I didn't know how to get back in.
Her writing was too slow. I was desperate to leave the apartment, suddenly smelly and dank, wanting color, wanting danger, wanting her. Imorin. Finally her true name. Imorin. "How?" I kept repeating, "How?" Aloud. With my voice. To the book. To the book, as if the book could hear. Yet, I could hear the book. I could hear Imorin through her words, on the page, which weren't coming fast enough onto the second-to-last page.
You'll have to start again, she wrote.
You'll have to begin at the beginning and read through, not live through, but read through, what you've already lived. We'll be waiting for you. You must finish the book or there is no hope for us. You must live through an ending, or there is no hope for us, she wrote.
So, I sat, where I was, on the floor, and began to read. Beginning with page one:
Wemoreland was in danger of disappearing, of being taken over by rules and constraints, by black and white, by definitions and normalcy and by all the other things that stifle an imagination.
I couldn't imagine having wanted to read this as a younger me. I couldn't imagine wanting to read this this morning. But, the words changed, before my eyes, blurred and came back together as Zachary, it's okay. It's the same story, but you are not the same Zachary. Just come in.
And so I did, I sat and read and I remembered as I read, not the words, no, none of the words, but the story, the steps of the castles, the sharks in the moat, the silver forest, the caves where we met Snate, the bear who led us to the other side, who introduced us to Neptine who guided us through the night to the sire of Kintet and who never left the story. Through adventure and tragedy, with the monkeys, on the boat, rescued and lost and rescuing, trying to put Patrick's puzzles together, to follow the story with his clues, until page 253, where we ran through blue elms and then I left Imorin on the red wood bridge. Page 254 was completely blank, but I was no longer holding the book.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces XII
The book now seemed more real than the room. The blue elms and red wooden bridge, the nasty gnomes and the worker monkeys, the danger, the passion, the puzzles, the hunt, Patrick's mind and Patrick's power, now, suddenly, with the coming of one clear memory, seemed more real than the front door, the computer, the desk chair, the empty whiskey bottle, the paper and glue and ink of the book itself.
I repeated my question to the unreal room, "How?" and was answered by nothing.
I opened the book to the last page and read:
You cannot read the last page of this book without reading the first and next pages of this book because the last page does not exist until you've created it from the second-to-last, the second-to-last from the third-to-last, the third-to-last from the fourth-to-last etc, starting with creating the second page from the first. Close the book and start at the beginning, dear reader, or this book cannot exist. P.W.
That was the last page of the book. I turned it to the right, opening the book to the third and second-to-last pages. The third was blank. The second had one line:
Thank you, Zachary, for coming back.
And then it had another line after it:
I'm sorry that you had to be torn about so.
And then another line:
I'm sorry it came to that.
The lines continued to appear, one at a time, the next after reading the last:
We were desperate. We needed you so badly. It took so much work , so much time, so many readers and their inventions, before we could find a way to you. By then, you had forgotten us. You would not have believed us had we shown ourselves to you as you had known us.
I could hear her voice in the words I read.
I repeated my question to the unreal room, "How?" and was answered by nothing.
I opened the book to the last page and read:
You cannot read the last page of this book without reading the first and next pages of this book because the last page does not exist until you've created it from the second-to-last, the second-to-last from the third-to-last, the third-to-last from the fourth-to-last etc, starting with creating the second page from the first. Close the book and start at the beginning, dear reader, or this book cannot exist. P.W.
That was the last page of the book. I turned it to the right, opening the book to the third and second-to-last pages. The third was blank. The second had one line:
Thank you, Zachary, for coming back.
And then it had another line after it:
I'm sorry that you had to be torn about so.
And then another line:
I'm sorry it came to that.
The lines continued to appear, one at a time, the next after reading the last:
We were desperate. We needed you so badly. It took so much work , so much time, so many readers and their inventions, before we could find a way to you. By then, you had forgotten us. You would not have believed us had we shown ourselves to you as you had known us.
I could hear her voice in the words I read.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces XI
Why are you running?
Why are we running?
Or is it not me, but Patrick? Just some generic, ageless white boy with you.
Would help if I knew what Patrick looked like. Would help if I knew what the fuck I'd be doing in that book. IN that book.
I was addressing her although she was no longer there - both her vehicles to presence, the computer and the book, had made dents in my door. The book, though, was still intact. There, across the room on top of bits of white plastic and bent metal. I found myself addressing the book, addressing her fleeing image on the book, and even with my head in my hands her blond and blue were facing me, running towards me, holding Patrick's hand - my hand? - running towards me through impossible blue elms.
"Bitch," I said to the running girl in my head. "Get out."
The silence was her laughing, her laughing with sad shoulders, fightless eyes. "Fool," the silence said. "Fool."
And then I remembered. I finally remembered. "Fool," she had said, laughing. The whole scene came back.
She had been on the middle of a red, wood footbridge, long hair and white gauzy skirts so fiercely wind-blown that it looked like the river was plucking her downward. One of her hands was gripping the one-rope railing. The other was on her hip. I was close enough to hear her calm despite the wind, but not close enough to touch her.
"We may only be in Patrick's mind, Zachary. Foolish Zachary," she'd said. "But, that means you and I cannot exist without him, cannot exist just each other. Stop your dreaming silly young Zach. You are here to get to the end of the story. Not to start a new one. I can't leave Wemoreland. And when you reach the end, all you can do is leave. Alone."
I remembered the feeling of confusion. The realest thing when I walked onto that bridge was the girl before me who had come to the end of so many chapters with me, partners, companions, her land-smarts, bone strength, night's eye, and owl's intuition complementing perfectly my knowledge of game-narrative, of strategy, of planning for the unexpected with my defenses always up. But, his real thing, she was reminding me, had no reality. The confusion turned to anger, the jealously turned to hatred and I left her on the bridge and swore to myself to leave both her and Patrick to suffer forever without resolution, without an ending.
