Some days we just need to be encouraged. I'll get out of the way and turn it over to Paul...
...I couldn’t stop thanking God for you—every time I prayed, I’d think of you and give thanks. But I do more than thank. I ask—ask the God of our Master, Jesus Christ, the God of Glory—to make you intelligent and discerning in knowing Him personally, your eyes focused and clear, so that you can see exactly what it is He is calling you to do, grasp the immensity of this glorious way of life He has for Christians, oh the utter extravagance of His work in us who trust Him—endless energy, boundless strength.
Ephesians 1:16-19
(The Message)
4/30/2008
4/28/2008
Entry Ninety-nine: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is twenty-nine of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
The first thing he wanted to find were shoes, so he walked to the wall displaying all the different styles and brands and began to browse, for once in his life not limited by price or budget. His first inclination was to get running shoes only but, after finding a style he liked, he realized he might need more variety to accommodate different kinds of workouts. He was, after all, serious about getting into shape. He found a pair for cross training as well as a pair specifically for basketball, assuming, along with the running shoes, those three would cover the workout options he was apt to explore. He took the three sample shoes and started searching for the matching twins in boxes in the storage room at the back of the store. It was confusing at first because he was not familiar with the store’s system and there didn’t seem to be any logic to how the boxes were sorted. Once he found one match, it made more sense and he was able to find all three of his choices in his size.
He stacked the shoe boxes on the counter by the register and turned his attention to clothes. He needed shorts and shirts, and maybe some socks, so he started thumbing through the stacks of options randomly scattered all over the store. He found a pair of shorts he liked but was unsure of what size would fit his new doughy frame. He picked up a pair of large as well as a pair of extra-large and turned toward the dressing room. What stopped him he couldn’t say, but something in him pointed out how ridiculous it was to hide while he tried on clothes. He laid the shorts over the rack next to him and undid his pants, dropping them to the floor and stepping out of them as he began to try on the first pair of shorts. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the full-length mirrors along the store wall and started laughing. The weirdness of the situation--standing in his underwear in the middle of a retail business, casually trying on clothes like he was at home—was amusing. If he had tried to do that one month ago he would have been asked to leave. “Time has a way of changing the rules, doesn’t it Mr. Mahoney?” His reflection didn’t respond but it looked like it understood.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
The first thing he wanted to find were shoes, so he walked to the wall displaying all the different styles and brands and began to browse, for once in his life not limited by price or budget. His first inclination was to get running shoes only but, after finding a style he liked, he realized he might need more variety to accommodate different kinds of workouts. He was, after all, serious about getting into shape. He found a pair for cross training as well as a pair specifically for basketball, assuming, along with the running shoes, those three would cover the workout options he was apt to explore. He took the three sample shoes and started searching for the matching twins in boxes in the storage room at the back of the store. It was confusing at first because he was not familiar with the store’s system and there didn’t seem to be any logic to how the boxes were sorted. Once he found one match, it made more sense and he was able to find all three of his choices in his size.
He stacked the shoe boxes on the counter by the register and turned his attention to clothes. He needed shorts and shirts, and maybe some socks, so he started thumbing through the stacks of options randomly scattered all over the store. He found a pair of shorts he liked but was unsure of what size would fit his new doughy frame. He picked up a pair of large as well as a pair of extra-large and turned toward the dressing room. What stopped him he couldn’t say, but something in him pointed out how ridiculous it was to hide while he tried on clothes. He laid the shorts over the rack next to him and undid his pants, dropping them to the floor and stepping out of them as he began to try on the first pair of shorts. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the full-length mirrors along the store wall and started laughing. The weirdness of the situation--standing in his underwear in the middle of a retail business, casually trying on clothes like he was at home—was amusing. If he had tried to do that one month ago he would have been asked to leave. “Time has a way of changing the rules, doesn’t it Mr. Mahoney?” His reflection didn’t respond but it looked like it understood.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
4/27/2008
Paying Attention
Displayed on the first page of my current journal is this proverb:
Four things come not back:
1. The spoken word
2. The spent arrow
3. The past
4. The neglected opportunity
When I first read those words they were credited as an “Arab Proverb.” I don’t know if that is where it comes from or not—I don't always trust such a general acknowledgment—but the power behind it is universal. There is much there to dissect but I am drawn to number four. The first thing that comes to my mind is Ephesians 5: 15, 16: Be very careful, then, how you live–not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. (NIV). I have always been challenged by those two verses, wondering how many times I was too wrapped up in some petty, narcissistic challenge that I missed a chance to share, help, smile, encourage, show empathy, laugh, pray, hug, listen or just be emotionally present for someone else.
And the people are out there. The situations are in front of us every day. But we need “eyes to see.” I can sit on a park bench and read or eat my lunch and notice how nice and quiet it is, not much going on. But if I put my book down and stare down at the ground and wait, within seconds I begin to notice the ants moving back and forth across the ground. And I see another bug working its way through the grass. And then another. The ground beneath my feet is busy, full of activity and bustling. But I would never see that unless I stopped, adjusted my eyesight, and attempted to see a step deeper than what I am trained to see in a superficial, customary way. I want to see those things around me that can only be seen when I pay attention—and then have the courage to act. I want to make the most of every opportunity. Does it mean having to slow down to notice? Not always but I don’t think it hurts.
Four things come not back:
1. The spoken word
2. The spent arrow
3. The past
4. The neglected opportunity
When I first read those words they were credited as an “Arab Proverb.” I don’t know if that is where it comes from or not—I don't always trust such a general acknowledgment—but the power behind it is universal. There is much there to dissect but I am drawn to number four. The first thing that comes to my mind is Ephesians 5: 15, 16: Be very careful, then, how you live–not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. (NIV). I have always been challenged by those two verses, wondering how many times I was too wrapped up in some petty, narcissistic challenge that I missed a chance to share, help, smile, encourage, show empathy, laugh, pray, hug, listen or just be emotionally present for someone else.
And the people are out there. The situations are in front of us every day. But we need “eyes to see.” I can sit on a park bench and read or eat my lunch and notice how nice and quiet it is, not much going on. But if I put my book down and stare down at the ground and wait, within seconds I begin to notice the ants moving back and forth across the ground. And I see another bug working its way through the grass. And then another. The ground beneath my feet is busy, full of activity and bustling. But I would never see that unless I stopped, adjusted my eyesight, and attempted to see a step deeper than what I am trained to see in a superficial, customary way. I want to see those things around me that can only be seen when I pay attention—and then have the courage to act. I want to make the most of every opportunity. Does it mean having to slow down to notice? Not always but I don’t think it hurts.
