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Okay, I'll admit, I sort of chickened out when posting my work. It's always embarrassing, but this time I'll leave it alone. Criticisms are welcome....and if you hate it, be gentle.
It's obviously nowhere near being done.
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Chapter One:
Mind Over Matter
Harry had to take a ****.
So what? Everyone does it. Squirming on the cold, unrelenting seats of those New York City subway trains, not knowing where to fixate his gaze in order to somehow defy the inevitable quaking and trembling one feels when his bowels are about to explode. Truly a dance of agony. A person’s bodily functions are as impatient as an irritable patron of a high-end New York City restaurant. Claustrophobia always sets in at some point during the ride, but yet....this felt different. Something more intense. No matter, just get through this, he thought to himself.
“This is unbearable”, he utters under his breath, but louder than he thought. An attractive woman next to him glances at him, and he gives her a look of disbelief as she smiles at him, apparently hearing him. What was unbearable, really? He adjusts his glasses; it’s said that’s a sign of sophistication. So they say, anyway.
Sweat pours off his forehead, and his sad attempts at using his sleeve as a handkerchief are fruitless, as it only moistens his tidy, white shirt, and as he has always said, his appearance is thrown into disarray--already, and so early in the day. For most people, this would be nothing at all, but to him, it symbolized far more than that--it meant his entire appearance was in jeopardy, and that mattered.
It was definitely that second cup of coffee that ultimately pushed him over the threshold, and a pretty dangerous decision to have made, especially when his bowels are in a constant state of sheer chaos and terror. But, what else was he going to do? He was tired--there was no denying that. He had gone through this same problem over and over again, and he was too damn stupid to realize that this wasn’t doing him any good--he’s like one of those rodents scientists place within the confines of an electrified fence, and he continues to try and make his escape through the same means, the same ****ing means. No, no, this self-deprecation was not good for his indigestion, let alone his psyche. Regardless, he still had time to finish his novel, but when you’re motivated, that’s just how it goes. You go with it until you lose it. Then again, who is he trying to kid? He never had it. This was another meaningless effort in a meaningless existence. If this didn’t matter, then what did?
Now, stuck in the repetition of coffee and bowel discomfort, there was something greater occurring outside of his consciousness, something beyond his comprehension, alien and otherworldly, completely out of reach of his feeble mind and body, which was dulled and hollowed out to reveal nothing at all.....his stop was close, he remembered and never forgot, despite his aimless, meandering mind. When was he going to get to use the bathroom? No time soon, his body told him, but he knew that was a lie, since he knew that his stop was soon....at least it should have been....wait, did he pass it? Not possible, he had kept his eye on the stops, in a constant state of vigilance that would make a night watchmen envious.
“...Oh ****!”, he exclaimed, noticing that this was his stop.
A few heads turn and stare aghast, no matter, he thought. He raced towards the exit and just made it through the doors, though if he had been any slower, he might be one arm short, or even worse, the train could have carried him to the next stop, which was not his, but then again, if that were to occur, he would have a much larger problem at hand. Nevertheless, all he could think of at the moment, was the bathroom. Time to run, he thought to himself. Sprinting across the subway, using his not-so-agile body to maneuver around the hundreds of people that populated these subways every day. Finally, he saw it from the bottom of the concrete steps: daylight once more.
Chapter 2:
Untitled
Cursed with a sense of vertigo and extreme nausea, it was always difficult to even look upwards without feeling faint, or nearly tipping over backwards and falling to the pavement. Not that he ever had any intention of looking up, this building was average, unimpressive, but intimidatingly tall with countless windows, it was nothing but your average--albeit strangely foreboding--black building. He always imagined that scene in Vertigo, towards the end of the film, where Jimmy Stewart glances over the edge of that old church bell tower, and he pictured himself in that scene. Ridiculous as it sounds. Like Stewart, Harry could understand that feeling, where you look over the edge but it seems to spiral into nothingness, and you can feel your head swimming, dizziness takes over from that point on....feet no longer exist, floating commences, you no longer can control your functions, since it’s all in your reflexes and you are forced to turn away, almost instantaneously, because when you look over into the edge, the camera trick is relentless, but it’s no trick and you’re caught gazing into his father’s soul, reflecting Harry’s image back.
