Tuesday, February 15th, 2011, 04:17pm EST
It's a Sunday morning, and we're riding today. Some families have a special dinner on Sunday. Some go to church. We ride. That's all there is to it.
Form fitting jerseys and tight black shorts. Moisture-wicking socks and cleats. The gear is light, but warm. He finishes changing before me, like usual, and is left waiting for me to catch up. Before long, we mount up and take to the road.
He's set a fast pace today, and I struggle to keep up, as I always have. After a few miles, he slows and we ride together. It's not long before I see it in the distance.
The hill is endless, it seems. Legs pumping, lungs aching, we pedal harder and harder. The crest is approaching, but it's too far away. We won't make it. He pulls ahead, like he always does, and I'm left behind. I struggle. Force myself to keep up. He's hit the top, and he stops. I join him a few minutes later.
The view is endless. The downward stretches for miles, it seems. A steep grad ... Read more ...
Sunday, February 13th, 2011, 10:44pm EST
Let me talk to you about inspiration. It's a beautiful thing and frustrating thing, isn't it? Sure, when it hits you, its great. You can sit down, spit out a thousand words like it's nobody's business.
But when it's gone? It's gone. Nothing works. Nothing.
What gives us the inspiration? It could be something you experience:
An especially bright august morning.
A deer on a bike path.
The Smell of Pine-sol.
Or maybe it's a quote:
"He never apologized for the flood."
"If you kill me, I'll never pick up another homeless guy."
Or a simple idea that manifests itself in my head that I can't let go:
What if your mother was dying?
What if your father was dead?
A song lyric. A walk in the park. A trail of blood in a storm drain. A doctor's thick glasses.
It's amazing, when it boils down to it. Incredible, astounding. A thousand words c ... Read more ...
But when it's gone? It's gone. Nothing works. Nothing.
What gives us the inspiration? It could be something you experience:
An especially bright august morning.
A deer on a bike path.
The Smell of Pine-sol.
Or maybe it's a quote:
"He never apologized for the flood."
"If you kill me, I'll never pick up another homeless guy."
Or a simple idea that manifests itself in my head that I can't let go:
What if your mother was dying?
What if your father was dead?
A song lyric. A walk in the park. A trail of blood in a storm drain. A doctor's thick glasses.
It's amazing, when it boils down to it. Incredible, astounding. A thousand words c ... Read more ...
Saturday, February 5th, 2011, 07:23pm EST
It's 5:30, and time for Shelly's second smoke break. She pushes open the kitchen's back door, stands by the dumpster, and lights her Chesterfield. It's been a rough day, but its nearly over. The sun is setting, and she watches the traffic drive by. The dumpsters smells are overpowering, but she doesn't mind. It's been three hours since her last break, and she intends to use every minute of it out here, in the sun.
She looks around, pondering the passing cars. There's not many today, only twelve so far. She often counts the cars that pass through her small New York town, but only on her smoke breaks. Twelve isn't very many. Three less than yesterday.
With no cars to count, she soon turns her attention elsewhere. A hundred yards down the road, the green sign catches her eye. Wilmer, New York, the sign tells her. Population: 1900. Wilmer, she thinks, has never been a good name for a town.
The wind picks up, and her cigarette smoke is blown into her face. There hasn't been another ... Read more ...
She looks around, pondering the passing cars. There's not many today, only twelve so far. She often counts the cars that pass through her small New York town, but only on her smoke breaks. Twelve isn't very many. Three less than yesterday.
With no cars to count, she soon turns her attention elsewhere. A hundred yards down the road, the green sign catches her eye. Wilmer, New York, the sign tells her. Population: 1900. Wilmer, she thinks, has never been a good name for a town.
The wind picks up, and her cigarette smoke is blown into her face. There hasn't been another ... Read more ...
Thursday, February 3rd, 2011, 02:39am EST
It was a bright day in August when, at the age of twenty, I stumbled upon the future love of my life. A muse. A saint. An Angel.
And soon, things were moving faster than I expected. I was spending money left and right. Exorbitant trips to Chicago. Flights to Venice. I didnt mind. I was truly happy for the first time in my life.
This went on for some time. We became husband and wife. We fathered a son. And then he fathered a son himself, and before I knew it, we were seventy years old.
She said to me one day, "Do you remember how we met?"
"Of course I do," I say, "We met in the park that day in August when it was so br-"
"No," she interrupts, and I'm stunned, "That was the lie we told our friends. Don't you remember how we really met?"
And alas, I do not, for we have been telling the same lie for nearly fifty years. The lie to cover up the strange truth of our untimely meeting, which had, after so many years, became the only truth we know. ... Read more ...
And soon, things were moving faster than I expected. I was spending money left and right. Exorbitant trips to Chicago. Flights to Venice. I didnt mind. I was truly happy for the first time in my life.
This went on for some time. We became husband and wife. We fathered a son. And then he fathered a son himself, and before I knew it, we were seventy years old.
She said to me one day, "Do you remember how we met?"
"Of course I do," I say, "We met in the park that day in August when it was so br-"
"No," she interrupts, and I'm stunned, "That was the lie we told our friends. Don't you remember how we really met?"
And alas, I do not, for we have been telling the same lie for nearly fifty years. The lie to cover up the strange truth of our untimely meeting, which had, after so many years, became the only truth we know. ... Read more ...
Thursday, January 13th, 2011, 06:34pm EST
The section's been a little dry lately with all the Jared Loughner and Top 10 video blogs, and I really don't have anything to write about. Sad, I know. So I thought since I didn't have anything new, I'd post a little snippet from a Novella I'm working on.
It's called Three Weeks, and it deals with the emotional struggles a man deals with while having to take a three week break from work pending an investigation. Who knows, I might post more of it at some point.
This particular section deals with a reflection on times with his exwife as he sits in his house:
...and then there was the girl. Carrie. She was nice enough, I suppose. She really was. Was she something special? Did I love her? I dont know the meaning of the word. Days seeing her turned to weeks, to years. She said she loved m ... Read more ...
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