COREY PRIVERETA

This is a short I’ve been working on that has sort of evolved into what might become a novella.  It’s a fictional account of true events.  The names have not yet been changed due to the fact that I don’t feel like they need to be protected nor do I think they have been defamed.  I’m not done yet but I figure I would start posting it in pieces in order to get some feedback and more importantly motivation to complete it.  Comment are certainly welcome and I hope you enjoy it.  So here is the first “scene” of COREY PRIVERETA.

He got off the bus and shoved his hands into his pockets. It was a cold November day in Allston and our young hero had yet to make the seasonal transition in his fashion.  More importantly he had yet to make the mental transition so necessary to the change in seasons.  He relaxed his shoulders trying to convince himself to become one with the cold, that it was just another sensation and he could determine the quality in which he perceived it.  He tried to remind himself that in a couple of months it would be twice as cold and in a couple months after that he’d be shedding his hoodie in favor of his tee-shirt in a temperature currently causing him to shiver.

He checked his phone to make certain he was on time.

New message: Elizabeth Seigel: Hey. Sorry I’m running a little late trying to send this project out. Can we meet a little later, say 11:30?

So much for being on time, he thought.

yea no problem I’ll be in cheap chic killing time.  call me when you get into the area

He texted her back.

Though he did take pride in his own punctuality he didn’t find it to be all that important in others. That being said, he was a bit perturbed.  After all, this was their first date.

Shrugging his shoulders he chalked it up to the fact that she was an artist, to him her most attractive quality.  He ran with a lot of artistic types and found them to be less than timely.

The sign to Cheap Chic was a blue that matured to baby with a stark caution yellow font.  It was a second hand store, a Mecca for someone killing time.  H  e entered with a nod of approval.

The place was musty and the walls were piled high with obsolete electronics.  He turned his nose up at the worthless junk and made a b-line for the records.  He wasn’t a collector by any means but he could never get enough of the album art.  From bland to beautiful, bizarre to butt ugly, bold to boring he could find pleasure or redeeming qualities in each and every one of them.

He thought of how his ideas on album art would be perfect conversation for his date and how she would agree and expand on them and that would lead to more commonalities and they would talk for hours and he would forget about the time and miss work but it wouldn’t matter because they would fall in love and live happily ever after hand in hand until the end of time.

Quickly he stopped and reminded himself that life is not a movie and even if it was its actors often veer from the script with no regard to the intentions laid forth by the writer. Instead he would have to expect the unexpected, go with the flow and rely on that old Panetta charm.

He pushed the last pile of records into their preferred reclined position and looked at the first album, thinking of all the people who gave their time and effort to make that album that was once enjoyed and, from the looks of it, would never be listened to again.   People who had their own lives apart from this album. Their own lives that involved an incredible amount of other people who lived lives that included people more and on and on it would go spanning all of space and time connecting everyone and him with that album at that moment.  Before becoming too overwhelmed with significance of this he noted how ridiculous the people on the cover of that album looked, and then realized how ridiculous he would look in his current state twenty years later.

It was hard not to think of the past in a place like that. Surrounded by objects one cherished and now collecting dust, someone’s favorite mug, the shirt a boy became a man in, the TV that brought a family together, the closest things to ghosts we’ll ever find.  Before he knew it he had exhausted the entertainment value of the store and the entrance was now an exit.

Back amongst the breeze he cringed and checked his cell phone.

11:25

He decided a walk around the block would be enough to kill the time and set off in the direction opposite the café.

Walking was his form of meditation, a time to do the mental dishes and organize his thoughts and feelings.  On this walk he thought about how he was finally stepping foot into the 21^st century.  In a few minutes he would meet someone in the flesh who originally had only been a series of 1’s and 0’s.  Merely a shrine to herself meant to share with others, or more commonly known as, a Facebook profile.

A few weeks ago she requested to be his friend, which he quickly denied, having never met her.  But she was fairly cute so he volleyed her serve and asked her why she wanted to be his friend.  Had they met and she simply slipped through the cracks of his memory?  She replied saying she was a local artist and liked to befriend friends of friends.  A common practice by artists, he knew, so he accepted her request.

A few days later she posted on his wall.

