On the bedside table there are two bottles of water collecting the white dust of the walls. The motel air conditioning is weezing in air like her nephews asthma, a narrow breeze on her fevery forehead.
Here, where a sign is saying "If you lived here, you'd be home by now", time is the friction between water and oil.
Maybe tomorrow she'll start the car again. Under her nails, the white dust collects as she scratch another mark on the wall.
After
two,
three,
days, not too tired but her body like a see through mirror.
The world behind the shutters, not the other way around, turns on the lights where a beat means going to the bathroom, another five to stay in bed.
Last night, someone had knocked on the door.
"Tomorrow" she thought and fell asleep.
söndag 28 oktober 2007
onsdag 5 september 2007
Margaret Copsey, 45 y/o
Buried under a ton of bricks, she tried to move.
What she liked to think is that it was only an analogy, but this time, it wasn't.
A writer writes about what she'll never experience, twenty broken bones, the unablility to walk or to feel her vagina ever again.
The sun, through the window, hit the mountain and she closed her eyes.
Concentrating on staying alive.
Outside her children were screaming for her, calling for help.
Escaping the situation, she thought that THIS would make a killer OPENING CHAPTER.
If only she could get the blood-dust out of her throat and bend her fingers over a keyboard she would write her fucking masterpiece.
A sentence through the Byzantine circuit-board:
"At the bottom of the hole in our house, I lied all these years."
As she pondered the title, her husband came running into the room,
the ambulance was on its' way.
The days to come drifted from sleep to sleep.
And at the end, she had nothing to show for the years of fooling herself.
Songs, books and movies kept at the house,
she dreamt of.
And where were her children?
What she liked to think is that it was only an analogy, but this time, it wasn't.
A writer writes about what she'll never experience, twenty broken bones, the unablility to walk or to feel her vagina ever again.
The sun, through the window, hit the mountain and she closed her eyes.
Concentrating on staying alive.
Outside her children were screaming for her, calling for help.
Escaping the situation, she thought that THIS would make a killer OPENING CHAPTER.
If only she could get the blood-dust out of her throat and bend her fingers over a keyboard she would write her fucking masterpiece.
A sentence through the Byzantine circuit-board:
"At the bottom of the hole in our house, I lied all these years."
As she pondered the title, her husband came running into the room,
the ambulance was on its' way.
The days to come drifted from sleep to sleep.
And at the end, she had nothing to show for the years of fooling herself.
Songs, books and movies kept at the house,
she dreamt of.
And where were her children?
fredag 31 augusti 2007
Brian Copsey 33 y/o
A room, a job.
The new city had so far treated him with reserved courtesy.
Putting the pins down slowly and under sedation.
After settling in and shaving his head he got a letter.
He'd pay for the abortion and he did.
This new city, it didn't belong to him, he borrowed it.
Smoking packs of cigarettes he realized he was lost.
The signs pointing home, he couldn't understand them.
Undressing, he forgets and starts over.
This time, not going to bed with her.
Wiring the money, this was going to be his home.
Like Hansel following the trail back.
In bars he met people, he took notes and they asked him what they were for.
He asked them back, "If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?".
Leaving early, the answer would never be, "Here".
A girl who looked like her stole his jacket,
she tried to remember his face while reading the notes,
"We are sinking deeper every day. The hopes of the future eats us alive as the past tries to let us go, but can't."
Smoking his cigarettes, she said, "Really?".
The new city had so far treated him with reserved courtesy.
Putting the pins down slowly and under sedation.
After settling in and shaving his head he got a letter.
He'd pay for the abortion and he did.
This new city, it didn't belong to him, he borrowed it.
Smoking packs of cigarettes he realized he was lost.
The signs pointing home, he couldn't understand them.
Undressing, he forgets and starts over.
This time, not going to bed with her.
Wiring the money, this was going to be his home.
Like Hansel following the trail back.
In bars he met people, he took notes and they asked him what they were for.
He asked them back, "If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?".
Leaving early, the answer would never be, "Here".
A girl who looked like her stole his jacket,
she tried to remember his face while reading the notes,
"We are sinking deeper every day. The hopes of the future eats us alive as the past tries to let us go, but can't."
Smoking his cigarettes, she said, "Really?".
tisdag 21 augusti 2007
Bridget Gault 32 y/o
Age: 32
Relgion: Jehovah's witness
Status: Single
Favorite Movie: Dancer In The Dark
After he'd read the article he convinced her to put down Miss Harrington.
