1
Martin. Who? A name. I don't know. He's a person, like any other, but I don't know. Maybe not. I hate you Martin. I love you martin. You piss me off. But what else? I just don't know. What else can be said about you. More? Is there more? I know there should be, but I just can't think of anyhing. I wish there was more that I could say, but I just,,,can't,,,,think. he was the product of a different place, one that has since moved on without him, his prescence unfelt and unknown, even by those he knew. Where are you Martin..... America is a big place, the world even bigger, and I just can't think of where in the giant mass of earth he could be. I wonder sometimes, when I'm alone, sitting and watching nothing of interest on the television. I just wonder, where, where, where. And sometimes I think I can feel him out there and alive and doing whatever it is that he does. And sometimes I get the feeling that he is gone, not dead, but just gone, and I can't feel him, but only the void of nothingness, the void of space that he isn't filling. What was I talking about? Six months. Short time to know somebody. Has he had that big of an effect on me, that I would think like this about him, so long after I last saw him? I....didn't even know him. Who are these people? He is something, something I can't explain. He wasn't special....Martin, I hate the way you make me feel about myself. I hope you're dead, so your toxic prescence can't contaminate anyone else. Oh god I don't mean that....Martin, why did you have to be the person I was closest to? You were such a bastard at times, but I guess we all are. I'm done reminescing. I'm going to bed.
1.1
There is a slight whirring. The ceiling fan. The blades swoop slowly in a circle, distributing a thin air current. Strange silence from everything else. No, the computer. Small clicking and moving sounds can be heard every now and then if one listens for it. The room is small, too small in fact, for all of the stuff that inhabits it. Scattered magazines on the floor. three jackets hang on the door, preventing it from being closed all of the way. It is calm. That is the feeling that room spreads. On slightly warm summer days, it is the rooms that show the most obvious signs of habitation that always seem the most calm. The window in the room is closed. you can feel, just almost, the sounds that are on the other side. trees that seem to scream in all of the silence that they fill. but inside, the inside has no such screaming. The room is at the end of a hallway, a short hallway, which comes from a larger room, one taht has less sound in it. The dust. The dust has sound, but not much, only very little sounds, ones that can barely be heard unless you are actively looking for them. The couch is green, but faded. Very faded. How long has it been there? The kitchen is nearby. Clean. The door to the dishwasher is open and the smells of the hot dishes can be felt and smelled in the room. The kitchen is very clean. The refridgerator has plenty of stuff on it, a deluge of objects that assault the eyes and doesn't relent. It must have taken many years to gather all of the objects. There is another hall way. too far. Too far away. Back to the room, to the familiar. There is a plate on the table the the computer is on, there is a fly in the room, and the movement seems too much for the calm, the fly is killing the calm and ruining it with its speed and directness. The fly doesn't care about the calm. It lands on the plate, and stays for a while before flying off to another location. A bookshelve, which a television is on top of is against the wall. the books are few, but hefty. the television is connected, but not on. Connected to the same plug as the computer. the remote for the tv is on the floor, by the corner of the bed. sound rips through the silence, tearing the calm in half violently. A steady, repititious beap. The calm scatters, then, slowly, after a little while, settles in around the sound, until the sound itself has been absorbed by the calm and has become a part of the soundscape of the room. An alarm clock. That is where the sound is coming from. The clock reads 11:13. The alarm is disregarded, a mere formality. The sleeping form on the bed has no need to get up, no obligations that require his attention. the alarm is a distant reminder of times when such things existed, times that have been left behind, like so many other things. The sleeping form stirs slightly, but does not wake up. After several minutes the alarm shuts off on its own. The calm scatters and reassembles again. the day rolls on. leaving the sleeping form behind.
1.2
Expaniding outward to the town. It has a calm of it's own, yet one that is very different from the room. The last days of summer seem to spread calm over everything that it touches. The banks, the fast food reastaurants. the buildings that fill the expanse of space that has been labeled as a town. The inhabitats move around. Many don't know the sleeping form, don't know about, and don't care about his existance. The idea of other people outside of the people that they know, the idea that those people have people they know with ideas and lives and stories that are as deeply complex as their own is an abstract thought that few of the people in the town had examined at a deep level. Though some have. A green car, driving slow and steady across the town, with it's windows down, pulling as much of the summer calm into the car it possibly can in its travel. Scraggly, yet somehow smooth blond hair follows the breeze, itself a part of the calm, it has a calm of its own! What will happen to the calm if the hair stops moving, stops absorbing and reflecting the calm? A part of the calm will die, a death not noticed by those who aren't looking for it, a silent death, but one filled with plenty of hope, as calm is everywhere, and can't be ended permenently, no matter what. The car hums smoothly, sometimes harshly, at the red lights. The driver knows the sleeping form, and has thought about the lives and stories of the people around her many time, will sometimes lose track at places examing the people around her whose stories seem the most complex, the most interesting. Who is that person? What brought them to this moment, to this point in existence? The one right now, that I and everyone else can feel, can experiance and interact with? What of their nose? What is the story of that nose? And then the people are gone and their story goes on and the girl isn't privy to what will happen to the person next, or where the person will be tommorow. She won't ever see that person again, they are gone, forever gone and outside of her inquiring gaze. She doesn't think like that at this moment, but sometimes she does. What is she thinking of? Her face contains a gaze of noihing, staring straight ahead into the world in front of her. There is nothing there, but that's not true; there's everything. Her thoughts are nothing. She reacts only passivly to the smell of exhaust. The smell is a part of the calm and she knows it. She enjoys it. The calm. The light changes to green and she moves again.
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