There's a story in everything...

... and in any place and at any time.

I coincidentally met Trek today, a man aptly named for he has spent most of his life living up to his name: months living in the desert alone, a year of driving the States, and other adventures throughout the world. I made the one block walk down to my office away from my office, a coffee shop I can nearly hit with a strong throw of a stone, whereas he'd driven more than 26,000 miles to get to the same place.

For nearly half an hour our kindred souls danced to the music of the things we've done, things we're doing, and things we plan to do, the latter with an exacting focus on the "now." We were two storytellers talking about the ability to find good stories in everything, everywhere, and at any time--in the small towns on the road, in the faces of the clouds or the trees, in the conversations at middle-of-nowhere gas pumps... and in the products, processes, and people of companies.

It easy to think your day's mundane work is uninteresting, but to someone else the things you do are magical. A college professor once told me that there is at least one thing to learn from every person you meet, and I have never found his words to be untrue.

I challenge you to find a good story to tell from the daily things you do, be it from the passion you put into repetitive work or the handshakes you extend as a measure of personal policy or the notes you attached to every purchase as heartfelt thanks.

Stories are everywhere, and they want to be told. Tell 'em!

And I recommend this gentleman's story: The Good in America.

Glimpse of a Cat

A glimpse, maybe a clue, but last night I experienced another piece of the puzzle, for sure. It's a game. At least, I've decided to start calling it a game, which should make it more fun to play than a mission in life. A fucking mission exudes the word "pain" in its ultimate reward. Believe me, I get that already; I don’t need a reminder every single time I hear it.

Snap.

Simply put, I saw her.

Now, I suppose that I could argue that I saw a vision of her, for I haven't yet answered the question about whether Promise is one singular person or many. I believe in the many over the one. However, finding the piece of hay that fits so comfortably out the side of my mouth in this stack of painful needles might aptly describe the search process, so far.

The soul medicine that I'd so desperately needed came in the form of the night, oddly enough. Which reminds me; never confuse The Black and the night. Never. Under the stars and the limp threat of storms, far from those polluted by their own urbane nature, where the man in the moon provides the only true light--a telling light, but not a truthful flood, for many things hide in its glow--I found my rest among things that sleep, and things that don't, under no cover but that which the earth or from simple construction of its assets does provide.

On most nights I only hear the beating of my own heart—that constantly beats too fast, even more so with the punishment that I've been putting upon it. Kick ‘em when they’re down. How quickly can I plug my arteries with poison to get the fucking lub-dub out of my head? On most nights, not quick enough, so I've prayed for the nectar squeezed from grapes, permitted in our most hallowed cathedrals, to lead me on hands and knees into oblivion. Together we crawl into the mysteries of the dream-hungry mind. Yes, on most nights, we do.

As I lie there last night, I could feel It coming. It walked in eternal shadow; no light from the moon revealed its face. It made no shortest-distance-between-two-souls-is-a-straight-line path toward me. It meandered, whether toying with little lives, suffocation by approximation, or simply testing my own constitution, it approached slowly... and, like I said, I felt it. I don't know if it walked, floated, or danced; I just know it was there. It was there in the real world.

I deliberately metered my breath to calm my heart. Deeper. Slower. Calmer. By not dwelling on its presence, I could force myself to transition into my dreams where I was more familiar with the tools that I had at my disposal to fight or parry. Yet, it still moved, determined and closer. The lone sheet became my shield; its warmth forced my body to sweat, but I pulled it up until it covered all but my nose. Any higher and I'd feel my own suffocation begin. The only thing I need to sleep is fresh air. No human body, no pillow, no blanket, no forceful hand can cover my means of breath and still expect me to sleep. This long hair on my head would serve as a dark helmet, perfectly camouflaging my only exposed body part.

It still came... until the sweet state of intoxication whisked me away.

--

"You don't have any idea what she's doing to you, do you?" she asked.

I didn't recognize her and I had no idea who she was speaking about. But, I was lucid and active in this dream rather than a passive observer.

"Soup?" She waved her hand front of my face before repeating her question.

I focused my eyes on her trying to place the face.

"Been somewhere?" she asked.

"Something like that," I replied.

"I know your mind travels. I know it brings back all these wonderful stories," she said while pointing to the bookshelves and piles of paper that hadn't yet made been bound. "But, I need you here. Now. I need you to listen to me in this life."

This life? Which fucking life is this? "I'm here, Cat. I'm here." CAT! With a "C" and not a "K," which must mean that it's Catherine, not Kathy, not Katie, but could be Cathy. It wasn't lost on me how strange it felt to discover something that it seemed I already knew. I study the shape of her face to give me a small chance of remembering it in what would surely be some split-second, chance meeting at some point later in life.

"Well then, if you're here, do you mind talking with me instead of over-heating that brain of yours with the possibilities?" she asked as she turned her seated body slightly toward me.

"Okay," I replied.

