A short story that occurred to me the other night when sleep alluded me. I can't say that I wish to explain any of it. Take it however you wish.
Water Flows At Different Levels
You go awhile not noticing it. A long while and you don’t see it until one day you become aware of some sort of dam that is now one entire side of your house. Maybe not a proper dam, but there’s something there and it is definitely holding something back. You don’t tell anyone about this, you don’t alert anyone to it and since no one else is noticing it, there’s nothing to tell, really, is there?
There’s definitely a pressure behind it. You sense this though it isn’t transparent. You feel it. And one day there is a leak. A small one. You press a finger to it and a clear, cool liquid appears. You taste it and it tastes very good. It makes you smile. Over time the trickle becomes a leak. Soon you are filling a cup with the liquid and it quenches a thirst you had. But it’s getting on the floor. You can clean it easily. No one notices the puddle.
Some days it leaks badly and you’re annoyed. Other times the trickle doesn’t seem adequate. So you take an ice pick to it one day and a lot of the cool water comes out. Too much. You need to stop it before the excess moves from room to room, staining everything. Soon it will be noticeable and the source will be discovered. It is almost too much to clean up. You plug the gap and clean it. Your panic soon leaves you and calmness settles in. No one will notice. And the leak has been taken care of.
Time passes.
Fingers caress the dam. Sweet water trickles again. You touch your lips to it, remembering. Smiling. Wishing you could swim in it. Immerse yourself within.
You are still the only one who senses the pressure there and it doesn’t seem likely to burst, ruining your home. You’re quite certain it won’t. And this comforts you and saddens you both at the same time. But you’re glad it’s there.
At least you think it’s there. After tending to other things you are surprised to find it has vanished. You had come to take the dam as a given, its presence always there to slake your thirst as you wished. Where would it go, after all? You search, fingers sliding over cabinets, appliances, and a wall, but there is nothing more. It is gone. As abruptly as it arrived, it has vanished. You stand there for awhile. Mystified.
Then you turn and walk towards the waterfall that occupies the den. Who needs a trickle when you have always had that waterfall to wash over you? After a time, the dam and its slow trickle is no match for the feelings the cascading water is giving you.
And you forget.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
They Enter The Car
Here's a short story I wrote this past week, finishing it today. I am intrigued by spaces and how we occupy them and how they reoccur sometimes, over and over. Our car is one such space where we spend so much time, yet don't really focus on it. Comments, even anonymous, always appreciated.
They enter the car. They enter the car, a family now, he driving, she holding Son. They enter the car, beaming at new life. They enter the car, he smiling and driving, she making faces at the baby in the car seat. They enter the car, toys and trash and stains and crying and yelling. They enter the car, the toddler angry, always angry. They enter the car, he driving, Mother holding baby Daughter. They enter the car, Son being told not to be rough with his sister. They enter the car, a newer one, New Car Smell, two toddler smell. They enter the car, no longer new seeming. McDonald’s fries, hard and cold to the touch, between seats, a ketchup stain on the roof. They enter the car going to school. They enter the car, baseball gear in the back, parts of a Barbie Doll, Lego blocks, candy wrappers, chocolate shake stains on the floor. They enter the car without Son and Daughter, going out, alone. Relief and anticipation jockey for first place in the pantheon of this experience. They enter the car with a box of leftovers from the restaurant placed gently on the backseat. They enter the car, fresh from a play hosted by the local community college; a performer sits in the backseat, the one not occupied by the box of leftover linguini. She chatters on about her role in the play and they listen, eagerly, before they drop her off at her Stepfather’s house. Once alone, they kiss, Mother and Father, pretending it is High School again.
They enter the car for Son’s driving test; he is anxious, but confident. They enter the car, son and Driving Instructor, he obeying most of the traffic laws, and thereby passing. They enter the car, Mother and Son, the latter driving, the former pressing her foot into the bare floorboard, stomping on an imaginary brake pedal, though not at all conscious of her action. They enter the car, Father and Mother, angry at one another for no reason either could specify were they to have to. They enter the car, Son and date, each tingling with excitement as they drive to the party. They enter the car, slightly buzzed, driving a short distance away before parking and clumsily engaging in a sex act. Then, after, they walk along the edge of the woods, holding hands, in the moonlight.
They enter the car, Daughter and three friends; a shiny new laminated Driver’s License in her purse, cell phone in her hand. Girls shrieking, girls yelling, girls giggling, girls texting. Daughter drifts into the lane of oncoming traffic, overcorrects and, tires squealing, the car flips over several times, landing in a field. All girls are hurt, one critically. They enter the car, somberly, the family dressed in black, Daughter arm in splint, to go to Erin’s funeral, as the critical injuries proved fatal. No one has a cell phone in their hand.
They enter the car to see Son’s new place. They enter the car, loaded with Son’s items, to take to his new place. They enter the car to go to Daughter’s wedding. They enter the car to see Son’s new baby boy, their grandchild. They enter the car, with a newly installed car seat for Grandson to sit in. They enter the car with Grandson firmly placed in the car seat, Mother making faces at the baby in the car seat. They enter the car, three grandchildren now, raucous, loud, and pleasant to Mother and Father. They enter the car to take Grandchildren back to Son and Daughter’s respective places, relieved they don’t have to spend all day every day with them. They enter the car, Mother and Father dressed to attend Father’s Retirement Party. Music is low and Mother talks non-stop. Father stares straight ahead, driving, not talking; only thinking of the past.
They enter the car, Father helps Mother into the passenger side of the car, as she is still weak from the chemotherapy. Before the drive is through, the faint smell of vomit is detected and the bag the hospital gave them is half full. They enter the car, Son driving Father to see Mother at the Extended Care Facility, he and Daughter make small talk but Father is silent and solemn. He does not show any particular expression.
They enter a car, Son and his Family. They enter a car, Daughter and her Family. The two cars drive to the funeral parlor, to arrange their parent’s burials. Father passed away in his sleep almost one week after Mother died in the hospital. They enter the car, the long car, the long black car, made especially for one lying in repose, Mother and Father each get one, both followed, slowly, by many other cars, headlights on, though it is daylight. Their destination is the final one for Mother and Father.
The cars change color and form, as do the passengers and drivers, and they leave the cemetery to go to houses, restaurants, and stores, sometimes entire families sometimes alone, and sometimes distracted, they enter the cars.
They Enter The Car
They enter the car. They enter the car, a family now, he driving, she holding Son. They enter the car, beaming at new life. They enter the car, he smiling and driving, she making faces at the baby in the car seat. They enter the car, toys and trash and stains and crying and yelling. They enter the car, the toddler angry, always angry. They enter the car, he driving, Mother holding baby Daughter. They enter the car, Son being told not to be rough with his sister. They enter the car, a newer one, New Car Smell, two toddler smell. They enter the car, no longer new seeming. McDonald’s fries, hard and cold to the touch, between seats, a ketchup stain on the roof. They enter the car going to school. They enter the car, baseball gear in the back, parts of a Barbie Doll, Lego blocks, candy wrappers, chocolate shake stains on the floor. They enter the car without Son and Daughter, going out, alone. Relief and anticipation jockey for first place in the pantheon of this experience. They enter the car with a box of leftovers from the restaurant placed gently on the backseat. They enter the car, fresh from a play hosted by the local community college; a performer sits in the backseat, the one not occupied by the box of leftover linguini. She chatters on about her role in the play and they listen, eagerly, before they drop her off at her Stepfather’s house. Once alone, they kiss, Mother and Father, pretending it is High School again.
They enter the car for Son’s driving test; he is anxious, but confident. They enter the car, son and Driving Instructor, he obeying most of the traffic laws, and thereby passing. They enter the car, Mother and Son, the latter driving, the former pressing her foot into the bare floorboard, stomping on an imaginary brake pedal, though not at all conscious of her action. They enter the car, Father and Mother, angry at one another for no reason either could specify were they to have to. They enter the car, Son and date, each tingling with excitement as they drive to the party. They enter the car, slightly buzzed, driving a short distance away before parking and clumsily engaging in a sex act. Then, after, they walk along the edge of the woods, holding hands, in the moonlight.
