find what’s great in the wind
and smile in the mirror
find what’s great in the wind
and smile in the mirror
I feel free and good today. I hope all of you feel as good as possible.
Yesterday a fellow blogger, https://coloradopoet.com/ wrote a comment that I found to be very powerful. For me personally. But also, the comment taught and humbled me. For my peer to take the time to sincerely express her support was absolutely amazing. I am thankful.
Writing is a funny thing. In my opinion many of us don’t choose to write. Writing selects us. One way, or another, it’s going to come out.
Here is the wonderful comment:
“You got this Matt. You are an amazing writer. Personally, I feel like the world will be damn lucky to read your very original and authentic writing. It always amazes me to read your stuff as I often feel it’s like thoughts many of us have, or I have anyway, that I could never elucidate. Relax, push forward, the writing is for you anyway… it’s just a gift we get to read it.” – https://coloradopoet.com/
I invite you to please visit https://coloradopoet.com/ and flood the blog with good stuff!
Cheers everyone! We drive from Maine to Massachusetts this morning to arrive just on time for my brother’s baby shower. Another to add to the family 🙂
ps, (the comment was in reference to my post about submitting writing to a publication https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/2019/06/28/submission-roller-coaster-ride/comment-page-1/#comment-8909)
I’m gearing up to submit to a large publication.
It’s nerve racking.
anyone who has done this,
has experienced some range of emotions.
Is the content correct for the publication?
Is my work good enough?
Shit. They want a cover letter.
not just a simple bio
they even want a list of
where I’ve been published
Make more coffee.
Sit, relax, drink too much coffee.
Time drips on
and somehow a few days too
And I keep picking more important
items to complete
I hate when I lie to myself
ps, Wish me luck.
I like to read in public. I find it relaxing. I enjoy the background noise. It seems to somehow mold itself into the happening within the book. As though the chatter from the pub’s patrons are the very chatter I’m reading about. It doesn’t interfere with my concentration. It never has. I don’t just read books in pubs. I read while sitting in the back of my truck in random parking lots, on the beach, around a campfire, etc. And, I use to read while walking from class to class on the UMASS, Amherst campus. One time, while walking with a book in my face, a young lady pulled the book down and kissed me. I don’t know why I didn’t ask her name. Instead I continued on, walking and reading, but now with a large smile on my face.
While in public people often ask what I’m reading. This has lead to many great conversations, as well as, new friends. Generally the question I ask is them is, “What author do you like best?” It seems when one book-head sees another it’s hard not to connect. All I know is that I love to read.
Do any of you read in public? If so, do you have a favorite location?
One poem can be a good book.
Saw a cat once. It was black. Crossed into a cornfield. While we walked the cat came back. It wasn’t about the cat. Never was. Large tree had a branch torn off by a storm. I saw that storm. Ran from it. -A leaf rushes by, how often does one thought finally stop you and you wonder about its truth. About the cat.
There’s a thing about a morning
The way it settles in
How the mist moves slowly
How we feel
I wonder if anyone else watches
about how the leaves look
That’s the thing about a morning
Each one is slightly different
I hope your day treats you well.
There is something about
being in between a thought,
and action, where a
moment of fog can create
nothing taking place of either
A Short Story
A Short Story
It was her birthday. She wanted to talk. A lot. I like to listen, but had planned on reading a book. I ordered a Guinness.
She told me she was lucky to make it. She was now 60. She didn’t say the number out-loud, instead she faced me and asked me to count her fingers.
For the next half hour I listened to her story. She had lived in foster care, had been abused, physically and mentally, found herself at 18 with a vicious tongue and lost herself completely in her twenties.
She had attempting suicide multiple times. The last attempt landed her in a coma and in the hospital. During the explanation of her life she bounced from age-to-age and from addiction to health. By her mid-thirties she had once again found herself and had stopped drinking. She also stopped using drugs.
She found both again and lived another round of almost not living. She was homeless for a time. She vomited feces while she was dying. She woke up on a Monday, put her make-up on, and lived.
I didn’t bother trying to read my book. I wanted her to finish her story. This happens to me often when I sit at the bar. I don’t mind. When I don’t want to talk, I stand in the corner, alone, with a book and a beer.
She is very kind. Full of love for life and happy to have not died during her attempts to end hers. She told me this while pouring her new beer into an empty pint glass. Her eyes widened as she started a new chapter of her story.
Slowly, I entered small facts about myself into the conversation. “You lived in Turners Falls, MA?!” she replied? “No, I went to High School in that town. And Turners was a border town to my home town.” “No wonder you had anger! There’s nothing there!”
That wasn’t the reason I had anger. I love that town.
She knew the drug houses, the homeless issue, the violence, the left over edge one has after spending any length of time in that region. And here we sat, in a pub located in Maine.
She asked if I was familiar with Greenfield. “Yes. Greenfield is where I was in one-too-many fights and also where I spent time in jail.”
She told me she lived in the woman’s home in Greenfield and that’s where she got clean. It took over a year, but they were amazing to her and saved her life.
I told her I wrote a short story that had much to do with the small town mindset of that area. And there we sat, enjoying our lives in the now, talking about the past. About the very town where I’ve lost friends due to addiction and violence. The very town where I found love for the first time and where I learned driving alone late at night, with the windows down and radio off, was a form of freedom that I was only just beginning to understand.
Climb into the cubburd.
Close the door
I’m going to tell you
about the time I wouldn’t
let myself write
I had to go to the bathroom
I told myself I needed breakfast
While eating breakfast
I told myself I needed to clean the house
I told myself
I needed to work
While working I told myself
I needed to exercise
I felt shame for not writing
I cannot write
I am no good
what would it matter
It is dark in this cupboard
This is when I realized-
I never knew