Sunday, August 28, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Back in the bathroom, Brian had gotten back to his feet, swaying. He had calmed himself down, tried to logic his way back down to earth. He splashed a little water on his face, saw that there were no paper towels, and used his sleeve. He pushed through the bathroom door and crept back to his seat, casting a wary eye toward the librarian, who merely sniffed. Brian sat down and looked back at the blog. There was the description of his flight to the bathroom. He reached down without looking and pulled the gum off the seat of his pants, rolling it between his fingers and pressing it to the underside of the desk. He noted that his action with the gum was recorded in the blog and glanced around at the rest of the library. A couple of kids were bent over an SAT prep book, an old man with calf socks pulled up squinting at a book title, and a young woman in her thirties asleep at another computer – no one looked like they were watching him and transcribing his movements. Brian turned back to the computer. It was crazy, and he knew it was crazy, but he was a writer and writers have to embrace a little craziness. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes.
“Hello?” He whispered. The sleeping woman grunted, making him jump. “Can you hear me?” Brian scrolled down to see his query. It was there, but there was no good answer, since I’m not sure what to tell him. I mean, I can read what he’s saying but I can’t technically hear him. Besides, what good is it if I can? “Ah HA!” Brian yelled. The librarian shot up. “Young man, if you cannot control yourself you will have to leave!” Brian sat back, cowed. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said meekly. Quietly, he murmured “ah-HA! You CAN hear me!” Well, not technically. “All right,” Brian said, “but the point remains.” And he was right, I suppose. The librarian’s interruptions were getting tiresome, so it only made sense to point out to all readers that we can “hear” Brian just as well if he thought his comments instead of speaking them. You know I’m reading this, too, right? Thought Brian. I did, obviously, which is why I wrote it. Hey, no need to get touchy. Brian frowned. Are you some kind of God? Which was another interesting question. Since the story is in a third person narration, it would suggest that as the author I retain some sort of authoritative control over the story. However, several prominent writers recently have advanced the theory that writers should simply start stories moving and then see where they go. In that regard, and in the sense that I am a little taken aback by the audacity of the questions, I cannot claim to foresee every detail. On the other hand, it is absurd to say I was taken aback, since I had planned for Brian to ask these questions. All right, all right, Brian thought. I don’t need to know everything about it. You’re clearly not omnipotent. But then, what does that mean about me? The title says this is a metafiction. Am I real? Brian tried to remember anything before the beginning of the blog entry and was surprised to realize that he could, with great clarity, recall a number of details from his past. He remembered eating Ice Pops with a bandaid on his knee in early summers, his mom sobbing at his high school graduation, and the toast he had eaten that morning. OK, he thought, this clearly isn’t a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead scenario. But that past does seem a little canned. Brian realized he didn’t have a very strong emotional reaction to his past. So, he thought, I’m fictional? Like in Stranger Than Fiction? Brian was annoyingly quick on the reference, despite the obvious differences in the plot setup. There were similarities, but Brian was relieved to read that I had no intention of killing him off. It would be an act of literary suicide, since Brian’s character had a lot of the author in him. Really? Thought Brian. What are you like in real life? But there was no reply. Apparently the author hoped to maintain a level of mystique.
In Part 3, hopefully we get less pedantic
Monday, August 8, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
- Grooving to the beat
- Grooving to the Boogie
- Boogeying to the beat
- Letting my feet do the talking
- Busting a move
- Cutting a rug
- Getting down
- Getting down on the floor
- Getting down with my bad self
Monday, July 25, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
ROSCO [to FRANK]
See, the nice thing about working in this neighborhood is your lunch break turns into quite the little parade.
Yeah, the salary may not be great, but the “fringe benefits” [he makes the quote marks around while holding his sandwich] are a pretty sweet deal.
I gotcha; the trim is nice, then?
Oh my goodness, you should see the skirts that come through this way. Hubba hubba!
