Hold on

Note: I am just having a little fun with this. I don't know if it's something I'll do any more with. Although, there are some interesting thoughts. Snake will recognized my favorite fictional locale. Also take a listen to the tune first. It's a cool song and I wrote this to match up with some of the lyrics and mood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knII3S0MZtY

“Well, the moon was gold, her hair like wind. She said don’t look back just come on Jim” – “Hold On” by Tom Waits

Pulling the pink ponytail tie out, Sandy was pouting now. The long thin strands of her dirty blonde hair fell about the side of her face sticking at places where sweat and nerves and fear all gathered.

“We can’t stay here, Jim,” Sandy said in a whimper. “There’s nothing, nothing!”

She twisted around to face the screen door of the front porch poking her middle finger through a hole in the mesh. Beyond, the sun settled down low behind the city’s water tower. Jim squinted to make out the fading green letters at top. He could clearly make out an ‘I’ and an ‘N’. The rest were lost in the building dusk shadows and passing time. He knew what it said.

“Lincoln,” It slipped his lips in awe.

“Yes, damn it, Lincoln.” Sandy swirled back around. “That’s what it comes down to, don’t it?You wantin’ to stay in Lincoln. Where there’s nothing and ain’t going to be nothing.”

“It’s where we grew up Sandy. It aint’ so bad.” He pushed past her and out into the open air. A small dog yelped down the street. The dust from fields being harvested only a mile out of town floated in the air and piles of leaves spotted each yard on the block. Off in the distance, children giggled romping around with a football.

“It ain’t so good,” Sandy's hands went to her hips and for the first time her charcoal colored eyes settled on the blue Toyota parked in front. “This is it.”

“There’s somethin’ to stay for,” Jim said taking her hand, but she pulled it away. A silver ring, really an old twisted spoon that he had shaped down in shop class years ago, slipped off her finger and fell to the sparse, yellow grass. He’d given it to her with words of love. Words he had meant. He didn’t want to lose her. “There’s somethin’. I don’t know what. Something’s happening, can’t you feel it.”

“Yeah, I feel it,” Her words came out like arrows from a bow. “It’s dying. I feel, I see it, I smell it.”

She moved then quickly away toward the Toyota, her heels tapping off the cement sidewalk. Opening the driver’s door, she pulled back her hair again and tied it back.

“Sandy,” His voice was hoarse as he bent down to scoop up the ring. She looked up. “Hold on.”

Town & Country

Note: I never claim that anything I write is very good, especially when I try to compare myself to Red. But I think this is probably one of the best things I have written, at least in awhile. I'll let you be the judge. The title does bug me though. Enjoy.

