nowadays are just not ready for what you have to offer. And hell, more often than not, no one is ready. Commitment? Love? Oh, these are dangerous times, my friend! No one is up for that kind of danger!!! Sure, they'll drive 145mph on their Ducati's. They'll do drugs in the bathroom at the club. They will drink themselves into unconsciousness or have tons of unprotected and risky sex. But man, let me tell you, people are not ready or willing to go through heartache. You are too real – the fantasy of what could be is safer."
"That doesn't make any sense. I am. I put myself out there." Charming was growing angry, angry at Joe, angry at his lousy morning, angry that the DE was making his head swim a little and there was quite the ride left to get back to the castle.
"I know, PC. I know. I know." Joe could see the anger behind the blue eyes of the prince, and he shifted gears, bringing out more soothing tones, and continuing. "It's not you, man. It's not you. It's them. You are good to go, and frankly I'm proud of you. You did do it. You put yourself out there. You said 'Hey, I'm up for love, and I'm willing to take the chance.' But, my man, let me put it to you straight: she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. And I hate to tell you this: most people aren't. But you did someone most people are unwilling to do: you followed your heart."
Joe stole a glace at Margie, saw her with the carafe in her hand and motioned her over. He pulled two cups from under the bar, and waited while Margie poured simple black coffee, filling them to the rim. He closed his eyes for a second and inhaled the gentle aroma of the brew and smiled. "Cup o' joe?" he quipped, and slid one of the cups across to Charming.
"Thanks, buddy," replied the prince, wrapping his hands around the hot cup.
"But let me ask you: what was so special about this one?"
Charming looking down at the coffee cup, felt the steam rising from the dark liquid. He could see her then, she every inch of her face, and he smiled a little smile, felt his heart thump. "I don't know. I don't know, Joe. I mean, I do, but it's hard to say. It just felt right. I just felt like 'yeah, this one could really go somewhere.' I could see the long and the short of it, like it was all really possible. So, I said what I had to say, and I put myself out there." He paused, took a breath. "I just wished she had said 'ok'."
Joe smiled warmly at the outpouring of emotion, encouraged by the risk the prince had taken. His finger traced the top of the coffee cup, and he said, "So, as I was saying. Look around you. Most people just aren't up for your fairy tale. The glass slipper thing is sweet, even romantic, but I think you're going to have to lay off and chill for a bit. Leave ole Sterling at home and take a cab. Drop the get-up and stick with nice jeans and a black t, or a nice shirt and a blazer. And just realize that nowadays, people are more guarded about their hearts than they are about anything. They cover up their pain with booze and drugs and parties. They don't make love, they just hook up. People don't wanna make that commitment – they say they do, but they don't. They don't. The reality is too real. It's too scary."
There was a pause, and Joe moved to fill it, like the empty cup in his hand. "Listen, give the girl some credit. She said she thought about it and you weren't the one. Take it at that. Maybe she realizes what she wants, and you can't give it to her. That's ok. It might hurt a little, but it's ok. It's just real. It is what it is, and you know that sometimes things just don't work out."
Sipping the black liquid carefully, Charming felt the warmth of it flowing down his throat, felt the tension of the long black night begin to fade. "What now, Joe? I don't wanna be a player. I don't wanna run around and booze it up and just hook up and all that bullshit. I'm tired of that. I want something real."
"Well," said Joe, and he sipped at his coffee and got that faraway gaze in his head for a moment, "I'm afraid these are just the times we live in, PC. You just gotta chill. When people are tired of being afraid, when they realize the value in taking that chance, then they will be ready. But it's not going to be soon. It's a self-perpetuating tornado of fear and emptiness. Everyone is just out to party, and that feeds the party. But sooner or later, as I said, people are going to stop being able to hide that emptiness within them with booze and drugs and parties. Sooner or later that void with be so great that they can't ignore it. And sooner or later someone will come out of the crowd, a bit dazed perhaps, and wonder what they've been missing. And you'll be standing there, and they'll see Prince Charming for what he is."
Charming snickered, sipped at his coffee. Warily he opened his mouth and asked the inevitable question: "And who is he?"
Joe smiled, not that sinister smile from before, but a wide, toothy smile that crinkled up his eyes. "Well, they'll see someone who is worth the effort, someone who is willing to put it out there and take a chance. And that should mean something." He adjusted his cup and looked up into the clear blue circles before him. "Let me tell you something, son. You used to be like that a little, too – afraid and all walled up, and now you aren't. Now you have conquered that fear. Now you are ready to have something meaningful in your life. Now you are ready to take that chance. And remember, even if it doesn't work out, at least you were brave enough to try. Even when it hurts, at least it's something; it's some level of love. And that's a good thing."
He sipped at the last of his coffee and set the cup down. Charming's countenance had changed in just the last few minutes, and he looked more confident and even slightly proud of himself. His shoulders were straighter now, his head up. There was a little of that old gleam in his eye, the same one his father had had when he used to stop by for a cup o' Joe. It had been a good talk, and that's what bartenders were for.
"Now," he continued, "as you said, 'No more glass slippers.' Just go do your thing and be cool, and what you want will come around. Just be yourself and be real. And, PC, don't be afraid to take another chance. No heart equals no soul. Exercise both."
The prince smiled weakly, but he knew the old man was right. "Ok," he breathed. "I gotcha." He spun around from the bar stool, unsnagged his scabbard, and tossed Joe a gold coin. "Keep the change, Joe," he declared. "A cup o' Joe with you is worth every penny." A smile crossed his face, and he breathed deeply. Unwrapping Sterling's reins from the parking meter with a flourish, he turned and headed off down the street, eyes up, looking at the blue sky peeking in from between the surrounding buildings.
Joe turned back to Margie for a moment, and then spun back and leaned out over the bar when car horns blared at the lone man leading a white horse onto the crosswalk at the corner of 3rd and Beebaum. It was just another typical Monday in the city. Hopefully next year's Ball would be better.
Currently
listening
:
OK
By
Talvin Singh
Release date: 1998-11-03
i am a drama queen (reprised)
Current mood: silly
Category: Life
I have declared myself Drama Queen, and you are all invited to my coronation next week, Wednesday, 12:30pm at the palace. I sent out invitations to everyone. And I'm sure you will all be there.....well, unless you don't want to come, or you don't like me, or you think I'm not cool enough, or you think I'm stupid.........and if you do, well, I don't care, so there. Well, actually, if you don't all come, I'm going to cry. And I'm going to shut myself in my room and not come out for a week........no, a year. And I'm not going to eat anything ever again.........no, wait, I'm only going to eat M&Ms, and I'm going to get really fat, and it'll be your fault. So, there! I can't believe you did this to me!
