Duel of the Fates

“Michael N. Schrage, you do not yet realize your importance. You have only begun to discover your power. Join me, and I will complete your training. With our combined strength, we can end this destructive conflict and bring order to the galaxy.” – Darth Vader

As everyone knows, I’m not a nerd.

Moving on.

Perhaps it’s because I write fantasy—still not a nerd—or that I hate the idea of random chaos controlling my life, but I believe in fate. Well, not fate in its traditional sense. In fact, I hate that idea of fate. The idea of some outside, inescapable force dictating my life, and that my life is predestined, is horrifying and sickening. Why bother trying if everything is already decided for you? It throws me into a very jarring paradox that I hate considering.

Rather, I believe that some things happen for a reason, to guide you down a certain path—an extremely broad path; extremely—to allow you to grasp certain opportunities, or just let them pass. Some things in life are supposed to happen, or there’s at least supposed to be the chance of them happening. This is confusing, I know, so confusing that I’m now perplexing myself.

Let’s give examples.

I feel like this should be explained around a campfire late, late at night.

I’m going to light a small fire on my rug.

That was a horrible idea!

Basically, say you’re supposed to throw a rock in a river. So this said path guides you down a road along a river, and there’s a few rocks on the road, and now it’s your choice whether you want to throw the rock into the river. Your path got you this far, to the rocks and the river, and now all the choices are in your hands. I’m much more comfortable with this idea, with all the important decision relying on us after the opportunity presents itself.

Like Luke. His path led him to his confrontation with his (SPOILER ALERT) father Darth Vader. This was Luke’s fate, and then he faced a rather important decision: become a Sith lord and likely fuck up the universe with Vader, or remain a Jedi and be sort of cool.

You know, I keep on thinking about stuff to write during the day, and then I fucking forget half of it. This is why I need to look like one of those psychopaths with notebooks in their pockets and pens everywhere, who just start randomly scribbling down shit during conversations and whatnot. Yes. I’m going to start carrying a miniature notebook with me, because I had a lot more to say about this topic, and now I’m angry and want to watch Star Wars and Lord of the Rings for some reason. All of them. Speaking of that, I really need to buy the trilogy on blue ray…

I’m going to stop writing now, after one more additional tidbit that I found very interesting today.

Setting: Chili’s bathroom. It’s a very nice bathroom, actually. I love that foamy soap. Anyway, Jar of Hearts starts playing on the radio. While I’m mostly a metal/folkish/ambient fan of music, I like all other genres—not country—and this is just a very good song. I enjoy emotion. I’m also playing a very challenging and rewarding version of Jar of Hearts on piano. Anyway, I’m in the bathroom and the song starts playing, and I’m like, hey, yeah, cool, swell, neato, this song is nice. I’m going to listen. And then the bathroom lights flicker and go out. So I’m standing there in the Chili’s bathroom, listening to Jar of Hearts, in the pitch black. Total, complete darkness, like I can’t see a single thing no matter where I look. So I have to use my phone as a flashlight to navigate out. However, I first stood there and listened to most of the song in darkness. Like most music, it sounded better in the dark.

And all my uphill clawing

“Don't say anything yet, I wanna go first, seeing as how I brought the ferris wheel”

This blog is mostly for me, I think. Even if ten-thousand people read this, maybe a few would recognize the above quote. It’s from Everwood, possibly the most underrated show. It’s from the last episode, which brought me to tears. Love stories—good love stories, real love stories—get to me.

The following quote is also from Everwood. I find it all too true. Even essential for us as people.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm not sure who the first person was who said that. Probably Shakespeare. Or maybe Sting.

I don't think I'm alone in this. The more I get to know other people, the more I realize it's kind of everyone's flaw. Staying exactly the same for as long as possible, standing perfectly still... It feels better somehow. And if you are suffering, at least the pain is familiar. Because if you took that leap of faith, went outside the box, did something unexpected... Who knows what other pain might be waiting out there. Chances are it could be even worse.

