I dug this up tonight. It feels resurrected.

:: Originally written 12.2.2007 10:50 PM

At various moments in our lives we come upon the question, “What am I doing with my life?” As a child looking toward embarking in the adult world, we might phrase the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” As an adult, we ask ourselves, “What did I want to be when I grew up?” We first catalogue the things we enjoy doing in our lives, and then translate this interest into a compatible way to make money under a circumstance that we can tolerate.

Once again, I have reached another crossroad in my life and have now found myself brooding over this very same question. Only this time, I have found myself stalling on accepting an answer just yet. It is very frustrating to feel myself at a stand still. Part of me urges a decision, while the other part poses more questions to process before I take a step forward. It feels very much like a paralysis brought on by fear.

I find myself balancing on the tip of my toes, straining my eyes to see what might lie ahead of me hoping to get a better view, or a glimpse as to what might be laying in wait along any given path I choose to take. I relax my heels and feel the earth on which I have been hinged. Looking back from where I had just been, I realize that no matter how far away something looked before, it never looks the same as you had thought once you have arrived. I close my eyes to see what this spot looked like from where I had just been. Comparably, they look different but feel exactly the same. Being there and looking here, and being here and looking there, I wonder to myself how I ever took a step in any direction at all. In fact, maybe I have not moved an inch, and while I have been standing here growing older it is the world around me that has changed.

I open my eyes and sigh. I must move on.

Something does not exactly feel right. It feels as if a ghost is haunting us all at the same time. We are afraid of it, yet know that it cannot harm us. Some argue that ghosts are invented by our thoughts, and harm could actually be accomplished if we believe for a fact that the ghost is real. After all, our thoughts are real, and they haunt us all the time. From birth, we are taught to fear this ghost through stories and legend. "If you don’t go to college, you will never get a good job." Ghosts are the great protectors of secrets. Ghosts are the paranormal, conjured by those who are beyond what we define as normal. We spend our whole lives avoiding them out of our fabricated fear of them. Ghosts do exist after all.

When I'm grown up, I will be able to conjure ghosts of my own. How exactly can I learn to conjure a ghost? Well, it’s simple really... my ghosts can only exist when people believe in them.



Breathe in. Shwoook. Breathe out. Pheewww. One more time. In... Shooooook. Out... Pheeewwww.

My fingers feel as shaky as my thoughts. I think I drank too much coffee. I think I want this... no that. This and that. I want to find a bigger house to live in. I want to feel that I have more space to move in. I want to take more photos. I want to write. I want to draw. I want to do them all, and collect them into books. I feel like I should have started one of them already. I feel like I should be doing one or the other, or the one after that, instead of writing this right now.

I just want to feel satisfied, despite our human nature to feel otherwise. Backspace. Backspace. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Just click publish already. Get it over with and move on.


The Bike Ride

There’s a knock at my door. It’s Christopher Meloni. I open the door and invite him in. He asks, “What you doin’?”

“I was just sitting here writing about wanting to do something.”

Christopher smiles. “Well, that’s why I stopped by. Let’s go ride bikes.”

In one swift move, I close my laptop and slip on my shoes. “Let’s go!”

We ride off down the street, and just as I am about to say how nice it feels outside, Chris says, “Its nice out tonight!”

I look up. “There’s a full moon!”

“Indeed. There it is.”

He is riding just ahead of me. I watch him pedal. We are peddling at the same pace. He must be in the same gear. I look at the houses creeping past us and feel as if I am watching the Showcase Showdown on the Price is Right. I calculate their closest values to the actual retail price, and place my bid.

Chris cheers me on. “That’s a big TV. You can see what those people are watching from the street.”

He rides up into their yard and I follow. We stop right in front of the window and see a whole family sitting in their living room. Their backs facing us. Their eyes glued to a television set.

Watching the people watching the television, Christopher puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “I feel like we are in that Christmas movie... A Christmas Carol... with the ghosts that haunt Ebenezer Scrooge. I’m the ghost who shows you the present, and you are seeing yourself as you are now.” He raises his hands in front of his face and wiggles his fingers. “Ooooooooohh…”

He stops, mid-oooh and freezes.

I hold my breath and jerk my head back to the window expecting to see someone alerted to our presence.

