Writing

I want to be a writer. I want to wake up at ten a.m.,

crank out a few thousand words or more,

go back to bed, get some lunch,

crank out a few more thousand words, go to the bar, smoke,

 meet a girl who makes me forget I want to be a writer.

I want my Sundays not to be filled

with dread and worry as Monday

approaches. Each passing Sunday

hour feels like listening to the

band on the Titanic before it’s

sucked into the cold heartless

deep

sea.

I want to be prideful about

what I do with my head held

high and not merely

doggie paddling just to stay

afloat.

But I have to keep it short

I have to keep it brief

I have to stop,

and work on the work

that keeps me from my work.

It is dreaded Monday

after all and it’s blood lust

is limitless,

and there is no relief for us

bleeders.  

Jelly beans and sex

Now that I have your attention I’d like to discuss the quantum mechanics of reality. Just kidding, let’s talk about candy and sex. I don’t really eat candy and I haven’t had much sex lately. I’m on what single people call, “A Dry Spell”. I’d like to refer to it more as a ghost town next door to a dry riverbed, near a Denny’s. Not the good Denny’s either.

I really only mention it because of the brutal ride I had on the train this morning as I made my way to work. It seems I got on the beautiful people’s train car on accident. As I was searching for a seat on this very crowded train car I caught the faces of some of the best looking regular people I have seen in a while. It was wild. Even the guys seemed to be above average in the handsomeness department. I quickly found my seat and tried to cover my own hideousness with a rag newspaper.

This of course was only interrupted by the young gay couple behind me having a minor morning disagreement. I was waiting for one of them to tell the other how beautiful each other looked in their wrath. I’m not a homosexual but I was jealous of their argument. Sometimes I think it would be nice to have a minor morning argument with someone I care deeply about. I’m sure tonight Kyle and Jason will be in each other’s arms, consoling each other and feeling just silly about that stupid train argument. While I will be thinking about how many more ways I can make bologna appetizing for dinner. Basil perhaps?

It’s not really just about sex though. I need real intimacy in my life. Like, “Honey, I got you a Mountain Dew because I know how much you like them”, sort of thing. I want to be sweet as candy to some young woman. I want to represent all the good things in her life and I want it now. I’m tired of sitting on my couch, watching the beautiful women in the Macy’s commercials having fun in knit sweaters. I sit there and think, “Hm…nice sweater”.

So this train ride this morning had my head spinning and I felt filled with desire for a lot of the very beautiful women riding along with me. It was really something else and you should have been there. And now, as I write this I feel like Norman Bates in the beginning of Psycho as he eats candy from the brown paper bag while he’s being grilled by that detective looking for Janet Leigh.

I need to stop going out on Thursday nights. The Friday product is just confusing. But I did get you with the whole, “sex”, in the title thing didn’t I?

Healed

The doctor came into Angie’s room just as she was waking up from a strange dream about her mother. Angie was still trying to figure out why her mother looked like she was made of flowers when the doctor started speaking to her.

“Angie? Angie, it’s Dr. Rob, can you hear me”, he asked.

Angie found that she couldn’t speak and tried to lick her lips but she couldn’t find the spit. She nodded at Dr. Rob.

“I wanted to let you know that everything with your surgery went great. It looks like we got all of it and you’ll make a full recovery.”

Dr. Rob lightly patted Angie on her shoulder in his usual slightly cold bedside manner. He was a great doctor but just didn’t seem to like to touch people which seemed very strange to Angie.  She nodded and tried to smile but her lips were cracked and dry and it actually hurt a little bit. Dr. Rob smiled at her and started out of the room just as a nurse came in with some water and a straw and held it out for Angie to sip from.

Angie sipped the water and felt the coolness fill her mouth and soothe her parched throat. She nodded at the nurse in thanks. The nurse left the cup on her bed table and left Angie alone. Angie still felt a little groggy and sleepy but she wanted to stay awake. She wanted to get back to enjoying her life instead of being sick and tired all the time.

“You made it”, said a voice from the corner of the room.

Angie lifted her head up and tried to look around to see where the voice came from. She couldn’t see anyone. She actually had the room to herself. The patient she had shared the room with at the beginning of the week was gone.

“We didn’t think you were going to make it, but here you are. Just amazing”, said the voice.

She heard a chair slide across the floor and saw a tall man in a black suit sit down next to her bed.  Angie tried to ask who he was but her throat was still so raw from the tubes and such she couldn’t make a sound.

“Don’t get worried Angie. I’m just here to see the contract is fulfilled”.

“With…hospital”, asked Angie in a hoarse whisper.

