Today, this word was stuck in my head as I methodically, mechanically, mindlessly washed dish after fork after tray at the pizzeria I work at. I could not remember what it meant except that I had read it used to describe the flow of the waves on the ocean. But I knew it related to my life. It is a beautiful word, susurrus. The waves whisper as they crawl atop the ocean's surface. The static of the television screen emits a repeated hiss. Life goes by with a rustling of its leaves.
My hands are soft now, from the dishwater. And the grease in the air still clings to my hair and skin. In a week and some days, these concerns will be gone. The Frenchland will have swallowed me whole with its mouth the mountain town. In a year, there is a black space. I see myself in Limbo, floating among the nothings, the nevers, and the nots. Five years from the now, the limbo has vanished and there is only blank space. That place is Beyond nothings and nevers, Beyond everything. It is unpainted, with no foreshadowings. Past that remains the Beyond. But for now, there is grease on my skin and grit beneath my nails. And I cannot wait for the Frenchland's teeth.
Limbo does not scare me. It is a comfortable zone, one I have seen many times in my short history. Long-term plans elude me like that girl with the perfect dress and perfect shoes and perfect hair. But Limbo is always there, ready to tell me the plan. I will figure it out as I go, it says. And Limbo moves ahead, minute by minute, as do I. And the Beyond forsees Limbo's movements and takes brief steps, ahead by moments. But eventually, there will be nothing left. Beyond will become only a memory and Limbo a place I do not want to call home. There will be wrinkles on my skin, a lack of hair. And a quickly dawning realization that this is the end.
And when that moment comes, my life will have passed through the universe with the quiet susurrus ripples in a pond's broken surface make.
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label future. Show all posts
Friday, May 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Hope Fiction; Writing Dreams
Let me tell you a story, a short little pseudo-fictional narrative. It is comprised of events that have yet to happen in the lives of myself and those close to me, namely the Best Friend.
Woolen Bones, a young man, has just moved to the Frenchland, to the City of the Mountain. He is unsure of his skills in the local dialect and does not have much in the way qualifications for employers to consider him. He moves in with his best friend, Ddd, who lives in the City and is fluent in the dialect. When he is not working at his shitty no-dialect-necessary job stocking shelves at night, Woolen Bones auditions for student films. He finally gets a part and has to quit his job to make time for the shooting schedule of one weekend.
The film's shooting date swiftly flies by and Woolen is now short a source of income, although he has appeared as a supporting actor in a fairly well-made student film. Ddd says he'll get the rent and not to worry about it this month, that Woolen can pay him back whenever he can. After securing another shitty job, this one utilizing his modest knowledge of the local dialect, he auditions for another film. This one is a studio film, albeit a small local studio. He gets another part, again as a supporting actor and, again, has to quit his job for the shooting schedule of one week.
Woolen pays Ddd back for the rent with three-quarters of what he makes off this supporting role and they go out to celebrate and Woolen ends the night spending the rest of the pay from the film on bottles and shots. Two days go by and Woolen realizes he won't be lucky enough to get another minimum-wage job where the local dialect isn't necessary and sets his sights higher. He goes to the different magazines operating in the City of the Mountain, magazines which print in the Majority Tongue. And he waits.
Two weeks pass by and finally the phone rings for Woolen Bones. One of the magazines is looking for a mailroom clerk and asks when he is available. Woolen says immediately and starts work two days later. A month or two later, his supervisor discovers a piece of writing Woolen accidentally left on a table in the mailroom and shows it to his supervisor. Woolen is called in for a private meeting and leaves the meeting with the task of writing an article for the next month's issue.
Dreams are nice.
Woolen Bones, a young man, has just moved to the Frenchland, to the City of the Mountain. He is unsure of his skills in the local dialect and does not have much in the way qualifications for employers to consider him. He moves in with his best friend, Ddd, who lives in the City and is fluent in the dialect. When he is not working at his shitty no-dialect-necessary job stocking shelves at night, Woolen Bones auditions for student films. He finally gets a part and has to quit his job to make time for the shooting schedule of one weekend.
The film's shooting date swiftly flies by and Woolen is now short a source of income, although he has appeared as a supporting actor in a fairly well-made student film. Ddd says he'll get the rent and not to worry about it this month, that Woolen can pay him back whenever he can. After securing another shitty job, this one utilizing his modest knowledge of the local dialect, he auditions for another film. This one is a studio film, albeit a small local studio. He gets another part, again as a supporting actor and, again, has to quit his job for the shooting schedule of one week.
Woolen pays Ddd back for the rent with three-quarters of what he makes off this supporting role and they go out to celebrate and Woolen ends the night spending the rest of the pay from the film on bottles and shots. Two days go by and Woolen realizes he won't be lucky enough to get another minimum-wage job where the local dialect isn't necessary and sets his sights higher. He goes to the different magazines operating in the City of the Mountain, magazines which print in the Majority Tongue. And he waits.
Two weeks pass by and finally the phone rings for Woolen Bones. One of the magazines is looking for a mailroom clerk and asks when he is available. Woolen says immediately and starts work two days later. A month or two later, his supervisor discovers a piece of writing Woolen accidentally left on a table in the mailroom and shows it to his supervisor. Woolen is called in for a private meeting and leaves the meeting with the task of writing an article for the next month's issue.
Dreams are nice.
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