Introducing ‘Afternoon Raccoon’

As you will see I am continually amazed by how absurd this world and life can be.  The search for explanation and purpose is a grueling one and I am skeptical as to whether answers will ever be revealed.  While we wait, we should have a little fun, right?  In a moment of what I call, accidental brilliance, I created a character known as the, ‘Afternoon Raccoon’.  Now most raccoons found awake during the day are feared to be rabid, which is where our character derives his name.  You may now refer to him as Rabid the Afternoon Raccoon.  One day Rabid is simply unable to fall asleep before sunrise, maybe its his racing mind or maybe its the coffee he drank too much of the night before.  Our character is now forced to adjust to this new, unfamiliar existence.  Finding food in the trash of others was once a simple task under the night sky.  But now our hero must relearn his craft and fine tune his ability to live off the waste of others.  In addition, he will be forced to assimilate and appear to be a normal member of society, not a rabid beast.  On a normal sunny day, Rabid is perusing the dumpsters of nearby restaurants, when he is greeted by a vulture, who we will call Turk.  Rabid explains his bizarre and heartbreaking story to Turk, hoping for some kind of guidance.  Turk agrees to take him under his wing, no pun intended, and help him through this difficult time.  His first suggestion is rather comical, “Turk tosses Rabid a plastic bottle”.  ”Whats this?” Rabid replies.  ”Its like moonblock, only you use it during the day” Turk says.  There of course is more to come… 

Excerpt from “I Search, You Search, We Search”(to be renamed)

…He grimaced as he put on his jacket, as if it was difficult, and walked back down the hallway towards the front door. The kitchen and connecting hallway had tile floors.  The dense, indestructible four by four blocks resonated throughout the house with each passing footstep. He new that beyond the front door there was snow falling and that he was insufficiently dressed for the half mile walk to Jerry’s house.  He had made the walk a hundred times; he could probably do it in his sleep, if he hadn’t already.  He grabbed the bronze, circular handle.  He could feel the chill through the door. He turned, pulled and thrust his body into the wild, frosty night.

As he walked through the threshold and into the white, falling wilderness.  He was greeted, almost rudely, by an unfamiliar smell.  One that left him breathless, fearful and yet curious.  He yearned for more but cringed at the thought of its maker  The scent had left him tense and he could not shake it. He gripped the lighter in his right pocket, ready to light a cigarette.  He held it tight between the first and third knuckles of his four fingers.  The thumb ready to ignite the machine.

He closed the door, took a drag and stopped, entranced by the full, shimmering, menacing moon.  It was as if it was shining directly for and at him.  He shielded his eyes, unsure of the moment’s meaning.  The front yard extended approximately 100 yards to the road.  Tall pine trees lined the outside of the property.  They swayed and submitted to the swirling winter breeze.  Snow was wisped off their branches, making it difficult to decipher between fresh flakes and that which had already fallen.  Dave trudged through the foot of snow that had already fallen in the past few days.  He was fully decked out in North Face attire, his favorite clothing company.  Two jackets, gore-tex pants, which he wore everywhere, and a pair of hiking boots.  He looked like a model from one of those magazines with their seasonal catalogues.  Dave’s mom used to always say that he could be a model.  He had that sculptured face and olive skin.  He was tall and skinny, some might say too skinny.  Then again he was clumsy and didn’t really care too much for his appearance.  He walked across the grass, through the snowy pines and onto the road.  It was illuminated by the moon’s healthy glow.  Dave silently appreciated the moon’s guidance and walked the poorly plowed road.  It was no different than any other time.  He smoked a cigarette and glanced through the windows of his neighbors.  Dave always hoped to see some dramatic occurrence, which ultimately led to his involvement.  He worried about how he would react in such a heightened situation.  He tried this time not to look inside their lives, but couldn’t resist…

