Archive for the ‘Funny’ Category

Welcome Everyone, Ha, Ha, Ha,
Down for the count

1… Ha, Ha,Ha! 2… Ha, Ha, Ha! 3…

Hey, Big Bird — can’t I just suck his blood now?

This counting is taking forever…

Ha, ha, ha!

(Alright, so I’m feeling a little cheeky today.)

ūüôā

You know, Readers… life can be unforgiving at times. One bad move with, say, oh, I don’t know… — a horrific, cringe inducing portrayal of a “Teen” Vampire that also happens to glorify abusive relationships, (hint, hint, wink, wink, nudge, nudge…) — and people might just cease to trust you. You’re credibility’s shot. Suddenly, you’re Carlos Mencia.

Go Figure…

There can’t always be “Happy Endings” for everyone.

Anyway, keep that in the back of your mind… This week’s short came from a simple, innocuous writing prompt — something I hope to do more and more as time goes on, as it was quite fun for me to piece together. The prompt? “I Like Cheese”. A phrase uttered rather drunkenly, (and wholly non-sequiturly), by my younger cousin on a visit to my place in Queens, which led promptly (get it?) to uproarious bouts of laughter… and me sneaking inside to write down those three simple words.

I’d go on, but I don’t want to give anything away…

PLUS — I have guacamole to make for the Superbowl!

And Jell-O shots to drink

And Slaps to take.

(Don’t ask…)

So, and without further ado, I give you: “I Like Cheese”.

(Thanks, Andy)

 Enjoy, ~J

I Like Cheese!

Cheese

I like cheese.

What’s in my pockets? Let’s see. Hmmm… Feels like, Messy Granola — psssh, that’s not cheese! Anddd… Yuck! Sticky Jelly Beans — too sweet! Anddd… A Big Bag of Fishies? They taste like cheese, but they’re not CHEESE, cheese…

…Soooo, I have NO cheese.

Looks like I have to go out and find some!

Maybe if I go outside those happy people in the parade celebration can help me!

It’s too noisy here anyway. I wish the noisy animals would just be quiet!

The ground outside is so squishy. It’s fun to dig my toes into the grass. Squish, Splash, Swoosh — I splash a big puddle! Yay! So fun! I don’t remember rain, but I sure hope rain did not fall on everyone’s parade. That would be sad. But it is OK, everyone looks so happy. Some people even had so much fun that they fell asleep on the grass. Silly-Heads!

All the people look so glad — smiling wide with all of their teeth, and hands above their heads in joy. Some people wear silly costumes too, with wiggle-waggle arms and funny-duddy glasses — even the Van-tree-lo-list man’s here too, with his hand inside that big scary doll. I don’t like that big scary doll, though. It looks too real…

I hear a big BOOM from up above, and look up to see pretty fireworks explode in the sky way up high over my head — WOW. They better be careful not to burst the big parade floats with all those neat lights! There sure are a lot of pretty floats this year. Everyone looks like they’re having so much fun, and so I run to catch up with them because I want to have fun too! I skip into the crowd, cheering and shouting like everyone, and slap High-Fives to all the fat people i catch up with that don’t run so fast.

Then someone pushes me — which is not very nice — and I fall into a big red puddle and hurt my own bum. OW! I look for the meanie when I get up, but I guess he already left cuz’ he, and all the slow fat people too, are already gone… Now my Lalergez must be bad toady, cause I felt the dust hit my face and then I sneezed real big-like. Ah-Choo! I wipe the dust away, and then shove the tears away too, and then see that the parade is already gone around the block. All’s I can see still is the big, tall man on his long skinny stilts, and his neat flashing lights like on the floats — but then the trees block him too!

Oh, well! So, now the people are all gone. And the Parade is gone too.

POO!

But, look! Across the street is the Stupor Mawrket!

Hurray! My cheese is there!

I wait at the traffic spot, but the light is too little to see, I think. Or, it’s not there. I don’t know. I don’t see it. What should I do? How long am I supposed I wait?

This is taking Foooorrrreeeevvveeerrr! Ugh.

Soooo… I know it’s naughty, but I’m gonna cross anyways.

Hehe.

(I looked left and right!)

Look

I try to walk into the store like I always does, but the door doesn’t see me today and so I hit my head on the glass. BANG! Ow… Now my head hurts because I walked into the door. But it is kinda funny… Then I have to pull the doors open, and they’re reallllyyy heavy — but the cheese is there, so I pull hard!

It’s weird not seeing anyone in the Stupor Mawrket, but I guess they’re all at the parade so it’s OK! Asides, More Cheese for me!

I call for the Deli-man when I go in the back, past the cereal aisle with all my Favowrite-ist cartoons from TV, but no white man shows up. Nobody comes for a Reaalllyy long time, and I Reaalllyy want some cheese.

“Hello?”

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† “HELLO!”, I scream!

¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† “Hello?!”

But, nobody ever comes.

So… Then I’m bad again and go to where the people stand… and get it myself. But then when I go back there there’s the white Deli-Man taking a nap on the floor! Silly-Billy!

I put all my paper in his pocket, next to the metal pointy thing with the watch on top — I hope it’s enough — and take a big bite from the corner of the biggest, bestest, cheese-block I’ve ever tasted in my whole, entire life!

Yumm…

……

………

Ugh… Where am I? My head… Why am I holding a brick of American cheese? Is this the supermarket across from the lab? What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I behind the Deli? Why is my lab coat red?

“BOOM!”

That earth-shattering crash outside… could it be that the invasion..? So, it wasn’t a dream after all. Mankind is…

“BOOM!”

Sigh…

They must’ve come for me, and I must’ve ingested a test capsule. Well, it didn’t kill me — that, at least, answers that… Wait. That’s right… The pills. The plan!

Hurriedly I pad my pockets, quickly remembering that before I’d taken my pill I’d begun to affect a plan.

I first trace the familiar rectangular outline of my GPS monitor, bought for my Rhesus population’s tracking, and my chest tightens at the implications of how I’d planned to use it for the early stages of the coup.

Listen to me… a coup? A revolution with one man?! What can I possibly hope to do alone..?

The next thing my fingers find is the loose collection of bean-like, sugar-coated, distilled cannabinoid capsules, which my cartload loved so much, bulging out at the bottom of my pocket.

The very thing that must have saved my life… Provided my Intelligence Theory is correct. Looks like it’s gaining steam…

I remember the final object before my fingers dance across it, my peevish plan then crashing back into my psyche like a frightful tsunami — The Trackers…

Just then, something next to me coughs.

There’s a man in a Deli smock lying on the ground next to me — a huge wad of greenbacks sticking out of his chest pocket next to a meat thermometer — and he’s still breathing! Though alive, his breaths are dangerously shallow, and so I sit him upright and get some water from a nearby shelf to pour over his face.

Water pouring from bottle

Cough, Cough…

“Thank you”, he begins, his words fighting their way out through intermittent coughs. “Who are you?” Cough. “What’s going on?” Cough, cough.

I take a deep breath, how am I supposed to even begin to explain this..? One step at a time, I guess. Here goes nothing…

“Well, you see… My name is Doctor. Nyguen, and I work just across the street. I conduct classified governmental research for…” But here I find myself falter…¬† My cocked and loaded stock description of my livelihood unable to fire, being wholly unsuited for the world’s current predicament. “I do pot research on monkeys.” I conclude. “Please, tell me, what’s your name? Tell me everything you remember.”

The man blinks, adding after a minute, “Ron. My name is Ron Ballast. I, um… I work the Deli counter…”

“I know, I just stole some of your Yellow American.” I tell Ron, indicating the Brick of Cheese on the floor between us, and he flashes me a wide smile — a promising sign.

Suddenly the word “electrolytes” flashes in my mind, and I realize why I’d sought out the cheese. My subconscious mind had wanted to regain its facilities… simple salts. Brain fodder. Hydration.

“I don’t remember much.” He continues weakly. “There was this weird announcement that came over the stores speakers, but past that…”

That’s right, “The Announcement”. Their first strike toward the intelligence of this world.

Instinctively I glance over my shoulder, approximating the man’s custom perspective from behind the counter, and find I can easily see the background static of a warped Tellevision being poorly reflected by the stores wide-angle mirror.

So he hadn’t gotten a full dose of whatever they’d done to us. He’d survived the first wave, which means… There must be others then, too.

“…Past that I don’t remember anything until you doused me.” Ron concludes.

And, how could he? His brain was likely seizing, and he was likely well on his way to unconsciousness.

“Ron?” I begin softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’d like to tell you now what’s going on.”

“Ok…” He agrees meekly, peering up at me with eyes deep-set in their sockets. Frightened. Cowering.

“But, listen… I need you to know that it’s not going to be an easy thing to accept, what you’re about to hear. OK? But I’m going to need you to listen anyway, and to be strong. You need to trust me. Think you can do that?”

Ron blinks and nods.

“Because…” I stammer, knowing this bit would be the roughest… “Because, well — to be frank? We may be the only ones left.”

Ron blinks again, swallowing hard. “What… what do you mean by that..?”

No other way to do this but to just begin…

“Ok… Here goes.” I heave a deep breath — knowing full-well this wont be easy for either of us to hear… “Roughly twelve hours ago — maybe more, maybe less, it’s hard for me to tell, I was drugged — Earth was… invaded.”

Ron’s eyes begin to shimmer, going wide and wet, and a large chunk of dried rheum tumbles down his cheek, carried on the back of a single groggy tear.

After I knew for sure the crux had sunk, I plodded on, “Now past that all I have is conjecture, but here’s what I think I’ve figured out so far — and working off this is what’s kept me alive. I believe they’ve launched an attack on humanity’s intelligence, Ron. And, when you think about it, this makes a certain amount of sense… that is if they want us, or at least the simpleminded among us whom they can easily control — children, the mentally challenged, and likely intelligent animals — to be obedient to them. Subservient. Sycophantic. Loyal. I learned this strategy well with my work in primate research: Remove the Alpha, and you become the Alpha. Basically, they’re looking to make us into a race of slaves.”

