abstract by candlelight
the handsome, white-capped wave of nathan lee smith, authorreally?
Were you really going to try and read the Catcher in the Rye over and over again, while simultaneously watch “Ferris Buehler’s Day Off?
I was hoping to do so. Catcher is great first-person stuff, and Ferris is the only film I can think of off the top of my head where the protagonist talks to the camera. It seemed like the right this to do. When I try to create something I tend to get hooked on one or two albums to listen to when I write. I want to get to the point of where I almost have them memorized- and I don’t even have to process or think about them. It’s just there- it’s a comfort. Those two works seemed like they would, I don’t know- make an interesting backdrop to this little thing. This storyless adventure. This appreciation for the word- and the magic it’s capable of. That’s it. And I guess if I were to fixate on a particular album or film or whatever- that I’d eventually fixate on the work itself. Building it up would living it, in a way. And that’s exactly what I want to do.
“We See”
We see a late twenty something male. We’ve just been invited into his small studio apartment on Portland’s East Side. He’s been expecting us, and greets us with a smile. “Well well well,” he says, as if he were someone’s grandpa and he was in the process of packing his pipe, when, suddenly we arrived twenty minutes earlier than he’d been expecting- “someone tore traffic a new one.”
“We haven’t,” we all say in unison. Parking was easy, traffic was light, second gear worked in the car the ENTIRE trip over.
There he was, smiling, taking us in. Directly below the smile, as always, as an extension of his body- was the tired brown briefcase. The hinges were bent out of shape because he had attempted to at one point or another use it as his “soccer bag” of sorts. The plan was to put his cleats and whatever else would fit in there, and arrive at the game like that. In his eyes it was the next step in a series of getting his equipment to and from the field- the previous, and, in his mind, best way was a tired Winco Foods paper grocery bag. But it didn’t go as planned. the cleats didn’t fit. he tried to force the briefcase shut, but all he accomplished was bending the hinges out of shape.
Anyways, there he was, smiling, hair highly- albeit lightly- coifed. His grin was one of a young man whom had just figured something out- had fucking figured out something major.
“You never grin like that,” we say. Some of us are helping ourselves to organic tea, others, as in most cases with visitors that find themselves in Plymouth Goosefalcon’s apartment, are busy surveying the photos on the wall, inevitably ending up at a still of the big sleep above the kitchen sink.
Of course we’re eager to see Plymouth’s device, one in which he has been constructing and devising his entire life- but we don’t want to scare him. The kettle is beginning to rumble on the stove, and most everyone else has settled into various chairs and corners of the apartment. Plymouth, wishing to god he was not only a smoker, but was also allowed to smoke inside the building (which was forbidden) stood up. It would have been nice to have bought a little more time by reaching into his upper right shirt pocket, pulled out a worn package of cigarettes, and proceeded to light a slightly crumpled cigarette with the help of the electric burner on the stove. “Let’s do this,” he says.
With this he begins methodically removing what looks like the inner workings of a late model television. He gently holds it up for everyone to see. “I don’t know how ot describe this- so I call it a ‘rumble drive’.” After hesitating for a moment he turns around and disapears into a small closet. Most of us shift positions in the room to get a better view over his shoulder. A soft blue light radiates from the closet, an understated hum also becomes more noticeable- like entering an empty home with a television that has been left on- but back when there simply wasn’t any programming past midnight. Just a soft hum.
Plymouth emerges with a nearly identical piece of equipment and proceeds to place it back into his briefcase.
Most of us nod when you ask if they were kind of like batteries, and you swapped them out periodically.
“Yes” Plymouth says. “Exactly.” I don’t want to invite you guys in there, it’s not entirely safe- but that’s where I store all the R-Drives. I have three.”
