Language and diction and puns and a play on words, these are a few of the very things that meant little to everything. Honesty and truth don’t really mean as much to everyone as it does to each individual person, yet all the bullshit in life can fertilize. Insignificant or insatiable, words can piggyback on feelings, and a second glance is just as significant for another chance, or even an eye roll. We grow and change into different people we expect to be, and there’s hardly a person aside from who we use to be that can say, “you aren’t who I expected to be.” Whether we met expectations or bet expectations, the biggest disappointment is the appointment kept when time’s are harry, and no bigger bow to where you came from. Ask yourself, “are you ready?” as a joke and see if you give a laugh or take a deep breath first. Of course I don’t know what that means.
Author Archives: Daniel C.A.S.
sigh again that time goes on.
time is yours to wield, nonetheless.
good in and with
be bad should you like,
when you waste it
who you think you are is
not the end, after all.
but what you have made time
Let me tell you about eggs. I spent 2 months sleeping. I went to bed at 7pm. I’d wake up close to noon, maybe later. I had migranes, never had migranes before. I got them from sleeping. Everybody loves talking about sleep.
When I was out of bed i rode a bicycle. I rebuilt it, speedy red color. I cycled because I needed a reason to get out of bed because of migraines from sleep. I didn’t cycle far, my muscles were getting used to it. I’d be at the pond writing, just so i could spend time somewhere other than in my bed. I tried to get home by bedtime. Aside from suicide this was the best I could disappear from the world.
but eggs. white, brown, organic or not don’t matter. Skillet, Spatula, eggs, skillet, and some milk.
Whisk eggs with milk
pour the eggs into the HOT skillet slowly scrambling simultaneously. It cooks the eggs faster.
Give the eggs a little brownness from the oil
and the milk will have made the eggs really fluffy
Try green onions next time if you liked it. Taking the time to cook a couple of eggs in the morning is my advice to anyone that wanted to try rebuilding their life again. middle-aged, down on cash and don’t have any friends you can think of calling… get the eggs, asshole! We gotta fix you, fast!
Take the time and care to cook some really good looking eggs and then cleaning up before you eat. And that’s how you’re going to rebuild your ship, sailor. Remembering to tidy up the loose things on and around your world, you’d look like you were dancing and fixing your life.
Because I know that world you’re left in, sitting on a plastic lawn chair after turning down suicide. My first thought with the hammer in my hand was, “well, i just spared my own life.” I didn’t know what I was going to do with the hammer anyway. But how do you use a second chance like that. Probably retrieve all the notes. And cook a couple of eggs. I call ’em Pardon Eggs.
When I passed away the first time, I cashed in my chips of chaos for structure. No room for messes I couldn’t manage, straight lines only. However, one can never shed the roots from which they’ve come to fruition, so the chaos lingers. So I kept my chaos at bay with perpendicular angles and tectonic shifts, mentally and actually.
They say you can read a person by how they keep their room, and it’s true. From a room of acute and oblique, and laundry as carpet, I went to a Swiffered linoleum, and cubic IKEA shelves. Within those shelves, were where my micromanaged chaos lived. Juxtaposed eccentricity and ethereality, I thought it would maintain the structure in my life. But one can never anticipate the unpredictability of others.
The man who took me in and gave me a chance with a job I’ve only dreamed of, allowing me to pursue and collect the wonders of life that waited in single file, took his own life. He did so with taste, a Smith and Wesson Model 29, .44 Magnum. Dirty Harry’s gun. His head, cleanly taken off, and off with him, the stability he gave me. I haven’t had too much experience, with death, or maybe I have and repressed it’s memory. Wait, yeah I did, a close friend had died of hypothermia and blood-loss in New York City two years earlier, but I don’t think that counts. Okay, I’m bad with death.
This man helped mentor me into writing, and gave me a job under him, as his head editor. Now that he selfishly took his own life because of a divorce that robbed him of his children, I’m selfishly wondering about what job I can find next. Only a week has passed since the incident, yet, it is only a matter of time before the skyscraper of stability I’ve gained in my life, comes toppling over, leaving a rubble’d gravesite I can call my own.