**um, this is just meant to be funny -- this is not the result of anything**
the Maidoon-ay Aftab
Current mood: inspired
Category: Writing and Poetry
The bazaar was buzzing, and the sun had been up for hours already. The call to prayer was ringing now from the minarets, and it echoed down the long, busy corridors. There was always much to be done before the hot sun shut down everything for a few hours.
Only a few minutes left to get to the maidoon.
He looked up, searching for the sun betwixt the sheets and parday that were hung stretched across the winding paths of the bazaar. There was very little sky to be seen, and the sun was nowhere to be found. It made no difference, he reminded himself, the call to prayer told him the time. The games would begin as soon as it was ended.
The maidoon beckoned.
Dancing away, he avoided the hard boots of a worker, and ducked under a large table covered with greenish-yellow pears and apples. Heavy footfalls stomped on the packed earth, barely avoiding his bare toes. He watched the man tromp by, a few large sacks bending him like a tree in a toofan. How many talents of rice could one man carry? And at what price? He shook that thought away, seeing himself bent and twisted, bags of grain over his shoulder day after day. It wasn't his destiny. He had one, and today was the first day, the first step to fulfilling it.
Turning, wide-eyed, he checked to see if the coast was clear, but already an endless stream of people was passing to and fro. There was no opening, only the one momentary lapse that had gotten him into the dimly lit corridor and out of the seeking sun.
If he could hide from the sun, he could hide from the Master. Both of them would be looking for him now, and he could not afford discovery. Today had been the day. He could wait no longer.
Shifting the cloth that wound around his head, he pushed it back a bit from his eyes and watched for an opening. Blues and oranges, faded reds, purples and sabzis – the colors of the spectrum crossed before his eyes, inches from his face, all about their own business and completely unaware of the small, browned boy who peeked out from under the protection of the fruit-seller's table.
He sniffed, and then covered his mouth and nose. It was too dusty here, and the coughing was about to start. He needed to get moving. And it was safer on the move. Master might walk by anytime. Master had heard all about it maidoon, and he would be headed this way as soon as he realized the water bucket sat alone at the well.
The maidoon. And the call to prayer was almost over!
He could wait no longer, and he bolted out of his sanctuary! Bumped by a large man in a long, tattered robe, he rocked back against the table, his momentary place of safety, and spun away, hands reaching and grabbing and tucking away an apple and a pear into the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers. He turned and ran, smiling at his sudden, instinctive reaction and the upcoming glorious breakfast! Behind him the meeveh-foroosh was yelling, calling him back, and then scolding him with words he was sure he'd heard Master use before.
The voice of the fruit-seller faded into the background, and the din of the bazaar took its place. Hurrying along, he ducked and plunged, twisted and turned through the pack. He had no time to think, only to react, only to become one with the crowd, one with the bazaar, a wave in the tumultuous ocean. Voices faded in and out. A vendor exclaimed that everything in his shop was only one dinar. A second and third vendor took up the call, each vying for a customer, each with identical wares piled high in their tiny shops and spilling out into the crush of the alley.
The parday wafted in the warm morning breezes, hundreds of sheets of cloth fluttering in the sky like leafy boughs of plane trees lining a dusty road, blocking out the sun to create a shady path. Only the path was not the cool green of the leaves overhead, but hues of turquoise and gold, amber, coffee and violet, colors beamed down from above, where the sun tried to peek through the canopy. The twisting ally was like a miniature mosaic, tiny squares of color laid close-to to create a work of art.
The minarets continued their melodious exaltation of God, but the end of the prayer was nearing. Behind him he could hear the high-pitched voice fading away, only to be picked up and echoed by a lower tone ahead. It would be the Masjed-ay Soleiman, he told himself. He was sure. Master had mentioned it as being just past the part of the souk where all the fruit-sellers were. And looking around, as he slipped and ducked and danced around the foot traffic, he spied the ripened tomatoes, the figs stacked in fragile pyramids, and the carts of dates and pistachios. Oh, if only he had a toman! But he didn't have time to be caught stealing. This was the fruit market. And that meant that the maidoon was very close.
A voice thundered through the false twilight of the bazaar, and the boy nearly tripped from fright. It had sounded like the Master, although he wasn't able to make out the words. Was he coming up behind? Had he seen him? There would only be the whip if he was caught this time.
He forgot the pistachios and figs, and ground his teeth in grim determination, turned and ran.
The corridor split in two directions, blocked ahead by the gleaming beauty of the Masjed-ay Soleiman.
Here the sheets overhead gave way to the height and beauty of the marvelous marble majesty. The blue gateway beckoned, the great doors swung open, and just inside he could see the throngs of people pressed together, each seeking a spot below the vaulted dome, a turquoise wonder that reached into the sky and gleamed with the light of the heavenly sun. It was a stunning sight, and for a moment he forgot the crush of the crowd, forgot the Master, and almost forgot the maidoon. For a moment there was only the call of God in his mind, beseeching him to step forward and prostrate himself, seducing him with the promise of Paradise.
He starred, awed and unsure of his next step, mesmerized, destination forgotten, the maidoon drifting away, supplanted by the splendors of God.
And suddenly, a great cheer went up, breaking spell! A call not to prayer, but for the games to begin. And suddenly he was back to here and now, a small boy run away from Master to seek the Maidoon-ay Aftab, a mysterious and magnificent place he'd never seen, a place that would take him on to his destiny, which he felt so surely in his heart, as surely as he saw God under the blue archway before him.
The noise had come from the right, and it was followed by another cheer. God can wait, he thought, and he turned and ran.
The crowd grew even more dense, more so than he thought possible. He was sure that there could never exist this many people in the whole world, much less in Ashkezar. And as the crowd grew larger, it became louder and louder, every mouth working, as if he was now a tiny bee in huge hive. Squeezing through, he took advantage of his size and slipped between legs, careful to watch out for his fingers. He ducked under arms, and dashed through openings, pressing ahead and breathing hard.
Here it was: the maidoon!
He was finally here, and his destiny was here. And as he pushed through to the front and stumbled onto the packed but soft earth of the square, landing squarely on his hands and knees, he was awed. There, bigger than he thought anything could ever be, was what had to have been an "elephant". It was shuffling from side to side, the long trunk swinging in rhythm to its movement. The gray skin was wrinkled and patchy, worn in some areas, and dirty from the dust. The huge feet gave way to massive legs, a gargantuan rounded body, and on the smallish head a pair of ears the size of which the boy had never imagined. Behind it a tiny tail swished aimlessly.
