--I THINK I’VE BEEN THINKING TOO MUCH LATELY

…It happened.
Yesterday I got my 500th acceptance and today I got my 501st story/poem accepted. That’s since May of ’09. It’s a little daunting. I feel sort of, I don’t know really, floaty and unsure.
Originally back in ’09 the idea was to see if I could get 20 stories published to sort of buffer my credentials in hopes of proving to an agent that I could write that I took the craft seriously.
It got addictive, the short writing and submitting.
Maybe it’s because I need to be validated as a writer.
I am a writer, aren’t’ I? It still comes out sort of soft and chunky when people ask what I do and I say, “I’m a writer.”
Does that make any sense to you?
So 500 was my goal for the end of 2011.
I have other goals I will hit and some that will take a minor miracle to hit.
I’m fine with missing a few targets. I’m trying not to be so uptight. I’m also trying to spend more time with my kids.

…Yesterday my son and I saw “A Little Help” starring Jenna Fischer from “The Office.”
She was spectacular and the film was wonderful.
Aside from my son and I, there were a whopping total of seven other people in the theater. This, while “Transformers” was sold out. What’s wrong with people? I’m not even sure how little Indy films make it. I’m not elitist. I get that there are all kinds of people with all kinds of varied tastes. I get that. It’s just sad and frustrating to see good art get ignored.

…I have been thinking about mortality lately, namely my own mortality.
Do you ever do that?
I never have. I think I’ve always been too afraid.
But I’ve let myself think about dying.
It’s still scary to me, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how people can say they’re not afraid of death. Maybe I’m just that much weaker.
I’ve been wondering about my legacy. Now that I’m not in the corporate world anymore, I feel as if I’m a different person, removed from all that machination.
I’m part of the writing world. I have a little presence, but I don’t really know that many people.
I know some virtually.
I don’t know. I know about my legacy.
What does 500 mean? What does 501 mean, or a 1,000 or a novel sitting on the desk that’s gone unpublished.
What does it all mean and who can explain it to me?

If you’d let me, I bet I could.
If you’d let me, I could be a right ear that is not made of plastic, a big cabbage leaf ear tilted toward the direction of your voice, tilted just so, so that I could take in everything you said, even the pauses, subtle gasps and audible pauses.
If you’d let me, I could rub your temples when you have a headache. I could listen to you bitch. But after a while I’d say, “No offense or anything, but life is too short, so stop your bitchin’." I'd say that with a smile on my face. I’d say that, if you’d let me.
If you’d let me I’d tell you my secrets. I’d warn you first, but if you’d permit it, I’d just go ahead and let the mudslide flow. I wouldn’t try to make excuses or bargains or tic-tac-toe. I’d just say, “This is the messed-up me, and the truth is the messed-up me is the real me, so go ahead--run or call a taxi, I get it.”
If you'd let me I would be the best friend you've had. I'd get you. I'd understand what you were trying to say even if you picked the wrong words or made me read between the lines. I would be selfish and I'd easily forgive.
We could talk about books and film and art. You could show me some things and I could do the same, if you'd let me.
If you'd let me I'd tell you in authentic terms why you are special and why you matter and why it is that the world needs you in it.
I'd make some mistakes, sure I would. But I'd apologize and mean it. I'd show up again, to see if you'd take me back.
If you’d let me, I’d get better. I would. I‘d work on it. On things. I’d learn and practice and assimilate and produce different, more-suitable (and crowd pleasing) actions.
I wouldn't embarrass you in front of your friends or family or semi-famous people you don't know but hope to know.
I'd regenerate, do a Benjamin Button but stop at age eight right before things went south, sour. I'd be that boy inside this man's body, and I'm pretty sure you'd like me then, but it'd all depend on what you could put up with, your stamina, and if you'd let me.
So what do you think?

--THAT WAS ALMOST TOO EASY

…It's sunny in Seattle. Yes it is. There is abundant sunshine streaming like lave waves of gold through my window as I write this, so much so that I have to position myself, my head, lower than normal in order to have this computer screen block the festering sun.
I love it.

…The other night my daughter and I went to see Katy Perry. It was quite a n evening. The fans there really get into it ala "Rocky Horror Picture Show." There must have been hundreds of blue and pink wigs. Key Arena was filled with 30,000 screaming fans, 98% of them female, 70 percent of them 18 or younger.
But it was fun. It was an extravaganza. There were floating clouds (Katy actually sang on one, flying across the stadium), glitter cannons, fireworks, trapeze artists, a mini-film cartoon characters, bare-chested audience members on stage and 20 costumer/wardrobe changes.
Katy herself was sweet and funny, humble and a lot of fun. She was also pretty sexy.
I'm just not sure about 6 and 9 year old singing about losing their virginity, or singing "Let me see you peacock cock cock" or using the "F" word. But maybe I'm getting old. (Though I did get ID’ed when I ordered a beer there.)

..I finished Michael Kimball's book, "Us" today. He breaks dozen of writing rules but has created a distinct voice for himself. The book was clever and remarkably poignant. I felt like I should have cried a few times. I think Michael must be Scottish. I could be wrong. Hopefully I'll meet him at AWP next year.

