Cloud Nine

–my creative writing class is embarking on a series of writings called “child’s play.” The idea is that, as we get older, we lose boldness in our creativity because we fear embarrassment, rejection, or ridicule from those that we share our ideas with. For the first assignment, we went outside on a near perfect spring day, and bedded down in the grass, to gaze at clouds (like you used to when you were a kid). The goal was to watch the clouds, find one that stood out, and create a story based on the shape/movement of the cloud. Here is my contribution:

“The Firebird”

The firebird glided with the ease of a butterfly, one week old, having already emerged from its cocoon, and oblivious to a not too distant death, gazed and searched my cataracted eyes, to see if what I believe, who I am, and what I do, match up with what the sceptics say I’m not, the hypocrites preach what I won’t, and the wise men have learned what I haven’t yet, or will it rest on my arm, defend to the death my liberty to see things the way that they really are, comprehend the mysteries of the things above and the things below, or protect me from a devil that corrupts my view of a broken world, a shameless self, and a prideful approach to what I believe is mine, what will be mine, and what will never be yours? Or, is it that the firebird comes to remind me, that as I get older, I’ll become more influential, stretched, and recognized by so many eyes, because my vision of the heavens is higher than most?

A Letter Inspired by Heat

Today at school, sometime around noon, a transformer blew causing all AC units in the school to shut down. This caused a rapid increase in heat, drowsiness, and sleep-induced comas. Before 88 degrees set in, I assigned my kids a writing assignment. They had to write a letter to the school principal, requesting that we permanently remove all AC units from campus. Needless to say, sarcasm was involved. I participated as well, and wrote the following:

Dear Mr. Hutek:

Wow. What a great idea. I have this thing where, all the AC units in the school are removed, and we all live as learn as one with mother earth. Now don’t get carried away just yet. People like their AC, it’s a security blanket for those that are afraid of the heat.

As you know, we live and work in Florida. We are the Sunshine State after all, and we are enslaving ourselves to the shadows of darkness for staying indoors and being duped by the demon known as cold. In fact, I’ll take it a step further—AC units are the devil. I didn’t want to go there, but I had to. Armwood High School is in danger, and you need to know.

Most people think of heat, flames, fire, when it comes to the devil. But those people are wrong. Most of those people are cold-hearted devil worshipers who praise the Dark One in the confines of their ice caves and AC units. I don’t want Armwood to become a dark ice cave that proclaims the Prince of Darkness as its mascot.

Lets kill evil, lets kill the bondage, lets assassinate the enemy to all of mankind. AC Units. You have the power sir, lets move them out of town and enjoy our own little slice of heaven.

God bless.

Mr. Young

Fill in the Blank

A survey of surprise. Comment your responses:
–If there is a moment I feel most alone its ______________________________________.

–A time when I substituted my best with an average attempt was __________________________________.

–The thing I’ve celebrated most in life is __________________________________________.

–The greatest miracle I have witnessed was ________________________________________.

–I like/dislike climbing trees because _______________________________________.

–If I could bring someone back to life ____________________________________.

–Once, “time stood still” when _____________________________________________.

–For me, the one item in my home that has no value (“priceless”) is _____________________________.

–Something I’ve read that everyone should read is _________________________________.

–Love feels like ____________________________________.

–I hope that, when I grow up, I _________________________________.

–Out of all my responses, the one most people will be surprised by is ________________________________.

–The one I am most surprised by is ___________________________________.

Living with/for/by morals

I’m not much for reading too many blogs of other writers…not yet anyway.

But one caught my eye this week.

This soldier in Iraq–he has kept a blog for about five years–he wrote a blog recently and gave it to a buddy–in case he were killed in action–to be posted as “memoir” of sorts.

Well, he died in January, his buddy posted the blog, and it is sensational.  Well-thought out, intelligent, impactful,  insightful, and timeless.  This man stood his ground, believed in something, and ultimately, lost his life.  But as you read his final blog, he was fortunate to die doing something he loved.

The overwhelming aspect to the blog (aside from the numerous VALID points he makes), are the comments friends, loved ones, and complete strangers left regarding his post, and reaction to his death.

It almost makes me sad I never knew him, never read his blogs, and witnessed a life worth living.

Read on…here is the link.

Cult Story

In case you are wondering, I am a pitiful excuse for a man. 

I shave, a lot.  I dress like the guys in Banana Republic catalogs.  I conture my body hair so that I appear more lean when I go to the beach.  I use medicated shampoo so that my hair follicles are healthy, and I grow rich, full hair.  I take three multi-vitamins, I get manicures and pedicures, and if you are wondering…yes, I drink low fat lattes.  I am a member of an art critics group that meets once a week to discuss the hot trends of theater on the Manhattan scene.  I go to wine tastings regularly, I hold my pinkie out when I drink my tea, and I always iron my clothes with starch.  HEAVY starch.  My suits have to be dry-cleaned after each wear…if not, I’ll freak out.  Oh, and I carry little bottles of hand sanitizer and mouthwash in my manpurse, because I never know when I’ll run into the next super-virus, or when my breath will need to leave a favorable first impression.

