So we have all these people, and they all seem to be pissed.

So many people and they all seem to have... something amiss.

Many of these people, their concerns are just... entirely dismissed:

By other people with the same problems who somehow look at these perfectly normal people and react: "I have been nixed!"

These problems are pervasive in our memories and experiences and on a metaphorical wall they are fixed;

And yet the root causes are consistently misinterpreted, and ultimately missed.

And the result is we are betting everything for the sake of getting our cathartic and revengeful fix?

That is being delivered to us by people that if they were to meet us, would utterly reject us and loudly hiss?

And if that gamble fails I will be the one to pick up the scraps, and mop up the piss?

Man, I didn't want to grow up to this.

1. My Friend, the Moon

When Tom was younger, he went to buy fresh bread every evening with his mother, Alice. They always walked and the bakery was far from home, so it was not uncommon for the Moon to come out along the way. "Hello, Mister Moon! Do you wanna come with us?", he liked to say. When they arrived at the bakery, he looked to his mother, excited, and said "Look ma! The Moon came with us!", and did the same when they got home.

2. Fiction

"Did you know that The Hulk was a detective once?", says Alice. Tom is 4. He puts his hand in the forehead in a gesture of superb irritation. "No, mom, this is make-believe!".

3. Cookie Conundrum

According to Tom, a mysterious group of sinister chipmunks was eating the cookies in the jar. When Alice asked for proof, Tom replied that a secret group of chipmunks got rid of all the evidence.

4. Ice Cream Dilemma

"So, mom, you have two options" — said Tom, seriously. "There are only two ice-cream flavors: chocolate and vanilla. Any choice is fine by me".

5. Tom and the Rats

Tom's house used to be infested with large disgusting rats. One day, he shouted: "Rats are the worse! No wonder we call them rats!

6. Dream Logic

Tom dreamed that his forehead could fly without him, leaving a hole in his head. When he woke up in the morning, there was a deer on the porch eating a hot-dog.

— Are we dreaming? — She asked.

— I don't know, my dear. I really don’t know. — He answered.

— It feels real.

— Yeah, it does.

— Look how old we are! Isn't that crazy?

— Not really. — He says while putting his arm on her shoulder. She calms down for a moment.

— Yeah, but I thought... Well, I thought something, but everyone probably thinks the same. It’s silly.

— What did you think?

— I thought we’d be different. Old, sure, but perky, wise, matured from adventure. Something noble like that. But no. We’re the same, but older. — She shakes her flaccid arms and looks both marveled and terrified by the loose skin wiggling back and forth.

He adjusts his glasses.

— Sometimes, when I remain silent to appear profound, I’m surprised by the indigence of my thoughts. I may look like Aristotle himself while I try to remember what I ate for lunch. It’s hard to make inwards the theater we make for others.

— But, after all, when have you become so old?

— To tell you the truth, I don’t even know how we got here.

— It’s weird: despite the complete darkness, we can see everything clearly. And there’s no place to rest my legs.

— Sit here on the ground. Beside me. Put your head on my lap. — He gently caresses her head, trying to ignore his surprise with her white hairs.

— I’d be nothing without you. But I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember your name.

— I might be offended, but I don’t remember yours either. — He smiles.

— Are we close to wake up? This old body is getting on my nerves.

— Of course, my love. This is a dream, but no more than everything else. Time is a nightmare from which we never wake up, and old age is punishment for those that refuse to die.

— Don’t talk nonsense. This will go away in a minute. We’ll wake up young and beautiful, as always. As I remember you, and as you remember me. Everything will be fine. — She says that with forced certainty as if trying to convince herself.

— You’re right. The nightmare will end soon, and we’ll be back to our bodies.

— ... This conversation tired me. Good night, my love. — She pushes her head against his thigh.

— Good night, my angel.

And they wished to never wake up.

Every day I wake up thinking that The Horde is not there anymore. The dreams are good but few, and only make everything worse. I usually dream about The Horde. During sleep, my breathing is improved and more relaxed. I dream of a calendar without symbols.

When there's an inspiration, so I write. Delete everything afterward. A professional told me that's is a compulsion. The compulsion for the perfect word removes me from language itself. The enjoyment comes from excising something from myself, which makes me feel a bit closer to perfection.

Every once in awhile I forget The Horde is there. The writing becomes looser, I sip my coffee and take the lunch out of the freezer. The Horde is still there. The whistle makes my blood run cold.

I forgot when The Horde arrived, but since then my days are covered of night and dust. To me, The Horde has no color, they're covered in filth and dark cloth. They get a bit closer by dawn. But The Horde never comes.

They seem to enjoy tormenting me. Twice a crow's carcass hit my window. At least we were communicating. I had to open the window to clean the blood. The Horde did nothing. There's courtesy between me and The Horde. I never complain of their tiny advances, they never impale me alive and eat my viscera.

The worst consequence of The Horde was to remove my visitors. I had friends and a girlfriend, before The Horde. They came here regularly. On the other hand, there's something cozy about being surrounded by The Horde. I'm never alone.

