A Batch of Short Stories

Stories are important to us because they have conclusions. We have control over them. A few pages at lunch time or after an evening shower. The lives of the characters are managed and unchanging for the most part. I say that because characters are defined by their listed characteristics, but live according to how we see them. By comparison the lives we live are endless in the manor that they are bountiful with surprise. That is precisely why no one is satisfied with palm readers. Stories have in them what we can never have, even with death. They have conclusions. Even for atheist there is something on the other side. Most say nothing. But you can't have nothing without something. An eternity of nothing is still something. But that is semantics and doesn't arrive at much other than a clever sentence. 

Of course there are books filled with drugs, stabbings, and ritual sacrifices. And lets not forget revenge. Our lives are much more chaotic then we realize though. That is all the reason to enjoy it. Because in contrast we carry on with what ever has happened to us. We don't reach a point of bliss and everything is ever so happy forever. We reach points in our lives and then we go on. As I once heard said, "Good times pass, but so do the bad." 

Hiding

There are many types of hiding available. Hiding yourself from something unwanted.  There is the type of hiding that places an object between you and a projectile. Your skin does a very good job of keeping the mystery of your digestive system. There are also the wallflowers at a party hidden by nothing more then their aggressively quiet eagerness. There is also the most common type of hiding which is keeping parts of your life separate from each other that is neither negative or positive. What they are are simple occurrences of forgetfulness. We simply cannot remember everything. We usually say that we are doing good and push the interesting and sometimes more poignant events of the day aside. But that is training and that is culture and that is the human capacity.

What we hide is not shame. In fact we don't hide much because in the uttering of "good" we can read what is really there.  My favorite is the "oh.... what? Good." Even then we realize that there is to much at hand to coherently make sense of everything. But realizing that just being is the best part of it all. 

Its okay if its not the same

It is hard to let go. As you get older things get smaller, other things taste different, and somethings are lost. The curious thing about puzzles is that they are always lost piece by piece. They also end the same way, with a final piece. The very fist time every piece is placed where they should be. Its not too exciting, but the longer you keep a puzzle the more likely that you loose a pience. Also the edges of each piece erode and then its just a matter of time before pieces start fitting in where they don't belong. Of coarse you move them out and try to find the right place for them. They are minor inconveniences that end in the same result.

Long after that though. Much longer. You'll end up with a puzzle that is suggestively similar. It will be the residual of the previous times that will remind you what belongs in the empty slots. It will still have the same results, but paradoxically as it is built over and over again it will be different. Like the difference in every glass of water which is made up of mostly the same elements.

from who knows where

What awaits us later is what awaits us anywhere. Surprise to content to inevitability. Any range of possibilities. Maybe that is why we don't go thinking about where we will be to much. 5 year plans and 10 year plans have their goals, but nothing is exactly as is. Sometimes we are late for things and sometimes we are early. Seldom is that we are on time. Seldom is that it is perfect. Sometimes it is as we never expected and it is better for that. 

Less Than, But Not Equal To

A bold statement for a curious time. Lets have it. "Writing someone a letter is much better." It has to deal with the level of depth and the level of commitment. What you receive is a conversation so private that it demanded to be written down. And to be read more than once. Days later, if your lucky hours later, you will get your response. Hopefully it will be something bold and not simply adequate. What I speak about are private letters involving people and emotions and sometimes passions. Nothing of the sort that involves business transactions. But even then those letters are entitled to the same considerations of exactness and language. 

I worry about the lack of interest. Instant messages make the relevance of thought antiquated. Short questions and even short answers are what is available. Anything longer than the established 140 characters and you are left feeling like you overstated something. It feels forced. I feel pedantic. 

Text messages are little ads that pop up every other mile with its flashy lights and catch phrases. You drive on with out much interest. Even the little quibble, "where have you been" is more of a mental marker than a pledge to say more. So much for interest. So much for language. Which is what holds us together. It is not interests or style that we have between each other. It is the first initial words shared. It is how we find that others are far more fascinating than they appear to be. Conversation is all we have between us. To forget that is incredibly unattractive. 

Persistent Fly

There was a fly that I can distinguish from the rest. There are always the countless number that flutter about that try to land on your skin or eat get at your leftovers. Sometimes they make it on the tops of your ears without any notice. But there was one that I can clearly remember. It swept in and landed on a text book that I was reading and stayed for longer than any fly before. I thought it was simply bold when it didn't fly away. It wasn't staying its ground like a bear or a lion would when they stare back at you. The fly had simply come to find a place to die. I know because I pushed it over with my pen. Then I pushed it some more just to be certain it wasn't pulling one over me.

That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.

There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.

Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest. 

Walls don't Talk

"If these walls could talk." What follows will never have anything to do with that type of nostalgia. Rooms are inanimate and will pay no attention to what you do. If it is anyone that spills a secret it will be the human that was either spying on you or suddenly came into the room expecting a very normal scene. (They will both act very surprised) Nose picking, sulking, light fingering, diary writing, and the most atrocious scrap booking... The point of this short list is you name it and the wall, a wall, has been witness to it. But its relevance to your events and mishaps is on par with your neighbor. They are totally oblivious. What guilt should you face when someone mentions the if the walls knew? The only concern about the modern world would be an unlocked door or surveillance equipment. So go ahead and treat yourself and forgo the uneasiness. Your room is a room that is at the very least made of three walls and a door, but most likely four walls and a door and maybe a window. Walls are there for privacy and shelter, nothing less. I will now walk in a room and try Elizabethan English as it is quite hard to think in a manor that makes the thy own heart palpitate, like a heart of a small steady rodent surprised at the sudden appearance of an unwarranted fox... That wasn't quite Elizabethan.

On to the next subject... let going.