ASUNDER
THIS IS TO BE WITHOUT CEREMONY.
This is to be the marriage of disparate ideas.
Concerning someone in particular and the kind of woman who signs the guest book at her own son’s wake. On the surface it’s complicated. Deeper down it has to do with something else altogether.
Someone in particular wanted to compose a story without characters and details. Without a setting. No themes, no ambiguities. Being that someone in particular doesn’t consider himself a writer he feels he can dispense with many rules and regulations.
And then the kind of woman that takes twenty-five pills a day.
No flashbacks, no dialogue, no obscure academic references.
What’s more is someone in particular is shamefully ignorant when it comes to the rules and regulations. For instance, he has no idea what a split infinitive is.
And then the kind of woman who sends her twelve-year-old grandson a birthday card with a five dollar bill taped to it and writes I am broke under her signature.
Any use of simile or metaphor or foreshadowing or alliteration or onomatopoeia would be unnecessary in such a story. Nothing at all synecdochical.
Even if someone in particular knew what any of that meant.
To heavily second chance the lonely alone.
And then the kind of woman who applies lipstick at inappropriate times and identifies people by their ethnicity, all of them savages.
Who’d come running when her husband would whistle for her to come running.
Which is not to say someone in particular doesn’t respect those who are cognizant of the rules and regulations and adhere to said rules and regulations. That someone in particular doesn’t consider himself a writer should in no way reflect upon any of those people.
A story without exposition or a conflict or an arc and with nothing at all at stake.
And then the kind of woman you cannot believe actually raised two children and held down several jobs and who derives a queer satisfaction from having her picture taken and is the kind of woman you can say is the kind of woman for years and never run out of she is the kind of womans.
Joan of Arc.
Any assumption that someone in particular is the author of the lines This is to be without ceremony and This is the marriage of two disparate ideas would be premature at this time.
Joan of Arc being the one who led four thousand French soldiers into Orleans to expel the English in 1429, all at the tender age of sixteen. Then she was taken prisoner by the Burgundians. Then she was burned at the stake in Rouen. Then they made her a saint. Someone in particular has a hard time swallowing any of this.