I was falling asleep late one night, when I had a sudden burst of inspiration. I decided to try a new writing experiment. I held my laptop in my lap and laid in bed with my head propped up against the wall and my eyes closed. Then I proceeded to type stream-of-consciousness (whatever came to my mind at the moment) at a brisk pace without pausing at all. As I drifted off into a slumber, my fingers continued to type, and when I regained consciousness, I was confronted with a screen full of completely unfamiliar text, generated entirely by my subconscious mind. I had no memory of writing any of it; it was as though I had recorded my dreams as they had occurred.
Since that night I have continued to practice this craft, refining my techniques and making new realizations about the process. (For example, I have realized that as I descend deeper into my subconscious, the writings become gradually more violent and vulgar.)
I showed my writings to some friends, and they suggested that I share them with the public, so here they are now for your reading pleasure and amusement!
Enjoy.
-Zach O.
P.S. It should be noted that...
1. No drugs are used to aid this project.
2. The VAST MULTITUDE of typos present in the original files have been corrected for easier reading.
3. While my fingers did type the words displayed on this page, the views and content expressed by these writings do not necessarily reflect my own conscious thoughts or opinions.
Since that night I have continued to practice this craft, refining my techniques and making new realizations about the process. (For example, I have realized that as I descend deeper into my subconscious, the writings become gradually more violent and vulgar.)
I showed my writings to some friends, and they suggested that I share them with the public, so here they are now for your reading pleasure and amusement!
Enjoy.
-Zach O.
P.S. It should be noted that...
1. No drugs are used to aid this project.
2. The VAST MULTITUDE of typos present in the original files have been corrected for easier reading.
3. While my fingers did type the words displayed on this page, the views and content expressed by these writings do not necessarily reflect my own conscious thoughts or opinions.
If Life Gives You Lemons,
ReplyDeleteWait Till They've Ripened.
The lemons fall off the tree before they rippen. Only three remain, clinging to there stem, the spindly branch the strudy trunk of the tree.
Drop.
Drop.
One lemon on the tree outside the faded flamingo pink apartment building that would have resembled a house if it were not for the excess of parked cars and lights on at odd hours.
In the morning, she may pick the lemon, if it does not drop first, as the Wombats would then surely get to it beofre her.
Even if the sultry jazz radio station was meant to flutter her smooth eyelids open just as the sun was peeking over the fork of the distant cactus.
In the morning, the lemon was still there.
She could not bring herself to pick it.
A neighbor that had to know everything that was going on in everyone life that lived in the pink flamingo's rooms, yet never stopped to look at there own, despite the ever clearer thruth that they were AGING and would be here forever said:
"pick it before it's gone.
"Before the dingos get it. Gosh. We really must doing something about those Dingos.
"Do they have Have a Heart traps for dingos? We really do need one."
"What dingos?" said the woman as she scraped the toe of her right foot along the surface atoms of the concrete drive. She carried glimmer of curiousity in this man who knew every facet concerning the residents of the pink flamingo apartments but knew nothing of himself.
Or how he ended up with 17 cats.
And one perpetually frightened guppy that a child had left, neglected, on the side of the fairgrounds. Next to the deep fried twinky stand. Which he was sure could have slatterd twinky filled oil all over the flimsy plastic bag that, its contents slowly warming by the sun.
This man, he saved things impulsively.
He once saved an old fifty cent piece, because, as he put it, "How could you bring yourself to leave a president on the sidewalk. that with the slightest miss step could send it glying into the gutter, where rats and other things he would not like to think of on a Sunday afternoon when he was brewing chamomile tea and reading the funnies.
It was a Tuesday.
Non the less, he picked it up, making sure that it did not belong to the any of the next seven passersby.
Seven had always been a good number for him.
Today it was not.
The seventh person was an overweight child, of which he seemed to be seeing more and more of lately. He would have offered the boy his cellery sticks with peanut butter and raisins on them. Which his mother made him every morning of his life and called afectionatly, "ants on a log."
She died when he was 37.
The boy said when asked "Hey mister, what are you doing with that coin? Mister, that's my coin mister."
But the boy said it as if it were all one word, as he was in tow of a stern woman that was surely his mother, yet remarkably skinny and with those kind of pointy shoes that make you think the wearer is trying to go for the world record for the longest big toenail on earth.
As the boy was being dragged to the barber, or perhaps it was the dentist. The man couldn't tell exactly, he slewed and slobered:
"HeymisterwhatareyoudoingwiththatcoinMisterthat'smycoinmister."
The man gave the overweight boy the coin.
If Life Gives You Lemons,
ReplyDeleteWait Till They've Ripened.
