the right note

This is the first bit of writing I’ve been able to sit and create and enjoy for my own pleasure in many days. My brain is utterly exhausted and I’ve become a hermit with square pupils from sitting in my basement staring at the stupid computer screen day in day out working on a stupid application full of stupid essays so that I can get into a stupid school and chase my stupid dream of becoming better at my stupid writing.

 Sometimes you can never find that right note to complete a stupid song. Sometimes you simply cannot for some stupid reason find the stupid word or words to convey the idea or emotion you’re trying to express. Sometimes you just can’t find the right word.

 Sometimes some stupid shit transpires and you just freeze up and don’t react. Sometimes you choose not to react. Sometimes without thinking you just react. Sometimes you overreact. Sometimes you tremendously overreact. Shit, sometimes you just plain act, which is the worst one of all.

 Try as I might and fail as I may I will not ever stop. I wont be stupid about this, I will never let my guard down again. I won’t slow my pace either. I will not rest easy until I arrive. I will not cease my journeys until I arrive. And I will work vigorously until I finally I arrive. I will plod steadfast and determined through the proverbial mud. And, believe you me, I will arrive dressed in the finest mud covered attire.

 Continue you, the sojourn. Trudge sir, trudge. If they say you cannot, say you can go sit on your thumb to the bum. Headstrong determination, and the will to will it upon myself is necessary.  Of course there will be bumps, in the road, potholes and other assorted hazards scattered about my path but I will conquer them. Not all of them. At times I will fall face first and eat shit. But, that my friends is how we learn our best lessons, with a mouthful of shite. Further tribulations and further failures and humiliations surely lie ahead, as many as I must endure so long as I one day arrive.

 I know where I’m headed. I think I know where the final destination lies, but it certainly is not in sight, not yet anyway. I continue to journey this extraordinary voyage and maybe I wont ever get “there.” But I wont stop trying.

 I want to know what it feels like to find that right note. And when I find it, I’ll sing or strum the shit out of it and hold that blessed note. Believe me I will hold that note until every last bit of breath is exhaled and I’m out of breath and I collapse. I will lay there, at the exact spot where the right note was found, exhausted, on the ground, and I will simply listen to the pristine perfect “right” note as it rings through and echoes off into the deepest crevices of “our” earth. When the last tiny remnants of the sound have echoed off and disappeared into the furthest expanses and the mighty, gorgeous note is no longer audible I can stand. I can stand rested, rejuvenated and refined as a new man with a new kick on life. Satisfied and fulfilled I can brush myself off. Remove the soot filth and dirt from the long haul. Then, I can smile and proudly tell the next oblivious idiot that I stumble across and tell him/her that I just returned from an incredibly inhuman journey through both space time and the human mind and found the elusive right note. Then I smile. A real smile. A rare smile. One you probably never have seen. Then I can go off searching for the right word…

The Tooth Fairy ACT 1

            I was a strange and twisted one as wee lad. I was a ball of destruction I often liked to smash any and everything I felt like smashing. My niece is similar in that sense, but we wont get into that right now. I think it wasn’t so much the act of destroying that thrilled me, but the aftermath. I loved the sight of smashed toys and broken power tools and smashed bugs and smashed thumbs, I just liked to smash. I saw a deep and twisted beauty in being able to take boring, intact, useful and ordinary, picking it up, lifting it over my head and slamming it to the ground with such great force that the gorgeous inner springs, screws, plastic shards, wires and other gutty works could explode into a beautiful mass of debris, littering my surrounding area. I had a great time doing this with transformers and cabbage patch kids, and caught many a serious whooping at the hands of the irate older siblings because of my obsession with the way these things looked after I was through with them. I thought they looked more interesting this way. They, however, disagreed.

            And then when I found out that I could break parts of myself and they would just grow back or fix themselves, forget about it. A twisted memory from my kindergarten year comes to me on that note, or was it first grade. Oh well, the year isn’t important, but it had to be one of the two.

            I remember biting into an apple and seeing blood. What the eff? I thought. Then I pushed my tongue around to see what was going on in there and noticed I had a loose tooth. A big one. In the front too. My first loose tooth, I was psyched.

