So I am writing this book…

It is about bout strangeness, oddness, and incongruity. Well, it’s more an exercise than a potential avenue to publication or fame as an author. I am reading a coaching book for writers where the challenge is to write a book 350 words at a time. Supposedly in a year there will be a book there that is raring to go into the process of publication. A much longer amount of time than I wish to spend. I needed some assistance reinvigorating the creative process and this is one I came across. It, for the most part, is a simple exercise and it gets me away from of the daily journal that I have used in the past which has not allowed me much in the way of inspiration or value.

I began a daily piece a couple of days ago, and finished it before realizing that I had something other to say on the topic.

It was about terrorism.

I wrote this before the events in Paris, and since I have felt compelled to address the topic from a different point of view. I do not follow the news when it reports about terrorist atrocities. Not out of apathy, but out of a deep commitment to disallow the terrorist from realizing one of their major goals. To capture the news cycle and consequently spread more terror in the aftermath of the act of violence.

Remember the expansive enterprise of any act of terrorism is to quite simply terrorize. Looking at the aftermath of 911, there was widespread panic on the possibility of a financial collapse. Key the target: The World Trade Center. As evidenced by the economic atrocity the 2000’s turned out to be…mission accomplished.

The symbolic advantages of radicalism and extremism is the proliferation of fear and the easiest route to that is an attack that will mesmerize the news media and reach the largest amount of the population. An additional objective is to promote the efforts of counter terrorism in the hopes that through things like suicide bombers where martyrs are created that motivate the idealists in their cause. It becomes a noble feat to be a sufferer for a cause. Sacrificial victims become heroes, and the governments suppressing them are turned into scapegoats who prey on these honorable victims. It is punditry of the vilest variety.

I felt the same way when Osama bin Laden was killed. I wanted the news media to shut up about that monster. I am against killing of any sort, but I was relieved that they shot that bastard and dumped his body overboard into the sea to be eaten by fish. Not an enlightened stance for someone of my ideals, but it was how I felt after living with the aftermath of 911. Sadly for my principles, I wish the same for these criminals. Shoot them and throw them to the fishes to be made into feces.

There is a more personal reason that I write today. While not wishing to aid in the proliferation of propaganda aimed to harm, I have to say something. I have a close friend living in Paris whose demise would be completely devastating to me. I have known this gentleman since I was a teenager and he was in grammar school. He has, and always shall be a vitally important person to me. He is the most culturally adept person I know; he is the true definition of a Renaissance man. He has maintained our friendship over the years through his own effort and in spite of my divergence into the world of active addiction to alcohol and drugs. He, and his brother are a as siblings to me, and even the thought of losing of him makes me weep.

For me, it is a grace from God that he and his lovely bride are unharmed. It is an intense hurt to think of the dead and injured, but I am confident in the fact that Paris’s recovery from this mindless violence will be that much easier due to his presence in that most beautiful of cities.

Peace

That Languishing Luau called Love

An earlier post concerned itself with the elucidation of hate as I perceive it, so how about a horse of a different color for today’s sojourn into an off-color egghead’s unrealistic reality.

Love

My expertise at this most marvelous of feelings is a double edged sword with both sides seemingly dull. I admit to holding the feeling for quite of few individuals and sorely must admit that my propensity for love is not what I wish it to be. I am not currently “in love” with anyone, although there are quite a few who could easily fit in that category. I am gun shy where it comes to romance having been on the rejection side of the issue a few too many times. I have also been the recipient of such affection, but lacked the wherewithal to reciprocate. Oh. Woe is me.

I have had great romances in my life, and the memory of those glorious times softens my heart and makes me smile. Hindsight is a symptom of age and not all of my past deeds were atrocious. Some were quite beautiful and utterly miraculous. Yea for me?

If there is an issue with this emotion it grows out of the vileness I see in the world, and it frustrates any sense of where to find love. There are numerous examples to be found in my ongoing pursuit of recovery and in my spiritual readings. There are also numerous, I am sure, examples all around that I do not see, or allow myself to see. Having realized this in me it appears as I have much work to do in this area of sense and sensitivity. And so I shall.

For now I believe I need to wade in and tread the waters of days gone by revisiting a time and place that was, indeed, beautiful and miraculous:

Once upon a time there was a girl who lived in Lindenhurst, NY who, for a summer, had my heart in her grasp and I never intended that it be released. I have written of her before, on this blog in its earlier configuration. It was also a discourse on love and the wonder/agony that is the emotion. It took place in the mid to late 1970’s in that faraway place that I remember thinking was simultaneously glory, joy, utter bliss, and extreme ecstasy. It is a location that must be where the Rapture takes you. All that is good and kind is everywhere, and your soul, no; your very being is complete. A place like no other that might only be found in a specific set of eyes.

I am not able to access her name from the rapidly deteriorating hard drive between my ears. I can, fortuitously, rescue a memory of opulence in the orbs with which she observed me in my foolishness. 

