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 |   All that remains: here in my afterlife as a 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. |
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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." ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)    "...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 struggle because I am not a good person. I'm told many are not, but I cannot tell who they are. I am humble in your presence, but carry a knife behind my back just in case. Not the kind of words you want to hear from someone, but it's honest. Over time, we all seem to lower our guard to others. I've seen some people who can just open up and talk without a care and I envy them. I question why I am not brave and can find many examples from my past where I have been hurt. I lie and say I feel no pain, know no shame, because I do not want to seem weak, even to myself. I know fear. But, I need love. I want to share it, guarded as I may be. But, when the words tumble out: restrained, tentative. I don't make a good first impression. So, I lie. I create a personality, a honed wit that doesn't have to get too personal. I leave rooms quick and seldom show up when the pressure to perform returns. This makes me a bad person. My intention is to get you to like a shallow, hollow man. To leave the impression I'm knowledgeable, competent. I'll take a laugh, dominate a conversation and leave on top. I win? I'm fooling myself. I know I have no friends, I just pretend. I want to love and can, but am afraid of rejection. I know it's because I never got past those days in high school and what happened to me as a teen. Yet, I have a loving wife and kids. I feel like I created this little community of four and dread each day that goes by that I might let one or all of them down. I don't want to wear a veil, conceal weapons. I want the relief of knowing I can walk around warts and all and either give love or accept there is none to receive. It might be brave to post this, but I'll just go back in my shell and hide until my imposter has the nerve to come out. Know that I love you all. Now I shall lurk and fade out.
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| I was going to add more to this, set it up better. Maybe, another time... If my life were fiction, my name would be Alice. I watch my daughter day after day begin an adventure only to be led down the rabbit hole and leave her half-finished projects everywhere like her dad. She has us to make her clean up after herself, but I can't help wonder what she's meant for if she has a daydreaming father who still can't get his act together to this day. There are too many distractions on our cul-de-sac, with an adjacent pond and park where she returns with her turtles, toads, frogs, and an occasional grass snake. She will pull up every rock looking for bugs, try to trap butterflies, birds, and yes, the little bunnies that eat our plants. She leaves her gear, toys, half-eaten food everywhere. I admit, I help her. I admire her catch of the day before we make her set them free, because we cannot raise a baby bird, especially hatch the ones that were tossed from the high nest. There are lessons to learn, growing up to do, but do people like Maddie and I ever grow up? When is it time to be practical and do what's right and stop fawning at nature and all of its distractions and find a balance in our life that will allow us to be more functional, dependable human beings? There are so many things to awe at. Shouldn't I have learned by now about the trappings of chasing the white rabbit? I have learned a lot in my life but routinely get trapped into notions of what I can ideate without putting in the effort to create at least my Frankenstein, a flawed but complete novel. I am the inventor/creator of musings that I alone can understand but cannot relate, even in context. I dialogue conversations real and fictional in my head, never to see them put to use other than to impose my fiction or version of the truth on another. I'll admit, existentialism confuses me, yet I'm in that mix even now as I write. I want to be grounded. I want to be free. What gravitational forces force me from floating beyond my mind? Fear? The unknown? Don't we already know the harsh realities of failure without trying to explore some place dark and mysterious? Perhaps, if we had that one spirit/life guide. I would guide Maddie anywhere she fears to go, but I am afraid. I don't want to fail her as a parent, like the day-dreaming child in me who never found a true career path. Time to climb back to the surface before I am trapped. I will explore these notions another day, though I may tire of trying. I'm overthinking it, I know. Can't I have a little drama before I rest?
...and no  , I'm not on drugs! I said I was Alice, not Lewis Carrol...(read more)http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Rabbit+Hole |
| That guy at work who has better things to do, but... ...causes me to write... Just as there are humble braggers, there are innocent alertists--people who draw attention to someone or something as if they don't know what they're saying could cause doubt or raise concern. An attempt to illicit conclusions that can cause possible outcomes that are designed to distract from real issues (subterfuge) or instigates actions against something that is either something or nothing. |
"At The Hands Of My Creator"  [E] We aim for perfection and fall short in life. Everything is incompletion until we die, though we keep trying. Without aspirations, what would life be? To me, the beauty of this poem is that I don't force a rhyme in the final verse.
