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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 identify, she's still my favorite character: Britta Perry, Communty: https://www.slashfilm.com/840536/how-britta-went-from-being-communitys-best-char... If I had one thing to add as a note to the author, who I can follow on Twitter and shout out, it would be: I told my wife years ago, "When you're happy, I'm happy." It sort of calms the storm within me to see her smile. I would do a lot of things to show my love and appreciation. Defending Britta as the show's 'worst', a conscious effort after falling out of love with a character who was perfect in episode one, is that she was suffering and no one knew why. No one really got into her story, other than a hypocritical activist. Then, she wanted to be a therapist. She was trying and took a lot of insults and kidding when she opened up to a group that sometimes supported her, but mostly mocked her. Could she have been on the spectrum worse than Abed, because she didn't know how to relate to the world, made poor choices, but her heart was essentially good. She made mistakes, but was humble. I feel I would tell this author to look further at the motivation for a character that always wanted to help the fallen and downtrodden before herself. She got rattled by Pierce's 10k ‘bequeathment’ to see if she'd keep it for herself. She was eventually living in a tent on campus, wrestled with finances, didn't want her parent's support but reluctantly took money pitously through a backchannel her friend's created with her parents, 'tired' of paying for her. Her concept of finances was bad. She stole quarters from a cupholder in the final season. Britta would up being a bartender, no where near a Psych degree. And my point is, she chose psychology because it helped her to help others, just as activism, or helping Abed with his dad and the loss of Troy and helping Jeff reunite with his father. She even ran Shirley’s sub shop, serving burnt sandwiches with sadness and guilt. She wanted what was best for everyone and knowing she could make a difference allowed her a bit of dignity and pride she lost from being confused by the world and how it functions. Original Britta never had that struggle and lost her identity as a member of seven. The simplest acts like helping others mends a soul hemorrhaging and yet still hanging in there, still trying. Admittedly, Britta looked worn out by the end of season six. The realization she would not heal might have been setting in. Alcohol and sex with men could have been the last wall to come tumbling down, if she could not find worth and self-redemption. And let's face, Greendale was a joke of a college, fictitious, because community or city institutions don't hand out four year degrees. But, you could take pass or fail classes for 30 plus years like Leonard and remain valedictorian? And, that's a high school thing, just like all those dances run by a Dean who obviously faced something traumatic in his own formative years to rerun the past and force it on unwitting community college denizens. I think he hated Britta and even started the buzz she was the worst, jealous of her barely there relationship with Jeff. I'll think on this more before I post. This was supposed to be short. 9.9.22 10.23.22 updated |
| PROMPT 5: Sept 5 – Do writers have obligations towards their readers? If so, what can they be? If not, why not? Do you have anything to tell about (your) readers? On Writers and Readers. No. What are the readers obligations to me as a writer, I offer rhetorically? No, a writer such as myself has no debt to readers. A paid writer has obligations to publishers and editors, if under a contract. A writer might feel indebted if he or she has fans. But, we write for ourselves. What motivates a person to write might actually determines the level of obligation one might feel. The obligation is to oneself and those who depend on them, like family, to provide a sustainable living. If a writer makes promises, there is a moral obligation in some rare instances. But, still no. Why we become writers is this impulse to put down words and craft them in a fashion similar to puzzling. We are creating as artists, although there are grant writers, educational requirements for theses or essays, and tabloid matter, including columns and other print criteria. I won’t speak to social media, basically brainwashing and rewriting history, social, moral and ethical values. No. We are fully going to focus on the struggling, starving profession called writing. I'm not going to look at the world through Elizabeth Gibson's lens. I write for me and aim to find a niche, to find some avenue of discovery. But, I can't think about getting paid for this. It's not nearly to that horizon. Ah, but there might be an obligation in the process to being discovered. Why would anyone care to read us? First, you have to be in the stream where you could be found and your words can be shared. Grr, social media.  