Wednesday, April 14, 2010
1 Minute Story For After 1
I left the spaghetti on the stove for too long and the house smelled like burning. I'm hazy on the rest of the details, but I think my dolls of the world collection burnt down.
Stuffed in the Attic Next to the Free Trampolines
“All these fucking dvds!”
“What’s wrong with having dvds! Everyone’s got dvds! It’d be weird to not have a single dvd lying around the house. You'd have to be some old biddie or a serial killer not have dvds and I bet even they’re into preserving home movies!”
“Its not that you have dvds, David, its that you pile them everywhere! Its like you’re trying to create some sort of, I don’t know, some sort of monument. Some sort of towering mountainous monument to prove to everyone that comes through here that you don’t ‘just dabble in films’”.
“You know Borges said he couldn’t sleep unless he was surrounded by books”.
“Well you’re no Borges”.
“Of course not he was a writer and I’m a…”
“A what, David?”
“A Jew!”
“What’s wrong with having dvds! Everyone’s got dvds! It’d be weird to not have a single dvd lying around the house. You'd have to be some old biddie or a serial killer not have dvds and I bet even they’re into preserving home movies!”
“Its not that you have dvds, David, its that you pile them everywhere! Its like you’re trying to create some sort of, I don’t know, some sort of monument. Some sort of towering mountainous monument to prove to everyone that comes through here that you don’t ‘just dabble in films’”.
“You know Borges said he couldn’t sleep unless he was surrounded by books”.
“Well you’re no Borges”.
“Of course not he was a writer and I’m a…”
“A what, David?”
“A Jew!”
7 Minute Story for the Echos of Purposelessness
The first time it happened it was four in the morning and Liz was screaming. In the bathroom the light was on and Liz, fully naked, was scrambling around frantically tugging at her ear. "Tom," she screamed hopping on one leg. In a daze I asked her what she was doing. She didn't stop to explain continuing to bumble around the room like a dying fish. I turned on the bedside light. Liz had just showered. Her tiny white breasts were lightly misted. As she did this absurd dance in front of me, I couldn't help finding it somewhat erotic. "Tom, will you fucking help me," she screamed once again. I was tired and didn't feel much like getting up. After the initial shocks of rape and murder had passed, it seemed pointless for me to have to get up and deal with whatever woman problem she was going through. "Tom will you fucking help me," she cried this time falling on the floor, "there's a cockroach stuck in my ear!"
Unfinished Pieces from the Past
On April 19th 2011my lovely husband Richard Cassidy Boone went crazy. As is generally the case with these things, nobody knows why.
Sophia and I were cuddled up on the couch watching Looney Toons, devouring bowl upon bowl of rice crispies. Sophia loves it when Bugs dresses up like a woman. Every time he sensuously beckons Elmer Fudd she gushes out floods of chocolate milk sending rice crispies sailing every which way. She’d laugh and I’d laugh too.
A voice from up stairs:
“Sirrah, what made your master in this place?”
We couldn’t hear it of course. Even if we hadn’t been laughing so hard, we were lightyears away in a cartoon forest. We, the fuzzy two-headed beast stitched together by blankets and throw pillows, walked in place as identical redwood backgrounds looped themselves over and over. All we had to do was roar jovially at the tip-top of our lungs; everything else seemed to move forward on its own.
Even now there’s something very comforting about that image.
“Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?”
-----------------------------------------------------------
“Soft, I will go along. An if you leave me so, you do me wrong”.
Richard coos me his newest song. Since he’s been on this all expense paid trip to white walled Verona he’s learned how to play blues guitar. I’ve learned how to crochet sweaters for dogs in a local botique. The doctors tell me he’s a prodigy. Every so often they sneak him out to give concerts at special events and birthdays, “nothing too big,” says Dr. Cambell P. Boyle, head psychiatrist of the W. P. Boyle home for the mentally ill, “just a little bit of fun here and there”. I consent; the exposure to new people can only be beneficial they tell me.
