Story Time

[A Nerd]

Just brief 'stories' perhaps even an attempt at a poem in the future for this thread. No proofreading though. Grammar might be lacking.

The ships sailed heading for the northwest passage, the family plot all bore the same year of death, I am sure there are more examples but the width and gait of the mouth of time has surely swallowed them up. Very odd that a man’s capacities should be overtaken by something that which science and general know how, cannot explain. Science may be and certainly was an archaic form of spell craft, but something that floats in the air and burrows beneath the earth seems to have a better grasp of the generalities that rule our pleasant, yet sometimes temperamental earth. These shadows of the woods, these unexplainable noises in the night as the mind attempts to pacify itself, only to be interrupted by an unknown fear. History will tell us that the deep wood and the savages who dwelled within them were conquered as were the territories to the west of the new arrivals. But do they still linger? Can science disprove an opinion based on a memory seen with eyes or heard with ears much like that on a head of science? The wooded areas may have been cleared for civilization, the savages have been tamed and put out to pasture, but what did they leave behind? There is something unknown and unknowable to those who disbelieve in what they do not understand. To look back and truly see is a difficult thing. But unexplainable things shall always be present as long as there are curious minds to note that at least there might be something lurking in the fog of time. What is on the cool winds of the hibernation months that will cause goose bumps on skin that feels no cold? What casts steady gazes at your back when you are alone and unable to turn around to see it? Tricks of the mind? Can a well-educated and well-grounded mind be unsettled by that which it learned a long time ago was just an illusion or a subconscious fear that best be let alone? We can blame it on superstition. We can blame it on youth and inexperience. Or, we can perhaps follow the source of the breeze, turn ourselves around and take a long, deep gaze at the shadows in the corner of our empty rooms. People enjoy a fictional, controllable fear. The unknowns however, settle in the marrow and cause a shiver that no amount of heat can subdue. It is like the icy gaze of malevolence gazing deep into your soul and you cannot look back to see its mood. Is it malevolent? Probably not, but fear can out dictate ration thinking. What is to become of this unsettled mass of unknown unknowables? As science advances beyond our world to places only deep minds can even fathom, what shall they find there? It does make one wonder, but not for too long for ration and the reasoning behind it shall always silence the speech of the silent.

[A Nerd]

I was just practicing with stuff on this one. I plan to continue this writing if you will whenever the mood should arise. I don't know where it's going at this point. Nowhere perhaps. Anyway, here it is:

Gazing out the window into complete darkness, you see, the moon obscured by passing clouds that would be called fair weather clouds were it not at such a late hour of the evening. The stars do emit their glow but with a crescent moon obscured, it would seem any such trip into it, it being the darkness, unlikely. My room is a glow with a single candle lit. The fireplace has gone cold. It merely smolders with the ash of a once warm fire that did indeed touch to core of my being keeping me quite comfortable in this room for which forever seems to dim, dim, and dim to the lighting reminiscent of the outside. With a hiss, the candle has gone out. For shame, I seem to have misplaced another. The matches are gone as well. How could I neglect my safe and secure surroundings as such and misplace such necessities of a dark and cold winters evening. Reaching for my coat, hat and other adornments that will protect me from the cold, I must indeed make my way out of doors to collect some wood. It should be where I left it I shall chuckle to myself in order for a shiver to warm my spine. Early January it is, quite cold, but to my good fortune not a flake of snow has fallen this evening or for that matter any before. New England weather can be so temperamental you see. I wander through the remaining rooms of my small cabin which are limited to the cooking area/seating room. The hearth in this room has long gone cold as well. Not a flicker of red glow can be seen beneath the rather large cauldron I make some stew in. It was a delightful stew, venison, some garden vegetables and a gravy so thick it still sits comfortably in my stomach despite having been put there some hours ago. The scent remains, for the cauldron is still half full, but it is as cold as the evening I must soon put myself out into the mercy of. The table, a large wooden beast of a furniture setting I must say, is empty. Four large chairs surround it where shadows that play tricks on my vision seem now to occupy. They move and gesture to one another. Rather odd, for I can hear no conversation, but there do indeed seem to be translucent beings gathered around the table having some inaudible, rather interesting it does seem, conversation. It is funny how things like this table setting can play tricks on the mind when you are alone and it is dark. I find the door, which wasn’t hard to do, the cabin being so small. Once opened, a shrill and piercing breeze brushes across my face instantly turning it to the reddish hue of a drunkard. My nose begins to run, my whole body winces as it gets used to the discrepancy in temperature between my, what was, seemingly, cold cabin to an even colder out of doors. Once I close the door behind me, I take a minute to actually enjoy the evening somewhat. The winds hiss through the pines, the moon is again exposed casting ghostly shadows upon the clearing surrounding my cabin, sounds unknown echo through the darkness of the dense wood that surrounds the clearing that surrounds my cabin. Ever circle. Ever circle do the noises. What causes them I know not. Forest creatures? Falling limbs and other natural debris hitting the forest floor? Whatever the case may be, I make my way toward the several chord of wood I prepared earlier in the year in preparation for the winter. I break the spines of fallen twig and blade of grass as I walk. They rustle and snap as I make the several steps toward the wood pile that is at the border of my cabin’s property. I build a shed for it last summer. It is just a simple building. One large room, no windows and one entry door at the front. The front being the wall that points at my living cabin. It is oblong in shape, rather rectangular, with a high slanted roof. It took little time to put up for there is an abundance of wood here and the other building supplies I had brought with me when I chose this spot to merely exist. It is funny how quickly one can forget the particulars of society when you live alone and isolated for an extended period of time. I haven’t even lived here for over a year and the noise and bustle of the city is all but forgotten. Replaced by what is ever growing as a beautiful January evening.

