[this is a break from the story already in progress...which kinda ran out of steam...it does go somewhere though...i promise]
"I'd tell a story but no one'd listen that long"
It is now months later since the rambling, barely adequate narrative you've been reading. I could briefly explain how it turns out and what happened afterwards, but that would spoil things. I will say that following that incident McCready began appearing to me (and unfortunately, ONLY me) right here in the waking world. Strange things occurred in the months since then. Massive and spine-disintegrating truths were revealed. Betrayals. Heartbreak. Worlds colliding. And somehow McCready wound up stuck inside my head with me. And not by choice. Yes, not by choice. How do we explain that one to them, McCready? You don't. Let them stumble around in the dark, I don't have the patience to explain things to children. Unless you think I look like a schoolteacher? Yeah, you could teach school. You could teach 5th grade and Hitler could have the kindergarten. I really feel like I should have met this Hitler before...maybe I have. Stop it, you're going to scare everybody away. Screw them. Okay, moving on...
McCready, for reasons we won't get into right now, lost his ability to frolic in our world in a physical sense. We're working on getting him his own place. Hey, maybe on the bad part of town - near a strip club, right McCready? No, how about near a nursery school. Or an animal shelter. Thankfully I can still see when you're smiling even inside my head, so I know you're just joking. I wasn't joking about the animal shelter.
Alright, McCready - where should I begin? What should I tell them? Everything?
Do you really need to tell anybody anything?
You know I do.
Well, then maybe you should leave out all the crap about Lilly because I also know you're going to want to babble on about that for 800 pages and I think I'll just start puking now and get it over with if that's going to be the case!
Would you feel better if I drank something?
Couldn't hurt.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
"this is the world we live in"
When I entered the light in the hallway, Jack was gone. And I was no longer being propelled along by my own locomotion. Instead the walls, shadows, and soon everything from houses and trees began to just slip by me, like I was encapsulated by a bubble of soap, just easing its way through existence. And then I saw the giant Phil Collins puppet-head nodding in time to "Land of Confusion" while a chorus of bunny rabbits sang and clapped along. I was surprisingly calm about the whole thing.
Now sinking, my mind was glad to see Phil Collins' grinning mug disappear somewhere above me in what should have been the living room of Lilly's house. But then what were all the trees and other houses doing there? Ah, details... I settled again and now found myself not below ground but rather standing upon a cliff. It was evening and stars glittered above. Directly beneath and in front of me, there was an abyss of shadows. Yet I felt a presence there, a large presence. I kept looking deeper and the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on end. Awareness began to bloom in the way that urgently whispers "I'm not alone in the house!" And then I saw movement. Shadow upon shadow. And then two orange-red eyes each the size of a man flicked open and peered back up towards me. With a start I stumbled back from the edge and wheeled around. And stopped again. Hovering about ten feet away at about chest level was a cartoonishly oversized mosquito. A red mosquito.
We looked at each other. Well, at least I looked at it. Strangely I could not find its eyes, despite its grapefruit scale. But I could feel these eyes I could not see. I felt no malice or outright evilness from the bizarre bloodsucker. But I wouldn't trust it to date my sister, either. Just when I was starting to find the little guy with his rust-colored wings and gently bobbing demeanor slightly amusing, it began to speak to me. Naturally, I heard or maybe even felt the words in my head as opposed to with my ears. This was a giant red mosquito on a cliff with shadow-inhabiting creatures with glowing eyes below it. One would expect such an insect to do its speaking telepathically, right?
"That's my dragon." I assumed it meant the thing with the glowing eyes that I could just then hear rumbling and munching on things down in the darkness.
"Okay..."
"You cannot have him."
"Okay..."
"You weren't meant to survive this. But things have changed. Thank your friends. Or your God. Now it can just be considered a warning. Heed it well."
"Okay..."
"We have things to see...and to discuss..."
"Okay..."
Now sinking, my mind was glad to see Phil Collins' grinning mug disappear somewhere above me in what should have been the living room of Lilly's house. But then what were all the trees and other houses doing there? Ah, details... I settled again and now found myself not below ground but rather standing upon a cliff. It was evening and stars glittered above. Directly beneath and in front of me, there was an abyss of shadows. Yet I felt a presence there, a large presence. I kept looking deeper and the hairs on the back of my neck began to stand on end. Awareness began to bloom in the way that urgently whispers "I'm not alone in the house!" And then I saw movement. Shadow upon shadow. And then two orange-red eyes each the size of a man flicked open and peered back up towards me. With a start I stumbled back from the edge and wheeled around. And stopped again. Hovering about ten feet away at about chest level was a cartoonishly oversized mosquito. A red mosquito.
We looked at each other. Well, at least I looked at it. Strangely I could not find its eyes, despite its grapefruit scale. But I could feel these eyes I could not see. I felt no malice or outright evilness from the bizarre bloodsucker. But I wouldn't trust it to date my sister, either. Just when I was starting to find the little guy with his rust-colored wings and gently bobbing demeanor slightly amusing, it began to speak to me. Naturally, I heard or maybe even felt the words in my head as opposed to with my ears. This was a giant red mosquito on a cliff with shadow-inhabiting creatures with glowing eyes below it. One would expect such an insect to do its speaking telepathically, right?
"That's my dragon." I assumed it meant the thing with the glowing eyes that I could just then hear rumbling and munching on things down in the darkness.
"Okay..."
"You cannot have him."
"Okay..."
"You weren't meant to survive this. But things have changed. Thank your friends. Or your God. Now it can just be considered a warning. Heed it well."
"Okay..."
"We have things to see...and to discuss..."
"Okay..."
Friday, July 18, 2008
Searching With My Good Eye Closed
Was that the faint opening strains of Soundgarden's "Searching With My Good Eye Closed?" Then the best part at the 1:25 mark when the rhythm and the drums come crashing in. Things wobbled. Things waved. My head rolled right long with the things. And with the music. I drifted. The little hospital room ceased to be and instead became the bathroom where my waking self lay curled in the fetal position in front of the toilet. The lights above the mirror casting a yellowish glow about my pale and sickly form. Then I saw myself wake enough to lurch up to the toilet and vomit. There appeared to be a little blood in it, too. Lovely.
Now the bathroom was replaced by the bedroom. I seemed to be hovering where the window should have been, but that would have meant I was either inside the wall or could see through it. Yet there was myself again, lying in bed beside Lilly. I no longer seemed sick. But whatever this was that I was seeing felt like something different. Maybe symbolic or otherwise having nothing to do with my present condition in the waking world. I found myself swimming in the thoughts and feelings of my relationship with Lilly. She was turned away from me and I lay facing her back, a gap of pillows and blankets between us. My little Inconsistent Love. Things had been a little strained in recent months, but better than in the fall. And nothing abnormal for any relationship.
The song ended. A moment later I felt a mental jolt, like the safety bars on a roller coaster locking into place. The figure of myself in the bed beside Lilly had disappeared. The room had grown dim and felt wider, emptier. Then I could hear more music, drifting, searching. I knew the song, but my mind suddenly felt like it no longer had control of the wheel. My head turned by itself and there was a man standing in the bedroom doorway. In a flash he transformed from a black faceless man-shape, to McCready, then into a strangely familiar man a little older than myself, then back to the black shadow, then a flurry of other jumbled images, then myself - looking shaken and out of reality, and then finally it settled into the form of Tommy Jack.
"got some kicks, wanna take a ride, I said 'yeah!'"
"Leave her, Gabriel. You must come with me." he said, beckoning towards the light now spilling from behind him in the hallway. I took a look back at Lilly, she seemed somehow unknown to me. A bit like a stranger. I moved around to her side of the bed and as I normally did when leaving while she was asleep, I gently placed a kiss atop her forehead. And then I followed Jack out of the room and into the light.
Now the bathroom was replaced by the bedroom. I seemed to be hovering where the window should have been, but that would have meant I was either inside the wall or could see through it. Yet there was myself again, lying in bed beside Lilly. I no longer seemed sick. But whatever this was that I was seeing felt like something different. Maybe symbolic or otherwise having nothing to do with my present condition in the waking world. I found myself swimming in the thoughts and feelings of my relationship with Lilly. She was turned away from me and I lay facing her back, a gap of pillows and blankets between us. My little Inconsistent Love. Things had been a little strained in recent months, but better than in the fall. And nothing abnormal for any relationship.
The song ended. A moment later I felt a mental jolt, like the safety bars on a roller coaster locking into place. The figure of myself in the bed beside Lilly had disappeared. The room had grown dim and felt wider, emptier. Then I could hear more music, drifting, searching. I knew the song, but my mind suddenly felt like it no longer had control of the wheel. My head turned by itself and there was a man standing in the bedroom doorway. In a flash he transformed from a black faceless man-shape, to McCready, then into a strangely familiar man a little older than myself, then back to the black shadow, then a flurry of other jumbled images, then myself - looking shaken and out of reality, and then finally it settled into the form of Tommy Jack.
"got some kicks, wanna take a ride, I said 'yeah!'"
"Leave her, Gabriel. You must come with me." he said, beckoning towards the light now spilling from behind him in the hallway. I took a look back at Lilly, she seemed somehow unknown to me. A bit like a stranger. I moved around to her side of the bed and as I normally did when leaving while she was asleep, I gently placed a kiss atop her forehead. And then I followed Jack out of the room and into the light.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Questions for the Doctor
McCready did not shoot Tommy Jack (what kind of name is that anyway?). He had made his point. He had let the inner demon play a little. Monica asked him nicely to put the gun away and he did. She didn't even have to say please. McCready and Jack's eyes never left each other, though. Meanwhile I was throwing up on the somewhat recently waxed hospital floor. And still laughing in between my stomach's upward thrusts.
Things grew a little hazy. Commotion, talking, urgent whispers. Surprisingly few curses and threats from McCready. I think Orestes picked me up and carried me into the room that Jack had emerged from. When things finally cleared it was only Jack and I. They had propped me in a chair and Jack had pulled a stool in front of me.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." he replied with a smile.
"Good, 'cause something is definitely wrong with me. Dream or no dream, I am messed up."
