There’s something about a working class town that sends chills up my spine. The same way I have to pay attention when the National Anthem is being sung. I sit passenger over an overpass and look to my right in a foreign city and see smoke stacks, factories… small houses, fireplaces… smoke stacks, factories… it reminds of home and family. Every time I blouse my pants it’s the product of the hard work and blood of my father and his father. And oh, oh your friends say Delaware is beautiful. But they didn’t live here and they didn’t die here. Where the cracks in our family’s hands line the streets and the corners. Where the cracks in our family’s hands are more than stories and scars. Saturday mornings spent listening to marching bands. Saturday nights spent sitting around a fire in the backyard. And a history of tradition left under a Christmas tree next to a hospital bed year after year.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams out. “I bleed lines of mules and madmen.”
I bleed lines of mules and madmen. She screams.
She screams and screams.
I bleed lines of mules and madmen.
And the walls mute her. They mute her if she is screaming. She wants to reach out but she doesn’t. It gets buried deep underneath her skin and bones. All the way under her organs and blood cells. The blood travels from her heart to her brain which conducts the fingers holding the pen. And her pen writes her story in a book kept under lock and key. Just like her heart. But still she screams. What do you think about all of this? Sometimes I think there’s still nothing like your smile.
So… what do you think about all of this?
I think that I took you to my parents house and introduced you to my friends and I think I write it all here because I could never say this to you. I’d be a little embarrassed and you would never admit to wanting to hear it anyway. Although I think you do. You just don’t want to want to think you do. But you do. It’s supposed to get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t. Not for all of us.
I think I’ve seen a lot of beautiful cities from airport windows. Chicago, Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, San Antonio. I was there between flights and that was it. I think I’m too used to packing bags. I’m too used to saying good bye. I’m too used to embracing. I’m too used to getting dropped off. I’m too used to all of this…
I’ve been having dreams lately. I dream of dreaming at home. In one of my dreams I dreamt that a little girl was sitting on a fence outside of my window and she wouldn’t stop crying. I also dream about people, people that I know and some I haven’t met. People of all walks of life and we socialize beautifully.
Too used to all of this… I get out of the car and hug my Mother, I always hug her first. I make sure she is first. She always starts tearing up at this point. I hugged my Grandmother yesterday, I wonder what she thinks about all of this? I know she hates it. I shook my Brothers hand earlier. I am proud of the man he has become. I am proud of everything he does. After I hug my Mother I will shake my Fathers hand and I can tell that he is proud, as much as we hate saying goodbye. This is how it always is. I walk inside the airport and get in the security line. Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are…
Before all of this I say goodbye to my friends. We hug and reminisce and hug again and repeat the cycle until I finally have to walk out the door. We always leave on good terms but I develop a hatred for every single one of you. I have to admit it hurts when I’m asked by others how you’re doing. You vanish and return based on my appearances. I’ve always wanted our definition of family to be more stable than that and if we have different opinions then so be it. I will see you when I see you, I just wish you saw my house more than I do.
Waiting and waiting, all of these commuters are just waiting and waiting. And I stand behind them bleeding lines of mules and madmen. I notice a sign to my right that portrays what an “expert traveler” looks like and it looks like me. Nothing but carry-ons because I’m never staying anywhere for long. This line is moving far too slow and I’m wondering how the security line could possibly take this long. It’s an assembly. Take off belt, empty pockets, take out laptop. Place all belongings in a plastic bin. Take off shoes. Walk through the metal detector. Gather belongings. Fill pockets, put on belt, put on shoes. Stare at a screen and hope that your gate is not the farthest one from where you stand. And of course it is. I hope there is somewhere I can have a drink at close to my gate. There isn’t. My iPod is drowning out all sounds. “Flight 1931 to Denver is now boarding first class and priority flyers.” I’m not going to Denver. Finally my zone is allowed to board and it’s funny because I’m in civilian clothes and I get no special treatment. I board/bored. I struggle to find room to stow my carry-on as a flight attendant greets me. I’m already disgruntled because I have the middle seat between Crook in His Suit A and Crook in His Suit B. Their condescending eyes descend on me and I can only hope they are as upset as I am. The flight attendant goes through emergency procedures and I could care less. I hate flying. The Captain gives his mandatory speech and we taxi down the runway. We gain speed and ascend. I’m not allowed to listen to my iPod yet, but as soon as I hear the flight attendant give me permission I play my music so loud I can’t even hear the jet engines. It’s like I’m not even flying, like I’m not even there. Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.
These fucking dreams again. This little girl is following me around and before I can even speak she says “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” And she keeps repeating it over and over. She follows me in every dream. I try to touch her, to move her from my path, but she is constructed of the toughest porcelain you can imagine. She has one phrase. “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” I wake up constantly. Fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.
Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. I pretend like every word he sings is about me. Yeah, that’s my vanity. I pretend like every word she ever writes is about me, but that was actually true at one point. We reach a cruising altitude. I’m currently wondering how I’m going to deal with all of this… I mean, I’m only 40 minutes in to a 4 hour flight and I have to use the restroom already. The Suited Crook to my left with the aisle seat has his laptop out already and I would hate to inconvenience him. I can’t nap because my mind is racing and I don’t want that little girl around right now. I’m already coping with loss. A constant cycle of loss, cope with that. Coping and coping. I finally muster enough of the appropriate amount of courage to ask the Crooked Suit if he could let me out. He looks at me like he’s annoyed, but he agrees. I urinate and I wonder if I tried to open the hatch how quickly I would be beaten. I also wonder why the middle-aged flight attendant didn’t follow me in here. There’s occasional turbulence. But fuck it, I’ve been having dreams again.
These dreams again.
Every time I leave I’m inclined to listen to the music my brother makes. Up here, oh up here, everyone is so vulnerable. Everyone is so vulnerable up here. We have that in common. What happens when innovation becomes the standard? Sometimes I feel under fire like I’m Joseph the Dragon Slayer. I want you to tell me where it comes from, because I already know where it goes. For right now it’s following longitude lines and GPS coordinates. Ground stations and waypoints, look it up. My music is playing and that’s what is making me feel grounded right now. “Many children will burn soon . You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh no. I feel asleep for a second, and that little girl is offering me some water while a unicorn is handing out pretzels. Thank God that it’s only the flight attendant for now. I look out the window past Crooked Suit B and to my complete horror I see the sky open up and a dragon flying out of the fissure straight towards the plane (plain). The little girl is riding on the dragons back and she saying “Many children will burn soon. You don’t believe it, but that is a lie.” Oh, no. I wake up in a panic. I’m sweating and nothing is abnormal. The Captain tells us we are beginning on our descent. The flight attendant tells us to turn off all electronics and… fuck this.
I lose my short term memory for what feels like days at a time. It might be by choice. Maybe it’s because I can ruin relationships better than I can start them. I guess. Yes, I guess I get mine. And guessing is what you do when you’re not sure. You consider the options and guess. And I don’t even care.
As we descend I think about how my Mother always asks me to write something nice. So this next part is for her.
As we descend the steps are basically repeated in reverse order. I hope we enter a black hole on the way down and I somehow wind up in my mid 1990’s day dream. I go there frequently. And trust me, we are descending.
Andy, Billy, grab your jackets it’s time to go over to your Grandparents. Christmas morning.
A father, mother, grandfather, grandmother, brother, aunt, uncle, cousin… things will never last this way. We could never be that lucky. We could never be that family. We grab our jackets and get in the car. Our drive is short because we always lived close. And here is the kitchen table. All cutlery laid out perfectly. Decorative plates and napkins. We could never be that lucky. And this is my Fathers world.
This is my Fathers world and you are just living it. And I thank you. And I thank you. And you. And I thank you. Thank you.
Another orignale by William Wallace
Out Like A Lamb part 7 coming soon.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Sole Control (Extended Version)
I was just walking down the street when my friend Dustin stopped in front of a Foot Locker and pointed out an advertisement hanging in the window.
“You see those Jordans? Man, those are the Jordan X’s. They got all his accomplishments inscribed on the soles. These are going to be the hottest shoes when they come out.”
