Crowley_Ism
12-16-2006, 10:07 AM
I write spontaneously at like 4 in the morning...and come up with some pretty stupid crap, like this piece. I'm continuing it...whenever I get halfasleep I write until I'm basically banging my head on the keyboard and snoring...lol But here you go. Enjoy my sleepwriting:
Prologue:
Emptiness, emptiness... like gorging on a black hole, void of light. My life is a picture, still and waiting to be worn by snappy fingers. Still waiting to be used by mouths that lap hungrily at my tired feet, bruised from so many miles of nothing but nothingness. I remember how I stood, a young boy at fifteen years of age, at the foot of a church, my ears pricking at the bells' ceaseless calling, recalling the same emptiness even though people swarmed around my body like rabid bees and busy insects.... Life is a hole in itself, and the hole is to be swallowed by the same whole hole, not a crumb left to the dogs.
Forgive me for not introducing myself...I'm not yet wise in ways of the meeting ones not known to oneself, nor am I keen on skills when delving into the communication between human beings. My name, however, I can tell you, and that is Randau. Randau Jack Climson. Most faces I recognize call me by the Jack, while some select few think it better to use the first name in such a string of unneccessary words. What is in a name? Nothing but emptiness, being gobbled up by darkness. Yet you must have one to carry on in this dreary world.
So I, Randau, or Jack, whichever you prefer...shall tell you a tale of this thing called emptiness. I must warn you, however, that listening to such a story may bring you a sense of dread or maybe some subtle fear... Emptiness is timeless ad flawless, emptiness is omnipresent, is fate, is destiny no matter what the path. His words are clear. This is my story. I pray you follow in silence.
It was snowy on the day that I met this man, a fine sunny morning just off of the western corner of a street lining the grounds of Spitalfield. The year is on time of a fresh 1987 January, so the streets have, of course as always, become slick with ice. Snowcaps adorn many of the objects in sight, a white display of death and rebirth. Something harboring what was to come... A pair of doves flirted alongside an iron fence, trailing along it's old gothic designs that were ingraved in the hard railing. I watched them for a moment, amused, but I dared not smile. Smiling was for the good children, and I had been quite unruly that same week, running off from our home on Bradford Street a couple of towns over, vowing and crossing my heart on not coming back.
He sat beside an old wooden bench. I cocked my head, wondering why an adult would prefer the ground rather than a seat, where the ice wouldn't be as enticed to melt through and soak the garments. The birds forgotten, flitted away in their play, and I remained concentrated on this man. From where I stood perhaps a little over a yard away, I could see that he was facing the opposite direction from where I approached, seemingly unawares of my impolite staring. The worn boots on my feet crunched the softer sheathes of ice, melting it in small flurries, but the sound did not stir the stranger. He remained still as a rock overgrown in thick moss, unmoving, unwavering.
As I came closer still, I recognized the gray material of the coat, a little embroidered path up near the collar...My eyes widened in astonishment. Years ago, my great grandfather wore a coat of the same branding, but the company that sold those clothing pieces had been put out of business long ago. A fine jacket like that was rare. Studying the coat, and quite truthfully forgetting that a man came with it and was sitting as I stared on in such a rude manner, it came to be no surprise that I was startled by his loud words.
"So you finally come." The voice was dried out and had layers of thickness...the accent unmistakably originating from here. This man was not a traveller. Or at least, not in the way of hailing from across the many seas the earth possessed. Something about the air his words put off signalled to me that he was way beyond my years, and that there was also a means of danger behind them.
Young and foolish as I was, I was more concerned with the mystery and intriguing unbelief I felt towards the sentence. In the next few breaths I would seal my path to the nothingness and empty void that awaited a small wretch like me. "You know of me? You know who I am?" I asked, my mouth spitting before I could dwell upon what I was about to say, "You know I have run away, and you've told my mother, haven't you? You're the security, aren't you?" I swayed in the mound of snow, my boots sunken in, melted ice watering my stockings and chilling my feet.
Not turning to even catch a glimpse of me, the sitting man bobbed his head. A chuckle dripped from his direction. "Security, eh? That's what you call it..." He coughed. "I know not of your mother or of your pitiful excuse to escape your hellish life. However, I do know you. Your eyes tell a story."
