Weaves of Inquiry (excerpt from rough draft)
11/15/2011
The following is a piece written from the notebook that served as the outline to my recent novella, Weaves of Inquiry. Though it hasn't been professionally published, the file and physical rough draft still remain. If you are interested, throw me an e-mail.
My positive mental feedback dropped like the pit being extracted from a plum. I confess, I was sad. I sat sewing, observing the needles swift movements from one side to the next, from the rest of a sleeve that would eventually keep my cousin's arm warm.
Although I am black, my cousin is Jewish. My mother was adopted at a very young age and married a fellow African. Somehow she was lucky enough to get adopted into a Jewish family. The stereotype dissolved and every African attribute seemed to vanish, as she was formed into her new family. Then, I was born: A free spirit, wild and adventurous, ready for action. Well, that is an exaggeration.
I surrendered to the movement of my hands and body and stopped thinking. A subtle feeling of loneliness crept down the stairs, the image of the perky, naive Obama volunteer kept knocking on the door of my consciousness. I sat in my relaxing house, meditative to the utmost.
The sun had risen to about its peak; I had skipped lunch. It was at that point in the Cross Country race where the "Doing well" mantra keeps repeating, although I knew it wasn't going to stop. I felt like going outside and frying up a couple of eggs on the sidewalk, but I knew I couldn't. It wasn't nearly hot enough. The sun only grinned because there weren't currently any clouds to cover it.
The sound of cars did their thing, incessantly. I kept sewing, as though it was just another above average day at work, although I wasn't technically working. I could feel that I was prominintly on one side of the brain which was the left. My right brain felt weak and senile even though just the previous day I experienced creative catharsis through a simple cuff. It was probably because of the sunset, season and color. Anyway, I knew I needed to partake in at least something creative before I had to "go in" for asymmetric paralysis.
Ideas popped in my brain like bubble wrap although much more timid.
Paint the walls random colors with feet while eating bananas.
Throw fruit and vegetables with the occasional piece of chewed gum, at the ceiling, and point and laugh while it drops imagining intelligent classmates exchanging dirty looks.
Bust out the Crayola and write a children's book.
That's a good one.
All the other ideas were out of the question, considering my wood walls and ceiling, although any other house would be perfect. Maybe I can creatively make love to the Obama supporter. Fat chance.
The sun began its retreat. I sneaked in a banana while I finished the upper arm of the orange sweatshirt. Despite getting lost in rational thoughts, I had surprisingly created a beautiful sleeve. I wasn't proud, or, my body wasn't. Yes, I rarely walk, rarely even move with the majority of my body, so there is some degree of craziness. There is a pattern to the craziness. It is never out of hand, always channelled to some material. So, it is technically not crazy. Simply… Different. And does craziness fit in the puzzle of sorry? If anything, it chills with the hipsters of Joy.
Shifting my eyes from the sun to the sweatshirt, back to the sun, I started to find new inspiration. Yes, the sunset and the fall colors are orange and bold, forever bright, but they are not like this all day, all year long. The sun became my new inspiration even though it was already my friend.
The sun descended, and as though a DJ was changing the lights, the blue sky became a purple mixed with orange mixed with pink, with shades of red.
My fingers boxed with the material, perspiring profusely. My mind jumped in a pool known as love, and swam with Obama and his bubbling volunteer. I couldn't believe I had fallen in love… again. The last time was about a month ago with a girl who loved the movie Master of Disguise. I knew it wasn't going to work, she talked negatively of clothing. This one, oh this, I knew was going to work. I just had to meet up with her again and pray she doesn't have racist parents. But she is too hip for that to even be a possibility.
My fingers resumed their activity. My eyes began to focus as I was starting to weave the shoulder of the sweater together with the material. I was to make the traps. My eyes got lost in the cloth, every fiber and every weave became a step on a tight rope walk. The sight was perfect. I was exploring a galaxy on a much smaller scale. Every thread was like a friend, a peer: pressuring me to finish my grand design. I knew I wasn't close to being done, but what I had made was profoundly good. I got up to make a whole wheat tofu sweet potato tomato sandwich, and then jumped in bed, immediately falling asleep. I couldn't help it with such calming yellow lights.
(Dream)
It's you! You nether-world celestial beast!
I gazed with a purple monster on a tower atop a Scottish castle, fists clenched. The weather was morbid, cloudy, cold but not quite raining. The monster was very Orangutan-like, but with purple hair.
this is it for now, i'm in the process of editing the novella.
