In the next couple of days I'll be visiting Ground Zero for the first time. At the time this book was started there was no such thing as Ground Zero. My challenge to you is to teach yourself to write every day so that one day you can hold what you never truly understood hoping through time all shapes of the heart heal what broke it into a million pieces.
The Poet M'e
Pronounced May...taken from the quote: May the sun rise above your tears
To the Author from the Editor, to include or not as you wish… it’s your book…
First, let me thank you again for allowing me to be part of this experience. I can’t express what put me into and pulled me through what was necessary to honor your art. My greatest hope is that I’ve done the job well enough for you.
Your writing expresses complex thoughts, and at times a stream-of-consciousness style that can be difficult for the Reader to follow. So in addressing format, spelling, and grammar, I kept going for clarity for the Reader’s sake… which explains the multiple changes, un-changes, & re-changes, as well as the countless instructions to ignore the auto-correct functions. It was a challenge to maintain the delicate balance between ‘touch’, ‘don’t touch’, and when in doubt leave it alone, as I sifted through every thought and emotion time and time again.
The emotional depth of this material is immense. It’s not for everyone, but those who seek reality based experiences will find it riveting. It expresses a true to life grappling with issues without answers as they are lived. There are so many of us out there who live or have lived with the long reaching effects of a sociopath in our families, so we know it’s something so invasive it can continue into decades! The depth of the personal transformation expressed and how hard he had to work at it, while getting up every day to earn a living and get on with life one day at a time, proves it is possible. There will be many who will find inspirational messages of hope & perseverance in this body of work!
Also, as the Martial Arts philosophy has been essential to his transformation, the author has showcased this most fundamental element of this way of life. Since most Westerners remain oblivious to its depth and power, I am honored to take part in this rare opportunity to educate others about its positive consequences.
On a personal note…
I made sure to clarify for you that Woji’s doboke was that of a 5th Dan Master, because only I would know that. I’ve also gained a greater understanding of the artwork I own by experiencing the content of this material to properly do my job. It’s been a hard fought personal journey for me as well, and I am forever grateful that you asked me to pursue this small portion of your path with you. I’m grateful, because that’s what true friends are for - to walk your path with you and watch your back whenever they’re asked or needed. You know I’m there for you, and you never need to return a complement from me. Lisa Alessandra
Handwritten notes from a computer screen
From the time you’re invited to participate with the process of life to the always unexpected pink slip; mentors, teachers and leaders lay out the presentation in ways that can or cannot be construed as a better way of living, performing, and exceeding the limits of expectation.
At forty-six, I can count on one hand the identity of the mapmakers who’ve volunteered their personal drive and experiences to stop, look, listen, and then educate through measures of unselfishness and lack thereof of greed.
My cup hath not run over. Yet, on some days I feel more complete than I would have if I hadn’t allowed access to this humanized computer system that comes with no virus protection and in many cases a hard drive fully capable of downloading new software. Even when the creator in the sky, when he or she casts it down from the passing shadows of an ever changing cloud.
Attached to my name is a thirty year radio career, but that’s not what I am. Radio is one of numerous portraits held in the numbing tightness of a former child from Montana who answered the call of his creator. I became an extremely tiny carving tool tossed in a weathered box balancing between two thin strings that once served as a border protector without a fence aimed at electrocuting.
Jokingly, I’ve explained to university and trade school classes the importance of listening to the wind… Eric Clapton picked up a guitar. I was told to fine tune the art of speaking, but not in the way of being a disc jockey… be unique but not always accepted. Be yourself, but learn from those you’ve just met. Hold open the palm to experience new journeys while pouring from your grip yesterday’s story. Mask not the identity of all who speak through you by putting faith in purpose on the trails leading to the generations you’ll never meet.
The pages you’ve given choice to read is not to be looked upon as history, but rather reasons to continue your own personal seeking.
Was that an echo or a bright red cardinal?
Thursday 10-09-2008 10:02am ET featured on WLYT.com
You learn a lot when you stop to listen. You learn more when you continue to listen. I’m fascinated with people who work behind the counter at a drug store, convenient store, gas station, or at the nearest big box giant constantly bragging about big sales. Those at the cash register are the mirrored image of the world we’re running away from.
The woman says to me, “What time do you wake up?”
A simple question about nothing, and yet it said everything. I instantly had flashbacks of my mother hollering at the top of her lungs, “Its 7:30!” Fearlessly, we’d hop from the sack and make our way outside to care for the animals before landing face first in front of the tube to catch Captain Kangaroo before school.
I didn’t let go of the question… it opened a window to view the passing of pages… how we act and react during times when mentally most of us are still sleeping at traffic lights, grocery store lines, at work, and going home.
“What time do you wake up?”
I honestly didn’t wake up until I was thirty. I became even more awake at forty, and can’t wait to land within the realms of five oh. In my world, waking up is physically putting forth the efforts of approaching a conclusion. The old rule of, “I came, I saw, I departed… it really wasn’t what I thought it would be… time for a new dream.”
Quickly, I rummage through the books I study. Author Mike Ukleja aims his focused visions on the approaching values of waking up. Are we awake? People at sixty suddenly discover their passions of life and return to school to gain access to better prepare them to use those passions as tools.
Mike shares the story of a mid-forties crisis where a hard working office worker couldn’t locate what everyone seemed to be calling true happiness. One day she looks at her nine year old daughter and softly asked, “If you were me… where would you find happiness?” The daughter replies, “You’ve always wanted to be a teacher.” The crisis was over, because of easier ways to access a furthered education; the woman returned to school and has since earned numerous awards for bringing a different approach to teaching.
Last night, I was invited to speak for three hours to a group of people making career changes. I watched them as they sat in chairs worried about their choices, of gathering enough confidence to move far away from the choices they’ve made during those years of being a sleep. I listened to the voices cracking a nervousness fed by the question, “What’s next?” I took note of their eye movement as it locked onto every step I made across a simple stage made up of a podium and a wooden chair. I didn’t stand or sit in one place longer than thirty seconds… no human mind is good after seven seconds, so I continue to move in ways or to re-attract the attention of the audience. I love to play a game called “Who are you and why are you here?” It gives me tremendous insight, not into their personal lives, but how open they are in exposing their wishes to grow. A man of nearly sixty looks at me and bravely says, “I have made very bad career choices and can’t explain why I am here, so I’m expecting you to give me a reason.”
Nice…
Looking across the sea of foreheads firmly attached to my response, the answer seemed so simple to toss out yet overbearing in the way of, “Time being something we measure not an article of clothing that becomes ripped then buried in a land field.”
I sat down on that wooden chair and tuned every person but him out. I put all my energy into one single answer believing that what was said would leak into the imaginations of those who wanted to race home to play video games more than hear what a somewhat long haired man’s answer to this aging chance taker’s question.
“You are here, because what you’ve learned during the process needs to be shared. How you see your path may not be inspiring to you, but to someone you’ve never met, the idea of you being bold enough to share it could very well be the key that unlocks every dream they’ve held onto longer than you’ve held it against yourself. Maybe tonight… you are starting to wake up.”
You learn a lot when you stop to listen. You learn even more when you continue to listen. From the counter at the drug store to the nearly sixty year old man frozen in a sense of direction the question of, “When do you wake up?” grew from the soiled earth we walk to bloom a wild rose in an area of life so often confused with darkness.
Observations from tower one:
How does one begin a follow up book based on personal travels and not feel like you’ve lost half your audience by asking, “Dear self, do you feel like going for another ride?”
Are you looking for a cheap laugh? Wanna dance? Who did my hair this morning? Wow, I really do wear some pretty ugly clothes! Like the paint stains on my palms I can do this, because I am an artist, visionary, self described wanna-be whatever I can be, because in ten minutes all that was… might not be!
It all moves too fast!! It’s the sort of stuff that few teachers in high school express and even if they did… who was listening?
I once got a letter from ABC Watermark requesting samples of my voice. Casey Kasem was leaving America Top 40 and they were interested in me to possibly replace him. For fifteen minutes, my childhood radio dreams were given enough sugar to create an incredible drug fed by a mother’s wish of one day believing in a child that kept saying, “I think I can! I know I can!”
“To get anywhere, “she’d remind me, “You have to play by the rules.”
I didn’t listen then, and still don’t want to. Somewhere along life’s giant trial of bread crumbs and full slices of pizza, a person realizes this journey didn’t mean anything to anyone but the ego’s bent ways of wanting to become something other than a nothing while feeling accepted even within that shadows of love thyself first… which is why we lean more into shoving away a friend, because being one back means what?
Aunt Louis spent a lot of precious energy trying to purify the mindset of a three year old kid who stood in front of his mother’s family in Wyoming firmly declaring he was, “The Show Off!”
At three, I demanded to be seen and would get what I wanted. Ten years later, I was led to twelve foot high stacks of hay overlooking the mountains kissing Ranchester, Wyoming; to do nothing more than pour my soul into self lived songs about feeling great and heartbreak.
Such musical feats inspired me to see thousands of invisible people singing feverishly with me. They knew every lyric more than their mother’s middle name. I’d look out across that giant horizon of prairie dog towns, greasy grass, and always shout, “Thank you! Thank you so much for coming out to sing!”
Making it interesting was a tremendous disease called “lack of knowledge.” I had never been to a live performance or fallen witness to one on television. Yet the energy generated by a tree branch turned guitar forecasted a future of being able to separate dreams from reality and still have enough guts to put forth the efforts of touching a cloud that should’ve disappeared three minutes earlier.
I played the big halls from cornfields, to bedrooms, living rooms, and eventually after being deeply coaxed to attend an event that cost six bucks to check out… the child’s untrained way was deeply infected and fully taken over by a blood spurting fire breathing phenomenon named Gene Simmons.
I had never seen anything like it. Firmly stand tall when protecting the idea that such well crafted showmanship comes not from a senseless sex drive but a brilliant display of marketing that which casts long highlighted streaks of fantasy across a dreamer’s ambition. Like the morning sun scrapes your soul for things to steal seconds after opening the blinds. Once achieved, the only thing a young lad desires is to figure out his own path, to discover his own angle to be seen, heard and more importantly remembered.
Being from Billings, Montana, I had no clue that anyone outside the reflection in the mirror also felt born again. A black sheep of the family who wasted no time to shape a junior high school garage band fully capable of launching unexplained surges of heartfelt drama that screamed of a growing need to puke up poetry.
Right from the start, without hesitation and or any other urge than to splurge on creative flow, this growing completely out of a parental controlled mind, was going to wiggle its way through my vocal chords and somehow teach me what life was all about… I guaranteed my mother I’d do nothing to embarrass her. And yet, here I sit in a morning bread company in Charlotte, North Carolina during a moment of show prepping for a nearby stage completely shy of ever coming clean.
Physically, each dream has been beaten up very badly; the bloodstains resemble spilled grape juice on a T-shirt that sentimental value won’t allow me to throw away. Spilling like the spring rains in Carolina, the vision is agreed upon as being un-rested and fully incapable of being complete. In that gentleman’s handshake it becomes is nothing more than a reason to reach outward so far that it begins to affect others in ways no spiritual journey can easily explain.
Five run on sentences with me, alone, in a radio station production studio, and you can’t help but feel you’ve just met someone who believes more in you than God, him, or herself.
I’ve dedicated my life to taking silence and giving it a face so that you can easily identify with its reason for visiting. Rather than running from something you don’t know, begin the adventure with high hopes of eliminating the idea of let’s pretend.
I’ve publically declared this as being positive. That and an addiction to caring about an incredible work ethic that was inborn and therefore giving me reason to believe true leadership can exist in all walks of life not yet tainted by the bland taste of a silver spoon.
A bunch of nothingness stemming from a passion to stand before the mountains of Wyoming to sing so loudly that the echo is still heard two thousand miles from its origins, that it constantly changes new beginnings now forty-six years old.
Had you been there, it would’ve earned the performance an insanity tag without gaining the backstage access to the required ingredients to take it away. So it became the performance now recognized in 2009 by two separate groups as being worth a lifetime achievement award.
I laugh a child’s giggle, for I’m far from putting energy into growing up. Instead of holding a three string, out of tune, flea market guitar with solid inspirations to impatiently put more paint on a determined face, personalization has become the blood of a well challenged warrior whose vow is to teach silent artists to spit on ways of personal discovery.
An audience is born every day. Your job is to find it… even if it’s just a party of one.
Locating the right place at the right time is an education that wastes no time hawking saliva on every attempt to be what that invisible voice in your head is screaming at you. What seems real to you is never recognized as such until your willingness and perseverance to find the reason that allows Queens Lace to glow in the rows thought to be reserved for a velvet scented rose.
It’s difficult for me to forget my first live poetry audience at a big box store. The hostess was completely taken back that each carefully scripted; hand written expression didn’t feature avenues of fun and unexpected bursts of laughter and comedy.
“You’re a radio guy who puts a lot of attention to lifting people’s spirit… I invited you to do the same here… you failed me.”
Ouch! It’s nice to know that the upper level decision makers are blessed with a keen sense of direction when exposing their expectations to the court jesters.
Absolutely, I was injured! But to make the point of recreating a positive comeback from it—rather than walk away in bouts of diva type sulking, I invited my good friend Melody Love to set up meetings with the store manager to build a platform that would display my art, and donate the sale of each piece to breast cancer research. Not only did it get tremendous amounts of free exposure for me, but we also raised some pretty serious money.
I’m upfront enough to admit that I am not a funny person. I whole heartedly believe comedy is a reaction to an action that we can relate with. Therefore, the act of comedy doesn’t exist… unless what is being delivered is something that includes your life, and or decisions and actions made during such chapters of one’s life.
Comedy is a word that simply states, “I’m either relating with your story or feeling sorry with you, ‘cause I’ve been where you are,”... so let me toss you a golf-clap in the shape of a courtesy.
Comedy is the end result of effort.
It isn’t a natural emotion and nobody is naturally funny… they are brilliantly relating.
Comedy doesn’t have the strength to stand alone. It’s a hand fed reaction to an act of sharing, which is why so many comedians tell their personal tales knowing their individual hell has rocked a few other planets. They’ve been sent to help heal what silence can’t numb. So, why not just laugh about it?
Television shows face the bump and grind every fall and late winter. The critics have no problem quickly declaring a sitcom as being incredibly funny, yet the Nielson ratings never showcase the presentation as being accepted. Two such shows come to mind are Mash and Seinfeld. The only reaction they get from me is a well deserved twenty minute catnap.
I’ve never laughed at their art of comedy! I can’t relate with it!
Radio is no different. I’ve spent over forty years digesting what’s pummeled through thin sheets of paper resembling a cone. If I can’t relate with the on-air talent, I haven’t the time of day to wade through their twenty minute talk frames that feeds their egos and my reasons for not listening.
I got into radio, because I’m a fan of its presentation. It became my art to learn how to seize seven seconds of listening time from a listener’s life, and make a difference while inside their heart and head.
Program director Bill C. pointed me toward the life and styles of comedy not because he recognized a funny bone in my elbow, but because he wanted me to learn a comedian’s storytelling rhythm and flow.
For comedy to work, lines must be perfectly timed out in a way that allows the listener an opportunity to be pulled into the story. Once captivated by the teller’s emotional bond… the act of laughter explodes from your body through methods of relating.
Chris Rock and Carlos Mencia live off the street they speak of.
Their emotional ties to their community are shared with the rest of the world like a 5:00 newscaster in hot pursuit of busting open his or her desire to latch onto an Emmy for the best story of the year. The only difference is how the stories are delivered… Chris and Carlos pull no punches. Each represents the foundation of reality whereas a newscaster is typecast in the way of briefing the community with their well trained and heavily researched method of delivery. It’s not just another murder north of town in the world of Rock and Mencia… they sell it to the audience like they’ve lived it. They’re just like us, two feet from expecting the killer to come shooting through the front door.
Learning to speak the street is highly successful.
Why else would a morning radio show feature so many unpaid listeners and or interns who walk the avenues of life, only to have the audience live vicariously through them?
Knock thirty or forty thousand dollars off of the price tag of those communicating in the morning, erase every free endorsement offer from the books, set them inside a gas guzzler smelling of Hamburger Helper that hasn’t been washed in weeks, and you’ll finally get someone who knows your language of comedy relief.
Listeners on the radio get you ratings… real people with authentic laughs are contagious and yet overdone. Few jocks rely on show prep anymore… as one on-air talent John H. once said to me, “I can spend eight hours getting ready for tonight’s show and a single caller can take my entire day and toss it out the window. Suddenly everything I wanted to do is no longer important to the listening audience.”
As a writer, I attempt to speak to the freak whose Ashton Kutcher pranks are more outdated than the socks he keeps in the top drawer. I share conversations with the thinker who sits alone in a cubical wondering why they hate their job so much. I put forth the effort to build up the foundation of the work-a-holic who finds no time to bust a gut, because time is money and it takes a lot of cash to keep HBO pumping through that hot looking digitized flat screen that’ll take ten years to officially wipe off that credit report.
And yet Program Directors still feel a need to pull me back, because they find tremendous importance in reminding radio listeners that this song set is going on for an entire hour and wow it makes you feel absolutely incredible. Try telling that to the forty year old locked in rush hour traffic that just learned that Michael Jackson passed away on the same day as Farah.
Jocks have a new way to be creative… the World Wide Web. Within minutes of hearing the news, wiping the tears from my eyes these ten connections to my heart called fingerprints posted a message to web runners: My heart hurts a pain that our reality can't explain. We've lost entertainment leaders who helped shape our lives, and within each passing moment they set free from their personal journeys hand delivered gifts that enhanced the elements that continue to make us who we are today. We mourn what has been taken while gathering everything that connects us to their music, acting, and their incredible way to keep us laughing. For there will come a day when you'll meet someone who'll ask, "What was it like to be part of their generation?" I will stare into the eyes of the passerby and say, "Michael was our Elvis. Farrah was our Marilyn and Ed ranked up there with Mr. Sullivan." God has moved a mountain.
I am no comedian!
I don’t set out to make someone laugh. I waste hours though; feverishly thinking about how a simple thought can impact every breath you take. People write to me talking about how they heard my voice in the stereo department asking them to reach up and touch how soft the speakers are, “This next song is going to take the static out of your day.”
I don’t think its funny… but they believed it was hilarious to watch another shopper buy into that thought as they reached out to see what the speaker was made of.
I don’t write to entertain. I don’t have long periods of conversation on cell phones to perk up the spirit of a friend or family member. What I will do is listen, offer ideas of change that seemingly pick up the heart torn vision, give it a newer path to follow, and inside that process, laughter might or might not be heard.
This book may make you laugh. You might want to rip it apart, or send it to a foreign country in the way of creating weapons of mass reduction. The idea of placing real thoughts on real paper is the biggest challenge to over 80% of today’s busy bee,
wanna-be, and hard working expect-to-bes.
We live to die, and in that dance we can’t seem to tell people how it was done.
This is where you’re supposed to laugh… because you can relate with every word just shared, and it’s so weird how this man you’ve never met has latched onto the lyrics of a song you sing daily.
Another 1021 Thoughts was inspired by my first book One Man’s 1021 Thoughts… the follow-up reaches deeper than a ditch dug on Monday fully capable of irrigating your fields by nightfall. Plants can’t grow without water and sun… so how is it we expect to grow while carrying heavy burdens that shape endless rows of darkness?
Comedy is a release. It’s an opportunity to put your faith in someone who’s been to hell before you, and laughing is nothing more than your way of shaking hands with the people that don’t want to go back there.
And then it happened… on July 21, 2009, 6:15pm four hours after delivering a college lecture at Appalachian State University and only minutes from entering a special class designed for martial artists preparing for their third degree black belt test. I was hit by an object nobody could predict not even the family doctor who provided an annual physical just three weeks earlier…I had a heart attack.
Suddenly, this addiction to sharing thoughts was wearing a different pair of shoes, changing the colors on the face to which I find pleasure in painting.
M’e
This was first written August 25, 2008, edited through 2009
Where does it come from? Why does it exist?
I write like Picasso had to paint. Nothing hardens my heart faster than the idea that it takes magic to pull off simple.
Now that the United States has silenced the critics on the depth of our skills in basketball, the gold medal victory in the summer’s 2008 Olympics will be judged by the minds of locals who still question, “Why do we allow professionals to perform in sports meant for the undiscovered?”