…I'm trying hard to imagine "Two and a Half Men" without Charlie Sheen and I cannot do it. I like Charlie. yes, I know he's screwed his whole life. But he's a good actor and he has brilliant comedic timing.

…If you don't watch "So You Think You Can Dance" you should start. It's the worst tv show name ever, but the dancing is so sharp and artful. It really is like seeing poetry in motion.

…Speaking of poetry, I just can't seem to stop writing it. There was a call for submissions from a magazine. The theme is "7." So I wrote seven poems, each sentence of each one starting the one of the letters of "seven."
For instance: Somewhere saint are dancing doe-si-doe at our demise

…I'm almost done with "Twins" by Marcy Dermansky. It has taken me forever to read that book. I don't know why. It's pretty strong writing. Next up is Jennifer Egan's, "A Visit From the Goon Squad." Then "City of Ash" by my friend and mentor, Megan Chance.

…I hope you are having a wonderful day. I hope good things happened to you, that someone you love told you how much they love you, that someone did a nice surprise for you, gave you a back rub and foot massage, made you laugh, wrote you a poem, drew your portrait, told you a story and said how they couldn't live without you.

…I like these things on a Sunday night:
•
‎"[It's] very often true that what we are compelled to describe is terrible, or oppressive, or heartbreaking. Language is hungry for that, too. It wants, as it were, to eat everything. Even the falling and fading world, even misery." —Mark Doty

"You should always do sober what you say you're going to do drunk. That will help you keep your mouth shut." Hemingway

--"We are here to serve the stories, not the other way around."
--Fiction is often written out of a productive unhappiness. If you're happy all the time, why should you have any recourse to art? Every writer should feel at least from time to time as if he or she is in an exile from happiness. Why should people who are perfectly happy have any desire to make art?" -- Charles Baxter


"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls." ~Anais Nin

"The woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist it is mandatory." ~May Sarton
"I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls." ~Anais Nin

"The woman who needs to create works of art is born with a kind of psychic tension in her which drives her unmercifully to find a way to balance, to make herself whole. Every human being has this need: in the artist it is mandatory." ~May Sarton

"Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; ...it's only good for wallowing in." ~Katherine Mansfield

“The true harvest of my life is intangible – a little star dust caught, a portion of the rainbow I have clutched” ~Henry David Thoreau

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~Jung

"I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world" ~Albert Einstein

"Good poetry makes the universe reveal its secret" ~ Hafiz

"I chose poetry and the metaphor not for the love of mystery or elusiveness but because it comes closer to the way we experience things deep down. Explicitness and directness cannot be applied to our psychic life. They are not subtle enough." ~Anais Nin

"Love and compassion are necessities, not
luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive." ~Dalai Lama

"The poet makes himself a seer by a long, prodigious, and rational
disordering of all the senses. Every form of love, of suffering, of
madness; he searches himself, he consumes all the poisons in him, and
keeps only their quintessences." ~Rimbaud

"I want to be with those that know secret things, or else alone" ~Rilke

"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars." ~Jack Kerouac

"The great beauty of my life is that I live out what others only dream about, talk about, or analyze. I want to go on living the uncensored dream, the free unconscious" ~Anais Nin

"When a man is wrapped up in himself, he makes a pretty small package" ~John Ruskin

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say" ~Anaïs Nin

"Let the woman lose her small, personal fears. Let her dare to offer her creation, and if necessary, suffer the consequences. Every artist has taken that risk" ~Anais Nin

“Those who danced were thought insane by those who couldn’t hear the music” ~Angela Monet

"And there came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom" ~Anais Nin

"Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we?" ~Audra Foveo-Alba

"The woman who loves always transcends the man she loves, because life is greater than fate. Her devotion wants to be immeasurable; that is her happiness." ~Rilke

"I have great faith in all things not yet spoken" ~Rilke

“Talk about choices does not apply to me~ While intelligence considers options, I am somewhere lost in the wind” ~Rumi

"Those who are burned into the fire of love are buried into the heart of God..." ~Sufi Mystic

"A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote" ~Yevgeny Yevtushenko

"If I could wake completely, I would say without speaking why I'm ashamed of using words" ~Rumi

"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." ~Titanic

“He who is born in imagination discovers the latent forces of Nature. . . Besides the stars that are established, there is yet another- Imagination- that begets a new star and a new heaven.” ~Paracelsus

"Faith is an oasis in the heart which will never be reached by the caravan of thinking" ~Gibran

"Let us speak silently like spirits and avoid talkers who use words in vain" ~Rumi

“She loved him so much she concealed his name in many phrases~ the inner meanings known only to her” ~Rumi


"Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love." ~Gibran

"Mysteries are not to be solved. The eye goes blind when it only wants to see why." ~Rumi

"A lover's food is the love of bread, not the bread. No one who really loves, loves existence. Lovers have nothing to do with existence." ~Rumi

