A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS
In the silence as the cool mist caresses your face. You remember that section of the park when the beauty and the path she walks she wasn’t born yet. You whisper a spell to the beauty, hoping it will last.
PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS
She stares into the darkness, in a fog of stale cigarettes and drunken sweet nothings, wondering where everything went wrong. She just wanted to make movies people talked about. Now she does what she needs to survive.
Here is a glimpse of my world in response to Pensitivity101“s prompt
Here are this week’s questions:
Gratitude:
It costs nothing to be nice. You may even be remembered for it.
Harold Shea is an ordinary fellow, as fellows go. He has no grand stories about this girl or that girl. He is a simple chap who eats tuna on toasted rye. Harold and I are clerks at the Ministry of Useless Facts and Random Memories. A person becomes a clerk if they have a knack for remembering and cataloging trivial information. Our job is to sift through old documents and archives, searching for forgotten tidbits of knowledge that may one day prove useful.
Harold is a diligent worker, and he takes pride in his work. He always arrives early and stays late, poring over old manuscripts and dusty tomes. He has a particular fondness for historical trivia and, from time to time, found regaling his coworker Venus Milo with tales of obscure battles and forgotten rulers.
Despite his unremarkable nature and unassuming demeanor, Harold is a valuable member of our team. Without his tireless efforts, many of the useless facts and random memories that we collect would be lost to the sands of time.
Harold is also a kind and thoughtful person. He is always willing to lend a helping hand to his coworkers. Last week, for instance, one of our colleagues was struggling to find a particular piece of information for a project. Harold spent hours searching through old records until he found what she was looking for. He did all of this without expecting anything in return.
Despite his many admirable qualities, Harold is not without his quirks. For one thing, he can be a bit absent-minded at times. On more than one occasion, he has misplaced important documents or forgotten to submit reports on time. However, his forgetfulness is more than made up for by his enthusiasm and dedication.
Everything changed about six months ago. I came into the office, and everyone was in a tizzy. It isn’t like it was the first time the office was in this state. Harold usually got things in order rather quickly. However today, no Harold. He has never been late a day in thirty years. I tended to the disaster but never took my mind off what could have possibly happened to Harold. Then I was called into the Director’s office.
“Thank you for sorting out that dreadful mess.” said the Director
“It was nothing, Ma’am,” I replied.
“Harold?” She asked. I shrugged and walked out.
After stopping by Harold’s weekly for the next six months, I received a package at the Ministry. The package sat on my desk for another month before I remembered it. When I opened the package, there was a letter from Harold.
Dear Seamus,
I know this package has been sitting on your desk for about a month. I’m well. Venus and I have retired and living in my favorite place. Do you remember? Of course you do, you don’t forget anything. I miss you, ole chap. I haven’t had a decent conversation in months. Perhaps, you can down and keep Venus and me company.
~H
Well, that rascal, I thought. I had no idea that he and Venus had a thing. Why wouldn’t he tell me?
I guess there are a lot of things to consider when you’re thinking about “Pulling the Pen.”
Such a powerful and empowering piece. Take a few moments to read this…
I found this article on the web. I found it interesting and figured I would share it.
wordpress.com/learn/courses/intro-to-seo/what-is-seo-and-why-is-it-important/
If humans had taglines, what would yours be?
I wasn’t exactly sure what taglines meant. I looked it up and discovered it means catchphrase or slogan. Huh, ain’t that something.
So I asked a few friends what they would consider to be my catchphrase. Of course, when you involve humans everything becomes more complicated than it needs to be. After, listening to them chuckle to countless number of catchphrases I subject to blurt out at any moment. I decided I needed to change the question.
If you were eulogizing me, what phrase could you say that everyone would recognize?
Instantly, everyone I asked this question had the same answer. This confused me, surely I figured I would a bit of variety, right? Nope, they had the same answer. They also said it wasn’t so much what I had to say, but how I said it. It was even suggested that I write out my facial expressions so people could get a visual on the effects.
the number friend response is …
I considered their response and asked, “Ahh, come again?”
I’ve always been held to a higher standard. I’ve never been allowed to release the monster inside. Unbeknownst to the masses, their actions feed him, and he’s full. Due to the fact others don’t live by the standards they set. So, I sit here trapped in a case. For I’m my monster’s prisoner.
What fears have you overcome and how?
I’ve spent most of my life conquering fear; at least, I thought so. As a child, we are taught to be tough and not be afraid of anything.
“Are you chicken?”
“What you yella?
