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Writing Exercise #117

Mas o Menos by w. clark I had made an important decision that drizzly December lunch our, a choice that might have been a major turning point, or one that made me realize I couldn’t trust myself, control molecular mutations that were implanted in my DNA, but were fertilized by the irony of life and made me older, smarter, and a riddle unto my own psyche. I left the office promptly at 11:45 am and it took the usual 3 minutes to get from my desk to the elevator to the front door and down the dozen stairs to the front green and I swiftly broke right up Maroon Hill two blocks west, slushing hurriedly up to the garden gates, and then made haste past the goat petting zoo. Temporary images whirled past me as I lost more seconds of my hour and tore down to the Landing, the hillside slanted toward sea level and my spine started to burn as my speed increased, the spring humidity filling my lungs with heavy water and my terror elevated to a state of shocking horror for that which broke so many ...

"Why do you ask so many rhetorical questions?"

The drive home from anyplace you go is going to be an unnerving string of fragmented images, sounds, smells, etcetera, but all you can do is drive, you have to get to your next destination; we all have to get somewhere, eh? The object of the game is to outwit everyone else, or maybe to out-think them, surpass them in the good looks or "I know how to dress" or something or other, after all, you HAVE to be good at something, don't you? Or will you fall through the cracks? The more you stay, the farther you go away any love looks you in the eyes and you don't wait for the words you want to hear so much these days; you're friends find misery and become a bore, of course, you ponder if this boredom is really just a manifestation of your own loneliness. Ah, looking back, we had dreams, big huge quivering coolness in our attitudes; smarter, luckier, more destined for greatness than all those random bodies rolling over the earth, heads down, miserable because they were bl...

"But that is beside the point,"

"What ever it is that you have to tell me, you better have something to say." I nodded. "A silent world would be an ideal utopia for you Ms. _______." "I really," she paused at tried to look dramatic, clenched her jaw and tapped her shoe on the ground twice, then scuffed, "yes, I think that I rather loathe your frequent and flawed - so called - 'obscurity.'" I imagined my day at work would be completely obscure and meaningless to perhaps those who were not aware of my heroic, pathetic intentions to be wonderful, which was therefore equated with obscurity. Clearly, I was losing my mind. Or was my mind losing me? Moral of the tale: Whenever you can't figure out what you were going to say, what the question was, if you really want to be wonderful, you will eventually turn out to be a motorcycle. And my advice, one of the most impressive habits of we obscure heroes, is to just end every paragraph you speak, is to say this simple phrase ...

Ritual

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