Concentricity … 11

Ch 11 ~ When you read something that just makes you say:  “…Wow…”

“…Wow…” Emily muttered because it was more than a little bit odd what had just happened.  She turned around quickly, eyeing the good looking very generously kind and calm redheaded young man with a laptop…a laptop that sat on the restaruant table more like an open book, with the good looking redhead sitting on the restaurant chair more like a breath of fresh air in a place reverberating with the cluttered mounting soundwaves that hurled themselves out of various forms (biological, technological, in Pat’s case both at probably the most personal level possible) from within an overflowing throng.  Collectively, this was the same as hurling out uber massively huge stuff.   How would George Carlin even begin to suggest moving any part of “this” stuff from the airwaves into another sectioned off part of airwave for “that” stuff.  This, that, the other…it was *all* stuff now. 

Miles Thomas Brown (if I had hypenated his name, I could have extended the wordcount…yes, the author is inserting herself into the piece, yet again) gently, calmly twirled a slim pen at its ends (but the pen was not so slim that it felt awkward to hold the instrument, she thought — she, being Emily or Pat or Michele or all since each one was somewhat of a pen affecionado herself…erm, themselves).  She had noticed his effortless calm even while she was in the middle of muttering “…wow…”.  They had caught each other’s eyes, so lovely yet again, in a flash, and she noticed that fact quite happily, too.  She smiled compulsively as she always did this day whenever she looked at him, whenever she thought o fhim truth be told, which was something that came naturally to her since discovering him — as in discovering the wondrousness of his being and existence — because irrespective of future or present Emily was one who dealt in what she knew to be honesty in being and existing.  Her cheeks flushed a bit, just a noticeable bit which was charming inandof itself, at the precise moment that her brain registered (really seized upon, really anticipated and pounced upon) a compulsive, genuine smile that she witness immediately climbing up from the corners of his lips as he gazed back at her, too. 

“…eo…” she gasped and the gasp itself sounded like a vowel or some combination of vowels, because it’s usually rather difficult to gasp out a consonant (or some combination of consonants) unless the consonant was a long running breath of “r’s”, but then that wouldn’t really be a gasp.  That, instead, could be an inviting growl.  Or if not an inviting growl then that might really be more of a trill, like the vibrating rolling purr that cats (and some people, Emily admittedly among them) could create from somewhere around the back of their tongue or the top of their throat or in that general vicinity it seemed. 

“…eo…” she breathed the vowel or some combination of vowels again but quickly this time added, “Did you hear that?  Did you see all of that?”  And in answer to her questions, the good looking redheaded young man with the laptop that sat opened like a book nodded “indeed” with his head.  Yes, if his nod had spoken it would have said “indeed” from somewhere around the general vicinity of his forehead, somewhere underneath the ruffle of freeflowing yet unobtrusive and gentle curls.  If only foreheads had lips, of course.  To whisper from somewhere around the general vicinity of a forehead would be possible only then, if they had lips that is, but generally they do not.  As least not as far as Emily knew.  But then again as far as Emily knew or thought or believed or had any inkling of previously until this day, humans generally didn’t have television screens and teeny miniscule yet incredibly powerful computers implanted into the back of their eyeballs, like Pat did, with the back of the brain (or was it the front of it?) serving as the movie screen or the monitor or the boob tube.  Or the social media platofrm. 

But that was a whole ‘nother story….

…unless, of course, it was still part of this story…

From what all the characters or people or patrons or humans or aliens or well *beings* who were, well, *being* in the cramped quarters of the Glenwood Cafe could tell, somehow the idea of the violent collision of message-messenger-medium was the very heart, the very essence of this particular story. 

Only the author, Michele, seemed to be at a loss as to how the story would all unfold.   Only the whole of society —  from what her own muse seemed to want to convey if she could believe her muse —  seemed to be at a loss to identify the exact direction or the immediate and ongoing impact of such a violent collision.  It was something to dwell upon, how this all could unfold.  But dwell upon or not, it was more immediate than that.  It had long since become something to live lives in, as it had already begun unfolding a long time ago…although the word “unfolding” sounded far too passive for what felt like, metaphorically speaking, a relentless gathering tsunami that have fundamentally pummelled everything we knew about communicating and replaced it with stream of even bigger gathering tsunamis. 

Even metaphorical tsunamis carried with them unimaginable negotiating power.

“If this is a collaborative endeavor, which would be a healthy thing,” Miles began, talking quietly for everyone to hear but also talking quite intimately to Michele so as to create shared understanding .  Call it relationship building if you will, between a central character and the author, between muse and creator (which one was muse, which one was creator…could it be that they interchanged quite fluidly and according to their own unspoken yet mutually shared whims?).   Call it lunch if that was easier.  The point was that this wasn’t meant to be a broadcast, although the fact that others would hear might have the added benefit of shared learning, even if the shared learning wasn’t necessarily the point — “If we are collaborating,” he repeated, slowly and calmly, then I would suggest allowing one of us to serve as the internal editor of this piece as it unfolds.  Although we might not “edit” in a manner that you would recognize.  Instead, we might just take the approach of, well, more readily embracing what you’ve been wrestling with.  Just letting the story *be.*  Sort of like allowing the piece to write itself.”