We met while we were gainfully employed as taxi drivers at a small cab stand at the Long Island Railroad station in Babylon, NY. The money was terrible and the hour’s even worse, but it sufficed to pay a weekly rent and allowed for enough to enable the noble search all young men required in their quest for female companionship and whatever mind altering, mood changing substance essential to the discovery of true love.

The particular advantage to my spirit that this particular lady offered is that there was no need to wander the pubs and beaches in the execution of the marvelous mission that is coital coupling. We got off at about 11:00 pm and the world was, literally, our oyster. Pub crawling was not necessary, and quite cumbersome to us as we crossed the threshold into the adventure of discerning if either of us might just be, THE ONE AND ONLY.

We would ride across the bridge spanning the Great South Bay parking out by the nearest beach. We would lie on the hood of her car while watching the sky and the surf. We would drink beer or wine and talk about grand ideals while listening to the FM station playing love songs. We would look deep into each other’s eyes before we embraced. We would skinny dip, but not get too close. We had promised to wait for the gift of intimacy until there was no doubt that we had, in fact, uncovered THE ONE AND ONLY.

This pausing in the exercise of release that most young people yearned for served as both a blessing, and a decided disadvantage. This was not something my Neanderthal mentality was properly adept at. I have visions of cavemen and the lack of romance required back in those glorious days prior to language or etiquette. I realize this is a racial memory, but in my misspent youth I was not the judicious and perceptive intellect you have all come to love and submit your time to. Today I can listen to “Here comes the Sun” by the Fab Four and reminisce of the women in my life I have loved. Back in the day, it was much more “Paradise by the Dashboard Lights” by Meatloaf. So why agree to this absurd abstinence?

It was her eyes.

I would look in them and feel safe. I would wonder why the only thing I really wanted to do was see the shine in those sky blue near translucent orbs lit by the moonlight bouncing off the water, and hear her soft voice telling me things I had never heard before. I never found an answer to my speculation.

It seemed as if God had sent an angel to me. She would smile and tell me goodnight when she dropped me off closing the night with deep embraces. My heart would ache for the sight of her until I got to work the next day. Then, right at about 11:05, Shangri La would open and all else would evaporate in the face of the magnificent creature that God had allowed me to hang with.

The memory is still breathtaking, and it comes to me from time to time to, I believe, remind me that I am alive. There is much in life currently that is ugly, unpleasant, and foul. One thing that is not revolting is the memory of a love lost in time.

The reality of the time proved not as splendid as the memory. Summer turned into fall, and then winter. It became too cold to sit out by the beach unless we were extremely inebriated. An old boyfriend of hers moved back to town and wanted to rekindle old times. I picked up a decidedly exotic girl in my cab one night and discovered that adorable eyes existed in other woman. We drifted apart and marched on our individual ways. We never did discover the wonders of the flesh, but that was fine. Like I said…it was her eyes.

It is said that great love elicits poetry. I have no rhyme to share or no verse to bedazzle the reader. I am not terribly adept with that particular region of written medium. I have written fiction and nonfiction. I am academically adept and lettered. I am an on demand writer and can produce whatever it is that you might need. I understand the writing process for the beast that it may be and the lover it holds in its grasp. I do not know, unfortunately, the mechanics of love. I have written that there are emotions that are actions and love is one of them. The who, what, where, when, and why of the emotion is an enigma to me other than the fact that I find myself having this reaction to persons, places, possessions, encounters, and events. I do not have words of a poetic nature to share. Thank God for the Internet. I can, and have searched and discovered the perfect ending for this piece. The precise location is not readily attributable due to my lack of cyber proficiency and a level of lethargic languor. But here it is;

I love my eyes when u look into them;
I love my name when u say it;
I love my heart when u luv it;
I love my life when u are in it.
You know who you are.

Peace

Veracity – 1, Verbosity – 0

I am currently about a third of the way through a book that is designed to embolden and invigorate writers in “Just thirty days” which I purchased online to aid in my reentering of the world of being a full time scribe. Today, this thirty day dude says to “write who you are” which is uncanny because that is exactly what I was planning to do when I sat down at the keyboard. I am sitting here working on two hours sleep supported by a $5.00 “Pumpkin Spiced Late” from that bastion of Yuppiedom, Starbucks. The hour is one that is unheard of in my realm as it is what passes normally as the middle of the night for me. 9:55 AM. I heeded the Weather Channel with its tale of a soon to arrive instance of deluge, destruction, and devastation of biblical flood proportion by taking a trek to the nearest Wal-Mart to restock the shelves with necessities and some chocolate covered cherries that are now on the shelves in expectation of the approaching holidays. (Phew, that was a long damn sentence)

Since resuming my dissemination of thoughts, dreams, and words of wit I have discovered that I, rhetorically speaking, turned the machine on and broke the key off in the ignition. I have ideas and thoughts flying everywhere which I am attempting to place properly, relearning the ins and outs of writing in the age of the Cyber God, and yearning for the days when it was just a natural event that happened every day. I am surrendering to the idea of marketing my words and reaching as many people as possible. I have the audacity within me that might possibly delude me into believing that others will benefit from reading what I generate, and that there should be remuneration for such efforts.

