The Ambiguity of Certainty

[nucky]

This is the first chapter of my story that I'm writing. I started it a week or two ago and it's been such a fun story! It's been swimming in my head for a long while. This is the most... sensical part of the story ^_^ And the chapter is called 'the ambiguity of certainty', the story itself is currently untitled.

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I can remember a time ago. I don’t know how many years old I was. There was a fat little baby with his cheeks all round and his mouth dribbling. And this fat baby swung back and forth gently on a little baby-swing. His eyes were dark almonds, squinted by his fat and his short, chubby legs dangled stiffly. The baby gurgled and a line of drool shined from the bottom of his small lip all the way down to his naked chest. A hot summer day if I remember right.

Anyways, I remember that I was playing with the little baby. First I cooed softly at him and patted his head. I took out a shiny toy and he squealed with delight, giggly and bubbly with joy. Suddenly. Tears fell. They fell down as if someone broke a crystal glass upon my forehead. And my eyes felt hot with tears. What’s this? What’s this? A ribbon of red from my forehead to lips and I lick my lips, as the feel of my own warm blood is quite disconcerting because I know. I know that I should definitely be gone by now. I should have left by now. Why was this house so hostile? The one with the baby! Blood tastes metallic, don’t you know? I suppose, I suppose that a crystal glass really did hit me. I’m sorry, I suppose. But I don’t remember what I done wrong.

Oh yes; now, I remember. I was holding a knife. I was holding a silver blade and I could feel how very happy it was. I was only playing with that baby. With his eyes like dark almonds, squinted by fat, his legs dangled stiffly. I remember well! And I knew that the baby liked shiny things and nothing was shinier than that new knife. Too bad. Too bad. I suppose. I suppose. I suppose. It wasn’t my fault that the baby thought the knife tickled as I gently brought the tip to his belly and ran it so softly up to his face, with only a faint edge running up like the soft pit-pat of a catpaw. It wasn’t my fault someone hit me in the head with a crystal glass. It wasn’t my fault that the baby’s chubby-chubby neck ate the knife so voraciously. And it was certainly not my fault that the baby never cried and that the lady did. Some people called me a monster, when I simply was not. I was only playing with a baby with the thing he loved the most and he would not have gotten hurt if I hadn’t gotten hurt. And if it had been my house and my baby to begin with, I suppose. I suppose. I suppose.

I stole into the night rightafter, rightafter. I remember quite graciously that the night was inky black and that not even a single star salted the silky sky. I remember that at the exact moment of excitement, as I was absconding into the darkness, I was thinking about palindromes. I remember not what palindrome I was dreaming up, but that was because I made it quite sleepily as I fled further and further into the night, rightafter playing with a baby and rightafter the baby died, but it was certainly not my fault.

“A trespasser,” the sobbing woman said into the phone. “My son is dead,” and so was her tone, a dead tone for a defeated woman. And even with the most sensitive ears, no one knew what she said after that because her voice became quieter and quieter until there was no sound to it at all and her mouth moved a couple’s dance to her soundless voice.

And I, Nucky, who believed that nothing could be more and nothing could be less than myself, grew very alone and very bored. And in my boredom, I decided that perhaps life was nothing more than being not dead. And perhaps being dead was nothing more than being not alive.

Gently, so gently, I walked through the black satin curtains that hung around me. Dear, dear nighttime. Dear nighttime was being far too kind to me. Without a single incident, I made it all on my own. How was I supposed to escape the inevitability that would be sure to follow? I knew what was next: imprisonment, humiliation, and other things of the same vein. It was certain what would be next, but even in a crystal clear world, certainty was ambiguous. My slender hand ran through my dark hair as hazel eyes glinted with devilish intent. I knew how to escape everything. After all, I wasn’t an idiot.

