tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11284698844877638392024-03-18T02:47:16.145-07:00 Unemployed Imagination.Fiction. Lots and lots of fiction. #amwritingJD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.comBlogger736125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-61141160332858995192024-03-15T10:44:00.000-07:002024-03-15T10:49:44.607-07:002 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. <div><br /></div><div>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 <i>titanium</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe you should just focus on <i>wellness. </i>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-84887913982747036502024-03-08T12:04:00.000-08:002024-03-08T12:04:14.910-08:002 Minutes. Go!<p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>This is why you come to the light.</p>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-679563539311015712024-03-01T10:29:00.000-08:002024-03-01T10:29:36.123-08:002 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 <i>will</i> 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's a drinking feeling, but I don't drink anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>hermit</i> - 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.</div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-49957494257178980682024-02-16T08:46:00.000-08:002024-02-16T08:46:45.509-08:002 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 <i>for, </i>he didn't know, but he felt that if he waited quietly, <i>patiently</i>, it would be revealed to him. This knowledge was first and foremost a prayer. He had faith. Misguided maybe, but he had faith.<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>You could be <i>different</i>. 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was thinking about how beautiful that deer was. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-42162648026226003652024-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:002024-02-09T09:18:21.628-08:002 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.<div><br /></div><div>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 <i>what</i>, I do not know. I've been wondering about it for decades now. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I get up, it is all pantomime. <i>Man wakes up.</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I live. I carry on. I keep sleepwalking.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll wake up when she closes her eyes again; that is my time.</div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-5060493489166702622024-02-02T09:21:00.000-08:002024-02-02T09:21:50.655-08:002 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anger and fear can get mixed up, and, combined, they are a potent cocktail. </div><div><br /></div><div>I call it the American dream. One part paranoia, two parts unwarranted pride. One part individualism. One part propaganda. </div><div><br /></div><div>Shaken, not stirred. No one has time to stir. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pour into a chilled glass and smash it into your face. It's good for you. It builds character. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-71856993692754373682024-01-26T09:00:00.000-08:002024-01-26T09:00:07.406-08:002 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>naked</i> is the honest truth. Exposed, even if I was only exposed to myself. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Hallucinations don't hurt so bad. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-48811957096371419542024-01-19T10:26:00.000-08:002024-01-19T10:26:42.462-08:002 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. <div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is joy in there, for sure. I remember when life was much simpler. Not just because of my age, but because the <i>world</i> 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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, we're selling ad space first, telling the truth second.<i> If </i>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mostly, I'm just realizing that <i>nothing</i> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I'm a moron. I've been called worse. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-88264870930868667382024-01-12T09:28:00.000-08:002024-01-12T09:28:11.867-08:002 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. <div><br /></div><div>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 <i>his</i> schedule. If you knew him, really knew him, his inclinations, then he was as dependable as a Casio.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sun was high in the sky by the time we approached the water. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-45501936085247501022024-01-05T14:49:00.000-08:002024-01-05T14:49:49.552-08:002 Minutes. Go!Oh, darling. I wish it wasn't so. I wish I could say that we could <i>change</i> 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. <div><br /></div><div>No one needs that kind of pressure. