Embedded Files
Jason Heilman Word Count: ~ 1300
864.533.8663 Category: Nonfiction
jasonmheilman@gmail.com Style: Essay
SLACK FROM CENTER
By Jason Heilman
I was talking with a friend of mine the other day. The idle conversation took the shape of
unexpected “crazy Ivans” that idle chat with friends take occasionally. An abrupt turn
that may seem completely random in the narrow lens; but morphs into expected
outcomes the broader we adjust the aperture diaphragm of the camera eye of life.
Say what now? Let me rephrase.
I stopped into my local watering hole the other day. One of them, I’m oddly blessed to
have several of these “of the people; for the people” locations near me. This is a tourist
town. Familiar faces are the kind I like.
I was sitting next to Johhny’s familiar face. Together we navigated the space between
rounds with discussion around random morsels of information pulled from the
environment at large. It may be other customers, or the employees, or the sports on the
tv, the non-sports on tv, and so often the most interesting material come through the
trivia programing.
I find that trivia programing to be absolute catnip. Not so much in a linear fashion. I like
the trivia because I like expanding where I find vacancies in my knowledge. Curiosities
are round so many corners. Many of us find this protective setting where we’re really not
that interested what’s right around the corner. To me, we learn this macro behavior
Jason Heilman / Slack from Center / 2
where we fill from place to place with some connection to the tribe in general. The
tighter our connection to the tribe, the more safety we feel in our connection.
That’s the relationship as I see it. Maybe I see it that way I do because I’ve intentionally
loosened my connection to the tribe. I still operate as a member of the tribe. I’ve just
introduced enough slack between my center of gravity and that of the tribe so that I can
see these divergences.
From the core center things look the way they look. And all of those sharing that space
are likely to see things the same. They share perspective. Allowing yourself slack from
center you can see from additional perspectives. When you can see a thing in multiple
perspectives, you can understand a thing with greater depth.
That may seem like a ‘way too complex’ set up to launch the bar question “Who’s your
favorite Batman?” Let me explain why it is not.
Johhny pulled that one seemingly from nowhere. But it must have come from some
connection through the trivia. Not one that listed the different Batman’s. Something
tangential to that. Something to get us to the doorway.
Johhny: “Who’s your favorite Batman of all time?”
I surprised myself when I answered before the question mark left his mouth.
Jason: “Michael Keaton.”
Johhny gave me that, ‘holy shit; THAT’S the right answer!’ look.
Johhny: “YES!!!”
Jason Heilman / Slack from Center / 3
Jason: “It’s a no-brainer for me. That’s the one that came out when I was a kid. That’s
the one that set the bar for me.”
It was similar for Johhny. The bar was set in childhood for him too. It is a bar that is set
in childhood for some of us. Not for all.
The comics have for a long time mirrored us back to us. Before I move on from the
Batman discussion, I have to share we also agreed on the worst Batman of all time.
Benjamin Geza Affleck. I don’t remember Johnny’s reason. Mine is simply that I cannot
stand him on camera. He just looks so needy for attention in every frame I have ever
seen him. That is all.
The comic books are littered with tropes. Some are so common that one comic universe
looks just like the other if you remove some of the variables. Batman and Ironman are
both brilliant philanthropist vigilantes. Superman and Captain America are both super
human strength, charismatic leaders. Wonder Woman and Black Widow are both
looking for a reason to write a female character with powers, but juuuust enough powers
to be acceptable to readers at the time. You may be surprised to learn that Natasha
Romanoff (Black Widow) dates back to Marval Comics’ Tales of Suspense #52
published April 1964. Not to be outdone, Diana Prince (Wonder Woman) dates back to
All Star Comics #8 circa October 1941.
Do you think that sounds silly or like hyperbole? May I remind you that our forward
thinking society did not allow woman to participate in the Boston Marathon until 1972.
