9/11

nine eleven. Such a simple little phrase, seemingly innocent. Two numbers, meaningless when separate but when brought together immediately bring brutally violent memories. 9/11 is such a perfect symbol too. It shows the two towers underneath a divisor line, it's made up of the 911 emergency number. It also shows that there was a distinct change, 9 / 11. Before and after. 

Today I thought back to my own memory of 9/11. Everyone seems to say they remember when they first heard of it exactly, all the details perfect, what they were doing, what the exact words were, everything. I cannot. I used to be embarrased when I would hear others say they remember everything and I could not, like somehow I hadn't given it enough thought or it hadn't affected me as deeply as others simply because I didn't have a perfect memory of the moment I heard. 

I remember vague things. I was in 7th grade health class. The principal came on the loudspeaker and said something about it. Something about the world trade center collapsing. I think we were all stunned. We couldn't grasp the meaning, at least I couldn't. Hell I didn't even know what The World Trade Center was, exactly.  I do remember what came after. The pictures, the videos, the news, the media, the memorials, the empty air where the towers stood, the profound effect on the nation, the utter far-reaching effects on people everywhere. 

I watched a two hour docudrama on the history channel about 9/11. I realized I hadn't really watched anything about the event in a long long time and the those clips showing the planes hitting and then later the buildings collapsing are just almost too crazy to believe. The fact that it looks like something out of a movie and yet you know it's real and that people died, that those things actually happened is simply shocking. 

What's also shocking and also amazing is how many people risked their lives to help others, how many firefighters and police and emt's went into the shit without question to save people. It's amazing what can happen in a disaster, how people can just fucking do the right thing despite the world falling apart around them. 

Why does that happen in a crisis? Why do we save each other when in dire circumstances but when we see each other on the street on a normal day we honk our horns and yell out insults? Why can't we be awesome all the time?

I don't know. Been thinking alot of strange thoughts today. Was in a 6th grade class full of kids who weren't even alive for 9/11 and it feels strange. I have that event that I will always remember, that event that clearly defined Before and After for my life. They don't have that. 

In the curriculum, I guess 9/11 is taught in tenth grade nowadays though I think it should be introduced in some way before that. At least in some small way, a small explanation of the key facts, reasons, what happened and why we memorialize it every year. Kids are strange. They are and aren't innocent at the same time. They understand things without knowing them, they know things without understanding them. They are paradoxes. 

Why did I write this? I don't know. I felt like 9/11 shouldn't pass without a thought from me and I thought I might as well write something down on such an occasion. Take some time to remember what happened. What terrible people can do. What amazing heroes people can be. Just think about it, for a small amount of time. An event like 9/11 seems like something we should all think about, not all the time or even often, but every once in awhile. It was life-changing, world-changing. 

It is a crazy world we live in. I don't know how to end this or what line to end on or anything. So I guess that's it. 

Working

I've been busy this summer but that's no excuse for the pitiful lack of blog posts and writing in general on my part. I don't know, I lost the muse for awhile, I guess. Working 53 hours a week for the past six weeks has taken a toll on my imaginative musings. When I have free time, I feel less like writing and more like vegging out, watching tv or playing video games. 

But ah well, nothing to do but move on, correct? Recently I posted some pictures of a forest walk I took in Vermont in the spring, which was actually pretty great. The woods felt familiar, almost comforting. I remember running through those woods as a child, following paths and cutting across trails pretending that I was being chased by monsters or bad guys or other silly things. It wasn't all fun and games though, I remember stepping on a rusty nail in bare feet and bleeding everywhere. I remember tree forts built and now fallen apart, football games in the big grass field and of course, the stump pit. The stump pit is a pit full of stumps. So I took this walk relatively recently just for fun. It was a perfect day with the sun shining and a cool wind blowing. I passed the pond that we never swam in, I heard a woodpecker peckin' wood. I passed crumbled stone fences that hadn't changed since I'd first seen them as a child. I passed the spot where an old blue car had used to rest for awhile, my brother had gotten it stuck there while off-roading with it, his argument for that being that the car was dying anyways, why not have some fun with it? I remember seeing plants growing inside it and vines growing up the sides before my dad had finally removed it. I walked the four mile dirt bike trail my father had created and curated over the years. I walked through a desolate paintball field, filled with forgotten bunkers and failing scraps of once-great forts. I remember the intense game we played, two teams, running at each other, firing paint balls, formulating tactics and getting splattered with paint. The walk was pretty great. I'd suggest a good walk in the woods to anyone and everyone. Who knows what you'll find? Maybe nothing at all, and that's fine too. Check here for a few pictures: Walk In The Woods 

What else have I done? I wrote a short short story a week or two ago. Just some spur of the moment flash fiction. I had a picture of a big crane and discovered an experience, a story and wrote it down. It's right here:  The Crane 

Other then that? I'm working on writing an outline for my novel which I know, is usually what people do before they write the novel but I'm doing it after. It should help me figure out where to add the new scenes that I need, and help me rejigger all the crap in the second half that really needs some work. Rejigger is a fantastic word, by the way, I recommend everyone uses it more often. 