I gripped the knife I held tighter, realizing happily that I did not leave it at the house where the baby died. Gracious eyes glittered giddily as I touched the knifepoint to my head. Without a single moment of hesitation and without a single ounce of effort, the knife shifted into my head and then through it. There were no tears; there was no blood. And so, in that single moment, I split myself in half. I looked to my other half and smiled, “I suppose, I suppose, I suppose.” The other half glared at me with stupid eyes, but I knew that one of these days, she’d wake up and know things just as I knew things. And she scrambled to her feet and scampered away, a wild beast for now. I lifted a hand, “So long, myself!” Laughter ruffled the air as I stepped towards my home.

My heartbeat was more of a metronome keeping the time of a quick dancing song than an organic rhythm. I hummed in accompaniment and nodded my head to my own internal music. This anthem followed me all the way to my house, which seemed to guard the end of the cul-de-sac like an old soldier guarding his pride. I had no garden, hardly any lawn. Suddenly, I stopped. My eyes swept over the dry grass. Dead was dead. There was no hope for it and I seemed to give a quiet snicker, but my ears heard a deafening and rolling laugh as wild as the thunder. My hand found the doorknob as quickly as my heart beat. I was home.

There was one thing to do. The chair cast too long a shadow as the sun rose higher in the sky, fighting my dear nighttime to bring brightness about. The window glittered with the new dawn and I stopped, dumbstruck by the glory of it all. Goodbye dear, dear night. And I sighed as I took my mission. My eyes strayed to the desk. Gently, I touched a pencil and gently, I took a piece of paper, bold in all its whiteness. I glared to the single piece of paper, gave an annoyed grunt as I retrieved more. I knew that one sheet wasn’t enough.

I wrote all my ideas, one after the other. Ideas to be proud of and ideas to be ashamed of: I wrote them all. A pile grew upon my desk and I sat back after writing everything. My hazel eyes went up and down the pile, just taking it in. What to think of it? I didn’t know. I read a paper and realized that what words were already established in English had kept my ideas from being fully realized. All the papers, all the marks of pencil… That great pile of paper and graphite was completely useless. I scooped up all those papers into a basket and then went to dump the papers outside. I took a match, just one tiny match, and after lighting it, I threw it into my ideas. I had never seen a more beautiful fire. Finally, beyond what had trapped them, my words floated up to the heavens as smoke. “Read them now!” I dared my Creator. “Read them!” And I gave a smile, proud of what I had written down. That great fireball grew and grew and never died. Only when it destroyed everything did it die and I supposed that my ideas would have done the same had I not lit them—if I had given them to the world. And so, the greatest and worst of all my thoughts went away in a blaze of glory. And I start again.

[Owl]

I can remember a time ago. I don’t know how many years old I was. There was a fat little baby with his cheeks all round and his mouth dribbling. And this fat baby swung back and forth gently on a little baby-swing. His eyes were dark almonds, squinted by his fat and his short, chubby legs dangled stiffly. The baby gurgled and a line of drool shined from the bottom of his small lip all the way down to his naked chest. A hot summer day if I remember right.

Anyways, I remember that I was playing with the little baby. First I cooed softly at him and patted his head. I took out a shiny toy and he squealed with delight, giggly and bubbly with joy. Suddenly. Tears fell. They fell down as if someone broke a crystal glass upon my forehead. And my eyes felt hot with tears. What’s this? What’s this? A ribbon of red from my forehead to lips and I lick my lips, as the feel of my own warm blood is quite disconcerting because I know. I know that I should definitely be gone by now. I should have left by now. Why was this house so hostile? The one with the baby! Blood tastes metallic, don’t you know? I suppose, I suppose that a crystal glass really did hit me. I’m sorry, I suppose. But I don’t remember what I done wrong.

Oh yes; now, I remember. I was holding a knife. I was holding a silver blade and I could feel how very happy it was. I was only playing with that baby. With his eyes like dark almonds, squinted by fat, his legs dangled stiffly. I remember well! And I knew that the baby liked shiny things and nothing was shinier than that new knife. Too bad. Too bad. I suppose. I suppose. I suppose. It wasn’t my fault that the baby thought the knife tickled as I gently brought the tip to his belly and ran it so softly up to his face, with only a faint edge running up like the soft pit-pat of a catpaw. It wasn’t my fault someone hit me in the head with a crystal glass. It wasn’t my fault that the baby’s chubby-chubby neck ate the knife so voraciously. And it was certainly not my fault that the baby never cried and that the lady did. Some people called me a monster, when I simply was not. I was only playing with a baby with the thing he loved the most and he would not have gotten hurt if I hadn’t gotten hurt. And if it had been my house and my baby to begin with, I suppose. I suppose. I suppose.

