The world is big.
I don't know shit.
I might just roam until I find my home.
I've tried it all.
It's all something.
It's just not what I need.
Who would've thought that being content is so simple.
It just means you're here.
5 years ago I found you.
I wrote a song.
I didn't finish it.
Thanks for putting up with my shit.

Part I

Some other fare got to the cab before I could react. Shit. I am going to be late again. Walter is going to have an aneurysm. You know, when you tell people that you're an actor, I'm sure that this isn't what they picture. Cut to me screaming at yuppie ass-tasters who think that they need a cab more than me. I arrive on set at 10:30--thirty minutes late. Walter is nowhere to be found. Finally! Some luck! This will give me time to get into wardrobe and makeup before he can ream me. I make a mad dash toward the trailer, only to find Walter on the other side of the door.

"Where the fuck have you been, Elias? It's fucking 10:30!" Walter screamed from behind his pseudo-trendy-neo-hipster moustache.

"I had trouble catching a cab, sorry Walt." I replied.

"Leave earlier, and for God's sake, don't call me Walt, I'm a grown fucking man!"

"I'm sorry sir, It wont happen again."

Walt interrupted,

"Sally! Get him dressed and ready, pronto!" He slammed the door.

"Yessir...." Sally trailed off.

"Pronto!? Who the fuck says that?" I inquired, truly curious.

Sally rolled out the cart of my outfit(s).

"You make it worse, you know," she said, "You could be here on time if you wanted--and calling him Walt? Blatant disrespect. You're lucky that he needs you, or you'd have been gone after Season Two like Punxsutawney Phil."

Punxsutawney Phil, who was lovingly named so because of his fat face and frumpy body shape that made him look like the annual weather-forecasting rodent. It also didn't hurt that his name was Phil, off and on the set.

Punxsutawney Phil had a problem with the wardrobes from the moment that he started on the show, and made it his life's work to convince Walter to do something about them. This ultimately led to his demise. Season Two, Episode Twelve--aptly titled, "Phil Gets Constricted," it was a joint effort. The writers needed a good cliffhanger for the Season Two finale, Walted needed a way to off Phil, and the good folks at the Everglades National Park in Florida needed to raise awareness about the dangers of the Burmese Python thriving as an invader species in their natural habitat. Since it's introduction to the Everglades, the Burmese Python had found it an ideal habitat and increased exponentially in number spreading throughout all of the park, killing off the park's native wildlife.

Enter, Phil. Upon a visit to the park with his family, Phil disappeared. Where foul play was originally suspected, my character's almost abnormally powerful detection skills found that Phil, had in fact, been constricted and swallowed whole by an eighteen-foot-long Burmese Python along with the outfit that he wore on each and every one of the 25 episodes of SQUEAK.

That's correct, the show is called SQUEAK, in ALL CAPS, which is ironic, considering how it is the stories of a muscularly-challenged detective with a keen sense of smell. I think that they should've gone with 'squeak' written in a child-like lowercase scrawl, like the 'Andy' font on MS Word. But then again, I also think that the characters should have original names, not just the same first-fucking-names as the actors that play them. And also, that we shouldn't have to wear the same goddamn outfits on every episode. Is this a fucking cartoon?! But our infinitely clever writing staff seems to think otherwise, so I deal.

"All done." Sally said, stepping aside so that I could get a look at myself in the mirror. I gave a nod of approval.

"Great work, Sal, you are incredible--how much would it cost me to hire you for my own personal use?" I asked.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing..no, I meant..Just forget it, thanks again, Sal." I said, quickly making my way out of the trailer.

On set, everyone seems to have been waiting for me. We're working on Season Four, Episode Three right now, it's a real stinker. I've found that everything between the premieres and finales is just sub-par community-playhouse grade filler. We get started and it all just sounds like bullshit rehashed from previous seasons. Same structure, same outfits, same people, same outfits, same names, same outfits, it all just blends in my mind. A kaleidoscope image of the plaid from Jamie's shirt and the khaki from Geena's blouse. The colors twist into a vomit colored stain, it pulsates. It turns red and orange, blue and green, then purple, then grey, and then black--that's when I black out.

