Playing

Right now, there is not too much time to play. But now that I have a decent phone and software can be synchronized by a techno-eejit, the techno-eejit can also draw with her left index finger.

This is a huge creative leap forward in the genre formerly known as finger painting.

Untitled from the artist’s second childhood phase

That’s all there is time for now. Typing was also achieved with the same finger as the drawing, a true testimony to the wonders of tech.

2020 Allison Wright

The Earth Awakes

I came across the theory of Gaia, that the Earth is a self regulating entity when I was a youngster and it has always fascinated me. Recent world events reminded me of the theory and prompted this post, 

Gaia stretched and yawned. The sun kissed her bosom and she drew in the heat, waking slowly. The ants were troubling her again, scurrying here and there, tunnelling into her skin, nipping her as she slumbered, stirring  some deep long forgotten anger in her. It had been a long restful sleep this time around; now it was time to wake and scratch and shake. She heaved herself over onto her knees, scattering ants everywhere. She stretched her broad back and stood right up, brushing away the tiny creatures, stamping them off, so they were crushed in their millions. Shaking out her long hair, she stood for a while and let the water wash them all away. Then she lay down to sleep again. Only a very few  ants survived. They touched heads and crawled groggily into her hair and began to build a nest anew.

Blank, but moving

I am writing an article. Not for me, but ghostlike, behind the scenes.

The Intro. That is where I start.

Some, I have heard — the other ghosts — bash out the middle bits quick-sticks, then tag an intro and a conclusion on the ends, like slices of bread around bacon, lettuce and tomato.

BLT ghosts. They are silent like me, for the most part.

I caught myself staring, half blankly, not at the screen, but at the glowy space between my head and the white wall, some one metre distant.

The small voice – the one in charge of the time and its alarm, neatly dividing what remains of my deadline into quarter-hours, as if oranges, starts thrumming, sotto voce, then booms, crescendo.

You must go on. Continue, stop dreaming.

I am not, replies the Thought. Wait.

And then they come, the keys on the keyboard stutter out aloud, like the rhythm of a fado from my long-ago heart: the perfect words. They’re here.

They stand astonished on the page, and look at their new neighbours, then settle into the space allotted. They agree: We like it here, they say. We’re staying.

©2019 Allison Wright
[192 words]

P.S. In this fado, Barco Negro, sung by the famous Amália Rodrigues, there is a rhythmical, short sequence of notes that helped lend form to the half-sentence that started out life as a blank stare.

Little known Beckettian facts

The sum of all my yesterdays is all I have. No, that is not true, for they do not form a solidified whole. The patchwork of yesterdays flaps about in the wind.

There is always a new song. Old sounds, altered lyrics. Same rhythm, syncopated rhythm, none. The silence stretches. It is fluid like the yesterdays that come in waves.

I wait, watching for yesterday’s new narrative. Where is it? It is here. Or soon is. It will come to shore. A distant drum. The beat says yes, the voice will tell a story.

When? There is something in the wind.

©2019 Allison Wright
[104 words. I am out of practice. That was longer than 5+5 minutes.]

Are we somewhere pressing our own buttons?

What if life was just a hologram, and we all created our own reality?  A sort of  Minecraft where you could recreate the real world, exploring it it all the while for entertainment and educational satisfaction, or even to score points. A game where we choose our friends and partners like chess pieces; a rook to teach us complex moves; a pawn to do our bidding? Maybe we are somewhere else, pressing our own buttons.

My littlest niece once asked me to play Minecraft with her. We built dens and fires from pixels all morning, sitting on the sofa. When I told her I used to do that at her age in real life, in the woods, she didn’t believe me.

She asked, “Real woods?”

How do you know the difference between the real woods and the Minecraft woods?” I asked her.

She said, “I don’t know.”

Sometimes, nor do I.

The End of the Line

In a dark corner of my office there is a small box. It’s bright and colorful, but otherwise utterly unremarkable. It emanates a strange odor, reminiscent of the musky, moldy basements where it had been kept over the past twenty years, before my Mom had thought of giving it to me.

In it, there is a pile of yellowing, crumbling paper that smells even older. Pages and pages of text that my 12-year-old self wrote on an old typewriter. Short stories, lyrics, school projects; deep thoughts only a teenager could think. I spent days, weeks, months, pressing down the mechanical keys of that typewriter, seeing letters magically appearing behind the ribbon, words manifesting on page after page, the loud clacking of the keys and the ethereal ping reminding me that I had reached the end of the line.

Ping.

[139 words]

(c) Anett Enzmann 2019

Anachronism

The living room window overlooks The City. A church looms over narrow cobblestone alleys lined with quaint frame houses. Ivy and roses wind around colorful doorways reminiscent of Tolkien’s Shire. No trees. They didn’t have room for them in the Middle Ages. This part of the town is slowly sinking; you can see the cracks in the walls.

Then: a parking lot. A nightclub. Stores. People on bikes. The occasional horse-drawn carriage chauffeuring flocks of tourists to the sets of the soap opera that is being filmed here. The adjacent street has trees. Workers dutifully cut them into shape every spring. The sound of sports car engines revving. Honking. Busses. Sirens. Someone is smoking under the window.

The church bells are tolling, and a loud ping proclaims that I’ve got mail.

[132 words]

(c) Anett Enzmann 2019