Fictional Facts

A much more published author than I once said:

 Fear is a good thing. Fear is what drives us to take risks and extend ourselves beyond our normal limits, and any writer who feels he is standing on safe ground is unlikely to produce anything of value.

As I repeatedly read this quote I started to relate it to a recent conversation I had, interestingly enough through text message, where the majority of my writing and banter chooses to exist as of late. The  mildly argumentative yet fervent dialogue led to attraction from both parties (I believe)  predicated upon intellect.

I have always been a fan of fiction, rooted in the concept that the above quote touches on. Fiction, is a narrative that deals in part with event(s) that have not happened. However, many fictional narratives are embedded with truths and innate characteristics of the author - garnishment which I find most intriguing. Fiction, to me, allows the author, if he is willing to be open, to bleed between the lines. It allows them to transgress from their fears and project their inhibitions. It allows the imaginary to emanate, tie-dyed with true events, intertwining fiction and reality, subconscious with the conscious.

My astute and enlightened counterpart, dripping in collegiate investment and scholastic aptitude, did not share my affliction with fiction (ignore the ryhme). While fiction was intriguing to him/her, it served of less important to them.

"The world involves subjectivity and objectivity. I think objectivity is a more imperative persepctive which benefits all instead of just and individual."

While I agree there are many benefits to objectivity, for one in testing, it is not the cure all, and science is not perfect and history finds itself concealing lies. Why does something have to touch all, when we are all so vastly different in our own beautiful way. They then went on to say that they had less interest in "quintessential redundant narratives of mans struggle with life, but that doesn't negate the fact that it may still be interesting." To this I argue, "you are reading the wrong fictional literature." The Art of Racing in the Rain,  is told through a narrative of a dog, witnessing mans struggle, and is far from quintessential in my mind. This man prevails through adversity, and the dogs (obviously imaginary) interpretation was enlightening to ingest. Is this book going to help me solve a math problem, or design a building that is both efficient and green? Will it alter all of humanity? No, but it does change my perspective on a life that is often taken all too seriously.

Granted I am fickle and obdurate in my stance as many people argue history is. So, while I argue this dashing competitors opinion, I do value it.

We finally reached an area of placid agreement - historical fiction, the mediary between non-fiction and fiction. This style of writing allows for a presentation of known objective facts in an imaginary setting, theme, or style. With this literary concept my foe in this argument can move forward amicably and know that they are receiving a larger sum analytical data, and I can rest assure that the author may have faced one or two of their fears whilst writing.

Recurring consistencies are something I am sure that we all find welcoming, but without a surprise or two, what are we trying to prove? That life can be predicted from this day out? That all history repeats itself? That we are all inherently the same and our differences do not benefit one another? I like too think not. We are all part of humanity and in humanity lies many facts that should be used to unite us, not tear us apart. However, what makes us interesting, what makes us love, what makes us passionate, is what is not consistent. I hope this does not change. Otherwise, replace my organs with machines, stamp me with a corporation seal, and choose my wife. Having the ability to live peacefully amongst our vast differences rather than having them drive us into conflict is essential to a productive humanity.

Train Setbacks

When people take your dinner suggestions it usually means they take you pretty seriously. I mean, who is going to go to a place to consume food recommended by someone who’s daily opinions are not valued? More importantly, if that person takes your suggestion, say in a new city, it means they truly value your opinion and trust your judgement.

This is what I was thinking about sitting in the overheated lobby of New York's Penn Station. I was dodging nostalgia as the station attendant announced publicly that the 173 regional to Washington, DC and Richmond, VA was now boarding. 6 months ago I would have been heading in that direction, out of this "person swamp" that the populous refers to as a city. Now, I am heading where it is somehow colder than it is outside and the only two upsides are less people and lower buildings for the wind to work up courage to slap you in the face.

