Tag: stream of consciousness

Posted in Freedom Friday, Other Things

Sweet Spots

Posted on by Jack Flacco

As you know, I leave Freedom Friday to talk about things that may be on my mind, but don’t know where to fit them into the grand scheme of things. Sometimes I’ll pour it all out in a stream of consciousness, not really editing any of it in hopes what I capture will make sense later on. Sometimes I’ll write a story with a specific point in mind, with nothing but an idea to lead the way.

My family's trip to Niagara Falls.
My family’s trip to Niagara Falls.

Today’s a mix. I have something on my mind, which, at the same time, can constitute a stream of consciousness—yet I’m editing as I go along—so that sort of defeats the purpose of writing the first thought that hits the paper.

Anyway, I want to talk about sweet spots. Don’t worry. This is not about food again, although that would be cool to write about, too. The sweet spots I want to talk about have to do with times and places in my life that, for the lack of a better way to describe them, inspire me.

I’m talking about standing at the top of the stairs in my home overlooking the foyer from behind the railing. I’m not sure what it is that makes that spot so inspiring—it just is. The same goes for the window in our bedroom. I can stare outside all day, watching the leaves fall, the neighbors walking their dog, and kids going to school. It’s another sweet spot I can’t live without.

It's that time of year in our neighborhood.
It’s that time of year in our neighborhood.

Driving behind the wheel of my car also provides me with an incredible feeling. I suppose because I love to drive, it makes it all the more exciting, but that’s not it. I had a piece of crap car for a number of years before this one, and loved to drive it. However, I didn’t consider sitting behind the wheel a sweet spot. I think I like the car I have now because the display is blue. At night, the glow makes it exciting to drive.

Yet those are only things and places. My current seed of happiness is autumn. I shouldn’t talk about this subject again, you’re probably sick of hearing it. I can’t help it though. This time of year is my absolute favorite time. Yes, it’s cold. Yes, it’s dark. And yes, some folks experience SAD, but who can say they hate the howling of the wind on a cold fall night? Who can deny the rain’s power to persuade with thunder and lightning to boot? Who dislikes raking leaves? I know I don’t. It’s my happiest time of year!

The best part? Winter’s right around the corner. Hats. Mits. Heavy coats. Ah, but let’s not forget the hot chocolate, the flannel PJs, and the warm open fire.

Who has time to waste hanging around online? Facebook can wait. Twitter will always be there.

Good books are waiting for a ravenous reader. Family time is the only time. And the joy of going out with good friends at the local tavern calls.

These are the sweets spots in my life, and I’m enjoying them. What are your sweets spots?

RANGER MARTIN AND THE ALIEN INVASION, on sale now.

Again, I ask, what are your sweets spots?

Posted in Freedom Friday

The Angel

Posted on by Jack Flacco

Her eyes met his and her heart stopped. She never thought it would ever happen to her. But happen, it did, and she wobbled on her feet with the whiff of his scent. By the time her pulse began to beat again, it was too late—she knew she was his forever.

The AngelThat autumn evening was like any other. She left work thinking if she caught her bus, she’d make it home in time to watch an episode of her favorite show on TV. It was dark, but the street standards lit the sidewalk to her usual spot. What she hadn’t counted on was the bus arriving early. She raced in hopes the driver would yield to her sudden appearance in the side mirror. It didn’t work. The vehicle blew smoke and left her behind. It wouldn’t be for another fifteen minutes before another came along.

Alone, she thought of heading back to work and waiting there. Something, though, kept her from returning. It could have been that instance where the rustling of the leaves caught her ear or how the air smelled as if it was just about to rain or the way the wind gently patted her skin to tell her everything was going to be all right. Whatever it was, she stayed, enjoying the moment.

Minutes passed and she noticed a shadow from the corner of her eye. Fear gripped as the thought of violence seeped into her head. It lasted a short time. Somehow, she knew she was safe. The shadow emerged into the light.