Eight years after Black Widow was introduced. Thirty-one freaking years from the time
Jason Heilman / Slack from Center / 4
we met Wonder Woman on paper until the time we would allow women to display their
wonderful powers on the road.
It was in that Marvel universe comic run just a year before we met the Black Widow that
we met another team of characters. A team which is exceptionally familiar to many of us
today. They were a team assembled via a commonality in the uncommon. Personal
evolutionary conditions that made them different than the rest of the world. The utility of
their difference was yet to be known. It was only known that they were different by birth.
For many of them those differences so frightened their loved ones that they sent these
mutants to live in a school in upstate New York. Xaiver’s school for Gifted Youngsters.
These were the X Men.
It’s a dynamic the DC universe never explored to the level Marvel did. Stan Lee’s
creation of the X Men was an absolute evolution in the story telling of difference.
Think about it. Until then most characters in the comics had a dynamic, life shaping
event that quickly shifted them from what they were before to what they had become.
Good characters and bad. There was no slow evolution. They never explored the
condition of an unpleasant difference without a known utility for the difference.
This was the 1960s. Martin Luther King’s march on Washington and “I Have A Dream”
speech was delivered just a month before X Men #1 was released. In fact, it is said that
Stan Lee shaped the Charles Xaiver character after MLK Jr. and the Magneto character
around Malcom X. Neither character ‘bad’. Simply each with their own methods of
accomplishing their objective.
Jason Heilman / Slack from Center / 5
All this mutant activity happened and it frightened us outside of the activity because it
didn’t happen to us. But even from within this mutant community there is great conflict of
how best to operate, survive, and live within the community.
Yes, I know I’m talking about comic books. No, I have never met anyone who can cut a
tree in half with the lasers he shoots from his eyes, or ride on a suspended slideway of
ice he shoots from his hands, or even move and shape metal with their mind.
I can’t do any of that stuff. Not even close. But I do have differences from the community
at large. There are things about me that are uncommon to everyone else. They may not
be as dramatic as these examples, but they’re still differences. Differences for which I
don’t yet know what utility I might find. The only thing I know is; if I want to find benefit in
my difference, I can’t be scared of it. I can’t hide for my difference if I want to find the
beautiful benefit behind my difference.
We need to welcome our differences into our own “Xavier’s School for Gifted
Youngsters”. Maybe we are fortunate to have a support group around us already who is
serving this function in our lives. Wonderful for us if we do. If we do not have that group,
we should find our way to that group. It is how we evolve that un-understood difference
into a strength. We need to find our group where our differences are accepted and we
are encouraged to grow within our differences.
Because THAT is where true super power lies.
Jason Heilman Word Count: ~1,520
864.533.8663 Category: Nonfiction
Simultaneous Submiss: jasonmheilman@gmail.com
MISSING THE MARATHON
By Jason Heilman
10/22/2026
Dearest Marathon,
Over 18 months have passed since our last rendezvous. It was right here in town. This Myrtle
Beach. Our get togethers are always so cool when you come to the town where I live. Heck, our
engagements are magical no matter where they occur. And we’ve had a bunch. I’m not always a
‘count um up’ guy, but I think you and I have shared the romance of the road something like
forty times.
I can still remember when we met. That beautiful March 2010 morning in Virginia Beach. Just a
280 mile seagull’s jaunt from where I remember it now. I don’t know if I ever told you how
much preparation went into just getting ready to meet you. I mean, it was a LOT of work. Yes.
That’s right I did bring my brother with me that first time. I wasn’t scared to meet you. But I did
have some nerves.
Jason Heilman / Missing the Marathon/ Page 2
You are heavy on my mind today as I sit here with the growing realization that we might not
enjoy each other again. The indicators accumulate like snowfall suggesting that our time together
may be at an end. It isn’t something I want to accept. If only wanting made it so.
No. I should never have presumed one ride with you would mean another, and then another, and
then another. But it did. At least there for a while. I think we had a stretch where we saw each
other once a month for eight straight months. Something like that. Looking back I have no idea
from where I got the stamina to spend so much time with you.
