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301verbs · 06-22-2009, 07:32 AM

I generally refrain from bringing up this part of my life. But since this forum is basically anonymous, I'll put this forth.

Prologue
My mother was a fish.

~

My egg was laid in the Hudson River and there, in the darkness, I entered this world. My friends and family were the literary sort and at night we would gather together, crowding gill to gill, reading breathlessly by the glow of old Personal Digital Assistants we found buried now and then along the river's floor. It was a quiet life, but I swear it was a rich one; it was as fertile a medium for the imagination as any I have since known.

Still, as I aged my need to see the world with my own eyes expanded, and at last I sprouted arms and legs to match and climbed ashore. Once above I travelled widely; I have seen your great art and heard your great music and my heart thrills with passionate empathy as I watch your greatest plays performed. But what brought me here still remains beyond my grasp.

I have trouble holding books; I flip the pages badly; and invariably without meaning to I spill my drink or drop them in the tub, and the words seep into each other, diluted even further by the traitorous weeping of my own despairing eyes. Lately I've tried to find recourse in the LCD readers of my youth. Some good has come of this: among other things it introduced me to your forums, though given the nature of my experience I have had little to add to your discussions. But these readers' batteries are weak and the screens are tiny, and I'm afraid I cannot sense their glowing light at all without remembering most plainly the world I left behind forevermore.

And frankly the memories are unbearable. I walk along the Hudson and can't help flinging the things into the depths, to land on the heads of other young carpers who will one day follow my fins in search of sights unseen and wobbly kneecaps. This madness has also cost me an amour: just yesterday a young gentleman stared in astonishment as I hurled my Zaurus onto the waves, and at long last I let him know I was a fish. He cursed in a dry voice and left.

A life of reading poetry in the mud has left me ill-prepared to deal with this parching world. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I can hear my siblings reading, each to each.

I do not think that they will read to me.

I'd like a Kindle mark 2.

06-22-2009, 07:32 AM	#267
301verbs Enthusiast Posts: 27 Karma: 12 Join Date: May 2009 Device: none yet	I generally refrain from bringing up this part of my life. But since this forum is basically anonymous, I'll put this forth. Prologue My mother was a fish. ~ My egg was laid in the Hudson River and there, in the darkness, I entered this world. My friends and family were the literary sort and at night we would gather together, crowding gill to gill, reading breathlessly by the glow of old Personal Digital Assistants we found buried now and then along the river's floor. It was a quiet life, but I swear it was a rich one; it was as fertile a medium for the imagination as any I have since known. Still, as I aged my need to see the world with my own eyes expanded, and at last I sprouted arms and legs to match and climbed ashore. Once above I travelled widely; I have seen your great art and heard your great music and my heart thrills with passionate empathy as I watch your greatest plays performed. But what brought me here still remains beyond my grasp. I have trouble holding books; I flip the pages badly; and invariably without meaning to I spill my drink or drop them in the tub, and the words seep into each other, diluted even further by the traitorous weeping of my own despairing eyes. Lately I've tried to find recourse in the LCD readers of my youth. Some good has come of this: among other things it introduced me to your forums, though given the nature of my experience I have had little to add to your discussions. But these readers' batteries are weak and the screens are tiny, and I'm afraid I cannot sense their glowing light at all without remembering most plainly the world I left behind forevermore. And frankly the memories are unbearable. I walk along the Hudson and can't help flinging the things into the depths, to land on the heads of other young carpers who will one day follow my fins in search of sights unseen and wobbly kneecaps. This madness has also cost me an amour: just yesterday a young gentleman stared in astonishment as I hurled my Zaurus onto the waves, and at long last I let him know I was a fish. He cursed in a dry voice and left. A life of reading poetry in the mud has left me ill-prepared to deal with this parching world. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I can hear my siblings reading, each to each. I do not think that they will read to me. I'd like a Kindle mark 2.