The Young Man and His Gang (James Gang. I like it!)

I truly do take my nighttime medicine and am sitting in complete darkness, exceptin the light coming from my monitor. I wish for it to illuminate me, give me strength to write a wee somethun. My meds have not kicked in yet so ya see this is the real me. When my meds kick in maybe it's not the real me OR MAYBE IT'A ALL ME!!! AH,HA,HA,HA,HA,HA. (Should I of put a dot at the end of the last sentence, OR, not? Also before my meds make me silly and woozy. How come when I hit the capital key the comas or the apostrophes are not bigger. JUST WONDERING!

I'm bout as limber (relaxed) as me body and mind gets. I had me a piece of apple pie with some vanilla ice cream and watched a movie that I don't know quite how to explain. This movie was watched on my old 30 year old television with an antenna. This movie titled Identity with John Cusack held my interest. Very few movies do that. A couple other well known people are in it BUT wouldn't you know I can't remember at this moment. I can't turn loose my stream of river, consciousness whatch-a-ma-call-it and remember too! I caught it on This channel.

I came up with a bit of an idea before I sit down here. I thought what if? What if I start a story and write some of every night in addition to my screaming out, consciousness, something or the other, meandering free spirit kind of thing. WELL SHITE I CERTAINLY HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE! (Except my mind, and it ain't mine anyhow! It belongeth to all the people who madeth me this-away!)

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                                                     James Gang

     The young boy lay in his bed thinking about many things. Being a teenager is hard enough, being poor in a house full of brothers and sisters and him being the oldest, plus sleeping in the basement. Can it get any worse? Then he reminds himself of his home, with the interstate almost in his backyard, one side is a road leading under the interstate, a heavily traveled city street in front. The only comforting somewhat normal evidence still left of what once was a real neighborhood is old Mrs. Worthington and her rundown house. Beyond that was an eight foot tall fence of the city cemetery. Seeing that eight foot fence makes him smile to himself as he thinks "why do they need such a fence for, are they afraid some bodies will escape?"

     He can make fun of the situation sometimes, however after watching a scary movie on television and retiring to his bed beyond the washer dryer, furnace and all noises that an over amplified childish imagination can come up with, and the biggest fact that he sleeps six foot underground, well . . . think upon that in the darkness of the night as you normal sleeping ones above ground do. NOW! only the width of one city lot, is, a lot of people eternally sleeping inside their own cement tomb of foreverness. Can you appreciate now, that he sleeps with two lava lamps on????? He has done it since the age of twelve, its been four years and well he does not let himself dwell on the dark side, of the dark side. The basement helps to block out the continual noise from the interstate. The non stop sounds of the large over the road diesel trucks roaring from the back yard no longer bother him, actually they soothed him in the beginning, blocking out the fear he allowed himself to think about of the city cemetery so close. He, being the eldest had to man up, even if he was only twelve at the time. Now it seems normal and comforting in a strange way. When he does his homework he comes down to his room because of the quiet it provides him. His grades has spiraled upwards, crediting it to being able to concentrate and get away from his brothers and sisters. They do make a lot of noise add, the television, his parents, the continual noise seeping through the cracks and the sinking old house. He and his father built a nice room in the middle of the basement. Although his father never mentioned it, he knew his father was ashamed, yet proud, that he accepted it and never complained.

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I decided to start this story and have not thought of a name for the boy. It will come. I decided to do this on the spur of the moment. I hope I don't regret it. I think I'll sleep on it! Up above ground! Glen

PLEASE DON'T BE THINKING THIS STORY IS GOING TO CREEPY. I GUARANTEE YOU, JUST THE OPPOSITE!  OKEY-DOKEY! (The boy will be called James.)

Sack Man, Panic Attacks, and Strength From The Dead

I took off work today, my body is not back to normal after a couple really hard nights last week. (I'm not sure what normal is anymore, my old body seems to get a new ache, or pain every damn week.)

Ever buy a new pair of shoes and your feet hurts? I wear steel toe shoes and always buy new ones just like the old ones so as my feet don't hurt. (Why is it if your feet hurt your whole body seems to hurt?) I'mma already gettin sidetracked, please bear with me.

I reckon this stream of consciousness thing is what I do. I just start typin and well, seems a few of you out there read my???? Whatever. I'm sure you've heard of spirit writing, this here stream of consciousness thing or WHATEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have three stories that would take more time than I have to write that came to me in my dreams. My back has been bothering me so I spent much time lying about this weekend. Seems I can't lay down without taking a nap and believe me I took many naps this weekend including Monday.

