My patient endurance: Unlike Anything

Deadline approaching . . . tovleaenRi . . . Rvteelanoi . . . No! Wait! What day is it? Is tomorrow Sunday! Or is it Sunday now? This is it! The Dealine is here! And where am I in all of this? Nowhere near the deadline that's for sure.

They want me to write stories about love, courage, strength, integrity and all things cliché, and mind the clichés while I’m at it. The constraints of this work . . . the confines of this work? . . . confinements? con . . . re . . . the restraints of this work are . . . imprisoning. Blessed are those who hear and who keep what is written in it; for the time is near . . . And a beautiful era begins.

The internal thought of Cheyenne is stumbling over itself like somebody who trips slightly and falls into an unforeseen amount of awkward steps hoping to recover before hitting the ground; he keeps writing.

What are they are going to do to me if I don't finish? They need this . . . without this work they have nothing . . . or at the very least they'll have less. My skills are a curse! Too talented to write the things forced upon me . . . that is honesty . . . I am honesty . . . Honesty? They aren't ready to hear.

There is a fine line between honesty and truth. Honesty barely exists in their world. No, honesty is replaced by their cold, emotionless truth. Their truth is something they hide behind a mask of fiction and display as truth. Honesty is far more real . . . A fine line between honesty and truth indeed.

Unable to stay focused, Cheyenne stops to think about how long his glass has been empty, and whether or not he should fill it now. His attention turns back to their deadline and his work as he focuses on the fine line he is about to write.

Honesty and truth, reality and fiction, inspiration and direction, rebellion and allegiance are all lines that were drawn on a hazy Saturday night so long ago. Their guidelines are meant to inspire – but don’t. My only inspiration comes from seeking the indistinct border of their guidelines to see the other side – to see why it’s not allowed. Stepping over their line reveals many others. Each belongs to somebody else. But, there are only so many lines between me and the edge. Disguised as just another line on a foggy walk in the dark, the edge is the last step forward. Regrettably, once over the edge, there is no safe journey back and no guarantee things will be the same upon return . . . Was that Thompson inspired? No! Maybe. Shit! Start over.

Beginning to wonder if he is capable of doing this anymore Cheyenne, stressed and with little direction stops what he is doing and looks out the large picture window in front of his desk.

The trees . . . the green . . . the sweet sound of birds chirping in the distance . . . I am surrounded by beauty. Why then is this ugliness spinning out of control? It’s not beauty. It’s clichés. To hell with this, where's my drink?

He never had a drink . . .

I thought of getting one before I realized the deadline is here. Shit, the deadline is here! Well, not yet. I still have 40 minutes . . . or less.

Standing up and grinding the palm of his hand up his up his ever-expanding forehead, Cheyenne walks to the half-empty bookshelf that serves as a bar and attempts to pour himself a drink before realizing his cup is sitting on his desk; he walks back to grab it.

What’s this I'm doing? The question is obvious but the answer – I’ve been oblivious.

Pondering his actions, Cheyenne frantically stares to the upper right corner of his brain, eager to find justification.

These are not merely random thoughts from an uninspired hack. What is this you ask? This is your toil and your patient endurance. This is a story . . . it must be. It's happening right now. All I have to do is go back and change some things, or at the very least claim to have changed some things and this fiction becomes reality. . . I mean this reality becomes fiction.

It's far realer than the endless hours of reality garbage they put on the damn idiot box. Why can they piss on my face and tell me it's raining, without expecting me to return the favour? Besides, there were no criteria to the mounds of glorious non-sense I sent them in the past, why now?

Piss on them! This is what they'll get. These VIP, head honcho, big shot, bigwig, big cheese, big fat cat bastards won’t see it coming. They don’t scare me. I could devour them whole if I wanted to. I cannot tolerate evildoers. I don't care that their cheques pay for everything I won – oops typo – everything I own.

One the edge of inspiration, Cheyenne feels like his words are going in a direction he cannot identify, and travelling at a speed he cannot keep up to.