I was only like 12 years old and had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t even really like basketball, but I saw those sneakers and knew I had to have them. The black, red, and white color scheme wasn’t anything my eyes hadn’t seen before but they still hypnotized me. I looked down at my ratty all-white Reebok Classics and felt embarrassed. I went home that night and started scrounging up any nickels and dimes I could find underneath the cushions of my parents sofa. I didn’t come from a poor neighborhood, my family did well for themselves, but I knew there was no chance in hell that my father was going to buy me a pair shoes for $175. No way. I didn’t even bother asking because I was afraid of his response.
I started dreaming about what I would look like in those Jordans. I wanted some classic fit Ralph Lauren Polo khakis, a nice Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and maybe one of those Chicago Bulls Champion crew neck sweaters… no, how about a throwback Flyers varsity jacket from Mitchell & Ness? Sometimes I can’t remember what I was thinking. Yeah, that sounds right. I didn’t even care that the red wouldn’t match with the orange, I just had to have it. So how does a pre-pubescent existence come up with that kind of cash? I turned into a brainstorming machine. I would walk around downtown pretending to be some abandoned kid and the old ladies would give me money. Sometimes I would just try to pick pocket them, in which cases they practically always caught me. Late at night I would smash car windows to see if the owners left their wallets or some loose dollar bills in the center console or glove compartments. I usually just came up with some loose change found in the cup holders. I would go into Laundromats and press every coin return on the washers and dryers. Once in awhile if I felt motivated I would go to the old Veterans houses that lived on my street and offer to mow their lawn or wash their cars for a few dollars, but that was rare. I was about fast cash… mostly fast change, but I had to start somewhere.
It took me 3 months to save up that money, but I did it and I bought those Jordans. I was almost too afraid to wear them, especially because the rest of my wardrobe was significantly lacking. Faded blue jeans and a dumb ass Midway Little League All-Stars t-shirt didn’t exactly compliment my prized possession. Either way, I was hooked. I did whatever I could to get the newest, freshest, most talked about shoes before anyone else had them. Whatever it took. As I got older the level of my crimes began to elevate. In high school I was introduced to marijuana and figured fuck it, I’ll sell a little bit for the money. It was easier then getting a job, without a doubt. My sneaker collection began to grow from Jordans to Air Ones to Air Max 90s, 93s, 95s, 97s. Anything with that check and even some New Balance and Reebok Pumps thrown in there. Blazers, Nike SB, Structures, Trainers, Stabs, Adidas Classic Shell Tops, Wallys, it didn’t matter, I had it.
As it turns out, I wasn’t just addicted to the shoes. I became obsessed with the lifestyle. Fashion is expensive, so my endeavors were forced to expand. I started dealing a little cocaine. Actually more than just a little. You know how it goes. You start in the minor leagues selling dimes to your friends after school and graduate to the majors. We all know the story so let’s just skip all that.
I had a nice apartment downtown after I dropped out of college. Chemistry was really the only class I needed. English, Sociology, Western Civilization? No thanks. I was driving around in a BMW M3. Black with black rims and a subtle tint. For business purposes I drove a not so glamorous Toyota Camry four door sedan complete with dryer sheets lining the trunk. It had a nasty dent on the passenger side door, maybe from a shopping cart but who really knows? I didn’t smoke cigarettes but occasionally I would burn some non-menthol Newports or Camels inside of my car just to eliminate any lingering odors. I was, by no means, a kingpin. I still answered to somebody who answered to somebody else who answered to somebody else and etc. However, I did oversee the movement of a fair amount of drugs.
In my apartment I had to dedicate a room to my shoe collection which had begun to get out of hand. I was buying shit that wasn’t even special edition or dead stock. Just regular Nike Classics in plain colors. I had a lot of Euro releases that I gave up an arm and a leg for, but they were worth it. The way the 97s gleam when a camera flash hits them, it’s incredible. And the look on peoples faces when I was walking around in Air Max 95s that had Burberry print? Priceless. Ugliest shoe I own, but it got attention. Was that what was I looking for? Maybe. Or maybe it was that feeling you get, you know the one. It’s hard to explain. You walk into that little boutique and see those Air Structures down towards the bottom of the display. Teal with blue and a little black. You know that nobody in a 10 mile radius has any idea how hard those sneakers are going to hit when you put on your Ralph Lauren Polo khaki shorts that you wear a little high because you’re ahead of the game, a pair of black socks mid-cut on the ankle so you can see the Champion “C”, and a black short sleeved t-shirt with a front pocket on it. It’s sort of like when you’re fooling around with some girl above the sheets and she’s licking on your ear and shit and you touch her on the outside of her pants but you hit that spot and she thrusts her hips into yours while skipping a breath and you KNOW you are about fuck this girl. Yeah, sort of like that. But better, because you talked the oriental woman down to 70 dollars which is more than a fucking steal. They should lock me up for that in itself.
Anyway, some pressure was applied to a few of my affiliates and I got touched. Same old story. I’m doing a little bid upstate and my life is pretty much ruined. All of my shoes are being kept in a storage space for me and I’ve been tossing around the idea of selling them once I get out to make a little money. I probably won’t though. I’m standing here looking out of this little window in an orange jumpsuit with some numbers on the back in the freshest Orange/Black/White Air Max 90s you could ever find. Orange laces. I just wanted you to know that. Now would be a great time to have that Flyers Varsity Jacket from Mitchell & Ness. See you in five to ten.
All for the sneakers.
William Wallace
“You see those Jordans? Man, those are the Jordan X’s. They got all his accomplishments inscribed on the soles. These are going to be the hottest shoes when they come out.”
I was only like 12 years old and had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t even really like basketball, but I saw those sneakers and knew I had to have them. The black, red, and white color scheme wasn’t anything my eyes hadn’t seen before but they still hypnotized me. I looked down at my ratty all-white Reebok Classics and felt embarrassed. I went home that night and started scrounging up any nickels and dimes I could find underneath the cushions of my parents sofa. I didn’t come from a poor neighborhood, my family did well for themselves, but I knew there was no chance in hell that my father was going to buy me a pair shoes for $175. No way. I didn’t even bother asking because I was afraid of his response.
I started dreaming about what I would look like in those Jordans. I wanted some classic fit Ralph Lauren Polo khakis, a nice Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, and maybe one of those Chicago Bulls Champion crew neck sweaters… no, how about a throwback Flyers varsity jacket from Mitchell & Ness? Sometimes I can’t remember what I was thinking. Yeah, that sounds right. I didn’t even care that the red wouldn’t match with the orange, I just had to have it. So how does a pre-pubescent existence come up with that kind of cash? I turned into a brainstorming machine. I would walk around downtown pretending to be some abandoned kid and the old ladies would give me money. Sometimes I would just try to pick pocket them, in which cases they practically always caught me. Late at night I would smash car windows to see if the owners left their wallets or some loose dollar bills in the center console or glove compartments. I usually just came up with some loose change found in the cup holders. I would go into Laundromats and press every coin return on the washers and dryers. Once in awhile if I felt motivated I would go to the old Veterans houses that lived on my street and offer to mow their lawn or wash their cars for a few dollars, but that was rare. I was about fast cash… mostly fast change, but I had to start somewhere.
It took me 3 months to save up that money, but I did it and I bought those Jordans. I was almost too afraid to wear them, especially because the rest of my wardrobe was significantly lacking. Faded blue jeans and a dumb ass Midway Little League All-Stars t-shirt didn’t exactly compliment my prized possession. Either way, I was hooked. I did whatever I could to get the newest, freshest, most talked about shoes before anyone else had them. Whatever it took. As I got older the level of my crimes began to elevate. In high school I was introduced to marijuana and figured fuck it, I’ll sell a little bit for the money. It was easier then getting a job, without a doubt. My sneaker collection began to grow from Jordans to Air Ones to Air Max 90s, 93s, 95s, 97s. Anything with that check and even some New Balance and Reebok Pumps thrown in there. Blazers, Nike SB, Structures, Trainers, Stabs, Adidas Classic Shell Tops, Wallys, it didn’t matter, I had it.
As it turns out, I wasn’t just addicted to the shoes. I became obsessed with the lifestyle. Fashion is expensive, so my endeavors were forced to expand. I started dealing a little cocaine. Actually more than just a little. You know how it goes. You start in the minor leagues selling dimes to your friends after school and graduate to the majors. We all know the story so let’s just skip all that.
