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Some Fictions

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Of Atoms, and Other Things We're Made Of


“I looked through the window at the palm tree standing in the courtyard of our house and I knew that all was still well in life. I looked at its strong straight trunk, at its roots that strike down into the ground, at the green branches hanging down loosely over its top, and I experienced a feeling of assurance. I felt not like a storm-swept feather but like that palm tree, a being with a background, with roots, with a purpose."- A Book.

I had a rush of a feeling, as I read and reread -and reread- that excerpt, a feeling resembling a nostalgia for something I've never experienced. Like a homesickness for a 'home' that's never existed... It's strange, being human.

I've always been a little envious of those who seemed inextricably connected to something bigger than themselves, of those who related to a background or have taken it upon themselves to embody a culture; a series of customs, things that 'must' be performed, ways in which those things are performed, people to whom it all made sense. I've always been a little envious of those who have a predefined, concrete meaning of 'home'.

Well, envious of and annoyed with.

Why do we feel obligated to act in accordance to a set of predesigned morals? Is it the convenience of fitting into pret-a-porter molds instead of undergoing the existential anguish of being your own person?

What if I identify as that storm-swept feather?

It is fascinating, how the notion of roots fluctuates sometimes between feelings of suffocation, paralysis, and repression and those of warmth and acceptance. But really how accepting is conditional acceptance?

Perhaps it's the image of a 'security blanket' I'm occasionally a little envious of; the feeling it generates; that you are an inseparable molecule, woven into something that predates you and will continue to exist long after you have ceased... perhaps in a way that is the closest we get to immortality. Perhaps it's the closest we get to not being alone.

But in a time where everything and everyone seem to be swallowed by a system or another, and we seem to no longer ponder the meaning of things, I'd rather stay a storm-swept feather. Free, light, wandering. However forgettable I may be, I am still ultimately an inextricably intricate part of an inextricably intricate ecological system that does not bother with who I am or how I look or the concepts I choose or those I reject; and when my bones decay and I am one with earth, my atoms will mix with those of trees or scatter as dust, and everywhere will be 'home'.


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There once was a Pierre Janet (French psychologist and philosopher) who defined the subconscious as a powerful awareness lurking underneath layers of critical thought. There once again was a Freud who thought the term subconscious was rather confusing and preferred the 'unconscious' instead, which he divided into two entities: the preconscious; latent yet dynamic (only descriptively), and the unconscious; the repressed layers of thought, where we store traumatic experience and socially unacceptable ideas. There are two kinds of worlds, according to Nietzsche: 'the true world', and 'the apparent world'- which is what we hold as truth, buried layers deep into our subconsciousness, and which he considered 'instinctual'.

There once was a girl who tried to make sense of it all.

To sum up the aforementioned boggling, winding, tangible psycho-philosophical conclusions- simply put, us humans are analytical creatures; by analytical I mean that our brains are constantly processing and analysing given data (do I turn left or right? is that green or yellow? is it hot or cold? etc). We also act as sponges, meaning that what our brains don't need to process for immediate use, they store. Unconsciously so. Feelings, trauma, concepts guilefully sneaking into our heads while we're distracted and defenseless... all coming together to form an intricately weaved 'mental' blanket; our own conceptually vivid chaos.

Behaviourists say it starts forming from infancy. We are born a blank canvass and everything we go through is an added brush stroke. Could it be hereditary? Can I say I inherited my meticulousness, anxiety, perfectionism, and passion for written words from my father and my relatively low self-esteem, and good faith in others from my mother? Do we necessarily 'inherit' behaviours and concepts or is who we are the product of infiltrating unconsciously processed information a long, long time ago?

Debilitating low self-worth being the key phrase. Why are some people more confident in their personal brand than others? Were they hugged more? Were they brought up to believe they're great? Or have they simply mastered the art of persuading oneself? Does it truly come from 'within' or does it spring from whatever it is we do which -we believe- deems us valuable in the unforgiving eyes the world?

