Day 284

New high point of 2018:

I'm holding my tuckered out, 2 year old of a nephew - when out of nowhere he tells me he loves me.

I don't know what in life is better than that. But, if that's the best l get, it'll have been a life well lived ...

Day 283

And so our intrepid wanderer happened upon a stone too large to climb over, too heavy to move and too solid to break through.

All options exhausted, they had to face the reality of the situation: this impediment was simply too large to overcome.

So our hero forsook reality. They took several steps back until the boulder appeared no larger, in their view, than a simple throwing stone.

Our hero picked up this stone, formerly a boulder, and tossed it away.

The path now clear, the wanderer wandered on.

Day 282

Oh young(ish) hero, upon learning that our society's members are mostly possessed by several benign face hugging parasites - who block out most of the Lovecraft-ian horror surrounding them - chooses to weaponize their newfound enlightenment the only sensible way they can can in the 21st century: through their blog!

A millennial postmodern absurdist horrordramcomfanscifi.

Day 281

And so what do we lie awake to, wishing we weren't up beside?

Not the busy streets, still teeming with activity despite it being the night's time.

Not the pains in our own body; reminiscent of the day's labours done.

Not the nervous glee, at the prospect of morning's toil.

No.

None of this. 

It is that we are not yet worthy of our rest.

That if we were to just rush to the nearest blank page, with the promise to write just one thing more, then - certainly then- we might be deserving.

Of rest. Of reprieve. Of dreams...

We are , of course, worthy of rest.

We are all deserving of wondrous dreams, that they may inspire in us great acts.

That the indescribable colours kept in stock for the imagination's pallet, might be played with. That alien landscapes and sky ways and river fields and stills in motions might dazzle and befuddle our minds at rest. 

And then be forgotten upon waking.

As they must.

But that lingering residue that we will begrudgingly wipe away, along with the all too brief sleep of tomorrow morning, might leave us enough of a trail to entice.

To provoke.

To tease. To compel.

That. After waking we may tip our toe but one moment outside of perceived inevitability.

To fathom for an instant that thrillingly perverse coupling:

"What if?" 

Day 280

A pleasant reminder that, true, this can be difficult.

This doesn't mean it can't also be fun.

Day 279

An artists bio:

Mark Shmarkamark is a blark from Shpark park, Malark.
He's been Fark in Jark and Jark in Fark!
He hopes you enjoy tonight's presentation of Snark, and remember: "whatever your Vlark, don't forget to ZARK!"

Day 278

Another 3 word horror story

.

  .

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      .

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           .

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         .

        d

        n

           u                                                   

                o                                              D

                     r                        t                     o

                         a                 u                         n

                                          r                          '

                                       n                         t

Day 277

Another adult monster!

Okay. This one is sneaky and is particularly troublesome because of the creature's sense of timing.
It has a body made of soft silk, so you barely notice when it sneaks up to you, so tender it is.
The creature has a long harm with a retractable hand, like the arms you find on a claw machine in old arcades.
The creature get's close to you in times of comfort, like when your settling down in bed, or lounging on the couch watching tv.
It's silk body sidles up to you, maintaining your sense of comfort, then with it's claw hand: it reaches into the back of your head and grabs ahold of one of the many thoughts you have tucked away in the recesses of your mind.
The arm then pulls the thought up and out of your skull, before dropping it on your chest.
You can no longer sleep, nor enjoy the show, because you are suddenly faced with an existential conundrum you'd forgotten you were worried about. And will now spend hours fretting over.
I can't remember this little guys name.
But he's an @ssh0le that feeds on sleepless nights, and million mile stairs.

Day 276

Hopeful three word story:

There's
still
time   :-)

Day 275

Three word horror story:


                          I'M



                          NOT
                


                          DEAD!!!!!!!!!

Day 274

"When exactly did you start thinking you could save the world?"

"When did you start thinking you couldn't?"

Day 273

When you scratch at my cerebrum like that; do you know you're doing it?
I "No" scratch once. If "yes" stop long enough for me to sleep.
...

Day 272

A monster becomes a judge.
Not through magic, science or some other craft.
Simply because those with power want it so.
And so: it is.
But with this transformation comes a lesson.
This mockery of justice does not transform justice itself.
We see it is wrong and know it to be wrong. We know this.
They can lie to us, but we will not lie to ourselves.
A monster may become a judge, but in doing so does not become less a monster.
And with his supposed transfiguration: our sense of empathy, decency and humanity is not shook.
It cannot be. Because we can no longer trust those that we once expected to uphold these values.
We must hold ourselves together.

Day 271

Outside the gates of the city - where sociopolitical collapse, climate change, rebellion, civil war and nasty language was all going on - a grown sits.
He plays with toys he long ago outgrew, in games with no clear winner or loser.
He does this in earshot of all the chaos.
He had originally stepped out in the hopes of finding a solution, away from the problem.
But the more he thought about it, the more the problem seemed to big to handle.
So he didn't.
He sat and played.
It is not a good story.
Not a triumphant story.
It is not a story.
It simply is.

Day 270

A wearied soul leans up against a bus stop shelter.
The five minute wait time should read eternity.
The nine stops between this place and theirs should be in miles.
The distant percussive of the city scape, never fully felt but ever present, should just be a metronome.
Tick, click, swivel, and scrape and
the buzzing of the streetlamps should be a human hum.
Hmmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmmm.
And the wearied soul, should let weariness go, and show off the rest on their blistered soles
as a beat. Beat. Beat. Atapapa.
Hmmmmm-mmmhmm.
Step. Step.
Hmmmmm-mmmhmm.
Step. Together. Step. Together.
Hmmmmm-mmmhmm.
Step slide. Step slide
Twirl. STOMP!
Y'see even in this urban jungle. The steel-glass sea, where the weather varies:
from manic to oppressive
labyrinthine to depressive
depricating to e-e-excessive
We are, all of us, ever ready - ever eager - ever steady to step out of still sobriety, and step into something a lil more wacky
Flappy, angles and elevations, quakes -shakes, restabilization.
Sure we invented straight lines, knives and 9 to fives,
But we also created slinkys shake your tail feather nights and locomotion needs some motion, and motion's in emotion cause we can be moved even standing still!
At any moment of a moment, pre post or middle, we find we're going to break out and move to the music
because we're no longer worried or hurried about missing out on the next flurry of street cars coming or that shuttle coming soon and dancing's not the most direct means of transportion, but without a doubt or speculation I can vouch it being more fun then any modern relocation its-
PSHHH.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Kshhhhhh.
"Please wait for other passengers to exit, before entering the bus."
Step. Step.
Close.
VROOOOOOOoooooooooommmmm...........

Day 269

Just a reminder that we adapt to our environments.

If you find yourself in the midst of things you despise and dread, you may very well become a creature capable of enduring it.

But then what might you be, then?

So please, whenever possible, remove yourself from the dark caverns.

Do not learn to live without the light...

Day 268

Several notes are discovered from a handful of humans, each notes from a person of a different age.

The youngest wonders what the reader may be like. They speculate and offer their versions of what the alien reader may look like.

"You have three noses, on for food, one for flowers and one for bathrooms. Also you like hats!"

There is charm in this naivety.

The older writers are more keen on asking questions in the hopes of answers.

They no longer care what the reader maybe or possess, only that they reciprocate.

"Dialogue can't be solitary!" An eager hand writes.

Desperation for some form of correspondence escalates as the senders get older; some go so far as to attribute everyday occurrences in their own lives as the reader's response in code.

"I felt as if you were that thrush of birds  escaping that fire storm. Was that you beside me I the evacuation?"

It was not. It never was you.

At a certain point, the goal of he letters shift, from wanting to have a dialogue, to simply wanting to leave evidence of having called out at all.

These would be found in the oldest of correspondents.

"I know now that I will likely never receive an answer, and the thought no longer troubles me. I also no longer dread that my musings may never meet another's eyes, though I should lament such a waste of ink and thought.