In retrospect, she now knew that for something to change, something old has to go.
All the way to the veterinarian she cried, he said this was for the best.
This was years ago, she and her then-boyfriend Danny living in an apartment shared with a girl named Sarah.
She knew she heard their arguments through the walls, but she'd never once complained.
She said, she'd been there.
With some John guy.
The article was about this cat, living in a nursing home. Going from bed to bed with potential bodies, the cat would patrol.
The story was that a couple of hours before someone died the cat would jump up on the bed, laying there until it was over. The dying wanting to stroke him but couldn't, knowing with relief what was around the corner.
The cat would purr until the last breath and when the body was gone, he'd start patroling again.
The problem was that Miss Harrington had slept in their bed every night.
But that was before the article and after reading it Danny just couldn't sleep anymore.
He would pace the apartment waiting for the chessplayer.
So after the screaming and the crying, they gave the little miss a shot
and it was over.
The apartment grew quiet and closed off.
A week later, Bridget moved out. She packed her bags on a tuesday while Danny was at work. Sarah helped her, tip-toeing around collecting and packing cd's she'd borrowed.
Untangling months of spiderwebs of knowing the old Bridget.
Sarah had been their cat of death, the scape-goat observer of the end.
No one cried over a car leaving to never return.
Then, not knowing the kid growing inside of her.
Miss Harrington had been the last sacrifice for a dying god.
Danny had been the last burning icon.
She'd be born again in some small town.
In a flowered dress, she'd knock door after door, trying to teach what Miss Harrington had given her.
Relgion: Jehovah's witness
Status: Single
Favorite Movie: Dancer In The Dark
After he'd read the article he convinced her to put down Miss Harrington.
In retrospect, she now knew that for something to change, something old has to go.
All the way to the veterinarian she cried, he said this was for the best.
This was years ago, she and her then-boyfriend Danny living in an apartment shared with a girl named Sarah.
She knew she heard their arguments through the walls, but she'd never once complained.
She said, she'd been there.
With some John guy.
The article was about this cat, living in a nursing home. Going from bed to bed with potential bodies, the cat would patrol.
The story was that a couple of hours before someone died the cat would jump up on the bed, laying there until it was over. The dying wanting to stroke him but couldn't, knowing with relief what was around the corner.
The cat would purr until the last breath and when the body was gone, he'd start patroling again.
The problem was that Miss Harrington had slept in their bed every night.
But that was before the article and after reading it Danny just couldn't sleep anymore.
He would pace the apartment waiting for the chessplayer.
So after the screaming and the crying, they gave the little miss a shot
and it was over.
The apartment grew quiet and closed off.
A week later, Bridget moved out. She packed her bags on a tuesday while Danny was at work. Sarah helped her, tip-toeing around collecting and packing cd's she'd borrowed.
Untangling months of spiderwebs of knowing the old Bridget.
Sarah had been their cat of death, the scape-goat observer of the end.
No one cried over a car leaving to never return.
Then, not knowing the kid growing inside of her.
Miss Harrington had been the last sacrifice for a dying god.
Danny had been the last burning icon.
She'd be born again in some small town.
In a flowered dress, she'd knock door after door, trying to teach what Miss Harrington had given her.
måndag 20 augusti 2007
David Green, 26 y/o (Part 2)
(Written over a bottle of beer at Holden's bar)
Time spent here
For Jessica Garner
This is the split second, stretched into infinity,
in which I and we could live forever.
The moment, just before you said no,
I thought you were going to say yes.
By default a light switches in what feels like an aeon.
But there's never enough time for those kinds of impulses.
By then you have all ready made a stupid decision,
by then we have become haystacks in someone elses idea of peace.
In every city, a cracked wall holding it together.
Filled with curse-words.
The last, the last frowning first.
Going backwards into the house again.
And its' twilight crawls back up the street, leading to it.
Slowly we become what we've always been.
Time spent here
For Jessica Garner
This is the split second, stretched into infinity,
in which I and we could live forever.
The moment, just before you said no,
I thought you were going to say yes.
By default a light switches in what feels like an aeon.
But there's never enough time for those kinds of impulses.
By then you have all ready made a stupid decision,
by then we have become haystacks in someone elses idea of peace.