Elizabeth Seigel:

You’re cute. Just sayin’

Hmmmm, looks like I got myself a suitor, he thought at the time, game on.

The next time he saw her online he instant messaged her and before long the coffee date was set.  The coffee date that was subsequently postponed and now, he decided, he would begin alone.

Wise Dog

I was approached by an old golden retriever today.  He had aged well, having a thick coat that had greyed to a milky gold of a precious mineral yet to be discovered. His eyes were kind with knowledge.

“Hello wise dog.”

He continued his advance in a chipper yet decisive manner.  Once along side me we walked a few paces while he gave me a look that said, “place your hand upon my head and I will bestow you peace and knowledge.”

So I put my hand atop his mane and stroked it once or twice. With that he gave me a nod and trotted back toward his master.

“Goodbye wise dog.”

stream of conciousness

If you’ve ever used a gravity bong then you know they can get you more fucked than Ron Jeremy.  I wrote this after a monster hit using Kerouac’s technique of stream of conscious writing. Not too polished but I think there are some interesting lines.

The pen is baggage

slowing thoughts to a stop

it can’t reel when it has to scribe

pauses lead to rereads, questions, concerns, criticisms of whats been thought before stands the test of time and is just as sweet as when you first tasted it.

must press on

fill the page with words of wisdom. breathe deep————- slow your soul and live the moment for what it is

eternal never ending days they’re all the same long hour minute second stretched out into the fourth dimension

A snake of life crawling through the sands of time

ride the ride the way you ride the tide, ever ebbing, ever flowing.  Ups downs ins outs.

tongue gets dry from telling tales

dust plooms fall and ears are left thirsty for more words

Soliciting faith

I was inspired to write this after finding a pamphlet selling god.

It’s sad to know

Out there

Somewhere

There’s a man

Doing what he can

To fill the hole

In his soul

And there’s another man

Doing what he can

To sell his faith

Cuz it’s his fate

To spread the word

Of what he’s heard

He knows it to be true

So he does what he can do

To help another man

In a sad state

Help him find a faith

The cycle will continue

And they’ll try to get you

To think the way they think

You see, they come with good intentions

But without the comprehension

That what they’re really doing

Is pursuing

Confirmation

Affirmation

A majority rule

Proof they’re not a fool

If they can find a mate

Someone to share their faith

It can lighten their load

On the spiritual road

To inner peace

But they’ll only meet defeat

Cuz that hole

Within their soul

Has been covered with a band-aid

Filled with something man made

If you want to fill a hole

Within your own soul

You’ve got to dig deep

And there yourself you’ll meet

When you can look eye to the eye

And be prepared to die

Then you’ve reached your goal

Filled that pesky hole

Inside your precious soul

I just rode my bike home with a thousand fists of fury

I wrote this after trying to ride my bike home 2.5 miles at full speed.  I sorta wrote it on the way as it was my inspiration to keep going strong even though it was tough.

 

I just rode my bike home with a thousand fists of fury.  It all began after retiring from a leisurely evening with Yaz and Jesse filled with Djousequis, spliffs, and television entertainment.  I leave the house bundled up and ready to ride.  I approach my bike and perform my departing ritual including but not limited to starting Ipod, unlocking bike, fastening helmet.  Upon beginning my journey it becomes abhorrently apparent to me that in my pack contains a extremely rare and time sensitive antidote to a fatal ailment of my brothers.  I take the conscious awareness of this scenario and move forward amicably. “I’m comin’ lil’ brother!”

I kick it into maximum maintainable rpm’s and begin to focus on my breathing, my goal, and the results of failure.  I ask myself, “If this were real would I receive a rush of adrenaline that would propel me beyond reasonable request of a normal human being?”  Then I remind myself, “It is real,” and I push myself that much harder and that much closer to the place beyond reasonable request of normal human beings.

A cab flies by me and I tell myself, “If this were real I could hail that cab and deliver this antidote with plenty of time to spare,” and then I realize the sicko who has kidnapped and poisoned my brother has limited my delivery method to my bicycle or he will, “Insure your brothers death.”  It is REAL.  And I push myself that much harder but I only maintain speed.

