A Conversation

I said, "I just have got to get my life in order."

And my life said, "What's the rush?"

So I replied, "I'm getting bored."

Apathy looked up, said, "Yeah, but we have fun together, don't we?"

I said to him, "No, we don't."

Apathy said, "Well, we certainly spend enough time together."

Ambition turned to us, interrupting. "Yes, and I think he's had exactly that: enough time with you."

Apathy did not argue. He never has to. Some people don't have to say anything to make their point.

Distraction flashed his eager grin, captivating. So nobody said anything for a quite a long time, until I broke the silence, and I said:

"I just have got to get my life in order."

Professionalism

Back from the dentist. His professional opinion is that the last professional hacked up my mouth poorly. He'd like me to pay him to undo all the work that's already been paid for, then pay him more to do it properly. Sure, I trust this new professional; but then again, I trusted the last one too. I always seem to put my confidence in with whoever asks for it most presently, when all they want is a cheque that won't bounce. Krist, another eight thousand dollars, and still no certainty that it's going to work.

Steppenwolf

I am nearly finished reading Steppenwolf and finding myself understanding it at a level that I hate to confess to. It is not written in a way to easily follow, and at times I'm truly hopelessly unsure of Hesse's symbolism; but overall, it's painted specifically for me.

The narrator is a man hiding from himself. Despite seeming - to some - content and satisfied with everything he has, he is not. Meaning in life eludes him. He cannot identify with society. He is a prisoner in a body only associating with civilization out of habit and necessity. He does not know how to laugh, how to enjoy anything.

What I am learning from this novel is that whereas I do not understand each sentence, it is not beyond me. Despite being lost in phrasing, I am not lost of the story because I am lost in the character.

No Complaints

On top of a very unexpectedly exceptional weekend, I had a very unexpectedly pleasant evening. After work today, I went to my usual local haunt for food and brew. I ordered one drink by mistake, which the bartender then gave to his friend as a birthday gift, saying it was from me. In return, the friend bought me a drink. Then a few more friends of his showed up, and we had another round, and another friend, and another round, and after all this, we were given a shot of Jim Beam on the house. Needless to say – (which may actually need to be said for those unaware that I can't handle my liquor) – I am quite tipsy and content. Everything about this weekend, even despite working today and Friday, was outstanding. My complaints box, metaphorically since I have none literally, is empty.

Bed Shopping

"No no, no need to take your shoes off. Just lay down, see if that's the right one for you. Every body is different, that's what I say. Really, leave your shoes on. Okay, sure, if you insist."

Roger Dalton laid down on the mattress and looked up at the ceiling. It was dirty. The ceiling, that is. He rolled over onto his side, looked at the wall, then rolled to his other side, looked at the other wall. The salesman went on in his salesmany way about how wonderful the mattress was. Roger did not find it comfortable at all. Still though...

"No, I'm not interested in the extended warranty. Tell me, why is this one so discounted?"

"Oh, you know," the salesman said, hands fumbling in and out of his pockets. "Old inventory, new inventory, excess inventory, that sort of thing. Nothing wrong with the mattress of course, it's a fine one at that. Really great deal for five hundred."

Roger was a little puzzled. The salesman had told him four earlier.

"Did I? Well, that hardly seems right. Hm. But I might be able to squeeze this one out at four-fifty."

"Four."

"Okay, four. You wait here, I'll go get the paperwork."

Roger rolled back to his back. No, it wasn't all that comfortable, but it would be better than sleeping on his couch, for sure. He sat up, flung his legs over the edge, put his left foot into his left shoe, and his right foot into his...

He looked down. There was no right shoe on the ground beside the bed. The salesman returned, handed Roger a clipboard with some papers clipped, and he signed by the big scribbled X. The bed was now his.

Roger said to the salesman, "I think my shoe slipped under the bed."

"Hmm," the salesman said, confused and unconvincing, "Yes, that's not too uncommon with this particular mattress."

A noise came from under Roger's new bed. It was something like indigestion, but bigger.

The salesman smiled. "Your new bed will be delivered tomorrow. If you have any further questions, just call the store and ask for me, my name is Silas. I'll leave you two to get acquainted."

Roger, now alone, got down on his knees, then his hands and knees, and peeked under the bed. It was dark. But it was also very furry. With big white eyes. And unmistakeable.

It said, in its deep monster voice, "Hi. I'm Shoom. I come with the bed." Then, after a long awkward silence that ended with indigestion, "Um. Nice shoes."

