2 Minutes. Go!

I should lick the fog off the rooftops, set the sun free. Head down to the lake and pretend I'm fishing. Or get my shit together. Figure out a way to make a fortune while doing cardio. I'm stressed all the time; isn't that "cardio" enough? How hard does my heart have to beat? How many times do the balls inside my chest need to inflate … deflate … inflate...

I wonder what the fog would taste like? Probably hair spray and petroleum. It might kill me, or make me live forever as a freak superhero. I don't want great power. I don't want great responsibility.

I want a burrito that regenerates when you take a bite.

2 Minutes. Go!

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

Yellow, the sun sits in the elbow of the day. The clouds rest their bulk on the forearm’s strength. The blue sky covers the periphery, and Jack sits with his back against the rough bark of a streamside tree. He has fished enough. There was no objective. No timeline. Freedom...

From the canopy of trees, the sound of a meadowlark erupts clean and distinct. The sound stills the air, but it cannot occupy the space. The birdsong is stolen by the sky and the trees. 

Sitting against the tree, Jack thinks about the woman he lost. He cannot remember her name. Not now. Fifty years have passed; his mind is going. Sometimes, he remembers, sometimes, he does not. 

The smell of rot is thick in the air. A thick, growing smell. The smell of life, of soil being turned.

Jack closes his eyes and breathes into the tree. He is ready to join the current. He is ready to be part of it all. 

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2 Minutes. Go!

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Let me tell you a story about a plastic milk jug. I sent it to Alabama empty, and it came back filled with a gallon of fire. And what the hell do you do if you get your hands on a gallon of fire? It becomes a burden. It gets heavier than eight-something pounds.

It’s embarrassing.

Yo, I got this liquor that no one wants to drink. You can try to cut it. It is uncuttable. It will burn your insides. But you feel obligated. Boy, you ever drank real shine?

So, I used it to clean the air filter on my motorcycle and it worked better than kerosene. I used it to get tape residue off shit. It worked. Goddamn, it worked.

But I felt like I should drink it. And I did. Mixed a teaspoon into a can of coke and hated myself for hours. Some of that jug went down my throat. Most of it made my old shit sparkly and new again.

What have you ever gotten in a milk jug? Milk?

Square.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back..  

2 Minutes. Go!

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Shoes on. Teeth brushed. Scraped the rust off my disposition. I punched myself in the solar plexus for good measure. Chest out, Comrade. We're on a search for buried treasure. We're circling round the pole - balance as best you can. 

The night is coming, and it's a fucking doozy. You'll see.

My central nervous system is down for maintenance. I am sitting on the top of a cliff-side rock, and the earth is shaking. I want to get off. 

The animals are weary. They are tired of our bullshit and they aren't going to take it anymore. Yeah, right. They've been taking it for years, and they will take all we got, praying that we all die before we take everything with us. 

Jet black hair and teeth sharp. Tongue darting, you are the viper queen. Your saliva is caustic and acidic. You've got it all, sweetheart. Except a heathy septum; that thing is fucked. 

So where does this leave us? Chin up, son. Chin up. It will only make you stronger. 

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back..

2 Minutes. Go!

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I don't have one cliché to play. I'm tapped out. My pain tubes are empty. All my fake people called in sick - the plot is thinner than usual. It's non-existent.

I spent the last two days wondering if I was finally going to break as a human being. I was kind of nervous. Things got hectic there for a while.

My brain is tossing smelly fish; why are you giving me attitude? Just try and remember we're on the same team here.

My ears are ringing like someone threw bells down a fucking staircase. There are chips knocked out of the stone.

There are all kinds of noises. There is the slap of warm meat and a high keening sound of despair.

There is magic in the air.

Just let it happen, man. Let the words fall like corrupted snowflakes. Affect a haughty attitude and stand in the shadows - no one is going to tie the wool over your eyes.

But now, it's time to move on. Trade my truths for silly lies. Buck up, boy, the carnival ain't ever leaving town.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back..

2 Minutes. Go!

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

I was tired. Tired of repetition and meaningless bullshit. The world is drenched in it, and you can’t escape the smell. No one wants to hear that, but it’s true. You play the cards you sneak into the game. You don’t want to corrupt the process? Doesn’t matter. Someone else will do it if you won’t.

This kind of tired wraps around your bones. I wish to hell people would stop telling me to smile. I can manage my own emotions – it took a while, but I finally learned how. And my expression is my business. I am not a human billboard; my face is not an ad campaign; it is a reflection of what’s inside. I don’t believe in putting on a pretty face, Ace.

And, sure, what’s inside is affected by what’s outside, but how and why? That’s for me to know.

Check it. There is a petite woman spinning as the crowd expands and contracts around her. She is moments from disaster – she doesn’t know it yet. She has crossed too many lines; she’s up, down, sideways. You could save her, but you would have to lay everything wide. She’ll die while you think about obligation.