At what point does a notion, an idea become fact to us? And when does its source become a blur? When does it start to slowly morph; eventually deceiving us into believing that we are the mastermind, the real origin...

More importantly, could we control it? Could it be possible to paint over the flawed painting and fool the keen eye of that latent creature? Broadly speaking, it is exactly like that film, Inception, except there are no little men expertly working their way down the deepest, unpathed strata of our minds- not literally, at least.

Sometimes I think about the apparent world Nietzsche suggested we unconsciously design and live in. Our own unique truth- or perspective of it, and I wonder if we are really who we've always believed ourselves to be. I wonder what happens when 'apparent worlds' overlap- which projection of me is the actual me (but that line of thought leads to Jean- Paul Sartre's existentialism and really there's no need to wake sleeping dragons at this time of night).

I wonder what the 'true world' looks like, beyond the confines of the mind and its house of mirrors.

I wonder if perhaps the thoughts are greener on the other side of the subconscious.


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nowhere in particular

I would like to disappear, within the curves of the letters of a second hand book, or behind the lines of one fresh out the printer. I want to be the meaning, the abstract, the molecules; a gentle breeze or a harsh ray of sunlight.

Our souls are grander than our bodies could possibly encompass, and that is -perhaps- the epitome of our human conundrum. I don't dare venture into the depth of the philosophical, nor can I summon any scientific support to my endeavours; I am but a dot swallowed by the vastness of existence.

I, like many, have a body. One that is restrained, labeled, ranked, and classified. One which time and circumstance have shown, show, and will show no mercy. A body restricted by the bounds of name, descent, society, and culture. A body judged aesthetically- more unsolicited than not. We have but to step out into the world for it to hail upon us its labels, for it to classify and rank us from a single stare. 

We have bodies, but we are souls.

I am a soul.

I would like to disappear, into the noise, or within the music; disintegrate in the chaos, or dance along the calm. I want to be the warm touch, the cold shoulder, the feelings that flood or those that soothe.

I want to be the freedom, the waterfall, the drizzle. I want to be the elements.

My soul transcends me, outgrows me. My soul is the universe; it is everywhere, it is nowhere...and I, too, would like to be nowhere in particular.

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Wow, that's a big brain!

I think it’s kind of genius. I think that it’s so amazing and miraculous and that’s only cause no one knows about it yet. I don’t even know about it yet. It’s going to be gold amongst another dimension (because gold is the only thing I could think of that has monetary value amongst humans). It’s going to sell out and rock out because it exists in secret…and that’s what makes it pure and special. Like, the air is fucking it, and there are outer-worldly phenomenon touching it. Nothing is eating it up and nothing is something. But, this genius, this thing is innocent and it’s never seen a fight break out or a murder. It’s kind of violent but it doesn’t know violence. It’s crazy kind of like Carroll from the drug-drug days. (I hated everything he said but I couldn’t stop reading it.) I bet he was a beautiful man but media portrayed him ugly and otherwise. But Jim Carroll isn’t what’s hiding, it’s just this thing that’s forever and we don’t know about it yet. It’s swimming in us and all around us. It’s a great force. I just feel like once we develop the technology to catch it, we’re going to study it into extinction. It’s genius but it’s not invincible. Our frontal cortex makes us liable to fuck it up, weather it be with attention or syringes. I hope it lasts when it debuts but for now the fairies and the sprites are enjoying it cause we might kill em’ too. 

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No one ever asks to be the center of a meaningful story. Those who do, don't know better.

They don't know how much it hurts to travel through the sea of hard-eyed faces that represent real conflict. Settings are arenas. New people are the honored dead, or even worse, they're lions. Try it sometime. Find out what's happening just past polite. Find out who needs you. Listen.

Give it a week. You'll realize how wrong you were.

Give it a month. You'll change, whether you let yourself or not.

