Surf-Noir

Lights wavered on his skin from the projection of a movie, as he sat with his friend in the room that handled all those functions, so people could watch the dysfunction. He had decided to recline in a life, which would decline at the pace of communication between a face and another, drawing the shutter inwards to be fastened into a private space for a sad party.

Popcorn decorated the threads that were a messy entanglement between air and humidity. The AC was non-functional, staplers bound documents that were yet to be filed lay scattered across the dusty, carpeted floor. He dreamed that they would be filed by high noon, he dreamed that dream a thousand times. But in the vein of conclusion, he decided to bow his head to the carefree rider clinging to his black motorcycle, in his flowing Hawaiian shirt, and his Jockey boxer shorts, advancing into the night with endless summers.

His friend exited the room, tripping on a wooden table, the one Jim had sold, and he had brought, to keep making him guffaw. Jim traveled thru phases, and searched for meaning, it was his futuristic job, his undone profession that came unstuck in generations.

After his friend had vanished, Jim slipped into the drawer, retrieved unsound pen and paper, and accessed that opening in his brain from which thoughts seem to be flooding, surfing in an intracranial beach, clinging to his fingers, wanting to fall down and shatter across and tightly into the world. Sentences were triggered in succession, and confessions were fluttering, stranded, on a disco scene.

“I don’t think I have been wearing away recently, its all a choice. And I choose to be right here. No extraterrestrial ending seems to be gunning after me, and my eyes adjust to the laser-like rays of sunlight just fine. They really do” he started nodding his head, and continued “I can bend my knees, kneel down, upturn books, uproot flowers and throw them to another life, and be such an ashen, coarse skin and bone strolling thru dire direction. But maybe I’ll just crack another beer, be here or there, and then walk back into life, and it’ll school me about things, then I’ll be back.”

Published by

Watt

It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

52 thoughts on “Surf-Noir”

  1. I hope you are thinking of turning these pieces into a book.

    I loved how you describe the need to write. And the best part was: But maybe I’ll just crack another beer, be here or there, and then walk back into life, and it’ll school me about things, then I’ll be back.
    For me, definitely connected to how writing works.

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  2. this story took me inside; i traveled, i surfed and i accessed successively any sentence, breathing up all its imaginable colors;
    the favorite line Β«thoughts seem to be flooding, surfing in an intracranial beach, clinging to his fingers, wanting to fall down and shatter across and tightly into the worldΒ» thank you

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  3. Ahhh Jim. This guy is lucky to have you as his author, otherwise I think he’d sit and eat popcorn and drink beer all day long and slip into obscurity and drunkenness at the end of a sports bar.
    Lots of great lines, but I couldn’t seem to go past this one:

    ….retrieved unsound pen and paper, and accessed that opening in his brain from which thoughts seem to be flooding, surfing in an intracranial beach”

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    1. Lucky to have me as his author? Wow, you have a Master’s in making people smile with these comments, don’t you. Thank you so much. πŸ™‚πŸ™‚
      Moat of this piece came from this sense of relief I gained recently.

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    1. Constant inspiration makes writing highly derivative and pedestrian. Inspiration is like a shovel and you should dig thru yourself until you investigate the golden core- your own style, your own feeling, your own haven .

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  13. Sometimes on the first read of your work, I need to step back for awhile, then on the second read, I’m like all “flooding, surfing in an intracranial beach, clinging to [my] fingers, wanting to fall down and shatter across and tightly into the world.”

    seriously, loved it the second time around…

    and loved the conversation between you and IMAO, above…

    but I (humbly) disagree with her πŸ™πŸŒΈπŸ’— in this case… πŸ˜πŸ˜†for me, I was snagged the first time around on the “disco scene” phrase — but only because it felt somehow repetitive from previous pieces of yours…

    anyway, thanks for the relaxing and soothing time here, on the intracranial beach of your page.

    xo n

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  14. When I read your work I feel as if I’m already reading a full book by you.

    You such make a book and because you are the definition of a beat poet that we as a community all need to read and support. πŸ™‚ I love this one a lot more favorite of the week. πŸ™‚

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  17. It is fun to visit and see where you are flowing next to Watt. I always read them twice, sometimes 3 times with the music off so I can feel what you are sharing! I always leave here wondering what you will write next. πŸ™‚

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