Phrases like these quickly appear in my memory when I think of fear. I remember I wanted to be brave, strong, and courageous. For the most part, I feel I accomplished it on some level. I followed the rules and worked hard, volunteering for every crappy assignment to prove to myself and those around me that I feared nothing. Unwittingly, I was actually making a fool of myself. My friends and superiors felt my actions were to curry favor, not prove my courage.
One day in the barracks, I discovered this when I overheard some soldiers discussing my actions. There I was, staring into the face of what I believed to be my greatest fear, mockery. As this continued, I became numb to everything. My attitude damaged my relationship with my wife and children. I had no idea I was suffering from the effects of PTSD. To be honest, I’d never heard of it. Something I regret, I regret it still.
Tragedy and disappointment became my watchwords. However, facing death from something that didn’t carry a rifle became the catalyst of my new mindset. I realized something. I don’t control anything. Then I asked myself, “Why am I trying to conquer an emotion that innate.” So I began to embrace my fear. I took a decade digging into myself, trying to understand my fear. What I figured out was the following:
Once you begin to understand one’s fear, one realizes there is no shame in being afraid. It protects us; keeps us harm.
So, my greatest fear is I’m afraid of being afraid. How I conquered it? I didn’t. I embraced it. Once I accepted this concept, I began to find peace.
SHORT ESSAY – REFLECTION
I never dreamed I had what it took to become a writer. It was more than the usual self-doubt, more like an evaluation of my skills. My mastery of the language was smattering at best. Writing for myself was the only way to feel the joy I desperately desired. My sketches were rudimentary, but I still enjoyed the process occasionally. However, writing is the thing that gets my motor running, as they say. Even after becoming a widower, I kept writing; I began my first novel within the first month. Over the next three years, I took loss after loss. Though wretched like a tsunami with no quarter, I continued to write.
Despite all this tragedy, I created a poetry show and taught workshops about writing poetry. In many ways, my writing career had begun to take off. Then one day, I felt a little off. It felt different than previous experiences of this sort, so I went to the doctor. I was fully prepared to be told I was suffering from several underlining symptoms of my PTSD. It’s peculiar how once you have a diagnosis of something, it becomes the cause of EVERYTHING that ails you. However, today was different; the physician stated
“although unlikely, but it is probable.”
Really, bro? This is how you’re going to start things off? I screamed in my head but gave a tempered response, “I see; when will the test results return?”
A couple days later, I got the news. A confirmation of something I already knew to be true. The doctor had a lot to say, but the only thing I heard was
He was still talking. Still, I heard nothing. Then, my once-decent vocabulary was reduced to one-syllable words.
“Well damn!”
“Fuck!”
“Okay, Okay”
“Fuck!”
The doctor finally stopped talking and ended the call. There was a numbness that took hold, and I can’t quite remember feeling much after that. It seemed as if this feeling was my permanent state for the next couple of years. Even through everything, I was just numb. I befriended people I would never have and shared things usually kept private.
It was as if I didn’t recognize myself. It was me talking to these strangers and sharing these private things. Something was wrong. It wasn’t just me, for I share the wisdom of their secrets in the lines I write. As if it is my duty or something I can’t quite name or describe, to share what is learned in the space between clarity and confusion.
Even now, years later, I can’t tell what I’ve learned. Perhaps, as I write these lines and others like them, lessons will become clear. It took me years to talk about my experience, years to write, and years to share.
I could talk about this experience forever; perhaps I will share more one day. However, for now, I’ll share my feelings about the news that day. Tell you how it stripped away my courage. Slowly tearing away the essence of my existence. I barely wrote a word after that. Somehow, I felt I’d had this coming. I deserved this fate.
Somedays, I hear the echoes of the haunting memories of that man. I’d love to say I’ve shed its torment and walked around free. That wouldn’t be honest. It took me years to regain my courage. With a bit of luck, I can maintain it. We all know luck is all a person needs if their courage holds.
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
Typically, in conversations like these, I have a long, drawn out story. However, today there is no need for a long bowl when a short one will do.
I can’t imagine a day without reading. Yeah, it’s just that simple. I’ve traveled through time, been around the world, and fell in love without leaving my home office. If I couldn’t write another word, I would just pick up a book. The ability to walk away from a world filled with hollow sentiments and plastic smiles feels amazing. In the words of Tina Turner, “Simply the Best.” To feel that , even if for a little while, means so much.
It’s the start of the concert season for my friends and I. They have been to several shows already, but finally dragged my butt away from my laptop and notebooks. I managed to sneak one with me. Out of habit, I pulled it to take notes about the show. My buddy, gives me an evil look….oops, my bad
Are you a leader or a follower?
