Rejuvination

After a rather lengthy sabbatical, I give you the 5th installment of this experimental exercise.  I have been writing, just not here.  That will change as I am expecting to add more entries here. 

Written to ‘Cumulus’ by Imogen Heap (apparently, iTunes ‘random’ likes Imogen.  Go figure).  You can listen along here: http://play.napster.com/track/24170316

 Oh – and it’s crap.  Complete rubbish.  On top of that, there is more in my head on this one.  Unfortunately, the 30 minute timer dinged so, this is all you get.  Maybe, I’ll write more on it later.   Or, maybe it fits with the other snippets in this blog.  Who knows

 

before the alarm.  before the first hint of sunlight pierced the charcoal sky he awoke. 

Initially, he stared at the ceiling letting his eyes adjust to their now open state.  He took a moment to stretch his toes and take in the morning.  Yawning softly, he made sure not to move too quickly.  he didn’t want to wake her. 

Gently sliding his hand beneath hers, he moved her hand from his chest.  he carefully pulled his arm from beneath her neck makign sure not to tug on her hair as it wrapped between his fingers.  he slid the pillow beneath her neck to fill the void left behind.

Slowly and carefuly, he pulled his legs from beneath the bed coverings and touched his feet to the floor. 

 

                              My Love

                              I know you will not understand this. 

                              It is not fair to expect you to.  But, I must do it anyway. 

                              There is no choice left for me but, there is for you.

Now sitting upright on the bed, he took a moment to look at her. Not just a glance or even a stare but, to fully allow his eyes to absorb her.  Completely.

She laid on her side both arms across her bare chest, fingers mingled close to her ivory cheeks.  She breathed slowly.  Rhythmically.  her now exposed side, robbed from body’s warmth, filed with tiny goose-bumps.  her midnight hair flowed across her face occupying the remainder of the pillow.

he stared for what seemed like an eternity but was only just slightly more than a moment.  This was the last thing he wanted to see.  The one final vision to occupy his mind.

he brought himself to his feet and stood making sure not to disrupt the bed or the woman enjoying her last few hours of the night’s refuge.  he took the blanket and covered her bending over slightly, he tucked her in as you would a child after a bedtime story. 

 

                               What I am doing is necessary.  I cannot stay.  

                                I cannot risk anything happening to you because of

                                my inability to do what is required. 

Quietly, he dressed himself pulling the jeans haphazardly discarded the evening before back on one leg at a time making certain not to allow the buckle from his belt to disrupt the silence.  In the darkness of the bedroom, it took him a few moments to determine the location of his shirt.  But, like all things lost, he found it eventually.

in front of the closet on the opposite side of the room was his boots.  Worn and faded leather clung to the rubber sole in desparation just like all comfortable boots do.  Rather than putting them on in the bedroom, he quietly opened the door and went down the hall into the living room. 

After ensuring he had clothed himself adequately, he began writing a note on the pad of paper that sat on the coffee table.  The small notebook typically used for capturing telephone messages wasn’t much larger than a CD jewel case but, it would do for his purposes.  he flipped to a blank page and wrote.

When he finished, removed the paper from the notebook and folded it in half.  he took one rose from the bouquet he had arrived with the night before and went back into the bedroom.  he laid the rose and the note on his side of the bed. 

 

                                 This is the only way.  I know we’ve been over this

                                 many, many times but, there is no other possibility. 

                                 This must be done and it must be done now. 

he lightly brushed enough of her hair from her cheek so he could briefly touch his lips to her flesh. “One last kiss” he thought.  he pressed his lips to her face.

The horizon glinted with the first signs of the sun’s awakening.  The charcoal had given way to graphite on the artist’s canvas. 

Daybreak would be upon them soon and he was out of time. 

he turned and walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door.

The morning air was crisp and sent a shiver down his spine.  he had important business that morning and could not be late so, he walked with purpose to the garage.  Fumbling in his pockets, he found his car keys, opened the door, started the car,  and backed out of the driveway.

