2 Minutes. Go!

The sounds from the wall are becoming more frequent. More intense. It is a scraping sound. A desperate sound. You thought it was the drugs, but now the drugs are gone, and the noise is not. This is unsettling. This is awful. This is par for the course.

Maybe it's animals. That's what you tell yourself, but you know that you deserve something more than animals in the walls. You deserve to be haunted, tortured; you are begging for it. 

You turn the lights on. Turn them off. Hope that it will make the noise stop, but, if anything, it just gets louder. More insistent. You start attributing emotions to the sound. The sound is getting angry. 

The police will find a scene they can't begin to explain. The cops will call the station and say, "no, not just dead....torn apart! The whole place is covered in blood." The younger cops feel frightened. They shake and it rattles the guns and batons and tasers they wear. There is nothing worse than a cowardly cop.

They will eventually give up. The house will be torn down. 

There are walls everywhere, though. This is just a temporary lull. 

Can you hear it?

2 Minutes. Go!

You can smile through the pain, but the smile is only on the outside. Inside, you are anything but smiling. You are scared. They were right. You are living your life of quiet desperation. It's not something to be ashamed of. It is all too common. 

When you're small, they shame you for crying. They shame you for showing too much emotion. Too happy is almost as bad as too sad. They set these expectations and give you fucked up ways to look at yourself. 

As you age, they talk about authenticity, but they don't mean it. They don't want to know your sorrows...they just want to see that smile. How are you? Me? I'm fine. Short and sweet. No one has to think too much about it. No empathy required.

The thing they don't tell you is that you are giving up a lot in living for other people. You are taking shots you shouldn't take. You're the one that feels bad. That makes you right. 

I don't know, honestly. I'm just a bag of bones and shit like you. Sometimes, I feel superior, but most of the time I try not to feel at all.

2 Minutes. Go!

There is a woman who sits on the park bench every day, speaking softly to herself. She makes herself smile. Sometimes, she makes herself laugh. 

They say that schizophrenics in agrarian communities have voices that are kind, whereas in the West, the voices are harsh, angry, mocking. I don't know if this is true, but it wouldn't surprise me if it was.

We're mean to ourselves, and we are mean to each other. This is why it makes me so happy to watch the woman amuse herself. There is wisdom and strength in it. 

Me? I'm up in my apartment, berating myself. Listing all my faults. But I can appreciate that there is a better way even if I can't achieve it. 

So, I watch. And try to learn.

2 Minutes. Go!

It was all too much. Too loud, too bright. There were too many whisps of regret and paranoia. The air was thick with self-condemnation. I'm used to this. This is the way my circuits are wired. I eat regret and paranoia for breakfast. It was too much for you. You don't have the stomach for it. I have stomach for days, and my history is riddled with aggravations so severe that they nest in the corner of my room.

I am the spider making the web. My web is strong, and I am patient. Patience is the key, you see. I don't track time the same way that you do. I can turn inward for a thousand years and never be bored. I can live inside of my head and let my body do what it wants. I can go on autopilot. I am like one of those fish that appear dead until you get them wet. 

I spring up miraculously. 

And once I am up? I am the inflatable clown, weighted at the bottom with sand. You can knock me down, punch me, kick me, I will bounce right back. This will drive you mad. It is a special kind of torture. 

Close your eyes and breathe deeply. Try to hide in the dark hallways of sleep. Keep your wits about you. Soon enough, they will be mine, and I will use your wits as I please. 

Sleep tight. It's gonna be a loooooong night. 

2 Minutes. Go!

I heard the last, twinkling drops as they fell on the surface of the water. The warmth of the day was just beginning. I could feel my muscles coming back to life in the rays of the sun. My brain was and old jalopy, trying to turn over, and, with a few sputters, it caught. 

Fuck. I was in a tight spot. Tighter than I had ever been in before. I could feel the walls closing in, and I didn't like it one bit. 

My right ankle was broken, twisted at a horrible angle. The shock and adrenaline were wearing off, and I could feel a bright red ache that threatened to blot out the world. I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. This was going to be hard, but it was either going to be hard or I'd die in the middle of nowhere right beside all the trout I didn't catch.

The sun rose and sank, and night came on, and I had only managed to crawl about a mile. It wasn't enough. My strength was gone. I was alone. Scared. I could hear the first stirrings of the night creatures, on their way to score an easy meal. 

I could only hope they killed me quickly.

2 Minutes. Go!

She told me to be quiet so I locked my lips and threw away the key. I didn't even swallow it because that would be a cheat. You have to open your lips to swallow, and I wasn't a cheater then like I'm not a cheater now. I did what I was told to do is the thing. What Papa always said, do what you're told. I was told to lock my lips, and I did. 

It's hard to keep your lips closed when you are in pain. The burning feeling made me feel scared and angry and worried. But I didn't say anything about it. I bit my cheek to keep from yelling. I knew I was supposed to be silent, and I was. 

The hospital room was bright white. So clean. It was cleaner than anything I had ever seen before. It had shine. There were nurses and doctors in the hospital. A police came by. I didn't tell any of them nothing because I was still doing what I was told. 

I cut my tongue out with a scalpel when they weren't looking. They shouldn't have left it there. They were scared - I could see in their eyes. They thought their jobs were long gone. They thought they were going to jail. But I kept my mouth shut and held the blood inside with my words. 