In my humble opinion, one must be willing and able to follow before they can lead. Leaders are not born; they are developed. For those who have or had the honor of leadership, make no mistake to lead another is a definite honor, you may not be a leader in every situation. Those who don’t understand this concept aren’t ready to lead.
Such is the Rule of Leadership.
PROSE – REFLECTION
She could have been here; if she wanted. She could have been here; if it meant something. I knew her words were hollow when she spewed them; I heard their echo, such a haunting sound. Still, I hoped that I was wrong. I hoped what I heard was some psychotic break. Is there a sound you hear when this happens? Is it something dismissed, resolved, or mocked with six hundred dollars an hour, a sofa, and a pill? Yea, you know that shit that gets you hooked, but you need to believe you are free. So I sit here, waiting for the doorbell to chime, waiting to hear that familiar melody. The melody, which ends the silence, ends the loneliness. Yet the silence thickens, and the depths of loneliness have no bounds.
With a click, strike, and spark, the tobacco crackles as I take a drag to forget about the pain.
Yeah, she wanted me to get up and come running. She wanted me to stand in line like the others. Suitors plenty, but real men are few. She wanted me to be someone I had never been. She wanted to be someone; if she took the time to know me, she’d know I could never be. Yet, in her delusion, she wanted me to fall in line, like the wiry snake-eyed fellow whose lips were in a constant state of pucker against her gluteus maximus. Her leg would shudder when he kissed it just right. Often, I wondered if he was part fish, Bluegill. Trout?
Then there was the portly fellow whose clothes were two sizes larger than needed. An attempt to hide his predilection for Ho-Ho’s and Ding-Dong’s, but their melted remnants on his lapel and in the corner of his mouth told the tale. I couldn’t resist imagining him as Wimpy from the old cartoon; I’ll gladly pay you Tuesday for a Ding-Dong today. Since he was always eating them, I wondered how he pulled it off. But, of course, everyone knew he didn’t have a job.
Perhaps, I was the well-dressed fellow who would unleash this girlish giggle every time he hit the blunt. I couldn’t help but picture him in pigtails with pink ribbons in his mouth, chewing on the ends. He sported a five o’clock shadow like it was still something stylish. Maybe for some, but him not a good look. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was wearing socks with lace around the top. I do believe it would complete the look.
I exhale to relieve the strain. I exhale to let go. I exhale to be one step closer to the sanity to which I cling; I exhale.
But I wasn’t any of them. I was a man whose name was spoken in reverence barely above a whisper. There wasn’t a need to speak; people were satisfied with a nod. I know what it means to love a woman for your entire life and be the better. I know how it feels to grab hold of someone, and they grab you back. Never letting go, hearing what their eyes speak when their mouths fail utter a word. Our bodies trembling from its power, our souls quivering, like the Earth shaking beneath your feet. I know one can only get there with love and respect for one another. No plastic smiles, and hollow sentiments can take their place—an honor reserved for the special and the elite, Real men and women. For anyone else, your attendance is futile. Perhaps, one day she will understand. But I know what I really want to know. What has my curiosity stirring? How the hell did she ever get things so twisted?
I stub the cigarette out; the embers glow bright, then fade, and the smoke dissipates.
I know the answer. I had a momentary lapse of reason.
It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sleeping in, although I really need it after waiting until the last minute to write an article. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to go back to sleep, but the aroma of freshly brewed Colombian coffee and blueberry pancakes tickles my nostrils. I smile, feeling content. I love blueberry pancakes so much that it’s almost criminal. If I were on death row, my last meal would definitely be blueberry pancakes and chewy chocolate chip cookies. I’d wash it down with a satisfying mug of Colombian coffee. Just thinking about it makes me want to moan with delight.
Then it hit me: I live alone. Who the heck is in my house? So, I armed myself. My bed linen had swallowed my sidearm, so I grabbed a whiffle ball bat. You may wonder why a grown man would have a whiffle ball bat in a word: grandkids. You may also be wondering how a plastic bat would do any damage. It will, I assure you. Let me explain.
I concede that you may not have heard of anyone getting the beatdown with a whiffle ball bat. Simply put, no one would ever admit to this happening to them. Imagine the shame and ridicule they would receive from peers and family. The victims would go to extreme lengths to come up with a backstory to explain their faces being covered in welts. They could even enlist the genius of their cousin, who spun ridiculously plausible stories to get them out of troublesome situations. However, when the cousin looks at them blankly for a moment, they state, “I got nothing.” The victims respond, “Really?” Their cousin hands them a beer and says, “Looks like you need this.” They nod and take a swig.
