Fear

No one's reading this thing. That's all well and dandy.

Fear.  What is fear? Fear is the shaking and quacking of the body.  Fear is crawling into a corner, crouching with you head down and your eyes up, peering in all directions-darting pupils dilating.  Fear is your gut vibrating as you lay on your bed with your knees tucked under your arms. Fear is tears beading.  Fear is the force that keeps you from harm. It is also the force that keeps you from risk. Fear is the inner force, the instinct guides and keeps you away from faces, places, and situations that might hurt you.  Fear is a force that protects and thwarts you.

I want to get my thoughts out.  I want others to read them, to listen with kind hearts, and to empathize.

Long ago, eons in time, some small being crawled past a larger being. Let's call the small one Tiny and the larger one Biggie.  Well, as Tiny crawled past he  knew not whether Biggie was friend or foe. I doubt that the idea of friend or foe even crossed Tiny's prehistorical mind.  He was on his way to the local pond to sip the ancient water, to swim in its pristine coolness, and to eat the tender flora along it edges.  Biggie to Tiny was just an animal like him, just bigger.  Size meant little to Tiny for nearly everything in this world towered over him. In his small mind, Tiny figured that Biggie was just another on of the things that towered over him. So, he  just crawled on thinking about the coolness of the pond and the sweet taste of the flora that awaited him.

Are you reading this?

A rumble vibrated along the ground and up Tiny's legs....

Waiting.

Here I go again.  Don't you hate it when you try to edit a post and your fingers walk along the keys like a drunk trying to place his key into an unlit hole? Click, click. What the...happened?  Dang it. Poof, it all disappeared. I know, I should've saved the blinking thing. Oh, well.

So, what was I saying?  Oh yah, I was saying that I can't find anything to write about.  I was going on and on about Ms. Black and her wonderful way of snooping. She was hired to merely observe and supervise...

Who TF is Ms. Black? Well, she's an MSW, LSW in the wonderful Garden of the Gods town of Colorado Springs, Colorado. What was she supposed to observe and supervise? My wife's long fought for and finally awarded by the Court visitations with her girls, Lyssa and Anna. Instead, she decided to investigate the reasons for the situation.  She claims to have been objective. Her claims appear to be false and one sided. She did great, knee slapping job of gathering information from the ex, his parents, his wife, and the crack pipe quack MA, who acts like a PhD, the honorable therapist, the extraordinary E.F. Bellville the Third. She failed to speak to speak and listen extensively to look into the side of the person who hired her, my wife.   She failed to speak in depth with my wife's parents, me, or my wife's therapists.... Then she had the gall to send a letter to the Court  claiming objectivity and expressing a professional oppinion that my wife should't see the her kids until some far in the future, unknown date.  Dang.

 Ah, I could go on, but I won't. Well, maybe for a second. What gave her the right to do that which she wasn't hired for? So what if investigator is one of the functions she does and is used to doing? She wasn't hired to investigate.  Why should I care? Well, my wife has been through nearly 4 years of psycholiogacal probes, social worker wonderings, lawyer longings, and other helpful hopegful hoops and found ready and eligible by the Court to finally see her kids. Can't Ms. Black trust the word of the Court, leave well enough alone,and do the job she was hired for? I guess not. 

It looks as if my wife is done with her final in Psychology of Gender. She just tapped on my shoulder and handed me a Snickers. Time to go. Sorry about the rant. Thanks for listening.

The Inner Negative Blues

Yawl wanna know what?  I'm sure ya don't. Or if ya do, it's  just because you're wasted and have nothing else to do but read the batherings of an idiot. Yawl wanna know what? Yes?  Well...

I'm about to...  I'm tired. My family notices and so do my friends. I like to write. Some say I do it well. My cousin Karen even says that it's my calling. I know it is; however, it ain't calling cash to my door.

I ain't got the time. I ain't got 3 to 5 uninterpreted hours a day to sit down and tap away at a story, to struggle with an worded idea, to be alone and free with my thoughts.  I ain't got the time to wander around to places in my head.  I ain't got the time to poise my skinny fingers above qwerty keys and plop my low fat ass down when an urge, a thought, or an inspiration breaks and  flashes.

Who comes up to me as says they care? Who encourages me to find a private space and stroke my word organ?  Who says to me that they understand? Who  listens as I rant about the nagging words and ideas inside me? No one. No one. Who takes my hand and whispers hope and support in my ear? Who? Who? Screw it. My writing ain't important to anyone anyhow. Who's gonna ask me why I just said that?

I need outward voices to counteract the inner negative. The inner negative? Yah, ya know the things inside me that tell me stuff like: it ain't worth it, no one wants to hear your words, no one wants to hear about your life, your words are good but aint' that good, no one will publish them, and (my personal favorite) you're poor and need to work on something that'll for sure make ya money--this writing thing ain't gonna do it.  The inner negative many times overwhelms me. It jib-jabs, thrish-thrashes, swooosh-crashes, and drags me into its swirling undertow. It's waves rip at my my dangling fingers and severs the lines which pass words from one frizzled creative synapse to the other. It drags me under and bounces my head against submerged regrets and self doubt. It washes over me pieces of gnarled funked up downer words.  

