Tag Archives: music

Indifference To A Walk In The Park

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The writer wished he  was a painter. In his mind, he painted, as he strolled through the park that surrounded the lake. “An artist that crafted something permeable,” he thought.  “People would enjoy the aesthetics of my creation. Or not. Who cares?” He knew his words held power, but they came fleeting, more often then not. He wanted a blank canvas on an easel, paints, brush…all the accoutrements. What he had was his hands in his pockets as he walked around the shallow body of water.

He thought in tones of realism, but wished he was  a writer who tended to the abstract, maybe even pointillist, impressionist or surrealistic styling. He wished to dig at the what emits through the nature of things, taking away the shell and leaving the essence.  He wanted words that would fly, forgoing concrete for emotive deconstruction. The writer who wanted to be a painter wanted intrigue, disgust, passion…not the indifference of being one of so, so many.

His thoughts led him along the path, noticing moments: the couples on the benches that were shaded, not in direct sun; the gangs of geese, on land or in the water, their droppings littering almost any step he could make; the twin girls learning how to bike ride, both in pink helmets and pants, one free wheeling, the other still attached to dad, who yells out “Be strong!” to her as he’s ready to let go; the bicyclists who pass him by; the joggers who run, stop, start, all around him, in various work out clothes, both loose and tight; the woman with the  lame leg trying to keep up with her younger walking partner; the broken pathway, cracked earth, the cloudless blue sky that’s letting the sun light to beat down on the surroundings, on him, sweating. He wants to paint these moments, these scenes.

It happens in a lost thought. Coming up the path, straight towards him, wide open eyes staring at him, a smile plastered across the dirt streaked face. A collision course, chicken played out in daylight. A foot splashes into one of the many puddles that dot the walkway, sending a light spray towards the writer, towards geese sitting to the side, silent. The writer stares back, keeping to his path, and a reflective smile creases his face. His hands, which are at his side, reach up towards his belt, elbows bent, ready.

The mother shouts “Liam!” and  takes the three year old’s hand, moving him out of the writer’s way, just as the writer side stepped the child. She and the father apologize for their child, but the writer waves it off, laughing, and says “It was just a showdown. Liam would have won, ” and he continues walking. Looking back, Liam is riding high in his mother’s arms, looking over her shoulder at the retreating writer. His little hand waves. The writer waves back, then continues on.

From there on, the writer observes the dragons that come to roost on the banks of the lake, the mates and their dragonettes in clusters, resting. The Swan King settles down in the middle of the water, standing on one foot, and calls out to all his turquoise and brown brethren, who swim in a circle around the king, genuflecting into the water, and coming up with catch for their supper. A high speed chase flashes down the path, two wheeled and two legged, a race on a moebius strip of gravel and dirt. The writer notices things out of the corner of his eye, but he pays them no heed, for when he looks directly at them, they are altered forever.

He sits on a throne of blue painted planks held up by ornate grey cement, etched with decrees of love and foul curses. Breathing in the moments, it all plays out for him in hundreds of different ways. He is an artist, and he is a painter, and he sings and conducts and composes and his mind dances to all the tunes he can imagine, and all the colors are at his disposal.

Levitating off the throne, he wings his way home.

Basement Boogie (AtoZ Challenge)

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The beat reverberated throughout the duct system of Swan River Apartments. You’d hear the deep chords being struck through the bathroom air vents. Sometimes the vibrations were hard enough to spin the burnt out blower blades. Dust that had coagulated on the grating absorbed some of the pulsations; the rest shook loose,  gliding in the stagnant air,  falling to the rhythm that wound it’s way to the unwilling eardrums throughout the building.

Amy and her newest boyfriend, Trev, were giving a “final performance” in the basement. She wanted to be the next White Stripes or Cults. He wanted Amy. They both had talent; she more than he, but they were good together. Trev tried to take more breaks for fooling around then Amy liked, but she liked Trev, too, and after a good practice what was a little more physical exertion.

All of Amy’s neighbors threw a fuss when she first got her Tdrum kit (“your idiot father” was the nicest thing Amy’s mom said about her dad, long since moved out). The then Super, George (who had a thing for her mom and most of the other females in the building), gave her some space in the basement when she was starting out in her early teens. It was clean, no rats or mice, so having that  hot musty smell all around didn’t bother Amy. She played after homework was done, weekends, and holidays, when she wasn’t at her Dad’s.

