Miles on a Soul

She walks away from me, then returns.

Image by juliecampbell via Flickr

In a matter of minutes, with thirty years between them.
Two different looks,
Same deep soul.
One looked to see if I was looking;
A spark on an otherwise chilly day.
The other too young to know better
(Or too wise to care?)
An unwavering stare into my eyes,
That caught me off guard in its simplicity.
“Who are you?” it said.
With my mind, I replied,
“Yes, you know me.”
“Why are you here?”
“Same as you…”
“To watch the world,” our minds said together.
She smiled, then ducked behind the back of her chair.
Mature in her naivety, unhindered by publicity,
Legs tucked up beneath her,
We hide,
And we seek,
Without going anywhere,
In a game that takes us far from here.
Her giggles tell me,
I’m in the right place,
At the right time.
As soon as I realize what she already knows—
My own little kid still alive inside—
Her tongue waggles at me
And her eyes squint closed,
To avoid sight of my equally silly retort.
She wins, we know, but graciously rewards me with
A million pirouettes in a room
Crowded with tables and people
Never nipping a one of them.
Her own perfect dance,
Perfect because she still is a little kid.
“Thank you for the energy,” I think to her
As she waves goodbye with one hand,
The other holding onto her mother.
Still dancing in her mind
Through a doorway
And back into the real world…
For both of us.
The age of the soul
Cares less about the vehicle
And more about the miles traveled.
A lifetime of roads,
Waypoints on a path;
Sometimes the same,
Sometimes different,
We’re lucky when they meet,
If only for a moment in many lifetimes,
Because in an instant we gain measure;
Notice of wrong,
Or confirmation of right.
She walks away, but turns back.
“Keep going,” her eyes say.
“What you write today,
Might help me tomorrow.”
I nod, my thank you a smile that she never saw,
But from experience, knew was there.

Born from a Dream: New Novel

A week and a half ago, I noted that I'd dreamed a full blown movie in one night... as it turns out, I only saw a portion of what is shaping up to be my THE STAND--a war that is coming between entities for the control of the world. I've blasted out about 10,000 words this past week and have a billion notes that are at the beginning and end and inbetween. Seems I dreamed a healthy chunk of the middle of the movie, but not how we get there, nor where we are going. Fortunately, as I write, it reveals itself.

Here is a (rough draft) snippet:

“Double yellow lines?” My fingers scraped the pavement to confirm what my eyes saw on the road and found the coarse texture turn smooth as the color changed from gray to gold to gray, and then quickly back to gold. I repeated, “Double yellow lines.” There was only one place where I knew double yellow lines to exist, and it was a place that I was quite familiar with, the road. What the fuck am I doing in the middle of the road? With one hand spread across my eyes, I simultaneously ran a thumb across the right and an index finger across my right eye in another attempt at visual clarity, exhaling in the process. Unsuccessful, I used the same right hand to lay a hard, open-handed lick on my right cheek. “SHIT!” I shouted in response to the stinging sensation that racked my body and, finally, brought me to full awareness.

“Okay, up. We. GO!” on the last word, I pushed myself up to a standing position. “WHAT THE FUCK!” I yelled as I noticed the people standing around, encircled me. In one smooth motion, despite my grogginess, my feet split, readied for action from a balanced pose, and my hand reached for a firearm that was most always below my left armpit, but was not to be found. With a quick glance, I confirmed that there was no weapon, not even the shoulder holster that I wore as if it was attached to my body. “Dammit,” escaped my lips in a fashion less like utter disappointment and more like that which would be synonymous with the situational irony of such a quirky word as “zoinks.”

Have I been here before? There was a familiarity, yes, a definite déjà vu. The bullring. Ole! If not for the burden of the unknown, I might have laughed, even entered into such a fit of laughter that I’d end up on the ground that I’d just found a way off of. Fortunately, my survival mode was stronger than my funny bone.

With no advancement, which didn’t necessarily mean there was no threat, I focused less on defense of my ground and more on understanding my plot, though I didn’t approach without my dukes up. It was five standard steps to the closest person, a distance that I crossed with caution; as if I expected to find a sinkhole each time I planted my foot. Within three feet, a distance that most Western persons would consider to be within their “personal space,” and I’d seen nor sensed any change in the person I approached. For a full minute, I stared no where other than into the eyes of the man in front of me, and in those eyes, I saw nothing; nothing whatsoever, and sensed exactly the same nothingness.

“Oh well then, fuck it,” I said as I raised my hand to my chin and proceeded to wiggle my fingers in front of his face and emit a childish sound from my lips. I walked the circumference, looking at each person. “Fuck you. And you. And you. And you, too,” I said, pointing at individuals. My words did nothing to change their emotionless expressions. I had the urge to dance, bounce like a kid on a trampoline, feigning a jab, two jabs, three jabs, spinning around, and acting like I was ready for them—all of them—should they want to throw down. “Let’s go, Fuckers. Let’s do the Funky Chicken. No? Roger Rabbit?” I broke into a dance from my past, one leg swinging behind the other, and then alternating. “No? How about some Running Man?” Running in place, sliding my feet on the ground, breaking it out sideways, and pumping my arms horizontally. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s the ticket. You can’t hold me,” I proclaimed, followed by grunt of accomplishment. “You can only hope to contain me. Yeah, Fuckers.” But, none of my gyrations raised a stir in them. “Y’all are about as fun as a stump,” I said and stopped dancing.

The sun rose, bathing the dark sky in a wash of light. It prompted me to stop, look, and catch my breath. Furthermore, when I looked back at the crowd, I realized that I no longer saw the differences among them. I pulled my invisible six-shooters, one on each thigh-holster, and proceeded to feign the act of pumping lead into each chest—not with rapidity, but with deliberation. My mouth provided the soundtrack, and the only audible effects in the silence of the world. As I dead-eyed each target and squeezed off an unrealistic number of rounds without reloading my guns, I imagined them falling to their knees, chins bouncing off their chests, lids slamming like heavy, windblown doors. Each one that dropped gave me a clear line of sight to a brand new chest-target. I laughed with the hope that I wouldn’t run out of ammunition.

--
Mom says I get the strange side of my creativity from my Pops, ay-yup. You can see my mood from the past two weeks in here--a seedling of frustration in a world that I can't yet predict, a defense mechanism found by being humorous. What you don't yet see in the character is his penchant for optimism; in a world of the unknown, believe that it will work out.

More to come!

New Reality of Purposelessness?

I'm in a mood, more like a gear, unfortunately that gear is neutral, which is slightly better than reverse. My patience is a bit thin. I'm a little more susceptible to the ridiculous nature of things that people do and wear, and say, to the point of shaking my head at them, screaming for them to evolve beyond what's considered "cool," or what everyone else is doing.

Image by The Library of Congress via Flickr

In this state I came to a realization--

People use things, not as they were designed, but with no other purpose in mind.

A ball cap, created as a way to keep the sun (or the rain) out of your eyes, now gets twisted to the side, accomplishing neither. Pants don't cover undergarments anymore. Shoelaces don't tie. Language past, present, and future tenses are getting so misused that I'm beginning to wonder how many years of abuse form a new reality.

I'm all for the creativity of using things in new ways, to a new purpose, but I miss the point of using things in a different way, with no intended purpose.

Are we entering a new reality of purposelessness?