Slip-N-Slide

I haven’t posted in ages. But, earlier this week I was at a writing workshop and figured I’d throw the results up here. The instructor had us write about a half-a-page about an insignificant event that happened within the past 24 hours. The sort of event we’d forget about:

Insignificant Event #1

I’m hungry. This isn’t odd, it’s lunchtime. I pull into the parking lot, worrying about how little money is in my pocket.

I climb out of my car and don’t hit the “lock” button, because I just don’t give a crap. The Subway is advertising their current $5 special in the window—Spicy Italian, perfect. The wait inside isn’t long and I tell the first employee, “Spicy Italian, on Italian.” She starts to make it.

“Toasted?” she asks.

“No thanks.”

And I get shuttled to the next employee. “Lettuce, black olives, pickles,” I say. And she does it. After she puts the pickles on I say, “Could you double the pickles? I like pickles.” She gives me a look and does it. And says, “Pickles are too bitter for me.”

I had no response to that.

____

We had about five minutes to write our half-page. So it’s no great work of literature or anything. But it’s something on paper. The instructor then had us read a short blurb from a novel. After we discussed some of the techniques that author used, the instructor told us to re-write the insignificant event, using those techniques. He told us to not look at our prior write-up of the event.

Insignificant event #2

Car door, closed. Feed move forward. one. Another. Hop on the curb. Window—try not to gawk. Sign in window, cheap subs. In the door, go to the first employee.

“Spicy Italian, on Italian.”

“Her hands pull out a bun. Knife flashes, cuts, and disappears. Meat. Cheese.

“Would you like it toasted?”

“No thanks.”

She turns her attention to the next guy. Employee #2, hair behind ear.

“Lettuce, black olives, and pickles, please.”

Her hands put the ingredients on the bun, here, there, everywhere, except:

“Could you double the pickles?”

She glares—and does it. Double helping on the sub and she says, “Pickles are too bitter for me.”

_______

The cycle repeats itself—the instructor gave us a new piece to read, and told us to once again mimic that style and retell our story without referencing back to either of the other narrations of our event.

Insignificant event #3

The path is simple: out the car door, over the pavement, up a curb, past the wnidowed facade, in through metal doors that require being pulled, up to a counter and down, all while considering questions like; “What kind of sub can I get you?”, and “Would you like that toasted?”, and “What do you want on that?”.

And I watch as they respond to my answers, hands moving across the ingredients, peeling lunch meat and cheese apart, placing them delicately on the bun. I watch pickles being applied, and olives scattered, and lettuce fluffed.

Her hands gloved, her eyes focused, her lips frowning—though I don’t think she was sad.

________

The final style we had to put our even through was a form of poetry. This time we were told to look back at our prior efforts and salvage lines/ideas/whatever from them.

Insignificant event #4

She was sad

Knife flashes

Cuts

I’m hungry

Pickles are too bitter

For her

Peeling lunch meat

She gives me a look

Disppears

Hands gloved

Perfect

Cheap

Try not

To gawk

________

Not impressive writing, I know, but as an exercise it is interesting to see how different styles filter out some information while highlighting other bits of information. It’s something to consider while muddling around with writer’s block.

Monads scratch at Lebanese thinkcrocks.
Signifying with significance unparalleled
by the signs of the lusty Queen that princes
observe unseen, every thought a Peter Pan fantasy.

Shocked by a modicum of royal elegance—
dresses swishing and top-caps tipping,
a farce of pithy facades presenting the expected.
The dragons in the basement ignored, but never forgot.

-By Jacob Gehman

Rickety bedspreads usurp Panama’s cagey claptrap,
fountains flipping pancakes and gusts—
over and under, precipitation of the blusts.

Blanket residue lingers on eyedew liddrops,
classass wonderment at the descriptor’s tainted affair—
a parched perthink of blatant curmudgeonly.

Padded barcell, perchance future foretell, listless godspell,
Little, miniature examples of accented blights—
Manouverment beside tire-flattened bodice of venison.

-By Jacob Gehman

Residue in my mind
Speaks of yesterday, another time
I sit on wooden panels
Fidgeting the whole damn time

Speaking of yesterday, another time
I repeat my role in the plot
Fidgeting the whole damn time
Pointing my finger at the guilty

I repeat my role in the plot
Signing my death warrant at the same time
Pointing my finger at the guilty
Licking my lips, begging for time

Signing my death warrant at the same time
The single black hole of a gun barrel in my face
Licking my lips, begging for time
The gun goes off!…

Residue in my mind.

By Jacob Gehman

I wrote this about 3 years ago. I really liked it at the time, and still rather like it, although some of the sentences feel a bit awkward in hindsight. Might polish this up later, but for now… this will suffice.