So with nothing more than hope of discovery, I write to you.

I will not expect a return, though I shouldn't mind receiving one if you are in the area.

I hope whomever you are, you appreciate that someone over. Here wanted to meet you very much. But will have to take consolation that I was simply too early for you.

A pity. I should have liked to have known whether or not. You in fact did like hats ... the number of noses is less prudent."

It turns out that every letter, every correspondence you've been pouring over, had come from the same person.

They had simply been writing you their entire lives.

Day 267

My god, when did you all stop being explorers?
When did the natural curiosities, which have brought you this far, dry up and leave you complacent?
Did the horizon lose its luster?!
What in this place and time, made you stop and say far enough?
I see in you no contentment. No peace. If you had peace, would you so rally around this fork tongued peddler, and his offers of a return to better times?!
What better times?!
The times have always been leading to now. They were never better.
Better was always the promise of the next part. The future.
What you reminisce on now, is the vision of today, not yet realized. Only looked upon.
An the sight of a thing can sometimes be more alluring, the farther away it is.
But it will never compare to being beside it.
Being in the presence of the moment itself!
So what does the next moment look like?
Not just for you or I: but for all?
Where will we go next?
That is what he cannot sell you, and why he doesn't even dare try.
Because no one can sell you tomorrow. It's up to you to take it.

Day 266

I want to be an optimist. Right now. In this moment. Hearing you say the things your saying - I want to believe that you're doing all of this for some kind of better world for anyone other than yourself.
That beneath the blatant selfishness of your actions, there resonates an altruistic spirit.
A genuine desire to see this world better off than how we came into it.
I want to believe it.
Truly, I do.
But every time you widen that gaping maw, I am overwhelmed by the flood of profanity that is "your frank opinion" about human beings; and I am left with no other option than to see you as you appear to be: a monster.

Day 265

I did it!
It only took off days/weeks/months of my life but I finally made it onto the online leaderboard of an online game, which I would know none of the other players by name or even sight, and my record will likely be beaten by someone who doesn't have to stop playing for work!
...
...
... I may have made an error.

Day 264

Long ago, when you were so very small and the world still very large - though, how large you could not yet know - you were cared for and look after by giants.
You may not remember. It was a very long time ago.
But they were there and so were you.
They held you in the palm of their hand. They covered you from falling rain and warmed you with sheets of fabric plucked from high places.
Everything you once were, was bundled up and cradled by the most powerful arms in existence.
You look around you now, no longer small, and you wonder where all the giants have gone.
Those titans of your youth, who held back a world of elements from your fresh skin.
Them that kept the wolves and fanged creature away from your tiny fingers and wriggling toes.
These great mammoths who could lift you up over any crossing, or place you down from insurmountable peaks.
They are not longer here ... and the realization will sadden you.
It should.
For an entire people that were once the most impressive thing in the universe has vanished.
It did so gradually and at the same time: all at once.
And you can't pinpoint the day between population and extinction.
You just, sort of noticed that you hadn't noticed until today.
So.
Really once must ask: where did all the giants go?

Day 190

Hey this is me/you sending a message from me (also you) to you (who is also me) 4 months in the future.

I'm still here, meaning you are still here. Meaning the world is still here. So try not to worry about that so much.
Okay?
Great!

Also, it is right now getting cooler outside, so I beat the heat.
Meaning you will beat the heat.
You will complain about it though.
I still do ... *sigh*

Day 263

There is no guarantee that you are not a dream.
That the world you embody is not simply the subconscious summons of a 30 year old author not yet ready to awake.
The only way to be sure, is when all this ends. You will either end, as dreams do, or awaken and forget all of this in time.

This scenario is not only beyond your knowing, it is beyond your control.
What is in your control, is the dream. This moment before waking.
So before Summer falls to Autumn, followed closely by Winter and spring, ask yourself this: will it be a good dream?

What if dreams occurred around us in the real world. Interacting with real people.
Just subconscious whatever s coming busting into the supermarket, you strike up a conversation and then: POOF! Looks like that IT person woke up from their power nap, back to work for them and you have to deal with the fact that you were making small talk with a subconscious projection.

Day 262

After just one night's stay, a man checks out of his modest motel room.
Upon returning the keys he compliments the front desk clerk on her accent.
She brushes he comment aside politely; not at all interested in a banal conversation about her life's path from an ocean side hamlet, to a road side motel that straddles the county line.
The man then asks if he should go there, as he is currently without a destination and a big body of water sounds appealing.
Humoring him, she answers that she's only seen the one ocean, but hears the other one might be better.
The man appears to think on this statement, before reaching into his pocket and flipping a coin. He catches it in the hand that flicked it. Upon revealing a heads side up result, the man seems to come to a conclusion.
He tells the desk clerk he'll let her know for sure the next time he see's her.
The man hops on a bicycle, and heads out. Apparently in search of an ocean.
The private eye who, will soon come to this motel in search of the wanderer, will assume all of this was a deliberate attempt to shake any would be pursuers.
This is untrue. As the wanderer has no clue so many people are seeking him.
He simply is a man in search of a destination.

Day 261

The kindly clock maker closes his shop just as the sun begins to set.
And as with most days, he descends to the basement to tinker with an ongoing project, a beautiful carriage clock he had been repairing for weeks. Not for commission, simply for the fun of it.
But just as his tools are laid out, and his bi-optics donned - the man's fun is disrupted by four distinct knocks.
The clocksmith calls out:
"The hour is late, and my minute hand needs tending."
A deliberate pause is felt, before a harsh voice replies:
"Forgive the hour, but my second hand is slowing and time is nearly out. Could the smithy be bothered?"
The old artisan sighed, before replacing his delicate instruments for tools of a clumsier make.
"No bother at all!" The old man replies.
He heads to the back door, burdened with purpose.
It is at this time, like every time before, that he must remind himself: a rebellion without bloodshed, is merely a tantrum.
He had skills, and they were of use to this cause.
And after all, torture isn't so different from mending watches.

Day 260

Waiting. The only thing worse than waiting for a stranger to arrive, is waiting in a greasy spoon that can't even get coffee right.|I try to stall as long as possible by looking over the crusty menu a couple more times,  but the pushy server keep rattling off the specials every time she overfills my cup of black tar.
I settle on the soup and sandwich. The server assures me that my sandwich is made with miracle whip instead of butter, because here they treat their diners. "Like what?" I don't ask.
Instead I check the watch on my left hand, while subtly dropping my right to the loaded cannon on my hip.
I make a note of the time, and vow to clear out the entire kitchen staff if my guest doesn't arrive in the next 15 minutes.
This is generosity on my part.
if the food arrives before than, I may have to start shooting then.
Better that, than actually eating the food.

Day 259

A street dancer, a spray paint artist and a living statue may seem like the setup to a weird dad joke - and it may very well be - but more than that: it is the team assembled for a divine purpose.
To steal from one of the most notorious money launderers this city has ever seen.
So maybe throw more than an empty condom wrapper in the hat next time?

Day 258

"Never, never, never get in a fight with an ugly person. No one ever tell you that? You know why don'tcha? They got nothing to lose. Case in point my acne scarred forehead vs your divinely shaped nose - like that's a beautiful nose. Do you breathe through that thing, or is it purely decorative? Doesn't matter. Now I head but you: centre of your gorgeous mug, It's like throwing a turd at a painting. The turd - my face - is still a turd. But that work of art - your face - has depreciates. Irreversibly so. Now you may beat me, you may even kill me. No loss, I've already buried my mother - may she roast in piece - but you. If you start this, I guarantee you'll remember me every time you have to do a double take at a reflective surface. Cause there's no way that can be you, right?"