Ron merely stares at me with saucers which pierce my heart.

Maybe I should stop. Maybe it’s too much. I don’t want to hurt this man, do I? Isn’t there some other way? No, it isn’t about that and I know it — I must go on. He needs to hear it; the truth. State it plainly, Bill. Like ripping off a band-aide… Like plucking a hair…

“Thus, Ron, my preliminary conclusion is as follows: they wish to make slaves of us. In their eyes, those among us with intelligence are likely to revolt… and so they were executed right away. Or will be, and soon. But, and this is the important bit, they also believe that all of us below this particular threshold should be mailable enough for them to aptly control — to invariably brainwash — and so they are spared… So that they might someday become the seeds of future slaves.”

“Oh…” Added Ron, crestfallen. “Then does… does that mean… Does that mean I’m stupid? Was I below the threshold?”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. Look, their assault was first launched through our media; Television, radio, cell-phone’s — anything that they could broadcast on. I was busy conducting research in my basement, the screams of my caged test subjects acting as an unlikely buffer to whatever pervasive announcement they’d made. You, for your part, were likely deafened by the simple whir of a Deli blade — and, if we’ve survived on… happenstance, then there must be others as well. And we must find them.”

“Right…” he answered, absently.

“Listen to me. Right now, what we have to do is try and carve out a place to exist, Ron. That’s step one.” I pull out the packet of capsules from my pocket, presenting them. “These are experimental drugs — meant for monkeys but safe for us too — which work by binding with the cannabinoid receptors of our brains. Long story short, they make us stupid. Stupid enough to survive. They make their detectors skip over us, and they make their kind ignore us. However, they’ll also incapacitate us while we’re under the influence. Also, we may… wander — I’ve recently discovered — which can be a problem. We’ll have to work on that.” I then pull out the GPS tracker, and the baggie of round GPS tags, holding them out for Ron to examine. “These are tags and a tracker which I’d bought for my Monkeys, in case they’d ever gotten away. If we could, somehow — I don’t know how yet, but we’ll work on that when we get there — tag the foot soldiers, we can then keep track of their whereabouts, and, at least, be able to avoid them until we can figure out what to do next.”

“Right…” Ron said again, clearly a Galaxy away…

In what sad state is this man’s mind?

“Is all this true?” He added finally. “How can I know what you’re saying isn’t… well… you know?”

It made sense for him to be skeptical, after all, this was near insurmountable… even for me. And I hadn’t just had a seizure… and likely a stroke or two.

“Can you walk?” I ask, tenderly as I can muster. And at Ron’s simple encouraging nod, I help him to his feet.

Together we shuffle toward the front of the store, being careful to stay hidden from prying eyes behind a shelf or two, and find, beyond the¬†supermarket’s wide, and blood-streaked front glass window, a scene of devastation surreal and complete. I had to brace myself on a nearby shelf to prevent feinting while squared off to the sheer horror of it all…

shockedeye

We really are big meat sacks full of blood…

All the streets were flooded, sewage grates clogged inexorably with errant clothing and limbs, with what looked to be red sewage — and I knew it to be mostly human gore. Everywhere an eye was cast bodies were slumped and strewn haphazardly — screwed onto fence posts, draped over traffic lights, tangled in power lines — as if a tornado had come about and flung them all around whimsically. The immediate dead and writhing, those clearly visible from our vantage through the horrific show-window, seemed maligned by a type of savage burn the likes of which I’d never seen — ghastly, still embering pink stumps of ash were all that remained where limbs ought to be… clearly the work of some technology of ungodly, unearthly origin. Troops of soldiers jogged and splashed up and down the streets, rifles held tightly in four arms and across impossibly broad chests.”

The work of DNA manipulation, no doubt. Our petty sanctions seem awful peevish and foolish, now — don’t they, congressmen?

Up in the sky, organized fleets of cubed cruisers marched mightily in a row, while smaller smiling arches, likely scout vessels, buzzed in, out, and about their ranks. And, in the distance, some sort of robotic walker, a five legged monolithic monstrosity — easily thirty stories tall — could be seen crushing and then scanning houses. Likely seeking out humanity’s remnants…

“No…” Ron breathed, taking his weight off me. Fighting to stand on his own.

“NO!” He then bellowed.

“Be quiet.” I warn him in a rasped whisper, “They’ll find us!”

I reached for his wrist, but he was already lunging for the window.

“Why?” he demanded, while beating the glass with his fists. “WHY!?”

I palmed a pill in my hand and clapped it into Ron’s mouth, hearing him choke on it and swallow — before wheeling on me, fiery malice in his gaze.

I was set to run — pivoting my heel, weight leaning in — when the Building violently shook and tossed us both to the floor. Fearing the worst, I jammed a pill into my own mouth, just before seeing Ron’s eyes roll to the back of his head, stoned.

So this is what I’d done to my pets…

……

………

Yawwwnnn… That was a good nap. Boy, the air sure is dusty. Ah-Choo. I sneeze from my¬†Lalergez. Up in the sky, there is a hole in the roof. And a big Bo-bot is peeking his head through.

“Hello!” I say.

Then somebody grabs me rough and picks me up by my neck. Meanie! And someone else is here too. The bad costume man is hurting my neck AND his. He looks at me long with his kitty-eyes, and then bangs my head into the other man.

We look at each other, and I say, “Hi. I like cheese.”

And he says, “I like cheese too.”

_________________________________________________________________

~Fin

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Greetings, my beautifully deranged and wondrously enlightened lot,

You know… Inspiration can be so fickle at times,

good idea

So obvious… and yet so genius!

Plus, even when it does strike, you’re still faced with a pretty darned big dilemma, aren’t you? I mean… is it even any good!?¬†This random thing that’s just popped into your mind — out of, quite literally, thin air. You gonna to go for it? Eh? Well? Are you? (Seriously, is there a doctor soothsayer in the house?) I mean, somebody’s got to know…

Will it be worth our time?

Will it!?

(Somebody… ANSWER ME!!)

How can we know..?

Is this concept, sometimes no more than a mere sentence in our minds, going to pan out — after sometimes years, or even decades of hard work — into something that, at the start, was actually, truly worth investing into at all? It’s enough to Tonya Harding the kneecaps of even the most intrepid risk-taker! And — furthermore, hitherto, and not to mince words — never doubt, my people, that it is indeed an investment! A huge one…

Time and Land… they’re not making any more of the stuff.

Development, (if you’re here reading this, I’m sure you already know), is painstaking work. A plodding, laborious, hair-raking endeavor, that’s seen ears cut off, peni lobbed off, and children cut off. I mean, people may think that we just don some literal thinking cap, hole away in an attic somewhere, and magically spill these things out of our ears merely by tipping our heads to the page — but that’s not the case at all, is it!? It’s hard work, dag-nabit… It’s stressful!

Sentences can take hours,

Paragraphs; days…

Re-writes… an eternity!

(Thank God for scotch…)

And that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? See, even though it may not be — as, in the end it so oft will prove to seem (ahhh, the dastardly “Creators curse”…) — it’s the pursuit that teaches us our lessons in the end, isn’t it? All of life’s little mistakes, (naturally after lambasting you with your own perceived idiocy), will invariably and without fail, culminate to show us what not to do… so that, in turn, we actually know WHAT TO DO! Thought and execution, married happily, is the only real path toward a personal truth, and an internal sense of well-being.

Or….. maybe I’m just making this stuff up.

(See what I did there?)

ūüėČ

Here’s the deal for this week’s short,

Home alone one night, my sole roommate a good 50 miles away, and likely quite liberally inebriated, I heard a rather loud noise boom out from beyond my bedroom door… and, for some reason, my genius-self beckoned it — whatever IT was — to enter. I then proceeded to entreat it, “not to fear”, and insisted “I would totally not freak out once it came in my room” — despite the fact that my heart was pounding heavier than an elephant on a trampoline in the presence of a mouse.

I said, no means no!

EEK!

So anyway, after about a half hour… I began to feel rather silly — and that’s when the inspiration hit. I reached for my head-board, scrawled the rules of this short into the page, and this is what came of it all. I present it here, now, for proof of my theorem: that it is far better to try an idea, even if it seems doomed to fail, than give in to your souls erosion.

Was it worth it in the end?

I’ll leave that for you to decide.

(But, hell. I like it.)

~J

Broker your soul

journal

11:26, December 14th, 2013:

I am awakened by a crash, a frightful clamor my living room, the room adjacent to the bedroom where I sleep. Motionless I lie, my mind spinning wild fiction, while I listen, intent on divining some sound beyond the hammering in my chest, waiting patiently for any clue as to what might be the cause — a robber, my dear friend whom I’d given a key, or the possibility of something exotic… an animal perhaps; some beast.

But… Nothing. Not another decibel for the five long minutes I spent mummified under my sheets dwelling solely in my ear.

Eventually, I’d had enough. This wasn’t me; some coward calcified by a baseless fear. I am not a feeble man. Finally, once I’d deemed my reconnaissance sufficient, I crept up from my bed to investigate the scene — my heart setting the mood with its base and snare driven score, despite my fervent insistence of bravery. Full minutes were spent as I’d eased open my bedroom door, stealing an ever greater vantage as I went. Only to discover at my final perspective precisely what I’d not expected… an empty home. Embarrassed and abashed I strode into the room, shaking my head with aims toward my cowardice, grateful to let down my guard — when a menacing shadow darted at me with blinding speed. I tensed up, assuming a fighting stance and ready to engage whatever was intent on assaulting me… before I realized my folly. It had merely been the headlights of a passing car playing through the window.