I smoothly turn the protruding black knob increasing the radio volume. The faster speeds begin to make my Chrysler Town & Country noisier. Perhaps it is just the voice of the man that I am listening to reading a book. My brain almost tricks me into asking him if he could read louder. This man reading a short story recorded onto CD, more than likely 10 plus years ago, is my only companion for his jaunt offering a false sense of accompaniment on this otherwise bleak drive. The highway is fairly empty making for easy cruise control maneuvering and allowing my mind to wander across the land. The vast corn fields are a shade somewhere between brown and green, stuck between life and death. The first story finishes and two short ones follow. I struggle to listen and comprehend what I am hearing. Doesn’t matter, I think to myself, I’ll just listen to them again later.
The edge of the suburbs starts to fade in from the distance. Groups of large houses begin to fill in between the fields. The irony strikes me that these people wanted to escape from the crowd of the city only to cram together in some housing development built on an old corn field the farmer was forced to sell. I seem to chuckle to myself trying to decide if either they have a misguided conception of the country or that they truly can’t live out here on their own. The first speaks to the perception, no the fact, that city folk don’t truly understand what the country is like. The latter is more akin to the primal instinct of the settlers needing to huddle together to protect themselves from the elements and beasts of the open country. Still, I just shake my head and keep on driving.
I notice there more vehicles on the road all of a sudden. They just appear. They aren’t streaming out of the various on ramps; they didn’t speed up behind me. They are just there as if to materialize out of the blue. This oddity continues the closer to the city I get. Massive office buildings line the left side of the highway. They seem to look more like fancy hotels, certainly more so than my place of work. That one has a basketball court, I point out, not audibly, but in my head as if my brain wants to make sure I am paying attention. The right side of the highway contains a high wall of stone. The old trees rise above it, their friends cut out years before to make way for this expanse of concrete, a monstrous symbol of efficiency and progress. The massive ramps swerve overhead like some grand scale water slide flushing the cars over the other roads depositing them down into the rushing river of exhaust and metal. Little trees are planted sporadically out in front of the office buildings, a true example of form over function. The large, aged trees seem to look down on them, as if scowling from disappointment that the young trees somehow sold out to the man by helping to make his creations of concrete and steel seem more organic. How did that first story go? I press to jog my memory out of the doldrums of the drive. I must have gotten something out of story to have trees jog my memory. Ah yes, as my mind clicks back. The potatoes attack the man and turn him into one, too. This presses me farther into wondering if trees think. In fact, I’ve always wondered if plants have feelings. They respond to their environment, but do they really have thoughts and feelings? Do they care what we do as long as they are allowed to exist?
I sweep the landscape again and notice the trees are gone. Not a one in sight, only an immense rail yard. Train cars are lined up for miles. Semi trucks litter the edges ready to speed off with loads of TVs, cell phones or some other junk imported from China. A retirement high rise sits between the rail yard and the approaching airport. Efficient use of space, I think to myself. The noise shouldn’t bother them too much. The air looks dirty here, the dirt looks dirty. It is as if the ground is rebelling against itself, against the monster it helped to create. I am almost to my destination. I look at the blazing green numerals on the dashboard. Seven hours from now, I can turn around and go back home.

Dandelions

Note: Hey, we're still alive. Well I've been super busy at work and Snake welcomed in another offspring. I thought I'd pound out a free writing to get things back on track. I plan on posting my review of Snake's CDs in the next couple of days and probably getting back to the albums next week. The following is some random thing that popped into my head and I wrote as it came. That's free writing for ya.

"Be happy with nothing" – Check Your Head, BuckCherry

Karl's shoulders tensed, squeezing against his neck trying to pop his head with the pressure. What was that damned rhyme, he thought? The one he sang with Judy and Nancy and Suggs before shooting a dandelion off its stem with his thumb when they was all kids playing at Howards Park across from the processing plant that had broken windows and the smell of three-day old farts.

"Grandpa, why are you doing that?" The girl pulled on his arm. They were standing next to a busy street where cars sped and dodged indolent pedestrians. He looked down at the girl thinking she resembled her mother. He wiped at his mouth never acknowledging the layer of mucus and blood that lathered his skin. If he could only roll his shoulders, maybe get a massage. Yes, a massage would be heaven. A spiral of tension swirled in his shoulder blades. He was sure his face had to be turning blue.

Like Nancy's had that time she stayed too long under the water at the creek that ran below the old mill. They would swim – him and Nancy. Sometimes Suggs would come too, but never Judy. She claimed to fear the water on account she could not swim. Suggs told him that Judy dared not show her legs. They was bruised, Suggs said, all the way up to the hips and probably farther. Judy's papa was a nasty man.

"Grandpa! Grandpa!" The girl was screaming now. Why won't she stop screaming? He was on the ground now. When did that happen?

The damn rhyme though. Somewhere in it was a 'queen.' They had sang it in the field next to the creek. No, that's not right it was the park. With Judy, who was crying and crying with the yellow pedals pinched between her fingers.

That's not right. Damn old memories mixing themselves up. What the hell was he thinking about Judy anyhow? She'd been gone for 70 years. He couldn't even see her face. Stupid old men and their minds, he thought.

The girl was sobbing now. He didn't hear her.

The Hair On The Back Of Your Neck

"There's a self-destructive meaning in a bleeding of a guy" Overweight - Blue October


"Ever think about driving to a big city and just killing a random bum?"

The shocked expression on his buddy's face would have been visible through a black hole, let alone the dark room lit only by the TV screen.

"Seriously dude?"

"Yeah, like who is gonna care about a bum. Just go somewhere you've never been before so no one recognizes you."

