Journal of Fear and Hope (2013)

Before I Start Off Again
December 15, 2013

It's that time of year. To pause and turn your back to the wind, catch your breath, and say, "What the hell did I do all year? That was it?" Well, I'm not gonna do that. I will pause and look back, but I won't beat myself up. I did good this year. Sure I could have written more, could have performed more, could have stayed home more, could have worked harder at the office. I don't think there's a single human being who isn't Henry Rollins who can say he squeezed every drop of productivity out of the time he's been granted. But I did work. I utilized my Stephen King desk calendar to plan projects and postings, and I hit a good many of those goals. Not always on time, but I did the work. And I'm proud.

Last week I got one new like on the Paper Kingdom Facebook page and one new follower on Twitter. To some it might not seem like much, but I appreciate every single show of faith from you guys out there. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

So what's the big goal for next year, other than the usual Write More Than You Did Previously? I want to learn better planning. And I want to learn promotion. That's the thing I don't have the slightest grasp on: how to promote myself to get more readers, viewers, and shows. So I'll research the web and ask others (assuming I don't clench up as I normally do when interacting with other folk), and try whatever weirdness comes to mind. And who knows, maybe you'll give something a like or a share. If you do, know that it will absolutely make me smile and stoke the fire in my heart.

So Very Much Poetry
November 24, 2013

I have two poems for you this week. One written by a fictional character, another about a fictional character.

But the big news this week is that 1000 Ways to Write is now available for download at Amazon. I feel uncomfortable selling things, but I do want to give this a try. I like to think I'm following in the path of Henry Rollins, who started a book company to publish his own works. He operated at a loss for years. So you can buy my book, lend it to a friend, drop a review, all the usual stuff. If you need to be convinced of the book's worthiness, I have several promotional projects in mind, some videos and images with excerpts from the book. So check back from time to time, or just follow me on one of the social sites at the top of the page and have all my writerly greatness delivered with ruthless efficiency right to your news feed.

A Place For Us
November 15, 2013

Co-existing with another human seems to be a difficult thing. Maybe it's just me. I like to arrange my stuff in pleasing arrays, and when that arrangement is disrupted, I can get antsy. But I'm learning to relinquish some control. The wonderful woman I'm sharing my house and life with also needs to control her environment. It's a human trait. We can't stop the rain or the onward march of age, but by god, we can rearrange the furniture. So maybe I stub my toe once in a while or have to hunt down a pair of jeans that were right here only yesterday. It's a small price to pay.

No Fury
September 13, 2013

I wrote this on the drive in to work yesterday. I don't know where it came from, but apparently it's been in my head for some time now. Later that day, I learned my aunt had died. There's no deliberate connection, but I did realize that she died still married to a horrible piece of shit person. I'm sure we all have things we should release but continue clinging to because it's all we've ever known. We stay in abusive relationships. We keep working grueling jobs. We go unfulfilled and promise that one day, it will be different. We put off till tomorrow, and we surrender one day at a time. Then there's no time left.

I wish I could say that by writing these words, I'm growing stronger. But it's not that easy. I'll surrender again. So will you. We always have. Just know you're not alone. That's the one comforting bit of advice I can give that I know is 100% true.

A Wise Father
August 27, 2013

A thought I've always had: I can do a better job as a father than my old man because I know all the things not to do. But then the crippling afterthought: That don't exactly put me in the rarest of classes. Everyone knows to avoid drugs and booze and don't steal from your family. Everyone knows not to hit. But what are the things you are supposed to do? The best fatherly role models I have are on TV. Deliver a stern but heart-warming speech, or stumble comically through a borrowed bit of prattle, and boom. Kids are now well-adjusted. Until next week.

But you don't raise kids for an hour once a week. That's an all the time job. If your boss just walked into the bathroom while you were pooping to complain that the quarterly numbers didn't add up or asked you to take a memo while you were having sex, you'd quit that job. And change the locks. But kids are a shitnado of demands and long hours.

Did you know that if you don't pat your baby on the back till it burps immediately after feeding it, that it will explode? It will. Babies are just wobbly little bags of responsibility that require constant feeding, changing, burping, patting, bathing, rocking, bouncing, and singing. Like the world's hardest game of Bop-it.

But, like Bop-it, babies do give you little rewarding noises of encouragement. And to my great surprise, I am absolutely thrilled by the sound of a baby's laughter. And the little chubby cheeks and the way they'll wrap their tiny hand around my finger. To make a baby laugh and coo is seriously one of the greatest things a human being can do on this planet.