I've been quiet for years now, and I don't miss talking. I said everything I needed to say with that scalpel. If you didn't listen, that's not my fault. 

2 Minutes. Go!

John woke up covered in sweat, ice-cold from the breeze coming through an open window. There was a brief (too brief) moment of confusion and loss. It was a comfortable empty space he could inhabit, but it never lasted long. The conscious brain would do what conscious brains do. John often woke up cursing the fact that he was sentient. Once the brain woke up, there was no stopping it. It would do as it desired.

There were reasons John woke up this way, but he was also stuck in a pattern. It was a pattern he didn’t know how to get out of, so he tried not to think about it. He just dealt with the side-effects and fallout. The fallout was often so ugly that it sent him right back into circling death. Like a vulture. 

John rolled out of bed. Literally. It was the way he always got up because it allowed him to maintain contact with the bed for a few more seconds. This postponed the misery that was making coffee, showering, trying to eat and failing. He would eventually go, like every day, to the office he couldn’t stand where he made just enough money not to qualify for food stamps. Except on Saturday and Sunday, when he started drinking as soon as his eyes opened.

Taxes were a bitch but he didn’t think about them. He tried not to think of his money as money. He thought of it as a buffer between him and the streets and, as long as he had enough of it, he didn’t concern himself too much about it. There were even days where a life on the streets seemed exciting, preferable to daily grind which paid his bills and kept his belly full of overly-sweet, processed foods. 

John figured there was cancer growing in him, some malignant force that was rotting him from the inside out. Sometimes, he thought of the microplastics that probably swirled around the cancerous cells. Sometimes, he was terrified. Sometimes, it made him laugh - how we traded inconvenience for cancer. And then cancer proved to be pretty damn inconvenient. 

The heart attack was something he worried about off and on, but never really expected. At first, he wrote off the pain in his chest as heartburn. The pain in his arm as having been slept on wrong. As the minutes passed, however, John realized that his heart was giving up. He was surprised that there was no panic. He had no desire to call for an ambulance. Instead, he made himself a drink and went back to bed. He would be fired, but it didn’t matter.

Firing don’t harm corpses much.

The sun rose because that is what the sun does. Birds sang. Busses ran. No one mourned the loss of John except the homeless man who took bottles out of his recycling. He was momentarily sad, and not just about the lost revenue. He knew that a man had lost his battle. There was peace in that, but also regret. Wasted life is like a rotten tomato dying on the vine, sickly green and bitter beneath the obnoxious brightness of its red skin.

2 Minutes. Go!

Get your ass down into the storm cellar. Beneath the stairs are written the ramblings of a madman. You're the madman, and you are proud of your words. You surround yourself with them, and they make you feel safe. Sometimes, you lay on your back and stare up at them until they blur and twist and change, inspiring new thoughts, new words, new declarations.

The storm is coming, but it's not what you think. It's not what those Q morons think. The storm will be an electrical storm; it will be an evil cleanse. You think the billionaires aren't talking about how to get rid of the rest of us, so they can live lives of joy, freedom, and excess?

You think Elon Musk is too dumb to realize that global genocide would stop global warming in it's tracks? There are only so many resources left, and you can't expect him to share. He will save the rich and the beautiful. The regular uglies like me will be an afterthought. He won't lose a minute's sleep.

The smartest thing we could do would be to go after them before they get organized. The window is closing. Of course, this will never happen. We normals are too busy trying to keep roofs over our heads and food in our stomachs. Plus, most of us have some empathy and respect for our fellow man.

It will be interesting to see how all this plays out. Starving makes people desperate. Desperate people do desperate things. The billionaires are outnumbered and them some. 

Something to think about, maybe, Mr. Musk.

2 Minutes. Go!

The day was cold and fraught with misery. The boys were freezing, and that was new to them. They were innocent to many things in the world, and the chill was part of that. They were boys who had grown up with tropical heat pounding ambition out of them. Most of them wanted nothing more than a beach, a good woman, and a full belly. Instead, they got "encouraging" words that discouraged them from dreaming of anything beyond the cold expanse in front of them.

There were few among them who still harbored dreams of glory. They were the dumb ones. In peacetime, they had appeared weak, but in war they were strong. They did not have the rationality to realize their folly. These boys died with smiles on their faces, and it made most of us sick to our stomachs.

As the sun rose, one of the younger boys slipped away from the group. We would never find his body. Most of us believed he was dead. Some believed that he had gone to a great reward. Most realized that he had just had enough. Of the war. Of the cold. 

So, he left.

--=--

JD #2 Be careful what you wish for; be careful what you want. The candy that looks so good might not taste so sweet. That girl you're in love with might be a sociopath or, even worse, a Disney Adult. That guy you're intrigued by could be a closet racist, whether or not he is hot. The green grass looks nice, but you can't tell everything just by looking. Might be sawgrass. Might be a bog. Hell, sometimes you see water in the desert when there is nothing there. There might be broken glass in the grass. You might fall and cut your ass in the grass. Keeping up with the Jones' is an alright strategy if the Joneses never change, but they will, and you will have to keep keeping up, even when you don't want to. Even when it seems impossible. You should probably just become a hermit. It works for some people. It wouldn't work for me, though. I would have to be alone with my own thoughts, and there ain't enough liquor in the world to deal with that. I know. I tried.

