The Council of Forgotten Matters

There was a reason silence spread in the room: There really was nothing to talk about. This council was not convened on its strength of resolving issues, nor on custom or tradition. This was an emergency. This was a council meant to discuss urgent matters long forgotten.

The room was large. The old tapestry was revealing -- revealing damp walls stained with droplets of brown mud. It was badly positioned too; one could see the patterns being superimposed with little subtlety or taste for perfection. Of course, there was also a table. To its left side was a large window. The landscape behind the dark and dusty curtain was painted. It wasn't real. It was a painting of a disfigured forest in dark red and green. There wasn't much of a point in this, but perhaps it helped the members of the council focus on the absent matters at hand.

'The first matter of the day is...'

Silence erupted, shattering the brief noise of announcement. Then, a second disharmony: a council member coughed without permission. Everyone turned their heads and looked at him. He straightened his tie and with a silent gulp pretended to re-concentrate on the conversation.

Looking at the ceiling, one could tell that this was a very high room. Stretching hundreds of miles above them was a painting of a starry sky. The thick paint, corroded by the eternal rains outside, was causing the trees on the window to defoliate. An imaginary breeze swayed them back and forth. Silence.

'The first matter of the day is...'

The council convened on daily basis. And it was always for matters they could not remember. Matters known and seeking solution were always postponed. It was the fear of matters unknown that hastened the room with a visceral air of urgency. Yet, matters forgotten -- regardless of how pressing or important they might be -- were impossible discuss.

On days like this, silence could go on for hours on end. An occasional cough, a sneeze; sometimes the loud voice of the minute-keeper would remind the rest that the first matter had not yet been discussed. What was the first matter of the day?

'The first matter of the day is...'

No one could remember.

Behind them and slightly to the left, the fireplace was going cold. It was always going cold, because it's fire was also, like the window and the ceiling, painted. It was a simple painting of charred coals -- barely keeping a dying fire going. It was a reminder for everyone in the room that they had better remember something before freezing in this doorless chamber.

'I remember now!' 

Who dared break the silence this time? What kind of deluded sycophant believes in memory of things forgotten? The council members looked at each other with suspicious eyes. Anyone could have done it, but no one took the blame. Outside the window the trees were looking ominous. Disfigured. In dark red and green.

The window burst open, and a silent breeze crept in.

On the table, someone painted a picture of the warming sun.

But it surely wasn't enough.

This short story was written and edited in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.
 

Finding an idea -- or how to go from naught to write in seconds

It all starts with an idea. But what if you can't pin down this idea to anything? What if it is just an idea, floating in your head, which you find hard to describe? Impractical as it may seem, I tend to work this way, most of the time: I decide I need an idea, then I work out what the idea that I need might be. Sometimes, I am in such dire need of an idea, that I can't work around finding one.

Other times, finding an idea is easier than it seems.

This blog post is a tutorial for brainstorming.

But first, let's take things from the beggining.

I consider myself a writer. Cliche as it may sound, it's what I do mostly, most of the time. Writing doesn't have to be literal. It can be writing music, or a script, but most often than not, it begins with writing an idea.

Can ideas be written? I reckon they do, and if you consider yourself a fan of writing, then you might often catch yourself writing scribbles. Often, you write because something is in your head.

Other times, your need to write creates something in your head, which you write about.

So, how do you begin? Say, you decide that today is your 'write' day, and you need to write a story. What will your catch be?

An easy way to begin is often looking into your past. I admit that I do this more often than I need to. The past provides us with easy fodder for story writing. First of all, since it is your past, there is little chance that others know about it or have heard of the story. But then again, you risk making your writing a bit too personal. It is a secret of the trade, but the best autobiographical stories are not really factual. They might hold an element of fiction, or the story telling might be fictitious. Some writers claim to tell the story 'as truthfully as they can', but often this can be translated into 'as truthfully as they should'. Perhaps it is that your story from the past did not have the ending that would turn it into a meaningful story. Or perhaps, you want to revisit it up to a certain point and then change the rest of it. If writing is your power, then writing is in your power, and you should know what is best to do with it.

But unless your life has been truly uncommon, using the past may not always create the best stories. Sometimes you need to go beyond the usual to come up with something. So, here is my trick: Be random.

Start by writing some numbers down. Don't think of a pattern, just pick 3 to 6 numbers. Let's say, you chose: 2, 5, 3, 1.

Think of these numbers as story arcs. They do not represent an order, but rather, they represent a nearly equal (or weighted) amount of words. Number 2 should be twice in length than number 1. Then, randomly, give them an order of importance. Don't go for the obvious. Why make the 'larger' story arc (5) the 'basic' story arc? Try something unconventional. How about you make number 1 the basic story arc?