These Wearing Hands

Last week I saw a man with hands shaking so uncontrollably that he couldn't cut his bagel, couldn't pick it up, couldn't carry his plate over to the counter; and despite this, he still did it, did it all, and I wondered how much time I have before this tragedy, when I can no longer type, hold a pen, or carry myself through this life?

Bonds

I have been a great deal fortunate. My closest friends are people that I've known for the majority of my life. I never quite realized how unusual this was - and how blessed I am - until the last few years. Strangers are always amazed that I have not just one but five of these incredible bonds. People that would drop everything to help me, people that I would put my life completely on hold for without a second thought. And truly, it's still not that remarkable for me; it's something that I've been working on my whole life. These enduring relationships are no work of accident.

Viewpoints

Perception is an interesting thing. Before we know someone, we base our entire opinion of them on minor details we've accumulated. Many times there are even details that present themselves that we overlook for the simple reason that it goes against our established understanding. We don't want to believe that this person sees things differently. Other times, we turn to presumption to enforce the character that may not be accurate. And once again, when things begin to seem otherwise, we ignore it because we do not want to be mistaken. So perception is nearly entirely subjective, and misconception is in this way objective. The only proper way to understand someone with an important degree of accuracy is awareness over time.

Creamy Red

Through coincidence alone, dressed in a symbolic red hoodie, took a lonely bottle of birch beer soda from the fridge and gave it away. It had been there since I left another bottle in her fridge. The first time either of us had tried it was together, and we'd spent so much time in two different cities, always together, trying to find more. And now that it is out of my fridge, so is my last and final hope of talking to her, sharing our Creamy Red memories, enjoying the flavour of a romance that – I suppose, I fear, I understand - meant more to me.

Unmentionable

I went to the Quay today. Key, queen, quiche. However. The entire place smells fishy. I saw a lot of people; some together, some apart. The rest really isn't worth mentioning.

Of Dreams and Dimensions

Last night, I helped Batman apprehend two criminals that were escaping on a scooter with two great big bags of money. Finally, a dream that makes sense.

All things considered, I slept very well last night, even despite shivering into a sweater an hour before my alarm. I'd fallen asleep while watching a two-dimensional movie with someone that was on the other side of the water and halfway up a mountain. Earlier that day, we saw a movie that was in three dimensions. It was thrilling, and after seeing that, even real life has a tendency to seem a little less real. That is, without the glasses.

The Longest Line

At the point when this took place, I could feel daylight softening across my face, but I was still very much asleep.

There was no line at all, anywhere, when I began to wait. I was just tired of moving, so I stopped. I heard a noise behind me and turned. There was a man, and behind him, another man. As I leaned further over, I could see a line of men endlessly behind me, all appearing from nothing, queued up; and and whereas before I was simply tired of moving, now I was at the head of something enormous. Now I had purpose that I hadn't been aware of. And still, I did not know what it was.

On The Beach

The thing about this novel is that it should be a hugely emotional story. The last survivors after an unexpected nuclear war, and how they deal with their inevitable deaths from the fallout. Its author was never a writer by profession, self-admittedly; he was a physicist and mathematician, which comes across in the writing. He goes to great detail when describing engines, weather patterns, and the functions of submarines, but when he approaches human nature, he stops. The characters in the story simply do not emote. They accept their fate mechanically, they do not linger in pity, in joy, in romance, or in anything. It is simply their existence that is sad, and even then only if the sobbing reader herself is.

A Rush of Life

Weeks ago, I put determination above disappointment and overcame a difficult mechanical situation. There was a tone in my father's wireless voice that believed in my ability more than I did, so when I sat down in front of the broke-down engine, I chose to try again rather than undo what I'd done. Then I heard the rush of life in the fuel pump, and it sent a rush of life through me. And somewhere across the frozen prairie, I knew he was proud.

Good Boy, Sit, Staaay

Directly beside my desk at work is a big window that looks out at a park. There are many distractions for me that fill this park; soccer games, balancing acts, and people playing fetch with their dogs. As I've seen, some dogs, they'll run after anything; but some dogs - like me - won't. You can't throw the ball too far because no matter how much fun it is, they just won't chase it.

It's hard to stay productive at writing even though I derive a great deal of satisfaction from it. The best focus I have is when I go to my local coffee shop; there, I'm sitting upright with only paper and a favourite pen. But when I'm at home, it's easy to lose motivation when I'm reclined, trying to write on my lap. I think that truly it's all in my posture moreso than in my head.

This is my current goal: sell my couches, buy a chair and a writing desk. This way, I'm not throwing the ball too far.