            I was finally, at long last in a position to meet this tooth fairy I’d been hearing about. The enigmatic creature. Who breaks and enters your home to give you money? And for a tooth no less. Wait a minute... What if the teeth were really valuable? Like way more then a quarter or dollar or however much she left. I even contemplated keeping the tooth for a moment. What was she planning to do with all these rotten teeth? I had every intention of smashing her too. And then robbing her of her riches. 

            It was kindergarten. Mrs. Stoltz woke me from my reverie. I wanted to play ninja turtles with Jason, but it was time to play legos with Brian and Kevin. I loved playing legos. They were easy to put back together after smashing. I wiggled and pushed at the loose tooth with the tip of my tongue. It stopped bleeding and was still in there pretty tight.

            I started to think about the Domino Rally game I saw advertised on a TV commercial when I was eating my breakfast that morning. I wanted it sooo bad. I wondered how much it could cost. I wondered if a tooth would cover the expense. Need money. Must have Domino Rally.

            I stood up from the battleship I was building, stomped on it, smashed it, watching in awe as the different colored blocks and little men flew and scattered all over my play corner. I trotted for the water fountain.

            I had to be quick and discreet about this. So far, nobody was the wiser. I took a long look at the water fountain; my hand trembled slightly as it squeezed the knobby handle thing. I looked my self dead in the eyes in the reflection of the spout. I daydreamed of staring at a cobra for a minute, because the shape of the spout reminded me of one, but quickly I returned to the matter at hand.

            One last, quick glance to see if anyone was looking and I swooped in headlong for the fountain. My aim was dead set on and I showed no signs of slowing. Then WHAM! The tooth smashed out with ease. It swirled in the crimson, liquid mix and settled into the bottom of the drain. Mission Complete. It barely hurt at all, easy breezy.

            I was great with the theatrics so, WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! Please help. I hurt myself. Ouch, my tooth, my face. I'm bleeding. The teacher came to my rescue. I explained that I went in for a drink and accidentally hit my face, now my tooth is gone and I'm Bleeding and it hurts so bad. There, there, its okay it happens to all little boys and girls...blahblahblah.

            I cried and put on the greatest show on earth and demanded to see the nurse at once. The pain was far to unbearable for me to possibly focus on school and it would be better if my mother picked me up so I could spend the day at home nursing my wound. Wound shmoond, I was headed home to plot my assault on the tooth fairy. 

consumed, swallowed, submerged

perpetually bogged down and stumped,

at his wits last end 

with no end to be seen in the near distant future

lest he traverses far from this place

try as he may to emerge

to move forward,

like cinder blocks rested on shoulders 

and feet long settled in slow drying cement,

all movement hindered,

all progress blocked

caring not for morality when passing,

passing those that may slow his progress

yet he stops just ahead of them

as if on a queue with red velvet ropes and al

lhe stops to sharpen his knife

the blade was dull

 the meek stomped out,
superseded, swept aside as if crumbs on floor

is justice blind?

or is he simply blind to justice?

is he held back?or 

is he simply afraid to move further?

unwilling to transcend?

yet content  crawl along the surface

slither in this place

 knowing full well

there is more

fully capable of transcendence

capable of a great migration

yet he morbidly remains 

remains in the marsh

in the bog of eternal sameness

will he remain in obscurity ever-long?

finding his comfort in chaos,

comfort in his discomfort

dissing, shunning comfort 

it seems inconceivable to those the likes of he

he's an expert in his trade

experienced, 

competent and eligible

yet still, 

he seems unqualified to use that jargon.

My life as Ned Flanders

A few months back I placed myself in the center of a homebrewed social experiment, something I find myself doing more and more often as of late in the search for new and interesting writing material on this awful and tremendously boring island. Anyhow, when I first undertook this challenge I failed miserably, may be lasting one day, if that. I just wasn’t ready and hadn’t quite yet realized the magnitude of such an undertaking and all that it entails. Well I’ve finally brushed myself off and tracked down the fiend-horse that had so brutally flung me to the dirt and took off. I’m ready to get back on that horse and try again and restate my original thesis as follows.

I have made a hasty and compulsive decision, another to add to the laundry list. From this moment onward I vow and test my will and wits to see if I can go thirty days without breaking “the law.” 30 days, not one single solitary little law. Actually judging from how quickly I faltered on my last attempt I’ll drop it down to seven days. Yes, seven days and we’ll see how it goes and take it from there. 168 hours as a first-rate respectable and law-abiding citizen. The best way to do this to live like Ned Flanders.

