The Ultimate Word Construction Site

I had fun constructing a piece at the below address word for word. It starts with a simple sentence and by adding words wherever you like, you literally get to unfold a story. It is a good writing challenge and an excellent exercise for wordholic brains.

Here is the one I built. Starts with the sentence: “I had fun.”

http://www.telescopictext.org/text/EJuM4DmGVj3W2

Enjoy 😀

Advertisements

Meaning of Life and Man

I have spent years chasing the tail of my darkness. I cannot catch my past, like a dog trying to get hold of its tail, seeing its tip, I see the tail wiggling, making fun of me, but whenever I am about to get hold of it, whenever I am close to catching it, understanding the mystery, bringing some light to the darkness, it goes further away, mocking me, making a fool of me…

So I carry on further through days and nights…

I have met many people on my way, some were old some were young, some were slow, some were fast, but I have never spent enough time at one place to make real friends, to share a drink, a moment that could last forever, a moment immortalized like a painting in memory.

I have felt closer to some, though, and more distant from others. I have had some children, here and there but never stayed behind to watch them survive. I could not have stayed… I had a tail of darkness to chase… a world of wonders to figure out. Did I wish I could stay?… I am not sure… This life of wandering, hours, days, weeks of wandering, hoping to find out what life had in store for me consumed me, made me restless… I believed I could figure it all out only if I kept on, and saw what was hidden in the dark.

I had no one to ask about my past, to direct my questions… I never knew my mother or father… I never knew where they had met, how they had decided to conceive me… Probably they had acted on an impulse, a raw urge to copulate rather than a thoroughly designed plan for the future. Much like the way I came to be a parent, I assume. Probably, they did not brood much over it, and followed their instincts, their inner drive to be close to someone, to feel fluid with another.

Probably I followed in their foosteps without even knowing them, and most probably my children are no different. Probably, my past is nothing but a vicious cycle, a ferris wheel that returns to its starting point, sooner or later and over and over…

I wonder how similar my children have grown to be, how much a part they are of this cycle… I wonder if they are on an endless quest for answers… An endless quest to understand why they are the way they are… Why they do what they do… Who they are… I wonder if they ever wonder about me… I wonder if they feel abandoned like me, or accept it as part of life and move on. Moving on endlessly, slowly…

But I am certain, soon I will find an answer to all my questions, soon I will know why this darkness haunts me, why I cannot stop moving, why I cannot break out of it, why I am alive, and what my existence holds for the world, what it means to-

 CRACK! SQUASH!

Without even bothering to look at the snail and its philosophical quest he had just obliterated under his foot, the man walked on counting the money he had earned gambling.

The first line of this week’s Speakeasy challenege was to write a piece of fiction of 750 words or less starting with “I have spent years chasing the tail of my darkness.” and making a reference to Paul Cezanne’s painting the Card Players.

Some things are best forgotten

He kissed her lips and slowly made his way down to her neck and planted soft pecks below her ear. She felt her cheeks flushing with read heat under the familiar smell of his skin. She let his safe warmth carry her breath to a faster pace, and enjoyed her body tingling with eagerness as his touches lost their softness and became more lustful. The blood their bodies pumped filtered all sounds, and only left the fast beat of their hearts echoing in their ears. One by one they forgot their surroundings, their pasts, their regrets, their sorrows…

Then he sighed, letting out a slight sound, reminiscent of a possum threatening an enemy in the darkness of the night and she remembered…

She remembered the rainy day when her friends were away on vacation and she had gathered her toys to play alone in the abandoned little house where neighborhood kids used to get together and pretend to be royalty holding dinners for lords and duchesses. She was surprised to see a man working on the soil right outside in the garden, but she continued to the house, thinking he was the uncle of one of her friends planting flowers for the kids to pick in summer.

She set up the tiny broken plates with the sticks the kids pretended to be valuable silver cutlery. She went on to prepare the delicious invisible food for her guests, who for the lack of her real friends that day, had to be invisible, too. Every one of her select invitees seated around the gold plated table, sipping the soup under the crystal chandelier, were baffled with the perfection she had attained in her cooking. She accepted the quiet praises of her guests, while keeping up with the talks about the dark enemy that lingered around the premises of the castle. She ascertained her dear friends that everyone was safe within the tall strong walls.