With the confidence of this memory, with the relief of remembering, I walked over, picked up the book, saw us fleeing through blue elms, and heard her say, "Free us, Zachary."
"How?" I replied, to the book.
Why are we running?
Or is it not me, but Patrick? Just some generic, ageless white boy with you.
Would help if I knew what Patrick looked like. Would help if I knew what the fuck I'd be doing in that book. IN that book.
I was addressing her although she was no longer there - both her vehicles to presence, the computer and the book, had made dents in my door. The book, though, was still intact. There, across the room on top of bits of white plastic and bent metal. I found myself addressing the book, addressing her fleeing image on the book, and even with my head in my hands her blond and blue were facing me, running towards me, holding Patrick's hand - my hand? - running towards me through impossible blue elms.
"Bitch," I said to the running girl in my head. "Get out."
The silence was her laughing, her laughing with sad shoulders, fightless eyes. "Fool," the silence said. "Fool."
And then I remembered. I finally remembered. "Fool," she had said, laughing. The whole scene came back.
She had been on the middle of a red, wood footbridge, long hair and white gauzy skirts so fiercely wind-blown that it looked like the river was plucking her downward. One of her hands was gripping the one-rope railing. The other was on her hip. I was close enough to hear her calm despite the wind, but not close enough to touch her.
"We may only be in Patrick's mind, Zachary. Foolish Zachary," she'd said. "But, that means you and I cannot exist without him, cannot exist just each other. Stop your dreaming silly young Zach. You are here to get to the end of the story. Not to start a new one. I can't leave Wemoreland. And when you reach the end, all you can do is leave. Alone."
I remembered the feeling of confusion. The realest thing when I walked onto that bridge was the girl before me who had come to the end of so many chapters with me, partners, companions, her land-smarts, bone strength, night's eye, and owl's intuition complementing perfectly my knowledge of game-narrative, of strategy, of planning for the unexpected with my defenses always up. But, his real thing, she was reminding me, had no reality. The confusion turned to anger, the jealously turned to hatred and I left her on the bridge and swore to myself to leave both her and Patrick to suffer forever without resolution, without an ending.
With the confidence of this memory, with the relief of remembering, I walked over, picked up the book, saw us fleeing through blue elms, and heard her say, "Free us, Zachary."
"How?" I replied, to the book.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces X
The book was smelly, musty, and yellow around the edges. There was a burn in the top right corner of the first few pages, as if burnt from a cigarette held in the same hand as the book. I didn't remember where I got it. I didn't remember, even, reading it. I certainly didn't remember ever smoking. Most of the other books in the two boxes were old textbooks and computer manuals. DOS for Dummies, etc. There were several Star Trek novels and then there was The Surfaces of Wemoreland. I didn't remember reading it but I had vague wispy memories of the story, though the memories were visual, like movie-memories, and even vague and wispy they seemed longer and denser than the 160-page paperback.
I tossed the book on the desk where the computer used to sit. It hit with a dull thud and then I watched it a minute, as if I expected it to move or be moved or grow into something else.
I poured myself another whiskey. The bottle was almost empty which made me wonder what time it was, if liquor stores were open, if I'd been up all night yet, if we were near the moment when dogs were walked and ghosts retreated. But it was dark except for the desk lamp that spotlighted the book, and quiet absolutely.
The cover of the book had two children on it, running, fleeing, hand-in-hand amongst blue elms. Nothing was chasing them and they looked not scared, but excited, invigorated, like they were about to win a clear race. They were both blond, and dressed all in white. She had gold bracelets and a black rose on her ankle, barely discernible. She had the eyes of the woman whose face just splintered against my door. They were about twelve. Or maybe fifteen. Or perhaps eight. Or not even children. I turned the book face down and thought about sleep and why it didn't seem like a relevant thought. I sat in my desk chair and without touching the book, read the back cover:
Take an adventure with Patrick Wemore to a land of his own making, a land in his own mind. Travel to Wemoreland and help Patrick's imagination keep him, and you, and all the good people and creatures of Wemoreland safe. By reading this interactive story you can help Patrick's unconscious, and therefore all Wemoreland, to fight against bad thoughts and wrong deeds, and to prevail against evil.
I closed my eyes and saw again the image of the ship and the monkeys. I was breathing heavily and each inhale brought a different flash of memory: a purple sunset, a faceless gnome screaming curses from within a large black-bound book, a blue rickshaw on an empty desert plane, the stars moving into battle formation, a soft voice saying "yes" urgently from rounded lips, a field of knee-high flowers in reds and golds collectively reflecting two bright, full moons.
I opened my eyes and threw the book into the shards of my computer, knowing that everything I needed to throw was actually in my mind.
I tossed the book on the desk where the computer used to sit. It hit with a dull thud and then I watched it a minute, as if I expected it to move or be moved or grow into something else.
I poured myself another whiskey. The bottle was almost empty which made me wonder what time it was, if liquor stores were open, if I'd been up all night yet, if we were near the moment when dogs were walked and ghosts retreated. But it was dark except for the desk lamp that spotlighted the book, and quiet absolutely.
The cover of the book had two children on it, running, fleeing, hand-in-hand amongst blue elms. Nothing was chasing them and they looked not scared, but excited, invigorated, like they were about to win a clear race. They were both blond, and dressed all in white. She had gold bracelets and a black rose on her ankle, barely discernible. She had the eyes of the woman whose face just splintered against my door. They were about twelve. Or maybe fifteen. Or perhaps eight. Or not even children. I turned the book face down and thought about sleep and why it didn't seem like a relevant thought. I sat in my desk chair and without touching the book, read the back cover:
Take an adventure with Patrick Wemore to a land of his own making, a land in his own mind. Travel to Wemoreland and help Patrick's imagination keep him, and you, and all the good people and creatures of Wemoreland safe. By reading this interactive story you can help Patrick's unconscious, and therefore all Wemoreland, to fight against bad thoughts and wrong deeds, and to prevail against evil.