In other words…I am happy as a pig in shit!

Vulgarity aside, I have a conviction in me that it is not something that just popped out of the air. After the death of my Sweet Deifiúr Paula I sat my ass in a recliner and stared at the computer for two and a half years. I would first remind myself that I need to write. I had friends e-mail me that same sentiment, others continually asked about my efforts at penmanship. I told them all that it wasn’t there but that it would come back. I prayed for God to give me back this “gift” which others told me I possess. I thought of story ideas and read blogs from writers I respect. I even opened files occasionally to edit the “Next Great American Novel” which is still languishing untouched.

Then I had a serious talk with God…and He answered.

I lead a simple life as a general practice. Being medically retired has left me with much time to pursue differing matters. First, there are the 200+ satellite channels on my HDTV. Social media has become a regular part of my life with all its ensuing nonsense and excrement.

Then there is God.

I am in recovery and recently celebrated 20 years in a spiritual Twelve Step program. About four years ago I found it necessary to change sponsors. Sponsors being persons in the program who act as a guide through the Steps and Spiritual life one will engage in as a member of this Fellowship. I was at a particularly low place in my life and needed a…well…something.

The sponsor I had was a wonderful man who lived about a two hour ride away. The telephone is all fine and well, but face to face is really the best paradigm for sponsorship. The gentleman I asked to act as a replacement is, on the outside, quite an unlikely choice. If you ever hear the word “cowboy” then you are speaking of my sponsor. Many aspire to that title while this wonderful man lives it in every aspect of his life. He raises, buys, sells, transports, and depends on for his livelihood the “What’s for dinner” meat. He rides horses and runs fence lines, and can swing his beautiful wife around a country dance floor like no one I have ever seen.

We are both well known in our small constituency of folks seeking recovery in the same manner as the two of us. He has 30 years and with my 20 that translates to a reasonable amount of experience, strength, and hope, to share with other recovering addicts. We both think of it as a privilege to help others and never doubt our commitment. As I said we are an unlikely pair. He is George Jones to my Frank Zappa. Yet we have a common denominator.

Our God!

He pursues his relationship with the Almighty through attendance at a church. I pursue my knowledge of the divine through reading and personal encounters. We, many time find that we are in exactly the same place regardless of the manner in which we worship our God.

If it ain’t broke don’t fix it!

We text each other bible verses and spiritual messages about recovery on a regular basis. This morning we did so, and he texted a query on why was I even awake. He knows my schedule and knows that I should have been asleep. I call him and we talked for a few minutes before my journey to the store. His bible verse this morning struck a particular note with me and responded back with a heartfelt appreciativeness. It was:

“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:7

He had been at a church revival this week and got this idea out of that attendance. I received the same message to the extent that is has kept me awake. He asked the guy leading the revival about where in the bible he got his theme and was told that he (the preacher) did not know if it was in the bible. It was just the way he felt. I knew just exactly what that meant. My sponsor found it in the bible and sent it to me, but really he was in the same place that the preacher, and myself both existed.

We don’t know where the feeling came from, but we sure do like it.

The revelation that this belief is around the cosmos in many ways and fashions is not surprising. We are all meant to do something and be something. Whatever that is, wherever it comes from, the knowledge that it is there is sufficient. My friend and I believe that it ultimately comes from God with the caveat that it is our duty to perform some deed to receive it. Not like a reward, but simply because that is the way it is. To quote that wise Sage, Earl Hickey (My Name is Earl):

 “Do good things and good things happen.”

Peace

The Hatriotism of the Horridly Horrid

This begins a series of posts I shall be presenting on subjects that I find especially irksome, first of which being hate and the depths to which  this emotion/behavior/paradigm  has beguiled our society and planet.  To wit – let us look at the particular aspects of this most shameful of sentiments as it applies to our political mentality. I will take the middle fork in the road by utilizing some of the more questionable yet seemingly (to me) accurate reference points designed for the more discerning denizens of the modern day thinking man’s realm. Let us Speak of Hatriotism

Wikality, the Truthiness Encyclopedia believes it is;

“…a form of patriotism that is defined not by what a person loves, but instead by what the person hates.”

Urban Dictionary has it more specifically defined as;

“Proving your patriotism by hating the people the government tells you to hate.

As a maniacally zealous Liberal (Liberal, not necessarily Democrat) I will admit to the practice of this vileness in some form. I find no respite in this confession or offer no apology, explanation, reason, or rationale. I can simply report that I possess the requisite human emotion/frailty to hate. I am somewhat prejudice in the manner in which I hate, abhor, abominate, despise, detest, execrate, loathe, or otherwise dislike. I hold and otherwise find this personal bother to be abhorrent, abominable, repellent, repugnant, revolting, sickening, ghastly, sordid, nauseating, repulsive, revulsive, offensive, vile, atrocious, and dreadfully diabolical in spirit and action.