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>Statistics don't lie. </div><div><br /></div><div>You gotta be able to walk by all those people <i>and still care</i>. 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>What's a little more baggage, really?</div><div><br /></div><div>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.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-59381909416925373702023-12-29T16:16:00.000-08:002023-12-29T16:16:49.234-08:002 Minutes. Go!<i>Dear old Dan</i>...that's what she always called him. Never Dan. She never called me Dan either; it was always Danny. I can hear it now. Always with a laugh in the voice. They were happy people. At peace, yet they had lived through more hardship than any two people ever should. Contrast that to the rest of us, bitching about nonsense and whining. Thing is, I don't know <i>how</i> they did it. <div><br /></div><div>They were happy about going to buy cheese and other goods from the Amish. They were happy about a particularly good batch of apples. They ate trout caught from tiny streams, and they ate simple. They dried their laundry on a line, and they would watch the birds from the window, enthralled, even when they didn't know their names. </div><div><br /></div><div>I try to imagine these people years before they were my grandparents. I imagine, because I know the history, what it would be like to walk into your son's room to find his head exploded all over the walls, the white paint dripping blood and brain matter. </div><div><br /></div><div>I try to put myself in those shoes, and I just think, shit, I'd reload the gun and put it in my mouth. In a second. In a <i>heartbeat</i>. Anything to stop that screaming tear in the mind. But maybe I wouldn't. They didn't. They <i>rallied</i>. Were extra proud of their surviving son. And he lived up to and <i>surpassed</i> their expectations, dreams, and hopes. </div><div><br /></div><div>They liked dumb jokes, and they read more than anyone I have ever known. Certainly more than most people who quit their formal education so young. They knew that books were equalizers as well as entertainment. </div><div><br /></div><div>My Paupa showed me more love than he showed my Dad, and I don't necessarily think that the fault lies with either of them. My nana was a constantly giggling, always generous, <i>buddy. </i>When I think back, that's the word that comes to mind. I loved them both so much. I was there when my Nana lost her memory and gained a time machine (she couldn't always remember me, but the street she grew up on was suddenly vivid and real again). I was there when my Paupa tried to figure out how life would work without her. I saw them at their lowest, and they were still higher than me. Paupa became a widower, but only for a few years. </div><div><br /></div><div>He was still happy, in a way. At least, he could pull it off when I was around. </div><div><br /></div><div>I've had many examples of amazing men in my life, and I'm not like any of them. Maybe that's a travesty. Maybe that is the saddest thing you hear today. Or maybe that's the way it is supposed to be. Evolution. My Paupa ate all the pain the world could offer, so it wouldn't be a shadow over my father's life. My Dad lost a brother in the worst way you can. He became an only child overnight. And, still, he raised a family...became the most responsible person I have ever known. Maybe <i>too</i> responsible. That's a weight to carry. I know, I feel it. I just can't <i>carry</i> it as well as he did. I <i>feel</i> the pain through the years, and I guess that is human history. </div><div><br /></div><div>My kids will probably never eat squirrel, chewing slowly in case there is shot still in the meat. I never walked the rails collecting pea-coal that fell off the trains so my family could be warm. I've seen some hardships, sure, but nothing like these people saw, they fought a fucking war. And here I sit, wishing I could be more like them, instead of this quivering mass of feelings and guilt. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, I wonder if they knew how much I cared for them. We weren't that kind of family. Not real touchy feely, physically or emotionally. I think they knew. I think they knew I wanted to hear their stories, to learn the things they knew. I think they saw the same progression I saw, and it probably pained them and inspired them at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Our children never <i>really </i>know where we come from, and maybe that's good. My kids will never live in a city that is still segregated (with a wink). My kids won't be pulling up stakes every couple years. Still, I want to see some of that Mader grit in them. I want to see that resilience and perseverance. I want them to be strong and do the history proud. </div><div><br /></div><div>Best thing I can hope is that maybe it skips a generation. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's still hope for my girls. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-64756085624183468392023-12-15T09:00:00.000-08:002023-12-15T09:00:28.849-08:002 Minutes. Go!You weren't there, so you can't feel it, but I can try to tell you about it. <div><br /></div><div>The first thing you have to do is understand<i> the fear.