California Football

            You are having a shitty night. You decide to go outside to smoke a cigarette; hopefully, it will exhume all your anguish. You hear a referee screech and a loudspeaker. People are resounding. Cheerleaders are chanting inaudible shanties about spirit and pride (presumably). You find your sister’s key to the car she left at the house you are stranded in and move towards the uproar after entering the vehicle.

            There are emptied cars blocking every sidewalk around the bleachers, so you have to walk one block to get there. Seeing that the game is in the 3^rd quarter, you convince the overweight mother sitting at the admissions table (who is also eating a Slim Jim and not closing her mouth when she gnaws its wax) to let you in for free. She offers you a raffle ticket, but you silently deny.

            You remember, from your high school days, how easy it is to spot the home side and place yourself on the stairs, staring at the parents. The has-been smell is overwhelming, and you feel winter slide its fingers between your ribs. You choose the group with the most uniforms that match the players on the field and rest on the thin metallic slab behind them.

            A touchdown is made. The bleachers bounce as the people rise: hands upwards, mouths gaping. The announcer commemorates the children for their lack of skill that is less than that of their opponents. Eventually the crowd calms and you say, “Fucking bullshit. These kids suck.” One or two heads slightly turn in your direction.

Minutes pass and another touchdown is made, but by the visiting team. This time you stand, cheer, then say, “That’s more like it. At least someone taught them how to play the game.” More than two heads turn and one father says, “Maybe you oughta sit on the other side of the field.” To which you respond, “Maybe you should shut the fuck up and let me cheer for whatever team I want.” He straddles his seat, opens his mouth and you swing a fist directly into his jaw. Your body follows your knuckles and you topple onto him and the others below, ragdolling down three or four steps. The bodies under you aggressively move to each side and your head is slammed against the cold aluminum repeatedly. You kick your legs and know you hit one person (hopefully a mother) in the stomach and another in the face. Your head is slammed again and what you can see becomes blurry. A man not far off (most likely a security guard) is yelling above those around you. You taste iron as your head is raised and then violently met with the aluminum once more. You smile as you remember something you read once: To be nothing – is it not, after all, the most satisfactory fact in the whole world?

In a Bar, in Amsterdam

Thursday, June 28^th, 2012, around 11:30pm

            I am happy to be alone here. It is not as lonely as in America. The stench of foreign armpits and top 10 American Billboard songs cause people to love one another. That, or the green bushels they smoke in basements.

Dancing to jazz, I saw drunk—presumably—couples move according to the other’s body: Is you is or is you ain’t my baby? No, Glenn Miller, this was one of the times where the pop hits weren’t pop.

            The locals are kind, but there may be a hindrance in their step, and who could blame them with such a vibrant slash of tourists meandering their cities, expecting things differently, smelling of deodorant and Camel cigarettes.

            It all happens upon you. You meet Norwegians who make you feel like you’ve known them your whole life or a New Zealand mom and daughter at lunch who have already had four or so glasses of Pinot Noir. It is a nice thing to find.

            Perhaps people are the alleys of which don Juan spoke. Even Camus may have admitted through character that he could be having an intensely intellectual conversation with friends, but when a beautiful girl walks by, he would disregard everything that was said previously just to move his eyes along at her pace. It is a strange effect, the one these women have here.

            I feel kindred with a few spirits back home, those who know the look of an empty bar, at least judging by the seats next to oneself. However, there is a solidarity in knowing that one’s soul can stand to be alone.

All those with hundreds of friends and people they are meeting at nightclubs need other beings. But we, we few are much happier without banal conversation of who is dating whom and what is happening in the tabloids. Our lives are sufficient with our inner dialogues. A simple smile or laugh after overhearing a public—often too public—conversation are enough to carry us through this trudge of night.

We will go to sleep miles from anyone familiar, but those plants on the windowsill, those cooling low-balls of whiskey, those blank pages, canvases, stories: those are our good friends.

I understand why Camus wrote while here. I can see him in this bar, full of others just as much unlike himself, but he carries on, like all geniuses. He does not speak—only writes, smokes, drinks. I wish to be as dedicated. Perhaps I am. To be sure, I am, in fact, drinking whiskey, smelling of scents of all so many people. A god somewhere in the history of all the ones humanity has created has to see this attempt in us. We must be appreciated at some point in our lives.

