running commentary in the digital age aka strategies to keep sanity

fish lips

We sit on the hood of your parent's old car. You lounge like a king, and I perch awkwardly, my elbows attempting to anchor my wayward butt from sliding down the bonnet. Your breath rises in the night. Hot air. Ice cold. I, the jester, place two fingers on my lips, pulling them away, and exhale. You grab my arm, laughing as my body squeaks down the car's sloping body.

"Second hand smoke and a wax job?"

"I know. I'm a catch."

"I better not let you get away then!"

You hoist me back up, my arm your sceptre with which you command me to lie back. We gaze up at your vast kingdom, your loyal subjects winking back at us.

"Hey."

You turn to me and I freeze. I'm staring, I know (the tips of your ears, your cheeks, your nose are pink from the cold) and I hope you don't know, don't notice. You don't.

"Watch this."

I'm watching. Wisps of black pepper and vanilla rise from your mouth, and then you turn away. Your mouth moves like a fish, lips forming an o, as a stream of flavoured vapour rushes out.

"What's that supposed to be? A fish?"

A slight dig in my ribs, a playful "accident" as you manoeuvre yourself up, elbows flailing against the bonnet.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Your face replaces the sky.

"Did you just call me a fish?"

I smile.

"That's it. You want fish? You'll get fish, princess."

You start again, lips moving absurdly. Fish lips. I squirm as you get closer and closer.

"No! Please! Anything you want. I'll do anything you want!"

I raise my arms in mock surrender, and begin to slide down the bonnet again. You grab my outstretched arms.

"You can't escape that easily!"

You playfully pin my wrists down. I raise my head in challenge.

"Oh no?"

You move closer, your face inches away from mine.

"Oh yes!"

There are clouds momentarily floating deliciously close to my face.

"Oh no! Damn it. You tricked me!"

You move away, your lips a wide crescent.

"That's more like it. Muuuhahahahaha!"

"Really? That's your evil laugh?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing."

I smirk.

"That's really all you got? You sound like a laughing cow."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, inhaling deeply.

"MUUUUUUUHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Your hands wave manically, fingers outstretched, and you slowly slide down the front of the car.
I follow laughing hard.

"What? Too much?"

I gasp for air, sprawled across the asphalt, but I can't stop laughing.

"You. Laughing cow. Megaphone. Raptor arms."

"And you can do better, Miss I-have-a-fetish-for-animals Evil?"

You look ridiculous. A haughty grin appears, your crown askew.

"Actually, I guess you can. Didn't know real evil laughter actually goes 'kekekeke'!"

"I don't sound like that!"

"Do too!"

"And I don't have an animal fetish!"

"Not even for mister fish?"

Your o shaped lips are attacking me again. Pressed against the asphalt I have nowhere to go. There's a pin prick of saliva on my nose. You exhale. Your breath is moist, but there are no clouds, body heat interfering. Your scent clouds my brain. You lean in and—

"Your breath smells like a spicy coconut."

"Well yours smells like pepper and vanilla."

"Be glad I didn't get garlic bread!"

"You still smell fishy!"

"Hey! I meant that in a nice way."

"And I didn't?"

"See! You do have an animal fetish! Or at least a fish fetish..."

"Prove it."

You lean in. I breathe out.

"Now you'll pay."

Mock anger suits you. Determination filling your eyes. For the second time tonight your lips meet mine, but this time there's nothing fishy about it except—

"You look like a stunned mullet, Miss Fish."

You breathe into my ear. My lips form a perfect o. I exhale. Clouds stream away. You move closer, your arm against mine.

"How come you can do that and I can't?"

"Do what?"

I'm floating upwards into your kingdom amongst the stars, feeling lighter and lighter with every breath.

"Blow smoke rings.”

You're facing me again.

"Is that what you were trying to do?"

Your eyes are smiling and I can't help but smile too.

"Yeah."

You grin.

"Well, Mister Fish, let me teach you."

We spend the rest of the night trying to blow Os into the sky, and occasionally at each other.

"Hey, fish lips?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I like you."

"Knew it!"

more breathing drafts

It all happens too fast. Vision obscured, the smoky tendrils invading every inch of space. Every crevice. Tramping its dirt through fine haired rugs, taking your breath as an invitation, it forces its way into your lungs.

You can't breathe.

A wet cloth hits you in the face. Too slow to react. It falls to the ground.

The droplets linger on your face, pores screaming, but unable to find relief. The smoke continues to suffocate.

"The! Cloth!"
Frantic. Choking.

Seconds later the sodden cloth pressed to your face. Again. A different kind of smothering. The heavy liquid muffling everything. Slight relief. Then it burns, your lungs. Your desperate gasps suck through the moisture, a wet film of air.

You cough.

[I don't know how to finish this one? Is this finished?]

***********

Sitting on the aisle seat, battered by passengers' bags, bracing us both against the wild swerves of the bus. The hot wind floats in through the window. Your scent surrounds me. A laden sports bag thumps me in the shoulder. I smile.

