Simon muttered stumbling, kicking a small green cup, sending it spinning and twisting across the floor. Light danced as it moved and a thin sound came from it, like a scream but pure. The wall wavered again
Simon turned away and into the wall, then stopped. It felt good. Little sparks scratched and titillated that deep itch that never quite subsided. He stretched his arms out wide and floated up slightly, letting the cinder blocks meld into him, firm after the softness of their plaster cover. He shimmied slightly pushing the rough molecules deeper , sharpening and polishing. He stretched his toes out – that always felt good in a hot bath after a long day – and felt the curious little sparking warm them. He flexed his legs carefully sending part of his left foot outside of the wall. Simon heard steps outside and pushed his face part way, looking into the hallway leading to the stairs and building doors. A short, blonde girl with incongruous jet black eyelashes screamed. He moved back hastily into the security of the wall.
‘The man was tall, well perhaps just a bit above average height’ . . . Simon stopped for a moment to consider . . . ‘tall, yes’ he decided, but not freakishly so.
‘He was handsome too in a dark way. Midnight brown eyes in a almost Mediterranean face that was always fresh shaved, framed by a button down collar on a crisply ironed checked shirt…..’ He seemed unaware of Simon’s attention.
‘….and thinly tailored blue dress trousers with fashionably brown leather shoes’, Simon added, not wishing to leave the picture unfinished. The man spoke easily and confidently, in a mid range voice, with hints of bass, smiling slightly at small hints of jokes he made, and serious in turn, rotating both. His intelligence was thrusting and deep and quick. Yet he chatted affably and easily as a friend to a friend, and equal to an equal, giving no hint of superiority.
I guess that’s why Simon felt annoyed.
Simon sat, feeling the breeze soft and fresh, hearing trees rustling softly to each other; their song strummed lightly. Sundays were so quiet, dead, or nearly so. He was in Hell’s waiting room, after all. He thought for a moment about that phrase, ‘after all’. How appropriate! He was now after ‘all’ his life and was waiting. Other ‘guests’, in their golden years snorted, farted, lay inert or babbled meaninglessly. Perhaps together it all made sense. The noises of Hell’s invitees, an orchestra tuning up for a tuneless eternity. Katy came, floating in the air an inch or two above the bench beside him, but was interrupted for a bit by an almost poem that popped into his head…… then she returned into view, beckoning, threatening, promising. ‘Well’, Simon supposed, ‘what sort of hell would Hell be without her?’ A pretty poor one, ‘a hell’ rather than ‘the Hell’. He ignored her for the moment,
Is change the order of life? Is change the cake or the icing? I have changed the title of this site a bit and altered some of the ‘about’ context to paint a better picture of what I am doing here. I began with an idea to write a multimedia book using Apple’s ‘Pages’ word processor. Why this WP? Well, it easily allows an artist in words to insert videos, different fonts, pictures, drawings by simply dragging and dropping. I found too, that if a video were inserted in a page, when the reader came to that page it would automatically start to play. This was a few years ago. At the same time, I found that only those with ‘Pages’ could experience this multimedia effect.
I joined several Linkedin eBooks groups where I found that making this ability universal was for the future and to be found in the mysterious HTML5. So, I kept my eye on developments and continued to write using Pages in preparation for that future dawn.
Steve Jobs died in 2011. Bear with me! This will fit the above thoughts! I have just finished watching the movie, Steve Jobs: the Man in the Machine. This was pretty much an attack on his character. I am not saying it was inaccurate, but only that the movie was not balanced. The balance that was either ignored or pushed off to the side, was the primary difference between Apple and any competitor. Steve Jobs always insisted that Apple products be beautiful. Outside the automobile industry, gadgets, devices and so on have usually had a utilitarian feel. They were paint by numbers. Apple devices – and not just the devices – even the power supply equipment and the packagings are original works of art. This is directly because of Steve Jobs. It is sometimes forgotten too, that he is the impulse behind having a multitude of fonts for text. Too bad WordPress doesn’t allow me to change fonts!
