I've Been Out Of Touch

When I first started to keep a blog, I never thought there would come a time when I'd be too busy to write something at a minimum, a few times a week. Well, I didn't anticipate the effect warm weather would have on me. I'm outside pretty much all the time. I've been taking lots of pictures, so that's pretty cool. I've also been fooling around with Photoshop (see above). I don't know if I'm any good at photo manipulation, but it is a fun way to pass the time. It's simultaneoulsy mindless AND creative, if that makes any sense. Writing is much more difficult -- it requires heavy thinking, heavy processing of information. Visual processing is a much more pleasant experience, somehow. But somehow the end result is less satisfying. I guess I feel like I should suffer for any endeavor to be worth my time.

Anyway, I thought I'd post a passage from a short story I've been working on. In a nutshell, the story is about two people at the start of a relationship. I'm planning to switch back and forth between the male and female perspective. Of course, both of them are depressed and damaged individuals. The male's situation is complex -- his twin sister was recently admitted to a mental hospital.

Here is a scene that describes the first time they met. This passage is almost omniscient, but really it's from the female's perspective.

Maybe I'll post the whole thing when I'm done. If I ever finish. I'm writing at a rate of about one paragraph a day, if I'm lucky.

******

They play several games. Ellie wins most of them. They don’t chat very much, but they communicate. They communicate with their eyes and their bodies and the tones of their voices. Each time they make eye contact, Ellie feels herself smile. He always smiles back, always swallowing a little when he does. She feels demure. When she leans to take a shot, she tries to be sexy. Not provocative, but subtle, sophisticated. She hits the cue ball from one corner of the table to the other, knocking in the 8-ball and winning the game. He makes a noise that sounds like disappointment, but she knows he’s joking. She stands straight, rests her cue stick on her shoulder like a soldier holding a rifle at ease, and then curtsies. He laughs. She likes being watched, being admired. She doesn’t like being leered at. She wants him to covet her, but to respect her. She wants him to think she’s lovely.

They play until closing time. He asks if she would like to take a ride to the beach. She thinks it’s too cold but she agrees. During the ride she talks about the moon. It looms large and bright in the clear night. Looking at the moon makes her feel strange, conflicted. Primal urges swell within; compulsions to howl, to grasp the giant rock with both hands, to stare at it for hours on end, without words, with an empty mind. But she also feels distinctly human, evolved, dreaming of the vastness of space, of the lifespan of planets and stars and people and trees, and of the unfathomable number of those before them who dreamed those same dreams.