"The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery" ~Francis Bacon

"The way you make love is the way God will be with you" ~Rumi

"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead." ~Charles Bukowski

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you straightforwardly, without complexity or pride~ I love you because I know no other way” ~Pablo Neruda

If you’d let me, I’d bet I could.
I bet I could be a lot of the things that you like and appreciate and, maybe even need.
For instance, if you’d let me, I could be a right ear that is not made of plastic, a big cabbage leaf ear tilted toward the direction of your voice, tilted just so, so that I could take in everything you said, even the pauses, subtle gasps and audible pauses.
If you’d let me, I could rub your temples when you have a headache. I could listen to you bitch. I’d let you call me a bitch. I’d say, “Bitch, stop your bitchin’, life is too short.” I’d say that, if you’d let me.
If you’d let me I’d tell you my secrets. I’d warn you first, but if you’d permit it, I’d just go ahead and let the mudslide flow. I wouldn’t try to make excuses or bargains or play tic-tac-toe. I’d just say, “This is the messed-up me, and the truth is the messed-up me is the real me, so go ahead--run or call a taxi, I get it.”
If you'd let me, I really would be a good friend. I'd hear you. I'd understand what you were trying to tell me even if you weren't just coming right out and saying it.
We could talk about books and film and art. You could show me some things and I could do the same, if you'd let me.
If you'd let me I'd tell you in authentic terms why you are special and why you matter and why it is that the world needs you.
I'd make some mistakes. I'd apologize and mean it. I'd show up again, to see if you'd take me back.
If you’d let me, I’d get better. I would. I‘d work on it. On things. I’d learn and practice and assimilate and produce different, more-suitable (and crowd pleasing) actions.
I wouldn't embarrass you in front of your friends or family or semi-famous people you don't know but hope to know.
I'd regenerate, do a Benjamin Button, but stop at age eight right before things went south, sour. I'd be that boy inside this man's body, and I'm pretty sure you'd like me then, but it'd all depend on what you could put up with, your stamina, and if you'd let me.

--NEXT TIME I'LL MAKE SMARTER MISTAKES

…I have a new story, “Conquistador” up at The Scrambler and also here under “Words in Print.”

...I am reading a great love story told through postcards and notes taped to the fridge or left on a mirror.
It's cute.
Adorable really.
It's wonderful and funny, touching and real.
It's a collection of all the little drawings and notes George Carlin (the late great comedian) wrote to the love of his life, Sally Wade.
The book is called "The George Carlin Letters: The Permanent Courtship of Sally Wade."
Here are some of my favorite excerpts/notes:

--"There's no better place in the world than the room where Sally Wade is located."
--"Hey, Sister-See that twister? That's what you did to my heart--stirred everything up and changed my whole inner geography."
--"Being without you is like having no air, sunlight, scenery, stars, clouds, birds, flowers or trees."
--"No star twinkles brighter than your eyes. No planet holds more wonders than your mind. No inter-stellar distance matches the dimension of your soul. And no galaxy is vaster than my love."
--"I'm silly for Sally."
--"Hang in there, Baby. Hormones come and go, but true love lasts. And you're doing fine. We're both in withdrawal.
--"Sally, you upgraded me."
--"Hey Girl! Wish I was lyin' in my usual spot. I'd reach over and start something. You a sexy thing. I'll be right back. Keep it warm. Nitey-nite."
--I bet you won't even notice this note."
--"Man, I can't wait to see your face." - The George Carlin Letters to Sally Wade

…I'm also reading Barry Graham's book, "Nothing or Next to Nothing." I've always liked Barry's writing and I am enjoying his novella.

…Lastly, ("lastly" is a strange-sounding word) I am two thirds of the way through "Twins" by Marcy Dermansky. I loved her other book, "Bad Marie." This one started off strong, felt a little flat in the middle, but is getting weird and fun right now. The whole idea of twins is sort of fascinating to me. There's a lot of material there to be mined.

…I am giving blood today. I do not like to give blood. I've given blood for a few decades. It makes me feel good afterward, as if I'm a responsible citizen. It makes me think that should I ever get smashed up in an accident and get rushed to the hospital where I'd need many pints of blood that I'd be able to accept said blood without feeling guilty, or like a greedy blood glutton, because I'd given blood in the past.
I never watch when they stick the needle in my arm.
I hate the sharp, stinging pinch when it pricks my flesh.
I never watch the blood slaking down the tube into the thick plastic sandwich baggie-type thing.
I look away, to the right, because they always stab my left arm.
I usually have a book.
They always come by and ask if I'm doing all right.
One time the nurse person really jammed the needle into my arm, sort of like John Travolta stabbing Uma Thurman in "Pulp Fiction" only it was the soft under slope of my arm that got jabbed, not my chest.
It hurt like a mother. My arm felt as if it would sort of wind its way free of my body, as if in protest.
After that experience, I have no longer wanted to give blood.
But I'm going back again today.
Wish me luck.