Day 257

A night at the symphony should be a pleasant affair, at worst. Certainly if one is attending while seated in their private box.
But had this patron known this would be the final sound he would hear, he might have spent less time ogling the second chair violinist, and more time enjoying Holst's 32nd Opus.
He may have even found some somber amusement at the irony he should die during a rendition of "Saturn, Bringer of Old Age.
I say may have, but my uncle rarely put that kind of thought into things.
More likely such an observation would have to be pointed out to him.
Probably by me.

Day 256

A man's debts catch up with him.
The beatings inflicted by his lenders will not be enough, this time.
And so he is used in experiment, to test whether humans, under duress can fly.
They conduct this by throwing him off a tall cliff to the rocky waters below.
The results are predictable for the most part, as the man plummets to an impending end.
In the brief moment before the liquid surface is broken by the falling mass, however, a miracle occurs.
No, he does not sprout wings.
But he does hover, the moment before impact, to come face to face with his own reflection.
This suspended moment is accompanied by an unfamiliar voice, offering a deal.
The terms: swap places with the man you see, and you will be spared the impact of the fall.
Accustomed to taking on deals without questioning the possible fallout, the debtor accepts.
He is now his reflections, and he is no longer falling towards the surface, but being pulled away from it, on the inverse side.
Even though he is surrounded by water, he does not fear drowning.
He fears very little.
He has dodged another debt, but where will this one lead?
How far will this one drag him down. Or up? It's hard to tell on this side of things.

Day 255

A freshly tailored suit is worn after a luxurious pampering: a shave, a haircut, a pedicure, the works.
The man was not used to such indulgences, but the occasion called for it. He was attending a party, after all.
He had an invitation, despite not being invited, to a fundraising gala at one of the most elegant homes in the province.
The glamour and exclusivity of the event, meant little to the suited fellow.
The guest list, however, meant a great deal.
Particularly four names.
As he tested the sharpness of his concealed knife, the man wondered whether he should bring a gift ... or would that be weird?

Day 254

A late night on a not so busy city street; the faint whines of a cell phone is barely heard through the downpour of rain.
A body - not yet a corpse - struggles to drag itself to the nearby ringing, where only a moment ago their business associate stood. Alive. Complaining about wet socks and running noses. Good times.
A ringing phone is a torturous sound at the best of circumstances; this was that but as a three act play by Pinter. Torture over moments uncountable; insistent of its own significance and necessity, but ultimately just long and agonizing. And frustrating.
Each precious inch of ground gripped by the wounded figure, came at a cost.
Paid in effort. Paid in pain. Paid in blood leaking out of the numerous holes, freshly inflicted.
The only way in which this could get worse, is if the insistent caller on the other end, turned out to be a robo-dialer offering air miles.
An appropriate end to this cluster fuck of an evening.

Day 253

The man sat upon the final piece of land the locals had afforded him: an overgrown patch of wood not even the animals would inhabit.
Before this they had removed him from a house on the outskirts of town, before that they had ejected him from a house in town. And judging from the noise of several armed men approaching, even in this they could not leave him.
He looked around him, as before, for some semblance of understanding for his would be evictors.
But out here he could find no pity for them.
All that he could see was the fire before him, and the wood surrounding him.
And so, with no empathy to be found, our man set out to welcome his pursuers with all that was left to him.

Day 252

It was not at all like the movies have represented it - getting mugged.
For one thing, it was a lot quieter with much less dialogue than I had come to expect.
For another, the panic in the three hooded strangers was very palatable.
Don't get me wrong, they were also intimidating, sticks and clubs in hand while steadily encircling me.
But my fear of them was over whelmed by my pity for them.
The panic I felt in them.
I felt it when the first one lunged at me, I felt it when I when I broke his nose, I felt it when I broke the second ones neck, I felt it with every shuddering impact as I beat the third one to death with his own club.
All I could feel was their panic and doubt with this scenario.
I'm sure if they weren't dead, they would agree: this was nothing like the movies.
I suppose because this isn't a movie.

Day 251

In your dream she is driving, while you rest in the passenger's seat beside her.
She is concentrating on the road, but steals a glance in your direction when she feels you staring at her.
In your dream she smiles sweetly at you before asking you to "say something nice."
Before you can answer her, there is a sudden and terrible crash: there are no survivors.
This is true to life, as well as in your dream.
The only difference is you were never really in the passenger's seat of the car, because she had was driving alone while you were in your home.
Wishing, between long drinks, that you could have told her something nice.

Day 250

Snow falls heavily upon what, only moments ago, was an autumn trail.
The traveler slips upon the slick incline, while struggling to protect their precious cargo: a delicate bundle wrapped in cloths.
The newly minted messenger checks to make sure there is no harm.
They risk a moments breath, before stealing a glance at the parcel.
Satisfied, they tighten their flimsy cloak and defy the elements.
Making silent vows to no one and everyone, that they shall deliver this package.

Day 249

A man awakens in an empty coffee shop.
His mug is empty, which is understandable, since he'd had to fill the first cup himself.
The man leaves a generous tip upon exiting; mostly out of habit. But who knows, someone may need to start work immediately after the rapture ...
As he starts his car, the man takes a look at the desolate town, now void of populace.
The sight might summon tears in the man, except he'd ripped the last of them out of his eyes the night before, when he buried his wife in their backyard.

Day 248

A kindly old man in a sharp white suit holds a door open for a mother and her two children, before making to board his train.
This genteel fellow smiles and hums all the while, giving any onlooker the impression that he is, at worse, an affable eccentric.
Unless this hypothetical onlooker should closely inspect the sizeable ring upon the gentleman's left hand.
Those who wear jewelry, habitually remove it when washing or scrubbing their hands.
Even if they were wearing the ring, while beating to death a group of would be assassins, they may habitually remove said ring.
And blood gets everywhere.
In contrast, the suit was heavenly white.

Day 247

It was so easy, to a child's mind, to reach up and grab one of the brightest stars, then hold it close tho their chest in a warm embrace.
So why couldn't they just do that?
The child pondered and pondered and came to the following conclusion: the star was too far away and their arms were too short.
So the child reasoned, that they simply had to find a closer sky and reach it with longer arms.
Well nighttime waters, look an awful like the night sky up above. And the child's sister could reach all the highest shelves in the neighborhood.
All they needed to do was have their sister reach down and grab a star for them!
It couldn't fail!

Day 246

As I continued to slog through the manifestation of futility, known as cleaning my room, more and more I was faced with a disturbing notion.
That this may not actually be my room.
I recognized the eclectic collection of do-dads and accessories both as they were and where they came from. I can recall a time when I wore these strange combinations of outfits, though the memories were rarely recent.
Entire sections of my humble library were made up of unopened books. Scraps of paper upon which was scribbled in my had; words whose origin I cannot determine. Were these my thoughts once, or a message recorded at the behest of another.
Whose life had been living with these things?
What stranger occupied my space?
And what was more: who I was to feel such a foil to this nonperson?
Where was I to be found in all of this unrecognizable rubble?
And so, with all of these assorted nick-knacks and trinkets scattered about, I set out to assemble the puzzle that the pieces should show me.
Anything, to avoid actually cleaning my room...

Day 245

Don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he always wanted: he lived happily ever after."
And then the half mad genius with the giant heart flies off into the clouds with our hero as credits roll.
And the child I was, watches it all with a little sadness.
Because it's over.
They lived happily ever after.
And yet I'm sad.
I'm sad because it's ended.
Endings are sad. This is implanted in me from a young age, and whether I'm aware of it or not, I keep this notion with me.
But something else is linked to this bizarre notion: happiness endings are sad. Therefore: happiness is sad.
I fear and avoid happily ever after.
Because ever "ever after" is just another way of saying "till the end" and endings are still sad.
So, how do we embrace happiness?
Don't worry about the ever after, because that comes after. Just try to live happily.
Live for that flying machine.

