Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Going For Coffee

She moves in light, floral flourishes. I imagine that her words drift gently, like fall leaves. She speaks like someone who never wants words to harm - because she knows they can. I listen when she speaks to people. Her order, or a soft hello. I can see her right now, in a dark corner, her hand clasping a warm mug - the steam and the small, reluctant smile. She is the soft, warm center of everything. Tender longing - she is love.

Many hours have passed like this, my eyes flitting like skitter-bugs, trying to take it all in - I want to remember every second. The way she turns the page on a notebook or novel, with grace and reverence. She sees me watching sometimes, smiles; I'm sure my face reddens.

I burn for days.

She is almost always, but not always, alone. The cafe is the same for both of us. A solitary place to sort thoughts and enjoy the smell of coffee, shake the cold and damp or the cold and crisp - hell, shake the world off for a bit. She teases the corners of her hair - one of those absent-minded comforts.

Her smile in these moments ... my heart clutches. I have absurd thoughts. A man will break into the cafe, hell-bent on destruction. Despite the overwhelming evidence of my past, I will vanquish this man. For her. For myself. For the cafe.

I imagine her eyes, anxious, watching a storm build - delicious fantasies. Here, take my umbrella, I insist. Let me call you a cab, we can split the fare. Terrible storm coming...

What I will actually do is nothing. I will continue to sip my coffee slowly, refill it, and watch and run my hands through my hair, gray, though still thick as a child's. I will take my glasses off, wipe the lenses, put them back. Comfort. Little comforts. I will think about when no one had cell phones, and it will make me sad. No reason. Just old, I guess.

I will watch her write. I will watch her read. Sometimes, the exquisite reflection of prose is blinding. She is engrossed, and I stare. God, I stare. Her face shades grave concern, then a chuckle, then she is serious - worried - like the words are orphaned children and she must save them all. And I think, to be made of words! Oh, anything. I would give anything to be made of words and to light her heart, twist the ends of her hair. 

There are times I look at her and think: She is a lion. There are times when I look at her and think: She is a Killdeer, the broken wing a ruse. She is leading me. There are times - most of the time - when I think: She is human like me and we could sit at the same table if not for...

It's easy to say. My brother has no problem saying it. Never did. My whole life, I heard the refrain. Just fucking talk to her, what is she ... poisonous? Good-humored, still, it sliced me like a rusty blade, jagged. He didn't understand.

I could talk to her, and she would invite me to sit, and we would talk. I know this. She would even be kind. I know this as well. And - maybe - things would go well. I might be witty. She could tell me of her words and bathe me in the gentle smiles that bloom beneath the soft warmth of her eyes. Or maybe it would be awkward. God, that word. Soul crushing. Every joke would fall flat. I would end up staring, mumbling. I would no longer be able to find solace in the cafe. It would be back to the bar and the brandy and the boredom of that long, black space. No one to look at. No bright spot in the darkness, delighting in the twisting of words.

Something I used to think I could do.

I'll sit here and drink my coffee and be glad I have this. Appreciate it. And I will hope, as always, that some part of her knows that I don't even like coffee. But I won't ask for a thing; she has given me so much, already.

Friday, December 26, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

The lights are suddenly too bright and you think: shit. SHIT. Lightheaded, not enough oxygen slipping through the carnage that used to be your nose. The mouthguard feels like an inflatable raft, choking you. You listen to the rattle and crunch of each punch - you don't feel them anymore - you just want to breathe. The blood drips like an old faucet.

This was going to be your comeback. Big fight, big venue. Boxing Day - forget fucking Christmas!, the return of the Iron Left. The kid from Cali. The Brick Trick. So many nicknames and so many fights and this one won't stop and you think: just let me die. 

Your eyes are bleary and you spin, looking at the saliva fangs of spectators cheering for blood. You wonder, briefly, at the strangeness of it. Wonder why they don't step in the ring if they're so bent on blood and sweat and pain. 

Happy fucking Boxing Day! Stupid play on words anyway. Stupid idea from the start. You could be at home sharing homemade gifts that rival anything Christmas brought. But you're not. Hubris, they call it. Right?

That may not be the last thought before your face hits the canvass, but it's close.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 19, 2014

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

The backs of her thighs are glued to a stippled, blue plastic chair. Around her, the grind of classic rock accosts the bleeping machine monotony she has gotten used to. Shift must have changed. Deb takes a sip of her vending machine coffee and swallows without tasting. Not that there's much to taste.

She stares at the window and watches streaks of rain smear the bright raincoats, umbrellas, and headlights into fantastic mosaics, beautiful glimpses of the world she now lives in - a world where nothing is in focus and everything seems to be running in fast forward ... between pauses.

When the nurse steps out, bearing her clipboard like a shield, Deb stands and nods. She picks up her purse and, feeling the sweat dry on her dimpled legs, she adjusts her coat and opens the door. 

"Miss ... Ma'am?"

The words fall like dead cartoon ducks. Deb keeps walking.



Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 12, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

She walks through the department stores, auburn hair tossed over one shoulder, tips tickling the soft skin of her ribcage beneath softer silk. She has a route for every store. Every time it's the same, especially near Christmas. She can get everything she needs from every store in the mall without passing the toys. She is not prepared for the elf that jumps out at her as she skirts 'sporting goods'.

"Picture with Santa? Not just for kids, Ma'am!"

She stops, and she can feel her heart thump, her hand open - feels the bag full of knick knacks and office presents fall to the ground. The elf drops to his knees, apologizing.

"It's OK ... I ... I don't need any of this ..."

She turns, but feels a hand squeezing the top of her arm.

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry. How about a free picture? Front of the line."

She looks into his glowing eyes, hovering above a desperate smile. Stephen would have been about the same age.

"Get the fuck away from me. Don't you ever fucking touch me again."