I coast towards a red light and gather breath with confidence it will turn green before I reach it.  I tease myself with thoughts that if this were real I would fly through this intersection throwing caution to the wind with romantic notions that the package must be delivered in the quickest time possible!  But I know this is real and this package is too rare and fragile to throw caution to the wind.  Haste makes waste and I breeze through the freshly lit green.

I sprint begrudgingly up hill and lean sharply into the right hand turn onto the last long road.  I’m losing wind and beginning to feel sad for my brother. A cab flies by and the passengers yell at me, “You’re a loser!” “I’m not a loser and you’re projecting,” I think to myself and I’m compelled to let them know it.  The cab is far too fast but lights turn red in the not so far distance.  They slowly come to a halt and I’m fast approaching with a youthful angst towards animosity.  The light strikes green and I’m far from close to passing. “I’m not a loser and you’re projecting.”

Kiki’s mart marks the start of the last leg of my brother’s rescue.  Dave Estabrook once told me, “You soccer players always get a great burst in the home stretch,” but I can only seem to maintain speed.  Sorry baby brother.  I cut into the left turn at I swear a ninety degree angle and catch a breath onto the final straight road.  And there it was my great burst in the home stretch, a thousand fists of fury.  “I’m comin’ lil’ brother!” Repetition, cycles, geared towards one main goal, success. You’re safe today. You’re welcome Raymond.

Thoughts on a bus

I wrote this on a Peter Pan bus from Boston to Umass.  They are big picture thoughts I suppose. I’m interested to know what people think.  It may seem a little rambley but again they are just thoughts.

Thoughts on a bus 4-29-08

Faith

Believing in something that cannot be proven

 

Belief

Knowing on an emotional level

 

Is having faith following something blindly? Or is it feeding the empty stomach of the soul?

 

Do humans need to put up their hands and let fate take over because micromanaging all of life’s affairs can be daunting to the pointy of exhaustion or insanity?

 

Soul

Essence of who a person is.

Controls how things effect people emotionally.

Does the culmination of experience create the soul or does the soul determine how experience are handled?

My soul is the unique perspective I have on the world.

 

My perspective is built on how I’ve been raised, how I’ve been treated, what I’ve seen, experienced, Where I’ve been.  What I have consumed visually, physically, audibly.

How much of this have I been in control of?

 

I decide much of what I do on a daily basis, but things I don’t decide to do, things I am somewhat forced or convinced to do may have more value than the things I choose to do.

 

In this fashion my soul belongs to those who have pushed me one way or another.  Not belongs but is a part of.

 

If my soul is the unique perspective I have on the world and this perspective is in part due to others then do we share one common soul, each contributing in some way or another?

 

Maybe it’s not a collective soul we share but something else, a collective consciousness and our souls are the unique contribution to this collective consciousness.

 

The soul and the collective consciousness affect each other equally.

 

Could the collective consciousness be known as fate? Making fate not a predetermined path but the potential of life dependent on the contribution of all souls.

 

If this is so then the Beatles were right.  All you need is love’ love’ love is all you need.

Give me strange

I was inspired to write this poem at one of my roomate’s shows.  It was at a bar outside of The Garden.  I was outside smoking a jazz cigarette with some counterculturists when all of a sudden a parade of drunken middle aged white people exiting a Neil Diamond walk by. It was a completely bizarre event and it made me feel amazing.  I’ve always enjoyed strange happenings and I think this poem represents that and its chock full of alliteration which is always fun.

Give Me Strange

Give me strange

Your quietly deranged

Moments

members

motions

Give me weird

Wild

whimsical

wonder

A seed of supple wisdom

Give me odd

Optimal omissions of regularity

A torrent sea of calm clarity

Give me bizarre

Boisterous ballyhoo

Benign sense of being

Give me rare

Prodigious people

primed with peculiar propensity

Precise ports to powerful perceptions

Give me foreign

Fuck these forced formalities

Find felicity from freaky function

Give me strange

Keep your cookie cutter conformity

Give me strange and I’ll find comfort

Perfection

This was one of my first pieces.  It’s a monologue I wrote in college.  It was one of the first things that gave me a real thrill for writing.  Its almost a poem in monologue form.  A majority of my first posts will be things I’ve written in the past but I will try and pepper in fresh material from time to time.  The more feedback I get the more motivation I will have to pump out new stuff.  Well, here it is. Let me know what you think.