It still wasn’t as bad as the first time I died, when my heart was wrung dry and kept in an oblivious girl’s dresser, but now I’ve no body, no heart, and what’s left of my soul isn’t strong enough to power to the flashlight I need to light my way.
I can’t talk to anyone about it either, because I’m too stubborn to listen to their words. I’ve always found my therapy to be writing, especially in the state of despair. Though, lately, I’ve been finding myself writing things that sound like suicide notes. Not because I’ll soon run out of funds, some of the richest people are often the saddest people, but because nothing in this earth feels like it grips me to it anymore. We sometimes forget to show love to the things we love, and thus, are never prepared to show them to the exit.
The things in life we love, help us live; being without those things, help us leave.
“…and some things in life hint to the fact everyone was meant to unequivocally suffer in due time. We all feel liberated by the sight of the ocean, though we can not live in it. We die, then return to whence we came. I may drink like a bastard now, but I’d like to call it training! How old are you? 18, 19? Breathing underwater seemed a bit more advantageous in opposition of knowing how to swim,” then Jack looked at me, sharpening his once roundish eyes,”are you sure you don’t want a drink, Daniel?”
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“There’s no shame in it, provided your laxed provisionally minimal, adherent regards towards Christian propaganda.” said Jack, pouring himself another scotch, straight. I paused for a moment because I had absolutely no idea what this drunk fucker was talking about. After gathering what was left of my mind, I understood his power; he spoke in jargon, like a doctor. No person has any fucking idea what the doctor is talking about, but the way they spoke allowed you to nod your head, accept, and receive a terminal death sentence. That’s how Jack spoke, though it could also be the half empty bottle of scotch on his end-table.
“I’m really just here for, Eleanor. The Maltese Anfibidoria or whatever the thing is called… the, ‘FISH,'” I gestured quotations with my fingers, “means a great deal to her.” I couldn’t look Jack in his eyes. I mean, I’d want to kill me too, if my ex-girlfriend sent a younger, adept replacement to retrieve a prized, rare fish at our old apartment. I, then, glanced up as a fluke due to the absence of a response and locked onto his eyes, and to my surprise, only saw the eyes of an man misplaced from another world. Donning the eyes of, what seemed like, a passionate player who’d lost a chess match. Defeated by a kid with beginner’s luck. Hand on his glass, he peered closer. Then withdrew. Then spoke.
“The ‘FISH,’ is in the back, Danny boy.” Jack said a he pointed towards another end of the apartment.
After a moment, I spoke. “Thanks, Jack.” I started what must have seemed like the most awkward exit. As I was about to round the corner, Jack spoke.
“Daniel,” I turned and faced him, “little Danny Smolensk knows where to go, if he were to change his mind about that drink right?”
“Yeah… Danny S. knows.” I nodded and gave a half-assed non-military salute, about faced. I hadn’t known at the time that I would never see Jack again. He was to vanish on a fishing excursion. Jack really wasn’t a bad guy. I liked him.
Daniel, then, questioned the possible outcomes his situation had harnessed. He thought about all his school chums of the past. Kenny was a successful drug dealer with no aims or aspirations to conquer anything besides making rent on time. Alan was simultaneously the premiere floral and compost adviser in the garden section of a Hall-mart, and Kenny’s number one customer. Marcus had a career as a high school nurse. He received a prestigious education, a prestigious degree, from a prestigious school, and now, at most, with vigor, applies band-aids and prescribes sleep in the nurses’ examination bed for an entire class period. He does so with undefinably prestigious passion. Even Daniel’s first high school girlfriend Kimberly, (which took place during Senior Prom, only) became a police officer and an internet wholesaler of unnecessary (ninja) equipment, and homemade jewelry. During high school, Kim tried out for both the cheerleading squad and the football team and stole a spot in one of those. She still, and has never never held a pom-pom. Daniel thought, all the things you could been could be found in the town you never had the intention of naturally dying in. The yearn for a meaning or a greater purpose in the world, only meant and amounted to how persuasive your excuses were.
