30 Days of Boredom-Day Twenty-Nine
An Experiment in Writing
By AJ Mars

Sleep. A whore of gross intentions, a needed drug, and lonely friend. If I do not sleep, I am not well, but sleep too much and I am nothing.

Life starts between the sheets and ends with a shroud. The man that was your grandfather is not dead, but peacefully sleeping, only this bed has a door. Grandpa has gone to final sleep and must not be disturbed.

What might we do without the need for sleep? Would we live a life a third more full? Would these stolen hours, if we were to somehow reclaim them, lead us to the unanswered questions of life and love? Perhaps the change in thought brought about by increasing exhaustion is helpful to the mind. The call to sleep is both a challenge and a gentle tug towards relaxation; with dreams inspired thoughts may rise, as also the verge of exhaustion clarifies the mind to the power of the will.

Slumber is a poor lover, but a good friend. I seek eternity in a lover, but simple strength in a friend. I wish to perpetually fall deeper into the embrace of my beloved, and closer to the truth with my friend. Of course I seek truth in and strength in my beloved, but that of friends bears a different mark, a coarser lens, and more rugged grasp.

So, slumber is a poor lover, but only for the living. For the dead she is all that one can ask for, with her sweet-rot kisses, and grave dust touch, she pulls me through the vortex to the Endless Light beyond the Abyss.

30 Days of Boredom-Day Twenty-Eight
An Experiment in Writing
By AJ Mars
Introduction to a tale of Dreamer’s Pain

In the suburbs of America live aching souls that yearn for
wonder. Every day a little crack widens further, every year the
chasm gets a little bigger, between truth and desire.

Let us observe one of these achers, a half-broken person living adrift in dreams, in close detail. Let us give him the fake name of John.

An Experiment in Writing
By AJ Mars

A boy born into hatred realized he doesn’t have to live that way today.  He is scared, uncertain again, as he was before he made the land of hatred his own, but his quaking spirit begins to let him see the soft consolation of loving strangers and the truth of random acts of kindness.

Today, a girl realized she is pretty and kind, and that she really doesn’t care what anybody thinks she should be doing with those looks.  She will not hide her beauty, but neither will she let it be ALL she is.
Today was an ordinary day.

Sometimes I remember those quiet moments; one might even call them moments of love.  I might be tempted to call it by the name of beauty instead, but it seems one often elicits the other in the observer.

During one of those quiet moments I simply watched her breathe:  the coiling snake of muscles descending in a smooth wave made the moment seem all the quieter.  But there was not complete silence; a tiny motion in her nose as the air rushed in sounded like the smallest ocean wave.  It is ridiculous the beauty that is contained in one breath, the sense of peace it may contain.  Though it is easier to see this grace in the breath of those we love, I believe that if one looks close enough, it may be seen in every breath from every one.

Sing to me the stories of the great people, said to be divine, and yet people still.

Sing to me the stories of the wicked people, said to be demons, and yet people still.

Sing to me such stories as would make the word tremble, with delight and fear, with grief and rapture.

In the golden land of Evandime there lived a two-eyed serpent, Green.  She coiled and recoiled over what were to her but large rocks, but were mountains to the people.  Some say she once bore the shape of a woman, others that she bears it still, sometimes walking among them,

In the land of Evandime they love the serpent Green.

“Mother,” they say, “let thy coils be our shields, let they breath be our warmth, and let thy wisdom persevere.”

The simple folk of Evandime praise her in the fields, singing songs as sweet as lullabies, yet invigorating too.

“Oh serpent, Green,” they gently scream, a piercing hammer blow.

“Please bless my crops, Lady of Rocks, send peace to us below.”

Words of derision poured from him as sweat, unconsciously pushed out from his pores and making the room stink as they mixed with the rest of his filth.  He couldn’t help it, or so I was supposed to believe.  He’s an old man, set in stupid ways, so it is stupid to even consider change.  It was all probably true, but I wanted to throw his foul ass in a shower, or better yet, wash him down with a fire hose.

I’m not really that great of a man, though I think I try.  I try not to be a miserable fuck, but I can’t claim to be terribly successful there, and that’s one area of life I put effort into.  Being responsible, industrious and all those other things that the good citizens of this earth concern themselves with have rarely meant much to me, so don’t expect much there.  I promise not to scream too much when you throw my slacker ass in the ambition shower, but I’m probably lying.  Ta ta!

Of green grime and lullabies sing I softly.  It
makes mores sense to me than the people
squawking all around this ship.  Somehow they
have all lost grasp of wonder, how amazing it is to
forge through cosmos; instead they are more
concerned with little marks on clipboards,
inspection ratings and reviews.
I get my fair share of clipboard marks, but I
learned to not care about them unless they made
my life worse.  Since I’m good at my job and do it
well, my marks are always in the right spot.
Besides that, if I don’t do my job right, everyone
would die.

30 Days of Boredom is an experiment to get me writing regularly.  I simply must write something for a few minutes every day, but it should not be connected to existing projects, though the Boredom days may connect to each other (or not).  It’s an unguided writing meditation to facilitate making writing a habitual addiction, or perhaps one could call it creative cardio; the form is not important as long as it makes the creative heart stronger and more efficient.

Artful Words
Words simply stated have an unnerving power.  So much of our language is engage in flattery, be it of the self or others.  Words are used to impress, and dress up our drab and dreary conversation.
I have no contempt for simple people using words simply, but I admire more the person who seizes upon the purest word possible despite knowing many others.  To use simple words in a complex manner, to make poetry of mud is a wonderful feat of courage in the face of academia.  However, there is the danger to assume that all simple language is worth of exaltation, that simply because one adopts a plain folks attitude that somehow these words are truer, or that they are considered good art.
Anyone may be creative, but not all of these creators are artful. One who thinks that placing a string of simple words together with little attention to raising up the reader, to making a connection, should be considered artful at all may be right, but I would consider this quite wrong-headed.  Not that jamming words together is not useful; it should only be the first draft, not the final copy.  Some first drafts are quite beautiful, and this entire 30 Days experiment has been very quick first drafts.  When I read over them I find some good, some bad, and a few wonderful.  All of the Boredom days may be called creative, but how many are artful?
As this is yet another Boredom day writing, I have no ability to edit this and therefore am at a loss for a theme, and hence a proper conclusion.  I suppose I have been taking shots at certain writers, and especially poets who I perceive to be delusional about the artistry of their simple words.  I love simple words and short sentences, but I also love complex structures and “big” words.  Being a lover of all these words I have sometimes been accused of being a showoff, and while this may be true at times, I would say rather that I use the first word that comes to mind, or sometimes the most precise word.  However, the point of language is to convey, whether it be emotions, events, or ideas.  So one must find the words for the situation, and “big” words have their place, but I caution you to consider if there is a simpler, and still artful, way to convey the same message.

Cold.  That was what I missed.  I was never cold anymore, not in the good way.  There are different kinds: the dull aching wind chill, sopping snow covered burr, and the first moment of panic when stepping into the ocean.  However, these were not the colds I missed.
The cold I longed for is only found in places that are slightly warm.  It lays on the tip of your nose, a tad uncomfortable, but I don’t like to cover my nose, since I enjoy breathing through it.
Why do we miss the irritating, the infuriating and the stupid parts of our lives?  One must wonder if the whole world is born insane and we as a species are only now aware of our disease yet still wired to repeat the insanity.  Best not to think about it.