I had a nice apartment downtown after I dropped out of college. Chemistry was really the only class I needed. English, Sociology, Western Civilization? No thanks. I was driving around in a BMW M3. Black with black rims and a subtle tint. For business purposes I drove a not so glamorous Toyota Camry four door sedan complete with dryer sheets lining the trunk. It had a nasty dent on the passenger side door, maybe from a shopping cart but who really knows? I didn’t smoke cigarettes but occasionally I would burn some non-menthol Newports or Camels inside of my car just to eliminate any lingering odors. I was, by no means, a kingpin. I still answered to somebody who answered to somebody else who answered to somebody else and etc. However, I did oversee the movement of a fair amount of drugs.
In my apartment I had to dedicate a room to my shoe collection which had begun to get out of hand. I was buying shit that wasn’t even special edition or dead stock. Just regular Nike Classics in plain colors. I had a lot of Euro releases that I gave up an arm and a leg for, but they were worth it. The way the 97s gleam when a camera flash hits them, it’s incredible. And the look on peoples faces when I was walking around in Air Max 95s that had Burberry print? Priceless. Ugliest shoe I own, but it got attention. Was that what was I looking for? Maybe. Or maybe it was that feeling you get, you know the one. It’s hard to explain. You walk into that little boutique and see those Air Structures down towards the bottom of the display. Teal with blue and a little black. You know that nobody in a 10 mile radius has any idea how hard those sneakers are going to hit when you put on your Ralph Lauren Polo khaki shorts that you wear a little high because you’re ahead of the game, a pair of black socks mid-cut on the ankle so you can see the Champion “C”, and a black short sleeved t-shirt with a front pocket on it. It’s sort of like when you’re fooling around with some girl above the sheets and she’s licking on your ear and shit and you touch her on the outside of her pants but you hit that spot and she thrusts her hips into yours while skipping a breath and you KNOW you are about fuck this girl. Yeah, sort of like that. But better, because you talked the oriental woman down to 70 dollars which is more than a fucking steal. They should lock me up for that in itself.
Anyway, some pressure was applied to a few of my affiliates and I got touched. Same old story. I’m doing a little bid upstate and my life is pretty much ruined. All of my shoes are being kept in a storage space for me and I’ve been tossing around the idea of selling them once I get out to make a little money. I probably won’t though. I’m standing here looking out of this little window in an orange jumpsuit with some numbers on the back in the freshest Orange/Black/White Air Max 90s you could ever find. Orange laces. I just wanted you to know that. Now would be a great time to have that Flyers Varsity Jacket from Mitchell & Ness. See you in five to ten.
All for the sneakers.
William Wallace
Monday, March 14, 2011
Unfinished
These plains are unfamiliar but still they roll.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve become a stranger to landscape.
It’s almost disenchanting. Almost, but not quite.
Not quite only because when I feel like a mechanism I know it’s only a product of my own mind.
To converse: to feel human. To feel more alive than you could ever make me.
It should get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t.
You have not reached my age or clout.
That in itself is troubling, but not enough to make things stir.
You have not reached me.
It should get easier now that we’re older but it doesn’t.
More RF transmissions stealing our vision.
Our pets have been spayed and neutered although our own crimes are going unpunished.
However.
Would you even lend a helping hand?
Where do your laurels rest? By the wayside?
Throw all caution and safety there.
Do something unexpected.
I’m aware of the nutrients that have been lost in battle
And when I find them I put them underneath of my pillow.
Maybe he will come down and regret with us.
Oh, Good Evening to you, Governor
And Good Evening to you too, Sir.
How else shall you break us down?
Good Evening to you too, Sir.
Good Evening, Governor.
What taxes have you planned for tomorrow?
How else are you going to rob my father?
And you, Ma’am… Good Evening.
How innocent do you plan on being perceived?
(There was supposed to be more in between here.)
I have shattered the concave and everything was left.
I extracted your essence that enables my existence.
Inhale, exhale your reflection.
Willam Wallace - The Heart, Blood, and Care Taker of the GMK
It doesn’t matter anyway, I’ve become a stranger to landscape.
It’s almost disenchanting. Almost, but not quite.
Not quite only because when I feel like a mechanism I know it’s only a product of my own mind.
To converse: to feel human. To feel more alive than you could ever make me.
It should get easier now that we’re older, but it doesn’t.
You have not reached my age or clout.
That in itself is troubling, but not enough to make things stir.
You have not reached me.
It should get easier now that we’re older but it doesn’t.
More RF transmissions stealing our vision.
Our pets have been spayed and neutered although our own crimes are going unpunished.
However.
Would you even lend a helping hand?
Where do your laurels rest? By the wayside?
Throw all caution and safety there.
Do something unexpected.
I’m aware of the nutrients that have been lost in battle
And when I find them I put them underneath of my pillow.
Maybe he will come down and regret with us.
Oh, Good Evening to you, Governor
And Good Evening to you too, Sir.
How else shall you break us down?
Good Evening to you too, Sir.
Good Evening, Governor.
What taxes have you planned for tomorrow?
How else are you going to rob my father?
And you, Ma’am… Good Evening.
How innocent do you plan on being perceived?
(There was supposed to be more in between here.)
I have shattered the concave and everything was left.
I extracted your essence that enables my existence.
Inhale, exhale your reflection.
Willam Wallace - The Heart, Blood, and Care Taker of the GMK
Monday, March 7, 2011
Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of To Be Continued...)
but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.
I promised that this is only the beginning…
I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.
What happens when innovation becomes the standard?
I promised that this is only the beginning...
To be continued...
William Wallace
I promised that this is only the beginning…
I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.
What happens when innovation becomes the standard?
I promised that this is only the beginning...
To be continued...
William Wallace
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Out Like A Lamb Part 8: Thomas Writes A Story
My name is Thomas and I wrote a story. There were pictures to go with it, but I lost them in the fire. What fire? No, just read the story. They have a lot of waivers.
Dragons are real and my story is about them.
There was once a dragon slayer that had never slain a dragon. However, a dragon had never slain him so he managed to maintain the title. Monsters are not real and this dragon slayer did not slay them. If he did, he would be a monster slayer, but there are no such thing as monsters so this entire situation is hypothetical. It was interesting that the Kingdom he belonged to allowed him to boast as a dragon slayer. Have you ever met a bar tender that doesn’t tend to the bar and continued to refer to him as a bar tender? Of course not.
I shall call the dragon slayer Joseph.
Joseph had dreams of becoming a knight. He was something of a klutz so he never really achieved his dream. The King never “knighted” him, instead, he was given a special duty. He was ordered to protect the Kingdom from dragons. It was a cruel joke. Nobody within the Kingdom believed that dragons existed, so they ridiculed Joseph. He was not the pride of anything or anyone.
He remembered no family and no friends. Just his sword and his shield and the woman that never loved him.
“Good Morrow, Joseph… slay any dragons lately?” This is how they mocked him. Joseph looked so knightly but he felt so empty. I shall call him Joseph the Dragon Slayer.
Unbeknownst to Joseph and the whole Kingdom, but only to his fortune, a dragon lurked in the shadows of the (k)night. The dark abyss and the terrible unknown. This dragon kept his watchful yellow eye on the Kingdom and dreamt of scorching the fortress with his flaming breath. He would leave the trees without leaves and the wives without husbands.
The unassuming Dragon Slayer would fall with the Kingdom. Rest in peace on the hills and power in the valleys.
The dragon decided the day he would attack. The Sun rose in the east on this fateful day.
The dragon let out a cry so the whole Kingdom could hear it.
A battle ensued so epic I can only describe it in lyric.
The dragon attacked with a force unforeseen.
An attack that could only be dreamt in a dream.
The war had begun, the dragon breathed flame.
Every locked door hid a child and dame.
Horses were cooked, their riders were ash.
Buildings collapsed with a bang and a crash.
All hope was lost for the King and the Crown
Then Joseph stepped out with a leap and a frown.
Joseph faced the dragon with fear on his skin
All thoughts of survival were soon stretched thin.
The dragon looked at Joseph with a curious grin
This man could not possibly believe this battle he could win.