We sat in a dimly lit room—a bedroom—that felt like my bedroom, but not one that I was currently familiar with. The light came from over my shoulder to light up her face. Don't forget her face. After all of these experiences with Promise, none where I've ever been able to see her face, it surprised me to have hers facing me. Pudgy cheeks and soft lines gave her that naturally cute look. Her hair, which looked like it was between where it used to be and where she wanted it to go, tickled her shoulders where several pieces had escaped the knot that held its relatives captive. It was too dark to see the color of her eyes, but her hair grew a reddish-brown and I wasn't able to determine whether it was red by nature or by choice. Nor did I care.

Can she see my face? With the light behind me, can she see my face? This strange thought surprised me.

"HEY! DID I LOSE YOU AGAIN?" This time she snapped her fingers when she said it.

I mumbled, "I can't place myself."

"What?"

"Nothing." And suddenly found the place in short-term memory that replayed that question she'd asked a few moments prior. "I know what she's doing, I just don't want to believe it."

"Why do you try so hard?"

"I want to believe. I want to believe in the good-natured heart, the wise soul and the comfort of trusted commitment."

"You sometimes want to believe it so much that you create a fantasy amidst reality."

"At least I know it."

"Knowing it and doing something about it are two totally different things," she said flatly. "Well, all of that's going to change tonight."

Somehow, I just knew that things were about to me exposed in such a way that I could no longer deny their existence or believe the lies that gave me the opportunity to suspend disbelief. I knew all of this and it didn't bother me. In fact, it felt a welcome coming. I didn't know what Cat expected of me, perhaps not such a state of calm, but that's what studying her face gave to me. How long had I known her? Forever. Duh. She didn't back down from my gaze, simply held her strength in the light, making her even more beautiful.

When I brought my lips to hers, she didn't move, didn't act as if it was something that she'd always wished for, but had too much respect for what's right to pursue. She didn't wrap her arms or legs around me, and didn't turn her body into mine, not even a slight opening of the shoulders to my kiss. She did, however, purse her lips milliseconds after mine touched them, and that was all the reaction I needed to linger, lips brushing across each others' like fingers tracing the names etched into monuments--as if you could reach out and touch history; feel the sense of struggle, but ultimate accomplishment of the men and women in our past.

She pulled away from me and quickly jumped out of bed. Before she spoke, I realized what she'd already heard; quick, bare footsteps on the floor above.

"What do we do?" she whispered. I looked at her blankly and she returned a shrug of her shoulders that reiterated her question.

I shrugged my shoulders in return before saying, “You just told me that everything will change tonight, is this"--I gestured around the room drawing a circle that encompassed us--"not what you meant?" I knew it wasn't what she meant, but didn't miss the opportunity to employ my wit.

"NOOOO!" she whispered with as much authority as she could and still have it labeled a whisper, then checked her clothes as if she’d just put them back on.

I reached for her, hoping that my touch on her elbow would bring calm, but as I reached...

--

I woke to a night where even those awake at night had fallen silent. I often forget that there comes a time in the night when the night itself is completely still. I felt calm, resting with everyone and everything, which was very different for me--in the majority, a group that I'd not felt a member of in a very long time.

The pillow, as is often the case during a deep sleep, was wet with saliva in a circle that I knew from memory would be about the size of a silver dollar, though I couldn't confirm it in the darkness. I made my one hundred and eighty degree flip, from left side to right, adjusted the covers and thought hard to capture the face that I'd been so intent to study in my dream.

Cat. Catherine. Not Kathryn, or Kat. Cats and I have an unspoken deal since I'm allergic to them: if they don’t mind me not petting them, I don't mind them spending time around me or on me. With most cats, it works out. Wouldn't it make sense to find a Cat that I wasn’t allergic to? I mean, really, wouldn't that just bring my life into the balance I always claim to seek.

I fell back to sleep with something that I hadn't had in ages, a smile.

Thoughts that didn't want to be poetic...

A close friend said to me a few weeks ago, "I'm still working on myself." I was struck by the obvious: of course you are. To me, it's the nature of life to be constantly learning, reading, thinking, working on one's self. I want to understand how to run a better brainstorming session. I want to read more about story-telling. I want to be a better writer. I want to improve upon the strength that my shoulder and my ear often lend to others struggling with life's decisions.

Image by nerovivo via Flickr

Yes, I think we should all be "working" on ourselves.

The problem arises when working on yourself gets in the way of decision-making. When working on yourself becomes an excuse for inaction. Now don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying that this particular friend is in that position... maybe, maybe not... but I recommend to all that a position of allowing decisions to make themselves is no strong position at all. In the circumstance of indecision--do I want to do this or do I want to do that--

Oh hell, just say it and stop being verbose...

If you can't decide what to do about a decision that demands complete commitment, then the decision has already made itself. And, once you've accepted that reality, then the whole world of opportunity--a world meant for your happiness--opens up to you. The world will cease to be so suffocating; color will return with breath.

Dumb Luck on a Country Road

I stoked the wood-burning stove. I fed the mouse-catcher (who has been eating a ton of food). I did yoga after a trying exchange of text messages with a friend. I started the car so that it could warm up. I considered putting more air in the tires; the winter chill reduces the air pressure, but then convinced myself to do it when I came home. Though I knew the main highway was clear, I wanted to have a slow drive through the country to see how beautiful the winter white had left things. By turning right instead of left, my entire day changed.

