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 |   All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground Some burn to the ground Others removed brick by brick Redesign for the times When the lease comes up Or just fold up When you have a bad day and need a reason... Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection... "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” - Some guy, I guess. Look it up? I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice, might as well hand over your civil liberties. Voices could connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues or don't but put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. Or, agree to disagree and have a beer. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone - Chris Cornell, RIP Some other stuff ▼ My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Blah, blah, blah ▼ ![Merit Badge in Rare
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I like your work!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Rare.gif) Thank you WakeUpAndLive️~Happiness  for honoring me with your kind words!Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼ More... 2018: The Quiet Ones ▼  Brian K Compton notes an echo~  |
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Congratulations, you won First Place in the January 2014 round of [Link To Item #dearme] !](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/genre-Reference-1360.gif) Wants to mimic an infamous quote from an oscar-winning actress to show appreciation... Thank you to the judges and the many authors and reviewers here at Writing.com for the honor and privilege of being a member here. Thanks to The StoryMaster  & The StoryMistress  for putting up with me all these years, as I continue to evolve into the writer I was meant to be.I can't imagine my life today without all the great experiences afforded me by this site. |
| Inside...I watch puffy clumps of snow unfastened from faithful trees by the playful, invisible wind. Outside...icy gusts hurl spear-like flakes into my chapped skin. Inside...I see the bright sun activate luminous banks of snow on our street corner. Outside...the blinding glare forces me to pull over until I can adjust the visor and put on sunglasses. Inside...zealous gusts winnow about like spirits, climbing up my rooftop to holler their muffled greetings down our chimney. Outside...arctic gales slap my numb ears as my hands fumble to reattach the gutter's downspout. |
| Been a rough week, but weathering the storm. My gaffe tonight is going to come back to haunt me. With so much on my mind and plate, I am having trouble focusing. Will get through this like everything else. Need to keep searching for that high road when complications entangle my mind with thoughts I should not consort with. And on top of it, my wife went to bed and was asleep before I realized I was letting all my personal stuff get in the way of our night. Rewire me please! I desire an upgrade. Oh, no. Not a WDC membership.  I really need to get back to the novel and stop trying to get my fingers in all these other pies. Too many irons in the fire. How many more metaphors do I need? I keep hearing these calls for help. I get distracted.  My other blog is temporarily down for a special purpose. Will reopen when time is right. |
| Sometimes, I feel I have the courage to break out of this self-imposed bubble. My heart fills with the Grinch's new found strength. I'm seeking the ending to a beautiful fairytale before I realize I imposed my own fiction on reality. I'm the villain and I put myself in that flimsy prison, because I fear that I will fail again on the outside, acting on impulses rather than the meditations that taught me how to seek relief. I'm captured between these two worlds -- one that is foreign to me and vexes me with my failed attempts to settle into those loving, accepting arms, and the dim bubble where I sit alone with my thoughts, where no one can teach me how to rise above the conflict I struggle with each day, and night. I know there are those like me who say I can't save you because I can't even save myself; and the rest who don't know what it is to be exiled to an emptiness full of unrealized visions because there is no hand to guide me out. I have found empathy here. That has salved the wounds long enough for me to crawl back in the bubble to try to dream some more. But the visions fade with time, another vexing element that limits the hours I have to share with someone who'll listen and hopefully lift me up on shoulder with the acknowledgement the struggle for acceptance is no more. I feel selfish saying this when others ail more than me, but this is inside of me. I can get closer to know other pain, but I have a great ability for empathy and desire to save others. It hurts even more when my offerings of assistance fall short or are rebuffed as some invasion of privacy. I don't post missives like this in my notebook any more because I do not wish to make a public spectacle of my pain. The blog is my open journal. There are many posts that have not seen the light of day, because I need to write to remind myself. Ditties like this are just an attempt to get an amen or maybe find that one who will acknowledge what I wrestle with and knows just the remedy for a brain addled by life's chaotic maze of rejecting fire. There is a poem that will enlighten the last metaphor... When I find time to link. Here it is..."Invalid Item"  |
