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Weird Fiction

Started from this overheard snippet: “What if, you like… What if, like, because of your ADD, you forgot you were leaving, and came back? You should do that…”

What if you forgot who you were? What if you were who you forgot? Its silly really, to ask so many questions. Har har, so much we could inflate with our words. But if what we want is the story—a story—then this will not do. You must take things one bite at a time. Put down your spectacles and shake your money-maker.

Drop it like its hot.

Go back to your home—fix your flailing shingles. Clean the ants from beneath your shingles. kill the weeds sprouting through the cracks in your driveway—where the earth buckles and your asphalt cannot hold.

Replace the dead patches of sod. Shoot the neighbors dog for shitting in your Azaleas. Don’t kill the thing.

Tear up your front drive, and plant a sea of watermelon seeds. Care for them—so that in time, you may walk there, stepping from one swollen emerald rind to the next. The vines only can hold little ones. Be careful after a rain, the shine is a warning not to slip.

Then, after days of tending and admiring, dancing across your precious gourds, the rot begins.

First the vines shrivel, beginning at the ground. You run, sliding from side to side—touching off—flailing flying. The skin grows soft—your steps begin to impress, you leave tracks. Then you are sinking, no longer moving, no more breeze in your hair, only the dark teeming flesh swallowing your foot.

Is that right so far? I didn’t leave out any details? What is there to say?

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Lattice Eject Extrapolate Urge Guzzle

He asked why hadn’t she gotten any ice cream. Didn’t she like it? She began her answer but stopped– watching as her spoken words hung in the air, then tumbled to the floor — exploding into poofs — he had walked away to mingle… His boisterous laugh could be heard above the crowd– she remembered him guzzling her, filling her with urges she hadn’t let herself feel in a while, like a month. I mean come on—he was a busy man, wasn’t he? And he did bring home the bread—and he never forgot their anniversary… Charlie fingered her engagement band—it had grown tight in the swollen summer heat, and her finger was beginning to grow numb. She studied the lattice printed onto her ice-cream cone, completely oblivious to the sticky dripping over her hand. Where was she? who was she She was completely overcome by the feeling that somehow the answer to all these questions lay within this lattice. He returned triumphantly with a double chocolate waffle cone, but Charlie was already gone. He playfully dove into his ice cream, being sure to accidently leave a dab on his nose. She didn’t notice. Her mind had ejected. He extrapolated. Hard. Rivers of vanilla cream flowed through her fingers and down her arm. Chocolate sprinkles flowed along her graceful forearm, and were flung to the ground by the vicious curve of her elbow. The cone cracked and splintered, her face continued its inscrutable stare, now becoming vaguely glaring. Fuckerface had forgotten about his ice cream, he had forgotten about the spot on his nose, he watched his fiancé, completely perplexed. He didn’t know, “What the…” He stammered, but could find no words.

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The Earring

Who could she be? Hal pictured her clearly as he played with the earring’s dangling silver shards; he saw her walking into his cafe with a look of conscious poise that only barely betrayed her distress. He was hypnotized by the swirl of her solitary earring. He cursed as the double soy latte he was preparing overflowed. He wanted nothing more in the world at this moment than to find this mystery woman—the one who had left her earring. Hal knew the man at the counter didn’t understand; to this man, the earring that dangled from Hal’s left ear was a feeble swipe at society. Hal brought the man his coffee and rang him up, but couldn’t help betraying a smirk as he noticed the man’s eyes nervously darting-over. Hal relished the man’s discomfort before finally handing him his change and flashing a nice corporate smile. With the morning rush over, Hal relaxed against the back counter, allowing his mind to wander…

She had looked everywhere. The office, the car, the lobby. She asked her secretary, she asked her officemates. She called home and asked her dog on the answering machine. It was nowhere to be found. She felt the odd looks as she briskly moved along the sidewalk against the lunch-hour rush, but she could not be fazed. The looks continued as she surged into the cafe, filled with frustration and the desperate hope that this place was The place; it didn’t help that she wore only one earring, its silver petals sprinkling the morning rays across her neck. Suddenly she would notice him—the staring man behind the counter. He had dark eyes and a dark complexion; he had the eyes of more than a barista. Then she saw it. Her earring dangling from his left ear. Her heart jumped, and for the first time since high school she had no idea what to do next. She was completely vulnerable, exposed, completely at the mercy of the cafe, its customers, the barista. Her heart stopped beating. Those eyes, she felt them pierce her armor, peering into the depths of her soul– into the places she had left buried so long she had forgotten they even existed.

