Coming Soon: MINT HOUSE

or "The Mostly Fictional Autobiography of Robert Lochaven."

Redirect link:

http://the-mint-house.blogspot.com/2014/01/endtroduction.html

See you there!

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 366

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1st 2014

You're still here?  It's over.  Go home...

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 365

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31st 2013

I will not bore you with the details of how we arrived to this point.  Instead I shall bore you with the details of this one last document and one last Jazz Hands send off.  After all, the final day of the year is more about embracing what is yet to come than it is about what we're leaving behind.

Admittedly, Jazz Hands in the mirror every day for the entirety of 2013 was an ambitious endeavor, a task that required a fair amount of endurance and discipline.  There were some missteps along the way, some forgettable posts, and moments lacking taste in general, but the promise was upheld nonetheless, all witnessed by visitors from numerous countries spanning six continents, totaling nearly 13,000 individual site visits as of this writing.  A modest number on its own merit, but far greater than what was once thought possible.  

Having read your author's accounts of hand jazzing throughout the majority of the year, I feel confident that one final deployment by me, Robert Lochaven, as a ceremonial parting ritual will feel natural and effortless.

Here I stand before my own reflection, early in the morning on this final day of 2013, it feels anything but natural.  Jazz Hands is the last thing I feel like doing and the mirror seems to be in total agreement.  I go for it like pulling off a Band Aid with eerily similar results.

We are now crossing the 365 Days of Jazz Hands finish line, and this is quite literally the end of a very long journey, yet I can't help feeling that this is just the beginning.

365 Days of Jazz Hands complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 364

MONDAY, DECEMBER 30th 2013

The request to call me Robert Lochaven two days ago was a reference to an old, familiar story dealing largely with the concept of escape.  Hijacking and reinterpreting the first passage or so seemed appropriate for an introduction to the descending moments of this journey.  However, you may call me what you will.  The name is, as they say, but a name.

And who are we to question conventional wisdom?

As stated, I am no longer giving chase to distant sunsets.  Also a reference to the classic narrative, and even though the story symbolically pits man versus beast, I assure you this beast was a whale of a metaphor implicating the inner struggles we impose upon ourselves.  I have no interest in such pursuits at this juncture.  Besides, chasing distant sunsets, another metaphor, is not unlike endlessly sprinting on the hamster's wheel.  The hastened pace merely ensures an expedited arrival to nowhere.  That hopefully concludes the metaphor portion of this entry and quite possibly the final metaphor of the entire 365 Days of Jazz Hands saga.

To be quite literal, the sun doesn't physically move from our specific vantage point, not even incrementally, something your previous author failed to understand, describing a commute  gazing upon the sun as she incrementally ascends the sky (eventually descending, hence the sunset chasing).  An erroneous statement, however the obvious metaphor and subsequent point made clear enough.  That's not to say that the sun is stationary as nearly everything in existence is in constant motion.  Everything in existence with one exception, that is.

In reality, our sun rotates around the center of the Milky Way Galaxy (remember that star on the bear's butt, home to none other than the big duck pond in the sky?).  The Milky Way, in concert with the Andromeda and Triangulum Galaxies, form a local system of three swirling celestial bodies uniformly rotating around some other central location somewhere within the vast, perplexing universe.  This new axis in turn rotates around some other central location, which in turn rotates around yet another axis, which in turn rotates around yet another central location farther still, and so on and so forth until journey's end eventually arrives at the Royal Axis of this unimaginably vast universe.  For continuity's sake, we'll consider this particular location to be the Royal Duck Pond residing upon the Royal Bear's Butt.  Our unlimited imaginations being the only entity with enough energy and gravitational pull for this singular point of origin to swirl around.

It is said that over time (billions upon billions of years, so relatively soon), our local system of three celestial galaxies will violently (albeit incrementally) collide and merge into one brilliant super galaxy.  This may cause the destruction of the three individual entities we know and love (and reside) today, happily swirling around their own familiar centers, but in turn shall create the beginnings of exciting new realities.  

Three forces competing for the same space.  This concept sounds vaguely familiar.

Today's Jazz Hands used the universe to express that every cycle has a point of origin, and an inevitable demise.  Please don't confuse this with a metaphor, as a metaphor and using something (the universe for example) to exemplify a concept are two entirely different things.

Day three-hundred and sixty-four complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 363

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 29th 2013

Your deceased and/or missing author has left with me the distinct task of completing these few remaining pages of hand jazzings, and complete these last few remaining pages of hand jazzings I shall.  After all, he did everything I ever asked of him.  It's the least I can do.

Moving forward, we must adhere to the understanding that I will carry out your author's last wishes of completion.  His promise is as good as my own.  As for the physical act of hand jazzing, well, I'm not quite feeling it and never actually bought into the concept.  I wouldn't even know where to begin and don't believe I'd be doing anyone any favors by deploying my own variations of Jazz Hands (please don't confuse 'doubt' with a realistic understanding of one's own limitations).

