Permeate

“It’s peculiar how a very simple act by a woman can get absorbed into the fabric of a person’s whole day. The act, which then becomes thought, bangs around in the brain and the imagination makes you re-live the moment over and over again. Each time you cringe a little more and blush a little harder”, said Joey.

Ryan looked up from his newspaper.

“What the hell are you babbling about”, asked Ryan.

“I’m just saying the things I've done, maybe, the things I’m ashamed of seem to linger in my brain and I can’t seem to get past them”, said Joey.

Ryan nodded and folded his paper and tossed it onto the dashboard of the municipal works van.

“You’re going to make me talk about this hm? You can’t just let me sit here and read my paper”, asked Ryan.

Joey nodded slowly and took a quick sip from his coffee cup. Ryan sat back and squinted at Joey.

“Okay, here’s what it is. You’re a human being and like all human beings you have an imagination. Now mind you, some people are more imaginative than others but you have it all the same. But what you’re referring to, with this constant thoughts dwelling on your past, maybe re-imagining your life, is nothing more than a human condition. We call it regret and you’re not the first person to feel bad about things in your life. Life in general is hard. If life were easy, everybody would be doing it. Sure, everybody’s alive but few are really living. Regret, embarrassing memories, that’s just what life is all about. Makes us who we are”, said Ryan.

Joey looked out the window and sighed.

“So it’s all about a girl isn’t it”, asked Ryan.

“Of course it’s about a girl”, said Joey.

Ryan sighed as well and looked out the window.

“Do you love her”, asked Ryan.

“I think so. But, she’s… out there”, said Joey.

“She makes you feel differently about the things you were pretty certain on before”, asked Ryan.

“Yeah, I get so embarrassed about my past, my thoughts, my imagination around her”, said Joey.

“She’s different than your usual type of gal”, asked Ryan.

“She’s… adventurous. I’m not even sure she likes me. She’s hot, she’s cold. I can’t figure it all out. She makes me mad.”, shrugged Joey.

“I see”, said Ryan, “So you’re replaying all the moments from your past, looking for where you screwed it all up. Why it makes you so mad”, asked Ryan.

“I suppose”, said Joey, “She really rattles my cage, you know”.

A car outside screeched to a stop at a red light and a horn blared.

“Let’s get to work”, said Ryan.

Not Sure At All

I don't know what you mean.
I don't get it.
I'm completely in the dark
about what you're trying
to say to me.

I'd prefer you just said it,
plainly and as straight
forward as possible.
Because I don't
understand.

I can't be sure I'll
even get it then. It
might be a total
mysterious concept
to me.

But I'll listen,
and I'll try,
and pay you mind,
and heed your words
as best that I can.

I'm not a mind reader
or a gypsy psychic or even
a lucky carnival worker,
so I don't know what you mean.

So just tell me. Just say it.
Use that wonderful
vocabulary and spit it out.
I probably won't be mad.

All I know is what I know
and all that doesn't seem
to help me know what you
want me to know.

I'm just not sure at all.

Holy Macarena

Connor liked to dance. He’d been dancing his buns off ever since his oldest sister’s wedding back in the 1990’s. He was all about the Macarena and loved that pseudo Latin beat. Any opportunity he had now to show off his incredible dance moves he took full advantage of. He’d trained in high school and college and was a master of many dance forms. He could salsa and meringue and even some hip-hop stuff. He could swing dance and foxtrot and even waltz if the moment called for it. Dancing was his love. All thanks to that strange Macarena song his Aunt Kathy made him dance to.

This is where I’m stopping this story.

My imagination is one cruel son of a bitch. I was literally about to write about Conner in a hospital bed. I was considering having his legs blown off in Afghanistan by a road side bomb. Either way, I was about to be very cruel to this fictional character.

That doesn’t seem right for some reason. There’s no reason to bring anybody down on a Wednesday.  Plus, it just didn’t seem right to write about something that likely has really happened to some poor soul and it would be insensitive of me to try and express the pain and hardship someone wounded in such a way would experience. I’m not the right person for that story.

I will instead talk about something a little more worthwhile today. Perhaps we should take a look at http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/ . This organization has dedicated itself to the development and empowerment of our brave soldiers that have been wounded in combat or through their service in the US Military. So guys like my fictional Connor have a second chance at an active and fulfilling lifestyle.  

I think that’s a far better story than anything I could make up.

Electric Green Light

Why is there an eerie green light that emanates from under the first few steps of an escalator? It’s creepy and makes me think of the made for TV version of Stephen King’s, The Tommyknockers. Why a green light though? Is it because we’ve been trained to believe that green means GO and it’s safe to use this giant metal device that looks like it would eat you if it could?

