The Five-Thousand-Year-Old Man and The World-Traveling Yawn

Dad was in the hospital and we came down to Florida from New York City to visit him, possibly for the last time. It wasn't planned that we would say our goodbyes then, but we wanted to be around incase the situation presented itself. Really we wanted to be there to support Mom throughout the entire process. Dad didn't look as pitiful as I had expected but it was strange to see him like that. Emaciated and tangled in wires. By the look of things, he was getting better and in high spirits at the time. Ready to get out of the ICU, ready to strip off the wires and tubes, ready for real food. Somehow, while sitting there in the hospital we all got talking about Ötzi, the mummified iceman hikers found in the Italian Alps a few years earlier. Mom had read a story about Ötzi in National Geographic and was fascinated by the whole ordeal. It was a hot summer, she told us, and much of the ice on that glacier had melted away. Some people were hiking up there and found the iceman perfectly intact, relatively speaking. They say he is five thousand years old. Do you know they looked in his stomach and found out what he had been eating the day he died? They can study that kind of stuff and find out what time of year he died too, by seeing what fruits and oats were in season. They also discovered that he was murdered. They found an arrowhead lodged in his back. I find it so incredibly fascinating, she exclaimed. I thought back on the stories they taught us in Sunday school, the story of Cane and Abel. It was getting late and Dad let out a deep yawn. -- The yawn traveled around the room, as yawns do. A nurse walking by carried the yawn from our room in to the hallway, passing it on to a colleague in the hall. Soon enough the yawn had spread through the entire hospital. The yawn was carried from the hospital by a doctor in residency. His wife came to pick him up from work and they took turns holding the yawn as they drove from the hospital to a nearby restaurant. At dinner the doctor and his wife handed the yawn off to all the occupants of the restaurant and from there everyone took the yawn their separate ways. It took the yawn only twelve days to meet all of the people on earth. In these twelve days, the yawn had flown overseas via telephone, radio, and television, it had visited every continent, every country, and every city. It had made it's world trip and had come back to it's home in Florida. It was carried into a church where a funeral was taking place. I was at the pulpit, speaking with watery eyes. I watched as the yawn floated up through the pews and made its way to me. -- Is it a true story, Dad asked. Yes, answered Mom. It's the story of the five-thousand-year-old-man. -- It is a true story. And it is our story. It is the inescapable truth and experienced by all. It is the story of life.

Chrysalis

Part 1

Sunday afternoons in the summertime were always the best time to relax. The weather was mild and the canopies were inviting. It was customary to sit in my hammock and read for hours as the breeze rocked my cocoon back and forth. These were the best days of the year. My wife was already working on dinner. Work was a sunrise away. And I would sit and think and read and sleep. Ideal. This hammock and I have been through a lot. I've thought through faith, financial crises, and fantasy football in this thing.

*Rip*

*thud*

Shit. Finding myself in an ant pile after previously playing for the NBA championship with Dwyane Wade was not what I had expected this afternoon.

"Honey! My hammock ripped."

"Oh no. Sorry, dear."

Sorry, indeed. Maybe this is a sign that I need to go on a diet. One too many Checkers runs after the bar. Well, c'est la vie. New hammock time. I logged onto the interwebs to see what was available. Some pretty fancy shit. But maybe I needed something a little more...conducive to my Sunday hammock lifestyle.

"Honey! Do you know any local stores that sell hammocks?

"There's the camping store on 13^th where you bought your old one."

"Ya. But I'm looking for something different this time around. Something with a little cachet."

"What's cachet?"

"Ya know, cachet."

"Mhmm. Well, there is that hippie in the park that weaved his own hammock. Maybe you could pay him for one."

"Mhmm."

The park was in walking distance. I always notice this particular homely fellow because my dog would flip its shit every time we walked near his area in the park. So needless to say, we had developed a rapport. And by rapport, I mean he creeped me out. So I played it cool when I approached him.

"Hey, park dwelling fellow."

"Hey, man."

"Let me ask you something. Do you know how to make hammocks?"

"Of course. I made this one."