Day 244

Oh eff it!
I'm a li'l bi drunk and a lot tired. So why not write anything.
I don't know has bee coming to mind more and more.
What do you want?
I don't know.
What would you change if you could change anything?
I don't know.
Where do you want to meet for coffee-
GODDAMMIT rule of three: I DON'T KNOW!

Day 243

I look forward to the day in which we recall that politicians are neither rulers, nor are they monarchs: they are employees.

They are not celebrities. They are not athletes.

They are rarely even skilled workers or tradespeople.

They are workers looking for a job.

They work for us.

You and I are supposed to look at their resumes, hold interviews, then determine who we think would be best equipped for the job.

We are not supposed to let them tell us who to hire.

We would all like to write our own reviews.

But if some of these shysters showed up for a job as a dishwasher; I'd doubt their competency!!!

Politician parties shouldn't be comparable to sports teams!!!

You want the job? Tell Me why!

Day 242

From the moment he could move his arms and legs individually from one another, he was a threat to all around him.
Born with the preternatural ability and instincts to inflict pain, he was more monster than man.
So, in order to make himself less of a threat, this would be monster weakened himself.
Each day serves as an opportunity to lessen himself. Dull his blades, gather rust upon his mettle.
Simply put: he disarms himself.
Like an addict banishing their vice, the man was a model of abstinence.
In time, he might even become truly helpless.
Unless something should disturb this self imposed exile.
Let us hope that never happens ...

Day 241

How long before we live our dreams, so that sleeping in no longer holds any incentive?
How much sand will you remove from the hour glass; to skip ahead to the next day at the cost of this one?
How many regrets are you hoping to add to your collection?
How long will you make the world wait for you?
How long will you wait for yourself?
When you wake up from this, remember one word:
enough.

Day 240

And now, a list of should haves:

I should have learned another language. Sure I have no need for it right now, but it could have made me a more intriguing character.

I should have bought groceries today, I'm gonna be kicking myself come my many midnight snacks.

I should have lied more, just to see if I could get away with it.

I should have gotten into letter writing, it might have become a habit. And distance wouldn't have so easily beaten back intimacy.

I should have said sorry less through all my day to day interactions, then said it the few times I didn't. That way an apology would have meant more, and maybe she wouldn't hate me.

I should have said stop, when I said nothing, maybe that kid's life would have been better for it.

I should have taken out out the compost, the fruit flies will be gathering, I'm sure.

I should have gone to bed sooner and I should have made more time before bed for something productive.

I should have been a dancer, a singer, a comedian, a poet and a soldier.

I should have done a lot of things.

And there is nothing to say I won't yet do some of them.

A should isn't necessarily not a could ...

But for for all the shoulds I can't do, this I should have done:

Every time you told yourself, by telling me, that your eyes were shit brown; I should have told you they were the colour of dirt. That in your eyes I could see promise. 

That they only need a seed of a dream, and that my blue eyes could water them and we could both watch how our dreams grow. 

That every time you look in the mirror, you should try to see what I see, that then you might fall in love with the idea of each and every tomorrow.

I should have said this aloud in a moment of no significance, in light of day when neither of us were expecting it.

I should have told you what I see, instead of just looking at you.

And maybe if I'd said it enough, you might believe it.

Maybe if I'd said it, I'd have believed it too.

This should can never be a could, because It would do more harm now than any good.

And my saying it now, doesn't make me say it then.

But hopefully, the next time I'm inclined to not speak, I'll remember this.

I'll remember you.

Day 239

Even though the sand from the top of the hour glass would eventually reach bottom, our hero was too eager to wait.
And so this naive child, toying with the fabric of time or lack of any other occupation, began to remove handfuls of sand from the top of his hour glass. This was his way of speeding up time.
He did not consider the consequences.
He did not care that by removing sand from the top, he would thereby be shortening each future turn.
He did not think to a time when he might want a longer stay.
He just knew that he wanted this turn to be done.

Day 238

A thief in the night is hiding beneath the desk of a random cubicle, on the middle floor of a tall office building.
This thief must be very quiet. Duh, thieves as a rule should be quiet, but this one must be particularly quiet at this particular time.
He is not alone.
He did not anticipate company, let alone this type of company.
Fuck. Why couldn't it have just been security? Or police?
First things first: get the fuck out.
Then, if you survive, decide whether or not to tell the world that monsters exist.
... or move on to the next target. Lived this long without them being a problem ...

Day 237

All the while, this valiant diver sought the furthest depths of the mysterious pool.
They fought against buoyancy, against darkness, against their own fatigue.
Now, they would find the last thing they must conquer, in order to keep going; for the tether safely fastened on the shores above was still tied around this little swimmer. A means to come back, when the milky waters became too encroaching. For the swimmer found they could not drown in this bizarre pool, but they could still lose their way... and so we come to the final enemy: fear.
Fear clothed in comfort, is still an enemy to all our goals.
The swimmer knew this, despite ignoring it.
If our diver would go no further than the rope allowed, then they could not claim to be an explorer, as they are only as far reaching as a rope.
Anchored to familiarity.
Time to cut the chord.
Knife unsheathed, rope bent, and a mighty pull from the swimmers arm was all it took; then a suspended calm.
A suspension neither this way or that, up nor down, floating or falling. Just, being there.
This was the first real moment of discovery for our diver. The first time they felt truly as though they'd found something new.
And all it took, was to let go of everything.
A moment's euphoria.
Then, very suddenly, they found themselves being pulled away.
Just: away.

Day 236

New fear:
An alien race who gain a euphoric release from the sounds of agony.
Much same way I do when I hear music.
Only the music is wails of agony.
And I'm indifferent to the pain. Because it sounds pretty.
What if my screams of agony are pretty sounding to someone or something in need of a boost?
What if I discover a boost from the sounds of suffering from something else?
What if I already am, and don't know it ... if I do know it, what then would I e willing to do?
I miss the monsters under the bed ...

Day 235

On a gorgeous summer day, a man is forced to work from home.
He wishes to take a break, but each time he gets near a window, it begins to turn to night and the beautiful day begins to vanish.
Only when he remains apart from it, does the day remain beautiful.
How to sneak up on the day: that becomes this man's mission...!

Day 234

She tells you that her grave should have a bird bath.
That way she can have pets to play with, when you can't visit.
You'd give her an entire zoo if she'd simply stay.
A child should not have to be so strong in the face of death.

Day 233

She chose to dine at this particular cafe for several reasons.
The most pertinent reason was obviously to be seen in public, whilst a church was simultaneously burning down and the heavy door of a precious vault was being blown from it's hinges - this well populated cafe offered the ideal alibi.
More so than being seen publicly, however, this particular restaurant had a hold over her.
First the unique lettering upon the sidewalk chalk board, describing the days specials.
Then atmosphere of the interior, whose decor offered a feeling of nostalgia that stuck the woman as a diner her parents may have once sworn to have met at in there youth. But would mistaken it for something now closed down.
What kept our soon to be proven innocent mastermind at this place, long after her whereabouts could be confirmed in face of any charge: was the server.
In another lifetime this charming individual, with little instruction and costume, could pass as the woman's twin.

Day 232

It is nearing midnight at the public square of our budding metropolis, when a mysterious figure steps out from the crowd.
An unseen band strikes up a rhythmic offering, all with instrument alien to the human ear.
The mysterious figure catches all attention and ceases the movement of bystanders, by simply striking a pose.
Then another. And another.
Then a dance begins; which inspires everyone, whether they are conscious of it or not, to join.