| A doe emerged from a clearing straight toward me one morning where I had stopped by a stream to splash water on my groggy face. 'I didn't expect you here beautiful deer,' I thought. She seemed to take note of me, never broke stride in her approach. In the adjacent inlet, she dipped her head to lick from the spray of the ample flowage of spring to commune with a lone man. What I could say to you now. How your presence startled my heart to love a trusting creature, normally shy and reclusive. In the still, cool air I watched. Perhaps, she hadn't caught my scent. Slowly, I hunkered down to squat in admiring awe. Your coat caught a glint, bedazzled by a glowing horizon, as my heart swelled with joy that you chose this place...and me? Your nimble legs... A loud shot rang out high above our heads. Hooves slid over the watery shoal. Your tail flashed white, raised high; though your kin could not see as you fled back through the shadowed trail. I still yearn to know, for which my devotion depends, was it dichromatic vision or did you choose once to coexist...with me? Being tuned into oneself, each alone sharing moment? Poem about in moment/want to preserve the feeling |
| You can thank my wife for my new handle. Hit a new low today. I told her that I would consider pursuing a career as a commercial actor because of my background in broadcasting and that I have always been told I 'look' trustworthy. Her response was that you need to be 'sexy' to be a pitchman. Don't know that the label necessarily applies to the position or if it was even called for. Is there another double standard in the standards department where woman can get away with telling us stuff that we could never get away with saying to them? *Looks in mirror* What happened to me? I added, "I suppose you're going to say I don't sing well either." Her only response, "I wouldn't say that," seemed affirmation enough, so I let it alone. But in the back of my mind I was thinking, "You have to be sexy to be a singer." So, check that future vocation option off the list. Can I get a cosmetic surgeon in the house! Can't go through life breaking mirrors because they won't lie to me anymore. Thanks wifey! She's always there for me when I'm down, you know. Is sexy. Is sexy. Is sexy. Nope, still not working. *Shouts 'Where's the beef!* I can too make it as a commercial actor, I just choose not to anymore. Stay tuned for a future YouTube audition video displaying my 'commercial' skills. yeah, right oooh, thought of a new handle while coming up with title for this blog post... |
| I woke up somewhere around two a.m. The family is out of town for the weekend and I have to work in the morning. I couldn't keep myself awake to watch the end of the Michigan State win over Purdue and went upstairs shortly after seven. Slept a good six hours with one interruption. Pele meows in the night sometimes like she is lost. There's a theory that she is looking for the kittens that are kept in the basement at night because they keep. Us up. She's too old to lock in that dank, cold cellar with them, so she has the master bedroom. Only, I shut her out because I needed un disturbed rest. Guess she figured out how to get me down. Gave her breakfast, but all she did was squaw and walk in her semi-circled twists that agitate me. Can't figure out what besides food and water or petting that she might require and I'm not about to clean a litter box. I turn my thoughts to what had kept me restless in previous nights. Knowing I may have mis perceived things made me a bit angry and had no one to turn on but myself. Kept muttering stupid and idiot with each new thought that bubbled to the surface to break. But I was making my mind up about something else. I need this one last run to get back in shape, have the body I know I can rebuild with focus on diet, exercise and rest. It starts now. No stimulants, all natural this time. I need the natural endorphins my body can produce. I'm going to print pictures I can stare at to give me extra motivation. I burnt out once channeling all my hate into exercise. I think I've got enough built into me for another run. I will add mantras that will be a mix of encouragement and revenge, always keeping my eyes to the ultimate goal I set for myself when I started this whole process in 2007. |
| On bad days someone catches me singing off key. On good days I'm singing in key and searching for someone who'll listen. When I'm indifferent, I'll sing any way I damn well please and you're stuck listening to me. On my best days...silence. I don't know if it relates, but I'm reminded of this... "Invalid Item" |
| I change my handle too much, but think I've settled on three or four recognizable ones. I know it confuses some people who don't remember me and they have to hover and/or click to see. I really am just bored and having fun because it expresses how I feel. I'm flyboy now, I'll be glaerdrfly later, or just glaedr. Or when I am missing the little orange kitten that died in our arms a year ago, I might have a message for the little guy. He was our hero. Our 13-year-old cat Pele took ill about a month after we adopted Glaedr, named by my son after a dragon of the same color in the Christopher Paollini book Eragon. Pele was on death's door. We could only imagine why she suddenly took ill at her advanced age. After surgery and removal of a small obstruction, we waited. Glaedr sat by her and purred every night. I learned that's how cats cure themselves. Pele would not take food. It was an ordeal. Maybe, we missed the signs but Glaedr became more ill as his big sister recovered. When we noticed