"Do you think this is a dream?" He looked at me closely.
"Of course it's a dream! How else would I be here?" But I had my doubts.
"How do you know it's a dream?"
"Because in my real life I don't get carted around through hospitals by characters from my dreams who shoot up the place. And there certainly aren't any floating crystal orbs or whatever that was. But that would be pretty cool if they had those in real life. And Monica looks different, I can't quite put my finger on it, but she's different. I haven't seen her in years, though, so who knows. It just has to be a dream." Jack said nothing, only looked at me patiently. My mind had gained some clarity since the vomiting. It paused before allowing my mouth to go on speaking.
"But you know...this is by far the most vivid dream I've ever had. And I tend to have abnormally vivid and detailed dreams anyway. Am I in a coma? Is this some sort of hyper-vivid coma dream?"
"No, I don't think you're in a coma, Devan. I believe you have been bitten. Perhaps by the Red Mosquito. You will live, but you will be quite miserable for a while yet. And the antidote, you might say, is not exactly pleasant either." I was confused.
"Wait. The Red Mosquito? What is that? And why did you call me Devan, my name is Gabriel? This is getting crazy." Jack smiled and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, I know you as Devan. I guess you don't recall any of that. No matter. The Red Mosquito is not something you should worry about right now. Just think of it as a sickness, a virus. It will be alright." Before I could get out another round of baffled questions, the door opened and Monica ducked inside. Yelling, shooting, and other sounds of trouble could be heard down the hall.
"I think the cops are here!" she said, "McCready and Orestes went off to deal with them or kill them all or who knows! This is getting out of hand!" Jack spoke calmly, soothingly.
"Things are certainly not as well as we would like them to be. But everything will be fine. As long as it is only police and others of this world, we have nothing to be worried about." Monica looked at me. My head wobbled.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He'll be okay. He's going to have a bumpy ride for a while, but he'll get through it. You made it to me in time, you did well."
"But what is it? Orestes said something about someone starting his waking process before he was ready."
"That could be it, or it could be the Red Mosquito. Which could actually be both." Again with the Red Mosquito. I couldn't stand it.
"What the HELL is a Red Mosquito? Are you talking about malaria? Do I have malaria?" Neither one answered me. Instead Jack stepped over to me and removed a roll of what looked like Sweetarts from his pocket.
"Take one." he said.
"Are those Sweetarts?"
"They are if you want them to be." And sure enough, they were Sweetarts. There was a red one on top and I took it. As I popped it in my mouth, Jack ushered Monica out of the room and left me alone for a minute. Immediately my head cleared a bit, but then I began to feel a new kind of fogginess creep in. A little like a beer buzz. The nausea was gone and the coughing ceased. I began to doubt that those had really been Sweetarts.
Things grew a little hazy. Commotion, talking, urgent whispers. Surprisingly few curses and threats from McCready. I think Orestes picked me up and carried me into the room that Jack had emerged from. When things finally cleared it was only Jack and I. They had propped me in a chair and Jack had pulled a stool in front of me.
"Are you a doctor?" I asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am." he replied with a smile.
"Good, 'cause something is definitely wrong with me. Dream or no dream, I am messed up."
"Do you think this is a dream?" He looked at me closely.
"Of course it's a dream! How else would I be here?" But I had my doubts.
"How do you know it's a dream?"
"Because in my real life I don't get carted around through hospitals by characters from my dreams who shoot up the place. And there certainly aren't any floating crystal orbs or whatever that was. But that would be pretty cool if they had those in real life. And Monica looks different, I can't quite put my finger on it, but she's different. I haven't seen her in years, though, so who knows. It just has to be a dream." Jack said nothing, only looked at me patiently. My mind had gained some clarity since the vomiting. It paused before allowing my mouth to go on speaking.
"But you know...this is by far the most vivid dream I've ever had. And I tend to have abnormally vivid and detailed dreams anyway. Am I in a coma? Is this some sort of hyper-vivid coma dream?"
"No, I don't think you're in a coma, Devan. I believe you have been bitten. Perhaps by the Red Mosquito. You will live, but you will be quite miserable for a while yet. And the antidote, you might say, is not exactly pleasant either." I was confused.
"Wait. The Red Mosquito? What is that? And why did you call me Devan, my name is Gabriel? This is getting crazy." Jack smiled and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, I know you as Devan. I guess you don't recall any of that. No matter. The Red Mosquito is not something you should worry about right now. Just think of it as a sickness, a virus. It will be alright." Before I could get out another round of baffled questions, the door opened and Monica ducked inside. Yelling, shooting, and other sounds of trouble could be heard down the hall.
"I think the cops are here!" she said, "McCready and Orestes went off to deal with them or kill them all or who knows! This is getting out of hand!" Jack spoke calmly, soothingly.
"Things are certainly not as well as we would like them to be. But everything will be fine. As long as it is only police and others of this world, we have nothing to be worried about." Monica looked at me. My head wobbled.
"How is he?" she asked.
"He'll be okay. He's going to have a bumpy ride for a while, but he'll get through it. You made it to me in time, you did well."
"But what is it? Orestes said something about someone starting his waking process before he was ready."
"That could be it, or it could be the Red Mosquito. Which could actually be both." Again with the Red Mosquito. I couldn't stand it.
"What the HELL is a Red Mosquito? Are you talking about malaria? Do I have malaria?" Neither one answered me. Instead Jack stepped over to me and removed a roll of what looked like Sweetarts from his pocket.
"Take one." he said.
"Are those Sweetarts?"
"They are if you want them to be." And sure enough, they were Sweetarts. There was a red one on top and I took it. As I popped it in my mouth, Jack ushered Monica out of the room and left me alone for a minute. Immediately my head cleared a bit, but then I began to feel a new kind of fogginess creep in. A little like a beer buzz. The nausea was gone and the coughing ceased. I began to doubt that those had really been Sweetarts.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Temper, Temper
Monica returned McCready's gaze with one of those condescending head shakes that some women are particularly good at. For all her insecurities, she could also be quite confident and self-assured. The two of them glared at each other for a few more moments. McCready's face began to transform into one of his many smiles. This time perhaps more of a playful smirk.
"Well, let's not wallow in our situation any longer. There might be other dangers lurking around here. And I just don't know if I can manage to keep them all at bay. I wouldn't want to see any of those pretty auburn curls harmed. I might lose some sleep over it." McCready's eyes sparkled and Monica stewed.
"Did you two used to date or something?" I chimed in. They instantly turned to me. McCready seemed a bit perplexed, but Monica rolled her eyes and gave another patented head shake, this time aimed at me.
"I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm saying. I'm drunk. Wait. How am I drunk? What am I doing here? I've never had a such a realistic dream. This is great. Hey! Can I fly? I want to fly! I love dreams where you can fly!" I think I may have continued to babble on, but the others stopped listening when a tire-sized glowing orb hovered over to us and the scattered bodies of the guards. It seemed to assess the situation as a pale cream color shimmered within its glassy frame. Like icicles swimming in a vat of partially melted vanilla ice cream. Minus the vanilla beans. McCready looked at Monica and Orestes and gave a shrugging gesture with his arms. After a moment the orb hovered away, back into a nearby open door.
"Now what?" asked Monica. McCready began to walk towards the open door, but stopped when a large man built like an NFL strong safety stepped through. He wore a white doctor's coat, tight over his athletic build. He looked fairly young for a doctor, perhaps in his late 20s. His hair was nearly shaved and his eyes displayed a distinct wisdom and knowledge of many things. He never even glanced at the dead guards or the mess left by those who had fled. Instead he focused on each of us in turn, and then repeated the process. At some point I stopped my rambling and just looked back at him. I could have sworn I felt a rush in my head when he focused on me. And then I began coughing and laughing again.
"Good to see you, Jack. When you don't want to be found, you really don't want to be found." said McCready putting his hands on his hips, not all that far away from his guns.
"Hi, Jack." Monica added in a tired voice. Tommy Jack glanced at McCready before nodding his head towards Monica.
"Hello, Monica. It has been too long. I hope you are well."
"Ah, well, you know how it goes, 'the best laid plans,'" Jack gave her a knowing but compassionate smile and turned back to McCready. The evil cowboy from my dreams now leaned on his left hip and casually picked at one of his fingernails. Jack continued to address Monica.
"I never thought I'd find you in the company of McCready...at least not willingly. But then one night I dreamed of such things. Many things I never thought possible were suddenly becoming true. But it will take a lot more for me to believe in a redeemed McCready. A redeemed Blackheart, the Smiling Demon..." McCready had been biting his bottom lip and now suddenly drew his right-hand revolver and brought the barrel inches from Jack's forehead.
"Redeemed? You want to see redeeemed? I'll give you redemption! We'll all be able to see it right through the back of your head!" Jack never flinched. He cool gaze never wavered. Monica looked very alarmed and frantic again. Orestes was a dark blur above and beside me. I just coughed and laughed harder.
"Well, let's not wallow in our situation any longer. There might be other dangers lurking around here. And I just don't know if I can manage to keep them all at bay. I wouldn't want to see any of those pretty auburn curls harmed. I might lose some sleep over it." McCready's eyes sparkled and Monica stewed.
"Did you two used to date or something?" I chimed in. They instantly turned to me. McCready seemed a bit perplexed, but Monica rolled her eyes and gave another patented head shake, this time aimed at me.
"I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm saying. I'm drunk. Wait. How am I drunk? What am I doing here? I've never had a such a realistic dream. This is great. Hey! Can I fly? I want to fly! I love dreams where you can fly!" I think I may have continued to babble on, but the others stopped listening when a tire-sized glowing orb hovered over to us and the scattered bodies of the guards. It seemed to assess the situation as a pale cream color shimmered within its glassy frame. Like icicles swimming in a vat of partially melted vanilla ice cream. Minus the vanilla beans. McCready looked at Monica and Orestes and gave a shrugging gesture with his arms. After a moment the orb hovered away, back into a nearby open door.
