Wednesday, August 6, 2014

The fury of finding one's voice on the keyboard

Things have languished here for far too long. Truth be told, I'm not even sure if I still own this domain. It might revert to a free blogger account. I guess we'll find out when I hit the publish button. Anyway, There are going to be new posts here very soon (excluding this one). I've been tight lipped (fingered?) on things and it must end. Recently, a friend asked me to write his bio for a community theater production that he is in. It has been wonderful to creatively stretch out and let my mind wander for moments (MOMENTS!) on end while thinking of nothing but the current sentence that I'm writing. Oh, it was glorious. So, here, I will start spinning and recounting events. infrequently, of course, let's not set our expectations TOO high. This is still me, we're all dealing with.

Hugs and kisses,

Sunday, April 28, 2013


I'm slightly bored and, well, when that happens... actually, nothing usually happens. I just sit in my room and watch youtube or read. So, in doing that, I epitomize the saying, "if you're bored then you're boring." Hooray.

But, that's not why I'm here this evening (though I feel like I should explore that last point a bit at some point). NO! I'm here to give you some delicious AWD links! Some oldies and some goodies to be sure. Seven links to what google says are my most popular entries. I mean, some of the lesser viewed ones are good too, but if you're doing nothing, these are mildly to very entertaining. 


6) Danger! Battery Corrosion! (With terrible video enhancements!)
5) Heaven

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them. For now, I will bid you adieu while I work on my potentially damning/relationship ruining diatribe on Easton's street parking situation.

Friday, April 19, 2013

What to do when you can't do anything

Yesterday turned, very quickly, on its head. A friend of mine ran away from his life with the intent to end it all. I can't say that I didn't see this coming; he had been diagnosed as clinically depressed years ago. The unfortunate part of his suffering is that though he was on medication for many of the past years, he never received any help. The pills helped him maintain the semblance of a normal human being, but really he had been a shell for quite some time before that. His life had been a veritable train wreck that seemed to never end. Now, I know that there were good times. Years even. But despite all his amazing qualities, he has no sense of self-worth.

How do you inspire that in someone? Someone who has been told all his life that he is not special. That has been shown that he is not loved. That he is not worth a goddamn thing. I had tried, countless times, to convince him that he was important. The few friends that he had did as well. But to know this man was to be eternally frustrated by his unwillingness to see himself as a person that deserved happiness. If you know or have ever known someone like this, then there is a good chance your friendship hangs by a thread or is non-existent at this point. It is wearing. You burn out. How can you not? Unless you are family, quitting IS an option. Giving up for YOUR sanity is a choice you may have to make.

Now, some may say that if a person like this is in your life, you can never give up on them. And I agree with this - to a point. How many times can you be pushed away, ignored, or shut out before you say, "I have given all I can and more. They are an adult and must make their own way." In the question of love (when is enough, enough?) there is only a 50% chance that answer is "never". Any thing that lands on the other side of that is someone's breaking point. And if you are broken and beaten down by your love of someone, there comes a time where you have to ask yourself, not what this person means to you, but what do you mean to this person?
Is it a selfish question? Yes. Undoubtedly. But we ask it. Our sense of love and self-worth comes from our perception of how we perceive others perceive us. Nothing in our culture exemplifies this more than the entire internet. We need the "likes".

My friend's fan base was not extensive. He ostracized everyone. One by one he shut us out. His silence spoke volumes and hurt more than an ear-piercing scream. He felt that his problems were a burden and in that refusal to accept help, he became just that. A stubborn man that didn't care that he was surrounded by people that love him and that were trying so hard to help him. So, what can you do when you can't do anything?

I'm not looking for advice here. It's 2am and I'm filled with rage and sadness for my friend. All I can do is lay awake here and hope that he will finally get the help and care that he very much deserves. 

Friday, December 28, 2012


So, a few weeks ago, I got my hair cut after letting it grow for nearly a year. It was pretty long, by my "standards" and while I loved my oddly curling locks, the time had come to give them the chop. A day or so later, whilst in the shower, I began singing "In heaven, there is no beer," having heard the song at a bar the night before. As I washed my newly shortened hair, I changed the lyrics to, "In heaven, there is no hair... that's why we cut it here." Silly, to be sure, but it got me thinking. 

The following are my thinks that I thought.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Remembering to remember

I remember what it was like to write poetry. I remember the words forming into verses. How they poured out of me onto the paper. The meaning behind them thinly veiled, if it was at all. I remember the love that went to those poems. Those lines of sometimes rhyming romance and passion. Not just for girls, surely they were in the majority, but for life and nature and friendship. I know I was a foolhardy romantic with my head in the clouds. Even then, I knew. But I didn't care. I was writing from my heart. Writing because it carried me off to someplace that was made of dreams that came true. That could come true. Pages and pages and pages. Words heaped upon words for love. Of love. From my heart of hearts.

I remember drawing. Always drawing or doodling. Perhaps a product of an easily distracted mind. Or an easily bored one. I knew I wasn't very talented because I had friends that were and still are quite adept with pencil and ink, but I liked what I drew because it was my vision. I remember a lot of trees. Landscapes. Paths to the horizon. I remember pastels and the explosions of color that would sweep across the page, hands and fingers blackened from mashing the colors together. Such joy came from those days. Sitting outside, just watching the clouds roll by. Unencumbered by the weight of life down below. Drifting and changing with no one to tell them what form to take or where to go. I've seen many sunrises, but only remember a handful. The sunsets, however, those were always my favorite. The colors and light are always unexpected and breathtaking. Watching the sun paint its path to sleep is a magnificent thing. If the night sky reminds us of how little we are, and the morning light reminds us of a day full of possibilities, then the setting sun tells us to reflect on the glorious beauty that this life holds. Even now, my mind is drifting to those wondrous and wistful places where I have seen such dazzling displays.

I remember these things and I look at my hands. When is the last time I wrote a poem? When is the last time I had to scrub colors off my finger tips? Long ago and far away, it seems. It is easy to say, "Just start again. It will come back." But how do you begin again? I mean, really begin? I have tried. Instantly, a fury of self criticism assail my efforts. Because I want it to be like it used to be. I want to not have that part of me so broken and neglected. It can never be the same. I know that. I have to accept that it will never be the same. Until I can get past that without the fear of the past slapping my hands, it will stay rotting in the corner of my mind, waiting for the door to open and taste the free air. Ah, to be free of those shackles. Would that I could shed them as easily as I put them on. Steeling myself against the all-too-painful exposure of emotions that those things bring has hurt me and others more than I could have ever imagined. How is it that guarding myself, my heart, has become more painful than being exposed? Then it hits me. These things are not to be guarded. Why, then, can I not open that door?

I remember these things. So that's something, I suppose.