clear rants

It’s too hot. Can’t think. Can’t write. I’m even afraid to go take a shower for fear I’ll just start sweating again the second I step out of the shower.

It looks like this story I promised is getting postponed another day. But let’s make this a little fun: would you like to read an experimental (for me) story about ball pits, a story about an old lady baking a pie, or a man’s experience with the piano?

Yes, this is a way for me to fish for comments. But it also makes this site interactive. How fun!

So… I lied: no story tonight. I’m still too pooped from yesterday. But hopefully, I’ll get to writing soon. In other news, however,

Shakespeare in the Park’s presentation of “Romeo and Juliet” was amazing. It was worth:

• waking up at 4:30 in the morning.
• getting bitched at by 2 women with sticks up their asses.
• freezing in the shade on the line.

Today was so much fun it completely overshadowed the above three bullet points; from the delicious dosas to the convivial conversations, it was a complete pleasure. The seven hours on the line flew by so fast because of the company we kept. I can’t wait to do it again for “Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

By the way, I promise I’ll write a story tomorrow. I’ve been up for 20 hours and need to… ptfo.

I’m not sure if it’s writer’s block per se; it might just be because I’m tired. But I’ve been able to write in this state before. More likely, it’s because I am still unable to approach this subject which I so desperately need to face.

I write fiction mostly for fiction’s sake. It’s fun to ink your imagination on to the page. Occasionally, however, I use it to secretly express how I feel. Sometimes it’s subtle but clear what emotion I’m trying to channel. However, at other times, the story and its undertones seem to have no discernable connection to what I’m feeling. But, for some odd reason, it succeeds in acting as a vessel for that expression. You may never know what I just poured out. But I do.

However, this topic, I just can’t seem to express in the written word–whether through outright discussion, subtle undertones, or through private disclosure. I’m confused. Lost, even. And, for the first time, writing about it isn’t helping me find my way. I can’t even seem to describe the path I’ve taken thus far.

I guess I’ll just have to wait it out. If I’m lucky, it’ll just work itself out in my head.

Loss. (In case you were wondering.)

Every once in a while I come across a phrase I like so much, I decide to slowly incorporate it into my daily lexicon. The phrase of the moment? “You magnificent bastard.” It has such a glorious, ironic tone to it, no?

Past phrases have included, “that’s a bit dodgy now innit?” and “queue.”

Feel free to be like me and be eclectic and weird. And just a bit of a Bri’ish poseur.

It was dark and dreary outside when she woke up. Weather.com forecasted rain all day so she wasn’t surprised to be greeted by the gray. She slowly rubbed her eyes, rolled over and went back to sleep. She always set her alarm half an hour earlier than needed. She knew it was probably all in her head, but she relished that extra bit of energy she got from her pseudo-nap.

At 8:00am on the dot, she hopped out of bed, ready to get started with the day’s business. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she made her way to the bathroom. Wow. She was glad there was nobody around to see that monster in the morning.

Back in the bedroom, she began to sift through the piles of clothes strewn about. They were all clean, mind you. She just didn’t have the time to properly put them away. As she pulled on the clingy pair of black jeans, her eyes darted about the room, looking for a top. “Ah, that will do nicely,” she thought as her eyes landed on a cute, white blouse.

Ten minutes later, she was in front of the mirror, slaying the monster. She gingerly applied only the subtlest bit of makeup. She smiled at herself. There, that was more like it. On her way out, she woke the computer from sleep and checked the weather again. Ugh, oh right, it’s supposed to rain. She pulled out her silk-patterned shoulder sling and carefully slid the print she had been working on all week into it. That should keep it safe from the elements.

At the door, she quickly surveyed the array of footwear strewn about. She pulled on a pair of bright, green-patterned rubber boots and then she was out the door.

She walked briskly down 42nd street on her way to her studio, mentally running through the tasks she would have to do today. Her eyes set forward, like a true New Yorker, she weaved in and out of the teeming sidewalk traffic. She paused at the corner on Third, waiting for the light to change. When the light turned green, she walked uptown. She knew this route like the back of her hand–she could probably do it blindfolded.

As she opened the heavy metal door to the studio, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and got ready for another day of unappreciated work. Little did she know, however, that 10 minutes prior, her bright green boots had caught the eye of a young, spry gentleman. As he walked behind her for the half-block stretch, he admired her outfit–how the bright green stood out against the black jeans and the flowery white blouse. And before he could work up the courage to utter a stupid little line to her, she was gone.