the little guy would just sit on the floor next to the radiator and do nothing, we worried. More veterinary intervention was needed and they could only assume he had contracted a rare disease. Glaedr came home with us. We had a decision to make. He made it for us. All four of us cuddled with him New Year's Eve. He was as small and gaunt as ever, but as beautiful as the day we picked him up at the no-kill shelter. And shortly after he made it into 2013, he took his last breath in my wife's arms. The children sobbed. We all had tears in our eyes. This miracle of a cat gave us all a second chance with Pele before passing on to greater things. Glaedr leaves us behind, but we will never forget the brave, selfless love for his big sister who is with us and has two new kittens (Mohawk & Carmella) to play with each day. (Tears streaming down my damn eyes when I wrote this. Now I've got to change my handle again.) |
| I have suffered from this malaise that I can only term as depression since I was a teenager. I forced my mom to take a picture of me the day I felt indifferent, couldn't smile. Whatever chemical it was that makes one happy was in short supply and she couldn't understand why I wanted to have a snap for posterity. I felt as though I could look back on it and figure it out when I got older. Still don't know why I struggle with bouts of melancholy. Maybe, it was just hormonal. But I've lived twice as many years as I was old back then, and I cannot shake the fits that anchor me to this wheel of life that takes me wherever it choses to go. When the ride is over, I get off and try to get a handle on what happened and move on. When I was a teen, I penned a poem that still sums up how I feel today. Mom and I were both astonished by the result and could not figure out how I managed to pen such words... Mine is a lonely life I choose to live I want all of human kindness without wanting to give I seek refuge in my mind hiding words people seek to provoke When they find the words unkind it's me they seek to revoke What do I do; what can I say? Why is it when I need a friend they all seem to turn away? I'm unaccustomed to making conversation I fear the words I want to speak Because people find them unfashionable my words are myself, oblique. That is to say, I cannot find empathy in this world. Sometimes, my mom called me an 'odd duck.' I was treated as different, even though I felt normal. Social conditioning taught me that I wasn't meant to commune with others. I was too emotional, open about my feelings. I didn't know how to make small talk because I felt it was not what mattered. The greatest social injustice is to repress a young, fragile mind into mediocrity. When I try to rise above it and find my own unique style, I was rebuffed. So, I insulated. All of the feelings trapped inside ate at me. I learned to become drepressed, not knowing how I fit in. And, no one knew how to help me because they couldn't relate. Mama's odd little duck grew up and waddled into a world of imagination, discovering writing (like poetry). Eventually, I turned writing into a journalism career. Then, while a member here, after having been away from my professional career for some time, I was hit with an odd epiphany about how desensitized and ignorant reporters, especially in television, appear to be. And so I offered this... Just a matter of moments now, the depression will come. Camped out here on the precipice of pain, we will wait now for the rain. Growing darker, the winds of discontent will be an ominous indicator of how troublesome this storm can be... ...We're live, waiting on depression, the result of unexpressed aggression. Are you safe in your houses tonight? The blackening sea swells below. There's almost no sign of wildlife. We'll try to pan our camera so you can get a look for yourself... ...Depression is violent, unpredictable, killing unsuspecting people yearly... ...Here to keep you informed of the forthcoming peril that is depression... ...Make sure you are safely bunkered, hide in the hollows of your heart, hold on tightly to something, a loved one, preferrably with strong shoulders. Perhaps, seek professional help, someone to steer you to safe harbor... ...There's so much we yet don't understand, no one indicator can give us a clue, why the violent storms keep returning. Are you safe in your houses tonight? Here it comes. Can you get a good shot of this? We'll attempt an interview, maybe get a soundbite... No? ...I'm live, just another victim reporting. Walking through this writing community, I realize now that many of us are inspired to write, to express in this format, because we cannot have our feelings be heard and understood. Now, I realize, I can at least pull up a bar stool and commiserate with others who struggle. There are messages from people all over this website who have discovered coping skills. I have been off anti-depressants for some time, replacing it with exercise. My rotator cuff surgery set me back and I've been feeling that old pull come and tug on my psyche again. It makes me feel helpless, reminding me that I have not accomplished what I've dreamed of doing. It makes you feel worthless and yet I know that I am not. And when this ride is over and I have come out of what feels like another deathly spin, I'll walk away from the accident scene stronger and wiser because it can't kill me. I may be an 'odd duck' but I will find my way back to the pond to swim again with my mother and bath in the remembrances of a woman who built me a shelter for life.
