Carpe Diem!

Hard to hold sometimes.

This year has been a rough one for me. I've had to weather a few storms and I've had to suffer a few set backs but looking back over the whole thing in these remaining days I have no choice but to admit that it wasn't all that bad.

Back in the later months of 2008 I lost my job. Honestly I got fed up with the sales man bullshit and I walked. At the time I thought, "I've always been able to find a job, it won't be a huge deal to get something else". At the time I had no real concept for the economy and what effect it was going to have on me. I was simply optimistic about the future. I suppose I always am. I grumble and grouch my way through but I never stopped trying. During my extended unemployment I took the time to refine my writing. I dabbled in radio and was interviewed for a TV spot. I snagged a gig I am very happy with at Open Heart Publishing. And in the last few days I found a full time job writing web copy. I didn't make much money and it strained more than my wallet but the work I did put in, the lessons I learned have all made me a stronger better focused man.

Maybe the gloves came off now and then.

Being broke sucks on its own. When you add the social necessity all people posses being broke creates no end to questions, quandaries and crap. I wanted to attend every party and I wanted to bring gifts to every birthday, wedding, and holiday gift exchange but I simply couldn't. I died a little every time I saw a bill I couldn't pitch in on and it bothered me. No matter how hard I worked, or where I was living I felt useless. I am aware that the tension I built within myself over my guilt may have compounded, if not caused, the rough patches in almost all of my relationships. Everyone is short on cash flow and just as revved, just as ready to fight as I was and sometimes we let the fists fly. I argued with some folks this year I would rather not have and I hope that by now we have all worked through these misunderstandings and are moving towards stronger bonds tomorrow. If I've offended you and have yet to make amends, please forgive me. I am sure you are in my mind and on my heart. (The above only applies to those that deserve my forgiveness. You other punks can eat a dick and choke on it. You know who you are.)

It's been a time of uncertainty and fear. I for one am tired of the dark hole. and I am extremely happy to see some light. All of the hard work I've put in is just beginning to pay off. My Jr. Editors gig has gone a long way towards opening doors for me and I want to thank Debrin Case for helping make that possible. He gave me a chance when NO ONE else was willing. He gave me a platform for showcasing my talent and invaluable guidance in making it great. With that though I have also made in roads with my own work with different publishers around the country. Every project, every blog, every letter for me was an opportunity to be a better writer, and to learn something. I hope I conducted my self well and made you all feel as if you walked away with at least a greater clarity.

But, it's all worked out and it appears that 2011 is going to be much better for me. I've finally found a job and I believe I will be very happy there. There is a degree of challenge to the work and there is infinite room for improvement. I will be going back to school soon. I have a goal of getting my first PhD in only ten years. That means Bachelors by 40. I plan to stay with this job at least that far, if not longer. Many of my relationships are settling into comfortable and lasting familiarity. It's good to sit and get to know one another. I look forward to having opportunity to become better acquainted with the friends I have and to meeting new people along the way.

Some of you are friends of mine and you have been with me through it all. I want you all to know, as we move into a new year, that I truly appreciate your support. I hope your new year holds magnificent things for you all. At the end I want to share what I learned. You have to take every day as a day to do something. find something and do it. Start to finish, succeed or fail you have to try. In this day and age we have a million what if's right at our fingertips. Reach out, grab one and find out what mysteries it holds.

Hey! Keep it Cartoony

Okay, we have a problem Houston!

There is a horrible rumor going around that some deep and dark secret cadre of pedophiles started the "Post a cartoon pic thing on Facebook for, (insert reason here)." I, for one, don't believe it to be true. I have seen, recently, many reasons for posting your main pic as a cartoon and not one of them, not a single one, said anything about sex with underage children. A few examples, if you'll allow:

"Make your profile pic as your favorite cartoon. The goal here is to remember what it was like to be a kid and for one week have zero human faces on Facebook."

"Make your profile pic a cartoon to help fight child abuse."

"... to help fight spousal abuse."

"...to help fight cancer."

"...tho help fight Obama."

The point is that for me, for those closest to me, it was a geek thing really. We had discussions and arguments about what was and what wasn't a cartoon. We learned things about one another we maybe never before would have known. I picked Liono because I'm a Leo and that character always meant something to me. He is a leader of a crack group of warriors alone on a hostile planet fighting and unrelenting enemy. And he's a Lion with a Sword and he's all hot for the hot Cheetah character. That's all it meant to me. I forgot about the original reason for making it a cartoon and I had a discourse and conversation about what my LIFE meant to me. The details and elements of it that made the me that is ME. 

Okay, for the sake of the argument let's say that there was some demon dark and evil that conspired to some how move the earths to create a great conspiracy to lure more children into his clutches. Let's say that some how he achieved a remarkable 2% children lured into his web. With 500 Million active profiles on Facebook that's a grand total of ten million children to choose from. I just don't under stand how he will hear their pathetic little cries over the tens of millions of geeks, nerds, newbies, nostalgic milfs, collectors, art enthusiast's, writers, and yes a few idiots he's have to listen to argue about every new anything that was coming out soon. WE have a new summer movie blockbuster summer on the horizon that includes super heroes and Harry Potter. We have Tron! Ther is always Star Wars and of course Red Dead! How would he ever know who the real kids actually are? and when he ran across one of us well, we're smarter than him. At least I'd like to think so. 

What ever your reason, don't change it now and start apologizing and taking it back because someone called you stupid for supporting a fictional child rapist. Remember why you actually did it and live with that. That's the show of true strength. That is how we defeat the perves and he haters. Grow from every experience in your life. All of them. and never forget what it was like to be a kid and have a dream.       

"Truth is ... I'm a geek and cartoons sort of influenced my life. Part of the reason I trained, and studied and worked so hard all my 35 years so far is because I want to be a bad ass like the Thunder Cats. And By The Power Of Grey Skull! I'm just saying, fuck the internet rumors and the myths. No one knows why it was started. We made it our own and rocked it and learned a bit more about one another because of it. In a week things will go back to the way they've always been. Bravo! Hold your own. Individually we all are here together." - Davin Kimble

Chubby's Burgers gave me a chubby

Image via Wikipedia

So there is this great burger place in West Fort Worth on Camp Bowie Blvd. across the street from Rusty's and Score, formally the hooker spot Gizmos. This place, I can say, truly has some of the best burgers in the area. There is one other place, Salsa Fuego, that makes some Reeeaaallly good burgers. Anyway, I digress. This burger joint is called Chubby's Burgers.

I almost hate to say anything bad about this place so, before I do I am going to tell you how I feel about their food. It is really good. The burgers are huge and flavorful, the fries are crisp and fluffy and delicious. The garden is fresh and the soda is never flat. You won't get any of that Jack in the Box or Burger King inconsistent burger roulette. I personally, as a general rule, would rather eat at a small local burger joint before a fast food giant of a place and Chubby's is one of those joints.

