Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Strangers in Love

We are but strangers in love,
Ignoring all the signs from above.
We'll curse the stars on this night.
We'll curse the gods and let them take our sight.

And when the clocks run backwards and the sun sets in the east,
And counting down the numbers of the beast,
I'll grab your hand in mine and I will never let you go.
And let the wicked winds of fate then blow.

I am the king of faceless men
And you shall be my queen of make pretend.
I swear I've seen your face before,
Somewhere sometime long before this war.

And when they try to name the things we swore could not be named,
And frame the things we swore could not be framed,
And when the time of man is just a distant memory,
We'll soar before we plunge into the sea.

I am the king of faceless men
And you shall be my queen of make pretend.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

Writing Sample: Perhaps the Start of Something New?

Here is a page of writing. Maybe this is the start of a new project? Maybe.

Henry Adler leaned over the side of the Hanover Street Bridge and gazed into the black waters of the Patapsco River as he mentally prepared himself to end his pathetic existence. He wondered how many others had stood in this exact spot and done the exact same thing. How many had deliberated? How many had second-guessed themselves? There had to be at least one who had hesitated at the last second, hoping that a guardian angel would place a firm, reassuring hand on his shoulder and say, “Wait, it’s not too late, there’s something to live for,” only to realize that he was completely and utterly alone, before letting out one last desperate sob and plunging to his utterly unremarkable death. How many had simply fallen in by accident?

Henry was reasonably confident that he was the only one who had looked up facts about the bridge on the internet before committing suicide. He now knew that the Hanover Street Bridge was 2,290 feet long and that it was designed by John E. Greiner and constructed in 1916. He knew that the bridge was considered a “Beaux Arts-style reinforced cantilever bridge,” whatever that meant, and that it was known for its beautiful arches and a drawbridge in the center surrounded on four corners by classic-style towers. He also knew that on May 30, 1993, Baltimore Mayor Kurt Schmoke had officially renamed the bridge the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Bridge. Kurt Schmoke was Baltimore’s first elected black mayor. How did a man with such a stupid name live such an accomplished life? Henry rather liked his own name, it sounded respectable and distinguished, yet he had accomplished nothing of note and now here he was standing on the side of a bridge at one a.m. with a cinder block chained around his ankle. Kurt Schmoke was probably sound asleep at home, resting for an eagerly anticipated day with his grandchildren tomorrow. Maybe he would take them to the aquarium.

Cynicism aside, Henry really liked the Hanover Street Bridge (although he adamantly refused to refer to it by the name Kurt Schmoke had given it). It was a lovely piece of architecture, really. Henry enjoyed admiring architecture even though he knew not the first thing about it. He was a sucker for colonnades and balustrades, flying buttresses and Gothic gargoyles. That was one of the things he liked about living in Baltimore – there were little architectural gems all over the place if you knew to look for them. Take the Hanover Street Bridge, for example. Hundreds of people drove across it every day and probably never gave it a second glance. Melanie was one of those rare people who stopped to notice beauty when she saw it. She had liked this bridge so much that she painted a picture of it at sunset. The autumn sky had been purple and orange, and the reflections of the streetlights on the water looked like shimmering golden stalactites suspended just beneath the surface of the river. Henry hung the painting on the wall of his office at work, right beside a poster depicting the cover of the Yes album Relayer.

The thought of Melanie jolted Henry back to the present and the business at hand – namely, killing himself.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011

From My Journal: August 2, 2011

I played a flash game today called "Learn to Fly 2." I launched a penguin into space, sent it hurtling through the atmosphere, and crashed it through an iceberg, a mountain, and into the hut of an obnoxious dodo ("Nature's Troll," apparently) living alone on the island of Mauritius. It was an addicting game, and clearly designed for me. It combined my love of penguins, earning money, and multi-tiered upgrade systems. Time you enjoyed wasting was not really wasted, right? Right...?
Trying to find the CJIS fingerprinting place was kind of a nightmare. Reisterstown Plaza is really ghetto, and as much as I dislike that term it is the most apt description. I came across a fairly well-dressed black woman who appeared to be in her 30's or 40's passed out on the sidewalk before a staircase. I paused, wondering if I should make sure she was alright, when I noticed an empty bag from Popeye's lying next to her. Then I figured she just had the "itis" and kept walking. I am excited about Public Allies because, whether I like it or not, it is already forcing me to step outside my comfort zone. I know I speak from a position of white middle class privilege, but...screw it. At least I'll be helping real people.
Inspiration is hard to come by these days, but I had an image in my head last night that I quickly latched onto. All ideas start as images. In this one, a solitary figure with a sword stands atop a huge train hurtling through an empty sea of grass. He lives on this train and is sworn to defend it. This world is not our own and is lost to history. A Dark Tower vibe, perhaps?
Lena came over last night. The way she brings out the goofy side of me, the side that is unconcerned with reality, is perhaps her greatest gift. I think love is when another person's very presence is enough to make you happy. Love is when being with that person feels more natural than being alone.