"Dude....That's fucked up!"

"You've never wondered what it's like?" The idea made perfect sense to him. It always had. Like a tickling at the back of his neck that would make his hairs stand up as if we were a dog on guard from a stranger. The average boy turned psycho murderer then back again. The urge had welled up in him releasing those inner thoughts before he knew what he said.

"Dude...No!"

"Pussy!" It was the only normal sounding retort he could think of, hoping it would lighten the suddenly awkward situation. "I just thought everyone did." That was a lie. He knew he was different. Other boys didn't want to punch random people. Didn't want to kill strangers. Didn't want to throw their friends through the bay window in their living room. The stars were shining majestically through the glass, calling to him. Asking for their destruction.

He could feel it coursing now through his blood. This need in his arms to move with force. The desire for his fists to bury themselves into some one's face. Like a werewolf struggling to resist the call of a full moon, he knew he would lose the battle tonight.

"Dude, you watch too many creepy movies. Maybe we need to put in 'Old School' or something?"

He forced a chuckle, then tried to mask a deep breath. "Yeah, whatever you wanna watch. This one is dumb anyway." One more deep breath. Steady...

The love he felt for his friend and the thought of the family repercussions eventually turned the tide. A final deep breath, this one coming out as a heavy sigh. He could feel the hair on his arms relaxing. His knuckles hurt as his fingers loosened out of the tight fists that were ready to blast down like a meteor storm. If it had been someone else, a random bum for instance, he knew he would have lost.

Let it burn

Note: Haven't done one of these in awhile, maybe it'll give me a bit of a push.

"Yes, there are two paths you can go by

But in the long run

There's still time to change the road you're on.

And it makes me wonder."

Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin

The fire skipped up from a flat long board to a dead branch hanging maybe three inches above. The flames hungered for the twisted, brown, dead leaves curled up at the end of sticks barely old enough to be alive. The thin gray wood warped under the heat.

The flames caught the leaves with greedy crackles snapping out as it swallowed up the lingering bits of moisture holding its place hoping that life and growth may soon again come.

The leaves blackened slowly from the stem on up. For an instant, they held their shape and form wanting to be remembered that way before crumbling and either falling into the ashes or blowing away in the wind.

Eventually the long flat board cracked and disappeared. The small fire burned the rest down into a pile of flaky ash and forgotten form.

I can't help but feel like I am dangling above the heat with the pressure cooking the last bits of creativity and hope away.

I wonder if this will change or always stay the same.

What Lies Inside

Note: I actually wrote this almost a month ago I think. It has sat for awhile because I didn't like it. I was going to send it to Red to review today but when I did an edit it sorta made sense. I don't wanna put all the pieces in there anyway. This was the first time I tried to free write in third person. I dunno if that is a good idea or not. So anywhere here it is.

“I made a promise by the side of the road that I would bury my God damn halo.” Heart Full of Black – Burning Brides

“It sure is pretty” he whispered to himself. The clear night sky was illuminated by the millions of stars populating the heavens. Off in John’s house the basement lights were glowing full of the joy and fun that was sure to be happening in there. Looking back through the yard another heavy sigh escaped his lips. He still felt the shame that prevented him from going inside in the first place. He had forsaken his friends earlier in the night and now he didn’t have the strength left to walk in tail tucked between his legs. But he still didn’t want to go home. It was a nice night to sit and count the stars. He settled into his camp chair trying to be comfortable enough to withstand reliving the night over and over again.

“None of them even like you.” Those words still stung and he was the one that said them. He had a habit of being a bit brash when he became unsettled. All he wanted was to spend some time with her. It had been a couple days since he had seen Joan. Finally back from her trip a quiet night together would be nice. He had made the call, told his friends he wouldn’t be over although he didn’t say why. Joan was in the mood for fun but not spending time with him fun. She wanted to be wild, hang with friends, play games, to be young. His rejection had to turn into her hurt; all it took was that one sentence. Off she drove to her grandparent’s house where she was supposed to check in with her folks. “I can’t stay here.” The feeling grabbed hold of him as he watched those tail lights fade into the night.