Having been through the experience I know that you require lifestyle. A lifestyle of decisions
that support a healthy relationship with you. I didn’t realize it at the time; but it was our meetings
and my desire to have more meetings that held me in the lifestyle. That lifestyle is a wonderful
place to be. I remember it with great fondness today.
But I admire from a distance, Marathon. We were always aware this may be how it wraps up for
us. That might have been the final scene of act three that last time we were together. You knew
about the old knee injury. Maybe it sounded unbelievable given you and I ran something like a
thousand miles together in 15 years. We were really cookin’ back then. And I am grateful that I
had a sense at the time that what we were doing was pretty special and it was something that
should be appreciated. I’m tremendously grateful. It’s so easy to allow the present to slide into
common. Well, you know.
That’s always been an incredibly enticing aspect of your allure Marathon. You require a different
kind of presence than I’ve been able to replicate anywhere else in life. It is some primal
presence. I couldn’t attempt to name it; but it’s a source presence. It’s from the core somewhere.
Simultaneously complex and simple. It’s a different way to experience life.
Jason Heilman / Missing the Marathon/ Page 3
When I’m running with the presence you require, the lens of life is just different, the framing is
better than previously, and the writing goes from Gary Larson to Leo Tolstoy. Do you remember
on that day we met? We were like eight miles into the experience. Things were going great. You
were SO much more attractive in person than I ever would have imagined. You were
immediately brilliant, and funny, and kind. Am I gushing? I’m gushing.
You were more than I could have imagined and you were finding me handsome, and charming,
maybe a little bit rugged. I’d settled in from my nerves of meeting you for the first time. I’d
found a good rhythm in which I was running. I always felt stronger in the rhythm. The repetition,
the constant footfalls. That was always my jam. But yeah, we were about eight miles in. We had
this fantastic rhythm going. Temps were resplendent. And we’re approaching a small cheering
section in this unincorporated looking area of town.
Do you remember how prideful we felt when we realized those were United States Military
personnel and THEY had come out to cheer US on. It still gives me chicken skin to remember
that. I never would have predicted the instant power that moment delivered.
So we’re running, and we’re in our rhythm, and I am experiencing that presence that you require.
And we’re approaching our cheering section of military personnel and they have their hands up
for high-fives. Hell! F-in’! Yeah!
I remember there being maybe 16 in the group, maybe a little more like two clusters of eight. But
lined along the road in cheering formation. I remember there were men and women in the group
and I remember them in their greens. I’m sorry but I can’t tell you what branch of the service
they were. I was present that day; but I wasn’t THAT present.
Jason Heilman / Missing the Marathon/ Page 4
We came up to that first extended hand and we learned something really quick in that moment;
didn’t we? Our service personnel do NOT give weak high fives! You know if you’re running past
your buddy and as you’re passing each other you high-five, there’s the intended slap but then the
resistance is immediately removed. Just an instant of conflict before complete surrender.
With those guys and gals those high-fives were instant conflict; but this was our fighting men
and women. Instant conflict is in their vocabulary. Complete surrender is not. Today; those are
still probably the 16 firmest and 16 coolest high-fives I have had in my life.
It happens when we’re together and in this special level of experience. You Marathon, I could
reminisce all day. Running in Yuma, AZ before the sun came up with the prairie dogs yapping at
us from a distance. How we learned how strong the smell of lettuce can surprisingly be when you
have nothing but lettuce fields around you in four directions. And that turnaround point which if
missed would run you right down into Mexico.
