Journal of Fear and Hope

No Time
December 7, 2018

Here's another thing about drugs. It's meant to be a companion to last week's poem. I've wanted to write this essay ever since I read a Rush interview wherein they confess their love for weed. It really did shock me, and I wanted to share my feelings with you here. Around this same time last year I made myself a project list for 2018. I've only completed a few items from that list. This essay is one of them. The upcoming book of poetry is another. Most of the rest will carry over to next year. I promise (myself) I will finish that book of short stories.

This is an arbitrary time of year to take stock and set course. I can do it any day. But you're all on the same page and checking your own trajectories, so I figure we captains can all plot at once. We are getting closer, right?

Who Do You Love?
October 7, 2018

Even though my grandmother's health was declining, she refused to move out of the trailer she'd lived in for thirty or more years. She had her things, she had her routines. So her daughters took turns staying with her to make she she didn't fall (which she did before and laid on the floor all night, having left her life alert button in another room). Sometimes, one of her son-in-laws stayed with her.

He molested her.

He exposed himself and masturbated in front of her. He taunted her, threatened her. He made her fear for her life. At one point she grabbed a kitchen knife and locked herself in the bathroom.

My mother told me this on the day of my grandmother’s funeral. It was the family’s dark secret. I was in my late thirties. When I heard, after I choked down the anger and sick, I thought of when I was ten. Yes, it’s extremely self-centered to hear of my grandmother’s attack and think, how does this affect me, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m human and flawed.

When I was ten, that same uncle had a stroke. My mom told me he was in the hospital. I was scared for him. I prayed for him. When my dad took me along as he drove out to buy drugs, I crouched in the floorboard of the back of his car and cried and prayed for my uncle. I did it because he let me read his books. He had a bookcase full of paperbacks, something I envied. One book in particular I returned to again and again was a trivia book on Superman, my hero. But also, I prayed and cried because I felt I was supposed to. He was family.

But no. He didn’t deserve my love. He didn’t deserve my prayers. I wish the stroke had killed him all those years ago. You don’t owe anyone your love. Some people deserve to die.

I Have to Believe
September 30, 2018

We should believe women when they say they've been molested.

This is one of those things you feel you shouldn't have to say, but with so many saying the opposite, the need is apparent. Why is it such a difficult and controversial thing to get behind? Several women I know have recently shared their stories of rape or harassment online, and even those in their inner circle have been shocked at the news. Because they've been keeping it secret for years. Of course no one has come out and questioned the validity of their confessions, but the very idea that someone could read the heart-rending account with any degree of doubt makes me ill.

I want to address the men. Put yourself in the woman's shoes. A simple thing that should be self-evident, but we've reached an age where we have to continually reiterate what should be basic knowledge. So again, put yourself in her place. Like this:

You've been raped. Some guy at a party or a parking garage or wherever, overpowered you and raped you. Now imagine how difficult it will be to tell your father. Or your best friend. Imagine the embarrassment of telling him you were raped in the shower at the gym or that you woke up to another, stronger man holding you down at a party. Even as you read this, you may be getting anxious. Because that's the one taboo you can't handle isn't it? If it happened, you might not tell anyone because it would mean you're not strong enough to defend yourself. Maybe others will question your sexuality, which they shouldn't, but you know they will. How hard is it for you right now to even pretend it could happen?

If it's this painful just as a thought experiment, imagine the torture of actually admitting you were violated. When a woman comes forth about her abuse, it is with full knowledge she will be shamed, disbelieved, ostracized, possibly even blamed for "asking for it." It's gonna hurt like hell, so don't you goddamn dare turn your back on her and claim it didn't happen.

If your daughter, or your sister, or your mom, told you she had been raped, or molested, or harassed, and you said to her, "Hey, wait a minute, let's hear what he has to say first," don't be surprised when she cuts you out of her life forever. And rightfully so.