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| It started with some words in my head that I had to jot down. For no one in particular, especially me... Don't Kid Yourself (Honestly) Where winds strafe the skies, you hunker down to die. Bunkered, fearing invisible, aimless forces dictating your destiny, like you had one, you suddenly realize you weren't meant for anything. You can begin to live, appreciate even the smallest creatures you've taken comfort amid; rise above them all. Soar into the unknown and die with some dignity. Fulfilled, you have ascended into nothing. |
| Perhaps, I write because I need an alibi... https://twitter.com/glaedrfly/status/589848688018731012 https://twitter.com/glaedrfly/status/589714445171064832 Am I in your head, yet? Let me know when you get inside, because I'm locked in here. Brian K Compton, Machinehead  |
| I hear a lonesome sound when the wind rustles the trees, And it's in me. I sense the giant pines unrest where birds hunker down; quiet for more than an hour now. The snowy owl hunts. I buried the rabbit's fur in the dark, silent bed; spared from my her innocence She'd hate the feathered visitor, if she knew of his lust to live. Why do we have to grow up? Can we just have our rain; get it over with? I could tend to my garden. I don't like the pines anymore. They stir something within me that I cannot silence. REWRITE I hear a lonesome sound wind rustling the trees, and it's in me. I sense the giant's unrest birds hunker down; quiet for too long now. The snowy owl still hunts. I buried the rabbit's fur in the dark, silent bed. I spared her innocence. She'd hate the feathered visitor, if she knew of his lust. Why do we have to grow up? Can we just have our rain; get it over with? I could tend to my garden. I don't like the pines anymore. They stir something within me that I cannot silence. STILL needs work. |
| Everything starts with good intention, but we lose ourselves along the way... set private 4.2015, from late 2014 re-opened 2020 |
| Hashing out poems with little potential here... Insulated, numb Can't feel you Can't feel My arrogance Full, yet I need I need you Across this desert Dead Can't drink life Can't drink Dry Bones ache, cold Yet, sweat Visions, delusions Are all I have An empty gut needs meat Needs to eat Yet, no hunger Can't feel Numb Another... My heart is a metronome Steady Beating Always repeating Echoing It's unrelenting Love OR somehow haiku? My heart is a metronome Steady, beating Echoing unrelenting love More... Just Love Me Back You feel the laughter Hot on your ears veins thick With the humility Hands forming Defeated fists While concealing eyes Wanton intent burning for a lifetime Because of one moment innocence, ignorance Can't take back publicly professed love Poor Juliet Had no intention Was in no position To echo back Or Was it not love? Infatuation put you in that square On the empty soap box Where a part of you still remains. Who am I trying to convince here? Just love me back. Maybe, I'll know. One more, even more depressing...hashing out still and may never finish these... Let me inhale the sweet gas Fill these hungering lungs Savor a (black, vile) mixture (that rolls down) Beneath the gums Then, send your (harsh, brutal) lips So it will numb Every fear of losing you When we're done My fantasy is your suicide For one so young To send sweet greetings From your tongue Deeper down I will go Before I'm hung On this poisoned remedy I'm that dumb. Why does rhyme either punctuate or kill the mood, message? So hard to know when to run to or from the desire to create these appetizing sounds that beg to be heard, implore an answer. |
| Though I love them, feel like telling my family as I walk out the door, "I feel my work here is done." Feels like they don't need me unless it is to have someone to dump on. I feel like I would be more productive as a writer if I had more than five minutes alone at a time in my head when inspiration to pick up a pen or keyboard strikes me again. So much negativity. Glad there's a break in weather. Couldn't come sooner. Of course, I say, 'I feel like' because I cannot grasp this situation. Too many details to dissect but it is the same old stories about parenting growing children with a spouse who does not think like me, not on same page. And I don't rule in my roost without her final say. Mix in my idiosyncrasies that put me at a disadvantage and you've got the makings for another run-of-the-mill unfunny sitcom. Blah. Don't feel like blogging more. Want 2014 back when I was full of hope like the plough horse after that dangled carrot. Field plowed, nothing sown. What could have gone wrong begs the reaper? Is there a magic bag of seeds somewhere with the label, 'Never plant these' ?? |
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me. EMILY DICKINSON Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999){/times} |
| A wise friend recently imparted some logic that I now pause to remember, when needed: Memories are often flawed, but they do help keep us going during difficult times. To separate fact from fiction, one may never be sure where the truth lies. I have so many fond memories that I look back on whistfully. Perhaps, kind acts that nourished this soul fade from faulty memory. I hold on to moments and reconstruct the associated feelings. Living a lie? Blissful ignorance? What else do I have to hold on to but to think she could have loved me? More than a generation later, we still don't know. I just want to keep these memories alive to fool me to my grave. Perhaps, my life is perpetually in crisis, because the projections in my head feel like they're on a non-stop loop. |