Now... With that said. I have the sad duty to report that I am fully disappointed with Chubby's and their staff. A bit over a week ago I walked into Chubby's with the little doe my lady friend and I could scrape together, not wanting to cook, and not wanting to eat the flesh of the giants Wendy, Jack and King, we decided on Chubby's famously good burgers. It was a Friday night and walking in it was a lot less crowded than I thought it would be. I bellied up to the bar wishing I had enough to sip a cold one while I waited on my order. As I waited I did, as I always do, take a look around the restaurant, cataloging faces, marking booties, checking my exits and escape routes. During this time I decide what to order, how to order it and approximately how much it would cost. I had time to consider the beer after all. That was when I realized, I had been sitting there for some time.

I noticed that the guy sitting to my left at the bar, sipping a beer, and the guy to my right at the bar, also sipping a beer, had moved on. The guy on my right got his food, double checked it before he paid and then sat and watched the game, basketball, before he left. The guy sitting to my left, also by now vanished, I remember answering the phone when it rang. Regular, or employee on lunch break he had to have noticed me sitting there. The wait staff, two young, cute Texas Barbie types, were working their cute little tails off but each time they went from the beer cooler, taps and register to the dining room, or TV remote, they passed me by and never spoke a word.

There was no, "Hey darlin' can I getcha a brew while you wait?"

There was no, "It's gettin' a bit busy in here hun, can I get you a soda while you wait?"

There wasn't even a, "What'll it be?"

The problem I have here is that there was no acknowledgement at all. They walked around me and I watched them serve everyone else around me and not once did anyone in that building acknowledge my presence. It was as if I was  ghost. For 45 minutes I sat there waiting to be dazzled by a Chubby Burger and no one had bothered to notice my being. It's bad enough when a man like me is ignored. The seas rise in our minds and we want to flood everything. But when we are stepped around, or over as if we don't exist ... well the world was destroyed by water the first time; here it's fire that drives us.

Destroyed by Fire!

"How DARE you ignore me?" I fume as I decide what to do.

I could speak up. But why should I have to? I am a customer with money that I've made the choice to spend in your establishment. Don't I deserve some attention? The toughest par about it was the fact that i had recently heard a story on NPR about modern racism. I am not a huge believer in the racist state and I struggled with something I'd heard during that broadcast as I sat there at that bar fuming and trying to decide what to do.

"I hate it when you are the only black man in the building and the world acts as if you don't exist." The guy on the radio had said earlier that day. I thought, then, as he said it, that those things don't happen to me. As I sat there at that bar waiting to be noticed I realized that it does and I realized that it is fucking bullshit. I decided to leave.

I have walked out of places and NEVER returned. I will still sneak into a Denny's and eat and omelette's and biscuits with sausage gravy, but I will not spend my money at Subway. I walked out of Chubby's and I bought our food, that we didn't want to cook, off of the flesh of the giants. Which one is irellevant; we ate it, we hated it and we learned a lesson.

Over the next week we talked about that night here and there and we decided that there was something that had to be done. Even if it was a small thing. In the course of these conversations, one night, hungry and not wanting to cook, and again not wanting to feast on the flesh of giants, we decided on Chubby's.

"I don't wan to go." I told her.

"I understand," she said "I'll go."

"You can tell them to kiss my ass if you want," I told her.

She did me one better than that actualy, she gave me the ultimate compliment.

"My friend was here the other day," she said to one of the 'Barbie's" behind the bar, "and he sat here for 45 minutes waiting to be acknowledged."

Of course she got the usual I'm sorry's you'd expect from an establishment that doesn't want to alienate all of the grey and invisible faces that pay their bills. Would you like a coupon? We are SOOO sorry.

"What you don't know," she continued, "is that he his a local writer and an amateur foodie and he had a bit of a following and you can believe that this won't go unnoticed.

That's when I knew that I had to say something and I have the platforms to say what I want. So ... 

Here we stand a line in the sand. While I love their food and while I will not discourage you from eating it, yet, I will ask of you one thing. When you do buy your burger from Chubby's Burgers in West Fort Worth on Camp Bowie Blvd. across the street from Rusty's and Score, formally the hooker spot Gizmos. You let those bastards know that, in this economy, they may loose a huge fan base just because of poor customer service. You let them know that we are watching and that I will be writing about it should they pass, or fail. And while you are there, grab me a Chubby.

Homeland Security

Passing through

Homeland Security. We've heard the debate. We all know what’s going on. The airports are technically trying

to keep us all safe and there is a huge movement beginning that may effectively stop them from doing so. I know the argument. You are all so concerned with your privacy. Yes, I know how concerned something like 3 million of you actually are. I, my dear readers see your Facebook pages.  I see how important your privacy is to you and I can’t believe you have the audacity to stand up here telling us you don’t want some security guy at the airport looking at your nakedness. Some of you can’t even keep your clothes on through a whole

party. This fact has been heavily documented.

Look, my point is you are losing the privacy argument. These body scanners are meant, I believe, to help alleviate the other shit you travelers have been bitching about; the long lines, the need to remove your belt, and shoes, and glasses, and jacket and empty your pockets. Shove it all into those plastic tubs and pass through, thank you very much. With this new technology you get to walk on through. For a brief moment some stranger gets to see your privates in an eerie blue haze. Come on, you want people to see your naked glory just like I do. And let me tell you my naked is pretty damned glorious. Who cares? Better they see my substantial package than let Suzie terminal bomber bastard get through.

Ask yourself this question. Do I really want to be the victim of some airport attack, hostage situation, or plane bombing because of my fucking modesty? Ask yourself that on the way to hell because some of ya’ll ain’t Right, and you know it. I would rather strip down in front of all of you, every time than be blown up. So …

If we must go through it I, because you love me so well, am going to give you something to work with, you traveling types. A short list of things you can do to make your security check experience more entertaining. I have to say, none of these ideas have been tested anywhere ever, to my knowledge. If you choose to try these things you do so at your own risk. And since you are already risking everything you might as well film it and send them to me. If I get a few I will revisit this topic with videos attached. Now, wouldn’t that be fun? Of course it would.

Now here are:

D.K.’s Five Ways to Fuck with the Man and, Hopefully, Still get on the Plane:

Take the Pat Down and then, then they start touching you give them your best sex voice and say, “I love it when you touch me there.” Moan, and then say, “Oh, yes, like that, touch me there baby,” or something of the sort. The point is, give them hell. They have a job to do and you have a place to get. Throw a little fun and gun in there.

Conversely you can do exactly the opposite and get physically ill. Start gagging, and go on about your aversion to foreign human contact. Let them get on with it but again make them as uncomfortable as you can.

Why, It's a Big Black Dick officer.

Wear a strap on. You heard me. Get the biggest blackest one you can. This can apply to men and women, when you get dressed for the airport strap it on. Position the long dong down your left or, if you lean that way, right leg. When you go through the full body scanners, better yet choose the pat down option, and they ask the inevitable question, “What is that?” you can say honestly, “It’s a big ass black cock.”