4/25/2008
Entry Ninety-eight: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is twenty-eight of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Adam stood in front of the sporting goods store, tire iron gripped tightly in his right hand, determined to get in and abscond some new workout clothes but unsure how. He had made his way to The Mall, a local misnomer for what amounted to two strips of store fronts facing each other, divided by a double sidewalk. It was as fancy as they had been able to generate in Grayson. It wasn’t large enough to crush the downtown businesses but it contained all of the stores usually found in fancier malls in bigger cities, so the business community was relatively happy with the arrangement.
Adam had hoped the back door to the store would be accessible, much like the grocery store, but when he checked it he realized it was solid and secured by deadbolts. He wasn’t going to penetrate that with a tire iron. Now, standing in front of the store, he was confronted with walls of glass and his only option was to shatter something and force his way in. He didn’t like the idea of destroying property but the displays of clothes and shoes through the window were motivating him to proceed. He swung the tire iron back over his head and brought it forward against the glass door with minimal force, hoping to do enough damage to gain entrance but not make a mess. The instant the metal bar hit the reinforced door it bounced back with surprising speed, barely missing his face on the rebound. He tried again using a little more energy but the result was the same; the door was intact and the clothes were safe. He took a deep breath, grabbed the tire iron with both hands, assumed the stance of a clean-up hitter and brought the metal bat across his body with full thrust and power, swinging so hard he lifted himself off the ground. The moment of impact was a glorious display of glass shards arcing through the air, showering Adam as he struggled to gain his balance and not fall into the ragged door frame. The combustion was accompanied by its own song, a musical escort, as the store alarm started screaming an awful combination of deep honks and staccato, piercing shrieks which caused Adam to panic. He quickly knocked out the large, remaining chunks of glass in the door frame and pushed his way into the store, frantically looking for the box on the wall that controlled the alarm. He ran to the rear of the store, assuming it would be in the back where the owner would daily enter and exit and he spotted a small, blinking box on the wall by the door. He started pushing buttons randomly, hoping some lucky sequence would stop the cacophony, but nothing worked. The noise was deafening and he was having trouble concentrating, his hands shaking as he tried to miraculously punch in the right combination. Frustrated, he hit the box with the flat of his hand which gave him an idea. He stepped back and swung down hard with the tire iron, smashing the box into several pieces, exposing wires and controls, all dangling from the wall. Yet the alarm was still alive and screaming. He continued to pound on the wall, creating holes all around the target until, finally, one swing met the mark, the metal rod snagging the wires and ripping them from their source. The alarm immediately stopped, the silence of the store pronounced and a relief. Adam sagged to the floor, dropping the tire iron that suddenly felt like it weighed 200 pounds. His hearing was muffled allowing his heart beat to pound clearly in his head, throbbing yet slowing, as he remained still, leaning against the store’s wall. “Damn, that was ridiculous,” he said as he struggled to pull a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket. The cigarette helped to calm him and after a second one, for good measure, he stood up and began to shop.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Adam stood in front of the sporting goods store, tire iron gripped tightly in his right hand, determined to get in and abscond some new workout clothes but unsure how. He had made his way to The Mall, a local misnomer for what amounted to two strips of store fronts facing each other, divided by a double sidewalk. It was as fancy as they had been able to generate in Grayson. It wasn’t large enough to crush the downtown businesses but it contained all of the stores usually found in fancier malls in bigger cities, so the business community was relatively happy with the arrangement.
Adam had hoped the back door to the store would be accessible, much like the grocery store, but when he checked it he realized it was solid and secured by deadbolts. He wasn’t going to penetrate that with a tire iron. Now, standing in front of the store, he was confronted with walls of glass and his only option was to shatter something and force his way in. He didn’t like the idea of destroying property but the displays of clothes and shoes through the window were motivating him to proceed. He swung the tire iron back over his head and brought it forward against the glass door with minimal force, hoping to do enough damage to gain entrance but not make a mess. The instant the metal bar hit the reinforced door it bounced back with surprising speed, barely missing his face on the rebound. He tried again using a little more energy but the result was the same; the door was intact and the clothes were safe. He took a deep breath, grabbed the tire iron with both hands, assumed the stance of a clean-up hitter and brought the metal bat across his body with full thrust and power, swinging so hard he lifted himself off the ground. The moment of impact was a glorious display of glass shards arcing through the air, showering Adam as he struggled to gain his balance and not fall into the ragged door frame. The combustion was accompanied by its own song, a musical escort, as the store alarm started screaming an awful combination of deep honks and staccato, piercing shrieks which caused Adam to panic. He quickly knocked out the large, remaining chunks of glass in the door frame and pushed his way into the store, frantically looking for the box on the wall that controlled the alarm. He ran to the rear of the store, assuming it would be in the back where the owner would daily enter and exit and he spotted a small, blinking box on the wall by the door. He started pushing buttons randomly, hoping some lucky sequence would stop the cacophony, but nothing worked. The noise was deafening and he was having trouble concentrating, his hands shaking as he tried to miraculously punch in the right combination. Frustrated, he hit the box with the flat of his hand which gave him an idea. He stepped back and swung down hard with the tire iron, smashing the box into several pieces, exposing wires and controls, all dangling from the wall. Yet the alarm was still alive and screaming. He continued to pound on the wall, creating holes all around the target until, finally, one swing met the mark, the metal rod snagging the wires and ripping them from their source. The alarm immediately stopped, the silence of the store pronounced and a relief. Adam sagged to the floor, dropping the tire iron that suddenly felt like it weighed 200 pounds. His hearing was muffled allowing his heart beat to pound clearly in his head, throbbing yet slowing, as he remained still, leaning against the store’s wall. “Damn, that was ridiculous,” he said as he struggled to pull a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket. The cigarette helped to calm him and after a second one, for good measure, he stood up and began to shop.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Food for Thought on Casual Friday
In re-reading The Screwtape Letters, this passage gave me pause:
(Screwtape is teaching Wormwood about “Nothing”) It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
C.S. Lewis
The Screwtape Letters
It is a reminder to me to be diligent, to not get bogged down in dodging the big sins to the point of missing the slow layering of the little ones. Chew gently and thoughtfully as you work this around your molars.