The dragon breathed fire to boast his power
And Joseph marched forward with not even a cower.
The dragon was amused with the daring young man
Not knowing that Joseph had devised a plan.
Women and children prayed to the lord.
And Joseph marched forward with his shield and his sword.
The dragon raged on with his fiery breath.
As Joseph pressed on towards inevitable death.
Joseph approached the dragon from behind
And gashed him deep all along his spine.
Back to the regular prose. After the dragon was slain a royal dinner was arranged for Joseph. It was held in the castle’s dining hall where the décor was extravagant and the food was exquisite. The ceremony was invite only and the guests were of high value. After the meal the King called Joseph to the throne and said “Joseph, you saved the Kingdom and preserved our reign. This is the only way I can thank you for saving our lives. I shall hereby proclaim you Sir Joseph the Dragon Slayer and present with you a suite in the royal palace and a wife fit for only a King.”
The guests cheered and chanted “Long live the King! Long live Joseph! Long live the King! Long live Joseph!”
However, Joseph stopped the chant and revealed to the crowd and the King that the Dragon had not been killed. Rather, he was planning another attack. The crowd gasped, the King was speechless, but Joseph devised a plan and spoke with such conviction that he won not only the noblemans heart, but the Kings and the peasants. He wanted to strike first with a small battalion he had put together. They were to leave at midnight of the next day. The King approved Joseph the Dragon Slayer’s plan and provided him with all of the knights and equipment he requested. The kingdom gave their blessing and nervously applauded their hero and protector.
The small contingent gathered in the (k)night ready to march towards battle. No one lined the streets and no one was cheering. Parents put their kids to sleep hoping and praying that Joseph could slay the mighty dragon.
“They will write stories about us.” Joseph told them this in confidence. This is that story.
As the soldiers marched towards the battle they chanted:
And it won't be long
'Till I get back home
An originale by William BraveHeart Wallace
If you haven't already done so, go to The Infamous Mag and snag both covers of their new magazine and check out the William Wallace article in it.
Part 7 soon.
Dragons are real and my story is about them.
There was once a dragon slayer that had never slain a dragon. However, a dragon had never slain him so he managed to maintain the title. Monsters are not real and this dragon slayer did not slay them. If he did, he would be a monster slayer, but there are no such thing as monsters so this entire situation is hypothetical. It was interesting that the Kingdom he belonged to allowed him to boast as a dragon slayer. Have you ever met a bar tender that doesn’t tend to the bar and continued to refer to him as a bar tender? Of course not.
I shall call the dragon slayer Joseph.
Joseph had dreams of becoming a knight. He was something of a klutz so he never really achieved his dream. The King never “knighted” him, instead, he was given a special duty. He was ordered to protect the Kingdom from dragons. It was a cruel joke. Nobody within the Kingdom believed that dragons existed, so they ridiculed Joseph. He was not the pride of anything or anyone.
He remembered no family and no friends. Just his sword and his shield and the woman that never loved him.
“Good Morrow, Joseph… slay any dragons lately?” This is how they mocked him. Joseph looked so knightly but he felt so empty. I shall call him Joseph the Dragon Slayer.
Unbeknownst to Joseph and the whole Kingdom, but only to his fortune, a dragon lurked in the shadows of the (k)night. The dark abyss and the terrible unknown. This dragon kept his watchful yellow eye on the Kingdom and dreamt of scorching the fortress with his flaming breath. He would leave the trees without leaves and the wives without husbands.
The unassuming Dragon Slayer would fall with the Kingdom. Rest in peace on the hills and power in the valleys.
The dragon decided the day he would attack. The Sun rose in the east on this fateful day.
The dragon let out a cry so the whole Kingdom could hear it.
A battle ensued so epic I can only describe it in lyric.
The dragon attacked with a force unforeseen.
An attack that could only be dreamt in a dream.
The war had begun, the dragon breathed flame.
Every locked door hid a child and dame.
Horses were cooked, their riders were ash.
Buildings collapsed with a bang and a crash.
All hope was lost for the King and the Crown
Then Joseph stepped out with a leap and a frown.
Joseph faced the dragon with fear on his skin
All thoughts of survival were soon stretched thin.
The dragon looked at Joseph with a curious grin
This man could not possibly believe this battle he could win.
The dragon breathed fire to boast his power
And Joseph marched forward with not even a cower.
The dragon was amused with the daring young man
Not knowing that Joseph had devised a plan.
Women and children prayed to the lord.
And Joseph marched forward with his shield and his sword.
The dragon raged on with his fiery breath.
As Joseph pressed on towards inevitable death.
Joseph approached the dragon from behind
And gashed him deep all along his spine.
Back to the regular prose. After the dragon was slain a royal dinner was arranged for Joseph. It was held in the castle’s dining hall where the décor was extravagant and the food was exquisite. The ceremony was invite only and the guests were of high value. After the meal the King called Joseph to the throne and said “Joseph, you saved the Kingdom and preserved our reign. This is the only way I can thank you for saving our lives. I shall hereby proclaim you Sir Joseph the Dragon Slayer and present with you a suite in the royal palace and a wife fit for only a King.”
The guests cheered and chanted “Long live the King! Long live Joseph! Long live the King! Long live Joseph!”
However, Joseph stopped the chant and revealed to the crowd and the King that the Dragon had not been killed. Rather, he was planning another attack. The crowd gasped, the King was speechless, but Joseph devised a plan and spoke with such conviction that he won not only the noblemans heart, but the Kings and the peasants. He wanted to strike first with a small battalion he had put together. They were to leave at midnight of the next day. The King approved Joseph the Dragon Slayer’s plan and provided him with all of the knights and equipment he requested. The kingdom gave their blessing and nervously applauded their hero and protector.
The small contingent gathered in the (k)night ready to march towards battle. No one lined the streets and no one was cheering. Parents put their kids to sleep hoping and praying that Joseph could slay the mighty dragon.
“They will write stories about us.” Joseph told them this in confidence. This is that story.
As the soldiers marched towards the battle they chanted:
And it won't be long
'Till I get back home
An originale by William BraveHeart Wallace
If you haven't already done so, go to The Infamous Mag and snag both covers of their new magazine and check out the William Wallace article in it.
Part 7 soon.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Out Like A Lamb (Part Seven of February 17th)
An originale by William Wallace:
Concept by William Wallace.
...loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you...
I only really ever wanted you on Valentine's Day. And you when I was bored. And you when I was far away. Oh, and there was you, who I only ever wanted when I was close. And there was you too, and I don't remember when I wanted you, but I did. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. Just a regular Mundo de circo.
For further reading, please see Out Like A Lamb: Part 7 by William Wallace (Wallace 7).
By,
William Wallace (forward slash) Gold Medal Kids in a Gold Medal Kingdom
Concept by William Wallace.
...loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you...
I only really ever wanted you on Valentine's Day. And you when I was bored. And you when I was far away. Oh, and there was you, who I only ever wanted when I was close. And there was you too, and I don't remember when I wanted you, but I did. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. This is not a run-on sentence, only a run-on thought. Just a regular Mundo de circo.
For further reading, please see Out Like A Lamb: Part 7 by William Wallace (Wallace 7).
By,
William Wallace (forward slash) Gold Medal Kids in a Gold Medal Kingdom
Friday, July 30, 2010
Out Like A Lamb Part Six
Alright. So it’s me again. It’s weird now. Things are weird now. Or weirder, I guess I should say. I don’t really expect anyone to have any sympathy for me. I don’t want any sympathy. But I don’t think I have very much for other people, either. I’m still sort of sitting here wondering where it all went. Visits with doctors, missed phone calls, long drives. Where did all of this come from?
