I have this obsession with circles and Russian Roulette. Russian Roulette may be a derogatory term, but at least we're all on the same page here, in the same book even. I could be politically correct or shape-shift my diction, but would just be adding to inefficiency of words. Don't get me wrong, words are cool. But they can serve as the great miscommunicator. Writers word-slinging the wrong way. Hoax and hippopatomus look great next swinging jazz monkeys inside the discoteca. Stories with a what-the-fuck-does-that-mean endings. I'm not here to do that.
And words can make you digress. So shut up and let me talk.
See I hate these circles. You know the ones.
Whatever. Fine. Allow me to elaborate:
Think fair or carnival. Think about that summer fling you once had and how they wanted to play games and win prizes, because somehow a forty-foot, pink rhino reminds them of happy, summer lovin'. The easiest game that guarantees a win: duck pond. Each duck has a neon sticker slapped on its ass, some of those asses are golden.
Anyway, you hand the carny a buck and stare at the ducks as they swirl around the pool in a forced current. Around and around, they go, over and over. Now really look at them. They're just plastic ducks crowded together, swimming in circles. They can't move: the circle. Until you pick them up: Russian Roulette.
Or how about that game with the other ducks--those paper one's that rotate around a belt hidden in a cheap-ass depiction of a mountain. This game is much rarer to find, but fundamentally the same. The whole time you're blastin' small BBs at paper quackers, trying to shoot at least one dead in the heart. The ducks keep rotating, and you keep shooting, until one of them blasts to shreds.
Oh, how about life? Go to sleep much earlier and later than you wanted to. Wake up far too early, next to the one you love, and you have to leave . . . To go to the job you hate. Punch-in, punch-out. Or if you're unemployed (bless you, son): Grab a bite at home or on the way. Fall energyless into your living room. Alone you sip beer or coffee in front of Conan, and then wonder if your significant other is asleep yet. How you want to lie next to them without talking, because these thoughts are repeating on their own already, and you don't want to keep them spinning. And you're too damn afraid you can't pick one out or shoot it.
Or how about real birds and the way they fly in Vs? There's always that routine, that pattern. But then there's always that one bird, broken from the pack, sailing alone but close to everyone else. You know, that one bird you think is a little challenged. Yeah, he just goes with the flow, but does his own thing. I think I've found a third obsession here.
But don't let these words fool you, man. I'm just ramblin' about the future and the one-in-six chance of breaking the cycle.
Fear, focus, and the future. C.M. Humphries talks about writing, horror, and whatever.