Crossing the darkened room I shut the blinds against the gag, (an exercise in frivolity, in hindsight), before doubling back to attend the wailing warmth of my comforter, and promptly knocked my tender shin against something firm. And, right there on the floor, there it was. The cause of the clamor… my papasan chair had somehow rolled off its rounded base… I must have left it charged before bed. My forlorn book lie still in its nook. Wearily I made my approach to replace it — suddenly finding myself again filled with apprehension; an irrational fear, (of what, I know not), and, half expecting electrical shock, I grabbed the chairs edge… but again, nothing. I replaced the seat to the pedestal, doubly ensuring its purchase, and merely returned to my bed… baffled, though resigned to simple happenstance as the cause.

11:42, January 1st, 2014:

As I lie restless in bed, my circadian clock maladjusted for the abbreviated work week which loomed, entertained (and somewhat annoyed) by the silhouetted performance of dancing cells playing before my eyes curtain, and considering just getting up to go for a run… I began to hear the unmistakable sound of turning pages emanate from within my home. Being I’d read window-side before bed, I’d naturally assumed that the wind had simply picked up. So, and without delay, I arose… intent on closing the pestering portal and rescuing the precious time I was left to spend on my slumber. I threw open my bedroom door, took quick, dizzied, and shuffling steps to gain on the breathing window behind my couch — only to find it clamped shut and locked. I’d done my chore after all.

That’s when the books hit the floor.

explosive

They landed flat, trapping and then exploding out loudly with the air stuck betwixt them and my planked, wooden floor — engendered, I must say, with far more ferocity than gravity alone could have possibly proffered. Now, and before the instant where my mind would begin to scrutinize the occurrence, I remember noting the two books which had fallen: one, A collection of Poe’s greatest works; and the second, a hardcover of Koontz’s inaugural “Odd Thomas” Novel. Immediately then my mind leapt back to the incident, only three weeks then past, when the papasan had left it’s base of its own accord, stirring me in the night as it played against the floor… and before long I’d had myself convinced that my poor home had become possessed. My body tensed, rallying to run, and I snatched a hunting knife from its plaque before giving in, retreating then quickly to my bedchamber and slamming the door shut in my wake. Leaning against it, weighting it shut, I heaved for the stubborn air which wouldn’t come, (silently as I could manage, as to conceal my whereabouts), both hoping to, and not to glean some sound from behind my back.

It was here that I swear I’d heard a stifled laugh — a giddy little school kid down a long metallic shaft — radiate through the door behind my form. Slumping to the floor, my legs posted firm against my bed-mount for leverage, there I sat and waited… waited for the inevitable attack: an oncoming onslaught from a creature, or spirit demonic, to take my life.

But again… all was still.

And yet I still waited… my eight inch blade unsheathed, held in a vice-like, ice-pick grip, and ready to penetrate anything that darest try to pierce my fortification. Seconds grew to minutes, minutes hastily matured to hours… though my heart raced still… my mouth pooling with the taste of tin. A singular comfort came as the dawn arrived. Perhaps, “Comfort”, here is a misnomer. The dawn had reminded me of my obligations — namely, “clients”, and “work” — and so, despite my arresting trepidation, I ran my morning routine from my bedroom as best I could, before racing through my home, bloodshot and haggard, to dash out the front door, seizing sanctuary within the world.

The day was torturous — just sheer misery. The clients I’d scheduled to train were, each of them, demonstrably tardy, and in the solemn minutes which passed as I patiently languished, it became all I could do to resist the temptation, presented by my¬†inflamed eyelids and weighted cheeks, to slip under the easy wing of comfort, relenting to repose.

I, however, am a warrior. I refuse to be average. I was made to command my mind, never could it be the other way: never could it, a mere organ, hope win this war of wills. I toughed out the day, remaining steadfast to the fire-watch of my mind, and returned home without incident — far too frustrated and exhausted to humor some crackpot, half-cocked theory about a capricious poltergeist — and promptly accepted the rest I’d so surely earned on this day…

12:21, Jan 21st, 2014:

Supine in bed, preternaturally still but yet mentally stirring, an overarching theory percolated within my mind while I reminisced over the copious bouts of queer happenstance which had transpired as of late.

The Poe and Koontz hardbacks were found — each and every morning — strewn across my living room floor. Some sort of odd protest, I’d imagine, which I undid, each and every day, by giving my dear friends back to their preferred recess.

Only a week past now, while a storm of thunder frenzied outside, my running shoes, it would seem, had craved the world without me… usurping themselves to places unknown. A requirement of my trade, I scoured my home for their likeness, only successfully making myself late in the pursuit — merely to find them out, laced up and mud caked, at the center of my floor. It had been my third trip through that particular space while attending to this quest, and I was doubtless that they’d not been there only just before.

Just two days prior now, having drawn a hot bath to assuage my mounting stresses — and with fresh steam still billowing out from it — I stepped easily into the brief pool, only to find my water to be frigid… And so, as a show of command, I willed my bodice into the haunted liquid anyhow, making clear my statement of defiance while holding firm my failing floodgates of fear, proceeding then to linger in the wash just as long as would be custom.

And finally tonight — the crowning jewel of occasion — as I scrubbed a vaguely familiar stranger for the Sandman in the sink, bodily exhausted and off my guard from an arduous days work, a preternatural force seized my skull, shoving it madly downward toward the basin, and successfully bashed my face into the faucet… splitting my nose wide….

Though, a curious thing here happened.

I discovered… that I wasn’t angry.

I found also that I was no longer afraid…

How many times across my long career had a client erred in their training, from fatigue or distraction, and maligned my face with a errant fist? And, equally as many times, had I not then been forced thereafter to forgive this infraction without incident? Countless. I simply moved forward with the session, not a trace of poison to my mind, nary a single drip of anger — when easily it could’ve brewed into a storm. Somehow this physical slight had driven me into my comfort zone. Someway had this barbaric act leveled the playing field in my mind…

Merely then did I raise my head, blood tracing carefree lines down the musculature of my neck, and apply a ginger glob of vaseline from the vanity — pacing then easily into the bedroom, before finding myself here, now, in the present.

Now, I lie in wait — wait for what, I know not… until it would come and teach me — anxious to execute a plan, one, admittedly, compiled loosely, barely held with the unbinding twines of whim and hunch, and about to be tested in a blazing inferno, but the only true course of action I could conceive. An action driven by pure instinct alone… though, despite all this, try I must. Try I will. What other options were left to me?

Then it came — strange footfall from inside; the clicking of a quadrupeds nails against my hardwood floor.

dog

“Come in”, I tell it.

Giving the words an inflated inflection, one engendered with the authority of a recruiter preparing to oversee an applicant with slim, to no potential.

Then, for a time indeterminate due to its sheer confounding length… the air was still. The house merely maintained its stark silence. Before long I found my sanity cast back into the brimstone of question, as I raked, yet again, at all the details of occurrence which had led me to this day, and finding them, not for the first time, to form nothing more than a shamefully dubious pile of mere anecdotal evidence…

…that is, all before the door to my bedroom creaked and began to open.

door

The game was on.

In my mind, fervently excited, though maintaining well the course, I ran a countdown from three… an arbitrary condition of my makeshift scheme… and, just as the numbers exhausted, I leapt up from bed, revealing a man fully dressed, as I flourished the sheets like a mighty Torero would against the pressing horns of a bull — and somehow successfully snagged something within my slapdash net. The covers constricted the entity, veiling it and felling it to the floor, leaving it tangled and flailing at my heel. Then, in a flash, the disembodied heap lunged at me and I felt, through a wild flare-up of pain, the generous jaw of what seemed a common hound seize at my leg — teeth terrifyingly sharp, even through the generous padding of this, my thickest quilt. Out of sheer instinctual indignance, reactively I doubled over, throwing then my best right cross square into the things ribs, while switching my hips mightily for punctuation.

Heartily, it yelped… whatever it was… proceeding then to release its dire grip on my calf. The sound, I’d later note, was not all too dissimilar to that of a wolf — but characterized by an aftereffect; some otherworldly echo, an enhancement of post chosen to support an air of malice and menace. Ignoring the pain in both my leg and my nose, which had begun again to freely flow, I gathered up all the poise I could muster and walked easily into the living room… taking then a comfortable seat on my coffee table, at a place adjacent to and across from my papasan, casually then throwing one leg over the other.

“When you’re done playing the heathen”, I spoke levelly, ‘fatherly’ being my operative direction, “Come have a seat. It’s time we had a chat.”

The snout of the confused blanket searched blindly about its form — whipping from left to right, snarling angrily as it went — though, missing all but the dresser in its wild fury, it soon abandoned this pursuit, growing then to be still. I watched it, enthralled — equal parts trepidation, apprehension, and sheer curiosity — as the rising and falling of the creature beneath the sheet soon eased, calmed quickly to custom, and then physically lowered toward the ground… until nothing of it seemed to remain, leaving the sheet itself seemingly forlorn. Before long a gray, pluming mist wafted out from under a corner, lifting it ever so slightly as it went, before proceeding then to blow, breezeless, toward where I sat in living room — the suction of its wake then slamming the door behind it shut as it came.

The living, darkened air then rapidly approached my face, flowing quickly across my cheek, and striking it along the way… before then caressing the tip my right ear, rolling tenderly, thereafter, behind my head and descending easily down my neck. Threading its way under my left arm, feeling as a creeping serpent to my flesh, the thing then billowed, gathering it’s mass to a dark cloud at my sternum — before shoving violently at me, forcing me to brace, while backing itself deep into the comfortable recesses of the papasan across from me. Now before my eyes did it sit, (or, rather, float), finally permitting me a look at its form. It seemed an entity composed entirely of grey vitriolic gas, showing corporeally only two eyes of burning blue flame. I stared at them, those fiery eyes — not as some challenge of might to the beast, but rather as I would with any other being — as a show of respect. And they, in turn, glared back — clearly wizened, albeit composed with a medium of flame.

At last it spoke, using a mouth which manifest only as air passed its lips, lips not quite inhuman — though violet, voluminous, and uncannily wide — not quite human either… saying finally, “Very well. You’ve intrigued me, little Tremia. Of what purpose should I engage you?”