Carried away in her imaginary talks with her refined guests, she did not notice the dark figure watching her by the gate of her castle. She was startled when she saw the man working on the soil outside dripping wet in the same room as her.

He smiled, she smiled back. He approached her, walking through the unseeable gold plated table, dispersing the lords and duchesses dressed in tulle and taffeta into fumes and grabbed her by the arm, but his hands being wet, she managed to slip away. She felt an urge to get away from him and stand by the few guests he had not yet walked over. He was in the mood to play tag. She did not want to be rude but she wanted to go back to her game under the shiny crystal chandeliers with her dreamy friends.

He was faster though, and he caught her. He towered behind her, and hugged her small body, but tighter than her parents had ever done. He smelled her hair, but fiercer than anyone who had ever smelled her and squeezed her yet completely flat chest, and let out a deep sigh with a sound that made her think of angry possums at night.

She did not like this strange game she had never played before.

The rainy day helped her win the tag game. She slipped one last time from his wet and cold possum snare and ran out of the deserted house never to return there again.

She never had the heart to invite her tulle and taffeta clothed friends because the castle with the strong walls and shiny chandeliers no longer seemed plausible, no matter how hard she tried.

In the silence of the bedroom, she heard her neighbor play his nostalgic music, “look for the girl with the sun in her eyes”, and she realized that the last time she had the sun shining in her eyes was on that rainy day, just before the dark enemy made its way through the castle walls.

Her lover held her tightly in the bed, and slowly dozed off. In his affectionate embrace, she felt small, like she had on that day in the man’s grip, and she thought, “Some things can’t be forgotten…”

Thank you my dear friend Priscilla for your extremely helpful review.

18 year olds are the best to remind you you are no longer young!

Below is a list of moments I gathered working with freshman college students from different parts of Turkey. These instances struck me like a slap in the face, reminding me the gap that opens between two generations cannot be helped and can become an advantage only if embraced…

When you play charades, no one understands you are fishing for the word “typewriter”. Even after you say the word out loud…

When you give Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp as examples for cute guys, the reaction you get is “but he is old” with a grimace.

The healthy meals including a salad and juice you look forward to are tossed aside for McDonald’s meals without the slightest bit of guilt.

Ideals are defended so heartily that you do not have the heart to contradict them and be the one to break such strong beliefs “just yet”.

When they find out you are thirty something, the look they give you is mingled with a major disappointment and pity for someone who has few years left to live.

When you talk about social media, and you proudly talk about your facebook account to show them you are hip enough to be part of the virtual world, it turns out that facebook to them is old fashioned and they prefer, what was it again?

When you talk about Nirvana, you lose your audience.

When you do your best dance that earned you a prize back in the day, your “funny” moves are appreciated for a good laugh.

The music they are crazy about is too damn loud, but you still join the rhythm, just to show that you are different from their parents.

You try hard not to tell them how much they are likely to despise some of the singers they are currently scheduling their moments of wakefulness by.

You buy a smart phone just to be able to catch them if they play online games with each other during class.

Finally, you embrace the age gap and try to learn as much from them as they can from you.

The Waiting

He looked at the clock on the wall. A toilet flushed upstairs. With his eyes, he followed the water flowing through the pipes in the walls. She used to hate this sound. She would say: “We are living in their sewage!” To him, it was relaxing like the sound of waves. However, now the sound of the water only reminded him of the emptiness of the house, with every drop resonating in the hollow rooms squeezed in between the walls.

He looked at her shoes. The pair of shoes she had worn every single day of the last ten years. They were torn at the edges. One of them had a hole on the sole that she had tried to cover with a piece of felt. She loved those shoes. It was part of her daily routine to polish them every evening. The more her shoes shined, the greater the dignity she emanated as she walked.

Being presentable and clean was of utmost importance to her. That is why no one dared to say anything when her vision deteriorated and she could no longer detect the stains on her shoes. Bits of blotches began to accumulate on everything she used to clean. Cleanliness, her signature, began to wear off as the smell of dust and old wooden furniture grew.

