Not In The Past

Looking forward from 30

Archive for the category “Five Minute Free Write”

Five-minute free write

Silence is mocking me like watter.  Push the door, and let your foot trip over the railing, and then nothing yells out if we are questioning our direction.  The fall will not be long.  Right and left they approach us with steel knives dancing around, and I think it’s time to go to bed, but then the bed fills with books and I am caught trying to read.  Time to let instinct take over, and to avoid conscious thought, trickle down the drain like drops of urine, and wells spring the shuffling noises we all dream of making as we do this shit in our bed.  I think it is time to let go of the real, the rehearsed and let your gut drive you half a world away, escape your body and escape your safety.  The west walleyed peyke cigars and wisdom fires off a red hot question towards your eyes.  The answer is coming out of your backside and we all know what you mean.  The chase is on, not so much of a a train of thought but of the unbridled madman that lies in your fingertips as they hesitate and pause as they type this story about the big lie.  T

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Five minute free-write

It’s all surface mnoise and sparks.   Once I was on an upper floor of a cicrular hotel building, the swimming pool on the top floor and awkwardly circling the elevator on one side, filling the space between the shaft and the glass window looking out on the town of Kenora.  I think of places I have been in my past, and want to revisit them.  I want to find some way to just create this one narrative from one point in my life to the other.  I want to just get to Saskatchewan, where I was a  toddler, to Manitoba, where I lived for years and years, to Ontarion, really where I feel like I’m from.  Halifax is the next step, apparently.  Am I having cold feet?  Maybe I don’t want a  life of danger, but a life of the same old, the familiar.  The facrt I can recognize this as empty and false is encouraging, but where do I go?  I  think it’s time to bust loose and star cruising down a remote stretch of highway that opens into the outside world and not this shadow rural land that feels like a vaccuum.  No fixed history, we tear down everything after neglecting it for 50 years.  And we still don’t build on anything anyway.  Ity feels jerky and spaced out weird.  Mundane, no special feeling like the runner would want.  Listen

Five-minute free write

Head in the grinder and my eeyes are popping because my forehead sounds like it’s caught i a vice, and I just won’t go to sleep at a decent hour because the night is when I finally have a few minutes tomyself without prying eyes and clingy neediness.  God I hate being here.  I want to gwet the fuck out odf this town and just escape the smother and get the rest of  my life back on track.  I am addicted to sugar and caffiene and carbonation, and I feel like I don’t have any way top really get anywhere unless I break free from this place.  I feel trapped and I am worried about ever getting out.  I don’t like being here, and that’s something I can’t overemphasizer enough.  Not the cats can even hold me back.  I  feel like I have to do something fast or I will just be nothing or even worse, something lame. I sound like a dork when I say this.  Or just an overdramatic teenager.  Buit I feel my growth being arrested and I can’t stand not really doing anything useful with my life and  the longer I stay here, the less likely I will rejoin th eliving.  No fucking way..  Time to leave.  Time to get out.  I am living my life for someone else and I am sick of it.  I am sick of not being my true self and I can’t keep the charade much longer.

Fifteen-minute free write

Yeah, overcompensating for two days missed.

