Sunday, February 12, 2012

Like Tears in Rain

Today I discovered that Blogger has upgraded their infrastructure for these blogs -- which led me to discover that I've left a rather lump sum of unfinished drafts of blog entries. As I was purveying, with an air of amnesiac wonder, the fountain of  un-blog-ed souls, I came to a curious entry entitled Verse One.

This particular entry started with what sounds now like a very cliched phrase, It began like any romance... What was I doing writing some crappola like that!? I had no idea. The draft date says July of last year, but for the life of me, I could not conjure up a recognition of this multi-paragraphed fable. So I read on.

The story I wrote was indeed the beginnings of some sort of romance. Through reading, my memory revved up enough to note a vague comprehension that this was supposed to be part of something much larger. Surely, I told myself, I would only ever write the phrase, It began like any romance, as some sort of clever ploy to fool the doldrums of the audience's calibrated ear. Surely!

But nothing was striking. I couldn't wrap my head around what this blasted document was supposed to be introducing! Perhaps, I inquired of my inner man, 'tis a ditty I wrote whilst mostly asleep. Surely this, and nothing more.

Slowly and slowlier still, I found myself a man apart from my own being! Who was this chap that a merely seven/eight months ago wrote this off behind my back!
What sort of man was I??!!!

And by the grace of God, I found another lost draft simply named, outline. It was quite simple. It stated:
Verse One: Romance
Verse Two: Daughter
Verse Three: Death
Verse Four: Obsession
Verse Five: Inception
Verse Six: School
Verse Seven: Evolution
Verse Eight: Faith
Verse Nine: Doubt
Verse Ten: Conquest
Verse Eleven: Other Science
Verse Twelve: Non-Transferable
Verse Thirteen:Epilepsy
Verse Fourteen: Romance
Verse Fifteen: Betrayal
Verse Sixteen: Death Again
Verse Seventeen: Starting Point
Ah yes! Sweet relief rushed in! Everything flooded back. Last Summer I pondered an idea for writing something of a chapter novel on this here blog. The rough story was that of a very devoutly religious computer geek who creates an artificially intelligent computer who convinces the nerd's daughter that there is no God. Ah by jove -- hooray! It's regularly ol' mega-purpose-of-life-questioning me, yippee!

At any rate, for posterity's sake, so that I don't again fall into the wretched pit of self-doubt and Kafkaesque metamorphosis, here lies the original unfinished first chapter of my unnamed chapter novel. *photos from Short Circuit were added today, for good measure*

OH -- BTW -- This is a gratuitously boring read. I wouldn't actually recommend reading it... see the title above? -- this is a post which exists only to not-exist. Understand? Are we on the same page yet? I hope so... 

Really, don't read it. 


It began like any romance, though perhaps one could say the roles were reversed. Jennifer Brighton was the type of woman who was undeniably pretty and indisputably extroverted, yet she had the type of face that lesser folks ridiculed as bitchy. This insult was to set right the injustice of the world. Beautiful women had enough luck to be beautiful, they ought not also be gifted with genius as well.

Desmond Dore was skinny and blended in. This was about as far as any casual acquaintance could get while trying to harvest up a description of the young scientist. He was not shy, nor did he particularly make choices in life to remain the observer rather than the center stage actor, it just so happened that life seemed to prefer him to be a sideline character. Once in fifth grade he accurately guessed the exact weight of a pumpkin, and won the right to take it home. As far as he could remember, that was the only time he garnered much attention from the outside world. He often vividly remembered the envious looks on his classmates faces when he was announced the estimator champion. Desmond could never be too sure whether soaked in those jealous glares with joy or fear. Somehow, it was both. Trembling glee.
College, being a natural ghetto of young, fertile fleshy minds, was a ripe environment for the rumor-mill of how a guy like Desmond Dore could end up with a chick like Jennifer Brighton. This question bounces through the mind of any single man who spots a couple in which the woman is more than two inches taller than her lover. Desmond was not a short man. He was, once again, quite average in the height department. A sure 5'10", no doubt. Maybe a 5.10.5 on a clear day. With a sombrero he could fake six feet, sure. But Miss Brighton, taught by her mother, father, and subsequently grandmother, branched over Desmond with her 6'2" measure. Being the elegant, studiously domineering woman she was, Jennifer would seldom skip an opportunity to execute her beauty to the utmost with the utilization of only the finest heels. And so the incredulous looks and questions abounded, "What on earth did Desmond Dore do to garner the affection of the brilliant bombshell?"

He needed help. Desmond was by no means a physicist, but his interests required some leverage in that department, so it was on his conscience to familiarize himself with that genre of information. The problem was, he was flailing in the subject, nearing failing. So he enrolled to get free tutoring. It just so happened that earlier that semester, Jennifer, due to an unfortunate happenstance, found herself refusing to grovel at the mercy seat of the dean. For a lesser student, the dean would have found a harsher punishment, but being privy to her academic potential, not to mention being cheered by her magnanimous beauty, doled at a simple sentence -- 15 hours a week of tutoring. And so they met.

Desmond never tried anything fancy with Jennifer -- he was, from the very beginning, oddly confident that he didn't have to. Say what you will about the man, but his memory is immaculate. He could, at any struggling moment, bring to mind at demand the moment he knew he won her.
She was notably upset that day. No tears. But her nose dripped with consistent volume.
He wanted to know what was wrong. She so seldom should any vulnerability, that the thought of something tarnishing her day was something of a mystery.

P.S. Man alive! That robot Johnny 5 & Ally Sheedy dance sequence is creepy! I watched Short Circuit all the time when I was a wee-chap! Gross. 

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