Pan in:
rain falls in whispers, blanketing the pavement in wet lines. Trees bow westward as wind unwinds. She moves against the grain; rain blinds her future. The pale moon drips with thunder. She loses footing, sliding; mud walls cave. No one knows. Free fall. Snow falls; freeze frame, a shadow follows. “Damn.” The word still hangs whisper white when they uncover her come spring. No one knew her name.

I just read a couple of brief snippets via mcsweenys. A look at the montage has me thinking poetically. Are we creating verbal montages that could be set to screen. Does that define moving poetry?

Doubt it, but I’m fumbling for balance this morning. Words keep me upright. I need that, it’s raining outside. A violin queues up, mocking with it white notes~

I fear the poorly executed story. Perhaps that is why I’ve let my nanowrimo blog grow cold, even though those damn people, Aidan and eve, trip into to the cafe, whispering in somewhat colourful voices, enough to intrigue.

The chair scrapes forward as I lean. Their grey nature wrapped in urgency.

They are so not me; they are all of me.

Delicacy a novel I gave to page 70. The heroine was living a life I’d apologize for writing. Perhaps I’m too harsh; perhaps she is me.

We do it so easily with books; with others, thinking, “meh” nothing sings.

The red kite last night floated into my dreams.. A hold over from the day, a pondering that came into being as I walked the stacks. What must a kite see whilst floating?

I can’t imagine a kite would transverse a place where its tale couldn’t freely twist, turn; gracefully pacing under wings of prey.

The poorly executed story, how long would you read it? Better yet: How long, would you live it? Illuminate me, please.

I imagined the life of a kite today. The sky outside (as I was inside, in my cave, looking outside wistfully) a blue canvas splattered with white cumulus, edges dipped in grey. It beckoned for a kite; simple and red.

Freedom, sometimes we feel we’ve not enough; sometimes it buries us in its limitlessness.

They are dancing tonight in jewel coloured masks; royal vintages and emerald vines; drinking from a well of youth. I’d  like to pour bourbon into my veins and age, until I cannot discern where I stop and the next warm body begins; sticky sweet under a hundred proof glaze.

I’ve no bourbon tonight, just a dream. I’m traveling to New Orleans aloft a simple, red kite.  ~

Scenes from a coffee shop.

[Fade in: Sunday crowd streams through sun dappled surrounds. A female sits alone near the street-side window. Her coffee's steam drifting every time the door opens. Her left hand cradling an old Lapham’s Quarterly.]

I sit, smelling coffee, and slightly burnt toast; wondering a line that slips into my memory. A vivid scene; yet I do not place the characters in my head.

Epiphany. It’s a part from Delicacy; a book started last eve, 1 AM,  whilst half asleep; half worried I’d never sleep again.

Delicacy: 

The scene: A cross street in which strangers meet. Francois sees Natalie.

Scene 2: A cafe. Natalie is deciding. Francois is waiting. Francois composes a list of scenarios silently. Natalie’s fate is based on her ordering, it shall determine this serendipitous morning. Tea, he ponders, would be death of this new relationship. A tea drinker would mark an existance plagued with a lifetime of ordinary bordem. There are no risks to drinking its murky shade; a tired brew. His lists go on and on, the winner… apricot juice.

I sit; lingering on a T.S. Elliot poem containing the line:“Before the taking of toast and tea.” The synapses go wild, forming a little snapshot scene in my brain. 

Since this afternoon’s cafe, I’ve read a bit more of Delicacy. (Not my usual fare, but reviews were intriguing of this novel, turned French film.)

Verdict: Meh. It has a unique approach. Each chapter starts with a sidebar (albeit, relevant) list. The chapters themselves are quite short. The story is told from several P.O.V.. I’m not spoiling anything to telling you by page 32, Francois is dead.  I’m still reading. I fear the ending shall be trite.

Death. Ironic how death creeps into things. The book I’m reading. The movie I just watched (50/50). The facebook post just before I started this musing. Even yesterday’s post: the weight of one’s soul.

This post really was not to delve into that realm again, so I shall end with the other coffee scene. (Sadly, I didn’t take a picture. I felt I’d be invading their privacy.)

[Fade in: A woman jots furiously in her notebook, near the window, the sun growing brighter upon her face. A man of an uncertain age, sets his ivories perfectly whilst the ebony pieces lay tumbled upon the board. We wait for each story to pour froth.]

The door opens once more. Another man occupies the chess board. The woman leaves her empty cup behind the bar.

[Fade out: Somewhere, a spoon clatters to the floor.]

the heart weighs more than 21 grams. it was prophesied that this was the weight of the soul. why so heavy, this heart. why do the lungs fill so slowly. the air just hangs, it barely draws any blood. it is me. i’m bone dry. my breath has stopped drawing life. a weight upon this heart is greater in pounds than anything else in this container; a rock sinks deep in this hollow cavity.

The weight of the soul is an interesting thought. It was brought to light in the movie 21 Grams. Not a light film; quite dark and ponderous. I went to see it years ago with a date who was gravely ill. The film remained a white elephant when we dined later.

