Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Time

There is an excuse waiting for me. Or me for it. I have been expecting a return to normalcy. There is an element of sabotage, of fear and of hope. I remember life before, but not as a memory. It is more like a home video whose impact is as grainy as the antiquated footage. In what has happened in the last 5 years with media, writing this, in this format, is paramount to sending a blank page all the way through a typewriter, keys unstruck, and ejecting it straight into the trash--no--the recycle bin.

Not the nihilist with a bowling ball TO the balls, not the Queen rhapsodizing about nothing really mattering at all, not the committed blaming the committed, I feel it all exists and, matter or not, to whom and whom not(does that really matter?) striving for understanding is the only interesting thing about life. Our Tower of Babble will never make sense, but finding just one voice that says, "I understand you," might be all that is necessary to survive, because if the rest of the world seems so out of alignment with your beliefs then it is all bullshit. Or it is just someone else's opinion whose insecurity was born the twin to yours.

Typetrigger.com is a site to inspire. A topic is given and must be written about in 300 words or less.  The topics change every few hours. Initially, I thought the site was created to motivate or to fine tune a narrative delivery. Now, I think it is a clearinghouse for orphan ideas that are relevant, but lack an understanding of where they belong. The following posts are from previously written typetriggers. There are no defining tags as to fiction, non-fiction, comedy, drama, because my definition, my intention doesn't matter. If these words are never read, they will matter none the less. Trent

Do the Laundry


It had to be done. Running clothes and spit-up on rags and jeans used as napkins were all sure to repeat their misadventures. Sheets were clean until laid upon once and then instantly attracted all the dirt--secretions, intentions, failures--that were knowingly, silently slept on until the next week's load. 

The stains from life lasted until some sort of lesson was learned and the proof was washed away with advances in the science of cleaning and the justification of morality. The smell from the hamper was an important reminder that there was a method to life; a controllable means to keep things making sense. There was an undeniable satisfaction to obeying, to realizing a modicum of achievement, regardless of the rest of the day's mess. 

It doesn't have to be done. Doing something that will certainly be undone is insane. Paying someone to do it makes little more sense. Not being able to pump your own gas in Oregon, that's the same vein of absurdity. Justifying is self-service. 

So don't do the laundry. Live with the scars of risk and defeat and the occasional success whose foundation shouldn't deny its construction. Make passionate love later triggered in memory by the scent on a pillow. Slip, fall and touch the untouchable for regardless of the effort, our humanity cannot be cleaned. It can be forgotten. It can be covered up, but there will be a reckoning of soul and the path towards redemption will be that much easier to follow if it can be seen.  Sense is an illusion. Life should be real and it is dirty.

Define This


Yeah, you do it. Let's see what you come up with. You should be infuriated with waiting for me to do it. Especially since it's not really what you want anyway. We are all guilty of it. We pretend that we want someone to tell us what it means, but we choose to or not to believe what is presented and it makes me wonder, why the fuck-around? 

Skipping steps is bad, especially steps from a process. But not if the process is flawed. Not if there is too much dependence placed on subjection. So lost is the wheel rat's notion of causality, it might as well never have existed at all. So assumed is a superiority that nonsense isn't even offended to wallow in bullshit. 

Words lack meaning because their contribution to cadence surpasses a presumed desire for clarity.  "Message" misses the message. And it is sad. It is scary. It is a loss, because oftentimes what lies on the other side of fear is understanding. What we gain through perseverance is not the desire to define, but the appreciation of having no more definitions.  What we find is us. 

Here is my proof. Define this:










You are correct.

Losing My Grip


You don’t ask questions because you assume you know. So I’ll ask you; do you know? Me? Assuming you are not an astral body, that is highly unlikely. There, that is me making assumptions. I could be wrong. Maybe you are my reflection. Am I talking to you? Or are you talking to me? One of us is confused. I’d say it is you, but I assume you would say the same. Damn. We did it again. 

