Archive for prose

Dialogue

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on April 25, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

–       I think if you look carefully you’ll find, that the object you are looking at is not quite what it appears.

–       Oh, I didn’t feel you come in here; what a surprise!

–       My friend, I think it’s quite prevalent that I am never expected, but do tell me, did you like my artifact?

–       Yes, I think it is quite lovely

–       And what do you reckon it is?

–       It looks like a mirror, a very fancy one mind you.

–       And you, I assume, have seen many mirrors before

–       I have

–       So why are you drawn in such a manner to an object of which you’ve seen many before?

–       I don’t quite know

–       Ah, herein lies the paradox

–       You said that it is not quite what appears

–       I did

–       And what did you mean?

–       I find that all things are not what they appear

–       But this is obviously a mirror

–       And how would you define a mirror?

–       It is smooth surface that reflects light

–       And does it?

–       Well I see my reflection in it

–       But is it?

–       Is what?

–       Is that your reflection

–       Why yes

–       Would you be surprised if I say that the person in that mirror is living, breathing, and an exact replica of yourself? He has lived his entire life unaware that he is inside that alleged mirror. What you hold in your hand is a gateway, into his prison. And he holds in his hands a gateway out.

–       You almost made me believe your insidious lies. This is absurd.

–       That is not the reaction I expected

–       What did you expect?

–       I expected you to ask how I knew that he was the one imprisoned, and you were the one free

–       And how would you know?

–       Well I do not, but perhaps the copy of me inside the prison might. Pray do hand me the gateway. There we go, I see my imprisoned self, he looks quite handsome. Me is saying something; I cannot hear him. Maybe he should write me. I must move my hand so he can move his. Luckily I have a piece of paper. He is writing.

–       What does it say?

–       I can’t read it inside; it looks like it’s mirrored. Maybe I should read the one my hand was compelled to write.

–       What does it say?

–       “Neither of us are free, we are both imprisoned inside a short dialogue, a short-lived universe that will die off in one sentence”

–       Ha-ha very funny, I am sick and tired of your jokes.

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Oh How Post-Modern

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by themanwiththecowboyboots

I don’t want this blog to look professional. I want people to think, “Oh how grotesque.” I want you to hate it. Like really hate it and be drawn to it. I want this to be like a sweet poisonous pastime. A place of imperfection. Because imperfection is the only completely capturable essence of our humanity. All the choices we make have impact, and the medium is part of the message. And the message here is in the spelling and grammar and political incorrectness whether I like it or not. The message here is that imperfection can be pretty. Just like humanity.

An unrevised, unedited, first draft of a story that shouldn’t be told

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 1, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

eyes

Even though the lamp was turned on the room, was dim. The storyteller, looked at us through his wrinkled face. His eyes met mine, then my sister’s then mine, then hers again.

 

“What would you like to hear next?” he breathed.

“Whatever you would like to say,” I hear my sister reply.

“I do have something to say,” he begins, “But I am not sure that it is what you want to hear.” His voice has an odd nature to it, one moment it makes you feel comfortable, the next, naked.

 

“The rich old man who once lived, and still lives, had a house near the ocean. On lonely Saturdays he’d walk, with a limp, on the beach and feel the warmth of the sun. His father was rich as well. And you could tell, and we all could tell, that the rich man has never known hard work. I feel like I’m being too vague here; I mean to say the rich man was born rich, and if the laws of nature were to be followed he will die rich as well.”

 

“In any case, the rich man would feel the warmth of the sun, but he couldn’t, alas, quite see the sun. What I mean here is that the rich man was also blind, and it is perhaps a good thing that he is rich because had he been born to a different father he would, excuse my brashness, have been left on the side of the street to die.”

 

The light flickers and I feel that the night has overcome this room too gradually for us to notice. Had the room not been dim I would not have been able to discern the difference in the color of the sky.