You now have on your hand a potential long or short story with 4 discrete story arcs, of which there is one that is up to five times as 'long' as the basic. How would you construct this as a story? Perhaps you can make the story arc '5' run throughout the length of what it is you are trying to tell. Now, you have come to another important part: Order. Your story arcs need to have some order in which they are told. Some can run concurrently, while others can start or end before another has begun. Since story arc '1' is the most important, it would make more sense to put it at the beggining or the end. It could either be a 'starting point' from which the other story arcs unfold, or it could be a 'coming-to' point, where they converge.

Or you can go for something more unconventional. Make story arc '1' a public event that is available to all story arcs. It doesn't have to be their story, it just needs to be there in the background, as these stories are told. This could make both '5' and '1' related story arcs. Try not to think too fast and far ahead at this point. Give your story arcs an order, as we said earlier.

Let's say story arc '1' is 'a'. Let's make story arc '3' a 'b', (spanning b-1, b-2 and b-3). Story arc '5' should be 'c' and story arc '2' will be 'd'.

What do you know so far, by randomly assigning roles into your potential stories?

You know that 'a' is the main (yet background) story arc, but it is supposed to be small. About a fifth smaller than the entire concept of the 'bigger' story arc. You also know that 'b' is a three-parter, 'c' is a the five-parter mentioned earlier and 'd' will be a two-parter. You have also semi-decided to relate 'a' and 'c'. So, your potential story begins with an important event (a), and this event leads to a main plot-line (c). During plot 'c', story arcs 'b' and 'd' develop.

Now you can try asigning actual plot contents to these random structures in your head. You might already have had some hunches -- random numbers and brainstorming tends to create incredible ideas in your head. I picked the general theme of 'armed robbery'.

Say plot 'a' is an armed robbery at a bank. Immediately tens of questions arise:

Why rob a bank?

Was anyone hurt?

Who were the people working at the bank?

Why was that old man withdrawing money in such a hurry that morning?

That woman... she seems indifferent to the robber. Why is that?

As you let your imagination go wild, images fill your head, and your head responds with more precise ideas about your topic. Before you know it, story arc 'a' has provided you with most of the subject matter for the rest of your novelette. Story arc 'd' (the two-parter) could be the story of the woman. Story arc 'b' could be the story of the old man. But, how about -- instead of making story arc 'c' be a result of 'a', you can make it the other way around, as it was earlier implied?

Let's have 'a' be both our starting and our ending point. It's how this story begins, and it's also how it ends.

Your novelette could then begin with 'a', telling the events as they happened at the end of the story. Without introducing your readers, just give a precise retelling of a bank robbery. Mention the old man.  Mention the woman. Don't focus on them, focus on the robbery. Do something out of the ordinary. Have the robber kill the old man, perhaps when confronted. Do not make it tragic yet. Your readers do not know this old man. Then, take them back in time...

At this point, you have to clear your potential scenario candidates for the stories of the old man and the woman. It doesn't matter how conventional or not you are at this point. Good storytelling is honest. It doesn't have to be spectacular -- just realistic.

We know that the old man needs the money fast. But, how about we turn the story on its head? Perhaps the money is not really his.... or........

Writer's block.

Don't worry. It happens. It happens to the best of us, and it most certainly happens to the writer in us. If a story arc confuses you, move away from it for a moment. It might become clearer later on. Let's focus on the woman instead. We know her story is a two parter. Let's make her story start before the events of the bank robbery, and end after. Perhaps something occured to her, something which she found important at first, but which -- given the situation and the loss of a person's life in front of her eyes -- has become trivial. Perhaps she had a row with her father, but she offered to go to the bank in his stead nonetheless. The old man could have been her father, but she was lucky to give way to anger, and she is grateful for this.

But this may be too easy. Turn her story on its head even further. She goes to the bank before her father, to withdraw money she intends to give to her lover, whom her father dislikes.

Suddenly, you have your 5-parter story arc 'c'. It's the story of her lover, who turns robber / accidental-murderer, in front of his girlfriend's eyes. But she doesn't know. Mask him. At the beggining of the story, your readers shouldn't know. She shouldn't know either. But if story arc 'a' it is the end (and beggining) of the story, then what happens during the second part of the woman's story? Perhaps she returns to her lover's house. Scared of what has just happened. She doesn't know who robbed the bank, but she is scared. She knocks the door.

End your story there. Keep the reader immersed, panicked, wondering. Don't give them an ending but just a pathway of possibility. Don't even be explicit that the robber/murderer is really her lover. Rather, imply it. Leave the reader with the possibility of hope.