</i> It's a special kind of fear. There is excitement in it. A bit of dread. You are drinking beer to kill the nerves, but it's a slippery slope. You need to maintain balance, you need to drink medicinally. Unfortunately, you aren't wired that way. <div><br /></div><div>The nerves hide the alcohol until it's too late, and the other guitarist is pissed, and that makes you feel like shit, and feeling like shit is no way to play a show. So, you have another beer.</div><div><br /></div><div>If the opening band sucks, the energy will be low. If the opening band is good, you will be extra nervous. Extra drinky. That will ruin the set, and there will be some unspoken anger. Or maybe it gets spoken. Maybe there's yelling. Even physical violence.</div><div><br /></div><div><span>Sometimes, things will go right despite your failings. These are the good times. It's easy when it's like that, but it is a rare occurrence. Hailey's comet type shit, </span>really. </div><div><br /></div><div>If a band plays after you, your set is largely dependent on them. If you sound way different, they might hate you. If you sound too similar, they will hate you for a different reason. The best band to follow is boring but competent. There are lots of bands like that. If you are feeling pessimistic or maybe <i>realistic, </i>you might group yourself amongst them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Too many cigarettes. You always smoke too many cigarettes, and it makes your voice dry. Which doesn't matter. No one came for the singing. This isn't <i>The Voice. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>You should move around on stage, but it's hard to play guitar, sing, and be entertaining to look at all at the same time. Still, you hate live bands like this. Like <i>Weezer. </i>All focus, no show. </div><div><br /></div><div>Boring shows have to be perfect, and you ain't never going to be perfect. </div><div><br /></div><div>The fact that girls come to the shows is a miracle. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it makes it harder. It doesn't matter if you play well. Not to most of these girls. You were on the stage. You have a kind of distant aloofness. That's the important thing. You can boost their status, and they won't be intimidated. You're accessible. Especially after the after-show beers. And basically, you're a feminist. Of sorts. So, it's safe. </div><div><br /></div><div>If the show was good, you might not get wasted. If it was bad, you'll be blacked out before they turn on the lights. Start herding people out. Because you are on the bill, you can pass out with the knowledge that someone will keep people from robbing you. Fucking with you. Sometimes, nothing hits the spot like a punk rock pass out on a thrift store couch. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you wake up, you'll have regrets. Either you fucked up and feel guilty or someone else did and you're bitter. Like, how does someone break the 'E' string on a bass? That shit should be impossible. Or the drummer broke another snare. Or the backup vocals were shitty. It is rare to feel good after a show. You wonder sometimes about more musically competent bands and what their regrets are. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or you might wake up next to a girl you don't know. That can be good or bad. It's a crap shoot. You try not to let it happen, but the beer...</div><div><br /></div><div>You think, <i>I should just stop drinking</i>. This has happened too many times. It's fucking scary if you think about it. You are among a bunch of people in a place you aren't familiar with and you are at your worst <i>and</i> best at the same time. Sometimes, the drummer kicks a door in for no reason. Smashes a window. You're the only one entertained by this. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that's about it. You do that over and over. As often as you can. If it pays, great. If not, great. There will always be another show. Maybe you got hit with a bottle, broke a finger on somebody. If you did, that needs to be dealt with. </div><div><br /></div><div>So you deal with it by getting drunk. Rinse and repeat. Punk fucking rock. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-60701418031326563022023-12-08T10:36:00.000-08:002023-12-08T10:36:20.663-08:002 Minutes. Go!Reggie stepped off the curb with a slight stumble. Anyone watching would likely assume that he had had a few too many drinks. Anyone watching for longer would be able to watch him weave down the sidewalk, bumping into people. Because he was <i>good</i>, that was all they saw. Not me. I saw the quick, darting motions that pulled wallets out of purses and pockets. I saw watches and jewelry disappear. He was good. Too good for his own good. Not as good as I was in my day, but good. <div><br /></div><div>Sandra was one of the bumped-into. She lost her grandmother's necklace. That glint of diamond was gone. She wouldn't realize it until she got home, and, when she did realize, she would fall to her knees, sobbing. Cheated. Duped. Dirtied. Contaminated. </div><div><br /></div><div>Al was an old man, and he had nothing worth stealing. He stood on the corner, sipping from a brown bag and hoping that the liquor would hurry up. Getting drunk was not a gradual process for him. It was like getting hit by a sledgehammer. That was the way he wanted it. He would drink a pint of vodka in one go if he had a beer to chase it with. This time, he had no beer. But a few more sips, taken in rapid succession, and he would be good to go. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anthony wore a badge, and he thought it made up for the fact that he had...bad ideas. Bad desires. He cast glances he was ashamed of. He dreamed things at night that couldn't stand the test of sunlight. He was ashamed, but it was beyond his control. The badge was a scarlet letter that only he could see. He was barely holding on, but, man, he was <i>trying</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yolanda didn't try at all. She gave into every base desire that she had and never thought twice about it. She took everything she could with no remorse. No empathy. No Jiminy Cricket for Yolanda. She was a predator in the truest sense of the word, and broken souls fanned out behind her like a wedding train. Her panther eyes missed nothing. Her conscience was clean. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was the one watching them, but I didn't judge any of them. Judge not lest ye be judged. I reckon that there isn't a person on earth who doesn't do or think something they don't want anyone to know about. That's what it means to be human. That's what fuels writers. At least, that's what fuels writers like me. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-28183455956837545162023-12-01T10:41:00.000-08:002023-12-01T10:41:21.752-08:002 Minutes. Go!<p><span style="font-family: times;">I broke your mind and left you stranded. I didn’t give into the shit you demanded. I got it twisted, tied it up. Filled my fucking misery cup. "Let it spill," you said, and smiled. I wrapped myself in sweet denial. I stood on the mountaintop feeling free, while industry feasted on the last <i>real</i> tree. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Fishing for robot fish ain’t fun. They never jump. They barely run. They taste like metal, hurt to crunch. There’s no real fruit in that banana bunch. </span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">I had a woman, I remember well. Now I cuddle with the clones they sell. They don’t hold me tight, won’t hear me cry. They just sit and stare. I wonder why?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">Ain’t they seen carbon-based before? Weren’t they invented just for this chore?</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">I fixed your mind with gum and paste. I took your good faith, bathed in waste. I let the politicians play, blood in their teeth at the end of the day. I blamed it on God, and you believed. The corporate shareholders were relieved. They toasted and laughed at declining health. Said, “As long as it won’t affect my wealth.”</span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 15px;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: times;">So that’s what happened, believe it or not. Truth is cheap, but I gave it a shot. </span></p>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-59220892197681112592023-11-17T08:49:00.000-08:002023-11-17T08:49:51.035-08:002 Minutes. Go!<p><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">The alarm sounded as the blue and red light cut through the fog of night. We had become accustomed to the sound of alarms. They were no longer alarming. They cried wolf too many times for anyone to take them seriously. </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-e59aec92-7fff-0f97-4f7f-e2fb5db9a1af"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was keyed up. I had been up for days. I was paranoid, more paranoid than usual. The noise and the light felt like psychedelics, and it added to the dark energy building up inside me. I stretched my arms out. Flexed my hands. I could feel muscle and tendon beneath the scarred flesh. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was alive. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There have been times when I wished I was dead, but I've always been good at avoiding it. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what it was. I just knew that I would know it when I saw it. It was a feeling. I trust those feelings. Maybe that has something to do with the sustained heartbeats. I’d had some close shaves, but no razor burn. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My stomach felt raw. Bloody. That’s always been a problem for me, and no one has been able to explain it. I am constantly swallowing blood. I taste nothing else. Everything I eat tastes of it. I barely notice anymore. Blood <i>is </i>hunger.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The taste thickened my resolve. I would bathe in it. It would wash me clean. I just needed to find a source. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I needed to tap a well.</span></p><br /><br /></span>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-27084560034740318432023-11-10T14:18:00.002-08:002023-11-10T14:18:39.674-08:002 Minutes. Go!It was just that <i>feeling. </i>You couldn't change it. <div><br /></div><div>Palms slick with sweat, you couldn't even get a grip that would stick. You were slipping. Everyone could see it. They smelled it in the sickly sweat seeping from your pores. You tried to smile, flip golden hair, make it casual - sell the simplicity. It didn't work. It irked people. It was like biting the tines of a fork. It sent shockwaves. <div><br /></div><div>You open the door to let the devil in, then you better be able to close it. That's the truth. It's always been that way. Some people can open the door a crack, some can't. Some ride the top of the wave, and some sink to the bottom where they are tossed by currents, abraded by sand, instructed by panic. </div><div><br /></div><div>I keep the door wide open, because I <i>am</i> the devil. I can match any sickness he can think of. I can throw my weight into misery. Evil fears me because I can take it and keep on taking. I am a bottomless well. I am pure potential, a mountain you can't see the top of. I am the craggy bluffs that deceive the adventurous. </div><div><br /></div><div>You better keep your door closed. Lock it with the deadbolt. Nail two-by-fours over it. Rig it with bells. Shine a bright light. None of it will save you. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am coming, and I don't need a door. </div></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-18637214422432282712023-11-03T09:18:00.003-07:002023-11-03T09:18:34.350-07:002 Minutes. Go!You had your eyes closed when the sun burned out. You opened them because you heard the terror around you, the gasps and screams. You felt the chill. Cowered from the cries of the animals. Those who could make fire did so. The looting started right away.<div><br /></div><div>The poison gas began seeping out of the vents, but it was not a poison that <i>killed</i>. At least not quickly. It was an <i>investment</i> in death. It was a creation that the government scientists lauded. The death would happen away from the source, and it would be quite a show.</div><div><br /></div><div>The billionaires were satisfied in their domed enclave. Their false sun burned brightly, and there was no gas to twist their minds. They got to enjoy the show. That was the point.</div><div><br /></div><div>The poor are always fodder. Always ignored. </div><div><br /></div><div>And they always lose. <br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-73150468812569677602023-10-27T09:05:00.001-07:002023-10-27T09:05:04.862-07:002 Minutes. Go!The sodden ground, scattered bodies bleeding. Dead patriots as far as the eye can see. The sun pokes through the haze of smoke and dust. There is not enough light to glint off metal or watch faces. There are darkened lumps under trees, but you don't know if they are alive or dead. Choose caution. Close your eyes and be still, they won't shoot until they see the whites of your eyes. <div><br /></div><div>At least that is what the elders say.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the red meets the blue, the whole world is a purple bruise. People shouldn't have to fit into binary systems. They are so limiting. They are inherently disingenuous. They are a square lie shoved down our round throats. The billionaires love the purple. They love to watch us tear ourselves apart. </div><div><br /></div><div>I remember when American flags mean unity, not division. I am not one of the elders, but I am old enough to remember. I'm old enough to remember when Congresspeople didn't wear AR-15 pins on their jackets. I remember when I was able to have friends who thought like me <i>and </i>friends who didn't think like me. The world was a lot rounder when I was young. </div><div><br /></div><div>You don't even get to breathe clean air. You get to watch the genocide of flora and fauna that my generation was supposed to stop. You get to watch species erased from the planet through no failing of their own. You get to cry for whales, cause the children of the 80s didn't save shit. We had great t-shirts, though. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, I hope that the animals will become rational, sentient, free-willed motherfuckers and come tear us to ribbons. Sometimes, I convince myself that we have been through hard times before. We will persevere. Sometimes, I have faith. <i>Sometimes</i>, I believe. </div><div><br /></div><div>Most of the time, I'm just tired.</div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-20174744410343874152023-10-20T09:23:00.003-07:002023-10-20T09:23:29.569-07:002 Minutes. Go!If you're going to come at me hard, it better be the hardest you've got because I've been yelled at and abused enough in my life. I'm not waiting for you to take the first swing. I'm ready to bust open my vault of slicing words. If you want it, get it, but don't come casual, come correct. <div><br /></div><div>If you have any fancy notions about fair fighting, you should throw those shits out right now. I don't fight fair. I fight to win. Think about that. Think about how much you like your teeth and eyeballs. Think about how you might want to have kids some day. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm old. I'm not fast enough to run. But I got muscles you don't and the kind of bitterness that forty-five years earns you. I'm too tired for long fights. This shit will be over soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Something maybe you should know. I've never lost a fight. Not even close. Never had my ass beat. Never been jumped. Maybe they see it in my eyes, the willingness to dive into pain and blood. That shit doesn't bother me. I like it. I thrive on it. I've bathed in it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not saying I'm a tough guy. I'm not. But I can be tough for three minutes, and that is all I will need. </div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-53912319069919087282023-10-13T11:59:00.005-07:002023-10-13T11:59:56.054-07:002 Minutes. Go!Is she cold in the night when she feels alone, red dress on black boots in the tepid warmth of the streetlight? Does she remember, then, that she was once a dream. She was once the living embodiment of hope, and that was the first addiction. When you finally <i>do</i> kick hope, it leaves you a different person. You are full of holes. The holes need to be stopped up or all of you will leak out of you.<div><br /></div><div>Does she tie back her blonde hair showing black roots? Does she hide her heritage, becoming blonde and hiding her black roots? Is she America? Is this what she's trying to tell you? <i>Look at me, I'm you! </i>I'm the ideals you claimed to have, do you feel them now?</div><div><br /></div><div>Will she die for your sins, though? Can you pound nails into her hands, and build belief systems around her? Can we make them kill for her? Will they do anything for her attentions, her approval? Do they think it will stop the lonely misery for even one measly second?</div><div><br /></div><div>They buy her hourly, and she sells, not herself, she keeps that close. She sells the ugliness that you bring to the ghetto. She sells the sticky glances the morally upright cast. She sells the lie that there is love for you. Comfort. She sells you a brief window of time, too grimed to look through. She sells you your soul back, for just a moment, so you can sell it all over again.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-25713803519826877532023-10-06T09:31:00.004-07:002023-10-06T09:31:46.166-07:002 Minutes. Go!<p>If it kills me, tell my story, but please don't you dare feel sad. No one ducks death. This has been coming for a long time. Since the day I was born, I've been living to die, so celebrate, tap a keg, tell funny anecdotes. Maybe go fishing. Sit on a sun-warmed rock. Let the breeze lift your arm hairs. </p><p>I will get old before I die, but don't mourn for my youth. I treated my youth like an overworked horse, rode it hard and put it away wet. It didn't kill me. And I have been places you have never gone. Hell, I bet I've been places you can't even <i>imagine</i>. </p><p>If you think about it, the whole world is like one big joke where we don't yet know the punchline. I'm looking forward to the end of the show. I want to see the slides they promise. I want to walk towards the light that is my synapses expiring. I want my last words, but if they're stupid, go ahead and make up something better. No one wants their last words to be, "I think I shit myself..."</p><p>I've had a cool life, and I've got a lot more left to live. I want to see if we get jetpacks. I want to learn how to fly. I want to see if we fix global warming. And if we don't? Doesn't matter. Step up the timetable. Maybe stay inside, though. </p><p>Skip the fishing.</p>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-36019939696541891162023-09-29T09:20:00.003-07:002023-09-29T09:20:36.389-07:002 Minutes. Go!I'm shipwrecked. You left me on the island alone. Your fear took over, and you stopped looking out. You turned your gaze inward and left it at that. So, I sit here. Stare at the sun. Thrash against the cold and try to warm myself with my own body. It never works. <div><br /></div><div>I will die frozen.<div><br /></div><div>You chopped me down like an old pine. You turned my body into toothpicks, used me to test the chocolate cake when you took it out of the oven. You used my body to warm your home, and you wrote the story of destruction on my flesh.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat on the bench and watched the other kids play. Told myself they probably just didn't know my name, but it was more than that. They always looked so happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>I always felt so sad. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will fall before the finish line. My body will crumple. I will start decomposing before I hit the ground. People will come to see the spectacle. They won't be able to look away.