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Phoenix
Monday Dec 27, 2004 - Link to Entry
And from its own ashes the great bird rose. Reborn from flames, The Phoenix flew again.
Spent good old Jesu's b-day in Phoenix, AZ. Though my hometown claims the classic nickname "The Second City", this Southwest town would probably be more fitting for said monicre. So many people choose to spend their golden years, or second life, in this dessert oasis. Perhaps I will make an appointment with the mayor on my next visit to discuss this name claim.
I spent 3 wonderful days with my Aunt and Uncle. Though we had a little down time we actually kept quite busy. After receiving one of the greatest gifts I have ever been on the receiving end of (that sounds kinda dirty -- I'm referring to a new computer), the three of us met up with their friends for a group dinner at a local Chinese restaurant. Many funny conversations took place. The humor was amplified by the fact that I was
a)the only one under 50
b)the only one who thought it was funny
c)it was inappropriate to laugh at what was said.
The subject was email. The conversation was as follows:
Aunt Judy: So lately I've been getting my emails sent back to me, I don't get it.
Old Lady Friend: What, do you have AOL or something?
Aunt Judy: No, we have Cox.
Old Lady Friend (putting her arm around her Old Man Husband): Oh, We're Cox too.
(transcript borrowed from an email of my own)
Hehehe.
After the dinner we headed off to a great play called Beau Jest. The premise was that a 20's something Jewish woman was in love with a non-Jew her parents did not approve of. So she created a ficticious Jewish boyfriend and hired a male escort to play the role. Not only was it cute and filled with awesome Chicago references, but it was damn hilarious. I loved this show. I wanted to give it a standing ovation, but I think alot of the crowd probably would have needed assistance to their feet. Great show though...Great Show!
The rest of the weekend featured good family quality time...Seeing the Aviator, going hiking, going over to see cousins, and the like.
It was great to get away and now its good to be back :)
Wow non-fiction entries aren't nearly as entertaining to write. Peace.
Time enough at last . . .
Friday Dec 24, 2004 - Link to Entry
There is a very famous Twilight Zone episode featuring Burgess Meredith as a man with a deep passion for books but not enough time to read everything he wanted to with all the other responsibilities of a man's life. His character's desire to take in books could be compared to Johnny 5's insatiable appetite for input in the Short Circuit Series. Anyway he goes down into some vault and just at that moment there is a humanity destroying explosion. I forget the cause but anyway it leaves him with time he always craved to do the reading he had so badly wanted. That is until he trips, drops his glasses, and steps on them. Now he is a victim of his own fantasy. He got what he wished for but not on his terms.
Well, I don't want eternity. But I would love a few extra hours in everyday. Perhaps Hermoine Granger can loan me that time travelling device she so smoothly utilized in the third Harry Potter. Well until I'm able to track that witch down (WHAT?! She's a witch...thats what they call female wizards!), I'm forced to try a new tactic in achieving all of my various goals.
Gabe and I, as part of an annual tradition, met to discuss 2004 in review and to resolve and set goals for our upcoming year '05. Amongst my resolutions is a new time management system that will hopefully bring the productivity and balance I'm craving to my day to day life.
Here is how it works. Each week is 168 hours long. I plan to spend 56 hours of that time asleep if possible. And the rest? Well for work I need to not only put in my work hours but also go in to practice editing and voice over. I am allowing for a combined 57 hours for these endevors meaning if I work 52 hours (my weekly average) I will spend 5 hours practicing that week. If I work over 57 hours, no practice. If I work 42 hours (wow would that be awesome) 15 hours of practice. 113 already taken.
With the remaining I will do 3 hours of fitness a week, 3 hours of writing (and yes this includes blogging, journaling, and even lyrics work), and 2 hours of music practice. Now that fills a total of 121.
47 free hours remain for showering, eating, errand running, bills paying, and yes of course Socializing!! I figure if I actually hold myself to these numbers on a weekly basis I will start to make real progress in all of my fields of interest. Perhaps I will have Time Enough at Last. And its okay if I break my glasses. I have two pairs and contacts!
Tom Harris, P.I. (Part one)
Monday Dec 20, 2004 - Link to Entry
His jaw clicked. Tom had a horrible habit of opening his mouth very slowly until it created a light sound. Doing such was a kin to perhaps a man popping his knuckles only much more disconcerting.
