by Brian KC
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on...
Trying make 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 mediocrity, hoping to bust out.|
Read me, don't read me. I'm going to dare you to read anyway.
I update my portfolio page as often as possible. Brian KC Go there to see new messages. You will always see me. I am visible. You can put a face with a name. I would like other writers to crawl out from under their rocks and post their pics on main pages. Fiction is what you write, not who you are.
I also encourage you to read my notebook, biography and more. I'm always updating, because I am restless.
THANK YOU alfred booth, wanbli ska for the ribbon and continuous support!
My blogging days at Writing.Com began here [FOR MEMBERS] >>>
Where I hide most of my poetry [FOR MEMBERS]. Warts and all, where I bare my chest and try to make sense of my craft.
|Then, I stare at this dim
Glass top adventure,
Illumed in simulated light,
Pines soar straight up,
One hundred feet
From nose to sky.
Why don't I witness?
Because I can't see.
Lay in my lap,
Free my mind,
Take me to vision,
Because I can't see.
Mind aches, eyes dry,
Onto the floor,
My chaff castoff, exhausted.
A garden blooms by inches.
Wet grass gently bends
nimble, bare toes.
But I can't see anymore.
Painful to bear witness
To what I once knew,
What I think I know.
I recline alone
With this barren brood;
On a once fruitful mind.
Savage and cruel,
Dark mystery awaits,
Unlike the panorama
Laid out, stretching,
If I just set one limb
Outside the fateful door.
The wandering one,
Full of someone else's
| I was preparing myself for a cup of coffee this morning. I started to imagine how I might feel drinking that cup. Sometimes, this is the window of opportunity for some great inspiration. Other times, I idle in my thoughts hoping I can unlock some mystery to life by jotting down some words. I got stuck on a phrase and pushed myself forward and this is what I came up with, unedited:
Hope in the Margins/No Ink for a Dreamer
Those few fleeting moments of hopefulness
Hanging on to get them back
What was I thinking about?
Waiting for a moment that seldom comes
What does it look like?
When will it appear?
Will it be standing by me and leave
The moment I near?
Retrace your steps
Where to begin?
Return is never easy.
I held her in memory
I danced with the notion
What child shall I be?
That you might witness
How shall I sing my lyric?
What will I plea?
Time moves slowly,
Escapes too quickly
Throw the car into gear?
No. Stop. Park.
No joy for this ride.
Shut in my shed, I fear.
Those eyes I dream
Those lips I desire
That warmth never felt
I lay my pen on the mantle.
I shred this paper.
No ink for a dreamer.
I'm not worried about form, yet some of it helps with expression. Life is always uneven and if we try to make perfect in structure we cage our beast. I prefer to think it is tethered. And while I would prefer a disciplined monster, I understand his need to be appreciated the way he is...warts and all?
We're not perfect. We can act like it. Hope others buy into the illusion, but it's only our delusion. Isn't easier to come out with it?
I'm flawed. I make mistakes. I want love and forgiveness. I never want to sit in judgment of another, put in a position to help them with their own delusion. Truth should be easy. But it can be indigestible. I know my flaws. I don't parade around with them like mustard on my face. But, I don't write these words in permanent ink on my head when there is so much more beautiful and right that gives balance to my life.
Repurpose me. Shelter me. I'm here, full of love, life and still willing to learn. And the clock just keeps on ticking as if in perpetual purgatory.
|It feels like we are a nation of PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder). When will it be enough? How can we stop the tide of violence in America? Is peace an ignorant, forgotten relic of a dream from our past? Why so much unrest in America?
These spikes in our country's tumultuous times make us fret. Look at what our children can see on television, on the Internet. Are we supposed to live in fear? Lock all the doors and hide?
I'm not the sort to be one of those gawkers or 'rubberneckers' at a freeway accident. Just as I am not likely to Google or tune in to news sources for details about the latest mass shooting or carnage. I get the gist from the headlines, teases and unavoidable cooler talk. I'm disappointed in how the media cold-heartedly disseminates information like subjects of a Don Henley song. And maudlin.
Media is self-serving, even though they serve a purpose. Don't sit around a coffee table sipping coffee and shaking your head while taking a moment to stare at the camera as if you commiserate with me.
It feels like speaking out as just one person goes nowhere. Seems like there's millions of message boards on the Internet, places like newspapers to opine. And most of us agree bad men will do bad things with weaponry that can be used to either kill or save us. We want it to stop but it doesn't feel like our government is able to enact policy or remedies. Protesting seems pointless, and sometimes, undesirable. We get no where.
I've been on the other side of social injustice. Sometimes, I unwittingly provoke it. Misunderstanding, rising anxiety, no leaders to help resolve burning issues fester the minds that need a salve of education.