So you maintain the status quo. Choose the road already traveled and it doesn't seem that bad. Not as far as flaws go. You're not a drug addict. You're not killing anyone... Except maybe yourself a little.
When we finally do change, I don't think it happens like an earthquake or an explosion, where all of a sudden we're like this different person. I think it's smaller than that. The kind of thing most people wouldn't even notice unless they looked at us really, really close. Which, thank God, they never do. But you notice it. Inside you that change feels like a world of difference. And you hope this is it. This is the person you get to be forever... that you'll never have to change again.”

Writing stems from emotion. Happiness, grief, joy, misery, pleasure, pain, hate, love. Writing feeds off our emotion, and we feed off our writing. The words become everything, a life of their own, and for a moment, or hours, everything is good. We sit awake late at night writing and thinking, knowing we should sleep. Sleep to forget, some nights. To escape, some nights. To heal, some nights. Or to just rest, to just sleep. Tonight’s one of those nights that I’d like to sleep for many reasons, but like too many others nights, I find myself lying in darkness, the only light being that of my laptop. It’s set to dim, the light almost gray. It’s probably bad for my eyes, but I’ve always been a night person.

I’ve been listening to the same song for hours now, and that's what this blog is about. A song. This isn’t the first night I’ve done it, and it will likely not be the last. I’ve listened to this song hundreds of times. It’s become deeply imbedded in my life, a part of me more than almost anything else.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sFzEZ3fG1Nc

This is the song, but it’s not just a song. It’s the most beautiful piece of artwork to ever exist. I’ve seen John Martin—my favorite artist—paintings across the world, and I’ve read hundreds of books, poems, and other forms of media. I’ve seen beautiful television and movies, and I listen to more music than anyone I know. I compose. I create. I observe. This song stands high above everything else I’ve ever experienced. It’s, in many ways, my savior and saving grace. I’m not a religious man, but I am highly spiritual. I believe this song was written to help me through those times when everything else doesn’t help, when I’m confused or lost or hurt, and even happy. When, for once, just once, I would like life to lend me a hand.

I’m trying here. I’m really trying.  

For those who know me well, and who hung with me last summer, they know that I pretty much vanished for awhile and became someone I disliked. I was depressed, which I never am, and I let life drag me down much to my regret. I drank too much too often. I was dumb, weak, stupid, and I’ll never go there again. Life fucked me rather hard, partially due to my own desires and me being too trusting in others, believing we all want the same thing, believing that people are genuinely good when that's so rarely true. I've become less trusting, more guarded if you can believe that, and now I...wait. Waiting is easy when you know you won’t wait forever. It’s easy when you know you’re waiting for the right reasons.

Everything happens for a reason. That’s been said thousands of times, and the more time that passes, the more I experience from life, the more things that are thrown at me and keep knocking me down, the more I believe it. Everything does happen for a reason, and maybe, someday, life just clicks and is good, the way you’ve always wanted it to be. It just takes time, and patience, and belief, and trust, and something to help you along the way. If you’re reading this, someone, and you got this far, I hope you listened to the song. I know it won’t affect everyone the same way, and it will likely touch no one like it’s touched me, but I’ve never known a fan of music to simply dismiss it. Maybe I'm helping someone by sharing it here. That's a pleasant thought.

The song goes beyond words, to feeling, to something you know and feel deep inside and cannot express with mere words. Me, a writer, admitting that words sometimes cannot explain everything. Then again, I can’t seem to explain any of the things most important to me.

There's a lot of Aliens up in here.

“I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it. Michael N. Schrage’s, of course, but apparently he rose from the dead yet again.” – Mark Twain

            When I was younger I was abducted by aliens.

That’s always a good way to start a first date. Just let the girl know you’re somewhat insane. All joking aside, part of me wonders if aliens truly did pay me a visit.

I have an irrational phobia yet obsession with aliens and everything associated with them. Phobia more than obsession. I’ve done more research than I care to admit, have my own beliefs (I’m not a crackpot conspiracy theorist, I hope), and consider myself well informed on a subject that really doesn’t let you be well informed. After all, it’s 99% speculative.

Back to my abduction. I have no proof, no memories, none of those crazy things so many “believers” bring up. No strange gray dudes or needles or shining lights or anything even remotely similar. I consider myself a skeptic in almost all categories, but in terms of life other than humans, in an infinitely large and infinitely expanding universe, I don’t understand how you cannot believe in other life. I mean, look at the recent developments in the String Theory and all of the realities that now supposedly exist. Wherever you are—everywhere—everything that can be happening in that location, is happening. Everything. Try to wrap your mind around that.