Tom, a private investigator by trade, was training a new hire that day at the bar. Unlike Tom, Belvidere, the new hire, had no ability whatsoever to hear. Though most would find this a terrific disadvantage in the advanced and private practice of espionage, Belvidere always insisted that it was when his hearing left that he became a true and capable detective of the world.
Tom didn’t like Belvidere and didn’t believe that a man without auditory capabilities would be a capable investigator. But a recent series of lawsuits against the Private Investigation industry had run many of his colleagues into the ground. His so called contemporaries, though Tom called ‘em rivals, were getting in trouble for refusing work to people with disabilities. Belvidere had a fairly amazing track record of investigative police work but he also, “Couldn’t hear shit,” as Tom had so elegantly put it to his attorney.
At first Tom was not attempting to antagonize his newest employee. But every time he repeated his horrible jaw-clicking-habit, Belvidere would prepare himself to read Tom’s lips. His eyes would widen, his focus would intensify. Silent Pop. No words. Just the opening and closing of his mouth.
Sure, showing Belvidere the ropes was part of the business of the day, but there was another reason these two were on the wrong side of town so early in the morning. Hilda Spanky, horrible name I know, had hired Tom’s firm to tail her husband. Standard fare really.
Hilda’s husband, Steven Spanky III, was a regular at this divey gin joint in the wrong part of town. Hilda hadn’t seen much of her husband for the past few months and wanted to know how he was spending his time. Tom and Belvidere had followed him here.
What Hilda didn’t know and what Tom and Belvidere were about to find out was Mr. Spanky the third wasn’t cheating or involved in violent business dealings; he had found himself in women’s clothing and he loved it so.
Okay, a little non-fiction
Tuesday Dec 14, 2004 - Link to Entry
Don't worry, we'll be back to the short stories soon . . . Just thought I'd put a few updates down today. First off Channukah came and went so quickly! This is what it had to say:
It’s a Miracle
“So many Jews are in the showbiz. Tom Cruise isn’t but I heard his agent is…” For the past seven days and eight nights, we the Jews have celebrated our yearly festival of lights. How did I celebrate this wonderous and slightly over a week occasion? Check it out, yo:
-My car was having problems so I changed the oil
-I have spoken with Gabe at least once every day for the past week
-I had a Hannukah dinner with Sam at Canter’s deli
-I got a bunch of great gifts and cards including a poker table from my roomie Adam and his girlfriend Jessica...
Celebrity Sightings
Since I last updated this category I have seen . . . Gene Simmons (who incidentally told the receptionist at my office that she had great "Cow Tits"), George Carlin, and Joe Montagne.
Life Updates
Finished a new song for a friend at work. Its a comedic song for a erotic scene in a film he's writing. It's about the passing of Warts, entitled I Have Genital Warts...Did I mention it is his idea? I just wrote the music and the melody. I must say though that this stanza is a big winner:
What does this mean for you?
After tonight, you should have them too.
It's really not all that bad.
It's the best disease I ever had.
I am working on a new original called "Blinding the Critical Eye." Wrote the lyrics on the way back from Chicago and I'm still working on the melody even though I think I have the guitar parts down.
Work is coming along well. Writing is crawling a bit but I am confident that in the next couple months I will finally finish The Gavel Pendulum and Stealing the Blinds. I have begun research on my newest and top-secret project.
I have fallen in love with Arrested Development, Muse, Jimmy Eat World, Keane, and 75 degree December days... :)
Alright back to fiction...I do that better anyways.
Circus Toye and The Murderous Longborough
Sunday Dec 12, 2004 - Link to Entry
Toye had taken to peculiar things like training bears how to clean his dishes. He wasn’t a circus man but he had all kinds of odds and ends that made it seem as though he were.
Johnny Longborough, British accountant and family man, had an obsessive taste for murder. It wasn’t the pain he inflicted or the power he felt as he stare at the newly deceased, it was just a release for him like running, singing, or having sex are for most other people.
Toye had known Longborough in his youth. Being the first to physical mature in his grade, Toye had been able to exact revenge upon Longborough for all those times he hadn’t picked him first on the cricket pitch. Toye found his revenge in the form of his closed hand making swift and unwelcomed contact with the rear of Longborough’s oddly boxy head. Longborough thought of this moment every day of his life. His head still ached whenever the weather would change.
