The next three thousand words are selections of writing I did for a class I had this Fall. I am slowly learning, and hope to return with better pieces to make the most of this. A lot of my writing dealt with religion, home, and expectation. If you read this blog, you’re probably used to that. Thank you for following my journey from my first “chapbook” (not really) to my first college works. The title comes from the fact that I did delete a Pinkerton reference in the fiction piece, somewhere in the attempt to copy Borges (we read a lot of Le Guin and Borges–the comment was that there was too much extraordinariness in the listing of lives and beings, and I agreed, we have to dwell somewhere more common at times) but without the experience and knowledge to actually understand what a worthwhile life is like, but I’m getting there. I don’t really spend much time publishing or sending out things (I don’t do this at all), but I’ve been writing a lot lately, so here.
A story about a funeral in the dead of the summer. With the relapse of summer on its idyllic deathbed, I once again draw nothing with the close. It is the same feeling that follows me with every untimely visit to living mortuaries in the outskirts of city, bordered by red district lights and the wick of laden candles. Where concrete becomes an overture to a short-lived piece that we drag on and on.
A living ghost is a moment’s grasp from the underworld. Sheathed in writhing emptiness; an abyss that everyone has made of her along with white lace, intertwined dandelions on the holes and darts (the only remnants of the love that she once bound). The dead cannot love — it is upon the cataract time-stop beat, the drawl of the flat-line and the rapid walk unto the “bad wing”. She is the reason why her dying breaths consisted of “keep loving” — why the paper airplanes she folded with bone poking out of skin were etched with “keep living,” why she was smiling, pursed lips and all, your softness against her own. An old discman next to water-filled speakers like a joke against the revolution of technology. During those final hours where she played music and spun brittle yarn emerging from her throes. I danced with the daughter of the moon on the infinity evening of a Tuesday night. She counted down, like an old grandfather clock — the continuum ring until a new inception. We were ethereal wisps, dreaming across lush innocence tucked into beds or burning under the scorching sun, of mosquitoes picking at their toes, maggots crawling into their gashes. “One and the same,” her tender palm became coarse fire in instants, “we are all one and the same.” Pleasant aromas in one second, the overpowering smell of death, a stuck sore of bronze and old blood blooming into sweet citrus wavering — put in a straitjacket with all the lights on. “This is the world we live in.” Fire, apocalyptic fire; the tombs of the dead from centuries ago emerging like new in the dead of the day. Anthems for oligarchies, solemn knights, a vision of Jesus Christ — we all bleed from the feet. Pointed downwards in excruciating pain she showed me the way of the Crucifixion and assured me that there would be no Resurrection. Took me to a jungle resurgence, Vietnam rain in the middle of June — dancing daughters among lost fathers, there was hope in the between of the canopies, a little life when the helicopter crashed down and burned in triangles. Took me to passes and caverns where guns were at play, manifesting into wine and beer in dark alleys and scepters to gavels to paint palettes to radiation — I saw the burst of Hiroshima, the death of the Black Plague, theMore?