You fucking angel, 

You capture me from every angle.

-J.

Infinity don't mean shit to me.
Infinity don't mean shit to me.
There are only blank pages in the books that I read.
There are nothing but lines in the shapes that I see.
There are things and rings and a spot where the sky meets the sea.
There are terrible things and feelings that I hope no one wished on me.
There's a job and a girl and I want certain things.
I sharpened the scissors and cut the strings.
I want to reduce myself to a stain.
Though, it seems that it would be a strain.
I have no dollars or cents.
I'm not making dollars and it's not making sense.

It's something like soft jazz, and it sings to me. It lulls me to sleep. I gave up on Melatonin, because it never really worked anyway. Nothing like that could make me feel brand new. Nothing like that could make me feel less blue. I walked a couple of blocks yesterday in the cold. Shivering, I reached fumbling for my Chap Stick, it fell to the concrete. Fuck it, it wasn't really mine anyway. I can't remember whose it was in the first place anymore. Some mornings I take to the notion that I'll be a good guy, you know? I'll do the right thing, make everyone smile. But once the sun burns out, and the blanket of the cold, cold night is draped over the Earth, I take to my old ways. They please me ceaselessly. Why must my emotions negate each other? Damnit, I can't grow up to be my brother. Every day ends with an ellipsis, and I wonder if anything will ever pick up where I left it off.

I don't want a hug like everyone else.
I don't think a Christmas Party will help.
Bah Humbug, I'm a jerk.
Goddamnit, nothing works.
What if I don't see you before you leave?
What if France isn't what it seems?
I woke up and nothing hurt.
I woke up and nothing was worse.
Enjoy your Louvre.
Enjoy your tower.
Pretty flower, pretty flower.
Enjoy the lovely countryside.
Run and hide, run and hide.

There's lots of outdoor smells

And the sky's hung really well

Against the canopies of trees

Those cartwheels helped you get those dirty knees

And there are a thousand blades of grass

And they're sticking in my back

I'd like to be a blade of grass

I'd like to stain your pretty dress

I'd like to, for once, be liked the best

I like when you look a mess

There's a thousand words in my brain

A thousand words thought in vain

Because they're words that I'll never say

Because I don't want you knowing that I think this way

You skipped class

I skipped work
You're a field of flowers in full bloom
I'm a jerk

There are a million fucking trees

What makes that one better than these?
They all help you to breathe
They all keep you at ease

And I wish that a fucking tree

Could give me that kind of peace

Photography Dustin Humphrey
© Insight51.com

It touches me, God, it fucking touches me. It touches, it tears, it drinks, it swears, and it won't let me go after this one. I'm not scared at all, I took a few steady breaths. I paced myself this time, I did, I did, I did, I did. He breathes into me, and I'm full. She pushes into me and I crumble. Remember when 'fuck' was the word that we held? Remember when love was a book on the shelf? Remember this: When it touches me, it tickles me--I laugh furiously.

Hey Satan,

You've made me a ghost. The people that I love are the one's that I scare the most. Is it an obligation to disservice? Am I clean? Was it worth it? There's dirt on my brain, my friend's would tell you the same. I'd love to shine it for you. I'd love to be a color other than blue. I'd love to be less obtuse. I'd love, for once, to be put to good use.

Love,

Josh

Believe everything.

I went walking in the streets,
there were signs in front of me
they said that he'd already left,
and that the sky was a mat
under which we'd been swept.

But, I closed my eyes and I felt fine.

Toad-ally fucked.

Like driving the car while the engine is smoking.
Like walking into a shit-storm, mouth wide open.
Like the disaster that is and will always be,
Like me, like me, like me, like me, like me, like me.

I gave the world in neon and in return got black and white.

I fought an uphill battle, and you didn't even put up the fight.

I feel a Grand Canyon growing deep inside of me.

Atop one mount is what I want--the other is what I need.

I rest in the valley; it is here that I find peace.

Yet, it’s this peace that destroys me,

The peace of a stagnant sleep.

