Where’s the ignition on this Blogamajigy? Do I have to pump the gas like two or three times and then turn it over? Ah, I see, it starts by using mind power…NO?
Ohhhh! It’s like sports, you say? Maybe some practice swings are in order. A little stretching out before leaving the on-deck circle? Yeah, mmmm, that feels better. Hey, what are you lookin’ at? I don’t wanna pull a groin or somethin’!
Clear signs of procrastination all, to which I am no stranger of, and maybe some trepidation at floating out into this foreign realm. Embarking on an ocean voyage…no compass or shipmates…
…Yes, I know I have Toni and Jacob. I’m the luckiest man on the face of the Earth, but hold on a second. I’m telling the story.
I am preparing to leave this godforsaken island, because I simply must for my own sanity. It’s just been me alone, uninspired to quest, looking out over the rough, dangerous waves trying to convince myself that I can do this. Don’t let the pilot light go out, man.
The groove worn into the beachhead, from pacing indecisively, has reached my knees.
Oh, just do it!
What do you have to lose?
This can’t be too hard, right?
On the other hand, what are the chances that I’ll just float around out there on that big ocean and never make landfall? Will I just bake in the sun and finally succumb to the sharks?
I mean, who the hell cares what I have to say anyway?
Okay, must breath through my eyelids…here it goes. I have to give it a shot and now’s the chance! It’s time to step up and take a good hack at it.
Grip it…and rip it!
The water is calm at first. Cold and then getting choppy. As the first of many salty waves punches me in the gut, knocking the wind from me, choking water, “Wilsooooon!”
I am reminded…of a story.
My swim-days with the Highland Hurricanes were officially set to begin. It was about 1978, making me sevenish at the time. My father, Richard, was the lucky soul employed to escort me to the BIG pool at the high school. As I looked through the glass at that absurd amount of water and realized my fate now hung in the balance, I began to retreat with vertiginous thoughts . I have to go in there alone? Look at all those big kids. They have hair sticking out the sides of their blue bikinis like an afro under a skull-cap.
Once again…what are you lookin’ at!? It was the seventies people.
They’re going to pick on me or, or, or make me eat turds or something! I mean, the showers can be a very scary place!! I envisioned myself being drown by some big, ugly bully in the pool.
I’m too young to die!!!
The grandiose begging and pleading, which my Dad endured, must have been torturous. He stood firm. “Ummm…No. You will go in there! Get in there right now…Kurrrrt…let go of my pant-leg. Get in that locker room. Go on now.” So, with tears flowing and snot running I made a rejected, feet dragging march into the dank, chlorine, urine abyss. Assuredly, never to see the light of day again. I ran through the locker room with my hands working like blinders on a horse. There were bear-asses and dicks flying everywhere! Visual images imprinting the Grey-matter forever. It was like a damned Grecian bath house. Finally after mapping the maze of lockers and foul, crop dusting clouds, I stepped into water up to my ankles and slid a little. Ewwww! What the…Arrgghhhh! I’m in a mini…mini…foot pool by the door.
What the hell am I standing in?!
Just then, I made a warrior like dive, which broke me free of the nightmarish prison that would take a fractional part of my very being. The door slammed open to the view…of an ocean. People were everywhere, but the surroundings looked calm and the acoustics sounded non-threatening. Some laughing and joking could be heard. The sounds were kind of muffled and even the whistle seemed tame. The air was heavier and the chlorine burned my lungs, although it was better than the human toilet I had just escaped. I warmed to it slightly, but it was still not a place I wanted to be.
I believe I sat on the edge of the pool and sniveled and whimpered for a little while, as Mr. Blaskovich, the coach, prodded me to enter the water further.
No sir, I like it right here.
There I was. In control, somewhat, of my own destiny.
In front of the ocean.
Dad knew I had to go it alone on that one. Just as I sit here today in much of the same manner. No snake-pit to run through being the only difference.
Will my ideas work? What will I write about? Will anyone read this shit?
I eventually grew a pair, literally, and went on to swim quite well. I received many accolades, ribbons, and medals over the years. I showed up at a swim-off in 8th grade and blew them all out of the water in the 100 free. For some reason after winning that last race. I never swam competitively again. I had found…land.
All of this possible because my father knew that it was time for me, on that day, at that time, to jump into the cold, cruel pool of life…and swim.
Well, there it is. The first post in a long line of such ramblings. Whatever rolls out of the gumball machine.
“That’s all we got, one goddamn hit?
“You can’t say goddamn on the air.”
“Don’t worry, nobody is listening anyway.”
I suppose it would be a detriment to start out this blogging thing, if it were to be with a fear of trying to make everyone happy. On the other hand, if I try and settle scores or call someone out with this forum, then I am inviting criticism and harsh reactions. Well, good…sometimes you just have to write it. Only time will tell whether it will hurt only temporarily. In the long run they probably deserved it anyway. So, heads up. I may pitch inside.