Hour Two - The Nutcracker

It’s 1:30 – time to start writing for an hour.
THE NUTCRACKER
The sun brinked on the eastern side of the world, casting silver rays through the morning dressing of sheer cloud wisps and sleeping pine trees. The rays lit a small clearing where two young men were collecting nuts.
“Just break it open with a rock,” one suggested.
“Nay, we’re civilized people, Tay.” the other mocked half-seriously. “We must use our jaws.”
“A rock is a tool,” Tay countered. “Civilized people use tools.”
“Would you rather die as a result of having a stone thrown at you versus someone’s hands around your neck? I mean, think about the respect we’re paying the nut here, by using our own person, our jaws, to crack it. It creates the feeling within the neck that it is a worthy foe, and that we’re paying it respect by fighting it ourselves. Kind of like the king fighting the victorious gladiator, which, of course, must die before being let loose. The king respects the warrior, and so must fight him himself. See what I mean?”
Tay’s face still showed signs of doubt. “It’s a hazelnut, Will. Just smash it with a rock.”
“You and your tools.” Will shook his head disdainfully. “Why use tools when you have a perfectly good set of tools in your head, man? Use your jaws, man.”
“Why not make a tool that works like jaws?”
“Haha! You mean I could create a little wood manikin with a set of jaws and use those jaws to crack the nut?”
“Well, that’s not really what I was getting at, but sure, that’s an idea. I can even paint it to look like a man, if that eases your conscience about paying the nut respect and all that.”
“Yes! And dress it like a nobleman, to make it even more so respectful.”
Tay shook his head. “You’re crazy, man. But OK.”
Two hours later, they have a small wooden man with a lever to work his jaws. It’s painted to look like a german nobleman.
“What shall we call him?”
“Nutcracker Tool.”
“Sire Nut Cracker it is.”
THE END

It is the year of the Fire Star. It has been since the sudden appearance of the New Moon after the Cataclysm. I, Catham, am Wizard of the New Moon. At the time of this writing, I am in exile from the Great Conclave, which contrary to its name, is all-inclusive (except for dissidents such as myself).

Hour One

Okay, I have to write for an hour now. It’s 1:41, and I will stop at 2:45 or 3:00… or longer than that, if that’s what it takes, and if I have time. Perhaps I’ll do some character sketches. I was tempted to do them on some people I know, but then I decided that that wasn’t entirely fair to those people, since I don’t know them very well. I never know real people as well as I know the people I create, the people who are in my head. The people in my head have been very quiet for the past couple of months, with occasional knockings about inside my skull. Perhaps my head has been a comfortable place for them lately. I should shake it up a bit… make them want to come out to live in their permanent home on paper. Of course, this paper may very well change – we’ll call this their home remodeling. I would like to create and submit, and have published, a story for the Fantasy magazine I receive. I read a really good one in there earlier this week. I should say, started, for I did not finish it. I have been appreciating good metaphors and visual writing more and more lately. “The banished sun circles the earth like a grieving mother with a candle.” This quote caught my attention in a big way. Love it. I’ve also been appreciating poetry more and more… as long it makes sense and can evoke emotion – that is to say, good poetry.

I tried to inspire myself today… to get myself in the mood for writing. When I woke up this morning, I really wanted to write something beautiful and whimsical. But I knew that I needed to get some things done – that getting a job at this point is more important than writing, because I need to pay my bills. And I also needed to clean up my closet and bathroom, since I just moved in with Aaron – today is my second day here in Ohio with him. So, I got up, showered, did some job-searching, cleaned the bathroom and closet, and just now finished. I put on the classical music channel, feeling satisfied that my work was all done. The Christmas tree lights are reflecting in the sliding glass door like so many sparkling fairies. But when I was done with all my work, with the classical music ( I like to call it ‘story music’ because each piece tells a story – a different story every time), I really wasn’t feeling creative. Maybe I’m just too tired to be creative. And I know I need to improve my vocabulary - good words create good metaphors.

Tonight, Aaron and I are going out to dinner with Brad and his wife Alex. Brad is Aaron’s boss, but not really. They’re both independent insurance salesmen, and Aaron reports to Brad, but is really his own boss, and boss to other agents as well. Brad just gets overwrites on Aaron’s agency’s business. Anyway, we both know them pretty well, and I was going to do a character sketch on Brad, but I think it would be better to do a character sketch on someone LIKE Brad. But Brad is so complicated, and it’s better, well easier to write a character sketch on someone you don’t know at all. Besides, a Brad-type person isn’t knocking around in my head to get out on paper. Although I’m sure, if he was, he’d be very insistent about being let out, since that’s the way he is.

