A Respite

I've been working and worrying so much that my vision is clouded with future fears and present states of being. So I shake my head and toss my worries aside! There. I can almost see something moving! A light. A crack—big enough for a thought of a finger to pick through the layers of dust that have formed a thick crust that crumbles with finger flicks.

Now both hands, and a burst of fresh air escapes into my hair. It smells like sunshine and happiness. I gotta seeeee what's through there—reach for it and touch it!

Pushing my head through, it appears that I am peeking out of the middle of a cliff! I look up and cannot make my way to the top. I look down, and it's a straight drop, and a looooong way down. And I think I can hear a river way down there. I have a lot of water rushing around my imagination. I'm drawn to it.

I pull my head back in and begin to kick through the thick of it—breaking off large chunks. I'm going to jump. A few more kicks. A few more. And that's it! I'm going to

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Oh? I seem to have stopped falling and am just standing on the empty air. I do see a river below me. It's moving. But it's still a long way down, farther than I had imagined, so I

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What? Now I'm going back up!? Hmmm. Maybe I should

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There. I land in the water slowly—slipping into the rushing pulling at my feet, then legs, then I'm laying on my back and floooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooating downstream.

The cliffs above me move gently while I watch a tiny stream of sky float by. Lovely, just lovely. Floating, just floating. Listening, just listening—hearing only bubbling in my ears mixed with muffled, quiet heartbeats.

I'm in a state of concentrated imagination. A respite.

Cheeto

A blank sheet of paper and the thought of having an imaginary dog that never poops and always catches frisbees in the air—he practically flies. His name is Cheeto. Someone else named him before I rescued him from the imaginary dog shelter. The previous owner abandoned him, which is how most imaginary dogs end up in the shelter.

On the day we met, I had only seen three other imaginary dogs before I stepped in front of his cage, and there he was, wagging his tail, happy as can be to see me. I called his name, "Cheeto!" and he stood up and tilted his head to the side to flash a smile at me. I never needed to take a step further. Cheeto was the imaginary dog for me. I paid extra to be able to take him home that very same day. We walked out of the shelter and I didn't even need a leash—he prefers to walk at my side, on his own, within reach.

I'm not sure what his previous owners were thinking when they decided to name him Cheeto. He's not orange or lumpy, and he's not spotty like a cheetah. But I sure do have a lot of fun saying his name when I call him.

"Chee-chee-cheeeee-toe!"
"Cha-cheeto!"
"Cheech-cheeee-toh!"

Ha! He's going nuts! He hears his name being called, and he can't quite figure out where it's coming from. He's running to all the places where sounds leak and freezes—holding very still until he hears his name called again.

"Cheee-toe!"

"Yes! That's you! Such a good boy."

I took Cheeto out for a run earlier. We ran all the way to the coast. Imaginary dogs love the beach. Cheeto especially loves the seagulls. He stretches out his skin and leaps into the air after them—gliding up in gusts. I tried it once, but my skin proved too heavy. I did manage to find out that I make a pretty good sail, so long as I have something smooth under my feet, like a piece of cardboard or a plastic sheet.

Tonight we're going to explore what's under the door that someone dropped in the middle of the parking lot down the street.

Spring In The Grass

The next time you go outside, every grassy spot you see will be springy like a trampoline, and you will be able to jump jump jump from them as high as you want because when you land again the grass will cushion your fall and spring easy on your knees. All the hard concrete sidewalks and streets weave and wind around narrow stripes and strips all the way up to trampolines the size of football fields where you can jump so high you'll be surprised at how far you can see.

Spitting Worms

Squirt! Squirt!

There's nothing you can do about it now. The venom! The venom! Makes you see double double. It's inside your eyes eyes! Surprise! Surprise! Now you have two little worms inside your mind that will spend their whole lives looking for each other. Unless! Unless! You still have time to cross your eyes and hope that they find each other before your venom-tears dry up. If it was a success, then your thoughts will become flooded with a million baby worms and you'll suddenly feel a wave of nostalgia for these words.

And there will be so many of them that you'll even be able to see them if you squint squint! It will look like firewords! Works! Works!

And then expect to see them again in your next bowel movement along with the bodies of their parents who passed in childbirth. Gross! Gross!

Dispatch from Inside the Internet

I was planted inside this website just two days ago, and already I'm overwhelmed by all the windows that have opened up to me. When I peek out of them, I see people like you staring down at me, making faces while they read. Then SLAM! They close the window abruptly, and leave me in the darkness with the ghost of the last look on their face to haunt me. It dances in the corners, and follows wherever I look. Eventually, it wears off. Spooked.

Today I saw an old woman flinch, a few coworkers who were dressed the same, a coffee shop employee drinking tea, and a lovely mother breast feeding, who was typing with one hand and cradling her baby with the other.

Visions of Skinlessness

Today I sit in peace and quiet, immersed. I'm reflecting on the sound my body makes when I breathe. It creeks a tiny bit, somewhere underneath the skin that I can feel moving between each heartbeat.

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
My skin is crawling.

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
It crawled away.
And slipped right under the door.

What should I do? I can't go outside exposed like this, but I don't want it to get away, it's the only skin I've ever known!