Toye was with his bears at the supermarket. His grizzly, Samantha, was pushing the cart, while her two cubs were filling the carts with the essentials. Toye checked over their selections: Lettuce, carrots, parsley… “And what’s this?” Toye lifted up a bear shaped bottle of honey labeled Job’s Bee’s Honey.
Johnny in all his years had never seen bears in a supermarket, at least ones that were so well behaved. Without noticing who their trainer was he began following the cubs about. Samantha eyed him with distrust.
Toye couldn’t help but recognize, “The boxiest Noggin in all the United Kingdom,” as the kids used to say. Longborough couldn’t take his eyes off of the bears. Toye called out to him, “Longborough.”
Johnny L remained fixated. His eyes widened. He had to murder one of these bears. He could feel the weather changing as his head began to ache.
“Ol’ Longborough. Old man! It’s me…Toye.”
Longborough grabbed a can of corn. He heard not a word of Toye’s attempted greetings. He lifted the can above the head of the nearest cub.
“Longborough!!! Put that down old man!”
Samantha had seen enough. With a closed paw leading her arm at full velocity she aimed for the back of one of the boxiest heads she had ever seen. In the same moment, with all the force he could muster and with gravity on his side, Longborough brought the canned corn down upon the skull of the closest cub.
Both can and paw made contact simultaneously. Both young bear and old man fell to the ground. Toye dropped the honey. Mammalian blood and the sweet result of the never-ending efforts of bees mixed on the dirty grocery store floor.
The story was in every newspaper. Longborough, a respected man, had been killed by a bear. No matter how much Toye pleaded and explained that Samantha was protecting her cub from a seemingly random act of malicious intent.
Samantha was taken away, her son shipped off to the zoo and Toye was left with nothing but guilt and grief. Longborough was lowered into the ground in an even boxier case than his once crazed brain had been housed in.
Soon the surviving cub, now relocated to the famous UK Manchester zoo, was a hit attraction. Not only could he spin dishes on his claws but he could also clean them thoroughly after he was done with the show.
The Company Party
Saturday Dec 11, 2004 - Link to Entry
It was that time of year again. Time for everyone who stares at each other through all the stress and bullshit of the day to day to come out looking as pretty as possible and to then get as drunk as possible. Ronnie, our hero, had never been to a company party before. Ronnie did not know what to expect.
David, Ronnie’s best pal at work, is a married man. Though completely faithful and fully in love with his spouse, his eyes never went blind like he was told they would when he promised his life to her. Perhaps one of David’s friends could allow him to live vicariously through their own adventures. Perhaps.
Bob, Ronnie and David’s boss, was drunk, very drunk. Ronnie and David decided that they should have a bit of fun with him. Before they knew it Ronnie and David had information about everyone in the company. Before he knew it Bob had really spilled the beans.
David’s favorite woman, other than his wife and mother of course, was none other than a girl who liked to call herself Pluto. Once when discussing this nickname Ronnie replied to David, it’s better than Uranus. David concurred.
Pluto, a beautiful and energetic woman, intimidated Ronnie. Ronnie felt that if he were to approach her he might harm his career or even just make his days a bit more awkward around the office. Ronnie, already awkward of his own accord, wished for nothing of the sort. Bob, already seven drinks to the wind, could not full assess his instincts on the business repercussions of, “banging the hot receptionist,” as he put it.
Ronnie was sad. He liked Pluto, it was clear. Mostly it was sexual in nature but he nonetheless was driven towards her. Plus he wanted to make David proud. But he felt a curious dry feeling when he looked inside for his needed spark of adrenaline. And he had always had an important policy about company parties though this was his first. This policy had come from something his father always said. What his father always said was, “Son, don’t dip your pen in the company ink.”
Bob didn’t need adrenaline and he owned the company’s ink. Plus, he had alcohol on his side. Alcohol often is mistaken for courage when consumed in high quantities. Bob had forgotten this.
What Ronnie didn’t know was that Pluto had always liked him. Ever since he first said hello to her his first week of work. She knew a lot about him too. She had Googled him and found that he was a comedy writer. He wrote short bits for television that he sometimes added to his very own online site not dissimilar to this one. She thought the world of him.
David saw her eyeing Ronnie carefully over her shoulder. Still the more he tried the more pressured Ronnie felt and the more he convinced himself not to move in. Each moment he talked himself down was a step further that Bob took.
