I am hardwired to take blame and process my relationship problems as a need to change and grow in areas where I fall short. I do not fault the other person. Even when they are truly the ones that suck I tell myself I am at fault for being with them. I understand the lop-sided dynamic of it all. In short, I tried my very best to come up with some thing to write to an ex but there was nothing to say. No words come to mind.
To all my exes in my life,
Thanks for teaching me something, no matter how trivial it might have been. We might have dated for a day, went steady for a month or were married for nearly a decade. You have all affected me in some way or another. It was my pleasure. I hope you have rich love lives and can feel the same sort of gratitude about the whole experience. There are so many sad-faced people stuck on their warped versions of pasts and past relationships. It is a lesson in futility (I should know as I have a phd in that very subject). You taught me that while love, in its many forms, is a requirement, it is not the only thing needed to make a relationship last. I learned that I can't fall in love with just anyone and that friends are only friends for a reason. I learned to love people for who they were and to leave people for who I was. I am glad to have met every last one of you. Take care.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
catastrophe naturelle
"Today, write about a natural disaster. Either write about your experience with one, or write about a fictional event from a character's first person point of view."
I have been fortunate enough to not have experienced many natural disasters in my lifetime. I have felt hurricane winds, heard the sounds of funneling tornadoes and even viewed smoking volcanoes from my bedroom window. None of these things have harmed me though were always very close to me. It leaves me feeling dangerously immortal on occasion.
After moving from Hawaii, my family moved to Middleburg Florida. We lived on a largish plot of flat land surrounded by pine trees and a few kooky (and creepy) neighbors. Thinking back now, even an environment not filled with constant city sounds and neon lights can be a very interesting and unique place to live. Our house was an average size for a family of soon to be six. I am fairly certain that it was an old house. I remember the paint chipping off the exterior walls and the wind howling through the eaves at night. I would feel extremely spooked out when left alone in the house in the middle of the woods. My life and the lives of my family were spared from the fate of that old house. My stepfathers need to control and command were, for once in my life, not a bad thing to live beneath.
Most days I found myself alone in the yard working on a task that could never be completed. If a job could ever be completed, even if only for a season, there were twelve other never ending jobs to be worked on afterward. I spent a lot of time during my childhood in this five acres of land moving long fence lines eight feet to the right. The little house in the middle of it all, placed perfectly for the Warden to view my wrongdoings, my mistakes, my assumptions and my constant manual labor. Looking back, I think the only reason I was allowed to come in at night was due to him not being able to see if I was truly working out there in the darkness. It was a long lonely time growing up out there in the yard talking to myself and learning to play games that resembled work from a scrutinizing distance. Though I hated the random recruitment of my siblings or cousins to assist in my slow efforts, I also cherished the company. I would tell them to pretend and not actually do any work. I just wanted the company.
One day my entire family was outside for a change. The Warden himself was out in the yard doing something that resembled labor. Lazy pathetic fuck that he was had to leave the fortress eventually knowing there were some tasks he could not leave to a ten year old bastard child like myself. This didn't include the use of a hacksaw. That event leading to sawing off my right thumb and forefinger, almost. I remember my brother and older sister pulling weeds from the earth with our swollen red hands. I remember it being hot outside and very sunny. I remember seeing smoke coming from the chimney and thinking it was strange. I asked about the chimney and of course I was instantly buffered with the typical adult-who-doesn't-respect-or-care-about-you answer. I am just a dumb child who knows nothing. So I let it go. Nothing to see here. A short time passed when he then noticed smoke coming from the chimney and declared it something to be concerned over. I, being the fastest of my family, ran to the weird neighbors house next door. These creepy neighbors replaced the kooky neighbors who incidentally moved after the wife burned there own place down a few years back after forgetting to turn off the iron. I will never forget to turn off the iron. I never had any proof of why these new neighbors were creepy but they were. I called 911 then bolted from the house as fast as I could. I reported to the family that help was on its way and then ran up the length of the long long driveway to see the approaching fire trucks.