All of which, on any given day, and at any given moment can I find myself guilty of in direct contradiction of my better perceptions and convictions. This admission of that frailest of character defects is an uncomfortable position to find myself. I would like to stand on the tallest peak and bellow to the heavens, find the tallest soap box on the busiest street corner in the most giant of cities and roar out my personal mandate of love and understanding, reach the largest readership to proclaim my rage against this vilest of practices. All of which can only serve to emerge as an ill desired goal in the face of the reality that I am guilty of what I accuse others of being.

“When one person makes an accusation, check to be sure he himself is not the guilty one. Sometimes it is those whose case is weak who make the most clamor.” Piers Anthony

To what extent am I guilty? Any soul fortunate enough, or unfortunate, who has read my blogs, or followed me on social media, will tell you that I am the most moral of men, and that I champion causes that promote that wonderment of topics and feelings; love. My God commands me to love. Most of my favorite music puts words and melodies to this most fabulous of feelings. John Lennon sang of it being all we need. Todd Rundgren instructs us that it is the answer.

However, all is not flowers and fondue. My admission, confession, concession, revelation, acknowledgment, declaration, assertion, statement, and definitive declaration of guilt which haunts me is:

I hate people who hate!

As a verb, most online dictionaries define hate as a feeling and as such, it is an action. Webster maintains that it is an “intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, of a sense of injury.” It is hostility which, being an action, creates the problem. We listen to it every day, or read about it in newspapers and magazines, in online content, and in misunderstood gossip from our neighbors. It is in all of the television we watch (even Disney) it is the fuel that feeds the flames of national policy. It is what is listened to more than love, and it is the main source behind the misinterpretations of facts on events of import.

It is hate that stills allows sound bites and column inches on things such as the Presidents religious due to his name

It is the driving force behind county clerks who refuse to issue marriage licenses in defiance of their appointed duties and blame in on religious beliefs while ignoring the Commandment of their God to love all.

It is the driving force behind the rioting and violence in black neighborhoods in response to actual or perceived bigotry that results in death and destruction in their communities.

It is the driving force for the senate and congress to cut or defund food stamp benefits in the face of juvenile poverty being at a staggering 25% in the richest economy in the world.

It is the driving force in the ignoring of embezzlement and thievery perpetrated by banks and Wall Street while ruining people’s lives by driving them into poverty and homelessness when their minimum wage incomes create foreclosures and evictions.

It is in the outrage of executive salaries and bonuses where employees are forced to live on poverty level incomes requiring them to apply social services such as food stamps and are told that they are lazy, inefficient, and criminal.

And,

It is in the commitment of religious leaders from the Christian Right to snub the words of their God and the Constitution of the United States of America by preaching animosity towards religions who do not believe as they do.

These are but a few of the examples of situations that are bereft of reason as it applies to humanity. It is but a minuscule cross section of what might be the most threatening trouble we face in America. It is horrid and the main perpetrator and proponent of this abomination is the Government of the United States. It is most definitely in an ineffective and ignorant Legislative branch, it is in the politically driven Judicial branch, and it is in the savagely besieged Executive branch. All of these entities are charged with the duty to ensure our well being.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.” Preamble, US Constitution.

How are they doing this? Let’s take a look at their ineptitude:

“…form a more perfect Union…” How is this being accomplished when we have a political party, in control of congress, whose legislative agenda is to thwart the President at every turn?

“…establish Justice…” How is this being accomplished when the highest court in the land proclaims as constitutional blatant and rampant corporate and legislative graft?

“…insure domestic Tranquility…” How is this being accomplished when it is incapable of protecting the population from mass shootings because effective legislation might cause them to lose re-election due to a lack of payoffs from gun lobbies and a population that has universally misinterpreted the 2nd Amendment?

“…provide for the common defence…” How is this being accomplished when we almost universally send our armed forces all over the world to fight wars that are none of our business, and suffer the retribution of constant threat of terroristic retribution?

“…promote the general Welfare…” How is this being accomplished when we spend millions on politically driven conspiracy investigations while denying our children a decent education not driven by arbitrary competitions to do well on standardized tests against other countries?

“…and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…” How is this being done…at all? What exactly are “the Blessings of Liberty?”

In what way is it ever going to change? Why has this been allowed to become real in this great country? It will change when people have enough. It will change when people other than those who hate get out and vote. It will change when it becomes important enough.

