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.

Day 189

Though our reach may only be an arms length, our aim should never stop short of the endless sky.
So on what foundation shall we build these dreams: the inconveniences of our day to day? The forked roads that confuse our moral compass? The snipes and shortcomings from our leaders, and the ethical bankruptcy in our superiors?
Will these be the groundwork from which our gardens should grow?
The harsheties of this life, may seem a strong base, but nothing lasting will grow upon stone.
Will we then seek out more fertile grounds?
Rich earth, not yet blighted by skepticism; near waters not yet poisoned by prejudice or insecurity?
And if it cannot be sought out, must we then shatter this seemingly solid top layer?
Dig down, to rise up ...
Look inward, whilst reaching out ...

Day 188

From walk, to crawl, to belly down upon the ground; a great rest was in the final stages of beginning.
It had been dutifully prepared for, the entire day prior. With toil and play, reciting and rehearsing, lamenting and laughing.
Now that the body lay upon solid surface and could sink no further; the final fall would bring them to a new space.
A mis-remembered time.
A double realm of inner workings, crafted from outward forces.
Alive and thriving, with complexity and extremity ... a shame it should all be gone by morning's light.
This is the miraculous tragedy of my every sleeping night.

Day 187

A desk clerk who crunches numbers in a hell dimension, is asked to cover for one of their colleagues.
This peak into the work they support is off putting to say the least.
Will Craig be able to go back to crunching numbers after covering limb collection on a hapless inmate?
Or will he have to ask for a transfer from HR?