meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. iii

I can't figure out who wrote this damn journal. I opened it up today. Looked at the front page. It's just a single line of text: 'In hopes of getting out of here, out of this, out of everything.' It's got a signature underneath it, and I can't read the fucking thing.

Could be a chronicle of her life. All her hopes, dreams, fears, doubts. All in a little leather-bound notebook, and here's me not even sure what her goddamn name is. I think maybe there's an L in it.

I'm gonna show it around. I don't want to read this if I don't know who wrote it. It's the least I can do. But really I think I'm just afraid to read it. Reading a stolen notebook is something you sort of put off.

meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. ii

Listen. Someone came back and started looking around for the notebook. Or I think that's what it was. She walked up and looked at the spot it was sitting, smiled, and wandered off. I think she looked right at me as I was watching. She might have even winked.

I still haven't looked at it. I'd been wasting too much time in that rest area and I still had a trip to make. When I got back to Seattle there was so much going on it slipped my mind. It was added to my stack of books--Zarathustra, The Devil's Dictionary, Fear and Loathing. I haven't thought much of it, to be honest.

I slept in late today. It's been getting later and later in the mornings. And whenever I talk to people, I forget what I was going to say. It's not like I'm grasping at words, it's like I was never going to say it. We have lots of chili? Who cares?

And the dreams are getting worse. I feel like I stole that notebook.

meditations on a leather-bound journal, pt. i

I'm writing this from one of those rest stops with the 'wifi hotspots' along I-90, somewhere between Ellensburg and Seattle. I wanted to use the restroom, maybe purchase a can of Coke. In front of the vending machines, something caught my eye. A beautiful leather-bound notebook. I haven't opened it yet; I'm waiting here to see if someone comes by looking for it. I always hate it when someone reads something I'm writing, and I'd hate to do the same to someone else.

It's got me wondering, though, whose it is, what the story is. If nobody comes in an hour or so I'll take a look. The thing about it that really intrigues me, is it looks as if it was placed there intentionally.

Enticing.

friends like these

A few weeks ago, a party was thrown in my honour, to celebrate my last day in town and bid me farewell. At first, everything went well; I enjoyed the company, the food was excellent, the drinks plentiful, what more could a man desire at his going away celebration? But, whether fueled by drink or merely bitter, one of the guests began to denounce me. It was small, at first; everyone felt that, perhaps, he was merely joking with me. Only I could detect the insults. I privately asked him to stop, and he seemed offended that I thought he was insulting me. It was all meant in good fun.

Another friend of mine, upon my return, began accusing me of insulting him. He seemed deeply hurt at the words he felt I had said. At his side, the girl to whom I had idly mentioned him, was grinning smugly. I informed him that I had never said any such things, and he pretended to believe me, that he was joking, but I knew he was lying. She had turned him against me.

From this point on the party seemed in a constant state of decline. In every jest I heard the seeds of truth, of long-held qualms against me finally surfacing, now, as I was leaving. In every whispered conversation I heard my name. I grew angry. I knew the guests would soon notice my temper, begin talking.

I think what troubled me the most is not that they seemed to dislike me, to mock my habits, to find me irritable, irrational, impulsive. What troubled me most is how true I felt every insult and jibe to be. I have always asked my friends for honesty, always suspected they never delivered; perhaps, in retrospect, they were only refusing me something I could not handle.

leaflet

I'm sitting at a coffee shop. A man handed me a leaflet as I was walking here today. I thanked him and put it in my pocket, with no real intention of reading it. It's not as if he really knows me. Sure, he took the time to give it to me, but did he write it? Are these his words? Did he give me one because he thought I'd care or because he hoped I would?

It's probably political. I'm tired of politics. Who is he to assume I ought to care whatever he's talking about? Am I not my own person? Am I unable to be adequately informed in this, what we are arrogantly terming 'the information age'? I have Google, CNN.com, Wikipedia. I'm a short walk away from a decent library. This little poorly made leaflet is supposed to tell me the truth. It's not going to.

I crumple the leaflet and throw it in the nearest trash receptacle, single-handedly discarding the work, hopes, opinions and beliefs of the man who met me in the streets, deeming them all irrevocably useless without so much as looking at it.

she blinded me with science

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: You knew it had to come sooner or later.)

I have had the distinct pleasure of studying with my love in the laboratory. I find myself amazed as she quantifies various exotic and dangerous chemicals, mixes, heats, experiments, measures. And mundane chemicals, as well! She is measuring and analysing the world around her, explaining how every aspect of everything that we see works.

She shows me what happens when she puts this metal in that beaker, and what happens when she applies this concoction to that compound and adds heat, or electricity. I can't help but feeling that something is missing, though, something important. Eventually I ask her what it all means--we know how it works, but what's the point? She smiles and draws me into her arms, kisses me, deeply, fully.

