Welcome to the world inside my head. Welcome to the dreams I have, the thoughts I think, and the stories I hope to weave. In a recent conversation with a good friend I was asked "What did I want to do?" And if I wasn't doing something to further that dream then he had no time for my daydreaming. I got a little put off, but then I realized I agreed. I think in my head all the time that I would love to be a story teller. I would love to weave out tales of fiction that entertain and expand the imagination. But until I start actually putting thoughts onto paper (or online), then I can't bitch to a damn person about how unfulfilling everything else is.
So here's my plan. I'm going to write. I know, simple right? Ha! I'm also going to face my biggest fear in writing and just throw the damn stuff out there. Not going to edit, or go for length, or even care if it makes sense (ok, I can't lie, I will care, but I will work really, really hard to not let it show). And I'm not going to set a ridiculous goal like a page a day for myself. Hell, after this long I know at least better than that. Instead I'm going for a page a week. Straight outta my brain and into some random document to be uploaded here. And then sometime around now 2011 I'll come back and read all the random ass things my brain had to say. I'd love if you'd join me on the adventure.
Take a peek, let me know if you like it or hate it or have no opinion at all or even if you simply read it. Just throw a "Hey There!" comment up to show your imaginary online person passed my imaginary online person in the night.
Hopefully I'll keep it up. Hopefully you'll keep coming back to see. And most of all, hopefully I can twist something out of my imagination that will awaken yours.
Oh, and the weird ass date at the top is so that this post will stay as an introduction post and all else will fall below.
Cheers
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Snow Days: January 7, 2010
Jim stared out the window as the snow fell to the ground in lazy sweeping circles. His cane leaned up against the table as his tea cooled in front of him. Outside kids ran in snowsuits through the drifts in front of his house. Slowly he opened up his morning medication tray, his fingers not being as able as they used to be. Counting out the daily pills he lined them up in front of him and tried to remember what each one was for. Some were for his heart, others to thicken his blood once the heart ones did their work thinning it out. Some raised his cholesterol in an attempt to keep his knees from locking and others brought the cholesterol back down. Some were simply food fillers to make up for whatever they thought he was missing that week.
Sighing he started the daily routine of taking his morning meds. A routine that sometimes seemed to last until it was lunch and time for another round. Whether it took so long because there were so many pills, or because his hands were so slow, or because they truly had figured out how to randomly adjust time, he was never sure.
Halfway through the line of green, white, and yellow that laid in front of him Jim was brought out of his contemplations by the slam of a door from outside. The neighborhood kids had emerged from their safe, warm houses to build forts and a snowball fight had ensued. The kids were laughing and running gleefully around the white blanketed yards. Jim smiled as he recollected his own child hood and his own all-neighborhood snowball fights.
In his day it seemed there were more kinds of snow than he knew words for. There was the packing snow that was so great for snowballs, the fluffy layers that begged to be flopped into for snow angels and devils, the loose film that would fly up from under the sled on a good hill. There was the snow that fell in layers almost like lawn turf that rolled right back up into huge balls for snowmen, women, and families. Jim’s favorite was to make snow dogs running throughout the haphazard families that emerged after a good, thick fall.
On days when it snowed enough to tug the soul, but not enough to cancel class at the local school house he remembered his fathers stories of trudging in drifts 10 times as high, uphill, both ways to his school. And Jim remembered telling the same tales to his own children and grandchildren.
On days when snow shut down the world of adults, when the school house was closed and shops remained dark, Jim would bundle up in everything he owned and run outside, marveling at his good fortune. Unaware of the strain and hassle his parents felt, he raced from house to house picking up friends and allies in the upcoming snow fights. He once built a fort that to this day he swore was taller than his own house.
