He took another sip of bourbon and thought aloud about how he had come to the place in life that he was in. It wasn’t easy being old. He was in a home. Looking for friends, yet still wanting to know why all of them he used to know were no longer there.
Writing was tough at times he thought. You just let your fingers do the walking in Microsoft Word. That was the standard, right? Right? Since he had discarded his typewriter a long time ago, the computerized word processor was how he had displayed what was happening, the shape of things in life.
Targets were hard to hit. Jarhead snipers would tell him about the thrill of meeting the target consistently. He knew it. But he wasn’t into it. The target that was the unknown at the keyboard was the only one he was truly ever interested in.
That, his bourbon and beer
He never knew when his inspiration would come. He was always considered someone who could function at high levels under the most extreme conditions. What was the term for those kind of people he wondered aloud? Was it something that transcended the act of hitting keys on the keyboard? Were writers people who functioned at high levels by virtue of the fact they were hitting the keyboard like other people the sweet spot?
When the time came to consider how well his life was lived to the point it was he was at a loss. He didn’t know much intimacy in his relationships up unto the present. What others had taken for granted regarding their disposition in life, he thought free will had more to do with how things turned out than destiny did.
What the situations called for were what he hoped to ascribe to. He was always known to be the kind of guy who consistently evolved yet remained stuck in mindsets that held him back—a dichotomy when viewed by others on the outside yet perfectly natural to him.
He often considered those who could remain awake the longest as those who would eventually rule the world. There had been tons of shows about military escapades where those who could stay awake the longest were the ones who would achieve greatness in combat.
The funny thing to him was that those who could go on the least amount of sleep were the ones who could remain the most functioning…and at high levels, no matter their tasks in life.
He knew no one has the ability to lead a pure, perfect life, where they rise at the same time and fall to sleep at the same, given time. Consider the possibilities where you could plan everything around those certainties. If you knew when you were going to get up and when you were going to go to bed each day, would you not be able to do things you might not otherwise be able to do? He believed you could.
The problem with most men is they spend too much of their lives trying to “get the girl,” he thought, and, to his core, were those beliefs. He was one of the few men whose thoughts were able to sincerely delve below the surface. No, he wasn’t the world’s most interesting man, as we have waxed poetic upon here before at hittingthesweetspot by Bob Skelley, but someone who understood the primordial concerns of most typical males.
When men awake each day they go about their daily lives trying to impress the women they encounter. It is one of the few unspoken truths that remain in their world. He was in the minority of men who realized this and used this unspoken truth to his advantage. He knew women were the authorities that men answered to, these men not complete in their satisfaction with their stead, not happy without their women’s consent. Women have always been the indirect rulers of the world (in his world and elsewhere), and they were the true power brokers among the few hedge fund manager males who notioned they were in control of what matters. And they weren’t. Nor were they ever.
What’s in a name? It is merely something that grabs our attention, makes us remember something. Elway. Montana. Marino. Stabler. The ‘80’s. Rock ‘n’ Roll. Facebook. Manning. Prine. Young. Mann of the Amy variety. Search. Google. Dogpile. DuckDuckGo. You get the picture. He got the picture. In fact, he got everything.
The word processor sucked life from prose, music, and the ability to be organic. It was something felt, yet he was as guilty as the rest because he chose to conspire with those of us who would create based on electronic means. There is nothing as pure as paper and pen, nothing as organic as penis in vagina, he reckoned. Are you still reading? Are you still feeling?
We want to be rocked, we want to be rolled. We want to experience what it is to be loved. That is what we want at the end of each day. To know someone is waiting for you is what he always knew to be the greatest reason there is for living in the first place. For to come home, to be, to realize, to understand, and to share with someone who accepts you for everything you are, weaknesses and strengths, is the picture perfect epitome of life with feeling. He knew that.