10.30

[Who can say how inspiration ravages the human mind?]

Robby can sit with his book and pretend to be capable of wading its depths, but I know the truth. Faulkner is like taking a bath, and he always wants a towel afterwards.
Still, it's not as if he finds himself incapable. No, quite the opposite: unwilling. It produces the same effect. He puts down the critically acclaimed book and rushes to the sanctum of the five-minute-interval entertainment gluthouse of the Internet.

10.29

[Man am I ever terrible at updating this blog]


"Charles M Sweeney," the sign read, and it did his heart good to read it. "Charles M Sweeney," he slowly intoned. The words had a pleasant sound, and rolled slightly as they left the safety of his mouth to encounter the wide world beyond. "Charles M Sweeney," more like "Chuck," he thought. Not too pretentious, he hoped, to put up a nearly full name, the only mystery veiled behind an enigmatic "M" which he would tell all passers-by stood for "Montgomery," if only they asked. But of course, people always expect silly answers to questions like "what's the 'M'" and they would have been disappointed if they had ventured the query.
Somehow, Charles "Chuck" Montgomery Sweeney had found himself outside his business, staring at his own sign, wondering how to get in, and all the elegance of the lettering, all the quality of the veneer, all the belabored elaborate scrollwork in the world couldn't tell him that the key was in the coat he left in the cab now traveling through the square, freed from all responsibility and enjoying its life very much.
Perhaps he should have changed the sign to "Chuck."

10.17

I'm shaking slightly from the exertion of holding your weight, but if I let go, the shaking won't stop before we hit the ground anyway. I'm going to shift my weight--I assume that sharp intake of breath signifies pain. Well, we'll get out of this one way or another. Either someone will find us and take pity on us, or there's always the long, slow, inevitable fall to our little, meaningful deaths.

10.16

[Here's the original: "There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of innocent paper. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. Thus, the travelers often found themselves unbelievably detained." I'm going to run it again, when I'm not so tired.]

[I curse once in this. It's a sullen word, full of power and an effective construct to deliver the emotion of the speaker. But it's still a curse and I should start warning people.]

A metropolis stretched out in front of the young couple. Newly-minted, they shone like burnished copper, and everywhere they went they were currency. A job for the travel agent, a cheer for the cabbie, a smile for an old man who only remembers his wife. Now, in this place of hope and grist, they were to find their place, and one slotted for them as if designed.
The only difficulty was getting in. There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of simple paper, as-yet-unravished by the hundred desk workers between them and the capital. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. The imagination gawps at the requirements, both civil and domestic, of an organization that had for years asked for the most intimate details of each life and then, with almost no fanfare, judged it to its core.
"WORTHY," was the lucky traveler's sight. No more terminals or buses. Welcome in.
The couple had high hopes. He was a carpenter with skills in several different series of employments, all practical and eminently desirable. She was a purveyor of trends and he thought her fashionably handsome. With skills and savvy, they hoped to conquer the hopeless task of the future.
The last stamp received, the two passed into the interminable purgatory of the waiting room. Every twelve seconds, she gave his hand a squeeze. Every minute and a half he kissed her cheek. She was confident that his talents had won over the employment officer. He was assured that her smile had melted the social ambassador. And still, the hours dragged on.
Then a shock: their numbers. Grab bags--do you have it? I thought it was in your pocket, but ah, it was here the whole time--love you sweetie, good luck, I'll be just ecstatic on the other side.
She to one room, he to another.
"Two-four-eight-oh-one."
"James, if you don't mind."
"It's all the same to me. Sir, you are approved. You are cleared for living quarters and your supervisor expects you on Friday. Welcome to London."
He can't wait. His true worry had been that the City wouldn't need any more of his type, and that he would be alone again at the beginning of a life with no reason to try again. Now, he could go with her into the city and they would slot in together. He rounded the corner and found her mascara slowly sliding down her face. Papers and bags fell from him not unlike an autumnal shedding as he rushed to her side.
"UNWORTHY" read the stamp, with a cruel red ink distilled and transmitted to the page with a slap and a smirking twist.
"Really, Sylvia, I'll leave, though. I'll leave and we'll be like before."

and her heart screamed
"I don't want your pity, James. I don't want your shit. The hardest test of our lives and you've just passed it. The rest of our lives and I'm the failure, I'm the one who couldn't even make the grade. I'm the one holding you back. You could have opportunity and health, a good life and a future, but you gave it all up for me? I couldn't live with myself, and I'm not sure I could live with you. I would owe you. I would be indebted for what I can't repay. And don't say anything you know isn't true."
her heart screamed, but

They left, one stamped black and crisp, the other red and twisted.

(Even soiled copper can be made to shine again.)

10.15

From Faulkner: "held by that electric furious immobile urgency."

Sometimes I feel too small to be believed. The walls expand out and the world opens up until I'm lost. I'm not saying it's pleasant; heaven forbid! I'm merely saying that sometimes the world seems a much more dangerous place than any of us realize and I should perhaps be far more afraid of it than I am. Truth be told, the open metaphorical places of the world are far more numerous than we commonly recognize, and it's up to us to notice and do something about it. Ice simply chosen to feel like I've been engulfed. Yes, I think that word will do nicely. Engulfed. That's me. So what have I chosen to do in those moments of complete obstruction, when the world is a smothering element? Well, I guess the common answer has been to feel small and then run away. That's how I deal with conflict.

[Where did the ending go? I thought I was going somewhere. I must have lost my touch on reality.]

10.5

There were some who tried the Brighton line with a single sheet of innocent paper. There was no simple bureaucracy here; the entire working machinery of rubber stamps in London was called into play. Thus, the travelers often found themselves unbelievably detained.

[I love the sound of this. The middle line is what I woke up repeating to myself. But I can't help feeling to myself that the entire thing, though beautiful, is punctuated utterly wrong.]
[Also, I can't spell bureaucracy. The key,apparently, is "bureau." My cheating with the Google voice recognition only gives me "do you rock chrissy," and I can't help but wonder. Do you? Do you rock, Chrissy?]

10.1

The furnishings loom formidable, shadows with weight. My refrigerator, covered with the alphabetic magnet ramblings of a dyslexic household, has now become a creature of myth, bristling with sharp surfaces and kit from within. The chairs are traps for toes, a hundred legs thrust into indefinable darkness. The lamps are winged, ready to take flight on transparent skin. The walls expand and corners become erratic, close or far, moving to make room for the attack dogs: couch, coat rack, desk. Everything is an obstacle, madeunfamiliar and hostile by night.
My blind wife calls from the next room "Honey, did you see?"