It was an elephant. An elephant! Master had described it perfectly. And here it was. And not only that, there were several, at least four as far as he could tell. And each was outfitted in straps and buckles of leather, leading up to the creature's back, where a young man sat, one man on each beast, talking amongst themselves. Each of the young men, in turn, was dressed in a tunic of light sabzi, the same color as new palm fronds. And each held a long pole, long enough to reach the ground, with a kind of mallet on the end.
Still sprawled out in wonder, the boy was startled by a loud horn to his left, and sat up, eyes wide, and took in the rest of the Maidoon-ay Aftab, the Field of the Sun, the team of elephants on the far end, their riders all dressed in scarlet and holding similar sticks. And just in the middle, in one corner of the field, was a herd of smaller animals, baby elephants, and a number of small boys standing next to them, all stripped to the waist but wearing bluish, billowing trousers. The sun shone down on their sweaty adolescent chests, but they stood proudly next to their charges, and occasionally reached out and ran their hands over the tough, gray skin of the child-sized beasts.
He smiled, knowing that somehow he was finally where he should be, and he knew then that one way or another, he would have a pair of those azure trousers and stand next to his own baby elephant, no matter what it took. Standing up, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pear. It was a little bruised, but he bit into it and felt the tender flesh tear away, the succulent sweetness of the pear on his tongue. And then a thought occurred to him, and he pulled the apple out of his pocket, looked at the boys in the distance, smiled, and started walking.
Master, he thought, should never have mentioned seeing the elephants in the Maidoon-ay Aftab.
There was a knock at the door. It was almost lost in the crash of thunder outside, where the thunderstorm was raging. All the local stations would be blaring red warning signs on their screens, she thought. Stay home! But she hadn't listened, and so far it had been a terrific idea!
Answer that, will ya? He stuck his head out of the kitchen, smiling again, his hair tussled but still wet.
The sheets smelled like vomit. Her vomit. There was no doubt about that. And she could taste it still. She'd had to swallow most of it down to keep from choking, to keep from making any more noise. Just doing so had almost made her puke again, and the horrid emptiness in her stomach, less from the vomit than the overwhelming fear, kept her from retching again.
Thunder rolled across the night somewhere in the distance. The storm was growing more violent, a reflection of the night. It was all she could hear. And she couldn't open her eyes. She couldn't see him again. She couldn't see what he'd done. Not again.
Shivering racked her body. She couldn't stop it. Her teeth would have chattered against each other if not for the cloth in her mouth, stifling anything above a sob or groan. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to hold her body still, willed herself to be still, prayed again to a God only hours before she'd not believed in. Was God real? Was this it? Would He welcome her after all these years of denial and disbelief?
Thunder crashed against the outer doors, shaking the glass and ripping a muffled scream from her lips. Even as the thunder rolled away into the distance, her sobbing filled the room with a heartbreaking descant, a counter to the soothing rain on the balcony and what had been an evening of simple pleasures.
She'd thought the classical music was somewhat pretentious at first, but decided that perhaps, on a night like this, it was just right. It was rather playful for the most part, and she found herself enjoying the soothing strings. But now and again, the deep tones of the horn section swept in with forbidding undertones – such sharp contrast! It left her wondering about the composer who could interweave such light-hearted notes with such melancholy strains, seemingly a perfect reflection of the storm, its thunder sporadically breaking through the gentle pitter-patter of the rain on the windows.
Toccata and Fugue, he announced. My favorite.
He crossed the room to the fireplace and clicked the second of the two remotes. The fire flicked into existence as if Prometheus himself was locked in the small silvery piece of plastic in hand. He looked back at her and winked.
She'd giggled, still standing there by the door, the bottle of wine in her hand, watching him dart around the room, setting the scene, building the ambience one block at a time. Soon the whole castle would be built, and he'd turn and smile childishly and ask if she liked it, if it was tall enough, if she was impressed that he'd used all of the blocks and how the yellows formed a pyramid. It was amusing. It was endearing, and it was more effort than anyone had put into her in a long time.
He spun around, caught her eye, and grinned. Just like a little boy. And he whirled with only the slightest of flourishes and disappeared around the corner of the fireplace toward the kitchen, paper bag in hand.
Wait here, he said. She waited, letting the door swing closed.
This was his chance to show off, to amaze her, to sweep her off her feet. But the way he had touched her in the bar, the way he had breathed in her ear – she was already floating off the ground, already traipsing through fields of dandelions and daisies. What was left but to meet her lover in the middle of the sun-stroked meadow and fall into the warmth of each others' arms?
She closed her eyes, and let the music sweep over her, seeing him again in her mind's eye. I have just the thing, he said as he appeared again, the boyish grin still on his face, the same one that had played across his features the first time he'd looked at her. This will fit our little picnic just perfectly, he spouted, spinning back around, and he twirled the rest of the way around, perhaps a little tipsy, but gracefully enough, one arm extended if not for balance, than perhaps a reminder of the arm that had held her closely in the walk home, just before it had started to rain.
Bach is perfect for picnics, he offered – he was a fountain of information – as the linen tablecloth fluttered in the warm air of the room and floated down to the carpet in front of the fireplace, one corner tucked underneath defiantly.
Thunder shook the room again!
Or was it the door slamming open again? She was afraid to open her eyes. She didn't want to know. She cringed,waited, prayed again. She didn't deserve this. She shouldn't have even been here. It was a simple thing, a perfect storm of events, that had led her here, and this was not fair, not fair, not fair.
And not over. Not yet. Definitely not yet.
Biting down, she tried to crush the cloth in her mouth, if only to give her throbbing jaws some relief, if only to lick her dried lips. Thinking about it, she began to whimper again, feeling more tears coming.
Her hands had already ceased to ache – they were numb from the tightness of the belt around her wrists. Her feet were still tingling, some sensation left, but it would be gone soon. She wiggled her toes, fought back the urge to pull and twist and fight the constriction of the other belt around her ankles. Every time she pulled, it grew tighter. What little sensation there was left gave her some kind of comfort, some hope. It was perhaps all there was – all she had left.
Eyes closed in the darkness, there was only the steady drumming of rain on the balcony and the pounding of her heart, threatening to explode within her chest. If only it would, this whole episode would be over.
It was, in fact, a bit of a walk to his place, he'd admitted, but it was a nice night out, and the forecasted rain was holding off. They'd have plenty of time, and if caught in the rain, it might just be fun.
