@

A program left running on without a single visitor,
a peculiar moment in history.

Should hours and hours pass blindly in the background,
somewhere a curious onlooker will wonder why,
why would you care so much about a thing,
empty and idle despite beautifully drawn?

How many lives do we wake when we rest on the end of a rich full day?

All it would be was a spike in statistics,
a tribute to a trend shared by trillions throughout time.

It’s beautifully drawn, the only mind that would look
beyond that and say love, love
what you want in the wake of other things.

And then BOOM!
You tap a key or move a mouse,
in a flash for something inadmissible and off away the mind will go.
Into the world, into the cyber fountain of all things eternal.

My back to the sunshine, through cotton and plastic and glass and atmosphere, beating down, reminding me of summer and fall. My feet hang off the stool I’m sitting on. I could be five years old if I wanted, the feeling is just the same. I shift, and listen to the local weather on the radio, and the wind is passing by my hanging feet. If it weren’t for my arching back, I would sit here, whenever I am, and listen and feel the world outside, mere inches away.

It was a gathering of minds I had not felt in ages.

Years, ages, times were long forgotten in the ignorance of youth.

Today we stood, sat, and spoke like men, proud reflections of our inner selves.

And what did we talk about in the wake of their shadows?

The same old things we kept so close between ourselves.

Two became musicians, one a bachelor savant, another a lawyer;

I looked at the records and we spoke about our lessons learned so far.

The electronic artist played his beats through the area speakers,

entertaining us all with his natural and original material.

The original beat boxers began flowing anew, ten years long, ten years strong.

Last weekend, I was feeling especially down. I still do (sort of) – it’s only Monday. I feel like I got something done today (ran a 5K around Somerville, cooked lunch for the next couple days), despite this awkward feeling of procrastination inside. Today, of all days, I decided to check my horoscope.

Things should be flowing quite well for you today, Capricorn. Take this opportunity and use the energy to its full potential. Center yourself and look at the weeks ahead. Where do you want to be in two months? Where do you want to be in two years? Now is the time to take stock of what you’ve got and plan for future growth. You have a great deal going for you, so don’t waste your time on frivolity.
www.horoscope.com – July 26th, 2010

And I did. I spent the next thirty some-odd minutes thinking about it all. I cut through all the crap in my head and came up with some clear visions of myself in the now and in the near future. I pictured my current living situation, grim and dire in the eyes of Laura and Zach, impatient and anxious with Noah. I balanced my checkbook, and made plans to invest money wisely. I had so much to work with from square one, being tomorrow.

And then I looked at Sunday’s horoscope, and lost control of it all.

It’s OK to change your opinion, Capricorn. You may pride yourself on being the solid one who always has an answer or knows exactly where to go. You may look upon others as flaky, indecisive, or fickle. It’s important that you not shut down your thinking after making a decision about something. Keep your mind open to changes that occur around you and maybe you’ll have a change of heart.
www.horoscope.com – July 25th, 2010

I was invited to a Big 25 party at Lansdowne Pub in Fenway Friday, and I didn’t go. I was so knocked out from the night before (Thursday was when it all began), and in the end all I wanted was to go to sleep. When I make points to do something and not follow through with them, I feel guilt and regret.

I shouldn’t feel bad. I should stand tall as I look forward. We must all change our footing (from time to time) when climbing the great mountain of life. Friends will always be there to cheer you on.

Somewhere in Georgia was this house, and a guy named Gene lived there with his sister and niece next door to a cocaine dealer named Fred. Fred made ends meet by cooking up base on the stove. One day, in the lapsed existence Fred has outside his home, a fire breaks out, and his house burns down. Gene’s house burns down too, and amidst all the confusion he runs out with his most precious belongings: his sister, his niece, and himself. He left everything else behind. Gene left the bunny behind. The poor bunny, trapped in its cage, witnessed the horrible spectacle of hell raining down upon him. His short and terrible life was lived almost entirely in captivity, until he was ultimately freed by death’s burning fury.

