I do not know what to write about.
I have been on the down/out for the past week. Kids were sick, I got sick. Blah.
I consumed too much. Too little creating. Almost none. It's comfort and it is easy to fall back on.
Comfort Kills.
Kills Motivation.
Kills Focus.
Kills Energy.
Kills Creativity.
I write everything like a tweet these days. Is that good? I don't know.
Ah, my fiction story. Let's get that over here.
CHAPTER 1
The day began.
I have been on the down/out for the past week. Kids were sick, I got sick. Blah.
I consumed too much. Too little creating. Almost none. It's comfort and it is easy to fall back on.
Comfort Kills.
Kills Motivation.
Kills Focus.
Kills Energy.
Kills Creativity.
I write everything like a tweet these days. Is that good? I don't know.
Ah, my fiction story. Let's get that over here.
CHAPTER 1
The day began.
On cue, mom yelled. “Danny it’s time to wake up!” It’s cold. It’s November. The end of November.
My eyes open to the same scene. Off white walls, with matching ceiling. A brown dresser and corner desk set. The corner desk is where I do my best thinking and dreaming. A few knick knacks, like my eighth-grade hockey statuette. To my right was my closet and to the left of it was the stereo system. It was a combined Stereo/Record/Cassette black box. My friends and I adored the record player, because we could spin Led Zeppelin album backwards. The first time we did it, the hair on the back of our necks stood tall. We had to spin backwards, manually. As I was spinning, we clearly heard, "My sweet satan." Hand lifted up like I was burnt by a stove burner. We ran out of that room, high stepping and screaming. Like little girls. Man life was simple. After replaying it with our voices and memories, we couldn't wait to find more. This is what we did. We were boys.
The anchor of the room, was the overhead light. A beauty she was. A textured glass dome, decorated with different boats. The border of the dome was a wooden captains wheel. It was quite the art piece. Clearly this was a different, younger boy's bedroom, at one time.
The anchor of the room, was the overhead light. A beauty she was. A textured glass dome, decorated with different boats. The border of the dome was a wooden captains wheel. It was quite the art piece. Clearly this was a different, younger boy's bedroom, at one time.
I pulled the sheets off my head. My head was buried here each morning. Something scared me as a kid. It was my favorite show as a 3 year old. Ultra Man. The monsters he fought scared the shit out of me, but I liked it. I liked it, until it was bedtime. Lights out, head under covers. There was no other way.
Down go the sheets. I drug my legs onto the cold wooden floor. When I was younger, I didn’t mind the cold. I was too busy being curious to notice. Don't let your curiosity be dormant. It's ok to shelve it for a bit, but it will keep you going. Too much curiosity is paralyzing. Too little is too. <-Nice.
I stood up and stretched. School morning routine. Boring, but I did nothing to change it. I didn't know I could change it.
My body hurt and the day just began. I had no idea.
I creaked across the floor. I only wore underwear to sleep. Tidy whiteys. I wrestled. I grabbed jeans and a shirt. Went over to the closet, grabbed a flannel and headed to the shower. I couldn't not shower before school. It woke me up and I needed to be clean. I was already self conscious. After the shower, I dressed. I looked in the mirror. I missed my hair. My usual mop was gone. Wrestling wasn’t fun with my mop and I wrestled. A quick once over, I stepped out of the room.
I creaked across the floor. I only wore underwear to sleep. Tidy whiteys. I wrestled. I grabbed jeans and a shirt. Went over to the closet, grabbed a flannel and headed to the shower. I couldn't not shower before school. It woke me up and I needed to be clean. I was already self conscious. After the shower, I dressed. I looked in the mirror. I missed my hair. My usual mop was gone. Wrestling wasn’t fun with my mop and I wrestled. A quick once over, I stepped out of the room.
I could hear mom in the kitchen. Singing to my siblings. Mom was cooking breakfast and packing my lunch. She always made sure I had both. Never missed a day. Sick or not mom made things happen. I’m determined like mom.
I’m skipping down the stairs. I hear Kat, “Danny”. For being 2.5 she could say it well. “Ba ba blah da sasss aaah” my little brother shouted. He slapped his hands on his high chair. He was ten months old. Having such younger siblings was the best. I always knew I wanted to be a dad. These kids solidified it for me.
I smiled. These noises are good. Food for the soul. I rounded the corner of the family room and headed to the kitchen. The warm light lit up the entry way. Our kitchen was small, but functional. We had a round table where we could eat. This is where Kat and Ben were.
Standing in the doorway I see the kids and they see me. Goooood Mooorning! Their excitement is palpable. Their eyes are bright. Mom spins around. Hers are shining too. We are all happy. This is the best part of everyday. Especially today.
CHAPTER 2
The boys of summer. I think every teenage group of boys views themselves like this. We owned Summer was ours. We were up early, outside often and home after dark. Life was good. We played a lot of basketball, skateboarded, bicycled, hung out in the woods. Some of our friends were lucky and had dirt bikes. These days were extra special.
If you were allowed to ride someone's machine, you felt like a peasant about to be knighted. Our friend Tim, had a Suzuki DS 100. It was an old 1970's model, complete with an orange gas tank. My God she was perfect. Kids with newer bikes laughed and teased at this motorbike. They all wanted to drive it. We treated this bike like a diamond. Each time a rider would mount Tim's bike, he would say 'If you lay it down, you can't ride.' It was plain and simple. Spill the bike, and your privileges are revoked. He stuck to it for guys outside our immediate group.
Rob had a quad. No one was allowed to ride Rob's quad. Kevin though, he had a trike. It was a relic like the Tim's Suzuki. It too was 70's model, a Honda. A dulled, once fire engine red, painted gas tank and fenders could rip. The tires were not all that great. The bike itself was crooked. You always had to steer slightly left for the thing to go straight. It was a sight for us spectators when someone was ripping around our little moto course.
CHAPTER 2
The boys of summer. I think every teenage group of boys views themselves like this. We owned Summer was ours. We were up early, outside often and home after dark. Life was good. We played a lot of basketball, skateboarded, bicycled, hung out in the woods. Some of our friends were lucky and had dirt bikes. These days were extra special.
If you were allowed to ride someone's machine, you felt like a peasant about to be knighted. Our friend Tim, had a Suzuki DS 100. It was an old 1970's model, complete with an orange gas tank. My God she was perfect. Kids with newer bikes laughed and teased at this motorbike. They all wanted to drive it. We treated this bike like a diamond. Each time a rider would mount Tim's bike, he would say 'If you lay it down, you can't ride.' It was plain and simple. Spill the bike, and your privileges are revoked. He stuck to it for guys outside our immediate group.
Rob had a quad. No one was allowed to ride Rob's quad. Kevin though, he had a trike. It was a relic like the Tim's Suzuki. It too was 70's model, a Honda. A dulled, once fire engine red, painted gas tank and fenders could rip. The tires were not all that great. The bike itself was crooked. You always had to steer slightly left for the thing to go straight. It was a sight for us spectators when someone was ripping around our little moto course.