Welcome

This web page is a place where I post my ramblings and writing experiments. It is my hope that this platform can be used to reach those who connect with the things I am addressing and possibly even provide some comfort in their not being alone.

Disclaimer: If anything on this page comes off as pretentious, underwhelming, poorly edited, generally rough, amateurish, adolescent in nature, verbose in terms of content, excessively wordy on topics that would be better handled with brevity, redundant, lacking in diversity, or even just vaguely shitty, be confident that I most likely am thinking the same and am praying that putting this out into the world justifies its existence.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy!

– Tyler

Been a While (Late-Night Quick Sketch)

In her eyes, I saw the world.” Max’s breathy voice swells with a marketable romanticism found in images of first kisses, long walks on the beach at sunset, and couples lying in bed staring into one another. Sean only sees the glowing scalp of the elderly woman’s head in front of them. Split ends haphazardly rappelling down the wrinkled mountainside of her neck via tenuous gray strands. Age leaves grace at the door, he thinks.
“This morning I awoke and, for a moment, I felt her in my arms once more. I could feel her tender cheek pressed against my chest, a warmth I have not experience in a very long time. But, alas,” even ‘alas’ veered on the side of “a bit much” in the face of Max’s usual blend of forced poetics and clichés. “I looked to my side and what do I find but my pillow!” While Max erupts into a hearty bout of laughter, Sean’s brain is struggling to process whether Max’s use of the word ‘alas’ is permissible considering his focus’s insistence on being fleeting given the captivating nature of the head and everything. “You could imagine my dismay!”
After feeling prodded by Max to return with some sort of verbal confirmation, Sean returns a hoarse, “Yeah.” There was this quality about Max where if even for a second you decided to think about what he said, Max would flood back into the conversation and prevent you from ever looking back. This was all the more complicated by Max’s usage of over-the-top aesthetics in his speech. So even if his message was relayed with coherency (which was atypical), your ability to construct a thoughtful response required game-show buzzer timing. Naturally, almost 85% of people’s responses to Max consisted of: Sure, definitely, yep, yeah, cool, of course, okay, fine, I have to go, I really must be going, I would love to talk more but I have to be going, look at the time I’d better leave now while I can, we really should meet up again sometime but I better be going, I have your number so I’ll call you.
“My chest burns with an insatiable love for her.” Sean suspects each of the woman’s gray strands to be moving of their own accord. He is not entirely sure, it could be the wind, but there is something unnatural in their movements. Hair, when full, or at least concentrated, moves in ways that are agreed upon. This woman’s hair moves like the dispersing of a school of herrings. Sean weighs the curiosity of placing his hands on her head and performing massaging movements against the woman’s possible irritation when having her head handled in such a grotesque manner. But was it really all that grotesque?
Joshua, who has been silently mouthing the word “insatiable” since its birth from Max’s mouth, is becoming impatient. “Can’t believe the line is this long just to get a slice at 1 am.”

Probably (Enough definition)

Though on the horizon, tomorrow is never. Monochromatic shades of moonlight pierce the window of a slanted ceiling overhead. Outlines of the room persevere against the colorless push of night into day. Nora lies somewhere between, her body rounding the edge of a swirling landscape of blankets, pillows, and sheets. Stranded on the shores of consciousness, her state is a matrimony of asleep and awake. Waves recede and her thinking becomes unmediated. She feels, somehow, less alone.

Crashing down from far away, “The voiceless contemplate the prospect of what their voice may one day sound like.” “So much time wasted thinking about what it means to think rather than to engage in the activity itself.” “The recursion spelled out so clearly, thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking…” “One could lose themselves in such a loop for who knows how many years?” “But would they be able to tell?” “The real question being whether they would even want to know?” They call asking for her to let go.

Her eyes open and she finds herself staring up at a window. There is a great comfort to be had in these pauses of consequence. Whether she returned to sleep now or later, there would be no difference. Five minutes of awareness would be compensated in the years of dreams to come. Arms and legs blooming, she stretches towards the corners of the bed. She feels at home.

“Would you?” Faded conversations from days past mesh and coil like ivy along her internal narrative. One moment she is embracing how soft her bedding feels, the next disembodied voices sputter like contorted voices grinding against the static of a poor radio signal. Nevertheless, she thinks she would.

Still holding. A consuming bundle of vertexes and apexes upon a mountainside wrap into a cerebral fold; her mind rolls back and the rip current pulls her under. Her thoughts drown in the voices from before and she ceases to remember herself. She lets go.

Portrait of the Artist and a Young Man

Words breathe life into a world otherwise unrealized. A city, a park, an afternoon. In terms of emotion, the setting draws heavily from Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte, but the details are decidedly more American in essence. A pond serves as an opportunity to flesh out the scene later. Look, a child toddles over into the arms of his father where he is lifted up in the air. Central Park, a familiar location for any audience and a wise choice. We come upon a park bench seating two artists, one younger and one wiser. Action.

“What do you wish to write?” The wiser brazenly asks, both catching the younger off guard and serving as an awful transition in conversation from their prior remarks about bipolar weather patterns as of late. As the younger searches for an answer, he sees the wiser’s patience declining at an exponential rate.