Ready to run out screaming into traffic, vweering off into the distance as the road goes over hill and brook, and we merge onto anotyher road that takes you out of the province.  Maybe it’s good to get out of here.  I seem to want to escape, but what is it that I want to escape from?  Is it m7 stasis, my unemployment, my feelings, my conformity, my safety, my familiar patterns?  Who cares/  Where does life really dictate what we need to do?  I believe in the song about the red car going through the St. Lawrence river for some impossible reason.  I question too and I sit down.  Sitting.  Why do I say the same old shit that I feel.  Where are my thoughts going these days>?   I used to branch out into different oatterns but there are times when I find myself repeating the same old truths and same old fictions in an attempt to just get the space filled.  It is not time to be myself.  It is time to get through this as quicklyt as possible, believing in a distant, unkown piece of hair that smells of burnt cheese (doesn’t taste as good thoug) and I waltz from one room to another to the tune of a guitar track from some unknown master.  There is nothing groing in my head at this time and I see too many shapeless forms in the visage.  The scratch and the clattering is fun, and I queen it up again.  Who is a queen,, who is a king.  What are we doinggrilled cheese is good.  The right guards the reactionaries, and we pay dearly for it..  I don’t kn ow if I should let myself be dictated by coherence anymore.  Lfe is more what I make it when I let my thoughts scatter, go into places I never thought possible and never had the foresight to go.  I like the end of the wall, and I crawled over a mountain in Quebec to just gwet out of my locked mindset and think about the cheese quickly drying up on a frying pan.  Dashed like a drunkard, they free the deviant yellow pork chops and I created my latest visage. Stood out about the wet robert frost books and the bald women fending off internet weirdos just like they kippered fish.  Yer blues, like the Beatles song.  But I don’t really want to die anytime ssoon.  As long as lifer goes on ahead of me, it’s my responsibility to hold onto the possibiilities that it offers me and if I don’t then it’s just a waster.  Like space givben on a record store rack to a Nickleback albu,.  Or Nickelback.  Either way, a nickel would be paying too much for their shitty, derivitave and constipated sounding music.  Sales figures don’t mean anything.  I read a chart indicating how many records the musicians of today sell and if sales indicateds quality, the record company should stamp out all the talent before they start influencing people to take away sales that “rightfully” beling to grunty mcgee, and the warbling melismatics.  This is not truth.  This is ranting, and I feel like letting the snot drop from one part to another.  I would write too much if I didn’t have a laziness about myself.  What does what I write even mean?  Too self-referential.  Beep booop beep.  Kinky like a hose, or a dreadlock.  Natty dresser like pope jean ralphio from Parks and Recreation.  If the guy who wrote the song about the fish ran red like a traffic light, light up like a question mark and run loops around the coffee table.  I can rap like a white guy that I am.  Well my name is me and I’m here to say…that is not rap.  Rap I hear a certain level of dexterity and a lievel of inventiveness.  When people do it wrong, it makes the good stuff even more brilliant in comparison.

Five-minute free write

I sag on the couch and watch my sitcom reruns, getting old and letting time erase.  I seek a new thrill, but I seek the comforts of the familiar when the first journey gets too scary and draining.  I listen to hip-hop with a dose of introspection and realize how often it is that I have brushed aside a type of music just because I didn’t like the sound it was making when it was background noise.  I really wish I had more time to sit to myself and listen.  I really think I will have to finally sit and write a novel or short story someday stoon, but what story do I want to tell?  What ideas to I use and which ones do I save?  There are people that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, but then  I think of random running jokes from sketch comedy shows.  And I’ve got a long way to go (“Such a long way to goooooooo” – backup vocal by Michael McDonald)  Yes I qwuoted an SCTV bit.  Well, technically a Chriostopher Cross song.  Yacht rock anyone?  I want my truth top show up on the page.  And I sound so incredibly pompus when I use phrases like “my truth”.  Are these free writes saying anything new or are they just rerpeating themselves?  I think I need to blow them up to then minute free write.  I’ve been doing this for a month now.  I’m amazed.  I need a prize or something.   Yes i think I do.

Five-minute free write

Ask yourself which camera to look at as you leap into the air like a dancer, but without the orchestra playing some well composed music to dance to, to flop around the stage irrhytmimicly and make an ass of yourself like a poplititian caught in a sex scandal but still bleating loudly about how he wants to be the one to protect familiy values from homosexuals and minorities.  Hypocrtisy is everywhere.  I worried too much about where I was going to go after i DIed and I thought that I would rather just try to live my life to the best of my ability.  Doing something solely because you don’t want to be impaled on a pitchfork for all eternity always seemed like a shoddy way to live.  What do I even believe anymore?  Morality is not tied to religion, and I find it even more inexcusable that so little was done about AIDS in the 80s because they thought it was a good way to let the “undesirables” die.  It only became a problem when the health of people they didn’t look down on was being affected.  I still wonder how many of these politicians think that AIDS is just another curse from a God who is sent to bully people into believing as they do.  What is God, even?  Who is he