They enter the car, Daughter and three friends; a shiny new laminated Driver’s License in her purse, cell phone in her hand. Girls shrieking, girls yelling, girls giggling, girls texting. Daughter drifts into the lane of oncoming traffic, overcorrects and, tires squealing, the car flips over several times, landing in a field. All girls are hurt, one critically. They enter the car, somberly, the family dressed in black, Daughter arm in splint, to go to Erin’s funeral, as the critical injuries proved fatal. No one has a cell phone in their hand.
They enter the car to see Son’s new place. They enter the car, loaded with Son’s items, to take to his new place. They enter the car to go to Daughter’s wedding. They enter the car to see Son’s new baby boy, their grandchild. They enter the car, with a newly installed car seat for Grandson to sit in. They enter the car with Grandson firmly placed in the car seat, Mother making faces at the baby in the car seat. They enter the car, three grandchildren now, raucous, loud, and pleasant to Mother and Father. They enter the car to take Grandchildren back to Son and Daughter’s respective places, relieved they don’t have to spend all day every day with them. They enter the car, Mother and Father dressed to attend Father’s Retirement Party. Music is low and Mother talks non-stop. Father stares straight ahead, driving, not talking; only thinking of the past.
They enter the car, Father helps Mother into the passenger side of the car, as she is still weak from the chemotherapy. Before the drive is through, the faint smell of vomit is detected and the bag the hospital gave them is half full. They enter the car, Son driving Father to see Mother at the Extended Care Facility, he and Daughter make small talk but Father is silent and solemn. He does not show any particular expression.
They enter a car, Son and his Family. They enter a car, Daughter and her Family. The two cars drive to the funeral parlor, to arrange their parent’s burials. Father passed away in his sleep almost one week after Mother died in the hospital. They enter the car, the long car, the long black car, made especially for one lying in repose, Mother and Father each get one, both followed, slowly, by many other cars, headlights on, though it is daylight. Their destination is the final one for Mother and Father.
The cars change color and form, as do the passengers and drivers, and they leave the cemetery to go to houses, restaurants, and stores, sometimes entire families sometimes alone, and sometimes distracted, they enter the cars.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Aftermath
This is a short story I wrote in the summer of 2008. It is a thinly veiled piece of fiction that illustrates my thoughts and feelings at the time. Any comments, pro or con, would be appreciated.
Aftermath
I awoke slowly, as if I were arising from the depths of darkness to the sunlight. My eyes opened but that was the only movement. I noted the position of my body, my arms and legs seeming at impossible angles yet I was at peace, calm. For the first time in a long time I didn't feel any pain in my stomach. A rare day indeed. I listened for any sounds in the house but couldn't locate any. Just the normal outside sounds, a dog barking, a car speeding through the neighborhood and always the incessant chirping of birds.
There was no one in bed with me. Hadn't been for weeks. My wife separated from me and was sleeping in a guest room so I had the King size bed to myself. It always seemed far too big yet I utilized it. And this morning it also seemed cold though it was summer and the house was warm. It also seemed a little sticky but that didn't register until later.
I arose and tossed the cover off of me. I felt fantastic for some reason. Not to say I was old and achy, but I never felt this good upon awaking. As if I could run a marathon or something. And I wasn't hungry which was odd. I was usually hungry first thing in the morning. I walked around the bed, preparing to open the door to my bedroom when I noticed that there was someone else in the bed. Odd, that. It appeared he was in the same position I was in a few moments ago. This wasn't possible. I was instantly disoriented. It looked as if I hadn't yet woken up. Because I was looking at myself, still asleep. Wasn't I? I was. That was me. I knew myself from the mirror and this guy was that one.
I pinched myself because this had to be a dream. I willed myself awake but nothing happened. I was still staring at my doppelganger. And he had blood coming out of his nose. And a large puke stain near his mouth. It was dried, white, and looked as if it had been there awhile. Ditto the blood. He wasn't moving. He didn't appear to be breathing either.
I was reluctant to go around the bed and touch him but I was still feeling as if this weren't real so I walked over to him and nudged him. I felt for sure he was going to pop up and surprise me but he didn't. I noticed the smell then. Apparently he had crapped himself. Right there in the bed. I lifted the cover and saw the dark brown stain. I replaced the cover and felt his shoulder. His face was now away from me and I felt the icy coldness of him. He was dead. I was dead. If this were indeed me, and I had no other explanation to go on.
I noticed the usual selection of pill bottles on the bedstand. I suffered from a chronic disease and pills were second nature in my life. But one bottle looked like it had come from a different pharmacy. It was opened and empty save for four or five pills. The label said Diazepam (generic for Valium). Did I need Valium for some reason? I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember anything from the previous night come to think of it. I blinked. I folded my arms. This didn't make sense. This guy who was me obviously took an overdose and killed himself. Here was his body, my body, to prove it.
I wasn't afraid, just puzzled. I would have to alert someone.
I went to the bedroom door and tried to open it but failed. I had success in opening doors from an early age, but this time I had obviously missed the knob, because I only gripped air. I redoubled my efforts and was surprised to find my hand go through the knob. My hand was transparent. I couldn't grasp the knob at all. When I tried to push on the door it was as if there was a force field there. I wasn't able to penetrate it. Another door led outside but after trying it, the same result occurred. I was trapped here in this room with my own dead body until someone came to let me out.
My cellphone rang. I saw that it was my soon to be ex-wife and went to pick it up. My hand passed through it. The phone vibrated itself off of the table and onto the floor yet I still couldn't pick it up. Rather than focus on my situation I wondered why I could feel my dead body and the cover upon it yet not the phone or the door. Perhaps whatever related to the outside world was forbidden to me now. There was just me here in this room. And I was going to have to wait until someone opened the door.
It was going to be a long day. Luckily I wasn't hungry. But I was starting to get the creeps being penned up with my own corpse.
The sonorous echoes of distant church bells were barely perceptable but I could indeed make them out. The sound was beautiful. I wasn't able to turn on the radio, television, or computer so the silence in the room was palpable. Perhaps I could have heard the bells any other day had I just been listening closely enough. Time did not seem to drag. I knew someone would discover my body soon enough and until then I was content with sitting in a chair and waiting.
I heard a car pull up outside and opened the drapes to peer out. It was my stepson in his new truck. He entered the house and made some noise, evidently getting some clothes for football practice. I yelled but he did not respond. Soon, he was gone, peeling out of the driveway. I wasn't panicking though. In fact, I wasn't anything. Hungry, tired, thirsty, bored, scared. Nothing. I just...was. I was existing in the moment, perhaps for the first time in my life. It wasn't unpleasant.
My cell rang again. I didn't bother to even look to see who it was as it was a pointless exercise really. Soon after, my wife's car pulled up into the drive. She got out of the car and I could hear her on her cell, but not well enough to make out the words. She entered the front door and I heard her purse and keys hit the table.
She opened the bedroom door and peeked in. "Glenn?", she said. "Are you okay?" She stepped further into the room and I watched her level of concern rise. I stood in front of her, hoping to block her way but as she slowly rounded the bed she passed right through me, as if I were a wisp of smoke. I walked out the bedroom door to her shouts of "Glenn? Glenn!". She started screaming and I could hear the squeaking of the bed as she, presumably, tried to waken me. Something inside me knew I didn't need to be present for this exhibition. There was nothing I could do anyway and it seemed too upsetting to stay around. So I walked through the front door, without thinking about how I did it, and sat on the porch. Later an ambulance and police car arrived. Neighbors came out of their houses. Some of my wife's relatives also came over. I walked over to see them comfort her and watched the ambulance girl roll the cart with my sheet-covered body into the ambulance. She shut the door and the ambulance drove off.
