Building a career means you work on something, and try to get as good at it as possible.
I was on my way to becoming an advertiser, but I chose not to take that path. It would've meant that I would have had to work hard at getting good at praising products that I wouldn't even buy.
Basically, I would get good at lying, and I would be paid to lie.
To be fair, being an author isn't any different in that regard. Authors make their living by telling stories, which is just another form of lying.
Maybe I became a writer because I wanted to tell lies I can be proud of. Lies that stand the test of time, and are so good that everyone wants to hear them again and again.
Those kind of lies, white lies, wouldn't harm anyone.
"That's it," I said and put down the remote control. I had seen enough of this year's Super Bowl Halftime show and rose up to move the couch out of the way.
I took a few steps back, ran across the living room and jumped headfirst against the television set.
I went through it - luckily, since this hasn't worked every time - and found myself in a whirlpool of electric charge. It cracked and popped around me for a few seconds, until it passed and I shoot out of a television camera that was filming the night sky above the Lucas Oil Stadium.
The evening chill gave me goosebumps as I floated above the stadium. I took a deep breath and contemplated if I had the right to do what I was planning to do. I dived hard and smashed myself against the grass like a missile. The collision created a vacuum that sucked the performers below the ground, into a time pocket that was waiting in another dimension, where they could continue their show like nothing had happened.
The annual rings
I pierced through the ground and several annual rings, until I landed in 1998. Once there, I gravitated towards Chicago, where they were filming The Oprah Winfrey Show. Their guest, Madonna, had just finished her performance and was sitting backstage, sipping herbal tea.
I told her that I was a time travelling Super Bowl organizer from 2012, and that I needed her help, since our main performer had cancelled their show at the last minute.
I asked if she could fill in, and after some convincing she agreed to do the show.
We took of, towards the ceiling and went through the annual rings until we surfaced on the stadium.
I escorted them on to the stage, where they emerged not too long after at the original performers had sank under the grass.
(Push play to enjoy their performance)
They started playing and the crowd went silent. They were probably confused, at first, but then they started booing and shouting profanities. Luckily, for me, Madonna didn't seem to mind. She must have thought that 2012's crowds had forgotten who she was.
She delved deeper into the song.
'Never forget how to dream, butterfly'
Then, at last, the crowd settled down and started swaying in unison, mesmerized. The stadium lights poured out massive soap bubbles that were reflecting breathtakingly beautiful scenes from an underwater paradise where smiling new born babies were swimming with dolphins.
The biggest of the soap bubbles ascended above the stadium and created a transparent dome that enclosed us in like a mother's womb. We were all her children, Little Stars. 'Never forget who you are. Little star. Never forget where you come from. From love.'
The song ended, and the crowd gave her a thunderous ovation that lasted for minutes. Eventually their roar transformed into a big wave that swept over the performers and took them back to where and when they were coming from.
I smiled, sat down and tapped the grass gently. This brought the original performers back. Their show had just ended and huge golden letters that spelled WORLD PEACE appeared on the field.
I read Light My Fire, a memoir by Ray Manzarek, the co-founder and keyboard player for The Doors. His poetic writing style really captivated me.
So much so, that I went out and bought a poster of Jim Morrison.
When I got home, I put it on a wall and pushed my hands through the paper, into his hair.
He seemed afraid, At first, but I told him that I’m only going to borrow his hair for a while, while I grow my own.
‘That’s cool,’ he said, ‘but first, let me propose a deal. I will give you my hair, the poet’s hair, and in exchange you must give me all the color in your world’
‘All the color?’
‘Yes, everything except black and white. You need those to keep writing, with black letters on white paper’
‘What am I supposed to write about, if you take away the color, all the beauty, in the world?’
‘Your job, as a poet, is to remember everything the way it used to be and bring the whole world and it's beauty back to life with your writing. If you can’t do it, you’re not worthy of my hair’
I agreed.
With a solemn move, he removed his hair and planted it on top of my head. The new hair tickled as it pushed it's way trough my scalp and took root in my brain, making new mental connections and removing the ones that were getting old and unnecessary.
With The Poet's Hair
After a while, the tickling ended. All I had to do next, was to regain the colors and possibly create some new ones on the way. I knew I could do it. I had The Poet's Hair.
I have come to a conclusion that the meaning of life is to be happy, and that the way to happiness is to stop what you’re doing and realize that you don’t need anything more to be happy.
Happiness isn’t something that’s earned. It’s inside of us, waiting to be released and shared with the world.
As a human being this makes me smile, happily, but as a writer I’m confused.
For me, change is at the heart of storytelling and in order to show change we need to write about people who are not happy with what they have and want something else.
In a way, I find this story structure crooked, because I no longer believe that we need to become something better to feel better. This is the story that fuels our economy, but it’s not what fuels our heart.
