Tag: Random Thoughts

That Damn Test

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I’m not even sure what that means—taking an online IQ test.

I’ve read the definitions. I understand what it’s supposed to measure. Pattern recognition. Logic. Processing speed. A neat little number that tells you how well your brain behaves under controlled conditions.

Clean. Clinical. Impressive… if you like that sort of thing.

But I’ve met people who can ace those tests and still can’t think their way around the corner. The kind of folks who can solve theoretical problems all day long but freeze when reality refuses to follow instructions. Book smart, sure. Life confused.

I’ve also known people who wouldn’t impress anyone on paper… but you’d trust them when things went sideways.

Same world.

Different kinds of intelligence.

And that number?

It only tells you part of the story.

I remember taking a test once—military entrance.

I was drunk and hungover at the same time. Which shouldn’t be possible, but there I was… living proof that bad decisions can overlap.

And yeah—I bombed it.

Still passed, somehow. Just enough to get in the door, not enough to get a seat at the table. My score boxed me in. Limited options. Limited expectations. Funny how a number you barely remember taking starts speaking for you like it knows your whole story.

I remember how they treated us based on that score.

You could feel it.

Who got respect. Who got side-eyed. Who got talked to like they were already behind before they even started.

Here’s where it got interesting.

I’d be standing next to guys with higher scores—on paper, sharper minds, better placements—and they couldn’t figure out some of the basic tasks tied to their own jobs. Not all of them. But enough to notice something didn’t add up.

So I tried to help.

Most of them didn’t want it.

Here come the pretentious jerk balls… fresh out the factory, still wrapped in confidence they hadn’t earned yet. The kind that would rather struggle in silence than accept help from someone “below” them.

But one of them?

He was different.

We stepped outside, sat on the stoop, and worked through it. No rank. No scores. Just two people trying to solve a problem without making it more complicated than it needed to be.

When we finished, he looked at me and asked,
“Why aren’t you in my field… at my level?”

I took a drag from my cigarette.

“Hot chicks and alcohol.”

He nodded.
“I been there.”

We laughed.

Because sometimes the gap between where you are and where you could’ve been… isn’t intelligence.

It’s choices.

“I’m not smart.”

I say that a lot.

Not fishing for compliments—I’ve known people who are genuinely brilliant. The kind of minds that move faster, see further, connect things before you even realize there’s something to connect.

I’m not that.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

My wife used to roll her eyes every time I said it.

“Whatever.”

That was her whole argument.

And she had reason.

That woman watched me do some of the most impressively idiotic things a grown man can do without supervision. The kind of decisions that make you question whether common sense is optional.

But she also saw me when I got stuck.

Not the casual kind of stuck—the kind where your brain locks up and frustration settles in like it pays rent. The kind that makes you feel useless.

She never agreed with me in those moments.

Never argued either.

She’d just tell me to step away.

Then she’d come back with a cup of coffee, sit beside me, and wait. No pressure. No speeches. Just presence. Like she understood that clarity doesn’t come from force—it comes when the noise finally settles.

And when I started something—really started—she already knew what I needed.

Legal pad.
Red pen. Black pen.
A full carafe of coffee.

Set it down… and give me space.

She’d even keep the kids away.

Not because I didn’t want to see them—I never minded when they came to talk—but she understood something I didn’t have the words for back then:

There’s a point in the process where stopping costs more than continuing.

So until I got there?

“Leave your father alone.”

She protected that space like it mattered.

Like I mattered.

I remember one time I was tearing into my team—just destroying them. They’d done something I thought was ridiculous. Not just wrong… obviously wrong.

Apparently, one of them called my wife.

Little bastards were always ratting me out.

They knew I wouldn’t listen to my bosses…
but they knew I’d listen to her.

Phone rings.

“What happened?” she asked.

So I told her.

“I told you—they had the same training I did.”

“Listen.”

That one word hit harder than anything I’d said.

I felt it—that irritation. Like she wasn’t hearing me.

But she was.

Better than I was.

When I got home, the coffee was ready. That expensive stuff I hated paying for… and loved drinking anyway.

We sat down.

She let me talk.

Then she said it plain.

“Your old team was with you for five years.”

I nodded.

“You had time to learn them.”

Another nod.

“You have to do that again.”

I didn’t like that answer.

So yeah… I pouted.

“What?” she asked.

I stared into my coffee.

“That damn test.”

My son asked me once—he served too—how my time in the military could’ve been harder than the guys he knew doing the same job.

Same title.

Different story.

I laughed.

“The guys I knew doing my job?” I told him. “They had it easy as hell too.”

That confused him.

So I told him a few things.

Not everything. Just enough.

His eyes widened.

“How?”

I smiled. Gave him a wink.

Because some things don’t translate.

Not cleanly. Not completely.

And definitely not into a number.

Over the years—teaching, training, watching people succeed and struggle in ways that don’t make sense on paper—I’ve learned this:

Intelligence is an elusive beast.

It doesn’t sit still long enough to be measured cleanly.
It shows up when it wants to.
Hides when you need it most.
And sometimes looks nothing like what you were taught to recognize.

So no—

I’m not saying intelligence doesn’t matter.

I’m saying it doesn’t live inside a number.

And if you think you’ve got it figured out because of a score on a page…

You probably don’t.

Author’s Note

This piece was written in response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser #279—a weekly, thought-provoking prompt that I’ve come to appreciate in my own quiet way. I don’t always jump into the ring and participate, but I read the question every time. There’s something about the way it lingers… like a conversation you didn’t realize you needed until it’s already started.

This one stuck with me longer than most.

Not because I had an answer ready—but because I didn’t.

So I sat with it. Let it circle. Let it pull at a few old memories I hadn’t planned on revisiting. What came out wasn’t a clean response or a polished argument—it was something closer to a reckoning. A look at the difference between what we measure… and what we actually understand.

That’s usually how it goes around here.

Questions don’t get answered so much as they get unpacked.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you walk away seeing something you missed the first time.

Flashback Friday – 04032026

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This post is in response to Fandango’s Flashback Friday

Fandango’s Flashback Friday — April 3rd

Here is my post from Two years ago

Wordless Wednesday – 04032024

Reflection

The world doesn’t rush.
It just keeps going.

Leaves fall, grow back, fall again. Wind moves through branches like it’s remembering something old. Somewhere in all of that—quiet, unbothered—a squirrel pauses. Not for performance. Not for reflection. Just… because that’s what the moment asked of it.

And that’s where we’ve lost the thread.

We move like everything is urgent. Like the next thing is always the thing that matters most. Coffee gets cold because we’re already thinking about the next task. Sunsets happen behind us while we’re staring at a screen. Even rest feels scheduled, like something to complete instead of something to live.

Meanwhile, that squirrel is sitting there like it cracked the code.

Still. Alert. Present.

There’s a rhythm in nature that doesn’t beg for attention—it just exists. Cycles that don’t need validation. Trees don’t rush their growth. Rivers don’t apologize for their pace. And animals don’t question whether they’re “doing enough” with their time. They exist inside the moment fully, without trying to turn it into something else.

We don’t.

We pass through moments like they’re checkpoints instead of experiences. And then we wonder why everything feels thin. Why days blur together. Why the big things don’t hit as hard as they should.

Because we’ve trained ourselves to ignore the small ones.

The truth is, meaning doesn’t live in the milestones. It hides in the quiet spaces we keep skipping over—the way light hits a wall at the same time every afternoon, the sound of leaves under your shoes, the brief pause of a squirrel deciding whether you’re worth worrying about.

That’s the stuff that anchors you. Not the noise. Not the chase.

The small, almost invisible moments.

But they only matter if you’re there to notice them.

And maybe that’s the whole thing.
Not some grand reset. Not a complete life overhaul.

Just… stop.

Long enough to see what’s already happening around you.

Long enough to realize that the world never stopped offering you something real—you just got too busy to accept it.

And yeah… squirrels?

They’ve been sitting in that truth the whole time.

Guppy, Mojo, and Does Anybody Have a Cigarette?

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(Memoirs of Madness — Return Post)

When my system went down, it seemed like divine intervention—a forced pause. I took the chance to stop fighting the noise and reset my creative energy.

I sat there for a minute, half expecting the room to fill with people saying, “We’re here because we love and care about you. We’re worried. You don’t seem okay.”
Instead, it was just me—and Guppy, staring like she’d seen this movie before.
I muttered my customary “Kick Rocks,” and she gave me that look:
“What’s going on with you, human? Pet me. Feed me. Clean my poop.”

Fair enough.

And because the universe clearly thought I needed a little more chaos, I decided to quit smoking. Yep, that was a moment of brilliance right there, buddy.
I can’t remember the last time I built a machine, wrote a line, or rewired a circuit without a cigarette hanging from my lips or burning down in the ashtray. The old routine: light another while one’s already smoldering, forget which is which, call it inspiration.
Now I’m in the cut back phase. Pray for me, light a candle, or call a hoodoo man to lay down some mojo—I can use all the help I can get.

Somewhere in the middle of all that nicotine withdrawal and digital resurrection, I pulled up the storyboard and looked at the mess. Dozens of storylines—some finished, most not. I decided it was time to clean house.
So I’m finishing what I started. Focusing on the long fiction threads and promising myself that from here on, quality comes first. The foundation’s solid, but there’s still plenty of building to do.

You’ve all been patient, loyal, and willing to walk through my corridors of madness while I rebuild piece by piece. You deserve the best I’ve got—and that’s exactly what’s coming.

I suppose I should be pulling my hair out… wait, I’m bald—so I’m good.

When the Milk Crate Was the Cloud

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Understanding begins where the noise ends.

“The cracks are where the future gets in.” — Nick Cave

Earlier this week, I wrote about dealing with multiple system failures — digital, emotional, creative. The kind of breakdown that makes everything feel heavier. Every keystroke. Every thought.

I couldn’t even open a text editor without feeling like the machine and I were daring each other to quit first.

So, I did what any rational person does when their world starts flickering — I tore it down.

Every wire. Every drive. Every application.

I started looking at everything — the hardware, the software, even the mental clutter I’d built around them. And I started cutting. To borrow a writer’s term, I’ve been killing my darlings. Not just the old drafts and half-finished files, but the stuff I’d been keeping out of sentiment — tools I didn’t use, folders I hadn’t opened since the Obama years, plans I wasn’t brave enough to admit were dead.

It’s strange, what survives a purge. The things you thought mattered crumble under scrutiny, while the quiet essentials — the things that actually serve you — emerge stronger, cleaner.

That’s when it hit me: maybe this isn’t just about computers. Maybe it’s about life architecture.

The Breakdown Phase

Sometimes the system has to fail so you’ll finally stop pretending it’s fine.

When the screens went dark, it wasn’t just technology collapsing — it was me running into the edge of my own maintenance backlog. You know the one: the projects, bills, and habits that pile up in the background while you tell yourself you’ll “get to it.”

Then, one day, everything gets to you instead.

But here’s the gift buried in the crash — it forces you to re-evaluate everything. To sit in the silence after the hum fades and ask: what’s still necessary? what’s still mine?

Back When We Built Our Own Fixes

I come from a time when computers didn’t “just work.” You had to earn them.

You didn’t buy plug-and-play — you built plug-and-hope. You traded parts out of milk crates, scribbled command lines in pencil, and held your breath during the boot beep because you weren’t sure if the whole thing would smoke or sing.

We understood our machines because we had to.*

There was intimacy in it — a relationship between curiosity and consequence. You learned to think like a system, to troubleshoot your way through the mess.

Now everything’s sealed, optimized, “user-friendly.” But friendly to whom?

The less we have to know, the less we understand. And when we stop understanding, we lose something fundamental — the muscle memory of resilience.

We used to break things and fix them.
Now we just replace them and complain.

The Rebuild

So I went back to basics.

I started rebuilding my system piece by piece, checking every connection, testing every drive. And as I did, I realized this wasn’t just a technical reset — it was a personal audit.

I’ve been doing the same thing with my finances: cutting unnecessary subscriptions, auditing expenses, trimming the fat. I’m tired of auto-renewed everything — the digital equivalent of dust.

Same with my creativity. If a tool doesn’t serve the work, it’s gone. No more chasing new apps, new aesthetics, new noise. I’m rebuilding for efficiency, not ego.

There’s a strange peace in it — this deliberate stripping away. It reminds me that clarity isn’t something you download. It’s something you earn, line by line, dollar by dollar, decision by decision.

The System and the Self

The truth is, we’re not that different from the machines we build.

We run on energy and memory. We slow down when cluttered. We crash when overheated.
And sometimes, the only way forward is to reformat.

But unlike machines, we get to choose how we rebuild.
We decide what stays. We define what’s worth running.

This whole process — the wires, the drives, the self-audits — it isn’t about perfection. It’s about understanding. I don’t need things to run flawlessly. I just need them to make sense.

Keep Going, Responsibly

Here’s the part nobody romanticizes: rebuilding is exhausting. It’s unglamorous. It’s long hours, slow progress, and endless testing.

But it’s also the only way to ensure what you’re building can stand on its own.

Sometimes you have to keep going — not because it’s easy, but because stopping would mean accepting confusion as normal.

I’ve learned that keep going doesn’t mean sprinting through burnout. It means moving with intention.
It means knowing when to step back, when to unplug, when to rewrite the damn script.

Because in life — just like in code — the smallest syntax errors can wreck the whole thing if you never stop to look.

“Sometimes you just have to keep walking, even if the map burned up a few miles back.” — Unknown

Author’s Note

Patience is a kind of engineering.
You learn it by failing, by pausing, by realizing not everything needs to be fixed immediately.

Lately, I’ve been reminding myself that understanding — real understanding — takes time. Systems crash. People do too. What matters is how we rebuild, not how fast.

So if you’re in one of those messy seasons — where every wire feels tangled and every drive hums with static — breathe. Slow down. Learn your system before you rewrite it.

You’ll get there. Just not all at once.

When the Room Goes Quiet

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“Fear doesn’t always mean run. Sometimes it means you’ve finally cornered the truth.”

Let’s start with an admission: I’ve never liked the sound of my own voice.
Not the way it cracks when I speak too quickly, or how it forgets itself halfway through a thought. Writing has always been safer — the words obey there. They arrive dressed and deliberate. Out loud, they stumble.

Before I speak, my body stages a small rebellion. My pulse climbs. My jaw tightens. The air feels heavy, as if the room is waiting to see what kind of fraud I’ll turn out to be. That’s what fear does — it turns attention into judgment, curiosity into threat. Only when I’m speaking about my writing does this happen — as if some inner voice hisses, “How dare you think your work is worthy of commentary?”

Yet outside the creative world, I’ve never hesitated to speak. Giving orders? No problem. I did it unapologetically. If someone broke down or got their feelings hurt, my answer was simple: “It’s not my fault your parents raised you to be a pansy.” Was that wrong? Of course. But it was effective — more often than not. That’s why the transition to civilian life hit me like a slow collapse. You can’t bark your way through vulnerability. You can’t command creativity. It doesn’t answer to rank.

But it isn’t really the audience I fear. It’s exposure.
Writing lets me curate my confessions, polish the edges, make the mess beautiful. Speaking strips that away. It demands the raw version — the one that still shakes. And people are strange — sometimes cruel. Some need to be publicly flogged for how they treat others. I laugh when life gives them a taste of their own medicine. Not because two wrongs make a right — they don’t — but because it’s human to feel that flicker of satisfaction when justice shows up wearing irony’s grin. What always gets me, though, is how quickly the guilty feign ignorance. “I’ve done nothing,” they say. Or worse, “All I did was…” as if cruelty came with a receipt and a refund policy.

Sometimes I wonder if the page has made me soft. Soft in that pansy way I used to mock. Where are the tissues? Did you just hand me the cheap stuff? Man, you better give me the Puffs if we’re gonna do this right.
Thank you.
Where was I?
Right — softness. I can write about grief, about love, about the parts of me that never healed. It’s almost easy to do so from the shadows, where no one sees your face or knows your name. A brave soul or a coward? Maybe both.

What do I look like without my mask? Will it fall away, or do I have to peel it off piece by piece? It’s okay to be frightened by what you see. It’s okay to scream aloud as you stare at the stranger in front of you — until you realize it isn’t a stranger at all.
It’s you.
And that’s the moment the voice in your head mutters, “The shit just got real. Damn it, man.”

Could I say these things out loud without flinching? Could I bear the sound of my truth without a backspace key to hide behind?

Maybe that’s what this season of my life is about — learning to live without the safety of revision. To understand that fear, pain, and uncertainty aren’t evidence of weakness, but proof that I’m alive — proof that I matter. The pounding of my heart, the sweat along my brow, the tingling at my edges — they’re all part of it. Then somewhere amidst all of this, I clear the mechanism. Serenity appears. It doesn’t replace the fear, pain, or uncertainty; it listens to them. They have a conversation while I exhale.

I don’t know if I’ll ever love the microphone. But I’m starting to think the page and the stage aren’t enemies. They’re just two mirrors — one for the voice, one for the soul — and I’m standing between them, trying to recognize my own reflection.

Reflective Prompt

What would your truth sound like if you stopped editing it mid-sentence?
Say it out loud — even if your voice shakes.

Author’s Note

Sometimes honesty is a fistfight between who we were and who we’re trying to be. This one left a few bruises — the good kind.
Now, if anyone knows where I left the ice packs… or hell, even a bag of frozen peas — I’m open to suggestions.
Where’s the love, people? Where’s the love?

