|
Writer
Join Date: May 2004
Location: California
Posts: 27
|
first chapter, hope there's some potential.... ^_^;
i'm trying my hand at stream-of-consciousness, first person narratives...well i suppose stream-of-consciousness would have to be in the first person, anyways, this is the first chapter in a book i'm writing...i want to see if it's appealing, does it make you want to read more...it's still rough, but i want to make sure i'm on the right track some what...i'm having especial trouble with i's, me's, my's since it's written in the first person, it's hard not to...is the stream-of-consciousness too all-over-the-place? also i'm trying to tell memories rather than describe them, by using flashbacks, i hope this is transferred to the readers--does it jumble you up? um, **warning--there will be some swearing, no sex though**...all critiques welcomed and needed
edits made: um, made some edits to the content, hopefully it will make better sense this time around, without having to explain it *hangs head in shame* as for the grammatical errors i need to have a professor or an english major or something take a look at it, cause ms office word thing isn't picking anything up except for when i put punctions like this: ?!?!?! to show yelling a question, unless is it better that i just put an exclamation?
what i'm afraid is that the story is coming out not as a story, but as a mix of stage blocking/direction, narration and dialogue--because i'm writing as i see and hear it in my head, keeping in mind that i'm visual person, and a film major...
Chapter 1
It seems that I’m always on the verge of tears these days. I can't help it sometimes and just let myself go. I try my damnedest to curb any embarrassing displays of emotion. I can barely sit through TV shows or commercials or movies or songs that I’ve attached a memory to, without tearing up. It just brings up all these f*cking memories to the surface. All these embarrassing, sad moments are queued up in my mind. Unrelenting thoughts snowball into a massive sh*tball of a reality that I didn't ever dream would happen-- a 23 year old, 4th year junior in college with 2 more years to go, alone and lonely, where planning ahead is a joke between friends, but is just as funny as it is as sad because it holds so much truth...I have broken, compromised so many promises to myself, that it's no surprise that I’m in the hole I’m in. No matter what I do, I keep digging myself in deeper and deeper, so much that there's no place to put the dirt anymore and it just packs in around my feet. I’m stuck in this rut, this sh*t hole. Past experiences and decisions make any current wishful dreaming a joke. My mind zeroes in on these memories…these thoughts and I can't release it. It’s disgusting that I don’t have the mental strength to hide, to swallow all this sh*t up like I used to and just press on, continue the struggle against self and environment. All this…this sh*t gets me teary eyed. My eyes water and my nose begins to run. I’ve tried biting my lip or the inside of my cheek to replace one pain with another--to commit what I’ve termed 'emotional abortion'. I’ve come to a single useful technique, though not always successful. I blink twice and look off to the side and try to find something to occupy my mind.
There’s something wrong with me, at least that's what I’ve been told by countless pseudo psychiatrists—friends, TV, music, the news, yada. It seems that everyone’s a pseudo psychiatrist these days. I blame it on daytime TV; it rots the mind. Shows like Ricki Lake, Jerry Springer, Jenny Jones, Maury something-or-other, I can go on but I don’t want to incriminate myself any further—it’s not that I watch a lot of TV, more like I spend a lot of time staring at it—, nonetheless, they take the complexities, the trials of life and view it through plastic goggles, a kaleidoscope with a mesh screen lens. Everything is filtered down to a simple topic to be presented for strangers. This passes of as entertainment, as free speech—this stuff gets through FCC regulations? They are more concerned with topics of sex and naughty language? The filth that is transmitted across America by these programs is much more damaging to the human condition, to a fragile mind, than an exposed nipple or a slip of a ‘naughty word’. They perpetuate this disgusting fascination with morbidly stupid people and their decisions in life. What is more disgusting than these topics is an entire show dedicated to parading the unfortunates, under the guise of altruism, for their own capitalistic means. Furthermore, these shows continue to live on in television. Through my logic, perhaps I’m wrong, but this means that these shows are getting ratings—enough people in America are watching that these shows get the funding…get the green light for another season. It is very disturbing to me. It truly boggles the mind, a modern wonder of the world, a mystery of the universe. These shows instill in its viewers a surface layer view of psychology, a cathode certification of do-it-yourself psychiatry. It spills into—it infects society. I’ve seen people analyze their friend’s problems. Hell, I’ve done it myself, but I usually absolve myself of any responsibility, simply, by saying, “but I’m no expert.”
With my limited experience in psychology, I’ve taken it upon myself, rather than advising my friends to see a trained therapist, but give my own opinion on their matters. I’ve had an indirect contact with psychology. There’s the stuff I’ve learned from friends who have been in an actual psychology class, then what I’ve learned from professor TV, and then from analyzing literature and film (thru college courses and as a hobby). I could give them some ridiculous nonsensical rambling, and they would listen—why? Because they’re obligated to, they’ve just recited their problems to another “understanding friend”. My giving advice, especially from the state of mind I’m in, is purely egotistical—they’ve taken the time to ask me, and I shall take the time to answer them. It’s a lot like masturbating or describing oneself to strangers, or a job interviewer, or someone else who would care—you’re stroking your own ‘ego’. Perhaps I’m being too cynical…perhaps I’m too jaded, perhaps…“but I’m no expert”.
