Archive for the ‘Faction’ Category

I forgot my pen today. Good for the casual reader of my errors and faults, bad for my new way of writing. Actually it’s an archaic way of writing. Pen to paper.
Here is this blogger world, my thumbs get jumbled and they fumble all over this tiny space. I am not sure if a larger device will help this process. I will, though, test this theory in May when I upgrade my device. I always wanted a larger device. I imagine it would be more pleasurable for all.

Regardless of the size of my device, I have taken to pen and paper for my ‘great’ story. I tend to stare more at this device as if an idea can be binged. Poor Microsoft. Bingged? Just Bing? If nothing else Google is as synonymous to searching as Band Aids are to boo boos.

And I tend to listen others dilemmas and disasters. This seemingly fine young boy came out of the unicorn princes office and I find him a runner. He likes to run away. Not far. Down the street or behind a tree or under a car. Not that unsafe, but pretentiously dangerous I some respects I would gather.

This is my first time to Mr Johns on a Monday. Jack and I changed days so as to get an earlier time slot. Although, it is only a half hour earlier, I am sure I can find some use of it. At the moment, I can think of nothing. I really wasn’t even sure if I wanted to change. Change is not always good and it really disrupts my need for no change in my life.
There is a lot of change going on my life at the moment. Alas, to bore you is to bore me. But my gym membership expires in two weeks and I haven’t the money to renew.
First world problems. I need more of them.

See, I lost myself and to ha k read what I have written involves me possibly hitting the wrong thing and editing unexpectedly.

This book will happen and I think it will be good. I need it. You may not. You may just want a cookie. That’s sound good to me too.

The book is not going well. Actually ‘it’ is fine. The writer is very slack. All these great thought mulling now drowning never to be seen.
Fresh ideas will come and the outline is actually there. I just have to hop to it. The holidays have given me another excuse.
Running has given me an even better excuse. Alas I pulled an unknown muscle trying to prove things to myself. I ran the annual Turkey Trot here in town. The cold morning blanketed with an even colder wind made for a delightful morning for one thousand or so runners, spectators and their dogs.
This was my first race since the last race but only my first trot of the turkey.
I was excited but not as prepared as the last one. I did not miss one training day on my schedule for the 10k. Ah, this was but a mere 5k. Missing a day or so would effect this top notch guy. Besides I was very busy at work and being I won’t cut out my children time, I had to sacrifice some sweat.
What I didn’t think would happen did. There were thirty five mid lifers raring to go. All blaring frost from their nostrils like brazen bulls to red. The compression socks made me weak to my stomach.
These guys were serious.
Three, two, one and pa-chow! They were off. I was off. I was trying to fiddle with my iPod and I lost a good start.
I started booking. I knew I was running faster than I ever had. Pushing myself to a limit I wasn’t really confident with yet. This pace couldn’t hold out too long. Maybe it could but something in me was disagreeing big time.
My breathing was a little off. The cold cold air always has something to do with that. I tried to steady it while younglings passed me from new directions. Mid lifers were passing me. Danged if I could figure this out. Everything I have read told me to pace myself. Pace, I did.

I only ended up passing a few people but never caught up to the beginning of the pack.

My eyes have grown heavy. This couch calls me.

Mork from Ork

Posted: October 23, 2012 in Autism, couch, doctor, Faction, mr john, Young

I had an idea presented to me. Write a book in a month. A whole book. Just pump it out. Edit later. I discovered it through Stumble.
Stumble is a web site in which one inputs certain likes and it randomly chooses places to go. I am learning new things everyday with the help of this site. That is if I remember to use. Sometimes I have other things on my mind. Things like bills. Oh, and my children.
So I found this site that holds a yearly book writing month. I am not really sure about how to go about it. I think the instructions are way to simple. I know that you are not supposed to start until November first. I have ideas racing.

My ideas are my worst enemy. They wind up like Evel Knevil and then fall as soon as they are let go.
I don’t know how I’ll attempt this. My thumbs aren’t fast enough. I can barely get a page out and to use correct punctuation will be a nightmare.
What about conversations? I don’t think writing a book on the iPhone is a great idea. This blog is fine. I get a hit on it every month or so. Ah well.