Sticking to the Royal Jazz Hands philosophy shall suffice.  Only two days remain of this journey after today, so our time together shall be quite brief.  I'll do my part to keep this as painless of a process as humanly possible.  Otherwise, let's continue to carry the torch lit way back on January 1st, 2013 and embrace the narrow window of opportunity that we have left.  Just try not to get all caught up in the shadows cast by the flame.  I believe we were meant to break that cycle of error.

Today's Jazz Hands were of the Royal variety.

Day three-hundred and sixty-three complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 362

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28th 2013

Call me Robert Lochaven.

The past is nowhere to be found and the future is now, proving once and for all that time is truly irrelevant.  Not unlike a tightrope that we must balance ourselves upon, but with an immense amount of slack.

Some time ago, never mind how long precisely, I thought I would travel through time, like a ship upon the watery parts of the world.  Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth, whenever it is a damp, drizzly December in my soul, I account it high time to take to the fluid currents of time.

I have now found solid purchase upon high ground, no longer giving chase to distant sunsets.

I have now found my home and appreciate the shelter from the raging storms of the salt water seas where the world's raging rivers converge.

Day three-hundred and sixty-two complete.

365 Days of Jazz Hands - Day 361

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 27th 2013

As I ritualistically pass along the icons of my morning commute, the sun does not shine upon my face.  It is a relatively cool and damp Southerly Southland thus far, a fine mist accumulates on the windshield of my gas guzzling trolley as incremental progress toward familiarity and expectation plod forward.

There is Becky, her memorial decorated with fresh Poinsettias.

There is Keith, his memorial still decorated with the helmet he wore the day he indirectly chose to expedite his inevitability.

Somber reminders that death is the ultimate price we pay for life, the two intimately tied together, inseparable from the first beat of the heart to the last.  How the moments between are spent is entirely up to us, however.   Don't mistake this gift as freedom, familiarity and expectation keep us firmly fixed to our own misguided cycles.  Abstract realities flicker and dance before us, mere shadows cast by the candlelight.

My bags are packed and there is no turning back.  

From the beginning of this specific journey, the concept of deploying Jazz Hands in the mirror for the entire year thrust me out of a comfort zone.  A valuable lesson indeed, learning that discomfort is a large percentage of an equation within the pursuit of freedom.  From my experience I'd say it's close to 99%.  

I will walk into my fabrication of a workplace amongst the actors and stage crew and I will graciously decline the opportunity to partake in the generalized holiday outing, an escape unto itself.  Employees clamoring for an opportunity to extend a lunch hour on ironic Friday, leaving the entire department and majority of the facility vacant for a long stretch of time, save for two.

I have a bit of a headache, I have much to accomplish prior to the start of the weekend, I'm allergic to political correctness, all valid reasons for non-participation.  All excuses, manufactured as much as our relevance within these orchards of commerce.

The real reason is that I have someone to murder.  

We are born with our id intact, the only portion of our personality that exists from the very beginning of life.  Carrying this with us forever, if not tempered, can internally destroy the opportunity to fully mature.   Emotional attachments to the past, these artifacts within our psyche are a weighty burden.  In many ways, this author represents the id.  In a sense, id is our natural tendency to cling to the past.  If I am the id, then it stands to reason I am history.

Our super ego develops over time as self-awareness slowly filters into our consciousness.  This is the part of our psyche that clouds reason with doubt and is a road block for the chances we must take in life.  Fear resides within the super ego, wanting nothing more than to adhere to expectation, regardless of origin, and never dares to step outside of familiarity.  In many ways the id and the super ego share much in common, however if the id wants to cling to the past, the super ego belittles the need causing an internal firestorm.  In a sense, the super ego is our natural tendency to linger within the present far too long, preventing progress, whether it is expedited or incremental.  If Mitch is the super ego, then it stands to reason that his bubble is about to burst.

This leaves ego, our heroic voice of reason.  Mediating the senseless needs and suppressive doubt, the ego is the symbol of balance and stability.  The ego understands necessary risks, moving out from under the umbrella of comfort zones and is willing to destroy road blocks before it in order to march forward.  This is the voice that assesses the world on its own terms and enables progress.  In a sense, the ego is our natural tendency to intelligently redefine reality and move toward a future filled with hope and promise.  If Robert Lochaven is the ego, then it stands to reason that we have not seen the last of him.

As it turns out, we've had three opposing forces, two antagonistic alter egos and our hero, competing for the same space all this time. 

As the collective group of eager coworkers depart, Mitch and I will bid them a final farewell.

Within the heart of the vacant building, we shall fetch our backpacks and empty their contents, beginning our game of hide and seek.  For starters, Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 35 is played and set to repeat, representing the cycle of life and our propensity as a human race to recreate a system of failure, resulting in a pattern of senseless death and destruction over and over and over again.