I talked to them on a few occasions but never got an answer. I invited them to lunch and asked what they like The Walking Dead (seems like a relevant question for The Horde). Because, you see, The Horde may be savage, but they did not cut my internet. I keep telling everyone about The Horde, but no one believes me. They think I'm some internet phenomenon, an internal joke from a group they don't know about. They don't believe The Horde can come for them too, knocking on their armor of bronze and recycled aluminum.

Sometimes The Horde's shrieks seem to gain shape and order as if they obeyed a hidden commander. But this doesn't last, and they soon resume their lurid racket.

I don't know for how long I've lived with The Horde, nor for how long they'll stay. I'm afraid of waking up someday to find them gone. Because, in a certain way, I learned to love The Horde. I feel safe in their post-apocalyptic embrace.

This morning they got closer than normal. I can see it better now. They all have the same face, they're both one and The Horde. Their mouths are frozen in a permanent smile, salivating like rabid animals. One more step. They look like neanderthals. The Horde approaches slowly, with steady paces, and arrive with the furor of the sound of metal and drums. The house is hit by numerous rocks — the roof is about to give in. My crumbled body will soon become an ensign for their future marches. Or maybe become mush after being punctured by one thousand spears.

I'm only sure that this is going to end soon. Their petite steps, the threats, crows in the window. Everything is ending — finally, everything is ending. I'll never be again and so will The Horde. Nevermore.

always seem happy and dandy
and talk of love and romance
a riven smile on the face
to hide thoughts of pain

for her, everything has a verse
a waltz at each step
a flimsy variety of beauty
that melts after rehearse

huge hipster glasses
coffee without any taste
a window facing concrete
is now hummingbirds enlaced

and when she sings all her love
I am always in disbelief
cause when someone shouts too much
I sense a hooded grief

You were smart and pretty
and praised every word I said

Responded to my commands
like a very well-trained basset

You gave me food, shelter, affection
in bed, you did as I pleased
and such strong devotion
was hard for me to receive

Cause how could I trust someone
who clearly and truly loves me?

In this grass where we sit,
I saw many full moons lit

Kissed them shivering in the wind,
felt like solution, formed decision, ultimate end

But the frenzy always fades,
pretty mirage in the haze

Silly me...

I just met you yesterday
And once again tremble my veins

When I was young, I went into the ocean with my older cousin. He lived near the beach, while I merely knew how to swim.

We went to the deep to catch some higher waves using our bodies (in Bahia we call this "pegar jacaré", or "catch the alligator").

When we got there, the wind stopped and the stream started pulling us away from the land. After a while, I was very scared and started swimming with all my strength in the opposite direction. But my efforts were much weaker than the stream, so I remained in the same position.

Then my cousin told me: "@mrbig, stop swimming otherwise you'll get tired and drown. Wait for the wave to come. Only swim when it arrives."

And so I did. Minutes later came the wave. I swam. And then another, and another after that. Little by little, by saving our energies and acting at the right times, we arrived at the shore.

And that is the story.

I've been posting about this in various topics but now that it's on Github, I thought maybe it's time to give it a topic of its own. From the README:

My goal is to eventually replicate the keyboard and sound of the bass side of an accordion in an electronic device that accordion players will find easy to adapt to. So far I've built three prototypes:

• Prototype 1 was trying out a Teensy 4 with an audio shield on a breadboard, with 4 bass buttons.
• For prototype 2, I put the buttons on two double-decker circuit boards (9 bass buttons). Here's the Video. You can see the remains of prototype 1 in the background.
• For prototype 3, I built a real case out of wood and laser-cut acrylic panels, to make a desktop device that's more easily portable. This one uses a Teensy 3.6. Here's the Video. I designed it in Onshape and you can look at the CAD model online.

This screenplay is based on a short story I published on Tildes some time ago. If you prefer, you can download the PDF here.

                    YOLK
                     by
                   mrbig

Until told otherwise:

BLACK AND WHITE.
SLOW MOTION.
SLOW AND BEAUTIFUL OPERA MUSIC

INT. APARTMENT - NIGHT

KITCHEN

HAND grabs the egg carton on the fridge. JAMES is 30, thin
and shirtless. Smells the eggs one by one. Stops. Smiles.

Water gushes from the faucet, foaming abundantly as it goes
down the drain.

BEDROOM

On the wall behind the bed, a painting of two lovers with
their heads individually wrapped in sheets. They kiss, but
they're mouths do not touch. ALICE, 30, dark hair, black silk
nightdress, sleeps. SOUND OF SOMETHING BEING FRIED. She wakes
up.

KITCHEN

James breaks the eggshell, getting his hand dirty. Licks his
fingers. Behind him, Alice is watching. Gently throws the egg
in the frying pan.

THE EGG SIZZLING

James sprinkles salt and pepper. Manipulates the frying pan
with skill, throws the egg up in the air and catches it in a
precise and continuous movement. Extinguish the fire and look
back to see

COLOR. NORMAL SPEED. OPERA MUSIC STOPS.