“Well, I think a lot about the meaning of everything,” the younger’s eyes drift into that no man’s space they always do when he’s trying to speak in his writing voice. “Not to sound cliché, but my focus remains intrinsically bound to the questions of what ‘this’ is all about. With regards to art, socio-economic hierarchy, solipsism… I am talking serious ontological navel-gazing here.” With the younger’s line of sight perpendicular to the wiser’s, there is a great deal of eye-rolling on the wiser’s part missed by the younger during his soliloquy. “I know this all sounds strange and forced on my part, but as technology advances I find myself connecting less and less with our ideologues of years past. The world feels cold even when it looks most alive. Why am I here?”

The younger brings his eyes back to the wiser’s and is heartbroken to notice the wiser was not paying attention at all. In fact, the promise of a return is kept as the wiser watches a string of ducks navigate to the pond’s center. “See, and I am unsurprised this has yet to occur to you, the only person who gives a damn about your understanding of the world is yourself.” The ponds of central park are both cute and iconic in their presentation. “People want a good story, something they can take in with their own understandings of the world. What you are talking about,” the fountain of the pond turns on and the sight is something to behold, “Is crafting their understanding for them. People want to be told what to look at, not necessarily how to go upon looking. As a writer, you present the ‘what.’ If I were you, I would leave behind your notions of grandeur instead of continuously failing in some attempt to formulate a panacea for mankind’s understanding of itself.”

The younger is staring down at his shoes feeling most humbled. Scans of any semblance of a counter-argument are interrupted by the wiser. “Before you go and try to ‘win’ back this discussion, it is critical that you understand this: You know nothing. You know only what it is like to feel confident in your beliefs and not even know with certainty what those beliefs really are.”

Has someone ever rejected you so heartlessly that your ego evaporates and your esteem becomes a cruel punchline and your emotions are no longer felt but recalled? The wiser saw such anguish in the eyes of his younger and felt half-assed remorse. “You’re something else though, I’ll give you that kid. Can’t say I recall meeting a fellow like you in a while. So terrified and bold in your naïve attack on the world at large. Reminds me of my own youth, to be quite honest. And still to this day I know nothing. So perk up, enough of the long face, you still have time yet. A virtue not all of us have.” And the man died right there in that very spot after finishing his last “have.”

Unfinished until the End (6/9/17)

An impressionable kid looking to be impressed: An oversimplified, though valid, summation of my high school experience. Since I have moved on to college, my nostalgia has been coated in a bitterness I have since been defensive about. High School was fine, nothing more nothing less.

*Disengaging guards now*

If we are going to dwell on memories whose reservations are not dated until far later, (Who knows, maybe my thirties will provide me with something of an objective perspective) we might as well try to snag a table while we are here. Whether the view will be adequate, I will let you be the judge.

So I’m walking through some throw-away ‘hallway trip to class’ and I can feel a knot in my stomach. It must be my senior year, the height of my angst and need to be validated, and I recall having a deranged fondness for this knot. I felt time was slipping through my fingers and in some kamikaze-attempt to hold onto something, I remember tying that knot even tighter hoping it would not undo.

This type of behavior led to a two-year post-high-school long-distance relationship that ended up folding just in time for my transfer to another school. It’s funny how things work out that way–I guess I regret nothing.

This is unfinished, I really don’t know where to go from here. But that’s the point right?

To Bed (Late Night Quick Sketch) (Working on Characters and Dialogue)

A hand on her shoulder. “Sonia, my dear, are you still drunk?” Glenn asked, assured she was, but unsure whether she had been kept up to date. The apartment has emptied out by now. Sonia breaks out of a slurred murmur.

“I don’t know what it is, but there is something undeniably sexy about curvy Hispanic women. The low to the ground, big-bottomed ones. That’s not to say,” burping under her breath, “that other women aren’t sexy. I’ve dated plenty of White and Asian women in the past.”

“I know you have, but–”

“But a thick senorita. There is just nothing like it. Their hair so lush and their skin so soft. Their…” She is reaching for the bottle of tequila when Glenn grabs her by the forearm.

“Sonny, up here sweetie. Look at me, Sonia Carter listen to me.” Shaking her back from her fading existence. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”

“Went to bed? The night is still young!” She holds up her drink in celebration to a room of empty red solo cups and unclean dishes.

“It’s 4:53am, our party ended nearly five hours ago. You’ve been drinking yourself to death watching old episodes of Breaking Bad for I don’t know how long now.”

“Say my name!” She leans back in her chair trailing with a cackle.

“Sonny, I love you. I am your bestie, always have been by your side haven’t I?”

“Heisenberg.”

“Alright, come on, let’s get up. Time for bed.” Cradling her arm around his neck and onto his shoulder, he drags her out of the kitchen.

“You’re the best, Glenn.”

“I know.”

“Do you happen to know any short curvy Latinas, Glenn.”

“There’s one who works in human resources at my office, her name is Darlene.”

“Darlene, I bet she has some exotic South American last name like Gueverra or something. Could you be a pal and give her my number?”

“Do you need to use the bathroom before bed?”

