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ONE SANE MOMENT 240 words

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  #1  
Old 11-07-2017, 01:37 PM
jimr (Offline)
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Default ONE SANE MOMENT 240 words


ONE SANE MOMENT

Tween days in September moved slow, pacing themselves with long stretches of blue-charcoal-gray sky and perfectly timed simooms blowing at the tree heads, time ticked like an unwound clock and the traffic oozed along as if drivers had forgotten where they were hurrying all summer, New York plates sprang up like wanted posters and even these feisty city rats desisted running yellows and reds anymore, even the foliage stubbornly remained green just like the world had stopped moving, you might think your blood had stopped moving, or your breath, and you could live in this moment forever, but if you were Janet Brick, with the two jobs and three girls and fifty-six thousand left to pay on the bungalow, you cherished this chunk of reality with a spritzer and a macaroon on a patio filled with toys, you toasted Mayville’s quietude and the longest Saturday you’d ever seen, secretly though, like that awful dream that wouldn’t let go, you knew that in six or seven or eight seconds a phone would ring or roughneck Cindy would break somebody’s window on the block, possibly Ali might start a cult that required candles, or maybe Suz’s latest sartorial protest would demand an immediate audience, whatever it was it would be world-shaking and eminently more important than anything so dreary as a poor woman regaining her sanity, and your day would begin moving again.







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Old 11-11-2017, 03:33 PM
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Is it deliberately punctuated like this? Because if it was divided into sentences and maybe even into two paragraphs it would be a lot easier to read and appreciate the talent here
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Old 11-13-2017, 05:12 PM
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Hahahah I loved this
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Old 11-17-2017, 04:21 PM
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My immediate point is, please fuck paragraphs- before I have read it. It might even belong in one pargraph, but please God paragraphs.

Tween days in September moved slow, pacing themselves with long stretches of blue-charcoal-gray sky and perfectly timed simooms blowing at the tree heads, time ticked like an unwound clock and the traffic oozed along as if drivers had forgotten where they were hurrying all summer,

Ok, this is purple yet pretty, but please a full stop.

New York plates sprang up like wanted posters and even these feisty city rats desisted running yellows and reds anymore, even the foliage stubbornly remained green just like the world had stopped moving,

Ok, that was try hard. You were stretching for purple then: Natural purple is almost acceptable (but not), but reaching purple is not good.

you might think your blood had stopped moving, or your breath, and you could live in this moment forever, but if you were Janet Brick, with the two jobs and three girls and fifty-six thousand left to pay on the bungalow, you cherished this chunk of reality with a spritzer and a macaroon on a patio filled with toys, you toasted Mayville’s quietude and the longest Saturday you’d ever seen, secretly though, like that awful dream that wouldn’t let go,

There are so many clauses here (and this is only halfway through), I forgot the important ones. Make your sentences meaningful, do not fill them with inanities.

you knew that in six or seven or eight seconds a phone would ring or roughneck Cindy would break somebody’s window on the block, possibly Ali might start a cult that required candles, or maybe Suz’s latest sartorial protest would demand an immediate audience, whatever it was it would be world-shaking and eminently more important than anything so dreary as a poor woman regaining her sanity, and your day would begin moving again.

ok, you have a skill lost behind overlong (slightly obnoxious) sentence structure. Your sentences are simply too long with too much information. Make it shorter and sharper.

Also @bluewpc are we reading the same thing? Stop liking everything, it is actively destructive.

Last edited by Chinspinner; 11-17-2017 at 04:31 PM..
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Old 11-20-2017, 09:22 AM
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I remember, I was thinking about John Upton (who I can't actually read yet) and I wrote this very inordinate start to something (maybe a novel, maybe a delete). I'm trying to overcome my habit of passive under-writing and I'm overwriting right now, Thanks for the comments.
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Old 11-20-2017, 06:46 PM
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@chinspinner We are reading the same piece but it seems your focus on formatting is getting in between you and the reading. Nor do I appreciate your impugning of my character. It is not haphazard endorsement on my part (to what ends could only be interpreted as self-serving), but I am perfectly cognizant of why I like a piece and am perfectly capable of articulating the reasons, as I am about to, yet ere that I would suggest that the disparity in reactions is symptomatic of intellect, the greater it be the deeper the understanding ergo the greater the appreciation of a work.




September is both the month of harvest and insanity and lies mostly in the sign of Virgo. It is also the mere betwixt summer and fall. We attribute alacrity to craziness and yet madness is contrasted with the presented torpor: the 'Tween days in Septemer [that] moved slow...'

And here is time announced as watched and measured but not by any referenced inhabitant but by an unseen force. The force that 'paces themselves', time itself in third person. And this force is alluded to in almost every single section in the 'perfectly timed simoons', 'the traffic ooze', 'the unwound clock'.

Simooms are desert winds and in this is the hollowing out of September. There can be no growth in this New York but it isnt the growth of barley or wheat but spiritual growth. The wind recalls TS Eliot's Wasteland:

If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Water is necessary both to the body and the soul. In John 4:14 Jesus says:

But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water sprining up into everlasting life.

