One Man's 1,021 Thoughts: The Book

There’s no greater tool than the mind given to you at birth—let it create, let it play, let it build for you the music your heart desires…then one day page through the journey with honesty and trust—view the you the rest of the world was forced to sing with. The Poet M’e Depression isn’t anger against yourself or others—it’s God’s way of saying, “Here’s a gift, you shall be un-numb.” The Poet M’e True leadership is based solely on the number of losers you surround your life with…we all have a weakness, leaders locate it—then spend the rest of your life feasting on the strength you fail to recognize. The Poet M’e   -One man’s thousand twenty-one thoughts- October 15, 1998 thru July 12, 2001 About the author: We live in a society based on “who” you know and not what you know. I’ve only spent seven years of life trying to get to know…me. Talk about a horrible subject! This kid can’t decide if he wants long hair, short hair, wear a black suit or t-shirt. He’s true to his trees but damn if won’t turn his back on house work, trash and many times his friends. He wants you to decide for him! Which means, if something goes wrong, it’s never his fault? No drugs—no alcohol addiction, only a need to create. Or should I say an addiction to create. Anything! Make it bright! Make it move the earth! I don’t decide when to toss something into the air. It decides for me! If this body, heart and soul aren’t available—you pay the price. Eventually, you look at the person in the mirror and wish he or she was dead, gone, and no longer available to generate this god-awful feeling that’s consumed your entire being. Julia Cameron writes, “We are all born writers.” I knew this—I just forgot to pick up my pen and document the Kooshatay ookooshstah: creative flow, a river. Introduction to the author Face it. All men keep journals. Whether it’s their tight-lipped memory or constant viewing of monthly bank statements, putting pen to paper is human behavior. S. Y. A. Save you’re a**… Its fear of failure combined with grasping onto the experiences offered by a school of hard knocks. The pride of knowing you’ve got documented proof that someone has made a mistake. You win! No matter what steps are taken--a paper trail rests within the prints created by your size 11 ½’s. Feet stop growing but your history continues to gain weight. I’ve called journalizing every name in the book--from painting thought to building bridges. This daily three-page escape not only darkened my paper trail but also gave me insight. Since the summer of 1994, I’ve been offered a view of the owner. I am the owner--the keeper of the key, ones self-looking back from the mirror during times of sexual glory and found out damnation. I didn’t pay for this body and mind. The owner is ordered to keep the hair combed and depending on how much beer has been consumed--the keeper must water the animal when called upon. The title-holder is the first to know when something wrong has been performed. Often times, he’s the last to admit it was a mistake. Being honest can be accomplished while driving the car. Satisfying a craving takes on the face of acceptance, receiving such blessed emotions champions the beast. But what was spent while inhaling such an incredible flavor? Money is tangible. It’s held then released. Thrown away like we think we toss out memories. We gather the green by means of work--a borrowing of the owner to another owner—he or she too is borrowed. Self-ownership is a legal form of prostitution, corporate slavery or a small business selling out its proper worth to best step forward. We complain, moan and lean hard on other owners. “How dare my property be treated this way? It’s mine! No one knows me more than me!” Only to learn our next decision was governed by another owner’s intersection of decision-making based on what’s right for him to succeed. S.Y.A. Who would’ve ever thought? Without the owner’s knowledge, the landscaper forced the soil to turn. I didn’t set out to accomplish success. Nor did I view my hand holding a pen then placing it on paper as being a self-escape for others. It proved to be the first day of true self-discipline, challenging the owner to place his outside dealings on a different plate. No matter how thick the fog, how silent the wind or how mysterious Steven King made his novels. The pen placed on paper would become the required tool to properly shake hands with the owner of this mind, body and soul. Fifty days passed before the goal was set. I had written, without argument for a month in a half. Could I? Should I? Will I? Have I got what it would take to push my thoughts onto paper for one thousand days in a row? No sweat right? I added two ingredients. Though I would write three pages of thought, one of them would have to carry the music of poetry and or be shaped into short story form. “How in God’s name can this happen?” I remember screaming. “Learn to lower your standards.” The poet said to me. It was the owner’s kind words that fed protein to my creative diet. So, the goal was set--one thousand days of three-page writing. There would be poetry or a short story located somewhere within that days journey, which meant, the owner didn’t have to stop at just three pages. To add more burn to the exercise--at its conclusion, the owner would take what he had written and share it. Not to be filled with pride, conceit or personalized glory. The human mind can’t handle another owner’s sunshine. Yet, there is a distinct possibility that during those thousand days a message was taught to the writer. Writing isn’t a talent. It’s a gift. If improperly used, the toy breaks. How many times must an owner replace his heart before he or she realizes the instruction manual given to us at birth asked very politely that we read it…to the very end? For those of us that don’t, the great creative God’s send messenger’s to put us back on the path of healing, not only for us but for anyone who surrounds the circles we create. Thich Naht Hahn writes about authors wanting to paste thoughts of him onto pages of thickness. His reply, “Write a book about yourself so that your family and friends can learn to better understand you.” People don’t naturally assume they are brilliant writers. If they did, there’d be more authors with brilliant classics available. We choose instead to run from the idea that putting a pen to paper is a brilliant way to practice mindful breathing. The thought of writing sickens the souls of too many. Not Dr. Ronald Mack of Wake Forest University—my mentor, my adopted father, the strongest man I’ve ever met. He wrote constantly for no reason other than to educate. He was so dedicated to making sure the people of the world better understood what poisons can do to the mind, heart, body and soul that it became his life long passion to deliver his knowledge by means of one page at a time. Losing him in December of 2004 created an emptiness that left me stronger than any other time in my life. Medicine and poison don’t always come in pill form; therefore I shall continue his dream of helping to educate the proper methods of incredible healing without striking the body down with avenues of inhaled or exhaled reasons to stop believing. Mom always told me, “Your job is no different than anyone else. You should never think radio is better than or lesser than any position held by others around you.” It’s that thought that’s allowed me to be faithful to you the reader. Upon this journey you embark, you’ll quickly take note of my mentions of radio and its effects on each rising new day. I ask that you think of my mentions of radio as your current job—put yourself inside the same position at your place of work. My reflections of radio are nothing more than a truthful view of what’s happened to America—not just one industry. My decisions and thoughts were destroyed by a corporate world fine tuned to making the almighty dollar—that makes me no different than you. If you aren’t and haven’t faced this picture painted by the means of greed, pray your business stays well aware of the downsizing of the American dream. The only thing I can tell my grandchildren about life in the new millennium is check your mailbox—be it emails or snail mail, someone is always willing to offer you a better credit card. If you so choose to accept the responsibility, you can have anything you want in this world, but at a cost. That’s how big business works. Then one day, it all catches up. It’ll be time to pay the mask maker. Be it radio, an overnight clerk at a convenience store, a high profile secretary or a box cutter in the back room…when you sell your soul, you forever owe the devil in control. I don’t care how big you are or if your popularity ratings have reached record proportions—temptation and weakness creates an ache in the soul, to which you will spend an entire life trying to fill like a gutted out hole in the backyard. If you don’t take the time to meet your reflection in the mirror, share with it an honest smile and layout reasons to believe in any effort it wishes in creating a better today…the silence will grow and soon you’ll be out of control. This book is nothing more than a reason to start believing in the person God wants you to be. God isn’t your General Manager and God isn’t a long list of people who’ve destroyed your hopes in offering the world a sip of creation. God is the silent voice whispering, “I still believe in you.” The Poet M’e 2/4/06 The entangled webs we weave through places spiders never discover leave no attachment to all things that fall. Believed upon does not require willingness or acceptance—but rather a three minute timer. Cradled is the lonely mans tear, his only weapon a pen. For any word bled need not be food to anyone’s soul other than they who chose to sever a throat or two. This paper is nothing but a blanket of warmth. Your eyes re-ignite what would’ve cost any man his life. Yes, it’s believed to be a battle with self-doubt—for only you know of your own willingness or acceptance—to which I ask, “What saves you from partnering with the spider? This in time will invite natures curse…the cockroach.” The Poet M’e I am he, the poet…the painter and the creator of what falls through a radio speaker. All too often I’ve been accused of having magic tricks. Without notice such a lame accusation is challenged not by they who need the work complete—but he who can’t seem to locate the spells, which govern the incredible sadness I’m forced to live with. This book isn’t an autobiography…yet what I speak is from the heart. It’s a one-man journey through a cup of sugar. It too must have magic tricks—look at the number who crave it and die while getting too much of it. Thank you for taking the time to page through what I call the wind… No need to hide the breakables, this storm comes from within. These written chapters are dedicated to Julia Cameron who had the courage to piece together the right words to say to the silenced/injured creators of the world. I don’t see there being a big difference between love and hate…one look at the thirty-seven cuts on my left arm and I’ll quickly tell you that it took a lot of love to pull that kind of hate from my soul. Today, I’ve learned to write rather than slice—again…aren’t they one in the same? The Poet M’e I don’t see myself as being this gifted creator—if you wanna place someone on a pedestal now’s your chance to take a seat. That’s who I am…a writer, painter, poet and radio junkie who has no problem making you feel more important than you really are. Does that make me an asshole or a liar? It depends on your mood. Tomorrow I could be the only high you get. Arroe Collins Personally…I’m not bothered by your thoughts. Judgment is a disease. I am who I am and trust me if I could fix it…I’d still be me. The Poet M’e My goal is to turn that control room into a pulpit. If I’m not making your day or changing your view about something evil enough to consume your imagination—my only request is for you to change the dial. That means I’m not living up to my end of the pact I made with God. Arroe Collins During our process of growth—we learn: one human year equals seven dog years. What’s it like for a pet during an owner’s daily run to work? In their hearts—it must feel like a week! This explains why dogs attack you with brilliant love at the door, are quick to forgive and waste no time to lift your hand over them to better pet their foreheads. Life is extremely short—even shorter if we’re playing by doggy rules. Why waste time bickering when there’s plenty of puppy hugs’ and kisses to be worn? This book served no real purpose until today. Larry was seventeen—or one hundred nineteen. The lives he touched…I sit giggling while unrecorded chapters of each memory race through my every thought. Children’s books could be written about Larry: the extremely protective but playful Heinz 57 from Southern Cal. He knew how to hang out with the best of them. Musician’s before they’re worldly famous, hordes of kid’s years before graduation—and a mother who put her entire faith into his unconditional way of loving. Which usually meant getting the opportunity to sleep under the blankets between her legs? Even I’ve never earned that luxury. I wish to dedicate this book to Larry. A free spirited, clean cut, sharp dressed dog who knew when to pour on the charm while still sifting the air for better things to eat…I giggle because I can see him. It’s absolutely impossible for any human to document accurate accounts of life when one has passed. Maybe this book and Larry will inspire you to take a sip of life and plant it on a clean sheet of paper. Memories are incredible to hold—especially when your own handwriting serves as the key. The once locked door is now open—come inside… The Poet M’e August 12, 2001 Preface: The opportunity—1000 days: Write about what you see, feel, hear, taste and touch. Be honest to yourself, the people you’ve never met and critics searching for new reasons to tear you apart. The opportunities—sacrifice your lifestyle. To be creatively placed within the chapters, documented paths and uncovered trails, to one day be looked at as being lessons taught by someone as simple as you. Why you? Reality isn’t fantasy yet fantasy has the ability to become reality. No matter what decision you make—1000 days from today is 1000 steps from where you stood yesterday. The opportunity is to be you. The more you learn about you--the more others trust and respect you. There’s only one challenge in life. That challenge is trust. Easily damaged, very difficult to rebuild, if you take the time to listen to all things that grow around you—trust is no longer an issue. Respect becomes your sunshine and nobody ever demands the sun to rise. It just does. In 1000 days I fought off career ending decisions and unexplained battles with sickness. The challenge to face all changing seasons became my playground for poetry, art and anger. My creative world collapsed around me--only to learn another stood by. I tried desperately to ward off close friendships and rumors of misguided behavior. Only to come face to face with a possible second divorce. The average person lives to 72. That’s 26,280 days! We work, eat and play—scold, nurture and sing with songs played on the radio…the least we could do is offer our family a picture of what it was like. That’s what this book is about. A path into a simple mans heart.   ---The Journey begins October 15, 1998: Pets Somewhere along this chosen path we guarantee each other a bond. A bond so strong--no one can penetrate it. Poetry: There is work to be done There’s work to be done. That’s all I can say—a step, a beat, a clock ticking away as age creeps slowly between my joints. The hair is full of color, an array of blossoms always reaching for each tired shoulder. The weight, a memory, a silent walk through trees that never sprouted leaves—that’s all I can say. Willingness, a need, a clock ticking away as time slowly steals from me a breath. The legs, they ache when I get up. Reminders of child’s play taken to the edge then dropped…because once you’ve achieved, why do it again? The eyes, the ears, dimmed by time--solitude serves as my best friend, until I fully understand. There’s work to be done. That’s all I can say. To change, to heal, a clock ticking away as dreams start to fade. October 16, 1998: Corporate America To achieve what’s expected—I have to be mightier than God. My only true strength is to say, “No,” but how? October 17, 1998: Writing each morning at sunrise Harnessed is the waking imagination. Then again, who am I to be such a fool to think it ever slept? October 18, 1998: The morning mist inside the forest It’s like a wall whose shadows lay in front rather than on its side. It’s like standing backstage and I am there to watch another’s gift bring to the foreground pure human emotion as it explodes into thin air. October 19, 1998: New beginnings Monday…the mind, imagination--the body, soul, heart--the arms, legs and eyes. The path—sky and canvas—all are tired. All are empty. All see only one word…Monday. October 20, 1998: The art of listening A cricket sits outside singing its unevenly paced melody. It adds a new song to the canvas—much different than a bird’s whistle, just as writing with a flashlight flirts with your imagination. October 21, 1998: Procrastination It could have lasted two seconds, the dream. I’m not one to measure the distance between two stories. One day I’ll look back at my notes. One day. October 22, 1998: The radio actor I love the performance! I crave the idea of mixing thought with sound, blending passion with purpose. Yet, I don’t seem fired up. I only feel like seeking revenge. October 23, 1998: Bleeding the soul A whisper of wind is that of a butterfly aimlessly floating from weed to weed—it’s a birds thought before leaping from the security of a well-protected perch. Even I shall share a whisper of wind as I turn to view all of life passing me by. October 24, 1998: Honesty starts with self My greatest pleasure in life is sitting here in this giant living room painting what first comes to thought. I never think twice about what’s written—it bleeds from me like an open wound. October 24, 1998: Taken off the air again… The sun will rise again tomorrow. Radio will forever change—so shall the dreamers who step within this world of passion filled with over confident broadcasters. October 25, 1998: Kayaking My eyes closed—I see forests of gold, red, orange and green. Held together by limbs so strong, the passing of many storms fails to mark what makes this place of rest so unique. Hidden within the sleeping clouds, the rising sun sounds off—it scares the ducks, geese and gray-bodied cranes. During their flight I thank them—never once did they have to share this with me. Moments after penning this quote--my daily canvas was blessed with my first ever ink painting. Because I dip my nibs into an inkwell, my hand had touched its edge to hard and the liquid poured over the book. Taking my finger I played. Within seconds a wine glass appeared followed by simple words of poetic value: A past that remains un-forgiven— Shall never take the shape of a perfected glass of wine Although I still own the original piece of artwork, the only copy made was auctioned off in August of 1999 to help raise funds for the continued research of breast cancer. The owner of the painting is Shane Berg of Charlotte, North Carolina. From this point forward I knew my daily writing would have a new visitor. An artist self I didn’t know, yet I was willing to let him draw. October 26, 1998: Where does it come from? The mind travels to far away places so that whoever speaks through me can empty their creativity into my heart. Truth is I never know what’s been given to me until it’s been created and or brought to life using whatever form of communication is available. October 27, 1998: Question with no answers How in Gods name have I been chosen to be the battered one? Is this what I get for caring too much? If silence is thyself-guarantee—then I must let all waves’ crash against my shore. If silence is thyself guarantee—I must learn to watch lightning strike without closing my eyes. To feel the roar of thunder scratch my deepest thought. If silence is thyself-guarantee—I must gain the respect of myself. God be with me til the end. For it will take your strength to keep me in. October 28, 1998: Self-guarantees I am the greatest actor you will ever meet. I must now put on the mask and become the greatest actor I’ve ever met. Am I the only one who saw such a vision? Am I he who knew? I spent too much time getting old. Who but I would know? They can’t see through me if I don’t leave evidence of dissatisfaction. The cleaned out office is overboard. You’ve made your statement—now drop it. Whatever happens, will. Whatever takes place shall. That reason will invite change--I must accept it or get out. -When art is more than pictures painted- A whisper of wind is all I wanted to hold--to lift, to soar, to bring to the child the motion of flight. Like the aimlessly flying butterfly and the blue jay leaping into a world so untamed. Yet his thought, a whisper of wind helped him gain the confidence to continue on. A dream isn’t a whisper of wind—nor a friend’s encouragement and continued support. A whisper of wind is that of insight—to have, to hold, to build up bringing to life a gust or passing storm. For in a butterfly’s life, as tiny as it seems—the way it flies resembles a black and white movie. So strong the rain pours the characters feet wobble from side to side—maybe he too is toying to feel the whisper of wind held by the butterfly. The blue jay: The insight of holding something incredibly difficult to see. A whisper of wind: inspiration and influence never that of greed. So I close with no whisper of wind to hold. My paint shall dry. I’ll close the book then move onto another day. I’ll stop to view the ice crystals that have grown from the first seasonal freeze. Another whisper of wind I chose to watch but never seek. A whisper of wind: Will it one day fill the sails of my ship? Only I know that answer, only I have the insight. I can help guide what’s quite difficult to see--Something as simple as a whisper of wind…Inspiration and influence, never that of greed. --This piece of poetry appeared on a painting gifted to the people at P.E.T.S. It was auctioned to help raise funds for the elderly and their fuzzy little buddies. Surprisingly—a sixteen-year-old girl purchased the painting and poetry. She felt it described exactly the way she felt about growing up. October 29, 1998: Between dreams My tears—they remain silent. Even though I can feel them sliding down my hollow cheeks--that strange little tickle, feather like. It’s as if God is saying, “Goochie goochie goo…” October 30, 1998: Getting to know you The writing has stopped! Anger floats thru me. To identify it may provoke it. To ask it to leave may wash away a boundary. October 31, 1998: Trick or treat? It strikes me as being quite odd—this desire to paint with ink. It’s weird and different knowing I could never duplicate my work. Delivered--is truly what I feel at the moment…without getting the opportunity to erase. I know I’m not a poet. I know I’m not a painter. What gives me life isn’t the dream to be each of these expressionists but rather the need to be. November 1, 1998: The Ashley river/Charleston, SC The night air acted out its proper role—never once taking from the traveler, his confidence in sight. Each step a slight stumble—yet his smile never disappeared. I remember the tall trees, the river so wide. The reeds were endless—the moon, the stars and everything else that lit the night sky. The time traveler knew where to turn before the ford in the stream. He knew where to locate the elegant swans and the bridge to which he shared a simple dance. It was then…he suddenly said to him self in disbelief, “If I have been here before—then where must I be?” November 2, 1998: Not in the mood to write My mind hath bled upon this canvas so white. I can act silence but no man not even I can live it. November 3, 1998: Carolina fall I turn to face my ink—it’s bathed in a golden color to symbolize the departure of seasons. A leaf falls from heaven. Its tumble that of a carefully maneuvered destination. Not a flip, flop, tangled, topsy, turvy, wham slam—but a slow glide, at an angle almost to perfect to measure. November 4, 1998: Doodles put on public display It embraces the need for all to remember the origin of their inner child’s dream. As we grow older, as do the aspirations of conquering small goals. Each day that passes is one step farther from desires need to be creatively noticed. To bring life to a canvas is no harder than wrapping your aging fingers around a slender writing instrument. To say you can’t is a parent scolding their child self. November 5, 1998: More please My arms quiver from a harder workout. Added more weight, a challenge—a self guided tour toward chance. November 6, 1998: Self-conversation To give up isn’t a goal and or destination of choice. It’s time I listen to the wind. Let it blow in my eyes the vision of my next step. If I do not learn, then I cannot fight for what I presume is mine. My pen stops…I want to hear my heart beat. Silence--a path not seen in the beginning echo’s a requirement to explore. November 7, 1998: The artist in budding motion “I am not a painter!” I keep reminding those who travel within the landscapes that catch my eye. “I’m not even a poet--a poet rhymes and reasons. I only ask questions then turn the page to document something that won’t be here five minutes from now.” November 8, 1998: I can only watch If a bird flies by my window—it has done so for a purpose. If ink falls onto this canvas—it has done so for a reason. What do I see that reality does not bring? Or is it—I feel a promise in my tomorrow? November 9, 1998: From top a hill I watch her grow The dull roar in the background is that of a city in thought. Miles of opportunity intermingled with avenues of continued growth and profit. Charlotte is a new city with open memories of a depressed time--yet it never escapes her thought, all that is and will be, if people just stop and believe. November 10, 1998: What it’s really like I have stopped writing…this isn’t good! Suddenly, the music inside has stopped—I can hear the air cleaner. When I close my eyes, I see the streaks of a grown man falling. I feel the air slipping between each fingertip. “My god,” I whisper to myself. “I’m headed to the basement. Not today! Not today!” November 11, 1998: The one-man show The rain becomes more dominant in my thoughts. A sense of fear now lives in my soul. To hide—to protect a canvas I cherish…only to hear, “But why? If what you say makes it special—then it isn’t.” I stop… Still refusing to look at the leaves upon the trees a reply escapes, “I view this canvas as my soul.” Only to hear, “And you are the only one who sees it that way.” November 12, 1998: First date inside my forest Success is based on how well you view the wild while sitting comfortably in the warmth of the woods. From where I sit—I watch the wind as it forces dried leaves to leap one more time—the dance before death. November 13, 1998: Learning to look around me I look at the aging mantle clock—not for its cherry wood beauty, but the story it always tells. A reflection of the room grows within the lens covering its face featuring big and little hands. What must it be like to live in there? The aging mantle clock never moves--yet time continues to slip away. November 14, 1998: Writing isn’t always about you I feel a great energy coming from this wooded area. Each new sun I look to touch what calls out in song so that my paint may one day be blessed with his image. November 15, 1998: When fad becomes habit Turn the page and the imagination turns off. Even the golden leaves outside my window don’t look appetizing to write about. What? How is it--after four weeks of daily writing, I’m allowing--a bit of sickness, to take over my imagination? November 16, 1998: D.A.R.E. graduation speeches I never know what to expect. It’s not in my hands. I’m only the messenger. November 17, 1998: An artist always has an explanation To embrace the presence of chapters to be written—it would be wise to sleep with one eye open, therefore proving that reality does mix well with fantasy. Then again, what’s there to prove? Fantasy is that of inspiration—reality takes the shape of influence. To close my eyes, in reality, is to open my eyes to a world that can be recreated. November 18, 1998: Describe yourself at work I am the candy you find at the front of the store—near the cash register. I spend way too much time trying to please people. I’ll change colors, add more sugar—you can chew me up then spit me out. That’s ok! You feel better right? November 19, 1998: A father and his female dog To touch her soul bleeds love from the depths of the invisible--the consumed darkness beyond hate and greed, a valley of warmth where trees are forever green and each passing cloud sings out in unwritten harmony. November 20, 1998: When parents notice your artist self thirty years to late I call it blood—ink…a liquid form of thought. I have to bleed. If I don’t—I become supremely angry. I have to be creative. I can’t get this imagination to turn off! November 21, 1998: Painting a nude from your imagination It’s just another avenue of creativity for me. I can’t explain it! Nor do I wish to try. I honestly believe it shows how beyond the normal I tend to look at everything. This picture stimulated me. I truly felt like I was making love. I got to touch everything from her breasts to her inner thigh. It was if I had stepped into reality. November 22, 1998: There is life beyond my fingertips I look outside—a crisp frosty new sun. The air welcomes my paintbrush—I embrace its imperfections. The leaves have fallen, yet I refuse to rake them. I’m confused as to why people sculpt lawns and trees. Let them grow! Let them play! I listen while the sun beats its giant tom-tom—it vibrates life into a world man feels he needs to tame. I spend way too much time with myself not to learn more about myself. November 23, 1998: Honesty comes in odd shapes I hate Christmas! It’s not that I don’t believe in the birth of Jesus Christ—I’ve never understood why everybody but Jesus receives gifts. November 24, 1998: Reality is what you make of it Thanksgiving: just another holiday, another day on the map. A place where time is wasted and so is the food! We could have had hotdogs! I would have been just as thankful. November 25, 1998: The essence of change A blank sheet of paper: a once living tree—the bridge between nature and my deepest thoughts. Slowly it fills like a stream. Words become pictures--a masterpiece inside my heart, jumbled junk to anyone else. A blank sheet of paper: The bridge between self and distant travel. Visions of peace inside a world not even I can explain--vibrant and colorful, smooth and never ending. An imagination I call my own. November 26, 1998: Mind magic that forms our personality This giant brick, steel lined, cloud touching, assumption filled wall. “Touch it.” I whisper to my standoffish self. “If it seems so cold in thought—what must it feel like when lightly caressed?” I stop…the dull roar of the air purifier takes shape in my reality. I can hear the birds eat their morning servings. “A brick wall,” I softly question. When it came to me touching it…it disappeared. November 27, 1998: The decision In one movement: I can, I will, I can’t, I won’t, I may, I may not…change. November 28, 1998: Coping with self My creativity is harnessed energy. I take all that is evil and angry and train it to be all it can in a positive way. Destroy the blood of past thoughts to unveil visions of a new beginning. November 29, 1998: Conversations with self The wisdom of the sun now sleeps in my eyes. The view is that of silhouettes as my fingers bathe in a shadowed landscape. “Who are you?” Who am I? Even after five years of writing on a daily basis, I can’t answer that. I can tell you what I think I am: A River…all that’s been created flows by me. I keep count of each rapid and what it brings—then I report back to a higher power in hopes that it will invite change. November 30, 1998: Stop crossing bridges and get wet A rivers silence can suddenly become her anger--for there were no coves to hide; yet each bend harnessed enough space to catch a breath, to view baseballs floating, green bottles, clear jugs: trash from a life style angrier then the river. December 1, 1998: Challenging a -what if- theory. So sad would be the day when Mr. Imagination is replaced. I mean, how could it be that Tar Heel blue, green, bright purple lined in yellow and tan could ever be called a raspberry? Could it be? None of these judges have ever tasted—a jellybean. December 2, 1998: Two sides of yesterday A career is quite materialistic—so is a house. But what brings warmth to my soul? Why do I bleed no blood but my wounds are deadly? Why does each cut resemble slashes delivered by careless knives if my eyes have never seen their weapons? Pools of invisible blood—thick, slippery, sugar based, hand delivered dedication and loyalty running between the cracks of this wooden floor. Why does this pain settle inside a heart that cares too much? Why does the heart live since it seems no one is interested? My visions have never been tainted until the paths took me this way. Thick brush, wild bores, lizards yet no spiders with webs to protect me from a fall. Tell me again—why do I bleed no blood but my wounds are so deadly? December 3, 1998: Painting “you” pictures Time flies so fast—it feels as if a blink is the most important thing to worry about. The trees are bare—but I am not. Thoughts bloom everyday. I try never to sit in a shadow—I did that in my years of growing. December 4, 1998: You’re to close If you don’t succeed—life catches up to you. Learn to know yourself before trying to get to know me. December 5, 1998: Visitor from afar Just beyond the mountains edge is life itself. We fight hard to get over large boulders and cross rivers too wild to drink from. Then one day a higher power whispers, “If it’s me you are in search of—then look to the edge of the horizon. All that makes up my path is me--all that will become my path is me. Pray not to what has been created—open your eyes to the love of what will be created.” December 6, 1998: Invitations of fear A light fog lies next to the trees this new day—the very place where a breath of spirituality sings out to me. Somewhere within that meadow, sits a lonely man who’s waited several years to locate an open soul to help sing out all that his dreams are made of… I still haven’t traveled into the trees—I get back there then stop. From where I write, the forest is great to play with. Down there…fantasy becomes reality. The fog is never there and I quickly become disappointed—losing all faith in the origin. December 7, 1998: If only I could sleep all day. Hold my own court; cuddle up in a nice soft cotton blanket. Lie next to a puppy and listen to his heart sing. I could easily sleep maybe two days—don’t even bother opening the shades to watch the sunrise and fall. To hide in a world of my own—could I sleep three days? I’ve never tried such a feat. By then, the blanket would stink. The air--incredibly dry and my puppy wants outside. December 8, 1998: Oh really? You are the greatest person you’ll ever know—others will inspire us, influence, teach and take away…ultimately you are the greatest person you will ever know. December 9, 1998: In the real world My mind, this new day—is far from being focused on one thought. It runs like a deer—her white tail held high…and damn if that isn’t what gets them killed. All skies are created equal—be it a sunrise or the brightest oranges and reds set inside a sunset--the visions that take shape are in reality the tools required to carve mountains—to fill rivers that feed the sea. Fields of corn, rows of apple orchards and yes…even sand dunes. My pen becomes silent—not another word is written--I’ve been blessed with a memory of Carolina. December 10, 1998: I am who I am I don’t have a goal or wish to build upon, it’s like daydreaming the way we did in high school. December 11, 1998: Recreating the “I can” theory The blank sheet of paper sits looking at me—I find it almost too easy to look away. Some mornings, the imagination is lost and unfocused—recreating un-embraced formations of thought that never make sense. Incubated within the darkest cracks of my soul are tiny musical notes that don’t harmonize, mesmerize or deserve the right to die. I depend on their ability of shadowing to enhance the reality I face everyday. December 12, 1998: When all things bring anger Where must a mind go while it searches for possibility? Does it always have to locate the unsalted air of a sailor’s slang in order to relieve the tension? I ask this in well-controlled inflection—only to add, “What is it that I can do so that I’m able to paint?” Several thoughts all in a row—moods of shallow pools defining the emptiness of an open ocean or untouched field begging to kiss the wind. December 13, 1998: The giver not receiver In fantasy—I am Picasso. In reality—I am only me. When I fantasize, my words get up from the rickety wooden chair—dust still attached to the faded trousers, they start to dance. It’s a portrait of me sleeping on a sofa covered in blankets. I love to play upon the powers of an imagination. But! Who’s willing to act out the script? Not I. I create fantasy not deliver reality. December 14, 1998: Invitation for the visitor to speak Share with me your words of wisdom—compare with me the footsteps of your long travels. As darkness becomes day—so shall the shadowed corners in which you’ve chosen to hide. December 15, 1998: Co creators fired I see plenty of negative but I don’t want to focus on it…I’m not lost—willingly I admit, I can’t help but wander. December 16, 1998: Solo flights over accepted valleys I stand alone with thoughts of wonder—how could it be I don’t believe? A birth did take place, but not under a tree. It was love—to be shared everyday. A child’s eyes light up 365 mornings…not just one. That is the true gift! December 17, 1998: Without ink there is no preservation A dying dream is hard to hold onto. Whispers to your self, “Patience will win in the end.” Mirrored images of eyes looking back—the trees look dead, the ink now dry…another chapter written. December 18, 1998: Naturalizing imperfections I don’t want to write poetry! I want it to bleed through me. If I ever have to think about a line to write—then I am forcing myself to do something it doesn’t want to toss out. December 19, 1998: Standing people spirituality With my words—I shall paint not fear and pain, but rather pain brought out by fear. A day without the glow of a new sun hath not been a dark night. Sticks stuck feet first into the orange clay—thin children who resemble trees reaching out to be recognized on the crowded boulevard. Paint splashes onto this canvas—taking the shape of words. My words—not fear and pain but rather pain brought out by fear. For a moment, the tree was human like—a king for a day—a royal knight facing war. December 20, 1998: A stepdaughter’s waltz Loyalty be thy guest—but never be shown—the entrance to the departing door. Turning to taste a sample of today’s dusting, the fog lay laughing at me. It seems all dreams come true while dancing—once you step from the shared floor—only a memory remains. December 21, 1998: Challenging the beast This path I’ve chosen is it mine? Is it my own? Does the next step I take, word I write—belong to a keeper of lost souls? He stands alone—a sign he holds. Return to the other side. The paint is fresh, will never dry. Guaranteed or your money back. Could it be I’ve been chosen? Me—my own willingness to write: to feast upon, listen to the beyond. This path—a winding, windy journey through ever changing portraits; a picture--do I tell? Am I sharing another mans story? How can I be the one who writes? Look at me! Stare at these ink stained fingertips! It’s captured reality of inexperience. Please tell me—whose writing is this? December 22, 1998: The injured bird Everything that remains, salted memories sewn into the souls of two travelers placed inside a room, a world of their own; two universes that just happened to collide—a moment. December 23, 1998: Loyalty I require both physical and mental workouts. If one is left out—my body reacts. For a candle is…what a candle does. Its wick shall bring to life-hidden depths to any imagination. Be it a flickering flame or a sacred temple—the grand beauty a candle displays is a bold act of courage; a stage, the show of all shows—or he who closed his eyes shall birth the thought of letting go. A wicks weakness isn’t fire, wind or water—it’s man and his desire to let go. Alone at the bottom of the trash, a candlewick cannot smell –yet, it knows of its current darkness: that of untrue love and loyalty. Be there when I need you not when you need me. Not just a candle…several in a row. An array of colors all scented with perfumes—and me, alone…in a chair with a pen—my wick. Its here that I bring light to a self I do not know. December 24, 1998: Natures way The new sun sits an eighth of an inch higher than the horizon. No words are spoken—only thoughts, a rhythm of warmth. Look! The elms and cedars have something in common with the maples and willow oaks. Draped in ice, the forest has become a masquerade ball filled with song and dance. I am to assume I wasn’t accepted or I’d still be there—deep inside the crystal forest…a post card from heaven. December 25, 1998: Learning to love…me It’s not that I fail to understand the importance of creativity—I only wish I could burst open the door, revealing all that is…but why? The most incredible part of this journey is the tiny pieces that somehow come together. The vision is without picture—the song shall never carry the weight of lyrics. Healed isn’t time but time is my undeniable strength—to live, to breathe, feast upon and die by. Its purpose shall create for me many paths to travel—swiped from all who inspire: faceless creatures made of love, peace and harmony. Death isn’t forever…I sit and listen. December 26, 1998: Basic truth Who but I can explain what it is that I bring to life with my paint? Who but I would understand why I must kayak a lake at 32 degrees with a friend I think I know? My distance is far—until placed next to the scale… Its then, I realize—an inch is only an inch and not 50 miles. December 27, 1998: War wounds I was horrified to watch it! I never cried so hard in my life. To watch young defenseless pigeons devoured whole to never be seen again. “Oh you’ll cry over a lost bird but to free myself from motherhood leaves you silent,” Her words more mighty than mine. Why didn’t I realize thirteen more would follow? I was taught: how not to love. Therefore—don’t expect me to show love. I don’t know what love is… December 28, 1998: Build an ark my son If I don’t try to reshape the fallen forest—my loving neighbors will do it for me. I wish to help the forest breathe so that any other man stays completely away. I wish to preserve the forest—to bring to it a stronger life—to last longer than any one mans dream. I’ll plant a forest filled with life and not that of another mans greed. **Note: And so the journey began—canals were carved into the earth with hand tools, nothing with a motor. I didn’t rip vines from trees--I studied their paths allowing them to live longer in other places. By February 2001…sixteen hundred new trees were planted giving life not to my generation but anyone who’ll be here in twenty five to fifty years. Do not thank me…give thanks to the spirit guide who chose to speak to me--I only listened. December 29, 1998: Unexplained conversation I had a dream last night—an earth that spewed hot water. Yet…I was the only one who could see it. A side of me says, “You must paint—bring to life visions an average eye can’t see.” My reaction is laughter. “Who am I to assume such a role? Am I to be that of a visionary inside a forest made of leafless trees and dying cedar?” Silence is born… Then a whisper is heard, “Look beyond the trees. Search for the boy looking back.” My reaction is fear. December 30, 1998: Never assume When I was a kid, hiding was my thing—not from sight but to create sound. Music screamed through me. I’d sing into long garden hoses to create a reverb affect. I put microphones on my pawnshop three-string acoustic guitar and me. The stuff had to come out and who the hec was I to stop it? A psychotherapist claims my desire to hide was due to childhood sexual abuse. There wasn’t any! I had unborn music in my soul and didn’t need family around to keep it from coming to life. I bleed unwritten songs… December 31, 1998: Fear of self The mantle clock reads 7:45—it chimes its quarterly tune. Peering through the open shades--not a ray of sun light has grown. A deep breath over takes the wondering imagination. “I must confess and I’ll do it right here—it’s my fault the sky is gray. It’s my fault the dancing pink cotton candy like clouds have gone away. “Don’t take things so serious,” a voice says to me. “The sky is changing not because of your questions dealing with his powers of being. It’s changing to help preserve the mood of the season. Close your eyes my dear little poet—see all that white? You so calmly call it a canvas. It’s a gift from the sky. Never should you forget—many have traveled before you and many will do so in the days after.” January 1, 1999: Promise me Nobody knows where they’ll be—yet the guarantees been stamped into the hearts of those at play, the year 2000 now 364 days away. “The bottle,” I blurt out as it’s placed into the suitcase. “I wish to touch it one more time—just in case I don’t make it.” Fate being fate—our guarantee as solid as a promise, we said we’d be there—yet I never heard god whisper. January 2, 1999: Renewing my vow “My little forest…” I stood on its it’s edge—the ageless stones staring back at me, the clogged stream continuing to move but in its own out of place way. “I shall never take from this forest.” My guarantee extended again and again. “Each morning I paint—I feel the begging, I see the sickness. I hear the departure of so many faceless dreams. To bring harm to your friends—all who make up this forest isn’t a poets dream. It’s a continued desire, a loyal passion to bring music in the most natural way. I’ll paint your silent words.” January 3, 1999: Like the weather—all things change My thoughts are that of many—today I write to write, not to serve any other purpose. Yet, I continue to write believing at any given moment the gate will open. Then it does: Why haven’t I been able to let go? To this day—I feel like I’m still being unfaithful to my first love. Its not that I still love her…I’m caught between dreams, paths and mile markers. January 4, 1999: New and improved His thoughts are blanketed by dreams of starting over. My sister has spoken of this—as I. To start over: it must be the American way—to toss aside, to lean on second chance without accepting responsibility. January 5, 1999: Slivers of hope Be a true friend! Return to the horizon and pick up the sun. He’s fallen! Anyone who skates across ice knows how difficult it can be especially since its only one degree. January 6, 1999: The world—I think I see something It’s as if this pen—a writing instrument turned paintbrush has suddenly become my eyes. I’m seeing pictures of a moving world yet here I sit just watching a turtle. A turtle doesn’t run quickly…when did I become the judge? January 7, 1999: Putting faith in self without judgment My eyes will always believe in what others cannot see: paths made of stone and stick—a stairway to a crystallized glacier. So white—it seems. Till face to face and it too is stained. January 8, 1999: Allergic reaction to daily writing The journey is short lived—you hope that 1/100th of a question may have been answered. If I were to walk straight, any hiker would tell you a mountain doesn’t grow that way. January 9, 1999: What if I’m only a tool I think I’m being visited again--wide-awake at 2:30 am. I wish I knew who this spirit was. I open my arms and welcome all—yet there is only one rule you must follow. If you are here to visit, you must do so under the guidelines of creativity. No anger, no grudges, no destruction, no yelling or picking your ass. You are the visitor and I am the owner of this temple. January 10, 1999: Not all things come prepackaged I listened in hopes God would speak to me. But would he say something? Then it started to snow—I quickly stood up making sure I wiped every tear from my swollen eyes. “Guess not today,” I said to myself accepting Gods decision not to speak. January 11, 1999: Uptown on a bench My angle of thought—still focused on what lives around me—not a forest, yet there are trees. No running water resembling a stream or creek—unless you count the hammering from the rising apartment building. Fourth Ward Park—each time I visit, it slowly slides into a newer shape. No one stops to watch me paint—a man waved, a dog sat at my side—the construction continued…its only twenty nine degrees. January 12, 1999: Suddenly, you’re nobody How is it? A man of my strength—is left to bleed. Maybe I need to regain the strengths that once held me above water? As dry as my mouth is this morning—since 1994 each thought has been fed by how I would get from addiction and depression to creation and growth. Looking back—no person held me from being just anybody. January 13, 1999: When your eyes hear it all I’m deaf in one ear this morning! Blowing out the snot has left me without sound--try writing while listening to the winds of silence. January 14, 1999: Michael Jordon has retired He is gone—and so are my basketball and baseball dreams. Collecting cards, giggling, laughing and sharing hopes and dreams, yet, his blood’s in my heart. Silence again—as my writing instrument stops but doesn’t think. January 15, 1999: Beating addiction It started—maybe five o’clock yesterday, strong violent hits of depression, very low moments followed by an unwillingness to do anything—acting; one hundred percent my guide and mentor. Try doing a bicep workout inside a depression! You can’t push hard enough. It won’t leave! January 16, 1999: Unexpected friendships bond loyalty I’m not carving modern day reality into my forest—I only wish to let her live a much more respected life. It’s my wish to one day write deep within her soul—to bring to life portraits, to lightly place a simple path upon her soiled floor, to walk upon, within and through, to gather thoughts placed there by the wind. Again, I bring no harm to the tablets you call your journey. I am here to observe—to learn from you and then share it. My forest, don’t be sad. The sun rising brings color to your leafless limbs—a new song is born each time I look within. January 17, 1999: Memories are weeds with flowers After all…how much can a growing man cry—knowing his wife, dream girl, teen sweetheart had sights much farther than he could ever reach. She was a showgirl who needed a stage. If one wasn’t present—I can only hope it wouldn’t happen again. As I turn the page—I had hoped the mood would have leaped the open sea, a quick landing inside the protection of happy thoughts and insight. Imagine that--a writing instrument, my sword, capable of changing, delivering and inspiring the hidden depths. To enter the castle! Only to dance, one more time, in a way she couldn’t rip nor tear apart—then toss toward the murky moat like floor. January 18, 1999: You know your radio is career is over: When dedication, loyalty and determination are no longer found in a consultants pocket dictionary--when your mobile dj service is booked more than you’re on the air--when the only person who stops by to visit is the cleaning lady searching for trash--when you admit it should’ve been finished before it started--when the t-shirt you’re wearing displays the call letters of a station that no longer exists…and you don’t have a new one to replace it—when the sounds of silence are more enjoyable than hearing the same five songs, now on their second rotation—when you stop thinking about mixing music, dead air and liner cards—only to replace them with quiet mornings with a pen writing poetry. January 19, 1999: One thought, a beaver’s dam My lungs take in an enormous amount of air—a deep sigh is slowly released. It’s my way of breaking the pain—the hurting of a soul that continues to believe my day’s are numbered. If I am to be fired, then let it be. Sure I’m afraid! But it’s only a job—not my life! There…I said it. A thousand more thoughts flow endlessly. January 20, 1999: Fermented answers When I learned she was pregnant from Sean’s affair—three weeks into our marriage—I never cried. I forgave her like a sister, loved her like a sister and took care of her like a sister. Then, I walked away…twelve years later. January 21, 1999: The well and the empty bucket A stage: I can’t get enough of bringing things to life! I didn’t chase acting…because it carries the same explanation behind why I left chorus—to shy. January 22, 1999: Travelers, seekers, mimes I am the stage where others come to play—an openness to participate, no matter what the cost. Life maybe short—but death isn’t forever… January 23, 1999: Invitations to recreate what’s savored Sight is that of insight, judged heavily by the imagination. It lives by and hates by, all that feeds its wicked self. But! Is it accepted as being a tool—to help carve and rebuild? God patiently waits for man to sit still—it’s so easy to block the sun from your weary eyes, to shield your skin from the winters bite. It’s just as easy to turn away from messages being sent. Sight becomes insight unless blinded by self. January 24, 1999: Helpless friend It’s been raining since noon yesterday—quite hard at times. Filled, is the normally calm stream, I see anger. The word sent is that of unrest—the sky, she has opened. A fallen branch calls out to me while not knowing he was no longer part of the tree. In deep sadness, the poet turns and walks away—there is silence. The temperature starts to change. Rainfall has turned to snow and the branch is still lying there. What will happen? Will or can anything be forgotten? January 25, 1999: The two faces of page change Of coarse I’m weird! I’m supposed to be…normality is your way of being accepted by the masses. Of coarse I’m shy! I’m supposed to be…it’s the only form of reality handed to me at birth. I call it, “A depth tester.” To gage care: before normality leaves you standing at the door. It’s so strange, it’s so funny—the kisses my puppy shares with me. He leaps then hops his face into mine. Not a beg not up for asking…he suddenly kisses me. It’s so strange, it’s so funny—the looks my puppy shares with me—ears up, tail wagging, a playful tongue panting. First a gurgle, a growl then a playful bark, it’s like he’s smiling… It’s so strange, it’s so funny—the love my puppy shares with me. Where I walk, he walks—where I write, he sits and listens. Not a beg not up for the asking—all the love in the world from my little puppy. January 26, 1999: Visitation by dream only All who were part of the slow paced walk had in fact returned but in different bodies. We stood on the very level that once over looked the Grande ballroom—only to see ocean shore. It’s hard to say who guided—any name could appear in a book. Closing it, he chuckles—then moves forward. Never did we understand why thousands had stopped to visit. Was it the turn of the century? Was it the new millennium? The coming back of lives once touched by a hotel near total destruction—until the producer stopped for an unexpected visit. January 27, 1999: Creativity isn’t a mood Lay with your eyes closed visualizing the perfections of every dream. Touch the skin of the self you see—there is no feeling, nor can you impersonate. At that very moment—the imagination starts to grow. The moment you open your eyes, a choice will be made—to paint or to set aside. To exhume the existence or to bury the corpse—assuming you have the tools to make a clean getaway. Pictures start to take shape. If white is ever present—think of it, not as silence—but instead, the next page. January 28, 1999: Penniless bewilderment What is it I wish to be? If I knew, could I be? A mind full of change, quarters, nickels and dimes, the gum machine still takes pennies. I love to draw. Could I still be the builder? I love to write. Could I ever be a mechanic? The heart is full of change but ten pennies shy of getting what I need. Not a cent to be had—not even from the old lady standing behind me. What is it I wish I could’ve been? If I had known, could I have been? A dream filled with so much change. A penny for my thoughts and all I have is gum and a dime. January 29, 1999: The test The anger remains hidden—yet I know it’s there. An anger formed by depression four weeks old. Even while I sit here, a paintbrush in my hand—the levels of travel are that of many. There are no gaps, only large valleys—I trust no one, not even myself. I’d rather be alone than look into the eyes of reality. I vow to face the beast, even if it means taking my life. After four weeks, you get tired of the inner battles—the acting you do with yourself. You’ll do “anything” to bring you up—but “not everything”…because my rules don’t resemble ten chapters before. January 30, 1999: VH-1 called Morrison a Shaman My visions: attained without lethal weapons. To stare into a blizzard white wall captivates the flow of wind. I laugh at being thought of—I cry when pain becomes too loud. My smile is of distance—not here nor there, but elsewhere. Pulling toward the tips of each blade—my imagination begs to devour the impossibilities of possible. I view not the crafts brought to life but the aura of their breath. I hold instead, a gentle wind…without sight, making it more deadly than a growing storm in the western sky. From its wings silence grows—like that of a garbage fly, a traveler of many miles only to live for two days. January 31, 1999: Child like at 39 The pen stops—Mozart attempts to get dramatic…birds eating seeds for breakfast. What must it be like to eat just seeds? Then again, maybe they ask how I can eat chicken. February 1, 1999: How deep is your love I get a lot from silence—it’s the birthing ground of creativity. My spirit keeper becomes visible. What I hold is a pen—a traveler through time. Who shall it be is me, for I can be he, when asked what could be? To which I reply, “I will be.” Then later become. A pen—dipped in ink, it bleeds like a human. Left to heal, the scar becomes silent. That’s where the questions begin…who shall it be if it can’t be me? February 2, 1999: Synchronicity thru love I had mentioned, “I don’t have a new story to share with Cindy’s kids at Berryhill elementary.” Lee suggested I go anyway, “Teach them how to write poetry.” At that very moment—a thought was born. I laughed, smiled and giggled out loud. I wrote and wrote, laughed and giggled. Only asking once, “Where does this stuff come from? It’s such a mystery!” Too suddenly toss away, would be the biggest mistake of my life. Through writing, lives are being touched—the very lives I’ve spent nineteen years trying to inspire through radio speakers… February 3, 1999: Unconfident recognitions When you start writing like a poet—hang it up, toss it away. Ain’t my thing! I enjoy the essence of the unknown—the sudden inner explosion of yesterday, much different, totally unexpected. Then, I quietly sit back and read over what’s been written. Dip my pen into the carved glass well—tap, tap, tap… “It’s not good enough.” The disappointment is whispered. “Anyone can do what I do.” Then I stop writing—silence slips into the room—visitors, spirit guides and keepers, travelers who’ve died…and plain ole 225 pound me. Why do so many poets write about lost tears? They often admit the crying has dried—rivers that once were, stones lay in mud crusted lost luck. A poet reflects like a mirror—the view, an open window. The poet’s tears are his ink, a mixture that never dries—for her words are what people keep. To paint, to relive, to cherish, to release as well as build upon—to dream, to highlight, to forge, to capture then deliver. Why do…so many poets write about lost tears? Wine stained, pink lemonade, salty paintings of what we expect when noticed. The mud crusted white rivers, which are now dry. Here I sit…placing ink on blizzard white—a mixture that never dries, for each word represents self…a self that others can hold. February 4, 1999: What comes first? Depression or Destruction. There are days like today—a simple something that never amounts to anything. I refuse to believe I’ve had the week from hell…only because it’s self-made. I asked someone yesterday, “Where do you feel depression first?” They quickly pointed to their heart. “Wrong!” I painfully shot toward them. “It starts right here in your stomach.” That wrenching twist that takes me down so fast! I’m feeling it as we speak. I hate it! I’ve learned to recognize it as a sign; a sign that I’m going down—not for one day but several, self-deprivation the blame. February 5, 1999: Sin stained blood created by father I once ice skated on a day in Montana where the temperature fell to a wind blown fifty-nine below. The adventure lasted ten minutes—then I quickly ran home. Pretty much describes my life…I’m only interested until the presence of another stage. I often sit in pools of sweat—a memory visited. I notice the whitened face of the aging woman who walks by—had I slept with her too? The look is so familiar, as witnessed hundreds of times before. Avenues of lust, fed by addictions to a self I didn’t know—all at the cost of a relationship I never knew. My hand stops writing, my mind angered—he that was to be so trusted was in fact his father! All at the cost of a relationship I never knew. To view the eyes of a naked woman, a shy grin her only shield. As time slipped by, as did my seeds into sails more rich than reality. February 6, 1999: Causing shape Today is one of those days when you feel winter building behind the dawn—Then it never wants to flow, ten million thoughts and no place to go—half of which are moods, not of choice, avenues of lesser importance…yet each graveled road comes with enough fire power to cause city councils to hold special meetings. A dusty road we live on—houses pretty much hand built by fathers who spend their weekend hours ripping down shacks and homes once lived in. Things you can never explain, so you make up stories, only to become satisfied. February 7, 1999: Hello…my name is Who are they, they who appear in your dreams? The faces you never recognize; you bump on dance floors, talks in coffee shops, laugh while slowly walking by. This morning, I found myself arguing… Cameo appearances of a passer by. Have we met? I hear their words, my words, the directors and scriptwriters—Hollywood films of undiscovered stars, union workers in search of one day appearing on a poster of their own. Who are they? They who stop to visit—walk on extras cast to entertain. They are men and women without nametags. The children arrive to play. The voices encourage. Death like it actually happened. Cameo appearances of a passer by. February 8, 1999: She ate her young We sleep with the news on all night—each story seeps through the pours of my skin getting the imagination wet. Last nights dream took me by surprise. Now that it’s down on paper, maybe it’ll one day breathe inside the warmth of a short story. I write what I dream; it’s there that creativity is stored. I almost never understand nor can I figure out where friends disappear. February 9, 1999: Who’s lying to whom? My entire career—I’ve busted my ass to try and get the best of what I offer out…only to realize—sacrifice doesn’t have to take your final breath. I’d rather have something to do than nothing to do. Therefore, silent are my true emotions, for they cannot wake. If they did, I would never leave. February 10, 1999: I am…an artist Simplicity is something I don’t believe in—in the radio world I’m Warhol and Picasso combined with Shakespeare’s flow—not a newspaper, black and white ad agency… Stop looking at what I do and start listening. February 11, 1999: Exposed to expression As of late—I begin with a doodle or two, a scratch then bleed. “It’s nothing,” I keep reminding myself. “But if it’s nothing…then why do I do it?” I laugh and giggle when someone asks if I’m tired. At that very moment—I look straight into their soul and silently whisper, “How much energy did you waste asking?” I stop to stare at the ink that covers my writing hand—unwritten words, kept thoughts, pictures of a self. What would my writing hand say to me if the ink that stains were placed near my listening self? The smile would be soft, the eyes enlightened—the depth of a creative pool deepened. Then there would be silence…the dull roar of reality revisits the traveler. Turning to view what covers my right hand—doubt fills the lungs carrying the air I breathe. Two separate selves only seconds apart. I lay down my pen and walk away. February 12, 1999: Embracing constant I pause—in hopes; a new subject will embrace the attitude. The evolution of Mr. Poet and the forest long past—barely a month old and I’m tossing out what seemed to be a great idea. Looking back I see it as a moment. A moment when I let down my guard to endure the child’s eye placed on my canvas. **Note: The Mr. Poet and the forest series sprouted roots during the chilly months of November/ December 1998. Like everything else, I couldn’t explain its existence. Placed on my canvas were the words of poetic flavor performed in a child like, lesson taught manner. I fell instantly in love with the characters. I recorded the short stories, read them to elementary school students and to groups of kids who listened to child programmed radio. I needed a goal. I needed a reason to continue. Because of my affiliation with a book store, I chose to donate Mr. Poet to one of their causes— a non-profit organization that puts books in the hands of kids who can’t afford them. I was led to believe my efforts were fully supported and would help raise needed dollars. Then one day, the giant corporation turned its head and looked the other way. I became silent in my writing. Every so often, I am visited by my forest of friends but never in the way when I was thinking about helping kids get badly needed reading material. I did what most writers do. I quit. February 13, 1999: Last will and testimony I watched your eyes, each time we kissed—they reached to feel the tingles and shivers. Ashes to ashes, thrown out to sea—lost in the openness of two coasts that seemingly meet. The wind blown hair covers the tear stained eyes of the daughter who knew us all to well. She is heard whispering while blinding the visions I once painted. “My life now takes me to Carmel by sea, then a dance in the open waters off the shore of Santa Barbara.” It would be there our music would play…two separate waves, side by side—slow dancing, fingertip to finger tip. A spiritual journey, an openness