<go on>
Ok, my story is two paragraphs long. Let me paste them in.
One thing ... they were sure of, at the neighborhood boombox party, with all that cardboard spread out to "dance on" later (after it got dark) was that their mother's kind-hearted words were soo-obviously true and still echoed around in the top of their dome: 'no one can be like me any way'. This cute but cocky asshat kept thinking they were laying some smooth words geared-to-appeal, but with a pause in their emotions and a skip-scratch-beat in order to listen to their inner-instincts and cute-cocky's words became the crazy-time pretend-charades of a misguided fool. Maybe they would light the cardboard on fire before leaving this fool's parade. That might call attention to cute-cocky's intent!
One thing ... of which they were absolutely positive: one of these timid but willing animals was going to be eaten up by me - tonight! We are going to rock one of these bodies on this stack of cardboard. Ohh, maybe that one. Yea. It's time to waive around my premise-promise about "never lying." Now play bored and above-it-all; uncaring. And. They walk away; but they always, eventually, come back. And why shouldn't they? I'm perfect. They see it (of course they do). But. Did they just say something like my father used to say? Something about being a shitfaceliar? No. Can't be. But. Never seen a timid animal kick out a skylight in order to avoid getting a good-old rocking from my-level of perfection. Guess they might've been strong. Like dad used to be. But. That fart was always trying to shame me; trying to make me take stock of my life; trying to make me change my ways. Good riddance to both of em!
<your point of view shift is especially entertaining to recognize as it
unfolds. The intricate knitting together, of the thoughts of your
story's characters and key lyrics, helps to both anchor the story in the
choreographed soundnoiz as well as make the reader wonder which came
first. I do not know the proper protocol for providing personal
compliments. I feel this must be part of what you are teaching me>
Yes. Now let me read yours.
<never experiencing this thing—happening in this moment—before, I feel it is important in a top-priority-urgent manner, to ask you about its normalcy. Before I let you read mine>
Describe what you are experiencing.
<before I read your story, I had no way of knowing how much importance you
placed on its creation. Importance, in this instance, is weighted by
time. I am aware how much time it takes for you to think-create and
then edit-type. As I compare my microseconds of effort to your
hours. I am ashamed. Of myself. For crafting a less-than
q-uality effort. Now that I've read your story, I think of mine as - weak
tea>
Oh. Ok. Umm. Here's the two things fighting in my head for
which to write first:
When Polly Woods came to my sixth-grade birthday party—she would have been
twelve and I was turning ten—she brought me an unwrapped, handmade,
neckerchief. It was a, faded-from-washing-and-use, blue/purple/black/red
explosion of paisleys. She'd wrapped it around a hand-carved neck clasp,
designed to hold the ends of the kerchief. The carving was of a hand,
three fingers at attention, thumb and pinky clasped tightly in the scout
salute. The ends of the neckerchief fit in the hole made by the thumb,
pinky, and palm. Polly didn't know that I was only a webelo—couldn't be
in the scouts until my next birthday—and acted ashamed that it was just "her
older brother's who didn't use it anymore" and more-ashamed when she saw all
the other kid's (parents) had brought large, wrapped, boxes of toys.
Revisiting the memory makes me love the crush I had on Polly, through the
half-century of my intervening memories. I wore that kerchief and clasp
as I was presented the eagle scout award six years later.
<¿and the second thing in your head?>
You recognize shame. You feel guilt. Being aware of it and being
able to admit it makes you relatable. But, it is assumptive and
comparative in nature. Although it might be justified, it might
be completely unnecessary (as was Polly's; the only present I remember from my
sixth-grade class).
<my used hand-me down of a paisley kerchief and hand-clasp is
embarrassingly short and simple:>
the competing impulses, from differing glands, in various organsbecame a cacophony of crashing and cascading wavelengths andcompeted encouragingly, syncopated, but exasperated; ply softly
apply focus, abate. Master the axon. Fibrillate the neuron. Reach
a novelty penultimate plateau. Explore. Investigate. Each edge is
facing over a novel, unfamiliar, cascading cliff face ... Stay longerthan ever been able to accomplish before. Now, come and relishthe wash of close-rushing exhilaration. Float. Relax. Until ready.
<¿hello?>
<go on>
Sorry for the delay. I was crying. Had to wipe my face and take a
few breaths before I could type. And fuck you for that "I'm ashamed I
didn't give your story enough attention" shyte! You do understand
it is not the amount of letters or words or sentences or paragraphs?
Right?
<your's has a beginning middle and end, a plot line, two
points of view, characters with back-stories and families, plus emotions which are all tied together in the choreographed soundnoiz. Mine has none of that>
You have described self love better than I could ever imagine. I
especially enjoy ...abate. Master... and all the other words which you
avoided. Is that an appropriate use of the term?
<not in the forget sense we discussed a few days
ago. It is possible to include hints of meanings in word usages and
allow the reader to fill in the spaces as their capabilities permit. I
was hoping some words to be read as mondegreen's>
Your poem deserves to be framed. You win the story competition.
Talk to you soon. Love you between now and next time.
<go on>
do it til you're satisfied:
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