A bit about Prompts. (updated)

“The advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same good things for the first time.”
~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Prompt 17

I'm fucking starving, I think as I step over the baby gate blocking the entrance of the room. It's now...whatever time lunch happens to be today, and I'm ready to have at it - whatever it may be. There is a lot to be done, not a lot of time to do it in, and no matter how small or great the desire to do any of it is, it will all need to get done. But first -  lunch. As I head down the steps, it dawns on me that the boy-child had mentioned something about someone being "at the door." 

The shit from Amazon must have come, I think. Isn't that always the fucking way? Seven or later when school is in, but before noon on my "vacation." What a bunch of assbags. 

I open the front door and feel the chill of the mid-day air. The irony of it being 41 degrees outside, yet remaining overcast, bitter and shitty is not lost on me. The air cuts right through my thin orange REESE'S t-shirt, jeans and slippers as if I were standing there naked. I quickly scoop up the two brown boxes and shut the door, leaving the chill to bother the poor bastard who delivered the packages. Lunch is about the only thing I'm worried about. 

I stroll off into the kitchen with a gait possessed only by people who literally have all the time in the world. While it is true that a lot needs doing, all of these things are in-home things, leaving me able to slink around the house at less than warp speed. Once there, I head for the fridge. In my usual fashion, I open the door and peek in. The peeking process usually takes a few minutes. I often look at everything, combine these things in various ways in my mind, tally up the energy it would take to create said items, multiply that by the amount of dishes that would require being done and then come to the conclusion that I'm a lazy jackass. 

Aha! I rejoice inwardly. Peanut butter and jelly, it is. Only...there's no fucking milk. 

That shit doesn't matter to the kids at all. Well, that takes care of that. Now what about...Oh. Looks like lasagna in a cup. 

I fucking hate pasta in a can. I can't really describe how much, but seeing as I'm not anywhere close to whipping up a three course lunch, this shit will just simply have to do. After popping this crap that passes for lunch into the microwave, I prepare the children their PB&J's and let them eat. Upon hearing the "DING!" of the radiation box, I go back into the kitchen and pull my slop out of it. As I turn around to head back upstairs, I remember the packages and quickly head to the counter to grab them. Or, that was the plan. 

Where in the hell did I put those goddamned things? rings the voice within. 

As I look around, it becomes quite obvious to me that they aren't in the kitchen. Somehow, that doesn't stop me from walking back into the kitchen at least three times during my fruitless search. It goes like this for about ten solid minutes: me walking to the front door, turning around, scanning the living room, retracing my steps, looking around the kitchen, heading back to the front door, scanning the living room, etc. At this point, I'm absolutely flabbergasted. How in the hell does someone literally lose two big-ass boxes from Amazon in the time it takes to heat up a bowl of heartburn and make two kids a sammich? In a sentence - it doesn't. So I do what anyone in my position would do - assume that I'm fucking nuts and check upstairs, knowing that I absolutely did not go up there. 

So up the stairs I go, knowing that I'm not going to find anything and that I'll soon be back in the kitchen that they clearly aren't in, and making my way back and forth from the front-fucking-door and back all over again! But wait....what's that? There are fresh boxes open on top of a large pad of newsprint. I don't recall having seen those before. 

That's because they weren't there, genius. 

Oh, this is complete BULLSHIT! I think. 

And it is, too. It would seem that during my stint visiting fridge-land, Erica had come down the stairs and grabbed said "missing" packages, brought them upstairs and opened them. According to her, she even spoke to me. Also according to her, I was "oblivious, as always."

Ain't life grand?

"I agree with Agassiz that dogs possess something very like conscience."
~ Charles Darwin

Prompt 20

For most of my adult life, I've been living with animals. This is true in both that I have had a dog around for most of it, and that I have lived with people who are of questionable values, myself included. After all, people tend to keep "like" company. But that is another story for another time. Let us start this tale where times are starting to look their most grim. 

