Free Associations Based on Historically Accurate Names of People and Places in "Braveheart"

William Wallace Alabama shakes hands across American flags of our fathers day of the dead

The Battle of Stirling silver medal heads and shoulders above the rest in peace

Edward Longshanks for the memories like the corners of my mind the gap band on the run

Princess Isabelle is a bell tower of power plant

The Battle of Fal-Captain-kirk land of the free home of the brave heart holy shit full circle

Ya Filthy Animal

I saw MacCaulay Culkin once, at the height of his fame, walking from a make-your-own-music-video boutique in an upscale Chicago mall. I was there to play mini-golf, eat frogs' legs and blue ice cream, see the fountain spray over the river. The celebrity run-in was jarring, momentous. I had seen his work with my father just weeks before. It moved me. I was about his age, maybe a slightly older 14, he in his leather jacket obscenely decorated with baseball diamonds, a middle school entourage in tow. He was short, even for his age. I, too.

And now my nostrils breathe fire in the burnt brown shadows of a nameless television show, the red reflections of clothing sales living in the sheen of the coffee tables. I am having trouble seeing clearly these days. Today, when I pet my dog, I swore the moment was a dream. I still do. And then, when M died in the Bond movie, my own mortality was plainly evident. It does not matter that I will not die poignantly, my enemy saying that yes this yes this was was the was it was the way it was supposed to end. My ending is an ending, unpoignant. The absence of a negative. The absence of a positive. A narrative with no arcs

And Culkin slaps his cheeks, his mouth an "O" 

Cops, Robbers

They say that everyone has a novel in them. Here is mine:

A rider rides a bicycle several times a week. The distance of these rides at first seems lengthy, but eventually we realize that in the grand scheme of things, no no even in the scheme of bicycles and their riders, they are not. These rides are not linear. The rider always ends up where he started. This continues.

Besides slight changes in wind speed and direction and weather, every chapter is exactly the same.

The steel grey, the reflective wrapped teal, the honey, and a creeking

If the temperature and time are just right: 58 degrees, slight breeze, no humidity, the waning sunset,  the bike disappears and you are flying.

(Actually, the universe is shaped exactly like a human, and we are living in the fingertips.)

Oliver Sachs

These visions like present tense dreams, forgotten and hazy as they happen:

Sitting speechless, looking away, a face tremulous and raging indigo. The bus riders' eyes bulging in unison. The spine of a fish, laid out in two dimensions, outlined in neon yellow, weeping softly behind the plate of glass. We are all waiting for the concluding statement, the one that makes sense of all of this. We do not realize that this, too, has already passed:

"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl."
"Pterodactyl!"
MWAW.

And we are matter. We are compacted energy. And we are matter, mattering.

I do not think 't

All of the sounds at once. Every leaf blower. Every dish washer. Every motorcycle acceleration. Every grocery store check out scanner. Every conversation.

So that there are no more tangents.