 

“The rich man had many servants, in fact he had more servants than he needs. He had more servants than he knew of, and more servants than his father has hired.” I could feel a certain tone in his voice. Is it melancholy?

 

“He had many servants, and they would see to his every need. On lonely Saturdays they would hold his hand and walk him to the beach. On one lonely Saturday the ocean was too agitated for the old man to walk by it and so the servants opened bags of imported sand and emptied them in the old man’s backyard, and in the light of that August sun the old man walked, thinking he was by the ocean.”

 

“Did he not hear the sound of the ocean missing?” I ask, very annoyed.

 

“His servants would tell him that the ocean was calm on that particular day.” I wonder if the storyteller could perceive the irony. I don’t think he could.

 

“When the servants noticed it is easier to walk the man in his backyard, they made a habit of it, and soon the old man would never leave his house. And even though he was being tricked and deceived the old man was content. But one day the servants noticed the old man had more money than he could ever spend, and with no children all those riches would go to waste. So the servants bought things for themselves. They bought golden bracelets and leather jackets, but nothing of material could satisfy their greed. The servants needed to feel alive, they needed to feel powerful.”

 

“And so the servants bought some guns and they went into the nearby woods and started hunting boar. And when the boar proved to be too easy the servants would go to a nearby town and steal a kid and they would release the kid into the nearby woods and they would chase him and hunt him down and kill him. And sometimes they’d bring back the bodies of boar and child and they would cut them into pieces and they would lose track of which piece belonged to which beast and they would start a fire on the sands in the backyard and they would have a roast and the blind man would have a feast and he would think he’s eating boar but every now and then a piece of meat has a funny taste.”

 

“My God!” my sister is visibly annoyed. She has to leave the room for a while. I use that time to make myself a sandwich as the storyteller rocks back and forth in his chair.

 

“And on many days the servants would buy whores for the old man, but once or twice they brought an unwilling maiden. After all, the man could not see the lashes on her back or the tears in her eyes. After that, they’d take the maiden and have their way with her in a room on the other side of the house where the sound barely escapes.”

 

“The servants would steal children, they would kill men, they would rape women, and the old man would not know. He was content to be living as rich as a man of his age could possibly be. And so was life and life was so, until on some moonless night a garbed traveller arrived at the old man’s residence. He had a certain quality about him, as if he was there but not really there. His voice was raspy but confident, his skin was dark.”

 

The storyteller became silent. He was a bit too old to be telling stories.

 

“The traveller entered the house and asked to stay the night. The old man being a good host, and also being lonely (and are the two things really different?), welcomed him. They sat at night by the fireplace, one eying the fire, and the other soaking in its heat. They sat and were silent until the old man thought that the traveller has left the room and it was then that the traveller broke the silence. ‘You look at me, but you don’t really look at me old man.’ The man replied, ‘Alas I cannot see. Could you not tell that I am blind? I was born in darkness, and if a man has ever had an ailment that is mine.’”

 

“Here the traveller became silent again, and for the longest time it seemed as if he had succumbed to sleep. Then he spoke again, ‘your ailment is not your blindness old man. Open your eyes and tell me what you see.’”

 

“ ‘I see nothing’, ‘Look harder’. The old man was visibly startled like a man realizing his whole word was a lie. ‘Is that how fire looks like?’ he muttered, looking at the fireplace; there was a tear in his eye. ‘My whole life, I couldn’t see the things I’ve looked at, but with one word you have made me look and behold. And now I remember seeing things I dare not recount, all that time I’ve seen but haven’t really seen! All that madness, all that evil, how was I so blind? Tell me stranger, please tell me.’ But the traveller had left.”

 

There was a tear in the storyteller’s eyes.

 

“Sounds like bullshit,” I mean to say, but now that the storyteller was deep into his story, there was no point in interrupting him.