An enigma, the lanes have been to me. Ever since I can remember. In my youth it fell between the frustration of failure, gutters, splits, and faults, halt the perfect strikes that never were, and the exhilaration of success, sweetest turkey since thanksgiving. Today my struggles stem from painful thorns that come from picking the beautiful rose that is the game.

The first prick hits the nose. A devils bouquet of stench the likes of stale booze and various oils to compliment a decades worth of smoke that’s left the tips of cigarettes and found a home in all the fibers of that carpet; a carpet that covers each and every inch of this damn place. Floor, ceiling, wall, they’ve got it all. An ambitious carpet layers dream becomes my nightmare.

Blood surfaces at the wound as I approach the keeper of my heavens gate. Her grin, an impossible spare, to go along with ratty hair. She sighs in preparation for our transaction paired with a roll of her eyes that hits the pocket flush with contempt. Strikes come easy with form like hers. “Two lanes, three games,” is my request. “One lane,” she snarls, the wicked shrew, “and shoes’ll cost you extra.” I quickly deny her thought that I might use those shoddy house shoes and hand her the fee for my admission. “Twenty two,” is her response, a lane they never seem to oil.

The pain subsides while I lift the rose to my nose, yearning for a measly whiff. I am denied my simple pleasure, witnessing a group of teens on twenty-one. A shame that bees enjoy a rose as much as I.  Alas, I try to ignore the buzz of four acne-riddled bees knowing full well they’ll get the best of me, my concentration notably Anaphylactic. I take a seat in the plastic molds they attempt to pass as chairs. Their template is a jigsaw puzzle to which my ass does not belong.

In my uncomfortable excuse for a chair I begin the ritual of preparation:
1. Untie left boot
2. Then right
3. Remove right boot
4. Then left
5. Put on left shoe
6. Then right
7. Tie right shoe
8. Then left
9. Slip on glove
10. Strap it tight
11. Carefully apply black tape to inside of thumb, from tip to edge of webbing
12. With same care apply black tape to outside of thumb, from tip to edge of knuckle
13. Remove ball from bag
14. Wipe ball down with rag
15. Remove white tape from thumbhole of ball
16. Insert 2.5 strips of white tape into thumbhole of ball.
17. Place ball in return trough
18. Fold rag
19. Place rag below air blower.
With my ritual complete I am left feeling sorry for my purple Rhino, rubbing elbows with neon plastic. I can only imagine how reactive resin feels to a whore of a house ball.

Time stands still as I make my approach. It begins again only when my toe makes contact with third arrow from the left, eyes locked on third arrow from the right. That’s when the dance begins. One, two, three, how do you do, follow through. Again time stands still. It begins again only when the ball makes contact with the floor. That’s when you know, at the very least have a good estimation, whether or not you will get to smell that rose. For me, today, on this lane, with this ball, I would not. A simple fix, slide three boards to the left and that rose is as good as mine, but first, the spare.

The spare does not require the calculation and precision of the strike. It takes intuition, a good gut. Like a painter before his canvas I stand before my lane, instead of a thumb I have a ball, eyeing out the perfect throw. Once the shot is framed my gut takes over. I take my stance with no regards to arrows and let her fly as if I’ve already thrown this ball and time has finally caught up with the moment. I turn around paying no attention to the ball or the pins it will soon be knocking over, sometimes I think it’s confidence that drops the pin.

Once the spare is picked up the dance begins again. One, two, three, how do you do, follow through. As I wait endlessly in my timeless expectation I shuffle thoughts of useless aspiration. My goal it does seem futile. No matter the attempts, there lies simple perfection; the elusive score: 300. My ball lands with a thud that brings me back to reality and the realization of my success. I’ve hit my mark and thus I know I have completed my objective.

