i wrote to remember

the morning reflected it, and i certainly remember dreaming it, that the outsides of the spheres were like miniature globes floating in space, though confined like a bedroom, but with stars around the walls and on the ceiling and the floor, everywhere you could see. and the television screens hung down from nothing. the professors and news people talked about the problems they were having, the issues that arose from trying to understand and control “metaquasars” and “hypnogravity” and “dynamic range ballistics” - the ideas that they had in regards to hyper-space travel, intersecting wormholes and the like - i couldn’t quite comprehend. my attention was focused on the immediate problem of keeping the two halves of the sphere from connecting to each other. that problem, of course, became an immediate disaster, however inevitable, and the two pieces game together. the faux ceilings and earth faded into the space and where there was matter was nothing but space. a metallic rectangle floated out ahead of me but trying to “fly” toward it proved to be a greater problem than keeping the two halves apart. it’s very near impossible to get any sort of grip or traction or sense of direction towards anything in deep space. will is your only weapon, your only means of doing. it took all i had to make it to the platform and still maintain my grip on the orb. meanwhile i had figured the solution to this problem - destroy the orb and reset space back to a normal environment, maybe return the earth to where it belongs, at least anything to resemble that. but i had made it to the platform. that was a start. and so i tried to stand on the wobbling piece of substance, trying to steady myself under the weightlessness of an empty void, position myself in a way to give me the best opportunity to destroy the orb. and then there was another metal thing, a shelf that had grown out from a wall in the side of the original piece of metal. things becoming more things. getting bigger. so i took the opportunity. smashed the metal sphere with my hand. shattered it into tiny molecules. the earth came back. the lights came back. the monitors came back. as if nothing ever happened. all reset. and in the inside of the sphere, a tiny wire, like a plug, with a light on the end. i pulled it out from its place and swung it above my head, lassoed a metal railing on the opposite side of the field, and swung down to the stars below me.

we're working toward something here...

Matthew T. Jenson died in his sleep on Christmas morning. His remains lay wrapped in Egyptian cloth and silk upon a rosewood divan. The doctor, upon examining his limp frame, would later conclude that his passing was the result of “severe bronchial hemorrhaging brought upon by a globular roving blood clot,” though none of us really knew what that meant. Up until his sudden death Matthew’s medical records were seldom visited – he had made it of utmost priority that his health be top notch, his physical condition be of a “most superior upkeep”. The fact that Matthew was, at least to us, in peak physical condition made the circumstances of his demise that much more peculiar. We all had our own theories on the matter - Timothy believed his death to be the cause of excessive and blunt force trauma, though there were no bruises or other indications to support this (Timothy was always slightly behind the rest of us as far as smarts went, or as Margaret put it, he seemed to have “one foot off the merry-go-round,” however most of us were convinced she never really had the proper grasp of that saying) but mostly we left the speculation to the physician.

I was in the downstairs dining room when the doctor first approached me regarding Matthew. He had with him a leather briefcase which carried his tools and other items a doctor would employ. It rested against makeshift hand-cart, fashioned out of rusted metal and designed specifically for him. The disruptive clanking of the crude thing coming down the staircase preceded his aberrance. The doctor himself was dressed to toe in a peach colored lab coat, a stethoscope around his neck being the only conventional thing about him. As he entered the dining room to greet me he set his case against an antique dresser beside the table and checked the watch in his side pocket. He sneezed quite rapidly, three times, as if out of no where and I said, bless you.
“My dear boy,” he said, “my thanks to you.” I nodded and told him he was welcome. “Your manners, I must say, in a time of great dismay catch my heart with a warmth and generosity. Though surely this must be, for you, a trying thing, take comfort that it is the way of living things.”
“I appreciate your concern, doctor,” I stumbled, caught off guard at the melodic manner in which he spoke.

re: st. patrick's day, 2008, and the man i told you i wish i was

to whom it may concern...but mainly to audry,

Let’s face facts: this isn’t working. This- this entire…thing, whatever it really is. It’s done. And I don’t mean just us. Understand that that’s not what I’m saying. This is bigger. It’s bigger than us. For me, it’s everything. They’re not working. We’re not working and they’re not working. None of this feels like anything anymore. And I can’t keep doing this. This is the truth. This is everything I’ve ever wanted to say. It’s everything anyone’s ever wanted to say. I just want to feel something again. I haven’t felt anything with any worth for so fucking long. I’ve been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for just something to come along and make me feel. But now, fuck, now I’m just fucking tired of it. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of…of being scared. This is all there is and I’m so fucking terrified of it. I’m afraid of getting the wrong read, or giving the wrong look, or just feeling like I’m living in some place where eventually it all works out but, really, it never does. It never fucking does. But that’s on me. And that’s why I’m here. Because I can’t do it anymore. No one should have to. Ever. But no one has the guts to do that. Or maybe no one really cares as much as they like to think they do. Like maybe it’s all one giant façade where the only objective is to look the part enough to get by so that other people believe you well enough to not question your disinterest in them. I don’t care enough to want to know. I’m tired of presuming to know the inner workings of those I care about. Like I said, they never turn out how you expect them to. But you: I pegged you. At least I thought I did. I thought a lot of things, I guess. Now, I don’t know, now I guess I just don’t think, period. But that’s okay with me. I see that know. It’s okay. Everything, in the end, turns out okay. Because there’s no special plan, see? All there ever is is all you ever make. Of what’s around you and what’s inside you. There’s no grand secret. My whole life I’ve been waiting for the answer to some grand, unifying notion that there’s more to this then what there is. And then I woke up one morning and realized that this is it. And I’m okay with that. That’s why I’m okay with this. Because it’s not really the end. It’s just life. And if you believe it will be okay then it will be okay. You can’t go far on negativity and doubt and heartache. But can go far on hope and happiness and love. You can go all the way to the moon. But you just have to believe it. That may sound shitty and cheesy and lame as hell, but it’s the truth. And I’m trying real hard to be true here. I am. But this is all there is. So let’s be okay with that and I think that will be okay.