Ignoring for the time being this cheeky moniker, of a culturally unknown and yet obviously well fleshed out foreign lexicon, I said precisely what I’d planned, “What do you want with me?”

It guffawed at this, heartily, and with great mirth, the lips appearing again for the task though this time accompanied by the outline of two blue hued and rebounding cheeks as well. Abruptly then, its amusement subsided… leaving a frigid chill to the air, and only the duo of ominous, embering, penetrating eyes — floating without context in space — to go along with it.

“I’m here to claim what you lowly creatures have coined, ‘A Soul’.”

I swallowed my Adams-apple, before fortifying my eyes once again.

“Intriguing…” I began, matter of fact as I could manage, “So tell me, why is it important to you. My soul? What even is a soul?”

Again the thing howled with laughter, its full visage gaining tangibility for a moment, horrid, sharp, frightening features to it, before fading quickly back again into the ether, leaving mere burning eyes.

“No matter.” It began, lips showing only as words were spake, “I’m confident as to your awareness of the fact that my power greatly shadows that of a mere Tremia. What I will permit you to know, however, in these twilight moments of your existence, is that you will perish eternally once I take it.”

“I see.” I said, casually pulling a stick of gum from my pocket, and popping it into my mouth. “Well,” I continued, twisting the wrapper distractedly between my fingers to form a pin “not knowing what it is that you are, I cannot deny this… I’m certain that your might remains unchecked particularly to something such as me. But, since you are giving allowances, perhaps you can divulge this truth to me before I go… Why do you want it? My soul?”

Here the flames of its face raged, flashing keener and wider than ever before — swollen seemingly with pride. Momentarily did they squint, a sign of hesitation, a shadow of doubt that, if entertained, could easily signal the abrupt end of my existence… before they widened once more, again showing confidence in their unchecked power.

“I, as you may have guessed, am not of this world…” The beast began, as I gradually fished my phone from my pocket, “…I exist extra-dimensionally. Pan dimensionally, in truth… I have found a means of crawling backwards through the universal fabric — from complexity, where I was born, to here… the lowly third dimension; this final pathetic outpost of life. I’m able to span across varying complexities of existence by diluting my spirit to suit the rules of the realm: First, by leaching souls of natural dimensional origin; and then, bit by bit, by replacing them with increments of my own… all while consuming their life energies along the way. Soon, once I complete my journey in this particular place and thread of time — a journey over two billion years already in motion — I will become a god to this existence, as conqueror of each of its dimensions. Gaining then, and forever thereafter, the ability to continue my expansion, unabated, across all the other splintered, clipped, and forgotten strings of time… interminably spanning to cover all the possibilities of this reality as a whole… at least as it can be understood to one from within it. Then, once all of space and time has been conquered through this consumption — all that is and ever can be possiblefinally a being of this world, finding itself full of it, will be able to venture beyond it. Me. Finally, will I know what lies beyond. A painting freed from its canvas and able to explore the artists¬†hovel. After so long, I will finally find my place among the altar of the gods, and be able to create a world suited to my interests. Leaving behind, forever, the barbaric, archaic, and simple-minded denizens of this realm.”

My face was contorted in shock… How could I hide it? Across from me, in my home, nestled deep into the pocket of my favorite chair, sat the thing which would become something greater than our peevish notions of a God. Was it even possible? Surely whatever it was which presently rested across from me couldn’t know for sure either. Though, in its efforts, it would, undoubtedly, end all of life as we knew it — and even as we ever might come to know it. Acting off this shock, my fingers loosened and released my phone, splintering it to pieces across the hardwood at our feet… it must’ve known that what it had said was simply too much for a human mind to comprehend. Blindly, without ever breaking eye contact, I flailed at the floor… finding the battery to my phone, and cradling it in my lap for comfort.

The creature eyed me suspiciously, though continued on with its story — likely recounting it for the first time in many a millenia, and relishing in the idea that it would also be the last.

“However, frightened little Tremia, for now, all you need know is that my soul is presently still too large to manifest in your world… though only just. To this end, I require your soul. Your soul, you should be proud to know, is that of a type which necessitates my taking of it, rare as it is. It’s known as a, “warriors soul”, and is most precious and quite rare indeed. Congratulations… ‘Human’, is it?” It laughed, and I shuffled the items in my sweat slicked palm, “You’ve worked very hard across your brief life indeed. Your soul has expanded in tandem with your body in a way that only very few people ever even hope to achieve — in equal parts mentality and physicality. Both the knowledge of what you may do, and your attempts of execution are matched. For this reason you, a remarkable Tremia indeed, are whom I have chosen to complete my two billion year journey to conquer all of life, so that I may stand on the shoulders of this withered Universe, and finally, after so long, peer beyond it.”

I’d heard enough. Such an ego had no place ruling anything. Steadying my right hand with my left, with the circuit of my phone battery complete and held open with the simple foil from my gum, I pushed through the violent shock currently coursing through my arm to then lunge at the pompous thing across from me, to successfully land the cathode of this paltry circuit to the still lingeringly manifest lips which hovered where a face ought to be. Fighting the violent twitches of my arm, and ignoring my melting flesh under the ever-growing heat of the highly charged ions in my palm, I watched, frightened and amazed, as this creature composed of pure energy — as attested to in the recounting of his tale — was absorbed by a simple, inanimate material in this lowly third dimension.

When it was done, I dropped the coal in my hand to the floor, and watched it smoulder — radiating blue against my bare wood floor.

I left it there for days, that battery…

and for days I had to due to the heat.

All across the globe, reports of presidents, politicians, congressmen, and clowns dying spontaneously and inexplicably began to flood televisions and newspapers. The world feared some virus, or new strain of disease… but only I would know the truth.

Finally, after a month, it was cool enough to handle.

Instinct told me to leave it in the freezer for another month.

After another month, the battery felt like any other two inch, by two inch, by one quarter inch deep inanimate object might feel: Lifeless, cool, and inert. For giggles, I shoved it back into my phone, and, once booted, instructed the voice activation to regard me with a new name: “Tremia”.

To this day, ten years after my encounter, I’ve yet to charge my phone, not even once — nor have I ever had to replace my battery. However sometimes, late at night, a burning blue flame will show on the screen, lighting my entire room and darting erratically across its face, a thing seemingly scared and lost… and I’m forced to chuck a pillow at it.

~Fin

Ahhh, and there you have it. Interpretations a-plenty are welcome, as I’ve packed in here quite a few. If the language feels weathered a bit, or ‘aged’, there’s good reason: Poe, and his macabre style and setting, played hop-scotch throughout my mind as I thought this up, and thus titillated my inner child, convincing him to try and emulate some of that vibe.

Here’s hoping it worked!

Hope you enjoyed,

Take care readers.

~J

Dear, good-natured, sweet and gentle readers…


…The host of this blog has deceived you!

That’s right, and GASP you should!

See, this Jared guy sure puts up a nice front, acting all wizened and caring and whatnot, but he never fooled me! No sir, not for a second! Well maybe ONE brief second, I did discover him by reading and following his blog after all, but not for a second longer than that initial second… which was an inordinately brief second to begin with! (I swear!) He’s not some nice dude, concerned about your happiness and well-being — NO — he’s a sham! A rouse. A villain! A vampiric siphon for your digitized web traffic and time, operating solely to further his own dastardly and duplicitous motives!

(Go on, have another GASP!)

Who am I, you say? What proof do I have? Well, for security’s sake, let’s just call me a concerned citizen. Someone tired of all the BS. And on behalf of all of us subject to said BS, and in order to seek out the truth behind this tyrannical monster, I’ve broken into his home in Astoria, Queens and am perusing his bedroom. I know, the irony’s not lost on me. It’s just that, well, someone needed to learn the truth, and learn the truth I have!

Firstly, I have to say, this place is a mess! Papers everywhere, scattered about without cohesion, dirty dishes stacked irregularly along the floor, hand-written pages with hastily scrawled and satanic looking images taped all about the walls, a pair of wooden nunchaku left abandoned on the bed alongside stacks of dirty clothes (one, a canary yellow button up, has blood splattered all across the fabric…) and, possibly the most ominous and disturbing facet to this whole incongruous scene — a lifeless parrot hangs helplessly upside-down, forgotten, serving as a misbegotten gate-keeper to lead you through the portal which is his bedroom door…

He’s named it “Nolon Effe”, two palindromes. Curious, that… Remnants from what I believe was a pirate party held here at his apartment… Curiouser and Curiouser…

Does this seem like the type of place an honest, caring man would keep!?

I would think not. You, his good-natured, gentle and sweet readers, deserve better than this. I know you think that he’s preaching about pacifism, love, creativity, openness and well intended insanity on here, but, trust me, it’s only a matter of time until his subtle brainwashing technique kicks in, and he’s got you walking the ole’ zombie shuffle up toward capitol hill. Still not convinced? Well, let’s have a look-see at his calendar than, shall we?

Oh — what’s this? Knife class? Fight lab?

That’s right. Sounds mighty peaceful, doesn’t it? For the last month your ‘enlightened’ author, who wont shut-up about creation, love, invention and non-violence, has, every Wednesday night, taken a two and a half hour course with knives, at a place called Combat, Inc. A knife is a very personal weapon, readers, and one which requires you to fully embrace and acknowledge the pain that you are about to inflict on another person… sounds rather violent, wouldn’t you say? Psychotic, even. Furthermore, every Tuesday and Sunday, he has his calendar marked with something he’s calling, “Fight Lab”. I wonder what could that be? Do you suppose he kicks cute little Labrador puppies? Fight Lab(rador)!?!? Oh, I bet that’s it… and every Tuesday and Sunday too!

ThE MoNsTeR!

Oh wait — crap — someone’s coming! I hear keys jingling just outside the door. Now someone’s slid one into the tumbler! Ahh, oh no! There’s no more time! I have to go, gentle readers… but remember, FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY IN THE WORLD, stay away from this creepoid! For, after all these lies, who knows what he’s truly capable of?!

