The Ink Runs Dry

I touch my pen to the paper
But still no ink comes out
And as the hours tick by
I begin to have that dreadful writer’s doubt
With thoughts half baked
And inspiration bored
I guess it’s time to hit the scenic route
And see what everyone else has in store

And because Morton’s Fork
Has offered me one or the other
I suppose I would go my own way, solo
Writing till the pen calls for another


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: Morton’s Fork

If you had to choose between writing a blog (but not reading others’) or reading others’ blogs (but not writing your own), what would you choose?

Super Bowl Sunday

I have a journal I used to write in almost everyday, on and off, but as time went on I got lazy and stopped recording things in it, missing big chunks of time that I went back and recapped as best as I could remember. This journal is over ten years old, me receiving it in 2003 as a Christmas gift, and contains over one hundred entries, short and elaborated, about events in my life, from the most uneventful to the ones that could have enough power to inspire a post of mine. The last time I wrote in this journal, a Jeff Gordon variation, was at the beginning of last year, around February after the Super Bowl had just ended, the Seahawks winning it all. I wrote an entry for the game and all the festivities around it that happened, such as Bruno Mars in the halftime show and the dismantling of the Denver Broncos, getting beat 48-7. Our little party that day consisted of my home made Fusion Chili, dubbed “Super Chili”, carefully crafted with chili peppers, spices, cheeses, tomatoes, onions, and cubed sauteed carrots. It was what I called “real chili” since it didn’t come straight from a can and didn’t just consist of beans and meat. And it wasn’t just throwing ingredients into a pot and making a meal; I actually cooked the vegetables separately, getting them softened up, and made the main chili mixture separately as well, incorporating the two.

Anyways, I find it harder and harder to return to good old fashioned writing by hand, since a computer is now always at my fingertips, always waiting for the next best thing to be written, fueling my thoughts, urging me on through the countless inspirational things I find daily on the Internet. Ever since I started this blog, it hasn’t made much sense to painstakingly write down my thoughts on paper, having to be extra careful to make sure the entry was readable, not in my usual sloppy handwriting form.

It’s going to take some mighty motivation for me to pull my old journal (not diary) off of its high shelf and put the pen or pencil to the page again. There are about twenty pages left in this book, still fresh as the day they were rolled off the paper mill. It is my mission to fill them all up and complete this little book, this condensed biography of my life from the time I was eleven to me now being past twenty and with still a life’s worth of events to come.

My “Super Chili” is coming back this year, though making it as incredible and delicious as it’s debut last year will be tough since a bar has been set now, a standard established. It may be based off of a recipe I found online, but I believe I can incorporate a little bit of my own style into it.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”

When was the last time you wrote something substantive — a letter, a story, a journal entry, etc. — by hand? Could you ever imagine returning to a pre-keyboard era?

WPC: Converge/Cutting Room Floor

Photos are visual spaces where shapes and lines, objects, and people come together.


The theme of today’s daily prompt was “Leftovers Sandwich”, creating a post featuring posts or parts of posts that were not used. I decided to combine it with the weekly photo challenge since there are pictures that I was going to use, but they ultimately got left on the cutting room floor.

1119-Winter-2

The snow plowed road from our brief winter storm this November, a picture that I going to use in a post but decided it didn’t work. The snaking curve of the road that was created from the snow being cleared away starts off large at first and then converges into smaller lines. 1119-Winter The cutting room floor is a term used in the film business to describe scenes that were deleted or never used at all. It probably originated from the days when editors would actually cut the physical film strip with scissors (hence the term “Final Cut”), getting rid of the unwanted scenes, and then piecing the strip back together. The term survives today to apply to any creative endeavor’s unused work whether it be video games, music, architecture, film, or writing.

There really aren’t that many posts I decided to leave on the cutting room floor or in what I call my developmental purgatory but there are lots of posts that had parts nicked from them. Some of my longer pieces that I went back and edited to shorten them had entire paragraphs removed. One of them in particular was my post talking about the beginning of the 2014 Olympic Games in Sochi. It originally was about the month of February and what is called February Sweeps where many big events take place, such as the Super Bowl, and a string of TV shows premiere, but then I omitted all of that and just centered the post on the Olympics.