Day 231

A Just admit that your pissed because I hurt you.
B You hurt me?
A Yes I hurt you! And I'd apologize, but you're skull is so thick it wouldn't reach your brain even if it was an nail and I used a hammer.
B Well, much as we'd all love to see that, you have nothing to apologize for.
A Oh for fucks-
B You didn't hurt me. I did.
A You hurt me?
B I hurt me! I hurt myself, and I used you to do it. Now, much as I'd hate to disrupt the self loathing torture porn that you've got playing in the background of your day to day, I'm afraid I must correct you. You didn't hurt me, because you couldn't hurt me. You couldn't hurt me if you wanted to, because I would never let you get near enough to do it. You think your the killer and I'm the victim? Be absolved my child: my wounds are self inflicted. I swung my own skull onto a cliff face, not your fault being the fucking cliff! Had I the capacity to trust you, I might have been hurt by you. I might have been destroyed by you. But I wasn't. Because I didn't. Now you can either take off your homemade crown of thorns, or you can drag yourself over to Golgotha and hang out with the other martyrs. Whatever your self absorbed, self loathing, neurosis needs to be fed. Just leave me the hell out of it!
A ... so ... what I'm hearing ... is you never actually loved me.
B ... I loved you as much as I could. I still do. But I didn't trust you then, and I sure as hell don't trust you now. Now. Let me be fucked up in peace. You go be fucked up somewhere else ...

Day 230

Not a moment ago, the man had been sitting casually in his study, finalizing his accounts.
Now he was racing through the flaming halls of his burning estate, desperate for water to put out his smoldering robe.
Normally, his indoor pool would suit his needs, but alas, it was currently home to a hundred clambering hands; all longing to grab the man and pull him into oblivion, should he get too near.
Curses are a funny thing ...

Day 229

Bad escape game idea:
It's a perfect copy of your own room.
You have a list of chores you want to do, but by no means have to complete today. And a cartoon series from your childhood just became available on Netflix.
You stay long past the time limit.
No one comes to get you.
You just stay there.
You cannot escape, because you do not wish to escape...!

Day 228

A Well this has been swell, but it's nearly that time when I wake up.
B Is it?
A Yes, and although this has all been a dream, it has been a pleasant one.
B For me as well. I hope you remember it.
A As do I.
B ... if this is a dream-
A it is.
B And you do remember all of this.
A I hope to.
B When you wake up: could you come and find me?
A ... I'd like that.

Day 227

And on that day, when the lights went out, a child placed a message in a bottle.
The bottle carrying the message, was of little value, but it carried within a mighty howl.
For help, for deliverance, for the need to just be heard!
To be heard, if nothing else, by another living soul. Someone who could sympathize with a child who had nothing. Now, not even light.
With that in mind, this commonplace bottle containing a desperate cry, was thrown to the waters. No destination whatsoever, in the senders mind.
Simply find someone.
Such a simple wish, containing such a fraught invocation may not be able to defy the oceans ebb and flow, but it can hide from it. If only for awhile.
Long enough to be pulled by another little miracle.
A summoning by a girl, no longer a woman, who skipped a stone in the lake behind her once family home.
A stone skipped a total of seven times. The seventh skip collided with water concealing glass. The sound rings out, and the message finds a receiver.
An opportunity for the girl, no longer a woman, looking out at a brand new world.

Day 226

A Do you know why you're afraid of thunder?
B I'm not afraid-
A You are. Everyone that ever was has been afraid of thunder. Denying it doesn't help, only understanding it. Now: do you know why?
B ...
A You are afraid of it, because it shakes you. That simple.
B Wow. You come up with that on your own.
A It's true.
B Sure sure.
A It's true. Something you can not see, nor touch, comes at you very suddenly and fits itself into the spaces between the blocks you are built of and lives there. It invades you. Even if is just for a moment: you are invaded. And it doesn't matter what you say or what you do, you cannot prevent it. This thing does nothing to you, but you are frightened all the same. Imagine something that wanted to harm you. Imagine thunder that bites.
That's the universe you live in. And that is what you are afraid of.
B ... so you telling me this, this means I'm not afraid of nothing no more?
A Oh no, you'll be afraid regardless. But now you'll know why.
B ... fantastic.

Day 225

When indecision strikes and you wait until it is out of your hands, when time or circumstance makes a choice for you: there's a moment of relief.
Relief and release.
And if you're lucky, it will be enough to numb the shame of your cowardice for at least a moment.
Life is not lived in doorways.
Rooms are where life happens.
You lingering there will result in two things: either you will continue to linger, or the door will be closed, keeping you out.
Wither way, get out of the doorway.

Day 224

The now not so distant crash drew nearer, still.
And our protagonist remembered in himself that ancient fear. An inheritance left to him by his ancestors, who once looked to the dancing lights above in awe, only to withdraw to their caves in deference to the echoing roar.
His own childhood trauma of counting down the beats between flash emerged from time.
To think of thunder as a rolling drum, rather than the crashing footsteps of a behemoth, bent on crushing an innocent child.
One mississippi. Two mississippi. Three mississippi. Four-
Again. Closer than than it was before.
Closer himself to childhood than he'd been in decades.
A grown babe, clutching at anything to fight off a world bigger than himself.
No shelter from the noise.
No parents to stop the storm.
Nothing.
A child. A storm. And nothing else.

Day 223

A new service, provided by your local penny-farthing rider.
They will peddle down your local street, bringing with them an assortment of big balloons.
You'll know the rider is coming, by the sound of his unusual bell: that of an auto-tuned lynx.
When you hear that sound, you will see a great number of adults take to the streets, and should you continue to watch; a bizarre sight will be beheld.
At the front of the line of eager adults, an individual will be seen fitting their whole head into wide end of  gramophone horn. They inhale deeply, and by all appearances release a great roar.
I say by all appearances, because no roar will sound out.
Instead, the sound will carry through a series of tubes, each branching off and winding round several contraptions, before being siphoned off into various different balloons.
Relieved, the adult shall leave the line and return to their home, so the next in line might unburden a scream or a shout.
Each shout will fill up each balloon by a different amount, because each shout is composed of a different value.
Only the Penny-farthing rider knows the exact color coordination.
Just know that by the time every adult in the neighborhood has released their roars, the penny farthing rider will take their newly inflated collection of balloons away from your town.
And what they do with them ...
We haven't quite figured that part out yet ...!

Day 222

Because we cannot choose what will be remembered or recovered long after we are gone, and if this should be one such passage recovered from what will by then be considered ancient history:
There are very likely some misconceptions floating around, that I should like to clear up.
To start: we did not resurrect dinosaurs. Nor did we kill them after resurrecting them, neither for sport nor for food.
Dinosaurs aren't actually good hunting sport as the most adept tend to become the hunter themselves.
And dinosaur meat, as it turns out, cannot be cooked to a satisfying culinary temperature.
Furthermore, we were not privy to time travelers from the future. Only from the past - and they all got here the same way: the long way round.
Finally, I must shatter any illusions you may have regarding our discovery of any number of sleeping horrors in the depths of space.
I repeat, no slumbering ancients, leftover from a time when thought and form were still one and the same, have ever been discovered by the people of this time.
So if anyone in future days should be seeking such things out: cease and desist.
You are wasting your time.
There is nothing to look for.
Nothing to waken.
Nothing to find.


































Please stop looking for it.

Day 221

Log:
Today I thought the pile of dirty clothes had somehow gotten smaller, caused only by my own sheer force of will.
In reality, the pile only appeared smaller, because the nearby stack of dirty dishes had itself grown in size.
The ongoing quest to shape my reality without physically acting upon it, continues ...

Day 220

So gender inclusive bathrooms. No qualms. Do it up. Outhouses never needed labels, why should toilet stalls.
Here is all that I ask: tell me, before I choose which gender neutral/inclusive water closet, which has the urinals. Because the terror of hogging a whole bathroom stall, just to go tinkle while some else is waiting to take the full ride, is all too real for me. Add to that anxiety, the possibility of inconveniencing people that cannot pee standing up, and my heart might just backflip into my brain.

Day 219

A sleepy Haiku

Too early mornings.
Unheeded bedtimes echo.
How I miss my bed.

Day 218

I dreamt that I had slept in.
In the dream, my sleeping in was not only allowed, but necessitated.
My sleeping in was exactly what I should have done, and my doing so had further proven my competence and reliability in a far too unreliable world.
I then awoke.
Crushed by the reality that I would rather dream of sleep, than wake for dreams.

