cabbagescribe
New Member
So pulling a page (not three thousand) from Proust and another from Kerouac, I've decided to write a bit of stuff that, at least initially, will be close to real life. You know what they say, if you have to lie, keep it close to the truth. (By the way, who said that? It's a good quote)
Yes, this is pretty much how I think. Enjoy.
Very Early Breakfast
As I stare at this bowl of cereal, a thought appears: this is not a land of milk and honey. Strange. I see milk and beyond-honey-sugared grain. I can’t bear to look at the outside, there a phrase from T. S. Eliot appears: the sky is like a patient etherized on a table. The bowl of cereal is in my vision. There is nothing but the bowl and its contents. The off-white backdrop is a stage where things dance, shrivelled strawberries and shrunken organic fibre-straw-bits, unrecognizable brown chunks.
I pick a chunk in a back molar with my tongue. It’s the third, no second from the back, at the left. Rotating my tongue, I am an expert pilot. Though my face is parallel to the desk, it feels like my teeth shift. I get even more disoriented. The cereal is still there. Nothing but cereal, and what I feel in my mouth. Milk and sugar. No honey.
Etherized is orange. Why the hell is it orange? Either Eliot is a genius, a confusing one, or I am crazy, confused. When is the sky ever orange? It’s pink, red at sunset, if there are clouds to catch the colour.
Okay, so there’s nothing but cereal, my mouth (still aftertasting of sugar, somewhere, everywhere), and then there’s my mind. An etherized orange sky-patient. Milk and honey. Oh yes, it’s not milk and honey here. It’s not milk, it’s beyond milk. It’s milk purified, stripped of anything non-milk in it. Pure, skeletal, bare-bones-essential milk, nothing but the ideal Milk. This is not honey, it’s honey minus the honey, the pure blood of it, the sugar. It is sprinkled on wood-shaving-like bits of – Something – the blood of it. Milk and sugar. Bones and blood. Lifting up the spoon becomes a Herculean task, equal with raking so many horses’ shit.
Death take the damn cereal! Let it coagulate and settle. Let it turn to powder. Let the wind blow it away, I will not clean it. I can’t smell anything in the morning anyway, let the elements turn this bowl into an example for others who dare conjure bones and blood! It will be a renowned dust bowl, a great depression.
Now I’m thinking. Farmers in the thirties. Damn Great Depression. Damn, it hurts to look at the walls. It’s like a surgery, the bloody colour draining into them, turning them from night grey into the usual off-white that stains yellow in the bulb’s alien light. Yellow or orange, the patient. The orange melts into a gold colour, the shining colour of a saxophone. A slow tune enters by the back of my head. It is the only sound this morning. Somehow it sounds from the right. It quivers and trembles, joined in unison by a few more saxophones, mourning nothing really. Now I’ve got an urge to see the sky.
What do you know, it’s not orange. I place my hands on my side. I salute the sun, straightening as it meets the etherized patient. My feet hurt already, I’ve just woken up. Patiently, I must straighten up for the sun. In front are dull brown rooftops and dirty window glare. It’s kinda orange, I think. I feel like Zarathustra, in his mountain retreat. Good morning, Sun my eternal companion, silent. I lack a message to send down. A segment of the sun hits the indistinct ground. I realize: I read too much, goddammit.
Yes, this is pretty much how I think. Enjoy.
Very Early Breakfast
As I stare at this bowl of cereal, a thought appears: this is not a land of milk and honey. Strange. I see milk and beyond-honey-sugared grain. I can’t bear to look at the outside, there a phrase from T. S. Eliot appears: the sky is like a patient etherized on a table. The bowl of cereal is in my vision. There is nothing but the bowl and its contents. The off-white backdrop is a stage where things dance, shrivelled strawberries and shrunken organic fibre-straw-bits, unrecognizable brown chunks.
I pick a chunk in a back molar with my tongue. It’s the third, no second from the back, at the left. Rotating my tongue, I am an expert pilot. Though my face is parallel to the desk, it feels like my teeth shift. I get even more disoriented. The cereal is still there. Nothing but cereal, and what I feel in my mouth. Milk and sugar. No honey.
Etherized is orange. Why the hell is it orange? Either Eliot is a genius, a confusing one, or I am crazy, confused. When is the sky ever orange? It’s pink, red at sunset, if there are clouds to catch the colour.
Okay, so there’s nothing but cereal, my mouth (still aftertasting of sugar, somewhere, everywhere), and then there’s my mind. An etherized orange sky-patient. Milk and honey. Oh yes, it’s not milk and honey here. It’s not milk, it’s beyond milk. It’s milk purified, stripped of anything non-milk in it. Pure, skeletal, bare-bones-essential milk, nothing but the ideal Milk. This is not honey, it’s honey minus the honey, the pure blood of it, the sugar. It is sprinkled on wood-shaving-like bits of – Something – the blood of it. Milk and sugar. Bones and blood. Lifting up the spoon becomes a Herculean task, equal with raking so many horses’ shit.
Death take the damn cereal! Let it coagulate and settle. Let it turn to powder. Let the wind blow it away, I will not clean it. I can’t smell anything in the morning anyway, let the elements turn this bowl into an example for others who dare conjure bones and blood! It will be a renowned dust bowl, a great depression.
Now I’m thinking. Farmers in the thirties. Damn Great Depression. Damn, it hurts to look at the walls. It’s like a surgery, the bloody colour draining into them, turning them from night grey into the usual off-white that stains yellow in the bulb’s alien light. Yellow or orange, the patient. The orange melts into a gold colour, the shining colour of a saxophone. A slow tune enters by the back of my head. It is the only sound this morning. Somehow it sounds from the right. It quivers and trembles, joined in unison by a few more saxophones, mourning nothing really. Now I’ve got an urge to see the sky.
What do you know, it’s not orange. I place my hands on my side. I salute the sun, straightening as it meets the etherized patient. My feet hurt already, I’ve just woken up. Patiently, I must straighten up for the sun. In front are dull brown rooftops and dirty window glare. It’s kinda orange, I think. I feel like Zarathustra, in his mountain retreat. Good morning, Sun my eternal companion, silent. I lack a message to send down. A segment of the sun hits the indistinct ground. I realize: I read too much, goddammit.
