10 minutes..

Okay folks, once again I've put myself in a position where I am limited by time.  10 minutes. Yep, ten. How can I post anything in that amount of time. I have no idea. But here I go.

1:16 pm.  I've spent the whole day wasting my time. I awoke around 6 to see my wife off to work. At about 7:30 I went back to sleep.  I didn't have to work until 2 pm, so why not? I awoke again about 8 am or maybe 9, I don't know. I didn't look.  I set my alarm for an hour but snoozed it quite a few times, say over 6 slaps.  After waking, I took an shower, ate some frosted shredded wheat, and made coffee--Gevalia of course.

1:22 pm. Six more minutes. At about 9:30, I sat down on the maroon La-Z-Boy in the corner, turned on the lamp with pink and white shades, and started reading the last chapter of a Universe from Nothing by Lawrence Krauss.

Then...

It's 1:26. Time's up. Shit. Oh, well. Cheers.

Let's try this again.

 Alright folks, let's try this again. 

A few days ago, I stated that I was going to jot jittles, jangle tittles, blango blittles in this blog on a daily bases. Um, shit, I forgot. Well, not forgot. I just didn't make time. 

Time? Shit, you had time. You just didn't sit your ass down. Why? Because you were too busy fighting with your wife. You claimed to yourself, and her, that were too upset to write. What a lame ass.

Hello folks, I'd like to introduce you to my mind. He's a wonderful fellow.

You told the world you were going blog daily. You didn't. You were too upset. Come on man, tell the world about the shit you pulled.

Shut up dude. 

Ass.

Okay, so I'm an ass.

You let your anal side take over.

That ain't nobody's business. 

Damn dude, you need to chill.

Well, folks that's my mind.  Ain't he grand?

It was about money.

I said it's between her and me. 

Shit...

Hey, would you mind? I wish to get on with this. Okay?

Okay. Carry on. 

You sure.

Yep.

Now where was I? I was saying that I didn't write in this blog due to time.

I am conducting an experiment. What is this experiment? Writing in my blog daily. What do I wish to accomplish?  I wanna see how my writing progresses and how the public responds to it.  Does this mean I will box myself in, adhering to public opinion?  I hope not. I wish to grow as a writer. I wish to learn how to make my writing more digestible. By digestible I mean, through daily practice and feedback, I wish to create better flow, glow, form, and phrasing. I wish to entice, inform, and/or entertain. I wish be myself. I wish to discover an audience.  I hypothesize that I can do this.  Please excuse the occasional excrement. 

Occasional?

That's what I said.

Okay. 

Shut up. . 

Sorry bro.

It's all cool. Let's end this entry.

Okay.

Time for a smoke. Cheers.  

15 Minutes

          Okay, here I go. I have only fifteen minutes to write this.

Fifteen minutes to tell you all that I'm conducting an experiment. I'm going to blog everyday. Yes, everyday. Why? Well, because a writer gots to write, right?  Why fifteen minutes. Well, that's the time I have right now. The oven's on, a smoke's in my mouth, and my wife gets off work at four. It's 3:30. I still have cut up the potatoes, cut up some brats, add some garlic salt and Cajun seasoning, and stick it in the oven. Then get into he car and pick up the wife from Hardee's.  Oh, by the way my wife's name is Melissa.

Okay, it's 3:37.  Eight minutes left. Shit.

Ah, my mind's going blank.

The oven just beeped. It's preheated to 350.

Okay, now what?  My mind is still blank. Don't you hate it when that happens. I do. Damn, damn, damn.

My feet are cold. I got 6 minutes to finish this. No time to put socks on. No time to find a blanket. For if I took time to do that then my minutes would be up. Um, so I'll just let them chill. One must make sacrifices. Cold feet are okay.

3:41. Um,... 3:42. Correcting typos takes up time. In fact, if I could type better I'd be able to write more. Spending too much time deleting and retyping. Oh, well. I guess the more I write the better my typing skills might become. I say might because I've never been a good typist.

3:45. Times up.

Cheers.

Lean Not On Your Own Understanding

This morning as I was taking a shower something strange happened. A Bible verse washed across my mind.  “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not to on your own understating.”  Now, when this sort of thing  this sort of thing happens I tend to let it flow.  After all, I was brought up in quite a religious situation. So having a Bible verse cross my mind isn't a shocker. What was strange is that it actually made sense.

WTF.  Yep, I know. Let me explain.  You see, at 43 I’m finally realizing I got a brain that  functions quite well.  At least that’s the impression I get from my wife, from brothers, my father, my friends, some co-workers, and strangers who so happen to take time to converse with me.  Um, I wonder.... perhaps I can use it to hook up with a sweet job. Even though I enjoy the one I’m at, I desire someday to write, research, edit images, and--ya know-- to be creative. Plus I like dealing with the public.

