Generic Goodbye Letter

Dear [Insert Name Here]:
I fear this may be our last communiqué.

What started out as a harmless little cold last week has manifested into a full out frontal assault of Germ Warfare vs My Immune System. The ImSys team is currently getting its ass kicked, solidly. Give a fucking microbe an inch and they take a mile.

I knew I was in for it yesterday at about noon. I'd had the sniffles since Thursday. In my usual 'live and let live' paradigm, I figured there was enough room in my sinus cavity for me and The Germs (tm) to coexist peacefully enough. But by Friday morning, the order to Climb Mount Fujimori was issued, and the little bastards made a Cannonball Run for my lungs. I knew the laissez faire policy I’d previously held dear had gone horribly awry when my back started to ache, but the clincher was when my lungs started to itch. The Germ Army was setting an occupying force that even Donnie Rumsfeld would have been hard pressed to do much about. I immediately set medicinal sanctions in place and enlisted the help of some mercenary Antibiotics.

Let me tell you something about the Pill Politic. While there's no doubt they can oust the occupying forces, they're slow to get going and they're really god damn expensive. That, and they don't care much what others think of them, as they're pretty bitter going down. Regardless, they are likely the only thing standing between me and utter annihilation at the cruel hands of Bacterium Overlords. It's a small price to pay, I suppose, for the parting damage they cause as they take leave in my guts.

I hope this missive finds you well as I lie critically wounded in the field of battle. Should I not make it, please be sure to tell my wife that I love her.

Best Regards, and a wheezing cough.

The fingers united can never be defeated by the stark white document template

Some folks spend lifetimes striving for that bit of Taoist perfection known as wu wei, or “without effort” – which is interesting in that the act itself of striving is counter-intuitive to the seeker’s path. Writing, for me, is usually accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. It’s not so much a struggle with vocabulary as it is with impetus. I do not believe that others care to listen to me.

And so I’d look for material that grabs people’s interest. But the truth seems to be that, much like situational comedy, the material matters less than the delivery itself. Pacing, voice, and wit. How does one work on those? Write. Write. Continue writing. How does the master comedian continue to be funny when playing off the crowd, or when his shtick runs out? I contend that he’s not trying to be funny – he just is.

I read so much Lovecraft that I could talk my way around a subject for three pages without once getting the reader to look AT IT. Not that I’ll say I had Howard’s particular je ne sais quoi. But working to develop your own voice – that’s another matter. Or is it? Because you’ve always had your own voice, and if you’ve ever been able to attract others to listen to your stories, if you’ve ever evoked an emotional response from another human being, then it’s not really hard work, is it? What about this subject matter? It’s dry, boring shit, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s not – I don’t give a fuck. But I’m OK writing it because I decided to just WRITE.

Popular thought indicates that writer’s block can be a chronic problem, brought on by depression and anxiety. No shit? It’s chronic in the same way that my body hurts when I wake up because I don’t exercise enough and have let my muscles atrophy. If I galvanize myself to action, by whatever motivation works for me, I effectively set foot on a path, beginning a journey. Where to? I’m not one to fret over the destination anymore. The beauty is in the motion.

The ancient Greeks treated the human form as godlike and believed a human perfected was beautiful, intelligent, and in touch with the gods (I’ll replace with “in touch with their inner being or spirituality”). Do I think that if I become Jim Jupiter that my writing will improve. Actually, I do.

So where’s this going? How will your investment of time pay off if you continue to read through to the end of this little stream of semi-consciousness? It won’t. There’s no moment of lucidity here – no revelations about breaking down any barriers. Could it be there ARE no revelations? And maybe the barriers that block us from true creativity are only constructs we place before ourselves because we fear our own excellence. And maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot.

Tick-Tock...

Asaraludu has been assigned a 500 word short. It is to appear in this space by Friday, March 6th - no later than midnight.

Can he find the strength to produce? Will the pressure to perform reduce his muse to nothing more than a curled up mess of hot tears and trembling limbs? Has he the tenacity to bear the ever so sweet fruit of creative prose for all to enjoy?

We shall see.

Let the games begin...

Almost True

So, I was minding my own perfectly good business on the way to an afternoon appointment for a major job. It’s the sort of gig that guarantees The GM can continue to pay bills through the following spring . In other words, the meeting was Important. I wasn’t worried though. I was dressed to the nines, feeling confident, and in all regards I was good to go.

What a gorgeous fall day! The fragrant breeze carried bird song and a few lazy clouds across the sky. I was traversing a country highway in my trusty Sante Fe, cranking a little Dre with the top dropped down and the sunshine shining. As the wind raced through my silky golden tresses, I couldn’t help but muse that it was one of those kinds of days when everything is so perfect you feel invincible. Nothing, and I do mean NOTHING could rob me of my confidence, my rock solid self assurance, dare I say of that certain ‘joo no say kwa’ of mine that many attempt to imitate, but few can carry off.

Well, when you throw down a challenge like that, sometimes the Universe feels obliged to respond.

Out of nowhere, something struck me in the face at 65 MPH. Ow! My brain didn’t even have time to fully process the question, “What the fuck!?!?” before my hands jerked the wheel. I crossed into the wrong lane, weaving like Lindsey Lohan on a coke fueled bender. Suddenly the ‘what’ became painfully apparent. You see, a kamikaze bee flew in the window, smacked me in the face, and fell down the front of my shirt into my bra. Outraged by the indignity of going from pollinating flowers (or whatever the fuck it is bees do in the fall) to a sudden imprisonment of cleavage, it began to sting the ever living shit out of my femininity. OWWWW!!!!

Ah, that the story would end there.

As I am some times known to do, I happened to have a road smoke lit. Well, in the confusion of the bee tragedy, I dropped the damn ciggie into my lap. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a pair of summer slacks that must have been made out of one part candle wicking threads and five parts propane fuel accelerant. The cherry sparked off what seemed at the time to be a conflagration in my crotch.

“MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!!!!”

Like a smart ass, some calm part of my brain delivered a line from that old PSA commercial, “Smoking Kills.” Thanks, Mr. Subconscious. Could we maybe save the lecture for later, please?

But the story doesn't end there.

I weave back across the road, narrowly missing the car traveling behind me as I desperately sought the shoulder. Some bitch honks at me. Hey, I’m getting stabbed, being burnt, and frankly, I got no time for a turn signal, lady.

I bail out of the truck, one hand up my shirt, and the other down my pants, wriggling around like I was in some sort of epileptic Dance, Dance Revolution tourney. I relieve myself of the bee, and of the cigarette. Yeah, there’s a hole in my slacks, and my tit hurts, but I emerged victoriously alive. Take that, Gods of Fate! In Yo Face!

It’s then that I realize the chick I almost ran off the road has pulled over to see if I’m okay. Nothing like a good Samaritan, right? I go to wave them off, and it’s then that I realize the concerned citizen is none other than my 2’o clock appointment.

“Um, is everything okay?” she asks.

Ugh.

Moral of the story? Smoking kills and bees are assholes.