…I like these other things on a Wednesday:

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the live you've imagined.
-- Henry David Thoreau

Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.
-- Albert Einstein

"To think bad thoughts is really the easiest thing in the world. If you leave your mind to itself it will spiral down into ever increasing unhappiness. To think good thoughts, however, requires effort. This is one of the things that discipline - training - is about." James Clavell, "Shogun"

"I was homesick at home. I didn't feel comfortable anywhere, not even in my own body." CK Chesterson

"When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in
our life, or in the life of another." Helen Keller


"Today is the oldest you have ever been, yet the youngest you will ever be. Enjoy it!" David James

"One doesn't discover new lands without consenting to
lose sight of the shores for a very long time." Andre Gide

"Writing is such a solitary act. You spend hours alone, only with your thoughts, and you torture yourself. It's a tendency of many writers to temper the self-destructive act of writing with other self-destructive acts. I certainly was one of those people for a long time." Ben Gibbard

--IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I SAY, IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT I DO

…I have a new story, “The Runner” up at The Literarian, a new story, and two things--new poem, “Land of 10,000 Lakes” (pg. 6) and a linked poem about a group of troubled girls, “We Are the Ones That Mean It” (pg. 12-13)—up at Awosting Alchemy.
These are all here under “Words In Print.”

…I’ve seen some cinema lately, both on the widescreen at home:
--First was “Horrible Bosses” which was not horrible but rather sort of average. I am a fan of the Jasons (Bateman and Sudeikis) and they did their part admirably, but the story was nonsensical in parts, as well as predictable.
--Next I saw “Arthur,” or rather the remake. I loved the original. I tried not to compare the two but it was impossible to do otherwise. Russell Brand was actually adorable in parts yet the script was pedantic and amateurish. Only Helen Mirren came out of it unscathed, having worked a sort of sedate magic on her female reprisal of the iconic Hobson.
--Then there was “Biutiful” with Javier Bardem. It had wonderful cinematography and fine acting but the plot was all over the map and soon became bewildering if not also tedious.
--Last was “Blue Valentine.” The film started off slow but the last forty minutes were like having your heart in a vice. What a movie. So real and tragic. Wonderful acting. It left me stunned, feeling as if someone had just battered me with a fence post. See it. Please. You’ll be rocked.

…I'm interested in knowing what we do, what we think, how we vary. So, I like statistics that tell us these things (I don't necessarily enjoy math, however.)
Here are some factoids from Time and Esquire that you will find interesting:

16,920 Miles -- AVERAGE DISTANCE DRIVEN IN A YEAR
8% -- NUMBER OF TRAFFIC ACCIDENTS THAT RESULT FROM CELLPHONE USE
15 -- PERCENTAGE OF PEOPLE WHO'VE ENGAGED IN SEX ACTS WHILE DRIVING
25 -- PERCENTAGE OF MEN INVOLVED IN FATAL CRASHES WHO WERE DUI
71 -- PERCENTAGE OF TRAFFIC FATALITES THAT INVOLVED MEN
40 -- PERCENTAF OF GUYS WHO STILL INSIST THAT THEY'RE BETTER DRIVERS THAN WOMEN
5'11 -- HEIGHT OF THE AVERAGE MALE (Less than 8% of men are 6'3" or taller)
35 -- AVERAGE AGE OF THE AMERICAN MALE
9 -- PERCENT OF MALES WHO CANNOT SEE THEIR PENIS WHEN STANDING UP
42 -- PERCENTAGE OF MEN WHO MASTURBATE 1 to 3 TIMES PER WEEK
17 -- PERCENT WHO DO IT EVERY DAY
24 -- PERCENT WHO NEVER DO IT
77 -- PERCENT WHO WOULD WANT TO BE TAKEN OFF LIFE SUPPORT IN THEY WERE IN LONG TERM COMA
34 -- PERCENT WHO ARE REGULARD CIGARETTE SMOKERS
14 -- PERCENT THAT SMOKE MARIJUANA
60 -- PERCENT WHO THINK THEY SHOULD LOSE AT LEAST 10 POUNDS IF NOT MORE (39% SAY MORE THAN 20 LBS.)
71 -- PERCENT WHO SLEEP LESS THAN THE RECOMMENDED 8 HOURS PER NIGHT
51 -- PERCENTAGE WHO MAKE $50,000 PER YEAR OR LESS (31% MAKE LESS THAN $25,000 A YEAR)
WEALTHY MEN ARE:
-only half as likely to report being in fair or poor health as the man making less than $25, 000 a year.
-is generally far more up-to-date on his meds
-has more sex, confirming long-held belief that wealthy men have more sex
-is three times as likely to be taking hair-less medication
-is twice as likely to work out every day
-never drinks more than ten drinks
-sometimes eats fast food, just like everybody else.
80 -- PERCENT OF WOMEN WHO HAVE FAKED AN ORGASM
55 -- PERCENT OF MEN WHO'VE DONE THE SAME

