For my darling mother!

Motherfucker, I'm gone...

((



))

Just shufflin along, heel to toe, as backwards as it could ever be.

Mud rising up on the sides of my shoes, leaving solemn traces of terra and terror along the white barrier of my Cons.

Small feet pitter-pattering their way down the stairs, a dogs and not the other, reminding me just what kind of man I am.

Moments of realization of just what I don't have to offer, and what others do. But I take comfort in being a learning process, a booster, a sacrifice to a god that I'm not completely sure I believe in.

Nothing but rain, rain, rain, what used to be a comforting sign of enjoyment, days laid up in bed listening to the assault of helpless molecules spattered along the windows. Nowadays I just pray for snow, something soft and silent and dampening. Something joyful and enjoyable. Cold days alone are not the greatest, but I suppose one has to take what they can get/give.

"You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think."  Now if that isn't a hell of a play on words. I wish I possessed that sort of mind some days.

Violence isn't the answer, it's just the one we like best. It's not bad, but it doesn't hold a candle to Dorothy Parker.

But there's a time and place for self doubt/loathing/hatred/ignorance. But I'm not going to let now be the time. SAD is enough of a pain in the ass as is. I've been replacing all the lights in my house with the daylight mimicking ones. It's been pretty pleasant. I'm feeling a bit better already, but that might just be the alcohol. Either way, it's fucking working.

Come see the Brian Page Experience, take away but never bother repaying. For once, I don't want to be the stepping stone, I want to be the lodestone. Eh, worth and worthwhile, all in due time. Merry Christmas all, pour a little salt.

Have fun with the little game we play. It at least keeps shit interesting.

oooooooh mystery. I want a place in the world that's completely mine for once. Time to cross borders, swords, and hearts.

Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder...

((

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuFI5KSPAt4&ob=av3e

))

Every year it does this. It starts cold as can be at the end of November. The windshields are frosted every morning, the warmth from the heater taking its dear sweet time to reach my hands on the steering wheel. The long cold march out the doors after lessons, not quite soaking wet but enough that the wind cuts through my clothes and down to my prickly skin. The promise of a December worth enjoying always comes strong and early. Even snow, no matter how short its life is on the soggy ground is, perks me up and brings hope.

But then the rain comes. It's endless at times. I don't mind the rain. In fact I rather enjoy it, the sound of it tinkling across the window panes of my apartment, or the rushing sound as I kill the engine of my car in a parking lot. The droning hum gives way to the ratta-tat-tat of liquid on the roof. But I'm torn. Love the rain as I do during the spring and summer, it holds no place in my heart during the winter.

Winter's the time for snow, and copious amounts of it. Nothing softens my heart and brings a little pep to my step like and endless blanket of snow, muffling and illuminating all at once. The crunch of it beneath your heel, the way it tumbles out of the seas of gray above, how it sticks to your hair...there's just something in it that feels so uplifting. SAD be damned, it's my cure.

I found myself grinning like a Cheshire cat when it snowed on my way to work last week. Nothing could bring me down. Nothing could shatter what I felt inside my head and heart. I can into this month motivated, like a crack fiend looking to score, now I'm feeling just kinda bleh. A number of things are on my mind which need to be tended to.

A number of things that need dealt with.

But I can't seem to push the sloth off. Maybe I'll do better after a swim, I dunno.

It's just a damn shame. All this rain could be snow.

Then again, all the lame crap in life could be awesome.

I need to find a win-win.

Screwin in moderation, screwin is such a bore...

((



))

Let’s just say I was born gifted. I think that’s the best way to put it. Not in a mathematical, revolutionize the way we think about the world gifted. The schools I went to in Idaho weren’t really that big on “numbers” or “science” or even “reading” but in the end, I was still gifted. I left home at eighteen, turning down a football scholarship to Boise State and set my sights on Los Angeles. I didn’t really see much use in college. I was never the straight A student that usually goes. I was bottom of my high school class actually. The only thing that ever really caught my attention was football and girls. The scholarship was a great honor, but I didn’t want to have to slog through classes just to play a game. So I headed West to concentrate on the girls.

          

  I had a friend who lived out here, Marty Sobowitz, so I crashed on his couch for a few months while I got on my feet. Marty is a snotty little Jewish guy, complete with thick curly hair and a pair of glasses that any scientist would be proud to put slides under. He’s a good friend, and an even better agent.  My first week out here Marty had me doing two films a week and I made my way up the ranks pretty quickly. I was and still am well built, and I keep myself in shape due to habit, so finding a job isn’t too difficult for Marty. Being gifted always helps, too. It’s been fourteen years since I’ve moved to Los Angeles, and I’m living in a beautiful condo with a view of the metro sprawl. I get to see the sun set everyday behind the jagged skyline, casting long shadows wreathed with purples and reds my way. I get to enjoy this view with a beautiful brunette, my girlfriend Jeanette. She’s five-foot-ten with amazing curves and lips fuller than the moon. I have a fully stocked bar and a wardrobe filled with modest yet classic suits. I drive a Beemer, nice and black, down Sunset Boulevard in between sets, looking at skirts and heels and wondering where I could take them. I never have to cook my own food, wandering in and out of restaurants smelling of kimchi or fresh pulled pork hot off the grill. Back home, the local pastor always said that sinners will find a heavy burden on their shoulders for them to carry through the struggles of life. Every time I step off of a set I feel lighter than fresh snow, like the wind could carry me off. Regular sinners might have a problem getting by but I’m gifted and it shows. Becoming a pornstar was the best decision I ever made.

****

I step off the curb, the creases in my slacks slide along the contour of my thighs smoothly. The tailor had just done some work on my charcoal jacket and it fit like a dream. I flip my sunglasses onto my face and start the long stroll across. I’ve got a film to shoot this afternoon and I have an appointment with my masseuse in twenty minutes. Life sure is rough. I hear horns sounding off like hundreds of tiny air raid sirens and the smell and sound of rubber hit me. Almost immediately, so does the car. My mind is pretty clear as I fly through the air. Shit, my shades! I reach my hand out towards where they are sitting in the air but my body begins to drift away, spinning up and over. I don’t feel myself hit the ground. I hear it though, a sickening crunch like a pack of saltines being run over by, well, a car.

            My vision starts to get a little hazy as I try to stand. I only succeed in pushing my stomach off the ground. I can feel the warm trickle of blood start to run down my face. There’s a sharp pain shooting up my back down and I scream. I fall back to the hot pavement, the burning of the sun soaked blacktop has nothing on the waves of pain radiating from my back. I look around helplessly, and see people climbing out of their cars, cellphones in hand. This damn city. I hear the “woop woop” of sirens and see the cherry red Lamborghini with  a distinctly human shaped dent on the hood. At least it was classy. Some kid climbs out of the driver’s seat, probably eighteen. Just skipped school and took daddy’s new ride out for a test drive. Fucking kids. I can hear the ambulance coming, but my eyes can’t see anything more than a few feet in front of me now. Everything’s tunneling in on me. I can see the pool of blood below my face. Sitting on the edge of the crimson lake are my sunglasses. I picked them up weakly and slide them over my eyes. Barely scratched. This is why I buy Italian. I close my eyes and watch as the blackness at the edge of my vision draped over me completely.