"Ma'am?"

The elf is scared, but he will soon forget. She won't. She won't hang the small stocking when she gets home. She won't try to brace herself. She won't look at old pictures and cry. She will get drunk. For weeks. Maybe until the new year.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, December 5, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

We're cooking with gas now, baby. Ain't no getting off the train between stops, folks will grab you like you're crazy: you can't get off the train here, man! The hell? Maaaaan, I can get off this train anytime I want, grab a passing tree, swing like a hopped-up orangutan.

The memory is parasitic, it steals from you. You wander through dark streets, clutching at snatches of neon and moon splash, alone, bereft. You're drowning in all these people and no one will even notice. Bounce down the aisles of a late night convenience store, drink the bright colors deep inside you where they'll add weight to the skinny nightmares which shroud your face.

I am memory, and I am the truest lie you've ever heard.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Friday, November 28, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

Not again. It's not right - it's like one more backhand clap, false adulation. You race the race that feels like a chase? Steeple? Naw, they're running on flash boxes and Internet memes, son. Don't you see it? Can't you feel the hot sear of self-reflection reddening your fog-soft features; you look goddamn ridiculous. 

What's the point, what's the answer? What South American herb will cure your cancer? The lies are thick, like flies on honey - all kinds of boogey-man - call bullshit, money. Phoney. It won't surprise anyone, they're all waiting for it. You laid the bait and now it's running, unabated, shameless. How many years have passed by blameless...

Don't look to me for answers, I got none. I've never understood what made it run. They say it's one thing, but it's bullshit. It's not about love, it's not about hate, it's not about the things we create. It's about nothing and nothing is a blanket that covers us all. You think any of this shit is an accident? I guess you're just a dumbass. I'm cool with being a malcontent. 

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

BTW, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written and published amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 21, 2014

2 minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

The sky is falling and winter's calling and there's still that smell coming from the basement. You're going to have to deal with that. It's not going away and all the Christmas decorations and "presents" in the world aren't going to change that.

Look in the mirror. Look at the dark holes of your eyes, sunken, shipwreck-scattered, flotsam, jetsam, you can't focus and you break the mirror.

It's like you're living three lives in four different dimensions - it's getting confusing, and the neighbors are getting more curious. Someone TP'd the house, but it could be just kids, but it could be just kids testing...wondering...

You just have to get rid of it. Stop putting it off. You have to exhume everything you want to hide and the revelation will set you free, put you back in the safe cage where you used to be - cozy as a mongrel-flea. That place was made for you and me, with one state-issued Christmas tree.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

BTW, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written and published amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 14, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

What would you like? Tell me how you want it. Served hot or open faced? You want a side of metaphors? You can add as many as you want. I know we all have our own tolerances and, lord, even allergies. I can add some vampires, but that's gonna double the price of your meal. Imagery? Sorry, we're out of that today. You're just going to have to eat in this static void. Ambience? Overrated. 

The other patrons? Well, I suppose. Yes, I know I control them, but I tend to let them do what they want. You what? Sir, allow me to explain. I'm not trying to be rude, but this is my place. I can press one button and the whole thing disappears. Or I could just 86 you. You'll take the hot, humid hermaphroditic life change with extra alliteration? Well, welcome, we're waiting for your order - in the mean time, grab a typewriter. It'll be hard to find in this open white space, but the search will do you good.


Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

BTW, if you enjoy reading all the cool pieces by the authors on here, check out their work. Many have written amazing things. Trust me.

Friday, November 7, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

Petulant chainsaw grumbles blend with the odd glottal rumbling from beneath the old man's beard. He is old in body and spirit; his dreams are haunted by vague memory, aided by a whiskey lens - his dreams are old movies, missing frames snipped by clumsy popcorn pushers.

The old man gives two shits about the chainsaw and the chainsaw cares for nothing. Not the trees, not the deep, thick thigh tissue it seeks out in careless moments. The man and the chainsaw have little in common. The saw does not run on blood. It does not wake with fevered eyes. The chainsaw has never lost someone. The man has never cut down a tree. He has bitten deep into thigh flesh, but that was years ago - in a a dust mote tavern in Alaska, and even Jack London couldn't tell that story right.


Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Pot Shots

That's just the thing, see. That's exactly what I'm talking about. You don't want to listen because you know that it's going to get big - bigger than you can even imagine. Like a million elephants smushed into a big, gray putty ball.

I don't even want to get into it. It's like talking to a wall - if walls could be lying, self-righteous asswipes. They can't. I like walls. You can lean on those things. Leaning on you is an invitation to prostration. That means I'd end up on the ground, this ain't about your ass, man.

Call the shots how you see them; everyone deserves a kernel of your wisdom wouldn't you say, Corporal?

I'm feeling sick inside. It's this spinning, whirling kind of sickness. It's like that ride at the carnival with the spider arms. Designed to make you puke, I reckon. Never did make sense to me. I'd rather shoot a clown in the face with a fancy water pistol.

There are so many bullies. So many bully pulpits. So many people confused when they don't really need to be. You may not see it. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. But that's all I'm giving you. From now on, you get the surface. I have presented too many things I loved, only to have them shot down by petty insecurities disguised as opinion. Not that you're not entitled to them. I'm just saying you can keep 'em; I got bigger fish to fry.

Friday, October 31, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

PLEASE NOTE: IT IS HALLOWEEN. I WILL BE BACK TO COMMENT, BUT TODAY WILL BE CHAOS. I WON'T BE AS PROMPT. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Thin droplets fall from the sky, devoured by the parched earth. All around, people smile or look up confused - this must be that wet drought they promised. And then there is the "hallelujah chorus". Rain! We have been saved. The lord must be good, and he must be up there. Just LOOK!

