Lazy Link Day

She tugs, absently, at the purple noose cutting the feeling from her fingers.. This was not a place for absent thoughts so she quickly got back to center. The footsteps ebbed and flowed across the worn marble. The guard, who until recently bowled 3 times a week, had traced this path fifteen times since she sat down. Sixteen. Two more journeys and it would be 9:00 a.m. Each trip from double doors to reception desk took 2 minutes. A variance of no more than 4 seconds was the rare miscue. She wondered what Henry, the ex-bowler, thought as he made his rounds in the Swiss manner. Did he contemplate his recent bout of back pain as a sign that things needed to start slowing down soon? Did he have a mantra chanted in time with his footsteps to assure a scheduled journey? Or did he do what we all do: try to play catch up with our thoughts as they bounce from the laundry, the cable bill, a scene from Futurama, that girl from 8th grade and so on and so forth until we manage to correctly connect synapses and tell someone we love them.
Her mind tended to wander as she waited for her brother to arrive. He would be stunningly on time as further proof that he and Henry were somehow connected. She is only one of two people to see the similarity. The other comes later.
9:00 a.m. clicked on the clock just as Henry reached the edge of the carpet and turned to make the return trip. Behind him she could see the red glare of her brother’s car cast a glow about his head.
As she reaches the exit she again tugs at the purple wrist band and wonders why the orderlies always pull them so tight. Purple tag or not she is not going to blend into everyday society. If the confounded noose slipped off of her wrist she would still wander the world in search of herself. Maybe the wrist band denotes progress and the absence of it washes all the progress away. Having drifted off into these thoughts again she is surprised to find herself seated and fastening her seatbelt.
Turning the corner to hit the main road through town she decides to ask the question that has been occupying her for several days straight. “Why do you love me?” Darren chuckles to himself and gives her the sideways glance that she has come to expect from the only person more aware of her mind that she is. “Am I really the one you want to be asking?” he says with a slight hint of annoyance. K looks at him and shrugs, “I know why HE loves me. I can quantify it with the moments we spend together. The way he smiles when I am talking or explaining the thoughts in my head tells me he loves me. He kisses me on the forehead everytime I ask out loud where my keys are. When I utter that phrase around you all I get is the same look that’s been plastered on your face since this conversation started. You claim you love me but you seem frustrated and apprehensive anytime I open my mouth.”
For the first time since the car ride began Darren’s smirk darkens. “And what do the docs say when you describe my apparent lack of emapthy to the situations you put yourself into?” He asks knowing that she rarely discusses him in any of her therapy sessions. “They say you’re jealous that I have found someone else to take care of me, if you must know.” These are the last words spoken until he mumbles goodbye as she steps out and walks towards Randy’s door. For the second time in a day she asks a question knowing the answer to which could be fraught with peril. “Why do you love me?” she asks as Randy opens the door. “Hello to you, too, dear,” he says in a voice masking any surprise at the seemingly random greeting. “Seriously, why?” She asks as she sits down on the couch with the elaborate patterns that she swears he only keeps because of a lost bet to Darren.
“Well, if you must know I love you because you have a great mind, a great heart and most of all becasue you have a great ass.” He chuckles as the last words leave his mouth knowing that although humor is his great equalizer, this might have been a moment for a more thoughtful answer.
She zigged when he expected a zag and simply says, “Thank you, I needed that.”

Tags: Writing

He is at his usual spot at his usual time, 7:15am, looking like he is experienceing a seizure. From the back of the apartments a hill sloped gradually upward leading toward the road. The subtle grade of the incline ensured that when the slope did reach its apex it was some distance away from anyone’s patio. A girl, named for her grandmother, sits on her patio drawing sunflowers and staring intently at the twitching man. Thirty degrees up from her seat and a glance to the right was the bus stop where the man dropped his backpack and began to flail about. He is attempting to put on his jacket. The outward necessary sleeve has decided to poke inward and thwart his attempts. This is his right sleeve, as his left is already snuggly secured to his arm. Damn. Off goes the left sleeve. Folding the right sleeve outward to its proper position, he reinserts both arms and with a small measure of triumph thrusts his arms above his head. As he is celebrating the victory over his clothing he turns in his spot and catches the sunflower girl monitoring him. He gives a reflexive wave and turns again to wait for the bus.

I want to be an engineer, an architect, and a writer. I think I am drawn to these jobs cause they can be done without supervision (and if you get good enough from home). While the first 2 occupations are easy to evaluate in terms of how you are doing the third, writer, takes a much longer time to realize whether or not you are actually any good at it. After listening to a couple of good talks by Merlin Mann (here, and here) I have come to expect that I will suck at writing for a very long time and that there is really no way around this. I, like many others I am sure, thought that if I just got the right notebook, pen, music, etc.. somehow the greatness would flow. And something usually does flow for a few days until it becomes arduous and bad and then it is usually shoved aside for whatever shiny new idea has struck me (Before the hard work of actually completing the new idea occurs).

This site is another way for me to work on my writing without having to focus on the same idea day after day. I leave you with the rest of the story (or as far as I have ever gotten on it).

The bus pulled towards the curb and let out a small hiss as it lowered its wheels to receive its fare. He sits facing sideways, as the front facing seats have all been taken. He and the rest of the working cattle are ushered into the city by a soundtrack of clicking keyboards and slightly muted conversation. He glances out the window and closes his eyes. The sunlight making its way through the thick trees cause random solar flares to appear. Streaks of green-tinted brightness fire before him as he lays his head back against the seat. 

The first pothole jars him from his semi-conscious state and he raises a lid to see the concrete trees growing towards downtown. The second one makes him sit up perfectly straight. The timing of the interruptions make it impossible to re-enter the dream world. He takes out the latest Murakami from his bag and flips to the last touched page. After a minute his eyes adjust and he begins reading. About every third sentence would end as the bus met a concrete hole. Bam. 

Exiting to the left he begins the trek. Four blocks north. Two blocks west. He is his own Tetris piece. Falling from the bus towards his job, he would twist and move to arrive exactly at 8:23a.
Computer on, he now tends to the coffee. He really should program the stupid thing. As he is a solitary figure in this office his lack of caffeine etiquette doesn’t present much of a problem. He taps impatiently, but since his earlier self caused his current delay, he decides to give up being annoyed and check his mail.

Tags: Writing