Maybe we're heading away from democracy and toward a police state, as our country tries to justify the need for control in our part of the world. And yet, we are not as bad as some of the other countries that do exercise restraint and get push back way worse than here.
I think our president could step up and address the nation on violence. It would likely be controversial and stir debate, because we want less government control not more. We need a leader to lift us, remind us to be strong.
As parents, it's time to sit down our kids and have an honest talk about the world today. But too many of us can't wrap our heads around it. What to say? Assure them this is a great country with great opportunities. People are trying to take our freedoms away. We have to be steadfast in our beliefs, need to teach ourselves well, learn and remember how and why this great country was founded. Tuck them in at night, say a prayer if that helps. This is more than a bumpy ride. Strap them in, kiss them and hope for the best.
We can never get down or blame one another. We should be checking on our neighbors, spreading good cheer. Don't lock yourself away. Lend them your eyes and ears. We lock arms and unify in our nation's core beliefs.
What's unfortunate is we put too much stock in sports, entertainment, distraction, the latest fads and what a dysfunctional family like the Kardashians is doing. We are so obsessed with putting up walls that we've drowned out those things we need to pay attention to.
Tear down the walls of indifference. Really consider the avenues through organizations that do good, spread peace. Even if it's through a local church. Participate until you are satisfied you are earning the reward for your freedom. Count your blessings while you're at it.
Politics are cartoonish and divide. You almost want to ignore it. We have to push for change, for REAL dialogue. Stop letting government run over us with policy and support visions for a more hopeful tomorrow. Perhaps, we feel cut off, left out. Leadership is needed, too. Not saying we need more politicians, just more voices to unify and keep it real.
Most of all, we can't let them wear us down. We cannot let hate become justified by those who carry out violent acts of any type. We need to come from a place of love and patience. If we tune this out, it doesn't go away. It only gets louder. Let's not become desensitized, as we nostalgically reminisce about a time when innocence was revered as greatly as our freedom.
|I googled why Batman dresses like a villain. He always scowls. Superheroes used to smile. But, fans like me identify with his brooding nature. But, there may be moral ambiguity afoot as this writer theorizes why our hero doesn't clean up Gotham city once and for all...
"I believe it’s because he doesn’t want to. I believe Bruce Wayne has never recovered from the night his parents were murdered and Batman allows him to live out the fantasy of being able to save them. If Gotham City were truly cleaned up, the fantasy would die, and Batman doesn’t want that. So he leaves a lax system in place, the citizens of Gotham pay the price, and the spoiled rich kid gets (to) dress up and play superhero every night."
Makes some solid points why fans identify with the caped crusader...
|I am not the flower
Blooms wither, crumble and die
I am not the plant
Leaves fade, fall -- perish, too.
Be I the roots
Always reaching, grasping,
Leaching the soil,
Pumping life into the world above,
Showing what my love can spawn
In a shady, remote Eden,
Imaginable, yet unviewed.
See it there with me,
|Startled by clouds. So, I write about it...
Waken Me? (RAW, enedited)
Clouds rush low
through pale vault;
ragged, massive ghosts
Tattered curls coil,
blanched cotton candy,
just a tinge of blue,
melts on random currents,
drained of tears,
of beauty presumed soaring;
I stand silent,
try to remember
my fuzzy friend.
No images captured,
an empty witness.
Shudder. Nip, nip.
send me in.
Where did you go?
When will you come again,
I'm a child.
The view narrower
from this window.
I only see me,
The hostas have periscopes,
Gutter lilies bright telescopes
More sharply see
Rise from foliage
Rose petals unhinge
From thorny, leafy stems
To the indifferent earth
Tangled in creeping camouflage
Striped leaflets contrasting
Chunky red mulch
Mysteries of toilsome ants
Bees unrelenting love
Earthworms mating with roots
Roots coiling roots
Dominance and cessation
Drier the skin
A lone gardener
Removing and moving
This and that
Sweat blinding diligence
In sun shelter
Canopies of fruitless trees
Tower above blooms
Looking to create symmetry in several ways with this poem. The balance between nature and its mechanics, but also making the verses echo one another in message and style.
I was inspired by the stems rising from our plants that will soon offer blooms. Also, the roses quick blooms producing a carpet of petals. I could work crab trees into this better. No apples, just petals like confetti make a beautiful shaded carpet on the plushest grass around the house. I didn't incorporate smell, could add taste. Need to work the senses!
Just needed to post and move forward with other stuff. Also, have beautiful blooms on some nameless flowers growing under our pines that I took a picture of today.
|Haunting. The song that inspired Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven...
A lawsuit brought against the band for plagiarizing the instrumental by Spirit was rejected in court today...
Ian Anderson, leader of Jethro Tull, has an interesting take on plagiarism. Definitely makes a case that the Eagles "Hotel California" did not steal from his band's song, "We Used To Know..."