Day 217

And some mornings you wake up, and she's right there with you.
You thought she'd left. In fact you counted on her leaving.
Because it's hard to keep the dark in, when she's lighting everything up like that.
And you want it to be dark.
You need it to be dark.
Otherwise you'll see the dirty dishes on the desk.
And who knows; you might be compelled to clean them ...
She isn't really there with you.
She really did leave some time ago.
And you regret counting on her leaving.
It really is quite dark in here . . .

Day 216

It's hard to be openhearted and optimistic when talking about politics.
Especially when in conversation with people with opposite views.
It tends towards debate. Debate towards argument. Argument to fighting.
And the point of a fight is to win. Because we need there to be a winner. Even though we're all playing for the same team really.
But maybe that's why I've failed to engage.
It feels burdensome. A chain around the neck of the adult human. To be informed enough, so that you know there isn't a secret coup going on; while not being so informed you become CONVINCED there is a secret coup going on.
So what do I want to feel, when I think on politics and conversation.
Something like this: wow.
Everything is happening. All around. In real time. And I get to have a say in how it does!
We have a genuine opportunity to shape the world in which we live, and the world that we will leave behind?!
Let's do that! You and me, stranger. Let's decide, together what is important. Let's shape our world!
That kind of makes me want to vomit cotton candy.
But I hope I'm making myself clear: I want to be excited by the things that make me groan.
I want to want a better world, more than I want to avoid mud slinging.
And I'm impatient, because I want to make big changes now, to make up for all the little change I didn't make before yesterday.
So be patient with me, I don't really know what I'm doing.

Day 215

Because some people would rather kick over sand castles.
Because it's easier.
Because it was gonna fall over any way. So you mad?
Because I don't wanna make something.
Because it's just gonna break anyway.
Or it won't be good.
Or I won't be able to ...
Because making things is stupid!!!!
Because making things is hard.
Because the universe tends towards entropy. So to make something in the face of this, is rebellion. Creation is taking a stand against an opponent you'll never beat and doing it anyway.
To create takes courage.
To destroy is cowardly.
Because some people who kick over sand castles are cowards.
You know who you are.

Day 214

The universe speaks.
Those who know such things, know this to be true. They also know that there are only two ways in which to clearly hear what the universe is saying.
One way, is to hear everything in the universe making noise all at once.
This is not recommended as your head might explode from the effort.
The other method is slightly more achievable, and fortunately the language is, as you probably guessed, universal.
The other is to isolate yourself from all other things. Find yourself between the two parts of existence, in a snug little alcove of your own discovery.
Slow your breathing. Calm your heart.
Feel the stillness in between on beat and the next begin to grow.
The pause is slight, but if you can make room for it, and assure that not even the noise found in thought disturbs this temporary microcosm: you will feel it.
The whisper through your bones.
"I am here."

Day 213

In desperation, his digging gave way to simply clawing. His hands quickly going numb from the repetitive act.
Poor fool.
Would it be mercy, or malice to tell him the truth: that what he was actually digging through, was precisely what he had been digging for!

Day 212

If I should bring a child into this world, let them be plain. Let their non-remarkableness be the only remarkable thing about them.

Let them thrive without making a wave or enduring echo after the fact.

Let them never draw the gaze of the fates/furies/gods/producers/powerful/influential/awful/evil/corrupt/ravenous.

Let them be no target of unnecessary scandal, envy or lust.

Let them be strong and virtuous, but let their strengths and virtues be hidden from the eye of passersby; so only those that have earned an audience might see the oasis behind the mist.

I wish these things for my children that may never be, not because I think it should be this way, but because I fear them being remarkable in a world that is fast fattening itself off the flesh of the wondrous. The beautiful. 

This place is consuming the bells before they are given chance to bloom, and I find I am mourning the sights and smells that could have been, but never now will be. Why? Because if it only could have been, then it would have been.

If it would have been, it should have been.

And if it should have been…

If.

If I should bring a child into such a world, I would not know where to begin raising it up to survive shouldering the burden of its own amazement, in a world that has run out of its own supply ...

I wouldn’t.

So I shouldn’t ...

Day 211

I wanted to say something patriotic.
I'm sure I was feeling patriotic at some point today.
But now I can't, because I don't. I don't because you have a problem with a gender inclusive pronoun in the national anthem.
You, and a very loud and blustering group of indignants, who see yourselves as "real" patriots, have a problem changing all our sons command, to all of us command. You know, the original lyric from when it was originally written. But that's just historical fact, it get in the way of your efinition of heritage and tradition, I'll withdraw it.
You're so goddamn patriotic, that you decided that one word change from sons, to us, is one step TOO FAR!
That this change destroys YOUR country.
So to prove your undying and unquestionable pride in what Canada stands for, you will not be changing that one word. This is what you will be celebrating on Canada day. Stubborn masculine insistence.
Not Terry Fox racing against death on only one leg, not Leonard Cohen, not the blue puttees, Louis Riel, Universal Healthcare, not even the underground railway from slavery in the states or fucking poutine.
NO!
YOUR Canada lives and dies on whether or not our national anthem will continue to IGNORE 50.4 percent of the country or not.
There are genuine criticisms to be made about this country.
There are legitimately outrageous things to be pointed out about the current government.
And the voice of dissent is not only welcomed, it is necessary.
And you could be that voice. You could represent the ones harmed by unfavorable policy and ignored in bureaucratic oversight.
You could be a voice to save and preserve the best parts of this country and be champion to reconciling its faults.
Instead you choose this: to be mad about the lack of dick in your national anthem.
So thanks for dampening my Canadian spirit.
Enjoy singing the wrong words at every game for no reason.

Day 210

I should've known things were about to take a turn for the worst.
Mostly because the narrator said so ...

Day 209

If this is indeed a dream, and there is no evidence to suggest it isn't, I hope to one day find the dreamer.
That deep sleeper, who's eyes kept closed keeps this all going.
For if this is a dream, again no evidence to the contrary, then surely the dreamer would be in their own dream.
Because it is their dream.
I don't mean to awaken them, mind you.
Do not worry about that.
I am many things; self destructive is not one of them.
No. I simply wish to impart them with something. Something good.
Something significant. Something that, when they one day do awaken, and they will just as we all do; that some part of all this can come with them.
That the dream that I am, can serve as more than just a way to pass the night.
I don't know what that significant something might be, but that's alright.
Until I meet the dreamer, I shall continue to seek out significance in the dream.
If this is indeed a dream.

Day 208

C What in the hell were you waiting for?
D I don't know! Some kind of ...  dunno my turn.
C Your turn.
D An invitation.
C An invitation?!
D I figured I'd know what to do when it presented itself to me.
C Well isn't that just marvelously zen of you. When the opportunity presents itself, then action must needs- THE FUCK MAN! You looked outside recently? You stepped out the front door?That's your goddamn invitation.
You waking up this morning with your brain in your head, that's your invitation. Your parents birthing you and bringing you up in this stupid place THAT'S your invitation! You annoying little ameba, you.
DAlright I got it-
C DO YOU! Because your help, is sorely needed! By people! People who haven't had the luxury of waiting for a call to action, because it crashed through the delivery room they day they were hatched! You haven't been listening, you mutt! Either you didn't know about it, or you didn't care. And if you didn't know, now you do. So let this smack in the face serve as a formal invitation from the rest of the world, to cordially invite you to the party that has been going on for your entire fucking existence!
D Don't hit me.
C Oh no, I have to hit you. Because you need an invitation remember.
D I got it-
C No, you need a formal thing.
DI don't-
C THEN MARCH OUT THE DOOR AND GET IN THE GAME!
D OKAY! JUST DON'T HIT ME!

