the floating chapter

This chapter does not yet know where it wants to rest itself in my novel, but it had to be written, as the event that inspired it sparked an ever-growing snowball of ideas from this point on. The boy in the story will begin to write letters to someone who has not even left the town he lives in, and will start to unfold much more of the philosophical ideals behind the work. Writing is going well recently, and I hope to be at the halfway point within the month, though we all know that's a bit ambitious.

Chapter ?

In anticipation of a spatial separation from his sexy saviour, Little Tom set out to find suitable paper and ink for a letter writing campaign to rival those of military wives. That morning, he had matched his attire to his attitude with sleek slacks, a clean and well-fitted white T-shirt (if he dresses too out of the ordinary, the diner club slowly axes his sharp-dressed axis until he is left with a hollowed shell of insecurity, which justifies his minor, neatened-up swerve from the agreed upon "uniform"), his signature bandanna, today of the fuchsia variety, dark aviator sunglasses, despite the hidden sun, and a copper-colored motorcycle jacket that used to belong to his grandfather (Really Big Tom, as it were--the jacket is much too big for Little Tom's slim frame). He exudes unexpected confidence, like a newly-trained conductor stepping aboard a train for his first trip. He adopts an effortless strut and begins to warble uncontrollably the chorus from The Cure's Close to Me:

I've waited hours for this
I've made myself so sick
I wish I'd stayed asleep today
I never thought this day would end
I never thought tonight could ever be
This close to me

His smooth stride allows him to pass most of the pedestrians who seemingly began their journeys much before Tom decided to write letters. He appears to stand tall above the errand-running hobbits of St. Augustine, fussing about in their woolly pockets for meter change and car keys.

It has been about ten minutes since Tom has lapped anyone, and, as he comes up and over a hill, he sees an elderly couple, who seem to have appeared magically, raised out of the pavement in their marble coats and stony feathered hats; Tom previously believed himself to be at the front of today's march downtown. The couple drifts apart without realizing, continuing a conversation at the same volume at which they began it when they were walking side by side. They do not seem to be clearing space for their fast-approaching marathon competitor, for they remain completely oblivious to any situations or conditions outside their bubbled conversation. They carry identical shopping bags, filled to a point at which Tom cannot peek over the brims to identify any of their carefully chosen goods. Their conversation continues unobstructed by physical difficulties: the noises of some minor construction, passing vehicles, a passing boy with a proclivity for pop vocals. Tom skirts around the right side of the older gentleman to avoid coming between the couple, even though the space now between them could accommodate two twin Toms. He has not been able to identify the topic of their conversation, as their voices are muddled and directionless, though his imagination has filled in the space around the few words he has overheard. While parallel with the couple, he hears the man mumble inaudibly followed quickly by the woman’s response of a defiant, almost irritated sweetness: "But I wrote a lovely note."

At first, he is reminded of his mission—stationary for the purpose of self-important written communication, perhaps merely a means of securing his own creative fame, or leaving something behind for someone to find and read in some time when his work may be of some value. Little Tom’s first reaction always seems to be one of self-involvement, though this reaction is swiftly replaced by one of existential importance, as he grasps tightly to an inflection or word choice that may alter how he views the situation and the modern world. In this case, the urgency with which the old woman spoke fills him with pathos; something went wrong and the woman is unable to process a proper understanding. Her response, with its particularly slight sweetness, suggests an internal conflict with which she is unable to come to terms, despite her projection of superficial normalcy. When did we begin burying our feelings? What was she talking about?

After a lengthy lamentation and meditation on the nature of the projected self, Little Tom punches himself in the arm to jump start the next stage of reaction—or, at least reinterpret the first stage through a new lens—the melancholic stage, which revives Tom’s temporarily stifled malaise...