Story: Untitled

This is the beginning to a story that is untitled as of now. I haven't really written a short story since high school, and those were usually only about a page or so. I think I have problems writing long things. I think that's why I am a poet. Sort of. I will make this longer. It is based off of a real event in my life. Names have been changed. I have added and subtracted details.

What is there to recall, other than the fact that recollection is weak, tainted, with the very memory that was created and stored in the first place.

I am feeling Funny. Strange.

Darkness rolled down the sky, gravity much too barren for even the moon, the sun, all the other celestial beings.

What were we talking about? Something, something, oh yeah.

The car window leaked and the fumes of Michigan kept me interested and awake. No, I was interested before, when Brandon was talking. I know life hasn’t been easy for him. But, I have been told by many people, several times, that it isn’t Supposed To Be Easy. I have not yet been clued into what it is Supposed To Be. The dashboard lights are stronger. Sixty-five miles per hour of silence.

After talking, the silence seems a lot heavier. This is why they call silence heavy. I can feel more of my body as I sit here breathing. I can feel Brandon’s body too. I can feel my body and his body wanting to be one body. This is not a sexual thought, I don’t think. But, I think, due to the silence, I want to hold his hand. Due to the fact that we both said something that nothing could be said after. I want to be able to say, “You are here.” Like the sign welcoming you to a new state, I could be Brandon’s sign to welcome him to wherever it is we are right now.

I don’t even look over. The road spins by as we travel from Ypsilanti back to Kalamazoo. Spring time. It seems like every road trip story should involve springtime, and the trip should be no longer than one hundred and two miles. I guess that means On the Road would not have been written. Possibility. Springtime is always associated with possibility, and change. I gave Brandon a map to New York, and at the beginning of the summer he ended up moving south. I moved to Brooklyn. I felt irritable several times today. Half of the time I am unsure of the cause of my emotional state.

I usually type a lot, then erase it. I think that's why I prefer my real journal lately. I am forced to write and keep it there, and if I don't like it, then I am forced to keep on writing until my mind gets to something I do want to write about. I'm not really sure what I want to write about, but I do know I want to be writing.

My friend Mike really inspires me to be creative. He drew a comic about a conversation we had. He makes time for being creative every day. I need to do this.

I sometimes talk about Winnicott's theory on creativity, which is explained in thing I read online:
Only when living creatively does a person come alive as a human being. We cannot be fully alive if we reside too much in either the realm of reality or the realm of fantasy because in each case we are being simply reflexively reactive to stimuli. Both reality and fantasy are, for Winnicott, outside the individual´s creative realm. In the intermediate space between fantasy and reality, on the other hand, we come alive as creators or interpreters of our own experience; reality is interpreted in terms of fantasy, and fantasy in terms of reality. Perception renders fantasy relatively safe; fantasy renders perception relatively meaningful. A sense of personal vitality is generated when each prevents the other from becoming too powerful. This is what Winnicott is getting at when he writes: "I can now afford to look and see. I now look creatively and what I apperceive I also perceive."

I like the idea of creativity being expansive. I see it everywhere now. I see it when a co-worker makes a good latte. I see it sometimes when a parent is with their child. There is nothing like creativity to suggest that you are still alive, and perhaps will live on, and not have to deal with the mortality of the average human being. That's comforting. That's heaven.


I need to stop saying how I "should" be doing things and just do them. Relevancy is difficult, as well as honesty. Somehow, through all the the things they had to do, the writers I loved still had time to write. So I need to make (create) (be creative with time) in order to have time to be creative. I also plan to take a small "vacation" where I actually just take off work and stay in my apartment.

I also want to get together with people and draw. I used to do this more often, but it is so hard to find people sometimes.



PS: Who wants to go on a date to Governor's Island?

dreams

I had a dream that dolphins weren't actually as cute as people always said they were. I discovered this swimming with them. I was happy with the fact that I knew the truth about dolphins.

The picture above is of a rare seahorse who is giving birth. I really like water creatures. I've been feeling very emotional lately. I am glad that the rare sea horse is giving birth.

sometimes

taking, take, for
instance.

breaking, break, for
instance.

brooklyn moaned. just now.
something moaned. and i felt it.

i felt the city
i feel the city
every single day.

rowing

down the river bed
hush of water forces.

there are many different arm muscles
and the sun is hot
and the water reflects the sun
and your hair burns

dust everywhere.
the oar stuck in dry land.

american haiku

more craigslist american haikus

more brunettes have been mentioned on missed connections.
good for us.

----->------------->
Your name plopped against the umbrella we shared, down in the dead fish.

Please come back library stranger, work is so boring, so ugly, so.

Brunette with Glasses, let's eat chicken, watch Woody Allen, send e-mail.

My arms are so hot and lonely, we should start a summer hating club.
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