I’m a stocky, hairy, Scots-Irish American.
I like books. Good books. Cigars, not always good ones,
and looking at walls. Not all walls have secrets, or are the same,
but most have something to say, if you listen, or see.
I guess walls are a bit like us. I like us. I cherish all
cultures. I want to know what makes a Scot a Scot, or
an Indian an Indian. I want to learn. I want to cheers
a Russian with a glass of mother’s vodka, and smoke a smoke
with an Iranian. If that’s something they like. I don’t know.
I don’t want to hide what makes us, us. I want to celebrate
these differences and decorate them as an alliance.
My wife took a few photos of me and made it a GIF.
This was just before we moved and I’m as out of shape
as I can be, but that’s OK. I’m vulnerable and comfortable
with looking not my best. I like things to be what they are,
facades never mean anything anyway.
ps, If you ever have a drink with me. Good luck lol
My last name is Taggart. And once was McTaggart. From what I understand
my heritage goes back to the highlands of Scotland. Hope to go there.
I accidentally stepped on my cigar. Thing got all fucked up. Smoked it anyway. I wrote a short story about this lake, which is now published. Moosehead Lake has a funny feeling about it. One that settles into the bones and doesn’t let go.
More on the published horror story. Only. Just. Here. –
You have to go, to go. Push on, pushing on. I’m smoking a cigar inside. First time in years. I accidentally put it out in my son’s cereal bowl dish with my spit. I didn’t want that. I had fun lighting it again with a wooden match made of what the fuck fire.
I’m coming to terms with my life. I have terms and Life doesn’t. So we’re both sitting here with this cigar watching smoke. I once read that a blind man wouldn’t smoke because he couldn’t see the smoke rise around him. I get it. I wouldn’t smoke either if I couldn’t see the difference in each rising movement. Those columns are different each time so that’s where we’d miss the everything about what we wanted to be.
Anyway, I type so letters become words around thought.
Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song
Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask
Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.
for others to dismantle.
Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it
My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.
Smash a beer tonight. Or take a long pull of wine. Have a cigar. Hug your sister. Your mother. Your son. Your dog. Hug the toilet. It’s O.K. to be you. Tell your wife you love her. If she isn’t listening, tell her again. Tell the man with the beard that he has a nice beard. Ask how long it took to grow. It’s Christmas. Tell your footprints you haven’t forgotten, but that you need to move on. Nothing ever stops being tomorrow.
There was a constant wind blowing from the south. The wind drove itself into the mountain range on the opposite side of the lake. He had taken the canoe to the farthest southern corner of the lake. There, the canopy of evergreens block the wind. The water was smooth.
The lake was nice and cool. The native trout were active. He watched them rise, leaving small rings. There was only the sound of the wind reaching, and swiveling away from the soft branches of the evergreens.
Raising his arm, the fly line became active and arched beautifully through the air. He’d seen a riser just ten yards in front of the canoe. He landed the fly just inside the outer portion of the ring.
Immediately his line became taught, his rod bent in half. He could feel every movement the large trout made. It fought severely. The fly snapped back into the air, and flew toward the canoe. The fish was gone.
He could still feel the vibrant activity in his hands, arms, and mostly his mind. He lay the rod down, letting the fly line drift on the water. He wanted to remember the feeling of the strike. And he wanted to remember the feeling of his failure. He reached into the inner pocket of his wool coat and found the half-smoked cigar.
He liked that a cigar lit hard after having been smoked and let to die out. He needed to cover the cigar from the wind and point it down to warm it sufficiently before trying to smoke it. If the smoke from the cigar didn’t travel fully through, he’d need to start over. After the third try his thumb would be slightly burned. If the wind was too heavy the cigar couldn’t be lit. He’d be left with a smoldering cigar and burned thumb. But, if the cigar was lit, he would enjoy the feeling of the smoke. He’d watch the swirls leave his mouth and range wildly around his face. No one arrangement of smoke was the same. Thinking about this made him ache with warmth.
‘All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse, and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer.’ -E. Hemingway, A Letter From Cuba.
I’m standing on the deck with a cigar and it’s dark now. They say, ‘Don’t blink.’ I blinked taking snap shots because this is how I remember. The deck isn’t large and then there’s the sliding glass doors. These aren’t important. What’s inside is where my heart is.
My wife is in the shower. Our son is asleep. A child I wished to have and now do have. I blink and see a shelf through the sliding glass doors on the left. On the shelf are antique spice tins, small cast iron trays, greenery which I don’t like but she does and she’s best at making a home so they’re there. Blue jars and a metal fire truck which isn’t antique but looks like it is. Above the shelf hangs a large wooden American flag.
On the wall, near the shelf, there is a large wooden star and two wooden butterflies. Megan says we’ll not need the butterflies when we move and to toss them. Her father says to pack them and find a place for them to be.
In the middle of the room there’s an island which shines from multiple cleanings. It’s dark outside and the cigar smoke slips around my vision.
On the kitchen counter stand four empty beer bottles. On the kitchen sink there’s a brush standing upright because it has a suction cup bottom keeping it in place. We use the brush to clean Gavin’s bottles.
Also on the counter is dawn dish detergent and a blue sponge. The faucet is clean and also shining like the island. Then there’s a sugar container with my Boston Red Sox coffee mug sitting on top. I normally don’t leave it on top of the sugar container, but I did today. Then there’s the coffee maker and toaster oven. We leave the oven unplugged. After the toaster oven is a curve in the counter leading to the gas stove. The stove is black and it gleams. After the stove is the stainless steel refrigerator. This is where I once stood and prayed and let tears fall freely. Gavin’s ultra sound pictures were underneath magnets.
My cigar smoke rises. Megan walked from the hallway into the kitchen area with a towel wrapped around her body. She is just out of the shower. She’s turning the lights off. She know’s I’m on the deck smoking my cigar and wants to let me have my moment. She doesn’t know my moment is to never forget. The shelf, the star, the butterflies, the sugar container and her walking in her towel. The home she’s made and the child we have; the sliding glass door and the deck that doesn’t matter leading to me, where I stand and where I know my place.