The new super, Andres, wasn’t like George at all. He walked around the building like he owned a kingdom, grousing and commanding, unlit cigar (most times) almost always being chomped on while he cleaned the lobby area. He gave you a dirty look if you were bringing things to the recycling room. He gave you a dirty look if you had too much laundry to do, unless you were one of the Laundry Room Mafia: those ladies he gave wide berth. Andres was the first to latch onto all the building gossip, and pass it along, not caring who heard his pontificating. Dirty looks, sneers, gossip monger…thief?

He also gave Amy the creeps. He also told her she could not use the basement anymore. It “bothered” his wife. You don’t bother the super’s wife.

She knew he would throw a big hissy fit and complain to her mother, threatening her with a whole level of empty threats. The only real ones would be in his not fixing anything that needed to be fixed in the apartment, or doing it more half-assed than normal. Amy’s mom had had enough, both with Andres and with Amy. Amy’s dad was coming the next day to pick up her drum set.

Amy wailed on her kit, losing herself in the tribal intensity of what she was laying down. Trev kept up with her, for the most part, though never equaling her intensity. A few times he’d stop, just surrounded by the blast beat pouring out of her. Then he’d join back in, his fervor rising in an attempt to make this the best, for her.

They jammed for close to twenty-eight minutes. Andres broke through the door that Amy had locked from the inside. His wife was behind him, furious faced, arms crossed over her ample chest, bathrobe tied in a knot across her waist.  Amy’s mother followed behind, her eyes locked on Amy. The super and his wife were screaming at Amy to stop. Trev had, when they busted in.

The super’s wife pulled the drum sticks out of Amy’s hands but that did not stop Amy. She tom-tommed the skins and cymbals as if nothing had happened. Trev was pushed out of the room by Amy’s mother, who couldn’t get her to stop either by voice.

She walked behind Amy,  placing her hands on Amy’s shoulders. For the first time, she actually felt the beat that Amy lived. She closed her eyes, experiencing. Her arms moved down to lightly encircle Amy, which then became a hug, then a mama bear hug, and she hung her head low so it touched Amy’s head. Their long hair mixed together and feather brushed the snare drum. Amy slowed to a stop.

The concert was over.

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Author’s Note:

Welcome to the A to Z Challenge.

During the month of April, over 1,400 bloggers are joining in on this blogfest. Writing 26 posts using the letters of the alphabet to prompt the posts, you’ll find a mixture of fiction and non-fiction. While impossible to read all 1,400+, the idea is to open yourself to new readers, hopefully attain new followers, and to discover others to follow yourself.

For me, it’s to just get my writing chops back in gear. I’ve allowed a lot of distractions to do just that: distract me.

Last year, starting with the letter C, I wrote an ongoing story that was a combo of Speculative Fiction/Humor/Thriller. I still plan to revisit Winston, Elora and Daniel (and cast) one day.

This year, I have an overall theme of creative fiction: The Apartment Building.

The letter A (“All, Tumbling Down“) sees the destruction of said building. From B to Z, I’ll be exploring stories of the characters that lived in the building, and aspects of the building itself. As of this writing, I only have the titles planned out. That is my only outline. On Sundays after April 1st, I plan to just post the links to all the stories posted that past week.

I’ve previously written about The Apartment Building, which is what gave me the idea to flesh the whole thing out on this blogfest: The Whistler Is Dead (February 2, 2012) and in a slightly different vein, Velocity (February 25, 2012).

I’m excited about the upcoming stories and I hope you enjoy them. I also hope you discover other blogs through this. You can click on the link above, the logo in this post or on my sidebar to take you to the main page of the AtoZ Challenge.

Comments are always appreciated.

Sonnet: He Was the Melody

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He was the melody, and she the beat

Not what one would expect, not in the least

Configured differently they were complete

What is love? It’s the nature of the beast.

With grace, with caring, with such complete ease

They moved and mixed with precision so true

The music they make, from them sadness flees;

Nothing could tear them apart, nor should do.

But, what if he beat, and she melody?

What if their music discordant, it makes

Forced apart; so there be melancholy?

Two  not drift as one, sadly for their sake.

They grew more together than one alone

Rejoice! For they have nothing to atone.

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Art by Portia Burton

If anyone is wondering where my fiction/poetry has been this week, I’m writing a 10,000 word submission, plus getting the Rule of Three blog challenge up, so…I just needed to jot something down. This came from watching an indie band that I follow. Portia’s art came later. Hope you like it.