Friday, June 24, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

I traded my best shit with Joey because I just didn't care anymore. And he was always hopping up and down, wanting to trade this for that. A clean bolt for a nickel. Five bucks for a peak at his dad's Playboys. He wanted to trade everything. And he was never generous, but I gave up - like when the undertow grabs you and you just gotta swim with it until you can angle back in. Only, with Joey, I planned on swimming period - never coming back in. Live the rest of my life with dolphins or something. Not a solid plan, but I was thinking funny because I knew Joey had notions. 

People said stuff about Joey, but I figured it was rumors for a long time. Then, I saw him lift a few magazines and some candy bars down to old man Thompson's store. And leave smiling with the old man hollering after him, "say hi to your folks for me, y'hear?" And he didn't even keep all the magazines. And he didn't say hi when we saw his folks. And those magazines? Some, he threw right in the trash out front where old man Thompson was sure to see them at the end of the day.

I couldn't see the sense in that. 


Things got worse as summer drew out into a long, fiery, white blaze. The air smelled like dust, and I was ready to get doing something. I told Joey as much and he came to my window one night with a baby raccoon. No idea where he got it. I didn't want to know. I saw his eyes. 

So, I told him I felt sick, 'cause I did. And the next day I traded him all my stuff. And a few days later, Dad sat us down for the announcement. And that was the first time I was glad that he lost a job and we'd be moving. 

I didn't even say goodbye. 

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in! I will be out most of the day, but I'll be back...

Friday, June 17, 2016

2 Minutes. (of silence) Go!

After the tragic events of last weekend, I was once again shocked at how quickly some people want things to go "back to normal." I am not that kind of person. I've felt sick all week. I usually enjoy #2minutesgo, but the idea of even doing it has been weighing on me this week. On the one hand, I don't want to do it, and it seems tacky (a word that my Grandmother used with devastating effectiveness - it seems cheap, insensitive, thoughtless). On the other, I think it is a great outlet for the crew, and I'm sorry to take that away for one week. If I might make a suggestion... Use your two minutes to think of the families of those killed. Think of the young folks that lost their lives. Think about how you can try to keep this from happening again. Maybe it's impossible. Maybe it's not. Hug someone you love. Just love, period. It's the only thing that can stop senseless hatred.

We will resume as usual next week.

Friday, June 10, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

It gets to you; it does. You wonder if you got taught a different golden rule. Maybe it's a scam? Maybe they teach everyone something different? Or maybe there are just a lot of people who want to be treated like stupid assholes? 

I don't know. It's complicated.

It makes you want to dip yourself in tar and feathers and find a tall building to fly from.

See, you weren't made for this world. You poor, silly fool. No one actually does the things they say they're going to do. Not many at least. But there are some, and that's enough. They hang like bright, plump apples among the shriveled fruit of fruitless discontent. So what you had money; that shit got spent. Where?


I'd ask my friends, but I don't know where they went. 

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Tricky, imagery.

It's not that you're stagnant, or moving too fast. You gotta move fast. The fingers hurt now and you're getting old now. Everybody has a sad, sad story. And yours ain't sad the way you think it is. It's sad from my side. That's not what you're going for. Not that kind of sad. Carny sad.

And I ain't looking to pick fights with Carnies. I know a little, and a little told me enough. I know where to put that cotter pin. Big sum bitches. That'll hurt ya.

See, I get tired of making pictures for people sometimes. Because no one cares enough. It will never be enough. I can break your heart in Sydney. It'll never be enough. I can explode, and all I'll want is to do it bigger the next time. It's competitive, seductive.

Sometimes, I just want to talk. Can't we just sit and talk? I feel like we never talk anymore. And I know, it's busy - life - and you do what you can. I know. I think the same sad, worn-tread thoughts as you. Damn it. I slipped up.

Tricky, imagery.

Friday, June 3, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

"So, I had this dream last night. I was drunk as all hell. I just want you to know about the dream. It wasn't anything. Except weird. But I thought you should know. It brought back some stuff. I know I've said it before, but I'm sorry. I know it could have been worse, but it could have been a damn sight better. It took me away from the family. There were a lot of things I was trying to get away from, but family wasn't one of them. I wanted to be the kind of guy that was always their for their kids, their wife. It took me a while to figure out that being present wasn't the same as being there, and that wasn't fair to anyone. You. The kids. Wasn't even fair to me, really. I'm not looking for sympathy. Just blows my mind how much better things are now. God, I wasted so much time. I missed so many little moments. Didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but those moments add up. Did I ever tell you about the time Jenny asked me why I drank beer? I think she was two. It still breaks my heart. She... Hey...you listening?"