She nodded, feeling her head spinning a bit from the Caipirinhas. Or was it his smile and his touch? Maybe it was the way he had just grabbed her hand, leaned in and told her that it was too crowded there and they needed go somewhere else. He was hungry, and wouldn't it be nice to have a little picnic? She giggled again, thinking about his suggestion to go have a picnic at10:30 at night. But she followed, fingers entwined. This was an adventure, and it was looking good so far.
Buildings passed by on the right, as they headed up the street. Neon light glowed orange and yellow and green. Doormen stood at the entrances, checking IDs and calling out the specials: first drink is free; live music tonight! Two hole-in-the-wall pizza joints were open side-by-side, and the owners stood in their respective doorways, shops empty, chatting. The smell of the pizza was enticing, mouth-watering. And they looked at each other as they walked by, but he assured her his suggestion was much better, and it was right up the street on the corner, about a block away.
We left the banana on the bar, he declared unceremoniously, his face contorted in mock disappointment. I might need that again, you know? She stared back for a moment, and then they both stared laughing. He squeezed her hand again, and turned up the street.
They crossed 7th without incident, but had to slip past two working girls on the opposite corner before they could duck into the House of Kabob, where the sign read "Buffet open til midnight". A few minutes later, they emerged, packages in hand, and he turned to her there on the corner and smiled. Two servings of chicken tikka masala, rice, noon bread and a bottle of wine – now it was time for a picnic!
Can I get any spare change, buddy?came the call from the shadows, but he dismissed the man sitting against the side of the building. He turned back to her and whispered just above the noise of the street: let's get out of here; I need something to eat. He winked and turned.
She smiled, squeezing his hand again in answer, and followed him up the street. The food smelled delicious, and his eyes were such a lovely shade of green!
The door opened again. She could hear the knob turn, but her heart was threatening to block out any other sounds he made. A whimper escaped her lips. There was nothing left to do now. A fresh tear sparkled at the corner of her eye, and for the first time she didn't turn her head to wipe it away on her sleeve.
The bed sagged, creaking on one side, and she wailed, trying to stifle the moan but unable to suppress the overwhelming fear that ensnared her and was dragging her down now into the depths of this private Hell. He was back for perhaps the final round of his so-called "fun", and it was utterly apparent that there was no escape for her.
He didn't speak, and she couldn't hear his breathing anymore. Her own breathing, her uncontrollable sobbing, the pounding of her heart, it's threat to leap out of her chest before he could tear it out himself – these snuffed out every noise, except the rumblings of the powerful storm outside.
The bed shifted again, and her body tilted as he sat down next to her. She struggled with her bonds, but they held fast, tightening, tightening as she pulled on them. All she could do was turn her head away from where she knew him to be, eyes squeezed shut, mouth biting down on the gag. His fingertips played over her body, and she shuddered, sickened. Her stomach revolted, and she retched. Nothing more than stomach acid filled her mouth with its bitterness, and she swallowed it down, coughing.
His laugh was muffled, more through his nose than his mouth. He was enjoying her reaction, enjoying the game.
His fingers played across her naked belly, his hands mauled her breasts, and he pulled at her nipples. She felt the fingertips graze the lips of her vagina, and she nearly screamed, a muffled plea not to be touched there, to be left alone, to be left alive. She struggled violently in her bonds, but there was no way to prevent him from whatever he desired!
He growled, and moments later, she felt the knife again and grew still.
Rain was threatening when she'd walked into the corner bar, Samm's, on 23rd and X. It was one of those Thursdays that had seemed to never end, an Olympic day – she'd nicknamed them after seeing her little brother's training schedule one day while visiting from school. She was less awed by his water polo skills than his long hours of preparation.
There was the "ding ding" of the bells on the door and Samm standing in her usual place, Caipirinha in hand. I don't have to be in until 10, she thought. Olympic days were always best when late mornings followed! The first Caipirinha went down smooth, and as the second was being shaken, he leaned in and quipped toward Samm, if I'd known this was a 'fruity drink bar', I'd have brought more than my banana.
Samm's laughter was as exaggerated as her eye roll, and then it rolled on when he reached down into the crush of people and pulled a slightly green banana from his jacket pocket. He smiled when he dropped it on the bar and turned to her, winking. I carry it everywhere on the chance that I can use that joke and maybe meet a cute girl. And when he smiled, she couldn't help but grin in return. And she turned away, feeling foolish, hand covering her mouth and stifling a giggle. But she noticed that his eyes were an amazingly bright green.
Two Caipirinhas plunked down on the bar, and Samm blew her a kiss and slid quietly away.
He dropped the knife between the two ruined bodies, and turned away, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his new coat. He could feel the watches, the money clip and other trinkets in the left-hand pocket, the contents of her purse in the right. Passing through the outer room, Toccata and Fugue was playing again, set, it seemed, on repeat. He grabbed the bottle of wine of off the floor, considered the label for a second, and then snatched up the package of bread, tucking it into a pocket. He turned back to the stereo, absorbed in the final notes of the masterpiece. As the music faded away, he crossed to the doorway and grabbed the umbrella still wrapped tightly and dryly in the corner. Nasty out tonight, he mumbled, and opened the door and slipped out into the hallway. I could have used just a little spare change to get out of the rain.
Fight Club and a host of other movies and books that I enjoy or have seen/read recently have all fallen in with a lot of changes that I've been making, or trying to make, to be honest. I don't pretend to be perfect or even to try and achieve perfection, but I do profess to being trying to 'get it', to understand just what the hell it is that I am supposed to be doing now with my life.
Last night I took some time and went to the coffee shop, Kiss Cafe, one of my favorite places to go, and I took along one of the books I am reading: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Ok, haha, I'm reading Harry Potter, and yes, I'm reading it on purpose. That said, it's in Farsi, so giggle all you want. Yes, it's 'professional reading', and I thought it would be both fun and challenging, so I've taken it up. I read 12 pages in an hour, and I can't say that I get everything that's being said, but I do understand most of it. And it's fun to try and figure it out.
Afterward, I thought about the rest of my evening and what I would do with it. Hmmmm, cook dinner, see what's going on with the Olympics (I rarely watch TV), turn on some music and either continue to read this Harry Potter book or work on the short story I started the other day. As I was moving into that part of the evening, though, I wondered again just what the hell I'm supposed to be doing with myself.
I just finished reading "Fight Club", a terrific and twisted tale of modern rebellion against the soulless American Dream (or as those of you who know me, know it as the "American Daydream").
What an amazing journey the story has taken since it was originally a short story, which incidentally became chapter 6! A short story became a novel, which became a movie, which started...........well, nothing. T-shirts -- check. Websites -- yes. Cool YouTube clips -- yes! But did it start a revolution again the thing that plagues our country: soulless consumerism? No.
I know this because Tyler knows this.