That wasn't a typo. It was a Freudian slip. I have won. People read what I have to say and then pay me for it. What kind of job is this? This is not a job. It is a dream. It is a victory. Their truth is . . . they are me, but in all honesty it is I who am them. Even if they have built an empire by placing their name in large, colourful, bold text ahead of my 11 point, Calibri-washed name. They think my work is theirs . . . but it’s my work . . . and the truth-seekers know it. This is a team effort, and while there is no “I” in team, I’ve always been aware of the “m” and the “e”. They can not do this without me . . .

. . . his mouth is his keyboard they’ll say . . . and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword.

Tormented by his thirst and concerned with a warning from God he just received, Cheyenne deletes some of his best work from this very piece and rewrites it differently. Then, writes on as though he never stopped.

I am here alone with nobody around for kilometres, or at the very least, one kilometre. There is no real loneliness in the world today, not in my world. As much as I try to get away from the manic panic that ran its course everyday leading up to this moment, I sit here stressed and wondering if the thoughts I turn to words are good enough.

I need a drink . . .

Imagine that! My words, my thoughts, my story, my two-edged sword! And I wonder if my all-of-the-above is good enough for them. Remember, it is they who came to me, of course it’s good enough. It has to be. This is why they came to me. I am a writer because I want to write – or is it need? I cannot write what they tell me – or is it will not?

Had they gone to somebody else, these divine words would be barely comparable to the frantic pen scratches of a hurried and unprepared university student hoping appease a deadline of his own. I have evolved.

Relaxing for a moment, Cheyenne stretches and groans as though he has been sitting at his desk for days, then he stands up.

I need a drink . . . Do I? My brilliant illumination is suffering at this moment! Focus. I need words. The windy drive that brought me here was intermittent with inspiration. Where is that inspiration now? Show your face inspiration!

Blankly, silently and still, Cheyenne stares at the screen.

The demon in the road distracted me. That’s why I got nothing done. It was that de . . . wait . . . that was no demon. It was an archangel.

Removing his hands from the keyboard and pointing at the screen with both index fingers, Cheyenne glares forward. His fingers return to the home row and hover above for just a moment . . . Go:

Highways are boring. I take the back roads; they’re more fulfilling. I’m going south on a dirt road at high speeds with The King's soothing voice radiating from the car speakers.

Life feels just right. Suddenly, I see a massive creature in the distance blocking the road. I slow down and squint into the sunny horizon. It’s a bald eagle the size of a boulder. I've never seen a bird as big as this. I momentarily wonder what secret government lab could have birthed this giant avian freak. She is tearing at some dead prey. Still 20 metres away, the fearless predator sharply turns its head my direction. She stands strong, despite the wind-blown gravel hitting her from the west. Her intimidating glare discomforts me. I slow down to a crawl. The large, hungry bird sees me. She peers into my soul with eyes unlike anything from this earth. Safe inside my red Impala, I continue forward with my right foot brake-ready. The daunting stare intensifies. Our eyes locked on each other. The constant crunch of gravel beneath my tires goes subtle, then fades silent. I stop. Aron's "The Wonder of You" still playing and nearing its peak.

Our eyes still engaged. The bold, bald eagle is barely a car length from my front license plate – angered. I have disturbed mealtime. The imposing carnivore hops into position to confront me head on. I flinch. Awe takes over for a second as I wonder at her beauty. I soon realize the camera that normally sits on the passenger seat has fallen to the floor.

Still enraptured, I slowly reach for the camera. The eagle is now out of my sight. I grab the camera, turn it on and rise up ready to snap. Fast as death, the eagle's wings open, it lunges directly at me and makes a terrifying shrill that's drowned out by a brief squeal of my own. Press the Dammed button! I bring up my arms for shelter, forgetting about the safety of the glass shield in front of me. With a wingspan that easily stretches further than the width of my car, I fear for my life as the feathered-titan thrusts her claws forward ready for attack. My heart plunges as the car jolts from the impact of the ferocious six-inch talons scraping and screeching layers of red paint where the roof meets the weather stripping. "It's tearing the roof off!” I think to myself, or yell aloud – I can't remember which. Then silence. I press my cheek to my driver's side window, trying to look up. Still too stunned for sudden movements, I notice her dead prey in front of me: a big fat cat.