Suddenly he knew he was not alone; as the mists of his daydream receded, he brought the world back into focus just as the door swung open, and a hot summer wind swirled the newspapers up off the tables, filling Hal’s mouth with the acrid taste of raw emotion. She was here. He had known the time would come, but Would he be ready? He crouched behind the counter to gather himself, wiping his hands across his green apron. He admired the stitching. How much time would there be? Each line of fabric exactly the same as the next, perfectly even. Should he run? The faded stains of past distractions. Should he hide? Suddenly he was standing again, his heart leaping frantically from his ribcage as if to escape across the street. The room had filled with a brilliant light, but Hal did nothing, he had Decided what to do. He made to attempt to shield his eyes from the inferno. He could feel the earring grow hot in his ear, his nostrils flared with the scent of searing flesh, and yet he was still.

He did not know how long she had been standing there, but he hadn’t seen her approach. She stood before the counter, bag over the right shoulder, hair still tousled from a frantic search through the downtown. He had the vague sinking rolling stomach feeling that he had blown it already; he slowly realized just how absurd he must look wearing her earring. What if she had ear disease? What if he did?! He didn’t think either of these was likely, but still, you don’t just wear someone’s earring! Their matching earrings lined up, hers in her right ear, his in his left. They each stared at the others’; he didn’t know if she had already said anything. The rolling and rumbling grew more violent, and he felt the impulse to melt. The heat in his ear had reached new heights and he was surprised the earring hadn’t just burned through and fallen out. His thoughts danced through his mind as he watched the light play off her neck, the tiny silver petals of her earring not yet settled from their journey.

“So…” She began

He realized suddenly that he could not move. She looked at him quizzically, as if she didn’t know quite what to make of the situation. She wasn’t mad, he knew, but he could not make more than that. She seemed to understand his situation and his silence and lack of movement was less troubling to her than he had anticipated. She thought fiercely for a few moments, running calculations by contorting her face this way and that, at last allowing her features to relax. She reached her hand slowly across the counter, hovering above his own, which had clamped onto the near edge and was snugly attached. She paused again, but only briefly, before continuing towards his frozen grasp, while his eyes stayed frozen on her neck, the dance of lights plucking the strings of his being, in the arbitrary way that such beautiful things tend to; then there was an explosion. The current surged through the first layers of skin and screamed along his various ducts and canals and wires and circuits into his brain, into his chest, into his feet. The force took his breath away, and left his hair standing on end. The earring floated out from his ear at a 90 degree angle, the petals swirling around themselves in space. He could not feel the floor beneath his feet, nor the air on his face. Only the series of shockwaves propagating through his body, hitting the end and rippling back. The crossing waves produced a symphony of harmonics that filled his head, growing to a deafening roar. Each of his senses was quickly overwhelmed, and he was left only with the image of dancing stars on her pale skin. He thought about how little time she must spend outside. Being in an office. He thought the same about himself. He thought about the beach, the rivers, the ocean, and the mountains. No sooner had he forged these thoughts, they were obliterated by this cursing energy.

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Absolutely Extraordinary Ordinary

Who could she be? Hal could see her clearly as he played with the earring’s dangling silver shards, he saw her walking into his cafe with a look of conscious poise that only barely betrayed her distress. She was scattered– she wore only one earring. He cursed as the double soy latte he was preparing overflowed. He wanted nothing more in the world at this moment than to find this mystery woman– the one who had left her earring. Hal knew the man at the counter didn’t understand; to this man, the fine silver earring that dangled from Hal’s left ear was either a forced attempt at cultural rebellion, or just plain strange. Hal was sure the man would never know the longing that he felt for his mystery woman.