Then go back to your story, construct the old man's story accordingly. His is a three-parter, and you already have made up most of your story's end, so, construct his story around a different story concept. Don't make his death trivial, but perhaps allude to his social circle or family who might mourn his loss afterwards.

In just a few minutes or hours, you have constructed a story out of nothing.

It all begins with a robbery, in which a young man accidentally kills an old man, after panicking. Then, the story goes back in time. Perhaps a row with his girlfriend or lover about money. His (the robber's) story is the 5-part arc. Make it detailed. Explain how he plans the robbery after his lover exits the room. During your main plot, interweave the story of the old man. Don't make it relevant. Not all story arcs are relevant directly. Explain how he came to need to be at the bank. Make the readers care -- he will be the first person they realize connects to the main story; as they don't know yet who the robber is. Not until the end, at least. To that end, avoid unveiling that the young man plans a robbery. Make it happen unexpectedly during the last chapter of his story. Make sure to have placed both the woman and the old man in the same bank branch before he has entered.

When all your plot points are in order, execute it. You now have the basic premise and idea of what it is that you want to do. Keep writing, keep adding, and don't be afraid to take long or short breaks whilst writing. Sometimes it is best to move away and re-focus later, in order to create something truly interesting to read.

If you end up writing a story using this technique, or even this very story story featured here, I would love to know about it and read it.

Because... as you might have suspected,  I just came up with all of this -- including the subject, content and the ideas within -- literally as I was writing about it. I had no idea what this would turn out to be. I just knew I needed an idea, and a reason to go from naught to write, in seconds.

Did it work in your opinion?

Notice: It has come to my attention that some website has reposted my short story 'The girl with the wooden umbrella' without permission. I would like to explain, first and foremost, that I am an avid supporter of endorsing and helping creativity in people. I am against 'copyright' notices, and I do not believe that any person owns the work they produce. Instead, what we produce, as artists, humans, engineers, scientists, belongs to humanity as a whole. But there is a fine line, and when someone attempts to usurp another person's work without proper permission, referencing or acknowledgements, then this goes against such notions of creative commons. My work is free and open for everyone to read, use and make the most and best of. It is not however open for direct or indirect exploitation of any kind, including passing it on as your own in order to make money. If you need to re-post something from this blog, feel free to do so -- I am happy that you care about it in the first place. But please, say where you found it, give a link to the original blog and cite the writer or the writer's pseudonym. That's how simple it is. The same rule goes for any derivative work. If you create a work directly based on something you read here, make sure to tell others about where you got the original idea from. All work contained in this blog is considered under a non-commercial creative commons license of attribution and share-alike ethos. 


For more information:

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

How to beat stagnation -- or just a day in August

Even to the best of us; it happens. To the writer in us, it happens with incredible complexity, coming when you least expect it to and leaving when you don't want it to. One day it's here, the other day it has vanished like smoke.

I am sure it is a thing that comes with time. I remember that when I was younger, ideas came faster and more often — writing was a breeze. Thoughts inside my head felt like a busy street on peak hours. And boy were there shouts! I could write about poetry, passion, comedy, science, fiction, history… and then… blank! As suddenly as it came to me that I can write, and as fast as I put the pen to paper writing short stories, novelettes, poems, essays… my creativity came to an end.

Just like that.

Granted, I still write. But it is not the same. Today's writing involves academic research and it is tied to a thesis and the inquiry of a productive research result. As far as it goes, in terms of creative writing, I have lost the right frame of mind in which to write something outside of a research paper on a topic.

The optimist in me would say that all is not gone. That what I do now makes more sense (even if my intended recipient is an academic who wishes to quickly flick through some pages in order to find some relevant piece of information to include in her or his own research). But, deep inside, I know this and this is not true.

For example, I have contemplated writing a book several times in my life. Up until now, it would be other things that caused me to stop — usually it had something to do with my obsessive-compulsive nature of doing several things at once. I had to be creative in everything — music, poetry, card and table game design. There was not one creative thing that I did not try at least once. Several of them I enjoyed. Most of them I tried again.

Yet now, what causes me to stop is sheer apathy. A complete writer’s block. As if writing about anything other than research on the nature and perception of identity would cause the brain inside to shrink and/or disintegrate. Or does it?

I don’t know the facts (and don’t quote me on the shrinking brain issue), but I know that as days, months and years go by, I can write less and less. The elephants in my room have gone cold, and I no longer see the curtains as inspiration, but for what they are: Curtains. They say that the most serious thing that a writer can lose is their imagination. Or sense of humour. And I think I have lost both.