(Screwtape is teaching Wormwood about “Nothing”) It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing. Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
C.S. Lewis
The Screwtape Letters
It is a reminder to me to be diligent, to not get bogged down in dodging the big sins to the point of missing the slow layering of the little ones. Chew gently and thoughtfully as you work this around your molars.
4/23/2008
Entry Ninety-seven: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[This entry is the current story I am working on. This is twenty-seven of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Eleven
Adam Mahoney was on his hands and knees, crawling in his closet, trying to locate an old pair of running shoes in the explosion of clothes and life leftovers that covered the floor. He was determined to begin his quest towards physical fitness immediately but finding the proper equipment was proving a detriment. “Maybe they’re in the garage,” he said and he pushed himself off the ground and started making his way across the house to resume his search. As he passed the living room he noticed the sofa and the disaster that was a visual reminder of his recent setback. He had not cleaned any of it and had successfully ignored the scene every time he passed it going to and from his bedroom. He sighed, the kind of resigned reaction when the obvious thing to do is the exact opposite thing in which you want to engage. As he moved toward the mess, he stepped on an empty DVD cover and thought about Blockbuster. He picked up an empty, plastic, liter bottle that had contained orange soda in earlier times and he thought about the fly-infested IGA. He glanced out the back window, saw the shed and thought about Phelps Hardware. He stood up straight and said, “Why the hell am I looking for my old running shoes when I can go to the store and get a brand new, top-of-the line pair for free?” He abandoned his cleaning task and looked for his keys.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Chapter Eleven
Adam Mahoney was on his hands and knees, crawling in his closet, trying to locate an old pair of running shoes in the explosion of clothes and life leftovers that covered the floor. He was determined to begin his quest towards physical fitness immediately but finding the proper equipment was proving a detriment. “Maybe they’re in the garage,” he said and he pushed himself off the ground and started making his way across the house to resume his search. As he passed the living room he noticed the sofa and the disaster that was a visual reminder of his recent setback. He had not cleaned any of it and had successfully ignored the scene every time he passed it going to and from his bedroom. He sighed, the kind of resigned reaction when the obvious thing to do is the exact opposite thing in which you want to engage. As he moved toward the mess, he stepped on an empty DVD cover and thought about Blockbuster. He picked up an empty, plastic, liter bottle that had contained orange soda in earlier times and he thought about the fly-infested IGA. He glanced out the back window, saw the shed and thought about Phelps Hardware. He stood up straight and said, “Why the hell am I looking for my old running shoes when I can go to the store and get a brand new, top-of-the line pair for free?” He abandoned his cleaning task and looked for his keys.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Jayservation: 005/2008
I am currently reading a really interesting (and very good) book by Pete Gall entitled “My Beautiful Idol.” It’s a memoir of sorts and the thing that jumps off the page is the honesty. It feels like he made the decision to write everything exactly as he thought it— no gloss, no PC editing, no adjusting to make himself sound like a better person. And I am surprised how many times I catch myself muttering in agreement or in raw recognition of what I am reading. Here is an example that jumped out at me just this evening:
I know that in the same night I can experience the failure of lurid fantasies concerning a married woman and also the immediate reality of a God whose love for me is greater than my ability to remain still and experience it. It is an exquisite torture, the evidence of heaven and hell mingled and foaming as ravenous fighting dogs within me. I can’t tell for sure which fighting dog I’m rooting for, and I couldn’t even begin to muster the courage to shoot the other.
Buy the book. There is more where that came from.
I know that in the same night I can experience the failure of lurid fantasies concerning a married woman and also the immediate reality of a God whose love for me is greater than my ability to remain still and experience it. It is an exquisite torture, the evidence of heaven and hell mingled and foaming as ravenous fighting dogs within me. I can’t tell for sure which fighting dog I’m rooting for, and I couldn’t even begin to muster the courage to shoot the other.
Buy the book. There is more where that came from.
4/22/2008
Jayservation: 004/2008
There is a lot going through my head right now and I really wish it wasn’t. I try to keep the valve barely open for fear that if I twisted the knob all the way to the left I would release a free form rant that would be scary and not make a lick of sense. So let’s keep it to one thing shall we? How about waiting? I realize that Tom Petty may not be officially recognized as one of our modern day prophets--at least in the Christian tradition--but he pretty much nailed it with the line “the waiting is the hardest part.” Right now I am in limbo about several areas in my life (i.e. waiting) and I told my wife that I am truly not concerned about the outcome of any of the situations. I am okay with whichever direction God deems to lead. What I am struggling with is this time of letting it play out (i.e waiting for the direction to reveal itself). All the platitudes, Bible verses and empty quotes from pillars of faith do nothing to temper my imagination from careening between every possible solution, constantly playing out all the “what ifs” and “just maybes.” Oh how I long to be content in the waiting. To rest in the unknown and let it play out in its proper time without the teeth grinding and churning stomach. To have the relaxed smile on my face generate from a real place and not be a plastered facade. I’ve been here before, eerily so, and you would think it gets easier. And if I am honest with my self analysis, I can admit I have gotten better over time. The angst is not as bitter, the fear not as crippling. And on that I will hang my hat. Progress, regardless how slight, is progress. At this rate, my prayer is that I will be a calm old man for my grandkids...
The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part
--”Tom” Earl Petty
The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you see one more card
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part
--”Tom” Earl Petty
4/20/2008
Jayservation: 003/2008
I was watching Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN tonight and the announcers were discussing Jose Reyes, shortstop for the New York Mets. He is the latest model of “Mr. Excitement” in professional baseball and they were commenting on how much fun he has playing the game (which is not too difficult when you make over $4 million to play a game but I will try to back off the cynicism for a brief moment). Then they told the story about how he was ten years old when he started playing baseball in the Dominican Republic and he used “an egg crate for a glove and an orange for a baseball.” My initial, obnoxious American response was to question the authenticity of the story, wondering if it was some Latin version of a Monty Python skit. All I could picture was a little boy asking to get in the latest pick-up game at the dusty, litter-strewn field only to be rebuffed by the other boys because his “glove” was too small—it was a 12 crate and not an 18. “You can’t catch a tangerine with that glove, Jose, much less an orange!” Oops, I forgot I said I would back off the cynicism. I suck.