"Now what?" asked Monica. McCready began to walk towards the open door, but stopped when a large man built like an NFL strong safety stepped through. He wore a white doctor's coat, tight over his athletic build. He looked fairly young for a doctor, perhaps in his late 20s. His hair was nearly shaved and his eyes displayed a distinct wisdom and knowledge of many things. He never even glanced at the dead guards or the mess left by those who had fled. Instead he focused on each of us in turn, and then repeated the process. At some point I stopped my rambling and just looked back at him. I could have sworn I felt a rush in my head when he focused on me. And then I began coughing and laughing again.
"Good to see you, Jack. When you don't want to be found, you really don't want to be found." said McCready putting his hands on his hips, not all that far away from his guns.
"Hi, Jack." Monica added in a tired voice. Tommy Jack glanced at McCready before nodding his head towards Monica.
"Hello, Monica. It has been too long. I hope you are well."
"Ah, well, you know how it goes, 'the best laid plans,'" Jack gave her a knowing but compassionate smile and turned back to McCready. The evil cowboy from my dreams now leaned on his left hip and casually picked at one of his fingernails. Jack continued to address Monica.
"I never thought I'd find you in the company of McCready...at least not willingly. But then one night I dreamed of such things. Many things I never thought possible were suddenly becoming true. But it will take a lot more for me to believe in a redeemed McCready. A redeemed Blackheart, the Smiling Demon..." McCready had been biting his bottom lip and now suddenly drew his right-hand revolver and brought the barrel inches from Jack's forehead.
"Redeemed? You want to see redeeemed? I'll give you redemption! We'll all be able to see it right through the back of your head!" Jack never flinched. He cool gaze never wavered. Monica looked very alarmed and frantic again. Orestes was a dark blur above and beside me. I just coughed and laughed harder.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Volcano
After that my head tilted to the right for a while and could not seem to correct itself. For some reason this was amusing to me and I began to laugh in quick spasmatic bursts. Like turning your head and coughing for the doctor, but without all the discomfort and embarrassment.
After some time I became aware that we had stopped. My gaze shifted up and observed McCready and Monica exchanging heated words. Unfortunately my hearing had decided to go on strike and I could hear nothing. What a strange dream. Finally it seemed like the occupants of this hospital were taking notice of us. Nurses threw concerned looks in our direction while huddling around their stations. A few authoritative doctors stood some distance away, clearly disapproving of our presence and deliberating on the proper way to handle things. Only Orestes, who was now directing me around by the sheer will of his left bear-claw on the back of my neck, took notice of this new development. McCready and Monica were arguing with each other at increasing volume levels about this Tommy Jack and the Priest and infections and other things that made no sense at all.
"Tick, tick, tick...ticking away, the moments that make up a dull day," I said to no one in particular. But Orestes heard me and swiveled his head down to give me a quizzical look. I think I smiled and coughed another one of my laughs again.
"Orestes. My friend. Did I ever tell you about when I worked construction? I was a carpenter! I helped build people's homes! And I hated it. I fried my brains out there in the hot sun and never wanted to be there. I think I may have fried out some important stuff, too." Was that concern upon Orestes' granite face?
Evidently someone had called in security to deal with the strange gun-toting cowboy and his accomplices. Five uniformed guards approached us from both sides. Most were rather doughy and unhappy in appearance. But something about their eyes...the way they looked at us. Something was not right about them. Maybe it was the drunkenness, but to me, they didn't even seem human.
"I don't care who I have to drag out of their peaceful slumber or even if I have to kill them! I'm not going to let him die. He dies, we die." said McCready.
"We don't know that for sure." Monica replied.
"You know damn well it's true!" McCready was incensed.
"I meant, we don't know if he even CAN die here! Look, I'm doing the best that I can. We're running around this stupid place, wasting more of our time and all you do is badger me!" During this exchange the security guards had tried reasoning with us and having thus failed, drew their weapons and began to close in. Orestes had moved me closer to the other two and was apparently planning to stare the guards into submission.
"If you can think of a better way to find the Priest, I'm all ears, sister!"
"He doesn't need the Priest! He needs to wake up and go see a real doctor in the Waking World!" McCready's expressive face contorted into overly pained exasperation.
"A real doctor? A real doctor?!" One of the guards with his dead eyes had managed to get within a few feet of McCready and Monica. Monica finally began to take notice of the situation and alarm flashed from her hazel eyes. Three of the other guards continued to near Orestes and myself, yet Orestes just stared back at them. I kept up my cough/laughs and occasional giggling fits. But McCready just continued, heedless to the armed figures surrounding us.
"A doctor in the Waking World -- whichever Waking World you might be referring to - is not going to have a flaming clue what to do with him. They probably won't even find anything wrong with him. They'll send him home and he'll go to sleep again and he will die. And you know what that means."
"McCready..." Monica tried to interrupt.
"I don't know if the Priest can do anything or not, but we don't have a better option right now."
"McCready!" Monica had backed against the corridor wall, one of the guards jabbering at her and reaching out to her. All of them were jabbering, it was nonsense. My mind just seemed to tone it all out.
"If the Priest can't help him directly, then he'll know what to do next. I'll make sure of that. Now quit your bellyaching!" With that McCready's guns seemed to magically be in his hands and firing away at the squad of security goons. Orestes had propped me against the wall and in one swoop had snatched away the nearest guard's gun, grabbed him by the shoulder and then casually snapped his arm like a carrot stick. The weirdest part was that the other guards (before they were struck down by McCready) actually shot at Orestes, but the bullets just disappeared when they reached his body. Like they ceased to be.
If I hadn't been in such a disorderly mental state, I might have made better sense of the complete chaos which then erupted in the hospital. Nurses screamed, doctors and transporters ran, papers fluttered everywhere. Patients in wheelchairs were abandoned helplessly in the middle of the corridor. McCready briefly took in his handiwork before putting away his guns, folding his arms, and leveling a that-settles-that glare at Monica.
After some time I became aware that we had stopped. My gaze shifted up and observed McCready and Monica exchanging heated words. Unfortunately my hearing had decided to go on strike and I could hear nothing. What a strange dream. Finally it seemed like the occupants of this hospital were taking notice of us. Nurses threw concerned looks in our direction while huddling around their stations. A few authoritative doctors stood some distance away, clearly disapproving of our presence and deliberating on the proper way to handle things. Only Orestes, who was now directing me around by the sheer will of his left bear-claw on the back of my neck, took notice of this new development. McCready and Monica were arguing with each other at increasing volume levels about this Tommy Jack and the Priest and infections and other things that made no sense at all.
"Tick, tick, tick...ticking away, the moments that make up a dull day," I said to no one in particular. But Orestes heard me and swiveled his head down to give me a quizzical look. I think I smiled and coughed another one of my laughs again.
"Orestes. My friend. Did I ever tell you about when I worked construction? I was a carpenter! I helped build people's homes! And I hated it. I fried my brains out there in the hot sun and never wanted to be there. I think I may have fried out some important stuff, too." Was that concern upon Orestes' granite face?
Evidently someone had called in security to deal with the strange gun-toting cowboy and his accomplices. Five uniformed guards approached us from both sides. Most were rather doughy and unhappy in appearance. But something about their eyes...the way they looked at us. Something was not right about them. Maybe it was the drunkenness, but to me, they didn't even seem human.
"I don't care who I have to drag out of their peaceful slumber or even if I have to kill them! I'm not going to let him die. He dies, we die." said McCready.
"We don't know that for sure." Monica replied.
"You know damn well it's true!" McCready was incensed.
"I meant, we don't know if he even CAN die here! Look, I'm doing the best that I can. We're running around this stupid place, wasting more of our time and all you do is badger me!" During this exchange the security guards had tried reasoning with us and having thus failed, drew their weapons and began to close in. Orestes had moved me closer to the other two and was apparently planning to stare the guards into submission.
"If you can think of a better way to find the Priest, I'm all ears, sister!"
"He doesn't need the Priest! He needs to wake up and go see a real doctor in the Waking World!" McCready's expressive face contorted into overly pained exasperation.
"A real doctor? A real doctor?!" One of the guards with his dead eyes had managed to get within a few feet of McCready and Monica. Monica finally began to take notice of the situation and alarm flashed from her hazel eyes. Three of the other guards continued to near Orestes and myself, yet Orestes just stared back at them. I kept up my cough/laughs and occasional giggling fits. But McCready just continued, heedless to the armed figures surrounding us.
"A doctor in the Waking World -- whichever Waking World you might be referring to - is not going to have a flaming clue what to do with him. They probably won't even find anything wrong with him. They'll send him home and he'll go to sleep again and he will die. And you know what that means."
"McCready..." Monica tried to interrupt.
"I don't know if the Priest can do anything or not, but we don't have a better option right now."
"McCready!" Monica had backed against the corridor wall, one of the guards jabbering at her and reaching out to her. All of them were jabbering, it was nonsense. My mind just seemed to tone it all out.
"If the Priest can't help him directly, then he'll know what to do next. I'll make sure of that. Now quit your bellyaching!" With that McCready's guns seemed to magically be in his hands and firing away at the squad of security goons. Orestes had propped me against the wall and in one swoop had snatched away the nearest guard's gun, grabbed him by the shoulder and then casually snapped his arm like a carrot stick. The weirdest part was that the other guards (before they were struck down by McCready) actually shot at Orestes, but the bullets just disappeared when they reached his body. Like they ceased to be.
If I hadn't been in such a disorderly mental state, I might have made better sense of the complete chaos which then erupted in the hospital. Nurses screamed, doctors and transporters ran, papers fluttered everywhere. Patients in wheelchairs were abandoned helplessly in the middle of the corridor. McCready briefly took in his handiwork before putting away his guns, folding his arms, and leveling a that-settles-that glare at Monica.
Echoplex
In all the worlds and all the realities, there's only one man I would trust to hold a gun to my head. That man is McCready.
Of course, during the specific time I am referring to I was drunk. Or at least I felt like I was drunk. To the Waking World I slept in my usual fitful and restless state. But in this particular dream world, I stumbled along between McCready and Orestes' large and purposeful frames. McCready seemed a little more tense and sweatier than usual. Orestes, as usual, radiated calm, resilient ultimate danger. Everything was jumbled to my sense of consciousness. And that should not have been so.
