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“I want you to crawl into an attic someplace and just keep writing these musical pieces,” she told me.

“Fine, I know a place.”

“Your own place? You are not thinking of coming back there, are you?”

I nodded. “The best attic in the world. Thank you, darling.”

“I was joking. You have plenty of time. It’s only Monday. I am sure you can –”

There was no turning back. I had to catch every single of the fleeting flashes of music attached to the candy of ideas.

I love my attic. There is everything for an artist, a photographer, a painter: a plushy couch, a conspicuous queen-size bed for consummating the works of art, a TV set and a VCR, an old turntable with an amplifier, hundreds of LPs, a cute bathroom, a dumbwaiter and a large window.

She knew better to give me space; she felt the need to give me time.

“Wait, you don’t have any food up there!”

On the way, I picked up Lucky Strikes. I will smoke for art.

I went back to my own place. I exiled myself to my beloved attic. I locked myself. I wrote in a fury. You know how those haikus are: the glimpse of happiness, the innuendo, the punch line. I was tortured with the spinning hurricane of the Haydn’s Sinfonia In Re Minor, with the schizophrenia of Brahms’ New World Symphony as it faded into Beethoven, with the taunting insanity of Stravinsky’s L’Histoire Du Soldat. I could not catch them all.

Endangering her reputation, she snuck out to come over. Maybe I have heard her tugging at the doorhandle. She may have understood, withdrawing to the living room, watching the late night news, yelling good byes, the dumbwaiter bringing me a pot of delicious coffee, Entennman’s chocolate chip cookies and a Reuben sandwich.

Deliciously I wrote, smoked, ate, listened to the Electric Light Orchestra, went to the bathroom and wrote again.

Come morning, I was still writing, having forgone the eggs and sausage sandwich she brought on her way to work.

Come afternoon, the haikus were ready.

“All this - ready? This is beautiful!” she pushed me onto the couch.

“Let’s go up to the attic,” I offered.


“The air. It’s still rich with music.”

On the wonderful bed in the middle she played with my chest hair.

“How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How did you manage to write non-stop?”

I wrestled her hands to the sides:

“Simple. It’s the visions of you wearing Daisy Dukes and dancing the Pas-de-Deux from Swan Lake.”

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The following comments are for "Haikus In The Attic"
by Teflon

Jessica, Blame it on Daisy
Yea, Claire, you know who's to blame for this piece...Menawhile, here I am, still in the attic. Plenty of Lucky Strikes. Don't smoke them, just smell them. Listen to ELO, Roxy Music, Blue Oyster Cult, think of Alienist.

Thank you all for looking in.

Also thanks to Jessica.
The "locked myself" is the result of extreme minimalism. It is the product of chopping that I do at the end of everything I write. Yes, that should have been followed with "in."

The dumbwaiter I kept unexplained. Someone who's seen this in hard print said the story should explain what dumwaiter was. In the middle of such a trun-on writing to veer off into the ropes and nuts and pulleys?

To address your note, I'd say that when the dumbwaiter brings something up, then that moment does not really care to explain who put the food thereinto. To an obsessed maniac locked up in the attic it's just a dumbwaiter bringing up sustenance.
Jessica, what do you think of this extreme minimalism?

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: October 7, 2004 )

The dumbwaiter
Great piece! I have to say though, I really like the dumbwaiter line as is. I may be misinterpreting, but I think that at that moment, the point was relating to being left alone to work on art. I think the dumbwaiter bring the food is perfect, because it alludes to this being solitary work. Not a person bringing the food, but an object that simply appears with it. It’s detached like the writer at that point. I wouldn’t revise that part. But I agree with Jessica about minimalism in general. However, I really like this piece a lot.

( Posted by: EverybodyElsesGirl [Member] On: October 7, 2004 )

Yes, in the name of flowers
Delete the comment. I want to give flowers to everyone who's read this piece.

I wouldn't want to repost the story itself.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: October 7, 2004 )

Chocolate Chip Cookies!!!

Jessica, don't you agree that mentioning food in that context only sweetens the romance of the moment? Especially the foods I itemized? They may be the favorite of the insane haiku maniac.

The opposite of minimalism would make the line like this:

"bringing me a pot of delicious hazelnut coffee in my favorite NRA mug, two fresh boxes of Entennman’s chocolate chip cookies, and a sauercraut-laden, meaty Reuben sandwich."

For romantic writing, Faulknerian style sounds too pompous. Anyone other than him would sound even worse, even amateurish. I remember an advice to pilots: be safe-fly high --I made my own: be safe-write short.

The daisy dukes still fresh in my mind, therefore, there's plenty of these haikus from the attic and maybe a sequel.

Thanks for editing-- feedback, that's what this place is about.
Ego-stroking comments are nice, but I think Lit should be more -- a writers' workshop!

Thanks to Claire and Jessica


( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: October 7, 2004 )

hedonism serving art
Wait, Jessica, do hazelnut coffe, chocolate chip cookies(Entennman's, which is a very delicious brand) and a reuben sandwich advertize themselves as gastronomic accessories to hedonism? I think so. Therefore, these accessories only heighten the excitment and the artistci imagery. Why am I right? Think of a breakfast in bed! ;-) Case closed.

( Posted by: Teflon [Member] On: October 10, 2004 )

Swan Lake
check my haiku, If...his wife. Didn't that long weekend just set us up for ...I grew out of that

( Posted by: VickieSALT [Member] On: April 15, 2011 )

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