As he drove away, one small tear managed to creep down the side of his face.

 

                                   I love you more than I can explain with this

                                   paper and pen.  Take good care of our son.

                                   With all the love I possess

                                   Yours forever, James

Number 4

Written to “Mission at Hand” by Black Fuse – compiled by Kevin Yost (this is a difficult track to find so, please click on the link to download it – unfortunately, it is only available as an itunes or quicktime file… hopefully it plays for you)  http://www.stevewooster.com/Downloads/mission.m4p

 

My flight landed the night before.  Unfortunately, it was late by a few hours.  I waited at the terminal for my bags to appear on the silver baggage claim merry-go-round.  As per usual, my small black roller bag was nearly the last to shoot from the ramp and make its way to me.   Wearily, I grabbed the handle and heaved the bag to my feet. 

I paused a moment to complete a mental checklist to make sure I had everything with me that I would need.  it was late enough, I was worried that I would forget that I, somehow, brought 2 bags on this trip. 

notebook and camera, check.  Clothes, check. Directions to the hotel, check…

After being completely satisfied, I pulled out the handle on the bag, put my messenger bag on top, and walked to the taxi stand. 

This was my first time in a big city.  I was intimidated.

Everyone moved with purpose from one place to the other – even if that place was ten feet from where they were initially.  Too much talking on Cell phones, too much loud conversation, just too much.  My nose burned with the smell of smog, sewer, and curbside fast food.  The scents swirled in my head making me dizzy. 

“I’m not sure if I can do this” I thought as I slowly meandered to the taxi line. 

After about 15 minutes, my cab arrived.  I gave him the name of the hotel, and we were off.  The drive was chaotic even for this late at night.  Despite the darkness, there were more cars on the road than could be held comfortably.  It reminded me of those nature shows where the ant colony climbs over each other to get to their next destination.   One-million miniscule feet pounding in disorder.

“Damned good to be home”, I blurted.  I did my best to sound like I was coming home.  It didn’t work.  The cab driver chuckled and spoke in some dialect I wasn’t familiar with.  I think it could have been Russian – regardless, it was a sharp, angry language.  I spent the remainder of the trip to the hotel in silence.

 Despite the drive into the city from the airport being more like a roller-coaster ride from some demented 1970’s sideshow, I made it to the hotel in one piece.  Shaken but, not stirred. 

After a brief encounter with the doorman (who knew you were supposed to tip them for taking your bag from a car), I went inside.  The hotel was expansive lines of brass floating over a sea of red carpeting.  After taking in the place completely, I went to check in. 

ironically, my room could have just as easily been in a seedy roadside Motel given the decoration and size.  “False advertising.  Guess it secures some business” I thought as I unpacked my bag.

I fell asleep within moments of my head hitting the pillow.

The next morning, I woke without an alarm.  it was if the city’s energy had invaded the hotel and snuck into my room as I slept.  I got up and took a shower.  After I got dressed, I went downstairs to the lobby and pushed my way outside onto the street. 

The business I remembered from the night before was nothing compared to what I saw.  Armies of people marching in each direction down the sidewalk.  Cars flooded the narrow roadway each one honking at the others even though they could see the red beaming light of the stoplight with their own eyes. 

Street vendors had appeared on the curb as if from nowhere – they weren’t there the night before.  An old man in tattered jeans and a blue t-shirt sold newspapers, postcards, and small nick-knacks from wheeled carts.  Another more portly fellow with a full beard stood just down the street with a hot-dog cart screaming at the people as they passed. 

Then it happened.

the formations of pedestrians seemed to line up.  Each step in sync with the person to their side.  Each line in sync with the next.  the men in their suits stared straight ahead.  Some held phones to their ears, some carried briefcases, and others still just walked.  but, all were walking at the same pace.

The news-stand vendor called out to the to buy a paper followed immediately by the rotund hot-dog salesman shouting for each person to try his “best god dammed dogs”.  it was if they knew their place in the march and took it up.  Veterans marching to war.

