As the birds flock together so do the insane

*What follows is a brief tale written by the contributors to this blog, collectively. It follows loosely the patterns set forth in Italo Calvino's _If on a winter's night a traveler_ (1979/1981).

Contents

[1]

Oppression

[2]

Mother knows best

[3]

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[1]

You are about to begin writing your new novel. The main character has brown hair, glasses, and a "what the fuck did I do last night" look on her face. Her name is Ellyn. She is extremely intelligent, beautiful, and funny. But it's a shame those qualities only lasted until the age of 5, when she took a turn for the worse... She was diagnosed with polio, and she distracted herself from her suffering by reading books. But, this didn't last for long, for as soon as she glanced away from the page the suffering would return and she could no longer read the story she had been reading. Its joy would be lost on her so... all those memories flooding back, weighing on her after so many years. But she knew she must go on...

Though if it was possible to return to the event, that one event that had started the chain of experiences that now pressed upon her, would she change it?

Her heart began to drum against her rib cage as she closed her eyes; the idea of this change overwhelmed her. She wants him, she sees the sweat trickle down his face, making his muscles glisten. In the heat of the moment, all rational thinking lapses, there is no turning back on what she knows will be a horrible mistake. In a flash she would be right back where she started. But how, where is she going?

She is heading towards a utopia of literature. She walks into the bookstore and heads to the nearest shelf. She picks up a book and leafs through the pages, trying to get a feel for the book. She notices the cover of another book on a table in a corner. This book now takes her body over and she embraces the author entirely. She becomes so entranced by his words that she desires him in all ways, at every moment of her loveless life. She desires nothing more than to become one with his body. Yet she knows she will never be fully satisfied for she in love with his words, not the man.
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Oppression

My days are consumed by my mother's high pitched commands, concealing me in this damp basement. In my room lay a stack of papers--hope for a different means of life--protected by a paperweight, our chains of this land. If they were to find this stack of treason, surely I would be thrown in a cage forced to reside with the rats. And there sitting in that cage would be Ellyn, covered in dirt and mud, twitching at any inkling of sunlight that snuck through the cracks of the wall.

Unfortunately for those who caged her, Ellyn was really a code name for Max who had recently escaped from an insane asylum for having paperweight fetish. All the paperweights had to be removed from the asylum after Max was found in his room, rocking back and forth, stroking his... paperweight. He pondered on whether or not it was a good idea. On the one hand, the idea had potential benefits. However, the idea could also yield ultimate destruction. Could this young idea, this simple shoot of thought lead to our demise? Could this sinister paperweight that sits before us, really represent all the horrific memories I've tried to desperately to repress over the past 25 years? Can this weight bring us down?

No. We won't let it.
We will fight 'til the end.
Nothing will stop us.
This will be our time to change the country they spent centuries creating. No longer will we have to force our voices to speak what they instill in our minds. The paperweight has been lifted.

I am free.
I am no longer crushed under the brutality of control; I soar in the sky and cherish my freedom.
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[2]

You're in the café, getting your favorite flavored coffee when you spot a beautiful blonde reading one of your favorite books. You go over to her and read the top lines on the page, just to see which scene has grabbed her attention so absolutely. The story unfolding captivates you just as easily as it has captivated her; you must grasp to her chair in order to hold yourself up, you are so overwhelmed.

I am so overwhelmed. The story is interesting, but choppy. The scattered plot confuses me, or is there a plot? -- It does not matter. I want Ellyn. Fuck the other guy. I need her. But she doesn't care, not for me at least.

But I still have to try. She is the Other Reader. She understands. We work through our reading together, putting pieces together. We could spend our lives this way, except for how I read faster than she does. That's annoying. That's why we have to solve this mystery. But I still have to try. Nothing is ever what it seems.

How could such an innocent encounter end so horribly? Who knew this day would come so soon? It was a day you had waited for, and one you would not soon forget. How fortunate that your last day on earth was so blissful.
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Mother knows best

Walking into the coffee shop my senses were over-whelmed by the scent of coffee. My friend smiled and waved ecstatically at me to join her. I made my way over and sat down across from her. As she started a conversation, I couldn't help but ignore her, getting lost by looking at the beautiful painting behind the counter. The painting was of a bearded man standing behind a desk. But what really struck me was what was on teh desk: a golden paperweight, seemingly glowing out from the painting. I felt as though I'd seen it before, and sure enough, as I looked down, I saw the paperweight on the counter, pinning a two-dollar bill down.

My life is like the money the paperweight holds. I am stuck--fiscally, emotionally, spiritually. My mother pins me down. No matter the attemps I have made--countless attempts, finding a job in these times is just a hard task. My life oppressed by my mother is one that seems everlasting. The job is the only thing that holds me down with my mother. I am trapped, there's no freedom. I constantly pace back and forth thinking of my escape--the escape that will kill me.

My escape will be one of legend, on to be the envy of prisoners everywhere. The _Count of Monte Cristo_ will pale in comparison to the masterpiece I will write of my escape. It is an original idea, and long after my death, I will be remembered for it. Maybe someday there will be a monument in my honor. Or maybe a few years after my death, it will be forgetton, as will I.
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[3]

The misty, fictional world burst, and she returned to sharp reality. Her eyes became misty with the mere notion--could her beautiful fantasy be nothing more than fantasy? If this were all mere fantasy, where did that leave her?

It left her underneath the paperweight, struggling to escape. A deep scar resides on her left wrist, forever a reminder of her struggles. She stares in self-pity, remembering what made her do it in the first place. She's not sure if she will ever forgive herself for what happened. The guilt of it all consumes her. The scar is not all she is left with.

When she lies awake at night she can still hear all of the books in the store, screaming their stories out as they shrivel in the crackling flames. But she knows it had to be done--molotov cocktails were my only option. One day she will read this book and understand, for this book will never lead her astray and we will ride into the sunset together.

You have left the publishing house, without any answers and another weight of questions. You decide to return to the place this bizarre adventure began. As you're walking into the bookstore, you hear the shop owner laughing with a tall bearded man about a customer who fits your description that the entire literary world had conspired against. He was chose to dispense to you the continuous string of never ending novels so that you could never escape into a book again. You are outrages and begin to plot your revenge--to burn down the bookstore.

The only reason she did this was because of the showing of "You've Got Mail" earlier on TBS. She uses movies to escape from her reality. Fridays and Saturdays were matinee at Cinema 9, to which was a frequent visitor. It was there that she found comfort in the fictional lives of movie characters and escape from her real (reel?) life. Even though she wanted to stay in that fictional world, she knew she had to come back to reality.