So I did lots of thinking today, about all sorts of goodies. Woke up on the curious side of the bed, you could say. With each thought that passed into my head, I grew to realize that they weren't thoughts at all. Instead, they were blueprints of fact. My thoughts were all about people and music, which is everyday fodder for me. Only the amplifiers were turned up way beyond eleven. I've been through a decent amount of nonsense over the last few months. ( "Is there any way out of this nonsense?" -- Traces of Red ) Self-inflicted nonsense, admittedly, but nonsense nonetheless. I needed to feel real again, for I had lost that somewhere recently. Things were spinning when I was standing still. So today I was overjoyed to be stuck thinking about how wonderful the people that surround me have been through all of this traveling I've been doing to each and every last portion of my inner self. I thank all of you, whether I am fortunate enough to have known you for years or am in the process of learning who you are by traveling a much better road. A road full of real people that I walked insanely far away from because my last trip down that road ended at a decently disastrous roadblock. When you seek true, genuine people with hearts that beat in beautifully imperfect rhythm with your own, finding a person that throws your rhythm off really sucks. But I have the most eclectic rhythm section backing me up, and knowing that we will never be completely in tune makes each day with all of you more exciting.

Before I knew it, I was thinking about my grandfather. Actually, I should say my father, from the ages of three to eight, anyway. Someone who is worth missing and longing for, which I did for many years. I wrote this poem about it in 1995. I was very bitter about not having the chance to say goodbye, my last vision of him being in a bodybag getting wheeled away 20 feet in front of me as I sat in the backseat of my Mom's car. I never went to the funeral. I thought everyone assumed that an eight-year old wouldn't care about that goodbye. I found out shortly after I wrote this poem that I was at the funeral, but was too shaken up to go inside. I remember none of this....not in dreams or thoughts or memories or anywhere. And I have since read this poem to my grandfather at his resting place. A maple leaf from his gravesite protects the original copy of the poem to this day. Longing is not always a dangerous thing. I remind myself sometimes of how the deaths of paternal figures early in my life have pushed me towards longing for life until I am devoid of it. Grandpa reminded me today that I am still breathing, and that I am not done searching for beautifully imperfect heartbeats to synch up in beautifully inperfect rhythms with my own. Thank you, Pop-Pop. I'll cherish what I gained from you always, and I love you.

         "SCARRED FOR ETERNITY" -- 6/18/95
   
                                                                                                                                                
       
         I haven't felt this sad in a while                                                                    
         I know that things get taken away, but sometimes I don't understand why           
         Sometimes the vivid memories are so excruciating that I just feel like                     
            breaking down for no reason                                                                    
         Actually, there is a reason, but usually it's not even present in my thoughts         
         Whenever I can escape from these memories, through my music or my                     
            tears, or by being with the ones I love and care for dearly,                            
            I can feel no pain because I know something is always there to                        
            eventually soothe it              
         
          The lilting sweep of the tides and the clouds that I ride on in my blissful                   
            moments is so calm and easy that I would rather pass on peacefully,                   
            right on the spot, than go through the rest of my days and nights                       
            knowing that these memories still linger above my head                               
         When I am given the chance to experience any form of happiness,                
            I embrace it with my entire being, allowing no room for breath                        
          Friends are always available for support, but most are not able to stick                   
            themselves into my situation                                                        
          
          I know that they try their best, and they know that one cry or talk                
            won't stay where it was left as well as I do,                                                       
            but I appreciate their patience and time just the same                                  
          One piece of my childhood that can never fit back into the rest of the                   
            puzzle, however, is the piece that keeps reminding me that I was never               
            given the chance to say a final goodbye                                                        
          To keep me from that opportunity was like a bullet through the chest,                   
            with a knife carefully carving the hole inside my wilted heart                                
            where the bullet will perfectly lodge itself forever                                            
          The only thing I received was "He's in Heaven"                                                
          Thanks for the information, but you know that that isn't damn near                       
            good enough                             
           
         
          As I stood over that grave today, I needed every last iota of sanity
            to keep my composure                                                          
            I never get the chance to say all of this to him myself                                          
            because someone is always there besides the two of us                                 
          As much as I love the people standing among us,                                                
             they just don't realize that they're standing between us as well                        
         It hurts so bad sometimes, because for about eight years,                         
         I have not been able to hold this conversation with him by myself             
         I miss him terribly, more and more each day                                                      
         As I feel myself growing mature with age,                                                           
             I also leave extra room for greater pain                                                        
          The anger and rage within me covers itself up very well, for some reason              
             beyond my control, and it just builds to the breaking point                                 
             where no more sorrow can be contained                                                         
          God, do I miss him                                                                                            
           I say goodbye to him every day under my breath,                                               
              but I was deprived of my actual chance in reality                                           
          No one realizes that I would have been so much better off                                     
               if I could have just said goodbye                                                                    
           Someday, very soon, I'm sure, I'll have my chance to confront the soil               
               and the wretched rectangular box that holds me from my final farewell           
           Until then, my farewell lives in secrecy                                                              
            
           

             
            goodbye.

