freeblogs.com found this site left on the server derelict. Will be deleted as has not been updated in over 24 months. This document of the content of said site called “ Jameson's writing corner” is being sent to you in this text as a last warning before deletion.Jan 7, 2004 11:42 p.m
Alrighty. Here it is. Hello to whoever is passing by. I am Jameson Hanson and this is my little attempt at a writing blog for my stuff. I hope this place will be a site for updates, inspiration and some good feedback. Sorry if this is short , but not really sure what you say on one of these things.
Jan 11, 2004 7:36 p.m
Got some progress on the thing..story I want to call it...but not now..not yet. Will post soon. Have about 3 pages so far. Not sure about a title. What the hell is a “blog” anyway? Sounds like the name of that thing that ate the hot dogs in ghost busters or something that dams up bogs in Ireland with fungus. Got curious and looked at how many “blogs” are out there. Millions? Does anyone read these then? If I wave am I waving at myself or will it be at others out there too? Is a blog an echo chamber or a branch? Enough rambling...will see how this goes, the cocktail of nerves and excitement here is surely up there with “like a knife through butter” and “aim for the fences kid” in the musty sweat sock smelling hall o' cliche's
Jan 14, 2004 11:47 p.m
wow...just wrote another chunk...not sure where it fits yet...
here is in the start of it in the third version as of tonight...would love some comments
the drizzle fell in drops light on the slight breeze as if an army of spider eggs . The odd thing about it was there also in the dark late night outside the window was what seemed a faint muttering,chattering as though of children playing some game. Ethan rose from bed and opened his window further and he heard it rising and Harris heard the rain falling a little lighter. It was late on a school night and heavy tropical showers had kept him up as they rolled across the valley.
The rain was a swirling drizzle when he heard an odd noise. It was of kids playing a game. Who would be out at 2 in the morning playing hide and go seek? It so distressed him and was so strange and out of place.His history homework was not done but he was too tired and had just laid down, eyes closed, waiting.lling in volume , all the while ever so slight How can that be? Who lets their kids play at 1 in the morning? What horrible parent would let that be? The muttering was light, distant but he almost swore he heard the words “can” and “kick”.
Harris put his shoes on and his striped pajamas racing as lightly as he could down the stairs and to the front door. He opened it slowly as to not wake his father who was a light sleeper or his mother who sometimes was awakened by noises . He headed down the front yard on the hill , the door quickly but gingerly closed but not locked behind him and felt the drizzle swirl along his face. He began sprinting down the street and could not believe what he heard It is not getting any quieter.....or louder.!......those voices.....they...are everywhere...but so faint...how can … It hit him. Kick the can. That was a game he saw in old movies. No one played It anymore. T
he drizzle began to turn to a cold rain, real rain, fat drops as he sprinted to the next block, then the next, and the next, and then as faintly as it started , the voices stopped, almost like they lifted back up into the clouds. Ethan went back home and after locking the door , went and changed and then went back to sleep while a heavy rain poured outside, a tropical downpour that the evening news had not predicted or mentioned at all.
Ethan went to the library at lunchtime and looked up any books or news reports on one of th school computers. For most of his 20 minutes spent passing on his sandwich and chips in his backpack nothing came up. Just lots of random sites and bad searches. Then he found 2 accounts. One very old.
One not old at all. In Accounts of the unexplained , a book published in 1945 with a drawing on the cover of a cloud and a magnifying glass yellowed by the years he found this from the Aug,15,1942 Salina Gazzete:
that is all I have so far...I deleted the newspaper report I wrote tonight....it just feels too much...
Jan 23,2004 9:14 p.m
Work has been hectic lately. O.k that is a lie. I just have had no urge to write. Wow, hello old friend on that. So here I am posting here, one hand clapping or maybe someone else is reading these words here. What is a story if no one reads it? If no one writes it? Does it still have some shape, some blurry daydream, a fart in the mind of some stranger like me? Starting this story is like jogging from starting blocks made of solid ice, or some other amazing phrase that sparkles with diamonds (sarcasm).
Feb 18,2004 4:13 a.m
Got something on the line...the rusty fishing line made here I guess of zeroes and ones...