This story is dedicated to the cute girl in the green boots I saw today while walking to work.

As you can see, I’ve decided to start writing again. I’ve also decided to take up some amateur photography as a hobby. With all these new beginnings, I thought I’d refresh some things around here:

• clearrants.com is now actually more than a “coming soon” splash page from 2005.
• New layout on /blog. Pull the string for fun!
• New photolog, visual rants, at /visual.
• Started a tumblelog, clrrnts., at /tumble.
• Got a pro account at flickr for my pictures.
• And as always, you can check my music at last.fm.

All of these should be regularly updated. And if you’re thinking, “Wow, what a vain guy he is to have 5 different sites all dedicated to himself,” you’re probably right. But that only challenges me to keep up the quality of everything listed above. Here’s to an auspicious beginning.

He woke with the warmth of the early autumn sun on his face. A slight morning breeze fluttered through the sheer, embroidered curtains. As his eyes slowly began to focus, he was mildly startled at what he saw. He still wasn’t used to it–waking up next to the most beautiful woman in the world.

He admired her smooth, pale skin; her full, red lips. He was awed at the way her thin wispy bangs fell across her face just so. He cherished moments like these–silent, voyeuristic reveries–they were so few and far in between. It was in these scarce instances that he felt he could see straight through to her soul. He fought the temptation to stroke her soft, glowing cheek. And failed.

Her eyes fluttered open, a sweet, content smile spreading across her face. “Hey there handsome,” she purred. His heart skipped a beat. She took the opportunity to snuggle her face into his downy stubble. He wished that he could freeze this moment and live in it forever. He would want for nothing else but to just hold her here, just like this. Before he knew what happened, however, she had sprung out of the bed. “I gotta peeeeeee!” she squealed as she ran to the bathroom. Alas, nothing lasted forever.

He followed her into the bathroom. She looked shyly up at him as she stood up and flushed the toilet. She quickly shoved his toothbrush into his hand. They made silly faces at each other as they brushed, playfully shoving each other away from the sink in order to spit. As he dried his face, she slowly made her way out to the balcony, overlooking the empty streets below. He looked out from the bedroom and saw her lithe silhouette framed by the early morning sun. She looked almost angelic as the coastal breeze caused her silk robe to dance around her. He whistled.

She turned around with a sly smile on her face, beckoning to him with a curl of her finger. He made his way out to the balcony and embraced her from behind, enjoying the quiet of dawn together. As they surveyed the view before them, a lone car pulled up to the front of the building.

“Oh shit,” she exclaimed, “it’s my husband!”

She was tired. It was another long night playing grabass with the Professor. She didn’t even care about his stupid research. She could give two shits about the implicit effect of blahblah on yaddayadda. If it weren’t for the meager weekly stipend she got from the position, she would tell him to shove it all up his blubbery ass.

They say that kids who go straight into PhD programs after their undergraduate work are just cowards–taking refuge at a university because they are too scared to face the “real world.” Obviously, “they” had never been a struggling graduate student. How could it get any more real than this? After her one hour train ride home at one in the morning, a paper was waiting to be written. She would be lucky if she could get to bed by the asscrack of dawn. As she mused on this absurd notion of a life, the punctuated rhythm of the train slowly lulled her to sleep.

She woke with a start. There was a strong, sour odor permeating her nostrils. She looked up to see a sweaty, chubby teen leering at her. He grinned and focused his attention back to the subway map behind her. She tried not to breathe. He yelled something in Spanish back to his cohorts and before he swaggered away, she saw his eyes try to peer down her blouse. Great. Another future upstanding citizen.

Unable to fall back asleep, she took a survey of the subway car. These people had more in common with her than any of her classmates. This motley crew was made up of the downtrodden–the struggling bottom of the barrel. Sitting in the corner was a Mexican in paint-splattered clothes and dirty workboots, a drop of drool hanging precariously out the corner of his open mouth. There was a young woman, still in her waitress uniform, cradling the head of her small child in her lap. To her right, a homeless man muttered to himself, cradling his belongings in a dusty duffel bag.

Her eyes were drawn back to the loud teenagers at the far end of the car. They couldn’t have been any more than fifteen. A couple of them were smoking, ignoring the bright red signs plastered all over the car. When she was their age, she would already have been sleeping soundly in her bed, homework done, waiting neatly in her packed bookbag.

“Last stop!” bellowed the unintelligible loudspeaker.

Wearily, she got up, slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way home.