Me:

Cursedly aware of my own inability to focus on something for more than ten minutes at a time...

Clockwork

I had this idea for a little bit about revisiting the Pinocchio story, and make it about a clever young clock maker who builds an automaton. I don't remember exactly what I wished to accomplish with it. Something along the lines of a Tin Man kind of story. The automaton learns to love and saves the clock maker through the power of friendship or something. Then it got kind of dark, and the ideas became more about the clock maker fashioning himself an automaton companion to spend his life with, but ends up abandoning it when a witch curses him, because he won't sell her the automaton. He falls into a zombie servant kind of curse to serve the witch for the rest of his life and the automaton is abandoned to rust, because it doesn't understand why it was built and it was powerless to save it's maker. I don't really know any more. It's been too long. But here's Two different intros I tried out:

On a cliff by the sea (in retrospect, an awful place for a clock maker) stood a well built house. In this house lived a clever young clock maker. His name was Ivan and he could make anything you could imagine with cogs and springs. He made clocks for anyone who would buy them, He also made toys for children and adults alike. He once built a clock for the mayor that chimed every hour. And at six and twelve, it would put on a tiny, mechanical play. Ivan loved his work but was very lonely in his house by the sea.... 

Ivan sighed. He would never finish the Mayor's clock on time unless he worked all night again. He pushed his work spectacle up his nose and went back to fitting the minuscule gears into the tiny figures that would pop out of the clock every few hours.

"It will be an obnoxious piece, that's for sure," he muttered to himself. The Mayor had commissioned a huge, flashy piece, to put on an intricate, mechanized skit at six and twelve, and no bell or whistle was too much... 

"Never isn't ever as long
as you think it is"

OK, well, that's new

I guess people actually read my stuff now. Oh boy. Prepare your anuses for more shitty writing. Don't judge me!

Fragment 2

Sitting benieth the dead tree
Spinning songs of smoke and dreams
the moon sets in the east
and the road home is oh so very short

Booked!!

A few years ago I kept a sort of idea journal, a bit like what I'm doing now with this blog, except that I carried it in my bag and whenever I had a little piece of poetry, or a whole story I wanted to tell, I'd write it down, time stamp and date it. For a long time, I thought I had lost it. Turns out, it was just packed away from one of the like five times I've moved since I lost track of it. Maybe if I try really hard and concentrate on these abandoned stories, I might find motivation to write new stuff again...

Forgetting

Every know and then something tickles my memory. It's like I should remember something, but I can't quite figure out what. I guess I wrote this in like 2005 as a sort of testament to that kind of frustration.

I sing a song at the end of the day
the tune is familiar
the words stay away
I search for the rest
but it's gone in an instant
Why won't it come to me?

I almost catch it but it slips away
Where did it come from?
Why won't it stay?
Reaching through cobwebs
that clutter my mind
Why won't it come to me?

Snatches and snipets
it's here then it's gone
Why won't it come to me?
Why do I feel that my life is this song?
Why won't it come to me?