Journal of Fear and Hope (2021)

In the Constellation Of
December 22, 2021

Happy Winter, everyone. My favorite part of the season isn’t Christmas, or the lights, or snow, or even my birthday. It’s the return of the constellation of Orion.

Orion is my favorite constellation, being as easy as it is to spot in the sky. That three-star belt gives him away. The guy knows how to accessorize. And his punctuation is always on game. People back in toga times could always tell when the air was going to turn frigid because there he was, hunting across the sky with his bow, or his club, or whatever the viewer imagined was in his hands. Folks down in the southern part of the globe could count on warmer weather when he came shaking his stick.

When I step out at night, my breath blowing out like smoke, I look for him up there. He’s one of the few constellations that stands out in all the light pollution. When I lived in Asheville, I often caught him leaning back against a mountain as though resting after a long night’s quest. I like to imagine people centuries ago looking up at the same shape in the sky and having similar thoughts as me. Through all that time, those same stars were there, inviting the viewer to connect the dots and concoct a story to explain what they found. I showed the constellation to my daughter, told her how to find Sirius by using the belt as an arrow. When she grows up, the same stars will be there, and they’ll be there for her children and their children.

Except maybe they won’t. Orion will eventually blow out his right shoulder. By that I mean the star that is his right shoulder, a star whose name you shouldn’t say three times, is poised to go supernova at any moment. Anytime between now and 100,000 years from now (not that long a span in galactic terms) it will explode in a bright blob of light and then fade from sight. If it does go within the next few human lifespans, that will mean it was never really there the whole time I’ve been watching it, which is a frightening thought. It’s been shining since humanity began, and we like to think of the stars as immovable, immortal, but even they will pass. I can give my daughter books and toys and games with the full knowledge that she’ll lose or break or get rid of most of them. But I can’t even count on the heavens to stay put.

If I’m still here when it happens, I’ll watch it with my daughter and ask if she remembers when she was a baby and we would go out to see the stars and moon. If she does or she doesn’t I’ll apologize either way. When she asks what I’m sorry for, I’ll tell her I’m sorry I gave her a defective star. I’ll tell her to pick out any one of the others, and when she does, I’ll tell her I hope this one works out better than the last one.

Every Nerve Is Torn Apart
December 17, 2021

There was once a time when my daughter would avoid sleep like she owed it money. Many nights, I was up till 3:00 or 4:00 am, walking her to sleep on my shoulder, pacing through the house on autopilot. Drifting in and out of consciousness, I somehow got more sleep than she did. But when she finally allowed her eyes to close and drifted off to neverland, I still had chores to take care of. I had to wash enough baby bottles for my wife to use the next day. Only then could I lay down for a brief nap before getting up to go to work.

Needless to say, I was exhausted. My brain was burning.

One night, having just finished my cleaning, I shuffled toward bed. All of the lights were off to keep the baby alseep. I was navigating by touch, and when I fell asleep walking, my internal guidance system failed. I woke up when I head-butted the wall. Out of instinct, I kept silent. I looked to the left, looked to the right. Every direction looked the same: dark. I didn't know where I was. I was lost in my own house.

I touched the wall ahead of me and ran my hand along its surface. A light switch. I jerked my hand away like I'd grabbed a snake. Lights bad! I felt the wall with my other hand and soon found emptiness. A doorway. Go there, my brain barked. So I did. The floor there was soft. I knelt and touched it. Soft, but wet. I had found the laundry room and the pile of used towels.

Now I had my bearings. I knew how to get to bed.

But somewhere along the way, I fell asleep again and missed my exit. I found the sink. In my stupor, I had returned to the place I had left. The sink was still full of water, now cold.

So I just laid down on the floor and slept. An hour went by. Sunlight streamed in, and I woke up stiff and in pain. But I could see. I walked to the bathroom. A hot shower woke up as much as I could be awake. I got dressed, found my bag, and drove to work.

I'm pretty sure I made it to the office. At least I hope I did.

Those Bonfire Lights in the Mirror of Sky
December 15, 2021

Writers view a sunset as a challenge. A perfect play of light and color thrown up against the sky every evening, a different show each time. Visual artists got it easy. Use all the oranges and yellows in your paintbox. Photographers? Get outta here with your pictures of sunsets. The world did all the work for you. But writers? Man, that kinda beauty is hard to capture in mere words.

You know who does it best? Joe R. Lansdale. Whenever he tackles the seemingly impossible task of matching the heavens with a typewriter, he finds some new way to describe all that swirling gold and molten fire burning on the horizon. In fact, he's the best at describing just about any kind of weather. He specializes in rain, from spritz to torrential beatings. If you somehow find yourself a character in a Lansdale story and it starts to rain, you are in for a world of hurt.

I've been watching the skies recently, wanting to write something to compete with the free nightly show. Frustrated and humbled, I do what I can.

A Sample of Their Yield
December 10, 2021

Here we are again at the end of another year. Was this one better than the last? The jury's out on that. But I have a few things in my life now that I didn't this time last year, and that counts for something. My house is full of my daughter's artworks. I finished writing a whole book, and it's waiting for me to do something with it. I discovered The Tea Party and Slint, two bands that make my like so much richer. And I've gotten into Rammstein. Remember them? I thought they went away, but like a peek-a-boo partner, just because I couldn't see them didn't mean they were gone. Rammstein are amazing.

Anyway, I just wanted to smile and pass along a few things that made the difficult times easier to bear. There's the music above and these podcasts. Enjoy, won't you?

What a Lot of Dust
December 8, 2021

Years and more years ago, I had this idea for a story. They say dust is made up of human skin. That’s not entirely true. There’s all sorts of stuff drifting through the sun rays that fall through the windows onto the table you haven’t cleaned in months, and the majority of it is not your flaked-off, dermal detritus. But there’s a little bit there, and it--a literal part of you and the people you share your rooms with--lands on the furniture and floor and gets lodged in your nasal passages. The story idea I had was, what if there was a person whose every snowflake of skin could still feel and report sensations back to their owner?

That’s as far as I got, just an idea. Was this person good or evil? Could they only feel tactile sensations and temperature changes, or could they exert control over the objects and people their wayward skin landed on? Given the right currents of air, that sentient dust could travel throughout an entire town, and that person, from a lonely attic room, could experience the wonders of life from a thousand different perspectives. Or take control of the whole population for nefarious purposes (probably sex stuff).

I never got anywhere with that idea because I couldn’t make up my mind if I wanted to write a Ray Bradbury story or a Clive Barker story.

Turns out it was more suited for a poem. It’s got death and love and memory and regret. You know, a Michael Channing story.

The Light That Gets In Your Eyes
December 3, 2021

I can think of three ubran legends I have run across in my life. A bowling alley in my town was always collecting soda can tabs like they were made of pure silver. A girl in my high school supposedly visited a bunch of tanning salons in one night to get the perfect tan for prom and cooked her insides. But the one that was actually born in a neighboring town, one I had a real, first-person, tangible connection to was Acid Park. It was inevitable that legends grew up around it, inevitable that everyone got it wrong. But to paraphrase one of my favorite movies, when the legend becomes fact, believe the legend.

For Me Not You
December 1, 2021

Here we are again, at the end of another song cycle, an album if you will, though the songs exist only here on this single website, and there is no music, only my voice doing its best to stay in tune and deliver a listenable melody that very few will listen to. But I wrote the songs, took the photographs that accompany each, wrote the journal entries that prefaced them each week. It was a lot of work, work I did only for the sake of personal pride. My heart and my brain, and even my soul, all tell me I have to write. They’ve been telling me that for forty years now. To write is, itself, both the goal and the reward.

I’m working on another album for next year. I got seven songs so far. I need another two or three to fall into place. I often write songs when I take walks. A stray thought bumps against another, and I sing a line. Then I sing it again and try to figure out how to bend it into a melody, see if other lines might sound good alongside it. I lean into an image, phrases echo off each other, emotions peer out from between the words. I usually get a verse, maybe a verse and a chorus in that initial walk. Then I’ll sing those parts on the next walk, try to find that second verse. Sometimes, though rarely, I’ll stretch for a third verse, but I usually find that I’ve said all I want to say in those first two. A third verse had better have something new and surprising to say if it wants to be in one of my songs.

I’ve written this sort of post before, and I’ve had it thrown in my face, as a way to guilt and shame me for writing instead of doing something more important. It hurt. And it shocked me to hear it come from the person who said it. But it also did something else to me. It made me doubt. My dumb little songs and poems weren’t doing anyone any good but me. So what was the point?

I’ll tell you the point. It’s taken me a long time to figure this out, but if writing gets me by, then it’s done enough. If it pulls me through life and helps me hang on when I sometimes consider the opposite, then it has a purpose. Write for yourself, the great Joe R. Lansdale has said again and again. So I do. And when I’m done, I’m available to do something else. If I didn’t write, I couldn’t make that promise.

The Secret Wells of Emotion
November 26, 2021

I sometimes get to drive to another city to work for part of the day. Always fun to get away from the cubicle, listen to podcasts and get paid for it. Last year, just before travel became a bad idea, I was out on a job and got done right at noon. The day was cold and threatening snow and matched my mood exactly. Before heading back to the office, I stopped at my favorite pizza place in that other town, sat down in a booth far away from the door and its constant, freezing sigh, looked up at the tv mounted to the wall, and a song lyric popped into my brain all on its own.

“No one knows, and those who do don’t care.”

This song wanted to exist, and it wanted me to write it. I really liked that line. I wanted to know the rest of what went around it. What was it that no one knew? Was it possible someone did care? But I knew from experience not to force the song to tell me its secrets. I had to let it take its time, work up the courage to reveal itself completely. So I carried that one line for months. I would sing it again and again to myself at odd times. Till a Chris Cornell lyric caught my attention. He sang, “Break my bones to watch them heal.” And the song in my head responded, “I cut myself to know that I can heal.”

It was a dark song, a deep and gloomy cave. But I walked into it and felt the emotions it needed me to feel. It was a song that had been in my heart the whole time, wanting someone to hear it, to understand what was going on down there. I don’t cut myself, but I do something similar. I wallow. I wrap myself in despair and hope someone sees it in my eyes, hears it in my voice and knows without me saying it out loud. If I can shrink it down to song-size, that means I can survive it. But it does leave a scar. How could it not? It enveloped me for weeks. There’s no way it couldn’t leave a mark.

That’s a highfalutin way of saying I deal with my pain by writing about it. It does help. I’m getting by. I do have lighter things to think about, actual funny stories to tell, and I promise to tell them. But for right now, I’m still listening to the cold noise of doubt and fear and hurt. It’s a raw cacophony, but sometimes it sings, and those songs give me pride and purpose. I’m letting you know so someone does.