Tommy Jack. We were searching for Tommy Jack. Through endlessly tilting and twisting hospital corridors. Perhaps they only tilted and twisted to my own mind. I think I laughed a lot, too.
And Monica was there! Strange to dream about her. I haven't seen or even talked to her in ages. How long has it been? In fact, she seemed to be leading the whole expedition. She looked a little different, though...but it was still her.
What did McCready always say? "You can think on your feet or you can die on them." When the elevator doors first opened, he turned and said that to Monica. Her face paled about a shade and a half and then she began to take charge. Why did we start out in an elevator? How did we get there? Why was I drunk?
Into the first corridor we shuffled, McCready's firm grip on one of my arms and Orestes' massive meatclaw clutching my other. Monica strode out in front checking around corners and into open doors. She wore nifty business attire, elegant yet moderate black heeled shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Where did she come from? She looked like an administrator or pharmaceutical rep. Orestes didn't say anything and for some reason I never really looked at him. I actually can't recall what he was wearing. In fact, my whole perception of him seemed to change through the whole dream. Like he was never even fully physically present. McCready was his usual self, though. A little taller than me, shades of black and brown leather and rugged blue jeans. A cowboy hat over long, thick hair and his signature clever smile always on the verge of showing itself. His eyes were blue this time.
At the end of the first hall we turned left. We didn't come across many other people. A few nurses who surprisingly didn't seem alarmed by McCready's odd attire and twin hand-cannons strapped across his hips or Orestes' imposing presence (I think he may have had a sword or something on his back...). And no one seemed to care that they were dragging a goggle-eyed and nearly incapacitated me around like a giant sack of money fresh from a bank vault.
We continued making turns and winding our way deeper and deeper into this strange hospital. I think it went on a lot longer than it seemed to me. Monica grew almost frantic. McCready's usual calm demeanor was replaced by a trace of grim anxiety. (McCready anxious?)
"If Jack can't help, he had better at least know where the Priest is or else I'll end his journeys in this world." McCready growled at one point.
"Better think on your feet, McCready, or you'll die on them," I giggled in response. McCready cast me a quick glare and shook his head. But he seemed to grow even more tense.
Of course, during the specific time I am referring to I was drunk. Or at least I felt like I was drunk. To the Waking World I slept in my usual fitful and restless state. But in this particular dream world, I stumbled along between McCready and Orestes' large and purposeful frames. McCready seemed a little more tense and sweatier than usual. Orestes, as usual, radiated calm, resilient ultimate danger. Everything was jumbled to my sense of consciousness. And that should not have been so.
Tommy Jack. We were searching for Tommy Jack. Through endlessly tilting and twisting hospital corridors. Perhaps they only tilted and twisted to my own mind. I think I laughed a lot, too.
And Monica was there! Strange to dream about her. I haven't seen or even talked to her in ages. How long has it been? In fact, she seemed to be leading the whole expedition. She looked a little different, though...but it was still her.
What did McCready always say? "You can think on your feet or you can die on them." When the elevator doors first opened, he turned and said that to Monica. Her face paled about a shade and a half and then she began to take charge. Why did we start out in an elevator? How did we get there? Why was I drunk?
Into the first corridor we shuffled, McCready's firm grip on one of my arms and Orestes' massive meatclaw clutching my other. Monica strode out in front checking around corners and into open doors. She wore nifty business attire, elegant yet moderate black heeled shoes clicking on the tiled floor. Where did she come from? She looked like an administrator or pharmaceutical rep. Orestes didn't say anything and for some reason I never really looked at him. I actually can't recall what he was wearing. In fact, my whole perception of him seemed to change through the whole dream. Like he was never even fully physically present. McCready was his usual self, though. A little taller than me, shades of black and brown leather and rugged blue jeans. A cowboy hat over long, thick hair and his signature clever smile always on the verge of showing itself. His eyes were blue this time.
At the end of the first hall we turned left. We didn't come across many other people. A few nurses who surprisingly didn't seem alarmed by McCready's odd attire and twin hand-cannons strapped across his hips or Orestes' imposing presence (I think he may have had a sword or something on his back...). And no one seemed to care that they were dragging a goggle-eyed and nearly incapacitated me around like a giant sack of money fresh from a bank vault.
We continued making turns and winding our way deeper and deeper into this strange hospital. I think it went on a lot longer than it seemed to me. Monica grew almost frantic. McCready's usual calm demeanor was replaced by a trace of grim anxiety. (McCready anxious?)
"If Jack can't help, he had better at least know where the Priest is or else I'll end his journeys in this world." McCready growled at one point.
"Better think on your feet, McCready, or you'll die on them," I giggled in response. McCready cast me a quick glare and shook his head. But he seemed to grow even more tense.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Much Has Changed
I nearly gave up on this endeavor again. That would have made two blogspot blogs of mine that died within the last few years. But I'm back. For now.
So a lot has changed in the past month. My girlfriend broke up with me about two Thursdays ago. She revealed that she hadn't seen me as a boyfriend in months, but only as a friend. She said we could continue living together as roommates until I found a place of my own -- and in other conversations assured me that she wasn't out running around with other guys. 5 days later I walked into the house at 7:15AM to find her in bed with another man. And not just any man. But a guy who she had met last August/September on a random late-night excursion to Steak'n'Shake. She was so enamored with him that she began having a "friendship" with him. They would talk on Myspace, text each other, call, and even went out to eat once while I was away with my family. Clearly the guy was interested in her and I said so. But she claimed she only saw him as a friend (later she would admit that she had been attracted, but just hadn't "seen" it so). I felt it was inappropriate and disrespectful for her to be carrying on with this guy in such a manner. And he wasn't exactly the boy next door. According to what I gleaned from his myspace pages and from my girlfriend, he had a long history of drug use, sang in an anti-social heavy metal band, picked fights, was a self-proclaimed sex addict, and even sneered at me once when our paths crossed. Whenever I mention my dislike of her talking to this guy she would get angry with me and say that I was trying to control who she was friends with and that I didn't trust her.
This guy also featured prominently in an October overnight break-up. She broke up with me on a Friday night - once again at a moment when I thought nothing was wrong - claiming she felt like she had no freedom and wanted to be able to do things by herself. She said we were too different and at different places in our lives. That night she called the other guy to tell him we had broken up. He was happy. The next day she came back home and wanted me back. I took her back. A day later she told the other guy what had happened and he cursed her out for it. At this point she admitted that I had been right all along in that he was deeply interested in her. Oh, but he would get the last laugh.
In December I noticed her talking to him again on Myspace. But not as regularly as before. Then again a few months later. In May she told me that he had moved away to get married, so I didn't have to worry about him anymore. But apparently he came back. I later learned that at some point in the month or so before she broke up with me she began talking to him again and developing a relationship. She had disconnected from me and was now investing in him - emotionally and mentally. I consider that to still be cheating.
So on the day that I walked in and found them together, I let out a classic tirade that told her everything a man in my position would want to say. Later that day my brother and I removed all of my belongings from the house. Currently I am job hunting and trying to sort through a broken life. I never thought she would do something like that to me.
I have the hardest time grasping how she could see all these problems with our relationship months ago, but never mention it to me. Instead she "tried to fix things" in her own mind, by herself - all while I went along as if things were normal. What kind of person does that? Who mentally moves on from a 20 month relationship while pretending that everything is normal and that she is still in love with that man? Who then brings that man - whom they supposedly love and care for - his ultimate fear by getting involved with another man who had been chasing her for 9 months or more? And how does this guy make her happy?
So a lot has changed in the past month. My girlfriend broke up with me about two Thursdays ago. She revealed that she hadn't seen me as a boyfriend in months, but only as a friend. She said we could continue living together as roommates until I found a place of my own -- and in other conversations assured me that she wasn't out running around with other guys. 5 days later I walked into the house at 7:15AM to find her in bed with another man. And not just any man. But a guy who she had met last August/September on a random late-night excursion to Steak'n'Shake. She was so enamored with him that she began having a "friendship" with him. They would talk on Myspace, text each other, call, and even went out to eat once while I was away with my family. Clearly the guy was interested in her and I said so. But she claimed she only saw him as a friend (later she would admit that she had been attracted, but just hadn't "seen" it so). I felt it was inappropriate and disrespectful for her to be carrying on with this guy in such a manner. And he wasn't exactly the boy next door. According to what I gleaned from his myspace pages and from my girlfriend, he had a long history of drug use, sang in an anti-social heavy metal band, picked fights, was a self-proclaimed sex addict, and even sneered at me once when our paths crossed. Whenever I mention my dislike of her talking to this guy she would get angry with me and say that I was trying to control who she was friends with and that I didn't trust her.
This guy also featured prominently in an October overnight break-up. She broke up with me on a Friday night - once again at a moment when I thought nothing was wrong - claiming she felt like she had no freedom and wanted to be able to do things by herself. She said we were too different and at different places in our lives. That night she called the other guy to tell him we had broken up. He was happy. The next day she came back home and wanted me back. I took her back. A day later she told the other guy what had happened and he cursed her out for it. At this point she admitted that I had been right all along in that he was deeply interested in her. Oh, but he would get the last laugh.
In December I noticed her talking to him again on Myspace. But not as regularly as before. Then again a few months later. In May she told me that he had moved away to get married, so I didn't have to worry about him anymore. But apparently he came back. I later learned that at some point in the month or so before she broke up with me she began talking to him again and developing a relationship. She had disconnected from me and was now investing in him - emotionally and mentally. I consider that to still be cheating.
So on the day that I walked in and found them together, I let out a classic tirade that told her everything a man in my position would want to say. Later that day my brother and I removed all of my belongings from the house. Currently I am job hunting and trying to sort through a broken life. I never thought she would do something like that to me.
I have the hardest time grasping how she could see all these problems with our relationship months ago, but never mention it to me. Instead she "tried to fix things" in her own mind, by herself - all while I went along as if things were normal. What kind of person does that? Who mentally moves on from a 20 month relationship while pretending that everything is normal and that she is still in love with that man? Who then brings that man - whom they supposedly love and care for - his ultimate fear by getting involved with another man who had been chasing her for 9 months or more? And how does this guy make her happy?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Guaranteed
If you're looking for guarantees, then this life is not the place for you. Please move along.