“Wait!” Christopher pauses, holding the moment’s silence captive for a few more seconds. “How can you see yourself in the present, if you are presently with a ghost? They should have called that ghost the ghost of Christmas a few minutes ago.”

I chuckled... relieved to know we were still invisible. I turn my attention back to the window and the people in their living room. “Look!” Christopher leans forward and squints. I rap the window and feel the adrenaline shatter through my veins. We take off laughing into the street. I hear people yelling behind me in the distance but can't make any sense of it due to Christopher’s laughter and my squeaky gears.

We twist and turn through a few back streets, ride through a park, bomb a hill, then duck into a shadow. We stop to catch our breath.

"Hey, Christopher!"

I lift my hands in front of my mouth and wiggle my fingers.



Nothing Is Unreadable

If nobody reads the words that I have written, then they never will have existed.

Words unread are words that don't exist.

Blue Bird

While sitting outside smoking a cigarette, I was visited by a strange blue bird. He said, "Hello."

I put the cigarette to my lips to see if the smoke tasted like a dream. I exhaled a reply. "Hello and how do you do?"

"Fine just fine... feeling blue... and you?"

"Feeling fine and feeling blue? How can that be true. Is it because your feathers are blue?"

"Are you rhyming because I am a bird who happens to be blue? I was born that way... blue through and through."

"Oh, I meant you no insult. It's just that I have never had a bird speak to me."

We stared at each other for a moment. He turned his head. I thought he was about to fly away. Instead, he looked back at me and chirped.

I laughed, "You're a funny little bird. I like your chirping. What does that mean... I mean, how would you translate that sound into words that I would understand?"

"You will never know."

"Is that what the chirps mean, or are you being difficult?"

I was confused now, and could see that the blue bird knew I was confused too. He could not smirk or smile, but I could see it in his eyes. He was waiting for my next move.

Waiting still.

I flicked my lit cigarette at his beak, and immediately felt guilty for this smug reaction. The ashes sparked. The feathers fanned. The smoke swirled. I fled as the blue bird flew.

Spout It Out

Words used to pour out of my fingertips. Unfiltered, rusty words. The source of the words must have dried up recently, as my fingers only seem to be capable of coughing up dust. I hear the pipes rattling and moaning. I am half-expecting a spurt of letters to rush out and surprise me. I crack my knuckles, turn the knob off, then back on. Off and on. Another moan. Things just might be happening. A trickle of letters has already formed a puddle of words. It's not much, but its something.


Battery Powered Words

Battery powered words last the same as those written by hand. Forgotten when the current expires and the lights go out. Here are some words to add to the rest while things are still illuminated. The time will come when one of us will forget the other. I can say I will forget you first, but one can never forget until nothing can be remembered. Today, for now, we are here in front of each other. Making a memory to be forgotten.


Rattle Brain

Rattle. Rattle. Rattlesnake.
Shake rattle and roll.
Roll over and over and over again.
Over and rattle again and again.
Rattle brain.

My eyes are getting heavy. I can hear their thunderous movements scraping against my dry sockets. I am hoping that these hands will follow, and slow down under the weight of straining to keep a train of thought on a weary track. Prepositions become too much effort to go back and correct. Just keep typing and watching the thoughts get more sporadic and lethargic. Slowing to a sputter. Breathing steadier. Breathing steadier. Slowing to a sputter. Breathing steadier. Slow sputter.

These lines of lotion… random slips of words… silky smooth, mean nothing. Written for the sheer sake of misfired synapses. Smith & Wesson. Forty-Five caliber, semi-automatic. Twenty-two seconds to two. Wait, while time waits for no one. Time is money. Money waits for no one, yet we all individually and collectively wait on both the time and the money. We wait on something that is not waiting at all. What are we waiting for then? Because waiting is time. Time is waiting. It’s time to go to bed. The ebb and follow the leader of the pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strike, to be exactly in the place I can only ever begin to imagine. And the pinky pricks the period marking the end of the last words on earth to be written on nothing at all or nothing as nothing is all there is to be written. Period.

Sleep you godamned body. Other people can turn out my lights while I can do nothing about it. The light switch is lost somewhere in the blinding light.