--THERE ARE A LOT OF DIFFERENT WAYS TO DO THIS

…Last night my son played guitar and sang a song he wrote called, “It’s a Calm Day in Seattle.” The song is terrific. I know you think I’m saying that because he’s my kid and all, but really, it was a great song. Sample lyric: (“It’s a calm day in Seattle
and I’ve been trying to fight this battle
to see what I really need to be.”)
It’s about this kid who doesn’t feel like she can be herself around her friends
When he was done my daughter, he and I wrote a song, or the husk of one, together.
“She came back on a Tuesday
purple black and blue
hiding behind those glasses
as if you never knew.”)
It’s a song, “Bruised,” about a daughter who comes home to visit her Dad after being physically abused by her husband.
Yeah, it’s dark, but hey, this is me we’re talking about. Not me in the abuser or abusee, but me as in writer.
I wish I could play an instrument and write music. I’d pop out a few songs every day, even though it’s a hell of a lot harder than it looks.

…We have been re-enjoying “Six Feet Under” the last few days. It’s so brilliant. Tonight it’s Season 2 of “The Sopranos.”

…I have been in a writing lull lately. I feel lethargic when it comes to writing. I don’t know why. It’s not really writer’s block but just a blasé attitude. You should come over here and kick my ass, slap me around and tell me to get to work. If you called me a lot of cruel, hurtful names, I bet that’d fire me up plenty.
I am coming up on 500. I think that might be a reason. Maybe. Maybe not. I hit #497 today.

…There’s a new site called “Take it to the Streets Poetry” that periodically publishes downloadable pamphlets and asks you do drop a few of them behind at restaurants or the subway or whatever other obscure place you might think of, the idea being to share poetry and writing with people who otherwise wouldn’t read it. I think that is a stellar idea. I like that notion quite a lot.

…Tomorrow is a big publishing day for many online lit journals. People seem to like the 15th to release new editions. I have four different things hitting.

…These things are pretty good on a Thursday:

"Wisdom comes alone through suffering." Aeschylus 525-456 BC

"Life is wasted on the living." from "Six Feet Under"


--"Humiliation is a visual medium."
--"You absolutely must be able to fake sincerity."
--"I want to grow up in a place where people dream." from "Raising Home"

"If you want to know what a man is really like, take notice how he acts when he loses money." New England Proverb

"There are rooms here I don't think I've been in." anon

"If your ship doesn't come in, swim out to it!" Jonathan Winters

"The only evidence of you was me."
"Regret can last forever."
"How much of you did I make up from the start? How much did I not see at all?" -- Rebecca Brown

"Since the novelist is himself a human being, thre is an affinity between him and his subject matter which is absent from many other forms of art." Forester

‎"We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." ~Luciano de Crescenzo

“It seems to me that when you write a short story, you have to cut off both the beginning and the end. We writers do most of our lying in those spaces. You must write shorter, to make it as short as possible.” ~ Anton Chekhov

--I'M SORRY I'M NOT CUTER


...It was hard to focus today, to be productive.
The guys who clean the gutters out with their machine-gun air blowers were here. Then they brought out their silver ladders to clang and clean the windows. Wherever I went, whichever room, there they were. At one point I found myself readings ZYZZYVA in the bathroom sitting on the ledge of the Jacuzzi tub where I paused from reading to write five poems.
Those guys are gone now. I have my computer back. You'd think I'd be really productive, that I'd get to that novel, write some more poetry, come up with a story or two, but know, for some strange reason I wrote this (it's not really about you, so don't worry. At least I don't think it's about you.)


Me and Everyone Else You Know
I wrote you a note. I was honest, yet kind. Sort of. I was sort of kind. It was hard to be nice, though. It was. Truthfully, there weren’t a lot of lovely words when it came to you and what you did and how you were and the way you weren’t though you said you’d be that way.
What happened?
I mean, did you mean to be so mean? Who knew you had that cruel streak. Maybe that’s why you wear your hair in such a peculiar fashion, so as to camouflage the truth, kind of like in that movie, “The Omen,” and the scene where Gregory Peck rifles through his son’s hair while the boy is sleeping, and the images start to stutter and flutter in slow motion, on purpose, to give it an eerie effect (which it does) and Gregory Peck the dad of this boy who is the anti-Christ clips and clips close to the scalp of his slumbering son until Gregory gets to scalp and a scar or brand that resembles ringworm, only it’s not ringworm, not at all, it’s way worse than that, it’s the numbers 666.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying you’re Satan.
But maybe he’s a friend of yours. Perhaps you’re in his legion or you chat him up on Facebook.
Is that harsh? Did you flinch? Hey, I’m sorry, but we’re being truthful here. No more games or gamesmanship. No more Ships Ahoy.
If I knew how this was going to play itself out, I would have called a spade a spade when I had the chance. It wouldn’t have mattered that you had larger muscles than me or bigger pores, I’d have done things differently. Even though your shirts were softer because they came from Sudan, even though you wore loafers made from alligator hide, I still would have taught you a trick or two. That’s right, Buster. I’d have laid down the law. I mean it, Sparky. Why’re you smiling? You think this is funny? A joke? My idea of a good time? I’ve got a lot better things I could be doing.
Actually, this is rather cathartic for me.
And I can’t take credit. My therapist told me to tell you off. She said, “Write that guy a nasty note and put some elbow grease on your sentences. Rip him to shreds!” Those were her exact words, my therapist’s words: “put some elbow grease on your sentences.”
Okay, so now I’m exhausted. Totally. You’ve tuckered me out. My limbs are sore. My fingers hurt. I’ve got serious eye strain. As Ryan Adams said, “I used to be sad, now I’m just bored with you.” That about sums it up.
Oh, but one last thing. Remember that bridge, the one you told me about that’s not far from your house? I was thinking; maybe tomorrow, on your way back from the gym, you could stop there, get out of your Benz and take a flying leap. Yeah, that’d be perfect. You’d make someone very happy, someone like me and everyone else you know.

