stories can come from anywhere. people, places, events. mostly, its from a number of those things sloshing around in your head, until piece A slots into piece B like first-time lovers, gingerly, and then you have the beginning of something painful, sure, but beautiful in its possibility and potency. this is headed somewhere. although, whether its the main character, the time/place, the two crackheads upstairs, or the whole ghost thing, i dont know.
they can go anywhere, too. thats what i love about writing. sometimes, the most surprising things come out of your own mind.
static
Behind the static, there is something there. Something to be seen, to be decoded. It just takes time, to walk through all that pixellated snowfall or is it ash? Is it Christmas in New York, or Chernobyl? Does the distinction mean anything? White on black or black on white. Theyre both cover for something.
He checks his watch. The face is open, unlike the flickering glamour box in front of him, and simple to read. It reads a quarter past three, but it stopped working some twelve years ago now. Oddly enough, the digital readout on the microwave silently reads 3.15, also. The stopped watch is right twice a day, he thinks, and shudders in the cold.
It is cold. It is February. The electricity is still on, for now, but the gas has been out for days. Company says they cant get out until Thursday due to the snow. Thats all well and good, since he doesnt the cash to have it switched back on, anyhow. Seems everyones behind on their payments these days.
He is a misshapen, lumpy silhouette on the wall behind, cast in pale radiation-grey and black, flickering in and out of substance in time with the fall of static and snowflake. Hes not crazy about the cold. Hasnt been this cold for maybe three, four years. Since April.
Have you ever seen a ghost? Most people you talk to, they say no. Dont believe in the afterlife; or if they do, they dont believe in ghosts. The divine resurrection, of course. Poltergeists? What do I look like, an idiot? Happens too often, to too many people, though. Whether its a mass hallucination, or common cerebral anomaly, or whether ghosts are objectively real Theyre there, all right. Voices, images.
He keeps seeing ghosts in the static. Its all a little odd.
The snow, outside, it wont stop falling. Neither will whatever it is on the screen. Still undecided whether ice or ash. Theyre both apt, metaphorically. It just depends on what prescription youre on, really. Hes on a bunch of them; well, not tonight, of course, hes ghost hunting. Most he cant pronounce.
The thing about static, he thinks, is that it can be anything you want. It can be a thing, or an absence of a thing, or a flickering filter imposed between you and a thing. It can be purposeful in and of itself, or gloriously random.
He likes random. Dice, mostly. The devils knuckles rattling around in a cup, spilling to the asphalt, and in a second you have yourself a new coat, or dinner out at a nice restaurant with a warm, soft female body for the night. Or, you end up without money for the gas, and ghosts in the static telling you something you can hear on the edge of your vision. At least the dice wont screw you on purpose.
The upstairs is banging up a storm again. Youd think they were trying to set a fucking land fucking speed fucking record, with all their jackhammer banging. Gets annoying, especially when the weather turns like its turned now, like the gas is out in theirs, too, and theyre rutting to keep away the cold. That, or hes laying an almighty of a beatdown on her. The voices are muffled so youd not know either way until the sirens; and, with the rent as low as it is, its little surprise you never hear police or ambulances at this end of town. He doesnt call. Doesnt head upstairs to check Whatd it be worth, anyway? Interrupt some crackheads fucking, or fucking each other up, and youd be more as likely to get fucked yourself, in the end. And the ambulances equally wouldnt come for that. Good intentions or no, youre still south of 8th Street.
Damn, theyre making a racket. Nothing to do, though, except hunker into the blankets and stare into the static. Its like this. The crackhead brain only responds to a set of narrow and highly specific urges: the urge to do more crack, the urge to fuck the living shit out of something, and the urge to murder someone. Interrupting a crackhead in the throes of urge A or B invariably results in a sudden spike in urge C, which then results in a similar spike in someones pain centers; if not a spike (railroad) through those pain centers. This is math of the most basic kind. Its not coming-down-from-the-trees, learning-to-throw, discovering-speech kind of math. Single cells do this kind of math in a half-life.
The snow clears for a second. The ash gets thicker. Gods sputtering cigarette raining carcino-skin on TV, on repeat.