If he's up there, he's laughing or crying, because half an inch of rain ain't gonna do shit except make my motorcycle shinier. We need buckets of rain. We need crazy people making arks in their back yards. We need to be lighting candles and sacrificing chickens. The central valley is one thirsty place. They'll never get enough.

Don't even get me started on the cotton mouth epidemic in Mendocino County. 

Point being. This was a nice drizzle. Let's call it an appetizer. Bring on the drops that land like tiny explosions. I want to see actual puddles. I know, call me crazy. You won't be the first. I happen to like eating, though, and I'm cool with shiny motorcycles.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. IT MIGHT BE TOMORROW, THOUGH...

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Sneak

You closed the door as softly as you could - held the knob to stop the click. The house was dark, and everyone was asleep, but you knew it would only take the slightest creak, a bumped vase, a sneeze - he always slept light. They said it was because of the war, but they said lots of things. Some of them true. Some baffling and false. So, you tried to be quiet.

There was something about sneaking out. It was freedom, sure. A minor brown stamp on the rosie fucking lens used to cover collective despair. It was fun, exciting. Getting caught was part of the thrill. The fear of it. You knew what would happen.

You slipped into your bedroom. Safe. Then, you saw him sitting at the window, head canted to the side. Slumped. Fuck!

"I'm home, Dad. I'm sorry I made you worry. I know you think it's dangerous, but I was just -"

He did not turn. He did not even move. You approached slowly, trying not to startle him. You waved a hand in front of his face, but his gaze did not leave the street. You jumped. Yelled. The panic began to rise in you. Then you heard your mother's voice from the doorway.

"Bill, it wasn't your fault. Why do you torture yourself."

"Because someday she'll come home. You believe the cops if you want. I'm waiting for my girl."

And then the whole room changed. It spun so fast you thought you'd pass out. There was a cold horror in the back of your mind as you tried to put your hand on his shoulder.

It passed right through.

Friday, October 24, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

They looked toward the sky with wide, white eyes. There was a nervous chattering. The danger call sounded from every direction, and the jungle seemed to breathe - awareness and tension growing. Beneath the leaves that littered the ground, insects carried on untroubled. This would not involve them. They would benefit nicely, in fact. There would be meat for days - they would feast. 

High above the canopy an eagle soared. He watched the forest down below - heard the cries. This was not his fight either. He would catch updrafts and observe the chaos from above, wings slicing the rich air while the ground animals scrambled for hiding places and avoided clearings ripe for ambush.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

Friday, October 17, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

Lou stood in the darkness, listening for any sound that might change his plans. There was nothing. Distant snoring that was like a blackened afternoon, low summer rumbling. He hoped he would not cross paths with them, he had no distinct plan and it frightened him. He had plans, but they swept in and out of his brain appearing brilliant, then naive, before cycling back out. He walked slowly in clean white socks. He could see the outline of things, but it was the small mistakes that would cost him. A toy kicked across the room, a box of legos knocked off a table; the small obstacles were his enemy. 

With an agonizing patience, he stood in front of the shiny silver, which gleamed in the small slice of moonlight that suddenly filled the room. The clouds had passed, and the light was loud. Lou froze and waited for a sound. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened the door, bathing the kitchen in light. There it was, at the top. The remnants of his brother's birthday cake. He would wake up to crying and time outs, but, first, he would eat as much cake as he could stuff in his mouth.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Your Secrets

He lied. He looked at you with big, open eyes and spat that thing right in front of you. You knew it was a lie, but you forced a fancy smile and tried to still the brain spin. He couldn't take back the lie and you couldn't take back that huckster smile. And you both accepted that you'd live with it, never admitting what you knew. 

It all started so many years ago. Fighting the current is hard, so you stopped. People asked you if you liked this movie or that song, and you just nodded and smiled. You wanted to get closer in, inside where it matters; you didn't realize the power of the omitted lies.

You could trace it back days, years, lifetimes, eons - this shit ain't nothing new. Dinosaurs didn't trip, but they had tiny brains. They sure fell, though.

You think about dinosaurs because that's your secret. The real secret. The one you don't even recognize yourself. It exists in you, but outside your awareness. You are waiting for a comet, an asteroid. Something that will cover the earth in dust and dirt, burying all the secrets forever. One fell swoop.

Friday, October 10, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

The can of worms sat leaning against the bark of a tall tree. The old man went suddenly rigid and then cursed. The boy flinched inside, but his face betrayed nothing. The man took a sip of his beer and nodded toward the worm can. It was an old coffee tin, holes poked through the plastic top. The boy plucked a nightcrawler from the rich earth and handed it to the man. He looked away as the worm was threaded onto the hook - he tried to ignore the whistling.

Minutes passed like hours and the man went rigid again. This time the rod doubled over. Just play it slow, Dad. But the man didn't play it at all. He turned the handle on the reel like he'd die if he stopped. The bass jumped and threw the hook right in front of them. The man cursed again, breaking the old bamboo rod over his knee. The boy's mouth fell open.

"Dad! That was -"

He wheeled, face red and angry.

"I know whose rod it was, don't I? Come here, boy."

He knew what was coming. He should have kept quiet. Instead, he marched into the punch, and it sent him sprawling in the grass; he fell into the worm can and knocked it over.

"Bring me a worm."

The boy didn't answer. He was watching the worms slither out of the can, watching them find real earth, meaning freedom. The boy didn't answer, but inside his mind, he thought Go, worms! GO!

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Crucifixion

The preacher's robes were starched, his hair shiny and smooth. There was a small microphone attached to his collar. His smile could have sold every used car in Alabama. He had very white teeth.

"John was a generous man who served his community selflessly for forty years. We gather here today to share and remember the acts that humbled us, that gave us a model to - "

The preacher had already been talking for five minutes when John's daughter stood up. At first, she didn't speak, but those in attendance followed the preacher's gaze. Their eyes fell upon a slight young woman, dressed in black trousers and a black blouse. Her skin was pale, cheeks aflame. She was shaking. No one moved. Most held their breath.

Slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were moist but fierce. The preacher knew what was about to happen. It had happened before. There was a chance ...

"Sally, you just sit and rest, honey. Try and take it in."

It might have been alright if the preacher hadn't spoken to her. Try and take it in...

Sally stood ramrod straight, her eyes now cold and hard.

"Why don't you tell them the truth?"

The old man opened his mouth, but did not speak. A cousin grabbed at Sally's arm, but she shook it off.

"I'll tell them the truth. My dad was a mediocre person and sometimes a downright petty asshole. I loved him anyway, but he wasn't a Prince. I know it; you all know it. He was human, like all of us. I'm tired of dressing up in black to listen to your lies. You think if you say enough nice things about folks when they pass, someone will extend the same courtesy to you. Despite what we all know about why Ms. Hastings left town. Despite the fact that, somehow, our devout spiritual guide lives in the nicest house in the county..."

There was complete silence when the preacher spoke.

"Sally..."

"You could just be honest. My dad wasn't a saint, don't try to make him one. He was a human being and he deserves to be remembered as one, not as one of your plastic trophies - you don't get to profit off this. You don't deserve to play the good guy and eat everyones' Sunday dinners like we don't know the goddamn truth. This ain't about you. It's about my dad. The real one. Not this bullshit hero you describe. I don't want to hear lies. I want you to tell the truth."

As one, the eyes left Sally and landed on the pulpit, piercing the man sweating beneath his robes. He seemed to deflate before their eyes. It was the first crucifixion any of them had seen in person.

The moving van appeared the next day. The preacher was gone before Sunday service.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Let's have a hootenanny.

There are whispers in the eaves, leaves on the trees ... for now. They're going, going, your mind is gone. Who hears whispers from inanimate objects? Who even uses the word 'eaves' anymore? Crazy people, that's who. Are you crazy? Do you have moments of stark terror where you want to close your eyes so tightly that your head folds in on itself? Do you you wake in the middle of the night unsure of who, where, or what you are? Do you hear snippets of conversation and try to convince yourself they're not talking about you? See, crazy.

There are gentle whispers, though. Just as there are slight nudges from the wisp clouds. Come up here, the view's great. But you can't float, you crazy bastard. If you could, you would have cut the tether long ago. Let's not be foolish.

It's never going to work the same way for you as it does for them because you're not you and you're not you. People are gonna think that's a typo, but you can't control what other people think. If you could, there'd be a lot less war and a lot more singing. You know how many tambourines you can get for the price of one Murder Drone? A fucking lot.

Let's have a hootenanny.

Friday, October 3, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

You never did understand it, and they wouldn't explain it to you no matter how many times you asked. You'd work up your gumption, take a deep breath and just say it, but you never got an answer. You got chuckles and ruffled hair and you wanted to yell, "yo, I'm not Opie! We're not going to Mt. Pilot for Chinese!" No one else seemed to think there was anything amiss, though, and that was scary.

So, you figured you had to find your own answers, and you did, but you found them in hard, dark places. It could have been easier. Which is like saying 'the volcano could have not erupted' or 'Grandma could have not died, or at least died easier'.

There's this ringing in your ears and you can't concentrate anyway; you had your say. You can't make them hear it. They don't want to hear it. You do, but you'll figure it out, kid. 

I did.

If I may be so bold, I just dropped Mix Tape No. 1, some stories were born here in #2minutesgo! Check it.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time, so check back. Happy Friday!

Thursday, October 2, 2014

Ain't none of it been true.

The old woman's hands twisted, wringing the water out of some imaginary nothing. Her skin was dry, it sounded like fine-grit sandpaper. Salt and pepper in her hair, and she was beautiful, still, even with the anxious look and the tremor. She was so beautiful it was hard to believe.

She tapped her foot, white orthopedic shoes that matched the nurses'. She was keeping time. That's what she'd say and folks would chuckle, thinking it was a joke. It was no joke. You spend your life on a stage snapping your fingers and singing through your heroes' songs, and it starts to be an obsession. She knew she couldn't keep time - it was slipping away fast, but she could keep a beat, and that's what she did. Click, click. Rubber soles on linoleum.

No one ever visited, but it didn't seem to bother her. She didn't want pity. She'd wave it off. I didn't do much in my life that warrants company, honey. It wasn't true, but she had long ago stopped trying to show people who she really was. They wanted a pretty statue with an Ella Fitzgerald soundtrack that didn't cost as much, so that's what they got.

She felt like a pet, and she didn't like it. She didn't like that the nurses "happened to bring their kids" to say hello sometimes. Look at the legend, kids. The hometown hero. You ignore all that stuff you hear - this here is a good woman. Voice like an angel, and I ain't just saying it. It's the Gospel truth. 

It was just lies, but it didn't matter to her, especially now. So, she'd hum a little, shake their little hands, wondering why she was shaking hands with someone she had no interest in meeting, someone who had no interest in meeting her. She was used to the cell phone pictures now. No point arguing, they'd just change the meds and write it off. She knew it wasn't for the kids and it sure as hell wasn't for her. She knew the score. She was on a lot of peoples' computers, she knew that.

She'd tried once. I know what y'all think of me. The crazy nigger. I know you say the word in your head cause you ain't allowed to say it aloud. You wear those whites nice, but this is still Mississippi. I just want to be left alone. Y'all are the same as you always been, you just pretend. Shocked faces. Oh, and the groveling. So fake it hurt her fucking teeth. We would NEVER think of you as crazy or ... that word! But then the meds changed and she didn't like it, so she kept her mouth shut and they backed it off. She'd learned her lesson. The entertainment better damn well stay entertaining.

