November 27th, 2010
Lately I’ve been playing around with Wordle. It takes a piece of writing and pulls out the most common words in a piece of writing and applies some algorithmic magic to generate a word cloud, a bit like the tag cloud I keep at the bottom of this site.
It’s better-randomized, though, and more “cloud”-like. Sometimes its output takes a little finessing, but I’m a little bit fascinated with the way it seems to condense stories into important flashes of impression. Given First and Last and Always, for example, it almost seems to take a life of its own.
April 14th, 2010
For Hannah, because she made a difference.
Even with his heart pounding in time to the DJ’s command, a hundred and twenty-six beats per minute, Jamie could feel the one it skipped. Someone was watching him; he’d felt it, uncoiling a tight, nervous desire from the base of his spine, sliding it up his back until it made the hairs on his neck stand on end and his knees go weak, made him excited and just a little scared.
For months he’d walked past the door here, stolen glances past the curtain at the slender, pretty boys dancing together here, taking each other home, but he’d never dared step in before. Now he wasn’t sure whether he should have come. Someone would notice him; someone would tell; people would know; they would be polite of course, nothing overt. It was the twenty-first century after all, but he would hear their whispers, notice their sideways glances in his direction, and he would move again, unable to cope, unwilling to be that token friend, unwilling to be treated so differently. It wasn’t his fault he’d been born this way.
But there was that look. It promised so much.
September 20th, 2009
It is the last fiery gasp of summer 2009, and it is too hot to move. I am a child of the desert, of the dry Bakersfield heat, and ninety-five degrees is almost comfortable, but humidity makes me sweat; it makes me sticky; it makes me miserable. I throw my shirt across the room and sprawl in bed, over the covers. The fan beside my bed sweeps its meager breeze up my chest, across my face, and I close my eyes.
August 14th, 2009
By the time I caught my breath, Rio was laughing quietly to himself, still holding my hands as he watched me in his half-shy, half-knowing way. “What’s the matter?” he teased. “Never kissed a boy before?”
I licked my lips, tasting the memory he’d left behind. “A couple times, just to try… but it was never like that.”
His eyes lit up at the compliment, and he leaned forward, whispering against my cheek. “You like me that much?”
“Maybe.” I closed my eyes again, letting myself nuzzle back and slip my hands around his waist.
July 29th, 2009
This game was harder, between the pressure of having come so close, and the nagging feeling of Rio watching my every move. It felt like a year, trying all at once to dominate the machine and to cradle it in my arms, wrestling with it for control of the ball’s manic, rebounding energy. I lost count of the plays, of the points scrolling past as the bumpers came alive and the machine’s synthetic voice begged me to keep going, just a little bit more.
It was getting hard; the game mattered too much. At the very least I wasn’t about to let Rio beat me just by playing around. The tension started building in my muscles, winding me up tight, from my hands up to my arms, from my shoulders down my back, and I started to welcome the drain, the precious few seconds of rest before I sent another ball up the ramp.
Eventually I had no more, and I slumped over the machine, exhausted, staring at the scoreboard. The numbers continued to spin, catching up to my last bonus points. Rio laughed, delighted, as he walked up behind me. “That’s very good! You’re very intense when you want to be.”
Still trying to catch my breath, I barely managed a smile.
“Close your eyes,” I heard him whisper. “Your score isn’t going anywhere.”
