Shelter

I must have rolled over, adjusted my pillow, pulled the blankets up.

My tea was nearly finished when the hail started to come down like a gentle rain of salt. I left the diner then to enjoy its soothing massage, and the sound of it on the pavement was like confetti falling to the ground. After I’d been out walking for some time, after I was at my most vulnerable, the hail grew; beads, marbles, eyes, fists, heads. I turned and ran down an adjacent street. There were gazebos full of people, women inside unmoving vehicles and men underneath them, and nowhere for me to hide. The sound of the hail on the pavement was like cannonballs breaking through, startling me with every crash. A voice called to me from a tall building and I ran towards it like a beacon. When I reached the building’s entrance, a woman that I recognized begged me to come in, as though I were doing her the favour by coming out of the storm. She sat me down and offered me tea and took my coat, which I now noticed had been worn through by the hail.

I looked at my arm, my hands, my body; bruised, bleeding, broken.

She came back to the room with tea that warmed me right through, making me feel healed instantly even though I knew better than to believe that. It would take longer to be well after what I’d been through. I sipped my tea and thanked her for her kindness. She replied with a polite smile;

Really, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.

I could detect uncertainty in her voice and I knew that it was well-placed. Would I really have done something that kind for her, after all the years that passed by while I cringed at her memory? Still, I didn’t want to return to the storm, so I lowered my eyes and nodded to her. The awkwardness of the silence echoed in the room, from the walls and through the seat I was in, its reverberations shaking me first at the legs and then at my hands. My teacup trembled in my nervous hands but by the time I spilled it on my lap, it was cold and harmless. She looked at me, surprised, and wondered if she should get a cloth.

No, I don’t want to trouble you, I told her, it won’t be long until the storm lifts, then I’ll be on my way.

She looked at me, surprised, and wondered what storm I was talking about.

The hail, I said, and looked out a window, puzzled. There was no storm outside – not a single sign that there had ever even been one. I scratched my head and turned to her. She was holding my coat, waiting for me to step into it. I had insulted her and was now unwelcome. As I walked out the door, I looked up at the clear sky and wondered where the hail had come from, where it had gone. I tried once again to convince her that there had been a storm. She replied with a polite smile;

That must have been something else entirely.

I knew she was right. This time, she was right, and it all made sense. I thanked her for the tea and again for her kindness, and stepped out onto the pavement, where I heard my footsteps mix with the sound of confetti falling, and felt the soothing massage of salt once more.

The Haunting

There are people that are so detached from the world that they presume the world is detached from them. They are ghosts floating within the hollow of their bodies; an intangible presence haunting their lives. They guard themselves from emotion, refusing to feel its pain again, not realizing that they're also guarding themselves from happiness. I heard Steve say once – when he didn't know I was in the room – the years that you suffer are the best of your life because they make you who you are. These ghosts, though, hold on to that suffering like a shield and hide behind it. They don't let emotion through, good or bad, they just stop feeling. Hardly makes breathing worthwhile, doesn't it?

Fluttering

While I was sleeping, winter settled in around me. The trees became bare as their leaves fell to the ground, crumpling and crumbling on the way. I held one in my hands, protecting it from everything that wouldn't. When the frost finally lifted, the wind picked up. The leaf was pulled from my hands and drifted away in uncertain circles, and then, at its highest peak, its stem became a spine and on either side, wings. It fluttered them proudly, learned to fly, and pushed its way through the wind back to me. It would not sit in my hand again. It hovered out of reach as though I'd never protected it; as though I'd been keeping it prisoner. Now that I could no longer hold it, it became something greater; it was symbolic of something I wanted and something I wanted to be. It flew around me, boasting, beating its wings. Maybe that's all I am now.

Waking With Annoying Frequency

I became the unwitting victim of Miss Head Cold's malicious hand Wednesday afternoon, which should help explain why there was no post yesterday. Imagine me in bed, keyboard on my lap, trying to force a post that persistently resisted being posted. Really, I tried - a number of times - and it was wasted effort, and anybody that knows me knows that when I've contracted a head cold I immediately lose any semblance of intelligence I may have had. It's a very striking difference, really.