Everything starts somewhere, and I guess mine starts with my not being able to sleep or how things are going in my life, or a combination of the two. I don’t really know where it started—am I not able to sleep because of how things are going in my life, or is my lack of sleep determining how things are going on in my life.
When asked how thing are going in my life, I instinctively say, “oh fine. How about you?” or “I’m okay. Yourself?” Or I might use some preconceived answer, like the double answer: “oh fine, fine. Sup with you?”; or the upgrade: “oh great, great. How ‘bout you? How things goin?”; and who can forget the ‘I’ll feign seriously thinking about a truthful answer by pausing and giving a long “Ehhhh…” and end it with the ebonic finisher “s’okay”, bringing the two together as, “Ehhh…s’kay”. Even if seriously asked by a friend as to what’s going on in my life, I will boldface lie to them—because how selfish, how arrogant can I be to unload my problems on another person—I mean I’ll complain to them about the little stuff, like getting a speeding ticket—I got to throw them a bone, yknow? Besides the very thought of seriously talking to them about myself terrifies me.
All of this is permeated with a feeling of hopelessness and being lost. I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t think I ever have. I usually play things by ear. It’s worked so far, but recently—I guess—I haven’t been hearing too well. Everything seems out of my control, not that it’s ever been in my control, just that it seems that it’s more so, like I’m at the mercy of some invisible force. Everything is moving fast and the world is spinning…and I’m spinning…and it only stops to make me soak in the uneasy feeling, to dwell upon the negative things, cause you can’t help but dwell on the negative things—at least, I can’t. Everything’s up in the air…and I’m sprawled out and falling…falling forever…in an endless sea of clouds—there’s no such thing as a stratosphere or a troposphere or a sphere of any kind. Anxiousness envelops me. I want it to end, to stop falling, or at least hit something, to crumble under the velocity. When your life has gone to sh*t, no one will look at the positive, no one normal. Everyone will focus on the sh*t—like I am…My focus is driving me insane.
These thoughts rush to me and speed by as I sit here in my apartment. The lights are off and everything is a mess. I could tidy up, but will that make things better? No. My life will remain as it is, stagnant and pathetic. It’s a small apartment, two bedrooms, a kitchen, and one bathroom. I live alone. That loneliness drives me insane but the thought of living with a stranger scares me—negating the loneliness. The thought of living with a friend scares me even more. My habits, my way of living—I don’t want to show that to another living soul, much less my friends. They’ll have a different view of me. They’ll know how truly pathetic I am and that scares me. So I live here alone. I take the bedroom closer to the living room. The bathroom is opposite my door. From there, a short hall leads to the second bedroom, which I have not put to any use since moving in. It scares me. I try not to look in its direction if I can help it. There is something ominous about it, that I leave it alone.
When I first moved into the apartment, the door to that room was left open. Friends would pop in and out, saying how nice it is and how it’s much bigger than the one I chose. They think I should’ve moved my stuff in there or at least get a roommate to put it to use. That is out of the question. Many will think my fear illogical. But isn’t the nature of fear illogical. Not many people can give a logical explanation to their fears. Few can give several childhood instances where some traumatic experience has scarred them. Myself, I have no idea why I fear this room. I don’t seem to have any problems with any other room, but this one room, in particular, bothers me to no end. My fear keeps me away from it. Perhaps it is not the room at all, and it is just that it lies at the end of a hall. Perhaps that is it. I remember as a child seeing Kubrick’s The Shining. In that movie, there were many shots of halls within the hotel, at the end of each hall lied something horrible, and within each room something even more terrible. I don’t remember much of the movie now, except for its low tracking shots and the little boy on his tricycle running into a pair of twins. It still creeps me out to this day.
I’m sitting here, thinking…wallowing, in this apartment with the haunted second bedroom, on my plaid couch that has traveled straight from the 80’s and into the present—it was something cheap I picked up at the thrift store. A coffee table sits across from it, with various papers and books scattered atop it, covering up watermarks and dried up condiments. The television is off, the ceiling fan on, and I’m here in the dark, alone. The curtains are pulled shut, but light creeps in on the sides. In my kitchen, garbage spills out of its container and the floor is sticky from some distant memory of cooking and spilled soda. The landlord’s refrigerator has been near empty for several weeks now. All that lies within are a pitcher, an empty ice-tray, and a full can of whip cream, of which no pressure is left for use. The apartment used to be clean enough to walk around barefoot, but these days I can’t go around without stepping on something greasy or sticky—I’m glad no one comes by here anymore. There would be silence if not for the distant vocals of Snoop Dog spilling out of my neighbor’s speakers. The world lives its life outside the doors of this apartment and I’m sitting here alone in the dark.