Ian: "It was a piece of music that we were playing around the time… I believe it was late '71, maybe early '72 when we were on tour and we had a support band who had been signed up for the tour, and subsequently, before the tour began, had a hit single. The song, I believe, called "Take It Easy." And they were indeed the Eagles. We didn't interact with them very much because they were countrified laid back polite rock, and we were a bit wacky and English and doing weird stuff. And I don't think they liked us, and we didn't much like them. There was no communication, really, at all. Just a polite observance of each other's space when it came to sound checks and show time. But they probably heard us play the song, because that would have featured in the sets back then, and maybe it was just something they kind of picked up on subconsciously, and introduced that chord sequence into their famous song "Hotel California" sometime later. But, you know, it's not plagiarism. It's just the same chord sequence. It's in a different time signature, different key, different context. And it's a very, very fine song that they wrote, so I can't feel anything other than a sense of happiness for their sake. And I feel flattered that they came across that chord sequence. But it's difficult to find a chord sequence that hasn't been used, and hasn't been the focus of lots of pieces of music. It's harmonic progression is almost a mathematical certainty you're gonna crop up with the same thing sooner or later if you sit strumming a few chords on a guitar.
There's certainly no bitterness or any sense of plagiarism attached to my view on it, although I do sometimes allude, in a joking way, to accepting it as a kind of tribute. It's a bit like this tribute Rolex that I'm wearing."
excerpt of Anderson interview from:
|Raw and unedited. Something that needed to be written down during nocturnal unrest. Will give it more thought when rested.
I go looking for her
In every word I write
Baiting her with my trap
But she doesn't come near.
I seek her out
In every poem I ink
Bursting hues dripping
But she doesn't see.
I ponder where she may hide
In every thought brewing,
Aromatic, savory delights
She does not even whiff.
Know that I might seduce
If I could even try, leering
In no particular direction.
I crave, yet I starve
I boast, yet I recant
I labor endlessly on each detail
How I might act,
What I must say,
my body language, my hair
My scent, my clothes,
my thoughtful stare.
All ill conceived,
Because I'm not real.
Who would love an ordinary man?
Who knows not what to feel?
I would steal your breath away...
Too shy for action
She's out there somewhere,
And I'll keep writing 'til the day.
Writing about perfection. We keep writing hoping to solve some great mystery in life, like love -- that one elusive beauty we believe we are destined to meet.
What keeps us going is this naive belief we can find truth in these words, when actually we're deluding ourselves with our own fantasy. And even when we are aware of that, we still keep trying. There is joy in the chase, this process. Maybe it is not illusion but love of the game.
|How does one blog, when they don't have an audience?
Never been able to figure out how to make a blog work for me. Always understood the process of journaling (a diary), but when it is an open book you have to be more cautious with prying eyes. (have been trained and paid as a professional to write articles). It gets tricky when you don't have an audience knowing what will draw readers and keep them coming back.
Writing.com is like a secluded community. We are not in the Internet mainstream. Sometimes, it feels getting readers and potential writers to join (and then participate) does not eminate directly from the product the current talent pool provides. Feels like fishing in a pond that is running out of stock.
You can blog through many mainstream venues that get hits, i.e. Blogger. That attached to blog ads can put money in a writer's pocket. There is the SEO writing and other jargon that makes this writer's eyes gloss over. Obviously, people with the right tech savvy understand it, can make it work from them. I'm sure I would not get past the first page of a blogging for dummies book.
I just like to write here and jot down some thoughts in the event that it will help someone or help me figure out what to do with what I write. I'm certainly not going to wow audiences with 'how to' articles with authoritative takes on subjects people Google and want to read about. So, what then?
I like to think I can share some of myself and revelations, knowing if I go back and read, over time, it will all make sense. If not to others, maybe for me. I blog ideas to be developed later, that I seldom come back to or even comprehend the motivation should I return. I keep many posts private, if it's too personal but I just need to hash stuff out for myself. I write stuff I think I might post before deciding it's not good enough or warranted to share.
I do blog because I love to share experience. I have a son and daughter who have taught me things as a parent over the years, epiphanies to write. I write about writing. I write about nostalgia; for awhile, I wrote about classic cars, sports, social events, culture and history. I'm trying to put it all in perspective with my particular, sometimes odd, spin.
I like to be funny, witty, melancholic, but seldom mad (nowadays). I avoid politics, Kardashians, and other things I can't comprehend. But mostly, I avoid me, who I really am. I struggle with getting older, low self-esteem, feeling manipulated, disrespected, left out, and not growing up enough not to let stuff bother me. Yet, I am getting better.
I found that through social media like Facebook and Twitter I could briefly rant, allude to my misgivings/shortcomings and maybe get an amen. It's driven traffic to my site here, but has not produced one new member for writing.com on my account.
