Working on this bit...

[dwim]

constructive critisms are always welcome. I've been working on this very beginning of this piece since October. I've changed it around a lot, rewrote it a lot. I'm thinking I'll go with this opening on this particular project. Let me know what you think, suggestions, etc. etc. etc. Yeah, you know the deal.

Dreaming Souls

Buddy only paused when he smokes his cigarette. He had been up all night talking out loud to himself as if someone were listening to him attentively. There's no one in his apartment, just his journal opened to a page which he wrote into whenever he says something that he felt was profound in thought or feelings. It usually works. Sometimes it does, other times it doesn't.
Anyway, Buddy only paused when he smokes his cigarette, saying one word after another in a stream of conscious with the tape recorder rolling out of fear that he'll forget something he said.
What a long night it was and his voice were getting hoarse by now. He looked at the clock. Six in the morning it says.
He stopped the tape recorder and went into the bed.
It was then that he heard it. A sound of someone playing a guitar. Buddy could hear it and fears for the neighbors who'd wake up even though they desperately needed the sleep. Buddy decided that they need to wake up to something beautiful anyway, as ugly as the world can tend to be at times. Best days are those with real good music and that guitar sounded so damned sweet.
He decided it was from the apartment to the right of his apartment. He got up again, though tired, to put on his pair of blue jeans as he was going to sleep in his boxer shorts, also putting on a black t-shirt. He went into the hall in barefoot remembering to get his keys from the dresser.
The nerves went wild standing in front of that door. What would the guitar player think if he was to be interrupted this early in the morning? His music was so beautiful, the guitar melody so haunting that he should never be put into the position of offering an apology.
Buddy knocked anyway out of a strange desire to meet this person. He knew nobody else in this city as he had moved in from out of town. He just decided in that one moment that there was not much to lose and everything to be gained, as the saying goes.
The door opens to reveal a young man in his early twenties dressed ina jean with holes and a t-shirt promoting some heavy rock band. The black hair was combed back neatly and the ears was pierced with some silver earring. The tired eyes from obviously being up all night, probably some job that only promise a dead end, were glaringly blue.
"Was the music bothering you?" came the voice full of regret from thinking that he had woke up his neighbor.
Buddy could only stare a few moments before replying that he liked the music that was being played. He explained that he wanted to meet him because of the music.
The young man stared back at him, as if pondering whether he should let the meeting go on or slam the door in Buddy's face. Buddy wouldn't care either way because he made the gesture just the same. Finally, the young man offered out his hand.
"My name is Trevor," he said. "Might as well use some company right now. Come on in."
Buddy walked into the apartment curious to look around at this person's possesions, which turned out to be very few. Just a bed, a dresser drawer, a nice acoustic guitar in a stand in the corner. Not much else really. There's no television and no microwave oven. Just a typical stove and refrigerator that Buddy recognized as coming with the apartment. A few posters hung on the walls but nothing artsy. A lot can be said from a person's bookshelf. Trevor mostly had books ranging from Allen Ginsberg to Anais Nin.
"You like to read too huh?" Buddy asked trying to start up a rapport.
"Yeah, mostly poetry and literature stuff. What about you?"
"Just about the same," Buddy replied. "How come you don't have a television set in here?"
Trevor looks up at him as if this could be the first sign of stupidity of falling in with the conformity of society but it's clear that Buddy was only curious, not judgmental. "Television was too much of a way to waste my time," he finally replied. "Have a seat."
Buddy sat down in a bean bag chair while Trevor lit up his cigarette and took off his necklace. Buddy became curious about the necklace and asked about it.
"You're just fulla questions ain't you? What with all the interests in me all of a sudden?"
"Just trying to find some way to connect with you, a way to find something to talk about."
Trevor looks back at Buddy as if he doubt every word that had just been said. "Well, that's a St. Christopher medallion. He's a patron saint of travellers, the automobile drivers and the like."
"You like travelling?"
"I wish I could travel some more. It'll be nice to go to San Fransisco and maybe Paris where all the writers seems to get thier inspirations. I wear this as a protection while I'm driving. Pretty hard to get a hold of that but luckily I have friends so one of them sent this one to me. Want a drink?"
"Sure," Buddy replied.
Trevor came back with a bottle of beer and they drank together, mostly arkward silence but only a few more words were spoken. Buddy found Trevor to be just as tired as he himself so after finishing his beer, he excused himself while thanking Trevor for the beer. In hope of Trevor stopping by his apartment, he told him that he only lives next door.
Buddy went to bed forgetting this time to take off his jeans.
Trevor did came later in the late afternoon, the St. Christopher hanging around his neck in a visible sight. He said that he knew of a coffeehouse nearby. While Buddy was getting ready, Trevor noticed the writing journal and inquired about it. Buddy replied affirmatively that he does write.
"Bring it along," Buddy suggested. "You'll love the coffeehouse where we're going."
Buddy put his writing material into a backpack and followed Trevor out the door.

