I've given myself an hour to write this morning, and this isn't on the list. I'm supposed to be focusing on a new episode in the web series to bridge the gap between "old Emily" and "new Emily," when she meets "character name to be determined." I suppose this episode will fall somewhere among the "bad date" episodes, of which I could still use a few more good tales of "WTF?" (I'm going to start prodding a few of you). I suspect the meeting of "character name to be determined" will fall in line right before the "Two Punch," of which I need a better... "Punch Line," and by punch line, I don't mean a Kermit the Frog (It's Muppet Day) punchline. I mean, a line that will give reason for a "two punch." Yep. It's a thing. In any case, I'm not doing any of that, but now we're all clear on what I should do tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow, the first day of Autumn. It's the start of one of the best seasons. I don't need to list the ways -- we know. I'll probably ring it in with Trader Joe's Pumpkin O's on the balcony. What? I couldn't find them last year, but this year there they were, readily available and sending me a sign... to eat them. I read something the other day about the Equinox bringing not only balanced days and nights, but balance back to our lives as well. Before I knew any of this, I made the aforementioned list and morning writing plan (which, I'm cleverly avoiding right now) to bring back my own balance of sorts (not that it was that far off, mind you). This is all a little bit coincidental, but it doesn't surprise me. Autumnal balance. That's kind of poetic, and nice. I'll buy it.
On the subject of balance, yesterday was "World Gratitude Day." I didn't actually write down any gratitudes, because, to be honest, I'm just grateful for it all right now. The universe guided me into this perfect place, which I never could've imagined. It's a wonderful time. I'm just grateful that when I close my eyes, and open them again it's all still real.
Today, I opened my eyes to "Elephant Appreciation Day," which doesn't seem to have much to do with either gratitude or balance, except for now I'm seeing this weird image that I imagine I've seen before of an elephant on a scale outweighing whatever is on the other end. Something like this, I suppose.
I don't think this is really an appreciative image, but it really ties this blog entry together, doesn't it?
So... My coffee cup is empty. I probably need to make another pot. It's time for work. I probably need to water the tomatoes, and put on my jeans - probably, in reverse order. In other words, we're going to jump to the moral.
What's the moral? There's always a moral with me, isn't there? There's always an "ah-ha!" look what she thought up today memo... So here it is:
A little over a week ago, I stopped at King Soopers on my way home. I was on a mission for Free Friday Izze Sparkling Water. (It was a thing). My friend Sandra was there. She gave me her free Izze, because she Izze awesome (mmhmm). Izze count, 2.
Now, here's where it gets weird. She also handed me my yearbook from sophomore year of High School. We don't know why she had it. We don't know how long she's had it. When I opened it, though, I knew I had something wonderful, because, there's this:
I don't know why I was dubbed "Waffle." I don't even remember Chad Whitefield. Who was he to me? We found his photo. He looks familiar, but we can't say exactly why. Isn't that strange? It's strange how certain memories get completely lost in time. It's strange that it would say waffle, because I love waffles now, but, I didn't love waffles then. I mean, I liked them, but the waffle love came later. Hey Chad Whitefield are you a time traveler? How did you know? Do you know about that Ed episode with the waffles too? Hey, Chad Whitefield if you ever read this, maybe you can explain yourself.
Speaking of foodstuff:
Cheese Whiz? Huh.
That evening, I planned to go home, eat my eggs, pop open one of the aforementioned Izze drinks, and start writing something (anything), but once I cracked open this yearbook, I just had to read it through to the end. Okay, I mean, I didn't take in every word or examine all the photos, but I read everything everyone wrote to me. There was actually a scavenger hunt with notes like this:
It was completely fascinating, but I won't tell you how the hunt ends. I'm not even sure the ending justified the search, and if we're being honest, I actually saw the ending on accident before I was supposed to, which made the whole experience even more...
Perfect!
This yearbook felt like a grand finale to a strange quest through my past. I'm not sure what I was looking for there, but I spent a decent amount of time reading old journal entries -- scratching my head at, and nodding along with a former self. Who was this strange waffle lover, and how did she end up here, following a trail of Herzog, rats, moons, and monkey bars?
I found responses to Facebook games like the one below from April of 2009. Apparently, the goal was to complete the sentence prompts, and pass it on.
