Part Two -- The Response

Part two to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2010/03/sunday-scribblings-book-that-changed.html: From: Bert.S.Slesser@optimum.com To: Denise.D.Slesser@optimum.com Subject: MY THOUGHTS Apr. 7, 2010, 2:41am Dear Denise, While it it not leather-bound, did not take twenty-two years to craft, and is significantly shorter than the work you pieced together, here are “My Thoughts”: Dedication: To all those who honored me with their presence. Page 1: I would not change a minute, we had a good run, and I love you all. Bert.

Sudden storm

The stream of urine from the heavens blanketed the islands inhabitants in a blur, myself included. On a normal day, getting caught in this rampage would have infuriated me, but an ordinary day this was not. Minutes previous, the files were put down, the blackberry left on the desk, computer wiped clean, identification card shredded and I vanished. The destination was unknown, but the past was left where it belonged. On my journey into the unknown, the upheaval was welcome. For the first time in years, the smells of the world, in particular, that of the wet dirt underfoot, sparked an indescribable excitement. I was free to enjoy that which I had been avoiding since birth. What that would entail I was unsure, but I appreciated nature providing me with a cover of darkness, a wall of water to mask my disappearing act, and an avenue to cleanse myself of all that kept me down.

Sunday Scribblings (The Book That Changed Everything)

This week's prompt is The Book That Changed Everything: The note and key to the office were next to the coffee maker. Bert, it is done, thoughts? I trembled as I approached the unknown. This was her lair. The walls were adorned with black and white photographs of her favorite authors, the shelves contained the life works of the same, the desk was a dark mahogany monstrosity sitting atop a blood red carpet, and the chair was a weathered hand-me-down from her father. It smelled of crushed daisies. A better part of her waking hours were spent here. As long as I had known her, which was twenty-two years, I had never once been invited in. Truth be told, I had never seen another pass through those doors. In my youth, I pestered, prodded and pled to know the going-ons. For nine years, she withstood my barrage and remained silent. She is tough that way. It is why I loved her. Then one day, to my delight, she stated, after asking for creamer, “I am writing my life's thoughts.” Nothing else was said. I accepted this nugget, imagined a monumental manuscript, and proudly announced to all that would listen that my bride was crafting the next great American novel. In her, I knew nothing less than perfection would find its way to the page. On the desktop sat a leather-bound book wrapped in a carpet matching ribbon. I untied it with the greatest of care, and listened closely as the binding broke. Being the first to open such a magnificent piece was something I did not want to pass me by. It was entitled My Thoughts. The dedication read “To all who have crossed my path.” In anticipation of the read, I called out of work, retrieved my coffee, removed my shoes and sat back in the chair. To say I was overcome with pride would be an understatement. I dove in. Page 1: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 2: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 3: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. Page 4: I was not put on this earth to settle for this. . . . It never changed, six hundred and thirty-three pages of the same line. I leaned back, aching heart in my chest, and cried.

Sunday Scribblings (Fluent)

This week's word is Fluent:

A lifetime of study, hard work and understanding was summarily written off by society as shallow, easy and whorish. But unlike the labels, this was not short sightedness. To the contrary, this was an expertise gained by a relentless passion for knowledge. While others forgetfully floated through their formative years, she spent it studying the other side, trying desperately to grasp every gesture, move and spoken word. It started with her father, moved onto her brothers, and continued with the nameless many who relentlessly pursued. With the knowledge gained through years of tireless research came a power. A power the others did not possess, yet resented with ever ounce of their beings. Because of that, they had no choice but to critique, criticize and push upon her a false moral high ground. What they failed to grasp was that she had done what all should do: become fluent in that which allowed her to control and manipulate one half of the world's population, men.

Sunday Scribblings -- Big Dreams

This week's word is Big Dreams.

Four foot nine, eighty six pounds, with the build of a seven year old school girl; attributes handed down by generations of diminutive men. The heart, desire and anger were of a larger man, but size—or lack thereof—was something he had long since accepted. At twenty seven, the hope that life would change, that a growth spurt would take hold and he would sprout to mirror his peers, was not a reality. Instead, he accepted the ribbing, buried the torment and drifted below the shoulders of those around him. Nonetheless, while the active mind accepted the existence he had been cursed with, his unconscious, which came to fruition in the silence and peace of the night, refused to acquiesce to his miniature stature. In those hours, his brain took over and did what nature denied, it plied him with, what he termed, Big dreams.

tic toc

There was a boy, a girl, and moments. In their brief encounter, Time meant nothing, but was everything.

Less is more....