I was traveling to NYC for business, or should I say social gatherings outside of my place of work. The two day cluster fuck consisted of 5 hours of exhibit hall hand shaking and business card exchanges, followed by 18 hours of frivolous spending and glutinous food/alcohol consumption. The night before I had 4 fucking dinners, 4 dinners. The last one was the larger of the quad dinner experience and I merely winked at the overpriced food and forced saki down my throat like a strep culture stick. Thinking about eating today, after just going on lunch numero duo, makes me want to take my clothes off and force vomit like Nicole Ritchie. Not sure why  I am taking the clothes off to complete this task, but I am predicting that the act produces body heat. Given the temperature of this homeless persons dream space that I am waiting in, naked seems to be the best and only  option for forced vomiting. Personally I am excited about the possibility, there are 7 things I ate last night that I am not totally certain what they were, or if they were even edible.

Looking across the row of waiting chairs it looks like heat waves are forming. The hot air has collected dust particles from the hundreds of thousands of forever unclean passengers and it is just resting in the air. The dust seems to form a permanent cloud that if I squint and reach out, I can break it up and clear a area of relatively purified air. 

A young man, a bit homely but not vagrant, came up with a prepaid credit card and ten dollars in his hand. He claimed that he neede $2.75 to board the LIRR and the prepaid card would not work since he has to enter a zip code for it that didn’t exist. 3 possibilities:

1.     He was being truthful

2.     He wasn’t buying a ticket at all

3.     Stolen, empty, prepaid card

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I have a feeling the situation was a combination of 2 and 3.  I will certainly be giving this a trial run tonight by entering a fictional card and seeing if it requires a zip code. If it does, ill stop my investigation and just say he used the money properly, or at least did some decent research on his lie. Life is a lie, how we live it is directly correlated with our ability to obscure the truth. Write that down.

So far the 20 dollar bill that I just took out of the ATM in case I needed it has gone to; lying LIRR rider, the coat check lady at the convention center, and the cab driver who was names Infal Combrero. Haitian?  The cab driving race breakdown has really seen some changes in the past year. I think half of Haiti is here driving the cabs. If they all left the city at once New York would be fucked, or the subways would be packed like China. Seems like I am really putting this Jackson bill to good use so far. I may buy a Mr. Goodbar on the way home and a can of Yoo-Hoo.

Boarding the train now at the 6 East. I cannot believe that I am going to be on this moving tin can for 4.5 hours. So much for quick travel. Takes less time to drive than to take the train. You can get halfway across Asia in four in a half hours on a train. Here, you have to plan your whole day around traveling just 115 miles. Good lord, the only thing to do is  to move forward amicably, board this bitch, fall asleep a pray to a god that I don’t believe in that I will wake up 4.25 hours from now. 

River runs wild and I do not fear
Afraid of nothing as the wind it tears
Casting shadows on the days of old
A winter dream, caught in the cold

Spraying angels in the burly snow
My mind lays with you as the months they flow
another season spins, the leaves return
waiting for the summer sun, to feel the burn

But your not here, no your far away
Edges of my sweater, crack and fray
from the miles of dreams Ive been walking through
The winding road that never leads to you

I've dusted bibles and twisted prayers
Thought of fate and your wind-blown hair
The drink and smoke only clog my mind
Makes me fall deeper and far behind

I write letters on postcards form foreign seas
Tell my mother, I'm making a man of me
But I'm just a boy lost and torn
My heart battered, dark and worn

My facade strapped tight and my nails filed
Parted hair with a crooked smile
They all pat my back and say job well done
Nobody knows my battles never won

The Expected Stuggles of a Married Man - Part 1

Upon recently moving offices I have become privy to elicit exposure to the lives and personal intricacies of my colleagues. Te close quarters allow monitor browsing, food sniffing, fart avoidance, excessive use of obnoxiously loud Dr. Dre Beats earn phones, and of course the listening in on  personal conversations allowing me to tactfully pontificate upon what I have just heard with friends who are not in the office.

