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Thread: Fragment (in the manner of Beckett)

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    Registered User linz's Avatar
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    Fragment (in the manner of Beckett)

    Finally, it came along . . . an itch . . . and I scratched it. Equating it with an itch might be blasphemous, but if I was to be concerned with my situation it would only kindle their contempt and I wonít give them that satisfaction. No. I simply wonít and thatís that. I donít hold it against them; after all it is their job, what they get paid for. If you can bend a being into a dominion by merely having then burst out in laughter this would be how theyíve been feed over the generations. They are truly quite offensive, not exactly what you could consider clean beings, but I disregard this by remembering their purpose, it helps on especially noisy days. I know who I am, but it isn't who they call me, otherwise I wouldn't be who I am.

    Of the master, there is no mastery about it, at least not of the Olympian kind which has tangled into our own existence over the years, but always leaves a bitter taste. It is like the unraveling of everything to its true and unsweetened continence. But thatís not a good way to begin, itís awful, but it will have to do. I live in the Mountains, quite cold indeed, about five miles from the nearest town. My only way of finding it is after the snow has thawed and I am able to follow the trail, before my keeper died he could guide me even in the snow. St. Jerome is the towns name; the Catholics there hold a celebration on his feast day.

    Beings somewhere they shouldnít be. Being something I shouldnít be. Sometimes I reminisce on the beginnings, back when innocence was abundant. Yes. In that time I was merely being happy, displaying form, no matter necessarily the substance, it was superficial to concern such things then. Truth be told, I have much more understanding than this. But letís not focus on whining like carcasses competing over how many vultures they can feed, I donít want to go that route again.

    Things to me, more and more have become many interwoven stories, with the exception of music. Yes. It so being that music was my good thing, the only thing I new well enough. I had no talents as a musician, though eurhythmics is a different story entirely; But as a far as framing my state of mind during my prime, getting to the meat of what I was saying then and there. It would reside in perfection itself! Yes, nothing possible by way of blemishes, just pure reason of justice, a gleam, and a function forever shining like the gold breathe from cherubs. It is this thing from then that I hold still, but canít feel anymore, and now, as it is no longer tangible, but with fixed idea, that I sleep, after all I lack the means, not the motivation, one shouldnít confuse the two, unless Ďmeansí being ĎmotivationĎ. Iím rambling. . . Forgive me.

    Instead of going way back to times that donít really concern the present. Iíll start with how I came to my dwelling in the Mountains. I choose to call it something resembling a sticky substance, though in the beginning the stick of the substance isnít recognized as a stick, yes, itís graceful like mist. But a void lingers where bitterness prevails and soon you have formed the first itch to the very first scratch, but then again it hasnít festered from rawness until you have truly tasted it and by then it is too late. You except with congratulations unaware of the deal you made. ĎOhh yes, I said that, that was me, smart as a whip!í, when of course you should have said more truthfully that you are, given the coarseness of nature, Ďthe runt of the litterĎ.

    I first remember being in the Mountain dwelling sitting in the shadows on a mat. The funny thing is that I remember clearly many other things there from before as I obviously didnít just appear there. But to go into that is to go into my unfortunate condition of the sticky substance we might call the great oppression. I donít want to continue on and on the accumulations of guilt. It is to minimize its presence, trying to find justifications! There often isnít a reason for oppression; it is well known fact that stands the test of time; though also something that stands the test of time is that oppression with reason is called punishment. I was so happy on that mat, I just felt absolutely blessed, and even in the shadows, with the other mats on each side and across, for the other defectives. I indulged in the moment for a while; times like this are few and far between, the first time I had like this was pure bliss.

    Donít confuse sentimentality with sensitivity; itís like comparing the consumer with the consumed. Pretty soon you canít find anything precious outside a bed of ashes, see how far that sentiment will take you. I donít have an aptitude for consulting the details; itís like shoes you favor, which have become all worn. But from it being necessary to tell this story for my own sake, Iíll continue on. I knew where I was on that mat, Iíve been in a few of the type in my day, but this one was better. The keeper of this boarding home was nice and quite, yet somehow stern. He even got on me sometimes, but I, unlike the others, always listened. The others didnít know how to listen anymore, they were far deader then me, even then, before waking in the shadows on the mat. After having enjoyed the moment there, I stood and strolled to the open door from which the light of day shown through. Just walking outside, on the ground trodden into dense dirt from the constant to and fro pacing always attributed to the best of defectives, myself included. I never paid much attention to the actual function of the gate, or the shed but it only took a few days for the keeper to notice that I was less timid and anxious. He started letting me proceed outside of the gate with even just the most minor of communication between us. It was then I remember some more details of how I got here, and I almost died of joy. The great pines and cedar were very demanding on my conscience, spaced apart fairly for each having room to grow, through the course of nature. The rocks and trees actually had some distance from the boarding home, but they could be scene clear enough from outside the gate as far as the eye could see down the slopes and into the valleys.

    I new at least the general area of the country I was in now. He asked if I would bring in a bag he had carried all the way from town and help him arrange its content in the storage room, which he kept under lock and key. The keeper was probably in his early sixties, he would give us cigarettes that even in the beginning, he let me roll for all the others at the boarding home. That was my first responsibility. I always remember he was impressed with my ductile fingers; it made him recall his youth, back before the arthritis in his hands. The keeper was mostly unobserved by the others except when they wanted something; his head always had the same dirty hat with vast brim, even in doors. He would often remove his hat and slick back his graying hair every time he was working or upset by something.
    Last edited by linz; 06-05-2007 at 06:37 PM.
    "Why describe the hole, I mean it is a hole; So why describe it?" - Anonymous

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