Back to my abduction…again.

One day, out of nowhere, I developed this unexplainable terror, and that I do remember very well. Early teens. Suddenly, I would go nowhere in my own house without a baseball bat or golf club. I didn’t just open doors. I kicked them open, raised my weapon, and charged inside expecting to me mugged by aliens. I slept with my lights and television on for weeks, refusing the darkness at all times. I jumped at every noise and would sometimes break down into tears for no reason. My mother asked me what was wrong, as my behavior was quite strange and very obvious, and I told her I was afraid aliens were going to abduct me. At this, of course, she laughed. I didn’t think it was very funny.

I no longer charge around the house with weapons and sleep with my lights on, but I do have a few strange habits attributed entirely to my past.

 I cannot sleep without curtains or sheets or sleeping bags—anything—covering my windows. The thought of sleeping any other way terrifies me. Far worse, if I ever enter my room at night, or really any room, and I do mean any, I always expect an alien to be waiting for me, just standing there in the center of my room, somehow rendering me powerless. Even now I’m covered in goose bumps, my hands shaking. Flipping on light switches at night, I cannot help but believe I will be illuminating a visitor. It makes me feel crazy.

The dreams are equally bad, yet always the same, so I guess I should just call it a dream. It’s one of my few reoccurring dreams—not nearly the worst, but the worst is something I don’t tell most people, as it seems silly and almost comical yet it terrifies me to no end. In my dream I wake up and look out of my bedroom window, or the downstairs window, and there’s an almost classic UFO hovering a few hundred feet above my lawn. The sky and horizon is red. Blood. It’s doomsday, and I’m about to either die or be saved by aliens. Then I wake up, sweating.

 I study dreams and the sleeping process far more than I study aliens, and while there’s many explanations for every dream, I won’t get into that. I don’t want to seem too crazy just yet.

Despite my phobia—I’m still not entirely comfortable calling it that—I watch UFO documentaries and alien movies quite frequently. They never truly bother me, with one exception, which my best friend can attest to. We were watching Signs in theaters, and you know the birthday scene? Everyone knows the birthday scene. While it happened, I experienced deja-vu of me already watching the scene happen before it happened. It’s hard to explain, but I nevertheless started hyperventilating, my face red and covered in tears as I couldn’t stop shaking and couldn’t start breathing. Jim kept asking me what the fuck was wrong. It was rather funny, in a way, as my friend thought I was dying or something. The madness passed, and I was fine. Amazed, and frightened, but fine. I’ve watched Signs since, many times, always alone and in the dark. Such an amazing movie.

There’s more, a lot more, that I’m forgetting for some reason. I blame my exhaustion and the fact that allergies are destroying me today, for some reason. I like to place blame away from me. Rather than become frustrated from a lack of remembering, I’ll just stop it here and call this part one. That’s classy and leaves something to look forward to, as if more than two people read this. I’m beginning to think blogging is some strange sort of therapy, and that’s not a bad thing.

That Day I was almost Kidnapped and Sodomized.

“Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes. Behind Michael N. Schrage is a woman with a strapon.” - Jim Carrey

Damn you, Jim Carrey. I always knew I shouldn’t have invited you to that yacht party. You drank all my gin.

I know I promised aliens tonight, but then something exciting and new happened! Aliens will come tomorrow.

I was almost abducted! I think. But not by aliens. By a man in a van. Should I feel honored?

Tonight, around 9:30pm, I decided to go running. I live in the middle of nowhere. Well, I’m on a main road, but the main road runs through the middle of nowhere, so as long as I survive the 1/10^th mile of insane danger at night before the side roads, I should survive. I also have this nifty reflector vest that makes me look badass. I don’t wear a shirt under it, just this yellow white shiny tape vest thingy made of mesh. It’s so sexy.

So I’m running in near darkness, since this road has one street light per every mile plus. Also, and this seems to be a common thread but it always adds some distinct element, I’m texting while running, in darkness, and if you ever looked at an extremely bright light then peered into darkness, you know how blind you suddenly become. Yes, this seems safe, as I run into someone’s yard, then the woods.

