Old Writing
I found one of my old writing exercises. It's not half bad, for what it is. I like these strange fragments of oddness that can come out of the human brain.
Jack Parsons stared to long into the sun and it burned into his eyes the shape of the face of David Bowie. A negative, inverted face, black against the background of the world, slowly burned in as his eyes wiggled, trying to take in the whole of the shining sun.
It was 1932, and he wouldn't live to see Ziggy Stardust or even Space Oddity, but the inverted Bowie haunted his every sight for the next decade. Looking at the face of his wife, his friends, staring off over the desert sky, seeing always the black elfin visage with the devilish eyes and a thousand light-year stare.
And when he shaved in the morning, he looked in the mirror to see the inverted Bowie staring back, and he would look long into those eyes, and thought he could see a future where famous women rode white horses through dance clubs in New York City, and men no longer bothered flying to the moon.
Then he picked up the toothpaste and thought again about rockets and bare maiden's breasts.
Edited to add:
It is Christmas eve. I am in my parents' house in snowy-white Rochester New York. Outside the wind is blowing so hard it rattles the house, and makes me feel like it could carry the house away.
Jack Parsons stared to long into the sun and it burned into his eyes the shape of the face of David Bowie. A negative, inverted face, black against the background of the world, slowly burned in as his eyes wiggled, trying to take in the whole of the shining sun.
It was 1932, and he wouldn't live to see Ziggy Stardust or even Space Oddity, but the inverted Bowie haunted his every sight for the next decade. Looking at the face of his wife, his friends, staring off over the desert sky, seeing always the black elfin visage with the devilish eyes and a thousand light-year stare.
And when he shaved in the morning, he looked in the mirror to see the inverted Bowie staring back, and he would look long into those eyes, and thought he could see a future where famous women rode white horses through dance clubs in New York City, and men no longer bothered flying to the moon.
Then he picked up the toothpaste and thought again about rockets and bare maiden's breasts.
Edited to add:
It is Christmas eve. I am in my parents' house in snowy-white Rochester New York. Outside the wind is blowing so hard it rattles the house, and makes me feel like it could carry the house away.