The most recent spark of interested came from N--- who was speaking with his wife on the phone. On the whole, it was incredibly uneventful and I can only assume he was talking about picking up his kids, or rather having to be picked up since the family owns one car and his wife is in possession of it. What I clung onto like a gator navigating a swamp and finding his pray hiding behind a darkened tree branch was this:

Life as a married man starts off completely fulfilling. You feel wholesome, you feel new, you are embarking on a journey. Its sort of like a trip to Florida for the weekend. You are on the plane after work, drinking whiskey, contemplating new relationships with strangers from 800 miles away. Not sure what you are going to do but you know you will drink, it will be fun, maybe weird like a finger in the ass or a chick wearing vampire teeth while your fuck. Then you do go, it is fun, your ass hurts, and your brain is numb, but its over. You have to get back on the plane an return home to your mildly monotonous job with a mediocre salary (after spending roughly 43% of your monthly income). You had the journey, now you realize you are back to reality. The journey just fucking blows, and you never have time just turn the music on, with your headphones on full blast because its rude when you are on a lifelong trip with someone else. You can no longer be selfish or even really drink. 

You are now on a journey of judgement. You cant shit where you eat or eat while you shit. You cant pick up a Chad Kultgen novel and say "this is intriguing literature" without being called a masogynistic asshole. You cant call up your buds on "movie night" for a change of pace, because its insensitive. Your journey is now not really a journey at all, its a sentence. This sentence is made up of 15 life long consecutive sentences. You're prison fucked. 

So as I talked to my friend about this concept of marriage we quickly fell into a bit of satirical banter. The focal point was Fantasy Football. Fantasy is something I enjoy now, and I really get into it. But Fantasy Football for the married man is like Poker Night, it is like water, or oxygen, it is needed not for enjoyment, but for survival. It acts simply as an escape from the reality path he is forced to meander down, only to find the road does not diverge. It simply curves and winds to its inevitable beginning, leaving him only to be able to say "this is my nightmare," for it is truly mine.

I told my friend that on the same night that I invite him to a poker night at my house, he should immediately delete my number and write down on a sticky note the date. This date represents the day we stop becoming friends and concurrently my social life has been taken out to the small, flower infested backyard (which I was forced to plant on a Saturday) and shoot it right in the fucking face.

After poker night organizations are established in order to keep one ounce of dignity stored for the lack thereof a social life, you fire up a riskier move - Fantasy Football. Wives must hate Fantasy Football. FF take up an incredible amount of time in a males life; drafting, setting weekly rosters, pending trades, lost waivers, injured players, sports news reading in the morning, more trades, FUCKING GAME DAY. They HATE FF with a fire-like passion. Allowing FF to enter their husbands lives is like women being gifted with a 50 Shades of Gray TV show that is on 4 days a week. They become second best and everything they do is simply a backfill priority, receiving all the unwanted traffic, or shitty time that sneaks through.

In order to get FF off the ground, the coniving, yet loving husband must send out invites for a draft. Now that he is balls deep into this "partnership," they share everything. Things that he thought was his own, including his testicles, are not. His college email that he somehow uses still as a mode of conversation - not his. His cell phone is now simply a quicker avenue for her to get in touch when he is picking up the jumbo sized tampons. His pants, he didn't pick out, so therefore not his. He literally has no known possessions, besides his hotmail email account, which is usually not good for anything other than SPAM rape, and porn registrations. He sets up a time and date for the secret FF draft, thinking that if he could at least get the league started without his wife knowing she will not ruin him and make him drop out, therefore removing his balls and shipping them to Lithuania. Package addressed to: Chantel with a note saying "these will not be needed anymore."

He sends out the email that has all the info and he states clearly "Gentlemen, please DO NOT, under any circumstances, make the mistake of RSVPing to my Gmail account, my wife knows the password and she will bring this idea down like Haiti's political structure."
- Of course one asshole friends sends him an email to his Gmail thinking that he was kidding about his request.

