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third floor window By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 1/27/2005; 9:28 AM The days had been hot, a sudden and unexpected change from the chilly weather I was finally used to. All my life in southern heat and humidity, and now I yearned for the cool air of a breeze. Here, they were not lacking; but I was in the hope of one finding it's way through my screened window and gently sweeping away the dull heat that coated my sweat frosted body. It was good to lay by the window to let the winds touch me, in these summer days. I'd try to talk to friends far off on my computer, or read a book that some interesting boy had excitedly loaned me, in that bizarre form of loyalty I often found myself in. But I couldn't focus and fell asleep instead. I awoke with the dry sticky feeling on my tongue, indicative of bad breath, and reminded myself to brush my teeth sometime soon. The sweat had now dried, leaving a somehow immobilizing coating that made me feel rather suffocated and dirty. Maybe it would be a good idea to simply bathe again tonight. There was always a good view from my window. Well, a good view minus the ugly yellow house just two meters away that swallowed up large mouthfuls of the sky and streams of red and white lights that would fly along the highway into the night. The ugly yellow house was part of me, I faced it each morning as I undressed or dressed at any hour of the morning. Unlike it's nonexistant inhabitants, and anyone else, for that matter, it saw me dressed, naked, awake, asleep. Part of me, I told you. The sun was just beginning to set, a faint purple-pink ribbon rimming a recently acquired cloud. The light barely edged over the obstructive roof of the yellow house. I watched what I could see of the sky for a while, in a daze, really. How long until the sunset would find it's full beauty? Would it last? Were I to see the bold colors, would I search for colors brighter to be painted with time, only to lose them? Would I know when the blossom of sunset had reached the peak of it's glory. Could it vanish before I knew? I pulled out my friends digital camera, and placed it on my pillow as I rearranged the few items on my window sill. A bolt of memory would flash across me as I touched each thing, my fingers acknowledging their familiar curves. There was the plastic fan I bought with Cameron in Japan. A little switch on the side would send green light running up the spines. My diary... I placed the green duck atop it. Such a frivolity, my green rubber duck with small black rubber horns; it was a present from someone special, and in a way, from someone special to him. There was something soothing about it. I'd put it back afterwards. He liked it there. The screen opened far more easily than it had the first time. It had become accustomed to opening with each turn of my mood, and now did so without complaint. There were flower petals caught in the metal frame... little faintly green petals that grew in fragrant clumps on trees each spring. They had been floating on the wind all day, catching gold from the yellow sun overhead like snowflakes should but don't. When it snows, there is no sun to watch the flakes fall. The fluttering dance had made the day surreal, a day you find in a postcard, or tucked between the pages of a fiction. How funny. Many of the petals had already curled in their browning edges. Holding the camera out the window, and careful not to drop it to the ground three floors below, I tried to capture the yet subtle colors. But they were beyond the eye of the machine, lost on its understanding. Perhaps when the sunset had reached its fullest, perhaps then it could see and remember. I paused as I touched the screen to close it, and put the camera down in a safe place. Edging my legs over the sill, I stared out into the sky. I had often found a thrill here, the air all around me and the thin strings of probability sustaining my life. Flirting, in some deep somber way. A small smile, no. Perhaps the sunset was not as beautiful as it would be. I could wait. Maybe take a picture. I closed the screen, crushing a few petals between the metal ribs. The pink had grown irridescent and strong, the flavor of my roommate's livejournal, but had not the great spectrum I had often before witnessed on my way to art class months earlier. I had no way to capture those fleeting colors then, now I did. But surely there was more. I waited. I hoped. The sun had painted all it would. The work had been hung on walls of sky, for the world to behold. And as the gallery closed, only a distant pinkgrey memory was left. The sky began to darken and there was nothing, nothing more.
RE: third floor window By: Richard Davidson on 2/7/2005; 10:29 PM This will be the strangest criticism I have ever made, but here goes: This piece is too well-written. Try to lighten up a bit. I so can't believe I said that.
RE: third floor window By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 2/11/2005; 8:08 PM Am I allowed to be confused?
RE: third floor window By: Richard Davidson on 2/11/2005; 10:43 PM Chie, I knew you'd say that. Every line is so perfect. Couldn't like, one line per paragraph by kind of pedestrian? It's like there's one or two diamonds too many in it; as if it's all poetry all the time. I swear, you could take any two lines in there and make them their own poem! That's just an opinion; God knows I could be wrong, but I would love to see something ordinary in there somewhere. It sounds weird to say something's written "too well," and almost seems anti-critical to suggest it have some LESSER aspect to it, but that's just something I'm throwing out there. Couldn't you just take out some of the quality? The screen opened far more easily than it had the first time. It had become accustomed to opening with each turn of my mood, and now did so without complaint. There were flower petals caught in the metal frame... little faintly green petals that grew in fragrant clumps on trees each spring. They had been floating on the wind all day, catching gold from the yellow sun overhead like snowflakes should but don't. When it snows, there is no sun to watch the flakes fall. The fluttering dance had made the day surreal, a day you find in a postcard, or tucked between the pages of a fiction. How funny. I feel like your digital camera is a magical gift from the gods. The screen opened kinda OK. It had started opening when I got moody, and now it did too. There was some junk caught in it's frame... some kinda junk; I don't know. It had been gunky and junky all day, and the sun did something; I don't remember. Snow. When it snows, there ain't no sun. Flakes fall. The dance made the day cool, a cool day that didn't suck. How funny. See how much worse that is? Now that's how you make a paragraph suck. OK, maybe I took it a bit too far, or maybe a lot too far, or just way way way too far, but now you know. You're more talented than me, so I'm jealous, and I'm just trying to destroy the perfection that has driven me so far insane. Try eating brownies. It should help.