Which makes me think I really can rise above the level of fatherhood I experienced. Yeah, I'm sure my kid will hate me and yell at me across a crowded restaurant at some point in his life. He'll beg and beg to go somewhere then sulk and bemoan the lack of good video games at the skating rink. It's obvious that I think becoming a father will magically send me and my family back in time to the 80s. But you know what, I paid three whole dollars for your ticket to E.T., young man, so you sit there and enjoy it, and don't you dare try to sneak out to the lobby and trade Garbage Pail Kids with your friends.

What I'm trying to say is, I like the prospect of being a dad. Of having a little guy, or girl, look up at me and call me dad, or ask me what stars are, or point to a bird in the sky because he sees it for the blessing it is. And because I want it, I'm sure I'll do fine.

Without a Net
July 12, 2013

I had this writing professor in college. Jeff Rackham. He once asked what things a short story needed to be a short story. Every answer I gave--characters, plot, conflict, setting--he answered with "No." I fought hard against that, because it struck down everything I thought I knew about story creation. I was one of the clergy ready to stone Galileo for his inconvenient science. But there really are no requirements for a story, Rackham said, and he was right. I've read an amazing and beautiful story told from the viewpoint of a cardboard box. There's a famous science fiction story that switches viewpoints rapidly between characters, sometimes in the middle of sentences. Hell, there's a whole novel written without the letter "e."

But we need rules, don't we? Poems have to rhyme. Songs have to be three minutes or less and rhyme. Fantasy stories have to have swords and at least one character with pointy ears. Horror has to have a monster, superheroes have to almost fail then spring back from an inhuman beating to perform a miracle and save the day, and comedy has to reference sexual organs. These are requirements, like the sticky humiliation at the end of porn.

None of that is true, Mr. Rackham told me. You don't have to bend your story to anyone's preconception. There is no paradigm. There are no rules. Which means you can't go wrong.

Write. You can do no wrong.

Mine Own Self
July 10, 2013

I wrote this poem on the way to work and while on my lunch break. I was late getting back from that break, but I accomplished more in that time than I did all the rest of the day. However, as much as I fight against it, earning a living for myself and my family is just as important as creating art. I live to write, but I do gotta live, don't I? I wish I could mary the two and make a living with my art. But the truth is, very few artists are able to sustain themselves and their loved ones by their art alone. There are thousands of you out there struggling as I am with the same feeling of worthlessness and failure. But damn, we keep writing, don't we? We keep making whatever art calls to us, and we keep clocking in everyday at that job we wish we could escape. I take comfort in something Joe R. Lansdale said, and I hope you can, too: Your family is more important than you are. So provide for them. And if they love you truly, they will give you the time and the space to create. Just give them that time back.

?
July 7, 2013

I was honored to read an essay at the Greenville Unitarian Universalist Fellowship today. That is also where I debuted the completed "1000 Ways to Write." And it was where we held the funeral for Connie's mom Brenda J. Kelly, who passed away last year on this date. Strange to have so much envolvement with a church after all these years. I like to say I gave up going to church 'cause there were better things on television. But it was really a long process of questioning everything. Questions are so deadly to religion, I'm surprised the Bible even contains question marks.

Grasshopper on the Mic
June 22, 2013

I performed a version of this essay at the open mic last Monday. It was amazing. All the high fives and fist bumps and hugs afterward were delicious.

Okay. Got that out of the way.

What I really want to talk about is the professional comedian who was there that night. His name is Herbie Gill. While I've been trying to figure out myself on stage and learn my own voice, he's been out there being a for real comic. I hope to get there eventually. I saw Herbie give a great seven minutes and then sit in the back and watch the other comics. When I did my set and floated off high on the applause, he was in the little room we gather in to shake my hand and give me encouragement. And he gave all the others compliments, too. He didn't, as I've seen other pros do at open mics, try to school the amateurs. He hung out with us after the show, had drinks, shot the shit. He was just natural. A couple days later when he was scheduled to headline at another venue, he was just as easy flowing and funny as ever. There was no doubt, no anxiety. When one joke didn't hit as hard as it should, he didn't blame or berate the audience. He moved onto the next joke and trusted his material. That's what a real comic does. He doesn't troll for the admiration of others. He doesn't flex like a bully on the beach. He works.

Mighter Than the Sword
June 9, 2013

This week we're visiting with some friends from East Texas. Seriously, if you don't know who Joe R. Lansdale is, you should. Go on, check him out. You'll be glad.