“I’ll just tell them plans fell through. That is all. It won’t matter where I was just that I made it.” He was practicing his excuses as he drove his old truck down the road. It lumbered over the hills. The short drive to John’s place seemed like an eternity. His mind continued to race over the guilt of that sentence and possible inquisition that awaited him. Not so much the questions but the looks, the thoughts that he knew would be racing through their heads.

Then in a flash all the air left his lungs, his heart shank to some place below his chest that he didn’t know was possible. There was her car. Joan’s car parked on the side of the road in front of that house. Henry’s house! “That bitch!” he exclaimed as he pulled up in front of it. There he stood staring in at the glowing house looking for any sort of movement. All the rumors he had heard from friends, classmates ran through his head, the times she dropped his name suddenly making sense. Still he stood there paralyzed, too scared to go in, too mad to leave, too hurt to think.

It took another look at that black sky dotted with all those tiny white lights. He was here to relax, calm down. Although the fact that he was sitting out in John’s backyard in the dark was probably evidence that he wasn’t going to calm down. He closed his eyes trying to reread what he wrote on that note left on the windshield. It didn’t matter now it is done. He promised himself that this was enough, the rollercoaster they had been riding needed to end. “So for now let’s just get through tonight” as if talking to himself somehow made it better. “I wonder if they’ll find me out here. I don’t think I want that to happen.” All those thoughts raced again as the rollercoaster prepared for take-off in his head one more time.

That Chilling Wind

“I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round” Watching The Wheels – John Lennon

3:56 The orange numbers blazed through the darkness of the room. Bright but not blinding. A beacon of dread. A painful reminder that I should not be awake. Yet I can’t stop staring at them wanting to forget the haunting dream.

This was a new one that felt very real despite how outlandish it seems as I try to remember it. It was night and I was driving home by myself from one sleepy town to the other. Snow covered the road and the wind continued to throw obstacles into my path. In a flash I was home after barreling my big black truck through mounds of snow, shopping carts & cinder blocks. I was safe but yet was more nervous than ever. My wife was still left at her folks with our small car. Why was she left there? I called her, I pleaded. Yet she would not stay, she wanted to come home to me.

Deep sweat wetted my pillow. I turned it over for now hoping that side will dry before this one becomes unbearable. Being awake at in between times is the worst, not late enough to just get up but too close to get a good sleep back before the alarm. You just lay there stressing yourself to go to sleep before you lose more time. Running the debate over in your head trying to forget the obvious reasons for this insomnia.

4:00 I watch the clock make a drastic change. So subtle this whole time until a new hour approaches, numbers moving in unison to start it all over again. Maybe if I roll over, stretch different that will help me relax back to sleep. The covers don’t reach and the cold stings my body. The memory comes right back of that chilling wind that would cause doom to any passers in the night. Why wouldn’t she stay there?

Sure I’ve had my close calls in the past, survived a pretty good crash with only mild scars. Picking that glass out of my scalp for months on end, a stinging reminder of how close I was. Yet that doesn’t bother me much anymore, I worry more about my wife and child. There is almost 1 million dollars waiting for them should something happen to me and she is much stronger than I. I am sure the thought is probably just the opposite from the other side. Still I can’t imagine it, the thoughts, the what ifs circle round and round in my brain.

4:04 That damn red light is on in the corner of the cable box. The company wanting to remind me of some pay-per-view event that I have no intention of watching. It hurts more too. Stinging my eyes looking so out of place in a sea of soothing orange, like an asterisk in a record book. I hope the baby wakes up before my alarm, she is better at getting me out of bed. Man it is gonna be a long day.

The Strength of a Word

"I hate you one and all. Damn your eyes!" Sam Hall - Johnny Cash

Hate has always been a strong word. Sure I am hate work at times but do I really hate everything about it? Ok, I do hate the Packers, well sometimes. I guess not so much when Ryan Grant & Aaron Rodgers are on my fantasy football team leading me to a championship in my league. I used to say I hated Elton John & Micheal Jackson, yet here they are on my IPod shuffled in with the rest.

Maybe it has just me but I have learned there isn't much to hate in the world. Really most people are even keel and probably feel the same way. Sure there are things I don't prefer but at this moment I cannot think of one thing I truly hate. Nor could I ever find a reason to be hard headed enough to say that I hate all of something or someone.