No? Tell me that you don’t see the veins collapsing. Tell me that there isn’t a shit-star at the top of the tree, sprinkling filth all over me … that woman was counting on you. And you. On humanity. Y’all just watched her spin until her beehive imploded. Then, talk about how it’s a shame. It’s a fucking shame.

Shoot an endangered animal. Buy a car that gets 12 miles to the gallon. Talk shit and rail against people who look and speak different than you. Or you. Or you…

This soapbox is making my legs tired. I need an easy chair. Stuffing under denim, three feet square. I want to fall into a mushy Dilaudid dream, but I know how it ends. I almost wrote the ending once. Then I decided that life was made of pain, and that I wasn’t special.

I was just spinning in the crowd.

If you can keep your eyes open, then you’re doing better than most of us. So many try to lie and hide, profit from slow-motion suicide. Look far. Look wide.

Keep spinning.

There once was a clown with orange hair. Said we’d win so much we’d get tired of winning. That’s just the soundtrack of the moment. That’s the world spinning, scattering pieces all over the playing board.

Me, I’m regular bored. But, for now, still spinning.

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back..

2 Minutes. Go!

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

The blossoms fell, curling into the swirl of water before an old, weather-beaten log – the boy sat patiently on a large boulder, his rod beside him. He studied the water. 

The sun also fell, in long, golden rivulets that seeped around the boys' resolve. It was mid-afternoon, and the soundtrack of birdsong and burbling water eased the roughness of the terrain, dulled its edges. In the distance, a crow called his indignant cry into the breeze, where it danced across the top of the pines.

For thirty minutes, give or take, the boy did nothing but watch and study. By watching the water, he could make a pretty good guess what it looked like under the surface. He saw old tree branches and stones that twisted the water in its course. In time, he also saw fish, imagined them – he knew where they would be.

With slow, quiet movements, the boy picked up his rod and cast a small salmon-egg hook – just the right size for a kernel of niblets corn. He did not use salmon eggs. Never had. Wouldn’t recognize one if he saw it. Didn’t know what color they were. He knew only that the small golden hooks were cheap – and the perfect size for fishing corn. Whether the fish liked corn or salmon eggs given the choice, the boy did not know, nor, did he care.

He was in no hurry and, one finger on the line to feel for bites, he let the corn float through the eddies before lifting it and recasting it farther out. Sometimes closer. If he had been old enough to drive and city enough to drive on freeways, he might have seen this as a kind of merging. He knew when the currents changed and he directed the corn through the churning water. After some time, the boy twitched the tip of the rod briefly whereupon, it doubled over. He let the fish tire itself out before bringing it to the bank. From his back pocket, he pulled an old Barlow knife which he used to kill the fish. A hard rap to the head, so as to prevent it suffering. Then, he wrapped the fish in wet cloth and put it in the shade.

It was then that the tranquility of the scene was destroyed as a middle-aged man in waders, vest, fishing cap, and wool shirt used his fly rod to part the branches in front of him as he walked. He stopped when he saw the boy, raising an arm in salutation.

“Howdy!”

The word sounded off, like it was coming from the wrong mouth. Like he was putting on an accent. It was a pregnant ‘howdy’ and the boy answered cautiously.

He nodded a greeting and stared at the water. The man came closer, closing the distance between them.

“You live around here? You fish here a lot? Where are the good spots?”

The boy looked at the toe of his tennis shoes and mumbled. He did not know how to answer the questions. They were questions that didn’t deserve or warrant answers. He did not want the man to know anything about him or the water. He did not want the man to know that this spot was a cathedral. Fishing was communion.

“No sir.”

“You don’t know anything about this place? Come on – I only have five days to fish…”

There was a lilt in the request – the boy could see that he was trying to ingratiate himself, the funny guy. Teasing. He didn’t like it. It felt like a game or like he was the butt of a joke and everyone was laughing. He didn’t want to talk to the man, and he certainly didn’t want him fishing close by.

The man stuck a cigarette into the corner of his mouth, but didn’t light it. The sun seemed too hot, and the boy squirmed before deciding this was an OK time for a small lie. He did not like lying, but he didn’t like strangers either.

“Fishing isn’t too great unless you’re willing to walk. Up a few miles it widens out – that’s where the big ones are.”

The man smiled.

“You didn’t feel like walking?”

The boy did not answer. The man grabbed the bill of his cap and tugged on it in a contrived, mechanical way. Then, he lit his cigarette and headed in the direction the boy had indicated. He was a carnival – a parade of noise and flash. The boy began to feel bad for the water. For the fish. They didn’t deserve this.

The boy got his line back in the water, but something ineffable had changed. 

To be continued...

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back..