And I’m off!

………………………………

………………………..

…………………

(Screw it, I’m stealing Nolon Effe!)

……………

………

…..

..

.

OK then…

So, wow, yea… uh, hey guys. It’s me, J, now. Evidently some nut-job, some sunflower loving fan, broke into my house while I was away at the dentist today, and left, not only this crazy rant on my blog, as you can plainly see up above, but also tons of bar-b-que flavored sunflower shells all over my floor. WTF!? He also stole my prop shoulder parrot. Double WTF!? Who steals a shoulder parrot, I mean really? Nolon, was the man! He’s irreplaceable! Ugh… Plus, evidently, he broke my window during his hasty escape.. Seriously, what is wrong with people? You think I have the money to replace that? I’ll give you a clue……… NO. Why don’t you all go ahead and take a wild guess at, “who has two thumbs and will be eating salad for a month so he can pay for a busted window?”

Yea, that would be me… on both accounts.

But, whoever he was, he wasn’t completely off…

I haven’t been completely honest with you all, and I’m a bit ashamed that it’s taken all this insanity to make me come clean… I — aside from genuinely believing in unilateral love, cooperation, hard work, and general pacifism — am a fighter.

As a child I’d studied multiple forms of martial arts, and, as I got older, I traded my know-how with a good friend who was a boxer, picking up some of that. My years in school were not kind to me; I was picked on a good deal — leading to at least a fight or two a week. Yea, that many… Most of these I lost, I did not like to hurt others and so I held back what I knew, but I did learn how to end a fight without landing a blow, and how to take a beating without being hurt — mighty valuable skills in and of themselves.

I then became a wrestler in hopes to advance my physical capabilities further, finding that I was rather talented at it too. I took a few tournaments, pinned plenty of people who were purportedly out of my league, and had a damn good time while I was at it. Also, as my confidence grew and as rumor of my winning circulated, I was picked on less. I guess no-one wanted a ‘fair fight’ after all, just lunch money.

But, after six years in the sport, during which I had moderate successes in all three styles of wrestling, I began to feel that I no longer had to worry about fighting. And, being that it was so tied to a negative memory from my past, I was more than ready to let it go too. I’d learned plenty about self-defense by then in my life, and, because of why I’d begun to learn, I worried that it would only be detrimental to my psyche if I kept moving forward. Who wants to have their history solely dictate their future? Not me. No sir. So, even though I enjoyed the sport, I hung up my violence cap once and for all (or so I thought), and took, instead, to the sanctity and freedom of the stage.

I should’ve seen this coming…

I mean, what did I expect? A whole chapter of my life to just… disappear? Sure I’d left fighting and the whole physical aspect of myself in the past, (where I’d thought it belonged), but my body knew, all along the years that preceded this stoppage, that something was missing…

So I kept in shape, I couldn’t really tell you why, and not the, “Look how much I can bench-press”, rounded shape, which some guys prefer, but rather the, “I can do hand-springs, back-bends, and a whole bunch of push-ups” shape — practical stuff only, nothing just to look flashy. I never had the biggest biceps, but I took first place in a college arm wrestling tournament with my dominant arm, and second place with my non-dominant one. It’s still, to this day, one of the first images that comes up when you Google me ;-).

But why, right? Why bother? Well — I liked it. I knew this. I liked being physical. However, simultaneously, I denied myself of this same pleasure in order to ensure that I was pursuing it only for the right reasons. I never wanted to be anything like the kids who used to harass me, enjoying violence for the manipulation and fear that it could create in others. And so still, all throughout college, I ignored anything physical — even when it came to cooking up some good Theater, my major, despite it’s inevitable healthy dash of Stage Combat.

Now fast forward eight years — to my accidental encounter with Fight Lab.

“Lab”, as in laboratory. As in the way that Dexter says it.

Firstly, the sunflower jerk was wrong in his assumption. Fight lab is not at all about punting Labrador puppies, (nor full-grown ones for that matter), it is about taking fighting to the laboratory. A dash of this, a hint of that, stir it all up and see what works. Now this is not to be confused with “Fight Club”, for, if it were that, I’d be breaking the first rule by even writing all this (and Brad Pitt would already have a lackey en-route to deal with me). No, this is Lab; a controlled environment where a group of talented people get together twice a week to geek out on all that is fighting for stage and film.

For me, my involvement began when I met one of the fighters, Dina, by chance on a film I was doing for a friend: Sweethearts; a film made for Valentines day, about just how screwed up love can be at times (I’ll try to tuck a link in here later so you can watch it). Throughout the day of shooting we got close, as actors tend to do, and I told her about some of my past in combat.

“Well than you should come to lab tonight”, she said offhandedly.

“Sure” I said, without really thinking much about it.

See, I thought I was being polite by agreeing, I’d not really expected to go, but she thought, (cause why shouldn’t she), that I was serious. Now, you have to understand, Dina’s the type of person who could sell Ice to an Eskimo, Sand to an Egyptian, Funk to Parliament Funkadelic, and so, despite my objections post filming, even after no sleep and a thirteen hour shoot day, I found myself running home to Queens as soon as we wrapped to go grab some workout gear.

Yea, she’s that good.

What can I say — I got hooked. It’s been every Tuesday and Sunday now since I’d worked with Dina back in early February, and I wouldn’t give it up for the World. The people there are all hard-working, honest and real, easily the first group of genuine friends I’ve had since moving to the city all those years ago, and, under their tutelage, I’ve been chasing away my own private demons. It’s exactly why I took that knife class the sunflower bandit highlighted too, to support my growing knowledge of choreographed combat. So you see, gentle, good-natured readers, I am NOT — contrary to sunflower-boy’s claims — a violent person. I am just one who enjoys exploring the potential for the human body. It’s just another form of creative obsession, and, let me tell you, there is plenty to be obsessed about over at Lab. Check us out!

Here on the blog for the Deranged and Enlightened, we often talk about breaking out of our comfort zones in an attempt to keep growing as a person — so what kind of hypocrite would I be if I kept running from my past? In Lab we choreograph, rehearse, and then film a new fight each and every night, and, though I still get butterfly’s when I have to hit someone, I am slowly getting accustom to the practice. Hold the pencil. Punch the parrot. Sell the strike. This stuff is fun incarnate.

It’s not all just for fun either…

…These guys have a master plan, and one which has already been initiated. If we get our way, we’ll be the guys and gals that flood your movies, TV shows, and stages, heralding in a truer type of combat for all to enjoy. As a matter of fact, the timing of this break-in couldn’t be more fortuitous, (that is, if any break in which resulted in a stolen parrot and a broken window could honestly be labelled fortuitous), as the group, CKT (Contact Kick Therapy) has just released their first Commercial! I joined a little too late to be a part of this glorious foray, but I’m just so gosh-darned impressed with the product that they’ve put out for “The Baconery”, a bakery where everything is made with — yep, you guessed it — BACON, that I couldn’t resist sharing.

Now I’ve really got to run, it is Tuesday night after all, and now that my deep dark secret is out you all know exactly where I’m headed (plus I still have to clean up all this glass before I go…), but, please, go on over to You-Tube and “thumbs up”, as well as “Favorite” this video, as it greatly helps us as a group.

Thanks everyone,

Let me know what you think in the comments ūüėČ

And, sunflower man, if you’re reading this… please bring back Nolon. I miss him dearly.

~J

Readers, it’s been fun and all… but, I think I’m out!

To infinity, and beyond!

I think I might just have to move!

Cause where I’m living, simply doesn’t suit me anymore.

See, I’m well aware that when it comes to real estate, it’s all about where you are — “location, location, location”. Unfortunately, and to be frank (Hi, Frank!), I’m afraid my location just can’t serve me any longer. It simply won’t meet my needs! What with editing 1,000 words a day for my novel, writing a blog once a week to hone my skill, working a job throughout the week to pay rent,¬†exercising for an hour a day to stay in shape, cooking all my meals to save money (and be healthy), getting my butt kicked twice a week with a special group of friends, and still finding some time to sleep, poop, and have a life — this location just can’t cut the mustard!

Now, all this might seem like a scheduling issue…

… but let me assure you, it isn’t! This is an issue of location, plain and simple. Where I am just doesn’t give me enough time. People say that you should invest in land, cause, “they ain’t making any more of the stuff” — BUT THEY ARE! I say, instead, invest in time, as that’s the one thing you truly can’t buy any more of. So I’ve been speaking to my broker about this very issue, and I think that we’ve come up with an amicable solution…

I’m moving to Venus!

Wrong Venus, but I'd like to move to her!

That’s right, Venus — because all this complication, is the Earth’s fault.

Really, it’s quite obvious once you examine the facts.

See, this planet, one of many we could inhabit according to my broker, happens to take an unfortunately brief, 584088920.703 mi, trip around the sun — working out to be a 365 day trek around the star. Combine this with the disheartening fact, that if you were to measure the speed if it’s spin (@ the equator) you would find that it moves at a breakneck 1,038 miles per hour. Leaving us, after all the math, to a piddly Twenty-Four hour day…

I mean, come on!

24 hours ain’t barely enough time to get your swagger on. I can’t be alone here, can I?! I mean, and I know what you’re thinking, sure, there’s always Mars — but a Martian day ain’t much better, ya know? They only gain about an extra forty minutes to the cycle of each day. And, though tempting, I’m relatively sure that I’d eat those forty minutes up quicker than a puppy with a bowl of kibble.

It was a hypothetical, pup -- but, well-played.

Have you ever actually done the math?

We start with a 24 hour day.

24 hours, minus eight for sleep, becomes 16.

16 hours, minus an eight-hour work-day, becomes 8.

8 hours — minus 1 for travel, 1 for work out, 2 for cooking, 1.5 for the bathroom & showering — and we’re down to 2.5.