The morning sun was shining brilliantly off the buildings lining 72nd street, so brightly, in fact, that it was giving Harry a headache. It was always busy here; traffic was nightmarish as always, horns honking, a taxi cab driver screaming obscenities at another drive who cut him off, people were bustling about, stopping off at the local deli to buy a bagel with cream cheese or perhaps a coffee at the not-so-local chain, all of these sights and smells would overwhelm and invigorate a visitor--but in his case, it only brought on a sense of doom and extreme irritability. Harry was not like most people. Complaining was his hobby, his sport and how he carried on conversations with people, but with such bitter irony and sarcasm that it ultimately turned people off, rather than ever compelling them to speak in return--they would simply give him a curt nod and a half-smile. There he was, once again, standing in a queue in a crowd of faceless people he’ll never meet or talk to, stuck in the same spot he was a week ago; repetition is not merely an aspect of his life, it is his life. But perhaps it isn’t just him.
Harry always preferred not having to come here. In fact, he had invented a dozen excuses that he kept stashed away in a notebook spanning weeks and months. Stepping into this building was always an annoyance. Unfortunately, the security guard--his name is Martin--paid very little attention, so more often than not, he would be asked where he was going--and this was after five years of being with the same agent. Expansive with an irritating echo, his footsteps clicked and clocked across the beautifully waxed marble floors. Suddenly, a voice boomed out from behind a desk with several monitors, echoing around the room. He is clearly aware of how intimidating it must sound, so naturally he has rehearsed this for many years. Having done this many times before, it had gotten to the point where Harry would literally stop at one point when walking across the marble, and just wait.
“Hey, you”. Harry continued walking, not having heard him. But Martin was far too lazy to truly engage someone in an altercation, or bother trying to stop someone as unassuming and unintimidating as Harry, though if Harry knew this, he might have been slightly offended. Harry, not paying any mind to Martin, felt a sense of weightlessness, it consumed him, soul and all. Lost in his mind, a trance, a sensation came over him all of a sudden, both a smell and a sense of feeling, like fall, where he often smelled burning leaves and heard the crunching and feeling of leaves underneath his tennis shoes; those days had indeed been simpler. Splashing around amidst the leaves; red, brown, gold and burnt orange, these were the colors of his youth in New England, long gone. Gazing up at the blue sky, where god supposedly watched, perched, judging, while leaves floated around Harry, wind catching them, fluttering about like dried-up butterflies.
Chapter 3:
Time and Tedium
A large, burgundy colored room encloses Harry. He sits on a long, brown leather couch, with his elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward, obviously in intense thought, staring into nothing, with his hands clasped together holding up his chin. Several small, impressionist paintings are hung along the walls, obviously attempting to comfort the unfortunate individual who sits here idly, not really listening, so he chooses to divert his attention to this painting of a woman with a watering can in her hand. She chooses to perform this mundane gesture with grace and style, as if she were performing the flamenco, holding up her long, red dress with frills and layers, while her olive colored skin soaks up the sun with great ease, unlike Harry, whose skin is pale, pasty and is often scorched by the sun to the color of a boiled lobster--even suntan lotion can’t protect his sensitive skin.
“You can talk to me....”, a woman says in a soothing voice.
Not budging, but staying in intense thought, Harry continues to stare at the floor, as if waiting for it to magically fix his decaying existence.
“...If you need more time, we can....”, she breaks off, as he looks up at her. Unlike before, Harry looks suddenly softened by her words. She gives him a very soft smile. Melissa Gibson is her name, and she’s always been very pretty--dark brown hair, a soft complexion and blue eyes. Melissa has always been kind, but recently she has become far nicer to Harry than usual. Nothing has really changed, though Harry tends to believe it’s all sympathy. He really hasn’t changed in the five years he’s been attending sessions with her. It’s unclear whether she’s just bad at her job, or he’s incapable of getting any better.