--DON'T SIT THERE, IT'S TOO CLOSE TO THE ROAD

…I read Jacqui Corcoran’s terrific slice of manna, “Somewhere Like Here” and consequently wrote heaps and heaps of poems. Some were edgy and out there. Some were gumballs or jawbreakers. One was about a Scottish wedding and newlyweds eating Haggis, which I just yesterday learned, is a delicacy made with sheep’s lung. Yum!

…I got a poem accepted by The L.E.S. Review. At first—because of the name--I thought it was a lesbian lit mag, but LES actually stands for Lower Eastside, meaning Manhattan. It made me happy that they liked my work. Anything NY connected or related gets me giddy because it is my favorite city on our fine planet.

…Silly me—I put together my second story collection. It’s all paginated. It’s ready to read. Ready to go. To ship. To be bound (and gagged?)
What’s silly is I haven’t got my first collection published yet.
Nor my novel.
I don’t even have an agent.
All I have, really, is words and these fingers that type them.
But, this isn’t me feeling sorry for myself. It’s not. Not today. I’m in good spirits. I am.
I do need a name for this second unpublished collection. Perhaps you could help me?
Here are some potential titles (tell me what you favor):
--Talk To Me
--Putting You Away
--Things I Know About Rabbit Holes
--The Truth About Leprechauns and Miracles
--I’ll Never Tell
--The Deep End
--Acts of Love
--Children In the Walls
--The Sin Jar
All of these are titles of stories I’ve had published and are included in the unpublished second collection.
Thanks for your help!

…I ran 11 miles on Saturday. It was sunny. A sunny unsleepless Saturday in Seattle. So I thought, why not just run Forrest Gump-style, though I did stop after 11.
I ran fast.
I got sweaty.
For whatever reason, I was not sore afterward and I’m not sore today.
Sometimes running is very necessary for me to stay sane.

…I live on a lake. It’s always pretty. There’s an eagle that lives in a tree next door. I call him Pete, Pete the eagle. I’m a fan of Pete’s. He looks so buff and full of pride. He flies by several times each day. Often he is as close to my window as ten feet.
Yesterday I heard this horrific honking. I’d never heard anything like it. It was worse than any cab war in NY.
A Momma duck was really blasting away. HONNNK! HAWNNNCK! HONNNK!!!
When I took a closer look, I saw why--Pete kept dive-bombing the water where a few of her ducklings had gotten carried away with the current, several yards apart from mother hen.
This swooping and HONKING! And attacking went on for quite some time.
It was unnerving, to say the least.
Momma duck blew as hard as she could, which bought her some time, which startled Pete enough, which enabled Mom to get her chicks all huddled up and safe.
It was a little frightening and I don’t know whether I’ve lost respect for Pete or not. He must have been awfully hungry, is all I could think.

…In any event, here are some nuggets for a festive Sunday night:


--"Like a costume, my numbness was taken away. Then hunger was added."
--"To get born, your body makes a pact with death, and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat."
--"It's natural to be tired of earth. When you've been dead this long, you'll probably be tired of heaven."
--"You can see it in her face, everyone can. So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come. Because the mother's sick to death of her life and needs silence."
--"Are you healed, or do you only think you are?"
--"I was vigilant. I touched myself. I didn't feel anything."
--"I told myself from nothing nothing could be taken away."
--"The fresh unsteady colors."
--"I walked out of the fire alive; how can that be?"
--"You saved me, you should remember me. You changed me, you should remember me."
"But there are truths that ruin a life; the same way, some lies are generous, warm and cozy like the sun on the brick wall."
--"Nothing can be forced to live. The earth says forget, you forget. It says begin again, you begin again."
--"Living-living takes you away from sitting."
Louise Gluck

--I MEANT TO TELL YOU; YOU WERE AMAZING LAST NIGHT

…Today I am filled with questions.
I am.
Very much so.
I have oodles of questions.
Bushels and pecks full.
See what you think.
See if you haven't, at some point, wondered these as well.
So here we go:

--why do people love their pets so much?
--why are their cruel parents?
--if the sins of the father are visited upon the son, then when will it ever end?
--why can't the israelis and palestinians just get along?
--who decided "fuck" and "shit" were swear words but "intercourse" and "fecal matter" aren't?
--if we can put a man on the moon, why can't we cure cancer?
--why do we spend $151 billion on the iraq and afghanistan wars and not use that money to cure cancer?
--why can't someone figure out a way to stop forest fires more quickly?
--are book stores going the way of record stores?
--why doesn’t the government shut down all of the online music sites that allow piracy?
--if michael jackson hadn't died young, would everyone still consider him a freak or would his “this is it” concert tour have propelled him into a famous second act like elvis's las vegas tour?
--why do some mediocre writers (who are also editors) garner so much attention/feedback/praise/shameless brown-nosing on facebook?
--what if you actually had to know everyone who is your friend on facebook before you could be friends on facebook?
--who thinks billboards are a good idea?
--why doesn't everyone on the planet live in new york city? why don't I, for God's sake?
--why are 98.7% of all songs about love when there are a billion other topics?
--is there anyone else who reads poetry that's not a poet?
--if kissing is permissible in public and also a sign of intimacy, why doesn't everyone kiss all the time?
--who wrote the book of love?
--who decided which books would be in the bible and which wouldn't?
--if bob dylan and ryan adams had a baby, would it be God? (I think it would.)
--how come women can't apply makeup in public but it'd be rude for a man to shave at a restaurant?
--speaking of shaving, who decided women should shave their arm pits and legs and that it's gross if they don’t'?
--and who decided pink was a girl's color and blue for boys, and what was the thinking there exactly?
--what's up with dreams? what the hell is up with nightmares?
--what if certain people had never lived--picasso, hemingway, freud, gandhi?
--how many pulitzer prize-national book award winning novels never even get published?
--what's the prettiest sunset you've ever seen?
--have you ever seen a double rainbow?
--why do I miss "the soprano's" so much, and often fantasize that the cast are real people, still alive and doing mob shit in new jersey?

--POINT ME IN THE DIRECTION OF ALBUQUERQUE

….I don’t believe in dreams.
I don’t understand why we have them, why some people always remember them and some don’t.
A lot of folks like to brag about their dreams. Authors use dreams to tell you things about their story because they can’t conjure up another scenario that would facilitate the telling of their deeper themes. They use dreams as if they’re prostitutes.
The whole idea of dreaming pretty much baffles me. Sleep does, too. Imagine aliens landing at night and entering houses and finding all of us laying on mattresses like pod people with the lights out and the shades pulled.
That’s kind of freaky, if you think about it. We’re weirder than aliens.
And dreams are strange phenomenon. Who invented them? What was the grand plan there?
Are they in color? Do dogs really only dream in black and white?
Yeah, so I don’t cotton to dreams.
I do believe in nightmares, though.
Nightmares are a different story altogether.
Nightmares show up out of the blue, like melanoma or a grade school bully, like bad memories you can’t do anything about, like sun spots and old age.
I hate the realistic-type nightmares where you wake up panting in the middle of the night, probably sweaty, and you blink your eyes open and then you feel relieved and grateful that the nightmare is just that—a horrific fiction of the mind—but then when you go back to sleep, you somehow slip right back into the very scary escapade you were anxiously trying to avoid.
The nightmare keeps sucking you in, down.
That fiend is still chasing you.
Yep. He’s got a sharp knife with a long blade that gleams at you like lake front silver every time you turn over your shoulder.
And why are you running so slow? You’re in pretty good shape. Just yesterday you ripped off five miles and now, here in your hot head, you are sluggish and sort of shuffling, yes, it’s not even running this thing you’re doing, and look at that spooky guy with the butcher knife behind you, he’s making up ground, he’s cruising and salivating, slobbering. Are his feet even touching the ground? Are those even feet? Maybe they’re hooves. Oh, hell.
And while time is compressing and distance contracting, you wonder if what people say about dreams is true--that you can’t die in your own dreams. You remember that people have told you other things that turned out to be false claims, old wives tales—you can go blind from masturbating, touching toads will give you warts, the meek shall inherit the earth, you’re a lot younger than you look, the sun’ll come out tomorrow.
You don’t want to be a cynic. You’re a hopeful person. But this is a dream-nightmare-midnight terror and you’re not sure if you’re sure that this is really just some mental fantasy, a black mental fantasy, because if it is real, there’s no way in the world you’d have picked this horror romp to delve into. You’d have picked beaches and sunshine, puppies, a bathtub full of Sprees, you’d pick the warm curl of your sleeping partner.
And then it happens, breaking apart your anxiety, your sleeping partner turning in the night, her skin hot indeed, her breath bouncing off your back, hands on your shoulder, fingering the bony parts, her lips touching a patch, whispering, “I love you,” letting you know what is really real and what is not.

