Upswing, what a mess.
Is indecision instigated by the inquiries we have about our whimsical states of being in this wild adventure yet somehow influenced by procrastinators of a sort of youthful mind? The thought of something most grandly invading the mental space from which we all live are given visibly to those who seek attention most. Like the homeless, or any talented and resourceful community, would no doubt relieve themselves of panic and dismay based on the insignificant ramblings of a spectator wildly fascinated by the extinguishing qualities of humans who know how to captivate.
Alliteration aside, the culture of ambiguity, having ascended and now hopefully reached a point of bursting with the flight of a balloon, though doubtful and frightfully fascinating in its speculation, is a cumbersome obstacle worth confrontation and conquest but strenuous when the test of patience and will proves overwhelming from its onset. Perhaps this would prove helpful if punctuated by more question marks and discussed between two people.
It isn’t even humid today.
The song continues to play in the
background. It’s a Billie Holiday
song with an elegantly blaring
trumpet responding to every vocal
whim of an intriguing songstress.
On the television is a video game.
I remember coming out in the nineties
when it was in its initial birthing to
the public. It was a creepy game
and with the mission involved, one
can’t help but understand the ability
to feel no emotions while simulating
murderous acts upon deathly creatures
in what is clearly a fictional scenario.
Perhaps I haven’t watched it long
enough to understand how the
player of the game is given
control of the character running
around through the continuous
obstacles in the pursuit of
something with the two or
three other characters who
are equipped with their head
attire and gear upon their backs.
Goodness, the cinematic parts of
this game are quite elaborate.
The female character is wandering
through the maze of ladders and
tunnels in which she can swim
but must avoid the clawing of
some sort of sea creature. Blue
lights or a glare from something
in the distance makes one curious
but the door proves more worthy
of an entry. Wandering seems
like a frequent pastime required
by the characters even in the
midst of large violent dinosaur
sea being capable of attacking
with arms and large teeth lining
the side of the torso facing the
human as well as a thick shell
with dangerous prominent peaks.
Why is this video game so
captivating? Is it the time
of night? Level of exhaustion?
Who is to say if other adjectives
signaled tracking devices
capable of alerting certain
enforcements of what they
violators of traffic conditions.
But back to the story.
Goodness, there is so much
stimulation available right now.
I almost feel like I’m feeling
a sensory overload. There’s smooth
music playing from an online radio
application. A vivid video game is
unfolding so violently in image
and music. My fingers want to
capture thoughts at these very
moments for whatever reason.
And then the rush of writing
everything down gets immediately
old. Instantaneously there’s
a wish of being more
than attempting to do
exactly what, oh, who was
it in The Waves, did because
of an interest in noting everything
for the purpose of a future project.
Or was it The Years? Shit. Maybe
To the Lighthouse?
While in a district court and on
my way to the second floor to
elucidate a foreseeable outcome,
my eyes were struck by a statue
named Lady Justice whose eyes
were covered by a blindfold
and whose hand contained a scale.
Witnessing the stone’s grey color
and precisely carved skin and cloth,
I smiled with curiosity as the question
passed of deeming a sense frivolous
when using judgement to determine
culpability. Objectivity may be
its purpose but when layers of
contradictions and reports are
used to give a ruling member of
the court an impression of one’s
history to determine a course of
action before a dismissal of a
person in question, it seems
strange to rely on this decision-
making system in the midst of
quite blinding chaos. Ah, decisions.
How they demand attention and are
responsible for changes of varying forms.
A song was written
about a young woman
and charm of a person
by which she’s smitten.
The rhythm was off
but the theme was evident
of a romantic pursuit
forced to remain secret.
Why in this season
do energies shift
and influence admirers
to reveal an eerie twitch
when trying to determine first
whose number will be uttered
and consequently lend to the
spreading of various ignorances?
Rhyme and reason do not enough
in explaining the dynamics
of amorous affairs.
Sunday seemed like a day meant to absorb curious energies of books. Upon entering the store, Nigellissima was the first book to catch my attention. I flipped through images of fresh produce and divine Italian recipes with occasional pauses to smile in contemplation of the length of time Ms. Lawson used to determine how best to showcase her fondness of culinary art. In seconds a glimpse of figs, though they are quite delicious, deterred my interest in looking any further so I closed the book and shuffled around the center tables to the end of a shelf near a family seeking counsel from customer service. The cover of Barrel Fever caught my attention and my eyes followed a few lines of crafty humor until the absence of caffeine in my system threatened the lighthearted nature of the literary excursion. The energy of the family was pleasant but the noise was slightly taxing on my eardrums so I escaped into a mass of fiction.
Shelves filled with work by authors whose last names clutter the end of the alphabet seemed to beckon my spirit. Within seconds I found The Imperfectionists with the cover facing the aisle, which was copyrighted in 2010 but currently dons a silver Notable Book badge of The New York Times Book Review. The cover also advertised a conversation between Malcolm Gladwell (for some reason I thought his name wouldn’t evoke the red squiggle on this computer) and Tom Rachman at the end of the story. With its speed, detail and humor, Rachman’s method of storytelling immediately enraptured my attention; however, my curiosity of his conduct in interviews bubbled more as familiarity blossomed between Lloyd and myself.
The transcription of Rachman and Gladwell’s conversation unraveled the threads of my creative blanket under which I no longer find solace—clarifying what was meant clouds my original thought—and incited a unique enthusiasm, which sparks, effervesces, and dissipates like ripples in the water unpredictably. When I returned to the beginning of the conversation to read the description of Gladwell’s current activity in writing, he revealed a plan to publish a new collection of old work epitomizing his days in New York. Immediately my mind raced through recent examples of the exceedingly prevalent tendency to collect.
A recent example arose when a friend discussed someone’s fascination for propaganda of the Second World War, which manifested itself in spending a significant amount of money on an original pendant of significant weight strung on a loop of beautifully dyed plies.
Though examples of collecting are visible in front of electronic devices and in personal spaces, I suppose an electronic device could be considered personal space as well, conversations about collecting have been surprisingly frequent this season. In the case one produces an adverse reaction to the habit, if in fact the last word of that portion of the sentence is the appropriate term, the matter of sustaining one’s time with intangible indulgences comes to mind. Then comes the question whether the unenthused party finds a similar release of endorphins when actively feeding their literary imaginations, in which case the degree to which one feels fondly for a book would come into question as they may find solace in continuing the free cycle of textual institutions.
Fiction, how you baffle me. How long did it take Rachman and Gladwell to collect, assemble and execute their fragments of thought?
The story of a more recent thought cloud of mine includes the journey of a gangster princess who navigates through intense circumstances that test her will and courage in ways she can foresee without being prepared to address the issues at hand. For some reason, the theme seems quite similar to the work environment of most recent times. The negotiation process required to get individuals to endorse through taking advantage of an opportunity to lower the amount of money owed to creditors. Perhaps mafia energy of an older generation would fit better in contemporary Detroit.
The first episode could be a meeting where a new alliance with a formidable record in advertising is entertained in order to garner support with hopes of building communities but it’s a trap from an underground force slowly gaining momentum, which is under the false leadership of someone physically unappealing but charismatic. The handsome leader of the rival group eventually makes the acquaintance of the princess after they meet at a jazz club but to her dismay, and before any suspicions arise, his celibacy forces the princess to reconsider how she carries herself in public settings.
So true it is to create a story from immediate mental leaps, one will confront messy and impractical barriers compared to assembling fragments of thought smashed between dull pages of notebooks with varying thickness. At the same time, what becomes of the censoring voice? Goodness.