You might say this is bold talk from someone who aids in the propagation of hate. My personal enmity must certainly change and I must find a way to swallow my basest of desires for things such as reprisal, retribution, retaliation, and simple vengeance. I must cease the proliferation of poisonous thoughts, feelings, and actions of a negative, or hate inspiring demeanor. Why not just do as Jesus, My God, told me to:

“But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you.” Luke 6:27

This might certainly prove a towering mandate to undertake for a thick headed Irish mutt such as myself. How about some help? What do you say? Who’s the first rotten son of a bitch who’ll go get a cup of coffee with me? It’s on me. Starbucks anyone?

Peace

Me 2.2 or three or four or whatever…

“I do not think that I know what I do not know.” Socrates

I discovered a sad and amazing thing recently. I have a passion in my very being which had turned lukewarm and needed to be either downgrade to a simple interest, or have a fire set under its ass to bring it up to temp. Sort of like an old bicycle that you had a wreck on, tossed into the garage, and neglected for a long time until life showed up requiring action. Say your car engine blew up, or it got repossessed and you found yourself in need of transportation. Perhaps you stepped on a scale and realized, “Oh shit!” I need to get some exercise. Perhaps life without passion just plain sucked.

I am a writer, and I have not been writing for a while. Well, not in the way I crave. Many of you have read my stuff and, hopefully enjoyed it. Others reading this will not know who I am and, again, hopefully you also will enjoy what you read.

This is a revamped version of a blog that I have had for a number of years when I started back to writing recently. I am having some trouble chiseling off the petrified cobwebs in my brain to get at some knowledge about internet/computer skills. I have found a rather large brick wall in the way of posting. In this skirmish with the inanimate object on my desk which speaks in 1’s and 0’s I have discovered a different approach is crucial in this grand battle.

Like the old, beat up bicycle in desperate need of repair, so to must I repair my skill and approach to my passion. Just as the bike will need new spokes for the wheels, oil for the chain, a new seat, and air in the tires, so to do I need to fix some things and put a new coat of paint on the who, what, where, when, and why of my writing.

A new look, a new name, and perhaps a new method of corresponding that which life has taught me is the answer I have come up with. Some things might change, and some things might stay the same. I cannot tell because I have not written is yet. All I can say is that the cold has already begun to be more bearable, and the brain is not as bored as it was.

I will share what my passion is made up of. Words. I have for the last sixty years been in love with words and have always been enthralled with the way, shape, and form in which they are put together and how they form coherent and incoherent thoughts. Incoherent, you ask? Of course this must be there. The best part of words, for me, is figuring out what order they go in and when I read or write something incoherent it is just a little more flame to stoke the fire.

I confess to having some affectation in my writing. I have been accused of verbosity, and “Hifalutin foolishness, or “Too many big words.” I think this is something all writers have in common to one extent or another. We write because it is in us to do so. It is also in us to hope that what we write impresses. I stopped asking people about what they think of something I wrote because I have never found any solace or affirmation that I find useful. I have let people read pieces I penned and they began by grading the piece as to grammar and structure as if it were a classroom assignment. Well, I am a retired school teacher and not in need of that kind of instruction.

I have an affinity for alliteration which Wikipedia reports, “is a stylistic literary device identified by the repeated sound of the first consonant in a series of multiple words, or the repetition of the same sounds or of the same kinds of sounds at the beginning of words or in stressed syllables.” I know not where I got this writing whim, but I like it and use it regularly and repeatedly.

So, what you will find, if you stay and read further is a location which is made up of essays, compositions, articles, dissertations, theses, or treatises on my personal life, thoughts, opinions, feelings, judgments, beliefs, points of view, considerations, contemplations, reflections, notions, inspirations, philosophies,  and all sorts of other bullshit that occurs to me.

My final thought on this portentous preface is to welcome or welcome back those who wish to read my words. I will be searching for publishing opportunities which have the word “paid” associated in the description. I have been published in both the fiction and non-fiction world with a particular propensity toward the made-up story section within the world of words.

I have left the previous blog posts on the site for those who might be interested, and I hope you who enter my world find it pleasing, and if you don’t, I am sure there are other places you can find that uses smaller words.

Peace

In Defense of…nothing

I happened upon an article posted on Facebook by a long and dear friend of mine written for Harper’s Magazine by a woman named Rebecca Solnit which gave me pause to ponder. It was a harangue on the state of a perceived perception by some modern in society, either proper or improper on what is expected of women in the world today. It was a cogent indictment on the fact that some folks in the world today should, quite simply, shut the fuck up.

It was also an equally cogent indictment to those of us who should, in fact and practice, open our mouths and keep them open.

Egotistically placing myself in the latter of these categories is the purpose of this piece. I have, for a number of years, identified myself as a writer. Rather erroneously. I have written, scribed, composed, scripted, authored, recorded, put in writing, jotted down, transcribed, or otherwise put pen to paper (or rather, fingers to keys) many words and even received remuneration for such on occasion. I am what some rather ceremoniously call a “Published Author.” Whoop-de-do.

