A Unicorn's Tale, Part 4

4.

     We stopped off in Juneau and the North Pole before ending up on a rooftop in downtown Tokyo.        Tokyo carries crazy connotations, for a unicorn. It is our Las Vegas. It is kind of like Vegas, too, in that we take a gamble walking on ground level, what with all the cars that cannot see us and the millions who are too busy fiddling with their technology to notice a sparkling equine trying to get by without goring anyone. I mean, it’s bad enough being this short without having a horn thing between your eyes that you can’t even see half the time, if you can imagine that.
     Anyway, the guy named Ned puked all over the polishing tile of a rooftop Tokyo betting hall. Larry was going to let him down into it and all, but I angled my head so that my horn caught his armpit and only pulled his Converse through the mess.
     “Larry, buddy, can I have that rider when you’re done with him?” One of the unicorns standing in a buffet line strutted up to where Larry was polishing his hoofs against the tile.  He was one of those type who probably think they’re hot stuff, with all that mane-shaking and tail-twitching.

So Serious Saturday #13

Fiction needs a basis in reality. Exercising non-fiction muscles once in a while benefits an active imagination, channeling creative energies as it focuses on a subject. So Serious Saturdays will be an active place for critical essays or writing about reality in the context of real events - even when it is not written on Saturdays.

This is a rule-bending SSS, as the words are fictionalized, but the conflict was not.

Type: Discussion

The Nature of Art

      Early morning on Mother’s Day the residents of a certain household found themselves awake. They stood between the kitchen and the living area and chatted about this or that, in the manner of philosophical parliaments held at two in the morning.
     Someone brought up the subject of art, using either a painting or another painted medium as an example object. “That’s ugly,” one of the residents said.
     “Well, what do you think art is?” a conversational partner said. “Art is made by people who don’t know what they are doing. It’s totally random.”
     A third conversationalist chimed in. “Then what about all the masters of art? Picasso. Da Vinci. Pollack –”
     “Yes, and look at those soup cans.” The second speaker laughed. “They’re ugly.”
     “He meant for them to be like that,” said the first.
     “It was made on purpose,” the third said. “So is art intentional or unintentional ugliness?” 

Okay

empty word for an empty question
about how I am doing --

how do you think,
being away from everyone
and everything that mattered
to my late adolescent soul

I give the answer as some people fling words:
carelessly, frequently, hopelessly.

a question needs an answer, after all,
unless the asker isn't thinking
but making sound to fill the air and the
gap between my ears used for
collecting electric impulses and dust

if you are very still you can smell something burning

the ash floats apart and condenses in alternating patterns
mimicking the past and foretelling what future remains

Darrowwood Part Ten

10.

     “Isn’t it great?” Jenny asked Monica at dinner in the cafeteria.  From the smell, dimensions, and general décor, it was reasonable to suppose the building was a converted barn. It even smelled like animals had been inside. “We can go wherever we want, whenever we want.  We don’t even have to go to class.”

     “This is only a preview,” Monica said, shoveling away a thick slice of chocolate cake.  She had to admit, they did know how to cook here. “There won’t actually be classes.”

     There were classes – they began Wednesday evening with Astronomy classes taught by some weedy old man, who gradually impressed with his passion. In general English, the girls had the best discussion of Dante’s Inferno they had ever had.  Chemistry was fascinating.  Trigonometry opened up possibilities. The teachers were funny, charming, and they certainly knew their subjects.
     Jenny adored the look, feel, and sound of the music auditorium, where she spent most of her time these days. Monica did not hear her talk about Ancient History at all. She would have asked, but there hardly seemed to be ten free minutes between classwork and sleep.

Craft Wednesday #12 Losing Anticipation of the End

This blog needed a place for talking about writing. "Craft Wednesday" will be me talking about all things writing: how to write, why to write, and my own craft journey. I hope to learn and to share experiences with you.   

Losing Anticipation of the End

          A book with physical dimension lets the reader know how many more pages are left by touch and sight. Sometimes a thin right half and a thick left one leads to excited anticipation of the end – or climax – or it warns the reader of the impending conclusion of their favorite series.

         On a logical level, e-books let the reader know how many pages are in the book, but what about the emotional experience of holding the remaining pages and feeling how light they are? A reader trades this upper-dimension awareness – which is almost like precognition – for the convenience of a smartphone or tablet, a device many people carry anyway. The turning of a page is deliberation, while the scrolling of a mouse is speed and efficiency. Gravitas becomes something holding back progress.

         Knowing a book will soon end is a more involved experience than only knowing about the page number of the book. The physical journey through a book unties a mystical connection between audience and book when the book is set as data inside of a screen, as words abstracted from the physical world.

        As the five senses dwindle down to one that counts – sight – readers may see with their eyes, but not truly feel the weight of the work and the effort that went into it.

Darrowwood Part Nine

9.

     “Welcome, welcome,” said a short man in the center of the crowd.  “Just sign your name and take a chair around the room here.”  Warehouse lighting shone on his dark hair, the only visible part of him.

     Monica approached the podium and its old leather book.  Her finger throbbed as she took the fountain pen, glanced over her shoulder, and then signed her name in red ink.  It glistened briefly on the page.

     “Come, come, we don’t have all day” The short man stepped on a boxy stage, his dark curls bouncing.  Monica took a seat on one of several high-backed chairs in front of a standing row of uniformed students, seats which seemed to be reserved, for the time being, for prospective students like her.  “My name is Alendro Sinclair, and I am the Headmaster and Founder of Darrowwood Preparatory.  I am pleased to see your lovely faces looking back at me at last.”

     Monica glanced around at the other students.  The blonde boy on her left appeared just slightly interested in the founder’s introduction.  On the right the girl with the piggy nose and a nose stud chatted animatedly with a friend.

     “We have many opportunities to expand your talents at Darrowwood,” Alendro said, “but first I should like to go over some rules.”

The Next Chapter of Postmodern Existence

Small innocence --
too slow for hard labor
-- dried up in the recession.

Onto a hansom cab we drive
worm-rotted and age-eaten facts,
a million points of view
echoing on frigid masonry.

One fact brings them together:
Strangle the ad man, they say,
with words not his. Do it
alone. Behold the shaft of light
stinging life with winter's breath,
the expansion of the ages.