I accomplished a goal and I am excited. It is probably why I am not that focused to day. I feel like Mork from Ork. My mind zooms. My body feels great.
Ran a race. Now I want to write a book. You know it’s going to be about the couch. There’s actually a hottie sitting on my couch at the moment. If I fall asleep in this chair I have a feeling I will rip one. I am usually alone in this room. Save for the occasional graces of Ann.
The big salad I ate before I came here is beginning to work some magic. Oh we’ll maybe she has brothers.
I am nearing the point where I just want to walk into a room and just rip a big one. Just the thought sends me into a mental giggle. I hope the hottie does t look up.
Farts make me laugh.
Forever twelve. There was a time when I was fifteen or sixteen. Oh there were lots of times back then. Every moment was an incredible memory. Wish I could remember them all. I’d have a book
It was me and mike. I think Ken was there. We were sitting at one of the many tables in our high schools library. Most of the were four person tables. A few we’re larger. We were at a four chaired table. I recall it being near the card catalog. We sat there together talking about cars. Well, ken and mike were probably talking about cars and I was probably wondering how they knew all this stuff about them. My memory problem didn’t just begin with my problems.

I was a funny guy.

Loo loud grumble. I wonder if she heard it. She looks bored. A nice loud fart would send at least one of us I to clinically insane laughter.

That’s pretty what happened in the library that day. One speaks I. Whispers in the library. Quiet as a mouse.
I slowly lifted a cheek of my butt as to not draw any attention. With controlled farting you must pinch and release in an ultra controlled method. We have rehearsed this and have gotten away with unnoticed releases.
Lifting my butt cheek with not the years of experience I have acquired now, I let go.
I would that my cheek did. Of have the right lift. I certainly didn’t account for the hard solid wooden chair that I sat upon. It took hold of that little toot. A little toot anywhere else in the world. A little toot in a quiet library sitting on a heavy wooden chair boomed and echoed through the chamber. I swear it bounced off walls. It was the loudest thing I had ever heard.
I am laughing as I wrote this. Imagine Ken and Mike. I could never face that library again.

In the days of my youth, dinner time was never set by a wall clock or the watch on one’s wrist. It was set by Pavlov’s ghost and he haunted every backyard in my neighborhood. His unseen presence played the Pied Piper in the last piece of a psychological game of mouse trap.
He lured the hungry young boys of Wildwood Terrace to their respective places at the supper table. Ah, that banal ringing in my head to this day.

I lived amidst the tops of the Ramapo Mountains of Northern Jersey during times when boys practically lived outside. Sounds, smells and the way the wind felt were unknowingly training us to be one with the environment. My finely tuned ears could hear Dad’s Volkswagen Beetle a mile away. My dog could hear it for two miles. This was the case with each dog and their relevant owners’ vehicles. The dogs would then do their thing. The neighborhood would fill with barking and yelping. Mom would get the signal and give the nights’ feast another stir. Then, instinctively as if a Stepford wife from Passaic County, would lean out the kitchen door, reach a reach that could be done blinded folded to the bell outside the back door. Maybe they came with the house, maybe our dads installed it, but we all had one. Mine was shaped like the liberty bell maybe six inches high attached to a cast iron horseshoe apparatus and screwed firmly against our ranch style house.

Every day from forts made of sticks and mud and leaves, heads would poke out upon hearing their own ‘dong dong’ or ‘ding ding’ or ‘ding dong’ or Fred’s ‘clunk clunk’. His bell would always send us sprawling with laughter. When we heard our bells in the woods, young crimes stopped and time stood still for that moment. Mouths would begin to water and you could hear the grumble deep within growing young men.

Pete’s mom would be slicing squares of piping hot lasagna. Oozing with ricotta and mozzarella cheeses and steam rising from her homemade meat sauce was enough imagery for all want to eat over his house. Garrett’s plate would be waiting with Arroz con Gandules. It was his favorite, but we couldn’t figure out his love for rice with pigeon peas. Fred’s mom didn’t speak a lick of understandable English and sometime his translations were sketchy. So I wasn’t sure if Spätzle mit Sauerkraut und Semmelbrösel sounded good or not.