She had looked everywhere. The office, the car, the lobby. She asked her secretary, she asked her officemates. Her favorite silver earring was nowhere to be found. She felt the odd looks when she surged into the cafe filled with the desperate hope that this place was The place; it didn’t help that she wore only one earring, its silver petals sprinkling the morning rays across her neck. Suddenly she saw the man behind the counter was staring. He had dark eyes and a dark complexion; he had the eyes of more than a barista. Then she saw it. Her earring dangling from his left ear. Her heart jumped, and for the first time since high school she had no idea what to do next. She was completely vulnerable, exposed, completely at the mercy of the cafe, its customers, the barista. Her heart stopped beating. Those eyes, she felt them pierce her armor, peering into the depths of her soul– into the places she had left buried so long she had forgotten they even existed. “Hey, you okay?” He called.

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THE ESSENTIAL JUDAS PRIEST

Well, I just stopped by wrmc to see if there were any new stuff for me to review, and there was one curious album in the usual pile… “The Essential Judas Priest”. Now I consider myself as much an expert on Heavy Metal as anyone, but Priest are one of the few bands I really don’t know much about (and haven’t really heard much either). So I grabbed it and gave it a spin (or rather, it’s spinning right now). And its incredible!! That isn’t too say it’s anything radically different than I’ve heard before… (actually very similar to Hammerfall for those who are in the know) but I actually LIKE some of the songs! (Half these songs were written before 1980!!!!) They’re not even that cheesy, which is what I mostly expected from a band I thought was largely active in the 80’s (or whatever you call Manowar’s situation… they’re still stuck). I had no idea they were that old, but apparently they were formed in the late 60’s!!!! (Old for metal)

Well that’s all for now… just had to share it with someone!

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Meta-Cognitive Creative Non-Fiction Essay

Creative Non-Fiction has opened up a new world of writing to me. Though I’d both read and written it before, I had never known it by this name, and I can now see a common thread thread in much of my favorites. The combination of fact and fiction really is the best of both worlds — it has the freedom of fiction combined with the power of facts and their ability to inform and teach and interest. Also, the way many of these writers turn the traditional genre construct on its head is just amazing. They’ve written in ways that have never been done before, and that is just so incredible, to see the world of writing changed forever because of one person. And the works with which they change our ideas of what writing can be are fascinating to read and study themselves. Each piece I read just fills me with ideas, or at least a feeling of inspiration like “I wish I could do that” or “I want to write like this”.

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Stranger Studies

3/11

She has a nose-ring impossible nose. Her hair is dirty blonde, fading to brown at the roots and secured by a grey-blue tie at the base of her formidable skull.

Her hand wobbles a spoon back and forth, she leans slightly forward in her seat and takes a bite of cereal, then gets up to obtain a cup of joe, no wait– she opts for tea, first pouring the honey, then walking over to the hot water machine and waiting in line there. She is wearing a low cut white tank-top, covered by a grey hooded sweatshirt. She stirs her tea using a spoon held lightly in two fingers. She sips the tea, blowing first, but still burns her mouth, and silently curses the pain and recoils. Her nose is straight and well defined, sloping down to her raised upper lip– giving her a slight perpetual scowl

Continue reading “Stranger Studies”

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Creative Nonfiction v3: Pay Attention (working title)

There is a look that I have grown to recognize; one that creeps up mid-conversation and fills me with dread. It says “Ok, I hear you. Uh, yeah. Okay. I get it already”. It says “Why is he still talking?”. It shows a polite disinterest, a rising level of conversation-fatigue. My mind floods with questions: How long have they not wanted to listen? How do I rescue the situation? Why aren’t they interested? Was it the way I was explaining things? Did I say too much? Too fragmented? Too much detail? Too tangential? It only happens at parties, or at dining hall.

