On the day that summer first broke through the trees
We constructed memories and washed them with water from the lake so we could take them with us when it was time to return to a life that constantly felt forced and foreign
We collected pieces of our middle years and planted them in the earth and left them alone to grow in the elements like our fathers before us
And these youthful spirits would shine until we drifted into our own definition of old age
With little concern for direction, we swam out to sea to rest quietly in a place to which we will never return even if we paddle for seven lifetimes
In a flash of humanity, we held the door for strangers that grew to love us as family
Sleep where you land in the small hours and dream if only to dream
For when summer passes into fall through the trees in the morning these days will remain on a pedestal if only in your mind.

Seeing only a quick glimpse of the unusually pronounced roundness of her eyes, it was impossible to tell if she was excited or terrified or both. Having checked Facebook this morning before she was probably even awake, I didn’t remember seeing that today was her birthday. Now, birthdays have become synonymous with phone numbers in terms of importance. They are often overlooked and are no longer remembered; simply stored like college books you forgot to sell when they might still have been relevant. Out of her line of sight and tucked deep into my crooked cubicle, I checked Facebook again and her name was nowhere to be seen in the Events section. I told myself I would have remembered anyway and she definitely would have mentioned that it was upcoming. She was still “In a relationship and it’s complicated”.

No, the expression that she possessed was much more intense than one would wear if having just received flowers or earrings. It came on suddenly like the flash of a camera that is right in your eyes when someone sneaks up on you to take your picture at someone else’s party. Almost as if her entire life changed in that instance. I’m now realizing after a few minutes have passed that I might have been the only person on this floor that saw her expression. Of the ten or so people here, I might have been one of two or three that even saw her at all. I’d spend the rest of the morning trying to figure out what those eyes had said in those soundless few seconds.

I could talk to Julie and she could talk to me without either one of us ever feeling awkward or bored. Even if we tiptoed into either one of those frames of mind, we were too polite to each other to ever let on. We had what might be considered a relationship by modern standards. “Relationship” being defined as follows:

Relationship n. 1. still wanting to see each other when the morning wore off. 2. too self-conscience and busy to bang someone else

When we were together in public (staged like we just bumped into each other, of course), she spoke often of where she grew up. I suppose tales from your hometown are always a universal way to learn about someone but she seemed to want to be defined by them. As if Spindale, NC were a girl scout badge that she wore her whole life and unwittingly put a great deal of effort into its acquisition. She said one time in passing something that has always stuck with me:

“There’s a freedom in being poor.”

“I grew up poor and it felt like a prison,” I whipped back hastily if not somewhat drunkenly.

“But when you have everything you need, you stop taking risks. You stop pushing forward. You become a prisoner of your own comfort.” she replied.

She made an excellent point but I also bought the drinks that night so in my head we were even. The topic of conversion trailed into something else and we haven’t yet revisited this dialogue.

Refocusing my efforts, I imagined every possible scenario that led up to her expression. It ran the gamut from a death in the family, to being fired, to getting a raise, to her loosing her wallet. All of these explanations seemed too mundane and didn’t fit the frame of her face. My courage finally came to visit after an hour or two and when the morning settled into itself, I causally but deliberately found my way to her desk without allowing the gossip hounds to pick up on my scent. As far as anyone in the office was concerned, our days together started and ended there and I very much wished it would remain that way. Especially after the great outing of Bill and Cory in the copy room. I knew it smelled funny in there but I could never determine why.

Her hands were trembling but still I couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or fear. She must have been waiting for me to come over to her because she had pre-written on a post-it note in hand-writting that only vaguely appeared to be hers:

Lunch Meeting - 12:30pm

Sideways Cafe

The only thing that became obvious that morning was that this lunch meeting was intended for her and I and no one else. The way she nudged the note in my direction as I asked her about something to which I already had the answer made this abundantly clear.

Now, not only would I be starving by the time lunch rolled around (I usually eat at 11:30am because I get up early), I still had no earthly idea what was on her mind.

Oh shit.

Was she pregnant? No way. No fucking way!