So Much Stuff
November 19, 2021

My daughter’s class has a treat box that kids get to choose prizes from when they are well-behaved. The prizes come from parents, who buy them in bulk, which means they tend to be fairly low-quality. One day she brought home a plastic fly. It was a little larger than an actual fly and had wings that seemed to be made of glow-in-the-dark material. I recognized the light-green sheen that was a staple of He-Man and G.I. Joe accessories in the 80s. You put them near a light source for a short time, then darken the room and gaze in wonder at the magic glow. One time, I had the genius idea of placing a He-Man sword directly onto a light bulb so it would absorb extra rays and glow like a beacon in the dark. I told my brother to come quick, check out this amazing thing I did. We raced excitedly to the lamp only to find a formless blob of plastic dripping from the bulb.

Well, my daughter put her fly under a light for what should have been long enough, flicked off all the lights, and… nothing. It did not glow in the dark. Not even a little bit. It was just a plastic fly that she got for being a good kid.

Of course I kept it. It was a major award. For weeks I knew exactly where it was. And when my daughter got a stuffed frog as a present, I finally had a use for that plastic fly. It would make the perfect pretend meal for her new frog friend. But the fly was not where I left it. I searched, but it never turned up. I’m not sure she remembers it. She hasn’t asked about it. It was hers, a prize for excellence, and now it’s gone. Once important, now forgotten.

Me, I’m torn up about it. Guilt-stricken, sobbing with my head on the floor. Okay, maybe not that torn up, but definitely bummed. Things are important to me. Possessions are important. Because they’re not just stuff, they’re memory banks. I pick up a book, and I remember who gave it to me, or what used bookshop I bought it from. I put on a CD, and I remember who I first listened to it with, or the room I sat in alone as I read the lyrics. I look at my shelf of games, and I see the friends I played them with, hear the music in the background and the conversations at the table.

I had hoped my daughter would keep that silly plastic fly and remember the time we spent at the breakfast table playing with it and her stuffed frog. But the fly flew, and I may be the only one who remembers it. I can’t believe I’m getting choked up over a gumball machine prize. I expected all sorts of things to come from being a dad. The exhaustion, the emotional rollercoaster, all the extra stuff: I knew these were coming. But her stuff means just as much to me as mine does, because she shared it with me. We played together, and those toys and games are just as full of memories as the twenty-year old items on my bookshelf.

Of course, accumulating more and more material possessions to store your memories in can weigh you down, like the junk lady scene in Labyrinth. You try to hold everything from the past till there’s no room for anything new. But I can’t bring myself to say it’s junk. It’s not junk, it’s life. It’s important and valuable. More than plastic and steel, more than paper and glue, every item is a part of my life. And now there’s a second collection full of life with my daughter. There’s so much of it, and it’s all beautiful and priceless. But I guess sometimes it does get heavy.

I Just Can't Pretend
November 12, 2021

Listening to Jagged Little Pill, I started feeling nostalgic for the days back when that record first hit. I remember riding in the back seat of my girlfriend’s friend’s car, that CD in the player. I had the first etchings of a new thought. These songs are not meant for me. Alanis was singing to an audience of other women about ex-boyfriends. Little did I know, I would soon become one.

As much as I miss those days, I don’t miss who I was. I thought too highly of myself, and I hurt someone who did not deserve to be hurt. It took a while, but I did finally recognize my faults. I did my best to kill the old me, to hold him underwater till he stopped moving. I had to train myself not to jump so quickly to judgment or to anger. Some part of him remained, so I walled him in. When he yelled, I made the music loud. I tried to kill my old self and move on to be someone new.

Putting your past to rest does require a measure of forgetting. What if you’re not allowed to forget? What if your past transgressions are constantly brought to light and thrown in your face? How can you forget if you’re never forgiven? There would be no way to move on, so you’d be left with only half a solution.

I guess I outa’ve known.

Holding the Good Time
November 5, 2021

When you’re a parent, you think, All I gotta do is be really good to my kid, and my kid will be really good. But then, you send her off to school, and suddenly other architects have a hand in her construction.

Any friendly kid in her class has the opportunity to sway her opinions. You immediately imagine some persuasive, popular kid offering drugs and bad advice in exchange for loyalty. Surely, not my kid, you say, but then you think back on the dumb, dangerous, and illegal shenanengans you got up to in your own youth.

But even the good kids she befriends can sway her from the course you hoped she would hold. What if my daughter wants to blend in and gets into sports or horses? Nothing wrong with them, but I don’t want to spend the next several thousand Saturdays freezing in a hockey rink or dodging poop piles at the local horse farm. How can I afford horse tack, anyway? Or a series of ever-larger hockey pads as she outgrows the last? She was supposed to get into tabletop games and just use the dice I already own. Where did I go wrong?

Then there are the mean kids. The ones that chip away at her self-worth, her confidence, her shield against despair. The little nibblers that reduce her bit by bit in ways you can’t see and she can’t explain. You might not notice for a long while, till suddenly your daughter is a different person than what you remember from just a year ago. This scares the hell out of me.

And, of course, there are teachers. The good ones who encourage your kid, the bad ones who frighten them into themselves. You do what you can, picking the best school, angling for the right teacher. But those flawed humans go and act all human in the presence of your perfect angel. And all that boomerangs back, and changes you.

You try, and you fail. You learn, and you change. Both you and your child. The only advice I can give is to pay attention. When you both smile, or laugh, or stare in silence at the moon and stars, notice it and tell yourself, this is a good moment that I have made.

Don't Let Them Tell You
October 29, 2021

I was brought up attending the Church of God. The holiest of rollers. We're talking convulsions, laying on hands, speaking in tongues (with translation from the pastor), running and literally rolling in the aisles. Everything just short of handing out snakes, and for a while, I bought into it.

I used to say my favorite book was the Bible. At a talent show in the third grade, I showed off my ability to read from scripture. I carried my Bible that day like a weapon no grownup had any authority to take. “You can’t tell lies when there’s a Bible in the room,” I said to the other kids. “Look out, Bible coming through.” I was an insufferable little shit.

I wanted the emotional rush I saw others experience in church. I jonesed for a hit of that sweet, sweet faith. At the altar, I waved my hands in the air like I really did care. I cried at the story of the crucifixion and during “The Little Drummer Boy,” though in a secret chamber of my heart, I knew my tears were forced. Though my heart was open for the spirit to enter, I was not moved to talk in tongues, to shake, to faint. What was I doing wrong? How much was I willing to fake? If I had to pretend to be struck by the hand of god, what about the others?

I began to see cracks in the church ideology. The preacher would often translate the holy speech of those who spoke in tongues. He was the filter through which god’s own words were delivered to our ears. But what he translated was just the same noises over and over without any phonemic variation. Sha na na na na na. Those were the only two syllables I heard, but fed through the babel fish of the preacher, all sorts of proclamations and decrees came out.

I began to question the concept of religion itself. All the religions of the world tend to have one major tenet in common: they all believe their way is the true way, the only way. So one of them must be right, and millions of people just happen to have taken the wrong guess when signing up for a deity? How can that be possible? I figured they either all had to be correct, or all religions had to be wrong. All gods existed, along with the inherent contradictions that would entail, or there were no gods. I actually settled on a compromise. I wanted god to be real so I could reject him. I had a whole skeleton worth of bones to pick with him.

For one, what’s with the micromanaging? Our church declared that women couldn’t wear makeup, jewelry, or pants. My mother now wears all of those, but for years she denied herself those little pleasures. She had a box full of jewelry. I was fascinated by it. Necklaces and bracelets and lockets she kept for years but never used. Little pieces of herself hidden away because the invisible man in the sky said it was bad.

The church also frowned on divorce. So as my father became more and more abusive and destructive, my mom stayed. I remember many times she would disappear during church for consultation. Now, I was on the outside of these conversations, so maybe I have the wrong idea. But I’ve always felt they were telling her to stay because divorce was not part of god’s plan.

Plus, god never returned any of my voicemails.

Some may say my problem lies with the church rather than with god. I say spitting in god’s vacant eyes is the only way to get back at the church, the institute that taught us to doubt and devalue ourselves, to deny ourselves true fulfillment here on earth where it counts. I can't dismantle the church, but I can reject what they taught me. They taught me I wasn’t good enough. They taught my mom she wasn’t worthy of compassion. They said it was according to god. So yeah, god can go right to hell.

When I Leave
October 22, 2021

I tried to run away twice when I was a kid. The first time, I was maybe eight or nine. Certainly no older than ten. I had no idea what running away from home meant, so I did not know how to prepare. I carried toys in a basket. Not my favorite toys. Escape often means leaving behind that which you love the most. I distinctly remember taking my Snap n Pops. That’s almost definitely not the name of the toy, but the near forty years between now and then are a bit hazy. The toy I’m thinking of was a collection of marshmallow-shaped pieces of industrial foam, more than likely a byproduct of the manufacture of some other cooler, more popular toy. You pinched the things between your thumb and forefinger till they snapped out of your grip and puffed up against whatever you were aiming at. We’re talking minutes of fun, but I absolutely needed those with me on the mean street of Battleboro, NC. Did I pack clothes or money? Of course not. Hey, Punky Brewster did just fine on her own. Tarzan didn’t need any underwear.

I made it a block and a half down the sidewalk before my mom pulled up beside me in her Pinto, and I got in without a struggle. She must have picked up on my plans when I announced to everyone I knew that I was running away that day.

I may not have known where I was going, but I sure knew where I’d been. I was escaping the violence, the noise, the chaos of a home that maybe wasn’t quite broken yet, but was surely cracking from the stress. My parents screamed at each other all the time, and my dad had broken or pawned some of my favorite things. This was not the world I wanted, and I had no power to make it any better. So I ran. I had no place to go.

The second time, I had a destination. I was thirteen then, more hardened by the world. This time I carried nothing but the clothes I wore, a jean jacket on top of that, and my anger, crushed into a hard chip of stone and tucked just behind my heart. I ran from the same home, now completely asunder, toward my grandparents’ house. Papa, I knew, might not be too keen on helping me. He might even be too drunk to notice me. But Granny would definitely help. She had a room upstairs I could stay in and wouldn’t tell my parents I was there. I planned on living there for the foreseeable future, and, as you can tell, I couldn’t see all that far ahead. As a footnote, my dad ended up living in that spare room at Granny’s house, in between families.

I got a couple of miles down the road this time. I had found a sturdy, metal rod in the weeds, and I was carrying it as defence against whatever foes I might encounter. My Double Dragon training would come in handy. Mom parked ahead of me on the shoulder, and I walked right past. She drove on and stopped a little further ahead, opened the door. Having demonstrated my resolve to run away for real this time, I got in and buckled up.