RE: third floor window By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 2/17/2005; 8:39 AM How about some Girl Scout Thin Mints... Mmm. Chocolate. Mmm. Mint. Personally, I was never a fan of this sentence "When it snows, there is no sun to watch the flakes fall." It reminds me too much of the stuff I write when I'm being silly... and suicide is not silly... usually. And the last few sentences are a little too.. dark and dramatic? It's far from perfect, R, your jealousy unjustified. Regardless, if you increase in insanity, I am happy.
RE: third floor window By: Richard Davidson on 2/17/2005; 4:19 PM Personally, I was never a fan of this sentence "When it snows, there is no sun to watch the flakes fall." It reminds me too much of the stuff I write when I'm being silly... and suicide is not silly... usually. And the last few sentences are a little too.. dark and dramatic? Suicide is silly. DAMN silly. To be honest, I am a fan of that sentence, and I have considered starting an internet fan club for it. The trouble is, I'm not sure what to list it under, or over, whichever the case may be. Are you telling me that when it snows, there IS a sun to watch the flakes fall? What has happened to the once lucid writer we all knew and loved? Perhaps you've been working in the real world. Please stop this at once. The sun had painted all it would. The work had been hung on walls of sky, for the world to behold. And as the gallery closed, only a distant pinkgrey memory was left. The sky began to darken and there was nothing, nothing more. That is actually poetry. Extremely well-written, and to say it is overdramatic is, well, frankly, an overdramatic criticism! How's THAT for irony? You like that, don't you? No, I've been silly throughout, but my point has always been best explained by Pink Floyd. Pink Floyd's "The Wall" is criticized by some as "overproduced." They think TOO MUCH thought went into the album. Some say the album is perfect; some say it is bombastic. I fall into both camps, finding the album perfectly bombastic. A typical offering by Chie is light, and fluffy, and cute, in the way of a kitten that is about to sink it's razor sharp teeth into your unsuspecting flesh, and although deep and disturbing, (or deeply disturbing,) never sticks to the roof of your mouth. You will immediately dismiss it as inconsequential, and then find you are wrong, and smack yourself in the head and say "ouch!" You have a way with minimalism that takes the very pure essence of your concept, and boils it down to only those words that best illustrate the meaning alone, like watercolors on a dry canvas. With this piece, you have expanded your poetic flair into a narrative, and I find it dripping from my brain with the alacrity of melting Velcro. I wondered aloud if it was somehow too challenging for the average reader, and then immediately wondered why I wondered that. It's like a haiku has come to life, and started its own television series on FOX, featuring Wall Street Cannibals gorging themselves on Middle Americans, whose only waking thought is do those shoes REALLY match? (of course they don't) I don't see how I could be any less clear about this. If I think of a way, I will do it.
RE: third floor window By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 2/17/2005; 7:29 PM But it's too much of a statement.. I like the idea behind it, but I don't like the way I said it. But I have no idea how to change it. And really, 'nothing, nothing more' is just silly. I don't even jump out the window. And when the sun sets, I don't know if there is going to be any more in my life, thus, I am lying for the sake of drama. It is wrong! With that, I have to remark on how boring your comments and criticisms make me feel. Maybe it's my flu bug eating away my brains. Which in a sense if fine, since you complement me too much and my skull might pop in extra mass. Must you be given a direct missive to write more fiction? Cranberry juice from a lime green cup is excellent.
RE: third floor window By: Richard Davidson on 2/18/2005; 12:29 AM All I can say Chie is: 1. I am really quite an avid fan. You inspire me like no other. 2. I know for a fact that you never bought your own personal copy of "Welcome to Percotran." (now available in PAPERBACK!) 3. I hope you get better soon from your flu. 4. I do need to write more fiction. I have been writing some non-fiction about my cats, on another site. I should bring it here. I will. By the time you read this, there may be the first installment of "Cats of Indiana" at this forum, with pictures. I will expect comments about how much you love it. 5. If by some chance you don't like cats, I have read you wrong since day one. Instead of making me deal with this, I recommend you CHANGE.
RE: third floor window By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 2/19/2005; 6:10 PM 1. Oh really. 2. Oh yeah. 3. Ohhhh. 4. Ooh. 5.
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