only Jenny could see. Turning to face the wind blown shore, where the mountains kiss the waves—our little girl embraces the warmth…of two people in love. February 14, 1999: But…why me? My pen stops…my eyes turn another direction. Ink stained fingers look back at me. What have I done? It’s as if I’ve murdered words to watch them bleed—tiny drops of influence flood the clogged temples leading toward the impossible. Words fall hard against the wall and I’m expected to understand each purpose. Sometimes I laugh—while most of the time I’m amazed. Who am I to believe that I’m this so-called painter who is allowed to touch another mans dream? That! In itself “is” the dream—until you look at my fingertips and view the blood of lost words. Silence fills the empty spaces where time let go and you were able to fly—to soar beyond the valleys of God into caverns unseen to the naked eye.” If I could take, maybe if I could borrow—steal or trade, to captivate your thoughts but only for a moment. To sit not above—maybe to sit with, sit together, next to each other. To captivate your thoughts but only for a moment—if I could walk, maybe I could run, run to…but not away—to captivate your thoughts but only for a moment. February 15, 1999: Bursts of birth As a poet—I can sneak around and be anybody I wish. As a painter—the stains from the ink reveal the artist. You can’t imagine my reaction when I first learned of this. I laughed inside whispering, “If they only knew this avenue so silent—bridges fogged over by weathered dreams, a valley much too deep to scale…a poet that is I.” Why must I look at the world through eyes that travel countless journeys? Who sets the course? I am no captain and this vessel with a crew of one isn’t fit to sail a sea so open for such journey. Plastic raincoats make up the wind filled sails—bright orange, luminous to the distant waters edge. Lost frogs in search of lily pads see it as a place to rest. I cover my eyes in hopes of never being recognized—tattered and torn; the wood melts, revealing the remains of 1000 dreams. Only to hear me scream “We will not make it!” My crew of one does not respond. He is left there to think, to plan, to scrape from the journey chunks of burned skin—all that life has scalded during wars of misunderstood circumstance. The journey, I am not the captain, for I fear the frogs chasing my orange sails, plastic and wind filled. Tell me, whose eyes are these? February 16, 1999: Lost? Dial…S E L F I’ve been taken to another level—but not one where thoughts are born. All is blank, empty, signals of an on coming depression. That is why I choose to let the imagination bleed. Pour from me the words that stacked up during the past twenty-four hours! “shubercrabstablinggale” Several thoughts in one. “Crumkerbooglotharphil” Nothing new… Isn’t this what Mary Poppins did with the invention of super-calla- fragi-listic-expee-al-a-dosious? Several pages later: I never wanted to hurt—nor did I ever want to love. I would whisper into their soft caring ears, “We must follow the rules before we play.” I watched as tears fell—drying their faces, I’d cry myself. The journey home, wondering what to do—I had to stop being this radio Don Juan. “The rules,” I would whisper. “If I’m going to play I must follow the rules.” Long dark highways, nervous fear, 2 A.m. escapades, fantasies coming true…all based on the rules—I’ll listen anytime, we will be friends but not lovers. Don’t ever tell me you love me. Don’t ever think we have a future. My tears fell before theirs. Dried, was my face. What I searched for “was” love—forgetting everything, especially the rules…shared before we played. February 17, 1999: Repercussions of reality This daily writing exercise proves to me that I can conquer a hidden weakness. In my business, you have to! To sit and soak in a bucket of puke leaves no room for lunch. If the body aches, you write. If the mind wishes to travel, you write. I can actually feel my lungs gasping for air. Then, for a moment—I look up and see a canvas completely painted. I can’t figure out if we travel through time—or does time travel through us? Some say, “We live to die. Life begins and ends inside a sand castle.” Whatever the choice, belief, family taught lesson or self-guided tour—the question still remains; who and what's moving? I could guess, but why? We’ve got enough palm readers and stargazers in the world. Society is addicted to fantasy. Get rich! Locate love! Be happy! Now, fork over six dollars and fifteen cents per minute! Good luck and may the force be with you. I know! Let’s blame the hippies of the 60’s. The summer of love was about giving, sharing; filling the world with something life had never unveiled. War is created by hate—therefore we must love. Sadly, it was the last time we gave a rats rear about our neighbors well being. The eighties were coming! The decade dubbed the “Me Generation.” Later evolving into the new millennium sickness called “It’s all about me” syndrome. What credit cards can’t purchase, attitude does. “Talk to the left hand sister cuz the right hand aint listening.” Saying, “You have to support me, I am me, stand behind me, do this for me.” That’s all the proof we need that you enjoy convincing others that no one but you are important to breathe. Thanks to the worldwide web, the next levels of humanism slowly grow, “Nobody listens anymore!” If you can’t deliver it to me via instant mail or e-mail in two sentences, I’m not responding. Take that! Who’s next? Maybe its time I locate a new chat room. How many true friends are left? You know the type—they support any decision you make because that’s what friends are for. What are ya, from the fifties? Richie Cunningham died! As have three of my closest friends—all within a year. Three completely separate lives, no paths crossed, not even in conversation. Yet each inspired me, using tools offered at birth. Two of them were over sixty years old—the other was one hundred nineteen--a man, a woman and a dog. They lived life; each proved doctors wrong several times…only to one day lie down and silently leap onto another path. Their passing was never about them. Enough said…each cared so deeply for those they chose to love. In the words of Bob Seger, “Turn the page.” September 4, 2001 February 18, 1999: Dizzy but not blonde The style these days is—abstract. I find it difficult to understand. Except to say that it’s a form of bleeding—open the wound and let it pour from the soul. I stare into an openness to which I hide. There are no walls or locked doors. It’s a landscape of air touching wind then gently tossed into a rolling motion. Reaching for my writing instrument, the vow is to paint—to bring back with me the trail of the visitor, the light to which they follow, the songs of harmony placed between my lips. It’s a flower I can never hold yet its scent is of visions bathed inside inner peace. It’s my wish, even if the body tells me to rest—I’m to never lay down. Instead, the door will be pushed open and life will be experienced beyond death. February 19, 1999: There’s no such thing as I quit My arms quiver as they argue their existence—such beatings they must think. Major attempts to build—only to rip apart, then rebuild again. I reach forward to dip my wrist into a vile of ink—sucked into the nib like a needle healing sickness—the ink (blood) lives on this canvas, preserved for later use. I’m to embrace this shaking without turning off the imagination. Bring to life all that is hidden. Only to pause, wondering if the hidden may in fact be shy. As a kid I spent a lot of time being myself. Others looked and then laughed. Maybe it was the cloths I chose to wear? To sit alone in my bedroom wasn’t strange to me—I had my friends, a blue elephant, a stuffed dog and empty boxes that became my first drum set—marbles turned into teams vowing for championships. Silence is where I grow…darkness is how I listen. Being alone helps me envision. It isn’t strange to me. February 20, 1999: The problem with today’s society is simple—parents want their kids to grow up quickly only to whimper like children when they leave. So…I sit and stare, viewing silhouettes through bright lights. A new sun…a battle to erase each flake of snow, a war between moods. So cold it was. The sun called it an early day. Hours later, the retreat pays off. Sky of blue. The silhouettes tease. A birth,that of a new sun, taking from me each flake of snow. Yet, for a moment… I did feel it, the child yesterday came to life— in a world filled with war… a war between moods. February 21, 1999: Arguments from the music symposium Yesterday, I tried to paint with real paint. I must love looking at failure in the eyes—not only did I ruin the picture painted but I destroyed any purpose that would’ve made it a piece of art. Yes! Failure is my ultimate challenge. Only to walk away sad, knowing the painting won. I don’t agree—music doesn’t influence kids. That’s an excuse! I choose to look beyond that—there’s a root to this situation. If you take just five minutes out of everyday to get to know yourself—the end result is a stronger you—then music wouldn’t be so influencing. Drugs aren’t just pills you swallow and things you smoke. Music is also a drug. It has the ability to take you up extremely fast. I challenge teachers and parents to stop shaming their kids—its time we start listening. If you’ve got a burning desire to perform—open your mouth and all that’s inside will come out. You don’t have to sing the lyrics to create music! (I start tapping a beat on the table) See…I didn’t say a thing and you started dancing. Never once did I feel like I was better than any one—music was on trial and I was the only one there to defend it. My general reaction is this: If you didn’t like what I said, you had the ability to tune out. What I remember most is how easy I made it for you to tune in. February 22, 1999: In life—everything is poetry Adding shade to your painting creates new life on a flat surface. To any eye looking at the final product, perception invites you to grow toward or open a door for you to run away. February 23, 1999: Documented departure Violent mood swings—I literally feel my entire body falling. I swear it feels like someone’s hit me in the chest. I’ve fallen 500 feet only to find myself fighting to get back up. I can’t explain it! I only wish to control it. I drink tons of water—open up and pour it down. The mantle clock has stopped. I wound it last night! I killed the clock! The big hand has failed to inspire the little hand to follow in its footsteps. February 24, 1999: National Bookstore names me one of the most influential poets in Charlotte… Interviewer: Reaction? Me: Shell shocked! My mother’s quote sent me back a few steps, “I didn’t think you took your writing so serious.” She’s never understood the levels I reach for—maybe its my fault. I present things to her in a way she doesn’t understand. Then again, what’s new? Even I barely understand what’s accomplished. Interviewer: Do you see description of you as being true? Me: No…not really. I earned this honor because of my dedication to the store not the true purpose as to why I do all I can to convince people to write. Andrew Ashwood once said to me, “You don’t have to be the best jock on the air to earn respect—just make yourself available to those who are willing to learn.” February 25, 1999: Life doesn’t change, chapters do Her eyes a smoky gray—not blue, brown or green… her heart a blossomed flower—not a rose, carnation or silk. An imagination carved from childhood, a playfulness I vowed to never change. I could still see the tears…lying next to her smoky gray memory. They fall onto the flowers in full blossom and song. I am left to pick them up one at a time. Her touch has always been the innocence of first love—no hate, lust or uncaring, her scent unmatched to this day--from windsong to cloe now emptiness. Her willingness to explore challenged me--paths, mountains & streams. My love for her I’d forever protect, within the limits of the innocence we no longer share. Yet here I sit knowing my first love has left for me—a memory…to never be taken away. February 26, 1999: Free from Motherhood The memories—they’ll all fade. Life is funny that way. I only wish, before I die—to talk with you for just a moment. To hear why; the only daughter I’ll ever get…was created by another man and his wife. February 27, 1999: Plagued with backwash At nineteen years old—God turned his back and told me, “Figure it out your self.” I can’t say if I ever felt proud to be her husband—I met many men who always wished they were. I didn’t love her for her looks. I knew her body was a time bomb—I feared every sunset, knowing at any given moment she was going to explode. When she did—sunrise didn’t come quick enough. February 28, 1999: Scars from a blade blessed with escape The mirror—I look into, in hopes of locating an empty palm. The only one available is my own. The empty palm almost black, “Glad to meet you!” Until I see the lines. Gray: moodiness beware. Clear white: too much time to spare. Yet, it forever remains—the open palm fading to black. You burning me, I die, you walk away. March 1, 1999: An affair with forgiveness I’m having horrible flashbacks of her love affair with Sean—her words come to me as if they were just spoken, “All he wanted was a back massage and the next thing I knew he was inside of me.” I remember looking up at her, I didn’t cry. I didn’t get angry. I wanted to pretend that I didn’t believe her or care. Isn’t funny? To watch a past we can’t repair. To paint away guilt and pain, to simply turn our backs— then walk toward new avenues still untouched It’s so funny how we always forgive. Until the pen touches the paper, forbidden tears let go for the first time. A new avenue still untouched, the path moves on… I think it’s quite funny how we can’t let go--In love with memories 18 years in age going on 19. To pull out and play with, then set aside, two steps forward, still untouched, the avenue remains. I stop laughing only when it’s no longer funny. Thirty-seven scars on a left arm that couldn’t get away, blood streaming down the dogs face because he barked. Battered, torn, the avenues she touched. I haven’t got the know how to repair the memories… I’m angry! March 2, 1999: Coping with existence I stop writing to view the rising sun—to help anchor a sickness brought to life by motion. Being dizzy and sick like this scares me. Oh gee Mr. Radio man, have you ever taken your concern to a doctor? Rubbing my fingers through my hair, released is a giant yawn followed by a moaning. “How boring…” I think to myself while turning to talk to Ernie bird. “I’m sick! Morning sickness! I’m pregnant!” I stop again—my stomach knocks me back. “For whatever sake,” I hear myself scream into this page. “Write through this! You are much stronger than this! Write!” March 3, 1999: Weakened dream constant spinning A spirit guide’s dream is for me to open all avenues of creativity—evolve from self pity, spread your wings thy sick self and fly…Peering around the room, the spinning gets worse, steps to the bathroom are stumbled reminders of how clumsy I’ve been. “Leave me alone!” I shout toward the people who watch—only to learn I’m sitting alone. March 4, 1999: The art of studying depression My heart resembles this old sofa—my dreams liken the new sun. I sigh…not a memory to be had, the giant concrete safe is locked—a white note firmly taped to the wall reads, “Sorry no memory checkout today, the librarian is still at home in bed.” Not a giggle burped, yet the new sun continues to rise. A reminder of how simple life really is. March 5, 1999: Regaining something but what? I routinely reach toward my vile of blood (ink)—a chore, while I sit half naked, self-absorbed—not in writing but trying to figure out how I’m going to survive my day. I want to say, “I give!” but I know better. I’ll conquer; scalp then cut the throat of anything or anyone whose desire is to bring me down. March 6, 1999: Relationship Shadows of a rain filled morning glimmers upon the canvas to which I’m about to bleed (write) upon. Trees I once cherished, but only for a moment—look toward me but not at me. I wish to view the opposite side of the mystified—my left arm rests on the turtle rattle, my music maker, who lately has been accused of taking on to many dares. It’s as if I’m selling what isn’t available. I turn to look out the window again, at the very trees I’ve accused of looking over as well as through me. A gift will arrive for them today—rocks to create a riverbed. Then I’ll plant new siblings to serve as children to these aging path makers. The older trees will teach the young how to catch the wind, dance in the rain and duck when there’s lightning. March 7, 1999: A writer’s tool Born in 56, the Snorkel is now forty-three—a little older than I. But not by many chapters! Personally, I’d like to ask who’s traveled more. How long did this Snorkel pen sit alone inside that case as hundreds of people walked by, gawking and gazing? And with this pen, I shall share the wisdom of the people I meet, take daily walks into a field of thought and encompass daily visions fed into an open palm so held by the grips of my ageless fingers. I shall tell what still lays about the ground revealing unto the world, as shapeless creations—the roots and dead vines, still poison, for they are Ivy and oak. March 8, 1999: Visualized intuitions I look at him and laugh inside—“Can’t think of anything original can you?” Then again, he was the first to admit to me that borrowing other people’s ideas is his thing. Why can’t he base his goals on originality? Things that are proven—seem so non-leaderish. Like a coward! “I’ll lead my men to war!” He shouts out while staring through a few trees at the field below. A bank laid off fourteen hundred employees to increase cash flow. My GM constantly reminds me, “It’s all about the money!” My eyes see a nation that will fall due to a hunger it cannot feed. It’s become mans agriculture, the color green that tree leaves don’t associate themselves with. It saddens me to believe that money is where happiness begins—only to feel like a hypocrite when I stare at the writing instrument I’m using. March 9, 1999: The cockatiels morning song A hidden voice—unrecognized, each word, yet I’m able to hear the passion. A keeper of spirits, a title I believe. Is that why you so openly talk to me? Lessons you teach—unfamiliar, I follow. Each word, a symbol I’ll one day recognize. My music maker…harmony, I listen, so that I too shall sing your heart felt lyrics. A hidden voice—a traveler, envisioned…rest now, continue your journey tomorrow. March 10, 1999: Forceful play Then my writing pen stops—which it knows it’s never, suppose to do. A challenge to get beyond this page has been issued. A pleasure I see—time can slow down if it wants to, and if it stopped? Even I couldn’t withstand the after affects of catching up. March 11, 1999: Paper mirrors It’s like…I pause—then I page. I pause again. I’m studying the rituals of each morning—watching, to view what it is “I” do, in order to tap into the energy source. Interviewer: Would you like to let it go? Do you want to forget it happened? Me: Sometimes I wish the music would fade so that I can experience true silence. Interviewer: Are you a creative person who’s misunderstood? Me: No…I document to help please a self that enjoys being a dreamer. No mountain is high enough to climb, no valley deep enough to walk across. I never ask myself why I’m doing something—I hear a voice then do it. As for being a creative person—that’s a very difficult thing to answer because I don’t know what creativity is. I write, I produce, I sing out of tune. I tell stories, I perform and dance like a white guy. Is that creativity? I don’t know! Will there ever be two eyes that will pace from side to side—wondering, what it was I was trying to say? Am I my greatest fan? Is there anyway to say it without leaving behind echo’s of conceit? Will I ever meet the wandering soul who shall take the time to caress each page just as I? Will I be my only observer? Can it be possible to meet another me? Must time walk away like there’s no yesterday—do I continue to paint the forgotten? Would I be so hurt to let it all float from sight? Is it wrong to sculpt what a past has delivered? Can I be my greatest fan? Will they accept me for whom I was and am? March 12, 1999: Reading rapid eye movement Looking out the giant window into the forest—something is out there and its calls out to me everyday. I hear whispers late at night, visions placed inside my dreams; I hear music til the rising star shines. I then pick up my writing instrument—black, white and gold…stained by each shade of a falling rainbow. Cast into character, the meaningless visions evolve—while music plays inside a nearby bird, I listen to the silent wind, an unfamiliar tone. Moss has grown where rings once told—words on a canvas and I lay no claim. Until visited by three blue jays, two doves and a red tail hawk. Whispers late at night—visions placed inside my dreams. March 13, 1999: Giblets There are a lot of positives going on—the sort of stuff you usually read about when someone passes to the other side. I still believe there’s hope inside this determination—it’s who I am not what I want to be. Have you ever stopped to view the ink that doesn’t make it to the paper? I see shadows of a destination sidetracked by objects much bigger than me. A river flows downward—a lake stretches across, man was not made to walk on water. Up, over and through—determination gets to the point. A woman once said to me, “I bet you’re the George Carlin of poetry.” I laughed and thought, “And you are nothing but an overpaid librarian.” So what does determination have to do with this thought? Nothing…welcome to the other side of the page. March 14, 1999: Roots of protection We didn’t have tattle tales inside my childhood family—truth is we were like the mafia. “You tell on me…I’ll get even later.” Many of my closest relationships can’t relate with this “love through intimidation” style of living. We would bully up on each other—my brother and I fought very hard. Even my sister received punishment. She always thought she was better, never equal. People who are “only children” never endure the true method of survival until the silver spoon is taken from their mouth. March 15, 1999: Do pens control personality? I read on the side—it was hand made in Peru. A South American writing instrument that prints out English words without an accent. I look around the room, in search of nothing…but rather to breathe in the chapters that shall become. March 16, 1999: The Bic-less pen generation grows I cannot believe I’ve picked up this four hundred pound writing instrument a second day—my mind fights with me, in hopes it can convince a self to change musical instruments. God spoke to me, not once but twice yesterday. Not a thunderous voice filled with orders and commands—a peaceful song, like that of the Red Cardinal who visits each morning I write. A whisper so light, the air stood still—a hand so warm, my lungs kept time while my toe tapped on the side of the chair. I didn’t see visions of trees and clouds—didn’t meet with passers-by or brag of Gods existence. Yet, I did sit with him not once but twice…yesterday. No bright lights or glowing from a burning bush—no angels, scriptures, preachers or requests to take offerings. I didn’t feel empty but rather refreshed—a cleansing of a soul, bathed in holy water then allowed to sit naked and dry while dancing with the warmed wind. I saw harmony appear on the computer screen—lyrics swimming with piano keys. Then, there’s silence… So, did I tell you—God spoke to me not once but twice…yesterday. March 17, 1999: My silence grows at Poetry readings It’s not that I think I’m better than them—I’m no longer physically or mentally capable of revealing my soul. Poets are ego manic driven, attention deficit, excuse searching, depressed, attention grabbing idiots! I sat inside the circle last night knowing I no longer wanted to be a part of it. March 18, 1999: East Lincoln high meets the Poet If your choice is “not” to write—that’s fine. One day you’re going to look into a mirror and not know the person looking back. Some of you will laugh about it—only to realize, later in life—you forgot to spend time with the greatest person you’ll ever get to know. That face will look back you and simply smile. For it knew, one day you would be back. March 19, 1999: Coping with change I’ve built a wall around my creative self—fighting off “all” things I believe will bring harm to my avenues of openness. Sadly, radio tops this list. It’s not that I’ve lost interest! The industry has lost interest in me. I am a leaf, a feather—part of a broken song. I’m a blade of fresh cut grass, a bird’s decision to fly—I’m the fur of a puppy, the painting created by heat, a dreamer, a sliver of wood, maybe a pebble inside a large boulder somewhere inside Kooshatay Ookooshtah (the river). I’ve given it my best, my all, my everything…then I’ll die. March 20, 1999: And the voice said to me… The sky shall bless all who believe—no cloud more mighty then he whose vow is to bring peace. Listen openly to all songs being shared—for each is a lesson learned then taught to others, they, who are willing to face the addicting strengths of being one with a bird’s song. I only paint what floats from this writing instrument. I rarely, if ever, go back to read…unless the heart needs changed or the arms sit so silent that my stomach begins to hurt. It’s then that I’m free to walk the grave of depression. March 21, 1999: The realist Today’s society is based on your expected failures—work forces are created knowing you won’t succeed. Therefore, major corporations have reason not to hire you full time. This saves billions of dollars spent each year on insurance costs. Companies hire to meet quota—only to fire to keep from spending. March 21, 1999: Unmasking the masked 6:31 am: Fingers already stained with ink—I look for a laugh, only to see an invisible dream. It’s selfish to assume “I” am what begins each new song—my invitation was to only come and visit, not recreate the missing lyrics. March 23, 1999: The actor I honestly believe, as long as I’m being creative—the world can’t stop me. I look at sitting around the office as being a loss. I’ll try “anything” then watch it flow. I’m the actor whose face you recognize. I’m the newsman who shares disaster—I’ll even be the neighbor who offers a cup of sugar. I am, whoever you want me to be. I could be the landscaper whose visions embody waterfalls and roses. I could be the Big Mac builder adding four patties and some sugar. Need a new soft drink? Let me try! I am, whoever you want me to be. March 24, 1999: Man did not create nature My lungs reach for air as if they’re being starved—oxygen sucked in like fingers latching onto candy. A thought is born…a mind that’s jogging and or weight lifting—pressing to bend the avenues of normality—to welcome an expressway of unexplained. Deep thought is a wonderful place to travel—a lonely country road with few passer by’s. I push hard to leap toward any mood, as long as I don’t have to stop…but I do. I’m addicted to looking out at the forest—still no spring leaves. It must be pissed off at me. I’ve cut the vines and taken away the underbrush—I’ve allowed air to sink within the soil, in hopes the trees will become strong again. Who am I to do this? March 25, 1999: The note to East Lincoln high Thank you for inviting me to speak on behalf of the importance of expression. Notice I didn’t say “Poetry.” It’s only a label set inside an abbreviated 90’s world. As we discussed “Expression” is what poetry becomes. Learning to be open with ones self is step one. A writing instrument is a friend—a pen is just a pen. Yet, any pen can become a friendly writing instrument. Give it a name! Learn to love it. Friends can never divorce or leave you in the dark. Placed next to your canvas—the journey will forever begin with an expression. March 26, 1999: Path maker I only get moody when forced to look back. I smile—the waves blasting through my head are fatigue. March 27, 1999: The dream Gunpowder slowly dancing with nervous fear, the voice that warned me to be careful, it was too vague to recognize—only to see it was mine. I was alone, no one else, no other voices—just mine making it through that old house. The two aged eyes, a man, a woman continued to stare—I hadn’t been careful, I didn’t listen to myself. March 28, 1999: Talking circles My mind hath traveled a mile or two—to aimlessly caress what has been given. Given, not by human relations, relations built while viewing beyond the colors of reality. Reality? So much can be written—written about or somewhere close, close to a self we barely know. No, I do not lend a forceful hand—hand me a thought and I shall portrait the imaginations access. Access he that travel’s near and there, there always seems to be a new face. Face not I who writes writes what’s given. Given to you in picture form—form as you may, the accessed imagination that’s me. March 29, 1999: Reliving great moments through writing The control board had suddenly grown to twenty-five feet wide, forty feet tall—thankfully the station wasn’t on the air! It would have introduced a new form of dead air. After two minutes I pushed the button leading to the jock shout—again it rang out my name. I pushed it again! Again! Then finally, I started to cry…I was Neil Armstrong on the moon—my first step into radio and I’ve never forgotten it. March 30, 1999: Documented rapid eye movement “Do you wish to die?” The words were calmly whispered into my right ear. “I’ll make you soup right now if that’s your wish.” We walked almost arm and arm into the first room—the cafeteria, white walls, few pictures, tables all lined for people to sit. My arms still cuffed, my eyes told the story to a passer by—although I couldn’t read what was being said, the woman’s faint expression echoed in my soul. The deeper we got into the cafeteria, the more I knew the explosion was near. My left arm started to shake, liquid fell from my nostrils as I fought hard to suck it all in. Newman school, Billings, Montana—the sight of our nations next terrorist act and I somehow was the major link. March 31, 1999: No high like this high Two over lapping chunks of flesh with a loose laying piece of skin in the middle—does society teach us that this…is what shall drive all men crazy? Did this cause my stepfathers divorce? Did my own father divorce my mother because she was with another man? Sex! Why does it have to be so nasty to speak of? April 1, 1999: But have we? So often—we climb to the top of a hill, to overlook the valley below. What we see are places we once sat. Nothing has changed, except for the trees—they’ve grown. April 2, 1999: Artist or stupid? What’s normal to a man who seemingly refuses to accept normality? He turns each thought into a characterized creation—allows it to breathe, sets it free, then follows it. April 3, 1999: Don’t touch me The goal is to no longer fight about it—I only wish to work my way through it, blend with and not against. I waste more energy being pissed off. My worst fear—getting attached to such mind control. I tend to lock myself up in a world of my own, to deal with, to gain control of ones natural instinct, which leaves me un-human-like…lost in a concept rather than reality. April 4, 1999: I don’t fit in A Poet? What does it require to be described in such a way? Only to hear, “Have you been published?” Not a desire! I am a writer, he who writes fantasy, fiction, childlike, musical, in tune, out of tune, free spirited, sharp depth and cliff hangers. A Poet? Not I…I’m a writer who follows the rules set by my imagination. April 5, 1999: From where I sit I see a nation crumbling—then covered up quickly by incredible gas prices, Mark McGuire hitting seventy-one homeruns. We cherish the good like a religion. We milk it dry then turn it out to pasture. Masked isn’t the identity of the accuser but they who fight hard to re-image a nation dirt poor on reality. Sketches are attempts not at perfection but rather practice—if we would only learn to practice more often, it would only help to defuse the perfectionist inside. April 6, 1999: Spring forward fall backwards The mind doesn’t understand, nor does it wish to argue. It sleeps, allowing constant habit to push you forward. To lose or gain an hour—stick a needle in my arm and take a pint—not of blood but time. We obviously had too much of it or the hour would still be with us. The old silver faced mantle clock just tells time—no other form of communication, pretty much like the rest of us, just trying to catch up on an hour…the one lost and I cant find it. April 7, 1999: Allergic to spring My nose is stuffed—all glued together by green pollen; it’s as if snow has fallen. Tired! I’ve become, all sleepy eyed and cranky—like a lonely old man, unlike a cheerful self who can breathe. My eyes are watering, all wet, the corners are sore. Unlike Betty Davis, Pierce Brosnan or a cute puppy. My complaining factor is up—all sprite and quite edgy. Like PMS but in a male way, unlike cranky bill paying day. My nose is stuffed! It’s running like syrup set upside down. It’s so unlike me, not to get up and get a Kleenex. Nope! I’d rather complain, moan and frown. April 8, 1999: Who’s talking thru me? The slightest scent pushes me forward, into a forest of open eyed dreams—landscapes sculpted by timeless fears, rivers whose open flow is then followed by chapters written before a raindrop is born. The slightest light greets the horizon—the edge of a trees upward trunk scrapes its paint across my view. In a matter of moments, the entire forest will be seen—birds already singing, they are…my jazz singers. April 9, 1999: Writing down exactly what I dream The vision was that of a rocket—not headed for a rising moon—it was scraping rather than climbing, following rather than leading. My soil, unfamiliar—only to see, I had been walking—riverbanks, flooded, the stream a yellow glow, human waste on a journey called “The I told you so.” Fearing my own strength, not enough to fight—magazine covers feed the needy. Is it food? May I chew on your paper? What grows in this footprint I leave as a reminder? To be trampled! Photographed! Buckled, like the knees, which can no longer carry me. My soil, unfamiliar—tears I cannot bleed. If cut any more, the children shall fall, the women will moan even louder, solidifying the mountain—hand shaped to look like me, upon a journey called “The I told you so.” Men and horses, large offices, visions of rockets no bigger then my scarred fingernail—the white warrior calls them bullets…I shall rename them the trail but not of my tears. I’m left with no thought out plan of escape—willingness is a freedom, forgiveness one in the same. My feet burn not from so much walking but it’s all I have left of my pride upon this journey called “The I told you so.” A trail but not of my tears, but the generations that follow—I see India, Germany, and Vietnam. I hear rockets larger than my scarred fingernail—Iraq, Kosovo and the homeless during frigid new moons—no blanket of trust. Martin Luther King and Montgomery—only words shouted, “Move! Because I told you so!” The rocket launcher raised—reality a memory. I start to cry upon this journey called “The I told you so.” A trail not of my tears but the ones…you…hold inside. April 10, 1999: Song lyrics written ten years earlier People will never understand or look at my creativity as being a form of self-story telling—not to be sold or thrown out to wolves to devour. My creative flow isn’t a deliberate attempt at cleansing a soul. I take great pleasure in opening up a thought—I see chance and vigor, a brave attempt not at fame but being just me. A view within as well as without—only one tear shed. April 11, 1999: In search of the spring in me The backdoor leads toward a forest I so often speak of—the vibration of spring shakes this aching, tired self into a mood rather than a moment. A season so blessed by the touch of green, then a writing instrument comes along to lay in the rest—Dogwood white, cherry blossom pink, Lilac violet and hundreds of birds whose songs have a way of inspiring me. April 12, 1999: Unanswered tears How many times did I call home and interrupt a sexual affair? Was her anger purely based on who was at the house? I’m lost as to what really happened—what’s more mystifying are the true concerns that still live. Is she more faithful to her current situation? I can’t help but believe that first marriages are forever marriages—they’re a training tape for the real thing. April 13, 1999: Reviewing nature’s report card A white flower sits laughing while a tree grows around it—one would imagine this as being a gift of spring. Not so…its snow left over from a winterless season. The tree grows while the laughing flower slowly disappears. Just because its eighty degrees doesn’t make it spring. April 14, 1999: Attacked The anger surfaced at eight or so last night—anger so raging and on fire, it pushed my control aside. This…after a major fall at 9:40 am—the depression was so bad I literally wanted to cry. Instead, I sang out, musical notes—bending notes that forced my stomach and soul to work as one. My depression worsened. I wanted to scar myself with the razor blade—I fought hard against myself, people wouldn’t stop “wanting” they kept piling things up. I sit here and lightly shake my head from side to side, “Dear God in heaven, I’ve reached the boarder line and my anger is telling me to back off.” No tears, never a tear—my emotions had been taken over and I knew I was in trouble for the rest of the day. April 15, 1999: Blood filled scars I’ll never understand why I have this need or desire—what leaves me breathless isn’t a walk up the Pentacle in Gaston county, I can spend hours formulating sound, writing, story telling, but I can’t mow my own lawn. I can’t plant flowers! I have a difficult time keeping my bathroom clean! What gives? I’m on a three-day depression. I push hard for it to leave my body. I fight relentlessly with a self that’s never tried to physically understand until I bury his face in it—then, the earth moves. Anger bleeds from my open wound. The blood? Its words I care to never release. I fight hard to hear silence. I battle til I bleed, to feel freedom, only to view the damage when all is over. I warn people of my low moments. I physically tell them I’m down. Do I want them to sympathize? No! It’s my way of warning them of possible explosion. I shall write right? To see a sea, to send it outward, seen, scene, a visual. Been, Ben—I am an actor. Time is always the same. Floored floor, shocked, maybe laughing—bored board, and weathered deck. Eye, I…portrait of self, please place it in a place set aside somewhere in time. The poem floored the floor, the poor bored board—eyeing I, in a placed place. The time is 7:40 I play word games to help focus lost visions—a childlike approach at trying to help heal a self that only I can see sleeping in pain. I push so hard that pushing no longer works. I become the old man in the walker trying to run. I stop…the air conditioning has made me cold. I have retuned to reality—I hope in my absence I didn’t get angry. April 16, 1999: Words to a friend Through every door is a new mountain and plenty of people watching. Your failure—is their inspiration. April 17, 1999: Who am I? I am man I am the man who chalks the baseline, paints the end zone and wipes the excess oil from the bowling alley. I am the man who ties down the goal so the hockey puck or soccer ball won’t move it. I’m not a major player until you look closer at whose playing by the rules. April 18, 1999: Faceless mirrored images of nobody My hidden self, a person, place and thing—a thing for writing, painting and building walls out of words…hidden within, viewing pictures then painting them. Words, figures, abstracts or nudes—a hidden self, I’m a painter, writer and thing…a thing for creation. April 19, 1999: The first step to a cure is awareness It’s early. I don’t want to write—my mind is empty…this is where anger begins. April 20, 1999: Just add meat My energy level is fed by ambition and hope. I call it the hamburger helper approach to life. Never forget where you’ve been—those paths of survival will bring food back to your plate. April 21, 1999: Bomb scare at poetry reading It was I who chose to embrace the final moment. It was I who pushed them from the store. It was I. Twenty-five dead in Denver—hate crimes everywhere. Why not during our night? The piano was left behind—the creative air sat dry. April 22, 1999: The poet’s eye placed on canvas And on the trail of tears—there stood only one man. No! It was a woman, her children now dead—she only dressed like a man to feel strong. Note: The circle of writers sat silent until I dared them—a bookstore is filled with great creations yet I never see anyone in the row of publications called poetry. The moment those words slipped from my thoughts, I knew the depths of perception would grow next to paintings. This poetic expression and the artwork it inspired were displayed at Art One in Gastonia, North Carolina in September of 1999 during a gallery dedicated to “Women.” This wasn’t my first poetry/painting…just the first to be recognized outside the normal circle of writers who once gathered at Barnes and Nobel. April 23, 1999: Being accepted comes with a price I’m not the man I wanted to be—we all have dreams, ambitions and hope to become, to enlighten and to one day believe. Then you learn that there’s a lot of “alls” out there. Some aren’t worth believing in. What about the times when “all” bites back? You sit alone, “all” wrapped up in self-pitty. You create alone, live alone…are alone. Being “all” to everyone steals rather than feeds the original dream. Therefore, I am not the man they “all” wanted me to be. “All” I ever wanted to be, was happy. I’ve given it my “all” and “all” has been taken it away. April 24, 1999: Being accepted leaves scars The mind is tired, my heart still racing from a week of hard gut reaction. My eyes swollen shut—the lack of sleep plays games with me. The strangest thing about being loyal is nobody but those closest to you notice. April 25, 1999: I’m not alone Hemmingway sacrificed for his craft. Hemmingway nurtured and abandoned his friends. He ingratiated himself with people he didn’t care for, betrayed women as well as himself. Hemmingway was awkward, attractive, funny, daring and shy. I’m not Hemmingway. His depressions scare me. I have vowed to study mine—He chose to run. He had electro shocks to the brain—I take on life. That’s the only difference; everything else fits like a glove especially the part when Hemmingway admitted that women are twisted luxuries that go with great talent and ambition. April 26, 1999: From the inside out Shock jocks are passé—I don’t believe you have to shock someone into listening to you. Nor do I believe talk radio is the place for communicator “wanna be’s.” Radio’s air talented, think they’ve got to be funny. Their star may shine during historic times but never should they forget the bags of radio trash left behind. A nude woman is only naked if you see her that way—sitting next to a title and or piece of poetry she suddenly has a purpose. Look as you will—touch if you wish, listen while you read—stare deeper into the portrait of travels. It’s then you realize that poetry does come with pictures. April 27, 1999: My journal is a word dump They are dumped into this well, to sleep, jump and play—words of several colors, pictures I can’t explain. A word dump! It features giant tractors pulling words from mountains—unless the wind grabs them, allowing an unexpected escape. I scream as loud as I can, “Give them life! Never should a thought die.” April 28, 1999: If you think I’m loud step inside Stare at a clock long enough and time looks back with fright. Look into the back of the clock and time becomes a machine. Touch a clock one time and time suddenly has life. What? I question myself. I feel anger deep inside, knowing the 30 seconds it took to write this, is time I didn’t have to sacrifice. April 29, 1999: Realities evil reflection My tired self—the dots offer a place to grasp onto. It’s a race to reach the invisible finish line only to realize you still have twelve laps to go. I cannot scream, for no one is listening. I cannot fight unless I’m willing to take on myself. Fifteen kids dead in Colorado, God bless them all. How selfish I am to sit alone in this room and just write. Their looks, that of horrified wonder—visions I didn’t expect. Within seconds unspoken words were left to dry. So was Johns piano—it sat waiting. The high school shooting at Columbine affected not only a city but a nation. So much so, a poet’s circle was shattered due to a bomb threat. Welcome to America… April 30, 1999: The unstudied penmanship My head has been heavy all week—too much thought and not enough drainage. A clogged canal, a blocked imagination—not enough time to flush, I fear the swirls of water with thick sharp claws reaching to grab everything then toss it into a nearby can. Words are like orange peels, if you pick and pull at it, eventually the juicy details are revealed. May 1, 1999: I don’t care if you don’t understand I felt like painting—so I drew several lines, licked my fingers then stretched the ink toward the essence of shadow. Invisible pictures take shape—my imagination tends to argue. Fight, as it will, battle as it may—until we agree upon the destination of the painting. My entire life I have only wished to be…there’s no need to fill out the rest—for being is whatever you dream. I’m not great yet I’m not poor. If I were, the mud on my feet my toes would serve as playmates until this imagination equaled that of what was to become. May 2, 1999: When love is more than sex My wife turns me on—not because of my love, it’s her willingness to let me explore—to reach out to the wind, touch a falling leaf before being forgotten forever. What must it be that keeps me wanting and needing this canvas? Am I a child at play? Am I a sandbox, Tonka truck or a train with an oval track? My lungs expand at the very touch of a canvas so filled with emptiness…am I an adult in search of? If the answer is ever located—will I stop writing for the day or forever? May 3, 1999: At peace with all living things I believe in God! I believe Jesus is the Son of God. What I don’t understand is how each religion can come up with its own interpretation and take another life because of it. I would rather lay more faith in my spirituality then place it inside a man created religion—the openness of believing in “all” who make up this world, without judging the hand of any other man, insect or fish. When I look up and see an eagle or hawk, I feel an enormous need to write—for all I know, he was leading spirits to my canvas—maybe in the bird world, word has gotten around about my faith in them? I stare out into my green forest, viewing the homes of so many which fly—the continuous horizon blends song with sight. Imagination with temptation—the branch of a tree reaches upward in hopes of being blessed by the new sun. The busy leaves scrape the passing cloud savoring all forms of moister…I believe. Through each tree I’m able to see a trickle of blue sky, the very sky easily caught on fire by an ever-changing wind flow and cloud-making machine miles away—maybe underground. I step out into the wonderment of the new sun only to listen to all that the wind has brought to this page—the song of the cardinal, a mocking bird, robin, a wild finch—a family of flying friends who have set down their weapons in order to eat. Then, from out of nowhere, not an invitation sent or a letter to explain, my view is locked onto a passer-by…the endless flight of a hawk…I believe, but for what reason? May 4, 1999: Erasing the excuses I cannot walk with those who aim their writing skills toward “I wasn’t in the mood.” Writing doesn’t grow within those walls. The goal should be to bust down all levels of frustration to achieve another flight—don’t go in search of writing, bring writing to me, to yourself, grasp a thought, any thought, then give it life. Play not with your food if the plate is empty. If that is the case then draw pictures in the gravy stains left over. Paint splattered onto the surface becomes art if he who put it there dubs it as such. No man or woman’s imagination is ever empty therefore you should always be in the mood to write. May 5, 1999: The treaty Blessed by my spirit guides and keepers—the words have been born. I’m touched by the presence of spirituality as it continues to grow inside a once lost path. We all walk on paths of separate destinies…yet in the end what we thought was individualisms were in reality the same path. My view is once again the forest—the trees stare at me. I stare back—not a showdown of strength but a simple understanding, “Teach me to be strong like you.” I say to them. “Teach me to talk.” They reply. May 6, 1999: Oh Lord here we go again Thunder echo’s…yet I can never identify its origin. It’s sightless and has no scent. If not properly played with, thunder can be a signal leading toward dangerous overtones, the color between yellow and red, two blue wires and no white. My energy level is non-existent—a pool of empty feelings, a blank stare, a desire to sit back and watch the world go by. Sadly, no one has invented a remote control to change out each scene. All that is…is—mood after mood, anger, depression, loneliness, loss of energy and two leaps forward then back a block. A melting thought—the lowering of self-esteem…A forest seems so perfectly in tune—until you reach the floor of fallen branches and trees, flowers from last summer, maybe a spirit who once used my backyard as his trail. May 7, 1999: The red feather I wish to bring a flower—it’s red, weathered, yet loved like no other. It hung from a tree to feel flight then planted, near a tree to taste growth. Each day I walked by this flower, I knew it to be special, to share with a friend, to give, not receive, to believe, then lead back to the path to which you walked upon. A flower whose seeds are rare, to help heel, to borrow your pain, to disguise itself so your own belief can rush in…a flower, red, for you, my dear friend. These words will forever be in total dedication to Peggy McDaniel, a co-worker, 63 years in age who stopped to visit with me in the studio. I had never shared thoughts about my collection of trees, yet she knew of my writing. Struck down by liver cancer, I felt such a feather would in fact bring peace to her daily unknown travels inside a new world she would soon walk. May 8, 1999: Inside those coax speakers I don’t think its anything you get used to…radio isn’t chocolate—the moment you begin, survival is just an exit away. May 9, 1999: Stop comparing, it leads to an artist’s death What’s this need to bring lines together? I stare into the deep soul of chance—to carry shades of multitudes of color, to listen as my nib scratches into the canvas. Why do I have to draw like a child? To see buildings as statues scraping the sky—to visualize brush strokes through a painters eye, to listen as my nib scratches into the canvas. “I am not an artist!” I scream out. “I don’t want to paint! I cannot sleep at night, my imagination won’t turn off.” All this is said while my nib scratches into the canvas. I saw two galleries upon a walk I took. Reality became fantasy, a new child was born—lines touched, shades added character—my nib continued to scratch into the canvas. What’s this need to bring such harm? To stare at myself in the wall-to-wall mirror, “I am not an artist…” I now whisper, only to hear my nib scratch into the canvas. May 10, 1999: High school students The rising sun creates a halo effect through leaves of green—does it ever wish to start over again? “They” chose to walk away. I only wish to make one statement, “You abused my openness to be real. My feelings were hurt. My time was wasted—unlike the sun…I do get to start over again. I do get to learn from this. I’ll take this wasted thought and stuff it into my front pocket. It’ll either grow or I’ll learn to ignore it like all the other wasted thoughts. I didn’t quit…I only wanted you to think I did. May 11, 1999: Just call me Cybil I’m in several moods at one time—not a fun game to play, a self that needs to write and another self who wishes to explode. Hey look! It’s me! The painter, thinker, producer and exerciser—the freaks! They didn’t invite me to come along. Oh, oh…and look over there! There I go…the dreamer, poet and wanna be singer. Why didn’t anyone let me know? See! It’s several of me going in all different directions. I see the mobile dj, speech giver, motivator and complainer. I see the landscaper, kayak loving, bicyclist, broadcasting teacher slash junior achievement guy. It’s a family reunion and I wasn’t invited! My mind is closed off—heavy clouds and thunder, depression. Yet, I fight to keep it from taking over. May 12, 1999: Coping with constant change Many times a day I ask myself to draw—to paint the current of a nearby river, to allow ocean waves to kiss my sleeping shores. Many times a day, I turn…then walk away. Invisible to the naked eye is an emotion I can’t seem to understand. May 13, 1999: Pressing down to hard to create letters While rubbing my fingers over each word written on the opposite page—my imagination is fed with pictures. Which means nothing, they are just the bumps that lead me toward an evacuation of thought—visions not seen nor explained except to say, “I’m there.” My energy flow and or encircled power is that of faith—no matter how bad I hurt, no matter how high I fly, God is with me every step of the way. Unlike most, I don’t fear death…yet I fear being fired—even that, has the power to level me quicker than memories of my first wife. May 14, 1999: First sign, depression rest stop ahead My lungs suck in a giant whiff of damp spring air—the body aches from aging, muscles pulled while running in the rain, wrists with carpal-tunnel and a heart destined to figure out the answer to every question. The air now gone, my attitude edgy—a fierce fire raging, I look for men dressed in yellow with helmets that protect their necks…alone again—even in Yellowstone they had airplanes that dropped chemicals. I’ve been left alone to face the invisible—a heart that screams out. What I feel in my stomach may in fact be gas…lord have mercy, will you please get over yourself. May 15, 1999: second sign, your words spell it out At times my pictures create words—I sit in silence wondering why? The writing instrument with a silver nib, red and black in color—not a face to its identity, yet I know him at quick glance. The body warms, the ink dries, still no motion from the ten toes—the depths of depression, a one-man battle with a self I can’t explain. Chance becomes challenge—challenge involves mistakes. Perfection is the biggest mistake anyone can make… May 16, 1999: When neighbors locate the sword My mind travels—I’m no longer smooth in tongue, but angry. My thoughts have changed. I vowed thy lord to hold the strength it would require to protect his children—little did I know, it would be his trees. I know my anger is building on this subject. I know I’ll explode when I start to see their trees fall. My visions are deep thought—it amazes me how far I can travel without ever moving. May 17, 1999: Source of pain located What I lost—was my vision. Suddenly I was spending time talking about reality. Then to be watched by the head of Junior Achievement without being forewarned took the volunteer right out of me. I don’t believe in judgment, especially when I’m the volunteer! To be a bird, to poop and not feel guilty, to look at humans accept them or walk away. To be a bird, to climb all over my cage, to be upside down and see everything right side up—to sing out then follow it with a scream. To be a bird, to fly freely over lakes and streams, to sit in a forest of trees, to understand survival no matter what the cost. To be a bird is to search out and find a feeder, to keep warm during long winters to scurry away when trust isn’t anywhere near. To be a bird, to become one with all senses, to believe in ones own ability, to be still my wandering next thought. May 18, 1999: Return to dream state Poetry and painting are one in the same, yet opposite they remain. Mimicked lines are like rhyming. Shadows are dark thought. The eyes add mystery, the chin a playful self, the writer explains. Words are like pictures. The intent is to view while tasting. A perfectly rounded shoulder captures his lips enabling him to embrace his odds of scoring. The canvas, being that of life like—I’m proving that poetry and painting are one in the same, even while sketching. Words that describe—hide lines. Thick thought, thin brush strokes. Impossible to conclude, often overproduced. Therefore, I have a collage—poetry and painting. I’d toss in a pizza but nothing goes great with smeared tomato paste. May 19, 1999: Battling the beast Maybe I should sit within the forest. I’m cold. I’m lonely. I’m not lost but very hungry. I flew so low yesterday my sounds were that of wine, yet not the type you wish to consume. Who is it that takes over? It leaves me blind! Their face are as white as most of my paintings—emptiness unfaithful to the man whose passion has been to bring light to any corner unseen by the naked eye. I wish I could take a sharp object and open the soul that cries out—unexplained until time reveals hidden truths, leaving open new avenues of lost hope. May 20, 1999: Hello self…it’s me, self Interviewer: Let’s talk about your paintings…this, is something you are taking quite serious. Reply: I can’t explain the current importance of its birth. Interviewer: Give it your best shot. Reply: My words once painted only pictures. Today my painted pictures leave me with more words. Think about what this is doing to me…take a thin line and breathe life into it—capture the essence of excitement, that which has fought hard to stay alive. My current visitor has left me in several states of open-minded creative flow…my choice was simple—do not learn to fight it. May 21, 1999: In search of the spirit guide The trees, large stones, cardinals, sparrows and tadpoles all sit laughing—but not at me. Silence lives within the air of a new sun, its rays gleaming into the forested wall that serves as my temple. He is there—washing his face in the lazy stream, feeding from the wind that is born, studying the character of each fallen child. May 22, 1999: Who am I trying to convince? I sit back and listen to the words and music brought to life by a self who never stops dreaming—it’s not a passion to be musically famous nor is it a desire to take words and have them printed then sold. Without these avenues of creative flow, I become angry and overweight with a need to burst. I’m still the child who believes a round peg can fit into a square hole. May 23, 1999: When people don’t like your art work What we see may not be the same—but that’s ok…not everybody reads Stephen King. May 24, 1999: When silence becomes your friend To assume, to guess, to wonder why—silence that goes unrecognized shapes and shadows the sounds I cannot see. Blindfolds so thin, light is lifted then set down again. Harness the sound of silence; assume it rests while clinched in your aging fist—to guess I have it only to wonder why? Slowly opening the aching aging hand, I turn silence free—unto the world in which it was born. At that moment, time invades the silent shores bringing with it allies in the shape of birdcalls, crickets and bass beats from teenagers cars. Shadows cast over my assumed friend—to guess he’ll survive is all I am left with—to wonder why makes me a poet. May 25, 1999: Early morning adventures part one I try never to let rust grow on me—there are plenty of storms and searing heat from all kitchens. My most grand wish is to continue pushing forward. Suddenly I’m caught between fact and fantasy—people hate this about me. I’ve been told it’s very unhealthy! I shall walk into the forest while the sun continues to race toward noon. I shall watch as the morning droplets of last nights final thought fall to the floor. A floor my neighbors wish to sweep. The trees cry, I only wish to hold their hand. May 25, 1999: Early morning adventures part two My left hand—what’s it worth? Turning to view each print stained by ink, it just sits. Held down is the page while I write. My left hand—a tool I would miss. It’s the awkward son in this family. Don’t ask it to throw a ball; it’s there that judgment grows. My left hand—calmly waits until its twin is finished. It feels pain first, is quick to hide while reaching to greet. Who wrote those rules? My left hand—weaker yet scarred, always present never far. Does he get along with the other? There are no words—only pictures. May 26, 1999: We all have them What are radio dreams? They are songs that play out, wrong cuts, unidentified artists, and commercials playing but only through dead air. Radio dreams are transmitters never turning on; personal appearances without pants, jokes so funny you can’t recite them when you wake. Radio dreams are about getting fired, gaining new spins in places you’ve never heard of—becoming big in small places and program directors yelling and ordering. Radio dreams are about the world coming to an end and you forgot to send out the emergency activation signal. May 27, 1999: Your best friend’s news creates a reply Your wedding day is soon to take place—the tummy is tight, head sort of spins. Your childhood swishes around inside, while the adult in you stands bold and prepared. It feels like pebbles of sand that once served as a riverbed. Your wedding day—be strong but never too adult. Those pebbles of sand never go away and neither does the kid inside—he who sits there just giggling. Words written and dedicated to Todd Midgett. May 28, 1999: My first art gallery opens in two months I sit back and fret—I often feel that I can take on the world…yet shamefully hide from its criticism. May 29, 1999: I can’t say what I can write I write because it’s my passion—I love her because it’s an emotion. To be with someone you call your best friend isn’t luck, but years of traveling. I have died several times to locate her—an emotion most would rather not talk of. It’s my passion to be so open—an emotion to express what’s easily described as true love mixed with fantasy. May 30, 1999: Before there is depression I feel… I feel it first in my stomach—not a twisting or a turn…a lump of heavy something. I fall, they fall and there is no ice cream for any or all. I can’t explain this feeling—not a pain nor an ache. Loneliness it isn’t, nope not even a stomach ache. But it’s there! I fall, they fall and there is no fun for any or all. I feel something take over—not warm, isn’t even cold…quite heavy, right there in my stomach. I fall, they fall, let the running begin. I don’t feel lost or ashamed—no reason, no rhyme…I know its time to wait—sit in silence, before I fall, before they fall…shhhhh, for any or all. May 31, 1999: You have no idea do you? Interviewer: Do you think your art is ready for people to see and buy? Reply: Anything I do is worth buying…I’m that unique. Interviewer: You seem a little confident toward something you’ve only been doing for ten months. Reply: What I do best is blend play with reality—I truly believe once I’m able to leave behind public judgment, my chance taking will be the most brilliant accomplishment to date. Interviewer: Once in radio, always in radio… Reply: Look at my artwork! You telling me this is Radio! Radio is only one level of who I am. I have vowed to never stop sharing. I constantly give away…it makes me who I am! June 1, 1999: It takes a child’s toy to locate answers As it is told, so it goes—from this point forward, til death do us part. “Not I.” I explain. “Nor I.” is hurriedly returned. “What is it we speak of?” I ask again. “Battery operated toys…” The answer is given. Begin if you will—chocolate and peanut butter, the dusty trail—out of town by sundown. “Word games,” I interrupt. “Nothing lines.” I am told. “But why,” The question is born. “Battery operated toys…” Becomes the answer. Quacks and quirks—mile markers and stones, fudge-cycles in July—melted dreams everyday. “How dare you go there,” I exclaim. “Only too true,” Is returned. “But why now?” I sharply ask. “Battery operated toys.” The only answer shared. June 2, 1999: Locating emptiness At times, my mind wishes to play—other times, I don’t wish anything upon myself. It’s not that I’m tired. My heart is weak, my visions are blurred—an ear full of music and I can’t tell you a thing about the song or the lyrics. June 3, 1999: Ink stained poetry I walk silently, a path, a pack—watching, viewing and carefully planning. I am wolf. Not to be trusted. That is my warning. These words were written on a painting I brought to life, now owned by Freddi Hammer. After its creation the words penned out in my journal were this: I tried to write on the other page…fricken pen wouldn’t work, so I decided to play. Depressions are that way. They’re magical mystery tours that involve self. I cannot explain the wrongful energy flow that governs the thought pattern. It’s a beating that leaves me breathless. Yet, I sit here and ask why? The forest, I call it home. I hear birds calling out to me, only to ignore the friendly while concentrating on each of my enemies. I am wolf, my thick gray coat is torn, my face scarred—yet my eyesight is keen to all who move. I sit with no one, for it’s my silent visits with thunder that brings me peace. My walks are far—I must eat, to prey upon, to earn the battle wounds that act as dancing heroes. I am wolf, symbolized, memorialized by those who think of me as their totem. All want to be me, all dream of me…I walk silently, a path, a pack, watching, viewing and carefully planning. I am wolf, not to be trusted…that is my warning, to never hear it again. June 4, 1999: Begging to see the beginning Whoever handed me this paintbrush, you forgot to leave the rulebook. Paint as well as ink stains my fingers and hand…is that right? The pictures left behind, shocking, revealing, curves I never knew. Is that right? No! No! No! Who cares if it’s right? If you left me the paintbrush—forgetting to leave the rulebook, my attitude is as such: I paint, I write, then I blend a world of my own and you can’t judge it. Whoever left the paintbrush; you forgot to leave the rulebook! I’m not Picasso yet I love saying his name. I do not dream like Dahli but I’m challenged the same. Ink pens that shade, brushes that bring color to life—an imagination legally undiscovered and no…I’m not Christopher Columbus. I do though enjoy each sailed journey. To bring poetry to an empty space, now that’s me! I sit in silence as people begin to watch—only to hope they realize there were never any rules. June 5, 1999: Reaction to the un-reacted A fellow poet asked me this week about why it’s so difficult for me to accept a compliment…his look that of wonderment—his eyes quickly darting to assume a closer examination. My reply came