Fun Stuff > CHATTER
Writtin' Thread
mat_mantra:
Meh, i'm not really in the mood for fiction, might be more cathartic to get rid of some of the stuff bouncing around in my head from work.
Sometimes i have to wonder if I was meant to be a medic. I've always been one of those naturally empathetic people, always with a sympathetic ear for a passing stranger wanting to empty their head of whatever ailed them. I have a bad habit of always taking it farther in my head, however. I don't just listen, i hear what is really troubling between the outpouring of minor worries. I don't just read the daily casualty reports, I wonder about the families behind the names, parents outliving their children, children losing a parent they never really knew. If i didn't have such a solid hold on what is important in my life, the problems of others would surely suck me down into the murky depths of depression.
Some cases you just can't seem to let go. Take a young soldier recently, coming in from an EFP blast while pulling convoy duty. I sat nearby and listened as this 19 year old single amputee calmly described a short moment of what must have been the closest thing to Hell on Earth that i can think of. His voice never wavered, his gaze never dropped, he almost seemed to be relating an interesting anecdote remembered from his past. Despite his outward demeanor, I could imagine the nightmares and and the pain in this poor kids future when the shock wore off and what he had actually experienced finally began to sink in. People like this one make me wish i truly could do more than just make him comfortable in bed and make sure his pain meds were on schedule.
But of course with every sad story has it's opposite number. We had a foreign soldier on our floor for several months lasting through Christmas of last year. Another amputee, he had lost everything from his shoulder down on the right side, having taken the brunt of an IED blast while riding the turret of a patrol vehicle. When he first arrived on our floor, I took one look and decided he probably wouldn't make it through the night, let alone the normal 2 days between medical flights. He surprised me by recovering into a quiet, yet vibrant man, reserved, yet not so much that he couldn't burst into a full bodied laugh at a good joke.
One night, sitting outside smoking with him, i couldn't help but ask how he coped with the whole incident, missing limb and all. "This?" he said, "This is nothing. I am alive. That is all that matters. I have wife. My wife is strong right arm. With her, this not a problem. " And with that, he looked and me and laughed. "Young man is too serious. Need to smile more". And this time i laughed with him. Because sometimes, it's all you can do
SonofZ3:
I’m reading too much. Like a junkie I inject Kierkegaard, Brautigan, Hesse and Shakespeare into my collapsing veins. I’m going to OD, to be so full of understanding that my ego will be pushed crying and cold into the street like an orphan, and when I trace my fingers over the bare skin of her back I won’t feel the currents of electric euphoria, but just stare at my cranes and try again to say “The only thing that bothered me was the poverty of the dead" in a way to make it sound like I invented it.
jimbunny:
First person present tense is triiiiiiicky. Why is it so attractive?
Anyway, another bit about music. A tad "chicken soup"-y, but there you go.
Grass shoots up from the ground of our campsite that is the country uncle of the posh grass of our suburban baseball fields - grass that makes wearing your Birkenstocks feel like a bad idea that would have succeeded if only the world weren't so tough and spiny. And campsite is definitely a misnomer; what we have pitched our tents in the middle of is not land meant for sleeping, it is land that has been set aside for the cars of those who did not plan on sleeping anywhere tonight but in their warm beds, far away from here. This is Lot F. F stands for Fitting, and a number of other things besides. We are at a small folk music festival in northern Michigan in the middle of summer, experiencing what life has agreed to throw down, a hardy, four-strong group of college students. At the moment, that which has just been thrown at us is innumerable and wet, and our temporary respite from the rain is peppered with threats of another burst. The night has been long and full of the contemplation of cheap tents. The cheap tent is now full of more than just the contemplation of rainwater. As we painfully greet the day, we wear the dazed looks of the sleep-deprived and deeply uncomfortable. A short conference confirms that this particular life, as it is currently being lived, is obviously unbearable, and that warmth, food, and an escape from the pervading dampness - in just about that order - are all necessary. We require a restoration, and it is not to be found here. However, before we depart, we make the trek to main stage one more time and are rewarded for it with a set from similarly weather-wearied musicians who play in spite of the damp and the chill. After a few moments of tuning, brave smiles, and banter, they start in on their first song. Recognizing it, I grow just an inch taller and lean in just a little more towards the stage. "If you are weary and trying to find your way home,/ don't give up my friend, 'cause you are not alone." These are words I can gladly hear. "In a world full of trouble, you know trouble may find you./ I've got your medicine, baby, this is what you do:/ You've got to rise up, rise up singing./ In time this too shall pass./ You've got to rise up, rise up singing./ You know, this trouble ain't built to last." I sing along.