------------------------------------------
1. I am...about to watch "Chuck." :)
2. I wish...for that part-time library gig! 15 hours extra a week is a small price to pay for another paycheck!
3. I can't...sit still.
4. I know...where I belong.
5. I sense...a lucky streak.
6. I hate...holes in otherwise decent jeans.
7. I love...too much.
8. I feel...like waffles.
9. I wonder...why I always want a drink when I'm on call and can't have one?
10. I think...all the flippin' time.
11. I want...a magic wand and a never-ending bottle of syrup.
12. I hope...it's not too late.
13. I should...plug in my computer, the battery's low and I have A LOT of googling to do.
14. I have...a mystery to solve.
15. I see...Bella crawling into her over-sized giftbag to hide.
-----------------------------------------
2009 Jamey was a riot (or so I've heard), and 2009 Jamey was clearly obsessed with waffles. A never-ending bottle of syrup? That's really what I wanted more than anything in the world? I hope it's not too late to change that one.
Skip ahead.
In 2011, the world crashed down temporarily. To be honest, I'm not sure why it crashed down for the person it crashed down for, but it did. I can't change the story. It's what happened. The journal entries from this era went something like this:
"Found the 4 a.m. miracle episode of Studio 60, drank a LOT of rum. Yuck! Sort of worked. I almost slept on the floor with the kittens, but it was too hard."
"This was my lunch hour -- no that was yesterday. Today, I won a director's award at work for "Behind the Scenes." It felt amazing. I can't believe it. My heart rolled down hill about 2:30 p.m., but it was very positive until then. Wow!"
"I don't know what will happen now, but I'm trying out faith."
The five-year one line a day journal is a bit of a page-turner in the summer of 2011 (now known as the lost summer), that is, if you like reading about a 32-car pile-up that starts anew every other day. This, is where the head shake comes into play. I wish I could've stopped my past self, but I can't. I couldn't. I won't. I wouldn't.
There's a line from the T.V. show Lost that's hung around with me for years, "Whatever happened, happened."
That time is so integral to this time. The person I am now, the relationships that held up, and the development of this web series all go back to that. It sort of doesn't even matter why it happened. It's what happened next...
Not too long ago, a friend brought up the idea of deleting all of the photos of a deceased relationship from Facebook, which is, as you know, where all things come into and out of existence. Without a second thought I said quite frankly, "No. I won't edit my life."
Whatever happened, happened. There's a beginning, a middle, sometimes a false ending, or a false start, and an end, but it all happened. If the middle had an advertisement, it would go something like this: "Come to this place, where the stuff and the things happen. Where the cookie is gooey, and the meat is medium well. Come see the middle of the journal, the middle of the yearbook with the scavenger hunt, the middle of the museum where the giant elephant stares out at you, and you wonder how it lived and how it died. Look at all this stuff in the middle.You there, don't skip over the middle."
"I won't edit my life."
But, after a bit more thought, I did edit my life. I deleted a great deal of photos. They're just pictures, after all, and I don't need them. Anyway, photos sort of lie sometimes, don't they? These did. The important part, the middle, is that I still went to the places I went, and did the things I did. That doesn't go away. I didn't delete that. I wouldn't. I won't. I couldn't. I can't. Whatever happened, happened.
For some reason I was called "Waffle." It happened. I don't know why it happened. I don't know if it was just a passing comment, or if there was a story behind it. It's lost (but not like the show).
Maybe the waffle legend doesn't matter, nor the incomprehensible cheese whiz, yet, they're sitting in a yearbook on my table in nearly 20-year-old handwriting, and they're glorious! At 33, I have no idea what they mean. I love that I have no idea what they mean. I love that I can't comprehend my 16-year-old self, or my 25-year-old self, or even my 29-year-old-self. I love that I shake my head, or laugh in agreement at this person who was me; this person who was "trying out faith."
Izze count, 1. Eggs, cooked and devoured. Writing, accomplished. Yearbook, read, and, you know what?
I do want a never-ending bottle of syrup, and the reason I won't edit my life is because all of that back there -- the good, the bad, the ugly, the sticky, the rum -- is what got me right here, when I donned a pink bandanna scarf to match the ones that dinged through in a photo on my phone on Friday night. Right here? Right here... Is everything.
We make a decision every single moment. Send/Delete. Ask/Don't ask. Walk/Don't walk. Speak/Remain silent. Eat the cake/Don't eat the cake. Taste test arugula/Don't taste test arugula. Go for one more monkey lap/Wimp out. Sit, or stand, but don't wobble.
Here's my general morning rundown: "Should I hit snooze? What will I risk if I do, or don't? I'm too tired to think about this."