This is the week that, according to the schedule I wrote down in my Stephen King desk calendar, I would have finished my poem, "1000 Ways to Write." Only, I finished it over a month ago. I got the opportunity to attend an artists' fair in April, and I figured I would just ramp up production on the poem and have it finished, printed, stapled, and available for sale. Then the printer died three days before the fair. So we bought another the day before and stayed up all night making booklets. Sold a few, did a reading, maybe made a few fans. The original plan was to post the completed poem here at the kingdom, but now I'm thinking about selling a digital version on Amazon. That'll open up a whole new realm of publishing for me to fail in. It's a scary thought. I like finishing projects, but submitting for publication makes me shake. I have a thick folder full of rejection letters, and I really don't want to keep adding to it. But I'm thirty-goddamn-eight, and if you double my age I'll be dead. So, let's do this, fuckers.

If you'd like a physical, hand folded and stapled copy of "1000 Ways to Write," send me an email. Maybe send me two bucks. Or wait a while to download it for your iBrowse, or whatever people e-read e-things on. I got a lot to learn.

Ghost Whisperings
June 1, 2013

I used to sell Christmas cards door to door for prizes when I was a kid. One of the prizes was a Walkman radio with headphones. It was like having a box of magic clipped to my pants waist. Music swam from outer space right into my head. Amazing. But my Walkman had terribly spotty reception. I would walk in slow motion around the yard, following a clear signal like a psychic listening to the afterlife. I came to know sweet spots for listening to certain stations, and one of those was under the corner of our trailer home. I sat there in the dirt, shadowed from the summer heat, listening in on the party line of the gods. It's easier now to find what I want to hear, but it's not as magical.

In a Name
May 3, 2013

You know who was no good at coming up with titles? Ray Bradbury. As golden as his prose was, Ray's titles were usually bland. Scan the contents of The October Country: "The Dwarf," "The Lake," "The Jar," "The Emissary," "The Crowd," "The Scythe," "The Wind." Now, every one of those stories is beautiful and amazing. But you can tell not a lot of thought went into naming them. Nothing wrong with simple titles, really. One of the most influential books in human history is simply called "The Books." But in our pre-Idiocracy world, simple is turning into just plain dumb. Stick "The" in front of any word from an introductory law textbook glossary, and there's an 85% chance you've just named a John Grisham novel. And now we have Shit My Dad Said, and Tough Shit, and the oh so subtle If You Give a Kid a Cookie Will He Shut the Fuck Up? I have nothing against cursing, but the name of your book shouldn't be easily mistaken for a Jerry Springer episode. Before you know it, Ass will win all the Oscars, and the Pulitzer will go to a novel called Tits.

You know who's really good at titling his stories? Harlan Ellison. Check out some of his most famous: "The Whimper of Whipped Dogs," "Pretty Maggie Moneyeyes," "'Repent, Harlequin!' Said the Ticktockman," "Shattered Like a Glass Goblin," "Soft Monkey," "Paladin of the Lost Hour," "Adrift Just Off the Islets of Langerhans: Latitude 38° 54' N, Longitude 77° 00' 13" W." Admittedly, that last one doesn't exactly roll of the tongue, but all are like tiny stories themselves. They're lyrical and mysterious. They sound important. Shit My Dad Said, doesn't take itself seriously, and books should always take themselves seriously, even comedy books. Because words are important, stories are even more important, and we must demand a higher caliber of literature. Polaroids don't belong in the Louvre, and shit doesn't belong on our shelves.

Divine Comedy
March 24, 2013

Part of my writing resolve for this year was to write a review for each book I read. I'm a super slow reader, so there probably won't be very many of these. But here's the first.

I love to do what I call stage writing: writing on the stage, as I'm performing. I have a friend and fellow comic who does nothing but improvise his act each time he goes up,but that's not what I'm talking about. I like to go up with an idea of what I want to talk about, a few points I want to cover, maybe a punchline or two that I plan to get to but unsure of where they'll land. And I hope it comes out in an understandable, cohesive form. When it works, when my mind opens up to allow surprising, funny things flow through me, it's an incredible high. There are stories already in existence, waiting for a writer to find them and translate them into whatever medium he's in tune with. When that conduit opens up and pumps through me, all the words are mine; all the stories are mine; and I am theirs. I am one with the godstuff of the universe. I talk loudly, I dig into myself, and I explode. That's what I've started calling it. An explosion. It's a draining experience. But incredibly fulfilling.

Standup Comedy: puns, dick jokes, and spiritual enlightenment.