Attention deficit? But I have no shortage of attention, if anything there are times when it is in excess! Yet there is some truth to this, as researchers have consistently found AD/HD to be linked with inefficiency in the allocation of attentional resources.

Attention: The span thereof. The ability to regulate and allocate the necessary attentional resources. Executive brain functions. Like the CEO of your brain, but wait, he’s a drunk! Where’d those papers go? What do we do now? When do we do it? What do I do? Which do I do? where who why when what… {//… kernal error. overload}

Imagine a television set that represents your mind, the current program is your state of focus. If you are concentrating on doing laundry, that’s the channel you’re watching. The picture is vivid, the lines sharp — and you are able to interpret (mostly) without issue the elements of the images before you. Now, you hold in your hand a remote control. Your remote is of normal shape, size, color, and composition. Its face has two buttons; one for channel up, and one for down (and maybe some numbers? Sure, why not! (That way if you’re watching one thing you don’t have to go through all the other channels sequentially)). Even better, you have one button for each channel… This is no ordinary remote control, no siree, this has the latest technology so every time some new “opportunity” for focus enters your radar, up pops a new button. Now your average human being watches one channel, then maybe changes to another channel by pressing a button, and then when that program is over they change to a different channel, or wait to see what’s on next, and so on and so forth.

AD/HD inattentive subtype
The remote is broken. The channel up and down buttons are sticky — sometimes they get stuck. Your TV changes channels indefinitely. Or even better, other times they don’t work at all. You’re sitting there watching a program vital to your social survival such as “What your spouse did today” or even “What cars are coming at you at 70 mph on Soldiers Field Road during Rush Hour”. Suddenly a new program pops up, “Watching a seagull circle overhead” or even “Zone out and think about something else” (always a classic)

So, your TV just freaks out and changes the channel once it sees something it likes. You mash the buttons on the remote desperately; maybe you manage to switch it back– but only briefly, before you notice it’s happened again.

You’re lost in the program forever. Seconds become hours become days… waiting for boredom to breathe life back into your remote, allowing you to seize control once again.

Enter the blessed ones
Methylphenidate methyl a-phenyl-2-piperidineacetate C14H19NO2 Molecular weight: 233.31. Bioavailability: 11-52% when taken orally. dextro,levo-methylphenidate 50:50 racemic mixture: Ritalin® (Ritalina®). dextro-methylphenidate: Focalin. Also Concerta® (time-release), Metadate®, Methylin®, Rubifen®.
Adderall 25% Dextroamphetamine Saccharate 25% Dextroamphetamine Sulfate 25% Amphetamine Aspartate 25% Amphetamine Sulfate. Amphetamine 1-phenylpropan-2-amine C9H13N

Suddenly your remote transforms before your eyes. It is now shiny, perhaps even crome-plated, and the buttons are well defined and respond cleanly… most of the time

disorder: lack of order, my mind is disordered — or I like to think it has its own unique order. I tend to have trouble remembering– names, faces, places, times — sometimes.

I don’t remember… How many times have those words passed from my lips? I don’t remember exactly, surely thousands. My girl reassured me, told me not to worry, that she’d remember for me. The hours she spent copying, transcribing each word — well, most words… leaving out the worst, and the best — each day of those early days, each moment, each throb of the heart as it sputtered to life, the fumes of yesterday still pungent, unburned, waiting to explode in a new direction. I lay on my thin mattress, the knotted boards below pressing up through the foam, my sweetheart’s three latest letters in hand. I’d open one, read it through, drink in every word no matter how it made me hurt, or sigh — wince or blush. Give away emotion under that veneer of everything’s bueno. Todo bien. Each letter holding an entry from her journal. Her place of venting, rushing, bubbling, open and closeness. Her memories open to me — flowing across the thousand miles between us. The thousand miles between today and those days only months, years ago when it all began. “I don’t remember,” I could no longer speak those words. She had given me hers. My own memories now sketches where they had been only white-blackness, a swirling soup of places, words, memes… blended and blurred and fused into a chaotic oblivion.