"How can you know my eyes tell a story when you don't look at them?" A proceeded with my childish questions. He would teach me, as I found out. A good teacher does not let his students go wise in the way of ignorance. The true heart of a teacher is to uproot the very thing that makes children what they are... blinded ignorance. Children cannot see the emptiness. I could not either, until he showed me...
He laughed, "You have much to learn. Come closer, I wish to look at you now." He remained as a statue, and I hesitated. Finally, figuring there was no harm in talking to such a placid mannered old man, I moved forward cautiously, almost anxious to see his face. As I did so, one last phrase escaped me.
"I am willing. Teach me."
-------------------------
And the second piece I did not too long ago and then forgot I wrote it cause I wasn't awake but then found out I did write it and yeah....I just suck....-_-
Seed One:
"It is the unseen eyes that hold the most vivid of stories. The eyes that pierce you from behind, where one is most vulnerable. An eye, a stare...these are what compose a first impression, beyond what little you can grasp in the most simple of conversations."
~ Adam Crowley at age 14
------------------------
His small laugh was growing on me, even in the short time I had known him. The sound of it was full, and could be both used as evil or good;this concept confused me, even as I approached him with bated breath. Taking tiny steps towards him, my mind tried to sort out how I would feel about him looking upon me. Even at a youthful age, I was nothing to behold really. My torso was stretched like my long, gaunt face, and my cheeks did not hold the rosiness of my peers. Despite my short time lived on earth, I looked much older than fifteen. At least twenty or more they'd all claim, and I'd have to shake my head and say the correct number. Then they would chuckle and pinch my cheeks, some of them, the older ones. This man would not be pinching my cheeks, however.
Before I completed my journey to his side, I pulled the stray hairs from my eyes so I could get a better look at him when the time came. My breath let go when he suddenly jerked his face up towards mine, and I, being startled, nearly fell to the snowy grounds. The sitting man's face was not much more than a sunken skull, his large eyes glossy but dead...the teeth he possessed were cracked, sharp, and stuck out in every direction, some protruding grotesquely from his round mouth. The nose was up near his eyes, his face twice the length of my own... Not able to help myself, I cried out, falling back a few paces.
The man resembled nothing short of a monster in many of the horror films I watched over and over again. For a minute he kept looking at me, his eyes twinkling. Then he shut them, bowing his head and running a knarled hand adorned with twisted spikes for fingernails through his ratty white mop of hair. My expression was one of terrified shock, I'm sure, but I didn't blame myself. Who else would react any differently? Still sitting and keeping his vision away from me, the strange man finally spoke, "Your eyes still hold the same story. I only wanted to look at you and confirm the way you see me. It is given you are frightened of my appearance. Why? Why is that, young foolish child?" He did not once look up, his hands returned to his lap, nails dipping holes into the fuzzy white on the earth.
"I..." My voice stuck, the images in my head still reflecting the man's alarming features. Even though I tried, I could not take my eyes from him now, even if he was half turned away. Feeling a bit of shame for my action, I neard him, even sat beside the man without a peep, folding my legs under me. My nostrils flared, taking in his smell, the aroma of that one thing...that emptiness...It was shocking, but because I was unfamiliar with it, I passed it off as nothing much. I was foolish. I wold learn. Turning to him and trying to wear a smile despite my discomfort, I answered him. "Sorry for offending you...Can you forgive me?"
Slowly the face turned to mine, and I had to bite back any emotion I felt when seeing such abnormality. He was just a man, after all... The man's mouth remained slightly unopened, lips slack, until he returned words to me. "There is no ill will towards you. Not in a million eternities." Blinking a few times, he nodded towards the ground as he went on. "Many an eye have made this man weep tears of shame. It makes no difference if more tears fall. It is the unseen eye that pierces me the most."
"Like when I was staring at you from behind..." I said softly, trying to understand where he was going with the absurd conversation. It is not everyday you hear someone speak so naturally, yet with words that had substance. From where I sat the ice was melting around, leaving watery puddles around my backside. I shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable.
The man nodded, and if I could have seen his face through the snow white mane, I'm sure he would have smiled in the triumph of my understanding. "Precisely. It is the unseen eyes that hold the most vivid of stories. The eyes that pierce you from behind, where one is most vulnerable. An eye, a stare...these are what compose a first impression, beyond what little you can grasp in the most simple of conversations." The man looked at me, but the smile I specualted was not there, only slack lips and a hefty deep look in those dark eyes. "Randau Jack."