I stole into the night rightafter, rightafter. I remember quite graciously that the night was inky black and that not even a single star salted the silky sky. I remember that at the exact moment of excitement, as I was absconding into the darkness, I was thinking about palindromes. I remember not what palindrome I was dreaming up, but that was because I made it quite sleepily as I fled further and further into the night, rightafter playing with a baby and rightafter the baby died, but it was certainly not my fault.

“A trespasser,” the sobbing woman said into the phone. “My son is dead,” and so was her tone, a dead tone for a defeated woman. And even with the most sensitive ears, no one knew what she said after that because her voice became quieter and quieter until there was no sound to it at all and her mouth moved a couple’s dance to her soundless voice.

And I, Nucky, who believed that nothing could be more and nothing could be less than myself, grew very alone and very bored. And in my boredom, I decided that perhaps life was nothing more than being not dead. And perhaps being dead was nothing more than being not alive.

Gently, so gently, I walked through the black satin curtains that hung around me. Dear, dear nighttime. Dear nighttime was being far too kind to me. Without a single incident, I made it all on my own. How was I supposed to escape the inevitability that would be sure to follow? I knew what was next: imprisonment, humiliation, and other things of the same vein. It was certain what would be next, but even in a crystal clear world, certainty was ambiguous. My slender hand ran through my dark hair as hazel eyes glinted with devilish intent. I knew how to escape everything. After all, I wasn’t an idiot.

I gripped the knife I held tighter, realizing happily that I did not leave it at the house where the baby died. Gracious eyes glittered giddily as I touched the knifepoint to my head. Without a single moment of hesitation and without a single ounce of effort, the knife shifted into my head and then through it. There were no tears; there was no blood. And so, in that single moment, I split myself in half. I looked to my other half and smiled, “I suppose, I suppose, I suppose.” The other half glared at me with stupid eyes, but I knew that one of these days, she’d wake up and know things just as I knew things. And she scrambled to her feet and scampered away, a wild beast for now. I lifted a hand, “So long, myself!” Laughter ruffled the air as I stepped towards my home.

My heartbeat was more of a metronome keeping the time of a quick dancing song than an organic rhythm. I hummed in accompaniment and nodded my head to my own internal music. This anthem followed me all the way to my house, which seemed to guard the end of the cul-de-sac like an old soldier guarding his pride. I had no garden, hardly any lawn. Suddenly, I stopped. My eyes swept over the dry grass. Dead was dead. There was no hope for it and I seemed to give a quiet snicker, but my ears heard a deafening and rolling laugh as wild as the thunder. My hand found the doorknob as quickly as my heart beat. I was home.

There was one thing to do. The chair cast too long a shadow as the sun rose higher in the sky, fighting my dear nighttime to bring brightness about. The window glittered with the new dawn and I stopped, dumbstruck by the glory of it all. Goodbye dear, dear night. And I sighed as I took my mission. My eyes strayed to the desk. Gently, I touched a pencil and gently, I took a piece of paper, bold in all its whiteness. I glared to the single piece of paper, gave an annoyed grunt as I retrieved more. I knew that one sheet wasn’t enough.

I wrote all my ideas, one after the other. Ideas to be proud of and ideas to be ashamed of: I wrote them all. A pile grew upon my desk and I sat back after writing everything. My hazel eyes went up and down the pile, just taking it in. What to think of it? I didn’t know. I read a paper and realized that what words were already established in English had kept my ideas from being fully realized. All the papers, all the marks of pencil… That great pile of paper and graphite was completely useless. I scooped up all those papers into a basket and then went to dump the papers outside. I took a match, just one tiny match, and after lighting it, I threw it into my ideas. I had never seen a more beautiful fire. Finally, beyond what had trapped them, my words floated up to the heavens as smoke. “Read them now!” I dared my Creator. “Read them!” And I gave a smile, proud of what I had written down. That great fireball grew and grew and never died. Only when it destroyed everything did it die and I supposed that my ideas would have done the same had I not lit them—if I had given them to the world. And so, the greatest and worst of all my thoughts went away in a blaze of glory. And I start again.


overall, it was a great story. there were alot of repeats in the story so i crossed most of them out because i wasn't sure it if they were suppost to be there or not.

