Let’s celebrate our differences

Hi.
I’m Matt.
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.

Writing Goals, Hope, and Determination.

I have two specific writing goals in mind. One is out of my hands. I’ve submitted and now I wait. The other, I just found, and am hungry to attempt success. I think it’s possible, and no matter how I think about it, the future will not wait.

I enjoy writing so much that I believe it is a necessity in my life. To have it removed, or taken away, would be torture. I had enough of that in my childhood years so I think I’ll continue to write until I am moved from this word.

I’m ready for this challenge. To knock on the door of a publication the was out of reach a few years ago, that now is not, and I know this to my core. Even if I fail with them I will produce something concrete and lasting and it will find a place to be read. Either way, a form of success will come to fruition. I’ve yet to write the pieces. I feel them growing. I look forward to knowing them.

Life is a funny thing. And a lovely thing.

Thank you for being with me. I hope whatever goals you may have come to be in the best possible way.

Matt

 

poem-

Not all stories need meaning.
Sometimes I want to read
about a trip to the store to
pick up milk. About how the
sun was covered by mid-day
clouds, and how the cows in the
pasture watched as you drove by.
Chewing hay with no small
amount of understanding as to
who you are, or where you might be headed.

-M. Taggart

Writing

“To thine own self be true.” -Shakespeare.

Timeless humanity and our perception of it. This is what I study. This is what I write. I live with passion. I write with passion. I follow no man.

I invite you to read my writings. Buckle up and enjoy the ride of my expressions via poems, short stories, or my Odd Walking Thoughts. Just remember, I follow no rules when writing and what I write comes from internalized experiences and thoughts tied together with how I perceive humanity to be. And here’s a thought to chew on- be careful of rules placed onto you by others, or you’ll find your writing voice will be among the herd.

Cheers,

Matt

Short Stories link below-

https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/m-taggart-short-stories/

 

 

book signing, question mark..

I was asked to do a book signing
in Kittery, Maine and in New Hampshire
near the lake region.

Now I’m sitting here smashing a beer
wondering what the hell I’m going to do.
I felt pure embarrassment when asked
to do something I’ve prayed for.
She even helped me with that-
to not feel embarrassed.
It was her book store and her idea.

It’s just one very short story.
Is THAT worth a book signing?
I’m nobody, who are you?
Thank you Emily, you are brilliant.
I’m a man who takes care of our son
every day, picks up toys, gets on
hands and knees to wash around
the toilet, and then finds cat vomit
in the cat dish. Wasn’t that nice of him.

I work during Gavin’s nap and I work
at night, to catch up on the work I couldn’t do
while I was cleaning, or picking up toys.
My days of flying around this country
Branding financial institutions are over.

Or, are they? I left that behind by choice.
Maybe I ought to do this. Sit in a book store
and talk with people who love to read and write.

Maybe I will.
Maybe I’ll bring whiskey.

-M. Taggart

 

‘Screaming Hills’ has been published

Excitedly I’m sharing with you a dream come true. Editors at Z Publishing House have selected and published my short story, Screaming Hills, in their series Massachusetts’s Emerging Writers: An Anthology of Fiction, 2018.

You can find the book here. (You may need to visit my post to view the link below.)

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1724729209/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1533750719&sr=8-1&keywords=Massachusetts%27s+emerging

Cheers everyone.

Matt

 

About:
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/m-taggart/

Published Work:
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

 

 

life

While in jail I liked listening to the different voices at night. All kinds of accents bounced from the cement walls back and around and through again. Someone wanted a porn magazine passed to him. Another sang a song. Someone was doing push-ups a few cells down. Jokes were being told by faces who couldn’t see the intended ears. All while I laid on my top bunk thinking about how my college classes couldn’t teach me about any of this. I loved it. I still do. I love remembering it. Shame? No. The only shame I come upon concerning my having gone to jail was, and is, from family members embarrassed of me. I laugh at them. They are weak. They were always weak. I learned as much in jail as I did in my four years earning my business degree. School of Management, baby. At the very liberal State University of Massachusetts in Amherst, MA. Where they love to tell you how to think. Life is a funny thing. A sad thing. A beautiful thing. Sometimes I think I should tell my full story. But then again, fuck it.

-M. Taggart

poem-

simmering evening skies
with a slight breeze
awakening our sensations-
the smell of the woods,
moss, ferns, peeling bark,
pine needles, evergreens, birch,
lightning bugs asking to be chased,
the comfortable cloaking darkness
stars stretching our vision
helping to remind us
in time, possibly
we’ll truly know

-M. Taggart

A Short Story – No Thanks, Lady

Short Story
Non Fiction
Written by -M. Taggart
7/8/18

 

No Thanks, Lady

 

Yesterday evening I went to the pub to have a beer, relax, and read Hemingway. Kim, the bartender, asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I told her they are good and happy. After she brought the beer I dove into my book.