[A Nerd]

What can be seen with the eyes is interpreted by the mind. I told myself that on so many a lonely evening as I strolled down the narrow, empty streets seeking what I could not see but knew existed in the darkness. The city was asleep. The sky was high and bright, adorned with the stars and their consuming constellations putting needle holes in the black void that is this warm evening. The moon was a crescent. Quite bright it would seem, you know, at times the moon seems to glow with greater luminescence at its lower phases than when it is full. That is the way it seemed to me tonight. A dull glow seemed to illuminate the buildings and streets, compounded by the shadows that existed or my eyes put together as they danced across the variety of structures in some strange dance that beckoned me closer as if I could join them. They would fade and dance away as I approached, but to follow them seemed pointless for I could never get close enough. I would walk in circles chasing the dark women who seemed to want for my attention but would never reciprocate my attention. The wind blew softly, a siren song that carried my weight, moved my feet and kept my heart pumping with anticipation for that clarity that seemed to exist in the heavens but was lost in my mind somewhere which seemed as intangible as the dark women who danced in circles around and around my now motionless body. I do believe my name was called, as the wind sung somewhat in a stronger more base pitch. I hear it slightly as a hiss as I turn my head about and about and the dark women dance and the sky mocks me with a clarity and beauty I will never find. How I longed for some foliage, so I induced movement and my feet promptly carried me to the park at the center of town. It too was dark, obviously, and the dancing was frenetic as the tree tops swayed in the dance that the wind provided. My name again, into the dark dance I entered. The ground was soft, my footprints were audible as I made my way in. The dancing of the dark women now moved too quickly to take in their individuality, a mass of feminine form of shadow swirling faster and faster as the wind picked up and the trees moaned in the burden of their sway. I found a bench, sat down and took it all in. I could still see in all in my mind as my eyes closed tightly as I could now feel the dark women caressing my face. Oh how it was so alluring. That song of wind passing through the canopy, the deep moan of the trees and the dancing women I could now see moving about on the darkened inside of my closed eye lids. They were very close and I could now see them more clearly than when my eyes were open. Dark hooded dress, pale complexion. Raven haired beauties they were indeed as I saw them dance. Their hair as I could see it from beneath their hoods. It seemed to be attempting to pull away from them like the arms of the unfortunate as the grasped for the moon light, the stars, anything but those pale, dark eyes beauties. I found I couldn’t stand, I didn’t even know if I was sitting anymore. My eyes would not open and my limbs no longer moved. As I heard my name called one final time, echoing through the chasm of my ever tiring mind I let myself go. I succumbed to the song, the dance the clarity I now felt, and slept. Come dawn, there was no sunlight, no signs of a new day. Just the dance upon the inside of my forever closed eyelids and a want for those beautiful dark women.