Day 207

A: It's um it's actually a funny story.
B: Then tell me a story. I am dying for a good one.
A:Well, um ... huh, maybe funny isn't the word you'll use ... but um
B: But it is a story isn't it?
A: Well
B: You know what makes up a story don't you?
A: Haha yes, I ... I do know that much.
B: See most people will say a beginning, middle and end.
A: I'd agree with them-
B: Most people are eeasily enchanted morons, who've never given a thought to anything in their day to day life.
A: I ... oh.
B: Y'see a story is a story because it's about a person going from a place of comfort, to a place of discomfort and emerging from the encounter: changed. Either for better or worse. Now some Hollywood types will try to puff it up with 3 act, five act, 22 steps to success hee haw - but they're slickers and shysters as far as I'm concerned and I don't want nothing to do with them, no sir. No I'm talking about the biological instinct felt by every human mind since fire got gifted to us. I'm talking evolutionary inheritance. You follow?
A: ... I
B: Of course you don't follow, we already established you're a moron. No offense.
A: N-none take-
B: Now take the story of you coming in here to deliver me some bad news. If you're the hero of our story and I do use the term hero generally here, you don't actually have to possess any qualities that may be categorized as heroic.
A: Oh good...
B: Our hero is faced with the task of having to deliver bad news to a man of power - benevolent and understanding though he may be - and naturally fears for his well being. This hero is flawed to say the least. Timid. Not personable.
A: I-I um I
B: Seems to develop a stutter now and then - nothing to be ashamed of, mind, simply something to be aware of - and upon coming face to face with this man of power, he determines to soften the unpleasantness of his deliverance with some strange tap dancing routine that begins with: funny story.A: ...
B: Only it's not a story you've come to deliver, it's a message. A message from someone I don't like and you know I don't like, so let us skip the part where you tell me exactly what my heartless little piss-ant of a brother did this time and we determine whether the change you get from the end of this story is in fact: better or worse.
A: ...
B: ...

Day 206

And that which they all feared had come to pass: the vulnerable masses who had for so long been forsaken; had found a new strength.
The table scraps paired with heaps of derision, could sustain them no longer.
And their former betters were now of no use to them.
These huddled masses had acquired a new taste. Offered to them by a more accommodating host.
They were hungry.
And they were no longer asking to be fed...

Day 205

And every day that cooky neighbor be heard, if not seen, practicing and polishing.
Rehearsing his speech or letter or rant: whatever he was calling it on any given day.
His appeal to the powers that be, he once called it.
A source of laughter among us, his neighbors.
It was a quirky little past time, a joke that every one could join in on.
But one day, he said he was running out of time, that the day was coming.
Again, we were each prepared to share in a laugh, except he asked us what we were planning to say.
And that stopped any mockery from even starting.
The absurdity of the notion was still laughable, but it got each of us thinking.
What would I say?
If the inter-dimensional complaints department did in fact come calling, what would I have to say?
What should my argument be to the universes' court of appeal?
A dangerous thing, to be tempted with some belief in individual agency.
It almost makes one wish they could speak up. And in speaking, be heard ...

Day 204

At some point in this odd dream, the grown man found himself face to face with his younger self.
The skinny child with chicken legs and no sense of what size clothes he should be wearing.
And it was only then that he realized, how much he truly hated this child.
Who he was, before he became himself.
How much he was angered at the thought of that kid.
Who talked to much and knew too little.
The shame of ignorance and innocence, that he had been running from for so long, now rushed through his veins like venom from an asp's fangs.
Shame. Shame. Shame.
He spat condemnation at the child, to release some of the poison's sting:
Why are you so slow?
Why are you so skinny?
Why aren't you fast?
Don't you know how much faster you'll need to be in the future?!
How come you couldn't get it right the first time?
Do you realize how hard you're making it for me, being they way you are?!
Why are you making everything harder for me!?
Do you hate me!?
Why do you hat me?!
Heavy breaths are interrupted by a shrill reply:
Why do you hate me? Responds skinny child, fighting back a lump in his skinny throat.
This child, whom the man could tell, was disgusted by what was before him.
What he would become. How sad. How pathetic. How disappointing.
Both child and man began to shout at each other:
Why can't you be better.
Why do I have to do all the work?
Why don't you do better!?
Why don't you be better?!
Why are you blaming me for everything!?
This is why everyone hates you!
Everyone hates you!
I HATE YOU!!!...
They see tears in each others eyes, and in those tears they see themselves.
The child lets his head fall, the man slumps to his knees.
They are both weighted by the guilt and shame of what they've done to each other.
To themselves.
They each want to comfort the other, but don't know how.
Each whispers to them self, but somehow say along with the other:
Why can't you care about me?
I want to be better.
I don't want to be ashamed of you, or you of me...
I want you to be proud of me.How do I make you proud of me?
How do I make you proud?
At this, the boy approaches the man he will one day be, and offers the only thing he can: a hug.
The man accepts.
And for the first time, feels the comfort that he would practice offering for his entire life.
Arms longer than he is tall, with long hands to support the shoulders of weary friends and travelers.
A deceptive strength to be found in such a skinny child.
He returns this embrace with his own.
The child is likewise comforted, now knowing that he will one day offer this support to those in need. Gentle yet firm, offering simultaneous support and shelter against an onslaught of burden and doubt.
They comfort each other.
They are both better for the other.
The man stands, while the child helps.
Both dry their tears.
Both part ways as they take a look back, in order to look forward.
With optimism and hope.
With gratitude and forgiveness.
With love.
With pride.

Day 203

And one day, he realized, his friend was gone.
It wasn't on a particular day, or in the wake of some memorable event.
No act or incident to speak of.
No argument was had, no conflict raced to a peak.
Simply that there was a time when this man had been his friend; and one day that time had passed.
It struck him as odd, that he was only just now realizing the state of things.
He felt he should have been informed.
Perhaps a letter ... or a word?

Day 202

He never said goodbye. Never told his old friend that they would never see each other again.
He simply left without a trace - save for this:
He shouted into a glass.
All the vitriol, frustration and anger that the friend had caused him in recent years emptied into the container until it shattered.
The pieces were then gathered up, crushed into a powder and left in an addressed envelope on the doorstep of the former friend.
He gave up his rage and let it be its own sacrifice upon the alter of a friendships ended.
Then, for better or worse, his life began anew.

Day 201

This just in: the chips are down, the die is cast, and the 11th hour just turned 12.
What if's, woulds and shoulds are no longer acceptable forms of currency.
Bill has come due. We reject all major credit cards.
Promise of a later payday will not be honored.
Because all some days have come to this day.
Here. And now.
This is the time of will or won't.
So.
Will you?
Or won't you?

Day 200

I am my father when I do the twist in the middle of a song that no sane person would be doing the twist to; because it's the most important dance move he ever taught me.

I am my father when I'm listening to you attentively, even if I don't know what the hell you're talking about:
I just want you to feel confident in your speaking.
I am my Father when you need a ride, and I offer without you having to ask.
I am my Father when you thank me and I tell you it's on the way - it isn't,

but my Dad wouldn't mind and neither do I.
I am my Father when I am making you laugh, because I can see you need cheering up.
I am my Father when I forgive your knuckle headed mistakes, because he forgave me a lot of mine.
When I show outward calm in the face of crisis, that's not me, it's my impression of my Dad.
Because I am my Father when I am brave:

whether comforting the teary eyed, or carrying a kid away from a car accident,

I exemplify him when the world starts to crumble.
I am my father when I befriend a stranger or engage in small talk. I am very much my Father if the small talk goes on too long.
If I help you, or cheer you, or comfort you, or save you; if you thank me for my kindness or my understanding, I will likely not accept it. Because it's not me you should be thanking.
It's my Dad.