In truth I have not written anything of substance for over two and a half years where I sat at a table at a Men’s retreat in Pennsylvania and wrote my sister Paula’s obituary. It was, simply, the last time I truly opened my heart and let the world know what or who I am.

I can barely stand to look at my face in the mirror.

My Sweet Deifiúr Paula was and, if my belief in God and things is correct, is my biggest fan and staunchest proponent. I have held within me the erroneous belief that she was my muse. While she was inspiration for some of the things I wrote, she came to love my writing many years after I began to stalk the highways and byways of writing while still in elementary school. In my early writing attempts and in the reading I was doing was a wonderful world where I discovered, as a child should, that place where heroes were heroes and damsels were always in desperate need of liberation from some form of distress. A place where murder mysteries required solving and Stephen King books scared the shit out of me. Where the heavens existed for the marvel of exploration and all Irish stories were tragic, romantic, and humorous at the same time.

This is not the first attempt I have made at the metaphorical “getting back on the horse.” I have haltingly tried several times and each of them has begun with halfhearted attempts at redeeming myself as the long lost grieving brother and how difficult it is to create when your muse has died. That is just so much bovine excrement! Paula would not think I should feel sorry for myself, she would probably tell me that I should write a book about our mother. Well, the Rolling Stones were right. You can’t always get what you want. Whatever comes out after this is what is supposed to and the world, including my beloved sister will have to live with it. If luck holds, someone will send me some money to either write or shut up, with the former being the operative objective.

So, let’s get back to the article in Harpers. There are many observations one can make about what is or what is not proper for any person to pursue in life. The article speaks of whether the author thought she should have had children. This was a question submitted to her from and audience that was clearly there to listen to her expound upon writing. This question, outrageously misplaced, was the reason I got up and walked the exhausting distance from my easy chair to my keyboard (about seven and a half feet, well, eight and a half if you count getting and transforming my desk chair into an actual chair from being a door stop).

I am, joyously, fanatical about a few things in life. First, the New York Yankees which is not subject to discussion win or lose. Second, my life in recovery from drugs and alcohol, also not subject to discussion unless you are or want to be in recovery. Then there is how I feel about everything in life. This sounds moronic or simplistic but those who would think that are quite simply obtuse and not worthy of consideration.

I am the most liberal person I know and, even though it does not seem that way from time to time, the most polite person I know. By that I mean that I fervently believe that someone’s opinions are to be held inviolate as long as those opinions do not cause harm in any form. Unfortunately, many opinions turn into action and lead to atrocity. Once it gets to that level, then I am particularly impolite.

I believe the taking of a human life outside the normal life cycle is an abomination and should forever be opposed…including capital punishment.

I believe who and how you love is nobody’s business but the person you love and only then if it is accepted and not abusive.

I believe that God should stay out of politics. I also believe that He is of the same opinion but that the whole Free Choice thing kind of has His hands tied.

I believe that two thirds of the world is at war either on a physical or a cerebral level and that they all believe in the same God, who tells us to treat each other with love and respect and is constantly ignored.

I believe that children should never have to go hungry and should be educated well…not tested based on a specious set of standards that were not written by educators.

I believe Science and Math teach us the truth and Art and Music teaches us an equal level of truth…the truth of our hearts.

I believe all who commit crimes should be punished…and shown the path to redemption for their transgressions.

I believe that government should govern and people should live free. One should not infringe of the other…either way.

I believe that the right to bear arms is a reasonable right…if it is regulated reasonably.

In conclusion, well, for now. I believe what Jesus told us to do;

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind”

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

“But I say to you, love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those who hate you, and pray for those who despitefully use you and persecute you, so that you yourselves may be the children of your Father Who is in heaven”

“…that you love one another in the same way that I have loved you, that is how you are to love one another.”

These, not necessarily in order, all come from the Books of Matthew and John. If you want to know the verse citation than I suggest you get a copy of the Books of Matthew and John. I’m a writer here on a free blog, not a paid pundit. Unless, there is someone out there who wishes to pay me. In that case I am one citation writing fool.

This has been both an equally most painful and joyous exercise. I really need to do it more because, as is evident, I still know how to type and I still have something to say. I am posting this on my blog, if I can remember the password, and will continue to do so…I hope.

If you got anything out of it, cool. If you did not, come back and give it another try next time. If you are reading this then you have found me. I have other locales on the World Wide Web which can be found at: https://about.me/tlloydreilly

Peace

Just a Reminder…

You need to write something.
Your friend,
Jim

This is the text of an email from a close friend of mine.  A man not taken to outward displays of affection, he sent this to me from what I could only translate as concern for my well being.  We have known each other over twenty years having met when we were both at University.  Being children of the 60’s and 70’s we discovered within each a kindred soul that might take many thousands of words to explain.  He is my computer geek and I am his friend who has never lived up to his potential.  We view each other with a level of equality while holding differing values on the meaning of life. 