Per Chance
3.24.2010
Ritz Carlton Resort, St. Thomas

I had seen her at the gym, the gym at the hotel, almost empty. She was there when I got there; I noticed her first; she was running on a treadmill looking out over the beach. White shorts, pink top, ponytail, matching hair scrunchie. She looked like something out of an aerobics class from the 1980’s.

If there were more units to choose from, I would not have chosen the treadmill left of her. I would have given her more space, another window overlooking the ocean, but fate suggested otherwise. I was wearing deodorant, and hope it smelled alright… she smelled very good. She wasn’t sweating, but her body was hot, and it released a pheromone that made me dizzy with attraction.

I started my workout running at speed 8.5, a seven-minute mile, for around ten minutes. Minute two, and I’m off to a good start on some vision of sandy beaches in front of me with this girl right next to me. We were running on the beach together, only with less clothes and maybe a drink in our hands. Rum drinks.

She was running at speed 6.5, a ten-minute mile, and had been going for five minutes before I started. Minute seven, and I’m kicking my own ass on the treadmill, my heart rate a steady 155. She watches me run, I see her head move and stay, her eyes on something in my direction. I looked over at her and she looked up at me and then off towards the beach again, smiling and embarrassed.

Minute nine, and I began running faster, hyperbolic. She noticed, astonished, as minute fifteen on her clock dragged on in comparison. Minute ten, I hit the “cool down” button and began my rapid deceleration into a fast walk. I stepped off the machine before the clock dropped to zero and came back with a wetnap to wipe off my sweat. She watched me go.

I headed to the weight machines on the other side of the small facility, and turned back to see her slowly walking on the treadmill. She had a bounce in her step I could not describe.

I exercised my biceps, deltoids, abdominals and pectorals with a three-round circuit of pushups, sit-ups, presses and rows. I think she went looking for me; I wasn’t exactly sure, but within a few minutes, I could see her walking around the gym through the mirror in front of me. My eyes caught hers again and she came over to the weight room. She smiled, and I crunched my last ab.

She didn’t leave, but instead waited by the water cooler, wiping away the sweat from her brow and her body. She looked really great, and I felt bad breaking up her show with the towel, but I was thirsty.

“Sorry,” I reach for a paper cup right in front of her and begin to fill it up.

“It’s ok, you could use it.”

I smile, “Yeah? You think so?”

“Yeah, well, no. I mean, you really push it.”

“Yeah, I get the best results that way. Plus this weather, I love it.”

She was impressed by my enthusiasm. “Yeah this is really great, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” We both looked out at the beach. “I’m Alex.”

“I’m Kara,” she smiled and put out her hand. I shook it with a strong hot grip.

“Nice to meet you, Kara.”

“You too. How long have you been here?”

We stood and talked for about five minutes; nobody else was in the gym to overhear, so time moved casually between us. It was a good talk.

“What were you going to do later?” I didn’t want to leave without the chance of seeing her again.

“My friends and I will probably stay on the resort tonight.”

“Do you know the Coconut Cove?” It was the outdoor bar on the residential side of the resort.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be out there after dinner, we should check it out.”

“Sure, we’ll be out there after 9pm.”

“I’ll see you then, Kara.” She made for the door and gave me a smile before taking off.

Several hours later, I’m making my way down to the Coconut Cove; down to the stone-tile walkways, over a couple coastal turnarounds by foot, five minutes away from the resort glitz and glam, exotic women yelping and retired rich men ranting over hard drinks and sports. I’m dressed casual for 9pm in 90-degree weather: swimsuit and tight blue designer t-shirt from Modern Amusement, Ray Ban sunglasses, and a thin leather necklace hanging loosely around my neck.

She was already there, Kara, with two other girls and a guy. They were dressed a little more proper, with polo shirts and shorts, but still casual.

