air for life
[silence, hope]
When he awoke, he felt her back pressed against him, warm and smooth against his chest. He kissed her neck and then reached under it and around her, and placed his hands gently, almost caressing, on her firm breasts. His finger tips danced on the nipples, lightly gliding over the points and he whispered into her ears her name, over and over again. But she didn’t move, her breath calm and rhythmic in tight beats, and her body was stiff, and then tense, when he nudged her buttocks with his hardness.
Sighing, he moved away from her, and lay on his back, looking at the low ceiling, tracing with his eyes, the brittle peeling white curls. He felt her move closer to the wall and the sheets pulled and wrapped more tightly around her, and then angrily, the wet stain of his limpness, pushed coldly against his groin.
He peeled back the sheets and rolled off the bed. Naked and cold, he walked to the only window in their room to close it, but didn’t and stood there, listening to the hard static of the mid-October rain, falling sharply on the sidewalk. Outside, the wind blew through the half-bare maples and the leaves fell, spiraling down to carpet the street in a mosaic of reds and yellows and browns. He could almost taste the cool fresh scent of wet leaves, as the rain sliced into the room. The cold numbed him.
She felt the chill as the winds picked up, and she wrapped the sheets round even tighter. She swore to herself and felt the anger rise up in her. She wanted to scream at him to shut the window, but she couldn’t even make a noise. She felt too empty, too cold in the bed, so she pressed herself against the wall, almost trying to hug it, squeezing herself with her arms. She could smell the coarseness of old paint and she could feel the smooth coldness of the wall with her face. On impulse, her tongue shot out and licked it, tasting the bitter, blandness.
I wrote this a long time ago for a class. It's the opening of a story about a Chinese/English Canadian couple who was going to be married and move away from their respective families. This beginning is nothing like the rest of the story, which focuses on two 10 course Thanksgiving meals and stilted dialogue. I fondly remember this bit as the beginning of a style that a classmate/friend (and now my lawyer) called joe's hyper-realism. I was trying to describe as closely as possible the things and feelings in the scene, without layers of interpretation suffocating it. I don't think I succeeded, really, but it was the beginning of a change to how I approached writing fiction.
I am reminded of this piece a few evenings ago with mark. As usual, we ended up talking about fiction and writing (even though neither of us had written much of anything lately). This time we talked about the genuineness of writing, or to write from one's heart and not from one's head. mark will clarify if I'm mistaken or wrong, but we weren't drinking, so I assume this is an accurate recollection.
I often find it easier to write something with set parameters, an exercise of some kind, rather than trying to write about what I want to say, free form without any boundaries. What I mean to say is that it's easier to be told what to write and then write, than it is to write something that reveals something, that's from the heart or from passion, led by no one but your mind. I've struggled with this notion for a very long time, staring at blank screens and wondering if it's just that I can't write at all because I have nothing to say, nor passion to say anything. So, I haven't written in awhile, and I don't consider myself a writer anymore.
I think I understand what mark is saying, although I'm not sure if I can feel it now. I know there's that moment when you create something from a deep passion, that what you produce, be it a painting, a dance, a piece of music, or a poem, becomes this new life, and the emotion that spills forth is elating, ecstatic. I know that because I felt it when I wrote before. Now, I just don't know anymore. In order for something to be genuinely good, it needs to be genuine, from the heart. Without this, it is like reading/watching/listening technically good artists, pieces without soul, works that are cold. All day at work, I write technically good documents, communication, memos, diplomatic entreaties, deflective announcements, blameless PR. I don't write from passion anymore. I wonder now if it's because I don't have passion, and not because I have nothing to say. Y thinks I've got no passion, that I'm this calm, phlegmatic, “amorph”. He thinks I've always been this way. There's some truth in that, I know.
When I re-read this bit of an old short story I wrote, I think that it does capture that cold, passion-suppressed disconnect between two people who can't be together for whatever reasons. At that time in my life, I was naive and the world was just an open book, waiting to be filled. I wrote those characters, describing them in my mind from people I had known in my youth, yet I don't think I really knew those two people. But now, I really know what it is to hold back passion, and lose yourself in a cold, small room. I am afraid I won't be able to find that passion again and remain mute, silent in the noise of day-to-day living, the mundane, the minor grind of life.
And yet, my short story does end happily.
The window was opened, the night wind blew in gently. The rains had ended, but the cold was sharper. Outside, the street was quiet, the moonlight casting dark shadows over the string of cars beneath their window. She could feel the heat from his body. His back was to her, and she could see in the dimness his long smooth back and the ridges of his spine. She kissed his back and then slid her arm around him, hugging him closely. She could feel his breathing, slow and deep and she knew he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. She slipped her leg between his, and stroked his stomach lightly.
He turned around and smiled. He pressed up against her and then tickled her back. She whispered into his ear his Chinese name over and over again, laughing.
I think there is always hope, nothing stays the same, nothing that should stop you from hoping for more, for better.