On that same note, If you are so inclined you can stick a butt plug up your ass. I know, but think about this one. Here you pass up the pat down option in favor of the scanner. Have a butt plug in your ass. When they ask say, “It’s the only way I can comfortably fly. I’ve been wearing this on flights from this airport for years.”

For those of you less inclined. It’s an eerie blue haze after all, pretend to be a ghost. Get into the scanner and really ham it up. Turn circles; stick your bum out, boo at them. Get through the scanner and fuck with their heads.

We live in a democracy and we have the right to protest. We have the right to say no to any action posed against us. We also have to accept the responsibilities that come with that freedom. That responsibility may include things we consider drastic. Being pulled from the line at the airport because you have a huge black dick down your pants may seem a bit drastic. But I bet you, should they confiscate it, that your gift won’t go to waste. Show up early, take your sweet time and, should you be chosen for extra examination give them something to work with.

This has been The Kimble View Point

Peace  

Everything is going to be okay

It is you know. The title I mean. Everything is going to be okay. I have proof but before I give you that I have to follow protocol and give you the bad news first. I know how you feel about it but the absolute truth is there is nothing that can be done about it. I signed up for this writers union thing and I believe it was free because they are sapping my soul with their rules. One of their rules is, "You must have tension in your work."

So, here's the bad news. Right now life sucks for a lot of us. If we're not loosing our jobs or our homes or our families we are loosing our minds for sure. The so called leaders of our country, states, cities and municipalities are surprisingly comfortable with feeding us a consistent diet of sound bites and party rhetoric. I, and a great many of you, try to dig through the thick morass of information and deep well of dirty lies to find the truth but in the end do you ever really know? You have to make an informed decisions and get on with it.

The bad news is, we aren't getting any help from our old outdated Uncle Sam. Isn't he Great, great uncle "so and so" three times removed by now? You would think with as fast as we can advance our technology we would be equally capable of advancing our thought processes and political wrangling. But the egg heads screw it up so that the geeks can fix it. But let me tell you;

EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY!

Is it going to be okay dot com is a web site dedicated to the positive message in the most simple and universal of gestures, the thumbs up. The owner, who doesn't give you much information, only asks that you send in your thumbs up and pass the word. So let the people who may be worse off than you know that everything really is going to be okay. Trust me I realize it every day.

Oh, why don't you see my pretty face giving the thumbs up on there? It's because I don't own a camera and it's the middle of the early night and I ain't going no where.

An Honest Lie Volume 3: Justifiable Hypocrisy

Submissions for A.H.L. Volume 3: Justifiable Hypocrisy

(doc, docx, odt)Size limit: 3,000 words minimum 6,000 words max
An Honest Lie


Theme: Justifiable Hypocrisy


We are accepting submissions in the areas of fiction, well written misadventures from real life, and blatant lies that are fun and entertaining..


We’re looking for ...


… the ironies in life

… the serendipity of it all

… the epitome of adventure

… the power of imperviousness

… the pull of naivety

… the view from a different angle

… the mix of mood, moment, and movement

… the wretched truth

… a clever lie

… the humor inside

… the mockery of it all



We’re looking for the perspective.


The subject is up to you.


(Please keep it clean. Swear words are fine if used in moderation, but this isn't Def Comedy Jam. No political commentaries, testimonials, religious manifestos, or poetry)

* * *


Submissions should be at least 3000 words in length and no more than 6,000 words total, submissions will be disqualified for not meeting minimum or exceeding maximum word count requirements.


All submissions should be sent in .odt, .doc or .docx format, in a legible 14 pt font, with pages numbered in the top right corner. Please be sure to attach this document to your email, do not copy and paste the text into the body of your email.


Please include title and author name on all pages submitted.


Include the following information with your submission:


Full Legal Name (with nom de plume)

Email and Regular Mail Addresses

Telephone
A Short Bio (100 words)



Deadline for Submissions is March 15 2011.


Public engagements associated with this publication are for promoting the book and for promoting you as an author.


Pay for published authors will be based on royalty accrued via sales of merchandise, books sold, and attendance at public engagements.

The most popular author from each anthology will receive a book contract with Open Heart Publishing !

Attendance at public engagements is not mandatory.

All travel and travel associated expenses are author's responsibility.

Limit of two pieces for consideration unless asked for more. 

Un edited, un cut un believable

So, I haven't been in here blogging, at all. So I am going to change that and I am going to start it today. So, we'll see how that works out. I want to start with a sampling of something I've been struggling with. I want your opinions so tell me what you think. Treasure? Or Trash? Jump in!

Image via Wikipedia

The Unsolved Case of Mary Anne Lewiston

                  Mary Anne Lewiston was what most adults would call a good kid. A good kid in the sense that she was well behaved, which means mostly quiet. She was smart, which means she knew enough to get her point across, but not so much she was annoying. With her huge deep brown eyes, hair that bordered on red in the sun and her dazzling smile Mary Anne was more than pretty. The product of a West Indian father and a West Texan mother she had an exotic look that stunned people even at the young age of five, copper and cream, her father called her; he said she was the sweetest thing since sugar cookies. “She is going to be a killer with the fella’s,” people would say in that annoying way people have of saying things you never cared to hear.

                  She lived together with her mother and father in a small Victorian house. Her father, an engineer, was rarely home and it fell to Mary Anne’s mother to care for the home. Mary loved her home and her mother dearly. She often dreamed that she was a princess and she’d spend hours in the parlor playing tea party. On Saturday afternoons her mother would have friends over for tea. The ‘flock’, her father called them.

                  “Cackling birds,” he’d say and he’d gather his keys and papers and head for the door.” Mary watched him leave and she’d go find her party dress and tea set. After she dressed herself she’d carry her tea set down the stairs and set it up on a side table. Then she’d position herself in her little chair and she’d sit, silent. Unearthly the child seemed at those times as if she were not all natural, but somehow more than nature could produce. The women would whisper and talk about her as if she were not in the room.

                  “Did you teach her to sit like that?” They would ask her mother.

                  “It’s creepy, downright unnerving.”

                  She would sit there, saying nothing, watching thinking (Cackling Birds). The idea of crackling birds amused her and she could see them burning, screaming as they burned. What they never knew as they talked about her was that Mary hated their intrusion. She knew her mother only tolerated these gatherings and Mary could only think to make it stop. The parlor, was the place, the parlor was the problem.

                  When noon rolled around on that next Saturday Mary was sleeping in her bed, napping after a long morning of playing with her dolls. In actuality Mary never touched the retched dolls and only lay down so she would not be drawn into glasses of watered down tea and poor conversation. As soon as she was sure the party was in full swing Marry quietly went into her parents room to grab her fathers Zippo from the bed side table. She really was unsure why he had a lighter, neither he nor her mother smoked anything, but Marry was glad he did have one it would make the coming task easier. After pocketing the lighter, Mary tip-toed down the stairs, through the kitchen and out the back door only pausing twice, once when a loose board squawked on the stairs and another in order to keep the screen door from banging behind her. Once out side she made her way to her fathers work shed. The door had a lock on it but Mary knew that it didn’t really lock anything. The Dummy Lock her father called it, it was there to keep the dummies out. A smart crook, he had said, wouldn’t be breaking into an old shed anyway.

