Thread: Sit I do and Wonder [Language]

I look at damp pillow; eyes shut barely, not so much not to see I’ve perspired a satiated halo, cold against my eyebrow and the right side of my face. My cheekbone abraded somewhat, possibly due to dreamy tribulations or my intermittent night jitters that cause me to grate against the thorny pillow; its feathers poke out like dull miniature knives. Emanation of smoldering sultriness outflows from a charred dusty window, immediately above my ankles and soles and toes, which are hardened by a lifetime of cardio, and withstand the heat surprisingly well. I am on my stomach, face towards wall, head slightly raised as to observe the damp blush from the noon sun convolving and fusing with the azure hue of the walls, the result a purplish sticky color that brings qualmish feelings to my gut, enough so to force me out of bed, and, lugubriously, switch on the electricity to the corn-like incandescent glow of the bulb above over my head, which hangs on a thin electrical cord, fading into a digressional crack in the ceiling. The synthesis of corn-yellow and pukish purple creates an over-saturated high-intensity medicinal tint around me. My retinas are displeased and refuse to neurologically comply with the sudden change, so I shut my eyelids forcefully and open wide and repeat. I sit down at the periphery of my bed.

Sit I do and think
Of days gone and drink
From a bourbon bottle with no name
Which by now tastes so tame

Sit I do and wonder
If ever I’ll go yonder
Past sunrise and sunset
Trudging without rest

Sit I do and grieve
For I very well believe
The sole thing I can do
Is simply think and wonder

The dark vertical strip between the east edge of the door and the trim of the doorway expanded into a grey rectangle, out of which appeared a hooded figure, face indiscernible except for a fairly average looking outline of a slender, acute visage. The hood was seamed past the neck, where it was visibly and roughly sewn on to the jacket of a two-piece blue suit worn by the androgynous being. He – for although I choose to personify this inhuman character with a pronoun for a smoother transcription, never forget that He is the furthest thing from our kind as you can imagine; your limited spectrum will not fully comprehend the esotericism of the existentially phantasmal embodiment of Him, so stick to the pronoun, buddy – glided into the room right next to Houseman. Houseman looked up at Him and gave Him a small upwards jerk of the head signifying acknowledgement or yo. Houseman picked up his bourbon and gave it a straight gulp. He began to speak. No movement was detected by Houseman on the greyed-out slim visage underneath the hood.

‘Houseman, were you playing with the cards?’
‘Why yes sir, yes I was, what a great time I had making that triangle with the cards up on my bureau… how’s the wife sir?’
‘Houseman, is it still there?’
‘Why yes sir, yes it is, it’s right there up on that bureau behind you right by the mirror. It looks like two triangles, with it being right up by the mirror and all… how are the kids sir?’
‘Houseman, this is all wrong.’
He proceeds to crumble the two-foot high card triangle apprehensively.
‘Houseman, you need to make it bigger. You need to have more triangles.’
‘Why yes sir, you are totally right, I’ll get right on that, more triangles, bigger. How’s the boss treating you sir?’
‘Houseman, I’ll come in tomorrow to check up on things.’

Houseman: (speaking directly to the oxygen in the barren room) Oedipus and Electra invited me out for picnic today. I had to politely decline, though; I said I had errands… but the truth is I just wanted to play with my Photonic C/P (Chemoreceptor/Photoreceptor) Interactive Machine (or PCPCPIM, or PIM).
Oxygen in Houseman’s room: (apprehensively silent)
Houseman: I know, I know. I should have kept to my schedule. I feel bad for it, but don’t worry about me. I have a very tactile solution… I’ll just make myself feel like shit for a night.
Oxygen in Houseman’s room: (irately silent)
Houseman: It does work, I’m telling you! I always feel good after… anyway, I was wondering if you could just, um, feel like shit with me, you know, so I can have some company… it get’s a little boring…
Oxygen in Houseman’s room: (no reply)

I pick up the bottle again. I unscrew the flask. I down a straight gulp and screw the flask back on. I feel remorseful for drinking so much in my life. I hardly get drunk anymore. I ride that feeling of guilt until it overwhelms me. I am put into a catatonic state where I lie like a penitent vegetable and forcefully grieve my instability regarding picnic meetings and very close friends. I am satisfied for being so penitent and all. I fly-swat the cloud of satisfaction away to make room for my grievance. I am in a self-deprecating trance, not seeing anything or anyone but my faults and insecurities. I am suddenly awakened by Him knocking on the door. I slap myself awake from the trance. I tell Him to come in. He does. He asks me if I finished building triangles on the bureau. I tell him I was being penitent and all. He doesn’t like this. He tells me to double my production. I ask him how his family is. He tells me he’ll send me lower if I don’t listen to him. I ask him if his dog is doing fine. He tells me he is punishing me for my lackadaisical nature, which I seem to be developing of late. I ask him how the weather is today. He says it’s okay. He says I’m not aloud to play with the PCPCPIM anymore. I tell him it’s my life. I plead. He leaves. I weep. I don’t feel good at all. I pickup my bourbon. I take a gulp straight and screw the flask back on.

Sit I do and grieve
For I very well believe
The sole thing I can do
Is simply think and wonder

I am always privy to writing with symbolism and layers. Writing which can be explicated gives me much of the same thrill as an archaeologist would experience during an excavation.

Having said that, let's go through the tedious tasks of the famous pros and cons.

Tying in so many elements in one work was fascinating to experience. I liked the salad of Haussmannization, symbols of hell, linguistic commentary, and maybe even that faint tinge of existentialism.

The mesh up of writing styles fights to be considered a flow of consistency but that's something that needs ot be looked at through the context of what you are going for.

The way the poem echoes is quite lovely.

There are some playful bits in this piece that can be weaved out, minor details like that will improve the overall mood and setting of the piece.

wonderful imagery with the "house of cards".

So it all comes down to: think about consistency, and keep at it. I have to admit that this is my favorite piece from you.

The playful bits are there due to my desire to prevent a conceited piece. They lighten the mood. It's inconsistent because I like creating inextricable puzzles of prose. And thanks!