Or that abnormally hot Memorial Day weekend in Buffalo, NY. Remember that one was all
around the neighborhoods around the city? The unusual heat led race organizers to ask the people
of Buffalo who were along the route to move their sprinklers to the curbside and turn them on for
the marathon. God do you remember what that looked like? The friendly Buffalonians with long
stretches everywhere people had brought out their sprinklers. Remember they were SO friendly
even the people on the side of the street opposite from where runners would intuitively run
brought their sprinklers to the curb as well? They wanted to contribute. They didn’t control what
side of the street they lived on. They wanted offer us the sprinkler relief too. Didn’t those
sprinklers shooting off both sides of the street in that low angle springtime morning sun just look
so super cool? How appropriate that just a half an hour from Niagara Falls such a curiously
similar model would exist?
Jason Heilman / Missing the Marathon/ Page 5
Of course, they weren’t all the best of times. We hit a pothole or two. I still remember that time
in Harrisburg, PA when I just couldn’t hang with you. I’d been under the weather for a bit and
had considered not even hanging out with you. But that was another one where you’d come to
my hometown. I guess I pressured myself a little extra hard because of the location. We started
together that day, but I had to step away from you just three miles in. I don’t think I ever told you
this but I found a place there along the route, but out of general view. It would have been over
there near the PennDOT building. I sat there that day and I cried. I don’t know how long I cried.
It felt like a long time. But it was something I needed to go through. It was something I needed to
do.
Those tears were the first precipitants of a reaction that seems to have entered maturity. We
always knew, Marathon that our time together was not guaranteed. And we’ve had some
awesome times. We really have.
We never know what the future holds. Perhaps my troublesome knee and ever flagging self-
disciple will turn a corner. Maybe they will find what they are looking for and they will come
back to me. Maybe that will happen. I’m no doctor, but I don’t think that’s how osteoarthritis and
depression work.
So I’ll be here Marathon. I will be here remembering you fondly. Our times will exist forever in
the space between my ears. I could not wish more for you. May you continue connecting with
others and changing their lives for the better the way you did mine.
It absolutely is my hope that one day I might find a pathway back to you. But it’s going to be an
entirely different collection of mile markers to get back to you next time.
Until then; here’s to us.
Forever yours,
Jason
Jason Heilman Word Count: ~1,500
864.533.8663 Category: Nonfiction
jasonmheilman@gmail.com Simultaneous Submiss:
Killing the Boy
by Jason Heilman
There once was a sweet young boy. This was many years ago. The boy was wide eyed
and his base programming for life was still to be written.
The boy also had a father that you might call protective and nurturing. You might call
him that. The father was a selectively involved charming narcissistic asshole. But the
little boy didn’t know. He was just a little boy.
The boy’s father presented himself as that to which the boy should aspire. ‘Recreate the
life that I have lived in honor to me. That is my expectation of you. And when I see you
acting in a way that honors me, I will give you my attention and my affection.’
‘And as you aspire to approximate me into eternity you may have an inclination to act in
another way. Something that you might call your Self.’ The energy of the father would
say to the boy. “Self is not only discouraged, it is forbidden.”
‘And we also do not dance, we do not sing, we do not express ourselves in any way that
could possibly make ME uncomfortable. We do NOT do that? Got it!?!’
The energy of the little boy replied ‘Yes father’ and he went on living his life. He didn’t
know any better. He was just a little boy.
And so it was.
Jason Heilman / Killing the Boy / 2
This worked fine in the home. As the boy grew he would mirror father back to father
and be sure to push down any feelings that might be counter the paternal primary
directive. Obscuring himself while presenting father’s fancies to the world.
As any Intro to Psych student with just one night’s stay at a “Holiday Inn Express” might
suppose; issues began to present.
The strategy of minimizing himself and reflecting others he would encounter in life was
not one for a glorious life of fulfilment. It led to the boy presenting a likeable impression
to those he would meet. But an impression with little depth. There is no expanse in the
condition of reflection.
As much as presenting others protected an aspect of his psyche, it stifled his own
growth. His nonconforming ideas would have to be held inside. As time went by the
chasm of conformity grew. There was something entirely sinister metastasizing inside
the boy as Self was stifled and held inside.
