More writings

[trentm32]

Alright! Alright! You're in.

And don't forget, next month we're taking a field trip to California to see the Red Woods.

[joe_canadian]

*burns own clothes and hides in shower*

[starseed_10]

see now you have countless twice in a row.

[joe_canadian]

Need help. Load me up with lyrics on the theme of wonder, intense pressure and violence, and good old heartbreak.

It would be much appreciated. I'll post what I'm working on soon.

[joe_canadian]

Bah! Here's what I've got so far. The first part blows.

This is the part about love.
The tongue will remain firmly in the cheek to keep things comfortable.
Or, better yet, someone else’s cheek.

A sense of humour is a necessity.
It is critical, in fact. A sense of humour will comfort you when you realize the extent of the biological joke God has played on you, when the finger-gnawing pressure of it flings you gleefully into insanity, or when the bloody mass that was once your heart explodes out of your chest and winks at you.
Because laughing at these things is important.
When you are locked alone in a cage, underwater, cut loose and anchored, sinking into black, be sure to stop and appreciate the hilarity of it all. Sit in the dark and take full account of the truly staggering trail of punch lines that has left you where you are. The jokes on you and everybody’s laughing, you will of course be a good sport about it. Smile and wave and pull up your trousers.
Be sure to tip the jesters.
Oh, the jesters! Blessed be the jesters! Think of where you’d be without them, the pure white goodness of their hearts. What would your life be like without the exquisite jokes they’ve played on you? What a fine time they’ve shown you. How effectively they’ve violated your secret places! Bravo!
So – stoke the fire and give them their hard-earned gift.
Pay your respects at the door. It’s all in good fun, after all.








Smirk!
Pulses pound in dark and stagnant smoke. Feet break through fire and sweat stings bloodshot eyes. Red walls fall and spirits break, wracking the sky with their noise. The opposition is dissected at breakneck speed. Shapes pierce the fog, reach the edge of perception and are devoured. People like starved dogs clamber at them. Words are barked, captains demand destruction. Obstacles impede.
Burn them down!
Drums are behind, pushing forward. Staccato punctuation marks of urgency. The horizon is six feet away – keep the eyes forward, look past the hands. What’s beyond the fist is all that matters. Feel, find. Reach out and tear it. Do not stop, there is no time. Teeth crack. Rush, this is the blitzkrieg. Push forward, burn, repeat.
Do not think, do!
Bodies collide. Children snarl and ash flies upward, spinning round. But here is a break in the line, a puff of cold and a pause. A standstill. Blood flows and breath splutters. Chests heave and eyes loll. Knees are tended and one head is scratched. There is an end to this means. It can be found and claimed and held crowned. It is over the next crest, or over the next. Or the next. The scarlet heat rolls in again. Breathe slowly. There’s only one way to see it.
Push!






It is a particularly laughable fate, a grinning, shrugging irony: working so hard for so long toward something and having it come within reach at last. Then the realization that you don’t want it anymore. You find that your dozen-year dig has brought you out of your safe machine and into a place with no walls. There is an astonishing lack of pattern, a brilliance that hurts the eyes. You feel for the things that you leaned on but don’t find them. You find your legs instead, weak and shaking. Once strong against the weight of your burden, they and you are gasping under the lightness of the clouds. Everything that was close is far away – so, march.

You never thought of it before – what you wanted. You were convinced that under the gears and steam nothing could be gained. The end was a myth, a bedtime story. An ethereal thing to be cried for, a thing to demand, but not something to expect. Your harried breath steams before you, this cool air confounds. You realize that what you worked for is empty space and loneliness, and now you have it: trickling between your fingers and toes. There is nothing left to do but walk. You must build in the dirt now. A sandcastle of your own device. Go and form the shapes and write the words that will carve something new into the empty wastes.

Head for the hills.
Find the sea.

[joe_canadian]

q&a

Help me. It is dark in here, and I cannot find my feet. My lungs have lost their grip and all I can see are stars. I have blinked hard and shut my eyes and I’ve cried, but they will not go away. I am afraid. My hands are broken, take them up. I surrender them to you. I beg you. Look: a thin splinter in my deepest place; I spin round it, alone, quaking. My whole world is inside and all of it and all of it is black and broken. Take me away from this place. I need your help. I need you. Please.

I am here on my knees, let me be your hero. Let me be your Atlas. Reach down deep and find the things that make you hurt, pull them out and hide them in glass for me to bear. Take your pain and problems and lock them in a copper globe. I will take it on my back for you. I will take it without complaint or sigh. I will take it, though I am not that strong. My friend, stand up and lean on me. We can walk away from here. You will not falter on my arm.

[clumsychild_]

Wow. Very nice.

and all of it and all of it is black and broken

Was that done on purpose?

[joe_canadian]

What do you mean?

[clumsychild_]

The repetition of "and all of it". I like the way it sounds actually..

Just wondering if you meant to repeat it.

[joe_canadian]

I meant to repeat it.

[joe_canadian]

I wrote this for my dad, for his birthday, because I love him more than anything in the entire world. It is very personal, and very honest. Please do not read it unless you'll treat it with sensitivity.