He is one of the few people in the entire world I can have a real conversation with.  The list is quite short.  There is him, of course, my best friend Daven, my sponsor, and my therapist.  Daven moved back to my home state recently, prompting a process of healing in my spirit which has been in desperate need of re-invigoration.  I have been aching for his presence the last eight years while he resided in a distant part of the country.  More of him will be said at a later date…there is much to be said for our friendship.

My sponsor is an unlikely addition to this list.  He is the very definition of a cowboy.  Every part of his life has to do with cattle.  From the growing, to the buying, to the selling, to the transportation, and ultimately to the overall care of the meat that is for dinner.  This is his realm, where he is king.  Coming from differing backgrounds it sound improbable that we should be close.  Our connection is, of course, the Twelve Step program that we are loyal and passionate members.  I have been in recovery a long time.  He has a decade more experience than I, and can carries the message of respite, and recovery better that anyone I have ever met.  He carries a spirit within him that calls to me and which has given me much solace.

My therapist is that person who gets to hear most of my complaints, and is especially good at triggering the intellectual side of me.  I have an excess of education and that sometimes brings a sense of loneliness within my circle of acquaintances.  A friend of mine once told me that I was the largest repository of useless information he ever knew.  I come from a simple hard working blue collar lineage and tend to befriend folks likeminded to my ancestry.  The only real difference is in the toolboxes we use.  I have friends who are employed at occupations that require skillful use of the hands.  Among them are mechanics, carpenters, food service personnel, construction workers, plumbers, electricians, music industry roadies, truck drivers, equipment operators, and a few current and former exotic dancers (both male and female).  Each is greatly talented and highly intelligent. 

My toolbox is my brain.  If you have read this blog before or any of the other things I have written you will know that I am, and have been all my life, in a deep love affair with words.  Hence, my desire and attempt at being a writer.  I once, due to personnel irresponsibility, was a member of the country’s homeless population.  I was living under a bridge (the fourth such address I called a residence) when it occurred to me that winter was coming (Yes I am a Stark in spirit) and I needed to find a better living situation.  I also came to the realization that life would be much more endurable if I found a way to maintain a domicile that was both permanent and had certain amenities; heat, electricity, water, furniture, etc.  Not being simple minded, I realized that this goal was obtainable only if I learned a way to get and maintain this form of luxury.  It occurred to me that I would need to go somewhere and learn these skills.  With the help of my Dear Sainted Mother, I was able to discover, elicit aid, and gain entrance to an institution of higher learning.  I occupied that existence for eight years.  Therein lays the origin of my toolbox.  Therein lays my desire to earn a living by practicing my passion.

My toolbox has been partially closed the last year.  Since the passing of My Sweet Deifiúr, Paula, I have been consumed in my grief and impotent in the practice of my love affair with the arrangement of phrases, the origination of verses, the expressing of prattles, the transcribing of facts, the scripting of tales of daring do, the authoring of wondrous words of inspiration, the devising of plans for the future, the penning of platitudes, or even simply putting pen to paper to figure my monthly bills.

Well, the bills have somehow been paid without negative numbers in my bank account.  I began my writing exercise that has worked in the past.  (Morning Pages as directed by Julia Cameron’s wonderful teaching in “The Artist Way.”)  I have ceased eliciting sympathy for my plight from those inclined to give such solace. I have not sought to enlist the aid of the legion of books or websites for authors that offer assistance with writers block.  Although, I will admit that a level of empathy would not be an out of sorts exercise, I steer a wide path around such assistance.  There is, I have found, only one method of curing writers block.

Write.

Admittedly my muse is lacking, or gone.  Paula, in her belief of my talent kept me going through starving artist syndrome.  She helped pay my bills while I sought publication.  She always championed me to all who would sit or stand still long enough to hear her tales of her brother the gifted author.  And most important, she never gave up on my dream.

I know not how long the grief process will last.  I am weeping as I write this, and have resisted the urge to quit.  It seems almost a betrayal of her memory for me to turn my back on what she considered a gift from God.  A dear friend told me that I was not betraying a damn thing and that I need to let my grief run its course.  I recall that the last stage of the grief process is hope.

Now the lack of muse is a real thing which must be conquered.  I am a zealot in the dominion of literary invention.  The words are in me.  I just need a little push.  Well, what I truly need is a swift kick in the ass.  So I have a challenge for my friend who sent me the email eliciting this post.  

Remember when we were at university and you came up with the idea that we write a story together?  Out of that came one of my favorite stories.  You declined to participate because you felt that I had written a complete story and, as such, could not contribute to what was already a complete story.  It has not been published (yet) but as you read this I am actively submitting it yet again in hopes of publishing success.  Here’s the thing.  If I publish that story, I will pay you what I am now terming “Muse Money.”  For any remuneration I might receive from the publishing of this story, or any in the future, I will direct 10% to you in whatever manner you desire.  We both know this is not enough to pay for one of the hundreds (?) of meals we’ve enjoyed in restaurants where you picked up the tab let alone even begin to financially compensate you for the pecuniary munificence you have shown me.  I do this in the spirit of the businessman in you, and the belief you hang on to that I will succeed as a writer beyond that which I have already enjoyed. 