It is my last night in the infamous Amsterdam and I feel a tinge of regret, but it is overcome by being so happy at seeing the world. I am alive and so happy to be so.

These conglomerations of skin, blood and muscle do not know what they are doing. Are these canals a concentric version of the circles of hell? There is too much to take down in words this night and my pen follows my scattered brain.

The loneliness in this barstool is only brought on by more whiskey, but it depends on the perspective you take, doesn’t it? If I were a more positive being I would be dancing in the masses attempting to find a woman, and yet, I am alone and yet, I am happy about that. Now it is time to go back home and keep what I have learned through somewhat drunken strolls and conversations deep inside myself because the night ends eventually, even in our minds.

Solitude

            People have too many friends these days; they’re too well connected. Three hundred fifteen friends on some social media website and I only really know twenty. Some time ago, people had maybe five friends. If they were lucky, they’d get ten. It was only because they were constantly around these people that they actually got to know them.

Now, friends escape like a meal, somewhere beneath our esophagus muscles, landing inside the invisible and escaping as a pile of excrement removed of all we needed from them. We can smile when we’re with them, but do we honestly miss the conversations had and the drinks shared? Would their deaths matter a year after their funeral? Maybe, but only to become that quintessential depressed being that all these new friends want to understand and be close to.

I cannot wait to live on my own and be away from everyone who thinks they are close to me. I cannot wait to play board games with my alter egos, my favorite being the one who flips the cardboard square out of anger as if it was a table in a market. I cannot wait to delve into the drunken habits I wish to acquire and learn an accompaniment of different, new things all by myself. I want to learn on my own, secluded from public, secluded from Sartre’s Other.

Excerpt (of something new)

He always said his grandfather told him stories about reflection and about how all these people used to spend hours every morning in front of mirrors, making sure they looked better than everyone else. He said his mom would scoff and make fun of his grandfather, saying those ideas just came from dreams he had. He said he would tell his grandfather that he thought it was funny that people used to need reflections like that, like it was as if one version of the world wasn’t enough for them, that they needed a reversed version too, that maybe it was to remind them to think outside of the box, that the first person to invent the mirror did so as an artistic gesture. He said he would say that maybe it was like having a pre-painted canvas: all the work was already done for the artist, and yet he or she would still be able to make such a statement about the world, commenting on how backwards everything was. He was a liar, though and now I’m not sure if I believe any of what he said.

All those times he was playing with his hair, I thought it was just a quark of his when he looked into my eyes—maybe because my eyes were that astounding to him in this world of refusals. All those times just ended up being him readjusting that mop top to look pretty for the world, though. I bet he would even spit on the ground, get down on his belly and roll through the dirt just to see his face in that bubbly glob of reflection. He used to make fun of the people who his grandfather told him about when it was just us two by ourselves. He talked like he was better than them. I see it all now, though.

Waking for Work

            The morning enters as a bullet through your left eyelid, pulling back sleep. You lie on this Egyptian, spiked torture table, waiting for the light to rupture, so you will not have to keep dissolving the cyanide pill in your right cheek.

            Even with a night filled with friendly faces, you still find a reason to fear the coming light. You know you have hours before the darkness resolves itself to be as accompanying as all of us, but you still fear that brightness. You know the sun will yell at you through the shades you bought to keep such a light out. You know the alarm will go off before the light even beats you as a fist across the face. You know the punch clock on the wall at work, which you have dreams of, will shriek and berate you before your lids peel, but you will fight it. You will understand, unlike your father—who has worked every day of his goddamn life since he was sixteen—that a night spent on something worthwhile is worth much more than a paycheck.

            No matter how many dollar signs stack in my bank account, I will call in sick to work today, you think dreamily to yourself. But then the thoughts of all the places you could travel with such money earned from a hard day’s work invade your mind and you decide to rip your body from your bed sheets. When you sit up, you smirk at the clock, understanding that it does not have the power over you that it had over its previous owners. You see yourself wandering the streets your heroes walked, smelling that aged cobblestone and you finally, honestly wake and pull and shove at your hair in a dismantled manner, realizing that today will not be as bad as it seems now.