The Beginning

Once I fell down. In a moment still in time, I remember that crushing agony of embarrassment hurling itself through my bones again. Even on this day, years later, I picture my feet, witnessing the misstep that led to my downfall.

Crashing

Ripping

Crushing.

The bane of my own anxieties made the results of the minor misstep into a great fiasco, a stock market crashing within my mind. Oh the agony! Anxiety has grown into the bête noire. In my mind I hurled endless obscenities at the beast, but it would not retreat. I arose. Upon doing so, I brushed off my tattered jeans and pullover and made my way past the witnesses to my disaster. Oh my God! The eyes! More piercing than rapiers fresh off of the sharpening stone! After being scalped and gutted by those eyes, I vowed to more carefully monitor my steps, so as not to ever fall again.

But mistakes happen, right? Because I fell again, hard.

...

...

...

I pulled a rabbit out of my hat. I presented it to you and you saw it fitting to take it with you, to share it with everyone you know. They saw it and took it as the truth, and you agreed. I had done well enough at pulling it out of my hat to trick you. Now everyone knows my rabbit as the truth, and I am pleased. You had kids, you told them about my rabbit. One day they'll tell their kids, and one day--one day, maybe the entire world will know my rabbit. Maybe my rabbit will make them comfortable, make life seem worth living. I hope my rabbit makes you happy.

I am stupid and selfish.
I want more out of things than I put into them.
I am greedy.
I am a pig.
I feed on other's weakness and my own time.
I will squander and selfishly waste whatever it is that you have to give.
The most evil of men, he is like me.
He has arms and legs and a neck like me.
This is true.
He only thinks about himself like me.

Breathe.

Can you handle hearing this?
Can you?
Because I can see that you have not yet admitted to yourself being like me.
In Greek myths it was an opened box.
In the Bible it was a tree.
What was it that did this to you?
What made you like me?

Oink, oink.

Blindfolds or Blindling Lights?

This was my first short story. Let me preface this by saying that there is something fascinating about a blindfold to me. Upon putting it on it can make even the most powerful, most intelligent man--a man who knows exactly where he's going--just as lost as I am. Just as hopelessly lost as a lot of us are.

I awoke the day before to a loud 'thud' against my bedroom window. Upon further investigation, I discovered that a blue bird had brought its life to a crashing halt against the glass. A majestic creature brought to death by an optical illusion. Henry David Thoreau once wrote that the bluebird carries the sky on its back, but the sky was still up there, unfortunately.

Things weren't right lately, I would walk around lost in a daze. It was quite unfortunate, but I didn't know what to do about it. Maybe I should've seen a doctor. There's a point where loneliness and disappointment in yourself start to blur every line that you see, and you can't quite remember what it takes to make yourself happy, that's where I was. I walked unnoticed down the streets unable to hail a cab, I was invisible. At work, I'd sit at a desk in a cube, not bothered, not noticed. My assignments were emailed to me, never assigned personally by a higher-up. No human contact - I was a hermit, an urban hermit. Something had to change.

The morning that I left, I awoke to Bob Dylan song on my alarm clock radio, a song that told me that the answer was 'blowin' in the wind,' so I set out to find it. I went to see my father and borrowed his car, a 1964 Ford Falcon Futura. It was a convertible, he had bought it new and spent more time with it than his own children. I am still in utter amazement to this day that he actually let me borrow it. As a child I'd always wanted to see the Great Lakes, so I figured that would be a good start to my journey. The day that I drove to Michigan was the day that I realized that 14-hour drives across the country simply do not go by slow enough. I made frequent stops to admire the scenery and wildlife and eventually arrived in Michigan.

I took money out of my savings account and rented a cabin for a week. During my stay I made frequent trips to local markets and a few tourist attractions, namely the Great Lakes. I witnessed the majesty of the lakes from Makinaw City, near where Lake Michigan meets Lake Huron. The beauty entered my eyes, navigated through nerves and bones and squeezed my soul. I was addicted, I didn't want to settle in anywhere ever again. This is the moment that I decided that I wanted to live my life on the road.

