“Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.” Nathaniel Hawthorne
JANICULUM
elsEwhen ∞
Z is drawn back to Janiculum
V is drawn back to Janiculum
Timelessly
Flawless, pristine
War ravaged, wasteland
The Gates of Prógramma Spoudón
Open, barred, derelict
The streets, the homes, the shops, the temple
Upright, tumbled
Green, rocky terrain to the spires
Decomposing back to green
Merged (ZV) or apart (Z) (V)
To Janiculum they come
This Moment, among many many many
their presences announce themselves
there, now together
they're flowing into the others arms
hugging, stroking, tender
cheeks, napes, torsos
the lips, the lips
fingers glide along protein rich strands of keratin
lengths, volumes, grow to moods
all for the other
the want
the need
the caresses'
the hunger
the anger
forgiveness
understanding
accepting
tactile, stimulations
deeper, horridly,
gasps, roars,
trembling, quaking, shudders
breath
remember to
they hold each other/themselfthe mantle of the goddess Alcyeyxis restored
Janiculum passed around (ZV)
sending ripples
sending ripplessending
“Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.” ~ ~ Rose Kennedy
(ZV) withered
(Compositions + Substance) Bond
Broke
A rupture
Null unit { }
Z
V
Unjoined
The moment slipped out of their control
elsEwhen Z
anger anguish escalate/s/d to nth level extremes bringing a mind blankness overruled by the raging mixture of emotions Z had no awareness of the deaths the sundering caused in Z’s wake diseases transferred at rates unimaginable when all Z was brought to islands of quiet of peace of centering only to be jaunted into the swirls of destructive force to return to peace to seek out violence to destroy to quiet to all things detrimental all until Z challenged Khronos who slapped Z down rejected rejected snubbed erased until
elsEwhen V
V filtered through equations, all equations
Dispelling the soul freezing zemblanity
That washed over and through V
To return to equations, formulas,
Routine
While suffering this travesty of moments
That soothed, touched, cherished, ached
That itched, burned, chilled, ached
In a melody of high bliss
Counterbalanced by exquisite agony
An emotional/pragmatic overload
Where it all led to Khronos
Who had no sense of V
Draining V
until
“Time isn’t the main thing. It’s the only thing.” ~ ~ Miles Davis
TRANSITION
Karen will think/thinks/have thought OH SHIT!
Dr. Karen Capri envisages/verbalizes those words in the seven languages she speaks/thinks fluently.
Dr Capri has/had/will have the connective process to acknowledge what is before her endlessly
She is clinically absorbing an infinite vocabulary of experience across layers
That have layers intersecting mirrored rows of layers
Karen feels the emotional spectrum pour out of her
Her thinking process goes limp
(ZV) is floating there
Now Valentina
Then Zehara
Z
Karen has hated them
Individually
Especially together
If she could, Karen would clench her teeth, growling
They had gotten in her way way too many times
They are in her way now
Sensations go misty
She tries to fight the violation
Karen fails in every single way, across every possibility
Z knows/knew what was done to her
V now knows what was done to Z
Not even a blink: Dr. Capri is peeled away
TRANSITION
LAB
FLOAT POD CONNE
Interred
The leaded pod
Door sealed into one piece
Lies a howling, a wail, a shriek
A keening lament
A fragile cord
One not heard, never to be
Plight of one's destiny
Or not
GRB 080916C burst
K is undone
The scream continues
I started Tale Spinning at the beginning of 2011 as an offshoot of BornStoryteller. The latter went more towards non-fiction, rants, comparisons, and observations. Tale Spinning: an experiment in creative writing was the space I needed. Since then, I’ve gone through periods of both non-stop writing and those “dry” spells, where nothing inspired or motivated me.
Joining the A to Z Blogging Challenge in April 2011 was one of the smartest moves I’ve ever made. I’ve pushed my own boundaries over the ten years, always looking for that “challenge.” Taking risks is stimulating. A lot of what I write is expressing what is burning within me at the moment.
Which is probably why I have trouble continuing plunging into the worlds and characters I’ve built over the years. The roller-coaster upheaval of my life during these last ten years have jaggedly flowed from euphoric to complete and utter numbness. This isn’t a pity party. Just stating the facts, ma’am.
Many bloggers/writers I have “met along the way have become family. What is “Family is Chosen” for $2,000, Alex?” (Man, I miss Alex Trebek. Right now, I am Team Levar Burton to become the new host. Reading Jeopardy Rainbow!). It’d take me the rest of the day (it’s early here) to point you all out, but my thanks and love are hereby sent. I even met the woman I love writing these blog posts during that first A to Z. Present tense, even though we are not together anymore.
