HowLongIsTooLong
02-28-2008, 08:56 AM
I.
In a public bathroom in a large city: A vague, unblinking man sat on the toilet, his arms bare. The left, slick and shining in a sickly manner, was extended straight out, rigid, palm up, vibrating in minute cycles. The right hand was held flat and straight, hovering over the inside of his left elbow. His right hand flexed in a regular manner, seeming to 'draw' something from the arm... or was it radiating rather than absorbing? His head was straight and strong in its attitude on the outside, on the inside, he was reflecting on the words that composed his thoughts...
'Minute' was spelled the same as 'minute' and they sounded different, and had completely different meanings... what divergence of etymology caused this? 'Entrance' and 'entrance'... 'wind' and 'wind'... the floor seemed to shift underneath him.
Arrayed on his lap were several instruments. A forceps, a bullet, a loaded syringe, a glass slide, matches, a strip of stained rubber, a small pistol. He was obviously a filthy drug addict. The other objects were quite discordant, but no one saw them except him. It was obsessive behavior.
Before choosing the syringe, he tightly wrapped his upper arm in rubber. The steel slipped under the skin and found the target with no difficulty. The blood that flowed into the barrel was so dark as to be black... he jerked the tourniquet with his teeth, his arm and hand motionless as the black blood accompanied the drug inward when he pressed the plunger.
'Dove' and 'dove'... 'tear' and 'tear'... 'bow' and 'bow'...
A feedback loop of sorts resulted from this train of thought and he sat still, unblinking, but inside, he was spinning. More questions asserted themselves; he took issue at this, for it happened fairly frequently... they really seemed to come from an outside source and he had no control over them. He often reflected on them for hours, hammering his mind in self-flagellant recursion.
If he was involuntarily reducing his intake, should he be encouraged?
If the veil that customarily swaddled the dark, burning center, the shrinking essentiality of his self, were brutally ripped away, would he die? Or would he be able to pin down the veil in the face of the rising psychic wind that threatened him?
Who gives a fuck, he asked himself. This was internally generated. Obvious, he thought. The crude, depressive ones.
Bottom line: Does his intention count for anything at all?
He was forced to think lately, and this did not sit well with him. He had a tendency to 'think too much'; his father accused him of that before turning his back on him, and now, yes, he was dwelling on it. This expression fit well, as he lived and ate, breathed and sweated and slept on the surface of this unpleasant memory... he was trying to dig down to the core of the thing but he lacked the proper tools... his hands were ragged with soil and blood... and he never made any progress on that front, though he lived there still, on it.
In his last conversation with him, his father made reference to their family in such a way as to exclude him; references to his half-siblings or his grandmother were preceded with the phrase 'my' family... and when he was questioned about it, the questions were dismissed summarily. This created an oppressive sense of dislocation, as if he were suddenly a different person. Isolation was the rule, but he didn't like to be so definitely reminded of his status as an outsider... he lost the luxury of lying to himself. Because it was true, you see... he was a family of one, which is no family at all.
'I didn't mean it that way', his father would exclaim, before mounting another attack. Did that justify it? Was his intention somehow real? Objectively significant? His father certainly felt that way.
He reloaded the pistol and packed his kit, leaving the bathroom and emerging into blinding light. He squinted hard, struggling against the stimulus, his eyes burning and streaming. He reached out with his hand, trying to avoid colliding with something or someone.
This time he did not.
Would it be today? Would it matter if it never happened? Why am I waiting when I could force the issue...
He adjusted to the light presently, his surroundings resolving into familiar territory. Fifth Avenue, snowbound, crystalline white throwing light back into the sun's face. It was pointless. He heard a noise behind him and turned.
A Jack Russell terrier was standing in front of him, legs braced and barking in a steady, stentorian rhythm, like the beat of a drum or the striking of a clock. No owner was in sight, though the dog had an ornate collar on, sparkling with gold. The dog's head bobbed idiotically, as if it were on a spring... he seemed content to yell his day away as long as his victim stood for it.
'Kill it', the thought came unbidden, and he recoiled. Of course I could, he thought, looking around. Few people were on the street. He could surely do it and be unnoticed. He clenched the checkered wooden grip of the pistol and stood, shaking. It was cold, he thought. I could use the fur.
His own staccato laughter shocked him out of this reverie, and he squatted, extending his hand so the dog might smell him. The dog did stop barking and sniffed, accepting him immediately, licking his hand and wagging his entire hindquarters in a craven manner.
He looked more closely at the collar. Hanging from the ornate metalwork at the bottom was a USB flash drive, 10 gigabytes; a large one.
Still no owner made an appearance... I will take this thing, he thought. I intend to take it. I will make this intention into reality... at which point it ceases to be intended, right? I want this. I will.