The ball rolls toward the gutter, tempting fate. A passerby may think I’ve made a great mistake. It rolls then rides along the rail as if its wish were that I’d fail. But soon the gutter and the ball release, had I not known better I might have sighed in relief. The ball knows now it has a home, to which we call, the pocket. As if a magnet were to pull it there the ball zips into, the pocket. A great collision of pins applaud then bow to their new master. I crack a simple smile.

I get to smell my rose but only for an instant. Looking to the screen to get my congratulations I am reminded of the small number of those who get to keep this rose forever. By the screen lie names of those who’ve claimed that fickle number. Sam and Steve they got to leave and so did Fred having rolled a grand three hundred. Here I’m left with just a strike, one-twelfth of my perfection, and one hundred percent useless having followed a spare.

As I complete the remainder of my worthless frames I am reminded of life and its close resemblance to this game. Every throw is like an instant and every frame a moment. Each throw has good intentions but the pins will fall as they wish and life will do the same. A series of moments create stages in ones life, a series of frames make a game of bowling. Strikes and gutters are the epitome of life’s ups and downs. With enough ups in life you can get on a roll and feel good for days, weeks, months, possibly years at a time. With enough strikes in a row you can achieve perfection, the ultimate roll, enlightenment.

By the end of my second game I am on a serious roll. The last six balls I threw were strikes and there’s no sign of stopping. When an athlete has managed to harness his emotions and reach an incomprehensible level of focus he is said to be “in the zone.” At this point in this game to say that I am “in the zone” would be an understatement. I am the zone and any pins that wish to stand before me are practicing a simple act of futility. Seven, eight, nine, strike, strike, and strike. Between each frame I do everything the same, seemingly robotic astonishingly organic. My ball is spit into the trough and I am faced with the tenth and final frame. Three balls await perfection.
The hardest part of this tenth frame will not be throwing three strikes. I’ve thrown thousands of strikes before this tenth frame and I will throw thousands more after. No, the strikes are not the hard part; the only thing between me and perfection is myself. It’s no longer a game between me, my ball, the lane, and the pins, and at this point I don’t know if it ever was. Now it has become a game of pure mental focus. My body is dialed in and the only thing that can derail it are slips of mental focus, vile thoughts of possible failure or at the worst premature excitation brought on from my success.

I approach the lane prepared to throw three strikes and find there is one strike left to throw. On autopilot I’ve put down two strikes amidst my idle musings. OK, this is it, here we go. One, two, three, how do you do, follow through, ball flirts with gutter, hits pocket flush, pins applaud then bow, awesome ecstasy, beatific orgasmic euphoria, symphonic rhapsody, inspirational delirium, pure bliss straight from the tap of Gods tit! Perfection. Nirvana.

At last I have my rose. Enveloped in its intoxicating aroma I find I am surrounded, surrounded by every man, woman, and child in the joint. Cleansed by a shower of affection I humbly take a bow and gather my belongings. High fives all around as I make my exit. I bid the clerk adieu and she smiles, a sweeter face I’ve never seen. I feel like a king as I walk upon a freshly rolled out carpet spattered with rich perfumes for my aromatic pleasure. For the first time I am able to leave these lanes satisfied.

…Wouldn’t that be nice. But for me, on this lane, today, that pleasure would not be mine because with one ball left and having blown my load on thoughts of pure perfection this game is as good as over. One, two, three, how do you do, follow through, ball flirts with gutter but this time it’s love at first sight and together they run hand in hand as happy as I am sad having missed my golden opportunity. Sometimes I think I’m better off having avoided the thing I most desire, the fear of what life will be like on the other side is too much for me to bear. Then what? Luckily that question can wait, but maybe not for long, my third game is about to begin…

Welcome to my blog

I like to write, creatively.  Short stories, poems, editorials, lyrics, all that good stuff.  Lately I have lost some of my drive.  Writing in my notebook that goes back in my bag, typing away files that get saved in a folder deep within my hard drive, writing notes on my phone that rarely leave my pocket, it’s all beginning to feel a bit pointless.  Now, If I had an audience things might be a little different.  Thus the blog.  A place where the things I write have a chance to get read by someone other than myself.  A place where I can get feedback, positive or negative.  A place where discussions may be born.

So here, I give to the world the ejaculate of my mental masturbation in hopes that they may lead to an intellectual intercourse.