"Does that answer your question?" she asks, smiling. I nod and hold her tight. Here in the laboratory, I can understand the world.

you ought to be in pictures

I am taking a break from my normal updates to provide you with a link to a short film for which I have written the script. It is claymation, about two minutes long, and the first of a four-part miniseries. It is called Sophie Swanson, Titular Heroine, and chronicles the adventures of Sophie Swanson, star reporter for the local press. If these do very well we will continue the miniseries and begin a full-fledged series of claymation shorts.

The link, once more, is http://www.sophieswanson.com. I am very pleased with the results, and I am working on legislation to make it illegal for anyone not to be.

brevity is the soul of desperation

I slaved over this poem for days, spent every effort trying to make it absolutely perfect. She is unhappy with me, feels I don't care. She said she's going to leave me. I told her I'd write her a poem, and I swore it would be the best I'd ever done. She said fine.

I couldn't count the poems I've written in the past, poems of longing and desperate pleas. None of them are good enough for her. She deserves the very best, the very most that I can offer her. There is no question of failing. I think she understands, in a sense. She has left me alone, hasn't bothered me about it. Some might think she's given up, that she's already gone, that I should save myself the effort. Some would no doubt give up, but not me; I'm a poet, a hopeless idealist. I don't know when to quit.

It took days, but I finally finished it. I only hope it's good enough:

don't leave.

this bruise is probably symbolic

I have always prided myself on my peaceful ways, on using words and eloquence as a solution for all of my problems. I always felt that violence was the solution of the weak of mind, the silly, the barbaric. I am an educated and civilised man; I can solve my problems without raising a fist against my enemies.

Yesterday I started a fist-fight at the bar. It was barbaric, silly, and stupid. It was everything I felt. But I felt I had no choice in the matter. It had nothing to do with the man I fought; I barely remember him or what he did. It was everything to do with me. If you take away my education, my intellect, my civility, what do you have left? And even with all of that, what difference am I really making?

I allowed my confidence to waver. I wanted to make a difference, any kind of difference. So I hit him. I expected that I'd feel alive and empowered, that my ideals were nothing. But it was only when he'd walked away, leaving me on the wet pavement, did I realise that I had accomplished something far more important than that.

I got in a fist-fight with society, and society won. Society is remarkably resilient like that.

speechless

I'm having trouble with words lately, among other things. I walk out of buildings and I don't know which way to turn, where I came from. I stand outside and stare, hoping that a directional sense will return to me.

But it's the words are what bother me the most. Words are my life, my livelihood, my . . . here I am, looking for a triad of words, and I can't find the third. Source of pleasure? I can't find words anymore. I end up saying the wrong words. Not just wrong, completely opposite of what I intended. If I disagree I accidentally laud my opponent's arguments. When I agree I insult them. It is really quite distressing.

I wish I could blame something. Insomnia, drugs, alcohol, women, anything. But I've been clean. I've been working out. I've been eating healthy, sleeping well, and generally just keeping myself in shape, for what good it's done me. And what's worse, I can't express what's wrong with me when I need to.

i've been here before

The radio was playing this very song yesterday morning when my alarm went off. My morning routine felt somehow more familiar than usual, as though it were not merely a set of actions that I repeat but as if I were performing the very actions I performed yesterday. I got on the bus and noticed that the faces were all familiar. The driver said the same thing, in the same tones. I think I gave him the same dollar bill as before. The woman across from me smiled the same smile at me, and returned to giving the scenery the same wistful gaze as she did yesterday. The cars were the same, the traffic lights the same, everything, today, was the same.

I said "I've been here before" as soon as I walked in the door to my office. The receptionist gave me a look and said, "No shit, idiot, you work here."

I don't think she gets it.

dreaming of heaven

As soon as I died, I was quickly escorted to heaven. I've had the opportunity to meet all of the important residents, talk with them, discuss philosophy over coffee. The people here are all very friendly and all of them have the exact same beliefs when it comes to philosophy. Some of them emphasize different aspects, but nobody disagrees with anyone. There's no conflict.

I was invited to a wonderful dinner. The food was divine (ha ha), but the entertainment, I found, was lacking. Not a single song the band sang had any trace of darkness. It was pure, unadulterated happiness. The speaker was not so much encouraging as he was simply flattering the audience, telling everyone how great they are, and especially how great the host was. His jokes were flat and lacking in variety or edge.

After the dinner I accompanied some of the greatest minds of heaven to a small lounge where we continued our philosophical discussions from earlier over drinks. They had nothing new or interesting to say. Eventually I spoke up, and they were, of course, polite enough to listen.