It’s really safe. I promise.

Car lights suddenly shine behind me, from about a half-mile away. This is natural, as cards do occasionally drive this road at night. A few minutes pass…and the car lights are still behind me. The guy is likely driving five miles per hour, creeping down the road towards me as I round the slight curve, into the darkest part of the road, crowded by pine treesto both sides, and a graveyard. Super ironic!

I run for at least a half mile more, and he’s still behind me, closer than ever, close enough to floor it and probably kill me. Worse, I wouldn’t even hear it, since at that moment I’m listening to Blackguard (you should know this band if you don’t), and I can’t hear ANYTHING other than fucktastic music.

The car finally edges past me, ever so slowly, allowing me to clearly see it for the first time. Oh great. A van. Oh great. A van covered in ladders, gardening tools, and nets. This is wonderful. He’s going to throw a net on me, beat me with a shovel, stab me with a fucking rake, and put me in his rape van full of stuffed pandas and baby oil. Great. I’ve just finished watching season four of Dexter. I’m going to die. I’m not a small guy. 6’1, 170, not the easiest victim. But I know I’m defensesless against a man with a van like that. He probably has needles. And hatchets. Knives. Handcuffs—not the fluffy pink ones I adore sooo much. He’s going to stab me in the neck, and I’ll wake up covered in plastic, after he’s had his way with me. I knew my beauty was a curse! He’s going to stab me in the fucking face!

The van turns into the side road and just sits there for a few moments, then finally drives away, slowly. I continue running straight.

Of course I should have turned around, since a murderer was prowling after me, but I hadn’t ran the course of the entire road, and I didn’t want to seem like a pussy, afraid of a little old murderer, so I continued running, reached the stop sign, and turned around. I didn’t see the van again, and as you can tell, I’m still alive.

Mr. Poe And Me --Sort of like that Counting Crows song,

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Michael N. Schrage stood beside him, deep within his dreams similar to my own, of worlds beyond this small shell and lives not yet lived, of better existences than this and truths men has never known.” - Edgar Allen Poe

The above quote is one of my all-time favorite. For one, I love everything about Mr. Poe, and for two, I feel like I live the quote far too often. Many people, including myself at times, insist I live in a fantasy world, or that I at least practice escapism far too often, whether through writing, dreaming, music, or just plain thinking. That’s only because I prefer other worlds to this, as odd as that sounds. I guess that’s why I was born to write fantasy. I could rant more, but I don’t want to type it because I’m sleep exhausted and it’s probably not very interesting.

I wish I had more to share today, but yes, I’m tired, up and on the go since quite early. I arrived at work seven hours early, sighed, left, and went to the gym for a few hours, where I sighed, left, and returned home only to leave again in a few hours for work. Again. Working at a package store can be rather depressing and ironically sobering, especially when you’re working there with a degree. But everyone deals with shit and no one wants to hear about someone else dealing with shit unless that shit is funny. I prefer to be happy and pleasant on the outside.

Tomorrow I’m going to blog about aliens, of which I am somewhat of an expert. It will be epic.

Fuck titles. Hit golf balls.

"The consciousness of loving and being loved brings a warmth and richness to life that nothing else can bring. Other than Michael N. Schrage's caress and sweet, sweet lips and soft hands. There is nothing more warming, more fulfilling." Oscar Wilde

I promise I was not gay with too many famous icons.
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Today I attended my first and hopefully last PGA event—that’s pro golf.

Watching golf is horrible and tedious and somewhat hellish, plus I missed what would have certainly been an amazing time at the gym. However, I’m not here to bash golf. Well, sort of.

I was running late due to traffic and my car needing oil and gas, etc, etc, etc, so I drove quickly from the gates, my destination being an hour or so away. Of course, while driving far too quickly, I was also texting very frequently, drinking water from a filled gallon jug, and balancing my GPS (I cannot find my dashboard mount for it, so I hold it, or balance it against various objects in my car; it’s a very dangerous game). I assume I’m a better driver when I do multiple things at once; I’m considering the art of painting while driving.