After the band leaves the stage, we head back to Lot F. We pack our sodden things and throw them into an adorably cramped vehicle, throwing ourselves in on top of them. Pictures are taken, wry smiles committed for later reflection, and we search for a nearby restaurant. We end up sitting around a table in a small-town eatery, above which there has been erected a giant chicken. It is warm, and the food is warm, and the eventual conversation is slow to start but warm nonetheless. We drive for forty minutes and arrive at a home, resting mostly alone along a beautiful country road. Inside is a tumble dryer, a nap, and enough hope for the rest of the weekend.
Jimmy the Squid:
I lay on my back and looked up the stars. I had forgotten to bring my glasses and so I couldn't really see much except for a dull yellow circle against a black backdrop spattered with grey. I tried to look like I was counting the stars, or maybe thinking deep, sad thoughts, half hoping that someone would ask me what I was doing, half hoping that nobody noticed me. A rustle of grass and a soft moan alerted me to the fact that there was a couple making out underneath the trampoline I was lying on. I stayed very still and tried not to alert them to my presence. I didn't want to listen to them, I'm not much for voyeurism, I just didn't want to interrupt them; at least someone was having fun that night. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, metal rectangle. I pushed some buttons sunken into it's flat surface, plugged in my earphones and closed my eyes. I tried to be interested in the music, tried to lose myself in the ebb and flow of the songs but it wasn't working and I was pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that the battery of my mp3 player was dead.
Eventually the happy couple move back into the house, pausing to look at me, wondering if I knew what they were doing. I ignored them, staring blindly into the sky, refusing to acknowledge our awkward moment together, the only time someone will notice me for the entire night. I suppose it's probably better this way though, it's not as if I was invited to this thing.
ThePQ4:
--- Quote from: jimbunny on 21 Aug 2008, 02:40 ---First person present tense is triiiiiiicky. Why is it so attractive?
--- End quote ---
Why is it tricky?? I prefer first person actually. It helps me keep my characters straight (...that just me smile; I am a horrible person). When I write in a 3rd person perspective, I tend to forget who is where doing what when I have a bunch of them together in a situation. Or not really that I forget, but I just write the wrong thing down and when i read over it later, I'm just like "Whoa, that's not right..."
Anyhoo, here's a little snip of what I was working on last night.
"So, are you going to tell me what's up?"
There was that goddamn look again.
I sighed, "Look guys, if it's good news, it's probably going to brighten my otherwise shitty day. So, just out with it, okay?"
"Well, honey," Mom glanced up at dad with a little smile. I looked down at their folded hands. Obviously they were happy about whatever it was. "While we weren't exactly planning on this..." She started to blush pink, "There's not an easy way to say it, but --we're pregnant!"
I felt like the world had stopped. This was probably the last thing I had ever expected. Out of the dozens of things they could have told me...a baby? I was seventeen and now they were adding to the family? My first instinct was shock and then anger.
"What do you mean?" It was a stupid thing to say. "How?"That was even dumber. I knew how it happened.
"Sweetie, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I shook my head. "Just...wow." I wanted to be supportive, but my inner dialogue was on a rampage --how could they do this to me? But this wasn't about ME. And now I felt selfish."I'll be right back." That dirty feeling just jumped me. They didn't say anything as I made my way through the tables of the restaurant to the bathroom.
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