"Why is it that in heaven, all the interesting people are missing?"

Thanks, Nietzsche.

of restful sleep

It must be ages since I've last slept. And for what? My waking hours I've been slaving over it, and when I try to sleep my mind is restless, thinking of it. And why? For art's sake? This isn't even my best painting.

Alcohol doesn't help, and sleeping pills only make the insomnia less bearable. At least the alcohol lets me enjoy myself for a time. But I still can't sleep. It won't leave me alone. Even when I'm so drunk I can't form a coherent sentence, I can still see it: the Painting. I've started calling it with a capital letter now. It doesn't have a title. It's not even untitled. It's just the Painting.

It's big. Bigger than anything I've ever done. I rented a studio just to paint this one. I don't even go to my old apartment anymore. They might have evicted me. The Painting is taking all of my money, all of my resources, all of my life.

I've stopped trying to sleep. I used to think maybe tonight would be the night, but it never will be. Not until I've finished the Painting. I only pause to eat, and then only every couple of days. I look like shit. I probably smell. But the Painting needs to be finished. I don't know why, I'm not sure I even understand what it is, but I can't do anything until I've finished the Painting. My mind won't let me.

If nothing else, I need to finish it just so I can get some sleep. I will rest eventually. Soon. But not yet. Not until I'm done with the Painting . . .

unheimlich

I fell asleep on the bus today. When I awoke, I found myself in a neighborhood where nothing looked familiar. The driver was not the same man, and even the bus seemed to have changed. I thanked him and got off as quickly as I could, and began to walk the streets.

It was nothing like home. The buildings were tall, dark, and ominous, blocking out the stars, their cold lights illuminating nothing. The people walked as though afraid that the world might close in on them or the buildings attack them--shoulders hunched, swift strides, heads down. As I wandered, I eventually noticed that the streets themselves were very similar in layout to the neighborhood in which I lived. I kept walking, down blind alleys and curved streets, and my suspicions were confirmed. Someone had built some twisted shadow of my neighborhood. I found that my steps were drawn to the place where my house should have been. It was there, dark, perverted, twisted. I knocked on the door.

A girl answered it--if she did not look so obviously evil she might have been beautiful. She leered at me and asked me what I was doing. I could take it no longer. I shrieked, drew the knife from my pocket, murdered her, and entered the darkness of my shadow home.

As I shut the door, I looked down at the body of the girl who had answered me and realised, to my horror, that this was not some evil woman, but the body of my love. I curled up in the corner and wept for a world that could make my home so unlike home.

lenore!

I had a dream tonight. I recall little of it, except for a feeling of intense nostalgia and a long corridor through which my voice echoed, as I called a name I've forgotten.

What I remember is the feeling when I awakened. It was not the typical feeling of awakening, as if suddenly the thing which once held my mind in thrall is now nothing more than a fleeting and fading image. I felt as if something was missing from the world--as if there were no more colour, or as if a white noise in the background shut off. I tried to form the name from my dream on my lips, but I could not form the words. If I heard the name I would know it, but I have forgotten it.

I feel that I have done more than merely forget something from a dream; I feel as if the person from my dream, for whom I am certain I was experiencing nostalgia, has ceased to exist, and indeed never began to exist. I have read through every journal entry I have. Some of them are nonsense. Some people that I know, I cannot recall how I met them, why I know them.

I am increasingly certain that if I could recall the name, everything would make sense, that perhaps this really is just a lapse in my memory, but it seems that when I ask about it, people just give me dull looks, as though they have no idea of what I am speaking. Worse, I fear the dream will escape me forever if I return to sleep.

So I am writing this down and committing it to memory, if I can. Nostaliga. A hallway. A name. An echo.

victim of circumstances

It's not my fault.

People think it's a bit suspect that I say that more often than other things. But it's true. I'm not the one who thrust me out on the street with nothing more than my shattered dreams and the clothes on my back. Yes, it's very melodramatic. I don't care. People also think it's a bit suspect that I have a vocabulary. He's supposed to be stupid, isn't he? Not a brain in his head? Well, maybe I like to wax poetic sometimes. Maybe people ain't always what they seem.

So when I tell you it's not my fault, I want you to know I mean it. So when I lift someone's wallet, I want you to understand that even though I'm doing it, it's not my fault. I didn't choose a life of crime. I'd stop it if I could. I don't think it's right or anything--my parents raised me to hate crime, after all--I just have to. The choice to do otherwise has yet to present itself.

