Day 46: All Things Come and Go (Pt. One)

Take an hour, and write her.

That was the challenge I set to myself, because being the crazy (young) coot I am, I want to know exactly what part of the clock is turning here. What is the foundation for the attraction to my. . . THE caffeinated orphan? Is it the challenge (or rather lack thereof) of gaining the interest of someone who describes themselves as “eternally single”? Is it the subconscious attraction to someone in an embattled household that mildly imitates my own mother’s predicament, therein making Aaron Weiss’ “Nice and Blue Pt. Two” a factual lyric when he sings “I’m still waiting to meet a girl like my mom who’s closer to my age”? Is it the subconscious attraction that I vehemently deny, the attraction to the larger cup sizes? Is it the Marusian eyes, which is a reminder of the Singer, who obviously is no longer an option? Is it because she’s a Lord of the Rings/Beretta M-9/all-these-other-things-I-like freak? Is it the mystery, the ease? Is it because she made the first move?

I honestly have no idea. That’s what this challenge is about.

And so we begin.



One step. Another.
One foot in front of the other.
Forgive the son the sins of the mother.
One step. Another.

Brown brick.
A black tick.
Take your pick.
Brown brick.

Never look back
Never see black
Your life is no longer cracked
Never look back

I’ve spent years coming up with simple rimes, but in the end it’s always the same. I’m stuck on the brown brick road that leads to nowhere. Sure, every once in a while some bluebird will fly by and tell me the wonders that I’ll see at the end, the promises of eternal companionship, eternal glory, the promise of living in a King’s house knowing that the King can never be overthrown. And then the bluebird flies off. And I’m still stuck on the brown brick road.

It’s a land of black ticks and grey skies and blisters and disease and fat gluttons and skinny druggies and curvy porn stars and flat prostitutes and wealthy thieves and poor criminals and lying religions and unfounded atheism and single moms with twenty kids and married couples with barren wombs and screams and cries and anguish and suffering and black ticks and grey skies and a single brown brick road. The bluebirds always fly through the city, evading the hunters shots as long as they can while spouting the Promise: what the brown brick road really leads to.

Many have taken the brown brick road, and many have found themselves back. Whether its because they just came back because they didn’t want to leave, whether they were too weak, if they took the many smooth brown asphalt roads, if they couldnt take the pain of the blisters and bricks. There were many more who took the brown brick road, but they just went so slow, they had no chance of ever getting there. That was part of the Promise. “The few! The few! The few who make it!” shouted the bluebirds. And then they’d fly into the city, and then there were no more bluebirds until the next one came through.

(Yeah this is going to be more than an hour. Goody.)

And yet there were still brown bricks and bluebirds and me and no one else.

I was enthralled with the eternity, the whole of it, that the bluebirds were yelling at me. Above all else though, I was more interested in one small piece of the Promise. “Companion! Companion! There is a companion!” shouted the bluebirds. “Where? I’m alone, bluebird! I’m alone!” “Ahead! Ahead! She’s ahead!” shouted the bluebirds, and then they were gone. Companion! Part of my eternity was here on this dull brittle wasteland, full of brown bricks and red blisters and dusty tears and a dull glittering hope.

But where was this companion? How would I know her? Would she be dressed in a similar manner? Would she be an old friend from the land of not-haves and have-nots? Would she speak with a funny accent that just tickles me? How would I know her? But the bluebirds never answered me. “Companion! Companion! She’s ahead!” was all they said before they flew on to meet their certain doom. If only they knew what was behind, and I knew what was ahead.

One step. Another.
Brown brick black tick.
Take your pick.
One step. Another.

Forgive the son. . .
How did that go, mother?

The days pass, the rimes come and go, and I’m still alone. No companions. No cities. No kings. Bluebirds, unfulfilled promises, ugly brown bricks, and now recently the distant sight of other walkers leaving the brown brick road. Lots of smooth asphalt roads, each slightly more tempting than the last. Every time I move, I always hear the Promise again. “Remember! Remember! Remember the eternity!” And the brown brick road grew shorter. If the bluebirds are to be believed.

4380 steps.
The untold breaths.
Oh mother mother
4389 steps


“The eternity
The glory
The love! The love we’re capable of!”