Ah to lead the life of the law abiding citizen, to taste the ignorance, to smell the fear of the “Average Joe,” if only for one week. I can only assume a barrage of mindless boredom is headed directly for my path. The chance one must take if he so chooses to be the control in his own experimentations. The vices of the other days Irish celebrations are now behind us so bring it on. It certainly couldn’t hurt or wouldn’t kill me and it could quite possibly serve for the betterment of my personal being, something I’ve been striving for as of late, which is why I intend to give it a shot, even if it is a blind shot into the darkness.

I will be interesting to study how this brain reacts to such an extremely reciprocated state. I can only imagine what new and interesting things the voices in my head will have to say during my state of antithesis.

I will survey and closely monitor all fluctuations in mental status and brain activity to the best of my capacity during the experimentation period, i.e.: urges to break the law, what triggers me to want to break the law, and what happens when I refrain from doing so when I really want to. When I have the urge to do wrong i will simply ask myself, "What would Ned do?"

The experiment should prove interesting nevertheless, even to a layman. Really take it in for a moment, not breaking a single law. I’m sure even the average church going grandma breaks “the law” at least once a day in some form or another.

“The law” is for the most part absurd and superfluous, precisely why it is so fragile, like an old Faberge egg, so easy to break, even when you’re not trying. No smoking laws for example: “hey you can’t smoke in this building!” exclaims The Man. (The Man being whoever chooses to enforce “the law” in question that is being broken) “Well, okay sir I’ll just smoke outside then,” replies The Average Joe. The Average Joe takes a few steps outside and sparks up another cigarette. “HEY YOU!” The Average Joe looks up and to his utter lack of surprise, he finds The Man, standing before him. The Man is pointing at sign that reads, “no smoking within fifty feet of this building.” “Crikey, what fucking difference does it make?” wonders The Average Joe. The Man, points, with a fifty-foot long index finger to a bench in the distance, flanked on both sides by cigarette urns. What a stupid law, so easy to break. Have a seat Ned.

And thousands of others exist, equally preposterous and even easier to break. Not one hit of the pot. The Man says that smoking the pot is against “the law” and can turn The Average Joe into a crazed and ravenous rapist. Total honesty with law enforcement, not one mile over the speed limit, no lying to police officers, lawyers, judges or other types that fall into “The Man” category, in order to save your hide or avoid sketchy legal dealings. “Yes sir, I did realize that I exceeded the speed limit by about 15 in the school zone, but I was running late for my date with a prostitute, with whom I intend to smoke the marijuana I’m holding after she performs her services. I’m actually under the influence right now my eyes aren’t red because I used clear eyes. Bear with me one moment sir while I call the prostitute and tell her I’m turning myself in for my offenses.”

Imagine the audacity of the young man who walks up to the lotto scratch off machine knowing full well that he is not of the legal age and maturity level to partake in such grown up and sophisticated luxuries, yet he plunges the dollar in and purchases the ticket any way. Or, consider the teenager illegitimately obtaining cigarettes by means of false identification, or the liquor store clerk that knowingly sells booze to minors. What a savage dangerous gang of law breaking degenerates.

Half the friggn universe is guilty of downloading copy written material, ghosts, elves, aliens and household pets included. Where do you think all the kitty porn on your computer comes from? Ha-ha. Movies obtained and viewed long before they grace the racks of Block Buster, albums leaked and shared and listened to by the general public before the artist that created the shit even got a chance to give it a listen. “Stealing” and sharing computer software bundles valuing up to a thousand dollars for free and easy breezy. I’m “stealing” right now. But, now I'm not. I've just stopped sharing and downloading the files that were brewing, so i'm no longer breaking "the law." Stealing anything period. gainst da law.  Breaking “the law” in some form is second nature to millions this day and age and some of them are probably doing so unaware that their activities are illicit.