*Button press
"Oh crap, I shouldn't have hit snooze!"
"What should I wear? Is it Wednesday? Do I have something happening today, in which I should look fancy... fancier... some what more presentable than a day in which I sit in a room by myself? Is it Friday? Sure, this'll do."
"Should I feed the animals, or make my coffee first? Should I drink this coffee, or wait a few minutes so it doesn't sear my tongue? Should I water the plants? Is it going to rain? Do I have time to check the weather? I shouldn't be checking Facebook now. I opened this stupid device to check the weather. Okay, great it's going to rain. Should I close the window? Should I have picked a long sleeve shirt? What if the forecast is wrong? Crap! This outfit doesn't match at all now. Hair up? Hair down? I have to go. Keys? Check."
"Wait, I forgot to feed the cats. Did I lock the door? Also, my coffee is still on the counter, so... I guess I have time to turn around. Plus, this long sleeve shirt is really hot, and I should probably change. What will happen if I'm late? Forget it."
*Turn around.
These decisions are small, menial, insignificant, and as long as in some randomized order coffee is made, cats are fed, snooze is averted (enough), clothes are on, plants are moisturized, and at some point resembling "on time" I'm on the road, all is well -- easy peasy.
In this case, there's time to sit, stand, and even wobble.
Generally, we find more of a gray space in decision making, though, don't we? It's a bit blurrier when something is actually at stake; it's tougher. The order matters. The results differ. The cause and effect can quickly spiral into something unintentional. Signals may get picked up by the wrong pigeon, and misdelivered. Fear of choosing the doom door freezes us to our seat, and we can't stand. When we do, we start to pace. It's really weird in the gray area.
I imagine it looks something like neurons firing in every direction at once, madly scouring for that perfect moment from the past where the answer sits, waiting. There has to be something back there -- a red alert, a breaking news light, a talking raven, an episode of Ed, a shred of evidence, a regretful misstep, or a success story -- to glean information from, interpret, and send back in the form of an action plan. This,"Ah-ha," this "voila!" is what, in the end flips the switch from black to white, so that with confidence you can say, "Because of this or that, this is the solution... or that."
It turns out the gray area is not gray at all. It's actually wild with color. It's every color all at once. It's paint splatter, and alphabet soup, and gasoline, and sparklers, and sprinklers hitting you in the face. That's why you can only stay in it for so long, right? It's too wacky in there; it's too intense. It's like a rave (or so, I imagine). It's like Animaniacs dancing in your brain wacking you with TNT hammers.
Don't linger in the gray area. Sit, or stand. Don't wobble.
The thing about making a decision is you actually don't know if you made the right one until it's already done. You just have to make the best call you can at the time; pull the cord, jump, cross your fingers, and hope. If you have to ask the question, you already know the answer. The answer is already there. The question, is the answer. Pick a path, any path. Choose your own adventure. Catch a train. Pop the bubble wrap. Do something... anything!
In 1999 I had a big mental drama about where to go to college -- stay close, or go far away. Study film? Study zoology? I pro/conned. I wrote an entire essay about "change" for a class assignment. (I'd like to dig that up). I asked everyone what I should do. Then, I left it to fate. I applied wherever I felt like, and I waited. In retrospect, I should've applied to more film schools. That's hindsight for you, sneaking up and poking you for being so dense. I digress.That's a completely different story.
Ultimately, I went to DU. I stayed close, and I studied film. The first couple of months were awful. I was certain it was a mistake. I'm a stickler for sticking it out, though, so I sat. I sat, and then one night I stood up and went out with some kids from class, and at the end of that quarter, I had two new friends. Two new friends, who still stand at my side 15 years later. (Okay, okay... so I already knew John from week one, but that's my Katy story, and I'm sticking to it). We met a soon-to-be college student a few weeks ago, who upon hearing how long we've been friends said, "Wow! I hope that happens to me." I hope it does.
I hope you all sit, until you can stand. I hope you pick a path, any path, and walk down it. Run, if you want. Do whatever you want really. Reach up and touch the leaves on the trees, look up at the clouds, jump over the sidewalk cracks, blast Paul Oakenfold's "Starry Eyed Surprise," and bob your head. No one is watching you. No one else is there. This is your path.