 …This time was no different he saw passing spouses and blurred TV screens.  People were living their normal lives, having arguments about money or their disobedie3nt children.  “What a waste”, Dave thought to himself.  Marriage and children were never of interest to Dave.  He understood what it was all about: security first and foremost, followed by a supposed happiness and lastly the idea that you were part of something.  Dave didn’t want to be part of anything.  He despised and feared conformity, maybe a little too much.  He believed in the individual.  He would never live up to his parents standards and he knew it.  He would never live up to most people’s ideas of a good life, but he didn’t care.  It would be a struggle, a struggle he was willing to take on.  Success was not something he thought about.  He desired experience and fulfillment of the senses, amongst other things.  He was about halfway to Jerry’s when the odor hit him again.  The same one that had left him breathless on his front doorstep.  It was more intense, more obscure.  He wasn’t sure he’d be able to describe it to Jerry when he arrived at his house.  He took one last drag off his cigarette and flicked it into the woods that lined the opposing side of the street.  He heard bizarre noises deep within the brush that belonged to creatures he knew did not want to be disturbed.  The wind was now blowing the snow and the pungent odor directly into his face.  “Fuck” he said aloud.  He was being showered with cold flakes, forcing him to turn his head sideways and quicken his pace.

In the distance over a tiny hill in the road he saw a light.  A light that seemed strangely out of place.  He couldn’t make out the source of the light, only that it was bright, probably a halogen of some kind.  His Dad had one of those heavy duty halogen flashlights that projected some ridiculous distance.  He traversed the hilly part of the road and approached the light.  It appeared to be a flashlight of some variety and it was shining on the nearby pines.  He couldn’t see anything around the light.  The tall trees were blocking out the moons glow, leaving an eerie blackness.  His stomach dropped, something was wrong, he could feel it.  He was getting closer to the source of the foul smell.  Perhaps it was a dead animal of sorts, but then he would ask why there was a flashlight.  He approached slowly, picked up the flashlight and made a slight turn to the right.  He gasped at the scene before him.  Next to two laid out bodies there was a puddle of red snow and in the snowy wilderness, on such a night, it was almost beautiful.

He ran.  Hard and fast.  He ran as if he was being chased by a creature of the night.  But really he was running from what he had just seen.  He was sprinting and trying to think of anything.  Anything that would replace the images in his brain.  In the heat of this indescribable moment Dave had run past his house.  He was hyperventilating at this point and completely unsure of what to do.  He had not phoned in what he had seen and didn’t think he was quite up to it at this point.  He opened the front door and burst through, slamming the door into the banister leaving it wedged.  The feeling was totally overwhelming. “This is what insanity is like”, he thought to himself.   He turned on the kitchen sink and massaged his face with the cold water.  He ran down the stairs to the basement, dove on to his bed and buried his face in a pillow.  He needed to sleep.  He thought of his brain as the enemy.  He couldn’t face it right now, it would drive him crazy.  He thought of space, total blackness and other tricks that would help him fade.  He thought of a line from an old Burt Lancaster film, “Get some sleep.  After all it’s the best part about being human”…

 

Happiness…Overrated?

Throughout the course of American History, the people of this nation have been in the constant pursuit of happiness.  However, one must ask:  Has it gone too far?  In the February 11th issue of Newsweek the brilliant Sharon Begley takes on this very question.  Today’s society has become so obsessed with achieving a near constant state of happiness, that the inherent value involved in feelings of sorrow are being ignored.  People have become more and more reliant on the advice of both licensed and unlicensed professionals.  The self-help industry has exploded in the last decade or so and in effect has left many helpless regarding their own mental health.  Not only does Begley refute the notion that happiness all the time is a good thing, but she places considerable value on feelings of melancholy.  She uses Abraham Lincoln, Beethoven and Emily Dickinson as examples of individuals who understood and thrived in the gloomy state.  The emotions involved with such a state need to be explored by the individual, so that one my better understand the human condition.  Philosophers and writers have explored this for centuries.  Personally, I have always found a bizarre sense of pleasure in the melancholic state.  Not only do I better understand myself and often feel more productive, but I have come to realize that it truly is healthy to occasionally be unhappy.  Who would have thought?  Of course happiness is not to be rejected, after all it tends to be one of the more redeeming qualities of life.  However, the constant pursuit will produce a one-sided psyche that is ill-equipped to survive an often times, tumultuous existence.  This life is all we have and with no explanation of it, we are left with the absurd.  We are left to fend amongst ourselves and pursue the most satisfying and decent existence that we can.  So why not live it to its full potential.  So be good to yourself and explore those “dark boundaries between opposites”.  Its like Mark Sandman once sang, “I wanna be happy, but not all the time”.