How to write, according to the woman who wrote some of Pink Floyd’s biggest hits
Drops
It sounded at first like drops of goo dripping from a stalagmite, each drop swiftly splashing to the ground before being followed by another. The drops did not echo-the sanctuary was not the massive, cavernous pit in the ground that people envisioned caves to be-but they still had a ring to them.
It was a green substance that the cave bled, thick and sludgy, appearing fatal to the touch. Each stalagmite fed a small but deep, murky pool that lay beneath it. I couldn’t tell if there were fish or any other lifeforms occupying the pools, or if they could even live in whatever that stuff was.
The cave was musty and humid, growing larger and deeper the further I progressed. Its air was something unusual: there was something organic about, like it literally breathed its oppressive atmosphere upon me; like there was something sleeping, hibernating, or watching me from somewhere within. Like that hadn’t happened before.
For some reason, and it baffles me to this day, there was the skeleton of a whale tucked into one of the walls: skull, ribcage and all. My limited knowledge told me that it was a blue whale, but I knew enough to know that it did not belong here. What was it doing there? More importantly, how did it end up there? Something told me that it had to have been dragged here as the skull was cracked, and some of the ribs looked broken and chewed upon.
Whatever it was doing there did not matter at that point: the ground began to rumble with slow, steady steps. Something big, gigantic was coming must have heard or seen me, and I wasn’t ready to make its acquaintance. Without another thought, I killed my flashlight and bolted for the skeleton, pressing myself behind one of the ribs until the unseen behemoth gave up its search; if it was pissed that it found nothing, it gave no indication. No grunts, angry howls, or broken stalagmites. Nothing.
Worn out, I decided that the rib was more comfortable than it appeared to be, and nodded off as more distant footsteps rumbled off in the distance.
Monologue
Here’s a monologue I wrote on the fly last night. Enjoy!
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They say that you can’t remember things from when you were a baby. They call it “infantile amnesia”. There’s evidence for it but I refuse to believe it, just how like my boy Nadim’s grandma believes that the earth is flat. She’s old and spouts on about how the government lies to us, but that’s for another day.
I remember the last time I saw my dad like it was yesterday.
He was arguing with my mom about going to the store around the corner. She had him by his arms and was hissing at him, trying not to wake me up. I was watching from the bed since I didn’t have a crib. He won and promised us that he’d be back. He held me up and kissed my head, holding me for a good minute before doing the same with my mom and heading out the door.
Hours passed and he didn’t return. Mom waited for things to calm down outside and asked the neighbor’s husband had seen him. He went out to look for him and told her that he was lying dead in the street with the groceries all shot up. That was two days before we left for D.C.
There we were, another immigrant family, arriving tattered and haggard on the shores of opportunity with what little of nothing we had. We stayed in one of the roughest parts of town for five months because we bring enough money to rent, and it took mom three to find a job.
It was a miserable time in a miserable place, but for some reason I kept coming back, even after we moved to a slightly less-shitty part of Maryland. Still, I kept coming back to meet the boys and skate. Sure it was rough and at times it was tough being the only (relatively) white person there, but once I told them where I was from they’d either lay off or ask me about it.
Truth is I felt like an idiot at times because I didn’t know as much then, but moving on.
The DMV, and then the East Coast, was all I knew for a while but that all changed until I was about ten, when I laid eyes upon the old country for the first time. After that I just wanted more and people became a lot less interesting than they used to be.
So here I am now at the edge of the world, somewhere I never expected myself to be, happier than I ever was or expected to be, and this is how I got there.
Oh, before we move on, you’re probably wondering what to call me now. Ismael is my name, but my friends call me Ish.
The Maw
I nearly went blind as I peered into the cave for the first time : the reflections of the pale blue pools of water shimmered across the ceiling and the walls.
Massive, impenetrable sheets of ice had long asserted themselves on the cave, not unlike the vines selfishly claiming ancient castles as their own.
Those who had ventured through this cavern before me had claimed that gazing upon its maw was like gazing into the maw of one of the massive, hellish fire eels that occupied its lakes: like angler fish back on Earth they attracted their prey with luminous glands, but the eels’ glands were instead found in their throats, making their job quicker.
I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from the cold or from fear, but I eventually swallowed whatever it was and took my first step into the gaping maw. Each step was followed by moments of silence and trepidatious glances, in fear of alerting whatever lurked behind the stalagmites. Nothing emerged. Relieved, I continued slowly into the maw.
That was when I heard the sound of ice crunching behind me.
Constraint
Here I sit plucking away at my bass,
eyes heavy with focus and exhaustion.
Reverence guides my fingers
across the fretboard as they wander through the
maze of murals and their variations.
For all of its nourishment and influence,
I realize,
history is the greatest oppressor of creativity,
trapping me in this labyrinth
with only the ways of old to lead me out.
Alone
We chased the dying sun in hopes that we would follow,
but all we found were ashes,
dust and echoes.
And we were forced to rebuild-
to carry on and perpetuate this cycle of
woe, decay and fear.
We would always dream and wonder about the past:
how it must have been before us,
and how the world would be without us.
But what if it was us that had no end,
constantly creating our own realities as singular,
solipsistic sparks?
Philadelphia
The wind whipped at Rabieh as he emerged from the train station onto the bright streets.
It was a perfect scene: not a cloud was in the sky and the streets were alive. The centuries-old structures glowed softly with wisdom and subtle pride underneath the sun, while their newer counterparts sparkled and gleamed with youth.
He smiled, extended the suitcase’s handle and rolled it behind him as he quickly made his way through the crowd. His grin wouldn’t fade-in fact it only grew wider with every step. Fortunately, he wasn’t somewhere where people bothered to stop and scrutinize passersby, despite the balanced and easygoing pace of life. It was this paradoxical sense of public privacy that he missed the most about the north, namely how it held more value as an unspoken rule here than it did back in the south.
He passed a row of statues made from bronze and concrete, each more strange and captivating than the last. To his right was a massive, man-shaped object that was actually a tangled mass of babies; not too far away was what appeared to be a life-sized Monopoly set. Whatever the symbolism behind each opus was, he didn’t have the time to sit and contemplate.
The wind kept battering him and grew colder by the minute, but despite wearing only a long-sleeve shirt and a jacket he somehow remained warm. It might have just been the movement, it might have been the combined excitement of being back in Philadelphia and seeing his closest friends for the weekend. It didn’t matter. It would all be worth it: the ungodly 6 AM flight to the tin shack that was Trenton-Mercer airport, the mile-and-a-half hike to the train station, the nearly two hour-long train ride to City Hall.
He glanced back at the city’s center of power and paused, admiring its aged brilliance. The wind, however, wouldn’t have it with yet another tourist standing about and flailed at him, practically shoving him away from the sight. It didn’t matter. He felt welcome here.
Another Return(?)
Some of you might be wondering where I’ve been for the past few months, while the rest of you have probably shrugged off my lack of posts and been able to move on with your lives.
Frankly, I’ve been wondering where the hell I’ve been these past few months. Not just as Alex the blogger, but Alex the writer: I haven’t sketched out any stories, penned any poems, or been blogging at all, at least for myself, that is.
Like countless millions out there who know their way with words I’ve been caught up in the game of freelance writing, jumping from gig to gig and always looking for ways to grow and enrich this endeavor of writing.
No, I’m not going to use this space to chronicle my freelancing exploits (although that sounds like a great section for a memoir), nor am I going to offer empty apologies for my absence. I’m just here to let all of you know that I’m still here and I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. Even if inspiration is hard to find (and lord knows it is) I’ll still do my best to write something we can all enjoy or think about.
Peace
Bits and Pieces 