100 words a day

My foe of one hundred words is defeating me.   It isn’t the challenge of distilling complex moments and thoughts to a manageable piece that’s causing my quiet.  One hundred words aren’t too few, they’re too many.  Even ten seem daunting.

I seem to have lost my words.

And what of art?   Is it the physical manifestation of trying to make order out of chaos?  Peace out of pain?

What if one finds themselves bereft of these states?  Must one be miserable to create?  If I had to choose misery with art, or happiness without, would this have been my choice?

This is National Crime Victims’ Rights Week, as well as the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing.

This week, I honor my wife, who was in a building two blocks away from the Murrah building when the truck exploded.

The shock wave blew in the windows and threw her to the floor.  She was several months pregnant with Logan at the time.

Some people say she’s not a victim because she wasn’t actually in the Murrah building.

Tell that to her fibromyalgia and PTSD.  Tell that to the shards of plate glass embedded in the wall behind her chair.

I was in the grocery store today — the same one as before.  I was wearing my Pink Floyd shirt with a prism on the front.  The title of the album associated with that prism was printed across the top.  The courtesy clerk took special notice of it.

“What does your shirt say?  ‘Dark Side of the … Movie?’”

I faltered, but regained my composure quickly.

“‘Dark Side of the Moon.’  It’s one of the best selling albums of all time.  Came out in 1973,” I said.

“Album.  Huh,” he said.

Being the non-violent type, I just walked away.

There’s a long-running writing contest called Writers of the Future.  I’ve told myself that I would enter for 25 years, and last fall, thanks to incessant prodding encouragement from my friend Charles Anderson, I finally did.

Last week, my wife called and said I had received a manila envelope in the mail.  It contained a WotF Honorable Mention certificate, along with a brief complimentary note from the contest coordinator.  I’ve been told that because there are so many entrants, getting an Honorable Mention is quite an accomplishment.

I’m in good company, though.  My friend Charles Anderson?  He got one, too.

“Estranged” is a “comfy” word for not telling the truth. My dearest friends have been in the dark; so here goes.

I tried to end my life a couple of months ago.  Dark times.  I was tired of feeling lonely.  I got the right answers to my questions from the right doctor.  The right women found me and we fell in love. I’m good and there’s not a thing more to talk about unless someone has some questions.  I’ll answer anything, anytime.

I miss my friends and I should’ve, would’ve and could’ve called - but I didn’t.

I’m sorry Kevin. 

To:  100wordsaday.com

From: Sharkboy

Re:  Sorry

I owe you so much and I am sincerely sorry for not posting.  You have afforded me the opportunity to vent, tell-all, question, speak my mind and all you’ve ever asked for is exactly 100 words.  

Easy said – not so easy done.  I have plenty to say; I just haven’t put my fingers to the keyboards in too long a while.  No more excuses.  No more, no mores.

I have things to say about my friends, my family, and my life.

Twain said.  “Write what you know about.”  A good place to begin… again.