How's that going to happen unless you tirelessly self-promote? When that process begins, it creates expectations. ‘Who want to read me?’ is the call. The response might be ‘we like what we so far. Show us what you've got’. Sort of an obligation there. You start mingling with readers and writers and there's the back and forth. You shout them out, the do the same. It’s a lot of work and you realize creativity has been stunted. When is that next Gibson creation coming? I don't know. Don't care. She got paid. She created those obligations. I'm Joe Schmo sitting over here in my incipient void on the internet, hunkered down between atoms of programming matter wondering what I'm doing in this tiny space I've occupied. I made $15? On my first digital book of poetry? On Amazon. Wasn't really pushing it or trying to be a household name. It's just something cool I could do. Now, I'm sitting here as a two-time Quill award winner of Best Poetry Collection (2020 and 2021). I'm dead in the water. There won't be anything beyond. Charitable? An honor. It's really more of a Gibson moment. But for me, resignation. So, while I'll park my butt this fall under a tree in a sunny patch an inhale nature connecting to my soul, I won't be thinking while jotting down words who's expecting this man to hop on the internet and post these ditties. I'm purging, I'm learning about life. I'm inside my head, pinging off my soul and heart, sending signals back to my brain, stimulated to conjur up word pictures and lonely lectures on the life of a solemn poet. No manuscript for a novel is forthcoming. No inklings of writing a short story for a site sponsored contest because I don’t get a sniff. Just an endless stream of "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"  filling a book nearing it's end. Obligation to continue my membership is ending, too. Perhaps, a big send off in one to three years, when I drop all remaining coin collected, close account, forget writing and take up fishing. I'll stop puzzling words in my brain and sing aloud, dance with my wife in the kitchen, weed the garden beds and plant fresh bulbs, have summer cookouts, card games with friends, and keep hinting my kids need to grow up and move out — because a woman needs all of my attention. The true obligation would be her. She's not asking for a poem and a flower on her pillow, but my strong arms around her waist, a gleam in my eye as to happily spin her round and round until the bomb drops.No. Life is my obligation. PS -- I would gladly consent to becoming a white case here and leave all my gifts to this community. I'm not sure the obligation. It's given me SO much. But, say I'm dead and my family wants to take all my work and have a publisher create collections post part 'em? They get first crack. I'm sure I'll fade into obscurity like all the rest. Pack up all my belongings and turn the light out here before I'm white in my casket. It feels like I'm in it now. I reiterate: I've been give SO much. I also GAVE a lot — my words, my content, my support at times, when I could. Can you imagine writing over 3,000 reviews (5k plus from deletions) the length of high school to college essays and the best you could average was maybe 10-25 cents per review? There was definitely an impulse for many years of obligation, vague as it was, to fit in. I'm grateful for my status that arrived 14 years post. Honestly, I cherish it. I think it creates further obligation, so I upped my game. But, with mental affliction, learning disability, childhood PTSD, lingering and uncurable blindness, apnea, social awkwardness and more, you just want to get through one day without tearing the lid off something. Anger is better than self-pity. I grind. I wear out. I write. I purge. Obligation? Obligation?? We're talking about obligation??? I want mother's arms to wrap me up in my weakest moments, assurance. I want to protect my family from carpetbaggers and all the evil of the world. I have to save every last dime to make sure they are provided for when I'm gone. Maybe, that will include these unexamined words. This unmentored writing life where I struggle to co-exist. Where I wish I could tap one person on the shoulder and ask, is there any hope for me? And like some all knowing God, they can say 'give it up, kid.' You'll only get a headache. Just, no. No. Elizabeth Gibson owes me an explanation. 9.5.22 |
| I really am like a driverless car. Software engineers should want to open me up and examine my brain when I’m dead. But better yet, get in there now and rewire me. Are we really that far away from technology making man cyborg? But I’m not asking for that kind of upgrade, but always considered how far away from the integration, rewire brain circuitry to function faster, better, clearer, rather than idle over uncontrollable thoughts and feelings that have sent me everywhere and nowhere every moment of my life. It’s the struggle with ADHD, struggle on the spectrum where I have been defined only as different, unexplainable. And yet, it should seem so simple. DNA can be figured out. So is science working on mental dysfunction, the brain, and how to sort it out? Explain why a person is full of anxiety when it’s suddenly too quiet and needs a fix, something to soften or ignore the static inside one’s head. Little games we make up to distract ourselves help. But the nagging reminder is still there — our brain is constantly on, constantly working to compute and function. And it’s not fair that the neurotypical can judge the atypical, because of abnormalities and behavior that feels impulsively informed and not easily controllable. So we channel that energy into things that create beauty, that create something appreciable, an offering to other sufferers and neurotypicals, be accepted with those inner workings. 7/14/22 Tip of the CAP to #elonmusk Self-fulfilling lifelong, just not prophetic. |