Times Spent in a Car

 

            Now that I am, in a way, past that love you and I once had, I can logically think about it. It’s funny to talk about it now with anyone, mainly because I don’t usually and sub-levelly because I don’t believe in it anymore. When I think about you, I feel like a Bible-belt family shacked up in a hotel because their house was destroyed by a tornado just a few days ago. They cannot yet recognize it as such, but they know there was an ominous power in what occurred. It happened so suddenly, but it marks the rest of their existence like someone they love died, though everyone made it out unscathed. Ironically, milestones are never carved by monotonous days.

            I know in the basements of our minds, we both have daydreams—when we’re bored enough at work or when you’re high and alone in your bedroom—about some time in that indeterminate future where we will be sitting on some couch of undisclosed color, under a blanket, watching a movie on our list, like a normal couple. However, we paradoxically understand that they are just daydreams. We understand that regardless of our futile hope and well-wishing, we will continue talking like we don’t have these thoughts, like we are happy with the lives we are living, because that’s what we tell everyone who asks.

We will continue and perhaps one day meet up with thousands of stories to release, like dump trucks with so much refuse to pour onto one another. You’ll tell me where you’ve travelled to and all the crazy people you met. I’ll tell you I wish there was an angel assigned to each of us whose job is to document every thought and ironic instance in each worthwhile human’s brain. That when we die, I’ll hear the stories you forgot about, the ones I’ll love the most.

I’ll lie to make you feel better about your time spent in the world. We’ll be old and I know I won’t have to lie, but I will, because I’ll still want you to feel appreciated when you’re around me, like you always said you did when our skin was still tight and our nerves still felt everything in the world like it was the cautious fingers of a lover slowly moving down our necks. I see you dancing on your toes, knowing there is so much pain in that, but that is what you live for.

Posterity

             Singers used to know how to sing. Musicians used to know how to play. They knew they were getting a paycheck, like all of us workers, but they felt their songs. They weren’t doing it for a paycheck, like we all are. The music industry is and was not ever a lucrative field (unless you hit it “big”) which only proves the point more that they were doing it because they loved it.

All those musicians who gave out to their old age live on through their songs, but what do the factory workers live on through? Their children? Hardly. They think they will raise upstanding kin who will carry on their legacy because that is what is important to them. When their children’s children die, they live on no longer, their stories forgotten through so much time, whereas those musicians—Betty Weiss, Robert Johnson, Ray Charles—they live on much longer than they expected.

The rest of us hope to have legacies, but we won’t. We will have diary entries devoted to amateur poems we wrote, so subjective our grandchildren won’t even know what the subject matter was, but they will make up their own and we will love them for it.

After we are gone—this large group we are in community with—what will remain of us? A headstone that reads, “Faithful husband and father”? I hope there is more than that. Even if it all boils down to only one instance when a niece or nephew is reading through my journals, and through one single entry, they have a Tesla sort of headache-wreaking epiphany about what they want their life to be as they listen to the out-of-date Ray Charles singing, “Come Rain or Come Shine”. That will be enough for me to smile in my grave, instead of rolling over.

Resemblance

            It’s strange meeting someone who almost exactly resembles a person you no longer talk to. A person who fidgets with their hair like that ghost who still floats around your memory, peeking around corners every two dreams or so. You try to ignore this and certainly don’t tell the new person about it, because you kind of like the presence of this half-forgotten ghost, breathing and in your face again. Their inhabitance is cathartic.

            You remember kissing the ghost and wonder if kissing this new being will feel as enthralling, removing clothes while you’re at it. Will they order the same drink when you go out to a bar with them? Will they be excellent at conversing about anything but your now coupled existence because “that is the most banal of conversation topics”? You hope so.

            Every single detail you can remember about said ghost is perused and considered with a somewhat ephemerally languorous exertion. You take your time with this task you feel obligated to endure, because when you think about someone in a certain way, they exist in precisely that way.

            However, once you have catalogued every viable option, you are somewhat stung by the knowledge that this new being will, given enough time, be just as much a ghost as the ghost they resemble. And you wonder to yourself, Just how many of these familiar spirits are stacked on top of one another?

An Excerpt from a Story

Sam opened his mouth in the direction of the man who was seating himself, but the man beat Sam’s coming words with his own. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about that shit anymore. It’s boring and you’ll stew on it in your brain for the next few hours whether it’s our topic of discussion or not. Tell me more about musicians. Music. You can go through every damn song on that jukebox, if you’d like. Let’s just not talk about that.”

