It's that daily work. It's waking at dawn to take five hundred jump shots. It's left and right handed layups and hitting twenty straight free throws before you go to class. After class, it's an hour of lifting and an hour or running.
It's getting back on the court after dinner. Another five hundred jumpers, left and right handed layups, twenty straight free throws.
It's the fourth quarter and there are three seconds left in the game. It's the tournament and it's your senior year and your team's down by a point and coach calls a play to get you open. It's a shot you've made thousands of times before, but this time you miss.
It's getting up the next day and taking another five hundred shots if that's still what you want to do. It's looking in the mirror and knowing they'll never all go in. It might not be jump shots next year, it may be something else. But it starts early and ends late and it means something to you, whatever it is.
(For a different It, click here.)
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Fate of a Fly
This defines insanity. Bumping and bumping and bumping into some invisible barrier with my destination straight ahead, in sight. I don’t know how I got here, and now I can’t get out.
It’s so bright out there today, the sun shines through but it’s not the same. So many others like me, living off waste, why should anyone care? I’ve seen such random meanness, such evil, my friends murdered in front of me, in front of others, and none of the monsters even react. Some watch the killings, others ignore them, but they all just go on with their lives like nothing happened. Sure, they’re still breathing, still eating and sleeping and shitting, still making the waste that feeds us.
All I really want is my freedom. To feel the wind blow against me, let it move me, glide. That, and some food.
Wait, I sense something, someone, one of the monsters. Should I hide or just stay still?
*****
“Yo Garret, did you drink the last few beers last night?” Joseph asks.
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Whatever, you needed to restock anyway.”
“Why don’t you go out and buy me a case? You spend enough time here.”
“Alright. Yo, there’s a fly in the house.”
“Yeah we get a lot around the compost pile out back. Just kill it.”
“I think I can let it out.” Joseph opens the sliding glass door. “Go on, dude, get out.”
“Are you talking to the fly? Did you just call it a ‘dude?’”
*****
Maybe the monster doesn’t see me. What’s happening? The barrier moves? Something’s changed. Maybe I won’t go insane, let’s try again. . . .
I’m free! Time to eat.
It’s so bright out there today, the sun shines through but it’s not the same. So many others like me, living off waste, why should anyone care? I’ve seen such random meanness, such evil, my friends murdered in front of me, in front of others, and none of the monsters even react. Some watch the killings, others ignore them, but they all just go on with their lives like nothing happened. Sure, they’re still breathing, still eating and sleeping and shitting, still making the waste that feeds us.
All I really want is my freedom. To feel the wind blow against me, let it move me, glide. That, and some food.
Wait, I sense something, someone, one of the monsters. Should I hide or just stay still?
*****
“Yo Garret, did you drink the last few beers last night?” Joseph asks.
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Whatever, you needed to restock anyway.”
“Why don’t you go out and buy me a case? You spend enough time here.”
“Alright. Yo, there’s a fly in the house.”
“Yeah we get a lot around the compost pile out back. Just kill it.”
“I think I can let it out.” Joseph opens the sliding glass door. “Go on, dude, get out.”
“Are you talking to the fly? Did you just call it a ‘dude?’”
*****
Maybe the monster doesn’t see me. What’s happening? The barrier moves? Something’s changed. Maybe I won’t go insane, let’s try again. . . .
I’m free! Time to eat.
Freddy the Fiddler
Freddy sat alone with his fiddle, alone because his girlfriend had dumped him the day before. He thought about the good job where, up until last week, he sold men’s clothing, the good job he couldn’t stand but the one that used to pay the bills. Hobbies prevented him from losing his mind during the five years he worked there: he grew various vegetables and played cards and wrote songs on his fiddle. Now, the girlfriend gone and the job a thing of the past, the hobbies were all he had. Figuratively, that is. Literally, he had the hobbies and a bottle of scotch and a futon that alternated between his couch and his bed and a very small kitchen where he stocked Ramen noodles, Apple Jacks, and 2% milk. He had a Panasonic three disc changer with double tape deck too; he’d found it on the sidewalk. One man’s trash was another man’s entertainment center. He bought random CDs and old tapes from the discount rack. The vegetables grew in a small garden he kept on his very small back porch.
He decided to wait a while before looking for a new job, his plan to do as close to nothing as possible for as long as possible. America much underrated doing absolutely nothing, he thought.
After a while doing nothing gave way to doing nothing in between long sessions on his fiddle. He played Earl Johnson and Charlie Bowman and Doc Roberts but mostly he just messed around and made up his own stuff.