Was "Fight Club" a failure?
Only if you fail to grasp it's meaning, which, I think, is hard to do since it hits you in the face like a bare fist.
The first rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. The problem is, it seems, is that everyone learned the first rule too well.
The second rule of Fight Club is you don't talk about Fight Club. Shit! Obedient, mindless little fucks that we are, we seem to have taken these two rule to heart. That is, no one talks about Fight Club.
Well, I don't learn so good. I'm going to talk about it.
Tyler Durdin is my hero.
He doesn't hate you. He hates what you have become, what you have allowed yourself to become.
Neither of us understands what's going on in this country. Why do we have an entire country full of people who live to make money? Why do we work our asses off to buy things, to purchase leisure, to obtain things that only contribute to us feeling empty inside, a short-term rush, a fleeting false happiness?
Who is Tyler, besides the alternate main character in the book and movie? Is he your soul crying out from neglect? Is he your conscious, telling you to stop thinking about yourself for a moment? Is he your alter-ego, rebelling against your own choices?
Or he just a "single-serving friend", like so many people you meet?
Or maybe he's a reminder to us all that most of us have our priorities in what I think are the wrong places, that we have adopted a lifestyle that is not only unhealthy for us, physically and emotionally and spiritually, but also that we have lost touch with what is actually most important: other people.
Perhaps he's a reminder that we have lost touch with ourselves, and we don't even know who we really are and what we are here for.
Fight Club was a successful attempt to link a story together with a common theme, the rules of the Fight Club itself, a brilliant commentary on life in today's America, and yet no one seems to have been listening. Instead, we complain that we can't see it in HD, we're upset that the Director's Cut isn't out yet, and we wish we could go over to Joe's house and watch it on his 65" plasma TV. The message, it seems, is lost.
And what's the message? "...never be complete. Stop being perfect. Let's evolve. Let the chips fall where they may."
"Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. "
"It's just stuff."
And from someone (this author, me) who's watched his house burn to the ground, I can honestly say that I could care less about all my "stuff". It's unimportant. I got out and my dad got out, and we were both ok. All my stuff can go to hell, and as soon as the rest of us learn that, maybe we won't need to talk about "Fight Club". Maybe we can stop for a second and look around and see those things that are most important in life -- people, and maybe, for a moment, relearn how to connect with them.
But for now, fuck the rules. Let's talk about "Fight Club". It's ok. Go ahead. Hit me. Hit me as hard as you can.
ps. Yes, I have actually pissed in someone's coffee. :)
(my entry from the 3-day/3-way challenge -- previous blog -- exactly 3000 words)
******
Afterword
The words tripped through her mind again. "….and what if there had been no magical wardrobe? What then?"
She bit into the plum, feeling the juices running down her chin, wiping them away casually with a stained hand. The sweetness of the warm fruit mixed with the sweet stench of the freshly rolled cigarette, and she closed her eyes, feeling the sun spilling across her skin. The supple flesh of the fruit, the warmth of the tiles underfoot, the cool breeze wafting across the balcony and through her tussled hair – these were not the things of the wardrobe. No, there, in that scratchy darkness there was only cold, only ice crunching underfoot, only the haunting ring of the sleigh bells nearing, nearing, nearing.
She bolted upright.
"No wardrobe. There is no wardrobe. No wardrobe?"
She swallowed, blinked. The plum had fallen from her hand, and she spied it on the tile nearby next to the knife…..next to the pool of blood.
"Of course there is a wardrobe, my dear," she murmured. "Of course there's a wardrobe."
There was no denying it. Who was that fool to say there was no wardrobe? Another author indeed. Yes, another author, but just a fool whose works ran to all manner of horrible monsters and inhuman, yes inhuman, alliances! Author indeed! Famous? Amazing work? Who could believe that kind of work could come out of a Christian soul? Elves and dwarves? All minions of evil. All horrible monsters that no man or woman could ever ally with or defend. "Middle Earth"?
Standing, she looked down into the valley for a moment, and the mountains rose up around it. She smiled, again feeling the morning sun on her skin. The fog that had covered the valley earlier was beginning to lift, to burn away under the light of the coming day. The mists gave way to conifer forests and little dots of red roofs here and there, tiny, sparse signs of civilization. Swirling smoke drifted up from some of the little red splotches, mingling with the low clouds and then spiraling up into the sky. The grayness of it contrasted with the brightening blue above and paralleled the twisting offering of her own cigarette only inches away. Beyond, across the valley, the slopes of the mountains were still shrouded in shadow, a bleak reminder of the night's horrible work.
"What if there had been no wardrobe?" she muttered.
It's not like the pureness of Lewis' tale, the very parallel of His life. The slaying of Aslan, his sacrifice to the White Witch to save a child, his humiliation, death and then triumphant return! His resurrection! How could there be no wardrobe? No closet full of fur coats giving way to fir trees, the spiny branches with their fuzzy needles, scratching at one's skin, at one's face. She could remember now, the scent of the pines, the cold silence of the wood, the chill of the air when her coat had fallen open – it had never fit right, after all. It had been for adults, after all.
After all – her mind drifted like the wisps of grayness warped by the morning breeze, and she reached down and caught the cigarette between her fingers, pushed it between her lips and took a long drag. The coughing set in again, but this time it wasn't as ferocious. She held onto the cigarette lest it fall into the abyss below, and she leaed out over the edge of the balcony and tapped the ashes away.
She did not smile, but she could not help but take in the elegant beauty of the world she saw before her. The breeze made her shiver, a reminder of the night again flashing before her eyes – slash! She trembled. Her hands were shaking so much that she wrapped her arms around her naked body in a desperately vain attempt to hold herself still. Only the need to drag on the wet tip of the cigarette paper could move her. And this time she didn't cough at all. She held the sweet smoke inside, held it against her nearly overwhelming desire to spew it out. She held the cigarette at the cusp of her lips even though she knew she needed to toss it over the edge and watch it fall away into the smoky soup below.
She exhaled, shivered again, and tapped the ashes onto the balcony wall. A breeze swept across and whipped them away into invisibility.
"No wardrobe?"
She blinked, crushing her lids together and then pulling her eyes open wide. "What?" Looking around, she licked her lips, tasting the foulness of her mouth, the thin film covering her teeth. She licked at it with her tongue, her lips curled up into a malice-less sneer. It seemed like she was just beginning to wake, but she was sure she'd been on the balcony for hours, watching the dawn break and the sun begin to peak over the tops of the black mountains.
