Vaya
Bluelight Crew
I'd posted this in my Blog; I don't think I've ever shared anything in 'Words' before (maybe once in 2006 or before) but I thought I'd share it. It's a short story I wrote one day. Where it came from? What it means? Too verbose? No comment 
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A rivulet of lukewarm street-water and ammonia forged amongst the cobblestones like a slow and deliberate serpent. An adjacent stream paused before the various diversions in the cobblestones ahead. With a glimpse of indecision the quivering rivulet deliberated, just briefly, before plunging through the jagged diagonal crack to the left of a well-worn, rounded stone. Surely, this path would provide the quickest route to the nowhere, its principal destination. The only alternative, a rather dismal one, was for it to settle and remain stagnant in the waterlogged indentation of a passerby's boot in the slovenly mud to the right. Hope for the fossil's survival vanished as the final millimeters of its depth were overcome by the rushing solution's volume and oder. Against its will, the print had thus been transformed into a perfectly unbroken planar reflection. If standing enough askance, one might have gazed into the reflection in order to observe the mercurial clouds looming overhead.
He did feel as though there was some thing innately disconcerting about watching the sky by looking at the ground. This ritualistic obscurity had become so habitual to him by that point, however, that only the smell of diluted ammonia beneath his feet provided the olfactory pinch reminding him that he was aware. He was convinced that it was natural - even necessary - to never allow one's eyes to meet another's - let alone the majestic Sky itself! His senses alone had bestowed sense and sensibility unto him over the years, but sight - this lone sense was, to him, a mere disruption. He made enthusiastic attempts to reserve his eyesight for exceptional and momentous occasions, as one might reserve a special tie, suit and smile for appearances at public masses on Sundays. On this day, he allowed his eyes to imbibe the deep, blackened furrows in the scrutinizing clouds above and below him through the reflection in the Earth. Its presence was poignant against the slate gray and judgmental heavens.
An unearthly sharpening of self-awareness forced him to avert his gaze from the simple puddle which, for all its simplicity, was now frothing with wet earth and a saturated, disagreeable stench. He continued his navigation into the amorphous ocean of cobblestones ahead with deliberation and difficulty. His destination was the sea, and he knew that he was very near, for the air had become saturated with sea salt and the odor of chum. It engulfed his very being and left him feeling like a parched and shriveled piece of fruit. Once ripe and vibrant, his senses had clearly failed him; swimming through the viscous fog had made utilizing even his eyesight quite impossible. He felt evermore like a preservative - canned efficiently and stored on the dusty shelves of an irrelevant lifetime.
Meanwhile, the leaden clouds had pressed themselves even more firmly into the earth. Through the dim light he recognized scores of naked trees beckoning him into their bushy undergrowths with gnarled, coercing branches. His feet were soggy and frozen by the unforgiving breath of impending Winter, and he found himself propelled by the force of a weak and long-forgotten generator deep within himself. The rusted gears of the generator ground against one another painfully, producing hot sparks of hopelessness. The smell of ammonia receded, and he could not be sure whether the nebulous density of the fog was environmental, or if it were yet another reflection - a representation - of his own internal state. He yearned for peace, for he had not felt (nor allowed himself to feel) the liberating sensation albeit once, several weeks before, when he intently watched the most resilient leaf fall from his favorite Elm tree, leaving behind a remarkably skeletal memorial of Autumn.
His jet-black eyes - "Gypsy eyes," as the uncouth and uneducated villagers had so often referred to them - had followed that leaf from its perch on the highest branch of the Elm to its final, soft repose on the dry and brittle dirt below. He had pocketed the leaf, of course. It reminded him, on those occasions when he would produce it in absolute confidence and solitude, that this leaf (and all that its death represented) was his private correspondent. He would emulate its final ballet in due time.
The fog waxed, then waned. Everything around him breathed in and, after a moment's pause, exhaled. He had reached the sea. Wicked whorls of icy water battered vehemently against the jagged rocks below the weathered wooden planks of the dock on which he now stood. The planks groaned like ancient trees in the midst of violent winds, and sea-foam oozed through the rotting and misshapen slats like pus from an infected limb. Yellowed foam whipped about the air, smearing itself across his finely-tailored overcoat and face. He pretended not to notice; he'd neglected to shave that day, anyway.
Though gazing into the Great Reflection was like a stab wound to the belly, he allowed himself ample time to drink in the awesome sight. The larger puddle by which infinity was, and had always been, reflected. A fresh sight of the charcoal clouds reminded him of the capricious magistrate observing sternly from the Heavens above. He fidgeted and shone with a thin layer of perspiration. Idly fondling four hefty slabs of concrete he had pilfered from an emaciated cemetery earlier that day and which he had concealed in the deepest recesses of his overcoat, he trained his undisciplined eyes over gray speckled gulls hovering well above the retribution angry waters enacted against the abused and jagged rocks. The gulls were searching for the last remaining morsels of sustenance before Winter truly struck. "Ever searching," he whispered.
He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and took a small step forward, swiftly disappearing beneath the reflective surface. By now, the pungent smell of ammonia had reached the dock - but only speckled gulls were left to take note of its presence. As if governed by one mind, they ceased circling the sky and came to a unanimous halt on the dock's edge. They watched, un unison and with rigid curiosity, peculiar bubbles gently breaking the Reflection's stormy surface. A small leaf ascended slowly and deliberately from the muddied depths, pausing for a moment on the whitened crest of an ocean wave. The ocean inhaled for the final time, and the brutal undertow ravenously consumed that final, nostalgic frailty of Autumn.