Yer words are shit.  Good  shit but still shit. 

Folks ain't wanting to read crap. It be ignorant.

Ya tend to twine good words into a yarn of crap. 

Take yer tard yarn  'bout a sperm. No one wants to read a gross detailed tale about a sperm caught in a condom. Ain't no one wants to read some metaphoric crap about writers block. 

Mr. C., way back in 1993, said that it's was good but nonpunishable-too a vulgar.  He'd know. He's a professor.

And what about The Fag. Come on now the title is a turn off. It be ignorant and offensive. Who wants to read a story with that name. Even if'n it's a story 'bout a red neck walkin' his dog and meetin' his first homo. Shhhit, as the teach told ya, good but too edgy. No one'll wanna read that shit.  No one wants to read a redneck speaking redneck and using the word fag like he's eating chips.  Duh. 

You dropped it cuze the teach wasn't your style. Idiot, she might've taught you somethin'. 

The inner negative takes hold. Thrash. Downer words. Scrap. Self doubt. Bump. Regret. Glug. Splish. Splash. Glug, glug, glug. Gasp. Thrash.  I'm done.   Another piece written. Gasp. Spit. Bits of debris cling to me.  I can breathe. The inner negative hasn't beat me. Someone will read this word spree. I'm tired. 4 hours has past. Yippee.

The Coffee Cools

To my right sits a Yo-Lite yogurt container ¾ full of air, ¼ of milk.  In front of me sits you, my little, dying Eee with your shiny face looking at me, music coming from you into my ears.  I sit here wondering what to scrawl across your screen .  I’m in need of an idea for my blog. Any hints? No?  Damn you. You’re, you’re no help. Ummm. 

Blurb. Slurp. I drip some chilled milk into the cup with the cute face. One eye winks at me. The other stays open—topped by a swoosh that says Bailey’s.  It’s lips are thin, red, and smiling.  A blue porcelain bow rest at the bottom of the earlike handle.  A black line encircles the outer rim. Under the inner rim the word “Yum” floats above the muddied black liquid. I lift it toward my mouth, tip it a bit, and let the warm liquid slid past my lips—slurp, sip.

Now, what to write? Um.

Eee? Blip, blop. Blip-blop-eeee. Eee can you help me? 8bit chip tones cruise from Last.fm,  zip up the wire, and skip through the buds in my ears. Notes  prance down the canal, dance on the drums, and echo though through cornucopia maze.  Nintendo, Atari, Gameboy  and Commodore 64 tones twist, stream, and bend .  Familiar notes from Mario, Zelda, Tetras, and Frogger  skip, fly, and feather. Bleep flutes and bitpop toots. Ta— da. La-ti-ta—. Blip-ti-di—. Music and rhythm mix. Reinvented notes and tones reset from a gamer generation. Old sounds in a new suit.

Eee, what do readers see?  

Do they want to see the bulb next to me emit light from a swirl?

What do I write?

Do readers want to know about the hatters? Do you know that many  hatters went mad in the nineteen century? Yes, ‘tis true. Hatters went mad in small, unventilated rooms with felt produce from furs covered in solutions containing mercury. They knitted rims and seams, breathing its vapors, each breath adding toxicity. 

What do I say?

This silvery toxic vapor floats in the glass object shinning next to me. The light flickers. Will it explode?  Will it go all over me?  Will I go crazy?  Naw. It’s only one bulb, right Eee?  

I stop and sip my coffee.

Outside the wind blows and rain spittles the side walk and trees.  I scratch my two day stubblery.  I look in my cup. There is no coffee. The chip tunes have stopped because I’ve listened to long.  I go to Last.fm and type in Pong  not wanting to resume the blipblop songs. The yogurt container is empty. The light flickers. I look at the screen and noticed I’ve scrawled a whole page.  I’ve done it.  I’ve done it, Eee.  The screen is littered with words. Yipee.  I’ve done it. I’ve finished my entry.    

PA Curtiss

As the day rings on I notice the black birds in the trees dancing to the swaying of breeze.  The sun sets in the distance as I look out my window.  My wife sit next to me with a calculate in hone and an an erasure in the other.  Scratch that.  I can't see black birds in the trees dancing to the swaying of the breeze for I am sitting in a study room in Black Hawk Hall at Hawkeye community College. All I see is the sanitary waste place knoll, some sapling tops, strips of snow,  cars swishing along the road, power lines, dried winter grass trying to turn green, and the hind edge end of the apartments across the street.  I can't see the setting sun--sorry I lied---for the clouds, grey with and undertone of blue, cover the sky.

So here I sit writing this blog, an experiment for you all to read.  An experiment in words trying to form emotions, sounds an imagery.  I'm giving myself ten more minutes to finish this for I wish it to flow seamlessly. Well, as seamless as can be, seeing I haven't written much lately.  Plus my typing skills suck. My finger stumble across the keys like a forty year old clumsy bloke trying to squirrel jump among swinging trapezes.  Not to mention I gotta pee.

Damn nature calls.  I gotta listen. You understand? Of course you do. So, off my ass I must rise. I'm done for now. Yippeeeee. Harrah. Oh, if i don't get up now the janitor might find him/herself with a nice wet surprise. Bye.