The Son Also Rises

I’m half convinced that Hemmingway just had a lot of random crap in his stories and hoped some kind of symbolism would come out of it…

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Bobby said that Sue wouldn’t love him after that. He was always saying things like that, and only half the time believed it. I knew that Sue would be fine.

We left the store and had some drinks behind the counter at the Select. The drinks were nice. I enjoyed a whiskey. Bobby got the same dark beer he always drank in moods like this.

“It’s just that, I don’t know that she’ll forgive me.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said.

“Jack, it’s true. Settle down.”

“Settle down? I’ll settle when I fucking feel like it.”

“Oh, come on now Jack. Relax a little. I only wanted to talk about my Sue and see where it will take us.”

I sipped my whiskey and spied the dancing floor.

“That’s it, how about a dance? That lass right there is rather frisky. Or the blonde in the green dress, how’s that for you?”

The barkeep poured me another whiskey.

“Let’s talk about my Sue.”

“What obligation do you have? You’re not married and haven’t promised it.”

“Well, there are certain expectations involved.”

“Your last left before those could be fulfilled.”

“Sue isn’t like Kate, not in the least. Why, if Sue and Kate stood next to each other in my home, I’d have to take Sue.”

“In the same way you’d have to take your current car because you’ve already placed the deposit.”

“Oh, come now, Jake.”

“She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

Bobby looked at the dance floor, then the bar, and sipped his beer.

I drained my third glass.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I have to send off some e-mails, get back home,” I said, leaving Bobby in the bar. He’d follow me home and knock on my door. I’d probably open it and let him in for a drink or smoke.

Little changes.

 

Two Legs and a Biscuit, Please

“It’s too hard to form an opinion, so I neglect to.”

“What? That’s an opinion right there.”

“I’m not going to argue.”

 

***

 

Free will is the determination of one’s self. It’s possible to possess it as much as it is possible to lack it. The destination of tomorrow is in the hands of many things, and the individual is only one of those things. To affect a decision that changes the course of one’s life is to sway the river with a twig.

 

***

 

Barbara is lacking in self worth. Her desk is a second home and she’s forgotten what her first looks like. The entirety of her life has been built toward furthering her career. The sports cars, the parties, and the pools were only the symptoms of that same drive that kept her in the office, unable to enjoy them.

Death comes slow for Barb. Some people, he just right up and comes when you least expect it. One moment Bobby is climbing the tree, and the next his blood is spilled from the fall.

Barb knows he’s coming and of course she knows that she can’t do anything about it. Life, however, must mean something, and if she’s built her life around her work, then her work must have meaning.

She won’t be home tonight. Order some chicken.

The Dancing Queen

“It’s a running joke around here that Jocelyn is the party monkey,” Jim said. The wide grin on his wide face reminded me of an ape.

I didn’t understand, so I just chuckled a bit and tried to similarize my facial expression.

“She’s always…’monkeying around,’ if you know what I mean,” he said with his smile that might have been the dreamwork of some drunk animator. “You know, with the boss’ wife.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, like she’s….you know…” His laugh was like a pig drowning in the mud that it so desired.

“I thought, you know, the boss is kinda like a” (don’t say religious) “straight edge kinda guy.”

“Oh yeah, but they’re into some wild stuff, man.” Jim’s eyes extended over his face and dripped with hate. “Wild shit that you would never dream of.”

 

+++ (where is the asterisk?)

 

I always thought that dreams were just in our heads. Like if you thought of something real in your head, even though that was real, it’s still just a dream ’cause it’s just in your head. Sometimes, and I think we have to give ourselves some evolutionary credit (for whatever that means), that’s not true. What’s in our head does exist in the outside world, it’s just that you have to prove it. Look at Einstein and how those observers somewhere in Africa (a continent that my education excuses me from the direct knowledge of its geography) saw those stars during the solar eclipse.

You just have to have a good argument. I’ve never been good at arguing.

 

+++

 

“I like to dance and get drunk,” Jocelyn said. Jim chugged a handle of whiskey in the corner of the bar. Everyone else was just drinking or dancing, and Jocelyn was dancing in front of me. Like I knew how to handle that. “You want to dance?”

“I’ve, uh…I guess…dancing is uh, you know…” Dancing is a way to prove your prowess in athleticism to those around you. It’s a fluke of it looking a lot like fighting, but only a few people fight nowadays. “It’s fun.”

“You like to dance.”

Isn’t it alone?

No…no, ha. It hears all the things listen.

One wonders what it says. It wants to be so still.

It’s in the woods under the rocks by the trees and it hears the forest. The forest speaks through the animals in the woods.

The sky even sings, and it hears this and shudders and shuts down, perpetuating the dark myth that the damned are tortured. It is torture, and wouldn’t you know that it doesn’t care?

It doesn’t give a FUCK! A single one rests beneath its hairy, muddy, bloody paws that tore through the winter’s snow-covered floor with such excitement for the freedom that it never found, never saw.

It trickles down the back of your hand and into the sink, unloved and never found.

It dies down in the corner of his room.

But it isn’t alone! All the voices tell it not to let alone.

All the voices tell it to go alone.

Tell it to go away.

Go away.

It Doesn’t Know Why

I want to write like a damn waterfall.

About: Something cool … A spacecraft? A creek? Perhaps a person, who died last Tuesday from consumption of lead via headwound?