A dear friend told me recently, after I told her what I thought was a witty joke: ‘God, we need to work on your humour. Fast!’ I came back to her with a 'witty' one-liner that managed to be even worse. And then it came to me. I am changing. If that person, who used to love my humour and imagination, honestly thought that I have lost it, then perhaps I have!

If I could, I would put an ad online: Elephants in the room (or any kind of imagination for the matter) — highly sought after. If you’ve seen one, let me know. I’ll pay in words.

Then again, that’s what I have been paying with, for my entire life. Words is all I have, yet words are never enough. Or so it seems.

It might be just a bad week, but be patient with me and this blog. Often it is more of a big undertaking than I expected it to be. I have to commit to it, because it will help me never 'lose it' again. As much as it is there for your enjoyment, it is here for my preservation and perserverence (that's quite a few 'p'-'r'-'s'-'v'-'r' words). And prese-perse I must.

I am thinking of picking up work on a book translation from English to Greek or vice-versa. Which books of literature did you like the most recently? Perhaps you can be my source of inspiration this time around.

August is now with us, I hear. Enjoy August. I’ll stay inside, fully air conditioned. 42C does not do good to my fragile wintery heart. Or skin…

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

Diary of Another Man: The Hand of Hope [11/11/09]

On Wednesday, 11 November 2009, someone, somewhere, wrote...

I dreamt a hand, stretching to catch me.

In my dream, I could see the top of a high cliff. I was suspended in air.

Was I falling already? I was never one to be particularly attached to technicalities: my grip on reality is periodical at best — like a pendulum swinging, I am sometimes closer to it and some other times far too removed to care. But I always return to it, a strange force pulling me away and towards reality, as if I need it as much as I detest it.

So, without being able to establish whether I was indeed falling, all I could do was understand the fact that there was a hand there. Did I imagine it? What was it there for? Had I been saved before and why would I need any help now? The hand lay unshaken. I felt there was some kind of choice involved here. It would not come to me. It waited my own reaction: it was there but would not hold me of its own, without my own will. I had the option of taking the hand. Saving myself.

Saving myself?

What would salvation mean for me? A new reality? An escape? Merely a dream?

Instead, I chose the gravity of reality than the gravity of salvation. Opening my eyes, I saw not most mesmerizing dawn of my life, but a rainy morning. The cold was penetrating through my half-open window. Two A4 copies were swinging in motion -- the air surely being the culprit here -- but could not fall because a book was on top. Next to me, mankind's shame, mocking my existence: clothes, books, random unassorted things.

They say that our choices define who we are, becoming part of our identity. 

I stood up and walked through the door. I needed to wash my face and resume working on my latest essay.

The hand of hope lay rotting, as my dream escaped through the neurons of my brain — certainly freeing up some space for better, new thoughts. Or maybe perhaps I should have given it a hand; no pun intended...

This story is part of a diary series, which will unfold over the coming weeks and months.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

The boy with the violin

A special someone had once asked him to tell her a story, so that she could sleep. She was listening to a song he had written and she wanted a context through which to understand it.

So he did.

There was a boy in the story. Standing alone on a small island, holding a violin. It was alone, with no one to talk to, and nowhere to go. The boy would just stand there, and play.

But this is not how the story begins.

The story begins with a cave.

Once upon a time, in a place far far away, there was a cave. Dark, moist. It had no entrance, and it had no end. It was an outwordly place meant for creatures of another world. The human eye could not see anything, but if one could go there and stand still, eventually they would be able to catch glimpses of sounds echoing in the distance.

These were not real echoes. They were, themselves, creatures of the dark. They were the lifeless notes of silence, dwelling in the cave. Once in a while, they'd become aroused by the distant sense of motion, and they would burst back to life. Slowly. One at a time.

Yet what was once a feint glimpse, would build up into audible sound. At first it was impossible to tell whether the sound was music, but, given time, there was definately music in the cave. Long simmering hisses would transform into bowed strings or plucked chords. Streams of air would be transformed into voices and sound.

And suddenly, the dark cave would light up in a weird dim light, as if stars had shone inside. These lights would move, slowly, following the sound; becoming part of the sound.

One of those lights was different. She was not like the others. She did not know how she came to be in the cave, or where she was going. She did not know what she was, or if she had ever been anything else. She decided to follow the slow movement of lights, crying and singing in this weird symphony of murmurs.

