The Rambler

I'm supposed to sit here for an hour and write; write anything, anything at all. I just wasted the first five minutes staring at the most daunting white screen I've ever seen. The evening breeze carried the sound of my neighbors TV; the sound twirled through the window curtains and into my ears. It's a nice evening here; much cooler than the previous week. The birds are chirping like it's five o'clock in the morning. I hear the sound of cars driving off in the distance. The birds have gotten louder. The neighbor's TV is getting louder, too. I turned off my phone to eliminate distractions but all I can do is sit here and wonder if anyone is trying to call me right now. Speaking of distractions, I opened the shades before sitting down to write and as I look out the window now I am distracted by a lady walking down the street. She's in an odd hurry. My neighbor across the street is standing out in front of her house wearing bright pink pants. How embarrassing.

I decided it was a good time to start another paragraph. The headlights of cars driving down my street are peering into the window. I pause as they pass, wondering who is in them and where they are going. I can hear another car pulling up but I can't see who it is. Maybe it's my knight in shining armor, here to sweep me off my feet. Probably not. Even if it was, I would have to walk downstairs and unlock the gate for him. Then walk all the way back up the stairs so I can act surprised when he shows up on my doorstep. It kind of kills the moment really.

The birds are still chirping, the cars still driving by, the sound from the neighbors TV has faded. The family living below me is banging around in the kitchen; I can here cupboards opening and slamming closed, dishing being moved from one place to another. Looking out of my window I can see kids running out of the house across the street from me; the one where the woman in the hot pink pants was standing earlier. I wonder what the kids had been doing inside all this time, and why did they choose to come outside now? Someone else just came out of that house, walked to the car and is driving away now. I wonder just how many people live in that house. It's a big house, but I guess not so big with that many people inside.

Another car just sped by, this one with the bass booming so loud it set off a car alarm of a car that was parked on the side of the road. Finally someone came out to turn off the alarm. A young Mexican couple are pushing a stroller down the sidewalk. I really just assumed they are young. I couldn't actually see them that well to guess their age. It didn't really take much to guess that they were Mexican though. Pretty much everyone in the neighborhood is Mexican. Except me and the lady across the street in the hot pink pants. She's Asian. I'm not. I'm white, I'm very white.

I can't believe I'm still writing. It's been eleven minutes and I'm still rambling. I can't believe some people get paid to do this. To write, I mean, not to ramble. Although some writers really do just ramble and they get paid for it. Why do people read that stuff, the rambling? I am writing the rambling and I don't even want to re-read my own work. Not that I consider this work of any sort. Maybe I should call it "the rambling". Very creative, yes, that's me. Creative. The creative rambler. Not a bad pen name if I don't say so myself.

I just went back and re-read what I have written so far and I find myself strangely intrigued. "What's she going to write next?"  I ask myself in third person with intense anticipation, "She's got me on the edge of my seat! I just can't handle the suspense! Oh for the love of God would you please write something! Anything! Hurry! Hurry! I'm dying here!"

The odd thing about rambling is that the reader doesn't want to stop reading because they truly have no idea where this is going; one thought is not connected to the next, nor the next, and at any given moment the rambler could write something incredibly insightful like "the birds are chirping louder now." And you wouldn't want to miss that line. That's a key line really. By the way, the birds are definitely chirping louder now.

Don't worry, my friend, I only have thirty three more minutes of rambling before the madness ends.

The sun has just about set now. I see more of my own reflection when I look out the window than I see what's really out there. That's an insightful though, isn't it? Of course, I'm not going to expound on that one. I'd rather ramble about things like chirping birds. God damn it they won't stop!

I can smell the smoke from my downstairs neighbors. They smoke in strategic spots of the backyard, like in the far corner on the other side of the garage. I guess they forget smoke isn't stationary. I don't suppose they care that the smoke rises and drifts into my apartment, into my nostrils, into my lungs and is slowly killing me. I am sitting here in my apartment slowly dying. You are reading my slowly dying words. Not that the word are slowly dying, but I am, and at the same time I'm writing. I am writing while I am slowly dying and you are reading the words that I am writing… as I am slowly dying. Second hand smoke kills. Cough. Cough.

Control – S. Whew. Wouldn't want to loose this document! That was a close call. Nice save, creative rambler. I like your moves.

I hear crickets now. The birds have stopped chirping. I hear a dog barking somewhere off in the distance. And I'm wondering again if anyone is trying to call me right now. That's an odd thing to wonder though because no one really ever calls me, at least not at this time on an evening when I don't have plans with anyone. My call list today included one person, and that was my boss. Sad times, my friend.

I just heard one of my downstairs neighbors laugh. He's an odd fellow. I wonder what he's laughing at. Sounds like his TV is on; he was probably laughing at something on TV. I wonder how often he has heard me laugh. I do that a lot, laugh at something on TV. And I almost always wonder if anyone heard me laugh. I only wonder that when I'm alone though because obviously if I'm watching TV with someone, they definitely hear me laugh. Unless they are deaf but I don't know any deaf people so that doesn't really apply to me.

The sun has completely set now and all I can see when I look out the window is my own reflection, and the street light. I can hear an airplane flying somewhere up high in the sky. From my front porch you watch planes fly into the LAX airport. One of my favorite things to do is stand out there at night with a cup of hot chocolate and watch the airplanes fly in. I wonder who the passengers are; are they coming home? Are they visiting someone here? Are they on a business trip? Maybe someone in their family died and they are flying in for a funeral. Is it a sad trip or a happy one? My mind drifts into who they could be, what they might be here for, and so on, as the breeze floats on and the crickets still chirp. It always makes me smile.

Although I am seventeen minutes away from fulfilling my hour long ramble session, I am already thinking of a clever way to end it. I'll probably write something like… Well folks, sixty minutes, one thousand-three hundred-seventy two words, one huge glass of iced coffee, and one trip to the bathroom later, I am officially ending this creative rant. Our together is coming to a close. I'd like to thank you for sticking with me and reading all this. I apologize for the time you wasted reading all of this. I need to go check my phone messages now to see how many people didn't call me in the last hour while my phone was off.

Okay, well I probably won't end this that way because now I've blown my big ending by letting you read it before my sixty minutes are actually up. I always blow the big endings that way. It's kind of a let down, much like having to go unlock the front gate for prince charming and then pretending to be surprised when he makes it to my doorstep. Very disappointing.

I don't think I'm going to make the last twelve minutes of this sixty minute stretch. Some would argue that I've come this far, I can throw down another twelve minutes. Okay eleven minutes now. But I would argue that they don't know me; they don't know the natural quitter inside. That's unfortunate. They are about to be severely disillusioned by my sudden ……..

I just can't take it. Ten more minutes is just too much. I quit.