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thefinishpiece · 4 years

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Dance Of Exploding Eggs

The dead do not wash their feet.

Neither does not Nadia. She was still alive, still staring at the marks of peckish dirt encasing her feet like a spotted glaze. Yet, less appetizing.

Instead, she was reviled to find where her veins strutted up to form long, sinewy ridges—her usually clear complexion blemished in wildfires of tawny gunk.

Even her tiny hairs, which she regularly shaved, were now trees bristling in leaves of muddied bluster. In the clefts between her toes, little clans of grungy warriors built camps and lit fires, letting their filth fly freely, while fending off the fungal barbarians sure to be surrounding them any second now.

Her toenails fared no better, each one piling unto itself as a layered cake of dead cells. Hardened, deadened, sharp—soot-stricken orphans seeking shelter beneath the curves, shivering yet ordained by structure to never clog or obstruct the construction of new nail, which constantly builds outward as a bridge of flattened crystal-flesh. Until gravity clutches it and pulls it down, looping back into the very toe it tried to escape from, almost like a parasite that can’t quite leave the taste of its host behind.

And the stench from all this—pervading passed all bounds of invisible air, leaping up so fast and flourishing, by the time it reaches the nose it is a blossoming fist of smell, punching nostrils closed, knocking out any other aroma present.

How could any conscious being permit such an expanse of putridness to grow on itself?

Nadia did not have to ponder for long because she blamed herself supremely and solely. Just as well, since she blamed herself often and deeply.

“I have to wash my feet...” she muttered to herself. “A good soak is all they need.”

In her quiet inspection, she lamented the dead. For as they were, being deceased, their feet could deteriorate and decay all they like, because at six-feet-under earthly crust, no one can smell them or complain about them, and they themselves could not openly accuse themselves of being the opposite of hygienic and failing to hide natural odor from their own judgmental eyes. Because despite how natural the growth of dirtiness on feet seemed to be, it was still considered hideous to everyone—especially Nadia—and frowned upon by many in circles high above the very ground upon which these very feet walked on.

“There is fungus growing on these, I just know it.” Nadia assured herself.

But as she did, pinching the derelict spots in quiet contempt, her companion muddled platitudes of support, remarking how happy he would be to scrape off all those mushrooms on her feet and cook a nice dish with them—maybe a soup or pasta or something.

“Wild shrooms like that always have such an earthly taste you can’t find anywhere else!”

“Here then, have a taste yourself!” Nadia sneered, shoving her foot right into her companion’s face, her wilderness-blessed toes tapping classical melodies on his face.

He playfully grabbed her ankle and kissed her toes all over, licking his lips, wearing a face like a golden-tongued chef being asked by the gods to decide whose confection was best—was it the lemon-frosted cream-cake by Hekate, or perhaps the pineapple-pudding pie which Hermes made?

Nadia giggled, curling her toes, still concerned by her bothersome feet, but quite content to have someone overcome it for the sake of amusing her. And he did amuse her—in all ways. It is the only reason she even agreed to go on this trip—especially after what happened so long ago.

Otherwise, she would have stayed at home, soaking her feet to a wrinkled gleam.

And as she removed her foot from his face, returning her leg to a proper position, she was appropriately careful not to disturb the eggs on the dashboard, which were bundled together in a basket, with blots of cotton mixed in to keep them buoyant and prevent unintentional collision.

As they both quit laughing—his attention focusing in on the road ahead and Nadia suddenly forgetful of the plague wreaking havoc on her feet—the quiet hiss of the eggs could be heard. Whatever it was developing within them, it emitted this sullen spitting, penetrating through its shell at a volume just loud enough to hear in silence, but just silent enough to be swallowed by any mention of another sound (any other mention of sound).

Nadia gazed at the eggs, listening to them curse and whine, wondering if it was pain or hate that compelled them to make such sour tones.

“These things are so foul.” Nadia noted. Her companion nodded without looking. “Sure, but so are your feet.”

A smirk bit his face, and Nadia just shook her head smiling. At least she had him here. These eggs seemed rather harmless with him here.

|1|

The shells were golden, as if molded after myth and greed.

But why did they have to stay in the bathroom? On the sink, where they paired with their reflection to ensure a double flood of grotesque gold every time Nadia must floss her teeth or comb her hair? Why could they not be hidden somewhere out of sight—especially somewhere insulated so their acidic whispers could not be audible to anyone?