Sometimes they ask if I want revenge. If I'm trying to revenge myself on the society that did this to me, so that's why I steal and lie and cheat and otherwise 'make a nuisance of myself'. I tell them no, no I don't. Why should I? I love this place.

a startling discovery

Ever since my clock broke, I've been unable to keep track of time here in the lab. The sun never reaches my sanctum, my little shrine to science, and there's not even the constant sound of the clock keeping pace to give me the faintest sense of time. I don't know how long I've been here. Hours? Days? It must be days by now. I feel exhausted. But it eats at me. I'm so close to something important. I can feel it.

I must sound like a madman, but I swear by whatever is holy, the universe is actively changing, just to prevent my discovery. Any time my mind begins to wrap around something and it seems as if it must work perfectly, something goes wrong. Something changes. Some problem that never existed before arises, and I am forced to start anew. Progress is slow and tedious, if it even exists. Every time I find out about some new problem, I learn that it's been this way for all of history. There are scientific laws. Some of them bear the names of famous scientists.

I'm not an absent-minded man. I've studied these scientists, I've looked in the books that the laws are in before, and I swear they were not there before. I discover these laws as if for the first time, only to discover that someone else discovered them for years ago, that it is an elementary principle of science, that I somehow never learned in my studies. And before I have discovered these things I know that it was merely not the case.

Somehow, here in my lab, I alone am able to recall a time before such laws existed. I am not impervious to the ill will of the universe, but I am impervious to the wool it pulls over the eyes of the rest of the scientific community. I continue my study, knowing that perhaps it is all in vain, and suddenly I realise I have forgotten what it is I am looking for.

random and humourous asides!

We interrupt your regularly scheduled angsty microfiction pieces to bring you A LINK TO ANOTHER BLOG. Also you should read toothpastefordinner. It is good for you!

It is mostly images and random thoughts and generally speaking is probably the antithesis of this blog, which is mostly words and purposeful thoughts which may or may not have anything to do with anything that have ever happened. I am mysterious like that. (The Sprite thing I do not deny, but I cannot give sworn testimony to my sobriety at the time of the Spritewriting.)

the limits of a distant sky

They tell me the sky is open, limitless, free. I would be glad to agree with them, except I cannot find it. Ancient mariners navigated by the night's stars, but I cannot see them. No clouds, no rain, no wind, nothing. I have travelled in quest of the sky for months and still it eludes me. I cannot find it. Everywhere I go, no matter how far from civilisation or how exposed, I feel as though a cage is closing in on me. I can even see it at night, little pinpricks of light coming in through the bars. There is no time I feel more desperate for the sky than at night, as I wander aimlessly, staring up, feeling my breath come short. The more I pace the more restless I feel.

I can only sleep when I have finally and completely cut myself off from the light. Still I dream of the sky, and when I cannot see it, sometimes I can imagine that there is still a sky outside. The irony has not eluded me.

When I turn my back on the stars, I can finally see them.

In my dreams.

the wrong character

It was one of those nights that everything was cinematic and symbolic. It was raining. It was dark. Even the city lights blurred like they do in pictures, making it all look unreal and unclear and most of all uncertain, just like the cinematic effects do.

She was even dressed for pictures. She never dressed like that, but tonight she was dressed for a cinematic confrontation, beautiful but deadly. I found myself in a suit--and I never wore a suit--and I looked good in it--but none of my suits looked good on me. I had a fedora to keep off the rain, and an overcoat, and I'm not sure I'd ever seen an overcoat that wasn't a prop for a high school play. In my hand I was carrying a briefcase. I didn't know the significance, but I knew it was important.

"So, is this it?" I asked as I entered conversational distance. I knew she was waiting for me, though neither of us had arranged the meeting and I didn't know I'd find her here. We'd never talked here before, as far as I knew.

She blew out a stream of cigarette smoke--even though she'd quit smoking a few weeks after we met. "I guess it is," she said coolly, as though the steady beat of the rain falling were actually the constant tick-tick-ticking of film reels rolling away.

I stepped forward, my face grim--for some reason I was aware of the grimness of my fate. She was perfectly lit, and I sensed that I must have been as well. "I brought this for you." I held up the suitcase. She nodded. I approached and set it next to her. "That's everything. We're done."

"How about you hold me one last time? For memory's sake." Another stream of smoke.

I embraced her, glad for one last thing by which to treasure her memory, glad that the moment was so cinematic and otherwise perfect for memory. Then, with cinematic realisation, I felt the knife in my back.

"Sorry, Mason," she whispered in my ear, then released me and backed away. I watched her drop the knife on the sidewalk--it must have fallen in slow motion--and then watched her lean against the building and smoke her cigarette. She watched me slump to the ground next to the knife, watched as I struggled to stand up, struggled to say something. She watched as I wondered whether the police could make a chalk outline on the sidewalk. She watched as the light left my eyes, so I couldn't watch as she walked away.