| Dug deep into the archives for this song, that Prince wrote? Produced? #freyaridingschallenge Cover this song, hope on guitar, ballad style? 7.13.22 |
| Those who insinuate either don't know the truth or want you to spread a lie. I came up with that today when thinking about people I deal with at work, maybe the gym, and from past dealings. I've heard a lot of wild rumors from people who shouldn't be in the know and it pricks my ears up. But, I keep my mouth shut, because it's untraceable back to them, or they assert themselves as authority. A lot of mind games, really. It's defeating to think that people who play with the truth are manipulating others negatively. The purpose? Gain? To win? I make it clear I'm not playing, but I'm not taking these insinuations lying down. I know these gaslighters could spread rumors about me. I'm very aware around anyone I deal with. It's happened more than it should to someone who's struggled lifelong with handling the truth. Truth can be very subjective. I don't know where all the hard facts hide. Maybe, in math? But, since the advent of advertising and the need for people to move product, idiots like me who accidentally stand in the way get a good shove in the back. So, I can read intentions better than most. I know the difference between a narcissist, sociopath and psychotic. No psychos need apply. Sociopaths who act like they get their feelings hurt want to deceive. They really shouldn't care, but it's necessary for them. It's business. So, when they shove papers in front of me with false allegations, I decline to sign. They say fine. It's over. But, will it come back again? I'll be ready. They've crossed me for the last time. About the fist line, insinuation, those who don't know the truth should be very careful. 5.8.22 This is not grade school anymore. Long live Al! (inside j) Death to tyranny!! |
| I've bored people with my basketball stories in blog in the past. Let's do it again! I haven't been sharing much about my basketball life. I should have an entire blog devoted to my current exploits. One little game a few guys at the gym enjoy, crow about, involves their 3-point shooting ability. I'm no slouch. In fact, because I'm much older than these guys about the age of my oldest (21), I should be at a disadvantage. The game is called 2-ball. I watched them one day about a year ago. Four shooters formed two teams. One acted as rebounder and passer to the three-point shooter attempting to go around the world. That's five made shots around the court perimeter (shoot until you make from each spot, like NBA 3-point shooting contest, but with one ball, one make). When you hit all five, the rebounder becomes shooter and vice versa and he must reverse his way back to the start. Each team starts on opposite sides and cross paths in this quest. They try to be fair and not get in way of shooter or passer, except for a few hijinks, if they need a little edge. So, the person who seems to instigate most of these contests graduated with the same class as my son. His name is Jayden. He can be described in many ways, but mostly feeds off a basketball/sports mentality with boasting, manipulating, a bit of a cheater, will talk you up, but a good baller for someone overweight (looks more like a football lineman). He's acknowledged my shooting ability in pickup games. We feed off each other at times. He let me in on their games. It always comes after we've run pick-up games (at least 2 hours). Sometimes, it's 21, a game that would take a lot of explaining, but basically a free for all. I've grown to love it, but am enjoying 2-ball more. I've teamed with different people. It usually doesn't matter. But I see strategies forming now within these games. And by playing these games, I've improved as a shooter, rebounder and especially passer. It all came together this week. I had some back problems and had seen my chiropracter a second time when a kid named Anthony needed a partner and chose me to pair up against Jayden, and a good shooter, Dom. Before I knew it, we won two games to start. Little did I know it would be a marathon. I'd been in the gym for hours when these games started. Jayden just kept saying, "Let's go again." He never walked off the court without winning, having the edge, or just not acknowledge when he was beaten. It turned into a seven game series. I could tell my legs were weak from the back. My only fortune, I put on bio-freeze