“Nope, I should be fine.” She waddles to her bed and lands face-first into her mess of blankets. Glenn collapses next to her.

“Time for bed.”

Burroughs (A Late-Night Quick Sketch)

At the foot of a bed, tears flow off the ledges of her cheeks, pouring out into large pools cratered in the already stained, beige-turned-brown carpeting. Fearing water-damage and seepage into the apartment below, Kora wishes she could stop crying. Such prayers, however, are answered only with deeper self-pity, causing her tears to rain down even harder. Meanwhile, a man dressed in a glowing neon three-piece suit is fumbling in the bathroom for a toilet to vomit in.

Knees on marble tiling and hands gripping the toilet’s rim as a steering wheel, live salmon proceed to wriggle out of the man’s mouth and into the bowl below. Yes, salmon-colored salmon are now flailing out into a porcelain bowl with not enough water to sustain a long and healthy lifestyle. More continue to come with no sign of stopping, overfilling the toilet and loosening the man’s grip until he finally collapses onto the cold marble floor. Convulsing, large salmon spew out of his gullet in a fountain-like formation. A rumble reverberates throughout the entire apartment and Kora still sobs.

The growing number of salmon necessitates an amendment of the usage of salmon as plural to the more numerously connoted salmons. Salmons roll out into the carpeting of Kora’s suite and stare at her in unblinking eyes with gaping mouths. Kora shields her eyes as they flop toward her puddles of tears for salvation. She pulls herself to the bed’s post, grabs the remote, and blasts CNN where the first human interaction ever to take place on a news channel is airing. Kora recalls collapsing into the arms of her sixth grade teacher, never understanding why.

She wakes to a voice telling her to leave, “And start west.”

A Compelling Counter-argument from a Feeling Rarely Felt…

“Why would you want to taint the moment with the reality of what happens? Do not show up. Untouched, will be the moment you carved into your memory bank of your own free will. The setting, the conversation, the moment where everything became perfect… As the orchestrator of every detail in the spiraling inner-networks of your mind’s picturesque ensemble, you choose whether to silently hum the tune in your head or sing it aloud and find out how cacophonous it all truly is. Leave the memory untouched and unrealized and your imaginations will become concrete and your hopes and dreams will stay with you forever as hopes and dreams. It is all so unbelievably easy, it will happen before you even realize it.”

Lines (microtransaction)

Monochromatic shades of moonlight pierce the window overhead. In bed, little matters. Breathing, her head on his chest—circling, his abdomen with her index—caressing, her cheek in his palm—asking, does he love her—reminding, that of course he does.

There is an eagerness to her. Every moment carried an insuppressible excitement for the next. The next…

“Departure for New York City will be at gate 12 in fifteen minutes.” He holds her hand in his. Will her hand be the same the next time? Will his be? Will there be a next time? Her face is everything and his teeth are clenched over a knotted throat about to snap.

Fall into my arms once more.

Track 2 – Kaleidoscope

Abstract [Throat-Clearing]

“Oh, you have finally arrived.” Surprise rings forth, bringing a smooth warm voice intonated with a renewed sincerity (Kelly, 204). “You must forgive my insolence, I am afraid I hadn’t noticed you until now.” Descending into the mouth of his grandiose velvet modern-wingback chair, he places his glass on a table designated for when an unexpected visitor arrives and one must sit and set their glass to allow for events to be… How would one put it? Set in motion. As if the clock’s ticking responded to one’s presence in the first place or vice versa. For the natures of abstraction can never be construed with certainty.

“Or can they be? It all comes full circle to the old question of a tree falling in a forest, no one being in proximity, and so forth. Would you care for a drink?” A genuine smile masquerades itself upon his face, born with anticipation for the rest of the evening. “You would? Excellent! Lucy my dear, could you please fetch our guest a glass of,” lowering into a whisper, “How does vermouth sound? Fantastic.” Louder and directed at Lucy, stirring somewhere beyond view, “A glass of vermouth for our fine guest” (Anderson, The Master).

He claps his hands together with satisfaction. “What a beautiful thing! To have an old friend back once again.” There is a shimmer in the man’s eyes, never wholly revealing itself, yet promising an awakened soul has been overwrought with joy for the unexpected arrival. “And you always were such a good friend. You always were.” A tear forming in his palpebral crevice is quickly dismissed with a handkerchief. “Look at me, tearing up.”

A long streak of black approaches, a wine-filled glass in her right hand. Underhanding you the drink, her ominous figure hovers overhead. The streak’s frame is otherwise unspectacular save for a hunch that develops upon reaching her higher altitudes. The bend precariously dangles her head and hair over her shoulder’s edge. “Thank you, Lucy. Oh, and please do stand up straight in front of our guest.” His smile evens out by the time she is finally out of the room and out of sight.

Of course, there was the question looming in the room’s ether, “Yes, the question.” A question which would not be outright difficult, “But may take some time to unpack.” He leans forward bringing his hands to an interlacing triangle. “There are those who would say, ‘You could find nothing in everything.'” While others would propose, ‘You could find everything in nothing.’ “So which is it” (Lamar, BLOOD.)?