Voices of the Ghouls at Work

~ October 22, 2012

Voices of the Ghouls at Work~

           

            I am sitting in the Madonna University Writing Center observing many different characters. I want to hear everybody's voice. A woman called out to a student who walked in mere moments ago, saying, 'I know your voice!' before turning around the entire one hundred and eighty degrees in order to obtain a view of her. But it's odd is it not? Voices, I mean. They are all around us, betwixt our persons. They are lilting and they are charming, or they are low and perhaps rumbling, deep, reverberating . . . a ghost might whisper in the dark, around a cavern. Voices can echo.

            I like to read a voice and I like to hear one too. The transition must not vary that often when watching the person's back, wondering what will be transferred to  the page as the dendrites click, and click. Even watching their backs we can hear the wheels spin around. Strange is it, that that person shoulders a voice that is much the same as the vocal one that we all enjoy, which heralds that unique individual before their mighty entrance into the room. That voice! Where have I heard it before? Oh, that sweet, beautiful voice!

            I wonder as I sit, writing and thinking to myself in the most introspective way when no one must be watching I do not believe, at the gesticulations of those discussing their topics fervently, at the student with his chin in his hand a couple of yards away. I can see feet tapping in a rhythm of the fierce Indian drum on the ground with his own voice. 'I am nervous,'  whispers that beat to us all, 'please do not think ill of me for saying this. I am about to provide you some constructive criticism.' The hands fall into a synchrony that belies his connection to that same notion. They work quickly to aide the voice of the person in its verbal form, but those hands grow nails out of them long and red, making me coordinate the girl in black who is tutoring her student with a Halloween spirit of sorts . . . those reaching claws spin like red banners in the evil of night and clouds of thundering fury to the sound of the feet, voicing, 'I am nervous. I am nervous. Perhaps you will not understand what I'm saying . . . let me move faster, let me cover myself with these beautiful nails so that you will not think ill of me. CRITICISM.'

            There are so many voices. So many feet, and a plethora of hands and echoes and reverberations and thundering growls in this dark center. The hair of a ponytail flips around with a quick spin while one student leaves to stretch her legs outside of the center's doors. I can clearly see the elegant cross of those loose appendages as she speaks with that voice that I know so well over the phone. She walks in with a body that draaags in the shawls that she's adorned, perhaps directly before she made her appointment today. Those pale robes of  purple remind me of Albus Dumbledore's walk around the Headmaster's office, placing me in mind of the gold and the silver instruments, of the midnight blue colors and textures which manifest in others too, such as white perhaps mixed with black, and green, anything that could be imagined in that magical elements. Voices of floating pumpkins, ghosts, bats, and Alan Rickman with that lovely velvet soothing murmur, so dark, float around the classroom now. The girl in front of me scratches out the word 'OMIT,' on a sheath of paper in front of her. I wonder what OMIT means, but somehow I really do not want to understand. This was the person wearing BLACK earlier.  Two people to my right speak animatedly about the process of failing. And behind me, I hear the throes of a tutoring session.

            They walk, and pencils wag. Their ears perk up, while their mouths hang open inexplicably. The word 'thrilling' jumps out of one of those tutors behind me. Murmurs, whispers have evolved from bubbling laughter. I sit here, typing out all of the voices. Do you know the world or the particular sphere in which so many different vibrations could possibly find a home? I don't think that any of them ever find a home. The picture of a bone on the screen in front of me depicts a hauntingly chilling voice as that arm continues to yell at me, 'I HAVE TOO MUCH HOMEWORK!' Oh dear. Footsteps trod outside the door. I must leave you know amidst all of these cackling voices. I hear jangles. The Writing Center here in which I work, has turned into something, indecipherable . . . the voice of language. It haunts us all. No one understand it.

            On Halloween, yikes!

            These voices will come out in their true spirits.

            Spirits is the word for all of them.

           

            Halloween. Halloween-ish. Work today has merely been  a prelude to the voices and their mad clutch over my brain. Perhaps I have become mad. I do think that writing today, has become a bit, too much . . .

Good evening to you all,

Brooke ~

A Time For Reminiscing About Us

October 9, 2012~

A Time For Reminiscing About Us

Hello everyone,

 Tonight I find myself reminiscing about a few key elements in my week that I keep turning over in my mind, like a pancake thrown out to me by a nutty maid. Over and over, these ideas coerce, and they melt together. They might land on my head, or the floor . . . but unfortunately, they are not strung together into one form of any type that flows together, really making sense. You know. Tests have the same type of spirit about them, well, leastways when you haven’t studied. Tonight I realized that I truly don’t retain the necessary information about my readers that I need to harness in order to ride the horse of desire. Much of my musings over the week have centered upon audience, which brings everyone together into one mix of people, all of who share common experiences or interests. In the educational environment such focus becomes an innate part of every system in which the professor speaks to student; the student, in turn, speaks to audience in the correct manner. The sheer number of various, common areas are unimaginable in which these people could be. Audience could be hiding in your pocketbook, or on the television in the patented, charismatic styles of those who dress up for that very occasion of becoming grand personalities for the benefit of the viewer. I understand audience. I am not entirely certain however, that everyone does.

