Wednesday, September 23, 2015

These the words of Chopchop McJangle(9.23.15)

As a writer, I like to stretch myself.  Here I constructed a long statement, ala Henry James and William Faulkner.  The clauses just hang, gently shaking in the air.

"I let Bradford live in the converted garage, live with his whole life in one room and his charge spread about three bedrooms, living and dining rooms, and kitchen: he did that because I arranged it and paid him and possibly he liked it or just accepted it the way the former alcoholics accept things, stoic, to just stand there, shaking, suffering, while the cold winds, rains and cruelty of the world buffet the sufferer, just to suffer through as punishment for the gluttony before, maybe that the spirit was lost during a long span of time, given to whatever demon swam inside the bottles, then it was just to suffer in hopes of paying a spiritual debt, for they so doubted themselves, the recovering drunks-it was a path I let him walk alone in an addition to the house and not in the house proper, where he could be alone with it, breathing his sleepbreath and sucking in great sleepgulps with the dust and dander of his own former shame, his own current millstone that sat right there in the room with him, perched on the carpet which was stretched over oil-stained concrete in a room that was once a car shed."

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