"How..." I started, but my startled expression knocked the words from me.
"My name is Adam Crowley." He chuckled again, the same dry laugh as before. It didn't melt my surprise. "You are a bright and perceptive young lad. Much like I was at your age."
I shook myself, twsiting my head from sde to side and arching my back a bit before relaxing. "That doesn't tell me how you know my name." I said, prodding him for answers. But instead of a few more sentences, I was awarded with his standing up abruptly. My eyes traveled up the tall legs, lanky torso...to the face, the dreadful face, that still concentrated on mine. "Where are you going?"
"As I walk away you will stare, and it will be a mighty stare of disgust and bewilderment." He said this, and if his voice weren't always so thick with emptiness, I'm sure it would have been weepy at best, almost a tone of loneliness. He thrust his head to the right and up, his scrunched up nose sniffing the bitterly cold air. I sat, watching him, not saying a word. He coughed and said, quietly, "Your mother must be worried about you. Your absense is her emptiness. Go to her and show her that you are safe." The eyes found mine again on his last sentence, and I could have sworn his face softened.
I, staring back, asked again, "But where are you going?"
The man shut me from vision again, lips working slowly, "I go where my feet take me. Now go show yourself to your mother. Begone."
Folding my hands together, I tilted my head down, looking at the spindly fingers on my hands, how sore they were from the cold. Both my stockings and my pants were soaking now, and soon I would get the shivers as I so hated. Adam seemed to know much about me...and about other humans in general. "Yes sir." I said, standing and trying to brush the grity flakes from my suit.
"That is..." He stopped, spinning his body away from mine, leaving me to speculate as to what he was going to say next.
I thre him a questioning look, at the back of the gray coat... Even though he could not gaze upon my face, I am sure he saw me learly in his mind. The unseen eyes always tell the most vivid story.
He sighed, loudly enough for me to hear how strained his breaths were, "To your mother. Go."
And he walked where his feet would take him, as I watched on in disgust and bewilderment as he figured I would. I watched this Adam Crowley follow the nothingness that led him. But whereas he didn't have an appointment, I had "orders". Jamming my hands in my wet pockets and feeling the crumpled money pieces I had left, I turned and began walking down one of the abandoned streets, through the snow that bites the soles of feet. I was walking in nothingness.
I was going home.
Prologue:
Emptiness, emptiness... like gorging on a black hole, void of light. My life is a picture, still and waiting to be worn by snappy fingers. Still waiting to be used by mouths that lap hungrily at my tired feet, bruised from so many miles of nothing but nothingness. I remember how I stood, a young boy at fifteen years of age, at the foot of a church, my ears pricking at the bells' ceaseless calling, recalling the same emptiness even though people swarmed around my body like rabid bees and busy insects.... Life is a hole in itself, and the hole is to be swallowed by the same whole hole, not a crumb left to the dogs.
Forgive me for not introducing myself...I'm not yet wise in ways of the meeting ones not known to oneself, nor am I keen on skills when delving into the communication between human beings. My name, however, I can tell you, and that is Randau. Randau Jack Climson. Most faces I recognize call me by the Jack, while some select few think it better to use the first name in such a string of unneccessary words. What is in a name? Nothing but emptiness, being gobbled up by darkness. Yet you must have one to carry on in this dreary world.
So I, Randau, or Jack, whichever you prefer...shall tell you a tale of this thing called emptiness. I must warn you, however, that listening to such a story may bring you a sense of dread or maybe some subtle fear... Emptiness is timeless ad flawless, emptiness is omnipresent, is fate, is destiny no matter what the path. His words are clear. This is my story. I pray you follow in silence.
It was snowy on the day that I met this man, a fine sunny morning just off of the western corner of a street lining the grounds of Spitalfield. The year is on time of a fresh 1987 January, so the streets have, of course as always, become slick with ice. Snowcaps adorn many of the objects in sight, a white display of death and rebirth. Something harboring what was to come... A pair of doves flirted alongside an iron fence, trailing along it's old gothic designs that were ingraved in the hard railing. I watched them for a moment, amused, but I dared not smile. Smiling was for the good children, and I had been quite unruly that same week, running off from our home on Bradford Street a couple of towns over, vowing and crossing my heart on not coming back.