   Here is the third chapter of the novel in progress. I finished writing Chapter 14 yesterday, of a probable 22, so I'm pretty excited. I'm posting these chapters slowly so my typing doesn't get ahead of my handwritten work. Hope you enjoy!! Let me know what you think.

     Bill was the first to arrive, guaranteeing in his mind that Paul would be his usual fashionably late self, even in the wake of Harold's return. Paul proved him wrong, joining him seconds later. All they could muster up in the way of a greeting was a handshake and a smile. Then they waited. Five minutes later, the reunion began.                                                                               
     An absolute fluctuation of emotion raced through the unwillingly ostracized duo, which they both felt, practically saw, flowing through each other. Heartbreak was the immediate first response of both men, based solely on the mere sight of their haggard and disheveled brother. What came second drowned the first feeling like a tsunami ravaging the most remote of islands - a sense of pure joy upon being back in the arms of a thought to be lost companion. The final of these three lightning-quick emotional flashes was one they already shared minutes earlier on the telephone - laughter of the freest nature. So their bodies just kept them doing so.                                        
     Bill and Paul were not about to tell Harold that he looked great, for he knew they would be lying miserably. Before any of the three men attempted speech of any sort, they took in their current surroundings like they were all new to them. All six eyes darted across every last tree, springing back to life as Harold was - a change of seasons indeed. From here, their attention shifted to the ground, then along it for as far as they could see, down that familiar stretch of rickety and now abandoned train tracks, which shrank considerably with each inch that the men grew, but never lost their hold over any of them. They gripped Harold tighter than ever before. He did not mind.                                                
      "Gorgeous day, isn't it?" said Bill.                                                                 
      "Been a while since we had one like this," Paul agreed.     
      "Do you guys remember my fifth birthday party?" Harold asked, opening his mouth for the first time.                                                           
        A glance of bewilderment was passed between the two recipients of the question, due to the sheer randomness of what Harold just asked. Of course they remembered. It was the first of many birthdays that these three practical lifelong mates experienced as a unit.                                    
        "I'm surprised you're not still cleaning that ice cream off of your face, dude!" Paul chuckled.                                                                           
        "That strawberry filling was a sticky bastard, wasn't it?" Bill chimed in.                                          
         "What a great time, huh?" added Harold. "I came across some pictures of that earlier this morning. Made me miss alot of things, but not in a sad or regretful way, which is how I've missed things since I disappeared from my own life. And yours. You can see how well I've taken care of myself since last we spoke."                                                                                                                   
           The sarcastic Harold of old had resurfaced, and a deafening wall of hysterics caused the newborn leaves to tremble with excitement.             
         "I guess we can tell him then," Bill said to Paul.                                         
         "Yeah, definitely," Paul said.                                                      
         "What do you mean, guys?" inquired Harold.                                        
         "Well," Bill started, "we got together and had a party for your thirtieth last week."                              
          Paul finished by saying, "We had a small ray of hope that your birthday may have had the power to draw you from seclusion. But I can't say we didn't get trashed in your memory!"                       
          "Damn, guys. I don't know what to say. I...I'm - "                                              
           Bill cut him off and signaled to Paul, who reached into his jacket, retrieving three cans of Coors Light and divvying them up while Harold received a startling rendition of "Happy Birthday" from the only brothers he had ever known. Harold cleared his throat as he popped the top on his can and waited for the others to follow suit.            
           "I propose a toast, gentlemen," Harold began. "To celebrating the people in your life for what they give you during every second of every day they are a part of it. And a big ' FUCK YOU! ' to wallowing in the loss of these people, because they wouldn't want you to in the first place."                       
           "Fuckin' A, Harold!", Bill and Paul screamed in unison, and the Three Wise Men, as they referred to themselves since grammar school, crashed their refreshments into one another, causing a sud-filled fountain that became the eighth color of the immaculate rainbow in the distance.                                 
            They took their rightful spot next to those train tracks that countless beers and tears had been spilt upon, fully prepared to not spill either of them on this day. The reminiscing session went on for hours. Events such as their triple crush on Victoria Robertson were discussed, choosing to love each other instead of her, as well as the Halloween party at Johnny Fantimas's frat house where all of them dressed in the same costume a bottle of Tabasco sauce without knowing either of the other were doing the same, the night they took a combined eighteen dollars and sixty-three cents right before high school started and got wasted, fed, and wasted again, and even the night before the funeral, spent in the exact location they sat at this moment. Harold could shed positive light on that night now. Their company was the most important of any time they spent together in Harold's eyes.                                                          
           They parted ways from The Spot at the usual time, right as the moon hovered precisely above the center of their circle of bonding.                             
           "Guys," Harold said.                                                                   
           "You're welcome," Bill and Paul blurted.                                        
           "Cool."                                                                                   
           "Cool." 
           "Cool."
           And Harold began walking.                                                       
           He started to hum one of his favorite songs by Joe Walsh, thinking that he may be ready to dust off that Gibson SG with the same force that he dusted off the photo album that brought him here. He followed the newest path of moonlight down to Earth with his wide open eyes. It was landing on the payphone.                                                                                                                        
            "Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I love you too."                                    
            Once Harold got past the luminescence, he instinctively peered inside the phone booth. His gaze turned to mesmerized wonder upon noticing that the booth was occupied. It was the brightest star Harold had ever been privileged to observe. And it was in the shape of a human girl.
                                                          