Especially to Nadia, who was in here simply to clean her feet, not hear the hissing of eggs she only agreed to transport because he had asked. No one else could have convinced her.

Her hope was that the droning drops of the bath faucet would wrestle the background noise to a comfortable hum, a soothing sensory song of automated splash and meditative whirl. Her plan functioned the way she intended—as soon as the metallic mouth started spraying its aquatic continuum, the noise of the eggs suddenly dispersed.

But they remained problematic in sight—they clung to her peripheral vision, a visual squid stretching its tentacles all around her attention.

Nadia prepared herself in front of the toilet rather than the mirror, quite resistant to being in the same reflection as these hideous eggs. Her companion rested in the adjacent room, a reasonably upheld hotel room which was lighted in decorative wallpapers depicting seashells and seahorses—a recently refurbished décor which imitated the appearance of something fancier than the price indicated.

But in spite of such comfortable accommodations, a thorn continued to reside in Nadia’s proverbial sides.

Those eggs, which strung such horrible tunes in the air and were plunged in equally offensive hue—a gold of unnatural paleness, something not gifted from heaven but from some otherworldly dimension where an affectionate spectrum does not exist, thus having to translate its previous color into one compatible with this reality, but without an actual frame of reference to consummate the translation. There was no color in this place that could suffice for these eggs. And the gold that they finally settled on was not even really matched to any credible source—it may have been a color you could recognize and possibly categorize, but only in a dissimilar demeanor, such as comparing the tides of ocean to the tides of flame.

These eggs had chosen a color that only pretended to be a color.

This imitative impression disgusted every sensibility Nadia possessed. But for whatever morbid condition ailing her, she could not bring herself to look away. And this only further repulsed her.

So, in response, she swathed a towel over the eggs, concealing them from view, then proceeded to peel herself bare and bathe. However, every once in a while, she still glanced at that mound of cerulean-cloth, knowing in her mind’s eye exactly what lay beneath, even though it had been deafened and buried. It was the power of a thought over a reality.

Nadia sighed. She desperately desired to change the course of her thoughts. She sunk into the porcelain tub, at first cold and crippling, awaiting its eventual completion.

The faucet drummed, and waves formed floor after floor of boiling bubbles, swirling in suds, molten layers of cleansing water swaying over her to and fro, steady and unhurried. The coldness was removed, replaced by rippling heat, almost as if blankets of temper were tenderly placed over her body, one after the other, building a tomb of liquid steam around her.

It was a reverse evaporation—the atmosphere condensation upon her, the dissolved now soluble again. Once free particles of hotness pinched from the sky and folded into pockets of wetness, spraying on Nadia’s body in a measured massage.

Finally, she was relaxing.

Her mind receded to memories—as a wandering mind is known to do. Instances made of time and place, proportioned to emotional heights, to moody lows, to kinetic propulsion of person and thing, interacting in a dream, where motion is unclear, and the most prominent aspect is how far away something so superbly significant can feel. That paradox of memory.

In hers, there was a beach.

On a day of stormy composition. Yet rain had held back, and a warm breeze flew swanlike across the scene. Deep hues of sapphire magma spiraling against the shore, not in rage but in prance.

How strange to see it cascading in the horizon, colliding with a sky of dreary steel, specks of blackened rust puncturing the clouds—much akin to dirt on feet. But it is not dark. Even through stormy screens, sunlight performs its duty and the world is visible in leaden beauty.

Nadia is there, in a dress.

A thing of red-clay converted to silk, with threaded jewels of turquoise. She is spinning in an unseen weaver’s wheel, their fingers rolling her around. But she is not dancing alone. For there is another, a man, joining her and twirling with her. His unbuttoned shirt is flurrying as he moves. Until at last, they spin into one another, joyous. They both laugh and tremble, collapsing onto the sand, their arms stuck together in a knot. And they lay there, tied together, unflinching, undisturbed—as if being made into a knot was their one true intention all along.

And these two human strings admire each other. So much so that when rain oscillates upon them, they do not even notice. In drenched, clustering sand, they reciprocate affection, lips lancing against each other, bodies tying together, their knot tightening ever more and more, until one has to wonder if you could ever untie them apart.

Nadia giggles. She remembers how unconcerned they were with ruining their respective garments. The clumps of damp sand encrusting both of their backs like the shells on a tortoise. But their torsos were untouched—so concerned with being wrapped so close to each other, no open space was possible. And the feeling of wet lips, uncaring to rain and sand, compressing themselves dry in the heat of faucet-fusion.