She had never seen anyone like him. His eyes blue. His hair black. And, although he towered in stature, she could make out the faint, warm smile dancing on his lips. Time slowed to the beat of her heart, which was non-existent. There must have been a reason she had missed her bus, she wondered. Was it by design? Fate?

When the clocks started again, he asked, “What’s your name?”

A stranger asked her name, and if it were any other circumstance, she’d tell him it was none of his business. Instead, she gulped, then answered, “Kate.”

“Hello, Kate.” He said. “My name is Henry.”

Henry. Henry, she thought. If all the angels in heaven went by the name Henry, the world would be a better place. What did Henry do? Was Henry an actor? A writer? A painter? Had Henry a wife?

“Beautiful evening.” He lifted the collar to his jacket, and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’ve seen you taking this route every day. Do you live far?”

Another crazy question. Henry, what are you doing to me? I can’t answer that. I don’t know you. But I want to know you. I do! She said, “I live a few blocks from here.”

Henry smiled.

The lights to Kate’s bus flooded the street and when she turned to say good-bye, he had disappeared. Later that night, she tossed on her pillow for hours with thoughts of him running through her head.

Several days went by that she hadn’t seen Henry anywhere, neither at the bus stop or on her way from work. One afternoon during her lunch hour, Kate strolled through the park adjacent to the spot where they first met. The gray sky reflected her melancholy mood. How a man she met only briefly could become such an obsession caused her to stop under a tree where the ducks fed in a small pond. Studying the ripples in the water, memories of Henry’s slight smile filled her soul, warming her.

When she spun around to head back, Kate noticed the tree again. This time, the brass plaque planted at its foot came into view. She’d never seen it before. Crouching to get a better look, she wiped the dirt from its surface to reveal the engraving:

“Donated in memory of Henry McAlistair, a generous supporter for the global preservation of wildlife. b. December 19, 1909 – d. September 26, 1939”

It can’t be, she thought. That’s almost a hundred years ago. It can’t be him. It just can’t.

Below the letters on the plaque, debris covered a photo. Kate violently rubbed the dirt from the face of it as she tried to catch her breath.

It can’t be him, she muttered. It can’t be him.

When his eyes appeared in the photo, she dropped to her knees with her jaw hanging.

It was him.

Years along, the seasons changed. As autumns turned to cold, bitter storms, and the wind yielded to the sun in the spring, twenty summers had left Kate alone, still thinking of the man with the compassionate eyes named Henry.

On September 26, a brisk fall morning, Kate left her apartment, headed for her bus and stepped into the street. She didn’t feel the impact. All she remembered was someone screaming, “Someone call 911!”

As the light in her eyes faded, she felt a hand touch her shoulder. When she set her gaze on the one whose warmth took away the pain, she now understood why she hadn’t seen him again until that morning.

It was him. Henry. You’ve come back, she said to herself. You’ve come back for me.

Kate died that day, but witnesses stated they’d seen a stranger comforting her those moments preceding her passing, holding her hand all the while she was smiling. When asked to identify the man, the same answer came—it happened so quickly that he had disappeared in the crowd.

[I’d written this stream of consciousness, first draft Freedom Friday post in an attempt to capture my feelings about autumn.]

RANGER MARTIN AND THE ALIEN INVASION, on sale October 21.

What do you like about autumn?

Posted in Freedom Friday

Toxic Perfectionism

Posted on by Jack Flacco

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure if this is the right forum to admit this, but I’ll give it a shot. I’m going to write this in stream of consciousness without editing any of it. Let’s see how far I get for this Freedom Friday post.

Toxic Perfectionism
Toxic Perfectionism

The confession. If you haven’t figured it out from the title, I was a perfectionist. When I say that, I mean it in the strictest sense of the word. Thankfully, a decade or so ago, I had put it all away and I’m happier for it.