If you feel like you have only been alive for 20 minutes, as opposed to 20 years, then you might be one of us.
If you have dreams (both asleep and waking) that are indistinguishable in your mind from true memories but for your own conscious knowledge that the true memories actually occurred - you might be one of us.
If sleep leaves you tired, feeling displaced, unrefreshed, and whispering in your head as to the reality of the place you have awoken in - then you might be one of us.
If a life of doing things you do not care about for the better portion of your days seems insanely depressing, you might be one of us.
If your eyes are continually drawn to the sky, as if reading cosmic headlines, you might be one of us.
If when you try you only find failure, but when you do not try you find success, you might be one of us.
If you feel like you have only been alive for 20 minutes, as opposed to 20 years, then you might be one of us.
If you have dreams (both asleep and waking) that are indistinguishable in your mind from true memories but for your own conscious knowledge that the true memories actually occurred - you might be one of us.
If sleep leaves you tired, feeling displaced, unrefreshed, and whispering in your head as to the reality of the place you have awoken in - then you might be one of us.
If a life of doing things you do not care about for the better portion of your days seems insanely depressing, you might be one of us.
If your eyes are continually drawn to the sky, as if reading cosmic headlines, you might be one of us.
If when you try you only find failure, but when you do not try you find success, you might be one of us.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Humans are Squirrels?
On a pleasant spring morning, Floyd walked onto his back porch and found that a significant section of backyard had collapsed in on itself and revealed a seemingly endless gaping maw.
On a pleasant spring morning, Darren walked onto his back porch and found a cruise-ship sized dumpster occupying what had once been the field behind his house.
On a pleasant spring morning, Abigail walked onto her back porch and decided that it really had all been a dream.
On a pleasant spring morning, Tony walked onto his back porch and initiated a series of events leading to the demise of several (far less interesting) alternate Earth's in various alternate universes.
The sad thing about an alien invasion or other such events indicative of mankind's destruction - people would bring their XBoxes and jewelry with them as they tried to run away from the giant hovering vacuum-like machines being used to wipe us out. If you do manage to get away from the highly skilled and experienced operators of these massive killing dynamos, do you really think it will matter how classy you look with your diamond necklace and $3000 watch? And will there be power available to play video games? If humanity has just been exterminated and those left are hiding in piles of rubble and sharing terrorist caves, do you really think you're going to feel up to playing Assassin's Creed?
But fear not. It's unlikely that aliens will be destroying our civilization anytime soon. At least not in our lifetime. Isn't that the benchmark that makes it okay for horrific things to occur somewhere else down the timeline? The sun will expand and consume the earth -- a galactically nearby supernova will irradiate the earth --- comets --- meteors --- intergalactic ballistic missiles gone astray thanks to incompetent outsourced alien computer technicians --- not to worry, it all won't happen for thousands of years! Oh, well then....who wants to go ride bikes? No worries here!
Even if aliens DID decide to wipe us out, it's unlikely that their actual goal would be to kill us humans off. Why do creatures conquer other creatures and take their space? To have that space for themselves. When we decide to turn a patch of forest into parking garages, banks, and churches we don't storm menacingly through the trees slaying squirrels and badgers. We matter-of-factly knock down the trees, bulldoze the hills, and furrow our brows occasionally at the furry stream of four-legged refugees that seem to be yelling and looting each other's nests. So, if the aliens came here it's doubtful they would come equipped with special human-deatomizing lasers or vacuum machines or other such weaponry ideal for dispatching homo sapiens. If aliens are anything like us, then they have a compulsive need to build banks and churches on every corner (if they're from rural or Southern areas of the alien homeworld) and if they are city dwellers - parking garages and fast-food restaurants. They would probably just ignore us (like a bunch of squirrels) as we shriek, flee, and rob each other as they placidly bulldoze our homes and chop down our skyscrapers. Then we'd watch from the hills as they take their 10AM break and talk about alien NASCAR races while eating alien oatmeal cream pies. We probably wouldn't concern them in the least. Or maybe a few of them might fling their empty Alien-Coke cans at us. Or they might even find us cute and fuzzy. Like squirrels.
On a pleasant spring morning, Darren walked onto his back porch and found a cruise-ship sized dumpster occupying what had once been the field behind his house.
On a pleasant spring morning, Abigail walked onto her back porch and decided that it really had all been a dream.
On a pleasant spring morning, Tony walked onto his back porch and initiated a series of events leading to the demise of several (far less interesting) alternate Earth's in various alternate universes.
The sad thing about an alien invasion or other such events indicative of mankind's destruction - people would bring their XBoxes and jewelry with them as they tried to run away from the giant hovering vacuum-like machines being used to wipe us out. If you do manage to get away from the highly skilled and experienced operators of these massive killing dynamos, do you really think it will matter how classy you look with your diamond necklace and $3000 watch? And will there be power available to play video games? If humanity has just been exterminated and those left are hiding in piles of rubble and sharing terrorist caves, do you really think you're going to feel up to playing Assassin's Creed?
But fear not. It's unlikely that aliens will be destroying our civilization anytime soon. At least not in our lifetime. Isn't that the benchmark that makes it okay for horrific things to occur somewhere else down the timeline? The sun will expand and consume the earth -- a galactically nearby supernova will irradiate the earth --- comets --- meteors --- intergalactic ballistic missiles gone astray thanks to incompetent outsourced alien computer technicians --- not to worry, it all won't happen for thousands of years! Oh, well then....who wants to go ride bikes? No worries here!
Even if aliens DID decide to wipe us out, it's unlikely that their actual goal would be to kill us humans off. Why do creatures conquer other creatures and take their space? To have that space for themselves. When we decide to turn a patch of forest into parking garages, banks, and churches we don't storm menacingly through the trees slaying squirrels and badgers. We matter-of-factly knock down the trees, bulldoze the hills, and furrow our brows occasionally at the furry stream of four-legged refugees that seem to be yelling and looting each other's nests. So, if the aliens came here it's doubtful they would come equipped with special human-deatomizing lasers or vacuum machines or other such weaponry ideal for dispatching homo sapiens. If aliens are anything like us, then they have a compulsive need to build banks and churches on every corner (if they're from rural or Southern areas of the alien homeworld) and if they are city dwellers - parking garages and fast-food restaurants. They would probably just ignore us (like a bunch of squirrels) as we shriek, flee, and rob each other as they placidly bulldoze our homes and chop down our skyscrapers. Then we'd watch from the hills as they take their 10AM break and talk about alien NASCAR races while eating alien oatmeal cream pies. We probably wouldn't concern them in the least. Or maybe a few of them might fling their empty Alien-Coke cans at us. Or they might even find us cute and fuzzy. Like squirrels.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The Bones of You
Awoke in a strange place. The placement here feels random. No real reason for me to appear here. Just random. But I'm here. On this barren hilltop. With my bones in the ground below my feet. Yet the same bones are still there under my skin. Strange that I know this. It looks cold here. But I'm quite comfortable. I must be dead.
Ah, now I recognize this feeling. When I was young I routinely had these moments where I realized that I was alive. Usually they happened on their own, but sometimes I could cause them to occur. I would look at my hands. And the autopilot that we all have running in our heads would switch off. A shocking panic would flood through me. Those are MY hands. I am living right now. Everything I do or think is actually happening. Then I would take even further steps back from myself. In a few moments this shock will fade, as I can already feel it doing, and then I'll be returned to the numbness of living. I have to remember that I am alive and that everything matters. These are MY HANDS. It was a startling moment whenever it found me. I tried explaining it to others, but they didn't seem to understand. I guess the rhythm of life lulls us to sleep so well that most of the time we are just flying along on autopilot. We go through life without even being aware of it. I'm not sure if that's because we are doing something wrong or if that's just the nature of being human. Those moments do not come as often as the years grow. It's frightening to realize you're alive and that most of the time you've forgotten that fact. It's almost like actually being able to feel God watching you. This isn't a game. This isn't a movie. This isn't just the daily routine. I'm not watching this -- I'm LIVING it!
So, the hilltop. Dead but not dead. That feeling I used to get when I'd look at my hands: Now I feel it constantly.
Ah, now I recognize this feeling. When I was young I routinely had these moments where I realized that I was alive. Usually they happened on their own, but sometimes I could cause them to occur. I would look at my hands. And the autopilot that we all have running in our heads would switch off. A shocking panic would flood through me. Those are MY hands. I am living right now. Everything I do or think is actually happening. Then I would take even further steps back from myself. In a few moments this shock will fade, as I can already feel it doing, and then I'll be returned to the numbness of living. I have to remember that I am alive and that everything matters. These are MY HANDS. It was a startling moment whenever it found me. I tried explaining it to others, but they didn't seem to understand. I guess the rhythm of life lulls us to sleep so well that most of the time we are just flying along on autopilot. We go through life without even being aware of it. I'm not sure if that's because we are doing something wrong or if that's just the nature of being human. Those moments do not come as often as the years grow. It's frightening to realize you're alive and that most of the time you've forgotten that fact. It's almost like actually being able to feel God watching you. This isn't a game. This isn't a movie. This isn't just the daily routine. I'm not watching this -- I'm LIVING it!
So, the hilltop. Dead but not dead. That feeling I used to get when I'd look at my hands: Now I feel it constantly.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Sunday Morning Improv
Yielding
So this is how it ends
When the sky turns green and gold
Let this go
Enough already
Just roll over
Show the sun your soft spot
Unflinching
Villages in the grass beside your eyes
Gravity holds them, too
More Than Just Inner Peace
Once upon a time I had a happy marriage
Snide remarks spoke of medical assistance
forming the bridge
My creative side and I, so merry and free
Instant responses
Oh the flow
Direct synaptic connections and understandings
With a pipeline to our emotional core
Erupting on cue,
with the ease of a dorm room
It frothed forth faster than I could fill the lines
Easy men, we may have to actually try some day
We revolved so well together
No trying required
No barriers
Just the sweet flow of crude ideas
thinking faster than writing
fully lubricated
manifesting satisfaction of one self
One vision at a time
But we grew apart
Something changed
Walls between us
Now we talk through mediators
Cranial correspondents
The kids don't recognize us without drinks in our hands
Casting bitter glances, with gooey loved filled longing centers
Oh to have that back again!