Two weeks later, after the beginning of the 2012 FF season, disqualifying the group form involvement, he sends a follow up email. This time it is sent from Constant Contact, a service that requires you to pay a monthly fee at a high rate in order to send private emails and manage them from a third party location:

Dear Friends and Fucking asshole suckface, slut-bitch, titty slapping JAKE,

Due to a lack of ability to follow instructions there will be no Fantasy Football this season. My wife logged into my gmail two weeks ago claiming that she needed to print off our airline tickets to West Virginia, where her third cousin is getting married....next July. She was fortunate to stumble upon Jake, who thinks his humor is as funny as his community college degree's, email, and threw a temper tantrum that rivals Rainman when he is not allowed to count the things he wants. Needless to say I am currently sleeping on the futon I rolled into the unfinished basement. Yes, the futon from college. On top of that she has hidden all of my phone chargers so I was only able to fire up this iPod touch that the 8 year old neighbor left here last week while mowing the lawn - can't believe I had to pay the shitstick 10 bucks for that. However looking back it is a 10 dollar iPod that I can slowly access internet on. Sorry for any typos, I am using an online fucking email program on a first generation Ipod touch with a scratched screen. Fuck you Jake, sorry guys.

Me

Fast forward one year.

Hey Guys,

This is a mass message. I know this is a dating site and you think this is one of those gay dudes popping off a queer message to see your dick and send it to his aunt, but its me. I'm pretty fucking jealous you guys are all on here, chicks are smoking hot. I am also sarcastically glad we have to communicate this way. Things have really taken a turn to the dark side at home and I simply cannot move forward amicably. I have upgraded since the last time we talked (11 months and 2 weeks ago) to and iPad. I bought if off the same squirly bitch neighbor who noq extorts me by charging 15 bucks to mow my 10x15 sq foot lawn. I snapped the floor boards in the deck and hid this bad boy in a plastic zip lock bag so i can use it to message you guys. This is an invite to the Fantasy Football 2013 draft (location sent later). I hope you all can make it, I chose not to add Jake on here who I hope dies of herpes to the brain. If you guys need to reach me I whipped out a Cricket mobile account with prepaid minutes. I have 37 minutes which I estimate will be the exact amount needed to field all your RSVP's and questions. George - dont get long winded and talk about how much money you made fishing last year. After the RSVPs are confirmed I plan on burning this phone and dropping it in the Long Island sound so my wifey wont ostracize me from all my friends for another full calendar year. 

(The guy with no balls)

Happy wife, happy life. NO. Happy wife, dead husband. 

How would you do it?

It is a bit peculiar that I had this thought earlier this morning, only hours away from boarding a plane to a tropical city to fuck my liver over for two days and stare at girls in bikinis that are 2-3 sizes too small. But - as I was walking off the T, and throughout my 7 minute walk to the office, I was people-watching. People-watching is fun, but can also be dark. Today, I was looking around trying to make an inference.

I was staring subtly at each person that  I passed by and those as far as my less than adequate contacts would allow, trying to guess a percentage. I was wondering what percentage, and who precisely, legitimately thought about killing themselves before. If my cerebral cortex decided that person had in fact, thought intently about ending their existence, I stared through them a bit to guess how they would have done it.

Let's escape the fact that anyone reading thinks I'm a complete sociopath with a psychopathic drip. You also might assume that I was shallow in my analysis and that I just assumed that the homeless, morbidly obese, mother carrying 4 children with no father in sight, the guy with warts on his neck, the insanely skinny girl probably suffering from a mildly to moderate eating disorder (another assumption) would be the choices. Give me a little more credit. My 7 minutes of skimming went a bit beyond the surface, and i truly thought about each one. There are plenty of well dressed people, carrying Louis Vuitton bags, rocking a pair of Ferragamo's or Guisseppe's, who drive home in their Porsce Panamara and enter their 3000 sq ft. luxury apt suite that want to take 45 Xanax, fire up a noose in their living room or overzealous balcony and let the world kiss their ass goodbye.

