Fiction: part 1

She thinks about the decision she made. Mulling over the pros and cons as she sips her hot chocolate staring out her window onto the street. She smiles, realizing that this is what she wanted all along, accepting that this is what needs to be. The sweet, warm drink soothes her throat. After crying for days it is a welcoming sensation. Cars drive by noisily, honking their horns, the drivers yelling profanities. It's music to her ears, a melodious intermingling of mechanical voices and urban salutations. She looks back at the computer screen at listings wondering who wrote them and what the circumstances were that lead to particular job openings. That company lost their marketing manager to a drug habit and an existential crisis, or this company's art director left after realizing his passion for music and nonconformity. The world is constantly changing, a fluidity reminiscent of spilled milk flowing over counter tops and splashing onto the floor, spreading freely, thickly, without calculation, but with purpose. She shifts in her chair. Trying desperately to focus on her task at hand. She closes the classifieds window and opens the page she's been trying to avoid since she sat down. New York State Psychiatric Institute. She looks over the website with terror and contempt, but also understanding and longing. The voices haven't stopped in weeks and her sanity seems to be flickering on and off in her head like fireworks, a burst of clarity and then a slow fade into the unknown. For weeks she's tried to function like everything was okay, going to dinner, going to work, going out, but all with a pang of regret. Happiness was now a distant memory she thought she could recreate by ignoring her incomprehensible feelings and embracing the simplicity of complacency, but her quick-fix emotion betrayed her. Ignorance was most certainly not bliss. She clicked on Looking For Treatment, her hands shook as she scrolled through the information. Filling out the form for clinical studies, she prayed there would be one to fit her needs. She briefly thought about just calling the hospital and checking herself in without telling anyone...



to be continued...


I'm out.

Missed Connections w4m, BLB

I'm about to admit something no sane person should admit. However, it's because of this inexplicable partiality I feel for this writer who has been serial-spamming craigslist with his writing. It hit me like a lightening bolt, tingling through me like electricity. Painful and illogical, but beautiful and precise. I'm not sure if it's sleep deprivation or this total stranger reawakened something within me I've almost forgotten- love, love for words, love for thought, love for the intangible, the ridiculous, the absurd.
Alright, here's my secret: I scroll through "missed connections" sometimes when I'm bored. It's become a habit born out of sheer curiosity and the hope that some guys could be true romantics. This leads right into why I wanted to write this post. There's a guy out there that puts up missed connections on craigslist, but instead of "looking for a blonde wearing a red jacket and black boots," he's writing profoundly insightful, heart wrenching poetry that has left me in a state of shock and awe. For months I have been terrified to write poetry on my blog. For weeks I have been putting off updating in hopes of discovering a topic I can write about freely, and then I find this guy's blog. He's like everything I aspire to be as a writer, fearless and unwavering. He writes in a way devoid of commercial, patronizing rhetoric. Instead he uses words with a biting, uncensored ferociousness. It's like he's fighting, constantly fighting. Fighting himself, fighting the words, fighting format and style, fighting conformity, fighting for his place, his rightful place in a world full of doubt and hopelessness, disrespect and sorrow. He shows no remorse in his words, his thoughts forming violent serenity, if you can call it that. That description makes sense when you read him, maybe it doesn't, but that's what is so appealing about writing, it's (in)comprehension. His writing is so poignant because he doesn't throw his intelligence mockingly in your face, but slips it into lines and phrases with stealth and careful thought. His name is Frankie Leone and he is Williamsburg, Borough of Lost Boys... or more affectionately, the "missed connections writer."

This is my very first post about another writer... It's fitting because of the New Year and all. A lot of firsts have been happening in these last few days, many interesting occurrences. This year really is going to be fantastic, I really can feel it.

I'm out.