Things Best Said

Here’s a quick story opener I wrote a while back. I don’t think I’ve even edited it since writing it..

Bronson built a machine. Well, to be truthful, it was several thousand people working in conjunction with one another. Bids were made and plans were drawn up until there was simply no alternative but to build the machine. It was a gloriously, white, pristine space craft. Not so differerent than the ones you’ve seen around lately –but this was the first.

Bronson came up with the idea. he wanted to find out the total expanse of space. His friends loaned him the money –some knowing full-well he might not return to pay it back — and he built the spacecraft.

December 4th of this year he took off. It was a wild ride through the atmostphere and seemed almost anti-climactic to Bronson when he finally got to space –technically “lower earth orbit”. He made a few passes around the earth, he and his crew, that is. They tested the machinery.

Lights flashed here and there, a display changed as the terrain below did. All seemed well. The ship was of fine construction and would give comfort to the crew for as long as they were gone.

The true purpose of this craft was it’s driving force from day one. Sure, the spaceship had all the bells and whistles any space-phile would want but the addition of one thing made this ship special. The one sole purpose of this ship is to use the largest convergence of telepathics anywhere to guide it toward another planet, hopefully with people like us.

Special hollows in the ship were built to merge the energy of these telepathics into a single strong beam of energy…a feeler of sorts. The feeler would travel out beyond the ship in any direction and begin to search the planets closest. This was tried on Earth in much smaller scale when a Nigerian group of spriitualists made contact with a small enclave of Hippies in the San Fernando Valley. Work began on trying to discover just what it was about this group of spirtualists that made them different. Telepathically, they described in immense detail how the process worked and that their wood and mud hovels seemed to amplify their energy.

Bronson was on the team that went to Nigeria. And, as he’s told time and again, the idea of the spaceship was transferred to him in the form of a picture from one of the natives there. As the proverbial lightbulb went off in Bronson’s eyes, the native smiled at him and looked to the sky.

Now, far from Nigeria, Bronson and the native are standing at the helm of the S.S. Cloudmaker. Their first feeler goes out in less than twenty minutes. Close your eyes, think…and help them out.

She giggled through the telephone, she was stoned. Out of her gourd, he might have called it.

Through the digital dropout on the end of the phone he waited for the laughter to subside. When it did she said, What?

I didn’t say anything, he replied and winced at the lie. He had said something. In her mind, the glowing graphic MUTE never came up but it was obviously there. He hadn’t pushed the button, hadn’t even had control of the remote, but it was the instinctual twist of life’s volume knob he knew had happened.

So, do you wanna come over, her words melded into a teasing slur.

The handset became heavier in his hands at each breath. This wasn’t an unusual question and certainly the doubt in his mind wasn’t new. Conversation in the background –her end of course, he was alone– gave him a minute. His eyes turned up to their thinking place. Each crook and shadow of the plaster ceiling made him want to think about something else, but not someone else.

Are you binging this weekend, he asked.

Her breathing and muffled voice on the other end of the phone was playful and erotic.

Maybe, she said, do you want to join us?

She was having a good time, why couldn’t he? Pondering the question he also tried to isolate the year his response had come into being. It was before his time, likely to have been conjured while his parents were still too young to use it.

I don’t think it’s really my scene.

His eyes stopped deciphering the braille of the ceiling and squared, leveled. His mind was made up. He spoke one more sentence into the handset and hung up. Stepping away from the corner table that held the phone, he tossed his head back letting the beer flow into his throat. Mid-swallow he knew he’d need at least one more, just too many things to think about. It felt good to have said his piece, though.
—–

As all things in life, most important things (some more than others), come up in conversation. So, I’m wondering if it’s indeed true that there’s really a bad G-spot?

It’s likely to have come to the foreground in something like the Vagina Monologues”, but I have no idea if it’s true. “Without light there is no dark”, says Yoda, but is that true of all things? More importantly, is someone propagating the falsehood of a bad G-spot?

it’s not so much in looking for a happy medium as it is just retrieving a glimpse of where you’ve been happiest.

There is no doubt that we’ve all had times when our lives seeme to be on course. Steady as she goes. And from time to time we wander, wondering, listless for a while…or in my case, busy enough for a team of people…and forget who I am. Who I want to be.

I’m looking for that even ground. Where my head wasn’t in the clouds nor my feet spiked to the asphalt. The times when writing meant so much. When hanging out with friends wasn’t an intrusion on the other life I live (work). I see so many people trying to grab hold of those times. They’re the people you see at happy hour. Not the ones who are greeted with laughter and beers, but the ones who get there early, they wait, smoke and try to look around with an expression of work-induced exhaustion. Their eyes dart from behind the sheaf of papers or their glasses searching the room for a familiar face. That happy hour patron is the one who leaves as alone as they arrived, but could smell the happiness for a brief moment.

I hope that at some point I’ll regain even again. Where everyday was about learning and being a more approachable human. When the stories of life outweigh the tales of my livelihood. I smirk to think about it, then realize with some chagrin, that I’m older than my parents were when they had a full-grown family. I’m still living the dream of boyhood. I work at home, drink beer when I want, listen to my music at any given interval (and at top volume) and can download as much porn as I want. Who says I’m not living the American dream. Someone got confused by mixing up the “2.3 kids” remark when they truly meant to say “2.3 hours of debauchery per day”.

Most days I am a boy trapped in the body of a teen with the mind of an adult and the depth of saucepan. Then there’s tomorrow to worry about.