A GOAL WAS SET

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This DISCLAIMER pertains to all stories in the A 60-YEAR-OLD-MAN WALKING section of this website. Regardless of whether the story is prefaced with "Fiction" or "Non-Fiction."

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

We started on April 7, and on all but 3 days because of minor medical flare ups we walked and walked and walked and played tennis and walked.

ON OUR WAY TO SASKATOON WE PASSED
(CLICK PICTURES TO BE WHISKED AWAY)

BRITISH COLUMBIA

Chilliwack + Manning Park + Princeton + Hedley + Oliver + Rock Creek +
Grand Forks + Christina Lake + Blueberry Creek + Creston +

CRESTON

|CHANGE|

There is an old adage CHANGE IS GOOD.

It is probably coming from the mind of that asshole named They.

Harper just turned sixty. Starting anew at that age, how could that possibly be good?

Kids need their parents. Duh. Parents are their lifeblood. Duh. When they reach their teens, many begin to despise the authoritarian nature of parenting and would welcome if their parents went away—THE VIRUS for them is an extra bullet in the chamber.

“Mum, Dad, I hate you. By the way, I just tested positive for VIRUS. See you in hell, suckers.”

School is over, university is completed; the career world has arrived.

Fuck, you’re fired. Change is painful. Oh, please, your twenty-two. You’ll bounce. Your whole life is ahead of you. You don’t know squat, but whatever is next will be better than the last, a door slams shut. Twenty doors open.

Marriage comes, children arrive, divorce rears its ugly head. You’re fired. That’s okay, you are still listening to the soundtrack of your twenties. There is a whack of time to reinvent yourself. You reinvent.

You find calm—a new career. You turn forty. Your job ends—the company downsizes. You are a casualty. What the hell. You hit the pavement searching for new. Only five doors open, slightly. There are ten people in their twenties ahead of you waiting to be interviewed.

They conducts your interview.

“You’re resume is impressive. But if I can be frank, you are overqualified for this position. And we are looking for new blood—someone who is pliable. We find people of your age to be set in their ways. I wish you luck in your search.”

I don’t think They was sincere. And besides, They is twenty-five. Harper might be screwed. Harper is terrified. H thinks: how will I cope? How will I provide for my family? Fuck, They, I’m still relevant; aren’t I?

Harper turns fifty, H has love in H's life.

Harper's family is vacant, H |nuance lost| H's job. It pays the bills, Harper does not dare to change, Harper does not dare to step out on H's own—H turned fifty.

A decade slips by. Harper's work is devastating to H's health. People die.

Harper's mother just died. Harper shares the grief. Harper is met with platitudes.

A VIRUS comes. Harper is scared.

CHANGE. IS. NOT. GOOD.

There are no longer twenty doors swinging open. There is only one. But where is it? How does Harper find it? Where does H search?

If Harper can't find it, Harper risks being on the outside in a doorless world.

There is nothing left to kick down.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Harper must define Harper before its too late. H's scared. Petrified really.

Use your words. Never give up.

Those are the only options. Harper has been given a gift.

At twenty, CHANGE is a blip.

At thirty, CHANGE is an inconvenience.

At forty, CHANGE is daunting.

At fifty, CHANGE is eye-opening.

Beyond sixty, CHANGE is life-threatening.

Can someone please explain where during this journey, CHANGE is good?

Needless to say, Harper is terrified about what lays in store.

Harper will never give up. H will use H's words. H will SCREAM OUT for all facing the harshness of CHANGE later in life. H doesn't want to be alone. H doesn't want you to be alone, either.

When CHANGE unceremoniously arrives later in life, there is a chance that in the wake of CHANGE, a lost generation of broken souls will be left behind.

Harper cries.

CHECK FOR TATS

WELCOME TO ALBERTA

Summit Creek + Lundbrek + Fort MacLeod + Picture Butte +
Turin + Suffield + Empress +

SUMMIT CREEK CABINS

PICTURE BUTTE

EMPRESS

|COWARDICE|

in·sen·si·tive

/inˈsensədiv/

adjective

showing or feeling no concern for others' feelings.
"an insensitive remark"
when someone two decades your senior is venting their frustrations including several family deaths, piping in and giving a lesson on insenitivity.
|foreshadowing| phoning a person who listened to you blabber about |nuance lost| for ten years, to defend the person in (see 2).

cow·ard

/ˈkou(ə)rd/

noun
noun: coward; plural noun: cowards

a person who lacks the courage to do or endure dangerous or unpleasant things.
"they had run away—the cowards!"
"Lester will be giving you a call."
"Lester will be giving you a call."
"Lester will be giving you a call."

Hello, I am a furry kitty. I’ve spent most of my life at clown college.

You may ask yourself:
How did I get here?

And you may ask yourself:
How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself:
Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself:
This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself:
This is not my beautiful wife.

Why would a furry quadruped go to college — let alone a college for clowns?

I beg to ask: why not?

Clown College isn’t only for humans — it’s for all of god’s creatures; whatever god is?

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Billy Idol?

No, my decapitated mind is fuelled by the uncertainty of living. It hovers above me, capturing my glare, telling me things, whispering to me, so only I can hear the insanity.

Where are you going?

I’m going there—where you are—where we need to go—to the final point.

My name used to be Fuzzy Nose + Toes.

I like using a + sign in place of “and” —often because I write my own writing rules. And my rules belong to me.

Perfection doesn’t exist.

Fuck grammatical rules. We don’t speak in a grammatically correct fashion — so, why the need to pretentiously limit our audiences by writing for proofreaders, editors + the fucking game?

Fuck the proofreaders. Especially if they are fuck-able. We’re all fuck-able, we’ve all been fucked.

I’ll eat you if I get a chance. But I won’t.

Why?

You feed me + I think you might be gamey.

Back to my name, I changed it, I now go by Taran. I’m no longer a furry kitty. I have morphed into a maniacal demented demon.

I’m not nuts, or I’m not nuts enough, a debatable topic.

Where is your family?

Mine is gone.

Yours, I’ve taken yours from you — do you feel the visceral pain, the unbounded emotional loss?

Call them. Your call will ring hollow; your family members no longer can answer, not your mothers, brothers, sisters, father — none of them.

Why is my father last?

Because you need his love the most, but he punished you with lack.

Now, I’ve punished you more, saving you by taking away your non-existent wholeness, making you fucking grow. If you don’t, you’ll sink into crippling despair like the rest of society’s clones. You’ll find yourself trapped in a moment, never accepting anything new as better, progressive, real, life-changing and affirming.

I know you are listening, you must; it’s your only chance.