Tuesday, November 11, 2008

Flashing II

Over, He Said

Dragonflies on the appalling bridge, rifling through memories, down the river, drowning aloud, charismatic variance in the normal spacing of the scattering in the corner. Charles syllabizing, the quest for meaning on the board, the interstices, the varicose veins of Utopian vigilance, the afterglare of prescience. Terrifying, vagrant infantry, calibrated vineyards, pulmonary night.

Loncito Cartwright woke from fitful dreams, sweat pouring, black sun blazing beneath the talkative good friends of midnight. No spacing is normal, no webs condensed, no reveries beyond insertions of edited styles. Carry me over, he said. We withdrew into the confessional corners, wording the missives, accelerating the ghosts, validating the passports to hell.

Four faces of hatred, four faces of misinterpretation. Loncito staggered past his life, the double eagle, every twenty seconds the downladders of misery. Loncito: “Tell exactly, not nearly, not hopefully, not patiently, not without guile. And tell now.”

Knowledgeable, friendly, digital—null and void. Subtitles in the dark. Whispers in eddying doom.

Loncito: “Calcify. It grows if you try. It grows in the measures.”

“It doesn’t stay up. It’s escrow. Beyond the pale.”

Loncito: “Vertiginous.”

In Norristown, we stopped for the ten major things. They had eight; two were lifted. Seven minutes earlier, we could have scored.

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2 Comments:

Blogger alister said...

When I visited Muratville last, there was only the clairvoyant night chicken. I know you warned your citizens, but still… I can’t keep up with you, you know that, right? So I’m choosing the piece that pulled me in, and Flashing ruled, speaks to me. It soothed, is real to me, as in I think I remember being there, maybe in a fitful dream. And I want to go back. That kind of a feeling from words is home, a fascinating friend I don’t want to leave the presence of. It teases with the perfect amount of ambiguity. I’m in love with it. You could write more like this and I wouldn’t complain, but if you did, if all your flashes were like this, then it wouldn’t be this...

7:44 PM  
Blogger murat11 said...

How nice: a midweek visit from Ms A: of course, I do not expect you to keep up. You have a real job, remember? The secret of a self-absorbed Scorpio teacher is that you read what you want to read to your students and then you write what you want to write. Flashes are perfect for the time frame of a 45 minute class, where I can still write, but act like I'm in the mix with the urchin-writers, too.

Thank you, as always, for your appreciative words. It's a very cool little tribe of readers we have all woven ourselves into.

This Flash was spurred by our reading of Ambrose Bierce's story "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." To last year's juniors, I read a Vonnegut essay in which he declares that all who have not read the AB story should consider themselves "twerps." We proceeded to untwerp ourselves, as I did with yet another group of juniors on Monday. I like the AB story well enough, but I can think of a lot more stories that far surpass it, many of which are in the Padgett Powell and Barry Hannah catalogs, for starters, but they're over the heads of most of my folk.

Today I got to read Flannery's "The Life You Save May Be Your Own," a story I just LOVES to read aloud, and which invariably blows the minds of my listeners. Can't wait to see what kind of hot FLASHES we get tomorrow.

Dream on, sweet sister.

8:08 PM  

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