Reaching for his empty glass, with his eyes still on the screen, Cheyenne forgets he hasn't poured himself a drink yet. Dry glass in hand, he reads over what he just wrote.

Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please because truth is stranger than fiction. Twain said that . . . or was it Thompson? It's not important. True inspiration is an uncertain journey on the road I drive. There’s no sign to lead the way. The only witnesses are the readers. The only rewards are the words and the Revelation that is hidden somewhere between them. Had the road been empty, things would be different.

Satisfied with his work, they never did publish, Cheyenne breathes in deep and exhales slowly. Takes a sip of the drink that was never there. Opens his email. Attaches the document that contains every word you’ve just read and a few more for good measure. In the emptiness at the bottom of the page he writes one final note:

You need this divine inspiration. It’s our – oops typo – your honesty and truth, but most of all fiction . . . or is it reality?

Send . . .

Shit! I forgot the title.

Hear silence here

Normally I listen to music as I write. Not this time. It’s silent here, hear.

I sit at my debris-smothered desk surrounded by four off-white walls. I can’t help but gently sway in my old, blue, uncomfortable office chair that I got for free because somebody no longer needed it or wanted it – need and want are two very different things and I’d like you to make a note of that.

I sway with the calm waters of the captain’s boat. The chair, I need – the sway, I want. This is a reality and a choice.

But none of that matters. Why did I call you here? That’s all that matters. “Write now,” said Myself.

The wall in front of me is blank. Well, that’s not true. There’s a Jake “the Snake” Roberts action figure mint-in-package staring into my eyes. And, above and to the corner, hanging from the ceiling, there’s a fake plant with fake white flowers in a fake brass pot that was left here by the previous tenant. I never bothered taking it down. Why should I? Give me one reason.

When I write, I worry the reader (that’s you) will get bored and leave. So, I put myself in the reader’s chair and reassure myself, as I read my own work, this is exactly what you’re looking for – but it’s not.

I sway.

The true gift would be it’s not what you’re looking for at all. But despite this harsh reality, you choose to read on. You read on and realize, finding what you’re looking for – what you want – is overrated.

Getting what you want means no surprises, no twists, no lessons – and ultimately no need. I’d like you to make a note of that.

So even though the music is silent, you've heard what I've had to say.

Enjoy this moment – it’s the only one you have. Write now. Or, forever hold your piece.

Owed to the Good Doctor

Dear Fear-mongering, bastard-whoore-fucks:

You did this to him. He’s dead and it’s your fault. Your selfish ways have run amok on this attempt at a civil society long before the talented ones first spoke up. Your stench of corruption and deception intoxicates our lives. We all need to air out.

Without souls like his, who knows what terrible monsters would be eating our brains on an hourly basis? He is courage. He is – in a way – the father of disbelief.

Your style has always been to devour truth and vomit lies. But he gave us the proverbial 3D aviators required to comprehend the blurry and layered noise you’ve been spewing. Now that he’s gone, the noise remains. The reality goggles he created are only good for looking back. But that’s what you wanted all along: us left wondering what might have been.

His typewriter was mightier than your swords. But somebody stole his ink. And now, your swords are sharper than they’ve ever been. But the words you carve with the sharpest end of those swords leaves not a deep scar tissue, but a shallow scar instead. So thin, it’s transparent. It’s barely there. I can see right through it. Perhaps because his words hardened our skin, prepared us for what's next.

Some dare to call him selfish, as though that’s some kind of revelation. They call him selfish because of how it ended. But those people forget who he was up against. He was up against disbelievers. The uninspiring , disbelieving assholes that inspired some of the greatest written pieces of the 20th Century.

Pose as part of the attraction. That’s what the disbelievers want. But passengers don’t define the ride, they’re just along for the ride. They bought their damned ticket to nowhere and expected something in return.

Their apathetic attitudes drove him insane to do great things. He made believers of the disbelief he preached. But the moment he wasn’t above death, some stopped believing. Then, they blamed him. They blamed the ride for ending before the best part, never once questioning why. His unadulterated, mumbling-scribbles spawned a nation of freaks of which the newly-crowned disbelievers are no longer part.

Write now. Or, forever hold your piece.