[Chilimuffin]

the tense changes mess with me, but in a thought-provoking independent film sort of way. Are they intentional? my only thought would then be to employ them more consistently, or is that intentional too? It's very provoking, however, I had to read it three times because I wanted to catch nuances, and that, in my book, is always the sign of something worth reading .

------------------
"Get a life - go Online!"
-Dismay

"You know I wasn't born I was spat out at a wall
And nobody even knew my name
The sun hatched me out, cradle and all
On the corner of First and Insane."
--Shawn Colvin

[dwim]

to continue... what? I'm trying to write a novel here!

Buddy put his writing materials into a backpack and followed Trevor out the door.
When they got to the coffeehouse, called Paradise Coffeehouse, Buddy realized that just by looking at it, he'll be spending most of his free time here. The outside look of it seems homely and welcoming. The front window is shining in the afternoon sun, slantly glinting straight into the room illuminating the tables inside.
Inside the coffeehouse, the walls were painted dark blue and picture of the beat writers hang on the walls, ranging from Allen Ginsberg to Jack Kerouac to Diane DiPrima. Their picture was framed of with the cover of their first book that had made them beat writers in the first place. For Jack, a cover of "On the Road." Allen got the cover of "Howl" while Diane is accompanied by the cover of "How i Became a Beatnik." All the tables were covered with blue tablecloths and lit up with a candlelight for reason of atmosphere. There was a counter on which the cappucino machine sits as well as a freshly brewed coffee in a pot. Buddy could get the whiff right up to his nose. It smell fresh and sweet. There's a glass case consisting of bagels, donuts, brownies, and various type of drinks. There were small bottle of orange juice, bottle of soda, and cold flavored tea in various flavors. The floor was of a dark cedar freshly swept and cleaned.
The conversation that Buddy ended up overhearing was political. Something about what the President of The United States was up to swiftly changing to the Congressman of Indiana until finally switching to the Mayor of Indianapolis. The men discussing were seated at the table in another room with the swinging glass door left open. One was smoking a rolled up cigarette while the other hand was holding a tobacco pouch waving it in the air as if to emphasize his point. "The democrat and the Republican are the same," he says. "They just want to believe they're different. Sure they're different in a few of their platform but put them in the office and they start making deals." Buddy could see that there was a framed print of Van Gogh hanging on the wall just beyond this openned door hanging next to the window.
"It's a cool place here," Trevor said to Buddy. "This is like my second home and I don't believe that there's another place to be in this city. You could learn something just by listening here."
Just listening was always fine with Buddy. He's introverted and much rather hear the voices of other rather than his own. He had always been the type to step back and let others state their views. Where Buddy came from, it's well known that he had only been in a few fights. Not even he himself ever understood how he got into these fights but he's slow to temper and when that fuse had gone down, watch out. Fortunately, there's plenty of time until the watch out stage.
The young lady behind the counter had been looking at Buddy who had came in with Trevor. She knows Trevor having just met him a few months before on a jamming Wednesday session that goes on at this very same coffeehouse. Trevor sang something that she fell into liking very much. She got her red hair back into a pig tail and smooth out her long black dress. "Hello Trevor," she said. "Who's your friend there?"
"This is Buddy," Trevor said. "He's my neighbor and I'm just showing him this place."
"All right," the girl smiled. "We could use the word of mouth advertisement 'round here. I'm Daria." She offered her hand across the counter towards Buddy who shook it. "What are you gonna have?"
Buddy asked for coffee while Trevor asked for a cup of tea. Daria said that she'll be joining them in a little while as her break time was in fifteen minutes.