Maybe I had no power to fix the problems in my home back then. And I had no way to escape. That’s what made it easy to run and why it was just as easy to come back. I couldn’t do anything else. But what about now?

It’s hard to go, even when you know you should. You stay because you think there has to be a solution, a way to fix this broken life you now own. Anything broken can be mended. But that just isn’t true. Still, you try because to quit and leave means you failed, that you’re useless, helpless, stupid, unlovable. Also untrue. But the main reason most people remain in a painful, unchangeable situation is because it’s familiar. The world outside is unknown. The world outside is scary. Inside there is depression and fear and pain, but at least you know what to expect. You’ve gotten by so far, what’s a little longer? And who knows, maybe it’ll get better.

Besides, other people do have it worse.

Sometimes the Need Is Just Too Great
October 15, 2021

My parent’s marriage was troubled from the start. One night, when I was an infant, my mom sent my dad out to the store to buy baby formula with the last remaining dollars they had to their names. My dad used the money to buy a Playboy magazine.

My mom told me this years ago. There’s one thing about the story I never thought to ask her and am only now asking myself. Without formula, did I just go hungry till payday? My dad could certainly be a bastard, but was he bastardly enough to starve his (at the time) only child? Maybe he bought a magazine and a little less formula than my mom had anticipated. That seems to be the most likely scenario. I can’t believe I never asked about that. I didn’t talk to my parents about their lives much at all, did I? Are other children interested in their parents’ histories, or are we all too caught up in our own confused, hormone-doused lives to invest much thought into others? Maybe just me?

But this story tells me something now about my parents. I’ve heard my mom tell this story to several other people down the years, so it seems to have left a scar, the kind you mention as a boast or proof of your survival. Of my dad, the event reveals him to be a man in search of something missing from his life. That magazine was his attempt to get it back. Your life changes when children arrive. They inhabit all of your time. They require all of your energy and resources. What you used to do for yourself, you can’t anymore. Who you are, changes. Maybe my dad was holding fast to a ritual he once practiced regularly. Or maybe he felt reduced from a man to a machine that only made money and fetched things for the helpless stranger now living in his house.

When I fell asleep on your shoulder, dad, what did you feel? When I asked you to fix my broken toys, how did you see me? When I asked you to play with me, take me fishing, teach me how to draw, show me how to throw a footfall, did it give any kind of purpose to your life? I know my presence couldn’t possibly replace the full autonomy of a childless life. Every kid takes something away from their parents, I acknowledge that. I even understand if you felt a little stripped of your identity. But did you feel any pride when I tried to lift your weights and wear your lifting belt? When I learned to bait a hook and shoot a BB gun and ride a bike the way you showed me, did it add anything back that I stole? Was it enough?

I’m asking these questions too late. You weren’t there when I learned to shave by carving my face a bloody mess. My friend Bob taught me how to tie a tie. My friend Tony told me about sex. Ray Bradbury told me I was important. I don’t think any of us were what you wanted. That happens. Sometimes you don’t know what you want until you choose the wrong one. I tried to be good enough, dad. You chose alcohol. You chose harder and harder drugs. But I tried, Dad. I tried.

We Swallow Our Ambitions
October 8, 2021

It only occurred to me quite recently that I don’t know what my father wanted to do. I know what he did. He was a carpenter and made furniture for a local store. He also made stuff for our house: my first computer desk, two bookcases that I still own, a couple of chests of drawers, a ‘taters-and-onions box and a trash can holder for the kitchen, a wooden t-rex for my bedroom wall. He also destroyed a good deal of the things he made because he was a violent man. He taught me to fish and to ride a bicycle. He taught all the kids in my trailer park how to ride a bike. He exercised often and built a shed beside our trailer to house his weights and bench. He laughed freely. I figured out he liked dirty jokes and always wondered if he was laughing at two things at once. He also spent our money on drugs because he was susceptible to addiction. But the more I think about him and the influence he had on me, I realize I don’t know if my father had any dreams.

Most people formulate their dreams in youth, but I don’t know much about my father’s childhood, either. He came from a big family, and I think they moved around a lot. I’ve seen pictures of them posing at a signpost in Alaska. He collected stamps. I still have his collection, and I vow every few years to have it appraised, but I never have. My dad was in the Army. I have his GI footlocker on my porch. In my mind, I have this notion that my dad was kicked out of the military. Dishonorable discharge. I don’t know how I came to believe that, don’t remember who might have told me. The story ensconced in my mind is that he acted out in order to deliberately get thrown out of the Army so he wouldn’t be shipped off to Vietnam. If this is true, then it is the one thing my father did that I am most proud of. I’m afraid to ask any of my relatives on that side of the family for fear they’ll tell me otherwise.

He had a football trophy from high school that broke off its base. He tried to mount it to a wooden bookend he made, drilled a hole in it and poked in the little brass man’s leg stump, but it always fell over. I loved those bookends, toppling trophy figure and all. They held up the collection I got from the Science Fiction and Fantasy Book Club. Till the collection grew too large for the simple things to support.

I helped him burn a bookcase he made. Not in the way you burn a log or leaf pile. He passed the flame of a blowtorch over the wood till it turned a light brown. A bit darker brown in places, even black. Those spots are probably my fault.

My dad had art books. Large, red ring binders with instructions and exercises. There were nude models in one, standing in statuesque poses. The first naked woman I ever saw was in my father’s art manual.

That’s a weird thought.

He had tubes of paint, the kind you put on canvas. He never used them, but I was fascinated by them. I’d seen paint in cans and tiny glass and plastic jars, but tubes? Weird. My dad could draw cartoons really well. Popeye, Donald and Daffy Duck. I used to, as well. I had my dad build picture frames so I could frame characters I’d copied from the funny papers and give them to my art teacher as a gift. My dad and I both let that skill fall away.

What did you want to do, Dad? What did you want to become? An athlete? An artist? Did you always want to be a carpenter? I know you definitely didn’t want to be a soldier. But what dream did I come along and defer?

Just the Age
October 1, 2021

I had to move away at the start of my freshman year of high school. I promised my best friend Randy we would write, that I would visit. We used to have sleepovers all the time, play video games, talk about girls, go fishing, listen to music. It was the heyday of hair metal, and he made me a copy of Def Leopard’s Hysteria. He drew a pretty good facsimile of their logo on the cassette. I loved that tape more than I feel comfortable admitting.

My mom helped me keep my promise and brought me back a year or so later to visit Randy. I had sent him a copy of Nirvana’s Nevermind the previous Christmas. When we were finally face to face again, I asked what he thought of it. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just okay?” “It’s not really heavy metal,” he said. “No, it’s different. Did you like it?” “It’s all right.”

Randy drove us out in the truck his dad had passed on to him. Randy told me he was dating the girl we both used to think was gross. I hadn’t dated or kissed anyone. He mentioned rap bands I hadn’t heard of and talked about parties he’d gone to. I went to a lock-in with my bowling team. About halfway through our drive, we stopped asking each other questions and sat mostly in silence.

Another couple of years later, my mom moved us back so I could graduate with my friends. I had managed to stay tight with Joe and Craig, but Randy was different. At our graduation, I saw him hanging out with guys I didn’t know. When the ceremony ended and the principal dismissed us one final time, everyone threw their tasseled hats into the air and spontaneously started chanting “Whoomp, there it is!” I did neither of those things. Randy was all in.

His mom waved to me as everyone scattered. I said hi to her and to Randy, and I knew we’d never speak again.

The world applies its pressure unevenly to all of us. You can promise all you want to stay true, but the river of time will either sweep you away or bend you into something new.

A Flash of Silver Leaves
September 27, 2021

On the first weekend of Autumn, I went out to work in the yard, and my daughter begged all day to help me. Every time I stepped back inside, she asked if she could rake. It was never an opportune time. Either she had to eat, or I was doing something dangerous. But she wanted to work with her dad. She wanted to be a helper. And I wanted to be her hero.

Finally, near the end of her day (mine went on till 4:00 am, but that's a different story), we dressed her in flannel and brought her out for the pinnacle of Autumnal tasks, the raking of leaves. She has a blue, plastic rake that's her size, and she used it to drag a small pile around for a few minutes before giving up.

On the day of the equinox, we told our daughter that it was the first day of Fall. She was immediately ecstatic. She ran to the front door for a peek at the leaves, which she assumed had all changed colors and dropped to the ground in a technicolor avalanche. The disappointment on her face as she learned it didn’t happen in one night like a visit from Leaf Santa. I wish the universe worked the way she expects it to.

So Fall wasn’t the instantaneous Crayola explosion she wanted, and raking leaves turned out not to be as fun as I promised. But the day was not lost, my friends. Oh no. Along with the rake, I had also brought out the tree trimmer. It’s a spring-loaded blade on the end of a long, yellow pole, and every time I make use of it, I think of the illustration of polearms in the 2nd Edition D&D Player’s Guide. I hooked the business end over a branch, held it in place, and my daughter pulled the rope as hard as she could, which caused the blade to close on the branch and slice it clean from the tree. The leafy branch fell to the ground with a flurry, and my daughter shouted, “Again, again!” Cleaning the ground hadn’t been a big hit, but piece-by-piece destruction of her environment went over like gangbusters.

So, as my daughter shouted to each and every confused neighbor who strolled or jogged by our house that day, “Happy Fall!”

I’m gearing up for a big project to start at the beginning of October, so I don’t have a new upload for today. But, I’ll leave you with this short poem right here in the journal entry. It was inspired by Langston Hughes. I’ll see you again soon.

The Failure
by Michael Channing

I let down everyone
including me.
But I’m not one to pity.
Put this on my stone
when I die,
“He may have failed,
but at least he tried.”

I Still Cling to Hope
September 10, 2021

I say in this essay that my hope has been extinguished, but that's not true. It keeps coming back, wet and bedraggled. "Excuse me," it says, offering up a dripping cloth sack. "I think you accidentally dropped this with me in it."

Promise of a Decent Job
September 7, 2021

Welcome back to the working week. I know it don't thrill you, hope it don't kill you.

In a round-about way, Stephen King taught me to never make fun of a person's job. I can't remember where he said it, it may have been in one of his story notes, but he pointed out that he would almost always reveal his characters' jobs. Because just about all of us have one, and for some it's more than a means to a paycheck. It's their life, their family, their home. I think about that a lot. A janitor's job means the same to him as an oncologist's job does to her. So I don't judge anyone by their career, up or down. Whether it requires a decade of school or two videos in the training room to learn, I admire anyone willing to do a hard job, stick to it, and find pride in their purpose.

Hats off to you. When you get home today, take yourself out a nice cold refreshment of your choice. Kick back as long as you can, do what you like, and hope you're not in a Stephen King story. He admires you, too, but he's not afraid to feed you through a laundry press.