[A Nerd]

In the past things just seem so perfect. Hindsight as some might say is always clearest to the observer who can see the problems and fix them without necessarily doing so. What I mean is the past will always be perfect to he who wants it to be. Gazing across the decades at times gone by. Whether it be via photograph or even moving photograph. It is all the same. In my vision of the past I see a desire that cannot die. I see a desire that can never die. Fixed in that still or series thereof, if only the ability to communicate. Quite the impossibility, but if it were allowed, were it possible, perhaps things might have turned out differently. Not to change history, that is not the intent. Merely to reach out to an individual or group of individuals and conjure up some series of sentences to make them aware of your existence and your desire to note theirs. And so we begin. Nature has allowed me to converse with the dead. Well, the dead and the living. You see in the current still I am observing some of them are dead and some are living. But the concept remains the same. All philosophical spiel aside, conversations were being had. Lives of the past and present were being affected. It was a dream actually. A magical, amorphous, great golden idea that was allowing me, the hero of this tale, to interact with the past. Now the medium shall be undisclosed. So shall the subject matter. But let it be known that I was interacting with the dead and living in a still or series thereof. It was quite the brilliant experience. The fairer of the sexes seeming even more so due to the antiquity of the still. The males were loud and boisterous which seem so ancient and archaic to the modern observer, even though only a few decades had passed. All facets of my new found ability and the complete collection of human emotion would be observed in both myself and my newly found company. To the minute detail I will try to purvey this information on the captive reader very shortly, but for now, let it be known, a time bridge had been established. What I am to do with this time bridge and how it affects those involved will be covered to some extent in the near at hand future. A future for me but for my contacts anchored in the past it is all but immortality unless I should seek them out in the present. Again, dead or living. You may ask how could any being of this world be immortal? How could time not persist in an ever aging universe? Well, the answer is thus: The still or series thereof are fixed in the span of 3-4 years. I, your hero, will only be traversing the time bridge (a rather catchy name I must admit), to speak with the past during the years of this before mentioned span. Why this span you may ask? No particular reason. As disinteresting as that sounds I just happened on the time period in question, build the bridge, and began a long and exhaustive interaction with the inhabitants. The entries to follow will not be a diatribe of convolution, but rather, an erratic view of life in the past as seen through the mind of someone who can be here and there at the same time. I, your hero. At the expense of formulating any more clichés, which isn’t by accident I might add, I will conclude this edition and start to prepare for the next one. I assure you, I have a moderately firm grasp of my faculties, I am not yet crazy. This is merely an experiment with notions, ideas and is more or less fiction.

[A Nerd]

I am gazing at the stills, yes I think it best to clarify. There is not one still in this example of time bridge, but rather a series of stills that move in a very meticulous order such that what I am witnessing moves about here and there. They dance on the screen (you need a screen to view it?!) (yes), the members of my conversational party. Dancing might seem too silly actually. They just walk about, postulate, speak all the normal actions of a human design that I and all else have become accustomed to. Now, Time Bridge is possible with one still. It has been accomplished on several occasions that slow fade from memory for it has been awhile since anything relevant to the still in question or not in question (remember, there have been quite a few. Perhaps I even failed to mention that). Stills can be quite old, but the technique remains the same. More or less. There is just less to see and hear. For it is but just a split second in time. Not an ever moving period of various lengths. But I digress. I wish to concentrate on the 3-4 year time span of my current endeavor. Or rather, my fraternization with those who occupied a time before me. No, I had yet to be born in the span in question. I did see the decade, albeit later along the 10 years, well, I remember one year of the decade in life. The stills in question are earlier than I but I have never lamented where I was to visit for the interactions are such pleasure that I literally gave up intoxicants such that I could see them and partake in the occupants of the stills spirits rather than the rot gut I was pouring down my throat. Interesting path this tale has just taken. I just now recalled the alcohol ingestion during my earlier forays into the past via a time bridge. Ah, that burning, foul tasting and unpleasantly pungent liquor. How I loathe it! Slowly lulling the senses to dull wit, foul humor and eventually unconsciousness. Time Bridge is best enjoyed sober. Quite the simple statement I assume, but truth none the less. (Am I drunk now?) (Most certainly not! Just some tea and a slight twinge of enthusiasm. Nothing more). It’s funny really, as I think back to my many interactions, including the 3-4 year span I frequently mention, I do so traversing my own past. Yes, I speak of alcohol again. Everything that could have been said, heard, understood and remembered are lost. It was either not retained due to the sea of whiskey that flooded my brain or perhaps I was precautious and involuntarily pushed to the back of my subconscious where it was eventually lost. Foolish of me really. But it seemed to embellish what I was doing at the time. The interaction seemed heightened. I wasn’t necessarily paying attention to the subject matter, but I was connecting with the players within the stills (Moving stills yes, for that is the subject of this story). What was being exchanged you might wonder. To be quite frank, I do as well. I must admit this current memory trace speaks of intoxication and as I said it always lead to unconsciousness. I don’t remember a thing. Well, I remember snippets here and there, but nothing particularly substantive. (The 3-4 years man! That is the topic!) Well damn it all, it did want to describe the period a little more but I was sidetracked and found that the information I could provide on prolific intoxication via rot gut whiskey might enlighten the reader and at the least provide some humor. What I can say as time grows short (one page per episode) (…rules are our friends…), is that this is not necessarily magic, just the results of a vivid imagination. (Yeah…yeah). Ah, she agrees, with herself of course. Which is always the best way to conduct yourself when talking to yourself. The 3-4 years are hard to define at this point for I wish to keep the period vague to protect and similarities to those living or dead. Also, I haven’t decided how I wish to do that. This is the story of the so-called time bridge after all. Progress in defining has been made, yes, but it still needs more detail. I think my years of time bridging (verb) has left me somewhat unsettled you might say. Well, not to an extreme degree, I just need to brush up on my social skills nothing more. I want to stretch this thought as far as I can take it. (Rot gut whiskey)(Of course not)Time Bridge and the one place I want to focus on is the ultimate goal. I just fear it might take some time to arrive. To conclude this (is it convoluted?)(Oh yes.) I will merely state that I too once received a shaving kit (thanks rot gut) but that was some time ago.