The cave was long, and it kept going only in one direction. There was not a fork in the path. Just a long, straight line, leading seemingly nowhere. It might have taken centuries, but the long path was endless, and the motion perpetual. Entranced, she'd follow and follow the lights surrounding her. And as time passed on, more and more lights would join up and their song would become more and more audible.

She also tried to sing, but she didn't know if she had a voice or if she could be heard. But sing she did, in an attempt to sound just like the others.

Their long journey may well have been eternal, yet she could sense that something was changing. Through the ages, she could discern a sound that was not of their own. A sound coming from elsewhere. A gentler, more refined sound. But, as soon as she could catch that sound, she would lose it. Feint as it was, the symphony of lights often overpowered it.

This sound from elsewhere became her obsession. Slowly, she started immitating it, to avoid losing it among the other sounds. And as she sung, she grew brighter and brighter. Until eventually, she was able to light up the hole place by herself.

They were not in a cave any more. The light shone and she could see that they were in an infinite lake. In the middle of the lake, there was a small island in which only one person can fit.

And on that island, there was a boy holding a violin.

At last, she could listen to the source of this divine music. Yet the boy didn't seem to notice to her.

She tried flying next to him, lightly tapping on his fingers. She blew in his ears. Singed to his song, lusted for his affection and recognition. But to him, it was as if she was never there.

Disappointed, her light started growing dimmer and dimmer, and her voice disappeared into dark.

There was a cave, but she wasn't there anymore. Nor were there any other lights. Just pitch black darkness, moist and scary.

The boy with the violin stopped playing, as there was no longer any star to give him inspiration. He sat there waiting, perhaps eternally.

'Are you there'? Her voice broke the silence between them. It had gotten colder, and he hadn't said anything in a while. She was still waiting for him to speak. Yet it was clear that he was miles away.

She tried staring into his empty eyes, reflecting the stars.

'Is that boy happy now'? She asked.

Startled, he looked at her, breaking his silence.

'Only when she comes back', he said, 'if she ever will'.

'Let's go back inside. It's freezing.'

This short story was first told in person, to someone special, in 2008. It was re-edited and updated in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

Diary of Another Man: A Moment of Change [22/09/07]

On Saturday, 22 September 2007, someone, somewhere, wrote...

The car needs repairs. I have been driving for several hours now and God knows how many ghost towns I've been through. But finally, I am here. Aberystwyth. Words don't make this place justice -- I almost feel like I have arrived in another planet. Or maybe just another part of Great Britain.

It's a warm, sunny day. There is an air of festivity all around. It is the first day of the freshers' week, and people are everywhere around. Sitting on the grass, gathering in circles, talking, dancing, singing... -- all this life around me makes me feel as if I have arrived in a larger place. Perhaps a new life. I would do anything to get away from Preston, and there is a lot I could have done worse than choosing Aberystwyth.

Yet this place also has its own ghosts. Ghosts which are inevitably of my own creation. You see, once ago, she was here. How fitting it is that I have finally arrived long after she is gone. But there is a greater sense of belonging than just the image of her walking about. This place is more comforting, more welcoming than many places I've been before. And I haven't had a chance to call many of them home: N'Djamena, Chad; Paris, France; Athens and Thessaloniki, Greece; Preston, England; Copenhagen, Denmark. Someone who knows me could almost trace my movements on the map and figure that it sort of creates a ribbon of dots.

Not that I intended to travel so far from home. Most of my movements have been involuntary. Like a marionette dancing, unseen strings attached by some grander force. Not that I believe in God in the strictest sense; no. But I don't feel our choices are entirely our own either. At least part of our life is lived in this linear transition from good, to bad, to unknown. We remember the goods, try to forget the bads, and get excited -- and afraid -- at the unknowns.

Aberystwyth was definately a big unknown, but it gave me a good feeling. A feeling that perhaps, here, in my new life, something exciting will break the ice.

A more difficult thought came to mind, all of a sudden. And what if I didn't want it to break this ice?

You see, almost masochistically, I am one of those people that do the opposite of what is normal. I attach importance to the sad events, rather than the good. I count my life in experiences that have transformed or shattered me, and it almost always ends -- or begins -- with something bad. Like that evening more than 6 years ago: I remember I was falling; breathing was a luxury I could not afford. The air around me was hot and still anyway, and gulping for atmosphere was an ordeal in itself. Every moment. Yet, little did I know that on that very day, my life would change. If only momentarily. To the better.

If only momentarily.

It is not that I haven't always been optimistic. I have felt optimism, and, fighting through 3 difficult years of severe depression, and another one earlier on when I was a teenager, I knew when it was genuine or not. Sadly, most of my life experiences had also taught me that genuine optimism is also met by that undeniable genuine sense of loss. This gulping for air. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the oxygen mask your pain. Then deprive yourself of oxygen.