****

“Danny Longbow?” a voice asks.

“Daniel Faraday,” I answer.

“Yes, but you’re also Longbow, aren’t you?” The voice almost sounds hopeful.

I struggle to open my eyes. I’m greeted by the sterile blues and whites and fluorescent lights of a hospital room.

“Yeah…yeah…that’s me,” I say. I can feel how raspy my voice is. I raise a hand to my forehead and find thick layers of gauze wrapped around the entire circumference.

“Hot damn,” says the fuzzy silhouette, “the wife and I are big fans!”

“That’s nice.” I blink heavily, my vision clears a little more with every swipe of my eyelids. I can smell the peroxide and iodine in the air. My mother always cleaned my scrapes and cuts with peroxide. I hated the hiss and bubbling, but she always just shook her head and took care of me the best she knew how. “Where am I?” I ask.

“St. Vincents. Lucky they got you here in time. You’ve been out for about a day. We were starting to get a little worried.”

“You think you were worried?” I say, trying to push myself up.

“Whoah whoah Mr. Longbow,” the fuzzy image says, putting a hand on my shoulder and easing me back down onto the bed, “You’ve had a lot of surgery in the past 24 hours, we don’t want you tearing out any of that stitching. Just make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here for a bit. I’ll send a nurse in to check your sutures.”

            

Fucking great. I blink more rapidly as the doctor exits. I catch the glimmer of a squat, bald man in an oversized white coat exiting through the door. I try to think about what all I’ve missed in the past day but a haze of what I can only assume is leftover anesthesia keeps my brain from functioning properly. Or, you know, that huge fucking crash. A nurse comes in, young and fresh and smelling of absolutely nothing. She helps me over onto my side. She’s pretty strong for being so small. I feel her fingers prod my back slowly and grunt as she reaches my lower back. Then the touch of her fingers disappears.

“Are we done?” I ask.

“Not yet, I have to check the stitching on your legs,” she replies.

“Ah, don’t have to prod around down there?”

“No…I am…” I feel her move away. There’s a moment of silence. “Can you feel this?”

“Feel what?”

“My hand on your foot.”

“Put it on there and we’ll see.”

“Mr. Faraday…” she says. I manage to twist my head around and see the whites of her eyes. I follow the line of her shoulder, down her arm, all the way to her hand, resting there on my left foot. I feel many things at this point; anger, fear, disbelief, abject terror, and the need to puke. I feel my eyes widen and a breath passes my lips, carrying with it a resounding “Fuck!”

****

They release me from the hospital a week later. The prognosis is not good. My lower back is destroyed and now I’ve got at least four pounds of steel and titanium holding my lower body together. They asked me if I wanted to replace my hips or just have them fused. I asked them why the fuck I would need new hips if I couldn’t fucking use them. They said it was just an option. I told them to suck it. Marty wheeled me out to his convertible, helped me into the passenger seat, and struggled to get the folded wheelchair into the back seat. I sat there in silence, staring up at the hospital. I had severed my lower spinal column as soon as I hit the ground. Turns out the kid who hit me had been running high on Adderall for a couple of days and had beaten the shit out of his girlfriend ten minutes before sending my ass flying through the air like a trapeze artist. He’ll get probation, rehab, a little community service. Son of Hollywood royalty evidently.

           “You all set to go?” Marty asks, climbing in behind the wheel.

            “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

He fires up the car and we pull out into the mid-day traffic, running north along the strip towards my apartment. We’ve got a nice long car ride ahead of us. Most of it’s in silence. Marty speaks up now and then, asking how things have played out in the last week.

            “How’s Jeanette?” he asks.

            “You’d know better than I would. She visited me twice, but I think she’s moved her shit out already,” I say.

            “There’s plenty of fish out there man. Besides, she was kinda needy.”

            “Yeah, I’m sure there’s plenty of women out there just beating down the door to get their chance with a broken pornstar. I can see the classified ad already; single white male looking for single woman, must enjoy long rolls along the beach, colostomy bags, and useless dicks.”

            “Oy vey, there’s the tragedy. I knew ever since I saw you in the showers back in JV that you could make some money with that thing.”

            “Shuttup, you gay Jew bastard.” I shook my head and couldn’t help but grin.

            “That’s more like it. What are you going to do for work? We can always go back and get your legs amputated, pump your dick full of saline, get you up like a flagpole and you could do some of that fringe shit,” Marty says, that shit eating grin on his face.

            I turn to look at him and catch an odd glimmer of seriousness across his face. “Really? What the fuck man?”

            “Hey, just offering options. There’s pretty much only one thing in this world that I know and it’s that people love some fucked up shit. You’re already a big enough name. And you’ve got to work.”

            “Fuck you Marty. I’m sitting here with three useless stumps below my stomach and you’re telling me to fucking get chopped up like a fucking turkey dinner and put on a fucking circus act?”

            “Hey man, always an option. Let me know if you want in. I know a guy.”

            “I’m sure you do. Shuttup and drive.”

****

I’d moved out of the condo and into a shitty little studio on the east side. Much easier to get into with a wheelchair and a lot less draining on my dwindling expenses. Court costs, medical bills, and this brand new motorized wheelchair had took a toll on my savings. I still had enough to get by for a while, but it was clear I had to get some work in the near future. Suddenly Boise State didn’t seem like such a bad idea. I look out my window and I see the gray slab of a building across the street. No more beautiful sunsets for me. I turn my chair around, still feeling like I’m the pilot of a god damn aircraft. I knock into the edge of the kitchen counter and the jolt almost sends me sprawling out of the chair. I curse and readjust myself and head to the fridge. I look up and see all the strange cupboards that I’ll never get to look into. I shake my head and get ice from the fridge and pour myself a nice glass of scotch. Against the Doctor’s orders. Fuck’m. If they expect me to be sober, well, too God damn bad. My phone rings and I answer. Marty’s on the other end of the line.

            “Hey Danny, wanna go out tonight?”

            “Sure I wouldn’t be cramping your style?”

            “Naw, it’s a gala for the Woodies. Get to see some of your old friends, maybe cheer your gimp ass up a bit.”

            I look at the clock on the wall. 5:06 P.M.

            “I…don’t know if that’d be a good thing Marty.”

            “Quit farting around. Change that bag and throw on a suit. I’ll have the bus bring you out to the place. You’ve got an hour.”