All the Lives You Leave Your Mark Upon
August 30, 2021

Michael Roach was the first friend I ever had who died. Well, he was the first whose death I ever learned of. If Randy or Kevin or Michael King have also died, I don’t want to know. I haven’t seen them in a whole lifetime, but I would be hurt to learn of their passing.

Michael Roach’s death hit hard. I learned of it at work on Facebook, and I broke into tears as I watched the memories and mentions roll in. His girlfriend was just about to give birth to their son, and he was his usual jubilant self in his last postings. He’d cut his hair and gotten a job but still did stand up, still maintained connections to the community of silly people he helped create. Then he was gone. The simple thing that sent him to the hospital turned not-so-simple and took him away from everyone. Like Rollins said, someone I know was now someone I knew.

A little while after his death, Ben Atkins reposted the podcast episode he’d recorded with Michael Roach. I listened on a long drive and learned a lot I had never known about my friend. He was in the military. The same hippy, roll-doobies-instead-of-tanks, antiestablishment guy I hung out every week had been a soldier. That was weird and unexpected. Near the end of the conversation, Michael told Ben he was mad at me for leaving Asheville to live with my girlfriend. “Mad at him” was guy code for “going to miss him.” Tears burst from my eyes like a cartoon baby.

I’m ashamed to say that after I moved, I didn’t really keep in touch with him. The occasional Facebook jape, but that was it. There was only an hour between our towns, but I rarely made it up there. Now he’s gone.

I feel I haven’t been a very good friend these last few years. I put a lot of value in the old friendships, but what about the current ones? I’ve been absent, silent. I let those connections weaken and fray. Part of the reason is being a dad. But another, perhaps larger part, has been the feeling of hopelessness that has settled over me. It’s like a cloud that rains on no one else. I want to hide. I want to go into a dark room and do nothing. Risk nothing, ask for nothing. Be nothing.

I’m writing. But not as much as I should. It’s one of the few things pulling me through, but every time I’m told there are more important things to do, the slow drip of life from me quickens a little more.

There’s a song I fell in love with this year. (It’s nice to know I can still do that.) “Good Morning Captain” by Slint. Put that song on, if you would, and don’t do anything but listen to it. It won’t make much sense to you on the first listen. It might not ever make sense to you. But the first listen is the most important. It’s a long one, but wait it out. Seriously. That final line, repeated over and over. That’s me right now. Singing to you, to myself, to what I used to be. To Michael Roach and what could have been.

I miss you.

Finding Her Way
August 20, 2021

My daughter started kindergarten this week. At first she loved it, because it was different. Now she’s starting to hate it… because it’s different. No more days at home with mom, toys, tablet. Dad, DVDs, books. Sleep, wake, repeat. We prepared her for this new life, as best we could. She learned from Daniel Tiger what school was, or at least pieced together her own imagining of it. The neighborhood playground is also the playground of the school, and she would often stare into the classroom windows at the books and tables and toys and ask which would be hers. But now that it’s here, she’s coming to realize what she’s gaining might not be a one-to-one replacement for what she’s losing. Oh, little one. You’re way too young.

There’s a Rush song, one of their not-so-famous ones, called “The Fountain of Lamneth.” And in that song is a lyric that suddenly got a whole lot heavier.

Remembering when first I held
The wheel in my own hands
I took the helm so eagerly
And sailed for distant lands
But now the sea’s too heavy
And I just don’t understand
Why must my crew desert me
When I need a guiding hand

I know she’ll make many friends and have fun and create art and sing and dance and learn and grow. I know this. But she’s scared. What’s happening to her happens to us all. She’s on her own, thrust into a strange world, and the map she was given was sketched by someone who had only heard of that world through whispers and rumours, and she’s scared. I wish I could have done better. I wish I could help her understand that here is where she begins to make herself, to form thoughts on the world and the people that tumble through it. Now is scary and now is new, but there will be more new and scary times, and this one is one of the easier ones. This is where you find who you are. You’ll find that out again and again, and each time you’ll be a little different. It’s never simple. It sometimes hurts. I wish there was a better way, for her and for myself. It doesn’t get any easier does it? Changing and turning new. It’s always scary. I’m scared, too.

Experience Slips Away
August 13, 2021

I once held a jug of Wild Turkey bourbon in my closet for a friend, for a week. Might have been two weeks. Fearing his mom would sweep his possessions and find it, he asked me to hold it because I would A) not rat him out, and B) not drink it. That second reason was probably just as important as the first.

I have never drunk more than a mouthful of alcohol in my entire life. If I was ever at a party and a dutchie came at me from the right-hand side, I let it pass on by. I was a teetotaler, a straight edger, long before I even knew what those terms meant.

But I was still able to hang with my homies. When you’re the only sober person in the room, you are also the funniest person in the room. I remember making some dumb joke and causing my friend Craig to shoot the vodka he was drinking out of his nose. I used to put that on my comedy resume, right under “Opened for Rory Scovel.” Of course, I was lucky to have moderate drinker friends, or at least they were when I was around. Hey, wait a minute. Was I the pooper of their parties? Were they nursing their drinks, hoping with every cautious sip that stick-in-the-mud Michael would hurry up and leave so they could really tie one on?

I was the best kind of friend I knew to be back then. We all were. We were each other’s escape hatch. As the years went by, we drifted apart. That can happen to even the tightest of friendships. Time and distance separate you, collision with other lives knocks you out of orbit. Even as our lives began to shift, I tried to stay connected. When I was home from college, I would go to Brian’s house, and Joe would drop by, and we’d game all night and talk movies and Stephen King books. That happened less and less as life came between us.

I sometimes wonder, if we were to get together again, would we still be friends? Sure we could play games, and sure nostalgia would flow wide and deep, but eventually the past would ebb, and the present day would roll in. Elections and politics and current events would float to the surface. Would we each suddenly find ourselves in a room with people we didn't want to be in a room with?

It doesn’t matter. There’s a party in my mind, all my old friends are there, and I’m the funniest in the room. I hope that party never stops.

Facing Down the Future Coming Fast
August 11, 2021

I missed three weeks of posting this year, twice due to depression, once due to just not enough time. There's never enough time, is there? It's always running through hourglasses and fingers, marching on, flying. One of my favorite Henry Rollins quotes is, "You can't catch up." If you miss a day of work or a night of sleep, you say to yourself, "I'll do more and catch up." But that day is gone. That night is past. You can sleep or do more this day than you normally do, but that time you lost or wasted will absolutely not come back.

This brief essay is a make-up of one of those lost days. Or is it a replacement? That doesn't feel right either. It's one more than I would normally do this week. It won't catch me up, but it will help me feel a little less like a loser.

But, of course, there's always depression. No matter how fast you run, it will always catch up with you.

Bringer of Wisdom
August 6, 2021

I was looking through a book of literary terms when my five-year old daughter asked what I was reading about. I said, “Metaphors,” and she said, “What’s a metaphor?” I told her it was a way of comparing things. She told me the picture she drew of her stuffed bunny rabbit was a comparison to the actual stuffie. (It’s an amazing drawing, by the way. She matched the shape of his ears and the curve of his legs, got the right colors, drew the glasses and the orange carrot on his yellow shirt. It’s a masterpiece.)

But the thing I’m really here to talk about is what came next. She said the greatest and most frightening thing a five-year old can say to a parent, “I have an idea.”

Her brilliant plan was to draw more illustrations of words in the book. Wow. I was not expecting that. Kid blows me away sometimes. I quickly threw out the first literary term I knew we both knew, which was “rhyme.” She was ready for that one and knew immediately she wanted to rhyme “fox” with “box.” Her favorite. She drew a red fox on one sheet of paper and a box on the other. She made sure to draw something in that rectangle so you could tell it was a box. We taped the two pages together, and her illustration for the concept of rhyme was done.

Okay, kido, time for bed.

Nope. ‘Nother idea. Let’s find another word in the book to draw.

What was I supposed to do? My child wanted to draw literary terms. Right up until that moment, there was a hole in my soul in the exact shape of that moment. So I flipped to a random page and pointed at the first entry I saw.

That happened to be “catalectic.”

What the crap is that? It’s the act of leaving off an expected syllable from a line of poetry. Good luck explaining it to a five-year old.

But she gave it her best. She worked hard to come up with a visual idea to portray such a sonic and esoteric concept. Maybe she could draw a drum and a piano and a maraca and then take the maraca away. Holy crow, am I proud of that kid. Rather than wave it away as grown up nonsense, which she would have been perfectly in her right to do, she dug deep to apply her own knowledge to this entirely new idea. I was impressed. My kid is smart, curious, artistic, and unafraid of a challenge. I’m a proud dad.

As for why I was looking up “metaphor,” I just so happened to have written a new poem utilizing an extended metaphor. There’s a bird and some seeds and a song or two, and it rhymes. I’ll talk more about that later. But for now, I want to revel in the fact that my daughter just might be the only five-year old in the world who is even vaguely aware of what a catalectic line of poetry is. That feels good.

Bringer of Wisdom
August 6, 2021

I was looking through a book of literary terms when my five-year old daughter asked what I was reading about. I said, “Metaphors,” and she said, “What’s a metaphor?” I told her it was a way of comparing things. She told me the picture she drew of her stuffed bunny rabbit was a comparison to the actual stuffie. (It’s an amazing drawing, by the way. She matched the shape of his ears and the curve of his legs, got the right colors, drew the glasses and the orange carrot on his yellow shirt. It’s a masterpiece.)

But the thing I’m really here to talk about is what came next. She said the greatest and most frightening thing a five-year old can say to a parent, “I have an idea.”

Her brilliant plan was to draw more illustrations of words in the book. Wow. I was not expecting that. Kid blows me away sometimes. I quickly threw out the first literary term I knew we both knew, which was “rhyme.” She was ready for that one and knew immediately she wanted to rhyme “fox” with “box.” Her favorite. She drew a red fox on one sheet of paper and a box on the other. She made sure to draw something in that rectangle so you could tell it was a box. We taped the two pages together, and her illustration for the concept of rhyme was done.

Okay, kido, time for bed.

Nope. ‘Nother idea. Let’s find another word in the book to draw.

What was I supposed to do? My child wanted to draw literary terms. Right up until that moment, there was a hole in my soul in the exact shape of that moment. So I flipped to a random page and pointed at the first entry I saw.

That happened to be “catalectic.”

What the crap is that? It’s the act of leaving off an expected syllable from a line of poetry. Good luck explaining it to a five-year old.

