(no subject)
Another story. If you are viewing this in the main page (the one with the black background) this will be squeezed into a horrible little column. Do yourself a favor and click the comment link to view it on a nice white backdrop.
Anyways, I wrote this based on another prompt "how vain a tabernacle is man" and I also attempted to use the words "smoke, gray, ocean,and glass" as the prompt suggested. To add to the fund, I have written the story from a female perspective, which is an added challenge which I am uncertain how well I met. The story is rather depressing, as the prompt is rather cynical. I hope you enjoy it anyhow, and enjoy these observations on the state of humanity through the eyes of Claire (the narrator! =OP ).
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Reflections of my days in the city...
By: Jason Mick 2007.08.25
When looked upon critically, the ways of man are such an unseemly picture that the viewer may be moved to illness. What drives the men and women around you is seldom hope and idealism, rather, it is chiefly the competition of two bipolar desires, each a pinnacle of nihilism- the desire to worship oneself and a desire to be worshiped. Both are equally loathsome, for the sad fact is that whether realized or denied, they are guaranteed to make the subject equally unhappy. There is a strange emptiness in these desires, and it wears one down over time, until they are but a hollow shell of the initial joy and inquisitiveness their mind once held as a child.
I feel that no one in this city can truly deny that they have opened their heart and filled it with these evils. In my two years living here, walking these streets, I have come to see man at its worse. I have laid eyes upon the grandiose cathedrals of bodies of movies stars and starlets as they float down the street, playing coy and pretending to hate the attention and spectacle that surrounds them, as they encounter flocks of adoring fans and zealous photographers. Perhaps some really do hate it, but I am resigned to believe, pessimistically, that to most it is an addiction, which they must always feign disinterest in. It is an addiction that is as timeless as man, the kind that makes your stomach churn violently, that makes your eyes well with tears, the kind that makes you stay up for hours at night, tired and desperate.
They are by no means lone villains in this evil. No, as I stated, I suspect almost everyone in this town shares these same passions and diseases of spirit. I too am on the same quest as those stars, I am simply less successful, less superficially attractive, or in all likelihood, simply less lucky then them. I am one in a pile of bodies that forms the foundation of this industry, this industry which is the greatest demonstration of how vain a tabernacle man truly is. And the saddest fact, is that despite realizing this horrid truth, I can bring myself not to leave.
I currently am sitting before a large mirror trimmed in gold depictions of leaves and flowers, putting on my makeup in the backroom. Golden bulbs glow a weak and dusty light down upon my face. As I put the pen of my eyeliner to my eye I accidentally jab myself, as I am prone to do countless times. As I have learned, you blink back the tears and continue on, until the result unfolds--a clean line of black.
I look at the mirror and think, what a testament this strange apparatus is to narcissism. It is no wonder that this was one of the first inventions of man. While he was still struggling to forge crude steel from melted rock ore, under the dark gray smoke of the bellows, he had discovered a wondrous secret. By taking a finely shined plate of silver, he could see his reflection. Of course, the idea was by no means original. No, I suppose countless men and women had gazed down into pools of water and felt a tendril of pride or love at Viewing their handsome reflections. Still, it was a significant testament to this tendency of man, that such great lengths would be taken to make a device that is essentially nothing more than a tool of worship, a means to appreciate and decorate ones body in whatever happens to be the garish fashion of the time.
I suppose we women have more share of the blame. In those medieval times, the rich woman lived a hellish life, but it was also a boring one. While the men went forth and were preoccupied with survival, we sat in the halls. It is a small wonder that we grew fond of this mirror, a place to elapse silent moments of self-appreciative or self-loathing inaction. Over time though, as the men softened, and no longer had to break their backs in the field and battle, they too would fall victim to the draw of this device. Sure, they would still have to worry about work, and such, but for once they could indulge in the narcissitic pleasures of life. And our plight equally worsened. Where once we had to cook and bear many children, now we were free to spend much time worrying about if we were as beautiful as the other girls in our town. Please do not misinterpret this description, the time men and women spend before the mirror is not constantly filled with pride. Often the subject feels ugly, obese, misshapen, sad, helpless, and weak. Even the greatest men and women feel these things when facing the mirror. However, I feel that this preoccupation with superficial worth is as equal a dedication to vanity as pridefulness.
