department clip

and now the mix is right.

tonight we are alive to say but two things; please and thank you.
and the saddest part is the fact that i am conflicted to the point
where i am feeling impolite and hesitant.
this is hard: letting go of what i want, but what you have designed.
isn't this a time for us, for me the architect/the product/the bowl,
to let it wash?
to let the irrelevance just pass. to let it go.

so you must speak into the microphone, and i will not touch these settings.


call to prayer

my grandmother brings a gift of a teal clock.
the plastic sits atop a bookcase and it stares:
it is a call to prayer.
through a plastic shield the speaker says:
this is electronic holy Qur'an
this is the popsicle-stick crucifix
this is abraham or hitler
this is his holiness the dalai lama in exile.

the gold crowned timepiece
sets it's course for the hour of two
to play it's message

that i will ignore.

lastly, thirstily, and justly i am walking.

when a stone is moved from a resting place, the earth is moved
around the rock; the gray rim and edge of stones are traced
and cemented into the earth until the rain fills it up to the brim.
with water, with cleanliness, with placidity.
that is some thing that i think about when i am parched
or far removed from places of recognition or familiarity.
to quench a thirst for something familiar, to feel the calming
of something foreign.
when i am walking underneath the suns heat and thinking about death
i am not thinking about water filling me up or an ideal
of rock, granite, marble, stability, etc.
i am thinking about what i've left unfulfilled
and what has been left unsaid, or spoken-infrequently.

which is, i guess, pretty heavy for a twenty five degree day.

chalk and door: part1

an english teacher, or a youth of fourteen, would tell me to start off strong. make that point, hit the reader with statement, open convincingly, drive it home; the first paragraph, verse, impression, etc. - crucial to the success of anything. and in this crucial statement is the development of the rest of the "life" of the medium. this is true, i guess.


ongoing story: untitled 1


here goes:

sitting inside the nervous house, twitching his leg and finishing a lacklustre glass of milk is the male. youthful, hormonal, judgemental, and impartial - ephrim was living a life of insecure financial investments when a brokerage of wealth had come to him at a time of clinical depression. his sixteen years of quiet service to medication and self-analysis were now conflicted with his dualities; how could an atypical teenaged boy (fraught with ideals) have access to five hundred thousand dollars?

our story begins with a death.
ephrim is looking, or was looking, at a green slate. the expanse of the board fell under an ambiance of chalk dust and fluorescent light, the dull calm of the room punctuated by what felt to be the side of chalk and nail against it. ephrim was failing to grasp the mathematical concepts. as a knock came through the door, ephrim had his eyes towards the ruled lines of his notebook when his named was called.
"ephrim. someone to see you."
ephrim rose from his hunched position, eying his notebook as to not forget what he hadn't quite understood.
he moved through the classroom and past the doorway, separating his dry lips to ask if he would need his things, his notebook. he arrived at his desk, only to leave it with nothing: proceeding to place his belongings, or stuff them rather, into a canvas bag with one broken zipper held together by punk rock safety pins. he could feel the eyes on him now, the girl next to him almost reached out to touch him in this state of near-celebrity as he walked by. he arrived at the door where the chalk smoke met the hallway air, where a policeman stood.
"ephrim?"
"yes?"
"could you come with me, please?"
they walked, with ephrim slowly behind, watching his belt sway on his hip. ephrim wondered if anyone else knew the feeling of walking behind a police officer. it felt good, it felt secure.
ephrim thought about how many steps he took, and what he had done, and what he might have done. what did they think he had done? these are the questions that you should think about, he thought.
the officer arrived first at the white car, but they were not racing. this race took much too long, thought ephrim.
"excuse me?", said the officer.
"what?"
"this is not a race."
"oh, i know, officer.", ephrim said politely.
the ride to the police station was uneventful and slow. the boy thought about who could see him right now, and the officer was puzzled by the boy's frequent bursts of thought-speech. both were silent when ephrim left his cavernous plastic seat and put his feet on the pavement outside the 135th street police station. the "race" continued to the door of an ill-lit space. ephrim had imagined an interrogation room with mirrored glass and a good cop/bad cop scenario. the chairs were, in fact, cream checked with a brown underlay; the table, scarred with names and expletives. ephrim sat in the chair. one leg was lower than the rest, which provided figgiting area. he sat at the table watching the wall, waiting inside a nervous room, twitching his leg.


// i did a quick edit and a few pick-ups in the story. this will be an ongoing writing excersize.
please note: the style includes all lower case. sorry for the confusion/grammar-breaking: it's an aesthetic thing.

aidan knight.