And then in happened. Some Christmas song that always reminds me of 4th grade came on and Bob swept in and took Pluto into his arms. Their dancing was majestic. Everyone thought the world of their moves. Everyone but David. David wanted nothing more than for Ronnie to go up and out dance drunken old Bob. Ronnie wanted nothing more than to go home.
David’s wife all of the sudden understood and she took action into her own hands. Grabbing Ronnie she pulled him out into the dance floor. Before Ronnie knew what was going on they were the one’s lighting up the dance floor. Her name, Abigail, but she preferred her childhood moniker, Gala.
Pluto saw that Ronnie could be everything she dreamed of. Bob didn’t see much. He could taste their future passion in his mouth, but he also thought he might be tasting the beginning of some one on one time with the toilet. Pluto swept between Gala and Ronnie.
“May I have this dance?” Before Ronnie could politely reject as he was dancing with Gala, Gala signaled to David and he was on the floor to fill in for Ronnie freeing him to dance with Pluto.
And dance they did. And vomit did Bob. And when all was said and done Ronnie stuck to his instincts. He kissed her lightly and said, “Perhaps dinner sometime, but for now, just as friends.”
Defective Memory Machine
Wednesday Dec 8, 2004 - Link to Entry
I must record everything these days because I have gaping holes in my memory. Vonnegut would say that I’m a defective memory machine. Others would suggest that my turbulent past has made me want to forget and has flawed my memory in such a way that I can pick and choose what I keep in there. Either way these holes loom ominously, they loom large, they can’t be prevented, so alas I record all the ideas I can to at worst make a digital memory in its place.
Ah but then I find the opposite becomes true. Memories so vivid that I don’t want and yet seemingly cannot clear away from my mind. When will her taste go away?
I’m on a journey, an adventure, I’m wandering, I’m feeling free. And then something as simple as Victory Boulevard can spring her back to life, to memory. She hasn’t been here all day, she hasn’t been here in weeks, and now I find her – on my mind.
And I miss her. I miss her taste. I miss her touch. I miss her company. I miss her promise.
But I don’t really miss her. She is replaceable. There will be others after her, who I will probably miss, who will probably be replaced after that. But a street name, a sandwich, a restaurant. Why does this bring her back to life so quickly, so easily, and so real.
Like the corners of my mind… Fucking memory.
The Inner Urges by Davis Schwarting
Tuesday Dec 7, 2004 - Link to Entry
Do you eat because you want to? Or do you dine as an attempt to make your stomach shut the hell up? Stop Whining. Stop asking, stop begging. That’s why I feed my stomach. That’s why I fill my mouth. To make it stop.
That’s why I lay down at night. Well most of the time anyways. I lay down because I’m tired. I don’t lay down because I want to lay down. Sure sometimes I wanna lay down. Sometimes I just wanna get off of my feet. But most of the time if I had the energy I’d keep going. There are things I am much more interested than sleep.
Even though sleep is probably the best part of my day. I don’t mean to sound sad or negative or pathetic when I say something like that. It’s just that sleep is so unfiltered. Your system takes care of what it needs to while you’re sleeping, it heals wounds – it does things so much quicker than when you’re awake. While you’re watching it can’t do it. You think you grew by day? No! You’d wake up and be taller.
Same now. Obviously not growing anymore, though sometimes I wish I were. At just 5’8” I’m not thrilled with how high I am off the ground. I always dreamed I’d be at least 6 foot, be able to dunk a ball. Even at almost 25 I still fancy myself a potential professional athlete. Even though many athletes are my age or younger.
I’m getting older, not taller. My sporting skills -- not exactly improving. Still tired and still sleeping, alot. And I’m still just feeding my stomach.
Aqua
Sunday Dec 5, 2004 - Link to Entry
When the hell did water get so undrinkable? I just tried a glass of tap water and came close to dry heaves. I shit you not. It was straight up disgusting.
It’s raining outside. Raining, raining, raining. Some would say its god crying. I’m not sure about all that. But after some careful thought I did what any silently indignant protestor of bad drinking water would do, I made myself a glass of acid rain.
I grabbed my favorite glass from the cupboard. Well really it’s a mug that I got when my grandfather got back from his travels to Europe. It says, “Mind the Gap – London’s Underground.” I’ve never been to London but I sure love my grandpa so I cherish this old treasure.
Anyway, I let myself out on to my balcony. There is an overhang so I had to lean over the rail a bit to collect god’s tears. He sure was sad about something today. I hear he was crying from here all the way to Macomb, IL. There, there big fella.