But she gave it her best. She worked hard to come up with a visual idea to portray such a sonic and esoteric concept. Maybe she could draw a drum and a piano and a maraca and then take the maraca away. Holy crow, am I proud of that kid. Rather than wave it away as grown up nonsense, which she would have been perfectly in her right to do, she dug deep to apply her own knowledge to this entirely new idea. I was impressed. My kid is smart, curious, artistic, and unafraid of a challenge. I’m a proud dad.

As for why I was looking up “metaphor,” I just so happened to have written a new poem utilizing an extended metaphor. There’s a bird and some seeds and a song or two, and it rhymes. I’ll talk more about that later. But for now, I want to revel in the fact that my daughter just might be the only five-year old in the world who is even vaguely aware of what a catalectic line of poetry is. That feels good.

Break Into Bits
July 19, 2021

In the tradition of TANSTAAFL (There Ain’t No Such Thing as a Free Lunch) and GIGO (Grape In Grape Out), allow me to introduce DWYCWYC. That stands for Do What You Can When You Can. It’s an adage I apply to just about anything I do. Chores, work, writing, sudoku. You can’t always complete the whole of a project in a single sitting. So you do what you can. Come back to it later. Finish over time.

When it comes to writing, I got some serious backup. None other than Joe R. Lansdale says the same thing. If you approach a novel with that whole thing in mind, it’s gonna loom, it’s gonna pressurize, and it could ultimately beat you. But if you come at it thinking, I got an hour, or thirty minutes, or whatever, so let me put down what I can, then a huge project becomes a series of small tasks that don’t weigh so much, and you can chip away at it til it’s done.

Did I get that from him, or did I come to that conclusion on my own? Maybe.

I’ve seen people think the only way to do anything is to finish it all in one marathon go, but then they find they don't have the time it will take. So they do nothing. They are overcome with paralysis because they cannot move forward with any part of a project if they can’t do it all at once. And the project just sits there, not getting done.

The lesson is, you can carry a mountain, if you lift it one pebble at a time.

Last week, I picked up a rock. That’s all I’ll say for now. But it felt good to pick up that pebble, to turn it over in my hand and feel its gravity, what little it had. There’s a mountain to shift, but I can do it. One tiny, insignificant miracle at a time.

The Darkness That Imagination Spins
July 9, 2021

You know how video games sometimes force you to explore a dungeon lit by a light source (torch, lantern, candle, peasant dipped in oil, etc.) that has limited range, and everything beyond the reach of that light source is 100% invisible? That causes you to not notice a dragon till you practically stumble into its maw. Seems unrealistic doesn’t it?

Well, let me tell you.

Long time ago, when I was a teenager and had the same amount of hair as I do now, only darker, I went walking at night with my friends Joe and Craig. We were having a weekend at Joe’s house, which was way out in the sticks. We had played our fill of Nintendo games and Risk, so we wandered out into the inky darkness. Like fearless/stupid kids do. We carried a flashlight and walked along the road, pointing our beam of safety into the utter and complete blackness.

Outside of that narrow strand of light, we could see nothing. It was eerie. We were pretty sure there was a world around us, but without visual proof, our faith in its existence weakened with each step.

I don’t know why I said what I said, but I spoke these words to my friends: “Wouldn’t it be funny if a person suddenly walked up on us?”

And then someone immediately did.

No kidding. I mean the very second those words slipped from my tongue, a dude stepped into our light and walked on past.

He didn’t slow, and we sure as hell didn’t either. The snake of fear uncoiled in the pit of my stomach, and my blood went cold. We didn’t turn around, because that meant we were expecting him to come after us, and since one fear had already manifested itself when expressed, we tried to keep our minds and hearts blank. Just move. Don’t think about being murdered in a ditch, don’t think about being murdered in a ditch.

We went back home to the safety of dice, the comfort of dragons.

But now I wonder. Is that guy out there, spooked now and then by the memory of three teenagers who came up on him out of nowhere, in the middle of the night as he hurried home? One of them said something as they approached. “Wouldn’t it be funny?” he said, and then they were past, swallowed by shadows. What did he tell himself not to think about as he put space between us? And what safety did he run to as the snake of fear danced the alphabet in his chest?

Waves Crash In
July 2, 2021

Writers can’t help but repeat themselves. Sometimes it’s unintentional, sometimes it’s most definitely on purpose. Stephen King writes about writers and children all the time and can’t help but pepper his dialog with long-out-of-use slang from a bygone era. Ronnie James Dio mentions the word “rainbow” at least once on every Dio album. You can’t tell me that was an accident.

Look hard enough, and you notice the patterns. Well, I noticed one on Rush albums. On every Rush album, even on the first before Neil Peart took over as main lyricist, there is at least one mention of water. It’s usually a body of water. “Here Again” compares a song to “a mountain river bleeding.” In “Natural Science,” tiny ocean creatures in a tide pool “soon forget about the sea.” On “Tom Sawyer,” Geddy shouts, “The river!” Sometimes the mention is harder to find. In “2112,” you hear the sound of running water, and in the liner notes you can read a prose interjection that reveals the narrator discovers a hidden cave behind a waterfall, though the word “water” doesn’t appear in the lyrics. But it counts. The one album you might have to squint to find a water reference is Hemispheres. The followers of Apollo cross “the Bridge of Death” to find Dionysus. Bridges usually span rivers, right? That's a little iffy, but the boy in “Circumstances” complains about the gloom of “rainy afternoons.” Definitely counts.

Does this mean anything? Not really. Neil liked water images and water metaphors. Don’t we all? Am I the first to notice this omnipresent theme? Maybe? I’ll take the credit if no one else will.

On the Run
June 25, 2021

Bukowski poems are, indeed, like potato chips. You can't consume just one.

The man was a poetry-writing shark. Couldn't stop, or he'd die. He wrote thousands of poems. His publishers couldn't keep up with him. He still had poems waiting to be published when he died. And a great deal of them are amazing. Throw enough at the wall, and a few are bound to stick.

Stephen King is the same way. A book or two a year for the entirety of my life. Some of 'em suck wind. Some of them are more prescious than gold.

Joe R. Lansdale, the Mountain Goats, Ray Bradbury. Just pounding out poem after story after song after novel. Always moving, always making, always becoming something new.

I've made something new each week all this year. Well, I did miss one week due to depression. But, good or bad, I'm hammering 'em out. You can't wait for inspiration anymore than a shark can hope a tuna will swim into its teeth. You gotta bite what comes near. Get some. Go again.

Learn to Persist
June 18, 2021

In the face of judgment, under the gaze of degredation.

Against the blowing storm of doubt.

In the deep and unlifting gloom.

Keep going.

Because there's nothing else you can do.

You Have to Be Wary
June 11, 2021

Last week I posted the last of the new song cycle. Those are good songs, if I do say so myself. No Elvis Costello or Mountain Goats, but I’m proud of ‘em. What’s more, it was nice to know for two and a half entire months what I was going to post. Now I’m scrambling again. But never fear. I’ll think of something.

Bookmarks. I love this project. It’s become just as important to me to pick good bookmarks as it is to choose good reading materials. I’m literally holding back on continuing with a book until I can find a worthy marker for it. Is that sad?

For a couple of weeks I carried that Plastic Man comic in my work bag, and my daughter loved looking through it. She loved the stretching power. She’ll still occasionally pretend the table we’re eating or playing on is actually Plastic Man and just sneezed. Is she not the best kid?

There’s a sequence in the book where Plas goes to sleep and dreams himself into a flashback. We watch him transform back into the gangster he once was, complete with moustache and facial scar. My daughter, being five, doesn’t understand the concept of a flashback, so she thinks he’s turning into a bad guy. That’s something that happens in a few of the cartoons she watches. The Paw Patrol pups fall under the sway of an ancient statue, turn mischievous, and stalk the others with red, glowing eyes. That’s how you know you’re a bad guy: red, glowy eyes. In the intro of a Mickey Mouse game on her tablet, Minnie is captured by the witch from Cinderella. Mickey has to save her in time. In time for what? Well, my daughter has somehow become convinced that if Mickey isn’t quick enough, Minnie will turn into a bad guy along with the witch. To my daughter, that’s the worst thing that can happen to you, becoming evil. I think she has a point.

I’ve Something More To Give
June 4, 2021

I wanted to write an advice song for my daughter. Sort of like that Sunscreen song I only half remembered. I hope she has good people in her life. If you’re a good person, which she most definitely is, I believe good people will find you. I hope she has good friends, as good as mine, better than me. She’s gonna have her heart broken by the same type of people and situations that broke mine. I can’t stop that, and I don’t look forward to watching it happen. But as long as she has at least one good friend who can make her laugh or pass along some music or a book that balms the pain, she’ll be alright.

She’ll be alright.

The Spirit Gets Forgotten About
May 28, 2021

Type any living artist’s name into Google. One of the top search suggestions is guaranteed to be that artist’s name followed by the words “net worth.” Many, if not most, people gage art by how much money it can harvest. But aren’t emotions worth more than money? Isn’t laughter or tears or heartbreak or elation or sorrow or calm more important than wealth? When I’m low, I don’t seek cash, I read. I listen to music. I watch a movie.

But weren’t those people paid? They exchanged their art for money, therefore art must have some amount of monetary value.

I’m not saying you’re wrong. Artists should get paid. It’s just that the only examples anyone has are the outliers, and those who aspire to make art are misled. We can’t all be Stephen King or Jerry Seinfeld. But a lot of artists consider themselves failures if they don’t acquire the same amount of money or an equal measure of fame. As a comedian I was paid in Coca-Cola and steamed milk. And so far, I’ve sold four total copies of my books. But I made lots of people laugh, and they went home a little happier. And I know one person who is now seeking out more poetry because they read some of mine. I mean, yeah, money would be nice. But that’s not why I write.

I put together car parts because I needed the money. I delivered pizza to pay for the car the job slowly destroyed. I sold cars by phone so I could pay the rent. I write for other reasons.

Well, isn’t one of those reasons to make a living?

It is. I won’t lie. I thought I had an idea here, thought I knew what I wanted to say, but I don’t. Yeah, I want Joe R. Lansdale’s job. I mean, I don’t want to take it away from him, I want one like his. Writing is a job, and it should come with a paycheck, and writers should take seriously their responsibility to do the best work they can. In exchange for money.

All right. You got me. Art has monetary worth. I think what I’m trying to say is that just because you’re not rolling in gold doesn’t mean you’re not a good writer.

Yes, I’m talking to you.

And to me.

Waiting for the World's Applause
May 21, 2021

High school does little to prepare you for life outside of high school. Yet at the end of your senior year, you’re expected to know exactly what you want to do with the rest of your life, plot that course, and walk into the woods alone. Your task is to build a career, enable the movement of wealth, support the system, procreate, die. That’s how you serve society. What few guideposts you have are less than helpful. You can look at what your parents did and maybe do that. You can try to emulate a fictional character whose world was literally created for them to thrive in. Your friends have all gone off in their separate directions, just as aimless as you.