2 Minutes. Go!

The dust closed his eyes, clogged his throat, sent the panic soaring to a place he knew he would never return from. The fear made him weak, broken, cowering. The fear was more than he was prepared to handle. He knew that it would destroy him, and he longed for that destruction.

If he could have pressed pause on the situation, he might have been able to think of a way out, but he was too tired. Too fucked up. His thoughts were slow and sluggish. 

He tried to put the lid back on the pill bottle and failed, sending scores of round, white pills stampeding down the drain. It didn't matter, but it bothered him. He hated things to be messy and had gone to great lengths to prevent any kind of messes in his life. 

He could feel the dust settling on his skin, now, and he knew the end was coming. He would soon be dried out, desiccated, pinned to the wall with tape underneath, displaying Latin words. This would be a legacy if nothing else. He would continue to educate the masses. There was some solace there.

He closed his eyes and smiled.

Dust to dust.

2 Minutes. Go!

I'm just taking care of business. I've got the patent, and I won't stand idly by and watch you make the same mistakes over and over. Have you been taking your B vitamins? Have you been doing your sun salutations? Have you taken a moment today to bond with your gratitude today?

There are some things that Apple Cider Vinegar won't fix, and you don't want them. It's about your chakras. It's magnetic. Your mood is controlled by the moon. Your menstrual cycles are communion. Blood of my blood. 

Flesh of my flesh.

Open a vein and let your life force flow into their waiting mouths. They are thirsty. Thirsting. They are dying to be immortal. They will sacrifice anything. Compromise is their poison.

This is capitalism. Like it or not, this is the only way we can be free. The billionaires are looking out for everybody. Just not monetarily. They're looking after a future us that doesn't exist and probably never will. 

Check your copyright. Make sure everything is on the up and up. Throw some raw meat to the lawyers and enjoy your American Dream. Bitter like coffee. 

No cream.

2 Minutes. Go!

It's OK, baby, I'm just a little bit slow. A little bit tired. I've been traveling for lifetimes, and my sense of comportment deported back near the wreck of the first MUSKROCKET. This was before the chlorine clouds thinned the herd out. Before the ocean turned to salt wash. Before the birds stopped flying and started living in holes.

I know you had a long day, honey. I did, too. My body is damn near shook apart trying to keep up with the augments. This new titanium and NUflesh exoskeleton will be the death of me. 

Baby, relax. We aren't here to talk about genitals. Here, plug in. You know you'll feel better after you're plugged in. There's too much static in your head because you're trying to go against the system, the way. You're taking their happyfeel and shoving it right back in their faces. They won't like it. 

I won't be here when they come. When they bring the erasers and the reProgs. I'll be halfway to Mars, baby. You won't stand a chance. 

Now, just relax. It's time to feel good. 

You like feeling good, don't you?

Good.

2 Minutes. Go!

I'm torn between feelings of love and feelings of anger. The anger is for a man, like many men, who couldn't control himself. The love is for the woman who was betrayed. Bruises hurt, but some wounds last forever. I know this. I have seen this. I have damn near lived this. The bruises you see are just the tip of the iceberg.

My Aunt Linda was a stronger woman than her time was willing to accept. She was an RN, a supporter of her whole community. She was the one people called when they needed someone. She was also a woman who suffered violence at home when she first tried to make a life for herself. 

It's hard to understand how a strong woman could "let herself" (dangerous words, these) be abused. My Aunt would have been the first person to rescue a friend in her situation. It was harder for her to rescue herself for the very same reason everyone loved her. She was so full of compassion that she didn't give up on people. She gave people second and third chances. Maybe some women would have left the first time, but I can see my Aunt excusing it once, trying to fix it for a while, hating that it happened with all her heart, before finally coming to the realization that she had been duped. 

It might have taken a notch out of her strength for a time, but she only got stronger in the end, and it never made her mean. She raised her abuser's kid with love and understanding. She didn't even talk him down.

The best, most compassionate people in the world are loved and hated, worshipped and betrayed. Those of us (not me!) that love the most purely will also have to write off the biggest transgressions. It is not fair. Like I said, though, not me. Hit me once, and we're done. I've been that way my whole life. 

I'm also not beloved by the whole community. I'm no martyr, and no one says my name when asked to name the most generous person they know, the most loving. I'm alright, but I'm too cynical and mad to have the kind of open heart that you need to love the hard and ugly people. 

So, I sit here, torn between anger and love. Should I be seeking violent retribution? Should I be softly in the background? Should I let the love win? Or the anger? Seeing as how anger is what brought us to this point, I think I will choose love. For me, this does not mean forgiveness. And that's fucked up. But I can love someone while hating the person who hurt them. I've been doing it my whole life.

So, that's what I'll do. 

It will have to do. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The old man sat staring at the baby ducks, and it was like the rest of the world didn't exist. The man was locked in. His mouth hung open a little, but his eyes were his most arresting feature. He was looking at the ducklings like they were the face of God. There was some wonderment in the ducklings that I could not see, but I was intrigued. I lit a cigarette and watched the man watching the tiny fluffs of down that were following a big, tired-looking mama duck. 

Man staring at ducks. Me staring at man. (Just making sure you're with me.)

I wasn't smart enough to realize that there would also be someone staring at me. The man was interesting. The man fascinated by the man was...what? Also interesting? A danger? A threat? An invitation? People are free to make up their own minds, and my watcher did. He pulled a long rifle from a canvas bag, laid down on his stomach, and took careful aim. 

