recent flashes & drabbles
Some random flashes and stuff from recently. Haven't been writing too well, though I'm partial to two in here.
The grass moves. I breathe the air, and something of the peaces gives me this calm to write:
Do I wish this?-I stare across a primary succession, the trees, mere saplings, as tall as the grass. I do not know. The page craves the pen, but it is I that allows them words. I could live with a hunger, but a hunger grows before it dies, a hunger cries out, a hunger crafts obsession…
Do I wish this?-the wind is warm, the sun is gold. Am I happy in this disobedient whim, in this willful mood? There is a sky but no heaven. I love the taste of autumn. I see his face and not another’s; I taste a freedom I should not have. If one can need, I merely want. I don’t think he could understand. He could be here: I sit and the grass is soft. He may have his eyes open, but he is either blind or cruel. I am calm, but I know that it is not always so. See my mind?-I hurt it yesterday, to make this stop.
Do I wish this?-I cannot see past the wall of tangled trees. I’m something I can’t understand. Yellow flowers and green leaves. The aspen is so afraid. Where could he be but elsewhere?-of course. A hunger is not so important: it is merely a voice, not that thing that kills you. But a voice will leave you mad if stilled from words.
Do I wish this?-I could walk away. He has feet as sure as I. The forest is so close. I can see-
i:
This... I don't know. I didn't feel like dealing with the general noise of RL friends, so I just went outside. Then felt like shit for the duration of lunchtime.
'happiness',
fifty_flashes
table
-that thrill as sharp as birdsong when he’s smiling and it’s so hard to breathe-
-that suffocation in the springtime air thick with the scent of flowers-
-that scent of the pink-yellow tiger lilies received at the corner shop with snow in his hair-
-the flurry you slip through hand in hand on streets where no one dares walk-
-on the stage with the dozenzome best and brightest, the medals around the neck heavy but the honor makes you light, all beyond anyone’s dreams-
-drowned you do not know what it is you do but intoxication makes you do things you will not remember and shouldn’t regret but the moment’s all that matters, no?-
-because you’re standing there and though you won’t see her for an eternity the independence is still a thrill as sharp as birdsong-
i:
I like this one, inexplicably. It... won't make sense to any one person, since I don't think I've told any one person about the various events detailed here. Well, maybe Demie. Maybe? Blegh. I feel vaguely fuzzy when I read this. Obviously it's missing a few ('and so they stood in gloried May/considering the fountain wall') but it's got some of the... happier things in my life. *laughs* No shit.
'love'
The cell, square; but chairs steal from the simplicity, as does the uneven sprawl of stands. Papers with black lines strewn, leaves on the trees, inexplicable as they struggle to describe the subjective experience.
New, new in many respects except the only one that matters. It rests there, sweetly so, beneath your chin, extending outward with those graceful curves and lines.
Brace yourself against the air-
The first sound resonates not in the instrument but in the heart: feel it in the delicate bones of the chest, the force of the sound more likely to break you than break the instrument you hold in your hands.
Bow shifts, fingers move, scale, first scale, guided by childish stickers and the sound, the sound is far from perfect, far from beauty, but it is sound, not merely in the air but within you… for you are the sound, you are the music that will come with time.
i:
Viola, obviously. My poor RL buddies have been subjected to my rambling on the matter. This is poor treatment of the topic, but I wrote it after the first hour I had with it. "Authentic". I'll do something nice later, some whatnot with parellelism and the like. (Oooh, and Gussiki & Gracie, before I forget: I got a shoulder rest from the orch.. It made it slightly less painful to play, though I think I prefer playing sans? Input perhaps?)
'talk'
They speak, listen:
Slamming lockers punctuate the slurred obscenities of the thick-necked and thick-minded. The pale bug-eyed awkwards with their backpack stuffed for the day, theirs open and close without a word but for the sorry for every one they touch. The geishas snap at all who intrude upon them and the magnetized mirror; some are exposed to the hairspray contaminants, others to their tinny twanging voice Like OMG-
Heads above the lockers; except for the tall whose shoulders turn them to Goliath shadows, and their thudding voices melding to simple disharmony. False hair, lightbulb heads, drift in schools and incorporate any outside that walks too slow or fast. They laugh. You draw. The noise, so difficult to separate the sounds to melodic parts, no symphony is this…
Slumped hyenas. Their laughs make their faces twist with primal thoughts.
Some sit, like you, some look in from the outside, some fear the sound-
-and others seek to rise above, rise against, vulgarities superficially projected at the world. Others, crimped hair and strawberry lips they want to be gloried goddesses and though all goddesses turn to petty pagans with time, they don’t care…
Happiness the high false voices, even these who think black is the sad color, those who wear it with pride. Hear. Can they?