Then the deluge pours over, erupting across the smooth-sides, and Nadia jumps, startling herself.

In her delighted daydream, she had let the bath overfill, now overflowing onto bathroom tile. She leaps for the octagonal handle, carved of candied glass, halting the water and ending the storm.

Now she is alone again.

Except for that faint fuse, with its spark flickering forever. Though it never reaches its destination—it only barks continually, that sound of sparkling dust. Then Nadia’s state of dazed grace concludes abruptly, as she understands there is no dynamite-stick, but a collection of disgraceful eggs, unmuted. She wishes so much she could just boil them, get it over with.

Nadia loosens the drain, ignoring the eggs, her peaceful spa now tainted and confused.

Upset, she watches the water vanish piece by piece, until all that is, is a remainder of puddled past—a shallow spit of soap caught on the edge of indented drain. Reminiscent of gunk beneath toenails. Reminding her of scattered sand memories.

And those blasted eggs, hissing and hissing and hissing…

A space Nadia must escape.

She leaves the bathroom, still drenched but entombed by a bathrobe. She strides passed the bed where her companion remains asleep, his own body beneath a crypt of blankets and sheets, resting in infinite dreams in some unhurried afterlife. Snores ensuing.

Nadia has never quite contoured to his awful snoring, so steady and surly. She assumed after a certain period of time her ears would be accustomed to it, that she would barely notice his nasal belches as if they were blank booms. But this threshold proved unreachable, and every time Nadia hears it, she can never concentrate nor slumber.

Rain casts against the window. A shame because Nadia desires to peek outside, absorb the bounty of the natural world, refreshing and ravaging all at once. Storms have an unusual pull on the heart, which in turn, has an unusual way of peeling the body—unable to hide oneself anymore, becoming a spark of nude thunder.

Replacing one insensitive sound for another, Nadia crumbles in indolence, retreating to the bathroom, considering that she cannot smother her companion with a towel to stop his bleating, but she can at least inter the eggs to divisible hum. And from there, all she has to do is plead ignorance. So, back to the bathroom.

|2|

Back in the bathroom, Nadia is given a dress.

Even though she is still wet from the rain, she cannot reject such a gracious gesture, so she glues it to her skin to prevent it from slipping off. Then she is asked to dance.

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’m any good.” Nadia blushes. But it insists. “Okay—but only if you dance with me.”

Nadia extends her hand. She is taken by a presence and together they twirl and taper across the slippery tile. At first, they are sloppy, awkwardly jutting into corners or stepping over each other’s path. But eventually they adapt, they crease together, a makeshift rhythm developing between them, motion now momentum—bodies now ballet.

They dance ellipticals across the room, channeling each other’s orbits, certain not to collide, and certainly not to disrupt the beautiful gravity they have plumed. But Nadia, without intention or reason, happens to witness her feet, and by their gross gravitas, she plummets to the floor.

No more dancing.

Nadia sighs. All the vapors have disappeared. The bathroom is cold again. Shivering, she looks around for a towel. But the only one is placed over the dreadful eggs she despises so much. It seems as if Nadia has condemned herself to a fate of lying naked on the floor forever.

“I hate these eggs!” Nadia shouts.

Nobody is disturbed. Not even her companion, who continues his hibernation uninterrupted. It is just Nadia, alone, with that menacing mumble, ceaseless yet contained, the eggs still whining even under their threaded prison.

She accepts her misfortune and adjusts her position to sitting on the toilet lid, her bottom crippling from the icy white, but she seems unbothered.

Nadia angles her legs up, her feet poised on the bathtub ledge. She grabs a complimentary sponge and starts scrubbing her feet, up and down every crevice and crack, across entire soles and ankles and toe-folds. Precise, she does not move too rapidly—she takes the time to ensure perfection on her mission of erasing every negative note from her two feet.

The procedure has become habit, and habit lends itself to repetition becoming daydream. Daydream which lends itself to becoming habit, and habit which turns into the rituals of reality that bind us to corporeal certainty, whether consciously or not.

And isn’t that such a curious thing how the brain tricks you into believing what it wants you to believe, what it thinks is best, what it thinks is real—strangely contradicting what your conscious view sees? What you truly want?