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| She brought me Kleenex when I broke down and cried yesterday. I hate the offering of the tissue. I much rather prefer someone to wrap me around my shoulders and whisper in my ear it's going to be alright. And mean it. Times like this I wish my mother was here to console me. She might've been the only person on this earth who ever truly understood me. Yes, my mother. My dad envied our relationship because we could always talk and sort things out while I was growing up. There was an emptiness in my life then and there is a void in my life now. I cannot explain why I feel so alone in this family, but I do. I should feel thankful for all that I have and all that I could strive for. But from an early age I was told I had so much ability artistically and with my mathematical skills. I just did not have the right mentor to help me carry forward a plan for my life. I was misguided and misdirected, bouncing from thankless occupation to dead-end job. I have yet to find my true calling, some salvation that will relieve the addled brain. I'm also reminded there are others who suffer worse than me. I can empathize, but I can't save them if I can't save myself. Though, helping other people seems to cure what aches in my heart just a little. I cried last night because I told my wife I have had thoughts of wishing I were dead because I feel I'm stalking an empty wasteland, finding no home for my talents wherever I roam. I reject comfort because it does not fill the void, the ache that will likely continue until my dying day. I don't want to toil in anonymity any longer. I find it difficult to appreciate what I've got. There are little moments, but not enough deposits in the emotional bank. I've witnessed other members lying by the waysides I've traveled here. This site is like a beacon to them, but not all find salvation, their true calling. I worry they set themselves up with too many expectations to be a contributor, role model, someone to rely on. And like me, try to appease others and lose sight of true goals. Where are those mentors who can help them stop jumping through unnecessary hoops and train their talents toward attainable goals. Many don't suffer from melancholy and depression like the few of us, unable to empathize. If only we could realize true goals, find satisfaction in our deepest abilities to feel and emote artistically on these virtual canvasses laid out before us. Where is the happy medium? |
| I was going to do one of those "what have we learned today" type blogs but then my mind went blank. Just taking life day-by-day, trying to keep it on an even keel. Keeping it positive and putting my focus on the things I enjoy in life. My muses don't consort with me these days and I am only forcing out words onto the screen that I am not connected to. I have been searching for years for that one true friend who could be a part of my everyday life. The cyber community does not suffice. But it does allow me the life-support I need to feel like there are real people out there with similar issues and similar goals as mine. By being away from writing.com so long, I became disconnected with the folks that have been in my corner. And I realize I'm all alone. I'm making a few new acquaintances. I'm not going to get my hopes up but perhaps some friendship will click soon. I just hope that I don't alienate anyone with my ignorance again. Just meandering through this website makes me wonder what I need to do next. Too many diversions took me away from the core of the writer I once yearned to be. It's too easy to get distracted with the trivial stuff and not keep my eyes on the goal. I have never been very disciplined to begin with, especially with setting goals. Times like this I just want to do something selfless for someone else. By giving, I can at least fill a part of me that is empty. Reviewing has been a good way to get some of the gratification I need, but it doesn't fully fuel the desire I have to achieve something great. I need somebody in my corner 24/7 and it's not going to come from anybody in my real world. I want to write the novel. |
| It wasn't supposed to be my morning to get up early. But they left the door open to the bedroom, and the noises of children getting ready for school and the sounds and smells of breakfast being made woke me up. I groggily hoisted myself out of bed, back stiff and shoulder still stinging from my physical therapy session yesterday. Once I'm awake, I decide it would be nice to spend time with the family. I bring down my iPad and sit at the table quietly, checking on the weather and this website. No one really acknowledges me until my wife starts cleaning out the fridge. I was supposed to throw out spoiling food last week, but with my poor eyesight it is so discouraging to scrounge around and find all of the things that need removing. Now she was doing my job and showing me things should've been taken care of, including a container of moldy chicken that probably has salmonella. Next thing I know, she's ranting that it was now all over the cabinets, ceiling and floor. The cats are trying to lick it up. I offer little help because I am still in a daze. This further invokes her ire. She says she should be at work. I think I should still be in bed. (Note to self: Exploding leftovers--must discover more and perhaps write a poem  )She turns into Nietzsche's super woman, if I can borrow that psychology term loosely. I respect her greatly, except when it comes to her powers of empathy, which she lacks. I guess I'm just a henpecked husband. I sometimes get the spine stand up to her, but I don't like to do it in front of the kids. Meanwhile, she always points out my flaws and faults in front of them and sometimes they act like my parent. So, I take the backseat, step in when I'm needed, and the rest of the time just take a lot of mental abuse. Now I just need to finish my coffee so I can get to the chores of the day. I know she will be smiling and happy when all is done. I thought this was going to be a humorous post. Maybe, I just need more coffee and possibly