(S) Robbie Chapman (pt 1)

My writer's block seems to be a fear of writing. Some might say a writer who doesn't write is the most honest person there is. Or maybe I just say that.
I'm Robbie Chapman. I have pay stubs on my desk that say I put words together to form things people want to know.
I think I get paid to be incoherent. Tanya would be the first to tell you the same thing. But unfortunately, she can't express it anymore. Jaws don't work well as wall fragments. Before she intimately kissed an explosion of gunpowder, she kissed me rather regularly. Married people sometimes do that. Sometimes they kiss other people. And that my friends, is when she stopped showing affection the human species way, at least towards her husband. Perhaps she followed my lead.
It wasn't long before she locked lips with a burst of energy. From energy to energy.
She was more honest than I ever could be.
This is not a lie: I'm living in Cabo, South Dakota in a house that is 27 years old. The 2-story farm house is on 200 acres of land, and I am the last person who should be living here. I am not a farmer. They work, and I lie. They feed with wheat and corn and animal mechanisms. I use words and sentences and mental imagery to make lies.
This is also not a lie: Nichole Tabarath owned this house before I did. We loved eachother, but we never used animalistic displays to show our love. We talked, whether under the fog of chemical dumps to our brains or our own unadulterated emotions.
She loved to talk to me, but she would never read what I wrote. And that my friends is why she is my favorite reader.
Nichole is living over in Phoenix now with her replacement of a husband. By state law I cannot consider this person her wife. But they kiss. A lot. They make big explosions regularly too, but without the need for gunpowder.
Here's a story: At some point, Nichole and I felt like having an exciting time in the farm collection of Cabo. Talking wasn't enough for us, so we chemically primed our brains and went walking. There was no definite destination in mind, just a direction. Granted, we had two options: either left down the road, or right up it. We went right and put one foot in front of the other. After a few miles of light chemical talk, a 72 ford pick-up shuddered beside us.
“Need a ride somewhere?” John the driver asked us.
Normally, we don't accept rides in accordance with being one with nature, but he had half of an honest face. The lower half looked like Tanya's did – if she were driving a 72 ford.
Nichole had no fear in asking questions deemed “rude” by society.
“What happened John?” She asked.
“I missed,” he replied. He gazed at the rolling wheat fields. “I worked long hours in a mill, and for 15 years I left home at 6:30am and didn't get back until 7pm.” His eyes kept forward, peering through the windshield. “One day, I got home at 5pm because the mill decided they didn't feel like paying my retirement. So they let me go,” He said.
“Well, I got home to find my wife with another man. I killed her later that night, and killed myself.”
Nichole watched him, unfazed. I looked down at the truck floor.
“I'm talking to a dead man,” she observed.
John had used a shotgun, which made a big display of orange fireworks. When he went to pull the trigger, the gun had slipped, taking out his jaw and giving him a pretty nasty headache. Tanya didn't need that big of a boom to get the job done.
Nichole thought as the truck bounced and shook down Country road 127. She watched the scrolling scenery of constant wheat fields pass by. Without taking her eyes off the display of South Dakota wonder, she asked, “Why didn't you try again?”
“I figured it was more of a suicide to keep going,” He said. “So far, I think I was right.”