and my back was as warm as laying on a heating pad. Between games, I stretched as much as I could. We won four games to three. I thought a game of 21 might break out when Jayden wanted more games. He said we were wiping slate clean. I didn't know it would be another seven games series. I had a few bouts with a few spots around the perimeter when I realized being the first to go was better than being a finisher. I'd press too much if might legs got tight. It took only six games for us to win four. And it ended. It reminded that Jayden often mentally bullied Anthony, a small, scrappy kid I've often rooted for, looked out for. He was really rooting for me when we were winning these games, finally bonded over it. We had some pick up games again after that and all I did was launch a bunch of incredibly long three-pointers with confidence. It was an amazing spectacle, to at least me. You could have collected four people in that room who couldn't add up to my age. Running with teens at the end. Just another feather in my cap. I guess I don't do the story justice. No true details of how those 2-ball games played out. I just know that my shooting stroke and ability to grab and pass a ball get better every day, especially now that I have full use of my left side, thanks to rotator cuff surgery, almost two years ago. It's been a game changer. okay, enough, 4.21.22 |
| How to get to know me, realizing some narcissist/sociopath can use this to manipulate me (justify reasons why): https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/where-science-meets-the-steps/201403/are... People see my behavioral tendencies as unexamined reasons to label me ‘bad’. I own it, as the article says. Must be some relationship forged in hell. I wear the guilt and shame others should feel. When things are good, subconsciously, I must do something to provoke their untowardness. Upside or downside, I’ll never apologize for how I act, when I feel treatment unjust. Again, not the problem of indifferent, but triggered, tormentors. In my head, I always act as if I’ve won. Might have to re-examine that last bit. Part of my process. A very busy process. |
| With great power there must also come great responsibility to be even more evil, but good like Robin Hood, while demonized without narrative controlled by dystopian giants silently stomping on necks with narcissistic, sociopathic and irrevocable mind words that wind the empty clocks and inspire an ignorant clown with what to lance when among decoy windmills. It's about response to provocation. We make mistakes. We learn. Through repetition, we discover what they exploit: our vulnerability, shame and/or guilt to get us to act poorly, to weaken our position, to dehumanize us and make us compliant and weak. And, if you should withstand the torment of arrogant indifference amid whatever area of life you wander, you'll likely be hurt, feel pain like grief. Perhaps, it's because they see in each of us something unresolved, from childhood, relationships, or just life, that we never overcame. They whisper in your head, intimate in some fashion and know all the while they are pushing your buttons. The more relentless, the more they are the monster. Rest awhile. Don't confront them on their terms. You can use denial just as easily as they do. They do not deserve entry or judgment in souls that desire to soar, feel good. If being good is a part of that aim, we contribute to society. If they are just out to steal souls for their own gain, they create the deficient. It's why as a society we keep losing, keep retreating further back. Don't seek drama. And know, you are entitled to your own drama. I hope you sort it out. I go with the mantras: God decides, thank you God, I'm sorry, as much as I can. Hopefully, one day I will be ready to look fondly on the things I'm thankful for. Not there yet. I could tell you why...that's why some things should remain personal. But know, anything you take to the table, manipulators will use. Just ask them, if you feel smart, 'read any good dystopian books lately?' Though, it's not necessary. I guess we're taught zingers are supposed to be effectual. It might feel good to say. Yet, it won't affect a narcissist/sociopath, who either won't get it or will just deflect...maybe even, throw it back into your court. And, you can always use personal writing (like this) too sort it out. 4.17.22 Part 2 You can get caught in a trap, as an unsuspecting soul with no outward intentions when you cross paths with them. You realize what you seek on your path is blocked by them and it feels unfair. Feeling provoked, you react. But, you're not conditioned for the proper response and what you say or do can fail you. You have no recourse because they know the outcomes, they set the rules, you either play it their way, or give up the game. But then, you think you are clever enough to go around them. You can sense they are upset by this. They want their control back, for whatever reasons. Friends have a hierarchy you're not allowed to subvert or crack. You can get left out. There are cliques at work where you don't fit