“So that’s what you wear to dinner?” She spotted me first and comfortably spoke over her friends to grab my attention. People looked in my direction, I smiled, she smiled, and her girlfriends smiled. The guy was indifferent.

“When you live on the beach, you wear whatever you want to dinner.” I didn’t exactly know what to say, but I had to say something.

“Everyone, this is Alex. Alex, this is Kim, Chloe, and Ryan.” I said my hellos and pulled up a chair around the corner closest to Kara and Ryan, separating them, closing the gap in our group around the bar.

“What are you guys drinking tonight?” Each of them had 16-ounce cups of different colored drinks; coconut rims and parasol hats, melons and lemons and a few leaves of mint. “Alright, next round is on me.” And from there the ice was broken. We talked about college days and vacation spots, best food found on the island. I was feeling my confidence boom.

“Kara told me you met at the gym here,” Chloe started, “how do you pick somebody up at the gym?”

“I didn’t really pick you up, did I?” I asked Kara as if I’d known her my whole life.

“No, not really.” She smiled.

“Not really?” Chloe laughs as she presses on.

“Well, there was nobody else in the gym.”

“There were only two treadmills, and she was using one of them, so it kind of just happened.”

“Yeah, I bet it did.” She looked drunk.

“This little gym here has everything I need to get a good workout.”

“Not the best workout,” Kara said, sipping her rum drink through the straw, “I can think of a better workout.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Buy her a couple drinks and she’ll show you!” Ryan cracked wise to which I smiled and all the girls gave us a dirty look. Kara played with her drink, sort of smiling, twirling the straw around with her tongue. Chloe was watching my reaction as I lost track of my face and my jaw, gawking at Kara. I notice Chloe and compose myself quickly while she laughs into her glass and takes a big gulp.

After a fourth round of drinks, the bartender, Charlesworth, gave us all a round of Patron on the house before closing the shop. Charlesworth knows me and my family, and he knows what I am doing with these people tonight. Good old Charlesworth, he’s like my sidekick on the island.

“Hey, let’s go to the beach,” I suggested to mixed replies.

“I think we’re going to go back to the hotel room,” said Ryan. Kim didn’t share his sympathies, but left with him anyway.

“Let’s go.” Kara said to me with beautiful hazel eyes. She was excited, and Chloe looked off put, unsure of what to make of all this.

“Ok, give me a sec, I have to use the shack,” and I leave them alone to talk. Charlesworth had left by this point. He unfortunately did not leave a bottle of scrap around, like he occasionally does.

“What are we going to’ do?”

“I don’t know, this guy is really great.”

“Yeah, I like him too.”

“You’re just saying that because he’s hot.”

“Yeah well, what’s your excuse?”

Kara, thinking for a second, “He’s more than that.”

“Want me to leave you guys alone?”

“No, I don’t know this guy, anything could happen.”

I washed my face and fixed my hair and quickly returned to hearing Kara say those last three words. I am drunk.

“Yeah, I like the attitude, anything can happen. Come on, I know the way…” and we made our way to the beach, a brief pathway through brush and ground lamps, guiding the way to tactful breakers on quiet sands. I’m walking behind Kara; my hands are at her waist as I guide her through the dark. Chloe is behind me; her hands are on my shoulders.

Kara stopped and I walked into her, bringing our bodies together. Chloe walked into me from behind, and yelped a surprised yelp that left us all laughing in place. Walking onward, I looked back at Chloe who was smiling, walking with a strut. Her body was fit and her outfit was revealing.

The beach is cared for by the resort staff. Every night they arrange the chaise lounge chairs with blue pillow cushions along the beach in a crescent formation. Tiki torches light up sections of the beach for reference, shining a path towards the security patrol shed at the edge of the resort.

We sat on the dry sand a few paces from the breaking water, and we could clearly see the water in the reflection of the stars. We sat there for a couple minutes, listening to the waves and watching the sky, myself, Kara and Chloe to the right of me. We sat close, my right side brushing up to Kara’s left.