For many years I rolled through academia, of sorts, all of the sparkling rhymes and meters of musical lands, been on teams, and still . . . I have sporadically written about all of them, taking as I sat down with a paper and a pencil over my ear with a silly smile, bits and pretty shards, broken, placed into my mind by them, which I borrowed. Borrowed all of these which were most interesting to me. Yet, were I to give a story to one within any of those different categories of my life, the bulk and the heaviness that came in the package must have been too much, and . . . I am not entirely certain that their weight had been felt by me. Audiences are so complex! Nothing appeals to one as a whole, because each individual within that audience is different. All of you reading this maintain questions, that float inside your mind bobbing and meandering around up there, but those which do not necessarily merge with those of your fellow peers reading this. I read a story for the Speculative Edge this past week, tailored specifically by the author for an audience that appeared to be much younger, for its main theme had a detailed description of magic flowing through the pages. And yet, how is it that I now limit myself to simply taking the simple idea, before turning to the person next to me, about twenty-two, who absolutely finds herself, or, himself, riveted by the altitude that magic knows, and such a world. Shame on me then! I think that we have a simple idea indeed, of audience. Perhaps we should broaden it.

Well, have a good morning everyone. Somehow, it appears bright and sunny even though it’s the fall. Perhaps that has something to do with the fall issue that just came out. The fall is filled with the dark, yet the dark knows something more than outer blackness . . . even space is dotted by stars. In the meantime, behave yourselves, my pets! We all have questions to answer, and as I continue to seek out my quests, I hope that you will, indeed, seek yours, whatever they might be. We float in the outer realms of what could never be seen, yet the interior of which we will always ourselves create. Space and time licks our spirits, but our constant flaming of what the inner strength encloses, is where those touches that we feel, always make sense in our hearts. The questions on the outside simply pass us by . . .

Until next time then,

In The Room That Explodes,

Brooke ~

~ Oh, and if you will please I thank you, for checking this blog between Monday night and Tuesday morning. I seem to have fallen into this gray spot, and it feels quite comfortable. Thank you.

Musings of Night

 
October 1, 2012 ~



Musings of Night


Hey guys,

        It is approximately 12:30 in the a.m., although I'm calling this a Monday night post, since we know that technically we know I'm not too cold or distanced from the time that I, earlier stated as our game. Monday postings. Tuesday postings. Well, they are very similar in their form, since I doubt that Monday and Tuesday differ that much from each other, and as well they are indeed neighbors. If days were years, there might be a greater expanse for them that we ever knew ourselves. But I should probably break off where days expand into years, because time would mean its weight then. I know that we would be living much longer, even though I am certainly no math person. Days are funny; even though one runs into the other one, you hardly know the difference. They seem to melt into each other somewhat. I think there would be a similar notion for friendly days if they were years. Years are also friends. Neighbors, I should say. One runs into the other, and were it not for New Year's we would hardly depict there was a difference . . .  everything would become one in my eyes. And I don't- even have the ability to tell you what this would mean. Like a gentle river that goes on forever, so would be our lives. There would be no breaks between them. People stop and wave, and smile, and there is no enmity if we all come together in this way, one timeless, fluid energy . . .

         It is in fact, a Monday night, but I don't have much to say other than that. I am sitting in a comfortable chair sipping tea, listening to my local Jazz station on the radio. The Speculative Edge begs me to come back to my exploding room, to our exploding room, and so I have, but something, a block of some sort or obstructed boulder, sits in my path. I am not sure why it has surfaced, yet I know that it has something to do with what exactly has caused me to blink my eyes in rapid wonderings of the colors and sights that I see before me. My eyes dart on every path in this way in a search that I cannot comprehend, which takes me from my reminiscing splendor in order to carry me back to the workday that I will be facing, tomorrow. I am thinking of tomorrow, but the room around me is exploding. What could the colors mean? Why do they tickle my thoughts in this way? Perhaps there is help to be had. Pages idly rest, from the magazine I am pleased to be assisting, and I realize that there is a new issue sitting there, not simply loose pages. Another fall issue has come out, so please check it out by the way, knock-knock and hello where are you? Here we are. In the whoosh of a room that hides my view. Exploding and slowly wafting away . . . I sit here empty. Have you any thoughts? Could you- perhaps come up with something brand spanking new to place in here? It could be anything. A toy vehicle . . . the largest most exotic robot that was ever created by that frazzled looking scientist, a woman, seductively charming in her black garb. Please let me know if you have crossed a black cat today. Selina might make an entrance . . . be creative. What would you like to see in The Room That Explodes? Why don’t we color it some more? Post your response in the comment box below.