It always starts innocently enough. I take a step out the back door into the crisp night air. I leave the porch light off so I can count the stars or just stand there and drink in the moon.Taking a deep breath and a few steps into the yard, I give my mind to that great abyss we call the heavens. At first it lingers just above my head, afraid to go too far, but that’s never enough. Before long it glides through the upper atmosphere, playfully circling aircraft as they drift by unaware, then zipping past the moon and weaving through planets as if they were road cones in an empty parking lot. In the next blink we’ve crossed the eons between our tiny blue dot and the massive cluster of sparkling champagne that makes up our galaxy. That is where the good ones linger. The better than average ideas that might get you killed or could make you famous; maybe both. Once we’ve attained cruising altitude and the seat belt light blinks off, while my head is turned into the depths of some passing nebula, she leans forward from the seat behind, softly touching my shoulder and as her glossy, painted lips nearly brush against my earlobe, I know I’m in trouble.
She lies to me.
The whispers are faint, nearly inaudible, at first. That’s how she draws me in, making sure she’s got my attention. As I strain to hear, maybe leaning in a little, she’ll giggle and back away. What was that she said? Why is she laughing? Now she’s got me asking questions. That’s good. The gears are engaged. The stewardess comes by and offers some peanuts or a drink, but when I turn to respond she’s not there…but the giggling is. Now she’s at the other ear. A gentle touch, a soft caress, and a nearly mumbled word. Then silence. Now I’m passing a bright planet that almost looks like home. No, too much green, not enough blue. As I start to contemplate the possibilities of life, she breathes on my neck. Not the way the creepy guy in line behind me at Seven Eleven does it either. No, it’s smooth and exhilarating like an unexpected summer breeze blowing in from the lake shore on a needlessly hot day. That’s when the gloves come off. The cloak and dagger small talk is over and now she’s ready to lay it on thick. From the left comes a premium magazine article about that quaint little vacation spot I visited last summer. Next she throws down a prize winning short story I could probably have ready by the upcoming entry deadline. It’s so hot it burns my snack tray! Without regard to safety or airline regulations, she comes at me with a scandalous political essay that could bring the NSA to shut down my entire blog. From journal entries to best selling novels, she comes at me in a relentless fury until finally I collect enough wit to grab a pen and paper! I turn around and grab her arm as I will myself back into my yard and run full speed into the house; where in the hell did I leave that pen? Is there a scrap of paper left on this planet? Why aren’t the kids in bed? Where is my wife? Ah! There’s a pen! Paper, paper, there’s got to be some paper somewhere! Does the damn T.V. have to be so loud? The printer! There’s paper in the printer! Through all the confusion, the onslaught of ideas keep streaming through my head until finally I have something to write on and THEN…
…silence…
Where did she go? I had her by the arm just a second ago and now all that’s left is the faint echo of a giggle, a house full of wild children up way past their bed time, a T.V. that can be heard in the next county, and the screaming absence of any useful idea whatsoever. What, for the love of holiness is that smell? And it seems I found the dog’s latest landmark at some point in my recent journey to worlds unseen.
So you see, it always starts innocently enough. A quiet stroll in the back yard, a little imaginative tour of the galaxy, but it always ends with this: A pen in your hand and nothing to write, but your next to-do list which begins with – ‘clean up dog poo in back yard’.
mooretified 