My life feels disordered–fragmented– an amalgam of tangents spliced together– pointing in all directions. It seems to be the way my brain works — at times you could say thrives… My room is often a reflection of this state (the disorder, not hte thriving) and I can see it acting as both a symptom of, and the contributor to my continued disorder, both resulting from and furthering this chaos

Distractions, distractable, distracted — in some settings clearly an unproductive behavior, but in others quite the opposite. But does this (???) flow (???) happen in an unenthused state? Or does it allow for an almost self-selection —- If something isn’t interesting or engaging enough, the brain says “nope, sorry — not gonna happen” and goes somewhere else. But I suppose the process is not quite so discerning — it distracts even from the quality times — and we want it not to

Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity disorder is a neurobiological disorder.
People with Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity disorder tend to have inordinate amounts of trouble maintaining attention-discipline, may be impulsive, and especially at younger ages are often hyperactive — uncharacteristically so for their age and level of development.
There is no way to diagnose AD/HD without a frame of reference.
There is no value judgment, just a comparison and then an observation.
Right?
Right.
An impaired ability to parse culture
Individual A is an aberration, though they belong to an identifiable sub-group with defining characteristics
Individuals with AD/HD are often severe underachievers.
AD/HD has been associated with certain personality traits that can be seen as other defining “symptoms”: High energy, creativity, alternating extreme empathy/unempathy, strong sense of intuition, trouble/frustration making self understood…

The more I read, the more I see the brain as a massive, unbelievably powerful, organic, living — and always a bit quirky — computer. Recent research has found that individuals with AD/HD tend to suffer impairment to their executive brain functions.
The brain’s manager, the sorter, it seems, is broken.

Confidence, self-evaluation, judgment. The inner editor. The inner critic. Impatience. High levels of impatience. No ability to wait to see how things turn out. Why bother? We’ve seen this movie before; We know how it’ll end…

A rotting twine’s torsion, that one impossible organ deep within my chest where the feelings lie. lay. lye. lae. lae man lay-man serviceman. its spiny tendrils slowly killing cells, one at a time — mechanically tightening with each breath. In come the happy pills — Boom. everything goes

Over 70% of all individuals diagnosed with AD/HD are also diagnosed with a related disorder. Depression. Mood Disorders. Conduct Disorder. et al.

When I realized — whether it was slowly over the years, or in a prototypical ____ Eureka! moment that there is a disconnect between intention and behavior. Between your perception of your behavior and its perception by others. Between your perception of others and others’ expectation of your ability to perceive them. On the micro its a matter of sorting competing tasks for focus and attention, or firing the right neurons at the right time, or having the right amount of white matter in the frontal lobes. But on the macro scale its about being a student, a friend, and a citizen. Functioning as a member of society. How does one do that? If life were a board game, and you had a different set of rules, what would happen when you tried to play with others? What would they think about you? About your intentions? About you as a person? Therein lies the rub. Where does personality end and AD/HD begin? Well, the answer to that, is that it depends who you ask.

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Wretched Radiant Burning 3/20

Wretched. It’s all wretched. She is wretched, “So he sits in the back of the class.” It sounds like a parent-teacher conference. Maybe a “So, Again I think he’s just a little bit allover the place.” So she says she will give him directions. but there is a pause, her mouth hangs, and her hand extends into the air, a question mark. And a stream of rights and lefts and lights. The trample of a child’s footsteps.

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Muted Tones

Muted Tones are nice sometimes. They are almost the opposite of the blaring, “I don’t trust you enough to let you find me on your own so I’m going to screech in obnoxious colors — like a TV ad or billboard. Muted colors just sit back like muted people; muted people don’t necessarily have muted thoughts. And muted colors carry a subtlety their more saturated companions rarely allow for. A nice tan or beige, light blue, or even the favorite of all home decorators, the paint-chip celebrity, off-white (maybe a nice eggshell-white?) You want a white that looks white but doesn’t really feel white. You want the cleanliness, but not the oppressive starkness of a sanitary hospital ward. You want elegance, simplicity, and light. Muted light.