If the swimmer, Michael Phelps, had come up in conversation three weeks ago, the common response would’ve been, “Who?” Now that he’s earned eight chunks of gold, we treat him like a neighbor’s young one who’s been away at college… wow, wait until he gets home!
Looking deeper into the painting provided or professionals versus undiscovered… Coach K from the Duke Blue Devils might hold the answer. As winner of three NCAA crowns, he was invited to blend together some of the biggest names in what we know as the NBA.
Honestly, those three letters N-B-A say it all, “Solo performers on a team of no-names.” Compare it to Ray Parker Jr. and most recently to Sugar Ray’s Mark McGrath, Rob Thomas of Matchbox 20, and Patrick Monahan from the group Train… my point is that being part of something isn’t where success is found! If you wish to bring the limelight to your attempt at reaching the masses… even Michael Jordon showcased the attitude of the one man show.
However, somehow Coach K realized that in order to bring the gold back to America for the first time in eight years… the idea of being a star on the court echoed another loss for the US. Jason Kidd, Lebron James, and Coby Bryant would need to share the ball in the way of utilizing the efforts of team over me, me, and me.
Inside the travels laid out of international play, the players from Spain, Russia, and Australia, spend their childhoods dreaming of playing basketball in the Olympics. They work hard on the court utilizing every effort presented in the way of highlighting not a single man or woman but rather a team and its spirit.
The women of America latched onto their fourth gold medal knowing none of them were pinup up models who demanded millions in order to bounce a ball.
Every business in our great landscape of success has a superstar. We spend precious dollars to mend their fences and mind our manners in melting them into what becomes the end result of our continued victory. They’re put on pedestals and treated like kings and queens, presidents and their cabinets, yet how many of them could withstand the pressure of being an attraction outside the four walls they keep?
Could today’s business stars survive in an international competition? Their ego says, “Yes.” Preparation and showmanship might steer your vision a different direction. Most of those on top expect so much handed to them, like in the NBA, or stars from the NFL and other professional leagues, that when it comes time to tighten down the ropes during rough waters… they don’t have the people skills to welcome the warm excitement of what being part of a team physically means.
Our gold medal in men’s basketball not only shines light on the egos that were checked in at the door, but it continues to build the foundation of Coach K who with his massive amounts of team players slides closer and closer to Coach John Wooten’s way of winning in Los Angeles.
Unfortunately, Coach K doesn’t get to wrap a goal medal around his neck… he only gets to hold onto the memories of being in China during the calendar year of 2008. It was during a sixteen day span that the major leagues of the world’s most popular bouncing ball game realized that someone other than their heart demanded a chance to succeed at grasping something that millions outside our borders look upon as being something that Visa would call priceless.
M’e
Human effort is priceless. Often times nothing more than a whisper is lost each time the wind elects to pass, creating waves of nothingness until that moment when your heart is scampering to be told a tale, and the wisdom of a passerby became the key to unlocking the slightest of meanings.
Barely three years ago, writing the word Blog on a computer screen would’ve earned you bright red scribbled lines on the document—a releasing of the mind, a common ground of voices fed into a world to build upon or ignore communicating the elements inside as if it’s no longer cool to keep them closed.
We are the generation that once paid doctors to hear us talk.
Today we openly speak and most of the time without regret. A repainted photograph of the protesters and followers that help document the late 60’s, it’s a parade of chanters without having to get a city permit to call to action civil rights leaders and believers.
Blogging is a word dump. A private park shared with anyone willing to walk next to what’ll live longer than the air fighting to escape the inner core of your lungs.
Words allow us to breathe. Some of my thoughts will stink. While others will resemble freshly opened Bubblioucious fruity gum basking in a wide array of molecules waiting like Greyhound buses to take that scent, and plant it firmly in your desire to travel.
I love going places!
Getting there has required a price to pay—the act of showmanship and being recognized for it requires a full frontal visual of desire with a box loaded full of decisions governed by gallery owners with nothing better to provide than judgment.
Artists don’t just hang pictures to be purchased; the display resembles the martial arts movie where the super hero shoves his bloodied fingers between ribs that make up the cage and pulls sharply from the attacker’s soul a beating heart—staring at it with great seventeen well fought rounds of fear, his look becomes that of innocence knowing that if passion hadn’t been part of his plan, then revealing such an invisible source of energy might not have ever happened.
On December 15, 2006, I wrote, “Tonight’s art show is the end result of the first time I put pen to paper and the continuing result of doing it every day thereafter.”
Like death, what we create through simplicity can never be predicted. Standing back to view twelve separate pieces at a tiny dimly lit gallery in small town North Carolina, it became clear to me how powerful the act of sharing can be.
November 3, 2006, I wrote, “You can’t lead unless you’ve been bloodied. I can’t live unless I’ve led.”
Learning to share your art is a valuable step. For over two thousand years, martial artists have been shown the way taught to them by Grandmasters who’s Grandmaster’s showed them and so on.
In everything we do and expect to accomplish, the most successful are those who took the time to share the system that lights the path of a well textured ladder.
Months earlier on April 27, 2006, “More has happened in the past six months than life has given me in forty-three years. If becoming a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, having my art featured in galleries, and holding in my hands the book I once dreamed of writing is part of the positive path my Sabumnim Todd Harris, has spoken of several times of living... then let the seeds of this new beginning burst outward in the way that God wants it to be.”
June 3, 2006, “What if you were to let go, and let your life become what the higher power meant it to be? What if you suddenly decided to give your life to a greater purpose? What if the non-believers are wrong, and you really do have the ability to affect human emotion but not in the way of popularity?” I’d rather know at the age of 43 that I at least tried to hear the calling than have to wait to be reminded of it at the giant golden gates.
This book is in total dedication to my wife Lee who has spent the last fifteen years patiently waiting for me to begin each morning with an opportunity to write.
“Hello God, it’s me the Poet…”
A student from a local middle school had written me an email, “My friend is cutting herself, and she needs help!” I knew the students, because we studied martial arts together. The news devastated me, but I could show no fear.
Because of my personal experiences as a cutter, I assumed it gave me clearance to bravely step forward to open a door of conversation, and to peacefully walk toward the proper methods of healing—be it psychotherapy or medication prescribed by modern medicine. My goal was to do nothing more than open a level of conversation, and to let her know she wasn’t alone.
She had no problem admitting the sickness.
Her mother located the email of openness, and she quickly wrote with words that have been described as being the sound of a mother bear.
Mentally, I didn’t survive. I became instantly depressed and self abusive. Yet, I was doing nothing more than offering peace.
There were no words of thanks, or positive thoughts that leaned toward helping her daughter come clean with the cutting. Instead, she ordered me away… to which I fully respected.
Then God whispered to me, “Three days ago there was silence. Today, her mother now knows of the cutting, so your job is done.”
“Sir, I hate to bother you again but… it’s me the Poet.”
She planned a party as a way to say goodbye to her closest friends. Somehow she was convinced that this particular surgery would be her final breath. Her conviction to the thought made me believe in the vision, too.
I had been asked to sit with her husband during the procedure. She thanked me several times while being connected to a heart monitor and tubes to carry her life support.
Her words were soft, not filled with fear. She knew it was time. I started to feel otherwise.
Fighting back personal tears, I stared at her husband and then back to Melody. I watched for any and every signal that God would send into that room that blatantly stated, “Everything’s going to be alright.”
Her heart rate had reached a level of concern. What your face doesn’t showcase can’t be hidden when powers beyond your personal measurements are hooked up to areas of your body, mind, and spirit.
I felt being there was making her uncomfortable; the decision was to leave the room so that Melody could spend time with her husband. The very second I turned to walk away, my fumbled way of speaking stumbled over, “Let’s go.” Instead it came out, “Let’s grow.”
My heart shot into play, “Let’s grow from this Melody. You are on a positive path from this point forward. You are going to write about this and share it. You are not alone, and there are people waiting to hear about this. Today is your day to grow.”
She survived the surgery, and I have carried the message of “Let’s grow,” into every martial arts class I’ve taught this week.
Another 1,021 Thoughts:
If I had one dream to accomplish before being set free to roam the streets of heaven—it would be to convince just one person to write.
As a nation we have learned to mask every reason to share our current times with those held within unwritten chapters. Ronald Reagan’s Me generation is aging, and few of us recognize the importance of documenting personal travels.
Baby making is an everyday occurrence. To them our days on this greedy planet will be tainted by one sided options voted upon by school boards pressured to keep every truth away from that generation.
Harry Potter isn’t real!
Your life is…
It’s ok to wish upon falling stars while tripping over unseen branches and dream of one day reaching for the golden ring only to fall off the horse into a barbed wire fence—but are you willing to share that adventure with the hopes and fantasies locked behind the innocent eyes of your grandchild?
In 2003, Tim Burton released Big Fish—a film based upon the tales a father told. They were tall, far reaching, and mind twisting, the right ingredients to convince a growing imagination to weigh out the odds of what if?
I find my heart searching for my stepfather Joe’s adventures, and yet keep coming up with a blanket of empty space. At 41 I still have him, but I have no idea who he is as a man. I know of his rugged tough ways of getting work done, but I’ve never heard how he survived the bombs of World War II.
During the heat saturated months of the summer of 1999, Joe and I stood on the deck of a warship in Charleston, South Carolina—I did everything I could to read his heart. I saw no tears. I felt no anger. I only heard, “Let’s go back home.”
Therefore, this book is dedicated to him. If but for one moment I could hear what made him such a strong individual, I’d dedicate my life in making sure it reached the hands, dreams and desires of his great grandchildren’s grandchildren.
M’e
5/1/04
Inside each dream, we hold the beginning and conclusion. Without revealing how each side of the story is read, we set out on a journey… touched by means of assumption the corners become filled… with no real destination revealed until the moment the dreams meet reality’s edge.
For without knowledge we have not yet learned. Therefore we are as protected as well as projected by means of a Spiritual Guidance, and or any other means of travel based on vivid desires, passions to succeed, and or destroy. What we own is ours but for only a moment. What we taste lives no life other than through outlets of craving.
Each new day, our eyes become pillars of salt, soaked in sins garnished by wisdoms, decisions to achieve, and to deceive. No man crosses success without injuring the hand once thought to be a friend. No child is born useless, and by his un-favored means of expression, what is taught is an act of rebellion strong enough to cast shadows on the faces of those who’ve already achieved. Mind not the captivation of his or her accusation—heal thyself by every purpose poured into the unjust… in time, the mold shall too harden becoming you, and he or she who leads with not one leaf of expectation but rather a bushel of fruit to be shared with those who stand behind you.
This book, Another 1,021 Thoughts could not have been, would have never become… without the elements that succumb to the entire portrait. A gift of light is the maker of a shadow in waiting.
No man’s writing instrument blesses the once living tree unless the music reveals its source of harmony.
Two of my musical instruments were Lebo Belia Vinitta Woji and Chance’ Murme’ Neiko… vivid arrays of white candy like fluff—Maltese blessed with uncontrollable amounts of compassion, patience, and meaningful ways of turning a simple lick into a forever made Hollywood style kiss.
My blizzard white canvas was also touched by a never ending flow of song performed by a parakeet known as Mr. Hi… named so, because I was able to start each day saying, “Hi! Hi!” It worked well during bouts of fear and depression which were incredibly understood and coaxed into word foreplay by my mentor and mental challenger Dr. Ronald Mack. Adding a southern tone of bass was my very trusted friend Mark Jefferies, who taught me how short life is… his call from heaven came at forty-three.
I’m left with only words. My words… chapters fed by a heart and overrated imagination destined to do one thing—live then die. What you take from this book is what I offer. I never question the wind… I only listen.
The Poet M’e
9/29/05
**note: In memory of Sambina Miesha Kyrie my true daughter of inner peace who left us on May 19, 2006. Meisha was their little sister. Today they romp on God’s bed smooshing their faces into giant fluffy blankets and pillows. They were together for sixteen years.
Hello wall—four or more of you brick, stick, tree lined, to flowerbeds, and ponds.
Corporate American offices are cubicles, computer hookups at home, or nothing more than corners rounded by store purchased perfections of cherry wood or particle board. Look at our living rooms! We have big screen projected televisions linked to surround sound.
It’s a constant mind boggling war zone stretching from self created avenues of assumption to painted trails by error. As children we searched for something strong to lean against—first the sofa, then the coffee table—whatever it took to raise up, to excite those who watched before crashing to the hard floor protected by a bum softer than Jello.
Then it happens, trials challenged then re-ignited, we take our first step. What must it have felt like?
Did our hearts race? Did we fear the act of falling? Not so or we would have kept our asses planted. Since that moment—a step outward, away from the safety of knees and elbows, even farther away from the parents impatiently pushing us into that new level of expectation… the ambition has never been to re-acquaint ourselves with that wall.
We see it as depression, a path that’s concluded and or challenged us to reach through. As aging adults we seek not the seeds or to lean on walls in the way we did weeks into our new journey… we choose instead to worry about death but never the life we’ve become accustom to living.
M’e
6-11-05
There comes a time when a writer tires of penning his story. I’ve complained so much about society and its unfair methods of practice that each corner is brimming with silenced, “I don’t cares!”
I really don’t! Be it fall playing its evil games of death before rebirth or daring attempts at re-inventing… the kept secret is—I don’t care.
Sure I fear, but what?
Being paranoid roots its seeds inside pages of misguided harmony.
A writer tires of watching the world—time is so fast, a naked eye measures hiccups not opinions, for I don’t care, and it could very well be this uncontrolled way of living.
I’ve not a drop of ink outside of a time limit. I’ve not an unrehearsed surprise planned… due to my shapeless castle, its moat-less empire of self doubt, and passionate paranoia.
This leaves me with nothing more than boxes to stack in unlit corners.
M’e
12/4/04
Between July 12, 2001 and April 22, 2004—I haven’t changed, the world has!
Hours before the U.S. military faced its most destructive day on local soil since Pearl Harbor; my lips whispered the words of Amazing Grace while my paint brushes brought to life a fire out of control. To this day, I can’t spend more than seconds with completed art.
-M’e-
4/18/04
Change is a word people fear.
Change is a method of madness. Change is what we do every day. Change is a mask for something we hate to deal with. Change is a purpose and a reason and yet if we fear while stepping forward, we never honor change by giving it a mutual respect—we take change and stuff it into our pockets in hopes of getting rid of it at the next pop machine.
-M’e-
4/8/04
The Gift was getting another thousand and twenty one days to write:
The greatest thoughts are often lost somewhere between digital downloads and work related shake ups. If it didn’t come to you through an email or instant message, it doesn’t exist.
We’re the downloader loafer generation! Music isn’t as free as it used to be, and eBay is an entirely different addiction.
Between each challenge rests a life we rarely tend to, and yet the trees keep growing. Obviously, they didn’t get the email.
Computer screens are the new God. We love them large and colorful! Until you realize that the face of your cell phone requires you to wear bifocals.
Give us anything that looks cool! One out of ten people will scream, “Wow!” The other is locked up inside the steamy hot martial arts Do Jang protecting an unexplained future.
What’s the moral of the story? No matter how hard your face is pressed against that corporate jerk, downsizing is the American way of keeping your desk clean.
The past thousand twenty-one days have been everything they should be—a daily reminder of how lucky we are to be living on this side of the world’s railroad tracks.
Just like in One Man’s Thousand Twenty-One Thoughts, this continued collection of wind delivered messages reminds us of nothing more than a written photograph—a true picture of who, what, and why, while sifting through where, when, and how?
-M’e-
All too often we believe the greatest communicators of our time are the Eagle, Hawk, and Owl… when in reality we should be listening to the spider, beetle, and firefly. If your expectations in this world are to live it out one day at a time… isn’t it easier to digest it by receiving a small message?
M’e
7/19/04
In writing Another 1,021 Thoughts, I’m still reminded of this book’s origin—a true picture of the human soul without the need of digitally snapping. The book captures the personality of a thinker, a man growing old while staying young emotionally.
Each page represents the idea of being free to roam the world, while remaining locked and or lost within each barrier his place in society has imprisoned him. I find myself getting angry with the writer—does he always have to be so negative? My voice isn’t heard in 2004, for if it had been—might the writer have been a little more open to my experiences, allowing him to have air to breathe?
Suddenly, I’m weighted with a smug concept—these spirit keepers and guides I add to the path. This writer in the hot summer months of 2001… what might my writing be trying to communicate from 2007?
The view of the world is controlled by the innocence of passion, temptation, admiration, and acceptance. How and why we attain the strength to step forward is measured by rhythms of need, desire, willingness, and awareness.
I cannot succeed without air, inspiration, influence, and a commanding force of requirement. To fully understand any of this, echoes change in the mind, body, soul, and tomorrow.
-Preface-
If you stare into a mirror long enough, visions of a true age begin to appear. Your computer strained eyes recognize the flight of the crow, her eggs tucked within your pudgy ice cream fed cheeks adding weight to a chin that’s never learned to catch what your mouth misses.
No wonder your neckline is sagging!
That and the price of laundry detergent are enough to start questioning the ageless becoming.
In this modern time of beauty before brains that getting a college education means nothing—each twenty four hour period resembles a playground in my mind.
It’s a game of Chess.
Most of us are pawns, the rich are the king and queens, and the rooks are merely the rule breakers who fail in the department of walking a straight line—everything has to be angled to make them happy.
How about those knights?
Who do you know who’s fully capable of taking two steps forward before quickly leaping to the right or left in the end? I don’t trust a knight. Like a politician they seem undecided and can’t polish off a proper decision unless it’s completely on their path.
If the only thing required is to one day ace the Masters who visualize the future six steps ahead of reality—let that temptation separate you from each passer-by. Chess isn’t loved by the masses; the same can be said about your life.
Why then paste another thousand twenty-one thoughts onto a computer screen?
Noah was ordered to build an ark. If he hadn’t attained the full vision of the message might we be less a few monkeys?
One Man’s 1,021 thoughts constructed a bridge over a gap. That’s an invisible place in history that memories no longer control and if challenged, the best we can do is muster up a border line white lie.
September 1997 through July 12, 2001—I challenged myself to write every day until I hit one thousand. I suck at math! Like all things I touch, I over performed the suggested boundary.
Once accomplished, the goal was to return to those daily writings and pull from each of them one thought. No matter how bad or good the day—fingertips from places unseen painted for me words.
It is now May 2004—where are the words of wisdom that should have said, “Life will suddenly take off!”
Had I known that I’d quickly become a forty-one year old poet, painter, on-air radio talent, and producer with no grip on stopping life from happening—the best I could ever do is beg God to let me return to the third grade.
I was safe there! I was totally in love with my teacher Mrs. Stephenson, and had only one hope in life—to one day live in a purple house somewhere in San Francisco.
Holy crap!! Where did I go wrong?
About the Author—
“A student of life,” I openly admit. “A warrior whose ambition is to take his coup stick and touch the pumped up chest of every beast willing to taste the blood of a true fighter.”
The doors we’re trapped behind do nothing more than revolutionize the better artist. No matter how many times the breath is lost, in the end a portrait remains. Paint stained fingertips, writing instrument nearby… the foot moves forward—we begin to walk.
Getting to a self described point of somewhat success is almost never the easy way out. I was born with a cast of many characters—they who’ve chosen to raise their voices in the way that art suddenly appears. Only to sit in silence, wondering how such an invasion is possible? But more importantly the question is, “why me?”
I’ve learned to relax the mindset of an imagination that’s finally been taught to ignore the ageless heart struck down by weakened knees. Tossed about like candy wrappers at a kid’s matinee, each accusation required great strength, and capable of tearing open wounds that left me screaming in the hours before sunrise.
Once within the vacant alley of the body I own—every vision that which passed between the rhythms protecting harmony echoed a constant message. Never stop writing.
It is here that questions are followed by answers—answers that require more questions—questions created by a society blessed with too much culture and not enough sense to stand out in the rain. And yet the jazz which the birds bring enlightens me more than a hidden away John Denver Best of Collection.
Another 1,021 thoughts is a book blessed by a willingness to never stop sharing.
As I page through each day once delivered, I’ll relocate hatred, sadness, sometimes tears of loneliness, and more importantly the print God smudged onto my fingertips before we shook hands fully agreeing to send this life through my mother’s womb.
May the sun rise above your tears
July 13, 2001
Mr. Poet and his forest
What if we took away all things surrounding a tree’s root? What would we see? Maybe, are we humans wrong? A tree’s root system could be above the ground.