Nothing to Prove, Everything to Say

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A blog I forgot I started. A voice I didn’t know I needed. And the stories that refused to stay silent.

Motivation for Starting the Blog

I started this blog back in 2011, though I didn’t even remember creating it until I stumbled across it during a Google search of my name. My wife was sick then, and I was drowning in anger and helplessness. Someone once told me every serious writer had a blog. I’ll be damned if I wasn’t going to be taken seriously — even if I didn’t know what I was doing with it.

At the time, it wasn’t about building an audience. I was just trying to write my way through something I couldn’t fix. I’ve solved hard problems my whole life — but that one, watching someone I loved slip away, broke me in a way nothing else had. Writing was the only thing I had that didn’t ask for solutions. It let me feel what I was afraid to say out loud.

Mangus Khan wasn’t supposed to turn into all this. He was just a character I was kicking around for a novel I never finished. But before I knew it, Mangus became more than a name — he became me. There was no turning back the clock, no putting the genie back in the bottle. I didn’t plan it. I never looked back.

In 2023, I made the choice to keep this space alive and see what it could become. It’s the framework of something I’ve been carrying around in my head for decades. I wanted to grow as a writer — to see if there was any real interest in the kind of stories I wanted to tell. When I returned, this blog had 42 members. That was enough. I kept writing until I got sick. Then I recovered and came back swinging, writing without expectations.

Lately, I’ve been working on building a larger space to house all of this — something broader, something that reflects everything I’ve come to care about. I still don’t have any big expectations. Some people retire and fix up cars, build boats, and travel the world. I tell stories.

Expectations for Audience and Reach

I didn’t start this blog expecting a crowd. When I found it again in 2023, it had 42 members, and that felt about right. I wasn’t chasing followers or clicks. This was just a space where I could clear my head and cleanse my soul.

Then the strangest thing happened: people started showing up. And they stayed. I never expected that. I’m still blown away, honestly.

I’ve been fortunate in life — I’ve traveled around the world, solved complex problems, and worked with people from all walks of life. That was my world for years. But as much as I accomplished in that space, I’m not sure it made the kind of impact I feel now. That’s because of the reader engagement. The comments, the conversations, the quiet understanding from strangers — it’s different. It’s human. And it’s deeply personal.

I still look at other blogs and wonder how they pull it off — all that strategy and polish. That’s never been me. I just show up, write, and try to keep it honest. If that’s enough for people to stick around, then I’ve already received more than I ever asked for.

Hopes for Personal Growth

At first, I was just trying to survive. But somewhere along the way, I realized I had grown — not just as a writer, but as a person. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s everything I’ve lived through. But I have a deeper, more meaningful appreciation for things now — moments, words, silence, people.

When I decided to keep this blog going in 2023, part of it was a challenge to myself: could I still push my craft? Could I write with more clarity, more courage, more control? I wasn’t chasing perfection. I just wanted to be sharp. Clear. Unafraid to say what mattered. To explore what was still inside me, and maybe even finish the novel I’d started after my wife passed.

Writing forces reflection. It exposes the things I usually keep buried. And growth doesn’t come from breakthroughs — it comes from the grind. From showing up on the blank page when no one’s watching. That’s where I’ve grown the most.

Expectations Around Content and Consistency

When I first started, there was no plan. No roadmap. Just the need to write. I figured maybe I’d post once a week if something came to me. But life doesn’t follow calendars, and neither does creativity.

What’s come out over time has been a mix of fiction, essays, and visual art — sometimes sharp and focused, other times loose and wandering. I never set out to define a genre or lane for myself. I just followed what moved me.

There were stretches where I disappeared — illness, life, burnout. And there were stretches where I wrote constantly, chasing down stories, experimenting with form, pushing myself to see how far I could take a single idea. After I recovered, I kicked things into gear and just kept going. Not for clicks. Not for an audience. Just to stay in motion.

I thought about organizing the content more, making it cleaner or easier to follow. But I’ve found that consistency for me isn’t about structure — it’s about showing up with honesty. Whether it’s fiction, a personal reflection, or a visual piece — if it’s real, it belongs here.

Surprises Along the Way

I didn’t expect to still be here. I didn’t expect Mangus Khan — once just a throwaway character — to become part of who I am. And I definitely didn’t expect people to stay, read, and respond like they have.

I never expected to embody Mangus Khan, but I have.

What surprised me the most, though, is how much this space has mattered — not just to readers, but to me. I’ve done work all over the world. I’ve solved big, technical problems and made decisions that impacted entire systems. But somehow, writing a story that makes one person feel seen hits harder.

This blog wasn’t supposed to become something. But somehow, it did — a record of survival, growth, grief, imagination, and unexpected connection.

Some people restore old cars in retirement. Some build boats. I tell stories. That’s the project. That’s the work. And if it ends tomorrow, I’ll still be proud of what came from it, because none of it was supposed to happen in the first place.

I’ll see you when the ink dries.

Author’s Note:

If you’ve made it this far, thank you.

I’m building something bigger — a space called the Mangus Khan Universe.

It’s not a brand. It’s not a business. It’s a creative world I’ve been sketching in pieces for years — fiction, essays, visuals, and ideas I can’t shake loose.

This piece was written in response to Sadje’s Sunday Poser — a prompt that turned into a reckoning, a reflection, and a return to something I didn’t know I’d missed.

If you’re here for the stories, you’re already part of it.

Stay tuned. There’s more coming.
I’ll see you when the ink dries.

Surviving the Shipwreck: Truth, Even If It Makes Us Uncomfortable

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Who writes history, anyway?

Is it a bunch of old men in a room, swirling sherry like it’s holy water, declaring what mattered and what didn’t with the confidence of people who’ve never been told to clean up after themselves? Do they lean back in leather chairs and decide what’s worth remembering, while the rest of the world cleans the dishes, changes the linens, and quietly disappears?

Because let’s be honest—history isn’t what happened. It’s what survived. It’s the polished version of a chaotic past, curated by those with power, perspective, and the privilege to speak uninterrupted.

But what about the ones who made that version possible?

Why don’t we ever hear about them? The people who provided the comfort, the nourishment, the spark. The woman who changed the sheets so a “great man” could sleep through the night. The friend who uttered a half-thought over coffee that later became a manifesto. The cook who fed the movement. The janitor who unlocked the building where the protest was planned. The lover who reminded someone they were human before they put on the mask of leadership.

History applauds the speech, but forgets the breath it took to say it.

We’ve been sold the idea that history is boldface names and bronze statues. But most of what matters happened in kitchens, back porches, alleyways, and hands calloused from lifting, not pointing.

We know the architects of nations. But never the bricklayers. We memorize the names of authors, but forget the unnamed soul who said something beautiful that stuck. We forget that for every “visionary,” there was someone behind the scenes keeping them afloat. Holding the ladder. Mending the net.

So no—history isn’t just written by the victors. It’s written by survivors. By omission. By spin. And often, by those who had the means to make a record in the first place.

The rest? The ones who lit the fires, bore the burdens, whispered the truths?

They became the silence between chapters. The invisible ink.

But if you look close—really close—you’ll find them. In the margins. In the echoes. In the way a melody lingers long after the singer is gone.

Because history wasn’t built on sherry alone. It was built on sweat, sacrifice, and souls that never asked to be remembered—just not to be erased.

But what happens when they get it wrong?

When, the ones holding the pen decide the truth is inconvenient? When the story is shaved, polished, and repainted, so it gleams just right in the museum light? What happens when history becomes less about remembering and more about marketing? About preserving an image, not a truth?

That’s when history turns into myth. Not the kind with gods and monsters, but the kind where the villains are edited out, and the uncomfortable questions are filed away—lost behind locked drawers labeled “context.” You know, for our own good.

And maybe they don’t mean to lie. Maybe they just optimize. Smooth the edges. Add a little glow to the legacy. After all, who doesn’t want their heroes to look heroic? Their country to feel noble? Their ancestors seem wise?

But shaping the past for the best possible result isn’t harmless. It’s rewriting the foundation while pretending the house still stands the same. It’s how entire generations learn pride without accountability, patriotism without honesty, nostalgia without nuance.

And what’s left behind in that process?

The guilt that never gets named. The reparations never paid. The patterns that repeat because we swore they never happened in the first place. The echo chamber grows louder, but the echoes grow fainter—until all we hear is what we want to hear, and not what needs to be heard.

See, history can be a mirror. Or it can be a mask.

One tells you the truth, whether you like it or not.

The other flatters you, and hopes you don’t look too close.

So maybe the question isn’t just who writes history?
Maybe it’s who dares to revise it, once they know better?

Because if we only protect the polished version, if we only pass down the parts that make us proud, then we’re not honoring the past.

We’re embalming it.

And you can’t build a future on something you’ve buried just to keep the story pretty.

But what about when they don’t just get it wrong?
What about when they try to remove history altogether?

Really? That’s the move?

As if tearing down a statue makes the blood it commemorates magically dry up and blow away. As if banning a book unpublishes the pain it contains. As if not teaching something means it never happened.

We’ve seen it before: whole eras scrubbed clean, classrooms sterilized, uncomfortable truths repackaged into “heritage,” or ignored entirely. Entire peoples flattened into footnotes, if mentioned at all. Because someone decided it was better to forget than to face it. Better to be comfortable than be honest.

But here’s the truth, they’re afraid of:
You can’t remove history.

You can burn the documents. You can whitewash the walls. You can call it “divisive,” “unpatriotic,” or “too upsetting for children.”
But history isn’t gone—it just goes underground into stories told at kitchen tables. Into songs, poems, and scars passed down like heirlooms. Into eyes that still remember, even if the curriculum doesn’t.

The attempt to erase history is always a confession. A silent, trembling admission that the truth still hurts. That it never really stopped. It’s not about healing—it’s about hiding.

And hiding doesn’t protect anyone. It just keeps the cycle clean enough to repeat.

So no—you don’t get to skip the hard chapters because they make your heroes look human, or your institutions look cracked. That’s not erasing history. That’s erasing accountability.

And let me tell you—if your story can’t survive the truth, maybe it wasn’t a story worth keeping in the first place.

Maria Popova got it right:
History isn’t what happened. It’s what survives the shipwreck of judgment and chance.

So maybe it’s time we stop polishing the deck chairs and admit we helped steer the damn ship.

Maybe it’s time we stood by the dusty words in old books—the ones that dared to say things like honor, integrity, and truth. Not just when it’s convenient. But when it’s hard. When it means admitting that the past wasn’t all parades and progress. That some of it—hell, a lot of it—would’ve earned us a solid whoopin’ from our mothers, wooden spoon in hand.

So, excuse me while I go through a stack of biographies on Lincoln.

Because if we’re going to keep telling the story—
Let’s at least try to get it right.

Author’s Note
Forgive the rant—but not the passion. That part, I won’t apologize for. The ranting? Yeah… I might’ve gotten a little carried away.

This piece was written for Reena’s Xploration Challenge #386. I try to jump in when I can remember to pull my head out of a book long enough to notice.

Wait—what page was I on?

Black Card Revoked (And I’m Okay With That)

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Am I a Snob?

I wish I could say no. That I’m above all that—ego, elitism, the subtle flexes wrapped in “taste” or “refinement.” I’ve tried, seriously. I’ve had the talks, done the therapy. I even cracked open the workbooks—are they still called that? Maybe it was a podcast. Or one of those journaling things we do when someone who shouldn’t matter (and whose name I can’t even remember) says something that sticks. It latches on like gum to your shoe, and suddenly you’re spiraling.

You know the kind of advice—like taking relationship tips from a guy who’s never had a girlfriend. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen him talk to a woman.

Food Snob? Maybe. But It’s Personal.

“Nothing stays the same”—that’s the mantra we mumble when something doesn’t taste like it used to. The moment hits, and the only explanation that feels right is, “The bastards changed the formula.” Maybe they did. That’s possible.

But what’s also possible—and we hate admitting it—is that the stuff always tasted like garbage. We just didn’t know better. No one had the heart to tell us, because we loved it. And love, especially the nostalgic kind, can turn trash into treasure.

Still, when that old flavor hits different, I dig in. I refuse to accept that it’s me who changed. No—they changed it. And now it’s a matter of principle. “The bastards changed the formula” isn’t just a phrase. It’s my truth. I’m sticking to it.

Culture Snob? Absolutely.

Let’s be real—taste isn’t just personal. It’s cultural.

As a Black man in America, I grew up hearing things you couldn’t say out loud today. Not in public, anyway. Stuff like, “White folks don’t make potato salad like Black folks.” And everyone around the table would nod, mouths full of Granny Smith’s version, hoping for seconds before it disappeared. Because we all knew the danger of ending up with Ms. Johnson’s version. She never quite got it right. But her rhubarb pie? That had fifty things going on, and every one of them hit.

It’s remarkable how the world now dictates what’s considered refined. What’s divine? Overhyped restaurants serve up culture on a plate and call it status. Sure, sometimes it’s good. But nothing compares to the food from our cookouts, our picnics, our church socials. That food had soul. That food knew where it came from.

Now we pay $25 for a steak that comes out wrong and has to be sent back, just to taste decent—something we could’ve cooked at home better and cheaper, with seasoning that actually makes sense. But we do it anyway, because it makes us feel like we belong to something. Like we’re part of a club. Even if that club leaves us hungry and a little hollow.

That right there? That’s the bullshit I’m done with.

Ideology Snob? Let’s Get Real.

Let’s talk ideology. The code we live by. The beliefs hardwired into us through culture—whether we chose them or not.

They show up in how we talk, how we dress, what we read, the music we blast, and the stuff we secretly love but feel judged for.

And here comes the contradictions.

I’ve been told, “You act white.” Like that’s a crime. “I’m pulling your Black card.” “You’re an Oreo—Black on the outside, white on the inside.”

I used to carry a bag of Oreos with me. I liked them. And the same people who said that crap? They’d always take one when I offered. Hypocrites, the lot of them.

Then there are the stereotypes. Once, it was sweltering out, and some coworkers brought watermelons to beat the heat. One of my White friends waved and said, “Hey, we’ve got some watermelon!”
I shouted back, “I’m good, thanks.”

He came over to my truck looking confused.
“Hey man,” he said, “we’ve got some watermelon.”
“I don’t eat that shit,” I said flat.
He raised an eyebrow. “Next thing you’re gonna tell me is you don’t eat fried chicken.”
I looked at him and said, “I prefer mine baked.”

Truth? I love fried chicken. But my wife had me on baked for my blood pressure. That moment wasn’t about the food. It was about reclaiming space. Drawing a line. Saying, you don’t get to define me.

People try to strip your identity when it doesn’t fit their version of what Black is “supposed” to be. But if you stand still too long, they’ll say you’ve stopped growing. You can’t win. So you make your own rules. You claim the parts of yourself they don’t understand, and keep walking.

Music Snob? Nah. Just a Metalhead.

I’m a metalhead. But really, I love music across genres. Blues, jazz, hip hop, classical, metal, whatever hits. If it moves me, I’m in.

But I’ve caught flak for it. Side-eyes at shows. People coming up to me, tilted heads, awkward grins: “Are you enjoying yourself?” Like, I crashed the wrong concert. Like metal has a sticker on it that reads “For White Folks Only.”

Really? That’s your question?

As if I need permission to feel that same raw, gut-deep power you feel. As if I have to prove I belong. I didn’t know loud music came with gatekeeping.

Let’s be clear: music doesn’t segregate. People do. And the real pandemic? It’s not my playlist. It’s the weirdo energy and backhanded doubt people carry around like a badge.

The Labels Don’t Stick.

Stereotypes. Prejudices. Respectability rules dressed up in soft language and cheap slogans. You can’t run from them. We’re told to be ourselves, so long as it fits the mold. Be different, but not too different. Be authentic, but stay in bounds.

Nah. I’m done with that.

So I wear the names they throw at me. I carry them, not as scars, but as proof. Proof that people will always try to box you in. But boxes are for storage, not for living. And if they actually knew me—or tried—they’d realize we’d probably get along just fine.

I love exploring culture. I love discovering new food, ideas, and perspectives. I don’t just tolerate differences. I chase it. That doesn’t make me less Black. It makes me human.

And if I’m anything?

I’m weathered. But I’m true.

Author’s Note:
This rant was written for Sadje’s Sunday Poser, which I genuinely enjoy. It gives me space to think about real things—stuff that hits closer to home than all those philosophies written by dead people.

No, I don’t believe in ghosts.

Well… maybe?

Okay, that came out of nowhere.

Common Sense: Missing. Presumed Ghosting.

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RANDOM THOUGHTS – SUNDAY POSER #236

Do most people possess common sense? Technically, yes — in the same way most people technically have a brain. It’s there, but how often it’s used is another conversation. Do we have enough time for that conversation? Absolutely. Will it change anything? Highly doubtful.

See, Voltaire wasn’t just tossing out a witty one-liner when he said, “Common sense is not so common.” He was diagnosing a condition that, centuries later, still plagues society like an expired meme.

Common sense, by definition, should be the basic ability to make sound judgments. Simple, right? But here’s the catch: what counts as “sound judgment” depends on where you grew up, what you’ve lived through, and whether you think TikTok life hacks are a credible source of advice.

And let’s not kid ourselves — emotions are the silent saboteurs. Stress, pride, laziness — they hijack reason faster than you can say “bad idea.” It’s not that people can’t be rational; it’s that they often choose not to be. Rationality takes effort. Effort is wildly overrated these days.

