A Cracked Ceramic Tile Covered in Smuckers Strawberry Preservatives That Somehow Isn’t My Fault


come-fly-with-me-tom-roderick

I sat in my living room and wondered where they day went.

That’s not true. Let’s try something else.

I sat in my living room and wondered why I so adamantly avoided working on my novel.

No. That’s no untrue, but it isn’t… accurate.

What really happened was that it was eight and I was sitting on my couch, staring out the sliding glass doors at the Agora and wondering why I spent all day playing World of Warcraft when I didn’t really have too much fun doing it.

“Come on. I’ll run you through some dungeons,” James had told me.

“Okay,” I said, though I knew neither of us really wanted to do it.

We did it anyway.

It was just something to do.

I understood, then, why people smoke crystal meth.

Modern life. It’s boring.

It’s the good sort of boring. The sort of boring that comes from not having to climb up a mountain and find a flower to cure grandma’s cough. It’s the sort of boring that doesn’t have to worry about bears carrying off the youngest, or defending the farmstead from bandits, or securing an alliance with Poland by marrying your daughter to some duke, or even finding a meal.

I have a freezer full of El Monterrey burritos.

My toilet weeps.

No.

It’s a boredom that comes from not having to worry about anything, really. You worry about money and bills and existential happiness and other stuff like that but it’s not tangible. The minute clinic isn’t going to break my kneecaps if I didn’t send them a check for twenty three dollars, even though it would be good for repeat business.

Can you imagine if doctors offices had rewards programs? Like you swipe your Blue Cross rewards card and every twelve kidney stones you get a face lift for free?

God, I should have gone into marketing.

I coudln’t get anything written but I really wanted to write something so I stood and I threw open the sliding glass door and some sort of cute, clean guitar drum combo started playing like I was in a Wes Anderson film and I leapt off the balcony for a quick fly.

There I was, soaring over the San Fernando Valley like I was the Big Lebowski and this cup of chamomile tea was my bowling ball.

The rectangular, segmented blocks lit up like neurons. If the grid of the SFV was someone’s brain I think it would a pretty bad brain. It probably belonged to a food service employee, slightly chemically damaged from a bad joint back when it was in high school. The owner of the brain would live with her parents. She never suffers too much for any of the increasingly poor decisions she makes.

It’s not her fault.

Honestly.

She just got a bad brain.

It was cold up there and I wished I had brought a cardigan or maybe my bath robe but, on second thought, I didn’t want anyone at the observatory to see me and draw an even stronger Lebowski comparison.

I mean, I love the movie, but that’s not why I decided to go for a short fly.

I was really just avoiding work.

I landed up in the mountains and punched a goat in the head.

Well, that’s not all that happened. I just don’t want to get into it but trust me, he had it coming.

It’s strange, up there in the mountains. On one side you get a great view of the biggest city in the whole word, you get a great view of a place that day in and day out for many, many people is there whole world, but on the other side you see black. Darkness. Emptiness. Nothing.

They say one day humans are going to live in mega skyscrapers. Each one as big as a city.The world will be 99.999% wilderness and the billions of us will just live in these impossible, monolithic structures.

Well, not everyone. Sure, you’d get those conspiracy theory nuts and rugged individualists and they’d live out in the woods like savages but hey, man, from the 6987th floor of the Los Angeles tower they just look like ants.

I followed an ambulance down magnolia for a good hour, mimicking its sounds and pretending I was doing something useful. Like I was part of the crew and people’s lives hung in the balance.

I’m not, though. I’m just sitting on my house playing my stereo too loud and avoiding doing anything useful by writing a blog post about it.

The sad thing is that I’ve done it before.

Bah. I’m too lazy to swing at that. Go find the links yourself.

It’s so easy to drop out of doing something you love just by not bothering to do it.

So here I am, drawn back into the whirlwind, flying around in a spinning, windy circle with some barns and some cows and some trees and a pitchfork or two and hey, whoa, man, there goes a wicked witch and a slightly less wicked witch and a mean witch who thinks she’s nice and a nice witch who thinks she’s mean and a mean witch who knows she’s mean and the smart witch who is just trying to figure out why the fuck there are always so many witches in a tornado, metaphorical or otherwise.

Oh, and the whirlwind is me at nine o’ clock trying not to work on my novel.

And the witches are something else.

I’ll let you know when they figure it out.

Yeesh, what a mess.

But there it is.

I’m blogging again.

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