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My friend is a writer. He is an honest to god amazing writer. I read his work and wonder how he does it. How he is able to take his ideas, set them with proper grammar, with excellent spelling and punctuation. To me, he innately knows how to write. The process appears involuntary, like breathing.
"Use and interpret your dreams," he says to me. "If you have said something, you can say it again. Just differently this time."
I don't tell him I feel pale in my writing. I don't show my jealousy for his talent. I just start typing.
The derailed train sinks quickly in to the ocean. Against my will, I am heading for the very bottom of this body of water. Looking out the back window as the water deepens over me, I realize I will soon drown. What are my chances of swimming for the surface? Forcing open the last door and leaving the sinking train.
I'll hold my breath as long as I possibly can. Eventually I will need to breathe in, but not air; water will fill up my lungs. What will it feel like? All my life breathing air, to suddenly breathe water.
What is next? What the FUCK is next for me?
I look at the board but don't see the next move.
Have I worked myself to a stalemate?
Patiently I wait for your move, but you make none.
There is no clock forcing you forward.
It could be any day now. The next few weeks could pass.
A year could go by while I wait.
Rotting. I feeling like I am rotting away.
My ability to enjoy groups of other people has now totally left me.
I could tolerate crowds. Now, I avoid them when I can.
My Mother use to wander out to the side yard to feed the birds. Whenever she noticed the bird seed was low in the feeder, she'd slip on her boots or my father's, get the bucket of seeds, and fill the feeder.
Now, when I use the term "whenever" I mean, regardless of her state of dress or time of day. One morning, before breakfast, in the middle of winter, in her night gown with nothing underneath. She didn't wear a coat, scarf or mittens. She seemed to get off on the cold air. "It's vigorous out there," she stated.
I'm dropping out, man!
(yes, I know it is only 40 some-odd years too late)
Send my correspondence care of no-one to no-where.
This world don't want me no more.
I've been trying to stay positive 'bout my situation.
It ain't me! Its all you!
Don't go tryin' to persuade me otherwise.
I know the truth!
So, I'll take my ball and go home.
Go on! Play with out me. I know you have been.
It ain't that I don't want to play,
Rather, the world don't want to play with me.
A ten to six the radio turns on. The business report says the economy is in the shitter again. Then Andy Barry is kibitzing with Jill Dempsey again. Something about his dog and the weather.
He lies on his side, asleep. As she turns over, her body curls down along his back. She feels the cotton against her bare breasts, a mix of textures her sheet and his pajamas.
Her body is too warm against his. She sighs, shifts and rolls away from him towards the sunlit window. The radio voices drone on. News. Weather. Traffic. She drifts off again.
The weigher of hearts
Once know as Charon, his job was re-purposed with the fall of the gods to the monotheists. You'll meet him at the end of this life. He's before the pearly gates or flaming pits, depending on which way you're going. Not the corporeal heart, the spiritual heart he examines and weights.
It twists in his hands like a precious diamond. His fingers run along the old and new scars. All the loves and hurts pour out, read and understood by the man.
After, he longingly sighs and places each heart in a little labeled glass jar.
"I haven't seen this much snow in decades!"
My 11 year old niece emails me a YouTube video.
The money is plentiful enough to buy company stocks.
Cynicism has deeply settled in.
Advice is given when asked, and there is experience behind it.
Fully developed as a very Dirty Minded Woman.
White hair has started to invade the regular colour.
I know better, but don't care.
Colleagues see me as "professional."
A big ticket item is anything over $1000.
Birthdays no longer matter, but depress me.
Seeing through or accepting the bullshit.
No black or white, just grey.
Conversations with The Idiot
This is a classic translation, published in 1970. My girlfriend, years ago, was reading this version. I wonder this could have been hers.
Could be, I bought it used.
I read that in high school. I should read it again. Wasn't the guy always looking for money to pay off his gambling debts?
It is very different to re-read a book as an adult.
Dostoevsky is quite a change of pace from Harry Potter, isn't it?
That's an appropriate book for you. You could have written it.
I'm more a fool than an idiot.
In a two bedroom apartment, you wonder why I'm crass...
Honey, come here a minute.
First (gentile) response: I'm in the bathroom, just a minute, sweetie.
Honey, I've got something to show you!
Second response: I'm in the can. Hold on!
Third (you didn't hear the first two) response: Waaa? I'm IN THE BATHROOM.
Honey, where are you?
Fourth response (door finally ajar): I'm IN THE BATHROOM. WHAT DO YOU WANT??
Fifth (what the fuck) response: WHAT IN HELL DO YOU WANT? I'm TRYING to take a SHIT here!