“No Angie. I’m not with the hospital. Not directly I guess.”

Angie shrugged. She actually thought she was still dreaming.

“You’re not dreaming anymore Angie. This is your new life. The life you begged and prayed for. The promises you made for your life. I’m here to make sure you will follow through with those promises”, said the man.

His voice was serious and gravely. Angie turned her head to get a better look at him but his face seemed just out of focus. She could make out eyes and a nose and a mouth, but nothing specific, no freckles or moles or out of place hair.

“Promises”, asked Angie.

“Yes, promises. You promised that if he got you through this you’d dedicate your restored life to spreading his gospel. I’m here to make sure you do just what you said you’d do. But I see you’ll probably need a little time to recover and that’s okay. I’m sure we can make another deal.”

“I wasn’t serious”, said Angie, “I would have said anything. I didn’t want to be sick anymore. I don’t even believe in the devil”.

The man sat back in his chair and adjusted his suit coat and tie.

“Who said anything about a deal with the devil”, he asked, “Your deal is with God, remember?”

Angie didn’t actually remember. She’d been sick for so long and made so many pleading promises to all sorts of deities. She remembered asking Buddha to make her into a silk worm when she was reincarnated, but a deal with God, she didn’t really remember.

“I don’t remember signing anything”, said Angie.

The tall man smirked and leaned forward.

“You didn’t. You don’t have to. He knows. You’ve been called upon to fulfill your promise, just as others in the past have been called upon to fulfill theirs. You are to be a prophet”.

Angie felt hot and her throat was drying out again. The man picked up the cup the nurse left and held it up so Angie could get a drink.

“I’ll call upon you again soon. In the meantime, rest and build your strength. You will need it.”

The lights flickered overhead and Angie blinked. She looked to the chair and it was empty.

“So”, she thought, “a prophet”.

I will have more coffee

Having recently discovered the second coffee break area at work I now have a second place to get my free cup of office coffee. It’s just Folgers or Maxwell House or Murderbrew, but it’s something. It is difficult at times to get that cup of coffee however.

This morning I went to the first coffee area I was aware of and discovered an empty coffee pot. So I did the right thing and made another pot and then decided to head over to the new coffee station. I was happy to have this option available to me. The only problem is the distance between these two coffee areas.

The two areas might as well be on opposite sides of the planet. The first coffee area could be called “New York” and the second coffee area could be called, “Moon”. So the walk (with my painful goutish shuffle) to the moon took a bit longer than I prefer but I was able to obtain a fresh cup of coffee. However there were no creams or sugars available on the moon so I had to shuffle all the way back to New York to get a little flavor for my morning pick me up.  

While I was on my interstellar office trek I could feel all those prying cubicle eyes preying on my movement. It was a little unnerving. I felt as if the man eating lions of Tsavo would lunge out from around a cubicle wall and commence to eating my bloody guts. I might have picked up my limping pace a bit just to get back to the safety and misery of my own cube. Of course walking fast, with a limp and a hot cup of coffee is also a circus trick in and of itself. So I had to juggle my irrational fear and my coffee without spilling any.

But now I’m safe, back in my cube, sipping a pretty damn good cup of coffee and there are no lions in sight. I’m sure they’re laying low in the tall office grass somewhere, but for now I’m content to write this and sip my French Vanilla flavored coffee.

I only hope the day runs smoothly and there aren’t too many cubicle villagers picked off as they make their way to the copier or fax machine. Freaking office lions, who knew?

Hell’s Harpies

“I think I finally do believe God exists”, said Toby.

“What makes you say that”, asked Clem.

“I realized that all the struggling and toiling I endured had to be for something greater than myself and once I had that epiphany, I saw them”.

“Who’d you see”, asked Clem.

“The demon”, said Toby.

Clem moved away from Toby slightly on the park bench and tightened his fall jacket up around his neck. The wind had picked up a bit and he had a chill. A sudden chill.

“Are you sayin’ to me that you came to a life affirming realization and the validation of God because you saw a demon”, asked Clem.

“No, no. Not at all. What I’m saying is that I realized that God existed and he loved me before I saw any kind of demon or stuff like that. It was after I accepted God that I saw a monster from hell”, said Toby.

Toby looked at Clem with earnest eyes. They’d been friends on this park bench for nearly 15 years. They both liked the spot because it faced west and the setting sun cast a lovely golden glow on everything as they sat. They both retired about the same time and just happened upon each other.

Clem always marveled at their chance meeting. Toby was an old white guy and Clem was an old black guy, from different backgrounds and neighborhoods, sitting together every Tuesday on a park bench to feel the warmth of the setting sun. They knew quite a lot about each other but Toby’s realization of the existence of God was quite a revelation.