She sniffed loudly, took another drag, and turned away from the splendor, crossing the balcony, around the small table and chairs toward the open French doors. The tiles were so deliciously warm, a perfect mixture with the cool morning air that set her body to tingling. It was a mouth-watering mix of sensations, similar to the juicy plum and the cigarette. These flavors played across her mind even as she stepped into the small sea of blood between the table and the doorway and felt the icky liquid squish between her toes.
She didn't notice it at all.
Tracking blood onto the beige carpet, she retraced her already well-established path through the main room and into the bedroom and bathroom, the off-white walls blurring together as felt rather than saw her way forward. Her stomach was heaving, and she clamped her hand across her lips, one hand holding back the coming eruption, the other delicately holding the blunt while she fidgeted with the lid of the toilet. Finally her pinky caught the plastic and flipped it up, revealing the desecration already left there. There was no holding it back any longer, as the stench of it washed over her, and she spewed the little contents of her stomach across the seat and back of the bowl, retching and screaming as the liquid and bits of fruit evacuated.
She collapsed again, dropping onto the floor and onto her back. She laid still for a few moments, collecting herself for a gargantuan effort: getting back up. The stench, the wetness of the floor hinting at something unseen, and the acrid taste in her mouth all called for her to get up and move, to get away, to get back out of this awful, ruined room and back onto the pristine serenity of the balcony. She tilted her head to the side and spit over and over.
Twisting, a groan seeping out from between pursed lips as she strained, she rolled over on her side. The cigarette had fallen from her hand, something she only noticed as she turned about and tried to push herself up onto her knees. It had to be here somewhere, and it was likely that it was still lit. Hopefully it was.
"I need another hit."
It had to be here somewhere, she thought. If only she could get up to look around, but her head started to swim with the exertion of pushing herself up and looking down. She could feel her stomach turn, and she looked up, pulling her head up, eyes forward, trying to ease the sensation. Her pale brown locks fell across her face, but she dared not shake her head to move them. And she knew if she reached up to wipe the hair from her eyes, she'd end up flat-faced on the floor.
There was no one left to see her like this anyway, was there?
She groaned. There was no one. No one. She was sure of that, but she was not sure why she was sure. Something – something was nagging at her. Something was there, tugging at her consciousness, something tapping at her brain, at her memory like the rain tapping on a window, like a man tapping his foot in rhythm. It was there, but when she looked out of the window, she could not see the rain. She could see nothing. It was there. She was sure of it.
It had something to do with that quote, that series of words that played over and over in her head. It was……it might……it was something he had said, no written, no……no he had written it. Her grandfather's best friend for years. Yes. It was that man who had written those damning words, those words that grandfather had taken as a rejection of his faith, which he had worked so hard to regain. It was those words that had driven them apart for so many years. How dare he?!
"….and what if there had been no magical wardrobe? What then?" she whispered.
And yet, they both believed. Hadn't they? Grandfather had returned to the church through his and others' fictional works, some even by the man who would later criticize him and write those awful words, an inscription on the inside from cover of that first book, grandfather's beautiful depiction of his faith through the creation of a fantasy world.
"And that bastard had questioned him?"
She felt the anger building again, remembered the laughter from the night before. Like a sudden burst of fireworks across the night sky, it flooded back into her head, the blurry, slurring laughter, the hilarity and humiliation. The closet door, the fur coats, the………..the wardrobe! The ice crunching under her feet, the cold wind across her face, the branches tangling in her hair.
How long had she been gone? Weeks? Months? And when she'd burst back through the door…….
She shifted her knee and cried out. The end of the blunt was still lit, and it slapped at the ashes that marred her pale skin. Turning her head that quickly made her stomach churn again, but she steeled herself against it and held herself steady enough to reach down and catch the bit of the cigarette that was left. Clenching it between her teeth, she turned back toward the bathroom door and began to crawl forward.
The smoke reeked, but it was a sweet, calming stench, blocking out the aftermath of the chaos behind her. The wet swamp of the bathroom rugs gave way to the dry carpet of the bedroom, a light blue weave that looked and felt like the ocean. It swam before her as she crawled slowly forward, keeping a steady pace, achingly migrating toward the incoming fresh air.
Following what had now become a rust-colored path through the azure sea, she crept along steadily.
Puff, puff, puff. She stopped a moment, looking up as she retrieved the cigarette from her mouth. She tapped it with her index finger, forming a little black pile just outside her path, a few inches away, and it mixed with the red-stained carpet.
Blood.
She thought it, but there was no alarm in her though, no sudden spike in breathing, no rush of adrenaline. No, it was a thought full of resignation. There was blood. There was a lot of blood. There was nothing else to be said or done about it.
The laughter came back full force, threatening to overwhelm her. She could feel the grimace creeping across her features, twisting her lips into a snarl, crushing her eyebrows together. There was so much! They had all laughed! Goddamned bastards!!!!
"Ahhhh!" she croaked, and suddenly she was overcome with coughing again.
The laughter! It drowned out her fit of heaving until she could only feel her chest contract, spewing out the foul air that she'd collected there. Spittle dripped from her lower lip, descending toward the carpet as if to mingle with ocean of blue beneath her fingertips. As the coughing fit eased, she reached up and wiped at her mouth, missing twice before she could clean up the drool. For a moment she just rested, trying to hold herself steady, whimpering slightly between breaths, but thankful that the laughter was fading away, drifting away back into her memory.
They had all laughed at her. All of them. And no one had believed. None of them. Not one!!!!
She'd been there. She'd seen it. Grandfather had been right! Lucy and Edmond, Susan and Peter! Who could have known? But that fucker had said it wasn't real! He'd written it right there inside the front cover of grandfather's first edition, the one he'd saved for himself and then his daughter and then his daughter's daughter. It was a horrible slap in the face, one that had nearly ruined him. And yet, it was simply all true!!!
Moving forward again, she inched into the main room. The carpet changed from a sea of blue foam into a land of dark grass, but the path remained, a dark, sinister, and revealing path………….streaks of red. Stopping, she studied the floor. It was only inches from her face, but the colors were so muted. Red – definitely red, but only because she knew its source. Could anyone see that it was red? She looked up, turning her head, but there was no one around, no noise, no movement. There was only the path, the road so very well travelled, and it stained her fingers and knees as she trod along it.
But where did the road lead? Where did the path originate? She couldn't see it ahead of her, but she knew that it led back, back along the way she'd come, through the bedroom and into the bathroom, the horror that was there. But before her – there was no telling. There was only to follow and find out. There was the unknown ahead. The laughter had ceased, but there was so much else missing, so much else that seemed no longer to register inside her mind, lost minutes or hours, or days! All she could feel inside her was an emptiness, and it wasn't the hollowness in her stomach or the void in her chest that felt like her soul had been ripped away. There was horrible blank in her head, a black hole whirling, expanding, sucking in everything, a gaping maw that engulfed anything that came in contact with it. Already the laughter was gone! She knew it had been there, had heard it echoing inside her skull over and over until she thought she would go over the edge of the balcony. But it was gone now, and she could not bring it back. The memory of it was there, like knowing the universe is there even when she couldn't see it.
