"Every day is a new day. It is better to be lucky. But I would rather be exact. Then when luck comes..."
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Only slightly surprised, I sat up from my book, took off my reading glasses, and rubbed my eyes. I swear to God every time I get to an interesting part, the world shoves a stop sign in my face. Nonetheless, I was quite curious. I headed toward the door, and when I opened it, I was greeted by a man who seemed to be wearing a little too much makeup. I looked outside of my apartment to see if I was a special case, but I saw a file of similarly-dressed people either furiously knocking on doors or furiously entering them. It was a scene reminiscent of the scare floor from Monster's Inc. Haha! I shouldn't be laughing, though. My scanning eyes were unfortunate enough to lock with Autumn's; she looked as though she had just been captured by the antagonist in one of those slasher thrillers, while I still had the chance to escape.
"May I ask you a couple questions? I'm Michael Bessemer with Southern Living."
"Yes", I replied, not seeing the harm that my neighbors so clearly expressed.
The dude seemed nice enough, so I granted him entry. Besides, this must be the biggest thing in this city since that rat outbreak at Los Tacos back in '09. I retreated to my chair, and Michael assumed a neutral stance in the center of the room.
"You can take a seat if you want", I offered. I was surprised to find a reporter as shy as this one, but he accepted my offer and we kicked off the interview.
Rather, he noticed my copy of The Old Man and the Sea and said, "I'm surprised to see a book in this apartment building". Ok. So he was a bit snobby, but what else can you expect from a guy who writes about living in the South?
"Well for the same reason, I'm just as surprised to be sitting here talking to you right now", I sighed.
"I can understand where you're coming from, Mr. Johnson."
I didn't question that he knew my name. I just wanted to start the interview.
Instead of asking me about what I do on a daily basis, or what I think about this "turn around" town, Michael told me what he thought about Hemingway. We ended up conversing about Hemingway's strange style, the motifs of his novels, and even some conspiracy theories that I wasn't aware of.
We were so deep in conversation that I hardly heard a knock on my door.
"Henry, are you ok?, shouted Autumn".
I replied at a similar volume: "Yeah I'm ok what's up"?
"It's 4:00!"
Time sure flies when two literarily-inclined folk strike up a conversation.
Monday, October 10, 2016
Friday, September 23, 2016
Being and Nothingness
I thought I had escaped the power outage in the confines of this train, but it turns out everyone is receiving equal punishment today. Talk about a commute. It's pitch black in here; no light is coming in from the town and the lights on the train just shut off. Needless to say, the passengers on this scantily filled train are a little more restless than they already were. Nevertheless, as I sit in the dark, I try to take my mind away from the present trouble.
I rest my head on the window-- a quite uncomfortable position-- in an effort to fall asleep, and just in this moment, I remember something: I had just been accepted into Mensa! I suddenly feel better about myself, especially compared to this dump of a town I live in. This isn't the kind of town that raises geniuses; it's the kind of town where you do what your parents did. It's the kind of town where if someone leaves for good, it's a miracle. And that miracle might just be me.
Although it might be at times limiting, I like my town. I've grown especially close to my neighbors living at The Victorian, who seem to fit the mold of this town just about as well as I do. I feel as though The Victorian is an intermediate residence for some strange people, and because I'm one of them, it may be my duty to go out into the greater world. For now, though, I'm just stuck on a train.
In this instant, I jolt up. The lights flicker back on, and the train lurches forward. My attention moves to the dull hum of the train and the nothingness of the ride, and I think to myself: tomorrow might not be better than today.
I rest my head on the window-- a quite uncomfortable position-- in an effort to fall asleep, and just in this moment, I remember something: I had just been accepted into Mensa! I suddenly feel better about myself, especially compared to this dump of a town I live in. This isn't the kind of town that raises geniuses; it's the kind of town where you do what your parents did. It's the kind of town where if someone leaves for good, it's a miracle. And that miracle might just be me.
Although it might be at times limiting, I like my town. I've grown especially close to my neighbors living at The Victorian, who seem to fit the mold of this town just about as well as I do. I feel as though The Victorian is an intermediate residence for some strange people, and because I'm one of them, it may be my duty to go out into the greater world. For now, though, I'm just stuck on a train.
In this instant, I jolt up. The lights flicker back on, and the train lurches forward. My attention moves to the dull hum of the train and the nothingness of the ride, and I think to myself: tomorrow might not be better than today.
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