She'd managed to live her life her way ... to the extent that she was able to - she remembered when the water fountains had labels. Her doctors didn't, but she did. She got a bit of reprieve because she could sing. Just like the little visitors. It was all the same thing. Same as being on a stage sixty years ago. Talk pretty. Call people 'sugar', but don't let them know you're real. These are hard working folks, they didn't come here to feel guilty.

It happened on her birthday. She'd planned it well ... a final gift to herself. She was dead when they found her, but there was a note:

I'm done singing for y'all. Ain't none of it been true. I never did love a man for money, and I never even smoked a cigarette. A man in a suit made up those lies. Said it would make me famous, and it seems he was right. But it was lies. And I never liked singing to begin with. I was just good at it, and it was all I was allowed to do.

The funeral was like a festival. A bunch of balloons tied to a string of lies. Even in death.

Friday, September 26, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces there too (and link back here), that would be lovely. 

You wake up, and your jaw creaks open. You look in the mirror and expect to see broken teeth, spider-webbed abutments holding them in place. You never sleep through the night and, when you do, you wake up like someone stuffed your nostrils full of Disney powder. Don't eat the apple! There's no point dwelling on it. Use it. Twist it your way. The whole world is malleable on Fridays. 

You wonder at the strangeness of the voyage; fun-house faces leer in the darkness, and you either reach for them - wanting to remember - or you shake your head like a wet dog. It doesn't work. You lost your grip on the controls, see? And now you're bumper-car crazy down the shoulder of the freeway - all the way to the wrist where the skin is soft and pale. 

Freeways have shoulders, but they are heartless bastards nonetheless. Drive on.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. Happy Friday!

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

I

I never write the title first. You'd think I'd remember that. Still, I try it. It's like the goddamn toaster oven all over again. Never use the glove because this time I'll do it and not burn the shit out of my hand and have to eat toast that tastes like burnt hair. Now, where was I? I got myself all twisted with a title for something that didn't exist yet, and now I feel it like warm hands around my neck.

I think people think I'm lazy. I realized that today. I get it. If they could read minds they'd know there ain't nothing lazy about it. Shit's like a Rotary Club meeting where a disgruntled waiter dosed everyones' grey coffee. I'm gonna buy a blue blazer with gold buttons and sit in the corner scrabbling at my cuticles and singing Jethro Tull in my head. Come on, I'm the Whistler! I have a fife. And a drum to play!

I think I think about what other people think about me too much. I think I think about what I think about myself too much. I think too much, period. I think too much about thinking too much. Where's that fucking waiter? Maybe he has some Benzos.

I met a woman recently who told me I have nice forearms. It was weird. It was weirder than if she'd told me that my shoes were really antennas that transmit my thoughts to the magic fire people who live inside the earth. I told her I type a lot. She looked at me like I was crazy. Ain't it grand.

I'm trying this first person thing because my friend got me thinking on it. He looks EXACTLY like Jimi Hendrix, by the way. Fucking unreal. Facebook wouldn't lie.

I used to write in the first person a lot. Now, it's second for short, third for long. Most of the time. And now I feel like a football announcer, only I'm not trying to make excuses for degenerate fucking assholes or trying to be the sensitive, understanding guy who wants to land a contract with ESPN.

I don't like talking about me. Not in a way that you can see. Not that I write about me anyway. I write about shadings and slight of hand tricks. I take perception and turn it into deception, courting true lies. I'd like to say I do it for profit, but I'm sure not profiting. I don't know why I do it. I write a damn good guilt trip though. Want to take one?

I like it when my brain shuts the fuck up for a little while. That's what happens when I write. Make sense? Nope. Doesn't make sense to me either.

Friday, September 19, 2014

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here. Every Friday we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom.

Write whatever you want in the comments section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. BREAK THE BLOG! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play. 

If you have a blog and you want to post your pieces and link back here, that would be lovely. 

Are my eyes open yet? Would I know? That's one of them fancy questions the college kids like. But, it's relevant. Shit's all blurry. Is my brain functioning? Would you know? If I spin around on this chair, arms flung wide, eyes to the popcorn ceiling, what? If I stood at the top of an ivy-tinseled tower and sang at the top of my voice, how long would you wait before you'd call someone?

What about my voice? What about my eyes? Why do you want to break it down, disassemble it, it's creeping me the hell out. I hear soft, work sounds - scrabbling, urgent noises - efficient grunts and muttered curses. The sky is the color of a clay eraser.

The scraping, I can feel it in my skull. God, what a sound - a million hairs bristle at the afrontery. Which my blog doesn't seem to think is a word. I'm pretty sure it is. Just as I'm pretty sure that the clay will reform itself, the sun will shine, young lovers will stroll with arms entwined. That's something I can get behind.

Thanks for stopping by! I will be in and out all day but, rest assured, I'll be reading everything and commenting as I have time. Happy Friday!

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Eulogy for Cat

I woke up this morning at five. That's the time my cat usually comes in to request breakfast, only this morning I woke up because he didn't come. I am currently sitting on the couch with my laptop - this is nothing unusual. I wake up and write every day. Usually, however, I have company - my cat sits right beside me all day long. That was the way things used to be. That all changed yesterday.

I grew up in a Navy family. We moved a lot, and I never had a pet. Sure, we had a goldfish for a few days. Hamsters for a brief time. I always wanted a dog, but I was always denied. Which, in hindsight, makes a lot of sense. Sort of.

When I was twenty years old, I lived in a punk house in the Mission district of San Francisco. It was a great old building that had been left to decay. We lived with eight people in a three room flat with a picture of Prince in a g-string on the front door. I was going out with a girl at the time and she moved in with me. We were in love. We were also battling some serious demons, though we didn't realize it at the time.