We take the pouches of blood we've been extracting from ourselves for the past forty-two days, three pints each, and liberate the crimson contents throughout the room.  Combined, the six pints represent enough blood to fill one man's entire circulatory system.  For the past forty-two days, incremental withdraws have been taken and the contents have been stored at forty-two degrees fahrenheit, the preferred temperature for storing blood for said timeframe.  Thanks again to Harold Meryman and his cow experiments for guiding us toward the appropriate blood storage processes.  And thanks be to the kind Blood Bus employees for allowing me to quiz them relentlessly on extraction techniques and then also for leaving some supplies accessible for stealthy acquisitions.  The needles, the bandages, the tubing and the plastic pouch thingies (I believe that's the clinical term used for the bags blood is ultimately stored within) all attained enabling the initial stages of the game.  

Once the blood is thoroughly dispensed around the room and a violent crime scene is manufactured, complete with signs of immense struggle, the shattered remnants of a mirror shall be placed center stage, representing the need to look within in order to find the right questions to ask and a willingness to confront our own misguided tendencies before we can piece the reflection back together to find the answers we so desperately seek.

Exactly how do you disappear completely in a matter of forty-two days?  

Extract your own blood, store it at forty-two degrees fahrenheit and stage a murder-suicide.  Or a double murder.  Or just an old fashioned murder, whatever makes the most sense in your specific situation.  Upon the day of reckoning, remove the blood and dispense it around the room with reckless abandon and of course, this ritual becomes somewhat surreal if done to the right choice of music, so choose your swan song wisely.  The real trick of course, is that you must be exceptionally meticulous in your preparations, and adequately conceal your intent (as well as the ongoing trauma on your arms) to everyone you know.  Be sure to invest in some long sleeve shirts.  It's good to have a solid voice of reason in this instance.  You need your very own Robert Lochaven to guide every move as there are a lot of logistics to secure.  Once you splatter the crime scene with massive quantities of your own blood, you have to be certain that there is nary a chance to be tracked down.  The escape plan is vital.  A new identity must be forged.  Like a canyon at the mercy of torrential currents, this is an incremental process.

Passports, untraceable currency, a getaway car and a confounding mystery left behind allowing ample time to vanish into the setting sun, all necessary components for your specific vanishing.

And then the game truly begins.

Racing against the clock is a paramount stage within this ultimate game of hide and seek.  Mitch goes his way, I go mine with every intention to never see or hear from each other again.  We leave the sticky mess behind and with it, virtually everything else as well.  Our self-doubt, unnecessary tendencies to cling to the past, expectations and comfort zones included.

Whomever hides the best shall be deemed the winner.  The competitor that gets caught will be presumed the murderer, the other presumed dead, creating quite possibly the only path to real freedom, the burden of being chased removed from the equation.  If and when authorities catch up to one of the men in hiding, this man may attempt to come clean and explain the entire process of blood extraction and storage and staging the whole ordeal, but this will most likely sound like the plea of a madman, a fabrication of reality in order to convince the courts of his innocence, quite possibly resulting in an insanity plea.  We all have our mental illnesses, but to the man who gets caught there will be an associated monumental illness, and a psych ward shall be the ultimate punishment for failure.  There is no coming back from this game.

Perhaps Robert Lochaven is the true victor.  

The finishing touches are getting applied to the rebuilt roof atop his new house, just as he requested.  When the storms rage on, there will be no penetrating this reinforced structure.  He claimed long ago that it was his house and that my occupancy in his stead was temporary.  It's safe to say that we finally caught up with the future and this is the crossroads where Robert Lochaven must take the reins.  

Time travel at its best.

The past, the present and the future.  The id, the super ego and the ego.  Coworker Mitch, this blog's author and Robert Lochaven.  Three entities competing for the same space, until today that is.  Much blood will be spilt.  A funeral march will be set to repeat.  The mirror will be shattered.  All of the unnecessary parts of the psyche cast away, destroyed, creating an improved, emerging reality in order to weather the raging storms that life permeates.  Our setting sun has finally reached its horizon line.

Atmospheric refraction at its finest.  

Case Study #3 now complete, it's time to bid you farewell.  With a mess left behind, a mystery to unravel, and Mitch heading out to locations unknown, I depart.  Looking over my shoulder one last time, exiting the empire of self-importance, I notice the fake surveillance camera pointed in my direction, recording nothing.  This raises a faint smile as I quietly disappear into the fine mist of this cool and damp Southerly Southland Friday, putting the past squarely behind me.  

I am history.

Today's Jazz Hands deploy for you one last time and in the process, shatter the mirror.  They leave you in good hands, however.  Hands that are well equipped to piece the shards back together.  Hands that are well equipped to jazz in new ways, currently unknown.  Hands that are well equipped to embrace each and every moment of a future filled with hope and promise.

Today's Jazz Hands wave goodbye.

Day three-hundred and sixty-one complete.