Last September I finally hit twenty posts on this blog and I was going to publish a post commemorating the milestone but decided not to because it would be silly (a celebration for the 100th maybe, but one for the 20th would be premature).

The idea for a movie review feature on my blog had come up and I created a draft called “macReview #1” about The Lone Ranger (2013), but decided it would not work with the way my blog was set up, worried it would fail miserably, would be better suited for an iMDB review. Here is the picture I created:

The Lone Ranger (2013) I might try doing this again, but spending some more time with creating it to ensure that it’s not just a boring movie review but one with an interesting twist, something in my original sense.

Speaking of leftovers, I just had my second Thanksgiving dinner tonight and could barely eat a bite. The turkey, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes (or yams) were hard to swallow even when blanketed in some thick gravy poured from a measuring cup. But the saving grace of our real Thanksgiving dinner was the pies, of course, the banana cream (or creme) being the first to see the knife, followed by my Florida Citrus Meringue topped with Mandarin oranges that was the best pie this year. There will be lots of leftover turkey and other food since the people around to eat it has dwindled (now just my dad, mom, uncle, and I). Pretty sad really, the way Thanksgiving is dying in our family with everyone moving away. Turkey just isn’t the same for me anymore. I guess I’ve gotten tired of eating it every year. Maybe combining it with other animals would make things interesting. I’ve been fancying making a turducken, a bird-monstrosity that reminds me of something that was badly mutated and should be left alone to die.


Weekly Photo Challenge: Converge/ DP #66: “Leftovers Sandwich.”

50 Nifty Posts

This is my journey
Everything from my mind
Capitalizing on success
Still facing the big climb
Today I have reached fifty
A nice number in it’s own right
Not everyone is recognized
Only some can stand and fight

This is my journey
And what I set out to be
Trying to be the best
That I could possibly be
I knew it wouldn’t be easy
Reaching any sort of fame
But with my keys and my brain
At least I joined the game

This is my journey
A perilous path of experiment
Destroying things that failed
And praising things that speared it
I will one day look back at this
And see how much I’ve grown
See all the bumps and bruises
And all the stuff that was sown

This is my journey
Something unique to me
Unlike anybody else
I’m the one who sees
From the first step I took
On this long journey through time
I now have something to smile back on
And realize it’s all mine
Breaking out a shell
Something that hindered me best
And now I feel alive and ready
Ready to face any test

Fifty may not seem a lot
But it sure does for me
Since so much thought and practice
Went into making them gleam
The first was a mild success
The second even better
And then after that I started
Getting beat and bloody weathered
But I battled through it and came out strong
And now I’m smelling roses
For they now are smiling and are proud
That he was one who chose us
And the sounds of time long past gone
Ripples through my pages
The times when I couldn’t hear my voice
And the days in the dark ages

This is my journey
Nearly all in a nutshell
Still adding more to it
Making my life swell
There’s no need to panic
No need to fear
Cause what I have accomplished
Makes this a great year

Celebrating 50 posts on WordPress!

I have reached a milestone in my WordPress career that began in 2013. Before September, I only had 20 and then went on a killing spree, starting with the daily prompt’s every day boosts and then branching off and doing other things as well. It has been a monumental month and half for me to say the least.

My Words Are Liquid Gold

How about that? I get up early today and find another puzzling, vague choice of daily prompt, this one inspired by an Allen Ginsberg quote and telling me to “Howl at the Moon”. Is it asking to unleash the werewolf in me? To be able to expand upon this prompt and explain it in words, I had to do a little research and find out what Ginsberg meant by “Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness”.

Waxing and waning. That’s how I describe my inner moonlight. It has been developing for some time, slowing turning into a full moon and waning at the slightest fears and troubles. My inner voice that guides me along the literary path to writer’s happiness is one of trials and tribulations. It hasn’t always been easy; I’ve needed a helping hand along the way and I still stumble occasionally. The madness has not been readily apparent in my words; I tend to shy away from letting that side of me be shown to everyone. I wouldn’t say there is much of it anyway; I’m fairly tame at best. Sometimes I might go off the deep end a bit and push things a little too far when trying to get a point across, all for the merrier. When writing anything, from stories to poetry, I tend to choose words that flow from me in an easy, comforting way, and settle into my subconscious like little guilty pleasures, repeating them internally and being satisfied at how magnificent they are. The inner moonlight in me seems to know what is right and what is wrong so I let its majesty do the talking and I do the walking.