My girlfriend grew up with cats. She suggested we get a kitten. I don't remember being all that excited about it, but she was excited, and I certainly didn't hate the idea. I craved some kind of "settled" existence, and I was not in the right frame of mind to realize that being an addict and living with an addict made the decision to adopt a cat kind of bizarre.

I looked through the paper until I saw an ad for free kittens. I called a nice woman and we were shaking hands less than an hour later. The woman was friendly. Older (I have no idea now whether that means she was forty or sixty). There was a pile of kittens in her garden. Half were all white. Half were black and white. None were moving.

I walked over toward the pile and, immediately, one of the little black and white kittens stood up like he had been called to duty, walked over to me and put his paws as high up on my leg as he could. Something changed in my heart that day. I didn't realize it at the time. At the time, I thought, "I guess we'll take this one."

Kittens are one of my favorite things. If you can find anything unlikeable about a kitten, there is something seriously wrong with you. We went back to the house and everyone was stoked on the new kitten. We played the rest of the day. When it was time to go to bed, I lay down, and the kitten immediately plopped down onto my chest and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning to a tiny rough tongue licking my face. We decided to name him Catamaphone (which will make sense to Simpsons fans), but we called him Cat for short.

I think it is fair to say that, from the beginning, Cat was my cat. He liked my girlfriend and they were cute together. He played with my friends. But he slept on my chest. He followed me around like a puppy. I was fascinated and in love in a whole new way. We took him to the SPCA to get fixed. They had a deal where they would give you five bucks if you got your cat fixed. I donated the five dollars although I really could have used it. They were looking after my cat, after all.

Cat didn't leave my room much. I loved my roommates, and I didn't mind having a different band sleeping in the living room all the time, but I didn't trust them to be as vigilant as I was. Cat was hell on wheels, and he broke for the door every time it opened. He was fast as hell. I think if I had let him out, he would have come right back, but when you live at 24th and Mission, you have some reservations about leaving a tiny, cute animal to defend itself. There are some tough cats in the Mission.

Time passed, the house changed, and my girlfriend and I moved to a tiny apartment with Cat. We were happy for a while, and then things started to go downhill. Honestly, I don't remember whose fault it was. Which probably means we shared in the petty stupidity that led to our breakup. Regardless, we broke up. In one of the worst ways I can imagine.

A few days before my last semester of college, my girlfriend didn't come home until like six in the morning - several days running. We didn't speak of it. I was mad, but I didn't want to know what she'd been doing. I left for the first day of my last semester with the same words I used every time I left the house: "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." When I came home all the locks on the apartment had been changed.

This would seem normal if I were an angry, abusive guy. Or a thief. I'm not. And I never have been. I get angry, but not at people I love. And if I do, it's more of a sadness. I remember trying every key I had, even though I knew - it was incomprehensible to me. I was pissed. My cat was inside the apartment.

I called my girlfriend and told her that the door was going to be opened whether she came home and opened it or the cops did. She came and opened the door. I said I was leaving. She said she'd pack my stuff up. I said one thing and I remember it like it was thirty seconds ago. I said: "If you think I'm not taking Cat with me right now, you're out of your mind." She nodded: "I know." I remember being glad that she didn't fight for Cat. It made it much easier to hate her as opposed to missing her. I called my friend Josh who went to Stanford and lived in East Palo Alto - the murder capital of the US at the time. I went and stayed with him. I rented an apartment in the same complex. I couldn't afford the City on my own, and I, literally, did not have the strength to even think about apartment hunting. So, I moved to EPA.

I stopped doing hard drugs because Cat didn't like it when I was spun, but my drinking hobby became a drinking obsession. I drank Albertson's brand bourbon. $7 a fifth. I probably went through four or five on an average week. I worked, I went to school, I drank as much as I could, and I read everything John D. MacDonald ever wrote. I was grasping at straws, and I'm not sure if I would have made it had it not been for Cat. I loved bourbon. I love John D. MacDonald. But they didn't need me. Cat needed me, and the responsibility of taking care of him saved me. As did the fact that he was there for me. Always.

A lot of animals do amazing things, and everyone thinks their pet is special, but Cat was something extra special. When I was sad, he knew it and would not leave my side. When I was sick, he slept with me. He didn't even demand food. He put me first. That was a new experience for me. Later, when I was married, my wife would tell me that every day about ten minutes before I came home, Cat would go and stand vigil by the door. Waiting for me.

Allow me to break the narrative for a moment. My cat played fetch. I would sit for hours and throw sparkle balls and he'd either catch them in mid-air or bat them around a little before trotting over with the ball in his mouth and dropping it at my feet. He came when I called. He was my best friend. I say this because I know there are folks who don't think you can have a meaningful relationship with a pet. And there are a lot of folks who don't like cats because they're not dogs. I didn't expect to adopt a cat who played fetch, obeyed voice commands, or was completely devoted to me. Cats were supposed to be aloof ... like I'd always tried to be.

Back to the story.

Things were hard, as I said. But, no matter what, I had to be able to feed Cat. I had to clean his litter box. I had something to take care of. He needed me. I didn't think I was worthy of being cared for. Cat disagreed. And there was no doubt in my mind that he deserved the best of everything. He ate better than me. I built a track around the wall of my 'bunker' ... er, studio ... and he'd run and jump and amaze me. The only thing that made me happy was Cat, bourbon, and John D. MacDonald. You can't snuggle with booze or dead writers, though.

I'd always been a pretty high-functioning drunk, so I didn't miss work, I finished school and even made the Dean's List. And I met a girl. And I reconnected with my best friend, Pat. We soon moved in together (me and Pat), and I was happy. We didn't have much, but we had guitars and a four track and I had a sweet girlfriend. And, most importantly, I had Cat. And he had a bigger apartment to run around in.

This girlfriend lasted about as long as the one who'd locked me out. Around two years. The major difference was that we parted as friends, crying, hugging, knowing we loved each other but were not right for each other. I think it hurt worse that way.