            I sigh and hang up the phone and go about cleaning and changing. I’ve gotten pretty adept at taking care of most things, but putting on shoes still gives me trouble. The one thing I don’t need and the most difficult part of the day. I wonder if they can tattoo shoes on. Surprisingly, when you’re missing the nerve connections to the lower part of your body, your flexibility is pretty astounding. I fold in half and begin to tie my shoes. Hey there, penis. We’d be the absolute best of friends right now if you still worked. I grimace at my thoughts. Really, Danny? I wheel my way down the hall and to the elevator. I go in after the doors open and hit the button to the first floor. The inside of the elevator is lined with mirrors and I take in the view. I’m sitting here in my charcoal suit, fully washed of the blood that I had slathered all over it, and the tears had been mended expertly. I’ve lost a lot of weight though, turned into an emaciated husk. The suit hangs on me as if I were a child playing dress up in daddy’s clothes. The elevator dings, and I roll out to the curb and wait for the bus.

****

It’s 8:30 and I’m moving towards the entrance of the mansion, navigating the cobblestone walkway like an F-16 pilot, chatting with Marty about the merits of anal bleaching.

  

           “It burns like hell, but it’s appreciated, y’know?” I say.

            “Shaving and hygiene is enough for me,” says Marty.

            “Doesn’t leave you feeling as clean and beautiful, though.”

            “If someone can’t appreciate how beautiful and clean my asshole is as God made it, then they need to find somewhere else to bury it.”

            “Marty, you Jew bastard, you don’t even believe in God. You guys crucified him, if I remember it right.”

            “What can I say? This damn Christian morality is rubbing off on me.”

            We make it to the door and Marty flashes his invitations. The two bouncers take a look at me and nod to each other. One lifts me up and the other struggles to bring my wheelchair up the few steps to the doorway. He’s larger than I ever was, built like an ox. I was only going for the athletic build, not the bodybuilder. He’s way too thick around the waist anyways. That’s something I always prided myself on, having a flat stomach. There’s too many films nowadays with some paunchy, wheezy pervert slamming into a girl from behind, his stomach threatening to break the load bearing weight of her poor back. Disgusting comes to mind. At least I left a good impression in that area. I’m placed back into my chariot and given a nod.

            We enter the grand house, looking up at the crystal chandelier in the greeting room. It’s hanging high above the floor, suspended from the vaulted ceiling and illuminating the mingling crowd. Silk suits, flashy purple and red dresses, clothes fresh off the strip in Paris flutter across the marble floor. I draw a few strange glances with barely any recognition. I’ve been inside half the people here and they don’t recognize me. It’s for the best I guess. I leave Marty to mingle with the male talent and make my way to the bar. I order a martini, extra olives, gin, and steer myself off to the corner to watch the action. I always loved these events. Being able to stick my chest out proudly and chat with the upcoming starlets, or talk about the upcoming conventions with the producers. Now I’m stuck here in the corner being actively ignored. I swallow the entirety of my drink and place the glass next to what looks to be an ancient Ming Dynasty vase. I used to be big. Now I’m just sitting here like an alcoholic Stephen Hawking, sans the awesome voice. A server comes by and bumps into me, sending a spray of tequila sunrise off his tray and right into my face.

            “Oh! Oh! I’m so sorry!” he says, handing me a cloth napkin.

            “No problem,” I say, blotting at my face and collar, hoping the grenadine hasn’t stained my shirt, “probably shouldn’t have been…” I look up and he’s already moved on.

            I begin to mingle, or try to anyways. I feel like Moses, the sea of people opening up as I wade my way through the crowd. I roll around till I find the bathroom, and push open the door slowly. I see an old coworker bent over the counter with a rolled up $20 stuffed in his nose. He nods his head to me and finishes his line with a big sniff.

            “Hey Danny boy, we heard about your accident. How you doing?”

            “I’ve been better. How about you?”

            “Not too bad, just did a reshooting of The Grinch’s Ten Inches the other day. Getting prepped for the holiday rush, y’know?”

            “Glad you’re staying busy.”

            “Me too. Speaking of the holiday’s, want some candy?”

            “Gotta do something interesting, I guess.” I go inside and close the door.

****

Fifteen minutes later and I’m feeling fine, bright eyed and bushy tailed. I roll through the crowd again, striking up conversations with those willing and some who aren’t. I see a girl I’ve worked with chatting with a new guy. He’s still jittery and taking it all in. Fresh off the boat and ready for love. She walks away from their conversation, smiling over her shoulder and I bump into his leg.

            “Be careful with that one,” I say, “she’s a bit violent.”

            He looks at me, shaken by the frankness. “Uh, thanks?” he says.

            I move on and stop for a second, spinning around in place and call out to him.

            “Oh yeah, she does bleach her asshole though!”

I make my way to the veranda and spot Marty on the edge of the pool, his hand on some girl’s back, drink in hand, locked in deep conversation with her. I start to go towards them when I notice the silver stitching around them hem of the girl’s dress. I know without looking closer that it’s genuine filigree shaped into whales and sailing ships in small, intricate detail. I bought that dress for Jeanette after our third film together. We had such a great business relationship that it eventually carried over into something more personal. I look back up and see their heads are leaning together. In this business a lot of things are based on touch. Things touch quite often and feverishly. Rarely do you get a genuine expression of interest. I can see Marty’s lips softly touch her cheek. She always wondered if she could flip a guy. I guess she got her answer.

            I feel a jolt run through me. Not having your bottom half do any work slows down your circulation a bit. Those lines must be really getting into my system now. I look at my hand on the throttle of my chair and smile. Full speed ahead! my mind cries out and I gun it. I slam into Marty and Jeanette, sending them sailing over and into the pool. They come up screaming and shouting, silk suit and designer dress soaked through.

            “Fuck you, sinners!” I cry out. My eyes are wide and everything is clear. I spin around and speed through the crowd, rolling over toes and out the door. The two security guys turn around to see me rocketing towards them and hastily step to the side. Stairs! I veer off to the side and chew through the carefully landscaped flowerbed and make it out to the sidewalk leaving long muddy tracks on the concrete. I can feel the wind in my hair as I reach top speed. I laugh as I rampage through the streets on my electric chariot of destruction. Finally, I don’t feel so helpless.

Well what do we have here?

I met a kindred spirit today. I was perched on a wall outside the union when I saw a cute brunette round the corner. She had on glasses and a knit sweater the color of merlot. She smiled and said something to me and I pulled down my headphones.

"Two pieces of chocolate for a cigarette," she said. I could tell I was dealing with a professional.

"Don't worry about the chocolate," said I, chivalrous as always. She was delighted I smoked Camels and plopped the two miniature candy bars down next to me.

"Thank you," she said.
"Very welcome, and thank you," I said.

As she walked off she called out "Happy Halloween!"

"You too!" I called back. I slid my headphones back on as "Brown Eyed Girl" started playing. I looked down at my pre-halloween treats, and saw that I had a Hershey's milk chocolate, and the piece de resistance, a special dark chocolate. I looked up and watched her round the corner of the medical sciences building.

Shine on, beautiful woman, you've made my day.

I blame it on my own sick pride...

