Aidan Fitzsimons
Stories (5)
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The Story of Waldo
The story of Waldo begins with Infinity. Infinity gave me Waldo. I was living in my bus at a month-long intentional community on a gorgeous piece of land in saguaro country, up in the mountains of Southern Arizona. Infinity showed up a week into the month; he came to run an interpersonal meditation workshop. Infinity has tattoos over every inch of his body, including his skull and face; an ornately designed blue third eye looks at you from the center of his forehead. He has one leg, and when he wasn’t using his crutches he hopped around everywhere on one highly-skilled bare foot. I once massaged his leg, in return for a massage he gave me. When he was my age, he died in a motorcycle accident; he decided to return to life, and woke up surrounded by very confused doctors. That was when he became Infinity.
By Aidan Fitzsimons4 years ago in Wander
Following the Owl
All stories are fiction. Even memoir is a form of fiction. There may be some non-fictional world outside— there may be— but once linked with the lens of our listening minds everything is understood as a story. A story is a string of neurons, and those neurons do not perfectly mirror the world witnessed. Memory authors and alters. Even the story I listen closest to, and speak from— the story I tell myself about myself— is a fiction. Myself, in fact, is fiction.
By Aidan Fitzsimons4 years ago in Fiction
Long Covid
Before Long Covid, I took the feeling of being well-rested for granted. I am young, 23; I used to love the feeling of pushing my body over the limit, of staying up all night to write a paper, of a Saturday night turning into a Sunday morning. I enjoyed how careless I could be, running the tank below empty and still fully recovering a day or two later. My body felt invincible, and I didn’t even have to try that hard to take care of it. I thought this invincibility would last another decade. But that changed with covid.
By Aidan Fitzsimons4 years ago in FYI
Winn the Cowboy
The white pickup, pulled over 100 yards away at the beginning of the long frontage road, had been sitting there for a few minutes. It could mean one of three things: the guy was thinking about picking me up, thinking about murdering me, or thinking about something unrelated to me--- me being the hitchhiker at the other end of the road.
By Aidan Fitzsimons4 years ago in Wander
