I wrote this

Discussion in 'fordracing's Website Forum' started by fordracing, Feb 7, 2006.

  1. The hollow clank of heavy metal doors heralds its way down the hallways of Clinton Correctional Facility. The noise echoes off the sterile concrete walls to alert everyone to my approach. I am being escorted by a correctional officer of considerable carriage; having milked upon the lard-excreting teat of the wasteful bureaucracy, he walks with that certain swagger of a man who belligerently exploits the power of his government-given position. Ironically, the peons that this piggly-eyed tyrant serfs over were the very citizens that he and the bureaucracy were sworn to protect.

    He is a lumbering colossus of a man; at least 6'4" and weighing no less than 300 pounds, teetering back and forth as we cross the dead halls of the prison. His tan uniform shows small patches of dark brown, as his body secretes the foul-smelling sweat of corruption. He slows: to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. For while his heart may be cold, his body still succumbs to the heat of a New York summer, penetrating and infiltrating the walls of the correctional facility.

    His face is an explosion of flesh; milky white, with slight patches of light red, his small dark eyes, of indistinguishable color, stare off into the future to his next meal, while in the deep recesses of his sticky mind he reminisces of this morning when he had his breakfast. Below his eyes protrudes his disproportionately small snout, which twitches upwards when he feels the tickle of musty air. His moustache lies lazily over his pouty lips. His moustache is sandy brown, no doubt he grooms it, for it is in excellent condition and twirls up like pig tails at the ends. He strokes it occasionally to give off the stereotypical and infallible impression of evil.

    He is a physical personification of system that he holds in place: apathetic, unfeeling, gluttonous, and white? with a moustache. I eye him with amused contempt as he clumsily works open the last door to the visitation room.

    "Five minutes," he snorts with slightly annoyed indifference.

    I slightly raise my eyebrows and a mocking grin emerges across my face.

    "Why, thank you officer," I say with solicitousness so saccharine that it leaves a bitter aftertaste in my mouth. Fortunately, my sarcasm is lost upon my host who grins and nods with approval. I triumphantly march past the ignorant behemoth. Victorious that I have somehow outwitted this custodian of the machine, for my insolence has yet met no repercussions. Of course it is not that I have really won, but more the fact that he does not perceive my verbal calisthenics as an act of defiance or disrespect. However this detail does not stop my budding self-esteem from commanding my brain to produce pleasurable effervescent endorphins to reinforce this act of pointless rebellion.

    However my chemical induced grin soon shrinks back into a guarded frown as reality brings my spirits down from the ethereal realms. The visitation room is rather empty. There are pale green chairs strewn about. The room is separated in two by a large glass or plastic pane. Separating the inmates and those that are free from penal system "duties." While no doubt this segregation is not reflective of character or even justice, it is this thin pane that separates a man from being labeled a criminal or a plebian; evil or good; black or white?

    There are other people here to visit their loved ones whom have fallen upon? prison sentences. There is a fat white inmate being visited by his equally fat and equally white wife. She is no doubt talking about how her boundless horde of children (by an equally boundless horde of partners) has grown or how well they are doing in school. While the husband is no doubt reassuring her that when he comes out of the "poky" he will love and cherish everyone of them; as well as take care of her. Their exchange is so very "sweet;" with their hands meeting on opposite sides of the glass. The intense look in their eyes seemed to transcend their physical ties? as well as his legal bondage. For at this moment he was free. While this pane separated him from the outside world, and even prevented him from touching his wife: yet the heaviest manacles could not hold down his spirit. For while his corporeal existence remained in the confines of this maximum-security prison, at this moment his heart was somewhere else. And while he spoke sweet loving words to his wife, his eye shed a tear? for he knew that this moment could not last. And that it would be another 23 long years before his internment was over. But somewhere deep in his heart he felt an imminent joy. For he knew that someday he would walk out of here? after 25 long years served for raping and murdering his wife's sister. And he could look forward to fulfilling the promises that he made today... just a shame that his word of honor will collapse under a torrent of alcohol, domestic abuse, and country music.

    And among the wreckage of society? through the disfigured, failures of the commonplace, behind the confines of that glass cage, a solitary figure caught my eye. An impatient? impertinent? implausible? figure. A figure out of legend? out of oral tradition? He sat slouched over in one of the pale green chairs, with apathetic derision so thick? it created an effluvium that made everyone who was aware of his presence cringe in disgust. He wore a prison uniform that was at least 2 sizes to large for him. It looked like a tent hanging over his body. With his stomach protruding just slightly out from his medium frame. No doubt a result from bad prison food and his own lack of desire for exercise. His exceptionally dark mocha chocolate complexion accented the whites of his eyes, and as you stared into them you could see the madness that swirled within. His ambiguous eyebrows gave off the impression of confusion? yet still seemed to be menacing? as if to say? "I don't know where I am? but I'll still #$%# you up." He wore a small unkempt beard? more a result of negligence than a statement. His mouth was twisted in a scowl that seemed to invert itself in unthinkable physics. His general dislike for his current position was only aggravated by his natural impatience.

