Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Writer's Turret's Syndrome Part 6

(edit: I guess Turrets is spelled Turrets and not Turrents)
This afternoon was quite strange. I had decided to make my way down to get some lunch at this deli which happens to be attached to this pub, the two establishments have the same name; Reunions Deli and Pub. And after a overpriced club on rye bread, fries and a sweet cold Sam Adams from the tap I went up to my hotel room to take a nice cozy nap. Its odd that even after three weeks here I have yet to adapt to the six hour time change between Hawaii and the East Coast.

I fell asleep after much tossing and turning and had a strange dream where I was late for a class that was being held on, what I thought was, a hill outside of town. I imagined driving there in a mud covered red Jeep. But when I got there I found myself climbing up this strange 'mall-like' structure. It seemed more like a work of art than a building, being comprised of marble and glass and short stairs and shorter escalators, each arranged by an artistic eye. There were artistically placed faux plants if every nook and cranny and a great man made waterfall in the middle of everything.

As I climb up and up I began to hear a voice over a loud speaker and my mind painted an image of a large crowd surrounding a podium that bore a speaker, the one talking into the mic that fed words through the loud speaker in question. The odd part about this all was that the speaker was really a 'reader' and he was reading some hodge-podge passages from a novel of political science fiction (if that makes any sense) and furthermore his voice was that of Leonard Nimoy. The words were very stirring and I was quite taken back by the feeling of awe and power exuded from those words. I wish I could remember them.

Then I woke. I got dressed and was headed down stairs to have a cigarette, since those communists won't let me smoke in my room. I opened the door to see a family standing out in the hall looking quite lost and they all turned to me, no doubt I was still suffering from a deplorable case of bed head and must have been a queerer sight to them then they were to me, and said, "Oh, that's not Mark." I walked away. That eleven year old girl with the sleeping bag slung over her shoulder? Was I her dad? I wiped the sleep from my eyes and lit my smoke.

Well, I got a few pages written in GMF yesterday. I feel rather productive and all writery, sure enough.

Bit O Dialogue from GMF

The watch-fire flickered and spat, trying to digest a hard knot of spruce. The white monkey, Booky Dave by name, shifted and stretched; his eyes scanned the dark wood around him but stopped short of the creeping shadow. He bumped the other monkey, the red fur called Sned, with his elbow causing Sned to stir.

“Up, up, fatty tree bender. Nearly slipped off into momma night’s bosom, you did,” Booky said.

“Fatty tree bender!? Ha! This coming from a heavy eyed, dirty fur! I heard ya snoring over there so don’t be poking yer bones inta me bones sayin ‘tree bender’,” Sned replied.


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