This just kills me, Nathan, the whole thing, and especially this line, "...even after I left you tried to call me, possibly to apologise, which I knew you would never do, not in earnest, it wouldn't be an apology, it would be baffled surprise at my actions, or you would speak as though it had never happened, that I was never even there..." I love it that he stood up and walked out at that exact moment without saying a word, knowing all the while that it would not even register with her. Wow! The melancholy air and the tiniest of remembered details in this piece call to mind the brilliant prose of Milan Kundera.
I don't know any Kundera, but I will have a read. I've been completely invested in Roberto Bolaño lately and find myself infected by his long and often poetic sentences.
If you might be interested, here is a sample from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Begin on PAGE 4 of this .pdf. You will notice a style similar to your newest work.
Wonderful, Nathan. In a piece with many poetic lines that hint at so much unspoken beneath them, this very simple one really struck me: "In any case, it's unlikely I cared back then what the flowers were. Not like now."
Painfully beautiful. It made me think of the last time I met up with one of my best friends from university days, and I realised that we had grown perhaps irretrievably apart. The abyss, the dark place where a cherished friendship dissolves.
Just beautiful, Nathan. I see pieces of the metafiction you've been reading lately as well as so much wisdom in the use of the negative...not just in 'not reading' but in nothingness and the abyss. I see pieces of Silvio here, as if in dialogue with his project, but still distinctly you.
This, in many ways, derives from Silvio, as it was Silvio's writing and style (and specific mentions) that put me onto Bolano, from whom this piece takes some direct inspiration. My soul has been and continues to be filled with the immensity of 2666.
... when I listen to music, I listen to music a lot, especially musicians soloing, and I'm bobbing with their rhythms and smiling the paths their noodlings travel, I see myself and wonder, am I in their songs, should I be, if there were a part I could play... these and more questions arise so hat the answers never will matter, just the nowness of their asking.
This story you've created is like music and my reading them is me dancing along the way with you.
Thanks so much, Dragoneye. You've managed to perfectly describe what I feel with my favourite authors. I've never thought of the analogy with music, but you're absolutely right. That's it!
“I don't remember exactly, it could have been any of those or none, for scent does not linger within memory like the images of clouds. So true , Nathan. I have always said that pain has no memory. We think we remember exactly, the most amazing scent. As we are absolutely sure we remember how much pain we were in. I wrote my comment twice, because I realized I had too many quotes. Simply said, this really is a wonderful short. Actually, each paragraph has its own detailed intensity, its own individual story within.
“The days back then were blurry, filled with so little when I compare them to now.”
A Diary of old memories, not worth recycling.
(BTW, didn’t you tell me you have a special edition of Tolkien’s LOTR?, or did I dream it , which would be pretty weird).
There's a lot of truth here. How many of those we have encountered would actually read anything we writers wrote? How many even ever have? I think that's why writing is such a great thing. You can let everything out and don't worry about it being found out, especially in this age. It's sad but it's also very true. What a great story, Nathan. Thank you for sharing.
“Would it fit?” is such a perfect question to abandon, along with the half eaten bowl of cereal (god what a great image with its metal tail). No need for context, only the absurdity of it and the unnecessary answer. Whether it was a tee shirt, a piece of furniture or their own place in your heart, this piece answers for itself.
As I was reading this my mind slipped back to a poem I wrote for my first serious girlfriend. It was subtitled: A poem you will never see. And then I hit that last line. Wow. You've conveyed that atmosphere and feeling so well, Nathan. This is more a prose poem than simply a story.
Yes, and going by the deafening silence when I shared with world for the f8rst (and last) time, it's crap. I'll send you a private message with the link.
In any case, it's unlikely I cared back then what the flowers were. Not like now. . .
and
The days back then were blurry, filled with so little when I compare them to now . . .
.
Oh Nathan, the terrible crushing power of words to confirm what we already know is festering in the heart of another person! The weight of them cannot be lifted. A final curtain drops down.
It's comforting to know that our narrator has moved on to a healthier, more satisfying mindset. With more flowers. More life.
This just kills me, Nathan, the whole thing, and especially this line, "...even after I left you tried to call me, possibly to apologise, which I knew you would never do, not in earnest, it wouldn't be an apology, it would be baffled surprise at my actions, or you would speak as though it had never happened, that I was never even there..." I love it that he stood up and walked out at that exact moment without saying a word, knowing all the while that it would not even register with her. Wow! The melancholy air and the tiniest of remembered details in this piece call to mind the brilliant prose of Milan Kundera.
Thanks, Sharron. Appreciate your lovely words.
I don't know any Kundera, but I will have a read. I've been completely invested in Roberto Bolaño lately and find myself infected by his long and often poetic sentences.
If you might be interested, here is a sample from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Begin on PAGE 4 of this .pdf. You will notice a style similar to your newest work.
https://www.msjkeeler.com/uploads/1/4/0/6/1406968/milan_kundera_-_the_unbearable_lightness_of_being.pdf
Thanks Sharron, appreciate the link!