One of the good things about staying home sick, though, was that I finished reading Smoke and Mirrors. As I've come to expect from Neil Gaiman, his good writing is very, very good and his less-than-good writing is, well, less-than-good. In fact, at times I wish I'd never started the particular short story so that I wouldn't feel obligated to finish it, which I usually do and which I am usually less than thrilled about.

Last night I was in bed by 8, and I remember seeing the digits before the flashing colon at 12, 3, and 5; this leads me to believe that I did not have a good night's rest and is corroborated by the fact that today I'm awfully exhausted.

I don't think I'm quite over her yet. I suppose I'll need more vitamins.

Casual Pace

When I got in from dodgeball on Monday night, I saw that a rival set - BW - had tagged over the CV Crips graffiti along the fences in my back alley. Bunch of tough guys with poor penmanship going out to rep turf like mutts, trying to make it home before curfew. Looks like there's going to be a big gang war all up in my 'hood; probably soon, too, before all their snowballs melt. It's hard to have a gang war without snowballs.

Last night at the mall, before I met with her for coffee, I saw the man with the bone pendant again. He didn't know anybody, just kept circling the mall, passing by me at least three times, waiting for someone to say hello. Nobody did, and so he just kept moving, his pace casual, taking days between each step.

The Return

My surgery is currently set for May, although I'm told that I'm on a short-list of patients in case there are any cancellations. When the previously-mentioned professional told me that I'd need to get it done, she made it sound as if it were an emergency and I'd be cut open and convalescing by next week. As it turns out... no, it's not much of an emergency. Unless the meaning of the word changed to 'continue as normal'.

So now that I have the last of my things back from her, there aren't too many routes for us to take. She says that she wants us to stay friends - (oh, you've heard this one before, too?) - but I don't think she understands exactly what that means. In a lot of ways, friendships take more effort than relationships; even relationships of a specific nature. There are many intolerable things that she won't compromise on; not to save a friendship and certainly not to save my feelings. I know this for certain, even though I hope I'm wrong. And if in the end we realize that a friendship was just too unrealistic, it'll hurt, but I won't die. Just the usual emergency.

Not Out Of Interest

We caught eyes from across the crowded cafeteria, invading each other's comfort, both looking back frequently. Not out of interest, but out of curiosity.

Oh, I wonder if that woman is staring at me again.

Is that man looking at me? What about now?

So I left the cafeteria and went to the library. There, I opened my book of Writing Exercises and did two; one about a fictional pet and one about two people coming out of a building. They turned into fun little stories called Dragons Don't Write and From Majestics, respectively. Maybe I'll share them with you some day. Not because you're interested, but maybe you're curious.

Le soleil dans le ciel est brillant

My bedroom window faces East so I leave my window shade up at night for the sunrise to wake me up. When I sit in bed writing in the morning, the sun blinds me as it drifts across the sky. It's an uncomfortable way to write, with the light in my eyes as it is, but I still do anyway.

I apologize for pretending I had something good to say today.

The Waiting

When I really put my imagination to work, I can remember what it's like to not be constantly ill. It's been years since I've honestly known that feeling. To play 3-on-3 basketball for an hour without throwing up, to run up and down the Ultimate field for several minutes without wanting to.

I may have found a professional who is able to deal with this problem. It's somewhere deep in my head, specifically the jaw. One of my teeth has to be taken out - again - and a titanium rod put in its place. Four months after it heals, I can have a replacement tooth attached to the rod. And then once the antibiotics do what they do and my infection is cleared up, I may know the feeling of being well. I just wish I knew how long it will be.

A Humble Apology

They say that when you first start writing that you’re not writing for yourself. You’re writing for the reader, and you have to keep catering to the reader until you have enough notoriety to write for yourself. That hardly seems fair, writing for years and years in a certain specific style, confined to rules and restrictions, perfecting a craft that isn’t yours. It’s like teaching artists to trace, singers to lip sync. Apparently, though, this is how it’s done, as I'm often reminded. A formality, like tipping after a meal, or showering regularly.

