One Five Three (Chapter 1)

Hello all. This is the start of my serial novel. I would like everyone to know I have no idea what I'm going to write about, no plot, no characters, nothing is decided. It's gonna get wild here as I scramble to piece together something coherent. Honestly "one five three" is my target weight for summer and I have it on sticky notes across my apartment. Felt like it was a good title. No promises that it's a good story, though.

One Five Three

Chapter One

It didn't make any sense. We were meant to be together. That's just a fact. Carly and I had been together since freshman year of high school. Nine years later and it was over.

I held two rings in my hand, one she had given back to me and one I never got to give to her. The cold metal cooled my entire body from boiling over into rage. I was stunned and my motor skills were just gone. I still murmured the words she whispered into my ear as she left for good.

"One Five Three.... One Five Three" I was sure those would be the words on gravestone because nothing in my mind would register besides that. I sat quiet for another month or a couple minutes. I didn't fucking know and time didn't fucking matter. She left me.

Carly had left before, relationships between kids especially have their ups and downs. But this time was different. She left with a calm demeanor (and three cryptic numbers), and I let her go in silence.
Her perfume lingered and I wallowed in the scent of cherry blossoms (or at least the manufactured replica  of cherry blossoms). That smell had owned me for the last nine years. There's not a pleasant memory in my mind that isn't triggered by that scent.

In tandem with her sweet scent, Carly had ruled my world. She would ask and I would do. Sometimes she wouldn't ask and I would still be expected to do. Her dirty blond hair reminded me of the sunrise on a foggy day, just little dull beams of light softly waking me on an autumn day. Her face was a little plump but centered on pale blue eyes and a nose that would stand out anywhere. She was pretty enough, but her soul was the most beautiful thing that entered this world and I'm afraid that I let it die out.

Enough poetry for now. SOMETHING was up. One Five Three had to mean something. Carly wouldn't just leave like that. Well, she SHOULD have just left me like that years ago, but she didn't. Now was not the time to just peace out like it was a two week fling that was primarily spent in between the sheets. Even if it was just a two week fling, this girl would have had me hooked. Her soul was an Opioid after a long day of hard labor. That metaphor was fucked up, but so is everything else.

I hopped into my 2006 gray Honda civic, which I couldn't help but notice my license plate A80 T153. These numbers ARE going to kill me. But they have to be something. I have to be something. I can't live my life thinking I'm just a part of Carly's. I am the protagonist after all.

I started the trek up 90 back home. Carly probably got a good head start time wise, but I felt like I could throw a rock and hit her beamer. That's how bad the highway was, a dead stop. Coincidentally, my life felt the same way, a dead stop with a bunch of pent up anger. Everything broken, especially highways, felt like a part of me. But at least I felt like something now.

The Revival (attempt 15)

I've written many unfinished posts for this blog. All varying content from movie reviews, to deep dives into song lyrics, back to angst filled posts about my life. However, I suffer from publishing anxiety, because it's never good enough for three other people to see. So I'm going to start hitting the publish button a lot more. Grammar and spell check be damned.

I'll probably just start a serial novella or some small writing project that can keep me entertained for a few weeks. We'll see where this project takes me. Expect about a post a week. Literally anything can happen. It could end up a college basketball blog for all I know. I like things and I like writing about things, so we're all just on this ride together. Ye'haw.

Life in Hindsight

It's been 3 years since I've posted anything on this blog,  I would assume no one was checking this blog every day for new content. If you have, my sincerest apologies. But when you check today, you're going to be pleasantly surprised!

Today is all about the rear view mirror. The thing you check only so often, like when you're backing up or have been speeding and you notice some flashing lights behind you. The point is, we don't always look back, but when we do, we always assume we get the full clear picture. We don't. That rear view mirror is just as distorted and uncertain as the front windshield.

It's easy to look back and think about what was the right and the wrong decision. Because you have all the information now. But you don't have all the information. You only have your recollection of all the available information. Here's a list of known memory biases. We all have that one friend that just slowly embellishes a story more and more until they no longer remember the truth. We are all the person to some extent. As beautiful and powerful as the human mind is, it is no where near perfect.