An Ordinary Day with Ellison
September 21, 2018

Harlan Ellison died earlier this year. He will always be my favorite writer, closely followed by Ray Bradbury. One of Harlan's best stories is "The Deathbird." It's a retelling, in typical disjointed Ellison fashion, of the Genesis story from the Bible with the snake as the good guy. In an thematically related side story, he reminisces about a dog he once had. When the dog gets sick, and the vet says the end is inevitable, Harlan has the pup put down. It's a gut-punch moment, punctuated with the moral: never leave your pet to die with strangers.

This song touches on the same topic.

When we read good stories, they tend to stay with us forever. Isaac Asimov's "Nightfall," Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains," Philip K. Dick's "The King of the Elves." All mingled with the ether of my soul. But rarely do we remember the actual time spent reading the story. I remember a particular reading of Ellison's "The Deathbird." I made the deliberate choice to take the magazine in which it appeared to the city park and enjoy the story in the golden sunshine of summer. I read on a series of park benches, walked around the green lake turning the images over in my head, pondering the strange structure of the tale, the language Ellison wielded so perfectly. An overwhelming mix of death in prose and life in reality. It was a day that will always exist, caught in the amber of memory.

Better Man
September 14, 2018

I had my first serious relationship in college. I was in love, and I could see no future in which we'd be apart. During a summer break, she stayed for a couple of classes, while I went home. When I visited her later that summer, she told me we had to break up. I was shocked and hurt. I begged through tears for her not to leave. But she was set. And she was right.

She explained her reasons for ending our relationship. I was mean. I lost my temper and yelled at her often. I condemned her friends because they smoked weed and drank. I constantly cursed religion just as she was beginning to embrace Wicca. In other words, I was an asshole.

Of course I refuted all her accusations, but over time I came to realize their truth. Through introspection and solitude I tried to better myself. I've tried to shed my anger and judgment. I learned it from my father, but that doesn't forgive me being just like him. I learned to mistrust drugs and gods, but that doesn't excuse hateful feelings toward those who partake in either.

I like to believe I'm a kinder, gentler, more understanding man than I used to be. But I was blind then to my failings, so I certainly could be now. I guess the thing to do is never assume I'm complete. There's always more to learn.

Not the Only One
September 7, 2018

Have you ever been stuck? In a job, a relationship, a town, where you know you don't belong? I think we all have. No matter how you got there, it's always the same thing that makes you stay: Fear of landing in someplace worse. You stick to the flypaper of doubt because you know how to exist in this bad place. You know the roads and the routines. Yes, there are better places and a better life, but what are the chances of finding them? Afterall, you're the same person who followed your way here.

I don't have an answer to that. Each escape route is unique. All I can do is quote Rush:

All of us get lost in the darkness
Dreamers learn to steer by the stars
All of us do time in the gutter
Dreamers turn to look at the cars

Open the Doors and Free all the People
September 1, 2018

I grew up attending a Pentecostal Church in the South. I left for several reasons. (For one thing, Ren and Stimpy was on Sunday mornings, so I had better things to do.) The main thing that drove me away was their strict and arbitrary rules concerning women's conduct. Women aren't allowed to wear pants or make up or jewelry beyond their wedding rings. The church didn't approve of divorce either. When my father was abusing her and robbing her children, she sought counsel. I wasn't privy to that, but I remember her disappearing for the entirety of Sunday service along with various other members of the church. She would come back red-eyed and exhausted. And she stayed with my father.

The will of god is to bind couples in marriage. Let no one tear it asunder, lest she turn her back on the eyes of god.

I've always said, if that's what your god demands, your god is wrong. If you need a god, get another one. There are plenty to choose from.

Teach the Children
August 24, 2018

My wife and I have taught our daughter to celebrate her accomplishments. She'll run to us with a page she's colored and call "Mommy, look! Daddy, Look!" over and over with sheer joy in her voice. Maybe she overdoes it sometimes--a full minute of cheering and clapping whenever she catches a ball she tossed up herself is a bit much--but it makes me happy to see her express pride in what she can do. She loves to dance and has zero shyness about it. Her favorite song to dance to is from a Curious George cartoon. She's choreographed moves to synch with the characters' actions, speaks dialog and claps right along with them. When the song is over, she grabs the remote and demands to dance again.