((



))

((Not really a finished piece, but eh...something to play with I guess.))

               

The cold wind wrapped around his body, pelting him with stray dots of ice and snow. It bit deep, passing through his coat and gloves as if they weren’t even there. His hands clenched tightly around the haft of the ice axe he had sunk deep into the side of the mountain. His feet shifted inside of his boots slightly, digging the steel teeth of his crampons in. Thirty feet below him his friend swung on a rope tethering them together, shifting helplessly in the wind. He risked a short glance over his shoulder. The sun was still just rising on the second day of their expedition to the summit and slowly threw streams of golden light across the snow encrusted landscape. It filtered around smaller, lesser mountains and expansive valleys, creating deep shadows on the landscape. It was almost impossible to tear his eyes from. There was a slightly shift of ice under his left foot that drug him unwillingly back to the task at hand. He repositioned it and slammed the crampons back against the surface of the ice with a grunt.

            “Hang on, John,” he said to himself, “Just keep hanging on.”

-

            “Well isn’t it a wreck in here?” Mary said as she entered the garage.

            “When was it ever not?” said John, tossing an empty box towards the trash can. Spread out on the garage floor in place of his red sedan were metal loops, carabineers, nylon rope and other random bits.

            “Those are looking a bit dusty,” said Mary.

            “Yeah, I think I’m going to have to replace a few of the ice screws too”

            “Oh yeah? With who’s money?

            “Yours, of course.”

            “Uh huh. Come on Birthday Boy, you can play with your toys later. Right now we’ve got reservations.”

            John gave one last look at the pile of equipment scattered on the floor. Years spent touring in the Alps and the Sawtooths had given him a formidable collection. A job and a family had led to that collection’s current state of affairs. He reached into the mess of metal and nylon and pulled out his old climbing axe. He felt the balance of it in his hand and eyed the teeth that lined its long narrow beak. He smiled at the familiar feel.

            “Alright. I’ll get changed,” he said.

-

The axe held true. Now polished and sharpened, it stuck deep within the ice. Neither wind nor weight would budge it.

-

John could hear the phone ringing, but he wasn’t sure from where. He often swore that “the damn thing has legs!” but could never prove that it wasn’t just his absentmindedness. Papers started flying in his office, stacks of junk mail got tossed by the handful in the hopes of releasing the phone from its snow colored tomb. Sadly, John had chosen the wrong spot to dig. He stood there cursing with his hands on his hips as he looked around. The phone continued to call out to him. He leaned his head back to scream when he caught a glimmer of shiny black plastic peeking out from under old newspapers on top of the filing cabinet. He snatched it up and answered the call.

            “Yes?”

            “Hey John, try not to sound so happy.”

            “Oh shit, hey Allen, how’s it going?”

            “Not too bad, just got back home from the coast, figured I’d give you a call and wish you Happy Birthday. How old does that make you now? Fifty-five?”

            “Thanks, you jackass,” John laughed, “you’ve still got a few years on me.”

            “Two, not a few. But, as far as a present goes, how would you feel about making another trip?”

            “Well…that all depends. You wanting to go back to Ol’ Smokey?”

            “I was thinking a bit more south by southwest…”

            John pursed his lips. He stood there for a moment, tapping his foot against the hardwood below it. “You know we’re not that young anymore, right?” he said.

            “Yeah,” Allen said, “but we’re not as stupid anymore either. Well, I’m not at least.”

            “That’s debatable.”

            “Not by you.”

            “So…When are we going?”

-

The axe held true. John shifted his hands on the haft and alternatingly clenched his fists around it, willing blood back into them.

-

The red sedan turned onto the interstate, Led Zeppelin pouring out of the radio. They reached cruising speed quickly. The setting sun in the rearview mirror silhouetted the trees lining the road, turning the world behind them black and gold. Mary sat smiling and watching the scenery pass. Wildflowers were just starting to blossom along the median and shoulders, creating a soft yellow carpet that travelled along beside them.

“A hard rocking attorney and his wife out for a night on the town,” she mused.

            “Classy Italian restaurants beware. I’ve got the money, and the style.”

            Mary snorted and reached over to adjust his collar. “You wish.”

            “Hey, a man can dream…about many things,” he retorted with a wink.

            “Oh Lord, Save me from this lecherous man,” Mary said. Zeppelin faded out and the radio switched over to AC/DC as if on cue. A laugh escaped both their lips.           

            “Request denied, apparently,” he said.

            “So when are you and Allen traipsing off to the wilderness?”

            “He was thinking next January, give us some time to get back into shape.”

            “He must have gotten the pictures I sent for Christmas.”

            John put a hand to his chest and gasped. “Why I never!”

            Mary laughed and rested her hand on his shoulder, a smirk spreading over her face. “I’ll just reap the rewards in the meantime,” she said.

            “Oh Lord,…”

-

The axe held true. The sun continued to rise. John could feel his arms start to burn from the effort. He tentatively let go of the axe with one hand to see what would happen to his balance. He felt confident with it, and slowly began using his free hand to work another screw into the ice.

            “Steady, steady, steady,” he whispered to the cold winds.

-

            A week later, John was wishing he hadn’t found the phone this time. His daughter, who had always been insistent and quite often a pain in the ass, was finishing up her final year at law school. This career choice had only help strengthen the aforementioned qualities.

            “Dad, are you seriously going out to Eleanor again?” Jen asked.

            “Jen, calm down, Allen and I are doing it right this time.”

            “You’re forty seven, that’s well beyond mountain climbing age.”

            “Excuse me, young lady?”

            “Yeah, young, exactly. I thought you’d put all that crap behind you.”

            “Mountains never fade, and neither does the spirit to conquer them.”

            “Yeah, I thought that would have been shattered along with your leg. Dad…please don’t do this…”

            “Look, we’re going prepared this time. Jen, we’re not that old, and we’re more than capable of taking care of ourselves. It’s just going to be a four day trip.”

            “Dad, four days is enough to put anyone in the hospital. I don’t want to visit you there again, and I sure as hell don’t want to have to take care of you.”

            “I’m not now, nor am I ever going to be one of the geriatrics whose kids have to take care of them. I’ll leave that part up to your mother.”

            “…I’m telling.” He could almost hear the pout in her voice.

            “Can’t prove it. Where’s the evidence?”

-

The axe held true. The sun was growing higher still. An almost unnatural warmth spread across John’s back as the rays cascaded onto his shoulders. His free hand worked with his secondary axe, trying his hardest to chip out a hole in the ice for him to set the screw into. He felt his balance change. He stopped and readjusted his footing. He looked down the rope attached to his belt and saw Allen, turning in the wind.

-

The months passed quickly. John set to the task of reconditioning like a rabid dog. Jen still called, sometimes pleading, sometimes demanding. She called her mother one day and asked her to do something, anything that would make him give up on going back out to Eleanor. They both knew John was called by the mountains, by the cold, crisp air and the view of a world where nothing’s as tall as you are.

