Recent Entries Garion born; thinking of doing video logs - 2012-09-01 I'm married, I'm a prospective father, wow I never update - 2012-05-22 Got the job at the NIA; mother complicates wedding plans - 2011-10-13 Scrawl - 2011-08-05 It's never been better - 2011-06-02
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A Tale for Jack 2008-09-11 - 12:10 a.m. 
He grazed the ink-dabbed pages with his fingers, looking out over the shoreline. A tome of words murmured below sunken eyes. There was faint laughter in some, strange tales of bisexual liaisons, and the constancy of dramatic revelation. They were a thousand conversations, imperfectly cataloged, more themes than instances in the casual way facts held hands and walked together.The smell of the sea rose as the dark sky fell. The spray tempted him to retire from the oaken study. He walked along stations of varying organization, offering attention to a seven foot plant that dominated the foyer. Sand rose up to cake his feet like baked chicken. He pointed his toes through the gritty earth in easy steps. The sound of the surf stopped his attention as it gently droned. He imagined looking at himself sideways, years of sleep deprivation gilded in the dark circles that touched his eyes. He had spent many of those days speaking, through writing, to sentient ghosts he occasionally met in the physical world. Somehow it never really mattered if it happened. He scanned the horizon as a practiced hobby. Some day, he thought, a ship with white sails would come, some vessel with news from a life he had long since abandoned for singular pursuits both social and isolation. Yet the longing came. Even now he had casually flipped through four years ago, two years, six. He wondered if they still remembered the events much the same way he had penned them. An imperceptible mass arose from the depths. It was square at first, forming definition like vague semaphore. He sat down in the sand and remembered a tune, the same way the band 'Placebo' played it: Telling me he'd be home Sailed the seas for a hundred years And left me all alone Now I've been dead for twenty years And I remember the day that the young man came You're all wrong, I said And I've been waiting all this time I've been washing the sand with my salty tears Every time he listened he thought of that self same man. Down through the years of witches, secret societies, shamans, and a host of strange people he had most auspiciously cultivated few extended interactions with, the sweat-licked desperado of darkened beauty and tragedy seemed to hint at the magic of the world. In red words set and stained more than written, Jack elaborated on a sex-soaked drive into the carnal celestines and broken angels, of satisfied dissatisfaction, of beaming joy that was utterly foreign. He missed his friend. The shape became more shapes, unto a ship, and mounted higher in the growing pitch of evening. Shortly it emerged along the surf and came closer still. It was him. As the colors were struck and a familiar breeze warmed the autumn air, there were twin smiles unseen. Two ghosts forgotten by time could dance again, for a little while. |
