Monday, June 2, 2008

Bulbous Pumpkin Eyeball Toss



Picking up on recent posts in a few of my fave blogs (see right) about where and how we writers put pen to paper, I thought I'd add to the informed analysis/reportage with a few thoughts of my own, if only to provide you with a fun diversion from whatever chores assail you this Monday afternoon.


I'm sitting in a public library at the moment and I have to confess, it's harder getting the ideas to flow here than when I'm sat at my own desk — mainly because the desire to avoid arrest demands that I wear regular chinos rather than the fluffy bunny motif split-crotch culottes I typically don in order to summon the muse. The ideas are certainly there — 903 whole novels and a dissertation about Chaucer's anal plucking rituals (!) — but with no pinky ponky rabbit tail to twizzle after each full stop, and no rip cord to pull for an exhilarating Great Jaaaaaaab reward, entire paragraphs of gripping narrative and tweezered ping descriptions lie redundant in their cerebral bunker like unridden rides at a phantom fairground.

So I'm doing lots of staring into space, counting the specks of dust swirling in the air.

What's interesting is the bizarre genetic array of faces poking from behind the rows of monitors. Taken en masse, they resemble bulbous pumpkins grown for an ogre's vegetable show and if I wasn't so out of sorts about my chino-bound creative zest, I might have soldiered on, head down twixt Chaucer's plummy cheeks, and remained oblivious to them all. As it is, I'm fascinated by the individual displays of goofiness, the poorly chosen spec/tattoo comboes, and the red-faced expressions on one or two faces indicative of mid-fart distraction.

Maybe this is a scene — a small kind of nothing I happen to be witnessing quite by chance, whose merest whisker of a whiff will find its way halfway round the world c/o Blog Meme Enthusiasm Central.

If so, I don't imagine it's a groundbreaking image for a moment — a bunch of twats in a library, checking out their family trees or cruising for pictures of Britney Spears, for fucks sake — and neither do I seriously imagine anyone reading this will be inspired or moved or compelled to act in any significant kind of way. Nonetheless, a miraculous transmutation is taking place. As I impale the seeming vegetableness onto bent garden fences of letters and catapult the whole lot across cyberspace, the only thing of which I can be certain is that if anyone reads this, all trace of these goofy farty people (who I can reach out and touch, thanks in part to my chinos) will have vanished long before the pumpkin patches burst into view.

And yet — something of these people sat next to me must remain: a glimmer of themness. Shut your eyes for a moment and look around at the emerging pumpkin-head sprawl. Maybe at him there — that one. Impossible for me to describe his eyes and guarantee you see what I can see here in front of me. But who’s to say that one or both pupils don’t make it through, somehow?

Must dash — a threatening looking crowd has gathered behind me, and even as I type, they’ve made it as far as a bunch of twats...


8 comments:

writtenwyrdd said...

Lovely imagery. One might think you don't like the general mass of humanity (if you can call them that).

Whirlochre said...

I'm picky, it's true — but humane.

Robin S. said...

I freaking LOVE this post title.

Back later to read more.

P.S. I'm so glad I know you now.

Kiersten said...

I've tried to adopt my husband's attitude of finding people amusing. He even likes the craziest and most annoying people around because rather than being bothered, he thinks they're funny.

I'm not as good at it as he is. The crushing masses of humanity surrounding me sometimes make me want to run screaming to the desert. Or driving, actually, because that would be a long run.

Whirlochre said...

P.S. Ditto.

This internet business is a weird thing. In my youth, I cruised endless bars looking for people who didn't want to talk about cars, girls, decorating, jobs and what they'd just eaten for dinner, and though I may have had something of Kiersten's husband's generosity of joie de vivre (if that's the right phrase) it soon wore off as car after girl after job after hot potato with a knob of butter beat at my head on a nightly basis like Mike Tyson slapping the juice from a watermelon.

It's a limited form of communication and there's no way of knowing if we'd run shrieking from each other if we met in the flesh — but I don't think so (hey — speak for yourself, you weirdo).

So — do keep dropping by for more of the same.

Kiersten said...

Oh, by the way, did I tell you what I ate for dinner tonight?

Because I was meaning to. Maybe I'll just go blog about it.

Whirlochre said...

It's the next meme, surely.

I've not eaten yet (it's currently 7am).

So — I'm thinking toast or a nice bowl of corn flakes.

My Dad is the worst for this. Not only does he tell me what he's eaten for every meal since I saw him last, he also details precisely how he cooked it and what each of the ingredients cost, where he shopped for them...and what he's planning for the following day. Nightmare.

Robin S. said...

the fluffy bunny motif split-crotch culottes I typically don in order to summon the muse.

I would just about KILL to see that.

And I agree with your comment, Mr. Whirl- I think, once we all got over the shock of meeting in the flesh - we'd really enjoy each other. I think you get to know people REALLY well this way - because there's no reason not be who you are whne you're 'on here'.

Also with the food- my mother READS menus out loud at restaurants. "Look, look, here's this penne pasta dish. Penne pasta in a light herb sauce with fire-grilled chicken and...."

Yeah.