“So you don’t know how this creative process works either?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say that the question is so much one of knowing how the creative process works,” he replied thoughtfully.  “I would say that it’s more a question of allowing the creative process to work.”  He paused for a moment or two, then added, “On its own terms.”  He paused again.  “Instead of trying to direct it,” he added, a very gentle tone coating his words.

And wordcount doesn’t factor into this whole thing, I asked under my breath but then realized that the point of wordcount is to keep pen to paper, is to silence the internal editor.  So really.  He’s right.

With that, I pulled the napkin with the concentric and orbitting circles front and center.  Gingerly, quite painstakingly gingerly, I erased the word “Me” from the center circle…erasing the consonant and the vowel with the ultimate of care for fear of tearing through the very delicate fabric of what really was a pictograph outline … a story theme and arc, a roadmap comprised of circles within circles with some of those circles meandering off to various and asundry places.  Then, after successfully “breathing” the center circle with no damage to the fabric of the piece, after allowing the core to in essence to gasp out a combination of vowels or even consonants or numbers in surprise if it felt like it and whenever it felt like it from the impulse as unpredictably generated by a creative process, I gently lay the pencil down on the table, reclined back into the bench seat of the booth and dissolved my energy somehow away from this writing project even though, if you asked me, I was still — I am still — veyr much in the core of it all. 

Somewhere not too terribly far away…not too terribly far away at all…a flock of fingertips tapped in perfect unison on the crisp rows of buttons that is QWERTY.   And out comes a word, an idea, an expression in any number of ways and means.  Whoosh! 

It reminded me of a piece I had just read, not too many minutes before any attempt on my part to stroke the home of QWERTY in an attempt (really, more in the feverent hope) to nudge the characters in such a manner as to cause them to quiver and to leap into a seductive, enticing set of words and sentences that strung themselves together into something recognized as a larger whole.   My particular QWERTY needed an umbrella and maybe on its rez day it would jump naked with the overarching umbrella in hand, bravely daring to expose its parentheticals and at sign and brackets just because it could. 

Instead, not too many minutes before that attempt on my part, I had read a piece of perofrmance art…one that posssessed such depth and texture and life …one from which I immediately could envision and could so easily hear the perfect rhythm of a dance troupe as it moved seamlessly in perfect quiet unison through an adagio.  In those minutes before of that same one connected passage, I had just read a dance, the words a gorgeous sequence that resembled the mastery of free form, the unimagined mastery of fluid extension which wouldn’t be at all possible were it not for a powerful underlying capability.  In those moments before of that same one piece, I had just read words that instantly brought into being live beings — dancers, actors, poets, singers, musicians, energy — onto a small stage tucked into the outlying neighborhood of a major city.  An unassuming, naked and bare theatre that was open and accessible and stripped of any distraction or pretense deliberately so to expose the form, to breathe the process.  An inviting theatre where the audience seats consisted of a series of folding chairs — metal card chairs — strewn about in the general patterns of rows.  But not necessarily so perfectly, so neatly.  Most definitely, not intentionally fixed into any one place.  Performance art.  Performance listening.  Performance interacting.  Organic, thriving, reliant one on the other, neither static, both interacting as if dancing an adagio, unfolding the relationship slowly allowing the extension of it to shine as the primary focus while putting the mastery of the process as subordinate to the ultimate intention:  the free flowing and unfolding higher reach through time and space and place.  I had read this masterful work of words that sang of dance, that painted a performance in all its dimensions, that brought forth the smell of old, worn hardwood floors long since scuffed from the dragging around of heavy metal folding chairs whose only purpose was more of bringing the audience into the space as close to the performance as possible until the audience members found themselves —  unwittingly in some cases and quite intentionally in other cases — directly on stage, directly in the center circle (if you will) of the quiet, masterful slow unfold.  Of the shared, higher extension.  The creative process itself that lay quietly underneathe the performance art that I had just read literally a few minutes ago was breathtaking in its rhythm, in its unfurling, in its weaving back and forward combining thoughts and extending them nearly lyrically, but even more than that.   Extending foundationally with a musicality that was at once stacatto and utterly legato, each conveyed by a rhythym of words that were unquestionably and instinctively selected  to be where they were.  Instinctively, generating those effects.  Instinctively, revealing an incredibly naturally lyrical and beautiful inner voice.  I had not read poetry.  I had not read song or cadence.  I had not read a script.  I had read, literally just a few minutes before, a multi-dimensional performance art that played itself out in any countless possible venues and expression.  I had just witnessed masterful ad lib in a theatre with peanut shells on the floor.  I had just read a painting.  I had just drunk in the physically-defying unison of a ballet troupe dancing perfectly as one to the sounds of silence that swelled with the natural music that played within the fibers of their beings.  And I have to dwell on this for several minutes more — several long minutes more — because it is quite astounding.  Unimagined complexity, I have just read.  Mindblowing powerful simplicity, in the same piece.   Removing the excess material to release the purity of the form.  I had just read that in action, seen it play itself out in words written by a masterful writer and mind, and I sit marvelling in profound appreciation.  I sit absorbing the great talent behind that read before even trying to think about how to go about uttering another sound — much less any combination of QWERTY — on the message-messenger-medium relationship.

In process.

NaNoWriMos total word count this chapter:  2,200; total word count todate (not including this notation) this chapter: 15,700.

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