                  Mary actually liked her father, most adults, her mother included, were well rounded bore’s and had nothing better to do with their time than make them selves look important by attending various in home gatherings around the neighborhood, mostly to gossip about who ever didn’t make it that week. Her father on the other hand was a man of vision, an engineer, and an artist who could take an idea and turn it into something real. The work shop reminded Mary of him and she stopped for a minute to take in his scent. The shop was not used for much any more but before she was born Mary’s father used it as his office. His high school diploma still hung on one wall and there was an old drafting table set up in the cramped space. Now it was littered with garden tools, old news paper and various levels of grime. The whole place was crammed with shed stuff, rakes and blowers, mowers and trimmers with only enough room to step in and begin pulling the stuff you didn’t want out so you could get at the stuff you did want. Fortunately for Marry what she wanted was right in the front.

                  Mary didn’t expect the gas can to be quite so heavy and she banged her shin when she first lifted it up. Dropping the can, she stood looking at the wounded leg as if she meant to cut it off as soon as they got back inside. Mary thought about how she would do this. If she tried to carry the can all the way back to the house she would be all after noon getting it there, she was after all only five and this thing her father lifted with such ease was a job for her to get off the ground. Looking around she spotted an ice pick and a mallet, the idea came to pop a hole in the can and make her jaunt indoors a bit easier. Pushing her hair back from her face Mary climbed over a push mower and a stack of unused bags that read “Mamma’s Potting Soil” on the front. The picture of the woman on the package reminded Mary of one of the women inside now and she planted one small foot firmly on the woman’s sun faded face. Stretching her little arms she was able to grab the mallet and then was able to use that to pull the pick to within grabbing distance. That done she backed tracked to the gas can.

                  Mary stood there for another moment, a little winded and soiled from the climbing and reaching, mallet in one hand, hammer in the other and thought that it would not be wise to puncture the can too low on the side least she loose all her fuel. You needed a good deal of fuel to start a fire when you were burning gossips instead of proper wood. Squatting down on the ground near where she had dropped the can Mary carefully positioned the ice pick on the plastic surface and whacked it one good time with the hammer. The pick slid across the can leaving a deep scratch but as yet no visible holes. Mary grunted and positioned the ice pick again, this time just above the crossbar on the raised “A” in gasoline, and took another swing. This one did the trick and the ice pick popped through with a whoop of punctured plastic and the out rushing whoosh of pressured gasoline. The trickle that flowed in a steady stream from the hole was enough for Mary and she tossed her tools down in the yard ready for her second attempt at lifting the can. She found that it lifted more easily than before and the can quickly grew lighter as she made her way back into the house.

                  The time for absolute caution had passed and Mary made no effort to mask her reentry into the house. As the door banged shut Mary heard her mother calling from the other room asking if she was alright or needed anything.

                  “Just playing,” Mary called to her, standing absolutely still, hoping no one would come around the corner. She didn’t know what she would say if she were caught now.

                  “Well stay the hell away from that door young lady.”

                  “Yes mamma.”

                  “Why don’t you come in here?”

                  “I’m coming momma.”

                  Before continuing on Mary stopped in the kitchen to pull her fathers Zippo out of her pocket and unscrew the cap on the gas can. She then made her way into the sitting room by way of the hall in the “New Wing” of the house, the one that led to her fathers new work shop. Mary knew what daddy did in there when mommy was not around but she never told her mother, Mary knew enough about working to know that sometimes you had to keep your clients happy.

                  Mary walked in from behind the couch, carefully spilling gasoline as she went, where three of the gathered sat cramming cookies into their faces and sucking down iced tea. She let the can drop onto the plush white carpet with a muffled thud and turned to walk out again. No one had noticed her, not even her mother. Put an end to the crackling birds, she thought.

                  Marry pulled back the top of the lighter, exposing it’s inner-working of flint and steel, cold precise and accurate as always the lighter flared to life when she spun the wheel. Leaning back around the corner to the living room Mary tossed the burning lighter towards the gas can. At first nothing happened and Mary thought for sure she would be caught before she could burn anyone, and she would be in serious trouble then.. Just as she was about to step in and retrieve the lighter, someone inquired about the smell of gasoline and  the fuel Mary had spilled onto the carpet went up in a whoosh. One woman screamed, a man, who Mary was sure would like to keep her mother happy jumped up and ran towards the blaze; everyone was stunned and as Mary stared into the fire time seemed to stand still, nothing moved but the flame running ever closer to the can itself, licking at it’s sides and finally…

                  The whole room went up in a blaze of crimson and yellow, the gas can actually imploded and the fuel blew straight up like a volcano bathing the ceiling in flame. The wooden frame work and lead laced paint of the house quickly picked up the fires rhythm and danced itself to cinders in the crackling music of the blaze. Amazingly no one had been seriously injured in the fire; however the New Wing of the house was lost.

                  People looked at Mary differently after the story of how the blaze started got around. She was no longer the good kid people assumed her to be now she was suspect, a child to be watched carefully. Her parents treated her differently as well, Mary was no longer allowed to wander alone and found her self confined to the boundaries of her room more often. The tea parties had been moved to a new location and because of the incident Mary caused her mother was no longer strictly welcome at these gatherings. On Saturdays Mary’s mother could now be found wandering through the house like an old woman touching things as if searching them for some long forgotten memory. Mary did not care much about her mother’s depression and was glad when the doctors prescribed a “relaxing” pill for her. It was the look she often saw in her father’s eye when he was alone in his office a look of loss and despair that drug Mary into sadness like a vortex and often held her there for days. Finally her father had left them without a word taking only what he needed to continue his work. Mary was sure that her mother blamed her for the loss of the only man she had ever known, but Mary was equally sure that it had been her mother’s lackluster life that had driven the man away.

                  That same year Mary began school. In the hallowed halls of elementary learning she found a new place to hide her self and there she found a new group of people to despise. The children in her class all seemed to be hollow shells, shapes of the dead adults they would become waiting to be filled with all the rhetoric society had to offer them. It didn’t take Mary long to make the decision to keep to her self and her strange ways kept the other children well away from her. She was left with a lot of time to think and to create a place for her self where she was surrounded by things that made sense and people she could talk to. The thought of burning the school down crossed her mind on occasion but in her time alone she had discovered a new way of removing obstacles and she knew just the person she would test them on.