More important than how to read, tie their shoes, or count, is how you teach your kids to value themselves. I hope my daughter's self-worth is sky-high. I hope she feels no shame in being who she is or in doing what she loves. I hope she learns humility, yes, but also confidence and power.

Abusers cause pain, no doubt. But if you ignore your child's pain, you teach them they are unworthy of love. Children learn through rewards and punishments. When a child receives punishment in the form of abuse, they will often come to the conclusion they must have done something to earn it. If you don't teach them otherwise, you hurt them just as much as if you had laid hands on them yourself.

Trigger Warning
August 18, 2018

Just to say, this song--and most of the rest within the cycle--describe or discuss abuse.

I wrote this song to fill time and stay alive on a two-and-a-half hour drive home from an open mic in Florida. I would leave the mic at one or two in the morning, exhausted, and singing was a way to keep awake. That was over ten years ago, and this song has been in my notebook ever since, the melody still in my head. I've dreamed all those years of writing music for it and the album that sprang from it, but dreams, like rivers, sometimes have to flow around obstructions till they're no longer the same shape.

So let me introduce to you, another set of unsung songs. See liner notes for vague descriptions of how I think the music might sound.

Master of Nostalgia
July 31, 2018

One anecdote that I couldn't fit into the rather lengthy essay about Magic: the Gathering deals with a little ritual my friends and I had. We had a title, called The Master of Magic, which you earned by challenging and defeating the previous title holder in a game of Magic. I can't remember if was a single loss that transferred the mantle or if best of three was required. But, as Ric Flair was wont to say, to be the man, you gotta beat the man.

It was a highly coveted crown we all wore at some point. If someone defended the title with a particular deck, we'd all try to figure ways to beat that deck and be the new man. At one point, Rick (one of our circle, not the wrestler) moved away, still holding the title. (Actually, Rick didn't so much move away as just disappear. To this day I have no idea what became of him.) So we held a tournament to determine a new Master of Magic. It was summer, no school, plenty of time on our hands and few responsibilities. Grunge and alternative were the hot musical genres of the time, and I can still recall long nights listening to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Clutch, Pantera, and Prong as we played Magic and drank sodas and ate junk food. Joe would bogart the Doritos. I would get high on caffeine and vibrate the whole trailer with my jimmy legs. It was a magical time, and we were masters of our fates. Our fates were limited in scope, but at least were in control.

And what were the benefits of being The Master of Magic? There was only one. At any time, the Master could ask the rest of the group, "Who is The Master of Magic?" And everyone would have to answer, "You are, sir." Damn, I miss those days.

Unmake Yourself
July 13, 2018

I've been silent for a few weeks. I've been writing, but it's coming slowly. Depression is on my shoulder like a raven, gnawing at my eyes. It's hard to concentrate on putting words down. Even when I do, the next day I question my worth and undo much of the previous day's work.

I like editing. But when whole swaths of text seem stilted or don't fit with the rest of the piece, holding down Delete feels like ripping out my veins. I define myself as a writer. If I can't write well, then what am I? The depression gets heavier.

A long while back, I gave dumb advice. I said not to write when you're depressed, 'cause the words won't come out right. Such nonsense. Right now, writing is one of the few things that pierces the haze and brings me enjoyment. Yes, it feels worse when the writing falters, but I've done some good work this year in spite of the darkness. I'm sure I'll do more. The new essay, slow as it may be to reveal itself, will be good. The poetry has been good. And I finished a short story I started years ago. So here's a little pep talk to myself. You're a writer. The words will come, and they will work together. All around you is subject to the cruel winds of fate. But the writing will keep you airborne.

Who Do You Want to Be?
June 15, 2018

Last week I took my daughter to the park. She did the usual: swing set, slides, mud puddles, dandelions, sand piles. We sat on the swing together as we often do, and I said, "Let's sing." That's all I said. She immediately sang out "La, la, la." I chimed in, and she shifted her pitch to match me, high for high, low for low. To my untrained ear, it sounded like she was harmonizing.

