Tag Archives: short story

The Inconclusive Dissection: Mind Half-Full or Half-Empty?

If we go on the premise that procrastinators think too much, then perhaps it’s reasonable to assume that my mind is really full. Well, better than empty, I guess? I guess! And, yes, I guess it could be a possible explanation as to why nothing tangible and concrete is coming out of my head. That’s because everything is so crammed inside, I guess!

Yes, my ideas are packed to the point of having no room to breathe or move, so they just stay within my mind and discuss among themselves. That is where all my stories are, I promise! And when they spend so long there, telling and retelling many variations over, they are already exhausted and left wanting in energy to escape. Furthermore, it feels as though the story has been told, we know the twists and turns, and feel as though the world should look inside to find out what we’ve done, instead of us always having to come out and show what we do. Understand? Understand!

I understand that I am probably deluding myself, but these thoughts are still true. If I think hard enough, I can save myself the step of publication. Save paper? But how do I convince people to take the plunge, to take that leap of faith, and just look inside my mind? To trust me? Trust me!

These were my thoughts during a dinner date in a restaurant with candles. Sitting across from me was an articulate, more good-looking that I deserve, attractive doctor, with experience. I sensed that that my luck may be changing and that it won’t be long before my mind starts opening up.

After a few sips of wine, and samplings of appetizer, I started getting a tingly sensation emanating from the inner portion of both stockingless legs underneath the table. I guess I just had a feeling when choosing what not to wear for the night. Just as he was proposing a toast to ‘I don’t know what’, I clanged his glass while debating within myself whether or not my partner is a surgeon or not. Admittedly, my relationship with him has not gotten deep enough yet for me to acquire this knowledge.

But, oh my, what if he were a surgeon? A surgeon! My imagination went wild in considering the possibilities. And I downed my glass of wine with sumptuous enthusiasm and determination. Would he have the tools and the requisite skills to dissect me? I couldn’t giggle outwardly at such a delicious thought so, instead, I crossed my legs so my skirt wouldn’t be as much of an intrusive censor, and I flexed and extended my ankle continuously, as if to communicate that my heart was jumping up and down with joy? Unequivocal joy!

If there was any way that he could do a professional dissection of me, but preferably with a particular emphasis on the artistic, then finally, at long last, he could really, literally, open up my mind and the world can see the unadulterated stories I have completed!  They’ll know I haven’t been lying all this time. They’ll trust me that I’ve been hard at work!

I suddenly felt incredibly sexy at that moment, more sexy that I’ve felt in my entire life. I didn’t know how much was left of my legs under the table at that point. With all the gyrations going on, I wouldn’t be surprised if I had exercised away all the skin and left them see-through. Oh, poor doctor, I could see it in his eyes, and his focus on his steak, that he had no clue what was going on under there!

I watched intently how he cut up the steak, savoring enough time to allow the juices to bubble over, so he could observe the satisfaction before making it disappear within his mouth, thereby intensifying the the senses at least twofold. That’s a good sign. Maybe he is a surgeon? A surgeon! The thought of him opening me up with such care and focus, like he did that steak, made me lose a button somewhere in my skirt.

I was so ready, I was so much in the mood for desire and intimacy. So, I quickly apologized to him for having to leave early and cut short our dinner together. I declined his offer for a ride, left him alone to finish the rest of his steak (as a surgeon should definitely not leave an operation half completed), and ran all the way home in such a mad rush that there was barely a trace of clothing on me when I arrived.

I have to work harder now. Think harder, deeper, even more intensely than ever before. Patience, my thoughts, patience, as I will bring more characters into an already tight space. But, patience, because now I know that you will soon all get to see the light of day. We must think together on this and get as much inside as possible before the surgeon arrives? Promise me that when that time comes for me to have an operation, you kids will not be hiding somewhere inside. All this work and to have him open me up to find nothing? Nothing!

-Dawn

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Pushing Against the Weight of Comfort

After reading electrongasman’s comments to a previous interview on procrastination, some images suddenly popped into my mind. Perhaps they are metaphors? Maybe pictorial representations of the procrastination themes and struggles? Of course it’s open to interpretation, and I’m not even sure myself, but I’ll give it a try even though words may fall short of what I’m seeing.

There’s a boulder out yonder. It’s a hot and humid day. Within the vicinity, many people are kind of wandering around aimlessly. Suddenly, a particular person approaches the boulder and starts to lean on it. Oh gosh, that looks so good.

Within minutes this posture starts to draw the attention of the wanderers. It looks so relaxing, so comforting. Then 2, 4, 7, a countless number, took up the leaning position with sighs of immense relief when reaching the most desirable degree of recline.

And so it goes like this as time passes. And the time did pass, as evident by the distant position change of the sun. Still no movement, no stirring, as if life is more than momentarily forgotten. Not true, not true, not true. Someone moves. Maybe not yet in body, but certainly in mind. Somebody thinks about the stiffness of it all and has a small inkling to push. Just a small one. This thought is quickly quashed when considering the immense weight of the boulder itself, combined with all these people leaning against it. The person decides against pushing.

Incredible stiffness. Somebody goes beyond an inkling and into a strong urge, desire, a constant pulling to push. No. The impossibility of the potential results in only a slight repositioning of the current pose, nothing of significance. In fact, more than a few people want to push, but dreams seem to die whenever one steals a glance at a neighbour.

Finally. Finally. Finally. Someone has the vocabulary ‘catatonic’ in mind and instantly ignores whatever else and, my gosh, pushes. Oh gosh! What heaviness! The excruciating pain on the pushing person’s face! The agony! The hopelessness as all the efforts did not even register to those still leaning. The boulder remains inert and, if anything, moves slightly backward against the pusher, as if rebelling or conforming…I don’t know which.

However, all that pain, despair, and oncoming feelings of regret, just as quickly brightens into epiphany when another person decides to join in on the pushing. The boulder does not move. Most of the others are still oblivious with their leaning. It does not matter. They push, push, push. And, during intervals of recovery, look at each other in the face and grin with such appreciation and understanding that surely moves something more than boulders.

Then, a few others notice and…well….it could go either way. What do you think?

-Pat

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