Before I could think of anything else, my mind flashed to scenes from Maury where two wild-eyed, bickering lunatics - who just happen to be sitting in chairs that are inexplicably easy to throw - find out the results of a paternity test from a doctor whom I wouldn’t trust to pour milk in my cereal. The physics involved in these two beings even having sex in the first place would confound Stephen Hawkins. Oh, there’s crying. There’s screaming. There’s gloating. There’s usually a cousin involved. Jesus. No.

“Breathe. Remain calm. You don’t know anything yet and you’re letting your mind get the best of you. Count to ten.”, I told myself.

So I did. I counted to ten roughly a million times by my estimation and walked swiftly to my car at 12:15pm on the dot.

Of course I made it to the restaurant first. I always got there first and in doing so started the lunch off with a feeling of confidence at being so prompt. Not today though. Today I instantly thought she wasn’t going to come at all. She was going to bail on our lunch as a form of punishment for something I didn’t even know I had done. If I had done anything at all.

She arrived at 12:32pm with a manila envelope. She sat quietly across from me, opened the envelope and pulled out a single page from a newspaper. She slid it in front of me.

What the hell did this mean?

Without saying a word, I began to scan the page. Today’s date was on the top in the center. In the top left hand corner there was the poor-man’s TV Guide for those people that live under a rock and need to know what time Jeopardy is on even though it comes on at the same god damn time every night. Next to this useless bit of information, there was a two or three paragraph piece on an upcoming art exhibit at one of the local galleries. Below that were the lottery numbers from last night. Next to that was a recipe for some exotic and terrible sounding muffins. Who tries a recipe from a newspaper?

It didn’t make any sense.

I read the entire page again to look specifically for either her name or my name like some sort of half-assed human Google search. I was just looking for something! Some clue as to what the hell this newspaper page meant.

As I was reading frantically with an overwhelming and yet totally unjustified sense of guilt, from her purse, she pulled out a lottery ticket.

My hands began to shake like hers had earlier and I knew I had just a few minutes to decide the entirety of the rest of my life with Julie.

It’s nearly impossible for him to recall the feeling of inspiration.

Actually, it’s completely impossible.

It’s as though the blankness is a cruel excuse that is set on repeat. There are a vast number of things worth writing about but the initial leap into honesty is much more difficult than coming up with a story. It’s easy to mask a straight-up lie in a flurry of pretty words and scenery but the writer always knows. That knowing inevitably becomes a ghost that haunts you when a new set of eyes are gazing over the words.

True but too poetic. Maybe that’s my problem. I try to be poetic. Although, it used to work….sometimes.

Damn it. I always do this.

Here’s where I start re-reading everything I just wrote and judge it to the point of no return and this is exactly what just happened in my head: Shit. I used the word “him” in the first line like I’m someone else. That doesn’t even make sense when I don’t know who “him” is yet or even what the hell the story is about. My god, there’s not even a story. What should I write about?

After that re-read, this is what happened in my head: Josh, you’re judgmental bastard.

Then, I convince myself to take a new approach.

How’s this for an opening line? The car started with a thud and a whimper but at least it started this time.

Instant judgement on inspiration number two: Nope. That line isn’t honest. My car starts fine. The brakes totally suck and need to be replaced but I’ve never had an issue with it starting.

This is just painful. I hate writing.

(time elapse: 20 minutes)

Now the cursor has been mocking me and blinking at me like some asshole that’s driving down the highway with his blinker on. You know in your heart that this numb-nuts isn’t going to turn for the next 200 miles but you don’t want to pass him so you’re stuck behind him. You’re consumed with doubt about this jerk’s turning intentions and getting pissed off because you have to be somewhere 10 minutes ago but you don’t actually want to be there anyway. Now the fact that you have to be somewhere you don’t want to be; hell, that and your entire life -  is now this guy’s fault. This guy with the fucking blinker that won’t quit. You start wondering about him. Is he deaf? Maybe he doesn’t hear it? If he is deaf, I’d feel bad for him but should deaf people really be allowed to drive? I see postmen driving around now with iPod earbuds in their ears.