I walked into the kitchen, ready to do damage, thinking of all the houses on the block and how dare they pick mine. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Ursula. Ursula was my muse, who had seen me since the illness. She seemed to disappear without any explanation.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.
She shot me a puzzled look. “You’re writing again; you need me.”
I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. “Really? I do. It’s not like you’ve been around to know,” I replied.
She paused momentarily before answering; her expression hurt. “Hun, you got sick and started babbling about quitting the game. I didn’t know how to handle it. With Aunt Harry covering the bar, I figured it was a good time to take a holiday.”
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the skillet.
She smiled. “Your favorite,” she said, lifting a plate of blueberry pancakes. I took the plate and headed towards the office, but then stopped as I realized something.
“Why do you have a beard?” I asked.
“Hun, you know beards are in fashion now. Don’t be silly,” she remarked.
I stared at her, considering her logic. “But you’re a girl, so go shave,” I demanded, pointing my finger toward the bathroom.
She scoffed as she turned off the skillet, then stormed towards the bathroom, yelling, “Fine…go put some pants on!” over her shoulder as she closed the door.
I stood puzzled momentarily, then realized I was standing in my boxers. I poured myself a cup of coffee and then put the coffee and the pancakes in the office. I slipped on a pair of shorts and began eating my breakfast. I was on my second helping of pancakes when Ursula finally emerged from the bathroom. She was freshly showered, sporting a blank tank top and khaki shorts. Though it had been a while since I had seen her, she still had a banging body and would be considered attractive by most men. However, she had a minor setback. Ursula had lime green skin and crimson eyes that sparkled when her ideas flowed. They were on fire now.
Ursula began explaining her ideas on how we could succeed with the magazine. As she spoke, I stopped eating and started taking notes. I don’t particularly appreciate taking notes on a story but I haven’t found a way to avoid it yet. The more I wrote, the more she spoke. Ursula was typically a pain in the butt and a bit of a slave driver, but it felt good to be working again. So, I groaned inwardly. We were almost done with the layout for the next few months when there was a knock at the door.
I opened the door to find my cousin standing there. Like most family members, he assumed he had an open invitation to my home, arriving unannounced and expecting to be welcomed. He lifted his head, sniffed the air, smacked his lips as if tasting the air, and headed to the kitchen without saying a word. Then, he fixed himself a plate and returned to the front porch, where we typically sit when the weather permits. I brought him a cup of coffee and placed it beside him. As he ate, he occasionally mumbled about how delicious the pancakes were. Ursula sat on the railing and lit a Cohiba, her preferred cigar. Eventually, my cousin finished his pancakes, and we began our usual banter, reminiscing about our mothers and the good old days.
Right on cue, my cousin starts reciting some Don L. Lee. He hits me with, “But He Has Cool,” or “He even stopped for green lights.” My cousin’s rhythm and cadence are second to none. I found myself leaning back in the chair, swaying as he went straight into his rendition of “Big Momma,” another Don L. Lee standard. Ursula also felt him and nearly fell off the banister; I chuckled. I hit him with a medley consisting of “The Poet” by Dunbar and a bit of “The Backlash Blues” by Hughes, capping it off with a dash of “I Know My Soul” by Mckay.
My cousin responds, “Boy, you think you’re bad, don’t you.” “I learned from you; I ought to be!” I remark.
He smiles and hits me with Hayden’s “The Ballad of Nat Turner.” I’m floored; I wasn’t expecting that one. Though Ursula is smiling, she taps her wrist, signaling that we must return to work. I pretend not to notice. My cousin starts reciting “Black Jam for Dr. Negro” by Mari Evans. I wave my hands in defeat but deliver Jean Toomer’s “Georgia Dusk” to make it sting. He’s on fire today, and I need to do something. I think for a moment; then it hits me. I hit him with a double dose of Rilke, starting with “Going Blind” and following up with the prose piece “Faces.” And just for good measure, I slide into the opening sequence of the prologue of Ellison’s “Invisible Man.”
He sat back in the chair and shot me a stern look. “There you go cheating… you know this is poetry only!”
I chuckled with a wide grin. “Oops, my bad.” We burst into laughter.
“Hun, we really need to get back to work!” Ursula exclaims.
I lift my arms in surrender. “Okay… okay, we’re finished, girl… hold on a minute.”
My cousin shoots me a strange look after he looks around the porch. “Cuz, who are you talking to?”