I snuck a kiss on her cheek while she waxed a wide open expression at the sky. She turned to me, her expression changing more serious, and came at me with a kiss on the lips. Soft, warm, wet, talented, we enjoyed it a half-second too long; Chloe had noticed and made us aware by shifting around. She was not amused.

“I should go,” started Chloe.

“No, Chloe, stay!”

“Yeah, stay, I’m sorry, I got a little carried away.”

“I know…”

“Hold on a second!” Kara loudly cuts into the awkward air and begins to whisper into Chloe’s ear. Chloe looks at Kara squarely, and they nod to each other. Then all of a sudden, they kiss each other.

It looked like a first time for the two of them because what started as a peck had snowballed into more. But then again, I was pretty drunk, and in that state I believed more than I saw.

“Wait, wait! What’s the hell is going on?” I had to say something.

“What? Is something wrong?” Chloe crawled over Kara to tell me that face to face in a sultry voice, and immediately followed it with a kiss. She had a strong kiss, more aggressive than Kara’s, maybe brought on by all the awkward sexual chemistry we had. I looked over at Kara when Chloe withdrew, almost worried she would have a problem with what just happened. When she looked back at me she smiled. She wanted this to happen, and in that moment I realize we could have anything we wanted.

When the security patrol saw us fornicating on the beach, they asked us to go home, or in this case, back to our rooms. I invited them back to my place, and finished what we started; a chance encounter gone perfect (better than perfect), and making the most out of a tropical island paradise.

It was purchased at the Zara clothing boutique on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was the only thing Zucker had to cover himself from the cool ocean wind nearby. It was part of his wild experience there in California, visiting the Monkey and Ryu and Epstein. It came with him on the sandy beaches of the west coast, over the skies and through the woods of the east coast. It became his jacket of the moment. The other sport jackets were not amused. For years, the Brooks Brothers collection was the scotch to Zucker’s cigar, but not anymore.

Wearing it later as an overcoat in December, Zucker takes off the Zara Man and hangs it in the closet on its heavy, plastic hanger. The other jackets are hanging on their end of the rack, down from the pants and the shirts. It was the white suit at a party, and it divided the place in half.

~“Ah, don’t even think about hanging near me!”~ The Bomber jacket sat comfortably in front of the Blazer. It wasn’t any better off.

‘Relax! Like it’s up to me where I go.’

“How was your run at the gym?” A burst of laughter came from the other jackets, an inside joke between them. Zucker wears the Zara Man jacket over his Adidas sports liner in the winter sometimes, and they believe he wears it when he exercises.

‘Not bad, not bad. It was kind of cold out there.’ More rustling among the clothes less worn.

*Was it?* The Blazer had something to say. He was the most respected jacket on the rack. *I hear there’s been foul weather recently… what do you say about that?*

Awkward now, the Zara Man never had a solid conversation with the Blazer. ‘Yeah, it’s been raining a lot. He’s got that umbrella to help protect us, but the wind makes it so much worse. I’m glad to still be in decent shape.’

“*You’re filthy and disgusting, stay the hell away from me!*” The Fitzgerald was within inches of Zara Man’s back, a discolored, wrinkled mess. It had been worn without washing since its first days on the Californian coastline. It had a small orange stain between the back and the right shoulder. The jacket was a little smelly, and yet, it continued to go out into the bitter cold with the sweater and the Adidas, the gloves and the umbrella. It didn’t mind, it didn’t know or care about the consequences at all.

The Zara Man would always have the stories of life outside of the closet. The real stories, worn outdoors and indoors at eclectic events: dinners and parties and bedrooms and busses, commuting and waiting and rushing past pedestrians. The Zara Man saw more of the world than those damn jackets ever dream! The Hounds Tooth and the Camel Hair, the Bomber, the Fitzgerald and the Madison, the Blazer; each had their moment in a world of culture at a special time in Zucker’s life. Maybe the Zara Man will see that time come and go as well, in which case it will certainly be dry-cleaned.

