14 – Poem

One talks with anger
The other with Cheer
Take your Pick-
The Child looks on

Christmas

I was thirteen. I was asked to borrow $108.00 that I’d been saving in a small yellow pouch. I hid the yellow pouch in my closet, yet it’s existence was known. It was my stash. I didn’t have much, I saved what I could. In a few weeks it would be Christmas.

“What do you need it for?”

“I want to buy her a gold necklace with a gem at the bottom. I have enough for the necklace, but not enough for the gem. If you let me borrow the money I’ll be able to get both.”

I let him borrow the money.

Christmas morning came. I watched as presents were opened. I watched her open all of hers. I didn’t see a gold necklace. I didn’t see a gem.

I sat in my corner observing life at its finest. I felt the anger rise. I’ve always felt the anger. Soon I’d be strong enough.

Hello – Odd Walking Thoughts

If it was nothing, it wouldn’t be there. It’s more than nothing which makes it something and because it’s something we’ll have to wait and see. If I were something rather than a nothing I’d be happy because a nothing is a nothing and not near as good as a something. -M. Taggart

Mind Scribble

This happens often-
These debates within

I walk and scribble upon my wall
I shrug to let no one know
One’s right, the other’s wrong

11

The music Stopped-
Though it Hadn’t Been Playing

We move on

William Faulkner – As I Lay Dying

I recently read this remarkable story. Faulkner’s use of basic verbiage mixed with philosophical inner thoughts from character to character was amazing. I noticed Faulkner was using words of his creation, which I’m a fan of doing myself. It’s a trick of sorts. It’s as if the word(s) exists and has every right to live within the story. Because it does.

But none of the above is the reason for this post. I’m writing this post to make aware (anyone who’s interested) in something I read within the editors notes.

Editors Notes:

He wrote As I Lay Dying at the University of Mississippi power plant, where he was employed as a fireman and night watchman, mostly in the early morning, after everybody had gone to bed and power needs had diminished.

For me this is massively relevant. Without boring any of you with my personal details, I think it’s safe to say that many of you are currently working in a field that has nothing to do with your writing goals. I had assumed Faulkner was a writer and had been nothing other than a writer.

I often say, ‘Read on, it’s good for the brain.’ But in this case it’s ‘Write on, it’s good for the brain.’

Odd Walking Thoughts – Pain

You laugh, I watch.  Awkward it may be. I feel this. It’s your pain. I’m holding it for you.  I watch. You laugh.

Goodbye 12/9/14

On Wednesday evening I returned. I was driving through the lights and noise and cement. All of which I dislike. The storm was a mixture of rain and sleet. New England is gearing up for another winter. I’m stuck in near gridlock traffic while traveling one of the major corridors through Hartford, CT. I’m traveling south east, toward the beach where I live.

This weather and traffic mirrored my internal conflict. I’d left my best friend alone. He lost his father unexpectedly. I spent the night on his couch after the service. The service was outside in a New England ice storm. Many people were again without power. We stood soaking wet and watched as his father was laid to rest. Death becomes us all. I’m unafraid of death. I watched as my friend struck the dirt with a shovel in hand and flung it down onto his father. It landed loudly on the coffin. He is the only son and he was the first with the shovel. I watched his sister do the same, then others. When I held the shovel I said ‘you son of a bitch’ and dropped the dirt. I feel he’s never gone, we’re never gone.

I had more to say to him, face-to-face. As did everyone standing in the storm. We weren’t done with him. Now we speak to him in our minds and at our symbols.  He could be a chair. We sit on him and make him listen.  I needed to tell him that he’s in my book and that I see the best of him. I don’t see the needle. I don’t see the self harm. I don’t care. I see the man that we all loved, still love and still talk to. I called him a son of a bitch because I am selfish and I wanted to tell him he was in my book. Now he knows. I’m on a chair and I’m making him listen.

His son held his drink high. He wanted to cheers our friendship and his father.  It was left over spit from chew. He asked what was wrong with the whiskey. We said nothing, drink the rest fast. He asked why the whiskey smelled odd. He son doesn’t drink. He doesn’t needle. He works with children and is a Saint.  His son is my best friend and just drank the spit of chew that was left behind by another. Now he wants to know what’s wrong with the whiskey and we laugh harder than possible and cheers his father because his son is now running for the toilet to be rid of rotten whiskey that isn’t whiskey and we know this moment will be forever. His father is gone but watching. His father knows his son is a Saint.

I’m driving through a New England storm to return. My friend is home, alone for the first time since the service. I’m thinking of him and of life and death. I reach out the window and take a picture. So many lights. Some are already dead.

Ten

This doesn’t belong here-
These memories aren’t mine.

A Short Story – Based on True Events

From time to time I’ll mention a short story I wrote for my cousin. He was in a tough situation and the only item left for me to give was to write. And I did. I wrote from the heart. He read the story and loved it. His mother read the story and his life was changed. She no longer enabled him to drink. Cutting him off, he became homeless.

Fast forwarding to the now, he’s employed and doing well having just hit his one year mark. He called to talk about that, life, our family. I love my cousin.

After I wrote the story, Megan, self published it for me. It’s called Don’t Be A Sally- Based on true events. I make mention of this story in my ‘About’ and haven’t a clue if any of you have read it. It’s not perfect and it’s not professionally edited.

Megan is the reason I write. She found a box in the closet.  I had printed a few short stories I’d written while in College and placed them in the box, forgotten. College was a decade ago. I wasn’t sure I could write. I wasn’t sure I ever could. I wasn’t an English major. I know very little about the proper usage of anything. Oddly enough, I don’t want to know. I know that words land on the page and somehow they came from me. That’s all I want. I don’t wish to be perfect, only perfectly me.

Now these words chase me. I can’t make them stop. I can’t ignore my past and I won’t. Eventually I’ll write about that too. But, not yet. For now, I’ll finish ‘Colby and the Ravine’ a novel about a child’s innocence lost, written for adults. The ravine is the ravine I grew up in. I might as well have been a stick lying at the bottom of the ravine. I fit well there.

I didn’t mean to sit down and write this post. Now, here it is. It’s December 7th and I have to publish this post. 7 is my favorite number. It’s a number I feel thankful for.