Tuesday, September 10, 2002

this is unrevised, the more i read the more lame.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

'A picture is worth a thousand words' are the only words present on a white sheet paper folded twice and placed in an envelope which was delivered to her yesterday, also enclosed in the envelope was a photograph.
He, Ethan, has been having problems with some ordinary things lately, not problems like tying his shoes or other actions in this vein, but rather with accepting things without question. 'Why do we organize books like this' he thinks to himself, in his head. 'It seems so arbitrary, I mean this process of placing books on shelves is so archaic.' He is surprised at the order of the books and how well kept they are, with respects to the massive volumes the library owns. 'The books could have any organizing symbol or marking on the binding, signifying its spot on the shelf. Why this one?’ He has thoughts similar to these with some frequency; usually they do not linger, but rather leave almost as quickly as they appear. Often times these thoughts come to him while he lays in bed, unable to sleep, sweating. He thinks of her the most; she is the metaphorical log in his fire of thought.
She holds the photograph and examines with the curiosity much like that of a young child. Her face holds a poise of what could only be described as astonishment, that is to say there is no other way to delineate this expression. She pauses her thoughts briefly, in the intermission she thinks about the hangnail on her left thumb, it is irritated and she gnaws at it with her teeth. This action takes only but a few seconds, but it is enough to make her experience the photograph anew, when she comes to.
Ethan was made cognitive of her in a non-descript way and they slowly began to become acquainted. Interestingly, he for some reason was able to deluge her with information about himself. She was reluctant to share quite so easily, but was an eager listener. Ethan soon became secretly enamored with the aforementioned female and was to an extent consumed. Consumed by thoughts of her, ones he had never experienced before, they were just thoughts that can be best described with words as the thought/vision of her name in his head. He found this odd, however had neither tactic nor desire to combat it. She on the other hand was naive to Ethan’s newfound fascination of her. Everything she did was a sign to him, a notion, albeit tacit that implied she felt the same way. He thought about how her body language reminded him of the way yogurt always sticks to the foil lid. Of course he could never act on his speculation in case he was wrong, he wasn’t (how could he be?), but just in case he was he would play it cool for now. That was then, but how about before then.
She turns the photograph over as to expect notation of some kind on the reverse side, her speculation proves to be correct. In green ink, near illegible is a scattering of words; she is dubious of the meaning of the message. She now sets the envelope, paper and photograph down and runs water for a bath.
Passion, if I could find my passion, then I would be happy. Is what Ethan thought not that long ago. When he informed his buddy of this passion to find a passion, his friend just gave him the ‘yeah, whatever look’ and proceeded to give no heed to this notion, but Ethan insisted that this was what he needed, in addition to what many other people needed as well. Passion will set my path and allow me to be me. ‘ Find your passion? Is it in a word search? How does one find their passion?’ ‘I don’t know, yet’ Ethan declared, ‘but its out there waiting.’ ‘I don’t know E, it just sounds lame. Doesn’t it?’
‘I’m not weird I’m gifted’ he reads a key ring attached to a students backpack, it is one of many. ‘Why isn’t there a comma after weird?’ he perpends. This novelty item leads his mind into its vortex of tangents.
She immerses herself into the warm water. The fragrance of rose hips is present; it came from a plastic container, making it somewhat of a saccharine smell. While soaking in the bathtub with the invigorating steam of rose hips, the debacle of the mysterious letter was cleansed from her, if only for a moment.
‘Is a straw a vacuum?’ he thinks. This leads him to think about other things, including but not limited to the following: What does one call a newborn giraffe?, Why does alcohol disinfect?, etc. Then he thinks about her. And think he does. He has found his passion: her. Only, she is oblivious to this notion. When he does think about her, it as if he was standing next to a marching band during its most obnoxious cadence, that is to say that his heart and mind create something strongly percussive within him. His foreseeable next move was to want to spend a considerable more amount of time with her, she noticed.
Upon this encroachment of her beloved ‘space,’ she retreats from his new radical advancements. She ‘likes’ Ethan, but doesn’t understand his persistence, which ultimately makes him rude. His rudeness consists of calling and electronic mailing with a frequency that almost warrants the title stalker. She isn’t confrontational and instead tries to slip away from him slowly. To an extent she is a little frigid. Ethan does not welcome this change.
His calls become more constant, he doesn’t leave his house on the chance that she might call him. He is a fanatic. His path was to be set straight by none other than his passion: her. How dare she revoke his passion, he would never in a million years do this to anyone else. He would not have it. No! No! Was the primary word he yelled aloud. Why? Why? Is what he said to himself. As quick she entered, she exited. Ethan was, needless to say, not happy.
She engages the drain in the bathtub and waits for all of the water to vacate, before she, in turn, does the same. She prepares her self dinner, alone and enjoys this living situation.
Meanwhile, Ethan is frantic and collapsing quickly. He still believes she is his passion and to him, he still has it/her. A thought appears in his head, randomly, “Was the act of attaching streamers of paper really a useful marketing scheme when selling fans?’ He had never actually seen this in action but had seen it probably on the tele, ‘Did the flowing streams of paper really insinuate refreshment?’ ‘What now, why is she is hiding?’
Resolution is in the air. Confrontation looms.
Ethan, after pressing six digits and then hanging up finally proceeds to make a complete call, she answers the telephone. ‘Hey, what’s up’ he asks, ‘Nothing much and yourself’ she replies, ‘So you wanna, I don’t know, like, hang out’ to which she declares, ‘Ethan I think we need some time apart,’ his heart drops. ‘Can I just see you?’ She hesitantly agrees they make arrangements to meet at a neutral cafĂ© tomorrow at seven o’clock post meridian.
He arrives a full fifteen minutes early and runs through what he wants to say, somewhat audible to those around him. He decides that it is necessary to tell her that she is his passion. Briefly distracted he thinks about how Alexander G. Bell filed the patent for the telephone only 2 hours before another man, whose name escapes him. Then back to his plan and release of information, he wants to use the right words. He tries this in his mind ‘ you are my passion, this isn’t fashion, its here to stay, please don’t diminish the ration of my passion.’ Soon thereafter he decides to leave the rhyming behind and then she enters.
‘Hello’ he says first, she responds with a greeting of equal tone. Then the both begin to speak at the same time, to destroy the silence and their mingled words create what sounds like equipment downward, although neither of them said either of these words. Their situation forewarns of awkwardness to come. He can’t help but think of a lyrics from song that went something to the effect, ‘can you wait for the sidewalk?’ He comes out of his comatose state when she inquires why he wanted to meet her. His reply his mumbled and eventually comes out. He says, ‘you are my passion,’ her face, which was always a good indicator of her sentiments, makes a rather disorientated expression. ‘What? How am I your passion? What does that even mean?’ He, befuddled, was not ready for this interrogation, he hadn’t planned on it. ‘Um, you know, you are my passion, you know, like, you know, my subject of enthusiasm’ he clamors.
She is still taken aback and remains stoic for a unit-less amount of time. ‘I can’t deal with this right now. Passion, I am not your passion, I am just a girl.’ He states, ‘you have to be, I mean, why else would I have such strong feelings for you, you are probably one of the coolest people I have ever met.’ ‘Its called a crush you’ll get over it, I’m sorry, but I don’t feel the same way and just not now okay.’ She gets up to leave and remembers the disturbing photograph and throws it on the table, ‘you can have this back.’ He picks it up and looks at it for the first time, the image is on the borderline of disturbing. On the back he notices the words you won’t forget me. How did won’t derive from will not?

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