So what does this mean? Well, for me it means I'm keeping up all of my previous posts up. No matter how weird, no matter how angsty, they are the closest thing I will have to reliving those memories.  It's crazy to think I spent all that time and energy toward certain people that stopped reciprocating long ago. That friends came and went and all I did was waste effort trying to keep up with them. But it's not a waste, just because it seems like a waste in the rear view mirror. I have no idea what's ahead. I have no idea what's in their minds or how I affected them. All I can see is what's in front of me and what's behind me. And I don't even have a clear picture of that.

Pretty Little Words

                Language is the medium through which life is lived. I need to breathe air, I need to drink water, and I need to eat food. But I love to say words. I love to express complex ideas and put them into simple words. I think that is a major difference between quality of life. A person needs to find love in something they will always have, and something that doesn't take a lot of effort. For me, it’s pretty little words.

                The strength of language sometimes is outstanding. The cliché would be “the pen is mightier than the sword.” Which is absolutely true, words will move nations to kill other nations. Now most words spoken or written do not hold such high importance, but they still hold their might. The extended metaphor today will be the human mind as a factory and words as a product (yay!). Our brains process an almost limitless amount of information every second, and then we perceive the relevant information. There are all these little parts of information floating around in the mind, and when we speak, all the cogs turn and compress and combine millions of parts into a few simple words. These simple words are sometimes packaged nicely in between less meaningful words. If anyone were to hear those few words the millions of parts of information will be available for them to take as they please. Later, they can repackage the same exact words, and pass them on to someone that will have a similar experience. This will go on forever.

                I’ll refer to my very first post, where I state that there is beauty in vagueness. In a sense, it still holds true, but just because vagueness holds such a deep complexity that it is not vague to the speaker. It is everything it’s meant to be. And in deep connections it is not vague to receiver. Those three words “I love you” can be said and the receiver can perceive the message as the sender meant it to be. Or the three words could transform each one of the millions of ideas into a million possibilities. Maybe some find all the possibilities scary, but they should feel limitless instead. All the information is given to you in just three words, and you can pick apart everything and interpret it exactly as you want. No one can tell you that you’re wrong. No one should tell you that you’re wrong.

                Less complex ideas that need to be interpreted as is, tend to use more words. At least that is how I feel. But that doesn't make the ideas or words less powerful. There have been a few occasions where pretty little words will bring people to tears, not because of the events, but because the words so strongly elicit a response. Eloquence will take good intentions and multiply the effect. A speaker or a writer will use words to recreate the exact idea, and will pinpoint the exact desired interpretation. In that moment both the sender and receiver will share the same thought and the true strength of thought will be doubled. 

A fictional short story

I haven't been writing fiction lately, and I thought I'd spend some time doing that. I feel like my biggest strength is tragedy, because my words can be artistic. So I decided to not write a tragedy, and instead had a little more fun this time. Here it goes.

And good times were had by all

            There had been an increase in monthly envelope expenditure in both the Shilling and Redding residence. The Shilling family resided at 107 S. Truman St while the Reddings resided at 109. The Shilling place was a modest two bedroom one bathroom Ranch house.  It was plain white with a single green door in the exact center of the face and a window on each side to maintain symmetry. Steven and Cathy Schilling resided quietly at 107 S. Truman with their only child Alexander Schilling.  Alexander was in every way extremely average. Nothing he had done in his seventeen years of existence ever angered his parents or ever excited his parents. Even his birth was regarded as one of the most mediocre moments in Cathy Shilling’s life.