Alright, I'm off to foment some chaos. And yes, foment is a real word. 

The Crane

The metal monstrosity stood black against the black sky, silent and foreboding. I shivered, looking at it behind a fence that surrounded the construction. The wind blew warm, heat from the day still radiating from the pavement. I took a deep breath and glanced around. The street behind me was quiet and dark, not even lit by street lights. A siren sounded in the distance. I tightened the straps on my backpack, pulled on a thick pair of workman's gloves and climbed the fence. At the top, I pushed the barbed wire down with my hands and gave a little jump. 

I fell, sneakers landing, legs bending, hands hitting the ground, breath coming out of me in a gasp. I stood, feeling an ache in my knees, a good ache, one that comes from moving your body. I took off the gloves and stuffed in my bag and began making my way towards the crane. 

I maneuvered around the massive hole that was the foundation for the new building and quickly ducked behind a trailer as a car passed on the street. I breathed in and out slowly as my heart thudded in my chest. Calm down, I told myself, you're alright. 

I wasn't alright, though, not really. Someone whose alright doesn't break into a construction site, not without a good reason and my reason was flimsy at best. 

But that didn't matter anymore, I was in, I was going. I'd planned it for days, wondering why I was planning anything at all and now that I'd started, I couldn't stop. I'd crossed the threshold. Going back now, I'd always wonder, 'if I'd gone this far, why didn't I simply go through with it?'

My sneakers crunched gravel as I made my way to the bottom of the crane. I passed other machines, rusty dump trucks and towering excavators standing still as statues covering me in shadows as I went. I put my hand to one as I passed and shivered as it felt as warm as a living being. I could see it's dark windowed face as it slumbered waiting for an operator to bring it to life. 

I came to the bottom of the crane and looked up. I couldn't tell what was crane and what was sky. The night was a dark hole without stars and no moon that I could see. It would have been pitch black to someone who walked out his door into the darkness but I'd walked the whole way from my apartment here with little to no light, forcing my eyes to adjust. Though the top was lost in the darkness, I could make out the structure of metal in front of me on the ground well enough. I clambered over bars and walked over plywood, my shoes making hollow thumps, to the ladder. 

I took deep breaths until my heart slowed a little. I took off my bag and pulled out a black sweatshirt, slipping it on despite the warm night. I drank from a water bottle. Then I pulled the backpack back on. I tied my shoelaces as tight as they would go. I tightened the straps on my backpack and I climbed. 

I climbed, rung over rung, feeling good. I worked slow, methodical, careful, right hand up, left hand up, right foot up, left foot up. The hard metal felt good in my grip, feeling strong. I was soon sweating in my sweatshirt and wondering if I should take it off. 

It wasn't long before I was above the trees, black bushes beneath my feet. I took a moment to catch my breath and wipe my sweaty hands. I could see lights twinkling in the distance, the land stars of a bustling city. A red light in the sky blinked as a plane passed high overhead. I heard vehicles driving on the road, honks at an intersection. Buildings rose near me. I was not above them yet. I could see the the bridge and the river, reflecting the city's lights. I looked up and realized I had a long way to go. I shrugged. I didn't feel tired. In fact, I felt excited. I had no idea what I was doing or why but I felt elated. I wanted to get to the top. I needed to. 

I climbed again, faster, reaching, stretching, grasping rung after rung, lifting, pushing myself up at a good pace. I was really sweating now and regretting my decision about the sweatshirt. I stopped once again, gasping for breath and wiped my hands on my sleeves. I was above most of the buildings now, looking down at square rooftops and the cars looked smaller as they drove, headlights beaming across the ground. I shivered. 

I wrapped my arms around the ladder and tried to relax for a moment. It was then I realized the exact situation I was in. Metal bars surrounded me in a cage around the ladder. It was a long fall to the ground and I had only my own strength to hold on. A brisk wind blew fluttering the straps on my backpack. I shivered again, my sweat feeling cold against my skin. 