Alice with the eyes fixed on the stove.

                    ALICE
          Look.

Points at the egg.

                    JAMES
          What?

                    ALICE
          Can't you see?

                    JAMES
          Has it gone bad?

She takes a deep breath.

                    ALICE
          I noticed the way you broke the
          shell, but I needed to confirm. Can
          you see how the yolk is soft yet
          whole, with a small cut in the
          lower portion slowly leaking a
          yellow thread at a regular pace?

                    JAMES
          Yes...

                    ALICE
          Don’t you get it?

                    JAMES
          No.

                    ALICE
          When the yolk leaks like that, it
          can only mean two things.

She hesitates.

                    ALICE
          You’re either going to murder me...

                    JAMES
          What you’re talking about?

                    ALICE
          Or you’ll get a Ph.D. in Physics.

                    JAMES
          You’re kidding, right?

                    ALICE
          Nope.

HIS EYES

HER EYES

                    ALICE
          The egg doesn't lie.

He sits by the table.

                    JAMES
          I could just choke you.

She sits near him, smiling. Leads James' hands to her own
neck, and make him hold it.

                    JAMES
          That's easier.

He caress Alice's neck.

                    JAMES
          I never thought about that before,
          but maybe, precisely because I love
          you, precisely because I want you,
          maybe I should exterminate you.

Retracts his hands.

                    JAMES
          Or maybe I don't love you enough.

                    ALICE
          The egg...

                    JAMES
          I know, it doesn't lie. Then why
          are you still here?

                    ALICE
          Makes no difference.

He stands up and looks at the egg on the stove. Cleans his
throat.

                    JAMES
          Honey?

                    ALICE
          Yeah, babe.

He opens a drawer and pauses for a second. Closes.

                    JAMES
          I’m terrible at physics.

James holds a butcher's knife with a confused expression on
his face.

OPERA MUSIC RETURNS

THE END

In a time of ancient legends, Androcles was a runaway slave.

He took shelter in a cave where a wounded Lion lived.

By removing a thorn from his paw Androcles cured the beast; The Lion was very pleased.

And then The Lion ate Androcles because he was a fucking lion.

Ask not for whom the cradle weeps; it weeps for you.


O sly kitten, O accursèd cat, cry,
cry for the weft and the warp of the world; cry,
cry for the sin and the sorrow and suffering; cry,
cry on the bloodshed, but more on the tears; cry,
cry for divisions, and ill-wrought connections; cry,
cry for the laughter, so far out of reach; cry.
And in crying find solace; peace——rhythm——be still.

                                               cry 
and cry——cry for the widows and widowers, woven together forever,
by weeping and painless heart-let.
   But your pain is not theirs.
   For, though burdened with truth, you will never be cut 
   by the serrated and blunted edge of polite fiction.
   Enough!


When the cat's in the cradle, the mice will play,
And I hope that they fly far——far-far away.
But the tears of the kitten forever abide,
and someday they'll catch you.
               will you take it in stride?

What is a logline?: a brief summary (25 to 40 words) of a story for film, television or book that states the central conflict and an emotional "hook", with the purpose of stimulating interest (Wikipedia).

A logline is evaluated not exactly for what a story is (since it does not contain a complete story), but for what it can be. Suggestions usually seek to maximize the dramatic potential of the idea.

Title: Endless Night (feature-film, drama).

Logline (27 words): Death has until dawn to ensure his very survival by splitting a couple whose determination in preserving their toxic relationship threatens to shred the fabric of time.

I make no promises for quality, I'm really just pushing what can be done with a Pixel 3XL cell phone camera, access to Adobe Lightroom, and a surprisingly gorgeous foggy day. This ties into the "No-Money Fun Ideas" thread.

These images have been lightly edited towards what my eyes saw - most camera sensors would have trouble with color accuracy under the conditions these shots were taken.

Winter 2020

Please feel free to criticize and inform me on what I could do better.

These photographs are published for your enjoyment under the Creative Commons Share-Alike license.

Her eyes are fixed on the cooker.

— Look.

Points at the egg.

— What?

— Can’t you see?

— Has it gone bad?

She takes a deep breath.

— I noticed the way you broke the shell, but I needed to confirm. Can you see how the yolk is soft yet whole, with a small cut in the lower portion slowly leaking a yellow thread at a regular pace?

— Yes...

— Don’t you get it?

— No.

— When the yolk leaks like that, it can only mean two things.

She hesitates.

— You’re either going to murder me...

— What you’re talking about?

— Or you’ll get a Ph.D. in Physics in 2035.

— You’re kidding, right?

— Nope.

— You saw all that? On a fucking egg?

— I knew you wouldn’t understand...

— You were right.

A second goes by. He cleans his throat, kinda embarrassed.

— Honey?

— Yeah, babe.

— I’m terrible at physics.

He holds a knife with a confused expression on his face.