She'll also mimic me when I drum my hands on poles and mailboxes we pass on our walks. I think she likes the sounds it produces. She seems confused as to why her hands can't make the metallic clang I make with my ring finger.

And she dances. During Sesame Street or Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood she will twirl and walk in circles, sometimes lifting her hands in an artistic flourish, stomping and clapping with the characters. We've also danced together to AC/DC and Sia. My heart nearly explodes to see her expressions of pure joy.

There's soccer, too. She runs and jumps and climbs like any kid her age, but she really comes alive when she's kicking a ball around. She'll chase it and dribble, pass it back and forth with me and my wife. She squeals in delight the whole time, and we can't help but imagine her playing on a team, the star kicking back. I admit I don't actually know that much about soccer.

I've made jokes in the past about not trying to chain your child to a career based on what they do at age two and a half, but I'd be a terrible dad if I didn't acknowledge my daughter's interests and obvious talents. So how much encouragement is enough? How much is too much? Can you crush the spark of talent by pushing too hard or not showing the right amount of enthusiasm? What if she grows to dislike something but continues with it because she doesn't want to disappoint me?

Let's put aside those fears and instead concentrate on the glories of watching my child discover what she loves and clutch it to her heart. This is the time when her curiosity burns brighter than it ever will. I'm lucky to stand nears its flame. Will she be a singer? A writer like me? An athlete in a sport I am completely ignorant about? Whatever endeavour(s) she takes as her own, I will get schooled regardless.

The Search for More Money
June 13, 2018

"Different Pane" was the last of song for Will-o'-the-Wisp. As I say in a lot of the liner notes, I'd love to write music and record these songs one day. If you'd like to kick me into early action, you can throw me a few bucks at Patreon. I've written a few new poems that will live there exclusively for a while along with another unsung song cycle, some images unseen anywhere else, and the vaporous beginnings of a podcast. I'll keep adding stuff there just for Patreon supporters. So, be one.

Okay, yeah, I feel uncomfortable just flat out asking you for money. But the plethora of crowdfunding websites shows we're comfortable with that sort of exchange now, right? In the wild-west days of the internet you just took all you could. Not that people don't do that now, but more and more readers and listeners are willing to show love back to the artists they love in the form of not just thumbs-ups but also actual currency. Of course, if you don't feel inclined to support me, there's no pressure. I write for me. I write because not writing would be like not breathing. So, hey, keep reading and feel no guilt. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad I'm here.

Where I Stand
June 8, 2018

My wife has taught me much. About politics, about children, parenting. She got me involved ever so slightly in campaigning for Obama. She helped me refocus my comedy when I put more reliance on dick jokes than I feel comfortable admitting. She absolutely made me a better comic. She's made me a better father than I thought I could be, as well. She's changed my way of looking at the world.

She's changed her own way of looking at the world, too. Once she wanted to live off the grid on a mountaintop, eschew anything made of plastic, grow her own food and make her own clothing. Now our daughter wears Elmo t-shirts and dances along with the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme songs (which are performed by They Might Be Giants, so that gives my child a little bit of nerd cred). But she's still the principled, intelligent, switched-on person she's always been.

I'm still the goofy nerd I've always been, except now I cook and clean for three people and change way more diapers than I anticipated. (I anticipated zero.)

You change. The world changes around you. You collide with others and influence each other's trajectory. I admit it's frightening, this new path. Big things always are. Nothing's easy. But no matter the path, all roads lead to here.

Lost as I Am
June 1, 2018

I just watched the trailer for the Mr. Rogers documentary. Mr. Rogers had a goal to teach love and kindness to children, to tell others they are loved and are capable of loving. I'm a little choked up now, pierced by the simplicity of his dream. I never watched the show, but hearing him speak is humbling. He never talked down to anyone, never doubted or judged anyone. He spoke to children simply and directly about death, divorce, loss, and he trusted them to comprehend such heavy and painful topics.