Additionally the duty of assimilation of father’s traits did NOT allow for filtering of the
unattractive elements of the contemptuous bag of douche. Intolerance, Impatience,
Aggressive anger was always just on deck. Hate with totality. Hate those who aren’t
you. But you are me. So love only me.
So you can see where we are already fraught with toxic conditioning. The only other
thing I can add to fortify the tragedy for the author is to identify the boy. He is me. This is
my story.
Decades have passed. So has father. I’ve been a thermo-nuclear mess at points along
the way. Not always. Oh, but there have been moments. And there has been progress.
Jason Heilman / Killing the Boy / 3
And sometimes progress is learning there is more progress to be made. And sometimes
progress is simple surrender. An acceptance of what is. Even if a thing is uncomfortable
at first. Being in conflict with something that is always going to equal conflict. Always. By
definition. Acceptance is powerful.
I am accepting this little boy. This scared little boy. He lives inside me. But he is not me.
He is a representation of me almost 50 years ago. And I look at him and I adore him
and I wrap my arms around him and I cry for him. There is so much he has endured
already. There is so much more he will endure. I feel so bad for him.
But the sweet scared little boy; as precious as he is; has an insidious nature. It is not
intended. It is not hostile. But it is emphatically true. The little boy is my base
programming from all those years ago. The little boy is the form when I learned about
the world. My earliest principles are woven right in that nascent psyche. So as
challenging as it may be to work on myself, every time I am able to take a few steps
forward, that scared little boy still holds that base programming. A simple ‘restore
default settings’ capability. It’s not intended. It’s not welcome. And it’s not stoppable. It is
constant erosion. The dream where the harder you run the farther away your objective
becomes. It’s like that. Except this is my life.
I’ve worked on myself over the years. Some gains have kind of taken, but they require a
lot of work and vigilance. A concept that I found that I really identify with recently is the
idea of a “Parts” make up of our Self. The Self is the compilation of several other parts.
Each part with specific duties. The Planner part plans for the future. The Reactor part
makes things happen. The Executive part is the one they all report up to. The top level
of Self.
Jason Heilman / Killing the Boy / 4
At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work.
And the exact parts and the names of the parts. Those are conceptual discussions. The
base concept is that different areas of Self are tasked with doing different tasks for Self.
Each area reports up to the executive Self. “We ain’t all out here doin’ our own shit. This
ain’t that type of shit show. We’re running this through the boss. Like a business.”
That’s the concept. For me; it’s been difficult to achieve. And while I have struggled,
sometimes you struggle and you are just missing a tiny little piece. Sometimes it looks
like you’re struggling to get to the objective and it looks as though it’s getting farther
away. And then you feel something bump into your buttocks. And you turn. And I’ll be
damned. It’s that thing I was chasing. I was struggling to get to it. I thought I was losing
it but here it is.
That’s what happened when a friend suggested the concept of Protector to swap in
place of the Executive moniker. And I started to look at this psychology of the Protector.
The Protector; for me, made myself small when I was a little boy. I stay small so as not
to be noticed. I mirror back father or those I will interact with. I will ignore Self.
My parts of Self have been working in dysfunction. Self wants to reveal itself. The
Protector says ‘I’d really like to do this, but it’s not what we do.’ The Reactor Self sees
what’s happening and knows this isn’t the programming so it throws the entire system in
error state. Over load focus. Create a seizure of action. Spike anxiety to the moon.
This is true dysfunction. And it’s time to do something about it.
I collect the scared little boy and we go to one of my favorite places. Huntington Beach
State Park in Murrells Inlet, SC. The park sits on the coast of South Carolina just south
Jason Heilman / Killing the Boy / 5
of Myrtle Beach. Along with over two miles of beautiful beach, the park has estuaries,
and ponds, and streams and all manner of wildlife.
