I'm Dead

Yet another belated introduction. Meet Herman.

I was running along, I thought, just fine. Then, along came a movie that, despite its views being at variance with a few of my own, changed my life. I can’t really call it a film, now can I? Since they don’t likely use that anymore. I wouldn’t really know.

But the protagonist of the story was played by Edward Norton, who arguably starred in it alongside Brad Pitt in Fight Club. If you haven’t seen it I won’t ruin it for you by explaining, but as a result of that movie, up cropped this guy who has dogged my writing, ever since. He might be desribed as an alter-ego; but he’s uncommonly present in my thinking to an uncomfortable degree, with one rare exception, which I won’t discuss here. He wants to be called something cool, like Khan or somebody else who was big and tough, but I hold him, quite often, in disdain. He’s unfiltered and profane and hyper-masculine. Thus I have named him Herman, to (our) dismay.

Does this make me weird? Probably. But he’s there, all the damn time, nevertheless.

I’d written about him, rather than just having him looking over my shoulder, but there needed to be a way to introduce Herman, just to shut him up. I’d written this, which at least, isn’t profane.

Oh and, by the way, the website mentioned herein is now defunct.

I'm Dead

Benjamin Trayne

Dead tired, for sure. Too many late ones, I guess.

Respite. That's all I want. Time off. Peace. Of mind, heart and spirit.

But where is that to be found?

Haven't a clue. Still looking.

“So what kinda crap is this, now?”

That's Herman, my inner writer. Who asked you to interject?

“I'll damn well interject, if I wanna. Lets get a smoke.”

Buzz off, Herman. We, I mean, I, just finished one.

“Well it didn't take. We've got a damned novel to finish. And here you are, writing some garbage that has nothing to do with our protagonist. Get the damned file out! And why are you stifling my curse words?”

It's still on the flash drive. Don't feel like getting it out. It got complicated, you know? How was I s'posed to know he'd survive? I don't want to screw it up. So I need a break. And I'm stifling your curse words so anyone can read it. We've done enough of that, for a while.

“But plain language isn't how real people talk. If you'd just sit down and let us write for a day...just one...”

You know I can't do that! Have a job, y' know?

“Well it's the wrong one, and you know it. Writing should be your job. Our job.”

Well, like I said, I need a break. This is it. And the job I have is a good one. Sort of.

“Writing for a break. There's your proof! So why the funky title, man? You know someone's gonna think you really are.”

Well, maybe I am.

“Don't hurry things, after all, when you're dead, so am I.”

True. Truer words were never spoken. Think anyone'll care?

“Prob'ly not. I will.”

Now how's that gonna work? Bright boy? If you're dead, you're dead! Caring stops!

“Sure 'bout that?”

No. It's one of my concerns with, you know, being dead. You read about the IRS having bodies exhumed to be sure people aren't faking it. To escape taxes, y'know. Which would be superb, a great and wonderful thing. I'd try it, but then I couldn't publish.

“If we're really dead, we could maybe get a job as a ghost writer...”

I'm not drinking, how could you be?

“There's an idea...”

Forget it. I'm busy. Getting a drink always messes with the dynamic.

“Alright, okay. So you're gonna write, how is that now, about the 'fact' that you're dead? And of course you can't be, because you're writing. What an idiotic premise. This one is so stupid, it's like 'Life is like six frozen matzoh balls floating in a bowl of Kool-Aid.' That's one of the dumb things that passes through our mind on a regular basis. But we're not Jewish, and we don't even know what a matzoh ball is! Or what the point was!”

There wasn't a point. It was a joke.

“But we don't remember the joke, do we? So why does it keep circulating, in here?”

Because it was absurd. Absurd things are funny. Especially, if there's any truth to the absurdity. I think the idea was that life sometimes seems to make no sense.

“You're starting to worry me.”

About what?

“Well like, what if we really are dead? Y' know, like, the brain is dying, and all we can manage is this stupid crap!”

