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Put Out of Mind
I stopped myself somewhere upon the lonely plain and turned to look behind me, and there was the line of statues all frozen in what they had been doing at the particular time when the scissors of the Fates came to sever my past from my present and locked everything in, complete and immutable. They stood silent for my inspection. That one was the car accident, for instance; that one was the moment she gave her rejection, that one was the call from the hospice, and that one there… well.
Being at a pausing point in my work at present, I walked back, picking out one of them. He also had been in the middle of something. Evidence lay all around him with haphazard tools scattered about, sketches from work on something of importance, something that spoke deep within his heart… but I remembered, he had then set it down. This statue captured that exact moment when it all got too overwhelming for him, everything that had been going on seemed so monumental and pressed him down so hard he had to drop it all in shame and fear and guilt… all of this captured in one moment in time.
We were in a curious situation, he could speak forward to me through his notes and my memories, but I could never speak backwards to him; as loud as I might shout, as perduring might be the words I would issue, they could not flow back to reach him; the ten years I had lived since I had been him were as an impenetrable wall. Even so, I assembled within myself the things that I wanted to say to him. I wished I could hug him so he could feel it, I wish that from my advanced perspective I could arrange his tools to ease his burden, but I knew that all he had to work with was what was here. And would it have truly helped him? I no longer knew all that he had been thinking, the only way for him to speak forward to me was the imperfect instrument of my memory and the scattered bits and tools from the time when I stepped away from that past moment and was no longer him.
I knelt to examine the things he had worked upon, they were tiny sculptures arranged within a tiny stage. I found that I could take up the stage and stretch it, and move its point of view. I could take the little sculptures and twist them, make them larger or smaller and flip them, but I could not further distort them; each time I tried they would break to intangible shards and so I quickly stopped that. Instead I tried variations, arranging what he had laid down in different patterns, searching for the ones I found most pleasing, the same work he had been doing, his passion at the time when he had found the going too hard and had thrown it all aside.
I flexed them gently and the puppet figures danced. They had been telling a story in their own way, and they responded to my intent as I tugged at them and rotated them, little dark shards that danced for me.
There was a power there, I knew that I could once more make it my own.
I took up the little stage and its figures and carried them with me, back to the present, and as I stepped forward from there I heard behind me a sharp crackle and a sudden scent of rain-tinged air. I looked back again and saw that another statue was now added just behind me, of my older self clutching those small figures so full of potential and looking resolute, ready to do what was necessary this time.
I smiled and returned to the whirl of my future days, solidifying around me like stone.
Being at a pausing point in my work at present, I walked back, picking out one of them. He also had been in the middle of something. Evidence lay all around him with haphazard tools scattered about, sketches from work on something of importance, something that spoke deep within his heart… but I remembered, he had then set it down. This statue captured that exact moment when it all got too overwhelming for him, everything that had been going on seemed so monumental and pressed him down so hard he had to drop it all in shame and fear and guilt… all of this captured in one moment in time.
We were in a curious situation, he could speak forward to me through his notes and my memories, but I could never speak backwards to him; as loud as I might shout, as perduring might be the words I would issue, they could not flow back to reach him; the ten years I had lived since I had been him were as an impenetrable wall. Even so, I assembled within myself the things that I wanted to say to him. I wished I could hug him so he could feel it, I wish that from my advanced perspective I could arrange his tools to ease his burden, but I knew that all he had to work with was what was here. And would it have truly helped him? I no longer knew all that he had been thinking, the only way for him to speak forward to me was the imperfect instrument of my memory and the scattered bits and tools from the time when I stepped away from that past moment and was no longer him.
I knelt to examine the things he had worked upon, they were tiny sculptures arranged within a tiny stage. I found that I could take up the stage and stretch it, and move its point of view. I could take the little sculptures and twist them, make them larger or smaller and flip them, but I could not further distort them; each time I tried they would break to intangible shards and so I quickly stopped that. Instead I tried variations, arranging what he had laid down in different patterns, searching for the ones I found most pleasing, the same work he had been doing, his passion at the time when he had found the going too hard and had thrown it all aside.
I flexed them gently and the puppet figures danced. They had been telling a story in their own way, and they responded to my intent as I tugged at them and rotated them, little dark shards that danced for me.
There was a power there, I knew that I could once more make it my own.
I took up the little stage and its figures and carried them with me, back to the present, and as I stepped forward from there I heard behind me a sharp crackle and a sudden scent of rain-tinged air. I looked back again and saw that another statue was now added just behind me, of my older self clutching those small figures so full of potential and looking resolute, ready to do what was necessary this time.
I smiled and returned to the whirl of my future days, solidifying around me like stone.
I was mostly lost. Initially, this reminded me of another write-off entry, but I can't put my finger on which one. The narrator seems to be looking through a place where people have been petrified, but instead of speaking to the world in general, it fixates on one person, with us later finding out... it's the protagonist himself? And all the statues are him at different points in his life? It also seems to be at points both ahead and behind him at times, and I can't figure out how both past and future him would be turned to stone. I just don't know what's going on. The ending makes me think it's one of those situations where someone is desperately trying to change the one minute event in a timeline that will fix it all, but I don't have any clues as to what the larger situation is. Nicely evocative and atmospheric, but it mostly went over my head.
Much like Pasco, I first thought this was about someone turning back home in Pompeii after the Vesuvius eruption, salt statues of Sodom and Gomorrah, or a story of the same ilk. Late into the story I suddenly realised this was not space, but time, and the guy is exploring the land of his memories where past experiences are sort of frozen and represented by statues. I’m not sure what the small figures represent, though. Kids? Or maybe characters in a novel or writing of sorts.
The problem for me is that the arc is too vague. Or too little is said to help the reader home in on what the context is. We don’t know where the protagonist comes from, neither what he intends to do that needs pausing and fishing up strength and inspiration from his past. As Pasco puts its, it’s atmospheric, but too airy in the end.
The problem for me is that the arc is too vague. Or too little is said to help the reader home in on what the context is. We don’t know where the protagonist comes from, neither what he intends to do that needs pausing and fishing up strength and inspiration from his past. As Pasco puts its, it’s atmospheric, but too airy in the end.
>>Pascoite, >>Monokeras
I apologize for any confusion, this story event was scheduled on my birthday and I felt that I could indulge myself with something autobiographical.
In the past year, I resurrected an old artistic project of mine which had been abandoned for various reasons a decade ago. I've taken the liberty of posting some of the art from this work on various art rounds. The way in which I construct this work is analogous to arranging puppets on a stage, which explains the references to the smaller figures.
The process of looking into the past at prior stages of life and the gathering up of what a prior self had left unfinished is what I wished to convey. Also, in this quiescent period of the Writeoff's history, I feel less reticent about referencing my other creative work.
Thank you for your patience and the very kind comments!
I apologize for any confusion, this story event was scheduled on my birthday and I felt that I could indulge myself with something autobiographical.
In the past year, I resurrected an old artistic project of mine which had been abandoned for various reasons a decade ago. I've taken the liberty of posting some of the art from this work on various art rounds. The way in which I construct this work is analogous to arranging puppets on a stage, which explains the references to the smaller figures.
The process of looking into the past at prior stages of life and the gathering up of what a prior self had left unfinished is what I wished to convey. Also, in this quiescent period of the Writeoff's history, I feel less reticent about referencing my other creative work.
Thank you for your patience and the very kind comments!