I think I'll briefly discuss these dreams so as not to lose them forever. Tentatively titled The Sack Man, The Old Man and Panic Attacks, you'll really gonna like this one, Strength From The Dead. (Yep you read right!)

I'll take Strength From The Dead first. I a teenager living at home with a rather large family in a poor neighborhood am forced to sleep in the basement. The city cemetery has been encroaching ever closer to our house. The poorest ones of the city are being buried close to my house, now only two houses away. My mother and father make fun of the graveyard and the poor and getting poorer neighborhood with crime continuing to get worse. Unable to escape they make lite of the unfortunate situation. My mother inherited this really old, and rundown house from her mother. No one will buy it because of the location to the cemetery and we can't afford to move.

Okay I don't have time to write the whole dream. Place your imagination cap on. I have surreal dreams while sleeping six feet under and gain knowledge not known before. One night while coming home late some a gang of drunken, doped up gang members attack my parents car with my whole family in it at a stoplight. They break the windows and began pulling my sisters out. Then, THen, THEn, I say, THEN! forces from within, I've never encountered took over and I kick some shit out of the drunken dope heads. (Pretty cool huh!)

The Old Man and Panic Attacks. I have experienced panic attacks and can give insight to this dream story. An old man experiences panic attacks from the ever increasing modernization. Working and driving the same route to the factory that once was small and in the country. Now he fights the desire to continue working with all the obstacles he now faces as the company has grown so big he feels so small and out of place. He on the other hand does pretty much the same job, but getting to and from work sends shivers down his spine, until one day he cannot handle the amount of modernization madness, and totally shuts down inside the new building.

The Sack Man is about a well dressed man who gets off the train in the early 1930's after buying a ticket, taking him as far away as he could get from the east coast. He loses his memory of  the ordeal. A way of self-preservation He wanders around this small Indiana town. He makes friends with the proprietor of the general store. His walks about the small community sketching his daily encounters on paper sacks. He has become a local sensation as the shopkeeper gives him all the sacks he wishes to sketch, all the townspeople get beautiful sketches for free. One day Sam the shopkeeper gives him a present of paint supplies. Sam spends all his free time trying to learn more about this mysterious man and one day he finds out the answer.

I WISH TO PRESERVE THE BARE BONES OF THESE DREAMS SO AS POSSIBLY TO GO INTO MORE DETAILS AT SOME LATER DATE. Glen

Just feels right!

I's 3 A M as I sit down in total darkness, hoping a light above my head will trigger something worthwhile to write. Apparently this time of the day is when my mind is as slowed down as it gets. I have chronic anemia and when I push myself too hard I pay the price, such is the case now. I'm like an old automobile with frayed interior, my paint is dull, the mechanical part still runs, a mite weaker, week by week. Rather I'd compare myself to an old, yet still reliable work truck. My engine, rear end, transmission makes a heap more noise, as it grunts and groans and shinny's. Them fancy new young trucks fly by me all shiny with their big ass tires all painted with tire black. Fricking stereos a blasting with music that makes me shiver. Headed somewhere and getting nowhere fast. What is it, that they raise their pick up trucks so high I could not get in one, if my life depended on it. I've been a pondering on buying me a newer pick up, my old one is a 93 model and tired just like me. It's
five speed and old Glen be tired of shifting them gears. I have been driving a van for several years and I grow tired of it. It's a 97 and maybe I should get into the new millennia. Then I started thinkin, I know, now all hells gonna break loose! My sister bought this Monte Carlo in 95. She drove it about six years then give it to me. It had been sittin for bout a year and was still to nice a car and it was red, yep a nice color I lika red, on any vehicle. Well now I fix it up and drive it for a few months. It fit my big posterior real good. I like the way it drove, yes I did! Around this time my momma's old citation went ka-put. She needed wheels, and I had that one extra so I gave her that pretty Monte Carlo. She drove it about ten years and don't drive anymore. So It's been parked here at my house for over a year. I'm thinkin about bringing it back to life once again, slapping a new paint job on it. Why? It has a history you see. It's been in the family for a lot of years. My mother drove it maybe twice a week to get her hair done and to the grocery store. Interior is still new like from seat covers being on it. The body shows no rust. Sun has taken it's toil, body creaks and groans just like mine.

