Write about a field.

The cell is thirteen and a half by eleven feet.  The floor is dirt, and on the really cold mornings last March, i remember being able to see frost on the tiny blades of grass that tried to grow till they realized there was no life in this place.  And so they died, leaving us alone.

i can’t speak for Jesus, but often i know that i’ve thought about joining them.  Of leaving this small space and coming back up to grow wild in some wondrous open field.

i’ve named this cell Godforsaken, and it bothers Jesus, but he always forgives me when i curse his father.  He laughs when i tease him, and sometimes he says just the right thing to ease my troubled mind.

Write about a lock.

Write about a misunderstood shadow.

I was walking through the bookstore yesterday, something which I so love to do.  It’s interesting how literature changes people.  How it affects one’s mind and soul.  And I don’t mean in the act of reading either… but rather just being surrounded by books.  To walk through the aisles, fingers softly touching spines as if the mere touch of something interesting will feel differently… as though the book will resonate just so and your fingertips will feel that pulse of life.

I used to have an office in our living room many years ago.  Now this was when Anne and I had very little money.  We lived in a modest two bedroom home.  When Tristan was born, I had to give up my office so that he may have his own room (as Anne and I had agreed he would not sleep in our room as some newborns do).  This however, left me office’less, so to speak.

We decided on a corner of the living room which I could use as an office space.  My old desk was dragged out of Tristan’s bedroom, and setup in the corner.  I arranged my tools of the trade (an old typewriter and some pads and pencils) so that I was facing the wall.  I thought this would allow for the least distractions and Anne and Tristan could still be in the same room as me.

I realized quite quickly that though my dedication to writing was quite strong, my ability to concentrate in this setting was not.  Part of the allure of the family of course, was this beautiful new child whom I wanted to spend all of my time with.  Still, I was determined to write and so devised a means of creating an atmosphere that would promote it.

Write about peeling paint.

P-K4 (let’s never speak of this)

I haven’t spoken to him in
  twenty years.
He must be old now (as I
  believe I will be soon).
He taught me to play when I
  was just four. To us,
  chess was a means of
  communication (for since
  birth, I believe, my father
  and I have been unsure of our
  relationship).
My mother watched us play,
  taking snapshots in the
  background, always calling it
  a foolish game (and she would
  never learn to play).
She has a picture of me as a
  child with a wooden
  knight clenched between
  my teeth (mocking victory).
I never won, though.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Still I returned to the table
  the next day, because it
  was not abuse.
(It was my oxygen.)

“The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club.”

Fight Club (the movie) was one of those rare films that spoke to a generation (of men, mostly).  The film was brilliantly written, directed and casted.  Every single actor shone in their parts.  The movie just clicked with a lot of people (again, mostly men), who understood the underlying themes… and felt them.

Long before the movie was made however, the book turned heads and won rave reviews.