what was or is or wants to be
bound up in my own world, this limitation of seeing, the faulty peripheral vision, the illicit forms that show up as memory in a tunneled view that gawks at the other and squawks like a judge become jailer disallowing the mottle into something softer with cleaner edges, less squirm, more space for questions like how was the world rocking then? more cradle or bomb?
how much liberty may i take these years later to do the rewrite, the story, blunt or bleak or hermetically sealed, of those moments that pretend to be written in stone, that shrink to the size of molded figurines pre-positioned for action, a banner floating over the scene held in place by five fast words, “what does this all mean”. . . .
. . . . then i am at the curb on Catalpa a couple houses down from the Yount’s toward the Chicarelli’s just as George crashes his bike and i want to write that he had been popping wheelies but the truth is i don’t remember but maybe he was and maybe in that instant he was thinking about how he was locked out of his house or that he was smaller than us girls but just as old or about his miserable math grade or that his dad wasn’t around much anymore or how high this next wheelie was gonna be and none of that is probably true — how could i know — and what gives me the right to guess but here we are now all gathered around him and i’ve never seen a look on the face of another real live person like the one george is wearing and we aren’t moving, this cadre of neighborhood pals thrown together by August and streets with tree names even though we’ve never seen a Catalpa, and out of George comes an ow, OW, OOOWWWWW and my eyes go from his warped mouth to the place between his wrist and elbow, the skin ripped by the bone tearing through it and somebody yells, help, HELP, HEEELLLLPPPPP and i want to say it was me but it wasn’t and all i could see was the rip, the blood, the bone.
My own questions about memory and truth lingered, so I pasted the text from above into Gemini’s “ask” box along with this command: Analyze this piece of writing for style, nuance, and theme.
Gemini’s response in brief:
Style and Nuance
The writing’s style is characterized by its stream-of-consciousness approach. There are no clear paragraph breaks, and punctuation is used to create a sense of breathless thought rather than strict grammatical correctness. The author uses long, winding sentences and lists to mimic the way thoughts tumble over each other. This creates a deeply intimate and personal tone, as if we are directly inside the narrator’s mind.
The language is rich with figurative imagery and poetic diction. Phrases like “a tunneled view that gawks at the other and squawks like a judge become jailer” and “story blunt or bleak or hermetically sealed” give the writing a raw, visceral quality. This use of language is highly nuanced, blending the abstract (“illicit forms that show up as memory”) with the concrete (“the curb on Catalpa”). This tension between the mind’s abstractions and the grounded reality of the scene is a central feature of the piece.
Themes
The central themes are memory, truth, and the ethics of storytelling.
- The Unreliability of Memory: The narrator immediately establishes that memory is “faulty,” a “limitation of seeing.” The “tunneled view” represents how our brains select certain details while ignoring others. This is further explored when the narrator admits to wanting to write that George was “popping wheelies,” but confesses, “the truth is i don’t remember.” This honesty reveals a fundamental distrust of their own recollections, acknowledging that the act of remembering is also an act of editing.
- The Ethics of Narrative: A key question the narrator wrestles with is, “How much liberty may i take these years later to do the rewrite?” The writer understands the temptation to create a more compelling story — to fill in the blanks, to invent George’s thoughts about his dad or his math grade. They recognize this as an act of power, one that might not be “true.” The use of phrases like “what gives me the right to guess” highlights the moral dilemma of the storyteller: when does a creative retelling become a betrayal of the truth?
- Trauma and Freeze-Frame Moments: The climax of the piece focuses on the stark, immediate reality of George’s accident. The scene is described with an almost cinematic intensity. The narrator highlights a specific moment in time — the “cadre of neighborhood pals” frozen in place — and zooms in on a single, horrifying detail: “the skin ripped by the bone tearing through it.” The narrator’s inability to act (“i want to say it was me but it wasn’t”) and their singular focus on the “rip, the blood, the bone” suggests a traumatic event that has been seared into their memory. It’s a moment that resists being rewritten or reshaped; it remains a stark, unchangeable reality that contrasts with the earlier, hazy memories.
Curious about how Gemini might direct me into revision, I pushed further: Suggest places for continued exploration into idea and/or scene.
Here are a few highlights from Gemini’s response (minus Gemini’s helpful numbering, bullets, and spacing):
The “Judge Become Jailer”: The narrator introduces this powerful metaphor early on, describing how memory can become a rigid, judging force that “disallow[s] the mottle into something softer.” This could be explored further by writing from the perspective of this “judge,” examining why it feels the need to impose order on the chaos of memory, creating a scene where the narrator actively tries to defy this judge, deliberately allowing “the mottle” to exist, and seeing what new, messier, but perhaps more honest memories emerge, applying this metaphor to another memory — a happier one, perhaps — and seeing how the “judge” still tries to impose a false sense of order or simplicity on it.
The “Liberty” of the Rewrite: The narrator’s central ethical dilemma — “How much liberty may i take these years later to do the rewrite” — could become a whole new piece of writing. Write the “rewrite” the narrator is tempted to create. Fully invent George’s thoughts and motivations. Then, write a meta-narrative about the guilt or satisfaction that comes with having created that false but compelling story. Examine the moment of decision. The narrator is at a crossroads: to invent or to admit ignorance. What are the internal arguments for and against taking that “liberty”? Who is the rewrite for — the narrator, the reader, or the ghost of George? Consider this question in a different context. What is the difference between rewriting a personal memory and rewriting a historical one? Where is the line between creative interpretation and harmful falsehood?
Before the Crash: The piece begins in media res at the curb. We could explore the moments just before the crash. What was the atmosphere like? Were they “just a cadre of neighborhood pals” then, or were there already unspoken tensions? What was the last thing the narrator saw or heard before George went down? Focusing on the mundane details — the sound of the bike chain, the color of a t-shirt, the smell of August heat — could make the sudden trauma even more jarring.
Who knows where this will all lead, backwards or forwards or sideways, but Gemini meets me like a summer pal out to pop wheelies on a lazy day in August.