After about 30 seconds or so the mug had filled about a quarter of the way. Not wishing to spend another minute and a half collecting the acid drops (I did the math in my head, I swear!), I took my bounty and headed in.
I remembered this annoying commercial that used to air all the time back when I lived in Homewood, Illinois – which is in fact no where near Macomb, but rather much closer to neighboring Flossmoor and the great city of Chicago. The commercial featured a prominent baseball star, Sammy Sosa, issuing a challenge to the fans to determine which pop (we called it pop back in Homewood) was Pepsi and which was the market leading Coca Cola.
Obviously wishing to issue my own challenge I quickly went to the cupboard and found another cup, this being a Padres 1995 Season commemorative plastic container. I filled it a quarter of the way with tap water and brought it back over to the table placing it beside my acid rain.
I relaxed for a moment trying to clear my pallet. I flashed back to just moments earlier when I had been so disgusted by the taste of the two part hydrogen one-part oxygen compounds that were spewed forth by my kitchen sink.
I thought of the Motorcycle Diaries. Che swims across the Amazon to be with the Lepers. Makes it without a scratch –Unbelievable!
Then I thought of the East River. Kramer finds it a great place for fitness training minus the horrendous odors. My friends Trace and the now late Spades found it incredibly dangerous. Both were pulled under. Only Trace came back up. So it goes.
Wasn’t swimming in rivers once encouraged? When did bottled water become the only drinkable version of the oldest beverage on the menu? Well I know David Schmidty would blame it on how the times have changed.
The aqua challenge began. I started with the tap. Though knowing quite well that the taste would spin me somewhere close to nausea I still felt it would be safer than what might be offered by Los Angeles’ smoggy skies. I could taste elements, sulfur, perhaps some rusted copper, fluoride, ah and yes good old hydrogen and oxygen.
Now it was time to mind the gap. I brought gods tears to my lips. I took the smallest of sips just in case. Hmm. Not bad. Much less metal influenced. It smelled better too. Like all those dead pine trees in that graveyard. No salt though – Couldn’t possibly be tears. Unless god cries fresh water…. I wonder if Sammy Sosa knows.
Legendary Friend of the People Calls it Quits
Saturday Dec 4, 2004 - Link to Entry
By Tommy Thomason Editor
Glendale, CA - Ten minutes ago
“Its just all gone to shit. Hasn’t it?”
-Schmidty
After 27 years of being a very social man and good friend, David L. Schmidty has thrown his hands up. “I can find nothing else to blame but the times.” The times he is making reference to is not the neighboring Pasadena RosyDay Times, but rather the modern era – the twenty first century.
Schmidty, always having a very full social calendar, had throughout his life found it difficult to maintain all of his friendships, but he nonetheless valued doing so above all else. He would often spend his weekends almost entirely out with the people he loved while slipping in phone calls to all those who were in far away places that he couldn’t see.
The following is a question and answer session with this famous friend of the people. In it I hope to uncover why he has thrown in the towel so abruptly with regards to maintaining his many friendships.
Tom: Hello Mr. Schmidty. May I call you David?
David: Call me what you like for now, I guarantee I won’t be hearing from you again.
Tom: Oh alright. Well then David. I have come here today to uncover why you have thrown in the towel so abruptly with regards to maintaining your many friendships.
David: Its simple really. The world has changed. I can find nothing else to blame but the times. People have become self-serving, uninteresting, flake machines.
Tom: Self-serving, uninteresting, flake machines. What do you mean exactly?
David: The rules were once simple. Make plans with someone, be there or cancel politely ahead of time. Or if you called someone and they couldn’t speak at the time they call you back. All that has changed. In an era dedicated to self-help, fitness, and spiritual liberation, the world is more lonely, unhealthy, and detached than ever before.
At this point in the interview David began to pace about. He seemed very uneasy. I could feel his frustration with others mounting. The temperature in the room began to increase.
Tom: The sense I’m getting from you, and correct me please if I’m wrong, is that you feel that people have become less accountable as friends. Their support and love have in some ways diminished and become unpredictable and unaccountable?
David: Precisely. Pre-fuckin-cisely. And I used to think it was a regional thing. Just the well to do of the valley. But its old friends who can’t seem to return a call, new friends who just don’t seem to want to spend time together. Times have allowed for people to go and grow further and further apart and still maintain some semblance of a connection. But its just that. A shell. No substance. Its all gone to shit. Hasn’t it?