"...Hmm, yeah, hold on. I just have to finish this post."

The phone flickered in the dark room, sending weird shadows into the corners to dance and mock me. I knew I shouldn't say anything. It would just start another fight. But I did say something.

And I was right.

BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TONIGHT! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

Friday, May 27, 2016

2 Minutes. Go!

Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!

Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.

She's going to ask you if the kids liked your new hair cut. You'll shrug, feel cold dread in your spine. An awkward silence will swallow the room; you will watch the walls spin, and you will feel them come closer and you will blink heat. Smile. Sure. And then the questions will start and you'll answer: nothing, nothing, nothing.

Because what do you say? It was like every new school. The nice kids pretended like you didn't exist. The mean kids were fucking mean. And there was one kid (there is always one kid) who latched onto you. A social anchor, but you both appreciated the kindness and felt bad about the whole scene. So, he's your friend now. 


And you've been marked. 

And no one mentioned a goddamn thing about the haircut because they just fucking met you. And, even if they didn't, they're not coming close enough. Not gonna happen. This isn't Florida and no one says y'all, and you sniff a tear and think about tall pine trees. You wonder. How many years of this? How many more before you lose your shit? It's like trying to hold down a dragon, the anger. It's not even anger, it's just energy - with no outlet. It calcifies inside you. 

But you'll get up tomorrow and put on your best poker face so no one notices shit. Haircuts, accents, that new-kid smell. You can blend in. You do it well. So, get pissed, spray WD-40 all over the garage wall and grab a match.

You gotta burn to to blend in hell.


ATTENTION, I WILL EDITING THE THIRD MATT STARK NOVEL ALL DAY. BREAK THE BLOG FOR ME! AND GIVE ME SOME STUFF TO READ TONIGHT! Get 'em! :)

#2minutesgo Tweet it! Share it! Shout it from the top of the shack you live in!

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Blue

It's a thick color, blue. You can choke on it - you can also get in there and dig around for ages; ain't nobody getting kicked out of blue. You can beat blue to death and hardly tell the difference. Other people might notice, but they're not inside of it - everything looks different from inside. That much, you should know. We should all know. Why we like to get drunk in maroon, velvet rooms. No?

Maybe it's just me.

I tried to kill blue. I don't believe in it, killing. I think it's ugly. An idea. A dream. A person. None of those things deserve killing, but fuck blue. And maybe I wasn't even trying to kill it as much as I was giving it an arena. Which is damn generous.

You know what those things cost?

I tried to wrap it up, you see. You understand. I'm sure you do - there are many of us looking out from inside blue.

Binding it was tortuous. For me. For you. For both and all of us and that guy in the corner. Fucking brutal. There was a flesh-piercing pull to it. The fire was fine, but the aftermath smelled of charred corpses. Yes, that's ugly. That's what it smelled like. There is a lot of true in blue.

I tried to free it. That was smart. That was real thinking. That was cigarette-dangling-out-of-lip noir shit. Everybody loved it. Shit was like fried chicken. It left you feeling greasy. But folks liked it and sometimes you give the people what they like just because. Because you feel like you're drowning when you're in the blue, gasping, your skin's gonna turn just that color. Choked-out blue.

I play with blue. You eventually have to. Or you snuff the whole palette, but that's a little extreme for most peoples' tastes. Acidic. Something repugnant where you can't really find a decent foothold - you can't really find a decent argument. You understand. It's like an obscene catharsis, that whorish hue.

I laughed at blue and I loved blue. Just the same as I have done with you. I have cursed and thrashed and curtsied and shimmied my way around blue so many times it doesn't even matter anymore. My hands are stained with it. I can't wash the blue off my hands, no matter how hard I try.

Until, one day, the blue fades. Gradually. From near-blackness to dark to the one you settle on. Baby. Look at the sky and it's baby blue. Clear skies today? Man, on a good day, my skies are baby blue. Because it's always there. On the horizon. A wolf with blood-soaked jowls.

Best to take a broader view, extend your reach, see what you can find in the periphery. Don't ever look it head on and you might just make it. For a while. For a night. And that's alright.

It has to be.