Upon returning to the cabin, I meditated on many things. Mainly how I could fund this new life that I'd grown so fond of so quickly. At some point I fell asleep, I remember my dreams more clearly than my waking hours. This is the night that I dreamt of being a bird, flying over the world. Flying over the homes of parents crying over their children, children crying over their parents, and the entire world just crying over things that in the end don't matter. Upon waking from this dream, I made the decision never to cry again, that opportunities come and go, windows open and close, and that there's nothing to be done to change the past. I'd come to terms with the fact that I will die alone, and that's more than most people can say after __ years of life.

Before I knew it, it was time to check out of my cabin. I thought to myself, "What next?" Instead of dwelling on that thought, I just hit the road to see where it would take me. After a 10-hour drive, I arrived somewhere not-so-full of nature's beauty, New York City. Somewhere that I'd always wanted to go, but now would never go again. I eventually found an affordable hotel and made arrangements to stay for a week. I immersed myself in New York City's night-life a bit too much, frequenting bars and discos. I met a few people, only one worth remembering. Her name was Gretchen.

Gretchen was quite pleasant to look at, she had this beauty about her that was unlike anything that I had ever witnessed before in a person. She had an Autumn-sun-setting-over-a-field-of-wheat type of beauty. When we first met, I could barely bring myself to speak to her. My words escaped me, and I could not think of one word in the English language that would've been suitable to speak to her, no word worthy enough to be in her presence. I, too, felt unworthy to be in her presence. I daydreamed of her being a goddess, surrounded by a golden aura that descended upon me to wake me from my slumber to tell me some sort of duty that I would have to undertake, like building an arc, for instance. Indeed, for one moment alone in her glory I would build an arc and force two of each animal upon it. That's the kind of beauty that Gretchen had. So I asked someone to introduce me to her. Ha! How bizarre bashfulness is, as badly as I wanted to meet this woman, I couldn't do it on my own.

I met her at a disco through a gentleman that I met at the pub. We began to meet for drinks every night for the rest of my stay in the Big Apple, each night I got progressively less and less bashful around her. On my last night in New York, I gave her a poem that I had written for her earlier that day.

"You see, writing is the only way that I can tell people how I feel about things," I told her. Then I handed her the napkin with these words on it:

"You know that spot where the sky meets the sea?
Watching from the boardwalk, seeing all that there is to see?
Baby, I would tell you that that's how much you mean to me,
but all that sky and water don't mean nothin' to me,
because the ocean has a bottom and the sky has black clouds
so neither of those things seem endless now.
Baby, I would say that my love for you reaches as high as a mountain,
but mountains have peaks. Baby, this could take weeks!
All that I can say is that you're like a river to me
Flowin' and flowin'; the blood that makes my heart beat."

She didn't say a word. We eventually ended up back at my hotel, but I don't remember how. All those nights that we met I drank quite a bit of the liquid courage. I eventually got around to telling her my story, about why I'd come to New York City in the first place. I told her about my spontaneous trip and my plans to keep it up. I saw her eyes light up and she immediately asked me if she could tag along. After a few hours of trying to talk her out of it, she and I were preparing to hit the road.

The next morning, we made love in the stillness of the sunrise. The same sun that watched me play cowboys as a child, with my gun-shaped stick shouting, "BANG! BANG!" at my father as he would run from me and collapse into the grass. The same sun that I awoke to many mornings on camping trips with my father, before we'd roll up our sleeping bags and begin to cook breakfast over the campfire. The same sun that shone down on me even as I drove to Mackinaw, and then to New York City. The soft, freshly-laundered sheets of the hotel room bed caressed our naked bodies, much like we caressed each other. And in the moment, we were happy and infinite, oh, were we infinite. Like celestial bodies, two hypergiants, the most luminous stars in the galaxy shining our light from our hotel room bed in New York City thoughout the rest of the world. And our journey across this great land began like this, in the stillness of that sunrise and the timelessness of that morning.