I feel all of us are on the cusp of losing it sometimes and we say it quietly, resting on the back of our breath, "fuck this, I want to die." What pushes us over the edge? When is it too much? Why do some people have a stronger threshold for rummaging through the trash that populates our life and brings us down? Why can one woman who has lost her husband in war, has kid battling Leukemia, and is unemployed on her last food stamp check, wake up make a cup a coffee and carry forward amicably? Meanwhile the broker who is about to lose his job because a slip in the market resulting in his trips to Smith and Wollensky's to be cut to 3 times a week instead of five, is waking up praying for a razor blaze sharp enough to cut through his heart.

I picked 11 people that I thought had wanted to kill themselves. Admittedly I could only choose methods for 4 people, it takes a long time to assess the inner working of a persons mind from far away and decide which path they would take to leave the world behind, exiting triumphantly, passionately and alone. Now, I am not a suicide expert, I don't think, but I know how I would do it. I will save that for another post. I basically made my assumptions on how they would do it on the following factors:

1. How artistic they appear - Creativity level
2. How angry or strangely happy their faces are: A very angry face may go violently or at least make a show of it, a super happy person might make even more of a show if it.
3. Their height - Taller people are more likely to worry about setback with hanging.
4. Sex - Makes a difference, just does.
5. Possible religion - In times of death i think people stay true to what their god, or lack thereof would think. They are looking for some sort of acceptance.
5. And which direction they were heading on the street - One way was a good part of town the other a bad one.

I am not really sure where I am going with this post, but it was just something I was thinking about this morning. On a morning when I was happy, work was good, Florida was in the near future, sex life was spontaneous and affluent, this is when I had the darkest of thoughts. Kind of makes me think that I could be wrong in my assumptions with people this morning. The person I thought least likely to end it all already set up a Dexter like lab at their apt, ready to put themselves in a noose, slit their wrist with a butter knife repeatedly, while pulling a string attached to a door that compresses a trigger of a .44 cal to blow their brains all the way to Vietnam.

Who knows.

Train Sounds

Our divine individuality, innate inequality and overall originality stems from freedom and our ability to act, do, play, dance, fuck, cry, write, sing, for the most part, as we please. We all march differently and to a different beat. While we may not be able to create counterfeit funds, spent them on cheap Polynesian hookers, and go on at looting spree while using the lords name in vain, we do have an overwhelmingly sophisticated freedom - a far cry from the characters of Orwells world.

A humorous thing happened on the train, entertaining yet acquainting. While riding on the notoriously slow, and inevitably problem stricken green line, its fate occurred. Due to the fact the green line runs above and below ground and is the older of the lines in the great city of Boston, it stopped. Even more impressive, it not only stopped but seemingly shut down. Initially I had gone through my 30 second Courtney Love panic attack wishing for a Xanax, checking my armpits for sweat, frantically locating the nearest exit only to find that it is blocked by what is likely to be 30 feet of man manipulated concrete. My overzealous mind tricked me into believing that this fucking horribly constructed, only mildly ventilated hot box of transportation may be stuck in this state for hours. Unfortunately this did not happen. The only reason why I saw unfortunately is that after I could calm the sweats, encourage myself that I do not need drugs for everything and opened a book, I found a very attractive young female. I think given another hour or two in the moving pile of emotion I could have convinced her to cut her losses, grab a coffee with Frangelica, skip work to head back to my place and see how the Tempurpedic holds up. 

Good lord, you win some, lose some. 

While the train was essentially shut down; standing still, lights dimmed, engine ceasing to run, and all was silent, something more transparent occured. 1. Jay-Z and Foster the People do not sync up well at all. 2. 87% plus or minus 2% were listening to headphones. Of that 85-89%, 0% had high enough quality headphones to keep the sound contained to their ear cavities, letting their musical choices soar out into the open train for all to hear. Had my headphones not just suffered a severe fatality while running this morning, I would be among the majority, but luckily I was not. I was fortunate enough to tune into the melodic jumble of over 25 different masterpieces coming from my colleagues on the train of "go fuck myself." 