I hugged the ladder, trying to get my backpack off so I could grab the bottle of water. I slipped it out of one arm, then the other and then the strap slipped out of my hands. I made a grab for it, jerking my body but it was too late. I caught myself as the pack plummeted. It bounced as it fell from one side of the cage to the other, thumping, banging and finally hitting the ground with a soft thud. 

I gulped, seeing myself fall as the backpack had. No soft clean fall to the bottom here, no sir. Who knew how many bones you would break before the bottom finally ended your agony. Maybe it was time to head back down, grab whatever was left of my bag and get the hell out of there. 

"Fuck that," I whispered out loud. I was this far. I was getting to the goddamn top. I looked up and started climbing again. 

I don't know how long I climbed but I remember looking up again and again and feeling as if the top had not gotten any closer. My arms and legs ached as I pushed on. I felt myself getting more and more tired, my muscles protesting the repetitive movements. A foot slipped, a hand missed the rung. I gasped, I grabbed, I stepped, and I kept going. 

My neck hurt from looking up so I stopped. I looked only to the next rung, focusing on that alone and nothing else. I didn't hear the cars below anymore. I only heard my labored breathing and the enormous machine creaking around me in the cold wind that blew. 

I pulled my up my hood, shivering against the cold. The metal rungs were chilly on my palms. 

Oh god, I thought, is this really how I go? A fall from a crane? A messy jumble of body parts splattered against the ground below? I thought of the story, of what people would think. They wouldn't know what to make of it. 'Man falls from night climb of a construction crane, alcohol may be involved'. That's what everyone would assume, that I got drunk and thought 'hey, climbing that crane seems like a fucking cool thing to do!' I smirked at the thought. The truth was even more silly. I was completely sober. The question, that ultimate question of human existence would pester everyone. Why? Why did this happen? They would ask it over and over, why would someone do such a thing? What was the point? What was the ultimate truth here? The motive, the answer, the revelation? 

I thought of Forrest Gump right then, running. "I just felt like running," he'd said to that question. "Well," I said out loud to nobody, "I saw something fucking tall and felt like climbing it." 

I looked up and there it was, the top of the crane nearly in reach. I could see the metal assembly and the gigantic arm extending out into the blackness. I climbed up and collapsed onto a narrow metal landing, breathing in huge gulps of air. My muscles burned and I closed my eyes resting my head against cold steel. 

I opened my eyes and forced myself to stand. Beyond the bars and walls of metal lay an entire world stretched out before me. I laughed and shouted and hollered and screamed. I sat, still laughing. I didn't think about how I'd get down or what would happen if I was caught on the construction site or what sort of laws I'd likely broken. None of that mattered. I patted the crane with my hand, banging the hard metal. I'd conquered it. I didn't have a flag to plant but I had something else. I pulled a black sharpie out of my sweatshirt. 

"Jake was here"

A Walk in the Woods

It's Been A Long Time

I have not been doing too well on updating this thing, have I? Haven't posted for months. For calling myself a writer, I haven't written much of anything at all for awhile. Guess I should do something about that, shouldn't I? Nothing to it but to get back on the horse, as they say.

I could use the excuse that I've been working alot lately but that's never really a good excuse. If I have time to play video games than I certainly have time to do a little writing. I haven't even looked at my novel in weeks. It's because there is a massive amount of editing I need to do or at least it seems a massive amount. The second half was rushed in a splurge of words and shows. The characters lack motivation, the enemies lack depth, the plot is contrived at points, etc. The list goes on. I need to add more scenes but it's not that simple as I need to specifically figure out where each and every scene goes, how it fits in and smooth it in there like it was always there in the first place. There's just this editing wall that I need to break through but it looks impossibly vast and strong, meanwhile behind me lie short story ideas and other interesting things to take up my time. 

I wrote a short story, maybe you heard. It's called The Long Nap and is about a hard-boiled child detective using his wits and determination to set right the wrongs in his school. Or something like that. I rather like it. The links up on the blog's homepage, just look for the title. 

Despite my lack of writing, more and more ideas still whirl around in my brain-area. They sit, simmering and bubbling away like a witches cauldron. 

I'm currently reading The Harry Dresden Files which are good books. I'm on my third so far after devouring the first two. I would be done with this one as well but I simply don't have the ability to read on my commute anymore so my reading time has taken a nosedive. They are essentially supernatural hard-boiled detective mysteries with a wizard as the detective. Trust me, it works, it works very well. Harry Dresden is awesome. 