One night he’d had a couple of glasses of scotch and thought about his girlfriend, their break up. He told her he’d lost his job and she asked about his plan. He didn’t pretend to have a plan, just shrugged his shoulders and their relationship didn’t last much longer. Another scotch and the bottle was empty.
He didn’t think about it, just grabbed his fiddle and walked to the pub down the street where he’d been a regular when he used to have a paycheck. He told the owner he was broke and asked if he’d let him play his fiddle on the little stage in the corner. The owner told him he couldn’t pay him, but Freddy said all he wanted in return was one glass of cheap scotch. It was a deal.
He jammed and jammed and jammed without saying a word. People were into it, but he preferred to pretend they weren’t there. He wasn’t nervous, just focused. For some reason it was the first time in his life that he felt truly free.
Suddenly he held the strings still and stomped his feet and tucked the fiddle between his arm and the side of his body. Clapping his hands, he sang:
“She said ‘Play that fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
Play it for pay or play it for free.
Dance in a circle or dance in a square,
Play your life away, see if I care!’”
He took up the fiddle again and jammed again and could hear some shouts and cheers from the crowd. Still he paid them no mind.
He tucked the fiddle again and sang one more time:
“And I said, ‘Oh I’ll play this fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
I’ll play it all day and I’ll play it for free.
I’ll dance in a circle or I’ll dance in a square.
I’ll play and play and won’t have a care!’”
This time the crowd cheered louder. Freddy looked around, took a bow, and everyone watched him walk to the bar, his scotch waiting for him. He drank it down, nodded to the owner, and walked home.
He decided to wait a while before looking for a new job, his plan to do as close to nothing as possible for as long as possible. America much underrated doing absolutely nothing, he thought.
After a while doing nothing gave way to doing nothing in between long sessions on his fiddle. He played Earl Johnson and Charlie Bowman and Doc Roberts but mostly he just messed around and made up his own stuff.
One night he’d had a couple of glasses of scotch and thought about his girlfriend, their break up. He told her he’d lost his job and she asked about his plan. He didn’t pretend to have a plan, just shrugged his shoulders and their relationship didn’t last much longer. Another scotch and the bottle was empty.
He didn’t think about it, just grabbed his fiddle and walked to the pub down the street where he’d been a regular when he used to have a paycheck. He told the owner he was broke and asked if he’d let him play his fiddle on the little stage in the corner. The owner told him he couldn’t pay him, but Freddy said all he wanted in return was one glass of cheap scotch. It was a deal.
He jammed and jammed and jammed without saying a word. People were into it, but he preferred to pretend they weren’t there. He wasn’t nervous, just focused. For some reason it was the first time in his life that he felt truly free.
Suddenly he held the strings still and stomped his feet and tucked the fiddle between his arm and the side of his body. Clapping his hands, he sang:
“She said ‘Play that fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
Play it for pay or play it for free.
Dance in a circle or dance in a square,
Play your life away, see if I care!’”
He took up the fiddle again and jammed again and could hear some shouts and cheers from the crowd. Still he paid them no mind.
He tucked the fiddle again and sang one more time:
“And I said, ‘Oh I’ll play this fiddle, fiddle-diddle-dee!
I’ll play it all day and I’ll play it for free.
I’ll dance in a circle or I’ll dance in a square.
I’ll play and play and won’t have a care!’”
This time the crowd cheered louder. Freddy looked around, took a bow, and everyone watched him walk to the bar, his scotch waiting for him. He drank it down, nodded to the owner, and walked home.
Anywhere But Jail
He didn’t know, as the night began, that it would end for him in jail. Not an individual cell, a large one with ten roommates, mostly drunks picked up off the streets for disorderly conduct, one of whom insisted on being naked from the waist down and keeping in constant motion. He didn’t know he’d be staring at this drunken, half naked man pacing the room as he lay on a mat on a concrete floor; he hadn’t expected to be anywhere at this hour other than home in his comfy bed, and he missed it dearly.
Drinks with Bob early. Theoretically they were celebrating, though they would’ve been at the bar anyway, probably just later and not as rowdy. They were celebrating today’s victory in the rec league championship with exaggerated joy, laughing and drinking loudly and largely with a wired but sloppy sort of intensity.
Some hours passed and a few guys from the losing team came to the bar and Bob said something. The other guys didn’t really care about what was said, the words meant nothing just like winning or losing the rec league championship meant nothing. But these were the sort of guys who looked for a fight. They came to the bar to drink heavily and then look for a fight, it’s what they did. They said something back to Bob and he and Bob erupted in laughter, raised their shot glasses and threw back another. Bob said something about kicking their asses in the game that day, and the guys from the losing team just looked at each other and then back down at their drinks.