I wondered if I would be drawn with my body but I wasn't. I stayed where I was, in the yard, by myself. Everyone left, including my wife. I was alone again. It was quiet. Only the church bells rang, this time a little louder but no less beautiful.
I no longer noticed time passing by. I imagine a few days passed but it could have just as easily been a few weeks. I noticed a man my wife knew casually making himself at home in what I still considered to be my house. I found myself hanging out on the roof mostly. It seemed more peaceful up there. Since he began spending the night, I didn't enter the house anymore. It was during one of these beautiful Spring evenings tht I heard a whining coming from my backyard. It was my dog, Brock.
How had I missed him? Did I assume that he, like everyone else, would not see me and therefore not even seek him out? I felt bad for my lack of attention to this animal who was my best friend. Assuming he was looking into a kitchen window, crying for a treat, I glanced down at him. He was looking directly at me and wagging his tail.
Brock was a Golden Retriever and received compliments from strangers and friends alike on his doggy good looks since I rescued him from the pound. And now apparently he could see me. I waved at him and his whining increased. I jumped down and went to pet him and slather him with love but we were unable to touch. I was as ghostly and transparent to him as I was to the rest of the world's inhabitants. However, it was quite comical to watch his confusion at trying to lick and play with something that had no substance. We ended up frustrated with one another and I alit back onto the roof, out of his sight, for he was pathetic in his desire to be with me and the confusion this inability entailed.
One night my wife and what I now called her bff began hauling boxes from a shed to a large firepit dug into the backyard. I recognized the boxes as those containing many of my belongings, such as books, college papers, and other items I thought had worth. The bff poured what I believed to be a liberal amount of gasoline onto the pile and my wife lit and tossed a match onto it. A whoof sound, then intense flames. When everything I had owned was burning she cuddled up next to him and they watched the fire. The sun was setting and the scene probably seemed beautiful to them. I was unmoved.
Cars whizzed by on the busy road in front of the house and from my perch on the roof I noticed Brock watching me intently. I glanced from the happy couple to my dog. He seemed preternaturally stoic. He sensed my mood perhaps for he barked, once. Then, like a shot, he bolted towards the gate and with one leap cleared it. I had never seen him do this before, nor had he had the desire, to my knowledge. After landing on the other side he looked at me once again with that odd intensity and ran with haste toward the busy street in front of our house.
My wife noticed him and called out his name, "What are you doing Brock?! Where are you going?!" she yelled. He never looked at her, nor anyone, he simply ran. He ran for the street and seemed to be timing it so that he could inch ahead of a black SUV that was speeding down the road.
I jumped off the roof, screaming, knowing how close this would be and as I ran side by side with my wife, I saw Brock leap into traffic. My wife and I stopped near the curb and heard the screaming tires of the SUV as it attempted to stop. Brock disappeared under the grill of the vehicle and to my amazement was unhurt. Another car coming the other way had stopped along with the SUV and people started exiting their vehicles and milling around. From behind the SUV Brock came trotting towards me, apparently none the worse for wear. He reached me and I petted him, feeling for broken bones but I could feel nothing wong with him. He licked my face with his cool tongue and I hugged him tight. He clearly liked the attention. Then I noticed the crowd of people part slightly so that I had a view of the body of a dog, a dog that had been run over by the SUV. It was Brock.
My wife was crying and the bff was comforting her. The SUV owner was apologizing and the body of Brock was not moving and not pretty to look at. I looked down at my dog, panting and appearing to smile at me. I understood what he had done. The sounds of the traffic began to fade and the church bells pealed, stronger. I turned to face the sound and started walking. Brock easily fell in by my side and we paced gently through fences, trees, and any other earthly obstacles that had been placed in our way. We walked without hurry towards the sound of the bells and did not look back.
Aftermath
I awoke slowly, as if I were arising from the depths of darkness to the sunlight. My eyes opened but that was the only movement. I noted the position of my body, my arms and legs seeming at impossible angles yet I was at peace, calm. For the first time in a long time I didn't feel any pain in my stomach. A rare day indeed. I listened for any sounds in the house but couldn't locate any. Just the normal outside sounds, a dog barking, a car speeding through the neighborhood and always the incessant chirping of birds.
There was no one in bed with me. Hadn't been for weeks. My wife separated from me and was sleeping in a guest room so I had the King size bed to myself. It always seemed far too big yet I utilized it. And this morning it also seemed cold though it was summer and the house was warm. It also seemed a little sticky but that didn't register until later.
I arose and tossed the cover off of me. I felt fantastic for some reason. Not to say I was old and achy, but I never felt this good upon awaking. As if I could run a marathon or something. And I wasn't hungry which was odd. I was usually hungry first thing in the morning. I walked around the bed, preparing to open the door to my bedroom when I noticed that there was someone else in the bed. Odd, that. It appeared he was in the same position I was in a few moments ago. This wasn't possible. I was instantly disoriented. It looked as if I hadn't yet woken up. Because I was looking at myself, still asleep. Wasn't I? I was. That was me. I knew myself from the mirror and this guy was that one.
I pinched myself because this had to be a dream. I willed myself awake but nothing happened. I was still staring at my doppelganger. And he had blood coming out of his nose. And a large puke stain near his mouth. It was dried, white, and looked as if it had been there awhile. Ditto the blood. He wasn't moving. He didn't appear to be breathing either.
I was reluctant to go around the bed and touch him but I was still feeling as if this weren't real so I walked over to him and nudged him. I felt for sure he was going to pop up and surprise me but he didn't. I noticed the smell then. Apparently he had crapped himself. Right there in the bed. I lifted the cover and saw the dark brown stain. I replaced the cover and felt his shoulder. His face was now away from me and I felt the icy coldness of him. He was dead. I was dead. If this were indeed me, and I had no other explanation to go on.
I noticed the usual selection of pill bottles on the bedstand. I suffered from a chronic disease and pills were second nature in my life. But one bottle looked like it had come from a different pharmacy. It was opened and empty save for four or five pills. The label said Diazepam (generic for Valium). Did I need Valium for some reason? I couldn't remember. I couldn't remember anything from the previous night come to think of it. I blinked. I folded my arms. This didn't make sense. This guy who was me obviously took an overdose and killed himself. Here was his body, my body, to prove it.
I wasn't afraid, just puzzled. I would have to alert someone.
I went to the bedroom door and tried to open it but failed. I had success in opening doors from an early age, but this time I had obviously missed the knob, because I only gripped air. I redoubled my efforts and was surprised to find my hand go through the knob. My hand was transparent. I couldn't grasp the knob at all. When I tried to push on the door it was as if there was a force field there. I wasn't able to penetrate it. Another door led outside but after trying it, the same result occurred. I was trapped here in this room with my own dead body until someone came to let me out.
My cellphone rang. I saw that it was my soon to be ex-wife and went to pick it up. My hand passed through it. The phone vibrated itself off of the table and onto the floor yet I still couldn't pick it up. Rather than focus on my situation I wondered why I could feel my dead body and the cover upon it yet not the phone or the door. Perhaps whatever related to the outside world was forbidden to me now. There was just me here in this room. And I was going to have to wait until someone opened the door.
It was going to be a long day. Luckily I wasn't hungry. But I was starting to get the creeps being penned up with my own corpse.
The sonorous echoes of distant church bells were barely perceptable but I could indeed make them out. The sound was beautiful. I wasn't able to turn on the radio, television, or computer so the silence in the room was palpable. Perhaps I could have heard the bells any other day had I just been listening closely enough. Time did not seem to drag. I knew someone would discover my body soon enough and until then I was content with sitting in a chair and waiting.
I heard a car pull up outside and opened the drapes to peer out. It was my stepson in his new truck. He entered the house and made some noise, evidently getting some clothes for football practice. I yelled but he did not respond. Soon, he was gone, peeling out of the driveway. I wasn't panicking though. In fact, I wasn't anything. Hungry, tired, thirsty, bored, scared. Nothing. I just...was. I was existing in the moment, perhaps for the first time in my life. It wasn't unpleasant.
