The inspiration data stream.

The Office

Dreamt of a return to a former workplace but in a lesser position. Significant changes had been made not just to staffing and operations but also physically. The space I now occupied was larger with a new glass wall to the outside (impossible). Also my former office was crowded to the ceiling with a veritable Fibber McGee variety of things (improbable). After a distraction of dogs and cats running rampant through the new glass wall and out into the public area (also improbable) the old office was super clean and held a massive rack of stereo equipment including two double tape decks.

I have no idea what this means. None of it. It makes me wonder just what my subconscious is working out. My interactions with people in the dream (some of whom are real) were completely normal. The imagery there was not wishful thinking.

I don’t always remember my dreams but when I do they often baffle me.

The Sportsball

I’m a baseball fan. I like the NFL and I’m almost rabid about my hometown college basketball team. Oh, and futbol. World Cup and Sporting KC. I like some sportsball.

Lots of people don’t. I’m okay with that. I won’t push my fanaticism on you and I hope that you won’t resent me making an occasional reference to my team’s doing well. Just tune me out for a short time. I won’t go on and on. I promise. Three or four tweets during the game. The exception is World Cup but that’s only once every four years. Indulge me.

It’s just that when my team is doing well, it’s a joy. When they’re not doing well, I don’t go on and on about how they should be doing better. There’s likely more cussing in disgust but that’s the way sportsball goes.


Me. Not necessarily in a bad way, at least not fatally bad. Just bad in that now that I have a little more experience and affirmation that I know what I’m doing, I’ll keep doing it.

I’m fascinated with Nick Adams right now. Hemingway’s character. There’s something there to be exploited, I just don’t know what. Do I mash him up with someone like Rust Cohle or develop him a little more into something else?

The answer is none of that. The correct answer, anyway. What I have to do with the character I’m thinking of is relate Nick Adams to him. Have my guy be an echo of that but in a really interesting Big Idea kind of way.

And that will be my doom. I will become obsessed. Hell, I already am. I can feel the stories worming in the folds of my brain, boring deep into the meat to ensure that I don’t forget them. I can see three separate opening scenes and I want to write them all RIGHT NOW.

But that’s impossible. There’s too much to do. THAT’S my doom. The weight of the Things. The number of plates I’ve got spinning on rods over my head.

I’m not a juggler. That’s my doom. Maybe.

Or maybe it’s all in my head and if I can get it out I can stop the clock ticking. Maybe the totem won’t stop spinning. Maybe those plates will continue to turn on their rods, wobbling but never quite falling.

I’m doomed. That’s all there is to it. The only thing I can do is run those things as long as I can then pick up the pieces when it crashes.

In Search Of…

A really big idea. One that breaks rules and invents new ones. An idea that resonates in sympathy with the world around it.

That’s not asking too much, is it?


Asking questions came naturally to him. He surrounded himself with people who did the same. It was all to his purpose.

The more they knew, as a group, the easier it would be. All of it. The plan must proceed. All of them had worked on it under his instruction, his guidance, his vision. They prodded him, pushed him. The group was his creation and he reveled in their sweat and their results. They reminded him of his younger self.

And that was what it was all about. 



Unnecessary Explosions.

I have found my happy exploding place. I may never leave.

Oh, this is making my day.

Locked In

The radio is the first thing. It’s not one of the walkie talkies that either of the men in the room carry on a daily basis. The tinny sounding voice has more urgency to it than normal. There are a second a third voice, too, talking over one another. This is a crisis.

They come in weapons drawn, both of them. Cops like these don’t deal much with serious issues like a shooter loose on campus. They’re calm as one of the men already in the room comes around a corner. 9mm pistols come up and they take aim.

The man raises his hands in surrender. His radio is in the right hand, a black lump that weighs nearly a pound and will shatter like glass if he drops it. Everyone recognizes each other and calm is quickly restored. Questions are asked: did you see anyone? did you hear anything?

The answers are ‘no’ all the way ‘round. Police are trained well, especially these guys. They’re calm and ready and reassuring. They prepare to go up the stairs to a much more unsecured part of the building. The two men in the room watch the cops and when they’re gone, both break out laughing a little.

The sudden tension is gone but they’re still locked in. Locked down. Sort of prisoners for their own protection. When the feelings of unease creep back in, there’s no ‘sort of’ about it. They’re prisoners of a lunatic with a gun and there are good people in pursuit.

The Hot Room

Jesus, it’s boiling in here. True, it’s summer, but this room is always hot. Always has been. Every funeral I’ve been to here.

I’ve realized my family and extended family have a funeral home. One we always use. And this room is always fucking hot no matter the time of the year. 

This causes me to think back to my adolescence to confirm my suspicion. I will probably have a service here when it’s time. I’ll have to ask them to do something about the air flow in the outer room.  Hopefully that’ll be a long time off, but maybe arrangements should be made. At least I should tell my wife which funeral home to use.

And she’ll have to stay out of the hot room.