Yikes, sorry about the long delay. Sometimes I just go through…moods. You know?

View 27: Silver

Silver and gold have I none,
To quote the Bible quoting Jesus,
(Or something like that)
But I do have several pennies
Which are made out of America’s
Finest copper, and whatever other metals
The government felt like throwing in.

But since these pennies aren’t in my pocket,
It’s kinda as if my floor is richer than me.

View 28: Blinds

Curve in or curve out?
Interior aesthetics demand the
Curve be on the inside.
Exterior aesthetics reflect the opposite.

But what if blinds are less about aesthetic
And more about blocking the light?

Consider—Sun shines down upon Earth 
And when the curve is inside—
elegant though that looks— 
More light can come in between the blind’s cracks.

So I set mine to outside.
A middle-finger to fine taste everywhere.

By Jacob Gehman 

View 26: The Ancient Quilt

I should probably get it hanged—
The quilt is old and probably an antique.
It lies—crumpled—on my floor in a corner.

My grandma had quilts, and lots of them.
Some she made, some older than that,
And some from unknown sources.

And so, last Thanksgiving, she had us all
Pick out one for keeps. RIght away I spotted
The one I wanted. It was just a great combination
Of brown colors and it was just the perfect size—BIG.

My normal mindset is to shrink back
And let everyone else take their pick—
So I’m not taking something someone else wants— 
Before making my selection of the remainder.

But in this case everyone else had the same philosophy.
So after watching 20 minutes of pointless discussion
Of who should get what without any progress
I simply marched up and said,
“This one is mine.”

By Jacob Gehman 

View 24: The Window

The curve in my wall creates the need for
A deep gash in my wall so that
There can be a window in my wall.

It’s like the cutout in a mountain so a
Bypass can stretch across the land.

View 25: The Butterfly

How old these walls are I do not know.
I’ve only been housed within them for five meager months.
These walls have seen more than I care to know
And they’ve been repaired, repainted and hushed.

But even with the white(ish) paint containing their secrets,
These walls cry out bits of the past.
Holes acknowledge paintings once hung.
Cracks imply bumps and bangs.

And the paint wasn’t applied thick enough to hide
The colorful butterfly sticker someone had stuck.

I like to imagine this was a kid’s happy home,
Where they formed some of their earliest memories,
And they look back on this room and reminisce
The way I look back upon searching for UFOs
From the window ledge I miss so much.

By Jacob Gehman 

I wrote this a week ago when my roommate threw a Christmas get-together. I haven’t posted anything for a few days, so figure at least I can throw something timely on the ol’ tumblr.

Oh how lovely,
It’s the required yearly Christmas party.
The tree decked in proper
Shimmer and shine and
Candy-cane intertwines.

Hot cider is on the stove,
And Hershey Kisses in a glass bowl,
The music has the proper seasonal air—
Though limited to the few albums
I’ve acquired over the years.

And yet no one is talking,
The stillness is louder than that—
No one has actually bothered to come.

By Jacob Gehman

A quick note before the poem—those who have been following me (bless you all) may have noticed a titling discrepancy between these Views Of… poems. That has simply been laziness on my part. The official title of the series is “36 Views of My Room”, regardless of what the header title actually ends up being. That said…

View 23: Rotating Blades

It started, I suppose, with the radio.
I’d lay in bed with the lights out
Playing with my stuffed animals
While the songs of Michael W. Smith
Or Carmen would begin to lure me asleep.

I got to a place where I found music too
Interesting (terrible though my taste in music
Was when I was in middle school).
I’d lay in bed listening to music and not sleep.

But the silence wasn’t silent—
Too much environmental noise.
I’d toss and turn.

And hear.

The white noise of a fan was—and is—my salvation.
Just a simple box fan. They’re but $15 at WalMart.
And it buys me sleep where passing cars or hollering
Neighbors or barking dogs cannot interrupt me.

And perhaps most importantly: it saves me from myself.

By Jacob Gehman 

View 22: Dusty Love

A guitar (12-string acoustic), guitar (6-string acoustic), banjo (5-string variety), and an old-school mountain dulcimer stand along the far wall—all beloved instruments I have an affinity for.

All standing wholly neglected because, well,
It is hard to play an instrument when there are
So many movies to watch and
So many Facebook statuses to like,
And still somehow maintain a social life.

I didn’t even have time to mention school or work or doctor appointments…

Although the last reason is a lie—I haven’t been to the doctor since I last played guitar. But I think about going to the doctor, and those thoughts take a lot of time!

At least I know my instruments are loyal
And they’ll be waiting for me whenever I feel I need
The feeling of grooved steel beneath my fingers once again.

By Jacob Gehman