He took it and made his way uptown on Fifth Avenue.
In a public bathroom in a large city: A vague, unblinking man sat on the toilet, his arms bare. The left, slick and shining in a sickly manner, was extended straight out, rigid, palm up, vibrating in minute cycles. The right hand was held flat and straight, hovering over the inside of his left elbow. His right hand flexed in a regular manner, seeming to 'draw' something from the arm... or was it radiating rather than absorbing? His head was straight and strong in its attitude on the outside, on the inside, he was reflecting on the words that composed his thoughts...
'Minute' was spelled the same as 'minute' and they sounded different, and had completely different meanings... what divergence of etymology caused this? 'Entrance' and 'entrance'... 'wind' and 'wind'... the floor seemed to shift underneath him.
Arrayed on his lap were several instruments. A forceps, a bullet, a loaded syringe, a glass slide, matches, a strip of stained rubber, a small pistol. He was obviously a filthy drug addict. The other objects were quite discordant, but no one saw them except him. It was obsessive behavior.
Before choosing the syringe, he tightly wrapped his upper arm in rubber. The steel slipped under the skin and found the target with no difficulty. The blood that flowed into the barrel was so dark as to be black... he jerked the tourniquet with his teeth, his arm and hand motionless as the black blood accompanied the drug inward when he pressed the plunger.
'Dove' and 'dove'... 'tear' and 'tear'... 'bow' and 'bow'...
A feedback loop of sorts resulted from this train of thought and he sat still, unblinking, but inside, he was spinning. More questions asserted themselves; he took issue at this, for it happened fairly frequently... they really seemed to come from an outside source and he had no control over them. He often reflected on them for hours, hammering his mind in self-flagellant recursion.
If he was involuntarily reducing his intake, should he be encouraged?
If the veil that customarily swaddled the dark, burning center, the shrinking essentiality of his self, were brutally ripped away, would he die? Or would he be able to pin down the veil in the face of the rising psychic wind that threatened him?
Who gives a fuck, he asked himself. This was internally generated. Obvious, he thought. The crude, depressive ones.
Bottom line: Does his intention count for anything at all?
He was forced to think lately, and this did not sit well with him. He had a tendency to 'think too much'; his father accused him of that before turning his back on him, and now, yes, he was dwelling on it. This expression fit well, as he lived and ate, breathed and sweated and slept on the surface of this unpleasant memory... he was trying to dig down to the core of the thing but he lacked the proper tools... his hands were ragged with soil and blood... and he never made any progress on that front, though he lived there still, on it.
In his last conversation with him, his father made reference to their family in such a way as to exclude him; references to his half-siblings or his grandmother were preceded with the phrase 'my' family... and when he was questioned about it, the questions were dismissed summarily. This created an oppressive sense of dislocation, as if he were suddenly a different person. Isolation was the rule, but he didn't like to be so definitely reminded of his status as an outsider... he lost the luxury of lying to himself. Because it was true, you see... he was a family of one, which is no family at all.
'I didn't mean it that way', his father would exclaim, before mounting another attack. Did that justify it? Was his intention somehow real? Objectively significant? His father certainly felt that way.
He reloaded the pistol and packed his kit, leaving the bathroom and emerging into blinding light. He squinted hard, struggling against the stimulus, his eyes burning and streaming. He reached out with his hand, trying to avoid colliding with something or someone.
This time he did not.
Would it be today? Would it matter if it never happened? Why am I waiting when I could force the issue...
He adjusted to the light presently, his surroundings resolving into familiar territory. Fifth Avenue, snowbound, crystalline white throwing light back into the sun's face. It was pointless. He heard a noise behind him and turned.
A Jack Russell terrier was standing in front of him, legs braced and barking in a steady, stentorian rhythm, like the beat of a drum or the striking of a clock. No owner was in sight, though the dog had an ornate collar on, sparkling with gold. The dog's head bobbed idiotically, as if it were on a spring... he seemed content to yell his day away as long as his victim stood for it.
'Kill it', the thought came unbidden, and he recoiled. Of course I could, he thought, looking around. Few people were on the street. He could surely do it and be unnoticed. He clenched the checkered wooden grip of the pistol and stood, shaking. It was cold, he thought. I could use the fur.
His own staccato laughter shocked him out of this reverie, and he squatted, extending his hand so the dog might smell him. The dog did stop barking and sniffed, accepting him immediately, licking his hand and wagging his entire hindquarters in a craven manner.
He looked more closely at the collar. Hanging from the ornate metalwork at the bottom was a USB flash drive, 10 gigabytes; a large one.
Still no owner made an appearance... I will take this thing, he thought. I intend to take it. I will make this intention into reality... at which point it ceases to be intended, right? I want this. I will.
He took it and made his way uptown on Fifth Avenue.