Plus, humans come preloaded with some lovely mental software bugs. Take overconfidence bias — the tendency to think we’re way smarter and more capable than we really are. It’s why your coworker with a GED believes he’s a financial genius after one good week in the stock market. Or why Karen from Facebook suddenly feels qualified to rewrite the CDC guidelines after reading one half-baked blog post. Overconfidence blinds people to their own poor judgment, rendering common sense optional, such as using a turn signal.

Then there’s normalcy bias — our charming ability to assume that because things have been fine, they will be fine. It’s the psychological equivalent of whistling past the graveyard. People often ignore flashing warning signs — both figurative and literal — because facing reality would require them to take uncomfortable action. Why evacuate when you can assume the hurricane will magically change course? Why stop texting while driving when you’ve never crashed before? Common sense doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of wishful thinking.

Even Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., one of the sharpest legal minds in American history, saw through the myth of pure rationality. Holmes didn’t believe the law was built on logic — he famously wrote, “The life of the law has not been logic; it has been experience.” And when courts invoke the “reasonable man” to judge behavior, they’re really invoking a legal unicorn — an imaginary figure of perfect average judgment. Spoiler: that person does not exist.

Reality? The reasonable man would be rear-ended by someone arguing with their GPS, and then sued for “stopping too suddenly.”

So no, common sense isn’t common. It’s a delicate, context-riddled figment of collective imagination, constantly trampled by human bias and stubbornness. Expecting it from everyone is like expecting a glitch-free Zoom call: a beautiful dream, consistently crushed by reality.

Common sense isn’t dead — it’s just ghosting us. I feel disrespected.

Fandango’s Flashback Friday – 05232025

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PROSE – FFFC

Fandango asked us to share a flashback. Two years ago, I was thinking hard about mental health. I was wrestling with how to speak openly about something that affects more people than we’re often willing to admit. The stigma is real; unfortunately, that silence—that collective reluctance to talk—is part of the problem.

But I’ve also learned that standing on a soapbox hollering about PTSD or anxiety doesn’t always help much either. Yes, we need awareness. We need voices and visibility for what’s become a growing crisis. But awareness without connection can fall flat. Sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do isn’t a speech or a post—it’s simply being present.

Being the friend who checks in. The sibling who listens without trying to fix. The stranger who offers compassion without judgment. That’s how we start to chip away at the shame. That’s how we show each other we’re not alone. And sometimes, that quiet presence speaks louder than any headline.

PTSD is Wicked Scary

The Rocket Lawn-chair Chronicles

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PROSE – WWP #412

Larry built a rocket from lawn chairs, soda bottles, and sheer idiocy. “NASA’s overrated,” he said, seconds before launch. It flew for two glorious seconds. Then gravity reminded him who’s boss. The neighbors applauded politely. Larry, dazed but grinning, shouted, “Next time: chickens for thrust!” He’s now banned from Home Depot.

The Dishwashing Incident

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP #394

She stood in the kitchen, wielding a wooden spoon like a magic wand. “You’ve done it again!” she bellowed, eyes wide. “You turned the dishwasher into a science experiment!” He peeked over the counter, wearing a saucepan as a helmet. “It was…for science.” Soap bubbles floated through the air like tiny traitors. She poked a bubble mid-sentence. “Science doesn’t berate its assistants!” He shrugged, bubbles clinging to his head. She sighed, plopped the spoon down, and grabbed a mop. “Next time, at least invent a self-cleaning floor.”

Flashback Friday – 04252025

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FANDANGO’S FLASHBACK FRIDAY

This time last year, I was ill, so my posts were pretty lame. But here they go

Poem of the Day – 04252024
Quote of the Day – 04252024

The Edge of Becoming: Refusal to Disappear

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PROSE – REFLECTION

The light crept in, not with purpose, but inevitability. It pooled over the floorboards in pale streaks, slipped across the rumpled sheets, and found her where she sat—curled in on herself at the edge of the bed like something unfinished. The curtain shifted with a lazy sigh, stirred by the hum of a world already moving without her.

She didn’t move. Just blinked slowly, eyes still heavy. Her hair was a mess—coiled and wild, clinging to the nape of her neck with sweat. The air felt thick, damp from last night’s rain, and carried a faint trace of coffee drifting in from the apartment next door. It reminded her she wasn’t entirely alone in the world—just sealed off from it.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She didn’t look. She already knew the message: “You okay? You were pretty quiet last night.”

She had gone to that rooftop gathering. Smiled on cue. Nodded politely as someone explained a startup idea for the third time. But when the conversation shifted to politics, to “people being too sensitive,” to jokes with teeth she wasn’t supposed to flinch at—she had gone quiet. Not out of agreement. Out of calculation.

It wasn’t fear of confrontation. It was exhaustion.

The kind that seeps into your bones when you’ve spent years editing yourself in real time.

Why can’t you just be easier?

The voice came sharp, cutting through the fog. Familiar. Not hers exactly—but forged in her. It spoke in the tone of her third-grade teacher, the one who called her “bossy” for speaking with certainty. The one who wrote on her report card, “bright, but disruptive.” That was the first time she learned that being loud and being wrong were seen as the same thing.

She had been shrinking ever since. A slow erosion.

And now, this morning, she felt caught between the shrinking and the wanting—wanting to take up space and fearing the cost of it.

You think you’re different? That the rules don’t apply to you?

She flexed her jaw, let the thought sit. The worst part of that voice was how reasonable it sounded. How it wrapped itself in concern. In survival.

Outside the window, a billboard stood tall above the bus stop: a model in spotless white jeans and a tagline in all caps—LIVE YOUR TRUTH™. She almost laughed. As if truth came clean and neatly styled.

Her own truth felt messy. Unmarketable. Like morning breath and ragged nails and questions without answers.

She looked at her hands—real, rough, hers. Last night she had come home and typed a long apology to the group chat. “Sorry I was off. Just tired. Hope I didn’t kill the vibe.”

She hovered over the send button.

Then she didn’t.

Now, she picked up the phone, screen still glowing with the unsent draft. She tapped and held. Delete.

It wasn’t a revolution. Just refusal.

A small, quiet defiance.

She wasn’t whole. There were still bruises beneath her calm, still doubts threading her thoughts. But she was done apologizing for needing more than performance.

The light had shifted again, stronger now. Not demanding. Just there.

She wasn’t sure what came next.

But this—this stillness, this pause, this decision not to disappear—was a start.

Memoirs of Madness: Writing Is the Only Way Through

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PROSE – MOONWASHED WEEKLY PROMPT

Mind, body, and spirit—it’s not just a slogan on a t-shirt or a phrase tossed around in self-help books. It’s a lived, gritty process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It doesn’t always feel peaceful. It asks to be practiced daily, especially in the moments when we’re coming apart.

When my wife was dying, I was unraveling. There was no calm breath, no quiet meditation that could hold me. The pain was too loud, too sharp. I couldn’t go to the dojo—I knew I might hurt someone. So I turned to the only thing left that didn’t require restraint: writing.

That’s where Memoirs of Madness was born—not from ambition, but necessity. I wrote because if I didn’t, I was going to explode. Writing became my release valve. My attempt to find balance in a world that no longer made sense. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t composed. But it was honest. It was survival.

Healing doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it’s just sitting with the darkness long enough to stop being afraid of it. Writing gave me a place to do that. Not to escape pain, but to face it with something steady under my hands—a pen, a page, a place to speak freely.

People like to talk about acceptance, about “new normals,” especially when you’re going through something irreversible. I’ve been told I may never return to the person I was before. And maybe that’s true. But I also know it’s not the whole truth. I know there’s more to me than what’s been broken.

Throughout my life, I’ve encountered teachings I didn’t ask for. Moments of awe, loss, surrender, and grace. I didn’t always understand why they came, but something in me knew not to reject them. Writing became the way I made sense of them. The way I honored them.

It’s not therapy, exactly. It’s more like a mirror. Each word reflects something back at me—something raw, something I need to see. Writing doesn’t heal like medicine. It heals like movement. Like breath after being underwater too long.

Writers tell the truths we were taught to keep quiet. We witness the small miracles—flowers bending to the breeze, the call of a bird we can’t see, the still gaze of an animal watching us. We notice the laughter of children that vibrates with something pure and untouchable. We let it all into our bones. But writing is how we let it back out. How we stay connected—not digitally, but spiritually, viscerally.

Every sentence I write is a thread that connects me to the person I’ve always been beneath the layers of grief, anger, and expectation. Not the old self. Not the broken self. But the essential one. The one that endures.

I once asked: Who’s smarter—the adult or the infant? Predictably, everyone said the adult. When I pressed them, they said the child doesn’t know anything. But I disagreed. I said the infant. They laughed, of course. All but one. That one asked me, “Why?”

“Because the infant sees everything,” I said. “They feel everything. They haven’t learned to numb themselves yet. They haven’t picked up the habit of pretending. They are unfiltered truth.”

That’s what writing brings me back to. That clarity. That honesty. That wholeness before the world taught us to break ourselves into pieces.

Healing through writing isn’t a return to what was. It’s a return to what’s real. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.

Author’s Note:

I sat looking at the challenge image, thinking about the beauty of that moment frozen in time. I found myself wondering how to capture something like that in words. Lately, I’ve been studying Buddhism—not because I want to become a Buddhist, but because I’m wise enough to know that truth can’t be found with a closed mind.

Next thing I knew, this piece came through me.

It’s not all I have to say on the subject, but it’s a beginning.

Thanks, Eugi.

Alcoholism: The Drug Hiding in Plain Sight

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It’s not always the staggering drunk on a sidewalk.
Sometimes, it’s the friend who always shows up, the parent who keeps it together, or the coworker who “just likes to unwind.”

But behind closed doors, they’re shrinking. Fighting. Breaking.

Alcoholism doesn’t always look like what we expect. And that’s the problem.

Folded into himself. Silent. Alone. Crushed under the pressure of needing something he hates needing.

We call it “just a drink.”
But alcohol is the most lethal drug in the world—more deadly than opioids, meth, or cocaine.

And yet… it’s everywhere.
It’s legal.
It’s glorified.
It’s handed out at every wedding, every weekend, every wound.

Not a habit. A fight. Against himself. Against the silence. Against the pressure to act like everything’s fine.

Addiction doesn’t start with rock bottom.
It often begins with social acceptance.
A drink to relax. A drink to celebrate. A drink to cope.
Until the bottle isn’t an option—it’s a cage.

Even the strong get trapped. Alcohol doesn’t care how tough you are.

What makes alcohol so dangerous isn’t just the physical toll.
It’s the silence.
The shame.
The way we minimize it, laugh it off, ignore the signs.

This is what addiction feels like. Rage, regret, and no way out. But always another drink.

The Truth:

  • Alcohol kills more than 3 million people globally each year.
  • Withdrawal from alcohol can be fatal.
  • It destroys bodies, families, and lives—and we rarely talk about it.

If you or someone you know is struggling:

You are not alone.
There is help.
There is life outside the bottle.

CTA (Call to Action):

📞 [Insert helpline or resource link – e.g., SAMHSA’s National Helpline: 1-800-662-HELP]
💬 Share this post. You never know who needs to see it.

Dante in Combat Boots: My Journey Through the Divine Comedy

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ESSAY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

The First Encounter – Lost in the Woods (and the Footnotes)

The first time I read The Divine Comedy was sparked by an argument—an intellectual back-and-forth with someone who, as it turned out, didn’t know much about the book. But he was passionate. His conviction was hypnotic. I didn’t buy his analysis, but I understood why he was obsessed.

I picked up the book out of curiosity and a little competitive pride. I didn’t finish it. We got called out on a mission, and you don’t take library books on missions. Fines are one thing—charred pages are another.

Still, even unfinished, it stuck with me. Something about Dante’s voice—strange, serious, deliberate—lingered.

That first attempt, though brief, planted a seed. When I returned to it later, I had more patience, a better dictionary, and no librarian breathing down my neck.

Even then, Inferno was dense. Layers of references. Historical names I barely recognized. Theology deep enough to drown in. I was flipping between footnotes and old library texts like I was defusing a bomb. The nine circles of Hell were vivid, yes—but they felt more like a museum exhibit than a lived experience. I was watching Dante, not walking with him.

It felt like homework. Necessary, maybe. But distant.

Still, something about the structure—the cold logic behind every punishment—got under my skin. Sin wasn’t just bad behavior. It had a shape. A weight. I didn’t have the words for it then, but the idea that justice wasn’t arbitrary began to settle in.

I didn’t love the poem yet. But I was starting to hear it.

Warzones and Infernos – Dante in Combat Boots

When I returned to The Divine Comedy after combat, it hit differently. Dante wasn’t just a poet anymore—he sounded like someone I knew. Maybe even like me.

Inferno started to make more sense. Hell wasn’t about fire and demons—it was about clarity. Brutal, stripped-down moral logic. A world where actions had consequences that couldn’t be bargained with.

In combat, you live in that gray zone between judgment and survival. Right and wrong don’t show up in clean lines. Sometimes you do the right thing, and it haunts you. Sometimes, it felt like there was no God—at least not the one we heard about in Sunday school. We believed in the integrity of what we were doing. We questioned it, sure. But our resolve stayed intact. Sometimes, surviving was all you could do. And that didn’t always feel like redemption.

Dante’s Hell isn’t just punishment—it’s paralysis. People stuck in their choices, their pride, their rage. No growth. No movement. Just a reflection in the worst kind of mirror.

That rang true.

Some turned to a higher power for guidance. We knew—we were fighting for God. But we also knew the limits. We were required to do what was asked of us—but no more. We fought for God. And we had to answer to Him too.

Not just for the people we encountered. Sometimes for what we became.

Purgatorio – The Long Climb Back

Purgatorio doesn’t get the same attention as Inferno. It’s not as dramatic. No fire. No famous sinners frozen in ice. But it’s the part that felt most real to me.

Because after war, after any real descent, what follows isn’t glory—it’s work. Quiet, repetitive, soul-grinding work. That’s Purgatorio.

Dante climbs a mountain, terrace by terrace, confronting the seven deadly sins. Each level is a mirror—less about judgment, more about recognition. It’s not punishment anymore. It’s penance. The difference matters.

After combat, reintegration isn’t just about coming home. It’s about stripping away the armor you lived in. Unpacking things you didn’t have the luxury to process while they were happening—and you don’t have the luxury to process them now. You’re thrust back into your life like nothing happened. You lie to the ones you love to keep them safe, to spare them from the world you know exists but no one is talking about. You keep that secret.

You make a valid attempt to let go of habits that kept you alive but will not help you live. It’s exhausting.

That’s why Purgatorio hit me so hard. I didn’t expect it to. But there’s something deeply honest in the idea that healing doesn’t feel holy. It feels like discipline. Like carrying your own burden up the hill with no end in sight. Some days, you move a little higher. Some days, you just don’t slip backward.

There’s no audience. No headline. Just effort.

And yet—it’s hopeful. The whole mountain is built on the assumption that you can be made whole. That ascent is possible. Redemption is a process, not a prize.

Paradiso – The Light We Try to Name

Paradiso is the hardest part.

Not just to read—but to believe in. It’s abstract, layered with theology and geometry, full of light and music and spheres. Dante is trying to describe the indescribable. He’s chasing God through language; the closer he gets, the less the words hold.

For a long time, I didn’t connect to this part. It felt like too much, too far, too clean.

But after Purgatorio, after the work of climbing, carrying, and unlearning, I started to understand what Paradiso was reaching for—not perfection, not purity, but peace.

And peace—real peace—is foreign when you’ve lived inside chaos. It’s not some cinematic moment of triumph. It’s quieter. It’s the ability to be still, without needing to be numb. It’s presence, not performance. It’s the moment you stop bracing for the next thing to go wrong.

Dante meets Beatrice here—his guide into the divine, his symbol of grace. We all have our Beatrices, if we’re lucky. People who held the line for us when we couldn’t. People who reminded us we weren’t lost forever.

Am I worthy of this grace? Will God forgive me for what I’ve done? I find myself waiting—searching—for that one thing that could wipe away all the havoc of my making. Is that a thing? You know the scales will have an answer.

In the background of all this light, I still imagine the scales. The old ones—Egyptian, Christian, Islamic. The image of your life being weighed. Every choice, every silence. Your hands held out, waiting to see which way it tips.

We fought for God. We made peace with that. But we also knew we’d stand in front of Him one day. And maybe that’s what Paradiso is really about—not escaping judgment, but understanding it. Accepting it. Trusting that there’s a kind of justice that doesn’t crush you, but completes you.

I don’t claim to understand everything Dante saw in Heaven. But I understand the desire to see it.

And that’s something.

Full Circle – Still Listening

I’ve read The Divine Comedy more than once now. Not in a straight line, not as a scholar, but as someone who’s lived with it—left it, returned to it, wrestled with it. And the strange thing is, it keeps changing. Or maybe I do.

What started as a challenge—half a debate, half an ego trip—turned into a mirror. Dante’s journey through Hell, up the mountain, into the light, isn’t just theology or poetry. It’s a blueprint. A map of what it means to go through something, to come back from something, and to wonder if you’re still whole on the other side.

I never read it looking for answers. Not really. But I keep coming back to it for the questions.

Am I worthy of grace? Is peace possible? Can the scales ever truly balance?

I don’t know.

But I’m still listening.

And that’s something too.

Author’s Note:
This was written as a result of a post by alexander87writer. I was going to leave a comment, and just kept writing. My two sentences became this. I’m so extra at times.