some Vicodin. ********************************************* Just over an hour later and she's hollering for me from the basement. She needs me to bring her pair of slip-on shoes. Muttering under her breath, I see her standing over a broken light fixture that fell when she was trying to clean the basement pantry. The cats are in the mix again as she needs a broom to clean up on the floor. What is it with her and exploding objects? I want to get my physical therapist prescribed home workout routine over with, but I can't relax with all her busy-ness. She's all over the house and in the places where I need to go and be at one with my brain. I want to stretch, I want to meditate and I wish I could take my meds but I know I should not. Now she has discovered that a jug of water was cracked and leaking, seeping through the boxed foods on the lower shelf. She says 'this must be God's way of saying I need to clean today.' And also, she said, 'you're lucky I'm not a crier' like her mother. I told her I would prefer the crier right now. Then, she enters the closet to get out the vacuum parts and the contents of an Easter basket falls on her and onto the floor from the top shelf. I am snickering behind her back. She says she knows that she will be able to laugh about this later. She'll be texting someone something humorous later. For now, I must bear the brunt of her agony. Just hate that she thinks it's okay to make others feel like sh*t when she is having a bad day. I |
| Poetry should be like your favorite candy. One must take all the flavor of life and boil it down to its savory essence. Poetry is to be chewed slowly; make you want to indulge, eat more, consume faster. The first taste should be the sweetest; the last sates you appetite until the sweet tooth begs again. |
| A plug before I die... Can you imagine... being that last molecule of air? The last wisp of breath; life exhaled before dying?
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| I wish I could embed this video in all of my static items. What will your verse be? Poetry is alive! Pass it on. Obviously, the Robin Williams voice over for the movie "Dead Poets Society". The poem that inspires this scene from the Movie... O Me! O Life! BY WALT WHITMAN Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring, Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish, Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?) Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d, Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me, Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined, The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. Source: Leaves of Grass (1892) |
| Meanderings of a foggy old coot Is plum the new forbidden fruit? I can only imagine, juicy, full And ready for consumption Yet I don't know if she's Tart or sweet, yielding Or mealy, yet I'll consume her Thrust my jaws unclenched Reveal my razors and sink How deep I would like to go. But I can't I already ate and I'm told I will be full For a lifetime. I'll just Steal one quick snack Of some cheaply Manufactured confection and -- It's not the same. ♡ ♪ |
| Know what I wish? I wish I could remove that part of my brain that jumps to conclusions. Maybe you know the moments: when I try to guess what's going to happen next in that movie or what you were just about to say when I rudely finish your sentence because you paused. I know it annoys you, but these sensations cloud up my thought process. I feel like I'm going to put that book down one chapter in because my mind stops absorbing the text and begins writing the supposed ending. I'm processing all kinds of information at once, just so I can be over with something and move on to the next. I would make a horrible detective, except that I force myself to sift through all the facts to get to a conclusion. Only problem is, everyone else has already cleared the metaphorical crime scene. I draw conclusions, recollect the facts, see I was wrong, rush to another ill-delved ending before starting over once more. That's a bit what reviewing is like. If I cannot absorb an author's work, I step away when I clear my head and start again. Biases fill my head before the end and I have to remind myself just keep looking for clues. But my head keeps telling me why this scene or that character were written before I can get done. I'm not letting the work as a whole wash over me, so I have Siri read it to me so I won't be overly engaged. Then, if it hooks me, I read with her. Then, I go back and reassemble the evidence and see if it points to my earliest conclusions or if I have a defective assumption mechanism. It's fun to think you know everything and can be sage enough to see something coming. I wish I had these assumptive defenses when I was the kid in school who got cornered, bullied and beaten if some other kids were having a bad day. Eventually, I developed this knack of trying to be ahead of the pack seeking quarry. |
| I hate having to send her to the bus stop in 10 below zero temperatures. There is already talk of canceling school on Monday with temperatures reaching 45° below zero. Not too motivated to go outside today. Glad I do not have to work in this weather. Fortunately, it's going to warm up to 25° in the day I do have to work, Saturday. |
| Once upon a time, a writer yearned to be an author so he could prove to the world and the people who shunned him in it that he had worth. Frustration led to anxiety which ruled his days and he steered himself off course of his goal and found other diversions. Reflection allowed him to minimize anxiety and found serene calm and decided no one needed to judge his value to have worth. Now his goal is to do what makes him happy; and if others jump aboard his wagon, then the more the merrier. Misery loves company and the life of the party gets to be friends with the rest. Through good times and bad, I hope I still enjoy the ride to my ultimate destination. |
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![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)
In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