[nucky]

Yeah, the repeats are supposed to be there ^_^
Okay then. That was actually one of the most sensical parts of my story... now... for this part. It might seem a bit sketchy.

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This pen. This paper. Did it know how permanent it would be? Did it even have the consciousness of what great it could accomplish? “Mr. Pen,” I began to ask, “Do you know what you write?” I turned my soft gaze to the paper, “Miss Paper, do you understand what you shall soon have written on your surface?”

I remembered something that I had thought not too long ago as I swept my eyes over Mr. Pen and Miss Paper. If being dead was simply not being alive and being alive was simply not being dead, then, by that definition, since Mr. Pen and Miss Paper were technically not dead, they must be alive. And with my mind and my mind alone, I willed them each to talk.

And so, they answered. “Yes, Nucky!” they replied in eagerness, “But please, do tell us! Do tell us for we enjoy to anticipate what is to come!” And I smiled and told them all that was in my head. Spilled my mind onto them with ink and a loving kindness. I promised them that I wouldn’t press hardly so as to mar the perfection being etched. And they thanked me in every curve and line I penned. After I was done, the paper wore her tattoo proudly while the pen admired what he had helped to create.

The paper began to weep with no tears at all, but it was quite evident that she was crying, “Thank you, Nucky. I have never felt so beautiful!”
And my fingers trembled and I set the pen down. I gave a sigh. But, I was grateful for her thanks. “Of course, it was my joy to.” And verily, it was. And a wild gust of wind blew and stole the paper. I smiled. I let the wind take her yonder… into infinity.

There is great contemplation of what it means to have infinity outside of you. In outer space, it’s supposed to go on and on. I sit on my cut log as if it is a chair and I ponder if we can have infinity reside inside us as well. This infinity would definitely not be the infinity where we can look at it and decide that “Yup! It definitely goes on forever!” This infinity would be one that will look like a finity. They will be looking at this finity and they will ask: how can inside of something be bigger than outside of something? And I say, not so! The infinity inside of us and hidden by the apparent finity of being inside of ourselves is quite hidden. It is a great emptiness, a vast void, more so than the universe so that within ourselves is a universe all on its own—immense without reserve. And so, our humanity weighs in as nothing more than a sliver’s sliver between our in-infinity and out-infinity. However, out-infinity can be a cruel and violent place.

Blowing further and further in the wind, Miss Paper was lost and terror-stricken. Her eyeless eyes were wide yet non-existent and her hope went out to the sky. “Please!” begged the frightened Miss Paper, “I am now much too beautiful to die yet!” The sky had no ears and so her voice was unheard. It was also drowned by the loud and moaning wind. The mouthless wind, how is it that it could be so loud? Ooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaa. And Miss Paper cried and cried. “And now! I will surely die!” A once a girl snatched Miss Paper from the air and ferocious wind.

There was a once a girl and if one would describe her voice, you would say that it was like a gray pigeon’s wing. It was just as plain, just as dull, and just as fluttering. I saw her take the stage and she licked her lips and her feathered tongue flicked in and out quickly as if the pigeon’s wing was testing the wind before going out and flying off. And then, she coughed a bit, like the pigeon had puffed up before flight. And then, in her effort to fly, her voice floundered helplessly in an environment much too hostile for its survival. Her hands gripped the podium with the intensity of near-death and she gazed nervously towards the crowd—a sea of unmoving eyes like a staring snake’s. And frozen in fear, the pigeon was bound, but her wing kept fluttering, stumbling as it attempted to soar. It was no eagle’s wing and dropped out of the sky quickly, shot down by the serpent’s glare. But, then again, I highly doubt a pigeon’s wing could give a good speech; and so, it was probably for the best.