Destination: Bloomfield, Connecticut…somewhere near Hartford in this strange land of neatly trimmed green grass fields and giant warehouses. GPS (I named her Nancy long ago) Nancy led me through the slums of West Hartford, through streets lined with mansions, and onto what should have been wilderness dirt roads in a matter of minutes. I hate Hartford. I thought I would be shot in a drive-by by one of various gangs, invited to a lavish mansion party where a beautiful older rich woman would assuredly make me do horrible things to her, and that my car would break down in the forest and rednecks would eat me—this, again, was in a span of five or so minutes. None of this happened, thankfully and regrettably.

Skip ahead. Justin and I arrive at the event, parking in some random old lady’s backyard, as she waves us in with a huge red flag. I comment that I love her patriotic shirt, covered in the American flag and whatnot. This is a lie; I detest American flag apparel and blankets and towels, but she was old and I thought she might have baked cookies or brownies for us. She had neither; this was the first of many ill omens.

I should also say that I knew beforehand that I would not enjoy live golf. However, I like doing things—anything—and I’m in the mindset that you should always do something at least once. Plus, I had not seen my good friend Justin in far too long.

We arrive and I quickly feel out of place. All golfers and golf fans look and talk alike; it’s disturbing. They’re preppy whereas I am anything but. They shake hands too often and tell unfunny jokes and laugh fake laughs and wear sunglasses that cost more than my entire wardrobe. Of course I’m stereotyping, but I stereotype everyone. A better writer than myself once told me it’s an author’s job to judge everyone before you know them.

Now the important stuff. I was promised free beer, so I immediately want free beer. Of course, I’m forced to walk for this free beer. This is a horrible travesty. So we walk somewhere.

First “golf experience”. All of a sudden some guys in red shirts are holding up their arms and everyone just stops and goes silent. What the fuck?! Did someone die? Is the news reporting a terrorist strike? Is Obama here? No, some golfer was just taking his putt. I knew golf was a gentleman’s sport, or something, but this quickly irritated me. This happened dozens of times all day, and one time my phone rang. I was pleased. Thank you, Abel. Yes, I’m aware you don’t read my blog. Jerk.

We finally find the place to eat, and we get some awesome VIP treatment because we’re badasses, with tons of free, amazing food and free drinks. I have a Shocktop. I enjoy Belgium wheats of all varieties. While getting my food, I managed to somehow shatter the ONLY tong-meat-grabber-thingy. And I mean shatter. I destroyed it.  I’m just holding it, and it breaks into like ten pieces, some of which manage to cut my hands. I have unnaturally soft hands, for those who do not know…I workout without gloves almost every day, get firewood during winter, etc, etc, and my hands are the softest hands anyone has ever felt. If you want to feel my hands, just ask me in person; I’m more than willing. One time my friend insisted I rub his mom’s arms to demonstrate to her my soft hands. I listened. It was interesting. Anyway, I just slowly moved away from the mangled tongs and pretended nothing happened.

At this point I was eating and drinking contently. Also, I was routinely texting a dear friend, insisting she keep me entertained while golf tries to kill me, as she’s an amazing conversationalist and I very much enjoy her. I was happy, but then I ran out of food and I didn’t want to seem like a pig. Then I finished my beer, and I didn’t want to seem like an alcoholic. Sir, you finished that beer in two minutes. Sure I did, but it was delicious and I wanted more. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO ENJOY GOLF SOBER! RAGE! RAWR! Then my friend stopped texting me. She fell asleep, likely from boredom vicariously lived through my boredom of golf. So no food, they wouldn’t let me carry more beer out of the fucking tent food area, and texting friend dropped the ball and left me to suffer. While Justin is always awesome to hang around with and quite amusing, I needed more help when my day revolved around watching golf.

You just sit, or stand, and watch two or three guys hit a ball. Everyone claps, or sighs. You can’t even see the ball in the air! It vanishes, as it’s going a thousand miles per hour. Then you walk more, and watch them do it again, and then you watch them miss putt after putt. I cannot see the appeal.

I entertained myself by thinking of various ways to making golf more interesting, and I every time I saw a black man, I asked Justin if he was Tiger Woods. This joke never got old.

