A little of what's on my mind:
The written word is the fetter that binds memories and thought. Like twin crows tied to the earth. To fetter the ineffable in words is the poets greatest strength and greatest folly. That which cannot be chained itself must be bound in other ways. In other words.
In other news, I've been tinkering with this short (very short) story about a memory I have from elementary school. This is the draft as it exists now.
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First Waltz:
What do you really remember from fifth grade? I cant recall the lesson we were taught, the vocabulary gained, or the stories we read in class. I cant place the name of the boy that sat in front of me that year. I can only vaguely recall the looming fear of middle school. What I do remember, is dancing with Cate.
That day, in place of our regular gym class sports, we were learning how to dance. Although unhappy with the prospect of dancing I wasnt one to complain. We were paired off at random and stood facing each other timidly on the gym floor. I stood facing Cate and she stood watching the teacher give directions. Our shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor, echoing off the seemingly endless vault of the gym ceiling. The teacher had enlisted the help of another teacher as her dance partner and showed us the steps.
The music started and I knew that one hand was to take hers and the other was to be placed on her waist. But I was too nervous and too shy. So instead I took her hands in mine, gently, softly, timidly. She just looked at me, smiled as she shook her head and softly whispered, No Jack. Like this. Then she took my right hand, placed it gently on her waist and then placed her hand on my shoulder. She smiled again, looked me in the eyes. Quickly we turned our attention down to our feet, and we started wheeling across the gym floor with the rest of the class.
++++++++++++++
The written word is the fetter that binds memories and thought. Like twin crows tied to the earth. To fetter the ineffable in words is the poets greatest strength and greatest folly. That which cannot be chained itself must be bound in other ways. In other words.
In other news, I've been tinkering with this short (very short) story about a memory I have from elementary school. This is the draft as it exists now.
++++++++++++++
First Waltz:
What do you really remember from fifth grade? I cant recall the lesson we were taught, the vocabulary gained, or the stories we read in class. I cant place the name of the boy that sat in front of me that year. I can only vaguely recall the looming fear of middle school. What I do remember, is dancing with Cate.
That day, in place of our regular gym class sports, we were learning how to dance. Although unhappy with the prospect of dancing I wasnt one to complain. We were paired off at random and stood facing each other timidly on the gym floor. I stood facing Cate and she stood watching the teacher give directions. Our shoes squeaked on the linoleum floor, echoing off the seemingly endless vault of the gym ceiling. The teacher had enlisted the help of another teacher as her dance partner and showed us the steps.
The music started and I knew that one hand was to take hers and the other was to be placed on her waist. But I was too nervous and too shy. So instead I took her hands in mine, gently, softly, timidly. She just looked at me, smiled as she shook her head and softly whispered, No Jack. Like this. Then she took my right hand, placed it gently on her waist and then placed her hand on my shoulder. She smiled again, looked me in the eyes. Quickly we turned our attention down to our feet, and we started wheeling across the gym floor with the rest of the class.
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VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
linz:
i dig! thank you!
lotus:
that would be sweet.