You’re supposed to know your place in the world without knowing much about the world itself. Pick a profession before you know what you’re good at, what you want, or what you believe. You don’t even know what’s available to believe in, but you gotta have opinions. Here, use these.

When I signed up for college, my mom asked what I was going to study.

“I'm going to major in creative writing and English literature.”

“Oh, so you’re going to be a teacher.”

Sigh. “Yeah, I’m going to be a teacher.” Then I became a teacher, hated it, sucked at it, broke down crying one day as I graded a pile of papers.

Maybe that speaks more to my inability to assert myself than anything else, but it does show how little help is available in becoming what you want. Whenever I got a questionnaire as a teenager that asked what career I was interested in, I would check the box next to Other and put “writer” in the blank.

A Certain Amount of Resistance
May 14, 2021

A lot of kid shows aimed at my generation had episodes where the kids protested some injustice carried out by adults. In one, I don’t remember the name of the show, a group of kids picketed and chanted in protest of school dress codes. “Over clothes, over shoes, Mr. Brown gave us the blues.” So catchy, I can still hear it today. The school officials threatened to suspend or expel the kids. The strongest-willed ones kept it up anyway, but then they lost the energy and put down their signs. One boy was left, hoarsely chanting through his megaphone. Then he quit, and the dress code stayed.

No one pays attention to protesters, even if you’re right, unless you roll up with a crowd. Even then, they watch you march from the sideline and wave away your demands like a bored king. They laugh and call you hippy, tell you to get a job and a haircut. Can’t even be bothered to come up with new insults.

I guess you gotta be willing to break things or be broken. That scene in Gandhi where people marched to the salt works to protest the salt tax, only to be beaten one after another without fighting back. It churned my stomach to see the brutality, but it also made me admire those protesters. They put their bodies on the line, and their peaceful actions made the violence of the police all the more barbaric. I don’t know if I could do that.

Then there are the riots that get all the news coverage these days. We’re supposed to gawk at the fires, the destruction. We’re supposed to see the rioters as shameful. These acts seem to be the opposite of the salt tax protest. One was non-violent, one resulted in flames. But in both cases, I see people driven to desperation. I don’t think the rioters really want to burn their own neighborhoods down. They feel helpless and angry, unseen and unheard. Years, generations of oppression will push you to extremes. So they lash out. They burn, they break. And the rest of us finally take notice.

I’m not looking at the wreckage and saying, “Good job.” I see it and think, “I understand.” Haven’t you felt that way? Haven’t you ever felt anger building inside from pressures out of your control? Usually it passes, and you return to your normal train of thought. But what if it never goes away? What if the pressure builds and builds and never relents? You at least have to be sympathetic.

Is that it? You either let the oppressors hurt you, or you hurt yourself? Anything in the middle, and you’re quickly forgotten. Songs don’t really do much do they? Not even the catchy ones.

A Million Little Crossroads
May 7, 2021

I did something incredibly stupid when I was a kid. I'm going to go ahead and spoil the reveal and tell you I was okay. I wasn't harmed. I say so because if you're reading this there's a good chance you know me personally, and I want to stave off the anxious, fearful thoughts that might come when you read the last sentence of the next paragraph.

I lived in a trailer park on a dirt road in a tiny town. Rather than drive down that potholed dead end every morning, the school bus picked us all up at the entrance to the park. One morning, I arrived breathless and sweaty at the designated stop only to see the bus pulling away in a cloud of exhaust and indifference. I was afraid to tell my mom I had missed the bus. I was too chicken to skip school. I was eight-years old and had no idea how to even go about skipping and hiding the absence from both my mom and my teacher. So when an old man stopped and offered me a ride, I hopped right into the passenger seat of his truck.

He asked where my school was, and I told him. Just turn right after the store up ahead, then it's a straight, six-mile shot. I sat mostly in silence and stared out the window at the passing cow pastures, which is what I would have done had I made the bus. The old man asked some questions, but I don't remember what or how I answered. He followed my directions, dropped me off at school, and I was there way earlier than normal.

Never did it again, never told a single person on this earth until right now.

Look, I know. I know. If you believe in multiple universes, it was at that moment that reality split. One random Michael somewhere walked back home and made his mom late for work. While some other might-have-been me had all those things happen to him that you’re now imagining.

I was lucky. I’ve always considered myself a lucky person. Like the book says, everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt. But I think my luck has run out. I may have used up most of my allotted luck that day back in the second grade. It’s hard to find much beauty these days, and it hurts most of the time. Now, this might be one of those boulders that feels crushing when it’s on you but dwindles to a pebble when you crawl out from beneath. But at the moment, it’s pressing me down.

Sometimes I think about that morning when I missed the bus, or the time I lost my grip climbing a waterfall, or the three hurricanes that passed directly over me in Florida, and I remember the thread of my life could have turned down so many different, dark passages. I’m lucky to be here at all. I’ll make it through this. I know how to survive, I’m just not as good at it as I once was. It takes far more effort than it used to. But this universe was kind enough all those times I was dumb, so maybe it wants me around after all.

A Flickering Light
April 30, 2021

This is a story about memory. At least I think it is. We’ll see when we get to the end.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the woods. A couple of the houses I lived in had backyards that led right into the woods, which meant my play area went on for acres. I built clubhouses, staged battles, fought alien invasions, found solitude and wrote songs, surrounded by pines and oaks, moss and briars, far from the judgmental stare of adults and their rigid institutions. I felt at home in the woods. I felt safe.

My cousin, two or three few years older than me, had a motorbike, and I would sit behind him as he zoomed through between trees, and I would imagine myself as Luke Skywalker, piloting a speeder on the forest moon of Endor at deathly speeds.

There was a large park in my hometown, full of walking trails, a hundreds-year old cemetery, scenic overlooks, fishing spots. I knew the place like the back of my hand. Or so I liked to think. I knew the best places to rock-hop across the river. I knew where all the trails ran, how to get to the playground and the gazebo. There was a huge boulder that marked the location of the town's original post office, and I could find that thing with my eyes closed.

One day I saw a man in the park, and he started talking to me. I was happy to tell him all about the place and demonstrate my vast knowledge. The timeline is fuzzy in my mind, because I know I went alone, which meant I must have driven myself, but I learned to drive and got my first car when I was living in a different state, which means this must have happened at some point after my senior year when we moved back. In other words, I wasn’t the age I remember myself as being when this event occurred. I was older than I picture myself as being on that day, and right there I begin to doubt the whole thing, because if one detail is wrong, then maybe the entire memory itself is false.

However old I was, I was pretty young, between the ages of seventeen and nineteen. No older, and certainly not any wiser. The guy at the park asked me to show him the post office boulder, and I bounded happily ahead to lead the way, and he put his hand on my ass.

The memory I am now replaying tells me the unexpected pressure lasted even as I sped up. He touched me and walked faster to maintain contact. Then it was gone, and I ran on ahead of him, said something about having to go home, fended off another request for a guided tour, and left. I asked myself, Did that just happen? Did he really do what it felt like he did? How did he expect me to react? Had I done or said something to encourage it?

That’s the question right there, isn’t it? Was it my fault? I didn’t know at the time, but the park was a regular meeting place for gay men. So when I think about it from time to time, I wonder if just my presence had been an invitation. Was I trespassing in his perceived domain? It was only recently that I had the thought that I had been molested. But that’s not what happened. No no no. I can’t say that. So many people have endured far worse than me. To use that kind of language lessens their stories. I was hit on by a gay guy who thought I was a gay guy because I was walking alone in a place where gay guys meet up. It was a case of mistaken intent. Right? That’s how he remembers it. Right? What makes his memory any more real than mine, when I can barely trust mine?

I wasn’t hurt. It might not have even happened. Such a strange thought to be floating around in my head. What was I thinking?

Lost Without a Trace
April 23, 2021

Rick was a friend of a friend. Brian knew him best; they were roommates once in a trailer out in the sticks. Or maybe Rick just crashed there for a long time. Joe and Rick were at college together for a while and lived in the same dorm till they both dropped out. But to me, Rick was just Rick the drummer.

We were a band--Rick on drums, Joe on guitar, me on bass--and we usually played in Joe’s garage, though once we did set up in a commons area at NC State and played till we got kicked out. After all, as we said from that night on, it’s not rock-and-roll till somebody complains.

Rick’s drums were a thing of beauty. The toms were taped over several times. Bits would break off his cymbals and nick his face and the backs of his hands. After sessions, he would be covered in chunks of wood sliced from his sticks. After all, it’s not rock-and-roll till somebody gets hurt.

We never had a name because we never wrote songs. We jammed. And it was grand and righteous. Our raucous noise bounced and brooded within the walls of the garage, filtered its way across the lawn to Joe’s house where his mom worried about us, seeped into the surrounding woods to frighten the wildlife. None of us knew how to read or write music. Joe knew a little theory, and I knew how to follow him, and Rick somehow read both our minds. When we were in the pocket, it was like levitating.

When we weren’t playing music, we were listening to it. I’m sure Rick was the one who introduced me to Pantera, Helmet, Clutch. It was Clutch in particular he championed. I remember playing Magic and hearing “Careful with That Mic…” out in the boonies as the sun set and the caffeine kicked in. Seemed like perfection, felt like it couldn’t possibly stop.

Then suddenly Rick was gone. He didn’t die, he disappeared. No one knew where he went. Not Brian, not Rick’s dad. He was just gone. That was years ago, and as far I know, no one in our circle ever heard from him again. I can’t look him up because I never knew his last name. He was just Rick the drummer. I haven’t talked to Brian or Joe in forever. They’ve let their Facebook pages go silent.

I’m thankful for those days, for the noise we generated. It’s still out there, stalking the woods, howling in the darkness. I know that’s not true, but like they say, it’s not rock-and-roll till its absence leaves you lonely and hungry for more.

I Can't Pretend a Stranger Is a Long-Awaited Friend
April 16, 2021

I don’t like it when people ask me, “How you doing?” Because I don’t want to have to lie. When anyone asks that question, the response they expect is, “Doing pretty good. How ‘bout you?” And that's a lie on two counts. One, I’m not doing good. I’m not all right or even okay, but I’m not prepared to open that up to you, and you don’t want to hear it. And, lie number two, I don’t really care to hear how you’re doing, either. We’re strangers. Maybe we live on the same street or work in the same building, but we are not friends. Just say, “Hi.”

Here are three different ways I could have answered the “How you doing?” question at any point this week. How would you have responded?