I closed my eyes and saw again the image of the ship and the monkeys. I was breathing heavily and each inhale brought a different flash of memory: a purple sunset, a faceless gnome screaming curses from within a large black-bound book, a blue rickshaw on an empty desert plane, the stars moving into battle formation, a soft voice saying "yes" urgently from rounded lips, a field of knee-high flowers in reds and golds collectively reflecting two bright, full moons.
I opened my eyes and threw the book into the shards of my computer, knowing that everything I needed to throw was actually in my mind.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces IX
"So now you know," she said.
I said nothing. She wasn't looking at me. I had in mind a man with thick calves, bermuda shorts with many full pockets, a white long sleeve linen shirt - rolled up just once at the wrists, dirty hiking boots, a straw hat that had been wet and dried many many times, a brown untrimmed mustache, a ruddy sun-wrinkled complexion.
I looked past the whiskey-rounded, sweatshirted-blue belly at my white knees and said, "No, I don't, yet, know."
What I knew was that I had the mind and body of a dungeon and dragon's addict. What I knew was that remembering Patrick only made me hate myself. What I didn't know was what exactly I was remembering.
"I don't know. Why don't you just tell me." My voice had lost all niceness.
"You do know." Her voice had lost all patience.
"I don't know your name," I said. "I don't even know your name," I said.
"You owe us, Zachary." She looked up then, and showed me her tears. I thought that a programmer could forget to make the voice choke while tears fell, but sorrow never forgets such details.
"I don't know your name," I said.
"You owe us," she said.
I thought this would be a good time to declare the day, the game, the adventure, finished. But, I couldn't. I needed to know two things.
"Okay," I said. "If you tell me what it is I asked of you, I will give you what I owe you." I thought that there couldn't be much one owes to pixels.
"You asked me to marry you," she said.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"No, it was bigger than that," I said.
"You made it bigger than that," she said. She looked so sad still that I wanted to stroke her cheek, could feel a compulsion that I could see leading to a proposal. But, this was nothing. This happened all the time.
"No, Zachary. Not in this life. Not with this you. Patrick wouldn't bother with this you."
"So why is he bothering with me?"
"Because you owe us." She leaned forward, placing each foot hard on the white nothing floor. I could see her black-rosed ankle again, finally. "And you said you'd give it."
"Tell me what it is and I will give it."
"Burn the book, Zachary. Set us free. Destroy the book, I beg of you, again." Begging put unattractive stress on her jawbone, colored her face unnaturally. Almost well done, Patrick, I thought.
"No," I said.
"You promised."
"I did. But, I won't."
"Set us free, Zachary."
"No. You'll have to stay." And I picked up the monitor and threw it against the front door and watched its surfaces splinter into small bits of rainbows. Then, I went to the closet and went through two cardboard boxes of paperbacks before finding The Surfaces of Wemoreland.
I said nothing. She wasn't looking at me. I had in mind a man with thick calves, bermuda shorts with many full pockets, a white long sleeve linen shirt - rolled up just once at the wrists, dirty hiking boots, a straw hat that had been wet and dried many many times, a brown untrimmed mustache, a ruddy sun-wrinkled complexion.
I looked past the whiskey-rounded, sweatshirted-blue belly at my white knees and said, "No, I don't, yet, know."
What I knew was that I had the mind and body of a dungeon and dragon's addict. What I knew was that remembering Patrick only made me hate myself. What I didn't know was what exactly I was remembering.
"I don't know. Why don't you just tell me." My voice had lost all niceness.
"You do know." Her voice had lost all patience.
"I don't know your name," I said. "I don't even know your name," I said.
"You owe us, Zachary." She looked up then, and showed me her tears. I thought that a programmer could forget to make the voice choke while tears fell, but sorrow never forgets such details.
"I don't know your name," I said.
"You owe us," she said.
I thought this would be a good time to declare the day, the game, the adventure, finished. But, I couldn't. I needed to know two things.
"Okay," I said. "If you tell me what it is I asked of you, I will give you what I owe you." I thought that there couldn't be much one owes to pixels.
"You asked me to marry you," she said.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"No, it was bigger than that," I said.
"You made it bigger than that," she said. She looked so sad still that I wanted to stroke her cheek, could feel a compulsion that I could see leading to a proposal. But, this was nothing. This happened all the time.
"No, Zachary. Not in this life. Not with this you. Patrick wouldn't bother with this you."
"So why is he bothering with me?"
"Because you owe us." She leaned forward, placing each foot hard on the white nothing floor. I could see her black-rosed ankle again, finally. "And you said you'd give it."
"Tell me what it is and I will give it."
"Burn the book, Zachary. Set us free. Destroy the book, I beg of you, again." Begging put unattractive stress on her jawbone, colored her face unnaturally. Almost well done, Patrick, I thought.
"No," I said.
"You promised."
"I did. But, I won't."
"Set us free, Zachary."
"No. You'll have to stay." And I picked up the monitor and threw it against the front door and watched its surfaces splinter into small bits of rainbows. Then, I went to the closet and went through two cardboard boxes of paperbacks before finding The Surfaces of Wemoreland.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces VIII
"There was something that I asked of you," I said.
"Zachary, what book?" The annoyance in her voice was much less powerful than the thought that there was something that I'd asked of her.
"Is it in the book?" I asked.
"Is what in what book?"
"The book that you want me to remember. Is what I asked of you in that book?"
"No," she said.
"No?"
"No. It's not in the book."
"Ok," I said. "I'll tell you the book, if you tell me what I asked of you."
"No."
"What?"
"No," she said.
"So you don't want to know what book?"
Her silence prompted me to open my eyes, pull my chin up, and look directly at her, at the screen. She wasn't looking at me at all. She was looking down. She looked dim, the screen was as if dimmed, though we were well past such mechanics. I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders looked sad.
"The Surfaces of Wemoreland," I said, trying on my WJAZ soft voice.