Day 199

But in those moments, when paranoia would grip the young man so tightly, as to threaten his mind propelling outside of his own skull; he would run to the large mirror in his study.
At the hour of the wolf, neath twilight's glow, he would tremble before the large reflective piece.
Eyes closed, chanting softly to himself in silent prayer: "My face. Not your face. My face. Not your face. My face. ..."
Conjuring to his own mind, the image of what he knew himself to look like.
Then, when clearly burned upon the insides of his own eyelids, he would look into the portal and see if he was still himself.
Most nights he was, in which case he would smile through tears of relief and little chuckles would escape from his lips. Thn he would return to bed and sleep soundly.
On the nights when fear seized him, he would do this, and most often be satisfied.
... but not every night.
Not on this night.

Day 198

And sometimes, you find yourself at the center of a laughably painful contradiction.
A miraculous irony.
You are too tired to sleep!
You've sacrificed rest, put off restorative procedures, all as part of a bargain made to no one, just so you may force your way through a seventh day grind.
The grin is over, for now.
Now is rest.
And yet ...
Maybe you didn't know you were making this deal, but here you are awake in bed.
Dreading the possibility of greeting yet another predawn warm up of the natural world.
It begins with birds chirping - it might as well be a bells toll, for the dread such sound now brings to your inner ear.
It becomes painfully obvious to you, the blackened night giving way to a hideously serene blue, that your body has simply forgotten how to rest.
Whether due to lack of practice, or simply because you traded it away, you now dread the day to come ...

Day 197

She enjoyed herself.
This did not involve dancing, nor singing along, nor laughing uproariously.
But she did enjoy herself, as much as she was capable of, in that moment.
And though it may have seemed to you an underwhelming reaction, it meant more to her than all the jubilation she had expressed in days of old.
Then joy came easily. She could not appreciate it for all its excess.
Now a valuable rarity, its buying power meant she could buy at least one more day.
Just one more day.
Therefore, on this night, do not be downtrodden for failing to inspire everyone's ecstasy.
That she could gently sway when despair had rendered her immovable, that she smiled once to spite the fear in her heart, that she is afforded one more day by your work here this night - appreciate the joy they are capable of having.
Let them enjoy themselves the best they can.

Day 196

And then some days ... some days you worry about what would come out of your mouth if you just spoke up. And didn't think about it so much.
Who you might turn out to be, in that moment.
That's shame; that's insecurity.
The belief that the only thing keeping you from being truly monstrous, is keeping away from a microphone without some kind of script.

Day 195

There aren't a lot of mothers at the center of popular storytelling.
I mean they're their. They're just rarely the main character.
Probably because it isn't a relatable story. Not a human story.
We want our heroes to begin as a little selfish, a little broken. Sure they're brave, but they got a real confidence issue, or whatever.
And in the end they triumph, by destroying the mind controlling moon antenna setup by the shadow swarms; thereby saving the human race - and all because our little aryan savior learned to believe in himself and overcome his dyslexia.
Roll credits. Post credit teaser. Planned sequel never happens.
What about a woman whose story starts with her voluntarily ripping herself in half, just to bring a life into this world.
Where do you go from there? The bible may open with God creating everything, but it passes the reigns of the story off to little flawed hairless apes pretty damn quick.
Imagine a Mom blowing up the mind controlling moon antenna; that's not as impressive a climax, simply because in addition to giving life, she also has to raise it up into a productive member of society without fearing for the kid's day to day 24/7, all while being a productive member them self and you think something as simple as an invading alien swarm is gonna get in the way!
That's called an inconvenient commute, jackass!

What I'm saying is, have more mothers as the leading protagonist of your action flick.
If for no other reason that to get a gritty TGIF reunion special, where all the sitcom families are held hostage, all except the mothers. The moms have to take down this shadowy group of alien terrorists, but just when things look bleak, who's that back from the grave - the dead Mom from Full house!!! Because nobody. Fucks. With the babies.
Now back to bed, y'all got school in the morning.
Breakfast will be ready at 7.

Day 194

We may make it no farther than a few steps into this unknown wilderness, outside the comfort of this home built by our Fathers.
I am not so naive, anymore, to believe that we will break all boundaries in our quest.
I know that each curiosity pursued, will not see a conclusion.
No.
But in admitting this, I ask myself:  who shall begin, then?
I wonder upon those hapless travelers yet to come.
How we serve them in their journeys not yet started, and how we would be failing them to not break out of this comfort. This known quantity.
What do we do for those to come?
I have in me a fantastical fanatical fatalistic optimism: to try the door not yet tested.
And should that door open, it must either be shut again or walked through.
If walked through, a new story starts!
But if tried, opened and then closed again; no one may ever claim that the door has locked.
Is that not in itself a start?
Please.
Let you and I take these first steps together, so others may one day make the next.
Who knows what adventure we may by it; by simply showing a moments courage.

I await your answer in this.

Day 193

The day after:
We're still here.
It'll do ... for now.

Day 192

The day of:
Well, I was going to be opening this bottle of rum one way of another so . . . it's a wake then.
I will start by taking solace in the fact that democracy means the other guy gets to win from time to time.
So, democracy lives . . . there's that.
I also have faith that this system in place is too strong to be completely destroyed by one reckless man.
If it proves to be so fragile, I'll bring the duct tape along with 3 million of my friends and neighbors.
Now, in times of vast disappointment, such as this, I like to practice active choice.
Choosing how to respond to this large boulder rolling back down the hill I've been pushing it up, before going to fetch it again and roll it up once more.
In this moment before beginning again, I ask myself "who do I want to be right now."
I'm not entirely sure, but let's start with who I don't want to be:
I don't want to be angry. Or petty. Or spiteful towards my neighbors and fellow citizens, even though I am.
I don't want to blame anyone else, nor return to my default of taking full blame on myself - in the ongoing saga that is my egotistical attempts to be a saint while living.
I do want to hold myself accountable, because I know I can do better.
I do want to expect more from others, because I know we can all do better.
I don't want to tell people how they should feel or for long they should feel the way they do.
A great deal of people lost far more than me in light of this result, and I will not disrupt their grieving.
We have a diagnosis, treatment can only begin when we are ready . . .
I don't want to give way to anger and I don't want to face this disappointment with denial.
This is happening and it has happened and tomorrow won't change that anymore than wishing yesterday was different will, but that doesn't mean tomorrow won't be all the better for us having survived today.
After all, anything can happen: that is truth of every tomorrow to come.
More than all this: I want to be wrong!
I want to be so mistaken in my suspicions about the man now raised to his position, put there by populism and in spite of his moral and ethical destitution.
That his homophobic, anti misogynistic, autistic insulting & care home closing, widow robbing, racist rhetoric was just a show and that the man behind the curtain will be revealed just in time to save all of us in OZ.
I would be delighted to eat my ego in as many bites as it takes, to be proven wrong.
I want to be wrong, but I'm pretty sure I'm not.
I want to wake up tomorrow with solutions to combat these new problems.

I want to keep a promise I made to a room full of friends and strangers the last time such an event with this level of shock and despair blind sided me:
"I may not see the day when love conquers hate, but you can be damn sure my nephew will.
Because he deserves it. He deserves to live in such a world."
And now that I'm a double uncle, I will double down on that pledge.
You wanted the job, sir, you got it.
Now, you will answer to me.

Day 191

The day before:
I've a lot of anxiety building up to tomorrow. There's a fatalistic beauty in the idea that though one person may damage a community; it takes the efforts of everyone to sustain it. And somehow, despite the fragility of one such arrangement: we maintain it.
Yes: I am invoking optimism.
Because regardless of how tomorrow ends, I know it isn't the end.
Full disclosure, I've already voted.
Like you have done, or soon will do, I voted for one stranger out of a set. Someone I've never met, but who wants a job and seeks my approval to get it.
Now they may not get that job, despite my recommendation; and someone else may win in spite of my protestation.
But regardless of how tomorrow ends, it isn't the end.
An audition isn't the rehearsal, nor does it even come close to opening night of a run.
Pace yourself. Tomorrow, while important, is only the day before we start day one.