How long can one hold their breath?

As a child, I tried holding my breath whenever I wanted to test out the limits of my existence. And, always, there would come a moment when breathlessness would be so intolerable, my lungs thirsting for a new dose of this drug called life, that with a big gulp I'd take back in as much air as I had lost.

It was a form of punishment. Not necessarily punishing myself for my mistakes, but punishing me for being in position to experience mistake in the first place. And I have always been unforgiving with myself.

But that was then, and this is now. Aberystwyth. I shouldn't let dark thoughts cross my mind. Rather, I'll try and be more reserved in my enthusiasm. After all, for all I know, she was here. Long ago. Or was it just months ago?

I couldn't tell the difference.

I parked the car, and went out, only to be immediately greeted by freshers eager to meet new people. I warmly smiled back to them. A stand offering free hot dogs caught my attention then, and I decided to head in that direction. A fleeting glimpse of sun hit an open spot of ice in my heart. But only for a moment, as I quickly buttoned up my stripy red t-shirt.

I definately did not want to break this ice yet.

This story is part of a diary series, which will unfold over the coming weeks and months.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.
 

The little girl and the wooden umbrella

It was a cold morning in Hestatt Town. A soft, chilly rain was falling from the musty skies, hitting the pavement head on, splitting into tiny droplets like haze. Street sellers were shouting to prise the attention of passers-by. Rice, tomatos, cucumbers, aubergines, carrots. Against the pale complexion of the morning's greyness, the colours felt like a natural attempt at oversaturating this common street. And there she was, holding her small wooden umbrella, walking amongst and through the passers-by; unseen.

Most umbrellas are made of plastic or some light aloy, to accomodate those carrying them. They have a waterproof membrane, to protect them from rain and the elements. Hers was wooden, like a toy construction, and instead of a waterproof membrane, it had a sheet of paper covered around it. On each end, she had painted something with blue and red ink.

But the water drops were staining the paper, discolouring the ink and washing away the paintings. On one corner, one could still tell the picture of a small animal -- perhaps a dog. It was running across a sunny valley, towards a small hut. The other corner was already washed away. Perhaps it was that she had not drawn something precise on it, but all one could tell was a messy blot of ink. From an angle, you could say it looks like a butterfly. Then again, almost anything looks like a butterfly from a certain perspective and in the right kind of mindset.

Emily -- that was her name -- was not a normal girl. She was a freisthaar; a spectre of winters yet to come. And this is why she could walk through the street sellers and the passers-by unseen. At most, they could probably sense the breeze, or a sway in the winds. A déjà vu. A feint memory or a tiny voice. But most wouldn't notice. Except for Anton. Anton noticed Emily, because he could see the wooden umbrella with the paper membrane. At first he thought it was a game: An umbrella, connected to some unseen rope, hovering over the street. But then he realized that no one else could see the umbrella. He tried to move closer, but it was hard to navigate around the swarms of bystanders and passers-by.

The light rain had turned into a windier storm. The drops weren't larger, but they came more often, and wind would throw them at Anton like needles. It was the sort of rain that soaks you all over, whether you have an umbrella or not.

Yet Anton followed the wooden umbrella, until he lost track of it.

He was at a crossroad. On one end, he could see the docks -- bells chiming in the wind. On the other end, there was a valley, with a hut on top. Ahead there was the town clock, more passers-by and more shouting street sellers.

Instinctively he took the way towards the valley, perhaps not noticing the little dog barking to his left. Whether he caught a fleeting glimpse of the car coming from behind is hard to tell, but then again, his eyes were fixated on discovering the wooden umbrella. A thump; then shouts. Screams. A break in the pattern of this small rural town.

Emily looked back, but only for a moment. She waved her hand, as if to say goodbye, then disappeared into a new corner, heading for the docks.

A drop fell on the little dog painted on her umbrella, washing it away and turning it into a blot. From a certain angle, it almost looked like a butterfly. Then again, everything looks like a butterfly from a certain perspective, and with the right frame of mind.

This short story was written and edited in August 2011.
 