            That man’s first word fell so perfectly before Sam’s that the timing alone pushed him even farther into believing what he was trying to ignore. He took time to process his awe and then had to go back to reviewing what the man had said; there was a short instance of silence, but Sam finally spoke.

            “Why the sudden change of heart?”

            “Change of heart? Sam, I only brought it up after you kept harping on me for answers to personal questions about my life.”

            “Well, you were elusive and mysterious, man! I’m curious like a cat and you can’t blame me for that! Sometimes I rhyme too, Jiiiiive Turkey.” Sam laughed uncontrollably at the mixture of how stupid his comment was, how giddy he felt over becoming sort-of friends with a supposed Satan, and how all of a sudden he felt like all the alcohol he had dumped into his system was stored up somewhere, only to be released as he formed that sentence. Sam almost leaned a little too far in his guttural shaking and rocking back and forth. The man had to stretch his feet to the ground just to hold up Sam’s light-hearted body.

            “Lay off the sauce for a bit and go pick out a new song. Susan,” the man turned in her direction, “can Sam get a few more quarters? He’s looking to give us all a history lesson or two and I am in compliance. What say you?”

            “I’ll agree to that,” Susan said. “Whatever makes the time go by faster in this shit hole.” The last part was let out mixed with a sigh, like someone does when they hope no one will hear, but want their frustration justified by vocalizing it. The man heard it and winked at her through his grin when she brought the quarters over.

            “Lady and gentleman,” the man was now standing, arms raised, and head tilted upwards in a prim manner, “I present to you, The Omniscient Samuel Pickard!”

            Sam’s head turned so fast to look at the man that the force almost threw his body off the stool. How does he know my last name?

            The man seemed to be waiting for Sam’s reaction, his eyes focusing beams directly into Sam’s, hinting at a secret, inaudible conversation going on between the two of them. Sam noticed a smirk, just barely visible where the man’s lips met on the right side of his mouth.

            “Go on, Sam. Your audience awaits you.”

            Sam leaned onto the bar top enough to get his view around the man and onto Susan and Johnny. They were both staring blankly at him, like children with heads cocked who don’t understand what they are waiting for.

In Addition to Dying

            When we die, our bodies are lowered not into a grave, but into the back seat of a car one of our best friends drives. We are looking down, trying to light a cigarette, but the wind through the windows keeps us from doing so, and so, when we look up finally, after that infinitely long trip through the black, empty streets, we find ourselves in a cushioned position with the parking break on in the parking lot of the hospice our favorite aunt and, in some sense, second mother, died in when we were eighteen.

            We remember copulating with another body we thought we finally loved for the first time the night after our aunt’s soul left her body. We remember thinking we don’t know what we’re doing, “but the sadness will make up for it” while we try to keep quiet because our parents are asleep down the hall. We remember thinking how “all the porn added up to this?” Suddenly, the hospice building shrieks through our sight and conception of the clock and we somehow realize we are moving backwards or forwards through time. It is difficult to determine which, and depends on when we arrive upon this realization.

            Some of us will revert all the way back to the pictures we saw of our first birthdays. Though we don’t honestly remember this moment, we vicariously experience it, giving a strange, inexperienced existence to those memories we don’t recall. Our fathers are somewhat drunk in the corner, wondering how they even got the girl they have convinced themselves they love pregnant in the first place. We are their third living child (fourth, technically) but, by some awkward epiphany, they have only come to think of this now.

            The time in second grade when the girl we thought was cute and convinced ourselves we were in love with finally talked to us passes as well. That elementary school we grew up in is blurred by the movement of this passing we are experiencing, but we can still recognize it as such.

            Because we have become prone to thinking of all our milestones in terms of schooling, we don’t remember any of the times we spent at a friend’s house at the end of the block, hearing stories about the Gila Monster he had, alive and well, living in his camper on the side of his house, or the time he threw rebar like a tomahawk into the flat part of our faces. We don’t remember how our English teacher told us we would never amount to anything, but that passes easily through the sieve of our thoughts because we are no longer the person we were.

