The Surety of...
I found this blurb on a three-year-old disc. This was an apparently aborted attempt at beginning a short story. It reads amazingly similar to a Blog entry, no?
3/31/02 1:38 AM
He knew little beyond the stinging surety of his unhappiness.
He found pleasure in simple things—whiskey, cigars, his son's smile—but felt destined to be outwitted by happiness.
Random car lights splayed the occasional patterned chaos through the kitchen window, lighting on the dining room wall, filtered through the hard coming rain. Emmy Lou Harris' heartbreaking voice and the rattling of ice and glass were the only two things heard between rumbles of thunder. Ray thought once of turning up the heat but didn't want to get up and so didn't.
He felt like a character in a Raymond Carver story most of the time. In his mind he but existed in the moment, and then just barely. He awoke exhausted and remained as such until the wee hours of the next morning. The lack of sleep affected his thought processes, his cognitive skills. His conversations were lately interrupted by awkward pauses because he'd either lost his place or simply misplaced the next word necessary to carry the on…
I like to believe that my “characters” (wink wink nudge nudge) are a bit more upbeat these days. Poor Ray seems damn near suicidal. He may have pulled a Hemingway before finishing that last thought. I have boxes full of shit like this. Slips of paper, blurbs, things overheard. Nothing, however, that is fleshed out and complete. What is it with me not being able to finish anyth…
3/31/02 1:38 AM
He knew little beyond the stinging surety of his unhappiness.
He found pleasure in simple things—whiskey, cigars, his son's smile—but felt destined to be outwitted by happiness.
Random car lights splayed the occasional patterned chaos through the kitchen window, lighting on the dining room wall, filtered through the hard coming rain. Emmy Lou Harris' heartbreaking voice and the rattling of ice and glass were the only two things heard between rumbles of thunder. Ray thought once of turning up the heat but didn't want to get up and so didn't.
He felt like a character in a Raymond Carver story most of the time. In his mind he but existed in the moment, and then just barely. He awoke exhausted and remained as such until the wee hours of the next morning. The lack of sleep affected his thought processes, his cognitive skills. His conversations were lately interrupted by awkward pauses because he'd either lost his place or simply misplaced the next word necessary to carry the on…
I like to believe that my “characters” (wink wink nudge nudge) are a bit more upbeat these days. Poor Ray seems damn near suicidal. He may have pulled a Hemingway before finishing that last thought. I have boxes full of shit like this. Slips of paper, blurbs, things overheard. Nothing, however, that is fleshed out and complete. What is it with me not being able to finish anyth…
posted by Ryan at 4:01 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home