usually we'd go ahead and get a few words down, maybe even a sentence or two. but that was about as far as it'd get before a hard line would find its way in between the letters. nothing ever really stuck when it came right down to it. i could almost guarantee you that this entire thing up to this point has been written before. more than once, in fact. i'll find you the page. it's no doubt folded up somewhere in between two pages just like this one. somewhere deep in the closet, i'm guessing. that's where most of these digressive, incoherent abortions more than often end up. when it comes right down to it, down to the reasoning behind the discarding of thoughts, well, i think it mostly had to do with whether or not there was any honesty in it all. at least that's what i think. i can't speak for him anymore. i wouldn't want to, anyway. i suppose that if i had to submit a guess i think that, when it came right down to it, he was afraid. i mean, let's be perfectly honest, it takes a little extra something for someone to put themselves out there for everyone to see. and by "see" i, of course, mean "judge". or better yet, "tear to shreds from inside to out". am i wrong? the "vast majority" of human beings love nothing more than to lob gigantic, venomous boulders of judgment towards anyone and everyone. even themselves. it's sad, yeah, but it's the truth. digression, shit. see? this is what happens. in his case, however, we wouldn't have even made it to "hard line". and now i'm using too many quotes. judgment onto oneself. i told you. there's no ending. but him, well, he was the worst. actually, that's probably a bit too harsh. completely harsh, truth be told. but, there it is. the truth. that's what this is all about. truth. and being true. right? shit, i don't even know myself anymore. well, take a chisel to the rock, i suppose. no, i really don't.

this is you in your winter overcoat, huddled in a bus station corner under the bright lights and muffled sounds of passing travelers. the soft strands of your blond hair cover your eyes as you try to remain hidden in the little world of you. no one knows you, but all that are see you. there is no fear in your face, no worry in your brow. you are exactly where you want to be.
this is your polariod camera, underused and rarely moved, sitting on a chair by the foot of your bed. its pictures are warm and filled with everyone. they collect in a drawer, on a pinboard near a lamp, across your desk and in a secret place under the mattress. they keep well enough and you dream of them when asleep.
this is a document not being written. its letters are fake and more like a cliche, massaged and poorly fashioned for the benefit of us. this is a love letter to those who'll never know. this is fleeting thought, bereft of anything original or pure, stymied by the dreary hands that create it. this is-

100

I logged in tonight. Blogspot told me this would be my 100th post. I thought about that for a few moments. 100 posts starting with number 1, as I check, almost two years ago to this day. Part of me is surprised to still be using this things. Another part of me thinks about how many broken thoughts or unfinished entries I've registered in this half-journal/half-confessional. What is this thing to me? A place to share what I've created? Is it sharing when you don't even know if people are reading? Only recently have I been able to answer that question, or have felt validated by asking it. I suppose, to me, this is a place where I can externalize my own fears, my own personal desires (secret or not), or a brief dream, the components of which fly faster than my ability to take them down. Or maybe it's just a place for me to put myself up in front of it all, to be the center of attention. "Lay upon me all your critiques, be they of pillory or praise." I suppose none of that really matters if there is nothing here to read, right? So maybe I'll start there. With a fresh credo: To write more. Period. Were you expecting something more? Well, yeah, maybe I was, too. But that's okay. It's a good start. It's A start, no? And then from there we can expand to greater ambitions, stimulate the creative juices that have come down to a simmer. Let's boil that sucker back up! Or maybe we can just start first. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Yeah, I think that will be better. Finish some of these deserted shorts. Flesh them out, so to speak. That's a good start, a second place to start. Look: options already! This is great. This is an adventure. "Go forth into the unknown, young creator, for this life is an adventure."

dear adelaide,

i wrote you a letter just the other night. in it i explained the reasoning behind certain events that have recently occurred, as well as my feelings on said instances. my thoughts on the matter are quite precise, yet still without direction. my initial thought was to express this, among other things, to you in person but circumstances have yet to relieve themselves and allow me proper permission to carry this out. i feel you, at the least, deserve an honest, face to face, explanation for my actions. instead i wrote the aforementioned letter. it is my heart, adelaide, poured onto paper by the frail, wounded hands of a man longing for its chance. yet with each passing day, as my want grows stronger my opportunities become more fleeting, though the emotion never fades.

but yet i still have the note. it is heavy with love. it is all i have ever wanted to say. i stored it away, in a drawer beneath the clock. i think i will deliver it today. i'll address it to you, adelaide, place a stamp in the corner, and send it on its way. by the time it reaches you i, god willing, will be halfway to the atlantic, on a locomotive bound for the east coast. i've arrangements with a captain there to board a cargo ship destined for the indian ocean. i hope i'm well received.

this is the end for now. i feel there is nothing left to lose. if nothing more, adelaide, remember us as friends. until then...

your friend,
connor mcginn