Readers must be an awfully meek beast. They prefer things to be familiar and any kind of unexpected change loses their interest. Anything that makes them think makes them uncomfortable. I apologize if I’ve made any of you.

Think.

The Bone Pendant

There was a man last night sitting at a table near me while I scribbled away in my nondescript red binder. He was an older man; he reminded me a lot of Mr. Miyagi if Mr. Miyagi hadn’t kept in shape for several years. There was a chain around his neck, and pulling it low in the front was a tooth or a claw or some kind of sharp bone that someone would wear to let everyone know he was a mighty hunter who had traveled the earth fighting dangerous beasts. I, however, was sure that you could find the same thing quite easily with twenty-five dollars and a few hours at various garage sales.

He must have known every third person that walked by his table. People waved when they passed, or said hello, or sat with him for a few minutes. They exchanged insincere prattle sincerely, the same way you’d talk to someone you didn’t know well but whose face you recognized vaguely. Casual small talk, specific answers to non-specific questions. So many people recognized him – at least in the sense that he had, at one point or another, struck up a conversation with someone he didn’t know and left an underlying feeling of obligation to be polite in the future. I felt almost out of place not knowing him.

So many of the people we meet in our lives are the same as this man. We don’t want to be polite, we just feel the obligation. There ought to be a national holiday specifically to allow people to actually be honest with others, with themselves. How many things do you do each day that you really couldn’t care less about? You tip-toe around home so you don't wake your roommate. You say good morning to a certain classmate you never liked. You try to stay friends with an ex. Just once a year, wouldn’t it be great to just walk past that man with the bone pendant and say nothing?

On The Board

If you think I'm smart, you're wrong. If you think I'm stupid, you're wrong. I have little interest in throwing myself up for comparison simply for the sake of ego. Even if it is my own.

I've been at the back of a mule for several months now, pushing as hard as I can to move something that is stubbornly unwilling to budge. If there's anyone in front trying to pull, their effort isn't enough. Barely noticeable. The mule's not going anywhere, with or without intervention. I'm still trying but maybe it was never worth it.

With Patience

In my dream, when I woke up, I was in a bedroom that only looked like mine. I knew it wasn't mine, despite all the things that I recognized; my lamp by the bed, my discs on the wall, my heroes framed and scattered throughout. Where was I? Not my bedroom. It was my bed, my blankets, but someone else's room. I was lost.

In my dream, when I opened the door, I stepped into dense jungle. There was chirping, squawking, roaring. I turned around, frightened, and the door slammed closed behind me, disappearing into dark green foliage. There was no way back but now I wasn't as frightened. There's no time for fear when you're trying to survive. I climbed up the tallest tree with ease to look for a path to take, but as I reached the top - even from the peak of the tallest tree - there were still trees around me that were taller. I couldn't see anything. Now, rather than keep climbing, I decided to swing from vine to vine, not knowing where I was or where to go, but at least I was moving. It's always best to keep moving. You never know how lost you are until you're standing still.

What Do You See?

I often have an eye for picking out unusual details that go unnoticed by others. Whereas somebody else may look at a picture of a girl on the beach just beyond the water, I’ll see a moment that took minutes to properly capture, the waves washing up around her feet and erasing the footprints behind her. Whereas somebody else may look at a satellite picture of their home, I’ll look at a man’s shadow and see that he was up early that day. These are things that I notice when I overlook the obvious things in the world – but don’t take that to mean I don’t see the obvious things, too. Sometimes it just takes me longer.

Everywhere I go, I pick up emotions that others have carelessly discarded. I take those emotions and dismantle them and absorb them. I try to understand. I try to evolve. I try to relate.