I sat looking at a tree.
It sat looking at me.
I asked gently,
“Are you upside down?”
“I don’t know,”
was his only reply.
Looking at my hands
then my feet,
maybe it was me…
Who sat up funny?
July 14, 2001
Artist versus artist
We’ll never run out of toilet paper! There’re enough self help books out there to guarantee it. Which is why I can’t publish my thoughts—they are private one-on-one escape from self-challenges that I’ve conquered.
July 15, 2001
Unrelated family ties
Being deep in the forest yesterday gave me an incredible view of the new trees—I’m amazingly surprised at how well the majority of them are doing. I speak with great honesty when I say, “The forest is starting to look rejuvenated and extremely healthy.”
Oh Mr. Forest,
To whom I call my friend.
My arms are scratched,
Legs are cut…
Your mighty trees have bit me.
I know it’s not out of misbehavior,
I know it’s not because they hate me.
They have learned
just as I…
We are two who’ve become one
and marking me is your form of communicating.
July 16, 2001
Old friends
Is it me who’s beyond weird? I’ve been with me from the very beginning. Wait! So have you! Oh little mind of mine, opposites do attract. You’re so open to bringing things to life while I tend to mask those newly released.
My pen stops…
You’ve run away!
Guess the truth hurts…
July 17, 2001
Admitting without fear
There are days when all things don’t blend or mend. I know I’m depressed, because I can see it! Look at my hair, my cloths, and my body always hurts. I’m totally fucked! Here sits radio’s basket case—preparing to receive more unfavorable reviews.
July 18, 2001
Two in one but not much fun
Poets are like painters—incredibly stuffy looking. Knowing this, how much padding must your imagination lose in order to return to normal?
July 19, 2001
Rushed to the surgery
The very presence of you beside me is the most powerful thing in my life. My dearest puppy, little Meisha, you are the elegance of a true pillow princess. Life is short—until it lengthens at extreme amounts of quickness the moment you learn your child isn’t well.
July 20, 2001
Three years five months too early
Last night’s dream: With seconds only remaining, the Carolina Panthers reach the Superbowl by seizing a playoff game win. Once there, the final minutes will be the most important leaving our team without victory.
July 21, 2001
Listening to the wind
I’m not a simple minded person—I devour simplicity like its candy and realize a taste never was offered. I have to have an in-depth, totally lost perspective, or I can’t be satisfied. I realize life will exist without me—while here I am doing what I can to help preserve, what a memory? I write to gather what I don’t understand. I paint to add color to a boring sheet of paper. A pen sits in my hand… outside the window, the sun calls my name. I just heard God speak to me. Flowers are burned, grass dies, and vines take over the limbs and trunks of innocent trees. The silence tells me God is thinking—only to notice that it’s the birds singing.
July 22, 2001
Still not good enough to return but…
I don’t miss the constant critiquing by bosses claiming to know better. I don’t miss the daily up and down moods that level my chances of being normal. What I do miss is the confidence of knowing I’m someone, and not just anyone. It’s an ego trip! It has to be healthy… lord knows, I’ve met enough people who think they can do radio.
I’m an artist! A free lance, free form, freedom fighting, free for all fool! I don’t know if it’s the best kind, worst kind, most untrustworthy, loyal, dedicated, or determined. I do believe that one day I will hold the answer.
**note…In December of 2003, the high walls that blocked me from returning to a daily on-air performance finally fell. After seven years of silence, I was asked to lend a helping hand by answering the phones for the nationally syndicated Pam Stone Show. The project was to last a couple of days. As of July 10, 2004 not one single brick has been laid that would force me to become silent again.
July 23, 2001
Life after the rush
My ability is constantly attacked by failure, greed, and trust. Must a life be so rusted with pain to endure the opposite? Is that what fulfillment is? Will the horrible knowledge of knowing I created a child and don’t love it, bite me one day? How can ten minutes destroy a man’s life? No day passes that I don’t die a little more inside knowing how much I fucked up.
Through each tear colors grow—
in time there’ll be a rainbow.
A pot of gold,
a new river with muddied trails.
Call it a new born second chance.
The leaves shall dry,
the buildings will be torn to the ground,
and yet, the mountains will still be standing there.
Not all things change…until you move up close.
. July 24, 2001
Welcome to the party
Hello… I’m a writer whose only ambition is to play radio games. I paint to better soothe the ambition of being alive. I try to never erase a line, because being on the air leaves no room to eliminate what’s already been said. I’d rather over paint, than leave open enough space for someone to ask, “Are you finished?” Hello… I’m an unsatisfied perfectionist who can’t put a price tag on anything he creates. At this moment, I seek nothing more than a better understanding.
Growth is a fun thing to revisit.
July 25, 2001
Gone fishing
My eyes are unfocused. They are almost glued together by a substance the body creates to ward off boogers from sticking to your eyebrows. Can you imagine what that would be like? Bumps and clumps of hard rock attached to your forehead… We’d scratch and scratch until one by one they’d fall off—using them as fish bait. Such a life we live—taking what we create to use it as bait. Boogers being the best, and with a piece of corn attached we’d catch the biggest fish! Kids in the grocery store love every lick of it! What a lucky fish to be treated like this. It’s as if the humans have finally learned how to share—as well as stare at the people who have boogers stuck to their eyebrows. Without a doubt, it’s got to be cool! To be a booger farmer whose crop feeds fish? This… is what life is all about!
July 26, 2001
Because I was told
My current writing, One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts, isn’t based on characters striving to enjoy a fictitious life. By completing this journey, it’s my hope the higher power will see me as more than just a radio station communicator. It’s not my dream to touch human life—it’s my goal to affect it to the bone.
I shake knowing fall is kissing our tomorrow. Dampened by early morning rain, the forest never sits completely empty. Therefore, silence pours into the heart’s ambition only to be accused of insanity. Turning to the trees, we shrug each other’s branches… a bond between two sets of standing people. They bark and I put pen to paper… Together we patiently wait for someone to read what’s been written one day.
**note…The book, One man’s 1,021 Thoughts, took several months to complete and has been read by a handful of people. I still live and die by its sole purpose—to do all I can to inspire anyone to put down the digital camera and leave for their loved ones a true picture of themselves… write to the generations unborn. No history book will cover their essence of life in a new millennium America.
July 27, 2001
The well
I don’t suddenly think of something to write or paint—it’s handed to me through a trusting handshake with life beyond reality. I don’t want to paint things that exist—open your eyes and take your own peek. I want my creations to take you into the unknown, unvisited, and extremely difficult to figure out. I challenge myself everyday to walk past the normal waves of everyday life. Few people get me—I want even fewer to like me. Don’t judge me, because I’m different… or hate me, because I’ve wronged you. I hurt badly knowing how I am. I’d give you my entire life, but you’d toss it away mainly, because nobody knows what they had until I’m gone.
Give me another day of life and I shall paint for you visions of unperfected highways. It’s there in your deepest wish that you will be given a chance to play—for in my world, the king or queen is your imagination.
July 28, 2001
Putting the first book of thoughts together
In time I’ll think of a project that’ll force me to page through words written of an imagination that I’m still miles away from recognizing on a crowded street. If someone were to read to me something I’ve written… I couldn’t say, “That’s mine.”
Interviewer: Which artist self do you like most?
I like all of them… I’m nothing without each one. I have sight and sound covered. I can only hope it somehow reaches you, to affect what you feel, smell, and taste. That would be the sixth sense—the knowledge of perfecting the ability to share what has been given to me and then share it with you.
July 29, 2001
I swear, I really am a nice person
I dreamt of a hawk last evening—my Native American studies show the echo of trust, a worthy friendship with someone new. Not in radio! Let’s be honest—I don’t make friends… people are not my cup of tea. I’m not being selfish! When I create, I want to be recognized as the willing participant, and not half of the brilliant team of me and them.
My mind walks a thousand miles to locate lines that shouldn’t meet—curves that lean no place special until brought to onto this empty page. Lines are not Lego’s… they don’t snap into place! Nor do curves bend the opposite way. I’ll agree to share with someone, but never within the presence of lines and curves.
July 30, 2001
Transformation of creative flow
The writer looks within, the artist painter colorizes what he sees. The radio performer takes what the writer and painter offer, and does all he can to shove it into the body of a passerby.
I’m no scholar—yet at times; I actually believe the artist has indeed experienced life.
July 31, 2001
Living with M’e
I don’t document life to prolong any chapter—the visionary bleeds the sweet poison from the veins only to notice, he walks away with it still attached to his fingertips.
Interviewer: What’s it like to revisit a budding artist? Look at the pictures dating back to October 1998 and tell me your first thoughts.
What I once assumed were brave examples of expressionisms are nothing more than scribbles. To hear him question why an eye doesn’t fade into place makes me want to correct the mistakes—to hide them, then quickly run away.
August 1, 2001
Mirrored images of impossible
Putting together my most recent writing project is one of the most difficult adventures! It’s as if I’m reading a book that I already know its final outcome. Many times, I sit in awe of the writer—he seems so brave to say what he does, then I realize… he is… me—only to close the book knowing the identity of a coward.
This writing instrument means nothing to the common person. To me, it represents the ventilation system that sucks bad air from the bathroom, and sends it to the top of the roof.
August 2, 2001
Infected not by society
What if I wore only one? What if I had two separates on? Would wearing tennis shoes be just as much fun?
August 3, 2001
Corporate America on a modern level
This weekend, I’ll return to the Carolina Mountains for the first time in several years. My goal is to run away, to feel as if I said, “Fuck you” to the world. Once I return, the mind will be replenished enough to continue enduring the worst form of employee treatment since the day the south owned slaves. This modern America could be the devil! We have a world-wide-web that documents any move made, and we have a banking system that’s slowly becoming one. Americans believe that they can’t be stopped—this generation acts as if it can survive anything. Too much confidence leads to unsettled soil.
My creations are unique in only one way… I did them.
August 4, 2001
Bill Clinton A.D.
I don’t know how to react to what’s happening to me at work—I’m shocked! This has been the worst year of my life. If there were nine days in a week, they’d have me doing that, too. I have way too many positives to focus on, to allow this company to take over me. Something will suffer, but it won’t be my relationship with life.
August 5, 2001
Painting with mountain blueberries
When you squish fruit onto a canvas—does it last longer than if I let it stay on the tiny bush?
Leave it to me to walk over to a tiny tree then squeeze one its creations into my tiny adventure of inner travels. I find it interesting, if left alone, certain things never change.
During a first visit into the forest behind my house, I colorized the writing page with leaves green and tree bark. Upon my return three years later, to write One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts, the colors hadn’t changed, but I knew I had.
Again, I return—today is August 7, 2004… the painting that I brought to life using mountain blueberries is still as vibrant as the day my ambition to survive put it there. All too often we believe life ends at death… try and explain that story to the berries that shall live forever within my written chapters.
August 6, 2001
Buried my heart beneath my wounded knee
Do it, be silent, be remembered for every effort accomplished, and not demolished. I sit here every day pouring blood from the wounds of misguided trust—my only strength is to continue in not loving what I passion. Therefore, my newest goal is to turn it into a negative, and hopefully one day I’ll be consumed with new dreams.
August 7, 2001
Uncontrolled bouts of drought
The hot August heat of Carolina has licked up any water available. My pines are starting to show their concern. A grape vine which has spent two summers with me is weak. A few leaves have fallen from their own special beat. I watch my forest move, and then I notice time. Her glistening smile each morning I wake… replenishes the child’s empty smile. Upon my arrival within her soul, we share conversation through moments of silence—it is then the forest whispers to me, “Mr. Poet, my children need a drink.”
August 8, 2001
Hardcore reality
Slowly I slip into a silence of self—it’s getting harder to meet demand over expectation. The constant reminder is self control. I make no friends for my weakness is spilling guts belonging to me. I’m difficult to know, extremely hard to like… it is I who decides who gets to know me. It takes so little to bring light to darkness—pen in hand, I begin walking, only to notice the music playing within my silenced imagination.
August 9, 2001
Constant invisible craving
My view of art is one based on what is seen through anything but reality. Does this mean I live inside a fake world? Look at my scarred arms and tell me about fantasy. The tip of any writing instrument is my guidance counselor—driven into this canvas are bricks leading to a better tomorrow. For thirty nine years I’ve fought off everything that’s made me different—only to recognize…no matter what…it’s me.
August 10, 2001
Blocked by invisible beings of me
My mind hath not the willingness to play—allow it then, to become a musical toy. Bring to life all songs that grow outside of me. Hear the gentle hum of a motor, combining it with the chirping of a parakeet. Then, look into the eyes of your puppy… listen… there is music. Be that! My guide… I want reaction without judgment. I want to hear laughter but never criticism. To stand silent is like telling me, “Oops that’s not going to work.”
August 11, 2001
Watering a natural creation
Trees and humans aren’t supposed to be friends! They fall on each other! They get in each other’s way! Trees and humans are natural born enemies! And yet… if that were true, why am I the Poet, sitting next to a tree root?
August 11, 2001
8:20 am and he left no message
I look at my signature—within a short amount of time, it’s grown to be the mark of deep thought. It says a lot to me—if spotted somewhere, it tells me the creator has performed his absolute best to bring you an essence of peace.
In life, we are given moments we hold onto for several chapters and beyond. Although we can never explain the value of shock or torn leaves located outside a shredder—I do know, the very second you learn one of your pets has passed away… that peace you once thought of sharing is no longer available for others to cuddle up to. Less than three hours after writing about my signature, Larry escaped through the clouds leaving behind the greatest love story between a woman and her dog.
August 12, 2001
You were a shaman weren’t you? I demand that you help me protect these trees! Being the shaman gifts you with that ability—to come and go as you please. The Cardinals, they’re waiting for you Larry... swim through our tears and feel for yourself—view what is called true love. I can’t say goodbye! Nor will I! To let you go will make me scream and I will as loudly as I can—not out of anger but departure. Come on kid, you knew about the vows… don’t wait so long to find us in your next life. Please leap out and tell us it’s you! I will give you back to mother earth and soon your ashes will forever be placed inside a keepsake. Just let me know, you know the bark… for the journey must now begin. I’m gonna cry Larry… please don’t laugh at me. For God has taken away my baby step, my song, and the words it’s going to take to share with you a brand new guarantee. It bothers me to know man can start and stop a war, but man cannot keep death from taking its natural course.
Larry’s fur sits inside my daily journal along with a paw print taken before the two of us walked like true travelers back into the forest he founded all those chapters ago. This is the first time I’ve touched either, since kissing him so long three years ago. Just think just like that… there was nobody here to wipe my tears… so I placed them on the page.
August 13, 2001
In God’s name we create
It doesn’t matter how hard I scrub, I’m having a difficult time washing away the pain.
Materialistic values are manmade—what we mourn are the memories up the mountain, and the long car rides that led to places of freedom filled walks and laughter. You and I are about to enter the forest—it was you who took me here the first time. It was you who taught me how to run through the trees, and guaranteed to forever protect this hidden place of play. I can’t imagine you and Jenny out here—I envision a tiny girl, her fuzzy little brother, and that damn big smile of yours glowing brighter than the sun I’ve written with for several years. The wild berries and the roses kept you in love—a chunk of land a normal man threw out, because it wasn’t good enough to build upon. Today, we will walk into that place where you will forever play. We shall forever call it Larry Lane.
August 14, 2001
Shallow harnesses
What surprises Lee the most is how Larry held back until they were alone—he laid in her arms, and took three very long breaths creating what Hollywood would call the perfect ending to an incredible love story. She had saved him seventeen years earlier from the unwelcoming hands of California law. His gift in return was to never force her into having to make that tasteless final decision. I was jealous of Larry, because he gained so much of her attention. On this day, I’m deeply saddened by my childlike behavior for I was not even 1/3 of the man that Larry was to her.
August 15, 2001
Please God…let me be me
A Bic pen sits gripped within the jaws of the artist self—a deep thought is dug from the canal leading from a closed off section labeled the soul. Be it me, thy neighbor, this self you are within—let him jell into the actor he is. I’ve spent an entire career trying to be a clean cut guy… only to learn, I never found the edge. If I could do it all over again, I’d can the Keep Smiling image, and live up to the long haired freak I am. I’ve hidden my abilities, which have done nothing, but invite thoughts from others who exclaim, “I had no idea that you had this strength to be a performer.” We don’t pee an entire days worth of water, it’s released in long drawn out battles with a toilet that I’d rather puke in. I’ve never felt a need to prove my true self, the choice has been to run and hide—giving anyone the chance to shape me, and then within a sliver of shadows… the entire dream wraps itself around a loose wire and the talent dances.
August 16, 2001
Rages from an unfit war
Radio is a blind man’s game—if you play it like you see it… you lose. If you learn to feel the jagged edge and corners, your heart and soul begin to provide the proper purpose. Anything I touch, I’m going to study it. I’ll view it until my eyes hurt. Then, I break my back to make it better than it was before. But, I can’t do that with a feather.
August 17, 2001
Within the evolution of mirrored images
Death is forever, or until our visional paths bring us back together as separate angels in search of Gods message of hope, love, understanding, and the ability to protect no matter what the price. It’s not odd to see the careless balancing of an artist’s thoughts—a simple line makes or breaks my solitude of color. What become shades are the moments of trial and error. Darkness is that of victory. By its end, a picture is painted, and then left behind in hopes of one day returning. Look at my fingertips! They’ve been stained by a rainbow! Don’t look into my eyes! For what you’ll see is an actor without his makeup. My stage is a breath away, no song plays twice… unless requested by the essence of self.
August 18, 2001
No longer in need of free sex
In looking back, I notice the water is rough and the sky is stormy—I knew it was difficult to perform… this painting was my drug to escape it.
August 19, 2001
The forest has become the focal point of my entire purpose—any and all things now come with a never look and reason appeal. The only thing I ever wanted out of life was a feather, so that I too could one day learn to fly.
August 20, 2001
Setting the stage for ass of the year
There’s more to money than dollar amount—saying thank you doesn’t rank anywhere near the top 200. That’s my way of saying, “You crossed the line.”
August 21, 2001
Background check
My soul hurts so bad its forcing me to stay depressed. Most people would rather drug a depression than accept it. I’d rather look the beast in the eyes and whisper, “Bring it on mother fucker.” I’m sure I come across as the asshole. I don’t mean to! We come from separate sides of the tracks—my life sits south of the rails inside a village of Hamburger Helper loving, fist fighting brothers who hated to love their sister.
August 22, 2001
Blood stains from credibility lost
My hard work and dedication will not be remembered. No one will dedicate a studio in my name, nor will a street or building carry my name. If it should take place… someone is telling a lie. I pay the price everyday! I bleed the pain that most people claim doesn’t exist, yet none of these people have ever tried to walk ten miles in my shoes. I’m a sacrificed lamb given to the radio Gods. Without me, people can’t eat, nor will they venture into a world to achieve higher success. Once attained, the lamb is forgotten; his ashes become part of the soil they walk on.
August 23, 2001
Seek thy hand of trust
I had a dream last night; a minister had trapped me inside a church. I heard thunder; it was very destructive, and almost impossible to escape its wrath. The church caved in, and people were injured. I chose to stay and help the fallen—the sky was dark, mystified, and filled with sacrifice. This wasn’t a super hero’s dream… for I had become bloodied. The words of those who brought judgment against me had dug holes into the skin of my tattered being. Maybe I died… left with chapters of emptiness.
August 24, 2001
Un-pasteurized grass on the other side of the fence
The problem with me is simple… I waited too long in my career to give a damn. A giant lung filled with air is swallowed—slowly, I feel the emptiness grow. A constant ache with no source… I just know it’s waiting for me. Thoughts of letting the wind blow, ambition keeps me straight and forward… rules that were once broken are nothing, but such weight I must carry. New jobs can’t replace invisible aches. Therefore, I attempt to locate harmony. I won’t look into your eyes. I won’t greet you with a good morning. I want to be left alone to do nothing more than create. Shut the damn door and let me play! It’s my way of locating something as simple as happiness.
August 25, 2001
NO!
Larry’s ashes arrived today. Time stood still, the grayish white clumps of something unsmooth proved to me that I’d never see him again. The tears raced to my face to be cried, weakening the knees of a man who had fallen into a valley of unmistakable truths, only to find out how short time really is. Larry loved to chase frogs. Before leaving for Los Angeles this morning, I counted ten of them in the pond. Is it possible Larry spent a lifetime trying to become a frog? Then one day, he grew flip flop feet and whispered, “Ribbet.”
