I had a strange feeling wash over me when I read this line...

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

...which comes from a yahoo story I just read here...

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/letter-freed-slave-former-master-draw-atten...
http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/01/to-my-old-master.html

If you have time to read the story, a freed slave is propositioned to return to work by his former master in Tennessee. It's a bid odd and bizarre to read. The freed man goes back and forth like I seemed to do with my dad as a child. You know him and you were conditioned by living with him and so you were ready to crawl right back into that den of snakes, but you want assurances that he will treat you better this time.

I'm impressed with the letter and I'm sure very candid and courageous for its time. You can see the former slave is empowered now that he can raise his family somewhat comfortably after the civil war. But he would actually consider returning to the place where he was stripped of all dignity and treated more or less like a common farm animal.

I don't think this story is too far removed from the way my dad treated my family, especially my mother, as I am sure growing up in his Italian family he witnessed his own father's atrocities towards his kin. So many generations it takes to separate us from the past and even shift the balance of power to the family matriarch while dad becomes duller and more dimwitted (like me) these days.

I was bullied by kids and put up with it as a child, because my dad conditioned me not to respond 'or else' I would get the stick...a three foot long flat wooden cane kept above the entry door frame. We never thought to hide it, except when we knew we were really in trouble, ran for it and took it with us wherever we found safe passage to barricade ourselves from him.

'Children are to be seen, not heard' he joked. He laughed when he heard some old man down the block tied his wife to a plow and made her till the garden. He would try to get my mom's attention by whistling after her in the yard like a dog, "Here, Marget!" he bellowed. He killed family dogs that wouldn't hunt. They went out in the woods with him and never came back. He'd get another, we'd befriend the pooch, and it would happen all over again.

We got back at him in the end, as I became a teenager who surpassed him in strength. I remember the night my brother and I were out past our curfew and tried to come in the house through the back door so as not to wake anyone. We didn't expect him to lynch us in the kitchen. And he went after my 15-year-old, scrawny brother. My mom tried to intervene and he hit her in the face while revealing a gleam in his eyes that seemed to say I don't want to be deprived of my wicked fun.

I had put him in a reverse arm lock and listened to him mock us all. And when he started to mock me and told me things about how I wasn't a man, I set out to prove him wrong and went on a wild rampage of my own.

After wrestling him into the living room, I threw him on the couch, sat on top of him and repeatedly hit him with glancing blows off his thick noggin. I seemed to be pulling my punches while yelling at him how much I hated him (though secretly I still loved him), as all he could do was look up at me in shock, maybe terror.

I don't remember how it ended, but after that day he stayed away from me and my younger brother. I moved out several times and kept coming home and he never bothered me again. He still had his veiled insults and other innuendo and never gave me credit for anything I yearned validation, as I continued to grow into manhood. I eventually landed in radio and was the local news reporter and my mom told me that he said he was proud of me. And he started to converse with me more civilly and would be chummy with me like his friends.

That was okay. I felt like I can do this, but somewhere in the back of my mind I didn't trust him. I couldn't be there for him during his last days, because I was so conflicted. He hadn't changed much. He took my sister-in-law to some senior citizen's dance a few years before his death and was threatening to knock the block off some other old guy. I could not see him every changing his habits. I would always be his victim, if I let him.

So, I found my emancipation away from home. Though, I returned to it several times up until 1993 before I finally got my act together and eventually met my current wife and taskmaster. I let her control me now, but she can be kinder and more nurturing than my former master.

It's been 10 years since his death. I didn't acknowledge the anniversary. Forgot about it actually. That's good. But I'll never truly be free. I will always restrain myself in one way or another and not think I'm good enough. I will always be tempted to crawl back into that den with the snakes and be treated like a nobody, because that was the way I was raised.

Fortunately, being bullied is not an option anymore. But, it gets in my head from time to time whenever I'm in a social situation that tears me down. I've had my virtual moments in places like this, too.

I pick myself up today, having the epiphany from the slave's liberating letter. A little bit freer, a little bit wiser now. Thankfully, I had my mom to take the figurative 'pistol' from my dad.

I hope comparing my child self to a slave is not too racially insensitive.


 

Another poem that I hashed out in a steno pad that I likely will never finish...

Shadows/There's No Meaning In The End

The weight of objects on light
gives a meek soul fright (right there, see, cliche)
You could step out at night (why am I forcing the rhyme scheme here)
and still feel their shadows.