“Ursula, that lime green pain in the butt sitting on the banister,” I state as I point in her direction.
My cousin slowly turns around and looks back at me. “Lime green, huh?”
“Uh-huh… yep.”
His eyes dart in that direction, then back to me. “I don’t see anybody… and you don’t either! What do you have in that cup?”
With a shy smile, I lift my cup. “Colombian,” and take a sip.
As we practice and learn about the craft of writing, we sometimes forget what it is we are supposed to be doing when we read a piece. This is especially true when it comes to poetry. We forget to enjoy the words and allow them to resonate within us. In the poem entitled “ Introduction to Poetry,” Billy Collins reminds us of this fact.
Collins’ Poem is listed below:
Introduction To Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Billy Collins
In the first stanza tells us to examine a poem for what it is. Take a few moments and see what it is to see. Next, he invites us to listen to the sound of the words when they are spoken. There is so much information to be learned just by examining the poem’s surface and listening to how it sounds when spoken aloud. Collins then suggests that we begin to dig a little deeper. He asks us to probe around to see what we can discover. To have no expectations going in. To feel our way around the poem. Letting its energy splash against our faces, enjoying every aspect the poem offers us. Collins cautions us about digging too deep into a poem. Stripping it down to its bare bones, as if it will relinquish the location of the Holy Grail. We all know that the Grail is the heart of those who seek it. Just as the meaning of the poem read.
What do you do to be involved in the community?
When it comes to being involved in community
it boils down to this
We our brothers and sisters in the struggle; doing with what we can to
stand above the churn.
The churn gives not one iota, who you are, where you come from, nor the color of your skin. It will scoop your ass with no quarter.
Put simply
Life is tough enough, without any additional nonsense. So, let’s help one another the best we can.
Do you have a quote you live your life by or think of often?
I immediately refer to this quote whenever I consider conversations such as these. Due to the current social climate, this quote is a little dated. However, with a few modifications, it fits quite nicely within the current climate. Let’s take a look.
“Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.” – Marcus Aurelius
https://dailystoic.com/waste-no-time-arguing-good-man-one/
“Waste no more time arguing what a good person should be. Be one.”
Now, that’s a little better; let’s get on with the conversation.
I look at this quote as a personal challenge. To dismiss the unwritten standards, for they change depending on region or person, and attempt to conduct myself in a manner befitting how I was raised. From this, I formed the code I live by. The difficulty lies in changes that occur within the individual. Put simply, I don’t feel the same way about things as I mature—circumstances of life change, whether you realize them or not. Nevertheless, I attempt to be the best person I can be within societal limitations or guidelines. Forever cognizant I may fail. Failure is acceptable as long as you retain the wisdom that accompanies it. I must be clear here wisdom accompanies both success and failure.
I also realize someone other than me determines whether I’m a good person. My conduct will be weighed and measured by the people interacting with me. They described what kind of person I am in their description of me to others. If I’m considered a bad person, then I’m as such. If they refer to me as a good person, then I’m a good person. I have no control over their opinion of me. I’m who I am. So, I waste no more time arguing—this action I can control.
Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.”
[The New Statesman, February 25, 1933]”,,-― Cyril Connolly
As a writer, I feel this quote should be the standard for writing everything. What am I doing if I’m true to myself in my writing? I can only fulfill the first quote if I’m true to my writing.
This is how I measure myself; no one else. You are who you are and I respect that.
What gives you direction in life?
I was taking night courses working on my degree back when that was a thing when I exploded on the instructor during a lecture. She made a comment about the intent of man during times of war. Looking back, I realize it was merely a generalization, a device I’ve had on numerous occasions then and now. However, her words were like white-hot searing to my depths that night. This incident may have been the beginning of my psychosis.
My emotional wounds of war were still fresh, and I overreacted. The next morning, I was summoned to my Commander to answer for my conduct. Though filled with shame, I had nothing to say in my defense. I stood firm and took the verbal assault I had coming until my entire being felt as hollow as my soul. Then the oddest thing occurred.
They sent me to get help…
On this day, I heard the letters for the first time. Nonsense, rubbish, bullocks, “Get the F*@K outta here, wit dat!” And other such phrases were my expression. Knowing me, I probably said them and more. Yet, the counselor remained steady and explained my plight.
I felt better when leaving their office. Better than I had in a very long time.
I never saw them again…
Decades later, I’m destroyed by these four letters, consumed by them. It was the first time I had the courage to utter them without disdain. Yet, having applied to me, I bore the weight of their shame.