Can that be safe?

No. I went through driver’s education when I was 15. I don’t remember much but I know that driving when you can’t hear shit is totally unsafe.

Hey Blinker Guy! What if an ambulance full of babies on life support is behind you and you don’t hear them and they all die because they couldn’t make it to the hospital? How would you feel? You’d feel nothing because you have no soul!! Baby Murderer!!

Yes, that’s right. In my mind, the cockknuckle with the blinker is now a baby murder.

Wait, can you even transport more that one baby per ambulance?

Ok. For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to pretend that there’s a Starbucks on this imaginary exit on this imaginary highway in my imaginary story. I’m gonna stop, get something to drink (and maybe a rice crispy treat), sit there and wait to be inspired.

Maybe I’ll write something.

These birds sound so real
but they peep through tiny mouths
into tiny speakers
into this tiny apartment
and then a voice - a voice that has no business in this 128K forest - tries to sell me something. Probably sex. Whatever it was she was selling sounded sexy. Shit. Everything is sexy. That’s why it sells.
Is that a woodpecker or someone hitting a tree with a baseball bat?
Yeah. That’s relaxing.
Nature should never be this desperate to sound calm.

June in her beauty confused the later seasons

Riddled with confusion they strode into the ocean

Suddenly the world turned blue

but not before the last thought of man turned into fire

Because the sun only ever wanted to be seen

Despair only ever wanted to be a distant memory

Love only ever wanted to be loved in return

One day we will storm the castle

in our newspaper hats and with swords made of aluminium foil

One day we will raise the flag

made of cleaning rags and baby blankets

and we will rule anything that bothers to remain

After we cut the piano strings one by one

we floated toward the glacier but further away from the sun

We sought refuge in homes with too many rooms and with too few provisions

just as we have done on countless regular suburban Saturdays

We used as few words as possible to alert the others

but the others failed to act on the warning

Entropy propels progress

while progress continues to undermine itself

Her breath was born from a clap of thunder

and she always loved the thought of touching the words

in the upright books that rested beside her head

Most nights the clock kept her focused

on the lights from passing traffic that crept away at dawn

like a thousand soulless strangers

Her eyes only burned when the morning kept pace

with a world to which she did not adhere

Far too often the story is better than what actually happened

Sometimes what actually happened will never be fully understood

Most nights we only have the thought of words

We were arrogant but we were kind

We just wanted something for our money

even though for us it was unearned

So embarrassing that

at 15 it was probably

one of my first conversations

with an African American

I said very little and never let on

The heat twisted through the alleys of Back Bay

as he recited his memorized meal ticket

of Dylan Thomas

Many of the boys and one girl began to lose interest

to their thirst and the gift of freedom that summer laid at their feet

But one boy listened

This boy’s mother was a cellist before the accident

and read the same poem to him

“That was perfect”

Years had passed when I saw him in the same clothes

while waiting for my ride to the wedding

after all of the record stores had disappeared

Transfixed to what felt like the same moment a thousand years removed

without an umbrella

without the frailty and misgivings of the freedoms of youth

I couldn’t help but pay attention this time

to every single word

and the soft nuances of the hunger in his delivery

I’ll never understand the definition of perfection

All romantic notions have been rendered obsolete

and there no longer exists the question of what they were

The overdue bills have fossilized

for the telephones on which we used to question love

Printers no longer print extra pages on rainy days

There are no more rainy days

Robots have removed the conversation pieces

and made children out of them

The robot children will be raised without emotion

and without the slightest hint of regret for their actions

We saw her long violin fingers turn to rust and then disintegrate into moving boxes

Not all of her memories received the proper care when being bundled and some got left behind like a favorite ice cube tray

…maybe not favorite

but certainly familiar…

Still others were left behind on purpose

On this day in particular, the treetops were the only indication that perfection existed between the cracking leaves under her feet and the gravity that brought them there

All of this transpired while the remainder of her innocence (at least the part of her innocence that the newspaper articles failed to properly cite) evaporated in a not dissimilar fashion