Reflections on Society: The Weight of Words and Actions

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

In 1988, Chuck D hit us with this unforgettable line: “I got a letter from the government.” That line has lived rent-free in my head ever since, resurfacing when I least expect it—usually when I need it most. Those moments when I need a reminder of the mess we’re in.

I think it stuck with me because of its quiet punch. Public Enemy was known for sonically assaulting your eardrums and shaking your soul, but the opening of “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” starts like a casual conversation, just a couple of guys rapping about something that was on everyone’s mind.

“Man, can you believe this shit?”

Every time I got a letter from the government, that same question echoed in my head. It wasn’t some tinfoil-hat paranoia—it was my job. I was the source of that dread and anxiety. I was the one delivering news people didn’t want to hear, the harbinger of bureaucracy, the bearer of all things stamped, sealed, and official.

And you know what? That shit weighs on you.

Driving to an appointment one day, I saw someone I consider a member of “The Homeless”—and yes, I call homelessness a government-sanctioned movement because the fact that we even have a homelessness problem in this country is absurd. We act like it’s some unavoidable force of nature, like hurricanes or earthquakes, instead of a system we built and continue to uphold. We hold charity galas where rich people sip champagne and bid on paintings to “raise awareness,” while outside, a guy is digging through a trash can for half a sandwich. Cities spend millions not on housing solutions but on hostile architecture—park benches with dividers so no one can lie down and spikes under bridges to keep people from taking shelter. We pretend to care just enough to feel good about ourselves, but not enough to actually fix anything.

Some people have sacrificed everything to make this country function, and yet, this is the best we can offer them?

“Is this shit… the best?”

Really? This is it? The pinnacle of civilization? Get the fuck outta here!

But then I saw her. A woman draped in a mink blanket, rocking a floppy hat, standing on the corner like she owned the world. The traffic light changed as I drove past her, and she didn’t flinch. She was unbothered. Cool as she wanted to be. It was almost poetic.

I muttered to myself, “Yes.”

“You’re quite hostile.”

“I got a right to be hostile. My people are persecuted.”

Public Enemy said it best.

For me, “My people” has never been about race, color, or creed. It extends to everyone, no matter how they see me. We like to pat ourselves on the back for how “connected” we are, how much “progress” we’ve made, but let’s be real—we are more divided than ever. Dignity, honor, and respect? Those are punchlines now. If you’re lucky, someone will just forget them entirely instead of twisting them into a joke at your expense.

And “persecuted” doesn’t always come with fire and brimstone. Sometimes, it’s death by a thousand inconveniences. It’s getting pulled over for a busted taillight and knowing you’re about to make some cop’s day more exciting than it needs to be. Seeing corporations celebrate diversity initiatives while their leadership remains overwhelmingly homogenous is infuriating. It’s working twice as hard for half as much, and if you dare complain, you’re labeled “difficult.”

People lie to the very ones they claim to love. We open ourselves and share something close to us; we let them see us, only to be judged, only for them to rip our hearts out, show them to us, and then crush them just to make sure we know who did it and why. And then, just to rub salt in the wound, we’re told we have to be strong. We have to rise above. Sure. No problem. Let me just pop on my superhero cape and pretend I didn’t see that betrayal coming from a mile away.

But what really gets me, what keeps me up at night, is the way some people pick on the weak like it’s a sport. The sheer audacity of it, the cruelty, the absolute bullshit of it all.

Why can’t we just let people be who they are? Love them as they are? No adjustments required.

A movement preaches this very thing, and while it’s well-intended, undoing a hundred years of supreme malarkey is no small task. I admit that I used to be one of those people who judged unfairly. I can’t undo my past, but I can control who I choose to be moving forward. And that, at least, feels like something.

How cool would it be if we could bob in and out of time, cruising in a pink Cadillac with plush velvet seats, Robert Plant belting out the opening verse to “Heartbreaker”? Traveling back to the moment before we became assholes, before bitterness took root. Imagine if we could just press eject and launch all that baggage out the window like a bad mixtape.

But it doesn’t work that way.

Nothing lasts forever. Not even earth and sky.

Joy Mangano: The Inventor Who Changed Cleaning Forever

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ARTICLE – MINI BIO

If you’ve ever waged war against a kitchen floor, armed with a flimsy, soggy mop that seems more interested in smearing dirt around than cleaning, you’ve probably muttered to yourself: There has to be a better way. Well, Joy Mangano didn’t just mutter—she got to work. She invented the Miracle Mop, a self-wringing, no-hand-dirtying, sanity-saving tool that turned her from a struggling single mom into a business mogul. And let’s be honest: if you’re going to be famous for something, making cleaning suck less is a pretty noble cause.

The Early Years: Before the Miracle Mop

Born on February 1, 1956, in Brooklyn, New York, Joy Mangano spent her childhood in Huntington, Long Island. Even as a teenager, she had a knack for problem-solving. Case in point: while working at an animal hospital, she had the brilliant idea for a fluorescent flea collar to keep pets visible at night. Unfortunately, Hartz beat her to market with something eerily similar. Did that crush her spirit? Nope. It just made her hungrier.

After earning a Business Administration degree from Pace University in 1978, Joy married Anthony Miranne and had three children. But life had other plans, and the marriage ended in divorce, leaving Joy to juggle single parenthood with a carousel of jobs—waitress, airline reservations manager, you name it. It was during this hectic period that her true entrepreneurial spirit took center stage.

The Miracle Mop: A Game-Changer

The legend of the Miracle Mop begins with something many of us know too well: an unholy mess. In 1990, during a dinner party, a guest spilled red wine all over her floor. As Joy wrestled with the sopping-wet, bacteria-breeding disaster that was a standard mop, she hit her breaking point. There had to be a better way.

So, she made one. Using her own savings (and likely a lot of caffeine-fueled nights), she designed the Miracle Mop: a self-wringing mop with a head made from a continuous loop of cotton. It could be wrung out without getting your hands dirty, and for anyone who’s ever gagged while touching old mop water, this was a revolution.

Of course, the road to success wasn’t smooth. Joy invested $100,000—her life savings—to produce her first 1,000 mops. Selling them door-to-door and at trade shows wasn’t exactly a Cinderella story; the response was slow. But Joy wasn’t about to back down. Her break came when she personally convinced QVC to let her demonstrate the mop on air. The result? She sold 18,000 mops in under 20 minutes. That moment didn’t just change her life—it cemented her as a home shopping legend.

From QVC to HSN: Building an Empire

After her smashing QVC debut, Joy became a regular on the Home Shopping Network (HSN). Her natural charisma and infectious enthusiasm made her a powerhouse. In 1999, she sold her company, Ingenious Designs, to USA Networks (HSN’s parent company). By 2000, the Miracle Mop alone was raking in $10 million annually.

But Joy wasn’t a one-hit wonder. She kept churning out wildly successful products, including the Huggable Hangers—yes, the space-saving velvet hangers that have somehow sold over 700 million units. (Seriously, how many closets even exist in the world?)

Her on-air sales? Absurd. At her peak, Joy was moving products at a pace of $1 million per hour. Forget the stock market—if you wanted real action, you tuned in to watch Joy Mangano sell hangers like they were going out of style.

Hollywood Comes Knocking: “Joy”

In 2015, Hollywood took notice. The biographical comedy-drama Joy, starring Jennifer Lawrence, hit the big screen. The film captured the essence of Joy’s relentless drive, though it took some creative liberties (like how she met her ex-husband—Hollywood, of course, had to make it more cinematic).

Regardless, the film highlighted her grit, her struggles, and the absolute circus that is inventing, marketing, and scaling a product. Jennifer Lawrence’s performance was so good that she snagged a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination. Not bad for a movie about a mop, huh?

Lessons from Joy Mangano

Joy’s story isn’t just inspiring—it’s a masterclass in entrepreneurship. Here’s what we can learn:

  1. Act on Your Ideas – If you’ve ever had a “Why hasn’t anyone invented this?” moment, take a page from Joy’s book and actually do something about it.
  2. Persistence Pays Off – The woman literally went door-to-door to sell her mops. If she had given up at the first sign of rejection, we’d all still be squeezing dirty water out of mop heads like peasants.
  3. Bet on Yourself – She poured her savings into an idea that others doubted. That kind of belief in yourself is what separates dreamers from doers.

Joy Mangano Today: Still Innovating

You’d think after selling millions of products and getting a Hollywood movie, Joy would be kicking back with a cocktail somewhere tropical. Nope. She’s still inventing. In 2021, she launched CleanBoss, a brand focused on next-level cleaning products, and debuted America’s Big Deal, a reality competition show giving other entrepreneurs a shot at success.

Her legacy isn’t just about mops or hangers—it’s about resilience, creativity, and proving that even the most mundane frustrations (looking at you, dirty floors) can lead to something extraordinary.

Conclusion

Joy Mangano’s journey from single mom to self-made millionaire is proof that sometimes, success isn’t about grand, world-changing ideas—it’s about fixing everyday annoyances in a way no one else has. So, the next time you’re battling a stubborn mess, just remember: one woman got so fed up with cleaning that she built an empire.

Now, what are you doing with your frustrations?

Random Thoughts – 01152025

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Animals enrich our lives in ways we can’t describe. I often write about my adventures with my cats. However, this morning I found this interesting clip while cruising Reddit check it out…

Best teammate
byu/Charming_History7423 inAnimalsBeingBros

It reminds me of training my Rottie’s and how they each had their own personalities. I had who loved to help me in the shop. While another would do yardwork with me. She’d drag the clipped branches to the curb. I never thought about the role that pets play in our lives, the effect they have on us, or the effect we have on them.

Have you read this?

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Daily writing prompt
Who are the biggest influences in your life?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Many years ago, I learned that no one has all the answers. This revelation also led me to discover that wisdom can be found in the oddest places or with the strangest people. As I struggled to answer this prompt, I found an answer that said it all. The truth of this post moved me and helped me find my way to an answer.

I rely on my faith in my journey through the chaos we call life. It has guided me through some of the toughest situations. Without it, I’m not sure who or what I would be. I talked to many people as I’ve walked this journey searching for peace. Only to discover that the peace sought had resided within the entire time. I cannot remember the name of the person who pointed me toward this path, but I’m thankful.

Through my travels, I realize the potential of love resides in each of us, no matter the faith. I’ve seen people of different faiths band together to perform majestic things. It is a wonderful experience to witness and to feel. I don’t have the words to adequately describe its wonder. I’m inspired by people who are steadfast and true in their beliefs and commitment to help their fellow man.

Throughout my journey, I’ve studied several different texts in the hope of gaining a deeper understanding of the world. Though I have stumbled and sometimes questioned certain events, I feel that each step has been worth taking. I remember my father posing a query as he held up his tattered Bible.

Have you read this?

Fandango’s Flashback Friday – December 06

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FFF-DEC 6

Here is my post from a year ago. I had just started dealing with my illness and was feeling pretty vulnerable. So, that was what the QOTD was about. It is still relevant today.

Quote of the Day – 12062023

Weekend Writing Prompt #387

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP

thrills of change scatter plans, reflections of forgotten dreams, in the unexpected wind and rain.

Weekend Writing Prompt #388

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – WWP

Silence breathed whispers from the shadows, cloaked forgotten secrets slow dance. Memories and promises entwined like lovers, in madness in darkness.

Don’t Be that Guy

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Daily writing prompt
What personality trait in people raises a red flag with you?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I’ve been told I’m a difficult person. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, and I respect it. However, when it comes to personality traits that are red flags, it depends on the person and the situation. With that, I usually have the following philosophy. Sometimes, they do things that just irk me, and I don’t do irksome. So be genuine. Don’t fake it until you make it. Just be yourself. I can handle everything else. Posers are irksome. Yeah, don’t be that guy!

One Word Sunday – The Rain

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – FICTION – FIRST PERSON NARRATIVE

Here’s my response to Debbie’s One Word Sunday – Rain

The monsoon season had come, and I wasn’t ready. I was assigned to a forward position and tasked with repairing the abandoned radio station. Once I got there, all the equipment was in a foreign language. For hours, I tried to figure out how to make the equipment. Finally, I could contact my unit. I attached my handheld to the terminal and informed them of my status. They told me a soldier was arriving to assist me. I wasn’t thrilled, but I needed help. I barely put the mic down when the door flew open, and my help had arrived.

She was as soaked as I was. It would have been a miracle if there was a dry spot on her. Rain gear was no match for the monsoon. She introduced herself and put on some fancy music. We worked side by side until the darkness began to swallow the light. The radio station was up, and everything was fine. She removed her wet clothing, placing it by the vent. She motioned for me to do the same. I sat there, not sure what to do. I could see the steam rising from her clothes. She looked at me and started to undress. I have to admit there’s nothing worse than wearing wet clothes. Well, maybe wearing wet clothes in the middle of the winter, but I didn’t find that out until years later.

We stuffed newspaper in our boots and sat them by the heater. The newspaper draws moisture from the boots. We sat there, strangers, eating our rations in our underwear. After we finished eating, she walked out in the rain. This woman was insane. She stood there, her head tilted back, letting the rain wash over her. It was as if she was letting the rain wash away her demons. Watching her, I began to understand why women were so beautiful. She was the perfect blend of beauty and nature. Before then, women were beautiful; that’s just how it was. But it meant more; I can’t really explain it. They just did.

I found myself standing in the rain next to her. She turned and looked at me momentarily and then said,

Some days, I crave the rain.

Quality vs. Quantity

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Daily writing prompt
What are your thoughts on the concept of living a very long life?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I never expected to live a long life. However, I’ve lived longer than I ever expected. SHOCKER! Yet, I’ve learned a few things along the way. In the time I’ve spent on this earth, I’ve learned that in almost every aspect of life, the quality of how life is spent is more important than the amount of time spent. I’ve been blessed to have talked to several elders, and they mainly agree that its the quality of life, not its longevity. I tend to agree.

Random Thoughts – 09242024

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS/REFLECTION – THE STATE OF THINGS

Hello everyone,

You may have noticed that things here at the Memoirs of Madness have been a little spotty. I apologize for that; I really do. It’s been a rough year for me health-wise, and though I’m much better, I’ve been dealing with the emotional side of things. I’ve been wondering how the hell I made it through all this and other questions that arise when dealing with health issues as one ages.

So, in the next few weeks, I will be making some changes to the blog. More precisely, I will focus on cleaning up dead links, adding new pages, removing old pages, and such. This is an attempt to improve the blog’s UI/UX. I will announce the changes as they happen; please let me know if I muck something up. Any suggestions are welcome. Until next time … wish me luck.

My Own World

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Daily writing prompt
Which activities make you lose track of time?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

“You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.”
— Maya Angelou

I remember my mother saying, “Boy, you’re in your own little world … ain’t you?” She said this with an amused and proud expression. Later, I learned my mother had been an artist in her youth, and I guess she remembered what it was like to be on another plane of existence. Other than life, I believe passing on her creative mojo was one of the greatest she gave me. Thanks, Mom!

Lately, I’ve been enthralled with the world of artificial intelligence, specifically image generation. Somehow, this artistic expression has woken up something I considered a thing of the past. I sketched long ago, and I started telling stories. I remember using my Big Chief notebook and filling it with random drawings. My teachers would scold me because I had no paper to do my lesson. After all, I had drawn all over them. However, the teacher called my mother and suggested she get a sketchbook. Mom brought me a Mead unruled pad, and the rest was history.

It seemed like everyone was an artist in those days. We tried everything; crayons, colored pencils, watercolors, etc. You named it, and we tried it. Quickly, I discovered I didn’t have a knack for anything color. So, I stuck to sketching. I listened to the accolades my friend’s parents would bestow on their creations. My Mom would simply shrug and go back to what she was doing. It may seem like she wasn’t interested in what I was doing, but that wasn’t the case. I never had to ask for a new pad or notebook. My supplies never seemed to run out. Even when I started stories, there was always plenty of paper and writing instruments.

It seems so long ago, yet I still return to this plane after a good session. Ever since my wife passed, my episodes have gotten worse. No mystery sandwich appeared on my desk, flickering lights letting me know it was time for bed, or my favorite, the warm blanket I nestled under while falling asleep in my chair, scribbling my latest stint into madness. However, I try my best to return in a reasonable amount of time.

Perhaps in enough time to post a story, picture, or photo. Who knows? Because most of the time, I’m in my own world.

Random Thoughts – 07062024

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PROSE – SATIRE

Good Afternoon, I opened with this line this morning

“I watched the dawn burn away the night.”

I asked my cat what she thought of that line.

This was her response …

Everyone’s a damn critic. I shook my head, and of course, she was unaffected.

Really? I asked

Her response

You a little sh**! My muse had decided to take the form of my cat. My actual cat, Sophie, looks at me as if I have finally lost my mind.

Sophie, she turned 15 last Sunday.

Well, I do write the Memoirs of Madness…

Defense of Poetry

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

To defend poetry effectively, we must first address a fundamental question: what is poetry? Only by answering this can we adequately defend it. My initial observation is that poetry itself requires no defense; it is the expression of poetry that sometimes needs defending. This notion may be provocative to some poets and poetry lovers, but I aim to clarify my point.

Poetry embodies the life we live; it surrounds us in every moment, from the warmth of a smile to the pain of loss. All of this is poetry. Humanity tends to categorize and label things, trying to define them to understand them better. This is a natural part of our daily lives. As we sort things into their rightful places, we find that some things fit effortlessly—poetry is one of those things. To me, poetry is like a butterfly that flutters unpredictably. We chase it, knowing we might never catch it, but the pursuit itself is joyful.

