This blog chronicles a daily exercise I've recently undertaken to challenge myself creatively in my writing. I put iTunes on shuffle and write the first thing that comes to mind during the length of the song. It could be a short story just as it could be lyrical prose: whatever the song inspires. I stop writing as soon as the last note rings out and leave everything unedited; results vary -- I also play guitar for Hartford.
They’d be in and out a total of 4 times this month, and that was far too much by anyone’s standards. It could’ve been the flashy lights, or the allure of doubling up and coming out with their chins held higher, or even the overpriced cocktails they would never truly come to appreciate. Either way, none of the boys wanted to stay in on a Saturday night. They went in convinced they were going to lose with an underlying hope that in thinking realistically and playing on the most unlikely of chances, karma would in turn play in their favor and toss them a bone. Winner buys, double and more meant the strip and losers carried the spoils. A golden set of rules based on restraint and self-control, but it was Saturday and the boys just got their government cheques.
I’m winded from driving down winding roads, with thoughts of making my way down a straight path only unwinding in my mind. I’m on the seventh rotation of page 3, slot 4 and still not tired of the recurring themes on this album. I can’t wait for the holidays this year and I will welcome the cold with a warm hearted embrace; I want the chill of winter to eternalize this feeling in my bones. I finally figured out the reason why I’ve been sleeping on the floor for a week now.
I’m still and shaken, all at once, I’m mending and breaking, in an instant, I’m on fire and stone cold in half a second. I’m in every city with a heart as hard as rock, with hands like flowing water and a voice that screams “I don’t want to be here or with you anymore.” I can feel it: the fire in my stomach, the aching in my feet and the undying lust in my soul for the simpler things wished on by simpler people. In the wake of my disdain I’m ashamed, I got used to a way higher than my own highs. I want a fireplace with a fire burning, a table with four chairs and a family, a place that keeps moving with my sense of home.
Forever stricken by the magic of spring and the majestic feeling he earned from farming and living of his own land, Theo looked over his meager 6 acres and grinned. It wasn’t much, but it was, and forever would be his. His grand-children would sit amongst a host of tall crops, and someday those crops would sit in his will, in the hands of those same boys, then men. The same hands of those same boys, then men, would continue to richen the soil with the essence of hard work, the passion in the sweat of their brows spilling into and re-fueling the earth. The flowers would flourish and their children would lie still amongst the colourful array of nature’s painting, hoping to become the landing strip for the many ladybugs inhabiting the small home hard work built.
“They’re on our fucking tail dude, FUCKING STEP ON IT!” Fred is only seventeen. He wears square glasses and plaid shirts every other day. He gets home at 7:00, at the very latest 7:30. He goes nowhere without his MacBook and external hard drive. These are the things that define Fred. In the unlikeliest of situations Fred has found himself with some like-minded people stuck in the same uncanny predicament. Neither he, nor the three other shitfaced underagers tripping balls in the backseat could fathom how Doritos and COD played out this way. What’s more disturbing than the headless body in the trunk, the off-set spurts of blood erupting from the tailpipe of Fred’s ’96 Benz and the slew of intestinal liquids being shot from one side of the windshield to the other by the spastic sway of the wipers was the fact that all he could think about was how his air filter would filter all that blood.
The waves were 10 feet tall that day, and I felt as high as every small tsunami that crashed down over us. 5 years old with a heart of gold: I was king of the campground and master of the fire stick. We caught fireflies and momentarily captured an everlasting feeling in a jar. We shook it to see if the light was ephemeral; we stretched day into night and led the way with the promise of eternal youth.
The sound of the sleet finding the sharp edges of the million blades of grass strewn across my ten by twelve back yard; the crackling of paper and tobacco burning between my lips; the notes exchanged by songbirds from branch to branch preaching a new sun; the cold stone underneath my bare feet and the warm edge of my coffee mug against my lower lip: my 6:00 am back porch.