            We are now, and will, from here on out, be something we can no longer conceive. We are ideas. We are the thoughts we once had as living beings. All our memories pass through us as though we are smooth rocks lying dormant in the rush of a river we held a girlfriend in once to keep her warm. We are the cooling wind on our own skin we felt in that window of spring, which exists for such a short time in Arizona as the valley lets itself become submissive to the summer. We know we are fleeting but we cannot accept such a fate. We want a god to cradle us and tell us we did well, that we were good and faithful servants, but such an afterlife does not occur. We become a foreign version of nature as our bodies pass into a form of our memories, but we are still unexpectedly happy that such an afterlife exists, no matter how quickly fleeting it is.

Dying

            The afterlife does not exist. When we say rest in peace, we, as life-filled humans, mean it. The black ether, void, what-have-you, welcomes us in as we are descending. Though we are still alive as something we cannot understand while we are breathing in the bodies we inhabited, which have stopped doing so, we now understand the darkness that is waiting and a smile creases our bloodless, pale lips. Our eyes are closed by a family member with their sad, little fingers—if they found us in a room after our suicide—or our eyes closed by our own power on an unfamiliar and despondent hospital bed because we were so tired from all the living we had to endure.

            When we hear, “Rest in peace,” or see it on our own gravestones as an abbreviation—our heads tilting back to see what message our loved ones chose for us through the coffin that is invisible—we know it will be thus. We know that finally all our work will be paid off.

            We laugh at the pre-mortem thoughts we had of meeting the creator we thought existed. Finally, we realize how ridiculous it was to think that our maker would want all of us—after all the red wars and random fights with ex-girlfriends or boyfriends—in the heaven it has created up there with it. We know that we are not ones to be saved by some savior we have created. Whether or not it exists is no longer a concern. We feel the peace bouncing off vocal cords and landing somewhere inside of us.

            That first fistful of clumped soil is tossed onto our faces and we accept that it is the closure and answer we have been looking for during our entire existences. We smile, if only to ourselves, cross our arms over our chests and feel the emptiness coming for us as a pastor we never honestly liked recites some Bible verse we knew when we were children who would believe in anything. His voice fades as we escape.

Fishing

            There was no beer to make the sun drag its body faster. My father never drank beer in front of me. I’m honestly not even sure if he’s ever had more than one beer in one sitting in his entire life. It is ironic how things change when parents’ habits reach a dirt fork in their children’s minds.

            “You’re tying it wrong. Let me do it”

            My father never revealed himself when he was supposed to. It was almost as if he would only crack the seal when he knew there would be an unspoken time limit on the subject—which was good, because he easily drifted though incongruous topics.

            “Your granddad and I caught a lot of fish with these rods.”

            I nodded enough to resemble a listening son, but I thought about the crawdads in the lake-water shadows, my kind-of girlfriend, my summer vacation waving as it passed, etc. I was bored.

            My hopes for catching a fish would have put me at the edge of the rocks my ass now resented, had I had better luck in the past. Having never caught a fish in my life, I was wary of my father’s excitement when, weeks before, he triumphantly handed his waders and our poles down to me from the attic. He was gentle with the goods and cautioned me to treat them the same as if we were taking them to the Antiques Road Show to have them appraised. We both knew the rods—along with the rest of our rusting possessions huddled in the house—weren’t worth anything, but still, there is some pride in that alone.

            “I think I got somethin’.”

            Why do all fishermen say that? Just a nibble. Story of my life.

            Maybe he resented me for not talking. He always has been and always will be a talker, a “people person.” I always have not been and always will not be one. However, I congratulate him for attempting to pry open a treasure chest of conversations that never existed to begin with. It was, and still is a noble task; ask my ex-girlfriends.

            He worked his summers as a boat boy until there was nothing left: tying boats to the dock; bringing engines out of the boathouse for hobbyists, retired men, and lonely women using fishing as their antidepressant (I know…it’s strange.); and getting “cute” girls’ phone numbers. Five, two, zero, five, two, four, seven, something, something, something. (Up North, any girl who doesn’t weigh over 180 pounds is cute. It’s a different standard, which might explain the insurmountable list of divorcees now living in the Phoenix area. Go up North, find a cute girl, get hitched, move to the city, find cuter girls, get divorced, miss the girl who used to be cute. A cycle.)

            My uncle—he’s my second cousin, but I call him my uncle—now runs the boathouse my dad worked at. It’s been in our family for decades. My great-grandfather used to run it. For a small period of time, I even considered following my father through the vaguely lit stories he still lingers on, but once back in the city, the idea did not appeal. (The cycle had not caught me, yet, or maybe it did, just in a peculiar way.)