Suppose we do catch the butterfly. We place it in a jar with holes in the lid, displaying it for all to see. We admire its beauty daily, its vibrant colors that lie somewhere between soft and crisp. However, we often forget the most enchanting aspect of the butterfly: its flight. With the wings no longer spreading and the butterfly immobilized, it becomes a lifeless specimen on display—a reflection on a painted wall, devoid of the life that once captivated us.

The challenge arises in the expression of poetry. People start using words like “hate” or even stronger terms because, while they understand the essence of poetry as part of their lived experience, they feel alienated by its formal expressions. Terms like sonnet, haiku, and other forms can make us cringe or shy away, burdened by preconceived notions about what we will read or refuse to read. What we need is poetry—life—written in a way that people can appreciate, understand, and perhaps even come to love.

Thus, poetry doesn’t need defending; it needs to be set free. We should all have the chance to chase butterflies. I know I would love to.

Whispers of the Dark – 06142024

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PROSE

A waitress stands outside, grabbing a smoke. She was three pats and a wink away from paying her light bill, but if that red fat-faced fuck touched her one more time, she’d scream.

In the Wee Hours – 06142024

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PROSE

Happy Friday,

Let’s pull out a separate piece of paper and develop a crazy character belonging to none of your current projects. Take 30 minutes and just have fun …

Why not? …

Enjoy your day!

Whispers of the Dark – 06132024

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

Who do we become when the lights are out and no one is watching?

Morning Glow

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – THURSDAY INSPIRATION – SHORT FICTION

She sips her coffee, thinking about her first great love—that love she could never talk about—the love that fills her with joy and pain all at once. The joy is knowing what love truly is, not that stuff you read in romance novels or movies. Pain, well, if you know love, you know pain.

There were throwaways—well, that’s what folks called them back then. It meant no one wanted them. She felt that way until she met the woman who changed her life. She also fell in love with a boy who lived with the woman. He was like her, a throwaway. She knew she shouldn’t love him but couldn’t help herself. They spent one night together before he left for the war, and the war took him.

She’ll never forget how she felt the next morning. It felt like she was glowing from the inside. For it was the first day she felt whole.

RDP Tuesday – 06112024

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

Her lips told me I was just a fragment of a daydream put to words on a rugged day

In the Wee Hours – 06132024

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

Good Morning …Dawn is coming, and birds chirp a ballad about the people you don’t capture in verse. Those blessed & cursed Those looked upon with disgust. Without question, they fight for us. Tell their story today … its 4am

A Safe Place to Cry

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Though they may never admit it, all a man needs in his mate is a safe place to cry. No tear ever needs to plummet, but the sure fact he can, if desired, means everything.

Truthful Tuesday – 06112024

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Here is my response to the PCGuyIV’s Truthful Tuesday

If my editor knew I was responding to this post, I can envision her holding her breath, hoping I didn’t dive right into a full-on uncensored rant about book adaptations. Lord knows, she has endured more than her share over the years. Partly, I can’t seem to understand the cuts or changes they make. It’s like they never actually read the book, not to mention understood the author’s message. Breathe, Mangus, breathe!

1…2…3…4 … 5..0…7…6 [exhales sharply]

Screenwriting was a part of my training as a cinematographer. So, in theory, I understand the necessity of removing portions of the book as long as it doesn’t sacrifice the story. If it can’t be filmed, then it needs to be cut from the script, was the rule of thumb in class. So, I get it. However, there are still times when things just don’t make sense.

In graduate school, we task to adapt a novel into a full length motion picture. Finally, my chance to show these folks how it’s done. I was determined to get this right.

My determined look

Let me explain screenwriting first. This explanation is simple overview, but you get the point. For every page of script, equals one minute of film. Put simply, 2 and half hour movie is a 150 page script. What? Write an 150 pages? That’s nothing! [scoffs].

So, I sat at my desk and pumped myself up with all the necessary bravado one would need on any given occasion.

“I got this!”

“I’ve written all kinds of stuff, please!”

and so on! This is about the time my brothers would look at me, shaking their heads, and uttering in unison, “Jackass!” I often wondered if they were in a barbershop quartet in previous life. The dissonance of their voices blends together harmoniously. Despite their chiding, I would look continue to display “my determined look,” I will not bow to adversity!

My determined look – 6 months later

Yes, my hair grew out and I rearranged my office, but I was still determined to write the masterpiece. A friend called and needed a favor, so I packed my gear and went and shot a short film, then a commercial, and then another short film. Then the pandemic arrived and the world changed. I never finished my masterpiece. Incidentally, I was adapting Ellison’s Invisible Man, which if adapted uncut would equal a 9 1/2 film. Yeah, I was definitely what my brother’s called me for tackling such a major work of literature on my first stab at full length screenplay. There’s a good reason its never been done before. However, I did learn something.

For motion pictures, novellas, short stories, and stuff work great. It is much easier to say closer to the book. Examples, of this working on well are Shawshank Redemption, Inventing the Abbotts, and Stand by Me. Each of these examples were based on shorter fiction. Two of these films are considered classics.

For novels, it’s better to adapt them for television, if sticking close to the source material is a goal. You have the time to tell a more complete story. In other words, you can put some meat on those bones. However, you have to keep in my mind, if you can’t film it, cut it.

Last thing about screenplays. Screenplays, are basically the movie written on paper. It’s the blueprint to the entire project. The cuts, fades in and out, and those things you think about while you are watching a movie are written in the screenplay. Yes, adjustments will be made, but the screenplay is where it all starts.

Now to the question:

Above, I answered the question from the point of view of a writer. Now I will talk to you as a fan. I was fan long before I ever thought about making movies or writing them. As a fan, I chose TV. Over time and throughout the years, they have done a better job with the adaptations. With the improvement of production quality of television programming, further solidifies my opinion.

Some of my favorite adaptations for television are Bosch, Justified, Dublin Murders, and Lincoln Rhyme: The Hunt for Bone Collector. With Bosch we really get to see who Harry Bosch is as a person. The script has made changes, but Michael Connelly has hand in the show so the character integrity is present. Justified is a adaption of Elmore Leonard’s short story “Fire In The Hole.” However, there are several Raylan Givens novels that pulled elements from for the series. Timothy Olyphant’s portrayal of Raylen Givens is excellent. He brings to the screen that you couldn’t write.

In the Bone Collector (TV series), we really for the first time were introduced to the Lincoln Rhyme of the Jeffrey Deaver series. Lincoln Rhyme is a brilliant, exetremely difficult man with tremendous chip on his shoulder. To say, he was bitter about his circumstances is a understatement. We get a hint of Lincoln’s character in the Denzel protrayal, but it shows through in the series with Russell Hornby protraying Lincoln Rhyme.

Most important of about the Bone Collector (TV Series), this is the first time Amelia Sachs appears in a live action role. Now, in the feature film, Angelina Jolie, protrays a character based on Amelia Sachs, whose first name was Amelia, but she wasn’t Amelia Sachs from the books. Arielle Kebbel protrays Amelia Sachs in the series. We witness Sachs battling her own demons while developing a relationship with Rhyme. She challenges him. This is the Amelia Sachs from the novels.

The Juggling Clown Show

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – TTC M#721

Today, I wanted to do something a little different, so I decided to play around with AI. Here is the result I came up with for the challenge.

First, I used a text prompt to generate an image that depicted the three challenge words:

Clown
Crowd
Citrus

A friendly clown in front of a crowd juggling oranges and lemons

Next, I took the above picture and created a video. I wanted to see what would happen. The result is below:

I hope these responses satisfy the challenge. I hope you enjoy them

Six Word Story – 06102024

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PROSE – SILLINESS

Where did you hide the ship?

Weekend Writing Prompt # 366

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – PROSE

The sky growled like it was angry, and the clouds began to shift. Then, its tears fell against my window. They call it Stormy Monday.

Weekend Writing Prompt # 365

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – PROSE

As the sun began to set, the world, usually at 1000 mph, seemed quiet. The hustle and bustle of life, the constant noise, and chatter fade. It was as if the earth had taken a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Then, it repeated it. At that moment, everything was calm; everything was still. It was a moment of perfect pause.

Cinematic Gold

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REFLECTION – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Typically, when comes to film adaptations, we got two categories:

“Oh my god that was horrible! The book is so much better!”

“Can you believe they did that? That’s not in the book!”

The majority of the film adaptation I’ve seen into these categories. I’m a huge Shawshank Redemption fan. I was a fan of the movie, before I knew it was an adaptation. I found it was based on a Stephen King novella, immediately I was turned off. Have you seen some of film adaptations of Stephen King’s stuff? I’m not talking about the recent adaptations or reboots. There were horrible. I’ve read several King books before seeing this film and enjoyed them. However, for some reason, King fell out of favor with me until I read his book about writing. Single malt scotch rained from the heavens, and all was right in the world again. I was back to being a fan.

So, I read Rita Haywood and the Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas in Different Seasons collection. I fell in love with the movie even more. They did an amazing job with this adaptation. The casting of Morgan Freeman was a stroke of genius. I saw the picture above online somewhere and had to write something about what I could describe as my favorite movie. 30 years can you believe it!

Squeeze Me

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Where would you go on a shopping spree?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Shopping Sprees? I’m bold, daring, and a tad bit reckless. Slinging money left and right. Yep, that’s me. Three places I make it rain at. Amazon, local used bookstore, and local used record shop. I know it’s crazy, and I need to contain myself. Yes, I’ve thought about therapy. Perhaps, even joining some sort of support group. You know, stand up there sharing my tales of how I spent my money on a first-edition Poe. Perhaps I tell them about the thingamajig I got on the lighting deal. I saved so much I can’t believe I got it. What a bargain. You know, “that deal” sitting in the junk drawer, and you can’t even know what it is, not to mention why you brought it? Tell this to a perfect stranger? I don’t think so!

But I’ll go anyway because I have nothing to do on Fridays at 6:00 p.m. St. John’s has a lovely meeting room, and they spare no expense on the refreshments. However, the guy who leads the Thursday meeting at St. Agnes has a booming voice and stares at you with penetrating eyes. I find myself sliding down in my chair by the time he’s done. I’m thinking my shopping sprees aren’t diddlysquat compared to him. I’m just a cute little furry kitten.

~Give a me a squeeze~

RDP – Tuesday – 05282024

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Here’s my response for Ragtag Daily Prompt

In the Wee Hours – 05262024

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

Sometimes, it seems like we addicts are trying to duplicate the euphoria from the first fix. It may not last more than a moment, but you never forget how it felt and desperately try to regain that feeling. Yet, we become lost in searching for something we were only supposed to experience once. Perhaps we meant to simply capture these moments and stitch them into a quilt of sanctuary our mothers used to make. Each square represents a euphoric memory.

However, it never seems to work out that way. We waste so much time chasing the dragon we eventually feel cheated. We wind up facing ultimatums concerning the things we have unintentionally neglected. We try to rally but end up a headline below the fold or caption scrolling across the bottom screen with the volume on mute.

Is this what has become my life?

Is this the madness I’ve created?

I have faith that my brothers will hold me up until I can stand on my own. The battle against my demons is real. I sit here in the churn of madness, thinking of everything I was supposed to be—a stranger to myself, a shadow of yesterday. On my soul is a tattoo of the ghost of who I used to be. Memories of yesterday fill the present with fear, and a map to nowhere will be upon my face.

Is this what become of my life?

In the madness I created …

I pray to God to help me find my strength within.
I pray to God for the patience that day to begin.
I pray to God to help me find myself again.

Find me again

Ode to My Addiction

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Peering out from under the crevasses of my splintered psyche,
Still riding a euphoric high from about That Night,
Collaborative expressions have put my hypothalamus into overdrive.
My serotonin overflowing

Yeah… swaying to that lyrical grove, high on 1000cc of that poetic shit…

Leaning back in my chair
Pulling up my sleeve,
Applying the tourniquet
Tap, tap, tap, and then rub

My vein is ready…

Opening my works, a quill and a hypodermic
I pull back the plunger slowly.
Their ink seeps in

Tap…Tap…tap…
No bubbles …

Just a quick push to fill in the gaps
A squirt, then a single drop oozes…
My mouth salivates in anticipation
So close; it won’t be long now

I feel the cold metal against my skin
A quick prick and a sharp pain,
Slowly, I push the plunger part of the way
The ink is warm as it travels through my bloodstream.

Shadows surround me
As my head spins,
A single drop of drool falls from my shuddering lips
Yes…I feel it in my leg now…

I shake from the chill.
The bathroom floor tile is so cold.
It is as if life is spilling out of me, but the floor is dry
My body feels empty and hollow, like my heart

If I am to live in loneliness
There is no need to live anymore

I push the plunger in a little further…

I am warmth from the sight of the glistening sweat that painted her body
I mimic her labored breathing
The rigidness of her bosom tells the tale
Her crossed legs and popping toes echo the sentiment.

Her body trembles though she cannot see me
But her quivering whimpers
Her flow of nectar
Confirms that I am near

She swallows hard and then gasps.
As I whisper the words she needs,

I push the plunger to the hilt…

Standing in front of a mirror
I wonder who it is before me
Baffled, for I am submerged in silence
Closing my eyes for a moment

Only to open to an image that hasn’t changed
A single tear falls from my swollen eyes
Realizing I didn’t recognize myself,
Knowing I have stripped away my identity,

The single tear is now a stream.
Through my sadness, I find the courage to breathe my name.

Mangus Khan

Random Thought – 05242024

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My health has improved, but my writing is struggling for some reason. Just give me a moment. I will come up with something. It may not be my best work, but it will probably do in a pinch. My cat keeps finding new places to nap. I admit I’m jealous because she can plop her butt anywhere and sleep. I’ve been considered a large fellow, so my plopping is limited. This meme sums up my feelings about my writing as of late.

But, Of Course

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Daily writing prompt
Do you have any collections?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I have several collections of various things that captured my interest over the years. I could go on about my book, music, or my hard drives filled with unsorted data to be used at some unspecified time. No data is bad data. However, I have a collection that may be a tad unusual. To the point of interesting in a peculiar way.

Unintentionally, I began to collect unused journals. There are of various sizes and types. This collection started by accident. One of those collections that just appear, and you don’t realize you started until you do.

If you ask me there something with each of these journals. Either it’s the binding, the paper, the size, or a combination of everything. I’ve actually found a few of these journals that could work in a pinch, but they didn’t work with my pen rotation. Now, I when hear a writer begin discussing pen and paper combinations, they have a became a pretentious dick. I’m fully aware that I fit this category. I’m okay with it. I’ve even this excuse for not writing. Yep, I’m that guy.

However, because of my oddity, I learned how to make own journals. Just when you think it can’t get any worse. I can’t write on anything lighter than 24lbs paper. Don’t let me get started on the proper pen rotation. We don’t have enough time for the rant that ensue from my dissatisfaction of inferior writing instruments of today. I find myself pondering with the following query “why?”

Enough of that, I have another collection I’d like to share this evening. I’ve been painstakingly assembling for decades. It’s my annuals of “Weak Ass Excuses for not Writing.” I assure you it is quite impressive. There are several volumes of horseshit. I thump through from time to time for giggles.

RDP Wednesday – Doodle

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE

Every time I write a story, it’s like doodling in my mind.

What’s My Age Again – RDP Sunday: Age – 03242024

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CHALLENGE RESPONSE – RDP – AGE

I’ve been working on music posts all weekend and writing a bit of fiction. So, when I read today’s prompt, this song came to mind as I popped some Tylenol for my aching bones. Then, ask this question.

Then, of course, this song pops into my head.

Fingers popping and belting the lyrics into a seldom used hairbrush. I stop and catch my breath. I realized this track from 1969, and I knew all the words. Scratching the back of my head, I pause and ask what’s my age again?

I’ll get around to It … someday

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Something on your “to-do list” that never gets done.

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Three things on my list never seem to get crossed off.

1. Service my truck: I never seem to fully service my truck until something breaks. I’m doing reactive maintenance instead of preventive. I can do most of the repairs myself. I haven’t had good enough health to do things properly.

2. Recycle old electronics: I have old electronics stacked up all around the house. I’ve been meaning to recycle them for the past few years. Each year, the pile just gets higher. I suppose I could build something out of the parts. My question is, what and why?

3. Declutter my storage: I’ve needed to organize my storage for a while. I think my problem is that afraid to let go of memories. I hate to seem sentimental, but there are certain things I’m a big softy about

A Life of Integrity

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What is your mission?

It’s been quite some time since I associated the word mission with my life. However, looking back at that time and comparing it to now. Nothing has changed. I’ve always wanted to live a Life of Integrity.

What would I do for Free?

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What job would you do for free?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

A Writer

The unfinished projects have formed a pile. Ideas, rants, and incoherent sentences fester. Sometimes I wonder what Goofball gave me the idea to become a writer. Where the hell are they at? I need to hunt them down wherever they may cleverly hide. To the corners of the earth if I must. By God, I need to find and look at them square in the eyes and thank them. Pull them into an embrace. Please do not think less of me, for I may weep. They have provided me with a fantastic gift. You see, boredom will never be a problem for me. Inside each project is the potential to create something that never existed before. At the very least, the potential to heal.