He sat beside an old wooden bench. I cocked my head, wondering why an adult would prefer the ground rather than a seat, where the ice wouldn't be as enticed to melt through and soak the garments. The birds forgotten, flitted away in their play, and I remained concentrated on this man. From where I stood perhaps a little over a yard away, I could see that he was facing the opposite direction from where I approached, seemingly unawares of my impolite staring. The worn boots on my feet crunched the softer sheathes of ice, melting it in small flurries, but the sound did not stir the stranger. He remained still as a rock overgrown in thick moss, unmoving, unwavering.
As I came closer still, I recognized the gray material of the coat, a little embroidered path up near the collar...My eyes widened in astonishment. Years ago, my great grandfather wore a coat of the same branding, but the company that sold those clothing pieces had been put out of business long ago. A fine jacket like that was rare. Studying the coat, and quite truthfully forgetting that a man came with it and was sitting as I stared on in such a rude manner, it came to be no surprise that I was startled by his loud words.
"So you finally come." The voice was dried out and had layers of thickness...the accent unmistakably originating from here. This man was not a traveller. Or at least, not in the way of hailing from across the many seas the earth possessed. Something about the air his words put off signalled to me that he was way beyond my years, and that there was also a means of danger behind them.
Young and foolish as I was, I was more concerned with the mystery and intriguing unbelief I felt towards the sentence. In the next few breaths I would seal my path to the nothingness and empty void that awaited a small wretch like me. "You know of me? You know who I am?" I asked, my mouth spitting before I could dwell upon what I was about to say, "You know I have run away, and you've told my mother, haven't you? You're the security, aren't you?" I swayed in the mound of snow, my boots sunken in, melted ice watering my stockings and chilling my feet.
Not turning to even catch a glimpse of me, the sitting man bobbed his head. A chuckle dripped from his direction. "Security, eh? That's what you call it..." He coughed. "I know not of your mother or of your pitiful excuse to escape your hellish life. However, I do know you. Your eyes tell a story."
"How can you know my eyes tell a story when you don't look at them?" A proceeded with my childish questions. He would teach me, as I found out. A good teacher does not let his students go wise in the way of ignorance. The true heart of a teacher is to uproot the very thing that makes children what they are... blinded ignorance. Children cannot see the emptiness. I could not either, until he showed me...
He laughed, "You have much to learn. Come closer, I wish to look at you now." He remained as a statue, and I hesitated. Finally, figuring there was no harm in talking to such a placid mannered old man, I moved forward cautiously, almost anxious to see his face. As I did so, one last phrase escaped me.
"I am willing. Teach me."
-------------------------
And the second piece I did not too long ago and then forgot I wrote it cause I wasn't awake but then found out I did write it and yeah....I just suck....-_-
Seed One:
"It is the unseen eyes that hold the most vivid of stories. The eyes that pierce you from behind, where one is most vulnerable. An eye, a stare...these are what compose a first impression, beyond what little you can grasp in the most simple of conversations."
~ Adam Crowley at age 14
------------------------
His small laugh was growing on me, even in the short time I had known him. The sound of it was full, and could be both used as evil or good;this concept confused me, even as I approached him with bated breath. Taking tiny steps towards him, my mind tried to sort out how I would feel about him looking upon me. Even at a youthful age, I was nothing to behold really. My torso was stretched like my long, gaunt face, and my cheeks did not hold the rosiness of my peers. Despite my short time lived on earth, I looked much older than fifteen. At least twenty or more they'd all claim, and I'd have to shake my head and say the correct number. Then they would chuckle and pinch my cheeks, some of them, the older ones. This man would not be pinching my cheeks, however.
Before I completed my journey to his side, I pulled the stray hairs from my eyes so I could get a better look at him when the time came. My breath let go when he suddenly jerked his face up towards mine, and I, being startled, nearly fell to the snowy grounds. The sitting man's face was not much more than a sunken skull, his large eyes glossy but dead...the teeth he possessed were cracked, sharp, and stuck out in every direction, some protruding grotesquely from his round mouth. The nose was up near his eyes, his face twice the length of my own... Not able to help myself, I cried out, falling back a few paces.