The more I write and think about the challenge I’m preparing to undertake for the second time the more reasons I see why I failed so quickly the first go at it. Even SKATEBOARDING. Friggn skateboarding, my first true love, the one thing that would never turn its tail on me and roll off. Even skateboarding is against “the law.” Grotesquely absurd idea that for some stupid fascist reason it’s illegal for a child or even a grown man to roll around on a wooden toy with plastic wheels. It may be strange to some folks, the idea that grown men play on skateboards, but I’m certain those same folks wouldn’t find any reason for the activity to be deemed illegal. Being a 25 year old who fancies a cruise on his wooden toy with plastic wheels, I’ve fallen victim to persecution because of this on innumerable occasions. So now, for a short time, and for the sake of the experiment I will only ride my skateboard in the designated locations where it is permitted and with the appropriate safety gear as enforced by “the law.”

If “the law” was created for the benefit and protection of the average man, why are there so many arbitrary laws floating around just waiting around for the oblivious passerby to get hung up on and busted? Almost every body breaks the all-encompassing law everyday, unless, I’m the only one that feels like this.

It will be an interesting study indeed. Ill keep an eye open for average folks breaking “the law,” no matter how absurd or pointless it may be. I will document instances and events where I would normally be breaking the law, but cant because I am taking part in a very important study wherein I must try to remain the one perfect control in world full of vagrant law breaking variables. For the first time, I will have to be on my very best behavior at all times.

Last time I tried this experiment I failed for littering the cellophane from my cigarette out the window, but then realized I had been littering wrappers and butts receipts without realizing that this was against “the law.” Will I make it this time? I’ve done more research and taken a note of easy slipups that could rear their ugly “law breaker” mugs at any given moment. I feel up to the challenge: psyched, aware, enlightened and invigorated. Dead calm and ready for the conquest. Seven days at least.

            Well, we’ll have to see lad, but as of this very moment, 1:17 pm on Monday, March 17, 2008 I am a perfectly well behaved and law abiding citizen of these her United States. I hear the crowd start to cheer. A loud whistle, fireworks over the Atlantic to mark the commencement of my journey into a strict Ned Flandersesque style of living.

 

 

 

 

 

some odd ramblings

            He makes the decision to learn to type fast again and not be so dependent on the pen. He makes a decision to be less wordy; To see if it is more effective, to see if its possible to still be a dramatic and descriptive writer without having to be so dependent on adjectives. Squeeze it down and filter it out. Get right down to the point, noting that he can always add later if need be.

He also comes to an emotional and significant self-realization that he chooses to withhold as of this time. It all hurt so bad on the day he wrote what he is about to type: The writings of an unquiet mind pour from his pen via broken knuckles and shattered wrist; It all hurts today; All of it. All but the thing that usually ails him. It’s all physical pain on this day. Not the usual mental anguish, which was his first-born language right from the womb, today it was fingers, elbow, knee, ankle, wrist, ear and head. All at the same time. All moderate to excruciating. How had he injured his ear? Why was his penmanship more legible when he wrote an untreated broken wrist and knuckle?

            He was used to the other pain being worse. He found himself stoned and nursing a miserable hangover, soon to drag his dull, limp and lifeless carcass into the shower to liquefy under intense heat of a mood enhancing red light bulb screwed in for this very purpose. The thought of water against his reptile skin made him crawl and made him woozy. He will spend a great deal of time in there on this day. Soaking.

            Thinking endlessly in the dank basement bathroom as red colored steam floats around his head, slumped up as against the mildew-laden wall of the shower. Sometimes he conjures amazing thoughts, the grandest of ideas and sentences while in the shower: a predicament wherein he finds himself utterly fucked because he has nowhere to record his revelations. At times he even streaks across the basement, naked and wet, to find the nearest pen and paper. Or he finds himself repeating the thought in his head or out loud the whole time he bathes, like those awesome guys in the city, so he doesn't forget the proper wording.

            Repetition has a major downside in that: if you came up with the something worth repeating so you don't forget it, you'll be repeating that shit for a pretty long time, steady repetition of the same word, idea or phrase means that you are steadily repeating the same thought. Repeating the same thought means that you aren't allowing your brain the privilege of creating new thoughts, because its too busy telling your mouth to repeat something.

            What if you missed out on an even greater revelation because the whole time you were washing your balls or boobies you were repeating something retarded like a crazy person. A last resort is to try to write with the fingers on the hot wet condensation formed on the shower door and walls. Not too effective, yet the red light does make it barely legible. That is, until the condensation starts dribbling down, making reading the words an impossible effort, all dribbly.