I am, if nothing else, able to follow instruction.  This post, albeit late given the date of the email, is proof of my continuing ability to arrange words.  What I would request from you is the idea for another story.  What I propose is a partnership wherein you get the ideas and I put them down on paper.  This, I imagine, will not be a long-term collaboration.  The precipitate pouncing of my posterior end given me by your ideas will, hopefully, reinvigorate the creative juices that have been cogitating in me.  In this I retreat to the stages of grief and the place upon which I ardently covet …hope springs eternal.

I would ask that we do not discuss this over the phone, or when we get to see each other.  Let us communicate through that which is so important to both of us…words.  I would ask that you reply in the comment section on the blog.  I am re-involving myself with the blogosphere in all of my presences.  Well at least that is the plan.  More to come.

Peace

Goodnight John Boy…

Dragging myself out of the depths of depravity I venture, once more, into the literary world with full and earnest intent to become a “writer of note.”  To accomplish this task I must drag my big posterior end into the world that exists at this dimension and away from that despicable den of depravity, dishonesty, dissipation, decadence, debauchery, and dissoluteness that exists at the other end of my sanctum sanctorum.  To wit…my easy chair with the remote control sitting on the table next to it.  “Onward Christian Soldier” or some other contrived construct that will allow me to put words on a page that makes sense or amuses.  It is a wish that I must force into existence that I find a way to put words down in some sort of fashion that pleases me.  For that is the essence of a writer, is it not?  Does not the scribe first please his own palate first before invading the rest of the universe?   

Long term sloth and conflicting emotions all play landlord to the address where a writer can find himself blocked.  I have sat in the despicable den and dreamt hundreds of deliberations with which to amuse.  I have even outlined what seemed to be great works of literary art using ideas garnered from the electronic contraptions that exist in my world.  Even as I sit today, I type with one of the instruments of indolence within reach.  Oh woe the day when a device as simple as a telephone could be as tempting as the fruit of the Tree of Good and Evil.  Should I capitulate and reach for the device every time it buzzed, bleeps, or otherwise makes its presence known?  Can I please narrow my world to the rectangular object before me holding the encrypted letters and numbers with which enlightenment for eternity might be found?  Lord?  Are you out there?  Can I please have a bite of this apple?

To liken the ever expanding world that is reality in this day and age, to a simple concept seems infantile, and ever more somnolent.  Exploring the great beyond that is the universe and all its interconnected components seems a noble quest.  The journey in search of elucidation and comprehension must move beyond the wisdom set down in reruns of “The Walton’s.”  

That has been my literary refuge of late.  The rest of the world is absolutely insane, immoral malicious, malignant, vindictive, spiteful, foul, revolting, and downright sinful.  There are many more words that express everything that is wrong with the world, but that will not get any of us anywhere closer to understanding the most complex issue we all face…what am I feeling?

I used the television show to attempt to find muse again after the loss of My Sweet Deifiúr, but have failed in this.  I have come to realize that the show simply displays for us, or leads the three senses that it can effect, back to things that are well known, or should be; love, kindness understanding, compassion, passion, evolution, life lessons, and the overwhelming certainty that life is assuredly a journey and not a destination.

My thoughts were that the vision of that young boy sitting at his desk in that old farmhouse, the only light still burning late at night, writing down words that are bursting out of his heart and into his mind before ultimately finding their way to the page would reawaken me.  What I did not realize came to me just this morning when I read a posting I had written for a blog of writers who are enjoying the gifts of advanced experience and age.  I have been a contributing writer for this blog for a while.  I have let more than one posting fall by the wayside and felt apologetic and irresponsible in that laziness.  I force myself to get off my duff and take my place in the queue as expected.  What I discovered was that I have not lost my proverbial edge; I just haven’t been using it.  I sit here today and seem to be finding words and phrases just fine.  This is not cause for celebration or jumping up and buying myself a milk shake.  It is just something that I am supposed to be doing.  

I am at rest while plinking away at the keyboard.  I am at peace when I am deriving the next adroit alliteration.  I am fulfilled when I think of my Sweet Deifiúr looking over my shoulder and smiling.  It is not for her memory that I write today, although I could, both today and for a thousand more nights.  I write today for the simplest of reasons…I am a writer.  I care not what is thought of me as I publish these words on my blog.  Pronouncements of one’s talent or expertise may elicit derogatory ideas or remarks but these beliefs matter little to me.  The idea that any talent needs to be expounded on profusely is and never has been my intent.  If someone reading this believes me conceited or narcissistic, then by all means move on and go with God.

If you know me and love me, then you will rejoice in my contentment, love me as you have, and hug me when you see me.  

Peace