I finish applying my makeup, powdering my cheeks, lightly adding blush. I open my lips in an attempt at a smile. Sure enough, there they are, the one feature that has achieved me some small amount of success in this career. My pearly white teeth sparkle like shined glass, a dazzling white. The makeup was really pointless, after all, these are what the cameras are zooming in on, and they needed only a quick brush before I came in to shine so glamorously. I feel a twinge of guilt, thinking back to my reflections and wondering how many young girls will watch the commercial where they zoom in upon my chompers and be consumed by a need to spend hours at night whitening, flossing, and feeling utterly terrible about themselves. I think how unattractive they will feel when they compare their own yellowed incisors and canines to their memory of my glittering grin.
I never would have landed a job in this industry, though if I didn't have the callousness to disregard the repercussions of my actions. I am not the most beautiful, I can't help but think, I may only have this one shining feature, but when it comes to that feature, I am whom they most desire. I leave my doubts floating at the door and walk into the picture that has become so second nature and familiar to me. I walk forth into against the white backdrop and greet the photographers and camera crew and stop to speak briefly to one of the producers, who is leisurely reclining in a canvas chair, smoking a cigarette. He smiles at me and tells me I am beautiful, tells me to remember to sound excited when I am saying the product name. His yellowed teeth glare out as I return his smile with my white and nod trying to look excited and attentive.
As the lights and lamps encircle me, as the cameras spin and zoom, I earnestly smile as I say my lines, because for that instant, I am the star of the world, I am my own tabernacle. I am a monument to vanity. It is like a drug pulsing violently through my veins and I love it. I love myself, I feel no remorse at all at the thoughts of greed and desire that come into my mind. I am timeless and indestructible, a terrible beauty. But, as the lights die down, these feelings vanish and I feel crushed by the depressing weight of reality as familiar self-doubt sets in. As I drive home along the ocean road towards my apartment, I look at my reflection in my rear view mirror and wonder if someone will ever invent a cure for man's vain nature. How cruel a fate I am condemned to live, to lust to be such a vain tabernacle. What a sad failure I am, as I, an intelligent woman, have wasted yet another day dedicating my existence to vanity. This is the true face of man.
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Unlike my last prompt, I don't feel compelled to take Claire's story any farther. She is what she is, and there is no use drawing it out. Tell me what you think of the piece.
-Jason
Anyways, I wrote this based on another prompt "how vain a tabernacle is man" and I also attempted to use the words "smoke, gray, ocean,and glass" as the prompt suggested. To add to the fund, I have written the story from a female perspective, which is an added challenge which I am uncertain how well I met. The story is rather depressing, as the prompt is rather cynical. I hope you enjoy it anyhow, and enjoy these observations on the state of humanity through the eyes of Claire (the narrator! =OP ).
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Reflections of my days in the city...
By: Jason Mick 2007.08.25
When looked upon critically, the ways of man are such an unseemly picture that the viewer may be moved to illness. What drives the men and women around you is seldom hope and idealism, rather, it is chiefly the competition of two bipolar desires, each a pinnacle of nihilism- the desire to worship oneself and a desire to be worshiped. Both are equally loathsome, for the sad fact is that whether realized or denied, they are guaranteed to make the subject equally unhappy. There is a strange emptiness in these desires, and it wears one down over time, until they are but a hollow shell of the initial joy and inquisitiveness their mind once held as a child.
I feel that no one in this city can truly deny that they have opened their heart and filled it with these evils. In my two years living here, walking these streets, I have come to see man at its worse. I have laid eyes upon the grandiose cathedrals of bodies of movies stars and starlets as they float down the street, playing coy and pretending to hate the attention and spectacle that surrounds them, as they encounter flocks of adoring fans and zealous photographers. Perhaps some really do hate it, but I am resigned to believe, pessimistically, that to most it is an addiction, which they must always feign disinterest in. It is an addiction that is as timeless as man, the kind that makes your stomach churn violently, that makes your eyes well with tears, the kind that makes you stay up for hours at night, tired and desperate.
They are by no means lone villains in this evil. No, as I stated, I suspect almost everyone in this town shares these same passions and diseases of spirit. I too am on the same quest as those stars, I am simply less successful, less superficially attractive, or in all likelihood, simply less lucky then them. I am one in a pile of bodies that forms the foundation of this industry, this industry which is the greatest demonstration of how vain a tabernacle man truly is. And the saddest fact, is that despite realizing this horrid truth, I can bring myself not to leave.
