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 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton   -- ![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) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| It’s documented somewhere about my athletic pursuits. A poem about blocking a layup and resultant injury to hand in three-plus feet of elevation to hunt down the basketball Randy Snowden decried was goal-tended (against rules). I’m goddamn Superman, alright? Chose to surround myself with kryptonite. And, since I’m limiting myself to one newsfeed comment a day, a hilarious game of mime begins. So, purge thoughts in reaction to what I read before further musing on hand injuries… What finger? *scrolls up*  *aware of the why* Reads to wife, wondering which notion for response illicits response and type where she hovers across the way in kitchen…Over-use (nothing) Old injury (nothing) *like footballs tossed in thinktank, talks it out* not wanting to make it sexual, does the tree…no, you got anything…? Nah, attempts at humor when someone is ahead of the joke seems like piling on when you want to contribute in that vein. By tomorrow, like Biden, a story downstream. The basketball story came to me after realizing the polar opposite, 19, just moved back home, cape at cleaners, argument with old man over who knows what, frustrated after moving in (maybe too much stuff) and haul out a heavy wood laminate end table, with poly from krypton sealing it. Wouldn’t be enough. Holding it by the top in my left hand I swung and swung again at it with my right fist. Spun that fragmenting structure until every surface exposed, after who knows how many haymakers, until smithereens on the grass. I wasn’t done. Turned and threw my fist full into our full grown apple tree. Immediate regret. Hand stung. It was already red, yet no blood. No obvious injury or remaining pain in this adrenaline-fueled state. Abrasions and some stiffness with swelling over middle and ring fingers followed but really nothing. Yet, when you tomahawk a 29.5” diameter ball and slam your hand into a glass backboard with no gravity to support your body…a little bit worse swelling. Harder to handle and shoot a basketball the rest of that game. My hand never got the ice or anti-inflammatory meds, let alone medical attention. Didn’t get 30 points that night…that much I know. I do remember two things: the guys who told my wife I was a ‘hot head’ in city league and how Snowden remarked once, ‘we knew we could get you riled up’. Surprised by that, not unlike the box and one defenses that I wasn’t aware of, I asked, ‘did it work?’ We had a laugh and a drink over that one. Irony has the word iron in it. I must be steel? 7.21.24 Yeah, just caught some glimpses of this jack-assery. Needs edits... "Invalid Entry"  |
| I could dub myself ‘Slap Maxwell’ but that’s reserved solely for Dabney Coleman. "’They can brush you back, but they can't knock you down,’ says Slap, quoting (baseball legend Ted) Williams's words to him.” (Some ML rules never fade) I’m a fan of the rare and obscure… https://vault.si.com/vault/1987/11/16/slap-crackles-and-pops-dabney-coleman-is-a... *wonders if his VCR tapes of the show survived 20 years in the garage attic, if an available machine and functional cable with television to receive the muffled warnings of a future spent comfortably staring into abyss.* The character/actor/me — not so distant, but parallel in universes. One is my hero. Chapter 1 https://youtu.be/6RfZAbluwYc Either no period or no fragment, but, make a choice. *blink* 7.21.24 Semi-colon |
| Title is a bit of a misdirect. Forgive me if I know a thing or two about drawing attention. At least I'm not Tabloid? Thin-worn Producing news for a Public Radio affiliate I received three state broadcasting awards one year. However, the university-based station took them to display, but had the honor of great acknowledgment. The graphics department was a haven down the hall from newsroom, were stories were swapped with kind, like-minded people to pass the days. They surprised me, producing beautifully crafted replicas, gold lettered, better than the originals. I miss those guys. Guess what's more important to me? When I left town and embarked on journeys to finally wind up with a permanent home and family, the documents had been relegated to a nameless manila folder in one of several file cabinets in our basement. Brightly illuminated are remembrances of a life lived, those stories covered and those with whom paths were crossed in pursuits that embolden. Work on one of those awarded pieces was aired on National Public Radio with help of their producers. "The Sinking of the "Mesquite" was developed for a weekend morning program. Now, a blur, just a memory shoulder-cradling a phone, running sound through a production control board, taking notes and the pace it took to meet their deadline. A degraded cassette recording might exist somewhere. Yet, nothing compares to people who steadied me as I navigated life alone, between two eye surgeries, to eventual collection of a worthless piece of paper, called diploma, with my name misspelled. My last friend that kept in contact said I could have had it replaced. I prefer not, and keep memories alive of everything that perfectly sets life just the way it is. Every document, testaments that stack in the back of my mind, as good as anything, but not better than friends to shoulder you along that frosty path of life. I don't negate the good, even amid all the ice and snow in that 'small-market' university town, preferring to stare at a barren wall, fondly imagine a new creation. When I get bothered, I can react negatively and get cranky. Is that an artist? I recall passion and joy and how it has served me since a child filled with notions of idealism, even after it disappointed and failed me. Even faux copies of judged accomplishments cannot take the place of a thin-worn tape reeling and illuminating projections in my mind. And lacking evidence of true sight without proper correction, I know what to value. I think my kids and some family are going to be surprised when they do sift through the rubble of my life and those file cabinets. I told my wife, do what you want. But, hire a good editor. I'll never put it together. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Offered on first draft plus one edit with possibly no future edit or better title, one of my weaknesses. I've offered more of myself to a strange cyber world than those who accept and kindle an ever-glowing warmth. Metaphor change: Open up the tap, this is what pours out to be draught. My choice to ferment where I've sat in a hollow barrel, however many hours a day, ignorantly diminishing remaining vision. 7.21.24 when I wrote: even after it disappointed and failed me, I blurted 'there ya go'. This could be an eventual recording for YouTube, possibly linked on how and where I settle on topics should that time ever come. Let's fire up the archives and get ready for the past. I might have Wingered this. Let me lay down while I laugh at my own joke. I have pride inside the humble, should you skewer to see what emanates. Wow, still flowing. More? Nah. Thanks for the bulletin board material, BTW. |
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