I got an email a while back that accused me of being among the worst writers to ever tarnish the Internet with the scribblings of mind.
Being of less than sound mind and a body that doesn’t always pretend to obey I wrote back and said I have had the time of my life writing and that they owed me $983,932,883 for the words I sent over.
“Fuck you and your stupid request. I am not paying.”
It is too bad I hadn’t dislocated my finger because if I had I would have sent them the picture and some sort of comment about how life never moves in a straight line plus another invoice.
And then I might have said something like, “listen tough guy I have been told by smarter people than you that I am mentally disturbed and I am going to drive the short yellow school bus over you…twice.”
Then I would have filmed myself crying and sent it in a separate file just to make another point about how I am a lousy writer and avant-garde artist.
Gordon Lightfoot is singing If I Could Read Your Mind and I am drinking Scotch and nodding my head because sometimes that Lightfoot guy can really turn a phrase.
I know all about being the hero that failed because failure and I have spent time locked in an intimate embrace.
In between the knowing glances I fooled failure into thinking I bought what he was selling and then when I found a free moment I bolted outside the door and ran like the hounds of hell were chasing me.
The funny thing is I didn’t run very far because I swore I heard the echo of a voice calling me a loser and I turned around to see who said it.
“Say it one more time. Come a little closer and let’s see what happens.”
I pulled out the keys to that short yellow bus and waited, but I heard and saw nothing. I screamed something semi-intelligible at the moon and then went about my business.
ELO is singing Telephone Line and I am finishing that healthy portion of Scotch.
I haven’t had the conversation I want to have yet. Haven’t spelled some things out or shared some deeper thoughts because he isn’t ready and he really isn’t listening.
It is frustrating me because I am particularly good at tearing down walls. I wasn’t built for grace but demolition is something I know.
Broad shoulders, thick neck, paws and a thicker head than sometimes serves me well are suitable for some purposes.
I have said many goodbyes to lots of different people and have learned the hard way that if you don’t tell the people you love that you do you will miss out forever on that opportunity.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
A Tale Of Two Cities – Charles Dickens
How Do You Know Each Other?
I wander through the back of the hall and think about how “Dickensian” this period of time feels.
Staring down at my phone I read the news of the day and tried to answer the same questions that so many others must have asked now and during other times of unrest.
I didn’t spend time asking how it happened because when your house is on fire you don’t stop to see where the initial spark came from.
First you put out the flames and then you investigate.
If the step counter on my iPhone is to be believed I have put in almost 40,000 steps over the weekend.
Put time in lifting weights and did a bunch of pushups while trying to protect my formerly dislocated finger.
Intermixed within it all I keep hearing that opening quote to A Tale Of Two Cities and am amazed at how timeless it is.
Staring out at blue skies I am determined to keep finding ways to put out that fire figure out some small way to make sure I feel like I stay on the right side of history.
It is not because I worry what people will think if I don’t but because our kids deserve adults who think about what kind of world they are going to inherit.
Sometimes all we have is what we have during particular moments in time and those things can change.
They can go up, down and around on that giant carousel we all ride.
I spend more time thinking about how good things are because I see the other side.
There are still pieces and part of the dark that refuse to let go of me and they don’t fear the short yellow bus.
I don’t let them stop me from moving forward, but I feel them fighting progress and hear them taunting me.
Sometimes heroes fail, but not always.