When he awoke, he felt her back pressed against him, warm and smooth against his chest. He kissed her neck and then reached under it and around her, and placed his hands gently, almost caressing, on her firm breasts. His finger tips danced on the nipples, lightly gliding over the points and he whispered into her ears her name, over and over again. But she didn’t move, her breath calm and rhythmic in tight beats, and her body was stiff, and then tense, when he nudged her buttocks with his hardness.
Sighing, he moved away from her, and lay on his back, looking at the low ceiling, tracing with his eyes, the brittle peeling white curls. He felt her move closer to the wall and the sheets pulled and wrapped more tightly around her, and then angrily, the wet stain of his limpness, pushed coldly against his groin.
He peeled back the sheets and rolled off the bed. Naked and cold, he walked to the only window in their room to close it, but didn’t and stood there, listening to the hard static of the mid-October rain, falling sharply on the sidewalk. Outside, the wind blew through the half-bare maples and the leaves fell, spiraling down to carpet the street in a mosaic of reds and yellows and browns. He could almost taste the cool fresh scent of wet leaves, as the rain sliced into the room. The cold numbed him.
She felt the chill as the winds picked up, and she wrapped the sheets round even tighter. She swore to herself and felt the anger rise up in her. She wanted to scream at him to shut the window, but she couldn’t even make a noise. She felt too empty, too cold in the bed, so she pressed herself against the wall, almost trying to hug it, squeezing herself with her arms. She could smell the coarseness of old paint and she could feel the smooth coldness of the wall with her face. On impulse, her tongue shot out and licked it, tasting the bitter, blandness.
I wrote this a long time ago for a class. It's the opening of a story about a Chinese/English Canadian couple who was going to be married and move away from their respective families. This beginning is nothing like the rest of the story, which focuses on two 10 course Thanksgiving meals and stilted dialogue. I fondly remember this bit as the beginning of a style that a classmate/friend (and now my lawyer) called joe's hyper-realism. I was trying to describe as closely as possible the things and feelings in the scene, without layers of interpretation suffocating it. I don't think I succeeded, really, but it was the beginning of a change to how I approached writing fiction.
I am reminded of this piece a few evenings ago with mark. As usual, we ended up talking about fiction and writing (even though neither of us had written much of anything lately). This time we talked about the genuineness of writing, or to write from one's heart and not from one's head. mark will clarify if I'm mistaken or wrong, but we weren't drinking, so I assume this is an accurate recollection.
I often find it easier to write something with set parameters, an exercise of some kind, rather than trying to write about what I want to say, free form without any boundaries. What I mean to say is that it's easier to be told what to write and then write, than it is to write something that reveals something, that's from the heart or from passion, led by no one but your mind. I've struggled with this notion for a very long time, staring at blank screens and wondering if it's just that I can't write at all because I have nothing to say, nor passion to say anything. So, I haven't written in awhile, and I don't consider myself a writer anymore.
I think I understand what mark is saying, although I'm not sure if I can feel it now. I know there's that moment when you create something from a deep passion, that what you produce, be it a painting, a dance, a piece of music, or a poem, becomes this new life, and the emotion that spills forth is elating, ecstatic. I know that because I felt it when I wrote before. Now, I just don't know anymore. In order for something to be genuinely good, it needs to be genuine, from the heart. Without this, it is like reading/watching/listening technically good artists, pieces without soul, works that are cold. All day at work, I write technically good documents, communication, memos, diplomatic entreaties, deflective announcements, blameless PR. I don't write from passion anymore. I wonder now if it's because I don't have passion, and not because I have nothing to say. Y thinks I've got no passion, that I'm this calm, phlegmatic, “amorph”. He thinks I've always been this way. There's some truth in that, I know.
When I re-read this bit of an old short story I wrote, I think that it does capture that cold, passion-suppressed disconnect between two people who can't be together for whatever reasons. At that time in my life, I was naive and the world was just an open book, waiting to be filled. I wrote those characters, describing them in my mind from people I had known in my youth, yet I don't think I really knew those two people. But now, I really know what it is to hold back passion, and lose yourself in a cold, small room. I am afraid I won't be able to find that passion again and remain mute, silent in the noise of day-to-day living, the mundane, the minor grind of life.
And yet, my short story does end happily.
The window was opened, the night wind blew in gently. The rains had ended, but the cold was sharper. Outside, the street was quiet, the moonlight casting dark shadows over the string of cars beneath their window. She could feel the heat from his body. His back was to her, and she could see in the dimness his long smooth back and the ridges of his spine. She kissed his back and then slid her arm around him, hugging him closely. She could feel his breathing, slow and deep and she knew he hadn’t fallen asleep yet. She slipped her leg between his, and stroked his stomach lightly.
He turned around and smiled. He pressed up against her and then tickled her back. She whispered into his ear his Chinese name over and over again, laughing.
I think there is always hope, nothing stays the same, nothing that should stop you from hoping for more, for better.
posted by joe at 6:39 PM
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