3 pages in one night. YES. Not wood chip or chum quality either. It is a story now to me, just need to flesh the sucker out. It looks at the idea of if storms pick up air and water and little bits of broken leaves and insects and rains them down why not conversations? Weird I know , but hang on (Ed, you one person out there who posted a comment last week..thank you). What if it floated for years in the air and one day sometimes echoed back to earth in the rain? What would that say about history and what we forget and don't know? Yeah, well makes sense to me, insert loudspeaker at restaurant voice..
clarity, party of one. Feb 20,2004 3:17 a:m
up to 7 pages now. Words . Yes. Does not suck. Still grappling with the whole arc but it is coming along. Will take a break for a bit.
Saw a kid today standing in a empty field staring up at the clouds all by himself. I was walking back from mailing a letter and getting some exercise so I went up to him and asked him what he was looking at and waiting for (mind you..the “clouds” were a string of tiny dots..puny...miniscule.. like milk bottles thrown skyward)
he answered without looking at me
“rain”
odd kid
we haven't had rain in months
March 4, 2004 8:01 p.m
stuck again. sigh. Feels like I just made a place to break it here. The thing feels like a bunch of parts that do not go together...who wants to read that? What patchwork quilt or rag doll in the garage told a great story or at least a complete one? The idea seemed so good...still has some tiny lightning in its belly but just do not what to make of it now...to make it “whole” whatever that means
7pages of scraps makes good mulch, good kindling, amazing confetti waiting to be thrown when__________(insert sports team) wins the (big/great/good/first) game
still feel like there is potential to it.....
saw that kid again.....he was waiting for the bus in the rain as I left for work....(not that this has anything to do with his odd moments of hope in that field...I mean cmon' months have gone by....even a soup bone can have a drop in it )
March 15, 2004 10:12 p.m
can't ...seem....to..find...it...
March 16, 2004 2:27 a.m
So I wrote this story. Ok, it wasn't exactly a story but it had potential. It was a good 7 pages long I think. That is a good few steps down the road right? I mean how long a walk in the snow does it take before you can say you walked to school in a snowstorm years later in candlelight at some dinner or to some person next to you on a plane as you both tense up near a thunderstorm at 20 thousand feet? Is there a map for these things? Should there be? I wrote a story. It didn't write itself in little hands standing on tiny feet. It didn't punch a clock somewhere in the ether and work in shifts with a little locker to place its coat. I spent 4 months on it. I easily spent at least 2 nights till the sun came up just on the intro as I recall. I came to know those errors and little bright spots like they lived on my couch and ate my cereal while I slept. And now I still can't find it
Can a shlub kill an idea? Can a lost file be the death of something? Can something flee the worse fate of a mediocre mind and poor decisions like the man stopping as the car whooses through the red light to never go to that restaurant then or ever again...that street even.....saved.......as that place falls away to them like it never was on a map or a brick ? Is this evidence as such for this invisible crime or is it just late ..
March 16, 2004 6:45 p.m
Maybe the story decided it had enough of me , my indecision, my overuse of the word “converge” , perhaps it was due to gradual decline in attention. I admit wholeheartedly that if it was a fish it would have been near floating at the top of the bowl; I got stuck more and more, lost in what to do next. If there was a place all those socks went in dryers over the years then surely this text is having a drink on my tab at a table with striped gym socks , laughing it up with the left of the pair my dad drew a skull and crossbones on half jokingly when I had really bad athletes foot in 9th grade. Insert painting of sad clown at a piano … cliché of the day : “humor is the best medicine”
may it be true...
March 17, 2004 8:42 p.m
Dumped by a word file. Ouch. So the file is nowhere to be found. I checked everywhere, every nook and cranny from the common areas to the dumb named folders I made even to that mystery swamp of the cache (just a morass of cookies and stupid pictures I thought at some point were funny when I should have been writing..oh god...there it is again...writing ..oof..) I could have sworn that I saved it in 2 places. The panic is fading now. It is weird. It feels more like a sense of some pathetic calm, like a full bodied shoulder shrug. Eh oh well. But that is just part of the story. Man I wish it was that simple. Had a dream that a boat sank and I found it as the water turned to clear glass.