There are two hills and two blind corners to negotiate on the road that runs west. I eased out of the drive (since I'd shoveled it primarily for left-hand turns), and let the front wheel drive do the work on the slight incline. My car made it up and down the first hill without problem, and I noticed that the road grader had bladed half of the road, which had turned up some gravel (traction) in the lane going the opposite direction, but not in mine. The approach to the first ninety-degree turn is a slight downhill run, and I immediately started to pump the brakes and slow down; the western setting sun had done its work here, turning the road into an unblemished glaze of ice all the way into the turn. I'd gotten the car down to a manageable fifteen miles per hour when I began to turn the wheel... and got no resistance from the road; the car continued straight.

At my speed, and given that the outside lane had been plowed, in the worst-case scenario, I would have slid to a stop well before the bank on the other side. I never touched the brakes, for I knew that doing so would only prolong the slide. In most cases, probably ninety-nine times out of one hundred, there would have been no oncoming traffic. However, on this day, I slid into to the other lane, and right into the path of an approaching SUV.

I saw the surprise on the face of the female driver as she suddenly found a small black Honda in her path. My front wheels caught the plowed lane and I jerked the wheel to the right, missing her front bumper by inches, eyes diverted quickly to the side view mirror as I expected a tap on the hind quarter panel, which might have transferred enough of her momentum to cause an uncontrolled spin, but with no spin, I recognized that I was heading for the creek on my side of the road, and turned the wheel back to the left to stay out of the snow bank. My slowed pace made the vehicle easy to control, so I edged over the bridge and pulled to a stop in order to catch my breath. Two hands on the wheel, averted disaster, and a deep breath, until I looked in the side view mirror again.

The SUV had slid sideways into the ditch, which also happened to be the creek bank on the west side of the road. An image of kids in the truck flashed into my memory, so I opened my door and ran to the vehicle. The driver had rolled down her window enough to hear me coming, and when I approached, I recognized the look on her face as one I knew well, a strange balance of soma and adrenalin that paralyzed for a moment before instinct pushed a plan of rescue into action.

Many years ago, I was driving home on Christmas morning after a night of partying with friends. Because I was going to college in California, my best buds and I had started having an annual get together on Christmas eve where we'd put back a few beers (or shots of tequila) and get caught up on life. While driving home the next morning (not too far from where the incident I'm describing above takes place), I emerged over the top of a hill, at a speed only a few miles an hour over the fifty-five mile per hour limit, and found a small truck and trailer stopped in the middle of the road. Christmas morning. CHRISTMAS MORNING! Who is out on the roads--pulling a trailer, no less--on CHRISTMAS MORNING? "OH SHIT!" burst from my lips as I instantly recognized that there was no choice, because the choice between passing on the left into the oncoming lane was better than the culvert on the right. So, I squeezed into the left lane, and just as I did so, the truck and trailer began to execute a left turn, without signaling, I might add. The space between the edge of the road and the edge of the truck tightened, too tight, in fact, and my left front tire slipped off the asphalt and into the dirt, which jerked the car sideways. In the next three seconds, I'd crossed the highway out of control, into the ditch hood-first, sheered the axles, and packed a ton of Missouri mud into the exhaust system. Two hands remained on the wheel and I gasped for air when the car came to a stop (this was the exact look that I saw on the female driver of the SUV), and I thought, "Turn down the radio," and then sat there wondering what to do next. As it turns out, I was fine, despite a ruined Christmas. The driver of the truck with the trailer never stopped, it executed the left turn and kept moving right on down the road. F*&ker. Coincidence is a strange beast, even on a country road on Christmas morning, you might run into someone that you know. The very first car that passed was a gentleman that I'd graduated from high school with, and we were far from our school district. The one quote I remember best was from the officer that stopped to record the incident, who said, "Lucky you never hit the brakes, 'cause you woulda rolled it, son."

The woman in the white SUV said, "I have three kids in here," and we both knew that the forty-five degree angle of the truck might become a greater degree at any second. As I carefully pulled open the back door, a young boy of about four years old had a shocked look on his face, but he was listening to orders being handed out by both me and his mother. He unbuckled his seat belt so I wouldn't have to add weight to the precarious situation, and I grabbed him under the arms and lifted him onto the road. "Don't go too far," I said, "Stay right here." The daughter was next, slightly older and more nimble, she crawled from the far seat and I hoisted her to safety, as well. The eldest, a boy of twelve-ish, hopped out, not needing much assistance. Finally, we extracted the mom from the front seat, counted fingers and toes, then all took a deep breath.

The rest of the story is quite ordinary: the truck never continued its slide, the tow was uneventful, we shook hands, since we were neighbors that had never met, and everyone retired to the warmth of their homes; a story filed away to be told for the rest of our lives.

Like I said, coincidence, or just plain ole bad luck, can really shape a day. Here's to life, and health!

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!