Oh, why are you ALWAYS so crude??
Scene in an apartment living room
Is that real people or porn?
Must be porn. No gal sounds like that. But, why would he play it so loud?
Well, its Valentine's day and all. Guess if he lives alone and...
Does louder porn make it better porn?
[both listen intently]
Wait. Are they pressed up against the door?
Those are real people fucking. No way. No. No. That is porn!
That is our neighbour fucking his girlfriend.
I can't believe she actually makes those noises.Those moans sound so fake, like she's watched too much porn.
God! That's hot.
I take for granted that my body obeys. Wake up. Get up. No aches. I've been told I'm not of "that age" where you start to really feel those things. They're still a few years off. I'm in control of pretty much all that my body can do. Limits are there, my own physicality, but I know where the boundaries are.
I fear the days when I am no longer in as much control and secrets grow inside me unseen and undetected. I cringe when I hear his seizures are caused by brain lesions. I fear what I can't see.
my red hair comes from a box of dye. Raunchy Red its called.
I learned all about sex from watching porn.
When I die, I'll be sainted.
I always drive my car fast and hard.
Heroin was no big deal to quit. But, don't ask me to give up coffee or cigarettes.
I've read ever volume of the entire Oxford English Dictionary.
I'm built for speed not for endurance.
I was once told I was the most shitty lay.
I'm never depressed. Life is roses, but I cant survive without alcohol and painkillers.
God damn I'm fine.
I want to quit this writing project. I started writing this month, thinking it would be hard to come up with enough topics to really do it justice. There is now more to write about then I care to, on a topic that I want to avoid. But, this is the perfect forum for this, because there is now no one left who I can talk to about it. Just as I was starting to control the tail spin my life was taking, I've lost control. All I can do now is wait to hit the bottom of the spiral.
Yesterday he cut off all my hair. It isn't a "boy" cut; nor have I given in to that ongoing desire to shave my head, but seventy-five percent of my hair is gone. It is deceptive. Long in the front, very very short in the back. As he went at my hair with the straight razor, I didn't feel the loss. I almost asked him to make it shorter, but deferred to his expertise in his craft.
It wasn't until he'd finished, with the hair products, straightening iron and blow-dryer, that I truly could see all that I had lost.
Always suspect the quite ones. They have something they are hiding from you. Good or bad in their intention, they are lost in thought and hiding from you. If they confessed what was on their minds, it would probably shock or upset you, or both. They know this. If they are good "actors" their faces will not betray the nature of their thoughts.
What I am trying to impart to you is this; you should just let well enough alone. You don't want to know what they are really thinking. If they really wanted you to know they'd tell you.
My mind is as blank as this page. There is no page. My mind is as blank as this screen. The screen is not blank. There is a formatting bar, icons, logos, fonts, styles, and such. Far from blank. My mind is as blank as this section of the screen. White. All I see is pure whiteness. The whiteness is blankness. The mind is not blank or white. If I close my eyes I see blackishness. Then the blackness is blankness. If my eyes are open they are processing all that is before them.
FINE! I can't fucking write anything!
The shopping carts at Cost-co are huge. Let's say, for argument's sake here, they are one and a half times bigger than your average grocery store cart. The past two Mondays there is a guy who buys an entire cart of milk - the three baggers of milk. So, say the bottom of the cart holds 15 bags of milk, plus the ones stacked on top (another 15) times 3. That is 90 bags of milk - if each three bagger is 4 litres then he's buying 120 litres of milk. What is he doing with all that milk, huh?
Officially, procedures were implemented at the onset. When the new computer equipment was installed, it was studied. A policy was set and the procedures for operation were established. The operating system was divided and password protected. Rest times, shutdown, restarts and hibernation were tested to ensure the integrity of the information.
The Internet software was tested for its fitness and weaknesses. Again, policies and procedures were established to ensure that the information sent and received would be kept safe and secure. The reason behind these processes, procedures and their implementation and continued observance is to ensure I don't get caught.
Standing in a cafeteria line, behind the glass a young Asian man cooks strips of bacon on a large griddle. Instead of ordering, I ask the man about his car. He tells me it is a tuner* car - a Honda. "Which make?" I ask, though I do not wait for his reply. "My ultimate tuner car would be a Civic hatchback," I say. He nods and continues to cook the bacon.
*Tuner car: is a stock model Japanese car that is augmented to give the impression of higher performance than the standard model. Also known as a "rice burner."
The other night, I has come out of one of those snooty restaurants down on Bloor street and was walking through the back alley to my car. Sure, I'd had a couple. Shouldn't have been driving, but that ain't my point here. The point is, someone held a gun to my head. Pushed me down on my knees. I'm all prepared, at this point, to fork over the cell phone, my wallet and the gold wedding band. They could have it all!