Yet right now there are millions of people in the world that say they truly hate someone else, or a whole race/country of someone elses. But I guarantee they really don't know those people. It is easier to hate things you don't know or understand, especially people. Dehumanizing them, not looking into their eyes and seeing them looking back at you. Yanks said they hated the Rebs and vice versa, yet every night they would stop fighting to sit and chat with each other as brothers.

Why do we have to be so inclusive in everything we do. Why does all of Israel have to hate all of Palestine and so on. Is there someone leading the charge of hatred or is it just because it has always been that way? When you fall into the rut of the back and forth, it takes a bigger person or a stronger will of the people to change history to stand up to the hate.

Hate is a pretty strong word. One that I try not to use and I wish others could take up that cause.

Sharing Smiles

Note: This topic has kind of been stewing in me for over a week due to some recent talk and debate. I think I probably could have pulled this out of any lyric so I don't know how free this writing is but I've found it is all I can think about. So I need to get it out here to free my mind a little bit.

"SoCal is where my mind states, but it's not my state of mind" Inside Out - Eve 6

"Oh my God, can you believe that?!" He was pointing at a portrait on our family board at work of a female coworker with her arms around her female partner. They were smiling some of the biggest smiles I had ever seen. "What do you mean?" was my only reply. I must have said it in that way that he knew not to go any further "I dunno." Probably could tell that I was proud it was hanging their sharing their smiles with our work force.

In this previous election, California had a proposition on the ballot to end a temporary ordinance (or something like that) allowing same sex marriages. The proposition passed and they are no longer legal in California, what seemed to be the most liberal state in our union. Mike Huckabee and John Stewart also had a mini debate on the topic on The Daily Show a couple weeks ago. Same sex marriage and gay rights are the hot topic of the times. I wouldn't say it is like the civil rights movement of the 60's but it is probably the closest our generation will get to such a
thing.

I am a Protestant Christian raised going to church every Sunday although since I graduated high school I hardly make it to church. I still like to think I hold a good knowledge of the teachings of the Bible. But I will say I have learned to distinguish between what people tell me it says and what I get out of it. Through school and everywhere else we are always told about the separation of church and state. After all the churches can't afford to pay taxes and really it is a better way for government to stay neutral. Yet we as a country always seem to put religious state of mind onto our representatives and it is always a hot issue at election time. So where is the separation? The biggest arguments against same sex marriage has been religion based on enough Bible quotes to make a catechism student cry. But isn't the Bible all interpretation? I mean if a Catholic and a Lutheran can find different meaning in the same text then who is to say what is right.

Same sex marriage is a civil rights issue and we as a country need to do the civil thing. I believe the overall message throughout the Bible is that God wants us to be happy, that we need to love him, and that we need to be good to each other. The Bible condoned slavery and yet we overcame that. At one point marriage in the Bible was portrayed as polygamy but we overcame that. The main text for marriage is that two people become one through a spirtual bond of love. I believe there is no way to consciously choose who you love, you just do.

There are all sorts of arguments that I don't have the time or the research to get into now anyway. But when I saw that picture, I saw two very happy people with enough pride to not be ashamed to put it up there for everyone to see. We cannot be a society of shame & fear but instead of tolerance & understanding. It shouldn't matter your state of mind, color of skin, religious beliefs or political stances. Agreeing to disagree is one thing but that doesn't mean we shouldn't deny people the same rights because they don't agree.

There's gotta be a reason

"She's up and waiting for more and I know he's only looking to score." - Mutt - Blink 182