Back to the verse. To me thepart that made sense first was “lean not unto your own understanding.” Um.  Lean not on yourself,  in other words.  Don’t put too much cred into just you.  Many others know more than you.  Others know more about you than you.  Lean not unto your own understanding. Listen others, listen to their ideas. Cut loose the lower ideals you’ve been packing.  Listen to those who understand that you are more than you are.  Perhaps they are right.  If you lean on your own understanding you will never really climb, no matter how much you think you know.  Lean on the words and wisdom of others.  Your own understanding is cool but will only get you so far.

Have faith.  Lean on the words of those who have told you that you are more than you think you are-- that success ( not only material success) will come once you find your niche.  Lean not unto your own understanding. Float on the words of those who have insight no matter how learned they are,  how old they are, how rich or poor they are;  no matter their color,  creed, or ethnicity.  Adhere to the understanding of others.  Lean, hold, hug, and….jump.  Have faith.

Jump.  Yes, jump, take the leap into the abyss. Have faith.  Believe in the faith that others have in you. Your understanding of yourself consists of many conflicting arguments, all of which make sense  depending on what mood you are in at the moment.  Jump.  If you do not, then you will remain a thinker that  builds a pile of neglected dreams, hoarded ideas, jumbled imaginings, and  idle jots. Lean on the words of those around you—except the negative ones, fucking  assholes. Lean not unto your own understanding.  Jump.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart…” 

Lord?  I ain’t got  no Lord.  I’m an atheist, God damn it.

But wait.  Wait?  Yes Wait.  Can’t one insert something else important  in place of the word Lord, something perhaps as important to them as word Lord?
 

“Hell no, ain’t no thing gonna replace the Lord. He’s God. That would be blasphemy,” the purist believer says.   

“Nope, can’t do it.  To do so would be acknowledging the word ipso facto .  Fuck that.”  The God hating purist says.

"Chill," I say.  

You can insert whatever you wish. You can give the phrase focus that isn't God, a subject besides God, an important something (or someone) in life that you trust. 

For me it's people: those around me who see things I don't.  For me it is friends, family, teachers, professors, and strangers that have over the years pointed out the positive possibilities in me.  Even though I have ignored their words for many years, I thank them.  At of 43 I’m (finally) starting to think about what they’ve said and to trust them.  I’m not sure how I’m going to show my trust, but I will.  I hope to do it in such as way as to make them all proud. Thanks.

To them I raise my beer. To them I write this prose. “Trust in the Lord with all  your heart and lean not on your own understanding.”   I was thinking about deconstructing the verses around it, or even the all of Proverbs 3. But  as I look  back at what I’ve written I ain’t seeing the need in that.  I’ve already said what needed to be said. Trust in the positive people with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding...or something like that.  Cheers and have a nice day. Peace to all.  Love and smiles.

Cigs, Chicken, Jesus, and Lok.

It’s June 1, 2014.  Been quite some time since I tapped these keys.  And for some reason, the words linger and refuse to hit the screen.  Perhaps I need more coffee. It’s nine forty eight.  As soon as I finish this macaroni, chicken, cauliflower, and cheese…

I’m back.  Anyone got a ...?

“Hey,” can I bum a smoke?”  I said to Lok.  Flames flicked and licked. Barbecue sauce and chicken fat sizzled. Smoke rose from the coals.   

“Sure,”  he said as he tonged a breast.

Coffee’s done.  Um, perhaps I made too much.  Phsshht, nope. No way one can make too much. Not even if it’s Gevalia from Gälve.  My friend Ronnie lives there. Nice town. Nice coffee.  It’s in Sweden by the sea. Damn, I miss her...

“Wait ‘til I flip this,” Lo said.

I stood there. A mild nic fit crawled from the back of my brain.  I smoked my last cig a few hours ago.  Had to sacrifice for groceries.  One needs food ya know.  Wife and I went to Aldi.  At one time you could buy a sweet amount of grub there for 30 bucks.  Spent 35.  Couldn't even buy everything on the list. Damn.  Was thinking about getting some cheap smokes,  American Eagle 20 lights, but couldn't. We spent five more than planned.  Shit. 

My brain blanked.  

“Here,”  Lok said, lifting his beer. He took some Reds from the dingy shorts that dangled from his hips. His eyes remained fixed on the grill.

“Anyone got a light,” I said. 

“Oh, sure,”  Jesus said. Fire sprang from his fingers.  Smoke ebbed from the corner of his mouth, caressed his beard, and disappeared.  He sipped on a can of Busch Light.

“Thanks,” I said and sat down on the white stairs.

“You look like an artist,” Jesus said.

Lok poured BBQ sauce over the chicken and took a brush from the table.

I sipped my Pabst and inhaled.

Lok gazed at the grill, sipped his beer, paused, hit his smoke, broad brushed the chicken, paused, and brushed it again.  “I know.”  He looked up and smiled.