I'm in awe of anyone who can formulate and carry out their dream's mission. I feel lost. I have dreams but no idea how to make them succeed. Working on three books. Planning a podcast. Keeping the back burner lit while I cook meal after meal for daily consumption on the front eye. I'm in survival mode, and what should be a mission statement is just random grabs for whatever comes at me. Look, ma, no plans.

I find peace in music, in Star Trek and a follow-along podcast, reading, writing, my daughter's laughter. I send my future self a text message every now and then, a reminder to do something I forget in the hectic rush to take care of my personal needs and those of my family, a message that reads, "Enjoy this."

Fade to Beige
May 25, 2018

Henry Rollins says the one thing that all humans can relate to is depression. Depression is a spectrum, of course, but we've all been on it at some point. Some reside there now. Some were dropped in at birth. What put you there is unique to everyone, but there are similarities. The death of someone close, financial difficulties, relationship struggles, professional quagmires. The other thing we all seem to have in common, though, is we each think we're alone in that dark room a thousand miles wide. "No one understands me," is a powerful battle cry when the only enemy is you. Even when a celebrity suicide makes the national news, instead of recognizing the dark thread that binds us, we still find a way to classify our own shadow as singular.

There's an Oingo Boingo song that says, "Everyone around you has felt the pain you feel today." In the comments section of that link, there are people saying the song saved their lives. I don't know if was that particular line that did it, but it's important to remember that we all feel pain. We all get lost. We all want the world to love us or at least listen and know us. "You're not alone." Such a simple statement. It shrinks that room to a manageable space. If others can pass through and make it out intact, then I can, too.

If you never learn that lesson, the voice you hear comes from a deep, lonely place inside. A place uncleansed by sunlight. That voice is the voice of the devil.

This Is Not the First Time
May 11, 2018

Some days I want to disappear. I know how dangerous that can be, but still it's tempting. To close all the doors and windows, unplug all connections and blow up the outside world. No responsibilities. No risks. But I know in my heart nothing would heal. My lacerations would fester and weep. I'd grow sick of myself, and as Rollins says, I'd be desperate for human contact. Besides, I've got too many responsibilities and duties now. Too much to miss. I'm not going away.

Pachinko
May 4, 2018

Life comes one step at a time. Whenever I look back, the path I've taken is always strange and seemingly random. From city to city, job to job, relationship to relationship. One event sends me reeling toward another, which I bounce from into another new direction. My mother left my father, taking my brother and me to a new home. I lost friends but found new ones. When we moved to Tennessee, my mom found out the couple living in the apartment above us played paintball and D&D and got them to invite me to up to play. Yeah, that felt as weird then as it does now writing it out, but Tony and I became tight friends despite our age difference. We played paintball together, played Nintendo games late into the night, joined a junior/adult bowling league. Because of that I bought my first bowling ball and had the letters KW engraved on it. KW stood for Klingon Warriors, the name of our two-man team. Tony also bowled in an adult league with a guy named Bob, and he soon joined us for tabletop games. When Tony joined the air force and moved away, Bob and I became friends, and he's my best bud to this day. He introduced me to my favorite band Rush, and I turned him on to Henry Rollins. We went to Origins, a gaming convention, and there we stumbled into The Smithee Awards. So many good times and adventures happened as a direct result of my parents splitting and my mom moving us to another city for the simple reason that my cousin (Mom's nephew) happened to live there, and my mom wanted to be near some member of the family.

Did I come to this place, or did it grow up around me? That's a question I ask all the time. I don't know if there's an answer. The ride may be random, but we can choose what to carry with us.

Shine On
April 27, 2018

The same time and pressure that makes a diamond can also crush that diamond into dust.