“No, that’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s just...”
She interrupts him with a wave of her hand. “No need for apologies, Harry. Now, tell me, how have you been feeling?” He doesn’t answer immediately, no. That was always Harry’s method of replying to a question he’d rather not answer altogether. This room had always had the opposite effect on Harry; instead of being warm and comforting, with the impressionist paintings and soft coloration of the walls, he felt infinitely small and pathetic--after all, the entire idea is a contradiction, is it not, he thought to himself. Before Harry could continue, he spoke up, almost in spite of himself,”I have been thinking my life over.” A clear bluff, and she most likely spotted it in Harry’s eyes and gestures. Somehow he told her without ever having said anything.
“Oh? How so?” That was the exact question Harry had expected, but had not wanted to answer. What life? And what was he thinking over? You can’t rethink something that never existed to begin with. Harry--instead of even looking her in the eyes--looks over at the painting of the mediterranean woman. It was a shoddy painting, he thought, but strangely appealing; it was far more akin to those cheap, paid-to-paint pieces of manufactured garbage they sell at home decor stores. Was this the appeal, then? You can’t take your eyes off of it, yet it’s nothing more than an assembly line production--perhaps that was the point that this “artist” intended to make, truly an enigma as to why it was created, other than to pacify those finicky, neurotic individuals sitting idly in a room, minds wandering, wishing their bodies were accompanying them, somehow choosing to find enjoyment in something that doesn’t exist; indeed, this woman was attractive, but nonetheless fake, no less fake than this therapy is, or the problem he’s trying to conceal, or fix, or both, if possible. There was something impossibly frustrating about the sheer idea of someone being paid to make crap.
“Well..? Are you okay, Harry? I’m here to help you, but I can only give you my perspective if you’ve given me yours.” She pauses for a moment, then continues.
“...So tell me, how have you been thinking your life over?” She stares him down intently. Obviously, she’s not giving this up, he thought.
-----------------
It's obviously nowhere near being done.
-------------
Chapter One:
Mind Over Matter
Harry had to take a ****.
So what? Everyone does it. Squirming on the cold, unrelenting seats of those New York City subway trains, not knowing where to fixate his gaze in order to somehow defy the inevitable quaking and trembling one feels when his bowels are about to explode. Truly a dance of agony. A person’s bodily functions are as impatient as an irritable patron of a high-end New York City restaurant. Claustrophobia always sets in at some point during the ride, but yet....this felt different. Something more intense. No matter, just get through this, he thought to himself.
“This is unbearable”, he utters under his breath, but louder than he thought. An attractive woman next to him glances at him, and he gives her a look of disbelief as she smiles at him, apparently hearing him. What was unbearable, really? He adjusts his glasses; it’s said that’s a sign of sophistication. So they say, anyway.
Sweat pours off his forehead, and his sad attempts at using his sleeve as a handkerchief are fruitless, as it only moistens his tidy, white shirt, and as he has always said, his appearance is thrown into disarray--already, and so early in the day. For most people, this would be nothing at all, but to him, it symbolized far more than that--it meant his entire appearance was in jeopardy, and that mattered.
It was definitely that second cup of coffee that ultimately pushed him over the threshold, and a pretty dangerous decision to have made, especially when his bowels are in a constant state of sheer chaos and terror. But, what else was he going to do? He was tired--there was no denying that. He had gone through this same problem over and over again, and he was too damn stupid to realize that this wasn’t doing him any good--he’s like one of those rodents scientists place within the confines of an electrified fence, and he continues to try and make his escape through the same means, the same ****ing means. No, no, this self-deprecation was not good for his indigestion, let alone his psyche. Regardless, he still had time to finish his novel, but when you’re motivated, that’s just how it goes. You go with it until you lose it. Then again, who is he trying to kid? He never had it. This was another meaningless effort in a meaningless existence. If this didn’t matter, then what did?
