All entries for Monday 22 October 2007
October 22, 2007
A Gold Fish's Account of the Previous Story
He hasn’t fed me today. What a bonehead. He’s been sitting in that chair for hours now. I wonder what he’s doing. Who cares? Not me; I don’t care. I just want to be fed, and maybe have this tank cleaned a bit too. You know, he used to clean the tank nearly every other day—not now. He even used to talk about getting some of those algae sucking fish. I wasn’t so sure about the idea before, but now it doesn’t sound so bad. Boy, they’d have a ball in here. Nope, it’s not like it used to be.
What is he doing? Maybe he’s dead. No, he’s not dead. He moved his arm a second ago; at least I think he did. It’s hard to see in here. Maybe he is dead. Even if he was, what difference does it make? I don’t care either way. I don’t need him. I’ve got everything I could possibly need right here in this tank.
I can’t believe he’s dead. I wish I could’ve said goodbye. Should I pray for him? I should. It’s the least I can do—after all he’s done for me. I can’t believe he’s dead. Alright here it goes. Dear God, today we mourn the loss of Bob. He was a good man—a man who cared about fish. I loved Bob, but in your infinite wisdom you took him. Why!? Why did he have to go so soon!? I’m sorry, I get emotional. It’s just so hard.
What should I do? This tank is so lonely. I can’t go on. I’ll end it right now. That’s what Bob would’ve wanted. Don’t worry; I’m coming, Bob! Shoot, how am I going to do this? The water is really shallow, and there’s barely anything inside here. Damn this infernal tank!
Woe is me. Maybe I’m already dead. It’s probably true. I just didn’t know it before. I died and God sent me to my own personal Hell—a dirty tank with no food or friends. What did I do to deserve this? I wonder who I was before. Maybe I was Elvis. Yeah, I think I was Elvis. Did I choke on a ham-sandwich—wait no—that was someone else. That’s good; I’m glad I didn’t choke on a ham-sandwich. I think it’s so cool that I used to be Elvis. It all makes sense now.
I think he just moved. Yeah, he definitely moved. He’s alive! I’m confused. Does this mean I wasn’t Elvis, and that this isn’t Hell, and that I haven’t died already? Yeah, I think it does. It’s good that Bob’s not dead. I really lost it there for a while, but I feel a lot better now.
He’s not getting up. I thought he was going to get up. What a bum! He better feed me soon, and this tank is still all dirty. I’m starting to get upset again.
22 Oct 2007 16:22
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A Story I Rewrote
The shaking is nothing—he read that before—nothing but the potions pushing their way upstream, but a thing is here, a something, a somethingness. It clings just beyond where he can see. It trembles from his darkness, produces an overbearing ring, and slowly overtakes him—a blister of sound ready to burst into light across the room.Can that be right—seeing sound?
"Fuck," he tentatively utters. He fears for the fate of these sounds. One defenceless vowel ended by the unforgiving crack of consonance. It is all very emotional now.
Christ, it’s only a word. Did I just say that?
Anxiety grinds his teeth. Unfettered eyes dart about the room. They dread receiving one object’s impression. Time passes, and eyes grow weary. They decide to quit, rolling back into their skull. Here feels safe. He contemplates their object for a while and tries an epiphany.
What I am is me, for that I came.
He is offended.
These words are usurpers!
Spittle frames his lips, while his mouth remains parched—another symptom he read of—though “symptom” now seems completely meaningless. He grasps at Baudelaire and Saussure, all meant to signify, signifieds—all floating in front of him like hung meat.
A television set seethes in the corner. It spits out a maelstrom of colour.
Focus.
Lines of light and sound continue to realign. An old war movie presses on from inside the T.V. while the radio sounds off soft piano ballads. The curtains bulge and flatten, and each time he feels calmer.
I’m coming down.
The realization settles like balm over sore wounds. Normality grows, and he slowly notices the room, his flesh, and finally the hour— 2:00 AM.
A quarter of the day spent in no place and time.
22 Oct 2007 16:18
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