Despite my many complaints, it was still worth doing, since I had not done it before, but it’s certainly nothing I’d ever pay for, or attend again. I guess I should have known. Even when I played par 3 golf, I’d bore quickly. After pushing my friend and his bags down the hills multiple times, and dragging my cart across the green, and using a driver on a par three and hitting the golf house, or the house across the street, or a car in the lot, or that house on top of the hill, or various other things not at all associated with golf, after all of this I should had assumed that golf is not for me.

Anyways, that’s all for today. I have a croquet tournament to attend. I fucking love croquet.

Rain

I’m unsure what to write about today, as nothing eventful has taken place and my insights into life are not insightful to anyone else but myself, as I have strange and carefree and forward ways of thinking. However, it’s raining today and I enjoy rain more than anyone I have ever met. It’s strange, I know, but sometimes I just go out in stand in it, or lay on the ground, or run, and once I wore just a pair of shorts, no shoes or anything, and sprinted deep into the forest for at least two miles. I returned bruised and cut from slipping down so many hills and whatnot, but I must admit, it was one of the best and most exhilarating moments of my life. I recall my sister looking at me like I was insane, asking me “What the fuck did you do?” Those are not her words, but that’s what I would have asked myself.

I read a science fiction story years ago, or maybe it was a dream; I often confuse the two, as well as real life. The story took place in a world where rain was constant, the sky forever overcast and bleak. I don’t recall much of the story’s plot—something about a massive storm—but the imagery was magnificent. Rain slipping down glass skyscrapers, mirroring a leaden and silvery world, women walking sodden streets with black trench coats beneath black umbrellas, makeup nonetheless running down their faces, smearing, staining beauty while all the while creating a new, tarnished sort of beauty. The most breathtaking beauty is often tarnished, in some way. Puddles reflecting the sky, or for those brief moments, those who stepped around or into the puddles. They say every puddle has a secret. I said that to an ex-girlfriend long ago, and she laughed wildly and told me I was insane. I don’t know why I remember that moment so well, and still, to this day, I sometimes repeat those words. By now I might even believe my absurdity. Grayed water running down street sides, eddying, white rapids vanishing into the darkness of drains as faint echoes stir whenever there is silence in the city, when a car does not pass and a voice does not shout. And when you gaze upwards, it’s almost like you can see forever, into and through layers upon layers of clouds. And the rain falls, the drops seemingly infinite and invisible until they’re almost close enough to feel. You hold out your hand, cupped, and in time a pool forms, rippling with every new drop. Long ago, my friend and I played outside in a rain storm, kicking puddles at each other. I missed and kicked the street hard enough to bloody my foot. I screamed, maybe cried, and then we went back to kicking puddles.

Tradition and Fiction

Today is the birth of a tradition. As my facebook friends know, I brush elbows with many famous people. I'm often asked, "How do you know so many celebrities!" My answer: "The celebrities know me." Then I wink. 

Thus, tradition. For now on I will be precursing my blogs with a quote, about me, said by one of my celebrity friends. Billy Shakespeare will start it off.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. I'd like to paint Michael N. Schrage with my kisses, a shame he's only into the Misses." --William Shakespeare

We’re good friends and known to get a bit rowdy after enough spirits.

Now for the meat of the blog. It’s a piece of flash fiction (500 or less words), and my first ever. I tend to write long novels, often 500+ pages, as well as many short stories, and even a bit of poetry. To me, flash fiction is similar to poetry, as you’re attempting to capture something in very few words, which often makes your word choice far more imperative. There’s something beautiful about trying to capture so much with so little. Hopefully it’s not awful.

Empty

The photo albums feel heavier than last time, weighing him down as he moves from closet to bed. The weight pains his arthritis, throbs in his hands and fingers, reminds him that these wrinkles came with age, and with age, pain. Longing. Remembrance. Loss.

The photo albums, three in all, are empty. No pictures, no letters or notes or ticket stubs, none of the usual things you’d find in photo albums. The pages blank, austere, the plastic still smelling fresh and new and meaningless. He looks at the albums to remind himself of all the things he hasn’t done, of all he has lost from never in the first place. He looks at the albums to regret.