We spend the day walking together. Telling stories. Remembering both wonderful and
terrible things. We laugh and we cry. I tell him what he means to me. He tells me what I
mean to him.
An alligator crosses the road. He is crossing in the crosswalk. Alignment is here.
We are standing by Mullet-Pond. Wildlife is all around. The day is glorious. The boy
gives me a smile and a knowing look. I tell him one last time “I love you”.
My hand reaches to my rear waistband and returns to view holding a 357 magnum
pistol. I center the sights on the area between the boys eyes.
The boy looks peacefully at the cold steel. The straight on view of the bullet chamber
seems as if to be winking at the boy. The chamber moves.
The husk of the boy ejects violently backwards. A 158 grain Magtech round obliterated
the base programming in a micro-second. But there is no red cloud of blood and debris.
Instead the violence of the beginning of the action inexplicably slows to peacefulness. In
the slow moving suspension of the boy a cloud not so much manifests, but evolves from
the spent form. A release has occurred. The energy of the scared little boy condemned
to a life of suffering has been released. His form while slowly hovering in reverse begins
to sparkle and shine with metallic light intensities. The solid form fractures and erupts
into a swam of vibrantly hued metallic butterflies. Butterflies that disperse into the world.
The energy has been disbursed. The boy is at peace. And I am free to act in my best
interests.
End.
Jason Heilman Word Count: ~1114
864.533.8663 Category: Nonfiction
jasonmheilman@gmail.com Style: Essay
“A Case for Dying Easy”
By: Jason Heilman
Next month will mark fifteen years since news of the Jerry Sandusky scandal shook free
of those Happy Valley Illuminati in State College, Pennsylvania. Fifteen years may not
be one of our common reflection points. Screw common. Jerry Sandusky would have.
No. I’m not writing to reopen old wounds or point the finger or peel into conspiracy
theories. They’ll do all that again at the twenty-year anniversary. If that’s what you’re
into, hang out for a bit. Those stories are coming. You may want to grab a Snickers bar
for the wait; but they’ll be here.
A fifteen-year look in gives us a significant milestone without all the noise of a major
anniversary. It’s a delightful spot for a little introspective reflection on my fanaticism as it
applies to sports. A delightful spot indeed.
It would seem to me you would have to be something other than human for your heart
not to break ANY time children are so violently robbed of any connection they might
ever have to a peaceful existence. When it comes to ranking the abject terribleness
man can display, how is that act not one of the top couple?
There’s that scene in Unforgiven. William Munny and the Schofield Kid are debriefing
after lighting up Quick Mike while he was lighting up that outhouse. The Schofield Kid is
freaking out. He had no idea what it would look like from within the murderer’s club. And
it did not suit him at all. But William Munny knew those clubhouse walls well. He calmly
A Case for Dying Easy / Jason Heilman / 2
observes; “It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man. You take away all he’s got, and all he’s
ever gonna have.” What an incredible line! But do you not think that what Sandusky did
was take away any power those children were ever going to have, and any hope of ever
feeling any control as they struggle to navigate their own existence?
Sure. Death is final. But if you know anything about tortured existence, anything; you
can probably see where I’m going. If you don’t know anything about tortured existence;
then la dee dah. Here is a crumpet for your royal ass. I believe we all know torture at
some level of existence. Just imagine if torture is ALL you experience within your
existence. Wouldn’t the finality of death have a different ring from that perspective?
But it was horrible all around. There was awful to go around. Do you remember Mike
McQueary? Not Quick Mike, Red Mike. That guy. First, he takes a direct hit from the fire
god, that name couldn’t have been fun as a kid, and then he gingerly walks right into the
middle of that poopshow.
That was 2011 when we first learned of the heartbreaker. For reference, I would have
been 36 years old and at apex fandom for my sports teams. I graduated from the
Middletown (Harrisburg) campus of Penn State University in December of 2001. Dad
had spent some time attending PSU. He had dadest of dad stories from Happy Valley. It
was inevitable that I would be a Penn State fan. As inescapable as the Value Jet-ian
crater in a Florida Swamp sized hole the despicable news would punch in my fandome.