| Surrounding Myself Instead of surrounding myself with others who could lift me up, encourage me, I've surrounded myself with me. Everyone is at arm's length in my personal and internet life. I'll laugh and joke, but won't open up about my personal goals and dreams. So, I create a false persona to insulate myself from prying eyes, surrounded by walls of faceless names and one-dimensional sorts who are only good enough for a few moments discussion of the weather. I met someone beautiful who I could get to know on a deeper, more personal level and let them slip through my fingers because I let myself get in the way. I desire companionship on the most unaffected, unconditional level to purge these demons that tear apart the rooms inside. The daily damage makes it more difficult to rise and search for the sun out my window. I am only compelled by commitment to family. Nothing left for myself but regret that I don't just walk out that door and journey to look for me. I'm candid now. Fifteen minutes later and I might find distraction in a repetitive video game, latest Netflix or Hulu series, or reveries of a boy that dreamed a much better life for the man I am. I regret that I never approached you, reached for your hand and begged your eyes to look deep inside where I hide something beautiful that doesn't dare to come out without your skillful, nourishing light. I'll flail some more in this darkness hoping I'll find you without effort. God, I don't want any more rejection. The little boy has had enough from the man. Quiet, seek softness, while time wrinkles any hope for a future now becoming past. My midpoint, January, 2014. Sorry, for being obtuse. I'm slipping away again. 15 minutes...up. |
| It's not like the old days anymore. Not like we can meet for lunch at the Szechuan place on Third Street, where you educated me on Asian cuisine. And, not far from the University where we spent most of our hours either in class or working at the public radio and television studios, keeping in touch through the campus phone system. It seemed like not a day would go by without a word for one another. And then you found somebody to "date." And when he would travel for his job, which was frequent, then we found time for each other again. When he was around, I was out of sight. But, one day I failed and it all came apart. I needed help and you brought him along to rescue me. And I did not offer my thanks. The words got stuck in my throat. He pointed it out to you, as you said. And I realized I was a threat, in his eyes. So you were upset and I stayed away. Eventually we became friends again. But it was never the same. And then I had to move away and then you had to move away and we grew farther and further apart. I sent the last unresponded letters. I sent the last unresponded emails. I saw something in you. You left me hanging. For years I have not been able to put together the puzzle of the last time we were together and I thought you had extended your hand touching mine on your daybed on accident. But now I wonder, was there a purpose? You did not let me know if you were still in a relationship. I sensed something in you I hadn't seen since the first time I thought there was an attraction and you managed to confuse me. So I did not respond. And now I have regrets to this day that I did not find out. Over 20 years later, I found you and contacted you. And from the emails it seems like you're still the girl I used to know. You are married now. I am married now. And yet, the thing dogs me still, stuck in my brain. It should be harmless to ask. I cannot, should not, open that door, even though I stare at it every day wondering what lies beyond, wondering what I left inside. Just know, whenever I dreamed of you, I felt I could be or do anything I wanted. Without you, I wonder if I'll ever realize my potential. Goodbye again, LuAnne Brian Written long ago, though I could not share with you, he said wistfully, alone to the sky...
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| Been taking personality tests at Psychcentral.com to learn if suspected traits exist and not liking some results. Self diagnosis is cheap, painful and just as subjective, but not overseen by a paid professional who can drag out sessions for years, feeling no wiser for the experience. I'm just going to tweet insights, adding whatever passes for wisdom here and in Notebook, as the psyche turns over each stone obsessively, finding no discernible clue to explain this vain existence. |
| "Giving In" [E] Grounded upon a cement path leaves lie like words scrambled and scattered by the wind You chase them down the walk but their wonder is swept away before the eager can grab hold to find no meaning Too far away for the mind to reach your venture ends with a visit to a vacant bench And a leaf floats down beside you All your life spent chasing obstacles on unseen strings and the prize you win is for giving in. |
| Fall is one of my favorite seasons that inspire my writing: "A Better Love Tomorrow" [E] written 24 years agoA blissful sky bleeds dry its color. Wet but crisp leaves lie scattered to rot and brown, in the fading light, cloy at the soggy ground. You reach for my hand. Still cold, we huddle closer. We walk with no destination toward some horizon, sending away our sun. You nuzzle my neck, touch my hair and whisper, "I love you dear." I know you are near, but it seems so far away. There was a time when I wanted you close, tighter, inside me whole; but time washes away the memory these aged eyes foggily see. The woman who buttons my coat, scratches my tender back and looks forlornly into my eyes. Must see something I don’t, something that I won’t. The sun will rise again, three quarters of the way home. Tomorrow, I will love better. These leaves tug at my shoes, as the sky washes to black. More features from Autumn coming |
| Something I would like to expand upon one day. Want to share this for now: What is it about life that makes us want to live? Is it the color and shape of things, the beauty of nature, the food that we crave to eat? Is it the love of a good mate, to share some dark secret? Is it the desire to own expensive, beautiful things? What is it about life that makes us want to live? Are we vexed by some puzzle we must solve before going to our grave? Have we not learned from others the thirst unquenched on dying lips? Might we wield social power that make others envious, weak in their knees to be in our presence? What is about life that makes us want to live? Are you waiting for an answer? Unsure what mystery could there possibly be yet unknown that could make life worth living? Innocence. We yearn to be young again, to be tempted by all that we desire, and fantasy. Perhaps, we could, just read. There are millions of lives in books yet undiscovered with many truths yet uncovered that could shape our minds with true vision and purpose. What is it about life that fuels our desire to live: fiction. |
| I've been quiet. Good for me. Find me on twitter for latest. |
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In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