I certainly can afford a new pick up but that's not the point here. I would look good in my shiny new toy. As one ages one learns to appreciate certain things in life. It becomes about life itself. I have not one iota of doubt that driving that old car with family history well . . . it would just feel right! I could make this old car like new again, but it's the love the history it holds, just feels right!

THIS LITTLE STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS IS WHAT I LOVE. SIT DOWN BEFORE BEDTIME AND AWAY I GO.     IT JUST FEELS RIGHT!

THEY?

All our lives we have heard the phrase "they", "them." Who are these people.

"They don't give a rat's rear, bout us!"

"HUH?" The first thought that enters my mind is Politicians. Yes that's true, I'll throw "them," referring to Political Pollutants, or to shorten, Polluterticians.

As a child I heard them, meaning, ones not like us!

As I look back I would rather have been them. If you are good with money the slang was "tight as a?" You know "them!"

Ones from the other side of the Ohio river was laughed at, many jokes told about "them."

"Why?" Kids don't understand.

Other religions, other doctrines within Christianity "they don't understand."

I say . . .  don't they read the same bible.

Their interpretation is different than ours.

Wow! Imagine that. Different, nationalities, different, are different. How can that be. They are strange, because they don't see the things the way we do.

As I ponder upon my earliest days in school. They, my fellow classmates were all different.

"How can that be?" In those days of the late 50's and 60's, all were from my small community, no other nationalities, a stirring in the pot.

YET. Difference was there in all. Them barriers were there. Barriers of upbringing, prejudice of all kind was there.

I try as hard as anyone can, to not make fun, nor be prejudice. Sorry to say I do not succeed. I hate that part of me, but I will be totally honest to you, my friends.

I do not believe, I was born prejudice. That unfortunately for all of us is an inherited, learned, or brainwashed in. (Lucky us!)

Last night I was out after midnight, visiting my fav-o-rite convenient store. I see this white pick up truck, immediately I knew the owner was from south of the border, no, no, no, not state, country ya see. Sure nuff, a small, man wearing a flashy shirt with two flashy horses on the back was buying, a box of condoms, and a pack of cigarettes. He gets in his south of the border looking pick up and drives away.

Don't get me wrong! I felt no hatred for this man. I laugh for recognizing the showy descriptiveness of his truck, and being right.

In my community beginning about 30 years ago, factories from all over the globe began growing roots. All nationalities of the world work here, I go to my local supermarket and see all.

I'm not sure why this is even on my mind! Well I just reckon a lifetime of brainwashing prejudice from every angle, assuredly the mass medias. Can you watch any program on the boob tube today and not be influenced? So sad is we're being brainwashed without a hint we are, aren't we?

IMAGINATION RUNNETH FREE.

Here I sit in front of the computer trying to think, seems my mind is on the brink. After three years of practicing you think it would be easy, wouldn't you. In the course of the day possibly a hundred different ideas pop into my mind. When it's time to unleash that stream of conscious my friend speaks of, no spirit is willing to work with me. Apparently the spirit writers union wanna nothing to do with me . . . imagine that!  All of us are unique individuals and that, we must let out. That's why so many people are on them dastardly mood enhancing, destroying, suicidal meds.

I imagine myself floating effortlessly down a river in July on a 85 degree day. The water is at it's lowest depth of the year. I place my small boat in a river to nowhere. The stream gently curves through farmland, as far away as one can get from the pollution of human development. Not easy in this day and age. Pristine farmland, far away from the hustle and bustle, and all the turmoil that every day people must dwell in. I glide down this river during the summertime for over forty years. An annual outing that began as a salute to my grandpa. I would listen to stories told of all the fishing expeditions that he and his grandpa experienced in a long lost time. The stories thrilled me as a child. The first July after his death, I took his old boat, that had not felt moisture except rainwater from being turned upside down in many years. I ask my dog Blue "you wanna take a ride?" She understood wanna, and ride. She eagerly accepts any ride, any time in my truck. Trucks and dogs go together like a hot dog, and a bun. This time while I unload grandpa's old boat into the river she was most curious, watching keenly, curious at my every move. Her ears perk up at the cooler with food, can't fool her none when it comes to food.                 

The first year was exhilarating, in a scary sort of way. I practiced my rowing technique at a friends lake for a couple months. This was my maiden voyage of the grandpa's boat. After about an hour I settle down into the easy  drifting river. Blue was watching it all, smells and sounds, and critters, she never seen afore. I enjoyed watching her more than the ever changing, yet same scenery.

