“Dean!....Was it—“ “Dean Phillips!!”
“I don’t know Al!”
The TV is blaring: ...’and today’s poll is... Who was the coach of the Phildelphia...’
“Dick! I knew it was Dick Phillips! It must be... It has to be!—Or was it Steve?”
“Oh Whatever! Al! Listen, don’t forget to take the garbage out, tomorrow is garbage day”
‘and the answer is: Charles Dunham!’
“I knew that! I knew it was Dunham!
“Al, did you hear me?” she asks again...and again before taking the dog for a walk.
“Hey Ally” he calls to me “Hey Ally! Charles Dunham, Ally! I knew it!” Surely pumping his fist in lieu of his uncontested victory.
I slam my door. Placing a rather hollow rectangle of wood between my small holding and the cacophonous blasting of nonsensical noise that poured forth from our living room so often.
Every day the blasting goes...and the door is never quite up to task.
Sighing, I glance behind me. There are books everywhere. Strewn this way and that—with titles I couldn’t care to care for, but do, because that’s just how the world works.
I grab one. Set it down. Strong burgundy-bind from York. Lay it flat. Sit on black chair, and sigh again.
Flip to a random page: 212: “The Pentecost narrative of Acts 2:17, to which I have already alluded, reflects the early perception that the gift of prophecy......Including Pauline Christianity.....Excluding Prostasis....as reflected in the Galations 3:28 reference....
The door flies open. I pull down my headphones, ready for the blaring of voices...The back and forth nozzles and clicks, cheeps and utterances... –Did I mention I had snatched a pair of headphones to erase the drones?.... It hardly matters...
“Hey Ally! Charles Dunham!”
“Mm.” I reply. It might have been taken as an acknowledgement.
“I got it Ally! Charles Dunham!”
“Yeah, cool, sounds good I said”, mumbling the message already spoken.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing, Nothing, dad I’m trying to—“ I trail off, caught up in words attacking eyes that don’t seem to make sense, and sounds into earholes that make even less.
“Trying to what?”
More words tear at my eyeballs..Black inked corneas bleed Barnabas, Baptismal...Tradition...Rabbinic...Manumission...Pricilla and Aquila
“This—Th-Thi—Paper! Essay, dad, Essay!” I, desperate, clash with nerves to speak. It’s all mumbles again, so I wave—I make expressions of grandeur to the small room around me, showcasing a floor of words, small tables, papers and the various wreckages of a struggling scholar—the hand I employed leads my father’s curious eyes around the room.
He closes the door and returns to the living room. Or somewhere.
I sigh. 249: Present research interests...That not all, or even most Muslims....The aforementioned Qu’ran verse....
I slam the book shut and shake my head free of the spider’s web of voice and idea that spill forth from a page marked with rows of tiny ink shapes that aren't mine.
‘Maybe... there’s another’....I reach to the floor for another book.
Seize one. White, flimsy. Red trim....’Canada? No—No wait’... My eyes blurr...still recovering from the earlier assault.
The door flies open
“Alex look at this place!” Wide-eyes likely scan the floor. I would have looked, but I didn’t need to, to know just how they would be. She’s in yellow. – An Arizona yellow
“You need to clean this up this is ridiculous, this is unbelievable...this is blasphemous...this is m—”
***********************************************************************
“This is Mary”
“I don’t believe we’ve met” reaching across white tablecloth and over flowery centrepiece
“Of course you haven’t met her, but she’s a mite displeased about your paper. Let me tell you”
“My what? Wiping mouth with pristine cloth.
“ Your paper" Calm voice relays
I point to my own chest, mouthful, dazed query.
Nodding follows
"The very same”
“W-what about it?”
“How can you write that without knowing me--- a clean voice. She speaks. Porcelain white.
“I’m sorry?”-blinking- “I’m sorry—I-- can you say th”—buzzing—“can you say that--” The hum is louder. ... clearing ..... Focus
"B-but that's what we do"
"What."
"What?"
"What do you do?" The calm man is stern. Porcelain Mary sits.
-Sipping Water- "Oh, right...write...we write about....things"
"Things you don't know?"
"Things I don't know?"
"Things you don't know...about...Things that are beyond you, things that you cannot understand?"
-Sipping Water- “I’m sorry, could you– could you say that again?"
Humming gows louder... porcelain Mary.... washed out with trebel-floods
*****************************************************************************
“ And you know it’s just another one of those things with you isn’t it...Alex!
Alex, are you even listening to me??”
I pull my headphones down and arch a cracking neck, straining to view wide-eyes peering into a clouded din of senselessness.
“I’m sorry... can you say that agai---“
The door slams shut.
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Im sorry, i tried, i really tried, read it over a few times but i have no idea what this post was about. It seems like i was getting lost every other line. Especially with Porcelin Mary. My only suggestion would be to either directly let us know who is speaking which piece of dialogue or use a different font for each person.
ReplyDeleteI actually loved the part with Porcelain Mary. Because of how abstract it is, it definitely worked with the rest of the piece. Unfortunately I have to agree with Kyle in saying, what the hell are you talking about? The imagery is good, but where you were going with it gets lost. Daydream? Nightmare? What.
ReplyDeleteI found this to be a very interesting post. I think the beginning was especially great, capturing clips of sound playing in the background that you are trying to ignore, but simply cannot because of how loud they are. I like how you captured the frustration of trying to concentrate and the idea that a bedroom or wherever you want to do work is like a sanctuary, and the idea that all that is separating you from the outside world is a door. This emphasis on you slamming the door and “placing a rather hollow rectangle of wood between [your] small holding and the cacophonous blasting of nonsensical noise that poured forth from [your] living room so often” is fantastic in that the thing that you are trying to use to separate yourself from the outside world is something that is really quite insignificant and “is never quite up to the task.” I really like the contrasts and the ideas of separation and search for solitude and serenity.
ReplyDeleteI thought that this post was definitely well written, even though I had a little trouble understanding it. I first thought that it was a stream-of-consciousness type of piece (I've always liked writing that uses this!) but then I got lost around the porcelain Mary part. I get the feeling, however, that all this creative stuff is going on in your head, and I think that's wonderful. I just felt left out of the story when I read this -- like feeling left out of a conversation that's happening around you and you have no idea who is being talked about.
ReplyDeleteAs a reader, I felt privileged to be transported to many settings with snippets of different dialogue & description. You had the guts to experiment with something new, and I like the approach. And maybe it's good if we don't know everything. It leaves it open to interpretation.