            The Redding place was a more extravagant four bedroom two bathroom Tudor revival with a nice patterned brick façade. James and Emma Redding had six children from ages nine to eighteen. Ashley Redding was eighteen and future trophy wife in training. School wasn’t nearly as hard when eager teenage boys did all the work. Claire Redding at sixteen was often viewed as the “go ask your father… Well what did you mother say” child. Not much is known about Claire Redding except for that she exists. Sophie Redding age fourteen was a much more interesting girl and found passion in intricate (though not good) watercolor paintings and decadent (though not good) cupcake creations.  Adler, Chris, and Skylar were the triplet boys at age nine. James had so desperately begged for a chance to have a boy and eventually Emma gave in. Some parents are blessed enough to receive multiple children when they ask for one, others are cursed enough to receive multiple children when they ask for one. James and Emma were one of each, respectively. Luckily, Emma had the cunning to have the first initials of ACS, which only she ( and now you the reader, and myself the omniscient narrator) knows stands for All Children Suck, All. Children. Suck.

            Back to the envelope problem (which James Redding insisted on pronouncing ONvelope). Both Steven Schilling and James Redding used about half of a 50 pack of envelopes per month. Curiously, over the past two months, both noticed approximately four fifths (40 envelopes for those lacking in mathematical abilities) of a pack was used every month. If we assume a pack of envelopes is reasonably priced at $5 (10 cents per ‘lope), and each is losing fifteen envelopes per month, than Steve and James have suffered a loss of $3 each. Quite an interesting problem, indeed. Cathy Schilling had no use for envelopes because she secretly stole an envelope every day from Landshire Holdings, where she works as a secretary. Cathy Schilling has stolen enough envelopes over the past ten years to reach a total envelope value of three hundred four dollars and twenty cents (this is enough to be charged with felony theft in Illinois. Cathy Schilling is a bad girl that needs to be spanked). Emma Redding had no use for envelopes because she discovered they were no good for assisting in adultery. She found the cellular phone to be much more efficient and enjoyable in communicating the desire to “bone” as she eloquently said softly to her suitor Charlie Quiver (whom resided at 108 S. Truman St.).

            Once again back to envelope problem, (as I got lost in the outstandingly uninteresting lives of the wives on S. Truman St.). Where dem ‘lopes gone too? Would be a question a less educated male would ask; however, Steven and James both attended the prestigious University of Phoenix Online. Let us drop in as the Steven Schilling tries to solve the problem.

            “Had you have been using my envelopes?” (That's almost English Steven, good job.) Steven asked Alexander.

            “Yes.” Alexander replied.

            Well that solves that problem. Alexander has been using them. Now if only we understood why…

            “I’ve been using them to write to Claire Redding.” Alexander continued to explain to his father.

            Mystery solved, I guess. Let’s see if James can figure his problem out.

            “Ashley! Have you seen Claire?” James asked her daughter sitting in the living room.

            “I am Claire. “ Claire  responded.

            “Okay, well if you see Claire, ask if she’s been using my envelopes.”

            “I have been using them. But only to write to Alexander Schilling.”

            Really? I was hoping there was some sort of love triangle. What an uneventful situation. I hope Alexander is a vampire or something. I guess we will dive deeper into the lives of Alexander and Claire to expose their vampire-human love to the world (assuming Alexander is a vampire).

            Alexander sat at the oak stained desk in his room, furiously writing a letter. It read:

                        Dearest Claire,

When will I see you again? The wait between visits slowly tears at my weak heart. I can only hope to live long enough to see you once more. Alas, the war rages on and my English brothers are losing their will to survive. Talk of a German surrender is common, but we both know I’m not that lucky.

                        Regards,

                        Alexander Schilling

                        Infantry, King’s Division

            Alexander Schilling is no vampire; he is just a weird kid. I can’t imagine how Claire could stand such weirdness after two months. Alexander sealed his letter in an envelope and left his room to deliver it through the backyard fence that Emma Redding insisted on being built between the Schillings and Reddings. At 4:07 pm Alexander slipped the envelope between the fifth and sixth post of the fence. Alex then did a triple knock on the fence followed by a “cha, cha, cha” and a meow. This signal was awkward an unnecessary as Claire stood on the other side of the fence at 4:07 pm as previously communicated through letters.  