I still fantasize about the CITY. The city. Yes. The CITY. I fantasize about giving all of this up. Just giving up everything I have and moving to the city. I won’t have a name or identity. I will be a small speck on a big apple. A piece of dust in the wind. I would just blend in. No family. No attachments. But I wouldn’t just exist there. I would live without consequences. I would start dealing drugs. Cocaine or heroin. I would work my way up from a runner to a King. I would use my intelligence to outsmart any opposition. I would drive fancy, foreign automobiles. I would have parties in the finest penthouses, but money is not what would draw people to me. No. I would have a gorgeous woman with me because of my natural charisma and charm. A different one every night. At first. Then I would find a young girl, innocent and impressionable with the same charisma and undeniable charm. At first she would be frightened, maybe even confused by me. Eventually she would become curious. She would see me out with friends. She would see how I walked the streets and how I interacted with people. The curiosity would grow to interest and I would go see her. I would take her out to a nice restaurant but I wouldn’t engage her sexually. I would take her some places. I would never, ever, show her my business, but I would take her out with me to show her things. Things and places she would have otherwise never seen. I would show her how I could walk with the aristocrats and never lose a step and then take the subway into the most poverty stricken neighborhoods and never even take a second look. I would show her how I could speed down any Avenue or Boulevard running red lights and stop signs. I would show her designer clothes after hours. I would amaze her by the way I would command respect. She would be intrigued by how I would take over a crowded room and then drift into the background. I would show her how I could have VIP access to the most exclusive nightclubs just by saying the words “I’m Thomas Burr.” The name would garner the attention in itself. Thomas Burr. Cold, unforgiving. Kind, loving. I would make her my wife and we would live like royalty in this CITY. No one would even know I existed outside of the limits, but I would run that fucking city. But I would do this without any arrogance or cockiness, she would see how unassuming I was. How I could do all of this and not even be aware that I was doing it. She would be madly in love with me. I fantasize about it. I’ve given her a name already. Alice Austen. Thomas Burr and Alice Austen riding around the most extravagant place on Earth with no enemies and all of our friends.
But that’s not who I am.
This is who I am. I sometimes hope everyone is proud, but then I stop.
It’s unfortunate that the last installment was so erratic. My thoughts were scrambled. Her letter threw me for a loop and I just didn’t know what to think. I still don’t know what to think. Based on what I’ve experienced all I know is that your old friends forget about you and your new friends are likely to dissipate at some point, but your family is what you have when the Sun goes down. No price tag is too high for that. No price can be named for that. And I know that life is temporary but if we have photographs and stories we can pretend that we will always exist here. And letters too. If we have letters we can stay the same. Sometimes it’s just exhausting when you’re something that you’re not.
But that’s not who I am. This is who I am. You can wear clothes with horses stitched on… you can dress upper class but you know where you came from. You can drive through the neighborhoods. See the American flags flying, the men mowing their own yards, raking their own leaves, cleaning their own cars, drinking the beer that they worked for. The type of people that didn’t need a terrorist to remind them about what it means to be patriotic. The type of men that would die for their families. The working class heroes that surround me.
Anyway, welcome to the city where your friends won’t visit your parents. The city where they make excuses not to hang out with each other. The city where no body celebrates your 21st birthday. The city… the house that protects you like a womb. The familiar footsteps and voices that resonate off of the different shades of tan. The Christmas lights on the bushes in the front yard. The backyard with the birdbath and a holly tree on each side. The spigot that we used to drink out of that was right next to the family room windows. There was that awkward green mat that lined the front steps. The patio that would get unbearably hot had the chair that I liked to spin around in. The train set down stairs. The accolades. The holidays. The handrails. This history. Yea, this is it. The city where everything stays the same, I guess. I guess it stays the same, but you can’t believe that because look at how different everything has become. And I guess that I guess about it because I’m not sure and when you’re not sure you consider the options and guess. I consider the options. I compare and contrast. I’m confident. Supremely. It’s not me I doubt. What’s the point?
So now I’m laying in my bed and the speakers are doing what they are told and they are speaking to me…
They say we don’t have heart but it’s pounding more now than ever…
And I’m just laying here thinking…
I find it humorous that for all those years I found it hard to listen.
I’m finding now that failure hurts; I’m failure fleeting.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
And here I am, my phone lighting up with a text message from a girl and I don’t even care about it. What a boring conversation we are having. This is too easy. And another girl supposedly sent a letter in the mail, but I consider not even reading it. In fact, I’ll never read it because it’s not on it’s way. It’s not coming and I know it isn’t. And my speakers keep speaking to me and this time I am the therapist and not the patient. My phone lights up again and I don’t even respond to it. This is too easy.
I think back to when me and my best friend stood on a stoop in the middle of a bustling city… the giant city. There were vendors and men handing out pamphlets riddled with conspiracies that I’m not sure they believed in as much as they believed in the almighty dollar that is so hard to come by. Streaks of yellow pass by transporting other tourists and nomads looking for answers. There is not much to look at; we could barely see over the fence that lined the area. It was a feeling or a sense that let us know what this was. We could smell it. It was a mixture of trash, and people, and afternoon hot dogs, and cold. I could smell the cold. It was barely the early evening but the Sun was already going down. The walls told me to post no bills but I did anyway. Women walked by with heavy perfume on and men walked by in pea-coats and they were so numb but I can imagine that they pass this every day and the effects have worn off. I couldn’t stare at this forever. As we looked down at a vast emptiness, a giant hole, he said “this is what we’re fighting for.” Is it? Again, I’m not sure so I guess he’s right.
But fuck, man, fuck.
Did you know fuck was actually an acronym? It originated in the Middle Ages when religion was law. The citizens of the kingdom had to get permission from the King to have a child, so they put a sign in front of their homes that said “Fornication Under Consent of the King” or “Fornication Under Cardinal Knowledge.” Fuck.
There’s this riddle that I know and I want to take a second to see if you can figure it out. There is a green glass door and you have to figure out what is behind it. Here are some clues: There is no water, but there is a flood. There is no alcohol, but there is beer. There are no leaves or branches, but there are trees. There is no fruit, but there are apples. There is no orange, but there is yellow. There are no beds, but there are pillows and sheets. You can’t swim in a lake, but you can swim in a pool. You can’t swim, but you can go swimming. There are no buildings, but there are schools. You can’t taste, but you can smell. There are no losers, only winners. You can’t have everything, but you can have it all. That’s enough clues. Do you know what is behind the green glass door?
When I left my brothers home I noticed how much he’d aged without getting any older, but I let him know he’s not a man yet so he still has something to work for. I got back on that dreadful highway and endured. My engine was the Metal Moses and the rubber tires were following him. Anyway, welcome back to the city where your best friends are your family and your family are your best friends. And you spent years trying to think of reasons to leave but you’re still scared to death at the airport by yourself, trying to convince yourself that it’s not that long but you don’t even know what’s going to happen in two hours. You think things will stay the same but you’ve been gone for less than one day and things are already so different. It’s been a fucked up year so I guess we should just assume next year will be fucked up too.
“I’m the shit because I don’t even miss her.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m beating a dead horse with all of this. I’ll sit in here in this bed and write for a while, sometimes only a few minutes, but for how long can you just type and delete and type and delete? Type and delete. Type and delete. Type and delete. Like a hamster in a wheel or Algernon trying to find his cheese. Or a CD that will only play to a certain second, so you just keep starting over and starting over, but the song is the same every time. So you know what? I don’t even miss her. And why should I? Did she earn that? No.
So yes, I am the shit. I’m not a pessimist. Sometimes I reminisce, but that’s what we do when we’re bored. I don’t for long though because do they reminisce about me? Who fucking cares. It really makes no difference. You’re either with me or not, but I’m going forward either way. I try to apologize to Jimmy but he doesn’t want to hear it, so fuck him. Fuck him for not visiting our family in my absence. And fuck Suzanne for cheating on my best friend. And fuck Renee for every missed phone call and unsent letter. Fuck all of their unreliability. Fuck them for being occupied when I wasn’t. What’s the use of hiding anything behind a quill and some coffee stained parchment? That’s how old this is… my thrice told story. Thrice told stories. Yeah, that’s right, knock ‘em down for the Gold Medal Kids and fuck them to hell. You heard me. Fuck them. That’s the only way I can get anyone’s attention? So yeah, I mean that. Fuck all of you. I created it so I can do what I want with it. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future girlfriends will know everything about me.
Let’s keep going like this.