My dinner table beheld something less creative in the naming, but it was one I always looked forward to. My mom called it ‘Glop’. She said it was her families’ Irish version of cottage pie, a rib-sticking combination of meat, potatoes and vegetables.

Our swords and sheilds made of oak limbs and garbage can lids dropped to the ground as the bells rang out a second time. In nearly perfect unison we shouted.

“Coming!”


To Be First

Posted: April 29, 2012 in Faction, Homework
Tags: ,

He couldn’t stop looking out the window.

I’m first. His mind shouted it as he dressed himself.

He knew how to do it perfectly. Mom had done it many times before and he watched and memorized the whole thing. Socks, long underwear, jeans (not the good jeans), shirt, sweatshirt, snow pants and snow jacket with hood. Big Bird yellow boots, scarf, knit hat and mittens with the inevitability of being soaked through in the matters of minutes. Oops. Mittens come back off. Forgot the Chapstick on the lips and some swirled around on the cheeks. Was it to make them rosy? Either way, check, but it didn’t seem to be done as good as mom does it. Mittens back on and a final snug zip of the blue puffy snow jacket, it was time to face the last obstacle to be first.

When he first opened his eyes that morning from a snug and warm bed, he knew it was going to be a good day. Mom was the class mother and he heard the rotary dial tht-tht-tht-thtting calling the mothers of other soon to be happy kids. That’s when he shot out from his covers and stuck his little head behind the shade and pressed his warm nose against the cold glass.

“Hello moms. No school. No School. No school.”

Finished, her slippered feet slipped her back into bed and he slinked towards the coat rack lined with winter warming woolies. All dressed and greased, he padded his way down the dark hallway. His eyes took time to adjust to the whitish hue that seemed to just sit in the windowsills. He had to feel his way down the hall; his over-puffed and stuffed arms felt the closet door and then past the space that led to the bathroom.

His eyes were adjusting a bit and he made out the door frame of mom’s room. Tip-toeing to the side of her bed, he mustarded up a whisper.

“Mom. Can I go outside?”

She didn’t move. Yet, he still thought he saw a hand rise straight through her covers. A giant finger pointed.

“Go back to bed.”

Wasted Days of Youth

Posted: April 26, 2012 in Faction, Homework
Tags: ,

In my wasted days of youth, dinner time was never set by a wall clock or the Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist. It was set by Ivan Pavlov’s ghost and he haunted every backyard in my neighborhood. His unseen presence played the Pied Piper in the last piece of a psychological game of mouse trap that lured the young boys of Wildwood Terrace to their respective places at the supper table.

I lived in a quiet town amidst the tops of the Ramapo Mountains of Northern Jersey during times when boys practically lived outside. Sounds, smells and the way the wind felt were unknowingly training us to be perfectly in tune with the environment. My finely tweaked ears could hear Dad’s Volkswagen Beetle a mile away. My dog could hear it for two miles. This was the case with each dog and their relevant owners’ vehicles. The dogs would then do their thing. Mine would run and hide. I don’t know what the others would do, but the neighborhood would fill with barking. Mom would get the signal and give the nights’ feast another stir. Then, instinctively as if a Stepford wife from Passaic County, would lean out the kitchen door, reach a reach that could be done blinded folded to the bells outside the back door. Maybe they came with the house, maybe our dads installed it, but we all had one. Mine was shaped like the liberty bell maybe six inches high attached to a cast iron horseshoe apparatus and screwed firmly against our ranch style house. When I looked at it, I imagined a crack. When I touched it, my mom would give my hands a whack.

Every day from forts made of sticks and mud and leaves, heads would poke out upon hearing their own ‘dong dong’ or ‘ding ding’ or ‘ding dong’ or Fred’s ‘clunk clunk’. His bell would always send us sprawling with laughter. How we heard our bells deep in the enchanted forest was a mystery, but it stopped us mid crime. Mouths would begin to water and you could hear the grumble deep within growing young men.

Pete’s mom would be slicing squares of piping hot lasagna. Oozing with ricotta and mozzarella cheeses and steam rising from her homemade meat sauce was enough imagery for all want to eat over his house. Garrett’s plate would be waiting with Arroz con Gandules. It was his favorite, but we couldn’t figure out his love for rice with pigeon peas. Fred’s mom didn’t speak a lick of understandable English and sometime his translations were sketchy. So I wasn’t sure if Spätzle mit Sauerkraut und Semmelbrösel sounded good or not.