    His eyes ventured around the room's inhabitants, voyeuristically; licking his lips offensively when he thought of sadistic things he could do to that person. He fiddled about restlessly. Changing his posture? shaking his legs? fidgeting with his fingers. His continuously movement? his inertia? was only matched by the inner workings of his mind: perfectly insane; tranquilly criminal; moving at impossible speeds. Inebriated by profuse alcohol and copious chronic cannibus; he was a picture of a man who had? drank too much? drained too much? a genius? Bent by circumstance, and destroyed by consequence.

    He was my uncle: Russell Jones.

  2. I wrote this--

    I was walking down a country road, somewhere in Tunisia, or possibly Morocco, I'm not really sure. There was a mountainous region off to the left, which suggested the Corin layer, which runs down the spine of Africa. Well, it really doesn't matter where I was; I was there. And as I walked along, I passed a long, mud brick structure, perhaps three or four stories tall. The walls themselves were adobe brick, and weathered by age. Slowly, the gate opened, slowly, with a great clanking of chains and a grinding and protesting of wooden and ironclad gears, and as soon as I entered, the ambiance changed dramatically, for what surrounded the walls was a great, vast, treeless desert, stretching beyond the horizon to a distant point at which the sky melted evenly with the sands. And there, inside, I found myself in a garden setting where birds were singing and perfumed fountains flowed. I was in an oasis, in the desert. And I had come here in order to speak with God. I wanted to ask him the questions that many of us ponder. I needed to know where we go when we close our eyes, and whose idea was it for the word "lisp" to have an 's' in it. And if one synchronized swimmer all drowns, do the rest drown too? And is there another word for synonym? And if the police arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?

    Actually, what had brought me this great distance to meet God, was my obsession with watching National Geographic Wild Kingdom specials on television. I was obsessed, addicted to the hierarchy of predators. Lions stalking their prey, moving silently through the tall grass, and bringing down a gazelle. One lion holding the dying animal by the throat in its jaws, while another is disemboweling it, and you see the wild, desperate look on the face of the gazelle, suffocating, being devoured. Or a zebra crossing a river, and a crocodile launching itself out of the water, and clamping the helpless zebra in its huge jaws, the zebra dragged into the water, screaming, and then drowned, and eaten by the crocodile. And then, there's the python: falling from the tree, quickly wrapping itself around the wild boar in the embrace of death. Every time the boar breathes out, the snake contracts, squeezing it until the boar can no longer breathe in, asphyxiating. I'd entertain guests, hang pictures on my wall, drink glasses of expensive champagne, watch television, read books, listen to classical music, bathe, cook, make love to my girlfriend, while at the very same time, underneath the very house I live in, there is a dark, soulless world of insects and microbial life hunting, and eating each other; the living beings in the soil beneath my house are disemboweling the smaller creatures, who seek even smaller prey with voracious abandon. And when I replace a light bulb in my garden, I go outside and reach up to unscrew the dead bulb, and my hand passes through a spider web, and there are maybe twenty different little flies and moths that have been trapped and killed and sucked dry by the spider.

    And I want to talk to God about this, I want to say to God, "you created the universe, you created this whole system of survival of the fittest, this... hierarchy of murder. And how am I supposed to go to the church or the synagogue and pray and worship you, and talk about the perfection of your creation, and the beauty of all your works, and yet here I see them, as a vast and hopeless display of violence and death from which there is, for the animals involved, no escape? I want to love you, to give myself over to you, to find solace in you, and comfort in you, but I keep turning on the National Geographic specials on the Discovery Channel, and frankly, it's very disturbing."

    And eventually, I come to a room, where God is sitting. And he sits in a canvas director's chair by the water, and he's wearing a pair of balloon pants with a velvet sash drawn at the waist, his legs crossed, he's got a single diamond stud in his left earlobe, his feet in a gorgeous pair of Italian sandals, his eyes hidden behind a pair of very expensive Oakley sunglasses made of titanium, and he's sipping from a cool glass of perier jouer. But before I can speak, he reaches forward and draws a deck of playing cards from behind my ear, and then a gold coin, and then a ping pong paddle, and I realize that coming here was a mistake.
  3. i drew thisss
  4. ahhh, both are so awesome. do you just think of the ideas? what is your writing technique?
  5. I�ll never forget the first time I saw you. You were standing, on a ladder, at the street light in front of my house, and I couldn�t, for the life of me, figure out what you were doing there.

    And when I came out to ask you, you mumbled something, about birds nesting in the lamps. Endangered condors, you said.