A bluebird! Here! On the path! Not. . . steps in front of me there waddled a blue bird, a walker. I hobbled forward faster, desperate to catch up with it. Just maybe, maybe if it can’t fly, then it’s misfortune will be my fortune, the key to my answers. The bird teasingly glanced my way as I approached, and then kept waddling forward. Patiently.

Patiently? This bird has seen the glories of the Promise! It’s lived to fly and return! If the Promise is indeed true, then why does it Waddle?! It should be running, flying, doing whatever it can to reach the. . .
Or is that what I’m supposed to be doing?

“Curiosity! Curiosity! You are curious.”
“Is it true? The Promise? Could it be true?”
“Silliness! Silliness! You are full of silliness.”
“Where’s my companion?”
“Companion! Companion! She’s ahead.”
I scanned the horizon. “But I don’t see her.”
“Ahead! Ahead! She’s ahead!”
“I don’t see her, you mad bird!”
“Your eyes! Your eyes! Your eyes deceive you!”
“If I can’t trust my eyes, how will I ever find my way?
“The few! The few! The few who make it!”

I left him on the road and continued ahead of that scatterbrained bluebird. I spent two thousand paces wanting to turn back. The bluebirds, the heralds of the Promise, were a bunch of scatterbrained fouls, you couldn’t trust them. I spent hours staring at the smooth asphalts, wishing they would take me home. I stood still, and bluebird after bluebird circled me with the Promise and then flew on. One I’d never seen before waddled past me. “Your eyes! Your eyes! Your eyes deceive you!”

It made me wonder, it did, that waddling bluebird, but for the life of all the ticks attached to me, I couldn’t figure out what he meant, or what the remedy would be, were there one. I guess that was an unspoken part of the Promise. I’m a bluebird, I fly towards death to talk about life, and nothing I’ll ever say about life will make sense, but have no fear. If you go down the brown brick road and die the death of heat, blisters, and isolation, you’ll have died on the path to El Dorado.

If I am indeed trustworthy.

That wasn’t a question anymore. I decided to leave, I embarked on this journey a long time ago because some small part of me believed the birds, so there is no question any longer. It died beneath my feet when I left. The bluebirds are trustworthy; and I will die on the path to El Dorado, alone.
This isn’t comforting. At all.

Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks red birds brown asphalt
Brown bricks brown ticks brown sand red birds

Redbird?

There it was! It buzzed my ear with the tip of it’s wing and then it was gone, up in the air and far out of my reach. My heart sank slightly (I found it strange to see a redbird when now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a red bird) but it jumped twice as high as it fell when I saw the bird coming back for another swoop. Maybe he has the answers! But he swooped on past. I almost turned back to watch it fly but my brain triggered something.

Never look back
Never see black
Your life is more than a pack
Never look back.

The cool thing about that redbird was he was. . . interesting for lack of a better word. The bluebirds would just glide and never flap their wings and it was a never ending cycle of gliding and gliding and gliding (until they were shot down of course, where it wasn’t so much of gliding than dying and falling and nothing else). But the redbird! Loops, dives, rolls, flapping. It was a glorious display to watch. I was jealous, though this jealousy wasn’t the same as what I felt for the bluebirds. I was jealous of the bluebirds for their knowledge; they’d seen the Kingdom with their eyes and they certainly knew more than I. But the redbird! I was jealous for the freedom. It was a taste that I hungered for but couldn’t remember. The freedom to fly where one was wont to fly. To glide to where one was wont to glide. To land on my shoulder. . . Land?

“There.” It spoke!
“There?”
“There.”
“Redbird, stay! I’m lonely, so very lonely.”
 “Here.”
“Here? I don’t see her redbird!”
It smiled at me. “Here.”
Birds were confusing. “Where is here? She’s not here, so obviously here isn’t here. “
“Here.”
“You’re a mad bird like the bluebirds. I suppose you know the Promise as well.”
 “Promise.”
“You don’t say much do you?”
“Truth!”
“So you do believe the Promise. There’s a small clue. What do you do?”
“Fly.”
“I never would’ve guessed! Fly indeed.”
“Follow.” It lifted from my shoulder, forward on the brown brick road.
“If you say so. At least you lead me, and hopefully to here because I’m still rather lonely.”

“Here.”

It flew before me for some time, and some amount of time passed. I don’t know how to keep track of these days, so I’ll just say that fourteen thought-hours passed. That sounds rather official. It flies a little slower than I’m used to walking, but what’s going a little slower when eternity is at the end?