Author: johnfornelli

Progress not perfection. A line from a movie. Some feel good, throw-away, bleeding heart bullshit. StilI like it. Makes me think a little. What perfection am I chasing? What part of progress is getting lost? Has gotten lost somewhere along the way. Nothing major. Nothing crazy. At least I hope that’s the case. Who knows. Maybe they have floated far away from each other, like an iceberg from the glacier; like the scattering of continents after the Big Bang; like her soft hands and cute laugh and her openness to try new things, that you split from, that she did too. The moment clear as ice, naked in the candlelight – deafening – that you couldn’t cross the chasm together.

Been so long since I wrote I almost forgot what the app looked like. However, rest assured, I found it. For better or for worse (joking! – always better) – always. Bit of a scatter it when comes to this, I write and I think I should be reading more, I read and I think I should be writing more. The truly never ending tug of war, the carousel that never stops; that never even slows down. So – here we are, the sun just down, the lights bright, the ocean of green in the outfield, the red dirt on the base paths worn home on the front of jerseys and the back of pants. The parents, still tan from summer tournaments, sit on the hard wood bleachers that are worn and knotted. Sunflower shells scattered at their feet, bleached in the sun, like the skins of small creatures, left behind where they lay, no longer needed in their new life.

She reminds me of sun. Always has. Just fucking ever present, unyielding, unapologetic, pefhaos toxic through too much exposure. Yeah, the Sun, he said again.squinting at the sky. Huh, okay she said . I didn’t know her that well, seen her around, you know, kinda same circle for a while. You Chuck right. Tall chuck? No skinny Charles. Tattoo Charles. Got it. YeAh, they used to do things together. Uh hub, things. What kind of things? Wouldn’t you like to know. I would. Fine, I will draw you a picture. Anyway, yeah, not well. I saw that day, in the morning. I ran into her literally almost ran over her. Or, I suppose more precisely she almost ran over me. Came out of Starbucks like a whirling fucking Scandinavian hurricane. spilt her her chai foam double decaf non fat fucking whatever all down the front of my shirt. For real? Yeah, for real. I couldn’t get it out. Contemplated going home but I was presenting to the partners so I popped into Rosens instead. Look at you, Rosens huh? Yeah, whatever, anyway they didn’t have my size, you cause of my thing. What neck thing? You know, my neck. WhT are you talking about. My neck it’s abnormally large. It is not! No, it is, I can’t buy shirts off the rack. How long have I known you? Why is this the first I’mhearing of this? I am sure I told you. I assure you, good sir that you have not.

Knees. A fun word to say . Knees. From Latin? Probably. Jesus, seems like everything else is rooted there. Wonder where it went. Why it went. Knees please. Don’t tickle them or I will sneeze. Adios fuckerz, these knees are going to Belize. Knobby knees. Covered knees. Knees in shorts. And knees all naked naked. Knees on the floor. Crawling. Scrubbing. Praying. C*ck sucking. Scrapped knees. Hurt knees. Bad knees. Good knees. Easy knees. Hard knees. Knees please!

Are you sure that’s what she said? A chicken? Those were her exact words. No. No? No. She didn’t say that she wanted a chicken. She did, sort of. While either she did or she didn’t, which is it. I guess the chicken then. You guess? Yeah. What do you guess? I guess a chicken. Okay, stop. Think. What did she exactly, word for word. She said she wanted a Jersey Giant, young but not too young, sassy in a new money sort of way. What? Did you hear me? Yes. Do you have a plan? A plan)