to him through genuine love and trust. “I am not here for me. I don’t need my ego stroked to feel important. To watch your writing grow as well as all those who make up our circle is compliment enough.” June 6, 1999: I heard it…did you? I met John who was called upon to preach. I looked deep into his soul in hopes of catching the blue flame from the fires of his loyalty. My belief in God is his belief—I only wonder if he would’ve understood that my forest is just as important as human life? Would he have understood that a rock’s visibly attracts the attention of all? As does the wind and trees—all created by our God. And God spoke to me: Like snowflakes, each of you is different—therefore your lessons will be. But in the end—we shall meet as one, for I, being your Lord must lead in ways for all children to understand. Your way may seem different and out of place—but only in materialistic value. Signed, God. June 7, 1999: The neighbors are cutting down trees When I look out my window, I expect to see the beauty of life—not in a sickly “I am perfect” form, not in a “nature freak” style. I see trees that hold hollow dreams filled with birds, squirrels and moles and although I’ve never seen them, snakes, frogs and turtles. Life in different forms—not the stuff poets love to write about, not the sort of life that brings solitude to a day. Life—that was here before me. June 8, 1999: Caring enough to look bad I’ve always had a McDonald’s view of the business world—nobody approaches if I’m wearing McDonalds clothing. It’s my daily attempt at proving the world wrong—this book can’t be judged by its cover! June 9, 1999: I don’t want to hear what you have to say I am a doubting Thomas. I am a skeptic, a pathfinder whose own accomplishments send him into a long dug out tunnel of questions. The poet hides in a forest of no trees—therefore a poet must travel beyond the white desert, an emptiness, smooth to the touch and the poet must make love with it. June 10, 1999: Shape shifter from warrior to rabbit Standing back—I too watch vision to visual. One in the same until the other becomes a religion. No words, only silence—a scoped thought. A glowing, unperfected, carefully colorized solstice of realism—one I shall call a visual realism—an act of movement without steps. June 11,1999: Words of wisdom or words of defeat? I look around the room to make sure I’m really here—a night with no sleep, a mind in motion never casts shadows on an endless path. The boulder rolls while the sun moves—what’s assumed to be a shadow is covered in dust and fallen debris. Be it…what it may be—but don’t call it what you assume it to be. Stand in front of the rolling boulder, let it consume your entire body…leave your eyes open and see if there’s a shadow. June 12, 1999: Confrontation with a doubter People who say they aren’t creative are lying to the world—especially to themselves. The ability is always there—we just choose to walk around it. June 13, 1999: The invention As I walk through the forest, I’m shocked at how much I’ve fallen in love with her hidden walls of green. This…after writing a story about being booted from her presence on Christmas—the imagination plays such funny games with me, therefore I must allow it to breathe…in return, it will grow. That’s why I created trilogy poetry—an exercise that bleeds more than one thought from the opening sentence. Each trail is different yet convincing. Instead of a hard-edged focus on one thought—the imagination grows when new leaves are born. June 14, 1999: When life bites you back The nib of a writing instrument is designed to take the full impact of one thought—this one keeps bending out of place. There must be a lesson here… June 15, 1999: Bodily functions To visualize something funny—to whisper, “Backstreet boys,” might create a giggle. But it’s a laugh we’re searching for. The middle kid in Hanson—looks like a girl. Now that makes me laugh, as does the book “Jazz for dummies.” How can you teach improv? Sit, watch and listen—music felt, pretending you can see popcorn jumping in a bag. A woman’s laugh makes me smile. Hold it! I feel a giggle coming on. Nope! It was a burp—sorry, should’ve let it go…I’m sure someone would’ve laughed. June 16, 1999: First thought is the deepest Ink spots…written words—scribbles like a doctor, trapped emotion turned free—sometimes, it’s best to keep them swimming in ink. To many thoughts at one time, a race to see who’s first. The arm foreman sits looking back at me—his look based upon words without written shipping orders and receipts. You can’t send them back; they’ve already been given birth. How many thoughts does the average person abort? Self versus self—Jerry Falwell builds a crusade, the room becomes divided. A vacuum is heard in the back of my head—there are no words yet I’ve traveled through closed doors. Write as much as you can—to stay closed forever leads only to thought abortion. June 17, 1999: Encompassing the visionary In time, there’ll be soil—maybe even a tree. For now, I’m only a sponge sent to the forest to study. June 18, 1999: Beware It amazes me how the imagination can sit on one subject…but only for a moment. It only becomes fascinating when play is at stake, learn to allow it to build and it shall dream. Allow it to tear apart and it will sit back and view the essence of why…which is why I’m not a leader. I’ll build you up only to let you down—I believe in the opposite but only after I’ve attempted all angles to the proper answer of the question being asked. June 19, 1999: I can do it on my own I’m standing on the corner of walk and don’t walk—the ability to say, “yes,” but I say, “no,” the loyalty to succeed only to lay low—accusing the situation on a need…to rest. I am lost but I have desire—a lack of inspiration…a calling into the forest of influence. I scream, “Wolf!” They once ran to my side. Today, I’ve grown silent—I hear the motor within this light fixture. It clicks, it’s stuck, frozen, caught between walk and don’t walk—I see it as a sign, a signal, a message to run, run away, to hide, to walk on paths unrecognized…yet safe. I suffer from fear of failure, signals cross, and change. Stop blinking! I become frozen with no idea of who’s talking. June 20, 1999: The peace garden is born A simple hill becomes a new walking place—lined with stones that make a wall. Its strength reaches within my racing mind and says, “This is where the path begins…” “A path?” I question, “It was all but a vision six years ago, only to see that it’s taking place without me knowing it.” I would like to create a path to follow each morning I pray—the path will tell the story within the circle I call my life. My world is becoming more spiritual than ever thought—an incredible sense of peace, which in return allows the soul to finally breathe. What I see outward is the vision to be slowly digested inwardly—an ability to answer, strength to suggest and a confidence to help mend. The sacred ground I call my earth mother allows it to be—what I taste savors truth, what I hear is the wind from souls passing through. A path of peace for Gods children to walk upon before leaping into a heaven we only assume exists. But why question it? Look at all those trees! I didn’t plant them nor did I take from them the children that once sat where I now sit—a spiritual warmth blankets the trail my imagination follows. To take from my spirit keeper the tears he cried when told to leave this land makes me scream out… Not in anger but in color, “Welcome home! It’s yours to roam and play, dance and sing—it’s small but in time I believe it will grow! While the eagle scrapes the sun, dropping blessing for us to accept—this is one I give to you…my spirit guide and keeper…welcome home.” There is a spirit within the forest, a growing love toward an impressive desire to hear it speak—not words but unexplained written chapters as told by the wind. I stand on the creeks edge each new sun in hopes of learning new songs to sing, new ways to help heal and to accept a better way to live. From my place of prayer, I hear the wind—a breeze that touches the essence of faith. Waving my arms first to the north, then south, east then west…I begin to pray. I hold open my soul, my knees bent I touch my mother earth, respect the water flowing through and look at each tree—it’s my vow to learn from their knowledge. The feather placed over my face, a chant enters the emptiness soothing the keeper of sadness…the feather resting on my forehead, I learn without words shared, learn to heal thy soul first—only to touch the hand of those willing to learn tomorrow. My prayer path—it leading me closer to Gods purpose…never question, only listen. June 21, 1999: Understanding the path Even a tree has problems living up to its full potential—one day falling to the waiting ground. “You left me forty years ago,” the earth says to the treetop. “Welcome home! Welcome home!” June 22, 1999: No matter how bad it seems… My eyes closed, the attempt is to flee! Only to notice the dog is itching with me. It’s not fair! He gets to use his hind legs and tongue. Then again, who would want to taste poison ivy? What if his tongue starts to itch? June 23, 1999: The production room named Womb Creativity is born in the dark… June 24, 1999: Lessons taught thru child’s play If I had a million dollars, I’d buy up the land around me. I’d tear down the house and turn the land back into a forest. Wait! My toes have leaves on them! My hands resemble branches! Leaves of green, branches fresh and new—growing, growing quickly…my forest, miles and miles, long and wide—made from my millions. Look at me! I must be three thousand feet tall! I can see everything—the distant city, the far away highway and little children playing with matches. No! What a thought! What a nightmare! To take a million dollars and turn it into a forest only to find out people don’t care. Build as you can, create as you may—dig my roots deeper into the clay…only to learn, there’s always something that can destroy my dreams. Hec! They’re not even getting paid. June 25, 1999: Viewing all negatives without inviting harm Yet, in the end…I still came out on top. It was safe enough to leave at my normal time. I cussed at myself a couple of times but in the end—I liked me again. June 26, 1999: Accepting divorce six years later It’s an untold storyline to fools the imagination—pictures that last a moment before leaping toward the sunset. It’s all I have of a life once lived. It’s all I own of our times together—tossed out, written about but never saved. June 27, 1999: Documenting 13 days of the itch I must admit I did take a journey, a vision quest not over and between the great creators mountains but over walls and valleys built within me. A valuable lesson learned was my battle with poison ivy—my confidence was high, fear unknown…I took on a thirty foot tree only to learn the vines on my own land brought me to my knees. Therefore, I became over confident, learning the plant was much smarter and more patient than I. June 28, 1999: It’s only a day on the map of life Three away from forty—I’m a big kid almost in adult cloths. My mother was once forty—I never thought I’d be. I’m no longer a kid, a father figure with dreams twice as young as me. Sadly, I don’t laugh out loud, not a giggle or gas. I’m much farther away from capturing my dreams than yesterday. June 29, 1999: Ink is paint but I can’t see the portrait It’s one of those mornings filled with paths—I could walk any direction and locate anything to talk about. It’s a constant mental battle; time is moving way to fast. There are days I can’t stop writing—so I write and write until my mind tells me to quit. Only to realize, I can’t remember anything I’ve written. Why must I at times feel so lonely and cold? How is it anger refuses to leave my fingertips? You would think after five years of daily writing the answer would come to me…then again, what would I be like if I hadn’t started writing? June 30, 1999: Who me? Speak on behalf of writing… Interviewer: People have asked about your willingness to help others who write—you aren’t a professional, you’re not a teacher, yet you continue to discuss writing at at the book store. Reply: Exactly! Professionals and teachers bring judgment. My goal is to help open a door of communication. The more you write, the more you may want to perfect your skill. My wish is to hold an open forum of thought, to share ideas—I want people to believe in their own ability to write. Interviewer: Are you afraid to stand in front of people? Reply: The moment I stop being nervous is the day I give it all up. It’s my body’s way of saying, “I care about presentation.” We’re all shy people, which is why I encourage people to assume a name—become the actor, become the person you’ve always dreamed of. Allow your hidden self to turn silent thoughts into a canvas of color—you can do this by nestling close to yourself then standing back to ask questions. My vow isn’t to write poetic themes—it’s a dream, a vision, a need to let the music escape me—drum beats, hidden guitars, a keyboard soloist and one person sitting in the audience—me…open minded with no judgment. So play…play again and again—allow yourself to creatively breathe. July 1, 1999: I bet you can’t last in my shoes I am the product of chance taking versus self-trust—a willingness to travel without leaving my favorite writing place. I laugh, I cry, giggle snort and only wish to share it. July 2, 1999: Early signals go ignored Ruts are where low spots grow roots—I must be feeling something coming on. As poets, we stand and watch, listen then digest—giant trashcans, blue and white, green with plastic sacks—A challenge, then a silent whisper…words, phrases, sentences and pictures. Who? What? Why? To choose what inspires—almost forgetting influences and desires—bust down, walk through and face the need to unveil. To unveil may bring judgment—that is, how we live—I have, you have, they want, we go to war, people die—all, over this need to be inspired. Therefore, I’ll back off, close my thoughts, run, hide and disappear. July 3, 1999: The art of being while still wondering No one teaches us how to pray, they ask us to bow our heads—so, in unison we do. To physically hold conversations with God comes from a tremendous amount of openness. When I reach toward the sky it’s like opening a great sense of warmth. I don’t see trees, it isn’t voices I hear—for the forest plays its song and I carry it with me. It’s reality without forgetting which path I’ve taken. July 4, 1999: The last of the millennium I believe in vision—but I never trust hope. It’s a faced painted with assumption, a willingness to forgive—because every chance was taken. Visions break down walls, empty bank accounts and replace the poor—new people move in, the city looks good—ten o’clock news gets its proper hype. Will we ever move forward? In love with a past we can’t change—trusting stockbrokers is our biggest mistake. Anyone who struts like a rich man is a crook, who took, from the replaced poor. July 5, 1999: Pictures that move A Lucille Ball movie—her red hair was endless and eyes that melt the realms of reality. A scene where she sits in a flowing gown, the unconnected mirror looks away believing it can’t find the strength to hold so much beauty. The camera lens must have been made of steel, to look within the eyes of fame brought to life by miles of natural music –as set into the surface of her skin stretched to create the character she is. Her hair today would be described as being “mall.” Yet in faded color, an old black and white, the roses planted in the soils of her cheeks blossom while the rasping of her chords heighten her naturalness. Animated expressions become art, invisible waves of energy exaggerated to bring life to a role—false happiness, a book without real characters, yet in Lucy’s world—it may have existed. It’s a life, a keeping up of what we all expect. Is this why Lucy was said to be sad? As we changed, she didn’t—until Ted Turner colorized what was once black and white. July 6, 1999: Yep, yeah right…ok whatever To open—align arrows…keep refrigerated—shake well before using, use only as directed. Must every path we take be led? Two tablets every four hours, not for children under twelve—if used after ten days consult a physician. So many directions, this isn’t a one-man trail. It’s a freeway of junkies, Tylenol—three or four different types to choose from. EXTRA STRENGHTH baby! No wait! $15 a box? It’s a headache not a brain transplant. Stress! It’s all brought on by worries and fears, needs and wants—painkillers, $15 a box and plenty of directions to read. July 7, 1999: The view from this mountain to others It’s funny how a poet looks at rain as being another chapter—words dampened by the tears so many find hard to release. A poet is an actor inside a world of reality. July 8, 1999: I’m not supposed to be perfect Don’t look into the mirror—it only invites weakness. Allow yourself to breathe, accept what trips and stumbles you. Learn to paint, it teaches you how to accept what’s delivered. White out the face until it becomes perfectly shaped—writing is the same, add words until you see shadow. Only to return and notice the original was your best attempt ever. July 9, 1999: Battling a past I cannot change Handwriting—scribbles, moments of the “now.” By the time you see lightning it’s several seconds later. If God wants you today, there’s nothing you can do to prevent lightning from hitting you. Therefore, walk to your car. So I did…never once did I see a bolt of lightning—a moment now gone. July 10, 1999: Beyond the realms of Jesus freak The sun glows on the leaves just outside my window—if only people knew what’s given birth. The poems, the paintings, the spiritual connection—jumps, leaps and falls. My window is step one of the path. Step two is physically walking into the figments of this imagination. I’ve stopped asking God questions and started listening—each day, a new path is born—turning to the western sky, I offer my thanks. Does God talk to me? Page through every written thought, view the painted portraits, then return to the original question. People expect conversation—I expect nothing. -To Woji - Why couldn’t you be my human son? Then again, I could dress you up in Gap cloths and Nike tennis shoes. I could teach you to kick a soccer ball, throw a baseball—take out the trash before it overflows. Our bond is…so human like—only to learn it’s supposed to be this way. Man and his friend, from puppy chow to adult one—the walks of solitude, the conversations and you sit there listening. But! Why couldn’t you have been born in human form? I’m talking the rounded cheeks, the desire to read and the willingness to charm. Don’t get me wrong—I love the hugs and kisses, puppy breath and land mines…I really do accept you for you…my son. July 11, 1999: Visionary versus realist I really can’t tell you what life will be like in 2043—sadly, I believe mans desire to better himself will kill him. The ability to visualize the future is horribly painful—to watch the world change, then return to the present forces you to realize who must die before achieving the required steps to get to the future. I can’t imagine going back in my own life to change anything—a simple tying of the shoes can send everything off course. It’s a selfish world. Why would the future be any different? July 12, 1999: The art show nears. I become affected I share with you—a self, no one sees. A vision that runs along a path, a forest full of dreams—I share with you my poetry, my paintings, chocolate and peanut butter, ice cream on a hot Carolina day—a bird and cat, a vanilla coke, hammer and nails—R Kelly and Celine Dion…portraits and poetry. Opposites that seemingly attract—maybe there’s a time when music didn’t have lyrics. Was there ever a time when M&M’s did melt in your hand? July 13, 1999: Forgiving what we thought was wrong How did I luck out? I was born in America during a time of history when war is fought by embargos and well-respected negotiators. I’m not man enough to endure the evil pressures of war. I wouldn’t know how to kill, for that matter, to survive. My stepfather would call me a panty waste… A tough guy this dad of mine—discipline, his belief but in an honorable way. Looking at my life today, I’d have to say that he’s my biggest hero. July 14, 1999: It’s not suppose to be perfect I can’t sit down and draw a picture—they come to me in visions. I believe in the rules of open heartedness and uncontrolled behavior. My fingers stained, my mind exploding—the heart races to reach the finish line. My eyes, they’re wide open with excitement while my deepest fear is judgment. Your face, I cannot see—your hand, it rests with mine while I paint. It’s a vow to turn free the heart—a goal, to open each thought so you may pour inside. Your fingertips, they resemble mine—the spirit, a ghostly visit from a friend. Your shape, the forest I peer within—my inspiration, you…who is hidden. July 15, 1999: Giving credit God gave to me the willingness to draw…the passion to give something life. A gift—therefore, it shall always be. It was decided on this day, my artwork would never be sold in galleries, at flea markets or garage sales unless one hundred percent of the profit benefited an organization needing funds. The gift is the desire to paint—once handed to me, I share it with others like it was shared with me. July 16, 1999: Outside I become the professional To be consumed while I assume, is but the only way. For you and me, to be…together—I laugh, at a me who tries to explain—to be, is all I ever wanted to be…with you, without the ass, he who is king of corporate slavery. July 17, 1999: Message to those who journalize How many trees does it take to get to the center of your deepest thought? July 18, 1999: The evolution of seed to flower I carry several moods—the weight of sudden depression, two tablespoons of anger, a need to write and a doubting self that can’t believe it’s me who continues to paint in ways I never thought possible. My eyes are swollen with tears, for no one ever taught me how to properly pray. Then one day, I walked into the collection of trees that greet me every morning—fell to my knees and didn’t say a word…I chose inside instead to just listen. July 19, 1999: Confrontation with laziness The ole heart is so easily convinced—its backbone weakened by guilt. I shake and I tremble—all in reaction to pushing beyond the limits of expectation. July 20, 1999: Meeting with the medicine man I don’t feel lost—my vision is that of incredible warmth. The only question that stuck out came from me. “Is it possible that a spirit guide or keeper brushed up against me?” He gave no answer. July 21, 1999: Thoughts from the spirit guide What seems—is in fact a rainstorm in your heart. It’s your choice to run inside. July 22, 1999: The beast returns A sleepless night—the body crying out because it claims it’s depressed. “From what,” I’m always questioned. Yet, no one ever asks a woman why she bleeds… When depression lands its might wings on my runway, I don’t bow to my knees. I tend to respect it for what it is, without attempting to free myself from it through bodily damage. July 23, 1999: The study of darkness Third level reality: A thought within a dream, memories while in memory—yet, where does it begin? A book character reading a book, the mirrored image in front of a mirror—third level reality, the challenge is to push your hand beyond fantasy—much farther away from fate. If you can fly in a dream, imagine the possibilities on the third level. Maybe that’s where music is born, colors that remain unidentified. Could it be heaven? Third level reality: More then answer your own question, it’s beyond the painting and poetry—something is growing, I can smell chocolate flowers. July 24, 1999: Losing the battle I am not great at writing—nor do I want to be. I only wish to travel, not build the fricken airplane. I hate the taste of wine yet I enjoy the after affects that appear in my writing. July 25, 1999: Moss covered flowers It’s a dangerous thing—this mind. It must be fed or it becomes angry and hateful. It fails to respect anyone…not even itself. I trembled inside my mother’s womb. I felt fear, for I didn’t know the origin of such strong forceful thoughts. Not such a vision had challenged nor entered my mother’s veins leading from her heart. Silence filled the soul—ice cycles pointed toward hell. A masterpiece the picture seemed trees frozen, paved roads empty, mountains several miles high and I was told to climb—climb until the day my mother’s womb called me back home. Climb until sand became my writing hand. Thirty-seven years later, I’m all but me. Whom I’ve become isn’t what I dreamed—instruments carrying the blood so mixed like Picasso’s paint, visions of the journey are etched into this once living tree—my words are sharp, jagged like that of the newborn Rockies…but higher. I turn to the vibrant voice that shook me so young—it’s then that I scream. “If I have believed these hands and arms are not mine to keep—then I ask to see your face! I vow to look into the eyes of he who has done me wrong! If these hands, as so ordered by you, belong to you…then answer this question, why must they, my hands, dance where the music has been wrong?” Silence is felt—not a vocal to be heard, only sounds of television recreating a non-entering past, a black and white world un-colorized during these modern times of homemade beauty. “I seek not the greed!” I scream without moving my lips. I watch as each new word is born on the tip of this writing instrument. I am then handed the face of my creator—my knees bent, arms reaching toward the frozen summer morning with leaves painted by dew. These arms, which do not belong to me and eyes the same…I see the face of modern day society. An image strengthened by the fears of failure—eyes of stone, my soul a boulder…I am a rock, my chapters written, my story told. I am in deed the tool of my creator. I have learned communication is present—words shared through the roots of a tree. July 26, 1999: From darkness grows moss I try never to walk in fear—yet it exists. My travels are within. To study emotions brought to the level of fully understanding. Looking back, I see last week as a starvation period—it’s my goal, my wish and my deepest dream to help encourage poets, painters and other creators to come out of hiding. It all seems like a fantasy until you realize your true purpose in life is to create…when you don’t—starvation consumes any true self. July 27, 1999: Do what I do not what others can do I don’t wish to be a schoolteacher. I often wonder where they develop the patience to sit and lead—to look at a slow student and offer help, to fully embrace failure hoping to gain just a little light. I tried for fourteen weeks! Failure became anger—laziness hurt me not them. My loyalty quickly became burned out and yet a schoolteacher never has the choice to turn or keep facing what disappeared months earlier. July 28, 1999: Invisible enemy puts noose around neck I have the worst time dealing with nothing—it’s an open wound that makes me bleed from the inside out. I see no blood, not a leak…yet I’m weak—downfalls so hard I wave to the left then stumble without ever catching the attention of a passerby. It’s self-hatred, miles and miles of wonder without answers—a stick stuck in a horses waste. I sit in silence—another day has arrived, here, gone, tossed aside. No documentation existed…then again, I did write. July 29, 1999: Window-shopping It’s so clear to see—the changing of seasons is my favorite of all. The middle of nothing, the beginning of everything—when winter meets spring, springs holds onto summer, summer loses out to fall and the leaves die. It’s winter! My favorite season is when there’s none to be had—on the sideline, top of the key, straight up the centerfield, absolutely nothing… I honestly don’t see color—not that I’m blind nor am I deaf to how people react—in the middle of nothing, the beginning of everything…the non-season is my favorite time of year. July 30, 1999: My first art show I am not here to change the world! I’ve learned to listen. “To what?” the question is tossed. “I really don’t know…” the artist returns. July 31, 1999: Loyal destination I once asked, “Who am I?” Since I never located an answer—I decided to move forward. August 1, 1999: Straight lines inked into paper I cannot draw your bird nor can I paint your child’s face—each expression is a moment of silence turned into bent lines and shadows. If you put enough of them together, a picture begins to grow. I am heavily inspired by the way shadows are born. I carry it with me until the next morning when I’m introduced to another sunrise. I’ll never try to explain why it is I do the things I do—I’ve been asking for thirty-seven years…why should your question be more important than mine? August 2, 1999: Out of the closet Interviewer: What went through your mind the moment your paintings were unveiled? Reply: Let’s get out of here! I didn’t want to get caught looking at my work guess maybe the seeds were planted and it was time for the farmer to let his field grow. I felt guilty, stupid, out of my league, embarrassed and shy. August 3, 1999: The messenger’s tablet Sarcastic the soul seems—I laugh and grab two Zantac, sit back and wait for the next thought to fall. Then it hits me—paper and pen, ink from the well, paper from a tree…pennies tossed, messages carved. I wish and dream in two separate forms—words that have always lived and never faded. Seconds become memories, memories pass through time—the well becomes ink, the tree is cut to make paper…my job is to shade in the words already written. August 4, 1999: And so…this is life At times I laugh inside—most of the time I patiently watch…memories are chapters, journalizing the behavior. Visual paths, as taken by the dreamer—I look at people and wonder…I’ll laugh out of courtesy, only to walk away wondering something more. I sit and listen to many and offer no advice… Yet, they seem to feel better. It’s because I see myself, the wandering paths of choice, the rolling hills of challenge—mountains that seem tall, lakes usually big toe deep. A giggle appears on my canvas. Yep, this is what it’s all about…words scratched into paper, to one day be tossed out. August 5, 1999: Fine tuning the what if? When does a picture become a painting, a doodler—an artist, a word gatherer or a writer? When does ice cream become sherbet? Pessimist versus optimist—the best takes second place. August 6, 1999: Don’t compare me I never spend time thinking about the payoff—I’m so busy working on the future that the past leaves no open spaces for me to run and play. The minutes, seconds, hours, days and months—they fly by so fast and we pretty much do all we can to waste everyone of them. That’s why I write, paint and listen… When someone says, “I don’t know where you find the time.” My reply is silent—it sickens me to think that I’m looking at someone who can’t locate the desire to find time. August 7, 1999: So…what are you going to do about it? You get so used to doing the same thing over and over—it’s the American way of life…habit. I complain if I don’t have anything to do. I scream if I’ve been given something to do. Such is life—we are a lazy nation filled with purchased happiness. We build walls of I wants and I’ll throw a fit if I don’t get what I want. We are a society of reflection. August 8, 1999: Becoming my stepfather It’s been almost a week—the swelling in my leg has increased. For the first time, I’m unable to sleep. I’m scared, maybe there’s damage or sickness? What makes me nervous isn’t the pain—its not knowing what I did to deserve a swollen leg. “Old age,” I keep telling myself. The body must learn to keep up with me or I’ll leave it behind. Oh body oh body old you are getting—but not now! Not until you’re 90! August 9 1999: Ego versus reasoning I guess I spend way too much time trying and not enough time learning. To shoot the ball through the hoop requires patience and skill—to rush would put me face to face with a mistake. Lord knows I hate mistakes. I hate making them—I hate watching them take place. I realize they’re lessons to be learned…but at what expense? August 10, 1999: Bosses don’t put in overtime A bad feeling has crept over me—I feel as if I’ve walked through a cloud of evil. When someone looms within the darkness, given birth is suspicion. Maybe it’s not fear, possibly I’m mourning. I write about it so that my body can move forward with it—to embrace the worst. My heart isn’t in tune; therefore I must believe it has nothing to do with me. I saw your face inside the darkness—a shadow within a shadow, a feeling of uneasiness and restlessness. It was wearing your identity and cologne, your nametag, a scented picture ID. I knew it was you. It had to be you—who hid, who stood, who walked within the shadowed room next to me. Assumption my weakness—an enemy of the inside, I could only stand and stare hoping you’d come to the light to be recognized. I spoke first—trying not to talk in wonder. Your words were shortened to mumbles painting for me uninvited clouds of fear. A yellowish tint darkened the circles under your eyes—highlighted by hollow emptiness visible to my soul. Without thought I walked away knowing to never trust a man who hides before speaking. August 11, 1999: Communicating Two Blue Jay feathers—one located near the bird feeder, the other on the left hand side of the sacred circle. I could write this off as being coincidental but my belief rests in faith. A Blue Jay is a protector—to locate a feather told me I was being watched. Being that it was placed inside the west…that shows gratitude on her behalf. August 12, 1999: Phobia I’ll be man enough to call it fear of acceptance… The average day of creativity isn’t based on ego—it’s an attempt to harden my foundation. Why so many questions? Do you want to grow? Why can’t time inch along? Who says? “I say…” Who are you? Your reflection. August 13, 1999: The heavy weight of letting go The concept of poetry and portraits isn’t unique until you realize it’s the combination of what I do that makes it, its own special place. Am I good enough to be in another art gallery? Hard question to answer—I’m not used to letting my children go. Which is why I envision purchasing a booth—fill it with art, then hang a sign that reads Not For Sale. It creates the image of I want what I can’t have. August 14, 1999: When poets meet The circle becomes silent, quiet, thought placed on a diet. You should have seen their eyes, some looked and others turned away. A castle filled with turmoil and so many dreams, wishes, commands—to turn it into something, anything. What a meeting! It’s a cast, a crew a melting pot of thought—a thought bar. August 15, 1999: Call him dude There’ll come a time when my writing instruments will no longer be remembered for their names—most are gifts, to which I would never forget. But…a name isn’t as important as that firm handshake. Most of us don’t earn our names—they appear in books, are family air looms, pieces of this man or woman—then one day we suddenly appear. We’re forced to live within the shell of knowing whom we are while living in the shadow of a name given to us at birth. August 16, 1999: New mountain old habit I haven’t been satisfied with my paintings this week. Look at them! Can’t you tell its all based on the element of I can’t draw an object? I find it inspiring to look at other people’s artwork—what drives me off coarse is my lack of desire to want to copy them. It’s all part of the take a chance theory. Let me be honest—I’ve become a perfectionist who expects the best in less than an hour. I keep going back to the art hoping that I’ll accept it—I do…because I can’t anymore. August 17, 1999: Reconstructing patience You can write a line and the other quickly follows—then without warning, the idea dries up. The messenger has left the scene—leaving behind only pieces of a moment. It isn’t restlessness I’m weighed down with—it’s the agony of wanting to move forward. August 18, 1999: A poets color wheel I find myself wondering why poets can’t seem to locate—it’s a quest. Sometimes I get tired of wanting to know. I’m not a know it all. Yet it seems I want to know it all. A needle drops into a haystack—I can’t hear it tumble, until it kisses the ground. Yet, I know it’s there, wanting to be located. My mind searches for such a song—lyrics unmade, so is the bed but this isn’t poetry about my mother. August 19, 1999: Hi there! Please sit next to me. It’s 83 degrees and my body still craves being covered up—remnants of a grandmother who spoke of always being cold. I’m only this way when I write or paint. The body shifts, opening trails of color and mist. The eyes run to play without ever leaving this page. The imagination is my tour guide…I can still hear my father, “Shut up and listen! You might learn something!” I laugh while turning away—a smart ass I can be, often missing the true message. Then I stop…in hopes of catching up. I see the hands of an aging man, the body covered by a white cotton soft blanket. Where did I go? What did I do? Most of the time I refuse to look back—leave it for another day, another time—lessons in life upon the arrival of my memory whispering, “Goodbye.” August 20, 1999: Rivers with no banks The mind is awake—I just can’t shake the things that make me complain. My poetic dream are visions from afar—travels so distant, I often sit back and laugh. A giggle tool, a tummy tickler—a child wrestling with thought, like he once did with his brothers. I simplify not to entertain—simplicity adds colors to hidden rainbows, storms from that placed called afar—with promises to never go that way again. Rain drenched, soaked by frozen wants…a need—but why? A mood…good answer—I have enough to create an entire deck. Anyone care to play fifty-two card pickup? Beware…poetic dreams in creation. August 21, 1999: Mind games So…I bend a thought—my arms ache, heart stops. The bent thought sits staring at me, yeah me! The painter! The child! For no reason, I bent this thought—a good thought made better. A wandering thought given a home. I’ve bent this thought farther than expected. Green becomes blue and red grows into brown then black. Bent thoughts are in essence the exercise of taking things to far. Like the man sitting on the park bench—two guys melted into one, chewing gum while eating ice cream. What’s his favorite flavor? August 22, 1999: I bite As an adult…my paths are silent. I’d rather attack this world as a loner then hang with people. Sure, there are those who sit with me—mentally I’m not anywhere near them. It’s an unexplained desire. If you try and figure it out…I’ll become angry and change—a chameleon, a shape changer. It’s the willingness to travel, seek and search—then walk away. August 23, 1999: To Linda McCartney Some have laughed and accused tossed out thoughts good and bad—brought to life impossible accusations. I hope you sat and listened half-heartedly, watched with open new beginnings then playfully walked away. For you had an eye that could picture—a vision far reaching, a way of making music through your camera. For you had a purpose—a self-willingness to believe, a liking for the very city I too have fallen in love with. Places of travel—all four corners, a world of your own…yet you shared it. Pictures of insight—like paintings in a gallery, music you had helped write—using the lens of inner self…it now sleeps forever in Santa Barbara. August 24, 1999: Unwritten chapters I don’t have to fork out $7.50 to watch the film—I own the place! I’ll steal the popcorn and never turn myself in. I can’t lock myself out I have the key. When the credits start to spin and the theater is totally empty—I’ll take the hand of my very best friend and slow dance with her in the center of the screen. Robert Redford will sit on my shoulder. Demi Moore waits to leap over my left eye. The music it belongs completely to me…a slow dance inside a dream. August 25, 1999: Not a solution only a symptom I have the watchful eye of the wolf and the bite of a constrictor. If provoked, I’m lethal—capable of striking out in the name of death. Anger that I’ll one day learn to better control, for it’s my greatest weakness. August 26, 1999: Self-portrait of what others see I’m tired. I’m hungry. I have no emotion—three signs of a depression on the brink of arrival. No faces or arms extended to greet me. Then again, I’m not friendly either. August 27, 1999: The control of creative flow My hands want to sit and daydream—creating pictures of great magnitude, but I don’t know how to bring them to life. Words of incredible length and depth—avenues and streets built for several cars and I’m the only one walking. I taste challenge only to spit it out. A layer of moist thought and I haven’t the time to add life to a daydream. The trembling of a watchful eye—the mask of a willing stranger, an image looking back at me and I only offer a smile. Ink stained thoughts in the middle of a daydream. So then…it does exist! A path with no name yet I travel it everyday. It does open its arms and I walk inside to be held—only to open my eyes, to openly admit as well as realize—time can’t stand still. Note: This was the day ten of my paintings were auctioned to raise awareness as well as help fund research leading toward a cure for breast cancer. They say one in six women you know will be diagnosed with breast cancer. This show was dedicated to Theresa Church of Taylorsville, North Carolina. Upon reaching this day through my research December 4, 2001 I have learned that one of my spiritual inspirations Vicky Mclendon has been diagnosed with breast cancer. God bless them both. August 28, 1999: Giving up art to help rebuild tomorrow What I feel is emptiness covered with fresh soil. It feels as if I may have located a chunk of something missing. August 29, 1999: I walk in footsteps gifted not taken I do not fear death—my travels have never been the most grand of adventures but my relationship with a high power is the most valuable thing I own. I’ve shattered the rules and have vowed to understand why—most would continue walking… My mind is a visionary—constantly working on the inner peace of forgiving but never forgetting. Documenting my travels clears out old closets—it allows the writing hand to fill boxes then toss it away. August 30, 1999: Sick is the mind that doesn’t watch life A bird and its perch—a homeless man and his box, does a bird sleep in the same place twice? Am I too deep for even a bird to fly? Feathers I notice on the ground—from perches they fall, to place within a special box…as blessed by he who is my father. I sit and listen—almost never paying to much attention. I don’t want to get caught, for a bird’s perched words are thought for other perched creations. I am only here to catch the seeds that fall from their craw. August 31, 1999: A third graders dream comes true Tony Bennett claims he left his heart here in San Francisco—my imagination has challenged the heart to take the city by the bay with it. I’m that selfish! I sit staring into the depths of what we did—the vision is far as well as graphic. A city by a bay…great bridges that race to the other side and sea lions on the wharf barking and roaring. I can’t help but laugh inside. Imagine that! Captain serious is being human. It’s quite real when you’re in San Francisco. September 1, 1999: You’ve got to learn to relax…ass Dinner at Casa Nova’s in Carmel…I really loved it! I went in with an attitude though—I wanted to know why we traveled over two thousand miles to visit a city filled with overpriced shopping and no love or passion to grasp onto it? The waiter told me, “It doesn’t exist.” A love, a passion—yet the man three feet away called Carmel the most beautiful place on earth. What was he viewing? Had he been drinking? Maybe I expected too much? Then again, isn’t this California? All is suppose to be beautiful, memorable, unexplainable and far-reaching. Sea gulls of plenty, pelicans too—my mind has collected an array of colors and textures…but not enough to claim I’m in paradise. September 2, 1999: Locating the final dance Pacific Grove—highway one to sixty-eight…goes til you hit the much written about Cannery. Travel through history passing the Green Gables and the pink bed and breakfast. There’ll be a park bench sitting alone yet within the peaceful waves so often blessed with sea lions and otters. It’s here that time will be remembered, held close like every song, savored with each simple kiss and even the laughs and giggles will be invited to stay—until she whispers dance with me. Then, just like Larry…you will know what to do. Hollywood black and whites set inside picturesque dreams made of chocolate. September 3, 1999: Move me land that shakes At times I can’t help but notice a shadow beside me—only to learn it’s my own. That’s when I realize my needs are that of presence, something to attack my heart, my imagination—maybe I’m expecting God to be with me at all times. Maybe I don’t need to be moved each time I breath. I keep writing to be touched when in fact it hasn’t happened. Must I come two thousand miles to read between the lines? Yes, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. September 4, 1999: The Getty museum Los Angeles I sat looking into the eyes of each painting—I studied their behavior and wanted to know how they came to being. I grew to extreme depression knowing my painted faces looked nothing like this presentation. It’s my fantasy to embrace the essence of how it’s done, so that I may push to move forward. I don’t want to be a great painter—I don’t want to be known as a poet. These are places to visit upon a journey filled with jagged rocks and an ocean I can’t get to. September 5, 1999: When all else fails…feel I try to rub my fingers across the words I’ve released into the air—I feel levels of expression, movement without my mouth…caverns and caves, impressions carved into mountains—all this, invisible to the naked eye unless you are learning to write. Caressing this page isn’t sexual—the patterns may be the same, filled with touch, feel and massage…in the end no one, not even my self is left excited. September 6, 1999: The past is a path fill with no change The sun set fast in Santa Barbara—I’ll never forget looking up from my canvas to watch my best friend sing and dance with the music escaping the outdoor system. That should have been the picture I painted—not the heavily traveled street kissing the ocean bathed with hanging palms. I was more in love with her world than the one I tried to create. September 7, 1999: Pacific coast freedom I thought…maybe just once—before sliding it away, maybe I could dance one more time with my Santa Barbara sun. The memories placed within their banks, new challenges break out like pimples. I was not inspired or happy about our return to Charlotte. I didn’t want to see the skyline as we descended back into reality. It feels incredible to be sitting next to my fuzzy children and songbirds—yet my heart mourns for the unexplained vibration that California sings. I watched as you started to dream—a world of our own in a land so far away. Ancient stories, cobblestone streets, a fear of earthquakes in the city built on the bay. I watched as your child like self played—we danced under the bridge, giggled while eating cheesecake, made love at 3am… The streets were made of gold, stood 400 miles tall, the day was long and we had the energy of 10,000 children. I watched as you started to dream—to bring our little girl into the picture. The mention of her name created tears; we were only two whispers away. I knew to follow the light in your eyes, two friends in love—you and I in search of nothing. But that’s ok—sometimes, dreams need to be set aside until you realize how we danced at sunset—Carmel by the sea…being together was our music, special songs I knew every word to. We have to go back soon—for it was the place I wish to grow up in…I’m tired of being a kid. It’s a place to be with you…until we meet again. September 8, 1999: Learning to fall back in love The sun sleeps—a dark path leading to the forest. They are avenues of unseen hero’s—while I sit and paint them into my canvas. The view is forced to come from within—trusting that each leaf and every tree is still within me. The sun sleeps—a dark painting hangs outside my window. So then, let it be said and or written…shared, then set-aside to ferment. I have returned to Carolina to see its full potential—the desire must be to listen. September 9, 1999: 9-9-99 I stare into the black of this new sun about to be risen—the backbone of my spirituality feeds confidence into a soul so willing to travel. It’s the ninth day of the ninth month in the year ninety-nine. God has every right to call this our final day…but I’m left to believe that he who controls each breath isn’t complete without man around to make his mistakes within the animal kingdom. September 10, 1999: Always in the mood…to write I tend to cherish good, bad and evil. All travels have purpose. I attempt to learn from all things—not to be a wiser man but rather…less foolish. What happens if I don’t feel? Do I become a politician? Would the world become black and white? What happens if I don’t care? What would be the opposite? Would I always be right? What happens if I no longer appeal? Will the circle shatter tonight? Would I stop writing? September 11, 1999: Todd’s wedding day nears Your hands will help guide—they’ll lie next to you each night. Closely nestled together they bring comfort—visions of inner peace only God can explain. Your hands are the stems that bring to your life brilliant color. Your hands held tightly become one—carried near the dreams of those seeking the same. Grow in truth—let faith heal all wounds. Believe in each other, for your wedding day is a one of a kind…just like the hand you hold inside the bouquet. September 12, 1999: Photographs of child was once I stare at you—I knew exactly what you wanted to accomplish. People laughed—and so did you, which is why you forced yourself to continue. I look at you—not a foolish pain in your eyes or expression. A memory is caught—you knew it would be, because you’ve always said there’s a reason. I touch you—fingertips to Kodak camera. I giggle—you smile, the paint on your face never changes. September 13, 1999: The gift A bird doesn’t toss feathers to the ground to go unused. In the wild, a feather helps rebuild places of warmth—if not located, mother earth will gladly take the energy source. It’s the arrival of the full circle. My dearest little music makers, to whom I need in order to regain my inner peace—you bring me words I must learn to decipher, then instantly share. As weak as I have become is as strong as you are getting. You are friends in this life, beyond what’s expected—music to my lack of inner sight. The mission is to watch the storm pass by—study its purpose, then move forward without touching the sky… September 14, 1999: Hurricane Floyd nears Carolina So…I sit and wonder—worry a little as well. What’s God up to? To bring such storms, do the fish ever look up and question? What about the sea gulls or possum? Giant wind gusts blowing at 155 mph, shorelines eaten, and buildings dropped like pop cycle sticks. What is it God must be thinking? Before the second arrival—things will not be right. There’ll be quakes, hurricanes and fire—if it’s found in Webster’s world of words, it’s supposed to happen. Are we on the brink of becoming a passing breeze? Is God so fed up he’d like to try again? But what and who would he create? Anyone with a brain knows that having half a brain is dangerous. We get bored therefore we must destroy. Is God bored? Suddenly we’ve become his toys. What’s he thinking? September 15, 1999: Turning my back on other poets I want to hide—not run, for such a quick pace is fear. I want to hide—not seek, left alone to gather new trails. I want to close my eyes—not to fly, for I wish not to dream. I want to close my eyes—open thoughts, allowing fate in. I want to build four walls—not to climb, to hide so that I may grow. September 16, 1999: Filtered sandpaper If you go expecting something, you might get a jolt of electricity. Go unannounced; you battle the odds of better understanding purpose. You’re able to look beyond the surface, which does nothing but lead you straight to the soul. Become a traveler, there’s no better way to experience unexplained creations. September 17, 1999: Beyond the mirrored reflection As my thoughts walk through miles of memories—each heartbeat reacts to the final page…shadows cast to hide what isn’t to be seen—caverns and caves filled with childhood things. Silent footsteps, each are afraid to wake the worst. My breath evenly paced—short jabs, hoping not to wake. Into darkened halls the hands begin to feel, no light inside to fully expose the depths of my personality. A quick glance at the mantle clock ticking away, not a step taken yet I’m back in the bright light of my current today—disappointed, unarmored, so close but still to far to reveal the secret as to why and how come? The attempt is to return but not without time—what I don’t have, must it always show up unnoticed? The heart beats then changes; my feet run rather than fade. Another day, maybe later today—beware though, of the secret and or treasure I may bring back with me… September 18, 1999: Seeking truth beyond fate I chose to do a painting first—I’ve no idea of what it is I’m wishing to paint. The mind sets out to capture a moment and I’m left with an image I’ve never met…until I sign my name. Build upon the purpose until the eyes take their natural shape—always leave open enough room for the imagination to ask questions. I see it as the essence of love as it burns from the canvas surface—not love for thyself but rather…creation. Poetry to me is a picture and or dream—a scented chunk of wood swiped from the deck baking in the sun. Then I stop—assume my writing position…let flow what first appears only to realize the constant question, “What am I doing here?” When I die…I wish to have dirt from this forest put inside my ashes—maybe God will send me back to this very destination to be a tree. September 19, 1999: Sugar coated fantasy What must it be like to fly without feathered wings? To have the ability to over look the somewhat, to better taste the angered self, how shall it feel when I reach step one out of mans 400—only to leap onto the ocean floor? I could’ve…would’ve—without asking should I? I may, I will—therefore this writing instrument just saved my life. September 20, 1999: Symptoms hindsight recognizes My current dreams? I can’t remember… They’re vibrant yet not willing to escape the realm to which they were created. It’s a feeling I get in my stomach—a dull empty ache that shoots through my entire thought process affecting everything. When I turn the page, I always hope the levels of moods will go with it. Then I hesitate, realizing I need to face every corner with open eyes. The dull ache sits in the center of my soul—a hunger, craving, a need to feast on something. I would love to close my eyes and sleep, only to realize how unattractive that is to my true self. Fourteen minutes have jumped by—I’ve already written two pages. Like food, I have no idea what’s been digested… September 21, 1999: Less is more I never question Gods existence—I do though, open my door for all he brings to the tip of this writing instrument. September 22, 1999: The existence of survival I play by moving the pieces from side to side—a game of chess, made of constant waves. I am the pawn—a knight if I’m lucky. Part of the plan is to seize the queen, corner the king or rob from another player of this same game. Two steps up and one to the left—a secret is shared, help us to build it. One step ahead, my worth is what I wish to sacrifice—yet if properly played I’ll become anyone of the player pieces. Set in motion is the constant rush to reach the other side—that’s my job, my choice to play or get pulled from the game…the moment someone shouts, “Checkmate!” September 23, 1999: Pre-jitters, evaluation straight ahead My weakness is broadcasting. My failures are broadcasting. Sadly, I still believe there’s more to me as a broadcaster than the majority of the people I work with—therefore I see radio as being…a job. It’s a full blessing from God to experience what I do—even sadder…I just give it away. September 24, 1999: Wholesomely sick in the heart Spiritually, I’ve walked alone and wish to be left alone in a world of my own—four walls hiding the true self, to better preserve the person who wishes to grow. Like waves crashing hard against the California shore, I wish to touch heaven only to bring back with me beads of love, truth and better understanding. From it, I’ll learn to share, allowing life to experience a more genuine smile. September 25, 1999: Writing in Miami next to my lover I look up to see you patiently waiting for me to end. You too are in travel—deep within the pages of Danielle Steele. I can’t help but wonder who sat with her the very moment her mind started to write? I want the world to know you walk with me—I want people to one day read how peaceful you made my tomorrow. September 26, 1999: Something in the air in Miami I am blinded by South Beach—I’m silent, only to listen to the wind. Generations of walking souls, palm trees holding their hands—then letting go…each tossing of thought shakes from the palms the millions of souls still hanging on. Next stop—miles of ocean, possibly their heaven. Why else would these spirits still be here? Overlooking the bay, my imagination rests, as does the writing instrument that took a moment to allow another hand to push ink onto this page. September 27, 1999: Inner battle, all out war I wish to take better care of myself. I spend all this time concentrating on them tossing me out—only to ask, how much time do I spend trying to toss them out? My heart doesn’t want to play games. “Deal with purpose,” I keep telling myself. Fantasy is such a wasted sport—like this stupid need to write and paint. It doesn’t work! Most of my recent work is sad. A mile a minute the mind tries to run—only to realize I’m walking. September 28, 1999: Refusing to mow the weeds A true rose is a wild flower nestled next to a rock. If you enjoy its beauty and what it does to your smile—learn to be a tree and wait for the fruit to feed your roots. September 29, 1999: Un-erased treasures that cause blood In 1993 I saw myself as being a free form wave maker who got things done—six years later, I stand on the shore looking back. What I see isn’t necessarily a chance taker but a survivor. What made me stick out six years ago was more than having long hair and feeding a need to generate energy—I was focused on turning anything into gold, taking everything to the extreme while helping to mend the shattered doors and bridges that leaped between two businesses in the same building pretty much doing the same exact thing. I chose to see us as one company not two—today, I feel as if I’m paying the price but licking wounds that don’t exist…yet I feel them lost somewhere in my soul. September 30, 1999: Wisdom isn’t bragged about The world of radio continues to change as well as grow—jocks are getting lazier and I’m getting older. Yet, I’m still that thirteen-year-old kid with a burning itch to perform. It’s been a long ride—I often look back to crack a little smile. I had mountains made of wire, albums and 45’s tossed into open fields like Frisbees. Control room windows have always fed my imagination a sip of thought two steps from performance. Tingles of nervous laughter, phone calls from all corners of the nation, only bored if you allow it to be. Every piece creates the puzzle; every song adds color and shade—a twenty-year-old break heard on a crusty old cassette tape. “Like it was just yesterday,” I whisper to myself. “Like it was just yesterday,” I agree. October 1, 1999: If I can’t be…then can I be me? Each day is a new chapter. Each hour is a new paragraph. Therefore, a minute is a word. If I were to write what I feel at this moment, the moment would be gone. I am, who I am, not by sifting through or planning out—I physically erase the present, the now. Then replace it with the unexpected—reality isn’t deep enough or is it a fantasy. I am who I am…the writer. October 2, 1999: Shadows give me my greatest high The seed comes with no identity, which leaves me with more hope then expectation. What’s formed, is never planned—what’s laid out, is never sitting up—yet I am…while giving birth to paths not allowed to live until gifted with my signature. October 3, 1999: Share your intended goal of growth What does it mean when we say, “I want to grow?” A tree embraces winter by shedding its leaves. A bird molts in the cool air of fall—seemingly, one feels these are steps taken back. Grow means, push forward, and leap ahead, a get out of jail free card. Grow old with me—what’s the song really saying? The divorce rate is 51%. Who watches TV without a remote control? Grow means; laugh together while holding hands and passing gas…and she accepts it as hers. October 4, 1999: Untitled dream yet there’s purpose Rage lives within all and all need to be prepared for such abuse. October 5, 1999: Learning to love mistakes There’s nothing like writing through the remnants of yesterday’s impossible dream. I’ve either run out of whiteout or I’m taking a chance on something so difficult, I won’t let anything get in my way. I hate wasting paper! I look at it as being time. A sheet of paper equals several minutes of thought—toss out the paper and it’s like throwing away what little time I have in being myself. The messages caught on canvas after my daily rituals had been finished: October 5, 1999—8:18 am Why is it you look up for spiritual guidance but while you walk your look is down? Birds play an important role in your life but not to the point of constantly hanging your head. You were touched by the fog rising over the forest of trees only to quickly look down. If a bird wants to be spotted by you, let it catch your attention. Look upward, feel outward—bring to the forest your ability to see light. The ground is for all spirited keepers. Stop searching and start sharing. Do not savor every wild rose, for your box will become full. It’s then that your spirituality will become materialistic, which you’ve vowed to stand against. The spider’s web was created above you—the fog sat with the rising sun. Yet, your eyes didn’t locate a bird. Tell me, where did you find the most love? October 5, 1999—6:22 pm I’m thinking about death—I’ve chosen to pull the car over and write. It’s hard to explain because in the past I’ve chosen to walk rather than face. Why is it I feel like I’m losing? Why do I feel like I’ve turned my back on a self I’ve rarely liked little lone love and or desire? I sit twenty-five feet from the parking lot I drove into almost sixteen years ago—my first night in Charlotte. Once a Ramada Inn now it’s a home for retired people. I’ve tried so hard to erase this empty feeling! My cloud has thickened. I’m growing more ill. My willingness to die is much stronger. January 5, 2002: Keeping a writing instrument and book near me at all times has become the best weapon of choice when battling unexpected, unexplained sudden depression. All too often people say, “Come on! Pick yourself up and start feeling better.” People! If you come across someone who is down, not on luck but they seem totally out of it…hand them a sheet of paper and a pencil or pen. If it’s anger, sadness, exhaustion, loneliness, emptiness or the unexplainable—the best you or anyone can do is share with them something where such harsh attacks against the human soul can be placed. Who cares if they rip it up and throw it away! Allow this person to mentally puke their guts out. October 6, 1999: Overflowing closets with no boxes What’s wrong with me? Thoughts fall to the floor, melt with the dust, blow with the wind—disappear without saying, “So long.” My lungs lack the passion to retrieve. My heart looks on almost uncaringly. Here I sit, attempting to pull the twine leading toward the deep. Deep what—an ocean of black, poisoned by false hope? Maybe the dreams have died, each deteriorating, taking colorless detours. How deep—two inches to fifty feet? A puddle, lake or possibly a new sea—my writing pen stops…no answer wishes to surface. Like everyday, I’ll stop, move forward and hope this feeling goes away. October 7, 1999: Burp sniff sniff crunch Science still hasn’t perfected medicine. We’re the computer generation whose tools constantly fail. There are people doing jobs not meant for them. Yet, with proper training, this cassette tape will turn you into anybody. I refuse to allow myself to get angry because it really doesn’t hurt. It’s more of the principal. Stop giving! I have no idea what I’m trying to say except, “F*&% the world.” October 8, 1999: Three hundred fifty eight of 1,021 Why must my path be one of great study—to view each step as not being real? Time out! Let me go back and study that thought. Do I really study? It’s more like observe. No! I patiently wait for the outcome. Really? It seems like impatient. I never thought of that! It must be judgment, maybe criticism. For whatever sakes! What was the original idea again? October 9, 1999: Wake up foolish man wake up. Sometimes, the first thing I want to do…is glue a few drops of ink together. I try never to hide what wishes to come out. I allow all forms of everything to be given life. Painting is like writing—writing is like performing, any performance is a dream—come true. What feeds my imagination is a constant need to close my eyes and believe. October 10, 1999: Opened shades to a 6am world I would try to paint the darkness but someone would see it as black. My attempt would be to see the butterfly, the lonely one that flies only at night. To point him out would take away—to paint him in could make him shy. The nighttime butterfly, they say is blind. Not so! How else could he survive? Resting on a stump, the butterfly sits—caught on canvas but never print. His music is tiny, not like the croak of a toad, only a misting of harmony, which is why he is alone. Touched are the hearts that believe, which you will—the moment you see…the nighttime butterfly. October 11, 1999: The valuable worth of having change Dark is the sky, rain filled its path of choice—moisture to loosen what summer set in. It’s almost time to introduce the color, the glamour the best of all seasons—fall in Carolina. Leaves of bright yellow and red, forest floors become invisible, imaginations play like children—giant piles of leaves to dive into. Mountain creeks splashing against the rocks, the chill bites at your ears—the scent of homemade soup then enters… Dark is the sky; rain filled its path of choice—the new sun not ready to rise. Nor am I…for I wish to return to the fall painting. It seemed…so peaceful. October 12, 1999: Bridge over troubled waters What must this hand think each morning I wake? To take such beatings, a workout, then two hours of solid writing…looking at it so often, it’s as if I fail to care. A tool, are the self-delivered whispers. They’re what I trust to always be there. Paint stained from a late night adventure—a teal colored blue, dark as night, fooled like a sunrise. Outside of my own sight, what must the world think? Within the soul I smile a peaceful grin…for I don’t care what others assume. Yet, beware if you travel near. I am just as quick to judge—a weakness and or form of protection. Bring no opinion, for I have my own interpretation. I sit and wonder far longer, leaving no room for you to enjoy. My space is the self-delivered whispers…conceit? Yeah maybe—but I deserve to be. October 13, 1999: Not my day to baby-sit Eyes, ladders and steps—I’d love to one day understand why they appear in my artwork. Everyday is a challenge for me—an uphill climb. Yet, I never know if I’m going up or down. When I say challenge, I don’t mean I can’t accomplish. I take on the slightest efforts to make them unique, one of a kind, something to hold and or endure. The eyes must represent how I constantly observe from afar—if you aren’t watching me, there’s a bigger chance I’m locked onto you. My strength is the ability of pin pointing your next step, up or down, before it happens. Very rarely can I explain a painting—almost never am I able to express the truest feeling within my poetry. Safeguards, self built walls, invisible string which trips me before answers are delivered. I’m at the point where I want to hide—looking back at the paintings, they don’t seem to say it…unless, where I’m hiding is within their realm. October 14, 1999: I can’t even hold my own hand Oh my, the soul is killing me today—it’s a dull aching, a mysterious low feeling that I can never explain. I don’t want people near me when I’ve been leveled to this low feeling. A maze of thought, several miles to go—mystery combined with clarity with only a hollow feeling remaining. High walls, masked corners, staircases leading up and down—some would think it isn’t real…to which I reply, “Welcome to my vision.” The mystery combined with clarity—gives me five; I’ll explain why…then destroy the maze. Just so you never understand me. October 15, 1999: 365 days 52 weeks 1st year over I’m a believer that writing styles change every three months. Look at my artwork! If styles do change, it’s based on boredom not avenues of openness. Interviewer: If someone were to ask where you located the ambition to take on this challenge—your response would be? Reply: Allow yourself to breathe, speak from the pens tip without giving much thought. Learn to trust. Put down what hits you then quickly do a follow up. It only becomes challenging if you stop to perfect. The goal is to lower your standards, which in return helps you breathe. October 16, 1999: The little train that could I sit down in a quiet place every morning and long hand my way into a better day. It gives me the opportunity to mentally clean up, its like a daily shower. I’ve traveled so many roads, many that don’t exist. I’ve seen the most incredible mountains, swam in lakes, forded streams and had dinner with the famous—once eating ice cream with Picasso. I stared at his fingertips, tried to pull toward me a need to paint—only to notice how much Picasso looked like Richard Nixon. Wow! Eating chocolate chip ice cream with a leader—a true rebel whose vow was lost. “Pardon me,” I carefully whispered. “Has anyone ever said, you sing like Elvis Presley?” There’s nothing like a dream— anyone can visit and you don’t have to pay. Movies are free and there’s popcorn galore. You could be ice skating in Italy while running beside Faye Dunaway. At times, I’m invisible—watching as everyone races by. Sometimes the music is quite brilliant only to see I forgot my pants. Dreams are mini movies that are always free. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll have a star on Hollywood boulevard. October 17, 1999: Where’s Bob Dylan What I fear are radical attempts to feed change. I fear wanna be leaders with innocent followers. What I fear are dream makers—the stock market and its constantly green agriculture. I fear mans need to be perfect. How much longer before I’m told what to write? It’s funny how history seems to repeat itself. October 18, 1999: The realms of misunderstood realisms I often become depressed after a piece of my artwork is finished—it’s hardly ever what I wanted…so I continue to add as a way of never giving up. My departure from normality does nothing but put me in the middle of being normal. I don’t like being normal. I want to be the passion filled individual who busted his ass to get what he wanted—yet all I feel is normal. My gift is the challenge, to which I share with anyone who asks. Only to learn, eighty percent of the time they walk away because I refuse to dream. October 19, 1999: Perception without prescription Views from the within…a self I barely know, trapped inside a river of hope—then fed into a field of growing wild roses…white flowers hanging from green vines—purple leaves the size of my hand dangle in the wind…grape colored seeds to feed the future—I am only a passer-by inside a vision created by a wandering imagination. Hold not the hand whose vow is to paint—leave open your imagination during this important time of growth…rubbing my fingers, aging with each passing day—they reach to touch the hair on my face, as if to say “What a team we make.” October 20, 1999: In dedication to Harmony There’s no child more special than one who isn’t perfect—its love is more genuine and the willingness to learn is more passion filled. October 21, 1999: Gaining ground on the new Millennium I’m disappointed that we aren’t where Hollywood said we would be—the Jetsons, Space 1999 and Star Wars. These are total impossibilities based one hundred percent on the lack of money this country refuses to come up with. We’ll spend millions on electing a new president and billions more on the poor—but hardly a cent on true progress. As much as I want to believe that computers will guide us through easier times—I can’t fully rely on these junkets and trinkets. Computers are like a 90’s friendship: They last about five minutes. Music won’t change only the way we get it. Maybe people will purchase it off the web. The more we talk on this web, the more isolated we become—the world seems smaller yet American imaginations are closing up. Cars are getting large again and gas prices are a buck twenty a gallon. Why should we have to deal with face-to-face issues in a computer-generated lazy nation? Star Treks exploration won’t be in space—but rather, inside a computer. October 22, 1999: The purpose behind using chopsticks A fifth grader sat with me at dinner last night—He asked if I was a writer…this, after being told of his state championship based on writing. His look was that of great pride. Especially when I learned he had been published. Today, I’m trying to understand why such a meeting took place. I have nothing to inspire him and he nothing for me. Yet, for a moment…two writers sat together eating Chinese food. Two travelers, each their own destiny—several miles across giant boulders and rivers, snow fifteen feet high and waves much taller. For a moment…we sat in the sand. October 23, 1999: What have I to offer but nothing? Dear Amanda, I’m writing to you…to offer my apology—to say I’m sorry for being late to your special day. There comes a time, when work should not…stand in the way, of something as precious as your second birthday. I could see it in your eyes, the gleam of celebration—the fun of entertaining guests, then I walk in—a quick glance is shared, all I heard was “you’re late.” Honestly, I feel really bad—it’s not that you were out of mind, because you were never out of sight. A valuable lesson I’ve learned—a reason why God hasn’t given me little friends… Amanda, your birthday was reason to celebrate and I chose…to be late. I only hope this act of mind will be fully together by your wedding day. October 24, 1999: Kindness to whom? Not I I’m a traveler—to endure while learning from has been endured. To watch without expression only to learn I’ll be injured somehow in the end. In my hand I hold a collection of unwritten thoughts…and for what reason—fascination, temptation or nobility? My answers never outweigh what’s assumed. October 25, 1999: Six months deep into first marriage Looking back is always more fun…til you start counting the fallen tears. October 26, 1999: Fellow shipmates fall into the fire Assumption lifts us—to a view of greed. Mistakes are made—put the blame elsewhere. I watch—so many dreams gone. Am I next to jump only to quietly die? I wait…learning that radio isn’t music—it’s a place where musicians and actors go to be prostituted. October 27, 1999: Easy to forgive but never forget I want to write—to feel the ink pressed into this page…to watch it smear into words. My heart has spoken. I want to dream—to lay out new paths for my eyes to follow…to study each curve and bend it—hoping time will allow all things to be captured. I want to listen—no longer speak…silence brings to me all that talking shunned away. I want to view with an openness not all can see—to taste the essence of music without a lyric ever being written…I stare into the souls of the people I cherish—it turns my stomach when confronted with dislike or greed. A list so long, it would take months for all to read…in search of a name rather than a reason as to why it exists. I choose not to un-colorize friendship—for my palms always welcome…matches from your distance are located but never found…for at the base of every flame is the torch of what used to be. October 28, 1999: Player versus survivor winner takes all I watch as your thoughts squirm—you thought it was easy…you assumed anyone could do it. You rose to be a leader and for what reason? Blood on my face, arms ripped off—this soul of mine waits to enter. Why die? What must it be you are thinking? You’re not the hero type! Nor do you wish to die with a purple heart. Leave your plane! Let someone else fly! Be the leader, not the player—allow me the opportunity to lose my legs. October 29, 1999: Building battle I cannot see I can never explain what it is I do or why I do it. I feel its years of anger and it blasts onto a page much quicker than rage itself. My decision to paint is to thicken the passion—ferment the loyalty and to toss more ingredients into the dedication and determination. What needs to be fertilized are the dreams! What needs to take place is the rebirth of the original dream. If I don’t let it go I’ll continue to be sad. Don’t look at me! To be near me isn’t what you wish. I am used up, tattered, torn, scratched and empty. Don’t look at me! To hear me isn’t why you stand so close. Twenty years have passed yet the dream hasn’t changed. Don’t look at me! Envisioned are yesterday and the day before—its a long dark highway, the ocean below—no way to predict an earthquake. Let me go! Tomorrow is another day. October 30, 1999: Softly she speaks while I dream My hair grows long, my dreams race to be finalized…the forest is my hiding place. As we near winter, I know within, the world will become more black and white—stripped trees, leaves laying flat on their backs. Call me a raindrop—given birth within your womb. The wind shall carry me to new valley floors bringing life to other dark forests. Carolina, you should never question the spirit you have given me. Who I am is because of you! Please don’t stop me from growing. Silence now fills the forest—acorns are heard falling from their nearby trees, the crickets continue to sing but I hear no birds giving up their lyrics. The distant tree fights off the wind—almost allowing the forest to be protected. “It’s not time to run,” the whisper is written. “Please, not yet, don’t turn your back on me.” The sky, Tar Heel blue and a wild finch dancing only feet from my traveling imagination—then a woodpecker appears, a black bird and several others. The trees, they dance too hoping to keep me from the wind. I stop writing… October 31, 1999: Dear sir I have lost my vision. I’ve misplaced my dream. I’m several thousand miles off coarse—lost in a world of radio, which in itself is a dinosaur. I’ve been beat until I no longer bleed. I’ve dedicated my dreams away, tossed out my loyalty, burned all my bridges…and here I stand feeling horribly empty. I’m not a player in your open field of dreams. I’m the water boy! When it rains I lay the tarp over the mud. I am the willow in your forest of evergreens—amazingly enough, I am what you lack—a true identity. November 1, 1999: Challenged failure may lead to victory I have tried and tried to let go of things in hopes of better understanding the self…I really am. What I lack is a solid foundation—to get that chunk of granite, I need to shed skin. Therefore, the writing book I purchased in Miami—will serve as a tool. I’ll allow it to be the voice that tells what little story I have. It must be a one on one look into a child’s eyes—once complete, I’ll see if the entire picture looks the same, as it did…when I enter new days of modern day sketches. I’ll call this book And so…this is radio. The book, a journal from south Miami quickly became my handwritten presentation of And so…this is radio. It took several months to write and two journals to place each thought between. It viewed the enormous amount of loss that radio offers its players. Radio people could relate with it—so much so, my fellow broadcasters couldn’t put down the edited pages. The book offered broadcasters a taste of something they knew about…but…to whom was it written for? It was a window for real people to peer within. Non-radio people saw it as a journey filled with confusion. They quickly lost interest and didn’t get past the first few chapters. Then the big question: Did I have the consent from those I quoted? I learned that no matter what the comment, without permission…I could be sued. Today, the handwritten version of And so…this is radio, is the only thing complete. My edited pages lay silent—as if to be waiting for the day when the truth about this industry can be said without faking names and the things they chanted. The ground work of And so…this is radio proved to be the inspiration behind this book. Although I had already started my one thousand day journey, it too laid inside journals until brought to edited pages. The only person being quoted here…is me. You can’t get anymore legal than this. January 23, 2002 November 3, 1999: I am not what’s important The body gets used to writing poetry—I call it breathing. My lungs expanded, I see this as an opportunity to reach outward at six forty in the morning. There is silence—chapters dropped like candy in a Halloween bucket. Milestones revisited—turned loose, let go, falling…or is it growing? For each pedal that leaps outward feeds the soil surrounding my roots. Firm, I stand—bending gently during most stormy nights. Weak, I am—from the inside out. The Elms capture my imagination while the Oak set free a self-driven identity. The Pine adds scent while a weed is mowed down. Staring out my window toward the yellowing forest—answers remain undelivered… Will I be here tomorrow or will I blow away with the breeze to a new plantation of inner peace? No matter the answer, never forget…I am breathing. November 4, 1999: I speak not in plain English If the world stopped right now—who would float away? If only I could see without revealing my past. If time suddenly stopped—who would remain the same? If you were to page through these chapters, if you were to sit and listen, then…you would probably understand. “Understand what?” You may ask. To which I would reply, “if only I knew.” November 5, 1999: To the animals, which watch me write Give me your song. Give me your love. Give it all to me, so that I too may share. Let me hear you sing. Let me watch you dance. Let me get closer to our true friendship. Allow me to dream. Allow me to play. Allow me to always be myself. I’ll one day grow. I’ll one day build. I’ll forever keep your song in this special place. November 6, 1999: The one rule to live by Do I think I’m part of the change? Absolutely! I should never forget that everyday could be my final day. November 7, 1999: Once every blue moon Today…I feel like loafing—laying back, feet up, TV on, music miles away in the distance. Today…I hope to relax, yeah right, me? Hardly ever, imagine me…miles away in the distance. Today…TV set is on, dogs are cuddling, the blanket sits on the bed—and me? I’m miles away in the distance. November 8, 1999: In sickness and health It’s amazing how far man climbs only to see another mountain remains. November 9, 1999: Everyday is Christmas…right? As a child, I didn’t know what Christmas was—I heard you give and give and give only to learn, the older I got…the more demands were placed on me. “I want this! I want that!” Words I still hear, not from friends but memories. I’ve been completely fooled by reality. November 10, 1999: Even in sickness I shall knight A cough tries to take over my every breath—I try my hardest to keep it away. My body is sore…and for no reason. It’s then that I whisper, “You baby. Be strong! Be a wall that can’t be torn down. Face the challenges of defeat and bring those who gift you with negatives a positive touch that in return forces them to believe in you.” November 11, 1999: Cut throat chess Radio is such a plastic world…yet everything shatters like glass. Those searching for fame tend to kill rather than hit the road. Such a world becomes loose at the roots—a passing storm brings down the tree revealing a million fierce bees, they too search. Hidden are the ambitions to help heal—therefore, I am just as guilty as the taker. I choose to watch rather than react—people die…I walk to the next corner. November 12, 1999: It isn’t I to whom I have become The path seems empty but I know you are here with me—the hollowness of sadness is present, yet I’m warm with companionship. I can’t physically feel your hand upon my face, nor can I hear the footsteps as you turn and walk away. I do though…become cold and alone—a wanderer, gypsy type, a fisherman with an empty hook. So yes, you are welcome to stay—to continue to guide each step as unpredictable as tomorrow. With you by my side, fear is nowhere to be found. Thanks for being my friend—spirit guide…ghost. November 13, 1999: You’ve been warned A spider…its web a dazzling array of rainbows as the new sun continues to rise. To be so alone, yet so in touch—like an artist, a one of a kind. The touch of green on the spiders back is there to scare or hide—a mystery to the imagination, a game to he who writes then calls it paint. When does a painters eye to capture, no longer bring fear to those who love to hide? Don’t we innocently play the same game? We become lost in worlds fed by needs to kill and be left for dead—wiping the dirt from my torn blue jean…I realize—seized is a moment, without leaving my favorite place to think. November 14, 1999: Old McDonald had a pen All I wanted to do was wake up and write! Each animal has their own crazy sound—the loud screams from Ernie, Woji with his nervous moans, Pete meowing because he’s been left out. There are days when such simple measures of peace are nowhere to be found, which makes harmony a figment of my imagination. Addy sits so patient, her stare as sharp as the eagles—Hey! She’s tossing water at me! “Cool off buddy,” the Cockatiel says to me, “my smiles are from the inside out.” November 15, 1999: Creative flow with no beavers to dam Have you ever tried to read in a dream? It’s impossible! What was I thinking? All night…I’ve done nothing but wake up! First it was a bike ride at midnight just to say hi…only to purchase a fifty-nine dollar bottle of soda because it was autographed. Then, my friends had tickets but wouldn’t share. Whew! What a night! Now tell me…what did you dream? November 16, 1999: Accepting the odds When I’m not getting burned…I’m the happiest man in the world. Touch me once and I want your next breath. I’m serious about winning! I fight everyday to be unique, extremely different, up close, personal, friendly and daring—most importantly it’s my daily sacrifice to cross that creative line—to locate the one thing that could harness a listener’s imagination. November 17, 1999: Words written but I don’t remember I’m addicted! Can’t you see? A slice to the wrist, a gun to the head—feed the within or face the sentence. Addicted…imprisoned by invisible walls surrounded by murky moats—sandcastles painted on brown paper. Too much to handle, so I choose to walk—for three days…a new game, maybe better odds. Let’s play. November 18, 1999: A place to call my own Have I said it lately? “I love to get up early and write!” As of late, it’s been for two in a half to three hours—it’s a moment of prayer, God and me…drinking diet coke with no ice. Don’t give to me oh mighty Lord—the things I assume I need. Allow me oh mighty Lord—to wash my soul clean. Share with me oh mighty storyteller—the lessons all should know. Don’t give to me oh mighty Lord—unless I properly deserve. November 19, 1999: A bottle of wine and hardwood floors There are days when letting go always seems like the only thing to do. It was a releasing but a releasing of what? I call it doing the clean floor blues. November 20, 1999: Capturing reality The faces I’ve drawn are suddenly given life…but that doesn’t make me God. Imagine having dreams where explanation has to be shared all the time. November 21, 1999: Postcard of a very romantic evening Staring into the fog, I watch for the blink of her eye—the drumbeat still grows while the host leads my tapping toe to a purpose…one painted into a picture—a portrait of a black and white movie. The face taken off radio…dancing all night with Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra, celebrating New Years Eve before its time…a night to remember. November 22, 1999: Humbling the root system It’s dark outside—it must be cloudy. The usual glow of a new sun fades while my desire to paint sparks to life. Thick lines pretending to be branches push hard scraping the canvas…moving upward. But I’m told that is wrong! Frail old men who are in search of something take such motions, for it bares the resemblance of being half full—a positive. Standing back, the lines of trust are questioned by the palms pointed toward the sky which tend to lead farther away…therefore the glass is now half empty. What then, is the tree in search of? Shall its roots be half as full as yesterday? Is a tree taking from the sky or sharing? What then, is my part in painting it? The morning fog glows a late fall expression…I shall sit and wait—wait for answers to be delivered in an upward motion. November 23, 1999: Sticks and stones break my bones I stand back and view a lot of things…I don’t know if it’s because my mind needs time to digest or my heart has been fooled too many times. The mantle clock is a standard that you must wind. I refuse to plant a real lawn and I won’t shave my forest clean to create even a bigger yard. If I was a woman…I’d be called a Granola—therefore I ask that you call me Spam. Is it ego? What’s wrong with wanting to be a performer? I love the feeling of sliding open that microphone to share a smile. It’s not a form of materialistic value. Being on the air is my child’s musical instrument—I’ve spent over half my life fine tuning the fashions and fads that make up a professional approach to radio communications. It’s a vision that first came to me in 1972— 2 ½ years ago they took it all away. On Tuesday January 29, 2002 W*** radio in Charlotte North Carolina approached me to return to the airwaves. At this time I hold no answer. It’s a battle between loyalty and determination—dedication and sacrifice—set goals versus lost dreams. Am I stepping forward by not turning back or has time finally gifted me with someone who believes in me other than my mother and best friend Lee? November 24, 1999: But why? For the thousandth time I’ve never been able to pinpoint any exact reason as to why I crave an open microphone. Why cant we just live with the fact that chocolate is my second passion? I write because God has made me a messenger. I perform on the radio because God has made me a messenger. Words are handed to me when I least expect it. The challenge isn’t if I’ll write them down or use them properly—it’s a test to see how well I was listening. November 25, 1999: I look thru you then at you I am easily inspired. I am easily influenced. It doesn’t seem to be a difficult task to lead my path—until you step within the creative self I am; only to realize it’s the actor who accepts all. My head laid back, vision far-reaching. Am I ever where I’m supposed to be? I don’t collect pictures unless they’ve been written. A camera seems so old fashioned. The giant white wall in front of me, with its ceiling firmly attached above this pen…it hand feeds the willingness of the child—he who laughs at himself when his back is turned. The forest, a dark fog looms at its base…still, I’m able to listen. Wisdom shared with the passing breeze—look and laugh all you want, for my visions are the joke of the day. Tossed in a direction to best be read, I spend only seconds with you…a lifetime with God—suddenly I have purpose. The highway back to heaven…is what you create. November 26, 1999: Learning to listen without reacting What would life be like if we could edit? The way we speak is said to be a reflection…presentation being the eye to your home—sharp edged swords keep friends away. Saying, “Welcome,” invites the wrong people. Who am I to talk? So I want…no! Allow me the space to sit back and watch… November 27, 1999: Silence inside a paper trail Peering into the blue of Carolina—a state so blessed with color…I beg not to touch her children; I only wish to better understand why they feel a need to touch me. Visions so detailed, I woke this morning asking if reality was but the dream? Visions so full of expression, I race to the edge hoping if I leap it won’t be to my death. Eyes hidden behind hair, the challenger I become—to view the land from a distance, understanding the levels of each curve…the stream with its flow, a clear echo of journeys traveled. The golden leaves that remain stuck to the tree, strength unknown to the already fallen. Long branches, a dampened brown speak out to me, “Free us from the vines.” Only to wonder, the subject in question is it a warming blanket? I couldn’t survive during a morning of such cold expression. I’d make friends with those who had the ability to strangle me. It’s then; I look to the ground…for a tree’s most powerful strength is what grows beneath. Rivers of mud and earth—gifts from generations already taken by the wind…to sleep there forever, until the warm hand of the child’s soul look to them in hopes of painting the lyrics to their songs. “That is I,” the words are explained. “Allow me to help soothe the melody of several thousand years.” Wishful thinker is the name handed to the chest that wonders. Only to hear my next lesson, “Learn to properly pray without expectation. Until then, not a word or sound, only listen.” November 28, 1999: Accusations from the medicine man “You are but a fool! You are white-eyed!” To which I replied, “Only if you assume.” November 29, 1999: Accusations from the self How is it, a dream isn’t real…but you feel it? My only reply was short, “I quit!” November 30, 1999: Accusations against everyone but me Depression—they claim everybody has it. Take a pill, drop the load, smiles everyone… What is it we aren’t getting? Why do so many feel this way? We’re so willing to sacrifice the right for the wrong—liquor, candy, women, milkshakes and LSD. Addictions introduced by whom? Churches say the devil. Doctors reveal its only natural. I believe it’s U.S. government fed—the best way to keep a good man down is to force him to feel like he’s worthless. I hate this feeling! I don’t understand it! I can’t close my eyes because it still exists. I’ve done the fantasy thing! It’s twenty seconds of hope only to find more silence. Invisible is the truth and I’m stuck trying to piece together an imaginary puzzle. December 1, 1999: Allowing life to happen The writer slowly evolves from his cocoon—wings still wet but no buzz to put in my tail. That must come through time. Who’s ever heard of a flying thing without a buzz? All bees have buzzes. If you listen real close, I bet even a butterfly buzzes. I can never catch one! They bounce they leap and zing from leaf to leaf. Who has time to see if a butterfly is buzzing? Not me! Not I! So…I’ll just sit here and assume that all butterflies come with a buzz in their flight. All this…while a string of pink clouds set next to a glowing Tar Heel blue sky and the naked trees reach to be recognized—I on the other hand, sit and just wonder. December 2, 1999: Caged rage Try not to judge the mood of a man whose first page has not been written—for today I could be the crafty poet who hides…everything. The mind is in no mood to spell out words—so it chooses instead to doodle. Which is nothing but scribbling, hoping it will become something…then I stop writing. December 3, 1999: Through billows of nothing My pen has become silent as my mind weakens to empty thought—a book idea melts like ice cream, except I have no napkins to clean. Invite character—taste the wind as it flows from side to side. Mask nothing, for what’s felt should become the written. Expectation will put you in front of each—to deal with, to negotiate…offering nothing. Yet, take with you a sip of peace—this is the place where memories are kept. So silent it seems… December 4, 1999: There’s no I or Me in You Imagine what I’d be like on the steps of Heaven or Hell without a writing instrument…the forest looks into my eyes wondering if I’m all right. Walk…but not far—turn…but not around. Look…but don’t stare—touch…but don’t break. Talk…but not loud—share…but don’t just give. To say you walked to turn only to look and touch—once there, you talked about sharing only to realize you gave to give…and that’s not what Christmas is all about. December 5, 1999: The untouched Olympian Sometimes you can’t help but wonder what creates an ink spill. There’s a purpose in every step, a willingness to learn, expectations of turning failure into wisdom. I often think my depressions are based solely on boredom. If I made that mountain, the dream is to climb it. December 6, 1999: Bark bark bark but not a bite That’s the way I look at life—don’t show me opportunity if you don’t expect me to take on chance. I’ll challenge it to a wrestling match, a battle of words and thought—a childlike game that mystifies my abilities knowingly making me stronger. Yet, if it comes to making decisions based upon a need to grow…I choose instead to run and hide. Note: On December 6, 1999 a new form of poetry writing had emerged from my daily exercises. All too often I wondered why poets seemed depressed, wrote childlike or lived things out in fantasy. Few poets walk outside what they were known for. We could always expect Dr. Seuss from Bob, broken hearted love from Scott, angst from Chuck and invisible connections with water from Melody. The challenge was to look through all levels of creative flow. Write one sentence and follow gut reaction more than human emotion. From this exercise I created trilogy poetry. I take the first sentence of the presented work and go in three separate directions. This method later inspired me to put it through the test of painting techniques. Instead of settling on the particular moods gifted at the time—the goal was to bend the rules and recapture the original thought during separate chapters of life. What amazed me about both forms of expression was a need to better understand the power of choice. Go with what you feel, trust in yourself that failure doesn’t mean departure and with enough courage everyday life compels itself into several directions as well. Learning to better understand the uniqueness of personality and the several shades we carry enlightens the path of ability. No idea is a bad idea. Allow your raw gift of performance to walk in any direction knowing the original idea still exists and you can always return to it. The final picture is this: Creativity can happen at anytime…therefore you no longer have the excuse of not being in the mood. December 7, 1999: Reconstructing criticism As the body wakes, so do the desires to take on what I feel are my failures. I look at the world and see no mirrored image, except in architecture and fashion. December 8, 1999: The fallen birds prayer I give back to you great Mother Earth—the wings of a fellow music maker. I share with you the remnants of a life challenged each day to survive. Allow this child’s songs to continue to grow—to bring its own special peace to this soil—a music keeper, to let play during mornings so cold. I give back to you Great Mystery—the child you created then invited back home. Its spirit may live with you now but within this forest his warmth remains. The sun shall rise above this place—a sacred circle built on trust and faith, a place to pray, to recreate music—to give back to the child I couldn’t ignore. Help him find his rightful home—help him to be whole again. December 9, 1999: Realities playground I need…I want…a battlefield? Not exactly so! Often the same but usually different—a need isn’t always a want. I want but do I need? Need and want get married, could it really be 50/50? First you have to want it. Sometimes you really need it. But…to want and need, that doesn’t matter—proving opposites attract. Want and need have a child. They name it Now instead of Later. Can you imagine? A house full of wants, needs and nows! I better stop writing…want, need and now have invited over guests—their names? Or else… December 10, 1999: Documentation of love spent well The flowers were planted as guaranteed—leaves from a fallen music maker. Brilliant colors from a rainbow unseen—masked were not the beliefs of spirituality. The talking stick gave me the open forum—into the earth I was led, to plant the flowers as guaranteed while Mother earth looked on with a smile. Revealed to me was a spiral hole. A voice was heard, “Drop each song into the earth. Rise to your feet and begin to pray. Pray to the east, then south, west and north—pray with all who may be watching or listening. Raise the talking stick high into the frozen air—then give the flowers back to Mother earth—leaves from a fallen music maker, brilliant colors from rainbows unseen—to help heal the sick with a spiritual guarantee. Black and white, just like the songs you hold…visions of trails not yet visited. Inside, I wanted to blare out, “Thank you! Thank you!” But the Great Mystery already knew. For the sacredness of the circle now grows—so shall the songs. Raising my talking stick into the air I whisper, “I love you…” And so the forest smiled, even at night. December 11, 1999: And so…this is radio reality For some common sense is hard to digest. Radio people are rebels—how dare you try to reshape them! If every jock took the time to write about their journeys, each book would be different—yet in their own way we could all relate. December 12, 1999: Collision I am you…you are me. If we stand to bring judgment—then we are judging ourselves. A friend said to me, “You are an audio. You would rather listen to the thought beyond what’s spoken—believing answers are hidden in all things that create sound.” Is this why I’ve stopped searching in radio? Have I become a listener and realize the best thing for me is to never speak? December 13, 1999: What if is what is… Eighteen days until the new millennium—what quote will we live by in the days ahead? Life depends on one-sentence thoughts. Sentences from chapters already written—wisdom collides with everyday life. They call us the sound-bite generation…reading outside the lines—a paperless society or so they dream. We travel between states, truly never wake…only walk through the parts. A nation sits stained by infatuation—copycat crimes, video games aren’t to blame until you stand watching some kid inside a dark arcade—fingertip reaction, high kicks to the skull—the animated gun feels no fear, nor does the Sega freak in control. Numbers are created—a fractured religion—ten times, divided by…only to add then subtract—equaling a lot of thought…if any. Two point six seconds—a lifetime…only to become even more silent. December 14, 1999: Ferris wheel My right leg taps to the beat of an imaginary song—yet I know every lyric. I look up just in time to see the wind—leafless trees try to scrape the blue from the sky. The greatest place to exist is inside your imagination. Let it rain drops so big, snow flakes so large…then try to bring it to life. Seventeen days from the new millennium—I stare into the forest hoping to see the future. The very future I didn’t recognize in the eighth grade when I realized the possibility of being alive in the year 2000. Accomplishment versus establishment—you’re still the kid you’ve always been. We are a society that feeds itself on other peoples failures. If comedy is about relating and we all love to laugh—do we build breakable computers to make it a better day? December 15, 1999: It’s not word play, its ______ How could one be so uncaring during such a season? Looking at each of you, I’ve tried to explain…the birth of Christ is everyday. If I were to move back to Montana, where it gets cold in July—do you think I’d take part? My face scrunches in wonderment…probably not. No matter what glasses I’ve been given to peer through…it’s always going to be everyday. December 16, 1999: The embattlement of the invisible What is it I do that makes me so empty? At times, I want to stare at empty walls only to experience empty thoughts—empty all my emotions into an empty cup…all this, in hopes of not being empty. I’ve never claimed to be Old Mother Hubbard with nothing in her cubbard. I said I was empty—always hungry, but not for food. Staring but not for thought. I’m a little teacup short and stout. Just tip me over and pour me out. I giggle—it must be my heart sipping on a cup of happy. December 17, 1999: Distortion Christmas eve 1992—while sitting in the living room, inside a world of holiday glamour…she asked the question, “Have you ever had a love affair?” I could no longer hold back. If I would’ve said, “One or two times.” That may have been forgiving. Five hundred broke her down to tears. I shattered the heart of the woman I loved. I tore the hand that once held mine. After eleven years of behind the scenes affairs, the truth was known. I…stopped running. I knew the game by playing the game—this Monopoly move was all my own. We were two kids in a candy store—then someone whispered, “Its time I fall in true love…maybe I’ll see you soon.” December 18, 1999: Poets paint what they see Neighborhoods touched up by visionaries who need more green—revitalizing to hypnotize the people into believing. But where do the replaced go? Those whose checks are written by control freaks in Raleigh, Columbia, Helena, Denver and DC? Capitols built by We who are the people…only to feel like the very dirt on the floors of burned cabins once carefully positioned by free flowing streams. I’m being too frank—to open…they’ll blame me for something! Their man made stars will focus on my every step. Laws will be created—what we write will be read. Freedom of speech shall take a new path…you may speak only when spoken to. But! Government appointed lawyers must edit it. You’ve gained too much ground. People believe what you say. Wake up America! Silence…a bird’s chirp, the only thing I hear. If you search for spirit it’s found on web pages and deep within the debts of credit cards and bank loans. Nothing but numbers typed onto the Jones list. You’ve got it all…but under it all—you’re still naked and the government watches by means of their man made stars. December 19, 1999: Focus on reality So starts another day…a night of vivid dreams and landscapes—moments of unrest while dancing in sheets so soft and a pillow perfectly fit for my head. I have woken to a morning of gray clouds and drizzle, a temperature of maybe forty degrees. My bare feet tingled while the dogs patiently walked about doing what humans do behind closed doors inside porcelain stools. Try not to judge the mood of a man whose first point has not been written—allow him to think, to toss about thoughts—a mingling of the mind and self, a special appearance from anyone willing to drop in—the cartoon character who thinks all is fun, the presidential worrier…the slightest makes my tail feathers point downward, the spirited rock climber who sees purpose in all winds of change…and the poet—the crafty child who hides everything. December 20, 1999: Don’t forget to flush Just push…words are like going to the bathroom—sometimes it’s a giant whoosh…then, there are days of great constipation, which is what I’m experiencing right now. I’m such a loser. December 21, 1999: Ten days from the new millennium It’s…but a fantasy to write. To bring unto all who wish to travel, the words that will take them beyond the elements of modern day reality. Allow this imagination to breathe…give to it enough air to locate all levels of creative color—let disappear each angle that would divert…only to harness more energy to build better mental pictures. The computerized generation we’ve become has made readers out of us all. To leap from web page to web page stimulates need—to be so dependent on a man made machine…so easily it breaks tearing us from the computer seed. Before computers, it was an art to predict when a check would land in a bank vault. I cannot forecast mans outcome of the next thousand years—such an expectation belong in magazines of paparazzi. Tripping while walking down steps—as kids, what did we learn? To slow down…to get up and try again…to gain attention…it’s only human nature to want more. How long before we start consuming sterilized homogenized computerized energy? http://food.com. Please place your finger in the stainless steel brace and life images will feed your body only to realize your smart card has been charged $29.95. In the future—all things will be spoken…but not to each other. The crumbling of America—one gigabyte at a time—to one day be taken over by a smaller nation who couldn’t afford to keep up with Microsoft. December 22, 1999: Two years before September 11th I wish to leave for those reading—pictures of a society driven by ego and greed. Far away nations call us the devil. They burn our flag. We watch it on the news then reach for the remote control. Are we numb to all possibilities? Don’t we feed the world? What happens when we’re gone? Battles fought on the streets of America—bodies of family and friends laid to rest in mass graves. Silence becomes the thought—such unrest brings fear to an imagination gifted with freedom. December 23, 1999: Between the lines The moon looked down at me—its power more mighty than the nearest star. Not a word was shared but I understood his knock at my heart. “Look at me through the clouds that stop to visit—view my upward path, notice I never stop—the climb is smooth and few shadows are born.” The story shall be written—the brightest moon in one hundred thirty three years. His face peers through the window, not a smile to mimic nor a gleam to place in ones eye. I was to follow the path while visiting with the clouds—but I felt nothing. “That’s because I entered your eyes…your insightful approach gifted me with the door required to enter a song.” The path of the moon is an upward curve—a full moon starts very large only to get small. It’s not a turning of the back or someone walking away—the moons power is the strength of many no matter how small it seems to appear. Although clouds stop to talk, the moon continues to climb beyond the horizon, becoming smaller but remaining full. No words shared—a thought becomes my quest…piece it all together—to better understand the climbing of a rock. December 24, 1999: Shall we dance I scratch things down for future use—I believe…one day my writing will be read by someone who will calmly place the pages aside whispering a simple thought, “He had what it took.” Therefore don’t question miracles or change…maybe someone is saying something. December 25, 1999: Christmas day quotes Each time I step within the sacred circle—the river in my soul becomes more powerful. What rages in the eyes are fearless steps…only to notice the water never moves. My fingers are blackened with paint—pictures brought into a world so open. Kept, is the blue print…for I only have one chance to make it or walk away in shame. My view of the world is through visions—I see what you refuse. I hear what you turn from… I am a student of every step. A straight line makes no circle, therefore no journey is every complete. December 26, 1999: Six unaltered roses This passion I have to love the earth isn’t new—it’s only better accepted. I stand in less judgment by being more honest with what brings peace to the soul I carry. Therefore, I have stopped asking questions. Why should I go against what’s believed by asking about a past I can’t change? If I’ve spent the past five years fighting myself—to focus on the unpredicted future, then what I ask of this self…is inhumane. My paintings are that of what I feel—if you see sadness…then why begin our conversation with, “How’s it going?” I write because I have to! Your lungs give you air, your heart enough blood to survive. I write to clear my imagination—two hundred years ago I may have been the inventor of flight. I could write all day—watch the sunrise then set. I could sit and listen to the wind, watch as the Blue jay leaps from tree to shrub. I could document it all in an extremely unique way…and when I die—you’ll never read my words once. I’m not this magical creator you accuse me of being. Have you ever stopped to realize how bored I am with everyday life? Maybe, just maybe…I’m living within a fantasy and you’re my guest. December 27, 1999: Callused but soft in the middle Radio is something most don’t understand—it’s a dead end freeway of hope. Take the staple—if it stopped before entering the paper, man would be left with something to hold in both hands. December 28, 1999: Humans lie—life goes on around them Wanting and needing to know is strictly human nature—having to know doesn’t gift you enough time to prepare. Life is a purpose filled journey—all has reason…even my next breath—I can only hope it will locate a nearby plant. December 29, 1999: I am king…of the assholes The most inspiring thing about being your friend is your daily decision to be mine. December 30, 1999: One day from the Millennium Invisible things become giant dark spots on a canvas bleached to look blizzard white. If this is to be one of my last pieces of poetry, then I want it to be exactly what I always wanted to be. A picture of a man who flew like no other—through the air, like a bird…to soar across open fields much faster then light—only to notice my dreams unveiled an individual standing with no pants on in front of a laughing audience. Anything else wouldn’t be quite as unique—being that way is what gave it all to me…simple moments of incredible laughter—I laughed so hard my lips never moved. Nor did the audience—for they knew…I lay dead. December 31, 1999: For a moment I stopped 1:00 pm…the people of India are celebrating the new millennium. Their wish is to have running water and food for everyone. How is it God decides which child lives where? And why? 5:00 pm…Greece, Egypt and Bethlehem have walked into the next thousand years—I figure if God were sending his son, it would be now. January 1, 2000: Hung over with too much hype The trees are without leaves, the city streets unfilled with cars—it feels like the holiday feels every year. What was I expecting a new America? I should be singing Happy Birthday! Why? It was written in 1934, not the beginning of time. 1934? The 1900’s…whoa—you old-timer! January 2, 2000: The daily grind of rebuilding of self-trust Allow simplicity to sift within the shaded areas of shadow—although it may seem, you are not blind in such times of need. Eventually…your eyes adjust to the darkness. I call them visitations to the within—a lonely place so often unchallenged. Take your hand and make it move. The self you are shall breathe reality, masking not the sight of travels past—but to leave behind the weak as well as the scared. Be a man to all—don’t just sit there and die. January 3, 2000: Part of the circle My empty eyes peer toward the lighted ceiling—maybe it’s God I’m looking for. So sad the body feels when the knees are buckled—yet I become extremely fulfilled when I see color. My empty eyes look upward to the lighted ceiling—maybe…I’m what God is looking for. Cherished isn’t what the empty eyes create, but what the soulful ears tune into…birds of brilliant color, wind quite soft, a squirrel dancing on the deck railing and a Persian white cat in the distance just sharing. Thy eyes only seem empty, for there is no greed. I do not look to expect, I only wish to study—to visit the rights of all who visit, to hold the moments we share inside my ears—to listen rather than look…my heart is never empty. January 4, 2000: Pushing Weebles out of the wobble nest At 6:15 am…I’m really not prepared to be a doctor—to mentally challenge other writers to believe they have the ability to succeed. You can’t predict change but you sure can feel it. January 5, 2000: You can’t keep a good secret down Am I in shock? He left too many clues. Am I injured by this decision by management? He left to many clues. I’m guilty of writing horrible things about him, but I’m not alone. I watched from the distance while his attempts were to un-puzzle the pieces then locate new proper places… Yes, I was extremely bothered by his presence—an extreme strict ability to lay down the law. Especially the day when he said, “You’re really beginning to piss me off!” Not only did it wake me up—But suddenly! I knew I was part of his army. January 6, 2000: One step closer to a 12-step program There are two marks on my canvas…upside down “L” shaped reflections. Are they fences claming ownership? Maybe they’re ancient signals—welcoming me or saying “No Trespassing!” Sitting back…I focus—the waking imagination sees them as being submarine scopes, two ships spying on what’s being written. Quickly standing I scream, “Go back and tell your people…I am only human!” They don’t move—therefore they must be air pipes allowing the earth to breathe, releasing built up gases before they go poof! Sniff sniff…Nope! Just paper; with two “L” shaped reflections from the opposite page. January 7, 2000: Are you ready? Get set! Interviewer: Are you excited about returning to the air? Me: Am I fully prepared? Not physically or mentally—I need to get in shape. How long will it last? How long can it last? See it now before it’s too late! Introducing! Right here today! The one named Imagination—on a one-man stage! Note: To an outsider, getting in radio shape paints a portrait of sweat being poured into ten-gallon jugs and earth shattering muscle pumping. In a way yes…I learned early in my career about the importance of working out but not for its well-shaped arms and legs—instead, the ability to mind control the creative self. Strength isn’t always located in your back. My mouth a weakness, the brain had to somehow overpower any need to blister the sun with uncalled for reactions to something so simple. I knew I was headed into a cave filled with twelve to eighteen hour days—keeping focused is a mountain climber’s dream comes true. To attain focus requires physical heart exercises not only in a gym but also with a pen. January 8, 2000: Tell me again why I do this? The time, in between thoughts…is motion without steps? Any sound, scent, picture, texture or whisper can control the destination of what becomes written. No path to follow—a cup of desire, a need to fill what has become a used piece of paper. January 9, 2000: Mind messing “Computers aren’t coins that last and last—what are the chances of you taking it back?” “I can’t!” his only reply. “Then believe…” January 10, 2000: It wasn’t me Kooshatay Ookooshtah is the river that flows through me—it’s origin…the hand of God. January 11, 2000: What it’s really like to be on the air For every second I’m away from the studio—I’m that far behind. If you asked for a finished product…I’d give you an empty stare. Yes! I can do it all! I just need air to properly breathe. I’ve waited patiently to cross that line—only to watch as you sweat and cringe. You’re the one who taught me. You…are where the line begins. January 12, 2000: So you wanna do radio? Do not go silent here! I can’t stop writing! I need to push through this mountain—not letting anything stand in the way of building new thoughts and ideas. A radio listener called yesterday, “You screwed up at 5:30.” It’s so nice to know that I have the power to take over a listeners mind when I’m messing up. Where did I go wrong in the process? January 13, 2000: David was the short man not the beast I fill the hand that feeds my mouth—therefore, if there’s anger and or hate in my steps taken forward—it was I who put it there. It remains I who must learn to take it out. January 14, 2000: Benched but not out of the game The corner of Tyvola and highway 49—this is where Bobby Phils lost his life yesterday. I’m here to help welcome him to the wind. Birds sing softly while the gentle roar of cars attempt to seep through this resting place. I’m sitting inside the forest…for if I were in fear, the first place I’d run…is here. The air quite cold, my mind fails to shiver, nor does the love of God who placed me here today to pray with Bobby Phils. January 15, 2000: Convincing the empty soul Reality is what you make of it. Hope feeds ambition. Need highlights desire. Footsteps are the passion placed on the path made of tree bark and dried leaves. Standing alone, I watch the stream race from my lungs in an upward motion—remembering all things are given to the higher power. So, I tuck my prayers in every breath knowing true happiness lives within a passing breeze. January 16, 2000: A need for change What is it about winter’s armor that I can’t bare to look at? While I sleep, do my colors disappear as well? The forest is that of damp brown and gray—branches that point in every direction. There are vines without leaves gracefully wrapped about. I can see for miles. An owl leaps out at me in slow motion, only to make his way to the highest tree…never seemingly in question. What is it about winter’s armor that I can’t bare to look at? Am I afraid to be a kid again or does the adult self no longer locate stumps to sit and listen? January 17, 2000: Shattering Julia’s Cameron’s rules Interviewer: Do you think you’re being a perfectionist? Me: Absolutely! That’s part of who I am and what makes me so creative. I think being such a person allows me to concentrate on taking chances than fine-tuning ability. January 18, 2000: Unexpected visitation rights I heard your footsteps two days away—my heart has since waiting very impatiently. A late night knock would’ve been nice! But no! You just walked in and fell on the floor. I heard about your arrival on the 5am news. Come on! I’ve been waiting impatiently! I won’t wake you—your journey was far. The moment I see the sun, you must get up and play. Your visits are normally too short and quite few. I only hope you wake in a decent mood. The mantle clock reads 6:26… Oh Mr. Snow! Please wake up. Please! I want to be a child again. January 19, 2000: Artist feeding I’m exhausted! I’m tired! I need to take this negative energy and play with it. January 20, 2000: Quick! A new name for depression! This machine glides across a piece of paper like spit flowing down a window. It’s important to write! I need to bleed all over these pages. This is where my anger must live. Such is the life of the swimmer who has chosen mud to waddle in. January 21, 2000: Blame it on the lazy Gen X’ers A streak of un-inflated air continues to grow inside the veins I call the river—calm walks inside words leave me almost breathless. My mother calls it getting old. If I’m getting older, then why do my dreams fail to represent such a hidden self? The stream keeps pouring…at times I feel as if my life is Mike Mulligan and the Steam shovel. I only hope I don’t dig myself into a square hole. So sad is the day when the old man is expected to do everything. If I bite—remember it’s not proper unless delivered in mega or gigga amounts. Heavy sigh…I need more air. January 22, 2000: Realism isn’t always playing fair It’s so easy to write—but difficult to do a follow up…sequels of the heart—chapters untold, subjects with no real ending…unless you’ve physically written the end. It’s over! Get a life! Jack and Jill went up the hill but did they later marry? Old Mother Hubbard and her empty cubbard—she missed the bus that would’ve taken her to the market. Seeing only one side of the story—this is the humans approach to all living things. January 23, 2000: When angels sing I sat inside the warm car yesterday watching as the snow fell softly to the ground—the imagination danced while my eyes remained focused on all things that barely moved. I do remember the silence—not a bird made a sound. The silence was an extreme moment of peace— January 24, 2000: Mirrors breathe what little life you have What must it be like to have no control over a life you have built, torn down and then built again? What do you think inside? They say, “Yes,” while you stand there not knowing. The choices are made for you, not by you or in the name of protecting thyself. When you have no control, do you become angry? You’ve tossed aside family and dreams, personal things and phone calls home to your mother. If you were to regain control of the lost…do you think you’d change? My reply? I’m sorry are you talking to me? I wasn’t listening. Tell me tomorrow! I have to run! Note: By taking notice of all that had been lost—changes to my personality were not accepted by the majority. I didn’t become angry. My vow was to protect. By years end I had been voted Employee of the year—a second time. A year later, I sat in a closed office listening to my boss speak of me not getting along with fellow employees. To this day I remain loyal to what I brought to the table—an incredible amount of reality. I chose to take on the invisible people of radio—those who want it all but do nothing to get it. I accepted my career as being the best life could offer at the time. I sold my soul to a management team that constantly believed my only purpose in life was to be there for them at nobodies cost but my own. I’ve worked all shifts and have been paid nothing for sacrificing a personal life. Yet, I’ve never been given the chance to give them a yearly evaluation. In February of 2002 I was offered the biggest and best chance to escape nine years of daily fear and abuse. Like a tattered and torn wife whose husband is still beautiful in her eyes—I chose not to run believing tomorrow would be a better day. This nightmare finally drew to a close on October 26, 2005. I thank God everyday for finally ending the worst days of my life. The firing came two days after cutting deep into my skin—two marks that represented the pain of losing Woji and Nicki. I was in horrible mental condition and God had his way of finally offering peace. “You’re fired!” January 25, 2000: The writer’s fantasy So…we meet again, thoughts running wild, heart racing—making me breathless. Pen in hand, the story is set on fire. Me, dancing with my imagination—travels so far away and so free… Writing is my morning adventure—like Superman flying. I too can do the same. Ask me, I’ll put it into words. January 26, 2000: Are all creative people Marvin Gaye? An imagination that never sleeps…leaves no room for the body to rest. A lot can be said but nothing’s ever mentioned—the possibilities of creating a whisper. Too much talk leads to gossip, the story bends—like Entertainment Tonight…nothing’s ever right. The trusted are caught scampering, hiding in places with tape recorders. They play mindless head games to keep you active—yet no one ever asks, “What do you think?” A lot is then said but nothing’s ever mentioned—a room full of whispering whisperers gossiping their truth therefore I’m guilty. Too many walls with ears, phone calls recorded and cameras the same. I am…paranoid. January 27, 2000: Gods homeless roadside children I have felt an incredible amount of inner peace—maybe it’s my Spirit keeper telling me that even through death…I continue to care. For a Shaman can be the shape of many, a spider, turtle, hawk or beaver. To bring home this peaceful creature to sleep within the forest is by all means the purest form of love. It’s a test from my Spirit Keeper—to make me stronger at a time when shape can be from the inside out. Oh Great Mystery—my eyes are that of never being closed… To feel your footstep, to become your footstep, to gain the strength to protect all… Oh Great Mystery. January 28, 2000: Natures other centerfold model I touch it with my bare fingers—feel its curves to notice its power. Ice…capable of stopping human growth. Is that what its going to take to save the trees? January 29, 2000: Faith isn’t found in hardcover books Looking toward the window—in hopes of seeing sunlight…a reflection looks back at me. The constant reminder of why you should never look in a mirror at six in the morning. Sometimes it’s hard for me to breath. Mom would say, “It’s your age.” I would agree but in a more spiritual way—the young traveler’s path slows but not forever. I’m the first to admit my strangeness! It’s been with me my entire life—a child who sat in a hen house talking to the winged two leggeds and solo walks across open fields in Wyoming. The Tongue River was blessed with sacred prayers—paths made hundreds of years before my time. I’m only a watcher—he who views with fascination. I stare into a world most cannot see. I bring back questions…I stand alone. I cannot see whose making fun of me. I sit patiently wearing a mask over my warrior face. January 30, 2000: Flightless I held you close to me—the silk of your armor savored. Unspoken words, while God sat nearby watching, teaching…viewing the afterlife. Slowly I turn…your eyes I stare into with silence. Question the faith of a traveler and he shall listen—doubt a nonbeliever and he will choose to defend. No sword in the palm of my hand. No shield to block each beating. Hit me again! Hit me until we are friends. January 31, 2000: I should be a Ferris wheel These personalities I am…the people I have to be—on the outside, it looks as if they just flow from me. They don’t! Each has to be given a life. Each are different, they are separate in attitude and completely on their own path of construction. When I look at the moon—it does everything it can to convince me that it’s my shadow. It must be true! Everywhere I go…there it is. A pen in my hand is a dangerous tool. I see what you don’t. I don’t block out what you do. I view the world in my own odd way. Radio is a job anyone can do—you’re perfect for the position if you’re fully capable of laughing at the parts of life that bring normal people to tears. February 1, 2000: Raising the shield It’s not that I don’t believe in religion—I’ve just located a deeper walk called spirituality. Everything’s a new chapter—a new level pealed back to better expose. Each step leads me toward a higher, more present God. Religion couldn’t do this for me! February 2, 2000: Note to stepfather before heart surgery Today, I must face losing you—not my choice, part of life…a game God plays. Thank you again…you didn’t have to love me—but you did. February 3, 2000: Inside view of radio imaging My mind wants to sleep, to lay back—to fall face first into a pile of waste. My eyes are so tired I could see better blind. February 4, 2000: Things you want to say to your sister The judgmental self you continue to be is the very reason why I stay away. If life were as perfect as your world…how much would one have to fork out to come even with your stature? In my world I earn respect…not demand it. I love you more when you are silent. The reason why you have no money is the very reason why your brothers don’t support you…you’re a nightmare! Maybe one day you’ll notice the brother I am—not the creator of your lies. February 5, 2000: Expectations delivered through threats My mind is playing games with me—instead of writing, it wants to think of better ways to quit. I am quite hateful! I am injured, hurt, beat up and my tail is between my legs. When all is said and done—the sad worker goes to his sad home to watch sad TV…he sleeps early because he’s sad. February 6, 2000: Stop assuming you know me. I hate it! My world is that of caved in ability. People ask me, “Isn’t fun to build upon what you do?” My head shakes from side to side—thoughts of many color come to mind—only to hear, “You don’t belong to radio, you belong to the world.” I sit and giggle…they just don’t get it. February 7, 2000: Who invented the word why? I over analyze everything beyond the point of perfection—allowing absolutely no time for my heart to breathe. February 8, 2000: Peaceful treaties—hateful feelings My heart sickened by the unseen poisons belonging to wants and needs—none of it belongs to me. There’s nothing I can do to change fate—I think it’s a question of who can outlast whom? February 9, 2000: Creative life taking Sometimes you just wanna hurry up and get through a day so you can get home to sleep. I’m constantly moving without losing balance. Turning to question the hawk, I notice the black leather chair I’m sitting in. In front of me—a white wall with one picture, the fireplace cooled and the sun only a shadow. So…this is what it’s like to die, then come back to life. February 10, 2000: Mourning the creative loss I could write all day—to take from my skin the hurt and pain, to melt it like chocolate then spread it all over this page. My imagination would disguise the truth—making the watcher more interested in art. I could paint all day—to colorize all that is left to hold, for ever I have failed to see—the tank sits empty, not a drop to breathe…nor a quarter to purchase more—only a handful of memories, the way it used to be. Creations from villages of few, yet who was there to set fire or to bring energy from the encircled rock formations? We all were! It’s sad to the heart, hopeless to the soul—when someone said, “We…” They really meant me. February 11, 2000: Sacrifices met before death I take from my hands all they are willing to offer. I steal from this imagination colorful paintings only I can see. I place inside your music maker thoughts to bring a smile—a world of my own. February 12, 2000: Defying the need to self-love I find it to be extremely fun to write through the well-traveled remains of something that bled through a sheet of paper. It could and would be so easy to connect the dots…but not today—the self-created journey is still blazing with work to be done. What I’d like to have is a lazy day—then again, look at my house…I’ve had my share. February 13, 2000: The rich want charitable acceptance Faces stretched, breasts lifted, pockets filled with glamour and glitz—a mountain lake you’ve created…and we are the soot resting