Today has been the longest of days for no reason. Nothing I can put my finger on anyway. I got so much accomplished, but so much more to do. There isn’t enough time to get it all done. I never complete it all. My Lord, what will I do? What will I do? We have all said this statement, felt it, or both. It doesn’t matter if you don’t admit it. It’s fine. Know that wherever you are in your journey, we all have or will walk it. The trail right in front of you. You can get to the other side step by step, word by word, or sentence by sentence. Whatever the method you will be the better for it.


As I lay across my bed, I lit a cigarette, letting it burn in the ashtray for a few minutes before I took another drag. I read a poem in Vietnamese, then I listened to it. Next, I read some prose in Italian; then again, I listened to it. The beauty of the words captured me. I’m reminded of hearing The Holy Quran recited. So beautiful and tranquil. I’m reminded how much I miss Latin Mass. I memorized it as a lad and recited it in English when the priests performed Mass. Though exhausted, hearing these works in their native language healed and recharged me a bit.


I would not have discovered the beauty of our world if I had chosen another profession on the day they whispered to me to become a writer. Although we live in a vast world full of wonder and delight, I wonder why we live so small.

Nope, this is the only profession I would do for free. Nothing else completes me.

Questions Like These…

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Daily writing prompt
What could you do differently?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

Questions like these make me roll my eyes and shake my head. It seems like the next thing they will be asking is,

“What does it all mean?”

What’s my place in the world?”

And more nonsense questions. I have this attitude because it is the decisions we make that cause us to become who we are.

Sure, we have situations in life we would like to do-over or take back. It’s just the nature of life. However, neither of those things are possible. So, when someone asks questions like these. I respond with the following question:

“You’ve had your entire life to prepare for this moment … why aren’t you ready?”

Every decision we have made in life has led to where we are … the good, the bad, and the ugly. Do we really want to change anything?

As always,

~thanks for reading~

Perception is our Reality

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Daily writing prompt
Do you spend more time thinking about the future or the past? Why?
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DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

As a writer of a certain age, I spend time thinking about the past for several reasons. Sometimes, things that happened in the past make interesting ideas that may form a basis for a story. Other times they may lend an expected scene. Typically, I use the past in the following areas in regards to writing.

  • Character Development
  • Plot
  • Theme
  • Resolution

Utilizing the memories of past experiences has crucial in some of my successes as a writer. I have to keep in mind, I must let the story tell itself. I know that may sound strange, but experience has taught to never force anything.

As a man, I often refer back to situations, to see if I still them the same as I did initially. On several occasions, I found some insight hidden in the corners of my psyche. It had been there the entire time. It was just waiting for me to understand what I looking at and why.

Holiday Season Movie Playlist

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

A few decades ago, I got tired of watching the same old holiday movies each year. I started ranting about it, because I’m a bit of a ranter. So, my late wife would roll her eyes and tell me to put in “Home Alone.” I mumbled under my breath and did what she asked.

The following year, I bought a used TV and set up an area in the basement. I dug out an old VCR and made a few tapes with my favorite movies. So, about a week before Christmas, I went to the basement and started my marathon. Over the years, I added and subtracted movies I always wanted to keep the list small.

Here is the current list:

  1. Die Hard (1988)
  2. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang (2005)
  3. Reindeer Games (2000)
  4. Diner (1982)
  5. The Ref (1994)
  6. Wrong Turn at Tahoe (2009)
  7. This Christmas (2007)
  8. The Simple Life of Noah Dearborn (1999)
  9. Passenger 57 (1992)
  10. True Crime (1999)
  11. An Arthurian Legend Movie – This year, it was King Arthur: The Legend of the Sword (2017)
  12. A Shaft Movie – This year, it was Shaft (2019)

Twelve movies for the 12 days of Christmas and all that. Some of these movies have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas, but I like them, so I watch them. Be aware that each film is subject to substitution at any moment. Sometimes, I just don’t feel the movie that year. Normally, I don’t make it through the list. However, this year, because of my health, I finished early. Stay tuned for my starting the new year off right movie list.

Skywriting – 122720231602

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

My body is healing, so I’ve been sleeping a lot. It’s strange how remarkable the body can be if you allow it to do its thing. I haven’t been able to get much done in these past weeks, but I’ve had the strength to create. This is a blessing in itself. I may never return to being the man I was before all this happened, but honestly, they may not be such a bad thing. In part, it’s because of him; I’m in this situation, and it’s also because of him; I know I can survive it. Who or what will I be after it is all said and done? Who knows? But it’s gonna be fun figuring things out.

Image Credit:

I took this photo a week before my health took a nose dive. I remember feeling horrible that day. However, I pushed through because I’m a tough guy and all that.

Good Stroll

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What are your favorite physical activities or exercises?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

There is nothing like taking a walk. I would add cigarettes and coffee to the mi, but that would only dimish the benefits. I was poor as a child, we had two ways to get anywhere; walking or riding your bike. In some cases, you ended up doing both. So I learned early to enjoy the journey. To freely allow the thoughts in my head to run wild. No one there sticking their opinion mudding up the process.

Even now, I walk with headphones on. The music provides a blanket shielding me from the outside. I hear my thoughts exhale, clear their throats, and call the rest of my body to order. My arms and legs are moving in unison to a subconscious rhythm. Yet, I realize my breathing is setting the tempo. My thoughts and ideas line up to me counted.

Next, I exclaim, not looking up at the next idea waiting to have their say.

“Good day, Mr. Khan”

“Good day.” I reply, waiting for them to get on with it. They take a moment to gather themselves to ensure not to waste my time. I’m thankful for the gesture actually. I can’t count the numerous times progress has been striflield by a ridiculous idea.

‘“Well get on with it,” I nudge.

“You see Sir, I been thinking the story needs a bit of restructuring.” Idea stated.

“How so?” I questioned. The idea went on to explain its opinion in great deal. I have to admit I like the idea. But I couldn’t let this go unchallenged. It was the principle of the thing. I can’t be having ideas rushing up to me at hours of the night thinking they’re to get their say. The other day I saw a wanna-be Picasso paint his cat pink.

Photo by Anna Shvets Pexels.com

Painting a cat pink, really?

Uncle Willie told me a story about a fella who had an idea to impress a woman. We all know the lengths men go to impress women. It’s ridiculous the things we come up with. Well this fella, got the idea that the women of his dreams was worth it. He met her at the local bowling alley. The story goes, she liked him well enough, but she always wanted to see what a kangaroo looked like up close. For months, they’d meet at the bowling alley and talk, but she kept bringing up the kangaroo thing. Finally, the fella invited her to fly with him to Australia to see a kangaroo. Her reply was that she didn’t know him well enough to go on a trip like that. What kind of woman did he think she was?

Cedric, the fella, was determined to have Gretchen, the woman, by any means necessary. So, he contacted a navy buddy who owed him a favor and got a damn kangaroo. Christmas Day 1966, when the bowling alley was closed, arranged for the place to open and convinced Gretchen to meet him there. So, Gretchen’s Christmas present was a kangaroo, named Rocky. Of course, Gretchen didn’t have any place to keep Rocky, so he lived with Cedric. Christmas 1967, they were married. The marriage lasted five years. Gretchen got the house and Rocky in the settlement. I know this may be hard to believe, but here is a photo from the day Gretchen and Rocky met.

Aunt Willie, on my father’s side, a bit touched if you listen to Nana. Despite this, Aunt Willie, was the most successful pig farmer in the state. A winter’s back, Aunt Willie got a notion that Charlene and Jessup, her pet pigs didn’t want to spend the winter in the cold. So, she pack them up and took them to the beach. The local took exception to the pigs at the beach and made a big ruckus. However, Aunt Willie was to snap a picture of Charlene and Jessup before things got out of hand.

I have to admit I’m a bit jealous, they look rather peaceful.

There’s nothing like a good stroll to clear your mind and you get a little exercise to boot.

Six Word Story – 12192023

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PROSE – SIX WORD STORY

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Low tech is the best tech

RDP Tuesday – 12122023

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PROSE

My response to RDP – Tuesday prompt: Comedy

This makes me laugh every time

Perhaps it’s the absurdity of the sign. Are we to believe this man will actually pay for Karate lessons? Perhaps, on some measures, we respect his creativity. I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a panhandler. He approached me slowly, which put me on guard. Slow moving objects make me nervous. I must have given him a look because he stopped in his tracks. He asked for a cigarette; I nodded and signaled him to continue approaching. I handed him a cigarette. He looked at the cigarette and said he didn’t smoke non-methol. I started laughing and asked if he was serious. He handed me back the cigarette and said, “Hell yeah!” I shook my head and walked away.

My Goofball brother

I was at the car show working, and suddenly, this Yahoo told me to take his picture. I didn’t pay attention to the photo until he asked if I looked at it. Well, when I did, I saw this. So tonight, we were giving each other a hard time, and I told him I would post this photo. I always try to be a man of my word.

I’ve learned something over the last few months, life can be the greatest tragedy or a joyous comedy. The person living makes the choice.

Turkey Day, Hemi’s, Bullitt, and Family

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Here’s my response to pensitivity101‘s Share Your World

Here are this week’s questions:

Gratitude:
Knowing you’re loved is priceless.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve had a rough go of it, to put it mildly. What I have learned and been reminded of is that I’m loved. There is no doubt about that.

What is your idea of a good holiday? Seeing the sights, lazing on a beach, hitting the night spots, getting away from it all……………….

My favorite holiday in the U.S. is Thanksgiving. It’s all about the food. Dishes you haven’t had all year are waiting for you to gorge yourself into oblivion. There are no diets or anything like that. In short, it is the ultimate cheat day. Another thing about this holiday, perhaps the most important, is being with family. It doesn’t get any better than that.

You are offered tickets to a show. Which would you prefer, Opera, Play, Cinema, Entertainment, Ice Gala, or something else?

During my 50th birthday celebration, a friend took me to see Cirque du Soleil. I remember complaining the entire trip to the show. Grumbling nonsense about any and everything. My friend stood her ground and let me rant. She had gotten us incredible seats, and the show was amazing. The gracefulness of the performers was breathtaking. It was an ice show, so I kept waiting for someone to face plant. Didn’t happen. I would watch something like that again.

Have you ever won a sports trophy (or something similar for a particular achievement):

I was a jock during my youth, so I picked up a few trophies here and there. My mother kept them in a bag. I received awards while serving in the military. I used to call the wall my wife hung them on “The Wall of Shame.” Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud of the time I spent in the military. There is no question that it helped shape me into the man I am today. I never did buy into the whole medal thing. It was more about what we were doing and its importance. However, there was an occasion when I was recognized for an achievement. I got no medal or ceremony, just a simple handwritten thank you note. That gesture means more to me than any awards.

What is your dream car (fact or fictional):

As a child, I remember being enthralled by several cars before settling in on my favorite. I still can’t pick a definite favorite, but two stand out. In 1979, the cult classic Phantasm was released. It was a tripped out movie that didn’t make any sense to me at the time. However, my friends and I still talk about that movie. Not as much as we did as kids, but now and again, someone will mention a line at the perfect moment, and we just laugh.

There were several notable characters in that film, but it wasn’t a character that caused the movie to be bookmarked in my mind; it was the car. A Plymouth Barracuda raced away, rescuing the characters and taking them to safety. From that moment, that was my car. I did my best to learn about that model car, but I discovered something different that I loved even more. A 1968 Plymouth Hemi Cuda became my jam. Take a look

My first love

As I got older and started my journey into becoming a mechanic with my father, I learned more about cars and their capabilities. My father was aware of my infatuation with the Hemi but schooled me about the other muscle cars of that era. My appreciation grew for American Muscle. I had the privilege of building and repairing several different ones with my dad. I’m more of a circuit head than a gearhead. Yet, I love mechanics; it’s in me bones. After Pop went to the otherside of the veil, I found myself watching old movies with car chases: Smokey and the Bandit, Dukes of Hazzard, The French Connection, and finally, Bullitt. I found my second love, a 1968 Ford Mustang – GT-500. Let’s take a look at the scene that grabbed me.

My second love

However, a different year model of Mustang, the movie Gone in 60 Seconds, the remake with Nicolas Cage, featured a 1967 GT-500. The original featured a 1971 Mustang, a beast in her own right but not as sexy. Here are two clips that express my love for this car.

Demonstrates my respect for the car
Sweet!

Home on the Range

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If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

This isn’t a hard question for me. I would love to live somewhere in the woods. As long as I had wifi. The first places that come to mind are Montana & Wyoming. I spent time in both of these places and I loved it.

Skywriting – 120120231321

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PROSE – INTROSPECTION

It would seem my idiocracy has no bounds. It’s like I’ve become the type of person I never wanted to be. The kind of person I typically avoid at all costs. There are those among us who refuse to look at things thoroughly. They have a slanted view of the world and the events that occur within it. They refuse to accept certain truths and live in an alternate reality. It’s not even a cool one where there are flying cars and no sick people. It is a place where we live in harmonic lives, and “Rex,” the family golden retriever, always brings the ball back.

Now, life isn’t that way. There aren’t any flying cars yet, people get sick and sometimes die, and Rex, even though he still has the heart, doesn’t bring the ball back because he doesn’t have the legs for it anymore. In this reality, we face what comes: we laugh, we love, we cry, and most importantly, we fight. We do this for no other reason than to prove our time here mattered. Even if it only matters to ourselves. Trust me, it’s enough.

For the past several weeks, I’ve been ignoring the obvious. I’ve been ignoring; there’s a price to pay for my arrogance. When my health went into the toilet, I made several lifestyle changes and figured I would be good from there as long as I continued on the right track. Well, it didn’t quite work out that way. Yes, I must stay the course with the changes I made, but the negligence that caused the changes in the first place has done more than I had anticipated.

In short, pay attention to your body. Please don’t dismiss certain things as testaments of getting older. Yes, some things are due to age, but others aren’t. This isn’t something I read somewhere but something I learned the hard way.

Stay strong…Be Blessed…

Image Credit: by Mangus Khan. Last year when my body was talking to me, but I wasn’t listening.

Whispers of the Dark #13

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I’m brilliant on most days and an idiot on others. However, there are special moments when I’m both. Life balance, I know, crazy, right? However, what makes today one of those special moments is that I failed to consider the depth of concern others had for me. What I just said doesn’t make sense, but work with me for a moment.

I knew they were concerned, but I hadn’t realized it had approached the fear level. As we know, some people get mean when they are afraid. They can’t allow anyone to see them vulnerable. I can’t blame them; society has indoctrinated us into believing fear is evil and should be eradicated at all costs. So, I get it.

I certainly didn’t intend to worry anyone, but it happened. Now, I wonder how to fix it or make things better. I suppose the answer is simple. Take care of yourself and listen for once. For I would like to point out for the record, I am an amazing listener; I just do all the things I hear.

Once, I mistakenly made my wife aware of my superpower of being able to repeat verbatim what she’d said. In my mind, this was the move to shut this nonsense down. What was to follow can only be described as a teachable moment.

Lesson one:

1. Do not under any circumstances let your wife know you can remember everything she says. STOP! I DO NOT CARE! We have an acceptable preprogrammed excuse in play. Learn to roll with it. By all means, keep your mouth shut. I know this is difficult. Especially, when you are troubled by responses you made to her during the conversation she had with you in her head.

Acceptable exceptions for the display of your superpower. The sweet, cute, thoughtful, and aww-evoking moments in life. Use your powers during these moments and all life will be infinitely better. Let me be clear at this point. There can be no good to come from pointing out flaws in their logic just for the sake of doing so.

I learned this lesson from a friend, an old-school cat daddy, who took me under his wing and started dropping jewels. He had one eye gone, and the other looked as if it had seen better days, but they were fearful. So, I figured he might have something important to say.

“Youngblood, hey, Youngblood,” he said motioning for me to join him. I stood there momentarily considering what he could possibly want.

“I know you see me, get over here, before I got to get up.” He threatened. Dante’ Mays had done time in at least three different states on multiple occasions. The chances of him making good on his threat were good.

For the next 45 minutes, he explained his version of life lessons. This happened some time ago and I still find myself referring back to the conversation that day. I had seen his wife, she was the sweetest woman you would ever want to meet, but she had this gaze. I wondered if she might have been the reason he lost his eye.

Lesson Two:

Pay attention to lesson one. Learn it, Know it, Live it.

Always listen to the whispers of the dark. They just might save you.

Cash, Chess pie, and a Well Fitted Suit

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Share Your World – 16th October.

Here are this week’s questions:

  1.   What is your favourite dessert? This is a difficult question for me because I’m diabetic. So, officially I hate dessert. However, before diabetes, I had a three dessert rotation depending on the situation. For quick fixes, there are freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. They must be soft, not the crunchy kind. Most store brought brands are trash. However, there is a Canadian brand that is quite nice. Secondly, Pecan pie, is there anything more that needs to be said about its scrumptiousness. Lastly, my mother-in-law’s Chess pie. Now, this might take a minute because my mouth is watering thinking about it. She stopped making them when she reached her eighties, and my brother-in-law took over the baking duties. I love him, but he’s fired.
  2.   Do you still use cash to pay for goods? Not really much anymore. Perhaps I should. The world of electronic currency is a little unsettling. However, it’s hard to remain old school when you have vendors who don’t take cash. Get this? They have the nerve to charge you a convenience fee.
  3.   Apart from a house, car, or holiday, what is the most expensive thing you’ve purchased? My video equipment, my Sony FS-5, and Macbook Pro lead the charge. If we add the peripherals, the price is ridiculous. However, it’s been several years, and the equipment is still very well. So, with the quality, I pretty much forgot about the price.
  4.   If you are going out for a special occasion, what is your favoured outfit? Any special occasion I wear a tailored suit and shirt.