Even the cars joined in.  Inching forward in unison.  Taxi cab after taxi cab revving their engines too fast to go the 2 feet that had been vacated by the car before them only to slam on their brakes before shattering the car ahead.  Horns honking in a synchronous melody of shouts, revving engines, and cursing.

I stood there in awe for a moment.  Watching the city move.  Almost breathe as if it were alive.  Everything on that stretch of road moved together like an orchestral percussion section.

Then the first drop of rain landed on my shoulder.  The rain started slowly.  Pat… Patpatpat…. pat… patpat… pat.  Within moments, the sky opened up and spilled on the street below.  people grabbed umbrellas, car windows were rolled up, the hot-dog man cursed the sky and ducked under an awning while the old man laughed at him. 

The rain fell in the same rhythm as the people.  And as the cars.  And as the vendors.  me standing in the center of it.  Speechless.

The rain set the tune while the others kept the beat.  The city became the band that everyone and everything followed.

Then, just as it instantaneously as it had begun, it stopped.

I shoved my hand into my pocket and fished out a small slip of paper with an address on it, turned to my left, and started walking. 

 

So, I almost didn’t post this because, well, it is pretty close to complete crap.  And, as a confession, this isn’t the first thing that came to mind.  However, since I wanted to keep this blog PG rated, I decided not to even try to write about that first visual.   

Perhaps, I should not rely on my iTunes being on ‘Random’ to select the song I write to.  Or, Perhaps I should.

And A Third

To the song “Hide and Seek” by Imogen Heap.   http://play.napster.com/track/24170176  (Again, Napster Free so, manually open the player)

 

“That one over there in the corner is our trip to Paris”, she blurted.  “See how happy we look in that one?  What a great day!”

She took a moment to brush a free strand of hair back behind her ear.  The rest of her near Onyx hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail.  She looked from picture to picture splattered all over the granite gray wall we were both facing. 

“That summer, we went everywhere.  That one is in Rome.  And that one was at this little cottage we rented.  That one over there was a boat ride we took in the Mediterranean.”  She continued to explain each picture speaking matter of fact about the place and time. 

Earlier that morning, my editor passed me a story. 

Usually, I wrote the synopsis of a fire the night before or edited story content from multiple agencies to post on our website.  I had dreams of being a Man In The Field reporter but, was glad to have a job at a paper these days – even if “Paper” was a misnomer.  We had gone completely digital nearly a year ago and, at the time, I feared for my job despite knowing it was best for the publication.  I was quite relived to still have a job. 

This morning was different.  I was to conduct an interview. 

So, here I was a few hours later in a room with Sara.  Staring at images taped haphazardly to a concrete wall. 

“That was on the return trip through Amsterdam.  We stayed a few days.  Just long enough to see a bit of the city and walk around a bit.  it was nice.  We’ll go back I think.”

her small frame glowed as she explained each picture.  From a distance, anyone might have mistaken her for a teenager.  She was short and slim and moved with a slight awkwardness akin to young girls just learning they have grown breasts and not sure what to do with them.  She slouched a little now.   She didn’t in the pictures on the wall.  it was clear just from looking at her that she had aged quite a bit in the few years since the pictures were taken.

Getting her to talk about the pictures was the only thing I could think of to get her to start talking.  The wall was a collage of images from travels.  Some clearly edited and others cut into different shapes.

She got to the picture in the center of the wall and grew silent.  She lowered her head slowly and stared at the floor. 

“Tell me about that one?” I asked in the best long-time-concerned-friend voice.

“That one.  That was where he proposed.  We were at a little cafe just outside Greece.  We had spent the day wandering around.  No real plans to speak of.  Dinner was lovely.  We had some wine.  And then some more.” she paused only to giggle even though she still stared at the floor.