on the bottom. Pictures are made, the story well written—you are who you are and what you did shall be cherished. The new sun has risen, the night sky only a memory—I…being a rock covered with moss, slowly open my eyes to see nothing—not even the flow of a new born waterway. A gully is what they call it—the gorging of something once thought to be beautiful and free. Note: This was written the morning after we performed at an event thought to be a gathering of athletes from the Special Olympics. The rich played upstairs while the athletes danced with us inside a three car garage—every once in a while a pointed nose would appear on the steps above as if to be viewing the reminder of why they’d spent a hundred bucks per couple to be there. My Aunt Louise was once this way, “The kids will eat hotdogs—steak is meant for grownups.” February 14, 2000: Views of a leafless reality If only a tree could act the way we want it—they’d flower all year, tossing down pears, lemons and grapefruit. But, would such a giving of the tree be what we need in order to feel a proper new morning blessing? February 15, 2000: Am I to blame myself for this too? My heart is always open—I sit and wait…wondering what if? How is it the moon can rise in darkness? It takes the very path it was given at birth. Yet man has weakened himself to almost a day. The soul is darkened with no rising moon, not even a star to help light the way. This is the life we lead! We have wants but no needs. Our yards are perfectly shaped and highways borough through bedrooms. No one cares anymore! Just get the job and put up with the pain! What you don’t think about won’t hurt you. Pay the bills on time—especially the car insurance. Someone will hit you, they always do—welcome to my insanity. February 16, 2000: I have no Pentagon My visions are that, shared by spirit guides and keepers—I’m open to all who speak while building paths toward those who’re silent. Slowly, I learn of my inability: I cannot be all that I can physically be if being everyone and everything else is what you want me to be. I’ve spent six years trying to better understand the steps taken—only to learn I’ve traveled nowhere. What people don’t see is my constant morning sickness. They fail to view my urge to puke but can’t—therefore it must be words and thoughts that I force myself to get rid of. Thoughts and paragraphs—released unto a world, torn from a soul only to be hidden away til the day I’m cremated, which proves that none of this really exists. February 17, 2000: Unwritten permission silences art Reality is wonderful…but not at the cost of a lawsuit. So, I’ll be the Poet, the painter of expression. I shall be the actor! Actors—legally bound to being as many things as they wish to be! Just ask Ben Afleck. Note: After surviving several months of pounding the soul through radios hidden way—the attempt to bring to life my book And so…this is radio slowly slid onto a more silent path. As truthful as the chapters were—without proper blessings from the individuals involved, I faced many days in a courtroom. It would be too easy to change the names! That’s what Jim Ladd did in Radio waves. I wanted something of truth, a tool rather than a Lifetime movie of the week. What did I learn from this? The more I wrote about radio the angrier I became. I couldn’t believe in the self I was for all that I had allowed myself to endure. As an actor—I can be anything without complaint. February 18, 2000: Recognizing my destruction The dark mourning is really yesterday’s sun—maybe I take things too serious, maybe I’m really not that busy. It’s mind over matter! I know who I am. I know what galaxy I fly. The goal is to accomplish. Thirty-seven years old and I perform like a bird lying dead on the side of the road—my feathers are waxed and ready for flight, but I can’t move. It begins to rain—I watch each drop bounce off this crushed beak and torso… It can’t be this bad! I cough—swallowing the gunk my body accuses of being the source of these illusions. I don’t feel fear or share anger—what you recognize is determination. So, I look out, over a riverbed of stones and wonder who’ll be washed away? Moss doesn’t keep you glued to the ground. Passing storms rid you from the land, tossing all that you are toward an ocean even bigger than the storm. Conceit is confidence. Anger is determination. Hate is a fence. Passion is the difference between them and me. A path and I’m the road kill that time won’t turn to dust. Test my strength! I shall bend every rule written. Let me sleep and I’ll become your friend again. February 19, 2000: No trail, not even a flashlight. My stomach hurts, it aches…it reminds me of how real life is. A wild rose staring at me—I smile back without conversation. The imagination does it for me—seemingly making all things equal in existence. A mountain so tall—the gullies are rocked with falling stars. February 20, 2000: Visitations ripened by faith You stopped…but only for a moment. I watched…you tried to sleep. Your nap…became the hidden Shaman’s spiritual path. To be all is to understand all—hoping to one-day give without judgment. It’s then; the lesson will be taught—to any or all willing to listen. February 21, 2000: The passing of a friend I question not the trail I walk—I don’t toss aside what has come to me in prayer. The air becomes silent…a spirit guide looks at me face to face—I see the white wall, no pictures, yet I feel a message being learned. Question not the presence of the birds of prey. Help to heal the land that’s been destroyed. Reach inward…for outward is conceit. Allow the sun to cast shadows—you are only one. What little light you generate isn’t enough to feed the loss of heat. Look to the great birds of prey—study their existence and lack of…what can you do to save them? That is the message today. Note: Charlotte/Monroe radio lost one of its children—a true naturalist who spoke thru me on this particular day. The first time I met Tom Desio was during a radio promotion at a small shopping center in Monroe, North Carolina. He came up to me and said, “I love it when you end your shows with keep smiling and keep loving those pets. It touches peoples lives…including mine.” February 22, 2000: Voluntary cuts into fresh flesh I don’t hate the world I have chosen to live in—I only wish for the higher powers to make it easier to digest. I’m being abused and yet no one admits it’s. Wait! They know it exists but refuse to do anything about it…they’ve chosen instead to participate. Blood up my nose, stomach sickened by the smell—heart empty, eyes barely open to see. I’m recognized by the tattoos on my leg…here he lies, he who tried but not hard enough. Who’s next in line? Welcome to radio! February 23, 2000: Mask not me but the rumor A new day! Really? Aren’t they all one in the same? The first seeds of a newly planted field have kissed the air we listen to—I’m left wondering what to plow? I’m not a farmer! Nor do I wish to be mend broken barbed wire fences. I wait for the first seeds of the newly planted field to grow—in sight, a rather dangerous game. The weather is too unpredictable. Passing storms, spring snow and freezing rain. Each is strong enough to push all rumors away. February 24, 2000: Leaks in the attic Each that is new shall be the same—the trail used yesterday. Therefore I depend on memory. February 25, 2000: The freak The heart, the body, the shield, the mind, the arms, the voice and the imagination, the willingness, eagerness, ambition and desire, the unfriendliness, the value, quality and lost time, and the dream, the passion, unforgiving ways and paths chosen to take. The eyes, the visions, the inner feeling leaning toward hate. The battles, self, you, past, present and future. The unaccepted, the perfectionist, self-healer and writer, the builder, only on my time, I don’t care what you think! The emptiness, the listener, the helper and destroyer, the child’s dream, the silence, the coward and the shy man, the hypocrite, the pain and the wounds—thank you God for teaching me to cut into this paper. February 26, 2000: The tears of a clown Incredibly strange, the two young independent kids we were, never properly grew together—yet we were fully capable of improperly fighting. The night you ripped up our wedding license—our first night together, why were you so deeply angry at the world? When you had sex with Sean and later aborted his child—did you use that experience to catapult your behavior toward other relationships? Why did you teach me how to be unfaithful? Did it turn you on to see knife wounds on my wrist and face? I wanted to love you like no man could—you allowed to many men to compete during our marriage. Death did not do us part—realms of realism tested by a willingness to reach outward did. In your words, “If I don’t see you, then you never existed.” I guess life became too rugged as a child, so I closed my eyes and saw you. Sadly, your only existence is in the weakness of my heart. Just tell me one thing, in all the times that any man laid between your legs—did you ever think the silence you created would be heard twenty one years after we first met? Guess not. Since you don’t see me—I too don’t exist. February 27, 2000: Procrastinating A.D.D. Writing is something I cherish. Except, I never finish anything. February 28, 2000: 2am Dreams are postcards from the places your imagination visits. People you’ve never met or have been programmed to believe. Lying wide-awake in bed, reality takes no time to recognize where it’s been. The different positions we throw ourselves in, is nothing more than walking into another movie theater. Dreams are pushed aside to make room for reality, which you never wake up from. Reality is jealous of dreams—it does all it can to affect every step, which isn’t a step nor do the days on the calendar ever change—that’s reality. February 29, 2000: Leap day conceptuality Each personality that I am: their common bond is creativity. They have separate weight—they’re the opposite of something. Without these outlets, I might as well sleep. All my personalities beg for privacy. All do everything they can to produce something that affects human emotion. The insensitive—hoards the imagination with impetuous flavor and fun. They resemble fugitives in a Hollywood movie—undercover endorphins racing to paint imaginary pictures. March 1, 2000: God speaks through Cockatiels The only image I get is the lack of communication between the program director and me. Urgency his wicked word, “I need! Gotta have! It must be completed by this date!” Miss Addy is so filled with conversation—her eyes light up with so much expression. Songs of joy, lyric less, she still performs. I sit, listen, watch everything patiently and then whistle back to her just to watch her dance. Oh Miss Addy, a true friendship we do share. Thanks for every attempt you make, to help start what easily could have been a horrible day. March 2, 2000: Two steps ahead of past chapters A lack of self-confidence governs my entire walking trail—I’m located somewhere inside a mystery, consuming everything I do. It’s one of the things that could very easily lead someone toward seeking other means of escape. Me? The choice is to look at it in the eyes and take it on. March 3, 2000: Who’s lie do I hold? Everyday is my final day—inner visions don’t let me forget it. What will bring peace to this mans heart and soul? Must the winds of so much inner hatred continue to blow? I can’t explain what I see. Whatever it is…it keeps me up all night. I stare out into the open field—they tell me corn will be planted there. My mind pictures rows of corn only to realize six months later they planted wheat. I walk up to the ancient stone fence—the neighborhood seems so new—only to realize…I’m standing in corn. March 3, 2000: Scooping ice cream What does it mean? We’re taught to live in image without truly feeling what image portrays. Learn to feel with the openness as given to you at birth. When we’re told to build, did it mean boxes or truth? All things in a box come to an end. Enclosed within each corner are words you can’t forgive. They are thoughts that’ll never save and ideas that dried because you didn’t try. Looking at the forest, I see a gray cloudy day—the birds continue to sing. My paintings no longer search for innocence but rather for a statement. To brand the soul into believing it may have the ability to build more than squares stacked on several others. I turn to look at the gray day—how can I become part of it? I sit in a box. No windows to peer from, hardly enough air to breathe. The walls of my box are covered, hidden, to never remind me of this imprisonment. I see the door. It leads to another box. One trail is all I need to get outside—but how? I live in a box. No eyes to peer from. Never enough air to breathe, therefore I paint what I feel—hoping this trail called life…will one day free me from this pain. March 5, 2000: Below the surface of realm Who is it I think I am? What is it I think I am? Because it sure doesn’t exist now…thoughts, with roots so deep—not a mall shall be built nor a child climb…not until the soul recognizes itself on a foggy morning. Bridge not a highway, for a road is man made—leading you to a man made vision. Bridge the emptiness, for air isn’t error—a path in your name—taking you deeper within. The spiders web—not circular nor in my face, tying branches in knots, gathering angel tears left behind in the morning fog. Must be—I saw it. Can’t be—I didn’t feel it. March 6, 2000: Mr. Poet and his forest All was fine, until the nameless owl discovered he had an itch—a horrible itch just below his neck. It drove him crazy! So much so, he had to land early. It itched and itched and itched, driving the nameless owl into a faceless frenzy. What was he to do? One hand was already full. The nosey mole sat there doing nothing. No fighting, clawing or biting his way to safety. He sat inside the palms of the nameless owl just listening. Then I heard him whisper, “Put me in your mouth and scratch that itch away.” So, the nameless owl did just that. Not good! Or was it? The nosey mole had lived up to his name, discovering a new dark place to play. He dug and he dug, snooped and snooped…and hasn’t been seen ever since. March 7, 2000: Constant valley From my view the colors are forever—but not encouraging enough to let fade or take shape. My roots are starting to die. Like the cedar, my needles are green but my continued path lay on the ground next to last falls leaves. March 8, 2000: Dreams can’t change an unforgiving past So silent was the night. So silent, they were visited by chapters already written. March 9, 2000: The blame game I would like to return to that origin of thought—to let go of my personal dreams and aspirations, so that I may concentrate on something I don’t see. I question not the wind—yet I am to place blame somewhere. I question not this loneliness—yet I am to place blame somewhere. I shall accuse each step, my words sharp as razors. I shall take a branding iron and force its scars deep into my heart, face and memory. I shall sit alone in pity—no friends nearby. I question not the hand I hold—yet I am to place blame somewhere. I am not sorry. My apology should never be accepted. Tears I cannot cry—I’m a man trained to be strong, caring, giving and filled with character. I question not my creator—yet I am to place blame somewhere. March 10, 2000: Coached by Larry Rideaux I stood looking at him, hoping he wouldn’t catch the pain dripping from my heart. I know your shoulder is there. I know the laughter remains. This time though, I have to feel my own pain—to paint my own picture, to whisper out, “Please God, help me.” Cuz sometimes, a one-man journey is what it takes to become whole again—to live this life without wanting to die. March 11, 2000: I can’t, so I write Milestones are visions conquered. Mile markers are the countdown to your destination. A path without passion is missing something…my heart. Who but I? Knows how I truly feel. Therefore, why do you assume? What my heart touches is emptiness. What you attempt to touch is thin air. I ask myself everyday if it’s all worth it? I never hear an answer but my puppies cuddle closer. When I step inside the sacred circle, birds sing to my silence. What I take with me isn’t a song but rather the warmth of Gods love. March 12, 2000: Exploration without exposition So…a sigh is delivered into the morning air, a two-letter word—so—the re-booting of the imagination, a yawn without exposing boredom. So…the changing of a subject or continuation by use of a different beat. So, hands clasped, fingers dancing with the opposite side of the tracks. Permission granted to move forward. So, what was it we were talking about? March 13, 2000: Who am I today? The world has become the wind—hours tossed about like cotton candy. Maybe one day, someone will look at my artwork and realize how hard I tried to slow down time. To envision faith is to bask in the twilight of infinity and wonder. To fantasize faith does nothing but paint the picture of a man sitting on two sides of the fence. March 14, 2000: Peace treaties in my middle east I know I could play the majors. They know I could play the majors. The best way to handle this situation is to give it no sound. If I am the greatest actor you’ll ever meet—who are you? My director? March 15, 2000: This zit won’t go away I sit alone on an island—no trees to shade, rivers to drink from or an ocean to gather fish. An island behind closed locked doors, a half burnt candle steals my air. Yet, here I sit believing a ship will one day come by—an ocean liner filled with great victory, reasons and places to celebrate. Then there’s silence—not a wind to blow back my long dark brown hair or a breeze to hide my decaying body. I’m dead, a man, his island, a fantasy—to actually think my boss really cares. March 16, 2000: Origins of the higher power My imagination wants to paint—to let go of everything and paint. This mind of mine travels four hundred miles a minute—I rarely, if ever, can explain what I feel. My heart is almost never seen unless I know your reasons of asking. I have no anger—only pain, visions from far away places that say, “Put your guard up.” I don’t walk in fear—I walk in shame, giving away my soul knowing its value has no worth. I see the coward I’ve become—knowing the masks I wear, the writer and painter—are the avenues of peace that lift the sun. If I am to write poetry—I want it to be for a thousand days. To bring unto the paths I cross, reflections of a passer by. It’s not my wish to command tears from my eyes, nor shall the soul be worn in places mocked by stages decorated with darkness, ladders and stairs, curtains, clocks or broken hearts. “To write poetry,” I think to myself, “For a thousand days…” A long sought after grin becomes the mask on my face—for a moment, I understand why…only to learn life goes on. March 17, 2000: Can a man metaphase at 38? Who is it I wish to be? Do I want to be a cloud, a frog or a pimple on a face? A cloud has the freedom of time—to grow in any direction, even if it means falling to the ground. The frog is able to swim—to stick its tongue out in public and hop around on everybody’s lawn. What about the pimple? I’ll grow wings and fly! The wind will be in my face—then splat! A new job! I’m the white blotch on the bathroom mirror. March 18, 2000: When even I can’t be my friend I’ve been painting this morning—my thoughts distant, each temptation that of unexpected teasing. An imagination—the invisible pulse seeping from my eyes. Pictures I see—some never told of, for a shy man seeks no stage. I’ve been painting. Make for me a rainbow. Bend for all, what makes them frown. Hold my hand, I’m crying again…inside. March 19, 2000: From nowhere he spoke Fixed to his sight—I stared into his vision. “Cherokee and Crow,” he explained. “I am white…” I tossed back and then followed with, “A spirit guide?” Only to hear him calmly reply, “Just call me Ted.” An e-mail address he handed me, plus a guarantee that we’d talk again. In the seconds it took to view the piece of paper, is how fast Ted disappeared, which did nothing but make room for more words—walks alone. March 20, 2000: Footsteps across the floor I’m the little boy who splashes his feet in every puddle—big, wide, bubbles left in tiny circles and then I move on. March 21, 2000: Knife wound to the soul of my purpose The biggest tree of them all—the very living creations that inspired me to write Mr. Poet and the forest is gone! Four of them lay unprotected on the ground, including the willow. I made friends with these trees! I greeted them each day—walked between them guaranteeing that I wouldn’t bring motors into their area. My heart is empty and so is the forest. I didn’t get to say goodbye…what kind of a friend am I? March 22, 2000: Pick which battle I choose to lose A minute equals a lifetime—how many can we keep borrowing? The ticks that run away cast shadows onto empty paths. Decisions, far to many to decide which is most important. Eyes closed, the hand reaches into the empty box—pulling from it’s the next ambition. The brown mantle clock continues to stare at me. An enemy this timekeeper has become—beyond anger, no rainbow or thunderstorm. If it seems so important to keep me inside these boundaries, why not teach this hand to stop writing? Suddenly…there’s silence. March 23, 2000: Stop saying I have this gift! I deliver a form of upward motion that lends itself to a more solid base and or foundation. I’m a student just like anyone else—sadly, I have to mop up my own blood. March 24, 2000: Trust not one A poor man sits begging—his feet soaking in a slow moving creek. Not a rock to be seen, only a glare in his eye and a slab of temptation on his shoulder. The sign reads, “I dare you.” I shall tell of what I see. I’ll allow you to step into my heart. But never gifted, can be the soul. How can I give what you will one day steal? March 25, 2000: In search of the source The imagination I was given at birth does nothing but baby-sit those who dream of one day being great. Little did I know that radio would bring more pain to my soul than my first wife—so why then, did I divorce her and keep my childhood dream? Because, the sun will rise everyday, as does the heart beating in my chest—without either, I’m left six feet under. March 26, 2000: Collecting shadows The nib of my pen kisses the pages edge. How loud it must be carving into this one-time piece of wood. The papers roots no longer rest in soil but soul—closets emptied, skeletons thrown away…the shadow remains. I place it here—the nib looks up at me, ink covers its face, my fingers and its body. The next shadow arrives on time. March 27, 2000: I lettered in daydreaming I attempt to sit in silence…a highly vulnerable stage. The yellowish white dogwoods and purple flavored red buds fill the forested morning air with sweetened scents of pleasant color and uncontrolled energy. Long stems hide behind leaves reaching toward the rising sun—bringing to, taking from—the energy that makes it so beautiful. To quickly run and get involved is suicide. I’m a man poised to drain his visions, bleed them—to one day enhance the energy creating light to dream by…only to notice that each piece of poetry sounds the same. March 28, 2000: The multi-tasker’s prayer People look at you differently—suddenly you’re nobody, someone they push around. Yet…they forget who does their production, who gets them out of trouble and who’s always there, a roller coaster ride—so swift, so unexplained. Ride it once then walk away. You’ll never return or you’ll stay far enough away to talk about but never attempt to understand. “But you were much nicer,” they’ll say. Leave me alone! Let me be by myself! I want walls one hundred feet high and skyscrapers kissing my toes. Don’t push me toward anger! Invisible is what I wish to live—not conceit…may please rest in peace. March 29, 2000: Corporate farming I’m not a mapmaker—placement is based on importance. If you ignore it long enough, the world crashes and you’re left with no path to follow. The proper is to force me into something I wasn’t…a mapmaker. The improper would be to admit that I’m a begger—standing on tracks, hoping a train will take me to freedom. March 30, 2000: Hay fever The body parts of a tree are inside of me—no wonder my stomach hurts! There are roots in my sewer system. March 31, 2000: The moments we keep My yellow tennis shoes sit in the path of a room so over used—what must I have been doing to kick them off there? My feet didn’t grow in the direction they’ve landed—the sofa doesn’t point in the way the yellow shoes are standing. Poor, poor tennis shoes, you are the most abused article of clothing I wear. One yellow shoe up—the other on its side…is this the way I treat my friends? How could I be so careless? Wait a second! These yellow tennis shoes take up room—so much so I must ask, “Where’s your part of the rent?” April 1, 2000: My gallery of safety One day someone will look at me and deeply wonder, “Are you sick in the mind?” To which I’ll reply, “Until you fully realize this incredible feeling of peace, there can be no judgment. What I bring to this canvas is by far a much prettier picture than the anger inside.” April 2, 2000: When other peoples wants control dreams No promises, not even a guarantee. I’m not in the mood, don’t even think of pushing. I only want to sit, to watch, participate when I feel—to stop being the actor, to look in the mirror and see me. Shadows filled with needs, lights on, its only radio…so I turn, twist then push aside. No promises, not even a guarantee—the dream is dead. I’m in it only for the ride. April 3, 2000: Reincarnated, last stop WWII The silent goodbye—a strange sense of trust scented with a purpose only you could meet. The war zone had leveled an entire city but not the steps behind what made you perfect. The silent goodbye—flavored my desire to turn, to walk the long lonely hallway cluttered with tracks and trains for one of them would take me back to Paris. I remember the steam and how it helped warm the cold chills of living without you. April 4, 2000: Exposed yet it I who decomposes I dream in dramatic state every night—I enjoy sleeping, not out of pure enjoyment but it seems to be one of the few times in a twenty four hour period that I’m allowed to swim in true peace. That is, until I dream about radio. Change if you will—as quickly as you can, your childhood dreams and deepest wishes. Change the way you walk, the way you speak, eat and demand to be alone. Be here at eight, please stay until midnight—don’t forget to add this to your list—all because I said so. I am the leader of our team and the keeper of your company insurance. You need me. April 5, 2000: The creation of my own The croaks and chirps deliver to the imagination a group of painters who claim they’ll bring me color. And they do… Immediately I turn to the window to see if the sun is coming up. For some reason I believe it’s the only thing I get…once I stop writing, I’m tossed into radio’s creative basement. April 6, 2000: Attempting to drown a frown Charlotte Church sings softly in my writing background—I love this woman’s voice…a true sign that I’m getting old. When you start enjoying opera or such brilliant displays of vocal ability—you’re getting old, which doesn’t bother me—I just don’t want to be an angry, pissed off old man. April 7, 2000: Creative flow isn’t about moods My hand feels no inspiration to write. Wait! This reminds me of a dream I had before waking—I had snot coming out of my nose, around my cheek and hanging to my chest. I’m left with only one thought…where does my mind purchase the films it runs during my moments of sleep? What does a dream like this mean? Should I fear having a nose full of snot? Was it already full? If it was…where did I put such a large amount? April 8, 2000: Locating Waldo I call it the continued growth of an imagination—sitting in an office wanting to be bored, having nothing to do but challenge my own silence. Do I fear radio will bite back? I wish it would! I want my company to look at me and scream, “Go away!” Then, materialistic value sets in and I become afraid. April 9, 2000: Does the forest really speak to me? If you see it as human imagination—I accept it. In return, you have to accept my vision. If not, then we’ve done what religion has played out for centuries—drawn two sides. April 10, 2000: Rebuilding my forested relation My eyes are set to distant horizons, my heart forced to stay back and comfort. My war isn’t with another man but rather the path I’ve chosen to walk. Speak to me oh speak to me—allow the whispers to fade into my skin. When I close my eyes let me touch your roots—allow our visions to be one again. April 11, 2000: The virtues of not being seen or heard He sat patiently, viewing the valley floor from an over hang—a wolf pup, in search of life, the very adventure his grandfather spoke so highly of. Hours of patient waiting gently glided between he and the rugged cliff he called home—each thought caught between sunsets while never taking his eyes…off man. The lone wolf pup, now champion of his stone covered place of escape would grow to be known as the silent watcher. April 12, 2000: Lessons not taught in highs school Your job is like death—you know the end is coming. What you don’t know is the exact time and date. This way, preparation is nonexistent. April 13, 2000: I can’t hear the wind speaking to me Living inside the torn muscles of an over-used imagination sleeps the dreamer—the seed of light, the needles eye, capable of threading chance through realms of mystic without having to explain. The child’s eyes, deep in color, spirited like a doe—the mission as simple as bringing pen to paper. Yet I wonder when the child will speak? The wag of the doe’s white tail signals but nothing says to run. The thread snaps, no knot, not even a button to attach on a sleeveless blouse made of wool and melted butter. Pen and paper—tickets to far away places scented with a rivers edge—to sleep near, to sip from but my stomach is full. I’ll need no chocolate or peanut butter today…just my pen and paper please. April 14, 2000: Changing life at thirty eight “I’ll change my voice! I’ll restyle my hair!” The sleepless writer tried to explain. He tried everything! But be himself. Being me means I can be green, much greener than a cup of leaf flavored tea. I can be yellow, gray and pink. What am I? Whatever you wish to think… I am me! Pain in the butt, sleepless, can’t get enough of writing…me! So get used to it. April 15, 2000: To quote Julia, “Born writers.” It’s been two hours, my mind is still writing. How could it take such journeys? It doesn’t seem to bore the mind, sadden the soul or erase the invisible bars and walls. I giggle…its 5:20a.m. I love to write, no matter what time it is. April 16, 2000: The lost art heeds no welcome mat Being an on-air radio talent has proved one thing to me—you come in the same way you go out…part-time. Therefore I’m forced to ask, “Am I physically prepared to become a nobody?” Who are we? Why did we? Where am I going? How can I change? What’s left? When will it begin? The questions are there, just as they’ve always been. To reach the answer requires heart, dedication, loyalty, determination and desire. Making sure it gets in the way is pride. April 17, 2000: Holding hands Ask not my heart—for it has stopped. Look into my soul and touch a rainbow. Even better…meet me here tomorrow morning. April 18, 2000: Turning shy off Two months from thirty-eight—twelve years from fifty. If I don’t protect my future, I’ll be selling cigarettes at a Circle K. I may live this life…but I’m not in control of it. Allow me to learn defeat. Don’t offer me a Band-Aid or something to drink—I can do it! Not because I want it to be mine…somewhere along this path, I forgot to learn how to be me. April 19, 2000: Dark room People who read what I write expect sentences and word placement to be correct and in proper order. Yet, before it begins I mention how none of it’s perfect. What’s worse are those who choose to read and become silent, never having anything to say. I call this treatment an invisible fluid—it runs within your veins making you sick, lethargic and unwilling. The attempt is to push harder hoping to beat what can’t be seen. You become tired, physically exhausted and creatively weak. Being an artist allows you to watch little pieces of your self die each day you live—I become blind…using only words and nothing else. April 20, 2000: Curve balls The rock group KISS changed my life—more than anything I wanted to grow my hair long and become a legend. The first step was to hang their posters then paint my face. In 1977 the band inspired—eight years later I sat with Gene Simmons backstage at the Charlotte coliseum—those platforms made him four hundred feet tall. Sadly, 1994 saw me walking out of a KISS concert because they seemed unoriginal. I saw them again four years later, full makeup—there wasn’t an explosion of excitement due to religious changes experienced. I was with Billy Graham the night before. Tonight, they play again—the original lineup. Loose ends will be tied—the beginning of many things shall bloom a colorful rose. Realizing my age, almost middle aged, I could die at any time and if I do…at least I had fun and who better to blame than the rock group KISS. April 21, 2000: What if we hadn’t met? Thank you for the dream—a young mans initial first step, Rock n roll sexual fantasies—the boys in the band and the girls who wanted them. On our own we played inside musty garages with cardboard ceilings, late night practices in a half built house in Columbus. We dared to be the best but couldn’t. How did we do it? We lost the faith and ran from each other…yet the original dream has lasted forever. I can still taste thought becoming music, shivers masterminded with unique harmonies, guitar picks chewed up—shattered and cracked in two. Rock n roll, sexual fantasies—the boys in the band…thank you for inspiring me. April 22, 2000: Alone A society so addicted to sight and the weight of their pocket is one whose footsteps cannot be hidden. I see treeless ruins of a modern time—eroded by greed, conceit and an over abundance of nickels, dimes and quarters thought to last forever. I am but one man, one vision—filled with words and careless thoughts, which carry no strength to prove any point. We are a nation of thinkers, dreamers and writers who rebel on paper only. I am but one man, one vision—in today’s society, I am alone. April 23, 2000: The first step is to like yourself Here sits a true broadcaster, willing to be unique and dedicated—nobody’s interested. I could complain about this forever. What I really need to do is focus on the things I can change. Only one problem—what am I talking about? They think I’m weird! My hair is long, I talk way out there and my mind is always in a different place. They think I’m weird. I burn candles in the day, hang spiritual tools above the door and believe God is more than just a book. Yet God would never look at me through your eyes. They think I’m weird! I write everyday, paint with my fingertips and sing out of tune over and over again. April 24, 2000: When you forget the name of your pen When you write everyday—all moments are documented. Alittle research takes you a long way. Enjoy your journey—keep smiling and keep loving those pets. All writing instruments I use are given a name so that I don’t treat them like people and leave them somewhere to be forgotten. April 25, 2000: Building Noah’s ark You don’t realize how long one thousand days are until you come face to face with number five hundred and fifty eight. It’s my dream to have these thoughts read by someone who is willing to listen. April 26, 2000: I view the unseen hear the unrecorded I don’t know why I was instructed to build this path but written chapters explain each corner as it’s turned. I’ve created sacred circles to listen to the wind and I’ve met the seven-foot vine that continues to weep onto the forest floor. Maybe this is the Great Mystery’s way of planting new seeds in my dreams. Learn to listen my friend—from what you hear pictures will grow. Play with each until a path is born. Walk it each new sun, to hear the harmony from the birds of prey that shall be waiting without invitation. Two minute television time out— I currently sit on April 18, 2002…Cleveland county has raised my child support eighty-two percent, we’re at war in Afghanistan and like many of the visions painted, the value of the dollar has slipped re-inviting unemployment, crime and a serious lack of trust and faith. A thought bled onto the pages of an autobiography sliced, diced and simmered by Master Chef Gene Simmons of Kiss. He admitted his words would bring hatred to the surface of the people who followed them. For some odd, extremely strange and abnormal reason…the radio air talent, writer producer, artist, poet that I am…could relate. “Sometimes you pick up a book not for what it’s a about or who it’s about—but rather how you’re going to get where and why. Some people take articles of clothing with them thru life—others are reminded of family first. My path wouldn’t be without the rise and fall, rebirth and destruction of rocks most famous teen boy band. So…I picked this book up like an adult rediscovering his favorite toy or blanket—which made me want to believe this autobiography was more than music—only to learn…that’s all it is, was and will ever be—then we die. As I near forty, the blankets of once covered secrets reveal pages torn from chapters then glued to the inside of a scrapbook. Suddenly at forty, I find myself having to deal with every page that’s fallen…only to learn, those still attached best describe who you’ve become and not the person you’re trying to be.” Nothing hurts worse than the tear stained eyes of the one you love most. The natural reaction is to defend your path—the best reaction is to protect the friendship by being truthful, faithful and capable of keeping your feet planted. At no time more than now have I faced such loss. I owe it all to a self who couldn’t get a big enough high from ratings books, groupies, chocolate or a desiring need to take my life. Todd Midgett recently spoke of how important it was that I swayed from drug abuse—I’d be dead in weeks. Then the Great Mystery presented Lori Dubois who said, “Look in the mirror and wonder what if I get cancer? She’ll be in a different mirror wondering what if I live?” More than often, shadows are what gift us more. April 27, 2000: Uncompleted circles not yet dust The vision is that of far away places, empty houses I’ve been to before and farm yards once filled with kids—pictures set out, resembling a family reunion. The next step—a wrinkled face with hands to match and a sour heart blood thirsty for meanness. How don’t I become my father? Do I declare war on past events? Maybe I shouldn’t invite anyone from the past—live alone and never look at a mirror. Too late, I was born this way. April 28, 2000: Shhh Picasso sleeps The self sits wandering…its only strong enough to accept assumption. The painting isn’t a masterpiece nor will it land in a book for future viewing. For one moment though—I stopped the world…just to paint. April 29, 2000: I control therefore I am by me The hands of fate shall blacken the eye that can’t see all four corners at one time. Fate isn’t what’s been written—it’s what you expect, what someone guaranteed and you chose to accept it. April 30, 2000: Multiplication divided by subtraction I wish for nothing because wishing isn’t a well planned out life. This modern day society wishes but doesn’t do anything to enforce change. A vine grows around an innocent tree—it steals sunlight and rain. Fate didn’t put the vine there—determination and loyalty created the curves, now wrapped around the tiny branches. I come along and cut the vine—damn if it doesn’t grow back. Fate doesn’t feed the vines roots of survival—wanting life to exist is your answer. May 1, 2000: More can be said about silence Visions only I see haunt the caved in walls of lives already lived—chapters crammed onto once living trees strangled by the hand of man…and I sit watching. Look if you want, stare if need be—can you see the frozen walls whitened by the lack of sun? There’s silence, the reader wishes to catch the scent—the reader bites his lower lip while trying to picture what’s been written…I sit watching. Note: I try never to explain because purpose survives within your reaction. He or she who sits without a word shared continues to piece together while the talkative won’t admit they didn’t listen. May 2, 2000: Dear Lynn Payne What do you want me to write? What else can I say? For three years I’ve been at your store and now I feel like its time to rest. It’s not that I’m tired, I’m just never home. I love being home by 7:30, to cuddle up on the sofa—maybe be out by 7:31. It’s not that I love to sleep, it’s not that I’m running away and it’s not that I think I’m a brilliant poet…but rather—I’m in need of un-commitment. The heart says it’s time to let go. Note: I can’t help but believe that after twenty-one years of radio, I’ve finally reached a point where I’m lost—there’s no reflection in the mirror. I have become what I hate most—the angry stepfather, his moods a barrier—a warning signal to stay away. I’ve become what bothers me most, someone who’s always in a hurry. Rather then leave radio, I chose to walk away from my circle of poets at the book store. I remember telling them, “I’m an injured artist.” May 3, 2000: I’ll be anybody you want me to be just ask. In time, I change—things move forward. Projects are something that must move me or they’re left behind. I’ve always been this way! Blame it on radio. I can be cold, chilling, exciting, happy and sad—stick around, I’ll change…blame it on radio. I’m filled with dreams, anxiety, planning as well as loneliness—will someone please give me another body pillow…blame it on radio. May 4, 2000: Am I to be like you? I must come across as being a sick man—the majority of the world seeks out what best fits their life, I choose to listen to the wind. It’s there that colorful flowers never die. Nor do the humming birds caught dining in slow motion. May 5, 2000: I pay the rent Little bird, little bird whose music is much too loud to enjoy…learn to whisper, talk softer—think of the others. Little bird, little bird so like the Blue Jay…screeches that scrape, like nails forced down a chalkboard—learn to hum or chew gum, its much better that way. Little bird, little bird so sweet you are…wheat filled treats to keep your beak busy—please, anything but screaming. May 6, 2000: Wedding day for Sheri A rose bush that climbs isn’t in search of…for it knows; in order to grow you must feel love. May 7, 2000: I see no horizon, I hear beyond silence I wasn’t given birth to gift those in need, that’s God’s responsibility. My chapters are that of sharing…accept the tools of trade or venture quietly down a lonesome path. What I see are moving pictures—some move so fast, a blinking eye isn’t reason enough to place blame on something for missing it. Yet, it’s those paintings I wish to bring to life—for no better reason then to understand mystery. May 8, 2000: A fire may cool but it never dies Radio is a game—play by the rules while breaking the old or don’t get involved. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve lost my radio sight—it gives me a place to run without physically jogging. May 9, 2000: Pissing me off to benefit your next step The soul has become tired—there are times I’m so weak, the actor won’t put on his makeup. I keep asking myself why, only to laugh out loud. “Go ahead! Tell me what to do! I want the competition.” May 10, 2000: Grasping inner strength He or she…who sits silent—continues to piece together…while the talkative refuses to admit they weren’t listening. Interviewer: Are you a musician or a lyricist? Reply: I’m someone who makes up stuff but refuses to flush it down the toilet. Interviewer: Someone asked about where this creativity comes from, your answer was, “I feed my imagination.” Reply: I never hold back what my imagination chooses to deliver. At any given moment, it can change directions. I leap onto that ship believing in the imagination while never assuming it’ll be there. If you believe in it—assumption is never present. A cast shadow lives like no king up on a wall that’s shaded—enter the sun, he who bends color…but it’s too late, the shadow has been erased. What you see, is what you feel—you don’t need an entire world to learn how to accept yourself. Note: Since the very early seventies I’ve found great joy in writing music, making up songs while turning radio station production libraries into incredible orchestras fully capable of backing me up. Silently, I’ve created several hundred pieces of music that huddle in mass on cassette tapes and cd’s. I’ve written two rock opera’s and have handwritten the stories behind the music. It’s not my passion to be neither famous nor recognized for this sickness I call creative flow. If I stop my body from creating, I might as well start shopping for the urn to place my ashes in. May 11, 2000: I see something… I’m on the edge…I’m always on the edge—step off the edge and what’ll happen? I’ve stepped off several times hoping something would happen. The evil lasted but a moment then passed. May 12, 2000: Grass seeds I turn the page to see a blizzard white canvas staring back. It’s extremely difficult not to locate inspiration. The first thing I do is lightly rub my fingertips across the new page—it’s as if we’re shaking hands. This is the part of creativity I don’t understand…things fall onto the page and I’m left to wonder who put it there? May 13, 2000: Weed seeds To say, “No” means you’ve lost vision. To say, “No” means those in power see you as being selfish and unwilling. My sickening goal is to outperform every player. Chris Allen once said to me, “The city watches what you’re doing then tries to mimic it—by the time they catch up, you’ve already moved to a higher level.” One day, I’ll look back at every chance I took and realize none of it was worth it. I’ll sit alone and try to piece every reason together…hoping it’ll give me purpose. May 14, 2000: Flower seeds Peace means what? Is it the first reactions after two opposite sides agree? Add milk to it and McDonalds has a new desert. Painting gives me peace—be it circles and squares, lines or mistakes. I laugh, giggle, cry and smile. It’s a piece of me while enjoying peace in me. May 15, 2000: Seeds in a desert I’ll keep adding to it, until I mess it up good—then, I’ll hate it and demand the essence of its origin to be returned…only to realize the painting’s been finished. This is a place for me to hear songs still unwritten—to visit with the hidden self, not the artist but the maker of things…to keep the mind busy. May 16, 2000: Caught on canvas This ink, it reminds me of blood—it even stains like blood. I’ve mixed red with gold—I told Lee that because it resembles my blood, I must have a heart of gold. Ha! I’m so funny! Ladies and Gentlemen there are free tickets to my next show available in the lobby. Suddenly, emptiness takes me my knees…a hollow feeling I don’t enjoy nor do I understand. How can a heart just go blank? I’ve experienced this my entire life. One day, you’re the most important figure created only to suddenly hear silence. I’m not a cold-hearted jerk but I’ll admit these actions are totally wrong. It’s as if I’ve locked myself up in a self made prison. Hello, my name is _______ I’m a cold-hearted S.O.B. But I don’t know why? Will I change? I hope so! Maybe I’m going thru… The change. Letting go—preparing for middle age. The price of food hasn’t changed… but I have. I feel it in my heart. I see it in my step. I heard it in the depths of conversation. The letting go— it’s hollow, an old oak whose limbs are no more. The tree stands there, as do I… alone, cold and empty. I’m an S.O.B. May 17, 2000: Let it die Maybe it’s time to toss in the hidden music, shed the skin and melt like cotton candy—to let go of he who lives within pretend. Reality is what we make of it…then one day; a new song appears on the radio. To me, its silence and I must learn to savor it. May 18, 2000: Doodles The passing of what’s been let go takes from the mind what once kept it warm— This is the part of writing I don’t understand…such quotes fall onto a page and I’m left wondering who put it there. Who I am doesn’t surprise me nor does what I’ve become. The hand of my keeper governs each step taken—therefore, I’m his tool and that’s where faith is born. I believe in all things—sometimes, I’m shocked at what I see but that doesn’t stop me from believing. The healer of hope is self—the mender of peace is self. I pretend nothing, for the self I’ve become, as named by God…is my best friend. I hear music…but can’t play it—so I create. May 19, 2000: Arks are what we hear I feel a willingness to seek while feeling like I’m being sought. No…I don’t believe God is talking to me! I’ve chosen to believe that there’s a higher power—which in return has opened my eyes to all living things. I prayed under a full moon last night…my words were short and to the point, “I don’t understand, therefore teach me.” I don’t want to believe—it’s a choice so often left un-obeyed. “Build a bridge.” So I did. “Create a path into the forest.” So I am. The visitors are un-human-like…moles and turtles, snakes, hawks and a goose. “They’ll grow.” As am I… May 20, 2000: Footsteps The days go by so fast—I blinked and it was Saturday again. Too many moments go unnoticed—the flavor of gum, two sticks at a time…only to be spit out and stick it under a table for the next generation to scrape off. May 21, 2000: When art becomes the window to your soul I’ve overdrawn, meaning I’m undecided. Squares, which means I’m boxed in. The child smiles while the adult screams, “I don’t want to get away! I don’t want to run!” There’s no need to flee to another corner of the country. We’ll stay up late and play til we drop only to return to be even more tired. May 22, 2000: I can’t do black and white I see so much when I look into it…yet I’m left horribly empty. I want to add more until there’s no room. I don’t draw apples and mountains—my heart sees more when looking at objects of grand creation. To question the vision is like staring down God, “What’s up?” This is why I must learn to listen—bring into each painting the releasing of ability, to hear all things even if it’s a lost soul who’s been walking a thousand years. So…you enjoy what you see? Pretend for a moment that it didn’t come from me. Listen quietly to the music playing, vocals filled with temptation—it’s as if creativity is raining. But, can you see the story? Mask if you will, the real reason you are here. Paint it black, then white it out—use your fingertips to read…feel that? That’s me. May 23, 2000: Line in the sand So…I stepped away—but only for a moment. To see what it would be like…to say, “Goodbye” and mean it. Addiction. May 24, 2000: The painter’s interview Attempts that turn into temptation fed by a hidden passion to uniquely create a special style that’s all me. The challenge is to blend all colors—it works in nature why not here? I go back several times and study every move made—it’s an incredibly deep view that enables me to look beyond the black lines. It’s my biggest wish to seize purpose; always hoping that one still exists. The sun doesn’t just rise…its pulled up by angels holding invisible strings—the vow: to guard their special companion. That’s what I dream of touching, not the obscure or totally unbelievable…it’s my passion to attain purpose. My life is guided by the sound of many beating hearts—once connected; it becomes my vow to die for a tree. May 25, 2000: The slow death of a creative Every step in my eyes is in failure—so I prepare my soul to be hit only to be left to bleed. I’m so deep this morning—way within the limits, almost in fear but not close enough to confidence. My feet dangle in hopes of never escaping. Who am I today behind these thick clouds? Wake up! I can’t stand slow-handed mind surfing—feed me your desire, inspire this passion. Don’t block it out! You can’t turn it away! I crave what you create and perform—I value all pieces left to dry. Give me more! Feed me more! Without you…I am my own wall. May 26, 2000: My reality and not big enough to accept it Here I sit—directed but in the wrong way…a four-lane highway takes me through a ghost town, the dust catches the strength of my aging nose hair. “I’ve been here,” I tell the tired legs that brought me. The masks no longer heal—they sit quietly in a corner gathering moss. No fame to drop from the tag still pinned to their collar. Angry? No… Disappointed? Maybe… I’ve never been the type to watch the same movie twice. Embraced by bird songs, we collect from each other invisible reason—only to lay them out like baseball cards…but we never trade them. May 27, 2000: If I could hold the world Unconditional love is something humans should study—it might slow down the hours and stop modern day corporate takeovers. May 28, 2000: To all the grooms and brides I’ve met Tonight, you take with you many items of personal value—the memories, pictures and your wedding vows. These are the rays of your morning sunshine. But what we must learn is how to prepare for the storms—large drops appear when we stop recognizing each other’s individuality… You’ll hear thunder when the toilet seat is left up—but it’s when you see lightning that you know the wind is sure to follow. The moral of the story is this—you can’t sit back and let a marriage happen. It must be something you visualize with each passing day. Therefore working together, building new places to share and valleys to cross becomes a path that others will soon follow. Not all days are sunny and seventy-two degrees…but if you take the time to respect the vows you spoke into each others eyes—the sun shall forever rise above the storms of challenge…gifting you with a wild rose for your untamed heart. May 29, 2000: Honor begins with self respect I can’t draw a picture with simplicity—to do so, requires another personality. Imagine me, simple and caring…could I be? I can’t take words and lay them out—six inches they must stand away from the papers edge. I don’t listen to birds chirp—I study their pattern in hopes of communicating. I see your lips moving but sometimes what I hear is a waste of my precious time. My inks are of several colors and the clothes I wear almost never match—they think I’m weird…and I’m to prove it. May 30, 2000: Who am I and why do I create? Today seems to be the day to recount the memories—to catch thrown away thoughts, tiny pictures of a ten year old in Seattle. Held tightly are the views of eternity, shadows of disbelief, make believe and the reborn. “Twenty eight years ago,” I say to my aging self. So much has happened yet so much hasn’t. Oddly enough, I feel as if this need to perform was planted while in Seattle…I hear no voices agreeing therefore I shall dig deeper—time to get a bigger shovel. May 31, 2000: Prayer begins with a pen I often never know what I’m going to write. I place pen to paper then lean to the left or right—whatever falls out becomes my path. Most of the time, I hear what’s to be produced only seconds before reality sinks in—I’m living proof that the best idea’s come when you allow yourself to make mistakes. A mans thousand thoughts—not at all close to a sliver of the suns rays nor a single corner of an empty field after a heavy snow storm. A mans thousand thoughts—over a thousand days, devastating, heart pounding—I can’t, I can, I’m running away on a bike built for three to fifteen or as many personalities I wanna be. I giggle, I laugh, snort scratch out, re-write, paint over and empty everything living deep within. A mans thousand thoughts—nothing compared to God, look what he did in seven days. June 1, 2000: Introducing—departure A bolt of sadness has crept my way—but is it sadness or loneliness? Is it the body trying to wake? Just because I’m not up…does that mean I’m down? A hollow emptiness felt first in the stomach easily convinces my hand to start writing. But what does it write? Questions… The mouth of many rivers but which do I choose? No fallen trees, few hopes, little decisions, therefore I write and write and write—about nothing. Scraped from the pits of hollowed emptiness comes my form of one hundred percent nothing. Silent? Who me? I’d rather fight to take on the devilish child, the mask and the unheated rule breaker—not to tame, cage or tie up…I only want to listen to better understand why… --Goblets of extra giblets-- People constantly ask me, “Where do you get the energy to do all that you do?” One day I’ll ask them, “Why do you spend so much time asking?” Must a grown dream die with its keeper? Is there some way of handing it through? Are the words I write stories of my creation or do they belong to the long lines of people waiting to use my phone booth? I love to write—it’s a sickness that helps ease other sicknesses. The unheard sit with me in hopes of getting one thought captivated on canvas. June 2, 2000: World powers from within Fridays to me, aren’t what others receive—it’s just another of the seven bust my ass days. I love to be extremely busy! I passion to feed off the energy created during and after a project. As long as I’m left alone to create—I’m the happiest man on earth. The moment someone tries to tap into my river, sucked is the desire to be me—at that very splitting of a second…I become the actor. June 3, 2000: Stop looking at my past A real mans task—the joining of fantasy and adulthood—the mowing of the lawn, the upkeep of the car and the building of the bridge leading toward the forest. If I were going through any change of life, it would be the raising of a planted root incapable of being normal til now. I know something spiritual is happening—I laugh before the best part of the joke is told. So I sit and listen to the wind fed messages from far away. I’m told to get strong again, to live life but only through vines eyes—grow but don’t take away, reach out but don’t climb…blossom beautiful flowers and I shall be named a rose. June 4, 2000: Price tags from another time There that was…three words given to me at 7am. “A set up?” I thought—incomplete vision? Not a mystery to me. Three words, given away, tossed into my head while I slept—reflecting what once was. There that was…three words given to me at 7am. It demands reaction! “There what was?” I hear nothing the poetry is finished. June 5, 2000: Unpainted paths, which I must listen to Green leaves look at me while thought scribbles onto a once living thing—then again, being that communication is in progress…this canvas becomes the next step in life. It’s not that I am writing over the footsteps of a once living tree ring—maybe the rings are breathing life into me? “7am!” The clock says to me. Tingles in the tummy, something’s not right. Everyday, fear strikes me down—lightning I can’t see, unexplained and uninviting. Shallow, the stream no longer is…caverns in sandstone decorate the journey. Fear…but only if I think of it—of what I keep asking…will this be my final day of writing? Who am I writing to? Are they creating words for me? June 6, 2000: Shingles on a roof top It’s funny how life works—people are sent your way for a moment only to learn the chapter’s ended. Life is temporary—I could die today… What if? Not if…yeah, as if! If is the peanut in Jiff…sniff if you wish—but don’t sit on your if…it might disappear. June 7, 2000: Spirals of unperfected friendship Writing is my undercover passion—it’s helped me keep an eye on this earth’s invisible world. The unheard sit with me in hopes of getting thought captivated on canvas. I’ve stopped asking who these people are; instead I concentrate on what they bring with them…paintings, poetry and music. I’ve chosen to listen while watching through the essence of silence. I choose to listen to the wind—it’s there that colorful flowers never die. Nor do the humming birds caught dining in slow motion. June 8, 2000: No paint for angers horizon No one knows what it takes to go the distance—to shove everything aside, to do what’s been ordered! I’m in the mood to do nothing—but who am I to think I can be like everyone else? What a freak! I am he who thinks he can do it all and expect it from everyone in return. June 9, 2000: Four parties speaking The poet let go of his passions like water flows through a rivers bed. The challenge wasn’t to bring color to a blank sheet of paper—the poet found it difficult to be with people. I knew he could survive without people—to let him be alone trapped him behind the walls he built without knowing it…fourteen foot brick walls around his house made of trees, vines and weeds. In his eyes, they were wild roses and the poet treated them as such. June 10, 2000: Painted up to look the part How is it that so much life is consumed and tore up by weed eaters and blades? Left to dry they’re soon tossed away. Lend to me your manly way of living—let me touch what inspires you. I introduce! My wild roses! They’re for you to savor, to learn from and to smell—to maybe one day grow your own…instead of leaving them for dead. I wish to one day explain the emptiness in my stomach. It’s hunger versus starvation. Not for food…for creativity! June 11, 2000: Just get this stuff out of me I didn’t get here sleeping my life away—why should I start now? What I envision isn’t a life of retired living but a fulfilled destination fed by two hands bloodied by determination. I invite you to stand next to me, I’ll introduce you to my several selves…stay long enough and one of them is bound to like you. The illumination of leaves at 7am is a blessid reunion between human and plant—a rainbow of second chance. It doesn’t matter how things went yesterday, God has given me the push to make it right today. June 12, 2000: As radio dreams die new ones arrive I’m a water pipe—there are gallons and gallons of creative things inside of me, the moment I twist…something grows. I don’t try to be perfect! I only wish to get it out in hopes that it’ll be unique, different and an extreme one of a kind. June 13, 2000: heart murmurs Everything I do is brought to life the same way! The music I write/produce isn’t listened to out of conceit—it’s a peacemaker for a self that’s never liked being itself. That’s the reason why I create so much! I’m not bored, I want to one day be who it is I am—this isn’t my correct path…how can it be? There’s too much inside my imagination that can and will be created! To suddenly become visible to a pair of blind eyes is non-existent. I rely on this self to never stop searching. My life belongs to a higher power whose ability is to bridge sound with silence. My heart is a muscle—a living weed planted by another human being—from that pod, a blossom sprouted a pedal—little did anyone or I realize that this weed wanted to be a rose. “You can’t!” They’ve screamed my entire life. To which I’ve replied, “Keep telling me what I’m not…it gives me the strength to continue changing other peoples lives.” June 14, 2000: Three brothers A copper head snake visited me first thing yesterday—today a snapping turtle…some people would look at this then quickly walk away. My choice is to visit what the forest is saying to me. Cherished are the moments when three completely different worlds meet in the middle—the hidden message: I fear my own fear…fear not the fear that’s fearing way has shamed a life it can’t control. Belief in one’s self cannot materialize if fear and shame follow the trail of love—therefore any act of courage that may lead to a strong foundation is damaged before purchase. The sun falls to the earth each night for no other reason than to make room for the moon. Stop being the bystander who documents only the dreams that come true—write about dusk meeting dawn. June 15, 2000: Remixing music written ten years before Somehow I’ve tapped into an energy source and here I sit trying to keep it alive by feeding it curiosity. June 16, 2000: The silence after creative flow I’m not proud of any of the works of art—some have touched me but nothing has blown the doors off imaginations door. June 17, 2000: Not just anyone knows my name I want to be called the greatest of them all…but it must come from the right person. June 18, 2000: Kinship with a totem I am a bird of one, lunch alone—dining near the manmade waterfall. I’m a female cardinal—a year old or younger. A cat could catch me—I dare the jerk to try. For whatever sakes its one hundred degrees! Even the shade moves in slow motion. So…I being a bird of one, will sit here and dine alone—the wind my music, the human writing about me—the art on the wall…now this—is life. June 19, 2000: Wait! I see light The only way I’m going to get what I want is to stop waiting for others to catch up. June 20, 2000: Puppy needs for daddy My pen stops—I catch a glimpse of my baby Niki racing to catch a human hug. He reaches outward—a high rate of speed—plunk! “Pet your dog!” His melted eyes seem to pant. Grabbing his fuzzy body I scream, “Yummmers! Why won’t they let me take you to work with me? I’d be so much happier, relaxed and extremely creative…I’d agree to go to meetings, kiss butt and stop griping. But no! You can take your kids but the dogs must stay home! Whateverrrrrrrr.” June 21, 2000: I’m gonna get a bad review…right? Often times we think, “It’s us who’s in control!” When in reality its Hallmark and all the mega stores who spend millions searching for reasons to jump onto the party boat. Each, create new holidays that leave the common person with more work to be accomplished—Therefore, I feel a National day of corporate slavery should be erected. We’ll send unsigned messages to CEO’s, Presidents and Accounting departments only to hear a fellow employee shamefully exclaim, “It’s the way of the world! Get used to it!” Whatever…just close the door and leave me alone—I’ll be back in an hour. June 22, 2000: Dot dot dot Money doesn’t inspire me! Knowing this, I face the biggest challenge of all…another mans guilt trip. Simplicity is something I can’t relate with…the rest of the world is doing it. People say I don’t laugh out loud as much as I should…you should see what happens when they walk away. At birth, God gave me what I assumed with passion…three decades later I’ve learned that it was compassion—which would explain why so many steal from me rather than learn. I try to never feel sorry for myself…I live this life due to choice. One day I’d like to be my own shadow…I wanna see if he’d bust every dream, shatter all friendships and turn his back on family—all in the name of radio. June 23, 2000: Step one: Learn to recognize depression Holy God in Heaven! Will this ride ever slow down? June 24, 2000: I don’t wish to defeat your ego I am numb to a world I barely know—pictures become overcrowded destinations, almost too easily I become lost. Then, I sit down, to do what? To give that particular project everything I’ve got! If the sky shall open, I’m ready to die. For who I am has happened—what I stand for weakens dreamer’s who claimed they could…until my thoughts