In this desert metropolis without water or harvest the drivers, having forgotten why and where they are hurrying, have oozed into the country of Nod. The sinister force that perfectly times the winds, that ticked time like an unwound clock, is a creatorless mechanism perhaps because it is not aware of its own purpose. In McCarthy's The Road the boy recounts a nightmare to his father:

I had this penguin that you wound up and it would waddle and flap its flippers. And we were in that house that we used to live in and it came around the corner but nobody had wound it up...the winder wasnt turning.

The mechanicity is repeated over and over again. The movement in the scene is not even human but that of vehicles stopping at the change of a light like the opening of a valve and this is directly linked to the shunt and ope of ventricles and bronchi as if these too were merely clocks of a different sort.

When the narrative finally settles on Janet Brick her prelude is not herself but her burdens and after a brief description of her tranquil state the future burdens are enumerated and so geotextually she inhabits a nucleus of calm, the eponymous One Moment of Sanity, that is about to break.

Her status as a Virgo, more than any other signs, marks her as born to serve. She is ever and anon aware that she is always on call whether from work or friends or sires. Ali's cult signifies the lack of spiritual water, as does Suz's tailoring, which however trite still trumps Brick's time. But her status as a servant is shared with the 'feisty rats' for they too are servants who have forgotten why they hurry thus why and whom they serve. Unlike the drivers though Brick has not yet succumbed to the lack of water. In her quiet moment she drinks a spritzer, a mixture of white wine and water. Even so the demands of the outside world are constantly immanent and its unclear how long she can postpone, like the stubborn foliage, her decline into postponed death.
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Old 01-05-2018, 05:41 PM
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ONE SANE MOMENT

Tween days in September moved slow, pacing themselves with long stretches of blue-charcoal-gray (that’s a list of colors. I was going to suggest changing ‘blue’ to ‘cobalt’ but cobalt-charcoal is kinda like saying toy-boat, funny but can tie a tongue) sky and perfectly timed simooms blowing at the tree heads, time ticked like an unwound clock and the traffic oozed along as if drivers had forgotten where they were hurrying all summer, (see you could use a period here, but you don’t, and that’s okay, but this is where I’d suggest a spacer instead of a comma) New York plates sprang up like wanted posters and even these feisty city rats desisted running yellows and reds anymore, even the foliage stubbornly remained green just like the world had stopped moving, you might think your blood had stopped moving, or your breath, and you could live in this moment forever, but if you were Janet Brick, (no comma is needed) with the two jobs and three girls and fifty-six thousand left to pay on the bungalow, you cherished this chunk of reality with a spritzer and a macaroon on a patio filled with toys, you toasted Mayville’s quietude and the longest Saturday you’d ever seen, secretly though, like that awful dream that wouldn’t let go, you knew that in six or seven or eight seconds a phone would ring or roughneck Cindy would break somebody’s window on the block, possibly (Suggest erasing ‘possibly’ as words ending in –ly are less than satisfactory. Refusing semicolons I see, that’s okay, especially if that’s all there is. It’s poetic.) Ali might start a cult that required candles, (no comma) or maybe Suz’s latest sartorial protest would demand an immediate audience, (no comma) whatever it was it would be world-shaking and eminently more important than anything so dreary as a poor woman regaining her sanity, and your day would begin moving again. (For some reason, I think it would be funny to put a period after sanity, and begin “Your day…)


-------

I think the formatting is longwinded, fanciful, and perhaps could use even fewer commas, which would add to the bold shape of no paragraphs. I’d also change the first word “tween” even though I know you don’t mean a teeny-bopper, I just can’t help my mind goes there, but it’s because between is 'tween with the apostrophe. It might behoove the passage to begin "September...."

Does it go anywhere? It’s more like poetry
otherwise it’s not really fiction.
Read’s like a monologue.
Is it an excerpt?

My last question is:
ever heard of Karl Shapiro?
Looks like this:


The Bourgeois Poet

The bourgeois poet closes the door of his study and lights his
pipe. Why am I in this box, he says to himself (although
though it is exactly as he planned). The bourgeois
poet sits down at his inoffensive desk – a door with
legs, a door turned table – and almost approves the
careful disarray of books, papers, magazines and such
artifacts as thumbtacks. The bourgeois poet is already
out of matches and gets up. It is too early in the morning
for any definite emotion and the B.P. smokes. It is
beautiful in the midlands: green fields and tawny
fields, sorghum the color of red morocco bindings, distant
new neighborhoods, cleanly and treeless, and the
Veterans Hospital fronted with a shimmering Indian
Summer tree. The Beep feels seasonal, placid as a
melon, neat as a child’s football lying under the tree,
waiting for whose hands to pick it up.

Last edited by Beesauce; 01-05-2018 at 05:50 PM.. Reason: fonts and format messing up
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Old 01-05-2018, 06:49 PM
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Originally Posted by jimr View Post
I remember, I was thinking about John Upton (who I can't actually read yet) and I wrote this very inordinate start to something (maybe a novel, maybe a delete). I'm trying to overcome my habit of passive under-writing and I'm overwriting right now, Thanks for the comments.


You are on the right track and should keep going. don't delete anything.
I am shocked that some authors ever crumpled any paper.! I keep all the lovely lines.
Here's one of mine from today, and you'll have to quote me on it now:

Who's to say if the riddle was a desk or if the raven was a bird.
-beesauce
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