Big apologies from the other guy. The other guy has an uncanny effect on electronics that are well known to those that surround him. He has never been able to wear a watch without it stopping, he cant handle a phone for very long without a protective rubber coating, he stops an unstoppable piece of technology with just a touch. His work friend and compatriot once handed him a watch that was an engagement item, a working ring, that was guaranteed for life. It quit working at the first touch. He has a digital decay that cycles a hundred or thousand times faster than the average. He finds himself frequently with a partially functional phone and a fully nonfunctional computer with unexplainable hold ups. He is away from home with only a land line to connect him to the world he left. He feels very sentimental and starts remembering phone numbers that he used to dial from memory.
If you want something to stop working, hand it to him.
The other guy found himself in a place where the words were flowing out, so he wrote them on paper.
Paper?
Right? Am I right?!
How archaic.
He prefers to write a page with out a red line through words and sentences, he prefers to spell sentences the way it sounds in his head.
The other guy realizes his place in the free flow of words that should happen here and recognizes the break his absence has caused.
He was out in the wilderness without a connection to the modernized world. With out a tether to the things that are seen by more. He experienced the days and nights on his own without report or reply with a deep loneliness and a solemn comfort. He experienced moments as they happened and stored them in a memory bank of words and colors that can not be disseminated to words.
He does not know how to spell deseminated, and maybe he never did.
He remembers 1982, in a room with ten other kids in the ski lodge. He remembers Mothra Vs Godzilla on the now very inadequate 14 inch tube screen. He remembers the other kids wrestling and playing about. He just wanted to sleep in the hallway bunk bed until his parents returned with stories of the day where he listened to the adult conversation and the white noise of Saturday night live until he slipped away from the waking world to dream of one day being here with his own family.
He dreamed of those days that were soon to come on two sticks and deep snow in an unforgivable wilderness where he was free. He remembers wondering if they.d even come back at all after being regaled with stories of loss and hardship. Having heard about those that had to eat the dogs or sever a limb in the out back. He romanticized those notions, and cant spell that either, into a grandiose but simple explanation of life.
He remembers the fire crackling in the other room and adults glasses continually clinking into the night as he faded away from the waking world.
He remembers three cheese fondue and the occasional trip tho the pizza hut where his glass of soda always ran over and the cute young waitresses would give him a wink and ask if he shreds.
He remembers the other children who were to content to be inside and be social as he dreamed of being alone in the stark white wilderness with only a drive to get somewhere and then get back home.
He remembers shooting the gun a few years later, breaking the trail so that others could follow when he circled back. He taught a whole troupe of boys and men how to be nothing but an animal in all the empty spaces and the cold that lies between here and there. He split wood and gathered food as if it were the only thing that mattered because it was. He can still hear the crackling of the fresh pine in the fire place and see the dreamer that layed still in his bunk and listened to the exploits of the day.
Next, time, he would not be left behind.
He would come out and lead trail, breaking heavy plots of snowfall that gave way at his command. He would lead those that followed far behind and come back for them when the trail had become lonely.
He didn't remember how it felt to be left behind because he had just learned what it was. He also learned, more prevalent, that it is lonelier to be at the front all on your own because no one else could keep up. It was better to come back or sand bag enough to make those feel like they are closer, so they were closer. He could ski the loop around them two times if he chose, but he chose to not be alone at the front of the pack. He realized he would rather not be better and alone, but the same and surrounded.
He was six years old and should have blazed trails out to the unknown where none would follow, but he chose to hang back and be amongst his friends as someone no different than they.
He slept in homes made of snow and relished in the thought of doing this always.
He did not know that in time he would not still feel this way.
He remembers the simpler times, when things were easy.
He still lives by and for those simple times where a turn in deep powder puts a smile in his heart and on his wind burned face.
There are things to write about.
There is a story to tell.
The way to begin is through remembering who we used to be and how that has made us who we are.
We will tell stories here that are well thought out and composed through words that flow off the tip of our tongue and soul. It will be as if we have been there because we have.
The night draws a low pair in a game of low Chicago, with all players in. There is no spade in the hole so it is time to retire and begin again tomorrow.
He will wake and think of the story at hand, it is still there and fresh with invention.
Will the clans kill for their communications?
Is that the only way?
Will they be able to board a ship for a destination that their fore fathers built without complaint?
Will they listen to the wisdom of those before them or continue on the path of over all survival or will they go off into the woods on their own with only the guidance of their mentors?
Stay tuned while I spell check.
As Tom Hardy would say,
I have a use for you.