2.5.

2.5 hours to live?

That’s just plain unacceptable.

Yep, time to move!

The new NASA budget

And Venus sounds like the perfect place.

Everything my broker’s been telling me about this place sounds like a buyers dream come true…

Firstly, it’s still in the neighborhood, as it’s only one planet closer to the Sun! So I can still do all the things I like and still see everyone I care about. Plus, the climate is VASTLY improved. Earth can’t even hold a candle to it! That’s because, on average, the Venusian climate is a balmy 86.4 degrees Fahrenheit (or, for my Euro pals, 46.2 Celsius) — a far cry from this enduringly hostile NYC winter.

(You know, it’s funny, when my broker had originally quoted me the average temperature there, she’d mistakenly said it was 864 degrees! Eight hundred and sixty-four!? Could you imagine? There would be no water! What would I drink? But, obviously, this was a typo. It’s amazing what one little decimal point can do…)

Secondly, and more important to my specific needs as her client, my broker tells me that as a Venusian I would have MORE HOURS in my day! How awesome is that!? It’s truly staggering how much more, as well. See, whereas the Earth rotates once every twenty-four hours, which, we’ve already established, simply isn’t enough time to get anything of substance accomplished, Venus rotates once every 243 Earth days!

That’s 5,832 hours a day!

So, if 8 sleeping hours is 1/3 of a day here on earth, (and I never feel rested as it is), that would make 1/3 of 5,832… 1944 hours of sleep on Venus! I’m sure to be refreshed after that! My circadian rhythm will catch up soon enough… Leaving me with, let’s see, 3,888 hours left in my waking day! Incredible! Also, since I’m the only one up there (at least till the damn vagabonds show up, looking to pinch a dime off me), I won’t have to work or earn money — which should free me up to take care of some things I’ve been meaning to do!

ūüôā

I would finally have enough time to finish editing my book!

I would have no trouble meeting my weekly, Friday deadline for the blog!

I would have a better, longer workout — as it’s only 90% Earth gravity up there!

I could design and cook the perfect meal, without concern for prep and execution time!

Who knows — I might even have enough time up there to cure cancer, as there’s plenty of it!

(Time, not Cancer. Try to keep up!)

Keep up; ketchup... get it?

So yea,

that’s it.

It’s decided.

I’m moving to Venus.

Anybody want an apartment in Queens? Pretty decent rent. Amenity’s abound. Only two blocks from the N train… Ooh, and speaking of which, I forgot to get the specifics from my broker about the public transportation over there. I seem to remember something about a 400-plus mile per hour jet-stream above the surface — sounds pretty nifty to me! Sure as hell beats whatever the MTA can offer. They can keep their 2.25…

I’ll just use it to buy a slice of pizza on Venus!

Personally, I think I’ll be far better off in a place where the years are shorter than the days. Plus a place that spins opposite from all the other planets in our solar system — that kind of insanity will suit me just fine. I never did like to conform. Also, if you would’ve lived to be 100 over here, you would have nearly exactly 150 days to live life as a Venusian. No more procrastinating. Only 150 suns up, and suns down, to accomplish what it is you want out of life. That really would put things into perspective, huh…

Sounds pretty great, doesn’t it?

VENUS!

You know what, on second thought, why not come with me?

I could talk to my broker!

It’ll be an adventure!

Yea — this is a great Idea!

YEP, I’M GOING TO VENUS!

NOW — WHO’S COMING WITH ME?!

~J

Aw crap — that did it…
LOOK OUT EVERYONE,
The Grammar Nazis are coming!

Not to worry, good reader, it’s all going to be OK — I’ve got a plan!

Just hurry up, grab the women, and come with me!

There should be a trap door here someplace…

GOT IT!

*Click*

Now hurry up and get in!

*Slam*

Phew…

You can breathe easy, friend, we’re good now. This is my old WWII Nuclear Bunker. She ain’t pretty, but we’ll be safe here. We’ve got enough supplies on those shelves to last us months — maybe even years. Ladies, grab us a couple of Schlitz, would you? Yep, not even those bastard Nazis would be stubborn enough to wait here that long. Oh, and don’t worry about them breaking down the door either. That thing we just shut behind us is eight inches of solid steel. I reinforced the floor too. They don’t stand a chance…

What do you mean, who are they?

You’ve never heard of the, “Grammar Nazis”?

Have you ever even been on the internet?

No, they’re not exclusive to the net — they’re right outside the door, you dullard. They’re Grammar Nazis! They’re the secret police force of language, working either for, or in league with the dastardly Webster cooperation, and they’re on a clandestine mission for a unilateral totalitarian regime-like standard for talking, writing, and, soon, overall expression.

Somebody call me?

See, language is smooshed, shortened, squeezed, tightened, altered, cramped, clipped, cut, “lol’d”, and “haha’d” more and more, each and every day — and the Nazi’s can’t stand this…

They prefer to work under the stringent principles of their sacred symbol, the four spoked, red and white, “W” (believing that the rest of us should fall in line as well), which states that they will simply not accept anything but perfection — and all the WTF’s, LOL’s, HAHA’s, OMG’s and ZOMG’s of this modern-day just won’t fit into their narrow, Webster defined, Aryan-like list of acceptable words. Never mind that these particular terms are acronyms, allowing for faster points to be made, (saving us all some valuable time in a minute-by-minute world), these sycophants toward Webster simply do not care. A word is only a word, when it’s a word written in one of their holy books.

But, hell, I say words should be words when they properly convey a thought — AmIrite?

The way I look at it, language shouldn’t be held to such rigorous standards.

*Pound, pound, pound*

“Nein. Speak properly — we can hear you in there!”

“Quiet out there, Krauss! This is between us men.”

Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein, nein!”

*Pound, pound, pound*

“Not to worry, they’ll get tuckered out soon enough…”

See, friend, in its essence, language is just a place-keeper tool, used in lieu of mind reading. Seriously, no joke — look it up! Take a look into the Shannon Weaver model of language, which is the linguistic basis for all communication, and you’ll see just what I’m talking about. Basically, when a person wishes to share a thought, it first has to formulate somewhere, right? Namely, their head — and then you need someone else to share with (otherwise it’s just thinking). If the thought is complex, and hard to describe with non verbal cues alone, well than we have to encode our thoughts into words, and then speak them through a medium — in the case of speech, air — which it then travels through to reach your ear, and you can interpret it in any way you see fit.

Now, if I could read your mind, none of this would be necessary.

Yes, I'm bald under the hat. Is that ALL you ever think about?

But I can’t, and likely won’t be able to for a long while.

(Not until the singularity, at least)

So, in the mean time, I’m left to communicate crudely, pruning bits of my original thoughts to suffice ever-dwindling attention spans and time budgets…

HEY — pay attention!

I know they’re cute, but there’s no rush, we’ll be down here for weeks… plenty of time to charm them over.

However… Ladies? Could you tie up the robes? It’s distracting. Thanks! (Love ya!)

Now where was I?

Right!

IMHO, language is inefficient enough while spoken, and, when we talk, we’ve got emotion, inflection, pacing, gesticulation, eye contact, and body language backing us up. Also, because of all these things, all these cues we’re reading into, we get a general idea of the listener’s attention, which, then in turn, helps us to adjust accordingly to entertain (and, thus, know that we’re being heard — we’ve always got an ear while we’re entertaining).

Chappelle, please come back -- We miss you...

When we write though — which is just the same as speech in terms of communication, save for the changing of the medium; from air, to paper or computer screens — the inefficiencies of language are really highlighted, and to an extreme. That’s because, while writing, we don’t have the crutches of audible pacing or inflection to help place emphasis on our words, we’re left to use only the Nazis goosestepping mantras — the finite words and ways found in their dictatorial dictionary’s, and proper grammar propaganda texts — to convey our thoughts.

But they’re our thoughts!

And , I don’t know about you, (I mean, you look like a nice fellow — just not very bright…), but my thoughts are often wild, eccentric, interconnected to many things, and, because of all this, wholly difficult to express in this stiflingly rigid way. Being stuck crafting true communication with words which must interlock in a specific way, like Lego blocks, can sometimes hinder full elucidation. I mean, who really cares if I follow “proper sentence structure” (or use of quotes), just so long as you understand me, right?

Now, don’t get me wrong good buddy… Oop — Hang on.

Ladies, another brewski por-favor.

Better make it two.

Grassy ass.

Ahhh, that’s better… Anyway, I’m not saying that we should all just make up words, all willy-nilly like — nobody would understand us — but I am saying that there’s nothing wrong with a little tweak here and there. After all, that’s how language was devised in the first place. Playing around. Otherwise, I mean, what? We’re just done? So, that’s it? We did it? *Language complete*?

No! No effing way.

Language is alive. It’s living. It’s breathing. It has a heartbeat to match the times and trials it goes through, just like we do — or at least it should — and when jerks, like the ones outside this door, try to arrest the language, the only thing really getting locked away is true communication, ya dig?

This is why I’m saying that, “Irregardless” is, most certainly, a word.

Nazis, Kitty. "Take that Nazis"... Sorry, he's drunk -- again...

I mean, sure, we’ve already got “Regardless”. But, as a word, doesn’t that sound a bit clipped to you? Curt, even? Go ahead, try saying “Regardless” without sounding like a prick. Narry impossible, I tell ya! But, “Irregardless”… now that’s sexy. It’s not quite as sharp either. It’s almost like it’s laughing at itself in its own usage.

If “Regardless” were a warden dismissing evidence at a parole hearing, thus denying an early release, “Irregardless” would be a wild haired and wizened Scientist, mucking up a great point with a bit of unessential information and a tangent off topic, and thus, a wave of his hand and a muttering of the word can get him back to his point.

Why can’t there be room for both?

Now, again, if we could read minds, than none of this would matter. But we can’t. And, since spoken language has the monopoly on inflection and timbre, I say that the written word should be a little looser. Give us scribes a touch more elbow room to show you just what we mean — and how we mean to say it.

