15 Jun 4705 - No Title Given

As if I had done anything wrong.

I could feel my entire left side lurch as the chain thudded into place on a sprocket three below where it had been on sequence, throwing the contraption I was piloting nearly into the side of a pole. I naturally weaved in the opposite direction, nailing my groin on the imaginary seat before planting my left foot on the pavement in the first of a series of hopping lopes to get balance back on and speed down to where I could control it. I thought for certain I was going to leap into a nearby bush row across a fence and have to relive days long gone when I would retreat from charging boxers after vouchsafing a street-hockey puck I had mis-aimed. The only dogs were my own, and they could put up with it until I was through pedaling towards oblivion.

The store was packed, and I was late enough getting there that I wouldn't have to worry about throwing dollars at a sealed deck, and instead focus on my arbitrarily developed goal of picking a playset of a few gems I had discovered just the other day from the uncommons folders and commons bins of The Lucky Frog. Gems because they would take a standard deck of mine and make it extended and insane, and arbitrary because synthetic automation had been failing me all day, and I was a hair's breath away from going to sleep to run from myself. Too long with the ghosts in this house, and ideas drain from your head, you slow down all processes that don't demand your immediate attention, and you start praying for disaster to climb in your window and try to steal your gingerly placed museum of expensive crap. At least this way, I thought to myself nearly careening through a fence, I would accomplish something.

More and more what I will accomplish is to solve everyone's problems but my own, save where my skills need not apply, Irish or otherwise (and who can say, I put to you, than none of my skills is Irish-at-heart?), and ignore or half-ass my own problems. And then I wait for something bad to happen. I had been ignoring an entire world. I had forgotten that this state had not been my residence for the past half-decade of my life before Mason.

Not again. I'm not letting it happen again.

I sit beside a pair of mismatched keyboards and looted computer cables that I had to remove before plumbing up the data storage device that houses the living backup files of the text you are reading. Unholy is the compulsion to craft chainmaille and act in plays. Two years is too little time for a cycle like this. I can't keep reinventing myself just to watch the same series of events unfold in two short year's time. It's a terrible plot and the author should be fired. I thought issues like that would come out in a draft. Rework it already, I'm sick of it.

Ten million millibial devils sit in waiting for the completion of their thought, next to more looted computer detritus from work who awaits testing and storage, next to folded piles of laundry that I may yet put in my mini-fridge that I have yet to plug in. I've kept my life packable in a day for just such an emergency as never happens but at the end of my two year cycle. I've had a good run, though. I just hate running. Why else would I bike and walk everywhere.

I had better go cook these before I regret not. Done, and now I can rest safe in the knowledge that I have once again barely staved off dietary disaster and filled the air with the smell of fresh leather and sweet charred residue. For some reason, the lights beneath the keys I hit are a blessing from below (they can come from all around without me worshipping Satan you gigglepusses). The ancient mariner was so doomed to recite his viewings to every passer-by he met, until the story finished and he would start anew, adding on the retelling of what had happened whenever he started telling the story to someone else, so long as they become zombies, or wil-o-the-wisps or some other black card. I can make out incomplete stripes.

Usually the feeling passes in a day. Someone calls or stops by with an adventure in mind, or wants to eat something, or is bored and expects me to entertain for essentially no reason because I spent a year of my life careful not to trip on any toes at all, and absorbing every fucking cross comment that scratched across my face after I had worked for hours just the night previous to clean up someone else's dishes he had left behind. Yeah, I can clean mine that I left here after washing all of yours just to make space.

No I don't mind at all.

The gears switch a little hard and I go lurching in a funny direction. I wish my mind were racing to someplace specific so I could arrive at the solution at the bottom of the page and present my neatly-done ideas as an argument for or against the subject in question, but instead it just runs around aimlessly and fleetly. I'm not even afraid of the crash I can feel coming, and it scares me a little. Most of the dreams where something happens to prove the situation is serious commits the something to be my teeth falling out or getting knocked out. It is my personal symbol to myself of irreparable damage, little as I understand how something so benign could carry horrifying gravity to it, like a Cthulhu Hello Kitty doll. Don't google search that, I swear to God.

I guess the transition took its toll. I can see the grime on my fingers where I had to re-attach the chain to a drive sprocket without falling over sideways. The difference between rolling over to everyone's whims just to survive and ignoring everyone's petty crap and aggressively targeting and taking what I want seems to me like a exhaling a year-long breath, but must seem to everyone else like a beloved dog running away for no reason. He's afflicted with the wanderlust, that's all. He'll come back after he gets it out of his system, and start doing a better job with the cookies, and smiling politely, and holding back any harsh words he has to say. He'll forget all about his stodgy, principled ways and finally settle in to a mediocre existence as a humble practitioner of folk remedies for minor maladies.

Like hell. There is no such Kaz. I remember the first time I tasted banana's foster. I remember waiting for the right moment to sneak out and break into a building to take a shower. I remember what it was like to take, whether it was a need or want, and this time, I will so taste and take from fate itself.

No Rocky Horror. I shouldn't have even considered it, but logic fails where supernatural compulsion is concerned. My acting in plays every two years is a link in a chain that just hops off and leaves me reeling. The forever beginning of an endless and beginningless circle that extirpates me from the life I have spent the time in-between building to apparently no effect. If I say something incisive, it is because I mean my words to mend something; the knife is a great tool of medicine. If I behave oddly, it is because I have led an odd life up to now, and that isn't going to change any time soon, as far as I can remember, which if memoriography serves is longer than rational. If I expect something and don't get it, its probably because I tend to line-item the information I get so as to predict the outcome I want rather than take in all the factors that I actually should. It's why I failed regression analysis with a C (told you my life was odd), and it's why I'm clumsy around girls, even seven years out of high school.

I had to go out and have a metaphor for my life, but some wheels keep turning and others break, and no model is accurate but some are useful. And to those who like to get relevant information out of stylized ramblings: put this puzzle piece aside, I assure you it doesn't fit.

Don't give up your ways, though. The greatest truths (I'm convinced the only truths) are the subtle ones.

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