                  Mary was six when she killed her mother. It was a sunny spring day just before school ended for the year and Mary had been under punishment for the better part of the month. She had stuck a pencil into the palm of another kid at school and when asked why she’d done it Mary told the teacher that the girl was a twit and needed a little shaking up. The thought made sense to Mary but the adults involved had the idea that it was somehow wrong to stab people with pencils even when they so obviously needed it. Her mother had gone screaming crazy when Mary came home that evening and for the first time in her life Mary had a spanking. The initial pain was nothing compared with the pain of suffering the humiliation. Having her bottom bared and being whacked unmercifully by a woman who was so weak was unforgivable. Over the next weeks the pain of that humiliation only grew and with its growth came an anger that dulled the pain but did nothing to remove it. Mary decided that there was only one way to remove that pain, remove the cause of it.

                  That morning before school Mary pulled a knife out of the kitchen drawer. She chose the biggest one she could find that would still fit into her book bag without tearing through the bottom. She spent the day as she usually did working diligently at the three R’s and at the end of the day made her way home not straying from her usual routine. When she arrived everything was as she expected it to be. The house was quiet and her mother was asleep in her bed, high on the relaxing pills she still took every day. Mary took the knife from the book bag and slipped quietly into her mother’s room. Her mother slept on her side curled into her self, her face was bathed in the light from the bedside table a lock of hair falling over one eye, her fist balled under her chin like a child. For a moment Mary felt a brief wave of pity for this woman that had brought her into the world, could she actually kill her; so fragile and pale sleeping there defenseless and unaware? Then the vision of the spanking flashed through her mind and the anger rushed in to seize the knife in a white knuckled fist. Mary watched wide eyed as the blade rose, blinking once in the light of the bedside lamp, and then fell with an eagles grace to land with a crunch in the side of her mothers face. The woman came awake with a scream and the knife flew once again this time slicing one protective arm to the bone and landing in the belly. Only small rivulets of blood came from her mother’s mouth and a look of fear and shock painted her face a ghostly white. Her belly on the other hand had been sliced deep and when Mary pulled the blade free huge gouts of fresh blood and bits of matter followed in an arc.  The knife rose and fell again and again, 27 times in all and Mary only stood impassively watching as the blade did its gruesome work.

                  No one ever saw Mary Anne Lewiston again after that day. In the beginning the authorities assumed that there had been a robbery and that Mary’s mother had been murdered in her bed before Mary came home, that Mary had probably walked in on the murder in progress and had been taken off. Later a bundle was found a few miles from the Lewiston home containing bloodied clothing that the people at the school identified as belonging to Mary Anne. A man hunt was launched but that soon ended, no one could really bring themselves to care much about finding a lost little murderous child. The tiny police force did not have the man power to continue the hunt alone and so a missing person’s file was opened and people went on with their lives. Many secretly hoped that she had been abducted by her mother’s murderer so that they would never have to look into those cold predatory eyes again. Eventually the case grew old and died in an unsolved case file.

Sometimes I find myself in these situations where I don't know what to say so I say nothing. Sitting and suffering in silence, trying to understand the person beside you and getting zero from them makes me wonder what the fuck I'm thinking. Some people, I believe, have nothing to give. I am not one to force anything out of you. If you want o be close to me you'll be close and I will welcome it. If you want to sit alone in silence watching mindless tv, well ... what ever.

The Good Guys

The slab slowly swallowed up the blocks under its thin tires. The chrome on the over sized rims flashed and sparkled under the city lights. The tires swished in the darkness barely heard over the soft rumble coming from beneath the shimmering blue paint job. Aggressive rhythms and deep beats beat the moment into a solid reality. Within, beyond the darkened windows, four young men sat encased in steel, leather and smoke. They cradled, between their legs or in their arms, weapons meant for war, and a war is what these men thought they were fighting. There was a driving force that pushed their tank of a passenger vehicle down the road that night; a dark shadow that demanded vengeance for the slights committed by other young males. Real or imagined, the group must be defended against interlopers. They, the four and so many more, were adolescent lions with no hope of a pride of their own. Only a life lived for the glory of a violent death.

The windows on the car slowly descended, one further than the others, the one behind the driver; that one came all of the way down, that young man carried the heaviest of the weapons and he sat on the sill, shooing over the roof. The smoke from within poured from the open windows and in that haze of sparkling chrome and blue and fire, the dragon roared and breathed death upon the corner that night, in the dark places of our world.

Later, too much later, long minutes passed as mothers wailed, and babies died on the street like dogs. Hit by bullets and left to die; these young lions, victims of their viscous rivals, bleed while their mothers wailed and they died on a dirty corner in the dark places of our world. The flashing blue and reds echoed off the stark and dirty store fronts, vying with the fluorescent beer signs and the naked dim street lamp over head, they lent no comfort to the macabre scene.

The men that climbed from the vehicles that carried the lights, were uniformed, and foreign; enemies in a hostile land they only incited more violence by their very presence; so long after those the mothers loved had died.

"But we are the "Good Guys." They plead with the gathering crowd. But the wailing mother knew better, they knew that if their sons and brothers spoke too loudly of their pain they would be whipped into submission, beaten into compliance, or carted off to never be seen again. The mothers understood better than the men did. The men were angry, the mothers were hurt. Somewhere in pain there is a sense of the world you cannot find in anger and so the mothers said to their sons and brothers:

"Let the Good Guys go."

And they went and there, on that corner were only the stains, the memories of that night when the dragon breathed death on that corner. Bathed now only in the light from the naked dim street lamp over head, and the fluorescent beer signs.

Good Ole' Fashioned Soul Food

One of my favorite things about living in the south is the food. Not too long ago a friend of mine from Baltimore asked me if I knew of any Soul Food restaurants in the area. At the time I truly didn’t, and I should be ashamed but I’m not so …. I had heard a rumor about little place called Straight from the Kitchen that had recently opened nearby and it advertised itself as “Made from scratch Southern Comfort cuisine.” We all know that that could mean another Chicken Fried and eggs place but I was intrigued and when my mother offered to buy dinner for my birthday I took the opportunity to stop in and try it out.

From the smell when we walked through the door I knew we were going to be in for a treat. It smelled like childhood in there, back when grandma lived with us and she made dinner every night. It reminded me of what home cooking smells like. My mother, uncle, and grandmother were waiting on my girlfriend and me when we walked in. I don’t know how long they’d been waiting but I could tell they were ready to get the ball rolling so I bellied up to the counter and looked the menu over. We were greeted warmly by owner and front man Matthew Thompson. He gave us a quick rundown of the menu and told us some of the history of the restaurant. Matthew and Wife and Chef Marsha began Straight from the Kitchen as a catering business, and they still cater, but recently made the decision to open a formal restaurant. “We wanted to open a place that felt like home.” Mathew told me. And that it did. But I was determined to reserve my judgment.

While the menu boasted only a limited number of choices, but the choices presented were all appetite inducing. Growling deep down, I decided on the Mouth Watering Pork Chops with Collard Greens and Black Eyed Peas. Grandma and my girlfriend both had the meat loaf.

“This is the best meatloaf I’ve ever eaten.” My girlfriend said around mouthfuls.

“I may never cook meatloaf again.” Grandma mumbled hunched over her plate.