I recently finished Breaking Bad season 4 and oh man is it emotionally exhausting in a good way. It wrings you out through and through. It terrorizes you, it tortures it's own characters over and over and you keep wanting more. The writing and acting is superb. I love it and can't wait for the new season to start. 

The Killing season 2 ended and I finally know who killed Rosie Larson. Some may not have cared, thinking it took too long and the plot is rather slow and boring. I don't know, I guess I just got very invested in the characters. Season 2 explores all of them and their (incredibly shitty) situations. I never thought it was slow because every moment I was watching a character I cared about (except Mitch, she sucks). I will admit I got lost in this season what with all the plotty-ness going on, maybe too many twists or simply too much happening to keep up with, but the reveal at the end was utterly fantastic and worth it. It was great television and though I wish there was going to be more, it doesn't look that way. At least it ended without any loose ends. 

That's all for now, just a short little thing to show you this place "ain't dead yet". Plan on a couple more blog posts very soon so check back when you can. 

Can't We All Just Get Along?

There are times I get inspired to write a blog post but I put it off and put it off and keep putting it off. Why? Laziness? Procrastination? Probably. There's also this nagging worry in the back of my head when I have an idea. I worry I won't be able to put my thoughts down and have them sound the way they do in my head. In my head I can imagine writing perfectly but I know when I finally type it out, it won't sound as good. So I put it off and distract myself with a television show or a video game. 

Anyways, point is I was inspired recently to write a post and I've taken some time to actually write it down because of those reasons but here it is. 

I was walking home after work the other day, coming to a busy intersection off my street. A car had turned onto my street but couldn't keep going because the street is narrow and a car in the oncoming lane was too far in the middle of the road. He also couldn't move until the light turned green because there was a car in front and behind him. I saw everything and expected the usual, honking horns and swearing yells but none of this happened. The man in the way said "Sorry, there's nothing I can do," and the woman who couldn't go forward waved her hand and said "Don't worry about it, honey." The light turned green and both cars went on their way. 

I had expected anger and irritated exasperation but had found calm and polite conversation. It made me wonder why I had expected such a bad interaction in the first place. It's not because I think people in Massachusetts are particularly terrible or people in Boston. It's because I think people in general are terrible, at least in certain situations, one of which is especially driving. We honk and rage at the slow-movers, the ones who cut us off, those who make a stupid mistake and hold us up from our destination but really, we've all been there. Any one of us could accidentally turn and get caught in an embarrassing situation. Instead of assuming the driver who made the mistake is an asshole, why don't we assume they made a mistake and probably feel ashamed and embarrassed about it already? In the vast majority of the time, honking the horn is nothing more than a show of anger which literally accomplishes nothing. 

I think part of the anger comes because we usually can't see the other person in their vehicle. We are each in our own box going to our own destination and fuck everyone else. If you don't see the person, you don't think about them or that they might have made a mistake, you think they are slowing you down and what the fuck is their problem? Imagine if you were walking down the sidewalk behind a super slow person and there was no way to get around? Would you make a noise, huff and puff, swear and yell? No, that would be incredibly rude but once you're in a vehicle, attitudes change. These two drivers in the situation I described had their windows open and we're stuck next to each other so they could see each other. Perhaps that had something to do with their being nice. I could still have imagined the woman laying on the horn and shaking her head, muttering about 'this asshole in the center of the street' but she didn't. She was pleasant. 

There are assholes on the road but probably fewer than we think. We're all boxed up thinking about ourselves but all of us drivers are still people. We make mistakes. I just feel that people driving around are too angry. So someone cut you off, big deal, get over it. Is it worth it to express your rage through honking your horn like some child crying about life being unfair?

It's not even about driving. I just feel when some one inconviences us in any way, we immediately respond with a negative attitude, we assume the someone is an idiot or an asshole or worse. I get it all the time as a bouncer. If I don't let someone downstairs I am immediately branded a douchebag or an asshole. I just think we need to put ourselves in others shoes once in awhile. That bouncer that didn't let you downstairs? That's probably not because he's trying to be a dick or abuse his power, it's probably because he's trying to do his fucking job. That driver that cut you off? Maybe he just didn't see you because of a parked car. Instead of assuming the worst of people, let's assume the best. Seriously, what's the worst that can happen? I find I feel better if I give someone else the benefit of the doubt and in many situations, I will never find out if I'm wrong or not so why not? If I assume the worst, then I just feel anger towards another person that I will never see again. It's silly. 

So come on, let's all sing Kumbaya around a campfire....Just kidding. 

