Post by Robin on Mar 3, 2006 15:26:55 GMT -8
Sort of a synopsis, sort of an introduction.
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We were just kids then. We had no concept of consequences, none of morality. We were bulletproof. We drank, we smoked, we did drugs, and we even got into fights occasionally. Our parents didn’t care. It was the age of experimentation, and they were too drunk or stoned most of the time to care even if they would if they were sober. When we first discovered that our parents kept us on no leash, or at least an extraordinarily long one, these experimentations were the highlight of our lives. But after the initial thrill, we began to search for better ways to occupy our time.
That was when Chris, Sam, Robert, and I made the band.
We called it Crucification of the Cow. Why, I don’t know. It was, perhaps, a phrase derived when we were all stoned or drunk or both. That was the most likely possibility. Even after starting the band, we never stopped doing drugs or drinking. We weren’t addicted, but it was still a pastime to all of us. Even Carolyn, after she came to us, smoked pot and cigarettes. She never touched alcohol, though, even though the rest of us did and we were always trying to get her to have some. I think she told me once that she had seen too many people hurt by alcohol, but I have no way of knowing if that was just as dream or hallucination that I had had. I dreamed a lot about Carolyn that year.
I think maybe I was lucky that I dreamed about her so much. Eventually, my dreams about her became near reality to me, or at least solid enough that they provided a sense of security after she died. I almost didn’t believe it when Dr. Reid came out into the waiting room and told me that they had lost her. I almost didn’t believe that it had been my fault that she was dead. I had been the one who convinced her to let us drive her home. I had been the one who had let Robert drive high and drunk.
I guess that, if you want to look on the bright side of all that happened, it made me stop drinking. Carolyn had said that she had seen too many people hurt by alcohol. I wasn’t about to let myself get hurt again.
Call me selfish, but I think that her death hurt me more than it hurt her. I think that most people feel mostly bad for themselves when a loved one dies. They usually say something to the effect of “Billy was so young and so brave. In the end, the doctors couldn’t save him. Our hearts go out to his parents” because that’s who’s really hurt by it. Little Billy’s dead. His leukemia killed him. Save your pity for his parents, they’re the poor fuckers who had to bury their own son. Every time somebody says that they feel so bad for a young life snuffed out before its time, I want to puke. You don’t feel bad for them! I want to scream. You feel bad for yourselves! Just cut the bullshit and admit it!
I guess I feel so strongly about feeling bad for oneself because that’s all we did that year. We moped around and smoked pot and strummed our guitars and whined about how terrible our lives were. I just wish I could go back and tell myself to enjoy that year with Carolyn. There was not going to be a time when we “left this crappy town.” Our band was never going to go platinum. Hell, it wasn’t even going to go public. All our dreaming would end with Carolyn’s death. And for some of us, the events leading up to it would end the last dregs of our innocent years, as well.
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This will be written in first person past tense, from the point of view of Wyatt Dreier, the narrator of this intro/synopsis thingy.
The style will be sort of how I write my poetry, except not as...uh...poetic. I'm hoping to make it sort of like this introduction, but probably end up sounding like bad pulp. Like baby Stephen King.
I'm thinking to make it at least thirty chapters, and with my chapters averaging around eight pages, the book should clock in around 240 pages. So at that point it would really be a novella, but if I write like I'm supposed to, it should be a full-fledged book when I'm through.
That's about it.
-----
We were just kids then. We had no concept of consequences, none of morality. We were bulletproof. We drank, we smoked, we did drugs, and we even got into fights occasionally. Our parents didn’t care. It was the age of experimentation, and they were too drunk or stoned most of the time to care even if they would if they were sober. When we first discovered that our parents kept us on no leash, or at least an extraordinarily long one, these experimentations were the highlight of our lives. But after the initial thrill, we began to search for better ways to occupy our time.
That was when Chris, Sam, Robert, and I made the band.
We called it Crucification of the Cow. Why, I don’t know. It was, perhaps, a phrase derived when we were all stoned or drunk or both. That was the most likely possibility. Even after starting the band, we never stopped doing drugs or drinking. We weren’t addicted, but it was still a pastime to all of us. Even Carolyn, after she came to us, smoked pot and cigarettes. She never touched alcohol, though, even though the rest of us did and we were always trying to get her to have some. I think she told me once that she had seen too many people hurt by alcohol, but I have no way of knowing if that was just as dream or hallucination that I had had. I dreamed a lot about Carolyn that year.
I think maybe I was lucky that I dreamed about her so much. Eventually, my dreams about her became near reality to me, or at least solid enough that they provided a sense of security after she died. I almost didn’t believe it when Dr. Reid came out into the waiting room and told me that they had lost her. I almost didn’t believe that it had been my fault that she was dead. I had been the one who convinced her to let us drive her home. I had been the one who had let Robert drive high and drunk.
I guess that, if you want to look on the bright side of all that happened, it made me stop drinking. Carolyn had said that she had seen too many people hurt by alcohol. I wasn’t about to let myself get hurt again.
Call me selfish, but I think that her death hurt me more than it hurt her. I think that most people feel mostly bad for themselves when a loved one dies. They usually say something to the effect of “Billy was so young and so brave. In the end, the doctors couldn’t save him. Our hearts go out to his parents” because that’s who’s really hurt by it. Little Billy’s dead. His leukemia killed him. Save your pity for his parents, they’re the poor fuckers who had to bury their own son. Every time somebody says that they feel so bad for a young life snuffed out before its time, I want to puke. You don’t feel bad for them! I want to scream. You feel bad for yourselves! Just cut the bullshit and admit it!
I guess I feel so strongly about feeling bad for oneself because that’s all we did that year. We moped around and smoked pot and strummed our guitars and whined about how terrible our lives were. I just wish I could go back and tell myself to enjoy that year with Carolyn. There was not going to be a time when we “left this crappy town.” Our band was never going to go platinum. Hell, it wasn’t even going to go public. All our dreaming would end with Carolyn’s death. And for some of us, the events leading up to it would end the last dregs of our innocent years, as well.
------
This will be written in first person past tense, from the point of view of Wyatt Dreier, the narrator of this intro/synopsis thingy.
The style will be sort of how I write my poetry, except not as...uh...poetic. I'm hoping to make it sort of like this introduction, but probably end up sounding like bad pulp. Like baby Stephen King.
I'm thinking to make it at least thirty chapters, and with my chapters averaging around eight pages, the book should clock in around 240 pages. So at that point it would really be a novella, but if I write like I'm supposed to, it should be a full-fledged book when I'm through.
That's about it.