Much of Time
March 16, 2013

In comedy, stage allowance usually comes in preset units of time. Headliners get forty-five minutes to an hour. Feature performers get twenty to thirty. Most open mics provide you with five to seven precious minutes of stage time. But then there are the dreaded three-minute slots. Ever drive for two hours so you can talk for three minutes? Don't do it alone, or you run the risk of questioning your dreams even as you follow them. Doing a tight three is a mighty skill set to have, but I hate it. The way I write, that's barely time for one joke. But as the poets say, brevity is the soul of whit. So this week, I'm keeping it short.

True Color
March 1, 2013

I've experienced racism throughout my life, usually as an angry observer of other folk's stupidity. But it once had a direct impact on my life. When we started school, my best friend Michael King and I were separated into different kindergarten classes. Then a few days later, he was transferred to my class, and all was again right with the world. I could not remember a time in which we were not friends. We climbed trees together, carved roads in the dirt for our Hotwheels, hunted snakes, ate pancakes and watched cartoons together. It was only a temporary wrinkle in the universe that pulled us apart, and the school was quick to realize its mistake and reunite me with my best bud.

Some years later, I overheard a conversation between our mothers that opened my eyes to how dumb adults were. My friend's mom had been horrified that her son was the only white child in his kindergarten class. So she appealed to the principal to move him to a class with a higher Caucasian content.

I was six, and the black kids were no less friendship material than the white kids. But to my friend's mother, they were a threat. When I heard this, I was chilled by the realization that dark, ugly forces had given me what I wanted. I had benefitted from hatred. The world was no longer as right as it should be.

Chain Lightning
February 16, 2013

In this essay, I recount how my friend Bob introduced me to my favorite band Rush. He also turned me onto Pink Floyd, Monty Python, and Dr. Demento. So in a kind of one-upmanship, I've tried over the years to get him hooked on bands that I've discovered. He's just as in love with The Art of Noise as I am, and while he can take or leave Rollins Band, he's got more Henry Rollins spoken word albums than I have. But my first and favorite instance of pushing music onto my friend involves Oingo Boingo.

Bob's dad, in his line of work, sometimes received promotional CDs from music stores as a favor, and he gave them to Bob. Since this was in Nashville, TN, they were mostly country music albums. Bob gave a bunch of these to me one day, and I said, "Oh, thank you for the free coasters and shiny Frisbees." But later I gave them a more thorough examination, and found that one of them had skulls on it. It was the collection Best O' Boingo and it containted themes of death and darkness and a song based on an H. G. Wells novel. I had to share this with my friend. He, of course, loved it, and I chalked up a victory.

Dreams and Visions
February 10, 2013

Connie said that seeing Springsteen was the best birthday present she ever got. So from now on it's gift certificates every year.

Savage Breast
February 1, 2013

I remember trying to share my music with anyone who'd stand still long enough. I gave Rush mixed tapes to teachers and touted their literary worth. I blasted Jesus Jones from the front porch and hoped the neighborhood kids would bow to my critical superiority. My music was amazing. It made me feel powerful when I was doubtful, kept me company when I was lonely, and when I was low it was low with me, holding my hand through the caverns of depression that riddle the landscape of adolescence. But no one listened. Which stoked two different emotions within me. First, it amplified the feeling that I was unique. I was the only one who could appreciate these masterworks, and that meant I was better than everyone else. It made my Quasimodo basement existence bearable. But it also meant I was constantly comparing myself to others and finding differences I couldn't bridge. Being unique is good. Being so alien that the rest of the world confuses you is bad.

What will my future children listen to? Rush and Rollins will be retired or dead, and rock-and-roll is already on a ventilator. Will my daughter appreciate my music? Probably not. I made it a point to find music my mother hated. I'm sure my offspring will do the same.

If Laughter is a Straw For a Drowning Man
January 25, 2013

I wrote this essay about two months ago. The night described is one of my favorite memories of doing standup, and I'm glad I took the time to trap it in amber.
Just the other night, I attended a show as an audience member rather than a performer. Turns out the pros putting on the show were also making a documentary about their travels and the comedy scene at each locality they visited. So I got to be a part of that. They interviewed us about Greenville comedy and came to the conclusion that we were a supportive clan that strove to create a nourishing, positive environment for our fellow comics. And that set us apart from many of the other towns they'd seen. I wish I could be more involved than I am. I wish I could be a closer member of the group. I have seen Comedy create bonding friendships. And I have also seen it divide as well. As new comics come to the open mic, stage time becomes a precious commodity, and veterans are sometimes reluctant to yield their time to newbies. The new guys get pushed to the end of a long show where the audience is tired and not receptive to under-developed dick jokes. Being in the limelight can do strange things to you. It's easy to forget how weak you were when you first started. And when everyone tells you how great you are, it's easy to become ungrateful. But for the most part, we are a supportive tribe of fools. Audiences, however, really suck.