I needed a moment to clear my head.

A woman zeroed in on me. She sat on the stool next to me. She put her hand on my back and called me baby. I tried to ignore her.

Kim saw that I was annoyed. She came over and asked what I was reading. I told her which short story and that it was Hemingway. I told her that his sentence structure and delivery of words seems to calm me.

The woman sitting next to me told me I was a man of depth. She put her hand on my left arm, near the bend in my elbow and squeezed while leaning closer to me. She told me she would know because she’s a therapist.

Kim looked concerned for me and again asked how Megan and Gavin were doing. I quickly replied they were doing good while flashing my ring in the woman’s face. I told Kim that the building of our house was in full motion.

My thoughts raced. I wanted to scream at this disgusting being. I wanted to tell her to get her fucking hands off of me. I’m not a piece of meat. I would never do this to another person. But I didn’t. I had fought enough earlier in the day. I didn’t want to again.

I had purposefully chosen the bar stool closest to the wall. Hell, I had waited for it to open while standing in the corner. I wanted to be alone, with my book, around people without being touched. I dislike being touched. But I calmed myself and listened to her tell me about addiction. About how bad the town was suffering. She told me about all of this while licking her lips constantly. She even removed her glasses and tried her best attempt to show me her younger self.

She droned on and on and said, “I don’t fucking know, there’s the f word, I never say fuck, I don’t fucking know how to fix these addicts. I don’t know what to do.” All while finding any possible avenue to touch my shoulder, arm, back, and even reaching for my hand, the one with the wedding ring. “Do you know what I’m saying, baby, don’t you feel their pain. I pulled away, pushing myself into the wall the best I could. Then she made the mistake of calling me brilliant. She doesn’t know me. I’ve hardly spoken and now I’m brilliant? More like now I’m the therapist. This is nothing new to me. People latch on to me and vomit. I sit and I listen and I smile and I think. This person is a dime a dozen and when I was done listening to what I could gather for writing material I told her ever so nicely, “It’s time for me to read my book.” And I let her fade away into realizing how little I cared for her attempt at knowing me.

I ignored her when she tried to engage me again. She paid, quickly finished her drink, and left the pub.

I did want to ask her a few questions. Such as, “What are you views on sexism?” But I didn’t. I did tell her that I was a writer. She didn’t listen. But I did. I learned she isn’t capable enough to help her addicted clients to the level she wishes and she wasn’t aware enough to know I was going to use her possible sex addiction in a short story. That’s what happens when people talk too much and don’t listen.

 

-M. Taggart

 

A Short Story-

In a Face
Short Story- Nonfiction
Written by -M. Taggart

In a Face

 

You can see intelligence in a face.

In college I was told by one of my English professors to not bother writing a book.
Actually, he told me that I wouldn’t. And to not bother.

I asked him why. He said, “It takes a lot of work to write a book. And so many students say they will, but they don’t. Or, a book is started and not finished.”

He was bald. He was having a hard time pushing his material into his carry bag. Which,
For some reason was already slung over his shoulder.

I’m bald. I was going bald while in college. I don’t care who’s bald.
He was bald.

So there he was, this man-thing, telling me to not bother writing a book.

I don’t want to be a writer
I am a writer.

But, he didn’t know this, he wouldn’t understand even if he did.
My professor had just told me his struggles to write a book were my own.

Another thing he didn’t know was that I had already written. A lot. And I wasn’t an English major. I took English classes because they were my young-adult recess.

When I read Kafka’s Metamorphosis we dissected it with a professor’s assistant.
She was Russian and spoke broken English. Our class of over 400 was broken down into small segments. My group was roughly 15.

We met with her every Tuesday at 4pm.
She would constantly ask for my interpretation of Kafka’s work.
I wondered if she asked for my opinion so often because I wasn’t afraid to speak in front of others. But, that was a lie. I knew why she asked. I just didn’t allow myself to accept it, not just yet. Isn’t it funny how we do this to ourselves.

She was driven by literature. She listened, and thought about her responses
before delivering. She would ask us what authors we enjoyed. Then she’d write the names of the authors in her notebook.

She was beautiful. Her mind. Her broken English.
Her struggle to express.
She seldom made facial expressions. Her eyes danced while listening.

You can see intelligence in a face.