When truth is a burden
not something you overcome
a restless mind is undone (yech!)
They keep calling; you still run

Your soul's wrecking ball swings within
Dreams seem gaunt and thin
Words clutter an empty din (? forcing again?)
You flutter because you fall (mixing metaphors)

Inside hell, you soar once more
Feathers aflame, you lie, you blame (really? a phoenix?)
you rise to some arbitrary safe haven
rest, then wait to die __________
why do you try? (yes, why do you?)


Perhaps the musings in the lines gives an insight into how hard I am on myself when I pen these little ditties. I want more out of my self -- to dive deeper and find some substance below the issues that plague and force me to take up pen and perish and rise again and fall again. I struggle with why I write these poems that seem more a waste of time. I should be working on fiction, but find these diversions in the way my children find games to play before their chores and homework.

I would like to be more disciplined as a writer. I do not want my inner struggles with the why I write conundrums to take center stage. I know that I do grow as a writer each time I fly and crash. There's always some message to be deciphered from the wreckage. For once, I'd like to stay in flight and enjoy the rhapsody. I would like to indulge in pity and self-loathing and needn't feel ridiculous or remorse for creating some kind of martyrdom about my life.

I want to feel like I am the only person who struggles and that no one understands me. And then, if someone understands, then I feel like, finally, I'm reaching someone outside of myself.

Why do I write? To connect. Do I write because I want to be published and famous? Ultimately, no, but it would be nice if it works out in the end. Do I get there by writing poetry? I'm back to where I started, knowing my little game with myself. Poetry is a simple byproduct of what I exude. And, if I can't wrap my head around a novel, then I'm going to have to try a little harder to squeeze one out. Poetry be damned!

Okay. I'm sure I'll be back in a few days with a few more lines I've hashed out. Guess I'll have to find humor in my idiosyncrasies.

ASIN: B006PUZY78 Such Longing: A Poetry Collection     Product Type: eBooks          Amazon's Price: Price N/A Buy Now!

I wrote in my notebook today:

Epiphany: I'm never going to be naive again, and I miss that.
I felt more alive when I was vulnerable than the tired old skeptic I've become. Sticking with tried and true without the romance of taking a chance on something new doesn't mean you're wise but unwilling.
Note to self: Take a risk today.

Jaded is one word that comes to mind. Usually, when I see something unfolding, I'm already playing out the endgame in my mind. Apparently, I think I know everything about everything and I'm the prognosticator, the predictor of the future. In a world full of pundits (news and sports and around the table where you clutch coffee) people are know-it-alls. What do we know? History.

History for me is from personal experience, but only what I'm willing to take on. Because I take so few risks, calculated risks, I seldom get to peer into the maw of something so great it might consume me. I don't walk on high wires between tall buildings. I'm pretty sure I'm crossing wires laid on the ground. See what I can do? See what I know about?

Now, I do take risks when it comes to my limited vision. Stupidly. Like, driving when I shouldn't. Rollling around on the floor with the kids without my glasses on when I know I could take an unexpected blow to the head. Or, maybe, trying to read something in small print in a dimly lit office. (When am I going to start using those bifocals the doctor gave me/when am I going to figure out where I put them)

Putting my words out there. That's a risk. I'm afraid I can't write the novel. I make excuses because I don't know where I'm going with a story. I struggle with character development. Well, it's going to take time, research, organization. I might have to actually sit down and write an outline. Of course, the tried and true, when am I going to find time. I need some sort of writing routine. Nanowrimo actually forces you to realize the process with writing x-number of words a day and I don't even do that.

I could commit to writing like I do my daily trips to the gym. I could sit here and talk about all the ups and downs of jogging up and down a basketball court with guys half my age and younger who can actually see what there doing while I flail about trying to look what I know what I'm doing. But basketball is what I know and it is what makes me feel good about myself when I do play.

Writing is the cruel mistress among other cliches. We write because we love the game, but we seldom get to win. And, if we do, it's a little ditty of a poem that got an awardicon. I can proudly show off the little gems, put them all together in a collection and publish on Amazon, but it doesn't make me an accomplished writer. It reveals that I am not a risk taker. I didn't even commit my poetry to print...not even on demand. I just tell everyone I did it because my wife kept bugging me. But I'm on kindle direct publishing every day checking to see if I sold another copy. No, that's not success. That's not how you succeed. You win when you give it you best effort in the midst of the most horrible disaster and walk away from it unscathed and a little bit wiser.

I can sip on some brew and reread my failed efforts down the road and perhaps find a bit of myself. I might learn what I was thinking, or what my shortcomings were. I might find new inspiration, or new direction, that might lead me to some new goal. I might look back at this blog entry one day and think, 'okay, that was good. Let's take it a step further now.' Or, 'I can do any more with this. Time to move on to something new.'