The dishes also carried the impact of her weakened eyesight. Bits of grease appeared on the rims of the plates. Whenever he ran his hands on the once smooth china, he would feel the grease forming bumps here and there. Yet, he never uttered a word to her about it. He knew she needed to believe in her abilities as a home maker. As long as no one made a remark about dirt lingering on the kitchen counter, there was peace in the house. As long as she kept the house running, they were reassured that they could carry on.

The fact was that things had not been going quite smoothly but he did not care. The only thing that mattered to him was that they were making it through the day together. One would find what the other had lost. One would remember what the other forgot. One would provide what the other could not.

In the last couple of years, however, what each could do had diminished, and they had learned to live with less. They had been shopping lighter since neither had the strength to carry heavy bags. With their bones losing their mass, high shelf tops were no longer among the parts of the home they visited often. Many photographs and letters placed on top shelves years ago had become parts of their lives rarely remembered, forgotten among papers turned yellow.

The clock rang eleven o’clock. He boiled an egg for lunch and sat to eat it with tomatoes and bread. He did not have much appetite anymore. He did not know much about cooking anyway, with her having taken care of meals ever since they had moved into their first home together.

During lunch, he had a look at the newspaper. He did not read about the country politics anymore. Politics, he deemed, were for those who still had the energy to believe in seeing the outcomes of changes. Nor was he interested in classified ads. They were for people eager to make a fresh start with a new car or a new apartment. He read third page news about lonely old people vandalized in their homes by young drug addicts for silverware in cupboards. He always checked the weather report to decide whether to put on another cardigan and of course he loved crosswords.

Until four o’clock, he did the crosswords. At four, he got up from his sofa, of which the seat had sunk under years of weight, and placed his dinner on the stove. He looked up at the clock on the wall. With each minute the minute move of the handles echoed in the house. The shoes of his late wife were by the door, shining under the dust with the polish she had last applied. The toilet flushed upstairs, and he watched the water flow through the walls.

 And he waited…

A Fight Worthwhile

Inspired by Five Minute Friday prompt: Fight* on Lisa Jo Baker’s Blog http://lisajobaker.com/2014/01/five-minute-friday-fight/

(time: 9.35)

What should you be? How should you act? What should you write? How should you feel? What should you say? How should you live?

For many of us, the ‘shoulds’ are deeply engraved in our heads. We were made to believe that living up to these ‘shoulds’ would make us good people, that we would get closer to the ideal human. We were told that anything deviating just a wee bit from the ideal is bad.

Yes, it is these simple terms most of us are trying to set our lives according to: Good and bad.

Many fruitful thoughts are blocked because of the ideal human. Our brains are clogged by all these standards we feel forced to live up to. If we do not comply with these, we are not worth being.

You should be stable. You should only be happy. You should only think of others. You should always have energy. You should always race for the best career seen fit for you. You should never lie. You should only befriend perfect people. You should only have positive thoughts.

(time: 9.40)

How about the relief found in seeing yourself for who you really are?  You can be unstable but trustable. You can be fun and moody. You can hate lying but be willing to lie to ensure the happiness of people you care for. You can be friends with people who make you happy to be with and not just linger around some characters simply because they are picture perfect.

You do not need to be energetic to run around all the time, to socialize, to cook, to clean, to read. You can enjoy spending a day in bed without having to account for these moments of stolen laziness. You can choose to do something simply because it gives you pleasure and not because it would be appreciated on a resume. You can be selfish some days when you need a retreat from responsibilities. You might love hugging one day and hate it the next.

These do not mean that you are a bad person. You are who you are, and this is a merit on its own, whether recognized by the concept of the flawless human or not.

Fearing who we really are for the sake of an artificially constructed excellence can be tedious. Reading what is really on our minds without being muddled by vague notions of perfection picked up here and there is liberating. Sometimes ideals are not so ideal. The only thing we should do is fight to be ourselves despite the doctrines of the perfect being carved in our brains. This is a fight worthwhile.

(time: 9.45)

*The rule on Five Minute Friday is to write for 5 minutes without any editing. I cheated… After writing for 10 minutes from 9.35 to 9.45, I did some finishing touches here and there (and more) afterwards.