“I carried all our cards and cash in my purse so, when the waiter came with the bill, I grabbed it. and reached for my purse.”   She stopped abruptly and looked up at the image.  She didn’t try to conceal the tear running down the side of her porcelain cheek.

She stood and stepped closer to the wall.  Just close enough to touch.  She started again this time, her voice quivered as she continued.  “On the little tray was a ring and the bill.  Phillip, ” she choked tears as she said his name, “Had the waiter make a fake bill.  Each line was a promise and a price.”

I smiled at her.  Phillip had a good idea there.  I made note of his proposal and decided that if I were to meet someone and want to marry her, that wasn’t a bad way to go.  “What was on the bill?” I asked.

She seemed to drift far away as if she were sitting in that cafe once more.  She allowed a slight smile to briefly grace her face. “Eternal Love – ten Euros fifty.  Never ending devotion – 6 Euros.  My heart for all eternity – free. The waiter had written ‘The Newlywed Couple’ on the guest line at the top. “  She reached out and ran her hand over the image of a ring.

“Well,” I asked, “What happened next?”

She turned to me and smiled brightly.  “I handed Phillip a twenty Euro note and asked for change.”

“Great story.  Just wonderful.” I told her as she sat down in the chair next to me once more. 

A minute passed in silence. 

I looked at the photos that Sara had taped to the inside of her hospital room recounting each of her explanations in my mind once more. 

The room was small but private.  The walls were gray and concrete.  One small window lit up the photo montage and the bench that we sat on at the foot of her bed.  There was just enough room for a small dresser, and nightstand next to her headboard.  She was one of the few to have a private bathroom just slightly larger than the shower.

The door to her room was at the foot of the bed just past the bench and led to a black and white checkered tile floor much like any other hospital.  Charts and folders hung on the door. 

“Sara,” I began.  “Can I ask you a few questions about Phillip?”

Take 2 – a request

This one was, sort of, a request.  Written to “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin.  Free Napster only had a 30 second clip of this one so, I’m linking to a YouTube video instead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbJQT2eDseA

Heaving. 

The pounding of his heartbeat echoed through his chest and resonated through to his fingertips.

Gasping for air as he pushed himself to run.  Further.  Faster. 

Each breath was not unlike needles pushing through his lungs but, he continued heaving.  Each breath laborious heave after laborious heave.

His veins pumped pure gasoline and he felt it burn from deep inside his chest.  His muscles ached and begged for some kind of respite.  Sweat poured from him.  What was left of his shredded, untucked shirt stuck to his skin like a new coat of paint.  he had lost his tie somewhere behind him and the knees of his slacks were torn.

“Faster”, he thought.  “Faster”. 

Fighting through the pain, he ran harder for he knew, they were still behind him.

The pavement beneath his feet was slightly damp.  Not enough to make the road slippery but, just enough to make a sticky sucking sound each time his foot and pavement met.  Rhythmic, sticky beats keeping their own meter. 

***************

John woke up that morning, swung his feet off of the bed and sat on the corner of his mattress for a moment before standing.  It was a day much like any other. 

There was work filled with pointless meetings and conversations of grandiose topics like ‘how can we increase our bottom line?’ and ‘what can we do to save the Canada market?’. 

“Thrilled” he thought as he shuffled into the bathroom. 

John got ready for work just as he did any other day.  A quick shave, a long shower, and a cup of coffee followed by choosing which tie went best with his mood. 

A few years earlier, his little sister bought him a gag tie that was bright orange and said in small type ‘if you can read this’ followed immediately below with ‘FUCK OFF’. 

John thought about wearing that one.  it fit his mood perfectly.  Instead, he grabbed the powder and navy blue checked tie, tied it securely around his neck, and turned on his heel to head to the car. 

The drive into the office was uneventful.  30 minutes of bumper to bumper traffic became the norm.  He chose radio stations that played things he could ignore – the wacky morning show that tried far too hard to be funny, edgy, and relevant was his choice today. 