The sound of the shot scared the ducklings, and the ducklings terror threw the old man into a momentary panic. I was already falling. The bullet had already entered my chest and exited through a big hole in my back. I was well on my way to being dead. 

My watcher sighed. He smiled a small smile. And then he caught a sniper round through the back of his skull. We died so close to each other it was like we were brothers. And brothers watch brothers. As I died, I should have wondered who was watching the shooter of the shooter. But I had a lot on my mind. It takes concentration to die.

They say your whole life flashes before you. That's not true. Me, I died wondering what the fuck had happened. Same thing will probably happen to you. 

You'll be dead before you know what hit you.

2 Minutes. Go!

The taste is in the back of your throat, but you're used to it, and it doesn't alarm you. In fact, it is enticing. There is a fine line between sweetness and sickness. Sometimes straddling that line is easy, but most of the time it is like slack-lining. It requires impeccable balance and a locked inward gaze. 

There is terror in your eyes, but that look is always there. It is the look of an animal that has never known love. The eyes are quick and darting. You give off the energy of predator and prey. You are dual-sided. There are two wolves inside you...however you want to think about it, wrap your mind around the strange dichotomies. They keep life interesting. 

Climb to the top of the hill, grabbing bramble bushes for security. Stand at the top and let the wind wash you clean and carries your unclean bits away, to float over the city, adding to the cosmic pull. We are organic. You are organic. You are part of a bigger mess than you can ever comprehend. 

Throw the whole mess in the fire. Fire cleanses, too. Fire is the great equalizer. You learn to live with it, or you die. Being human is tricky business. Fire is just part of it. 

If you can't make it make sense, there are buildings downtown that no one could survive a fall from. You can go to one of those buildings. Or a bridge. There are many places you can say goodbye. You just need to pick one. 

Remember, it's permanent. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The finish line is an illusion. They told you it was there to keep you running long after you were tired. Long after you should have up and quit. 

Once you know it's sleight of hand, it's obvious, but you have to look at it just the right way. Most people don't. Most people insist it's still there, sometimes gold and shimmering, waiting to give them what they worked for. It's a comforting deceit, but it will always prove false.

If you stop running, people look at you like you're crazy, and it doesn't matter how logical it is to you. I was tired. This is fair. I was thirsty, hungry. This is also fair. I wanted to look at the way the light played on the sunflowers...this is when people start using labels. 

You must be a commie liberal. You must be a redneck reactionary. You must be a fat cat capitalist. You must be a government charity case. Hippie! You must always be the one to suffer two dimensionally, because two dimensions are all you can take in with a two-second, surface-level glance. 

Who's got your six when all you have is two's. Even without your propaganda glasses on... 

They're going to move the finish line until they are done with you, and then they will tell you that the finish line was only an idea. An ideal. Or it was there, but you didn't work hard enough. You didn't sacrifice enough. You were a bad cog. Bad cogs don't get rewards. 

As a consolation, there is one finish line that never changes, but most people don't recognize it when they get there. And by the time they are past it, they have ceased to recognize anything at all. 

2 Minutes. Go!

So, the president is a crook, and some of y'all are OK with that because he hates the same people you hate. He has the same paranoid delusions that you have. He has been brainwashed by the same echo chambers. Those ugly feelings you have about other people? He says those are OK. He encourages them. 

I had to get a DOJ/FBI background check to be a teacher. There are standards I must live up to if I want to maintain my credential. I can't act the fool, spew hate, or indoctrinate people. Maybe we should hold the most powerful person in the country to the same standards. 

If I did what Trump has done, I would be in jail. If Trump were black, he'd be dead. That's fucked, but look around you and tell yourself it ain't the truth. 

Ten years now. Ten years of gritted teeth and frustration, watching the ideals of the country get shoved into a Christian Nationalist blender. Ten years now thinking, "what the fuck will Trump say next?" Ten years fearing violence in our communities. Ten years hoping that people will wake up, and things will get better. 

Ten years from now, he'll be dead, and I'll be fifty years older than I was ten years ago. What can you say about Trump? He tried to be a star, but he'll end up in stripes. Sounds patriotic to me. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Bones splinter. That's a fact. The older you are, the more likely it is. You ever seen a chicken bone splinter? It's a lot like that but it's inside your body. You can hear the snap. You can feel the hot fire. You are overwhelmed by the body's warning system going haywire. 

Wounds heal, but they leave a mark. You can collect them. Myself, I am a patchwork of scars and badly mended bone. I am held together with duct tape. A strong breeze might scatter what remains of me. 

Inflicting wounds is a different story. I've done it. I've been there. I think I felt worse than the wounded. My words can be fierce, but, inside, there is a scared kid who never figured out how to stop being scared all the time. He just wants everyone to be happy and to stop yelling.

Some people can rationalize themselves the hero in every situation. I assign myself the villain role. Even when it is not my fault - even when I'm right. I was programmed to manage my emotions with guilt and shame. It has proven to be hard to shake off. 

I wound myself. That's the saddest part. So many of my wounds have been self-inflicted. I always feel like being punished. I have taken stupid chances. I have dared death to take me, and I have been to the precipice. Believe me. I've been one wrong step, one wrong swallow, and one scraped footpeg away from it. I'm not afraid of it. 

I have that going for me. 