Jayservation: 002/2008
Recently our pastor was leading us through John 11 which is the section where Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. It wasn’t the usual high powered miracle that caught my eye this particular night (nor was it the famous “shortest verse in the Bible”) but something earlier in the passage. As you start your work week, remember this practical advice from Jesus of Nazareth.
“Anyone who walks in daylight doesn’t stumble because there’s plenty of light from the sun. Walking at night, he might very well stumble because he can’t see where he is going.” (John 11: 9,10 The Message)
Ain’t that the truth. May you have fewer bruised shins and stubbed toes as you move through the coming days.
“Anyone who walks in daylight doesn’t stumble because there’s plenty of light from the sun. Walking at night, he might very well stumble because he can’t see where he is going.” (John 11: 9,10 The Message)
Ain’t that the truth. May you have fewer bruised shins and stubbed toes as you move through the coming days.
4/18/2008
Jayservation: 001/2008
I read a column (if that is what it is referred to online--or am I still holding on to old terminology in a new digital world?) yesterday by Dick Staub. He is a fellow who is constantly trying to draw people into a conversation about the intersection of faith and art. Obviously, that is something I am interested in so I try to follow what he has to say. (He also has a lot of interesting podcasts at one of his other sites called The Kindlings Muse. Give those a listen if you are so inclined. They are available directly from the site or through iTunes.) The column he posted yesterday listed a number of quotes from famous (or not) people who were discussing how the arts help people see God. Several were good, a couple were great but the one that hit me the hardest was by Julian of Norwich. She is considered to be one of the greatest English mystics and lived in the 1300's. Her quote was: "O God, please give me three wounds; the wound of contrition and the wound of compassion and the wound of longing after God. This I ask without condition."
Without condition. That is a tough prayer. To get beyond myself to the point that I can honestly leave it all in God's hands is a goal, but I cannot say with any conviction that I have achieved that. And why not? Who better to make those decisions for me? Who better can I trust than my Creator? Why is it so hard? Do we not truly believe? It makes it easier to understand Mark 9:24 when the father of the possessed child tells Jesus, "I do believe; help my unbelief." But we are stubborn. Instead of,"Lord, what is Your plan" we are prone to pray, "Lord, bless my plans." Selfish, male and so very American (forgive my redundancy). I pray that I can get to that place for everything. To trust completely and "be anxious for nothing," following the one entity in my life that loves me more than I love myself.
Without condition. That is a tough prayer. To get beyond myself to the point that I can honestly leave it all in God's hands is a goal, but I cannot say with any conviction that I have achieved that. And why not? Who better to make those decisions for me? Who better can I trust than my Creator? Why is it so hard? Do we not truly believe? It makes it easier to understand Mark 9:24 when the father of the possessed child tells Jesus, "I do believe; help my unbelief." But we are stubborn. Instead of,"Lord, what is Your plan" we are prone to pray, "Lord, bless my plans." Selfish, male and so very American (forgive my redundancy). I pray that I can get to that place for everything. To trust completely and "be anxious for nothing," following the one entity in my life that loves me more than I love myself.
97 Posts, last published on Oct 17, 2007
It has obviously been a long time since I wrote on this blog. I will dispense with all the apologies and mea culpa’s (mainly because not writing here was a conscious decision so I’m really not sorry). But I think I am ready to dive back in. I realize all three of you that used to read this may not care anymore but I will proceed for myself. We’ll see how long it lasts.
Stay tuned.
Stay tuned.
10/17/2007
Entry Ninety-six: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-six of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
He filled the mower’s tank with gasoline and pushed it to his driveway. Before cranking the engine he surveyed his small, bedraggled kingdom, trying to formulate a plan. “I may as well start across the street and work my way around. It shouldn’t take me too long to cut six yards.” Satisfied, he pulled the starter rope and prepared to get lost in his new lawn maintenance career.
Fifteen minutes later he stopped. He was out of breath, dizzy and had to sit down. He dropped on to the steps leading up to his neighbor’s porch and tried to regain his composure but the air was not filling his lungs fast enough and his heartbeat was throbbing in his ears. His struggles lasted for several minutes before some normalcy returned and he was able to start a regular breathing pattern and gain enough control to walk across the street to his home for some water. As he sat in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, he wondered what was happening to him. He had never been in great shape but this was beyond any physical struggle he had ever encountered; he’d never had to take a break from cutting the front yard before. Had his recent movie phase sucked that much out of him? He wasn’t sure how long he had camped on the sofa but apparently it was long enough to alter his constitution and aerobic capacity. “This is ridiculous.” He wanted another glass of water but he wanted to get up and fix it even less. As he stared at the empty glass, wishing his autonomy had come with super powers so he could make the glass fill on its own, a massive realization struck him. It wasn’t massive in that the idea it generated was brilliant, but it was massive in that, like a lot of things, the small idea led him to move, to take a baby step, to begin an activity that would eventually evolve into a turning point in his existence as the last person standing on the face of the earth. “I need to get in shape,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
He filled the mower’s tank with gasoline and pushed it to his driveway. Before cranking the engine he surveyed his small, bedraggled kingdom, trying to formulate a plan. “I may as well start across the street and work my way around. It shouldn’t take me too long to cut six yards.” Satisfied, he pulled the starter rope and prepared to get lost in his new lawn maintenance career.