I've been staring at my computer screen for ten minutes now, wondering if I had anything worthy of saying. I'm not sure if I do yet, but I'm gonna write shit down anyway, because I've been very frustrated today. Why? Well...

I'm frustrated because it is too early in the morning / late at night to physically talk to anyone about my frustrations.

I'm frustrated because I cannot work anywhere, period, for every "job" out there is meaningless and dull unless it means fulfilling my dream.

I'm frustrated because the employees of New Jersey's unemployment program need to make sure that their miserable existences are shared by those they are supposed to "help".

I'm frustrated because my left eye has been itchy for almost three days now.

I'm frustrated because my album is not "copywritten" yet.

I'm frustrating myself with all of these quotation marks.

I'm frustrated because I continue to miss someone that was quite unhealthy for my heart.

I'm frustrated because my body is programmed to function when the sun sets and shuts down as the sun rises, no matter how hard I try to reverse my inner polarity.

I'm frustrated because I actually need money. I hate money.

I'm frustrated at myself for letting things fall apart the way they have. But I am trying my very best to pick up the pieces of life that I let scatter amongst my feet over the past few months.

I'm frustrated because my drive and focus towards life disappeared for a decent spell. That's totally unlike the person I know to be me.

I'm frustrated at the fact that, no matter how much good I have surrounding me in regards to nouns of every category, I am still going to bed frustrated.

I'm frustrated because I'm frustrated.

And that's fucking frustrating.     

    OK fuckers. Here is my second chapter of the novel in progress. Thanks to all of you who gave me such overwhelming feedback the first time around. Hope you enjoy this chapter as well. And don't get used to how short these first couple of chapters are. There is a method to my madness. I think I finally got this shit to line up correctly. When I cut and pasted it the first time, it was a mess, but this should be legible now and should prevent your heads from spinning. So there. Enjoy! 