Feeling that more was about to pour from his lips I sat and soaked in the silence. This man, a once proud lover of the people and friend to all, had become a grouchy miserable man when his friends had let him down. After a few more moments he went on . . .
David: I can’t help but think that you blame me for all this. Maybe you’re right. Why would all of the people in my life suddenly conspire against me to make me feel so out of touch, so lonely, so – I don’t know. But you’re wrong. You are so fuckin’ wrong Tommy Thomason. I’m sorry Tom, but it shouldn’t take three phone calls to get just one back. It shouldn’t take 12 planned meetings to finally see someone out socially just once. I remember the days when the object of my amorous designs would be the easiest plans I’d ever make. No longer. I’m one hell of a miserable sun of a bitch these days Tommy T, but I have always been a good friend. It ain’t me.
David began to weep quietly near the windowsill. He had many picture frames in his study all of which were now seemingly empty. There was a plant near where he was standing that had gone brown and become all droopy with neglect. I had never seen someone more alone in the world.
After a few moments I began to collect my things. He was still staring out the window at nothing. As I got up and headed towards the door an electronic ring blasted away the remaining stale silence of the room. David reached into his pocket and removed a very small cell phone. He looked at it puzzled but then excitement crept across his face.
Tom: I’ll leave you to your phone call.
David: Thank you.
But, to be honest, I didn’t quite leave him. I stood right outside the still half open door out of site as he answered his phone. This is what I could hear from my end.
David: Hello? Oh. I see. Well… I guess send me an order of yellow curry with beef instead.
He hung up and I could hear him weeping once again.
This once legend has thrown in the towel.
Views from my Neon - Another short Fictional piece
Friday Dec 3, 2004 - Link to Entry
I’m not a violent man by nature. In fact I didn’t even mean to rob that bank, it just sorta happened. See. I had just come down from the Alps. I had been on expedition in the search for the abominable snowman. I was still dressed for winter weather – so my face was covered naturally.
I had my left hand jammed in my pocket for no other reason than, Just Because. I assure you it was no gun. The security man in charge of the bank wasn’t so sure. He slid his gun across the floor to my feet and raised his hands in the air. Interesting.
Now he was unarmed and the bankers had begun to fill paper bags with cash. I hadn’t said a word. I had just come in for use of the ATM machine as the one outside was marked ‘Out of Order.’ I wondered if an unsolicited robbery would count as a crime.
Lost in this memory I found myself dizzy at the wheel of my beautiful sea foam 1996 Neon. I know you probably don’t associate the type of man who looks for mythical creatures with the type of man that loves little vehicles, but what can I say? I’m an annomile (How the hell do you spell annomille? The stupid paperclip with eyes doesn’t seem to know. Bastard!) Interesting.
To regain my composure I focused on the women I passed as I drove on. Do you know that I undressed one thousand-seven hundred and eighteen women with my eyes today? That’s approximately one thousand-seven hundred and eighteen more women than I will undress with my hands today which is a significant number when you think about it.
I passed a cemetery today. That is if you consider acres and acres of dead trees congregated in a fenced in on a small lot with a sign like, “Daves and Sons – X-Mas Trees 4 sale,” a place of death. Thousands of pine trees just dead, waiting to sit in people’s family rooms. Soon they are covered in tinsel, presents are stacked where their roots once firmly held the ground, and they become the centerpiece of the festivities – presiding over it all. Interesting
Sometimes I think trees are just waiting to die. Screaming with ennyeuse. That’s French for boredom. Perhaps they are just waiting to be put out of their misery. So maybe Christmas (or X-Mas as Daves and Sons would have it) is something they all look forward to as well. Maybe they all try to be the biggest and greenest and most X-mas tree looking so that they will soon be on their way to the mobile afterlife.
My car made a strange sound during this stream of thoughts. I wondered if the Focus had perhaps in a past lifetime been a Pine tree. Or maybe an imagined nude woman walking the streets of suburban Philadelphia, or a mythical snow creature, or a famous bank robber. Interesting.
And what are you thankful for? – A short FICTIONAL story
Wednesday Dec 1, 2004 - Link to Entry
As we went around a table already aching from much laughter I couldn’t help but plan my words. Nervous with anticipation of having all those eyes and ears aimed at me I couldn’t find a single thing I felt gratitude for. My brother was about to speak but hesitated for just the briefest of moments and someone burst out, “And what are you thankful for?”