Two Ways to Go
April 20, 2018

Gonna put Will-of-the-Wisp on hold for a moment and post a poem. It is National Poetry Month, after all. So now for something completely different:

My Granny kept a box of comic books in the attic for me and my cousins to look at. They had belonged to my uncles and aunts, and Granny wanted to pass them on to the next generation. Some of them might have been my dad's, before drugs, alcohol, and rage became his new hobbies. I also have his stamp collection. I'm reminded that he was a kid, too, once. His innocence was once intact, and maybe it could have stayed, with the application of more comic books and stamps. In Granny's attic there was also a box of magazines belonging to my grandfather. A collection of Playboys and Penthouses. When I was a kid, I chose to spend time with the comic books. If that had been the only box in the attic, would I have been making a choice? Would I have become a different person had I chosen the contents of the other cardboard box? Or was my personality already such that I could only have made that one decision?

I don't know. I just like comic books. I like superheroes. We have police and soldiers, and they can't stop killing or incarcerating innocent people. I want real heroes with a true fix on Moral North. But with superheroes you also get archvillains whose compasses point the other way. Here I am in the in between grey, dreaming in four colours, wishing I was stronger, wiser, better.

Adrenalin Surge
April 13, 2018

You enter the woods at a full sprint, chasing that glow, leaping over stickfalls and briar snags, headlong and heartstrong. The dream is just within reach. But eventually you start to slow. You catch your sleeve on a thorn, twist your ankle in a hole. You get lost, get bad directions. You put up a tent, a temporary place to stop and rest. Just a for a while. You'll get back to the chase as soon your wounds are healed and you catch your breath and you bank enough money to take a few months off. Then you relocate to a house in the suburbs. There's time to rejoin the chase. That glittering glow still calls to you. The woods still beckon. The dream isn't dead. It's just in a box. In the closet. Underneath some old papers you've been meaning to get rid of.

Music, Man
April 6, 2018

I get really into music, sometimes to an embarrassing degree. I headbang in traffic, bounce around in my chair at work. As a teen, I would bike through the neighborhood with my Walkman, Living Colour cranked in my ears, and I would stop whenever the music got real righteous and Corey Glover dug deep into his soul, and I would just rock out wherever I happened to be. Maybe I'd drop to my knees and punch my fists to the sky, maybe I'd perform a solo mosh pit in a stranger's yard. Whatever the music moved me to do. These days I can keep my surface mostly calm as I rock out on the inside. But once in a while you might catch me making an odd face and scrunching my eyes. Don't worry. I'm just at church, and the guitar is preaching a fiery gospel. Can I get a hallelujah?

What I've Been Hiding
March 30, 2018

I decided to go ahead and post the lyrics from a few albums I've never had the time or talent to write music for. I'm calling these unsung songs. First up is an album of material written across several decades. As usual, the themes are dark, and I mention my father a couple of times. These songs have lived in notebooks for years, floating into conscious thought now and then and filling me with the urge to record. Seeing them gathered here for the first time as a concept, as a single artifact, I want more than ever to make them into real songs. Until I can, here they are as simple words on a screen. Sing them however you'd like. Hear them however they want.

With My Pen and Magic Thinking Cap
February 26, 2018

I've written on computer, on my phone, with a typewriter, in notebooks, on looseleaf, post-it notes, the backs of envelopes, on whatever scratch scrap of paper happened to be at hand. But I’ve done most of my writing inside the bone dome of my head. I don’t mean planning or plotting before I get to the real business of capturing the animal on paper. No, I mean I’ve put together whole songs, poems, and paragraphs in my head and carried them around for hours or days. I’ve written at work, on the commute to and from, in the shower, doing chores, or just walking around among normal humans. I captured and caged the beast between the synapses then transplanted the thing to paper or digital media. It’s an exhilarating way to write. But you feel pressure to get it on paper. Write it down before you lose it. And I’ve lost some. But then again, I’ve lost some things that were on paper, too.

What I’m trying to get at, in this roundabout way, is even when I physically can’t write, I can still write. That feels like a super power sometimes.

Already Gone
February 16,2018

There's a line from a Rollins Band song, "Don't let me forget that satisfaction has no friends." When I write a new poem or finish a project, I like to bask for a few days in that did-a-good-job glow. Parking Lot is a reminder that nothing I do will survive for long in this world. What is the lifespan of a poem compared to a structure of concrete and steel? Think you're so great because you can string together a decent, alliterative line? Sorry to say, you're already gone.