BYE!!
The following is a piece written from the notebook that served as the outline to my recent novella, Weaves of Inquiry. Though it hasn't been professionally published, the file and physical rough draft still remain. If you are interested, throw me an e-mail.
My positive mental feedback dropped like the pit being extracted from a plum. I confess, I was sad. I sat sewing, observing the needles swift movements from one side to the next, from the rest of a sleeve that would eventually keep my cousin's arm warm.
Although I am black, my cousin is Jewish. My mother was adopted at a very young age and married a fellow African. Somehow she was lucky enough to get adopted into a Jewish family. The stereotype dissolved and every African attribute seemed to vanish, as she was formed into her new family. Then, I was born: A free spirit, wild and adventurous, ready for action. Well, that is an exaggeration.
I surrendered to the movement of my hands and body and stopped thinking. A subtle feeling of loneliness crept down the stairs, the image of the perky, naive Obama volunteer kept knocking on the door of my consciousness. I sat in my relaxing house, meditative to the utmost.
The sun had risen to about its peak; I had skipped lunch. It was at that point in the Cross Country race where the "Doing well" mantra keeps repeating, although I knew it wasn't going to stop. I felt like going outside and frying up a couple of eggs on the sidewalk, but I knew I couldn't. It wasn't nearly hot enough. The sun only grinned because there weren't currently any clouds to cover it.
The sound of cars did their thing, incessantly. I kept sewing, as though it was just another above average day at work, although I wasn't technically working. I could feel that I was prominintly on one side of the brain which was the left. My right brain felt weak and senile even though just the previous day I experienced creative catharsis through a simple cuff. It was probably because of the sunset, season and color. Anyway, I knew I needed to partake in at least something creative before I had to "go in" for asymmetric paralysis.
Ideas popped in my brain like bubble wrap although much more timid.
Paint the walls random colors with feet while eating bananas.
Throw fruit and vegetables with the occasional piece of chewed gum, at the ceiling, and point and laugh while it drops imagining intelligent classmates exchanging dirty looks.
Bust out the Crayola and write a children's book.
That's a good one.
All the other ideas were out of the question, considering my wood walls and ceiling, although any other house would be perfect. Maybe I can creatively make love to the Obama supporter. Fat chance.
The sun began its retreat. I sneaked in a banana while I finished the upper arm of the orange sweatshirt. Despite getting lost in rational thoughts, I had surprisingly created a beautiful sleeve. I wasn't proud, or, my body wasn't. Yes, I rarely walk, rarely even move with the majority of my body, so there is some degree of craziness. There is a pattern to the craziness. It is never out of hand, always channelled to some material. So, it is technically not crazy. Simply… Different. And does craziness fit in the puzzle of sorry? If anything, it chills with the hipsters of Joy.
Shifting my eyes from the sun to the sweatshirt, back to the sun, I started to find new inspiration. Yes, the sunset and the fall colors are orange and bold, forever bright, but they are not like this all day, all year long. The sun became my new inspiration even though it was already my friend.
The sun descended, and as though a DJ was changing the lights, the blue sky became a purple mixed with orange mixed with pink, with shades of red.
My fingers boxed with the material, perspiring profusely. My mind jumped in a pool known as love, and swam with Obama and his bubbling volunteer. I couldn't believe I had fallen in love… again. The last time was about a month ago with a girl who loved the movie Master of Disguise. I knew it wasn't going to work, she talked negatively of clothing. This one, oh this, I knew was going to work. I just had to meet up with her again and pray she doesn't have racist parents. But she is too hip for that to even be a possibility.
My fingers resumed their activity. My eyes began to focus as I was starting to weave the shoulder of the sweater together with the material. I was to make the traps. My eyes got lost in the cloth, every fiber and every weave became a step on a tight rope walk. The sight was perfect. I was exploring a galaxy on a much smaller scale. Every thread was like a friend, a peer: pressuring me to finish my grand design. I knew I wasn't close to being done, but what I had made was profoundly good. I got up to make a whole wheat tofu sweet potato tomato sandwich, and then jumped in bed, immediately falling asleep. I couldn't help it with such calming yellow lights.
(Dream)
It's you! You nether-world celestial beast!
I gazed with a purple monster on a tower atop a Scottish castle, fists clenched. The weather was morbid, cloudy, cold but not quite raining. The monster was very Orangutan-like, but with purple hair.
this is it for now, i'm in the process of editing the novella.
BYE!!
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