== False Hope ==

false hope is seeing your boss park his Mercedes while you step off the bus.

false hope is checking your email from the dating site as your roommate is having sex.

false hope is spending your whole paycheck on a Coach purse.

false hope is going to a club hoping to score.

false hope is being thankful your job hasn’t been outsourced or automated.

false hope is buying a house with nothing down.

false hope is copying your friends homework for a semester.

false hope is putting 15% in your 401(k).

false hope is not pulling the plug.

I received an email Monday morning from one of my coworkers who operates out of Pune, India.

First of all, this goes out to him and his group that we work with, because without his frequent reminders of celebrations and holidays, I would be lost at work.

His email was short and sweet, “Check out Indian Festival ‘Holi.’ We celebrate it today.”

Naturally, I took the word and searched it up on Google. Below a few images I saw the Wikipedia result. I didn’t put two and two together until the last minute; the picture results showed people drenched in what looked like colors. When I read about the holiday, I learned a whole lot more about that.

- From Wikipedia and About.com -

Also known as the “Festival of Colors,” Holi (होली, Holli, Doul Jatra, orBasanta-Utsav depending on the region) is a festival primarily celebrated by Hindus, Buddhists, and Sikhs to mark the end of Winter and to usher in the Spring season. It’s a joyous time when everyone goes nuts and lets loose. When I say let loose, I mean good fun, unadulterated, and occasionally intoxicated. I could go into that, but it’s more popular for it’s colored powders and waters, bonfires, great food, music and dancing.

The Festival of Colors traces back to ancient Hindu scriptures, and has been considered one of the oldest of Hindu Festivals. It’s an annual tradition, beginning on the last day of Phalguna, the lunar month, which is usually between February and March. This year the full moon occurred on February 28th, which means the first day of celebration was on March 1st – which is perfect! This year’s spring harvest is sure to be promising. The celebration itself is supposed to bring a good harvest to the people and keep the lands fertile for years to come. The more food harvested, the bigger the celebration!

The specifics of Holi reveal a multi-day procession of color and music across most of India and Nepal that begins with “Holi Purnima,” the observance of the full moon. The night is followed by a day of dancing and celebrating with the community. Everyone gets involved, and some purposefully wear their whitest garbs to get the most out of the fun. The celebration is over on Rangapanchami, the fifth day after Holi. That means some people go on partying for days!

Holi is observed with bonfires lit to commemorate the miraculous escape of Prahlad from Holika, as written in Hindu scriptures (there are other roots to Holi, yet this origin is more widely accepted). “Holika Dahan” (aka “The Burning of Holika”) marks the commemoration of that accomplishment. Just to clarify, Holika was a demoness, and Prahlad is one of Lord Vishnu’s most trusted devotees, so you can imagine the compelling struggle between good and evil made this an epic event. Check out this link to learn more about that story from Wikipedia…

While the festival is celebrated with the best of intentions, it does give rise to environmental concerns over the wood burned during Holika Dahan. When you consider the number of people across India and Nepal and the rest of the World that light bonfires in observance of Holi, it adds up to a lot. This global concern has brought Western influence to an ancient Eastern tradition, and it has begun to have an impact on how the festival itself is celebrated.

Thankfully, Holi is still very much the same as it was hundreds of years ago. While some parts of the world celebrate for one day, some go on for as many as sixteen days. During that time, colored powders and liquids blanket the streets, along with people who are laughing, singing, and partying like it’s New Years. It’s one of the most wholesome celebrations I’ve ever come across. While I missed the Holi-day this year, I know in my heart that I’ll celebrate it at some point, hopefully in Pune so I can kick it with my coworkers.

Today I witnessed a horrible spectacle, where a man was hit by a car. He did not survive.

He was given a funeral and formal ceremonies alike. At this man’s funeral a large number of people showed up.