Ghosts. Hes looking for ghosts in TV static. People would think he was crazy, if they werent all looking for the same thing. And if he wasnt the only guy in town who could find them.
peace.
they can go anywhere, too. thats what i love about writing. sometimes, the most surprising things come out of your own mind.
static
Behind the static, there is something there. Something to be seen, to be decoded. It just takes time, to walk through all that pixellated snowfall or is it ash? Is it Christmas in New York, or Chernobyl? Does the distinction mean anything? White on black or black on white. Theyre both cover for something.
He checks his watch. The face is open, unlike the flickering glamour box in front of him, and simple to read. It reads a quarter past three, but it stopped working some twelve years ago now. Oddly enough, the digital readout on the microwave silently reads 3.15, also. The stopped watch is right twice a day, he thinks, and shudders in the cold.
It is cold. It is February. The electricity is still on, for now, but the gas has been out for days. Company says they cant get out until Thursday due to the snow. Thats all well and good, since he doesnt the cash to have it switched back on, anyhow. Seems everyones behind on their payments these days.
He is a misshapen, lumpy silhouette on the wall behind, cast in pale radiation-grey and black, flickering in and out of substance in time with the fall of static and snowflake. Hes not crazy about the cold. Hasnt been this cold for maybe three, four years. Since April.
Have you ever seen a ghost? Most people you talk to, they say no. Dont believe in the afterlife; or if they do, they dont believe in ghosts. The divine resurrection, of course. Poltergeists? What do I look like, an idiot? Happens too often, to too many people, though. Whether its a mass hallucination, or common cerebral anomaly, or whether ghosts are objectively real Theyre there, all right. Voices, images.
He keeps seeing ghosts in the static. Its all a little odd.
The snow, outside, it wont stop falling. Neither will whatever it is on the screen. Still undecided whether ice or ash. Theyre both apt, metaphorically. It just depends on what prescription youre on, really. Hes on a bunch of them; well, not tonight, of course, hes ghost hunting. Most he cant pronounce.
The thing about static, he thinks, is that it can be anything you want. It can be a thing, or an absence of a thing, or a flickering filter imposed between you and a thing. It can be purposeful in and of itself, or gloriously random.
He likes random. Dice, mostly. The devils knuckles rattling around in a cup, spilling to the asphalt, and in a second you have yourself a new coat, or dinner out at a nice restaurant with a warm, soft female body for the night. Or, you end up without money for the gas, and ghosts in the static telling you something you can hear on the edge of your vision. At least the dice wont screw you on purpose.
The upstairs is banging up a storm again. Youd think they were trying to set a fucking land fucking speed fucking record, with all their jackhammer banging. Gets annoying, especially when the weather turns like its turned now, like the gas is out in theirs, too, and theyre rutting to keep away the cold. That, or hes laying an almighty of a beatdown on her. The voices are muffled so youd not know either way until the sirens; and, with the rent as low as it is, its little surprise you never hear police or ambulances at this end of town. He doesnt call. Doesnt head upstairs to check Whatd it be worth, anyway? Interrupt some crackheads fucking, or fucking each other up, and youd be more as likely to get fucked yourself, in the end. And the ambulances equally wouldnt come for that. Good intentions or no, youre still south of 8th Street.
Damn, theyre making a racket. Nothing to do, though, except hunker into the blankets and stare into the static. Its like this. The crackhead brain only responds to a set of narrow and highly specific urges: the urge to do more crack, the urge to fuck the living shit out of something, and the urge to murder someone. Interrupting a crackhead in the throes of urge A or B invariably results in a sudden spike in urge C, which then results in a similar spike in someones pain centers; if not a spike (railroad) through those pain centers. This is math of the most basic kind. Its not coming-down-from-the-trees, learning-to-throw, discovering-speech kind of math. Single cells do this kind of math in a half-life.
The snow clears for a second. The ash gets thicker. Gods sputtering cigarette raining carcino-skin on TV, on repeat.
Ghosts. Hes looking for ghosts in TV static. People would think he was crazy, if they werent all looking for the same thing. And if he wasnt the only guy in town who could find them.
peace.
I know it was so much fun!! I contemplated building a raft but only had my handbag, banking books, my lunch container and black nail polish! so not much to work with!! haha
ps: melbourne misses you enjoying its weather (wink wink)
macguyver, you ain't. or you never played 'day of the tentacle'. i can think of about seven different combinations of those items that would result in not only a raft, but a working thermometer AND corrective braces.
ps. melbourne can suck it. i'm no city's mistress.
wait, master... oh, crap.