We lived about a mile from the station and the land was very flat. I could clearly see that no trucks left the station. I stood by helplessly watching my house become engulfed in orange flames. The black/blue smoke was now an extended pillar reaching what seemed to be the heavens. The wind blew the length of it all lazily westbound. I imagined riding up inside of it as a tiny ember almost dying before being reignited by another gust of wind and pushed even higher than before. I could keep my flame long enough to land on another old, unsuspecting house and start a new fire. The trucks never came from that station. We had to have trucks drive in from Orange Park which was about twenty miles away. For a house with open windows and nothing but time on its hands, the fire took it all in a relatively short amount of time. The firemen saved the living room mostly though everything that was left in it was damaged beyond salvaging. The others rooms left nothing recognizable. I could find nothing of my massive G.I. Joe collection or newly gifted stereo. It was all gone.
I remember losing everything and realizing shortly after that one hundred dollars doesn't buy shit for clothing. I remember having a desire to have things again. A desire that later drove me to steal the thing I wanted. The things that made me happiest. All the things I lost in that old house. All the things I couldn't steal back were replaced with other things. It's all a cycle I suppose. I never once missed that moaning house. I was happy to live in the new, enormous, insurance paid for home that made it look like my family had money.
I have been fortunate enough to not have experienced many natural disasters in my lifetime. I have felt hurricane winds, heard the sounds of funneling tornadoes and even viewed smoking volcanoes from my bedroom window. None of these things have harmed me though were always very close to me. It leaves me feeling dangerously immortal on occasion.
After moving from Hawaii, my family moved to Middleburg Florida. We lived on a largish plot of flat land surrounded by pine trees and a few kooky (and creepy) neighbors. Thinking back now, even an environment not filled with constant city sounds and neon lights can be a very interesting and unique place to live. Our house was an average size for a family of soon to be six. I am fairly certain that it was an old house. I remember the paint chipping off the exterior walls and the wind howling through the eaves at night. I would feel extremely spooked out when left alone in the house in the middle of the woods. My life and the lives of my family were spared from the fate of that old house. My stepfathers need to control and command were, for once in my life, not a bad thing to live beneath.
Most days I found myself alone in the yard working on a task that could never be completed. If a job could ever be completed, even if only for a season, there were twelve other never ending jobs to be worked on afterward. I spent a lot of time during my childhood in this five acres of land moving long fence lines eight feet to the right. The little house in the middle of it all, placed perfectly for the Warden to view my wrongdoings, my mistakes, my assumptions and my constant manual labor. Looking back, I think the only reason I was allowed to come in at night was due to him not being able to see if I was truly working out there in the darkness. It was a long lonely time growing up out there in the yard talking to myself and learning to play games that resembled work from a scrutinizing distance. Though I hated the random recruitment of my siblings or cousins to assist in my slow efforts, I also cherished the company. I would tell them to pretend and not actually do any work. I just wanted the company.
One day my entire family was outside for a change. The Warden himself was out in the yard doing something that resembled labor. Lazy pathetic fuck that he was had to leave the fortress eventually knowing there were some tasks he could not leave to a ten year old bastard child like myself. This didn't include the use of a hacksaw. That event leading to sawing off my right thumb and forefinger, almost. I remember my brother and older sister pulling weeds from the earth with our swollen red hands. I remember it being hot outside and very sunny. I remember seeing smoke coming from the chimney and thinking it was strange. I asked about the chimney and of course I was instantly buffered with the typical adult-who-doesn't-respect-or-care-about-you answer. I am just a dumb child who knows nothing. So I let it go. Nothing to see here. A short time passed when he then noticed smoke coming from the chimney and declared it something to be concerned over. I, being the fastest of my family, ran to the weird neighbors house next door. These creepy neighbors replaced the kooky neighbors who incidentally moved after the wife burned there own place down a few years back after forgetting to turn off the iron. I will never forget to turn off the iron. I never had any proof of why these new neighbors were creepy but they were. I called 911 then bolted from the house as fast as I could. I reported to the family that help was on its way and then ran up the length of the long long driveway to see the approaching fire trucks.
We lived about a mile from the station and the land was very flat. I could clearly see that no trucks left the station. I stood by helplessly watching my house become engulfed in orange flames. The black/blue smoke was now an extended pillar reaching what seemed to be the heavens. The wind blew the length of it all lazily westbound. I imagined riding up inside of it as a tiny ember almost dying before being reignited by another gust of wind and pushed even higher than before. I could keep my flame long enough to land on another old, unsuspecting house and start a new fire. The trucks never came from that station. We had to have trucks drive in from Orange Park which was about twenty miles away. For a house with open windows and nothing but time on its hands, the fire took it all in a relatively short amount of time. The firemen saved the living room mostly though everything that was left in it was damaged beyond salvaging. The others rooms left nothing recognizable. I could find nothing of my massive G.I. Joe collection or newly gifted stereo. It was all gone.
