II
They say that smart people are the ones that ask a lot of questions. I don't know about that. Asking questions is sure no way to understand anything important, like a friend, or a tough situation. But if you shut that clever mouth of yours and just sit awhile, the truth filters through in a very cosmic way. And when you understand your friend, that's when I guess you know that they're no better or no worse than you. That they are more like you than you can really imagine. We're both capable of the same kind of crap.
Goose and I did a lot of crap together. And that's because we understood each other. Don't tell me you wouldn't do crazy crap things with your best friend. It's like finding cocaine air, over and over again, without anyone bothering you. You just go out and find you some more cocaine. And you get hooked. The good people- you only read about them in books, and acted like real stupid idiots when you thought about it. And who doesn't want to get the questions right?
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I've done more... but really I'm undecided on a lot of different routes I've taken with this. It's not good at all but maybe with a bit of nursing it might become something.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
pt. 2
Now that you know the shit that was there, you'd be needing to know a few things about the people who lived in it, filled it up most of the time. We always like to know about the people. They are the most important. And it was just myself and pretty much those few people I really knew back then; all pretty much just a bunch of kids. But I wouldn't call us average. Noone around there was ever an average kind of a person. I guess it was heavy metal poisoning from the mine. It was only when I got to the city that I figured I was a freak, but anyway.
It's about Goose. That was her name; real name Lucy, but anyone who didn't want a gob of spit in their eye was better to call her Goose. My best friend Goose, who I'd known ever since I was old enough to ride into town on the back of the dad's truck. I used to ride in all the time, sitting up in the tray with the dog. You know how it is when you're a kid; you try to make friends with anyone else just mucking around there. Soon enough, just about every time that my daddy used to ride that truck into town, I'd be riding on the back there with all of the dogs, just tearing off into nowhere as soon as I'd see her. We'd either have heaps of fun, or have heaps of fun just sitting there and talking.
She was tall like me, with long stringy blond hair that later grew just as brown as anyone else's. She always wore the same overalls. Her mama was always trying to get her to wear all kinds of pretty things like her sister Shelley would wear, but not Goose. She was the kind that could yell and scream just about anyone right into a corner. That's one of the reasons I always liked her, I guess. She always made her own decisions, whether it was her mama, her teacher, or the county sheriff. And she stuck to me like fire to the driest thorn.
When you're a little little kid what you remember is the frogs, the snakes, your brothers and your best friend in the tire swing. And that was enough, right back then. You didn't need a whole posse to lead around the elementary school like some of the others did when they got older.
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I know it isn't that great... but eh, I can edit it later on. I've got the germ of an idea that's growing inside of me... eee...eee : ).
Laura- when I write a story, I imagine a voice in my head telling it to me- out loud. That way I kind of hear it... laut gesprochen oder laut gelesen? anyway... but I do know what you mean! Some things you really have to read out loud to understand the full beauty/meaning of- like Dylan Thomas. I'm reading Under Milk Wood again- freaking out, generally, about the beauty and genius of the man's thought and inner word.
It's about Goose. That was her name; real name Lucy, but anyone who didn't want a gob of spit in their eye was better to call her Goose. My best friend Goose, who I'd known ever since I was old enough to ride into town on the back of the dad's truck. I used to ride in all the time, sitting up in the tray with the dog. You know how it is when you're a kid; you try to make friends with anyone else just mucking around there. Soon enough, just about every time that my daddy used to ride that truck into town, I'd be riding on the back there with all of the dogs, just tearing off into nowhere as soon as I'd see her. We'd either have heaps of fun, or have heaps of fun just sitting there and talking.
She was tall like me, with long stringy blond hair that later grew just as brown as anyone else's. She always wore the same overalls. Her mama was always trying to get her to wear all kinds of pretty things like her sister Shelley would wear, but not Goose. She was the kind that could yell and scream just about anyone right into a corner. That's one of the reasons I always liked her, I guess. She always made her own decisions, whether it was her mama, her teacher, or the county sheriff. And she stuck to me like fire to the driest thorn.
When you're a little little kid what you remember is the frogs, the snakes, your brothers and your best friend in the tire swing. And that was enough, right back then. You didn't need a whole posse to lead around the elementary school like some of the others did when they got older.
====
I know it isn't that great... but eh, I can edit it later on. I've got the germ of an idea that's growing inside of me... eee...eee : ).
Laura- when I write a story, I imagine a voice in my head telling it to me- out loud. That way I kind of hear it... laut gesprochen oder laut gelesen? anyway... but I do know what you mean! Some things you really have to read out loud to understand the full beauty/meaning of- like Dylan Thomas. I'm reading Under Milk Wood again- freaking out, generally, about the beauty and genius of the man's thought and inner word.
Friday, November 21, 2008
a beginning!
It sure must have been a lot of long crappy years that had seen the place; stomped it flat, burned it up dry with age. The main street like an infected cut, clotted black with trash and broken cars. Storefronts crowded with all that pitiful unbought stuff: plaster crazyladies jiving in ticketed polyester and tins of leprosy stacked behind smeary glass. Spit, shit and dust. And that was only the street that people really saw, passing through on their way through to someplace better. Beyond that, noone really saw where people lived, unless they lived there. And if they did live there, they often weren't too sure of it.
Scabby houses looking like dead dogs on a bad morning; all the pastelley, sticky paint coming off in strips. Sad, twisted eyes for windows, doors like dripping, rotting mouths; forever stuck with something else to yell about. It was only dry grass that grew here, and you saw a lot of kids. Adults were all at the mine. Kids all had a loud way of doing everything. The older ones yelling, racing down the street on their bikes or forming their little fairy-rings in bedroom, lounge or park, passing the pipe of peace.
I was a farmer's kid five miles to the east of there. But I did a hell of a lot of my living there, and I knew a lot of the kids from there. It was dead on twenty years ago now when I last saw the place, heading for my someplace else about as fast as I could, and this is the story for them that's still stuck back there in my mind. Right about now, it's all bubbling through the ground like the shit in a Love Canal, and there's no remedy for that but to share the disease.
(tbc)
Scabby houses looking like dead dogs on a bad morning; all the pastelley, sticky paint coming off in strips. Sad, twisted eyes for windows, doors like dripping, rotting mouths; forever stuck with something else to yell about. It was only dry grass that grew here, and you saw a lot of kids. Adults were all at the mine. Kids all had a loud way of doing everything. The older ones yelling, racing down the street on their bikes or forming their little fairy-rings in bedroom, lounge or park, passing the pipe of peace.
I was a farmer's kid five miles to the east of there. But I did a hell of a lot of my living there, and I knew a lot of the kids from there. It was dead on twenty years ago now when I last saw the place, heading for my someplace else about as fast as I could, and this is the story for them that's still stuck back there in my mind. Right about now, it's all bubbling through the ground like the shit in a Love Canal, and there's no remedy for that but to share the disease.
(tbc)
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