When we commit our words to some form of social media, we anticipate what prying eyes might see. If no one knows you're out there with interesting takes or unique experiences, your spinning your wheels. So, I write here because it's been nearly ten years of a rare form of anonymity. I stated forming friendships. We connected after feedback to each other's writing (be it fiction, poetry, notebook or blog). I met people in the grand message room at writing.com and got sidetracked and lost site of goals. That was a troublesome time. People seemed to fade away, change handles, stop emailing/messaging, dying (ack!) or stopped participating.
Am I so unusual that no one/few here who can relate to me? Or, that indifferent to my blog posts? Or, did the traffic on this website really come to a (near)standstill (got to learn not to write in absolutes)?
I know I will draw six likes to a newsfeed post that is as short as anything on Twitter one day and miss my mark with clever attempts the next three. I can tell you no one here is to blame for an Internet/site slowdown. Maybe, they're all binge watching, the new fad of indulging in forgotten television fare (that ironically will also die).
I will continue to share my long discourses with my wife nightly and get the customary 'that's nice,' or snoring (because she says my voice is soothing). Ouch!
|I've been rewriting this poem for years. Wish I could have saved every edit to see the progress. I'm sure it looks nothing like the original. Now, it lacks the original form and feels like a lump of clay that cannot be perfectly formed...
It's hard to remember the inspiration for my poems. I could write myself notes, but there is something inexplicable about being in that moment with muse. Once that fire burns out, it is hard to relight. Always push through to the end. Grammar, rhyming and structure can always be tweaked, but adding new words, fresh perspective is like slapping a coat of paint over a muddy surface.
Autocorrect is a gift and a curse!
|There is beauty in words found in works deemed failed...
"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
Against the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink."
The first stanza Of "Endymion" by John Keats
Our passion as poets takes us on journeys. We must find our way as writers by pressing on, failure after failure, until we realize potential, pressing on as horizons seem within reach, always compelling us to venture further. There may be no audience for what we learn in our hearts and unveil. It's a process. Read, critique, experience, love well and never stop being true to what drives you...passion.
|I came across a foretelling saying by Plato that intrigued me and trying to imagine how it applies to conspiracy theories. I googled an interesting story about the Atlantean Conspiracy in the process...
Not trying to put all the information together right now. I will come back to this later.
|Sometimes, in poetry, you can say things by leaving out details. A reader is lead down a path and left to form their own conclusions, before continuing on. Then, when you reread with your detectable alerts, you might puzzle together more than you initially eyed from the characters on the page.
If you read a poem once, you do not do it or the author justice. And you miss out on a chance to play detective and chance to see something hidden on the surface. A clue that could lead down the adventuresome rabbit hole.
Poetry should be a journey. Poets intend to play with your senses, hope that you can take a peek inside their minds and see all that is beautiful swelling amid, hoping to be loved without. The greatest gift writers can receive is when a reader can shout, "I get it!"
|Poem. Bam! Get one image stuck in my head during a thought storm and have to ride that wave and flesh it out to see where my imagination takes me...
Raw...Unedited...a note I passionately intend to send in hopes of love's return...
I submerge in my native gear,
Hunt for things
Worthy of your beauty,
Return to the surface to meet you.
You found treasures
From the sea's neglect.
Then regale you with tales
Of my discovery
Amid the pearls and lost treasures
On the ocean's floor.
You offer me a coconut,
Usher me to a bed of palm fronds
In the temperate shade.
I catch a scent on the breeze,
Wonder where it came from,
Wonder what you would look like
in grass skirt
Colorful Leis about your neck,
As the ukelele strums a rhythm
Matching our heartbeats.
I've ventured across the horizon,
Returned to find you sifting dead sand
For discarded shells and uniquity.
My tales put on hold,
You offer shopping lists,
Chores, reminders from the fridge:
Doctors appointment, the kids
Need to be picked up from school.
As I watch you leave for work,
I grab my iPad and crush brilliant images.
The screen glows and begs me
To write you another ode,
Hoping this time you'll notice
Just How beautiful I think you are.
The thought, originally, was about how I have these different levels. I meet my wife near the surface, but return to dive deeper where she's unable to go to bring her back something beautiful like words to show my appreciation of her and this world we share. She doesn't get it. That's okay, but I long to have a bond with her on deeper levels that she is currently out of her element in.
The idea that sprung from the initial start is that the things that wash ashore LIVE in the sea before they die. I feel you can more fully appreciate life and love while it is breathing and still beautiful. Perhaps, I'm not afraid of how scary love can be. It is wild and untamed, but can be possessed and held captive on dry land...before it is dead and regurgitated from the depths.
I think I could use more visual imagery to express rather than tell with this one. That's why I edit and post as a static later, if it meets with my satisfaction. This is a part of my process