I remember losing everything and realizing shortly after that one hundred dollars doesn't buy shit for clothing. I remember having a desire to have things again. A desire that later drove me to steal the thing I wanted. The things that made me happiest. All the things I lost in that old house. All the things I couldn't steal back were replaced with other things. It's all a cycle I suppose. I never once missed that moaning house. I was happy to live in the new, enormous, insurance paid for home that made it look like my family had money.
Doth not covet thine wikipedia
"2009 is the Year of the Ox, a beast of burden that occupies very little space in our literary history. Babe the blue ox has pretty much had to hold it down in that world, so help keep him company by writing an ode to the ox. A poem is probably the most fun way to go, but feel free to write in any style you want. Read more about the year of the ox on Wikipedia."
This article is about the animal: the Oxen.
Or the Ox, as you may only see one in passing.
These beasts of burden are the new school
equivalent of a John Deere 9000 something or other.
Imagine being the newborn tool and device
your beefy mother so proud of the work you will complete.
Cloven feet, horned skull and whips that beat
Beasts of burden I do feel your pain.
I wish you time away from drawing carts and or wagons
and powering machines for grinding grain.
Castration is your only right of passage
from young tool to old fool.
Stay strong brother Oxen!
Your time is soon.
This is your year.
This article is about the animal: the Oxen.
Or the Ox, as you may only see one in passing.
These beasts of burden are the new school
equivalent of a John Deere 9000 something or other.
Imagine being the newborn tool and device
your beefy mother so proud of the work you will complete.
Cloven feet, horned skull and whips that beat
Beasts of burden I do feel your pain.
I wish you time away from drawing carts and or wagons
and powering machines for grinding grain.
Castration is your only right of passage
from young tool to old fool.
Stay strong brother Oxen!
Your time is soon.
This is your year.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
"It’s the first of the year and you have a blank canvas in front of you. On that glaringly white piece of paper, set your intention for the year. Fill that page with five words that reflect your goals for your life as a writer. Expand upon them if you want, or let them be powerful enough to speak for themselves."
Exposure. I need to get exposed man. I have to talk to others in the world. How can I be a successful writer if I never leave my own house? Kerouac speaks to me too.
Experience. I have to force myself to write. Joining a writers workshop is one small part of what I need to accomplish. I need to go back to the stories and simply make it happen. I can't wait for the dreams to come back to me. Those days are long gone and I already have the blueprints I need. Fucking mental blocks.
Excitement. I am going back to the authors that excite me since I am not finding new ones that fill me with that same passion for writing. I will reread all of Murakami and see where it leads me. I crave that feeling and miss it so much. Staying up for days writing, barely eating, delirious and happy to be alive.
Education. Though I can't imagine my style being diluted, I can see it being perfected and expanded upon. I am far from being at a place where I could expect anyone to take my writing seriously. I want to get my degree so I plan to finish school. Finally.
Empowerment. Building on all these things will drive me to doing what I want most. Writing is my passion. I can't imagine doing anything else with my life.
Eeeee!
Exposure. I need to get exposed man. I have to talk to others in the world. How can I be a successful writer if I never leave my own house? Kerouac speaks to me too.
Experience. I have to force myself to write. Joining a writers workshop is one small part of what I need to accomplish. I need to go back to the stories and simply make it happen. I can't wait for the dreams to come back to me. Those days are long gone and I already have the blueprints I need. Fucking mental blocks.
Excitement. I am going back to the authors that excite me since I am not finding new ones that fill me with that same passion for writing. I will reread all of Murakami and see where it leads me. I crave that feeling and miss it so much. Staying up for days writing, barely eating, delirious and happy to be alive.
Education. Though I can't imagine my style being diluted, I can see it being perfected and expanded upon. I am far from being at a place where I could expect anyone to take my writing seriously. I want to get my degree so I plan to finish school. Finally.
Empowerment. Building on all these things will drive me to doing what I want most. Writing is my passion. I can't imagine doing anything else with my life.
Eeeee!
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