in and taking one or two people aside can backfire and you are in a bigger hole. It is social order. It can go beyond politics. You're a fish out of water because you are what they labeled as 'goody two shoes' when you were growing up. You hated that and wanted to show them you could do something bad to fit in. And that just got you in more trouble, because, again, you're not good at it. It isn't who you are. But going through life this makes you jaded, cynical and outwardly buffoonish for trying to overcome these traps. But, you can see them for what they are. But, lay down? Let them walk over you? I was told again and again, you can walk away. Find new friends, a new job and hope rolling the dice you'll be satisfied with the next. But, what if there is a target on people like me and I just don't see it. Perhaps, my ignorance trained me to be the person that people want to hate. When my self-esteem got low, I tried to brag and build myself up. Now, I was an ass. It took a lot of years and a lot of cynicism and pushing people away to realize that I should just embrace their stupid games and walk right through the maze. There really are no walls, if you just don't care. It's not walking away. It's walking right past them. I won't say I have friends. I can say I have a job that pays the bills, but no associations have formed there in 10 plus years. the same goes for where I work out, play sports. I can chat a few people up, but I walk out that door just as alone as I did when I walked in. I got used to being alone. I got used to being different. I just didn't know why until I was diagnosed late last year. I'm different. I'm odd. I probably don't make any sense, especially when I'm forced to veil comments in a public forum like this. Just let me have this. Let me have the frustration of having to walk through an ignorant world and be dissatisfied with it. I still find joy in writing and doing and sports and my job and family, if the conditions are right. And when one isn't working, I jump into the other. When I realize I'm boring or annoying people I skip into the next arena and next. But mostly, I spend a lot of time alone with my words, with my thoughts, binge watching shows, sometimes 12 times through, and a huge audiophile. With the internet, it's a limitless world. Learning I don't need friends has made it easy to deal with rude, snobbish people in my walks of life. I've met a lot of sweet people, but I think they're not sure about me. No one just comes right out and asks. So, I assume they just don't give two farts. I guess, what I'm trying to point out, is that it's odd we are so riled up in this world about people's rights and yet we character assassinate people we don't know. Good people. It's dehumanizing to be around people who just see you for your job title, for the one sport you share, a cartoonish parent, or whatever. I try to take writing seriously. But, I'm just wasting time writing poetry. But, I'm not wasting time inside my mind. I'm learning new things every day and understanding more. It's ramped up since my new medication and therapy. I leave it with this. Guys at the gym. Greedy SOBs that don't want to share the court, keep others off. If you're old, you don't catch the ball. You get yelled at if you make one mistake by these superstars that take 20 shots to make five. But, it's not about me. What made me cry the other day is a sweet, young man named Ethan. I've seem him come to the gym for years. He was a little slow, like to talk about where he shops for high tops and buys sports drinks and was atheletic enough and could shoot well enough to play. I don't know his story personally, but since the pandemic, he's come back to the gym. He's much slower, like someone who suffered a stroke. He moves slowly but is still so sweet. He wanted to play a game. It was his turn. I watched them turn him away by saying 'you got next' which the greedy ones will do when they only want certain people on the court. Against Y rules. Everyone looked away. I kept saying Ethan should be in. I told Ethan, you didn't play yet, you're in. But no one acknowledged, which is usual, because all ignore and too many voices. Ethan came back to play again and I was supposed to play and I saw no one was going to let him in. I turned to him and said, "You play for me. Everybody, Ethan's taking my spot." I love to play, but I hate injustice more. Ethan is black and so were over half the guys at the gym. I was sad at how he was treated. He loves basketball. I watched him play. I rooted for him from the sideline when I started to cry. I cried because sweet people are shoved aside in this world. Sweet people who just want to be a part of something, enjoy the game. Ethan has done nothing wrong. He has physical limitations now. Who knows, some help and encouragement, he could play like he once did. I don't know if can be rehabilitated. I don't know who to ask, if anyone has bothered to learn. This is where my anger comes from, my contempt. I have deep pockets of empathy and have cried over stuff like this before, but never at the gym. I hid my tears. I