His thoughts shifted to the day’s tasks and the sound of 3 grown men laughing at fart jokes drifted behind him.  he drove on. 

Work was a carbon copy of every other day he ever worked.  he walked into the building and said ‘hello’ to all the right people.  Sat at his desk and checked email that really didn’t matter to him.  he went to meeting after meeting.  the work day ended just like any other day – he shut down his computer, told all the right people ‘goodnight, and left. 

On his very predictable drive home, John did something unexpected.  Every night for the ten years that he worked at Industrial Solutions Network Limited, he drove home the same way.  Patterns and repetition were what he lived by despite his loathing of it. 

he came to an intersection and turned right where he typically would turn left. 

A sly smirk crossed his lips as he drove.  He stayed on the road determined to take it wherever it would take him.   

Minutes unfolded into hours and John kept driving. 

He passed residential neighborhoods with their neatly aligned houses.  All matching copies of the next save for the occasional red door of blue trim.  Each rambler faced the same direction and looked to him like zombies staring off into the distance.

The houses slowly began to become more unique as he drove along.  Differing shapes and sizes.  Some with unkempt yards and others with immaculate landscaping. 

In no time, he found himself driving on a country road.  Trees lined the highway casting long shadows into the lanes as the sun set behind them. 

Finally openness.  Nothingness.

John kept driving.     

Just before sunset, a small icon on the dashboard of his Mercedes began to blink.   A few miles ahead, he saw a service station.  He pulled into the station and filled his tank.  His stomach rumbled reminding him that it was time to eat so, rather than paying at the gas pump he went inside.

Behind the counter was a round bearded man.  he wore dirty overalls and a faded green t-shirt. 

John picked out some chips, a few candy bars, and a large soda and walked to the counter. 

The round man scowled at him and looked him over.  “You’re a bit out of the way aintcha?”, he said with a snort.

‘Oh, I’m just passing through”, John said.

“We’ll see about that”, the cashier said under his breath. 

John paid for his purchases and got back into his car.  he opened the soda and a bag of lightly salted potato chips before starting the car.  he put the car into drive and headed back to the highway.

The hum of tires on old pavement had a bit of a hypnotizing effect on John.  That is, until one loud pop shook him out of it. The car swerved sharply to the left.  John struggled to keep control of the car as he pulled it to the side of the road. 

“Goddamnit!” he shouted as he got out of the car. 

it was early evening now the daytime being chased by the dark.  Very few lights were visible.

“Fucking tire” John moaned as he opened the trunk of the car hoping he remembered to replace the batteries in the flashlight.

 

Not great but, as promised, just as I wrote it – no editing or changes.

More to come

-Steve

Attempt 1

To the song “Take the L train (to 8th avenue)” by Brooklyn Funk Essentials  http://free.napster.com/player/tracks/23897444 (you may have to manually launch the player)

The sidewalk splashed as he walked.  The even beats of the rainstorm left a pattering sound on the heavy overcoat.  Though the fog had lifted, small pockets of earth bound mist still huddled together in the dead end alley.

Each step was intentional.  Not brisk and not casual but, almost forced as if he were marching.  Marching to orders not his own.  Each step brought him closer to the end of the alley.  The drizzling raindrops leaving their mark on his face as he walked. 

The pavement gave way to cobblestone causing his footsteps to echo in the corridor. 

he felt himself slowly begin to feel cold.  First with the shiver that ran up his spine  as if it were pushing the overcoat off of his shoulders.  his whole body twitched in response. 

The door at the end of the alley was his obvious destination.  A small store-front lined each side of the doorway each one containing relics from another’s lifetime:  a stereo, compass, camera, and jewelry in one and more maniacal bits in the other.  Hunting knives, pistols, small boxes filled with ammunition.  All neatly arranged. 

A broken light fixture hung just to the side of the doorway where PAWN was painted on with stencil.

he reached out and gripped the knob on the heavy steel door pulling it open and he stepped inside.