The escalator at the Jackson Blue line train stop was recently repaired and the light shining from under is exceptionally bright. It makes me think the machinery is some sort of hell-spawn clockwork that is merely biding its time before the great mechanical-revolution the Mayan’s surely predicted. I think it’s waiting to snag your shoelace and pull you down through its great, grinding staircase teeth and mash you up into bloody, bone pulpy goo that it then uses to fuel its engines.

Can you imagine all the machines on Earth suddenly glowing with that same escalator underglow? The kitchen blender suddenly deciding it doesn’t like your protein shakes or margarita mixers anymore and now has a taste for a blended you. A murder-colada, if you will.

I once had a 1985 Dodge Reliant that had a similar green glowing dashboard and I sometimes wondered if it made the interior of that car look like it was designed for death.  As if the car had a will of its own and its sole purpose was to drag your stinking corpse down to hell, all to the sounds of John Denver on the radio.

I remember as a child, I was in a mall waiting for my mother or sister or something and I was standing near the escalator. I was pretty fascinated by the rolling, undulation of these giant metal stairs. The moving railing was something of a marvel and deserved investigation. So I kicked it. The railing and the whole escalator came to a complete halt. I was shocked. What had I done? Had I killed it? Broken it? No matter what it was I knew it meant trouble for me so I did what all children do. I ran.

Sometimes I do wonder if the Underground Escalator League of Evil is looking for me and that green light is sort of a bio-scan. Like, they know where I am at all times and they are plotting their revenge for the murder of their mall escalator brother. I think they are in cahoots with the Elevator Union of Chaos.

I know it’s completely silly to be fearful of a machine take-over of the planet. That’s just so dumb. It’s not like the machines could ever run our human lives. Wait, I’ve got an e-mail text message video sound file I’ve got to listen to while finishing this game of Words with Friends and reading up on the release date for The Avengers 2: The Avengening.

Did you hear something? Sounded like an escalator? What’s that glowing?

Gaaaaahhhhhh!!!!!

Love Sick

Ray entered the community center meeting room and sat on one of the hard metal folding chairs set up at the far end of the small meeting room. He didn’t want any of the free crappy coffee or day old muffins placed out on the folding table. This was his fourth meeting and he’d yet to say anything to anyone. He knew there was something wrong with him but he just wasn’t sure how to articulate it. He didn’t really think this group was helping with his obsession.

“Okay, I think we’ve got a good size today, it’s after 6:00 so let’s begin”, said the volunteer counselor.

The counselor looked at the 13 faces now staring back at him and smiled at each one.  Ray thought the counselor was running these meetings for school credit or something. He was wiry and nerdy and balding and was probably having a terrible time in the dating world. There was no money in volunteering with people that were obsessive. Ray wondered if any women found the counselor even the slightest bit attractive. Ray chuckled, imagining the counselor driving around town in a used 1990’s Hyundai trying to pick up the chicks.  

“Ray, something amusing you tonight”, asked the counselor.

Ray was startled and quit smirking.

“No. I was just thinking about something. No”, said Ray.

“Why don’t you share it with the group? We’ve yet to hear anything from you”, said the counselor.

Ray frowned. He should have guessed that his luck wouldn’t hold out. He figured he could get through these meetings without having to participate. He was only going because his family was worried about him. Ray figured it was an issue he could handle on his own so the meetings were only for appearances.

“I’m not sure I’m really ready to share”, said Ray.

“I think you are Ray. You’ve had an opportunity to listen to everyone’s issues now they should have a chance to hear yours, maybe they can help”, said the counselor.

Ray looked at the group. It was a sorry bunch of cat lady’s, sex offenders and stalkers. He didn’t feel like he was anything like these people. The counselor was nodding at Ray, trying to encourage him to participate. Ray sighed and cleared his throat.

“I’m in love with love”, said Ray.

“Can you explain that a little further Ray”, asked the counselor.

Ray shifted in his folding chair. His butt was starting to go numb.

“I said that I’m in love with love. I fall in love with women too quickly and I imagine a lifetime together; kids, a house, growing old and dying. I do this with almost every woman I meet. I want so badly to be in love with someone that I romanticize every part of our relationship, even casual friendly relationships, until I drive her away.  I obsess over the object of my affection to the point that they aren’t comfortable being around me and they run away. The rejection is intolerable. It sends me into a deep depression, so I look for someone else to fall in love with, who then also rejects me, which makes me more depressed, which again, makes me look for love”.

The counselor nodded and sat back in his own folding chair. The metal made a squeak that sort of disrupted Ray.

“Sorry”, said the counselor, “So let me be clear. You are obsessed with being in a relationship?”