Buddy and Trevor went to sit at the table that was provided outside. They wanted to sit in the sun and fresh air. Trevor hadn't really said a word on the drive to the coffeehouse and this made Buddy curious as to why he hadn't. All of a sudden, sounds of jazz started coming from the inside because Daria had put in a CD of Billie Holiday.
"Ahh yes!" Trevor exclaimed in a wide smile. "Listen to that jazz and always remember," he waved a finger towards Buddy. "There is no one like Billie Holiday! Hear that sweet voice?"
Buddy had to agree. He liked Billie too, having a few of her CDs himself.
"You know? I'm pretty picky when it comes to my music," Trevor smiled. "It needs that kick for me. I have to have that kick and I don't really care much for the crossover artist oppish bands today. The radio is killing the music big time for the love of the dollar."
"I totally agree man!" Buddy smiled wide. "Everything is so damned commercialized today."
"Number one reason why people are downloading music off computers," Trevor exclaimed. "The executives are whining about money, sure yeah I can understand them but at the same time, they're expecting us to swallow loads of bullshit they're putting out. Who wanna buy an album for one good song anyway? Not me and I'm pretty sure you don't want either."
"Yeah, I totally agree. I love music and I want the musician to get paid for what they're doing but at the same time, if I am going to work where I'm expected to do a good job for their dollar, then I should expect to buy good music for my dollar."
"Trevor got a good brain in bringing you here to this place," Daria said walking up to them with a cup of coffee in her hand. "We love a good debate around here." She sat down next to Trevor and took out her cigarettes, an empty pack of regular Camels.
"Can I bum one?" Trevor asked. "I left mine at home. Damn thing too, they're lights and you don't care much for lights."
"Oh ho! But you know what they say, beggars can't be choosers." She took two out and gave one to Trevor then took out a black Zippo and lighting up both while they're palced between her cherry lips.
"You know Buddy," Trevor began. "Daria's here is in a band. She does punk rock numbers and man, she is a true musician. I can't join her band though."
"Why not?" Buddy inquired out of curiousity.
Daria and Trevor laughed with a joyous sound in their voice.
"Because he ain't got pussy," Daria answered matter of factly.
Daria was in an all-girl punk rock band and they've been together for about two years. It grew out of her obsession for listening to The Sex Pistols as well as other band in that vein. She joked that her main dream was to date Henry Rollins. It was her opinion that Henry was the punkest of them all.
"I saw him do the spoken word thing and I was up close to the stage," Daria remembers. "He's quite a big guy bulging full of muscles. And you should've seen his neck, it's this big." Here, she put her hands around her small neck and held her hands encircled about it. Buddy got the impression that it was a pretty big neck. He could imagine because he saw pictures of him and he really missed seeing that Liar video. He had a sudden desire to see it again.
After talking for a while, Buddy decided he liked Daria and was already looking forward to a friendship with her. In the course of the conversation, Buddy learned that Trevor, like himself, had came from out of town. He grew up in Ohio and had came to Indianapolis so that he can be closer to Chicago. Buddy found it strange that he didn't go up there yet but will soon because Daria was in the course of setting up a concert up there for her band. It would be nothing big but at least she'll be playing in Chicago and there is always a possibility of hooking up with a manager up there. Well, at least she was hoping. Trevor support the band with much vigor and interest, he's the one that prints up the flyers and let the local independent paper know where the band was palying. Also, he help them get set up for the show in hope of becoming a roadie if they ever get a chance for a tour. Trevor not only wanted to see Chicago, he wanted to see all of America. Chicago was just a small part of America after all as America was just a small part of the world. He also expressed an even deeper desire to see Paris in France.