Nadia never quite comprehended how her mind could repel in two alternate directions, as if the thing inside her skull was nothing more than a mere magnet, positive and negative pulses, rippling against each other, stuck in marrow-molded bondage, forced to reconcile petty differences and levitate in static vibration; a feigned vibrancy where thought and imagination and curiosity can pretend to be things of their own, when truly they are products of electrical folly. Nervousness.

And she absolutely did not comprehend the track of time either, which seemed to have evaporated, along with a patch of her skin, as suddenly she was stabbed by a searing sensation on her foot.

Wincing, she examined the cause, seeing that in her furious daze she had rubbed too heavily with the sponge, scraping off a small surface of her foot, now catalyzed in blood. It did not bleed in a traditional way, but due to the nature of the wound, seeped out of the area in knitted dots, scarlet-putty pushing through a weave.

Nadia grabbed the towel and padded her foot, but in doing so, permitted those dastardly eggs to breathe once more, and their breaths were just as constant and corrosive as ever. All they did was hiss, hiss, hiss…

Waves.

From sound and light. Sneaking up Nadia’s skin like little spiders of clustered vibration.

Into the green she goes.

Eaten up by trees, her hair yearning to be a leaf on her head, vibrant and veiny, waving and curling in verdant wind. Along a road she goes, feet swimming across the mud, her body moving like a tidal wave against a shoreless beach. Escape.

At the zenith of her path—an overlook, decorated in tufts of earthy hair and nails, with strewn logs and sharp boulders. A view of the remaining wood, its belly lunging up and down in tectonic reflux, aligned with pine and bark and brush, each ridge and valley adorning itself in its own personal collection of green.

Nadia approaches the edge of this cliff, which oversees the forest it is a part of as if separate from it.

A table is set, draped in a pretend-petal curtain, where anxious porcelain cups hold its quiet magma, blessed of roots stripped and shaken and seared. Her companion is there, holding a bouquet, so full of rainbow passion, an assortment of flowery praise that only Aphrodite could deserve—yet it is for Nadia, of all things!

A surprise picnic at the end of the world.

Her companion offers her a seat, which she does not refuse. The sky is elaborate in shades of violet and azure, a strange suffusion of dark and bright—a peripheral sunrise stuck in perpetual sunset. But it is not a fiery sun so much as it is a sun of shadows; yet everything under it is visible and vibrant. Only in a dream.

But Nadia does not listen to such negative inclinations, her attention purely focused on her companion, who sits beside her, his arm nestling against her shoulders, warm and safe. They both grab a cup of tea, ascend to touch and tip their fortunes to each other, then lifting to their lips to swallow it to oblivion—how odd to have stomachs, our own personal abyss within our body.

It tastes like angel-bath, sweet and mentholating, warm and exasperate in faith—the faith that this feeling would last forever.

For Nadia, it might as well, because every other moment after was nothing but pale failure.

And, especially, when her companion gazes into her eyes, without breaking away, with an amount of longing and affection so deep and infusive, she finds herself trembling, even though sight is only sight.

But she stares back at him, his face crinkling together almost like a cone, pointed directly at her, as if no surrounding sensation could deter him from this view. Not the mountains; not the sky; not the dream of universe complete. Only her—Nadia—and her face, however dirty or seemingly normal it may seem to her, is a boundless source of inspiration to him. And she feels enslaved by it, put in a bondage that is pleasantly accepted—a surrender, a submission.

Then the purples fade.

And light of fairy-blood returns, swirling and maddening.

Suddenly, trees are bleeding viridian, and their natural hue strolls unto review. Back into the green again, as Nadia feels a kiss, and disappears forever in trees of passion pleased.

But something is sour.

She does not remember his kiss being so acerbic, cutting her, leaving her in bled-refrain. What sort of perverted spring is this?

It stings. She wipes his saliva from her lips, but it bubbles on her fingertips, to the point of boiling. She grimaces, wondering why there is pain. She looks up to see her lover’s eyes vanished, and alone on this precipice. Her entire jaw is sliced away, sliver by sliver, her bones crackling, her muscles spoiling. Her face falls like rotten fruit from its frame, the heaviness of mold and rot too much for romantic gravity to bear. So it drops her all the way to a tomb of disgrace. Buried beneath the earth, there is Nadia’s love—a displaced view.

Nadia awakes. Returned from the green.

She is holding one of the eggs to her lips, kissing it.