There was no want, need, or desire, at least not until she appeared. Up to that point, life contained everything that one could want. There was the job that pleased him, good health that had followed him since birth, and looks that--while not perfect--caused a certain segment of society to stare. It changed with a chance encounter in a place far from “home”, at which time his life, as he previously knew it, ceased to exist. In her, he found what he did not know he was lacking, love. And with that came the overwhelming feeling that there had been a large portion of his life wasted, and he wanted nothing more than to regain the lost in her arms. It did not last. As quickly as she arrived, she vanished. In the wake, a broken, lost, and confused man emerged. There were no words, actions, or feeling that could resuscitate what was destroyed by her exit. The shell that remained trudged on and attempted to recapture the magic of self-fulfillment that once permeated his being; but there was no hope. Whoever said that it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, was a sick bastard. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Happy Birthday!

On this special day, I want you to know that you are one of the most incredible children I have ever met, and I was blessed to grow up with your uncle and mother, so I know a thing or two about amazing children. When I look at you, I see the future, a man who is going to take the family DNA, along with that of your father, and make it known to the world. In your intelligence, I see a man who will silently go about learning all that is necessary to carry himself in the way that is becoming of a scholar and a gentlemen. In your beauty, I see a man who will have women scurrying for favor. In your size and physical presence, I see a man who will excel at any athletic feat he deems worthy of his time. But above all, in you compassion, I see a man who will show that understanding and unbridled love, not ruthlessness and intolerance, is what is necessary to be successful in this world. There is nothing you cannot accomplish, and I know this because I know you. Happy birthday little one.

Rest in Peace

There is a certain segment of society who relish the demise of a person such as yourself. I am not one of those individuals. While my profession may paint the opposite picture, I believe that the vast majority of humans, including yourself, have something to offer this world. And while I do not agree with the way you chose to live your life and would have done all in my power to curtail it, I wish you had survived long enough to prove to all the nonbeliever that each of us, regardless of the mistakes we have made, can change. More than being the miscreant you appeared, you were a son, possibly a brother, uncle, nephew, friend, etc., and your death undoubtedly impacted those who knew you (and even a few who did not). I hope you found peace in your final moments, and that someone learned something valuable from your passing.

Sunday Scribblings

Last week's word was Brave, I am late, I know....

There is no brave in my existence. I follow the easy, the road well traveled, the simple. I am the definition of “do not rock the boat.” Confrontation and creating waves is my greatest fear. I relish in doing what is expected from me, whether good or bad. The comical part is that if you ask those who do not intimately know me, they would say the opposite. That I am the outlier, the one who refuses to fall into line. This is a carefully crafted image. One that I have spent years perfecting...truth be told, I am a coward, an individual who excels at inspiring others to step out of line, and to chase the unknown with reckless abandon; but refuses to do the same. I am the worst of the worst, an embarrassment to the idea of brave.

A full tank with nowhere to go

The act of merely existing is my life's biggest disappointment. I am a firm believer that there is more to a day than consuming, driving and being. In my opinion, the life we are blessed with is a game, meant to be played to exhaustion at each and every turn. Anything less is an insult to our existence. It is a selfish life, and I understand that, for others find beauty in the act of nothingness; I am not that person. What I do need to learn, however, is that throwing adult sized tantrums in the face of not exerting myself to destruction is not a solution, but the precursor to a whole set of separate problems, which are probably others biggest disappointment. I need to take responsibility for my own existence, and quit relying on others to give me what I need to feel complete.

“Late afternoon, another day is nearly done. A darker grey is breaking through a lighter one . . . .” The Weakerthans, One Great City!

An invitation

“What do you say when you realize you're not necessary, and your world starts caving in.” Mike Hail, Lives Like Mine.

I know that I have not written in a while, and that I probably do not have many (if any) readers left. . . but for those that have hung on, and check in periodically, what emotions/thoughts does this song lyric evoke? Every time I hear it, I find my internal self struggling to dig deeper. Is it a bad thing to no longer be “necessary – is it a requirement that we be so? I see it both ways. On one hand, it kills me a little when I am longer needed, wanted or useful. I have spent my life making myself an integral part of so few, that to lose even one is a major statistical blow. With everyone that drops off, I am one step closer to being an afterthought. On the other hand, the less people that rely, need or care, the fewer I have to tie me down, disappoint, and care for – it is a freedom I fear I may enjoy. I suspect that you out there will have better thoughts/feelings than I. So I invite you to post a comment, or send me an email, and let me know your thoughts, regardless of what they are. I think I have been “feeling” a lot lately, and I want to know that I am not alone on this ship.

no words

There is a story within waiting to be written – it is filled with hope, love, friendship and good times... but I cannot seem to string the words together in a way that does it justice, so, like many other things in my life, it will go unfinished. The characters are complicated, the story simple, and the adventures real... this should not be hard, but it doesn't seem to want to be created; at least not by me at this moment. So I will go on dreaming about the individuals, formulating the sentences, and wishing I was better... at everything.

Just a number....

This is Part VI to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word was Adult.