March 19, 2004 1:11 a.m
Surely was a work of genius. Well..So the story was going to be good. Seemed like a good start...was not a waste of paper. Oh hell I don't even know. I know that at 16 I would not have written it. I know at 18 it would have been grander and have a lot of clouds and maybe a unicorn for some rim shot irony. At 22 it would have been really poetic and about life like I actually really knew anything. But no one ever does, if they did we would just all attend their seminar and sit around globally scratching ourselves all day. Not happening. I have parts of it still in my head, will see if I can ever pluck them out.
I read once in a newspaper of a man named Joe Burg being on a ship that sank off of Alaska in 1960. Thing is he finally forgot about it and had a new wife talk him into a cruise in 1975. The tickets got messed up and were misprints and they were held up in line and forced to go back to reschedule. The Jamiaca trips were sold out. He ended up one morning out on the deck watching the waters bob and ebb along when it began to sink. It not only was almost in the same area as before but he found a pile of papers in the corner of the rescue boat and one had been an article looking back at the wreck before. He was in the picture.
March 25, 2004 6:18 p.m
I think the story that I lost is now some kind of weird artifact. I don't know. It has been 4 days now and the emotions are finally not on some stupid circus wheel any more in me. It is not like it had some great truth in its teeth, it did not even have a clear p.o.v and lost steam mid way in its tiny little body of seven “pages”. There is no police outline in the shape of a digital document floating out on the net or in this dusty cat hair covered lap top. There is no burial and there is no clear thing gone. The paragraphs at times weren't bad though. Like coaches say of chubby boys who strike out often on baseball teams under their breath (like mine did anyway) “well ..some potential there somewhere..must be or why the uniform all this time?” I watched distant storms while balls passed by me like dumb suburban comets. There was no potential except that I was big for my age and thus could simply hit far. Often they either would be foul balls or caught but when it was a homer..that rare time..it was gone. Sometimes though in that moment of some tiny glory it would go foul. Sometimes I crossed the plate and was called out. Then it was lost. Nothing. And hitting hard was all I could do. Erased.
Funny thing is this: if you threw a tape into a field and waited for years for someone to find it and let's say they did...and they played the odd half interesting music for a few friends who made a copy of this curiosity and then another friend made a few of this odd story he heard second hand and then months later it got into the hands or a blog peeople actually read...a music journalist and he or she writes of this odd curio. This artifact. This incomplete thing...lost ? Found? Authorless? And gave it praise....
would the story make the music better than it ever was as the mystery clouded the missed notes...
April 1, 2004 7:39 p.m
I found part of the story in another file. I emailed it to myself at 3 in the morning to save it. Funny that such a good idea only came to that text that once.
The old farmhouse of a Jim Fleet saw a thunderstorm rise up that night something fierce. It hit the high plains of Kansas with lightning by the armload and 6 inches of rain in 2 hours time. This reporter was there visiting the man doing a 3 part story on farming during war time and how the last few years had been for the best hog man in the state. I was staying in the back room when the storm hit at about midnight. It rained horses and steer that night, but that isn't why I am writing this. It is what happened next
The rain stopped all at once. The wind too. But the clouds out the window looked more stirred than before. A sound came in from the west, a low , quiet rumble, but not of thunder, but of almost a muttering. It sounded frail and weary and it as it passed overhead there was one flash of lightning, no rain and I swear I heard the words “ Civil War” and then a lot of sounds like a crowd and then it passed like that rain. Jim swears he heard it too. I offer no explanation. I just offer this question at the risk of my job at this fine paper? Are we alone on this?
The book said sadly no one replied to that question. The reporter kept his job, but was ridiculed for a few years by some in town. He never wrote of or spoke of that night again. Ethan sat at the computer, #14 at a little corner of a room built sometime in the 50's , a cavernous space to students, a tiny sanctuary to the 2 librarians when empty, a secret stockroom for one person that no one yet was aware of ,and now, at this moment, a constricting jumble of colors and words around one young man now trying to see some logic and connection to things.
Ethan stared at the aging computer's glowing face for a few moments more, then logged out and packed his things. April 11, 2004 8:07 a.m
Here is another chunk I found a few hours ago in my junk folder..missed it somehow..not exactly sure where I was going ...will stick it here for now
By noon the first rain showers broke over the hills of New Mexico.