"By whom?" I heard her say.
"Patrick Wemore," I said.
"Zachary, what book?" The annoyance in her voice was much less powerful than the thought that there was something that I'd asked of her.
"Is it in the book?" I asked.
"Is what in what book?"
"The book that you want me to remember. Is what I asked of you in that book?"
"No," she said.
"No?"
"No. It's not in the book."
"Ok," I said. "I'll tell you the book, if you tell me what I asked of you."
"No."
"What?"
"No," she said.
"So you don't want to know what book?"
Her silence prompted me to open my eyes, pull my chin up, and look directly at her, at the screen. She wasn't looking at me at all. She was looking down. She looked dim, the screen was as if dimmed, though we were well past such mechanics. I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders looked sad.
"The Surfaces of Wemoreland," I said, trying on my WJAZ soft voice.
"By whom?" I heard her say.
"Patrick Wemore," I said.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces VII
"You don't remember," she said soft in her WJAZ voice.
"What don't I remember?" I said, sounding remarkably grouchy, like my father.
"Wemoreland," she said.
"I've never been there." I hadn't moved. She hadn't moved. We'd been to this point before.
"But you remember. Wemoreland?" she asked.
"I..."
"Close your eyes, Zachary."
I did.
"Zachary, remember a cold rapid river, a gnarly juniper branch, a rune riddle under a senofite rock, a friendly owl."
"Neptine," I said, without thinking it first.
"Yes. Neptine. He misses you."
"I don't know him." I opened my eyes.
"Close your eyes," she said immediately. "You knew him. You just said his name."
I closed my eyes and said his name, "Neptine."
"Yes," she said. "He was your friend."
"There was a boat," I heard myself say. I saw a boat. I heard myself describe it. "It had a wheel, a light, it was trimmed in blue, there were workers, monkeys. I was worried. There was danger, water, time, danger."
"Yes. Zach. What else?"
"You. I remember you."
"What else, Zachary?"
"There was a message, a message missing words."
"What else do you remember, Zachary?"
"Nothing." The images were gone. I opened my eyes.
"Close your eyes, Zachary. What else do you remember?"
"Nothing. All I remember was a book I read. I remember nothing more."
"What book, Zach?"
"What?"
"What book, Zach?"
"What don't I remember?" I said, sounding remarkably grouchy, like my father.
"Wemoreland," she said.
"I've never been there." I hadn't moved. She hadn't moved. We'd been to this point before.
"But you remember. Wemoreland?" she asked.
"I..."
"Close your eyes, Zachary."
I did.
"Zachary, remember a cold rapid river, a gnarly juniper branch, a rune riddle under a senofite rock, a friendly owl."
"Neptine," I said, without thinking it first.
"Yes. Neptine. He misses you."
"I don't know him." I opened my eyes.
"Close your eyes," she said immediately. "You knew him. You just said his name."
I closed my eyes and said his name, "Neptine."
"Yes," she said. "He was your friend."
"There was a boat," I heard myself say. I saw a boat. I heard myself describe it. "It had a wheel, a light, it was trimmed in blue, there were workers, monkeys. I was worried. There was danger, water, time, danger."
"Yes. Zach. What else?"
"You. I remember you."
"What else, Zachary?"
"There was a message, a message missing words."
"What else do you remember, Zachary?"
"Nothing." The images were gone. I opened my eyes.
"Close your eyes, Zachary. What else do you remember?"
"Nothing. All I remember was a book I read. I remember nothing more."
"What book, Zach?"
"What?"
"What book, Zach?"
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
What Type of Writer Should You Be? Take II
| You Should Be A Poet |
 You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem. |
Ah, I did it again. I chose all the answers I could have chosen the first time. See how easy it is to go from geeky to sexy?
Monday, May 15, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces VI
"You really don't remember , Zachary?" Her voice was soothing.
"Remember what?" I felt soothed. But I did not want her asking anything of me. I could do nothing. Nothing but sit and watch her lips move, sit and listen to her soft voice, her 11pm jazz DJ voice.
"Isn't my voice familiar?" She asked.
"Are you the DJ on WJAZ? Are you Jessica Simone?"
"Zachary," she shook head slowly. Right. Left. I could hear her almost add "Tsk tsk."
"You sound like my grandmother, actually." I said. I wanted to go back to soothing. She got me to accept, without understanding. Now, I didn't want to understand.
"Well, that's because you're scared," she said.
"Well, you're not helping when you react to my thoughts like that." I said. "Bitch." I didn't say.
"Be nice, Zachary. I'm trying to help."
Not soothed, not scared, pissed off, now, again, but not quite to the point of turning her off again. I didn't want to find that I couldn't. Okay, still scared. And quiet. I'd now remain quiet.
"That's better, thank you." It really was just her mouth moving. "We met a long time ago, Zach. You've changed. But, we were friends. Good friends."
Just listening was good. Focusing on her mouth moving, on her Jessica Simone voice.
"We went on a lot of adventures together, got in a lot of trouble, got rescued, did some rescuing," she said.
I was trying to see, with the 'e' sounds in words like "adventure," "friends," "together," if she had a tongue-ring. Sometimes I thought so, sometimes I thought it was just a weird off-color pixel.
"Do you remember?"
"No."
"Do you remember a shiny, bright place? A hard-to-look-at place? Called Wemoreland?"
"No. Yes. No. I don't know. It sounds familiar. I've never been there, though."
"You've visited. Followed maps, found treasures. Solved puzzles and untangled riddles. You walked a long long way and found blue elms. "
"Oh. Right. And I suppose I won the princess?"
"Yes. You did."
"Oh. Then. I lived happily ever after?"
"Yes. We did."
"Then what's this? Now?"
"This is after happily ever after."
"You're so full of shit." I didn't say. I wasn't convinced enough she was. Though, obviously she was. Full of shit. I couldn't quite say it though. But, I knew she heard it."
