Snapshots of life, imagined and lived
It felt, she thought, like a kiss. It would only be years later that she realised that it was the first parting of her spirit from her soul; everything he did from that moment on was by design a step in control and domination, a scheme of crushing and hollowing. Obvious now, but when you are in it, when you live it, well reality is always inescapable in the end isn’t it.
I have a problem with women.
It is that I have a plan for each of them, each of those who are eaten by my eyes; I have a script for the lucky ones who whet my inexplicably voracious appetite. I want to be in them, I want to dominate them completely and all the while I want them to yearn for it, a yearning hovering on regret and guilt for their complicity. The regret is the worry, it is the fear of what she has gotten herself into; it is a nervousness to spark the synapses, to permeate and quiver her very flesh. I want to erupt her fears from the inside out, filling her to bursting, and bursting her to fulfil her unseen darkest cravings. Her guilt is for the depth of vulgarity she had hitherto buried deep inside, now exposed and flushed and panting. I yearn to see the violence of it all drawn roughly across her face, grimaces, clenched jaw, clenched eyes and tears and yelps, gasps and groans – efforts to take gigantic injections into her body and expulsions bringing surges of relief, mingling the electric pulses of the indistinguishable folding waves of pleasures and pains, convulsions and contortions, lusts like driven rain.
I have women problems.
Maybe it is just that I have problems?
Or perhaps it is true that we can never agree upon what each of us truly wants or desires because we are definitely too afraid to ask for them, it is just not ‘proper.’ It is just so: we all have problems.
Her eyes pulsated like the orange fire of the newly lit coal as you blow on it, and when you step away, that fire recedes back to darkness sitting behind the white ashened surface, a deceiving façade disguising the sharp passion engorged beneath. She had taught herself that her feelings were exactly that, her feelings; they belonged to her and were not for public show or consumption. More +
A writer is a strange creature, at once both insecure and arrogant, hiding shyly behind a page, a script, a font, whirling words to ‘express’ himself, but leaving no room for dialogue – unless he chooses to! This is bullying. This is cowardice. Write and express yourself but have no truck with another’s opinion, no sound to be heard nor alternative view amplified, one’s own voice is king, is tyrant!?
The mini-excavator was a bright and new orange with large black exhausts and shovel. It looked like a tiger, but a great blundering and absurd tiger with huge dark gapping jaws that dribbled its own idiocy. It spat and stopped and started and spat some more as the incompetence of the driver-operator fashioned itself on the limbs of the roaring ineffectual beast. Just as you can have breakfast of champions, so too you can have tools for fools!
Clouds in rain storms are indistinct, rolling and folding into one another. You to me are the same: grey, foreboding, uncomfortable and wet. You rain your blandness on me, oblivious to the violence of your presence across my once clear blue horizons, oblivious to to my wishes that you would just blow on through and go far, far away.
She laughed. She laughed accidentally all too hard and coupled it with a bending in two at the waist, a hand flailing to a nearby friend to rescue her from drowning in the unseen waters of hilarity. It was over the top. It was a failure of style. She could not rescue herself and instead of quickly becoming quiet to maintain dignity, she pushed beyond reasonable bounds to idiocy. More +
He sat arrogantly in the chair as if on a high throne from which he could bark down orders to the scurrying undeserving minions. His ‘thank-you’s’ dripped with expectant gratitude from the minion back to him – it was an exercise of self-congratulatory performance designed to elevate himself even further. More +
Friends cannot be lovers, for that would mean trust is misplaced and then replaced with lust.
And lust is fleeting then retreating with repetition until it is lost forever.
Lovers should never be friends, for that would mean romance is abandoned and the sublime made mundane, debased by the everyday.
Besides,
Lovers kick you out your own home whilst friends help you pack.
Exercise:
Write one paragraph containing 1 fact about yourself and 3 fictions, then another paragraph with 1 fiction and 3 facts about yourself. They can be in any order and I find it is best not to label them. As you can see below, I have left it for the reader to either accept what is written at more or less face value, or they are of course always invited to make their own conclusions. Try it yourself, it is a simple writing practice that could lead to a creative stream of something more in depth…
I am a man with ambitions to rule the world. I watch already the kingdoms fall beneath my feet albeit only the insect kingdom of the fly I just swatted or that of the cat as she rubs endlessly on my leg, or at least until I give her dinner. Should kings stoop so low? I must be one of those benevolent ones.
Neither born of Scotland nor having eked a living on her silvered shores I am yet Scottish. Age draws me back relentless and clawing and pulling and drawing; the paper mache mask of my life being stripped back slither by pulpy slither to reveal my real identity. I am coming home.