Delta40
04-08-2011, 11:17 PM
In the psychiatrists office, surrounded by towering bookshelves I introduce myself. She needs to know that story writing is a thing that just goes on and on with me. There are beginnings everywhere. I turn a page and I see them. Oh look! here is one now; a story of sorts to get one's teeth into. The worst christmas happened the year Elvis died. Wild anticipatory hunger for whatever the story will allow you to chew on. I get lost in them. Yeah, so totally lost, like here I am in one now, lapping up the sauces that burst out whenever I hit a key. Splat! Sweet chilli straight in the eye. Kevin scowled like a wounded dog
I miss endings. You know, wrap ups. Some stories just stop with no explanation, as if a door opened and someone said 'dinner is ready' and everyone packs up and leaves. Is that all it takes to bypass an ending? All that excitement building up. So much pleasure. Stop right there. Don't pass go.
The psychiatrist is probably going to cross her legs at this point. The psychiatrist shifts in her seat and crosses her legs (see, I knew she would!) Endings are not happening anymore. Stories cease to flow, to exist. I have said these things to her in the past and I expect her to listen and try to pull apart the difference between story beginnings and endings.
My beginnings solidify like lard. They melt in summer, crumble in winter. I breathe in and out. Here is another beginning. Another story. No ending. No closure. The weeping mother lights a candle for rememberance. Perhaps it is as much a beginning as an end. The psychiatrist challenges my understanding of closure and so she should. There isn't any greater value in that seven letter word than there is in endings.
'What direction are you going with this?' I look up and wonder why a voice would echo such a question on this sunny afternoon. At the hospital Freddy came to, his face covered by an oxygen mask. He was tired, done in. He closed his eyes and decided he wanted to stay that way. She probably doesn't understand what I mean.
Ok, so I have alot of loose ends. If I ever get a degree in psychiatry, the question will be, are my rambling bits a metaphor for some deeper issue or is it about writing for success? The psychiatrist counts down the seconds till the consultation is finished. Her lover is waiting in the empty office next door. A book titled 'Cognitive Dissonance' catches my eye. I know her posture is inconsistent with her mind.
I think I'm in the middle of this scenario, analysing the situation or maybe that is the psychiatrists' job and all I need do is ponder double meanings. I introduce myself again. Always a beginning, never an ending. What does it all mean? You try, if you're so smart! The cat stretches and watches the proceedings through a half gaze.
A to B is not too much to ask. I feel the contours of my car keys while she 'validates' my expressions of concern. 'You're really doing well here. You're not afraid to ask questions and travel down the roads you need to travel in order to find answers'. Sure Doc. But I still don't see an ending.
I'm strewn across the floor, like discarded pages torn from a journal. Any minute now, a sudden gust of wind will pick me up and carry me through the window. What a beginners imagnination! 'Let's make another appointment.' I stand up and say sorry, but I gotta fly. There is a story out there, waiting for me to nurture it - shape it and direct it to its ultimate destination. She balanced on the sill then took a leap of faith in the hope she would find:
The End.
I miss endings. You know, wrap ups. Some stories just stop with no explanation, as if a door opened and someone said 'dinner is ready' and everyone packs up and leaves. Is that all it takes to bypass an ending? All that excitement building up. So much pleasure. Stop right there. Don't pass go.
The psychiatrist is probably going to cross her legs at this point. The psychiatrist shifts in her seat and crosses her legs (see, I knew she would!) Endings are not happening anymore. Stories cease to flow, to exist. I have said these things to her in the past and I expect her to listen and try to pull apart the difference between story beginnings and endings.
My beginnings solidify like lard. They melt in summer, crumble in winter. I breathe in and out. Here is another beginning. Another story. No ending. No closure. The weeping mother lights a candle for rememberance. Perhaps it is as much a beginning as an end. The psychiatrist challenges my understanding of closure and so she should. There isn't any greater value in that seven letter word than there is in endings.
'What direction are you going with this?' I look up and wonder why a voice would echo such a question on this sunny afternoon. At the hospital Freddy came to, his face covered by an oxygen mask. He was tired, done in. He closed his eyes and decided he wanted to stay that way. She probably doesn't understand what I mean.
Ok, so I have alot of loose ends. If I ever get a degree in psychiatry, the question will be, are my rambling bits a metaphor for some deeper issue or is it about writing for success? The psychiatrist counts down the seconds till the consultation is finished. Her lover is waiting in the empty office next door. A book titled 'Cognitive Dissonance' catches my eye. I know her posture is inconsistent with her mind.
I think I'm in the middle of this scenario, analysing the situation or maybe that is the psychiatrists' job and all I need do is ponder double meanings. I introduce myself again. Always a beginning, never an ending. What does it all mean? You try, if you're so smart! The cat stretches and watches the proceedings through a half gaze.
A to B is not too much to ask. I feel the contours of my car keys while she 'validates' my expressions of concern. 'You're really doing well here. You're not afraid to ask questions and travel down the roads you need to travel in order to find answers'. Sure Doc. But I still don't see an ending.
I'm strewn across the floor, like discarded pages torn from a journal. Any minute now, a sudden gust of wind will pick me up and carry me through the window. What a beginners imagnination! 'Let's make another appointment.' I stand up and say sorry, but I gotta fly. There is a story out there, waiting for me to nurture it - shape it and direct it to its ultimate destination. She balanced on the sill then took a leap of faith in the hope she would find:
The End.