Notice: It has come to my attention that some website has reposted my short story 'The girl with the wooden umbrella' without permission. I would like to explain, first and foremost, that I am an avid supporter of endorsing and helping creativity in people. I am against 'copyright' notices, and I do not believe that any person owns the work they produce. Instead, what we produce, as artists, humans, engineers, scientists, belongs to humanity as a whole. But there is a fine line, and when someone attempts to usurp another person's work without proper permission, referencing or acknowledgements, then this goes against such notions of creative commons. My work is free and open for everyone to read, use and make the most and best of. It is not however open for direct or indirect exploitation of any kind, including passing it on as your own in order to make money. If you need to re-post something from this blog, feel free to do so -- I am happy that you care about it in the first place. But please, say where you found it, give a link to the original blog and cite the writer or the writer's pseudonym. That's how simple it is. The same rule goes for any derivative work. If you create a work directly based on something you read here, make sure to tell others about where you got the original idea from. All work contained in this blog is considered under a non-commercial creative commons license of attribution and share-alike ethos. 


For more information:

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

The Room of North

The great elephant boss slammed his heavy hand on the table of negotiations in the Room of North. Suddenly, a breeze swept the room causing every skeleton to crumble. Perhaps of their own accord, or simply due to sheer force, everyone nodded their skully heads in agreement. The boss' demands were absolute. Those who could not stand the pressure had to succumb pronto. Falling apart, one bone after another, small echoes distantly repeated shattered the otherwise perfect silence.

 

It was always days like this one. Cold, breezy, unfriendly. Sitting — one next to each other, they were spaced apart so that each of them could tell the reactions of the associate on the opposite side. But not the boss. No one was allowed to see the boss. Crackling hands, sniffing noses, occasionally a cough to remind of the terrible weather outside, everyone was waiting for the boss to begin the negotiations. They kept waiting in a newly afforded silence. And, surely, they must have waited for a long time, but -- luckily for them, they couldn’t tell a moment from an eon.

They were all dead after all.

The matter was pressing. They had to agree on everything and nothing, and the veracity of nothingness in comparison to eternity. The great elephant boss disagreed with himself and this caused a huge controversy at first. But since he was the boss, no one was allowed to disagree with him.

 

Each of the skeletons was allowed one constructive question and one misleading question; but they had to conceal them so that the boss could not tell which is which. This was designed so that all decisions of the boss could be taken in a sort of democracy, although his regime was that of an absolute autocracy.

The first skeleton raised his skeletal finger and while pointing at the ceiling, asked: ‘Is this ceiling facing North or South?’

All skeletons remained silent and confused, until the boss broke the silence with his deep and vociferous voice. Laughing he pointed to the same ceiling and said: ‘It must be North! Since we are in the North Room, the ceiling points North!’

The skeleton, not allowed to answer his own question, moved on to his second question. ‘If one person has only two good choices, and another person has three bad choices, which person would you consider to be more free?’

The boss took some time to respond to this, before admitting that it was a difficult question to answer. Apparently, three is larger than two and he fancied going with that option, since more choices led to more freedom. But the opposite could also very well be true: Fewer options could very well be a beneficial thing towards freedom. Eventually the boss decided to break the skeleton apart, because the question was unanswerable. And the boss absolutely despised questions that no one can answer.

The second skeleton moved to the front, and muttered his first question: ‘If we have two laughing oranges, and one of them is rotten, which one is truly happy?’

The great elephant boss took no time to respond to this. The fresh orange was the happy orange, the other one was simply laughing out of necessity and spite. There is no happiness in rot and decay.

The boss’ answer saddened the skeleton, which was already way past its prime. Its remains were so old that it could no longer remember whether it was a boy, or a girl,  once upon a time. He thought it was a boy, because at nights he could dream of playing hide and seek with the other boys in a distant town. He let a feint sigh. When these bones were on human muscle it must have felt brilliant to move about with such animal energy. Despaired, it went on to ask its second and last question.

‘Considering rot, is rot a bad thing when you take into account that penicillium rot is a product of it?’

The boss, confused and angered by the inappropriate manner of the skeleton, removed one of the ribs and broke it in two. He then pointed his finger towards the last skeleton and reminded that a decision had to be made this very night. This matter could not be delayed any longer, because the end of the world was coming.

The third and last skeleton stepped up and questioned: ‘My friend is my friend and your enemy is your enemy. This is the way of things, this is the way of cosmos. Correct?’

The boss, seeing nothing wrong or mischievous about this question, nodded along, impressed by the immaculate reasoning of the skeleton.

‘If that is so, following the same rule of relativity, this is the Room of North and consequently there is another team holding decisions in a Room of South’, the skeleton said. ‘It is therefore imperative to understand that whatever decisions will be taken here tonight will be local and partial, and might be opposite or even inconsequential to any other party coming to meaningful political decisions elsewhere. Correct?’

The great elephant boss destroyed the last skeleton, not because the question was hard, but because the answer implied further questions or an answer by the skeleton; something which was not allowed.