took them on. Bring it to me! Bring to me everything you think is passion! I’ll take this dagger from my heart, give to you my final breath and I’ll still have what it takes to bury you. The vow deepens, for no man can give what I give—no man would sell his soul as often as this man who sacrifices. I can’t explain it nor shall I cry—pain bleeds from me like the opening of a new river. Such a statement means…I must now prove it to you. June 25, 2000: I’ll sit and watch this depression exist I look at all things as being some sort of artistic effort. My thoughts hurt…look at my paintings! I keep going back…and for what reason? Am I disappointed by the outcome? A perfectionist inside a materialistic world—Wal-Mart shelves stacked to the ceiling, six cars in the parking lot—only one color can make it yours. Too much to see…no wonder I keep returning—a painting isn’t a painting, colors are words…expression—yet, I’m the only one asking questions…what’s wrong with me? June 26, 2000: I can’t reach into this page to help Words are born…yet I don’t remember. Is this why old men seem angry? His tortured dreams bent downward—submission becoming his only way. I’m so cold…I freeze all night, getting very little rest. The blanket covering me hides my path from the real world but it’s not enough! I need something to give back my sleep. I’m on a thirty-eight year old marathon with no way of knowing where the finish line is. June 27, 2000: Always trying to locate answers When I paint and then write—the numbness I feel is death. I die everyday to visit heaven…while there, I bring back with me stories to write and rainbows to color. There’s no better way to explain the way I feel. June 28, 2000: Number thirty-eight People keep asking if I’m having a happy birthday. I quickly turn to them, “Where are your concerns when I’m having a bad day?” My writing instruments are more than tools—they’re keys that help unlock dreams. They’re bandages that wipe blood from wounds. They’re pop cycle sticks holding up a child’s fort. I don’t expect you to understand—it’s not you I’m writing for. June 29, 2000: Feel not be not am not therefore I am I’m having a very difficult time waking up—this usually signals the arrival of depression, the opposite side of a high with nothing in the middle. There’s no soul who understands what it takes to create all I do—to pretend to be so strong when in fact I’m stale pudding. A co-worker said to me yesterday, “My, my, aren’t we a busy one…with so much creativity.” My reply instantly halted his comedy act. “Trust me; if I wasn’t so bored with life…I’d stop!” When I’m creating, the high is taller than mountains. Then, without notice…I become a pair of jeans, the socks stuck somewhere in the legs—I’ve been on the bathroom floor a week. June 30, 2000: I have to sit beside me everyday My heart keeps pushing forward—neither man nor sickness can steal from the hand filled with so much creativity. I admit this, not out of conceit but rather confidence. After writing that statement, I see no difference…therefore I am an egomaniac. July 1, 2000: My music, my songs and my performance I don’t necessarily think of it as being scars or uncovered wounds—those songs helped me set aside reality! They allowed me to concentrate on a craft that’s since taken me farther than my radio dreams. It’s not that I refuse to get old—I’m just making sure that everything I love isn’t left behind in a box. July 2, 2000: Fizzy and bewildered A head that hurts, a stomach that remains quizzed…forget the throat, I destroyed it years ago screaming at life passing by. How is it that my dreams are so real yet when I wake up…reality feels like a dream? Self-centered isn’t a protection device—when I walk, it’s never about my steps. Centered on the path I follow is the only self I trust. If I choose to stay in the center, I know in my heart it won’t get me there—being focused does. Am I dead? Do they wish I were? What did I ever do to them except to protect what I believe? Why is it people don’t know what to say to me? I’m no better than…I’m just as human. It’s my work ethics that make me who I am…if you think I’m great—come to my house and let me introduce you to the pens that make me human again. July 3, 2000: A war of recognition not greed Depression doesn’t mean, “Hey I’m sad!” Sometimes you go so high you feel guilty. How can I feel so great? This shouldn’t be happening! So…I talk myself down. In radio, I’m treated like the retarded kid who’s shoved into the basement. In reality, I’m the mentally challenged adult who wants to come out and play. July 4, 2000: Is it wise or demise? I write everyday to build a better understanding of the person I’m becoming. Screw the past! I was fully aware of everything while it took place. Keep walking—allow no time for rest. Stop…and so shall those who follow. Walk faster—become the wind. Carry with you…the seeds from all who flower. Plant them in places where dirt grows—one day, if loved…more than thyself, a bloom shall rise. Touch it. Gently feel it. Without fear, let it grow…now look in the mirror. July 5, 2000: Too much time to know me I’ve reached a point in my career where everything I’ve dreamed has dropped and rolled under a sofa. Letting go of Charlotte will be more difficult than leaving my mother. I keep hearing the call—I’ve ignored it for ten years. What is it that I don’t want to leave? What happened to me in March of 1985 that made me a prisoner of this village? July 6, 2000: Wanna fight? Interviewer: Why do you think you’re going a different way? Me: I’m far from normal—sometimes I’m so far out there…I become lost. Interviewer: Are you an artist? Me: No! I’m an expressionist. I do all I can to capture each expression as it’s delivered to me. I can stare into my paintings and see a billion things—I meet people who see nothing. Interviewer: What do you want them to see? Me: Nothing! I want them to become so lost, they get stuck inside assumption. Interviewer: Why do you want such reaction? Me: I don’t! I just didn’t know how to answer your question. July 7, 2000: Chapters that never fade To say, “I gave out,” means I premeditated. I only reacted. You reach a point where you no longer control the emotion—she cut me with shattered glass, the decision to free herself from Motherhood, the open love affairs, I did all I could to save my marriage! I did all I could to save me! I wanted her to get help but didn’t know how to seek it. After twelve in a half years—I chose to run. July 8, 2000: My hero I turn to watch Meisha—she overlooks Larry in the kitchen. He’s old—I often wonder if the others know it? Without them, would Larry have melted away already? It seems he’s always trying to prove something—a very determined man whose ambition outweighs the aging body he carries with him. July 9, 2000: Bald where I scratch my head So bad…I want to put this pen down! Where would it get me? Then again…where will finishing three pages push me? July 10, 2000: This must be where the drawl was born “Get this mood and attitude in motion!” I have to move! The waters on outside—if I sit here and just stare, the fricken trees will flood and I’ll be forced to build an ark. I don’t have two animals of every kind! “So pick your ass up and get out there and move that hose!” I do all I can to remain positive only to learn the ingredients of missed opportunity. July 11, 2000: Music but not notes If given reason, the imagination allows you to believe all things… The mantle clock, a keeper of time—even though it’s always five minutes behind. I allow it to live its own life…I’ve chosen to do nothing but watch. July 12, 2000: Visitation thru unheard conversation Two nights ago…my night visions were that of a walk with God—we strolled beside a lake with giant rock formations—I had never been there before…yet tiny pieces of the dream remain. Was it God? Probably not…it was a lake only I could create while sleeping. Laying my head back, thy eyes seem to swear—for if a path leads to my soul…then I hope you came prepared. Rivers and streams are flooded, a planet overcrowded with thought and eyes that see beyond reality—creating pictures, writing poetry and tasting without every using my teeth. There’s no electricity, so your travels within will be dark. My head held forward, the mountain moves unlike any other—if you wish to stare into the eyes…expect to float like a feather. July 13, 2000: Hello…is something or someone there? When I walk in the forest, I’m never alone. Have you ever stared into the face of a tree? Have you ever kissed the tips of a yellow flower? Anything that touches human emotion is in fact reason to never feel alone. When I close my eyes, another world appears—nothing moves…therefore I believe what I see is staring back at me. July 14, 2000: Reincarnated replicas of unperfected fumes I’m the one paying the price! I’m guilty of constantly stealing the better taste that life won’t let me enjoy. Slowly I dance…embracing a black and white world—Ted Williams is king and Sammy Sosa is yet unborn. The world lost Ted on July 5, 2002—strangely enough only hours after I put this quote amongst the others within these mind thoughts and honest paintings. July 15, 2000: An asshole? I have to live with me. It’s fun to sketch and or just mess around—anything, to gain a better feel while feeding the extremely hungry perfectionist. July 16, 2000: Maybe I should use a pencil Give the perfectionist a reason to look at life then erase it… July 17, 2000: A pillow for the gosling Not only can you taste it, the scent invades your dreams. It’s worse than garbage soaking in the sun! The scent of death does all it can to push you away. This thought, it takes me too close to an area I don’t wish to travel beside. A major change since the mid to late eighties—when life seemed un-saving therefore I sacrificed it—including my marriage. Yet, I didn’t pick up on any scent. My pen becomes silent—does this mean I’m growing? Do I fear what I write? After all…I’m a product of this modern day society—children are born premature and some don’t make it past the vacuum. Still, unexplained—the gosling kept screaming, “Stay away!” His wings broken, legs snapped in two and a spirit that took over me—only to hear the geese at midnight calling out in the saddest way. July 18, 2000: But John said I was a white-eye The hawk stood on the ground, not in a tree but in the grassy area of the exposed Georgia clay. We met eye to eye—I was shocked only to become distraught. How and why? I wish someone would explain to me that this happens to everyone! Tell me that I’m not special and this connection to the hawk is in my head! Tell me that this bird thing is a total prefabricated creation as designed by my imagination! July 19, 2000: Focus but don’t burn your eyes I love to dream…as weird as they are its fun to try and figure it out. As we grow, new ideas become old—brave beginnings seem used. As we age, the teens are reflected inside the twenties—by thirty you wish you were a teen again. Nearing forty…I am a teen again! I write but I don’t become the character. I paint but never see fit to be inside. The music is lonely, cold and filled with purpose. Poetry is something to do in a world so boring. As I grow, the challenge isn’t to repeat—society takes me back. July 20, 2000: Unshaped hapless wonder Life is like Mother earth, its a straight path is nothing gained. To view any mountain from a distance the eyes are given color—once upon its steep slopes and jagged stones all that was once hazed by changing storms belong to a tree. July 21, 2000: Contemplating life When in the forest—I become the visitor of the Great Mystery’s soul. To hear the dew tumble from leaf to leaf then down onto my forehead is the most beautiful gift shared. In all this heat, wouldn’t the trees require the water for their roots? They choose instead to share it with me. Don’t hate me because I’m creative…join me. July 22, 2000: My songs ten years later I hear things that aren’t normal—it’s a passion to look beyond the surface of sound. It’s there that I locate tiny angels with the same dreams. I love harmony! I’m not in love with the voice but inspired by the way music reaches to gather true expression—to embrace and or accept the lowering of the sun while sipping hot coffee on a frozen Montana morning. July 23, 2000: Less than a year from one thousand What becomes the weakness when being weak becomes boring? Am I a leaf or an overgrown weed? People sit and stare, softly asking, “What is it?” Have they forgotten that life isn’t always a rose? A sunflower isn’t an “it”… Stop staring! I’m green as can be. Come to think of it, my weakness could very well be you. It’s called judgment. July24, 2000: A new showcase to display my art Out late last night…did an interview with Macy Gray. I’m not proud of it! My questions were too long and she was too gifted. I got what I wanted! She agreed to do material for a new show I’ll be writing and producing. The thought of helping to create a show based on one of my characters is extremely exciting—the reward will do anything but benefit the one whose life will be sacrificed. I think that’s why my stomach hurts this morning—the constant drive to bleed every inch of myself into a cup won’t stop til I’m dead. Radio moments aren’t incredible ratings…true moments are based on the emotions severed ten thousand times by the people giving the party. For one brief moment you feel as if you belong—in reality, you’re still a piece of waste. July 25, 2000: Spoiled or boring I can’t help but ask, “Why should I get up?” Being me, I realize I’m not being me. I’m weighed down, I’m dragging…I now have the hiccups. Oh great! My pen rests… The waking up process I go through is such a pain in the ass—it’s me against time but the body doesn’t approve. July 26, 2000: Hmmmm what’s the body saying? If today is my last day on earth—let me rest! Don’t ask me to get up early, let me sleep until I can’t anymore. I’ll stretch and stretch, blink once or twice, wake up happy knowing I’ve finally been blessed with one day of complete rest. Please oh please, if today is my last day on earth—don’t overwork my already tired self. Come on man! I’m not that good…nobody is! Therefore, allow me to sleep, give to me what I need, treat me as your guests…allow me to have one full day of rest. July 27, 2000: Napster ruled illegal The computer generation is ego driven—it’s an ocean of unrest set within the waters of piracy. When any one person is allowed to take something—they’re willing to steal more tomorrow. July 28, 2000: Oops I’ve done it again Work-a-holism—I feel guilty not being at work. It’s my addiction! Beer and wine make me angry and depressed—sex creates hollow emptiness—writing is a painting of my blackened soul—every now and then a ray of sun steps inside allowing color to scent the air. July 29, 2000: I shall not mask I honestly felt, to wear the Jewish circle on my head, I would be selling out. I’m extremely dedicated to my spirit guides and teachers! They’ve taught me: when sitting in another mans house, abide by his rules—I chose to leave. This morning, my spiritual roots gifted me with four separate songs from the seagull to which I’ve turned into a prayer tool. I shall carry with me the peace my creator shares—for he knows how much I was hurt last evening. Before leaving to Virginia Beach my spirit cards warned of an encounter that would challenge my beliefs—I would be strong enough to protect—therefore I had to face a willing man to take me from the mountain and attack me like a mountain lion. My choice was to leap outward to another knoll—to listen without reaction—to react after listening…to continue believing in the Great Mysteries incredible message of inner peace. I respect the Jewish religion—why did they choose not to respect me? Nestled inside my soul lays the hand, which guides me, so often, I question. Lately, I have followed. Still hurt by the invasion, the tear stains cry out, “How dare you do this to a man so caring! I would die for you!” July 29, 2000: Circles unexpectedly become complete The incredible storms that hit in the months that followed outlined a boundary that’s become a bricked fence inside a deserted forest of hope. I don’t wish to bring out old memories, nor do I want to dance on a wooden floor made of pop cycle sticks—I didn’t come to Virginia Beach in 1989 because I wasn’t ready to let go of my security blanket…I knew Sande was screwing around! Even worse? So was I… It’s a wonder our unfaithful ways didn’t force us to meet somewhere in the middle. July 30, 2000: I signed the contract and you said no I was running and didn’t know it—introducing me to friction in the heart. The violent storms that followed outlined a boundary that’s become a brick wall inside a deserted forest of hope. I don’t wish to bring up old memories nor do I desire dancing on a cold wooden floor. It’s a wonder our unfaithful ways didn’t force us to meet somewhere in the middle. July 31, 2000: Unmasked reality painted by reality’s child My mind never stops—nor do I feel. I should make it. I see rows of color, smell scent after scent—only to attempt to duplicate all that brings peace to a half a cup of emptiness. When I dream, it’s as if I’m acting out. When I speak, thunder roars off the mighty stage. It isn’t that I over produce—ok, it is…but you haven’t the know, to understand what it’s like to hold a half a cup of emptiness—therefore, I create. August 1, 2000: All we do is show up and talk…right? So…who am I? Am I the careful watcher of all things? To be the creator is a seed, I can’t be he. Am I the show builder or the entertainer? Loyalty and passion never stop nor the letting go of original dreams, someone has to focus on being a team. I’ve met the fearless leaders who’ve chosen to take off. That’s funny, so did my dad. I’m perfect for this neighborhood! Every radio station I’ve worked for has taught me to be unique, while stealing everything. Never should I forget—it’s only music, a stage where children come to play and adults lay claim on all the money. Gary Morgan said to me, “One day you will change…” Not once, did he warn me that it would be everyday. I’ve been trained to watch, predict, assume then make mistakes. I’ve learned to listen, ignore and close the door. I’m a jerk, an ass and always at the top of my game. A picture of someone I don’t recognize is who I became—a reflection, the echo, reverb…I am the greatest actor you will ever meet. August 2, 2000: New project, write and produce 5 hr show Interviewer: Do you think the show will fail? Me: Fail isn’t the question. It’s more like, what am I willing to sacrifice to make sure this show doesn’t fail? The heart is quick to take note—I’m the only one out here. August 3, 2000: Faint spells of I can do it all… It’s incredibly difficult to keep up with all paths leading toward me—it’s like watching twenty different soap operas and I’m required to know every character. August 4, 2000: Some things just can’t be erased When Sande was pregnant, she was the most beautiful woman on earth. Then, like a summer storm—destruction hit…the storyline became a death sentence without a pardon. I don’t know why she chose to push away the love of a child—nor will I ever catch up on the sleep I lost while she demanded that I die with the baby. Yes, I wanted her to keep Sean’s creation…no matter who the father is. I honestly think its natural for any man to fall deeper in love with his wife. Do I hate Sande for freeing herself from Motherhood? I hate myself for not seeking her help. August 5, 2000: My long hair doesn’t hide the roots Showmanship is radio’s lost art. Morning-show talent talk—that isn’t showmanship, it’s eavesdropping. August 6, 2000: I bite I have woken, not in the best of moods—a feeling of hatred, disgust and emptiness…an unwillingness to do anything. I don’t want to eat, mow the lawn, look at the dog or stare into the suns shadow. What kind of world do we live in? We always want to be happy—If I’m not up, I’ll create until I almost fall…and what I do create is judged harshly. No wonder I don’t like waking up! They do it more elegantly in Hollywood. August 7, 2000: Faithful addiction Most of my paintings were challenges to better perfect—be it a nose, eyes or lips…for a split second I actually feel proud. I no longer seize moments; I take on chance—turning passion into reality while dabbling until the paint is dry only to white it out. August 8, 2000: Deaf Looking over what’s been written today—I see flow…that always bothers me! Its music I don’t hear. August 9, 2000: Postcards of unclaimed luggage My eyes barely clear, my heart the same—journeys taken and somehow I’m in it for the ride. The hills, so large—the wind disappears. Then I’m let go, told to fly…landing on my feet in an upward position, only to ask, “Who am I pretending to be?” Like a drunken man, I’ve no idea of when I went to bed. I spent my dreams re-arranging rocks. This dream, a series…I fear a visitor coming to the office—they walk in, close the door and quickly run away. My body starts to decay. I’ve said it before, death brings no fear—getting there is what frightens me. August 10, 2000: Silent cries of suicidal tendencies What they see as anger is in fact the face of fear. My daily presentation steals from every chapter expected of me. With each step, I learn more about better trusting silence. I’ve learned to listen which in tail allows me to believe that my Grandfather is with me. Bring unto me oh Lord, all answers that release pain. Allow me to touch oh Lord, the veins of the bleeding rose. Allow me to smile oh Lord, to open these lips without speaking. Teach me to walk oh Lord, in all directions without judgment. Trust in me oh Lord, for my faith in you is endless. August 11, 2000: A year later, my boss hated me. If I’m going to bust my ass non-stop only to find a non-caring ass on the other side—you better be prepared to take me on. Don’t ever expect me to be helpful if you’ve never returned the favor! I’m not hateful! I’m only trying to protect what little is left. You steal from me! You never give back! You take what I own! You laugh when I’m not around. Rape isn’t sex related—abuse isn’t always about hitting…I don’t wish death upon myself, that would mean…you win. The fight has only begun. August 12, 2000: New journal same attitude How can you start off your next journey knowing the last one ended in such a firestorm? Nothings changed…except for the way I hold this book. What I create is thru failure—no writing, no painting, no radio station promos…nothing gets by me unless it’s failed first. My father walked out on me at the age of two—my mother chose a career over being at home. My first marriage failed. I failed at radio. What makes me great is this willingness to admit I am a failure. August 13, 2000: Forcing the gears to change without gas People like things you can see through—Microsoft, McDonalds, Ted Turner’s classic movie channel or a two-dollar beanie baby. I call it a brain fart that’s made it around the world. August 14, 2000: Even I can’t hear the warning signs Hey you! In the mirror! That sheet of glass made of silver lining! Have you seen anyone else in there? Sorta tall like you, long hard hair, a meaningful stare but happier… Hey you! What’s up with your attitude? Help a brother out! Don’t turn and walk away! What’s happened to you? The fantasies that made you laugh and childhood dreams that became adult memories. Hey! You’re walking away! Hey! Where are you going? August 15, 2000: This low, no mountain on the horizon I’m becoming angry, tortured…but by whose hand? Am I creating my own hell? I live in such fear of failure that I fight hard to stay positive. I keep telling people how I must stay focused—keep looking forward instead of back. I write, if anyone reads it, they’ll know it was the only creative place I could locate true peace. If I could say one thing about myself, it would be…don’t try this at home. The life I lead is that of many masks—I can be anyone I want to be anytime of the day. Some would say that it’s a dangerous game to play—I call it my current adventure. August 16, 2000: Revelations on fire I’ve spent an entire lifetime taking too much—only to find an angry way out of dealing with it. I sit in a room all day with the door closed—I keep waiting for it to open…the fear attacks me far worse than death. Fear levels me to dust. August 17, 2000: Burping in hopes of laughing Wow! A blank sheet of paper! If only I could explain how exciting such an object is to me. So, what do I do? I mess it up with bellows of thought and anger created by an over worked soul. I’m guilty of this misdemeanor! Writing is more than my escape—it’s challenging the brain to lift the rain cloud and place it somewhere over there. The one thing I could never do is be Shakespeare—he didn’t try to be me. I stand alone, the forest before me. So is everything else—my job, more of my job and even more: The death of a salesman in disc jockey shoes. I’m alone, in a world with people reaching in—friendly fingers hoping to heal. The barking heard, is from the carnival, “Come one! Come all! The most unique attraction on earth! Here sits a man, alone, doing his job. He’s doing everything that comes first. Arms of steel! A soul made of gold! No smile to wear! It’s like a dog searching for his tail! Wait! Don’t sniff his rear! No! No! No! Go now! Leave him a lone, his boss has found something new for him to do.” August 18, 2000: Help…help thy self out first Before the poet chose to pen out his next thought, an old friend, a shadow, visited him. His writing hand being of great control chose not to send thought to paper…but rather, trace shadow into memory. I’ve laid my head back three weeks straight hoping God would place his hands over my weary body—what I feel is hatred, a cold ache, an unwilling unforgiving way of life that seems endless. If this is heaven, where do I pick up a ticket to hell? Am I suicidal? I have to be! No man on earth who wants to live…would put up with the stuff I do! I walk into the forest everyday. I sit and just listen. Its not in my heart to ask the tree’s for help—it’s not that I don’t trust them…the company I work for is uncaring enough to set their home on fire. My body tells me to hang in there and never give up. My arms say the same. Too bad my dreams are screaming, “Run! Run!” I’m old enough to know better but too weak to say anything about it. Hatred comes in many sizes and flavors—self-hatred is colorless and unscented. I am not suicidal. I’m not angry or out of control. If it’s my boss’s ultimate challenge to take me on…again, I’ll stand in victory. For no man other than God can steal from me the passion gifted to my soul at birth. If it’s his wish to treat me like dirt, then it’s my dream to grow flowers. If ambition breaks my back, then from the ground I’ll still have the strength to grab his angles believing whole heartedly that a man who trips was careless in his planning. August 19, 2000: Stab me oh pain but I won’t die The spirit cards say I’m off path, my vision is tangled and I’m running scared. Inside this soul, confidence isn’t lacking…it’s the ability to take what I know and replant it. The spirit cards are telling me to leap outward into the waterway, allowing it to take me toward the happiness I long for. Become the salmon—stop giving to all and start sharing with me. August 20, 2000: Two years before Enron If man could speed up life…would he? Most people walk around believing they’re the best life offers. To attain such nobility on a daily or weekly basis…does it require the slave driven ways of mans wants and needs? This modern day society is sickened by its constant craving of being the best…or nothing. August 21, 2000: Location of upward winds I honestly never know what the imagination is playing with until I physically melt into its completion. My only request, try never to talk with me during a creative trance—I can’t hear you nor can I feel your presence…until I’m touched by your hand. At that moment, you’re introduced to my angered self. Therefore, I extend no invitation to anyone willing to listen—I sit in solitude…a self-built hut filled with bird songs and puppy cuddles. Must I be so sad? My body, does it need to jump when anyone approaches? I’m like a dog that cowls in a corner—my destination lost somewhere. To retrieve it would mean leaving—to bring to life takes energy…a solstice of power once held tight. Today, I sit here not moving—yet I’m breathing, slowly, deeply, patiently and caringly. Who shall it be? Who shall wake up the bear? August 22, 2000: re-evaluating team work There’s a twelve-foot wall around my purpose. One problem—I keep letting assumed friends inside. August 23, 2000: Cluttered fall out shelter These shields are up so high…my arms stink from sweat. That’s right, cynical and skeptical. What keeps me from going overboard is an addiction to constantly doing better. I’ll cut your head off without raising a finger. I didn’t get where I am today by not being skeptical— I rip things apart to better build. Interviewer: Are you running? Me: Absolutely! Wouldn’t you be? Interviewer: What about a man fighting his own war? Me: Without crossing a line, I break every rule in the book. When this occurs, start asking, “How am I going to get back on his good side?” August 24, 2000: Just call me asshole I never sit in silence…there’s always something to do—I’m extremely quick to change gears. Pats on the back aren’t required to harness the energy to get the job done… I’m not over confident, only un-noticed. A flag with no color yet I fly outwardly—loyalty doesn’t come with a price, so get off my back and help push! August 25, 2000: Mom…where do we come from? If I’m to be honest with my writing—then admitting my questions of faith and spiritual way are extremely healthy. No day since birth have I ever been without doubt. August 26, 2000: Solo flight to the Pacific Northwest coast A clip of your hair—let me take it with me…a kiss from your soul, a puppy’s possible hug. A tape of your barking…let me take it with. Your warm fuzzy body…let me feel it all the time. I’ll be lonely without you, my thoughts always on you—visions of wondering what if? I’ll freeze within such worries. My fingers will have withdrawals—for you are my children. August 27, 2000: I obey the wind It’s possible Aunt Louise is calling me back—maybe she’ll be at the airport to greet me. She died during a long war with violent cancer. Louise was such a believer in my strangeness—I earned a conceited accusation from her open way. Many have since disagreed. August 28, 2000: I’m me I’m sitting at a table, two blocks from the Space Needle…Seattle Washington. If you were to pass me by, depicted is my artists wandering mind—untouched by the rules the rest of the world has to follow. I knew, only a few short hours before, Louise and I had walked together. My heart fought off the hidden tears, a mental attack created by footsteps pushed toward the bluish white tiny restaurant along side the pier. We had clam chowder there twenty-eight years before. It amazes me how the mind never forgets—it inspires multitudes of levels that Louise would still consider an act of conceit. She said I would come back! That’s why I didn’t soak my feet in the ocean waves. Yes Louise, I am here…sitting two blocks from the Needle in Seattle. August 29, 2000: Tourism I truly believe Americans spend too much money on the pleasures of life. The $36 prime rib served to me last night high atop the Space Needle was dry! I chose not to say anything. Not til this morning…I’m disappointed that someone didn’t offer me a free cake for desert. I do what I do because somewhere inside I believe in what I do. Laugh all you want—I’m not listening. ****Note 8:19 pm…still August 29, 2000 I thought the mountain would speak. Native Americans call her Mount Tahoma…Rainier—in modern tongue. A total white out not only greeted me but also haunted the soul, which had traveled an entire nation to reach this destination. My heart forced me to use the imagination. I was to challenge each memory created through pictures—to build my own journey while standing on a mountain you could see for miles, yet I couldn’t…and I was standing on her face. Imagine a white sheet of paper—seen is your hand…but the background is missing. I saw no glaciers or granite walls—only rows of unperfected raindrops that melted together inside puddles of scented peace. I heard nothing…it makes me weak in the eyes and this heart has chosen to no longer believe. August 30, 2000: Don’t ever tell me no! The goal is to make our way back to Mt. Rainier—at the present, we’re a quarter mile from base. Inside, I hold discussions with my self, two separate forms of anxiety feed the climb to the top: The photographer and the adventure. No matter what condition they’re in, we are to conquer all paths. Right now, the sky is cloudy gray—large drops of water, fall from the most covered pines. The air is sweet, almost un-forest-like. I keep seeing what has been described as being the Oregon Blue—a bird that flies in packs of twelve, they dance on rock ledges above spewing water shot through gaping holes into picturesque valleys below. I find myself giggling—this, after a night of rough sleeping patterns. Oh Oregon Blue, dance on…dance on. 11:10 am: The top…I physically see why such a struggle to reach this point will not only be remembered for the rest of our lives but well respected. August 31, 2000: Postcard marked urgent Lake Quintano— two miles from my nearest touch, a fog bank covers the resting mountains. Not as majestic as Mount Rainier—they seem to be rolling, as if to be embracing the birthplace of migrating salmon. While driving, my vision was blocked by loggers and the two-foot high stumps they left behind. The sight doesn’t bother me—it’s as if we’ve agreed to disagree. For now, I’m completely fascinated with the black birds soaring above…they’re extremely noisy! They’re in a world of their own—the coves are what they’ve decided to conquer. My energy level is racing—which does nothing but garnish the thoughts of those I travel with, “Slow down! Relax!” Ok, how about if I die and start all over? This display of untouched expression isn’t a light switch—therefore, I try to sit in silence, a pen and paper create for me…the stupid pieces of waste I describe as being paintings. This is what I get for having an addiction to creative flow—laziness is what clogs my pattern! To be a cloud…or…a tree swept over by a cloud—the lumberjacks are less than five miles away. To hide within the clouds, savoring every breath of air, knowing today…could be the day. A white man’s rule changes faster than her rivers grow— to be a cloud, a puff of white lifting upward as if to be collecting all it can. For a moment, a breath of air is held—a new home in Georgia requires this tree… I can’t imagine such replanting—to be a rootless tree inside a careless society. September 1, 2000: I can’t walk on water I was amazed at the number of Seagull that play like children on the streets of Port Angeles—my dream was to collect them all. The locals paid no attention until I turned to them and accepted their warmth in the way of freshly cut flowers. September 2, 2000: Sprinkle my ashes here too! The water is sip able, the air is visible—treetops blessed with green then salted with British accents. This is Victoria. Wooden boats lined all in a row, a child’s toy box, except there’s real water. The hotels are ancient in flavor and at night the Capitol building lights up like Disney. This is Victoria! The streets are filled with musicians, a modern day of renaissance—collecting well deserved quarters, for they play all day…just on different corners. This is Victoria, a horde of fresh bakeries with hot rhubarb pie and Canadian Indian woodcarvers. Look! A writer…sitting next to an open window, several feet above the nearest street—it’s me in Victoria! September 3, 2000: Goodbye Last night, just past ten—the Seattle skyline lit like a painting. Looking well within the depths of her soul, I begged softly, “Please don’t wait another twenty eight years to call out to me.” It’s been a long time since my last shedding of tears—each drop visibly seen while peering thru the window of flight 1468. The attempt was to locate something to take with me…it couldn’t be water, a bird, tree or manmade. I still heard her screaming, “I beat you! I made sure you couldn’t see me!” If three decades were to pass, that would make me sixty-six…much too old to stare Rainier in the eyes, believing I could climb what thousands of years had created. Then God whispered, “Bring to yourself the confidence to admit you are you and without such a belief no difference can be made on a path capable of rebuilding bridges ripped out by storms still unannounced. Heal thyself by locating your inner peace. To better feel what life has to bring…touch it only once.” This, just two years after vowing to live by only one rule: Thyself guarantee is that of silence. I signed a death sentence of loyalty that turned me cold, lonely, sad and less of a man than any other time. September 4, 2000: Insightful flight The box filled with unwritten songs sits waiting to be admired—seashells of the flying type…a shield that once kept them warm. I hold memories of their travel—for no other reason than to admire. Some chirps and chatters are perfectly shaped—most have been left in the rain. I stop to listen—taking up space, holding on as long as I can…I see flight. I feel the valley below, a lake to the side. One piece of music takes me to caverns of simplicity. I sit watching, hoping to learn…maybe stay longer. I can’t help but wonder if just anyone collects? Do they return to smell the plastic bag while hearing the seagulls crying? Do they touch the multitudes of color with one simple thought? In my music box…they sit—seashells from the flying type. September 5, 2000: Dear Charlotte, North Carolina Go away! Stay away! You can’t hurt me anymore! A game—we played, for fifteen years or more. Just leave! Say goodbye! Just don’t slam the door. Go! Now! Don’t look back because I won’t be here anymore. Please go! Runaway! I can protect you no longer. Still here? Why? Again…you have no answer. Go away! Stay away! Please find another! September 6, 2000: Oh God…another depression Getting hurt is what makes the mud for my log cabin. Once created, I shove it between the cracks. It blesses me with a more peaceful sleep. Gone, is the chill of my many angry bites—now just a nibble. Turning to my creator, I thank the almighty mapmaker, pathfinder, and healer of all wounds so deep… For I am blind—the mountain, six feet away isn’t seen…yet I hear the roar of the raging glacier falls, as well as the pouring of air from my lungs into a world so large…my existence instantly disappears. Am I so foolish to believe this man I’ve become fits within the scattered puzzle? A creative caught between the blizzard whites of a canvas—so many answers but not enough questions. Coward? Victor? Who will I hurt first? September 7, 2000: Job offer from where once traveled This writing book has taken a beating—I can’t figure out where on the trail it’s endured the worst punishment. Oh well, if it looks new, then it didn’t do its proper job. Interviewer: Be open, be honest…are you moving to Seattle? Me: No… My weaknesses are my knees. Just like any man, when you fall in love, you stumble—Seattle is a beautiful blonde and I’m not getting her. September 8, 2000: Give me nothing for this art I swear…it’s all about balance! Hopefully, in one hundred years…your fingertips will enjoy the carvings left behind on the pieces of canvas I touch. September 9, 2000: Hiding behind the greats I’m a moody artist wanna-be! There’s nothing I can do about it, except study it. This desire to create makes me retarded. It’s not normal to want to be so expressive—anything that isn’t normal is retarded. At times, I feel like Escher! I believe whole-heartedly that he was a very sad artist. He mentally…couldn’t figure life out. Therefore, his works of art held a very detailed answer. September 10, 2000: Letting me in me Doodling—allowing the imagination to focus on anything but one. If you put me inside a box, I’ll dream—keep me inside a box, I’ll build. If you force me to live inside a box…I’ll become the box. Place your fingers on the pages that follow me—its there that aggression is given life. My weakness, I believe in my creativity. Too bad I don’t believe in the person holding the final outcome. If you try to talk to me, I won’t react…lyrics have never been my thing. If you only knew what its like to sit on the sofa at sunrise, writing everything down—then looking up to see two birds and two dogs sleeping next to you. People say I’m daring—I laugh…daring has nothing to do with it. I’m bored! September 11, 2000: So, I’m just another Celine Dion Music’s always been my life! I’ve done nothing to chase it down. I fake a good song by using radio station production libraries—outside of that; I’m only a dreamer with a fantasy. September 12, 2000: Learn this one thing from me When it comes to documenting time, nothing stands in the way. I write about the dreams that enter my closed eyes, travels on highways not yet built and climbing to the top of a mountain only to realize this imagination forgot to give me a bridge. Peeking through the trees, memories the size of mountains consume me. Do I climb it backwards? What did I miss? There must have been something! My thoughts keep taking me back. September 13, 2000: The divorce came 24 hours later I’m told my sister got married yesterday, this, after I asked if she was gay? It was ok! I would love her the same… She’s never talked to me about a boyfriend! Then again, who cares? I don’t! It’s not that I don’t love her—it’s her ego I don’t agree with. My entire life, she’s always believed in herself more than others. Am I hurt about hearing second hand of her marriage? No… Does this make me unforgiving? She lives off my parents, says nothing about relationships or building companionships and here it comes out of left field, “Hey she got married.” As of late, people have accused me of being a real jerk. I’ll accept that…but is my sister gay? Just be honest with me! I’m only trying to share what she could fear. Understanding… It was the one thing I didn’t want to hear, a marriage then single adulthood within a 24-hour period. My sister will never know how much I love her. The miles that separate us were created by her ways of harsh judgment. I chose to run and hide—to build a foundation where family no longer mattered. September 14, 2000: Three-digit combination to my soul When I turn the page, my fingertips ask to dance—to be set free to play, to caress the page. Felt, is the surface, so smooth…it becomes soft. So white…I see pictures. Words are placed, poetry dipped like paint—then spread across the page. Maybe I’ll come back. What’s written isn’t for me—another generation, another time—messages in a square plastic bottle…my sea, this page. September 15, 2000: First books can’t be pushed away I’ve sat watching you for many years. I’ve watched you grow through many chapters, fall apart then roll on the floor—only to make your way to a box in the corner. A moth would die, crickets would chirp and a mouse might construct a hole. You…sit there, just staring. It’s as if you’re whispering, “One day I’ll be complete. Til that day, I’ll sit here and wait…but collect no dust.” Whoa! Talk about a guilt trip! I could tell everyone about you—but what do you know about me? Just as I thought! Not a word shared. Stop staring! During my chilling junior years in high school, I set out to locate a reason to stay put and not drop out. Handed to me through the powers of hidden creative flow was a book idea. I called it Halloween 78—to this very day, the teenage dream of completing it breathes. On September 15, 2000 I entered the book in the annual Novella festival for no reason other than to say, “I did it.” Only to realize, I’ve never picked up the half written book again. September 16, 2000: Generation X has no idea The sky is dark this early A.M…. not a trace of sun to be found. Like a child waiting, I’m left with visions of Saturday mornings before they went twenty-four hours. I’d set my face on the screen, turning snow into millions of people—racing around with no place to go. I’d sit there from 5:30 to 6am…just looking—turning nothing, into something. This A.M. the sky is dark, not a trace of forest to be found. No wonder the leaves are changing…you can’t take a tree into a tanning booth. Maybe if I disconnect the cable, toss away HBO, MTV and Channel three—I’ll help save spring and summer, just by staring into nothing only to create something. I woke up with a headache this morning—that’s God’s way of saying, “Yes, you’re still alive.” September 17, 2000: Paying my dues I don’t like to sleep. I can’t! I’m up all night analyzing every dream. They’re too vivid—it’s as if I’m really there. It doesn’t matter how hot the house is I freeze all night. Even while I write, I’m covered with a blanket. It’s as if I’m sleeping forever on a cold unloved highway. Like the birds I stop to peel off the road, then bury nearby. It’s as if the Great Mystery has whispered into my ear, “You will take care of the path of all shaman in transformation. You will listen to the wind, locating their place of continued growth—bring to them a napping horizon. For this…I give you nothing. For yourself…you locate true love.” September 18, 2000: Even Dr. Doo little can do no right Hey birdie birdie please sing to me— Little birdie birdie I’ve heard you before. This time, I wish to watch and then learn to mimic and pretend. Hey birdie birdie sing softly to me—let me watch you puff up, open your wings and wiggle wiggle your tail feathers. The stage is set little birdie birdie. Be all you can be—open wide and let’s hear you sing. Hello! The world is waiting for your debut! You sit and stare, fluff but no puff. Spread those wings and let it shine! Blast us with song and rhyme! Wings are spread…yes, yes—chest poofed out…yes, yes. You look around…perfectly ok! Then, you fly away. September 19, 2000: Vietnam dream modern scene He sits alone on the path with an attempt to better understand. Why would someone who seemed so innocent suddenly turn? The invitation was total destruction. The American service man stands up, his view set toward the necessary steps required to walk back into the store—a pair of pants he saw earlier had caught him off guard. It’s as if the jeans arrived from past generations—he was next in line, an ambush of 501’s…the label read Levi. September 20, 2000: The dream said, “Don’t move now.” I’ve locked myself up so tight inside the world of radio—no matter where I go the damage has already been done. Radio isn’t and cannot be predicted—there’s plenty of personal cost when making sure your steps are invaluable. September 21, 2000: It’s never words he speaks The dream: I was visited—frog. The visitation of a frog means, the totem animal is preparing me for cleansing. Signals from the frog warn of unexpected change. It could be lifestyle of spiritual—either way, the frog is my guide. Now I must decide—do I believe or ignore the message. My choice is trust. If I were to lose my job, I may have nothing. That’s why it’s incredibly important to trust the creator. Do I let God seize control or continue to fall like the weakling I can be? I am only a strong man in the eyes of a coward. I see what’s invisible—my weakness is the inability of becoming invisible with it. I find no pleasure in being recognized! Think not of being a great human, never assume for your face will only become lost. What’s created isn’t for you but another man, possibly a woman. Being open to all forms of method allows you to accept all colors in a box of crayons. September 22, 2000: Back off! Anything I touch has been tainted by the wicked ways of a perfectionist who doesn’t searches for greatness…but satisfaction, which he never locates—therefore he settles. These journals are based on the inner battles of human companionship and self. No day passes that I don’t wander thru the I wants and I needs of a world sunburned by hopes of crossing any mountain without using their own sweat. I’m not a great person! I’m evil! I don’t say great things about you. Why should I? Your raping of me can’t be legal! I don’t want people to be inspired or influenced by me! Why would I want to see two of us in hell? Passion is the ability to perform what you dream. Desire wants to perform what you dream. Loyalty is the final product. September 23, 2000: It’s thru me they create The white milk stone that makes up this writing instrument sets my imagination on fire. Although my eyes are unfocused, the soul knows exactly where it wants to grow. Like a seed, a thought emerges from a bud of green—the wind my guide, a burst of energy explodes into a billion plus one pieces. The white milk stone that makes up this writing instrument bares the marks of a deep traveling spirit guide. Favorable is hardly, if ever the steps taken—for no soil lives on earth like that called mine. I often forget I am a poet who took up drawing to better enhance the visibility of his words. September 24, 2000: Why does man own it all? My mind rests…it stares into the empty air turning silence into a masterpiece. I listen to the heart. If it whispers, I reach in and cuddle its purpose…only to walk outside and see all that is manmade. What seems peaceful isn’t music filled— September 25, 2000: Change Fall in the Carolinas plays havoc on the forest I step within. The damage a stream of water can do makes me feel helpless within the congregation of trees seemingly much older than me. I often feel my footsteps have killed with should be living—to attain any reason I must study everything that takes place. It’s not the power I wish to grab. It’s the actual essence of incredible peace I assume lives there. My pen stops—the word assume attacks me then spits me out. Maybe there isn’t peace within this forest. September 26, 2000: Asking is learning My steps are the creation of spirit keepers and guides—I’m open to their existence, faithfully believing in the ability to communicate. My failure lays within the untrusting ways of the two legged. Any animal that builds his bridge on the personal comforts of self, tears a part another mans dream of crossing the stream. My selfishness is based on fear of failure—I cannot stand to lose in the eyes of another fool. I’m the biggest fool there is! For me to open my avenues only to look even more foolish isn’t selfish—try protective. September 27, 2000: To whom am I fighting with? Dedication, loyalty and determination—that’s what I’ve spent…only to receive anger, hurt, abuse and a torn and tattered view of what my next step should be. Anyone who thinks radio is based on faith and trust forgets to look in the mirror—look into those eyes and tell yourself the number of times you’ll sell out today. Don’t get me wrong! There’s plenty of fun within the four walls of radio, it’s usually after management has left for vacation. Broadcasters bleed everyday! We’re lonely dreamers whose only friends are radio people wanting to step over us. And yet…I still do it. September 28, 2000: enough said Radio is an addiction to invisible air…I’m guilty of re-inventing boarder lines. If you aren’t interested in chance, I’m not your guide. September 29, 2000: recognition leading the foolish The mood swings yesterday actually created sound—I was so depressed that my soul ached. I heard myself moan! I wish my boss would flat out say, “I hate you!” It would be a lot easier than having to fake his way into being nice. September 30, 2000: To live and die by I spilled ink—my hands are covered…a new picture is born. October 1, 2000: The war with black and white The tenth month, the forest will thin, leaving sticks stuck in the mud. It’s hard for me to imagine a beautiful world if it looks like a nuclear winter. I look upward to stare into the eyes of a blue jay. The several shades of blue take my breath away; the black lines held within the tail feathers allow travel—a free ticket to the other side. To fly, to reach into the dark—once there, I listen to all things--believe in each as they have with me. October 2, 2000: The second hand at 2am I’ve never enjoyed waking up. It’s my weakness to dream. A mind full of change—the heart is broke and poor. Leather shoes cover my feet protecting what’s discovered on this journey to catch what lives in the open sea. Being shy holds me back, too afraid to let go. Imagine being alone, homeless, not a fire nearby to keep me warm. I say its failure! How dare the shy man’s cry take the blame! Especially since the fear of his shadow keeps me out to sea! Almost never seen, I hide from other passing ship captains—telling no tale of the one that got away. A waste of time, a lonely man needs not to lie—for I’m being weighed by the full harvest moon, which wakes me in the middle of the night. October 3, 2000: Visitation seen thru new eyes My everyday fears lay with survival—fear of failure controls. Being creative forces me to take on chance…because no body else is. Visitors line the path, the long slender type. I’m told to endure their peace, speak their language—learn rather than teach. They bring with them medicine to heal, to warm a cold hearted listener—visions of chapters past will be invited to take the shape of rebuilding sights. My fingertips study their craft—diamond shaped heads, tails that point, squiggly little lines left in concrete. Fear not what they bring to my present for snake people do not wish to fool. Answers to the mystery shall be released when conversing with a snake. October 4, 2000: Freedoms not for sale in America I’m no forecaster of life—I’ve the slightest idea what it’ll be like in the year 2010. The present is far from where I thought it should be! Computers aren’t for everyone, there’s still too many who can’t afford them. We live in a society where the profit margin’s been lifted to fifty five percent—companies continue to cut back forcing us into deeper saturations of guilt. No life! No family! Our gifts of performance will one day be required to live on work property. October 5, 2000: Did I win or get moved back two spaces I’m doing all I can to cleanse the body of its dirt cover muck. If there’s bad luck to be found, I’m your Charlie Brown. I looked inward then ran away. A bad day stared me in the face. All that was, was wrong. I stumbled, fumbled, tripped and kicked—but I didn’t lose control. October 6, 2000: At war but with what ghost My imagination loves to run and hide—to play in places where it can become disguised—to feel nothing, then everything—bring to life all that is given without conversation. I expect my willingness to be all to anything—accept what’s different which in return gives my imagination permission to write any rule. Then, I stand inside your judgment—people who critique but were never there in the beginning. So, I fight for my view! I often lose…but it sends a message, don’t waste my time. It’s not yours to own. If you’re bothered by this attitude—fire me! Kick me! Throw me away! I want to compete against you only to feed my playful imagination. It can take thin air and make it thick—pour ink on a canvas turning it into anything I dream…for I am me. October 7, 2000: Paintbrush The leaves are a faded green—dry, becoming yellow. Limbs reappear like lines—fall, in my Carolina. Birds, call out to each other—songs, do you have enough to eat? The silence, sits in the forest where the blue jay sings—paths, made from storms of well written chapters. Mushrooms do all they can to protect the soil—fall, in my Carolina. October 8, 2000: Aggressive versus familiar My mind wants to write out a funny little tune—but it walked out on me. I dream incredibly over my head! That’s what I love most about being me…the story is genuine. October 9, 2000: Two nationalities one horizon I love watching the seasons change because it opens my eyes to undiscovered new ideas. I sat with Tan from Buffet Dynasty last night—we spoke about Southerners who don’t like change but expect it. They demand to be led to the water but refuse to drink from it unless its been blessed by the almighty tin cup. “Keeping it a tradition,” is what Southerners call it. October 10, 2000: But not to your face We’ll hate you, kick you and leave you behind. We’ll forget you exist, making you wonder why you have no friends. It begins today, if you should decide to not stop screwing us. You’re a joke and no one’s laughing! One by one your support falls. October 11, 2000: Unperfected mind travel I dreamed about bowling last night—threw a 221. Dreams fascinate me. They’re not real plus they’re never kind enough to give me a perfect game. October 12, 2000: The faces I paint are me of many To be peaceful is the most difficult choice of my life. I wish people knew the number of times I ask myself, “Which jerk will turn first and start abusing?” Yes! I’m conceited! In order to survive, there’s a part of me that’s got to be arrogant. I have to show anger! The guard must be kept up at all times! If value isn’t displayed, expectation is set at getting messed with another twenty-two years. Imagine being one to all—how am I to finish a project if I’m being pulled in four hundred different directions? Without this writing instrument—I’m as silent as a full moon. October 13, 2000: No place for loneliness I sit silently, yet I hear the voices within—a healthy group of planners and seekers, idea creators, construction workers and a little Montana boy with a dream. I sit silently, yet I hear the heartbeat within—one day it’ll stop playing that song all that was me will be…left for a passer by. They may read or just page through these thoughts—that’s ok…writing voices and what they say is my way of sorting cloths with unmatched sox. October 14, 2000: Understanding nature’s flashcards The backdoor sits wide open—fall leaps into the living room. A cool breeze… It doesn’t bite me—reminded is the heart of unknowing change. October 15, 2000: Value of simply being It’s the one thing I’ll never experience—a child trying to figure out life. Words of wisdom that come from nowhere—little by little the feathers grow, til one day the wind picks you up. October 16, 2000: So this is what you made of yourself When I looked into the mirror this morning, easily recognized was the person staring back—the long hair, messed up tired eyes, aching body, wrists, legs, lower back and feet. It was the same person who couldn’t dream a proper dream if he tried. I call it the tour—anything else would be self-abuse. October 17, 2000: Oh oh A tired mind isn’t tolerated. If I was to follow—I’d end up playing circles…such shapes are forever, never ending. A modern world of followers—it’s less painful if you don’t notice… Keep walking, that’s it, you’re doing fine. October 18, 2000: Rivers If only someone could relate with the sudden silence that injures me on a constant daily basis—I look for every source as to why it takes place believing that any reason is somehow connected to purpose…therefore I sit and listen. What purpose do I have? Am I to do nothing but stare at life and wonder? My smile is often the acted out, laughter the same. Many times, I feel incredibly sorry for learning how to fake laugh—the tributary toward the final page. October 19, 2000: A choice but which do I trust? I haven’t opened the shades in several days—it’s dark, which makes me feel trapped. As of late, my biggest problem is trying to deal with the reaction of truth. I share it—people beat me up worse. Words are horrible weapons; they’re swords that strike you at the knees. Without words, I’m a weak country whose allies could take me over. No matter how much I bleed, strength is my guarantee—words are my shield. October 20, 2000: Filling the corners How do you best describe what’s been created? You don’t…especially since the element of simplistic behavior was lost almost an hour ago. October 21, 2000: Religious war Ink is a very dangerous tool—I see a page and believe its only purpose is to pour into my lap. I play, spit then spin again—only to sit back and wonder, “What if?” What if I had stopped? Where there’s white—there’s silence. That’s where I don’t want to go! If too much time was spent in silence…the true artwork lays jealous knowing not enough attention was given to its origin. Is that the sign of the devil or am I one of God’s children living in the image of being creative? I don’t say it’s wrong to hear a sermon—I just get mine from all things created by the higher power. Faith isn’t difficult to locate—it’s found between liar and stealer…one wrong move and faith is no more. October 22, 2000: Digging deeper into the vat of fat I’m not trying to grasp onto a childhood! This isn’t my change of life. I think it’s weird how my legs are beating the hec out of me again and my hair has returned to being incredibly long. The leaves on a tree change—don’t I? God gives us third and fourth chances! Situations are played over and over until we recognize the lesson taught. If that statement is true, how do I learn to support Sande’s decision to abort? Those…would have become my children. There are two things I want out of life—to hear why Sande made those decisions and for God to bless me with a picture of what my children would’ve looked like. October 23, 2000: The poet’s vow I’m guilty of is reinventing boarder lines! If you aren’t interested in chance, then I’m not your guide. Everyday, I look into the silence of my soul—pulled from it are tiny pictures that often can’t be explained. These thoughts have made their way onto my canvas taking the shape of paintings—therefore I must never forget…I’m a poet who took up drawing to better enhance the visibility of my words. October 24, 2000: Ice cream and bubble gum My inner vision this new sun is that of darkness. The dream—I was fired yet incredibly happy. I love to dream—they fascinate me to the point of more spiritual study. This, after deciding not to attend last night’s writers gathering at the Aunt Stella Center. I’m not a professional writer! I’m a journal keeper who studies personal travel. Sure I’m disappointed that Halloween 78 wasn’t named a winner. I write to write! I don’t write to win contests… Think of this ability to write as being a puzzle master, the keeper of the key—fully capable of unlocking any door. I feel unexplained pleasures within the grips of challenge—that to me is what it takes to be unique and not one of the Jones’. October 25, 2000: The breath of the beast The imagination must be given its well-earned time to turn a single line into avenues of expression. A line can go in circles, it can last forever—lines are what make up words… As humans, we’ve learned to bend them. It’s within that curve, I locate peace—a daily walk into a forest of lines, their roots somewhere within my footsteps then extended to this page. Lines are my flashlights. What I see are more pictures—what I feel…is depression. Mask me oh mighty king, I can’t bear to look at myself in the mirror. Mask me oh Lord, the face you’ve given me shall no longer live. Mask me old friend, I wish to be unrecognized. October 26, 2000: Sugar coated book covers My breathing is extremely light—very slow and relaxed, yet my body is ready to rage. I’m a bottle of warm Pepsi. October 27, 2000: Note in a bottle Hey! If you’re going to force me to do it…let me have fun! Faking this smile is getting old. Fold up your chair and move on! October 28, 2000: Fate versus steps taken forward My spirituality means nothing to any one but me—yet I’m supposed to share it with someone. I realize it’s a one-on-one relationship with my creator, but give me the chance to feel proud! From that challenge, a thought: Create with all that lives within and the river shall fill all that’s stone. A gravel pit always has water. Wear me not, for I am not your favorite. Wear me when, the air is cloudy and unstable. Wear me like a shield, the north gate of wisdom… Respect all lessons shared. Wear me not, unless you’re willing to change. October 29, 2000: The beast nears A thousand voices sit inside my fingerprints—ten thousand more wait for tomorrow. Within seconds, the moods may change—greet them like you would a stranger…unless you’ve already met them. If opposites do attract—is that why I carry a pen? October 30, 2000: Them against me Nothing hurts worse than the trust placed into a computer and it fails to do its proper delivery. When I sit to paint…I almost never know where I’m going. This is from a perfectionist who believes, “One minute past two hours early and I’m late.” October 31, 2000: Corrections without an eraser I’m more of an actor today than my entire life. I’ve never dreamed of being the builder of peace inside a family of hate—we’ve learned to tolerate, bend if you will and do nothing to correct the masses that meet. I’ll admit on this page, I’m extremely tired of being the one called actor. I don’t ask for much and when I do…it’s not much. I only want to be supported. I don’t want to be the beam in a ceiling—maybe a stud in a wall, a wall plug, light switch or a deodorizer. All things connect, except me…too much of a solo player, not greed or focus on me. I’m just tired of holding everyone up. I don’t want to be the staircase nor do I wish to be the paintbrush. I’m tired of being a broom, mop, sander or log splitter. I don’t ask for much and when I do…it’s only because I need help babysitting you. November 1, 2000: Weapons of war The life we live today are trails smudged by people who feel they can always do better. The young travelers almost never look back—to do so is a disease. Most can’t answer who their forefathers were. I’ve learned to trust no one but the wind. I hear songs while my heart watches then takes cover. All paths don’t lead to destruction—decomposed, willingness fades the path which otherwise would paint the perfect picture. Therefore, my choice is to sit alone—not out of fear but to protect your path from my un-willingness to believe…in you. November 2, 2000: Evidence of a writer’s constipation The pen sits silent—does it have words to share? Days like these are empty, a fresh bloom without scent. There’s no river to jump into! I feel it coming on but nothing is written. If I push too hard, it’ll become a pimple—the junk still inside but the rolling hill resembles Mount Saint Helens. “Push!” My hand screams at the self whose eyes are clogged with sleep. I want to draw a line through it only to sit back and pout. How dare I feel like writing and nothing occurs! November 3, 2000: All for one and one for one Not a soul but I would understand… Who but I feels with his fingertips rather than the words tossed out onto a sheet of paper? November 4, 2000: I don’t believe in “I can’t” This will be the only time I use this writing instrument. Over a year ago, it was placed between two prayer cloths then hung in the forest. To my shock, surprise and now inspiration—what was once held between the prayer cloths, through winter and the extreme heat and humidity of a southern summer has survived unscathed. This day, today, it shall be placed forever inside my music box—to live out its continued harmony with all things of my creation. November 