Daniel stood brooding in the pick a cart, any cart section of the market lobby, brooding over the accomplishments people he knew had made, and decided he could get over his silly inclination to drink, and accomplish the goal. Daniel changed the ringtone on his cellphone to one that would encourage him, as he placed the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet into an unused shopping cart. “Baby steps, baby. That’s how accomplishments happen,” Daniel thought, “how pathetic would I look if I couldn’t fulfill the only goal I’ve ever wanted to accomplish?” Bells were not rung, not a single toast was made, and not a facetious soul cheered or tackled.
The cart he unknowingly claimed with a pamphlet had a wheel that steered slightly to the left, but angled the cart sideways to compensate the piece of crap. “It’s no trouble,” he thought, “There! Now I’ve conquered this bitch.” And that’s when his cellphone went off. Confused at first, Daniel then realized the improbability of anyone else with “Paranoid Android,” (by Radiohead) as a ringtone was strong, despite his intention of having “No Suprises” instead. He reached for his phone in his back right pocket, brought it up to his face, and saw digits to a phone number calling. The number wasn’t saved among his contacts so it only showed up at a number with a vaguely familiar area code. “Hello?” Daniel asked, with one hand holding the cart at course-compensating angle.
“I knew it was you, I saw you in the parking lot,” pause. “I can’t believe you still have the same number! It’s been like, ten years!” said the male voice in a dizzyingly enthusiastic manner.
“Yeah, my lucky set of numbers. They’ve always reached to me, in a way.” Daniel said dryly as he looked at the different sauces that were meant to change the way the fish tasted. Daniel believed everyone he ever knew were like fish with many kinds of sauces lathered on them which was meant to suppress much of the distaste they initially came with. He placed the sauce jar back on the rack. Daniel was always a black coffee, salt and pepper, on-the-rocks, kind of guy. He thought, “if some fucker took seven measly minutes to ponder then invent these things, how rude would I be to suggest they should’ve done this or that, instead? That’s like telling the bartender you liked his idea for a drink, respected the faith he had in it’s glory, and then telling him not to quit his “day job,” as you slowly finished his drink.
“Haha, you’re funny! I was afraid what they said was true about you Hollywood types; you say what the writers say, and laugh when a casting director has something you want,” said the voice, “and plus the drugs and booze therapy that EVERYONE ELSE has to pay for.”
“I haven’t gotten to the drugs yet, but, the year doesn’t end for another six months.” said Daniel, after realizing he, and the world lurked in the birth-month of the first and only love he’d ever had.
“Yeah sure, what are you getting in there? Better be some fuckin’ sour cream and onion potato chips. I’m coming in to make sure.” After realizing the caller’s identity,
“Son of a bitch, I don’t believe it. Kenny? Is that you?”
“Yeah, baby! If you’re not in the Chips section, I’m gonna fuck your mom. How’s she doing?”
“Sorry, I forgot. Come say hi and hold hold my hand, faggot.”
“That’s rude, even for you.”
“I said I forgot!” Kenny pleaded. “Sorry!”
“No, the other thing.”
“Oh. What, you went fag in Hollywood?” Kenny used fag in his daily repertoire, despite it’s context, though he did have shining qualities. He despised animal abuse so much as to not wear leather. Like a vegan. Kenny had no problem eating them.
“No.” Daniel couldn’t stand arguing with him over political corrections. They never ended, though each of Kenny’s points became less and less sensible. The problem with it, Daniel thought, was that Kenny believed every word he said.
“Whoooooa there, Mr. Hollywood, I’m just kidding. It’s fine if you’re a fag.”
“Things don’t change around here, do they?” Daniel said as he placed a bag of sour cream and onion chips on top of the twelve pack of the cheapest beer he found, which was on top of the Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet. Drinking was like a camera lens filter, blocking or accenting the malicious and unnecessary elements of the immediate world for the photograph. Daniel drank to filter out the idiocracies and hopelessness of life.
“What? Everything’s changed, man. Hey, I see you.” They hung up. Daniel looked around and found Kenny. He was wearing fitted jeans, dark blue running sneakers, a plain white T-shirt, and his football Letterman from high school. Outside the new lip-ring, Kenny dressed like Kenny.