thp: (THP)
2009-07-29 02:51 pm
Entry tags:

Keys

[in progress]

Loose and free, the keys jingle in my hand- sounding a soft chorus to anyone nearby of indecision. I stand on the mat, noting the silhouette of my black shoes on the brown shagged rectangle which reads only Welcome. The dim light above hums a faint buzz. It casts a sick, yellow pallor over everything, enhancing the pause as I consider my choices. Inching my hand forward, key connects with lock, pins grind and push against their brass intruder, but they surrender their position, and soon lock, pins, and key fit as if a completed puzzle - smooth and precise. A deep breath in, and I turn my hand. This time there is no grumble of complaint from the lock - only a swift and diligent click as the bolt is released from it's duties.

I don't bother to withdraw the key, but turn my hand on the knob and push. A brief squeak breaks loose, and the door swings inward, revealing the dark interior. The scents of soap and water linger in the air, and I can hear the shower running in the next room. Looking down, I can make out the thin warm strand that is light filtering under the door from the bathroom. He's taking a shower. All for the best, anyway: he wouldn't want me here. Walking to the dresser, I slow and note the blankets strewn across the bed, and with no ability to resist, I lean down, and breathe deeply at his pillow. A combination of musk and hair filters into me, and I have a conflicted feeling of reassurance in his scent, and a deepened feeling of loss in my soul. I close my eyes for a moment, holding in
thp: (Default)
2009-07-17 08:35 am
Entry tags:

Two minute play

[un-edited]

Title: That profound moment when you realize you know exactly what the song-writer is talking about.

Setting: Two neos at a table, center stage, playing battleship.

Lights up, the last 10 or so seconds of "Where the streets have no name" play, and then goes into the next track of Joshua Tree "I still haven't found what I'm looking for"

Neo 1: A6?

Neo 2: Nope. B7?

Neo 1: Nay. C8?

Neo 2: Negative. A5?

This continues. In essence they play a game of battleship, very focused. Neither hit any ships.

When chorus comes on, they look up slowly, with what appears to be profound recognition

Neo 1: G5?

Neo 2: Damnitt!

Curtain.
thp: (THP)
2009-06-28 05:00 pm
Entry tags:

(no subject)

[unedited]

Sometimes I laugh out loud. I let the sound resonate and echo and cacophonate against the walls and floors and buildings. If I'm alone I can hear it stretch out and warp and twist in the wind, scraping on edges until it hits resistance and meekly, forcedly returning to me in a sheepish, almost inaudible whisper. If I'm in public people stare or smile. Feeling they have witnessed some enjoyable moment in my life, and encountering a jealousy with it, or enjoying it, and being glad for my gladness.

I am never glad. I laugh to expel the air from my chest, because a sigh is often not enough. It removes the weight from my chest and I feel, for seconds at a time, lighter. I open my eyes to enjoy it, but when I do my laugh has returned, torn and scared by it's adventures into the open, unwilling to provide the full release it is meant to.
thp: (Default)
2009-06-25 11:27 am
Entry tags:

(no subject)

[1/26/07]

He sighed and gazed downward, miserable and sorry for existing. The abyss was not dark, as he had always imagined it to be, it was filled with a gray fog. Tight and swirling, the smoke mixed and mingled, like food dyes with water, meshing and combining, spinning and rehashing. A scuff of his right shoe and a small stone fell, tumbling, twirling, endlessly into the canyon of grey. There was no satisfying scrape, the fog yielded no sound against the falling missile. Instead it fell silently, painfully. He continued to expect some sort of noise, and its lack was an additional cruelty to the days overbearing weights.

He wondered what would happen were he to throw himself into the smoke. Would he fall unable to recognize anything? Like Alice in her rabbit hole, but without the faithful release that hitting the bottom would allow. He assumed he would continue falling through the atmosphere until he starved. He wondered what kept the mist down, in the abyss, preventing it from floating onto the crumbling pavement he now stood on. He stared at his shoe. The left lace was coming untied. It had a design imprinted on it with a sharpie. Next to it lay another pebble, and there was nothing he wanted more than to kick it over the edge, but he knew he couldn't handle the noiseless responseless accepting of the fog. He needed a clang, a scuffle, something other than the endless slip through time that would occur. He couldn't do that to the pebble.

He considered for a moment Shel Silverstein's poem "Where the sidewalk ends" and stepped on a crack. How amusing it was that her poem had made such joyful delight of the concept. And yet, here he was, and the end was nothing but desperate emptiness. The thought of the contrast made him choke into laughter. It made him giggle and choke and scream and cry and tear at his buttoned shirt till the buttons popped off and fell over the edge and silently fell into the fog.

The echoes of his scream died away. And there was silence again. No birds chirped, for there were no birds to chirp. The sounds of civilization and cities and cars didn't distract from the emptiness, for there were no cities, no cars, no civilization. Just Him, alone. at the end of the world.

His imaginations of the moment had always involved fire, but he saw no flames. A searing pain filled his mind and there were flames, but not there. In the past. He forced it away and turned from the edge of the world to face the trees against the grey, sunless sky. He turned from the edge of the world with no buttons, and a nearly untied left shoe, and three dollars from a dead world in his right pocket. He turned from the edge of the world and stepped towards the line of green full trees. They were living. So could He.
thp: (Default)
2009-06-25 10:36 am
Entry tags:

sensuous

[12/3/07]

Sensuous.

He paused, his eyes closed, then squinting against the golden beams which cast their way through the dawns usual gloom, warming the blankets, pillows, and exposed feet of rufus K. Shiles.

His brain scrambled to affirm that he had chosen the correct word. Rapidly he crossed out beautiful, though that matched, glorious, though also fitting, and frustrating, which seemed a complete mistake. Then, another pause, and a thin grin appeared.