"None of it's up to me, Zachary. I'm not full of anything. I'm just one of Patrick's surfaces."
"Remember what?" I felt soothed. But I did not want her asking anything of me. I could do nothing. Nothing but sit and watch her lips move, sit and listen to her soft voice, her 11pm jazz DJ voice.
"Isn't my voice familiar?" She asked.
"Are you the DJ on WJAZ? Are you Jessica Simone?"
"Zachary," she shook head slowly. Right. Left. I could hear her almost add "Tsk tsk."
"You sound like my grandmother, actually." I said. I wanted to go back to soothing. She got me to accept, without understanding. Now, I didn't want to understand.
"Well, that's because you're scared," she said.
"Well, you're not helping when you react to my thoughts like that." I said. "Bitch." I didn't say.
"Be nice, Zachary. I'm trying to help."
Not soothed, not scared, pissed off, now, again, but not quite to the point of turning her off again. I didn't want to find that I couldn't. Okay, still scared. And quiet. I'd now remain quiet.
"That's better, thank you." It really was just her mouth moving. "We met a long time ago, Zach. You've changed. But, we were friends. Good friends."
Just listening was good. Focusing on her mouth moving, on her Jessica Simone voice.
"We went on a lot of adventures together, got in a lot of trouble, got rescued, did some rescuing," she said.
I was trying to see, with the 'e' sounds in words like "adventure," "friends," "together," if she had a tongue-ring. Sometimes I thought so, sometimes I thought it was just a weird off-color pixel.
"Do you remember?"
"No."
"Do you remember a shiny, bright place? A hard-to-look-at place? Called Wemoreland?"
"No. Yes. No. I don't know. It sounds familiar. I've never been there, though."
"You've visited. Followed maps, found treasures. Solved puzzles and untangled riddles. You walked a long long way and found blue elms. "
"Oh. Right. And I suppose I won the princess?"
"Yes. You did."
"Oh. Then. I lived happily ever after?"
"Yes. We did."
"Then what's this? Now?"
"This is after happily ever after."
"You're so full of shit." I didn't say. I wasn't convinced enough she was. Though, obviously she was. Full of shit. I couldn't quite say it though. But, I knew she heard it."
"None of it's up to me, Zachary. I'm not full of anything. I'm just one of Patrick's surfaces."
What Type of Writer Should You Be?
| You Should Be a Science Fiction Writer |
 Your ideas are very strange, and people often wonder what planet you're from. And while you may have some problems being "normal," you'll have no problems writing sci-fi. Whether it's epic films, important novels, or vivid comics... Your own little universe could leave an important mark on the world! |
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces V
"I turned the speakers off."
"Come on, honey, you should know by now that won't work with us. Nothing can come between us so easily."
I checked the speakers. They were off. I couldn't tell where her voice was coming from. The cold of the sweat running down my temple convinced me I wasn't dreaming.
"Sit down," she said.
"I am."
"You're not."
I wasn't.
I did. I sat in the desk chair, swiveled away from the monitor, and closed my eyes.
"Thank you. Now we can talk."
"Why does the computer need to be on if the speakers don't?" I said.
"So you can see me."
"If I can hear you without speakers, why can't I see you without the computer?"
"You wouldn't believe."
"I don't believe."
"Look at me."
"No." But I wanted to.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Zachary," she said. She said Zachary. My real name. I didn't respond.
"You need me to be on the monitor of your turned-on computer because your discernment of beauty is so poor that you would only see zeros and ones otherwise. Does this make sense?"
"No."
"Your world," she continued, "comes through here. Asking you to see me without the computer being on, your internet connection being active, would be like asking Emerson to write about trees if he'd never been outside. I need to inhabit your world. Or I wouldn't be anyone, or no one of consequence, certainly no one of beauty. Do you see?"
I still didn't answer. I did see though. It just didn't help me to understand.
"Look at me," she said.
And I did.
She hadn't changed. Her blue eyes were looking directly into me, her gauzy cream blouse showed a faint outline of the roundness of her breasts, but no nipple. Her legs and feet, and therefore ankles, were drawn up underneath her, hidden behind her blue paisley skirt. She raised one hand out, palm up. I imagined, but did not hear, the light gold chains on her wrist jangling with the movement.
"Yes," I said. "You are right. You are beautiful."
"So are you Zachary," she said. She said to me, Zachary, that I was beautiful and I decided to believe that she could see me.
"Why are you here," I asked. I did not ask "how."
"Because you invited me."
"Thank you for coming," I said.
"Come on, honey, you should know by now that won't work with us. Nothing can come between us so easily."
I checked the speakers. They were off. I couldn't tell where her voice was coming from. The cold of the sweat running down my temple convinced me I wasn't dreaming.
"Sit down," she said.
"I am."
"You're not."
I wasn't.
I did. I sat in the desk chair, swiveled away from the monitor, and closed my eyes.
"Thank you. Now we can talk."
"Why does the computer need to be on if the speakers don't?" I said.
"So you can see me."
"If I can hear you without speakers, why can't I see you without the computer?"
"You wouldn't believe."
"I don't believe."
"Look at me."
"No." But I wanted to.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Zachary," she said. She said Zachary. My real name. I didn't respond.
"You need me to be on the monitor of your turned-on computer because your discernment of beauty is so poor that you would only see zeros and ones otherwise. Does this make sense?"
"No."
"Your world," she continued, "comes through here. Asking you to see me without the computer being on, your internet connection being active, would be like asking Emerson to write about trees if he'd never been outside. I need to inhabit your world. Or I wouldn't be anyone, or no one of consequence, certainly no one of beauty. Do you see?"
I still didn't answer. I did see though. It just didn't help me to understand.
"Look at me," she said.
And I did.
She hadn't changed. Her blue eyes were looking directly into me, her gauzy cream blouse showed a faint outline of the roundness of her breasts, but no nipple. Her legs and feet, and therefore ankles, were drawn up underneath her, hidden behind her blue paisley skirt. She raised one hand out, palm up. I imagined, but did not hear, the light gold chains on her wrist jangling with the movement.
