All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
The Idiotic Ideate?? Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection to the falling action I feel now that settles in a white case.) Got to hustle to preserve the best of me before fully fading on that virtual horizon glowing more brilliant with each passing day to permanent nuclear winter. if people don’t get it, I don’t need to explain it. We kill all that’s beautiful before we question it’s purpose. So many people find it easier to think in the black and the white. God forbid you get lost straying in the gray. "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice of your own, you might as well hand over your civil liberties. We have voices that should connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues and put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. If none need apply, question the unbendable sources for answer. If you knee-jerk react to every issue lurking out there that clutches your neck, you fall victim to your own ignorance born from a life of apathy (no doubt) in pathetic cries of injustice. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone "It amazed me how truth was often suffocated in minutes, but lies were given sufficient air to breathe indefinitely." "You are all better than you think you are, you are just designed not to believe it when you hear it from yourself." "...lasting art is never anything more than a mathematical expression of the relations that exist between the internal and the external, the self [le moi] and the world." -Jean Metzinger I'm in love with carefully chosen words, arranged just so, audible, edible, to inhale. I attempt to post new poems and epiphanies daily with some links to what inspires. I am legally blind with a rare, genetic form of glaucoma. I'm described as "end stage" after two successful surgeries, still subject to further vision loss. Cataracts complicating matters. Writing Can get strenuous but seldom deters what yearns to emerge, despite a documented history of depression and recently diagnosed ADHD and undefinable social disorders and/or PTSD. My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Making sense of life is maddening. Why do I need to know, when truth may not actually exist? Learning to accept would be a better pursuit? Flailing about in my own mediocrity, hoping to bust out. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like to see other writers, too. Fiction is what you write, not who you are. Reinventing myself. I couldn't continue on the path I was on and needed a fresh start. This time around I want to put the focus on writing and the world outside of this community as it affects my life. I realize now that I have been baring my chest a bit more, as when young. fake me much more boring and unliberated than the real me. A world arriving as silent as that blossom in your garden that I told you about... |
I will say things in writing to a person that I would not say to someone in person. Does this make me a coward or does corresponding through social media allow us greater access to expression? Now, I will say there are limitations. Inflections, gestures, tone and some of the give and take in certain scenarios are missing. There are certain intimacies that cannot be duplicated in words. The beauty of it for a writer is to try. Can we find the right words to move another? There is power in these conveyances, if we can strike a chord with a reader. I long for those internet embraces. I will be the first to admit I have shortcomings, but am learning every day the impact my words have had on others. I know humility and I know love. It is a bittersweet mix. |
I'm always intrigued by old stories from my hometown. Was doing a bit of digging today and found a very unusual story. Reporters back then wrote like they were giving first hand accounts, seldom using attribution. Though this piece is published in Kalamazoo, I suspect the information was either taken from a local paper or reporter. It almost reads like fiction. WHIRLED IN A SHAFT Fatal Injuries to Two Mill Employes at Iron Mountain Iron Mountain, Mich., July 8--Kim Harvey, a millwright, with a man named Price for an assistant, was engaged in repairing a pulley in the Metropolitain Lumber company's mill, when the machinery suddenly started. Harvey's clothing was caught, and he was whirled around the shaft. In one of the revolutions his feet struck Price, who was on a beam above, knocking him some distance. Price struck on the floor squarely on his head and received injuries that may result in his death. Harvey continues to revolve around until every article of clothing excepting one shoe had been stripped from his person, when he dropped to the floor. Strange as it may seen, none of his limbs were broken, his injuries being of an internal nature. He cannot live. -Kalamazoo Gazette, July 9, 1898 English was like a second language in an area packed full of immigrants. I remember visiting homes as a paperboy where old women only spoke German or Scandanavian and being told by my friends, their neighbors or grand kids, that they never wanted to learn English. The stories of lives lost in mining accidents in our area are quite sad and yet a way of life. Makes me think of the old movies where people struggled to make a few bucks to feed their family, even if it meant life or limb. My grandpa worked in the mine until he went on disability in 1933. He inhaled a good amount of stuff in his lungs that made it difficult to work underground again. He came to America in 1893 at the age of 15 and settled in Iron Mountain. Second from right, Grandpa in the very old days at the bar where I learned to drink. ** Image ID #1202876 Unavailable ** |