My cell rang again. I didn't bother to even look to see who it was as it was a pointless exercise really. Soon after, my wife's car pulled up into the drive. She got out of the car and I could hear her on her cell, but not well enough to make out the words. She entered the front door and I heard her purse and keys hit the table.
She opened the bedroom door and peeked in. "Glenn?", she said. "Are you okay?" She stepped further into the room and I watched her level of concern rise. I stood in front of her, hoping to block her way but as she slowly rounded the bed she passed right through me, as if I were a wisp of smoke. I walked out the bedroom door to her shouts of "Glenn? Glenn!". She started screaming and I could hear the squeaking of the bed as she, presumably, tried to waken me. Something inside me knew I didn't need to be present for this exhibition. There was nothing I could do anyway and it seemed too upsetting to stay around. So I walked through the front door, without thinking about how I did it, and sat on the porch. Later an ambulance and police car arrived. Neighbors came out of their houses. Some of my wife's relatives also came over. I walked over to see them comfort her and watched the ambulance girl roll the cart with my sheet-covered body into the ambulance. She shut the door and the ambulance drove off.
I wondered if I would be drawn with my body but I wasn't. I stayed where I was, in the yard, by myself. Everyone left, including my wife. I was alone again. It was quiet. Only the church bells rang, this time a little louder but no less beautiful.
I no longer noticed time passing by. I imagine a few days passed but it could have just as easily been a few weeks. I noticed a man my wife knew casually making himself at home in what I still considered to be my house. I found myself hanging out on the roof mostly. It seemed more peaceful up there. Since he began spending the night, I didn't enter the house anymore. It was during one of these beautiful Spring evenings tht I heard a whining coming from my backyard. It was my dog, Brock.
How had I missed him? Did I assume that he, like everyone else, would not see me and therefore not even seek him out? I felt bad for my lack of attention to this animal who was my best friend. Assuming he was looking into a kitchen window, crying for a treat, I glanced down at him. He was looking directly at me and wagging his tail.
Brock was a Golden Retriever and received compliments from strangers and friends alike on his doggy good looks since I rescued him from the pound. And now apparently he could see me. I waved at him and his whining increased. I jumped down and went to pet him and slather him with love but we were unable to touch. I was as ghostly and transparent to him as I was to the rest of the world's inhabitants. However, it was quite comical to watch his confusion at trying to lick and play with something that had no substance. We ended up frustrated with one another and I alit back onto the roof, out of his sight, for he was pathetic in his desire to be with me and the confusion this inability entailed.
One night my wife and what I now called her bff began hauling boxes from a shed to a large firepit dug into the backyard. I recognized the boxes as those containing many of my belongings, such as books, college papers, and other items I thought had worth. The bff poured what I believed to be a liberal amount of gasoline onto the pile and my wife lit and tossed a match onto it. A whoof sound, then intense flames. When everything I had owned was burning she cuddled up next to him and they watched the fire. The sun was setting and the scene probably seemed beautiful to them. I was unmoved.
Cars whizzed by on the busy road in front of the house and from my perch on the roof I noticed Brock watching me intently. I glanced from the happy couple to my dog. He seemed preternaturally stoic. He sensed my mood perhaps for he barked, once. Then, like a shot, he bolted towards the gate and with one leap cleared it. I had never seen him do this before, nor had he had the desire, to my knowledge. After landing on the other side he looked at me once again with that odd intensity and ran with haste toward the busy street in front of our house.
My wife noticed him and called out his name, "What are you doing Brock?! Where are you going?!" she yelled. He never looked at her, nor anyone, he simply ran. He ran for the street and seemed to be timing it so that he could inch ahead of a black SUV that was speeding down the road.
I jumped off the roof, screaming, knowing how close this would be and as I ran side by side with my wife, I saw Brock leap into traffic. My wife and I stopped near the curb and heard the screaming tires of the SUV as it attempted to stop. Brock disappeared under the grill of the vehicle and to my amazement was unhurt. Another car coming the other way had stopped along with the SUV and people started exiting their vehicles and milling around. From behind the SUV Brock came trotting towards me, apparently none the worse for wear. He reached me and I petted him, feeling for broken bones but I could feel nothing wong with him. He licked my face with his cool tongue and I hugged him tight. He clearly liked the attention. Then I noticed the crowd of people part slightly so that I had a view of the body of a dog, a dog that had been run over by the SUV. It was Brock.
My wife was crying and the bff was comforting her. The SUV owner was apologizing and the body of Brock was not moving and not pretty to look at. I looked down at my dog, panting and appearing to smile at me. I understood what he had done. The sounds of the traffic began to fade and the church bells pealed, stronger. I turned to face the sound and started walking. Brock easily fell in by my side and we paced gently through fences, trees, and any other earthly obstacles that had been placed in our way. We walked without hurry towards the sound of the bells and did not look back.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Angelica, the Movie, Introduction
With the help of a friend, I came up with the beginning of a screenplay I'd like us to write. Here is the Introduction:
TITLE: ANGELICA
EXT. CLOUDLESS DAY IN LOS ANGELES - DAY
(Cydonia, by Muse begins to play.)
CAMERA PANS down, slowly to a parked car in a driveway, passenger side looking in.
INT. CAR - DAY
A five year old girl is listening to her mother, who has just started the car.
MOTHER
I forgot something ANGELICA. I'll be right back. Hang on, okay?
MOTHER exits car. ANGELICA looks at the steering wheel. She unhooks her seatbelt and moves over to the Driver's side. She puts the car in Reverse and hits the gas pedal.
EXT. DRIVEWAY - DAY
From perspective of the hood we see a delighted ANGELICA enjoy the ride as the car screams down the driveway, missing a mailman by a foot. The car crosses the street, jumping a curb and CRASHES into the front of the house opposite ANGELICA's house.
EXT. CAR - DAY
Rather than look scared, ANGELICA is happy looking. Neighbor's begin to mull around and the camera closes in on ANGELICA's face and devilish smile and
Black screen, song ends, TITLE CARD reads, "10 YEARS LATER"
EXT. DRIVEWAY, HALLOWEEN - NIGHT
The same scene end on 5 year old ANGELICA is now focusing on 15 year old ANGELICA, devilish smile and all. She is dressed in a cute Devil's outfit, complete with red horns in black hair.
ANGELICA
(to STACEY, sister and passenger)
Let's go.
STACEY
(Buckling in)
How did you get the key?
ANGELICA
I made a copy, whatever, let's go. Mom think's we're Trick or Treating.
STACEY
Won't she miss the car?
ANGELICA puts the car in neutral, it glides silently down the driveway, once in the street the car starts, and she drives away. CAMERA PANS up to see back of the car driving away.
ANGELICA
(Voice only)
Probably.
TITLE: ANGELICA
EXT. CLOUDLESS DAY IN LOS ANGELES - DAY
(Cydonia, by Muse begins to play.)
CAMERA PANS down, slowly to a parked car in a driveway, passenger side looking in.
INT. CAR - DAY
A five year old girl is listening to her mother, who has just started the car.
MOTHER
I forgot something ANGELICA. I'll be right back. Hang on, okay?
MOTHER exits car. ANGELICA looks at the steering wheel. She unhooks her seatbelt and moves over to the Driver's side. She puts the car in Reverse and hits the gas pedal.
EXT. DRIVEWAY - DAY
From perspective of the hood we see a delighted ANGELICA enjoy the ride as the car screams down the driveway, missing a mailman by a foot. The car crosses the street, jumping a curb and CRASHES into the front of the house opposite ANGELICA's house.
EXT. CAR - DAY
Rather than look scared, ANGELICA is happy looking. Neighbor's begin to mull around and the camera closes in on ANGELICA's face and devilish smile and
Black screen, song ends, TITLE CARD reads, "10 YEARS LATER"
EXT. DRIVEWAY, HALLOWEEN - NIGHT
The same scene end on 5 year old ANGELICA is now focusing on 15 year old ANGELICA, devilish smile and all. She is dressed in a cute Devil's outfit, complete with red horns in black hair.