For about nine years, I had the great pleasure of keeping company with a Whippet, named Stella Blue. Having raised her from the time that she able to open her eyes on her own, I took great pride in what she grew into, which was a wonderful and majestic creature. We spent every day of the better part of ten years together, sharing the same space, bed, hardships and when money was tight, food. After her death from a uterine infection in  March of 2010, I was left with a hole in my life. To me, a dog isn't just some creature that you take care of. It becomes a part of who you are and a part of you leaves with it when it goes. 

Needless to say, I was... distraught. Without really thinking about the outcome (or what I was doing at all, really) I began searching for a way to repair the damage that had been done to me and like anyone who has an addictive personality, I set out to replace what was missing in the quickest and most irresponsible fashion. In just a few short months, I had replaced (but not dealt with) that missing piece of my life. I was the proud new owner of Thanos and Princess, two extremely antisocial Italian Greyhounds that I had rescued from a shelter in Columbus, Ohio, where I happened to be living at the time. These two had apparently lived with a woman who was an extreme shut-in and had a pack of animals running rampant through her home. Upon being moved somewhere for her "own good" (I assume she was very old and fragile of mind, though I never asked), all of her animals were dispersed to local shelters. One of these animals was physically challenged. She had a bad spine and one hell of a seriously malformed jaw. The other was a superior specimen of what an Italian should be physically, but due to the fact that he had never been anywhere but her home and that awful shelter, he was mentally unstable at best. Some might ever go so far as to say that he was feral. Well...in my vein of awful luck, I just could not cope with having the both of them. It was at that point that I decided that since Princess was the older of the two (and also the mother of Thanos) and that she was pretty much set in her ways, if not on her way out, that I would try to salvage what was left of Thanos' life, yet return her to the shelter. Not only could I not handle the both of them, I just honestly couldn't watch another dog pass out of my life. I didn't know it at the time, but that's exactly what I would end up doing.

After several weeks if not a month or two, Thanos started making real progress. I had gotten him to start sleeping with me, responding to his name and most importantly, I had finally gotten him to stop "marking his territory" on stacks of my things. He was making progress, and so was I. It was during this period in time that I was making plans to move here to Maine, so that I could start my life with Erica, who was just a few weeks away from coming to help me move. 

In June of that year, the move was on. We were driving to Maine in a rented Ford Edge, a mid-sized SUV that was literally packed to capacity with all of my junk I "collect" things). With Thanos in tow, we set out to start our new life, the road and happiness before us. Also before us was wine country. While passing through Madison, Ohio, we decided that it would be a good idea to stop off at the Debonne Winery to have a tasting and see just what went into this wine-making business. Upon arriving, we were greeted with what appeared to be a festival in full swing. Due to what went down, I never did exactly find out what was taking place there, but that's me getting ahead of myself.  We rolled into the parking lot and parked, making sure to leave a bowl of clean, fresh water for Thanos and departed with the windows cracked. 

And that was the last time I ever physically laid eyes on the little guy. 

While we were inside, we discovered not only a winery, but a small-batch brewery, aptly named Cellar Rats Brewing. The place was perfectly named, as it was all cabin-esque, darkly lit and looked like it could indeed hold a clan of rats. Not that it was dirty, mind you. I think this is exactly the atmosphere that these clever gents were going for. At any rate, we ordered a sampler of all of their beers and bought a pint glass from them. 

About the time that I sat down and got through two or three of their eight or nine beer selection, someone came in asking about a "Jeep" with Maine plates and the dog that was "burning alive in the car." Being the man that I am, I rushed out into the parking lot to see what was taking place. That's when I noticed that something was horribly, horribly wrong. The dog was nowhere to be found. Upon asking around, it was brought to my attention that some drunken bitch; some crusading goddamned do-gooder, had slithered her arm in through the cracked window, unlocked the door and attempted to "liberate" the animal. Well, little the sow know that he was halfway feral and he attempted to take part of her face off. She couldn't handle him (which is odd as he was probably about 5 pounds, soaking wet) and let him go....She. Let. Him. Go. And that was that. He took off into the vineyard and was never seen by us again, despite our gaining permission to drive through the vineyard looking for him. After close to three hours, we were forced by time constrains and monetary lacking to abandon the search. Exit stage left. 

