Static Read online



  Static

  Copyright 2010 Keith Blenman

  Static

  Every actions begins at the thought.

  I remind myself of this again. I remind myself all day, right up until I wheel my way into the study.

  Energy can be harnessed. Collected.

  I have to remember this.

  If I can concentrate it enough, I can use it.

  I place the pen at the ledge of my desk.

 

  Remember the smooth plastic of the pen. Remember its lightness. The ridges of letters etched in its sides. How it feels unbalanced with the cap on.

  The color doesn’t matter. The look of the thing. It’s all in feelings. Always remember by touch. Concentrate on the touch.

  But don’t concentrate.

  Just do it.

  Double check the temperature. The heat feels stronger when I’m cold.

 

  I check again and again. The heat’s been off all day. I made the point to shut it off before work; before braving the snowy commute. By now ice has crystallized along the windows, splintering when my breath fogs over it. I still check the thermostat. The house is fine. But I check it again. Another moment or two and I’ll be cold enough.

  Touch causes the thought. Energy is made. The feeling is created.

  Remember the feeling. Touch without making contact. Nothing is out of reach.

  Part of me knows it won’t work. Life never works out perfect.

  I’ve always been too short. OCD never helped anyone.

  Ignore the doubts. Better yet, use them. Know them.

  Every man before me made the mistake of trying to clear his mind. They should know it’s impossible. Not even sleeping minds are devoid of thought. That’s they’re mistake. That’s why they failed.

  That’s why I’ll succeed this time.

  Maybe.

  Think of all the pencils that barely moved.

 

  Use everything. The secret is in flooding the mind. Use my entire body. Even the dead parts. Collect it all. Focus. Flood myself. Every action begins at the thought.

 

  I wheel to the desk and tilt my head down to the pen. Before I can see it, my breath fogs my glasses. I take them off, fold them, and set them between the stapler and the Garfield mug. I roll away, always facing the pen. First a few feet back, but even with my glasses off, even in the dark, I can still make out the details. I roll back further. Further. The pen gets fuzzy in my eyes.

  Maybe that’ll help. What I can’t see I can only feel.

  I move the chair to the opposing wall. Looking to the pen, it’s just another blur.

 

  Concentrate on the pen. Use everything else, but always refer back to it. The weight, the letters, the balance. Don’t forget the ridge from the plastic plug in the back.

 

  I shiver, but breathe slow, collective breaths until I can concentrate.

  One day, I’ll never have to move to answer the phone. Even the corded ones.

  Mom said I can do anything I put my mind to. Dad said almost anything.

  The pen is across the room. It’s still in my reach.

  My parents never cleared their minds. Even when they were sitting, droning in sitcoms and not thinking, they still found ways to disagree.

  I’m crazy.

  Everything’s beyond my reach.

  It’s going to work. Fill my mind. Fill my mind. Don’t use my body. It’s all in the mind. Think of the pen.

  When I got beat up in kindergarten, Mom wanted to transfer me to a private school. Dad said I needed to be strong. He’s the one who started this. He’s the one who put me in karate.

  I must’ve been so cute. Five years old, doing my little kicks and punches with the other boys and girls. Mom must’ve loved it.

  Karate made me strong. Karate taught me the balance.

  I close my eyes. I breathe slow.

 

  There was a boy in my class named Ashley. We used to tease him. He broke my nose.

  The balance between the mind and the body.

  Discipline.

  It made me strong; confident.

  Focus the mind and body. Focus and anything can be done.

  Almost anything, Dad would say.

  I can’t blame Dad. He gave me barriers.

  He gave me things to break.

 

  I’d been confident enough to ask out Marissa.

  The pen has three holes at the end of the cap, forming a circle.

  My goose bumps are settling. My dead legs tingle.

  The pen will move easier than a pencil. Pens are round. Pencils are hexagonal. Even that tiny bit of friction could make a difference.

  Was I ten or eleven? Red belt. I know that. Red when Marissa was in social studies with me. Cute little brunette. I always loved the brunettes. She sat right next to me. Dumb luck. Pretty girl.

  Famous first words, “Hi, Marissa. I’m Fr-Fr-Frederick.” It took her a month to accept sitting next to a stuttering dork like me.

  What did they call it in gym? “K-K-K-K-Rat-I” At least until I broke Garrett’s arm. He made fun of it too much. Troubled kid though. I’d call to apologize if it wasn’t twenty years ago. Was it his mom that got mugged in Windsor? Didn’t she die in the hospital? Poor, troubled kid.

  Who gets mugged in Canada?

 

  My parents argued. At least they’re both alive.

  At least I can still use my both my arms.

  Garrett can walk.

  Bastard.

  The Garfield mug used to be filled with pens and pencils. They’re all over the floor now. I don’t even bother trying to pick them all up. Just the one I want to catch.

  In school, before you do your homework, they always tell you to clear your mind. Put everything on the back burner and concentrate.

  I say dump it all in the pot and let it boil.

  Everything. Your childhood. Your anxiety. Your joy. Your memories. Take it all and turn it into soup.

  Use it.

  Marissa thought I was tough after that. At least until I made her see The Wizard instead of Back to the Future Part Two. Then she hated me.

  Stupid kid.

  I got to date her for a month and half. Got to be cool for a month and a half. Good times. Good experience. I think I was the first boy in my class to have a girlfriend.

  Always remember the experience.

  The pen writes black. Remember taking it apart earlier. Remember it has half its ink. Got to feel it inside and out. The tube is clear and stained black.

  I didn’t date much after that, which is funny. My first and only girlfriend came and went before I’d even hit puberty. I never really talked anyway. I hated the sound of my voice. Always repeating myself. Always stuttering. Stupid kids and their stupid problems.

  I may have concluded too young that all relationships end up like my parents’. Instead there were fights. There were low grades. Mom became disappointed. Dad said he wasn’t surprised.

  Therapists tell me that kind of stuff leaves scars. I tell them, “If you want to see scars, look at my knees. Look at where my feet used to be, you quack!”

 

  Mom said I can do anything I want. Dad said almost anything. Dad’s always been more of a realist. “Life doesn’t follow a schedule, or even a route. It always gets you somewhere good though.”

  Why’d Dad have to be the school bus driver?

 

  Sweat starts dripping down my forehead.

  Good, it’s coming. Keep going.

 

  I joined the wrestling team in high school. Only guy who could do the splits. The coach wanted me on the cheerleading team. Stupid puberty, thinking I’d be with the pretty girls. Forgot about the wrestli
ng team. Forgot about the football team. Forgot how quickly boys say faggot in a locker room.

  I didn’t even consider the fights and the suspensions. Just thought of how my school sport would involve looking up skirts all day.

  Damn the splits.

 

  It’s getting warm. Maybe it’ll work this time.

  I’ll never need a remote control again.

 

  The grades did change though. That’s what kept me cheerleading. Football players were getting kicked off the team over their lack of studies. I always managed to get by. Eek by. I had three friends and felt invisible unless I was on the field. Maybe a tenth of the crowd applauded at graduation.

  The diploma was nothing. The black belt though. That, I was proud of.

  The belt said I was strong. I was balanced.

 

  Karate teaches balance of the mind and body. Discipline.

  Sensei Jack always said, “You must learn true strength. Educating the body is only a quarter of the road. Training of the mind is where true greatness lies.”

  Sensei Jack also said I should clear my mind.

  I used to admire him. Lately I think he only got half way to greatness.

  Other kids will always remember me as the bus driver’s son.

 

  When my hands are in motion, a pen is weightless. Hold it still for several minutes and it