--WELL, THAT’S VERY INTERESTING

…I have a new story--quite short--called "The Prankster" up at Troubadour 21 and also here under "Words in Print."
I wrote that piece almost two years ago. I wrote it, as well as thirty other pieces, in a flurry of two days. It was at the time right before I began this blog. In my mind each story was about someone we all know (hence, "People You Know By Heart.") I wanted to use trite labels to describe each narrator, yet turn that notion on its head by showing how we might think we know someone but not really, truly know them at all.
Here are a few samples of the story titles:
The Prankster
The Thief
The Drunk
Daughter
Brother
Hero
The Fortune Teller
The Fan
The Veteran
The Baby Maker etc…
At the time, I sort of saw the full body of stories as a collection unto themselves. Now I don’t know. Since 2009 about half have been published around and I think my writing quality is a lot better that it was then.

…If I was going to write a story about you—using the same notion as above—I think it would be called “The _______.”
Yes. Yes, definitely, “The _______.”
I can't fill in the blank right now. I mean, I could, but I won't.
Can you? Are you good with titles?
It has to be a label. We all wear costumes and we all have labels--doctor, husband, construction worker, teacher, atheist, liar, lover.
But we're more than the outward brands that people give us. Of course we are. However, the truth is we often hide behind the label. Most of us don't want to let people see what's below the rippled waves.
It's easier to be that label, to wear it and address all of the predictable questions that follow after the initial question, "So, what do you do?"
After I retired a few years ago, I liked to mess with people. When they asked, "What do you do?" I'd say, "Nothing."
Usually this made them blink or twitch. Sometimes they scratched their elbow or tottered in place, equilibrium off.
Then I’d feel bad and say, “I’m retired now,” to wit they’d always respond, “But you’re too young.”
Which maybe I was/am.
The next question would be: “So you don’t do anything now?”
“Nope.”
“Well, what did you do before doing nothing? What were you?”
Without the ability to tag me, they were left feeling visibly uncomfortable. People don't know where to go next in the conversation unless they have a starting point, a stepping off point.
What "we do" becomes who “we are” and people push us into these corners, put us on these shelves with all the other ________s or ____s or _________s.
It's easy.
It's natural.
Some might argue that it’s instinctive or innate, that we were born that way, although I think somewhere along the line it just became learned behavior, maybe out of laziness.

But back to you.
If I was going to give you a label, this would be it: “The M_____e.” (There’s a big clue.)

And here’s a bigger one still:


"The M_____e"

You are more than white light blooming in space,
clearing the canvas of leftovers,
more than yesterdays months decades eons even
you are more than time
stars and sand crystals
the wind it sings your praises
courting and flirting with suggestive songs
the trees dance
some almost unctuous that's how desperate they are
others doubt you
the cynics needing signs and proof
the painters and poets living as glazed artists do
on concocted wings
projecting and story-telling
while grasping tight
the kite tail of faith.

There is
there has never been
never will be
any question in my mind
who you are
what you are
your essence
what you have been
and done all these years now
you have stitched my sliced places
moved coasts
cradled a criminal
climbed ladders of bleak infinity
so as to pluck me from impending doom
martyr perhaps but not myth
pure and true implacable
like ardent angel
like the one and only
miracle
you are.

(dedicated to my wife)

--I BET YOU’VE ALREADY HAD A LOT OF NEAT THOUGHTS TODAY

…Happy Weekend to You.
Happy almost Independence Day.
Happy Happy.
I hope you’re happy.

…I have:
--two new poems, "The Great Purchase" and "Ribbons of Color" up at The Scarlet Sound
--a story, "Anything" at Apocrypha and Abstractions
--a story, "Up High On a Shelf, The Living and the Dead" at Negative Suck
--and another story, "Gladiolas" at Left Hand Waving
--All are also here under "Words in Print."

…I had a good writing day in the tub yesterday and finished some poems which put me over 800 pieces since I started I May of '09.
I also queried a publishing house for a potential story and poetry collection. Keep your fingers crossed for me, or knock on wood. I'll be very grateful to you.

…I don't know why it's such a struggle to stick with novel writing.
Okay, actually I do know why.
There are many reasons.
Poetry and stories are quick an easy. You spew them out and then move on. That way there's not enough time to doubt yourself.
Plus there's the ego rush of getting things published.
But I have two novels to write.
I have two novels to write by the end of this year.
That was the arrangement, the bargain, the dealio I struck with myself around January One 2011.
I will get back on that horse soon. Yes I will. Let me just get my saddle first.

Come Pick Me Up
There are storms here. The wind picks up, picks up the leaves the detritus branches and leftover limbs, throws the lake into a rippled wrinkled panic, and I think maybe I should step outside, into it, let it pick me up as well, take me to some high heaven or hell, fly and float going every which way, no more important that molted feathers or dust, dying to be somewhere else, anywhere, maybe there, where you are, or Egypt Puerto Rico Galveston Manitoba.
The wind is not always wicked. Sometimes it knows my name. Often it will share secrets. It secretes as much as it tells. When the wind winds down the earth is like a top that’s tilted one way, as if it has a side ache because the tip is so pointed and will not allow any leveling to occur. That is how the planet is after windy days. The soil is stressed. The plants looked worn and exhausted, like aged athletes that have probably pushed themselves too hard.
The next time we have a storm I will raise my hands. I will reach out for a cloud and I will be swept away and when that happens you will say a prayer for me.