The man resembled nothing short of a monster in many of the horror films I watched over and over again. For a minute he kept looking at me, his eyes twinkling. Then he shut them, bowing his head and running a knarled hand adorned with twisted spikes for fingernails through his ratty white mop of hair. My expression was one of terrified shock, I'm sure, but I didn't blame myself. Who else would react any differently? Still sitting and keeping his vision away from me, the strange man finally spoke, "Your eyes still hold the same story. I only wanted to look at you and confirm the way you see me. It is given you are frightened of my appearance. Why? Why is that, young foolish child?" He did not once look up, his hands returned to his lap, nails dipping holes into the fuzzy white on the earth.
"I..." My voice stuck, the images in my head still reflecting the man's alarming features. Even though I tried, I could not take my eyes from him now, even if he was half turned away. Feeling a bit of shame for my action, I neard him, even sat beside the man without a peep, folding my legs under me. My nostrils flared, taking in his smell, the aroma of that one thing...that emptiness...It was shocking, but because I was unfamiliar with it, I passed it off as nothing much. I was foolish. I wold learn. Turning to him and trying to wear a smile despite my discomfort, I answered him. "Sorry for offending you...Can you forgive me?"
Slowly the face turned to mine, and I had to bite back any emotion I felt when seeing such abnormality. He was just a man, after all... The man's mouth remained slightly unopened, lips slack, until he returned words to me. "There is no ill will towards you. Not in a million eternities." Blinking a few times, he nodded towards the ground as he went on. "Many an eye have made this man weep tears of shame. It makes no difference if more tears fall. It is the unseen eye that pierces me the most."
"Like when I was staring at you from behind..." I said softly, trying to understand where he was going with the absurd conversation. It is not everyday you hear someone speak so naturally, yet with words that had substance. From where I sat the ice was melting around, leaving watery puddles around my backside. I shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable.
The man nodded, and if I could have seen his face through the snow white mane, I'm sure he would have smiled in the triumph of my understanding. "Precisely. It is the unseen eyes that hold the most vivid of stories. The eyes that pierce you from behind, where one is most vulnerable. An eye, a stare...these are what compose a first impression, beyond what little you can grasp in the most simple of conversations." The man looked at me, but the smile I specualted was not there, only slack lips and a hefty deep look in those dark eyes. "Randau Jack."
"How..." I started, but my startled expression knocked the words from me.
"My name is Adam Crowley." He chuckled again, the same dry laugh as before. It didn't melt my surprise. "You are a bright and perceptive young lad. Much like I was at your age."
I shook myself, twsiting my head from sde to side and arching my back a bit before relaxing. "That doesn't tell me how you know my name." I said, prodding him for answers. But instead of a few more sentences, I was awarded with his standing up abruptly. My eyes traveled up the tall legs, lanky torso...to the face, the dreadful face, that still concentrated on mine. "Where are you going?"
"As I walk away you will stare, and it will be a mighty stare of disgust and bewilderment." He said this, and if his voice weren't always so thick with emptiness, I'm sure it would have been weepy at best, almost a tone of loneliness. He thrust his head to the right and up, his scrunched up nose sniffing the bitterly cold air. I sat, watching him, not saying a word. He coughed and said, quietly, "Your mother must be worried about you. Your absense is her emptiness. Go to her and show her that you are safe." The eyes found mine again on his last sentence, and I could have sworn his face softened.
I, staring back, asked again, "But where are you going?"
The man shut me from vision again, lips working slowly, "I go where my feet take me. Now go show yourself to your mother. Begone."
Folding my hands together, I tilted my head down, looking at the spindly fingers on my hands, how sore they were from the cold. Both my stockings and my pants were soaking now, and soon I would get the shivers as I so hated. Adam seemed to know much about me...and about other humans in general. "Yes sir." I said, standing and trying to brush the grity flakes from my suit.
"That is..." He stopped, spinning his body away from mine, leaving me to speculate as to what he was going to say next.
I thre him a questioning look, at the back of the gray coat... Even though he could not gaze upon my face, I am sure he saw me learly in his mind. The unseen eyes always tell the most vivid story.
He sighed, loudly enough for me to hear how strained his breaths were, "To your mother. Go."
And he walked where his feet would take him, as I watched on in disgust and bewilderment as he figured I would. I watched this Adam Crowley follow the nothingness that led him. But whereas he didn't have an appointment, I had "orders". Jamming my hands in my wet pockets and feeling the crumpled money pieces I had left, I turned and began walking down one of the abandoned streets, through the snow that bites the soles of feet. I was walking in nothingness.
I was going home.