            Hmmmmm, maybe he could invent the waterproof pen and shower notepad set for others as strange as he. That would be easy. Plus it would strengthen his morbid obsession with the pen. But that wouldn't be taking The Long Road now, would it? Somebody may have already invented. I will check. Out of curiosity sake. Perhaps I can patent it and make a million dollars. He tells me I'm crazy, and that I should be weary of speaking too openly of this because someone could steal our idea. I make a mental note of the statement, but never let him know that I agree. Instead I tell him that it was my, and not our idea, and order him to get his stank ass in the shower because we have important things to do today. I can’t be late because of him and his floppsy hung-over state. Don't quit right there you know? He calls out from the bathroom. I made no attempt to figure what he was talking about or to respond. Instead, I wondered how long it would take or if we would ever find our audience...  

the good one

Strange situations and stranger feelings. I continuously find myself falling prey to prickly and peculiar circumstances, a perpetual victim of circumstance. The situations always transpire when I’m least expecting them to; The calm before the squall if you will, fleeting moments of equilibrium frozen in time, waiting to be shattered into a million jagged fragments at the drop of another man’s dime.

I’m quite comfortably seated on the plush leather sofa at The Good Ones house, sipping a jug of “fierce melon” and relaxing over a butt watching Intervention (mom’s anorexic, daughters a dope fiend) and jotting down some ideas for future writing exercises.

I just finished reading aloud to another human being, for the first time since I was a wannabe writer in grade school; A rather significant milestone in the progress of my current journeys as a wannabe writer. It was the first piece since starting up again that I deemed decent and readable and still remains so. It felt rather excellent. Just as good as I’d remembered; that “gotta new toy feeling,” or “gotta new car feeling, or girl or cell or…” or whatever it maybe for you and yours. It was that feeling that we all come to miss so awfully at some point or another and I certainly hadn’t expected to get that feeling from my writing. That feeling rushed through me like a warm shot and sent pins and needles all over me flipping my stomach and settling in my loins. I was left with the strange and manic energy for some minutes afterward.

 The car rolled up the winding gravel driveway, unannounced and the hid headlamps shone upon the chimney to my left. Unannounced. The Good One’s neck shot up like ET and he looked to the window. He wondered who could be visiting at such a late hour. Reluctantly, he rose and lurched a in a bit for a closer look.

I looked up from my pad and threw a glance over my shoulder, stretching to see whom the visitor may be, not noticing that I never lifted the pen from the page and it was starting forming a puddle of ink on the paper instead of a period. The look that was frozen on The Good One’s face told me that this indeed was an unexpected visitor. It was a face I hadn’t seen him don before. I’ve seen him make some contorted grimaces but nothing like this. This face he made had me worried.

We were both stuck, on pause as though Zack Morriss had called time out and stopped everything so that he could fabricate a scheme real quick. I followed suit. I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat, waiting. I waited reluctantly for the pale expressionless expression to recede from his mug. The seconds were slow, thank god. Slow enough to provide me with ample time to formulate my escape strategy, thinking I may need one because the look of irate panic never vanished from the usually calm and mellow face of The Good One.

His hand twitched, contorting slightly. Involuntary gesticulation. I still wonder what went through his head as he darted for the door. Every single muscle in my legs contracts in unison. I was fairly certain that the adrenaline produced in the last ten seconds, paired with the whisperings from the ghost of uncertainty, barely audible, yet encouraging for once, would send me hurtling headlong for the rear exit in rare and un-apprehend able form. The decision to flee came immediately, yet when I pressed down on the couch with trembling hands, so that I may rise and take flight like a locust in the night, nothing happened. Elbows buckle. All weight again dropped onto the cushion beneath my now perspiring ass; I’m not sure if it was from the nerves, the long johns, my high-blood pressure or a culmination of these things but the ass was definitely sweating, as were the palms and forehead, all profusely. I felt beads of perspiration forming on the upper-lip.

I was now frozen, just as The Good One had been some moments before. Absolutely stuck there, a statue vibrating from an overabundance of anxiety and adrenaline. After an arduous uphill struggle I manage to finally move the lump to another corner of my throat, allowing a much-needed breath to pass through the airway. I heard two sets of feet approaching fast. I enquired as to who was approaching, uncertain if I really even wanted to know.  He didn’t know. He grew pale.