It’s hard to argue with a great plate of food. Especially when there is enough of it for my skinny ass to have munchies food later and it’s good cold and reheated. You know what I mean, I know you do. So I say go check out Matthew and his crew over at Straight from the Kitchen, It’ll be well worth the trip I promise you. Check them out over at Straight from the Kitchen.net

How Does Thunder Work?

I was asked recently to write between 250 and 400 words on the topic of what makes thunder work. this had to be presented as if you were talking to an intelligent 7th grader. I need to make room on my lap top for other things and I don't want to simply delete it so I am posting it here for your entertainment and criticism. Enjoy!

The sky is dark with clouds and the wind is kicking up leaves and dirt in the street. The street lamps are giving off a hollow yellow light in the distance. As you stand on the porch you can feel the storm coming. Suddenly the world is frozen in a moment of blue white light and shadow. And again everything is darkness, then…BOOM! The sound bounces off your chest and rocks you back a step. The windows behind you rattle in their frames and you turn to flee the onslaught. Ahem…

It’s just thunder right? We all know there is nothing to be afraid of, but do we really know what creates that loud boom following a lightening strike? Some people will tell you things like: “It’s the Angels bowling.” Or, “That’s Thor in his work shop…making hail.” But they would be completely and utterly, well…wrong. Science, a thing we came up with along our way to being the smartest animals on the planet, tells us that there is a logical explanation to this. Well, sort of.

Lightening, being electricity, and the dangerous part of the “Thunder and Lightening” duo is created by atmospheric friction. Thinking Exercise:

Think of the carpet as wind and your socks as… wind, one warm the other cooler. Well, they rub together and the result is a burst of electricity. Rub your socks on the carpet, touch your sister, run away. Hear that tiny crack before she screamed? That, is thunder.

Thunder, the less dangerous part of T&L results from the lightening moving and superheating the air so quickly that it breaks the sound barrier. The BOOM you hear is literally the air coming back together like a clap. But why the boom? Technically all of this happens at the same time, in a split second. However, light, which is the Lightening part of the equation; travels faster than sound. The lightening appears from the sky so quickly it literally rips a hole in the sky. Seconds later we hear the Boom announcing its passing.

Some will tell you that if you count the seconds between the flash of light and the Crack of Boom, you can tell how many miles away the storm is. I can’t vouch for that, my math is too bad for speculation. But it makes more sense than the “Thor Theory”. I love science.

The Angry Hat or The Remarkable Story of a Man Named Tongue Tied

This is a true story. As such, I have taken every pain here to not be sued. Names have been changed for various reasons; most of them to protect those who know better.

I have a friend, we'll call him...Carlton. Now Carlton has a lady friend, (lady friend being different from girlfriend,) we'll call her...Mary. Carlton and Mary, having known one another in the past, and having recently reunited, fell easily and deeply into one another. Well...as deeply as two people who just re-met could be expected to fall into one another. Deep, but let's call it, "able to tread water and get back to shore pretty easily," deep; not, "fuck we are going to die out here and it's your fucking fault," deep.

Anyway...

Together, as they were, they decided to go to a party,... um, together. This party, being a gathering of her friends, not his, I believe was something important to Mary. As such Carlton took it seriously and, being the man he is, dressed according to his mood. On this evening his mood included a camouflage cap.

I must aside, again...

This is not a bull-shit, red neck trucker, mesh in the back, gas station cap. this is a nice, military looking cap, clean, no sweat rings.

Mary..., did not approve of the cap, not one bit. Mary threw a bit of a tantrum over the hat. Her tantrum included, and these are the juicy bits:

1. Snatching the hat from Carlton's head
2. Running about the house with it, playing a sort of semi-serious keep away game.
3. and...wait on it...hiding the cap and preventing Carlton from wearing it.

I have to give her some credit for winning the keep away game. Determined, she was and as such she won the day. But the display in the process was... unbecoming. I find no reason to embarrass the woman further. This should be enough punishment, spreading her silly antics all over my blog space. And, normally it would be, enough I mean, to stop the story here. But if I were going to do that I wouldn't have changed the names of the innocent, I wouldn't be justified in using two titles, and I wouldn't be paying homage to me Hombre!

The night still young, love blooming fresh in their hearts, the young couple decided to carry on with the evening. It was only, after all, a disagreement over wardrobe. A woman, telling a man what he cannot wear to an engagement in her company. Another blog post, that arguement. Women thinking they can dictate a mans sense of outer self. You, women are allowed free reign to present yourself to the world as you please, and we are expected to accept it, and pretend to like it even if we secretly believe you dress like a fhrump. Yes I said FHRUMP!

I can picture the drive to the party:
Soothing John Mayer tunes on the stereo as she negotiates them through the streets, her compass more finely tuned to their destination after years of practice navigating it. She looks over towards him; he sits comfortable in the seat next to her.

"You aren't angry are you?" She asks him.
"Nope. The hat though, may be pissed."He says.
"How can...?" She can see him thinking, his mind going over the situation as she speaks, tuned to every nuance, inflection change, slip of the tongue. "Okay," she says, "fine, I'm sorry. I really am."
'Me too." he says.

A bit of insider information here:
Carlton, is a different sort of guy. I like to say I too am a different sort, which is why, I believe, he and I get along so well. We are not your average sort. Now, with that said, he is more a Jedi and I am more of a Sith. He, is Alan Shore and I am DENNY CRANE. Denny Crane. So he most likely wouldn't have thought much of the small battle. He would have looked forward to a fun and interesting evening. The part I like most is that I am without a doubt, her guard was completely down. Can any one say, "Muuuuwaaaahhhhhhaahahahaha!"?

Imagine, if you are able, a normal looking man. Still technically a young adult, but officially a grown ass man; all antics aside. He is well dressed and clean cut, almost a model, eligible american male. His companion for the evening is equally all the other stuff, but a woman instead. Together, and I have to tell you I've witnessed this, they are a very attractive couple. I would be pleased to know, when I opened the door at my party, that they showed up. Continue to imagine with me, if you will, this attractive couple standing on your door step. If you like, as you imagine this, you can detail your background; maybe a couple of jack-o-lanterns on the porch, possibly a bat hanging from the eaves. As you reach out to greet this beloved couple he says:

"Heldo! Bie Nambe ishh tongue died."

What? You may think, "WHAT?"

"Tongue Tied." he says with a snicker as be breezes past you into the house.

Mary stood in the entry way with her friend, both of them looking off into the kitchen.

"What did he say?" Friend queries.

"I don't know what's going on..." Mary says.

The sounds of laughter from the kitchen draws the two into the fray. Tongue Tied is just flipping the top off a beer, never breaking character he says:

"'ere scee iz. By lobely date."

Some of you are going to remember Fat Albert and the Junkyard Gang. If, for some reason, you don't know who I'm talking about...sigh, YouTube it. In said show there is a character named Mush Mouth. You can't miss him, he's the one with the mumble, rocks his Beanie Cap like I do. Take that guy, but fill his mouth with a big ass tongue and a natural lisp. My friend...My Alan Shore... kept this character going all night long.