P
T
S
D
Everyone involved said its okay, but their expressions said otherwise. Their whispers were louder than an announcement over speakers. The Memoirs of Madness had been started for years, and now I know the name of my affliction provided the memoirs’ direction. Writing the memoirs provides my direction. They provide a smidgen of peace.
Things are better now, I can say those letters. I have accepted, and with understanding, I can move forward.
In poetry, imagery is one of the most powerful tools in our toolboxes. If used properly, we can guide our readers precisely where we want them. However, we can also paint just enough of any image to allow them to visualize an experience that relates to them. So, I decided to look at the work of some other poets to gain a deeper understanding of imagery and its uses in poetry.
Today, let’s take a look at a poem by Gary Soto.
Biology was a set of marble-colored tables
And gas spouts where we bloated up frogs, I thought,
And I thought I had a chance if I bought the book
Early and read it with my lips moving,
Maybe twice, maybe with my roommate half-listening.
I tried chemistry. I tried astronomy,
Which was more like honest-to-goodness math
Than the star of Bethlehem shining down the good news.
I was never good
At science, and so at the beginning of spring
I learned my boredom on the wood desks
Of piss-ant chairs. But when our biology prof came
Into the classroom wiping his mouth,
When he moved a chair out of the way
And still bumped into it, I knew I had a chance.
He was drunk. His bow tie was a twisted-up
Twig and a nest of hair grew
From each ear. I looked to the skeleton
In the corner and smiled. A breeze stirred
And the bones clicked on
Their strings and wire. With the classroom splayed
With sunlight and hope, the students sighed.
A few pencils rolled to the floor –
An easy grade for all. The prof slurred,
“Man was never created equal.” He fumbled at the
Blackboard as he hunted for chalk. When he turned to us,
Chalk dust clung to his face.
For a moment, I don’t think he knew where he was.
He touched his bow tie. He stuck a finger
Into an ear and repeated, “Man was never created equal,”
Took a step and stumbled into chairs. Right then
I knew I didn’t even have to buy the book.
He was already repeating himself. Right there,
I looked out the window and sucked
In the good air of spring. Trees were wagging blossoms
And the like. One petal would sway,
Then another, sway after slight sway,
A repetition that was endless
And beautiful in the uniquely scientific world.
-Gary Soto
It is interesting how Soto connected the poem’s first two lines to the last two. As if he wrote them initially as a complete stanza. When read together, it has the feel of a single consciousness.
Biology was a set of marble-colored tables
And gas spouts where we bloated up frogs, I thought,
A repetition that was endless
And beautiful in the uniquely scientific world.
However, we can see the thought’s expansion or elaboration by breaking them apart.
In this piece, Soto elaborates on this experience with image-driven depiction. Soto also uses summary imagery throughout the poem. Early in the poem, we see something remarkable. It is as if we are in the haze of the morning. Lost in the mundane repetitiveness of life is displayed well here. Each of us remembers, rereading the science books. Almost the author purposely wrote, so we had to read everything twice to get the slightest idea of what was happening.
Early and read it with my lips moving,
Maybe twice, maybe with my roommate half-listening.
I tried chemistry. I tried astronomy,
Which was more like honest-to-goodness math
Than the star of Bethlehem shining down the good news.
I was never good
At science, and so at the beginning of spring
I learned my boredom on the wood desks
Of piss-ant chairs
In the next portion of the piece, Soto shifts gear a bit. Better stated, he zooms in on the professor. He provides crisp and clear images of the mannerisms of the instructor. In this section, he zooms in and out, letting us know which portions of the story are important. Then his attention shifts or slides to the actions happening outside the class. He begins daydreaming about the beauty of nature. Then, he closes his thoughts.
In this, I enjoyed how Soto described everything twice in the piece. Showing us how things in life can be viewed from two different perspectives
RANDOM THOUGHT – A RANT? – PEP TALK?
I write these words for an unknown reason. Something keeps gnawing at me to speak, but I do not know what. Yet, I’m sure many writers have faced this exact issue, not knowing what to say or how to say it. I recall long ago when I decided writing was something I was passionate about doing for the rest of my life. Also, I remember feeling no one wanted to hear what I had to say. So I wrote my thoughts, dreams, ideas, and fears in a notebook. I hid its contents from the world. If I am being honest, I hid them from myself. The instance I doubted myself, I became defeated. A player in a rigged game, and I didn’t even know the rules.
