![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Day 13
5 minutes
suburban swimming pool
another hot sticky summer day
we are surrounded by the laughter of children and a gated fence
i have to stop dragging my bare feet because of the roughness of the pavement
i am blind by a bright spot on the surface of the pool,
apollo's reflection burning the skin on my face
he burns us like a kid with a magnifying glass,
a hill of ants covered in dried chlorine and sunblock.
i canonball from the high dive,
and my head stings from snorting water up my nose
the taste of chemicals in my mouth,
and for some reason i wonder what feet taste like.
i am afloat in a world of floaters,
i lie on my back and levitate in the deep section,
hearing nothing but the muffled sound of people jumping into the pool
like im in space
i really attempted to cram things into that one. maybe that's the point of this "exercise." that is, after all, what pattison said he is motivating us to do - dig deep and fast. at the very least, i can say, i am writing. and when i am not awake and alert, my writer doesn't function very well.
10 minutes
the old fishing hole
the fire crackles
ashes float like broken fireflies
the fisherman is roasting todays catch over the open flames
slowly rotating the spittle,
mouth watering in anticipation
he enjoys the feel of earth on his bare feet,
the feel of dirt, the feel of running water
the creek babbles contentedly over the edge of the bank
full of fish navigating by small pools of moonlight flowing through tree branches
the fisherman waits patiently,
cooking his catch in his gaze,
his breath full of gravity
dirt beneath his fingernails,
the smell of fish and worms at his fingertips
just him and a handful of trees in the softglow of firelight in the midst of darkness
overflowing with the chirping and crickets and toads
the kind of conversation that lasts until daylight
he pulls the fish away from the fire for a moment,
and picks through the white meat with his dirty fingers
he digs out a flake of tender
you know. i was afraid of the old fishing hole. ten minutes of something i know nothing about. but i turned it into something i did know. i stuck with what i know.
90 seconds
under an umbrella
the ocean floor has opened up above us,
and we are surrounded with the sound of water smacking asphalt
almost like the sound of leaves bustling in a strong wind
i am grasping the hilt of an umbrella just below shoulder height
and she steps in closer, our shoulders pressing into one another
and fireworks go off in my head
day 14
5 minutes
on the city bus
reflections on a pane of glass
caught between people staring back at themselves
the bus rides smooth and steady
to the sound of muffled beats jammed into peoples ears
a passenger is idly flipping through their smartphone
radio waves caught between people watching people live
the aisle is a kaleidoscope of perfume, cologne, hair gel, and body odor
people waver in the center, like trees caught up in a windstorm
roots holding firmly to the rubber mat
a city of cars and street lights and pedestrians rushes by as we stand still in the center of the universe,
all motion relative to our own.
we gently lurch forward...
10 minutes
wedding in an old church
vaulted ceiling
full of aged worship
the preacher stands front and center,
clasping his worn out theology in his hand,
voice loud and imposing
a rolling thunder that echoes
"i know pronounce you man and wife"
they kiss in the soft glow of church light
their faces painted with pride and ecstacy
family and friends rise to their feet
with the crackle of applause,
light rain showering on a tin roof
and out they walk,
through showers of rice and congratulations,
from a church as ancient as the ritual
faded but unforgotten
it towers over the party,
ominous and forboding
it watches patiently amidst the trees,
shadows stretching up the painted glass
claws from hell reaching for the church bell
people watch contentedly as the promise of life continues to unfold
the pages turn, the dust stirs
tin cans rattle behind a black car,
the words "just married" on the rear windshield scribbled in white paint
it's the sound of commitment and joint tax returns,
rattling through the stoplights and intersections
the sound of two becoming one
the sound of love moaning in the night,
sweaty and panting
90 seconds
canoe on the river
raging rapids
rushing on the stream
mist speckling my face and hands
my clothes are soaked
water dripping from my nose and chin
it tastes like rain everywhere
rocking with the paddles peddling forward
gentle sway in the canoe
chirping birds in the tree tops overhead
sky reflected on the river
*****
okay, so truth be told, i botched day fourteen. i took several days in between the five minute until i got to the next two. and i took a day between day thirteen and fourteen. so, as far as discipline goes, i failed my first fourteen day challenge. but i finished it anyways. next we move on to metaphor, i believe.
i think i'll let my writer rest during the work day, and bring him out after i get home and have some food and coffee. i feel so tired and rushed in the morning. and then, he doesn't even hang out with me throughout the rest of the day. he only visits when i pull up my notepad or something.
i should analyze things before i move on. and read a little further.