In her trance, her mind had found folly in trying to replace the imaginary with an effigy of the real. Disgusted, she flings the egg away from her face, splattering it on the bathroom mirror, its sizzling insides leaving a repulsive stain. So bitter.

Nadia immediately invokes the sink, splashing water onto her face, trying to remove the taint from her mouth, still smoldering in a sourness of demonic proportions. As she spits, there is blood—not fantastical illusion or fanciful daydream, but actual, fetid blood.

“I hate these fucking eggs!” Nadia screams, her throat convulsing in rage.

Nobody responds. Except, of course, the eggs, which hissed and hissed and hissed…

|3|

There once was a time when Nadia was loved.

The way a person should be loved. The way a foot is loved by the hand that cleans it. So thoroughly and carefully, so unpretentiously unconditional—just doing what it needs to do to make everything clear and happy again.

Whatever it takes, Nadia used to think. For the sake of clean feet.

Nadia snickered. That was not at all what she used to think. How could one remember so far away?

Those distant shores of memory, where every cleft of sand looks the same as every buried barnacle. Where is the savior ship come to rescue us from pity and pernicious regret?

Marooned on a beach of unused life, wallowing through our scorn like gulls picking through twigs, snapping and scuttling over branch and jewel, trying to find our prize, our possession of perfect scene and elation. That moment when our lives essentially defined themselves, and everything after relegated to the fade— our true revelation of this story we continue to scribe.

But Nadia, no matter how much she scoured, could not find this missing trinket, of which she thought for sure would finally unravel the mystery of Nadia.

Was it the first day of school when she threw up on the classroom floor, a nervous bile overtaking her when the teacher asked her to introduce herself?

It should have been a simple, ‘Hello, my name is Nadia.’

But instead, it was a terrible mosaic of gulp and gruel. So embarrassing.

No, surely, it was in her feet. The mark of her miraculous moment. When they were still young paws, so fresh from hatching they still had webbing on them...

Nadia wanted to be a ballerina.

One of those composed and captured creatures, ignoring the chaos of the world around them, performing a movement of perfected grace and graceful ritual. Every step a note on the composition’s line, leading a symphony of shape and swerve, never letting itself become consumed by any emotion or nonsense which would disrupt its willful path.

An offering to the gods of geometry, aligning your feet in a poise more perfect than constellation, moving in the same seasonal march of ebb and flow—repeating, repeating, repeating. This is the dance of no-dance. A motion of purpose.

Until it is over.

Until a cormorant appears, and Nadia, too far gone in her ellipsis, trips right over the flurried thing, spiraling through the air, over the side of edible stage. Now, she is drifting into the black, gravity’s charms dispersed, composer’s graciousness displeased.

Until suddenly, she emerges from the black unto the blue—a crystal shore she has seen before, the only sound being that of pant and wave. And there is the feathered imp, whose beak is whistling to her demise, as she pours onto the beach.

“If only you could fly...” the cormorant says.

Nadia scoops herself up from the sand, wincing. “Must be nice.”

The cormorant fluffs its wings then takes to flight, soaring high above the earth it mocks.

Nadia’s foot vibrates in pain, every muscle and tendon and ligament ringing a rapacious storm of ache. Before she can soothe her pain, however, Nadia’s mother comes and grabs her hand, leading her away.

Nadia cringes with every step, her left foot refusing to touch ground, her right one barely stable and straining as it is dragged along.

“Your father’s gone—not that he was ever here...”

Nadia’s mother puffs a cigarette. There are no other kids in the hospital room. Only passed and broken people. Corpses.

Nadia rubs her toes, trying to allay the bristling numbness in them. She thinks perhaps her mother should be holding her in her arms or something, nestling her into motherly bosom, patting her on the head with lips and whispering how everything will be alright and the pain will go away.

But Nadia looks up and sees her mother puffing a cigarette, watching the wall, complaining how much of a waste of time it is they have to be here. Then she looks at Nadia, scowling.

“This all your fault. You should have been paying attention—you’re never paying enough attention, Nadia!”

And maybe she was right—because Nadia suddenly realized she had been standing on the bathroom tile for far too long.

The inner scars of her feet began to flare up again, so she took a seat on the toilet and lifted her left leg, her hands desperately massaging her flesh, trying to ameliorate an old wound. The eggs watched her, and she despised how they lay witness to her weakness. Now they knew her fiercest flaw. They would probably use it against her—if they could.