But have you experienced the world you're in. Have you breathed it in and tasted the air, either fresh or foul? Or do you only pay attention to your own, insignificant words? These are questions I need to ask myself once in a while. This poem is me doing just that.

Soul Coughing
February 13, 2018

I wrote Before the Clouds as an act of desperation. I hadn't finished a poem in weeks, and I had no ideas in the hopper. So one night, on my way home from work, I had to stop at the grocery store to stock up. My daughter was sick, and I wasn't feeling too great myself. I was depressed. I felt low. I felt useless. Walking my loaded cart through the parking lot, I looked up at the night sky and spoke the first line of the poem aloud. Not the greatest line of poetry ever written, but it was something. The next line came as I was putting everything in the trunk. Then my wife texted, adding more to the list. I walked back inside and spoke another line under my breath. It really got going on the second trip back to the car. I like the line about dreaming a river's dream. I drove from the grocery store across two parking lots to the drug store and picked up some cough medicine and another line of the poem.

By the way, as they were coming to me, I would dictate the lines into my phone using text to speech. Yeah, it knew the word “eons.” I'm sure I'm not the first to write poetry that way, but it feels nice to add to my list of tools.

I finished the poem as I left the drug store, spoke it into my phone, gave it a title. It was finished. I had done something. No one on Earth knew. Very few know now. But I felt lighter having completed it. I was a writer once more. I know you're always writing even when you’re not putting the words down. But putting the words down is essential. Even if the final product is only just okay, you're a better writer and a better person each time you do it. But don't worry, I didn't let myself stay satisfied. I started a new poem the day after, and I made myself ponder some tough questions. I'll tell you more about that next week.

For a Friend
February 9, 2018

I wrote Acorn for a friend and fellow writer, but I never let them know. I saw from a few social meida posts they were have doubts about their writing, so I wanted to throw out something I thought sounded catchy and poetic and helpful. Then it turned into a poem. By then a bunch of their friends were chiming in with support, and my poem seemed more like attention seeking rather than a true attempt to help. So I held back.

We all get lost. I thought this was a nice thing to keep in mind when now is not what you thought it would be.

Electric Pie
January 30, 2018

I wrote this essay as an introduction to a book that I hope, hope, hope, to have completed before the end of this year. The book will be about growing up as a nerd, not fitting in, finding comfort in games and books and like-minded friends. My usual. I've been heavily editing a bunch of stuff that's on the site now. I'm somewhat uneasy retreading and repackaging old material to sell as something new. I take a little comfort, though, in knowing that many websites so the same thing. So keep watch here for more info on that project as it progresses. I hope it progresses.

The book was going to be called Facing 42, which a play on a poem by Ogden Nash. Forty-two is a special number to me, but I'm not 42 any longer. Of course, I can still call it that, but I can no longer say I finished it while I was 42. It was supposed to be a gift to myself at that age. But as usual, I'm late. It's still a fun project. Last year was super hard, and it's looking like 43 will be even harder. I need something to distract my mind from the pain and difficuly. Writing is one of the few panaceas I have left.

Another Chance to Do It Right
January 2, 2018

It took longer than I thought it would, but part two of Twenty-Five Years of Reading is finally up. That concludes my self-made deadlines for 2017. I'm going to lean on the positive, as I do, and celebrate the fact I got it done. Doesn't matter if it's late. It's complete. Now on to the many projects I'm tasking myself with this year. Get that book done. Talk into a microphone. More essays. Post some old stuff no one's ever seen. 2018 will be a year!

--More Journal Entries--

"Too many flames with too much to burn, and life's only made of paper" --Ronnie James Dio

"Words are flowing out
Like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither wildly as they slip away
Across the universe" --John Lennon

"Bow to the paper Gods in a world that is paper thin
The fools in town are ruling now" --Duran Duran

"Here I sit writing on the paper
Trying to think of words you can't ignore"
--Alice in Chains

"Working for paper and for iron
Work for the right to keep my tie on
Working for paper and for iron
Work for the unicorn and lion" --XTC