ANGELICA
(to STACEY, sister and passenger)
Let's go.
STACEY
(Buckling in)
How did you get the key?
ANGELICA
I made a copy, whatever, let's go. Mom think's we're Trick or Treating.
STACEY
Won't she miss the car?
ANGELICA puts the car in neutral, it glides silently down the driveway, once in the street the car starts, and she drives away. CAMERA PANS up to see back of the car driving away.
ANGELICA
(Voice only)
Probably.
Monday, January 4, 2010
How to Tweet
I am pretty much considered a Master Tweeter by everyone. My skillz are mad, I tweet unique, and I crush it day after day. It is for this reason I am going to offer up some tips and rules for how to approach Twitter and, perhaps, you can become as awesome as I am. Last night I gave out many of these rules while actually tweeting and they received mixed approval, and 4 Unfollows. But in order to make a good omelette, you must break eggs. Then whip those eggs with a dash of milk, then pour that in a hot pan and fill with cheeses, mushrooms, etc. My point is, omelettes are difficult and so am I. If you've stuck with me, you know I can be an ass. Therefore, if you STILL, RIGHT NOW, think I am seriously TELLING you how to Tweet, then I can't help you. While some of these tips are serious, they are the opinion of the management only and not the views of Twitter in general. Shall we begin?
Your Avatar: This is what everyone learns to see when you Tweet. We learn to recognize your presence by what your av depicts. Put a pic of you in your av. Don't include other people. This is Twitter, not a Family Album. Refrain from putting up artsy pics or animated pics or landscape pics. This is Twitter, not an art gallery. If you are a sports fan, logos are okay, during season and playoffs only. The majority of us are on Twitter to talk to one another, and a face is nice. And NO you are NOT too ugly/fat/weird to fulfill this request. Trust me.
Method: When replying to someone, it is preferable to click on reply rather than to try and type out the user's name. Many Tweets meant for me have gone to @InkPather. And that guy does NOT deserve your time. He's a tatoo artist and has a criminal past, avoid him. Feel free to get creative with HOW you insert someone's name. For instance:
@TwitGirl Hello, how are you today? (Standard usage and most popular)
Hey there @TwitGirl how are you? (Creative usage)
What's up with you @TwitGirl ? (Creative as well)
@TwitGirl Hi you! @ExGirlFriend (By including her at the end of the Tweet, you're just flirting in front of your ex)
@TwitGirl My ex is a douche. She is totally unlike you. She's a whore. @ExGirlFriend (Now WHY would you air this in public? That's just mean. Entertaining, sure, but mean.)
The inclusion of another person in your conversation is always welcome as well. The other night I was included in a conversation because I was added at the end of their Tweets. I do not know why they did this but it was very funny and far easier to follow because they did it. This is almost mandatory when you are talking to someone ABOUT someone else.
The Retweet: This is the place where one method should be employed. I have a preference however, if another were to be chosen and used by everyone I wouldn't mind. Now for this one, I must explain: I use TweetDeck, and I employ the option where I can modify the RT. For those on the web, I don't know that you have that option. And the reason I bring this up only refers to modifying/adding to Retweets.
Commenting before the RT seems counterintuitive, but works best, I think. Adding your comment after the RT can become confusing. For instance:
RT @TwitGirl @InkPather Hello to you you sexy inkman How are you? How are you doll? I am good! Did you hear about @ExGirlFriend?
Now, granted, the 2 people understand each other, but I am not sure where one ends and the other begins. Plus, they are STILL bagging on that poor girl.
RT @InkPather: RT @TwitGirl @InkPather @aplusk Hey you guys:::HI HOW ARE YOU>>No I didn't hear about @ExGirlFriend ~~~I am fine thanks!
Pandemonium. Just start over. Try it my way:
I am stabby. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Hi. How are you?
Then:
No. I mean a knife. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Ooh., U wanna "stab" me with ur u-know-what? RT @InkPather: @Twitgirl I am stabby. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Hi how are you?
Really, the only reason to RT is if you are responding to a tweet that occurred some time in the past, to remind the tweetee what you are talking about.
Direct Messages: You're on your own with this one. Do what you like. One caveat: Remember that if they receive email notification that you have DMed them, the recipient will see not your Tweet name, but the name you have entered in the profile info. If, like me, you like to be creative there, remember a first DM to that new person may be seen as "You have a new message from Carlos Spicyweiner". This may or may not be a good thing.
Tweeting In General: Another one where you're on your own. Some people hate Mondays. And Tuesdays. And their work, their life, the weather, what's on TV, the news, etc. Negative tweeting, longterm, isn't recommended. You get a reputation.
Tweet about your grievances, what you are eating, other tweeters, any random thought, the weather, your ex. Give us pictures to look at, links to your blog, links to your videos, links to stuff you like. Quote movies, song lyrics, poetry. Tell a story, pout, start a fight. Or do none of these and lurk. There aren't really any rules I can tell you about regarding this. We all use Twitter differently. We all have different tastes and ingredients to add, like omelettes. I like avocado and bacon in mine, you may like Gruyere and green onion. But we're all here to eat it. Well, except for the Vegans. And people who are allergic to eggs. Admittedly the analogy has broken down. Happy Tweeting.
Your Avatar: This is what everyone learns to see when you Tweet. We learn to recognize your presence by what your av depicts. Put a pic of you in your av. Don't include other people. This is Twitter, not a Family Album. Refrain from putting up artsy pics or animated pics or landscape pics. This is Twitter, not an art gallery. If you are a sports fan, logos are okay, during season and playoffs only. The majority of us are on Twitter to talk to one another, and a face is nice. And NO you are NOT too ugly/fat/weird to fulfill this request. Trust me.
Method: When replying to someone, it is preferable to click on reply rather than to try and type out the user's name. Many Tweets meant for me have gone to @InkPather. And that guy does NOT deserve your time. He's a tatoo artist and has a criminal past, avoid him. Feel free to get creative with HOW you insert someone's name. For instance:
@TwitGirl Hello, how are you today? (Standard usage and most popular)
Hey there @TwitGirl how are you? (Creative usage)
What's up with you @TwitGirl ? (Creative as well)
@TwitGirl Hi you! @ExGirlFriend (By including her at the end of the Tweet, you're just flirting in front of your ex)
@TwitGirl My ex is a douche. She is totally unlike you. She's a whore. @ExGirlFriend (Now WHY would you air this in public? That's just mean. Entertaining, sure, but mean.)
The inclusion of another person in your conversation is always welcome as well. The other night I was included in a conversation because I was added at the end of their Tweets. I do not know why they did this but it was very funny and far easier to follow because they did it. This is almost mandatory when you are talking to someone ABOUT someone else.
The Retweet: This is the place where one method should be employed. I have a preference however, if another were to be chosen and used by everyone I wouldn't mind. Now for this one, I must explain: I use TweetDeck, and I employ the option where I can modify the RT. For those on the web, I don't know that you have that option. And the reason I bring this up only refers to modifying/adding to Retweets.
Commenting before the RT seems counterintuitive, but works best, I think. Adding your comment after the RT can become confusing. For instance:
RT @TwitGirl @InkPather Hello to you you sexy inkman How are you? How are you doll? I am good! Did you hear about @ExGirlFriend?
Now, granted, the 2 people understand each other, but I am not sure where one ends and the other begins. Plus, they are STILL bagging on that poor girl.
RT @InkPather: RT @TwitGirl @InkPather @aplusk Hey you guys:::HI HOW ARE YOU>>No I didn't hear about @ExGirlFriend ~~~I am fine thanks!
Pandemonium. Just start over. Try it my way:
I am stabby. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Hi. How are you?