looked up at the lights. I tried not to be jaded about it. I wanted to have a natural, human response to the situation. I feel helpless, because it's at my core. It's being different and not being accepted when you try to be a part of something where you're not wanted. Ethan is too sweet to get frustrated, to become passive aggressive, to write missives to the world and no one about how ignorant we are today. We don't fight for human rights. We're a bunch of machines with triggers for hot button topics. We don't talk, we posture, we feel hate easier than we feel love. And I'm tired of writing complete sentences and just want to run on. But for what? This is for Ethan, world. I would do anything in my power, and we know how limited that is. Greedy people fix the game. They win. I just won't tell them no mas to their faces, to appease them. They can shun me, stab me where it hurts most, it doesn't matter anymore. I'll just keep writing and ranting and continuing to seek avenues to find a way to write myself out of this mess of a world and enlighten others somehow along the way. Use a metaphor here for a fat chance in... 4.19.22 I'll probably have a part three after I edit part two, which was unplanned. Maybe, next will be about how God seems to tip the scales in my favor and let's me see things normal people don't. Who the fixers are, what their game is, just puts something right in front of me at the oddest hour and wonder how divine it is to have such serendipity to enlighten me and expose the manipulation and flaws in other people's deceit. Though, I never do anything with it but sit on it, tell my wife, try to make sense of it. Like, I don't have power to do anything, as I've said. Things happen all the time that are out of our control, but who wants to be the one labeled an idiot, step up and admit that you did that. Lots of people want to point out that they’re better, hindsight, would’ve done things differently. But they don’t allow you to access that hypothetical ability to perceive the future and react accordingly, correctly, not trusting you’ll get it right the next time, like a baby. you can only defer and deflect so much, before you realize your only recourse is to own it before anyone else can say some thing. And you have to play to the few who are least likely to judge and hope that it plays out fair. But, not knowing what you’re up against, the mindsets of those around you, especially if they keep changing, rearranging, and never extending a hand to you, you decide defer, retract, deny. That’s where I take my lumps. That’s why I feel alone. No one else wants to be human with me. All are superior. I will never put myself in the position of acting like I’m better than someone else. It’s not only what I’ve been taught, but what someone with empathy feels. And until someone realizes that I am a real person, stops dehumanizing, stops hating before asking questions, I’ll just wear ‘my disguise’. This is about my real life, you know? |
| My attempt to inspire someone today: My wife says I overthink, too. But, she’s not necessarily right. The more you play with those words, the more you know. You can find deeper meaning with the right edit. I have a whole bunch of thoughts. If you don’t trust your gut, it needs to be fed. That can be a variety of things. So, while you have a passion for writing, let it burn, baby, burn. You will find there are days it will rage. Days when you can devote yourself to something else. Either way, when you step away, you are a writer, still experiencing and soaking in life. Write for truth. Write for love. Write because it makes YOU happy. And, when you are discovered by a fan, revel in it. I can tell you you’re already winning when your head is in this game we share and love. These words I pen are especially for you. Don’t forget, we can inspire each other as a community. I hope to read and send you a review in the near future. B More thoughts on writing pertaining to keeping it simple and when to edit to come. Key is knowing your voice and audience, knowing what language cohesively sells a write. |
| It's not how well you write but observe and conform to a tedium of unnecessary rules. They coddle mediocrity of maze dwellers who capitulate. Just spray paint over your own art and bow to the uninspired. I need to lay down. My eyes are tired from staring at the ever changing walls. 3.20.22 |
| I'll test this here: play the slots from her pouty, red purse mouth to shaved undercarriage, coin slots each, hold your currency. gold, if you please. 3.13.22 just playing around with 'pouty lips,' and remember description of Britta from Community at end of season 1 by Chang, of having a red coin purse for a mouth, and shouldn't put the severe color on. |