                Claire snagged the letter and scampered (I’m not sure what scampering looks like, but I felt like that was it) inside. She took it to her upstairs room and read it. Then she read it again. And once more before she held it tightly to her heart (well, where she believed her heart is. She’s wrong.) Claire wrote back and violated the one letter per day rule. At 5: 03pm Claire snuck her letter between the sixth and seventh post of the fence to signal that the letter was written by Claire and not Alexander (even though he should probably remember if he wrote the letter regardless of what posts it is in between).

            Alexander went to the backyard quickly to pick up the letter, as if he had been staring out his window waiting for a letter for almost one hour (that’s weird Alexander, don’t do that.) Alexander went back inside and took the letter to room where he read: 

                        Dear Alexander,

                                    You’re quite funny. Let’s make out.

                        Sincerely,

                        Claire.

            That is where we end the story. Maybe we will pick up the story again when I don’t have to narrate an awkward first kiss between two weird kids that will probably never find anyone else that is attracted to them. Not to be too critical or anything. 

           And good times were had by all. The End

To continuously be selfless will result in having no self

The quote of the week for me “The kindest people are often the most depressed.” This is true to a larger extent than I want to believe. Thoughts like that kill the spirits of the endangered romantic. A dying breed most known for flocking together and just hoping that one day everything will be okay. Sometimes not much more can be done than just hoping. After a long conversation about what the “right” thing to do is, I came up with a thought for the selfless, and those that believe in a romanticized happy future.

                Selflessness is the most dangerous compassionate act. It’s more than just refusing to throw others under the bus, it’s throwing yourself in their place. Actively harming your well-being to protect others. It sounds like the right thing to do, it shows concern and love. Yet, it creates no sense of self, it creates  “I’m not happy unless you’re happy.” To continuously be selfless will result in having no self.  I guess it is in the name. Your identity merges with those you love, and you measure your success through their success, even though their success may not benefit you in any other way. You’re happy because they’re happy, and they’re happy because good things happen to them. A little bit down the road, you’re unhappy because you’re so financially, mentally, emotionally (whatever it may be) drained, that you can longer support them. They’re unhappy because bad things happen and you can’t support them.  Maybe there was a time and place when selfless acts were appreciated and would always benefit everyone, but it’s no longer that time, and this world is no longer that place.

                So there’s no happiness in acting for others benefit? That’s not true at all. Much like everything else great in life, moderation is key. Spend that bonus you got on a stranger in a hard time, or spend the little free time you have calling a friend.  But if you work hard so you can afford a jet ski, when you get enough money to buy a jet ski, buy the jet ski. Even if you have a friend struggling, it may just be best to let them ride your jet ski instead of giving up your happiness for theirs.  There is value in giving to others, but if you don’t value yourself occasionally, you’ll have nothing to give.  I guess the best advice for the selfless is the same advice for the selfish. Share the wealth.

It’s summertime and I clearly want to ride a jet ski.  

Advice to contemplate and ultimately ignore

At age twenty, I know just a little over zero information. I’ve lived all sorts of experiences and to be honest, the best advice I can give you is keep going. And I mean for it to be that vague. It’s okay to stop and collect your thoughts, it’s okay to smell the roses, it’s okay to backtrack and try again for something you’ve missed.Just keep in the back of your mind that even though you can go at your own pace, you should never give up on moving forward.

                Keep going. There is a better moment waiting ahead. There is a better place somewhere out there. I don’t think “best moment of my life” applies to anyone; every single second you exist there is another opportunity to have something better. This life defining moment that we search for weighs down our mind. In hopes of achieving that moment, we ignore all splendor of the moments passing by. Once we experience a moment deemed worthy of life defining, we negatively judge every other second from then on. I’m not saying achieving your biggest dream is worthless; it just defines who you are. How is that bad? I’m not sure, but to me, I don’t want to be defined by one or two moments. I want my life to be a continuous stream of reaching new greatness, experiencing new things and old things. I want to extend past the regular dreams and find a constant state of amazement. We can only achieve this if we keep going.