Experiment with this writing activity, follow the rules and hints from the several style manuals that stand on shelves, stay clear of the negative, eliminate superfluous words, and create a style. Use concrete terms, communicate, write for you, recognise the audience, refrain from the personal flood, minimise the passive voice that revolves around the verb to be, removes the action, and produces an inappropriate tone for a narrative.
Write and smile at this location; the unknown intruder begins to de-straddle from her high viewpoint to prepare for the journey’s next section. Supple limbs flex, motivate, move towards readiness; walk into a classroom, time the step, time the words, make your presence felt without scorn, make it natural. For a brief moment walk the aisles, smell the chalk, the bodies of thirty students busy in discussion; leave them behind, return to the now. The jogger departs. Thank her for her assistance; her image remains a reminder of this time today. Grace, the album, comes to life. Recall those dark days, your focus traps you inside one song, Hallelujah, a Leonard Cohen number, play it repeatedly, refuse entry, refuse to hear the fists that bang, lock the doors, alcohol, drugs, melancholia. Tell your friend he cannot enter; he does not understand, neither can she, the girl, the married woman sees sanity wane and leak onto the floor, she who draws you along in her wont. Forbid her to come in, deactivate care, sense mania, listen to that one song, lock to hell, eyes bleed, scarlet cheeks, and ears detach; melt in the melodic requiem lament.
The non-singular one visits your life on two separate occasions; first time a betrothed, migrates temporarily; second time four years later, a different ring, and everything else the same; she lures you into her sensuous web with promises of heathen desire. Now U2 plays and other memories from your teens and early twenties come, race across streets, bang on cars, rush to join a crowd you no longer see, so keen and now … different. The girl, English accent, precious in your shirt, stands on the front porch after one of the many sexual expeditions, a relationship of sex, drunken desire, soaked in a lather of blood, and you have the customary cigarette while two others sit inside your shadowy glow. They feel the remnants of your passion.
The voiceless breeze brings you back to the present, and a blue-billed duck paddles past on the way to elsewhere. Yearn to follow.