The Whistle of Trains...
Saturday, October 13, 2012
automatic writing: send in the clowns
Friday, June 22, 2012
a. ayers
Monday, May 21, 2012
night time musings
it sounds broken, choppy. a man's voice after one too many shots of tequila, though lacking in a trio of background singers. it sounds like he is perhaps not as intoxicated as the usual crowd mulling the streets, yelling or cursing or laughing obscenely.
a textbook sits open in front of me while I try to simultaneously absorb a theory of capability and the song playing in my backyard - an open space of town-houses and parking lots and hidden drive ways concealed from the main road by a patch of trees
canvas bags and post-its and empty cups litter my floor. an ikea pillow sits in my lap. I discard the text for a moment, listening to his voice hit higher notes in a rough voice, then slow down some measures to a languid and lulling rhythm. like a poem in a song. like a poem in my head.
it stops like it began, slowly drifting, and pulled away by rustling leaves. lights scatter the windows of apartment buildings and houses, and I wonder where he went: retreating from a backyard after a private performance or from a quiet spot on the pavement?
the numbers click and tok to its consecutive partner, the night drawing to its peak. the house moves as it does at midnight - the hum of the fridge, the shuffles of the neighbour below, the slow spins of the ceiling fan. familiarity rests over my body like a blanket and I close my eyes.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Immaculate
vermilion
Monday, April 11, 2011
miscellaneous items
– but the past storm and its lingering smell of rain and the promise of a satisfying summer, after being dragged viciously behind february’s dark clouds and high snow banks for months, is enough for the time being.
and the sky is still covered gray)
Friday, March 18, 2011
conversation with a stranger
The room was packed with people.
The coffee in my system had since left my body and I couldn’t recognize many of the faces around me. Vision blurred, I slumped into the nearest chair, clutching a small, worn book in my hand. There was man in the front of the room, speaking in an authoritative tone and with monotonous intonation – automatically, I struggled to pay attention.
“… importance … hours … three hundred and fifty … but only …”
Someone tapped me on my shoulder, holding the destroyed book.
“You dropped this.”
“Right,” I attempt to nod.
There is a flurry of papers and shifting positions. I pull out the pen attached to the paperback and start writing.
--
It ends with forty five minutes left on the clock and I stumble into the afternoon sunlight. There’s a bench nearby which I fumble to reach. I don’t care about people and their damn dogs, so I lay out passing into unconsciousness as soon as my head hits the wood.
--
(a small street, bicycles whipping up past me, hair in mouth – I try to find mine – rolling on two wheels next to a stranger)
--
I blink. I’m awake.
I feel something heavy on my shoulders. I sit up suddenly, disoriented, confused – what time was it?
Two hands steady me.
“Wha-?”
“Whoa. It’s okay.” The hands are still on my shoulders. I end up looking into brown eyes and relax into the offered embrace.
“How was it?”
“H’was what?” I say rubbing my face, shrinking away from the sunlight. There’s a scoffing laugh.
“You’ve been talking about this since you were – “
“ – shut up. I know.”
I sit up, my back against the wooden panels, feet planted to the ground. I stare parallel to the plane beneath my feet, watching a poodle scamper around its owner’s feet.
“I – I don’t know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I sigh, running my hand through my hair.
“It means, “ I struggle, “that I wrote it. And that’s it. Blank slate.”
My companion merely looks at me, or so I assume – my eyes are still focused on the scampering poodle.
“I don’t remember okay?” I say quickly getting up. “Thanks,” I mumble returning the jacket.
“Hold on a second –“
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I say, grabbing my book. My pen has disappeared, its remnants on my palms and fingertips.
“Seriously? You just –“ was the reply to my admittedly ambiguous statement. I started walking away. Fast. I could hear my name being called loudly … louder. I picked up my pace and ran. Ran, ran, ran.