But they were just eggs, right? Just eggs that only hiss and hiss and—

Nadia called for her companion but there was no response. She desired to deign him to fetch a bucket of ice for her from down the hall. Was he still sleeping?

Nadia shouted again. And again, he did not reply.

The eggs grew louder, as if trying to answer in his place, and Nadia spat at them out of spite. Then she gripped onto the sink and raised herself up, limping out into the room. But it was empty.

“Where the hell did he go?” Nadia muttered aloud. Then she sighed.

There was once a time when Nadia was loved.

When he cared enough to always be called. To be there for whatever she needed.

During a period of a particularly grisly flare-up, he would rub cooling ointment on her feet every night, his fingers unafraid to peel into every hidden spot, pushing her bones and blood to comfortable stasis. He always knew how to subside her pain—he never protested to coddling her feet either.

After he left, Nadia had to mend her own feet. Her youthful damage both unforgiving and never forgetful. No agony was greater than when her companion departed, however. A cut on the physical self is nothing compared to a rending of the heart—the unseen epicenter of all feeling and worth.

With him, she had felt like she had value. Without him, she was nothing but dirty feet. How hard it was to have herself be heartbroken by him. To find him the way he was—she stopped herself.

Nadia did not want to return to this feeling. Now that he was returned, she would do anything to keep it that way. Even if meant dealing with those ghastly eggs—that’s why she had said yes.

And Nadia exceptionally loathed those damned eggs.

She staggered through the door into a hallway, which peeked both ways in endless doors and floor, none of them unique, enslaved by pattern. She was concerned where he had gone, but she also knew her primary focus was to end the unease throbbing in her left hoof.

Nadia peered right, assuming the ice-machine was down there, because she recalled that is where the elevator had been, so other amenities must be nearby.

She leaned against the wall, wobbling along, careful not to bang into someone else’s door, for fear they would wake, that they would appear and harass her in marvelous temper. But she also took care not to apply pressure to her left foot, where the injury was sourced and had been most severe.

Her right was still strong in many ways, although its largest toe had been shattered then in her youth as well. So now she walked awkwardly so as not to upset it and reawaken its hindered might.

Altogether, Nadia looked like quite the circus clown stumbling down the hallway. Almost falling on herself every other hinge, wafting through diluted air like a dumb cloud, constantly astray. How did it come to this?

There was a time once when Nadia was loved.