5, 2000: Preparing for my own war With on eye open—I’m blinded by the ability to act. I travel to places I can’t explain, open windows and feel the breeze. Asked if I wish to fly, I place upon my forehead an imaginary feather—on day, I don’t expect to return…the story told in what shall be my final painting, for my wisdom was collected through all that was shared. The silent watcher I became in a world where trees are king and rivers serve as paths of peace. I’m not locked away for society to point its evil finger—I choose instead to wear ink on my fingertips, a rainbow of ability—a mountain of hope dumping whatever it brings into a prairie of non-believers. It’s there the wind shall grow…I wish I could say, “I am Peter Max.” I wish I could tell you, “I’m a radio talent.” I really wanted to one-day say, “His words were silent due to judgment.” Therefore, I’ll let the actor explain. He paid me to tell you what he couldn’t. 24 hours earlier I had met Peter Max—the great artist of the past three decades, a man who’s had the ability to convince the world of his incredible delivery of paint and canvas. We stood looking at each other, a black Sharpie in his right hand my view was a man who expected people to feel blessed by his presence. We talked, short words, deep thoughts, only to hear him scream out with brilliant expression of his pride in me when I said, “I paint everyday because I have to, not because I want to.” I chose not to get his autograph of the sketch he drew while talking with me—as a budding artist, even I knew that what flows from me doesn’t always belong to the rest of the world waiting. November 6, 2000: Recognition leads to acceptance I always get a charge out of peering back in time—to visit the several moods of so many people in one. Like raindrops flowing from the soul—each word is a theatrical visit. The actors are many; the voices come out as one. So often I’m characterized as me being me when in fact if you look closer, there’re a lot of me inside of me. Baskets full of questions, a fist full of answers—each will change, inside every split second. November 7, 2000: North Carolina can burn Take from me God, this anger generated by mans greed, the purchased decisions, the sold out backbones and the dollars and cents without a clue. Take from me my inner self, the willingness to be part of this generation, my desire to continue to learn through listening and each vow to help the sick. Let it all die in my arms for each has been given away. Take from me oh Lord, not my votes or decisions not to settle but my last breath of air. The Presidential election that pitted George W against Al Gore and the state of North Carolina wouldn’t let me write in a candidate. My full right to vote was taken away because of rules written by Republicans and Democrats who fill our law making chambers with words that do nothing but order people to believe and follow the commandments of their religious ways of leadership. November 8, 2000: CJ Underwood I stood inside the sacred circle last night viewing the shadows created by a three quarter moon. I’d never been that far inside the woods so late—fear controlled my interest. I was there to say so long to a broadcasting friend—our trails had crossed several times. His medium, pictures and my background…sound… Yet, I was willing to grow. I studied his actions without vowing to become. I chose to listen, a calm approach, a relaxed way of asking the true professional. Legends are those who touch a million lives—hero’s come along when you least expect. Friends don’t have to be buddies—friends tend to argue then make up. One day, your friend, legend hero…dies…and I’m left standing in the sacred circle, eyes filled with tears wondering how such a friend got behind the walls and into my heart? Why him and nobody else? November 9, 2000: Maker speaks For three days he sat staring at me—only to quickly fall back to sleep. A stuffed toy laying along side the highway—no one but me could see him. Last night, I invited the masked bandit to sleep forever inside the comforts of my forest. The sky was a cloudy misty gray, no moon like the night before. I felt no fear to be alone, for the newest totem animal required nearby water. This meant setting aside all personal weaknesses to lend a helping hand to someone I just met—for I trusted the sacred path. Do I think I’m strange? Only when convinced. I’m not strange for I am uniquely qualified to be the wind. November 10, 2000: Guilt trip fed by the soul I fight with myself daily! I panic! I worry about everyone affected by my creative flow. I’m a baby! This happens when you’re thirty-eight years old and have no children—I’ve forgotten how to share. Only to fall into an empty space to write…but I don’t. I’m here to rest. Never forget, I’m not an artist, author or radio talent—I’m a pathfinder searching for something to do. Yes! I smart off to people! It’s never to anger them—I’m only trying to keep them on their toes, reality is a chore. November 11, 2000: Accepting affection Originality is what makes what I do art—there’s no wrong if I’m the only one who knew what was right. Even if I half ass a project, it’s still one hundred times better than what anyone expected. This is what happens when you spend an entire lifetime dreaming about radio then suddenly it’s as if you come to the fork in the road where the goal is to prove the passion of sight or become just another jock. I’m tired of asking who am I? I’m tired of looking into a mirror to see what I’ve shaped. The path chosen isn’t a guided tour. There’re no guardian angels. I’m tired of wanting and needing. I’m tired of asking for the strength to go on. I see no color in anything I touch. I smell no rose or taste what’s frozen—my heart, insight, ambition and dedication. I drink just enough water to tease my kidneys—only to feel the tickle of having to go but can’t. So I stand there with my arms crossed. November 17, 2000: The frog ponds I can’t build perfect—my requirement is to create peaceful. It has nothing to do with what I build or place—peace grows where peace is invited. November 18, 2000: Beyond realities fate I’m angry til given good reason to smile. It’s not that I want something! To purchase is to cover up only to watch it float away. It can’t be me being me…our own country can’t decide who’s President. November 19, 2000: Sympathy cardless People will say anything to be politically correct. To be open and honest does nothing but earn you asshole stripes. Look! I have two hundred of them wrapped around my wrist. November 15, 2000: Fresh mind puke Put any color of writing instrument in between my fingers and I’ll create—ask me to do it on the spot and you’ll be introduced to my silence. I expect people to constantly change their mind. If I seem angry, it’s because you didn’t take the time to think about what changing your mind has done to my day. You know you’re in Heaven when you locate the time to set down your pen—then hug your puppy. My mind never stops trying to figure out the origin of purpose. I don’t write to see my signature. Nor do I place my signature near everything that’s been written. If it’s seen near or beside a piece of poetry or painting—see the signature for what it really is…my way of saying, “Good morning!” November 16, 2000: Three friends, three confessions I have vowed to listen without climbing in… I can be your solid stone but please don’t create unexpected storms. What I hear are never words—what I listen to is true emotion. I’ve learned to hold onto my own hand—share what I can while still be selfish. Wild birds scream at me—I stand not in judgment nor do I ask questions. You must learn to walk, hold yourself up—be you not me…find your own world—let me hide, for that’s where I’m most quiet. November 17, 2000: Fetish, so un-California Time means nothing to me unless I’ve got to be somewhere…then and only then, I’ll make my appearance two hours ahead of the scheduled arrival. November 18, 2000: Unfinished til said otherwise A painting is difficult to edit, therefore I add to it hoping that life begins in hidden places. Scanning the colors like wind seeking fire, I no longer smile…the song is gone—the book is closed. November 19, 2000: Cloudy cave I could write a million words—but would I re-read any of them? When does life begin? When do we stop aiming to please? Dreams are supposed to be caught, turned loose and then rebuilt for better enjoyment. When does life begin? I’m a homeless sixteen year old, a little girl who’s playing house—nothing’s real when you’ve runaway from everything. November 20, 2000: Early snow in Carolina Snow illuminates, teasing the eyes and building dreams—this new day, I sit wondering why it’s so dark outside? Dried leaves shiver in the rain gutters while trees stand in the mud without moving. A thousand words could be easily written…this new day, I’ve chosen to sit and just listen. November 21, 2000: Same boat different airplane I fight extremely hard to stay positive but fall flat on my face. Laying my head back, the mind dips its toes into an ice-cold storm of hatred— fed by the rise and fall of trust and respect. Modern day society has turned the majority of us into corporate slaves—our fields of cotton resemble desks and computers, the only difference between today and one hundred years ago is the nicely typed piece of paper received on the 15th and 30th of every month. November 22, 2000: I feel you at my feet Lightly rubbing a fingernail across my lips—I become lost within its smooth surface. A habit picked up during my childhood days—the years of incredibly warm soft blankets. When my heart becomes lost, watch as I lift my fingers to my lips—the surface reunites comfort with control. Today, my worries are self-driven: I look like a pig. My hair is too long! It’s my way of telling radio, “You own the creative flow but not the rights to creative expression.” November 23, 2000: Paint brush of mud If I ever sell a painting to benefit the lining of my own pocket—it’s my deepest wish for the higher power to immediately take from me the ability to paint. I stare into my creator’s eyes begging to understand the purpose. I call it prayer! I call it being lost, depression, retarded and the inability to materialize a true self I barely know. Just because I write and paint everyday doesn’t mean I’m close to the self behind the mask! My wings expand, sixteen tons of air are sucked deep into my lungs…do I fly or spend the rest of my life trying to explain to people why I see incredible purity inside a once living tree? Nobody knows this true self unless I leave crumbs for you to follow. November 24, 2000: Don’t bother me while writing I don’t expect anyone to feel the spiritual flow gifted to me each morning. God doesn’t speak to me he speaks through me. I’m nothing but a thin sheet of paper with lines on the other side. He takes that thought and creates the picture. November 25, 2000: Was my mother unfaithful I am white. I dance white, create white, talk white and stare into a mirror to see white—why then do I feel color? When I reach out to touch a stone, I feel with my entire self—the same goes for any tree. Why then do people steal from me? Am I a rock or a tree? Sadly, I’m hard enough to be bread on a rainy day. November 26, 2000: Push me! I dare you! My mind flies this new sun—lightheadedness that can’t be explained. I’m anxious to run, play and wrestle! Only to learn I haven’t the will to move. So, I write, doodle and then color everything inside. The mind does what the body should be doing. It attempts to get away without dying. November 27, 2000: In circles we travel before resting A society addicted to happy times—laughter made of cotton candy. I sit here and write, write whatever falls. I’ll write until the ink becomes dry. Frustration and anger aren’t one in the same—yet it’s easier to get angry because it’s identifiable. From frustration grows anger. From disappointment anger appears. Shame, fear, test the walls surrounding each and once anger’s been invited—like a dog, I begin to bark. They say my words are sharp… No, they’re angry! November 28, 2000: Identifying the masked dark hole The addiction to creativity is too inviting. Thirteen hours from now, my hand will shake and the heart will have been broken. Creative flow is life. They take it all and call it their own. I’m left to bleed in the street. Think positive! Think positive! I must learn that being frustrated is just as negative as anger. November 29, 2000: The dreams mysterious entanglement Murder is like fire—I shake when either is brought to my attention. Both are growing storms—the gut receives a signal then suffers in the eyes of all things ignored. “Don’t go outside!” My scream was heard but undelivered in a way that she would understand. Yet, look where I stood! Two sides of the story—I would either become the victim or stare into the killer’s soul viewing his breathe in the mirror. November 30, 2000: Hand painted landscape I’m hurt! I’m frustrated! I’m angry! I’m used and spent! I’m a bar patron who can’t get anyone to buy her a drink. I want this pain to leave! I want it to spill out and stop being picked up by innocent bystanders. My words are violent! My thoughts suicidal! I can’t take this punishment anymore! I can’t protect myself; it makes me look even worse. Please! Will someone help me? This lack of being respected bursts out of me like someone who’s got the diarrhea…I just happen to play in mine. Writing everyday can be compared to ripping my arm open with a rusty razor blade—I’m totally numb while I bleed, near death when re-read—I call it a daily resurrection. December 1, 2000: The point of imperfection Please think for me—look at my place of thought. Now ask, what was he thinking at the point of half a page? Touch the words while feeling where I’ve been. What I share is commitment and safety, something my father and career could never do. My disappointment doesn’t come from God but rather preachers who think they’re God. Kiss not my ass or drop dollars into my basket—my world isn’t silent, its God whispering. December 2, 2000: Sucker punch My inner self is crying out for angels to step within—from there, the journey pours into the heart, which has fallen deeper in love with something no other person understands. It’s the art of embracing reaction—caught on canvas, by the writing hand that brought it to life. If mistakes are made, forging forward is to be the goal—it teaches that perfection doesn’t exist. Therefore, I must remain passion filled or endure the loss of creative flow. December 3, 2000: The revealing of unmistakable He dreamt of escapisms through mind not physical motion—a painted portrait from the forest. A man, confident, it could be seen in the way he wore his black hat. It was a tall head covering, its brim leaning over one eye, resembling a Carolina sunrise. Looking into his face, I viewed the shape of winter—for he was black not red. His play was with the wind, a dance he called his own. I remember his teeth, rugged times, more colorful then each tight knot located at the base of his hair and above his eyes. “Maybe a runaway,” I thought to myself, “A dreamer whose vision was to succeed.” No laugh came from the wanderer—a serious step he did take but nothing from the path where he once stood. Am I wrong to believe my spirit guides are not Native American? December 4, 2000 Wanna bet? I’m not a serious painter! I’m not serious about anything, which is why I can do everything. I quickly become bored then move on. Come to think of it, that’s how this modern day society operates. It’s the act of reaction. I don’t have confidence in my writing! I do it so say I did it. I am the keeper of unfiltered truths. Being incredibly open, honest and often brutal has formed a barely shaped circle. For any addiction is what pushes me—an attraction to creativity, searching and the willingness to believe that if you give me five minutes, I’ll change your life forever. December 5, 2000: Warning signs no one saw My attempt is to force change—I’m leaving lights on where it was once dark. I’ve taken away sound where music once grew. Playing out a normal routine has saddened my heart worse than expected. Therefore, I must be the one who heals what’s been torn. The sickness in my soul is masked depression. Until I figure out what brought me here…I can’t hide what it’s doing to me. My only chance of survival is mental separation—without it, I’ll kill myself before Christmas. December 6, 2000: Ice cream made of shaved mirrors 6:23am…my pen wants to bleed—to toss onto this page the raging hatred. What I really want is to write words so sickening; it would look as if my stomach has finally puked out this disgusting taste in my mouth. I can’t be evil with my words! I fear my spirituality will think it’s a curse and deliver it. 6:41am…I fear the new day unfolding. Within minutes, I’ll return to the path that makes me want to die. Each day is a test, I must remain strong—to fail now makes me a loser. To stop now means I’ve reached the end of the page. When I reach upward to the sky, I don’t paint the clouds. When the Cardinal sings I don’t steal his song. The forest is the only place that doesn’t sour the existence of boyhood dreams. 6:49am…my body sits empty—I’m to write something positive. Not until I paint a picture without tears. To stop this bleeding might be wise. To hold it back, keep it in, I won’t become blind. Allow me please, a place to write—never force me to be anyone but myself. December 7, 2000: Searching for Waldo I’ll never be good enough to claim, “I’m great!” Only willing enough to say, “I tried.” I continue to try—over and over, in hopes of better understanding why I can’t give up on this sickness to be creative. Who looks at the rising sun and decides if today’s was better than yesterdays? Does a bird harmonize with itself? Is it the same song day in and day out? My wish is to explore your silent reaction. Everybody wants something from me. They come to me because I let them. It’s a need to feel important but never important enough before their needs. December 8, 2000: After the storm we evaluate change Who are these people I draw? Do they sit with me in hopes of traveling? Are they concepts transferred through silent sketches? Possibly they’re about time and how one can’t change it. Have I met these shadows along the way? Upon paper, I give them life again. Did these figures I paint once stand beside this tree? Maybe they’re pictures of a first kiss, a sketch of he said she said only to watch each silhouette hold me closer…and this tree I write within, pretends to not be looking. Not a single child will step within the passion placed upon this page. Very few understand what my heart is doing. If asked, I’ll share. If taunted, I’ll disappear. Believe not in me but instead, the ability to paint. Each morning at sunrise I’m often reminded of the words Peter Max gave me, “Paint everyday!” I want to believe he said it rather than acted out a well-planned role. Paging through the captured shadows left inside this book, I look to the next page knowing at any moment a picture could explode from this unexplained desire to be creative. A pen is a tool—a piece of paper is my deepest thought. Is there anything worth more? Things don’t play out like one would hope. Dreams are often given away and not by the creator. It’s not over…this pain. When it returns, I hope to be stronger, more wise and strange enough to still be called weird. December 9, 2000: Two-time Employee of the year I could no longer be the actor or miss him—for the actor’s stage was tattered. I couldn’t be the wishful silent watcher—I was to break free to make a point, without conceit! My loyalty to radio was tested—to the brink of near suicide. No walls stood between me—and death. A vine can survive without climbing a tree. Watching such a journey became my next painting. Vows are words—action creates reaction…to be recognized allows a cactus flower to bloom. Only a sliver has been improperly healed, a new song born—today is a new day and knowing this, I may never return to this page again. December 10, 2000: Digesting frothy baskets of yesterday I race through mood changes faster than speed. One day someone will clock it recreating the rocket. His mood our speed of light—for this man can be extremely moody and still succeed. I’ve learned to study the passion of a creator not a disc jockey/writer. I’ve learned to listen to the wind while viewing all aspects of life. I’m stronger just as much as I’m weaker. I’m no longer afraid to admit, “I’m weird.” Therefore I ask, “Shall I study the path of an angry man growing soft or view life through the eyes of a child who’s looking forward?” Stained—my fingers look back at me. They’re anxious to play. Each print seems excited. A game of musical chairs—one by one thoughts fall onto a canvas…it makes me laugh. Even I can’t explain the visitors from the other side. In their world…am I too their invisible friend? December 11, 2000: The depth of a new well I write in red and its not bothering me. It makes me wonder, “What’s going on?” I’m not a red man! I’ve never been. Red isn’t my favorite color but I do love cardinals. I’m not a fan of red but it makes me think of Johnny Bench and Pete Rose of Cincinnati. Maybe I see it as green or blue. No! It’s purple with pink magic. Red isn’t my color. It’s too bright! It reminds me of my mother’s departure—her lipstick was red. She’d cake it on only to blot it off with a couple of sheets of toilet paper. A kiss goodnight was quickly followed with her soft caring, “See you in the morning.” Red isn’t me! No laugh, not even a childlike giggle. What’s up? Red isn’t me! December 12, 2000: Being familiar creates failure The mind works for me—it’s a source of hidden strength. While sleeping, the goal is to locate ways for me to relieve the burden of being a one man machine—but not in a build I don’t know, not in a world of blue suits and strange looking restaurants. December 13, 2000: Why do I have to care? My mind acts as if it’s died. “America has…” We’ve become a nation of uncaring people. Lawyers elected president, Oldsmobile quits and corporate U.S.A. has legalized slavery. The nation is too lazy to fight back—CEO’s know this…we love our HBO. We’d rather be entertained! To fight, takes away. We’re drifting the wrong way! We’re seeds that have been blown into a field of thorns. In time, the ground will become dust—other nations will be better than us. Some listen…to hope is to improv. Who knows? Maybe we’re already dead. December 14, 2000: Downsizing What we seem to forget is that all of us will one day face the lonely man’s journey—until we get there, what’re you doing to affect lives? Are you a positive influence? Are you in it for the ride? We’ve become a nation of heartless saws—cutting down what we don’t need in hopes that tomorrow we’ll be closer to a newer Home Depot. Decisions made are by people who require research to survive—they’ve forgotten what its like not to expect flowers on their birthday. Our modern society is that of movers—we treat people like trees… We cut down everything because it looks new again, only to complain about lost shade. The desert can’t wait to dry up your dreams. Watch not your path but each and every footstep you assume is the foundation holding up your heart. December 15, 2000: God creates families not man The loss of Mary Kelly devastates the vast array of creative people this building hides—we are the children that require a split second of time to laugh at someone’s joke. Mary Kelly spent over twenty-five years of her life feeding several generations of Broadcasters. The Pine Terrace is where the local famous roamed during unexpected escape. Mary offered more than food to our forever-hungry imaginations and pride—she leant us her gift of conversation, often sending our beaten souls back into the radio and television worlds with a chuckle in our right sock. Therefore, we spent the rest of the day itching what might have been silence, if we hadn’t taken the time to visit with Mary. December 16, 2000: The list provided by a dream I’m constantly surrounded by men I don’t trust—yet, I’m willing to sacrifice my life for them. I study each vine believing it’ll talk to me—new life grows from strangled trees. Hope sits on the horizon of my dreams. Peace isn’t found in all corners, therefore I hold up an invitation. My studies are slow paced but even a tree takes a lifetime to grow. December 17, 2000: Rushed life blocked by writing My mind travels so fast, the rest of the body begs for it to slow. How can I? I’m the owner of an active mind that’s become a slave! A modern day child taken from his parents then thrown into a circle of pressure, “Give me more you freak! Give me all you have…then die!” December 18, 2000: Study the steps of a foolish heart My writing hands stops—I once called it leveling: allowing the imagination to switch characters. Then I learned it wanted to do it all the time. So, I pushed forward—through it, only to learn…no matter who was in control, it was ultimately me who was left behind. December 19, 2000: I don’t care what you see My writing hand stops—not because I want to see how good I am. I’ve stopped because I don’t want to know what I’ve accomplished. Being employee of the year means nothing…until you realize that in every shadow there lays a piece of you. Take away that chunk of inspiration and the shadow itself…may not exist. Visions of what steps have been taken never haunt what seems accomplished. Inside this mind, I see an open field of brilliant white—it’s there that creative is born! Sadly, the rest of the world thinks I’m on drugs. I wear my hair long because of a wish to walk my own path. While doing so, I have to stop several times to explain my purpose of wanting to be different. My legs are strong, back is thick and arms capable of lifting darkness—each page turned is a moment already passed…at any moment it could all be gone. December 20, 2000: My “Quills” I could relate with the main characters methods of tossing thought to page—get it out! Fall prisoner not to the locked room but creativity itself. When will people understand that writing and any other form of creative flow is an addiction? It’s not a luxury to bring it to life! Our imaginations play the wickedness of travel—we’ve not sold our souls, we’re just sick people! I too hum when throwing ink to canvas! I too stare at the crystal vase to which my gold tipped nib sexually irritates. I fall into the depths of hell each night I sleep—my scars are only invisible to those who make me bleed. The begging for me to continue is in fact loud orders from the keeper…and just like a dog I’m slapped when piddle is found on the floor. For this writer, had run out of ink…and I needed something to paint with. December 21, 2000: I am…the listener I’ll never understand why my imagination enjoys drawing faces—it’s not that I’m lonely. It’s not that I love being around people. Maybe it’s the curves in the eye, the roundedness of a nose or the formation of shade? And then I write: Listen not to the opinion of a self who searches—put value in a sip of confidence. A passerby gives these faces to you to draw—no one but you saw him, only you could smell the scent of his leather. Viewed upon was not desire but an open hand, which believes in what’s shoved aside, the material labeled, unexplained. December 22, 2000: Melted candle wax burns fingers Then one night she asked, “Have you been faithful?” Without a drop of fear and or doubt, I shared the truth, “No I have not.” Within a whisper of wind, a quick breeze—my skin froze, for Christmas had died that winters night. I’ve not been able to do it since. To this day, this very second, I hold the memories of the first attempt. We lived like Barbie and Ken—eyes made of smoky blue…I watched as she fought with all her anger and sweetness to never cry—the night truth did us part. December 23, 2000: Ink painting Where the house once stood—not a memory is left to live. Leaves grew at the tips of each vine while a birdhouse sat alone at night. The cedar door accents the long tall cylinders that make up the porch. Where the house once stood—not a night went un-noticed. The sterling’s playfully dancing above with hopes of bathing in three inches of rain. Are they tear drops? Maybe they were stored for this moment—when he, the passerby stopped to view all that had been forgotten. Where the house once stood. December 24, 2000: Looking back at past writings Each time I step within the sacred circle, the river inside my soul becomes powerful. What rages in the eyes are fearless steps—only to notice the water never moves. Only on paper the day can start over. December 25, 2000: Hey! F _ _ k you! We grew up poor—Christmas almost never came. Then, from out of nowhere…the gifts arrived! Boxes and boxes of used toys— Once opened, I’d slowly walk to my bedroom and turn on the radio—how dare I miss Casey Kasum’s Top 100 yearend countdown! I was a young boy who dreamed of being a radio star. Am I part of an evolution? Not really… I’ve spent twenty-four years pretending to be something I’ll never be. The greatest gift handed to me was the ability to dream. I’m beyond being a whore! They get paid. A bar patron gets free drinks—a groupie gets their performer. I’m left with self satisfaction and an over active imagination. December 26, 2000: Least expect I can’t scream abuse…I’ve got no scars. December 27, 2000: When you love somebody Each new morning, I fear the forest is no longer there to greet me—when I come home from work, I fear the forest has left me. My relationship with this forest is true love—I walk through it everyday, I study its growth and I listen to every sound created. And so…I sat writing about last nights dream—questions of who, what, where, why and when? How did this dream pertain to the sacred path I follow? I wait for the sun to wake—to see, if my forest survived last nights dream. December 28, 2000: Accepting Charlie Brown The bridges I build are made of the ingredients handed to me each morning at sunrise—wouldn’t you be angry too if the only thing shared was sand? From it, I make glass—it breaks. I add water to create stone—people carve into it. What my goals require is time—time to listen. For it’s the sand once found in a three-minute timer. What we see is time—what we feel is time. A pebble of sand is a rock once held—time created a beachfront masterpiece but not in three-minute intervals of rain, sleet, wind and cold. I’ve met no human who has the heart to locate that much time. The path of pebbles turned to sand doesn’t exist until you find your feet leading you to a proper destination. I no longer sit letting life happen. I participate. December 29, 2000: I’ll fight with anyone Peering from where you stand, I must look like a foolish traveler. My hair is long and messed up and I’ve got sleep in my eyes. Writers have beards with alcoholic eyes and tummies to rest their snacks. Invisible isn’t my emotion, for my sleeves are filthy and torn. Who cares? I’m not one to please the hands of those sitting around watching! So, you turn and walk away…only to watch from the distant branch—guess that’s what angels do so early in the morning. December 30, 2000: Steve George the arrowhead collector Move not a step til the path speaks back—take into your eyes all levels of light. You shall fly into a forest of travel with a spirited trust. It’s this ability that becomes another chapter written—to one day be shared with another willing to listen. We are born inside the ranks of separate families, yet within inches of each other’s heartbeats…we’re identical twins from this modern generation. December 31, 2000: Day 365 year 2000 While the world starves, a new space station is currently being built. I call it the pursuit of the male ego. We’re an extremely bored nation—we sit in front of televisions, computers and Sony Play stations. AOL, who owns CNN, who owns Paramount’s Carowinds, owns time Warner Blockbuster Pavilion and video…what man should be doing is studying the space that separates invisible worth with realistic poor America. We’re an angry nation letting our poor do the killing—bad drug deals, gangs and the Confederate flag. We’re too busy dancing with Elvis, the Beatles and the Village People. It’s difficult to laugh when you’ve heard every joke. In time, the tear ducts dry—a plastic smile becomes your way of life. Death isn’t what we fear most nor is it poverty, our neighbors or whether we’ve got a job tomorrow. How can we fear when we’re numb? January 1, 2001: No hangover I’ve stopped making new years resolutions—I know how difficult it is to impress me. Even I can’t live up to my own expectations. If I don’t challenge myself to constantly change, I do all I can to fall a sleep. Why waste my time being bored when tomorrow is a new day? January 2, 2001: Look thru me It’s become my goal this new sun to bring music to this angered page—to allow the bird to soar over the heated wounds—to let him hear music rather than rage. To say I’m being childish isn’t a good view of the portrait presented—I don’t believe life ends at death. That’s why I see picking up road kill as being my mission to lead these spirit keepers and guides to a more peaceful forest based solely on the love millions dream of holding. All things should be loved including the poison fed by the vine named Ivy. My eyes billow in real tears at the sight of any destruction—why should I be silent the moment a bird’s soul flies into heaven? January 3, 2001: Wanna fight I push things away in an attempt to regain what I’m looking for. Don’t ask me—I’ll give you twelve different answers. The sun is rising—I haven’t exercised. But I will! Then I’ll go to work, create even more completely draining the body of its energy—only to ask, “Who am I?” Don’t ask I’ll give you twelve different answers. January 4, 2001: The rebirth of my worst nightmare nears I dreamt last night of a writing instrument—one that sat inside a glass case since 1938. Many had held the pen but no one purchased it. They’d scribble their names onto a small piece of paper creating a trail of several visitors. Within those unguarded territories grew the essence of ability yet not one learned the importance of silence. Let God talk and let the birds sing. The unsold writing instrument allowed me to build tiny bridges across invisible streams—for no mask could cover my face. It was time to face the truth and then write about it. January 6, 2001: Caught on film A new light sits over my left shoulder—a fake sun that turns any darkness into rays of innocent sunlight. Depression consumes my every step and I’m left to mop up the blood. My chapters are not hidden for it’s my way of screaming out. The evils of life have caught up to me and my tetherball challenger is death himself. I’ve been up an hour and can’t seem to put thought into words—I’m so depressed! My depressions are lengthy because of silence. I’m tired of fighting so I hold it tight. So tight, my fingernails ache—blue sets in to ignite all that’s numb. So, I decide to hide even more. I don’t want to be seen! I want to run away to invisible bridges, keeping nothing yet taking the air I breathe. Look in the mirror! Look! Just like “all” the times before—nothing lives where there’s silence. It’s not the type of pain associated with cuts and bruises. Picture an entire forest—the only thing left is one tree. The soul of everything you’ve been blessed with sits silent hoping the thunder will pass. I keep thinking I’ll beat this feeling—I’m going to stuff it away and forget its existence. I keep telling myself that it’s only for a moment—then my eyes are opened to witness the destruction. Writing is my way of bleeding—physically watching blood drain from me isn’t inspiring or influential. What some people see as being creativity is in fact an aging man screaming for help. Sound is my guide—without it I’m left with sight. I’ve never liked what I see! I pray to a God who creates everything—did he generate in his soul the entire being of all things because he too…was depressed? Don’t try to be me when being me is killing me! The nib of my pen now sits silent… Should I ask, “Do you want to die?” If I do, will I say, “Yes?” I’m at war with an enemy I can’t see. Of coarse you don’t understand me! How do you think I feel when this self I’ve become refuses to look into the mirror? January 7, 2001: Listening rather than asking I want to be recognized as being the artist who took on challenge—only to recreate fate. My biggest mistake—I’ve put too much of my creative self into radio. I paint not to paint—write not to write. I sing not to sing—it’s because I have to. I don’t locate emptiness—I don’t locate wrongfulness. I don’t even deny that I’m weird. I paint to hide. I write to share. I sing to calm my bleeding self. It’s because I have to. January 8, 2001: Visible evidence of self-crime I love it when it rains—it invites change. Rain provides the opportunity to play with what comes next. (Writing continues several hours later) This is new only because depression doesn’t know the difference between night and day. I write tonight because the first thing I touched when getting home was a bottle of wine. Who’s going to win—the bottle or me? January 9, 2001: Within seconds Two mornings in a row, Miss Addy h as done something incredibly unique—she walks to the corner of her fully furnished cockatiel condo and bows her head for a period of time. Has my little girl learned how to pray? I share my paintings in hopes of discovering that I’m not alone. There must be others who cannot stop! Hate me! Hate me! Treat me like I’m retarded! Burn from me this desire! Allow me to be free from this constant craving! Who are these people I draw? From where do their faces appear? I cry real tears when completion is reached—it’s as if they’re looking over my shoulder again. Who am I to bring them back to life? Are they chiefs or warriors? Maybe whites pretending to be… Will someone please explain this to me! January 10, 2001: Backstage pass The things we learn…through assumed perception. Mysteries are never solved. We create our own ending. The only place I feel incredibly welcome is within. In the real world—silence is the path of the creator. These are chapters written by one mans silence—the actor I am set within constant pretend. To my death I shall fight, through my blood I’ll forever breathe. January 11, 2001: No friends only historians Quality—I’ll study it until I perfect it. Then, I’ll reach inwardly to make it easier to get to. For the first time ever…my iron shield has rust on it—tiny droplets of horrible pain are dripping through. January 12, 2001: The wall has moved The eyes I paint come to me in dreams—I see more than the invisible—I watch the unexpected. I refuse to predict anything in fear of missing something. Look at these hands! They’re darkened by the inks of unknown travel—this heart is set on fire to help singe the flavor into what was once a living tree. Instant flashes of what if—each takes my hands, blessing them with incredible warmth. My feet fold, they lay sideways to quickly leap, only to notice the keeper of the eyes I dream, are starring at me through this paper. A step is taken but whose is it? My memory isn’t how I got here—I’ll spend the rest of the day wondering if they’ll bring me back? I need no voice to leave my mark—I need no music to seize the captivated. Melt with me you who stand and wonders—look deeper into the written to locate my secret. I live off silence, for there is no such thing. I feed off anger, for I know it exists. My hands could shatter a thousand dreams but I choose instead to invite peace. January 13, 2001: Caged expression I asked the artist self, which did it, prefer; the unperfected willingness to scrape shade into shadow or edged out harmony whose purpose is to continue the inward slide? I chose instead to paint nudity. Now I feel guilty. January 14, 2001: Recognizing the star Looking at my fingers, the mind becomes cloudy—without these ten gifts, there’s no trail to follow. January 15, 2001: When you know too much I often give my employer that extra bonus reason to push them over the line. Everyone can be replaced! It’ll take an entire army to pick up where I left off. January 16, 2001: My path The essence of what I do sit inside the poet’s thoughts. January 17, 2001: Silence spells in coming depression It’s missing something! The very something that’ll make you jump. The problem is…it’s starting to look dark and then I’ll shove it away. I’m a performer of inner travel with the ability to do whatever I want, whenever I want. My strength isn’t the dark paint! It’s the music I hear while disappearing from life. January 18, 2001: Coping without acceptance I’m not creative! I’m not an artist, brilliant producer or gifted air talent! Take off those rose-colored glasses and see what your description has done to me. January 19, 2001: Replenishing the forest The fifteen hundred trees have arrived! Raising my arms high into the air, mother earth shall be given gifts of continued peace—gifts that’ll affect the next seven generations. My heart, filled with joy—but the rest of me remains sickened by the constant needs radio screams. I’ve got hatred growing inside of me—it’s poisoned the blood of the creator. How many false worlds must I create just to sip on a cup of tea? Note: By mid-2002 my dreams of saving the forest reached seventeen hundred trees. Many have not made it beyond our back-to-back summer droughts. Those that have reach upward and out—what once stood only three inches have attained a foot or more. I’ve learned many lessons—although the tiny seedlings lost the war, the earth was moved, air was let in—the seedlings fed the tiny bugs and the vision to plant more trees hasn’t passed like a depression. January 20, 2001: Shhh listen to them breath I cried the moment my steps arrived in the forest—I look to these trees to invite harmony not only into the heart of a selfish dreamer but also into the soul of my aging tree family. I carry no mask with me. When I’m gone, the whispers shall continue—my name will disappear but not the origin of the dream. Someone, maybe just one…will look to one of these trees and feel the very inspiration I did—then write about it for those behind him or her to enjoy. I’m not sure why God chose me to hold this vision. Whatever tears I cry, allow the salt to seep into soil, giving birth to the trees that’ll sprout wings in my absence. I don’t want to be remembered for this effort! I only wish to inspire a non-writer to become one. For nothing has invited more peace to my soul than learning to love more than just self. It starts with learning to listen. From there, the trees begin to speak. Thin children, their feet stuck feet first inside the warmth of Georgia clay. January 21, 2001: Rebuilding after the silent war Envisioned isn’t a life filled with money and glory—I find true happiness sitting next to an invisible river. I don’t have step in it, for it runs right through me. January 22, 2001: Bruises invited by lessons learned I fell from a tree yesterday—maybe four feet. I remember thinking, “I hope there isn’t a rock below me.” If I had that much time to produce one thought—what must a tree think during its decent to the ice cold Georgia clay begging to consume its final breathe? Al Pacino said last night, “I don’t like being an actor but I am one! It’s what I do! It beats thinking…” January 23, 2001: I predicted it a week ago Something isn’t right—I feel an inner pain that’s literally captured and burned me alive. Whoever has me, please let go! Please do what you must then let me rest! If you’re here to paint then do so! If you’re here to write…do so! I’m only a bridge—cross it and get to where you’re going! I feel hunger, starvation, hollow emptiness, as if I’m dead with no skin. January 24, 2001: David is very ill Often times, when journalizing, it’s a selfish trip through heart and soul—too many times, emptied ruins created by a passerby darken our personal visions. Then you realize a beat of your inner song is missing—moments after stopping, you begin to hope—hope that all things said will be forgiven which would allow the friendship to become the common bond. January 25, 2001: Poetic portraits with purpose I love painting nudes—they have to be tasteful as well as explicit. Each expression must make your mouth water without forcing you to masturbate. I don’t paint to disgust, I paint to discuss—the truth behind my nudes is based solely on the innocence of making love. Every position is the missionary—any way you do it, your body’s going to be shoved into fifteen seconds of heaven. January 26, 2001: God didn’t kick me out, I fell… When we walk silently the songs appear. You can’t ignore them, but you keep walking. Then, you hear another and another—till one day, you start saving them. Songs collected are wings to be made—the ability to fly, the strength to sore over valleys and plains, lakes and oceans. Tiny angels gather, with them they bring tags with your name. Call me the song collector…for I could hear you coming. January 27, 2001: It can all end now I laugh when paintings turn on me—they go a different direction, running away from the truth. I giggle like a child in the beginning—believing that a pen always has ink. Such is the life of the dreamer—the playful dances and songs, the stories and a brand new writing instrument that’s now empty. Note: While jotting this thought to paper, I was given no reason to believe how true the headline seemed. Minutes after closing my daily writing on January 27, 2001, I learned of Marie Hartline’s passing. She was my adopted Grandmother. Friendships come with no guarantees—we add someone to our family and suddenly it’s locked away in your memory. Two weeks after Marie’s passing an unexpected package arrived—the note explained, “My mother used this pen everyday…she always told us kids that it would one day belong to you.” January 28, 2001: Departures not meant for forever She kept my early writings next to her nightstand. I’d send them and she’d quickly tuck it away. The poetry, the songs and radio scripts gifted her with reasons to escape from the arthritis that plagued her body. Mrs. Hartline was the first to unlock my closed door—Marie was my true friend located seconds after arriving in very lonely Carolina. January 29, 2001: Why am I here? It’s too easy to admit that nothings happened in thirty-seven days—only if you don’t take the time to document it. January 30, 2001: Learn to love all living things Both arms are lightly covered with poison ivy—I was bit while planting my fifteen hundred trees. I’ve not been nice to the vines—word’s gotten out and they’re not out to kick my rear. January 31, 2001: Job versus career versus passion Imagine standing in front of a wall—you’ve been there twenty-eight times before. It takes sixteen hours to get over the wall. Why do you keep coming back? There’s no incentive other than self-pitty. The imagination becomes stale then burns out. What becomes the payoff? There is none! No matter how bad the day or how horrible the mood may be—the goal is to attain completion before depression. February 1, 2001: Love starts with self I shall write a piece of poetry—but please, look beyond the scenes. A painting of an old man, a tiny little ditty he proudly displays. In harmony then out—no one is around, why should he care? The painting belongs to him. He isn’t lonely—nor does he have friends. The walking old man seems happy just being who he is. Oh yes, the songs we create—most are locked up inside…released, only when left alone and walking—just like the old man whistling with ink inside this painting. February 2, 2001: Sneaking up on nature’s conversation I shall step within the forest again—to shove into the earth tiny tree seedlings that may or may not grow. Their roots are smooshed into the shovel created hole, then quickly buried as if it had snowed. I touch each pine needle to give them air—only to walk away without introducing myself as their true friend. The old trees and their stumps stand high above, not a word is said…not until I leave, and that’s when. “Grow you will, grow you might. One of you will become our king. The human figure shall visit from time to time—depend on him not…for you are a tree. Some of you are blue; others incredibly green—I have leaves and you have nothing. We’re to reach the sun without stealing valuable space. Our mission is to never judge…but instead, to invite peace. February 3, 2001: Implosion I’m angry! I need to know how someone can judge what I create if they didn’t do anything to get me from points A to B? Their job is to sit and just listen—when do I get to reach this level? Their actions and lack of reaction invite horrible pain. I need to write! Don’t stop! Write until the wound is fully exposed, then let it heal. Except, I think I keep opening it, which never allows the pain to do anything but become infected. The solution: continue to get lost in my self-created world! Build brick walls so high no one can penetrate them. A brick at a time, hand made and sculpted to fit perfectly. Lay them side by side, one level, two levels then three—only to become lost somewhere in the middle, locating no way out. Concrete mixed with Georgia clay, a thick forest the only real thing. Put me out there! Let me rot with the fallen, it’s better than letting it sit inside. A brick at a time, window shades must be pulled! Lock the door twice! No phone calls please! Suddenly, I’m judging everything—one brick at a time. February 4, 2001: Recognition of my night sky My heart is weak—a sickness of sorts brought out by a lack of self-confidence. There’s no cure! My thoughts are off balance and horribly out of tune. The attempt is to locate the childhood ambition—but it just sits there and smiles at me before darting away to a new location of not being touched. I planted those trees because I’m the one that’s sick not the forest. I see it as being greed—to please others other than myself. I’d rather give something away then keep it! Not a chief…there are no acts of bravery nor have I collected enough coup. Who but I? Must I be? Am I the one staring back at me? Be it I—it can’t be any other! Cracked is the mirror and I’m left standing there smiling. People aren’t nice to me unless they have to be—where is the reality? February 5, 2001: Mark on history To whom it may concern, Three weeks ago, I set out to fill an empty aged forest with a second chance. We often assume that nature knows how to take care of itself—how can it if men keep destroying it? I’ve seen unexpected erosion and watched as vines have grown over thin whispers of what should be a tree with leaves. A forest that’s two in a half blocks in length stands within inches of dying a foolish mans death. I chose to listen—the fifteen hundredth tree was planted behind my house…no one will know of its place unless I document it. Note: The first and final seedlings didn’t survive the on going drought. One in twenty achieve full growth—nearing the two-year anniversary I still cry while wading through the most incredible color of blue the white pine offers. No day passes that we don’t touch each other’s ambitions—to watch them glow during a morning sunrise is the greatest gift God has ever shared, especially when a tiny wood spider has developed its webbed plan to catch crazy flying things within the trees needles. February 6, 2001: Uncensored Lee stood in the window—I heard gunfire. She wouldn’t move! I couldn’t tell if she’d been hit. The floor became my path—any movement wasn’t quick enough to pull her down to safety. Struggling to look out the very window now in two thousand pieces—I cringed at the sight of an unknown woman having needles stuck in her eyes. My mind has created war—bizarre, strange and completely way out there to play with…I chose to wake up. February 7, 2001: Learning to locate the net I held the thought all day…it’s obvious someone on the playing field expects more or doesn’t have a clue. My thoughts aren’t invisible—I want people to stop assuming they know how to control me. They who walk with me shall do so inside a world of peace. Close not your eyes, for your deepest thought is what matters. Moments of unrest shall steal your breath—heartbreak the size of full moons. Beneath my skin the journey still rests, to be completed before my death. The ambition isn’t to lead for my heart belongs to you father of the sky—I am the tree who protected his forest. February 8, 2001: Locked up I can never let them be something—they have to be shaped into something. If I’m not turned on while doing it, how can I expect you to be? I could never paint a nude man! Call me homophobic! It’s a lot better than people thinking I’m gay. Then again, painting a nude woman qualifies me to be a pervert—so I stick to faces. February 9, 2001: Solo morning and night 6:00am I can look at the palm of my hand and see what I didn’t bring to the canvas. You don’t have to tell me how weird I am…I’ve spent an entire lifetime running away from it. I don’t look into the mirror and see something I like—I can barely view a painting and say it’s complete. Walden once wrote about a pond and forest he vowed to protect—his readers have carried the dream. A common bond—he and I…not really, I’m afraid to read his writings in fear he stole from me. 6:45pm My heart sits in the blood of sadness, creative flow at a standstill. It drains into the hands of people who don’t know what they want. So I sit and spit water between my teeth. Once empty, I’ll die…then forgotten. I am the Broadcaster. February 10, 2001: War words Stare into a highway—if the cars are moving fast, what do you remember? Anyone can do flow—what makes my work stand out is properly presented presentation. It’s a five o’clock rush hour moving twenty-two mile per hour. February 11, 2001: Retreating but where? I’ve thought of suicide and death a lot lately…the world is a waste of my time. February 12, 2001: When you can’t change life Faces are faces but what can I do to make them uniquely mine? I blank out all I can in hopes of gaining a fifteenth chance to make the painting right—the heart is set on doing so only to learn the rest of me has given up. February 13, 2001: Mother America We’re all liabilities! We’re not people with talent; we’re numbers in a book. Your destination is determined by footsteps—are you in the black or red? February 14, 2001: The 51 to 49 rule Learn to bleed. Once you feel the warmth of true success drip from your forehead, you’ll better understand the importance of sacrifice. I know how bad loss hurts—but to quit teaches you nothing. Anyone who does have earned two descriptions: Buckles under pressure and not a true team player. Part of what makes you a winner is being able to digest a losers dream. February 15, 2001: Days before my sun dance I’m reminded of the sacred path I study—the circle is never complete until the creation is taken from those who loved you most. Believers learn to listen—to open trails leading toward the soul. It’s here that communication continues. Words appear when thought is written, expressions grow when spoke to and knowledge glows in the eyes of all who knew him. Yet, no lesson is complete until it’s shared. We must learn to give all things away—challenge ourselves to walk up to the unknown and touch it and no matter how much blood is lost or pain is felt, we must shed the skin once worn during wars won. February 16, 2001: Lessons from the wind I don’t control the pages that walk me down the path. My wishes are to preserve before lopping new colors onto a canvas. Nearly one hundred percent of the time I allow myself to over produce because it allows me to hide. We’re all creative! We leap from doodling to preservation—some kids start out as being incredible artists only to forget about it, as they get older. A sunrise isn’t just a ball of fire introducing a new day—without it, there’s no color to feed all things living within a shadow. February 17, 2001: Unknowingly preparing for sun dance My hands never go a day without being covered in ink—the end of a pen chomped til its flat against my tongue. Combined, they become the tools that bring emptiness into a shape better recognized by the naked eye. My studies read: The ability to attack your fears is following the sacred path. I fear failure, I fear being better than someone else, I fear losing my home and I fear my own potential. But! I don’t fear change. Dear Grandfather sun and Mother earth…my arms are weak due to all things in life—you must be tired of carrying me. Therefore, I ask…please let me go. Allow my dreams to crash. Push me over the edge to plunge to my death. Instead of leaving marks, I carve out a soul—a word so sharp, it’s left me bloody. My hair has reached the blades of these weakened shoulders, the medicine pouch is touched to lift me up and the trees I’ve planted are yellow and brown. Tell me Grandfather Sun and Mother Earth…is this the sign to move on? February 18, 2001: Forest farming done naturally It’s my dream to one day have an incredible peace garden—first I must undertake the task of proper flow. I sit and dream, wonder what if? Then water comes and takes it away. I sit and visualize, assume I know. Then water comes and takes it away. I start to build, study the flow. The water comes and slows. I sit and dream, plant new shrubs and trees. The water still comes and things start to grow. I sit back and watch, one full season now gone. The water has located the hole. I sit and dream, what would happen if? The water forces me to start over again. I sit and laugh, when in reality I cry. The water is one hundred times smarter than me. February 19, 2001: Advertised stereotypes I’ve lived to see Henry Aaron hit his record breaking homerun—Mark McGuire crushed the single season dinger numbers, Jordon soared through space only to land a classic slam dunk, Wayne Gretzsky, Tiger Woods, Dale Earnhardt, and professional bowler Earl Anthony. I’ve even cheered Kerry Collins who turned around a reckless lifestyle to be in the Super bowl. Today’s games have changed—Ted Williams, Dr. J, Arnold Palmer, Joe Nameth and Richard Petty led their proper leagues, serving as forefathers of a world whose children have been taught to reach beyond the limits of speed. Maybe one day, computer animation will be the legend. February 20, 2001: A solo man who requires an audience I’m told all too often that I’m an artist—people worry about the lack of expression. I admit! I’m addicted! It’s a drug created by the mind and soul. They laugh claiming it isn’t so—yet they never look into these chapters. They’re invisible thoughts and painted faces. Since 1994, I’ve plastered anything into these hard covered books. Even I, rarely take the time to look. There’s no need to please the keeper of darkness. These invisible thoughts and painted faces are nothing but candy-coated dreams. They’re the works of sadness. I’m only shedding skin. February 21, 2001: It’s not about me The sun’s rising earlier each day—proof that spring isn’t far. Looking at the forest, I see the limbs of the children God has given me—I’m to walk within their halls, not to beg, steal or borrow—but to let them know someone is listening. February 22, 2001: Recognizing life’s other children The moon softly chants to all willing to listen—eyes made of soiled chapters past, imagination tainted by a crows calling out—mythical madness are reasons given while temptation blisters the poor mans heart. Full, quarter or a sliver hung to dry—the moon never stops chanting. February 23, 2001: The prayer Yesterday oh Lord, I did nothing but a play a game of counting coup—I walked through the raging storm and touched my enemies shoulder. He quickly fired back only to watch me calmly walk away. Yet, I’m left in a pool of spit as delivered by unexpected fear. And for what reason do I fear oh Lord? I don’t wish to invite continued harm! Playing games of coup are warrior-like but I sit alone, my own pain…sipping on assumption. I don’t ask for sickness to be delivered! I only want his cheating self to be revealed—let him stand in the cold that blankets the puked up blood thrown from my body’s edge. Please Lord, take from him his mask so that others fall witness to the evil. He takes his clan into battle only to seek shelter. I see this as a great weakness! Be extremely calm to his family—yet allow the thunder of twelve passing storms knock from him the mask attached to the uncaring ways he delivers inside the protective shell governed by a title. I seek no revenge! I beg not for any injury! I only wish for the mask to fall within the presence of those who call him leader. Once shattered, he shall look up to me, knowing of his own destruction—I being the warrior will attempt to hide only to learn my mask no longer exists. Note: Do not place upon others what you wouldn’t want placed upon you. In the days ahead you will see that my acting self will be deeply challenged as I face the presence of the devils gatekeeper. February 24, 2001: Perpetually paranoid False compliments eat through me—my heart can’t take it. Once the soul takes over with its protective pattern, I’m left to swim in puddles of assumption—the great poison of my every step. Thoughts race through me much faster than creativity—at times I’m a walking zombie. February 25, 2001: Self-portrait His depressions start there, below his ribcage—he claims it quickly takes over until it’s run out of fuel. It could be thirty seconds or five days—neither he nor I know the origin of such untold chapters. A bleeding of the soul—stains so thick it colorizes anger. Cum is a poison that he hates holding inside. He talks of the pushing, to gain access to anything left behind. “It’s a negative to my creativity!” He screams… “Once empty, I’m left with a day I control.” February 26, 2001: I used to cut into my arms 6:25 am I fell a sleep last night due one hundred percent to depression. I know in my heart that quality suffers when spending too much time defending. I’m sickened, located should be a better way of letting go. Writing and painting don’t help! I’m here purely out of habit. 8:45pm My soul hurts—I’m weak! My mouth won’t close—it’s how the air is getting in. I felt it coming on this morning. I thought this would blow away. I can’t take drugs to heal this! I can’t look to a doctor believing he’s got the ability to heal me. I have the knowledge but the door is locked! 