I started a post the other day with the focus being on Ace Merrill – a character that appears in at least two Stephen King works. To give you a visual Ace Merrill was played by Kiefer Sutherland in the movie 'Stand By Me.' He's the leader of a pack of high school thugs looking to gain glories by discovering the corpse of a missing boy.
Anyway I got halfway through and started to wonder what the point was. There really wasn't one. I also got to thinking it was kind of bizarre to free write about a fictional character.
After deleting my post, I did some research. I typed in the name Ace Merrill into a google search. Maybe not surprisingly, I wasn't the first to expound on Mr. Merrill on the world wide web. There's a wikipedia page (naturally) devoted to Merrill and the two works he appears in. There's a fanlisting devoted to Merrill with images of Sutherland holding up a knife. That's right people love a bully.
I guess I am getting halfway through again and I am not sure I've still found a reason to write this.
What made me think about Ace is that in the written version of Stand By Me (titled the "The Body"), Merrill is only one of two main characters that live into their 30s. The other being narrator – Gordie Lachance – who is a thinly veiled fictional version of the author.
The thing about all this is that at points it seemed obvious to me that King was only writing this probably because it was in his contract to write something that could be turned into a screenplay. Its more rushed and less detailed than his other works. But at points, he also seems to use the character of Lachance to free write about his own life. The value of writing about death and murder and horror and all those scary things.
And through it all Merrill is really only a name till his appearance very late in the book. Yet it's Lachance and Merrill that survive life. (At least until the book "Needful Things" where Merrill perishes while destroying King's fictional town of Castle Rock, which most of his early stories were based in).
I thought why? Why Merrill? But I think its because Merrill is the real scary in the world. All the beasts and phantoms King created were imagination. Merrill is scary because he could be any number of people that have passed through all our lives. That human terror motivated by urges.
Urges are the scariest thing about people and they seem to be running the world. Just google 'porn', 'naked women' or 'violence' sometime and see the infinite websites about those subjects pop up.
Almost all reason is lost.

Excel & BS

"All the people we used to know, they're an illusion to me now"  Tangled Up In Blue - Bob Dylan

I was walking up into the school although it didn't quite look right but it was my school.  He was walking the other way in that leather coat and his girlfriend clinging to his arm.  I waved to Ted and even tried to say hi but he didn't acknowledge me.  He just kept walking the other way.  Why was Carrie with him, I thought they broke up?

I awoke from my dream, my illusion of life, flooded with memories from my college years.  Ted & I met junior year in our operations classes.  We became friends, at least that is what it seemed like at time.  Today I would probably call it business partners.  Ted was short, I was tall.  Ted liked to BS and gamble, I wanted to mess with computers and be left alone.  He was the kind of guy that I would normally despise but somehow we got connected through team assignments.  I was good at Excel and doing the stats, Ted loved to write and BS.  I did the research & spreadsheets then Ted wrote the papers & kissed the teacher's ass.  It was a good business relationship.

Mark was different.  We just had some of the same classes together.  Mark would have been more of a true friend had we known each other better.  The semester we meet we had the same two classes back to back in the same room with the same teacher.  We would sit there in between the two and chat.  Or most of the time not talk at all.  That was the problem we were too alike, just wanted to be left alone even though every time we chatted we hit it off.  We really didn't know much about each other at all yet there was some kind of connection.  For group work we would pick each other probably out of convenience.  

The last time I saw Mark was at my graduation party/wedding shower.  He made the trip with his wife.   They played badminton with my now wife & I.  Then we all sat around and chatted before they left.  I asked Mark to be in my wedding but he declined.  Having landed his first job after college he felt like he couldn't get the time off to come out for it.  I was mad at the time if not hurt.  Although when it came time for my wedding I could only muster the courage to ask for 1 day off from my new job.

Ted made it to our wedding and was an usher.  I picked up his tux for him and we played cards before the wedding.  He brought a Jewish girl for a date that had to be back home by sundown for Yom Kippur.  So he was gone before the reception.  I gave the room I had reserved for him to my brother.  I am sure he felt out of place after all he wasn't like me, us.

My memories of the two have really faded over the last 4 years.  I have a picture of Ted being in my wedding party.  I think we got rid of the deep fryer Mark gave us as a present.  I am sure my wife remembers some of these moments but maybe not.  She wasn't there for most of them.  Now Ted & Mark are just people I used to know.  I think.