This isn't some hippy love each other bullshit, but can't we at least be pleasant to one another? Can't we be polite to strangers who we know absolutely nothing about? Instead of immediately judging them on one silly mistake? 

Can't we all just get along? (No we can't, but we could try to get along with some)

Tales From The Twitter and Other Things

I need to get back into writing regularly so I've decided to do Camp Nanowrimo. It's basically National Novel Writing Month but less serious or official. They have two of them, in June and August. I may be crazy and attempt both of them, not sure as of yet. I think I'm going to start the sequel to my fantasy novel which feels really crazy to me as I only finished it a few months ago and haven't completely edited it yet but that's what nanowrimo does. It makes you write really freaking fast. So I need to Edit and Write and do other stuff. I need to Blog and Tweet and Tumble and who knows what else.

Some guy is shouting out on the street and it's highly irritating.

I have been doing some editing of my novel. It doesn't seem that difficult but it is boring. Actually for the most part I'm simply excising commas. I use commas so much it's ridiculous and I don't know why. It's a bad habit really. Commas break up a sentence and slow the reader down. Without them the prose feels faster. The reader doesn't have to pause every second and then go on. But I have an obsession with commas. In my first drafts I feel like they should be everywhere and constantly convince myself that they belong. Thankfully it seems when I edit I can overcome those feelings, say 'No fuck you commas' and get rid of them. Then when I read over the lines they sound better and I feel pleased with myself.

I recently read Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman. It is thrilling and fantastic. With seemingly no effort he takes a modern day setting and blends it with high fantasy creating awesome mythologies and stories in a seemingly-mundane world. It's not something I've really seen before and the writing is superb. A very satisfying read. I'd recommend both of his that I've read, this one and American Gods. Great books.

I just finished The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway. Talk about a difference from Gaiman. No fantastical elements, just day-to-day life written in short punchy sentences. The writing is so simple that it's actually amazing. No excess detail or fluff, he just tells you what's happening. It's kind of crazy, really. Great read.

What else? Who knows? A girl at the bar where I bounce was dancing barefoot downstairs where glass is broken practically every hour. I told her she needed shoes and she pointed to her ridiculously high heels. I told her I didn't care, she needed shoes or she'd be thrown out. If you're going dancing for hours don't wear ridiculously uncomfortable shoes and especially don't walk fucking barefoot in a nasty downstairs night club. That's all I gotta say.

People. Sometimes I just can't stand people.

So I have a Twitter and occasionally I post teeny tiny twitter tales on it. You know how Flash Fiction is around 1000 words and Flash Flash Fiction is around a couple hundred? I guess this is Flash Flash Flash Fiction. I've thrown them up on Tumblr but I will also put them up here for those who don't have a tumblr. For those who do, here's mine. http://www.tumblr.com/blog/ingdowntherabbithole

Twitter Tales

Occasionally, I tweet tiny tales on my twitter. Thought I’d compile them and throw em up here.

———————————————————————————-

The scavenger fled past the Fence. The hunter followed him Inside. Terrors roamed here, beyond reasoning. Here they would meet

———————————————————————————-

“Don’t worry,” the time traveller said, “I’m here to fix things.” The old man sighed, “just like the last one.”

———————————————————————————-

He jumped in. The body felt fat and slow, unwieldy. He felt the Owner in the back of the mind, suppressed. “Time to ride,” he said.

———————————————————————————-

The day approached like a beast over the horizon, snarling and devouring the darkness with glorified pleasure.

————————————————————————————

The alarm clock rang. He smacked it off the nightstand. He saw his hands were slick with blood. “That’s not good,” he said. 

He looked around and saw a blond woman on a red-stained rug. She didn’t move or breath. “That’s really not good,” he said.

Reality struck him like a truck. “Oh god!” He cried out. ” What have I done?” An empty whiskey bottle stared at him.

She had no pulse. A knife lay underneath the bed. “No no no no!” his voice, the only sound. The previous night lay forgotten

————————————————————————————-

“I’m a monster,” he said, baring fangs and tearing her throat out. Her last thoughts were ‘I thought he would sparkle…’

————————————————————————————-

The arrow flew, damning all hope.The boy died ‘fore he struck the ground. “We are lost, the Chosen One’s been killed.”

————————————————————————————-

The blade pierced his chest. He cried out in relief. “I die and may this time I stay dead.”

————————————————————————————-

A tweeter tweeted terrible tweets tactically telling technical tall tales to test technological techniques totally terrorizing tenuous twitsTwitter