I'm not quite like you
A few words and that's it
The façade fades
Crumbles
The carefully constructed mood dies
Coping mechanisms defeated
The castle is compromised

A strong exterior only goes so far
Each word pulls stones from the foundation
Fragile walls, fragile heart
I retreat to my secret home
Away from the swords and arrows and fire
No one can reach me here
Safe and quiet and in control
Equally secure, equally secluded

Tapped out on my phone in an Uber on the way to D&D. I write about more than love, I promise!

the water laps at the dam
seeking egress, seeking progress
everyone inside so thirsty
life affirming liquid
but the dam
the wall we built to keep ourselves safe
our salvation
our condemnation
seemed a good idea at the time
but all our other crimes against ourselves did too
how are we so smart yet so stupid
it hurts
it fucking hurts
life without love may as well be an empty gift on Christmas morning
but we all do it to ourselves every day
so many boundaries and rules and norms
all because we’re too afraid to get hurt
too afraid to be ourselves
too afraid to realize ourselves
too afraid to give one another the best gift we can

I’m sorry
but
I can’t today
I want to
but
I can’t
It’s not my fault
but 
I’m guilty anyway
I’m not understood
but
I’m pressured anyway
I yearn to create, to do
but
I just stay in bed
I want to live
but
I’m too hurt

Please note, I am no writer of any kind. For some inexplicable reason I just had the desire to give it a go today. I hope someone out there finds some enjoyment in it.

After David left I decided I'd better make good on my promise and find a new place to live. The woman from the council said there might be a temporary property available. That someone had recently died at the retirement village outside of Holyhead.

When I finished at school on Friday, I went to David's and gathered up what I thought was mine. As it turns out, almost everything was his. It wasn't long after we'd met that I moved in. It was gradual though. Bits and pieces brought over from mom's in bin bags tucked under the bus seats they save for people and their buggies. As the months rolled on there was less and less at mom's. I'd still visit on a Sunday for lunch but that was about it.

I had this porcelain clock on the mantle at David's, two corgis sat either side of the clock face. David hated it. He had a thing for minimalist art and would order fake prints online. He liked Robert Ryman a lot. He thought my clock threw everything off. He'd often tell me how important it was to appreciate art but what he liked left me cold. I wrapped the clock in newspaper and tossed it into my backpack. I took a last look at the living room. It was something new now.

When I got to the village it was raining. Cold droplets cascading down my jacket. I alternated hands, dropping each bin bag to the ground to rub the speckles from my glasses. In front of the bus stop there was a pathway that led to the complex, flanked on either side by imitation grass astro turf. Beyond that, two identical adjacent blocks. Rows stacked on top of one another like lego bricks.

The woman at the council told me it was flat 2b, "the last flat on the ground floor". I searched for the receipt I'd scribbled the details on to check if I'd remembered it right. I hauled my bags over my shoulder and ran underneath the closest awning. I stared up at the sign fixed to the brick. 1a. I can wait here until the rain dies down, I thought.

From across the yard a woman was sitting in a wheel chair, a mask attached to her face. An enormous tube jutting out from her mouth connected to a canister strapped to the side of her chair. She stared in my direction and didn't move. She's sitting next to 2b, she might be my neighbour, I thought. As the rain died down I walked over towards her. As I approached, I wasn't sure if she was going to take the mask off or not. What's wrong with her, I thought? "Hi, I'm Kate". I extended my hand and wondered if she could move her arms. She didn't reach back. "Mad weather isn't it?". She continued to stare. "I'm only staying for a month or so, I need my own place for a minute and it's all I could get you know? Not that I'm not grateful or anything". She continued to stare. "Ok, well, it was nice meeting you". I took out my key, opened the door and stood alone in the hallway.

David and I usually ate together on Saturday mornings. He'd wake up later than I did and wander about the place yawning. He'd often glorify his exhaustion to me. Some invisible accomplishment he'd been gaining interest on since leaving uni.

There wasn't a kettle in the new kitchen, but there was an electric hob. I poured water over the tea bag, into my cup and peered through the net curtains. The rain had settled and I could see the opposite house and the whole complex in the daylight now, some strange vortex, wholly enclosed. A village of it's own making.

I put on my old slippers, took my cup and stepped out onto the concrete walkway. The woman from yesterday wasn't around now. I thought about knocking but decided against it. Either she couldn't talk or has seen so many people come and go, she doesn't go in for platitudes anymore. Pacing, I caught a glimpse of her kitchen. Pink lino on the floor, almost nothing out on the worktops. It looked unoccupied. I moved back to my half of the walkway and perched on the step to finish my tea. I should get started sorting what I have before Sunday rolls around, I thought. As I got up, I heard my neighbour careen around the corner, up over the astro turf and onto the walkway. She stopped before her door, I nodded and smiled. This time she nodded back in my direction. She then raised her hand and jostled the toggle on the arm rest. Her chair moved closer towards me. She raised her eyes to meet mine and looked back at my hands. She did this a second time. "I'm sorry, I don't understand". She repeated this a third time. I mumbled something and she reached out and opened up my right hand. She surveyed my palm, in all of its detail, looked back up at me and nodded again. "Sorry, can I help with something?". She shook her head, reversed and rolled up the ramp back into her flat.

