Hey all, I’m working on a new project. It’s so barely there it’s not even worth calling a project at this point. However, I’ve neglected the blog while working on other things, so I’d figure I’d put some excerpts of that non-project on here.
Impressive things are coming soon, I promise. Shoot me an email if you’re curious, and maybe you can check it over and help me edit said things.
A block in the editing process; the whole document turned to granite and you with only a ballpoint pen to chisel in any of the changes you want to make. Someone brings you a cup of herbal tea, someone brings you a bagel with cream cheese, and you feel your ballpoint pen turn into a sledgehammer, and your place on the edge of the couch between second-hand throw pillows becomes Hemingway standing at the dresser with a bottle of scotch and rounds of ammunition. The fingers can move now, they are free from the cuffs that shackled them into inactivity. The words come back, and the unruly masses of them that littered the page are turned into organized regiments and moved around the piece, where hedonistic hordes of recruits join their ranks. The wall of static thought is smashed through halfway through the cup of tea. By the end of the bagel, the word count has been achieved, and the prose is pointed deadly sharp.
In the dead of winter, in an unfinished basement in Cochrane, Alberta, laying underneath three blankets on a pull out couch with an unnecessary amount of pillows stacked up. Under a ceiling not of stars, but cling wrap and insulation. The only light in the room is from the carbon monoxide detectors, and the occasional flash of a cell phone screen. The floor is piled with empty coca cola cans, empty pizza boxes, and magazines. It is dark outside, and a blizzard slaps flecks of snow against the basement windows. Yet the cold doesn’t penetrate through anything, and everything is suffused with a cozy sensation, a heartbeat of heat and warmth that wraps you in its arms and softly coos heated lullabies into your ear.
Back on campus a few years after dropping out, and walking from designated memory to designated memory. There are no recognizable faces, as if the cast of a play you saw a 1000 times has been swapped out for all new actors. Light up a cigarette in one of the designated areas and look through the windows of the old offices and the old buildings. A range of emotions screams through, as if all of the memories of the stairs, the rooms, the books, the food, and the people had been dropped from a plane onto a consciousness. Almost half a decade since leaving, and the growth of persona since is invisible ivy on the soul, matching the invisible strangling weeds of memory that cling to the buildings, unharmed by any kind of mental gardening. A hand twitches with the itch to feel something that draws you back into this place, back into the mode of learning, and you wait for the dead fire of educational desire to somehow spring back to life. Then a third bus with route numbers you don’t recognize whirls through the loop and past all the small gatherings of unfamiliar young faces, so you stub out your cigarette and stop hoping. The time for these things has elapsed, and all it is now is a memory you can visit if you guess the right bus route.