Winter had come. Frenzied with hunger and frightened by the churning water, the gulls dispersed hurriedly.
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A rivulet of lukewarm street-water and ammonia forged amongst the cobblestones like a slow and deliberate serpent. An adjacent stream paused before the various diversions in the cobblestones ahead. With a glimpse of indecision the quivering rivulet deliberated, just briefly, before plunging through the jagged diagonal crack to the left of a well-worn, rounded stone. Surely, this path would provide the quickest route to the nowhere, its principal destination. The only alternative, a rather dismal one, was for it to settle and remain stagnant in the waterlogged indentation of a passerby's boot in the slovenly mud to the right. Hope for the fossil's survival vanished as the final millimeters of its depth were overcome by the rushing solution's volume and oder. Against its will, the print had thus been transformed into a perfectly unbroken planar reflection. If standing enough askance, one might have gazed into the reflection in order to observe the mercurial clouds looming overhead.
He did feel as though there was some thing innately disconcerting about watching the sky by looking at the ground. This ritualistic obscurity had become so habitual to him by that point, however, that only the smell of diluted ammonia beneath his feet provided the olfactory pinch reminding him that he was aware. He was convinced that it was natural - even necessary - to never allow one's eyes to meet another's - let alone the majestic Sky itself! His senses alone had bestowed sense and sensibility unto him over the years, but sight - this lone sense was, to him, a mere disruption. He made enthusiastic attempts to reserve his eyesight for exceptional and momentous occasions, as one might reserve a special tie, suit and smile for appearances at public masses on Sundays. On this day, he allowed his eyes to imbibe the deep, blackened furrows in the scrutinizing clouds above and below him through the reflection in the Earth. Its presence was poignant against the slate gray and judgmental heavens.
An unearthly sharpening of self-awareness forced him to avert his gaze from the simple puddle which, for all its simplicity, was now frothing with wet earth and a saturated, disagreeable stench. He continued his navigation into the amorphous ocean of cobblestones ahead with deliberation and difficulty. His destination was the sea, and he knew that he was very near, for the air had become saturated with sea salt and the odor of chum. It engulfed his very being and left him feeling like a parched and shriveled piece of fruit. Once ripe and vibrant, his senses had clearly failed him; swimming through the viscous fog had made utilizing even his eyesight quite impossible. He felt evermore like a preservative - canned efficiently and stored on the dusty shelves of an irrelevant lifetime.
Meanwhile, the leaden clouds had pressed themselves even more firmly into the earth. Through the dim light he recognized scores of naked trees beckoning him into their bushy undergrowths with gnarled, coercing branches. His feet were soggy and frozen by the unforgiving breath of impending Winter, and he found himself propelled by the force of a weak and long-forgotten generator deep within himself. The rusted gears of the generator ground against one another painfully, producing hot sparks of hopelessness. The smell of ammonia receded, and he could not be sure whether the nebulous density of the fog was environmental, or if it were yet another reflection - a representation - of his own internal state. He yearned for peace, for he had not felt (nor allowed himself to feel) the liberating sensation albeit once, several weeks before, when he intently watched the most resilient leaf fall from his favorite Elm tree, leaving behind a remarkably skeletal memorial of Autumn.
His jet-black eyes - "Gypsy eyes," as the uncouth and uneducated villagers had so often referred to them - had followed that leaf from its perch on the highest branch of the Elm to its final, soft repose on the dry and brittle dirt below. He had pocketed the leaf, of course. It reminded him, on those occasions when he would produce it in absolute confidence and solitude, that this leaf (and all that its death represented) was his private correspondent. He would emulate its final ballet in due time.
The fog waxed, then waned. Everything around him breathed in and, after a moment's pause, exhaled. He had reached the sea. Wicked whorls of icy water battered vehemently against the jagged rocks below the weathered wooden planks of the dock on which he now stood. The planks groaned like ancient trees in the midst of violent winds, and sea-foam oozed through the rotting and misshapen slats like pus from an infected limb. Yellowed foam whipped about the air, smearing itself across his finely-tailored overcoat and face. He pretended not to notice; he'd neglected to shave that day, anyway.
Though gazing into the Great Reflection was like a stab wound to the belly, he allowed himself ample time to drink in the awesome sight. The larger puddle by which infinity was, and had always been, reflected. A fresh sight of the charcoal clouds reminded him of the capricious magistrate observing sternly from the Heavens above. He fidgeted and shone with a thin layer of perspiration. Idly fondling four hefty slabs of concrete he had pilfered from an emaciated cemetery earlier that day and which he had concealed in the deepest recesses of his overcoat, he trained his undisciplined eyes over gray speckled gulls hovering well above the retribution angry waters enacted against the abused and jagged rocks. The gulls were searching for the last remaining morsels of sustenance before Winter truly struck. "Ever searching," he whispered.
He shifted his weight from his left leg to his right and took a small step forward, swiftly disappearing beneath the reflective surface. By now, the pungent smell of ammonia had reached the dock - but only speckled gulls were left to take note of its presence. As if governed by one mind, they ceased circling the sky and came to a unanimous halt on the dock's edge. They watched, un unison and with rigid curiosity, peculiar bubbles gently breaking the Reflection's stormy surface. A small leaf ascended slowly and deliberately from the muddied depths, pausing for a moment on the whitened crest of an ocean wave. The ocean inhaled for the final time, and the brutal undertow ravenously consumed that final, nostalgic frailty of Autumn.
Winter had come. Frenzied with hunger and frightened by the churning water, the gulls dispersed hurriedly.
