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Jan. 7th, 2006 | 12:29 am
posted by: eldonkeyo in les_cannettes

He sat down at his computer and he began to type, he had promised himself he’d try to write some thing that night and he knew if put it off until the next night he would continue like that night after night until forgetting. He sighed romantically and repented that his computer did not have the character of a type writer. This was followed rapidly by another sigh, also for a typewriter, this time because the type writer wouldn’t be beeping and reminding him that he had promised himself to write something tonight.


He began to sort through some images that had been flowing through his head that he thought were worthy of apiece of writing.  Of course he could never tell when something was worthy of anything when it was floating in his head; not long before he had composed a song in his head and it was not until much later that he realized that stuffing a soul in a brown paper bag was in fact not a beautiful and powerful image as he had imagined.


His stomach then throbbed with pain. Man, he reflected, was not meant to eat even a third of a twelve scoop sundae. He thought back to earlier that evening when he had been celebrating a victorious swim meat at Friendly’s with his team. Some how it was decided that that sea of ice cream was far too little to split between six people and three of them were barred.  Not to be out done those three ordered a similar sundae. Though ice cream is, perhaps, the most delicious substance on the planet, they had reached the critical mass after which each sticky sweet spoonful tasted exactly like the last and the flavors merged into one. He could not help humbling this experience by reminding everyone of the starving children in Africa. Now the disgusting excesses of American society were giving him a tummy ache.


He sat back stared at the blinking cursor on the screen, peering through his glasses with bright blue eyes, ah, those eyes which had laid him down with more than one of life’s hard truths, those same eyes which were both his favorite and his least favorite feature. They were his favorite, because they were without a doubt his most, and quite possibly his only, attractive feature. On the other hand they were his least favorite for two reasons. The first was their lack of function as one might have guessed from the glasses he was wearing, without which he couldn’t see farther than a hands length before his face. The second was there tendency to attract attention at awkward or inconvenient moments. One time as he rushed to finish a homework assignment in the first five minutes of class the girl beside him commented on them. He lost his concentration on the assignment and had to regain his stream of thought. Another girl made a similar observation one week rainy and depressed week. “You have really blue eyes” she said; he responded exasperatedly, “I know.”  For the rest of that night and then well into the following week he had worried that he had sounded conceited, a trait he despised in everyone else; he replayed the conversation in his head again and again trying to make himself not sound pompous in his memory, but again and again he thought himself a prick, to use his language.


Somewhere in his bedroom an alarm rang, he looked about and saw a wristwatch that he had received for Christmas from an uncle in California. He had never had the attention to reset its alarm and thus it sounded that evening at 12:00. Looking at the clock and learning this he yawned as he dropped off his 12 scoop sugarhigh, but he knew he needed to tell himself he had at least tried to write something.


Writing, it was an odd hobby choice for the boy who not ten years before had been reduced to tears day after day in first, second, and third grades. He could not tolerate the slow laborious process of dragging a pen across a paper to make words and would settle time and again for half formed or poorly expressed thoughts to end the pain of writing it. Though his fear of the pen had lessened as he grew his ability with it had not grown.  In the sixth grade a concerned penmanship teacher sent him to be tested. “You’re having trouble writing?” the woman administering the test said. “Yeah” he responded as she then commenced to test him on, spelling, grammar, style: all the aspects of the art save penmanship. When the test scores came back they arrived with a letter saying “these low test scores are not at all a product of inability but rather of not conforming to the testing standards, for example using “beneath the bed” rather than the question specified “under the bed.” And thus his penmanship came to be properly assessed by some woman who hid plastic things for him to find in putty. Luckily the computer he was now sitting at made it little difference that this woman’s valiant attempt had failed.


Now he was really ready to sleep, he gazed longingly at his bed and then back at the computer. He thought a second more then he turned to that most consistent and trustworthy source of inspiration. One he simultaneously loved and detested, himself.


He began to write.

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