Sensuous.

He felt warmth begin to permeate his blanket and heat his back, melting inward till his soul felt warm and another word permeated his conciousness.

Red.

He smiled again, and glanced at the milk crates stacked next to his bed, loaded with books, the ceiling surface housing a digital alarm clock, whose dashes and dots gave a figure of 7:15. Rufus extended his hand into the golden beams, releasing it from the pocket his blanket had made around him, and studying its shadow as it floated across to the clock and pulled the switch which controlled the alarm toward him.

The alarm was piercing white. Shrill and crude. It would shatter the morning and Rufus had already surpassed his need of it thanks to the gold.

His hand returned to him and formed a triangle with the blankets, revealing a quarter of his form to the gold, sliding the rest so that it dangled over the edge of the bed.

Sensuous, he thought.
thp: (THP)
2009-05-28 02:49 pm
Entry tags:

beginnings

Well, anyway, you know, it's just that memories are kind've yours. You know? Like, you take them and build them in your head. They're yours. These are mine anyway. Other people have memories of the same things, in different ways, but these ones aren't theirs. They're mine. Anway, you know, I'm telling you this so you'll understand if things get out of hand, or seem fictitious, or whatever. It's just, well, you build up the important things in your head and change 'em or warp 'em. Like this memory of my first bike ride - I swear in my head the sun is shining, I pedaled then curved, and the sun almost made a lens flare in my memory, it was so bright and perfect. The wind in my hair and all that. Just right, you know? Just a perfect sunny summer day. But you watch the video and it's all cloudy, and everyone's wearing long sleeves, and occasionally the sun peeks through and lights the day and all that, but for the most part it just hangs up there behind the clouds, refusing to shine.

It's like that line from What Sarah Said - the Death Cab for Cutie song. "our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds" It's true. Subjectivity, man. Gets you every time. Whatever though, I'll tell it anyway. Just know, you know, that it might not be perfect. that people are gonna tell you that's not how it happened. Probably loads of 'em. Whatever though. That's how it happened in my head. I'm just telling you how it happened from there.
thp: (Default)
2009-05-15 07:44 am
Entry tags:

(no subject)

[Written in ten minutes, not yet edited]


The ridges of the cap felt rough against his palm. He could feel the twist negotiate with his skin, tugging, attempting to rip as he turned determinedly, refusing to compromise with the cool metal or it's smooth, damp glass counterpart, but forcing his side of the argument until he obtained victory with a pop, the sound of air exploding in freedom from it's amber prison. A small trail of smoke flowed openly from the bottle, following it's captor out into the open, and merging with the open world to become one and nothing.

His left palm opened and the cap fell to the ground, once an important part of the proceedings, no longer needed, no longer useful and therefore irrelevant to the world. It could not be re-purposed, or replaced on the bottle, and so it was rejected, sent in a tumbling fall to it's lonely resting place among the dirt and cigarette butts which lined the gutter of the small road. It stayed, humbly, and watched as the bottle it had so long shared a union with, had so long been one with ambled carelessly off in the hands of his aggressor.

The bottle barely remembered it's former mate, knowing now the feeling of wind inside it. Fresh air and new life, the crispness of a new life-force filling it, mingling with it's insides, and a firm powerful grip wrapped around it's outsides, comforting it as it sweated cautiously, in fear of this new world of experiences.

A movement then, and the bottle came to his lips. Any lingering traces of it's love was long forgotten as it embraced the mouth, and tongue of it's new mate. Feeling it's condensation mingle with the salty sweat which wandered down his face toward his mouth, and the tender scratch of his calloused lips against the rim which had formerly been compressed by firm metal of an entity he had now let go forever. It was perfect, and it lingered in the moment, swooning as it was brought back down from his lips, lost in emotion. It's insides swished and swirled against it's delicate frame, and it felt sick and overwhelmed and wonderful all at the same time, longing to once again embrace him. To fel his lips lock around it's body, and his hand carefully hold it's body, protecting it from harm. It longed to make him moan as it gave away its insides, letting them flow out of it into what it now knew was it's true, impassioned love. It's cause, it's future, it's forever.

He raised the bottle to his eye and gauged its body, its sweat, and its volume, craving its inside, and grunting with frustration as he noticed he had already almost emptied it. The bottle cried for him to take it. To own its insides, to take everything he had within and to know that it would give all that it could to him. A rush filled it as he felt the swing, the rise to the man's lips, and the last of it's soul tumbled out into the warm lips. There was an emptiness now. A wholeness in it's emptiness, a feeling of purpose derived, and the joy of causing satisfaction to its one true love, but an emptiness none the less.

He raised the bottle again, gauging its emptiness, and noticing not its smooth beautiful form. Its curves and lines and sweet refreshing dampness. Ignoring its beauty and complexity and seams and noticing only its emptiness. Noticing only its basic purpose had been served. He had had his fill of this moment, his need for the bottle had subsided now that it was empty and had nothing to give.

With a callous indifference, he dropped the bottle. It did not tumble as it fell, it dropped, plummeted, wondering what its sins had been. How it had disappointed its love, wishing he had more to offer but knowing he was empty and used up as it fell to the gravel below exploding in a piercing sob of misery and love lost. It was no longer whole. Its love had left it, in pieces to regret and mourn what had been. It hugged the pavement and sobbed what little sweat and drops of liquid it had left into the ground around it. Dampening minuscule pieces of soil. In the distance it heard the pop of air, and knew he had moved on. He was going to move forward, to use another as it had been used. It would be left here in it's misery, its wholeness gone; its fullness gone. Unable to merge its pieces back together and move forward. Empty. Shattered.