It’s All about the Grandson

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Describe a family member.

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not even a little bit. Somewhere along the way, the little bastard got to me. Maybe it was his eyes full of innocence that looked up at me as he gripped my finger when I met him. He stole his grandmother’s heart at the first coo. I wasn’t falling for that cute shit. He’s a male. He must be raised hard, tough, and ready. No pansies are allowed in my clan. No sir. No way.

However, from the start, I saw he going to be different. I saw something in him I wasn’t used to seeing. There was a kindness to him, not the kind that makes you soft. But the kind that makes people want to be around. The kind that’s the foundation of becoming a good man. My grandson is also a very thoughtful young man. I’m pretty sure he got these traits from his grandmother.

I have also noticed he has a bit of a mean streak, something he definitely got from my side of the family. However, I seldom see this side. All in all, he is a cool kid. You can’t tell him; he might think I’m getting soft.

Skywriting103020231900

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I feel like writing today. There have been so many days where I didn’t feel it, but wrote anyway. I can’t explain or put my finger on the difference. I’m unsure if I need to or if it’s all that important. What’s important to me right now is that I’m feeling it. Today, I not going to fight it.

Perhaps, it’s because

I saw the Moon in a clear blue sky.
So close I could touch it.
It has magical powers, they say
I believe them.

Perhaps it’s because

I saw the clouds glow when they were touched by the Sun.
A bird chirped as it flew by
A stray cat rubbed against my leg
I had a meeting with a friend that didn’t suck

I don’t know why today feels this way, but strap in.

Are you kidding me, right now?

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How much would you pay to go to the moon?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

I look at this prompt with a certain measure of disbelief. Why would I pay anything to go to the moon? Let’s examine the question. Let me go at the possible advantages of going to the moon, let alone paying to go. From what I understand, the Moon is cold. I’ve been cold in my lifetime, and I don’t want to be cold. The winter season here on Earth is more than enough. I’ve spent winters in several different regions. I’m quite familiar with cold weather.

Now, how many science fiction stories have you read where anything good happens with living on the moon? I haven’t read any. If there are any that you know, please let me know. Here’s something interesting to consider. I’m a writer, so if I want to go to the Moon, all I have to do is write about it. Yep, all I have to do is sit in front of my laptop and devise a beautiful tale about a lunar adventure. Or I could pull out a stack of 28lbs paper and start writing.

So you see, there is no need to pay to go to the Moon when you are a writer. Pay to go to the Moon. Are you kidding me right now?

The Muse

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POETRY – FREEVERSE

Along the coast of the isle, I await
I’m awaiting the one who is heard but rarely seen.
His guidance, his vision, is what soothes me.

Thundering huffs of his steed surround me
Through the mist, I catch a glimpse of his armor
My heart pounds in anticipation of asking the question

Opening my eyes, I am within the halls of my study
An empty room with barren shelves, once full
No remnants of its former purpose

Except…

An inkwell on my table
Whispering …
You’re the one I belong to…

My soul began to shiver
As it transformed into a mesmerizing beauty
With enchanting eyes that spoke to me.

I could barely take it
My head was spinning around and around
I didn’t know what to do
As those eyes kept asking me
Can you be the writer?
That writes too silly to the profound
Are you that writer?
It is just a question to answer.

The inkwell on my table…
Was the caressing wind
Of the blossoming trees
Everything between hell and heaven

Now I’m back along the coast
In the presence of the rider
As I looked at the face behind the visor

I realized the answers

I am the writer of the silly, perhaps the profound
Yes, I have my answer
I am the Muse

Bedlam & Mayhem

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What major historical events do you remember?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

The longer you live the more things you remember. There are many historical events that stand out in my mind. It’s hard to choose which ones to talk about. So, I’ve decided to discuss a few that impacted my life. These events made me stop and think about the world around me. Sometimes, I find myself a little taken back by the level of carnage some members of humanity are willing to unleash.

I wish this quote by Joseph Conrad had no relevance in today’s society. Sadly, it is just as relevant today as when he wrote it.

Orlando Nightclub Shooting

On June 12, 2016, a horrific event in Orlando, Florida, shook the nation. Omar Mateen, a 29-year-old man, carried out a mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub, resulting in the loss of 49 innocent lives and leaving 53 others wounded. The impact of this senseless act of violence reverberated far beyond the walls of the nightclub, leaving a deep scar on the LGBTQ+ community and the nation as a whole.

The Devastating Impact

The Orlando nightclub shooting was not just an act of violence but a targeted attack on a specific community. It attacked love, acceptance, and the freedom to be oneself. The LGBTQ+ community has long fought for equality and acceptance, and this tragic event served as a painful reminder that there are still those who seek to harm and oppress individuals based on their sexual orientation.

In the aftermath of the shooting, the nation came together to mourn the loss of innocent lives and support the LGBTQ+ community. Vigils were held across the country, with people from all walks of life coming together to stand in solidarity. It was a powerful display of unity and a testament to the resilience and strength of the human spirit.

The Importance of Remembering

As time passes, we mustn’t forget the Orlando nightclub shooting. We must remember the lives that were lost and the pain that was inflicted on the LGBTQ+ community. We honor the victims and their families by remembering and keeping their memories alive. Through this place, we can continue to fight for a world where everyone is accepted and loved for who they are.

Furthermore, the Orlando nightclub shooting serves as a reminder of the work that still needs to be done to prevent such acts of violence in the future. It highlights the need for better gun control measures to prevent individuals with harmful intentions from obtaining weapons. It also emphasizes creating a society that celebrates diversity and fosters acceptance.

I remember being outraged by this event. I wondered what was wrong with the young man. What was happening underneath the rhetoric? Of course, I will never know the answer to this question. However, this event didn’t hit me in the gut until a close friend shared her thoughts. Then finally exclaimed:

“They’re killing us, Mangus. They’re killing us!”

I had no idea what to do or how, if anything, I could comfort her. I still don’t. The event was senseless and cruel.

The Capitol Riots 2021

On January 6, 2021, some Americans lost their damn minds and stormed the Capital Building in Washington, D.C. This event should have never happened, but it did. Nearly three years later, I still question the point of the entire affair. I can remember staring at my boss like she had lost her mind. I heard her words, but they didn’t make sense.

The Attack on Democracy

The barrage of questions continued for a few minutes until I accepted that our Capital was under siege. I was furious. I felt helpless. I couldn’t do anything to right this wrong. It was no longer my job.

To attempt to overturn a presidential election by force is wrong on so many levels. I’m doing my best here to go into full mode.

Deep breaths…Mangus: Deep breaths … filth and foul and filth foul …deep breaths, use your words.

Civil disobedience is one of the things that made America what it is. However, in my opinion, the actions of that day went against the spirit of the country. That day was not our finest hour. We are better than this madness. It would behoove us to remember that.

Here is a link to the timeline of that day’s events provided by the BBC.

Healing and Moving Forward

In the aftermath of the Capitol riots, the nation grappled with the deep divisions that had been exposed. It was a stark reminder that democracy is fragile and requires constant vigilance. But in the face of this unprecedented attack on our democracy, there were glimmers of hope and unity.

Leaders from both sides of the political spectrum condemned the violence and called for accountability. The swift impeachment of the then-president and the subsequent investigations into the events of that day signaled a commitment to upholding the rule of law.

Furthermore, the resilience of the Capitol staff and law enforcement officers who worked tirelessly to protect the building and its occupants should be recognized and commended. Their bravery in the face of danger serves as a reminder of the dedication and sacrifice that public servants make every day.

Lessons Learned

The events of January 6, 2021, serve as a wake-up call for the nation. They highlight the urgent need to address the underlying issues that led to such a violent insurrection. We must examine the root causes of the division and discontent that fueled this attack on our democracy.

Moreover, the Capitol riots underscore the importance of education and critical thinking in a democratic society. We must invest in civic education and media literacy to ensure that citizens have the tools to discern fact from fiction and to engage in constructive dialogue rather than resorting to violence.

As we reflect on the Capitol riots of 2021, let us remember the lessons learned and work towards healing the wounds that continue to divide our nation. Only through unity, understanding, and a commitment to the principles of democracy can we build a brighter future for all Americans.

2017 Las Vegas Shooting

On October 1, 2017, the world was shocked as a horrific event unfolded in Las Vegas, Nevada. A lone gunman, identified as Stephen Paddock, opened fire on a crowd of concertgoers attending the Route 91 Harvest music festival. The attack resulted in the loss of 58 innocent lives and hundreds injured. This tragic incident is one of the deadliest mass shootings in modern American history.

The Devastating Impact

The impact of the 2017 Las Vegas shooting was felt by the victims, their families, and the entire nation. As news of the attack spread, a wave of grief and disbelief washed over the country. The concert, meant to celebrate music and unity, quickly turned into chaos and terror. Survivors and witnesses were left traumatized, forever scarred by that fateful night’s horrifying images and sounds.

The Las Vegas shooting also reignited the ongoing debate around gun control in the United States. The ease with which the shooter acquired a vast arsenal of weapons and ammunition raised severe concerns about the accessibility and regulation of firearms. Many called for stricter gun laws and comprehensive background checks to prevent similar tragedies from occurring in the future.

Unity and Resilience

In the face of such tragedy, the Las Vegas community displayed remarkable resilience and strength. Strangers came together to help the wounded, offering comfort and support amidst the chaos. First responders and medical professionals worked tirelessly to save lives and provide essential care to the injured. The city of Las Vegas rallied around the victims and their families, offering financial assistance, counseling services, and a collective shoulder to lean on.

The aftermath of the Las Vegas shooting also highlighted the importance of mental health support. Survivors and witnesses experienced profound emotional trauma that required professional intervention and support. Mental health organizations and counselors played a crucial role in helping individuals cope with the aftermath of the tragedy, emphasizing the need to prioritize mental well-being in the wake of such devastating events.

Conclusion

The 2017 Las Vegas shooting was an immense tragedy that deeply impacted the nation. The loss of innocent lives and the profound effects on the survivors and their families cannot be overstated. It serves as a somber reminder of the urgent need for stricter gun control measures and comprehensive mental health support in our society. This horrific event should compel us to reflect on the lives that were tragically cut short and the resilience displayed by the Las Vegas community. Moving forward, we must strive for a future where such senseless acts of violence are prevented, and where every individual feels safe and secure. Achieving this requires collective action and a steadfast commitment to change, as we honor the victims and work towards building a more peaceful and compassionate society.

The Capitol riots of 2021 will forever be etched into the annals of American history as a dark moment. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of democracy and the crucial importance of safeguarding our institutions. This shocking event shook the nation to its core, but it also sparked hope for healing and growth. As a nation, we can move forward by addressing the underlying issues that led to this unrest, fostering unity among our citizens, and prioritizing education to prevent such incidents from happening again. It is through these actions that we can strive for a better and more inclusive future, where the principles of democracy are upheld and respected.

The Orlando nightclub shooting was a tragic event that deeply impacted not only the LGBTQ+ community but also the entire nation. It served as a stark reminder of the ongoing presence of hatred and discrimination in our society. However, amidst the darkness, it also brought people together, showcasing the power of unity and love. As we remember the victims and their families, it is crucial that we continue to work towards creating a world where everyone feels safe, accepted, and valued. This means actively combating prejudice, fostering inclusivity, and promoting understanding. By doing so, we can honor the memory of those affected by this tragedy and strive for a society where diversity is celebrated and bigotry has no place.

Baby Steps

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What’s the biggest risk you’d like to take — but haven’t been able to?

PROSE – DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

It’s interesting how something just pops up. As if the universe has something to tell you.

“Psst, come here, buddy. I won’t bite.”

In such cases, the universe represents that crush you never dared to speak to more than a few seconds at a time. For some reason, you believed talking to them would ruin the perfect relationship you had developed in your mind. In your mind, her voice caressed your inner ear, her smile melted away any doubt, and you weren’t an awkward guy who would write his thoughts in a notebook.

Then, sometime in the distant future, time folds back on itself because that’s what it always does. It comes around, so you face the moment you avoided all those years ago. It comes whether you are ready for it or not. Most likely not, but that’s the enchantment of time isn’t. You learned some time back not to question the universe because it will do whatever it wants. So it goes …

This time, in the grind of time, I decided to revitalize the blog I started over a decade ago. I did so without any faith in my writing. Truthfully, I didn’t have any faith in myself. Eight months in today, my doubt has begun to fade. Yet, I ask myself whether or not my doubt is over? Despite this, every night right before bed, I rant by the light of an LED lamp.

I don’t rant for fame or glory; I write for sanity. I expose my scars and whisper my secrets. Once, I held them close to my heart. Like that was the move to make. As if sanity resided neath the scars because I could trust myself and no one else. No one would understand my demons; I didn’t understand them myself. This is what I told myself. It was belief, nay, my conviction. This is how depression is; this is how it pulls you in.

I thought I could be a conduit for someone else pain, grief, and anguish. In reality, I’m confessing my sins of war. The war within myself. My biggest risk is releasing the insomniac rants to the public. Yet, I have been doing it, you say? I have a few short story collections and a few novels I’ve been holding back. I hear the senior editor’s voice in my head, “What are you waiting on?”

Well, darling, baby steps!

I’m Mangus Khan

and these are my memoirs

Memoirs of Madness

~thank you for reading~

The Projects on My Storyboard

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Daily writing prompt
What have you been working on?
View all responses

PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS/SLIGHT RANT

Photo by Ravi Kant on Pexels.com

From the Stoop:

A page I’m developing for the blog will contain a series of articles covering various subjects not dealing with the current subjects on the blog.

  • Healthcare: I will discuss subjects on several chronic diseases I have encountered. Also, I’ll discuss different diets and post a few recipes.
    • Diabetics
    • Hypertension
    • Cardiac
    • Mental Conditions
  • Current Events: I’ll post articles on recent events that intrigue me.
  • Philosophy: I’ve been a student of philosophy for most of my life. I will discuss some of the interesting topics on the subject.
Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com

Writing:

  • Where the Blackbird Sings: A storyline from the past I’ve been updating. I don’t currently have any intention on the purpose of this story. Whether it’s going to remain a short story or something more extensive. The most important aspect of this story is to continue writing until the story is complete.
  • Till the Sun Turns Black: An unfinished novel I’ve been playing around with for over a decade. Lately, I’ve been reexamining different portions of the manuscript, looking for new ways to make the story more compelling.
  • Unnamed Story: I’m currently working on a project initiated by another writer who could not complete it. This project is challenging because the initial concept wasn’t mine. In addition, it’s written from a female first-person POV. Since I’m not a woman, not having the protagonist sound masculine is complicated.

That’s all I have right now. Of course, I have several unnamed projects, but I have learned recently I need to prioritize my project to ensure completion.

As always,

~thank you for reading~

Ain’t That Some Shit.

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What do you enjoy most about writing?

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PROSE – REFLECTIONS

I can’t remember why I started this. I can’t see where it was supposed to go. I know there was reason, a pretty good I’m sure. I probably crafted some clever dialogue to explain my actions if someone were to ask. No one did. I must remember I didn’t start writing to post on a blog. Hell, I didn’t start writing to be read. I wrote as a means to understand the stirring voices in my head.

Yes, I understand how that sounds. I concede you might have gone mental. I assure you I haven’t. I’m a writer who is attempting to write honestly about a topic. You guys would sense me being full of crap in a heartbeat. Throughout the years, I tried to force the things I wanted to write. I fell pray to the …

“Hey, this seems interesting.” or

“I got a great response to this piece; let’s write more about this, you think?” Or

“This is my signature piece.”

Yeah, limiting myself, like it is the thing to do. I didn’t have to worry about being put in a box or labeled. I did it myself. Constantly, I waged war against myself about the things that ended up on the page. Instead of WRITING SHIT LIKE YOU MEAN IT! I wrote these quaint pieces trying to find the formula that works.

“Sometimes in writing we stumble into a story …other times we trip and fall over what we intended to write.

Mangus Khan – 2015

I truly enjoy the ability to create something out of nothing. Well, not really nothing, but more precisely, use everything to create a believable story. I’ve used a portion of overheard conversations, witnessed events, or conjured a scene from the splinters of my mind. Whichever the source, the joy is finding a way to string them together into something meaningful… I hope.

I’ve lectured about writers being time travelers of a sort. No one ever gets where I’m coming from when I make this statement. My point is simple, actually. We have the power to rewrite history to suit ourselves. As long as we make the story compelling. When we are making up stuff, it doesn’t have to necessarily be believable. Some of the most ridiculous stories are compelling. We laugh out loud or shake our heads as we finish the story.

I used to worry about what the reader would think about what I had to say. This is important to a degree. I used to worry about so much I would actually get stuck and stop writing. Or even worse, the idea would never see the page. I’ve told my writing team hundreds of ideas but never written. It was as if I whispered into the wind, hoping another writer in an unknown destination or time would hear it and write it down.

All this was before I began to believe in myself and the writing process. I stop trying to force my will onto the subject matter. I learned to let go and trip and fall into it.

Most importantly, I’ve learned to enjoy the entire process. For example, this very post I started writing it back in August. Of course, I had a lot to say about what I enjoy about writing. Oh yeah, let me tell you all about that about it. Let’s not. I’m good. Aren’t you?