They advertise forces they cannot understand even with all their education. The thin and thick alike wear Abercrombie & Fitch, Aeropostle, Nike, Led Zeppelin Pink Floyd Linkin Park Hello Kitty Megatokyo-
Football tonight: the purple herd hungering and they feed on the moment with convenient pride. Colors. Is someone happy, carnival, masquerade?
False colors. White, black, yellow, red. Why?-or is it why not. They’d like to forget the streaks. Saplings in the hedge. Prune-imagine, the quiet? It’s outside the doors; but you don’t believe that.
Recognize.
i:
Basically, I sat out on a windowsill and watched the change between classes, over the lockerbank. It's... well, I get real bugfucked with too much noise/color/movement, and it was very disorienting to watch. I just wrote this in the few minutes I had before I had to bugger off too. It's very disorganized, just flashes of description. I think it could be something interesting, though, if organized and prune of weird whatnots.
'think'
The waiting. Can you see her? She sits, her pencil making the slow, slight movements of someone in a daze. She does not watch what it is that she writes: she knows, without looking, without comprehending. Her eyes intent on everything. Her mind is intent on nothing. Her heart intent on one thing. She watches them all, her face smooth and stoic, despite the color to her clothes she is as green as life, as gold as dawn. Sometimes her brow creases, as if seeing a doppelganger or a ghost: and for a moment there is a light there, recognizing, dreaming. This she loves, she bears the crowd for that is a swallowsong sweetness, in seeing the face she sees in those half-dreams between life and sleep…
..does she dream her life away? Perhaps. But at the very least, she is not dedicating her life to mere thought.
i:
*laughs* Irony, eh? Dumb writing.
'piece by piece'
100drabbles
Piece by piece we grow apart
I stand alone, but where are you?-not in my world anymore, surely, not in my world, not in my world for I’ll leave it too one day, I’ll leave even this-
I stand alone, I stand alone, how is it that I breathe? Look into my eyes and tell me that I’m strong.-You can’t do it anymore, can you? You can’t even see these scars-
I stand, I stand, I-stand! How long can broken legs stay steady, how long can a broken heart keep beating?
Piece by piece we fall apart.
i:
Blegh. No comment, other than I've written better on this particular. Funny how the closer you are to someone, the harder it can be to write about them.
The grass moves. I breathe the air, and something of the peaces gives me this calm to write:
Do I wish this?-I stare across a primary succession, the trees, mere saplings, as tall as the grass. I do not know. The page craves the pen, but it is I that allows them words. I could live with a hunger, but a hunger grows before it dies, a hunger cries out, a hunger crafts obsession…
Do I wish this?-the wind is warm, the sun is gold. Am I happy in this disobedient whim, in this willful mood? There is a sky but no heaven. I love the taste of autumn. I see his face and not another’s; I taste a freedom I should not have. If one can need, I merely want. I don’t think he could understand. He could be here: I sit and the grass is soft. He may have his eyes open, but he is either blind or cruel. I am calm, but I know that it is not always so. See my mind?-I hurt it yesterday, to make this stop.
Do I wish this?-I cannot see past the wall of tangled trees. I’m something I can’t understand. Yellow flowers and green leaves. The aspen is so afraid. Where could he be but elsewhere?-of course. A hunger is not so important: it is merely a voice, not that thing that kills you. But a voice will leave you mad if stilled from words.
Do I wish this?-I could walk away. He has feet as sure as I. The forest is so close. I can see-
i:
This... I don't know. I didn't feel like dealing with the general noise of RL friends, so I just went outside. Then felt like shit for the duration of lunchtime.
'happiness',
fifty_flashes
table
-that thrill as sharp as birdsong when he’s smiling and it’s so hard to breathe-
-that suffocation in the springtime air thick with the scent of flowers-
-that scent of the pink-yellow tiger lilies received at the corner shop with snow in his hair-
-the flurry you slip through hand in hand on streets where no one dares walk-
-on the stage with the dozenzome best and brightest, the medals around the neck heavy but the honor makes you light, all beyond anyone’s dreams-
-drowned you do not know what it is you do but intoxication makes you do things you will not remember and shouldn’t regret but the moment’s all that matters, no?-
-because you’re standing there and though you won’t see her for an eternity the independence is still a thrill as sharp as birdsong-
i:
I like this one, inexplicably. It... won't make sense to any one person, since I don't think I've told any one person about the various events detailed here. Well, maybe Demie. Maybe? Blegh. I feel vaguely fuzzy when I read this. Obviously it's missing a few ('and so they stood in gloried May/considering the fountain wall') but it's got some of the... happier things in my life. *laughs* No shit.