Then:
No. I mean a knife. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Ooh., U wanna "stab" me with ur u-know-what? RT @InkPather: @Twitgirl I am stabby. RT @TwitGirl: @InkPather Hi how are you?
Really, the only reason to RT is if you are responding to a tweet that occurred some time in the past, to remind the tweetee what you are talking about.
Direct Messages: You're on your own with this one. Do what you like. One caveat: Remember that if they receive email notification that you have DMed them, the recipient will see not your Tweet name, but the name you have entered in the profile info. If, like me, you like to be creative there, remember a first DM to that new person may be seen as "You have a new message from Carlos Spicyweiner". This may or may not be a good thing.
Tweeting In General: Another one where you're on your own. Some people hate Mondays. And Tuesdays. And their work, their life, the weather, what's on TV, the news, etc. Negative tweeting, longterm, isn't recommended. You get a reputation.
Tweet about your grievances, what you are eating, other tweeters, any random thought, the weather, your ex. Give us pictures to look at, links to your blog, links to your videos, links to stuff you like. Quote movies, song lyrics, poetry. Tell a story, pout, start a fight. Or do none of these and lurk. There aren't really any rules I can tell you about regarding this. We all use Twitter differently. We all have different tastes and ingredients to add, like omelettes. I like avocado and bacon in mine, you may like Gruyere and green onion. But we're all here to eat it. Well, except for the Vegans. And people who are allergic to eggs. Admittedly the analogy has broken down. Happy Tweeting.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Looking Back at 2009
This is the time of year when people remind you that this is the time of year when we all look back at the previous 360 odd days and make judgements on all the crap that has taken place, then with a satisfied grin, look ahead, confident that the year is now placed firmly in a dull cardboard box labelled, "2009". But just because it is the end of the year, that doesn't mean the future won't be affected by it. Time doesn't begin and end, time is continuous. I wish it wasn't. I wish Time Machines were available on the open market or via rentable booths near Starbuck's. I'd use it now, for instance, to go back in time and knock that breakfast burrito from out of Past Me's hands. That guy's a jerk.
I won't get personal, or at least not too personal. I don't know you THAT well. We aren't drinking after each other so don't assume you have access to my soul.
Did you know I had Crohn's Disease? Oh, the blank look. Yeah, I get that sometimes. Increasingly common, however, is the response, "I know someone with that." Which helps. I won't bore you with details, click on the link if you're the curious type and hopefully not a cat. It's not cancer. You don't die from it you just live a crappy life with it as it accompanies you every damn place you go. Unless you are in remission. Oh and there's no cure. And get this, they have no idea what causes it! See, all the research money goes to AIDS, a disease you gotta work to get for the most part and let's avoid this road, come, take my hand as we make a tiny detour.
I've had it since puberty and blah blah blah in January of this craptastic year I ended up in the hospital to undergo surgery, the first time I'd had to do that. Then follow that with an infection in February and I spent a combined total of 2 weeks in a hospital bed with a phone that didn't have internet service. Pretty sure Hell blocks out all wifi access. Try it, go a few days with no internet. You shuddered just now, didn't you. Sorry.
In February I joined the social networking time sucking website known asPeople of Walmart Twitter and promptly judged it "stupid". The months after February until maybe the middle of June saw me lose a couple of pounds per week, get nausea, have extreme lethargy, and ballroom dance. Because dance is my muse. Doctors, plural, didn't know why this was happening. An odd symptom was that the texture and taste of food repulsed me. Everything tasted horrible and felt like chalk in my mouth, which turned me off of food, along with the nausea. What about water, I hear you in the back asking. Okay, FINE, water was okay. Don't get picky with me. There wasn't a doctor I saw who knew what or why this taste aversion thing was happening. Even an Ear, Nose,& Throat Doctor who appeared to be in his early 120's said he'd never heard of it.
Finally my sister inserted her forceful self into the process, finding me a doctor that prescribed me Prednisone, a steroid. When I swallowed the first pill I weighed 108 pounds. By the time the prescription needed a refill I had gained 10 pounds and could taste food. But long term, the stuff is very bad for you so I am off of it now.
Got better sure, but then in October Crohn's flared and the drug I inject into my thigh or stomach doesn't work. So at year's end, I have more bad days than good. Also, I was on my ex wife's health insurance and on October 1st the coverage disappeared because she lost her job. A month later I signed off on divorce papers and after dropping them off at the Post Office, got into my truck to hear "Come Out And Play" on the radio which made me think this was the right thing.
About the time I was in the middle of taking the refill of the steroid I tried Twitter again and figured it out. It is something of a gobal chatroom and if you are reading this, chances are extremely good that you are on there. Yeah, okay, I see you waving, hello. Oh cool, you're here, and you, wow, didn't know you came here, thank you.
So I met and ontinue to meet some amazing people there. I even talked withAshton Kutcher. Wil Wheaton. that guy from that NFL team whose name I cannot for the life of me remember now. Shaun something. So, yeah, important people and regular people alike are finding out what I had for lunch and reading my witty, touching, and superawesome tweets. And I read theirs. And some tell me their secrets, and some I tell mine to. And some I don't really understand, and some I envy and some I really, really, really want to meet and will in 2010.
And no one close to me has died, and my nephew and his gf have treated me well since my return to this sunny place and my 13 year old truck still works great and golly life is wonderful or at least not too horrible and sometimes I make some pretty good food and often I enjoy eating it too and a few times there is no pain afterwords.
I took down one shed and put up another. I received a text from Ron Artest. I went to the beach a lot. I walked my dog. I felt an earthquake on my birthday and I read 37 books. And I started a blog, duh! and I've written a book...(if you add all the 13,000+ tweets together and assemble them onto numbered pages.) and I consider that a nice feat to have accomplished.
So I am tossing this year in that cardboard box over there, the one next to the roll of packing tape and after closing it up, shoving it in the garage. I see the box containing 2010 is at the door. I sense there are some great things in there amidst some bad things. But that's been the trend and I am old enough to accept it.
I hope your 2010 is filled with more good than bad, and slip some awesome in there too.
I won't get personal, or at least not too personal. I don't know you THAT well. We aren't drinking after each other so don't assume you have access to my soul.
Did you know I had Crohn's Disease? Oh, the blank look. Yeah, I get that sometimes. Increasingly common, however, is the response, "I know someone with that." Which helps. I won't bore you with details, click on the link if you're the curious type and hopefully not a cat. It's not cancer. You don't die from it you just live a crappy life with it as it accompanies you every damn place you go. Unless you are in remission. Oh and there's no cure. And get this, they have no idea what causes it! See, all the research money goes to AIDS, a disease you gotta work to get for the most part and let's avoid this road, come, take my hand as we make a tiny detour.
I've had it since puberty and blah blah blah in January of this craptastic year I ended up in the hospital to undergo surgery, the first time I'd had to do that. Then follow that with an infection in February and I spent a combined total of 2 weeks in a hospital bed with a phone that didn't have internet service. Pretty sure Hell blocks out all wifi access. Try it, go a few days with no internet. You shuddered just now, didn't you. Sorry.
In February I joined the social networking time sucking website known as
Finally my sister inserted her forceful self into the process, finding me a doctor that prescribed me Prednisone, a steroid. When I swallowed the first pill I weighed 108 pounds. By the time the prescription needed a refill I had gained 10 pounds and could taste food. But long term, the stuff is very bad for you so I am off of it now.
Got better sure, but then in October Crohn's flared and the drug I inject into my thigh or stomach doesn't work. So at year's end, I have more bad days than good. Also, I was on my ex wife's health insurance and on October 1st the coverage disappeared because she lost her job. A month later I signed off on divorce papers and after dropping them off at the Post Office, got into my truck to hear "Come Out And Play" on the radio which made me think this was the right thing.
About the time I was in the middle of taking the refill of the steroid I tried Twitter again and figured it out. It is something of a gobal chatroom and if you are reading this, chances are extremely good that you are on there. Yeah, okay, I see you waving, hello. Oh cool, you're here, and you, wow, didn't know you came here, thank you.
