B is for Stealing

7. And the hand of Gordon moved upon the waters of the bucket in the bathroom. Yesterday, when imagination was a young boy, he would spin the waters into a whirl. Seven times he spun. Then in the eye of it, he’d drop a marble, the bar of soap… whatsoever he carried in his hand, just to see the future. He smiled. Ah, those were the days! When imagination was young; before every thing was evil and he spun the waters, only to bathe...

6. Gordon tapped lightly on the keys and the room sounded with… sound . That was the only way to describe it. The only way she could. She wiped her hands and came to the edge of the chair to hear him play. He learned out of necessity but played earnestly. His hands danced. He knew not to trust the composition of others so he played one of his own design. Yes. His own right hand would dispel doubt and form in her soul, a song she would praise him for later. He played his tune. Now that his world was watching. He played his tune. He would learn guitar next.

5. The driver egged him on. This was the third bad drive that Gordon received at the hand of the demon with the driver’s permit. But… neither the speed limit nor his attitude changed. The demon's finger went up again. Gordon smiled, again. He shook his head. The civility of his action denied a certain truth. Though Gordon considered himself long suffering, his hand held fast to a young blade should the speedster lose control of his car… and his mind. Yes, Gordon just smiled.

4. And Gordon walked with Ayodhya through the busy streets. Even though they were silent, their collective thought drowned out the sound of the traffic; the venomous drivers and the sirens of the head of state who blissfully parted the sea of onlookers en route to nowhere. “If I gained superpowers,” he asked Ayodhya, “would you be my disciple?” Ayodhya turned to him, with a mouth full of cocaine and with a dazed and hazy breath, he stumbled this out this response, “buh... buh what the hell you smoke today?” Gordon laughed and together they continued in silence.

3. Gordon dipped his finger in the solution, lifted it to his lips and as his eyes brightened, he called the mix… “human”. Gin makes one nostalgic and eventually depresses; scotch makes one happy; rum often sickens to the soul and wine… wine’s spirit makes one introspective, philosophical and passionate. Happiness, sadness, introspection, passion, depression and philosophical intent: human. He chuckled as he poured all of them into the bowl and stirred. Human tasted… well, it needed a little more wine. Wine is always good. And now that Gordon had mixed human all fine and dandy, there grew a new problem. “I can’t be expected to drink this all by myself.” He chuckled. He thumbed through his contact book.

2. Gordon took the pen into his hand and began to create. The act of creation came naturally to him. He lived for the process; the one where he pulled thought from the centre of his mind and spilled it all over his sketch book. It was a self-filled act or so it was perceived. Who could understand that all that he wrote was for the world when all that he wrote… was about himself. In various forms and fables; in costumes and with superpowers; with swords and gruff gunslingers. All about himself. And yet it was all about the others. He wrote and wrote and wrote some more. And then, the hand of Gordon sought out his camera… and some suitable actors. The act of creation was good.

1. And Gordon did smite the insect without a third thought. He pondered letting it live. It had not angered him or anything. But it bore the potential to do so. Thus the will of Gordon was now complete. For the sake of potential, the insect must die. And so he struck it with his finger. The very one that would later twirl his girlfriend’s hair. He loved playing in her hair. This goddess of a woman. The one he no longer needed but wanted with excruciating urgency.

Took this blade and cut this heart. To share. Two equal parts. Blood Red Orange... dripping. I suck fast. You suck. You, filled with all. Me, left with a memory soon distant, swirling on my tongue. Silly I was. I should've made a pate. Two hearts. One blender. Lightly seasoned. Save some for later. For memory sake. For the cold days when we would wonder WHAT. Brought us together. In the first place. Heart grounded. Instead of a bright red sucker fruit. Tracy j H 11/07/2012

TWO THOUGHTS: There are not enough hours in the day , he said. So he embarked on his own experiment to stretch the day into twenty-five or twenty-six hours to get ev-er-y thing DONE ! With twenty-six hours - twenty-three if he counted sleep - he could change the world, he could squeeze every last thought into a reality. Some form of reality really. And as the ideas poured, more came and more came and he dropped to his knees in a catatonic state as twenty-six hours proved to be too futile. There were not enough hours in the day to give these ideas room to play. How sad. Sixty seconds, one minute, sixty minutes, one hour MORE did not stop... did not cause to halt... did not give time for more of the creation he hoped for. Just frustration and catatonic haze while the normals slept in their beds approving of another moment of nothingness... Priest. Weary. Returns home from the city. No one to rise and anoint his head. So he does it instead. © Tracy j H 07:07:2012