The people that went to his funeral came from all places. Some knew him from work, some knew him from school. Some knew him from home, and some knew him from his apartment building. Some knew him through the people that he didn’t really know, and some knew him through the places he visited only once in his life.

The owner of a famous nightclub came to his funeral and paid him homage after realizing that it was this man, the recently deceased, that gave him the idea to start his own nightclub. It happened one night in a dive bar, when the man commented on the wall designs, or lack thereof, and wanted to go to a bar that made great use of the walls, artistically.

The president of the golf club, a 90-year old prune, said, “he was the best damn fella’ I ever knew! He hit the balls,” stuttering… “all over the course!” He said. “I am sure he’s up there… somewhere… hitting those balls on fairways in the clouds…” he began to tear up, and began a slow lazy walk back to his seat.

A kid, younger than the others, walks up to the microphone, mostly confident, not affected by the sorrow. “I can’t believe this guy got hit by a car!”

So I’m running along the path in front of me, minding my own business, enjoying the day, and all of a sudden –

“HHHeeeyyy!!!” – I yelled with all my might.

A damn sheep dog runs in front of me, a white- and brown-spotted “fly-in-your-ear” dog named Clifford.

“Hey yourself, pal! Just what do you think you’re doing running out here?”

“It’s MY field, Cliff! Do you know where you are right now? Go bother someone else” –

And I hopped over him. Cliff couldn’t catch me if he tried, and he did try for a moment. He never knows where he is, as long as there’s some kind of action going on. He’s a common annoyance around where I live… I see him and his friends a lot unfortunately.

Off I go, racing to catch up with the wind that passed me when I stopped. Ah Woah!! An electric pole is down! I can see little sparks coming from the toasted end, so I run around it and away. I jolt in a new direction now, away from the road and into the country. I see the wind lick the high grass in front of me, and I now know where my opponent is.

I stop, moments from the high grass. I have a slight feeling I’m being followed. I wait a minute to prove my feeling.

I hear something. A sound I never like to hear. It sounds like rocks grinding against each other. It was the farmer’s truck, coming to get me. My owner found out I ran away and tracked me down.

I know what’s going to happen. It’s not fun, and the ride home is scary. There’s always a lot of riff-raff trying to keep me still, and when they finally get me in the wagon, they haul me back to the farm. I don’t want to go back there, not on such a wonderful day.

I take off into the field, a long stretch of sun-cooked high grass that feels like a thousand feathers brushing my face. I don’t blend into the grass, unfortunately, and the farmers can keep after me like a bird in the sky. The tree line on my right connects up ahead to a river that runs alongside my left. The valley begins to widen up over the horizon, and if I really wanted to get away, I would have the next few miles to do it. I’ll either turn myself in or venture into the woods I’ve never been in before.

I look forward, watching the field and the road quickly run alongside me, covered in warm summer sun. It feels great to run at long stretches like this. It’s like… it’s like I’m flying. I am flying, really, on the wings of my feet across the ever-moving ground. The last time I had a chance to run like this, I was a lot younger… I grew up with my family in the open country. I don’t know if the other horses got to know about the world beyond the wall; the world I’m running away from right now. Where I came from, I was used to open fields as far as my eyes could see. I would run for a long time, and still see my friends and family on the horizon. There were no walls. There was nothing to hold us back.

They came for me then like they come for me now. I laugh to myself because we both get what we want in the end. They get to put me in races, and I get to keeping running. It’s never the same as this countryside, though. Out here, there’s no competition, no desperation, and no fury in my heart. Out here, I don’t hate what I love. That all changes when I get on the race track…

***

I overheard some horses talking in the den one time before the race, my first race ever. They were huddled around each other, talking about the races they won and how fast they won them in. They threw out names of places I had never heard of before, like Churchill Downs and Pimlico. One of them said, “I’m the fastest in the world! I ran the Aqueduct in a minute-fifty flat!” I laughed and thought he was kidding because to me, that seemed like a long race time. Nobody else laughed. He didn’t know me, or my talent, I thought. “It’s time to put your title to the test,” I said to him, “because you’re looking at the fastest horse in the world!” They all looked back at me with stupid faces. Then… they all started laughing. Their heads bucked high with teeth showing, making me feel worse with every chuckle. “Heeeyeeah right, Rookie! Watch me whip you in this race, and then I’ll whop you in your face.” They all resumed laughing, and my heart was hot with rage.