Couldn’t you feel the chemistry? We were practically building nuclear bombs and now I’ve got them stockpiled in my fingertips. I think most of what you believe is bullshit. I’ve had this fairytale built up in my mind. I’ve been trying to create the balance of the city and my home. At least I can admit that it’s fantasy. You think what you have is reality. It was just another dance to you, wasn’t it? That’s all it ever was. Just a fairytale. A movie role you could play until you got bored. But it seems the film ran out unusually quick, even for you. Not very surprising and extraordinarily predictable. But you have got to be fucking kidding me. That’s the best you could do? It was a poor performance. Not even a letter. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future boyfriends will know absolutely nothing about me.
Enough of this.
Have you ever looked at coins lined up? Take a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and a penny place them in a line. Do you notice that three of the coins are a lighter color and one is dark? The copper is dark. Do you notice that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin D. Roosevelt are all facing the left and Abraham Lincoln is facing right? It’s like the other three are turning their backs on him because they are ashamed. It’s a subliminal message. Is it a coincidence that the coin Abraham Lincoln graces is practically worthless? He freed the slaves and it’s a secret subliminal message.
There are a few things I believe in. I believe in family, country, and God. But I also believe that letters are the most intimate form of communication and that every powerful man should wear a watch, an attractive watch. A watch that describes the man. My brother may have gotten qualities such as intelligence and talent, but he did not get the relentless nature that I have. The extremism. However, his intelligence and talent transfer easily into society, whereas my relentless nature only exists on a blank tablet or when I feel like expressing it.
How am I different than anyone else, though? I’m trying to tell you my story but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. I hope maybe this gives you some insight into my psyche. I don’t know if it will though because I’m so void of details. Okay lets see, I’m looking back into time and the last you saw of me I was leaving my brothers house. When I got home I had a letter in the mail from Renee and it really bugged me for some reason. The envelope was business like and the writing on the front was obviously hers. My heart was like a skier performing aerials in an avalanche. I placed it on my coffee table and stared at it for hours. Eventually I started listening to some music and I did some laundry. I forgot about it, which was strange because I’d being dying for some form of communication. Correction: I was living for it. I opened the letter a few days later after I had walked past the beasts lined up. They were so incomplete here, you could just tell by looking at them. Some of them had survived many wars but here they sat, alone and slightly relevant. I walk outside and start making my way towards them. The Sun is usually just rising in whatever direction that takes place. The asphalt still smells like rain. There’s always a puddle to my right and the rising Sun shimmers off of it like fire. The birds are singing their morning song. The jack rabbits are brushing the morning dew out of their eyes. It’s unusually warm for this hour and beads of sweat drip off of my forehead like a leaky faucet. I can feel my lower back start to moisten and it’s becoming uncomfortable. I imagine that if my body experienced this type of dampness on a beach or at a pool it would be much more pleasing. I walk past a building that is undergoing treatment for a flood that I didn’t have a chance to witness. And then another building with strange hallways that elevate and sink in place of the regular straightness. The parking lot I walk through is littered with gravel and potholes. The stones are just as displaced as everything else. The Sun glints and gleams off of chrome tires and bumpers and the flatness of the area provides a pleasant view of the sky. There are people coming to work and leaving work at the same time. There is an absence of wildlife and an abundance of steel. I start to feel their warmth. They have been domesticated but they are still warm from their years of life. The morning heat reverberates off of their midsections and brings an extra warmth to the area. The hearts have been dormant for years but if you listen close you can still hear traces of the distant hum. I come around the corner and there they are, clear as day. And there they are. There they are… what was I saying? The letter, let’s get back to the letter.
Back to the letter. Here is what it said:
Dear Thomas,
I’m not really sure why I’m writing this… I actually can’t believe that I’ve sent it off but if you’re reading this then I obviously did. We haven’t really had a chance to talk, but the way you just disappeared really hurt me. You never really let me in so how was I supposed to know how you really felt? This is all just very confusing to me. Sometimes I wish you had never left. Sometimes I wish you were dead. Other times I don’t even care. I really hated you. But I’m sure you also hated me. I know it wasn’t right, maybe we should have never even started. It was all really stupid. It was never going to happen. You probably think that what you’re doing is so amazing, but nobody cares. Your friends don’t care, the people you used to know don’t care, and I don’t care. I’m sorry because that sounds awful, but it’s the truth. And I really have no place to tell you that because I’m not doing anything amazing, either. What am I even saying? Of course I care. Come back, Thomas. I want you to come back so I can see you. I don’t want things to be like this, but I know they can never be the same. I guess I should tell you that I’m with someone right now and he doesn’t know much about you. He doesn’t know that I wrote this or that I want you to come back . I swear to you if you came back I would leave him in a second. Do you have anyone? How is your family? How are you?
The letter you left at the library… I didn’t how to respond to it which is why this took so long. But this isn’t a response, this is a new conversation. I don’t know what any of this even means. Come save the city from the fire.
I want to know how you are doing. What have you been up to? I want you to write back so I know you received this. I miss you. I’ll just keep this short because I’m sure you are busy.
Renee
Was it shocking? Yes. How did I feel about it? I’m not really sure. I put it in my folder and carried it around with me. I started writing drafts that would hopefully be some sort of response, but not much of them made any sense. It sort of brought me back to that little town and me losing my fucking mind trying to impress her with a story. But like I said, things are different now. So I wrote something back and I’m not sure if it’s impressive. In fact, I know it’s not impressive, but you have to believe when I say that it took every ounce of confidence to mark it with postage. I didn’t rush it. I actually intentionally waited several weeks to send it even though I wrote the final version maybe 5 or 6 days after I read Renee’s letter. I just wanted it to marinate a little bit. Even from a few thousand miles away you don’t want to seem too desperate or urgent. But this story will take place at a later date.
I walk outside and all I hear is arguments:
“What the fuck is a thousand millions? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“How does that not make sense… a thousand millions is one billion. You’re an idiot.”
--
“Just fucking ask him man, I don’t understand why you’re being an asshole.”
“This is funny to me. I’m going to sit here until you go up and ask.”
--
“How do you not understand this? You came over here, took my shit, and now you want to pay? Do you go to Foot Locker and pay after you wear the shoes? No, you don’t, that’s backwards.”
“Relax man, I’m just trying to have a good time.”
--
I hear the arguments but I just keep walking. I reach a place where I can think and I decide that after many stops and starts and re-do’s and undo’s I want to go back a few months. I left you in an awkward position. I never really told you how I got here. I think you would be interested where the cynical side of my writing comes from. You see how sarcastic and vicious I can be? But then I turn it around into a moderate and restrained style just within a few words. Sometimes I feel like I hold back, however moderation is important in writing because I can’t just tell you everything. Something has to be left to the imagination… I think I’ve said that before. You have to leave something to be desired. I think one of biggest problems in literature is that people that write do things and they don’t even know why they’re doing it. It’s like there are unwritten rules you have to follow and there might have been a reason for the rules many years ago, but there‘s no point to them now. It reminds of the “monkeys in a cage” concept. You could take ten monkeys and put them in a cage with a basket of bananas and every time one of them got close you could spray them with a fire hose. At first they would keep trying to get to the bananas because monkeys like bananas, if you haven’t noticed. After some time, though, they wouldn’t try anymore. If you took five of those monkeys out of the cage and put five new ones in and the new ones tried to eat the bananas, the older monkeys would beat the new ones every time they got close to the basket until they didn’t want the bananas, either. If you took out the older monkeys and put five newer monkeys in, the other five monkeys would beat the new monkeys until they didn’t want the bananas. The cycle would perpetually continue, but now there’s no fire hose, so why can’t they have the bananas? It doesn’t make any sense at this point. I don’t know how to make this specific and vague at the same time. I haven’t found a way yet. I promise you I’m trying to figure it all out. This is just what I’ve come up with so far. I guess I can begin at the airport. No, no. That’s not right. I’ll begin at the beginning. This is has to start in a kitchen. A kitchen in a house. It’s not as clear as used it to be, but all the cutlery was placed appropriately.
I promise this is only the beginning…
William BraveHeart Wallace
I bid you adieu.