Now, stuck in the repetition of coffee and bowel discomfort, there was something greater occurring outside of his consciousness, something beyond his comprehension, alien and otherworldly, completely out of reach of his feeble mind and body, which was dulled and hollowed out to reveal nothing at all.....his stop was close, he remembered and never forgot, despite his aimless, meandering mind. When was he going to get to use the bathroom? No time soon, his body told him, but he knew that was a lie, since he knew that his stop was soon....at least it should have been....wait, did he pass it? Not possible, he had kept his eye on the stops, in a constant state of vigilance that would make a night watchmen envious.
“...Oh ****!”, he exclaimed, noticing that this was his stop.
A few heads turn and stare aghast, no matter, he thought. He raced towards the exit and just made it through the doors, though if he had been any slower, he might be one arm short, or even worse, the train could have carried him to the next stop, which was not his, but then again, if that were to occur, he would have a much larger problem at hand. Nevertheless, all he could think of at the moment, was the bathroom. Time to run, he thought to himself. Sprinting across the subway, using his not-so-agile body to maneuver around the hundreds of people that populated these subways every day. Finally, he saw it from the bottom of the concrete steps: daylight once more.
Chapter 2:
Untitled
Cursed with a sense of vertigo and extreme nausea, it was always difficult to even look upwards without feeling faint, or nearly tipping over backwards and falling to the pavement. Not that he ever had any intention of looking up, this building was average, unimpressive, but intimidatingly tall with countless windows, it was nothing but your average--albeit strangely foreboding--black building. He always imagined that scene in Vertigo, towards the end of the film, where Jimmy Stewart glances over the edge of that old church bell tower, and he pictured himself in that scene. Ridiculous as it sounds. Like Stewart, Harry could understand that feeling, where you look over the edge but it seems to spiral into nothingness, and you can feel your head swimming, dizziness takes over from that point on....feet no longer exist, floating commences, you no longer can control your functions, since it’s all in your reflexes and you are forced to turn away, almost instantaneously, because when you look over into the edge, the camera trick is relentless, but it’s no trick and you’re caught gazing into his father’s soul, reflecting Harry’s image back.
The morning sun was shining brilliantly off the buildings lining 72nd street, so brightly, in fact, that it was giving Harry a headache. It was always busy here; traffic was nightmarish as always, horns honking, a taxi cab driver screaming obscenities at another drive who cut him off, people were bustling about, stopping off at the local deli to buy a bagel with cream cheese or perhaps a coffee at the not-so-local chain, all of these sights and smells would overwhelm and invigorate a visitor--but in his case, it only brought on a sense of doom and extreme irritability. Harry was not like most people. Complaining was his hobby, his sport and how he carried on conversations with people, but with such bitter irony and sarcasm that it ultimately turned people off, rather than ever compelling them to speak in return--they would simply give him a curt nod and a half-smile. There he was, once again, standing in a queue in a crowd of faceless people he’ll never meet or talk to, stuck in the same spot he was a week ago; repetition is not merely an aspect of his life, it is his life. But perhaps it isn’t just him.
Harry always preferred not having to come here. In fact, he had invented a dozen excuses that he kept stashed away in a notebook spanning weeks and months. Stepping into this building was always an annoyance. Unfortunately, the security guard--his name is Martin--paid very little attention, so more often than not, he would be asked where he was going--and this was after five years of being with the same agent. Expansive with an irritating echo, his footsteps clicked and clocked across the beautifully waxed marble floors. Suddenly, a voice boomed out from behind a desk with several monitors, echoing around the room. He is clearly aware of how intimidating it must sound, so naturally he has rehearsed this for many years. Having done this many times before, it had gotten to the point where Harry would literally stop at one point when walking across the marble, and just wait.