My life has always been guided by Mr. Ginsberg’s novelty advice (who I thank thrice as he subsides in literary heaven); I am very relaxed in the way I live and tend to not let anything bother me. Everyone in my closest family is fairly calm and collected as well. The madness of me is probably not really having a strict path to follow in life; I go where the bouncy dot leads me, hopping and skipping across the letters until it reaches something I can immediately dive into. When I don’t go to bed at night and stay up until the rooster crows in the morning (just a metaphor, I don’t live anywhere near a farm) multiple times, my madness says to me, “Hey, you’re okay!” When I go on my daily walks, listening to my tunes, being in my own world, I don’t care if others find me a little strange as I walk by them. That’s who I am. I need that in my life to concentrate and organize my jumbled mind patterns.

Like Sara Bareilles sings, “Say what you wanna say and let the words fall out”, I say whatever comes to my mind when I sense a good thought arising. I used to never be like this. I used to be trapped in my mind, unable to say anything because I was afraid of what people would think of me and feared being ostracized (I always thought that word involved an ostrich). This part of me dates way back to elementary school, when the autistic, nonverbal side of me was very prominent and magnified 100x by everyone in the room. Around age 17 I started to push away from my autistic peg and become a more outspoken person, to my dismay since it totally disrupted my normal, meditative routines. But now my words feel like gold to me, liquid gold, shining brightest when they reach the unpolluted air of the room, ringing out and becoming cherished memories in my mind for a couple of minutes, me reveling over how great (or bad) they sounded. They define my character and seem to boost the morale in me as well. There are still times though when I feel my voice is not strong enough and gets overshadowed by other boisterous giants, where every time I try to put my two cents in I end up getting getting drowned out and discouraged easily. Only then can I shrug my shoulders and think that life is just a bitch sometimes. Learn to deal with it.

I don’t say a whole lot in life, a lot in writing yes, but when I do, my words are as mighty as the Nile and as strong as the storm that subsided outside my house this morning. They don’t come cheap and pack a lot of meaning.

“Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.” — Allen Ginsberg
Do you follow Ginsberg’s advice — in your writing and/or in your everyday life?