Fade in to September, 2010. Being who I am and not exactly dealing with things in the most appropriate light at times, I pestered, and pestered, and pestered Erica into finally allowing me to have a dog in the house. This is where the black and white Pit Bull that loved to eat electronics and piss all over the floor comes in, in case you were starting to wonder. His name was Gozer, and short of being locked in his crate at all points in time, you were never 100% sure what he was doing at any given point in time. Seriously, I have personally witnessed this animal destroy an "indestructible"  dog toy (who's company name I will not sully) in less time than it took to pay for the damned thing. He was loyal, smart, great with the kids and at times, truly wonderful to be around. The only issue with him was that he basically felt the same way about us....and only us. Anyone else who got within knocking distance of the door was basically a new toy, which didn't go over so well with the neighbors or the mailman who happened to be walking the block on the day that he liberated himself from the confinement of the back yard. On this day, he stopped traffic, terrorized the neighbors and literally held the mailman hostage on some poor shmuck's front steps a few houses down from ours. Gozer's time with us was brief. With two kids in the house, it just wasn't conducive to visiting friends to have him around, no matter how sweet of a guy he was. No animal is worth having some visiting child's face torn away from their skull. After a brief visit to the Bangor Humane Society, Gozer was placed in a new home, where hopefully he can be as much of jackass as he wants. 

The curtain now opens on Valentine's Day. It's February 14th, 2012 and we're trying this again. After trying on some options such a nice straight razor set, a transforming BLASTER USB hub, and several other options, Erica has opted to get me a purebred White Boxer puppy. 

The night of the 21st, we drove down to Portland to pick him up from the Jetport and ever since then, he's been a pain right in my ass. It's been about 12 years since I have raised a puppy and due to the fact that I had been adopting semi-grown dogs since the demise of Stella, I had forgotten what it was like. I had forgotten about the bullheadedness. I had forgotten about the "accidents," the howling from the crate, the disregard for people's underwear. I had forgotten how much they eat, sleep, drink, play, bite, torment the other animals and somehow always manage to get between two people that are trying to snuggle in bed. I had forgotten about the fact that they will play, for hours, in the middle of the night as people try to get some goddamned sleep. I had forgotten that I love every second of it, and how much of a reward it is to look upon him; how proud I am when he learns "sit, down and crawl." But do not be fooled, reader. Cute and rewarding as it may be, this is a struggle and it is constant. I must always be on the ready. I must be ever vigilant, lest my bare foot land in something that can't be easily washed off. Until he is old enough to understand his place in things, the war rages. So let the battle begin. The can be be only one master, and I'll be damned if it becomes him. 

                                                    And there he is. The would-be King. 

Consequences

"You already have the information. All the names and dates are inside your head. What you want, what you really need, is a stoy.."
~ V

The Truth:

To my dismay, there are four baskets of clothes in this room. While they are mostly clean clothes, I keep protesting about them; hell, I even try my best to "keep on top" of "doing the laundry." I just can't seem to stop these goddamned things from amassing in here. I suppose that it is somehow the effect of spending too much time in this room, but the more I think about it, the more it pisses me off. I could understand having to snake my way around them all the time if there was a lack of space to put them in, but there isn't. There is more than enough space for both the clothes and the baskets that house them, yet there they are. I suppose that I would even be okay with having them all over the place if even a high percentage of the contents - let's say 30% - were mine. This, however, is not the case. Y'know, to be quite honest, I'm not even sure that I know what all is in them. I'm fairly certain that the smaller white one has had things in it for months now, and I have absolutely no fucking clue as to what those things might be. 

The stretch:

I have no idea why Erica keeps six baskets full of dirty clothes in this room. Even though I "bust my ass" doing the laundry all the time, it seems that there is never enough time in the day. I suppose that if I didn't spend every hour of the day cooped up in this room, that I could possibly do something more about it. It absolutely enrages me that I have to tiptoe around the room, sometimes falling over onto the bed because the piles have become umanagable. It would be one thing if there wasn't enough space for the baskets and the clothes, but we have more than ample enough space for three times the amount of buildup. To top it all off, all of my clothes could probably fit into one of the baskets, yet I have to deal with this shit. It's preposterous. In fact, there is a smaller white container that has been on the floor for about half a year now, and it has become home to things that I can't even remember owning. 