ROSCO and BARRY start a cartoonish series of wolf-whistles and expressions of desire. FRANK laughs along with them. ROSCO stops abruptly as a woman enters and crosses the stage.
Woah boys, look at what we have here!
Sweet Criminy, take a look at that neckline!
Baby, it’s a good thing my imagination ain’t hungry, because that skirt is leaving nothing to it!
I feel like I gotta pay whoever made that top, o wow!
Yeah, baby, shake those cans!
Woah, Frank, what’s the matter with you?!
Our apologies ma’am, this man does not speak for us.
The woman exits. BARRY and ROSCO turn on a confused FRANK.
Geez, you’re a pig!
What’d I do?
Frank, you were a real asshole to that lady.
I was just joining in!
Never mind that, here comes another one! You mind your manners this time, new guy.
Another woman enters and crosses the stage in the same manner.
Ooh sweetheart, those hiphugger jeans are giving me the sweats!
Lose the blouse, baby, and let’s take a look at the goods underneath!
Yeah baby, what kind of panties you got on? They got a lacy trim around them? You got hipsters on? Tangas? Control briefs? I’m dying here!
Yeah, let’s see that butt, sugar!
Wow, you chauvinist. Why don’t you just chop her up like so much meat?
Please lady, pay no attention to this chowderhead. He's got a head full of chowder.
The woman exits. Again, ROSCO and BARRY turn on FRANK.
You keep this up, Frank, and I’m gonna report you to the foreman.
I’m sorry guys, I don’t understand!
You're a real piece of work, insulting the fine women of our city.
I’m only doing what you guys are doing!
Don’t try to put us on your level; we’re not objectifying these beautiful ladies.
Speaking of beautiful, check out the wardrobe coming our way!
A third woman walks across the stage in the same manner as the first two. During the sequence of catcalls, FRANK catches on.
Ooh baby, pull that braided belt a little tighter and I might choke!
I know that’s Dolce’s spring line, but you’re making it feel like summer out here, pumpkin! [He fans himself with his sandwich.]
Ooh I can see that Victoria’s Secret bra strap! Oof, tell me it’s a shelf bra! Tell me it’s a shelf bra!
I wanna bury myself in those pleats, sweetie!
I see you working those cinched sleeves with the lacy fringe.
God musta invented a new type of neckline just for you!
Yeah baby, those heels are fierce! I see you struttin in those Jimmy Choos!
The woman exits. BARRY and ROSCO are uncomfortable. Beat.
Are you gay, Frank?
You can tell us.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
- The leather of my dog's ear as I passed him going down our back stairs
- The puckered skin of the grapes that I rinsed in my hand and ate over the sink.
- The gritty accumulations in my molars from eating peanuts.
- The sour pit in my stomach, a combination of coffee and wondering what my mom thinks of me.
- the twinge of my hamstrings as I walk, which reminds me of yesterday's exercise
- my muscles scrunching toward my spine involuntarily when a bug brushes against my neck
- crawling my toes into my sandals
- two dots of sunlight on the hood of a car, which diverge as I approach and then slide away into the grill.
- The muffled descent of the bedsheet when I flopped back under it after hitting the snooze button.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
We made some small talk, some larger talk. Neither of us thought to bring any CDs in the car, so we were stuck with whatever was in there previously. It was too late when we realized we had Buena Vista Social Club. My mom worked at the school where I'm interviewing just after she graduated, and many of her former coworkers are still there. She told me about her and my dad's post-graduate jobs. They spent a lot of time flitting between jobs and travel; it was reassuring knowing they didn't drop into teacher-and-lawyer roles immediately.
I'm not sure what questions I'm going to be asked tomorrow. I've already done a few interviews with the school. It's a pretty campus, fairly isolated from big cities. I'm staying in the Visitor's Center. It's a large building, but I'm alone in it. There's a thunderstorm outside, and with the lights off I can see why Stephen King stayed in Maine to write.