"Do you feel you've accomplished all you've wanted to in your life?"
"Whatthe FUCK? Here. Take my wallet!"
The good news is I was able to work an extra six months.
The bad news is I still ended up out of work.
The good news is the government will pay me until I can find a job.
The bad news is they won't pay me much and for only 5 months.
The good news is, well, I don't know any more.
The bad news is, I know what to do with the time I have.
There is no good news, just bad news.
Years and years of bad news, bad jobs, family problems.
It never seems to end.
Days like today make me feel like I will never create anything again. Empty head. Empty heart. Numbness permeates and seals off the creativity. I don't want to struggle. Fight. Fight. My mind blanks again and again. Why do you hide from me?
Some of my friends inspire me. I feed of their creativity. I worry not how they interpret me. Some friends dry it up. I'm nervous in their presence, second guessing everything I say. How are they judging me?
All this does not explain today. I am alone, not judged or accepted. Focus. Focus. There must be something...
Two teeth in a plastic sleeve. Pulled out over twenty years ago. Two permanent teeth that weren't. Long full grown roots slightly rougher than the exposed enamel parts, some dried blood remains. Why were these perfect teeth removed and placed in this sleeve?
Studying a dental chart indicates that these are the two first bicuspids, extraneous teeth. Not extraneous in the way that wisdom teeth are extraneous, but similar in concept. The average person wouldn't notice they were gone. The smile looks the same.
Orthodontics caused their removal. A small mouth needing room during the creation of a perfect smile.
I use to shower first thing in the morning. Woke me up. I don't do that any more. In a good week I'll shower two or three times, my hair gets greasy and flat. Sometimes I really don't smell good. If I have to be out of the house, then I'll make some effort to clean myself up. I'd may be even put on clean underwear and jeans. Sure, I've been house-bound before, but I've never taken it to this level of sloth. I would at least take a fucking shower every day before I parked myself on the couch.
Wanted a new desk. Nothing affordable was found.
Cleaned off the dining room table. Wouldn't fit in the back.
Door was to narrow and it was too wide.
Filled the space perfect with no room to move.
What the fuck to do?
The two old desks were going to go the trash.
Exchange of functions and exchange of positions.
This goes there. That goes here.
Small desk for a small computer.
Big desk for components, television and printer.
A new desk would have been the best.
The changes make for better functionality.
I don't hit my knees any more.
Come to the first class ready to paint. I'm scared. Do I need to provide my own inspiration as I provide my own painting supplies. Wait! Do I have enough stretched canvases? I should withdraw. Make your own still life from the stuff in your pockets or what is in your purse. Would anyone be offended if I painted a still life of tampons or would maxi-pads be a better muse? My cellular phone and wallet, while cool looking, should not be my inspiration. I know I'll be judged on my choice. What does your still life say about you?
What is bort?
Definition: (source Wikipedia) refers to shards of gem quality diamonds. Often these are used by industry to make abrasive grit.
Definition: (source Mirriam-Webster) Can also refer to imperfect crystallized diamond fragments. Probably from the Dutch boort.
What is bork?
Definition: (source MSN Encarta): to block senate confirmation of a judicial candidate.
There are other words I don't know such as TAE, RAX (and RAXES). To win at the game you have to memorize these odd words. Only by recalling thesm, at the correct moment, can you get the BIG POINTS.
My friend plays one of these antiquated computer games. It is one of those where you can rename all the players on your team. His team consists of his friends. His girlfriend is a scientist who works in the lab creating new explosives and such. She is safe and far away from the action. She has delicate sensibilities.
Conversely, I am a sniper. I'm in on the action, but at a safe distance from it. His justification for me is that I am a strong force for good that can handle the rigors of being out in the field.
Where did you put my CD?
Did you throw out my game instructions?
What did you do to the car?
Are you sure you haven't thrown away that receipt?
Where did you put that game I had out the other day?
The first thing on his mind is an accusation. Not a self accusation. Where did I put that (fill in blank)? But where did she put it?
I get tired of responding. Most of the time, I haven't done anything. The accusation creates doubts. May be I moved it. As for the car - how would I know?
If you are reading this I made it through the month. By some chance, I actually had something to say. No, it isn't all that creative. Most of the topics are bitches I have with different people or different situations. I can't help it if it is boring or unoriginal or poorly written. At least things aren't spelled wrong, except for maybe BORK - the computer dictionary doesn't like that word.
So, the question is, if you are reading this, should I continue? Can I cobble together another 30 some odd days of 100 words? Maybe yes. Maybe no.
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