Back then, you seldom heard words like; depression, anxiety, or low self-esteem. However, I remember phrases like, “Stop being a pussy” or “Get your shit together.” Today, people attempt to listen to the problems we face. It’s kind of nice. Anxiety, depression, and other mental issues are real. We must, as a people and society, respect them. Witnessing people getting the help they need and being true to themselves is beautiful. Yet, like everything, we go a little overboard if people let us. Somehow, amidst all the self-imposed crap, I kept writing. I’m not even sure how or why.
I kept looking for external validation of my talent. As if I needed someone to walk up to me and say, “Man, you’re one hell of a writer.” Yes, of course, this happens. Sometimes comments, reviews, and other accolades are plenty and fulfilling. However, what do we do when they don’t come? Your inbox is empty, and a deafening silence surrounds you. People you’ve asked to read your work avoid you. They are swamped now, “They haven’t had the time to read.” Or they give you, my favorite, the delicious lie. “My God, your work was amazing. I couldn’t stop reading. I read everything on site.” This utterance is coupled with a plastic smile and hollow sentiment.
You turn to a blank page and pick up a pen. Then, write your ass off. Whatever it is you’re feeling. Let it fly. Write the good, the bad, and the ugly. Tell it straight and write true. Let no one tell you any different, and when they do, simply look at them, and say, “Yahoo…Kiss my Grits!” Flo would be proud. No matter what, keep writing. It may not turn out you make it to The NY Times bestseller list. Or you may never win a covenant prize. However, what you have done is tell a portion of your story. I hope you realize this happens in every story we write. Don’t worry about it, and it’s okay; it’s just fine.
Sometimes my journal is my confessional, and my readers are my priests. Yet, some things chronicled within those pages are mine, and I bear their weight alone as we do with certain things. My method or ideas aren’t for everyone, but writing them, and getting that crap out of my head, has kept me on this side of the veil. Where I have the hope of happiness, the urge for acceptance, and the whisper of redemption, I speak of it too loud; it may become vapor.
Somewhere in these words, I suppose, is a message to you, the reader, a pep talk of sorts. Yet, as I finish the closing sentence, this is nothing more than a pep talk to myself. I hope I listen.
Truth be told, it was never about going to some show. It was about seeing your gorgeous smile and feeling those arms wrapped around me. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and they feel so good. I want to scream in the anguish of missing them, missing you, but these lips will never utter a word.
In that moment, I will let my guard down and allow the warmth of you to soothe me.
In that moment, I forget about being cool and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of holding a beautiful woman in my arms. I will be cognizant of the fact that she is allowing herself to be held.
Forgive me for being mushy, but I thought we were past the greasy kid’s stuff, and we were somewhere in the middle of something. I’m not sure where something is, not this, seriously?
Perhaps, we should do what grown folks do?
Grown folks sit down and have a conversation about the things that matter to one another. Whether or not we want to hear what is being said. We sit there and allow each other to voice our concerns until all that remains are long looks and easy smiles.
PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT
Perhaps I’ve reached an all-time low. I spent considerable time sending out a barrage of inbox marriage proposals. In these proposals, I removed the obligation of sex, hoping to sweeten the pot. I figured taking sex off the table would increase the number of acceptance. I figured surely one of these candidates would say yes, right? The next morning, my inbox was overflowing with responses. However, all I got in the inbox was filled with laughter.
I received several images of women’s reactions to my proposal. I even got a sexually explicit image with block letters informing me I would never get what was displayed in the image. Sitting back, thinking as I closed my laptop, the whole affair was rather hilarious—the idea of someone marrying a guy like me.
Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.
I was excited and a little nervous; despite all the warnings, I decided to strike out independently and join the military. Talking about risk, I have never been one who would blindly follow anyone. I’d seen Officer and a Gentleman; I knew I couldn’t stand someone yelling in my face. However, I had to do something with my life. The Madre had busted her butt, getting ready for manhood. Hanging out on the couch wasn’t on the curriculum.
Hell yeah, I’m to get to ride on a plane. This is going to be cool, turned into what have I got myself into? In about 15 minutes. No one said anything about the hazards of flying.
“The time of your life!” they said
“Travel the world!” they said
HA! Let me be clear: if traveling the world meant getting back on one of these things, I was to become the epitome of a couch potato. Okay, maybe not a couch potato; I was willing to do anything that didn’t involve flying.
Fortunately, there was a very nice woman who took pity. She helped through what I considered to be pending death. She talked about her family and where she goes. Before long, I had forgotten my fears and laughed at her stories. I even told a few of my own. Then we started our final approach.
I survived the first flight, and they put me on a twin-engine plane. This was my introduction to turbulence.