Jim was halfway through the memory of that fort, could almost feel the crispness of the wind against his cheek as he climbed higher and higher to add levels when a scream pulled him from his memory. Outside a child had lost one of his gloves in the giddiness of play. Through the full helmet, through the protective layers of glass and neoprene covering the child’s head, the scream pierced through Jim’s heart. As the flakes fell on the unprotected skin of the small boy’s hand they burned one by one through the delicate skin. The child ran towards cover, any cover, he could find. A door, maybe his own, maybe a neighbor, opened and admitted the terrified boy. Gave him respite from the deadly acidic snow. But not before Jim saw the welted, red, hand, and what he prayed was not a piece of bone. Jim turned back to his line of medications and slowly began the routine once again of trying to finish his morning pills. And he wondered what tales these children would be able to tell their grandchildren of their own snow days.
Sighing he started the daily routine of taking his morning meds. A routine that sometimes seemed to last until it was lunch and time for another round. Whether it took so long because there were so many pills, or because his hands were so slow, or because they truly had figured out how to randomly adjust time, he was never sure.
Halfway through the line of green, white, and yellow that laid in front of him Jim was brought out of his contemplations by the slam of a door from outside. The neighborhood kids had emerged from their safe, warm houses to build forts and a snowball fight had ensued. The kids were laughing and running gleefully around the white blanketed yards. Jim smiled as he recollected his own child hood and his own all-neighborhood snowball fights.
In his day it seemed there were more kinds of snow than he knew words for. There was the packing snow that was so great for snowballs, the fluffy layers that begged to be flopped into for snow angels and devils, the loose film that would fly up from under the sled on a good hill. There was the snow that fell in layers almost like lawn turf that rolled right back up into huge balls for snowmen, women, and families. Jim’s favorite was to make snow dogs running throughout the haphazard families that emerged after a good, thick fall.
On days when it snowed enough to tug the soul, but not enough to cancel class at the local school house he remembered his fathers stories of trudging in drifts 10 times as high, uphill, both ways to his school. And Jim remembered telling the same tales to his own children and grandchildren.
On days when snow shut down the world of adults, when the school house was closed and shops remained dark, Jim would bundle up in everything he owned and run outside, marveling at his good fortune. Unaware of the strain and hassle his parents felt, he raced from house to house picking up friends and allies in the upcoming snow fights. He once built a fort that to this day he swore was taller than his own house.
Jim was halfway through the memory of that fort, could almost feel the crispness of the wind against his cheek as he climbed higher and higher to add levels when a scream pulled him from his memory. Outside a child had lost one of his gloves in the giddiness of play. Through the full helmet, through the protective layers of glass and neoprene covering the child’s head, the scream pierced through Jim’s heart. As the flakes fell on the unprotected skin of the small boy’s hand they burned one by one through the delicate skin. The child ran towards cover, any cover, he could find. A door, maybe his own, maybe a neighbor, opened and admitted the terrified boy. Gave him respite from the deadly acidic snow. But not before Jim saw the welted, red, hand, and what he prayed was not a piece of bone. Jim turned back to his line of medications and slowly began the routine once again of trying to finish his morning pills. And he wondered what tales these children would be able to tell their grandchildren of their own snow days.
Untitled: January 7, 2010
She still felt unsure and confused after so many lifetimes of learning from those around her. Just when she thought she understood, a new mores or value would crop up in her face and tumble her backwards down the slope of understanding like damn Sisyphus and his boulder.
The basics she had down. Eating, working, finding shelter. That she had managed eons ago. It was the interaction with those around her that confounded her senses and made her distrust herself and her beliefs. It was this concept of a romantic relationship that eluded her completely.
She stared wistfully at the trees of the park across from her house and thought of home. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d been there. Wasn’t sure how the passage of time differed here from there. But she still had the longing in the deep, dark spots within her. The longing she was unable to shake no matter how many times she woke up new and crying in this world.