Older Than I've Ever Been
January 19, 2013

I know this is short notice, but my birthday is just two days away. So if you were thinking of getting me something but didn't know what, here are some suggestions.
I've never really made a big deal about my birthday. I don't fear getting old or try to deny my age, I just don't throw or expect parties. The most I might do was treat myself to a night of video games. I used to read the passage from The Great Gatsby where the narrator suddenly remembers it's his birthday that day. I tried to act like that, as if it was just a regular day easily confused with any other. But I'm closing in on a number divisible by ten, and that is a little scary. Because I haven't reached very many of the goals I thought I would have met years ago. I don't have a writing career. I'm not a professional comedian. Mozart was dead by the time he was my age. I know comparing myself to Amadeus isn't helpful or even realistic. I'm not a genius. I didn't have a parent forcing me to perform for royalty at the age of five. But still, I feel I should have accomplished more by now. Then I remember Rodney Dangerfield didn't hit till his 40s. And I have actually outlived Mozart, so I still have the possibility of composing more operas than him. Or at least more than Rodney Dangerfield. Plus I'm engaged to an amazing woman who thinks I'm funny and smart. That's a good measure of a life.

Behind Green Eyes
January 11, 2013

Here in the second half of our conversation, Cody Hughes address the slightly darker side of his stage persona. So I thought I would address a darkness of my own: Jealousy. Most of my Facebook friends are comedians. And everyday, as announcements of their upcoming shows stream down my wall, I feel the shameful sting of envy. It's not a fun thing to admit, but let's get it out in the open. I sat at work, saw a certain comic had been picked to do a show, and thought, "That guy? Really? I'm way better than him."
Pathetic.
When I see another comedian get bigger laughs at a show, I feel jealous. When others refer to someone who isn't me as their favorite, I feel jealous. I've been jealous of Cody Hughes, of his ability to riff or yell or stammer and still maintain the audience's attention. I envy comics who are socially at ease while I still can't figure out what to do with my hands during a conversation. I'm jealous of comics who know how to network and climb the comedy ladder. I'm envious when someone's Facebook joke gets more likes than mine. This is sounding sadder by the second.
I want to clarify that my enviousness never turns to hatred. I don't burn calories wishing anyone failure. But the jealousy arises, and I wish it didn't. I should be happy for the successes of my peers. Because a lot of them work way harder than me. And some, I'd better learn to admit, are better than me. What I need to do is send goodwill their way and let their victories spur me to action. That's it. Stop wasting time, I say to me. The night has a thousand microphones, so get out there and rock and roll the bones. Get busy.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T
January 4, 2013

It's now a few days past New Year's o'clock. Goodbye holidays. Goodbye lights and festoonery. Goodbye endless stream of cakes and cookies. Hello 2013 and almost-my-birthday. And welcome to you, my unseen reader. Glad you dropped by. I hope you will make The Paper Kingdom a regular stop on your internet travels. Because I've lots to share with you. Today, for instance, I have the first half of an interview I did with Cody Hughes many months ago. Who's Cody Hughes you ask? Why, he's a fantastic comedian and prominent Facebook kvetcher. If you're a comedy fan and live in North or South Carolina, I'm sure you've seen him. And if you're in a big comedy town like Chicago, or LA, or NYC, I'm sure you'll be hearing of him in the upcoming years. Because Cody is not only extremely funny, he's also passionate about standup. So now's the time to get acquainted with him.

I met Cody in Asheville, NC. We did most of the same open mics. He was a quiet guy, 19 at the time and majoring in art at Chapel Hill. I was impressed with his joke writing style, which was story-based and precisely worded. He delivered his nostalgic, self-deprecating anecdotes in a low voice with eyes closed. If he wasn't able to complete a phrase as he'd written it, because of a heckler or some disturbance in the room, he would sometimes come to a halt and abandon his set completely. But as he became more confident on the mic and with audiences, he began to go off script more and more. Soon, that was the act, just reacting to whatever was going on in front of him. He still does prepared material, but he's become known for his ability, and his bravery, to take the stage with nothing and create his set as he performs. He can be loud. He can be confrontational, almost to the point of antagonizing his audience. You know what, scratch "almost." I've seen him wish death upon the entire audience. And they loved it. It takes talent to do that.