 

“And so the old man called upon his servants, and with his loudest voice he yelled, ‘Murderers, fools! How could you do such evils!’ And one of the servants speaks meekly, ‘ What evils do you speak of?’ The old man replies, ‘ the atrocities I’ve seen with my own eyes!’ That same servant answers, ‘but… you are blind!’ ‘And now I can see, and I can see that you are evil and I will no longer stand for that.’ Another servant steps forward and speaks more forcefully, ‘ I beg to differ sir: you truly are blind.’”

 

“With that he signaled for two other servants to grab hold of the old man, he pulled out a knife from his pant’s pocket, and he drew it close to his face. ‘If we say you are blind, then you are truly blind.” With one hand he held the eyelid open, with the other he dug the knife slowly, systematically into the eye socket. He turned the knife and loosened the spot then he pulled plucking the eye out with its veins and blood. The old man screamed, as the servant started with the second eye.”

 

“Now the old man is blind again. And so he lives like he always has,” the storyteller continues. I, now weary of such insanity ask, “And what of the servants? Why does the man keep servants who are evil, who made him blind?”

 

“He does not remember what has transpired on that day. For him the traveller and his words are just a distant dream. He never had eyes. He feels a slow nagging pain now and then, where his eyes are supposed to be. The servants even administer some medicines and ointments in hope of stopping the pain. The medicine never works, but the old man thinks it does and so the pain disappears. And who’s to say that the medicine never works then?”

 

I walk home with my sister. She is obviously bothered. “What’s wrong?” I ask, truly concerned. The street is dark, but the street lamps light our way. We cross a path that is not illuminated by the street lamps. We keep on walking on the main street.

 

“That story, do you think it’s real?” she asks.

 

I laugh. “Of course not my dear sister, it is just a story. How can someone who’s blind suddenly gain sight? How can someone forget such atrocities committed against him and against others? Of course not, my dear sister, it is just a story.”

 

Even though the street lamps were turned on, the street was dim.

Shit from my documents

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on August 11, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

The following is not meant to be read.

Life is pretty much the same around here, it still rotates like clockwork. I heard voices some time ago, thought they addressed me. Soon I realized that very few of the voices you hear are meant for you, that life will make you think you’re important only to break you, and lay you down on a bed of roses and call you great, but deep down you will know that you are nothing but mud.

The inconceivable occurs when we forget who we are, when the greatness of the problem is so overwhelming that we realize that we can do nothing about it and therefore we are not changing agents in our world, but rather bystanders waiting to be dealt a hand. Our identities are therefore lost; who are we but innocent hearts stuck in the passage of time?

Memories

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on July 28, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

Memories are like posters on the walls of our mind. When we first hang them, we love them. They have all of our favorite characters and movie stars, and scenes from places and people we love. We relish them, hang them like relics on the corridors of our soul, and we expect every passer-by to admire them. We do not realize that the significance of these posters is lost on everyone but ourselves, and maybe the few friends who helped us put them up. Soon cracks begin to appear on these posters. They become much dimmer. We grow frightful as their words become harder and harder to read. One day a certain poster gets ripped and we have to throw it away in frustration, knowing we will never again admire it. Sometimes the wall becomes too crowded, and we have to hang some posters on top of other less pretty ones. But the old good ones, like fine wine, only become better. Then one day we die, and someone walks into our apartment. He gives a passing glance at our posters. To him they’re meaningless, but deep down he is touched by our ghost.

Untitled

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on July 27, 2013 by themanwiththecowboyboots

There is an insurmountable pleasure that comes to those who witness dusk. The birth of a new day foretells new beginnings, and the cool morning air does well to soothe the nerves. To the lucky few, who sit on their balconies and watch the shop keepers emerge from their houses and head to their shops, life is very simple. It is not a matter of taste or fancy. It has nothing to do with pleasure or even happiness. It is simply an endless cycle, repetitive, that never ceases to be reborn, never dull and never the same. And in that endless cycle is a certain holiness, not because the world is round, not because it revolves around itself, but simply because it exists.

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