A seldom told side of my story

Here, I used to paint pretty pictures with words. Here, I told one side of my story: some part of me that I wanted to be all of me, but that which I desire I never truly possess. I report my struggles, but even these are framed in one aspect of “me” which I show the world. An aspect of me I have not shown is addiction. It is exceptionally hard for me to talk about my addiction because it’s not glamourous like heroine, not as established in our awareness as alcohol. It seems softer in many ways, but for me this makes it more insidious. Images on a flat screen, moving pictures telling stories crafted by other’s. Stories I can pretend to be the center of. Narcissistic stories where I am the center of all major events, the grand savior of the play. It is to these “games” I am addicted.

I’m trying hard to set it it down. I want to keep this electronic story book box, but I know that music and crafting are low impact passions which have a greater end game: they take me somewhere unknown. I went to play games just now, but watched myself with surprise as I picked up my banjo and played John Prine’s “Hobo Song.” I thought of motivation, that lack of connection demotivates me in music and crafts. It’s hard to see that what I create now has unseen ends, more mystery. With games it’s easy to see where that road goes. Some folks are really good at knowing what they want and making a plan to get it, work now to obtain something in the future. I exist mostly in the present, not in nirvana but in need and desire. What do I want now? What’s the best thing I can get now? I am the kid who would take one oreo now. Future? what future? I want now.

I pick the banjo more, contemplating this. I repeatedly fuck up a song I “should” know and I feel discouraged. I want to play games all the more, and think about how the games are all winnable. Error, and a sense of failure brings up the “I’m not good enough” story in my own little life pursuit. I could instead pretend to be the savior of the world, or the universe.

I turned on the screen and the electric game box. It feels like an act of betrayal, to myself. Thinking about how I feel betrayed by others, is it actually because I betray myself? Now I write about it and when I finish, I don’t know what will happen next…


The insult of talent

Often I hear “I can’t do that I have no musical talent”

Times past I have met this with explaining my views on talent versus hard work, or the process of enjoying something and doing it. Both latter points reflect a substantial investment of energy, the former being the idea that this came easy, like a gift that was handed to me.

Talent does not reflet my many years of trying to learn guitar checked by constant failure. My desire to sing despite being “tone deaf” my years dabbling in harmonica rather than seeking pulp entertainment. My hard won decision to buy a banjo and practice instead of sliding back into addiction. I am not talented. Every bit of my meager skills are hard fought and hard one. No more will I let the insult slide. This is part of me because of dedication, work, passion, curiosity, and love.

Not Now

All these memories, what are they?
Are they real like the hand that touches mine?

These photos, who is in them? where did they come from?
The two dimensional figures are not me, not her.

These dreams and hopes what are they?
I can draw an image in my head, I could make a model

The memories are as real as real as the dreams
pictures on paper, pictures in my head.

I could work to make a dream come alive
but it is not now.

Now is the buttons I push, words on a screen.
Who wrote the word before this one? not me.

And even if I work for a dream,
What of the earthquakes and nukes? the drunk drivers? my own bad judgement?

It is one kind of life, to play at dreams of our hearts desire,
I dream of a home I built, playing banjo on the porch.

I dream of a woman to share life with, children to know as they grow up and I grow old.
These things are only a future photograph, a few static images, not a life.

They are not the fights, the trials, the tiny magic moments
and none of those are real either,

Real is this quiet house, not mine, late at night, alone to ponder
the dark and rain outside, inside.

Real is the moment leading to the next
where I might find these words, already written.

Wondering how
and what now

Into the dark

I wrote this 2 years ago. So much has changed in my life, but what of my heart? I publish it now to honor what was in me then.  May dark truth liberate us.

On the bus

Curtains closed, the bus rolls on.  We paid the driver, the passengers, oblivious to the world outside stare at the screen, letting the images pour in: what we should look like, what we should value.  The world outside is filled with trash, poverty, devastated ecosystems, but we don’t want to see that.  Big buts and pretty faces, nothing inside, just like the bus, but still it rolls on towards it’s own oblivion.  I peek through the curtains and see it all, but I am still on the bus, going down this dead end road. 

The conservation of time

Often the world of man strikes me as gray, monotonous, and dismal.  I despair at being part of it’s distractions, addictions, and destruction.  And then there are moments like an electric spark when I am reminded that there are no wasted moments.  That time like matter and energy is conserved.  A day, a year, a lifetime in anger; sloth; addiction; despair, is a gestation period for whatever change comes after.  Every moment gives birth to the new and different.

There are no wasted moments


I am an astronaut, rocketing into the universe of self honesty.  If you have a good heart then you, through honesty might be headed towards a system full of life and color.  For me, with my wretchedness, my tortured heart, my brain on judgemental overdrive, honesty is a rocket which propels me away from human connection into the empty vacuum.  I ride it anyway, because it is the only path with heart that I know.

My ceiling is the moon and stars above