Life is like Flip Wilson's 33 different flavors of ice cream: chocolate and vanilla. I can find another ice cream vendor and more flavors. Stop. See that's a bad metaphor, because I guarantee no one who reads this blog has experienced the stand-up comedian the way I did growing up. But, it is about understanding that even while we cannot relate to everyone, we can relate our thoughts to ourself to get a deeper understanding and appreciation of where we are as a writer. And, if you should happen to connect with someone else who reads this open diary to the world and they get what you are saying, that's topping for your frozen dairy treat.

So, experience something new and exciting. Take a chance on yourself. Learn from it and hopefully grow from it. And, maybe you meet someone else who might have even more insight and wisdom to help you transcend from where you are.

Transcend. That's the word. Ascension into a new dimension. Now we're writing....

Okay, now I'm done.

For now.



I reserve the right to reread and re-edit this post later.

Signed,
Some guy who thinks he's really smart right now....shhhh, don't wake him.

Thank you emoticons for saying/showing what I'm too lazy to express in words.

Stop!




 

Very pleasantly surprised to see my group Rising Stars awarded an old poem of mine:

ID: 1169069   (Rated: E) Soar   Like the tree, growing closer through faith that each tomorrow will come. by Brian Keith Compton

You know, being 6'2" has always seemed a shortcoming for one such as I who had dreams of basketball stardom. I think my limitations were all in my head when I felt I needed to be taller, at least 6'5", to make something of myself as a professional athlete. It would have made things easier for one who did not have the necessary/desired encouragement until it was too late to find himself among the redwoods on the hardwoods.

Now comes my son. He's always been a big boy and we did his height predictions early on that said he might be 6'5" when he's done growing. He's always been in the 99th percentile for height and weight. His mom and I are both tall and both enjoy basketball with the ability to teach him everything we know, but he has shown little interest so far.

For me, there wasn't much else to distract me growing up. It was basketball or baseball and cartoon programs were only shown on Saturday morning. My parents made me play outside every day until the sun went down. Not the same any more. Everyone is vying for our children's attention while my little one keeps growing out of his shoes as his feet turn flatter and pigeon-toed.

Recently, Alex had his yearly appointment with the doctor and we get his official measurements. I decided to do one more height predictor on Parents.com. The results only remind me how cruelly ironic parental expectations can become dashed.

Though he's 5'5" (and 1/4) and weighs 128 pounds on his 11th birthday, he apparently still has a lot of growing to do. Parents.com gave me the results with the message, "Congratulations! Your baby has a good chance of being 6'10" tall."

o_0

Why you gotta do me like that God? Can't I somehow impose my will for him that he might live out my dreams by being the basketball athlete I was with the potential to be something I wasn't. Even if he could play first string in college (for my ol' buddy Tom Izzo), it would be heaven sent.

We know we are not supposed to force our kids into life choices, but can't I steer him in this one direction...somehow, someway?

He's brilliant and could learn complex schemes: he's top 5% for his age group in math in the state of Wisconsin putting him in the accelerated program. He's an avid reader who won his school spelling bee. More than musically proficient, he's played piano since five and plays beautifully. I want a well-rounded life for him, rather than one washing dishes or raking coals from a furnace. He could have a college scholarship and the athletic life, if I could just get him off Star Wars and Legos and into a Packer's jersey and a pair of orthopedic high tops.

There's your irony.

Twist of fate that I should be the one pounding a ball into the floor three days a week in hopes of being in the best shape when he's ready for those one-on-one match-ups in our driveway. I'll stay the course a little longer, waiting for divine intervention. I needed someone to idolize growing up and found Lew Alcindor and Johnny Bench, but Darth Vader?! He's just made up.

I'm guessing the people who market icons nowadays find real people too disappointing or ordinary. If I could just unmask all the fake ones and show him a real role model, maybe there's a chance.

By the way, it's not me. I've taken him to the gym and let him watch me play. He just wants to leave 15 minutes after we arrive. If I could dunk the ball again like I did 25 years ago, I'm sure his chin would drop to the floor. But watching an old guy in goggles, patellar knee straps and bandana swishing a three-pointer doesn't cut it.

6'10?! I hope he doesn't expect any more piggy back rides.
 

Just sold another book bringing the total to seven. That puts me in the top 150,000 kindle titles. I sold five when "Such Longing" launched on Christmas day at the introductory 99 cent offering. I've sold the rest at 2.99. I'm going to read a few titles at our church program next month and may drop the price again in February. Stay tuned for an announcement on that.