"Yes," I said. "You are right. You are beautiful."
"So are you Zachary," she said. She said to me, Zachary, that I was beautiful and I decided to believe that she could see me.
"Why are you here," I asked. I did not ask "how."
"Because you invited me."
"Thank you for coming," I said.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
David Mitchell - reconfirmed hero
I saw David Mitchell at Cody's tonight. The man is brilliant. He read from Black Swan Green.
http://www.codysbooks.com/product/info.jsp?isbn=1400063795
It was completely captivating: the story, the language, his reading. He really gets into it, does all the voices, the sounds. And he obviously loves questions. He really thought about the answers, wanted to get them right.
He got a question about genre, since he has elements of Sci Fi and and Gothic etc in his literary fiction. He said that genres were like sections in an orchestra, usually someone masters the section and stays there. The instruments in that section are usually not used by those outside of the section. Genres can be used as tools for a writer. And they can be the way into writing as they are often the way into reading. (He thanked Dan Brown for bringing so many people to reading.) That's my understanding of his idea. He said it much more eloquently, of course.
He also talked about originality coming from cliche. Go for the cliche, the common understanding, and twist it.
So I'm pumped because his writing, and his thinking about writing, and his passion for writing and for ideas, are everything I love about both reading and writing. But also, once again, I'm feeling like my writing will never be as good as I think good is, since little is good next to David Mitchell. I'll keep working at it anyway. He also said, when I saw him two years ago, that when he realised that if he wanted to ever write he'd better get started, he was twenty-five and he wrote a bunch of 'crap' for years. (Couldn't have been too many years though. I think he was born in 69 and is now working on his fifth novel.) So, I'm just going to go ahead and continue to write my crap and see where it takes me. Though, I've got to get some reading done too. I'm going to reread Cloud Atlas, then onto Black Swan Green.
http://www.codysbooks.com/product/info.jsp?isbn=1400063795
It was completely captivating: the story, the language, his reading. He really gets into it, does all the voices, the sounds. And he obviously loves questions. He really thought about the answers, wanted to get them right.
He got a question about genre, since he has elements of Sci Fi and and Gothic etc in his literary fiction. He said that genres were like sections in an orchestra, usually someone masters the section and stays there. The instruments in that section are usually not used by those outside of the section. Genres can be used as tools for a writer. And they can be the way into writing as they are often the way into reading. (He thanked Dan Brown for bringing so many people to reading.) That's my understanding of his idea. He said it much more eloquently, of course.
He also talked about originality coming from cliche. Go for the cliche, the common understanding, and twist it.
So I'm pumped because his writing, and his thinking about writing, and his passion for writing and for ideas, are everything I love about both reading and writing. But also, once again, I'm feeling like my writing will never be as good as I think good is, since little is good next to David Mitchell. I'll keep working at it anyway. He also said, when I saw him two years ago, that when he realised that if he wanted to ever write he'd better get started, he was twenty-five and he wrote a bunch of 'crap' for years. (Couldn't have been too many years though. I think he was born in 69 and is now working on his fifth novel.) So, I'm just going to go ahead and continue to write my crap and see where it takes me. Though, I've got to get some reading done too. I'm going to reread Cloud Atlas, then onto Black Swan Green.
Patrick's Surfaces IV
Once my computer finished humming down, the silence was encompassing. I put my empty whiskey glass down on my wooden desk and the deep "thang" echoed for countable seconds. Then all I heard was my heartbeat.
I couldn't move from my chair. I still felt watched. My iMac was perfect in it's black and white contrast, but I still felt watched.
I gasped short when I realized that I missed her, that I wanted her back, that the silence was loneliness. I had hopes that included her.
I thought I should go for a run. Do the shopping. Anything out of the house. Or drink myself into a long sleep. I had choices and I listened to my heart beat.
Then I could hear my neighbor do dishes on the other side of my wall. I had never heard him before. He was only ten feet away from me, certainly sometimes much less than ten, and I had never heard him before.
I smelled baked cheese and wondered if it came from next door. Maybe he was having guests. What kind of man baked cheese in a greasy, cheap apartment and did the dishes while it was in the oven?
And whistled. He was whistling. "A Kiss To Build a Dream On." He'd never whistled before. If I could hear him whistling, he could hear my music. I'd been playing that song constantly for two weeks. I almost began to sing along with him, out of habit. "And my imagination will make that dream come true."
What else could he hear? Had he heard the conversation I'd just had? Did he hear the word "cacophony?" Did he hear the word, "composite?" What did he know about me? I knew nothing about him, never heard him before. I only knew what he looked like. I didn't even know his name. It could be Patrick for all I knew. He could be Patrick for all I knew. He might be Patrick and he might have been watching me so closely that he'd know the surfaces of my cheeks are not smooth. That I like white ankles. He might know everything.
I knocked my chair over in my panic getting up, grabbed my keys, and unbolted my door. I heard him unbolt his. I froze. I didn't open my door. I couldn't possibly see him. I bolted it again. He bolted his.
I tiptoed back to the computer, turned off its speakers, and turned it back on.
"Hello, dear," she said instantly. "Don't ever do that again please."
I couldn't move from my chair. I still felt watched. My iMac was perfect in it's black and white contrast, but I still felt watched.
I gasped short when I realized that I missed her, that I wanted her back, that the silence was loneliness. I had hopes that included her.
I thought I should go for a run. Do the shopping. Anything out of the house. Or drink myself into a long sleep. I had choices and I listened to my heart beat.
Then I could hear my neighbor do dishes on the other side of my wall. I had never heard him before. He was only ten feet away from me, certainly sometimes much less than ten, and I had never heard him before.
I smelled baked cheese and wondered if it came from next door. Maybe he was having guests. What kind of man baked cheese in a greasy, cheap apartment and did the dishes while it was in the oven?