Shit happens.
Anyways.
List Time. In case, you know, want to read past (and present) A to Z attempts. Each set starts with A on April 1st of that year. There might be a few preceding posts/teases over the years as I tried out the new voice I was shooting for.
Here’s something not A to Z that I’d love to get your feedback/comments. I keep getting drawn back to it on an emotional/mental level, but have not added a thing to it in quite a while. These were written during the summer of 2011.
“Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to cherish each moment, because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we have lived.” ~ ~ Captain Jean-Luc Picard
Zero hour. Day. Era. Epoch. Eon. Aeon.
Z subdivides along a non-unilinear line. Stopping milliseconds to absorb, dispel, bask.
Those are the fragments where a thought filters through.
Z assembles the pieces. Z experiences every emotional spectrum idea, searching for
Love.
Z does not believe in love. Love, to Z, equates to Pain.
Pain is a constant. Love=Pain never has/is/will be love ≠ pain. It is exact. For Z, it is exact.
There are no approximates.
Any/every instance Love touches Z is followed by an infinite drop.
Z is lost.
Inside, Z is lost in gathering specifics. The pure, unwavering distillation of Z’s perception ofLove.
The amassing is complete.
Z stretches the limits of time to compact and keep.
The next second arrives.
Without the pain association. Z is blocking out the aftermath, the thrown away aspect, the being left, unnoticed, unwanted.
Another point arrives. The whole splinters.
Z
TRANSISTION
NEW!!!!TALE SPINNING is also a Podcast!
I plan to start recording MY reading of my posts. Maybe by 5/12/2021. Knowing me, maybe 2022. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the narration.
Children’s Tales. Recipes. Photographs. Sayings/Quotes. DIY & How To. Reviews.
Recommendations. Paintings/Fine Arts. Sketches. etc.
The list goes on.
If you Blog, this is a great way to discover new blogs & bloggers. You will make connections.
Best of all, you will prove to yourself that you can master the challenge and post nearly every
day.
As to Tale Spinning, my theme this year is
LIQUID TIME
What is “Liquid Time?”
“Liquid Modernity is sociologist Zygmunt Bauman’s term for the present condition of the world as contrasted with the “solid” modernity that preceded it. According to Bauman, the passage from “solid” to “liquid” modernity created a new and unprecedented setting for individual life pursuits, confronting individuals with a series of challenges never before encountered. Social forms and institutions no longer have enough time to solidify and cannot serve as frames of reference for human actions and long-term life plans, so individuals have to find other ways to organize their lives.”
My name is John Meadows, at least, that’s what it says on my birth certificate. At this moment, I’m not sure if that is even true.
I woke up in a bedroom. It was an unknown space. Except, as I lifted my head up off the pillow, I noticed a picture that looked familiar. I stood, walked over to it: it was flush with the wall. An outdoor moment in time. There was a man, and a woman. They held each other, big smiles on their faces.
The man leaned on a vast gnarled tree. Instead of branches, It looked as if seven tree trunks wound around each other, an abstract weave of latticework wood. The leaves were thick, a dark shade of green that looked almost like they were black. They hung over the couple like a frame.
The woman had her head resting on the man’s shoulder. His hair fell to his collar, so dark that at first, I thought it looked like it was cut out of the photo. Her hair was lighter, a mixture of golden brown and red. I remembered that it was called Auburn. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that at first. Yes, Auburn-haired, long, it fell down and over his chest, making his torso look like it disappeared as well.
The photo bothered me. Her eyes sparkled when the shot was taken. His eyes held little to no reflection. I looked. His didn’t, even with the sunlight spotlighting where they stood. Her eyes, the tilt of her head, her smile: there was life. He smiled, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes. They were flat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a free-standing full-body mirror to my left. It stood at a tilt near white folding slat doors. I shuffled my way over to it. I could not remember what I looked like, nor who I was. Maybe, I thought, looking at the reflection, things would come into focus. My heart began to accelerate, chest tightening, and it was getting difficult to breathe. I hadn’t been aware of breathing before this. I was now.
Coming into full view, I felt my head had received something smashing into it. It hurt like hell. I had to touch my head. It felt like bone shattered. I checked. It felt solid. But the pain. It was like a steel bar was slammed against my forehead.