As you can see, the words “high” and “maintenance” could be used to describe my lifestyle.  What a shame. 

 

So, I am looking for change.  Not the kind of change that would make me better looking, or more successful.  The kind of change that would radically transform this flimsy, frail, pathetic degenerate that roams the sidewalks of your streets. 

 

 

The sign reads: “Older than Old School.  Come join us Mondays at the Cave.”  So, I go visit.  Its sounds intriguing enough.  I located this sign in a bathroom stall at the Quik-E-Mart on 8^th street.  Not exactly the best place to pick up information for a life-changing experience.  I didn’t think much of it until I saw the same sign, in a subway station alley, near my apartment.  I was initially bothered by the sign…not so much because of what it said, but where it was placed…it completely threw off the fung shwei of the entire subway.  You see, this is exactly why I need to change.  A tiny poster on a subway wall.  Yeah, this is a cry for help.

 

Turns out the CAVE is a well lit, damp and humid rock-climbing gym 10 minutes outside the city.  It is a literal cave.  Not real rocks and boulders and stuff, but a cave used by climbing enthusiasts to traverse and build up stamina for future treks on some random mountain.  Immediately, I don’t fit in.  These guys, for the most part, smell about as good as Brittney Spears after a two hour lip sync show.  They all have facial hair, copious amounts of it…again, like Brittney Spears.  Ok, I am kidding about that.  The look very unrefined.  Crass.  Like the cavemen on those car insurance commercials, minus the preppy clothing and smug one liners.  However, they do seem more classy than those commercial talking dolls, so that is a plus.  I got there too late to meet anyone before the group starts, so I listen eagerly to what the leader has to say, all the while being surrounded by guys who appear to be ready to teach me a thing or two about being a man.

 

Skip ahead to the woods.  I’m talking country.  Like, Colorado.  Its winter, so its not exactly warm and fuzzy feelings.  I am looking for wood, brush, branches, pine needles.  I am outfitting my new lodgings.  Maybe I can find some random piece of plastic trash so I can see my new look.  Kind of like a mirror for a bathroom.  But just like democracy, my search comes up empty.  Its weird to have that feeling—to groom myself—prim and proper by cuticles and wax my chest—because that stuff doesn’t matter out here.  Its survival—and a bear will eat you either way, chest hair or not.

 

My only weapon is a bow and arrow.  Three arrows to be exact.  Better make em’ count my “counselor” told me.  Lose them, or waste them on target practice, and you may dull them to the point that they won’t puncture the bear’s hide.  Great I thought.  Just what I need—conditional arrows.  Isn’t this what I am trying to get away from?

 

So the guy tells me—hang out in the woods for a while.  Build an all natural structure.  Your new home.  Go fish with your bare hands.  And oh yeah, look out for the bears—they can be frisky during the winter months.  I’m thinking cranky, but does it really matter. Am I tough enough for this, or should I bring along some of my pepper spray to stun the bear in the course of an attack—he looks at me and goes, you should be thinking salt block, not pepper spray.  A block might render the bear unconscious.  Good luck.

 

It takes me three days to grab my first fish.  It takes me roughly 12 hours to build my house—or my lean-to according to the boys in the group.  I have heard some random growls from off in the distance, but for the most part, I’m actually enjoying my moment of Neanderthal.  The stubble on my face—I haven’t felt that since…well, never.  Clean shaved to the grave is what I always said.  My nails have 17 shades of nasty dug underneath them, natures manicure.   By now I am used to being alone and listening.  I can actually hear myself think. Pondering why I have driven myself to such nonsense things.  For a second, I am proud of reinventing myself.  But then it hits me…I am destroying the façade I build for myself in the first place.  Square one.  Reinvention, nope.  Maybe, rebirth.

 

I’m sleeping.  I wake to a footsteps, branches breaking like a mallet crushing tablets in a crucible.  This is my little trap I set for the bear…you know, I have to have a home protection system—in case of intruders.  I grab the bow and arrow, and this it it.  Kill the bear, and I am in.  Be killed by the bear, and I’m…well, I guess I could be reborn all over again, if that reincarnation story is true.  But I don’t want to find out.

 

I grasp the bow, but to no use.  The bear is charging me and I take the plunge.  I slam to the ground like my precious belongings in my apartment that are getting the CAVE treatment by the guys in the club.  If I only had my paprika basalmic vinegar to splash in this bear’s eyes—that would do the trick. 

 

I am still clutching one arrow, and with one final charge before I am this bear’s last supper, I thrust the arrow into his chest.  He staggers to the ground, almost wanting to retreat, but he doesn’t want to run away…not from a fight, that would be weak.  And you must be strong in nature.  He sits, places hit torso on the ground, in a muslim-like praying posture and goes to sleep.  The permanent kind.  And its in my greatest moment of satisfaction, my sense of accomplishment, my rebirth, that an arrow comes tearing through the flesh of my lower left leg. 

 

The leader of the Cave stands over me, like I am his trophy hunt fully realized, and says, welcome to the club. 

 

The obvious question here is—did I survive? However, the more critical question here is—do I need to moisturize my leg to help heal my leg wound?