I actually did a little *chefs kiss* of approval at the mirror eyes line. Absolutely gorgeous...
Thanks so much, Chloe! 🤗🤗
A great atmosphere to this piece.
I particularly like the false set of mirror eyes. Excellent device for explaining selfish self-absorption!
Oh, and the ant nibbling at one single leaf of a whole tree. Lovely stuff!
Thanks, Jamie. Too kind.
Wonderful, Nathan. In a piece with many poetic lines that hint at so much unspoken beneath them, this very simple one really struck me: "In any case, it's unlikely I cared back then what the flowers were. Not like now."
Thanks so much, and you’re totally right, this piece was so much about what wasn’t said.
You have such a distinctive meandering style Nathan. I think I’ve ever come across its like elsewhere. Love it. Another good one.
Thanks, Jenny. Too kind. 🙏
This is stunning. Today, again, I call you a poet.
Thanks so much, Brian! 🤗
Painfully beautiful. It made me think of the last time I met up with one of my best friends from university days, and I realised that we had grown perhaps irretrievably apart. The abyss, the dark place where a cherished friendship dissolves.
Thanks Caitriana, and yes, that's exactly it! Sad that it can happen.
Just beautiful, Nathan. I see pieces of the metafiction you've been reading lately as well as so much wisdom in the use of the negative...not just in 'not reading' but in nothingness and the abyss. I see pieces of Silvio here, as if in dialogue with his project, but still distinctly you.
🤗
Spot on! Thanks so much, Kate.
This, in many ways, derives from Silvio, as it was Silvio's writing and style (and specific mentions) that put me onto Bolano, from whom this piece takes some direct inspiration. My soul has been and continues to be filled with the immensity of 2666.
Really a wonderful piece Nathan.
... when I listen to music, I listen to music a lot, especially musicians soloing, and I'm bobbing with their rhythms and smiling the paths their noodlings travel, I see myself and wonder, am I in their songs, should I be, if there were a part I could play... these and more questions arise so hat the answers never will matter, just the nowness of their asking.
This story you've created is like music and my reading them is me dancing along the way with you.
Thanks so much, Dragoneye. You've managed to perfectly describe what I feel with my favourite authors. I've never thought of the analogy with music, but you're absolutely right. That's it!
“I don't remember exactly, it could have been any of those or none, for scent does not linger within memory like the images of clouds. So true , Nathan. I have always said that pain has no memory. We think we remember exactly, the most amazing scent. As we are absolutely sure we remember how much pain we were in. I wrote my comment twice, because I realized I had too many quotes. Simply said, this really is a wonderful short. Actually, each paragraph has its own detailed intensity, its own individual story within.
“The days back then were blurry, filled with so little when I compare them to now.”
A Diary of old memories, not worth recycling.
(BTW, didn’t you tell me you have a special edition of Tolkien’s LOTR?, or did I dream it , which would be pretty weird).
Totally OK to have many quotes. ;)
Really love the idea of memories not worth recycling.
Thanks, Lor. I tried to cram a lot into each paragraph, whilst leaving many things in the unsaid spaces.
(Yes, I did! You didn't dream it. Unless we both dreamt it!)
There's a lot of truth here. How many of those we have encountered would actually read anything we writers wrote? How many even ever have? I think that's why writing is such a great thing. You can let everything out and don't worry about it being found out, especially in this age. It's sad but it's also very true. What a great story, Nathan. Thank you for sharing.
Fantastic comment Parker, thanks!! Very much agree: writing gives us a certain freedom not afforded in other mediums.
“Would it fit?” is such a perfect question to abandon, along with the half eaten bowl of cereal (god what a great image with its metal tail). No need for context, only the absurdity of it and the unnecessary answer. Whether it was a tee shirt, a piece of furniture or their own place in your heart, this piece answers for itself.
Your voice and style knock me sideways Nathan.
Thanks so much, Kimberly. As always, you capture and express so much of what was intended here. 🙏🤗
Wonderful existentialist piece, Nathan. Powerful opening, too.
Thanks so much, Alexander!
As I was reading this my mind slipped back to a poem I wrote for my first serious girlfriend. It was subtitled: A poem you will never see. And then I hit that last line. Wow. You've conveyed that atmosphere and feeling so well, Nathan. This is more a prose poem than simply a story.
Thanks Terry!
How interesting that you'd written that. Did you keep the poem?
Yes, and going by the deafening silence when I shared with world for the f8rst (and last) time, it's crap. I'll send you a private message with the link.
Heh, OK, thanks Terry!
In any case, it's unlikely I cared back then what the flowers were. Not like now. . .
and
The days back then were blurry, filled with so little when I compare them to now . . .
.
Oh Nathan, the terrible crushing power of words to confirm what we already know is festering in the heart of another person! The weight of them cannot be lifted. A final curtain drops down.
It's comforting to know that our narrator has moved on to a healthier, more satisfying mindset. With more flowers. More life.
Thanks, Ann. Exactly so!
I can't help but feel they have moved on to a far better world of existence.