It’s maddening. I’m on the brink of tears again. I think I’ll let myself go, now. No one will know. The door is locked, the curtains pulled, the music too loud for anyone to hear me. I’m here by myself, no one will be the wiser. My mind wanders back into the depths of my mind, unlocking vaults. Thoughts of ex-girlfriends, dread of failure, my parents past, current and future disappointments, all flash across my mind. Thoughts of unreciprocated affection, choking under pressure, pee-soaked jeans, scolding by my mother/parent-helper in class in front of my peers…what lies ahead for me. And there I go…
Ah…my god, this feels so good—tears begin to pour from the ducts. I’m slightly ashamed, this is such a woman thing to do, but…it feels so damn good. Tears continue to stream down my cheeks as my thoughts trace back all my fears and regrets and failures—I would be driven further insane if not for this wonderful feeling.
“You’ve got mail!” I move my mouse towards a new email from my girlfriend.
Um…Mick things aren’t working out…I can’t do this anymore, this long distance relationship thing…I’m sorry…we’re breaking up…please don’t call, if you have any sense at all, don’t call…just…leave it, Mick.
Nikki
“What the f*ck? The f*cking b*tch broke up with me in a f*cking email. What kind of shit is that? Goddamn it, ‘don’t call’—my ass!
We’re sorry to inform you that this will be your last semester receiving cal grant aid…Your last semester will be…
“Ah for Christ’s sake…damn it, what the f*ck am I going to do?
“Mick, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to fail you.”
“But I had work…I didn’t have anytime to study…” I recite ready-made excuses.
“That maybe the case, but I can’t make an exception for one student, while there are others who also work like yourself and are able to make it to class everyday and pass quizzes and tests and make the discussions. I’m sorry…”
“Can’t…can’t you at least give me an incomplete or something…”
“I’m sorry. Like I said I can’t make exceptions. I’m sorry but we’re going to have to cut this short. I have an appointment in a few minutes that I can’t break….”
“Hello?” It’s a guy? A guy is picking up her phone? What the f*ck?
“Yeah, can I speak to Nikki?” I ask trying to keep calm and not burst into the fury that is boiling up.
“Who’s calling?”
“Is she there?”
“Yeah, but who’s calling?”
“Can you just give her the phone?” I ask, trying to use my most indifferent voice.
“Sorry, man—she’s busy…huh? Hold up, dude….” F*ck, what am I going to say…ah, shit, why did I call.
“Hello?”
“Nikki?” Why did I ask...of course it’s going to be her, I heard her voice…
“Who’s this?” Are you f*cking with me...you don’t recognize my voice…
“Forget about me already…dear?” I want you to feel so guilty…try to avoid breaking up with me in person, I’ll make you regret that sh*t…’At least give me a f*cking reason, you b*tch’ is what I want to say, but my ball-less self can only manage ‘Forget about me already’. Damn it, I can’t even express my anger and hurt when I’m so full of it.
“Mick?”
“Who was that guy?” I ask, cutting through the bullsh*t.
“Just a friend. Damn it, Mickey, I told you not to call…”
“You didn’t really expect me not to call did you? Because that would take less sense than what I’m doing, babe?”
“Stop calling me that…” I could see her there, tears welling up in her eyes, as she tries to remain calm on the phone.
“Stop calling you what?! Huh?! Babe?! Dear?!! Honey-fucking-buns?!!” I could hear her choking back her sobs. She’s crying…she’s crying my tears—there’s a mixed satisfaction and guilt in knowing this. I can’t help but….I want you back, whatever I did wrong I’m sorry. Whatever I didn’t do, I’ll do, just tell me. Whatever it takes me…I go against all my instincts and urges and aim my sights on her. As much as I want you back, I want to hurt you so much right now.
“I—”
“You what? You’re sorry? You take it all back? Come on! Feed me a goddamn cliché line!”
“I—I still love—”
“Don’t you fucking dare…don’t you fucking dare…How dare you…” Tears begin to well up in my eyes, as well. You f*cking b*tch…how dare you take my hurt, my pain…
“I still f*cking love you Mick!” She screams into the line. Those words pain me even more than the ringing in my ears. I love you too…”But—”
“—You think this is fucking movie?”
“Mick—”
“—You think everything’s fine now? Is there going to be a fucking happy ending now!?!”
“Please Mick, let me—”
“Is there!?! Is there a f*cking happy ending now?!?!” And with that, the shouting match drifts into an awkward deafening silence. No words spoken, only sounds of silent crying are carried over the receivers.
A door is shut on her end. I can only assume that that guy left her, feeling the awkward silence too much for him to handle.
“Mick…baby, plea—”
Click.
I catch an echo…where is it coming from…that isn’t right…I just hung up on the b*tch…
Ring.
What...Huh? My eyes shut tight, trying to clip the remaining tears…of all the times to get a call.
Ring.
Slowly, I’m brought back. I find that I’ve cupped my face in my hands. The collar of my t-shirt is nearly soaked. I’ve been sweating? My hands glisten, damp and slimy; I pull away, revealing a stretching string of snot…of mucous, from my nose to my palms…
Ring.
Peering through the tears that continue to flow, I can see a flashing screen. I could hear it vibrating, banging against the table. I should’ve turned off my cell before this. Damn it. Emotional abortion, damn it…emotional abortion…
Ring.
Look to the side, blink…blink. C’mon. blink, blink. Emotional abortion—blink, blink…blink, blink…
End chapter.
|
Good luck, and I hope to see more of your writing.
