What's he building in there?

Day 1
What's he buliding in there? What's he making? I sure as hell don't know and I sure as heck don't want to find out. He's been trudging back and forth between the junkyard and his cold iron shed for 4 hours now, same steely determined look. Taking back planks, screws, metal sheets, and old church pews. Every time he heads out again to liberate more parts for his invention from that deadened place he's got more grease on him than before, more stains on his face. What's he building in there?

Day 2
What's he building in that shed? What kind of something's made of deadwood and old pipes? He took down the tyre swing from the pepper tree, though he has no children of his own, he has no family. I heard his wife left him and lives down south, she writes Christmas cards but he never replies. He's too busy building to send letters on down south. He doesn't speak to anyone, he doesn't smile. He barely even raises his head to look at what he's hauling from the junkyard, trudging in wet boots, slamming the corrugated door and the noises start. What's he building in there?

Day 5
What on Earth is making those noises? A metallic grind, a dull thump, a muffled roar, a crack. Heck, I bet there ain't no turning back for him anymore. I could've sworn I heard a low moan. And the pig squeal of an old transistor radio that they say he stole from the diner. He would've had to, there isn't anything else to steal this far out of nowhere. I can hear him hammering nails into driftwood, without any care. What's he building in there?

Day 7
I caught him signalling with a torch on the shed roof last night. Flashing into the sky. He looked right at me when I made his front gate grind open, but didn't stop signalling. I turned and went home, the rhythmic light and the frost in his eyes shot to my bones. He kept signalling, but wouldn't look away from my window. All the while, the metallic grinding echoed right into my eardrums, and the transistor screeched into my brain. What's he building in there?

Day 15
He's been in there for a whole week now, since he looked at me, since he knew what I'd seen. He hasn't been sighted leaving, not even to eat. Some say he doesn't sleep, but car parts keep going missing, and there's the patter of his feet outside my window every night. I try to catch him, but he's never there. He's always building, screeching, grinding. He's nearly stripped this town to it's bones. He's removed all the copper wires, and he stole all the phones. And every hour, a dull thud shoots right out from under the shed door, chasing the fluorescent light that buzzes out of every hole in the walls, and there are lots of holes in the walls. I tried to look through one the other day, tried to see if the light would show me anything, but as soon as I got my eye to the wall, the lights went out, vanished. What IS he building in there?

Day 21
He stood on the front porch of his delapidated house for 3 hours yesterday. He never goes in the house, he's always in the shed. He just stared straight out past the highway from the termite riddled stairs. It was like a beam shooting right out of his dead eyes. They're like what the Devil might make eyes look like: too deliberately lifelike to be human, but too cold to not. What was he building in there?

Day 30

The shed has gone. Only a blast mark on the already scorched tarmac tells us he was here, even though he never really was. What did he build? What did it do? I sure as hell wouldn't like to find out.

A nice analogy.

Most everything is really water under the bridge for the majority of people it seems.
What they don't realise is the hidden catchment under the bridge, which makes it all the more surprising when they find it needs opening.

I just needed to get that down somewhere.

Bitter misanthropy or reasoned scorn?

Edit: Good lord, I sound drunk. Disregard clarity in favour of the sentiment, if you'd be so kind.

Second edit: I hated this whole damn thing.

Formals are silly. That is all.
But the psychological and social implications are almost too interesting to pass up observing.
Almost.

Fireheart

In dusky notes the evening

Crumbled to a stand still

Neither step nor chink of glass

No sound would break through

Nobody dared or even tried to

The time was stuck, the runes were cast

A final glow within that

Molten bottled amber

We signaled to the rain

And so the sheets came down

The dewy wet marquee

The rains came down again

For how long we sat

In the stand still of the evening

Was impossible to say

But a time went by it seemed

Floated past as if a dream

Broken only by the humming of the earthen clay

And after that time we saw

A man, he stepped onto the floor

From the rain though no drop had tarnished him

He stood and stared at each of us

In turn, we didn't make a fuss

And in that moment, light ceased to dim

He gifted the entire place

With a fire from beneath his face

A life we'd lost in the early hours of the night

The band kicked up a raucous tune

The amber flowed, and oh so soon

The bar transformed to the most joyous sight

That fire heart, I'd heard him called

Had graced us with his spark

And on a whim we danced a drunken dance

Round and round, and up and down

We spun about in strident bounds

He held his hand out and I took that chance

Oh how he burned

Oh how I learned

Oh how the world is filled with woe

I learned to dance

On happenstance

We turned the world into a show

-

No, Jason: I have blogging, coffee, noodles, and Oreos. THIS is the life.

I've just gotten over a very big hill of work anxiety. It feels good. This is the first time in several weeks in which I don't have a pounding tightness in my chest. Oh, there's always stress, but it's not debilitating at the moment. I feel the need to recount minor events that interest me because I have nothing of true consequence to blog about. I was playing piano, Paranoid Android probably, and one of my fingers started bleeding. Not just spontaneously, jeezum crow, that'll be the day. It got... intense. And thus my left middle finger was caught in sanguine, unsanitary mess. The piano, being my primary coping mechanism, would know me so much better than any person if it had any kind of comprehensive consciousness. Thank merciful fuck it doesn't.

Continuum.

I TRIED to work today in English. Oh Lord, how I did try. There was a certain impasse I reached rather early on that prohibited me completely from progressing further in my ideas. There was a prompt, there was intent, there were even ideas forming and intertwining. Alas, I was doomed to stare blankly at the table deep in reflection for the remaining 40 minutes.

The problem was thus: I was given a prompt "Encountering conflict is unavoidable". Simple, no? Begin a persuasive style piece based on this prompt with reference to the context text we have been studying (The Secret River, just by the way). So I began. Being a context piece, I opened with some general comments on the prompt, and how it related to actual situations. I thought about the validity of the prompt so as to form my contention. I thought about it deeply, and I found that I concurred. And this is where I reached the aforementioned impasse. Yes, I agree that encountering conflict is completely unavoidable. Obviously. But wait, in having agreed with that have I not avoided the conflict of contrasting opinions? It would seem that by agreeing with the prompt I have refuted it (I'll also point out that by now I had reasoned with myself that if I were to disagree and say that conflict is unavoidable I would have become in conflict with the prompt, and thus that refuting the idea is proof of it's validity). So, by agreeing I refute it, and by disagreeing I prove it. Fuck. And then, once I refute it, I must then logically disagree which in fact proves it once again. And oh lordy lordy we've come into dealings with some kind of self-defeating two-dimensional continuum. I tried to get around this, I really did. I thought maybe that this recursive paradox is an unavoidable conflict, so I would be able to agree with the prompt, but then it just slipped into a gentle recursion again. The only way I felt I could have anything to say about this idea was to adopt a neutral stance, a "sometimes yes, sometimes no" stance. And I will not put myself on the side of that wishy-washy bullshit for an essay. So I had a mini freakout and stared at the table instead.