It had all had to do with that quote, that book, that something that had set off something, that moment that had turned into hours, that suddenly fleeting step across a great divide that had launched her along a path that she never turn back from. And suddenly she knew!
She had stepped across that line and felt it, knew it, knew for sure then that Narnia was real, that grandfather had not lied, that she could follow him to that oh so real place where Lucy could be a princess of the realm and have tea with Mr. Tumnus! It was real!!! All of it!
She'd screamed at them! The memories came flooding in, beating back the suck of the black hole, keeping it at bay for the moment. They'd laughed at her book, that beautiful first edition of grandfather's "Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe", and they'd said it was just a silly children's story with no real meaning or intent. And she'd been so angry, so furious at them. And she'd stormed away, throwing open the French doors and running into the bedroom. Crying, so hurt by the sting of their words against a man she'd loved so much, she'd thrown open the doors of the wardrobe and dived in, disappearing into the comfort of the darkness, the warmth of the coats, and then suddenly, unbelievably despite her faith in her grandfather, prickly branches and crunching snow!
"I hate them!" she groaned.
It had been real. It had been! It was an amazing realization that she could barely fathom, a dream come true that she couldn't wait to share. The wardrobe had been full of coats, and it was winter in Narnia, just like when Lucy first stepped into the land by the lantern and met Mr. Tumnus, where Edmond had followed and been ensnared by the White Witch, where Peter and Susan had eventually found themselves, too, and each of them had become kings and queens!
Bursting out of the wardrobe, she'd squealed with glee and rushed back to the balcony. Most of them we apologetic and listened intently when she'd pleaded for them to follow and see. The doors had been thrown back……………the doors had been thrown back.
"My God in Heaven," she coughed.
Still weak and wobbly, she turned back and pulled herself to her feet. The wardrobe! She inched closer, reaching out to the door handles, focusing on them, willing herself forward. Grasping them firmly, she threw the doors open, and fell back with a scream, cracking her head against the glass table. It cracked and fell in on her, the largest shard slipping across her exposed neck, decapitating her. She died without a sound, her blood spilling out onto the cool blue ocean below, slowly drifting across the waves and mingling with the blood still dripping out of the wardrobe, the bodies piled within.
A single sheet of paper drifted aimlessly on the incoming morning breeze, slipping off the edge of the bed and sticking in the sticky red blood on the floor. "Come one and all," it read, "to see the famous Violetta and the Amazing Cirque de Soleil tonight at the Chateau de Loire."
3-day 3-way challenge (final day!!!!)
Current mood: rushed
Category: Writing and Poetry
the magic number is
i'm opening my profile and blog for this, the 3-day, 3-way challenge!
yes, you heard it right: three days + three ways!
wow!
but what the hell does that mean?
it's this: in honor of my 41st birthday, i am opening my profile and blog for three days, and you -- fans, writers, readers, any goofball who happens by -- will be suggesting story elements, voting on the combination and then waiting in anticipation for something to be produced.
huh?
STEP ONE -- day one:
readers, fans, local blogdickers, whatnot -- suggest in this blog three story elements (anything you can think of) -- people, places, things, ideas, concepts, theories that will be used by the challengers to create a work of fiction. for instance, suggest "princess diana", "apollo 13", and "a frog named Ed". anyone can suggest anything, but you have to suggest THREE things. DO NOT get too specific with your story elements -- give the writer(s) room maneuver. you will have 24 hours (day one) to enter suggestions for story elements, and you can only provide input once.
STEP TWO -- day two:
readers will vote on the combination of three items that will make up the main elements of the story. i will list the comments and count up the votes. the winning list will then be used in step three! the voting will go on for only 24 hours (day two).
1. an old lady named Gladys, a classic Harley Davidson and The Florida Keys
2. sex, drugs, rock n roll
3. Jerry Springer; St. Christopher and the number 13
4. A walrus named Hermione, a 1934 Hispano-Suiza (antique car), & a porcini mushroom
5. The wife, the husband & the wife's mr-tress
6. Espionage, Green Beans, & Japan
7. An old photograph......a penguin and a back scratcher
8. Time, Longing and Lessons
9. a crate of Clementines, the scent of rose water, and beetles
10. A '57 Chevy, a stripper named Felony, and a roll of duct tape
11. Abandoned cabin, handcuffs and honey
12. Hunter S Thompson's last pen, a morey eel, 3 lbs of preparation H
13. The Orient Express, grasshoppers and the House of the Rising Sun
14. New Orleans, a dried rose, and a poker chip
15. A Cirque performer named Violetta, a first edition copy of "The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe" with margin notes written in by JRR Tolkein, & madness.
16. flourescent light, jukebox and saltine crackers
17. salvador dali, 3 dragons & matches
18. A sexual fetish, an epiphany, sun warmed fruit, fresh from the vine or tree
19. A single mother, Los Angeles homeless shelter, a pair of pearl earrings
20. Toe-fungus. Meatballs. Nipples.
21. A riding crop, a deserted cabin in the mountains, a clown with a bloody knife...
22. being 41 y/o, Manhatten, a Ford Escape
23. Fire, Water & Earth
24. asparagus, pencil, magic wand
25. Paint brush, semen, Berlin Wall
26. A million dollars, a razor blade, a stripper pole
STEP THREE -- day three:
i, and anyone who has the balls to accept the challenge, will have 24 hours (day three) to produce a coherent work of fiction incorporating the three elements from day one. said work of fiction will be EXACTLY (use word count) 3000 words long and may use the three elements in any way, shape or form to create a great story! the story will be published as a comment in this blog (or any other challenger's blog -- just provide a link in a comment).
AND THE WINNERS ARE:
A Cirque performer named Violetta, a first edition copy of "The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe" with margin notes written in by JRR Tolkein, & madness
or
A sexual fetish, an epiphany, sun warmed fruit, fresh from the vine or tree
DAY THREE STARTS NOW!!
each writer will choose one of the two sets of story elements and craft a work of fiction (let's hope) of any genre whatsoever, but the product must be EXACTLY 3000 words!
writers, as soon as you are done, published the product of your labor in your blog with the subject: 3-day/3-way challenge. once you are done, email me the url of your blog.
please title your works, and yes, the title is included in the wordcount.
good luck!!!! and here's the list of writers (as i have it so far):
simply scott authentikate c-ray just princess sarah kashmere & silk xs kiki c.c. pq the gigglebutt
patrice
aKa {wicked game} ~leah~ mhaighdean mhara just dale just chas danny
please post all entries by 11pm EST
holy shit that's a lot of people!!! this is going to be amazing!!! anyone else who wants to take a shot, just let me know. and very many thanks to everyone who has played along!!!!