Well maybe we are. We will be, someday, you know. Death and taxes. Those are the unavoidables. Then someone will read this, and say, hey, that sumbitch was alive!

“Yeah, uh hum, and now he's not.”

Relax. You worry too much. Embrace the inevitable.

“Will you...stop that?”

Haha, what?

“I told you what you could do with your 'embrace the inevitable,' and you didn't even give me the pleasure of a 'bleep.'”

Told you. Lightening up the language a little.

“Well, it sucks!”

Relax.

“Sssstop sayin' that!”

If you wouldn't keep tryin' to curse, I wouldn't have to keep ignorin' it.

“That time, you changed it!”

Consider this, dude. If we were dead, people might read more of our stuff. Like the novel we're getting close to finishing. And things we've written that only a few people have read. And imagine! The kids might even take a look! And there's something else.

“What, somebody'll actually start to make money on our stuff? Like after we're dead?”

Possibility. Don't care much about that. Hell, I don't care about it at all!

“Obviously. So what's the something else?”

I don't wanna brag.

“Spill it, man. You know you want to.”

Yeah, I do.

“So say it.”

Okay, I will. In a way, I already have. The poem, remember?

“G'wan.”

We have the power of discernment. Like Jon, in Kenton. We know more about a person at first look than possibly, anybody does. If people knew it, they wouldn't wanna be around us.

“Keep goin'.”

The things we write about that occurred in the past, really happened.

“People are gonna say, 'How could you know any of that?'”

Sure they are. We don't have to care. We can't tell 'em why, they'll think we're a nutcase.

“You're writing down a conversation with yourself. You are a nutcase.”

I have to stop and point something out. When it's a cool thing, it's 'we.' When it's not cool, it's 'you.'

“What, you expected your other self to not be human?”

'Alter-ego.' It sounds better. A lot of the future we've written about will happen, too. I know which things.

“You shouldn't include that. People are gonna press you to tell which things, and they'll wanna know why you think you know!”

Don't worry about it. I'm a nutcase.

“True! Truer words were never spoken. Finish.”

Everyone knows about that.

“You mean, if they think about it. Which they won't.”

Oh, alright.

Since I've begun writing, I've been having the time of my life. In truth I've nearly been killed numerous times, in real life. But oh, how I've lived! I'm as flawed, as perfect, as weak, as strong, as stupid, and as intelligent as anyone in the world, all at the same time. I am the full embodiment of all that's ever been wrong with humanity, and every last thing that's ever been right. I have such power at my fingertips that even I can't fully grasp its scope. I can, and will do, anything. I might, no, I will. A writer may die, but as long as there are humans around to read, he'll still be right there. How long do you think there will be humans? Well, I know.

A writer will someday save the world. I'd love to be that writer. But, maybe, it's you?

'I've lived, I've died, I've murdered, I've saved...'

“Whoops, there you go. There's the poem. Just direct 'em to the website.”

Dumbass. Anyone reads this after we're really dead, who do you think's gonna be paying the web host?

“Good point. Summarize.”

Okay. Taking a breath. No matter when you read this, that's what I'm doing. The air smells so, so sweet! And everything is going to be, alright. Depend on it.

Oh yeah, and, do help to make it so.

My name is Benjamin Trayne, and I shall live forever.

********

I stood in one place, or I sat in a chair.
And yet, I have traveled, have been everywhere,
In the deepest of caverns, where light cannot go,
On the highest of mountains, in gale winds and snow
I've streaked through the stars, but stopped on a dime,
Grown smaller than microbes, as I altered time;
I've lived, I've died, I've murdered, I've saved,
I've cheated death, and I've danced on your grave,
Stood on the border 'tween heaven and earth
Was drowned by bereavement, was brought back by mirth,
Accepted my failure to please everyone...
I'll simply keep writing, until I am done.
It's just a perspective, the writing's unplanned,
T'was not where it ended;
T'was where it began.