I can’t imagine how anybody would think they’re living without seeing these same things. There’s so much more to life than how we’re trained to live, and all your schoolbooks will never teach you this. You’ll learn Things and Stuff from them, but at the end of your life none of that will make a difference. The only final question you should answer, and you should answer it honestly, is “have I lived?”

The Lifestory

If I was to sit down and think about my entire life, writing down all the various highlights and memories, I wonder which ones would make it to my life story? Leaving out all the irrelevant moments, all the various bits that didn't make any difference whatsoever, how much material would be left over? How long would it take to summarize what I've been doing all this time? Will I be someone with volumes of biographies or will I be someone whose existence is explained with two dates, sitting apart from each other like bookends with my life story unwritten in-between?

Personally Training

Last night at ten o'clock, I got my assigned genre and subject for a week-long short story writing contest. I spent all day today sleeping in, brainstorming, and churning out a first draft that I'm reasonably proud of. It doesn't have the kick that I'd ideally like it to have, but since comedies about personal trainers were never really my strongest area, it'll do.

There are a total of 30 different heats, each with a different assignment. Some of them immediately gave me interesting ideas that I may write about, if only just for fun. For example;
- fantasy about the trunk of a car
- horror about a remote control
- suspense about a locker
- fantasy about digging
- sci-fi about a diner
- drama about a stopwatch
- horror about breakfast

I think it's somewhat appropriate, though, that I got this assignment. Seeing as how I'm completely out of my element with this genre and subject, it's good practice to test my ability to be creative. Here I was assigned to write about a Personal Trainer, and it's me that's personally training. That's almost good enough for Hallmark, isn't it?

The Game Winner

I think I see my life most clearly when I have my eyes closed.

As I skated towards the net weighted down heavily with goalie equipment, I kept hearing the coach's instructions repeated in my head.

"This is the most important game of your life. It has to be won. This is the most important game of your life. It has to be won."

Over and over, his voice trickled through my mind. I reached the net and turned around and saw the other team waiting across the ice. They had no distinguishable facial features and they seemed inhumanly over-inflated, even though I knew they had to be men just like me. The whistle blew and they started coming at me, charging like hungry sharks swimming through the air. I looked around for my team, and there was no one. The first shot came hard, right to my chest, and I held on to the puck until the whistle blew. The next shot hit me square in the gut, but again I held on. Shot after shot was taken at me, each time harder than the last, all coming directly at me as if the only way to the net was right through me.

After a hundred shots, I knew that I was alone out here on the ice. There would be no teammates coming on in the next line change to help me. But I still have to win this game. It's the most important one of my life.

So after the next shot hits me in the chest, nearly knocking me over, I don't hold on to it. I drop it down in front of me and push it with my stick, around the other team, following behind it as quickly as I can. When I reach the other net, the goalie has a surprised look on his face. I can see it through his mask. I take a shot and it slides right between the goalie's legs. Just like that, the game is over. I skate over to my coach to hear what a great game I played, and he's already gone. My bench is empty, the entire arena is empty.

I was playing against myself the whole time.

My Barbaric Yawp

Very early this morning I had a dream that I could see myself standing on a jagged precipice high above the ground. The sky behind me was swirling around in a wild frenzy making it almost hard to stand on the narrow space. There was a barbaric yawp that thundered towards me and after a moment I called after it. More came, one by one, always with a pause behind it and always like my own voice, waiting for me to reply - and my reply always had less presence the second time around. I could tell by how I moved on that cliff that I was imitating someone else. That wasn't me standing there, calling like a man in distress, it was just the echo, and I had no idea where I really was.

Running Away

I've begun my first few steps of running away. Probably not forever although I don't want to come back any time soon. I don't know where I want to go but I do know why, and it's not because of anything she said, not because of her constantly encouraging me to go. It's because of what she didn't say.

My nights are consistently restless lately. I wake up long before I have to, always unsettled and worried, and then spend many minutes wondering if I'll be able to get to sleep before my alarm goes off. I usually do, but I still wake up tired, as if I'd spent the whole night fighting. I feel the bruises but they don't show, thankfully. Regretfully.