Before he could reply I left the room. Not physically of course, but my mind, it just drifted. My brother, we’ll call him Joe (Joe is not his real name but then again he’s not my real brother – that is if you go by the American definition of siblinghood, “those sharing at least one parent.”), moved to Manhattan just weeks before the September 11th attacks. In fact September 11th was his first scheduled day of work and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he was taking a tour of the World Trade Center complex, he may very well have been stuck inside one of the towers at the moment of collision. Collision is a curious word choice in this context. When I think of collision I think of two parties sharing in contact that occurs while both bodies are in motion. I suppose this was less of a collision and more of a crash. Anyway, words aside, Joe was at the foot of one of the Twin Towers at the moment of impact. Shocked and wishing to help he stuck around for about a quarter of an hour or so. People trapped in the building began to jump to their deaths choosing to fling themselves like rocks into the ocean instead of facing the flames of the burning structure. Splish, splash. Joe, of course, was sickened, saddened, and was being told to evacuate the area to allow for the authorities to do the best job they could saving those trapped inside. Joe began to walk home. Joe could hear the towers collapse with his own ears. Joe could see the faces of those who took their own lives. Welcome to NY Joe.
As I said I left the room. I was bathed in thoughts. Not only of how grateful I was that Joe had been okay on that horrible day but also of how grateful he must be to finally get away from that negative energy that must have plagued the two years he spent in NYC after that moment. But then my thoughts drifted to my other brothers. I tried to count how many people consider me a brother. See my mother never had any other children. But my dad, well he’s a different story. I never knew him but I’ve come to understand that all told he’s had over 731 children. Now I only know 4 others besides myself, three of which are boys (brothers). But as for the other 726 kids? Well, one of my best friends on earth looks exactly like me. He doesn’t know his father. It’s possible that we are really brothers. But even if we aren’t REALLY brothers, we were in the same fraternity at Clemson – so we’re brothers.
From here my thoughts moved back to what I was thankful for. Hmmm. Health I suppose but that’s so, well it’s not me to toast to those sorts of fuddy duddy things. Besides Lana had already said she was thankful for our collective health. Oh that Lana always taking the easy road and leaving me with squat when it gets to my turn. Bitch.
I remembered one of those other 4 children. A brother right around my age who had joined the armed forces. We correspond every now and again and his most recent voice mail (its so much easier than handwritten letters, don’t you think?) said that he was headed to that big crazy war in the Middle East. Now he’s in the Navy and I’m not really familiar with the geography over there but in my mind’s eye I see those countries as not having a lot of the old water around ‘em. When we last spoke, Bryan and I, he said that he would go and probably just be there to lend an extra hand, out of harms way. As he said that I couldn’t help but envision those poor people flinging themselves like rocks into the ocean. Splish, splash.
And what are you thankful for? I was next to speak and I actually felt like I was on the verge of something honest to say. Something that would explain my gratitude to the core. But it still wasn’t quite there. As Samantha spoke on I once again left the table. This time I wasn’t in my own memory or in the memory of one of my brothers. I was trapped in a metaphor. I was tied down in the very chair that I was enjoying my turkey in only I was no longer in my suburban Atlanta home with a fire rumbling and the dogs nestling at my feet. I was on the transcontinental railroad tracks and there was no budging. I thought I was dreaming but I could still hear Samantha speaking and knew that if I refocused the fantasy would be gone. I didn’t want to let it go. Droning out her high-pitched commentary on the election results was a stronger medium tone. It was that of the freight engine guiding a very long, large, and fast train directly at me. It was warning me to get off the tracks. As it inched closer I began to not be as enamored with my hallucination. I was beginning to feel uneasy, and I began to shake and try to break myself free. I wanted nothing more than to escape, to fling myself out of the way and into something soft and inviting like the ocean. Splish, splash.
But before it could hurt me and before I could fling Lana asked loudly, “And what are you thankful for?” What am I thankful for? Couldn’t she see I was on the verge of understanding it all? Bitch.
I began, “In the past few minutes I’ve thought a lot about my brothers and the sacrifices they’ve made and the horrible things they’ve seen.” And then it clicked. “I am thankful that I haven’t had to make those sacrifices, grateful that I haven’t seen those horrible things, and above all thrilled to not be a rock.”
Joe then asked, “Who are all these brothers?”