It’s not exactly the man
that makes for an interesting talk.
But the stories of the man.
And the mythos of the man,
which more often times than not,
are much wiser than the man—
Leaving out his failure
to remind him what he lost.
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Your Biggest Fan
I’ve got the words
Just not the plot
The characters though
I’ve never forgot
Tied like a thread
Sincerely knot,
Your Biggest Fan—
To have and have not.
Insomnia: A Short Story
The television’s on.
It’s freezing in here.
I should probably be asleep, but I’m not.
It’s 4:53. It’s always 4:53, when, click, the heat turns on.
Now the draft from the window’s competing with the dull heat, which smells like last years dust, pouring through the vent, above the door, which leads to the living room where the TV’s still on.
In about an hour the sun will be up and it will be another morning.
I can’t tell yet whether or not I’ll be excited or scared, but either way, I have to write my grandmother—thanking her for the letter she sent a couple days prior—she used to fill the cards with glitter but doesn’t anymore…
Perhaps there’s a glitter shortage, I don’t know.
I’ve been pulling my beard out again, which I don’t like, but still do. Why? A doctor would probably claim it’s nerves but by this point in life I know better than that.
It’s funny really, thoughts, how they come and go as easily as a hair can be plucked from your chin.
If I had eggs in the fridge I’d probably boil some for breakfast but I don’t have any because yesterday while shopping I’d debated prices in my head for what seemed like too long to be debating prices of eggs, causing an uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t shake, making me anxious and aware that I’d been standing in the isle for what seemed like eons though was probably only a couple minutes, still, too long to be debating whether or not I wanted to pay 2.39 or 2.99 for a dozen of eggs.
The heat feels good now, while the right side of my face warms up, the left side is still dealing with the draft from the window.
Common sense tells me to close the window though my better judgement says to just let it be. What’s the point, really?
It’s 5:06 now. It’s always 5:06.
The repetitive nature of this statement keeps recurring in my mind as if the idea isn’t fully mine, though I use it anyway.
Perhaps it’s my conscious mind coming back to me? Perhaps it’s programming I just don’t have the strength to deny, either way…whatever.
It’s 8:08 on the East Coast. My mother’s probably pouring coffee, reading the morning news. My brother’s probably already dragged himself from bed and into work. My nephew’s to school. My sister-in-law to her studio where she makes jewelry from metal and her imagination.
Their routine gives me comfort because right now I don’t have one.
This pandemic has us all in a pretty weird state of affairs, though, my affairs have always been pretty weird now that I think about it.
At least I’m writing again. That’s good.
Everything is pretty all right right now—knock on wood.
And what if this is as good as it gets? Hog wash.
At least it’s warm in here, closing the window, watching the sun rise.
My nail beds are long. I’ve always been told that. “You’ve got piano hands,” they said once, go figure, I don’t play—if I did this would probably make for a better story though, well, you know.
Turning off the TV seems irrational as it’ll just get turned on again tonight, unless, unplugging the TV—Ah! That’s better.
Insomnia, it’s the breakfast of champions.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, the letter.
An open question for the one’s still reading.
What is it that makes you Tik? And I’ll tell you what makes me Tok.
(But for real! What makes you get up in the morning, drives you through the day, and helps guide you to sleep?)
I’m curious to know more about you.
I’m all ears…
The ability to discover is a gift in itself and it’s that same gift of discovery that makes our individual perception unique.
Have you ever noticed that the thing you are most excited to share with another person, be it a new book, movie, podcast, idea, or what you think happens to be something to be considered “the greatest,” that their excitement never quite matches your own?
Of course you have. We’re all human.
And have you ever noticed that upon showcasing this thought or idea to another that when you do, their reaction never quite lives up to your expectation, which leaves you feeling either hurt or discouraged?
I will not take it upon myself to assume that you have though I will tell you this: I have.
And it’s a very tough thing to understand.
In the moment of realization that your appreciation for something you deem extraordinary hasn’t been deeply felt in the same way by another can often cause conflict, misunderstanding, and judgement—that is reactionary rather than honest.
Instead of expressing our pain for what seems a lack of appreciation in the moment, we often turn to criticism, which is in itself a form of false pride.
Rather than saying, “I’m confused as to why you don’t feel the way I do about what I’m showing you,” one says, “well, of course you don’t get it,” or more often than not, we say nothing, letting our emotions fester to distress and shame.
In the Alchemist, Paulo Coelho writes: “It’s not what enters men’s mouths that’s evil, it’s what comes out of their mouths that is.”
Well if that’s not the boldest yet truest statement to have ever been penned than I implore you to enlighten me as I’ve found myself in this predicament more times than I am willing to admit.
My point is, we can’t expect another’s reaction to mirror our own.
We shouldn’t expect them to for the simple fact that they are their own person, with their own background, beliefs, and experiences that before judgement deserve appreciation and due time to process and articulate what is being presented.
What took the time to find, understand, and appreciate should also be granted—the time—to another.
It’s like telling someone rather than suggesting someone read a book.
Your willingness to share does not determine one’s willingness to receive.
It’s like giving someone the answer without allowing them to solve the equation.
The ability to discover is a gift in itself and it’s that same gift of discovery that makes our individual perception unique.
So the next time you offer someone a gift, regardless of their reaction, remember who you’re sharing it with and why you chose them to share it with you all over again.
I think then you will find an even deeper appreciation for yourself and another.
How do I write a good book?
“How do I write a good book?” He asks.
“Read a lot of books.” I tell him. “And…
“And what?” He presses.
“Remove the word good from your vocabulary.”
Shrugging, he digs, “and replace it with what?”
“Whatever’s wrong with the world, my friend.”
“I’m listening…”
And upon waving him farewell.
“A book worth reading isn’t always easy
but it’s worth the effort.”
Seated in the summer sun
Seated in the summer sun
drenched in heat
reading a novel, alone
how sweet.
With memories of you
drenched in heat,
feet stretched out
along the beach.
Where in the summer sun
you’d sit and read
a novel too, my mother
sweet.
While you’d watch us kids
the swimming sea,
and how you read
effortlessly,
I never wondered then
like I do now,
how a quiet lesson
could teach me how.
I turn each page
my mind at rest,
my mother’s sun
warm on my chest.
In the house I keep
In the house I keep each wall shall be
A coloring book for poetry
Where colors burst in harmony
Where war and peace succumb to paint.
In the house I keep each window sill
Shall only bear the daylight spill
Where succulents hang with free will
Where laughter’s never faint.
In the house I keep each lock will turn
With open ended thoughts to churn
Where no one line deserves to burn
Where honesty is quaint.
But when fear knocks in the house I keep
There will be no reason for which to weep
My hands dipped well within relief
Each wall we’ll finger paint.
In the house I keep my only wish
To deserve and serve this simple dish
Where forks and knives grow strong and rich
Where no wall goes untouched.
shelved next to Shakespeare
How can one be
an open and closed book
all at the same time
he wondered,
licking his thumb
fingering pages
watching his life unfold
like a story shelved
next to Shakespeare.
when Whitman sings
I often hide the cover of the book
I’m reading,
commuting on the subway
or relaxing over coffee,
like anyone would care
either way, because yeah!
What if they did? They don’t.
But what if? And how does one explain
his book of choice, when more than not
the books I read give me no choice! Aha!
They’d label me pretentious, surely they should
but what if they didn’t?
Would I really have time for a friend,
when Whitman sings and celebrates self
Oh! You better believe I butt in.
Words Of An Average White Male 