With all that we've learned in our own time apart
We'd be beautiful together
More than just little eruptions
and thick flowing crude
We'd be hydrogen and continental shiftings
Mass climate change with laughing glaciers
Sadistic trees, taking it all back, storming the cities
with sentient clouds, giving press conferences
revealing their cumulus intellects
and time-free moments in the sun
strikingly similar to the first view you receive in heaven
and a way to reach it in your dreams
And oh no, what's this
I cannot even finish this without
Static and distraction
So this is how it ends
When the sky turns green and gold
Let this go
Enough already
Just roll over
Show the sun your soft spot
Unflinching
Villages in the grass beside your eyes
Gravity holds them, too
More Than Just Inner Peace
Once upon a time I had a happy marriage
Snide remarks spoke of medical assistance
forming the bridge
My creative side and I, so merry and free
Instant responses
Oh the flow
Direct synaptic connections and understandings
With a pipeline to our emotional core
Erupting on cue,
with the ease of a dorm room
It frothed forth faster than I could fill the lines
Easy men, we may have to actually try some day
We revolved so well together
No trying required
No barriers
Just the sweet flow of crude ideas
thinking faster than writing
fully lubricated
manifesting satisfaction of one self
One vision at a time
But we grew apart
Something changed
Walls between us
Now we talk through mediators
Cranial correspondents
The kids don't recognize us without drinks in our hands
Casting bitter glances, with gooey loved filled longing centers
Oh to have that back again!
With all that we've learned in our own time apart
We'd be beautiful together
More than just little eruptions
and thick flowing crude
We'd be hydrogen and continental shiftings
Mass climate change with laughing glaciers
Sadistic trees, taking it all back, storming the cities
with sentient clouds, giving press conferences
revealing their cumulus intellects
and time-free moments in the sun
strikingly similar to the first view you receive in heaven
and a way to reach it in your dreams
And oh no, what's this
I cannot even finish this without
Static and distraction
Friday, April 18, 2008
Mad World
I've become utterly intimidated by this blog. I can still post freely on my myspace blog, but here...it's like I'm Hitler and I'm on stage trying to entertain an audience of allied soldiers. Nothing's going to work.
It's been a couple weeks since I tried to write on here, but school has been battering me around. I had a moment today...I was making up an exam I had missed while in the hospital with a viral infection last month. I had to take the test in what was essentially a hallway right outside a couple of offices. In one office my professor chatted with a student about video games. In the other, another prof who apparently heads the department or serves on some nonsensical bureaucratic committee feverishly held a phone conversation. They were discussing the third paragraph in some official letter that had to do with policy regarding the termination of professors. The way he kept going on and on about how the paragraph "just wasn't right" in such a loud and irritating tone made concentrating quite difficult. Not to mention the pertinent debate going on in the other room about Assassin's Creed and whether the combat style is too disorienting. The Paragraph Professor annoyed me the most. And distracted me to no end. Needless to say, I didn't do very well on the exam. But then I had that moment when I realized the folly of so much of society's existence. This guy's life has come down to sitting in an office and having stressful phone conversations about some words in an insignificant letter? So much of what everyone is this world HAS to do in order to "earn a living" is just preposterous. What's worse is the way so many get wrapped up in what they're doing and fall victim to the fallacy that it is worth stress and precious time. Holden Caulfield must be weeping in a beer somewhere. In today's world you're almost required to become a "phoney." (be someone or something you are not) And I include in that, spending your time, life, and energy on things that mean very little to you personally. Reports? Sales figures? Mission Statements? Resumes? When did the world become all about being fake and "selling yourself," "putting forth an image," and ultimately filling each day with nonsense?
I know some of your out there will read this and perhaps agree with the sentiment, but then that adult in you will kick in and you'll give me a pat on the head before telling me how not everyone can just pursue their passions in life -- that all those things (reports, committees, charts, company policies, etc) are all important. It's like we all fall asleep and forget that we each only have a limited time on this planet. Why must we WASTE it worrying over complete bullshit that deep down we really don't care about? Honestly -- what's more important to you: the stuff you do all day at work, what you learn in school -- or your family, your friends, art, music, books, nature, holidays, etc????? I realize we have to have jobs in order to survive, but how do so many seem to just accept it and disconnect from the inner self and it's longings? How do people go through each day CARING about the nonsense they have to do? When time is so short and life so tenable -- how can you sit in a dreary office all day freaking out over some damn paragraph in a letter and NOT be severely upset about the fact that that is what your life has come to? I don't understand the mechanics behind it. How do you will yourself to forget what you really care about and instead do all that other garbage?
I don't know....I just don't know where or how I'm meant to fit into this world. Unless it involves something I genuinely care about or am interested in, I just don't see how I can do the same thing day after day.
It's been a couple weeks since I tried to write on here, but school has been battering me around. I had a moment today...I was making up an exam I had missed while in the hospital with a viral infection last month. I had to take the test in what was essentially a hallway right outside a couple of offices. In one office my professor chatted with a student about video games. In the other, another prof who apparently heads the department or serves on some nonsensical bureaucratic committee feverishly held a phone conversation. They were discussing the third paragraph in some official letter that had to do with policy regarding the termination of professors. The way he kept going on and on about how the paragraph "just wasn't right" in such a loud and irritating tone made concentrating quite difficult. Not to mention the pertinent debate going on in the other room about Assassin's Creed and whether the combat style is too disorienting. The Paragraph Professor annoyed me the most. And distracted me to no end. Needless to say, I didn't do very well on the exam. But then I had that moment when I realized the folly of so much of society's existence. This guy's life has come down to sitting in an office and having stressful phone conversations about some words in an insignificant letter? So much of what everyone is this world HAS to do in order to "earn a living" is just preposterous. What's worse is the way so many get wrapped up in what they're doing and fall victim to the fallacy that it is worth stress and precious time. Holden Caulfield must be weeping in a beer somewhere. In today's world you're almost required to become a "phoney." (be someone or something you are not) And I include in that, spending your time, life, and energy on things that mean very little to you personally. Reports? Sales figures? Mission Statements? Resumes? When did the world become all about being fake and "selling yourself," "putting forth an image," and ultimately filling each day with nonsense?
I know some of your out there will read this and perhaps agree with the sentiment, but then that adult in you will kick in and you'll give me a pat on the head before telling me how not everyone can just pursue their passions in life -- that all those things (reports, committees, charts, company policies, etc) are all important. It's like we all fall asleep and forget that we each only have a limited time on this planet. Why must we WASTE it worrying over complete bullshit that deep down we really don't care about? Honestly -- what's more important to you: the stuff you do all day at work, what you learn in school -- or your family, your friends, art, music, books, nature, holidays, etc????? I realize we have to have jobs in order to survive, but how do so many seem to just accept it and disconnect from the inner self and it's longings? How do people go through each day CARING about the nonsense they have to do? When time is so short and life so tenable -- how can you sit in a dreary office all day freaking out over some damn paragraph in a letter and NOT be severely upset about the fact that that is what your life has come to? I don't understand the mechanics behind it. How do you will yourself to forget what you really care about and instead do all that other garbage?
I don't know....I just don't know where or how I'm meant to fit into this world. Unless it involves something I genuinely care about or am interested in, I just don't see how I can do the same thing day after day.
Friday, April 4, 2008
McCready Speaks
Good old McCready here. Our dear friend Richard has been ignoring me lately. But it's not his fault. He has that ADD. His brain never met a distracting thought it didn't like.
But you know, I've been thinking about it. It's possible that his problem with distraction and focusing is not simply of natural origin. At first I found this world of yours rather limited and overflowing with sleepwalking dead. But there is something else going on here. It's very hidden. Whoever is keeping it hidden has done a fair job of it, too. There are more like our friend Richard out there. Perhaps even some of you share his...condition. Have trouble sleeping? Strange, detailed dreams? Awake exhausted and aching? Have trouble fitting into the machine of society? Notice things that most do not? Feel like parts of your brain have been blocked off? That your mind is a swirling tornado of thoughts, feelings, and ideas? Oh yes, there are more of you out there. What a sight when all of your heads finally clear and you start rearranging this little world. Not that it matters to me, I have other places to be. But traveling was never a skill of mine.
Anyhow, maybe one of these "drug companies" (I still can't get over that one!) will accidentally manufacture a pill that can illuminate your clouded minds. Or maybe you'll stumble your way through the dark and into the light all on your own. (There's much more personal self-satisfaction if you do it yourself.) Goodbye for now, my friends. Look for me in your dreams, I do love to lurk.
But you know, I've been thinking about it. It's possible that his problem with distraction and focusing is not simply of natural origin. At first I found this world of yours rather limited and overflowing with sleepwalking dead. But there is something else going on here. It's very hidden. Whoever is keeping it hidden has done a fair job of it, too. There are more like our friend Richard out there. Perhaps even some of you share his...condition. Have trouble sleeping? Strange, detailed dreams? Awake exhausted and aching? Have trouble fitting into the machine of society? Notice things that most do not? Feel like parts of your brain have been blocked off? That your mind is a swirling tornado of thoughts, feelings, and ideas? Oh yes, there are more of you out there. What a sight when all of your heads finally clear and you start rearranging this little world. Not that it matters to me, I have other places to be. But traveling was never a skill of mine.
Anyhow, maybe one of these "drug companies" (I still can't get over that one!) will accidentally manufacture a pill that can illuminate your clouded minds. Or maybe you'll stumble your way through the dark and into the light all on your own. (There's much more personal self-satisfaction if you do it yourself.) Goodbye for now, my friends. Look for me in your dreams, I do love to lurk.
Posting for Posting's Sake
After spring break, all my writing attempts got pushed to the back of the mental workshop. I'm also finding it harder and harder to blog on here and on myspace. Like now there's pressure or something. So, this morning I'm posting for the sake of posting. I have to keep doing this or I'll slip back into apathy.