August 26, 2001
Visits without invitation
I remember as a kid, I wanted to play radio here. I’ve written that thought countless times. This morning, I write from a second floor balcony overlooking a fog covered city beginning to wake up. The pine trees of Carolina have been replaced by palms that resemble tall skinny kids with an afro. People’s fences are six to seven feet high and every gate is locked. I can see the Hollywood sign—my mind catches the wind of the flowers below… I’m waiting, a signal, a sound, your song… maybe mine. Look! A humming bird is flapping its wings a thousand miles an hour. He’s six inches from my writing hand! He’s chirping! Three times! Why do I want to believe its saying, “Collect call from Larry?”
August 27, 2001
Visits by invitation
Los Angeles is the type of town that challenges you to become an individual. Be yourself in every unique creative way you are! When I hear stories of how Marilyn Monroe fucked her way to the top, it doesn’t anger me—it challenges the character to believe that assholes do control the well being of anyone’s life. We are puppets on a string with no visible hope of survival, until we finally get a taste of success… once achieved, a choice must be made—continue to sell out, or develop a relationship with the buyer, and believe it will fester into a lasting bond between the self and the dreamer. After all, this is Hollywood!
August 28, 2001
Someone’s speaking Arroe-speak
A million pennies are lost in the world—if I attempt to pick them up, my pockets will become full. I shall not bend over to replant the leaves of a troubled flower—it is my mission to learn about what made the soil around them ill. The moral of this story is written as such; don’t assume you have the strength to walk with five hundred people on your back… your bent over state of mind is three steps from what its like to die.
August 29, 2001
Seize nothing til you bleed
I love being unique, and I share it. Could I live an easier life? Would I choose to be so simple? What is it like to be normal? Why would I choose to be anything different? Where do my feet take this tiring self? How will I know when I get there? Is life a journey, or a puzzle? May I start all over again? If not me… who controls my dreams? Instead of asking questions, I’ll walk forward—a step at a time. I will enter places where the sun is bright, the mountains scream, and the water is bone dry. But that’s ok… I brought a canteen.
August 30, 2001
Foolishness defended
I strolled along Hollywood’s walk of fame yesterday—I knew few names, got rubbings of those I recognized… only to walk away feeling like a fool. I didn’t see anyone else doing it. Nor do I believe Americans are as fan based as they seem. We tend to believe in our own rainbows—getting jealous of each other’s brightest star. Therefore, we only put focus on “me.” I’m ready to return to Charlotte! Los Angeles is for shoppers, tourists, and the homeless—I feel as if I’m the village idiot. A man walked up to me asking for money, I chose to walk forward.
”What kind of an asshole are you?” He yelled out at me.
“One who has the power to make a choice!” I said as I quickly returned to my embarrassed family. “We all make choices! My choice is to work! You seem happy without a home. That is your choice. I did not invite you into my circle—that was my choice! It’s not our choice to be born. Nor is it our choice to which color we will become. My choice was based on not listening to you… and yet, you ignored my full right of making a proper choice.”
August 31, 2001
Uncovering art the world will never see
It has taken the entire trip to melt thought, sadness, and disbelief into a heavily decorated piece of crap. It has become my mission to write something that deals with the depths of how being a stepfather doesn’t work.
September 1, 2001
Shake it like a Polaroid picture
I’m tired of creating the tears that have been there for several chapters—at least I’m honest enough to admit the fighting isn’t over. A true success in life isn’t based on stress, but rather total control over the unexpected.
September 2, 2001
Shake it, shake it, shake it
If I could say anything to you to make it right… I wouldn’t. If I could buy you gifts to invite peace… I wouldn’t. One thing I’m not kid… is blind. I’ve played the fantasy game! I’ve been sad that death became my guide. Only to learn, it’s not about me—without me, life continues to spin.
**note…one cannot predict the final stages of life after the stepdaughter exceeds her full right to offer an opinion. Lost are the moments held behind walls. The lesson learned is simple—learn to talk to your stepchildren from the moment you meet them. Through communication, life has a chance to bud into unforgettable peach colored roses.
September 3, 2001
Competitive by the repetitive
All I do is production—I call it sound construction… the recreating of the created—to better sell the ill-fated.
September 4, 2001
He who taught me to listen to the wind is gone
I refuse to say, “So long Mr. Kelly!” I don’t believe in death. I won’t believe in it. I can’t! I see what happens to life, you, being you, the biggest fighter I’ve ever met. You’ve defeated what doctors couldn’t predict! I can only document what we shared. But how do you recreate the laughter at our Italian dinner and the desert that we talked about for months? I won’t say it Mr. Kelly! Instead, I’ll listen to the birds sing your song. Life exists no matter how light the path. There’s a beginning—but it never has to end. The creator’s dream is to pick up and move forward. Take what you’ve been taught, and give it to someone you love. New leaves replace what fell last fall, the lawn turns green after every rain storm—I’m not this creative self by choice… along this path you gave to me what was given to you. Therefore, through inspiration… music is born.
September 5, 2001
Passion set out to die
Do you know what’s disappointing? I’ve been bitching and singing about the same shit for over one thousand days. There’s the fucking lesson! Stop talking and bitching about radio! If I’m being an ass, then the only image I have is a class act ass. They don’t get it, and never will… so why try? Will someone please help me? My life is like listening to an old song—the same lyrics, the same chorus, and maybe a different background vocalist. Ink stained fingertips, a fog in the depths of the forest… how much more can this body take? Is there anyone who can lead me to an open hand? Wait! I found someone! Me! Not one person gets it… so sad the dream… so gone the desire.
September 6, 2001
Scars resurfaced to teach lessons of selfishness
When I first got into radio, it was my goal to learn how to do everything—you can’t own what you don’t know. If I am to treat people the way I want to be treated, I can’t say, “I killed you like you killed me.” Why do I fight to survive? I only wish to be happy. I won’t purchase it! I won’t assume the position of actor! I shall remain more silent than a motionless dream. A poor man can’t watch a tree grow at night… nor can a wealthy man see it grow leaves. A wise man uses his imagination, allowing the morning to bring him what he dreamed. I call this—the un-tuning of a grown man’s strings.
September 7, 2001
I don’t mean harm, just let me bleed
My most recent display of anger is a way of showing; you can push, but don’t expect anything from it. I will act, but nothing will come of it. Through the avenues of passion, desire, or dedication… I shall be me.
note: After typing these thoughts into the book, Another 1,021 Thoughts… the next page of my daily journals featured a painting—fire, a statue, two objects on the left side of the painting that clearly looked parallel as well as skyscraping. Three birds remained flightless while four nuns looked down upon the statue that seemingly lights up the night. This was on September 7, 2001… there was no way of knowing this painting would one day hold more history than any other in my creative collection! Read slowly over the next few thoughts… for I feel we all knew of the events of September 11th but failed to listen.
September 8, 2001
Was I hearing something?
I have many fears about dropping everything and running—I refuse to think about leaving my forest. That in itself is reason enough to protect what really counts in the game of life.
September 9, 2001
I keep listening but nothing’s happening
I sit wondering about the journeys ahead… how many people can I become before someone whispers, “Times up.” Writing takes me to the introduction—my hands greet the new strangers… my soul turns thought into reality… if you don’t believe, my back is what you see. What I’ve created is a blank space—emptied into a world who thinks it’s ok to be a label maker. I don’t write to write… if that were case, I’d use blue ink, and a Bic pen.
September 10, 2001
I can’t erase what’s already been written
My body is weak… looking out my writing window, I see nothing but darkness. If you want people to be there, then be there for them or die beside them.
September 11, 2001
6:40 am
Visions much deeper than a knife travel through me, around me, into pools of dried blood and paint. From the chips, they fall… captured stories to which I share. There’s got to be a hidden message! It’s then, I’m given a thought, “Never expect a stone to talk… ask your heart, it’s almost just as hard.” I see footprints headed toward murky waters… do I choose to follow, or prepare for their mud covered return? The guts of a cow make up my face—burn me til dead; I don’t want to return again. Why am I singing Amazing Grace?
9:03 am I sit watching, two incredibly tall buildings are spewing smoke! A 737 airplane has hit one of the towers. Is this a terrorist act? The news anchors are in question—they’re feeding our minds, our fears, our worst nightmares.
September 12, 2001
Mourning
Not even twenty four hours have passed—its 7:45 the next morning. Nothing’s changed here in Carolina… except maybe the way we look at reality. No death toll numbers, two hundred firefighters are missing. The airplanes are accounted for. We’re learning those on board were forced to call home to say goodbye. How do you say it? Do you know the arms of God will comfort you before impact? A lot has changed inside me. The way I look at reality. No truck passes me, no car starts, and not even a breeze in the air whispers without me wondering. Will this be my final step? Welcome to our new reality.
September 13, 2001
Why
Why are the blinds covering the windows pulled closed this morning? I can’t see the forest! I can’t tell if the sun has risen. I can’t tell if someone is looking in. My stomach has turned; a fear of war might be sitting on the edge of this newly built horizon. I wait for what today will bring. Some say ten thousand are dead. Radio stations have opened their airwaves to listeners who need to vent. I still find it incredibly odd—I remember looking at the clock on September 11th… it said 8:50. Good! I have ten more minutes to paint! Only to find myself singing Amazing Grace a second time that morning.
Do we go to war? Who do we fight? Is there religion involved? Who is innocent? Are we a united people? Why the trade towers? What does it symbolize? Who are we today? Who were we when Pearl Harbor was attacked? Please don’t drop the big bombs… leave the innocent alone. We can’t walk away from this—but who do we retaliate against? They’ve become our friends. They’ve built homes next to us. We’ve learned to trust our enemy. Does this make us weak? Our leaders sit in silent meetings. The media only speculates. Is the million man war about to take place—blood as deep as sixteen hands high. What are we doing to preserve inner peace?
September 14, 2001.
Hello God…um are you busy?
I think what bothers people most is the next step. How does the United States show its strength? We have to do it in a way that doesn’t bring us to our knees.
Interviewer: You’ve shown no anger about this attack…
M’e: Sure I have! I’ve kept it to myself. Creatively I’m displaying anger a different way than most.
Interviewer: When are you going to get pissed off?
M’e: There are a lot of weak hearted souls at the workplace—it’s not the time to fly off, or to start announcing my anger at such a horrible moment in world history.
Interviewer: Is the second coming of Christ near?
M’e: To hope that this is the second coming is natural. To be here when it happens makes me want to be prepared.
September 15, 2001
Aldo Nova’s fantasy doesn’t live here
Visions keep playing over in my mind… the airplanes crashing into the World Trade Towers. I guess the further we get away from the event, the more it sinks in.
At times I miss sharing the poetic touch. At times I continue to run away to do nothing but hide—a world of my own, with no one to say that I’m pretty weird. At times admitting that I’m strange was wrong. At times being strange is my only protection. It’s a place of my own, to grow, to write and paint, to slip, to fall, and then to get up again. At times I wonder whose writing? At times I can’t stop writing. For what reason do I waste so much ink? What is missing? At times I just want to hear silence and this… is one of those times
September 16, 2001
If but…
Wiped onto this page are the tears we still cry. The threat of war looms over this nation. No man on earth will know what it takes to place ink over the tears I’ve cried—a tiny mask to help hide, and a robe to help preserve. Unlike the morning dew dancing on the leaves… the sun shall never dry what’s been left behind.
September 17, 2001
First step toward a martial arts way of life
Where do we go from here oh lord of mine? How are we to heal and become strong? When will this go away oh Lord of mine? Will it get worse as time becomes yesterday? Rubbing my fingertips over the words just shared, my heart pumps a new blood into my desire. Who do I protect? When and for how long?
September 18, 2001
New book to write in—the blame game begins
When you start a new journey, the eyes and soul must expect constant change. Intuition may lead you away from danger, but it’s ultimately up to your own sense of balance to keep you steady. The stock market took a major beating yesterday—the 14th worst in history. It’s not that I’m afraid, I only wish Americans would have thought more about the trees they killed to build the homes they can no longer afford.
September 19, 2001
I can’t fight this nation’s wars…I have my own
Look out into this world and view everything—nothing out there was impossible to create… therefore, you doing nothing, means you don’t fit. We are creators, painters, writers, and singers—we are to be anything but lazy. Fill not the palm with wants and needs, bring to the light what your mind creates. In time, you too shall bare a shadow… it may decide to never let you grow anywhere near the visions I call my own. Until then, stay silent, and remain completely away.
My writing pen, my paint brush, my place of escape—my path, walk, and mind are filled with journey—my thoughts, bridges, my forest within…my creations, my lyrics, paper and pens. My pictures, my poetry, my everything including ego and conceit—even my empty back without angel wings.
September 20, 2001
Bleeding for the right reason
I continue to work on the painting—it’s missing something! Anymore, a painting must have reflection—it must carry a glimpse of what’s happening! Although people will never understand the story behind the work—I still believe that it’s a poetic expression before it’s anything. My goal with this painting was to bring to life the emotion of the Statue of Liberty. I thought it would be uplifting to see her and Jesus working side by side, to rebuild the World Trade Center. I still want to call it One brick at a time sweet Jesus.
note: The painting was later photocopied and repainted before being donated to the American Cancer Society. Rich Lange purchased the remake for $100. It was part of a M’e showing at Jefferson Pilot that raised over fifteen hundred dollars. The original piece remains heavily protected and in my possession—this is the first I’ve seen it since November 9, 2001… today is November 13, 2004. Rich Lange purchased two paintings that day—the second piece remains untitled but features a stuffed Teddy Bear resting on the edge of life being coaxed to step back from the ledge by a brilliantly white goose. Although he knows the story behind the painting, it made it even that more important to add it to his collection. The second painting sold for $100.
September 21, 2001
Angry…but at what?
We’ve evolved into a world of hate filled thrill seekers—by playing the part of God, we assume all duties, with the understanding that life will soon begin and end within and around us. How can you declare war on an enemy you don’t know? How can you invade another man’s home, killing innocent civilians… then blame it on a faceless man? Are we the first nation to decide it must come to an end? America will never heal from this! That’s why we must learn to be wise, peaceful and observant of all living things. We accept mistakes by correcting them. We are America! And we shall die guaranteeing that there’ll be a new tomorrow.
September 22, 2001
It’s worth dying for
Of all days to be on the air—if God chose this to be the final one, would I be the right person to be there? Fate is a four letter word that’s often misunderstood, or accused of being an evil wrong doer. But! If this is what God wants—I’m only the actor.
September 23, 2001
A new man…a new hatred
No matter what we say… no matter what we do… another man’s fire, is tomorrow’s sunrise. Build for me a dream. Allow it to be one block at a time. Paint for me a new song. Could it be with an angel at my side? Let me stand back and view it. Let the rain wash away the pain. Sing for me Mother America—let freedom ring and ring. Cast no shadow on the path of my tomorrow. Bring nothing but faith.
I cannot express how angry I am about a terrorist act that has stolen thousands of lives. Man hath become his own God! Be not the keeper of unsettled dust! In hale the passion of life, delivering whispers of clouds and guaranteed sunsets. Any man who says his victory is jubilant must look over his shoulder to count the number of lives lost on his journey. I cannot, nor will I say I’m sorry. But! I dream of one day staring this coward in the eye to do nothing more than offer a warm smile. For someone forgot to teach him the meaning of selflessness.
September 24, 2001
Waking up to no electric comforts
Like stars, the sky slowly lights—its purpose fights to be seen. Glimpses of a new day
peek through while the wind quickly brushes it away. Still no light shows, and yet I’m willing to commit to the power of a candle’s wick.
September 25, 2001
An artist’s whisper
If I knew, would you?
If I cared, would you dare?
If I could fly, would you join me?
Maybe I do! You just don’t see me.
If I could paint, could I you?
If I tried to write, could it be about you?
If memory was my guide, would you be my eyes?
Maybe you are! You just don’t see me.
September 26, 2001
Unperfected ways inspire masterpieces
As a writer, I can build then scratch out. As a painter, I’m left with globs of emptiness until the right brush stroke provokes me to be touched by such travel.
September 27, 2001
It’s not about me
Not all writers communicate through vocalization. More than ever, a writer sits silent, unless his ego needs to be picked up.
September 28, 2001
I’m deeper than smudged paint
I’m lost as to why people love to hang on. Then again, I write every day.
All too often, my thoughts rest inside the negative vibrations of reality. From that raw horrible power, I pull to life the burning desire to survive. All too often, I’m quick to judge, only to regret each thought spoken. Jealousy made me this way. How I change, depends on if I’m willing to listen. All too often, I challenge myself to seek the purity of something new. Within seconds of touching it, I realize the number of times I’ve been here before. All too often, I ask questions to spark reaction. I’m always left to look like the ass, only to learn that being such an ass leads to more questions, and a forever friendship. All too often, I waste money, but hardly if ever do I waste time. Maybe one day I’ll change, but why? Sixty minutes will never equal the cost of a great writing instrument.
September 29, 2001
True sharing
I hate being alone! The pride of sharing is no longer available to hold. I love walking through the forest alone—eyes wide open, my heart searches for deer, robins, and even pigeons… whatever it takes to know I’m alone. It’s my passion to be with what I love most—not myself, but everything else.
September 30, 2001
The beast toasts my aloneness
Broken glass on the half stained wooden deck—it screams at me “Hey come play!” Do it! Play with the glass… it’s never stopped you before. A garbage can with more shards of glass! The idea gets better the more I write. I hate myself for getting angry. I hate myself for the mistakes I’ve made. I hate myself because nobody trusts me. I hate myself for not running away from my ex-wife, Sande—I did but in the wrong way. I hate myself, because I have to live like this! A self that doubts everybody including himself—I hate myself for writing this.
October 1, 2001
Unprotected weekend
I don’t know how to talk to anyone without becoming the actor. I’d rather sit with myself in total silence than be forced to hold conversation. I don’t fear life. I don’t fear people. I fear myself. I never know when I’m going to explode.
October 2, 2001
At war with the un-captured
The depth of depression I swim with is easily held back by this instrument. Write! Write! Write until I say stop. Only to learn that nothing of importance has been written. Bring to the canvas the impossible, while sinking credibility into the meat of reality.
October 3, 2001
In researching the first book
In my returning to the past 1,021 days has revealed many secrets—there’s been an enormous amount of disrespect taking place, not only from my co-workers but myself! I take everything for granted—because I live by the rule of this day, and everyday is a new day… therefore it’s a new beginning. Your personal history isn’t disposable.
October 4, 2001
Guerrilla warfare and I’m my only enemy
Any face I choose to wear turns me into an evil being. Once I’m set outside these four walls made of fake trees and smiles— reality is waiting to beat me until I’m dead. I’m depressed 120% of the time. I question all things—I want to know why! If someone looks at me, I take it as a negative, then positive, creating questions, hatred, then destruction. Every painting I’ve created is overworked, because of the moodiness that lives inside of me every second of every day.
October 5, 2001
Methods of madness by shaking hands
I am the actor who claims he can perform anywhere, and make all things around him come to life. Life doesn’t turn everyone into a rose—no matter how bad you want to play the big leagues, the best you can offer is a man playing with hand puppets.
October 6, 2001
No man is more mighty then his creator
The rain carries with it, the salt of any tear cried… by learning to listen, the inner eye sees what’s only felt. Therefore, I begin to write. Kept, is the warmth of life—til God says, “It’s time to become sand.”
October 7, 2001
Modern divorce rate
A good friend has admitted to placing an ad on the World Wide Web—to solicit for girls. Brian claims to be lonely, and being on the web gives him the chance to talk to others. I’ve never placed an ad—as a writer, if I need to talk to someone new… I change writing instruments, or write with a different hand.
October 8, 2001
The invasion of Afghanistan
You can’t help but feel a little afraid—no Americans feel jubilant to any actions taken forward. The difference between this modern day society and the past is simple: This country knows what it has to do to gain respect, or be demolished by dreamers who’d like to be Americans. This country’s 200 plus years of unity is based solely on the freedoms fought for by generations of travelers. Although, I don’t agree with the way the U.S. government has handled this country’s Native Americans—I still believe in its ability to be one nation, a strong nation, a growing nation—a place where dreams come true by believing whole heartedly in passion and desire.
