Friday, October 16, 2009
Senses
I saw a blind man and it made me wonder. Are deaf people allowed to have service dogs travel with them? The site re-raised the, "would I rather be blind or deaf," question and I realized that being blind with my bitch by my side 24/7 wouldn't be so bad. I love dogs and a trained companion is loyal and undying. So, if given the option to become either blind or deaf, as long as I have a dog, it doesn't really matter.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Light Reading
I learned of a competition that Writer's Digest has each month. A prompt is provided and authors write an essay. This month's prompt reads, "A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar."
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
A man walks into a bar. But it isn't a bar. Not anymore. Long gone is the cacophony heard each day from men stopping in from nearby job sites for a few pints on thier way home. A real Man's bar where credit cards do not apply; only unpaid tabs and broken promises to the women left tending to unwanted weeds that survive the years of neglect, growing harder each day. Where the nicotene and smoke lingering in the stagnant air goes unnoticed. Years of the habit prefabricate this crowd immune to the stale scent wafting from cracked walls and yellowing clothing. The chemicals inhaled are the embalming fluid preserving hard pieces of black flesh once pink and soft. This air is for the sick, but the sick, providing a quick fix for those too broke to afford a cigarette of thier own. One deep inhale of this smog corrodes life's highways. Gray skin and wads of mucus highlighted with streaks of blood are proof that it is working.
The patrons lined up inside a bar like this are half-witted and mindless, unable to acknowledge that death is rapidly approaching; preying specifically on those who have full-willingly practiced years of self-abuse while ruining the lives of surrounding loved ones. "Self-medication," they call it. Numbing the inner demons and building walls to keep clear memories of past tortures from surfacing is a practice common with schizophrenics. "What mood will Daddy be in tonight," young children of the neighborhood question while fighting off both hunger pains and biting chills. "Have I grown to become him," ponders the mind of the men you find inside.
Not wanting to answer, another shot is knocked back to pass the days away. The person he is, is not the person he expected to be. How to transform? Pass out on the front stoop next to bags of ripe putrid trash (that wasn't picked up because he was to hung over to deliver them to the curb on time) after wife number two locked him out for throwing a bottle at little Ryan. When the back of his eyelids create the screen for the evening's movie, the dreamy role he stars in is much better that his own real-life tragedy. This unconsicous state becomes desired reality. Why wouldn't one return? Night, after night, after night, after.....
Night has fallen and inside this shell of a tavern, roaches scurry underfoot; gluttons for rot. Broken glass strewn across the dirty ground slices through sole-less shoes. Not one drop of moisture to be found. "What I would give for just one drink," he ponders to himself. He turns and notices the door walked through only moments ago was replaced with cement. Thorny branches punch through each window and the stars and the moon dissolve into midnight's sky. The bottles that remained whole explode and the stench of decay permeates, gaining pungency as the time ticks by. The sharp odor, a waft of moldy cheese and curdled milk makes him gag. Eyes burning he blindly stumbles, using the crumbling walls as a guide desperately searching for a way out. Unfortunately for our friend, this is just the beginning of his never-ending demise.
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