How can I explain the simple simplicity of nature, woods, cornfields, deer, raccoons, turtles, fish a jumping. From time to time we would sit foot on a sandbar, stretching our legs. Imagination runneth free, seeing nary a human, hearing not the sounds of diesel trucks.

Signs  of human development like forgotten train bridges took me back to another time. My grandpa worked for the railroad, and I felt a hug going under this one bridge.

Well as I reminisce and tell this story tonight I think back of how many companions as in the four legged kind that has taken this trip with me

This yearly adventure will cease soon, age catches up, and my old dog struggles, just as I. This year will be my last ride in grandpa's boat. I'm gonna put a fresh coat of paint on it and place pictures of my forty years of riding down the stream of memories in my garage. Take the rockin-chair that belonged grandpa, and forever ride that stream of memories, until the last breath that I take.

Should I Laugh, Or Should I cry?

I sit here in the darkness, only the light from my monitor illuminate my keyboard hopefully to  enlighten me.

Here I am tired, and blue.

Waiting for a smile to be lighten my mood.

I search for laughter, for me, as well as you.

Grumpiness of Mondays, still tugging at my heart. I hate that feeling, I'm only human, same as you.

I growl at the thoughts that sometimes enter, when my shields grow weak.

Tiredness of body, illness, shakes me so. Sending shivers of what once was.

I've worked so hard, for so many years to hold the temptation of allowing what once was, to stay.

What dear friends keeps that at bay?

I hate myself for human flaws.

I love, I hate, too much, I think!

Ah . . . but that is me. An average Glen in the world of many me's.

I feel the love, so why do I hate?

Good question, I cannot answer.

So why bother, it can't be helped. Just another chipped brick in the house of billions.

We are more alike, than different you and me!

I hate no one. I hate only that part of me that allows hate, jealousy, all the qualities I loathe in others that also enters into me. . . . . . .

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The young girl seems out of place in the workplace, Too young, too out of sync. First thought of her attire. Pants too low. Is this the way of young women today? Thong panties showing with a mere bend, What color are they today? Does she see herself, in the mirror of others? Is she showing herself as merely the trend? Oh my! Does she wish to be taken seriously? One day turns to weeks. Seems sweet, work minimal. Causes no problems. Do I laugh, or do I cry for her? The body of Hollywood. The sense of a child.

I see young girls everywhere I go, dressed this way. Mothers, Dads, where are you???

I never though I would consider myself old-fashion. I reckon I must be. There is a place unfortunately for everything under the sun.

COMMON SENSE WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

WORK ETHICS WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

PARENTING SKILLS WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

MORALITY WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

I reckon I could go on and on.

I Sure A Flicka Don't Know!

Hello there boys and girls. It's time to play Shake The Brain! I shall have a go at whatever crosses my mind.

Rain and a northerly breeze has brought a little cooler air here, and it feels wonderful.

I was on the shipping dock today. Okay, this word has already got me started. Doc, as in Doctor means Doc. Tell me why, do we need to add, another letter that sounds the same, to doc to get dock? Does not doc, and dok sound the same? Well now, back to the shipping dock, or doc. A summertime rain was pounding on the roof so I's (Remember that be me in yesterday's lesson.) raised one of the dock, dok doors and peered out at the wonderful deluge we're gettin.  Wind was sweeping some moisture in at me, it felt better than a strawberry milkshake on a 95 degree day. (I cannot tell a lie to my friends. There be nothing better than a strawberry milkshake on a hot day, unless it be a chocolate milkshake on an even hotter day.)

I stood there several minutes and let the droplets cleanse my face and soul. Damn, felt soo good!

Almost got meself into a fine mess tonight. Oh, maybe that should be last night to you, causin as I type this, it is still the same night, but as you read this, it be last night! (Confusing ain't it?)

Anyhows, the bossus that knowus, left us, and left me with new people who are a learnin. (I love her to!) Well now, some people you know, never lurn. Seems me and a small band of new ones are bout to embark on a trip . Remember the show Gilligan's Island. Well now, we got no Captain, nor a Professor. We in deep shite! Yes we be! So me, and the new bees, attempt to make honey. We're  drowning. I keep a workin, and a workin, adjusting, and adjusting.

I felt myself being pulled through that tunnel when people are crossin over, and are walkin to the light. The faster I walk the light moves farther away. Seems I can't even die properly tonight. We keepa plugging away. To make a long, but funny story short we did get the job done.

HOW? I SURE A FLICKA DON'T KNOW!   Many laughs to you until I write again. Glen