Pat and I moved to a new apartment, close to my first home in the Mission. We both worked. When we weren't working we read, played music, wrote a lot of songs about heartache, and spilled a lot of whiskey on our four track. The best songs I've ever written were written during this time. And Cat sat quietly and listened to us play.

Cat was the only true constant in my life. When I sat down, he sat on my lap. When I was in the shower, he waited outside the door. When I went to sleep, he curled up beside me. Once I was asleep, he'd take his night time prowls around the apartment, but he was always back when I woke up in the morning. Sometimes he didn't even ask for food.

And then I met Karen, the woman I would end up marrying. The first time she came to my house, we sat down and Cat ran over and climbed up on me, licking my chin for all he was worth. Karen thought it was cute. She was a cat person. Had she not been, we would not be married. But she was. She was wonderful with cats. Cat absolutely adored her. She gave him face massages and knew special tricks I didn't know. We were happy.

After a decent amount of time, we moved in together. Later, I would pop the question and we would marry. We're still married. We have two daughters. Until yesterday, we also had Cat.

When my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, I wondered how Cat would react. He was a thirteen pound Tom cat. I was about to have a baby that would weigh less and come un-equipped with claws and sharp teeth. I wasn't worried. Cat had never used his claws or his sharp teeth on anyone. Ok, I was a little worried. I needn't have been.

About a month before my daughter came, Cat began to lick and 'scent mark' all the things we had gotten for the baby. Crib, bouncy chair, toys. It was curious. Was he marking his territory? Was he helping us prepare? Other people worried. I didn't. Much.

When we brought my baby girl home, Cat kept a respectful distance without any encouragement. He was not angry. He was not jealous. He seemed happy for us. And he did not come within five feet of our daughter. Until she weighed thirteen pounds. That sounds crazy, but it's true. As soon as they were the same size, they became fast friends. My daughter slept in our bed, and, as she began to recognize the world around her, she began to really appreciate the cat she would later refer to as her 'big brother' - I would wager you'd have a hard time finding a better big brother.

Every morning, my daughter would wake up and grab Cat's tail. Then, she would rub it vigorously on her nose. She followed Cat around the apartment. She hugged him and dragged him to the ground. She tried to ride him like a horse. For a week or so, I worried that Cat was caught in a living hell. Then I noticed that he never left. He'd simply move away and wait to be tackled again. And he never once made an aggressive move toward the tiny child pulling on his ears. He was clearly enjoying himself. And my daughter was thrilled.

Years began to pass quickly. And each year took a little bit of Cat with it. Soon, he was eleven pounds. His demeanor did not change, but he became easier to pick up. He still chased sparkle balls. He still came running when he heard his name (I think he thought his name was psst psst, but he answered to Cat, too). When my second daughter was born, he did the same thing. Wouldn't come near her until they were the same size. Then, the exact same thing happened. Right down to the morning nose tickles with Cat's tail. Cat had another tiny friend. A more aggressive friend, but it was by nature - both my girls loved Cat.

As they tend to do, the years were catching up with Cat. Soon, he stopped chasing sparkle balls except for rare occasions. He slept more. His days consisted of napping beside me when I wrote and playing with the girls. He started sleeping more at night.

I was always good about taking Cat to the vet. He got a respiratory infection after being boarded that almost killed him (and me). I gave him antibiotics. He got better. Then the vet trips became more and more depressing. Bad teeth. He had some removed. His kidneys were failing. The last trip to the vet (before yesterday) was about a year and a half ago. They said he had a year left. He weighed seven pounds.

For the last several months, Cat could not eat solid food. We mixed cat food with baby food and when that was too much, we gave him straight baby food. We debated taking him to the vet, but I thought the trip would kill him.

Then, it was no longer a choice.

Two nights ago, I was reading before bed. My wife came in and told me to come see Cat. My throat closed and my heart sank. That's a cliche, but I felt it sink. I had been dreading this moment. I could read it on my wife's face.

Cat was unable to walk without stumbling. My wife had made an appointment with the vet for later in the week (the writing was on the wall, even if I didn't want to read it), but it was clear he was not going to make that appointment. My wife called the vet as soon as they opened. I found Cat hiding under the shelves in our "junk room," which he had claimed as his sanctuary. He was barely responsive. There was blood crusted on his nose and mouth. I have never felt such acute physical pain from an emotional response - and I don't know that I've ever been so scared.

When we got to the vet, Cat weighed in at six pounds. His bones poked out. His blood pressure was low. The vet, very kindly, told us that he could admit Cat to the hospital and buy him a few more weeks or months, but he would also support euthanizing him. As strange as it may sound, being "given permission" to euthanize Cat was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. When I can do it, I will go thank that kind vet.

I'm a pretty sensitive guy, and I'm not afraid of crying. I don't, however, like to cry in front of people I don't know. That didn't matter. My wife was trying not to cry. I didn't even try. I stood, covered in cat piss, bawling so hard I thought I might hyperventilate while the doctor asked me if I'd like Cat to be cremated or buried. Or if I'd like to take him with me. I tried to speak. I signed the paper.

Karen and my youngest went to the waiting room. My oldest was at school. I went back to a room that looked like a miniaturized version of every grandmother's living room. Soon, the doctor came in and put a pink towel on my lap. Then, he lay Cat on the towel. Cat had an IV in his shaved leg, and he had just been given the anesthetic. The doctor told me I had a few minutes and then Cat would sleep and he would be back.

What do you say? Especially when you're gasping and crying so hard you'd probably vomit if you had the strength. I thanked Cat for being the most loyal friend I've ever had. I thanked him for taking care of me and for letting me take care of him. I thanked him for loving my wife and my girls and being so sweet to them. His eyes were getting heavy and I said, "Psst psst." He looked up and I said: "I love you, Cat. I'll hold down the fort for you. Come back soon ... somehow ... if you can. And now just sleep. Just go to sleep and dream." I kissed the top of his head. You will never convince me that he didn't look grateful. His gratitude made it hurt even more. But it will help someday.