I don't know how to promote myself, so I haven't done anything outside of this website and facebook. I thank you all for the support.

Can't do an author signing, and don't know if the local Barnes & Noble would have any ways to promote ebooks with local writers, so haven't tried to push the envelope to see what other opportunities are out there.

These poems have been on this website for some time and a few were new or revised. I am considering adding more to the collection, since I can update the book anytime I want. I can't imagine putting out another collection any time in the near future. But it is great fun to go through this process and see a few people pay to see my words.

It's all a writer can hope for...prying eyes into the poet's soul.

Time to put the kids to bed. Maybe more later?

ASIN: B006PUZY78 Such Longing: A Poetry Collection     Product Type: eBooks          Amazon's Price: Price N/A Buy Now!

Another poem I'm working on...

Pressure
cedes true beauty
Pressure destroys
unhusks a gem
luffs off dead skin
that I devour
wish to live in
Who will destroy me
so I can gleam?

I'm thinking about also writing an ode to my chili. Seems an odd choice but there's something poetic about never following a recipe and only making it from scratch with whatever I've got to throw in the pot. And it always turns out great.

Live to write another day!
 

Words. Put them in a sentence. Put sentences together to make a point. And, collect all those points and they point to what? Well, if words and sentences are as aimless as mine....

I think each day about what I should write. I jot down ideas on scraps of paper that disappear for days and months on end only to be rediscovered in a cloud of confusion. What was I attempting?

I push myself to make a blog entry now about what I don't write. And, I think, it's because I think too much. I don't commit these thoughts to a more permanent format...like the blog...not to those lost scraps of incomplete wisdom.

I don't even know if what I'm writing now is going to go anywhere. I am writing for the exercise. And what I am also learning is that I need to read. I don't pick up books. It's easier to click on a computer or television and sit and wait to be entertained. I'm not wading through texts to find hidden gems. I'm not exercising that part of my brain that could create words with some direction.

Am I going to neatly tie up all these thoughts into some pearls of wisdom?



Okay, this is going nowhere. I can accept that. I should write and read more. I'll take that much away from what I've just wrote. Blog tomorrow? I have to kept the flame lit. Don't let the pilot light burn out, Brian.

Note to self: write a poem called "The Pilot Light". I challenge anyone reading this to try to do the same. If you beat me to it and do a better job, that will teach me to just idle on these thoughts.


 

Just another note. This is the seventh straight day that I have over 100 views of items in my port. It's nice to have readers and even a few reviewers in the midst. I must confess, I keep updating my writing (about a dozen statics, twice a day) so the items will return to the top of the static heap where they are more easily noticed. The more updated, the more often I appear in the column for items 'by online authors'.

Just a few tips for folks that want attention to their items.
 

Since my book landed on Amazon Christmas day, I have seen sales double! At 99 cents a pop its a bargain.

I should mention I sold one book to my mother-in-law and thank you to the other buyer whoever you are!

I really didn't expect much. This is too funny.

My wife pushed me to publish. (She never reads anything I post without prodding and gets out of having to discuss what I write, so no real feedback from her) I know she thinks the world of me as a writer and wants me to put myself out there. But in my heart, I know I'm not ready. I may never be ready. But for Christmas, I thought I would surprise her. Just put together this small collection of poetry and then bury the whole notion of me publishing so I can get one with other things.

Now, I find myself trying to promote the thing as an after thought. Met with the indifference, I can't say it's surprising. I just don't put myself out there anymore. I really don't have a plan for my future with writing and I can say I am less than inspired by the prospects now. I think I'd rather read rejection letters than to sell my soul for 99 cents and not even earn a dollar for a lifetime of effort.

I should have just hand written the poems in a book and given them to her for Christmas, because that is the way my writing is intended. It's something personal to share with someone who you either love or loves to read anything you pen. Having lost that sacred bond by opening up myself to the world, I feel more than mortal and alone.

It's difficult to know what is next, but I don't feel like writing for a while. I may take another break from this website, since I just can't seem to get back into the flow here, or anywhere.

All the friends I've made here seem to have slipped into the mist and I am left with foggy memories of knowing a few writers here and there and not much else. I wish I could be more proactive, a better reviewer and follower of other authors.

Yeah, I didn't even know where I was going with this blog entry at first. I thought I would start out with the funny note, but don't have much to back that up. And now I'm rambling.

Maybe I'll blog again later.

I doubled my sales! I tried to suck you in with a misleading headline. Did it work?