Författare: xikano_2

Boy! Been working on this last poem and it sure seems to always need some improvement. Even when I am moderately satisfied with it I go back and give it a second look. I try to be consistent with the images that the words convey. I guess loathing pronouns or adverbs and participles doesn’t help much or add to the improvements. The struggle with words demand at times a compromise.

Post CW Workshop thoughts:

I never thought of aims with my story. I have always been more interested in painting with words rather than to awake pathos in the reader.

I had come so far as to think of writing as a two dimensional sphere. The Background and the Character and how these might be manipulated to form an image.

Yet I have realized there is a third. The emotional aspect. This seems to require more practice and know-how. Techniques. Application of such. Wow ….

Typing like hammers
light bright as nails
My head hurts today

Taking an aimless stroll
Through these tacit atmospheres
I gaze about aloof
Near throngs of people by

Slowly making headway
An halcyon wanders into view
A solace embraces my senses
That wavers through and by

Along noised urban voices
People sway to and fro
Intersecting between spaces
Leaving only hollow voids

Seized by their loneliness
I’m enjoined in their silence
It’s a gentle ruck all around
Smoothly going in a haste about

In a boisterous stillness
Lulling back and forth
Leaving me nearly deaf
In this crowded isolation

The pavement was like any other, black. Sand blended with dirt could be seen strewn on the surface. Strolling along its path, George, with his hands inside his pockets, noticed a kiwi smashed well into the rocky asphalt leaving a distinct green color alongside black seeds. The sun had done a good job in drying it. A sign that not too many people walked this seemingly lone way.

The weather that day was kind of special for this time of the year, cloudy yet dim enough for the sun to push through an opaque sunshine. It was apropiate enough for the surroundings which were still under the white frosty mantle that covered the trees and over the wide open landscape there was plenty of snow but the tempuratures were mildly warm.

As George kept walking, marked by a decisive pace, the university buildings began to come into view. He turned his head towards Stockholms university library which has a certain association with light and mobile naval architecture. George contemplated the silver shine that the metal roof gave, he came to think of the inspiration the architect Ralph Erskine must of had, thinking that perhaps the scandinavian soul is more climatized to winter, summer being so short here in Sweden.

”Yes, that must be it”, he thought, as he kept a steady pace towards the computer room, ”the surroundings adapt quite well to this type of weather ….”

During the high moon season, the beaches are empty, and for once, the stretch of water belongs to the natives. It is at these times that Horuniku takes strolls along the edges of the sand where the waves of the sea are thrown ashore. The feeling is one of solitude yet he realizes that the ocean is a silent companion tonight. Leaving a track in the sand, his thoughts wonder to that fatal day when his life nearly took a turn for the worst. The place was his house, a little cottage on the top of the hill that his parents had built with their on hands. Horuniku had just turned 40, recently released from the hospital due to serious condition. He sat and shredded weed in preparations for the seaweed crackers. It was jsut at this time when Horuniku was beginning to feel that good tidings were on the way.

-Hey Horuniku-san!

-Konichiwa -Yukio, how’s the old farming business doing?

-Not as good as your health, I heard you overcame the cancer that struck your left rib.

-Indeed Yukio-san, I prayed hard to my Kami and the Gods have been most merciful.

-I pray indeed so Horuniku-san because today am afraid am a harbinger of bad news.

-I beg of you to please tell, these disturbing news.

-Well, you’re debts are in and my bosses are impatient, threatining to call the local yakuza to collect the money which was lent in good faith. They say that you posses a good piece of property and at todays market prices your house commands a good deal of money.

-This is indeed most distressing Yukio-san, my house is all I have! I am sure your good faith in me has dissuaded them from such thinking.

-I did what I could, but interest are to no avail now, and the investment demands profit now, I am sure Horuniku-san understands.

-Most indeed Yukio-san, please forward your bosses that in a fortnight full payment will be rendered, I recently opened a business, a seaweed cookie bakery which proves popular.

-Very well Horuniku-san, but I can no longer hold them after this.

-You are a good friend Yukio-san may Amaterasu Omikami guide your path.

Two years have passed since then, and he still shivers at the tattos he saw on the men who went to collect on the 14th day. No words were uttered, and yet, he could breath in peace. The moon shone clearly, casting a pale silver color on his tanned skin. Horuniku picked up a stone and threw at the open sea, the swift sling produced a breeze that gave him a comfort, a feeling that at last he was free.

Rupert and Albert had just come in the house and as Albert went straight ahead to the flower base he had bought yesterday he restarts examining his new prized object, a flower base from the Ding Dinasty. Rupert headed for the fridge when suddemly Albert began talking.
”Curios, the flower base seems to have had changed shapes.”
”Oh, please! Don’t tell me,” said Rupert as he poured himself a drink, ”It’s like M R James the Mezzotint, isn’t it?”
”Well, you tell me. The flowers were in full bloom yesterday, I mean, even you mentioned that the blossoming was exquisitely rendered.”
”Lemme see, huum, I see, I believe you’re quite right Al, the flowers do seem like they’re withering …!”

Under mounting pressure his self tries to liberate from the net of false presuppositions that entangled him into an orgy of angst and guilt. ” Did I say that right?” Did they think I was too chatty, did they find me repugnant?” These and more questions snared him as he left the cheerful crowd of unknown people his friend had introduced him to. But under the battle to overcome his auto esteem, Aluquios could find some comfort in the embrace that every second that went by gave him. There is something about the Now that makes the past obsolete. Looking straight ahead he walked determined, forcing a smile to his lips. His chest feeling less and less angst and leaving but a lingering residue for a topic to write about later, much later.

Under mounting pressure his self tries to liberate from the net of false presuppositions that entangled him into an orgy of angst and guilt. ” Did I say that right?” Did they think I was too chatty, did they find me repugnant?” These and more questions snared him as he left the cheerful crowd of unknown people his friend had introduced him to. But under the battle to overcome his auto-esteem, Aluquios could find some comfort in the embrace that every second that went by gave him. There is something about the Now that makes the past obsolete. Looking straight ahead he walked determined, forcing a smile to his lips. His chest feeling less and less angst and leaving but a lingering residue for a topic to write about later, much later.

Daylight becomes nightfall
wheels spinning on end
woke up today

I’ve been reading some books concerning the Victorian period in my Autobiography class such as Edward Gosse’s Father and Son, Harriet Jacob’s Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl and a chapter in the book Eminent Victorians called Florence Nightingale and it strikes me how much the Christian Judeo faith is steeped into the very essence of the writing. One is made to take at face value what it is said, and even if there is a slight chance of disbelief atestaments are provided. As if being thoroughly religious gave one the power to be in the ”Truth” as it were. There wasn’t any doubt about one’s follies and every event is attributed to Almighty God. One feels the scrutiny under which these peoples characters are being put through, not so different to modern censorship nor George Orwells 1984. It is perhaps no mischance then that people like George W Bush abide by such religions since it gives a structure, a mechanism by one can easily manipulate these sorts self observations under the watchful eye of God. It is also little wonder then that every dollar in the USA has Annuit Coeptis as it’s motto alongside a pyramid with an eye looking dead straight at one. For more info on this subject: back of the buck

Well, I’ve digresssed well off into something else more akin to conspiracies and left the Victorians in their little isle, but suffice to say, as regards the conciousness of these people who wrote autobiographies I can say that the very same sort of impulse that convinced them how to be is no doubt also the very same impulse that justified some of the worst cruelties in human mind. Which goes to prove that character managent that goes unchecked falls short of rotten.