"Well, this is going to sound odd, but would you consider making me a hammock? Mine just broke and I need a new one but I didn't want to get one from the store or online because I wanted this one to be special because I have these hammock Sundays where I think about stuff and sit in my hammock and it's kind of a big deal so I need something that would be conducive to that environment thing..."

"Sure, I just need some funding to get this project of the ground. Got about $100?"

"Yeah, that sounds fair enough. When do you think it will be done?"

"It'll take at least a week. I have to clear my schedule to make room for this which may take some phone calls."

"Right. Well, I'm 6'2", 230, so make sure it will hold a man of my large carriage."

"No worries. I got it."

Thumbs up and I walked off. In retrospect, this was a bad idea. Why the hell did I give that hobo $100? He could have run off with it and I would have been out some serious cash. But I figured it was worth the risk to have an awesome hammock.

Part 2

"Hey, friendo. Got my hammock?"

"Yah. I finished it just the other day. Here ya go."

The gypsy pulled out this folded, multi-color hammock that would have put anything at a camping store to shame.

"Wow. This is awesome."

"Well, you are the son of my old age."

"What?"

"It's from the Torah. Israel gives his son, Joseph, a coat of many colors."

"Oh. Ya. Right, I get it. Thanks again"

I walked away a little weirded out but pumped about my new hammock.

"Honey! Look at my hobo hammock."

"Wow, that's really nice. What is it made out of?"

"I don't know. But I think it's bad ass."

"Can a hammock be badass?"

"Totally."

I immediately started to string the hammock up in my favorite spot between a laurel tree and a poplar tree. The hammock fit perfectly. But now for the moment of truth - climbing into a hammock made by a park hippie. I eased my way in with great hesitancy. It seemed to be holding but I couldn't be sure. I decided to do some unnecessary wiggling to test it out.

"What are you doing out there?"

"I'm testing out this hippie hammock."

"You look like a weirdo."

"You do!"

Eventually, I gave it my vote of approval this was a quality hammock. I grabbed my book and beer and decided to enjoy my afternoon, swaying in the comfort of the summer shade. Eventually, it came that special time in the afternoon when the combination of beer, reading, and warmth led to a nap. I dozed off with ease in my new best friend.

When I woke up, it was dark. I must have slept for a few hours. Why didn't my wife wake me up?

"Honey? What time is?"

Nothing. She must be in the bathroom or something. I guess I better get up. I tried to roll out of my hammock but it didn't seem to be working.

"What's going on here?"

It felt a lot like when you wake up and your arm feel asleep. You desperately try to use it but to no avail. Except this time it was happening to my whole time. I tried to struggle but it didn't work I was stuck.

"Hey! I need help. I'm paralyzed or something."

Or something indeed. I was regaining control of my extremities and cognition when I realized, it wasn't my body parts that weren't working, I was wrapped up in something. I struggled more and more to break free from the bonds that were suppressing me. I started to panic. This shouldn't be happening. What is happening?

*Rip*

*Thud*

On the ground again. In the ant pile again. I looked up to see my hammock and I had ripped giant hole in it. Another hammock down. I definitely should consider that diet now. And getting my money back from that damn hippie. I started to walk back in the house. It was dusk.

"Honey! I broke my new hammock."

"Oh no."

She said it from the other room. She was making here way out of the bedroom when she saw me for the first time.

"Whooo...What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"What is that on your back?"

"There's something on my back."

I reached back to feel my shirt shredded and a lot of blood.

"That hammock must have cut me while I was sleeping. I'm bleeding all over."

My wife didn't say anything. She wasn't really looking at me. Just around me.

"Can you get me something to clean this blood up with?"

She just stared. And pointed at something behind me. I turned around but didn't see anything.

"What's going on? Can't you get me a towel or something?"

She was still pointing. Dumbfounded and pale.

"What are you doing?"

I was so confused. Until I caught a glimpse of myself in the window's reflection. There was something on me. Something large. I started to freak out. Slapping behind me to try to get it off. But it wasn't working. It was following me. I felt my back and notice something was attached to me. It was coming out of my skin. I walked into the bathroom to find a mirror. They were wings. Massive insect wings.

"No. This isn't real. This isn't real."

