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Writing Contest
Jan. 15th, 2013 06:05 pmSo, the Missoula Public Library has a writing contest with cash prizes that I would like to attempt to enter, but I need to get back into the writing swing of things, so prepare yourself for random writings between now and Feb. 22nd. Or don't prepare yourself, since random is how I roll.
I’m not sure where to start. The beginning would be obvious; the end less so. The middle gets us fancy in media res points but might be confusing. It’s all so confusing. That’s the problem. How did I get from there to here? First things first: I was a spider, of sorts. Second things second: I’m not one anymore. I’m not used to being part of the story. I weave (wove) the threads. Fate and destiny are all well and good, but if the threads tangle, if the stitch slips… this isn’t the sort of weaving where you can pick apart your mistakes and start over. What’s done cannot be undone by man or nature fair. Certainly not by me. What’s done cannot be undone, so take heed, take care. It was a knot that got me into trouble. They pop up from time to time to time to time (time doesn’t mean much after the first millennium), and I weave them in, make them part of the design. The tapestry of the universe isn’t meant for perfection. Life is not pretty, not in the human sense. There is no artfully picked color scheme, no beautifully depicted pattern. Life is messy: snarls and holes and broken threads all over the place. But at the end of the day (week, month, year, decade, century), it all winds up fitting together. Not in a pretty way, but in a practical way. The way that only the past can be pieced together to form a whole. The future is an entirely different matter. I never thought about mine. Never really had a future, beyond the weavings. That was my past and present, why not my future, as well? What else was (is) there? I suppose you could say I’ve served my time (there goes that meaningless word again). My sentence is complete, and I am out on parole. The problem is that I don’t remember what I was before I was a Weaver. I have woven. I am weaving. I will weave. I don’t remember choices. The threads make choices, not I, not I. The threads entangle and drift apart, the threads opt to be alone on solitary islands. The thread, the thread, when yours runs out, you’re dead. I am a thread now. Not a spider dancing on top of gossamer lives. I am being danced upon by another spider, the next, new Weaver. My replacement tucks me into the tapestry, and waits to see what I will do next.
I’m not sure where to start. The beginning would be obvious; the end less so. The middle gets us fancy in media res points but might be confusing. It’s all so confusing. That’s the problem. How did I get from there to here? First things first: I was a spider, of sorts. Second things second: I’m not one anymore. I’m not used to being part of the story. I weave (wove) the threads. Fate and destiny are all well and good, but if the threads tangle, if the stitch slips… this isn’t the sort of weaving where you can pick apart your mistakes and start over. What’s done cannot be undone by man or nature fair. Certainly not by me. What’s done cannot be undone, so take heed, take care. It was a knot that got me into trouble. They pop up from time to time to time to time (time doesn’t mean much after the first millennium), and I weave them in, make them part of the design. The tapestry of the universe isn’t meant for perfection. Life is not pretty, not in the human sense. There is no artfully picked color scheme, no beautifully depicted pattern. Life is messy: snarls and holes and broken threads all over the place. But at the end of the day (week, month, year, decade, century), it all winds up fitting together. Not in a pretty way, but in a practical way. The way that only the past can be pieced together to form a whole. The future is an entirely different matter. I never thought about mine. Never really had a future, beyond the weavings. That was my past and present, why not my future, as well? What else was (is) there? I suppose you could say I’ve served my time (there goes that meaningless word again). My sentence is complete, and I am out on parole. The problem is that I don’t remember what I was before I was a Weaver. I have woven. I am weaving. I will weave. I don’t remember choices. The threads make choices, not I, not I. The threads entangle and drift apart, the threads opt to be alone on solitary islands. The thread, the thread, when yours runs out, you’re dead. I am a thread now. Not a spider dancing on top of gossamer lives. I am being danced upon by another spider, the next, new Weaver. My replacement tucks me into the tapestry, and waits to see what I will do next.