Show Me The Money

"Line the locals one by one, filling bullets with their guns" Havana Gang Brawl - The Zutons

I still remember the conversation very distinctly standing there in our garage. "You don't wanna be a cop! Be something where you can make some money." My dad was actually talking to me about what I wanted to do with my life. He suggested I go into accountancy because this guy from our church was a 'bean counter' and he made good money. I always thought it was about the money.
On almost a daily basis he would meet some of the lowest 'scum of the Earth'. That kind of daily interaction can really mess with a person. We lived out in the country surrounded by small communities without alot of opportunities for diversification. The only time he met someone different was when he had to come lay down the law. I would figure that doesn't make for good first impressions.
I always found it funny the perception of law enforcement. They are every one's hero until they have a reason to come after you. And when one of them messes up people sure do like to rub it in. Favoritism is a term I've heard alot before. But really someone has to look out for them and all they have is each other.
I know he loves his work, you can hear the pride in his voice when he talks about his record. Yet there is something behind all of it that is probably harder than anything else to deal with. You meet people on their worst day and most others are out to get you thinking you are the enemy. That is something more important than money, it is life with a smoking gun.

It Adds Up

"It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend on a faulty camera in our minds" - What Sarah Said - Death Cab for Cutie

"I am going to stab you in the neck." He said elbow on his desk, grin on his face and pencil pointed in the air.
"No, you're going to finish that math." I said without so much as a blink.
Being threatened is a rare thing, for most people anyway. In a lifetime, maybe they have a handful of times when they are really in a situation where another person is willing to cause bodily harm. For three years, I was threatened on a regular basis while I worked in a school system.
After the first dozen times or so, you're blood doesn't even really get pumping. Not every threat was serious. The one above wasn't even one that warranted any discipline. After awhile, you actually hope they act. Just to see what happens.
But I remember this instance because it was my birthday. But which birthday, I am not sure. Maybe 23. Maybe 24. I don't know they run together.
In fact as I consider it more, he may have said "eye" not "neck."
But what does that matter. I guess if he did it not much. A pencil through the eye or in the right place in the neck would have the same result.
He wasn't going to do it. Not that it wasn't in him. He'd kill if pushed to it, but I don't think a page of third grade math really bothered that high school kid enough. For the two years he was in our program, he was a daily pain in the ass. For me, more than anyone.
Why?
While I don't think he'd admit it. He liked me. After he graduated, he stopped by a time or two. But then he went to prison (for the second time in his life). Math was never what he really needed to learn.

Taut and twisted

Note: This may be an example of when free writing doesn't turn out good. I don't know I am a little conflicted with it.

"Going to free fall out into nothing, gonna leave this world for awhile." Free Fallin' – Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers.

Our mutt of a dog named 'Buddy' pulled the leash till it was taut and twisted. His head was bent forward like a mule heaving to get the plow blade through arid soil. I pumped my sore, out-of-shape legs behind struggling to keep up with the fervor of Buddy to walk down the road to discover new smells, new sights. To reach a spot. To see.
It was late in the afternoon, the December sun hung low in the horizon, sizzling as it hit the snow covered earth. Everything was golden even the white and black fur covering Buddy's boney structure. There was a serenity to it.
I learned the word "verisimilitude" in college. It means the 'appearance of being true or real.' I fell in love with that word. I like the idea of things appearing to be true because to me there is a connotation that they are not.
What was true for Buddy yesterday as we walked was that he wanted to see the journey come to a conclusion. Animals are like that. They're singular in their goals no matter how brief they hold onto them.
What felt real to me was the feeling of being rushed and being tired. I had set out to write yesterday and it didn't happen because I ran out of time. I slept. I did chores. I walked the dog. I went to work. I went back to sleep.
I do that a lot especially with my writing. I set out to do it and never get there. Over the years I've started a handful of projects – novels, stories, etc. – that I never finish. One such project I've wrote over 50,000 words on, that's about half a standard novel, and now it rusts on the hard drive of my labtop.
I tell myself at some point I'll step out of the daily bussle and focus on that. But I can feel that slipping. I am falling through time. My head is down, the blade grinds in, I look up and 1/3 of the field is done.

The Only Way To Go Is Up

Note: Ok I am gonna try my hand at this and I already know it will be a little too literal but I am just starting. I am wired to be more literal, that is why I am trying to do this. So here we go.