            “Why aren’t you more upset about this?” asked Jen.

            “You can’t change that in a person, dear. And even if you could, you’d be making them someone they’re not,” said Mary.

            “Mom…I just want him to be alright”

            “Oh he’s better than alright,” Mary chuckled.

            “Mom…gross…”

-

The axe held true. The screw was finally set into place, deep within the wall of ice. John secured himself to it with a carabineer and let go of his axe, his weight settled completely on his feet. His arms burned from exhaustion. He looked back over his shoulder, taking in the brilliantly lit scenery. A gamut of colors ran the expanse to the horizon. The sun slipped behind the clouds, having barely entered the world long enough to grace the men on the mountain with its respite of hope. The wind picked back up.

-

“Hey bud!” John said as he embraced Allen, their snow gear creaking along with their movements. “You made it.”

“Of course I made it, it was my goddamn idea.”

“True, true,” John said, turning towards the mountain. His eyes traced up its expansive slopes. It loomed over them like a living behemoth, swelling with energy and danger. His breath was caught in his chest. The wind blew down the mountainside and hit him full force in the face, bringing cold, stinging tears to his eyes. A long plane ride across half the country, a three hour drive over bumpy, snow covered terrain in a rented SUV, and here he was, smelling the breath of his beloved and estranged Eleanor. His eyes shifted up the face of the mountain to the rocky outcropping where snow could not manage to cling. His legs moaned in recognition. Allen had managed to belay him down after his legs had shattered against the rock. Had there been snow, or had they climbed up further, it would have been fatal to them both. Small luck amidst tragedy saved them, and they had both hung up their axes and boots. John smiled at Allen as they both shared the moment, closing their eyes and tilting their faces up towards the summit.

“We ready for this?” asked Allen.

John nodded in agreement.

“Up together, down together, right?”

“Right.”

And with that they started crunching through the snow leading up to the mountain.

-

 The axe held true. The structural integrity of ice can be an amazing thing. The axe was buried only an inch into the ice and it had supported two bodies and all attached equipment. There was no groan from the wall, no sign of slippage or cracking. John rested on his toes. Two carabineers were attached to the ice screw now. He looked down the rope again to the man spinning slowly in the wind. Allen had not been so lucky. An entire day had passed without incident. The ice had held and the weather had been clear. Allen had been climbing ahead, sinking his axe and screws into the ice methodically, securing, checking and rechecking their protection to make sure everything went smoothly. Then he hit the soft ice, without knowing, without thinking, and had put his weight on his axe handles. They ripped out of the wall and sent him plummeting in a shower of ice and terror. The first screw ripped out cleanly, leaving its threading behind. The second and third screws followed suit, their designs failing their purpose. John had only seen Allen fall just in time to brace himself, to sink his axe into the wall as far as it would allow him to.

            His head tucked against the wall, Allen fell past, hitting his head on an irregular outcropping with a sickening “thuck.” The rope slipped over John’s shoulder and ripped the pack from his back as Allen reached the end of the cord. The nylon gave and stretched, tugging on the fourth screw. John had yet to unhook himself, and the screw had held long enough for him to work his body around the rope. Allen fell two more feet and the screw made a perfectly pitched “ping” as it shot out from the ice and caught John right in the stomach. He yelled in pain as he almost fell. Both hands clutched to the axe handle as he lost his balance.

            Now he sat, supported by a single screw and his crampons. His eyes shifted from the distant peak, to the horizon, and back to Allen. Again they had failed to conquer Eleanor, to make her kneel and give up the prize of her expansive view. The sun came back out from behind the clouds, and spread its wintery warmth over the face of the mountain. Attached to the body at the end of the rope, he wouldn’t be able to make it down. He wouldn’t make it home to Mary, to see Jen graduate. Regardless of what happened, he would never get another call from Allen. The decision was clear in his mind, and he began to loop rope around the front teeth of his left crampon. He gave Allen one last look, seeing his body spin on the winding rope. He bit his lip and began to move his foot back and forth in a sawing motion, never taking his eyes off of his friend.

            He heard Eleanor groan. The sun had begun to shine brightly. John looked up, and saw a crack forming just below his axe, still stuck in the ice wall. What little warmth the sun gave off had managed to be too much for the mountain. It could not abide a sudden early spring. John watched the crack slowly spread and unwrapped the rope from his foot. Eleanor knew the rules. John and Allen had known the rules.

            John’s lips parted slowly as he whispered down to his friend.

            “Up together, down together.”

            Eleanor shuddered, shucking off the ice wall from her body, sending the two men falling, falling, all the way down.

I've got the solution...

((



))

Mother FUCK not scaring the living hell out of yourself as you careen down a hillside at top speed.

Mother FUCK not stomping your feet like you own the very earth that gives way before your stride.

Mother FUCK not feeling your body beg and plead for you to stop with the pain.

Mother FUCK not letting a roar loose from your lungs as you achieve your objective.

I've found what's been missing from my life. For the past 10 years I've been lost and wandering and never feeling whole. It's been calling to me from beyond the horizon and now I feel I've passed over the crest and seen the sun shining. And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever forgotten.













There's something that I've been feeling. Like there's more I could be doing. I've tried busying myself with work, school, drinking, video games, pretty much anything I could get my hands on. Even working out. But even as my body grew and healed, and even as my mind continued to evolve, I wasn't happy. It still felt like I was going to just be out walking one day and then my head would explode, littering the pavement and pedestrians with just a thick layer of...I don't know. Melancholy I guess.

I've been missing genuine, heartbreaking, blood boiling competition.



There's something about it that's so addictive. I don't hate the guy next to me or across from me, or the old lady twenty feet back. I love these people.

There's an edge to the crowd, as fine as any razor, and as thick as any railroad tie. Anticipation, excitement, worry, fear, exhilaration. We bounce around and waver and stretch as one. We don't hate one another, but we're sure as fuck going to set ourselves apart. And at the end, we're going to feel that surge of triumph and bliss that only comes from subduing one's own body.

The people make it, and that's why I'm sad about the timing of our departure, and the separation of Luis and I in our heats. There's a certain satisfaction of completing something by yourself. When I was pole vaulting or swimming, everything I did relied on me. My success and failure was a direct correlation between how hard I could push myself. But in a group, football, relays, paintball, anything, that feeling is multiplied exponentially. It's no longer how hard you can push yourself, or what your body can do.

It's how hard you can scream at the mother fucker behind you, and how fast you can get their ass in gear and on the same level. Or how they're going to pull you through it, step by step, telling you to pick your fucking knees up and stop bitching about the mud.

And at the end of the course, you've got people to shake hands, to hug, and to share a victory beer with. This is still possible by yourself, but with people you know and you trust to kick you right where you need kicked...





It's been three days since I climbed out of the mud and gave that glorious banana lady a hug.

And I haven't stopped smiling. I've been bouncing in my shoes each day. I am so fucking ready to do more.