In her world love and sex were not tied together like they were here. There was no mandatory relationship cord that had to be tied politically, legislatively, emotionally, or financially. To the people here it would be like linking…. like linking… oranges and rocket ships. They just didn’t have anything to do with one another. Sometimes their paths crossed but they were neither connected nor dependent. Love in her world was warm, comforting, ever flowing like a river around you. Keeping you safe, keeping you content. It came from all sources. It had no limit of abundance or beginning of source. Sex also flowed just as freely. You found physical comfort from those around you when you were interested in them and they you. There was no shame. Sometimes people settled down into long term partnerships of friendships with sexual lovers on the side. Sometimes people found in their best friends a longing for physical connection. Sometimes people found one other to meet that physical need and settled with them. Sometimes people found they had no physical need.
But here, here on this planet she was tied to for so long, here there were so many layers of complications. Words like monogamous, and homo or hetero sexual, and player or whore, which made her head hurt to try and comprehend. She would sit in the back of the tavern and watch as young couples so unhappy with each other would fight and yell and bare their souls for the world to steal, all over their difference in the idea of commitment.
She had seen this behavior repeat throughout the ages. She had arrived here many, many ideas ago, and had lived a thousand-thousand lifetimes with these people. She grew and learned with each culture and saw the same frustrating patterns emerge each time. And each time she aged and tried to hold on to the knowledge that she gained, but each time she was born the link was broken. She remembered who she was and knew that she was reborn. She had memories of her past lives and still had the ache for home. But the key to human interaction, the answer to the riddle of love and sex and life, that left her at the end of each life. That abandonment forced her to go through it again and again, mis-stepping and blindly fumbling her way through. Hoping to do it right one time. Hoping to not offend or hurt these people around her that she did truly come to love. For she figured her key for going home would be to do this once just right.
So she waited. She waited and she learned. She waited and she failed. But mostly she just kept waiting.
The basics she had down. Eating, working, finding shelter. That she had managed eons ago. It was the interaction with those around her that confounded her senses and made her distrust herself and her beliefs. It was this concept of a romantic relationship that eluded her completely.
She stared wistfully at the trees of the park across from her house and thought of home. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d been there. Wasn’t sure how the passage of time differed here from there. But she still had the longing in the deep, dark spots within her. The longing she was unable to shake no matter how many times she woke up new and crying in this world.
In her world love and sex were not tied together like they were here. There was no mandatory relationship cord that had to be tied politically, legislatively, emotionally, or financially. To the people here it would be like linking…. like linking… oranges and rocket ships. They just didn’t have anything to do with one another. Sometimes their paths crossed but they were neither connected nor dependent. Love in her world was warm, comforting, ever flowing like a river around you. Keeping you safe, keeping you content. It came from all sources. It had no limit of abundance or beginning of source. Sex also flowed just as freely. You found physical comfort from those around you when you were interested in them and they you. There was no shame. Sometimes people settled down into long term partnerships of friendships with sexual lovers on the side. Sometimes people found in their best friends a longing for physical connection. Sometimes people found one other to meet that physical need and settled with them. Sometimes people found they had no physical need.
But here, here on this planet she was tied to for so long, here there were so many layers of complications. Words like monogamous, and homo or hetero sexual, and player or whore, which made her head hurt to try and comprehend. She would sit in the back of the tavern and watch as young couples so unhappy with each other would fight and yell and bare their souls for the world to steal, all over their difference in the idea of commitment.
She had seen this behavior repeat throughout the ages. She had arrived here many, many ideas ago, and had lived a thousand-thousand lifetimes with these people. She grew and learned with each culture and saw the same frustrating patterns emerge each time. And each time she aged and tried to hold on to the knowledge that she gained, but each time she was born the link was broken. She remembered who she was and knew that she was reborn. She had memories of her past lives and still had the ache for home. But the key to human interaction, the answer to the riddle of love and sex and life, that left her at the end of each life. That abandonment forced her to go through it again and again, mis-stepping and blindly fumbling her way through. Hoping to do it right one time. Hoping to not offend or hurt these people around her that she did truly come to love. For she figured her key for going home would be to do this once just right.
So she waited. She waited and she learned. She waited and she failed. But mostly she just kept waiting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)