[A Nerd]

Time Bridge was a dream of sorts long before the stills in question that I mention all too frequently. Why should it be mentioned ad nauseum? Well the reason is that in an effort to keep this manic ordering of time and space comprehendible, I must mention it again and again to maintain its structure (the form of which varies none from place to place), and retain its integrity (by which I mean it’s purpose and periodic usage). Is that even true? Well, to mention it over and over is a nice way to adhere to plot for someone who has a hard time doing so. But let’s move on. Its first conception was antique stills, predating 1900. There was such a fascination with the faces, the flesh and the life twinkling in the eyes of the subjects that I needed a deeper connection to them. So many years prior to my current life span (yes indeed, if I may be blunt, the first subject was circa 1850), seeking out what was seeming lacking in the present; in person, in appearance and within the realms of plethoric emotion. I dabbled in Time Bridge to rectify what I concluded was a problem with my own thought process, my own indifference (lack of emotion?), and my own empty efforts that gained only dismay and deep rooted cynicism. I became quite addicted to these old photos. Brick by brick I would pose questions, attempt to reach the life I could see in the long dead eyes in these people and have (seemingly) long conversations with the dead once alive. To attempt a physical touch (were it possible, heh heh, me thinks it is, heh heh) would be inappropriate so it wasn’t attempted but the temptation was and is (I do still view photos of said period from time to time) hugely relevant. Were (speaking strictly on photos) my visits selfish? Did I have ulterior motives to some company and perhaps some compassion? I would think not. For I never could discern how much, if anything, concerning my words and choice of topic ever got through. It is far easier to see the return of emotion when the picture is moving, films and such in other words. A genre completely different to old photos and daguerreotypes. What was seen then? What kept you looking (still looking) at your medium, your desired destination for Time Bridge? It’s the life in those eyes! That glimmer of light reflecting through the eye and extenuated by the fleshy orbit of a beautiful face and expression. Captured accidentally, yet effortlessly by the photographer so many years ago. (This piece is sounding too philosophical)(Is it?). Reaching back over and over you come to notice certain generic differences; clothing, hair style, furniture, etc. But the overall character, the actor in the play, is starkly different. Did I catch a movement of that glitter? Did the head moving in agreement or perhaps to disagree? Could I evoke such a movement of static frame that my words, my thoughts are reaching the subject? This is madness! It couldn’t possibly be so! Aye, but to my casual eye, methinks I did indeed see something. Something missing from my present that feeds the conversation, feeds the plethoric emotion, feeds that inner being (That social being by nature that we all are) in the isolation and silence of the photo (and myself). What develops I don’t feel free to comment on, at this point in time anyway, it would seem too early (rushed perhaps). It is times like these that you seek out a certain finality. A certain end all to make the evocations more physical, a soft, fleshy tangibility. As nice as this might sound (to some) it would seem at this juncture, an impossibility. I have yet to see any signs of an H.G. Wells novel in my experiences. But to quote another (not H.G. Wells) ‘he’s always looking’. I say again, this is madness, it must be! The appeal for the antique (antique women namely)(shhhh…the men are just as interesting from an intellectual standpoint) mutes the fear of modern day repercussion. Modern day repercussion being defined as an unstable and social inept madman. Possible diagnosed as such once or many times by an ever interested army of illuminati like phycologists. But the fear of this (it’s happened already), the social rejection that follows is over time, more loosely entertained such that all I need do is peer into the past via Time Bridge and those fears are forgotten. For the time being anyway.