That's why, within the next year, I'll be doing a 12 mile run with obstacles designed by British Special Forces with a team of hard knock mother fuckers who know how it's done. I'm going to sweat, bleed, puke, dig mud from my tear ducts and know that at the end of the day, there's really not much else I'd rather be doing that feeling that tight bond of camaraderie that I've missed for so long.

Props to the two stowaways that came out with me:



The trip wouldn't have been near as fun without you two, but dammit Luis, stop being a glass cannon.



And since this is my god damn blog, here's my mother fucking cute ass viking descended warrior puppy:

It has

"It looks like life's beat the hell out of you, man."
"It has."

I keep waking up from my dreams drenched in sweat. I'm terrified and I can feel my heart pounding out of my chest. I reach over and flick open my phone to see if there's a text, something, anything. But there's not. Turning back to my pillow I bite back the screams. It's 5 in the morning. My neighbors wouldn't appreciate that.

 I haven't dreamed this much, this vividly, in at least 10 years. They're so real, so powerful, so heart breaking. And I remember them now too. It used to be just faint glimmers now and then of something crazy that actually occupied me in my sleep once in a while. It's been a week since they've started. And they're not getting any easier to deal with.

It used to be so easy, killing a part of myself. Just snap my fingers and it's gone. A small pit of anger used to slip in and swallow it whole.

At this point I just don't know if it's that my heart can't kill my head or that my head can't kill my heart. I know that neither wants to, but they both know they each should. But I guess that's the nature of hope. Stupid, pitiful hope that swells in your chest now and then. But that hope's far off into the distance. But it still manages to fight off everything that I throw at it. The truth, the consequences, the realizations. It still digs in its nails and refuses to totally be removed. So I try to smother it. But I can still feel it wriggling under my fingers. And deep down, I hope it continues to move beneath my outstretched hand.

I look out my window and see the black puddles forming around the edge of the parking lot. It's been raining non-stop for almost two days now. I used to smile at the rain and shoot out a text. Now I just stare at the circles forming on the asphalt and wish that it was raining anywhere else than outside my window. The sound itself, raindrops falling on the concrete window sill, splashing across my blinds, it serves as a reminder of happiness. Why should those reminders be so terrible?

Loss is a hard thing to cope with.

I sit here blowing smoke into empty beer bottles, hoping the echoing sound will show me some sense of direction. Shit like this happens when you're drunk.

But the dreams still haunt me. Treacherously dangling those shreds of fulfillment in front of my eyes. So much so that I'm almost afraid to sleep. I don't really sleep anymore. I collapse. I've worked myself hard, papers endlessly coming out of the tips of my fingers, children taught the basics of aquadynamics and buoyancy, members safeguarded by a watchful eye. I'm spread so thin that I can feel the cracks beginning to appear on my surface.

And then I'm stumble across a song. No. That's a lie. I'm reminded of a song I once heard in a woman's voice, so sweet.

And I can feel myself shatter on the inside. I can feel the shards creep into the back of my eyes and pour the tears out. I actually fell into bed with wet cheeks the other night. I thought I was handling things well. Going about my business and moving right along. It seems that the old habits of containing it all into one single ball of ... I dunno. Pain's too light a term. Anything else is too dramatic. It fucking tears my ass apart. That's more like it. I listen to the words I've heard, I remember when I said "Have I not been?" in response to them being sung inside my car, driving north on the interstate, another day passed that I can remember so vividly.

And who am I now?

"When all your dreams have died, and morning is in mourning, what are you?"

I'm really not sure what I am anymore. It's like I've lost the control I've taken pride in having. It's been noted by a few of my colleagues that I've been a bit bitchier than normal. In my writing class, the same word has come up again and again, even though nothing has been about my present situation: "bitter."

"So what's wrong?"
"Nothing."

People I've known have never made this observation. And it scares me. I'm losing my ... identity I guess. The solid features of my face have begun to waver and I'm mortified each time I look in the mirror.

Exercise has gone beyond beneficial gain and improvement. It's to the point where I'm punishing my body for not being enough. Subconsciously I've been calculating my calories. Subconsciously I've been charting the ridges appearing in my stomach. The arch of my back. The bulk of my thighs. The veins in my feet. All of this seems positive. But When I step back and look at my reasoning, I see nothing but negative effects.

Two packs a day and a respiratory infection haven't even slowed me down.

Something's not right.

I've been no stranger to psychosomatic illness. I've always been able to change in  that point of realization. If anything, I've been able to control myself, through thick and thin and better and worse. And all of this shit.

I ain't no stranger.

And I've found myself questioning my instincts. It seems when I refuse to follow them, I'm wrong for that. When I bite my tongue and let the world flow around me at its own regard without dipping my hand in the stream to catch the errant debris, I'm wrong not to.

And when I bite down on the issue, feel the blood between my lips and rip the flesh away, it's unjust and incorrect.

But this time I have no evidence to such. So my instinct is intact. I at least have that. But I feel like my instinct has changed, the resolve that I buried deep inside my heart has amended itself with a few small, but disturbing changes.

But I'm not even sure where I'm going with this anymore. For once i just felt the need to put something down in text.

But I don't feel better. That little parasite of hope is still there.

And as far as my dreams...

I wake up, and put on fresh clothes in a finally clean apartment.

And I hear a knock at the door.

And I throw on a fresh shirt as I call out for their patience.

And I pet Eins heartily on the head.

And I don't bother with the peephole.

And I turn the handle.

Hear the jingling of three years worth of rum tokens.

And I open the door.

And...




This is the first time I've heard this song in almost four months.

Hot Pavement

     Something just feels right about things when you’re on a stretch of road in the middle of the desert. There’s the sweet hum from the tires rushing along the boiling pavement, radiating inside the walls of an old station wagon. Most times it could be considered a droning sound, annoying and constant. But when you’re on the run from where you’ve been, it’s the sound of sweet, sweet progress. I’d been taken with a girl earlier in the year, back when the winter winds were just a distant thought. I’d followed some bad advice from her, tried to strike out on my own, and in doing so had dropped out of college “just for a break.” Everyone’s heard the story in one form or another, and everyone knows the result. Things ended badly, crashing down with a screaming match and me having to file a restraining order. Such is the way of the world. After that I decided that the southern lifestyle wasn’t the way for me anymore. So there I was, twenty two and headed west, just like the 69ers and the pioneers and the cowboys. There I was, twenty two, full of piss and vinegar, and ready to make something out of myself.