Truthfully, thing couldn’t be better. Out of all things in the entire world, Plymouth recently landed a job in insurance. He wasn’t entirely thrilled with the job- but the people he worked with were wonderful, and the office was very close to his home. He often joked with his friends about the job, saying: “well, I’m sure you’re like me- ever since the fifth grade I fantasized about selling insurance, and now, that dream has become a reality!”
it would be like
ferris buehler’s day off, in a way. a lot of talking to the camera and so forth. there would also be a strong first person presence- with self doubt, and “talking to one’s self” type dialogues.
plot: simple. design and build the briefcase jet pack- with the hopes of showing it off at the wedding. there would be inner battleswith keeping it secret- and simply getting nervous and not wanting to take attention away from the wedding. there would be jake and his story. there would be ruby, and the city of chicago.
a little more polished…101 working title “everything”
The single serving of captain crunch stowed under the seat remained cool to the touch, as did the interior walls of the submarine as it descended. At 17,000 feet, the cornerstone of a balanced breakfast became, and had been for quite some time, soft. The sea, vacant and listless, lacked the surface’s white capped appeal. Our “hydronaut” or “submariner” or whatever the kids are saying these days smiled when he discovered spilt milk on his chin. Now, don’t get me wrong. Here in the dark heart of the ocean his heart beat, true, yes. However, everything else ceased to exist. Everything.
and another (real one this time!)
The single serving of captain crunch under the seat remained secure and cool to the touch, as did the walls of the submarine as it descended. At 17,000 feet, the cornerstone of a balanced breakfast became and had been, for quite some time, soft. The sea, vacant and listless, lacked the surface’s white capped appeal. Our “hydronaut” or “submariner” or whatever the kids are saying these days smiled when he discovered spilt milk on his chin. Now don’t get me wrong. Here in the dark heart of the ocean his heart beat, true, yes. However, everything else ceases to exist, even himself.
yet another
A single serving of captain crunch…I’ve been putting a fair amount of though into this thing. I’m trying to get fired up about- I really want to win first place. It’s only like five hundred dollars or something, but still. That’s something I’ve always wanted to do- just simply knock their socks off. That’s it.
A single serving of capn’ crunch, with milk, rested under the seat- along with a micro cassette recorder without batteries. Translucent aqua blue, royal blue, midnight blue. Then, with little notice, all encompassing black.
fiction 101: on submarines, night vision goggles, death?
Plymouth begged to make the descent alone.
there was a time when a group of
us were out. We could have been doing anything- daring each other to do commit stupid acts, exploring drained reservoirs by moonlight, and in Wayne Hurzeler’s case: dissapearing. this is murder for a writer to admit, but you really had to be there. I could say that “words wouldn’t do it justice” or that it was just “one of those things” or some bullshit like that. Listen: This is Idaho at the witching hour. It’s near the power plant (the rebuilt one) that went up in flames the sumer before Brian and I’s sophomore year. The first part of the story deals with.
THE FIRST PART OF THE STORY
It was Willy at the wheel of his father’s 79′ chevy pickup. Jason and I lie in the back. Willy claims he hit 106 miles an hour at one point- but in all honesty we’ll never know for sure. The air became so loud and dense, you could really feel the pressure. The fear was genuine- genuine enough to never put down on paper. It was like my blood turned into some kind of volatile gas for a second. It was perfect.
THE SECOND PART OF THE STORY
Nothing really too special. It’s just that when we were on our way back it was the height of darkness. Please feel free to visit your favorite author’s passage on darkness to emphasize my little effort here. It was thick, and indefinite, capable of sweeping you off your feet and wisking you off to that bizarre place that drowning victims and people murdered by avalanches tread- where you can’t tell which way is up or down. Granted, in fifth grade there was always that kid that said that all you have to do is spit or blow bubbles to figure out which direction to go- but seriously. It was dark, and now that the truck was moving in the fifties of miles per hour, we could peak our heads out and see Wayne’s headlights. Wayne, if you guessed right, was trailing behind us. He allowed his car to drift back, say, 30 yards or so. He was, up until that point, very very close to us. Too close.
SUDDENLY
all he had to do was turn off his lights and he literally dissapeared. It was the simplest thing he could of done at the time, and we were all delighted he did.
yes it is, stop asking (aka getting closer)
There was a period when my mother witnessed my father, blue jeans, white shirt, beard- go about destroying her late model ford festiva. it was in the dead of night, and the festiva, in all its khaki colored innocence, sat innocently in the soft amber light of our trailer. But that’s not even worth mentioning now. My mother dug her way out of her would be grave, and has transitioned nicely into “that woman.” The one with way too many lawn decorations and a soft cadence to her voice. Strange and great, right? Secretly, I think she still has the bat he used.