In every city, a cracked wall holding it together.
Filled with curse-words.
The last, the last frowning first.
Going backwards into the house again.
And its' twilight crawls back up the street, leading to it.
Slowly we become what we've always been.
David Green 26 y/o (part 1)
Age: 26
Occupation: Writer
Best feature: Good listener
Worst feature: Too kind for own good
[A telephone call made by David Green to Jessica Garner a Thursday, lasting between 2:46 to 2:51 p.m.]
JG: Hello.
DG: Jessica?
JG: Yes, who is this?
DG: It's David.. from highschool.
JG: Who?
DG: David.. David Green.
JG: Yeah.. I'm sorry.. Hi!
DG: So.. how've you been?
JG: Good.. just.. good, you know.
DG: Yeah? Yeah?
JG: Yeah, you know..
DG: So, listen, the reason I'm calling is.. well it's kinda embarrasing.
JG: What?
DG: Uhm, you see I'm a writer.. a poet.
JG: Wow, that's great.
DG: Yeah.. well, how to put this.. Do you by any chance remember the night when a whole gang went to Holden's for a beer.. Sarah, you remember Sarah right, she was there.. We were all sitting at a table and you were sitting over the table from me. You were sitting by.. what was his name..
god!
JG: Scott?
DG: Yeah, Scott. You know what happened to him?
JG: Uhm, yeah I do, we're married.
DG: No? That's great.. just great.
JG: Yes, for three years now.
DG: Any kids?
JG: Just one, Charles, turning two in a couple of months.
DG: That's just.. great.
JG: Yeah..
DG: Well back to the story, the thing is I'm putting together a best of kinda deal,a collection of poems and I remember, that night at Holden's, the others went out on the dancefloor but we stayed at the table and we talked some. You asked me what I liked doing.. and I said, "I'll show you". I picked up my notebook and wrote you a poem, and.. geez it's so embarrasing.
JG: What?
DG: Well, I wonder if I could have it back.. I know it was for you but.. you know. If you still
have it of course.
JG: No no, of course. Yes, I still have it, I think it's called "Time spent here".
DG: Wow, you still remember huh?
JG: It was a good poem.
DG: ..
JG: Hello, you still there?
DG: Yeah.. sorry.. uhm. So are you still living in XXXXXX?
JG: Yes
DG: Well I'm in town, maybe I could come over and pick it up?
JG: I don't know.. I have to find it first. I don't think it's a good idea. But I'm happy to send it to you. I'll get your address online, David.. Green.. right?
DG: Yeah, that's it.. OK.. I can't thank you enough, I'll thank you in the book.
JG: Oh, no, you don't have to do that.
DG: Don't be silly.
JG: No really.. you don't have to.
DG: OK, if that's what you want. Uhm, well, listen, if you ever want to grab a cup of coffee.. catch up.
JG: Yeah.. We'll see. I have your number.. so.
DG: Great.. great. Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it. I mean I feel like a thief.
JG: You shouldn't, it's yours.
DG: No.. no it's not.
JG: Well, I'll send it as soon as I find it. Goodbye.
DG: Bye.
Occupation: Writer
Best feature: Good listener
Worst feature: Too kind for own good
[A telephone call made by David Green to Jessica Garner a Thursday, lasting between 2:46 to 2:51 p.m.]
JG: Hello.
DG: Jessica?
JG: Yes, who is this?
DG: It's David.. from highschool.
JG: Who?
DG: David.. David Green.
JG: Yeah.. I'm sorry.. Hi!
DG: So.. how've you been?
JG: Good.. just.. good, you know.
DG: Yeah? Yeah?
JG: Yeah, you know..
DG: So, listen, the reason I'm calling is.. well it's kinda embarrasing.
JG: What?
DG: Uhm, you see I'm a writer.. a poet.
JG: Wow, that's great.
DG: Yeah.. well, how to put this.. Do you by any chance remember the night when a whole gang went to Holden's for a beer.. Sarah, you remember Sarah right, she was there.. We were all sitting at a table and you were sitting over the table from me. You were sitting by.. what was his name..
god!
JG: Scott?
DG: Yeah, Scott. You know what happened to him?
JG: Uhm, yeah I do, we're married.
DG: No? That's great.. just great.
JG: Yes, for three years now.
DG: Any kids?