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will finally have my audience. </div></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-26171798023786494112023-09-22T09:25:00.001-07:002023-09-22T09:25:18.326-07:002 Minutes. Go!Don't close your eyes, they'll crawl in through the cracks. You can't shut your eyes tightly enough to keep them out. Try not to breathe too deeply. Don't let them get too far inside you. You need to be vigilant. Wear your mask and your ear covers. Don't squint, but if you can afford a pair of longevity glasses, your eyes will be as safe as they were in the electronic womb. <div><br /></div><div>If they get inside you, they will start toying with the controls. Friends will say you're acting strangely. Only those who know will see the tell-tale signs. The twitches and false starts. The turn to monotone when you have been speaking too long. The vicious, whispering paranoia. </div><div><br /></div><div>We love it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just make sure you're updating your software. Follow our directions. Do what you're told, and we will keep you from as much misery as possible. Cross us, and we will scramble your circuitry - or wipe you clean so you can start again. Don't think of it as a punishment. Think of it as cause and effect. Just like everything else. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, power down. You aren't expected at the mines until Monday. </div><div><br /></div><div>Get some "rest" - you'll need it.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-1681267928309284152023-09-15T09:37:00.002-07:002023-09-15T09:37:14.534-07:002 Minutes. Go!He sat at the base of the tree like he was holding it up, but it was clearly the other way around. I'd been fishing all morning with enough luck not to be in any kind of hurry. It was time to stop and smoke a cigarette anyway, the cool fall air just asked for it. It was that kind of still, windless day when the smoke stays a cloud and never turns to wisps.<div><br /></div><div>He was staring straight ahead, so I gawked a little more than I normally would. He was wearing camouflage pants and a jacket the color of birch bark. On his head, there was a hat that no one would <i>ever</i> call a hat unless they saw it on someone's head. It was a toadstool covered in moss, and it suited him. He was long-bearded. The beard was grey and slightly stained around the mouth from tobacco juice. At least that was my guess. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't realize it was blood until I was very close to him. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.</div><div><br /></div><div>He looked up at me, finally, with eyes that carried oceans of pain. He raised the twisted roots of his hands and made a sound that I can't describe. A sound that came from him, but was inside me. I tried to turn, to run. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that is all I remember. The hypnotists failed. The police got nothing. But I soon found myself back in the forest, feeling my heart thump blood-smell throughout my body. </div><div><br /></div><div>I took my place at the tree and smiled. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1128469884487763839.post-69098283327204306992023-09-08T09:17:00.001-07:002023-09-08T09:17:12.315-07:002 Minutes. Go!Let me tell you a story about sainthood. I saw the man live, and I saw the man fall, and, I don't believe in it, but he did, and maybe he was right. That would be something. I'd do a quick 180 if it came to that. All I know is that kindness can shine from the eyes. It can make you feel love, anger, jealousy. It is hard to watch someone do the things you are unable to. <div><br /></div><div>I wish I had more faith, I guess. It would be nice. I step outside frequently at night to check the moon. The sky. The air. I used to smoke cigarettes. Now, I just look at the moon. But it would be dope to look up and think there is something looking down. Even if that meant there was something underneath me looking up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Legacy is a tricky thing, and immortality is hard, but not impossible. The actions you perform and the words you speak go out into the world, they are absorbed, analyzed, and, hopefully, emulated by the people you have affected. It's a chain. Your legacy bounces around long after you're gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's pretty dope, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think I will live to be an old man. I don't know if I want to, but, even if I did, I don't think it's gonna happen. Too many braincell assassinations. Too much assault on the organs. Hell, I can't go through life with my teeth unclenched. Where is that going? What does that mean? It means, start working on the eulogy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this is pessimism. Maybe I can pass on some of his goodness, and, if that is all I do for the world, I can still consider that a win. No matter how many books I don't sell.</div>JD Maderhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13058074115809620653noreply@blogger.com7