Writing writing writing
Here's the beginning of a short story, most of which I wrote during Danny's last class (I love the class, but I wander). I'm mostly just posting this for my own fun, don't bother reading it, it's quite long....
If he wasn’t asleep he was outside of his apartment, anywhere but his apartment: he couldn’t stand his apartment.
When a man wonders about the experience of falling toward the street from several stories above, when he spends time thinking about the possible drop, about the feel of the air on his face as he plummets, he shouldn’t move to an apartment on the twelfth floor. He should live on the first floor. He should never leave the first floor.
During the summer his favorite time of the day was the mid-afternoon, when the heat still left a hazy sheen over the air but the humidity was less continuous in the dimming half-light. He’d liked to sit out on the porch just before sunset and close his eyes and let the heat linger on his face. But he couldn’t do that anymore; there was no house, no sloppily arranged lawn furniture thrown across the lawn, no lawn, no porch. He was in the city.
When he was a child he was obsessed with the idea that though he had spent his entire life in a single house, there were parts of the house that were still unknown to him. He had never been in the attic. There was a spot behind the couch in the living room he had never set foot on, that he had never even seen; the couch was always blocking his view. He made up his mind to cover every inch of the place, he climbed up to the attic, he moved the couch and sat down in the uncharted space. Then he realized that there were parts of the house he had only been in in the daytime. What about the night? Had he ever stood in the kitchen, by the oven, in the middle of the night? He started wandering all over the house at night, checking spots of the house he had never seen in the early morning. He gave up suddenly, one day, it seemed he knew the house as well as a person could after having spent his entire life over the same roof.
His current apartment was unknown to him. It radiated remoteness at odd moments, as he was leaving his building for work, as he sat on his couch eating breakfast and watching the weather report, or in the middle of the night. He woke up at four in the morning, in a cold sweat, and he would look across the room and not know himself, not know where he was or how he had ended up in a deserted room in a noisy place full of people who he would never know. He hadn’t brought a lot of stuff with him and he hadn’t yet bought anything; other than the bed, the TV and couch, the apartment was unfurnished. The floor was hollow; when he walked his footsteps echoed restlessly, a sound from nowhere calling to no one. It didn’t feel like he lived there, or like anyone had ever lived in his apartment.
If he wasn’t asleep he was outside of his apartment, anywhere but his apartment: he couldn’t stand his apartment.
When a man wonders about the experience of falling toward the street from several stories above, when he spends time thinking about the possible drop, about the feel of the air on his face as he plummets, he shouldn’t move to an apartment on the twelfth floor. He should live on the first floor. He should never leave the first floor.
During the summer his favorite time of the day was the mid-afternoon, when the heat still left a hazy sheen over the air but the humidity was less continuous in the dimming half-light. He’d liked to sit out on the porch just before sunset and close his eyes and let the heat linger on his face. But he couldn’t do that anymore; there was no house, no sloppily arranged lawn furniture thrown across the lawn, no lawn, no porch. He was in the city.
When he was a child he was obsessed with the idea that though he had spent his entire life in a single house, there were parts of the house that were still unknown to him. He had never been in the attic. There was a spot behind the couch in the living room he had never set foot on, that he had never even seen; the couch was always blocking his view. He made up his mind to cover every inch of the place, he climbed up to the attic, he moved the couch and sat down in the uncharted space. Then he realized that there were parts of the house he had only been in in the daytime. What about the night? Had he ever stood in the kitchen, by the oven, in the middle of the night? He started wandering all over the house at night, checking spots of the house he had never seen in the early morning. He gave up suddenly, one day, it seemed he knew the house as well as a person could after having spent his entire life over the same roof.
His current apartment was unknown to him. It radiated remoteness at odd moments, as he was leaving his building for work, as he sat on his couch eating breakfast and watching the weather report, or in the middle of the night. He woke up at four in the morning, in a cold sweat, and he would look across the room and not know himself, not know where he was or how he had ended up in a deserted room in a noisy place full of people who he would never know. He hadn’t brought a lot of stuff with him and he hadn’t yet bought anything; other than the bed, the TV and couch, the apartment was unfurnished. The floor was hollow; when he walked his footsteps echoed restlessly, a sound from nowhere calling to no one. It didn’t feel like he lived there, or like anyone had ever lived in his apartment.