October 9, 2001
Meet the actor
I’d rather see the glass half empty… than in the eyes of others pretending its half full.
October 10, 2001
Coping with reality
They say Bin Laden and his people have the capability of bringing this nation to its knees… they have chemicals that can be sprayed into the air, and you don’t know it. Especially now, since last night’s reports claim they’re putting focus on our water supply. I document this, because I want people to know what it was really like in the days that followed September 11th. The economy stinks! The Feds keep dropping the interest rates to spark the spending habits of America. This, while major companies continue to lay people off! The war has started in Afghanistan—there’s major protesting in countries other than America. I just don’t understand!
**note… on the following page a political cartoon was penned into place, showcasing two bearded men—one of them holding a nozzle coming from a tank of anthrax… the other holding a giant cross with angels fluttering beside him. The caption reads, “But Bin… when my life was sacrificed, it saved billions of lives. Never once did I want to send others in to do my purpose.”
October 11, 2001
Still soft on the inside
I paint with ink, with words I don’t see, but choose to feel. My eyes open, a spider’s line crosses between paths… the glisten is gold, but I’m much too heavy to walk toward its resting place. But, if I could, I’d lay aside all that is reality, just to feel your inner peace for a morning, or maybe even a lifetime. Call me sick. Compare me to anyone. Shield yourself from me. Walk with, or without me. Now place your hand on this paper of white. Feel for yourself what excites me. Soil for thought—smoothness to comfort, a place to draw, and emptiness to feel. Call me jerky. Assume you know. Protect your little world. Sing out in bad harmony. Now lay your dreams on this paper of white. Taste for yourself, the gift inside… chocolate covered wishes, the flow of which is never ending—a place to be you without having to stand in a lane with a shopping cart.
October 12, 2001
Who are you?
Why did it take an act of war to ignite the passion we all have for our homeland? How long will this passion exist? For no man can last longer than fifteen minutes… I look out into my forest wondering if one day it’ll be torn down by war. I’d fight to my death protecting each root, for if the trees could fight… they’d do it for me.
October 13, 2001
Postcard from America
The fear seems to be rested...
The President says, “Go out and be you!”
Yet, we hear of the evil,
know of the war,
anthrax almost got to Tom Brokaw…
The nation sits on hold.
We wait for the killers to return.
It could be at any time—
But the President says, “Go out and be you!”
Afghanistan was already war torn,
the bad man lands of the planet.
They hang out in caves,
blowing up buildings thousands of miles away
and we’re supposed to go out and be us?
The economy is a teeter totter.
The airline industry is quite thin.
If America falls…what’s in the plans?
Bush looks older in the face.
He’s been carrying the entire nation.
“Go out and be you!”
That’s fine Mr. President…but what about you?
October 14, 2001
Once upon a time
History plays itself out—wars are fought then instantly forgotten. Nobody talks about Vietnam anymore. HBO has put focus on World War II, because Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg are exercising their Saving Private Ryan popularity rights. The Gulf War flu is spoken of every now and then… absolutely no one speaks of the Korean War, which took from my mother her two brothers. Russia, England, France, and the Middle East—they are not new to terrorism… how then do you get used to it if the best we can offer is every reason to forget it ever happened?
October 15, 2001
Losing faith
I do not sleep—I live in pain! My hair is long—I’m an S.O.B! If you think any man can live inside this shell, and find love anywhere in his heart… then force me to make the change! I am too damn tired to continue being me.
October 16, 2001
Ordered to stay silent but not in writing
Anthrax and bio-terrorism… ten years from now, people will wonder what it was like. Letters containing anthrax have almost reached Tom Brokaw, and yesterday the child of a major player at ABC. At my place of work, we’ve completely closed off the mailroom—the people inside wear white uniforms with masks. When looking back, people will discover the words I’ve written aren’t the thoughts of a President, terrorist, or an assumed normal American—unlike many in this country, what I bring is doubt. If allowed to speak I’d protest the American actions in Afghanistan! I don’t feel we should be playing an eye for an eye. What took place on September 11, 2001, was in reaction to everything history wrote before that day. Therefore, changes need to be made to correct our tomorrow. Who is Ben Laden? Maybe the Afghans are asking, “Who is Jerry Farwell?” Religion plays a major role in all forms of decisions. Although I find it interesting that Farwell hasn’t stepped out from behind his opinion—I frown upon the groups of Islam who think this world belongs to them. I am deeply sickened by those who feel they have the right to steal from the foundation of anybody’s tomorrow only to put blame on each action taken yesterday.
October 17, 2001
What we’ve become
The killer has not left—I feel his breath near my neck. Through the veins of my nose, I taste his dinner from two weeks ago. Quickly the people run… not to hide but to shove and push aside. They don’t have time to be bothered—who better to know of this than he the killer. Fingertips chilled by purpose, dedicated til death do us part. A participating factor of silence until he decides to strike—no warning I’m told… how would we know? The killer’s face hides not, for the evening news shows us pictures. If we met, I’d shake hands—for no man can identify, no child can point to, and no woman will recognize. If we had, could, would, should… then why did so many die on September 11, 2001?
October 18, 2001
The other player
Our nation’s lawmakers won’t be reporting to work today—more anthrax crap. Slowly the finger is starting to point at Saddam Hussein. Silently, the killer laughs—empty giggles but I see his stomach roll. Visibly, as his hands start to move, the world is losing its grip. We have man to blame! Do the robins and blue jays know of this? They too will die when the chemicals are sprayed. How about the trees and lakes? Do those who borrow their space care of the events spread through our world’s ambition? Shall I too soar like the red tail hawk? Will my wings be strong enough, or will I fall from the sky toward the makings of newly opened garbage dump?
October 19, 2001
And for what reason?
Anytime you think I’m looking back to gain something… never forget that dreamers hold only one tool—the ability to imagine. I haven’t gained anything by putting this book (1 Mans 1021 Thoughts) together. Have I learned anything? Yes… no matter how many masks you think you’re wearing, the true self can be seen inside the holes cut out for the eyes.
October 20, 2001
If you could write just one thought
Take your fingertips, and run them lightly over each page—feel that? Each line, letter, and thought, enter you through another sense. A published book doesn’t come with such depth of creation—nor does a computer scanning the web. Reaching toward the written word, the heart tries to revise… to learn from the invisible, believing it’s not what’s seen that teaches. I do not beg to tingle, nor do the tingles invite me—why must there be such a meeting? I hold no answer to such thought… if I did, I’d be the only one writing.
October 21, 2001
I received a phone call from a Middle Eastern voice yesterday, claiming to be part of a bank offing a new credit card with zero percent interest. My thoughts reconnected with the call at three this morning—I’m in the media, Afghanistan, Anthrax! The Muslims are like the Italians in the way that they very patiently take their time to paste together a successful destination. Am I overreacting? Probably—but so are the people at the radio station who have completely sealed off the hallway leading to the restrooms.
note: For two months after the September 11th massacre on America, those who worked in the basement of the station had to leave the building to use the restrooms, or walk up a flight of steps. The hallway leading to the bathrooms were blocked due to the location of our mailroom which had been sealed, because of the fear of Anthrax making it into our studios. In the days that followed the phone call, an empty clear envelope arrived at my house… I promptly took it to the police who decided to throw it away.
October 22, 2001
The economy is so bad…there are people in this room that won’t be here in six months.
R*** J 10-19-01
The events of the next six months are based solely on the decisions of General Managers, CEO’s, and elected leaders. Do we have what it’s going to take to survive? Being successful is the knowledge of failure. I’ve worked for radio stations whose entire staff has been cut to only six. Going through this hasn’t strengthened my eligibility to stay at this current place of employment… I wouldn’t be human-like if I didn’t fully see my name somewhere on that list of cutbacks. I’ll continue to be a mastermind at nothing, yet willing to do it all, no matter what the cost. M’e 10-22-01
October 23, 2001
Generation destination
I don’t believe the American dream is dead—yet I can’t help but feel today’s generation doesn’t know how to achieve it. It’s not about handing someone the keys! You’re going to have to get stained… for life. My mind and body are craving so much change—the only way to deal with it, is to participate with the seasonal evolutions. It helps me understand the differences between night and day.
October 24, 2001
Another anthrax scare
Why does man’s ability have to put him inside places of destruction? The vomit dumped onto society has grown into predicted adventures… yet no one decided that maybe we should physically be prepared. Therefore, we’ve been blinded by our own greed and now we are paying the price.
October 25, 2001
Artist faith starts with open doors
A picture I’m attempting to paint—to decide what it is… it’s never my choice. I put pen to paper, thought into neutral… suddenly something hits me, while the rest of the thought plays dead.
October 26, 2001
Walking through already fed storms
I am to grab life, and pull it into the paper… an eye is an eye and anyone can draw an eye, but is the eye of the artist attracted to the color, or the words of he who is the poet? You may clone a man all you want… but it’s what he’s endured that spoils the good inside a glass of Kool-aid. Wisdom isn’t located in chapters, and then placed inside a bookstore. A wise man may share, but he never can pinpoint the true accuracy of why he is wise unless he’s documented the entire journey. Unlike a glass of Kool-aid… wise isn’t scraped from the guts of a grape. Am I a wise man? Hardly… for any wise man would have left radio before had it begun.
October 27, 2001
Crash course on realities bite
Telling me to take a vacation is an insult! My passion is to bring something to life—if the seeds aren’t there, people don’t understand who I become. I no longer wear masks… it’s this reality that people don’t understand. Sure I can be happy! First, let me finish being a son of a bitch. A paint filled brush sits inches from my canvas… within a second; I could drop this pen, and be painting, never knowing why such a leap of faith took place. After the art is complete… I turn and thank the wind. I keep asking, “What do I want to do when I grow up?” Sadly, I’m reminded that grownups do nothing, but make new bills and then bitch about paying them.
October 28, 2001
It’s not about me
Since taking off my mask, I’m able to look at life through no one’s eyes but my own. If God were to take it all away today… left behind are the words you can firmly hold.
October 29, 2001
Dear self
When someone doesn’t give you a pat on the back, you disappear into radio’s closet. The industry has programmed you into believing if something isn’t a hit… then you aren’t wasting your time. Change that format! That’s wrong! Maybe you are a poet. I wouldn’t know! You’ve gone into hiding! You’ve run away from people. You tire too quickly when you know for a fact what it takes to get their attention.
**note… these were the words written after I decided to stop writing my novel Halloween 78. It was nearly finished when one night, while sipping wine and feeling the clouds swiftly move by… I killed off one of the main characters changing the course of its entire purpose
October 30, 2001
Unique, strange, weird and me being me
Does anyone understand what it means to constantly hear the desire to create? If so, then why isn’t anyone stepping forward to help me better understand this loud screaming called “passion?” I watch the sun rise every morning… he looks into my writing place and whispers, “You’re just as dependable as me.”
October 31, 2001
If only I could love
In minutes, the tiny children will embark on the walk so many previous generations have. It is nights like this that I wonder what my own son is doing. Then, there was silence. I paint pictures to better express the horrid emptiness that consumes my body. Call it mental-masturbation. I draw faces to better see who I am… if I can’t find me; I take on a new face.
November 1, 2001
Dear Mr. Bush
I love my country! I would die doing all I could to save her. I won’t sacrifice my life though, for a leader whose only vow is to better the world by stealing another pick pocket’s possessions.
November 2, 2001
Uncovering lost cemeteries
Come talk to me.
Come share your story.
My mind becomes blank
Each footstep remembers the trail.
I touched your headstone and now you are alive again.
You are not forgotten.
It just took this long to find you.
Builders of a dream to protect.
A poet’s written words sketched.
Hard rock with invisible fingers…
You were laid to rest and we are called to listen.
Come talk to me.
Come share your story.
How long have you been walking?
Did you really mean to call out my name?
Why has Fort Mill left you this way?
Of course I have to ask these questions!
That’s what friends do!
Come talk to me.
Come share your story.
Allow me to paint your waiting.
**note…Steve George has been hand selected to locate the hidden trails of those who once walked. I only wish everybody could spend one day with him—you’d quickly see not sight from eyes placed on foreheads, but rather insight governed by trust. On November 1, 2001, we released unto the world the spirits hidden in graves dating back two hundred years. If only the historians of Fort Mill, South Carolina, cared enough to protect their forefather’s footsteps.
November 3, 2001
To which I ignored then walked away
As a human being where do I fit in? I’d rather be alone studying a tree. If I were an owl would I be happy? Have you ever seen two of them sitting together? My desire to give up radio for a career in forestry is based solely on selflessness. My vow in life is to protect all living things.
November 4, 2001
Not on the side of the aggressor
Build for me not a fantasy—I am just as human as anyone you meet. Feed me not your
propaganda, as the taste is sweet, and it gets me high. Cast shadows take shape—fingers begin to paint… visions handed to me through writing. Listen not with opinion—for common sense is your greatest guide.
November 5, 2001
This isn’t America anymore
Walk not far, a promise is not a guarantee. Even if it were, we’re in breach. Therefore, loyalty doesn’t save your job… the interest rate is over five percent. He said, she said, we wish—until it was washed away by September 11th. We live in a society where tomorrow may bring dreams that fall into tiny pieces alongside a road—visions become septic tanks of impossibility fed by streams of silent demands placed upon yourself—knowing full well that life has put you on hold, and when you resurface…what you once held can be nothing more than a memory.
November 6, 2001
He was…
I personally live in so much fear… life itself… steals.
November 7, 2001
Hello, do you remember me?
A person can die, and still walk the earth in the very shoes he put on yesterday—death isn’t a lack of air inside your lungs, but rather a dream delivered in a stillborn state.
November 8, 2001
Battle scars I can’t see
One ratings book determines your worth. Radio! The child’s dream, and the adult’s painful nightmare—maybe I should have been a listener.
November 9, 2001
Vivid America
If what I paint is a reflection of what’s inside… and if what I paint is what I see with my own eyes—then what I paint shows a nation whose trust is near extinction.
November 10, 2001
Oh oh who pissed me off?
The view into a creative heart is open but only for a second. Any longer, and the advantage takers level the scent of flow—bringing the creative spirit a massive ill fated pain. Say what you will… only expect my reaction to be quite hard. I’d rather die in pig urine then waste my views on the continued recklessness of your behavior. Therefore, let shadows cast no wind toward your name. For no child on earth shall steal from its creators. Heal not my wounds, for they will not be forgotten. Bask in no sun to colorize the emptiness I have felt. I shall suffer the consequences of your cravings, that constantly steal… and from that pain, art will be born…signed by me, dated by me, forever living in the shadows of he who is me.
November 11, 2001
Terror within us
There’s danger outside our filtered walls… could be a plane, a bomb, or a clear envelope received in yesterday’s mail. It’s addressed to me. Is my number up? Time to go! Wave goodbye! I’m in the media! I wouldn’t kid ya… nor would the terrorists. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just Bin Ladin’s way of corrupting—turning people against their own… and I’m stuck with a really weird envelope.
note: the envelope was turned over to the Charlotte police…nothing ever came of it.
November 12, 2001
We too experience seasons
Slowly the lights are raised on this new day—in the forest, I can see the leaves still dropping. A forest of wonder set aside to enjoy the nakedness of a new season. I’ve learned to view the leafy existence of vines while allowing the trees to sleep. Maybe one day I’ll better understand the presence of fall and winter—the shortening of daylight, and a fog’s decision not to leap across the manmade lake. To be a realist has brought injury—being the actor the same. Yet both are easily me. Visions cast through me like waves of wind… which do I choose, enemy or friend? A simple giggle erupts… for knowing I can be either makes me a great actor.
November 13, 2001
This is what I see in the painting
Count not the times the fires of hell scorch your desire—leave behind the art of bewilderment, allowing trust and shame to be picked from the bad grapes… what sits within its newest shape is the wine, a rich flavored essence of time. She is a true beauty—a natural look of innocence who asks not to be judged by wars and freedom. Her look is an echo of a once lived life… she left foot prints in the soil of many chapters past, to now be freed unto an earth… to lift upward in a way of art felt love—which last centuries, rather than a moment of lust filled seconds. Welcome to my journey of painting. Welcome to my breath of expression. Feel not the art that once hid you from time—live within these pages, a welcoming place of hidden travelers. They vow to bring with them the unwritten words swiped from them at the time of their death.
November 14, 2001
Ever look back and wonder what led to?
I keep hearing the voice, “Depart from the feathers.” Not a soft gentle whisper, but extremely strong and controlling. Maybe it’s because I know in my heart that one doesn’t need feathers to feel an extreme closeness shared with any or all animals. Insecurity rages through me! I’m always trying to one up the next step—not to predict, but better prepare for a loss. I trust no one… not even the self I am. Oh Lord, am I a sick man? Am I dangerous? I ask too many questions never locating the time to get answers. My paintings all look the same. My production sounds like yesterday. I dress like I did a week ago. What am I growing into? If I do not trust, therefore I must hate… but why everybody?
November 15, 2001
Talk to me about your anger
I can’t help but “not” trust anyone, yet everyone acts as if nothing is wrong. I see and feel wickedness but their masks are too tight. They aren’t giving me a true glimpse at the evil they wreak.
November 16, 2001
Starting to let go of my Native American way
No matter how much you dream… the sweat pouring down your face represents the wine your body produces while sacrificing to get to the other side. Looking out my window into the fallen leaves of change… the world wakes each new sun wondering about the “what ifs” of modern day. Push forward we do—it’s as if we’re digging our own grave.
November 17, 2001
Who is it that speaks to me?
I walk near the presence of peace to do nothing more than listen.
November 18, 2001
A war I can’t win
My state of mind has returned to a less pride filled delivery of showmanship. I can’t plant a nice lawn, my forest looks like shit—my paintings suck! My writing isn’t unique and I’ve gained weight. Personally, I don’t feel like getting older. I hate the suffering endured during such a journey. The creases on an old man’s face are in fact battle scars of a war fought during the survival of disrespect.
It’s a painted mess, a vision no longer seen. Quick! Cover it before anyone sees it.
Blue, yellow, reddish purple—make it into anything! Mask the intruder!
Fool their eye while teasing the senses. Bring nothing to the canvas, for I have wasted ink.
November 19, 2001
The origin of the martial artist
We didn’t start this war in Afghanistan, but we do have the compassion to stop it! How many wars must a man fight before he realizes that being the king of all living things leaves his palms empty?
November 20, 2001
I’m so tired of people
People don’t get it! They think of me as this long haired freak whose only ability is to bring life to an otherwise boring piece of radio copy. If one person honestly took the time to look within, they’d notice… I’m not a radio creator! I’m a visionary who can see as well as hear life before it happens. Not because I have the gift, but the patience to view all things moving in the same repeating path.
November 21, 2001
Why I can’t accept a compliment
I take short cuts! I’m always surprised to find that taking such a path enables my abilities to quickly grab what I set out to accomplish. Nature is my enemy…it’s an ever changing creation that’s extremely difficult to allow my imagination to keep up with.
November 22, 2001
The arrival of 150 more trees
I don’t expect people to understand my visions—nor do I want them to be around when my dreams reach their highest peak inside a forest I’ve dedicated my life to. I won’t be remembered for my deeds of kindness. I will forever be recognized as the son of a bitch who envisioned way too much, and made no friends getting there. No one will say to those who hate me, “He tried not to perfect you… but to give you another view of the world that lives outside yourself.” Some days the forest is so silent… not even the wind sings her song. That’s when I know God is with me… for all things are listening.
November 23, 2001
I painted for Dr. Ronald Mack last night
When a pen or pencil is placed in my hand… the first thing that takes off is my connection to reality. Upon my return, life takes a long while to digest… it’s here that I’m greeted by depression. Depression may not be what I suffer from… maybe it’s a lack of communication with the true self I’ve always been. Without this person, it makes talking to myself quite lonely. Therefore, I’m an aging man whose best friend isn’t speaking.
November 24, 2001
No title only proof of my existence
A painting without color is an unfinished thought…
November 25, 2001
When two different people collide
The artwork I do while on the air is far off the course of reality. Being on the air creates mysticism, and or mood swings rather than private walks through creative flow.