Only a little funny. And too dark. It doesn’t flow well. Does not. At all.

I’d like to see a baseball game next year.

Not telling a story at that point.

Go the creek, state it was intentional. No one will believe. It’s a damn lie that you’re dying, dude, but I can see why one would think that. Again, it’s too serious to tell whether it’s a joke. So skip this part. Skip this part.

My Face: When you’re playing identities and sacrificing as many as you collect. :/ When the doctor doesn’t know if it’s a symptom or a cause. :/

Ten men went down the street to the creek and found a log that they chopped up and made into a boat and set it drifting on the river. A mile down they found the rapids and there was that they could do. The boat wouldn’t hold ’em and their limbs wouldn’t float ’em and they set about drowning in the water. Whoever got the view wished they hadn’t.

Macabre today is yesterday’s depression, floating up the coast with bold predictions but petering out when the moment finally came. The sailors weren’t disappointed but their great skills at navigation avoided the worst. That killed some, too.

The Thing sits in his small front yard and watches him, his Stone of Atonement. Jealous are its eyes and bold are its words that he hears dimly, the last drifting thought of fading dreams. The pressure it affects in him raises the barometer and the blood. He watches his Stone and waits for it to go away, for it is better to sit and do nothing so that life’s desires may not be prevented. It is wise that procrastination keeps the goal distant and locked far away, for it is better to dream and do nothing. Let the designs of your maker make themselves known.

A lot of people sound really serious when they write.

Really fucking serious.

It sounds mad when you curse.

Perception is a curse.

K?

Love, Sex, Dreams, and a quick note

Love is the plant that weeps in the corner of an office that’s crowded with cubes.
Sex is the pot of money labeled “nature fund” on the desk of the secretary.
Dreams are the emptiness that fills that pot, and hope is the loose change in the worker’s pocket.

Just a quick note — Does it mean it’s shit when I pull it out of my ass? Even if I don’t have to wipe?

Ye Gods

Once upon a time…

There was a King and a Queen. They loved each other greatly. They ruled the galaxy, listening even to the asteroids, who have no soul nor thought, such was their attention to their subjects. The Kingdom was regaled as the fairest and most just of all, and many denizens of the multiverse arrived there to spend out their days in comfort.

Together, the King and Queen had many children. As the parents were immortal, so were they. After millions, or billions, or even trillions of years, the children populated the galaxy. These offspring were forgetful, however, as all children are of their parents.

They left in different directions, each to claim the tips of the spiral arms. Of the millions, or billions, or trillions of children, only eight were foremost amongst them.

One was named Hero. She was a fine woman, capable of simultaneous wrath and grace. She claimed the north arm of the galaxy. When her people cried out, she rose to free them of their agony, no matter the personal cost. She laid herself prostrate before her kingdom, and sacrificed her soul for its betterment.

The second was Vileness, an evil man who saw himself in all things. He claimed that his parentage was of his own doing, and declared that all those who refused to worship him were blasphemers and false prophets. He used his people as most denizens of the galaxy might use dirt. He considered them worthless, save that they served some miniscule purpose in his heart. He took the northeastern spiral arm, and the many dim stars there were evidence of his tyranny.

The third was Haste. He hurried to the eastern arm of the galaxy. He rushed before the cries of his people, providing for them their thoughts from which desire sprung. He gave before there was need, and thus his people knew plenty and were sloth-like. They became dead things for lack of care. Haste lives there alone, and his mind run circles around his actions.

The fourth child had no gender, and its name was Forgotten. It rested for many long years before it claimed the southeastern arm of the galaxy. It sat and despaired, for it knew in its heart that it was alone. Its people grew in power and strength over millions of years, and became their own masters. They spread to other galaxies and universes and were immortal in their own right.

The fifth child, who claimed the southern arm of the galaxy, was a daughter. Her name was Beauty and it molded her appearance. So great was her allure that stars were born and shined bright for a billion years longer than they should have, just for the chance that one of their rays might come to rest on her naked breasts. Her people looked upon her and starved, slavered, and desired, though she bade them to work and care for themselves. Although she was soon alone, she was never lonely, looking in her mirror and beholding her own form.

The sixth was called Victory, and won for herself the southwestern arm of the galaxy. She was always a maiden, yet had at her door her pick of any of the bachelors of the universe. Each aeon, she opened her fortress, and her people begged and prayed for her to join them. Finally, after resisting their cries for endless generations, she bestowed upon them a great sword that destroyed planets and dimmed suns. The people, seeing their advantage, brought down her fortress walls and took her as their captive.

The seventh child was Art, and he only took lovers from among the men of the western arm of the galaxy. He interpreted his people’s hearts with passion. Rather than hear their prayers, he felt their emotions. When there was anger, he brought calm. Where he saw love, he created hate. His kingdom was chaos always, and lost were the people who lived there.

But the eighth child was the most powerful of all, for he was Death, and he ruled the northwestern arm of the galaxy. All was empty there, devoid of the life that once flourished in its warm embrace. His essence spread across the remainder of the galaxy, though he was deaf, dumb, and blind. His thoughts were a contagion on all things, and could not be stopped but for the will of his parents, whom none have seen nor heard, and whose subjects are silent in the Kingdom.

For who can think that they may overpower their own creations? None but the gods shall survive within their own mind, and none but Man may exist outside it.