When she did not have to wrestle with hallways. When the earth did not stifle beneath her feet. When lovers brought ice—when she had a lover at all. She stops, leaning against the wall with one arm. Panting. Suddenly, a familiar sound—though not a friendly one. A stretching sound. Sinister and expanding. Slithering between her legs and beneath her body. On and on until the entire hallway is swimming in it. Nadia, fearful, almost falls down. It feels like walls around her are shivering, a stinging chill. Viscous vibrations inundate her. Even the waves in the air become feverish. And then there it is—hallways hissing. Nadia, totally shattered, but saved by a flight of energy, lets her pain sprout into wings and compel her forward on its frenetic wind. She begins scrambling, wobbling in a frenzy, arm rowing against the wall and her one good leg hopping heavy steps. Edges of light behind can be seen scattering in its shadows ahead of her, silhouetted in the form of an unfathomable thing, a body of a beast so terrifying just its reflection pierces Nadia’s heart every step forward she takes. What horrible thing has hatched in this place? Suddenly, another familiar sound—the mellow notes of an ancient folk song, which Nadia happens to know the melody of. Like it is playing just for her. But the rest of the memory still clouded. She recognizes it; quickens her pace toward it. Anything to deafen out that hiss of eternal doom. That splintering of soul that follows her everywhere she goes, enveloping itself in her flesh, in her very being, until she is shrouded by it. A cloak of gore. Dissolution. There it is—that open door, pink and blue light casting out from it in the ever darker and blurrier hallway. Just like she remembers. Into it she goes—into an underworld of nostalgic void. Standing in the doorway entrance, now entered, she closes the door to the hallway. No more hissing. That gentle folk vocal weaves in. Those sweet strums of mountain love and lake calm. A natural hymn. Alluring. Nadia gazes at the pink and blue light now painting her body. Both familiar shades. She looks up to see the pane of a room, and a shadowed corner blocking her vision. Next to her, a dark and empty bathroom. This hotel room—I remember this room, Nadia thinks. Curiously wistful. The pain her foot still retaining, but fainter. She lags closer, every inch expanding her view of the room and diminishing the shadow of the corner of the wall. An oak table, three used glasses full of wine stains, beside a half-bled bottle. A chair with a cushion, assorted strips of clothing strewn about it. Then the corners of a bed, sheets sundering. Nadia inches nearer and nearer, breath draining into back of her throat as if preparing a gasp in anticipation. So, for what? Finally, she turns around the corner, and sees her horror. There he is—her loving, devoted companion—slathering over another woman, angel-faced demon of blonde desire, the both of them naked and engaged in erotic trance. Nadia screams. Her companion does not notice her, his head buried in the other woman’s tomb—but she looks up, stares at Nadia and smiles, blows a kiss while winking. Then she returns to moaning and fawning all over him, like a deer trapped underneath a boulder. A spider weaving its prey in sweaty web. Hissing in his ear. Nadia runs out of the room. Back into the hallway, ambushed by an eruption of hissing, those damn eggs blistering into her mind in inescapable flashes. She clasps her head with her hands, frantically stumbling toward her room, all her previous pain nullified by needles of adrenaline. Turning her head inside out. She can’t even hear her own screaming over the sound of this hissing. Nadia collapses into her room, shattering into the bathroom, seeing those dreadful eggs sitting there in punishing flames. Despite all the rippling nerves in her body, she grabs the basket of eggs, takes it out into the bedroom, and slings them out the bedroom window, letting gravity grasp them and crush them far down upon its immediate earth. Destroyed forever. Exploding on the concrete in a dance of denouement. Nadia unleashes the cry of a bat, shrieking. Then she falls onto the bed, whole body entangled by pain, her foot so swollen its bubbling and bursting in blood. Crying. Over now. Nothing hisses. Only the sound of her sobbing. Of heartbeat in crescendo, then descending to crippling silence. And it languishes on, for what seems like hours but is only fragments of a little time, not quite mature enough to constitute a length of being. There is Nadia—just Nadia. Breathing. Emptied of tears. Aftershocks of pain dragging but dwindling. But she doesn’t stay alone forever. After this while, she realized her mistake. What will he say when he comes back—when he sees I got rid of the eggs? How could she ever explain herself? Would he understand and forgive her? Her mind was controlled by these thoughts—panic, paranoia compulsive loathing. She had to assure herself what she just saw was only an illusion—a product of those damned eggs. He would never do that again—her companion had repented, and she had forgiven him. Devotion was all she could see! She’d do whatever it takes she told herself. Whatever he wanted—forget what she wanted. She’d give up being Nadia. There was once a time when Nadia had desires of her own, but the loneliness had scared that out of her a long time ago. And the brokenness had cursed her to obey only doom. She would never make another mistake again—he’d never have another reason to leave again. Not like last time. He could put a blade in her hand and push it up to her throat, tell her to pull it at the snap of his fingers, and she’d do that magic trick a million times over if she could. Anything to keep away the hissing. Anything to be loved. Anything to have him hold her up again, carry her every limb if he has to, and dance with her one last time—forever.

#danceofexplodingeggs #thefinishpiece #dilonzeres #prose #fiction #story #irrealism

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jamaelucas-blog · 5 years

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Creative Problem Solving Interview: Shawn Waddell (Structural Engineer)

How do you generate ideas?

How, when, and where are you inspired?

There is a duality in my creative process because not only am I in a creative profession – architecture – but I hold a creative hobby in poetry and spoken word. Within architecture, most of my inspiration comes from who I am designing for. I find I am more invested when I am working closely with a client, or the project has a very detailed description of who the design is for. I am people-driven, and have a hard time creating without knowing the user groups. In poetry, I often use the art form to organize my thoughts or to get over troubling feelings. Through pen and paper, or the stage, I can express my thoughts clearly in a digestible fashion. Poetry is a method of speaking ideas that resonate more than the average conversation can. It also challenges others to express themselves clearly; true, great conversations take two open minds.

What inspires you?

I am inspired by the things I see and hear on my daily walk through life. Seeing precedents of other architect’s work, hearing someone drop a quote in a conversation, or even raw sketching helps cultivate my thoughts into a form or concept. You cannot design without a concept. You cannot solve a problem without learning as much information as possible. The best architects are not those who have the best forms, they are the ones who press the boundaries of the space they are given.