“Hey, you”. Harry continued walking, not having heard him. But Martin was far too lazy to truly engage someone in an altercation, or bother trying to stop someone as unassuming and unintimidating as Harry, though if Harry knew this, he might have been slightly offended. Harry, not paying any mind to Martin, felt a sense of weightlessness, it consumed him, soul and all. Lost in his mind, a trance, a sensation came over him all of a sudden, both a smell and a sense of feeling, like fall, where he often smelled burning leaves and heard the crunching and feeling of leaves underneath his tennis shoes; those days had indeed been simpler. Splashing around amidst the leaves; red, brown, gold and burnt orange, these were the colors of his youth in New England, long gone. Gazing up at the blue sky, where god supposedly watched, perched, judging, while leaves floated around Harry, wind catching them, fluttering about like dried-up butterflies.
Chapter 3:
Time and Tedium
A large, burgundy colored room encloses Harry. He sits on a long, brown leather couch, with his elbows resting on his knees, leaning forward, obviously in intense thought, staring into nothing, with his hands clasped together holding up his chin. Several small, impressionist paintings are hung along the walls, obviously attempting to comfort the unfortunate individual who sits here idly, not really listening, so he chooses to divert his attention to this painting of a woman with a watering can in her hand. She chooses to perform this mundane gesture with grace and style, as if she were performing the flamenco, holding up her long, red dress with frills and layers, while her olive colored skin soaks up the sun with great ease, unlike Harry, whose skin is pale, pasty and is often scorched by the sun to the color of a boiled lobster--even suntan lotion can’t protect his sensitive skin.
“You can talk to me....”, a woman says in a soothing voice.
Not budging, but staying in intense thought, Harry continues to stare at the floor, as if waiting for it to magically fix his decaying existence.
“...If you need more time, we can....”, she breaks off, as he looks up at her. Unlike before, Harry looks suddenly softened by her words. She gives him a very soft smile. Melissa Gibson is her name, and she’s always been very pretty--dark brown hair, a soft complexion and blue eyes. Melissa has always been kind, but recently she has become far nicer to Harry than usual. Nothing has really changed, though Harry tends to believe it’s all sympathy. He really hasn’t changed in the five years he’s been attending sessions with her. It’s unclear whether she’s just bad at her job, or he’s incapable of getting any better.
“No, that’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s just...”
She interrupts him with a wave of her hand. “No need for apologies, Harry. Now, tell me, how have you been feeling?” He doesn’t answer immediately, no. That was always Harry’s method of replying to a question he’d rather not answer altogether. This room had always had the opposite effect on Harry; instead of being warm and comforting, with the impressionist paintings and soft coloration of the walls, he felt infinitely small and pathetic--after all, the entire idea is a contradiction, is it not, he thought to himself. Before Harry could continue, he spoke up, almost in spite of himself,”I have been thinking my life over.” A clear bluff, and she most likely spotted it in Harry’s eyes and gestures. Somehow he told her without ever having said anything.
“Oh? How so?” That was the exact question Harry had expected, but had not wanted to answer. What life? And what was he thinking over? You can’t rethink something that never existed to begin with. Harry--instead of even looking her in the eyes--looks over at the painting of the mediterranean woman. It was a shoddy painting, he thought, but strangely appealing; it was far more akin to those cheap, paid-to-paint pieces of manufactured garbage they sell at home decor stores. Was this the appeal, then? You can’t take your eyes off of it, yet it’s nothing more than an assembly line production--perhaps that was the point that this “artist” intended to make, truly an enigma as to why it was created, other than to pacify those finicky, neurotic individuals sitting idly in a room, minds wandering, wishing their bodies were accompanying them, somehow choosing to find enjoyment in something that doesn’t exist; indeed, this woman was attractive, but nonetheless fake, no less fake than this therapy is, or the problem he’s trying to conceal, or fix, or both, if possible. There was something impossibly frustrating about the sheer idea of someone being paid to make crap.
“Well..? Are you okay, Harry? I’m here to help you, but I can only give you my perspective if you’ve given me yours.” She pauses for a moment, then continues.
“...So tell me, how have you been thinking your life over?” She stares him down intently. Obviously, she’s not giving this up, he thought.
-----------------
Last edited by Justin; 08-09-11 at 03:50 PM.