I still fantasize about the CITY. The city. Yes. The CITY. I fantasize about giving all of this up. Just giving up everything I have and moving to the city. I won’t have a name or identity. I will be a small speck on a big apple. A piece of dust in the wind. I would just blend in. No family. No attachments. But I wouldn’t just exist there. I would live without consequences. I would start dealing drugs. Cocaine or heroin. I would work my way up from a runner to a King. I would use my intelligence to outsmart any opposition. I would drive fancy, foreign automobiles. I would have parties in the finest penthouses, but money is not what would draw people to me. No. I would have a gorgeous woman with me because of my natural charisma and charm. A different one every night. At first. Then I would find a young girl, innocent and impressionable with the same charisma and undeniable charm. At first she would be frightened, maybe even confused by me. Eventually she would become curious. She would see me out with friends. She would see how I walked the streets and how I interacted with people. The curiosity would grow to interest and I would go see her. I would take her out to a nice restaurant but I wouldn’t engage her sexually. I would take her some places. I would never, ever, show her my business, but I would take her out with me to show her things. Things and places she would have otherwise never seen. I would show her how I could walk with the aristocrats and never lose a step and then take the subway into the most poverty stricken neighborhoods and never even take a second look. I would show her how I could speed down any Avenue or Boulevard running red lights and stop signs. I would show her designer clothes after hours. I would amaze her by the way I would command respect. She would be intrigued by how I would take over a crowded room and then drift into the background. I would show her how I could have VIP access to the most exclusive nightclubs just by saying the words “I’m Thomas Burr.” The name would garner the attention in itself. Thomas Burr. Cold, unforgiving. Kind, loving. I would make her my wife and we would live like royalty in this CITY. No one would even know I existed outside of the limits, but I would run that fucking city. But I would do this without any arrogance or cockiness, she would see how unassuming I was. How I could do all of this and not even be aware that I was doing it. She would be madly in love with me. I fantasize about it. I’ve given her a name already. Alice Austen. Thomas Burr and Alice Austen riding around the most extravagant place on Earth with no enemies and all of our friends.
But that’s not who I am.
This is who I am. I sometimes hope everyone is proud, but then I stop.
It’s unfortunate that the last installment was so erratic. My thoughts were scrambled. Her letter threw me for a loop and I just didn’t know what to think. I still don’t know what to think. Based on what I’ve experienced all I know is that your old friends forget about you and your new friends are likely to dissipate at some point, but your family is what you have when the Sun goes down. No price tag is too high for that. No price can be named for that. And I know that life is temporary but if we have photographs and stories we can pretend that we will always exist here. And letters too. If we have letters we can stay the same. Sometimes it’s just exhausting when you’re something that you’re not.
But that’s not who I am. This is who I am. You can wear clothes with horses stitched on… you can dress upper class but you know where you came from. You can drive through the neighborhoods. See the American flags flying, the men mowing their own yards, raking their own leaves, cleaning their own cars, drinking the beer that they worked for. The type of people that didn’t need a terrorist to remind them about what it means to be patriotic. The type of men that would die for their families. The working class heroes that surround me.
Anyway, welcome to the city where your friends won’t visit your parents. The city where they make excuses not to hang out with each other. The city where no body celebrates your 21st birthday. The city… the house that protects you like a womb. The familiar footsteps and voices that resonate off of the different shades of tan. The Christmas lights on the bushes in the front yard. The backyard with the birdbath and a holly tree on each side. The spigot that we used to drink out of that was right next to the family room windows. There was that awkward green mat that lined the front steps. The patio that would get unbearably hot had the chair that I liked to spin around in. The train set down stairs. The accolades. The holidays. The handrails. This history. Yea, this is it. The city where everything stays the same, I guess. I guess it stays the same, but you can’t believe that because look at how different everything has become. And I guess that I guess about it because I’m not sure and when you’re not sure you consider the options and guess. I consider the options. I compare and contrast. I’m confident. Supremely. It’s not me I doubt. What’s the point?
So now I’m laying in my bed and the speakers are doing what they are told and they are speaking to me…
They say we don’t have heart but it’s pounding more now than ever…
And I’m just laying here thinking…
I find it humorous that for all those years I found it hard to listen.
I’m finding now that failure hurts; I’m failure fleeting.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
No excuses, just revenge. No excuses, you prevail.
And here I am, my phone lighting up with a text message from a girl and I don’t even care about it. What a boring conversation we are having. This is too easy. And another girl supposedly sent a letter in the mail, but I consider not even reading it. In fact, I’ll never read it because it’s not on it’s way. It’s not coming and I know it isn’t. And my speakers keep speaking to me and this time I am the therapist and not the patient. My phone lights up again and I don’t even respond to it. This is too easy.
I think back to when me and my best friend stood on a stoop in the middle of a bustling city… the giant city. There were vendors and men handing out pamphlets riddled with conspiracies that I’m not sure they believed in as much as they believed in the almighty dollar that is so hard to come by. Streaks of yellow pass by transporting other tourists and nomads looking for answers. There is not much to look at; we could barely see over the fence that lined the area. It was a feeling or a sense that let us know what this was. We could smell it. It was a mixture of trash, and people, and afternoon hot dogs, and cold. I could smell the cold. It was barely the early evening but the Sun was already going down. The walls told me to post no bills but I did anyway. Women walked by with heavy perfume on and men walked by in pea-coats and they were so numb but I can imagine that they pass this every day and the effects have worn off. I couldn’t stare at this forever. As we looked down at a vast emptiness, a giant hole, he said “this is what we’re fighting for.” Is it? Again, I’m not sure so I guess he’s right.
But fuck, man, fuck.
Did you know fuck was actually an acronym? It originated in the Middle Ages when religion was law. The citizens of the kingdom had to get permission from the King to have a child, so they put a sign in front of their homes that said “Fornication Under Consent of the King” or “Fornication Under Cardinal Knowledge.” Fuck.
There’s this riddle that I know and I want to take a second to see if you can figure it out. There is a green glass door and you have to figure out what is behind it. Here are some clues: There is no water, but there is a flood. There is no alcohol, but there is beer. There are no leaves or branches, but there are trees. There is no fruit, but there are apples. There is no orange, but there is yellow. There are no beds, but there are pillows and sheets. You can’t swim in a lake, but you can swim in a pool. You can’t swim, but you can go swimming. There are no buildings, but there are schools. You can’t taste, but you can smell. There are no losers, only winners. You can’t have everything, but you can have it all. That’s enough clues. Do you know what is behind the green glass door?
When I left my brothers home I noticed how much he’d aged without getting any older, but I let him know he’s not a man yet so he still has something to work for. I got back on that dreadful highway and endured. My engine was the Metal Moses and the rubber tires were following him. Anyway, welcome back to the city where your best friends are your family and your family are your best friends. And you spent years trying to think of reasons to leave but you’re still scared to death at the airport by yourself, trying to convince yourself that it’s not that long but you don’t even know what’s going to happen in two hours. You think things will stay the same but you’ve been gone for less than one day and things are already so different. It’s been a fucked up year so I guess we should just assume next year will be fucked up too.
“I’m the shit because I don’t even miss her.”
I’m starting to feel like I’m beating a dead horse with all of this. I’ll sit in here in this bed and write for a while, sometimes only a few minutes, but for how long can you just type and delete and type and delete? Type and delete. Type and delete. Type and delete. Like a hamster in a wheel or Algernon trying to find his cheese. Or a CD that will only play to a certain second, so you just keep starting over and starting over, but the song is the same every time. So you know what? I don’t even miss her. And why should I? Did she earn that? No.
So yes, I am the shit. I’m not a pessimist. Sometimes I reminisce, but that’s what we do when we’re bored. I don’t for long though because do they reminisce about me? Who fucking cares. It really makes no difference. You’re either with me or not, but I’m going forward either way. I try to apologize to Jimmy but he doesn’t want to hear it, so fuck him. Fuck him for not visiting our family in my absence. And fuck Suzanne for cheating on my best friend. And fuck Renee for every missed phone call and unsent letter. Fuck all of their unreliability. Fuck them for being occupied when I wasn’t. What’s the use of hiding anything behind a quill and some coffee stained parchment? That’s how old this is… my thrice told story. Thrice told stories. Yeah, that’s right, knock ‘em down for the Gold Medal Kids and fuck them to hell. You heard me. Fuck them. That’s the only way I can get anyone’s attention? So yeah, I mean that. Fuck all of you. I created it so I can do what I want with it. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future girlfriends will know everything about me.
Let’s keep going like this.