November 26, 2001
Invasion of the bodyless snatcher
I stood in the art store for several minutes… the decision I had to make was easy—which colors of paint would I add to my collection. I walked out with nothing. Not because my imagination wasn’t fascinated, but rather the people working there didn’t make me feel as if they truly cared for art. It was a job! I watched as they playfully laughed—it’s a new store… no spooks to inspire. The cherished spirits that once freely walked through the old store hadn’t been transferred to the halls of modern day. I couldn’t have been the only one who felt this! There were six of us in the store… we left empty handed. The art of invisible presence is silence of the soul.
November 27, 2001
Fellow employees busted for drugs
The unperfected path we all take in radio is measured by limited amounts of reality. In time, all you’ve done to get where you are will turn around and bite you. If not prepared, you’ll die. I cannot predict the final outcomes of most people in radio. What I do know and fully understand is the measurement between plugging your earphones into the board for the first time, and taking them out a final time… it’s about an inch. Radio is an avenue of creative flow abused by people who spent too many years reading about the little train who thought he could.
November 28, 2001
Those busted for drugs are fired…I’m given the mop
My hands stained by the inks of radio… an unknown journey to the new travelers—the unspoken. Standing in front of a mirror I ask, “How much more can you endure?” The reply is that of an actor, “You must not worry, I’ll always be here. But never should you forget… even my abilities have scars to hide. When and where I bleed only invites the other side. The dark shadow I call the beast feeds my steps with unexplained anger and fire, with no flame to taste. Methods of torture, his words the sword—maybe the child was right… the first step should’ve been better planned… my stage is now silent.”
November 29, 2001
Beyond an addiction
My soul bleeds the blood of sadness… for another being has stolen from me. My hands, already full, opened any way… to catch the wind—to sing it back to the birds that play. A whispering of color, a laugh or two… not found in a world of terrorism. The blood of a poet’s heart, meek, and steaming, so hot… the hand races to release which in return frees the vines of their fluids… onto this page, a poet calls this his own. For no matter what happens in life… he, the poet, will always write.
November 30, 2001
We’ve lost Mr. Harrison
Although the Beatles were not part of my childhood… everything they did changed the face of who I would one day play on the radio. My first introduction to George was due in part to his song Cracker Box Palace. Like most my age, who knew that he had once belonged to a band once featuring the same man who recorded Silly Love Songs? I’ve never stopped respecting the Beatles as solo performers. I prefer them that way! That’s the way they were presented to my generation.
December 1, 2001
Paying the price for others
A cast of many shadows consume my waking imagination—I’m tired, depressed, and yet energetic. I’m out of touch with any form of reality. A gray cloud hides the rising new sun while fog empties into my dreams—winds of change, yet I’m frozen with over exaggerated assumptions and doubt. Build not for me an avenue of perfected ice cream and cookies. I only ask that you lay into the concrete one step… a single step, so that I may have poof to believe that what I say is secure.
Note: Two employees were busted for purchasing drugs then suspended from work. Without notice and total expectation I was pointed toward the path and ordered to keep it alive. That required me to work until further notice from 8am until midnight… no questions asked. Mentally, I was falling apart.
Beneath this skin an aging man sits,
a vow to the death he holds tightly inside his single grip.
A warrior of inner battles he does fight
win or lose—
the sun still sets this day this night.
Beneath his skin a dream still sits,
how it arrived is never spoken.
A coward masks the face of time,
loss becomes his chosen desire,
victory given away like items of worth,
allowing others to feel it first.
December 2, 2001
Growing up lost
I have my most fun in life when creating. If I had known this as a child, I would’ve built me a world to live in. Wait a minute! I did!
December 3, 2001
I’m not the creator only the messenger
I walked through the dimly lit house late last night—my sight caught a glimpse of an etched out personality, an echo all its own—a lyric to harmonize with and yet… I decided to go back to bed.
December 4, 2001
I divorced my first wife who had far lesson pain
While washing my hands, I looked into the eyes of the man staring back… an old man whose long hair foolishly plays with the imagination. For it’s his mask to hide behind—view the eyes, see my soul… it’s no longer the kid I once was. I felt sorry for him—he hasn’t captured too many dreams. He has a lack of confidence, or passion to remain loyal to his being, and or weaknesses. The old man looked back at me… I quickly turned, and returned to the air. My radio show continued. The pain radio has brought me sits in the hollow darkness of my soul. No path leads to it, no sun ray can attain its array of mystery. You’d never know by listening to the show, but the true self is severely injured. I guaranteed him that I wouldn’t sell my soul again… but I did. A dream isn’t supposed to reach forever—they’re escapades, fantasized bewilderments, tingles to a darkened soul. Until you wake up, and realize someone is waiting—they want proof of existence, leap, or be devoured…swim, or change everything.
December 5, 2001
We’ll miss you Stan Kaplin
People who have dreams, and then make them a reality are heroes. For any man whose heart can endure the constant beating of criticized change, is a man whose vision deserves to be remembered forever. Radio’s truest forms of talent aren’t always the lips touching the microphone. All too often it’s what you don’t see that makes disc jockeys the most talked about event in town.
December 6, 2001
Letter to R*** J
I want to thank you for giving me the chance to perform my passion. Remaining loyal to such a desire injures the soul until the bright red light turns on… then it’s all washed away.
note: The two talent accused of purchasing drugs return tonight. As difficult as it was to put myself through sixteen hour days… the end result was brilliant displays of radio showmanship.
My nights have been sleepless. My day journey filled with the drive to achieve completion. My heart was sickened, for I felt as if I had become punished. Kept are all the prayers—like a river flooding fresh from a spring, blood fled from me in the shape of passion and performance. My soul had been ripped away from the banks of its foundation, placing it onto another farmer’s territory.
If there is to be no color, then make mine in the way of all life so that change will forge your way.
note: On October 26, 2005, I lost my job at Jefferson Pilot… three days after putting these thoughts into this book. The most valuable lesson learned was the power of black magic—do not wish upon someone if you can’t live what you are wishing. The black magic curse I put on the two announcers still had enough power to end my career four years later… almost to the day.
December 7, 2001
The drug abusers were slapped on the wrist
Empty faces echo extreme sadness—hearts with sickness lead to hands with pain. Without guidance and balance, the shadow becomes a place to hide… once inside, mystery is but a game and it’s taken the shape of hatred.
December 8, 2001
1000 more trees are planted in the forest
I can’t explain the incredible joy I experience when viewing a white pine barely a year in age. It’s as if we’ve made a connection, knowingly in an understanding way that one day they must further this journey without me. It’s not the life you touch, it’s the visions you share.
December 9, 2001
My first steps away from radio
I may never be remembered for my creative ways in radio. I may never reach my personal goals of attaining success with my vocals. But, sometime, somewhere, a child will sit next to one of my trees and wonder how it got there. From the sky will fall a rainbow of thought—showers of creative flow… a song will be let go… it will whisper, “Kooshatay Ookooshtah.” A new river will be born, enabling light to reach to the next seven generations that follow.
December 10, 2001
In sickness and in health
Nothing angers me more than when something completely natural takes over my path. Every waking moment, one can’t help but wonder what may have run off—hoping to free itself from the darkness of misunderstood circumstance.
December 11, 2001
Charlotte says “Save 10% of the trees”
My heart cried to read such news. Even if only twenty trees remain—that’s twenty more than yesterday. I can’t explain my passion to preserve trees other than they’re the link between generations. What we see, hear, and feel, do, or not do, are reflected inside the circle of a tree. No magnet can erase mans behavior—only saws, which says that we really don’t care.
December 12, 2001
I died
I laugh inside knowing the possibility of change could force me to live away from my forest. If it were meant to be—I’d be the saddest man on earth. I would die.
I died in 1972—in art class. Todd Munson put me in a sleeper hold… I don’t remember falling. I do remember the hard hit—life moved at an incredible high rate of speed.
I died in 1981—the month of September in Lewistown, Montana. Sharp heart pains put me under a large light with instruments measuring every move my soul made. I stayed in ICU forever only to learn, they could never figure out why my heart stopped on that cool September night.
I often can’t see what’s in front of me—I spend way too much time turning around. The wind may change but not my steps—toward the sun I walk into tomorrow. Constantly, I prepare for the longest walk. But, I never know what to do. What will be done with my footsteps? Shall they fade into the sand? The wind turns sand into glass to be shattered somewhere on the forested floor. A shard cuts into the soul of a passerby—no blood is taken, nor is there pain to be expressed… they like me, will be left alone, to constantly be learning.
December 13, 2001
Had I known
Do you think I enjoy walking in fear? No man who creates should ever touch the cold lonely emptiness mysteriously attached to everybody’s wants and needs. My heart knows the slightest thing wrong, and my ass is out the door. What my eyes witnessed was total misbehavior by another party, and I’m left to soak in stains I didn’t create. I almost wish I would have! It’s like being punished for something my sister did.
December 14, 2001
The effects of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
As white as my eyes are… are as Native American each step I take is. My vow is to preserve what needs to be learned.
note: In all the books I’m called to read—Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee changed the way I looked into the eyes of anyone who neared my presentation. From this day forward, I feared for all mankind.
December 15, 2001
Locating answers for chapters already written
I stand before my Gods… the wind, the sun, trees, and weeds… my heart filled with their love—I too would die protecting all that is called my land, and more. Man has never changed, only his weapons of choice. These are the marking of a dreamer—til the moment comes I’m called to die. Who will sit where fingers once painted? Who will write until the ink is gone? No sunrise is the same, therefore my answer is empty. Is it the land that which calls out to me, or is it I who calls out to the land to sing?
December 16, 2001
The thought that cost me a career
There is nothing I can do, but to better understand. If life is all about capturing lessons, I’m the first in line to not only fall witness to, but to volunteer my next breath to improve a better understanding—through that, we can all become a better people.
note: In October of 2005 my career in radio abruptly came to an end because of my passion to learn about avenues of life others weren’t strong enough to deal with. Therefore, my hands are raised toward the heavens asking my creator for the ability to continue being the man I am inside, in a world of people who shall take my lessons of life, and put forth the effort of healing.
December 17, 2001
The forecast predicts an act of…
Somewhere, lost inside my nearest good mood is the key to get there—a mind full of anger, for that expression, I’m given a heart unblessed with guilt… a mood, a mind set, a state of depression. I look to my paintings, and something will explain the rhyme or reason—a music-less step forward… a silence only I can hear, a motion placed inside a glass tube, and I’m trying to visualize the purpose to any reason why the pianos sit empty.
December 18, 2001
If but for one moment someone started to write
I’ve learned more about myself by viewing the first one thousand days than I have at any other time of this pale faced life. Call these words a mirrored reflection with no hairspray or eyeliner to imperfect the mask of my true identity. I’ve learned, the forest is my life. I’ll sacrifice even my career to protect what shall live in the most sacred piece of ground. My life was empty until God gave me a sliver of his soil.
December 19, 2001
All I ever wanted to be was a radio star
Bound are the wisdoms of my travels—tied up is the imagination, even while I sleep. It kills me! It hurts me! To ask, “What’s next?” forces me to stop asking, “Who am I?” I know! I think… If I am to write poetry, then I must remain loyal to me.
December 20, 2001
Van Gogh cut off his ear
It’s a god awful dull ache in my stomach that I turn into art. I wish art wasn’t my best friend! It’s like a bad hangover! I get too much of something to make me feel good, but it only lasts a few seconds.
December 21, 2001
Dear future writers…
I am not great! Nor will I ever be… I do know that I can be anything that I wish to be—this pen in my hand; a blank page to draw… no man or woman can take from me the pleasures of being creative. Captured, but only for a moment… the wings of one thought, any thought, your thought or mine—today, any day, this moment…in ink! For a trail shall now grow, glowing from its angled perception belonging to anybody’s reality. The choice is yours, to believe, or walk away—my thoughts number in pages—no need to hear your opinion, for this place is my place—a hidden destiny to capture moments of silence.
December 22, 2001
Addictions
I woke up sick this morning—probably last nights wine. I didn’t get drunk or light headed; I just had to satisfy this need to figure out some sort of tradition.
Each painting brought to life reminds me of how I used to run home after school, and quickly try to go to sleep. I’d spend hours laying on my bed fantasizing about the way of “my” world. If given a great vision, I’d jump to my feet, and do everything I could to realize it. If it couldn’t be done, I still found enjoyment in dreaming about it. I don’t set out to paint a portrait… it locates me, and orders me to follow.
December 23, 2001
Celebrating Valentines Day everyday
Little Mish walks around the house surveying the remnants of a party that once was—
Personally, I’d like to do another! You can’t help but love what comes together during a night of letting go laced with laughter. The morning after, the birds still sing… the puppies are exhausted, and damn if the sun still didn’t rise. Your mind replays the conversations—guys talked sex, and the girls want to investigate every corner. Somehow, someway, we all meet in the middle on the dance floor. The floor is dirty, the trash can is filled to the brim, and yet here I sit holding all the memories.
December 24, 2001
The constant attack
Sometimes, you sit back and do all you can to rest the heart, soul, and imagination—writing is my thirty to sixty minute walk into the rays of darkness to seek light in places where moods grow. I don’t mean to be this angry self! If just once, someone would follow each trail leading toward me… they’d locate the abuse others offer. It doesn’t make me angry, only silent… therefore; you’re left to assume what it’s all about.
note: Two years in a row my yearly evaluation accused me of not getting along with other employees. At no time during my twelve years with Jefferson Pilot did anyone from management take the time to see through my eyes. The best way to handle the situation was to outlast their call for duty—on the day of my letting go, I proudly looked into the GM’s eyes and said, “I’m glad it was you who is here… welcome to my brand new beginning.”
December 25, 2001
God’s new gift
A vision handed to me on God’s holiest day—my life is like a tree. People constantly question my work ethics, “How do you find time to do so much?” Staring into the forest, I hold a new painting—everything I do is a branch, education, career, and spirituality. Not a family tree, it’s a life tree! Like a seedling, you begin your growth allowing all storms to come and go. I’m able to sway with each source of energy while not stealing from the other branches… this tree is me.
December 26, 2001
The scent of an artist
Learn from the avenues of challenge so that tomorrow will arrive before dusk. Let no mirror reflect your emptiness.
December 27, 2001
Documentation of God speaking to me
The wind has changed, and I’ve been left to find a way out of this aging forest. Suddenly, I’ve become focused on something completely invisible. It’s time to live life as a rock inside another person’s foundation. Silent, is the vision until I become whisper-less—only to hear someone speak, “Be the stone that stands, but never sits.”
December 28, 2001
So foolish you are R*** J to think you know me
The canvas is ripped—her eyes don’t question. The beauty of her soul sings into the palms of my imagination. Nothing becomes, unless challenged. I can’t shake the rage. I can’t run from the fear. I can’t heal the shape shifting hatred that consumes not one hour, but hundreds of days. I’ve masked my emotions! I’ve painted with highlighted weaknesses. I’ve done nothing more than create a destructive tool for others to use against me. Walk not far, and I will change—the actor has the ability to bleed real blood, but never a tear generated from the hidden pain.
December 29, 2001
Pre-black belt Tae Kwon Do
Performed on the air last night—radio has been my stage since the moment I discovered vinyl. It took no time to grasp my imagination—it’s taking a lifetime for me to let go. I once said, “I’d love to one day be part of radio’s Hall of Fame!” Radio never gave me the chance to be me. I’ve relied too much on another man’s dream. Radio isn’t the star-maker it used to be… not until the former Taco Bell wanna-bes head back to the border. I’m not a brilliant man, nor do I pretend to be. We all have closets and mine is now open… it must remain this way till death invites me to stay—I’m not angry or hurt just hollow, silent and unheard. I’m sorry isn’t enough, I’m more lost today than a mole in search of high noon.
December 30, 2001
Steps unexpected
Here’s what’s left of the year… it’s done nothing, but open my eyes to show how short this journey really is. Within seconds, three thousand people lost their lives in NYC. There weren’t any warnings. At any moment, this pen could be silenced—am I ready? I always say, “Yes!” Yet lately, as I near forty…I almost want to live more.
December 31, 2001
The cut to bleed from the path of existence
I can’t change anything—nor can I invite monsters from the past to go away. Every day, they walk with me… If I don’t look at them, they don’t exist. If I’m blocked by their presence—I refuse them the honor of looking straight into their eyes.
January 1, 2002
When fear no longer exists
What you do at midnight on New Years eve is what you’ll do the rest of the fifty two weeks—looking back over the past twelve hours… I’ll be more open with men while singing horribly out of tune.
January 2, 2002
Unpredictable life change lies ahead
Change never really happens—lost weight is gained education. A better way to eat feeds no dreams… we spend too much time worrying. Then depression sets in—your mind becomes cold, lonely, and sinned. Too bad years are only numbers—so is weight, so why can’t we just be happy?
January 3, 2002
In time we shall part
I take great pride in knowing that I’m a transplanted Montanan—it’ll make getting away much easier. Snow purifies the trail. It gives to me a mask to hide behind. While most run from the depths of its glistened avenues, I tend to skate toward chapters passed, believing my true spirit lives inside the wild mountains that make up my once lived footsteps.
January 4, 2002
For we all shall fall to Corporate America
It’s hard to stay focused when the rest of the world depends on nothing. We live inside tiny houses built on one rule—expect expectation. There are few too many hard working individuals left who believe in the theory, “I shall make someone else look better than me so that in time, a bridge of my own can be built. Then maybe, I can finally feel accepted.”
January 5, 2002
The manifestation of a poet’s window
Nothing is masked after the snow arrives—the ground, now covered… has not a drop of energy to pull from the nakedness of living. The trees resemble sticks stuck feet first in vanilla frosting.
January 6, 2002
It’s not about me
Interviewer: What do you get out of building these books filled with art?
It’s an opportunity to see my best work in one place—I’m allowed to dream beyond the dream.
Interviewer: Do you still dream of one day being a famous painter?
Not really… I mean, anyone can paint—the only thing that makes me unique is where I place my expressions. I dream of one day meeting the people who will collect my journals… for this is where the true artist lives. I can’t take the art with me; therefore I shall place it in the hands of the collector. Don’t fight the flood, endure its purpose. There’s no such thing as bad art, bad writing, or bad attempts at being yourself—those who offer judgment have forgotten where they once stood. If I question, it’s because I’m listening. I don’t fight to be the better man—I challenge you to become the better fighter. Who am I? I don’t know! It’s been the biggest argument I’ve ever lost.
note: In November of 2005, from out of nowhere an art agent approached my musical efforts. The music of my soul will be put on display and sold starting December 1st. My webpage arroe.net expresses this view for all to see: Being an artist requires one thought: be true to yourself and rainbows will follow. This is the art that flowed from my fingertips into the colors of your eyes. They are the invisible messages that reached through me to touch your dreams come true. If there is a piece of music you wish to keep, allow me to share my song.
January 7, 2002
Wanna shake hands?
When I sketch, I feel nothing but warmth—my mind travels so far away that it’s impossible for me to return quickly. This is why depression sets in so easily. I’ve always traveled! Some see it as day dreaming—not this poet… it will one day be documented as the origin of my silence. Fewer people will assume, and I’ll finally be recognized as the artist I am.
January 8, 2002
Spirit guides and keepers
I don’t look forward to the day when the clouds take Woji from my side—he’s my forest buddy, my pal, my son—he’s the light when I wake up at two in the morning. I love to smoosh my face into his Maltese white fuzz earning the honor of hearing him whisper, “More.”
note: I lost Woji on September 28, 2005—my best friend fought the champions fight. At the age of 16 ½ he was asked to return to heaven wearing a martial arts black belt—symbolizing his passion to never take his eyes off the path of the open palm. It was unconditional love at all costs. His loss came almost two months after we lost Nicki who was 15. Neither man nor woman should ever be forced to lose two children inside the four walls of a fifty two week span.
January 9, 2002
Warning—they don’t fucking care
People tend to forget—being a multi-task talent doesn’t mean, “I’m open game.” I’m consumed by other people’s projects! Their reaction, always the same—a guilt trip… I respond with anger. Within seconds, their view of me being gentle becomes overshadowed by a raging idiot. Those who entered my studio run to the boss. Being a multi-task talent guarantees me nothing. I’m not a bitter man, and yes I wear my heart on this writing hand sleeve. My loyalty means nothing to these people at Jefferson Pilot. I smile while moving forward, whatever it takes to get them out of my way.