Paved Paradise (part four), or This Brave New World
Current mood: rebellious
Category: Life
This blog was originally written nearly two years ago, but it's still very relevant.
I recently finished Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, a novel written in the early 20th century about a proposed near future in which society has become completely rational and everything is almost literally in it's place -- very tidy.
This book appealed to me for a variety of reasons. It certainly appealed to the rebel and non-conformist in me, that person that desires to break the rules. It appealed to the idealist in me that wants to make life better and more wonderful. And it appealed to the author in me that enjoys the use of words to not only develop a story but to reach and touch the reader and elicit emotions, thoughts, and perhaps even wonder, for while the reader may have some idea where he is going on the book's journey, it would be remiss of the author to make the journey completely predictable, leaving the reader coming away feeling empty and unable to get anything from it.
The 'brave new world' is a world in which life had been rationalized and people nearly automated. Only the elite are left to think freely, and even these are not free-thinkers, only capable of such. The rationalization of the system, in which everyone's role is to contribute to a happy society, has even boxed these people into a corner and made them part of the system. They can no more buck a trend than the lowliest minion.
In fact, the lowliest minions, and grades of humans between that 'caste' and the elites are biologically, physiologically and psychologically "engineered" to fill certain roles in life and the society, and they have very little actual mental or emotional or physical ability to 'break out' of their pre-ordained molds. Before birth, people's entire lives (or at least 90% of their lives) are already decided, and prior to their hatching, they have already undergone severe conditioning, which will ensure they remain properly placed in society to contribute to the greater good.
In this brave new world, contribution is maximized through conditioning. But this conditioning takes place not only pre-birth through biological engineering or endless suggestion during childhood. Conditioning also takes place throughout adulthood in the form of employment, education (or rather lack thereof), and leisure. Yes, even sex is regulated! (But at least it's encouraged!) And yet, leisure is specifically structured, developed and executed (mandatory) with a single goal in mind: to promote happiness and community. Thus, the entire population is kept fat, dumb and happy, or rather happy to a fault, motivated to contribute and utterly distracted.
Like 1984, a novel somewhat derived from this one, rebellion is introduced. And sadly, it is willfully and happily put down. It is exactly the journey I expected and the ending I anticipated, but the non-conformist/rebel in me was left disappointed and somewhat angry. And with that, I knew the author had done his job well.
The second half of the book itself is called Brave New World Revisited. And in this section, the author "revisits" his world about 30 years later and discusses societal changes than demonstrate that we are evolving along a path that must end in total rationalization, such as found in his novel.
Brief chapters on chemical persuasion, propaganda and over-organization, including the rationalization of business (or "McDonaldization" as termed by a UM professor of sociology), Hitler's demagogy, the manipulation of the masses through advertising and the political "sound bite", and even a (perceived by me) jab at organized religion, discuss the author's view on 1950's society and how we are unswervingly advancing to his fictional reality.
His arguments are strong that with the advent of technology, coupled with the population boom, controlling the masses is easier than ever before. That is, he says that preying on the fears of the group through repeated sound bites (consider "weapons of mass destruction") is easier and much, much more effective than explaining the entire situation to massive amounts of people. This also comes into play with regard to preaching from a pulpit, no different or less effective than from a press conference podium. In fact, he states, "Mass communication, in a word, is neither good nor bad; it is simply a force and, like any other force, it can be used either well or ill."
Disturbingly, in another section, the author discusses marketing forces. While I cannot imagine marketing was very powerful in the 1950s like it is now, he still hit it right on the head with ideas about the power of jingles, selling to children (and thus creating lifelong customers) and the idea of America as a consumer society vice a capitalist society. In this, I whole-heartedly agree. Perhaps my idea of capitalism is naïve, but I've always had a very simplistic view of it as being a kind of "greed, which results in the common good." That is, individuals out for themselves and a quick buck inevitably do things that contribute to society -- create jobs through competition, develop new products and medicines that benefit everyone, create trade, improve the economy, etc. And yet, just as in Brave New World, our society has turned into a land of work/play, where we work so that we can play (buy, consume, shop, expend resources). In Brave New World, workers walk right out of work to leisure, then to sex, then to sleep and back to work again -- there is little time for contemplation and evaluation of life. The "meaning of life" is a concept never even considered. In present-day Western societies, consumerism is king, and almost all people bow down to it. We are "consumers" in an economical sense and define ourselves buy the "things" that we own and display rather than our ideals, thoughts and beliefs. We are defined and judged by our clothing or jewelry (Armani suit? How big is your engagement diamond?), our car (Mazda or Lexus?), our residence (apartment or single family home?), and even our vacations (drive to the beach or flight to Hawaii?). We are "controlled" by marketing and consumerism, and in our pursuit to 'buy' a wonderful life and live the American Dream (or Daydream, as I call it), we have no concept of the meaning of our lives or why we are here.
And if we want to know the meaning of our lives, often, rather than figuring it out ourselves, we go ask someone -- rabbi, priest, minister, mullah. For somewhere in there, in our soulless consumerism, we are missing a huge part of our lives -- our meaning. And society's rules tell us that it's God we're missing, so we need to go to church. The author has very little to say about religion because in his 'brave new world', there is no God; God has been abolished and forgotten along with the rest of history. However, he does note that just as politicians and marketers reach the masses and influence the mob with catch words and phrases and fear, so do (for want of a better word) religionists. Fire and brimstone can be had at most, if not all, southern Baptist churches. Guilt for your sins is equally distributed to Catholics and Jews. Hate is taught religiously (pun intended) in "madrasas" (schools) in Islamic countries. We go and get our ration of "meaning" every weekend, and then we go back to our lives feeling good about ourselves.
If Aldous' world is missing anything, it's meaning. And while his prediction of a future Earth populated by a harmonious society totally controlled in the most passive and pleasant way may not have come true, he is undoubtedly very aware of society's inter-workings, and he is right on the money with many of his concepts. Perhaps we have not fallen victim to this "brave new world", but we need to at least be paying attention enough to recognize the aspects that we can find here now.
calm
silly
inspired
awake
focused
accomplished
rushed
rebellious
bouncy