“So, how did you realize God existed? I mean, we’ve been sitting here for years and you never brought it up”, said Clem.

“I was watching my grandson play with some clay and it kind of hit me all of a sudden. I mean, I started thinking about my life, my childhood, the death of my parents, work, buying a house, working harder to provide for my growing family, all the things that I had molded with the clay of my life and I thought, well shit, somebody had to provide the clay”.

“Somebody provided you with the clay? Man…that is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. The damn clay. What did you think before this whole grandson with the clay thing”, asked Clem.

“I never really thought about it. I just did what I did and figured it was all up to me”, said Toby.

Clem rubbed his graying chin and thought about his own struggle with religion. He had believed in God for his entire adult life until his wife passed away. He had fought so hard for her and romanced her and finally got her to be his wife, only for her to pass away from cancer after only five short years of marriage. He’d actually stopped thinking about God, and here comes Toby, doing the opposite.

“So, what about this demon thing”, asked Clem.

“Well, after I saw God in my grandson’s mushing and molding of the clay I caught a glimpse of a demon on the bus”.

“On the bus?”

“Yeah. I was sitting in my car in traffic and I just happened to look over at the bus next to me and I saw a demon sitting on the bus”.

“Like riding in the bus or sitting on top of it, like, on the roof?”

“No, it was just riding the bus. Sitting there, waiting for its stop”.

“Did you start a new medication I should know about”, asked Clem.

Toby chuckled and shook his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“Here, I drew a picture of what I saw”, he handed it to Clem.

Clem took the paper and unfolded it. Toby was a talented artist and what he had drawn made Clem gasp. On the paper, drawn in simple pencil was the face of evil. It was the face Clem had seen the very night his wife was taken from him.

“You okay”, asked Toby, “You just went so pale”.

Clem dropped Toby’s drawing to the ground as the wind picked up.

Napalm Monday

I always feel like a jerk when I complain about my job, especially so soon after Veteran’s Day. It’s not like I just saw my best buddy in the whole world get blown up by some mortar fire or horribly burned in a napalm attack. I’ve actually got it pretty easy and I should be thankful for it.

                                               

So I am aware of how ridiculous it is to complain about my stupid cubicle job, but I am compelled to do so.  But I have to keep this brief as I’m well behind the eight ball today and need to get a lot of unfulfilling work done.

Maybe tomorrow will deliver some better news and I suppose that’s at least one reason to be optimistic. Plus my horoscope said that two lovers will be fighting over me, which is really weird since I have no lovers that I’m aware of,  but I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Ow, I think I broke a finger.

Little to say

It’s amusing to me when I start writing something that disintegrates into foolishness. I was just writing a little short story about a mousy bookworm who desperately wanted to be a slut. I know, it’s a completely silly idea and purely male. I erased what wrote almost as quickly as it had left my fingers. There was something funny about it though, but I don’t think I’m a good enough writer to mine it out.

I think my Catholic sensibilities got in my way as well. I don’t think I’ve ever even written a passionate sex scene in anything. I usually avoid it because it makes the Victorian in me nervous. It’s a natural part of being human, feeling passion for someone and wanting to express it physically so I’m not sure why it makes me so squeamish to write about it.

I like sex, but I don’t often talk about it. I am rather reserved when it comes to the whole thing. However, I will tease some female friends I know regarding our past intimacies and end up being as rude as the stereotypical construction worker hooting at the pretty ladies on the sidewalk. Most of the time I think of it as harmless flirting, but I am aware that it can become a little objectifying. I feel ashamed later but while the moment is there I can’t seem to see the harm. Most of the time I’m just egging them on in the hopes they’ll flirt back, which they don’t often do and I end up feeling more alone and undesirable.

It’s passion I’ve been lacking. Sure, I’ve been passionate in moments of intimacy, but it’s just a moment. I’ve not felt that long lasting, smoldering passion for someone in quite a long while. I wonder if that’s why I can’t seem to accurately describe a love scene in what I write. I have a hard enough time writing about two people kissing. I see my six year old self covering my eyes when two grown-ups kiss and thinking, “Gross!”

So it’s no wonder I would try to write about a mousy bookworm exploring her desires without having the first idea about what it means to live with passion. Now that I look back on it, the story has more potential than I thought. In fact, as an exercise I should probably make an effort to write that story and see what that mousy bookworm and I can discover together. So I guess this piece has become a trailer for an upcoming release.

I guess I had more to say than I thought.