'love'
The cell, square; but chairs steal from the simplicity, as does the uneven sprawl of stands. Papers with black lines strewn, leaves on the trees, inexplicable as they struggle to describe the subjective experience.
New, new in many respects except the only one that matters. It rests there, sweetly so, beneath your chin, extending outward with those graceful curves and lines.
Brace yourself against the air-
The first sound resonates not in the instrument but in the heart: feel it in the delicate bones of the chest, the force of the sound more likely to break you than break the instrument you hold in your hands.
Bow shifts, fingers move, scale, first scale, guided by childish stickers and the sound, the sound is far from perfect, far from beauty, but it is sound, not merely in the air but within you… for you are the sound, you are the music that will come with time.
i:
Viola, obviously. My poor RL buddies have been subjected to my rambling on the matter. This is poor treatment of the topic, but I wrote it after the first hour I had with it. "Authentic". I'll do something nice later, some whatnot with parellelism and the like. (Oooh, and Gussiki & Gracie, before I forget: I got a shoulder rest from the orch.. It made it slightly less painful to play, though I think I prefer playing sans? Input perhaps?)
'talk'
They speak, listen:
Slamming lockers punctuate the slurred obscenities of the thick-necked and thick-minded. The pale bug-eyed awkwards with their backpack stuffed for the day, theirs open and close without a word but for the sorry for every one they touch. The geishas snap at all who intrude upon them and the magnetized mirror; some are exposed to the hairspray contaminants, others to their tinny twanging voice Like OMG-
Heads above the lockers; except for the tall whose shoulders turn them to Goliath shadows, and their thudding voices melding to simple disharmony. False hair, lightbulb heads, drift in schools and incorporate any outside that walks too slow or fast. They laugh. You draw. The noise, so difficult to separate the sounds to melodic parts, no symphony is this…
Slumped hyenas. Their laughs make their faces twist with primal thoughts.
Some sit, like you, some look in from the outside, some fear the sound-
-and others seek to rise above, rise against, vulgarities superficially projected at the world. Others, crimped hair and strawberry lips they want to be gloried goddesses and though all goddesses turn to petty pagans with time, they don’t care…
Happiness the high false voices, even these who think black is the sad color, those who wear it with pride. Hear. Can they?
They advertise forces they cannot understand even with all their education. The thin and thick alike wear Abercrombie & Fitch, Aeropostle, Nike, Led Zeppelin Pink Floyd Linkin Park Hello Kitty Megatokyo-
Football tonight: the purple herd hungering and they feed on the moment with convenient pride. Colors. Is someone happy, carnival, masquerade?
False colors. White, black, yellow, red. Why?-or is it why not. They’d like to forget the streaks. Saplings in the hedge. Prune-imagine, the quiet? It’s outside the doors; but you don’t believe that.
Recognize.
i:
Basically, I sat out on a windowsill and watched the change between classes, over the lockerbank. It's... well, I get real bugfucked with too much noise/color/movement, and it was very disorienting to watch. I just wrote this in the few minutes I had before I had to bugger off too. It's very disorganized, just flashes of description. I think it could be something interesting, though, if organized and prune of weird whatnots.
'think'
The waiting. Can you see her? She sits, her pencil making the slow, slight movements of someone in a daze. She does not watch what it is that she writes: she knows, without looking, without comprehending. Her eyes intent on everything. Her mind is intent on nothing. Her heart intent on one thing. She watches them all, her face smooth and stoic, despite the color to her clothes she is as green as life, as gold as dawn. Sometimes her brow creases, as if seeing a doppelganger or a ghost: and for a moment there is a light there, recognizing, dreaming. This she loves, she bears the crowd for that is a swallowsong sweetness, in seeing the face she sees in those half-dreams between life and sleep…
..does she dream her life away? Perhaps. But at the very least, she is not dedicating her life to mere thought.
i:
*laughs* Irony, eh? Dumb writing.
'piece by piece'
100drabbles
Piece by piece we grow apart
I stand alone, but where are you?-not in my world anymore, surely, not in my world, not in my world for I’ll leave it too one day, I’ll leave even this-
I stand alone, I stand alone, how is it that I breathe? Look into my eyes and tell me that I’m strong.-You can’t do it anymore, can you? You can’t even see these scars-
I stand, I stand, I-stand! How long can broken legs stay steady, how long can a broken heart keep beating?
Piece by piece we fall apart.
i:
Blegh. No comment, other than I've written better on this particular. Funny how the closer you are to someone, the harder it can be to write about them.