It has gotten complicated though. I'm old now, and I don't like to be hurt. I don't like to wake up remembering all the dumb shit I did. All the times I treated my body like it was indestructible. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, always. Gotta be some cancer in there somewhere. Or some kind of internal damage that is waiting for an opportune moment. I'd go the doctor and find out, but I have medical insurance through my job, so I can't afford any tests that would reveal anything. The insurance is just for show.

Maybe that's the worst part. I don't like surprises, and I know a big one is waiting just around the corner. When it happens, I hope my family can move on with hope and love. I hope the medical insurance company burns to the ground, too. But mostly, I worry about my wife and kids.

I deserve to suffer for my sins. 

They don't.

2 Minutes. Go!

Some surprises suck. Some surprises snatch your wind, weaken your resolve, or fill you with a thick paranoia. There are also good surprises, but we tend to forget those. I can show you the scars from the bad surprises if you're interested. Some of them are on my skin; some of them are internal.

I've had a few surprises that almost killed me. Either because they were dangerous or because they knocked me so far off my footing that I almost fell all the way down. The scars from those are bright purple, and they throb when my heart beats. 

I can't stand duplicity. Don't kiss my ass while you give me bad news. That's just to make you feel better. Don't try to take the sting out for yourself. I want us both to feel it. That's only fair. 

Saying it's your job don't make it right. Just ask Luke. 

If this is my tragedy, let it be mine. Find your own. Or wait until someone surprises you with it. 

2 Minutes. Go!

It starts with heat. The feeling is tight and hard. It has sharp edges. It doesn't feel good, but it tries to convince you that it does. I don't know if it's universal. I'm just me, and that's all I can be. I am speaking from my frame of reference. Maybe it makes you feel cold. Maybe you feel it all the time. If so, I pity you.

It's poisonous, and it can hurt you worse than you can imagine. 

You have to vent. You have to let it out in little pieces. Otherwise, it will grow. It expands so rapidly. It reproduces itself inside you. You are now a breeding ground. You are a host, and, eventually, it will kill you. It takes a long, long time. 

If you can avoid it altogether, then good for you. Good for you and Mr. Rogers, maybe. Most of us are all too human, with human weaknesses and emotions that poison us from the inside. Mr. Rogers wouldn't like my neighborhood. 

Once in a blue moon, the feeling is washed away completely, but it creeps back in eventually. For me, at least. 

That's how it works in my neighborhood. 

2 Minutes. Go!

They said it would never happen to you, and you believed them. That’s a shame. Critical thinking skills matter. You gotta be able to do your own sniff test. That’s part of life. Problem is, some people don’t. Some people can’t. Some people need to be led to every thought they have. Some people just really need a daddy to tell them how to think, feel, react - or they think they do.

I’m not a perfect person, but I've never trusted what I was told without thinking about it. Still don’t. I live in a country where the Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment happened. I live in a country where bison were exterminated. Because meat. Because hides. But also because it fucked with indigenous people and their ability to live autonomously. All those things can be true at the same time. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Think about it. It fits a pattern. Decide for yourself. 

I’m not looking for disciples. Never have been. I hate it when people kiss my ass or accept what I say at face value. That shows lack of engagement. That shows apathy. That shows a craving for simplicity, and I know that life is not simple - only simple people think it is. 

One of the reasons that punk rock meant so much to me as a young man was that it was a community full of people questioning everything, rebelling against any authority that was strictly for authority’s sake. That shit was church for me, finally surrounded by people who thought like me. 

So, maybe it’s hard sometimes, but it is the only thing that can save you. Unless you want to be spoon fed. If that’s the case, there are plenty of people out there with spoons and questionable intentions. 

Open your mouth as wide as you can. Try to ignore the taste.

2 Minutes. Go!

I'll tell you about it. Seems like it was yesterday. Really, it was two days ago. Time flies. What can I say. Or drags? I don't know, that seems like math. Math is not my friend. It stresses me out, makes me feel boxed in and trapped. 

So, anyway. It was a few days ago. A week? Maybe it was a week. Or a few months ago. I'm pretty sure it happened to me, but it could also have been a book I read. A movie I saw. Maybe it was an anecdote I heard, but it happened to someone. At some time. I think.

It wasn't something you can really put into words. It was a feeling...almost like deja vu. It was something that lurked right below the surface of somebody's consciousness. It was a tease in the brain, but it brought feelings that soaked you to the bone. Or me. Somebody got soaked, that's for sure. Somebody is all wet.

You can tell this story if you want. Maybe it happened to me. Maybe you. Maybe no one. Maybe someone we know. You tell the story, and that makes it real. That's the magic. That's a gift that is given to you. And me. And everyone you know.

Tell the story. Make it true. Spread it. Maybe I'll hear it again some day.

2 Minutes. Go!

How could you be so small minded as to prevent someone from speaking their truth, especially someone you claim to feel "love" or kinship for? You support people you love. You should support people you don't love, too. It's one of the things that makes us special as animals. We have our problems, but we also have empathy. Most of us. We all have things about us that others don't agree with, but that doesn't mean we don't deserve courtesy and respect. 

I absolutely cannot understand why anyone would want to destroy anyone else's methods of expression. You don't like the book? The song? The movie? Don't partake, and shut your fucking mouth about it. We all have the right to be ourselves, to speak our truth, and to feel safe while doing it. You disagree? Wait until the cultural tides shift against you and "your people," and I bet you have a whole different view. 