As the two figures made their way up the steps and towards the front door, a new and utterly unmistakable expression settled onto “The Good Ones Face.” Another face I’d never seen him make before. This was the expression of sheer panic and desperation. He reminded my of an injured and dazed bunny trapped in headlights, but the lights weren’t coming from a car but a hungry and ravenous wolf.

He looked back in my direction, trembling with the fear. He was barely able to, in despondency, utter the abrupt words, “yo, put that shit away,” as he reached for the doorknob. I threw a glance around my general vicinity. I saw no “shit,” as he had put it, that needed hiding or putting away and I was still uncertain who was at the door and why I would need to hide anything anyway.

Teetering on the edge of a panic attack, feeling uncertain and nauseas, I reached for my pad with trembling hands and searched for my pen without trying to look as frantic as I felt. I did my best to remain calm. I tried hard to look invisible or sophisticated or calm at best as the two figures entered the house. I made no attempt at eye contact. One smelled like a man and the other smelled like a woman. I was unprepared for what came next…

 

 

 

the waiting room

I sit in the waiting room. Waiting. Incredible how many years of our lives are spent doing just that. Some, my self included, more then the others. Waiting.

Waiting. From one corner of the room, next to a window, next to a chair, beside a water machine, there is a green and white strand of yarn tacked to the wall. Actually its two strands; one of each color intertwined. The other end spans some ten feet and is tacked to the wall to the right of the receptionists window, forming a clothesline of sorts on which a handful of pictures hang to dry.

From the looks of it, from my seated position on the other side of the room, the works couldn't have been created by anyone over the age of twelve. Some of the pictures catch my eye. Surprisingly good. Good use of color and elementary shading techniques. Some of these young artists show real promise. Some of them do not. Their pictures drawn as if the crayon were crazy glued to the wrong hand and the poor child was simply forced to try and create something, anything at all.

Some of the lads will do it. They will make something of their lives, trudge through the mud long enough to emerge victorious and become successful practitioners of law or medicine, or eventually reach fame in the worlds of  art or music and live "the good life" that they had been promised. And then, there's the others.

The others. Well, the others may not be so fortunate. Some may be on their way up up up, showing great potential all the way up until the terrible catastrophe occurs. They may get hit by a train or perish in a plane crash or fall victim to any number of freak accidents occurring each and every day in this place. Cut short. Cut off. Completely. Without ever having been given the choices and chances; the chance to either make something great of their lives or the chance to destroy them.

Some of them will be given every opportunity; all the second and third and fourth chances and still manage to squander it all selfishly. Some, well intended, focused, talented and motivated as they may be, and try as they may, will for whatever horrible reason, never be given that golden chance to overcome adversity and finally come out ahead or on top. How many aspiring artists, hacks and musicians  fall prey to that each day.

Some of them will become life-long junkies or crack-fiends or gamblers or alcoholics or any other sort of addicted type that cant seem to find, or refuses to find his or her way out of the mess, never realizing that there is an answer waiting for them, that there is a another, better way.

The wait is indeed, the hardest part. And some will spend all of their waking moments waiting. Waiting. Sitting there with their arms crossed, twiddling thumbs and waiting. Doing nothing, just waiting: Whether its for the next chance or the next train or a big break or a big check or an old flame or for next week, next month, next year or next time, whenever that day may be they sit and wait they wait for it.

They sit and they wait for it to just one day, magically fall into their laps. And for some lucky souls, one day it will just fall into their laps. Then they can rise exaltedly and cry out. "All this waiting has finally paid off!!! I finally did it! I made it!"

The others, well the others will continue to wait, and wait in vain. They will go on and on, waiting their days away and away. Not realizing how much time has gone by, they wait and wait. Until one day, alone, senile and miserable, frustrated and cynical and bitter they sit and stare out a window, watching the birds fly by and waiting. They stare and they ponder all of things they could have just done. They look down at their white and baby blue patterned clothing waiting for their dinner, wondering what they've been waiting for, from a wheelchair in a dark and smelly room tucked within the halls of a darker and smellier nursing home as they wait to one day die. They cruise around all day and hit on nurses and they hope and pray that they make into heaven, so they can rest easy knowing that the wait finally paid off.

"Peter... Peter... Peter."

"Huh, what?"

"Peter, the Doctor will see you now."

"Thank god, I've been waiting forever."