And As If By Magic…


August 21, 2011 by heartonsleevereview

Submitted by Anonymous. Thank you for sharing…


this isn’t exactly something to be responded to. it’s not something to be acted on, or out. it’s the late-night-office-ramblings of someone who is reeling in the interiority of their own maybe-not-so-benign-madness while soaking wet from impulse and freezing cold with anticipation.

i was lectured about hyphens today by a kid on a quest to be the know-it-all-of-it-all, excuse the novelty.

you’re all writing about the things that aren’t you. you’re manufacturing the songs, photographing the views, and writing the fake-crime novels of the better versions of yourselves.

and i’m so jealous —

i can’t get out of my own brain (even though i come hard-wired for it in the most literal of senses — it’s my second nature, my first being making mistakes), and you’ve all outgrown yours so fabulously.
playing catch up is something i’m usually good at. but my own insecurity keeps creeping up and reminding me that you’re all intangibly outside of me. i can’t use the word ahead, that implies direction. and this is more than just three dimensions.

i type this in-between effortless lines of parameters. conjuring all of the specifics up from some part of the that innately knows, no, this needs to submit first and present the function with the option to spit out what they(?) want.


// Level 1 existence
foreach ($thought_primary as $thought)

if($thought_primary_max >= $thought_primary_count++) {

if($thought[‘instance’] == $originality[0][‘instance’]) {
$thought_primary_class = ”;
else {
$thought_primary_class = ‘ class=””‘;

} else {
$thought_primary_max = 0;

the intention, the potential neuroses, the hesitation, desperation or inspiration of any of the acts in someone’s life are infinitely intricate and interesting to me. why can’t it be ^^^^^ that simple?

and it’s using up all the time i’m supposed to be using doing normal people things thinking up ways to figure out what your processes are.

my brother, my mom and i stood on the back deck, and listened to the silence. you never really notice the hum of the lights until they’re gone. we blew out the tea lights we had lit around the living room, got in the car, and went to see what happened.

as we drove toward artificial light we saw other families wandering like tourists in their own front yards. i looked down the side streets as we drove along. like trying to keep up with rows of crops on the highway, zipping by veined with black and bare branches. my imagination quickly produced theories. it was all over. some kind of evil had won. and everything would be different from now on. when the low fuel light came on, we did one last lap and went back inside. taking our shoes off, we silentely came to terms with the fact that tomorrow we would wake up and the city wouldn’t know what to do with itself. we’d be giving directions to neighbours we hadn’t spoken to in years, and they would shuffle down the street in slippers and robes, holding maps.

an hour later, a gigantic switch was flipped, and everything came back on all at once. including the streetlight outside my bedroom window that once caused a panic attack so gripping, thinking about it makes my chest constrict. it hit me, the flourescent tone resumed, and the peace i was making with the fact that the information age had ended was destroyed by 60 watts and a chirping smoke alarm. fathers everywhere put their bows down, relieved that breakfast would not have to be hunted in the morning, and that instead frozen toaster pastries would be all they had to provide.

The nights watching you write for the practice of writing are the slow ones.

Smoking all the while. You don’t know I’m watching, there’s no way you would know. Your room is a cloud of haze, sheltering your motives and dialogue, permeating everything with the unshakable scent of you, it never leaves.

Take one out.


Inhale and roll your shoulders.

Writing in-between the margins; where you do your best, your plot development, your commentary on what we used to be. You can write for hours without breaking pace. That includes stopping to soften the blows.

Erasing the substance; you mumble there’s no point to the everyday, then you’ll stumble next to the sink, glancing at the build up of dirt and extra soap and feeling the cool tile floor. Stay ahwile and avoid your own gaze, it’ll only cause you uneasiness.

When you catch your eyes, you’re visibly shaken. Keep moving through the motions, the fear and exhaustion. Cut yourself on what you were writing and swear softly. Look around and clear your paper. Ignore the drops of blood that you know I’ll appreciate. Relocate to the bathroom, sitting in the tub. I don’t deserve to see this.

There is some kind of lesson to be found in this exercise. In your destruction of what you created.

When you turn on the shower, you erase everything that’s ever been. You keep writing and erase everything else that will ever be. Lean over your typewriter on it’s tiny table on porcelain, lean back in your waterlogged wooden chair and being again.

Light another. You don’t need to read what you’ve written to keep track of the story. Write with ink running down your hands and ashes everywhere. Bent cigarette hanging out of your mouth. Ashtray on the ledge of the tub. Blood speckling the fixtures. Words washing down the drain past your untied shoes, you turn off the shower. Open the curtain. Step out with water on the tips of your hair, your head bowed.

You need it.



You need it.


One thought on “And As If By Magic…

  1. Thomas Pluck says:

    Really enjoyed “two,” you captured the feeling very well there.

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