Apparently, the last product of Apple that Steve Jobs personally pushed was iBooks Author. At last, I could write multimedia without having literally millions to spend on programmers, designers, and so on. I am ramping up my main work in this format because rumours float around that Apple has lost its mojo and will not support iBooks Author much longer. If and when that happens, my painting with words will die. I pray the rumours are false, but there have been no updates since 2015.
Back to good change: I received some good advice on a professional author’s Facebook group about marketing. I was having trouble deciding how to market my work when I have such a common name. Searches for ‘Edward Smith’ turn up pages and pages on the Captain of the Titanic. I was told I needed to emphasize my word painting and to stick the word ‘author’ after my name on everything I post or write. I don’t like the word ‘author’ as it seems pretentious for me anyway. I am just a writer. Nothing special. So I changed the title of the blog and added in a subscript, “I paint with words’.
Here goes! (and here is text in a favourite font of mine: chalkduster
I am watching this: Gerhard Richter on Beauty
As is common with my flibbertegibbet mind, I spun off in one frame. He was talking wisely and the video showed a long plank with wet paint along its length. Richter, I believe now paints with these giant two handed boards and perhaps this was paint waiting to be applied. I don’t know. But instead of listening to Richter, I looked at the paint. Texture. It was thick and rich. I didn’t want to touch it so much as enter it and feel its creamy wetness and thickness merging with the molecules of my physical being.
Back to Richter on Beauty.
And another bit of the word painting:
Bjorn looked straight ahead, preferring not to notice SuperTeddy’s usual landing, but wondering why that bear always looked surprised though he always landed on his ass.
Bjorn spoke out of the side of his mouth, forming the words carefully, “What do you think of Simon and Liliana, SuperTeddy?”
“Well,” SuperTeddy grunted this out, breathless still.
“Well, I climbed to the top of the Torch Building exactly so I could fly here to save Simon.” His breath back, SuperTeddy managed a complete sentence.
‘I see,” said Bjorn…. “I see….I felt the same danger, so I came in my longboat.”
“Do you sense the same danger? I see Liliana as unsuitable for our author.” Bjorn said this with a ‘Norseman preparing his shield and sword for battle’ voice, although both shield and sword were long gone.
SuperTeddy replied, “Exactly. She will give him pleasure in his loneliness for a while, but I don’t know what will happen to him when she cuts him down. He won’t see it coming. He won’t see it.”
And Bjorn with Scandinavian directness added, “And then what happens to us? What happens if our author sinks back into the pit?”
SuperTeddy looked morose and worried, “What, indeed?”
I got back to my long word painting today….I stood back and decided this part is done (for now)
“Hello Simon” in a voice that was murky and chocolate, recognition dawning.
“But I saw you in the street, looking at me, naughty boy! Come, let’s get a drink and find a quiet corner, where I can unravel the mystery man who misses his own première.”
She guided him to a corner where the noise was muted. They sat in the now vacated love seat, positioned awkwardly, close but just barely touching, thigh to thigh. She smiled and spoke, “I was wondering if you would come. I didn’t see you backstage after, or in your seat. I looked.” Her voice purred, low and chocolate, accent indeterminate, only distantly English. Simon answered, “There was some mixup with the tickets and I managed to get a seat in the balcony.” “Oh,” she said, frowning slightly, “Didn’t your staff take care of this? Mine go ahead of the limo and make certain of details like that.”
He blushed, “I don’t have staff. Just me. And no limo. I came on the Underground and walked over from the station.”
Liliana’s eyebrows rose and she smiled, laughing a little, “You are an odd one,” she purred again. “Well you are here now.” She leaned into him and touched his arm lightly and gave him a peck of a kiss as he turned. Her intended target, his cheek was missed and their lips met, briefly. They both felt a slight shock. Her lips were soft and yielding, wet. He wanted more suddenly. He drew back, vainly collecting himself.