January 10, 2002
When Vodka is your only way out
I came home last night dangerously depressed… One day I dream of locating the reason behind the purpose. I’d rather know why I’ve fallen than sit in a car alone hurting an invisible pain that nobody, but I can see. I don’t want a guaranteed job! I’m only interested in discovering the truth behind why I can’t change. I’m dead in this human suit. My dreams are dead. My passion is dead. My loyalty is bloodless, and my desire is empty. I have no tears to cry, no song to sing, no sweat to pour. I’m aimless, reckless, and not willing to breathe. Without air, I see silence—somehow they own that too.
January 11, 2002
In search of Clarence
It’s one of those mornings when you know something unexpected is going to happen—then it doesn’t. It’s a total waste of energy! The body doesn’t allow you to forget it! You settle in, your mind travels, and you become depressed, forcing the hand of the unexpected—which is usually an argument with someone at the most inappropriate time.
January 12, 2002
Black magic
Knives are not my weapon of choice, nor are blades, and other addictions already defeated. My mouth is my weakness… It has the ability to cut into my victims, forcing them to reach for higher deciding powers. My seeking isn’t revenge or ill-fate. Not even
my eyes whisper the hollow curse. To let it go means someone will get hurt—the pounding you deliver hath no feather, its fist against soul—blade versus submission, which in return breaks blood vessels, but not the drive that feeds what’s truly hungry. Predictability gives wisdom to my curse. Availability is your blind self walking, toward me, near me, beside me… I’m not at a loss of words to share—for my silence is the only word you can’t stand to hear.
January 13, 2002
Blood stains on my dreams come true
How much more of this can I take? Am I my grandfather who suffered a heart attack at his place of employment? I’m not addicted to being in radio! My weakness is watching what could be—turn into a used to be. It’s as if JP has been turned loose on a freeway, and they’ve got nothing to protect them from dying. What are my chances of surviving versus protecting the feet that keep this weakness moving forward? One day someone will look at me and wonder, “What freight train hit you?” Through my own weirdness I will find enough silence in my heart to do nothing, but sit there and laugh. The final outcome is or isn’t what you expect to come face to face with.
January 14, 2002
Somewhere over a rainbow
My loyalty and or willingness to sacrifice can be easily compared to a dog. The owners or receivers can change, but never the unconditional spirit I bring. Basically meaning, no matter who I work for… my presentation will always be, “How can I save your ship?” I paint pictures to release the negative vibrations that consume my assumption. Assuming it works, I decide to set down the mask, and start feeling better. A rising sun sits next to me… yet I feel empty. Ask me who I am, and all I am will speak.
January 15, 2002
I’m not alone inside this universe of hell
Oh how I can relate with numb depression—you can hit walls, break glass, scream at people, even cut deep into your arm and numb is all you feel. When reality sets back in, any path taken is filled with bruises, cuts and emptiness, and it all came from a moment of being numb.
January 16, 2002
The contemplation of career suicide
The painting is about suicide. As much as the tiny bear thinks he’s become invisible, the white goose retrieves the air from his final vision blowing it back in his direction. The goose’s thought, “There’s no proof of reincarnation—therefore, your choice should be to live.”
Interviewer: Why suicide? Are you thinking death?
This career has bloodied all my visions, leaving me with no hope or song. The painting represents what Corporate America has done to my ambition to achieve survival. No matter what’s sacrificed, there’s no space available for me to attain growth, unless the soul bleeds a deathly white—which does nothing, but enable you with a passion to let go. Modern America is filled with seekers and finders—to be both, living becomes death, and through death the chance is given birth. Without sight, I stand to fall again.
January 17, 2002
At war with no scenery to fall
The depression has set in—this time with great strength. Gee, I wonder if it’s because I never know what the fuck I’m going to be doing at work. I’m not in touch with reality! I’m doing everybody’s job! I wake up in the middle of the night stretching very hard and long—am I like a snake trying to shed his skin? Do I have the strength to pull from me this layer of bullshit? Reality is fantasy, only because we do everything not to embrace reality. Until then, I’m nothing more than a fat Shakespearian dreamer with Picasso inabilities. My paintings are real, but not the heart that placed them on paper. Anytime I actually believe in this self I have become, is the day I should take his life for no other reason than he killed me first. Depression is when you’re left standing in a room looking at yourself, and that self says, “I’m damn glad I’m not you today.”
January 18, 2002
Hello mamma, something’s not right
If any ambition is left to dilly dally with… it would be to mend the relationship between myself, and the person looking back in the mirror. I live off the depths of any depression, believing that career pressure fine tunes a better craft. Then, without warning—you don’t want to breathe anymore. Nothing escapes, except your evil selfless thoughts.
January 19, 2002
Mamma stopped listening shortly after birth
Few people see my hands… I laugh at the multitudes of color waiting to be washed off. Upon the arrival of such thought, I page through my daily journals to see what these hands brought to life. Painting isn’t a power trip. It allows me the opportunity to visit far away mountains filled with nothing but dull faded shadows and no wind to blow in new storms. I wonder if people know that I don’t use brushes… my fingertips bleed, for they know the story left behind. It will be these chapters that will one day be loved more than my radio roots. I envision these books of writing and paintings inside glass frames—no favorite painting turned to, just the ruffled feathers of a once living tree gifted by a once living artist, who in return inspires the odd child to believe that he or she can be more than the quiet one, whose imagination does nothing but scream at them.
January 20, 2002
Mamma I stopped loving me too
I remember being a kid who couldn’t stop creating—I kept it hid from the rest of the world. I feared what they’d say. Today, nothing has changed… part of who I am, is based on this enormous need to be mysterious only to laugh it off when asked. Nobody knows me! Not even the self I think I am. People have accused me of being unique. I feel like a freak! I can’t see anything—except anger, depression and a need to constantly be creative. I’m just me.
January 21, 2002
Fuck the world I’ve arrived, the depression is over
I’d rather spend my time documenting dreams to come back to one day. Build for me no path to follow for I will make my own. Build for me no song to sing for I’m capable of doing my own. I can paint without numbers and speak without wonder. I’ve been to hell and back, trust me, its no place to build a path. I seek the unsought unveiling his creations of silence… to better fill the cups made of pebbles, believing clouds need not burst if paths are not visibly first.
January 22, 2002
Painting John Combs newborn
My art is an example of what I feel without having to feel. When I stare into a photograph, I’m able to visualize what this child was thinking before the flash captured her expression. That to me is art, not the final piece.
January 23, 2002
Without change there is no new me
Sometimes my growth as an artist goes so fast, I instantly fall out of love with something once cherished. I can stare into a painting until it no longer has life. All too often, I shove a painting aside believing the artist did nothing more than capture a mood, and it’s trapped forever inside the canvas.
January 24, 2002
Hindsight whispers the devils curse
I keep looking into the forest knowing that my next project is to change the course of the stream—yet I am doing nothing about changing the course of my life. A forest changes without warning, to study its purpose must remain the first step toward correcting it. Humans are fooled by nature’s green mask—vines that reach up and around the soul of a tree are acting as if life is being given rather than stolen. The tree doesn’t exist anymore; the power of the mask took away all that once was hidden. For too long I’ve written about the beauty of the green, only to learn I’ve been out acted by a vine covered former tree.
January 25, 2002
When you have to say fuck off to the world
Who cares if I don’t get credit for saving the forest! No one will know of the incredible joy I received watching these tiny seedlings reach upward toward unconquered goals and dreams come true.
January 26, 2002
Shrug your shoulders and say, “Such is life.”
Something isn’t right about life—we grow to love only to lose. From that loss, growth continues only to lose again and again, eventually reaching the final chapter. With each thought, new visions arrive. If the choice is to set them free, you may never be blessed again with the opportunity to return.
January 27, 2002
My spiritual friend is dead
Loonis said to me, “Why don’t people enjoy preserving the past?” Shrugging my shoulders I answered, “Because we enjoy wearing masks. We live in a world where we paint our destiny. As long as we wear a mask, we can be anybody we want without remembering who got us here.” Looking deep into my eyes, the music legend whispered, “Maybe so…” The room became silent only to hear his follow up, “Do me a favor, study your past, and preserve its history.”
note: The Charlotte Observer 2002: Loonis McGlohon wrote songs with succulent lyrics and melodies, recorded more than thirty-five albums and on the piano accompanied many of the worlds finest singers—Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett and Judy Garland.
I didn’t know this side of Loonis; we had become creative energies that happened to meet in hallways, places of dining and at the occasional city park festival. We never spoke of experiences. It was always about nothing, and in the end that simple thought about nothing became another undocumented moment of spirit filled travel. There were never gaps between our generations; it seemed our mission was to forge a way into the pages of life by means of teaching how important a footprint is to an untouched garden blessed with rich soil. What Loonis doesn’t know is that one of my most famous paintings was inspired by his passing. The owner of that painting is Derek James, who to this day admits to proudly displaying the birth of a butterfly on his walls to enjoy. I cried when Derek purchased this work of art, not because I wanted a member of Loonis’ family to own it… I knew Derek was the next generation of broadcasters, and in his own way he’d never forget who walked before him and through their light he would teach the importance of being what a true creative offers to the world… the gift of changing life.
Two months before his passing, Loonis spent many hours in my studio—he sat there with a friend watching me create. Before leaving, he placed an extremely shiny compact disc on my desk—there was no handwriting on it, not even a fingerprint. I thought nothing of it; people put things on my desk all the time then forget to take them. I kept calling him, I’d get no answer. I’ve always felt like a thief. My occasional friend stops in for a moment, and here I sat with a collection of songs from his most recent recording session.
Note: This wasn’t the first time something of this nature had taken place. Maurice Williams, a legendary Rhythm and Blues performer sat quietly on my sofa watching me piece together a commercial for his best friend Ray Gooding. During his departure, he forgot to let go of my hand… so much so, music fell from his fingertips into my soul. I dropped everything I was doing. My body began to write. I penned out a song that very few have heard, and yet I stand so proud when I say,” Maurice Williams gave it to me.”
Anytime an artist neared my studio, their masks were left at the door. Many were fascinated with the art covered walls while others chose to do nothing more than talk openly about nothing—Rob Thomas, Seal, Jason Miraz, Johnny Reznick from the Goo Goo Dolls, Tal Bachman… The only person who chose to never talk to me was Clay Aiken. I started my conversation too harsh, “You are a common man from a common background who has seemingly won the hearts of millions—are you the re-incarnation of Elvis Presley?” Clay called security on me. To this day, no other artist, or musical creator, has stepped near my open door no mask policy. In looking back, I’d say that’s where my radio career came to an end.
January 28, 2002
Multi tasking a mood
Reality is what time steals. Knowing this, I’m learning how to let go of the past in hopes the future may live in peace. In 1981, Paul Damon looked sharp into my eyes and said, “Don’t stop where your dreams wish to be.” I didn’t listen… Sixteen years later, I not only stopped, but I quit paying attention.
Interviewer: If you could change one thing about you, what would it be?
My fear of people—Arroe fears nothing. When I become myself, I’d rather be alone, create alone, listen to the wind alone… silence is my best friend.
January 29, 2002
The monkey was then handed a stick to use as a tool
When will time free me from these multitudes of horrible depressions? My first day back at work, and I’ve fallen so far I can’t see over my heartbeat. I’m damaged merchandise, a tramp, a dirty whore! All I ever hear is, “I want! I need! I demand!” Where on this path did I exchange life for death? Do I smell of rotten onions? Has death consumed my being? I question life only to demand that I be treated fair. I see battle wounds in my soul—blood so thick that I puke it out through my fingertips. Am I to run to a doctor, and feed off his drugs? Does a doctor’s pill stop someone from throwing their job at me? Why should I become addicted to a false happiness, if my picture frame is what steals from the presence of this masterpiece? I beg not to be them! I beg not be sour! I beg not at all! I only wish to be happy!
January 30, 2002
Recognition from the competition
Be it, whatever it may… call it, what you would like—every now and then, someone walks by. They pat me on the shoulder, and then sit across the table—looking at me, studying… “What?” I laughingly question. “Where do you get the creativity?” They softly reply. Be it, whatever it may… call it, a spirit guide—a voice with no name, no face, just a lot of damn energy, to walk through darkness… onto this page.
note: The decision to leave JP was handed to me by a competing radio station—a program director/morning show talent who wanted nothing more than a mid-day air talent. Consumed by bronchitis, and a fear of having no insurance for my son, Damian… I let those energies control a decision that should have been ‘yes’. If I had taken the time to page through my journals, to read the words you’ve seen before this day, no questions would’ve been asked. Instead, I chose to accept my punishment like an abused wife, “He’ll change! I swear my man will change!” A prostitute never leaves her john.
January 31, 2002
Most people would become alcoholics
I often push so hard into the paper… what’s created visits other chapters. As much as I want to laugh, is the number of times I know my personalities should never mix. I call what I do a sickness! It’s not normal to locate ways to exercise the imagination beyond the point of physically believing I have the ability. I can’t sit in silence—the moment that occurs, I’ve lost my drive to be constantly unique. A painting is never complete until I have perfectly ruined it.
February 1, 2002
I can’t go back…my friend is hurting
I’m having a difficult time trying to understand why I’m everyone’s backup, but nobody’s top dog? They get the awards, the ratings, the wins, and losses. They smoke dope, show up late, and I have to pay the price. I can’t help but feel that common sense has run away, and I’m stuck babysitting the skeleton that remains. It’s very difficult for me to open my eyes when all I see is people wanting more. Radio production isn’t my passion—for that matter radio isn’t either… I’m only here because someone won’t back me up.
February 2, 2002
If winning is a choice, who am I talking to?
My pen gives me a place to close these eyes and travel—not a single inch can be moved until you’ve allowed yourself access to what my imagination is willing to share. Mess with my mind, and you too may become addicted to paint stained ambitions left on paper. One day I wish to locate the answer to this dull ache in my soul. The burning desire is to look outward—to stare out into an untouched soil of opportunity. Sadly, until I gain the confidence to step forward, I feel this dull ache is nothing more than the center of my soul calling me a coward. Old man that I am becoming… a fear of failure is too heavy to hold. So weigh out the odds and let go. So turn around and push forward. Old man that I am now… why did you just sit there? Old man that I am now, I have so little time to believe in your ability.
February 3, 2002
In memory of…
Give me a river, and I’ll show you a way to preserve its course. Give me tomorrow, and I’ll show you a new generation taught by the loyalty of trust and faith as fed to him by the destruction he could have performed but chose to listen. If anyone comes in search of me, I’ll return soon. My lungs are no longer filled with air; this depression has taken everything from me. I think its best I walk now.
note: This was a handwritten letter I gave to a secretary before running from my job. I had just learned that one of Charlotte’s most respected Program Directors Don Bell had passed.
February 4, 2002
Try and talk me out of daily writing
It’s a matter of choices—homelessness or life filled, overworked or lazy, healthy or risk taking? Then, without notice, your mind becomes infected—depression feeds no water to creative flow. The riverbed dries… The sun still wakes, but the chapters are written without you. Choice seems unforgiving. I didn’t choose to get sick, or to let go! The choices were made for me—only to learn that a net had been placed below the falling ambitious connection. In looking back, I see answers. I also notice plenty of places where “choice” would’ve made a difference… but I chose to walk this way instead. Who dreams of one day being forty? Suddenly, you’re there! If lucky, the scars of several battles fought sit in the corners of your eyes while the scars of battles lost live in dark caverns somewhere, and everywhere I feel empty. The “choice” becomes willingness—to rebuild, or walk the very steps life gifted me… until it was time to realize some answers will never be located.
February 5, 2002
I’ve entered hell
Someone needs to communicate with me! I’m out of trust! I have no faith! I no longer have belief in this self I am. If any of these are missing—you know what the consequences are. In my current state, I’ve left more blood behind than any other time and yet, I pretended everything is alright. Silence sips on tea while I bleed.
note: At the time this was written, I didn’t realize how sick my body had become. Consumed by bronchitis headed for pneumonia… I laid in bed putting blame on everything but the self that couldn’t run from, the source of negative energy that had stolen my desire to create. Therefore, I wore masks, even in sickness to protect the desire to create. Diane Trace, a fellow employee once handed me the lyrics to Hotel California written by Don Henley and Glenn Frey.
Mirrors on the ceiling
Pink champagne on ice
And she said
We are all just prisoners here
Of our own device
And in the master's chambers
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives
But they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember
I was running for the door
I had to find the passage back to the place I was before
Relax said the nightman
We are programmed to receive
You can check out any time you like
But you can never leave…
February 6, 2002
The unseen foresight of a career divorce
My eyes are fogged, my nose is closed—my throat hurts, and my breath probably stinks! Aspirin doesn’t cure the pain, but I do have a bottle of Gatorade. Please let me just go! I know for sure, I didn’t ask for this cold. Some see sickness as the easiest way to ask for a day off—my view is that of the job attacking “me.” Something has weakened me! I shall place blame on those who’ve made me their slave.
February 7, 2002
The competing station wants to hire and I said, “No.”
I’m tired of fearing for my job—I don’t feel wanted. I am though, the casting couch of everybody’s needs. When you don’t trust, it’s time to move forward—management must know what’s going on! Therefore, I’m stuck to live in their denial. I created this situation, and know in my heart that facing any departure will be more painful to me than anyone else.
note: It was always my fantasy to leave this horrid place of business during a moment management couldn’t control. I assumed it would be during one of their long weeks away at strategic meetings. Little did I know that subconsciously, my October 2005 firing would hurt them more than a mysterious letter suddenly appearing. I am not proud of the events that have taken place, nor do I feel the people who brought on my pain understand the number times I cut into my skin with rusted razor blades. I carry with me numerous scars on my left arm… they have nothing, and that’s not the way it was supposed to be.
February 8, 2002
I’m not leaving
The faces you’ve worn, the stories can’t be told—for even I don’t remember anymore. I try to never stop, for I know inside your heart… a rose is born. So I press forward, throwing on new color—nothing seems right, the storms of passing thought… they give me nothing, not even sight.
My reasons for staying are as such: I’m the stick figure inside an abusive marriage. It doesn’t matter how hard they hit me as long as I don’t bleed in public. What I fear isn’t their next attack, but rather if the new place wanting to hire me will deepen the wounds with weapons I can’t see. I cannot face the onslaught of faceless characters that may leave me with no room to grow.
note: I sit in great sadness when researching these pages, for I know what the final outcome would bring. I became blinded by doors I locked, work that would never stop, and a hidden desire to become an artist with the excuse of being unique. They knew I was weird, so I proved it. In doing so, I paid the price. I have lost my desire to love, to trust, to hold, and bring forth the efforts to educate without offering opinion. What I didn’t realize is how it would affect my entire life. I became my own victim.
February 9, 2002
Birds are jazz singers
Have you ever stopped…looked around you and noticed the number of birds watching you? I call it a dance with the elegance of innocence.
February 10, 2002
Dear God, I’m in trouble
The farther you push responsibility away—the less you’ll be responsible. A true broadcaster listens to all roads leading to and from the fort—they never have to hear conversation… for a true broadcaster knows it, by feeling it in the gut. My only choice is to decide if I’m going to work today—when sickness takes from me my only choice, I’m more willing to die than pursue any effort to better the path for others to follow… it’s then that I realize… there’s nobody behind me.
February 11, 2002
The first sign of change is recognition
I find it to be fascinating—this addiction to negativity. It’s never boring, except I feel mentally crazy. The body reacts in so many different ways—today I’m sick… wait! That’s what I was yesterday, and the day before. Maybe this isn’t so fascinating—being sick is too much of a negative.
February 12, 2002
What will it take to convince to come to my station?
Take care of me! Don’t treat me like a star but keep me feeling important. Allow me to grow—don’t stunt my ability of being unique. There’s not a lot for you to do until you finally realize something’s gone very wrong.
February 13, 2002
What I create is located in the very place we all travel—a well known destination between sight and sound. The very un-noticed second your imagination slips away, the bright blue pool I sip water from gains access to my writing and painting.
note: This quote was handed to me in a dream—I was hosting an art show, the work was looked upon by hundreds of people… then someone whispered, “Where does it come from?” On December 4, 2005 seventy five pieces of my art went on world wide display—in less than a week over nine hundred people had stopped by for a sip of the water that gifts me with the ability to paint.
February 14, 2002
What is death and how do I get there?