      "Don't turn around," Harold whispered as he reintroduced himself to his front porch, noting the beard left unkempt since his retreat from society in the reflection of a small puddle by the foot of the steps. 
       Each piece of his descent became another realm, resulting in fright and comfort gradually embracing the other's hand for guidance. The distance between the final step and the weather-stained concrete walkway felt like a mile, but once his feet made a safe landing, he felt something he forgot he knew how to feel - pride. He was outside, and it was breathtaking. Until the voices of the stunned onlookers ruined it for him, rendering him speechless and numb.                      
      "It's so good to see you again, Harold," said Georgia Jenkins, a woman known for her absolute lack of passion or concern. "Listen, if you ever need anything, I'm - Harold?" Harold kept walking.  
      "How are you, Harold? Betty and I were worried sick, knowing you were all cooped up in there!" John Pintauro, a man who had not spoken with Harold in over a year. Harold kept walking.   
        "Wasn't expecting to rain to wash you out of the house, buddy!" Philip Constable, the neighborhood comedian. "Buddy?" Harold kept walking.   
        "We don't know what else to say but ' We're sorry '," said Jane Bongdonavichi on behalf of her family. Neither did Harold. So he kept walking. Jane at least said more than Robert Petrucci, George Montalbano and Lucille Vick - pure silence, either from utter shock or complete failure of their brains to compute something relatively nice to say. What was there to say, anyway? It would not have mattered. Harold kept walking.    
         Whispers filled the freshly lit air, but it was no secret that every last hushed word was pointed at Harold, innocent, naive, taking his first steps for the second time in his life. "Is it really him?" "It is him, isn't it?" "Can you believe this?" "Am I seeing this?" "What made him do it?" "Harold's outside again - look!" "Holy shit!" "He survived the accident?" "He's in terrible shape."  "Maybe he's better off inside after all." "Poor guy." "What a shame." "Wonder where he's going."                      
         Harold stopped walking.              
        "911, what is your emergency?"   
        "This...this is...oh my God, omigod, oh my GOD - I need help, please!!"                                         
         What's happened, sir?"  
         "The corner of...corner of Crescent and Palm, the int-inter-intersection. I've been in an accident with my folks. Ha-Ha-Harold J-J-Jamesburg is my name. They don't look good."                         
         "Okay sir, we're dispatching a unit to your location right away. Sir? Are you still with me?"             
           Harold shook his head clear with the violence of a bullfighter upon removing the scarlet wool of death from the visual path of his victim. He was standing on the corner of Crescent, mouth agape. That was the last call he made from the payphone in front of him. He decided that he needed to change this. With tears in his eyes and perspiration practically preventing him from gripping the phone, he managed to place it to his ear. He already knew which two people he could count on should he call them. He hastily dug through his pants pocket, found some loose change, and inserted it into the telephone. Harold cringed, for the sound of the coins landing rang like a belltower was built between his ears. He dialed.                                                                                                                                                                                             _______________________________________________________________                                                                                                                                                                     
     "Hello?"                             
      Silence, then heavy breathing, interrupted by brief bouts of sniffling. Not exactly indicative of a caller's identity.            
      "Hello? Hello? Come on, it's too early in the morning for this shit!"  
      "Hello, Bill? It's - "            
      "Fuck! Harold? 
      "Hey, pal."        
      "So sorry for jumping down your throat, it's just that - "  
      "I know. I'm the last person you must have expected to hear from." 
      "Pretty much, " replied Bill. "Can't say I mind, though."       
       A split second of shared laughter transpired, which felt funny to Harold since he was used to all the laughter he heard today being followed by what seemed like a million fingers, pointed at him and only him. 
       Bill continued, "How's everything, bro? Feelin' okay?"  
       Harold cut to the chase. "I've barely stepped out of the house, and I'm already fed up with how everyone has judged me for something I had no control over." Harold choked through his remaining words. "I've suffered enough, Bill, believe me. And I'm sorry this call has been so delayed. But I could use a friend more than anything right now."  
       "Well, you called on the right person for such a request. Man, it's so great to hear your voice."                
       "You too, Bill. You too. Meet me at The Spot in twenty?" 
       "I'll be there in fifteen, Harold." 
       "Great. Thank you so much. Got one more call to make." 
       "See you and Paul down there, then." 
       "Absolutely." 
       "Cool."  
       "Cool." 
        Click.
        Into his pocket Harold dove for one more handful of change. He could feel a smile, faint as it was, etching itself across his ragged countenance. He did not even realize he had dialed until he heard the phone ringing on the other end.                                                                             
        "Hello?"
         Harold found it much easier to reveal himself on his second attempt at true human contact.  
        "Long time, huh, Paul?"
        "Goddamnit, Harold! It's about time you decided to exist again."  
        "Yeah, I've been having a bit of trouble with that for a while now."   
         The second spell of shared laughter felt just as exhilarating as the first, maybe even a slight bit better, simply because Harold had been devoid of it for so long.                                                     
         "How you holdin' up, dude?, " Paul said to break the cycle of the best medicine they had each ever had. 
         "Getting better with each friendly voice I hear. Listen, I'm sorry to call after so long and immediately ask for something, but - " 
         "Where are we going?", Paul interjected.
         "Spot in fifteen?"  
         "I'll be there in ten, Harold."  
          Harold mentally marveled at how in tune three people could still be after such a lengthy and partially self-imposed respite before simply saying, "Thanks, Paul."   
          "Never a problem, man. Hearing your voice again has already made my day."                                       
          "Cool."  
          "Cool." 
           Click.  
           Harold instantly learned a lesson from his first two interactions as a functioning being. Life can never interfere with true friendship.  
           Harold continued walking.

