Media Move

I called all around town and no one had any software that would let me transfer VHS stuff to my computer so when I found myself at Detroit’s Best Buy, I was hoping they could pull through. In no time flat an employee was leading me to the correct aisle.

He pointed to some internal hardware and tried to get me to believe that it was what I’d asked for.

“I already have audio and video capabilities and I’m pretty sure my sound card and whatnot is all in order. I’m looking for the device that plugs into the USB slot on the front of my machine,” I explained, having gone to many forums and completed my research.

“Okay then this is what you need,” he said, steering us over a few feet to an eighty-dollar software box. It was precisely what I had in mind and he started talking about how it came with the program and plugs that I needed when I noticed that it looked like the exact same thing, slightly different box and much lower price, was on the shelf below it.

“What about this one? What’s the difference?” I asked, showing him the Dazzle DVC 85.

“Uhmmm, that one doesn’t come with the software and stuff you need to transfer the video to blank DVDs, it only-“

“I have a video capture device,” I interrupted, trying to save time. “I have RCA cables and Nero and I know how to take video files and make DVDs.”

“Oh. Well then that’s probably all you need.”

The young man would turn out to be wrong about it not coming with software. What kind of fuckin’ device would sell without the shit to run it with?

Dumbass Moneymongers.

Freewrite #12794 or “The Gen X Thoughts”

Before we were better than each other it was just a potpourri clique crowded around an upper classman during football season. He would reenact skits from Kids In the Hall while the youngest of his generation reacted to them for the first time. He asked us to tell him who was winning because he was too drunk to read the score board. We actually thought he was hilarious.

The only clear details left are the converse shoes and red flannel stripes on his jacket. The only words I can remember are from a song about who possesses the testicles of utmost quantity. We actually thought he’d discovered these kinds of things in a magnificient exploration.

We didn’t know that once we got into high school we would classify him as a generic stoner.

People magazine was filled with people leaving candles, unable to say goodbye to their icon of the era.

We were running up the bleachers when he turned around and offered me his hand to help step over some band member’s fallen instrument. My final memory of him – then the record stops.

Years later I would send paper across a psychology class to an old friend of his who had introduced us. He had been responsible for the following who went out and spent their parents’ money to look grunge.

“What happened to Jimmy James?” was all I asked, long after we’d crumpled Nirvana posters and taken advanced classes.

Separated and joined by brands we swore we’d never wear. Adam had suddenly looked so grown up without his bowl cut. Eyes that had been squinting from study grew wide.

“I don’t know. No one has heard from him.”

He’d dismissed it with a shrug but his eyes suggested having wondered once, too.

I went to write a poem around it:

Have you seen Frances Bean?”

But it was too counterproductive, possessed by the slacker’s spirit.

Tonight, searching far and wide in my warehouses for some kind of impression, I come across Jimmy’s outstretched hand.

A perspective rotates and I can see the football players running through the crisp fall air. Never able to fully believe that my classmates eventually filled those uniforms, I would find myself at the fence looking out as the team tried to score. I was already trying to remember the kids who were walking behind me at the time, back and forth from the refreshment stand. Caught in history and watching the night unfold as though it was someone else’s daydream. My connection to the them now nothing like being caught up in Cobain,

infatuated in a heartbeat,

having caught my balance and stepped over the brass,

wishing I’d have taken his hand, anyway.

The 2 Page Purge

Gee I wonder what I’ll do once the chemicals release properly again. It’s the battle cry of the bipolar, the borderline personalities and the manic depressives. It’s the familiar feeling had by anyone who ever let their emotions get the best of them. It’s like wondering how you’ll compensate when the out-of-control-treadmill you’re running full speed on, suddenly stops. The shard of logic and reason off in the distance might reflect an annoying little spec of light but all you believe is that You must keep running.

Sometimes when something is committed in a passionate fit of rage or rejection, you are forbidden to return the way you arrived. Unless you know how to perform emergency surgery that rewires the signals making you feel this way for what has been done immediately, you’ll never reason your way back across the ACTION – REACTION. It’s sealed and your guard will not let you pass.

I took a nap this afternoon and had a dream that dealt directly with the kind of misunderstanding that occurs when one or both parties are stupid enough to allow silence the responsibility of communicating. There is a spot in my eh-sorta-distant past where worlds collided in an uncomfortable way, so I referred to my absence of technique and bailed.

My words shriveled up. My eyes averted. My heat sensor grew dark. I all but perished entirely. It was one of those circumstances where you began to do the awkward rounding and found the figures just weren’t working out. ,So why agonize over the precise math of it, I thought. Abort.

Once upon a time in my way-ancient history, someone abandoned me for a very long time. When they came back, do you know what they told me?

“I let the silence speak for me.”

You know what happens when people put their senses to absolutely nothing in hopes of deriving language from it? More nothingness and a lot of uncertainty. Some victims left to guess and divinely receive will never get past putting their ear to the still air, waiting for an answer. They are left paralyzed, discouraged and in severe cases of silence, glaciated. Imprisoned for believing.

Sorry, no. They are not some blessed almighty ambassador of no sound or sign. They’re just someone who wanted one or both of you to believe that what you were separately figuring somehow came full circle in a strange meeting place where you were meant to wind up right where you are.

Balless Horseshit.