The desert sun hit the morning air drfting north from Mexico and a few tiny clouds puffed in the hills where at sunrise had been clear sky and a few thin mid level clouds lit rose red then yellow then away.
In New York it had rained all night with carriages passing puddles.
In what would become Los Angeles a freak storm dropped flooding summer rains.
In the Gulf of Mexico a ship was sinking in a soon to be tropical storm, its sails fraying, the wooden craft gulping water on its deck as if a thirst had overcome it during the morning hours amidst the gales.
The crew abandoned ship and one uttered these words “ this is not my fate, it will not be”.
This was August 24, 1855. Late morning. These times and moments were not recorded, not written of, not passed on in any oral tradition. They happened, and then were gone.
The part about the ships I am guessing was some bright idea of mine to take the reader to a point in time in a ship's log, some incidental moment and let it float in rain back .confuses me now though and that ain't a good sign. This is just confusing. The idea of a log of something never written is cool but makes no sense. I guess this was when I had that bad fish and when the cat had gas. I remember rushing things a lot. Had to. I honestly wish I had not found this.
April 15, 2004 9:33 p.m
This next one somehow stuck to the end of an email sent to my aunt about her dog being sick..must have somehow hit paste by accident when the phone rang or something (notice how the writing quality and focus trails off here....think this was about to edited about..yeah..pretty sure..hope so anyway)
Ethan rushed to class taking a few bites of his sandwich. As he arrived late his 5th period teacher talking about math equations and the coming quiz.
“ glad you are joining us mr onton ., so..back to chapter 9 and statistic calculations....look at the graph on page 147 …. we see that the pattern begins to emerge within the...”
The lecture went on and Ethan half paid attention, distracted, tired. The quiz was easy and ended the class for him on a sort of waking from a dream after spending so much time at lunch in his own head and what he read.
Ethan walked to his 6th period English class in the crushing crowds and hot late spring sun in a clear day. The rain may as well have never happened. The late season storm left no traces, especially on this hot boring afternoon as rote as any Wednesday, as droning as the arc to class the before. The hallway had the same fliers fading a bit from earlier bake sales, car washes , football games and other events that to Ethan meant about as much as a flood in South Africa, the price of gum in 1925 or gossip about some actor, nothing at all.
Wow not even the same font. Good one sloppy joe. I don't even remember that part at all.
The character shifts name too I see , nice. Ethan. Eesh. Sounds like a kid who would always have better clothes than you, would wear nice sweaters and have hair that was just perfect even in the awkward years. That character name would steal your girl and take her in his convertible in some flashy color and that would be it for you with her. Harris on the other hand sounds like a kid in a 50's tv show to me (yeah, I know , I wrote it, but it was him, that me a few months ago, lazy bum, what a mess).
Wow I sure thought I was a poet in that last crumb eh? Mr wordsmith fancypants mctypy the third in a beret and monocle. Writer in all capital letters.
The piece of the story is no gem either. The voice gets too fancy and full of its own purple prose.the kid gets lost in generic hallways and rooms with quirky , angry teachers just to make some point.
It rode in the bowels of a polite breezy note about dogs and how nice the last family gathering was.
So. here I am. Writing about a lost story and now I kind of shot myself in the old foot didn't I? Found bits of that stinky thing and there they are. Cut and paste. I actually thought I had an idea again. Let's write about losing something as writing. Now I have pieces of some failure stinking up my file and a dead end again. Peachy.
Remember when they found Al Capone's Vault? A bunch of wet paper and mud....
Mar 18, 2004 3:07 a.m
So when I was 14 I wrote little poems in my dream journal. The thing was a gift from some relative's new girlfriend that heard I was that weird kid. It had a quill pen. Yep. A quill pen. Sentiment was nice but man. I at first just killed june bugs and spiders with it (it was heavy for a little thing). That summer I thought oh what the hell. Scrawled little doodles while listening to music and little cartoons of teachers, then a weird dream once in a while to tell my friends and not forget. Then a little poem. Then another. They seemed so urgent unlike the doodles. Had to come out. I wanted to be a scientist then. Stare at clouds all day. The world made one when I learned about war atrocities in 4th period. A girl made one when she threw my candygram on valentines in the trash. Another plopped out when I first saw a funnel cloud in a storm. They are long gone. The writing was well...14 cmon. Bad. But it came.