On Sunday morning I started sorting through the rest of the papers I threw into my bag at David's. Bank statements, a few receipts, junk mail. In amongst them I found a cinema ticket I'd kept from when we started dating. He asked me to go to see the first Terminator, "on the original reel", he said. I didn't much want to go and don't like violent films but thought it'd be a good excuse to get to know one another. We got pretty swept away with each other after that.

I sorted through the rest hoping I'd find something else, but there was nothing. I stacked the ordered papers on the ground and went outside for a break. There wasn't anybody out, like the day before. After some time my neighbour's door opened. I stood up and checked to see if she needed any help. I found her raising her eyes to her forehead, motioning backwards. "Do you need some help?", she shook her head and motioned backwards with her eyes for a second time. She reversed the chair and gestured for me to come in. I stepped inside. She manoeuvred her wheelchair into the kitchen and positioned herself next to the dining room table. There was a chair opposite to her, so I sat too. "Is everything ok?", I asked. She nodded. "I hope you don't mind me asking, are you able to speak?". She stared at me and shook her head. After a few seconds passed she pointed to a badge on her cardigan. On a yellow background, in all black caps it read, "JANE". "I'm Kate, nice to meet you Jane". This time she extended her arm and we shook hands. "How long have you been here Jane?". She nodded 5 times. "Ah ok, and how do you like it? Do you have family that visit?". She shook her head. "Do you mind me asking, what's wrong with you? Shit sorry, umm, not like that, I mean, umm, are you sick?". She paused for a moment and nodded. She then reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a deck of cards.

I don't know anything about Tarot, other than what you see on T.V but I'm not a superstitious like that. She laid the cards on the table in front of me, either nodding or shaking her head as she passed each of them one by one. The last card in the row showed a stone tower. She looked down, paused, raised her head, but this time, looked right past me. Dust cascaded through the shards of light piercing through the window. Jane starred into it for what felt like a whole minute. Watching the particles dance before her I asked, "Are you ok Jane?", she shook her head. "Is there something I can do?", she shook her ahead again. "I had better be going Jane, I meet my mom on a Sunday for lunch, please let me know if there's anything I can help with, OK? As I said yesterday, I won't be staying too long, but while I'm here, feel free to knock on". She nodded her head. I let myself out and left, the cards still strewn about the table.

I didn't see Jane much after that afternoon and things went on as normal. David called and we hashed things out over the phone but we'd petered out long before that. The council explained I couldn't stay on at the village for another month so I moved back with mom. After a few weeks passed, one evening after work, I opened up my laptop and searched online for "Jane Tarot". Tons of results came up but only one from Holyhead. A local newspaper article with a headline that read, "LOCAL LADY FORESAW DIAGNOSIS". "I knew what was going to happen to me, the fibrosis I mean. The cards speak and I accept, I give myself up to that". I closed my laptop and looked outside into mom's garden. I thought about the tower card and how people do all sorts of things to justify their own lives, to deal with their own grief and make sense of things.

Mom plants Floribunda's every year and they're starting to bloom now. My phone rings. I offer to cover a shift for a new temp at work. I put on my jacket, walk outside and think about Jane.

Put your head over here
and cry all the yearning away
cause thinking will bring you nothing
just thoughts and yet more pain

Sleep, sleep my child
breath slowly that way
cause here there is no more strain
under my loving gaze

In your cotton candy dreams
you embrace with such strength
a cloud above in the sky
sleep, honey, yes, sleep
cause here you're free from time

And there I am on this dream
imagining, imagined
the mark of a want, of a wish
a trace drawn in the sky
don't know if I'm the one dreaming
or if I am been dreamed about

So many wants that never were
But that were mine nevertheless
In the joy of many maybes
Slow evening

Time is cursed, it goes
The body is alive and weary
And stuck in hour a soul — immense

Saw in you a trace, a gesture without any end
a phrase with no reticences
a shadow lost in the gaze

A question you have not made
a plot not yet heard
a night with no resolution
be calm, the sun is not late

Glowing friend, your light
has given me
everything I know.
To run you require
a sacrifice

I click open my knife
forgotten forever in the drawer with the butterfly yo-yo,
the heart necklace of an immature love
and the compass
with the atomic symbol.

With the blade I
etch
and cut
and stab
to draw sand
from the glass
long left unflipped.