So off we went, venturing into the unknown. I couldn't help but feel a little like Lewis and Clark trudging along through this chunk of earth that we call America, unaware of what lay beyond the mountain ranges (skyscrapers in our case) in the distance. Gretchen volunteered to drive first, which I couldn't have been happier about. This meant that I could gaze upon her flowing strawberry blonde hair blowing in the wind, and her long flowing skirt being tossed about like a plastic bag on the highway. Her skirt was white with floral print covering its entire surface. As I stared into the blooming flowers, I wondered how flowers had become a symbol of love and affection. Flowers wilt and die, that is not how I would prefer to show my affection. To each their own, I suppose.

Pretty soon we were in Pittsburgh, Pennslyvania, where we stopped along the way to get gas. As the attendant pumped the gas, Gretchen and I went for a walk. We walked down by a picnic area that was set up near the station. We sat for awhile and admired the beautiful green earth and for a moment I remembered my grandmother and her beautiful flower gardens. She always spent all of her spare time tending to her yard, making it more and more beautiful. It was all that she had in her old age. With five children to feed and a husband who worked often, I can only imagine how difficult things were for her to manage sometimes. But according to my father, she never once complained and they never once went unfed. What utter beauty she had held too, like the beautiful earth that I watched for those few moments on that afternoon.

When we left the station, we took I-70 from Pittsburgh into Columbus, Ohio. In Columbus, we found a cheap hotel and settled in for the night. As soon as we entered the room, Gretchen dropped the armful of things that she was carrying and began to kiss me. I was a bit shocked, actually, she hadn't kissed me since that morning when we'd made love in the warmth of the rising sun. I hadn't fancied her to be that outgoing, but obviously I had been wrong. For some reason, that night when we made love, I felt as if I were doing something wrong. Not that I didn't want to, I just felt that any minute my mother would open the door to find me in the bed with a woman. I did my best to shake the thought, but I just couldn't, so I just tried to keep the frightened look off of my face.

The next morning, we hit the beautiful black-top of I-70 as the sun was rising. I remembered the previous morning under the same sunrise and the smell of Gretchen's hair as it fell around my face. I felt my love for her growing deep inside of me and I wondered how long our time together would last. I knew that I loved her, but I knew nothing about her. Who was this woman? Where had she been all these years?

Seven months later in Phoenix, Arizona, I woke up in our hotel room to find that Gretchen was gone, she'd left me a note full of flowery language that at the core simply said that she needed to get back to the real world. I wasn't angry with her, I, myself was beginning to feel worn down by my journey. I was sitting in a diner that evening reading and re-reading her letter when I realized that nothing that I could find or see during my life was ever going to help me out, and that the empty feeling in the bottom of my gut is something that all humans feel, and that it is even more natural than all the beautiful things that I had seen so far on my journey. So I came home.

I wrote Gretchen a poem today, it reads:

"There's no one worth asking who can answer your questions correctly, if at all.
Not even a doctor, or someone smarter can tell you how far you'll fall.
So tie weights to your feet to strengthen your leap, to cut your hangtime in half.
For not even a doctor can answer these questions, and me, I just know simple math."

I spent hours on it, but I doubt that it will ever leave my desk. I wouldn't know where to send it anyhow. I still think about all the things that I saw and felt when I was out there, but it's good to have a home and to have something stable. Even though my stint on the road didn't even last an entire year, that's more than a lot of people get, and I feel badly for them. I still remember all the songs that I heard when I was out on the road. I hum them to myself to keep me sane.

About the Author

Good day!

"Joshua Cook is an extremely clever and charming young writer hailing from the small town of Lancaster, South Carolina. It is a miracle that his art form has survived due to the lack of nourishment for it in his small mill town. As cliche as it sounds, Cook is a breath of fresh air to the literature world of his generation. He hails Kerouac, Salinger, and Vonnegut among his influences, but his style is as much unlike the aforementioned authors as it is similar. He views the world from his own downtrodden, youthful perspective and truly personifies the blues. What Stevie Ray Vaughn said with his guitar, Cook says with his pen, and with my pen, that is saying a lot. Cook will entrance you with his musings, leading to the inability to stop reading--even after the story is over. You will dream about these stories. So please enjoy this collection of youthful genius, via the wonders of the blog."

-Joshua Cook
http://theyoungmanblues.blogspot.com