I pay a lot to live where I live, and part of the reason is that I like to see the writing on the walls, literally. I love to see the protests, even when I don't agree with them. It doesn't matter if I agree. That's not the point. I'm excited that my fellow citizens are advocating for themselves and the things that are of import to them.

You take down the art of a friend of mine...or an enemy, for that matter, and you have joined the ranks of the book-burners. The knowledge killers. The one-minded. Think for your fucking self. That includes deciding what you want to "subscribe" to and what you don't. Don't prescribe for other people - that's not your job.

I'm thinking about Leland, of course, but it's not just Leland I am thinking about. My students are doing a walk out today for racial equality. I support them every step of the way. I want to see the signs in the air. I love to hear dissent in young voices.

Women have checking accounts now. The queer community has safe spaces, and the ability to express their truth. Black people can eat in the same restaurants as white people. Farm workers' rights are not solid, but the idea of rights for migrant workers used to be a joke. These things changed because some people had the heart to stand up, and because people with hearts supported their right to advocacy. 

Go ahead and take all Leland's books down. I've taught them to my students. I have given them to people. I will loan them out forever. I don't give a sweet goddamn what anyone thinks about it. 

I can think for myself. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The sickness lives inside of you, but we can all see it. It makes you twitchy, easily startled. It makes you paranoid and judgmental. It is growing day by day like cancer, but it is intangible. They can't lance it or fry it or cut it out of you. Sometimes, you are better at hiding it than other times. 

This is when you become dangerous. 

When you're full on raging, no one can miss it. It's all bells and flashing lights. It's when you almost have it under control...that's when you are the sharpest. That's when you make the cuts that can barely be felt. 

I prefer you flashing, but I know you no matter what. I see you. And I'll keep an eye out. 

Go ahead and keep hunting.

I will, too.

2 Minutes. Go!

Once you realize, it is already gone. Slap your pockets all you want. Retrace your steps. Try to convince yourself that your senses are deceiving you. It can't be. It couldn't be. But it is. Acceptance is freedom. Suicide is a choice. That choice is always available. 

Sometimes memories bubble up to torment you. They confuse the process. You question these memories now because they have proved that you are fallible. 

There is something to be said for minimalism. For not tying your happiness to objects or things or money. Money is potential things. All this can be a burden, but it feels like security. You have to determine for yourself what safety means for you. 

Maybe there is freedom in loss. Lose your things, lose yourself. See what you find. Isn't that what the hippies were yapping about before they became plastic-loving financial advisors? Before they bought their Beemers. 

I like water because it is a lost and found. Water is the life giver. Water is a playground. Water takes so much, but it always gives it back. Speaking of which, I didn't know that dropping out also meant filling your kids with micro-plastics. Choking out sea turtles.

Live and learn.

2 Minutes. Go!

Lay your head down, right there in the pine needles. Feel the mottling of the sun as it passes through the branches. Close your eyes and listen, smell. Sight is cheap and easy for most of us, but we are multi-sensory by design. 

There will be crawling things in the needles, but they are not your enemy. Imagine going about your day, doing your work, getting something to eat and then a giant comes and lays down on top of it all. The red ant's will bite, but everything will bite in the right situation. 

Life bites harder than anything.

You can trace the indignities down your body, feel the deep muscle bruises that don't rise to the skin. On the surface, your skin is pure, healthy. Inside of that skin is a collection of pain that never leaves. 

He knows how to hurt you so it won't show. 

Imagine that. Imagine having that kind of thought process about someone you supposedly love. How can I hurt you and get away with it? These sick fuckers are everywhere. I don't know how they rationalize their actions, but they do. 

I recently found out about "blanket training" - the idea is you put a baby or a toddler on a blanket on the floor. Then, you place a favorite toy off the blanket. If the kid tries to get off the blanket, you slap them. Pinch them. HURT them. Apparently, this is all the rage in some very conservative religious communities. 

What does this teach the baby? Babies are supposed to be immune to the ugliness around us. They are supposed to feel safe with the people who are responsible for them. I can't imagine hitting a grown kid, but a baby? That's so fucked up it makes me want to cry. 

Sometimes I wonder where school shooters come from. And, sometimes, there is no doubt in my mind .

2 Minutes. Go!

Let me tell you about the muffin man. Little Jack Horner. That bitch with the spiders. That motherfucker who jumped over a candle. They were all bullshit, and you swallowed it thick. Those stories were seeds to plant inside your mind to see what would grow. 

When they told you about the golden rule, they left out some important info. Gold is malleable. I would much rather have a steel rule. A titanium rule. Fuck gold...the bane of indigenous people. How many innocents had to be killed because folks were enamored with a shiny, soft garbage rock? Not suitable for work or defense. Valuable only because of rarity. And because we like shiny things, just like crows. 

We are a murder all our own. Don't even think about African diamond mines and they way they abuse, use, kill. (but...but...SHINY! RARE!)

Maybe you should just focus on wellness. That's the new panacea. That's the bandaid we're expected to wear to help us deal with the fact that we fucked the world up for momentary comfort and ego. Yoga will make it OK that migrants die in the desert hoping for a tiny portion of what you take for granted. Don't worry about the moral implications. Worry about Instagram. Worry about the drag queens.