Fifteen minutes later he stopped. He was out of breath, dizzy and had to sit down. He dropped on to the steps leading up to his neighbor’s porch and tried to regain his composure but the air was not filling his lungs fast enough and his heartbeat was throbbing in his ears. His struggles lasted for several minutes before some normalcy returned and he was able to start a regular breathing pattern and gain enough control to walk across the street to his home for some water. As he sat in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, he wondered what was happening to him. He had never been in great shape but this was beyond any physical struggle he had ever encountered; he’d never had to take a break from cutting the front yard before. Had his recent movie phase sucked that much out of him? He wasn’t sure how long he had camped on the sofa but apparently it was long enough to alter his constitution and aerobic capacity. “This is ridiculous.” He wanted another glass of water but he wanted to get up and fix it even less. As he stared at the empty glass, wishing his autonomy had come with super powers so he could make the glass fill on its own, a massive realization struck him. It wasn’t massive in that the idea it generated was brilliant, but it was massive in that, like a lot of things, the small idea led him to move, to take a baby step, to begin an activity that would eventually evolve into a turning point in his existence as the last person standing on the face of the earth. “I need to get in shape,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
10/10/2007
Entry Ninety-five: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-five of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Ten
Adam stood dead center in the doorway that provided a portal between his bedroom and the rest of the house. With a clearer head, post hot shower, the site of his recent habitat depressed him further. What had he been thinking to allow himself to fall into that circle of hell? What was causing his random dives into apathy and indifference? “Besides the fact that I’m the very last person standing on the face of the earth? And there’s no manual?” The ridiculousness of that reality made him smile, slightly, and he moved into the living room to begin another round of clean up. He glanced out the window framing the front door on his way to the kitchen to grab a garbage can and what he saw stopped him in mid step. The Broughton’s house across the street was surrounded by a jungle of overgrown yard and plants. The sight of their normally manicured lawn so overgrown and in disarray jarred him and he slowly walked to the front door and stepped out on the front porch to get a closer look. He scanned the houses on either side of the Broughton’s and they revealed a similar state of disorder. The three yards were indistinguishable, no lines of demarcation, no way to know what belonged to whom, just one big, messy field with three houses plopped in the center for show. His own yard was in need of a cut but, since he had mowed his recently, his stood out as a showcase for maintenance. The yards on either side of his house were in the same sorry shape as the ones across the street. And all of the shagginess bothered him. With a sudden sense of urgency, Adam turned and walked through the house, out the back door and headed straight for the shed. “I’ll mow, that’s what I’ll do.” He felt like a recovering addict, fully engaging in the creed of “one day at a time,” only altering it for his own unique situation to “one activity at a time.” He gained energy and warmth when he had a task at hand. It was the time in-between tasks that were killing him.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Chapter Ten
Adam stood dead center in the doorway that provided a portal between his bedroom and the rest of the house. With a clearer head, post hot shower, the site of his recent habitat depressed him further. What had he been thinking to allow himself to fall into that circle of hell? What was causing his random dives into apathy and indifference? “Besides the fact that I’m the very last person standing on the face of the earth? And there’s no manual?” The ridiculousness of that reality made him smile, slightly, and he moved into the living room to begin another round of clean up. He glanced out the window framing the front door on his way to the kitchen to grab a garbage can and what he saw stopped him in mid step. The Broughton’s house across the street was surrounded by a jungle of overgrown yard and plants. The sight of their normally manicured lawn so overgrown and in disarray jarred him and he slowly walked to the front door and stepped out on the front porch to get a closer look. He scanned the houses on either side of the Broughton’s and they revealed a similar state of disorder. The three yards were indistinguishable, no lines of demarcation, no way to know what belonged to whom, just one big, messy field with three houses plopped in the center for show. His own yard was in need of a cut but, since he had mowed his recently, his stood out as a showcase for maintenance. The yards on either side of his house were in the same sorry shape as the ones across the street. And all of the shagginess bothered him. With a sudden sense of urgency, Adam turned and walked through the house, out the back door and headed straight for the shed. “I’ll mow, that’s what I’ll do.” He felt like a recovering addict, fully engaging in the creed of “one day at a time,” only altering it for his own unique situation to “one activity at a time.” He gained energy and warmth when he had a task at hand. It was the time in-between tasks that were killing him.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
10/03/2007
Entry Ninety-four: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-four of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Armed with fresh supplies, Adam bivouacked on the sofa and returned to his previously established rhythm; movies, food and bathroom breaks. He wasn’t sure how long he could maintain that particular lifestyle but he was far from concerned about it and pushed it aside when it floated to the forefront of his mind. Ignoring them wasn’t an arduous task, the thoughts weren’t there very often, maybe forming as he switched out the movies or as he sat on the toilet, but never fully developed. They were easy to dismiss. His near fanatical desire to watch movies proved stronger than any other thoughts he could conjure and he saw no reason to fight that urge. The cadence he had created was mesmerizing and numbing, both welcome states that masked his situation and helped him ignore the obvious. Besides, he was king, emperor and sovereign ruler over all as the last man standing on the face of the earth and if he wanted to lie around and watch movies all day and night he could; there was no one to stop him. And the “no one” part of the equation was what made being numb and mesmerized so appealing.
He had no idea how long he remained in that reclusive condition, lost in the repetitive tempo he had created and perfected. The movies were blurring together, none making sense any more, relegated to serving as a sedative, far removed from entertaining him as he camped out on the sofa. His food and movie supplies dwindled to dregs at approximately the same time and by then he had no idea if it was morning or night much less what day of the year it was. He was sluggish and had just woken up on the sofa, music playing in his head. As he lay there, adjusting to post REM consciousness, trying to gain a toehold on where he was and who he was, his thoughts turned to other things. Maybe it was the music which he now identified as coming from the television, the background accompaniment to an ignored DVD menu repeating a dissonant loop of violins and cellos, which was familiar, but not by much, just enough to stir something deep inside him. The cavern, the bottomless chasm, still echoed, yet to be filled. Maybe the latest phase, the catatonic videophile stage, had run its course. If he had hoped it would fill a need he had been wrong. He was suddenly aware that he needed to try something else, anything to pull out of the funk he had snuggled into. But what? Something familiar would be good, something that would require little thought. He sat up and his body protested. He was stiff and even the pedestrian attempt to lift off the sofa was harder than he had anticipated. As he scanned the living room he observed the arc of nastiness he had created over the last few days—weeks?—which was limited to a three foot radius around the sofa. The rest of the house appeared tidy but he had to kick wrappers and discarded plates out of his way to clear a path to his bathroom. He avoided his reflection, sure it would be alarming, and he turned on the water in the shower. He was vaguely aware that he had come full circle but he was not sure what he could do about it.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
Armed with fresh supplies, Adam bivouacked on the sofa and returned to his previously established rhythm; movies, food and bathroom breaks. He wasn’t sure how long he could maintain that particular lifestyle but he was far from concerned about it and pushed it aside when it floated to the forefront of his mind. Ignoring them wasn’t an arduous task, the thoughts weren’t there very often, maybe forming as he switched out the movies or as he sat on the toilet, but never fully developed. They were easy to dismiss. His near fanatical desire to watch movies proved stronger than any other thoughts he could conjure and he saw no reason to fight that urge. The cadence he had created was mesmerizing and numbing, both welcome states that masked his situation and helped him ignore the obvious. Besides, he was king, emperor and sovereign ruler over all as the last man standing on the face of the earth and if he wanted to lie around and watch movies all day and night he could; there was no one to stop him. And the “no one” part of the equation was what made being numb and mesmerized so appealing.