Being a former perfectionist allows me the liberty to recognize when others are suffering from the same debilitating condition. The unfortunate thing about it is not having the power to prevent them from causing harm to their neighbors or themselves. It’s like seeing someone holding a baseball bat over a brand new convertible and waiting for that person to trash it because it’s not a Rolls Royce.

You see, perfectionism convinces sufferers they’re not worthy. Strange, I know. Bear with me. Perfectionists always compare their situation with others, and in so doing, they minimize their achievements because they’re convinced the other guy has it better. Remember that saying? How does it go? Oh, yes, “The grass is always greener on the other side.” Thing is, it’s not. It’s an illusion. The Joneses show you what they want you to see. But what you don’t see are their heavy debts, the fighting that goes on behind closed doors, and the screaming kids. Perfectionists can’t keep up with the Joneses because The Joneses will always be one step ahead.

Then there’s the guilt. That guilt is the driving force behind the life of a perfectionist. Without it, they’d be like everyone else—relatively normal. But why the guilt? Simple, guilt causes perfectionists to set unattainable goals based on unrealistic expectations. A case in point is the guy who graduates college and a week later expects to score a job. Sorry, real life doesn’t work that way, unless you’re a drop out and found your own company like Bill Gates did, but that’s a story for another day.

The worst part about having been a former perfectionist is knowing I had gone through life thinking nothing was ever good enough. It all goes with not feeling worthy, comparing myself with others, and the guilt. It’s that “not good enough” feeling, which kills the most. As wonderful, happy and joyful life is, if perfectionists feel not as good as required, it doesn’t matter what happens in their life, they will always feel inadequate.

Perfectionists can’t survive without knowing they’re in control.

As I’d mentioned, it’s been a decade or more since I’ve given up perfectionism and, let me tell you, it’s been like someone had thrown the light switch. What a difference. Life is not about being perfect. It is not about others having more than we do. It is not about feeling unworthy, not feeling good enough, and feeling guilty every moment we take a breath. In all honesty, no one can control every situation, but it sure makes sense to want to try. Funny thing about it is what makes sense to a perfectionist is wrong.

That’s how I broke the habit, going against myself to want to be who I am without the turmoil. Now, I’m happy knowing I’m always giving my best regardless of how I feel. It’s a matter of maturing. It’s a matter of living.

RANGER MARTIN AND THE ALIEN INVASION, on sale October 21.

Do you know perfectionists in your life? What is it that has affected you most knowing them?

Posted in Freedom Friday

Stream of Consciousness II

Posted on by Jack Flacco

I wrote my first stream of consciousness post with no planning other than randomly choosing the Rocky quote I had used as a springboard for ideas. Today, for my Freedom Friday series, I’d like to try my hand on an additional post armed with nothing but a quote and no idea what will come out.

Again, to reiterate a couple of things from my first post, I write about zombies. It doesn’t mean I am a zombie nor does it mean I’m obsessed with death, although in the movie I’d taken the quote from, the main protagonist is. I enjoy life and living as abundant as I can without interfering with other people’s happiness. It sounds insane but it’s true. Also, the way stream of consciousness works is whatever comes to mind is what stays on the page. No editing. It’s a snapshot of my brain.

Now, I’ve been meaning to use this quote for a while. The opportunity, though, has never presented itself. It’s from the 1971 movie Harold and Maude about the relationship between a teenage boy obsessed with death and a septuagenarian woman living life to the fullest.

Anyway, I don’t want to say anymore. Here is the quote:

Harold and Maude
Harold and Maude

“A lot of people enjoy being dead. But they are not dead, really. They’re just backing away from life. Reach out. Take a chance. Get hurt, even. But play as well as you can. Go team, go! Give me an L. Give me an I. Give me a V. Give me an E. L-I-V-E. LIVE! Otherwise, you got nothing to talk about in the locker room.”

—Ruth Gordon as Maude in Harold and Maude

Big breath. Here we go:

Lions roar not to defend their territory or because they’re hungry, but to say, “I’m alive!” Their heart beats. Their hide is warm. Every single cell at their disposal goes into that roar. “I’m alive!”

