Poignant Blurs

Creativity Works

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Location: Florida, United States

"Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won. It exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours." - Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

Tuesday, January 04, 2005


The heat was unbearable, and a woman walked by too close. "This is my sidewalk square", she hissed internally, "This is my smoke break". She imagined herself inside of her ciggarette; inhaled, exhaled, dissipating. Flowers were being delivered to the boutique on one corner, and signs erected on another. "It is because I observe it", she whispered, squinting her eyes, attempting to measure. The power became intoxicating, and she wavered slightly until she realized she was holding her breath, and released it. She ponders the relativity of S & M, and entanglement, frowning slightly at the decoherence, and wonders if her splitting headache might be the result of her experiment; if in fact, her mind is splitting. She studies Dissappearing; studies How Not To Care.

Back at her desk in the cool office air, she stares at the computer screen. It makes no sense. She feels like there are phone calls to be made. No doubt there are. She ought to make a dentist appointment. She ought to think about getting a pair of glasses. She ought to refill her prescription. She ought to go through her files and throw out the old ones. She ought to call one of the customers, any one of them, it doesn't matter. She thinks how silly ought is, as a word. Ouch, ours, out, ounce. You can add a consenant to each and make a new word. Couch, pours, pout, pounce. Incomplete, ought is an incomplete thought. This, she finds, is satisfying.

The sounds of the office are nauseating. The geriatric in the corner sucks on his bridge work. Thsk, Thsk, irregular, indecent, obscene, grotesque, obnoxious, Thsk. Like oyters eaten through a straw. The boys who are old enough to vote for President try repeatedly to string together coherent sentences, but alas, they are not equipped with the proper material required for such complex activity. She reflects on the current Presidency, and shakes her head. It is no wonder.

The one in the middle adds izzle to the end of every word, if in fact they started out as words at all. "Hey Stizzle the fizzle, where's my chizzle?" Across from him a loudmouth New Yorker, suitable for construction. He calls people meatballs, pineapples; uses dyslexic cliches:
"You don't want all your nuts in one shell, " or
"like shit on flies" or
"Don't count all your hats if you know what I mean", he says.
She decides she has observed herself right into the eigenvector of BS.


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