It slides along your surface
sinks in
and is gone.

lost time like grains leaking out an hourglass
lost feelings like love leaving a full heart
lost purpose like a crusader without a cause
all these years, feelings, purpose stolen, violated
an evil I never invited, never wanted
it's not my fault, not my goal
innocent yet guilty
convicted
more like cursed
their hatred is my destiny
never get back what was lost
never recover who I could, maybe should, have been
robbed of a life, of a happy, normal life
I can't even hate them for it
can't even have that comfort
I'd be just as bad, repeat the cycle
almost sympathetic
only path, only cure, is love
creamy center of a cyanide pill

This is a reflection of what building friendships and close relationships is like for me. Mental health makes everything much harder, but I keep trying.

it shines and blazes
such light and warmth
stories told round the hearth
cold nights kept a safe distance away
beauty in chaotic dancing patterns
it promises everything all at once
no regard for consequences or the future
just passion in the moment
no foresight, only enthralling abandon
its wake is ash
empty, cold, dead
no energy
never burn again
it destroys what it loves
what it needs
not because it wants to
because it is
destruction guised as passion

I wanted to write about self-forgiveness because it's such a hard thing for me to do. Past mistakes and trespasses stick in my mind for decades, and it's so hard for me to shake them. This work is an attempt at expressing that difficulty.

Down in the foothills the peak is so perfect
Covered in pure white snow
Nary a tree in sight
The peak carves a visage in the sky
In the clouds
It just is, it exists peacefully in its austere authority
Calm, serene
Impossible
Yet I yearn to climb
To ascend
Down in the foothills among the trees
The greenof the hills
I make my preparations
Breath
Training
Gear
I practiceand I meditate
I meditate upona life
A life of mistakes and triumphs
Each breath preparing and steeling

It's time to begin my climb
Each step and the air, the precious vital air, thins
Lungs emptying and muscles weakening
And yet I continue
Not quite undaunted, but I continue
The views are stunning
Yet I don't see them, eyes ever on the peak
Visualizing success, not the process
It's so cold
Bitterly, viscerally cold
There's no air
Even a yogi must stop for air
But there's no air
The ground slick with snow and ice
Snow and ice with the oxygen I need
Sealed away in the mystery of the bonds
Just as beautiful as it is inaccessible

But I continue my climb
Slipping and falling, the rocks cut and score
Gashes and bruises amass
I take a moment and reflect
Is it worth it?
Shall I ever ascend?
And as I slip into meditation, I slip down the mountain
All progress lost
The world turns around, up and down
I lose my breath
And land, dizzy and hurt, down the bottom
Even further from the peak than when I started.

Something I wrote after watching a scene in the Apple TV+ "The Morning Show" showing an NYC skyline. I've always had a love for NYC, even though I don't live there, and a love for cities more generally. I've never not lived in a city after moving out of my parents' place, and can't imagine going back to the suburbs. Cities are my home, cities are where I belong. I don't think this one is finished, yet; there are a few rough spots, and I'm not sure about the ending. But, like people have said in a few of the timasomo threads, the important thing is to get the words out, to make the work exist outside of one's head.

the city is awake, alive
lights dance in the dark of night
little lifesigns, each a past and present
each a history and a story not yet told
subways and busses and ubers
the occasional oblivious cabbie
(cancer on the streets)
each moving people to their goals
their dreams
veins and arteries in the city's body
lights for seeing
superstructure in steel and glass
inspiration
aspiration and ambition
passion and drive
these power the pulse and the breath
each person, each cell
shapes and grows the city, the body
each experience shapes epigenetics
no place the same after
the city takes us all in
gives us homes
maybe not shelter, but homes
we are alive and so is our home
an energy ineffable yet indelible

edit: A friend has said that this reminds her of the opening of Murakami's After Dark, and I can absolutely see it. Perhaps a bit of subconscious inspiration?

This is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago--not part of Timasomo, but something I'd like to share with folks here. It's becoming more important to me given events in real life and also as I explore yoga more deeply as part of my teacher training program. There's clear inspiration from Whitman's O Me! O Life!, but the message is very modern.

That the powerful play goes on and you will contribute a verse
Why not let the verse be love?
It used to be so easy, so easy, just a simple choice
Choose love
All the conflicts of today and every other time
Not enough love
For one another
For ourselves
Not enough love
All the religions and faiths of the world
All our enlightened leaders
All taught love
The play used to be about love
So many acts ago
Only a few moments ago
Seems like forever
Seems we’ve forgotten the lines
But no one to remind us what they are
And we don’t get a rehearsal
We get one grand opening day
One somber closing night
No matinee
No encore
Why choose any other verse but love?
Love makes everything else possible
Makes everything else worthwhile
Everything else builds on love
That the powerful play goes on and you may choose a verse
Choose love.

note: Posted this with the wrong title first, so deleted and reposted.

Logline

During the 2017 Solar Eclipse, a thick-skinned female police officer must prevent millennial Shadows from returning from the depths of the Earth to dominate humanity.

Notes

Post 1

You can also read it in my blog (no advertising, no annoyances, no bullshit).

- As before, this is not my first language. All criticism is extra welcomed
- I included the previous content - the prelude - just because it's so small

@cfabbro, here's the ping you requested! Love to know what you think of it!

