Salaam!
Following my heavy subject blog post last week
on life and death, I’ve been working on one of my novels non-stop. The chapters
I have been working on required me to do some digging into some old writing and
research for one of my characters. In the process, I stumbled upon more writing
I did back when I was at UCSD.
One of the last workshop courses I
took at UCSD was called “Philosophy of Writing”. Yes, the title of the class
was just as terrifyingly confusing as the professor and his assignments. I
reread two of the stories I wrote and was thoroughly confused. I couldn’t
recognize my purpose or reasoning behind the piece. I finally remembered that
even back then, I had no idea what I was writing.
This isn’t surprising to me. It was fall
quarter of my senior year at UCSD: I was battling the flu for the second time
in three months and bronchitis that lasted for months; my patience was being
severely tested by a professor who had it out for me because of my background and
had no problem telling me what she thought of me and my writing through a
letter connected to one of my assignments (in this situation, I put on the
professor shoes and had to educate her on diversity); my mom was going off to
Hajj and I couldn’t bid her safe travels in person; I won’t even get started on
how I was dealing with my French literature class … I was a mess. These are the
only reasons I can find behind writing such dark and nonsensical pieces during
that time in my life.
In case any of you are interested, I
did some digging and found an “Explanatory Note” that my professor required us
to attach to each of our assignments. The following piece was apparently my
interpretation of Foucault and Barthes’ theories on author-function. It was my
response to Foucault’s “What is an Author” and Barthes’ “Death of the Author.” Based
on my attempt to bridge both philosopher’s concepts into one, the grammar and
verb tense in the piece are off; that was deliberate. Despite the high grade I
did achieve for that course, so much for actually retaining anything I learned.
I need to head back to my writing, so
I shall leave you with this piece originally untitled. Remember, this hasn’t
been touched in four years and I’m pretty sure it was one of those “written at 3
am the night before class” assignments. I bid you well wishes trying to
understand the story.
As promised, I will always post on
Thursdays, even if it means putting up an old, horribly written story and
embarrassing myself in the process…
Enjoy!
***
The full moon of the month illuminates
the grisly streets of the city. A shadow lurks on every corner sending spiders
to hide within their cobwebs. Howls of unidentified animals whine into the air
giving it a chill. The crisp winds lick at his black leather jacket. He pulls
on the zipper as if to make sure it is possible to extend it beyond closing
point. Hands wrapped tightly around themselves, wrings his fingers to conceal
any warmth, he hastily walks on in a confident stance illustrating that he knows
where he needs to go and it must be quick. There is no time left. It is coming.
His eyes perk up at the site of an old
run down house at the end of the street. Light stream from its windows shining
itself onto the dark and vacant houses nearby. He reaches the fence. Slowly
opening the crooked gate, he begins to ascend the steps gently as to not step
on the trail of spiders leading the way. He reaches out to the doorknob, ready
to twist –
STOP!
Do not enter… turn back slowly… Now.
He jumps, turning around to the gentle
whispers. No sound, the area around him is calm. A shiver runs down his spine.
He shakes it off and once again returns to the door. Spiders now lay confident
on the doorknob, circling tighter and tighter. Changing his mind, he walks back
and out the gate. Maybe this isn’t the right house.
You’re not
there yet. You must keep going…must.
His first step back on the street, rain
pelts down hard jerking him awake and washing out any noise. He pulls up his
collar and wraps his arms tightly to hug in the warmth and continues on down
the street. As if on cue, lights begin to pour out of the houses followed by
laughter and happy voices. Brows furrowed in confusion, he makes a turn into a
dark alley only to find another row of houses. These are silent and almost
ghostly like. He can sense his destination is near now. It must be. The houses become
larger and scarcer leaving now more space between them. Unsure of his next
step, he stops to consider any options.
No, keep
going… almost there… I should know, shouldn’t I?
Again the whispers startle him. He
spins slowly in a circle shifting his eyes back and forth to spot the thing
that spoke. No one seems to be lurking nearby. There lie only houses, dark, dim
and undisturbed. One holds an aura of cobwebs. The rain stops. Dew glistens on
the webs revealing a pathway by which to enter into the garden surrounding the
grand front door. Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he walks through
the webs up to the brick walls holding together the steel door. He raises his
hand to knock and stops right before his hand reaches the gold metal.
Do not fear,
enter.
The door smoothly opens shining light
onto his face. Hunching his shoulders, he shoves his hands into his jeans
pockets again. He enters slowly and spots a shadow coming near yet no image
appears.
Welcome
home. Be prepared. Another maze awaits you once again. It will reorganize itself
soon. Ready? Set. Go…
The lights go out. He stands in a misty
jungle ready to follow the light and whispers once again.