My dinner table beheld something a little less creative in the naming, but not in the delicious department. My mom called it ‘Glop’. She said it was her families’ Irish version of cottage pie, a rib-sticking combination of meat, potatoes and vegetables.

Our swords and sheilds made of oak limbs and garbage can lids dropped to the ground as the bells rang out a second time. In nearly perfect unison we shouted.

“Coming!”


the Interview

Posted: April 3, 2012 in Faction, Fiction, Homework

The officer was polite enough, but he almost seemed embarrassed for my humility. We sat at a booth that was only a few tables away from where my wife sat. This was actually a nicer table; all tucked in the corner near the pictures of all the beautiful people with surfboards. Maybe after this was over I could have my wife move over here. I could picture the food flying over here at my head before that would happen. Just another lovely once in a blue moon date night without the kids. I was dressed up nice for me, even wearing a splash of my Saturday night special cologne. My wife was dressed up also, but my back was to her. She was facing the city’s finest dressed in his everyday blues. I’m pretty sure he wished he was facing the kitchen. My wife’s glare was probably hotter than the sizzling fajita that just zoomed by in a waiter’s outreached hand. A faint smell of tequila lingered in the wafted smoke trail. I shot of tequila sounded good about now.

The waitress brought us two sweet teas. Instinctively I, and then noticed him, removed the lemon hanging from the lip of the glass. Did he not like lemons or did he have the same phobia about people touching things that go in your drink. I love lemons, but I also have that phobia. I know that waitress didn’t wash her hands. I could see it in her eyes. I removed the wrapper from my straw and speared in into the tea and took a long swallow.

The officer didn’t touch his drink right away but rather removed a notebook from his shirt pocket and set it on the table. Then the click of his retractable ball point pen immediately brought me back to task. I was not happy about this situation, but today’s society has covered good deeds in hogwash. Right now I was swimming in it.

Always have witnesses, I thought to myself. Even when it’s innocent.

The officer sipped his tea and then began.

Dear Erin

Posted: March 25, 2012 in Dear Erin, Faction, Fiction, Homework
Tags:

Dear Erin,

I hope this letter finds you well. It is finding me in a strangely wonderful new place. I never thought that this area would suit me, but like the chrysanthemums that seem to be blooming in every doorway, it is growing on me quickly. You’ll definitely have to visit soon before this newness fades. Maybe it last forever here. You walk, or rather stroll, down the brick lined streets and people says hello to you as you pass. If they had top hats, I would swear that the gents would tip them. The first few times it happened, I put my hand over my wallet and walked, er, strolled quickly away. Ha. It’s strange to feel comfortable around strangers.

As I stroll around the downtown area I am always taken back by how it smells. I guess there are some things that you don’t notice in life until they smack you in the face. We must get used to foulness so that it doesn’t bother us anymore. The fresh essence of what I imagine to be purities are just delightful. You see, the edge of downtown is at the mouth of two rivers that lead straight to the shore, so I guess that’s the source of the power behind the great smells. The ocean air seems to rush up the river and just make everything so surreal. Each step down here has a new bouquet of nasal delights. I feel like I drift around in a Bugs Bunny cartoon following the wavy drawn whiffs of air.

These whiffs, or is it wisps, are what led me in to this coffee shop. Ah, that is where I am sitting right now. This coffee joint is an old converted brick warehouse. Well, I guess everything is old down here. This town was founded in 1710. Everything is brick and cozy and colonial. The coffee shop has local art on the brick walls for sale. Did I mention there’s a lot of brick? Ha. The floor is stone, though. They are big greyish blue slabs of stone. It’s very cool and comfortable. It’s divided right down the middle. The other half has antiques and vendors and stuff. I haven’t been there yet. I may stroll through after I finish this letter and my fresh ground roasted in the shop cup of hot Joe. It sure is tasty.

You know what? The old men scattered among tables around are eating their sweet smelling Danishes too noisily for me to concentrate. They want to chat about the weather and things. I may actually have to find the library for some peace. Strangers being nice, go figure.

Write back and stay wild,

t.harold