~ How much does life weigh? ~ 21 Grams

If your soul weighs 21 grams, would one notice this reduction after death? 21 grams less; is it really measurable? Doubtful.**

A ponderous metaphor, though, do we not feel a weight upon us as we walk this life? Should we not hope that we will experience a weightlessness in death?

New beginnings: what does it take to start again, for you? For me? I’m fortuante to be an adaptable being. Change is hated for about 48 hours, then I figure how to make it part of my routine. I fit it into my reward system for living.

Tonight, I watched a baby sleep. He couldn’t have been more than four to five months old. His lids moved slightly. His honey coloured skin glowed. He was peaceful. It was renewing to watch him lul in such safe comfort.

I began to ponder what babies dream when so young. The brain is constantly building; working on our mysteries. It bothered me that this innocent bundle may dream something unpleasant, scary, alarming, without being able to verbalize beyond a cry. Certianly, our nightmares do not form until we’ve enough to understand the darkness of certain corners of our psyche.

~ How much does revenge weigh? ~ 21 Grams

I dreamt (actually, it was that state of semi-awake) last night that a rat was running up my covers to my face. I awoke with a start; though my eyes were open, I realized it was a shadow being from a dream.

Do you see things from the corner of your eye that are not really part of this realm? Is it a ghostly shadow; a hidden vibration. I’ve a lot of this lately. It isn’t there, not really; but something, a dark flash will catch peripheral vision. Why? Tired. Stressed. Semi-awake.

Perhaps these are lost 21 grams.

There is a thunderous rain pounding my roof now. How everything sags under its weight; this grey deluge. Warping has begun to plague the once carefree structure. There is a fear that if the clouds do not break soon, the damage with be irreparable.

My umbrella broke last week, but the rains remain torrential. I’ve taken to running from green door, to black door, to glass door, to my door, under a New Yorker magazine. The inked covers, my writing, bleeds into each other until there is but a blur of what used to be.

You must now see why there is no refuge from these dreams. Home, and Home, are in a state of unrest. The brain continues to walk around the situation without clear navigation of how to escape the labyrinth. I’ve gone to dropping tiny pebbles en route. The weight never lessens. I still carry 21 grams.

Where does that leave me? Why; very much alive, yet, waiting.

A patron-friend sent me an email recently telling me I came to mind in a flash; in a field of torrential energy. What did she say, “You are where you need to be.” (a summation) The irony, whilst she was sending that, I was facing what we all fear, a possible ending. It seems my page may finally be turning.

I look over; The New Yorker continues to drip in the corner; a puddle gone black; pooling words. I wait for it to dry; to try, again. Problem is, the cover will last only so long before it tears. It was a solution; albeit, temporary.

Tomorrow, I must search for a new umbrella. A better shelter. Something that will help me to begin, again, even whilst singing in the rain ~

** Dr. Duncan MacDougall, an early 20th Century physician, was said to have measured the soul to 21 grams. It is suspect at best.

*****************
Just a musing. Interlude. Lots going on in the brain this week. Little sleep. Even less rest.

**If you stopped for the Friday Flash Fiction, one post down. Cheers ~

Truth, I knew not of this story when I saw the Chris Van Allsburg book that contains these fourteen illustrations, titled with unique captions. Frankly, I thought they were the product of Van Allsburg.

The Chronicles of Harris Burdick., is a wonderful project in which fourteen, fabulous authors, such as: Lois Lowery, Stephen King, and Sherman Alexie, fashion a story based on the information and illustrations of one Harris Burdick.

The whole premise is wonderful. It had me thinking today about how writers love to be inspired, to fashion stories, or poems, to photographs; artwork; or cartoons. I was trying to catch up on my New Yorkers when I got the idea to create a story based on the cover art.

Transcribing it tonight, though, the story no longer resonated. This isn’t surprising, as my day writing contains colour whereas the nighttime muse remains dark. But, instead of tossing it away, here it is, inspired by January 30th New Yorker cover, “Winter Blues”. Cheers ~

The Four Season, she thought, perhaps I can shake these winter blues. It mattered not that the piece was meant for strings not keys; Vivaldi makes her imagination spring. She thought some more and figured it was last summer when she last wore away her fingers trying to burn those wooden ivories. Begging off sweltering humidity, she played with spirit ‘l’autumno, alegro’ imaging a timber of shivering aspens sounding golden, turning orange, wafting down in cool colour whilst the inside glass needle glowered ninety degrees.

Today, the little red bulbous vein barley hovering above fifty, as snow was drifting through a roof patch onto naked boards. New Yorker’s horns filling stagnant air; she thought, I shall play summer, and rock that lone bulb sideways. Fido, fleeing from flying sheets, did his own little tango whilst she encouraged the beast: move! move! Trying to bounce the mood from icy blue to sunset purple.

Slowly, finding the stringy notes, seeking full crescendo, she knew it would take some jazz to raise a ruckus. The Seasons got tossed; old Mr. Basie’s Jumpin’ at the Woodside, kindling her second wind, leaving the dog still dancin’ ~