    And how long ago that was, how young and ignorant I was. I didn�t even know that condors had been living in my own back yard, or, front yard, I suppose. And I even asked you what the field binoculars were for, why they had to be mounted on a bipod, trained at my bedroom window, and what the bazooka-like device, pointed in the same direction was. Of course I know now that it was a voice-activated shotgun condenser microphone, which, with the Hitachi steady-cams and their closed-circuit television feed they linked to inside your rigged van, and a VHS player continuously recording the display, except for the four intervals a day when the tape would be removed, added to your impressive archive, and then replaced with a fresh tape, were like the vital organs of your body of work, and that my sleeping, eating, and bathing habits were important facets of the condors habitat, and as such, must be documented rigorously. It�s really quite amazing, in hindsight, how little I knew about ornithology, and the world.

    I suppose, looking back, we can�t help but be startled by how blind we were in the past. Some day I even plan to look back on myself now, and shake my head, and sigh, �if only I had known.�

    And I�ll never forget the first time I saw you. It was at a gala ball- the 35th annual banquet of the Southern California Geocentrists Society. I can picture, so clearly, the first time I caught a glimpse of you, allowing some bearded pseudo-scientist to have his poorly conceived interpretation of the Michelson-Morley experiment fall upon your deaf ears, your skin like rich milk, or cocoa butter, your fine satin gown sunk at the neckline and raised toward your hip. I remember thinking that the entire dress seemed to recede into your exquisite figure, imploring me to follow. And I remember my first thought about you, some inscrutable rambling in my inner monologue about Diana, and Aphrodite, and that anything I had considered beautiful before, was now rendered obsolete.

    And I remember that my second thought, which followed rather quickly, was how disappointed I was that someone of such incomparable beauty and grace could debase herself so thoroughly by subscribing to a worldview so unfounded, ridiculous, and illogical as the one this night was supposed to honor. And seeing you in this light turned every ounce of your divine aesthetic, every graceful movement, your sterling wit, and an otherwise flawless intellect, that could have been a rival to Plato, Aristotle, Kobain, it turned these things into a thousand vicious wounds to my psyche, and the night into a parade of effronteries to all that was good, and sweet, and decent. I mean, had you never learned how gravity works? Now, of course, I know you were there only in the capacity of an uncle�s unwilling and unready guest, an uncle who was, in fact, chairperson of the society and organizer of this event- the intellectual equivalent of taking your sister to the prom- but at the time, the mere possibility that you accepted these people�s tenets turned my world upside down- or everything else upside down, while the world remained stationary. You have to understand to what depths the night�s proceedings had perturbed me. I was willing to accept anything. Well, almost anything.

    And I remember when you told me that you didn�t believe the ramblings of these madmen, and this night was nothing more than an obligation to an uncle who had taken care of you when your father would withdraw to his drink, as well as a chance to dress up, because, really, we all love an excuse to dress up. Well, they say the truth shall set you free, and at that moment how fully I understood.

    And what was I doing there, you ask? Well, I had been working at the Airport Marriott, where this event was being held, parking cars to earn some extra money when a Gerald Harrison, a man who called himself �doctor� because of a Ph, D in theology had taken me aside, directing me to take special care with his automobile.

    Now of course, I am a consummate professional, I take exorbitant, extravagant, irrationally meticulous care of every automobile in my charge, so naturally I considered this aside a great insult.

    So I killed him. I�m not particular proud of this, I consider it a failure of my normally stalwart moral fortitude, so I won�t go into details of the deed itself; but it happened. Now, my grandfather grew up during the depression, and he always taught me not to be wasteful � a lesson his entire generation had learned the hard way- and I like to think I learned well from him the easy way; so not wanting to let this man Harrison�s dinner, and evening, go to waste, I donned his tuxedo, including his invitation in the inside left pocket and, removing the skin from his face with my Swiss army knife, I fashioned a mask that wasn�t immaculate, but was certainly passable, and I entered the banquet as �doctor� Gerald Harrison.

    You really were beautiful that night.

    I�ll never forget the first time I saw you. You were lying on the beach, it was your first time on the island so, being the gentleman I pride myself on being, I escorted you to what were, in my humble opinion, some of the best spots on the island. I took you to the fringes of the island�s jungle, where the birds you couldn�t even name sung, it seemed, just for us. And I took you to the cove, where the light reflected off the water and onto the rocks above, and it danced. And we danced to the song of the waves crashing on the shore at night. You even let me lead, horrible dancer though I am. And I remember the most beautiful music that played in my head as I carried you into my home, and made love to you. And everything was so right with the world that I didn�t even care that when, on that first day, I had found you on the beach, that your head hadn�t also washed up on that pristine shore.

    And my memories play in my head like an uncensored, NC-17 movie projected against the back of my eyelids, in a theater with a billion seats, each occupied by a brain cell. And the movies plays, and though I want to look away, I can�t. My life rolls on the screen, and all I see is a parade of mistakes, and missed opportunities, and wasted second chances. But finally, I am relieved, because the movie has reached that moment, that first time I saw you, and I know that I am the luckiest, and most blessed person in the world, because I�ll always remember the first time I saw you, one way or another.

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