So I met and ontinue to meet some amazing people there. I even talked with
And no one close to me has died, and my nephew and his gf have treated me well since my return to this sunny place and my 13 year old truck still works great and golly life is wonderful or at least not too horrible and sometimes I make some pretty good food and often I enjoy eating it too and a few times there is no pain afterwords.
I took down one shed and put up another. I received a text from Ron Artest. I went to the beach a lot. I walked my dog. I felt an earthquake on my birthday and I read 37 books. And I started a blog, duh! and I've written a book...(if you add all the 13,000+ tweets together and assemble them onto numbered pages.) and I consider that a nice feat to have accomplished.
So I am tossing this year in that cardboard box over there, the one next to the roll of packing tape and after closing it up, shoving it in the garage. I see the box containing 2010 is at the door. I sense there are some great things in there amidst some bad things. But that's been the trend and I am old enough to accept it.
I hope your 2010 is filled with more good than bad, and slip some awesome in there too.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
New Orleans, Five Years Ago, And Today.
The Ghost of Christmas Future should have accompanied him five years ago this month. Did he know what he had? He thought he did. He didn't know, however, how easily it could leave him.
He drove south, to New Orleans, with his newlywed bride in the car passenger seat, sleeping. She always slept on car trips. Something about the motion of the car, the sensation, lulled her off to dreamland every time. This left him free to play whatever he wanted on the radio. The lush green trees on each side of Interstate 59 giving way to more and more swampland as they entered the area of Slidell, Louisiana. She awoke for this sight, for it wasn't something either of them had seen everyday.
Then crossing the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, a bridge seemingly without end. This being five years ago, it was pre-Katrina, and unsullied. Then: New Orleans, the huge stadium, the city, the aura; all compelling. He drove them to their hotel, The Hotel Monteleone, where they had reservations. A stunning hotel, awash in Christmas decorations and many posh displays of the holiday season all over town.
This was their honeymoon. And the Ghost should have told him to hold her hand more. Look at her more. Talk to her more. BE there with her. Treat her special, something.
They toured the city, the music live, vibrant, and ever present. Over the next two days they saw the Mississippi River up close, toured an outdoor market where she bartered for this or that item. They had beignet's, she had coffee, he, Coke. They ate lunch at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and thought it pretty decent, especially the waiter quizzing them on all the minutiae of the film, Forrest Gump. They dressed nicely for a romantic dinner in a candlelit restaurant where they sampled gumbo and etouffee.
They walked around a lot. Watching street performers, so many of these. Carriages pulled by horses. The Ghost would tell him, now, to grab one for her, but he did not. So many opportunities for romance, but the Ghost wasn't there to prod him into acting. The man took his bride for granted.
They attended a marvelous church choir celebration in a stunning church where a young couple who sat next to them told them their life stories, eager to be best friends, quickly. He and his bride chuckled over this. They visited an old used bookstore, each of them wandering off to different sections. They went to Central Grocery for a muffaletta sandwich, that he didn't care for as much as she did. And it was so large that they took it back to their room. They took a trolley around town.
They walked the city, night and day, avoiding Bourbon Street for it smelled pretty bad. They drank, but not overly so. And they loved. Overly so.
They took pictures, but now, five years later, he does not have these photos. So many rolls of film were rolling around in a junk drawer, the New Orleans roll added to it, they never got around to developing them. His bride may have them now, if so he would like to see the one of them, arm in arm, in front of the hotel Christmas Tree. But maybe it's best he doesn't see it. Yes, the Ghost of Christmas Future would tell him it's best he only has to deal with this image, the memories, only in his head, and not on photo paper. It's easier to forget them this way, and since he isn't listening to the Ghost about BEING there, soaking her in, learning to be with her, he doesn't deserve any memorobilia. Except for the coat with the hotel's logo on it she bought for him right before they checked out and headed for home.He will always have that.
The Ghost of Christmas Future could have told this man, five years ago, things that would have led him on a very different path. Or perhaps not. When we have the opportunity to do something over again, will we truly act any differently? Are second chances really all they're cracked up to be? Maybe the future unfolded the way it did for a reason, and any altering of it would alter other things, better things, that await us in the future. This is perhaps why we don't get any "do-overs". Why a future self can't whisper in your ear and advise you. Because you are going to do what you are going to do, no matter what, and you learn from these mistakes.
The man and his bride had a glorious time for their honeymoon in New Orleans five years ago. From then it got worse, until the inevitable heartbreak happened. But the memory brings smiles. And given opportunity, the path probably wouldn't have been altered, so enjoy what was. And learn. And go forward with that knowledge, using it in the future, so that a trip with someone else is a memory both can look back on and smile. Together. As they hold a photo album. Of photos that have been developed. With captions. And flair. Because it's nice to have memories somewhere other than in your head.
He drove south, to New Orleans, with his newlywed bride in the car passenger seat, sleeping. She always slept on car trips. Something about the motion of the car, the sensation, lulled her off to dreamland every time. This left him free to play whatever he wanted on the radio. The lush green trees on each side of Interstate 59 giving way to more and more swampland as they entered the area of Slidell, Louisiana. She awoke for this sight, for it wasn't something either of them had seen everyday.
Then crossing the bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, a bridge seemingly without end. This being five years ago, it was pre-Katrina, and unsullied. Then: New Orleans, the huge stadium, the city, the aura; all compelling. He drove them to their hotel, The Hotel Monteleone, where they had reservations. A stunning hotel, awash in Christmas decorations and many posh displays of the holiday season all over town.
This was their honeymoon. And the Ghost should have told him to hold her hand more. Look at her more. Talk to her more. BE there with her. Treat her special, something.
They toured the city, the music live, vibrant, and ever present. Over the next two days they saw the Mississippi River up close, toured an outdoor market where she bartered for this or that item. They had beignet's, she had coffee, he, Coke. They ate lunch at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and thought it pretty decent, especially the waiter quizzing them on all the minutiae of the film, Forrest Gump. They dressed nicely for a romantic dinner in a candlelit restaurant where they sampled gumbo and etouffee.
They walked around a lot. Watching street performers, so many of these. Carriages pulled by horses. The Ghost would tell him, now, to grab one for her, but he did not. So many opportunities for romance, but the Ghost wasn't there to prod him into acting. The man took his bride for granted.
They attended a marvelous church choir celebration in a stunning church where a young couple who sat next to them told them their life stories, eager to be best friends, quickly. He and his bride chuckled over this. They visited an old used bookstore, each of them wandering off to different sections. They went to Central Grocery for a muffaletta sandwich, that he didn't care for as much as she did. And it was so large that they took it back to their room. They took a trolley around town.
They walked the city, night and day, avoiding Bourbon Street for it smelled pretty bad. They drank, but not overly so. And they loved. Overly so.
They took pictures, but now, five years later, he does not have these photos. So many rolls of film were rolling around in a junk drawer, the New Orleans roll added to it, they never got around to developing them. His bride may have them now, if so he would like to see the one of them, arm in arm, in front of the hotel Christmas Tree. But maybe it's best he doesn't see it. Yes, the Ghost of Christmas Future would tell him it's best he only has to deal with this image, the memories, only in his head, and not on photo paper. It's easier to forget them this way, and since he isn't listening to the Ghost about BEING there, soaking her in, learning to be with her, he doesn't deserve any memorobilia. Except for the coat with the hotel's logo on it she bought for him right before they checked out and headed for home.He will always have that.
The Ghost of Christmas Future could have told this man, five years ago, things that would have led him on a very different path. Or perhaps not. When we have the opportunity to do something over again, will we truly act any differently? Are second chances really all they're cracked up to be? Maybe the future unfolded the way it did for a reason, and any altering of it would alter other things, better things, that await us in the future. This is perhaps why we don't get any "do-overs". Why a future self can't whisper in your ear and advise you. Because you are going to do what you are going to do, no matter what, and you learn from these mistakes.