JG: Just one, Charles, turning two in a couple of months.
DG: That's just.. great.
JG: Yeah..
DG: Well back to the story, the thing is I'm putting together a best of kinda deal,a collection of poems and I remember, that night at Holden's, the others went out on the dancefloor but we stayed at the table and we talked some. You asked me what I liked doing.. and I said, "I'll show you". I picked up my notebook and wrote you a poem, and.. geez it's so embarrasing.
JG: What?
DG: Well, I wonder if I could have it back.. I know it was for you but.. you know. If you still
have it of course.
JG: No no, of course. Yes, I still have it, I think it's called "Time spent here".
DG: Wow, you still remember huh?
JG: It was a good poem.
DG: ..
JG: Hello, you still there?
DG: Yeah.. sorry.. uhm. So are you still living in XXXXXX?
JG: Yes
DG: Well I'm in town, maybe I could come over and pick it up?
JG: I don't know.. I have to find it first. I don't think it's a good idea. But I'm happy to send it to you. I'll get your address online, David.. Green.. right?
DG: Yeah, that's it.. OK.. I can't thank you enough, I'll thank you in the book.
JG: Oh, no, you don't have to do that.
DG: Don't be silly.
JG: No really.. you don't have to.
DG: OK, if that's what you want. Uhm, well, listen, if you ever want to grab a cup of coffee.. catch up.
JG: Yeah.. We'll see. I have your number.. so.
DG: Great.. great. Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it. I mean I feel like a thief.
JG: You shouldn't, it's yours.
DG: No.. no it's not.
JG: Well, I'll send it as soon as I find it. Goodbye.
DG: Bye.
Blocked up.
Yes, I admit, for the moment I have a small block. But don't worry, I'll be back very soon.
Meanwhile, you can read a short-story from one of my biggest sources of inspiration, Amy Hempel. When it comes to keeping it short and right on point, she is a godess.
Enjoy!
Today Will Be A Quiet Day
måndag 13 augusti 2007
Brandon Manner, 32 y/o
Age: 32
Diagnosis: Obsessive-compulsive disorder
Fear: Deep water
After he had been commited for the third time, he moved out here.
A little house on the side of the gravelled road.
That blue light shining into the room, in his face, on his cigarette.
He'd get postcards from his friends.
On a friday it was a picture of him and Sarah, and over her new address, "What's the outside like?".
The picture was of him and her standing outside their first apartment,
the flash had made his eyes close shut,
she'd kissed him hard on the cheek.
A moment now hanging over his bed as he slept.
Every night at eleven he'd go out for a walk.
An empty road on an empty plain, guided by streetlights.
With a couple of minutes left, he'd stop and light another cigarette.
Exactly at eleven twelve the lights go out, every night his eyes readjust to the lights of the stars.
He'd walk home, slowly dragging his feet, even though it felt like he was floating.
These twenty minutes as his whole life, waiting for everything to change.
To make the days pass he'd chop woods, in three months he'd go home again.
On a piece of paper he'd written down his epitaph:
"Death is just a minor adjustment".
Diagnosis: Obsessive-compulsive disorder
Fear: Deep water
After he had been commited for the third time, he moved out here.
A little house on the side of the gravelled road.
That blue light shining into the room, in his face, on his cigarette.
He'd get postcards from his friends.
On a friday it was a picture of him and Sarah, and over her new address, "What's the outside like?".
The picture was of him and her standing outside their first apartment,
the flash had made his eyes close shut,
she'd kissed him hard on the cheek.
A moment now hanging over his bed as he slept.
Every night at eleven he'd go out for a walk.
An empty road on an empty plain, guided by streetlights.
With a couple of minutes left, he'd stop and light another cigarette.
Exactly at eleven twelve the lights go out, every night his eyes readjust to the lights of the stars.
He'd walk home, slowly dragging his feet, even though it felt like he was floating.
These twenty minutes as his whole life, waiting for everything to change.
To make the days pass he'd chop woods, in three months he'd go home again.
On a piece of paper he'd written down his epitaph:
"Death is just a minor adjustment".
Grace Daniels, 68 y/o
Age: 68
Occupation: Retired
Hobbies: Baking, Reading
Whenever she has a good day,
one without her body cramping,
one without her knees buckling, she bakes.
Measuring flour and sugar, it's her excuse to invite her neighbors from next door, those cute girls with the beautiful dresses and their stories.