So maybe I’ll just try to write something else. After all, it’s only 1:55.

The morning path was misted over from the night’s rain. Tendrils of foggy gray stuff lay over the road, swirling in a puff of morning breeze which ruffled the spring’s dawning tree leaves, just beginning to unfurl. Tall pine trees climbed sporadically throughout the forest, piercing through the topmost layer of dreary cloud to the sun above. The valley lay below, in a similar state, and the traveler stood and watched from a rock promontory on the edge of the rim. The traveler wasn’t remarkable on this path which saw many visitors. He wasn’t very tall, not very thin, not very well dressed. He didn’t stand out in any way. If one were to look closer, he would see wary brown eyes, black-haired arms and a brow wrinkled with doubt. A patched and hooded cloak covered his head. At his side, a mottled black and brown dog stood, also watching the valley below. A low whine sounded in his throat, and the man absently reached down to pat the dog, who looked up at him in appreciation before turning his attention back to the valley. It isn’t known what they were looking for, but look they did, before deciding that they didn’t like the look of the road, and melted soundlessly into the black muddy shadows of the forest.

Maybe I am not inspired because I’m hungry and somewhat thirsty. Hhmm. Maybe because I’m distracted by many things today. It’s Wednesday and I am not at work. I am jobless. Jobless by choice, but still jobless. I have about $2,500 to my name, not counting my 401k, which I don’t want to dip into. My bills are considerably less now however, since I don’t have to pay electricity, cable or rent. However, I still have car payments , car insurance, and phone services to pay for. And I want to help out with Aaron’s rent, but not until I get a job. Because that would be foolish. And that could be why I’m distracted. Also, this is my first time forcing myself to write for an hour. I write pretty fast – can you imagine the breadth of work I could create if I did this every single day?

Let me see if I can make a short poem.

The white Christmas tree,
which aaron made for me
is sparse and yet free.

Its red and green balls
are spread among its boughs
as if they’re fearful to fall.

While not very true,
it gave me something to do,
at least they’re green, not blue.

Hmm… that was absolutely horrible, which is what you get when you make a poem in three minutes.

I still have half an hour to go. Should I stop now since it’s only my first time? But no… if I want to be writer (and a writer I shall be), I must train myself to write for several hours a day, whereas only one hour today, is quite a good, short-enough start. Perhaps I’ll start writing for 2 hours a day! Perhaps tomorrow I’ll actually write a story or scenario or something that flows together instead of frantic finger-rambling… but they say that if you can’t write, just WRITE. So that’s what I’m doing – writing my thoughts down on electronic paper.

I am starting to get sore from hauling boxes and unpacking and organizing, but I am so happy that it’s done now - at least for a while. Aaron is looking for a house to rent or buy, and once he finds one, we’re moving from here to there, and we’ll have to pack everything back up yet again, and unload and unpack and organize it all over again.

It’s been a long time since I lived with someone. It’s been a long time since I told someone I loved them, or had them say it back (family doesn’t count). It feels strange. Like an awkward kind of fuzzy feeling as you wonder if it’s really true because it feels so new, and you blush and feel so out of place and different. But then you get this wonderful, not awkward, fuzzy feeling when you think about it later… and you think, “This might be it! This could be it.” And you wonder what he thinks about all your stuff being in his place… taking up all of his space. You wonder if he really is ready to give up bachelorhood, even though it WAS him who asked you to move into his place, and not just his place, but his place on the other side of the United States, and he came to get you and load your truck and drive it two thousand miles from Phoenix to Ohio, and you wonder if he appreciates so much the fact that you gave up your job and benefits and security for him, and the wonderful Phoenix weather and friends for him. And you wonder if he knows how much you appreciate his personality and consideration and friendliness. If he knows how much you respect his ability and motivation and drive to succeed. How much you appreciate the similarities the two of you share… and then you think, of course he knows. He’s the one who asked you to move in with him. It’s a vicious circle, it really is. All of the wondering, the tension, the awkwardness and fuzziness – it’s all part of a new relationship… one you really hope works out…

Why did I start typing all of that in second person? Is it because I feel better distancing myself from those feelings? Because I can analyze them better that way? Could possibly be. There are some interesting emotions which I have, which could be used in writing, but it feels weird writing them about me; it’s easier and more fluid to write them about, or TO someone.

Well, it’s been very nearly an hour. I am going to say that it was, indeed, an hour, and get this all posted into my writing blog.