I also am drawn to the act of creation as an ideal. To have the ability to create in both the tangible/practical sense (architecture) and the emotional/creative sense (poetry), is an act of inspiration in itself. To know the impact I possess with the stroke of my pen, makes me feel a sense of responsibility and care with what I do. It pushes me to wake up in the morning and perfect my craft. Whether that be free writing for five minutes a day, journaling, reading new architectural works, or just walking around a downtown area to look at buildings, inspiration comes from wanting to do the work to be great.

What obstacles do you face in coming up with a new idea and how do you overcome these obstacles?

I am perfectionist, and I do not mean this as a compliment. I often get so obsessed with doing things right, that I get caught in my head, and don’t produce at all. This leads to procrastination or running behind when deadlines come. When this bad habit rears it head, I often find myself working late hours before the deadline because I stop thinking and just produce the work. This is not a healthy habit, and my best work has not come from doing this. I overcome this “perfectionist” by having passion! Being passionate about what I am doing, the emotions I am feeling, the people I am designing for, the lives I can save through crafted stanzas, is what pulls me from my self-created obstacles.

I also find, mostly when I am struggling in my architecture work, I use poetry as a life line. Instead of trying to draw a form or a parti diagram, I will instead work on a poem about the project. The poem could be abstract, about the people using the building, the concept I want to convey, or even not about the building at all. Poetry drives my brain forward, regardless of what I write on the page. For example, when I was stuck on a concept about an intergenerational care center, I used the frustration to write a poem about the friendship between my nephew and my father (my nephew’s grandfather). This poem helped me understand the purpose behind the intergenerational care center and why they were important. Poetry has become so important to my architecture, that I use it with every project I do – it also makes for a great opener into my presentations. The best way to counter known obstacles is to run to what works and make a procedure out of it. If done this way, there will be a method to navigate out of the chaos.

2) What process(es) do you use to solve problems? (Describe the steps of your problem-solving process. Explain your journey from inspiration to implementation.)

*Note: Because my poetry has no set means or method of creation, I will mostly be speaking about how I produce architecture. Poetry plays a part in that process, but it is more structured than the poems I create for performances or books.

To answer this question, the most effective way I can think to do this is with some kind of outline/list that will help itemize how I approach architectural problem solving.

Problem/Project Statement

Usually with architecture, we are servants of the people. We design based on fulfilling the needs of the clients, while also infusing our thoughts and training into the buildings we create. A client will give us their criteria, and we will then work with them to draw out as much information as we can to begin the design.

Design Process

“Metaphor”

All good buildings are birthed from strong concepts. It is like a thesis in a research paper, it gives you something to continually refer back to. If you feel you are straying from the original idea, a concept is your homing button. My best concepts usually start with taking what I gathered from the client’s information and trying to write a poem. Sometimes I get a concept right out the gate, but my best works have come from tackling the building design from another artistic lens. After the poem is completed, I then read it and try to draw out the emotion or concept I will use to design the building.

Guidelines

After creating a strong concept, you have to give yourself guidelines to follow in order to be successful. You cannot just take the concept and run with it – that will lead to unrealistic or impractical designs. Making rules also keeps your design focused and intentional. These rules could be having similar hallway widths, curves that follow a similar proportional value, or even a color scheme. Either way, you must have somewhere to start from somewhere.

Concept Drawing

This is where you begin to start drawing…anything. Any sketch of a perspective, elevation, diagram, or plan view brings you closer to producing. Numbers and dimensions do not matter much here, as long as there is a building you can birth from here. I like to make bubble diagrams of the required spaces to help figure out how the people will move in the space. I have always been a “form follows function” type of person, meaning that I allow the arrangement of spaces influence the end form of the building. In my opinion, designing this way allows no building to be the same, because no client will have the same problems. Every building should be its own individual act of creation. The diagrams that come from this, propel the design forward

Implantation

Schematic Design

All the concepts and diagrams that you have worked on to this point, are then modified with dimensions, materials, shapes, and people. In this stage, you are showing the client what is possible and charging their imagination to see the vision. If they like what you have made here, then you progress forward.

Design Development and Construction Documentation

This is where you get to all the details of your building. You have to really think about how this will actually get built. This is more of the technical side – which I like – because here is where you get to think about reality. Once every detail is thought out, and plans read clearly – clear enough so that someone else can build it – then the building has reached the end of its design phase and is ready to be bid and built.

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