                                                                                                                                                                                            

So this is the first public exposure of my novel, which I am still in the process of finishing. I'm a bit nervous I guess, but who wouldn't be if this was their first attempt at a novel? Thank you in advance for taking the time to read it. Hope you enjoy...

     Harold wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes, clinging like the nightmares that have come every night for about fourteen weeks now. He has not been out of their house since the funeral, choosing instead to surround himself with the comfort that once rested within its walls. A blanket of water bathes the Earth, almost as heavily as Harold's last day of technical human existence. He removes the remote control and a half-eaten sandwich from his lap, gives his body a quick stretch, and heads towards the window for a closer observation.                                                                                                                                            

     As he gazes through eyes stained with raccoon circles, a break in the clouds overhead catches his attention. His arm suddenly and instinctively shields his face, as if out of fear that the incoming ray of sunshine will sear his complexion. He cannot ignore the warmth invading his forearm for long, however, and he slowly begins to show mercy, lowering it while staring with a childlike curiosity not experienced in quite some time.                                                                 

     This is the first time he has looked into any form of bright light since the accident. He did not have much of a choice that night, though. He replays the gruesome scene in his head for the first of what will surely be many times today: one Honda Civic, lying next to one Ryder moving truck on the corner of the Crescent Street intersection at eleven-thirty p.m., three blocks from home. Four body-bags are walked past his feet, as he wonders why his scrawny temple had now officially outlived his parents. Thoughts of guilt, fear and confusion circulated through his scrambled head like those emergency lights.                                                                                             

     "Why? Why did I survive? How can I without them?"                                                             

     In that instant, he felt like both the biggest child and the biggest man simultaneously, forced to start over without any say in the matter.                                                                         

     He began to pore over the newspaper clippings and photographs that were all he had left of his beloved mother, a revered teacher at the local elementary school, and his father, an award-winning chef at Bertulli's, the grandest restaurant in the surrounding area. Both of their accolades were blinding him, but none of the clippings cut as deeply as the last: "TRAGEDY ON CRESCENT TAKES FOUR LIVES".                                                                                                  

     A medium-sized brown binder jutted out from the bookshelf beneath him that he apparently overlooked prior to now. He released it from its confines, and blew enough dust off of the top of it to reveal its identity - a photo album of his childhood. He could already feel the tears welling up.                                                                                                                                       

     "I remember this!", he exclaimed, overjoyed at reliving his fifth birthday party. What a perfect summer day: "Look at you two, so amazing to me always." His parents were feeding him his ice cream cake in the most playful of fashions. Harold turned thirty years old one week ago, and even he didn't remember to celebrate - until now.                                                                             

     He began to grow angry at these awful memories of recent months, screaming, "Why do this to yourself, Harold? You have let one horrific event singlehandedly destroy all you've ever had that was beautiful, and it's not fair! To you, to Mom, to Dad, to anybody!"                                             

     The ray of sunlight had severely pierced through the rain at this point, and casually rose until it rested directly on Harold's neck. The warmth of that beam sent chills down his spine, and he turned towards it to embrace it, only to be doubled over by the sight of a luminous rainbow that had just formed directly over their home. The rain screeched to a halt as if Harold himself had found the off switch simply by absorbing Nature's finest colored spectrum. It had been raining for awhile, so the neighborhood houses emptied of their inhabitants, ready to bask in a long overdue dosage of a long lost sun. And Harold thought, "I need to be out there."                                                 

     His thought turned to screams, aimed at his legs: "Get me outside! Get me outside! GET ME OUTSIDE!" He scurried through the living room, emphasis on LIVING, searching diligently for a pair of sneakers long forgotten. Once they were reacquainted with his feet, he never even bothered to tie them, instead choosing to dart for the front door.                                                                 

     The former Harold caused the new Harold to pause for a few fleeting seconds, but he persisted, drawing in the deepest breath he had taken in what seemed like forever, and he reached for the doorknob. He trembled slightly as he turned it, and crept around the edge of the door like a ghost. It appeared as if the neighborhood had seen one, for upon the mere sight of Harold, it grew as still as death. The one thing he was trying to escape by embarking on this mission of purification.