I started grabbing at my wings, ripping them with all my strength. Piece by piece, I shed my deformity until there was nothing but the base infused into my back. I couldn't pull it off. It was connected to deep. I moved into the kitchen and grabbed a chef's knife. I couldn't leave this thing attached to me. So I wedged the knife between the base and my skin, slicing into my skin to free myself from this malady. Blood was everywhere at this point. My wife was nowhere to be found. I saw the front door left open. I kept digging at the base until I realized there was nothing to cut. The base was a part of my spine.

"Honey, help me!"

I collapsed on the ground. My hands were red and I was feeling lightheaded. Where was my wife? Was she getting help? I saw a figure in the doorway right before I lost consciousness. He looked like he could help.

Wrapped in Brown Paper

I'm still writing, just not posting. Here's something new:

"It was the 16^th.

The 16^th meant the 17^th was tomorrow.

The next day after that was the 18^th.

They were the three worst days. They were bad for different reasons though. The 16^th was all dreadful anticipation. I worried. I fretted. I sat and stewed. I bit my nails. I ripped my cuticles until they bled. I also hoped the 16^th would not fall on a weekend. At least a weekday would distract me with work. But weekends were lost to screams in my pillow and wall punches.

The 17^th was work. I would wake up and it was waiting for me. The package was on my doormat. "Welcome". The package was never welcome but always necessary. That package wrapped in brown paper and thread. No markings. Postage implied legality. There couldn't be anything legal about the package. It was immoral, unethical, and vile. But it was necessary. I would bring it in and place it on my coffee table. Then I would place down the bourbon and glass. One drink. I needed a synthesized courage shot to get that package open. I removed the tape and was carefully to never tear the paper. Tearing the paper was disrespectful. I slid out the sheets. The code wasn't cryptic anymore. I was bilingual -- I knew English and the code. I remember early on I left the code out carelessly. My friend picked it up "What is this weird poetry?" "Ha! I got it on the Internet. Right?" No, not right.

It took a couple of hours to get everything prepped. Google maps. Print directions. Go in the garage. Pull out the ladder. Get the bag. Check the tools. Ready to go. The car ride took a while. Careful turns. Never running red lights. Below the speed limit. Piece of cake. Then you pull up the address. House, apartment, office building. Park the car and go to the door. "Hello, my name is Jason Needson. My organization called you about an inspection." They were always pleasant. "Oh yes, come on in." Once I was in, it took about 30 minutes. There were no second chances. If I was in the house, it was already over. Then you leave. "Goodbye."

Back in the car for the trip home. I always had Kanye West for the ride home. Not really. That's a joke. Ya know, to clear the air. You seem a little tense. Sure it was funny. Trust me, I know funny and that is it. Once I got home, it was time for bed. Regardless of the time, I was in bed. Usually the scripts helped. Then the 18^th.

The 18^th was clean up. Tools away. Evidence destroyed. It was done. And I thought I would never get found out. It was just an easy job. I started in college. Some people sell plasma or strip; I kill old people. They were going to die anyway, right? They wanted to die. Some of them tried to tell me they had changed their minds. You can't just change your mind. You've already called me. And I'm finishing the job. Fuck you if you think you can just back out. You deserve to die. You're a waste of space. The world needs less people like you shitheaded quitters. Sometimes families would try to stop me. People who condone such actions are just as guilty. Certain families are scourges on the human race. If the patriarch wants to die, the son is probably as big of a waste as she is. So I put them down. 32 so far.

Soon to be 33 quitters in a cedar box.

Another package on the doorstep.

Another opportunity."

Not my words

Love is Like A Bottle of Gin by The Magnetic Fields

It makes you blind, it does you in
It makes you think you're pretty tough
It makes you prone to crime and sin
It makes you say things off the cuff
It's very small and made of glass
and grossly over-advertised
It turns a genius to an ass
and makes a fool think he is wise
It could make you regret your birth
or turn cartwheels in your best suit
It costs a lot more than it's worth
and yet there is no substitute
They keep it on a higher shelf
the older and more pure it grows
It has no color in itself
but it can make you see rainbows
You can find it on the Bowery
or you can find it at Elaine's
It makes your words more flowery
It makes the sun shine, makes it rain
You just get out what they put in
and they never put in enough
Love is like a bottle of gin
but a bottle of gin is not like love

Empty

Full of false hope,
I tilt my coffee cup, and look.

