Life's Bone

“If God is God he is not good and if God is good he is not God.” Archibald MacLeish

A Note on Captured Rotation (Take IV)

Fading legibility,
these letters,
a vague statement
of what happened,
carried
some obscurity
as to the terror
they marked.
Some vague curse
up to God
over cause,
perhaps screamed
some long ago
day
etched
into the skin.
Such was the patina
of her old tattoo,
and such
the cold glow
of it's pale field.
A four-lettered
blackness
that had wrapped
around
her white wrist
bright
and bitter
with no light
of its own,
dragging her cold
as the moon
goes around,
with a smile
that was fixed
after dying.
Dead things
are still things.
Going about
and doing things.
And this one
wore "fate"
dug in shallow
on her forearm
in a murky ink.
Faint,
requiring
repeated glances
several times
over
the coffee
poured.
Glancing
between
the counter
and the window,
and passing back
again
to the counter,
and the window
and seen only then
as FATE.
The window
looked onto nothing
except
the ambiguity
of a dark day.
And neither
that presence,
nor hers,
nor mine,
was to be explained
by any wisdom
asking might gain.
To trail
a cold wet rag
across the counter-
these letters
could I date them-
to wipe up spots
and crumbs-
might spell out
some moment-
to squeeze out
a muddy water
from her fingers
to the sink-
so long ago,
as some day
of last energies-
of some last act
of carving out
resignations
mindlessly,
of wrist from rag-
of elbow from wrist
from rag-
of shoulder
from elbow
and wrist from rag-
of neck
from shoulder
and elbow,
wrist and rag-
of head
from neck
from shoulder
from elbow
from wrist
from rag.
And me.
And what else?
A cup of coffee.
And a spoon.
And, oh yes,
a napkin.
Some "thank you"
drifted
out of my mouth
and into the air
between us.
"You're welcome."
came back
in a distant voice
not seeming to come
from her lips.
Then her eyes
stopped short
with "Who said that?"
And mine looked back,
not knowing.

What happens when a mind is locked away in some paralyzed comatose head unable to know the world outside? That is the subject of a story I will begin posting soon. First, I want to return to 'Nothing Comes From Nothing' in the coming week.

Meanwhile, to preface 'The Dream Year', it involves an accident, a young man in a coma, and his girl friend. Much of the story will take place within the victim's head. If you'd like a sneak peek, you can read a few of the opening paragraphs HERE.

Looking back I guess it was ridiculous to feel in love at the age of six with a girl named Anna Mustard. I wasn't old enough to have pimples yet, no less pubic hair. And it never occurred to me that her last name meant anything other than her hair was yellow. By the time I was old enough to even touch her pale skin, she was some evaporating history. To this day I still remember her though, but her eyes were maybe not as big and blue as I imagined. Or maybe they were.

When seven year old Rhema's mother died, Rhema sang this song and dedicated it to her.

(You should be able to click play then double click image to go full screen if you like...)

I was thinking about what it takes to make a word come out. Any word. The way the tongue knows how to move along my palate. And knows how to touch my teeth. And how my lips take their cue. And my jaw has a part in this too, going up and down several times. All to say...Merry...Christmas...To...You...sigh..........

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This post is an attempt to write about writing. Recently I have found myself stuck with respect to my most recent attempt to write a long story (NOTHING COMES FROM NOTHING). Three chapters into it, it seems several readers have found the idea of this story (a noir-styled detective tale) interesting. But, I left off with a cliff-hanger of sorts at the end of Chapter Three. And that was the point at which I got stuck. So, I have been stewing about with it for days now. My realization now is that I have to go backwards in order to go forward.

For one thing, I jumped into this tale in the immediate aftermath of writing DAW. That story unfolded in first-person. It seemed to work well that way. So, I impulsively began this new venture in the same manner, only now coming to a screeching halt. Ooops! It shouldn't be a first-person story. This is a real pain in the ass realization, not just for me, but maybe for my several readers as well.

All I know to do is to pause, and re-write the first three chapters in third person. So, that's my realization. If I am going to write this story at all, it needs to come from a larger perspective.

Also occurring to me alongside that realization, was another one. Initially, I was thinking I would simply lay out two characters (detective and assistant) and move them into a crime drama and then on out to another one chapter by chapter. Now, I think that a larger over-riding story must move throughout the tale while sub-plots unfold and are dealt with. Duh! So, this is where I am on the learning curve of how to write.

So, if you've been following along, I hope you will bear with me as I do this re-write and bring us back to Chapter 4: 'What Really Happened to Melody Johannson'? I will try to bring it all back up from this new (and somewhat'omniscient') point of view over the holidays.

Meanwhile, I'll try to do some miscellaneous kinds of posts on other things. So, wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I hope it is a happy, safe and warm winter season for you. I'll try to be back up to speed on this story by January 1, and hope you will put NOTHING COMES FROM NOTHING on pause, as I try to deal with these 'technical difficulties'! dan

In all honesty, I don't know what is going on anymore. Politicians seem as stupid as ever. Am I so stupid to think there is a thing called progress? It is a thing between me and them, I guess, as to who is stupider than who?

Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears without crying
Now I want to understand

I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good without hiding
You must help me if you can

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what is wrong
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long

`Cause I have wandered through this world
And as each moment has unfurled
I`ve been waiting to awaken from these dreams
People go just where they will
I never noticed them until I got this feeling
That it`s later than it seems

Doctor, my eyes
Tell me what you see
I hear their cries
Just say if it`s too late for me

Doctor, my eyes
Cannot see the sky
Is this the PRICE for having learned how not to
cry.

Jackson Browne back in the days we kinda thought we could change stuff.

Alabama was the name his mother gave him. She never saw that land on the journey from Virginia. She died along the way. He grew up with strangers and ran away at sixteen. He ran away to Kentucky and killed two men along the way. The third man killed him. No one knows where he was buried.

I just posted Chapter Three of 'Nothing Comes From Nothing'. If you would like to read it, click on BROKEN HEARTED MELODY. :)