At 18 I was in college and decided to be a writer. My family took the news basically as well as if I said I wanted to be a historian at the Jack the Ripper Museum (is there one?) or a drummer in a styx cover band. Not well. I told my family at christmas at Grandma's right when we all were eating pie.
It seemed like a good strategy.
Grandma seemed to move in slow motion that Christmas as her hot cocoa flew out of her hands and she muttered over her shawl (was chilly-ish) “noooooooooooooooo!” like in a horror movie or buddy cop movie as bullets fly or axes, whatever. I had people tell me give up or that romance novels were great on the toilet or on airplanes (uh,ok, thanks?). My other grandma kept clipping out ads in newspapers for refrigerator repairmen gigs and beekeepers. A real subtle hint there. I wrote poems on a creaky old typewriter, not for effect but as it was all we had. I first had to shake the dead bugs out of it. The keys would stick like a smushed spider all the time and it smeared. I thought I knew what I was doing. Ha. At least I was trying. My dad looked at me clicking on it sometimes like I was in heels doing a flashdance recital or wrestling the dog. The look pretty much said...oh man....
Writer. When can someone safely call themselves that? It rings with so much pretension that it makes me want to make myself eat a cake made in the shape of berets with chocolate monocles on top until my mind spins to how the last bites were just jaws and teeth. Yep
March 22, 2004 4:45 a.m
My grandmother passed away when I was in my mid twenties and had moved back to go to school to be a writer again. This time was for creative writing only and not papers.
was sitting at the kitchen table one dull hot evening when my dad came by, stone faced, and dropped off a wrinkled manila envelope , hugged me slightly and left. My room mates were all in night class and it was so quiet. I poured the contents out, the bent fake brass little arm of the clasp falling off as out came 4 photos, a songbook from 1929 that sat always on top of her piano and a small book. The book was the first story I published in a little school journal. It was about death. Signed love Jameson (me) in smeary blue pen. I wrote it at 20. Like I knew.
It came back to me in a bag. All I knew was just this thud, this dumb little naïve thud. The air was so quiet. I read a few lines and had to stop. A photo came out. It was her sitting in some fold out plastic chair in some crowd in some moment back when. Her smile was wide and her dress was humble and sweet in a simple light blue. By her collar she had pinned a simple fabric flower. It was slightly crooked, a light red and it was her. I saw right then and there 5 years of my writing blip away in my head, not literally but just in how meaningless it all was, over reaching, crushed , as it should into powder, by the line of one edge of that little bloom. I knew nothing.
Those things were more than I will ever be. That moment probably lost a third of its mass and weight in this thin attempt at retelling
June, 23, 2004 5:14 p.m
So here I am again. There you are. I do not have those dumb ambitions anymore. I am not dead inside either. I don't dream into a journal and I don't shut down. The story I lost and now kind of found again and kind of did not is the first in many years. I finished school ten years ago. It is hot and my cat is asleep snoring like a biker that once sat next to me on a bus for 12 hours. Loud and thick. My television is blipping on about a power outage. Not here . Not now. Hit save. Why? Whatever.
August 9, 2004 4:55 am
Why does anyone write things down? Am I popping a zit of some old arrogance by even trying?
Jan 1, 2005
So this little shack is still here. Windows are intact but nobody home. The one comment back when turned out to be a spammer. Tossing coins into wormholes=”blogs” and writing it is now so clear. No wonder this site was free. Why pay to piss letters down a hole? The rent on crashed things should be low too. You ever seen those places out in the desert? Those shacks next to the place with rusting airplanes? You. Funny. One stop back here in a bad stretch and right back to that. Here's to you spambot that posted a nice comment that was actually a link to some site selling fake jewels. So kind ed really , you shouldn't have. History is for the dead: bums and failures and all the goldfish from county fairs in bags for a coin toss. rain will fall , always did and will, and will only wash things away.
Nothing more. Story over.
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