Sophia and I were cuddled up on the couch watching Looney Toons, devouring bowl upon bowl of rice crispies. Sophia loves it when Bugs dresses up like a woman. Every time he sensuously beckons Elmer Fudd she gushes out floods of chocolate milk sending rice crispies sailing every which way. She’d laugh and I’d laugh too.
A voice from up stairs:
“Sirrah, what made your master in this place?”
We couldn’t hear it of course. Even if we hadn’t been laughing so hard, we were lightyears away in a cartoon forest. We, the fuzzy two-headed beast stitched together by blankets and throw pillows, walked in place as identical redwood backgrounds looped themselves over and over. All we had to do was roar jovially at the tip-top of our lungs; everything else seemed to move forward on its own.
Even now there’s something very comforting about that image.
“Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?”
-----------------------------------------------------------
“Soft, I will go along. An if you leave me so, you do me wrong”.
Richard coos me his newest song. Since he’s been on this all expense paid trip to white walled Verona he’s learned how to play blues guitar. I’ve learned how to crochet sweaters for dogs in a local botique. The doctors tell me he’s a prodigy. Every so often they sneak him out to give concerts at special events and birthdays, “nothing too big,” says Dr. Cambell P. Boyle, head psychiatrist of the W. P. Boyle home for the mentally ill, “just a little bit of fun here and there”. I consent; the exposure to new people can only be beneficial they tell me.
5 Minute Story For Procrastination of Paper Writing
No time to explain!
Fortinbras sits listlessly at the computer clicking around through facebook. He finds it comforting some nights to wonder about his high school peers, see their pictures of new friends in new places. Looking at them makes him feel he's never left them, but rather been replaced by a sorting machine that places people in places and places in people, the balance always coming out just right. Its karma. Its a well managed assembly line. Its a database. In a way he's the Indian boy at Harvard with the pot marks and slightly spiked hair. He's the sorority girl in the matching blue windbreaker at Loyola. He's the hipster kid jamming on trashcans outside NYU. "God Bless America," he thinks to himself, "God Bless America".
Fortinbras sits listlessly at the computer clicking around through facebook. He finds it comforting some nights to wonder about his high school peers, see their pictures of new friends in new places. Looking at them makes him feel he's never left them, but rather been replaced by a sorting machine that places people in places and places in people, the balance always coming out just right. Its karma. Its a well managed assembly line. Its a database. In a way he's the Indian boy at Harvard with the pot marks and slightly spiked hair. He's the sorority girl in the matching blue windbreaker at Loyola. He's the hipster kid jamming on trashcans outside NYU. "God Bless America," he thinks to himself, "God Bless America".
5 Minute Story Based on the MW word of the Day
No time to explain!
Vulnerable
Stanley began battering Plesia with a bar stool. She blocked her face well enough but her chest was left vulnerable. When all was said and done a leg was poking out of her heart. She collapsed. Stanley yelled at her "get up" but she didn't budge. "Get up Plesia!" he barked. She didn't move. "Get up you stupid bitch". There was no movement. There was no sound. There was only the silence in the room with Stanley and the shoddy stools bought off Craigslist.
Vulnerable
Stanley began battering Plesia with a bar stool. She blocked her face well enough but her chest was left vulnerable. When all was said and done a leg was poking out of her heart. She collapsed. Stanley yelled at her "get up" but she didn't budge. "Get up Plesia!" he barked. She didn't move. "Get up you stupid bitch". There was no movement. There was no sound. There was only the silence in the room with Stanley and the shoddy stools bought off Craigslist.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Right as of Now
Right now isn't the best time to post.
Why?
Hopefully soon I'll figure that out.
Figure what out?
Failure is funny like that.
Funny like what?
Like a guy who only talks through two puppets on each of his hands.
What?
I don't know.
Who cares?
Who cares.
Why?
Hopefully soon I'll figure that out.
Figure what out?
Failure is funny like that.
Funny like what?
Like a guy who only talks through two puppets on each of his hands.
What?
I don't know.
Who cares?
Who cares.
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