I was seeing a woman for a while. She was kind enough to help me create some explosions of our own. Not only that, but she was the best person a writer could have to talk to. She had stories upon stories to share. It was almost as if she never stopped talking, which made it much easier for me to not say much.
When she wasn't climbing out of coupe back seats, she was swimming with sharks or on safari in Africa. What she was doing in Cabo I haven't the slightest.
Remember friends: safety is vital. It is dangerous for anyone over 5'0” to mess around in a sports car backseat. Plan ahead because body part safety is of utmost importance.
We talk once in a while when she's on her lunch break at New York General. Some one told me brain surgery isn't rocket science.
Hey-yo.
She's got quite the medical resume going, and I believe she's about to visit her final continent. I'm not sure what need Antarctica has for surgeons, but then again she didn't always do what made sense.
She kept herself detached for the duration of our time together. I was happy that one of us could. I waved good-bye in front of my house in Cabo. She drove away to the view of a 43 year old penman in his underwear. Hello New York. You might have expected me to cry, but I didn't. A bottle of whiskey put me to sleep on the couch like a new born long before the tears could come. Normally 2pm isn't for sleeping, but nothing else was happening in Cabo at the moment.
“Robbie, where are your pants?” She asked as the car idled in the dirt driveway.
“I loaned them to a friend. I'll have them back in a day or two.”
I really had loaned them out. Tom showed up on my doorstep 15 minutes after she left. The pants were on my floor within two hours of his arrival.
A true friend is a person who will return items loaned to them. Through the course of various borrowings and loans, I've gained quite the inventory of clothes.
“Besides, it's too hot. You might want to think about cooling off this way. Plus, what better way to remember this moment?” I said.
She smiled, her eyes turned slightly to the side and down.
“I should get going Robbie. I'll call you when I'm there,”
“Keep your tazer handy. Have you tested it yet?” I said.
Her hair fell over her eyes. She swept it back behind her ear.
“I've got a perfect test subject right here too,” she smiled.
“Don't. I have no second layer if I piss myself.”
“Take care Robbie. You kept it fun.”
The joke was on her though. I left a few of my old running socks in her backseat. Hopefully she gets to Illinois before they really start to stink.
Our hug was light and careful, the kiss timid.
Don't get me wrong; I wish her the best. It's not every day a person moves from Cabo to New York.

I got inside to find Tom with two 120oz slurpee cups filled with Whiskey and Coke. The rules were as follows: all of it must be consumed, and no urination or sleep till completion. Both of us broke the rules. I passed out with 27oz to go. He made a 6ft by 6ft puddle on my living room rug. The best part was that I watched and applauded, laughing at him stagger to keep balance while he soiled my fabric.

I went and visited Nichole a little while ago. She changed locations a little before my friend traded wheat fields for concrete and steel.
She lead me into a beautiful sitting room decorated to the gills with various art decour. This wasn't Nichole's doing. She expresses her love and admiration for how the house looks. This instead is the result of 17-state legal marriage to an artist.
“She left for New York,” I said. I noticed that even their tea pot was brightly painted, an image of a faceless woman, wrapping herself in her arms while psychadelic images of tree frogs and flowers draped from the slender frame.
“So now what? I assume you and Tom had the ceremonial something-happened-today-lets-drink-to-it,” she said.
I turned back from the tea pot.
“Well, my rug has a new twist to it, so I've got that going for me,” I said.
That was my artistic touch to the farm house.
“I'm not quite sure on what to do now,” I said. Her eyes followed me closely, never failing to note my every expression and move.
“And?”
“Did you know that the unhappiest city in America is Philedalphia? They rule this on suicides, crime rates, amount of rain and sunshine, etc. New York isn't that far away either. It's probably not too safe to be in a blast zone like that. Unhappy people equals anarchy if chaos breaks out,” I offered.
“So you don't have the balls to leave Cabo.”
She knows me too well.
“Alright. Anyone new in your life?” She asked.
“You know, if I practiced, I could be as good at relationships as you,” I laughed.
“Robbie, shut the hell up.”
I became silent.
“You need to decide what you're living for. That is, if you're living. I've never seen you not only this in denial to yourself, but this...down. Humor can only hide so much,”
“Nichole – I'm a 43 year old man that watched the last vestige of human relationship leave my life. I was in only my underwear I might add. I'm a writer that hasn't produced something of worth in the past 10 years. Hell, my best friend won't even read my stuff. I live in a small farm community that has more drunks than people,” she gazed at me, giving no pity or condemnation.
“And now my house smells like a urinal.”
“The first step is always admitting there's a problem. Now that you've done that, decide what you're going do to change it,” Nichole said, sipping some of the earl gray tea.