I currently am sitting before a large mirror trimmed in gold depictions of leaves and flowers, putting on my makeup in the backroom. Golden bulbs glow a weak and dusty light down upon my face. As I put the pen of my eyeliner to my eye I accidentally jab myself, as I am prone to do countless times. As I have learned, you blink back the tears and continue on, until the result unfolds--a clean line of black.
I look at the mirror and think, what a testament this strange apparatus is to narcissism. It is no wonder that this was one of the first inventions of man. While he was still struggling to forge crude steel from melted rock ore, under the dark gray smoke of the bellows, he had discovered a wondrous secret. By taking a finely shined plate of silver, he could see his reflection. Of course, the idea was by no means original. No, I suppose countless men and women had gazed down into pools of water and felt a tendril of pride or love at Viewing their handsome reflections. Still, it was a significant testament to this tendency of man, that such great lengths would be taken to make a device that is essentially nothing more than a tool of worship, a means to appreciate and decorate ones body in whatever happens to be the garish fashion of the time.
I suppose we women have more share of the blame. In those medieval times, the rich woman lived a hellish life, but it was also a boring one. While the men went forth and were preoccupied with survival, we sat in the halls. It is a small wonder that we grew fond of this mirror, a place to elapse silent moments of self-appreciative or self-loathing inaction. Over time though, as the men softened, and no longer had to break their backs in the field and battle, they too would fall victim to the draw of this device. Sure, they would still have to worry about work, and such, but for once they could indulge in the narcissitic pleasures of life. And our plight equally worsened. Where once we had to cook and bear many children, now we were free to spend much time worrying about if we were as beautiful as the other girls in our town. Please do not misinterpret this description, the time men and women spend before the mirror is not constantly filled with pride. Often the subject feels ugly, obese, misshapen, sad, helpless, and weak. Even the greatest men and women feel these things when facing the mirror. However, I feel that this preoccupation with superficial worth is as equal a dedication to vanity as pridefulness.
I finish applying my makeup, powdering my cheeks, lightly adding blush. I open my lips in an attempt at a smile. Sure enough, there they are, the one feature that has achieved me some small amount of success in this career. My pearly white teeth sparkle like shined glass, a dazzling white. The makeup was really pointless, after all, these are what the cameras are zooming in on, and they needed only a quick brush before I came in to shine so glamorously. I feel a twinge of guilt, thinking back to my reflections and wondering how many young girls will watch the commercial where they zoom in upon my chompers and be consumed by a need to spend hours at night whitening, flossing, and feeling utterly terrible about themselves. I think how unattractive they will feel when they compare their own yellowed incisors and canines to their memory of my glittering grin.
I never would have landed a job in this industry, though if I didn't have the callousness to disregard the repercussions of my actions. I am not the most beautiful, I can't help but think, I may only have this one shining feature, but when it comes to that feature, I am whom they most desire. I leave my doubts floating at the door and walk into the picture that has become so second nature and familiar to me. I walk forth into against the white backdrop and greet the photographers and camera crew and stop to speak briefly to one of the producers, who is leisurely reclining in a canvas chair, smoking a cigarette. He smiles at me and tells me I am beautiful, tells me to remember to sound excited when I am saying the product name. His yellowed teeth glare out as I return his smile with my white and nod trying to look excited and attentive.
As the lights and lamps encircle me, as the cameras spin and zoom, I earnestly smile as I say my lines, because for that instant, I am the star of the world, I am my own tabernacle. I am a monument to vanity. It is like a drug pulsing violently through my veins and I love it. I love myself, I feel no remorse at all at the thoughts of greed and desire that come into my mind. I am timeless and indestructible, a terrible beauty. But, as the lights die down, these feelings vanish and I feel crushed by the depressing weight of reality as familiar self-doubt sets in. As I drive home along the ocean road towards my apartment, I look at my reflection in my rear view mirror and wonder if someone will ever invent a cure for man's vain nature. How cruel a fate I am condemned to live, to lust to be such a vain tabernacle. What a sad failure I am, as I, an intelligent woman, have wasted yet another day dedicating my existence to vanity. This is the true face of man.
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Unlike my last prompt, I don't feel compelled to take Claire's story any farther. She is what she is, and there is no use drawing it out. Tell me what you think of the piece.
-Jason