        

     I’d left east from home a few weeks before, scouted out Florida and the Keys, met with friends and family and saw a few things that pleased my eyes. I remember distinctly walking drunkenly down the streets in Key West, talking with the cross dressers as if they were old acquaintances, and writing a beautiful note to the waitress who happily set down beer after beer for me. I’d seen lush, green valleys filled with fog and reptiles. I’d seen the bayous and swamps and the Everglades. Wherever I went in the South, it was green and warm. The smiles implanted on people’s faces had never been touched by the harsh November winds. But after having been in that environment for two decades the charm wore off. I’d grown tired of the same old routine and the same old people. Riding on the back of a tractor every summer with the whirling tines of a hay rake not 6 feet from your tender flesh gets kind of old. And when the hardened veteran at the wheel isn’t affected by the holes and bumps in the ground, you find you get tired of almost being thrown to certain death on a daily basis. I needed a change, from the women to the mindset to the way of life. So, having saved up as much cash as I could in an old Glenfiddich can, my dog Eins and I started out west from Arkansas, her nose to the windows and my hands on the wheel.

            

     Now, for those not in the know, after you drive through the Oklahoma panhandle, you cross into a thick section of Texas. Oklahoma’s not a bad state, with high alcohol content beer and a few tornados here and there. But Texas... Oh god is Texas the bunghole of the entire country. A collection of shitty drivers and filthy cities, it mirrors my own home state, but there seems to be an almost genetic disposition against the place. So it’s safe to say that I have a sort of grudge with the state. But I will say one thing in its favor; they make it easy as hell to leave. So I burnt through Texas at about 80, straight past Amarillo and on towards New Mexico.

           

     As soon as I hit the border, the land began to drop. The sparse grass that covered the filthy Texan floor disappeared, replaced by sand and scrubs. The dog and I kept descending, our ears popping now and then. But to see miles and miles ahead of you, not a single curve in the road, perfectly straight lines of paint stretching into the distance, you realize just how much the earth’s horizon isn’t a flat bar supporting a skyline. It’s grandiose in its imagery. Most people think of nothing but desolation and heat and thirst. I find it pure. A place with no people. No sound of the interstate echoing through the streets. No neighbors with a drumset and insomnia which are often the only neighbors you get back home if you’re unlucky enough to live in town. Just a place where you can pull over on the side of the road, pee on a cactus, and collect your thoughts. Silence that thorough, that clean, is a hell of a commodity. If it were possible to bottle it and then market it to parents of colicky infants someone could make a hell of a lot of money off of it.

     Driving alone is cathartic. Driving alone with a dog is even better. You at least have someone to talk to then, other than the ghosts of friends and family and lovers who just happen to be sitting in the seat next to you. It makes you look slightly less crazy at stop signs and red lights. You tend to replay everything in your head. Those moments where you realized you had a head resting on your chest, rising and falling with your every breath, their arms wrapped around yours, when the world was right. Those moments when you could feel the rattle in your throat as your voice lashed out towards them. The good and the bad, there’s nothing to buffer your thoughts from delving into both subjects. Anyways, you can talk a lot out with yourself (and with your dog) while you’re spending that much time in a car. It’s not as quick of a trip as I’ve let on, as by this point I’ve already stopped and camped out twice, huddled up in my sleeping bag with a 30 pound dog standing watch over me. Our first night, we stopped in Oklahoma at a KOA outpost. Cheap and effective camping spots with public showers and restrooms that are at least hosed down every couple of weeks or so. Eins had been sleeping a good portion of the way, at least in between her frantic bouncing around in the back seat, her small brown eyes drinking in every sight she could. This was her first night out away from home. No fence, no warm bed, and only a small 4’x6’ tent to accommodate her vast need of space. While not a big dog, she refused to come into my sleeping bag, even at 20 degrees. She sat there the whole night, ears perked up, keeping a vigilant watch over me. I woke up a few times at the night, not yet accustomed to having rocks jabbing me in the head while I slept, and could make out her silhouette against the canvas of the tent. She took care of me, and made sure the squirrels didn’t disturb me too much. This was the first night that I felt ok being away from an actual home. Dealing with leaving everything behind was so much easier when I brought one of the most important things with me. Having someone, anyone to talk to was a big help.  48 hours alone in your head. That’s a lot of time to spend kicking around your frustrations and your hopes for the next day on the road. Spend enough time alone, and yes, your dog will be the greatest conversationalist you will ever hope to meet. It’s a little alarming when you realize the only people you’ve spoken with in two entire days have been handing you fries and a large shake. It’s great to have that kind of time, when you’re forced to take a step back and work through every angle of a memory, of an idea. You learn a lot about yourself when there’s nobody else around to show you their assumption of your character. And when there’s nothing but harsh land around you, plants that would rip your clothes to shreds, and wildlife that would do the same to your ill equipped organs, you start to feel a little harsh towards yourself too.

            

     And sometimes, that’s what we need. If anyone’s going to hold us accountable for who we are, it might as well be ourselves. Spending a week driving through the deserts stretching from Santa Fe to Los Angeles made me realize that at twenty two, my shit most definitely was not together. I remember distinctly driving past Santa Fe, not noticing the adobe colored city to my right until I started to descend into another sandy valley. A city of seemingly nothing but brick filled the entire hillside, running from the top of a slow slope all the way down. Across from it is quite possibly the most beautiful mountain I have ever seen. When the day begins to slow down to a crawl, the shadow of the mountain lays down over the city in a sheltering fashion. Everyone in the city has a view. And nothing has ever made me feel smaller or more insignificant. My purposes in life were nothing compared to that inevitable shadow falling down over a city thriving with brilliant minds.  I realized that the destinies my young mind had hoped for perhaps weren’t in the cards for me. When you drive out west, and see towns off in the distance, no more than a huddle of huts that are broken down and abandoned, you start to realize that some things just don’t work out as they were intended. And then there’s that moment of introspection, and you start adding up all the things that haven’t worked out the way you dreamed they would as a kid, digging holes for the sake of digging holes, and poking dead creatures with a stick. I never thought as a kid I’d be running from the South, that I’d end up camping out in 10 degree weather in the desert, that I’d ever see snow fall into the Grand Canyon, or that I’d climb the walls of Death Valley in a station wagon. I’d be accomplished and graduated by this time; I was so sure of it five short years before.

            

     So the desert did me some good. It gave me a reality check and vistas that I’ll never forget. So, 22,000 miles later I’m sitting here in a basement apartment in Ohio, rattling out these words as the mist wipes away the snow outside. The squirrels are out aggravating Eins, and I’m thinking of that desert heat and the smell of the wind as it picks up over the salt flats and races along the canyon walls. And I’ve yet to forget that things simply don’t work out the way we had hoped. But that’s not always a terrible thing. I left Arkansas with a sense of entitlement. I left thinking that trip would give me what I needed to succeed. But that long trip through the desert broke me, like a well-seasoned rancher hops on that wild stallion and breaks him. It becomes usable, respectable. It gave me all the time in the world to think, and all the scenery to put my thoughts into a better perspective.  So don’t fear a little desolation, a little loneliness. Disillusionment is a hell of a thing to handle, but I’ve just come to accept it as a fact of age. And it makes those genuine moments even better. And now when I grab her leash, Eins bounces off the walls. She’s ready to go again. And that gets a genuine smile. 