---
For a moment the room stands still and listens.
“Hmm. Time to go.” He smiles wide to draw attention from the wince in his eyes.
“Hmm.” He nods but stays seated, with his hands on his knees.
The clock ticks past quarter after three and the room resumes its noisome sleep. The blinds nod lazily between weak afternoon light, which tickles Ficus plants and gathers in pools round coffee table and darkened lamp. Son tries hard to return Father’s smile, and glances at the troublesome clock, a tightness ballooning in his chest. His mind swirls, stills, and returns once more to the problem of time. He lays his head on his knee and takes some deep breaths. He knows that he must begin soon or he will succumb for good.
“What’s wrong?” He places his keys on the counter and hurries to sit beside his son, an instantly worried hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you alright? Does something hurt? Son?”
Son smiles wide and blinks slowly. His stomach does hurt, and the chill on his ribs beckons him walk away to the toilet, to privacy and silence, routed. He thinks that he has tried this before, that he has made the motions and the sounds. This is unnecessary. This is stupid. You are stupid, what are you doing?
He pushes the air out of his lungs and covers his face. Fear.
Teetering on a plank inside his body, his heart closes its eyes and puts its feet forward. Pushing through cobwebs and a tide of the awkward - a syrup of doubt - forcing himself into days when he was small and love was not something that burned and cut, Son takes Father’s hand and squeezes, presses it against his own forehead. He cannot help but shake at the strangeness.
“I hate this.” He says.
“What? Hey, what? Hate, hate what?” He is stricken.
“Nothing. Just that: nothing. Not feeling what I should. Having to pull and choke to tell you what ought to come easy. Being accustomed to, to being alien and separate from what should be familiar. What should be welcome and welcoming. Of not having a problem with how wrong everything is and being numb and far away. Of being far away, when I’m.. When we’re eating dinner in front of the television... and laughing together, and talking on long car rides that seem short. I hate only being in love, in stupid, fiery love, and hurt by it... and being embarrassed by the old love. The... the simple love. I miss it... I miss the love that knew me before I ever drew breath. I miss you... dad.” And tears trace their way across his Father’s hand.
Father sits back, his hand clenched to his boy’s face. He loves his son, he loves his son but doesn’t understand this.
“I. Son...”
“No, wait,” holding the anchoring hand tighter, “You don’t know, I have to say, say everything right now or I never will. I hate... what I’ve become.”
“Son, what have you become?”
“I’m. I’m... dad, I’m not your boy anymore.”
Father takes an unsteady breath.
“And I never wanted to grow up. You’ve been... Peter Pan, dad. And I was a lost boy. The lost boy. And here, this place, this home away from home... this is Never Never Land where we had our adventures together,” He shakes his head and gasps a sad laugh, “If you can understand that. Dad, you’re magic. You’ve always been magic to me. But I did it. I grew up. And this is what I hate... dad, I grew away. I swear I didn’t mean to-“
”I understand what.. It’s not - I understand that you have to do.“
”Please, listen. Please... please just listen to me. I’ve always been angry with the walls that stood between us. We’ve been mad at them together, we’ve mocked them and spited them and we’ve gone around and between them. And it was good... for a time. But I wasn’t honest... I spent too much time looking outward and gnashing my teeth at the problems that our lives... that our shitty deal brought us. And... Dad, this is my fault. When we’re together and there’s still something between us. That’s my fault... it’s my fault because I grew up. And I tried,” Clasping his father’s hand harder, “I tried to hang on to you as I went. As I moved and learned and fought and... and grew. But I lost you dad. Somewhere in here a wall went up and it didn’t come down. A wall that I built. To... I don’t know why. Because I had to. Because I had to live.
Father, please listen... if you’ve ever listened before, listen now. I love you. I love you so much that I couldn’t contain it and I had to shut it away in some dark place to survive. I love you with a purity and a deepness my awkward, my young heart can’t fathom. Can’t handle. A love that... it kept me awake at night and made me want to run into your arms and kiss your face and never let you go. You’re... you are my dad. I need you to understand... that meant so much to me that I couldn’t keep it. You are my hero... you are the blood in my veins, you have set a map before me that has taught me the measure of a man. But... I can’t follow that map dad. I want to follow it, and somehow find my way back to you. I want to be your son again and have you hold me up high so we can laugh... and smile... and fight and cry with an innocence that I can only remember.
But daddy, I’m too big now... inside and out. I have to forge my own way... I have to cut away parts of me I’ve kept for too long... because I have a long... long road ahead of me, and... and a lot of building to do. I have to go away and make a life. And that... that’s so scary I can’t even think on it right now. But you can’t protect me from it. You can’t whisk me away to Never Land and make everything alright. I have to do this.” He takes a long breath, letting his fingers slip from his father’s own, “But if I have to leave... dad, I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye. I don’t want... a maze of high walls between your heart and mine. I want you.. I want you to have a clear view of what I will become. I don’t want you to have any doubts or misconceptions... I want you to know... know, not, not just think... know, where I left you.”
Son releases Father’s hands.
He turns to face him, red eyed and crying, lips shaking but proud, “I love you. I always will.”

[clumsychild_]

Wow, that was really heartful and pretty. Very real. The thoughts and emotions you were trying to convey really came through.

I like it a lot, and I'm sure he will too.

[tasha]

that made me cry

[joe_canadian]

Really?

[tasha]

really

[happening fish]

The archetypical coming of age story. Excellent.

[half jill]

that made me cry, as well. i just didn't want to say anything cause i thought it would sound stupid.

[joe_canadian]

*is so glad he can make people cry*