He had no idea how long he remained in that reclusive condition, lost in the repetitive tempo he had created and perfected. The movies were blurring together, none making sense any more, relegated to serving as a sedative, far removed from entertaining him as he camped out on the sofa. His food and movie supplies dwindled to dregs at approximately the same time and by then he had no idea if it was morning or night much less what day of the year it was. He was sluggish and had just woken up on the sofa, music playing in his head. As he lay there, adjusting to post REM consciousness, trying to gain a toehold on where he was and who he was, his thoughts turned to other things. Maybe it was the music which he now identified as coming from the television, the background accompaniment to an ignored DVD menu repeating a dissonant loop of violins and cellos, which was familiar, but not by much, just enough to stir something deep inside him. The cavern, the bottomless chasm, still echoed, yet to be filled. Maybe the latest phase, the catatonic videophile stage, had run its course. If he had hoped it would fill a need he had been wrong. He was suddenly aware that he needed to try something else, anything to pull out of the funk he had snuggled into. But what? Something familiar would be good, something that would require little thought. He sat up and his body protested. He was stiff and even the pedestrian attempt to lift off the sofa was harder than he had anticipated. As he scanned the living room he observed the arc of nastiness he had created over the last few days—weeks?—which was limited to a three foot radius around the sofa. The rest of the house appeared tidy but he had to kick wrappers and discarded plates out of his way to clear a path to his bathroom. He avoided his reflection, sure it would be alarming, and he turned on the water in the shower. He was vaguely aware that he had come full circle but he was not sure what he could do about it.
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
9/29/2007
Entry Ninety-three: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-three of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
He ran out of food before he ran out of movies. He knew he had to return to the grocery store and restock his refrigerator and pantry but it was almost as hard to leave this time as it had been his initial voyage outside the house. Before he left he had the sense to put a couple of bags of garbage in his trunk with the intention of using the dumpster behind the grocery store as his personal waste management facility. The second trip to the grocery store was quick, aided by the ease of entry and the near overpowering stench filling the inside of the store. The fruits and vegetables were now beyond eating and were breaking down in festering piles in the far corner of the store. The air conditioning had not discouraged the flies from descending and they were in abundance, hassling Adam as he tried to make it through the store in short order but not so fast as to forget something. Fortunately the freezers were all in working order so he made the majority of his selections from their crowded shelves as well as stocking up on canned food. Based on the amount of cans on the shelves he assumed he would have tuna and ravioli for as long as he could stomach it. The bread was becoming another casualty of time so he took a few minutes to dig through what was stocked and found several loaves of white bread that were still mold-free, dropped two into his cart and placed the rest in one of the freezers to try and prolong it’s shelf life. After half an hour he felt he had gathered enough food to get him through another week, at least, plus the stench and the flies were winning the war on his patience and he wanted to get outside. He had started out the automatic door–which opened flawlessly--when he remembered his annoyance from his last trip there and he stopped, jogged to a checkout station and started searching under the counter for some bags. “Plastic will be fine, thank you.” He threw a box of them into his cart and quickly left the store.
As he moved his groceries from the cart to the Volvo, he placed everything in the bags, piling everything into the trunk. When he steered the car out of the parking lot he didn’t hesitate, not because he was getting used to being the last man standing on the face of the earth but because he was distracted by the lure of the idea of stopping by the video store for more movies, even though the store was not conveniently on his way home. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, figure out why he wanted more DVD’s because he had not watched even half of the ones he had at the house. As he passed his street and continued toward Blockbuster he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Anything beats mowing the yard.”
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
He ran out of food before he ran out of movies. He knew he had to return to the grocery store and restock his refrigerator and pantry but it was almost as hard to leave this time as it had been his initial voyage outside the house. Before he left he had the sense to put a couple of bags of garbage in his trunk with the intention of using the dumpster behind the grocery store as his personal waste management facility. The second trip to the grocery store was quick, aided by the ease of entry and the near overpowering stench filling the inside of the store. The fruits and vegetables were now beyond eating and were breaking down in festering piles in the far corner of the store. The air conditioning had not discouraged the flies from descending and they were in abundance, hassling Adam as he tried to make it through the store in short order but not so fast as to forget something. Fortunately the freezers were all in working order so he made the majority of his selections from their crowded shelves as well as stocking up on canned food. Based on the amount of cans on the shelves he assumed he would have tuna and ravioli for as long as he could stomach it. The bread was becoming another casualty of time so he took a few minutes to dig through what was stocked and found several loaves of white bread that were still mold-free, dropped two into his cart and placed the rest in one of the freezers to try and prolong it’s shelf life. After half an hour he felt he had gathered enough food to get him through another week, at least, plus the stench and the flies were winning the war on his patience and he wanted to get outside. He had started out the automatic door–which opened flawlessly--when he remembered his annoyance from his last trip there and he stopped, jogged to a checkout station and started searching under the counter for some bags. “Plastic will be fine, thank you.” He threw a box of them into his cart and quickly left the store.
As he moved his groceries from the cart to the Volvo, he placed everything in the bags, piling everything into the trunk. When he steered the car out of the parking lot he didn’t hesitate, not because he was getting used to being the last man standing on the face of the earth but because he was distracted by the lure of the idea of stopping by the video store for more movies, even though the store was not conveniently on his way home. He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, figure out why he wanted more DVD’s because he had not watched even half of the ones he had at the house. As he passed his street and continued toward Blockbuster he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Anything beats mowing the yard.”
All words and images ©2007/J. Colle
1/24/2007
3/10/2006
Entry Ninety-two: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-two of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Nine
The long night turned into a long several days. Once Adam had watched a couple of movies he started establishing a rhythm, alternating between bathroom breaks and restocking his food supply on the coffee table that was strategically placed at arms length from the sofa. Once he made it through the first five or six DVD's that he had prioritized as essential viewing, he found he was, initially, less patient with the movies that followed. He would fast forward through some and bailed out of one altogether when its content proved to be boring and impossible to watch.