| They always say, 'if you bother to read' indignantly to which I equally respond (mind my language) who's got fucking time for that? If you read every over worded warranty to indemnify as they deify themselves, I'm over in the corner sorting stacks of papers they know I don't have time to read. They suggest ignorance is your own if you buy into that truckload of shit they shovel onto your doorstep and lawn, and you'll be reading well past dawn. Hopefully, there is comprehension well before completing some contractual obligatory agreement, but the old expression of over a barrel could easily be depicted as naked, 'tooned wearing a wooden one, and just how does any of this matter, as these words scatter down the screen, a lighted word wall that no one will likely read and concur to agree that we are all just hostages of conformity? 3.12.22 I didn't know where that was going. Glad if I could conclude a cloudy dissertation with a somewhat agreeable summation. Reread later, and edit, as needed, as I see it. |
| OK if I keep talking I’ll never get lonely or depressed, because you’ll always have me. |
| There was a time when we were supposed to (duped into) look(ing) up to professional athletes. This response by Aaron Rodgers about getting Covid and being an unvaccinated player among other things tells me he definitely doesn't get it, and gets too much air time for someone who does not represent the majority of values on the virus front: https://www.espn.com/nfl/story/_/id/32560778/green-bay-packers-qb-aaron-rodgers-... More comment later. Too much going on inside this writer's den for me to concentrate. 1.5.21 But, only a day later and the consensus seems he's either really misinformed, ignorant, foolish, this list goes on...until he got fired from Prevea Health, for whom he was a spokesman: https://www.espn.com/nfl/story/_/id/32566801/wisconsin-healthcare-provider-green... And, this messy saga is widening and making a lot more people mad: https://www.espn.com/nfl/story/_/id/32570790/executives-other-nfl-teams-question... The worse that can happen to Rodgers and/or his team by NFL standards is fines. I'm not even sure there will be enough public outrage to muster up enough shame before his time in Green Bay is over, which might be the end of this season. I think more and more this happened because he wants out, without being the bad guy. But, buffoon? |
| At any moment I could do something impulsively stupid, compulsive. Ignorantly informed before light can find it's way over the horizon, or I go in search of it in thick wood, act. Almost immediately, regret. Then, I start to fumble for true answers that seem unavailable and my behavior has revealed the conscious side of me that can compose thought to find only remorse. But, no answers for why I behave the way I do. So, I go live in a cave of my mind. I throttle out from time to time, but restrict my own egress toward controversial thoughts, because I can only feel warmth. I cannot use light to illuminate elusive truth, not acknowledging my lack of foresight. This wandering, meandering life leads me back behind the threshold I daily dare surpass. The process is maddening and hard for others to understand, because subsequently, I speak obtusely and indirectly of what I really mean, perhaps, because, I don't know how to search for the truth, let alone process it's many, computer-like parts. It's not for me. And, now I know it. Question is: will I ultimately give up, moving slower over this worn terrain of my mind liquifying like butter? Better rest. Beer me. |
| There’s no perfect metaphor for what I attempt without master to share: Life could be like revolving doors and hopping into another dimension or like a stationary merry-go-round. You can make it go or just sit on it and dream on sun-heated metal soiled from grubby feet or cleansed by rain. But know, if you ride and don't puke, you've already won. If you stand up and hold on as someone spins it faster, you can experience the rush. Having been sucked in by it's centrifugal force, you can find ground again after it slows, feel disoriented but still know you're fine. And you realize, the world moves beneath as you struggle to remain standing. Those experiences, solitary, move through you a lifetime, replayed infinitely as each opening appears and passes as we must chose to step into our portals, or eventually step away, as if mother is calling us home for supper. I have only one question: what do you talk about over that meal...that you played or got hurt? I may have suffered too many concussions…or plainly…blows to the head. We laugh…though, it’s serious. There's always going to be the bad experience to help us appreciate the good. If we remove all that is bad, how would we know how good? Or, just take every experience for granted? You must be pricked and appreciate that experience, too. How else will you time travel at the end of life? Not very good without conflict-resolution. 10.28.21 from the maddening after the awakening and ing and ing and ing forever on. |
| To tempt them to near, to pry, we lie. We embellish the truth to soothe our qualms about worth, or be alone. To tell the truth is a lie to our worth, because no one will know how to near, to love, one so alone. 10.26.21 Idiomatic or idiotic? Either way, I'm calling it a poem. Remember when we threw neurotic around so freely to reveal ourselves, or disguise? |