“Where have you been?” a voice boomed from inside the darkened interior. “I’ve been waiting for you Philip.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.” was all he could muster.  

he took off his overcoat and tossed it knowingly onto a chair.  Even in the warm darkness, he still was cold.   he reached for the light switch.

“Leave it off.   We don’t want to be seen tonight” echoed the voice, deep and authoritative.

“OK Mike.  Sorry” Phillip replied.

“So.  Are you ready?”

Phillip paused.  he took a minute to brush back his hair from his face.  he smoothed it back held firm by rainwater. 

“Am I ready?”,  he thought, “is this what I want to be doing?  if I do this, there is no going back.  No more choices.  This time, it’s for real”.  he stood and slowly pushed his hair back again.

“Honestly?” Phillip half coughed at Mike.

‘I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want an answer Phil.  Are you ready?” Mike retorted.

“I… Well, I… I’m not sure”. Phillip was hesitant. 

“You know,” Mike began, “if you had answered that question any other way, it would be clear that you weren’t.  This is good Son.  Real good. “

Mike was taller than Phillip and, from his vantage point, he could make out the silhouette of the boy against the lamp light spilling into the shop window.  Mike remembered when he was standing where Phillip did now with very much the same reservations.  it seemed like yesterday despite being more than half a century.

“Let’s go. “  Mike walked from behind the register counter and stood in front of Phillip.  he reached into his pocket fishing for the car keys. 

Phillip picked up the overcoat and put it back on.  mike handed him the keys.

“You’re driving.”

Phillip nodded.

The two men walked out of the Pawn shop onto the cobblestone.  Mike locked the door behind them and motioned to the car.  he made sure to walk a few steps behind Phillip.  “This must be his choice.  I cannot force this” he repeated in his head.

Phillip unlocked the old Chevy.  Sat down.  With a heaving breath, he turned the key in the ignition before reaching over to unlock the passenger door. 

The men drove.  First out of the shopping district and then onto the highway.  Street lights stayed clouded in the now thickening fog.  The rain had slowed to a faint patter on the windshield.  Each puddle reflecting the street lights, exit signs, and mile markers. 

Neither man spoke.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Phillip broke the silence.  “Um Mike?  You did this too right?” he asked.

“I did.”

“how did you know it was right?” Phillip continued.

“I didn’t.”  Mike’s answers were short and pointed.  he didn’t want to convince or detract.  “Take the next exit. “

Philip remained quiet for the remainder of the ride following Mikes directions.  They got off of the highway next to a shopping complex in a residential neighborhood. 

“Pull over by that phone booth” Mike ordered.

Phillip glided the car to a stop.

 

So, thats attempt 1.  Definitely not my best work but, in the spirit of the expirement, here it sits as promised. Just as it was written.

More to come

Interesting Idea

Late this afternoon, a few colleagues and I spent some time sharing stories and just talking.   It was good.  On the way home from the office, I started listening to the Brooklyn Funk Essentials record “Slow, Steady, and Easy” and had a thought. 

What if I were to take one track, play it on repeat for 30 minutes, and write… what kinds of things could I write about? 

As I was driving the 45 minutes of mostly traffic-less trip home, I thought of songs I could use.  I thought of what images those songs bring to life.  And, I reminded myself that in order to become the writer I want to be, I need to practice.  This seemed like a good fit. 

So, here is the plan:  A few times a week (more if I can mange it), I will be choosing one song and writing to it for a timed 30 minutes.  I will post the song and whatever I have written.  The post will be unedited and contain no proofreading.  Any gramatical mistakes I make during this process will be carried on to the page.  Some entries will be wonderful while others will be completely horrific. 

I will not edit these posts.  They will just be. 

I’m not sure if this is as interesting to anyone else as it is to me but, I am going to do it anyway. 

Last parting note – I have never used wordpress before and just now created this blog.  I will spend some time over the weekend updating it (along with my website) so, expect the look and feel to change along with much more information being available shortly.