• “Well, you and I just got out of the same hour-long meeting during which I drank a full cup of coffee and half a bottle of Dr Pepper in the first twenty minutes. I’m currently on my way to the bathroom with a full bladder and a groin in considerable pain. I’m glad we could stop to chat.”
• “Well, last night my five-year-old told me she doesn’t love me anymore because I tried to stop her from eating a fork.”
• “Well, I've been so exhausted that just in the hallway behind me, I fell asleep mid-stride and hallucinated I was carrying a large box. When I woke up half a second later, I was legitimately confused as to where the box went. Even now I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t there. Have you seen one around?”

Now imagine me asking you the same question and expecting just as candid an answer.

Just say, “Hi.” Or give me a nod. Or wave. Or even just stare at your shoes as we pass. Neither of us is ready for a full, honest disclosure of how we’re doing.

Now if we actually are friends, ask all you want. But be ready.

Lost In a World of My Own
April 9, 2021

Sometimes I just want to be alone. For miles and days. Those last-man-on-earth stories? I consider them training films. Rule number one: bring extra glasses.

No one to please or answer to. No one to care for. No human contact at all. Just retreat and withdraw. I know it’s not healthy, but neither are cream-filled doughnuts, and I want to eat them all. It feels like victory, to shut out anything and one that might hurt, to burrow down and blow up the outside world. Maybe it’s worse in the long run, but it sure feels good at the moment.

Just as one doughnut won’t kill me, a short time alone won’t either. So I enjoy the silence when I can, stretch out whenever the space is mine. I’ll be back. Just don’t expect me to share the doughnuts.

Anthem of the Mind
April 2, 2021

It’s time for a new album of songs. I posted one last year, the year before that, and two the year before that. One day I’ll break out the bass and record music for them (and my daughter will immediately start cranking the tuning pegs and hogging the mic), but for now there’s just the sound of my voice. I like my voice. I sing my own songs to myself all the time. It’s a way to reflect on the world, on my memories, on my dreams. Keeps me sane.

That’s what I get out of all this work, a calm mind. There’s a lot flapping about up in my cranial attic. If I can open a window once in a while to let one of those noisy birds out, the rest of the house settles into something resembling peace.

You Can Call Me Faithless
March 19, 2021

Once, at church when I was a kid, I leaned forward in my seat, put my head down on the back of the pew in front of me, and fell asleep. When I woke up, I found I was being prayed for against my will. The pastor and a couple of other adults had placed their hands on my shoulders and on my head and were joining me in what they thought was an honest appeal for god’s salvation. I had just been up too late reading by flashlight.

But I went with it. It didn’t look like they were going away any time soon, so I figured, what they heck, I’ll do some prayers. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to pray for, so I just said help me over and over, threw in a request for world peace and a good old please help the starving kids in Africa, which was a common prayer topic in my day. Eventually, they did leave, my mom patted me on the back, and the whole church applauded. I was left wondering what had just happened and if I could talk my mom into taking me to play Putt-Putt later that day.

I tried to be religious, tried to enjoy church and Sunday school and hymns and Bible stories. But when I tried to read the Bible from alpha to omega, I got hung up in the begats. Page after page of walk-ons who had kids, and their kids had kids, and their kids had kids, and what did this have to do with anything? Why was this part there? Why did God kill that guy who tried to stop the ark of the covenant from falling on the ground? Seriously, it was the unique Wu Tang record of its time, and he just wanted to make sure it didn’t get covered in mud and ox flop. God could be such a dink.

And what good is prayer, when even the people who do it professionally can’t tell the real thing from a nap?

I’m being intentionally obtuse here. I do know the power of prayer. For the person praying, it often feels like the only weapon at your disposal to combat whatever is currently beating at your door. It’s a pact between you and god, or whatever you believe is on the receiving end of your request. Buddha, Allah, Jesus, Jehovah. The formless space between the stars. I’m not trying to cancel prayer. If you ask me to pray for your sick dad, I won’t try to convince you that it won’t help. If you offer to pray for me or my family, I’ll say thank you. But, I don’t expect much to come of it. I did once. I also thought stars would grant wishes and werewolves were real.

I don’t know if I lost something or if I wised up. I’d rather be in charge of my own ship, rather than beholding to an angry god to spin my sails. So rather than angels, I’ll just talk to myself. I do sometimes wish werewolves were real though. That’d be cool.

I Like That Story
March 12, 2021

In the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip, Calvin repeatedly asks his dad to read him a book called Hamster Huey and the Gooey Kablooie. His dad hates it, or maybe he just hates the endless repetition of reading it every night. While my daughter doesn't have a single book she requests at every bedtime, she does have a rotating collection. There are the Five Little Monkeys books. They all have a refrain that appears throughout the story, and my daughter likes to join in. So when the crocodile goes "SNAP!" so does my daughter. When one little monkey has a brilliant idea to clean up and sell the family car, she and my daughter say, "I know," in a cute, lilting tune. I've read just about all of them many times.

Sometimes we read the same book two or three times a night. She loves pop-up books and lift-the-flap books and pretends to be surprised every time when Spot is not where his mom thinks he is. We have a great book about castles with some amazing pop-ups. There's a draw bridge, a catapult, a fully-suited knight, two knights jousting, two pages of medieval workers doing their tasks. She has a habit of pulling the action tabs too fast and too hard, weakening the infrastructure of the book. But, man, I love reading it to her. Or, rather, I love making up stories about the images with her. We don't always stick to the printed words.

It's a ritual we both look forward to. Some nights, due to an unhealthy lack of sleep, I sometimes fall asleep mid-sentence. Then my daughter kicks me or yells, "Wake up!" Sometimes I slip into a kind of fugue where I hear myself talking, and I know I'm no longer reading the book. When I snap out of it, I cannot remember what I was talking about, except my daughter is staring at me real strange-like.

I know some day she'll read on her own, and I'll lose this time with her. But for now, I treasure every moment. The ones I'm conscious for, anyway.

I hope she'll always love to read and pass the habit on to her kids if that's something in her future. Maybe that castle book, taped and glued down to the point of immobility. I hope she remembers the fun we had with it and forgets how it once took me twenty minutes and seven naps to get through one page.

Hey, what do you know? I did find something cheerful to write about this week. Mostly cheerful.

The Tip of the Iceberg
March 5, 2021

I know this is twice in a row. I know it makes me look... troubled. But here's another thing about suicide. It's just something I have to unload, toss into the sea and watch disappear. I wish I could say I'll have a cheerful topic next week, but who am I kidding? Just about everything I write is dark and depressing. It's been that way since high school when I would drop short stories onto my teacher's desk when she wasn't looking and run. My name wasn't on any of them, but she figured out who wrote them. And man, they were bloody. Still, she was happy that someone in her class was able and willing to type out three pages of prose, and she helped me get into Governor's School. There, I wrote more poems and stories about people dying. It's my thing. I'm fine. Really, I am.

I hope you're alright. It's impossible to really know how someone feels from just their appearance. We're taught to keep a stiff upper lip. Stop bumming everybody out. Smile more. Folks around you might have the completely wrong idea about what's going on in your head. So I hope you're okay. If not, then I hope it passes. As a wise man once said, "All plagues have passed. So far."

If it doesn't pass, I want you to know there's no shame in asking for help. If that person doesn't want to listen, then ask someone else. Someone needs you. Someone wants you to stick around. I promise.

I'm going to stop now because so many silly and clichéd phrases are coming to mind, and you don't need me droning on. Just keep at it.

Just keep at it.

Someone Set a Bad Example
February 26, 2021

When Robin Williams died, Henry Rollins, my hero, wrote an essay in which he said some bonehead things. In his essay, he wonders how anyone could commit suicide, contemplates on the singular nature of depression, then vents his anger at people who take that way out. Robin Williams had children and was therefore ineligible to ride that particular train and a coward for hopping on board. He makes an allusion to the murder of his friend Joe Cole as an example of someone whose life was for-real tragically cut short then drops the mic after anouncing he’s much too strong to end his own life.

It’s not a great statement, certainly not a very empathetic one. People dragged him hard for that. Even lovable, goofy T.V.’s Frank tweeted an angry “Fuck You, Henry Rollins!” The next week, Rollins offered what felt like an honest, heartfelt apology. He said he needed to take stock, learn, and try to evolve on the issue of severe depression. But if his initial stance made you cut him from your reading and listening life, he would understand.

I know a few people whose lives have been bruised by suicide. Someone in my family tried to commit suicide but failed. I bet we all know someone who has tried or thought about it. Maybe the thought crossed your mind. It has mine. I haven’t made plans, but it’s hard to keep that whisper away when depression drops on top of you and smothers out all other voices. "You’re not alone" is a cliche, but it is true. You’re not alone. Maybe Henry Rollins hasn’t felt that tugging thought, but plenty of others have. T.V.’s Frank has thought about it. Drew Carey tried to kill himself. If you’re struggling and just barely holding on, I hope you can find something to tighten your grip. A friend when you need them, a piece of art when you’re alone. Like that movie where Leo DiCaprio invades someone’s dream to have the world's most boring snowmobile chase, your totem will be unique. But keep it. And stay with us.

I Envy Them for All Those Things
February 19, 2021

One time, in junior high, a guy came to school with a cast on his leg. The lucky bastard got to leave class early, and people volunteered to carry his books, usually girls. He got female attention, special privileges, everyone signed his cast and cleared a path for him, and all he had to do was break his leg.

I was jealous.

I actually coveted his broken leg. I would happily walk on crutches for months to get those benefits. Of course, I didn’t want the pain that came with fracturing your femur in multiple places. I hoped that one day it would just quietly break on its own. My mom would rush me to the hospital, and they’d send me home with a bitchin’ cast and a pack of Sharpies. Hello, instant Big-Man status.

What I failed to take into account was that the guy was already a Big Man on our little campus. He was on the football team. I was a Dungeon Master, so technically I outranked him, but I could never get the school council to acknowledge my superiority. In addition to the sympathy sponge of a broken leg, he had charisma. The girls didn’t fall out of a tree at the sight of his wounds, he already knew them by name.

I just saw the obvious thing everyone else was talking about and wanted it for myself. The thing is, he wasn’t able to play football that year. And his girlfriend wasn’t happy about his sudden new pack of admirers. Imagine if I had broken my right arm. I wouldn’t have been able to finish painting my skeleton army. My dice skills would have suffered, not to mention my sex life. His life probably got much worse. But at the time, I only saw what I lacked.

Drive You When You’re Down
February 12, 2021

I, um, finished my book. I say that with trepidation because I don’t want to jinx its chances of becoming a real-live published book one day. But I have to tell someone. So I’m telling you. It’s not the first book I’ve written. Two have come before, and they were failures. They are officially known as My Two Shitty Novels. This time, I think I did something worthwhile. It’s taken me about ten years to complete, a period of time that’s much too long. Last year, I made the promise-to-self that I would buckle down and write the two final scraps in what is now a ten-tale quilt. I met that goal, stitched that quilt, and it just barely covers the bed, but it’s done. Those two novellas are the two best things I’ve ever written. I’m editing the collection now, and soon I’ll start the stomach-churning process of searching for an agent.