They say that the one good thing about music is that you feel no pain, unless of course it is every genre mixed together and its about as painful as cuddling with a sick cat. Once I was able to move forward amicably from the horrendous blend of notes, I started to isolate the sounds and finally meet my fellow riders. The Asian man, roughly 26 years of age, with a nice watch was listening to  Luther Vandrose, "Dance with my Father." One could infer he just lost someone close to him, which may or may not explain his saddened, yet hardened facial expressions. The very professionally dressed young women nearest to my right was listening to Juicy, by Notorious BIG. I could tell her inner self wanted to just use the isle as her own personal dance floor and shout out racial slurs, not to be racist, just because she wanted to sing the song in its entirety. Let it ride sister, I wont judge you. 

As I moved down the line I found the songs to be more and more interesting, and of course I did not recognize some of them. One person was listening to a song I had just recently heard, and it was rather obscure, so I was excited. Once i heard duo play a couple weeks back I listened to the entire album and found that the artist were in LA, struggling to make their way (ignore rhyme) and each song was about a memory. I then inferred that she is new to the city, possibly starting a new job in Cambridge and can relate to these young storytellers. The artist was Kenneth Pattingale and Joey Ryan aka the Milk Carton Kids, if anyone cares.  

As I continued to listen during the short 12 minute stop I convinced myself that I knew a little more about the people around me, and the beat they march to. I started thinking more about what I listen to, when I listen to it, and why. I also found myself confused. Why do I go to bed and sleep to Alexisonfire, then get pumped up to run to gaslight anthem? The answer is that we are all constructed differently, our legs move appropriately to the way a dissonant sounds hits our ears, and it is completely inconsistent the next person. We all have a playlist, what is on yours? I think I'd like to listen to it, I may like to meet you. 

We are all Storytellers

Human beings have always told their histories and truths through parable and fable. We are inveterate storytellers.” (Beeban Kidron)

There are few things I get depressed over, other than the loss of a close acquaintance or the bottom of a scotch bottle. Whenever I spend too much time away from the keyboard or putting the pen to the sepia tone pad my ex girlfriend gave me back in high school, I am saddened. Whether we are truthful or prevaricated we tell a story, and it is important to someone, if not then to ourselves, to write.

Through every piece of fiction we find factions of truth - A character that shares mass similarities with a childhood friend, a struggle that parallels a the authors family member, a reality in the story that was a lifelong dream. I tend to read fiction because it is in the falsities that I find the true inner being of the writer. I see their desires between the black print and folded back pages. I highlight points where their true self is most transparent.

For lack of a better term, I hope that I am an open book. I find with literature, and the stories that I most relate to, are written by authors who are the most vulnerable. They are willing to bleed a bit on the pages and not worry about the cuts and bruises being exposed to sunlight. This doesn't mean the artist has to get all Edgar Allen in order for me to to have some sort of semblance of respect for them. The Picture of Dorian Gray is not beautiful because it is gloomy, but rather it is nebulous and invokes thought stemming from a character who is doomed from the life he chose to lead and his Faustian bargain. Oscar Wilde, a man who rose into societal acceptance debuting as an actor only to be exiled leading to his imminent death, wrote with passion and unprecedented prose.

So as I stroll through life pontificating with strangers, friends, family and foes, I write. I tell the stories that are true to me, or at least part of my subconscious. Our history is told through parable and fable, without storytellers, the world rotates on its axis and the days are numbered, but everything is left in the dust. Now some may argue that is it best to let the past die, and only to carry forward the favorable parts. This form of thought/story natural selection seems the furthest thing from natural. We should remember the growth of the trees and the wildfires that brought them down. Whats the point of knowing your best sexual encounter without remembering the erectile dysfunction scenario? Maybe some want to push that shit away and move forward amicably but not I. Any writer who ignores the facts, positive or negative, is doing the reader and themselves a disservice, present and more importantly, future.

Live, write, die, and do it again.