...Take me disappearing through the smoke rings of my mind, down the foggy ruins of time.
Far past the frozen leaves, the haunted frightened trees.
Out to the windy beach, far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrows.
To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea.
Circled by the circus signs, with all memory and fate, driven deep beneath the waves.
Let me forget about today until tomorrow...
-Bob Dylan, Tambourine Man
...
I lie in my apartment alone for long hours, just staring blankly into the ceiling. The white semi-gloss paint barely reflects the pale morning light that is peaking in through the tall windows of this old row home apartment. Each window draped with white lace curtains, tiny patterns of wrinkles so fine that it looks as if they have been pressed that way on purpose, run over them in a pattern that almost seems to be repeating. Stretched out on the hardwood floor, I know each thin board has been here for many years.
As I turn my head I can see wood grain that stretches out to each wall. My eyes focus on each tiny line and the dark spaces in between. These lines once flowed with sap to keep a tree somewhere alive, the light brown lines were the walls and the dark one was sitting in the center of the room. His hands folded neatly in front of him, head bent to stare at the reflective aluminum table. He had been here for hours after the police had picked him up. Standing there in the center of a charred room, burnt from the explosion that had killed two people and injured five more. When his brothers had sent him here they must have known what they were doing and just how to contain him, the only form of holding that could contain him in this material form, jail.
He tilts his head up, eyes shining in the pale light, and stares over at the only door in the perfectly cubical room. The tiny window has thin wiring running through it, just in case he decided he didn't want to sit at their table any more. Squinting his eyes he can see in the space between the lines she writes violently. Her hand moves with almost super human speed over the paper put in front of her, writing words, sentences, novels.
She had been here for years, ever since that state trooper had caught her wandering delirious through the desert just outside of L.A. The workers at the supermarket didn't see it coming; she had been an employee there for just under six months and had adjusted very well to store life. To everyone else the girl had seemed happy, calm and responsible. Their blood had sprayed across the dirty white super market floor like someone thrashing about with a can of red paint and tomato paste. 'Clean up on isle twelve.'
Now other than her writing she was just a vegetable, no words, not much movement, only constant writing. Her pencil stabs fervently into the bleached pressed tree pulp. If one breaks she just keeps writing with it until one of the aids take a fresh one from the stack and place it in her constantly moving hand. Picks up right where she left off, never missed a beat and hadn't written bad song since he was a freshman in high school. The words would flow on to paper, no thoughts, it would just happen. Then, without one hour of practice, his band would get up on whatever stage it was and play. The music would work itself, the song would flow perfectly. He had never even thought about why all the record companies wanted a slice of him. Why places would offer higher and higher prices for him to play, it just happened. Never having sat down and said, I'm going to be a good musician, never even thinking about it. But who knows, people say the best art wasn't supposed to come from hard work. But, from like, inspiration. It had all flowed perfectly, until now.
The constant stream of words moving through his head, demanding to be put into song had stopped. Even, the other day, he walked over to pick up an instrument and carefully examining the line he had drawn, the incision was made. This implant would be the first of more than a million that would go into each and every military officer in the United States Armed Forces. They are tiny communication devices, they allow for almost instantaneous reaction from a military unit in the field, all controlled by a center base. The huge screen looks almost like a giant strategy game; all you have to do is signal the proper troop, using their serial number and give them movement coordinates. It works perfect, just like clockwork. Every once in a while one of the chips would have a malfunction, a microscopic transistor would overload, sending a large chunk of electricity riding down the spinal cord of the soldier. He wouldn't feel it at first; it would just be a slight tingle, and then wham. Blurred vision, numb limbs, his mind would reel in horror sending him on a jagged path that runs along the wood, each a lifeline of the trees existence. Now just something to support me while I lie here on the floor and feel the cold hard varnish underneath me. Watching the patterns my mind makes in my perfectly white ceiling.
...
Far past the frozen leaves, the haunted frightened trees.
Out to the windy beach, far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrows.
To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea.
Circled by the circus signs, with all memory and fate, driven deep beneath the waves.
Let me forget about today until tomorrow...
-Bob Dylan, Tambourine Man
...
I lie in my apartment alone for long hours, just staring blankly into the ceiling. The white semi-gloss paint barely reflects the pale morning light that is peaking in through the tall windows of this old row home apartment. Each window draped with white lace curtains, tiny patterns of wrinkles so fine that it looks as if they have been pressed that way on purpose, run over them in a pattern that almost seems to be repeating. Stretched out on the hardwood floor, I know each thin board has been here for many years.
As I turn my head I can see wood grain that stretches out to each wall. My eyes focus on each tiny line and the dark spaces in between. These lines once flowed with sap to keep a tree somewhere alive, the light brown lines were the walls and the dark one was sitting in the center of the room. His hands folded neatly in front of him, head bent to stare at the reflective aluminum table. He had been here for hours after the police had picked him up. Standing there in the center of a charred room, burnt from the explosion that had killed two people and injured five more. When his brothers had sent him here they must have known what they were doing and just how to contain him, the only form of holding that could contain him in this material form, jail.
He tilts his head up, eyes shining in the pale light, and stares over at the only door in the perfectly cubical room. The tiny window has thin wiring running through it, just in case he decided he didn't want to sit at their table any more. Squinting his eyes he can see in the space between the lines she writes violently. Her hand moves with almost super human speed over the paper put in front of her, writing words, sentences, novels.
She had been here for years, ever since that state trooper had caught her wandering delirious through the desert just outside of L.A. The workers at the supermarket didn't see it coming; she had been an employee there for just under six months and had adjusted very well to store life. To everyone else the girl had seemed happy, calm and responsible. Their blood had sprayed across the dirty white super market floor like someone thrashing about with a can of red paint and tomato paste. 'Clean up on isle twelve.'
Now other than her writing she was just a vegetable, no words, not much movement, only constant writing. Her pencil stabs fervently into the bleached pressed tree pulp. If one breaks she just keeps writing with it until one of the aids take a fresh one from the stack and place it in her constantly moving hand. Picks up right where she left off, never missed a beat and hadn't written bad song since he was a freshman in high school. The words would flow on to paper, no thoughts, it would just happen. Then, without one hour of practice, his band would get up on whatever stage it was and play. The music would work itself, the song would flow perfectly. He had never even thought about why all the record companies wanted a slice of him. Why places would offer higher and higher prices for him to play, it just happened. Never having sat down and said, I'm going to be a good musician, never even thinking about it. But who knows, people say the best art wasn't supposed to come from hard work. But, from like, inspiration. It had all flowed perfectly, until now.
The constant stream of words moving through his head, demanding to be put into song had stopped. Even, the other day, he walked over to pick up an instrument and carefully examining the line he had drawn, the incision was made. This implant would be the first of more than a million that would go into each and every military officer in the United States Armed Forces. They are tiny communication devices, they allow for almost instantaneous reaction from a military unit in the field, all controlled by a center base. The huge screen looks almost like a giant strategy game; all you have to do is signal the proper troop, using their serial number and give them movement coordinates. It works perfect, just like clockwork. Every once in a while one of the chips would have a malfunction, a microscopic transistor would overload, sending a large chunk of electricity riding down the spinal cord of the soldier. He wouldn't feel it at first; it would just be a slight tingle, and then wham. Blurred vision, numb limbs, his mind would reel in horror sending him on a jagged path that runs along the wood, each a lifeline of the trees existence. Now just something to support me while I lie here on the floor and feel the cold hard varnish underneath me. Watching the patterns my mind makes in my perfectly white ceiling.
...