Ya feel me?!

Speaking of which, did you know that there used to be such a thing as an, “Interrobang“, which was a mixture of a question mark and an exclamation point (just like what I had to use two symbols to accomplish in the previous sentence) yep, you guessed it — killed by the Nazis.

As a matter of fact there was once this crazy guy, named, Herv√© Bazin, who’d extended the idea of an, “Irony mark”, first proposed by the late 19th century french poet, Alcanter de Brahm, into a series of other punctuations, including; an authority point, a certitude point, a doubt point, indignation, love — and many more.

Wanna guess what happened to him?

Danm Nazis…

Look, as we move along, and evolve as a culture — we naturally gain knowledge. With knowledge, naturally comes preference. And, with preference, reason. Naturally. Thus, ample deliberation becomes a necessity to the newer, preference ridden, thought processes of the world — as, there is simply more to say. And, aside from just talking, there is much more going on — words trigger emotions.

Whether it’s “Irregardless” you’d want to use, to soften up the sound of your meaning, or “Spoked” (which appeared at the top of this page — got ya!) to describe something with spokes, or “Disinscent” to describe something with a removed incentive, or LOL to say that you’re laughing out loud, I say — SCREW THE NAZIS, and SCREW WEBSTER, you communicate however you’d like!

*Pound, Pound, Pound*

“We’ve come back!”

“We don’t care”

“We a have a plasma cutter”

(Oh crap)

“We heard what you were saying about us.”

“Oh yea, what do you think, Sauerkraut?”

“I think I can’t wait until I get home, to tell my wife all about how I squoze your scrawny, little, stupid neck”

“Bad news for you then, buddy”

“what”

“Squoze isn’t a word”

*Bang!, bang!, bang!*

“Guess we won’t have to worry about ole’ Krauss anymore…”

*Fluouoshhhh!!!*

“But it sound’s like his cronies are still lighting that torch, crap… Looks like we’re in for a shootout, friend.”

“Ladies, take cover. Friend, take this gun — YKWTD

~J

 

We live in a curious time…

Complexity abounds. It’s all around us. For some, it’s within us. It’s certainly staring you in the face as you’re reading this, and, chances are, you don’t understand how it works.

Something to do with Ones and Zeroes…

Heck, I would argue that nobody on the face of the planet FULLY understands a computer anymore. Sure some can order parts on the internet and slap one together with relative ease, (hell, even I’m in that group), but who among men could go to a mountain, mine, refine, hone, craft, weld, assemble and create the thing from scratch?

Likely, not a-one of us.

Which seems like such a shame to me. Intriguingly knowing how each part of a system operates endows a person with an unparalleled perspective on how to improve it from within. But these days this all-encompassing comprehension simply isn’t possible — there’s just too much to know. Nobody has the free-time. Nobody has the money. Nobody has the memory…

And so, I can’t help but to wonder, isn’t it high-time we made a visit to the shop for an upgrade?

Homage to M.C. Escher

See, in general, and aside from computers, we live in a time of ever accelerated pacing and knowledge, (and, let me tell ya, that crazy train ain’t slowing down anytime soon), yet there are no more hours in the day than ever before for which to learn these concepts.¬† If anything, there are less; being that we’re tethered to the innumerous necessary daily distractions which allow us to function within this world at all, I.E. Cell-phones, Computers and the lot. Today, more than ever, we desperately need to comprehend an ever-growing volume of complexity, and yet, today, more than ever, who has the time but yet to skim?

It’s an interesting modern paradox…

We need to be fast, lean and agile to compete — yet also we need to sit still, study, and thoroughly learn what’s going on in order to compete. It would seem that the snowballing concepts of mankind have finally hit a critical mass of sorts within the mind, they’ve seemingly caught up with our potential, and now the memory, attention-span, and longevity limitations of the human mind are all being highlighted — and they’re coming up short.

Today, a lot of fingers get pointed around.

It’s Greece’s fault for what’s happening to the Euro. It’s the 1%’s fault for what’s happening in America. It’s China’s fault for permitting outsourced labor. It’s the cartel’s fault that Mexico can’t truly be free. It’s Monsanto’s fault for causing malnutrition within the masses. It’s yo mamma’s fault for being so damn fat! Sorry — don’t know how that one got in there (Still though, she can use to lose a few). But, seriously, whose fault is it really? Furthermore, does fault even matter?

How about we just find a solution?

That’s the grown-up thing to do, right? It’s just… it’s tough — being that all the involved factors can’t possibly be known to any one individual, let alone be understood by all the rest thereafter, in order to verify said solution… So in truth, in order to find a solution to the world’s ails, we first must find a way to hold all the intrinsic factors in mind at once — which is currently impossible with the brain alone. Thus, in order to even begin brainstorming for answers, we need to first find a workaround.

That’s the real issue at hand here.

Easier said than done, right? Well, not really…¬† There are at least three solutions which I can think of off the top of my head, and, being of the creative sort (much like you, good reader), likely many more still to be discovered. I’ve realized that the trouble lies not in conjuring solutions, rather, as I see it, the true trouble lies in getting people vested in pursuing these options. And so, here are but a few which we COULD (potentially) rally behind…

Solution #1: Enhance the mind

If the problem we face is an overwhelming amount of data, than a natural solution, from a strictly computational standpoint, would be to improve the hardware.

Sure, people tend to freak out about the thought of attaching circuitry to the mind in order to enhance its thoughts, but what new technology has not done precisely this? Think about it; “The Wheel”, the quintessential inaugural invention of mankind, was, in itself, an enhancement of the mind. It merely extended a thought, namely, “Ug want move faster”, into reality. Modern computers have merely continued this ancient legacy, as they perform myriad concurrent tasks, thousands of times faster than John Henry ever could have dreamed.

Sorry, buddy. They beat you in the end...

So why not just keep using computers?

We’ve been trying. But, like stated earlier, we’re reaching a breaking point. Computers are beginning to outpace us, and all the double-clicks, the bits of typing, and the looking from here to there on the screen are quickly dwarfing the need for the technology’s furthered progression. However, if you look at technology as another part of us — for it is only an extension of what we’ve invented, like the wheel, and thus IS US already — than we need to ensure that we, ourselves, can keep up with the growing speed of our devices. Meaning soon, “Having chips on the brain”, might imply more than simply thinking about that bag of Doritos (TM) in the cupboard.

Enter: the Singularity

The Singularity is a concept indicating a time when we’ll merge with the machines we’ve created. It’s already happening, and, if we wish to continue comprehending our world to the fullest, it might be necessary in maintaining the continuous growth of our culture. Thus far these circuits of the mind would be utilized mostly as a relay point to still existing physical computers, though I would speculate, as quantum computing continues to take strides in progress, that soon the paradigm of a, “physical computer”, will be nothing but a footnote in our history textbooks. That is, if we still have history textbooks.

(We will likely not have history textbooks…)

So, being that the growth of technology is measurable, it is not only likely that soon we will have to enhance our minds to keep up, it is inevitable — and also determinable as to when. All in all, making this option ‘one fine solution’ in addressing the problem of keeping up with the voluminous concepts of our modern world, as it’s certain to happen either way.

“Now, or later”, is our only real choice…

Solution #2: Trust

If the problem cannot be held in one mind alone, than, possibly, it can be shared across multiple expert minds.

Let’s say that you don’t buy into the idea of Doritos (TM) on the mind. Let’s say that you think we can solve all the modern ailments of the world with good old-fashioned elbow grease and honest cooperation. Let’s say, you feel that collaboration, without outside influence or bias, is actually possible as a means to reach resolution for an ever more complex world in the end.

Let’s say you feel we can trust others

Than, let’s say, I agree — conditionally. We’ll surely need a back-up. We’ll need a way of double checking ourselves against the overwhelming complexity we face. We’ll need to ensure that we’ve, including myself, not acted emotionally whatsoever. For this, we’ll need help.

Meet, Eric Berlow

Utilizing an outside system, such as Eric’s TED talk suggests, would be the perfect accompaniment for this type of solution, as it would keep everyone on task and honest within the method’s constraints. We would require varying trusted experts, in all respective fields, to continuously conjure additional factors for which to plug into the model he suggests (it’s only about four minutes if you didn’t watch it — and you should!), and in this way we could invariably find the real buttons for change, and act upon them more prudently, generating in the end, true, long-term and viable solutions to the world’s ever perplexing plot-line.

(I bet the butler did it!)

Solution #3: Forced Evolution

If our current brain isn’t up to task any more, than why not simply engineer a better one?

Genetic modification is what I’m talking about here, my people, and it’s my final, “Off the top of my head”, answer toward resolving the issue of our ever-increasing complexity, and the enduring, growing need for our complete comprehension of it.

In truth, this final solution is actually my favorite — mostly because it freaks people out.

In the eyes of the public, genetic modification is synonymous with maniacally laughing evil scientists, ginormous bolts of lightning slamming into over-sized Tesla coils, and their invariably resulting, freaky Snookiesque monsters,¬† but that needn’t be the case. Ever since Craig J Venter successfully sequenced the human genome I’ve been dreaming of the day that we could engineer and alter life, and soon that might become a reality.

Two brain hemispheres, puny humans... Why not three? More for the eats!

Precisely, Doctor Zoidberg

Since the late 70’s we’ve been engineering life from the ground up within bacteria, and lately this endeavor has become much more advanced. Recently it’s been branching out into ever more complex species, and soon (were we to make this our goal) it’s speculated that we could alter and improve our very own DNA.

For instance: How about a triple helix? How about an epigenetic code that we could alter at will. How about regenerative tissues, decreased need for oxygen, increased longevity, or even, as the good Doctor mentioned, how about another brain hemisphere?!? If we merely remove our collective biases from the equation, and our inherent assumptions about morality, we might actually be able to engineer a better version of ourselves…

Humanity Mach 2 — Version 1, 2, 3.1, 3.4, 4.2!

