Every Grain Of Sand

Four Themes and An Hourglass

Ready, set . . . go.

Go ahead and flip that hourglass and my fingers will keep pounding away. . .

Zip—here I go. Didn’t expect this one. No time to think. Guess that’s the point. It’s Friday, the last day of classes. It’s been a long week of writing exercises. I’ll just write about the writing. I wish I’d gone to the bathroom before the class started. Roll out the thoughts.
A different daily theme—an hour of writing and then some students sharing. It’s Mister Edwards’ way of keeping us on our toes.
My typing is pretty slow and never keeps up with my imagination. I’ve got no special words, no bolas, to toss and wrap around this latest task and somehow slow it down. So onward fingers, onward.
We’ve got ten minutes of cascading white sand to proceed free-form—whatever comes to mind. More classtime to later share our streams of consciousness.
Come on thoughts, keep the line moving, there are lots right behind you. Retrospecting through the week, through these past few days of Mr. E’s skill stretchers. So Monday our short story point of view was to come from inside a dream. That was fun.
Tuesday—almost didn’t make it because the car wouldn’t start. Took the bus. Ended up writing a poem of sorts on that day’s project: addiction to screens.
Wednesday’s Child Is Full Of Woe was written on the blackbroard when we came in the next day. I wove my woe in a scene out of a pandemic. Somewhat Kafkesque, Mr. E said, after I read it to the class.
So diverse the word impressions the students created in response to that artwork Mr. E projected on the wall yesterday — a surreal collage with camels, human dissection drawings, palm trees, clocks— it was called Anatomy of Time.
Last night I made love to Anna and it was really amazing, and there—I just typed it here. Lots of amusement if I’m called to read it later.
I can really feel its approach—no perfect way to wrap this up. Just forward through the turnstiles. Keep moving. Riding this meandering dragon, this word oroboros, keeping an eye on the finish line, to catch up to myself, to sink my teeth into that tail end just leaving the gate

. . . until that very last grain of sand drops down through that strangled neck.

© AleXander Hirka 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Read RemingtonWrite’s version here:

In August 2020, I set myself the challenge of creating a daily digital collage based on an image and a concept. The image was that of the antique Omega watch that belonged to my Mom and the concept was Time.
In September 2020, the Anomalous Duo is challenging themselves to write a short piece of fiction for each collage — the Our Hours project.

Writer, visual artist, philosopher, autodidact, curmudgeon. More than half of what i do is make believe. https://alexanderhirka.nyc

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