Buddy himself had came from Richmond, Indiana, not very far from where Trevor had grew up. The reason he had moved to Indianapolis was to take writing courses at the IU and, hopefully, get involved with the local writer's scene. Daria and Trevor informed him that he had came to the right city to do some writing. As a matter fact, they told him that Paradise Coffeehouse held readings every Thursday night.
"A good warm up for the weekend," Daria told him. "You would love the atmospere. Electric and very, very contagious. Then you go to a bar and get drunk. A whole buncha drunk poets running around talking about some poet that had already been published and suggesting what books to read. I bet you got a suggestion for me."
"No," Buddy replied. "I really don't."
"Well, I have a suggestion for you, especially if you're gonna hang around this town." Daria paused as if to think about what she wanted to suggest with her small finger touching her lower lip. "Kurt Vonnegut," she said finally. "Like me, he grew up in this town. A good writer if you asked me."
"Oh yeah," Trevor chimed in. "Didn't he write that Slaughter House Five?"
"Yep, that's the one. A good intro to Kurt. Read that one first Buddy."
Buddy said that he would as soon as he can.
The main reason that Daria had suggested Kurt Vonnegut was because, like Kurt, she had grew up in Indianapolis. Her family was rooted there and this was where she had graduated from high school and she's continuing college there in the city taking courses in art, mainly painting. Her main dream was to do her own album covers. She was a short woman, stood just over five feet tall. Her breast was small but her music, her songs, speaks loud in volume. Big things come in small packages, as they say. Buddy liked the way the sun shines in her dyed red hair. She loves Tori Amos thus the reason she had dyed her hair red. She was quiet as a child, shy and the all too famous feeling of being an outsider. Nevertheless, she has her friend that shared with her a common like of punk music and pretty much anything else that was not played on mainstream radios. She even loved Bethoven, especially Moonlight Sonata. So much in fact, that her band has a dreamy version of it on electric guitars and bass. Out of mockery of her culture ideas, she suggested the name of Screaming Bitches for the band. Her bandmates liked the name and they chose that out of some word in a dictionary. Daria forgot what the word was and all she could remember was that she don't like that word. Between her times at the college and in the band, she works at the coffeehouse, if only to pay the rent and recieve some free food so that she can eat. She rarely buys groceries for her place but when she does, it's only cereal and milk for whenshe wakes up and turn out the light for the night.
She turns to Trevor. "You still got that necklace I gave you?"
Trevor showed her the St. Christopher medal.
"Good," Daria said. "I don't want you dying on me anytime soon."
"That's not in my immediate plan," Trevor smiled then glanced in Buddy's direction. "She gave me this necklace because I told her about this dream I had. It's more like a nightmare if you ask me but anyway, I had this dream. I was in some red brick city. Every building was made out of red bricks. No windows, not even a door. And there was this black muscle car, raoring engine, speeding like crazy around these streets. I was watching this car coming out of sharp corners making all these sharp turns. I watched it ran right into a brick wall full on at a very high speed. When I went to check on the driver, I found out that it was me that was driving it, very much dead. The only reason I remember it like I do was because I wrote it down as soon as I woke up."
"When he told me about this dream," Daria jumped in. "I went and got him that necklace, the St. Christopher medal."
"Why St. Christopher?" Buddy wondered.
"St. Christopher," Daria explained. "Is a patron saint of travellers.He's the protector who makes sure you get somewhere safe. So fortunately, I know where to get it for him and I went and got it for him. I want all of my friends to be safe."
Buddy grinned. "In that case, I hope we can be friends."
"We are," Daria said.