Consequences:

The laundry baskets and piles of clothes keep mounting. I don't even remember the last time I was able to see the floor or the bed, and I'm constantly in fear that there might be something alive in them. Just yesterday, I could swear that I saw one of the piles shift a bit, and I hear strange breathing in the middle of the night. 

Yesterday, Erica told me that one of the cats was missing. I have a sinking fear that it might have wondered into our "room-pile" and met an unfortunate fate. I'm too much of a chickenshit to look. 

It's been three weeks since I started doing laundry. Every day, I do about five loads, but the pile just won't seem to go away. It almost seems that for every load that I put in the washer, two more grow to take it's place. I must be going mad, because we all know that there is no possible way that the laundry is replenishing it's ranks. Right?

As of this writing, I'm thinking of perhaps trying to tackle some of it. As I look around the room, though, I've noticed that the piles seem to have somehow reached the door. Was it like that earlier, or am I just being paranoid? There's no way that the laundry is actively trying to keep me locked up in this room. After all, none of it is even my laundry. Why would it be after me? 

Wait...What was that sound.....

Truth

"Your theories are the worst kind of popular tripe, your methods are sloppy, and your conclusions are highly questionable..."
~ Dean Yeager in a scene from Ghostbusters

Prompt 14.

With a little bit of free time and silence to wrap myself in, I find that just about anything can be done with what I have inside of my head. If a light is shining through the window, I can imagine what source it derives from, what kind of world is waiting beyond said window, or I can imagine that light as a harmful substance, slinking in to raze my home, reducing my life to cinders. In a flash, the tiny flecks of dust caught in said light can become marauding spacecraft, dogfighting in a world that can only be seen when the light hits it just right. Indeed, writing is a little like being a god, and as such, a great responsibility is placed in the hands, mind and heart of whoever is constructing and destroying these written worlds. 

There is a peace of mind and a centering of being whenever I hear the musical chatter of the keys and watch the black letters slowly conquer the white of the page. There is war taking place, although the blank space in between what is within and what is offered leaves little room for resistance. Indeed, the space where thoughts are committed is  pliable and weak. 

Unfortunately, these minor victories are short-lived, as the urge to conquer is ever present. It is an insatiable, unrelenting force; one which has pushed even the most strong of will into madness and indulgence. 

I am a conquistador. I am a Spaniard. 

Prompt 15

The truth is too powerful for any one man to hold. I feel that given any set of circumstances, that anyone tasked with producing any sort of "truth," would choose to embellish. And probably with good reason. See, no one really wants the truth. "Aunt Cindy" doesn't want to be told that she looks like a 7th Street Hooker in her outfit that she's wearing to whatever function that happens to be taking place. "Uncle Charles" doesn't want to be told that he's being laid off because someone younger, more attractive and better for the company image is taking his place. The society that we live in has produced a need for the lie as a basic civil truth, so we understand and operate as such. That is simply what we do. That being said, if I were to possess some sort of a mysterious concoction that forced the user into absolute truth, I'd destroy not only the solution, but whoever was responsible for it's creation. After all, the fiction of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny...all of these lies must be maintained. Your mother has to to rest assured that she is not "fat," and dad has to truly believe that he's a "functioning alcoholic." The government leaders can't come to a press release and tell us that we mean nothing but a paycheck, that what they want isn't to fix anything but their own comfortable position in the world. Your son's teacher can't say to you that she only teaches because she's not qualified to do anything else...She has to care about education and children, right?

The truth would destroy the way society works, and I simply can't have that. 

Prompt 16

The notion that we have "something to say," is something that I think almost everyone in America has in common. While some of us believe this to be fact more than others do, I honestly believe that at some point in time, everyone thinks that the ideas, thoughts or questions that they have deserve some sort of social attention. After all, look at what happens whenever you point a camera at someone. 

