?

Log in

memory

February 2008

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
17181920212223
242526272829 

Syndicate

RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com

Feb. 28th, 2008

(no subject)

"There was a strange sound, like the murmur and crackle you hear before you realize that what you're hearing is your house on fire."
The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman

Feb. 15th, 2008

(no subject)

A wide neck poured out of the collar of a leather coat and balanced a short, squat head on top.  I noticed his ears were oddly shaped, showing signs of a childhood otoplasty that had not aged well, causing his head to look wider than it already was.  He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. Perhaps I had seen him on the train before?  I wasn't sure.  I studied his face for a second longer, taking in the long thin mouth that formed a flat line across his face before it hit me: this guy looked like a toad. 
To make his already unfortunate appearance worse, any sense of fashion that may have been gleaned from his clothing was belied by the corporate-sponsored ball cap on his head.  Even his square framed black glasses, a style that would have looked hip on someone else, made him look old and dated.  I thought to myself that this guy looked like an unhappy former yuppy that was in denial about his path in life. 
I thought about what his life might be like; 9-5 job, kids, wife, dog.  "He probably lives in the 'burbs", I thought.  I reasoned that he missed the city; that he regretted his life of domesticity, a life I envisioned as banal.  I didn't have time to project too many assumptions on him though, as my stop had arrived.  As I made my way to the door, I saw him stand to exit as well.  A thought flicked into my head: "Maybe he's living the dream."

Feb. 4th, 2008

(no subject)

I sit, surrounded by bustle and motion, surrounded by lives being lived.  I think of how I might interact with these people around me. I build thoughts and scenarios, fantasies really, about speaking with them. 
But in reality I will not speak to them. 
Instead, I breathe their scent in.  I notice the way their feet shuffle across the floor, the way they clasp their bags to their bodies, the way their coats bunch around their chests.
The person who is crowding me moves closer, and I try to compress myself into nothing. I can smell the person to my left, to my rear, in front of me.  This is the closest I will be to human contact today. I am so close to the man in front of me that I can imagine settling against his body, laying my head on his chest, feeling his stubble on my face. 
...
Questions, issues. My thoughts flick to Corey.  Troubled, sweet Corey.  His troubles and mine, they bind us together. We are kin; I don't have to imagine that.

Jan. 3rd, 2008

(no subject)

Coffee in hand, she trotted along the sidewalk.  Her breath formed sharp little clouds as she exhaled. She was smiling and it seemed that she recognized someone.  As I approached it was apparent that she was just amused with herself.

Jan. 2nd, 2008

(no subject)

His fingers were thin and pale and his knuckles protruded as he caressed the pages with care.  His gentle movement seemed too graceful for the snow-sports magazine in his hands.

Dec. 12th, 2007

(no subject)

At the edge of my field of vision, light glinted off the droplets of ice that dotted my porch and mesmerized me with their natural imitation of bokeh.

Dec. 11th, 2007

(no subject)

Her red hair licked up like flames from under the edge of her snow covered cap.