He eases himself onto the bed, his back aching but hands feeling better with the albums beside him. He opens the first, the one with the red cover he loves so dearly. The memories, or lack of, are still fresh after all these years. The memories are good. They make him smile and weep. They make him wish for a younger self, a man who knew then what he knows now, and that is to never live without living.

Here should be the pictures of the wife he never married, the woman of his past; he had loved her—loved for so many years but never gave her his heart. Not fully.

She is beautiful on the first page, the day before they should have married, her eyes pale green and hair gentle curls of blond. He still remembers her—her face and smile, her fingers entwined with his, the smell of peppermint; she always had peppermints.

More pages: their wedding day, their first home, the vacation to the beach—which beach was it now? If only he could remember every detail of the life he had never lived, but was supposed to live.

If only he could hold on just a little longer, force the memories to resurface. Where are the pictures of the children he never had? The passing years as he stood by her side through the good and bad, sickness and health? Where is anything? His life? His dreams? So many empty pages, and one by one he turns them all, an occasional tear splashing soundlessly against the plastic.

He sighs and nearly shuts the album, barely able to remember why he opened it. It always hurts the deepest hurt.

Life’s too boring not to try, he had said, too late and wouldn’t have listened anyway. Life’s too short to let moments, opportunities, pass. Life’s just too short.

He flips through the pages until the last, where the lone picture lays against the bleak white. A picture of himself, weathered and wrecked and haunted. He lay in bed, only his face and hands showing above the white sheet, his eyes open yet vacant, his hands tightly clutching the red photo album against his chest. It lay open, empty.

Hot Dickings - A Bar of the Future, and the Past

So I want to open a bar combining two of my favorite things. Alcohol—mostly the consumption of it—and novels—not so much the consumption of them, unless in a metaphysical sense.

The name came to me in a dream, and by a dream I mean I was chatting on Facebook and decided I needed to open a bar entitled Hot Dickings. From there Charles Dickens immediately came to mind, and being an adulterous fan of puns, Hot Dickings was raised from the ashes just like Jesus when he rode the phoenix to defeat Paul and Peter. I am a biblical scholar in my spare time, of which I have none of.

I also enjoy futuristic themes, so the bar will be full of Dyson fans. For those unfamiliar with such fans…http://www.dyson.com/fans/    They are divine and I plan to spend hundreds of thousands on them alone, so that the entire bar is filled with Dyson fans. This includes Dyson ceiling fans, which are not yet invented but will be to suit my needs. Thank you Dyson.

Now to the bar themes.

Of course I’ll need A Tale of Two Cities theme, as it’s one of my favorites.

 It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way…

Is there a better opening paragraph to any novel? (I left the rest of the paragraph out because it’s not as stellar) The answer is no. Otherwise why would I ask myself or you, beloved reader, that question? I will create some sort of dichotomized room, or rooms, that represents the above passage in all ways. There will be the good and bad, darkness and light, winter and spring, heaven and hell! And it will be awesome and extremely expensive to maintain. Please attend my bar once it opens. I need you, beloved reader.

Great Expectations. I’m not sure what to do here, so suggestions are needed. I’m thinking multiple Pips, the young and the old, dressed to character and style at the time, harping about the value of money and hard work and love. I think I need to read this novel again, once I find the time. Either way, the Pips will be horribly annoying and often rash in their decision making. Please do not take offense.

The Oliver Twist theme will focus on the horrible conditions of child labor and the abysmal life of criminals and undertakers. This is sure to be a hit with the ladies and I personally suggest it for dates and even bridal parties. There is nothing more romantic than starving children and workhouses. Please use protection if arousal grows too strong.

Of course I cannot forget A Christmas Carol! This is rather self explanatory. There will be Christmas. There will be ghosts. There will be an angry old man who can time travel. There will be another old man, happier this time, throwing coins at people.

That’s all I have at the moment, but with these ideas alone the bar seems like an instant and sure success. I’ll probably need a few more themes, but this is an excellent start.

Also, we will have a specialty drink called the Hot Dickings. I’m not yet sure of the contents, but whatever it is, it will be on fire.