When he and Bob left the bar the other men left too. “Hey,” one of them called out, “how about you try to kick our asses again right now?” He and Bob kept walking. Then the men, three of them, caught up and one of them tapped Bob on the shoulder and punched him in the face.
He reacted when Bob fell to the ground the only way he knew how. He hit the guy who’d hit Bob and the guy went down. One of the others hit him and in that brief moment, drunk, he couldn’t think about anything at all, he just knew he was outnumbered and had to get dirty. He did what he had to do and when the cops got there, Bob was still on the ground and two others were too. The cops saw him with his knee to the third guy’s chest, pinning him down.
He protested with slurred speech but the cops arrested him only, to make a point. Now there he was, locked up with a half naked man who might’ve seen a few years since his last shower, watching him pace, braced to shield himself in case the guy came close. Some of the others slept. They must not be concerned, he thought, or just too drunk to stay awake. He knew at that moment where he wanted to be: anywhere but jail.
Drinks with Bob early. Theoretically they were celebrating, though they would’ve been at the bar anyway, probably just later and not as rowdy. They were celebrating today’s victory in the rec league championship with exaggerated joy, laughing and drinking loudly and largely with a wired but sloppy sort of intensity.
Some hours passed and a few guys from the losing team came to the bar and Bob said something. The other guys didn’t really care about what was said, the words meant nothing just like winning or losing the rec league championship meant nothing. But these were the sort of guys who looked for a fight. They came to the bar to drink heavily and then look for a fight, it’s what they did. They said something back to Bob and he and Bob erupted in laughter, raised their shot glasses and threw back another. Bob said something about kicking their asses in the game that day, and the guys from the losing team just looked at each other and then back down at their drinks.
When he and Bob left the bar the other men left too. “Hey,” one of them called out, “how about you try to kick our asses again right now?” He and Bob kept walking. Then the men, three of them, caught up and one of them tapped Bob on the shoulder and punched him in the face.
He reacted when Bob fell to the ground the only way he knew how. He hit the guy who’d hit Bob and the guy went down. One of the others hit him and in that brief moment, drunk, he couldn’t think about anything at all, he just knew he was outnumbered and had to get dirty. He did what he had to do and when the cops got there, Bob was still on the ground and two others were too. The cops saw him with his knee to the third guy’s chest, pinning him down.
He protested with slurred speech but the cops arrested him only, to make a point. Now there he was, locked up with a half naked man who might’ve seen a few years since his last shower, watching him pace, braced to shield himself in case the guy came close. Some of the others slept. They must not be concerned, he thought, or just too drunk to stay awake. He knew at that moment where he wanted to be: anywhere but jail.
It
I can find it. Not consciously, another way. It’s out there and when I find it I can be at peace.
To reach that place. Mind set free in a confined space. Leave the key in the house and just sit in the driver’s seat. Can’t turn the ignition without the key. No danger.
It happened long ago. If only I could remember. I was in no state to remember, thought I’d always know. Now I’m stuck searching. Friends, lovers, parents, my brother and sister, they don’t know. They’ll try to help. Big hearts, good intentions. My fault when they leave, not theirs.
Or it’s in a future I once foresaw, in a dream I can’t live. Can’t wait for it, how could I? I’ll seek it every day. Everything will make sense when I find it. Then I’ll matter.
It’s ethereal, surrounding me. It’s infinite but fleeting. Feeling for it with unnatural senses, heightened but must go further.
Bottom of the bottle. Didn’t find it today, maybe tomorrow. Blind faith until I see it, no room for doubt. I know it’s real. I’ll find it or die trying.
To reach that place. Mind set free in a confined space. Leave the key in the house and just sit in the driver’s seat. Can’t turn the ignition without the key. No danger.
It happened long ago. If only I could remember. I was in no state to remember, thought I’d always know. Now I’m stuck searching. Friends, lovers, parents, my brother and sister, they don’t know. They’ll try to help. Big hearts, good intentions. My fault when they leave, not theirs.
Or it’s in a future I once foresaw, in a dream I can’t live. Can’t wait for it, how could I? I’ll seek it every day. Everything will make sense when I find it. Then I’ll matter.
It’s ethereal, surrounding me. It’s infinite but fleeting. Feeling for it with unnatural senses, heightened but must go further.
Bottom of the bottle. Didn’t find it today, maybe tomorrow. Blind faith until I see it, no room for doubt. I know it’s real. I’ll find it or die trying.
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