Of course, I’m afraid that search will end in more failure. I don’t know what I’ll do if all this comes to nothing. It’s a bleak thought I don’t want to give much headspace to. The year before last, I was sitting on the couch, bouncing between writing a story on my phone and reading a Hap and Leonard book. I tweeted that to Joe R. Lansdale, told him I was having a hard time with my own words but was drawing inspiration from his. He replied with something to the effect of “Keep at it.” That was what I needed. I did, indeed, keep at it. That single sentence of encouragement did me a galaxy of good. It’s bringing me close to tears right now as I write about it.

Maybe this book will join the first two in the septic tank, but Joe R. Lansdale told me to keep writing. So I will.

Anyway, I wrote a book. Just wanted to punch the sky and take a quick victory lap before I go back at it. Wish me luck, if you would. Tell me to keep going. So I can.

A Bird in Flight
February 5, 2021

There's this poem by Wallace Stevens I've always had in the back of mind, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird." Whenever I read it, I find that I've forgotten everything about it since the last reading. It's the effect that sticks. Each of the thirteen stanzas is a different way of viewing or imagining or experiencing a blackbird. It inspired a poem I wrote in college that my professor praised quite a bit. It was his praise that kept me writing poems all these years despite my clumsiness at it. Had I not swung for the fences with that one, I might have given it up.

Here's a weird thing, and it's probably a coincidence, but I keep finding dead or wounded birds in my life. In the driveway, the yard, on the porch, coming out of the doctor's office. I'll show you my camera roll one day and give you shivers. I remember a day a friend and I at college found nearly a dozen birds flapping on the ground, their tongues hanging out. She supposed they'd eaten some poisonous berries, you know, the red ones on bushes your mom told you to stay away from. One day, coming out of the cafeteria at the same school, a man had a huge falcon perched on his arm. It had just flown into the window and stunned itself. It's sounding like a Python sketch, I know. I've heard that sound several times. The hollow rap at the window combined with the sick snap of what can only be a spine. You don't forget.

Does this happen to other folks? Just bird after bird found randomly dead? Or does it only happen to poets?

Living in their Pool
January 29, 2021

There's a little pond where I work, a man-made body of water surrounded by rocks and a hedge, fountain in the center. Last Spring it filled up with tadpoles. They were always at the edge, squiggling about like black sperm. (Not my fault that's what they look like.) Hundreds, thousands of the things all busy eating and pushing out stumps and shaping those stumps into legs. Now I’m not the first person to ponder the lives of animals and think how similar their lives must be to mine: brief, crowded, and damp. But me and those tadpoles had a connection, you know? I would stop by the water’s edge on my lunchtime walks and compliment their new limbs or tails, wave to them, write them poetry. But soon as they reached full frogdom, they wouldn’t give me the time of day. Wouldn’t even croak when we passed in the hall or saw each other in the breakroom. They acted like they didn’t even recognize me. Now is that gratitude? This must be just how Mark Twain felt.

Emotional Feedback
January 22, 2021

Just like before I wanted to share my favorite podcast discoveries of the previous year. There are literally more podcasts than people in this country, so finding good ones to devote your time to can be difficult. These are my suggestions to you. Take 'em or toss 'em, but know they got me through some dark days. I laughed, I learned, enlarged my world, lightened my heart.

In a Cloud of Doubts and Fears
January 15, 2021

You’re going to get the vaccine, aren’t you? Why wouldn’t you? Afraid of the effects? Well the effects of the virus itself include death. The vaccine will stop that. Good old death-guard. Hard not to like that. Oh, the virus isn’t real? You say it’s a hoax? There are several hundred thousand people who would beg to differ if they could. What do you think they died from? You say they were old, or already ill and going to die anyway. I see. Sure, but you could say that about anyone. You’re going to die, but if a bulldozer were trundling your way, you would step out of its path, wouldn’t you? Take refuge from the hulking force of destruction before it can grind you beneath its treads? And if your father or grandfather were in the way of that bulldozer, you would do your best to escort him to safety, would you not?

Okay, wait. Say that again. The vaccine is a ruse, and the medical staff of every single hospital, clinic, and pharmacy in America is actually injecting people with tracking devices? That’s what you read on the phone where you stored your personal information and the names and addresses and pictures of everyone you know along with all the places you visit every day of your life? You’re refusing a vaccine against the largest plague of your lifetime because you’re worried about being spied on by technology?

Look, all insanity aside, yes the vaccine has risks. It might not work for you, and you won’t know it till it fails. You might have a reaction. But here’s this, there is a non-zero percent chance that an airplane will crash into your workplace and kill you. Don’t laugh, it’s happened before. But you go to work. You get on planes and eat sushi and drive vehicles at speeds that would have driven folks mad three generations ago. You cook with fire that is piped into your home and walk among people who every once in a while go insane. And you think nothing of it. But now, all of a sudden, you’re worried about a vaccine, after having gotten multiple similar vaccinations in your life. You know what, that’s fine. You can be scared. You can be paranoid. But allowing yourself to be a conduit for the disease puts others at risk. You turn yourself into a walking bomb with the capability of detonating again and again wherever you go. That’s what you’ll be, a suicie bomber quietly exploding in the name of whoever told you those lies about tracking devices. With every cough, every sneeze, every close-quarters exhalation, be sure to shout that name at the top of your soon-to-be diminished lungs. I hope they’ll treat you well in the afterlife. At least no one can track you there.

Spark Another Fire
January 8, 2021

My reading list for last year may be the shortest I've ever had. I had time to read, I just didn't use it well. Spent a lot of my precious time passively scrolling. That's one of my resolutions, read more, twiddle less.

I had planned to write reviews for all the books I read, but I only got around to a few. But because I love talking about and praising books and passing along recommendations, here are some nutshell reviews of what I read in 2020.

I took comfort in a couple of Joe R. Lansdale books last year. Of Mice and Minestrone contains a few short stories about the early years of Hap and Leonard. Mostly Hap, actually, though they are the full blood brothers we know them as by the book’s end. We don’t get the tale of their actual meeting, though. Maybe Joe is saving that for a later day. The final story is a good reminder of why I fell in love with those two characters and Joe’s writing in general. It’s a meditative piece full of shadowed, weary hope. Hap, recently out of prison for refusing to go to Vietnam, picks up Leonard at the bus station as he returns from fighting in Vietnam. They camp, make food, eat, talk, stare into the woods, and it’s beautiful. An extra bonus is a handful of recipes written by Joe’s daughter Kasey. The recipes are based on the foods mentioned in the stories and contain a bit of canonical history of the two friends, making them the first Hap and Leonard “stories” penned by someone other than Joe his own self. I didn’t try any of them and probably won’t. I’m sure that makes me less Southern now.

The other Lansdale book I read was More Better Deals, a novel about a car salesman who meets a beautiful, lustful woman with a husband she hates and a possible inheritance, and I think you can guess where that story goes. It’s a trope we’ve seen before, but this book gives proof to the saying, “It’s not the story, it’s the storyteller.” In Joe’s confident, humorous, and unrelenting manner, the story takes on new color. The plot and subplot go to places I didn’t expect, and one particular scene set at a grave gave me chills. Lansdale knows what he’s doing.

As a quick aside, I saw Lansdale post about these two books and another on Twitter last year and asked him, in amazement, “You have three books coming out this year?” He responded, “Five.”

We Stand On Guard is a great book written by the soon-to-be legendary Brian K. Vaughan about a scrappy band of survivors fighting for freedom after their country is invaded by… wait for it… the United States. The occupied nation in question is Canada. Tight scripting, clever payoff, and some truly terrifying images that will be difficult to shake from your head.

I discovered a graphic novelist I’d never read before, and I must get more of his stuff. Unfortunately, David Small seems to have only written two graphic novels so far, but they are fantastic. Stitches is his memoir of growing up in an emotionally-distant family in the 1950s. His father is a doctor and attempts to cure the boy’s constant childhood ailments with heavy doses of x-rays, something medical professionals apparently did back then. David gets cancer. The visuals are amazing, slipping seamlessly into David’s fantasies and subconscious, then bursting up for a disappointing lungful of reality. He may have been taught by example to tamp down his emotions, but he expertly puts them all right on the page.

The other David Small novel, Home After Dark, tells the story of a teenage boy who moves with his father to a new town where he struggles to fit in and navigate the emotional minefield of adolescence. He embraces then questions the brash machismo of his classmates, ponders his sexuality, and is asked to do the right thing when doing the right thing means siding with a community outcast. Then his dad abandons him. Told with spare dialog but with intricate and calculated visual angles and arrangements, this sometimes feels like a ghost story, but with you, the reader, as the haunting presence.

The best book I read last year was My Favorite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris. The very construction of the book is intriguing. It’s made to look like the lined, notebook ink drawings of the story’s protagonist, a young girl who imagines herself not only as a werewolf but also as a private detective. Since she finds it difficult to fit in with her peers at school, she just goes all in on the werewolf fantasy. Of course they don’t understand her, she’s a monster. And she meets other monsters in her life as well, a tall boy with facial scars and a square jaw, a girl who dresses in black and hates the daylight, another girl that no one else has ever seen and who seems to live completely alone in an abandoned house. The story twists and turns and often stops completely so side stories can take center stage. A woman with a mysterious past is murdered in the apartment building, and our lycanthropic gumshoe takes on the case. She learns of the woman’s history and lays out all the inconsistent clues for the reader to follow. Along the way, she uncovers secrets about her own family and begins to discover secrets she'd hidden from herself. It’s a beautiful book, full of fantastic ink drawings, blue or black in most panels then bursting with color as emotions erupt. The only negative I have to say about it is that it’s the first volume, and the second hasn’t been published yet. I absolutely need that second half.

So there you have it. That doesn’t cover my full reading list of last year, but it does come depressingly close. Go, seek these books out, then pass them on to someone else. Or give them your own favorites. Times were dark last year, and they may stay dark a while yet, but good stories will keep us warm, keep us company, and keep us going.

My Heart Changes Overnight
January 1, 2021

It's time to start over again. Renew your interests or pick up new ones; make promises to yourself; change yourself. We've all decided that January One is the time the clock starts anew. Good a time as any, I guess, but you can do that any day of the year. Whenever you feel you've reached a wall or you're just tired of the track you're on, pick a new way. Any day can be the start of a new year. If you fumble or fail at the resolutions you made at midnight, just make new ones at noon.