Tom picked me up from the airport, joint in hand.
“How was Phoenix?” He asked, taking a long drag.
“Let's take a trip,” I responded.
Tom glanced at me, searching the side of my face as I stared forward.
“Alright.”

Tom's father was also a sentence connector. One story he wrote involved a zombie virus that takes over the metropolises, eating the brains of every infected individual, churning their advanced instincts to mush, and limiting them to their daily routine. Mindless, they drop their kids off at school, pick up the groceries, and go to work. Anyone who hasn't been bitten stands out like a sore thumb. Someone who sings a song or writes a different sentence, or has a unique thought immediately looks like a big juicy steak to the masses.
Tom was a victim of the zombie masses. And he wasn't always my partner in the game of drink. At one point, he was a college professor, although I'll save some embarrassment on the school's part by not naming where. Unfortunately for Tom, but fortunately for Ed's Drive-thru Liquor, Tom's political views didn't mesh very well with the universities. In a mission to become more progressive, accepting and liberal, his support of conservative fiscal and government policy earned him an early career death. They handed him a loaded gun, and deemed it a self-inflicted explosion. In their defense, they weren't completely merciless. In a closed meeting, he was given a chance to rectify his political sins.
“We'd like you to rethink your personal influence on the lessons you're giving. They aren't quite congruent with the university's philosophy or mission.”
“The mission states that it is the duty of the school to open the world perspective of the students, correct?” Tom asked.
The board shifted and coughed, looking to each other, waiting for someone to respond. They were hoping this would be cut and dry.
“It does indeed, and it also states that we are progressive and developing. Your philosophies only seek to hinder this progress, “ An older man finally spoke, his pale skin leaking nervous juice. “We feel you are not in accordance with the school's mission.”
“If it's going to happen, so be it. That being the case: a pretentious and blind statement such as that proves only that progression can lead to and develop new biases. These biases create discrimination, focusing the new train of thought without the careful and analyzed approach of slowing down the “development” of one segment of ideas. It creates a “privilege of the new”, and it is rash to believe that purely because an idea is new, it is correct. You are a narrow-minded prick. But on a positive note, I won't have to catch you privileging yourself all over Mrs. Santon's blue blouse in the Edmond Hall men's facility at 9pm on a Tuesday night.”
Tom's car clinked with empty road beers 3 hours later. The thing about Cabo, or any small country town is that in the chase of drunk driving; the mouse has the advantage. And the houses you might hit or ditches you dive into are most likely owned by a friend.
His alcohol tolerance has increased exponentially the past few months, and my house no longer has that added porch that was such an eyesore.

So we were on the road, heading to who knows where. I sat in the passenger seat, looking ahead at the yellow dashes continually forming from the horizon. They streaked past, each one falling into the distance like the one before it. A march of ants into oblivion. Tom's jaw opened, about to speak. He thought for a moment and closed it. The telepathic link must be strong between us. The last thing I was looking for was conversation.
“How about Florida?”
Damn. And here I thought the link was open.
“Is that where you want to go?” I snapped.
He took a quick glance at me, and focused back on the road.
Tom is a strong man when it comes to random people's abuse. He however has a soft spot for his close friends and the few relatives he considers being worth talking to. This creates a sensitivity to how others treat him. Tom had not warranted the abusive response, however for reasons unknown, I felt he was the most deserving. I had snapped with venom that I usually reserve for thieves, murders and pushy collection agents.

While Tom's father was a word smith and a successful giver of the alcoholic gene, he was also friends with my father. My father, Marcus Chapman minced no words. Give no words, tell no lies.
Marcus was a non-descript business man, crunching numbers and filling out forms in triple while staring at blank cubicle walls. There were two pictures on his desk in the 5 by 5 cubicle. One was of his wife. The other of a serene sunset on a secluded beach located on one of the great lakes. He spent a large part of his life in that box, and even succumbed to it. They found him slumped over his desk, pen still in hand, form half filled. The doctor said that he suffered from heart failure. I always said that it was due to a lack of heart stimulation.
He showed his family love the only way he knew how: by working. Unfortunately, that made it difficult for him to present love in other ways. One night he returned from his gray box to find my friend and me hanging out in the living room. He greeted my friend, asking him how he was doing and what was new. After the exchange, my father glanced at me and started up the stairs.

