To End All Wars by Luke T Trouwborst Why did World War II really occur? The rash actions of a few Frenchmen and Americans. The story... [506 words]
Of Art, Pt. 1 by Gregory Novak An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words]
Jane Doe Thursday 10th January 2008 by Sooz The Ark is full, but what's one more lizard? [714 words]
Jane Doe Seven by Sooz Sooz The Begining of the Seventh book in the Jane doe series. [980 words]
I Should Think It Like A Fist
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How In Colombia I Grew In Mind And Soul (And Nowadays Grow In Girth) by Randall Barfield Where I grew up in Georgia we had practica... [654 words]
Workers In The Vineyard by Randall Barfield . [635 words]
Ransomed by Ruzele Strauss-Hayden - [1,080 words]
Moors And Moors: Randall Interviews Portuguese Writer--Poet--Artist Alexandra Onelight by Randall Barfield - [3,430 words]
I Voted Against Phil Bredesen by Randy Johnson - [97 words]
Grandma, I Love You by Liilia Morrison Memories of my maternal grandmother [1,027 words]
Fear And Bravery Are Walking Together by Elena Kravtsova This a story of one family which had to overcome the Soviet regime by str... [1,788 words]
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The Gas Station by Kristofer Van Der Meulen Me and two friends go to get a drink at a gas station, we save dozens of lives, and our lives w... [2,103 words]
Randall's Humble Analysis Of The Parable Of The Workers In The Vineyard by Randall Barfield (Using the NIV version of the Bible) [635 words]
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Moments, A Lamentation by Gregory Novak - [500 words]
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TITLE (EDIT)
I Should Think It Like A Fist |
DESCRIPTION
A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day.
[493 words] |
TITLE KEYWORD
Psychology |
AUTHOR
Gregory Novak |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts.
[January 2008] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
ultrafunkulah@hotmail.com |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17)
Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History]
Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words]
Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance]
Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words]
Consciousness Stream 1 (Poetry) A relatively lengthy piece I simply spit out one day whilst feeling inexplicably intoxicated (for I was under no influence). [300 words] [Mind]
How She Stirs Not At All (Short Stories) - [319 words]
I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance]
Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words]
Moments, A Lamentation (Non-Fiction) - [500 words] [Romance]
Of Art, Pt. 1 (Non-Fiction) An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words] [Psychology]
Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction]
Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable]
Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller]
Sunday Morning (Short Stories) Memories. Just... memories. [458 words] [Literary Fiction]
The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror]
The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical]
Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
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I Should Think It Like A Fist
Gregory Novak
I should think it rather like a fist drawing down on a hill of sand, hollow, scattering the fallout imperceptibly amongst a field of grain. It is like that initial taste of frozen fruit, salty to the tongue, the cold numbing the taste buds but for a fleeting moment prior to swallowing when the entire universe explodes within the mouth releasing all of flavour of the ripest peach, but only for a mere second so fleeting it seems more a function, a trick of the mind than any tangible faculty, and is gone once again scarcely before another frozen pearl can be shovelled into the salivating oven.
It is sound. It is the sound love makes, and it is neither imperceptible not metaphorical. It is the sound of electricity coursing through a thousand copper wires to feed a single bulb. The sound of energy being born and dying and giving its life before it has a chance to exist. Power that dreams itself into oblivion, winking itself in and out of existence like rain pattering against a churning swell. You hear it every day, all of your life screaming within you, tired of its loneliness yet never quite threatening to release itself beyond your own private resolve.
It is language. Language so banal and inarticulate it can only be used to describe your every waking hour every God-damned day of your life. A language that reaches out and touches the world and everybody in it and brings them back to you in a way that you can understand. In a way that allows you to look on them and listen to their electricity without wanting or needing to snuff the life out from under them before they can do any real damage, for that is where life resides – underneath the body that makes it matter. We lourd it under ourselves like some sort of broken servant bent on our greater wishes, held in check by the mere weight of our astronomical netherpotence. This language that sedates us, and then drops like a stone in the wake of anything truly worth expressing.
Love, that silent cooler, shrieking itself forward, echoing outward from behind impenetrable woods and remaining just dark (and swift!) enough to elude any real formal recognition. A fine Sunday breeze and parlour verse over brandy and smoke, but leave the office for matters of the flesh. Leave Love for the diary. There’s the only one who ever believed in it enough not to deny it thrice in the face of any real attention, let alone conviction. Persecution.
It is the mother of all invention, that rewriting of reality that makes yesterday imperfect, today intolerable, and tomorrow unfit for today.
Feed yourself, and whence you are satiated, feed yourself again. Feed yourself to whatsoever may digest your constituent parts into a soil so safely inert that it will bare no fruit nor wheat nor cattle that will ever lead to another molecule within the universe asking, “Why?”
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READER'S REVIEWS (1)
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"A lot of words but lacking in smooth transition. Instead of the thoughts flowing smoothly, they come in sharp angles forcing the reader to back up and dissect their meaning, instead of letting it all come to you. Even the metaphors seem awkward at times, as if they were there only for effect. Metaphors in writing, like technical improvisation in music or a chef seasoning his creation, are more appreciated when used sparingly. Just my humble thoughts. " -- Richard.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2008 Gregory Novak |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
January 2008 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2025
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