“Yes, essentially, yes”, said Ray. “I want it so badly. I want a woman to love me so badly and I put all this pressure on myself to try and make her love me. She never even knows what kind of inner turmoil I’m going through as I try to play cool and aloof outside”.

Ray felt a little lighter. He’d never really said it out loud to anyone. He’d always just stared at his own reflection on drunken nights, whining about his loneliness and failures as a man to find a woman to love him.

“What does your obsession entail Ray”, asked the counselor.

“I think about these women. I think about them too much. I imagine too much about them. I get upset thinking about them out with other men like a jealous boyfriend might. When in reality, I’m not even their boyfriend. In fact, most of the times the women don’t even know how I feel about them, or if they do, I’ve already made them too uncomfortable to even speak with me. So I think about them and I can’t sleep. I can’t get up off my couch because I’m wishing so much the girl was there with me. I can barely tolerate my family parties because I’m always there solo. I can’t stand to see other couples together when I’m so alone”.

“Have you been hurt by a lot of women Ray”, asked the counselor.

Ray thought for a short while. He remembered high school girlfriends. Girls he knew in College. Girls he knew after college. The loves he’d had in his life. The many relationships with women he’d had as a grown man.

“Yes. I think I have been hurt by a lot of women. I love women though. Even through all the hurt I’ve had to deal with. I still love them”, said Ray.

“Do you have a healthy relationship with any women in your life”, asked the counselor.

“Healthy? No. I don’t think I do”.

The counselor leaned back again and looked at the half interested group.

“Does anyone have anything to add or to say to Ray about his obsession”, he asked.

Ray looked at the faces of the group and no one had anything to say. Ray looked at the counselor.

“Let’s give Ray a hand for sharing with us today and hopefully, over time, we can help Ray beat his obsession”, said the counselor as he led a small applause. “Now, Mary, last week you were talking to us about your 47 cats. Have you made any progress on saying good-bye to them”, he asked.

Ray blinked and sat back. He felt a heaviness return to his shoulders and imagined his current obsession telling him she loved him and everything would be alright. He closed his eyes as Mary said she hadn’t gotten rid of any of her cats. She’d gotten more. 

Chase me

On the playgrounds of my memory

I remember her chasing me

around trying to kiss me. I’m only

eight and I think girls are icky but

I’m a little flattered by her

exuberance.

I run and she chases, all the while

she’s making kissy noises,

“Mmwah, Mmwah, Mmmwah”,

I try to hide behind a flagpole

but she finds me and lays a

sloppy little girl kiss on my

cheek and then runs off

giggling as I wipe the wet

expression off with my sleeve.

It isn’t until later in life that

I realize how much I liked being

chased.

And how much I miss it.  

Valley

I can see myself standing on the far side of this wordless valley, waving my arms, yelling something but the wind it too strong so I can’t hear what I’m yelling to myself. I’m sure it’s something silly like, “Windy enough for you”. I know me pretty well and I’m sure I would make that kind of joke to myself.

More important than the obviously hilarious things I would say to myself is the fact that we’re in this wordless valley. On the bluffs there are lots of free range words, munching and chewing on the grass, but they won’t come down to the valley and get organized into a coherent herd.  So I and me are left kicking stones at each other while we try to figure out a way to get those damn words to come down here and start making some sense.

I suggest that we just start pulling them down into the valley. I of course agree with myself and so we start pulling any words we can find into the potato Crabtree muscle legs.

Clearly that plan failed as just pulling random words just makes for a whole lot of nonsense. I suggest that we use some bait and try to lure the good words down in the hopes the less, more useful articles will follow. I ask what we could use for bait. I shrug at myself. Neither of us seems to know what words like.

“I’ve got some peanut butter and jelly”, I say.

“Oooh, you know that phrase is all we can write when we have writers block”, I say.

“Yeah, repeating Peanut butter and Jelly, peanut butter and jelly is just lazy”, I say.

The words moo on the bluff as if to mock us.

“I know”, I say, “Let’s start a fire behind the words and then they’ll have to rush down here into the valley, then we can pick off the words we want, sort of like the caveman did versus the wooly mammoths”.

“Yeaah, I’m not sure about that. I mean the liability of starting a fire. I mean what if the fire went wild and innocent things were damaged or hurt”, I ask.

  “I see what you mean”, I say, “So, what should we do?”

I look up at the words on the bluffs and the hills over this valley and sigh.

“I think we’re just going to have to wait until they decide to come down here”, I say.

I look at me and then up at the herds and then back at me.

“You suck. Let’s burn ‘em”, I say.

“You’re so weird”, I reply.