I took the first chance I had to get out of there and get onto the track. I needed to let out this anger as soon as possible. Luckily for me, the race was about to begin. I took my place in spot #9, all the way on the far edge of the starting line. The track looked constricted and animated, but there didn’t seem to be an ending. People were watching from every angle. Beyond the arena I could see a land filled with giant buildings that touched the sky in ways I cannot explain. It was beautiful, and frightening at the same time. The world beneath us must be holding a great weight on its back.

~ ! B A N G ! ~

Off I go, Oh my God, this is nuts! Go Go Go! Gal-lop Gal-lop Gal-lop! This is kind of fun! I can make a beat in my head from the sound of my steps. I relax to the groove, take in the scenery and the world dissolves around me.

“Oh Crap!” The next thing I knew, I was in last place. I take off like the wind, after the other racers and after the prize. All the running I’ve done before this moment would bring me strength today.

~ CaTcHiNg uP WiTh tHeM ! ~

My teeth are literally coming out of my head here, I’m breathing so incredibly hard, my tongue is getting dry and thick. I see my opponents in front of me. There was a turn in the opposite direction after a few more seconds, and a great turn in the track that seemed to have no end.

The other half of the lap ended horribly.

I got up to that big shot who was laughing at me earlier, and he saw me and I could see he was pretty impressed that I came back. He fell back a little bit after noticing me, obviously too shocked by my–

“Yeeeheeeaaaaaa!”

He hit me in the eyes with his tail and I lost my balance. I fell behind so far that the last thing I could see before coming to a crashing halt was him, smiling back at me, with his tongue sticking out. I didn’t give it a second try. I gave it everything I had and I lost it. I decided to give it up and run like I am used to. I spent the last lap running gracefully around the track, hearing shouts like “Come on!” and “For God’s sake!” yelled at me from all the people watching. I didn’t notice or understand most of their taunts, but I still liked what I was doing. In that moment, I found the joy of running again.

***

So now I’m here, in the field, running for the thrill of it, running from that life of pressure and cruelty. The open prairie is being consumed by the forest ahead and I can either run into the woods, or go back to the racetrack. I know I have to go back, so I turn around by the river, stay for a drink, and let them catch me several minutes later.

If I could be anywhere, I would be out here, like this… without borders.

We open our story with two arms on a desk,

Their wrists, their hands,

Their knuckles and features.

One is the left hand and one is the right hand,

They belonged to the same man,

Growing years at a time.

The left hand was taught how to write and to draw,

The right hand was taught how to help the left work,

To help with the arts and not with the writing,

Always lacking in that special form of communication.

The right hand grew jealous of the left and its glory,

Tireless work, masterful precision,

Time tore them both apart.

Several Years Later,

The left hand creates consistently with youthfulness

As soft as silk and strong as a bull.

Several Years Later,

The right hand will craft and yet never know beauty;

Its art, like its skin, aged with stress and inner pain.

The two hands were always twins,

Through purpose and thought, intentions and doubt.

They have gone their two ways.

While they may meet and come together from time to time,

Their hugs and claps and workings together

Simply have no meaning.

The Victor

He had just won, but three minutes and twenty-one seconds prior, he had not. He was just another competitor. He is no longer a competitor, now, but an Undisputed Champion. He is a Champion that will go down in history as the Victor of this prestigious tournament. It took him seven years to step forward, fully prepared for the trials and tribulations that stood in his way of Victory today.