A white, blank Page...

It's amazing how songs can haunt you. Prophetic tones being strummed from the strings, nestling in the back of your mind, bedding down at the base of your spine. Maybe that's what draws us to certain songs, ones we never thought of why we loved them, except for when events come to pass.

I've been haunted, terrorized, shadowed by these songs for the past year. I remember as soon as I cut my hair, I stepped into my car, and found "This Year" playing on my iPod. My resolve grew stronger. Big changes ahead.

I remember hearing "White Blank Page" after Herr Bendickson graced me with the knowledge of the band. It seemed so tragic, so beautifully mysterious, as to how someone could feel so strongly, be burned so thoroughly, to write such a song.

"Love, Love, Love," dedicated to the fools and the miracle workers. The sacrifices for fame and self. How apt it was, that someone found beauty in a bullet, and penned a gut wrenching song from its (pun) impact.

"Liebe ist für alle da," ach, nicht für mich, aber ich sah es klar. Es war warm, aber mein Herz ist kalt bekommen.

(())

(())

(())

(())

All strike true.

All well before their time.

I remember the drives, either by myself or with company, and these songs kept striking a chord with my veins, driving my blood through them rampantly.

But it's all with clarity that I now stand here next to the twisted, fiery heap. The flames lick up towards a dark, moonless sky. There may be no smoke, but there is indeed a fire. It crept up on me during the cold, cold winter, keeping me warm with its eerie glow and crackling fuel. I watched it slowly scoot along the ground, inching its way up to me. It's sad how you can never run fast enough in horror films. And unfortunately, I wasn't the protagonist, yet again.

But my heap of trash sits alongside a long block of sandstone, perfectly cut and shaped and raised off of the ground. It sits empty, except for dust, or maybe that's just the appearance of the surface yet to be weathered.

Yet to be weathered.

And I set a candle on it, small, beautiful, green as summer grass. I take a step back and light up, inhaling the acrid smoke which has been my comfort through all such rituals. But it's different this time. The anger of my youth has given way to the wisdom of my experience. What one generation tolerates, the next accepts. I suppose I've lived many generations in my life. Too many for some, not enough for others, but just the right amount for me, so far anyways.

Three years ago I would be a wreck. Five years ago I would do something destructive. Ten years ago my life would be over.

But now I'm just patient. Inquisitive, discerning, patient.

And old. Fuck if I can't escape that stigma.

So I sit here smoking, gray plumes curling up into my nose and jumbled clouds pouring from my lips, as I look to that fiery wreckage, and back to my little candle, alone on the sandstone.

And suddenly the burning pile of shit is in the distance. Receding. Still in view, but the oppressive stench of the thing is past the reach of my nose. And I give my lighter a few test strikes, debating over if I want to light this small, green wonder. If I want to save it for another day, or if I want to let it shine, and maybe illuminate this dark desolated valley of my decision making mind.

I brush the flame against the wick for a moment, letting the wind carry the soft smell to my brain.

Hairs tickling my nose as I wake up, burying my face into a pillow of familiar smells, chlorine mixed with river water, fresh cut grass, grilled chicken, cigarettes, fizzles from soda jumping into my nose, puppy breath...

Small soft undercurrents to a fresh scent, but something bitter strikes the wrong note and the song is gone. I wrinkle my nose and pinch the flame down. Maybe just a little at a time. To remind myself that there are some decent people out there. To remember that it's not always just to destroy me that people do what they do. Something inspiring. Maybe something happy. The bitterness in my nose gets to agitating and my sleeve can't seem to wipe away the irritation. A bit of youthful vigor springs up in me. But a deep breath, the taste of watermelon rising to my tongue, and I'm almost at peace with it all.

So I sit back with a cigarette, and see where I go from here. Not really watching where I step, but moving ahead anyways.

So, in short, no Dad, I don't ever do anything the easy way.

And I hope that at the end of the day, people are glad I don't.

You'll be happy and wholesome again...

((



))

Leaning into the wind, feeling the snow whip around my ears and neck and unprotected face. Flecks of white ice sticking strong to my beard, refusing to budge for any nonsense or warmth. It sticks to the toes of my shoes and the top of my hat. It stings as it cuts across my eyes, forcing my chin to be buried in my chest.

Head down and shoulders hunched, mingling through the crowds and cars and slick parking lots. Trudging along, hearing the voices in my ears telling me that all my fears are real. It's not paranoia if you're right. The threads on the outside of my jacket begin to become frosted with white, while the cheap imitation leather stays smooth and dark. There's at least a silver lining on my jacket.

And it grows darker by the moment, clouds silently sailing across the sky overhead, bearing this precipitation down on this small strip of the world. I can feel my nose begin to freeze up, sniffing regularly to keep my jacket clean.

And that fucking snow keeps biting at the bottoms of my ears, the scrubbed parts of my neck, my lips, and my eyes.

The wind changes directions and smacks it all up into my face. I can't turn. I have to stay in that direction. Helpless. But trudging along.

Alone with the wind and the voices and the stinging shards of snow, I can feel my eyes watering up. My shoulders can't get hunched any higher, and my chin can't bury itself any deeper, and I just hope to fuck that my lips are too frozen to move. "It's just the wind," I think, "it's just the wind. "

White lies and white snow. Merry fucking winter.

Not in the mood for music...

It's like slogging through the swamp, mud clinging to your calves and thighs while trying to high step it, so as not to catch on the things you can't see lurking below the surface.

It's like running a marathon through a field of sawgrass in bike shorts. Lacerations pouring a sticky, seed riddled crimson all the way down into your socks where it stays moist, squishing at every pointed step.

Leaning into a wind shear that tears at your skin, cracking the edges of your eyes and lips and nose. Unbidden tears form and stream back into your hair.

But there's nothing you can do about it. You starve on the other side of the swamp. You're slaughtered on the edge of the field. A broken body cast off of the cliff by the wind.

There's still a throbbing in my chest, clipped with the edge of scissors,  scored by errant fingernails, pinched between the door and the jamb. Maybe not purposeful, maybe not malicious, but when you stub your toe in the dark on the way to the can don't a few choice words spill from your lips?

Endurance is the key in all things. Take the bleeding, the infection, the cracked skin, it all pays off in the end, right?

Right?

But even in this exercise, in this venting, I still feel like a mental patient banging my head against the screened glass. A slow, constant rhythm.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Until the skin breaks.

Thuck.

Thuck.

Thuck.

And the skull begins to open.

Thwuck.

Thwuck.

Thwuck.

And the body realizes what it's doing, what's becoming of it. And decides that's the path of least resistance, and every muscle in the body concentrates on spilling out the physical thoughts, splattering folds and cerebral fluid on the milky red and blue square until the nerves stop responding. Until it all stops responding.

And the horror of it all, is that it can't be stopped. It's that tiny snowball that sets off the avalanche. All that can be done is to lean into it, and hope someone hears.

Thunk.