            “How’s your girlfriend? What’s her name, again?”

            “She’s good.”

            Years later, I found the lyrics to a song my dad wrote in my late granddad’s dulcimer case. He taught my father how to play, though my father still doesn’t know how to all that well.

            I never used to sense jealousy in him (hell, I wish I could catch fish like that), but as the great Father Time wore into us, things nestled like parasites in our spines, and the cycle hit us both in a different way.

In Between

            Now that the world is at a point where love is not so apparent and blinding, we will all live freely of one another, given enough laps around the numbers on the clock. Humans will no longer spend nights with their pillows, or dogs, or favorite movies crying over what could have been, since there is no longer a “what could have been.” These humans will have finally realized that there is no key hidden in any possible future with any stranger they meet. They will no longer wander at night, or even during the day, hoping someone who fits their quarks and can laugh at those quarks with them is any one of the infinite souls they see in a day. They will hardly ever fight, because we humans only fight over things we love: money, steadiness, even love itself, etc.

            These humans spoken of will be our children’s children, of course, for we have too many weighted, overstuffed suitcases to unpack in this new apartment we have found ourselves now sitting in. We will sit in these new places and still think of all those we loved, whether for the shortest time ever recorded or the longest. Our children will see us crying while making dinner, but they will not understand because this concept of love, which we cry over, is drifting out even more in their minds. They will come to us as elementary school students, frustrated that a girl or boy won’t talk to them, but it will end at that extent. They will not stop eating because their crush did not accept their valentine in class that day. They will not despondently lie in bed through their several alarm clocks, ignoring their obligations because their high school sweetheart broke up with them. They will not spend multiple paychecks on a crafted piece of metal with a useless, shiny rock on top, only to realize that their feelings of monogamy have changed as the first year of their marriage bore into them. They will have no need for these useless emotions, though they may feel a residual tinge now and again, caused only by us.

            Their children, however, will feel a joy neither our children nor we could ever imagine, and they will never question why they are so indispensably jovial. When they sense a connection with another human, they will recognize it as simply that and nothing else. They will be logical and much smarter than we ever hoped even our children would be. One day, with all this knowledge and lack of such deep pains and regrets, these grandchildren will visit us in our nursing homes and, ironically enough, be the ones giving us advice as to dealing with such wrenching heartbreaks. But because we are so panged with the bruises of living, we will not listen, and it will only be another fault to learn from.

Waiting

The pores are open on my hands. Some hair grew there some time ago, but mostly age. Cracked skin marks my years the way the rings on the tree stump I rest on do. We were both cut down around the same time. Now, people just use us as a reference—a timeline for their own existence.

            The grandchildren don’t visit. Even my own children don’t. I live too far in “the middle of butt-fucking Egypt” as they so tactfully put it. Phone calls still exist, but not often. I mostly sit, waiting for time to wave as it passes on its fall to the water waiting for impact below the bridge.

            Even Time wishes not to be around this long. It’s too much waiting. Sometimes there’s a war, and the piles of gutted, dry blood-painted bodies take on the occupation of keeping a count on things. Sometimes, a political race—to where, I still don’t know—keeps track of the money spent, the votes. Sometimes there’s a death in the family and the relatives measure how long they themselves have left. Most of the time, though, time is spent waiting for dinner to be cooked, waiting for school to be over, waiting for sleep to find us, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for the end of something—anything. I’ve lived long enough to know at least that, but I haven’t lived long enough to understand what all the waiting is for. Death, I suppose, but that doesn’t seem too fair, does it?

The moments, which don’t feel as though I am waiting, are usually spent with someone other than myself or are those in which I am creating.

             Upon realizing that it is a process, I was happy. Upon realizing that all the goals I had set for myself were really nothing real, I held back a tinge of regret at the time wasted working towards them, but finally, my joy gutted a laugh out of me, I laid on the frizzing carpet, and exhaled pointless worry. When I inflated my lungs, I thought about all the things I could work on. I thought about fixing my car. I considered sketching a mug shot of someone I had never met, probably never would meet, and didn’t care. I didn’t even care that no one other than myself, the occasional nosey girlfriend, and my best friend would ever see it. The dreams of fame faded along with the hopes to be published and noticed for what I had done. The fact that I had written, painted, drawn, sculpted, invented, or fixed whatever it was, was good enough for me.