Five minutes have now gone by since he was crowned Victor. The lights are flashing from every angle of the stadium. The associated press huddles in front of him, microphones listening and recorders taking down every word the Victor had to say.

But the Victor had nothing to say. He watched his fellow competitors walk off the stage in the opposite direction, away from the lights and away from the press. The Victor ran off the podium and approached the group of competitors, their eyes red and dry, as if tears had been there, even if they never feel from their eyes.

“Hey!” the Victor yelled, and in unison the five other competitors turned their heads toward him, lips pursed in straight, no-bullshit frowns.

The Victor knew these men. He watched some of them compete for twenty years or more, on the television, reading their names in the papers, seeing their likeness on the cereal boxes of time. He knew these men, looked up to them, and made idols out of them. He trained with the intent of matching their abilities. It took him seven years.

He looked at them with wide eyes, the gaze of which told them more than the radiance of his composure. No words were said.

One of the competitors, an all-star Victor for the last four tournaments in a row, turned his frown into a smile and made a half-nod towards the Victor, as if to say, “It’s your turn to run the show.” He turned around, followed by the others, synchronized, artistic, and they walked away in a vanguard formation towards the smallest exit in the stadium.

The Victor watched them go until they reached the doorway, the press taking snapshots of him watching the competitors walk away. It was artistic, the lone Victor seeing off those who fought and lost against him.

The hundreds of thousands watching him from the stadiums were chanting for him, praising him, proclaiming him as the new Victor. The chant was earth-shaking in its unison, “Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor! Victor! Victor! Vic-Tor! Vic-Tor!” Their chant was everlasting, echoing into the heavens above, a dark-blue void covered with twinkling, sparkling, stars. It would not be bold to think that eyes were watching him even now from those stars, watching and applauding the epic tournament that just concluded.

The Victor looks around for his friends and coaches who watched on the side as he competed. They are now in the center of the field, right behind him, in front of the press, actually. They are clapping their hands, arms around each other with smiles and laughter, unbelieving that their friend is the new Victor. This is such a happy occasion for him and his family and friends.

When he goes home today he will be greeted like a great warrior, coming home from a battle in which he single-handedly overcame the opposition. He will ride a convertible motorcade in the streets of Capital City, paper glitter falling from the tallest buildings, blanketing the city streets with colors of white, blue, red, orange, yellow and brown. The kids watching will cup their hands, collecting the glitter only to throw it back into the sky. The citizens of his nation will praise him as he rides off towards his home, his wife, his son and his daughter, his black dog, his farmland, and his quiet land on the outskirts of town. There he will rest, an act he had not done in seven years.

Why does history repeat itself?

Why does the world keep spinning?

Why does a sound move like a wave,

never made and died, but always

moving forward and outward?

Why does its echo live forever?

Why do some questions make sense when asked together?

Because that is the reason life exists.

Because things, all things, can not live without the abilitiy to sustain,

longer than the initial conception of the very thing that lives.

Because the longest throughts are seen through,

from start to finish.

Because life is a self-explainable manifestation,

a creation that learns and evolves over the course of time.

Because things that are timeless always carry with them this feeling that never gets old,

and never changes with time.

Life is a strange thing, everyone, and we should live it our own way.

Discover the adventure you have always been dreaming of.

The dream of eternal happiness.

2008

How can one illustrate the concept of infinite regression through writing?
I am the writer, and I am writing.
I am writing about a writer who is writing.
I am writing about a writer who is writing about a writer who is writing.
The course continues infinitely until it ceases to be a sentence. Writing is grammatically composed of sentences, and thereby infinite regression can not pertain to writing. Without a sentence made, writing has no structure, no rules, no composure.

Let us continue then, continue to see the writer writing about the writer. His pen will always write one letter behind the thing he is writing about, and the writer who is writing about him will always be one letter behind him. There will never be an end, so let’s stop this before we perish trying to see the infinite.

8-8-08 12:05pm