As movie number eleven began playing through his television, Adam noticed a settling over his spirit, a euphoric wash that, if pushed to describe it, he would have said was a feeling of peace. He felt himself relax and he began to think less about the quality of the movies and chose to lose himself in the experience, regardless of storyline or cinematography. He had no place to go, nothing else to do, so he shifted to a comfortable spot in the sofa and began watching every movie lined up on his floor, back to back, never stopping them or fast forwarding them until the credits rolled at the end. If a DVD included extra material--commentary or “behind the scenes” documentaries--he sat through those sections as well, giving them as much attention as he did the actual film it described. If he fell asleep on the sofa during a movie, he would start it from the beginning when he woke up, continuing his obsessive new hobby, rarely finding a reason to get off the coach outside of using the bathroom or emptying the ashtray. His brief foray into being a respectable citizen had lasted for two days. Adam Mahoney had returned to being a disaster.
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
Chapter Nine
The long night turned into a long several days. Once Adam had watched a couple of movies he started establishing a rhythm, alternating between bathroom breaks and restocking his food supply on the coffee table that was strategically placed at arms length from the sofa. Once he made it through the first five or six DVD's that he had prioritized as essential viewing, he found he was, initially, less patient with the movies that followed. He would fast forward through some and bailed out of one altogether when its content proved to be boring and impossible to watch.
As movie number eleven began playing through his television, Adam noticed a settling over his spirit, a euphoric wash that, if pushed to describe it, he would have said was a feeling of peace. He felt himself relax and he began to think less about the quality of the movies and chose to lose himself in the experience, regardless of storyline or cinematography. He had no place to go, nothing else to do, so he shifted to a comfortable spot in the sofa and began watching every movie lined up on his floor, back to back, never stopping them or fast forwarding them until the credits rolled at the end. If a DVD included extra material--commentary or “behind the scenes” documentaries--he sat through those sections as well, giving them as much attention as he did the actual film it described. If he fell asleep on the sofa during a movie, he would start it from the beginning when he woke up, continuing his obsessive new hobby, rarely finding a reason to get off the coach outside of using the bathroom or emptying the ashtray. His brief foray into being a respectable citizen had lasted for two days. Adam Mahoney had returned to being a disaster.
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
2/14/2006
Entry Ninety-one: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty-one of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Adam steered the Volvo toward the hardware store, turning left at the end of his street, the opposite way he’d traveled earlier in the week to find groceries. Gus Phelps had owned the only hardware store in town until a few years ago, before Lowe’s had deemed his small Georgia town worthy of a Superstore. He wanted to explore the Phelps store first because it was closer and he was more familiar with the location of the stock. Whether out of loyalty to Gus or lack of need for much in the way of hardware, he had shopped very little at Lowe’s. Gus had an older gentleman that worked for him who was a master at mixing paint and that was all Adam ever needed besides a few nails or screws for hanging pictures; Phelps Hardware filled his needs just fine. He was thinking about how he was going to break into the store when he passed a small strip mall, relatively new, still with a few empty storefronts. What caught Adam’s eye was the store on the far end, the contents of which relegated all of his goodwill and plans for home repair to the trash pile. The local Blockbuster video store, lit up and almost glowing, suddenly reminded him he could use his television for more than just watching long gone broadcast shows; he could play rented movies on his DVD player. He engaged his turn signal and made a right into the strip mall parking lot, making a beeline for the video store. There were a couple of cars scattered throughout the parking lot—probably belonging to the employees, former employees—but overall it was desolate. He parked at the front door and walked right into the store, a benefit of visiting a store that had never closed. He began circulating through the aisles, trying not to succumb to what usually happened to him when he attempted to rent movies, which was forgetting what he had been wanting to see once inundated with all the choices in the store. To try and avoid that happening he had taken to writing the names of the movies down on a piece of paper he kept in his wallet but, after digging around and not finding it, he was on his own. He took a deep breath and decided to start with the section full of new releases. After five minutes of looking he had only found a couple of movies he wanted to see and was carrying them as he walked and scanned for more. Unsuccessful, he decided his two selections would suffice and he turned to leave. As he was about to walk through the door he realized how short-sighted he was being by only taking two movies. “Why limit myself? No minimum, no late fees and if I start watching a movie and it’s terrible, so what? I pop in another!” He leaned over the counter and found a box of plastic bags and grabbed several. He started walking the aisles, taking a movie off the shelf and bagging it if he was even remotely interested in watching it. He acted like a contestant in a game show with only 35 seconds to grab as many items as he could hold, barely looking at titles, his main motivation driven by the design and photograph on the front of the case more than the content. It didn’t take long for him to fill up 15 bags with movies and, although he could have taken everything in the store home that day, he decided he had enough to entertain him for several days. He could always come back and “rent” more.
The prospect of watching movies, being entertained, excited him so much he cancelled his trip to the hardware store and drove straight home. He dumped the contents of all the bags onto the living room floor, forming one large pile, and began to sort them by levels of importance. He cleared a space along one of the walls and began lining up the cases, titles facing out for easy reference. The ones he most wanted to see were first and then he lined up the rest in order of descending relevance. He laughed at some of the selections, weird choices that in normal circumstances he would not have even glanced at in the store. “But these are not normal circumstances, far from it, so it’s good to expand my taste a bit, at least when it comes to what I watch.” When he was finished organizing, he put some popcorn in the microwave, poured a glass of sweet tea and made sure he had a full supply of cigarettes stacked on the coffee table. “It’s liable to be a long night.” And he laughed.
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
Adam steered the Volvo toward the hardware store, turning left at the end of his street, the opposite way he’d traveled earlier in the week to find groceries. Gus Phelps had owned the only hardware store in town until a few years ago, before Lowe’s had deemed his small Georgia town worthy of a Superstore. He wanted to explore the Phelps store first because it was closer and he was more familiar with the location of the stock. Whether out of loyalty to Gus or lack of need for much in the way of hardware, he had shopped very little at Lowe’s. Gus had an older gentleman that worked for him who was a master at mixing paint and that was all Adam ever needed besides a few nails or screws for hanging pictures; Phelps Hardware filled his needs just fine. He was thinking about how he was going to break into the store when he passed a small strip mall, relatively new, still with a few empty storefronts. What caught Adam’s eye was the store on the far end, the contents of which relegated all of his goodwill and plans for home repair to the trash pile. The local Blockbuster video store, lit up and almost glowing, suddenly reminded him he could use his television for more than just watching long gone broadcast shows; he could play rented movies on his DVD player. He engaged his turn signal and made a right into the strip mall parking lot, making a beeline for the video store. There were a couple of cars scattered throughout the parking lot—probably belonging to the employees, former employees—but overall it was desolate. He parked at the front door and walked right into the store, a benefit of visiting a store that had never closed. He began circulating through the aisles, trying not to succumb to what usually happened to him when he attempted to rent movies, which was forgetting what he had been wanting to see once inundated with all the choices in the store. To try and avoid that happening he had taken to writing the names of the movies down on a piece of paper he kept in his wallet but, after digging around and not finding it, he was on his own. He took a deep breath and decided to start with the section full of new releases. After five minutes of looking he had only found a couple of movies he wanted to see and was carrying them as he walked and scanned for more. Unsuccessful, he decided his two selections would suffice and he turned to leave. As he was about to walk through the door he realized how short-sighted he was being by only taking two movies. “Why limit myself? No minimum, no late fees and if I start watching a movie and it’s terrible, so what? I pop in another!” He leaned over the counter and found a box of plastic bags and grabbed several. He started walking the aisles, taking a movie off the shelf and bagging it if he was even remotely interested in watching it. He acted like a contestant in a game show with only 35 seconds to grab as many items as he could hold, barely looking at titles, his main motivation driven by the design and photograph on the front of the case more than the content. It didn’t take long for him to fill up 15 bags with movies and, although he could have taken everything in the store home that day, he decided he had enough to entertain him for several days. He could always come back and “rent” more.