And whistled. He was whistling. "A Kiss To Build a Dream On." He'd never whistled before. If I could hear him whistling, he could hear my music. I'd been playing that song constantly for two weeks. I almost began to sing along with him, out of habit. "And my imagination will make that dream come true."
What else could he hear? Had he heard the conversation I'd just had? Did he hear the word "cacophony?" Did he hear the word, "composite?" What did he know about me? I knew nothing about him, never heard him before. I only knew what he looked like. I didn't even know his name. It could be Patrick for all I knew. He could be Patrick for all I knew. He might be Patrick and he might have been watching me so closely that he'd know the surfaces of my cheeks are not smooth. That I like white ankles. He might know everything.
I knocked my chair over in my panic getting up, grabbed my keys, and unbolted my door. I heard him unbolt his. I froze. I didn't open my door. I couldn't possibly see him. I bolted it again. He bolted his.
I tiptoed back to the computer, turned off its speakers, and turned it back on.
"Hello, dear," she said instantly. "Don't ever do that again please."
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Bottom up
I'm not sure about part three of Patrick. Make sure to read the first patrick post with parts one and two before you read three. And then please someone tell me what is happening. Who's Patrick?
Patrick's Surfaces III
III
I wanted to just turn the computer off. But I was paralyzed by the things that hadn't happened yet.
"What are you wearing?" she asked. Patrick must have turned her voice equalizer towards "sexy."
"Doesn't Patrick know that too?" I still hadn't turned back around.
"No." She laughed. "He hasn't seen you today. Come on, what are you wearing?"
"A black cloak."
"Are you naked underneath?"
I really needed to turn around and walk over to the computer and turn it off. But all I did was splash whiskey onto the sideboard.
"So? Are you naked underneath?"
"Yes." I flipped the hood of my State sweatshirt up onto my head. Black cloak. I closed my eyes and remembered being ankle deep in a high mountain lake, feeling the heat of the sun on my head, anticipating the cold of the lake on my bare belly, and craving the soothing but dreading the shock.
"Why a black cloak? Are you Death?"
"Will you close your eyes?" I said.
"Why? I can't see you anyway."
"Please?"
"But, why? Are you going to take off your cloak?"
"Please close your eyes for just a moment."
"Okay. There. They're closed."
"Thank you." I turned and saw them closed but looking at the blue and blond and of her, all framed in white, was bright like the bright after a nap on the high mountain beach. I walked over to the computer and dimmed the screen so that all I could see was her vague outline. She was a shadow against darker shadows. It was the best I could do.
"Okay, that's good. Thank you." I sat down and faced the screen.
"So? Are you naked?"
"No."
"You still have your cloak on?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"I know exactly what it is of you I want," I said.
"What do you know I have that you don't have?"
"You have power and place. You are flat and framed. Composed. Placed. And if you moved out of frame, you would no longer exist."
"Patrick didn't tell me you'd be like this." Her voice had been taken away from sexy.
"Patrick's not here."
"No, he's not. Because, he's here. Patrick is with me.."
"Goodbye Patrick." And I turned her off.
I wanted to just turn the computer off. But I was paralyzed by the things that hadn't happened yet.
"What are you wearing?" she asked. Patrick must have turned her voice equalizer towards "sexy."
"Doesn't Patrick know that too?" I still hadn't turned back around.
"No." She laughed. "He hasn't seen you today. Come on, what are you wearing?"
"A black cloak."
"Are you naked underneath?"
I really needed to turn around and walk over to the computer and turn it off. But all I did was splash whiskey onto the sideboard.
"So? Are you naked underneath?"
"Yes." I flipped the hood of my State sweatshirt up onto my head. Black cloak. I closed my eyes and remembered being ankle deep in a high mountain lake, feeling the heat of the sun on my head, anticipating the cold of the lake on my bare belly, and craving the soothing but dreading the shock.
"Why a black cloak? Are you Death?"
"Will you close your eyes?" I said.
"Why? I can't see you anyway."
"Please?"
"But, why? Are you going to take off your cloak?"
"Please close your eyes for just a moment."
"Okay. There. They're closed."
"Thank you." I turned and saw them closed but looking at the blue and blond and of her, all framed in white, was bright like the bright after a nap on the high mountain beach. I walked over to the computer and dimmed the screen so that all I could see was her vague outline. She was a shadow against darker shadows. It was the best I could do.
"Okay, that's good. Thank you." I sat down and faced the screen.
"So? Are you naked?"
"No."
"You still have your cloak on?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"I know exactly what it is of you I want," I said.
"What do you know I have that you don't have?"
"You have power and place. You are flat and framed. Composed. Placed. And if you moved out of frame, you would no longer exist."
"Patrick didn't tell me you'd be like this." Her voice had been taken away from sexy.
"Patrick's not here."
"No, he's not. Because, he's here. Patrick is with me.."
"Goodbye Patrick." And I turned her off.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Patrick's Surfaces I and II
I
Her ankle was white with a black rose on the inside.
"I didn't know you could tattoo a bony place like that," I said.
"It's not a tattoo. It's Patrick. He likes to dabble in body art. Doodle, if you like. It'll wash off." She pushed her blond hair behind her ears, looking at me. While she had my gaze, she tucked her feet up on the chair underneath her, covering both white ankles and both pink feet with her blue paisley skirt.
I wondered where else Patrick had dabbled.
"Do you know Patrick?" she asked me.
I told her I didn't. "How could I?"
"Well, you never know."
I began to wonder if I did know Patrick.
For all she knew, I was Patrick, playing some dirty trick. I assured her that I didn't know Patrick.
"Good," she said with a decisive nod.
I went to pour more whiskey, making sure to do so silently. She could hear everything but saw nothing. I told her that my iSight camera had broken that morning. She believed me. Just like she believed everything I'd told her over the past two weeks of our correspondence.