Hiding

When it started to rain, I started to look for shelter. The moon was coming out and it lit the streets better than the streetlights themselves did. The tall buildings overwhelmed my view, walking by them through alleys and between old stone houses. There were people filling the sides of the streets, all laying down and looking up, wearing enormous robes and blank white theatre masks. No one moved as I stepped around them carefully. I knew they were all alive, I could feel the air being pulled away every few seconds in one deep harmonious breath. I passed through the darkest alley yet, under the awning of a shop that was gathering the rain like a person collects memories, and came to a harbour by the ocean. There were fishing boats anchored out from shore and long wooden docks with masked people laying on them. The walkway by the water was wide, with many holes in the ground opened just enough to show the blank mask of someone underneath looking up past me. Once I reached the end of the walkway, I stopped. Even though it still stretched as far as I could see, I knew this was the end because the last mask was beneath me. Its gaze was hollow, indifferent, as if it was angry and sad and happy and loud and quiet all at the same time. Curious, I leaned over and grabbed the mask with one hand, lifting it off as carefully as I had been stepping around them. I put the mask on my face and looked down at the person I had taken it from only to see that it was just another white mask. We stared at each other with a mutual indifference, sharing the rain that was only now beginning to relent. I laid down to watch the last few drops splash in my face, all the while feeling angry and sad and happy that I had missed it all.

Premature Speculation

I'm not sure how long it's going to take me to completely come to terms with my feelings. Each time I think I understand myself, I'm wrong. Premature speculation. It's not that I'm angry but I do wish that things had turned out differently. I wish I hadn't compromised my emotions so easily, that I'd been more aware of what I wanted. Back then I didn't realize I wanted something that today I realize I could never have, so now I relegate myself to wanting nothing. I don't think this is any healthier for me but it's all I can do right now.

Into The Still Of January

You pass into the still of January with everything on your mind but me. You’ve made this so obvious with your warm smile, now I’m nearly burning alive and every lick of flame makes me want to smile, too. I’ve cursed your name so many times with that same smile on my face that it makes me happy to know I can withhold truth as well as you. It’s perfect sense; honesty was never what we did best.

Breaths

I wonder exactly how many breaths I've taken in my life, precisely, right down to the most recent. An approximation won't be accurate enough; I'm sure there were many times I was left breathless and other times I had to breathe twice as hard to keep up with my heart. I wonder how many times I've breathed deeply, enjoying a pleasant aroma, and how many times I've held it as long as I could. I wonder how many more breaths until I hold it forever.

The Volume

She's turned up the volume of our relationship so loud that I have to cover my ears. I know for certain now that we don't want to listen to the same song; hers is out of tune and mine was never played. The dissonant rhythm fluctuates its speed as if she is changing her grip on the record to dance however she wants, leaving me standing in the middle of the floor uncertain. Yet, even as I stand here with mixed feelings, I know I could never dance with her without my toes being stepped on: her movement is erratic and she would never learn another way.

Convalescence

Last night I found myself in a hospital bed, my body wrapped tightly in bandages, in a large room whose walls were too far away for me to see. My mind was unclear, possibly still dizzy from whatever had happened to have ended up where I was, and I could feel myself still bleeding but from where I couldn't tell. The sound of a door opening and closing echoed around me and I heard footsteps cutting the silence towards me, more than a hundred in all, one after the other, casual and deliberate. I was so far from wherever that door was, but in no time at all those steps were right next to me, although the body that they belonged to was nowhere in sight.

"Hello?" I asked without reply, repeating myself twice before I heard anything other than my own voice.

"Hey."

I turned my head as much as I could, which wasn't much at all. I recognized the familiar tone but there seemed to be no one from which it came. "I thought you said you weren't coming."

"No, I said nothing like that, and, as you can see, here I am."

"Yes, of course," I said. The bandages wrapped around me seemed tighter than they had even just moments earlier, especially one on my chest, that I could see was gradually turning from white to deep red. "Well, I thought you said I wouldn't be here."