“I'm sorry. That could have been expressed differently,” I said.
Tom fumbled with the radio stations. It was on AM waves, almost all of them filled with some sort of static or random sound wave pushing through the speakers. He settled on mariachi music.

(PH) Youthful Education

Instruction of our youth provides not only intellectual guidance, but moral and ethical guidance. There are those who believe all potential humans are equal, and each individual can learn with similar ability. To a point this is true, but our personalities are shaped by our genetics, environment, inhibitions, preferences and desires. I think people believe we all are blank slates, but there has to be some type of base to make the imprint on. Two people raised in the exact same conditions will react differently to those conditions. It's the balance of reality that seems to be at play here. (See future write-ups on balance as well as waves). For instance, photons that were presented two holes to pass through seem to be dicated by the ones before it. If one chose one hole, the other chose the other hole. This to me is a natural check of keeping balance within nature. Two people presented the exact same circumstances will create slightly varying to completely different personalities. It's the lack of sameness that matters.
These differences shine light on our preferences towards the smarter, more attractive, more athletic; which is a preordained biological cue to better our species. We look for continuation of our own, however humans many times place special interest in the weak of our species. We value all life forms, allowing to over look nature to help the quality of life for others. Instead of labeling this as not-survival-of-the-fittest, perhaps this is a quality that makes humnanity unique. We provide for those that are less fortunate than us. At the same time, we often look away when the less fortunate are taken advantage of by fate. Our natural reaction to let nature take its course?

(PH) Our search for the end of Questioning

My bone-encrusted fat blob is sick of eating itself alive.
Could that be why so many creative geniuses kill themselves? I'm certainly safe if that's the case.
Thinking about it though, there are no true answers to be found. This blob of brain matter is working over time for nothing? In the buddhist sense there is no absolute. Direct that to the world of posing questions and you realize that one question merely raises more. You cannot find an absolute answer to a question. Unless you're a fact genius.
Perhaps these creative geniuses have figured out that the value of life is arbitrary, but they just can't accept it. After all, to determine that your life's work is arbitrary is kind of like saying that the work does nothing. However, emotional value and life enrichment tend to be integral parts of living a contented life, so creative geniuses do not despair.
As for Fact geniuses, they seem to have something to rely on; assigned values that are concrete and numerical, giving significance to a life of searching. An answer can be found, and the brain briefly satisified.
This whole discussion started for me after thinking about creative geniuses who have committed suicide. Depression, anger or grief over how their work is portrayed or used (think kurt cobain), outside life unhappiness, etc. are all typical suicide reasonings. But what if there's a thread of thought that is a bit more subconcious, a spiral of mental activity that lends it's self to the toilet bowl effect. The brain continues chasing itself, looking for more meaning, taking in more details and providing wilder explanations for queries and strings of thought loosely tied together. After a while, the brain loses touch with what we call reality, growing more expansive in its reach for explanations and connections.
Drugs seem to send people on an accelerated pace to this mind-boundary. There are very few who would argue with me if I said that drugs have produced some interesting as well as absolutely breath-taking work. We can't deny the sheer creative genius of somebody like Hendrix or Hunter S. Thompson. But many times, at the end of the road the brain is burnt and smoldering, sputtering out random sentence fragments and disconnected thought-strains. The drugs took hold, bringing the brain beyond its creative threshold.
Bob Dylan. Try to look me in the eyes and tell me that he would have been exactly the same without doing a few drugs.
Or that's an explanation in it's own right. The brain only has so much creative juice, and after a while the creativity reaches a no-man's land, or implodes on itself like a neutron star. The drugs are merely rocket fuel.

I feel like I should be waving from that space right now!

The Beginning of Lake Control

Let's see where it goes