Keep letting politicians grab power by pitting normal people against each other. Keep doing that Pavlovian shit when they ring the bell. Sit up straight. Look presentable. Bark when you are told to bark. Be shiny. The shinier you are outside, the less they will notice that there is rottenness inside, eating you slowly while you traffic in paranoid misery. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The cool of the evening settles on the valley. Day animals burrow and nestle and scurry in for the evening, while the night animals sharpen their claws. The sky is clouded, and the night is made for deception. The shadow sounds move swiftly, and they do not follow the rules that light enforces. It is night. Night is death. Death is coming.

This is the cycle, and it is what you make of it. Depending on your resources, this is bounty or famine. You may test your mettle against the night. That is part of what the night is for. But, be careful.

If you are lucky enough to see the sun rise, put food in your belly. Hope that the sun comes out. Let your full belly sit in the sun and be alive. This is what the sun is for. This is what the full belly is for. 

This is why you come to the light.

2 Minutes. Go!

It seems to me like there are some people who just shouldn't die. I don't count myself among those people. When my time comes, I'll still be lucky I made it as far as I did. The problem, for me, is not that I am alive or that I will be dead. My problem is that good people keep dying, and a bunch of shitty people keep living, and that's hard to come to terms with. 

There is a dread that lives inside me, but it is not about my death. I dread the death of people I care about. I dread that empty, hollow, unbelieving feeling. Yet, I know that it will happen to everyone eventually. Still, it's easy to push that to the back of your mind until someone you love dies. 

The pain from losing a friend starts with anger for me. Not anger at the person, but anger at the cruel path that nature walks us down. Gradually, it shifts to sadness and, finally, it settles to live in my gut. That empty feeling. That cheated feeling. 

It's a drinking feeling, but I don't drink anymore.

When you lose someone you love, it is hard to remember that you knew it was coming. I close my eyes and rub them hard and try to switch things up, but nothing happens. Just silence. Just void. Just that ache. 

I've accommodated the ache, but the random stabs of painful memory get to me. Sometimes, I feel panicked even though there is nothing to panic about. 

They say that it is better to have loved and lost than to never love at all. I believe that, but in practice...man, sometimes I just want to leave civilization behind. Be the hermit - not like Leland who loved everyone, but a real hermit with no ties to any place or any humans. The loneliness would kill me, but at least I would never feel that pain again.

2 Minutes. Go!

The air smelled of ozone, and the animals were alert. Hidden beneath the boughs of an overgrown tree, the boy waited. He was good at waiting. He had had lots of practice. What he was waiting for, he didn't know, but he felt that if he waited quietly, patiently, it would be revealed to him. This knowledge was first and foremost a prayer. He had faith. Misguided maybe, but he had faith.

He was a jumpy boy, easily startled. He hated that about himself. Always flinching. Always averting his eyes. He wasn't much of a man, he figured. He wasn't tough or particularly strong. Fights scared him. They made him frantic. Because of this, he didn't hang around the kids his age. They were pugilists, all of them. He had sampled their wares and regretted it. 

He was busy mastering an itch. It started at the base on his spine and climbed up his spinal column to the back of his head. The itch could ruin everything, so he suppressed it. He was good at suppressing things. It was a talent that served him well. 

The gum he molded to his teeth was long devoid of flavor. He was thirsty. Hungry. The gum was wearing out his jaw, but it kept the awful dryness away. 

When the buck emerged from the edge of the clearing, his heart almost stopped. It was white. Pure white like it was God's very own deer. The boy knew it could happen, but he'd never seen one. A tear sprang from his eye as he realized something. 

You could be different. You could stick out like a sore thumb...and you could still be beautiful. The boy tucked that knowledge inside his heart. When the deer left the clearing, the boy got up to go home. He was feeling lighter. He wanted to put on the soft clothes that he kept hidden.

He was thinking about how beautiful that deer was. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Her eyes open, and the room changes temperature. You can feel it. A cold gust that whips through the apartment, changing nothing. You lie still. Pretend to be asleep. You are not great at pretending, but she is not perceptive. She is looking with wolf eyes, and they are easily misled. She has no pack to back her. Lone wolf, she.

When she rises, she will start her morning process. The same way she has started every morning for forty years. Same stretch, same tea, same mug. She is married to her habits; she finds safety in them. Safety from what, I do not know. I've been wondering about it for decades now. 

When I get up, it is all pantomime. Man wakes up. All playacting. I don't have a routine. I pretend to stumble, half asleep, into the kitchen. Pour myself the coffee she made. Wonder, as per usual, if it will be the last cup of coffee I ever drink. She watches me with such expectancy. 

But I live. I carry on. I keep sleepwalking.

I'll wake up when she closes her eyes again; that is my time.

2 Minutes. Go!

The anger makes you shake. It makes your voice quake. Like you're about to start crying or spitting blood. It radiates off of you, and everyone can see it. It's like a rattlesnake tail, that shake, that rattle. It gets inside you and starts flipping switches. Old ones, made thousands of years ago when predators roamed the land, and we didn't have guns to punch holes in them. It's a natural response, and it is appropriate. 

Still, it's unsettling. It makes eye contact difficult. It makes you feel like danger is all around you. You turn into an antelope, anxious on the veldt, frozen in place while your comrades spring and jump and run away. Fight, flight, or freeze. If only you didn't always default to freezing. The veldt would pull your card quick. 

Anger and fear can get mixed up, and, combined, they are a potent cocktail. 