5 minutes
suburban swimming pool
another hot sticky summer day
we are surrounded by the laughter of children and a gated fence
i have to stop dragging my bare feet because of the roughness of the pavement
i am blind by a bright spot on the surface of the pool,
apollo's reflection burning the skin on my face
he burns us like a kid with a magnifying glass,
a hill of ants covered in dried chlorine and sunblock.
i canonball from the high dive,
and my head stings from snorting water up my nose
the taste of chemicals in my mouth,
and for some reason i wonder what feet taste like.
i am afloat in a world of floaters,
i lie on my back and levitate in the deep section,
hearing nothing but the muffled sound of people jumping into the pool
like im in space
i really attempted to cram things into that one. maybe that's the point of this "exercise." that is, after all, what pattison said he is motivating us to do - dig deep and fast. at the very least, i can say, i am writing. and when i am not awake and alert, my writer doesn't function very well.
10 minutes
the old fishing hole
the fire crackles
ashes float like broken fireflies
the fisherman is roasting todays catch over the open flames
slowly rotating the spittle,
mouth watering in anticipation
he enjoys the feel of earth on his bare feet,
the feel of dirt, the feel of running water
the creek babbles contentedly over the edge of the bank
full of fish navigating by small pools of moonlight flowing through tree branches
the fisherman waits patiently,
cooking his catch in his gaze,
his breath full of gravity
dirt beneath his fingernails,
the smell of fish and worms at his fingertips
just him and a handful of trees in the softglow of firelight in the midst of darkness
overflowing with the chirping and crickets and toads
the kind of conversation that lasts until daylight
he pulls the fish away from the fire for a moment,
and picks through the white meat with his dirty fingers
he digs out a flake of tender
you know. i was afraid of the old fishing hole. ten minutes of something i know nothing about. but i turned it into something i did know. i stuck with what i know.
90 seconds
under an umbrella
the ocean floor has opened up above us,
and we are surrounded with the sound of water smacking asphalt
almost like the sound of leaves bustling in a strong wind
i am grasping the hilt of an umbrella just below shoulder height
and she steps in closer, our shoulders pressing into one another
and fireworks go off in my head
day 14
5 minutes
on the city bus
reflections on a pane of glass
caught between people staring back at themselves
the bus rides smooth and steady
to the sound of muffled beats jammed into peoples ears
a passenger is idly flipping through their smartphone
radio waves caught between people watching people live
the aisle is a kaleidoscope of perfume, cologne, hair gel, and body odor
people waver in the center, like trees caught up in a windstorm
roots holding firmly to the rubber mat
a city of cars and street lights and pedestrians rushes by as we stand still in the center of the universe,
all motion relative to our own.
we gently lurch forward...
10 minutes
wedding in an old church
vaulted ceiling
full of aged worship
the preacher stands front and center,
clasping his worn out theology in his hand,
voice loud and imposing
a rolling thunder that echoes
"i know pronounce you man and wife"
they kiss in the soft glow of church light
their faces painted with pride and ecstacy
family and friends rise to their feet
with the crackle of applause,
light rain showering on a tin roof
and out they walk,
through showers of rice and congratulations,
from a church as ancient as the ritual
faded but unforgotten
it towers over the party,
ominous and forboding
it watches patiently amidst the trees,
shadows stretching up the painted glass
claws from hell reaching for the church bell
people watch contentedly as the promise of life continues to unfold
the pages turn, the dust stirs
tin cans rattle behind a black car,
the words "just married" on the rear windshield scribbled in white paint
it's the sound of commitment and joint tax returns,
rattling through the stoplights and intersections
the sound of two becoming one
the sound of love moaning in the night,
sweaty and panting
90 seconds
canoe on the river
raging rapids
rushing on the stream
mist speckling my face and hands
my clothes are soaked
water dripping from my nose and chin
it tastes like rain everywhere
rocking with the paddles peddling forward
gentle sway in the canoe
chirping birds in the tree tops overhead
sky reflected on the river
*****
okay, so truth be told, i botched day fourteen. i took several days in between the five minute until i got to the next two. and i took a day between day thirteen and fourteen. so, as far as discipline goes, i failed my first fourteen day challenge. but i finished it anyways. next we move on to metaphor, i believe.
i think i'll let my writer rest during the work day, and bring him out after i get home and have some food and coffee. i feel so tired and rushed in the morning. and then, he doesn't even hang out with me throughout the rest of the day. he only visits when i pull up my notepad or something.
i should analyze things before i move on. and read a little further.