She writes a note and pushes it under their door. They always show up.
They need a stage and audience and she gives it.
For fortyfive minutes every time the painkillers kicks in.
Around the table, this is her imagining that she's on televisions like those New York babies.
Over cinnamon buns and coffee she asks them about
their new boyfriends, always new, every time. And they tell her.
She pretends innocence to perfection as they tell her about what the sex is like. With mouths full of apple cobbler and tea they show her how oralsex makes them gag.
This was beyond humiliation but she doesn't mind.
This is Grace's fifteen minutes of the spotlight of pity before crashlanding in solitude,
before the pills fades out again in her too hot blood.
Occupation: Retired
Hobbies: Baking, Reading
Whenever she has a good day,
one without her body cramping,
one without her knees buckling, she bakes.
Measuring flour and sugar, it's her excuse to invite her neighbors from next door, those cute girls with the beautiful dresses and their stories.
She writes a note and pushes it under their door. They always show up.
They need a stage and audience and she gives it.
For fortyfive minutes every time the painkillers kicks in.
Around the table, this is her imagining that she's on televisions like those New York babies.
Over cinnamon buns and coffee she asks them about
their new boyfriends, always new, every time. And they tell her.
She pretends innocence to perfection as they tell her about what the sex is like. With mouths full of apple cobbler and tea they show her how oralsex makes them gag.
This was beyond humiliation but she doesn't mind.
This is Grace's fifteen minutes of the spotlight of pity before crashlanding in solitude,
before the pills fades out again in her too hot blood.
tisdag 7 augusti 2007
Brian Stover, 29 y/o (part 1)
Age: 29
Favorite author: Earnest Hemmingway, Gore Vidal
In college he shared an apartment with John,
John with his girlfriend always sitting in the livingroom waiting for him.
He'd ask her, "What do you really see in this guy?".
"The obligatory bad boyfriend experience", she said underneath a crust of lipstick.
They'd sit in the living room, watching television.
She'd ask him, "Do you love him?".
With the coffeemaker fogging up the room he'd say, "I'm not gay."
All he could do was to lay down and listen as the ground of their relationship fell deeper into the earth.
He had the same name as her brother she said just before John came in with pussy juice on his stubble. John, the guitar-flaunter. Sarah held on to him like she wanted to suck out as much humiliation of him before it'd be over.
At this point, he'd always sneak out, hearing John's loud voice scraping away at
her dignity.
For hours he'd walk around in his darkened neighborhood waiting for the fights to be over.
That summer was a hot one. Without wallets and keys, some nights he slept on a blanket in the park thinking about her, would she come out alright after this?
Some nights he'd bring a bottle of Jaeger and sit on the curb until she'd come out.
They'd sit and watch the streetlights gathered bugs.
She'd start crying and he'd put his arm around her, kissing her forehead.
She'd ask, "You sure you're not gay?."
He'd say, "Do you really hate yourself that much?"
At the end, she'd always laugh and say, "No."
Favorite author: Earnest Hemmingway, Gore Vidal
In college he shared an apartment with John,
John with his girlfriend always sitting in the livingroom waiting for him.
He'd ask her, "What do you really see in this guy?".
"The obligatory bad boyfriend experience", she said underneath a crust of lipstick.
They'd sit in the living room, watching television.
She'd ask him, "Do you love him?".
With the coffeemaker fogging up the room he'd say, "I'm not gay."
All he could do was to lay down and listen as the ground of their relationship fell deeper into the earth.
He had the same name as her brother she said just before John came in with pussy juice on his stubble. John, the guitar-flaunter. Sarah held on to him like she wanted to suck out as much humiliation of him before it'd be over.
At this point, he'd always sneak out, hearing John's loud voice scraping away at
her dignity.
For hours he'd walk around in his darkened neighborhood waiting for the fights to be over.
That summer was a hot one. Without wallets and keys, some nights he slept on a blanket in the park thinking about her, would she come out alright after this?
Some nights he'd bring a bottle of Jaeger and sit on the curb until she'd come out.
They'd sit and watch the streetlights gathered bugs.
She'd start crying and he'd put his arm around her, kissing her forehead.
She'd ask, "You sure you're not gay?."
He'd say, "Do you really hate yourself that much?"
At the end, she'd always laugh and say, "No."
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