Drifting

I am weightless, here in illuminate darkness I can only drift. It's been ages since I encountered another out here, there is nothing to attract me or repel me. Stuck out here alone I can occasionally catch a whisper coming from a far off place, a planet, a star, maybe another drifter like me. Every day I watch the needle on my oxygen tank get a little lower. Is there a planet out here that's meant for me? And will I find it before the needle is finally at rest? Sometimes I talk to the far away stars, ask them if they have a planet I would survive or thrive on. Flat whispers return, I couldn't quite make it out. Think they said 'no' again.

Hang on, I'm getting close to that planet... I can hear it! There's people down there singing, it's the most beautiful melody I've ever heard! Maybe if I can just angle myself this way... okay, I'm on course for it! I can't wait to get down to the surface, to breathe real air, breathe life itself, and most of all I want to sing that beautiful melody with those people. Nearer now... what the hell was that flash? A large meteor shot past me, aimed right for my planet. My would be planet. Having to witness the further destruction of hope for a home, my soul bled. The force of the explosion blasted me away to the far side of the system. More alone than ever, I just floated and stared at that needle. My panicked breathing had accelerated it's descent. My melancholy turns to rage, and I scream into the darkness for the right planet to give me some sign, some indication that it exists, so that I might find it. My rage turns back into melancholy as the universe does not answer.

How long have I been drifting? The needle doesn't tell me the time, only the time left. It won't be long now. Huh... another planet way over there. If the universe sees fit to destroy this one, I'll have to give up finding my place entirely. Not enough oxygen to make it to another. I hear no singing from here, monotone beeps, and aggressive boops, but nothing I would call a song. I don't like this planet, but I'll land for a refill of oxygen. After that, I'm going back into space. Alone.

Unfiltered Rambling

TVs (among with all other technological wonders) have programmed us to be unfocused. We eat or clean while watching TV, barely focusing on the show. And if we do focus on the show, have no fear, the commercials will be there to break our focus. So, we end up checking our phones to see what Bob Saget is up to, or we just stare blankly at the ad for yoghurt that we know by heart. Anything but actual thinking.

The only time the average person uses the forgotten function of their brain ("imagination") is when they're in the shower or lying awake at night. And the average person will tell you that they win arguments in the shower and solve global problems right before they sleep. Poor fucks are cheating themselves out of perceiving the world in creative new ways, or imagining new and better worlds where Bob Saget will respond to your tweets. All because they think they need to be engaged by external sources at all times.

Every other toy these days is some singing-flashing-sensory-overload-piece-of-crap (probably some conspiracy Duracell orchestrated so they'll stay in business). New generations are being trained to be unfocused unimaginative little darlings even worse than we were. I know religion is getting more and more unpopular, but nonreligious people often forget that a lot of good ideas are put forth by religions (that crucifixion bit was classic*!). The Sabbath was to be a day to rest and to worship this God fellow (apparently he was a rather stand up gentleman). Since ancient times lacked our spaz-happy forms of entertainment, the Sabbath was essentially a day of contemplation. We, on the other hand, use our weekends to go to the bar, watch TV, or relax with some friends. Those things are all fine, but we should leave ourselves enough time to keep holy the Sabbath. The Sabbath allows our subconscious mind to be a bit more conscious. Maybe it always speaks to us, but we don't hear it because there were reruns of Breaking Bad that needed our full attention.

If I ever accidentally get a girl pregnant, and my Home Alone style traps around the house fail to cause a miscarriage, I think I'll promote my child's imagination. I'll ground the little bastard for no reason and tell him/her to think about what they've done. That's parenting the Randall way!


*yes yes, Romans blah blah blah.

The best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be.

Shit-tits and nipple-dicks. My other grandfather died. I was getting a little old to have a grandfather, but I'll miss him anyhow. I have a pretty good imagination, and even I can't conceive of a reason someone would dislike him. Except his wife. She had every reason to complain about him. After all, she was married to the greatest jester I've ever seen.

I remember him teaching us (my brothers and I) piano. We didn't tickle ivories, we smashed our fingers into the table while chanting "PEE-ANN-O, PEE-ANN-O." This was to inform the women-folk that we wanted our dessert. Sadly, the silly old bints never got the message, as our cake never arrived any faster (and was sometimes fed to the dog out of spite).

What with all the mass graves and genocide, being a jester in the army was difficult, but my Papa managed. Once he was done liberating Italy he and the other Canadian soldiers relieved themselves on the Tower of Pisa. That is how it came to lean. After drinking and chasing skirts in France, Italy, the Netherlands, and finally Germany (not to mention all that boring liberation business), Papa sent his troops home. You may not think of it, but someone had to stay behind and organize all the trips home. I suppose that was his punishment for repeatedly pranking superior officers (by putting all of their underwear in a bucket of water in the freezer).

Papa could create fun from boring, a trip to a sports game could be more fun than watching Sealy stocks rise as the Blue Jays shit the bed. Before every overpass he would yell at us to duck. For a kid, it's a fun game to spot bridges ahead of time and duck before your brothers. We would measure trips in numbers of bridges rather than hours or kilometres. I still do this, but it's tough to explain to the Ontario Provincial Police after you've rear-ended a Buick on the 401.

Whether awful or hilarious (or hilariously awful), Papa always had a joke ready. He used to tell us he was good at three subjects in school: recess, lunch, and arithmatic. It might sound like an old, lame joke, but that motherfucker could times his wobbly-assed tables. He could legitimately do a math problem before my stupid piano-hands could finger the cuntulator 'til it multiplied its orgasm by i*

I've lost my train of thought. Perhaps I should fire the conductor. Seriously Miguel, I hired you because I thought you could do the job for less money, don't be fucking around now. Anyway, even at 87, Papa was independent. Whether he was just putting chairs away after a card game or taking his scooter to visit his wife who had severe Alzheimers. On the way there he would make a point of honking at some 60 year olds and telling the "young whippersnappers to get out of the way". Yes, my grandfather called people whippersnappers. He was so independent he could win Euchre games without a partner. He could make it on a 9 and take all 5 tricks. If you don't play euchre, that means:
a) he was really good at Euchre
b) you are a piece of human garbage and should learn to play some fucking Euchre.

I came quick, the whore of the week yelled at me. Papa went quick and I thanked him for it. No need to watch a great man suffer. His senile wife had forgotten him, so he decided this plane of existence had nothing left to offer him. He went to jest in some other realm. I've always seen just two options when faced with tragedy: you can laugh, or you can cry. I choose to laugh and celebrate the good times.
To celebrate, my Papa always picked the most extravagent clothing, be it a flashing hat, or a singing tie, he was always prepared to catch people off guard. The manager at the retirement home made him sound like a lovable dog, "he was into everything here. He would play with everyone, he would make us all smile." However, my favourite comment came from a man who was described as crochety on a good day. As I was cleaning out Papa's room he came over and told me to "stop making so much god damn noise... and I miss your grandfather."

*This joke brought to you by Bo Burnham.