This blog wasn’t supposed to be what it has become. I was ready to quit before I wrote the first post. However, I’ve kept going; believe me, this year has been incredible. I couldn’t imagine the success I’ve had here. You guys have taught me so much about writing as well as assisted me in realizing things about myself. Then, I wonder about stuff like this …

Will it matter how many doors opened, portals gazed through, or notebooks filled? Will we truly say all that we hear in the silence? Only you can answer these questions in the words you write. I wish words of kindness and love would replace the hatred lurking in the soul of man. I wish the tears that drench these pages were of joy instead of sorrow. I hope for a better tomorrow.

I wish what we find in our darkest hour, we embrace its truth. We have hid too long from who we really are. I wish that truth flourishes, providing the wisdom necessary as we bare our souls. It will be liberating to walk from behind the veil of another person’s ideal. I wish this unveiled soul speaks with passion and dignity, knowing by doing so, the words will be spoken with honor. I wish we could free ourselves and honestly speak soulfully.

“The essential thing is that you write about something you really care about. Identifying that something, however, is not always easy. Are surrounded by received opinion, a constant barrage of information, drama, ideas, and judgements offended us live, printed, and electronic. It is so much easier to know what we ought to think and feel then what we actually do. “

Janet Burroway Writing Fiction
Photo by Oladimeji Ajegbile on Pexels.com

With that being said, I often find it difficult to find subjects I would like to write about. It’s challenging to make interesting content. However, I feel it’s critical to be honest with yourself as a writer. My favorite portion of writing is creating phrases. When I’m editing, I just want it to be over. However, I realize a properly edited piece can turn good writing into excellent writing. I didn’t always feel this way. Just ask my senior editor. I’m sure there were several moments when if she could have got her hands on me. It would not have been good for me. Sometimes writing is like …

The night whispers have faded as dawn stretches with one eye open and the other squinted. Caffeine burns through my bloodstream as I roll myself a cigarette in the early morning strain. Lately, my words don’t seem like mine; they are flat and lifeless as if my pen has lost its courage. The words tease as they linger on the tip of my tongue. Though submerged in this state of bewilderment, my face distorts into a smile. I realize that I have been preparing for this conversation for years. It became clear the difficulties never change. One minute, you stare blankly into the nothingness, and the next, you find yourself face down on your desk with slobber-drenched hair and coffee-stained lips. The result is a story about you, which is nothing more than a reflection about me, pulsing happily on a word processor.

While trying to remember, every word, sentence, or paragraph is another attempt for writers to learn to fly.

The other day, I was talking to a close friend, telling her I can’t expect many views because I’m not selling a product. Therefore, the SEO strategy should be different. She looked at me momentarily as if waiting for me to say something.

“The product you are selling is you. So, in this case, you have cornered the market; you are unique and exclusive.”

Ain’t that some shit!

Whispers of the Dark #12

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I sighed heavily as I sat down to partake in a meal scarcely worth the coin. This meal is just another example of something we have little control over. I was eating because you’re supposed to, not because I was hungry. We are creatures of habit, products of routine, drones of a cosmic age. Moments ago, the sun was beating on the back of my neck, warming my entire being, As I sat alone in silence, lost in thought, waiting. Unsure what was to come. Yet, I sat waiting. I open my notebook. 

It’s incredible what one hears in the silence. In this world, there isn’t any silence, not really. The noise is deafening, televisions blaring, but no one is listening. Humanity seems lost in the world of tiny screens and wrapped in the lives of make-believe. We are judging reality with contempt for having the nerve to be unfilling. We are having conversations that we aren’t paying attention to. Only to become offended for being misunderstood. We are spending our time poking fun at the unfortunate. Secretly, thankful we aren’t them.

It’s funny how one can never control when the words come or what they truly mean. We write and write until the movement has passed. Now, the once empty page; full. Turning the page, waiting for the next word to appear from the nothingness. Waiting for magic!

Skywriting – 092820231118

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

It’s foggy outside, but I’ve never been clearer
I’ve failed you in the worst possible way
I became something other than what I needed to be
I felt I needed to be something other than who I am
If the failure to you isn’t bad enough,
the greatest failure of all is to myself .

~thank you for reading~

Kiss the Girls for Me

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PROSE – REFLECTION/INTROSPECTION

For most of my children’s lives, I was a soldier doing what was required for God and country. Because of this fact, I’ve always felt they didn’t have the father they deserved. This feeling didn’t stop there. I also felt their mother should have picked a better man to build a family. I didn’t feel this way because of anything my girls had done or said. It was just me looking back over things. I wouldn’t change my decision to marry their mother. I just wish I was around more. Yet, I always asked her to kiss the girls for me.

I can certainly say with confidence the hardest job I have ever had has been being a father of daughters. I often wondered if God was trying to get me back for my youthful indiscretions. I learned as much from them as they learned from me. They have made me a better man than I could have been without them. They had to endure a moody stoic who would rather write down his thoughts than verbalize them. A man suffering from a condition I didn’t know existed.

Despite this you still love me, so on this day National Daughter’s Day, I thank you for your assistance in making me a better version of who I am. I apologize for not having the courage to get help sooner. I love you, and you must never doubt this …

Evening Sky – 092520231950

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PHOTOGRAPHY – COLOR/PROSE/RANDOM THOUGHTS

Today’s been a good day. There were a few moments where I felt like crap, but they were temporary. Perhaps things are returning to normal. I’m a little fearful to say it aloud; I might jinx it. I was walking into the store to pick up a few items, and when I got to the register, I realized I wasn’t tired. Smiling, as I returned to my truck, I looked up and saw this strange sky.

I couldn’t help but wonder if this sky represented my current state. I spent the weekend listening to a lot of hippie-dippie stuff. I think this hippie-dippie stuff might be affecting my brain; someone give me a cigarette. That’s right I’m supposed to be quitting.

Cradled

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POETRY – iNTROSPECTION

Cradled within a chair,
For I am soothed and warmed by life’s mystical treasures.
As I turn the pages of time’s forgiving grace.

Whispers of the Dark #11

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I hear your laughter as I write this. I hear the sound your disdain makes as it oozes from your lips. Who I am isn’t enough to satisfy you. Who I am is nothing more than a source of laughter. Certainly, nothing to be respected or loved. I knew who I was when we met. Somewhere along the way, I began believing I was more than I am. If you think about it, the notion is rather pathetic. I realize and accept dealing with me was something done in desperation, something done as a last resort.

I don’t have to guess why this occurred. There is a preponderance of evidence. Yet, my denial is commodious. Foolishly, I opened my heart, knowing I had nothing to offer. I’m a destroyer of love on so many levels; what right do I have to be loved. I suppose, in a way, I’m a selfish jerk who forgot what they had done. Do you believe in fate? Do I have the strength to pull the trigger? Do I have the courage to accept the truth as it stares right in my face?

Standing listening to the whispering darkness as they perforate the perpetual silence. I taste the blood of the wounds neath my scars. I bathe in the memories of the delusion of us I created. I remember your smile, and for one second, I’m hopeful. I wish I could write away the pain of truth. But I have never been that good.

Your silence speaks the truth…

Yet I believe in the lie, it’s safe. Its warmth is soothing like only a lie can do. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to be someone you could count on. However, your expression speaks the unspeakable. Still, I sit letting the thoughts free flow. I swallow the tears of beautiful lies. I’m praying somewhere in between delusion and reality there is something there. Something telling me I haven’t been lying to myself all this time.

Whatever it is; I’m accountable. I must be strong despite myself. I used to be afraid of the light and noise. Now I must embrace …

The Whispers of the Dark

Skywriting – 082420231329

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

No man should ever eat another man’s dirt.
Sometimes, its better to go home, pride wounded
Then, to end up neath the dirr

Skywriting – 082120230945

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Pain is coursing through my body like I’m riding the rapids. There seems to be no end in sight. I can barely keep my eyes open. I barely slept at all. Yet, today is a good day. Today, is a solid day.

I got married on this day, decades ago. I know its crazy. How did I find a woman crazy enough to put up with me. It boggles the mind, but I never question the laws of physics. God rest her.

The first granddaughter was born today. Though she’s a pain in the butt, as are all my grandbabies. I couldn’t be prouder of her.

So today is a good, solid, and strong day!

Be Blessed !

Party in the Streets

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What do you love about where you live?

PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

The thing I love about my neighborhood is the sense of community. Everyone is struggling in one way or another, but somehow, we come together in times of need. Today, I witnessed a local church hand out school supplies to its members.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, things like this happen.

Now, I’m the only one who’s plays rock & roll in my neighborhood, but the sentiment is sound.

Skywriting – 081820231422

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I’m unsure if I always enjoyed the clouds, but I know I loved the rain. Lately, in my part of the world, cloudy skies are normal. So, when I walked out and saw clear skies, I should have known there was going to be some shit this morning.

There I was standing in front of the vending machine trying to decide what salty, sugary, or this might be good, but tastes like poo, treat I going to get. This is when happened….

“What?…What?” exclaimed the strange person walking up the stairs.

I have a blank look on face, because my caffiene levels are in the red. I’ve learned from eperience not to respond without being properly caffienated.

“First thing in tbe morning you at the dog – gone vending machine.”

I stand dumbfounded at her choice of vernacular. A young person using “Dog-Gone” tells me she spent time with her elders which pleases me. She went on with some indiscript chattering. I was only make out a word here and there.

Then another one appeared with a plate in her hands. Mistakenly I did the following.

“What is this?” I asked with a puzzled look on my face.

“It’s healthy, now eat it!” says the sassy short person.

Here’s the funny thing about sassy short people they believe they whatever the hell the want and we just have to take it. Now, what’s about these two sassy individuals is they are just a millimeter from being stubby. I’ve dealt with stubby folks on occasion, they’re not so bad ; pleasant even. So close!

Now, to complete this motley quartet is a regular sized person. Now, she sat there like she had no idea what was going on. Ya’ll know I wasn’t what they was selling no even a little bit. The shit was adorable; coochie-coo!

I defended myself by saying something outlandish; to only be met with walking away giggling with one hand waving in the air.

“I can’t …I can’t!” they muttered in unison all walking away in different directions.

The meal was tasty, but the love behind it was amazing.

Skywriting – 081720230806

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

The clouds are thick this morning. It puts me in the mind of the old saying, “A blanket of clouds.” They look as if there are several blankets one on top of another. It’s one of those days where you just want to roll over and catch some more sleep. Not a lot, just another hour or three.

I was picking up breakfast at the local grocery and I saw a woman shopping gingerly. She ended up at the chekout before I did. She had a bottle of wine and crackers. I chuckled as I walked out the door. I sat in my pickup looking at my receipt, my items came to $19.87. It was the year I stepped into madness.

They Shape the World …

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What profession do you admire most and why?

DAILY PROMPT RESPONSE

When I think about the professions that make a difference, what comes to mind are teachers, doctors, and stuff. However, I attended a concert last week where the lead singer took a moment to recognize the personnel who spent all day in the heat setting up everything. I liked that a lot.

So, this morning, I took a different approach to answering this question. I decided to choose a profession that is seldom heard or talked about. As I began thinking about the question, I realized there are far too many unspoken professions. So let’s do this…

If you work behind the scenes or rarely get credit for the things you do.

This Bud for you …

Respect

So many prominent people get their moment in the spotlight. It’s time for the people who shape the world to get some props. I’ve been one of you my whole life. So were my parents and most of my friends. So, this tribute is genuine.

The State of things … right now

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this is how I’m feeling …

I can hear my therapist voice in my head….

“Let’s use our coping skills, hmm.”

I remain silent, but think, “Our? What do you mean, our?”

“Let’s review our mantra.”, “One?”

Still silent, “You’re so fired.”

Is it Really that Simple?

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

For months, I’ve refused to acknowledge ownership of the feral cats in my house. Yes, I realize what I just said, allow me to explain. It happened several months ago when one showed up pregnant looking all cuddly and whatnot.

There is a considerable amount more to the story and I tried to end plain the particulars to my lady. She gracious listened and asked the following question.

“Do you feed them?”

“Yes.”

“Then they are your cats.”

I started to protest, because their obvious factors she wasn’t considering. Her eyebrow raised, she gave the look that every woman gives their man when he being ridiculous. I relented and went to pick up some kibble. They really love the salmon and rice stuff.

Is it really that simple?

Skywriting – 081320231100

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

It’s been a while since I felt like writing; it’s been a heavy couple of weeks. The kind that can be summed up in a single word, “Damn.” Said in a whisper with a shake of the head while rubbing your brow, as if that action ever really does anything. Everything seems to be gnawing you all at once. It’s like being pulled into a thousand different directions, but you’re standing still.

Wishing this were true…

While popping off the lid of the carton of Butter Pecan, you pause, thinking it might be a bit early…

Who gives a shit … it’s 11 am

Skywriting – 072720231236

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

I haven’t been sleeping, my latest bout with insomnia. I’m sure there’s a reason. However, too figure out what.

So it goes …

~thank you for reading~

Skywriting – 07272023111132

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS / RECOLLECTION

During my daily reading this morning, I came across an opening line.
It evokes a random memory
It unearthed a forgotten emotion

Kiss me without stopping …

K. Hartless’ s Yard Sale of Thoughts

Yes, I remember the first time I saw my beloved.
I swallowed a delicious urge to kiss her

Kiss me
Yeesss!
slow and deep
in a serious manner

Kiss me
without boundaries
Without pretense

Surrender to hunger
Give way to passion

A knock on the door
”Mr. Khan, your 1 o’clock is here.”
I have a perplexed look
“I know she’s early, but she says it can’t wait.”
I nod

Now, I swallow a primal urge to shiver

~thank you for reading~

Question of the Day – 07242023

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Questions:

Can I be strong? & Can I be trusted?

Thought Process:

I was told, telling someone to trust you is a plea of a guilty soul. I’m unsure if I agree with this statement, but it has always stuck with lingering the darkness of my mind. As if it was reminders of my demons I created and haunt me daily. You know what talking about. Most folks know as regrets.

I’m guilty of many things and my regrets are numerous. Yet, I wonder if I’m strong enough to bear the responsibility of my guilt and the reality of the unintended consequences of my actions. No matter which way direction the pendulum swings, the reality of the situation rings true. It’s cost is a heavy one.

Answer:

I’m going to have to be.

Skywriting – 072420230743

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PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT

The pulled me the arms of my vision. I say vision because it felt than a dream. Nana always said if you can remember your dream, it was a premonition of what was to come.

I hope so

~thank you for reading~

Want to know Something Crazy?

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PROSE – REFLECTION

There was a time recently when people asked if this was the beginning of our extinction. I was unsure, but I listened. I’m not an alarmist or anything, nor do I believe they were either. However, one couldn’t ignore what was happening around us.

A local playground during the pandemic

So, the world goes back to normal somewhat. We resume our usual activities as best we can. No more caution tape, and families are filling the playground. Laughter filled the air, assholes resurfaced, and street prophets stood on the corners, dropping their unorthodox wisdom. Yeah, everything’s right in the world. It has been this way for a couple of years. The attitude is we made it through the worst of it.

Two weeks ago, I sat here in the dark. I sit here not by choice but by circumstance. A tornado touched down in my area, destroying all in its path. Broken branches lined the streets, and power was lost. They are still clearing up the branches, but they are almost done. The last of my friends got their power restored Tuesday. I was lucky by comparison my power was out for three days.

The rest of the city was far worst than this

The physical damage was the easy part, but the effects of the emotional damage lingered. I still haven’t seemed to regain my rhythm in writing with the blog. But I need it. It was one of the few things that remained steady.

Whispers of the Dark #9

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I’m losing hope
but I know I can never give up

I must maintain my faith
in the Master and the ones I love

I know they don’t have faith in me
I understand why they have

I pray to the Master that one day
the one I love will gain faith in me

~thank you for reading~

In the Wee Hours #6

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

Last night I dreamt of the innocence of writing
before the hoopla, deadlines, word counts, etc.,
when we hurriedly crafted sentences
in chalk on sidewalks before they got washed away in the rain.
Good luck today;
write clean, true, & honest ….it’s 5 am

~thank you for reading~

In the Wee Hours #5

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POETRY – RANDOM THOUGHTS

I heard a whisper and chronicled its truth.
It spoke of the space between; that pause, that moment.
The blissful innocence, the delicious taste, the insatiable hunger,
the… sigh. I open my notebook … it’s 4 am.

~thank you for reading~

My Monster Side

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What could you let go of, for the sake of harmony?

PROSE – RANDOM THOUGHT/ DAILY PROMPT

I constantly think the monster I reside within is in control of every decision I make. I’m aware this doesn’t make sense to most, but I will my best to have make sense. Before I’ve blogged about being my monster’s prisoner. However, in that post, I wasn’t exactly truthful. I didn’t exactly tell it straight. I played with words rearranged them for the sake of cleverness or for the sake of attempting of being cool.

The truth can be the hardest hammer known. Or touch with the gentliest touch. The gentle touch, part is something I read about somewhere. I’d would like to think it exists, but unfortunately it hasn’t been my experience.

Today, I realized something about myself. Accepting the truth of is one of the most painful things I’ve experinced in awhile. I’d like to walk upon a Djinn, so they could grant me three wishes. However, I only need one. I’d wish I could someone worthy of respect and be treated with dignity.

Yet, I know it. doesn’t work that way. I can’t rid of my monster side. Nor, can I even hid it. For it’s all that I am. I would gladly surrender it for the sake of harmony