In the year 2000 I didn't know if I'd made the right decision, but I'd made one. I pulled the cord, and jumped, and in 2015, I wouldn't trade that decision for anything in the world. If Northwestern had said, "Okay!" I would've boarded a plane for Chicago. I would probably be sitting in an L.A. diner with one of my NHSI buddies, or maybe we would have lost touch during year one. There would be no Katy. There would be no John. There would be no Cindy. There would be no Ben. There would be no... Holy crap! I can't even go on with this, because it starts to get all Twilight Zone-esque.
*Exit the wormhole
The point is, we don't know. We don't know, and it doesn't matter. Whatever happened, happened. Whatever didn't happen, didn't. That's the way it works. You make a choice. You take the path. You listen to the universe if it talks to you. You listen to yourself if it doesn't.
There's not much time to waste in the gray area. There's no wobble. It's black and white. You make the best choice you can possibly make at the time, and then you jump. Type/Delete. Ask/Don't ask. Walk/Don't walk. Speak/Remain silent. Eat the cake/Don't eat the cake. Taste test arugula/Don't taste test arugula. Go for one more monkey lap/Wimp out. Sit, or stand.
It's 3:44 p.m. on a Friday. I have exactly 16 minutes before the free Friday frozen yogurt truck arrives at the apartment. (It's a thing!) It's been a really weird week you guys, and I've been stuck trying to decide what to write about for days.
I have a longer blog idea that may find it's way out next week, and a music essay that needs to be edited very soon. Music has been really important again lately, so it seems appropriate. That essay has been hiding for way too long. But, that's not today...
Today, I have some notes on my phone about monkey bars and nets and ropes and such. The notes go something like this:
"When falling: Reach for the strongest rope, swing, cross the monkey bars, and don't look for the net. The net is there. It's always there. Don't even worry about it, though, because you know it will always catch you. Reach for the rope."
So there's that, and now there are only three minutes until ice cream, and then... hopefully a new monkey bar monkey lap record, so...
Yesterday, I was in the general (but not quite) vicinity of my park, so I stopped by for a loop, and there he was. He looked right at me several times, and I thought, "What are you trying to tell me you beautiful heron, you?" and he said... nothing, because heron's can't talk. (I know, I know, bad joke). Still, I heard him perfectly.
My quick Googling (Binging, really, because it pays to Bing) tells me that the heron is a good omen -- a symbol of wisdom, patience, strength, prosperity. In summary: All that is right.
After the heron (my next spy novel), I communed with this grasshopper.
He's a giant. King of the park grasshoppers, I assume.
The grasshopper, as it so happens, symbolizes a leap of faith, moving forward, and also good luck. (Of frickin' course it does).
Incidentally, and as an aside, Ozma is temporarily transformed into an emerald grasshopper in L. Frank Baum's Ozma of Oz. This won't mean much to most people, but to me it seems relevant.
I don't think I imagine the grasshopper to look quite like this. But, here it is, the gospel truth, so...
I sort of thought that if I kept writing, I might make a point. Now I see that the point may be that there is no point. There is beauty to look at everywhere if you search for it, and I did, so it presented itself. Maybe the heron sent me his wisdom. Maybe the grasshopper told me to leap. Maybe they are all part of this grand serendipitous scheme that has been unwinding before me, or maybe they were just there to say, "Hi! Yo! Sup Jamey?" Connect the dots as you will. The symbols are amazing, and I love them, but they're also driving me mad. It's time for something solid.
Holy cow! Why are the grasshopper's boots on backwards? This is going on the wall next to my Herzog printout and my Scrubs poster.
This park is one of my favorite places in Colorado Springs. It's my Pooh Bear style thinking spot, and it has all sorts of beautifully strange memories attached to it.
I smile as I recall trips with my family to feed the ducks, a common outing when we were small. The pond seemed more immense then, the island more mysterious. The willows, though, are exactly the same. We always hoped the swan would be there. If we were really lucky it might be the black one. You know, I still keep bags of bread crusts in my freezer for just this water fowl purpose. I suppose I should go, huh? The last time I tried to feed them, though, there were only geese and... Well, we'll get to that.
I remember sitting on the grass many years later to study for the GRE. Then, when I had to shoot my first weather video, while working for KKTV (that's all they let me do for a while), I came here and watched the willows weep with the rain. (What? It's true!)
I've wandered here. I've searched for answers here. I shot a poetry film here for Price Strobridge's poem, "Prism." It went all the way to Vancouver. This place, that is my place went to Canada, and I stayed right here.
I didn't discover the sundial until a few years ago. I frickin' love this sundial. It reads: "Time Makes Love Go. Love Makes Time Go."