11 hours, he had now decided. That was the exact amount of time he would give it. After this amount was certain they both would know if it was worth continuing on. Any earlier and he thought he just wouldn’t be able to tell. But why 11? Asked Janine. His Min’s friend who always knew how to talk with him? Ever since he was little, ever sinceche was diagnosed. Why not 23 or 47 or 6? He did the math in his head: one fist coffee 1 hour, lunch 1.5 hours, dinner 2.5 hours, random weekend activity 3 hours, night in 3 hours. Because it’s 11, he said. Okay, said Janine 11 it is! And that was that. The way mist conversations ended. He excused himself from the room. Slowly climbed the stairs to his room. From his closet he pulled out a black long sleeved collared shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans. He best socks, rainbow striped and a belt. He laid them on the bed, more positive than ever that this is what the ladies will like. I mean who doesn’t like a sharp dressed man. All he had to do now was get a date. Something he had never done in 31?years. Like something akin to a sadness that has never left, he knows and has known for a long time that this is what he wants, there are moments when he can imagine it, sitting next to her, talking about the New York Yankees, his favorite baseball team, birds he likes particular the blue jays and the cardinals, and he could tell her about the Wolverine marvel movie he just saw. He thought sure she would smell sweet like cherry blossoms or farmers honey. She would have a nice smile and pleasing laugh and maybe if he was lucky they might hold hands as they walked by the water after there meal. He put the clothes back in his closet and shut the door. Hoping that his 11 hours would arrive soon.

You stand in your bathrobe. Wrapped tight against the chill. The grey sky. The rain. She makes waves in the puddles on your walk. Her soles starting sunamis. She hurries. Hunched against the wer. The drops in her hair. On her face. She reaches the door of the car. Opens it. Waves . And slides inside. She pulls out slow. Careful. Like perhaps if she was too fast it may waffle the moment. Then she is off. And you wave. And shut the door. Inside it’s warm. Outside in the grey wet world, your daughter.

Less speaking. More talking.

LessTV. More books.

Less doubt. More action.

Less internal thoughts. More conversation.

10 resolitions. He looked at the five resolutions he had put down so far. It had taken him four hours. What was left to resolute? He windered. Looking at the jar stuffed full to the brim with other with the small square paper, most folded neatly, almost a surgical crease dividing the two sides. Some crumpled into lazy balls, perhaps the result of a more drunken effort to get the resolution inside the jar. He could still fold, or at least he thought he could. He decided he would twice. Once length wise and once horizontal, splitting the paper into four equal quadrants. A package that was unexpected, a mystery, revealed slowly not all at once. That was if he even got it finished. Surely there was one more he could come with. What is it? What could it be? You know it? He said to himself over and over – you know it. Willing it to show itself. To expose just a little bit too much, that he could grab and capture and write, and that they’ve hostess would take a moment to comprehend after she peeled back the four corners of his square. He glanced at his watch. 11:37pm that can’t be right. He looked at his phone 11:37pm. He had 23 minutes. You better hurry up, said the woman beside him. She was short and had brown hair and smelled like an orchard of cherry blossoms.

Start art. She would have told him. And told him again, and nice more after that, and then twice more before breakfast. He thought she said it because she cared, because she loved him and he lived her and this piece was needed to make him whole, a complete person, capable of that generosity; that vulnerability, that acceptance. Or so that’s the story he told himself. The one he had chosen to believe. That to the best of his knowledge could be true. the one that started after she left. The one that grew stronger, by the sound of the words that stuck to the sides of his mouth, annoying and immovable smear, pink gum sticky warm on cold concrete.

So here we go. Here we go boys. Finish hard. Move. The beer will taste so much sweeter. C’min boys. Move you feet. Up and down. Fellas, up and diwn. Faster. Faster! Thought you guys were tough. Thought you guys wanted it. Earn it. Earn it, boys. It all starts now. Right here. Right now. For all that came before and for all that will follow. It starts here. Pick ‘‘em up and put ‘‘em down. Pick ‘em up and put em down. Make it burn boys, Play through it . Just your brain telling you to quite. Your legs screaming yet. Good. Let em scream. Feel it boys. Take it boys. This is what it’s about. We don’t quite. We don’t ever fucking quite. Faster. Harder. Quick as you can. 3.2.1. Stop!