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Literature Text
They say that the big bang was not an actual "bang". It was really just static. Static, like the interference of radio waves. Of course, the universe did not happen instantaneously. The big bang took 760,000 years to happen. 760,000 years of static, and bang, the universe happened.
I get myself together and actually go out. I go to see the New York Philharmonic perform the works of John Cage at Lincoln Center. I walk out during the second movement of 4'33". There's a very small difference between life and death. I walk home, my chin pulled down against my neck. I hum a constant note, providing myself with my own tinnitus.
I focus on this note. I cross Broadway where the walkers cluster on the curbside, awaiting the turn of the traffic light. People talking and the bioacoustic noises of their bodies moving. I walk against the signal. The tires of taxis scrape against the road. I go west on 65th Street, past Brooks Brothers and the slimy sliding of the revolving door, past vans parallel parked, past figurine trees planted in desolate squares of grey dirt, collecting wind. Bikes cling to the bike rack and the garbage bag whips in its pail. I walk past Le Pain Quotidien, the organic bakery that only has one table, one long table where everyone is supposed to eat together. A woman's high heeled shoes tap against the sidewalk. I walk past apartments with barred windows. I walk until I see a wall of green. This is Central Park West. I walk along the 65th Street Transverse Road. Two walls of green botanic wildlife rise up towards the sky, forming a pleasant container for the road and the sidewalk, a pleasant protection. Enclosed in shrubbery I would imagine the noises get quieter. Incorrect. They augment. They build even louder. They arise from the start and stop of the pacific traffic. The pressured whistle of brakes being applied. The staccato rhythm of footsteps. Behind me. Before me. A jogger's workout music through her headphones. A dog's whining. A car's window being closed. A bird's wings flapping in a tree, making noise. Music. Disorganized, timeless, sublunary music. I get to my apartment on the East Side. The polished floor of the lobby echoes every noise against the ceiling. The elevator beeps. I walk in. It whirs. Here I notice I am still humming.
Finally I am in my room and my room is carved out of silence. I sleep in an anechoic chamber, a room designed to absorb all sounds detectable by the human ear. Here, I can hear two sounds, one high and one low. The high one is my nervous system in operation. The low one is my blood in circulation. I can also hear a rhythmic scraping noise, one that sounds like the second hand of a clock, ticking, ticking, counting down to an inevitable end. The engineer tells me it is my heart chambers opening and closing. I can't help but believe it is something more sinister.
I lay awake most of the night. Finally, I hear my body silence as my mind drifts into sleep. I am on the brink of consciousness. Then, I hear a sudden sound. It is static. From the static forms a void. I fall asleep.
I get myself together and actually go out. I go to see the New York Philharmonic perform the works of John Cage at Lincoln Center. I walk out during the second movement of 4'33". There's a very small difference between life and death. I walk home, my chin pulled down against my neck. I hum a constant note, providing myself with my own tinnitus.
I focus on this note. I cross Broadway where the walkers cluster on the curbside, awaiting the turn of the traffic light. People talking and the bioacoustic noises of their bodies moving. I walk against the signal. The tires of taxis scrape against the road. I go west on 65th Street, past Brooks Brothers and the slimy sliding of the revolving door, past vans parallel parked, past figurine trees planted in desolate squares of grey dirt, collecting wind. Bikes cling to the bike rack and the garbage bag whips in its pail. I walk past Le Pain Quotidien, the organic bakery that only has one table, one long table where everyone is supposed to eat together. A woman's high heeled shoes tap against the sidewalk. I walk past apartments with barred windows. I walk until I see a wall of green. This is Central Park West. I walk along the 65th Street Transverse Road. Two walls of green botanic wildlife rise up towards the sky, forming a pleasant container for the road and the sidewalk, a pleasant protection. Enclosed in shrubbery I would imagine the noises get quieter. Incorrect. They augment. They build even louder. They arise from the start and stop of the pacific traffic. The pressured whistle of brakes being applied. The staccato rhythm of footsteps. Behind me. Before me. A jogger's workout music through her headphones. A dog's whining. A car's window being closed. A bird's wings flapping in a tree, making noise. Music. Disorganized, timeless, sublunary music. I get to my apartment on the East Side. The polished floor of the lobby echoes every noise against the ceiling. The elevator beeps. I walk in. It whirs. Here I notice I am still humming.
Finally I am in my room and my room is carved out of silence. I sleep in an anechoic chamber, a room designed to absorb all sounds detectable by the human ear. Here, I can hear two sounds, one high and one low. The high one is my nervous system in operation. The low one is my blood in circulation. I can also hear a rhythmic scraping noise, one that sounds like the second hand of a clock, ticking, ticking, counting down to an inevitable end. The engineer tells me it is my heart chambers opening and closing. I can't help but believe it is something more sinister.
I lay awake most of the night. Finally, I hear my body silence as my mind drifts into sleep. I am on the brink of consciousness. Then, I hear a sudden sound. It is static. From the static forms a void. I fall asleep.
Literature
Harvest Moon
Three a.m. moonlight
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.
Literature
Star Swallower
She's
an enigma.
her head, a stadium drowning with applause.
yet its seats are empty like the notebooks
where armies of words should be marching.
instead she dismantles clocks
thinking she can play with time.
behind the mountains lurks a darker reasoning
a twisted labyrinth of rationalizations
hidden from the suns brilliance.
Years alone beneath the bleached fluorescent
reading those already dancing in the moonlight.
she is living a literary half-life through them
hiding from the symmetry of the writer.
licking salty rocks of excuses.
saving her secrets for posthumous excavation.
decades of productivity left for moths to chew.
you're throw
Literature
A Parenthesis
You were (a parenthesis, that paused
the daily, mundane stuff
of life;
a bundled breath
of fresh joy,
and borne in the wonder
of love.
Gasping and grasping,
'til in quiet you laid
still;
and I, my Child,
lie in quiet, still
tears).
And now, that is all you are,
and still so much more.
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Edit: My fourth DD! It is a bit embarrassing to have so much attention focused on this little piece I wrote almost two years ago... and I never even fixed the ending!!
Ah, but still, I'm honored! Thanks so much to =futilitarian for suggesting and ^Beccalicious for featuring! You two are lovely - and thanks to everyone who faves and comments; you are lovely too!
[link]
Taking suggestions on how to change the ending.
Ah, but still, I'm honored! Thanks so much to =futilitarian for suggesting and ^Beccalicious for featuring! You two are lovely - and thanks to everyone who faves and comments; you are lovely too!
[link]
Taking suggestions on how to change the ending.
© 2011 - 2024 archelyxs
Comments116
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Oh my god, I found it! I've been submitting stories recently and this is one of the examples shown in the category selection. I started reading it, and it sounded really cool! However, the selection screen wouldn't let me read all of it. I finally found it though, and the ending was great! I love this.