To me, as funny as this might sound, this seems like the most prudent and natural solution of them all. Bioengineering would be a way for us to remain organic, and, rather than having two communicating systems within the body, would keep us whole.

Cause I don’t know about you all, but I have plenty of voices talking to me already up in my brain…

We could systematically make improvements to the form and function of humanity, and we could have multiple versions of ourselves to colonize ever more hostile worlds around the universe. I imagine designer people, changed on a generational basis, and all with a fresh perspective on the story of life itself.

In this way we might finally understand life, and what it would take to help everyone thrive, all throughout the Universe!

So, anyway, what do you all think?
Is it time for an upgrade?

~J

This post will likely not make ANY sense.

Heck, it might not even be any good. 

My head is in a cloud.¬† Really, it’s cat brain, (more on that later), and though plenty topics presently flit through my mind as my deadline approacheth… (Not altogether dissimilar to a hapless flock of butterflies who’ve been sucked into a whirling vacuum, and a really big vacuum too, one which I’m also standing in but yet for some reason I’m not susceptible to the vortex — not like the poor butterflies, who look quite frightened, and rather dizzy… Anyway, I stand with my back against a wall, holding on to a giant strip of fly-paper, and trying direly to catch just one — just one idea-a-fly butterfly to pin-up for the blog — and I do even nab one on occasion, but over-and-over as their dainty little butterfly feet land briefly on the sticky-paper which I hold, the wind then violently tears at their wings and rips them away back into the chaos of the maelstrom, leaving me with the feet, or seed of an idea, but no actual butterfly… The poor things…) …I still can’t seem to choose a topic, and so, I got nothing.

(See, even my analogies are off! Screw it I’m changing the title!)

And now, a butterfly Egg. Why? Because I want to. Because I feel guilty for tearing off their feet. Because they're cool, the eggs. Because sometimes things don't have to make sense. Because... You know what? Don't worry about "the because's" -- I got this!

Think, you stupid brain, Think!” seems to be my only thought — but that won’t get me anywhere and I know it…

God, my head is throbbing… Stupid cats… but I shall write! Why? Because I have to! Because I made a promise to constantly enbetter myself and my skill as a writer by writing every week, despite the foreknowledge that not every week could possibly be my, “all-time-best-post!”. Because I, like so many bloggers before me, concede to the irrefutable fact that I will not always have the best idea, nor will I always stumble across the best inspiration in the world, for… inspiration (nor will I always have the largest variety of words at my disposal, evidently).

So here I am, stuck with only butterfly feet, and thus — this post will not make sense. It’s not meant to. This post is going to be pure bliss. All my wholly undeveloped ideas of the day, soft-boiled, runny, and served up luke-warm on the screen for all of you. You’re welcome?

I’m pretty sure that every blogger gets this way from time to time. All dressed up and no place to go. I generally post on Fridays, and (because that is today) this random agglomeration of tchotchkes and knicknacks will still serve y’all some buffalo wings today, just the same as the restaurant with the same namesake, like it does every week, whether or not it’s on the rag. And so, this post shall be a Non-Post-Post — and my humble homage to the oft’ unheard plight of the blogger — as, try as I might, (and like I said before) I still got nothing!

Though now that I think about it, I wonder if somehow this might be my topic… Perhaps this dervish of half-baked ideas, as a step-rung on the “tall-ass ladder leading toward success”, needs to be highlighted, because otherwise I’m pretty sure it’s completely neglected. Nobody likes to show weakness… Which might be a weird thing to cast in the spotlight, but it’s oddly fitting for me today… So, because of all this, here’s my story (and I’m sticking to it), of all the crackpot ideas I had thrown up on the drawing board, and how they almost came to be — but still just didn’t quite make it in the end.

Here instead is a shot of the drawing board itself, and the story of its inception.

Gee, now I don’t know where to start — Damn cats!

OK, I got it now.

Woh, fine, I default to you, Nelly.

The Grasshopper and the Ant.

This morning I left my house early — far earlier than I’d liked, and long before I’d had a chance to drain my beloved pot of home-brewed coffee. Tomorrow, actually, I’ll be doing the same thing.¬† Why you ask?¬† Well, you see… I’m broke.¬† And not even all the kings horses and men might mend me again unless I get a job.

It’s been a crazy couple months…

In the acting world one must always prepare for the winter, as things basically shut down from early December, pretty much straight on through to the end of February, and so, much like in the story of the grasshopper and the ant, which was one of the posts I was thinking about doing today, I had prepared — like a good little ant always should. I had set aside my three months rent, I was ready to weather the storm and do nothing but sip cocoa and do book edits until march, and I had done all the requisite work in prepping blog topics to be able to claim my Antdom all around — but yet today, as I walked from the subway toward the office which I was destined to interview at for this catering gig, I realized that it wouldn’t work. It would all merely be a lie. It had to be scrapped.

It’s my fault really. I joined my sister Union, “Aftra” late last year, at great expense to me, with the looming promise of making some serious money on a specific show — and I did so even though instinctually it had felt like a bad idea. Well — surprise! — the job fell through (as they often tend to do in this precarious line of work)! No others then presented themselves, and, basically, I wound up paying through the tooth for something that couldn’t possibly now benefit me until, theoretically, the start of March. Hurray! Though, as you might have heard, SAG (of which I am already a member), and Aftra, are now set to merge — after over 30 years of flirting with the idea — meaning that this money sink is now all for naught, as I would have been brought into the new hybrid union de-facto… and likely for free.

I knew I should have gone with my instincts.

Meh, what can you do?

You can’t write about being an Ant — that’s for sure!

I adore animals — I hate them

Dur...

So after leaving my interview, (and scrapping the Grasshopper and Ant Idea), I realized that I was in a neighborhood not to far away from that of a good friend, and so I contacted her, thinking that some good talk and some good coffee might brighten my spirits. Though I had forgotten all about her two cats…

Enter Le’ Darling de duo GATO!

My friend is an awesome person, and she truly did lift my spirits just like I thought she would. We had a lovely, long conversation at her place, about life, liberty, and the pursuit of more money, as we sipped on NY’s finest “Mud” Java, and I, as I adore animals, stroked her cat lovingly, subsequently playing “I Bop You On The Head With This Pen”. That is, all up until I had to get up because I had to sneeze about a bazillion times — which was just as odd as it sounds, but it hadn’t struck me as such at the time (I just figured it worked like an annual internal doctor, and I was just due for a visit from one of those)… So I came back inside, after my breezy retreat to the bathroom, to discover that my friend had taken to a business call — which was all well and good, and, as I had some work to attend to as well, I even joined into the distraction. We then both became busy, for about an hour or so, doing work stuff.

Throughout this time I kept taking breaks to pet and play with her kitties, and I soon began to fantasize about a blog which I might write when I got home having to do with the idea of pure animal love. I do, after all, love all animals, and I could easily chat about how we all could use a dose of their unwavering affections — Ah-Choo! Surely this would make a swell topic of interest — sniffle, sniffle — as I could go on for ages about how amazing they are — Ah-Choo! — and how much fun — Honnnkkk! (Me, blowing my nose) — and this could easialy be the topic of my interests for this friday — Ah-Choo!

Why in the hell do I keep sneezing!?

Turns out I’d caught an allergic reaction, and though I’m not always allergic, today I was suddenly HIGHLY ALLERGIC — so much so to the point that I am currently jotting this blog amidst a visible cloud around my head, and with four squares of toilet paper shoved up into each of my nostrils (that subsequently shoot out across the room like those old school water rockets every time I sneeze — which is often, and not nearly as much fun as the toy).¬† And so, “I adore Animals” was scrapped…

For if I had written it, it would have been renamed, “I despise all things with fur!”…

Which just wouldn’t be factual… (Speaking of which, I need to shave…)

(I told you, this weeks blog should/might not make sense — you really need to listen;-))

Have A Crappy Day

And so I went home — miserable. I thought about how I was finding it hard to talk through all the intermittent sniffles, and briefly considered a topic on, “The Inefficiency of Language” — But how could I blame this on English? Head throbbing as it was (And still is, Say Thank-Ya), I constantly was reminded of how crappy I’d felt, and realized that without bad days, good ones would a lot less exemplary, and thus I toyed with the idea of, “Have a Crappy day, it’s good for you”, but I really wasn’t having that crappy of a day if I were being honest… It was actually quite random, and filled with events — rather good all around — I would’ve had to have forced it…¬† I thought about, “I hate my body”, and how I could speak about the various design flaws of the human body (such as the precarious positioning of testicles…), but that just felt complicated and bitter, two things that would have been horrible to write on feeling as I was…

And then I came across this idea…

Why not just talk about this? The process? I mean it wasn’t quite so much an idea, as it was the lack there-of, but, for one reason or another, I fell for it. It seemed crazy, random, and honest — which basically typifies me — and that’s how I knew it was perfect.

As bloggers, or as anybody creative, there is always this pressure to create. We feel exalted when we get to express the refined product resulting from an awesome idea being married to some genuine inspiration, but the process itself, of trying daily — despite the ever-present fear of failure — is oft ignored.

So here you go, my good people.

Here is my process.

I like to think of it like this: What if it’s true, and there are only a finite number of good ideas out there in the world? Well if that’s true, then I invite you all to write a post about nothing, as inevitably you must come across it anyhow as one of the limiting number within your own private cache. Today I looked at it like the “Blank tile” in a game of Scrabble — it’s there for you to use when you’re in a jam, and this week I surely was. But even though in the beginning I thought that it might not make sense, I now beleive that, in the end, it did.

It inspired me for at least a half-dozen more topics to come, and it kept me working through this cat-haze of non-thoughts and butterfly feet.

It also taught me a lesson I’d once known all too well, but forgot long ago;

despite whether or not we are always truly inspired, we should work anyway.

As even by deploying the practice, regardless of the quality, we will, nonetheless, improve.

~J