"No, I said nothing like that, and, as you can see, you are."

"Yes, of course," I said. Clearly I was mistaken because now I remember that nothing at all was ever said, just subtle implications that I clearly misinterpreted. My chest was even deeper red now.

"Come, let's go for a walk."

I tried to turn my head and look at this person, but I could neither turn my head nor see anyone if I could. I was upset at these words and showed it in my reply. "I can't walk! Can't you see where I am? In this hospital bed, bleeding, my entire body wrapped up and waiting to recover?"

"No, I hadn't noticed, and, as you can see, I'm well enough to walk."

"Yes, of course," I said, spitting out the last words in the conversation. The footsteps began again, the sound of them fading further and further away but not ending. I wondered if they'd quietly slipped out through the door or if they were just hiding in the corner, waiting to see if I'd join them or die from the wounds. I wasn't sure myself, and the bandages on my chest turned no whiter.

My dreams lately are blurring the lines between imagination and reality, and the best sleep I ever seem to have is when I'm awake.

Rise and Fall

In the dream, I am riding on a flying carpet high above a moon-soaked sea. The stars twinkle brighter as I approach them, welcoming me into their glow as I rise faster and faster. There is something back on the ground that I am escaping from even though it’s not pursuing me, yet even when I am well away from it, I am still so afraid that I keep rising, drifting higher and higher, and when I’m finally as far from it as possible, I realize that I’m more afraid to be running away. I leap from the carpet and dive into the water, surprised at how close it was, like either I was taking it with me or I never really was flying away at all. Now I’m swimming in the water, diving deep into its darkness, unable to breathe, unable to drown, and still I’m escaping. I reach the bottom of the sea and find an old wooden chest there. It has a thick black lock and I have a glimmering gold key. I know it will fit the lock, but I don’t try. I already know what is inside. And why I was running from it.

A Sleight of Pain

While I stood waiting for a train that wasn’t coming, two men joined me underneath the big outdoor heaters. None of us were really dressed for the weather despite our bulky jackets and toques, but we all had these faces that you could tell there was more bothering us than the cold. The one wearing the red coat asked me how my night was going. I was honest when I replied to him, as I often am.

“It was pretty bad,” I said.

“Woman problems?”

I laughed. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yeah. My buddy here just got screwed over tonight by his old lady, too.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” I said, a bit happy that we found the tiniest ledge of common ground. “What happened?”

The one in the blue coat didn’t look up from the ground. “We broke up last week and she brought some other guy with her tonight, probably just to piss me off.”

“Yeah, and they were all over each other,” his friend adds, shaking his head. “I’m telling you, man, she ain’t worth it.”

“I know, I know. Every time she saw me looking over at her, that’s when she’d kiss him. And I know she’s going to call me tomorrow and apologize, too.”

“What are you going to say?” I asked him.

“I don’t know, man,” blue coat answered.

“I’m telling you, don’t forgive her. Don’t even talk to her again. She’s just some manipulative chick playing head games. Not worth your time,” red coat said, assuring his friend and raising his palms up to catch more of the heater’s warmth.

“But I really like her.”

Red coat looked over at his friend and said, surprised, “Even after all the drama she puts you through?” Blue coat nodded back to him and red coat turned to me. “What would you do?”

“All I can tell you is that no good can come of her. She’s probably too selfish to make anyone but herself happy and too uncaring to try. I’d forget about her if I were you.”

“See, Rob? This guy’s got the right idea. Probably going through the same drama tonight, huh?” he said, splitting his attention first with blue coat and then with me. I didn’t answer him – didn’t have to.

Well after the train was supposed to arrive, I decided it was getting too cold and that I should try to call a friend to see if there was a free couch that I could sleep on. I thanked the two guys for the chat and set off walking down the street in my uncomfortable shoes that had been digging into my left heel with every step of the evening. I could feel blood but I ignored it, because after all, that’s just one tiny pain. There’s plenty more parts of me without.