Part II
He was to naive to know that it was not the boys coin. That it was not significant solely for the readon that it had his favorite president on it from third grade that he always morbidly claimed had been assasinated on a diplomatic trip to Somalia by a band of ruthless Somali pirated that were planning on capturing a much more lucrative Chinese oil tanker, but couldn't resist the chance to have a president on board, who they had once seen on his inaguaration day on a fuzzy little black and white tv in a bus station. And the most incredable part, he wrote for his research paper on president's day was not that the president was captured by Somali pirates, but that rahter than having a bullet riddled president on board (they thught he had a charming face and congenial smile, good diction and those big ears that stook out in such a pleasing fashion) they opted to throw him over board where he was not drowned, nor eaten alive by man eating sharks, but rather stabbed directly through the pancreas by a narwal, which a band of hoaky scientist repopulated off the coest of Somalia because as they saw it, narwals are like unicorns, and maybe the Somali pirates would not be able to resist the charm of sea fairing unicorns and would thus stop their antics. Instead the pirates trained them to puncture large holes in enemy ships that were not worth the trouble of saving to put to their own use.
His paper recieved a poor mark and the teacher wrote in purple pen, because she thought that when she wrote "this paper is complete rubish, terrible, just terrible, not even worth the trouble to crumple up and use as fire starter to thaw out frozen kittens..." in purple ink, rather than red, it would boost moral.
Though much of what the man, then a school boy wrote about the president was spurred from his imagination, mentioning his pancreas was reflection of the facts. You see the president suffered from pancreate cancer, and died tragically one morning as he was playing catch with the presidential dog in the rose garden. He was sniffing roses and inhaled an unsuspecting bee. He would have survived if only the be had collected more pollen that morning. But it was a lazy bee and had not yet harvested much honey, thus did not cause the president to sneeze the bee out of his unfortunate, large left nostril. Instead the bee buzzed and stung until it caused the president to collapse onto his youngest daughters favorite rose bush and be stabbed with a particularly nast y thorn which went straight through his pancreas.
The boy was a stupid overweight boy and traded the coin the next day at lunch to a boy with the largest and most extensive baseball card collection on the block.
Three children lived on the block. One of which was a girl of seven with perpetual pigtails. Her sole requirements for things she liked were pink, fluffy, and smelling like daisies.
(But not the kind of daisies that are pushing up from graves, the sweet smelling wild flower kind of daisies is what she had in mind, though tended to atract the former kind is what she tended to attract out of fate and hubris).
If Life Gives You Lemons,
ReplyDeleteWait Till They've Ripened.
Part III
Sweaty dirty rotten men who hit things with other things and run around in squares and where she was beginning to realize all the umpire calls could be completed by saying the detestable "...that's what she said!" were not for her.
Though she once had a brief crush on Joe DImaggio. "A Legend, a Pure All American Legend," she told her friends on the playground after pausing from chasing boys around the jungle gym.
So the coin was traded and the boy with the baseball cards was a Good Boy and gave the coin all shined up and good as new to his mother for no other reason than that he heard you needed to do a lot of community service to get into Harvard, which he was sure to go to in 12 more long years.
The mother was flattered but was stuck in a time where money was a man's business and gave it to her friend who she had always thought in secret would have been better of as a man anyways.
The woman was the one in the pink flamingo apartment building with the lemon tree who was perfectly happy living in a pink flamingo apartment and was just as happy being a woman while doing so.
"What dingos?" said the woman as she scraped the toe of her right foot along the surface atoms of the concrete drive.
"You know, the Dingos."
"Oh, but they were surely not digos, but rather, rabid koala bears. Neither of which there are have a heart traps for. Though, perhaps you could make a fortune for patening them."
"That's the grandest idea I've heard since those light that turn on when you clap like your in high society and all that!" The man exclaimed.
"But rabid koalas? I hate to contradict you dear, but it was surely a kookaburra.I saw it eat one of your lemons just last night. I tried to stop it, but you know how the cats can get and I didn't want to have a pile of bloody feathers on my hands..." the man trailed of, looking at the woman's hand as she fingered a solid round object in her short's pocket.
The man did not think of himself as nosy, yet couldn't resist asking this astonishing woman:
"What you got in your pocket there."
"Oh." She smiled up at him.
She pulled out a coin and it blinded him as it glinted in the morning light. Once he shielded it with his hands around hers, he saw that it was The Coin the coin that he had so foolishly given to the snody overwight boy. He compulsively took it from her hand. She did not mind.
"Oh! That's it! That's the one!" The man beemed. "That's the coin I resued from the sidewalk and lost soon afterwards." He gestured to hand back the coin. There was a missed connection and the coin fell to the sidewalk in the center of a spot of lemon juice thouroughly soaked into the pavement.
The man and the woman simultaniously went to pick up the coin and knocked chins.
The man and the woman simultaniously went to rub their respective chins and knocked elbows.
They collapsed over each other in laughter.
Peeking abouve, below, and through chinks in the fence, a group of wombats, dingos, rabid, though well intentioned, koalas, kookaburras, and an emu, who seemed to be the mastermind of the very existance of the world sniggered and threw bushels of perfectly ripe lemons with dabs of gorilla glue on the tips onto the almost bare lemon tree.
If I have any marit in such matters, it surely will come to pass that the woman will marry the man in a small reception in the parkinglot of the pink flamingo apartment with the residents, 17 cats, a guppy as best man, wombats, dingos, rabid, though well intentioned, koalas, kookaburras, and an emu, who seemed to be the mastermind of the very existance of the world.