***

My lips curve in sync with yours as if still connected by the imprints we exchanged. A contented sigh, a warm sweet breeze embracing, tickling my insides. Your eyelashes flutter like butterflies. They land on the firm of my cheek, dancing. Your breath a continual caress of Summer.

***

The radio blares like a siren filling the room from a distance. You remain quite still, eyes closed, perfect picture of peace as if it's the softest of lullabys. I resist the urge to trace the tiny capillaries of your eyelid, to race my fingers down your nose like a ski jump, to wet my lips against yours. I do not move a single inch, body balanced precariously atop your arm. The blood probably pooling painfully, yet you calmly inhale, your chest rising, exhale, your chest falling, my eyes follow this circuit, chest, then eyelids falling in step. I become one with your arm as we both fall asleep.

***

I close my eyes upon request, seated upon a wooden bench, my fingers restrained from fidgeting, folded neatly on my lap. I tuck my legs, crossed at the ankles, beneath the bench, out of the way. I feel my eyes flutter, still closed, but pulsating in rebellion. This stillness, a facade of my best behaviour, is unbearable in my nervous excitement. I hear with my pores tiny hairs shaking, muscles tensing, the whoosh of air sped up as it paces frantically in and out of my lungs. Everything is loud. Louder than the seagulls squabbling less than a metre away and the cars down the road. I pause, barely daring to breathe. Your lips land on top of me.

***

There's a heavy weight on my chest impeding breath. Air rushes in an out, amplified, but falls short and shallow. Reverberations digging deep, echo through my ribs. I feel them cave. I wish they would cave. I fall apart within.

[This one ended itself too early :( damn you writing, why won't you work with me!?]

drafts for breathing

Between the state of wake and sleep you bob amongst my thoughts.

Flashes of my day carried by the waves.
Things left undone, unsaid, lap against my temples, but
you
are surrounding me.

A message in a bottle floats just beyond my reach.
It grows legs, gills, and rows itself away.

My reflection in water is staring back at me. It waves and ripples. It's you, smiling, you're everywhere, encapsulating the sea.

I'm drowning. Not in your eyes — two orbs of warmth; winking suns.
But in this water
I cannot drink fast enough.

I leak filling this vessel. Every single pore.
Your scent.
Invading.
There's nowhere left to go.

Oxygen is pushed aside.
My lungs cannot believe
what it is I'm doing
what you're doing to me.

This.
It's overwhelming.

I can no longer breathe.



***



That blonde joke. You know. The one where she dies at the hairdressers. I always laughed at that one. I mean how ridiculous having to be told when to breathe, right? I guess that was the point though. Ridiculous, I mean.

I wouldn't mind right now though. It's driving me insane. Waking up just as I doze off, frightened I cannot breathe.

I'm not breathing well right now. It's nothing serious, mind you. Just a cold that's driving me insane. Nose slugs having stubbornly turned in for the night as if Medusa had turned them to stone. The congestion is worse than peak hour... in China. Did you hear about the traffic jam that lasted for nine days? Makes sense though if you think about it since 九 means longlasting. Just like this agony.

Inspiration Files #1

So I may or may not have skipped class this week, ironically to make progress on this work and other reasons... but Mondays seem to be my inspiration day regardless. In another subject one of the guest speakers for the lecture was creator of the Colour series, Silver Stitch. Admittedly, not being a gamer and also being absent from Deviant Art for many years I'd never heard of the flash games, but they are beautiful!

Why am I bringing this up on my creative projects blog? Because it fits directly with Writing Lab. What is writing in this day and age? This is writing. I especially love the answers given in this interview on Newgrounds in which he speaks about the player being able to explore the world at their own pace. These are the things one should consider.

Cannot wait for semester to be over so I can play!

(I've been meaning to catalogue inspiring works for ages now for reference later so here it goes.)

Eureka!

So today it was discussed that content/subject matter/whatever tends to come to you and on the bus ride home BOOM! We're running down the streets naked (or nude, if you want to consider this — this process — art)!

After endless hours of insanity stirring contemplation and frustratingly trying to whip this stubborn mule into shape. Lists upon lists and evenly matched cons for cons and pros for pros... Frustratingly easy from a completely unrelated thought, although I guess my subconscious has been working around the clock on this and for that I am thankful.

Tugging on my one earring—thinking about changing it—too inconspicuous? conspicuous, is that what we want? Do people even realise I've been walking around for months with one earring? It's really time to fork out the cash to get it re-pierced. But! what about your phobia?!?! Can you really take a cold, sharp needle piercing straight through your flesh all alone? Sometimes I forget to breathe. Sometimes I forget to breathe.

Alone. Now I'm alone I can't breathe at all. Why am I breathing when I'm not breathing at all?

...etc.

BOOM!

So, breathing it is.

Literally right under my nose waiting for me. Okay, so more like exiting/entering my nose. Whatever. I am not med science.