“Lord, I’m sorry. (Sniff, sniff), Can you see your way to forgiving me?” I begged
Crickets
“If you can’t …take me now, Lord, just take me now!” I begged
This became my mantra for the remainder of the flight. Since I’m writing this, you can figure out things turned out fine.
After a bus trip, I finally arrived at the military base. Now, I’m definitely nervous. The largest man I had seen in my life was standing under a dim light staring at me. I’m standing there holding everything I own in the world, regretting everything at that moment.
“Boy, what’s that shit on your lip, dirt?” He asked,
Well, that’s now me taking a huge risk that changed my life for the better. I have no regrets…
Truth or Happiness? Never both …
The first time I heard this phrase, I thought it fell into the hukum jazz people say. Yeah, but something about it grabbed hold of me. So, I sat down and let it speak. I felt ready with a pack of Luckies and a cup of java. I added a notebook and pen, just in case. Because you never know what will happen when you sift through fragments of random memories.
Taught to carefully example each fragment; I’m a dutiful student. I came up with the following:
The truth; the world is full of lies we are willing to accept.
Society acts as if we are okay when poverty is an addiction, and there’s rehab on every corner. Right next to the package store and across the street from the church.
On the bench at the bus stop was a man with a two-tone beard singing a melody of the Pretenders, Tom Petty, and ELO with a Gregory Issac flavor. A member of “the gap,” those who make too much money for benefits and not enough to live, stares straight into the madness of their existence.
Perhaps, Denial and Distraction are Huey Lewis’s new drug. Take a hearty dose of Denial, a familiar favorite, while waiting in line for the latest and greatest in distraction served happily in this free tablet.
Describe a decision you made in the past that helped you learn or grow.
A few months back, I was talked into something; if I had thought about I would have never done it. However, my lady has a way of getting me to do whatever. She simply shows me her elbows, and I’m putty.
She wanted me to increase my online presence. “It will be easy,” “Tweet a couple of things – make a couple of posts,” she said. Like I ordered a pizza with pineapples on one side or a cheeseburger with extra cheese. Though I was filled with skepticism, I relented. This time she gave me that enchanting gaze she used to get to kill a spider when we first met. Still putty. So I upped my Twitter game, regaining the followers I lost. I know this process is ridiculously simple, but it was only the beginning.
At the end of February, I breathed life into my blog and shifted things around on other sites. I discovered I needed to learn about marketing, SEO, trends, and all other things I didn’t believe mattered when working on a blog. As I researched blogging, most of the articles weren’t about writing. I found this to be odd, especially since some research was provided by writers.
This week marks just over sixty days of consistent blogging. I learned so much in the last 48 hours, not to mention the last 60 days. I can’t wait to see what adventures are in store. I’m having a wonderful time writing and growing as a writer and content creator. Man, it is hard work, yet very rewarding.
This has been one of the best decisions I have ever made.
Thank you, everyone, for reading!
Thanks, babe, for the nudge.
Images courtesy of Leroy Skalstad, Gerd Altmann. and webvilla from Pixabay . Collage by Mangus Khan
I’ve concluded that arguing with negativity-oriented people–those who use creativity and rationale to consistently redirect focus back onto negativity–is a waste of time. Nothing you say or do will be good enough; the best you can do is temporarily quiet them with tangible results. Even then, they’ll eventually find a way to rationalize your efforts […]
Musings — Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha
I am known as Mangus Khan. My life has been a turning page in a dime store novel. Nothing steadily grabbing your attention, but enough to keep you interested. Writing for me, is one of those gifts the Master gives, during the time he is putting together the pieces that make you. Like anything in life, talent is never enough. We must work hard at developing the gifts we have been bestowed. This means that we must dig deep; past our fear, past our doubts, and become the best at whatever we are meant to be. Does this mean that you are the next Ellison, Hemingway, Mosley, Morrison, or Angelou just waiting to be discovered? Perhaps you are? Who really knows? However, we can never be discovered by leaving our work, on the pages of closed binding.
Each word, every sentence, and each verse of The Memoirs of Madness, are exactly like that for me. It never was meant to entertain you, but if it has, rock on. It was never meant to captivate you, but if it did, hold on; we just got started. It is simply my heart and soul on a page for all to see. It is an expression of my thoughts, my fears, and my secrets. In its pages, I tell the story of those who cannot speak, or don’t know how. I never imagined through telling their stories, I would wind up telling my own. I am just a simple man with a pen, who writes the Memoirs of Madness.
Memoirs of Madness 