As painful as the experience was, I am grateful for having experienced it. I needed to.
My fanaticism could border on savagery. I was allegedly a fully functioning grown man,
A Case for Dying Easy / Jason Heilman / 3
yet if President Omaba’s Nitaly Lions lost or Saturday —and yes, I’m matching his
pronunciation there— I’d be a miserable prick all week. The change was needed for me.
Now I have fifteen years of decompression to post-mortem the situation. I actually find
myself today trying to get back some of the zeal and zest of ignorant celebration. The
pendulum has sung so far! I thought it was a pendulum. Since when do pendulums go
past ninety degrees? Oh dang.
I’m not completely on the outside of fandome today. I still watch. But not as the diehard I
was in the glory and pageantry of those fall afternoons. Not as a diehard. Today I watch
as a die-easy. “Oh, they suck again? Okay. Is golf on?” has replaced that “anything to
support the banner” moronity of the day.
I’m telling you, it would be nice to get some of that back. My fervor today is
manufactured. Anticipation throughout the week delivers the game at game time. Eh.
There it is. It’s a game. I root for the team that wears blue and white. It would give me
some small amount of joy and satisfaction if they win. I can’t exactly tell you why it
would give me joy or satisfaction. I guess because I have decided to identify with them, I
should now be happy that they had a favorable outcome in their game.
Doesn’t it sound a little ridiculous when you say it that way? But isn’t that the nature of
fandome? It was. It is for me. My dial has just been turned way back today compared to
where it was fifteen years ago.
Yes, it could be the malaise of age. These days. One day after the other after the other
after the other that just do not cease. Erosion can be as subtle as the breeze created
tearing off a daily calendar page. Imperceptible in the static. Undeniable in the dynamic.
A Case for Dying Easy / Jason Heilman / 4
That’s where I am today. Wistful of a much more Neanderthal time than the Cracker
Jack scholarly enclave I occupy today. It was passion. That is the name of the thing. It
was passion.
Where have you gone passion? That horribleness that was revealed fifteen years ago
tore a hole in my sports-time continuum. It ripped it open and I have been bleeding
passion ever since.
The advancement and acceptance of sports gambling have also entered the arena. As
has Name Image Likeness. And these questions around gender identity in sports add
more gasoline to the fire than I choose to battle.
I don’t know how I might ever hope to recapture the passion. Is passion creatable? How
would one do that? It seems like passion is a natural outcome of chaotic forces. Passion
is one outcome of chaotic forces. There are other, less desirable outcomes of chaotic
forces. Passion creation sounds like a risky venture to me.
Today I sit with my bicycle tire patch kit and this hole in my sports-time continuum laid
across my lap. I’m trying to patch it up. Maybe once the hole is spackled over, I can look
forward to some volume of pressure. Maybe. Maybe this innertube will regain the
strength to contain passion again.
Maybe.
Jason Heilman Word Count: ~1046
864.533.8663 Category: Nonfiction
jasonmheilman@gmail.com Style: Essay
Living Fossil
By Jason Heilman
Time has that way of being a litmus test of what was. Science might say in an instant if
a thing is an acid or a base. But time reveals whether a thing was acidic thought or
basic knowledge. Interestingly the science results compared to the time results may
look as random as soccer match outcomes. Because they aren’t necessarily connected.
How often have we found what is brilliantly true in the moment to be unmistakable false
over time? You don’t have to admit what you’ve done that brings you understanding.
Just admit to yourself you know what I’m talking about.
I think back through that lens of time a good handful of years. Let’s call it ten years ago
a good friend of mine was walking me through the meaning behind each of her tattoos.
She was already a romantic friend, so no, it wasn’t one of those “so where else do you
have tattoos?” goober questions that are the absolute lowest of low handing fruits (oh
by the way).