The man and his bride had a glorious time for their honeymoon in New Orleans five years ago. From then it got worse, until the inevitable heartbreak happened. But the memory brings smiles. And given opportunity, the path probably wouldn't have been altered, so enjoy what was. And learn. And go forward with that knowledge, using it in the future, so that a trip with someone else is a memory both can look back on and smile. Together. As they hold a photo album. Of photos that have been developed. With captions. And flair. Because it's nice to have memories somewhere other than in your head.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
A redneck dog goes Hollywood
This is my dog, JJ. Today is JJ's birthday. Maybe. Who knows, it very well could be. My ex wife (let's refer to her as Ivy from here on out) got him when he was just a puppy from a woman who took in rescue dogs and gave them out to homes she felt would treat the dog right. He was a few months old when we got him and he instantly became attached to me, for I am something of a dog whisperer Jr.
JJ is half black lab, and half whatever you want. People have said they see everything from pit bull to German Shepherd in his features. After much family discussion the name "Coffee" arose and nearly stuck, but I dislike coffee, the beverage and the name, so thought "Java" a cooler, hipper moniker. And because I am a writer, I had to edit the name by adding "Joe" to it and though, "Java Joe" is nice, "JJ" stuck for good. (Technically he is "JJJ" because my last name is Johnson, but let's not get out of hand.
JJ is a big baby, scared of many things, but his deep bark betrays this. He does not do kisses, saving any licking for himself, I suppose. Generally quiet, he is also good at whining. If you know of a home for JJ...just kidding, I had begun to sound like I was selling him or listing his qualities to give him away. You can't have him. Born in Alabama means he has a penchant for eating a lot. He goes through the Purina One like crazy, and really likes table scraps, comfort food y'all. He killed a possum the other night, but didn't eat it. Was waiting for someone to fix it with sausage gravy I assume.
When going through incredibly difficult times a year before I left Alabama, it sometimes felt as if JJ was my only friend there. I made the 2000+ mile drive from Alabama to California with him riding shotgun in my truck. Also, some doggy tranquilizers were involved. Some I even gave to JJ. He became accustomed to the hours long drive each day and, though he was obviously confused, he was relatively hopeful too. Mirroring my own outlook by the way.
He lives at my sister's house now and they all have welcomed him into their home. He appears happy and after a year here, still sees me as his pack leader, even though I only see him once a week at best. The weather is nicer here and a lot sunnier, so he has to wear sunglasses, just like a true Californian. No I don't have pictures of that. He is adapting well and for that I am glad. Merry Christmas JJ.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
What Twtr means 2 me.
Allow me to demonstrate, through metaphor, my experience thus far with the microblogging website, Twitter. Imagine Twitter as a giant party you invite yourself to, the partygoers only people you want there. The only gatecrashers are people who quote non-partygoers and singer Britney Spears chowing down on someone's knee.
At first the room in which the party is being held is empty. People who don't 'get' Twitter place celebrities at their party and make a few comments about the room. The celebrities don't talk to them and they leave declaring Twitter, "stupid". I did this myself, at the start. Why I came back I don't know. But I did.
I used the Find User option and added names. Just names. Then I read what these people were saying. Soon, my party had a lot of people. The ones who never talked to me were escorted out. Here's an analogy: There's a room with millions of people, all with their back turned to you. You tap them on the shoulder (hit Follow) and they turn towards you and you can hear what they are saying. They cannot hear you until they tap you on your shoulder. Now you can, potentially, talk with them, have drinks, dance, whatever you like, it's a party.
Soon, many people are tapping your shoulder and the party gets interesting. Sometimes people laugh at what you say, sometimes you laugh. Mostly, though, you connect with people. People you never knew existed.
You can wear a mask at your party or you can dance completely naked. The extremes with which people are willing to share runs the gamut. I have chosen to be myself, generally. The best, wittiest version of myself. Outside of the party you would find me somewhat inhibited, more guarded. But at my party I try to put the lampshade on my head and sing bad karaoke. It helps to take me away from a downward spiralling life.
A few partygoers have touched me deeply. THIS is the surprise of Twitter, to me. I've been involved in social media for 15 years in the form of message boards and Yahoo chatrooms. I even met my ex wife in a chatroom, which should tell you a lot about me. Some of my closest friends are people I've never met, face to face.
I have enjoyed the company of many partygoers. Isn't this why we go to parties? For social interaction? For a good time?
No.
That is to say, not necessarily. Some people come to the party to sell something; a product line, a blog, book, service, or even themselves. Some people only want attention. Slap a star on their forehead and they're happy. And that's all great. Good for them. Sell, sell, sell.
I follow some people like this. But I think most people are at the party to connect with someone. This isn't bad, for, as I stated earlier, the party has millions of potential guests, so there's a lot of potential for reward. I have connected with a few. Some I didn't expect to connect with. Maybe you yourself have been surprised at the level of closeness you have developed for one or another partygoer. You dance well together, in perfect step, to a tune you both enjoy. When he/she talks to you, you know there's something special going on.
But it's just a party. It's not real life. And the partygoers aren't there for you. The music has to stop sometimes and the dancing, the incredible dancing, ends. And it's no one's fault, really. But you need to step outside and take a break. Reevaluate things. Having fun at the party... is it worth it when you can't take the dancer home? And it's sure as hell not fun when you can't dance with her at your own party.
If you think this blog post is about you, you're right. You can read yourself into most things.
At first the room in which the party is being held is empty. People who don't 'get' Twitter place celebrities at their party and make a few comments about the room. The celebrities don't talk to them and they leave declaring Twitter, "stupid". I did this myself, at the start. Why I came back I don't know. But I did.
I used the Find User option and added names. Just names. Then I read what these people were saying. Soon, my party had a lot of people. The ones who never talked to me were escorted out. Here's an analogy: There's a room with millions of people, all with their back turned to you. You tap them on the shoulder (hit Follow) and they turn towards you and you can hear what they are saying. They cannot hear you until they tap you on your shoulder. Now you can, potentially, talk with them, have drinks, dance, whatever you like, it's a party.
Soon, many people are tapping your shoulder and the party gets interesting. Sometimes people laugh at what you say, sometimes you laugh. Mostly, though, you connect with people. People you never knew existed.
You can wear a mask at your party or you can dance completely naked. The extremes with which people are willing to share runs the gamut. I have chosen to be myself, generally. The best, wittiest version of myself. Outside of the party you would find me somewhat inhibited, more guarded. But at my party I try to put the lampshade on my head and sing bad karaoke. It helps to take me away from a downward spiralling life.
A few partygoers have touched me deeply. THIS is the surprise of Twitter, to me. I've been involved in social media for 15 years in the form of message boards and Yahoo chatrooms. I even met my ex wife in a chatroom, which should tell you a lot about me. Some of my closest friends are people I've never met, face to face.
I have enjoyed the company of many partygoers. Isn't this why we go to parties? For social interaction? For a good time?
No.
That is to say, not necessarily. Some people come to the party to sell something; a product line, a blog, book, service, or even themselves. Some people only want attention. Slap a star on their forehead and they're happy. And that's all great. Good for them. Sell, sell, sell.
I follow some people like this. But I think most people are at the party to connect with someone. This isn't bad, for, as I stated earlier, the party has millions of potential guests, so there's a lot of potential for reward. I have connected with a few. Some I didn't expect to connect with. Maybe you yourself have been surprised at the level of closeness you have developed for one or another partygoer. You dance well together, in perfect step, to a tune you both enjoy. When he/she talks to you, you know there's something special going on.
But it's just a party. It's not real life. And the partygoers aren't there for you. The music has to stop sometimes and the dancing, the incredible dancing, ends. And it's no one's fault, really. But you need to step outside and take a break. Reevaluate things. Having fun at the party... is it worth it when you can't take the dancer home? And it's sure as hell not fun when you can't dance with her at your own party.
If you think this blog post is about you, you're right. You can read yourself into most things.
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