She looked exactly how I thought she would and I wondered if she would look as good if she weren't framed by the pure-white of my 20-inch iMac. Her ankle had been almost as white.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Watching you," I said, putting my whiskey down.
"I'm not sure what to say to you," she said. "It feels like we've said everything already. It's nice to hear your voice, though. Talk to me."
"What would you like me to say?"
"Tell me what you look like."
"You know that already." I hadn't told her anything true, and wasn't sure I'd remember. I began to think her stupid for not suspecting. Or maybe she was clever and trying to catch me in my lies.
"I know." She looked straight at me from the screen. "I know you know Patrick. You may not know his name though. He's the one who told me what you look like."
I took a sip of my whiskey. "I told you what I look like."
"Yes. True. But he sees you differently."
"What does he see?"
"He dabbles, like I said. He looks for surfaces. He said the surfaces of your cheeks are not smooth."
This was true.
II
"Patrick never told you anything," I said.
"Oh, Patrick told me lots of things. He said, for example, 'luscious.'"
"What are you talking about?"
"He was talking about your lips. He said, 'luscious.' He also said, 'cacophony.'"
"That's no longer involving surfaces." I was done with my whiskey. I wanted another, but I felt like she could see me through the screen, though there was no camera to give her an image of me. Her round blue eyes were touching me, bristling my eyebrows. I felt her, and couldn't draw my gaze away from her face, from her own unblemished smooth surfaces. She was perfect, with her hair pinned up, her gauzy blouse, her gold-chained wrist. A dream. A day dream. Not possibly true. Perhaps, then, Patrick, whoever he is, made her up. Perhaps she was pure Photoshop and Flash. "What do you mean, 'cacophony?'"
"I mean loud chaos." Her grin made me think of a colon and a right parenthesis.
"What did Patrick mean by 'cacophony' in relation to me?"
"Oh, please," she said, and actually looked away. "Stop playing this game."
"Patrick told me about you too." I wanted to play the game. I wanted to be steering the conversation again. I wanted to turn my computer off, but had no power.
"Patrick said to me, 'nebulous.'"
"He said to me, 'rendition,'" I said.
"Pantomime," she said, her mouth making a perfect 'o' in the middle, then going flat. A colon and a lower case 'l'.
"Composite," I said.
When she said, "Sacrilegious", I got the strength to turn my back, walk to the sideboard, refill my glass.
"Where'd you go?" I heard her say.
"Tell me more," I heard her say.
"Cellular," I said to my glass.
Her ankle was white with a black rose on the inside.
"I didn't know you could tattoo a bony place like that," I said.
"It's not a tattoo. It's Patrick. He likes to dabble in body art. Doodle, if you like. It'll wash off." She pushed her blond hair behind her ears, looking at me. While she had my gaze, she tucked her feet up on the chair underneath her, covering both white ankles and both pink feet with her blue paisley skirt.
I wondered where else Patrick had dabbled.
"Do you know Patrick?" she asked me.
I told her I didn't. "How could I?"
"Well, you never know."
I began to wonder if I did know Patrick.
For all she knew, I was Patrick, playing some dirty trick. I assured her that I didn't know Patrick.
"Good," she said with a decisive nod.
I went to pour more whiskey, making sure to do so silently. She could hear everything but saw nothing. I told her that my iSight camera had broken that morning. She believed me. Just like she believed everything I'd told her over the past two weeks of our correspondence.
She looked exactly how I thought she would and I wondered if she would look as good if she weren't framed by the pure-white of my 20-inch iMac. Her ankle had been almost as white.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Watching you," I said, putting my whiskey down.
"I'm not sure what to say to you," she said. "It feels like we've said everything already. It's nice to hear your voice, though. Talk to me."
"What would you like me to say?"
"Tell me what you look like."
"You know that already." I hadn't told her anything true, and wasn't sure I'd remember. I began to think her stupid for not suspecting. Or maybe she was clever and trying to catch me in my lies.
"I know." She looked straight at me from the screen. "I know you know Patrick. You may not know his name though. He's the one who told me what you look like."
I took a sip of my whiskey. "I told you what I look like."
"Yes. True. But he sees you differently."
"What does he see?"
"He dabbles, like I said. He looks for surfaces. He said the surfaces of your cheeks are not smooth."
This was true.
II
"Patrick never told you anything," I said.
"Oh, Patrick told me lots of things. He said, for example, 'luscious.'"
"What are you talking about?"
"He was talking about your lips. He said, 'luscious.' He also said, 'cacophony.'"
"That's no longer involving surfaces." I was done with my whiskey. I wanted another, but I felt like she could see me through the screen, though there was no camera to give her an image of me. Her round blue eyes were touching me, bristling my eyebrows. I felt her, and couldn't draw my gaze away from her face, from her own unblemished smooth surfaces. She was perfect, with her hair pinned up, her gauzy blouse, her gold-chained wrist. A dream. A day dream. Not possibly true. Perhaps, then, Patrick, whoever he is, made her up. Perhaps she was pure Photoshop and Flash. "What do you mean, 'cacophony?'"
"I mean loud chaos." Her grin made me think of a colon and a right parenthesis.
"What did Patrick mean by 'cacophony' in relation to me?"
"Oh, please," she said, and actually looked away. "Stop playing this game."
"Patrick told me about you too." I wanted to play the game. I wanted to be steering the conversation again. I wanted to turn my computer off, but had no power.
"Patrick said to me, 'nebulous.'"
"He said to me, 'rendition,'" I said.
"Pantomime," she said, her mouth making a perfect 'o' in the middle, then going flat. A colon and a lower case 'l'.
"Composite," I said.
When she said, "Sacrilegious", I got the strength to turn my back, walk to the sideboard, refill my glass.
"Where'd you go?" I heard her say.
"Tell me more," I heard her say.
"Cellular," I said to my glass.
Friday, April 14, 2006
First Post
I'm still not sure about this blogging thing. But, perhaps a new place to write can't be a bad thing. I'll see what happens.
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