smoke signals - flashing mirrors - messages in bottles - carrier pigeons - flags in the air - hoofbeats on the ground

Monday, September 27, 2010

dear melissa

I try

I am not a writer. I am the type of person who wants to be. My father is that type of person too. I am because he is, maybe he was because his father was. However, despite my lack of talent for writing it still does me good. First of all it feels good. Catharsis (I like to use words like that) through pen on paper, it makes me feel like a deep clearing breath, like when my figurative heart is all torn up and the ship has sailed or I missed the boat or I am late for a very important date.

People reach my words. They walk up and touch them. Not the writers really, not, especially, the good writers. And it is not a self-depreciating thing because I appreciate me, my effort, my spirit of refusal to submit and then sometimes (just sometimes) my submitting.

Mostly I fall short because I try to capture the truth. The elusive truth. The truth you can only experience (for people like me), but cannot write. But I do try. I try until I am tired and exhausted and feel a caffeine-like crash and must sleep or run or eat a lot of food. And when it is all over (whatever 'it' is), it feels better, at least for me and maybe for you too. If you too that is a miracle and I believe in those as hard as I can.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Dear Joe

Fried Chicken for 40, Cole Slaw, 20 lbs of Potato Salad, five dozen Buttermilk Biscuits. All from scratch.

Your move.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Dear Joe

A rare one, better than most, one of my favorites, I pull his thin volumes from my pile of dollar-minis, I send this to you.

Wednesday, September 08, 2010

dear melissa

Publish Post

this is something Id love my name to be associated with, I guess Im going to learn how to do some sculpting