The vet came back in and made two injections into the IV. Thirty seconds later, Cat was gone. His body was there, but there was a very real sense that he was gone. The body was merely an empty vessel now. I stood up, tried to comport myself, gave up quickly and went out to the waiting room. I was sobbing. I later asked my wife how big of a wreck I'd looked like. She said I looked like someone who had just lost their best friend. Sounds about right. The nurses murmured their condolences. I shook the doctor's hand. Then, I shook, my whole body, for a long time.

I have always feared Cat's death, partly because he played such a huge role in my life, but partly because I'm not sure if I'd have a life if it wasn't for Cat. As I said, during periods of my life where I couldn't muster the courage to take care of myself (and didn't very well), I refused to shirk my obligations to Cat. I had to get out of bed. I had to make money to buy cat food. I had to be there for Cat because I knew he would do the same for me. And I promised him many times that, no matter how hard it would be, when it was time to step up and tell a man it was OK with me if he killed my cat, that I would do it. For him. And I did.

Yesterday, I did very little other than alternately cry and stare off into space. I hugged my family a lot. I winced when I saw Cat's bed. His food bowl. I'd realize that I'd never be sitting in a room and have Cat come in huffy that I'd snuck off and left him in bed. He was never mad. He just relocated his nap.

One of the realizations I had yesterday makes me feel strange. Over the years I have fought many battles against drugs and alcohol. And I quit them all. But I could never fully quit drinking. Three days ago, I drank too much at a party and had a come to Jesus talk with my wife. I have never been a mean or an angry drunk. And recently, I haven't even been drinking all that much, but the party made me realize (again) that when I take a sip of alcohol, I am taking a serious gamble. I might drink two beers and wake up feeling a little groggy. I might wake up with no memory of the night before. So, enough was enough. I wrote up a contract. If I ever drink again, my wife gets to sell my pocketknife collection (it's quite a collection) and my motorcycle. And I can never have a motorcycle ever again.

So, it occurred to me yesterday that, possibly, the Cat that kept me alive when I didn't care ... the Cat that spent his whole life loving me and putting me above everyone and everything else (including himself) ... maybe that Cat was finally satisfied that I'd be okay. And maybe he was smart enough to know that I would never break the vow if he checked out. He had been sick for a long time. Maybe it's a coincidence. I don't know. I don't think so, and I don't really care what anyone else thinks. I think Cat spent seventeen years looking out for me and, when he was confident that I would persevere on my own, he allowed himself to end the pain. He reached out to me and my wife and you could just tell that he needed it to be over.

What will I do now? Well, you can call it stupid or silly or whatever you want, but I am going to try and live the rest of my life by the example Cat set. He was never angry, never petty, never greedy. He was kind, loving, generous, and forgiving (not some of the time, ALL the time).

I don't believe in cat heaven. I don't believe in people heaven. I wish I did. I believe that Cat stopped being Cat the moment his heart stopped. My heart stopped for a second, too, but it kept beating.

My oldest daughter has never dealt with death before. She spent part of yesterday walking around with a stuffed cat and making meowing sounds (she's always done a really good Cat impression) until I asked her, in tears, to play with another toy. She asked if we could get a hamster now. Or another cat. It was like being stabbed in the heart. But she didn't mean me any harm. She was dealing with it in her way. And Cat would have understood that better than anyone.

Will I ever have another Cat? I don't know. If I do, it won't be for a long time. And if I do, that cat will have some pretty big shoes to fill. I know it won't be Cat, but someday I might be able to accept that I can love another furry thing.

Some people will probably find it weird that I wrote this. I understand. I had two reasons. One, when I was younger and didn't have any experience with domesticated animals, someone would tearfully tell me they put their dog or cat down and I'd say I was sorry while thinking, "Wow. It was only a dog/cat." I see now how stupid that was. It's hard to miss anyone you love when they die. It's damn near impossible when the loved one never did anything but fill your house, heart, and life with love and joy. Two, I have to write things out. I can't talk things well, but I can't keep it inside me or it will fester.

It still doesn't seem real. I took my best friend to the vet and didn't bring him home. Every time I leave my apartment and don't say, "I love you, Cat. Be good and hold down the fort. I'll be home soon." will be a twinge in my heart. Maybe for the rest of my life.

And I write this because, despite the fact that I am currently typing ten words a minute through tears, I owe Cat a decent send off. I need people to know. Even if it's only six people. I need to tell the story. Hell, I'm a writer. If I was a sculptor, I'd be shopping for slabs of marble online. I'm not. My sculptures are made out of words. Usually, they are made out of pretty words that I care about very much. This is the first thing I've written in a long time where the words don't matter. I could give a damn about the typos because it all comes down to this:

It hurts. It hurts like hell, and I wouldn't wish this feeling on anyone. But I wouldn't trade the last seventeen years of my life for anything, either. Cat is gone, but he does live on in our hearts. In pictures. In videos. In anecdotes - the only time Cat ever hurt me was because I came home and he was covered in gel. I found one of those blue liquid-filled eye masks ripped open. I don't know what they make that gel out of. So, I immediately stripped, grabbed cat, and stepped into the shower. Water might have been the only thing Cat hated. His claws tore me up pretty bad, but he was scared and trying to hold onto me. And he didn't stop licking my face the whole time I shampooed him, rinsed him, dried him. And when were we done, I put my pants back on and he sat on my lap looking at me with golden eyes like I was the best thing in the world.

I held onto him for as long as I could.

Catamaphone Mader. 1998-2014. RIP, buddy. We'll never forget.