The Badger-May We Never Forget

            With yesterday’s blog being a smashing success, my friend pointed out the one major flaw that likely left many people wondering. Where was the mention of badgers (Taxidea taxus) and their effect on our current ecosystem? As you must know, badgers maintain our planet’s balance worldwide through stabilizing the ecology while providing a near flawless bionetwork upon which we survive and prosper. Let’s take a gander at a few fun facts pertaining to our furry friend.

·        Badgers, like the tyrannosaurus, are carnivores and are equally fearsome

·        Badgers have no predators, as they fuck shit up hardcore-like

·        Due to their superior intelligence, when the ecosystem unbalances, badgers systematically destroy whatever animal or plant is causing the unbalance

·        Badgers are adorable but not to cuddled; they hate nothing more than cuddling and are never afraid to tear the throat out of the cuddler

·        Badgers make excellent ambassadors

·        Badgers have an unnaturally long lifespan, ranging from 300-2000 years, and have existed since the dawn of time—they were once known as the “Time Keepers” and were thought to control time itself. Such facts are represented in ancient hieroglyphics as well as various passages of the Bible and similar holy texts

·        Contrary to popular misconceptions, badgers are not nocturnal. They, in fact, never sleep, but rather stoically guard the world against all perils

Now that you’re well educated—I’m sure you were already, as these are badgers we’re talking about—we can discuss their effect on our current ecosystem. However, no one wants to rehash facts that are common knowledge. That would seem too much like a textbook, and this is a blog, and blogs are fun fun fun—if you repeat the same word multiple times, its meaning is multiplied in importance and truth; this may or may not be a reoccurring theme.

That said, let’s hear it for our friend—and quite possibly our savior—the badger, as he scurries across the world, pawing his way to victory. In honor of the badger, I wrote this poem.

The badger is a helpful friend of which

not you or I compare. His nails are sharp

and fur is sleek, and his eyes, how they stare!

He saves our world against all odds through strength

and wisdom true. Without our friend we’d all

just die, and that would not be cool.

In the Beginning

Greetings and Salutations

I decided to start blogging because it seems like the cool thing to do for all aspiring authors, and as everyone knows, you should always submit to peer pressure: your friends will like you more and strangers will respect your coolness and often shower you with praise. Seeing that everyone wants to be praised, this is a good thing. Also, the idea of writing about writing depresses me for some reason, so this will not—ever?!—be focused on writing. No one would read that unless I was someone important.

I briefly discussed starting a blog over the weekend, as my friend and I visited North Carolina and DC for a national track meet followed by brief sightseeing in our nation’s capital. The idea became far more appealing as I was drinking Blue Moons in a train station at 1am while rambling about all the fucked up and sadistic things my friends and I did as children—the usual, like beating each other in the face with milk cartons full of rocks.

Anyway, I finally decided to start blogging, and while troubled that I might run out of things to write about, as I don’t do all that much that interests other people, I ultimately decided that I enjoy being heard and forcing others to listen. Sadly, it will take at least a week for me to reach a million followers, and perhaps two weeks until my word becomes truth rather than the ramblings of the insane and sleep deprived. Even then, I can’t force anyone to listen. Not yet at least.

That said, the first week or so will be the hardest and decide whether or not I continue this lifelong/spur of the moment dream/sudden fancy.  My hope is that I decide to quit and regrettably declare my resignation on my blog—it’s me, not you, I just don’t have the time to really make this work, but I want you to know how much you mean to me and that maybe, someday, when the time is right, we can make this work and everything will be just like it used to be, you know, back when we smiled and danced and went to lavish parties where we talked about The Great Gatsby and sipped pinot noir, except you always preferred the sweet whites, rieslings and moscatos and gewürztraminers, because they reminded you of the first time we met on the pier when a hurricane brewed out at sea, and you said, what was it? The wind tastes sweet, and you took a deep, exaggerated breath, like there’s an island out there in all that tempestuous darkness, an island of fine wines and blue skies, where all is right and all is good—and the following morning I wake up to find my lawn covered in devote fans and news reporters alike, all begging me to continue blogging. I decide that yes, I do owe it to my fans to continue. Cheers for minutes straight, thunderous claps of approval, men and women openly weeping and embracing one another. And all is right, and all is good.