by Fred Osuna
I. I'm dreaming in over-saturated colors again. The man with the microphone asks me to quickly name all of the songs on the Monkees' second album. I pause, mouth agape, and finally blurt "Your Auntie Grizelda," then am interrupted by the buzzer. The audience groans. I roll over, slam my hand on the alarm clock and try to open my eyes.
II. There is only one other person in the pool, in the adjacent lane. I stop to adjust my goggles and notice his waterproof ear buds. “What kind of radio've you got in there,” I ask him, “Music or talk?” “First draft of a sermon,” sayeth he.
III. The body pump instructor here is excitedly screaming "Over! Over! Over!" to a disco beat. His class, four women lined up directly in front of him and one man older than me keeping his own time in the back of the room, do their best to keep up. Meanwhile, just through the wall, sweaty men in the weight room pant and grunt in syncopation.
IV. From the piano, I can see her standing motionless in front of the pantry. What's with all these dry goods, she must be thinking. No rice again, no rice again, I tap out on the keyboard. I watch her slide the canister of basmati behind two boxes of instant oatmeal. She is craving fruit and digs deeper into the shelves for a tin of Del Monte cocktail, but finds only a can of beans.
V. After the midday storm, I venture out in my bathrobe to clear the yard of limbs. My house shoes sploosh and gasp in the mud, a wheezy sponge where there used to be a firm lawn. The first new drops begin to fall, tapping my shoulder. I leave the job undone and go inside.
VI. I roam the house, turning out lights, looking for the source of the noise. Venturing onto the portico, I spy the neighbors, barefoot on their back deck, dancing in the rain, kissing. The portable CD player is nestled safe and dry beneath the eaves. It is midnight.
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This is what happens when I clear out my Twitter feed while listening to the iPod in super-random mode (specifically, the Beach Boys' "Add Some Music to Your Day"). I suppose the resulting episodes are only believable if one can imagine Brian Wilson going to a public gymnasium.
Each of these could branch off into their own narrative. Nice, particularly the voice. And I loved the subtlety here: " I ask him, “Music or talk?” “First draft of a sermon,” sayeth he."
Enjoyed this piece. Like the form.
Thanks, Susan and Sam, for the feedback!
I liked this. With each new venture out, something thwarts, and there is another turn, until the narrator is inside looking out on someone else's private moment. I don't know if this was the intent, but I felt a sense of slight frustration and longing.
I like the form.
-- Q
Q. - Susan nailed it when she mentioned that each section "could branch off into their own narrative." Each of these sections were tweets that I chose randomly and re-worked to show how music is present throughout an average day. Once I realized that that idea had been prompted by the Beach Boys song playing on my iPod, it was a short hop to work it up as a Brian Wilson narrative (he, the lonely and secluded musical genius, wandering the beaches of southern California in his bathrobe).
I probably saw the tweets @spitballarmy, and I'm sure I appraciated each, but I really like them all together like this. A lot.
Yes! What Jane said!
Thanks, Jane and Karrie.
This...this is good stuff. Very well done.