As for me, I believe that almost everything that I choose to document is in some way noteworthy. If I'm going to submit something for scrutiny of any type, then it has to have some personal relevance to me, even if I just think that someone out there will understand and identify with whatever inane ramblings that I produce. I think that understanding and kinship is paramount to good mental health and as such, I will chatter on about whatever happens to be relevant to me, at great length, be it relevant to the continuity of  my species or not. 

In Prompt Too.

"This is bullshit."

~ Brad Biddix

Prompt 9.

"This is bullshit," I say to myself. 

"Nothing new," the me inside answers back. "But it must be done, no matter what you feel like doing."

"Does it?"

"Of course it does," I reply. "You only get to miss one session of writing, and it shouldn't be the one that is as easy as doing scene setting and dialogue. There is plenty of time to waste some other time, and might I remind you that you've already wasted enough of it this week."

"You're an ass," is all that I have by way of response.

Prompt 10.

Warning: I haven't really been in a very crowded place any this week. However, i did take a little trip in a cab and this is what i picked up from it...

It's cold out. I'm in the back of what I can only describe as a somewhat clean cab. The air doesn't smell stale in any way, and there are remarkably few spots of grime. The driver of the cab is wearing a Super Bowl jacket; one of the ones that looks like something a NASCAR driver might wear. Inside this cab, the radio is on some talk station and the woman doing all of the talking is in an argument with some caller about how the US bank system fucked people over on their property values. 

"Goddamned right!" exclaims the driver.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"These bastards are always trying something," he remarks. 

I say nothing to this and instead, settle back. This guy is really amusing to me. I love it when people respond to machines as if they're human. 

The ride continues like this until we reach the garage in which my Jeep is currently incarcerated, when the driver turns to me and says "Issues?"

"Not really," I tell him. "I just needed a few minor things done to that Jeep right there, and didn't have the money until recently."

"A Jeep," he says. Clearly, his mind is concocting some reason to keep the conversation going.

"What year is it?" he asks. 

"It's a 98," I respond. 

"My cousin says that there was about a ten year span when they kept putting out..," he starts saying. I don't really recall most of the rest of it, because I have a tendency to think of things more interesting than what's actually going on when I'm in situations like this. His mouth is still moving, I'm still nodding ans smiling, but for the life of me I can't understand a single fucking word of it.  At some point I noticed that he has stopped talking.

"Interesting," I say in flat monotone. 

I give him a twenty, tell him to give me ten back, and then I exit the vehicle. 

Prompt 12. 

This is the part of my day that I dislike the most. I think that I dislike it more now, because it's cold outside, but I have never been a fan of this time of day. Whenever I'm not in class, this is where I am at this time. It's roughly 2:54 PM and I'm walking up the block of ice that passes for a sidewalk outside of the kids' school. There are cars all along both sides of the street, completely wreaking havoc on the neighborhood that houses the school. I often feel bad for people that drive down this road at this time of day, as everyone is so focused on getting their kid, that they don't give a rat's ass about what anyone else is trying to do. As I get closer, I see the same group of assholes that stands at the gate every day. It's a motley crew of people of all age groups, although most of them are "professionals" in some way or another. A lot of them look like they modeled themselves from the pages of L.L. Bean, and drive the cars to match. 

As I look at them, it seems as if they're looking at me strangely. This could either be entirely true, or just a paranoid delusion, in which case I'm looking at them strangely, yet projecting what I'm doing onto them. Either way, I don't like the looks of them. The type of assholes that would trip you to save their own asses, were we all being chased by wolves. 

The electronic bell sounds. The ever-tired voice of 3:00 PM announces that "Children on Bus K may be released." And that "Parent Walkers and Car Pickups," may also "be released." 

Release the hounds, I think. Oh, and they do. The doors burst open and children from grades K-3rd come rushing out of the door at full speed. It's like something out of a modern zombie film, where you know, you just fucking know, that the time to escape it all has passed. 

The asshole parents of the asshole kids watch as their little mutant spawn cover the street, the playground and the masses, without a single thought to safety or whoever they might run into in the process. It's chaos at the asshole factory. 

And it will all happen again tomorrow.