We live each day thinking we have all the time in the world, not realizing that one day we’ll be gone. Our grievances hold us back. Our doubts shroud us in darkness. Yet, it’s never too late to press onward and upward.

I’ve failed. So what, everyone’s failed. I’m afraid. So what, everyone’s afraid. I can’t. Everyone can.

Whatever is holding us back, we have to let it go. If we don’t, we’ll die—eaten away by our own miserable wants.

No one ever said life was easy. It’s not. Life is hard. Life is disappointing. We could have all the money and success in the world, yet without happiness it’s all for naught. If someone says to us they’re happy because of such-and-such or so-and-so, don’t believe them. They are lying. Happiness does not come from without, but from within. Success is a byproduct of happiness.

Glory comes to those who don’t look for it. Beauty surrounds those who are the outcasts. Joy lives in those who have dedicated their lives to the weak.

Allow your words to travel as a whirlwind into the ears of the deaf. As lightening cracks, so let your life shine to those in darkness. As thunder rumbles, move others to action. Live each day with conviction, giving life to those who are dead in spirit. Let the earth shake beneath your feet causing others to stir from their seats.

Roar like a lion. “I’m alive!”

Did my stream of consciousness session make any sense? Should I think about preparing a number III?

Posted in Freedom Friday

Stream of Consciousness

Posted on by Jack Flacco

When I write a post for my Freedom Friday series, I always envision it to be a placeholder for my life’s little adventures. I also think of how it will best reflect fun, whereby you the reader can determine with your very own eyes that I, who has chosen to write in the zombie genre, am normal folk with the same dreams and aspirations as everyone else.

For this reason, I’m going to try something different this week. I’m going to write this post in stream of consciousness. What that means is whatever comes to mind is what will remain on the page. No editing. This will be a snapshot of how I think.

Now, I have a number of topics I prepared ahead of time to get my juices flowing. I’ll pick one at random. Since I have them written down, I’ll close my eyes and point a finger at one of them.

Done.

I’ve chosen a quote from one of my favorite movie characters of all time, Rocky Balboa:

Rocky Balboa
Rocky Balboa

“Let me tell you something you already know. The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’s a very mean and nasty place and I don’t care how tough you are it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain’t about how hard ya hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. How much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done! Now if you know what you’re worth then go out and get what you’re worth. But ya gotta be willing to take the hits, and not pointing fingers saying you ain’t where you wanna be because of him, or her, or anybody! Cowards do that and that ain’t you!”

So many thoughts. Rushing. Here we go.

A football team can only take so many hits before they hit back. When they do, nothing can stand in their way. They will mow down their opponent until there is nothing left of them. Courage is not by honor but by strife. Winning happens when you go beyond yourself to achieve the unachievable. When someone asks, “Can it be done?” the answer should be, “My name is Affirmative Action. Nothing from heaven on high to the earth beneath my feet will prevent me from doing so.”

Taking the path of least resistance will only offer a temporary win. In the end it will cause you to fail. If everyone else is doing it, doesn’t mean you have to. Success does not come by sight but by mind.

But I’m too short. I’m too tall. I’m too fat. I’m too skinny. My father beats me. My mother is on drugs. My brothers and sisters hate me. I’m poor. My life is a mess. I can’t go on another day. Why me? Why, why, why me? What have I done to deserve this?

No one can defeat you. You can defeat yourself. Only you. No one can take away your right to be the best person you can be. Only you can do that.

Take flight on eagle’s wings. Soar above the multitude. Perch on the footstool of heaven overlooking the ordinary. Keep to the sky, never letting go of the dream to move others as you would have others move you.

Stir. Encourage. Inspire.

Give hope to where there is darkness. Raise those who are low. Make strong the weak. Give dignity to the mortified. Let there be such an explosion of joy from your heart that no one can deny the optimism that lives within you.

Should I attempt to write in stream of consciousness again in the future? Did any of what I’ve written make sense?