I, of course must aside:

Carlton is not an actor. He does not, as a career, hobby or general pursuit practice the theater arts. He is a financial analyst or something.

For the entire night, as smooth as the tide coming in, Carlton became the man Tongue Tied. He mumbled through conversations and lisped over drinking games. He laughed as Tongue Tied, he drank, danced, partied, sang his heart out as a man named Tongue Tied.

A few of Mary's friends had met Carlton, as himself. They at first, as respectable Texas ladies will, they all expressed concern for Carlton.

"Is he okay?" They asked Mary, hands wringing with anticipation of some disgusting malady worthy of report. At the break room counter, over a box of donuts they could break, the B.F.F. code of confidentiality.

"I have a friend," they'll say with a sneer, "whose boyfriend has speech impediments."

When they instead find that Carlton is physically, and mentally in one healthy piece, they rally an anti- Tongue Tied campaign.

Gentlemen, we have all, at one time or another in our lives, been the cause of, or a target of, a female "anti-anything" campaign. You will be plied with promises of fellatiatic feats and acrobatic anal. Or, threatened; like a dog regulated to the "dog house" if you do not obey the new mandate:

DO NOT, under any circumstance, ENTERTAIN, or ACKNOWLEDGE, Mr. Tongue Tied.

Ha, ha, yes women of the world, know one thing and remember it well. When a male of our species has committed himself to an act, no matter how foolish, we will support him, even if we hate him, to the bitter end of that act. We will cheer, film and share his fate with you all. But we will, under no circumstances, work against him. Any man that does is branded bitch and excluded from all further antics.

As it turns out Mr. Tied was a hit and is fast becoming a legend. He will still make appearances from time to time, mostly to get under Mary's skin. She is a great sport about the whole thing and is deeply sorry for the Angry Hat Incident. Lesson learned she moves on, continuing to love my friend and I am happy for them both.  I thought, briefly to end this tale with a moral. But, there is no moral here. There are, however, a couple of lessons:

1. Ladies, keep your hands off the cover, unless you are going to prop it on your head wit a sexy flair.
2. Gentlemen: Did she swipe your cover? Did she throw away your favorite shirt? Does she dress you? Be creative in how you express your dislike for her behavior.

and in the end, lessons learned, we all move on. I recently made an appearance at a party I attended. While Tongue Tied didn't show up that night he was, as he often is, brought up in conversation. The story, told and told again, has lost none of it's charm or value and I believe Mr. Tied just might live forever.

What is up with you and the Rats?

Not so long ago I decided I wanted a rat.
http://www.dapper.com.au/g3bokehrope1.jpg
Not just any rat...I wanted a companion. I wanted a little friend I could sneak into restaurants, freak my kiddo out with, and write stories about. I saw these two tiny grey rats in a pet store one day. They captured my mind and my heart in those few moments. I have been digging in and preparing myself to become a first time rat owner. The idea, the dragon and the rat, is very cool for me and I intend to create a new bond between myself and nature through the nurturing of a different sort of relationship.

So, dear friends. With that said. I need advice, ideas, assistance, names, ideas, tricks, treats and anything you can send me about our rat friends.

Anything is helpful.

2 Weeks

"Time fly's and changes things man, but you should never forget that your friends haven't forgotten." -Screwface the Dragon King

That isn't a direct quote. It's a very well written sentence, in comparison to the hip-hop short hand that's necessary to make a point in 90 beats per minute.

The point here is that time, while it moves on and appears to be the cause of change, some of us haven't forgotten yesterday. Ten years from now I will remember the last two weeks of my life as vividly as if they happened over the last two weeks, which they did.

Two weeks ago I was in love. On the surface that hasn't changed, I am still in love, with a beautiful, good, brilliant, wonderful woman. That love isn't, however, the same as it was two weeks ago. Then I carried my love for her on my back. I had to, because I was also carrying guilt, fear, and desire along with the things in my life that had nothing to do with her.

I felt guilty because I didn't have work. I felt guilt every time I forgot to turn off a light or needed and extra load of laundry done that day. I found myself trying to minimize my impact on her personal ecomomy sometimes only using enough energy in a day to run this computer and keep the words coming. Which was another reason for guilt. While I worked fairly hard at finding work, I worked much harder at building my writing career. A bit selfish, and very stupid I allowed parts of my life to fall by the wayside as I finally focused on another part. i never felt good about any of this. i wanted to do for her, and with her but I wanted to do it my way. I didn't want our lives to be dictated to us by some bullshit job, which I feel is all I'm going to get if I don't make something happen with my writing. so around and around I went, writing, and feeling guilty I hadn't done more that day. I'd circle the house, my little routine in place, making sure when she walked through that door every day there was nothing for her to worry about, nothing for her to be angry about. There was plenty.

I found myself feeling guily every time I took a minute to myself. I felt like I shouldn't take an hour to play some games, or I shouldn't be out hanging with the boys on an empty wallet and someone elses gas. I felt like I should be there with her, and for her in support of her no matter what. If I was going to be a work from home, starving artist, it was the least I could do. She often spoke about needing some time alone, but I never knew how to accomplish that for her. I was afraid that one day she would wake up and just be sick of me. Which she did, and was, but not for the reasons I thought. I was afraid she would grow tired of my face, she instead grew tired of my dependency on her. And it wasn't for the stuff she was doing, she would've done those things for me anyway, it was my dependency on her for those things I never asked for. I always felt that if I couldn't pay my own cover, have my own 20 dollars for tips and my own little cash for beer, then I should stay home.  But if I was always home, then I was never gone, and the more I was home, the more I was afraid she was growing tired of me. Fear is a great motivator but it was a bit too late. I don't scare easily, I always hought we'd work it out, but the fear parzized me, made me afraid to bring the subject up, afraid to see what I saw, afraid to ask for help. I'm still afraid to ask for help, I may always be, but at least I learned that about myself in those two weeks.

I had the deepest desire for our relationship to succeede. I envisioned myself, an up and coming established writer, banging away atthe keyboard, bringing home the bacon doing what I love to do. That desire still exists, no doubt, and far from diminished, but it's different. My new found forward motion as a professional in the literary world, must at this point be accompanied by some sort of...regular income. I have the desire for our families to become one. I desire all the things we talked about on those warm nights, twined together in bed; I playing with her hair and kising her gently, she holding me tightly whispering words of encouragement and love. We both want the same things, professorship, a life in the literary world as teachers, writers, publishers; A house on the beach and a brownstone in Boston; another child, one we make and raise together. I desire all these things and more. I have always felt that I could accomplish anything with her by my side. I have moved far from where I was when I met her two years ago and further still in these last two weeks. Where I thought our desire had been crushed by fear and guilt I found in the end it's been made stronger by what's happened to us here. My desire didn't change, nor did my love, it just took me a time to see it.

