Sunday, October 2, 2011

A Mad Scientist Swings for the Fences with Creative Non-Fiction

So, I have this friend.

Our friendship is a black hole. First and foremost, it frequently sucks. Second and more importantly, it exists entirely in a vacuum and despite only being just shy of three years old, it's super-dense. Finally, for both of us, survival is dictated on surfing frequently shifting, but slow moving, tidal currents that require an inexorable grip and an iron stomach. 

It's likely that the few people that even know about it, on both sides, think it's a bad idea. It's just as likely that everyone trying to observe this black hole through the vacuum from a distance is receiving the same icy stare for their comments. 

Anyway, Fiction, non-fiction, poetry, it all flies back and forth with a predictable regularity based more on circumstances than a calendar, although there are seasonal shifts that can serve as correlative predictors of content shifts. It'd been awhile since I received any poetry, although I knew some was coming my way, and then it did, and this was my rapid-fire response, hastily written at work in between shouting at doctors to deliver content they'd promised. It's arguably the most personal thing I've ever shared on here, but I'm fairly proud of how the prose all fell together, and, based on a rare response to things like this, they liked it a lot, so I'm sharing it.

Really, all of that was just so I can say that, if my friend is reading this, they can still claim ownership, and that while I'm sharing it, this is still theirs. I'm saying this for two reasons: First, I'm thoughtful. Second, I respect the vacuum if, for any reason, because it can freeze me solid and make my eyeballs explode and I need functioning, un-exploded eyeballs to keep up with every one of my interests, both professional and personal.

Suddenly flush faced and shaky handed, the ubiquitous click reports like a starter pistol, the adrenaline kicks perceptibly from the third eye and 982 days of memories rumble and roar as they spin up, kick-starting wetware programming to whir and warm. Context is irrelevant, the rush never fades, and the weight of the once requested and hence-unrequited vaults that which lit the initial spark into the forefront once again, and the ingestion of brand new of the old familiar surges as the jaws of the soul action like a ball python. 

There's no music but the feet move, there's no dance partner but lingering empty air, hot nostrils, like a bull's, like a wolf's, imagine sweet tea and whiskey and pecans and old pages, only measured in the parts per million. Timé yanks the agapic harness, the phileo-whip is cracked and order is restored.

The memories always remain and, as any burden is ignored and any pain is accepted, a sigh and a smirk roll on, the day better for the experience, because tomorrow is 983 and you never know what's next. 

The intro was longer than the piece. Like I said, they've been a dense few years.