What was it that we were so desperately trying to hold? A friend maybe, one dangling purposefully helpless by one weakening hand from the safety rail of a bridge. Or a lifestyle previously settled into an entitlement that now mutters, “This doesn’t happen to people like me.” Was it youth, vitality and charisma? Because they are only familiar as age, fatigue and a comfortable boredom that makes it hard to remember. 

Assuming we ever had a hold. Once we broaden our circle of control, it will overlap with someone, something else’s. Conflict, animosity, and the pain of possession can result, as can love, happiness and willful concession. Does anyone appreciate what it would take to navigate an existence with such vigilance? 

Because if they did, why would they let it loose? Saying that, saying “let it loose,” implies even the act was under control. It is not inconceivable that it is someone else’s grip on us that is let go. When I put my hand to you in the mirror and you pull away, don’t I as well? If we could hold hands, which of us would they say let go first? You, my perception of myself, or me, myself? The grip has long since gone.

We the People

Is no longer a relevant statement. The righteous need not the trappings of mortal thought. Condemnation is the sound of inferior intellect. Odd, that should be, the closed-off mind, comfortable in repudiation, seeks solace on imagined historical higher ground. 

Why won’t someone step up and say, “Me, god damn it! Not ‘we,’ not ‘us,’ and sure as hell not ‘you.’ In fact, FU and what you think. Your TV induced inclinations are insulting. Your brain on the box ideas are detrimental. I won’t change what I’m saying to bolster the polls.” 

Which is when we arrive back at “we the people.” Casting blame outwardly is silly because direction of causality isn’t that important. The realization of where we stand as a “we,” is paramount. 

We the people lack attention span. We the people don’t mind polarization; we’re addicted to it because it validates our despise for those who disagree with what we believe. We vilify opposition. We have nightmares about “their” plans. 

We the people want change yet we contribute to a system of government that ensures change won’t happen. Those in charge cater to our lack of commitment and our appreciation for the glorified sound bite. 

We the people need to realize that we are the problem. We need to think smarter. We need to act better. The “Not in my backyard in the suburb of equally spaced homes that house the middle and higher end of the inequities of our socio-economic scale” need to acknowledge the disparity. 

Gross Pointe and John Hughes were great; as entertainment. We are not entertainment. We are not merely to be entertained. We the people need to disband. The “I’s” must have it. The “I’s” must engage.  I must engage.
 

Fruit Flies

The dutch windmills drip polka dots and stripes. Multi-colored, of course. Set against a periwinkle sky with real cotton candy clouds, well, if they weren't still turning, slowly, anyone passing by would be tempted to pluck one of them from the lemon-grassed ground and take a bite. 

But no one has skipped through these hilly pastures in so long. No one that can decently describe how to get here, anyway.   

My son tells me about the place. When I ask him where, he points out his bedroom window towards the dessert mountain and says, "Up there."   

His stuffed bear, "Bear," took him one time yesterday? 

Yes.   

You mean last night?   

Uh huh. 

How far is it? 

Far. 

How far? 

Super far. 

Oh. What else did you see? 

Turtle in the cart at the store and Fish pushes him. 

Fish was walking? 

Fish can't walk. Fish swims. 

Was Turtle swimming?   

Daddy, Turtle is in the cart. Why would he swim in the cart? 

Sorry. Why are they at the store? 

They buy apples. 

They like apples? 

No but they like these apples because they can fly and the oranges and grapes can too. They fly above the cart and Fish and Turtle leave the store and walk by the windmills and go home. 

To our home?   

They live in there home.   

Then what do they do?   

Fish takes the cart and makes a net and she catches the fruit and Turtle eats it with a straw. 

Does Fish eat any?   

No because she is on a diet.   

That's too bad.   

No because Turtle loves her.   

Do you eat any fruit?   

I'm not hungry.   

The windmills sound yummy. 

They taste like licorice. I don't like licorice. 

I know. Can I come with you next time?   

Silly Daddy. You're too big to go.