I've also been pondering a different story idea than the whole McCready thing. (naturally) It involves the world being decimated by a virus or chemical warfare. Seemingly everyone is dead and gone. But there's a lone survivor who doesn't quite recall who is he or what has happened. I think he knows his name and has a scattering of memories, but the problem is more that everything is just garbled in his head. He wakes up on a island in the Pacific - maybe near Australia or New Zealand. Much to his surprise, the ones who find him and wake him up are not other survivors, but are actually robots. Some of them look just like humans, but he can tell a difference. They take him back to civilization where he discovers that there are millions of these robots and that they're essentially cleaning up and rebuilding from the destruction. They hold him in some sort of reverence since he is the first living human they've found. Almost like how we would treat the last remaining member of an animal species.
Anyway, that's the new thing bouncing around in my head. I drive around town and imagine no humans. Or maybe robots driving around trying to continue the illusion of society for the lone survivor's mental well-being.
I've also been pondering a different story idea than the whole McCready thing. (naturally) It involves the world being decimated by a virus or chemical warfare. Seemingly everyone is dead and gone. But there's a lone survivor who doesn't quite recall who is he or what has happened. I think he knows his name and has a scattering of memories, but the problem is more that everything is just garbled in his head. He wakes up on a island in the Pacific - maybe near Australia or New Zealand. Much to his surprise, the ones who find him and wake him up are not other survivors, but are actually robots. Some of them look just like humans, but he can tell a difference. They take him back to civilization where he discovers that there are millions of these robots and that they're essentially cleaning up and rebuilding from the destruction. They hold him in some sort of reverence since he is the first living human they've found. Almost like how we would treat the last remaining member of an animal species.
Anyway, that's the new thing bouncing around in my head. I drive around town and imagine no humans. Or maybe robots driving around trying to continue the illusion of society for the lone survivor's mental well-being.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A Roadblock Finally Sticks
Well, spring break is over. (No, this is not part of my story or my little "story notes") I did a good job over the last part of the break with my writing. I actually managed to write consistently for about 5 days on the same story idea (the McCready related stuff). The usual roadblocks would arise -- little things like names, big things like plot points, and issues such as whether to remain in 1st person (which strikes me as being less favored and only best used for certain stories, but I could be completely wrong) or switch to the seemingly more appropriate (but harder for me to keep writing without getting caught up in the little things) 3rd person, but I pushed through and just kept writing - something...anything. But the roadblocks are piling up and I think I'm just about stalled. There have also been some personal issues getting in the way the last couple of days, but hey -- aren't those the types of situations that most good writers thrive under?
And then today the inevitable "coming up with more story ideas" occurred. Normally when I get an idea and I have enough concentration and lack of inner criticism to start writing, I'll get an entirely new idea a short time later. Then my attention will be drawn to this new one. Then I'll get another one - and lose interest in the previous idea. And so on. I wish I could write as quickly as Stephen King, so that my ideas wouldn't always end up dying on the vine.
So what do I write about in this blog now? I've said about all I have to say on my writing for tonight. But I don't think those reading this will remain interested if all I talk about is behind the scenes turmoil related to my writing. If this were my Myspace blog right now, I would probably comment on school, my girlfriend, how I finally got to see "There Will Be Blood" this weekend, the animals, and maybe even the personal issues I mentioned. But I don't feel as open in that regard here. Odd, because on Myspace I wouldn't feel comfortable posting my creative efforts. Maybe it is something to do with keeping my identity private on here....
I CAN talk about Girl Scout Cookies, though. I've gotta say, as wonderful as they are, it seems like each year they get less tasty and smaller in size. I used to LOVE Samoas....but this year, I ate the first box weeks ago and haven't even touched the second one. The Thin Mints are still good -- especially out of the fridge. I found the Tag-a-Longs to be quite disappointing after all the ado other people made over them.
And then today the inevitable "coming up with more story ideas" occurred. Normally when I get an idea and I have enough concentration and lack of inner criticism to start writing, I'll get an entirely new idea a short time later. Then my attention will be drawn to this new one. Then I'll get another one - and lose interest in the previous idea. And so on. I wish I could write as quickly as Stephen King, so that my ideas wouldn't always end up dying on the vine.
So what do I write about in this blog now? I've said about all I have to say on my writing for tonight. But I don't think those reading this will remain interested if all I talk about is behind the scenes turmoil related to my writing. If this were my Myspace blog right now, I would probably comment on school, my girlfriend, how I finally got to see "There Will Be Blood" this weekend, the animals, and maybe even the personal issues I mentioned. But I don't feel as open in that regard here. Odd, because on Myspace I wouldn't feel comfortable posting my creative efforts. Maybe it is something to do with keeping my identity private on here....
I CAN talk about Girl Scout Cookies, though. I've gotta say, as wonderful as they are, it seems like each year they get less tasty and smaller in size. I used to LOVE Samoas....but this year, I ate the first box weeks ago and haven't even touched the second one. The Thin Mints are still good -- especially out of the fridge. I found the Tag-a-Longs to be quite disappointing after all the ado other people made over them.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Golden Slumbers
Sleep has never been an easy thing for me. I've never arisen in the morning, rolled merrily out of bed, greeted the day with a dramatic stretch, and proceeded onward magically refreshed and full of energy. I see people who go running at 6AM and think they must be on cocaine. In my life, sleep does not equal rest. Sleep is a tense, draining struggle. I wake up feeling just as tired, if not more exhausted than when I went to bed. I chew through mouth guards that are not meant to be chewed through. I wake up sore, feeling like I've just spent the night being dragged through the woods by a pack of wolves. The fuzzy-headed feeling never quite leaves. I pass through my days in some measure of a daze, never knowing what it's like to have a clear mind. I cannot fall asleep during daylight - even if I've been up all night. Deep down at times, I feel like I have to be awake to see the sun. To be asleep while it is above the horizon would be to miss something...significant.
But it has gotten better. Lately things aren't so severe. Perhaps my body (or mind) has adjusted to my turbulent sleeping habits as I've grown older. The dreams are still abnormally detailed and strange, but more and more I have dreams that continue from previous nights.
And then there is McCready. This mustached, smiling man dressed like a villain in a Western. But he doesn't scare me. My instincts tell me I should be afraid - very afraid, but I'm not.
But it has gotten better. Lately things aren't so severe. Perhaps my body (or mind) has adjusted to my turbulent sleeping habits as I've grown older. The dreams are still abnormally detailed and strange, but more and more I have dreams that continue from previous nights.
And then there is McCready. This mustached, smiling man dressed like a villain in a Western. But he doesn't scare me. My instincts tell me I should be afraid - very afraid, but I'm not.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
If You Talk Too Much My Head Will Explode
"I don't want you to try and save me / no, I don't want you at all" - People in Planes
Consider this a rough draft. Consider this a forward if you will. Consider this a warning. I am not Richard, I am McCready. If Richard continues writing down every little happening and manages to form it into a coherent vision...well, good for him. But, if he does, you will be hearing an awful lot about me. Undoubtedly some of it will be untrue or exaggerated. For instance, it's not true that I hate human beings. I do like some of them. The few who are truly awake. It's also not true that I am a demon or a fallen angel or any nonsense like that. And I never once burned an entire town and all that lived within it to the ground. I let all the animals go. Cows, chickens, and pigs are for eating. Dogs and cats are pleasant company. People are vacant, mad husks of formal potential that do little more than clutter up the landscape. And I do not understand where Richard got the idea that I am a cowboy! I have never been any such thing - in any life! Read on if you care to. His rambling prose will soon follow with dreadful attempts at literary competency. It probably will not even be in a sensible order. Organization eludes him. If you wish to query me about some of what you will learn, by all means, ask. I have the time, believe me.
Consider this a rough draft. Consider this a forward if you will. Consider this a warning. I am not Richard, I am McCready. If Richard continues writing down every little happening and manages to form it into a coherent vision...well, good for him. But, if he does, you will be hearing an awful lot about me. Undoubtedly some of it will be untrue or exaggerated. For instance, it's not true that I hate human beings. I do like some of them. The few who are truly awake. It's also not true that I am a demon or a fallen angel or any nonsense like that. And I never once burned an entire town and all that lived within it to the ground. I let all the animals go. Cows, chickens, and pigs are for eating. Dogs and cats are pleasant company. People are vacant, mad husks of formal potential that do little more than clutter up the landscape. And I do not understand where Richard got the idea that I am a cowboy! I have never been any such thing - in any life! Read on if you care to. His rambling prose will soon follow with dreadful attempts at literary competency. It probably will not even be in a sensible order. Organization eludes him. If you wish to query me about some of what you will learn, by all means, ask. I have the time, believe me.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Purpose
I originally had one of these blogs a few years ago. But I couldn't concentrate very well at the time, I didn't know what to write about, and nobody except spammers and a single friend ever knew it existed. I've blogged on Myspace, but I got the impression that blogging there is not considered truly blogging. Like the association with Myspace and all its juvenile glory taints any attempts at blog legitimacy. Blog legitimacy? Are we seriously at a point where there is such a thing?
Anyway, I suppose I need a purpose for this blog. Unlike most other blogs out there, this will not be my attempt at journalism, a digital soapbox for my political rantings, or a know-it-all information dump for some niche like raising albino tree frogs. Nor will this be a daily report on the minutia of my daily life...at least I hope it doesn't get to that point. I have a hard time deciding what is worth putting on one of these blogs. How does one organize what should and shouldn't go into their blog? After all, isn't a blog by definition an online journal? I put a wide range of things into my journals. Daily events, dreams, problems, news items, poems, song lyrics, story ideas, lists of things, etc. And how much of my true identity do I want to put on here? My name? Picture, hopes, desires, location?
And how does one say, "okay, I'm going to start a blog and it's going to be about stuff in the news that interests me and my thoughts regarding it." Or "my life is so interesting that I'm going to detail it in my blog - people will love it."