....It’s eleven eleven.  Got laundry in the drier and food to fix.  The wife works from six to six. It’s her first day at Target Distribution.  I’m gonna make her some grub to eat when she gets home.  I work from 2 pm until 11.  So, I guess I gots to go.  Cheers. 

Once a Writer: A Digression.

Literature is the study of writing. Literature is the study of history and culture. Literature is the study of those who write. Literature is the study of form and structure of what they write.  Literature is the study of...

Once a writer now a man who wishes he could write. Once a writer, I am now a man searching for a place to place his words. Once a writer, now a man mentally boxed in, afraid to jot his thoughts on the page.

To write one must feel free within them self. Free to place words on the page, to lace the white spaces with inner, outer, wispy, crispy, or crazy lines. Lines which the writer or others wish to inject snort, or phusshh push straight into their brains.  In order to write one must feel that words matter to at least him, her, the dog, the cat, or a tiny piece of shit.  In order to write one must knock or block the inner, the outer, the twirling barbed wired, electric spire criers that zip, zing, flip, fling doubt lines and shards shot wrapped in membranes of snot by jitter critters binging in the mind.  To write one must at least have confidence in what they wish to, want to, or are about to jot, scribble, babble, spew, or say.  Many times I lack confidence.

"What the fuck?" those of you who have known me for years might say. “What the fuck, man you've been tossing words for over twenty years. You love the written word?”

Yes, I do.   But the more I jot my spew, fling my mental pencil, paint and primp my literary injected, infected, crass worthy wordy ass, the more I find that many folks like boxes.  Yes, boxes. I'm not talking about the prim and proper grammar, syntax, and punctuation. Sure, I bulked against that stuff when I was a kid. I now understand why folks arranged words neatly into those understood notches, sturdy nails, and familiar boards.  It packages ideas in ways that others can understand. The boxes I'm talking about are the boxes of form, the boxes of ideas, and the boxes which encapsulate those ideas and forms. 

Form?   Form is how something is written. Haiku is a form. Sonnet is a form. Essays have an understood form. Many story types have forms. Journalism has accepted forms. Shit, even free verse is a form. Form is a box made constructed by sets of conventions. These sets of conventions help folks keep comfy.  They let the reader and the writer know how the words are gonna lay on the page. Many times they dictate what images are to be used, what ideas are to be discussed, or what topics might be popped and tossed about.  In fact, I'll be bold enough to say that  for many comfy folks, who like to sit comfy in their comfiness,  it's sets of conventions that makes their favorite form of writing important and meaningful.  That's okay-- if you like to convene and restrict writing to forms of comfiness.

I don't.  I like to create forms, ignore forms, or take forms and play with them.

Take Haiku and free verse for example.  Rhyme and time. I like make an image by 5-7-5, free verse it, and mixed win an occasional  ab, aa, or bb rhyme. Free verse ain't supposed to have time. It ain't supposed to follow 5-7-5.  Haiku ain't supposed to have rhyme. Free verse is supposed to mimic how people talk. Aw, man please don't balk.  I've heard folks speak in rhyme.  It happens all the time. Shit, if you break up small exchange between two kids you might even hear it in 5-7-5.....

Literature is the study of one's self and the written expression thereof. Literature is the study of one’s own forms, the forms that live within them, or the discovery of ways to express one's self by using forms already discovered. Literature is authentic and spiritual.  But I digress, I guess. Anyone like Herman Hesse?

Cheers.

Why Study Literature?

Let’s get going.

Why do I read? I read to discover. I read for enjoyment. I read to cope. I read to connect. I read to escape. I read to learn. I read to see. I read to relate. I read to feed my soul. How does reading do that? How does literature…

Why literature? Why explore the lives and minds of fictional characters? Why ponder plot, structure, genre, alliteration, rhyme, and style?  What importance does literature hold for this technical world?  What importance is it to the nontechnical world?  What does it show us?  What power do well placed words hold upon the reader? Can we apply literature to the life away from the text? How does it affect the mind? How does it affect society? How does it enhance one’s life and the lives of others?

Is it important?  And why?

Why do I ask these questions? Because…well...I guess I got me an inner drive to do so. How am I going to find the answers, you might ask, and is it possible? I’m going to search for the answers. How? Well, by answering them myself and by asking other people.  I’m going to spend long hours thinking, talking, and writing.  Most likely, I make a discovery while tying my shoes or handing someone change for a donut, gas, or a cup of coffee.  Perhaps, I gain insight from a pal or professional on facebook. Perhaps, I’ll gather words of wisdom from a stranger while drinking beer at Chasers. Most likely, I'll make a discovery while tying my shoes or handing someone change for doughnuts, gas, or coffee. Who knows?

Now back to my Gevalia and The House of the Dead.

Cheers.