8:47pm The heart has slowed—I’m afraid to move. Maybe death has visited—for the soul of my body is incredibly empty. My mind needs rest, yet a true Broadcaster bleeds and continues to walk forward. My heart tells me all too often that it wants to hide from the world. My wallet says otherwise. February 27, 2001: A doctor can’t be you, study yourself Being creative isn’t that easy! My chest is like a chocolate Easter bunny—at any moment it’s going to cave in. This is a war with self! A battle that seemingly won’t let me win—at times my body wants to stop breathing; it’s an emptiness I can’t paint. If I keep silent, will there be an implosion? I see circles, millions of them—why? Where I create is in a box. February 28, 2001: The journey that changed my life I’ve read that warriors would share their blood with mother earth—it was an incredible deed to be so open with she who blesses the paths we walk. Within my sacred circle, a rock grows. Upon it, I placed what little blood I could squeeze from my cut wrist. I painted the stone knowing from this day forward, I too had given to my mother earth. I’ve now entered—the Sundance. I only wish to become strong once again or be left behind to die. March 1, 2001: The Sundance continues I sat facing south within the sacredness of the circle—it’s there, my past shares its lessons. I listened to all things while spreading blood on the trunk of a white pine seedling. We spoke of dedicating each other’s souls to the continued life of the forest. My prayers don’t come with words, for I was born to listen. The message I hear takes the white pine and myself to the unsettled so we may do battle inside the fires of hell. For I as a human have not the right to steal life from life and I’ll die proving it to be. March 2, 2001: The Sundance lives within Build not from the bridge once used to cross—invite the forest of fresh steps untaken. To fear is to never gain. To be silent can often mean pain. Bust not the spider’s web of inspiration—leave all your childhood dreams intact. Imprisoned should never be your ability. Learn to reach outward from your fear. Walk the path of evergreens and vines—for they remain faithful to the existence of this forest. The thorny vines could easily cut your throat leaving the steps taken for dead—but you aren’t. If you don’t leap from the dried branch—you too shall fall. Remember one valuable thought—a tree never gets back up. March 3, 2001: The Sun dance begins to speak If I don’t fear the knife as it enters the veins closest to the heart, I’ll be reminded of how any fear creates room for gained access. The mountains I climb are visible only to my sight—to seek understanding requires no human hand but the trust generated between self and the wind. I don’t know what to expect from this giving to Mother earth. Is it wrong to expect nothing? People easily assume they know where I’ve traveled these past five days. The reality of it is based on where I’m going—that’s what captivates my imagination! Raised to my lips are never hopes to succeed—it’s the air which carries messages delivered by the wind. Once up to my lips, words are then created—for I, like the wind…am only a messenger. March 4, 2001: Lessons that can’t be ignored Hold not the spirit for me to enjoy—study all it is…then pass it on. Take not, to better ones path to completion, listen to all things whispered then pass it on. Feed not thy self all the deserts the spirit brings—taste only one spoonful then pass it on. For this journey isn’t about me nor shall it ever be…yet, without experience, nothing can be shared with the next seven generations. March 5, 2001: When friends unexpectedly notice I’m asking you to trust me—I didn’t bring harm to myself in the name of anger or depression. I’ve built a lasting relationship with sixteen hundred trees. To give to mother earth like this is the greatest any man can do! I’m not in search of a God! I’m only protecting this temple called self. I’ll openly admit, performing such an act allowed my right hand to attack the left side—with each cut came a much better mood…but do I have the strength to stop cutting? March 6, 2001: Worlds of lonely people In today’s modern society—less experience means bigger opportunity. What I’ve accomplished is seen as a weapon, for if I were better than…I could easily replace them. The quote I recently heard was, “We require someone who’s ok.” A painted face—the mask to which I wear, the eyes are made of cold rain and the heart is warmed by soiled acting. Nothing belongs to me! The fake shoes I wear are required to get by, just like a whore—I come with a price. March 7, 2001: Babysitting The sun is up—I’m writing through shadows! It’s screwing with my brain. It’s like reverb but with handwriting. Every move made is copied within the shadow. It’s like I’m talking in a giant stadium and the words are shot back to me by use of echo. Then, I laugh inside—it’s nice to know the creative self is smiling. This is why I enjoy being the biggest loser on earth. The honor allows me to bend every rule written. Yes it angers me but get over it! March 8, 2001: She knows… What my pen writes has always come from the self I’ve spent seven years getting to know. We’ve shaken hands, questioned each other’s temptations and stopped to wonder if the other side was going to make it. Two times in my life, I’ve had to set aside all fears and face the path to which I created. Both times should have been enough for God to call me back home. I’ve never been proud of me. The mask wearing started as a child. I did all I could not to become my father—a reckless womanizing gambling man who demanded every inch of attention to be placed on his plate. I say this, while never getting the chance to meet him. When he died in 1977, I stood at his funeral wondering which kid he created would in fact become him. A preacher once said, “Before you die, the Lord plays back your entire life.” It was I who wanted Sande’s apology for her moments of letting go. It was I who wanted to take the creation of the devils child to my grave. I’m almost pissed off that God didn’t make me an alcoholic or drug abuser. At least there’s a place to go to fight off the evils. March 9, 2001: The after shocks of addiction We sat in the front row at a Charlotte Church concert last evening—a very lucky child to have such a voice. Even luckier is her memory. How do you train yourself not to forget the lyrics of such incredible songs? Guess not all of us are losers. Front row, under the microphone at a Charlotte Church performance—all this on the night after I shattered Lee’s heart. Dear God in heaven…I’ll dedicate my life back to you, if you could give me some glue. I was ill fated from the beginning—a motion sickness of depression. I’ve tried to write about it, sing about it and paint pictures. Then one day, I heard the vase crack—it fell to the floor…emptiness. It’s not I who broke it—wait, yes it was. Steps, baby or smaller—this is why I didn’t want to say…either way, weakness won. March 10, 2001: My ink my tears Missions of questions—answers with total liability. Make it go away! Make it invisible! Impossible! For all things are shiny pennies. Because I am who I am—I wonder who my teacher was. Who saw me along the way? Who encouraged me to become? Was there anyone who allowed me to chance a proper development? What I wish most, is that someone would step forward and accept that they were the ones who chose not to bring me closer to real love. Instead, I’ve walked alone—never realizing how much pain a loveless child creates on his own path of destruction. I’m sorry—I’m open to seek help, but who wasn’t there for me when love should have been given a name? March 11, 2001: Located, a new mask I can’t tell you how I’ve survived, except to say that re-inventing yourself is essential! I didn’t earn numerous employees of the months, quarters and two for the year by being just one talent—I got there by being everything to everyone. Poetry, words put into motion—any reaction set inside emotion. I’m fearless while being afraid—rebel without a pause. Emptiness, unexplained. Poets…none the same. March 12, 2001: Dearest Lee… To buy you roses doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” To whisper such words doesn’t convince your hurting self. I’ve gone the wrong way—a path with no trees, a desert, not a pebble of sand, only dirt that drops off at the horizon. Kettles of love wait for your closed arms. I understand and no longer know the magic words. Even then, I wouldn’t share them—to be the actor isn’t my place of business. I remain real, more than any time in chapters written. I’ve begged to be me in a world only I could make. Mistakes have been made—I must accept the price. March 13, 2001: Am I pointing more fingers My entire life’s been spent doing all I can to run as hard as I can away from the dark. My mother can’t help me. She refuses to share the events that took place between one and three years of age. I didn’t grow up inside the angelic world—I’m not a chunk of heavenly peace. I know what I did as a child—was it normal? No one ever said or pulled me back from believing that what I did was wrong. I knew it was wrong! But why didn’t someone tell me? So, I kept playing out the role of a growing boy. Build for me Oh Great Mystery, the bridge to the forgotten—let me visit for a while…to see what may have led a child wrong. March 14, 2001: Reshaped vows This journey shall be looked at as one of getting caught, while taking no risks at lifting all truths to their rightful place. Countless times, I wish I had been writing during the final months of 1993—within those chapters are the well documented expressions of the purposes leading to all steps taken. I’ve got nothing to study! I’m given only memories, which have been shaved away into tiny specs of light, making them almost invisible. I’ve hurt for six years—I knew the rules were shattered and I’ve hated myself ever since. In the past two weeks, I’ve been forced to look in the mirror and stop running. I’ve run too long and for no reason other than to hide. Unlike my father, I can’t turn from the horror I’ve created. I shall face you, eye-to-eye and heart to heart and receive the judgment that best fits my crime. I’ll not cry a tear, for I knew what I was doing. I was sick when I walked into this relationship. I offered nothing for you to help heal. March 15, 2001: Breaths of air When all seems weak—look beyond the curtain. The wolf sits waiting; his paws reveal open wounds yet his prompt ears start to point—beware, the victim is near. Perfect trails belong in parks—even then, they crisscross and wind around half living forests. Until I’m dead, never forget, I’m watching. How I’ve been treated shall be the reflection. My admitting the truths of failures and mistakes—only invites footsteps to play tit for tat. Like the wolf, I have pointed ears and teeth blood stained by your travels. Patiently, I sit inside crowded darkness—no trail is silent, no heartbeat the same. Like a wolf whose face impacts—no matter what your decision…when all is said and done, your willingness to act perfect shall be the biggest mistake made. The scent of many colors is set to rise, with it—there’s thunder. March 16, 2001: Failing to believe in failure The only thing I require is a sip of positive. March 17, 2001: Fighting off without sounding off I never try to ignore the power of creative flow—I’m not willing to fall into a weeklong depression. A page filled with quick fisted thoughts is the best way to bleed. Open wounds releasing liquid into an atmosphere blessed with judgment and bad decisions. To say I’m sorry doesn’t erase mistakes—it hides them. Modern history isn’t what we study, its what we’re entertained by. The dark cherry wood mantle clock rings, as do the chirps of my many birds. The washing machine spins while the drier tumbles. Turning to view the thick morning fog, I feel as if I’m inside a song. The importance of it all is the lack of importance…I’m doing something radio can’t control. March 18, 2001: Be seen but not heard I allow the origin of any thought to be played out—it helps me accept life’s everyday mistakes, gifting reality with new ways for me to grow. I fear everything, only to hear the wind reply, “What do you fear? Do you fear being unaccepted? Do you fear your walks through the forest will be no more? Do you fear leaving radio? How many branches do you wish me to break before you become the stump in the wood pecked path of a red headed woodpeckers dream come true? Maybe I should place your roots near the heart and soul of a life-strangling vine. What do you fear?” March 19, 2001: Whatta ya mean I don’t fit? I’m not lost! How could I be? I walk with people who change their minds every five minutes. What I produce is a reaction to their reaction, which is nothing but a reaction to the last three reactions. People keep telling me, “Turn to God! Turn to God!” Man does not love all things like he is taught—cherished should be all things not what man decides to keep for him. The land is scraped and dug out to better suit the pockets of realtors. Homes that sell for three hundred thousand are smaller than mine. Silently the wolf sits looking outward—many objects are in motion. Slightly he studies with true care, never moving once until it touches his sacred circle. March 20, 2001: Arguing with the mirror Bent at the wrists, my palms face the person I am. Tid bits of shaking awaken the worrisome keeper only to hear the face sharply question, “Where were you when I was younger? I wanted to draw beautiful homes and you ran away!” Droplets of white hide my expression, deep green lines disguise the index finger—it fails to resemble the smiles tucked inside. The face speaks to me again, “I can’t question you anymore! All I ever wanted was to be good at one thing.” My finger turned inward, no palm to be seen—this is the life of poetry, what can’t be painted becomes written… It’s shoved into a book to sleep, til the day someone stops by for a visit. March 21, 2001: Unannounced angel I never know when a painting is finished—then, from out of nowhere…I feel the spirit of completion. Pastels, ink, whiteout and pencil shadings, I’ve taken the steps to make nothing into something. If I could, I would one day like to turn my nothing into something into the missing piece of the puzzle—the music I hear while slowly evolving nothing into something. A self, without the mask—a true person armed at being, rather than pretending. It’s I…me, the son of the wind, cousin of the soil and brother to all living trees—for I’m the stone which protects without covering his face with a mask. March 22, 2001: I see what others ignore Incredibly unique is springtime in Carolina—the sun’s shadow is up before the actual figure. March 23, 2001: Within seconds captured I’m never completely satisfied with anything until its one giant black blob of mental challenge. Ninety nine percent of the time, my mind left the project three quarters of the way in. I’m learning not to react which gives me plenty of time to invite anything but war. Only to learn, she needs a four hundred and fifty dollar check. Tingles of fear race to this pens tip—am I late? Did she leave me? Is this the silent goodbye? I run to the forest! The birds are restless! My heart feels like its racing but silent is the sword inside. Surely she would have said something! Do I look for the handwritten note? Do I quickly close the shades? My writing page is full! I’m locked up with no place to go! March 24, 2001: Poet speak The poet studies the paths of all who walk by—to look at the curvature of an eye, realize the shadows within the neckline, only to duplicate it the best he could. His colors rarely matched, his cloths off beat and language often made up like songs you sing to yourself to help ease the pain. A melting pot of personalities—he calls them visitors who stopped by and yet he chose to listen. March 25, 2001: Untrained spirit My lack of discipline hurts me most. I hate simplicity! I hate something as simple as the wind! For what reasons do I feel this way? I have no answers to write. The stomach turns, disappointment sets in…I slowly become depressed. Suddenly, the world and its sounds have penetrated my weakness. March 26, 2001: The Poets pissed off the artist I over-produce because I don’t like unfinished beginnings. If I over-produce, something is bound to stand out. Be it the curves of an eye or the sharp edge taught to take your vision off my mistakes. I look at each expression with different mindsets—it brings nothing to the journey except a need to keep adding while never taking away. March 27, 2001: A painting grew I’m sick this new morning—therefore I’ll write in pencil. March 28, 2001: Control Preservation of each breath taken is impossible—respecting how you breathe is a thought followed by a whispered, “Thank you.” March 29, 2001: Hiccup The sacred Sun Dance has led me toward all things feared—to properly follow the path, one must face all fears…therefore I am. The freedoms from Motherhood were not a fear, they were a great sadness—whether I heal or not is up to the self-hidden inside this human shell. Like a loose tooth, all things fall…reputation follows humiliation—foundations shatter and stipulations are put into place. No man is stronger than his creator. What’s performed shall be uncovered. Misfortunes have purpose. Mourned are the losses and victories are celebrated a page at a time. We’re not an overweight nation—we’ve got to much guilt on our backs from generations past. March 30, 2001: What I read inside my latest painting A sun that sits beneath the soils of earth allows all roots to grow forever. In time, all shades become the color of hope, which in return invites the likeness of being. A statue featured on top of the sun is where we place our highest wishes. A fence represents walls of selfishness while the staircase allows for occasional escape. The bridge sits in darkness, for all things we cross are often personal. I can’t ask to feel. I won’t ask to feel. My response is angered pain—not the loss of relationship. The cutting of a tree hurts, the cutting of my arm only numbs. Yet, no one asks how it’s doing? Anger is rage—rage is fear. The invasion of impossibility—untrained water ignites me but clutter doesn’t. When I feel, I’m silent. When I’m not silent, I’m angry. I can’t control puddles of puppy pee—I can only clean them up. March 31, 2001: Unperfected perfectionist What’s this addiction of not wanting to stop while I’m ahead? I question the higher levels of being—silent I must sit…like the cows in a field. April 1, 2001: Satisfying her needs to know I’ve been asked to return to my writing—somewhere around September 1998 to the present. Yes! I feel invaded! This is her way of being Sande! I know I wasn’t excited and not proud of anything I’d done! Eventually body parts break. I’ve got to study my handwriting—it’s there that my fears of knowing about him for the first time will be tightly gripped within the chapters of total failure. April 2, 2001: Methods of madness Everything we do changes the course of history—can we say that about a butterfly? Build not one bridge, survivors have many. A lamppost sits silent yet the light is still burning. Think not of what’s expected—do as you do, do as you may…but include everyone else on your journey. Communicate with…don’t wait for me to make a mistake—I’m human! It’ll happen! What am I…your glory? April 3, 2001: Warning: Beware It’s not, was not and won’t ever be my desire to hurt anyone. Fingers can be pointed in every direction but ultimately they’ll find themselves directed toward me. I’m not a liar! I’m a keeper, the holder of secrets, which may or may not harm the self you are. Gripped tightly in my palm are hazards and warnings—pry them open one by one and time will change forever. April 4, 2001: Suck it in A pocket full of thoughts and not one worth grasping—my thoughts travel a million miles a minute with no rest area to pee. Past chapters unveil this reaction to no action as being a strong warning—the beast’s arrival is soon. I see his shadow plotting the best access. Through assumption, the view of a wicked expression blankets the curves of a face blessed with wretched games. He notices me watching—the battle is set to begin. Today’s challenge: The difference between someone reading my secret writings or re-opening a piece of life I felt would never be relived. To go through it again paints for me a picture of an aging man puking up food only to devour it second time. April 5, 2001: Born ten years too late Time built mountains not Home Depot—angry rivers carve our paths into dust while nuclear power plants shave away our resistance. Man thinks he’s got the upper hand—the ego is catching up. I don’t question the ability of the two legged, nor do I disbelieve we can save ourselves. Silence sets in—they think I’m a radical. He’s different, got longhair, writes everyday, prays inside a forest. Take away this sick man! Keep these people weak! They shall never win again! April 6, 2001: Describing depression A shipwrecked battleship whose hull if full of water and no men to bail it out—it starts at the center of the stomach and shoots outward like a spider’s web. I draw faces to place blame—how can it be me who feels this way? April 7, 2001: Same visions new day Each morning, the sun looks upward to see if I’m writing. Once eye-to-eye, the sun tries to disguise itself by turning everything pink, light blue, orange and gray. I over produce because I can, it’s the agreement between self and chance. Ninety percent of the time I lose…but at least I can say I didn’t just sit here and accept anything that came along. I’m not an artist! I’m a regular person who’s grown extremely tired of this cookie cutter society. April 8, 2001: More than yet lesser than what evil I’m ninety-five from reaching my goal of one thousand days—it’s a personal journey filled with more junk than a baby’s diaper. Test the strength of this pen—take it and the self inside…beyond the limits of time—I’ll die but my creativity will live on. April 9, 2001: I don’t believe in family In all things, you can see what I feel. As a child, I stayed away from love—at an early age I didn’t want to be with people. Creativity is a solo project. April 10, 2001: Just an opinion If I’d been born without an opinion, I’d be a better person. April 11, 2001: Gullible Allow me to feel with closed eyes—for the mocking bird’s calling can’t fool me. I see the tears, which rest inside every rainbow… April 12, 2001: Origins of self Writing poetry is my engine starter—the mind wants to work but nothings willing to follow. Like a child, I mimic my surroundings with unrehearsed flavor—refusing to rhyme seasons the passion to never stick to the rules of great poetic champions. It’s not you I’m trying to move—if it were, your fat ass would be sitting next to me every sunrise. April 13, 2001: You mean nothing to me I overproduce then try to hide it. It’s not a dream to conquest perfection—the search begins at this lasting love to attain the high that normal people can’t give me. I’ll never be recognized for the ability to play with pens, colored pencils and acrylics—I’m nothing but a loser whose radio dreams were squashed by people who never tried to understand. I’m the guy who steps outside and never sees what’s out there. I look beyond the realms of reality, past fantasy, only to find myself inside empty. A birds song steps within the mixture of all things played out—at times, I find them peaceful and comforting…then, there’re those days when I’m deaf. This page I write on is called the Blizzard white canvas—it doesn’t grab me by the hand and lead me along. I’m roped at the throat and drug through hell—whatever’s seen is painted, written then hid. April 14, 2001: 7:00 am Published poets are often unread—wanna-be writers fight to get their egos fed. I hate writing circles! I don’t want to do this anymore—One man’s thousand thoughts, one thousand nonstop days of writing and for what reason? Note: October 28, 2002 a hollow feeling of almost understanding. I’ve chosen to hide from the world a masked identity of reaching out but never in. Demands are placed daily—expecting to live up to my own standards is something people never see. Why share with them the weaknesses for any true color of mine will strengthen their next weapon of choice. April 15, 2001: Melodic puke The Carolina sky, a dark gray with brush strokes of scented rain—the simple dance unknowingly performed above the blooming dogwoods. The pollen, so thick, the black house is now green while tiny trickles of water hurriedly try to wash it away. Down to the lake each droplet speculates—to swim with the fish I never see… springtime…Easter Sunday. April 16, 2001: I broke her heart The faint hint of a new day welcomes what little I’m willing to offer, brick walls and flowers, caged pets with hardly anything in between. Masked isn’t reality because I’ve got bills to pay. Radio won’t give me a raise yet the power company demands more from me. We cry out for instant Band-Aids…life’s healing way. I stand one inch from losing the friend I finally recognize as my wife. No day passes that I’m not reminded of the hand, her five fingers, an object she may never let me hold again. April 17, 2001: When mentors require your assistance Radio stations come and go—broadcasters are born then die. Very few of us cross the line into true friendship—when that occurs, all things are sacrificed to better pave each other’s path. It goes only one way, toward that grave, still vibrating from yesterday’s radio waves. April 18, 2001: Back off I don’t feel like writing—how many days in a row is this? Captured on paper is a lack of desire. Like a photograph, I see change within the creative flow. I’m letting go of many things, books of spirituality, opportunities to write deep and a need to keep things private. This, after letting too many people observe November 1997. It forced me to draw the devil a few pages back—red eyes and lips plus a dress that expresses hardened anger…yet, that’s not what I feel. Why then, am I writing? April 19, 2001: Self created inner voices They make me feel like a total failure therefore I spend every second of everyday fixing things that were never broke. April 20, 2001: The other voice governing self-hatred Not all skies are filled with thunder nor do rabbits hop on all fours. What challenges me is the ability of determination. From sound comes tomorrow’s challenges—it’s up to me to paint them unique. April 21, 2001: Volunteer for hangover pill I ask all the time, “Why do you do this?” A test? This is a test of the emergency not in touch with the body system. I keep hearing screams, “You dumb jerk! You stupid loser!” Hung but not in the right places, I giggle, set the pen aside—this isn’t poetry, unless, you’ve been drunk all night. Note: Channel three was testing a new product—I chose to be the guinea pig. After all, it was the hangover pill—I wouldn’t get a hangover! Shock! I threw down three long island ice tea’s, two major league sized Yeager’s, several foo foo drinks and a very cold beer. I was hung over for three days. I could hear my stepfather, “If they told you to jump off a bridge, you would!” April 22, 2001: I hate being me The day is so laid out; I haven’t a clue where I am on this road map—except to say, “I’m the most focused out of focus on this unfocused planet. One day, my writing instruments will be observed as tools to get into the within. Whoever holds them fifty years after my departure will see the very pictures I did during my moments of mental rest. I’m no different than any other human—I’m also no better…I paint to help erase the darkness, allowing a glow of possibility to perform its daily tricks. If a tree could, would it chop me down then set me in the street? April 23, 2001: Lessons from a tree I remember seeing vines leaping to and from trees—today I beg them not to strangle the unmovable standing people. It’s an agreement between two forms of creative flow—no one’s winning, we accept each other’s visions. Deep within the darkened shell of this placed called self—I see so much but feel so little. It’s almost too easy to be depressed. Silently I push forward—the more I travel, the easier it becomes to forget I was here. April 24, 2001: Are you my father While staring into the bathroom mirror, I questioned, “Do I look like him?” “Are my eyes the shape of his? My hairs long and dark, my legs ache in the middle of the night, my voice…does it sound like him?” Why at thirty-eight do I continue to question? Only to notice how rough my face looks. “Is it his? No one taught me how to shave.” Silent is my chosen journey as long as it’s within the origin believing that one day I’ll be free. Note: My sperm-donating father was killed in 1977—I knew of him, but nothing about him, he left when I was three. As a way of protecting my mother, I never asked to see pictures nor did I question her. Suddenly, at thirty-eight…I wanted to know my daddy—someone forgot to play baseball with me and someone totally ignored my years of growing up. I saw it as being a possible lead as to why I couldn’t love my own. I’m sorry, I can’t fake love—you’ll see thru me. April 25, 2001: Messy closet I hate waking up! The moods are many…so I sit here and try to be all of them only to realize how extremely lonesome I am. It’s a cold feeling of emptiness, something I try to push away. I lie to myself in order to get by. What I desire most is to become someone again. I have incredible ability but who’s noticing? My voice is invisible—it seems only I can hear the expressions. Looking toward my left arm, three scars bask in the morning sunshine reminding me of the knife that put them there. I’m invisible until someone needs me—what kind of life is this? Look at my arms and tell me! April 26, 2001: All in a days pay Five blue jays cry out at sunrise—conversations of a different language. I listen for pace—I hear only screams. This is why so many dislike the blue jay. I’ve been told, “They’re very mean!” So are humans… The air is calm; maybe it was a warning—five blue jays protecting their surroundings. They’re the guard dogs of the forest, their echo reaching the distant crow. In time, they fly into the scene—usually three or four while one stays back to watch the soaring hawk. The dance is viewed, twirls and dives, sharp jagged plunges to scare away. Wait! I hear the cardinal and now the geese—the hawk is no longer near by. April 27, 2001: Still unrecognized but I see thru you Cream rises to the top several different ways—showing up at work seven hours before your show ignites proper work ethics, but not if you’ve spent the afternoon surfing the web. It makes me skeptical of you, meaning you lack the ability to build a better foundation. Created are blind spots in every level of travel—including those who hired you while assuming the highest of all expectations. April 28, 2001: Because Gene Simmons would I performed in front of twenty three thousand starving NBA fans last night! Me! At the coliseum! When they react, few people understand the electricity that crushes your body. You never get to see them face-to-face and when you do, it’s my deepest wish to reach out and shake their hand. April 29, 2001: Can I get anymore lost than I am Many recognizable changes are taking place—I don’t work with the pages of Halloween 78 anymore and my daily Native American spiritual studies have stopped. Have I become confident? Am I saying, “I’ve got my own beliefs and these one man stories are blending together?” A willow shoots upward, out and then down. A picture of me says the same. I wonder if he did it this way. My real father…why won’t my mother show me a picture of him? Tell me what he looked like! What color was his hair? Was it long and straight like mine? Were his eyes rainbows of brown? Tell me about his voice! Did it inflect passion or greed? Was it smooth or jagged like granite? Who was he? Tell me what he looked like! Is this why you never call me? Have I grown into his shoes? Is my reaction to your silence creating pictures of your past chapters? Did he dream everyday? You must have loved him! Or—was I your honest mistake? Please tell me what he looked like! Did he learn to listen or turn his back? What did he crave most in this world? Did he passion for the best and settle for what was delivered? Tell me! Who was he? April 30, 2001: Change doesn’t start in expression 6:35 Am—it’s my goal, this set journey (new writing journal) to not draw within the chapters as presented before me. I’ve been in a creative rut for several months and feel the best form of change is deprivation. November 2, 2002—turning the page, I see one of the most brilliant pieces to date. I continue to read: The scent of creative flow glows within the handshake, it makes all things sing with me. Free as the wind, friendly colors meeting to create unheard songs. Insisted is the desire to paint—faint shadows darkened to be seen, lean lines echo avenues of lust—they’re fussed at until properly accepted. May 1, 2001: She sent the picture I didn’t think she’d send it—a black and white, the father I didn’t know. Now I’ve seen it—maybe not knowing was best. I looked at his fingers to see if they were mine, the hairline, the smile, the ears, eyes and nose—I have my mother’s features, not his. Have I grown into his shoes? Mentally? Yes… Physically? No… I too have traveled with the world of hidden desires. Did he dream everyday? To be addicted to gambling and drinking takes away from ones passion to dream—the only one he probably held was an attempt to make it rich and feel good about doing so. Was I, their honest mistake? My brother was perfect in Kenny’s eyes—they wanted a daughter and a girl I never became. The only place I’ll ever gain access to a conversation is in my death—I’m truly bothered by his lack of wanting to get to know who we were. He died in 1977—I was fifteen. He ran from our family when I was three—that gave him twelve years to make some sort of contact. Am I who I am due to this mans life? No! I am the creator of my own path. Since childhood, I’ve wondered what life would’ve been like if we had been as perfect as anyone living around us? We didn’t have the nicest house, the prettiest lawn and my bedroom was unpainted and the carpet was stained. I pretended to be someone I wasn’t. I settled on radio because it challenged me to hear someone say, “You won’t make it.” Before my first performance, I drew pictures, created games and built toy model skyscrapers and malls. I played my three stringed auction purchased guitar and wrote lyrics to songs still sung today. Just as unfinished as that bedroom is the adult I’ve grown into. I’ve often blamed my unwillingness to conform on Kenneth—I did all I could not to become him, only to learn, I was my birth father. But why blame him? I didn’t know him! I created myself. I formed this foundation on the assumption of what he was or wasn’t. I didn’t grow up wanting to be a womanizer! I grew up never wanting to be alone. I accepted every chance to not feel that hollow emptiness. Therefore, I became addicted to making people feel incredible. I’m not an alcoholic or drug abuser! Most importantly, I don’t hate my real father. I don’t love him either. He’s a face on a postcard—a man standing next to a woman who just happens to be my mother. The unspoken conversation: Me: I’ve heard a lot of about you. Ken: Not as much as I’ve heard about you. Me: I can’t figure out if I should blame you. Ken: You might as well, everyone else has. Me: You hurt my mom! Ken: Let me show you the list of pain you brought on to others Me: Hey, it was nice seeing you. Ken: No it wasn’t…. May 2, 2001: Miles from the core Interviewer: Within two weeks, you’ve been given three things: Sande’s response to the freedoms from Motherhood—your wife discovered the truth about the secret trail and the mother figure gave up the picture of your real father Kenneth. Me: I see only one connection—my father made me weak. I didn’t fight for my children. When I really messed up, I did what Kenneth would do…I tried to hide. Interviewer: A lot of children are being born around you, how does that make you feel? Me: Extremely lonely—not because I want one but because I didn’t get the father part of the deal. A single drop of ink, created while writing—does it know it’ll be alone? Should I smear it or create more to build a family? A single drop of ink—it wasn’t planned. I felt bad but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it. My little drop of ink—life seemed to be going ok, until you came along, interrupted my poem and now my world evolves around you. May 3, 2001: Anything human is a waste of my time Time out! I need a puppy hug! I’ve got both boys with me on the sofa—how can I go on without hugging my fuzzy kids? I don’t remember my childhood being filled with hugs. We’d get yelled at but hugs were a never delivered. I remember developing friendships with my stuffed animals and one blue plastic elephant Mumbo Jumbo. May 4, 2001: Another mans trash I’ve never met a person who doesn’t stuff something away. You call it yours, to be free with, to never give away or sell during a cold-hearted garage sale. I’ve often wondered if the buyers know of what we’re running from. If a spirit guide can be a faint breath of wind, why wouldn’t it become monkey grass in the new owner’s front yard? May 5, 2001: It must be Saturday Today, I must clean—to wipe away the grit and grime, to use cuss words of the legal kind. I love dirty nasty words that can be set on fire—it resembles footprints dug into a heavily weathered chunk of wood. Time to clean the mildew and dust, the pollen mixed with asphalt and other miniature bug parts I can’t see. I’ll sweep then mop, dust again and sing—the mind will be lost in a location of deserted fantasy. Cleaning is mind over matter—in the end, the scent of fresh spring air can’t be matched! Only to notice, a puddle on my floor—those dogs will never understand! May 6, 2001: He wears the mask to hide the blood I’m the observer—the viewer of all things that pass. I do judge! But, I’m learning not to. To be a watcher through the art of listening—reaction, my weakness…so is the tossing out of words. I’m the observer—invisible to no one, yet…I could easily disappear. Being the observer means being open—but not in the way of wound creation. I’m a people watcher, a lover of nature, birds, ants and the spring bloom held within the wind. I’ll speak with you, only to read about it a thousand days later. May 7, 2001: Before the owl’s final nap In the past year—I’ve learned to love radio less…and life more. What happened today is the result of yesterday. Therefore I focus on correcting before directing. If we’re control of our own lives, fate doesn’t put us here. It’s we who take the steps toward inner love and piece…fate is the base guitar pretending to participate. May 8, 2001: I’ll see you fail Radio of past generations wasn’t about a monkey sitting in a closet—the greats who became legends touched lives by sharing their creative flow. Today’s radio people are weak minded by choice—they’ve lost their hunger for Hamburger helper and Macaroni and cheese. One taste of that junk and you’ll be instantly reminded of why you never want to start over in radio. May 9, 2001: Locating wisdom without dying first Sometimes the trees are too big to move, so I depend on writing to erode them. It’s my purpose to study what most humans ignore. If life really is a circle then I came from the inner core of a tree—how else can I explain the love I have for living things that stare at me through three panes of glass? May 10, 2001: Men at pause After awhile the feeling of reckless mood throwing catches up—I crave feeling wanted…hatred grows in your desire to make me only a backup. Mentally, I’m growing up—physically it has nothing to do with radio. May 11, 2001: Driven to be stupid My body screams to slow down—who is listening? Laying my head back, the tiny motors controlling this imagination start to crank. They whisper, “I know you can. I know you can.” May 12, 2001: Generation Y the wasted America I know how much of an ass I can be! I’m fully capable of playing a person until their weak in the knees. I just wanna be known as the hard working radio guy who peacefully does what he does. One problem, I see weakness everywhere and it’s eating me alive—I’ve got to learn to walk beside it and never say a word. May 13, 2001: Dear Chris Allen The aggression’s been so bad—I knew there had to be a picture. When a negative vibration enters me, the body doesn’t spit it out…it tries to digest it. I don’t know why there’s been a turn but don’t expect me to be there when you change back. Managers who feel they have the right to judge can’t relate with the artist in the midst of a performance. May 14, 2001: And so…I grew to listen even more The Lord said, “It’s time to feel my warmth. Blessed is the music of all creators—as understanding as one would assume, are as weak as the next creation. Listen not to the judgment of follower’s, gifts of creation weren’t handed to them. No need to explain what life has filled—it’s the gift of peace and freedom I bring. For if they don’t feel it…never should your judgment be on guard—freedom is the act of courage, while peace is what’s left when all other things are dead. Listen to the wind of many mighty storms—raindrops so large the streams become destructive. For in its path there’s freedom—left behind is the peace felt only through death. Before the leaf of a willow oak blooms to life, pealed away are the layers of bark which moments before had screamed to survive. The uncanny beauty of azaleas—bright, rainbow like, an essence of spring short lasted. Their buds now dry—peace fills the soul of he who remembers. I speak not of destruction to be destructive—one mans bomb can’t heal a hungry nation. Greed creates darkness, shadows so thick with pollen, the heart becomes sick forcing you to buckle at the knees. A wobbly man must sit for he’s refused his ability to brave more steps. Once or twice a vision may return, but who’s to say he remembered the azaleas?” May 15, 2001: Visual steps people can’t see Although it seems my weirdness is an act of artistic courage—I’m extremely fearful of what someone thinks. If the person is being shown the painting loves it more than my imagination—I’ll destroy the creation, for I didn’t believe. It’s impossible for me to trust—radio has taught me to lie to listeners. When I become angry, I fight hard to stay silent—the battle to attain is far worse than the wars I had with Sande to save my children. Silence is what you find on the edge of my lip—for nowhere inside does it grow. What I write today is the path, which enables me to forgive and help heal yesterday. What I see in the mirror is the jerk who’s been treated like dirt to make everyone around him look better. Knelt to the ground—a hidden song is placed next to the face…not a word is spoken nor a wish to share. The vow is to listen—to hear the cardinals, blue jays, black crows and Canadian geese. The circle I’ve knelt within carries with it a presence that can’t be explained. Unwritten music placed next to my face—life is taught to me…one measure at a time. May 16, 2001: Seeking not sucking 6:20 Am: The way we live resembles a radio dial—no matter where you land, everybody’s playing the same song. May 17, 2001: Weak only when you sleep As of late, I’ve learned to sleep through the night—I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired or doing all I can to stay away from reality. Step on my toes and I’ll laugh—a second time will make me wonder. If you return a third time, my vow is to win May 18, 2001: Stimulating the invisible I write in poetic style because it’s extremely difficult to do so. Picture yourself pouring gasoline on a carburetor—the act will do what needs to be done. May 19, 2001: What child is this who lays to rest? Six hours ago, Sheri Lynch gave birth to a baby girl—a new generation’s been allowed to enter the realms of Mother Earth. I wish only one thought, may this little angel see the path of enlightened inspiration. The horizon sings its mighty array of color while each stream carries with it the flow of endless love. “A child was born during the third hour this new day,” So said the owl’s eyes but I heard no one speak. “The slivered moon has been hung—its faithful star hides within its light… Listen to the calling of one thousand separate chapters—near its end the white pine shall bloom. Stay true to this path new child, for the lessons lay within the slivered moons curves. When tipped upside down, it shall pour into your innocent thoughts—your true purpose of being here.” May 20, 2001: The unity dance There’s only one challenge in life and that challenge is trust—easily destroyed and extremely difficult to rebuild. Learning to share each other’s footsteps leads to unseen strengths required to conquer dreams. To attain this level of love, the challenge is to learn more about your individuality and passion to be with one another. The payoff is simple: friendship, love and trust. Don’t leave home without it! May 21, 2001: Call me Running Eagle feather Exhaustion is a mechanism that feeds messages of warning—being the fool that it is, the body respects the exhaustion and decides to sit down. I see that reaction as being lazy! Your body is designed to take hits—even if I’m out of breath and the legs refuse to walk…the cool Georgia clay biting my exposed back and inability to move tells the tiny spirit inside that it traveled farther than most normal quitters. May 22, 2001: So you wanna play? Radio program directors don’t need great excuses—just follow their orders. No matter how bad it hurts or how much it makes you sick—never stop giving your best. It’s going to require a lot of sweat only to have it hauled away by someone who never took the time to truly care. He got what he wanted! If there were any doubts in his expectations of your performance, then he would of never asked—being asked is the greatest gift radio offers. May 23, 2001: Charles Shultz would’ve loved me Does everything I touch have to break? I’m the first to plant the failure weed—it allows me to accept defeat. I see it as protection—a seatbelt or airbag. Maybe it’s time to start carrying a puke bucket? The only strength I hold is the artists desire to always ask why? May 24, 2001: Aura If the mind is set—my creative flow is unlimited. I walk through it like a child in water. May 25, 2001: Creativity isn’t about moods Why do I have this crazy ass feeling to overcome the unwilling—when in fact, I could easily be just as lazy as the rest. May 26, 2001: Better relations fewer steps toward war My imagination doesn’t recognize simple—every time I add a new color, I’ve gone too far. Ink sketches are starting points—it’s a monopoly game whose player pieces beg me to go around once. Once I’ve collected the two hundred smacks for passing Go…its time for the painter to add the flavor. May 27, 2001: My dad would backhand me People don’t understand! Depression is a sickness! It’s perfectly fine for them to catch a cold, how dare I catch a low! Radio has taught me two things: You’re not worth your weight and you’ve got more lives than a cat. May 28, 2001: Nothing passes without my questioning it Wisdom isn’t written, only heard—yet if you force yourself to listen, the unspoken word disappears. What if the only path I take is down the morning shower drain? How long must a pebble of sand stay inside the pipes before it’s turned loose? What if I was dirt? What if I was brutally uprooted? I have a new picture for you to hold—for all things are living. May 29, 2001: Art imitates reality A painting appeared over the weekend—a man and woman, standing in each other’s arms. They’ve no faces, not even a world of lets pretend. Melted, their dreams, reaching out but not within the realms of lets pretend. The rising sun behind them could easily be a setting moon—for each new day is spent looking forward with every attempt not to spoil each other. What’s wrong is based on reality—what’s right is hidden like their faces. Without each other, the sun lives, it’s shadows stealing no mans breath yet creating silhouettes of two standing as one below a halo because they refused to play lets pretend. May 30, 2001: I dreamt of bombs blasting My mind is starting to be afraid of anyone who walks near me. Being nice has made me mean! I stand for nothing! I’m an independent on the boarder of many. Silence sits in the soul of tomorrow while wisdom carries with it more strength. May 31, 2001: I don’t wear black The view of what’s left doesn’t match where I began—chance cuts into my flesh, without it…there’s no scar. Why can’t I spend more time in heaven? These daily visits tease me. I’m not the creator! Nor am I the writer! Yet, when I return…it always bares my signature. June 1, 2001: What it’s like to do everything for free This is what I get for abusing! This is my payment for taking advantage of! I’ve destroyed my personal life! This career has been shot to hell due to an addiction I see as being extremely negative. It’s as if God’s made me a crippled man. June 2, 2001: Angels with wings made of flower pedals It’s very difficult for me to set out on a journey with an idea—it never turns out the way it was dreamed. Only the inner eye belonging to me can feel the wind as it’s swept between dreams. The minds soul sees through all walls—through death, we hope someone is inspired to continue the origin of the dream. June 3, 2001: Constantly taking on water Like any American, I constantly search for new dreams. It’s like staring into a giant black sky and discovering a comet. Every now and then the streaks of ice crystals are worth discussing. I’ve learned through trial and extreme error, it’s not about me! I can’t say that loud enough. I only wish today’s rising stars had the balls to stop being in love with them selves. June 4, 2001: At least I’m honest! Wisdom isn’t knowledge—it’s having the street sense to be quiet. I say things that injure dreams. I belt out words to open eyes. I come across as a real SOB—deep inside, I’m the nicest person in the world. My mood swings are so swift; there isn’t a river capable of catching up. I can stare into reality and see nothing but fantasy. Getting back to reality is my true talent. June 5, 2001: Why are you reading this, you don’t care! Anyone who writes paints or takes the time to be creative is doing nothing but living inside a moment of dangerous chance. The odds of somebody physically liking what your souls delivered are slim to nothing. The average person can’t handle such non-acceptance, so they stop. Those who continue, dream of one day creating something that’ll physically present real emotion. I’m not a great man! One day though, someone may catch the wind of the passion that bleeds from me—it shall be called a river…for no mans current is as swift as my passing dreams. June 6, 2001: All Nations ford Yesterday morning, a slow moving, incredibly small turtle inched his way through the rows of wild roses surrounding the sacred circle. I stopped to touch him and to share a softly whispered conversation. I thanked him for showing me his way. From within the circle, I childishly peered through the sharp green leaves—his neck was stretched, his legs frozen stiff—how do you like that? He was now studying me! June 7, 2001: Don’t give me that talent stuff. If everybody took the time to express, you’d see how normal I really am. June 8, 2001: Casey Kasum could have counted up to me I didn’t take up music because the parental figures didn’t believe in me. I showed every sign of a musically inclined heart and imagination but the passion to play was ignored. I still remember the Lincoln logs that were used as drum sticks and the boxes that served as a snare, a bass and several tom toms. I played a classic three string acoustic guitar that was purchased at an auction. I created a Fender look-a-like that sounded great when plugged into a Crown amp. Then came the Flying V, purchased with the inheritance money from my natural fathers last will and testament—and what about the old junky ass keyboards and my sisters foot pedal cranked organ? Yet, I still don’t understand why at eleven years old my music teacher enrolled me in a very special school for musicians…she had to have known—my parents didn’t believe in me! June 9, 2001: Paths to which we study I grew up hating wind! Anytime a storm came up, I’d race into the house and slam a pair of earphones on my head. I fear wind more than anything. June 10, 2001: Cherished forest through words you speak Remnants of the morning fog whisper out through nurtured groans, for it’s never prepared to rise above the warmth of a tree. No mountain greater than I—if at odds, take my life…and I keep breathing. June 11, 2001: The red tail Hawk and three pigeons Weakened by assumption—no strength to lift me, tall was the tale, which wouldn’t live if I didn’t move. The entire day, the visit sat inside my stomach—I’m still angry! Outside these four walls its anybodies game, why haven’t I learned to play it? July 12, 2001: It won’t stop at Timothy McVie Religion and spirituality are mind-forming games that allow you to believe in something other than self. If you let yourself down, it’s very natural to look up and place blame. The death penalty isn’t a way of sentencing—it satisfies a society who feels an eye should be traded for an eye. Those who make the choice to commit the crime don’t hear it. People rob banks because rent’s free! If life sucks on the outside, it’s worth sacrificing. Without fear of consequences, we face a growing nation of brutality as set by the imagination of the uncaring. It’s hard to close a mind when so much of it’s come true. June 13, 2001: Noah built an ark, I got a paper airplane Texture is felt with the eyes then softened by touch—depth is an avenue of expression. A dead man’s been here. Forget who murdered him! The dead man constantly gets up and walks away—often, to the next page…a dark corner. I was told to listen—I did. I was ordered to walk—I did. I believe—they don’t. I’m the dead man—I have to be! June 14, 2001: Patience spent The mirror is the only island of welcome you’re to feel. In time, your confidence shall become the woodpecker’s hotel, leaving open the same brutal attacks silently delivered to those forced to follow. I’ve been there for you! In return, you’ve cut the throat that decides if I shall live or die. Note: Later that night, my vision to uncover was strengthened by the visitation of a thirteen-inch Copperhead. Totem studies teach that such visitations echo the presence of people you trust who in reality are quite deceitful. I chose not to chop the head off the Copperhead believing his purpose of being there’s a signal from the spirit guides and keepers to keep trying to lift the blanket off the attacker without exposing black magic traits. June 15, 2001: Admitting the performance of black magic Anytime the unusual visits the path I walk—it carries with it words from distant places. My choice is to listen, realizing that mistakes have been made—correction becomes the desired new step. June 16, 2001: The dance I often laugh out loud inside—this, after visiting the forest at sunrise. The mist and morning dew crackle in laughter with me, while a nearby bright red cardinal hums out a new tune. Robins dart around on the forest floor, slamming their beaks into the softened soil—quickly they look up making sure I didn’t move closer. While each newborn ray of sun slips into view, the world slowly disappears recreating Heaven. June 17, 2001: The constant My mind wants to rush! Dogs look like cartoons and cartoons resemble doodles—I don’t know if I’m pushing the limits or doing whatever it takes to feed a bored imagination. Wicked is never the intention—what I see is darkness, which forever holds color. All things lead to black—once wet, the individualisms of life blend like rainbows racing to touch the ground. June 18, 2001: Admitting defeat Nobody wants me to be good at what I do! The moment I become great! They lose—my interests will become one-sided, focused on me, bettering the performance and not those who can’t be me. June 19, 2001: Called upon to help seek I walked through the fresh cut forest—quickly noticing the winding stream, the young ferns and dots of poison ivy. Looking up the hill at the cluster of homes where my neighbors live…I found myself wondering who’s side I’d stand on? Ten steps into the fresh cut scent of once hidden beauty the blue jay shared with me a song. I knew at that very moment, this place of unrest for neighbors had in fact been blessed with peace and not chapters of human destruction. June 20, 2001: No drop goes wasted A side of me asks that I not write on this page—ink that once escaped its well, has taken up swimming lessons on this canvas. June 21, 2001: If someone only knew I close my eyes and wonder what it’ll be like when I’m older? It’s never the same picture, for the deepest thought is always much too close to reach. As a child, I did an enormous amount of hiding—no one understood the amount of creative flow that raced from me. I had to get somewhere and dream! June 22, 2001: Faceless or unfaithful the paint talks Artists like Escher must have been filled with complication—yet in the end, he always saw some form of melody. Picasso’s oddly shaped wisdoms were caked onto a canvas for men and women who cherished life’s imperfections because it allowed them to seize the ability to control the imagination. What follows is a brief moment of emotion, salt and peppered by a kid’s fixation with meaningless curves. Be what you wish, for I will never challenge you otherwise. June 23, 2001: No matter what, write! The summer sky’s rain filled—the ground, extremely damp but the look still says drought. Each morning, my view shared is always with care—I wonder what tree has fallen, what branch leaped away or if the erosion’s set back in? From where I sit, I watch life grow. What makes me different are the lesson taught then exercised through creative flow. Rules must be met and exceeded. I never expect anyone to understand! Nor do I wish to be part of those who feel they’ve located the answers. My mind’s elsewhere—it’s decided that today isn’t the day to bleed thought. I push forward in hopes of gathering the silence a writer keeps tucked away. June 24, 2001: The painting of a little girl in the rain Although the raincoat worn is too big—I’m still willing to chase the colors of a rainbow. Bring me any color and I’ll reach into it and pull from it a purpose. With this mind, if I don’t constantly bring something to life—it’ll turn around and bite me. I fear taking a class based on the fundamentals of art—if the average mind is to be related with, what distance could a trained thought walk? Do I think I’m great? I’m an artist in search of happiness—how great can that be? June 25, 2001: Rocky Mountain spotted fever scare Woji does all he can to push me forward—his gentleness filled with puppy hugs and kisses. Slowly he nudges me to these size elevens—he knows it’s time to write. In three days, I’ll be thirty-nine. I feel lucky to be alive. There’s never a guarantee. A lot can happen in thirty seconds. What if? What would I leave behind? I know—trees with no vines, pond pines, willow oaks and a bike with all its spokes. June 26, 2001: Pissing off the real boss Note to self: Your long hair may spell out rebellion but it also says drug addict and non-conformer. You’re not a holy angel! No matter how hard the ass is busted, image adds weight. June 27, 2001: Attacked I can’t stop depression from coming! The feeling’s sharp and capable of leaving me weak and almost dead. It’s an invisible hurting that Band-Aids can’t cure…or hide. The painting next door represents my pain—a crying snake who took a quick dip inside his own tears believing it would help erase the pain. No wait! I just changed the painting—he‘s got a wet head. Now I won’t be forced to answer weird ass questions. June 28, 2001: Guy talk Bridge not for me your assumption—take instead, the silence offered. Masked isn’t my face—for if it were, a clown would appear. Hide nothing from reality—faked isn’t the path of choice. The vow: To dive forward at any cost, even if my value’s been lowered to nothing. Bridge not into my realm—I deal with this without flight. Before I can live—there must be travel within. To forgive is to forget. To die several times is painful. Am I going through a change of life? June 29, 2001: Do I feel other people’s sickness? I sit—a new day next to me. “What’re the plans,” I ask while a shy grin is received. “Will I be yelled at? Will I be told what to do? Who will be the first to raise their voice?” For now, this new day sits silently. Do you know what it’s like to be afraid to wake up? Sickness sits on a chair next to the pillow shaped bed. The rooms never dizzy. The swollen fear counts to three. “Please go,” I whisper while taking another look at my friend sitting in the chair next to the pillow shaped bed. I breathe in as deeply as I can—maybe this’ll keep him away. I’m too trusting, for my hands have let go of the giant moon. The sickness has entered me! Note: My writing time began on this day at 6:40 am—across the street from me, without any knowledge…my very good friend Roger was suffering a heart attack. June 30, 2001: God doesn’t understand…not this one! My eyes are swollen—shocked about Roger. The thought of our neighborhood losing its soul expresses itself within the shapes of salt stains. He’s the music, the visionary of peace and an often seen extended arm connected to a smile that says, “I’ll protect you.” We just celebrated his fiftieth birthday! We’ve been together during the holidays, high school graduations and plain ole everything else—and the Gatehouse court gang almost lost him. I’ve rubbed honest tears into this writing page—life doesn’t get any more real. July 1, 2001: Next sucker please! Looking out the window, I search for anything willing to be captured on paper—only to learn, what’s written is a man searching for something. July 2, 2001: My newest painting I see a little boys dream. I hear music while he walks. It’s a journey through belief—he’s decided to take on fate. I see a very tall building. It represents modern day mountains. The clusters of circles on the right side are people who’ve gathered to watch his failure. The streams of yellow aren’t in victory. They’re the only color left in the child’s rainbow. Does he conquer his dream? Does anyone? If a man locates success, doesn’t he become the manipulation of someone assuming to know better? No one person can rule the world therefore punishment becomes that person’s best weapon. If I could rebuild what I see, the world wouldn’t be round. I’d paint white walls everywhere, starting first with your imagination. If I could build a sidewalk or path, it would be away from me. I’ll lead you around but never toward. Inside this mind, there’re too many white walls and dang if I’m not going to spend the rest of my life trying to fill them. Mommy! Mommy! They’re hitting me. Their words are bad, I’m left silent and still. I can’t fight back! They won’t let me! I’m not being what they want—so I shut up and continue to die inside. As a child I dreamed of being free. As an adult, I dream of being accepted. July 3, 2001: Destroyed art work never the original I felt nothing with yesterdays painting—lines and half circles, all things led somewhere but nowhere was revealed. I take on chance and get beat up by fate! I’ve never been a simple thinker—the more I put into a painting, the longer someone might stay. Until I met Lee, no one attempted to notice the possibilities of an artist tucked inside. I was told to, “Shut up, put that away, you’re a failure, you aren’t good enough and your dreams are too big for any ability to succeed.” I’m not supposed to be the keeper of success. I’m the mapmaker who travels from river to river—in time others may follow. If for one moment I could explain—what a clean sheet of paper does to my imagination. If only for one moment you could see—what this clean sheet of paper does to me. Yet, if only for a moment you decide to stay—look, but for only a moment…for the artist may run away. When I’m eighty-two, a second generation will page through these visions. From that person will come the most honest expression gifted to a human—they’ll decide that they too are an artist…except no one will tell them to shut up! July 4, 2001: Warning! When my thoughts are extremely undecided—it’s a dangerous time to be around me. If I’m easily convinced to add curve to a line—what else has the power to influence the passion? I’d rather sit here until bored than attempt to figure out where my mind is. July 5, 2001: What you don’t think about won’t hurt you I’m stuck in the mode labeled memory—please let me rest. I wanna pretend this didn’t happen. So, I sit alone with imaginary friends an invisible voice marking their existence. July 6, 2001: You ain’t it til you lived with me The mind of this person I call self is a mind to which I’ve never called friend. This mind that I’m glued to—sends out creative things I don’t understand. This mind of mine—found it along side the road. This mind called mine—I’m the babysitter and its two steps from being sent to bed! Without dinner! No television! Wait! This mind of mine—needs nothing to survive. Any wall becomes its feeding place—for in seconds; all things fill this minds imagination. July 7, 2001: Growing up not young I patiently watch the streets, hoping to be inspired by yard artists, window painters, garden decorators, tree shapers and wisdom keepers. Is it a sign of getting older? A man who passions to add yellow to a painting is a brave child—for not all little boys remember picking dandelions for their mothers. My goals in life are to create paths—it’s not my wish to decide who grows along its banks. July 8, 2001: Rivers meander I’m back to saying, “Today is my last day.” Now that the sun’s up, I’ve got to gain the strength to take the imaginary hit…or move forward in silence. Thunder and lightning—body and mind, filled with fear. I could lose everything inside one gust of wind. The bird—he who stops to talk without sharing a word, does my feathered friend fear his next flight? Silence… July 9, 2001: Depression has a new disguise A weak path equals erosion—the ship sails to its newest horizon, deeply saddened by loss, I continue to push, recognizing the motion identified as forward. July 10, 2001: Slurping summer mud The pen touches the paper—I wait for the jolt of electricity. Rubbing my eyes, I’m reminded of how rough the night was. I’m nowhere close to diving into a pool of in depth thought. Interviewer: How do you get used to the constant changes? Me: You don’t! Sometimes, you’d rather live in your own world than deal with the possibility of never seeing a co-worker again. July 11, 2001: God watches videos As much as I lay claim on the beauty the forest offers—we all know that without the rays of true love, there’ll never be another tomorrow. What scares me most about being thirty-nine isn’t the past I’ve learned to study—being this age is a legal license to die at a natural time. People say, “Oh, he was too young.” Not really, it’s the beginning of what we must pay for. Viewing it all makes me lonely. It’s like sitting in the dark hoping someone will bust in and turn on the light. But, they never do. \ July 12, 2001: Accomplishment I shall call the book, “One mans thousand twenty one thoughts.” A book of poetic flow—from a creative self I still don’t enjoy being with. Yet, I’m amazed at how this self can turn the white coat of a sheet of paper into an expression of peace, war, blood, fantasy, fiction and totally foolish behavior. I’ve been introduced to visible art. The goal was a thousand days—I took it, without knowing, to one thousand twenty one…its so like me to over exceed—it’s my way of making sure failure never locates the time to visit. A pair of weathered reminders— paths already taken, maybe you know them. Skeletons from the past sit within circles unfinished. My feet became tired so I stopped to take off, what little was left of my shoes. Your eyes catch them time and time again hanging from power lines. The journey within didn’t require both legs— at times, I hopped like a bunny, dogs wanted me— not for my feet but each ear grew to make the picture complete. A giggle, a snort and a gift of inner laughter— until you realized, somebody’s been following. Never forget the truth about reality— there’s no such thing as the perfect crime. The Poet M’e Written on day one thousand twenty one I sat looking at a tree—it sat looking at me. “Are you upside down?’ I asked gently. “I don’t know,” his soft replied. Looking at my hands, then my feet— maybe it was me who sat up funny… The Poet M’e Conversation with birds, battle wounds from wars not won and a heart that cares for anyone or anything stepping within the invisible circumference—that’s who the writer is. Julia Cameron convinced me early, “We’re born to write!” I’m one of few who listened—or does writing invite self doubt later evolving into unheard chapters of personal shame, destruction and conformity. We’d rather be followers than achieve the internal peace of knowing who we really are. Therefore, we’d rather read than write. “One mans thousand twenty-one thoughts” isn’t for this generation. It’s too real! Comedy is based on relating—the vision was to sift through every scribbled out self-connected thought and paint something already known to us but not your great grandchildren. Because you live the modern way of terrorists, high taxes, unfaithful sports hero’s and open door policies tightly gripped by Corporate America’s closed minded benefits—I’ve watched as heads have nodded in recognition yet we still hide within our corner office cubical, dark apartments and if we could, between the cushions of a favorite sofa. I’ve tried to inspire, influence, almost order the saddened, the bright and beautiful, the hurt and even those with breast cancer, colon cancer and horrible family loss to write—but they don’t. Maybe that’s why we as a nation no longer doodle—such kidlike behavior doesn’t come with a www.com address. If I can take one thousand twenty one days out of my life and hand it to the next generation—I expect you to do the same! Note: Thank you for your time and energy spent reading these thoughts. Learn to listen to the wind and within its strength you shall discover the self you’ve always dreamed…now share it. My writing has continued on a daily basis which has opened the door for Another 1021 Thoughts. July 13, 2001 wasn’t just any day…it was a twenty four hour period that served as one step closer to the events that shocked the world on September 11, 2001 and all the events unwrapped in its aftermath. Everyday is a moment to hold, learn to toss it into the wind so that others may learn from the trails you call your own. The Poet M’e March 1, 2006 History books are filled with one-sided views often resembling local newspapers, radio stations and politicians who didn’t have what it took to change the world, so they used the remnants of a tree to colorize the path taken. Pictures, be it digital, black and white or disposable—they’re bad medicine. The gifted smile and eyes leading to the soul are felt with more honesty, true love and heroic value when felt by the tips of a child who took the time to read a thought written by you the very moment the new sun rose to place a simple kiss on the blue jay’s cheek— I call it jazz—each of us brings a unique flavor to the stage. Who you are, isn’t what you are—for where you are, is here in the now. Place upon the hidden measures of the songs you keep the love you have felt from all living things. Within the rivers that add moisture to our dreams live the reasons why we become what we foresee. In loving memory of Dr. Ronald Mack, Larry, Woji, Nicki and Mark Jefferies—losing you changed my life forever.