Empty.

Welcome, long afternoon.

I like sam

Here is a poem that I just posted as a comment on Sam's blog entitled:

I like Sam

i like sam
sam make me happy
sam go slam on da slappy
i like sam
i like sam
sam a good guy
he make me laugh hard i cry
i like sam
i like sam
sam like me too
sam like a me like a you
i like sam
i like sam
he heart real big
like a stong lion or wild pig
i like sam

SUNSETTER, MOONRISER: The Tragic & Explosive Death of Dean Rainard, Instalment V

Instalment 5: Death from Hyper-Multisternutation

The medical term for Dean Rainard’s death is Hyper-multisternutation. Hyper-multisternutation is real, and is the cause of three deaths a year in America on average. Not many people know what HMS is, and many of the people that do know what it is don’t think it really exists. But it does, look it up. One of the leading researchers in the causes in HMS, the Ukrainian Dr. Bohslav-Boris Krevo, published a journal on HMS in 1997 where he stated, “In our research, we have concluded that there is no relative correlation between HMS and SHC [Spontaneous Human Combustion]. Though many people still believe that they are related, they in fact have no apparent relativity. […] We have hardly any clue to why HMS occurs, or how to protect oneself from it, although it should be noted that the very few people who share the tragic fate of becoming victims of HMS, also share the tendency to be fabulous multi-taskers.”
Something everyone should know about the type of craziness that Dean Rainard was a victim of: it is somewhat governed by Newton’s third law. Newton’s third law particularly pertains to the physical world, but the physical world works much like the mental world. Newton’s third law can be summed up in to one sentence, “To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.” So, when Newton’s third law is applied to the case of Dean Rainard’s craziness, anyone can see that with the clearest thoughts of clarity that came to his head, the most insane thoughts of insanity came as well.
While Dean Rainard was in the shower his clearest thoughts of clarity weaned, and his thoughts of insanity returned. He was being attacked by the thoughts more than he ever was in his entire life. He was still weeping, and was remembering everything about his life that made him go crazy: Graham Stokes, his nickname, how he was a terrible teacher, how he left the love of his life in cowardice, how he was nothing like Dr. Winslow Stephens. He remembered how he used to take care of these thoughts, by multi-tasking. Dean Rainard then went into a fit of multi-tasking that killed him. He peed, sneezed, farted, burped, puked, coughed, defecated, yawned, and cried, all while saying quietly, “Oh my.” And let’s not forget that he had laundry in the washer as well.
Officials found Dean Rainard fourteen hours later. There was a missing account put on file for him since he wasn’t at school the next day and the police sent a squad car to his place on Holiday Road to see if he was there. The police officer that found Dean Rainard was Conrad Vincent. Conrad Vincent had only been on the Olympia Police Force for three weeks. When Conrad Vincent found Dean Rainard in the shower, most of Dean’s body had already gone down the drain. Vincent didn’t know just what he had witnessed. There was blood, and guts and faecal matter covering the walls of the small bathroom. Vincent immediately vomited and called for backup. It was concluded after investigation that Rainard had been a victim of HMS and consequently exploded. The remains of his body that didn’t go down the drain were scraped off of the walls and ceiling and floor and cremated just as Dean Rainard would have wanted.
Dean’s painting entitled ‘I WAS WRONG’ caught the eye of Dr. Winslow Stephens, who had since retried and become a renowned art collector and critic. Stephens bought the painting from the Olympia government for next to nothing. This was all in 2003. Since then, the painting's value has sky rocketed up to fifteen million dollars and is now on display in the Guggenheim Museum, in Manhattan. There has been much literature written about theories of what Dean Rainard could have been so wrong about. Maybe it was leaving his first and only love, Denise Wright. Maybe it was his view that the only art with value is art that has sociological aspects to it. Maybe it was the fact that he was nothing like Dr. Winslow Stephens. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he was made wrong.