"When that morning sun comes beating down, you're gonna wake up in your home town. But we'll be scheduled to appear 1,000 miles away from here." The Load Out - Jackson Browne

I haven't traveled much in my life, granted I am still young but it seems like I am behind the curve. I have only flown twice, once for work and once for a mini vacation with my wife. We flew to Atlanta for a weekend seeing the sights and ending with a Cubs game. Flying is a very odd sensation, in less than 2 hours I am long way from home. What happened? How did I get here? When you drive somewhere at least you see the landscape. My brain can comprehend the gradual changes in landscape as we cross the US. Instead, I walk up a ramp and boom everything is different.

The sun is hot in Atlanta, I have never felt air so thick that I was afraid I couldn't breathe. Nothing but high rises all through downtown. Feeling so small standing there since up was the only direction you could see. At least I knew which way was up if I didn't know East from West, North from South. Take away the ability for someone to have their natural survival instincts and you will see panic. Not that I was panicking, more of an unnerving sensation. Still we were young and foolish walking through downtime past all the homeless people and guys begging me for a dollar to get a Big Mac.

We made it everywhere we were trying to go, somehow we just did it. There was a light rain for most of the Cubs game. It felt good and kept the sun from beating on us for awhile. I think they lost I don't remember other than watching Zambrano warm up in the bullpen. Really it was harder to navigate our way to our seats than the streets and rail system of Atlanta.

The whole trip is a blur, there and gone in a flash. Hour and a half and we were back home. The next morning I woke up and went to work as if I was never really gone. Back safe within my bubble of this world.

What sticks inside

Note: This is sort of a free writing exercise I created while I was growing up. I'd turn on some music and latch onto a lyric from whatever song was playing and just wrote whatever came to my mind. Someone once said that free writing is the gateway to the soul. "Now, I don't know about that" as Forrest Gump would say, but I always found the end results interesting. Here we go. Let's open Pandora's box. (ha. ha. I am listening to Pandora right now, get it :)

"Last night I lived more than one thousand lives, not one of them survived" from the song Nearly Beloved - The Wallflowers; album - Rebel, Sweetheart

Last night I got to thinking while watching the Bears play the Vikings. Not about the game or how bad the Bears are, although that was hard to avoid.
I was thinking about second grade. That year I had a teacher who rewarded good work with stickers. Not on your paper, but still on the film so that you could stick it anywhere. So I started sticking them on my desk. Soon the kid sitting next to me took to the idea and before long we were racing to see who could cover the top of our desk first. It didn't take as long as you would think. Especially when we started bringing stickers from home or trading to get more from other friends. By mid-year the tops were full. Then we moved to the sides, the seat and legs and every spare spot we could find. It was like in an instant we wanted to beat each other in that and everything else. When we were on opposite sides during recess football or basketball, we were fierce. But at no point did we dislike each other. We just wanted to see each other lose.
So it was no surprise that my favorite team was the Bears and his was the Vikings. He wore a bright purple Starter jacket everyday to school. I had a blue and orange Bears one to answer.
I believe the Bears played the Vikings that year on Monday night in Metrodome. My memory might be wrong, but I believe it was the infamous game where Kevin Butler missed a last second field goal and a conspiracy grew that the air conditioners were turned on full boar when the ball was kicked forcing it left.
Anyway I remember him reveling in the win.
That's how it was. After that year, I don't think we were ever that close again. That's how things are sometimes as a kid in a school system. Each year you get a new desk neighbor. A new friend. A new rival.
But I always think about him every year when the Bear and Vikings meet up north in the dome. I remember when he died that I thought about how he liked the damned Vikings. So I guess I get over loses to Minnesota a little easier now.
I laugh a little actually. Because I remember second grade and our two desks covered in bright stickers and how we each lost about a week of recesses at the end of the year when the teacher made us clean them off. We sat there alone in the room. A wash bucket of soap and water on the floor and a sponge in each hand. Grinning as we tried, in vain, to get the sticky grime off the surface of our desks. We counted each one as they came off. Of course we did.
Now all these years later, I have a memory for each sticker in time, probably more than 1,000 all together. Where we'll each go? How many will I lose in a year or two? Will any survive the night much less a lifetime?