I’ve finally returned to thinking about the future again, after my month (or so) of chaos and stress. I’m not at the point of making any plans yet, since I’m still letting myself finish recovering from all that stress, but I have begun to imagine how different scenarios might play out. It’s the same sort of exercise that you do whenever you talk about a dream house, an ideal occupation, or a fantastical life. There is little focus on the specifics or the likelihood of that dream coming to fruition as you instead just spend the time imagining what would be the most fun or pleasant way for things to be. Dream houses have secret tunnels, hidden doors, hedge mazes, and oddities like towers or lighthouses or live-in garden hermits. Dream occupations hopefully focus on things you find fulfilling rather than the odd power fantasies I always hear from people who’ve bought in to capitalism. Fantastical lives are either incredibly vague things when they’re “realistic,” especially these days when an ideal life is stuff like “not sad all the time” or “I don’t have to worry about money while living modestly” and so on, or they’re hyper specific as you imagine yourself living in the fantasy or sci-fi or alternate world of your choosing. Instead of focusing on any of those, though, I’ve been imaging what my ideal day would be.
Continue readingImagination
Tire Swing
There was a tire swing here once, hanging from a tree on a hill.
The swing was a flying machine, carrying its passengers from the ground into the sky, captained by a laughing child as it flew so high they could touch the clouds. It was a portal to another world, used to pay the entry fee to a land no one but they ever found. It was a seat for eating ice cream on warm summer nights as fireworks exploded above the horizon, cradling its occupant in a world suspended and protected from all the problems of home.
The tree that held it was alone, but stronger for it. It was a stopping point on a speedy descent, providing a place to hide for both children avoiding baths and easter eggs in the spring. A home to birds and squirrels, it stood as a testament to nature’s ability to thrive even in difficult places. It was shade and music on windy summer days.
Now, they are gone. There is nothing left but a bit of moldy rope, a hoop of vulcanized rubber, and the rotting husk of a tree choked by creeping plants and parasites. Long before they fell into disrepair, becoming only their constituent parts, their magic faded. They could no longer be used to hide or to escape and slowly other things took them over. They became only a tire swing hanging from a tree on a hill.
Now, they are that no longer. Now, they are destined for a dumpster as their home is plowed over and prepared for a new life as something else. New seeds are planted and new life is laying its foundations.
There was a tire swing here once, hanging from a tree on a hill. Now, they will become something new.
Falling
He twisted, trying to get his feet underneath him. The air felt thick as he struggled to control his decent. He knew was going to hit water soon, but he couldn’t see. Every time he opened his eyes, they filled with tears and might as well have been closed. If he wasn’t prepared soon, the shock would kill him.
Finally, he felt his hair whip up around him and away from his face. He turned a bit and stuck out his legs, feet angled so his heels would hit first. As he wrapped his arms around his head, he felt the impact on his legs and the pain nearly caused him to lose consciousness. The cold slap of the water on the his body was the only thing that kept him awake as he shot into the depths.
Once his movement slowed, he opened his eyes. He was lost in a murky blue-green world with nothing around him but the weight of the water about him. He exhaled and watched the bubbles rise. Using only his arms, he pulled himself back up to the surface and crawled onto dry land. He closed his eyes again and lay back, just grateful to have made it out.
“Did you hear me, Martin?”
Marten opened his eyes, his visualization gone. He was in the quiet corner of a coffee shop he and Alice liked. Alice was sitting across from him, expression neutral. “What?”
“Martin, I said I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’m moving out tomorrow and staying at my mother’s tonight.”
“Oh.” Martin looked down at his hands. “You don’t want to try to work this out?”
Alice shook her head and grabbed her purse and left, giving him last glance that Martin didn’t see. He was busy falling again.
Fire and Peace
Here sit I, wrapped and stoic
In somber silence insoluble,
Painting prosaic pictures
On a dirty page so voluble
That it has become volatile.
My keyboard cries “calamity!”
Rocketing its reedy racket
Through thin and thankless seconds
Captured in a minute packet
And covered in an hour jacket.
Such soothing salacious sounds
Bring back bitter unbegotten barbs
That jibber, jabber, and jibe
uselessly against my wards
and all my other mental guards.
Plentiful and powerful peace
Is found and ferociously fenced
In the nearest nebulous neighborhood
To be kept as protection against
The encroaching ruin that is sensed.
Words fly like fast-falling fire
On volatile pages that, exploding, shatter
Rancorous raucous reality
And I leave in glorious clatter
Everything that’s supposed to matter.
Here sit I, wrapped and stoic
In fire and peace together,
The nascent nagging of necessity
Is felt like the prick of a feather
As I finally release my tether
And float in fictional felicity
Where I will not care whether
This makes me idiotic or heroic.
A Visit From Inspiration
I’ve been struggling with the poor weather and a certain degree of exhaustion, both compounded by poor health. Instead of my descriptive piece, have a poem I wrote in college, about inspiration. It is a parody of the Christmas poem, “A Visit from Old Saint Nick.”
Twas the night before Writer’s Day and all through the dorm,
Critters were stirring: spiders, ants, and flies, keeping warm.
The laundry was thrown about the floor without a care
Because no one brought guests anywhere near there.
The students lay sleeping off booze in their beds
While visions of parties danced through their heads.
I lay in bed, my game of Pokémon in hand,
Chasing that elusive place known as dream land.
When in my imagination there arose such an idea,
The racket could have been heard in South Korea!
I flew to my desk and threw on the light,
In the process blinding myself, ruining my sight.
The light on my laptop, notebook, and all the clutter and debris,
Made my whole desk simply too bright to see.
So I turned off the light, saving my poor eyes,
And instead used my laptop’s light to improvise.
I entered my password with a clickety-clack,
Brushing away the remnants of my midnight snack.
As slowly as turtles, my desktop booted up,
Right then and there, I almost gave up.
“Monkey Nuggets! Stupid Crap! Worthless Lunk!
Load faster! Come on! Stupid piece of Junk!
Close Skype, close Adobe, Close AIM too!
I need a fresh install! I need to start over new!”
As raspy as gravel on glass, my computer started,
Making as much noise as a dear soul departed.
Up came my icons, my widgets, and background,
And I began Microsoft Word with nary a sound.
Without hesitation I made such a racket,
I began typing, using every key but the bracket!
I drew out my plans, turning them all around,
I took the last of my AMP and chugged it down.
I dressed my characters in armor, giving them swords
I made them fight, giving the winners awards.
Countries rose and fell, millennia passed,
I had never known myself to write so fast!
My mind, how it sped through stories untold:
The strength of the young! The wisdom of the old!
The daring of knights! The defense of the weak!
Those who never find, doomed always to seek!
The stump of a pencil I clutched in my hand,
As I beat out a rhythm while drawing the land.
Broad sweeps of mountain, small little rivers,
Imagination coursed through me, giving me shivers!
Writing like I had never done before,
I felt like I’d washed up on creativity’s shore.
But something was wrong, something seemed off,
“No night could last this long” I realized with a scoff.
I’d said not a word, but my voice boomed ‘round the room,
Sealing my fate, bringing about my terrible doom.
I awoke, feverish and panicked, in my bed,
I lay there and groaned, wishing I was dead.
My inspired writing was naught but a dream!
I wanted to stay in my bed, do nothing but scream,
But here I am, writing a poem for you,
Because that’s how inspiration works: what can you do?