If you read it this way, though, it just says, "Go. Go." or, "Goog."
The sundial isn't relevant to anything actually, except for I love it, and think it's enchanting, and I kind of want to visit it immediately. It's part of this poetic place, which I also love, and.... Goog!
Right so... The whole reason I'm writing this (sort of, maybe, I guess) is that a few years back, and well after I already knew about the sundial, I asked someone to meet me here. Raise your hand if you know this story? It's one right out of a movie. In fact it's the catalyst for this entire I Didn't See that Coming web series, and perhaps, my life as I know it... but, I digress.
I truly thought he would show. He had to, right? When you devise a grand scheme for a hopeless romantic, he always shows.
Nope. Not this time.
In my line-a-day journal I wrote: "I went out on a crazy limb and told ______ to meet me at the park. I had coffee, cake, crappy poetry, and a lot of humility. He didn't show..."
*Insert Collective "Awwwww."
No you guys. It's fine. Really. This was a long time ago. This was once upon a time. This is just the story about the pond. I don't think he was ever supposed to show. I'm glad he didn't. I'm actually really glad he didn't, because everything that came after is 500 times better than what may have happened had he walked around that bend. Sometimes I don't even think I should be writing this one, which is dumb, because as noted, I was the only one there, which makes it my story to tell or not tell if I want to. There's a bit more to the end, but I'll save that for the episode.
I will say that I got chased by some geese, and the willow wept. Never feed geese. Just don't.
The webisode's been really hard to edit into a second draft. It's not that it's painful to go back there. In fact, I have no problem going to this place, or describing it, or even writing about it now. It's really the monologue in my main character's head that I keep writing and re-writing, and writing again, and then deleting. It'll come... Maybe it just did.
I think I left something behind that day at the pond -- a little bit of romanticism, perhaps. Maybe I need to go and get it, or maybe it found me again on its own. I don't know, but I bet my sundial does.
So... I wonder what the aforementioned crappy poetry was? I don't think I want to know, but am simultaneously curious. I'd forgotten that part until I read the journal entry again today.
So... I wrote this based on a Friday evening of bar conversation hashtags created while watching my friends Travis Duncan & Jeremiah Walter (The Rogue Spirits) perform.
While writing, I questioned whether it was the best use of my time, but then decided, "Oh, it's all a crazy process anyway! What the heck!" So... Enjoy! (or something)
#ShesLikeACourtReporter
#YoJoe,
#YouCanOnlyYOLOOnce,
the #BlueMoonIsALie and #ThatsWhereWereAt,
#ThereIsNoSadface #SiriSaidSo, so,
#BackToTheCats
#FUMoon
#NeedsAWhistleChorus,
and #ThatsWhereWereAt
#AndPrince.
----------------
I finished another poem yesterday too -- a throat bubbly one. Its really beautiful, but it doesn't belong here. It belongs in someone's pocket. I'll share it one day maybe, or I may hand it over for the correct password. (Ha!)
This week I conducted an experiment with rats. It's fine. They're plastic.
I acquired them through a random act of curiosity connected to a running gag related to this video, part of a longer documentary, Frozen to Death on Pikes Peak, which I helped produce several moons ago. "The Rats! The Rats!"
Having only a vague notion of what would happen, I set one plastic rat in the hallway, and later two -- to spice up the day, you know.
They were ignored, laughed at, questioned, and stepped on like guitar pedals (nice one Sean). Did I mention they squeak? At the end of day one, my co-worker friend Danny named them Mac and Meyer. It was also noted they would look more like real rats if I sprayed them gray. I considered giving one pink spots at this point, but it almost seemed like plastic animal cruelty.
This is Mac. I forgot to take a picture of him in the hallway, so now he's posing on my table. Surprisingly, no cat has attacked him yet -- maybe if he was gray?
Meyer has wandered off. He sat in the hallway for a couple of days with Mac before going into hiding. I'm kind of happy that when Meyer disappeared people noticed. "Where's the other rat?" "Did someone wander off with the second rat?" "Oh that's sad. Someone took the rat." "Where'd he go?"
Don't worry, I know exactly where he crawled off to (unless he moves *shudder).
As the week scurried along, the rats caused a lot of laughs from passersby, many questions of "Why is there a rat in the hallway?" (always directed at me like I knew *shrug), one giant "WHOA!" one "I thought that was real for a second!" a small gasp that I missed, one "I love the rats!" one kick, and an ongoing step on the rat to make it squeak game.