He then proceeded to bang his elephantine head on the wall, splitting the fake tapestry into two. From the other side, he could see the Mirror of the Universe, the world in which everyone lived. He opened the door and headed south, to reconvene discussions with a new set of skeletons in the Room of South.

This post was originally published as a short piece in early 2008. It was re-edited in August 2011.

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.

Insomnia -- or how I've learned to sleep only in my dreams

I can't sleep at night. I keep flipping sides on the bed, starring at images forming in my head. These used to be dreams. But they don't become dreams. They fill my head with shapes -- triangles, weird colours, sometimes a memory, or a sound. They feel like dreaming. But I am awake. Opening my eyes feels like a thunder ripping through that warm thought of drifting further. Insomnia.

I don't experience too many things in life lately. I remember it used to have a lot more in it, but perhaps the most difficult thing to stomach is that dreams are what I am looking forward to more than life itself. And yet, even when I do sleep... I don't dream. The weird shapes and symbols never really materialize into images. They just go away and then I am bathed in darkness. It is as if my brain goes blank for the few minutes it gets to sleep, and does not want to put any effort into it. Then, I wake up. As if a scream is piercing my head, and I suddenly come to be. Fully conscious. Had I dreamt?

It's still 3am. What I thought was sleep had only lasted a few minutes. I try to imagine what it would be like to dream. Even a nightmare would still be an experience worth imagining. I used to be good at imagining things. Now even this seems like a door sealed shut behind me, and I am supposed to be going out of it.

And so I do. It's a hall, surrounded in a deep blanket of darkness. There are no windows, no other doors. It leads nowhere. Turning back only brings me to the same place, as if through a mirror. There is no exit. Perhaps I am dreaming this time.

I wake up. Time is 3.12am. Maybe I dreamt that I was having a dream. But then again, I consciously remember trying to force it into my head. But my empty imagination was staring back at me and my empty hall. Perhaps it would be good if I could populate my empty hall with something. I try bunnies, but they don't fit. They are really out of place. Really, is this the best you can do? I try a colour. Red does it. For a moment. My hall is red now; dark and red, like the rooms photographs get produced in. But dark red is also the colour in which those proto-dreams I still can see -- the symbols -- are in. My empty hall is now full of weird shapes. And then it all goes dark.

Something is walking on me. I wake up to scratch myself. There is nothing there, but the sensation of crawling is ever so real. They are walking on my legs, my hands, my back, my hair. I feel that a shower will help me relieve myself of this strange itchy emotion, but that would only wake me up worse.

3.41am. I spent some time on the pc, looking at serene landscapes, trying to fire up my imagination into being. I close my eyes, yet the feeling of becoming one with the picturesque valley does not really embrace me. I close the laptop. Give it one more go.

But the clock is ticking. Every single tick becomes my obsession. I try to think of something that is stronger than the ticking bomb outside and inside my brain. It's impossible. I try to create some radical dreamlike explanation of what it is that I am listening to. It's the walking sound of a person outside the house. Perhaps she is going someplace interesting. Perhaps I should follow her. What would it be like dreaming of something entirely abstract or mysterious? She is going to meet a man and discuss something fascinating.

Yet, my dream doesn't follow. I am staying here, in this room, under that damned clock. I never get to leave the room. Instead, I fixate on the clock and its ticking. She is leaving. I have to do something! Yet I can't even instruct my head to follow her tick-tock walking sound. And as she goes away, I am still here. Fully conscious of my failed attempts to induce a dream-like state that could help me into sleeping.

Maybe I am nocturnal. Most mammals (except for most primates), are nocturnal. I am a mammal, therefore this could be a logical explanation. Ever heard of those apocryphal stories of 'evolution', in which arachnophobia is explained as an evolutionary trait of certain cave-dwelling primates, which were biologically instructed to avoid arachnids? Perhaps it is the same with me. Perhaps the sensation of insects crawling on me is an evolutionary trait taken too far.

I am in the cave now. I try walking not towards the light, but deeper, where the spiders are. And as I walk, I kind of drift off deeper and deeper, and deeper, and deeper. And nothing happens. Because I can't really dream. I have forgotten how to dream.

And before it's half past four, I will be awake again. And again. Until the morning comes to force me standing, my breakfast being a cofee break from an agonising night of insomnia.

How do you cope with insomnia? What are your own experiences and how did you come to terms with it or solve it?

This original work by Amadeus In Denial is licensed under a Creative Commons (Attribution Non-Commercial Share-Alike 3.0) License. All work created 2006-2011.

Permissions beyond the scope of this license may be available at  http://musingsofavisionary.blogspot.com/p/creative-commons-notice.html.