Scarlet

Opening a book to a random page

Scarlet caught my eye

In the most transcending way

Begonias and fever

Opposites of the spectrum

A black horse named Scarlet

From the prairies of western

A song made grateful by the Dead

Slightly orange with a tone of red

The sky was yellow

and the sun was blue

She wore scarlet begonias and I just knew

With those scarlet high heels and silk blonde curls

Fueling my fantasies above all girls

All scarlet begonias or a touch of the blues

Scarlet, the one I choose

My pulsing blood

The rich dark rose

Chasing my dreams

Like I’m in a Penrose

The Scarlet Letter made me cry

Hester Prynne laid down to die

Testing sin and guilt

His magnam opus

Repentance and dignity

It was hopeless

Lady Johansson, the one with two t’s

A North of excellence, brings many to their knees

She was the embodiment in Her, the soul of our wit

Made people cry

We all remember it

Now her nudies

Circle the web

Causing all sorts of hysteria

Fantasies in our head

Scarlet Knights

Blood and lips

Closterkeller

Rugby and slips

The Scarlet cloth

So aptly named

Captain Scarlet

The marionette brain

Scarlet metalcore

Miss Scarlet in Clue

Erza Scarlet

Fairy Tail cool

Scarlet red

Street, runner, and cred

If I knew a Scarlet

She’d be my first wed 

~~~

Inspired by the Writing 101 prompt: To Whom it May Concern

A Lost Poem

Fair phantom, come I/ The moon’s awake,
The owl hoots gaily from its break,
Come, soar to yonder silent clouds,
The other teems with peopled shrouds –
The cadaverous bat’s a-wing,
We’ll fly the lightsome spectre crowds,
Until the morning dove awakes,
Thou cloudy, clammy thing!

moon

As I was sifting through my files on my computer I came across this poem that I had written back in May and thought it would be a great idea to share it. It was the result of some experimenting and using descriptive words that were new and interesting to me in place of ordinary words.

Three Words. Ten Minutes

Gallagher, apples, exploitation.

A loud crashing noise wakes up a young man named Gallagher at two in the morning. He jumps up in bed, startled, looking around him with wide, sleepy eyes. Gallagher groggily gets out of bed, slips on his slippers, and heads down to the kitchen to see what the matter is. Lying on the table, shattered into a thousand pieces, is the ceiling fan. Gallagher looks at this with utter bewilderment, staring up at the empty void on the ceiling above the table. What could have caused this he doesn’t have the slightest idea.

As Gallagher walks over to the sink, some apples fall on his head.

“What the?”, he exclaims, covering his head, as more apples start to fall from the ceiling.

One of the ceiling tiles is missing and there is a large opening. The apples stop falling and Gallagher peers into the dark hole.

Everything’s quiet. Gallagher listens intently, his hand cupped to his ear. There is a very faint ticking sound coming from somewhere in the dark chamber. Curious, Gallagher goes and gets a chair from the table and sets it under the hole. He climbs up on it and sticks his head through the ceiling. This happens to be the attic as Gallagher can just make out, from the moon light shining through the small window, some boxes and other junk lying around. Nearby are some apples strewn about, some red, some green. One of them has a message on it. Gallagher picks it up and holds it in the light of the kitchen to read it:

“Your fears will be exploited if you continue to try to understand the powerful demons in your mind”

Gallagher is confused by this. Demons? In his mind? What is going on? Where did these apples come from? Just as he completes this thought a loud screeching sound comes from the back of the chamber. Gallagher almost falls off the chair. Something huge with wings comes swooping across the floor and the whole place lights up in a bright yellow glow. Gallagher shields his eyes and peeks through his hands to see what is there. There is something moving in the light. A shadowy something. It is tall and thin. He can’t quite make out its features but then…oh, no…it turns out to something that makes Gallagher’s heart start beating fast. Sweat starts rolling down his face. The thing suddenly looks at Gallagher with black coal eyes and opens it’s foul mouth, revealing a set of very sharp teeth.

Gallagher screams and falls off the chair, hitting his head on the table, going unconscious in a second. The demonic thing sticks its head out of the hole and blinks before swooping down and taking a bite of an apple and leaving the domain.


In Response to the Daily Prompt: Ready, Set, Done

Beauty is A Matter of Opinion

What makes something beautiful?

Should it contain a certain shade of color or a well accepted feature?

Be a piece of music that flows like leaves in the breeze?

Be a magnificent looking house with smooth sloping lawns?

A night sky painted with the stuff of star dust or a crimson sunset rising over the city skyline?

All of these are nice examples but can be very shallow in the true definition of what beauty is. They only point at the surface, not what you really feel deep inside.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. It’s what you make of something that tells it’s true meaning and purpose.

It can be something that is aesthetically pleasing and rings out a certain sound. It can shine brightly in the midst of turmoil surrounding it. It can be something subtle or loud and boisterous.

I believe no one can truly define what beauty is. It does not follow a strict set of rules. Beauty can be found in the murkiest, dullest points of life. A homeless man standing on a cold, dank street corner, the smoky mist from the ground rising around him; there is a certain beauty to that because if this man could be photographed a story would be told, a story of loneliness and desperate times. It would be very somber and soothing, allowing you to think to yourself and feel sympathetic for the poor soul.

We’ve all heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Do you agree? is all beauty contingent on a subjective point of view?

The old adage, “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover”, comes up when I try to answer this question. It tells you to not make first impressions right away after just looking at the surface. The most beautiful part is contained on the inside, where it really matters. This beauty is not artificial or put on to satisfy someone else; it is true to the subject’s nature, to how they really feel. Anyone that thinks beauty is defined as something that is satisfying to a majority is wrong. This is far from the truth. Anything that is given some thought and consideration can have a trace of beauty in it. Again, it’s how you perceive it, how it captures your mind’s desire. Not everyone can follow the same path. Some find beauty on the long, dark road leading anywhere and others find it on the brightly lit path to happiness. It’s basically how you are feeling inside that makes beauty what it is. It shouldn’t have to be an artificial, please everyone kind of thing. It should be organic in nature and blend in with the fabric of the landscape. It should tap into your most precious memories and bring out a certain set of emotions in yourself.


In Response to the Daily Prompt: Absolute Beauty

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