a knoblike process

Creeping crepuscule, descrescent light, harbinger of dreaded return to EST, where darkness dampens day’s early end. Decumbent drone diminishes daily, drowsy in the drawing room. Sip long from murky melodies, muddy froth spilling forth in rivulets, dirgeful delights diverging in drone’s ear canals. Mellifluous miasma of musical melancholia!

Dismantling of outdoor seating commences! Desperate attempts to affect staring at nothing continues. Doctor Chumply the Mouth Breather appears, Mickey D’s in hand, heart-attack-in-waiting, following with tiny aggrieved steps the trail of nitroglycerin tablets strewn across the decking. Take the elevator, not the stairs, for they are locked, despite the sign in the kitchen encouraging good health through stairs-taking. O, Dr. Chumply, what will become of you, will you follow those tablets to the Haunted Wood™ where the witch stokes her stove as she awaits your fleshly delights.

[But Christine, what of loneliness, standing there behind the invisibility cloak, always working, always writing, what did engagement mean for you, O Invisible Author, did you drape yourself in a duvet woven with words…]

Glossary

lumpfish: Any of various fishes of the family Cyclopteridae, especially Cyclopterus lumpus of North Atlantic waters, having pelvic fins united to form a suction disk and a body bearing prominent tubercles.

tubercle: A small, rounded prominence or process, such as a wartlike excrescence on the roots of some leguminous plants or a knoblike process in the skin or on a bone.

Quick now! Homophone challenge question: would you rather your words resonate or resinate. Think about it while staring into the clouds.

synopsis of a seventeen second play

A reflection is almost always false. Remember that next time you think it’s a good idea to hang a mirror on the wall. But never mind about props. On with the play for today. I’m doing the lighting. No, wait. I’m the leading man! I’m a researcher searching for secrets in the archives. If you read them, you will find them. The secrets, that is. In the archives. Perhaps. They are secrets, after all, so it’s not like they’re just out in the open.

In the second act, I guestate in your house for a while, but as I was never actually invited I eventually fade into the wallpaper. Why does that always happen to me. Like when I attend office baby showers. What is the point. When will I learn to politely decline. At least the fruit was fresh. At least that was the case. I took full advantage. And then I left. Three delicious strawberries later. Retreat!

Since I’m also writing this play while acting in it I get to decide what the the final sound of the final act will be just as I make it. And it is this. A tree falling alone in a forest. Wait, I can’t replicate that. Sooo…yeah, guess you’re gonna need to make up your own sound, after all, in your head, man. Is it the same sound when you’re around or not? Is it. Is it the same sound. How should I know. This is not a philosophy lesson; it’s a play.

In the epilogue, I talk about how the letter ‘M‘ has held significance for me throughout my life. Ooh, sounds intriguing, huh? Well, you’re not going to get to read it because I wrote that part at night sans lumière and so it’s illegible. Too bad for you. So are my seventeen seconds up or what? Yes? Okay, close curtain.

morbidly beautiful

“Permanent Smile” by Bill Callahan (aka Smog) is one of the more powerful songs about death that I’ve heard. I couldn’t find a video of him performing it on the YouTubes, and reading the lyrics alone doesn’t do the song its full justice, but here they are anyway…

Oh God, can you feel the sun in your back?
Oh God, can you see your shadow, inky black on the sand?
Oh God, can you hear the saltwater drying on your skin?
Oh God, can you feel my heart beating in my tongue?

Oh God, by being quiet, I hope to alleviate my death
Oh God, by sitting still, I hope to lighten your load
When your shadow covers me from head to toe
Curtain every flies, tell me it’s mine, my time to go

Seven waves of insects make babies in, in my skin
Seven waves of insects make families in my skin
(It’s just like animals) It’s just like animals that play
And the flesh…flesh…flesh…rotted off my skull
And then I will have earned my permanent, my permanent smile

Oh God, I never, never asked why
Oh God, I never, never asked why

  • Recent Posts

  • Navigation Station

    The links along the top of the page are rudimentary attempts at trail markers. Otherwise, see below for more search and browse options.

  • In Search of Lost Time

  • Personal Taxonomy

  • Common Ground

  • Resources

  • BOOKS BOOKS BOOKS