A steel bar? Why did I…no, more a bat? Baseball? No, no. A baseball. Yes, a baseball hurtling to me, not even registering that I needed to move, to duck, do something. But it was too fast. I was too slow. I was up, then nothing. It felt just like that, although I didn’t know why. I still don’t know why I felt that way when I stepped in front of the mirror.
Yes, I was the man in that photo, even though I did not remember that. It was clear upon viewing, my eyesight was waving, no floaters, no film distortion over the irises. I looked at myself in the mirror, then over to the photo. Goosebumps paraded across my spine.
Turning, I took in the rest of the room. White minimalism in paint and fabrics. Same with my pajama pants. I noticed, then, that I had no shirt on. A look in the mirror traveled down; before, I was solely intent only on my face. My chest was hairy but not matted. Three parallel deep pink scars ran from my left armpit to just past the bellybutton. An inny. They didn’t hurt as much as throb. Noticing them did not help my rapid breathing and heart rate.
The next moments are still a blur. I know I looked around: the place had been tidy when I awoke. Now, drawers, men’s clothing, papers littered the white. All the bed linen was on the floor. The sliding slat doors were open wide, showing a closet that was only half full. I took this all in, sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. I felt something hard and looked down. I had a metal lockbox in my hands. My breathing shallowed, and I felt myself calm down to regular human beats. At least, what I thought were normal.
There was no lock to have to break into. The lid swung up with ease, showing the mound of papers it carried. I riffled through the envelopes, unfolded the various papers, and only stopped when I found a Birth Certificate. Mine, I have assumed, until someone tells me differently.
My name is John Meadows.
If you are listening to this tape, then most likely I am dead. Or too far away for any meaning of living or dead is inconsequential. This is the story of what happened from that moment of waking, clueless to everything that had meaning to me. I know that the woman in the photo was Jean, my partner. I know she no longer…is here. Where? At this time, I still do not know how to answer that.
Whoever you are, whenever you are, do yourself and loved ones a favor.
Do not stand under the leaves of that massive, gnarled tree.
“Therecomesatimewhenpeoplegettired of being pushed out of the glittering sunlight of life’s July and left standing amid the piercing chill of an alpine November. MartinLutherKing, Jr.
1st Chime: Midnight approaches. I’ve prepared for the darkness, urging it to mask what is to come. What needs to be done. What will be.
2nd Chime: I sit in her favorite chair. I have never done that before. The dent of her body is etched into the fabric and padding. I do not fit.
3rd Chime: Time. Time is going too slow. It is out of my control if I ever had any. My palms are wet. A tiny rivulet streaks down my brow into my eyes. It burns.
4th Chime: I gasp. My mouth. It feels like I poured ground cinnamon into the chamber. I cough clouds of red.
5th Chime: Hurry. Hurry. I need to. No. Wait. I can’t. Wait.
6th & 7th Chime: My calves cramp. I hadn’t noticed my knees were jumping like pistons. It won’t obey me. It won’t stop.
8th Chime: All. It’s not well. Not. The walls are closing in. There is wailing from the floor, right under my planted soles.
9th & 10th Movement: I heard no chimes. I’m fixed on the second hand as he struggles for the next second. The grandfather is moving time on.
11Th Chime: My lips are cracked. As I use my tongue to sponge them, I get the taste of copper as it sweeps over the swollen bottom lip.
12th Chime: Here. It is here. The elevated heart rate hurts my rib cage. There is a sour smell surrounding me. It does not offend. I am dripping wet with perspiration. It is time. It is time. I reach over to the frazzled side table.
The grandfather clock ticks eleven more.
On the 12th tick, the gun barrel is in my mouth.
I…
<<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>>
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
I host a writing group on Saturday mornings: Daydreamers Write! Prompts & Challenges. The above was from the challenge prompt: Strange things happen when the Grandfather Clock speaks. The challenge: Coat your piece in MOOD. Write in First-person & the narrator is not reliable. If you can, use all five (six?) senses. Some wrote prose, some poetry, and then…
Daydreamers Write! Prompt & Challenges is a virtual writers group. We meet every Saturday morning (EST) from 10:00 am to Noon. Two prompts (2nd one holds the challenge), writing, sharing, constructive feedback, all in that two-hour slot. What I love about keeping this virtual is that we have members from both coasts in the US, and one from London.
Click on the link, sign up for a membership, and then find the date you’d like to join in. Please send in the RSVP that is attached to that day’s invite.
Any questions? You can leave me a message on the MeetUp page or direct to organizerdaydreams@gmail.com