No, at the time my general feeling around tattoos was one of annoyance. Set aside, the
act of permanently inking an impermanent landscape just didn’t align in my mind. For
me; looking at a thing that originated with hard asses and tough guys but has evolved to
dude bros and sorority girls is pretty darn comical. Is it not?
So, with my evolved opinion around tattoos she took me around hers and the meaning
for each. I know the meaning for each was deep. Were I to see them again I may
Jason Heilman / Living Fossil / 2
remember more of them. But the one I cannot forget, nor can I shake the meaning
behind it, was that seashell-looking tattoo on her back shoulder. In fact; it looked like a
seashell but it had three-dimensional mathematical lines all around it. Time has shown
that tattoo to be one of the most basic bits of knowledge I’ve found. The Nautilus.
In marine biology the Chambered Nautilus is considered to be a marine cephalopod or
living fossil. A living fossil currently listed as a threatened species by NOAA Fisheries.
Yay 2026!
But as this living fossil grows, it grows in a visual history. There is perfection in its
tangential growth with an ever-monitoring radius. In life the meaning of the living fossil is
that there will be lots of time in life when we look around and we feel like we are right
back where we were before. We might feel like nothing has changed. Because what we
see looks like what we saw some time ago. How could there be any value in that time?
If things look today like they looked some time ago; then where is the value in the time?
The value of time is in the growth you have experienced between the last time things
looked this way and the fact that they look the way they do today. You have grown in
that time since things looked the way they do now. In that growth you have more tools,
you have more knowledge, and you have more power than you had the last time things
looked this way. Do not allow yourself to think you are only what you were the last time
things looked the way they do now. You are so much more now than you were the last
time things looked this way. That’s what the Chambered Nautilus maps. It demands us
to see our own growth in the model it reflects.
Jason Heilman / Living Fossil / 3
If you want to get freaky and push it another layer deep, really Inception this thing. The
living fossil also implies that we will continue to grow and one day in the future it is very
possible that things will look like they do today. How much more powerful does the
messaging become when we can apply it looking forward versus attempting to try it on
standing right in front of the rack?
Well, my friendly nautilus friend, I am very grateful for your message. Today is one of
those days where it could be very easy to feel like I was starting over. But I do have the
benefit of having absorbed the message some time ago. It has become much easier for
me to process in real time because of that.
I have tried so many things that just didn’t work for me. I forced myself into different jobs
because I simply allowed the tide of indecision to wash me where it did. And it took me
to some tricky shores. I’d try to make a beachhead. I used to be really good at trying.
There’s a lot less try today than there used to be.
“Try” might just be the empirical evidence of wrong. Try to me, might just mean “keep
looking dummy.”.
As my search continues; I find myself writing with some self-aggrandizing news. Today
is my launch day for my website. Coordinated with the launch of the site is my official
shingle hanging as “Ghostwriter for Hire”. The two have wonderful duality. The website
is my platform to say the things I think are important to say, and the ghostwriting will
hopefully pay the bills. I don’t think that’s crassly capitalistic. I think it’s entrepreneurial
intelligence. I used to be a sales guy. I guess there’s a little waggle still stuck in my
diction. ��
Jason Heilman / Living Fossil / 4
Today is the day I breathe life to Quantal Endurance. Like life, there is much of Quantal
Endurance that I have yet to figure out. Fortunately (?) QE is a place for those who don’t
have it figured out. As it exists now it is a community for sharing raw and honest
messaging written around the greater theme of “just keep freaking going”.
Right now it hosts my essays and offers a paragraph or two of manifesto. And just like a
ride at Disney World where the last stop is the gift shop; on the final page I write up my
ghostwriting offer.
This essay serves as my first official act of a Dr. Frankenstein task. My announcement
to the world and just a little touch of posterity. An anchor point upon which to reflect.
Maybe on the next trip around the nautilus.
www.quantalendurance.com
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