Prelude

Before time was time, nights were dreamless. No one narrated the hunts, and death was just a cessation of the body. Births were joyful but meaningless. Statements were nothing more than intentions among roaring, shouts, and racket. Sometimes two sounds came together in funny ways, but meaning was still far away from our primitive cogitations.

In these times of monotony, the Shadows entertained the primitive men. With no timbre or elocution, they came from the deepest layers of Earth’s mantle to tell stories under the moonlight. They lived in harmony, feeding on each other. The Shadows came to life with the laughter and the souls of the Men, and the Men lost the fear of the night with the histories told by the Shadows in a primitive symbiosis.

One day, a man died after eating a tasty looking fruit. Hunting was a gamble, and eventually, men needed to eat potentially dangerous elements. Another, more intelligent man, noted that the juice from his mouth indelibly marked the rock with a pattern that was pleasant to the eyes. He collected more of that fruit, avoiding to put it in contact with sensible areas. This man did not have a proper name. None of them did. They just knew that there was “The Boss”, “The Hunter”, “The Large” and “The Delicate”.

Some men had soft lumps in their chests and above the thighs. Eventually, their bellies got big and other men came out from them. “The Delicate”, who discovered painting, was of this kind. In secret, he drew their hunts in the cave. He made everything bigger and more menacing than it was: the spears, the beast, the joy, the moon, and the flames, that reached the sky.

It took some gestures and vocalizations for The Delicate to make The Hunter understand that that set of traces was him and that the thick line with a pointing end penetrating The Beast was his spear. But soon they understood and had great silence. Followed by a great laugh.

The Hunter imitated the muffled sound of the Beast’s steps and learned to use this sound to talk about the Beast even when it wasn't there. War shouts, death songs, the cutting of the meat, the crackle of the fire, the crickets, the frogs and all animals soon had their sounds, their own “words”.

Men stories gained life by their own making.

The Shadows never came back.

Weakened, they returned to the depths. And, in the emptiness of their soulless existence, felt profound pain.

Chapter 1

Worn books on the balcony: The Physics of the Light, Introduction to Modern Physics and Modern Optics, paid with greasy notes. Stumbles on a rock, knock the books on the sidewalk. On a dark tunnel, fluorescent light flicker irregularly. Hands in his knees, catch his breath and run with the rest of his lungs.

The front is completely black of smut. Turns the key with difficulty. The stairway creaks under his feet. A stack of old newspapers behind the door. Turns on a weak desk lamp. A crack of light comes from the sheets. Closes it with tremble hands and throws himself in the armchair. A thick cloud of smoke leaves Ernesto's relieved self.

The curtain drops with a thud. Behind him, a dark silhouette smiles.

The badge for the "Civilian Police of the State of São Paulo" swing above the toilet. In the ground, two pregnancy tests. Two lines in each. In the holster, a Taurus 38. Impeccable blue jeans. Mariana pees in the third test and waits. Two lines. She's fucking pregnant.

Ernesto's suit seems expensive twenty-year ago. He looks like a bum that made an effort. He holds a thick notebook with paper falling from the edges and a paper folder that seems to be about to explode. Dries his eyes constantly, and there are black spots bellow his armpits. In the edge of the table, it reads: "Mariana Diniz – Commissioner of Police" Ernesto gives her his card: "Eye of Horus - Paranormal Investigations". Below, a stylized eye with Egyptian inspirations. And a landline.

— I don't trust cellphones.

Smiles uncomfortably, trying to hide the nervous tic that makes his head swing like a salamander.

– It may not look, but I'm a busy woman.

Gives her two 15x20 pictures. The first is completely out of focus. The second shows an oddly slim, dark silhouette on a sewer canal. Ernesto sweats like an amphibian having a panic attack.

— For millennia, these creatures have been confined in the interior of the earth. Suffering the monotony of an incomplete existence. Waiting for a chance to come back.

— Yes.

– You don't believe.

Puts the card in her wallet.

– You got my number.

The long hills do not affect Mariana. Sumptuous homes, beautiful landscaping, mutilation, and infanticide. They're all part of the same world.

In a deserted square, eight hood teenagers assemble in a circle. Metal-heads and RPG players never caused her any trouble, but, as commissioner of that town, she has the duty of investigating anything out of the normal. She takes care to not flaunt the weapon.

They ignore her. The kids emit no sound, make no gesture. They're not injured, and their dark eyes are probably contact lenses. They have an ironic smile in their faces. No drug would generate such severe catatonia on a group that size, and there was no law against looking spooky on public premises. Sent two patrol cars to watch the group and went home.

The basic Chevrolet goes through the carefully constructed path, with exotic plants on both sides. Between two neoclassic towers, a slightly lower white house. In the living room, Eliza, short-exquisite-hair, beautiful and androgynous, stare at the TV with thick frame glasses. Notices Mariana's gun.

— Comes with the job.

In slow motion, a voluptuous Marilyn Monroe impersonator pours milk on a bowl of cereal.

– Bruno?

– Upstairs.