| Everyone's cheating. Everyone's lying. Those who are the worst at it get caught, become sacrificial lambs. They were just trying to keep up, fit in. We lie to ourselves, mess with our own heads, wonder what is wrong with us because we don't fit in with a bunch of liars and cheats. The new standard is to be the best and phoniest. We forget our values overall, while keeping some sentimental ethos connected to our hearts near and dear, fighting falsely for their survival while, navigating this world eroding into negativity and division, because no great unifier has come along to quell what agitates all. We all chatter like someone is listening, like someone will do more than like a post. But, if a movement swells from our words, would we know what next? We're stuck as a nation/world, ensnared in a web of lies, beginning with media in all forms. And, too dim-witted to see actual truths, too cozy, readied for our dirt naps. I have witnessed the ignorance of the cancel culture young. Gah. Walls for old people to echo thoughts off. “funerals are always occasions for pious lying.” - I.F. Stone I might add more. Okay, I will. This: Trump is an ass and the biggest liar in the room, by design. He realizes the depth of the ignorance that surrounds and wants to be polarizing by telling it like it is. He knows we all think some of these things, but have the good sense to not speak what we might think evidentiary. That doesn't make a good unifier, but someone like my dad who would get in your face and tell you what he thinks of you without a moment's hesitation, and in that moment, rents space in your head. You might say divider, but people are forming to the left and the right because of him and ready to fight for what they feel. But, we might be the hapless fools like he claims Gen. Colin Powell was, that we blindly believe what we are told and expose it to others as truth, until unverified. I'm awash in a sea of this when I discover Stone's quote and have to consider the journalistic roots of a young man who wanted to investigate and reveal hidden truth in a pack of lies, but tired of the game heavily stacked against a lone individual (me). I was ushered out of the media game because it is thankless, unrewarding and not unlike everything else I chase hoping for a chance to prove and reprove myself. But to whom? No one is watching and I am yet just another fool following manipulated carrots. I'll let these thoughts marinate semi-publicly, as I consider their weight, an ounce or less, because few to none truly pry to get inside and see what goes on, unless a threat somehow, unwittingly, to some machine cramming nonsense down the throats of all who would sing for a hollow supper. Yeah, marinate. 10.20.21 |
| I'm handed, 'life isn't supposed to be easy' late in life. When my peers and parents glared at me if I got stuff wrong lifelong? I tried too hard when I could have just coasted and smiled all the while. But, I grimaced as if I my nose was one inch from that grindstone, and for no good reason? Sure, pressure cedes a diamond. Are my diamonds really worth the effort? God deals the cards. I just play them. If I try to hide an ace up my sleeve, I cheat myself. But, we're taught that winners are what we want to be. We forget about being our best, leaving everything on the field when we play. It doesn't mean we lost at the end. It means we gave it our best, which is suppose to cede some kind of satisfaction. Try to find the proper setting for that. Many, from their limited purview, try to shorten up the scope of things. It's broader than any of us can imagine. We can only learn so much in our lifetime and what good does it really do us in the end? We're given lemons, there's a stand you can open in front of your house, if you're a cute five-year-old kid. So, yeah. It doesn't all equate. That's my point. Why try so hard to impress others. Their the ones in the limited purview. And, while you're looking around and I'm hanging around, you might catch a glimpse. But, we're too far apart to really come together and enjoy this thing called life, or writing. So, we live it alone in these tiny little apartments in our minds, web-related realities. Doesn't make any sense? Irony. Now make lemonade before life ends. Otherwise, you won't have anything to savor after all the suffering. 10.1+9.21 |
| When I hear soft ruffled sheets and bedspread tucked and smoothed from her side of the bed on the days she's off for work early and I'm nestled in the warmth of blanket heater in dry winter... When I hear song the door swings wide and she bursts and bounds inside after school, bringing crisp leaves swirling and bus brakes unclenching before the slam seals my world, while enjoying a cup from my kitchen window perch... When I hear agony of floor boards' expansion beneath his feet after hours of dark illumination by X-box light, begging some culinary creation to savor because the aroma of fresh bread and bubbling chili from the kitchen reminds a neglected appetite... Love. Joy. Needed. 9.29.21 rewritten from prose 20 lines free verse |
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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! 