After being beat unmercifully for having allowed our gas and electricity to be shut off, I learned the importance of proper bill maintenance. The need to balance a checkbook was driven home by the back of a ring wearing hand after incurring “unnecessary” fees for bouncing a rent check. A nightly six pack was not a forbidden pleasure, but an obligation to be fulfilled in order to impress wastes he referred to as friends. And the ability to incur copious amounts of pain without a whimper or change in facial expression was as important to survival as the peanut butter an jelly that sustained us. It is generally accepted that to be an adult one must have attained full size and strength; fuck that, I believe my adulthood started the second I could make it in this world despite, regardless of the size of my muscles or my stature.

Goodbye

I doubt I ever made it obvious, or expressed myself in a worthwhile way, but I enjoyed immensely our time together and will miss you all. For two years, you welcomed me into your worlds, dealt with my idiosyncrasies, and made me feel as whole as a person who left his life behind to move on without him could possibly feel. A few parting words are not enough, but they are all I have, so thank you all for being there for me, and supporting me in my craziness; it made my time here manageable.

Till death do us part (SS - V)

This is Part V to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word is Anticipate.

Throughout the final three years of mandatory childhood education, I watched and planned. When not at home fighting with her controllers, she spent time with them, the ones who mocked, made fun and destroyed youthful confidence. I surely would have been an object of their ridicule had my existence been noticed. As much as I wanted her to pay for these associations, I forgave her because I knew that she was sweetness, acting out due to a lack of nurture.

Year one was spent cataloging her movements; year two memorizing her wardrobe and odors; the third and final year was for planning the life we were going to spend together. During those days, I came to know that she had a small and over-active balder; took a minimalist approach towards clothing; smelled primarily of crushed flowers and citrus; and that we would spend our living, and dying days, in seclusion.

In preparation for our departure, I crafted and dutifully practiced my introduction, rented a van, packed our rations, stole all of his cash, and procured chloral hydrate. Then I sat by the bathroom and waited for her 8:15 am soy chai latte to run its course. I had thought of every rational outcome, but had failed to anticipate her irrational flight response. Her days spent living and dying with me were far shorter than I had hoped.

An unhelping hand (SS - Part IV)

This is Part IV to my Sunday Scribblings story. Again, if you have comments, whether about this piece, or about the story in general, please feel free to pass them along. This week's phrase is Where in the World.

I asked for help once. It occurred shortly before I was stripped of the semblance of normalcy that was my life. I was nine.

She was tall and sickeningly gaunt. And while she did not talk much, when she did, the words were always worth the effort it took to hear them. By the time I realized what was happening—that her days were not to be many—she was past the point of saving by human intervention. In a desperate and misguided attempt to give her will, I got on my knees, turned to the crumbling stucco ceiling, and promised, amongst other things, to be a better son, which meant that I would clean up after myself, as had been begged of me for years, to not play with my food, to stop having bad thoughts about the neighbor's daughter, and to grow up and be a man; all I asked in return was for her life.

I tripped onto her body the next morning.

During the ride to the hospital, I could not help but wonder where in the world was he when we needed him most, and why did he not care. I never relied on another again.

A drop in the bucket (SS- Part III)

This is Part III to my Sunday Scribblings story (a couple of days late). This week's phrase was The Plan.

Light of day was the hardest, for it was during the brightness that I had to guard myself from his violent and oppressive ways. Hence, while I spent those moments wishing the the sun away, I reserved the blanket of nightly darkness for myself. I knew that if I made it through his waking hours, his downtime would set me free, albeit briefly. . . .

As one can imagine, I did not have ambitions, at least not in the traditional sense, as there was nothing for me to aspire to. Nonetheless, I was not without goals. For example, there was always the plan, carefully crafted and painstakingly mapped out. It was simple, beautifully sadistic, and involved nothing more than him having a night with the bottle, a vaulted ceiling with unencumbered crossbeams, a fifteen foot piece of rope, a razor blade, a two gallon bucket, and access to the posterior tibial artery. In all, if executed to perfection, I could be done, and so would he, in less time than it took to watch an episode of the Simpsons.

"Justice" for all (SS - Part II)

I have decided to write a very short story over the next few weeks, changing it as it goes depending on the word of the week (I do not have an ultimate outcome in mind, but will play with it each week to see where it takes me). As such, this is a continuation of last week’s Sunday Scribblings (human). Let me know what you think and if you have suggestions along the way.

Indulgence

At this stage, it seems pointless to place blame, but if forced, it would fall in this order: the man who provided one-half of my genetic material, the courts for allowing it to happen, and to myself for not stopping the cycle.

I was a mistake, as I was able to perceive from an early age, and driven home by those in my life. He was drunk, she was (as decided by the jury) willing, and I became the choker chain of life dangling forever from his neck. “Justice”, being what it is, ensured that upon the expiration of the woman from whom I emerged, I was consigned to the signatory on the $137.36 court ordered bi-weekly support check. From the moment of my arrival, his favorite indulgence was forbidding every one of mine.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Human:

The inscription was direct and to the point: “If to err is human, then human he undoubtedly was.”