20 December 2006

Chronic Cold and Other Musings

It’s slow, the way he doesn’t notice his fingers getting cold. It’s so gradual that by the time it actually happens, and they are cold, they are really cold. He rubs them together, right hand over left, left hand over right, back again. Blowing over them with damp breath. It helps for a moment, but only so. He is now fully aware that his fingers are cold, and it only draws to surface the fact that other things are cold as well, like the tip of the nose. He cups his hands over it to warm, but it does no good. The cold fingers won’t warm the cold nose.

His nose is a problem. He has one of those perpetual colds. It’s a constant, and yet also intermittent, sniffle. Chronic Cold. Perhaps it comes from his years as a smoker, although the smooth taste of a Lucky hasn’t graced his lips in over 5 years. He thinks to himself how it doesn’t matter now. What’s done is done. He thinks generic thoughts like that, and wonders if he will ever thing of something brilliant. He thinks that he probably won’t, and it makes him sad.

The cold doesn’t make him sad though. In a way, it’s become a comfort, a constant, like his Chronic Cold. Every year, it sneaks up on him, the cold. As if one summer afternoon he fell asleep, and awoke to find it was winter. Somewhere, in dreams, he remembers the red and yellow of autumn, and it makes him smile a small smile. One of those smiles that starts in the mind, but somehow doesn’t make it’s way all the way to the lips.

Autumn never seems a complete season. It’s always a hazy passage between the heat of summer and the chill of winter. It’s the journey, not the destination, although he would chastise himself for thinking it in such a cliché. He thinks that it would be lovely if it were full, like the winter, but all of the musings in the world won’t make it so. He knows this very well. He has no delusions that he can change the world.

He has a few delusions that he can change himself. He points to quitting smoking as evidence of that. The truth is, he was never much of a smoker. Deep down, he knows that he romanticized the entire thing, but it’s something to talk about.

“Care for a smoke?” He imagines someone might say.

“Oh, no thank you,” He might reply. “I Quit.”

The other nods. “Yeah? Good for you. I’ve been trying for years. It’s just so hard, you know?”

Now he nods. His nod tells the other he knows. “I know,” he replies.

He imagines conversations going like this. He puts himself in places he knows they might come about. In smoke filled bars, standing near ashtrays outside of buildings and at bus stops, in the corner cafes. Sometimes it works, and he gets the change to tell the other about his triumphs over tobacco. He doesn’t talk a lot though. It’s not his style. He has to have planned it all out first. The smoking bit he has down.

But he has to work on the autumn bit. And the Chronic Cold bit. He hasn’t rehearsed them yet.

12 December 2006

Clip Number One

So I didn't finish my novel for nanowrimo. Didn't even come close. It was lame, it sucked, I hated it, and I seemed to start it over like 200 times, with 200 different directions and ideas, and even characters, which makes for a pretty scrambled story. It an attempt to humiliate myself, I thought I would randomly post some clippings from said lame novel here. It reminds me of something my buddy Joe Keatinge does on his page, something called useless conversations, you can check that out at joekeatinge.blogspot.com. I'll hotlink that later. I'm feeling lazy right now. I need some tea and a cigarette.

Here is Clip Number One:

“Oh, frick,” Amber said, looking at her watch. “We’re gonna be late meeting Beth and James. You still want to go, right?”

Drew sighed, and then nodded.

“I mean, I know you’re probably tired, from your plane ride and all, traveling, it’s just that, with the new baby, they don’t have much time, I just worry that we might not get a chance to go out with them again before, you know, before you have to go again,” said Amber.

“Let’s go then,” Drew said, getting up. He put out his hand to help Amber up. She grabbed it, and they made their way to the car.

“Beth looks so great, I mean, for just having a baby and all, you won’t believe it,” Amber said.

“I’m sure,” Drew replied, not really interested. His interest in Beth had lasted for about three months their sophomore year of high school. That was how long it took for him to get her in bed. She wasn’t as fast as many of the other girls he had gone out with, like that bitch Kimberly, but she wasn’t a prude either. She was pretty, but not beautiful. The kind of pretty that an honest guy could fall in love with, but Drew wasn’t that guy in high school. It seemed perfectly fitting to him now that she would be married with a kid. He was a little surprised that his friend James had been the one who had managed to snag her, but he was a good guy. Always had been.

Squirrel Cow Monkey Orange