The wind is deafening - it always is,...

Writing Exercise -Thomas Koner

This writing exercise is done to the "music" of Thomas Koner. While listening to the sounds of the rushing wind, closing my eyes I felt like I was about to be lifted from my seat. 

Unedited - here it is!

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The wind is deafening - it always is, here. I think of the cozy home that I have left behind and wish that I was there, now, in the warmth. Instead of here, in the cold, and the wind blowing so hard that ift feels like my skin is about to detach itself from my face. I think that if I didnt have to come out here how long my hair could be. I love the feeling of silky hair, the decadence of it. But I saw one girl grow hers out and then get whipped in the eye by it - the wind pulling her hair so quickly that she sliced her own eye. And I can't afford the time off and the recovery that that would require.

 

I need to be out here, every moment that I can. I drive my spikes down into the hard rocky ground, pulling myself slowly along the earth. I crawl, head bent down, so that there is less of me for the wind to catch and pull backwards. A sudden particularly strong gust buffets me and I lose my grip on the spike and begin to slide backwards. A bolt of panic rushes through me as my safety rope spools out - did I drive teh spike in deep enough? am I going to go flying off the edge of this cliff, and fall down into the canyon below? will me body smash apart on the giant shards of earth that lash out from the sides of the canyon?

no, i am safe. the rope snaps taut and my breath is forced from me. i lie, huddled, for a few moments, as i try to resume my normal breathing. the calming breathing that drives the sound of the wind from my ears and allows me to find my inner peace. i think of my son, who is hopefully right now safe at school. i think of how the work that i am doing will buy him a life better than the one that i was given. and i take a deep breath, fighting the wind to keep the air in my lungs, and begin the achingly slow crawl forwards, accross this dessert of wind, towards the plant where I will work for 9 hours, before heading back home accross the treacherous barrens to my home in the safe-bubble.

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I found it hard to get back into the swing of letting my thoughts go and opening up the link between my subconscious and my fingers (which to me is what freewriting is all about), probably because it's been so long since I've had the time to shut down at all. As a result, this snippet is a lot more halting than I would like. In my mind I invisaged some sort of war torn strip of land that was impossible to build on due to the severity of the winds. The strip separated a plant or factory of some sort from the eco-dome that is built in the shelter of the canyon. Those who brave crossing the wasteland are paid extremely well for their work. For some reason, I reminded myself a lot of the narrative from "City of Embers" - perhaps because this society exists in some form of post-apocalyptic world.