Alien Winter

The winter here is cold and bitter. I haven't seen the sun for months. It gets to me occasionally. I often stare out of the window, waiting for it to appear, not knowing how long it will be, or how long I will stare. It is sort of like an awkward moment. That second when two acquaintances have a silence neither can fill. It is different every time, but there is always that silence. The stunned reflection when one says something shocking; the hearer is rightly stunned, searching for response; the speaker, too is stunned. “Did I really just say that?” he might ask himself. “Indeed,” his inner voice replies. “Why did I say that?” The inner voice has no response. It seems restraint came after the horse of words had bolted. Now the consequences of foot-in-mouth occur. Anything said for recovery sake will merely serve to dig a deeper hole. It comes to a point of “You say it best when you say nothing at all.” The only response is, “Well, I have to go to math, so I will see you later.” Not all awkward moments require shocking words. It often happens as a result of not knowing another person well enough to feel comfortable making random conversation, or this lack of knowledge combining with a desire not to spend long enough to complete a legitimate branch of discussion. Ultimately, there is that unwieldy silence that paradoxically paralyses the brain, when, if anything, the brain should be undistracted and motivated to move quicker through the thought processes to end the awkwardness. Rather, the brain senses the awkwardness, and enters a sub-conscious panic. It freezes like Windows. And there is this snowballing silence that continues to contribute to itself through the mind-panic in both conversers' heads. Snow is out there somewhere. But without sun, there is no way to tell. Some refer to a winter wonderland. Well, it may be Mardis Gras out there and I wouldn't know. There could be the most amazingly ghastly alien being, staring in my window at this moment, pondering awkward moments between members of his race, and I would be completely oblivious. I may be staring straight at his eyes, hypnotizing him into an awkward-turtle panic, and I would not know what kind of terrible pain I was inflicting on another creature. I wonder what kind of eyes those would be. Maybe he has a turtle-like head with big googly eyes. Eyes that transform into weird shapes, and change color based on the alien's emotions. If eyes are the window to the soul, and the alien has a soul, his would be a panoramic view of his being. His aspirations and fears would be played out on a big screen, while humans gaze in TV stupor, devouring boxes of fluffy popcorn without so much as a blink. Do they have the same curiosity towards us as we do them? Do they wonder if humans have brains? We may never know. But it definitely isn't an alien, because a nano-sliver of light has broken the horizon, and all that lies beyond the window is the vast white desert of winter.  

The opening lines reference a Sarah McLachlan song Full Of Grace.

Girl. Interrupted

Girl.
Interrupted.
Tantrum.
Interrupted.
Pouting.
Prolonged.
Happiness soon to follow.
Interrupted by bedtime.

Google Search Story

I discovered yesterday the Youtube Search Story Creator tool. So I thought I would try it. Let me know what you think of this:




It is a bit of a change from the other posts on this blog, and I hope a little more interesting. It also shows my sarcastic, cynical side--as I call it, my role as the cosmic killjoy, inherited from my safety-conscious uncle.

Her

She gazes across the golden sea

From her solid stance on the silhouetted cliff

Towering above the orange, foaming waters.

She stands, unmoving, silent and still,

Her flowing, dark hair unshaken,

Her sheathèd sword unwavering.

I watch her, amazement rising from deep within my heart

For her stamina, other-worldly strength and beautiful presence

Which dominate my thought.

I cannot bring my eyes to leave her,

Standing resolute, yet somehow vulnerable, against the amber dusk.

As the last arc of the solar globe dips below the farthest waves, she turns

And walks down the fading path leading back to civilization.

It is on this path I stand and wait for her.

Only her tear-streaked face betrays her reason:

She whom she loved is gone; lost on the whiskey-coloured sea.

Every sunset brings her back, at least the sliver of memory that remains,

And every sunset obligates her to honour the memory.

Someday she will no longer need to mourn for her mother, her once-solid rock.

Poetry Happens

Poetry happens

in rare moments of exotic inspiration.

It lasts for a while,

but now it is gone.

Sandwich

This piece was written somewhat as a satirical response to Ian McEwan's novel Saturday. It is chiefly a mimic of his writing style.

He sinks his neat, white teeth into the chunky cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich while overlooking his imposing view of the dining room table. From where he sits, it looks impressive, and arouses within him a feeling of immense pride. That he should own such a table overwhelms his concept of fairness; but he is not bothered by this feeling. He thinks it is merely a curse of upper-middle class richesse, this guilt that strikes so many who have no way of dealing with their wealth. But he, being immune to such trifles of the mind, soldiers on, effortlessly savouring every bite of his mouth-watering creation. He feels it is a marvel of human engineering. Yet at the same time it amazes him that mere grey matter can both compose and enjoy such simple, yet elegant and powerful beauty. He feels the power of the sandwich to occupy the human mind with intense focus. In preparing it, the man becomes a hero… a structural engineer, culinary expert, and housewife. The sandwich is the most important device of our time. Able to satisfy the needs of the body and mind, it is vital to the human existence-survival of the fittest. And through the wonders of natural selection, those who have no-one to make their sandwich either try, or die.

He sits alone, only the sounds of his ancient grandfather clock to keep him company. He would converse with it, only his mouth is full of sandwich, and he does not think it is worth delaying his pleasure for something he can talk to later (even though he knows he never will, since he hasn’t the time or insanity). He feels his teeth crush the cheese, and the pleasant bitterness of the sizable slabs of imported dairy product--which he inevitably seems to cut when preparing a sandwich--caresses his taste buds. He thinks of his wife, who used to sit with him, alone, at this very table. How amazing was she, that she could cut even slices of cheese. It is an art he has resigned to never pick up. He knows that it will not work. Besides, she will return from her emergency shopping trip soon enough (bread and milk are hard to find in a hyper-inflation nightmare. Thus when it is around, she jumps). He remembers watching how the blade sunk into the orange-yellow mass of what once was reprocessed grass prepared for a calf. It made him think of his old friend Samuel, who loved knives. He was a jolly chap who had a collection of 200 rare knives. He knew everything there was to know about these vital tools of our modern civilization, the axes of a city-bound homo-sapiens. He was even on the cutting edge of blade technology--his company had the most sophisticated research facility in the world. Roger had been there, and on his visit had taken lunch… a cheese, lettuce and tomato sandwich made by his wife. His were better, he felt. He thought they had a raw energy that was unfound in a professionally constructed sandwich. They were somehow better in an unrefined state, where incongruent chunks of tomato and cheese combine with fresh lettuce, French mayonnaise, a spattering of peri-peri and fresh bread to make up a simple, yet marvellous meal. It was his tradition of culinary pride, one he’d somehow passed on to his successful chef son, whose daily bread was such a sandwich. How a computer programmer and a mathematics teacher could combine to produce a chef and a champion swimmer, he’d never know. He only knew that life was too short to pass up his sandwich, the decadent pleasure of which had now passed.

Praise for Sandwich:

“A thrilling and exciting account of one man’s lunch in a modern dining room.”—Daily Male.

“Amazing…Provokes thought about what type of dining room tables we own.”—Washington Pole.

“Every word keeps the reader on the edge of his seat. Not until the last word do you realize it is really a microcosm of life. In a dining room. At lunchtime.”—The Timepieces.