I consider this a successful experiment. I accidentally made a lot of people smile this week through a couple goofy red-eyed rats, and that's kind of cool.
I think the best part, though, is there was no planning -- no forethought or hindsight. I just picked up the rat, and set it in the hall to see what would happen, and then I did it again the next day, and the next, and the next. Maybe it was a rebellion against my own mind's tendency to think everything through thoroughly. Should I do this? Should I not? Should I just sit on this idea for a bit until it tastes a bit more like stew? There was none of that. There were only rats. My shrugs were true. I have no idea why the rats were in the hallway.
I didn't really think I'd write an entire entry about rats when this week began. I wasn't even sure I could when I first said I would. There are many more pressing issues bubbling down in my throat, words that aren't forming into sentences very well. Items that don't fit nicely onto a checklist. Questions, whose answers I know, but keep asking, because they aren't like hallway rats, and you can't just throw them out there and see what happens. Well, I mean, you can... but...
On a side note: I made a Blue Moon playlist on Spotify (like you do) and songs with the word "moon" in the title are all generally good -- no rats among them yet. Maybe I'll share my favorites (new and old) in my next entry, or maybe I'll just write about plastic rats again. It's really hard to say.
Today, I logged in for my bi-daily tweet. I've been trying really hard to embrace the Twitter Twattle, and well.. some days are better than others.
Today, as it happens, was a good day. I was excited to see a trend of ACTUAL interest. Apparently, writers of all sort were bonding over the topic #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter
It was actually the number one trend before #CecilTheLion stepped in. Here's a non-explanatory explanatory article on the topic.
Despite the voices in my head screaming, "You're not a writer. You're a fraud!" I decided to make my own list of #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter Yes, @amandapalmer the Fraud Police are after me too! I think they hide under my fingernails or something.
#HeresMyList
1. Are you working on anything?
2. Next, you should write a script with a female lead.
3. How do you find the time?
4. I have a great idea for you.
5. No offense, we thought you were a man.
6. I don't read.
7. Remember me when you get famous.
8. What were you on when you wrote that?
9. So, like are you going to try to sell that script? Or what will you do with it?
10. Good Job!
Voila! #TenThingsNotToSayToAWriter
What are yours?
Next Time: Hear about an impromptu plastic rat experiment created to "spice up the day."
It's a funny thing -- writing fictional tales based on truths. It's a blurry line, shaky ground. It's door number three.
The true stories oftentimes are funny enough, but the truth in writing, on film, online, has to be just a little bit funnier. It has to have a punchline. In some cases, a two punchline. (Don't worry, that'll make sense later, but not later today. Unless, you already get it, then it's probably hilarious). The truth starts to bend as you make it funnier, and you kind of ask yourself why the heck you're doing this anyway. I mean, what's the point Dink? (see what I did there). Why am I doing this? Why play around with real stories, when I'd do just as well letting sleeping memories lie?
Lies. It's all lies anyway. I mean, I'm editing what will likely be episode three in the web series, I Didn't See That Coming, and there's a story about a river rock. The conversation happened. It was real. In the series, the conversation is with a made up character, though. She doesn't exist, She's just Tracy, friend (I guess) of Emily, the main character and a made up and probably cooler version of me. The whole time as I'm writing this, though, I'm thinking, "I know who I had this real conversation with, and that's kind of weird."
It's weird, right? I mean I know comedy writers do this all the time. That's what makes their shticks funny. It's funny when we know that this crazy character or that one could be our friend, our spouse, our ex, our imaginary hot coffee shop guy, or the loon next door. It's only funny, because we all have a Dwight Schrute in our own office, and he too may accept faxes from the future (I doubt there'll be faxing the future). I guess the answer to my great big why, is because life is funny, really funny. I mean, look around, it's frickin' hilarious. I make a note in my phone or my notepad about an idea for an episode in this series almost everyday. "That's going in the notes," I proclaim! (truth).
Anyway, back to the river rock. I only remember a sliver of the conversation. It was four years ago. I don't know anything, but the premise. There's a good chance I've partially imagined in my head who was there listening. I have no idea what the real response was, but I think he found it funny. He may not remember the interaction at all. That makes the memory mine and mine alone, and leaves me free to write about it. See, all that matters is that there was a conversation about a rock, and it was funny, and more importantly has the ability to be funnier.
The past is weird. Our brains are weird. Symbols are weird. Cymbals are weird. I need more coffee.