I call it the American dream. One part paranoia, two parts unwarranted pride. One part individualism. One part propaganda. 

Shaken, not stirred. No one has time to stir. 

Pour into a chilled glass and smash it into your face. It's good for you. It builds character. 

2 Minutes. Go!

You didn't take a victory lap. You just packed that shit up and went home. It made me think. It made my heart pound a little bit. It impressed me, I guess you could say. I would have taken the lap. I would have signed the autographs. I would have listened to the women giggle. You didn't do any of that. 

There are times I can't even look at my own reflection in the mirror. So, any kind of adulation is terrifying, but delicious. I feast on it. I feel cheapened by it. 

I don't know if anyone else saw. Or noticed. I notice a lot of things. That's something I trained my brain to do. Most of the people were watching the lasers slice the fog machine. Most of them were lost. I wanted to be lost, but I have always been able to find myself, no matter how hard I try not to. 

The car was waiting. It didn't make any sense for me to dawdle, but I felt torn up and taped back together. I felt like someone had read my fortune and it had come true. I felt naked is the honest truth. Exposed, even if I was only exposed to myself. 

Maybe I will stay away for a while. Hole myself up. Get myself whole. Maybe all this has been a hallucination...it happens. Hell, it's happened to me. But I think it was real. 

Hallucinations don't hurt so bad. 

2 Minutes. Go!

I've been thinking back ... years back. Triumphs and tribulations. Trauma. Victories. They rattle around inside my brain now. I had some of them packed away real neat, locked up in a box with a lock I did not know the combination for. Now, the combination doesn't matter. I popped the lid for a second, but it was long enough. 

It's weird that you can feel shame for things you didn't do. For things that were done to you. That's something I'm wrestling with. It's hard to look back with clarity and see anger. Or hurt. Or hurt that turned to anger. There are some things I rarely talk about. Weirdly, I had nothing to do with them. 

There is joy in there, for sure. I remember when life was much simpler. Not just because of my age, but because the world was just plain simpler. Moved slower. No one had constant news (legit or not) pumped into their brains. Journalism was still a lofty idea, a calling. There were ethical considerations regardless of politics. No social media.

Now, we're selling ad space first, telling the truth second. If we get to the truth. Truth isn't very popular these days if we're being honest. If it doesn't have the sheen of entertainment, we aren't interested.

I read the other day that deer are starting to feed and move at night, despite predators, because the days are too hot. Got me thinking how our relationship with nature will change with Global warming. Mountain lions at Costco. Coyotes at the supermarket. If they're still around. 

But I'm not going down that evolving rabbit hole. Not today. Today, I will try to focus on the things that are the same. Books are still magic. Guitar still soothes me...sometimes it even makes me feel talented. I can still write. Sometimes, the writing seems OK, too. I still have friends. Some of them from the old days, which is amazing.

Mostly, I'm just realizing that nothing ever makes sense. Not really. You grow up thinking that the pieces will fall into place and someday you will understand what everyone else understands. Then, you start realizing that most people don't even know how gravity works. Most people are going through the day shit scared that people will catch them out. Expose them as morons. 

And I'm one of those people. Honestly. I mean, I know how gravity works, but I can't explain it all that well. What can I do? I can open my heart wide, sliced like from a knife. Tell you how words make me feel. I can put my own words together. Sometimes, I can convince a kid that books and thoughts are wonderful, and I will 100% take that. 

Maybe I'm a moron. I've been called worse. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The sound of birdsong complimented the sherbet sky. It was a cacophony of joy, a proclamation for the day. Inside, they were warm and safe. Outside, I had my thermos full of green tea and all day ahead of me. The only pressure was self-imposed. And the voice of imposition was stilled somewhat by the chill. 

It had been weeks since the old man had left. He didn't leave a note, but that was never his style. Folks said he was unreliable, but I knew he was as reliable as John Deere. He was just operating on his schedule. If you knew him, really knew him, his inclinations, then he was as dependable as a Casio.

And sure enough, I was just climbing into the truck when he pulled up. He was already dressed for fishing. As was I. I had been planning on this for months. 

We didn't talk much on the way to the stream. That wasn't our way. Talk was cheap was the way I felt about it, and I think he felt the same way. I listened to the rubber go from asphalt to rocks to mud. And then we were there. Drinking tea. Pretending we had come to fish.

The sun was high in the sky by the time we approached the water. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Oh, darling. I wish it wasn't so. I wish I could say that we could change things. That we could choose a path instead of having one chosen for us. Doesn't seem like that's the way it works, though. You just hitch yourself to the train and hold on. No one wants to know what you think about it. No one wants to hear your dreams. 

No one needs that kind of pressure. 

Everyone is doping their way through the day. Everyone's dope is different. Some people get into such high-minded dope that they lose touch. Some go low. Imagine the people that walk past you every day. Think about percentages. A good portion of those people are secret addicts. Some are cheating on their spouses. Some like to hurt people for fun. A few are probably child molesters. 

Statistics don't lie. 

You gotta be able to walk by all those people and still care. And that is the hard part because the burden you carry is heavy enough already. You're already carrying more than one person should have to carry. But you can take a little more. 

What's a little more baggage, really?

I swear, I wish I could tell you the things you want to hear. I wish I could smile and assure you that everything is going to be OK. But that would be fucking crazy, and I'm not that crazy. All I can say is that we'll meet what is coming together, and that has to be enough.