Five-minute free write

Missing the beat and missing the pointy, I am missing my friend and missing you.  We are too far apart and I am worried I am heading down a road that I do not wish to pursue.  This is not a great idea is it, I think I am losing it to the pressures of time and the temptaition to regress and feel like I am in a comfortable place again.   Should I go back to a city or should I just enjoy my time to myself once in a while.  Risks are for the strong, chance is not something I need to take sometimes.  Maybe it is just fine to relazx and have a week long vacation from myself.  Not going forward or anything, and I think it is time to find a good career for myself.  Writing is something I do with my eyes closed and my mind awake.  Even when I am not actually writing anything, I think about writing.  Is that enough to call myself a writer, or is this just pretending  Who pretends?  Would anyone want to be around John Galt?  He doesn’t seem particularly pleasant and the only thing going for him is that a bitter Russian lady somehow says he is great.  Words vs. deeds.  You can be brialliant and an asshole at the same time.

Five-minute free write

Ready like a crock in a sock in a mock cock, I can’t really say the world owes me anything.  I want to just float by unscathed as the song goes on, singing to myself a mangled version of the tune and hoping other people have that same mangled version.  This song is ending, triumphant and defiant, but then a new one will take its place and go weirder and all hippy like until the blues go.  The blues are really here to stay in my bedroom.  I think the bridge is too narrow and there aren’t enough ways to get out of here.  It;s time for the cat to stop doing a roseanne barr impression.  Damn it, stop leaving the fan on when you go to the bathroom.  It’s 4 am and I need to eventually fall asleep.  Damn damn damn.  I want to just keep typing until I go to bed.  I think  this is going to tire me out or it will areinvighorate me and keep me up for more hours.  Pity.  This is the time I get to sit down and nobody is allowed to bother me that isn’t supposed to be reading into this.  Doobie Brothers?  Really?  Come on.  MY thpoughts are disjointed and numbed, not getting at the raw ideas that could touch on  a truth about my way of looking at the world.  How pretensious.  Damn it.

Five-minute free write

Save the smug pedantic proselytation of your religiousity, the one that demands that we somehow deserve our fates.  I don’t even know who to rant against anymore.  All I need is the sound of a drum hitting  and a word being formed in a certain way. I think I run and I think I walk.   need to be sure I’m doing this.  The song makes me sleep and I thunder awake when I realize where I am these days.  The past is owed to me, and I think the summer is getting crappier every year.  Spice and pepper, kick my ass.  Funny how the heart burns these days  I don’t feel anything this time, just remember it.  Myhead is heavy again, flopping from one side to another and I think of the story of the fish that quoted Shakespeare, and this thought stream I have makes me question my intelligence and sanity.  I write about myself a lot, hold onto the same ideas I had about the world when I was 18, when I was more sure about the light and more willing to suppress parts about myself I didn’t like.  Is there a truth to anything anymore/  I want it, but I want the bacon to be perfect and crisp but not burnt black and bitter.  B is for bubble, like the Sesame Street song says, and I find the love of the world is not enough to

Five-minute free write

I tried posting this last night, but my router started acting up right when I tried to publish.

It is the night, when the cars splash the puddles of rain and get nobody wet.  Thwe cat is trilling her “I have a cute toy and you better pay attention to me” song, but I am about to fall aslepp and have yet anotyher dream where I live in a strange house in the middle of nowhere.  This is somewhere, but not where I want to be.  I am someone, but not who I want to be.  Other people may see the streets as barren, but I just want the rain to flood them and turn them into sheets of ice.  No, I don’t  .  I hate ice.  Queen Elizabeth is 85 years old and probably would look silly with sunglasses and an electric guitar, making the stwereotypical “guitar face” people like Carols Santana usually make.  This is the sound of my hands getting used to the constant writing again.  It is time to go ahead and start writing for at least a half hour every day, on paper or on a blank word document that nobody sees.  This is why I live.  I want to go ahead and force myself to come up with something that I can actually submit to someone and get approved or rejected.  And I want the nerve to keep at it.  I think there is no shame in being a kind of lofty goalmaker but I don’t know what kind of lofty goalks are worth having these days anymore.  This is it

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