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
Oh look! I still have my fingernails. I thought they might have slipped off with my skin. At least I have them.

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
Skinlessness! I seem to have happened upon a theme. The main characters in a book I'm writing are a piece of skin and the animal from which it was skinned. And prior to writing about them, I've also written about having my skin pulled off by my very own hairs. Now once again, I'm seeing myself without any skin!

What might all these visions of skinlessness mean? Tell me internet!

The closest thing I could find was the definition of skinlessness in dreams, which reads,

To dream that you or someone else is skinless suggests that you are having difficulties in sensing your emotional and psychological world. You are experiencing anxieties about how you are being perceived by others. You need to look beyond the superficial and find the sensitive truth about yourself and about others.

I'm not exactly sure who wrote this dream definition, but it's posted all over the internet, in exact words, without credit given. Whatever happened to bibliographies?

Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.
I've just discovered a direction to take my skinless characters next—a quest to find the sensitive truth beyond the superficial about you and me! It's located just beyond the place where anxiety flows from how we're being perceived. To find it, we just have to breathe.

Back and Forth Between You and Me

Fingeringngngngngng the keys backckck and forththth betweenenenen the laststststststststststststst twowowowowowow letters in any wordrdrdrdrdrdrdrdrdrdrd whenever yououououououououou feel like it for as longngngngng as you feel like itititititit just to see whatatatatatat it feelslslslslslsls like.

After that, pat yourself on the back with a smack of the back of your hand. Flail yourself in monkey movements. Oooh ooohh ah ah aah!

Now get serious and cry out, "TEARS!"

Serious! Like someone who is really reading this and not just saying that they will read it later and not really mean it. That's it! Now, just between you and me, we're not alone. We're together in some sort of imagined dimension that we only knew existed since the invention of computers—where the past shoots through the future and haunts us with its presence. While we're here, we should try something. I'll write your words while you read my mind.

"I don't get it. This is silly. Wait. I don't say silly. I'd say something more like stupid. NO! Stop making me sound like I'm arguing with myself. Make me say something that my friends would only be able to see to believe, then I'll tweet it! By the way, I loved your book!"

It's Sensational

So, reading. Huh? What do you think about that? Words. Words. Wads of words wiggling somewhere between your eyes and ears, right behind your knows, I mean, nose. It's sensational.

I'm inside your head! Can you see what I'm doing? Of course not! Because I'm behind your eyeballs! They are moving—well, wiggling is more like it, wiggling back and forth because you are still reading.

And there are cables connected to everything—vines and vines of veins filled with blood filled with cells filled with microscopic things. I'm swinging from them. It's fun. Like a jungle gym.

When I let go, I'll slide down your nose and land on your lips. If you can feel me do so, tell me, so I can hear how big your voice sounds at a microscopic level. Ready? Here I go!

Fort Fortitude

Let's build a fort and call it Fort Fortitude. We'll make it out of trees and boulders next to a river filled with hot springs so hot that you have to hop across them quickly or else you'll get burned. We'll brave the winters with the warmth of friends who are encouraged to bring their own blankets for the holidays. We'll shoot arrows from bows into targets made of unbelievable shots pinned to a cardboard box and strapped to a bale of hay. What do you say?

- for Tristan

An Excerpt From A Letter To Hannah

It's just a few minutes past five-o-clock, and when it's sunny like today is I like to sit out on the front steps of my apartment where the setting sun is unblocked by buildings. I sit there and watch all the cars stack up on the street—all the people headed home from their long day at work. They all look rushed—in a hurry to get home and be off the clock, maybe eat some dinner, call up a friend, or plop down in front of the tv. I'm already home. I've been here all day, by myself, alone.

I'm never quite sure which of us is happier—me, already at home, off the clock, or them, headed there, on their way. Eh. Who cares but me? And who's to say who is happier? Who's to compare? And why is there any comparison? They have their lives, and I have mine. I have a typewriter waiting for me next to a cup of tea. That should be good enough for me.

I can look at anyone sitting there in their cars and imagine that they are rushing home to finally get the chance to sit at their own typewriters. I wonder what they might be rushing home to write? Are they working on a novel, or writing a letter to a friend like me? Are they fighting writer's block, or are they typing away frantically—bursting with words and ideas for more words? Getting to it right away—telling their loved ones, or roommates, don't bother me, I'm writing!

One of them is writing a story about their day at the office, trying to understand what just happened to them. Another is just sitting there feeling the plastic keys with his fingertips, wondering if he can ever get up the nerve to explain how they feel. To him they feel captivating.

And another is writing a suicide note, not because they want to commit suicide, but to show themselves the words that would be read if they were to be found dead tomorrow, or whenever, because it wouldn't really matter anyway because they would be dead and they wouldn't care about anything by then.

And another is more light-hearted in their approach. She runs home to write jokes, and while she writes them she imagines herself in front of a large studio audience saying just the right words to make them all laugh simultaneously while wondering simultaneously why they're all laughing. Later she will read what she wrote back to herself to see if her words work on her. When it's a success she will laugh herself to sleep. Unfortunately, when it's not, it has the opposite effect. She knows that it's a risk, but tonight she is feeling able to risk it.

And then there is me.