You see, two weeks ago she threw me out and it was harsh and unforgiving in its suddenness, but forgiving and gentle in its generosity. I think that is what tempered my anger and allowed me to think clearly. I spent those two weeks on a cycle of drink and fitful sleep. I found reasons to dive, and dive deeply, into the abyss. I stared the demons there down and I challenged them, "come, you cowards and fools, stare back if you dare." they did of course and, as ever I do, I found my demons not that frihtening, rather familliar and comfortable. sitting with my thoughts is like sitting in a council chamber, all your advisors ranged around you, good and bad, all giving you advice they thing will benefit the corporation. Be done with it some counciled. You can move on, get into producing porn, you can become an escort, they love you the bitches do. You'd be rich in no time. How, can you say you really loved her if you don't see this through others screamed at me. I never ignored them, any of those raging voices in my head. For two weeks we took council, held court and had some of my voices executed in the square, but I found that I do love her. I really love her. She is a fantastic woman and I believe that together we can accomplish what we dreamed of, not so long ago in that tiny blue room we shared, drunk off vodka only just then discussing dreads and whats next.I loved her then and I love her now.

Two weeks ago I thought our relationship was over, and i was ready to rage out into the world, never again to be caught up in the wiles of any woman.  Today, it may be complicated but it's intact and growing stronger by the hour. We are together, but apart and for now that is the way it has to be. We are people who challenge conventional relationships and so embracing a lifestyle different from the great herd is necessary for us to continue. I've accepted that things are going to progress as they progress and I have to move forward, we both do. I know that for the first time in a long time I feel comfortable writing all day, and often into the stupid hours of the night. I don't feel like I am disturbing, or neglecting anyone in doing it. I am sure she feels more comfortable in her home, even when she's missing me. We are still in love and though two weeks may have changed everything, it changed nothing and I have some memories I will never forget.

Think on where your life was only two weeks ago. While many aspects of your life may seem to not have changed at all, look more deeply and try to see the things that have. Often times those are the things we need to hear most of all.

Darlin' Girl

My Darlin', darlin girl.
Nothing in this world more precious to me
nothing in this world more pure
I sing to you because i simply cannot help myself
when I see you I am flooded,
simply overwhelemed with joy!
And what comes forth from me is a song, sung
in the spontinaiety of the moment.
I can see you there
dancing in the rain
twirling, the wind in your hair and a
smile on your lips.
YOU Are Adorable.
Meaning; I gaze upon you with adoration,
pure adoration, i feel as if I could kneel at your feet
darlin' girl,
your world mine, I yours, your knight forever; there to defend your kingdom no matter where it be.
I yours forever.
But I must stand and defend, and guide you forward in this world I myself know so little about.
Here where i often stumble and fall I provide your light. And so...
I dance in the rain with you, flying like a kite
singing like a bird with joy overflowing my heart.
If, in your life you ever remember a single thing
Remember this.
I love you with all of my heart and soul darlin girl I simply adore YOU.

From my journal. 2010

There is something pretty cool about donating to places like Goodwill. Here, I have a nice tidy bag of the past going off to become someone's future. cleansing for everyone. I remember picking things up over the years on the racks at Goodwill, the Salvation army or the Army Navy store. And though I don't have the patience o dig through every rack, I've often found I find something I want if I don't find what I need. One such item, an over sized "Coop Devil" Tee, much changed from when I bought it, is going back to the very racks I found it on, destined once again to fill someones needs. fitting I think for a garment that brought turmoil, disdain and comfort to all who saw, touched or wore it, that it continue to do so rather than be torn into rags. Our clothes have character and LIFE of their own. Reserve our underwear, holey and wholy over-used, for rags. Donate your clothes and, like rescued puppies, kittens and horses, they might continue to live.

Stay Calm and Don't Waste Bullets

Truth is, before I even get to the meat here, is that we live in a highly competitive world. Everyone is out to get theirs and if you are in their way most of them will sell you and their momma out to get ahead. I am here to tell you though, that we can fight our way through.

The one redeeming quality I find in human beings is our ability to come together and create ways to survive. Not simply survive on this planet but thrive and dominate it. This is largely done through intimidation and force of arms, I admit, that's why I am going to show you, even you scholars how to surivie in the wide, dark and frightening world.

Rule number one, stick together. Do you have a friend? Good, make it your every effort to be the est friend you can be to that person. Are you a friend? Then do your best to weed out the negative elements in your life. This way you won't accidentally pollute the rest of your life with their poison.

Once you have a solid social base you can begin intermingling them. Invite people from every aspect of your wide social network to parties you organize. And you must never forget to make apperances at the parties your friends throw. In this way you will find elements that come together smoothly and they will associate their meeting with you. Your social network then expands and you are always invited to the parties.

Now you have a solid social network and a group of people who care enough to promote what you do and who you care enough about to promote what they do. Little at a time, together, we can build a completely new way of thinking about how we do business. Who would I trust best to take a great picture of me? The photographer I know personally. Who would I rather fuck with my dreads? The Hairdresser i sare joints with. Who would I rather illistrate my book? The Artist i know. Shit, we could all have our own business and work so closely together that once  customer is cauht in the web, they are ours forever.

Keep this in mind, the others will come for us. They have to, we will be jackin' all they spots. In the dark of the night, remember that we have always been here, by your side, rockin' the mutha-fucking beat. Stay calm and don't waste bullets...we'll fight our way up out this butch.   

Happy New Year

Portals; I mean doorways, like transitions, and passages; not roads but portals.




So we walk the road of life and we chop it into chunks. Like a segmented worm, or a box of Twinkies all the little cakes separated into fist sized chunks. Three-hundred and sixty- five days of toil and conflict, made into weeks of 5 days on, 2 days off. You watch as every second ticks by; the clock is always in your head, telling you that you don’t have the time. Suffering with how many months of, how many months until? Three months until my birthday, two months until Easter, Only 11 months until Christmas.



Stand back and look at it from January first and it’s a road. It’s a long road, 365 days long. And if you look at the end, from the beginning, you just might be able to see your back in the doorway that lies at the end. Look at it from where you stand and it’s no less a daunting task, but it’s no longer a long road. Instead it’s a short moment, only a moment and nothing more a portal from this moment to the next. Every moment brings us closer to the beginning of the next long road ahead. It is this day hat’s important, this hour, this minute, this very moment.



Right now we are standing at the threshold of a new year, inside rather than out, and there is an opportunity here. This year could be the best year of our lives. All it takes is remembering that the journey is made of moments, and in each of those moments we have to make the choice on how we will cross into the next. Pass through your momentary portals, make your choices and make them well. Should you find yourself, somewhere In the balmy spring afternoon sun, crying at the state of your life you can still have the best year of your life, if you make other choices. Choose to be happy. Make your resolutions if you find it a necessary ritual, but don’t loose sight of the goal…this is the best year of our lives and we are going to live every moment as if it were so.



Portals; I mean portals, like teleporters, and dimension doors; not roads but portals granting us access to every moment.

Happy-New-Year

2010