The prospect of watching movies, being entertained, excited him so much he cancelled his trip to the hardware store and drove straight home. He dumped the contents of all the bags onto the living room floor, forming one large pile, and began to sort them by levels of importance. He cleared a space along one of the walls and began lining up the cases, titles facing out for easy reference. The ones he most wanted to see were first and then he lined up the rest in order of descending relevance. He laughed at some of the selections, weird choices that in normal circumstances he would not have even glanced at in the store. “But these are not normal circumstances, far from it, so it’s good to expand my taste a bit, at least when it comes to what I watch.” When he was finished organizing, he put some popcorn in the microwave, poured a glass of sweet tea and made sure he had a full supply of cigarettes stacked on the coffee table. “It’s liable to be a long night.” And he laughed.
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
2/13/2006
Entry Ninety: Adam Mahoney, You Just Won!
[The next many entries are the current story I am working on. This is twenty of who knows how many will be posted. Enjoy it while it lasts...]
Chapter Eight
After a shower and starting a load of laundry, Adam stood in his living room and felt like he had returned to step one. What was he going to do? The house was clean, the yard was mowed, edged and driveway swept. He needed another project.
He walked out the back door and stood on the patio, enjoying a late afternoon smoke. The yard looked good and he took a few moments to relish his sense of accomplishment. The shed he had put together a few years ago to hold the lawn mower was in the far back corner of the yard and it was in bad shape. It was not an expensive model but it had served its purpose for longer than he had planned. The problem was now it was ugly and it distracted from the near perfection of his trimmed and sculpted back yard. He walked toward the shed to inspect it closer, taking his shoes off and enjoying the clipped grass on his bare feet. He pushed the rickety shed door to the side, it barely sliding over the rusty rails, and poked his head inside. The smell of gasoline, oil and stale air mingled in his nostrils as he stepped past the mower. He had been so focused on the yard earlier that he hadn’t noticed what else was stored there. Along the back wall, starting at the floor and stopping at the ceiling were gallon cans of paint stacked eight rows high and ten across. He had faint recollections of where they came from but he was sure, if opened, each color and tint would serve as a liquid core sample of his life in the current house. The drips down the outside of several of the cans gave him some clues to what was inside and he instantly recognized a few of the harsh colors his ex-wife had made him apply to various rooms in the house. Some were so hideous that their existence may have been the sole reason she didn’t push to keep the house in their divorce settlement. He’d always heard “paint’s cheap” but in this case it may have cost him quite a bit. The stacked cans represented a lot of time, energy and arguments between the two of them and the fact that they could not accomplish the simplest of household projects together was a microcosm of other areas of their relationship; they just couldn’t get along.
He broke away from his memory stroll and backed out of the shed, ducking, careful not to scrape his head on the top edge of the opening. The shed needed to be replaced and now was the time while it wouldn’t cost him anything. He headed back to the house to find his car keys and as he stepped on the patio he glanced at the outside of the house and stopped, scanning and inspecting the exterior walls. “Maybe I should pick up some house paint as well. The outside is looking a little dingy… and I’ve always wanted a blue house.”
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
Chapter Eight
After a shower and starting a load of laundry, Adam stood in his living room and felt like he had returned to step one. What was he going to do? The house was clean, the yard was mowed, edged and driveway swept. He needed another project.
He walked out the back door and stood on the patio, enjoying a late afternoon smoke. The yard looked good and he took a few moments to relish his sense of accomplishment. The shed he had put together a few years ago to hold the lawn mower was in the far back corner of the yard and it was in bad shape. It was not an expensive model but it had served its purpose for longer than he had planned. The problem was now it was ugly and it distracted from the near perfection of his trimmed and sculpted back yard. He walked toward the shed to inspect it closer, taking his shoes off and enjoying the clipped grass on his bare feet. He pushed the rickety shed door to the side, it barely sliding over the rusty rails, and poked his head inside. The smell of gasoline, oil and stale air mingled in his nostrils as he stepped past the mower. He had been so focused on the yard earlier that he hadn’t noticed what else was stored there. Along the back wall, starting at the floor and stopping at the ceiling were gallon cans of paint stacked eight rows high and ten across. He had faint recollections of where they came from but he was sure, if opened, each color and tint would serve as a liquid core sample of his life in the current house. The drips down the outside of several of the cans gave him some clues to what was inside and he instantly recognized a few of the harsh colors his ex-wife had made him apply to various rooms in the house. Some were so hideous that their existence may have been the sole reason she didn’t push to keep the house in their divorce settlement. He’d always heard “paint’s cheap” but in this case it may have cost him quite a bit. The stacked cans represented a lot of time, energy and arguments between the two of them and the fact that they could not accomplish the simplest of household projects together was a microcosm of other areas of their relationship; they just couldn’t get along.
He broke away from his memory stroll and backed out of the shed, ducking, careful not to scrape his head on the top edge of the opening. The shed needed to be replaced and now was the time while it wouldn’t cost him anything. He headed back to the house to find his car keys and as he stepped on the patio he glanced at the outside of the house and stopped, scanning and inspecting the exterior walls. “Maybe I should pick up some house paint as well. The outside is looking a little dingy… and I’ve always wanted a blue house.”
All words and images ©2006/J. Colle
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