Couldn’t you feel the chemistry? We were practically building nuclear bombs and now I’ve got them stockpiled in my fingertips. I think most of what you believe is bullshit. I’ve had this fairytale built up in my mind. I’ve been trying to create the balance of the city and my home. At least I can admit that it’s fantasy. You think what you have is reality. It was just another dance to you, wasn’t it? That’s all it ever was. Just a fairytale. A movie role you could play until you got bored. But it seems the film ran out unusually quick, even for you. Not very surprising and extraordinarily predictable. But you have got to be fucking kidding me. That’s the best you could do? It was a poor performance. Not even a letter. Maybe I should have expected less. Or maybe all of your future boyfriends will know absolutely nothing about me.
Enough of this.
Have you ever looked at coins lined up? Take a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and a penny place them in a line. Do you notice that three of the coins are a lighter color and one is dark? The copper is dark. Do you notice that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Franklin D. Roosevelt are all facing the left and Abraham Lincoln is facing right? It’s like the other three are turning their backs on him because they are ashamed. It’s a subliminal message. Is it a coincidence that the coin Abraham Lincoln graces is practically worthless? He freed the slaves and it’s a secret subliminal message.
There are a few things I believe in. I believe in family, country, and God. But I also believe that letters are the most intimate form of communication and that every powerful man should wear a watch, an attractive watch. A watch that describes the man. My brother may have gotten qualities such as intelligence and talent, but he did not get the relentless nature that I have. The extremism. However, his intelligence and talent transfer easily into society, whereas my relentless nature only exists on a blank tablet or when I feel like expressing it.
How am I different than anyone else, though? I’m trying to tell you my story but it’s getting harder and harder to focus. I hope maybe this gives you some insight into my psyche. I don’t know if it will though because I’m so void of details. Okay lets see, I’m looking back into time and the last you saw of me I was leaving my brothers house. When I got home I had a letter in the mail from Renee and it really bugged me for some reason. The envelope was business like and the writing on the front was obviously hers. My heart was like a skier performing aerials in an avalanche. I placed it on my coffee table and stared at it for hours. Eventually I started listening to some music and I did some laundry. I forgot about it, which was strange because I’d being dying for some form of communication. Correction: I was living for it. I opened the letter a few days later after I had walked past the beasts lined up. They were so incomplete here, you could just tell by looking at them. Some of them had survived many wars but here they sat, alone and slightly relevant. I walk outside and start making my way towards them. The Sun is usually just rising in whatever direction that takes place. The asphalt still smells like rain. There’s always a puddle to my right and the rising Sun shimmers off of it like fire. The birds are singing their morning song. The jack rabbits are brushing the morning dew out of their eyes. It’s unusually warm for this hour and beads of sweat drip off of my forehead like a leaky faucet. I can feel my lower back start to moisten and it’s becoming uncomfortable. I imagine that if my body experienced this type of dampness on a beach or at a pool it would be much more pleasing. I walk past a building that is undergoing treatment for a flood that I didn’t have a chance to witness. And then another building with strange hallways that elevate and sink in place of the regular straightness. The parking lot I walk through is littered with gravel and potholes. The stones are just as displaced as everything else. The Sun glints and gleams off of chrome tires and bumpers and the flatness of the area provides a pleasant view of the sky. There are people coming to work and leaving work at the same time. There is an absence of wildlife and an abundance of steel. I start to feel their warmth. They have been domesticated but they are still warm from their years of life. The morning heat reverberates off of their midsections and brings an extra warmth to the area. The hearts have been dormant for years but if you listen close you can still hear traces of the distant hum. I come around the corner and there they are, clear as day. And there they are. There they are… what was I saying? The letter, let’s get back to the letter.
Back to the letter. Here is what it said:
Dear Thomas,
I’m not really sure why I’m writing this… I actually can’t believe that I’ve sent it off but if you’re reading this then I obviously did. We haven’t really had a chance to talk, but the way you just disappeared really hurt me. You never really let me in so how was I supposed to know how you really felt? This is all just very confusing to me. Sometimes I wish you had never left. Sometimes I wish you were dead. Other times I don’t even care. I really hated you. But I’m sure you also hated me. I know it wasn’t right, maybe we should have never even started. It was all really stupid. It was never going to happen. You probably think that what you’re doing is so amazing, but nobody cares. Your friends don’t care, the people you used to know don’t care, and I don’t care. I’m sorry because that sounds awful, but it’s the truth. And I really have no place to tell you that because I’m not doing anything amazing, either. What am I even saying? Of course I care. Come back, Thomas. I want you to come back so I can see you. I don’t want things to be like this, but I know they can never be the same. I guess I should tell you that I’m with someone right now and he doesn’t know much about you. He doesn’t know that I wrote this or that I want you to come back . I swear to you if you came back I would leave him in a second. Do you have anyone? How is your family? How are you?
The letter you left at the library… I didn’t how to respond to it which is why this took so long. But this isn’t a response, this is a new conversation. I don’t know what any of this even means. Come save the city from the fire.
I want to know how you are doing. What have you been up to? I want you to write back so I know you received this. I miss you. I’ll just keep this short because I’m sure you are busy.
Renee
Was it shocking? Yes. How did I feel about it? I’m not really sure. I put it in my folder and carried it around with me. I started writing drafts that would hopefully be some sort of response, but not much of them made any sense. It sort of brought me back to that little town and me losing my fucking mind trying to impress her with a story. But like I said, things are different now. So I wrote something back and I’m not sure if it’s impressive. In fact, I know it’s not impressive, but you have to believe when I say that it took every ounce of confidence to mark it with postage. I didn’t rush it. I actually intentionally waited several weeks to send it even though I wrote the final version maybe 5 or 6 days after I read Renee’s letter. I just wanted it to marinate a little bit. Even from a few thousand miles away you don’t want to seem too desperate or urgent. But this story will take place at a later date.
I walk outside and all I hear is arguments:
“What the fuck is a thousand millions? That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“How does that not make sense… a thousand millions is one billion. You’re an idiot.”
--
“Just fucking ask him man, I don’t understand why you’re being an asshole.”
“This is funny to me. I’m going to sit here until you go up and ask.”
--
“How do you not understand this? You came over here, took my shit, and now you want to pay? Do you go to Foot Locker and pay after you wear the shoes? No, you don’t, that’s backwards.”
“Relax man, I’m just trying to have a good time.”
--
I hear the arguments but I just keep walking. I reach a place where I can think and I decide that after many stops and starts and re-do’s and undo’s I want to go back a few months. I left you in an awkward position. I never really told you how I got here. I think you would be interested where the cynical side of my writing comes from. You see how sarcastic and vicious I can be? But then I turn it around into a moderate and restrained style just within a few words. Sometimes I feel like I hold back, however moderation is important in writing because I can’t just tell you everything. Something has to be left to the imagination… I think I’ve said that before. You have to leave something to be desired. I think one of biggest problems in literature is that people that write do things and they don’t even know why they’re doing it. It’s like there are unwritten rules you have to follow and there might have been a reason for the rules many years ago, but there‘s no point to them now. It reminds of the “monkeys in a cage” concept. You could take ten monkeys and put them in a cage with a basket of bananas and every time one of them got close you could spray them with a fire hose. At first they would keep trying to get to the bananas because monkeys like bananas, if you haven’t noticed. After some time, though, they wouldn’t try anymore. If you took five of those monkeys out of the cage and put five new ones in and the new ones tried to eat the bananas, the older monkeys would beat the new ones every time they got close to the basket until they didn’t want the bananas, either. If you took out the older monkeys and put five newer monkeys in, the other five monkeys would beat the new monkeys until they didn’t want the bananas. The cycle would perpetually continue, but now there’s no fire hose, so why can’t they have the bananas? It doesn’t make any sense at this point. I don’t know how to make this specific and vague at the same time. I haven’t found a way yet. I promise you I’m trying to figure it all out. This is just what I’ve come up with so far. I guess I can begin at the airport. No, no. That’s not right. I’ll begin at the beginning. This is has to start in a kitchen. A kitchen in a house. It’s not as clear as used it to be, but all the cutlery was placed appropriately.
I promise this is only the beginning…
William BraveHeart Wallace
I bid you adieu.
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