Also, I'm greatly concerned with whether I should have this blog include all the things I would want to blog about or if I need to have separate blogs and separate identities for each. Like a made-up identity for a blog with just fiction attempts. One that is about my daily life and the people I know. One for philosophical and other musings. Etc. I'd really rather have it all in one. Having multiple identities and blogs would just be chaos. Plus, with my ADD, there's no telling what I will or will not want to write about on a given day.
So, here's how I begin: At first the only people reading this will be the friends who bother to check it out after I send you emails about it. And spammers. But even my friends may not know me and my odd little mind as well as they think they do. When I was young, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a) a successful writer, b) a musician, or c) an actor. These firm desires never went away. However, as I entered young-adulthood it was ingrained in me that I had to have something practical to pursue as a career. So, I went to college and tried to "find myself" and find a career path that I would be good at, happy with, and could make a comfortable living doing. I tried an extensive list of majors, went to law school for a year, spent a few years in the real world working, and am now back in engineering school of all places. But none of it has been "me." I am good at a lot of things. Good, but not great. The only things I've ever really been better than most people at were writing, music, and being dramatic. Every single personality profile and career aptitude test I've taken has pointed towards those very things I love doing the most. Yet here I sit, mired in my mid-twenties (or are they late-twenties now...), and I still cannot find success in anything I do. If everything about my personality, my talents, and my desires indicates I should be this great writer - how come I haven't written anything of note? How come I don't have a book deal or at least my own column in some local paper? If writing is what God put me on the earth to do, then how come every time I face a blank page with an idea, I end up with nothing but frustration and five sentences edited over and over again?
In college they trained me not only in fiction, but poetry as well. The poetry was sort of an afterthought. Yet, for some reason, I excelled in those classes. Perhaps it was the combustible nature of the college-aged mind and the minimal amount of concentration poetry requires. My best works were typically the ones that I gave the least amount of thought towards. They were the ones written 30 minutes before class, soaring on a possibly-too-high dose of ADD medication, with no planning or worrying or picking apart the details. As in all things with my life - if I try too hard, I fail completely. I have to NOT try in order to succeed. Welcome to the mixed up world of ADD.
I am starting to realize that the same principle of "letting go" and thinking less about what I'm writing also applies to my fiction attempts. Oh, the countless good ideas that have escaped from my brain only to be beaten to death upon the rocks of my own self-criticism. Literally each word typed onto the page would be subject to examination and deep consideration. How will this word be viewed by the reader? Is this the best word for what I'm trying to get across? Does it fit sufficiently with the previous words? Oh, it was hell. Not just for the poor words and ideas, but for me as well. I would watch as my own newborn ideas would be torn apart by my own frenzied mind until they were deemed unfit for further consideration. "That's not going anywhere," "it's been done before," "it's not original enough," and on and on.
I think that this "over-thinking" not only played havoc with my creative endeavors, but also hampered a lot of my youthful and college years. I over-thought everything in my daily life, to the point that I was filled with great anxiety over very minor things. This constantly anxious and hyper-analytical state resulted in a great many missed opportunities, bizarre reactions, unnecessary brooding, and stifled personal growth. Something happened in my post-college years, though. Maybe I grew up. Maybe I burned out some of my body's ability to create anxiety. Maybe I just let go a little. In the last year or two I've become a different person. At least, in my own eyes. I'm more flexible, relaxed, and open. And maybe now I'm ready to "let go" in my writing.
Two nights ago I sat down with a yellow legal pad and began to write. Normally I would attempt to write on a word processor, but all that ever results in are saved documents with an awkward opening paragraph or maybe a brief synopsis of the idea itself. Such documents are rarely seen or heard from again. I've had this idea floating around in my head for some time now. If I thought too hard about it or tried to form it into a plot with characters and such things, it grew into a nasty ball of frustration. So, instead I simply started writing. I had to write it in first person perspective because any attempts at third-person result in flat tires and stilted prose. So it was about myself meeting this evil cowboy figure in the backyard. We had/have a history together (another story idea from a month or two ago), but somehow he is back and he is real and he is in my backyard. That's the thing -- with my ADD and hyper-thinking mind, I'm so fragile of a writer that right now, the only way I can get anything out might just be to put myself literally into the middle of it. Most writers can write for days on any subject at all. It's like breathing. But for me, and my...issues...the only times I seem to write on and on are when I'm relaxed and not concerned with what I'm actually saying: such as in emails. What do I write about in emails? Myself, my life, my thoughts, my dreams, my friends. So if sitting down and critically thinking about a story idea is basically suicidal, why not just put myself in the story and fire away? Sounds good.
Alrighty, friends. I must go now. Maybe someone will read this sometime soon. If not...then my brain has nothing to worry about.
Anyway, I suppose I need a purpose for this blog. Unlike most other blogs out there, this will not be my attempt at journalism, a digital soapbox for my political rantings, or a know-it-all information dump for some niche like raising albino tree frogs. Nor will this be a daily report on the minutia of my daily life...at least I hope it doesn't get to that point. I have a hard time deciding what is worth putting on one of these blogs. How does one organize what should and shouldn't go into their blog? After all, isn't a blog by definition an online journal? I put a wide range of things into my journals. Daily events, dreams, problems, news items, poems, song lyrics, story ideas, lists of things, etc. And how much of my true identity do I want to put on here? My name? Picture, hopes, desires, location?
And how does one say, "okay, I'm going to start a blog and it's going to be about stuff in the news that interests me and my thoughts regarding it." Or "my life is so interesting that I'm going to detail it in my blog - people will love it."
Also, I'm greatly concerned with whether I should have this blog include all the things I would want to blog about or if I need to have separate blogs and separate identities for each. Like a made-up identity for a blog with just fiction attempts. One that is about my daily life and the people I know. One for philosophical and other musings. Etc. I'd really rather have it all in one. Having multiple identities and blogs would just be chaos. Plus, with my ADD, there's no telling what I will or will not want to write about on a given day.
So, here's how I begin: At first the only people reading this will be the friends who bother to check it out after I send you emails about it. And spammers. But even my friends may not know me and my odd little mind as well as they think they do. When I was young, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted to be a) a successful writer, b) a musician, or c) an actor. These firm desires never went away. However, as I entered young-adulthood it was ingrained in me that I had to have something practical to pursue as a career. So, I went to college and tried to "find myself" and find a career path that I would be good at, happy with, and could make a comfortable living doing. I tried an extensive list of majors, went to law school for a year, spent a few years in the real world working, and am now back in engineering school of all places. But none of it has been "me." I am good at a lot of things. Good, but not great. The only things I've ever really been better than most people at were writing, music, and being dramatic. Every single personality profile and career aptitude test I've taken has pointed towards those very things I love doing the most. Yet here I sit, mired in my mid-twenties (or are they late-twenties now...), and I still cannot find success in anything I do. If everything about my personality, my talents, and my desires indicates I should be this great writer - how come I haven't written anything of note? How come I don't have a book deal or at least my own column in some local paper? If writing is what God put me on the earth to do, then how come every time I face a blank page with an idea, I end up with nothing but frustration and five sentences edited over and over again?
In college they trained me not only in fiction, but poetry as well. The poetry was sort of an afterthought. Yet, for some reason, I excelled in those classes. Perhaps it was the combustible nature of the college-aged mind and the minimal amount of concentration poetry requires. My best works were typically the ones that I gave the least amount of thought towards. They were the ones written 30 minutes before class, soaring on a possibly-too-high dose of ADD medication, with no planning or worrying or picking apart the details. As in all things with my life - if I try too hard, I fail completely. I have to NOT try in order to succeed. Welcome to the mixed up world of ADD.
I am starting to realize that the same principle of "letting go" and thinking less about what I'm writing also applies to my fiction attempts. Oh, the countless good ideas that have escaped from my brain only to be beaten to death upon the rocks of my own self-criticism. Literally each word typed onto the page would be subject to examination and deep consideration. How will this word be viewed by the reader? Is this the best word for what I'm trying to get across? Does it fit sufficiently with the previous words? Oh, it was hell. Not just for the poor words and ideas, but for me as well. I would watch as my own newborn ideas would be torn apart by my own frenzied mind until they were deemed unfit for further consideration. "That's not going anywhere," "it's been done before," "it's not original enough," and on and on.
I think that this "over-thinking" not only played havoc with my creative endeavors, but also hampered a lot of my youthful and college years. I over-thought everything in my daily life, to the point that I was filled with great anxiety over very minor things. This constantly anxious and hyper-analytical state resulted in a great many missed opportunities, bizarre reactions, unnecessary brooding, and stifled personal growth. Something happened in my post-college years, though. Maybe I grew up. Maybe I burned out some of my body's ability to create anxiety. Maybe I just let go a little. In the last year or two I've become a different person. At least, in my own eyes. I'm more flexible, relaxed, and open. And maybe now I'm ready to "let go" in my writing.
Two nights ago I sat down with a yellow legal pad and began to write. Normally I would attempt to write on a word processor, but all that ever results in are saved documents with an awkward opening paragraph or maybe a brief synopsis of the idea itself. Such documents are rarely seen or heard from again. I've had this idea floating around in my head for some time now. If I thought too hard about it or tried to form it into a plot with characters and such things, it grew into a nasty ball of frustration. So, instead I simply started writing. I had to write it in first person perspective because any attempts at third-person result in flat tires and stilted prose. So it was about myself meeting this evil cowboy figure in the backyard. We had/have a history together (another story idea from a month or two ago), but somehow he is back and he is real and he is in my backyard. That's the thing -- with my ADD and hyper-thinking mind, I'm so fragile of a writer that right now, the only way I can get anything out might just be to put myself literally into the middle of it. Most writers can write for days on any subject at all. It's like breathing. But for me, and my...issues...the only times I seem to write on and on are when I'm relaxed and not concerned with what I'm actually saying: such as in emails. What do I write about in emails? Myself, my life, my thoughts, my dreams, my friends. So if sitting down and critically thinking about a story idea is basically suicidal, why not just put myself in the story and fire away? Sounds good.
Alrighty, friends. I must go now. Maybe someone will read this sometime soon. If not...then my brain has nothing to worry about.
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