A plate brakes in the kitchen. To the left of the sink, dozens of cups organized by color, size, and format. To the other, plastic utensils organized by function and material. Scapular in the neck, Sofia é very white. She wraps the glass in paper, writes "GLASS" in wide letters and ties everything in a thick, transparent plastic bag.

– Your kitchen was too… Illogical.

– Of course.

Mariana notices a red spot below Sofia's long sleeve. She holds the arm of her friend: bruises.

— They're old, diz Sofia.

— Doesn't look like.

Takes the car keys. The pregnancy tests are in the same pocket. Mariana takes a deep breath and looks at the stairways.

Law books on the shelf, almost all sealed. Bruno is on the computer. It's hard to get why they're still married. Mariana has always been stubborn. He's on the computer most of the time. At 40, Mariana has silky black, perfumed hair. Tells good stories in a welcoming way. Mariana loves what the does. She's hit on constantly, by both sexes. And has a way to politely decline that doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.

There's a month since they had sex.

— I'm pregnant.

— Are you sure?

The tests in the keyboard.

— They're from a pharmacy.

— Yep. Three.

She pulls the plug from the computer. Bruno looks at her. His eyes are black.

My phone sits, as I, in silence

In my room – alone.

I hate myself, but seem to lack the energy

To dig into my bones.

When I was younger I was told that

One day God would call me home.

Instead the coffin calls my name in whispers

And beckons the unknown.

.

Why do I feed a body with a

Soul that keeps depleting?

When all my hopes and expectations come up

Short and keep receding – I

Start alternating between plotting,

Thinking, pleading

That I’ll make a rash decision, they’ll

Give my organs to the needy.

.

Perhaps I’ll drive a stake into my head and chest.

No one should endure this mind or heart.

Meditation never seemed to give much value,

All the medication felt a farce.

I’m an incongruent, uncompleted puzzle

Dangling from a bridge; falling apart.

I watch my pieces sink below into the water,

As this letter dances all about the hearth.

.

I carried out important shit in boxes;

Let the rest behind to be thrown away.

I hid and watched as they threw in the dumpster,

A bed now wrought with chocolate and decay.

As the memories flashed in to my brain,

Of how we chose to spend that final day.

(Of how) even on the best day of the end of my life,

I ended up naked, chocolate-covered, curled up on your chest and crying,

Begging you to stay.

.

The devil is a myth they tell believers;

Hell prevents their chasing earthly dreams.

I will not go to Heaven, and there is no Great Receiver

Who will comfort me and silence my screams.

There is no purgatory in the ether;

The earth is this one act’s final scene.

Fittingly, the water isn’t beautiful here either.

It’s choppy, warm, and a putrid shade of green.

.

Someone use my hands to write a sonnet.

Someone use my eyes to see a better day.

Someone use my legs to climb a mountain;

Use my tongue to find the words to say.

They’ll use my lungs to feel the oxygen.

Use my kidney when theirs is in decay.

They’ll use my heart to feel in love again.

I’ll rest easier that way.

Before time was time, nights were dreamless. No one narrated the hunts, and death was just a cessation of the body. Births were joyful but meaningless. Statements were nothing more than intentions among roaring, shouts, and racket. Sometimes two sounds came together in funny ways, but meaning was still far away from our primitive cogitations.

In these times of monotony, the Shadows entertained the primitive men. With no timbre or elocution, they came from the deepest layers of Earth’s mantle to tell stories under the moonlight. They lived in harmony, feeding on each other. The Shadows came to life with the laughter and the souls of the Men, and the Men lost the fear of the night with the histories told by the Shadows in a primitive symbiosis.

One day, a man died after eating a tasty looking fruit. Hunting was a gamble, and eventually, men needed to eat potentially dangerous elements. Another, more intelligent man, noted that the juice from his mouth indelibly marked the rock with a pattern that was pleasant to the eyes. He collected more of that fruit, avoiding to put it in contact with sensible areas. This man did not have a proper name. None of them did. They just knew that there was "The Boss", "The Hunter", "The Large" and "The Delicate".

Some men had soft lumps in their chests and above the thighs. Eventually, their bellies got big and other men came out from them. "The Delicate", who discovered painting, was of this kind. In secret, he drew their hunts in the cave. He made everything bigger and more menacing than it was: the spears, the beast, the joy, the moon, and the flames, that reached the sky.

It took some gestures and vocalizations for The Delicate to make The Hunter understand that that set of traces was him and that the thick line with a pointing end penetrating The Beast was his spear. But soon they understood and had great silence. Followed by a great laugh.

The Hunter imitated the muffled sound of the Beast’s steps and learned to use this sound to talk about the Beast even when it wasn't there. War shouts, death songs, the cutting of the meat, the crackle of the fire, the crickets, the frogs and all animals soon had their sounds, their own "words".

Men stories gained life by their own making.

The Shadows never came back.

Weakened, they returned to the depths. And, in the emptiness of their soulless existence, felt profound pain.