PenManShipMate
Perhaps it is the pending summer solstice, sans sassy lass girlfriend of mine that pushed me toward this impromptu penned prose. And no, after months yielding zero creative writing, I still do not have a single standard when it comes to mindless alliteration. I’ll fly to flashy south Florida and alliterate alligators and speed daters, daunted by dames past, games present and fames futured. Bad decisions in a land demised, derived from a lad driven by falsities imprisoned, smiles from false teeth by those promise christened. When I’m 99 with Miller Lite bottles of beer on the wall, I’ll snipe them one by one in my rocking chair wearing a Winnie the Pooh robe and Eor slip-on house shoes. And I wasn’t even in ‘Nam, man.
My father came of age in a time where you only had two choices; dodge or do your duty. He was drafted by the Uncle SomeOne and was obligated to be whipped and beaten ragged and thrown into a war he knew nothing about. Stationed in a foreign land he did not know, receiving postcards from other foreign lands where people he did know were being killed in wartime fashion. He went in liberal and full of life, and what his eyes observed turned his friends and infantry mates who did survive into backwards shells who beat their wives and hid under tables at dinnertime, sucking their thumbs and weeping when a helicopter flew overheard decades later. But not my father. He returned in the early 70’s and put it behind him, marrying and being thankful for living and returning to his homeland. He wrote my mother every day while he was gone, for years he did not miss a single episode, or so the story has been relayed. I don’t know what you could write day after day in hell, particularly a hell that is static. He witnessed countless atrocities of humankind by the minute, to be sure, but none of that was included in his love letters to his lady. Whatever purpose those writings served, in preserving his sanity, in proving his adoration for my mother-to-be, in showing the universe for all its remaining years that love indeed can conquer all, it works for me. He emerged a calmer force, exhibiting tranquility that I could never master and only hope to achieve in fleeting moments, possibly decades from now. A truly remarkable presence, a man famous for such lines as, “no one ever learned anything by talking,” and, “if you want something done, ask a busy person.” Postscripting my pontification by pointing out that my father can go hours without uttering a single word, and writes emails consisting of, “Good seeing you. Later, Dad”, this man somehow found it in him to write my mother every single night before lights were turned to nightmare mode. And how does one even sleep in that environment?
My lady will be traveling the world as of Thursday, this week, and while you read I will be pondering my next movement, hoping sanity awaits me while I revisit my days of extreme evenings in the affiliate trenches. I will merely be watching monitors fade out and janitors turn lights off, working to unearth new products to appease my mailing masters of the online universe. Getting home so late that I don’t recall leaving the morning before, at a time where you ask yourself if it is late or early, and when you simultaneously brush your teeth and Q-tip your ear to save time, only to look down at the 500 count box of tips and see that the expiration date is March 4th, 2005, which in turn prompts another deliriously-driven inquiry, “do Q-tips go bad?”
New home, new as of one year ago, still suffers from a master bathroom with carpeting around the toilet and shower, quite unpleasant yet I continue to procrastinate the upgrade. Girlfriend, soon to leave but before she does she asks me if I like the name “Kaiya” for a girl, when all I can think about is having a son who will turn 18 and be automatically drafted to fight and die in some nuke riddled country because we’re soon to a point where no one possessing a shrapnel of sanity will be volunteering for the armed forces. And these blasphemous words finding themselves emitted from my fingers only minutes after Memorial Day. My parents had a flag on their grass, and so did Mr. Grant across the street, who fought for us on the beach in Normandy. Not too many of those ole boys are left standing. Or sitting. Or kneeling. Or writing on their computers in the wee of night, saving their drafts to their desktops. Those are the guys who should be writing, but they too speak in one word sentences.
A journal I will purchase tomorrow, to be written in every day my loved one is abroad, a broad I admire for her courage and profound excellence. Journal entry #1: Am I going to suffer an ear infection by using a Q-tip housed in a box with an expiration date of March ’05? I am warming to the name “Kaiya,” but I still prefer “Skyeliss.” And I will try my best to be more optimistic about what the future of the world holds for us all. Love, Bryan.
It can’t be a surprise that dad has so few words remaining. He conjured up enough to fill a page countless bedtimes for years on end from a festering tent amidst a horrorfield. What should he have left to say? He’s leaving it to me, only my interpretations are apt to go awry.