Her name was Hazel, this other girl, not the one with a pigeon-wing voice. Well, anyways, her name was Hazel, and she was married to a man named Red. They had a daughter named Amber, but sadly, so sadly, they could not have any more children because their neighbors were all pompous fools. Hazel and Red were never happy, but their marriage survived because they were unhappy together and shared in their unhappiness. Together they kissed; together they hugged… all through their sadness and anger. Well, the reason they could not be happy was because if Hazel and Red were expecting another child, the neighbors would pass money around and whisper and giggle until the birth of the child. The neighbors would bet on whether or not the next baby would have a color name and if he did, he will forever be poked at and the neighbors would say, “What a colorful family!” And if he did not have a color name, then the neighbors would always suggest one. “Shoulda named him Red Jr. at least!” Now, I want you to remember that what ifs can certainly become regrets if they ever poke their grotesque faces into the thing that we call reality. And the reality was, that even if Red Jr. lived, he would still die. I suppose Hazel’s husband Red realized something along those lines, but, most likely, the lines that his realization resided on were probably one of those stray what ifs run rampant. Maybe losing a son was the hand that unlatched the gate.

Of course, there was once a man and he was quite a happy man. He was happy and lived in a store’s basement. Every day, he would sip a salty-bitter tea made from his own tears and any plant he found outside, and he would eat scarcely anything, but he was still quite happy. On the other side of town, lived a sad man. He lived in a grand mansion, which was so large that every room had an echo. He would always have something that was quite warm and tasty to drink and his meals were rich and always more than he ever wanted, but he was still quite sad. Some would say that this was because riches do not bring happiness. Let’s face it, if the everyman wasn’t a pompous fool, then everyone could be happy—even the rich folk, even the poor folk, even Red and Hazel. Everyone.

The first thing that people do that pretty much guarantees bad things is the tendency to classify everything precisely. The reason why this is so terrible is not because being neat and tidy is terrible, it is terrible because when there is nothing to further classify, mankind makes its own nonsensical divisions. Most gross of these mistaken and forced dichotomies is the ones trying to interpret love and hate in different levels. In the purest form, love is not the greatest love and hate is not the greatest hate. In the purest form, which means in a definition left untarnished, love is not hating and hate is not loving. And, if you do not understand is a common form of my logic. That which is something cannot be something else and that which is something else cannot be something. Now when one sees this, with the world either sparkling white or sparkling black, it is easy to make decisions and easy to judge what is white and black. It’s a shame that not everyone does this, but I suppose, it’s because they have not taken a freezing cold shower in their whole entire life.

This terribleness of our human nature extends further still and even confounds those who are simply inhuman. A murderer, licking the blood off of his knife, tasting the victims as if he could tell what their last thoughts were if he tasted their blood, he would roll his eyes from what we do. And by we, I mean everyone except for myself. The reason I use ‘we’ is because, for some reason, people are more apt to listen if the author places himself or herself in the same boat as them. And that is just ridiculous. By that same logic, if a man with a shark biting himself to death had come across a man that had no shark biting himself to death, he would not ask for what to do because that man was not in the identical situation. However, unlike all of the most lowly minded men and women, I would have considered his advice because a shark biting you to death is actually a lot more painful than one would like to think. And. It is quite messy. And so, any advice at that moment would have sounded like God Himself spoke them and all wisdom in those advisory words would have the most divine intelligence in them, even if the words were quite foolish.

Speaking of confounding those who are inhuman, there was once a dog. She lived in the streets, without a master. She moved with a stiff gait because her legs were covered in dried mud. And her name was Iffel. Now, Iffel was quite the happy dog and knew that her life was quite doggish. She would raid the trashcans and harass the neighbor’s cat. Those were the sorts of things that she loved to do. Sometimes, people would give her scraps and scritchscratch her ears, but this was rare because usually they chased her away. You will see that Iffel is very important to me. All things that I mention have some importance to me.