Give it a few more character establishing arcs. You won't even recognize what you once knew.

Then compare the pain to your progress. If you're even close to happy? Your life's a genre story.

If you don't have answers, congratulations.

Your life is literary. I hope you win a prize.

Prompt: wonderfulwritingprompts

48: A Word

It's late. I finished a manuscript draft. The opinions represented here only represent one of many of my many contradictions. My editing department is currently furloughed. (Thanks, Obama...) (c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking prompts, feedback, and amusingly sarcastic memes.


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Desire by richard lynn livesay


Let me burn

burn into ashes,

ashes into the wind,

wind that whispers secrets,

secrets that fill my head with awe,

awe that transfigures, transcends mind

mind, too minded by a righteous world, unconscious

unconsciousness of the tiniest atom within the material plexus

plexus of photons,light ,maybe the quantum light soul, a wave of eternity

eternity, spiraling in a never ending cycle, holding the answer to everything, Now

Now I lay me down to sleep, dreams become reality and my reality, surreal independence

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(Prompt: Writers Write Daily Writing Prompt, via amandaonwriting)

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

You see, an arming jacket pads and insulates soft skin and muscle from uncompromising iron. It soaks up the sweat and blood from brute exertion that might dare to corrode a gleaming shell to ruin. It is a fabric border between the human and relentless inhumanity. An arming jacket makes plate armor possible.

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

In Dahl's Fields, she'd stood vigilant. Demons and death uncountable visited the dotted plain of plantations. No. By a few arrow pits and horn punctures, by the texture of rough twine across her ribs, she knew. She'd killed 47 creatures on her own. She'd saved 54 families. 23? She hadn't. Her armor polished clean soon after.

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

At Rundell, she stood vigilant. At Sarrsford, she stood vigilant. At the Wall of Wells, she'd gleamed and swept her steel across, an endless rain of red. Across men, not monsters. The plate had taken not a nick, but she savaged her arming jacket with her own bloody nails and salt-stained the silk with tears. Still, she stood vigilant. 

Her arming jacket was a mess of bloody scars.

The armor gleamed like faith. Beneath, flesh strained and struggled to keep pace.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins

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Imagine if you could feel it, from your bones to your balls, from your soles to your ovaries or lack thereof. Imagine sharing all the feelings of all the others that you pass by, city streets or country roads. Mingling on elevators, rolling dusty tumble weeds, rising, falling, writhing to a human tide. Would you lose your mind or find it, do you think?

I do. At least, I think I feel it, sometimes. I feel a little baby's finger grasping mine across a boulevard. I fear the white woman passing by, what she might say or do from fear of me. We're both ashamed and careful.  I see but do not see the hungry body sleeping next to me. I'd cry, if I didn't find it condescending. Is it?

Maybe. Even if I tasted every tongue and open wound around me, would I know? Can a single moment tell me more that, a moment? Can I judge them from their songs, t-shirts, or stupid comments? Would it change a thing if I could show them? If I could reblog them my perspective?

Maybe. I mean, isn't every artist crazy? Writers sketch out with misshapen characters, the characters that we observe. We even try, in our own way, to give them all what they deserve. We try to make some sense out of the slopes and curves of kindness, tragedy, and conflict. Does it work?

I doubt it. It never works in person, does it? Do you ever really know a whole story? Even if you slip into every character, lick up all their pages? Wouldn't we imagine different faces, every reader, writer,  blogger and bystander? I don't think three eyes see the same colors. Still, I try it every day. 

Still, I hope and dream to find a way to speak my mind and share it out, engage your spaces.

And, yes, one day? Get paid to make this. Is that all right?

Sure. We all pay for what sustains us.

Prompt: A passionate Anonymous asked me:

One love.

Still seeking pieces to reblog and review. If you see me, why not try me? Just e-mail me.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. I could also use like, reblogs, prompts, questions, or commentary.