One day, I wish to be looked upon as being more than just a broadcaster—my true identity falls between too many people making demands. Instead of calling me creative, why not say, “He did all he could to make sure that everyone, but him, had a payoff. He took us to a level only he saw, but never took the time to enjoy it.” The day I die, is the day my fellow employees will have to report to work. They’ll be forced to produce their own creative ideas! Most importantly, they’ll have to step into the silence I always heard.
I don’t find enjoyment writing about myself. What fascinates me is how I bitch, and moan about the world coming to an end, only to realize, three years later, I’ve wasted a lot of good energy on nothing. The goal should be—lay low without a single breath of air escaping.
February 15, 2002
What is death and how will I know when I get there?
No white wall sits empty in front of me—characters the size of monsters leap out toward my face… playfully, I search for their tails. The gift I wish to hold is having the opportunity to touch life several years after pouring it from this soul. The more I know, the less I feel—too much information has made me a machine.
February 16, 2002
Mystic or mud?
The people at Barnes and Noble look at me strange—in walks a long haired, middle aged man who opens up a black art book and feels its pages. The smooth texture ignites the innocence of a smile, which I assumed only the artist could see. Upon paying for the new book of extremely white paper, I had difficulties locating my license. The employee smiles and says, “That’s ok, I know who you are.” While leaving, I turned to wish her an enjoyable day only to learn she had reentered her circle of friends, a conversation for them only. I found it to be quite interesting—she knows who I am? I don’t even know that answer.
note: Toward the end of my writing on the 16th… I came across a quote that represents my belief of not knowing who I am. In daily writing, if you allow it to happen… God sneaks in his messages.
It doesn’t matter if I’m the abused creator of a horrible relationship—what’s important here is the strength of my loyalty and dedication. I’ve spent my entire life hoping nobody else walks out on me—to run from this radio station makes me my father—to stay makes me wonder why I left my first marriage. Radio is what radio is—to think, or believe it as anything different, in a place of different people, fails to prove the grass is greener on the other side of the fence.
February 17, 2002
Interviewer: In comparison to 1999, what changes do you see in your art?
Every day is a new lesson learned—has anyone studied Picasso’s private practice grounds? Or did they; like they, would mine… throw them away? The great artists had to have throw aways! The art they fell out of love with… All things can’t be a classic masterpiece. The great artists displayed their works to only those who supported them. How else could they have made it? I don’t believe the masters of art knew everything—nor do I wish to believe Picasso had the touch every time he put paint on the tip of his brush. The great artists had to have heard silence—where else did the painted music come from? To be so decisive in expressing it, only to give it away or sell it for thousands and thousands of dollars—tell me, who was the real critic?
note: The reason why the interviewer asked about 1999 is, because that’s where I was in my research for the book “One Man’s 1021 Thoughts.” I stood in 2002 looking back at the works of three years earlier. Today is December 12, 2005, and another three years have passed. I’m doing research for “Another 1021 Thoughts.” Today, I’m looking back at the artist of 2002, and starring into the soul of the artist from 1999—this is why writing on a daily basis is such the perfect gift from God. I see so much; feel even more, while hearing the soft strokes of a brush igniting the imagination of a self destined to be creative. How many people can say, “I have physical proof of my growth—from seed to death?”
February 18, 2002
Beginning middle and end—the story
I think people are used to me… they know I’ll eventually break, the end result—they got what they originally wanted. People know me like the back of their hand.
The closer I get to forty, the more it feels like this is nothing more than another chapter.
My imagination loves to play… it’s the only toy I’ve kept throughout my entire life.
February 19, 2002
I am a boss’s worst nightmare
The letting go of anything, everything—created, or uncreated… senseless, or carefully planned out. I live in fear. Why should I go to work knowing how incredibly mean they’re going to be to me? Because that’s how all of modern day America is living! Do I stay, or do I live in poverty?
February 20, 2002
Words given to me in a dream
Bring no judgment with you—the value of every step you make is placed in your ability to listen. The problem is based on how we feel our opinions matter. If you start with an open mind, you’ll learn it’s that opinion that brings the damage. At all costs, listen.
February 21, 2002
I’m not an animal!
My efforts don’t go unrecognized…they go unrewarded. I am the soldier that stands up without fear—bullets screaming by my face, and yet he continues to push his regiment toward the enemy’s flag. That’s not an ability you teach someone—that gift is a self driven need to bring all he can to the people around him. When the soldier is hit by enemy fire, he still has what it takes to climb back onto the trail, only to continue walking. Eventually he will die… few will call him a hero—others will only see his bad side.
February 22, 2002
The first step to my biggest mistake in life…staying
Why am I treated as if I’m constantly being punished? How can one man hold so many cards, and never have the ability to win the game? All I want you to say is, “You love me and we don’t have to talk.” For the rest of my life, I’ll have to live with the decision that I’m about to make—
R*** J: If you’re asking about your importance at this company, I can answer that… If you’re wondering if it would injure what we do… I can honestly say, “Yes.” If you’re asking me to make the decision for you… I won’t. We all get opportunities, and I won’t stand in the way of one of yours. You’re so talented! You should be getting offers! Why wouldn’t someone want you? The only thing I can say is, “I’m sorry.” The situation with the night talent dealt with a lot of legal stuff… if anyone seemed off balance or crude, I’m sorry… but there’s no one in this building that’s ever said, “You’ve got to go.” My vision of this radio station is coming into place—will it work? I don’t know. Do I need you to achieve this vision? Yes…
Money isn’t the issue here! The only thing I want to know is if I’m a member of this team?
Steve Sklinar: You created this mess! You run to everybody’s rescue! You don’t have a life, because this entire building depends on any effort you make. There are two things you have to do in life—take care of your family and make money… outside of that, it’s not your problem. In every situation, someone is going to get hurt—whatever the decision, keep the pain only to one person. In time, they’ll get over it. A group of people won’t.
February 24, 2002
Suicide alert
My newest painting represents the mask placed within the soul; it hopes that covering my heart will teach me to be even a better actor.
February 25, 2002
Murdering myself
The only reason why I write is because it affects me. This is where I come to bleed. This is where I come to be real. I need this openness, or visibility won’t exist. This day by day decision to sit within the soul of a writer proves to me that somewhat of a life does grow.
February 26, 2002
Wallowing in unchanged motor oil
It’s a weird day… my gut instinct is screaming in a foreign language. My silence is nothing, but a mental documentation or planned strategy of how your words will soon be freed leading straight back in your direction. My mistakes are no different than other path makers—if this serves as a problem, we need to work it out, not fire invisible words of destruction. Hatred lives beneath my skin—a hatred of self and everything inner. I’ve thought of ways to control it, possibly hide it… forgetting doesn’t work! I know how I got here—I know what it’s made of. To return means more pain… pain becomes hatred, hatred is what I would love to forgive, but to which day do I give the blessed feeling toward? I create circles which are never complete.
February 27, 2002
Nothing ever changes
Interviewer: Why don’t you get along with people?
I never have! My entire life has been spent walking the steps of a solo man’s foot. I’d rather run, than have to play. I meant to hurt no one! All I ever wanted to do was make someone who felt bad think about a better way to live. That’s my crime! I’m being punished for it! I admit all things done wrong. If I had abused drugs… I’d be your hero.
February 28, 2002
The Lord’s prayer
The mental wounds are deeply cut into a wrist that cannot battle to save its life. Be it oh Lord, the test of all tests… but Lord does it have to be my death? Am I the fierce lion with a silent roar? Do I walk with no weapons purely out of choice? Tell me oh Lord, why hath the blood of my corporate brother lain wasted on my grave? I am in question as to whom I am to be—to become so many faces… I have fallen to my knees unable to cry, for the soldier inside is meant to die. Be it oh Lord, the test of all tests… before I close my final breath, answer to each of them only one wish… don’t sever he who sacrificed, for I am he who has become nothing more than silent.
**note—while you page through these 1021 thoughts…I invite you to keep in mind—this book isn’t to serve as an autobiography. The emotions you feel are very real, and have the power to invite anger, depression, and protectiveness, as well as a need to help the author. That’s not the purpose of this book. I’ve dedicated my honest approach to writing to help you—to put forth the effort of giving you a place where reality’s bite can be eased. Although the events of these 1021 thoughts are very true—my only request is, tell your heart, “I don’t know the author.” The pain for me is too deep, your reaction, be it silent, be it vocal, or held in the highest warmth available to any man or woman, is but an open wound… it brings great injury to me, having to live through it again, and again. Learn from my path, take from my path, build new foundations to a of place higher levels of creative flow… my only wish is to keep your focus on the future, and not imprisoned within the tangled webs once lived. These thoughts now serve as a reason for you to share positive outcomes from pitfalls and failures that once consumed your dreams come true.
The Poet M’e
December 16, 2005
March 1, 2002
I don’t play games anymore
If I don’t start viewing the world through better eyes—I’ll walk into old age an angry old crud. To attain this beauty, I must act! That’s where depression begins—I can no longer be the actor. I’m not great at leadership, but I put great pride in reality. A path isn’t given, it’s earned. Open wounds don’t always create scars—the human face isn’t hollow inside. Thought becomes reaction; interaction is its follow up. When it doesn’t exist, look to see if the birds are watching. No matter what I predict several months before it’s played out in “real” life—keep in mind, I wasn’t the jerk on the path… I was there to help… it was you who chose not to listen.
March 2, 2002
Not everybody gets to be what they dreamed
I found myself giggling a couple of minutes ago… In 2000, I found fascination within the grips of my ink stained fingertips—today its real paint. It’s nothing more than a growing process set inside an avenue of self delivery. I see the discovery of faith—it’s a trust shared between two solid lines that happen to join with expectation, and or belief. The infected mind is offered forgiveness, to help heal what has intruded the veins of impossibility, and its relationships.
March 3, 2002
The location of Native American mounds
I knelt at each assumed grave site, believing if a body did exist, they’d know we came in peace. We were there to preserve their resting place, not take away. I carried with me feathers from the nearest spiritual friends, a hawk flew above, and we spotted two rabbits and a deer. The forest to which we visited was incredibly silent—grabbing my attention was the wind, and how it would pick up as we neared another rocky sight. At that moment these words fell from my lips, “Tell me oh mighty leader, have we walked upon past trails? Are the winds filled with your music? Was I sitting next to one of your children? Tell me oh mighty chief, how far did your family travel? Lay your blankets over your cold selves, for my love for you shall invite warmth allowing purpose to the stories you tell. Tell me oh mighty leader, are we near a hidden truth? Will we fight to protect your peace not with a promise but a guarantee? Tell me self who shall write, are you prepared to sacrifice? What if you are being called to protect? Shall the wind you hear be true? If so, can you be just as true to the uncovered trail? Tell me oh mighty leader, were you the hawk above my head, did you become the two rabbits and a deer? I’ll wait for your reply…”
March 4, 2002
Might I borrow you a leaf
When the wind blows… a branch is the forest falls—a chunk of history will soon be forgotten about. Therefore, a tree with no branches must suffer from Alzheimer’s. The woodpecker begins hammering his face, tiny plants require the shade—most anybody would cut it down to haul it away… I do nothing more than sit here and just wonder. Who was here when that tree was tiny? Did anyone walk by it to touch its first leaves? Maybe this is why I write everyday—when my thoughts are gone… someone can read the story.
March 5, 2002
It’s not that I don’t believe in dreams, I just have more fun celebrating reality. As a child, I would quickly run home from school and jump in bed—not to sleep, not because I was sick… I wanted my mind to create! Dreaming about being famous in radio is far less painful than living it. In dreams though, nothing goes right… CDs don’t play, microphones don’t work, and I’m stuck doing a personal appearance with no pants on. I swear its Gods way of keeping me real.
March 6, 2002
Some old dude named Bobby
I sat with an aging man, who was maybe five feet two inches tall—unhappy about his memory no longer being his friend. I said, “You should write!” He quickly replied, “I let my step-son do that for me. He puts down on paper what needs to be done. I remember to read it when it’s left by the phone.” Viewed from the distance, we were separate generations—the opposite ends of the baby boom. Somehow I felt connected; especially when he spoke of his cellular phone not being programmed properly and his DVD player driving him crazy. Very calmly, I looked into his eyes and said, “I hate my DVD player too… all it wants to do is fight me.” For a moment—the separate generations connected.
March 7, 2002
Stop making money off my gift of performance
The mind is a toy so often under-played. Modern society wants everything handed to them. The height of un-expectations payoff is the burning fire of victory. Once achieved like any drug, your toy wants more electricity. The mind toy of another recognizes no one… drops of blood become stained footprints on a single man’s dance floor. Not once have I felt this as being a better than when you approach toward higher tomorrows—I’ve faced my enemy, a self who remains as unpredictable as the modern day computer. As silent as this pen seems to be, it is as loud as I can scream.
March 8, 2002
Fake not for I will reveal your identity
No judgment lay on the tips of my darkened fingers, a rainbow of spirited flow—only to realize… I still have no idea who I am. No step is taken until mystery is disguised. Feel not with the clumps of dried paint still struck inside my fingers; touch the run away vision, for it’s time to liken any ability that may in fact lead me toward the spring which feeds me this creativity. I no longer feel depression, it feels me—black lights highlight the imperfections—all too easy for you to see me bleed. Take what you wish, devour my soul until your teeth become white… no sun lay quiet on any day, for its journey is for all to see. To give off, to take while never accepting… to constantly remind itself that life is nothing but a game. Although many have accused me of selling my soul, I stand back only to watch you argue, for my play rests in your defeat, my silence lives inside your final breath.
March 9, 2002
My loss until I cut the strings of the puppet
All too often I’m left in such incredible states of assumption, so the only thing I can do is make a mistake. People depend on me to cross the line. I don’t perform magic! I don’t create from thin air! I am a master of listening not performing. Ask me why I hide, and I’ll share with you an assumed reply.
March 10, 2002
And who might you be?
How can one be so moody loose? One minute I’m up, and then I’m quickly down. Don’t look in the mirror, Mr. Mess! Push the outsiders away! I’ve been sentenced to live with myself—the moody, loose, deaf, blind, grumpy, old man. Nobody understands the evil that lurks below the prints of my finger tips. Who is he? Why do I wish to know? What is he? Why the hell do I care? Anger waits for its cue to hit the stage—dressed in war torn shadowed tears, his grin is harnessed to look genuine, only to realize his teeth are replicas of death.
To change the subject—
to tell one’s self to seize the mood.
To belt down the negative—
believing such carelessness is foolish.
To change the mood—
to invite the actor.
To cast shadows onto the wooden floor—
making sure I can’t see the audience.
To change the emptiness—
to laugh out loud for several minutes.
To suddenly go silent—
a fork in the path with no road sign.
March 11, 2002
Why I don’t wish to be a kid again
I find great challenges as being the elements that make up the person I am. When attacked by others, the emptiness remains, destroying the drive of origins first thought. I do not like to fight! I only wish to defend. I don’t race onto the streets of victory when others are damaged! Nor do I pride myself in being the revenge king. Make no mistake, when I hurt… so do a lot of others. Not because I lay my guilt or anger on them, but they reach to me to motivate, and when it’s not available, the sun retreats. I’ve been handed these reins because of my willingness to die—I don’t fear it, and will take in my final breath protecting someone enduring an endless beating.
note: As a child, I would stand at the top of the stairs, and listen to my father whipping my sister. I did all I could to take his anger and put it on me. I couldn’t stand to hear her cry. Those same traits are still with me today. Every bit of my troubles is based on me trying to save someone.
March 12, 2002
I am without words…
The attempt to write on a daily basis can sometimes be the greatest challenge—it’s a mental exercise that must be completed, or face the consequences of getting overweight in the heart. I never hear silence… if I did, my creative flow would dry up. Therefore, I order God to make my heart silent! Make my voice the same! Hide from me judgment, move from this life of pain. Throw silence into the wind—let it pour from head to toe. Remind me to never speak, for I am the poison arrow. Burn my willingness until it’s gone—carry from me this man’s loyalty. Eat not the heart still pumping inside. Let me die, so all can piss on the grave of disrespect. Let burn my life’s ladder! Make thy heart silent! Tear from me my eyes… plug each hole that creates sound—do unto me everything not nice. Feed me to the desert wind—pour thru me southern humidity… destroy this path like two hundred dust devils, bare my soul so that you may rid the earth of me.
note: Today’s research date is December 21, 2005… how am I supposed to feel knowing I wrote this? The pages leading toward its crying game were laced with reasons why JP demanded what they did. It spoke of easily forgiving them, because I knew what radio was. My quote was, “How do I return to the trail? If the warriors of this mighty beast look at me as being nothing more than a moccasin maker—what am I expected to feel knowing that desire has been ripped from my throat, only to be hung free for their expectations to reveal. I stand to lose on a ship with no water—grounded are the dreams of many, caused by the constant guild of one—it is time oh Lord to make me return to silence.”
March 13, 2002
I can’t be the only one screaming
A black and white photograph or painting leaves too much room for me to believe in ability. I can’t help but wonder how Ansel Adams kept himself under so much control. Is it because society gave him no science to create with? Today, we have the knowledge to reach beyond such black and white elements of play—only to realize, that managers and department heads put too much importance on the same tricks revealed by yesterday’s heroes. I’m disgusted with this modern society’s inability to grow! Until the World Wide Web totally affects our way of creative flow—life will be nothing more. If more schools believed in their students’ ability as creators, we’d have a better acceptance for those who are sickened with this disease called creativity. Depression keeps millions of doctors in business. As long as it lives and people decide not to create—doctors will never gain the strength to sell the truth.
March 14, 2002
Please God…I no longer want to feel
Am I in fear? Am I paranoid? Are there differences between the two? The path is filled with shame. I do all I can to remain in the present and the future, only to realize past mistakes haunt me worse than failure. Am I a coward? Am I so beaten that I choose to endure more knives shoved into my side? I’m the raging bull in Spain who’s only hope is to gore the matador, or face certain death. All too often I take life for what it is—a journey through time that garnishes more than it gifts
March 15, 2002
If I am to write then why so much pain?
Melted into the palms of my hands are the ingredients it takes to harness light from darkness—until I learn how to better use this gift from birth, I’ll do nothing but sit, and listen. Any view isn’t a path to create—I’m cold, lonely, impossible to live with and yet, the sun still rises. Look at these hands! Does anyone worry about the “What if’s?”
What if they go silent? Should I force them to keep quiet? This is why I never stop running. I want this anger to run too! I can’t live with it! I fear the worst… nobody is around when I hurt. My mind is at war with something it can’t see—is this the unexplained that Hemmingway spoke of?
March 16, 2002
Whispers I must learn to share
I am physically and mentally unable to be satisfied with a painting until I genuinely feel something in my stomach. It has nothing to do with concept or undelivered—untrained expectations. I’d still take a fist filled with paint, and breathe new life into a sheet of paper—whatever it takes to physically feel what has been moved. Painting doesn’t relieve my body from stress; it teaches me to view all angles of a circle… somewhere inside its purpose sits a square.
March 17, 2002
Must we be filled with witness?
What do you write when all you’ve written has been negative? What does a bird sing if all he’s performed is every song God’s given him? Lyric-less travels through un-announced arrivals tend to colorize the emptiness rather than fill it. Therefore, how much paint from a flower pedal will it take to toss something positive onto this page? I watched as the rain turned a colorful sunrise into streaked grays. I listened while long strolls of thunder rattled the leafless forest awake. Seasons that change invite embattlements… those who didn’t survive winter become the feast for those willing to make a difference.
March 18, 2002
The Prayer
Let it be known that I repent all things I’m judged for. It has always been my wish to be the man I’ve never been—in my teens I hunted down dreams, my twenty’s gave me assumed accomplishment only to correct my mistakes during those rocky thirties. Each path is nothing more than a mark in the earth. The good book says God is forgiving—if that’s so, why is the pain in my heart so relentless to believe? The poet writes his tears, the painter paints them—I do not wish to invite more. I dream of one day smiling so that I don’t have to be anyone but myself.
March 19, 2002
I have become my father
Somewhere on this path, I kicked a stone blessed with ample amounts of back luck. To ask my creator for a map leading toward the opposite is a journey I feel will steal rather than invite the long sought after peace I’ve been searching for. What is my biggest wish in life? To take the tears I’ve created in my wife’s Lee’s heart, and build for her a rainbow. In God’s world, the rainbow signaled a promise to never hurt again… could this work for me too?
March 20, 2002
Learning to view the body’s reaction to silence
Study all you wish and want—only to learn how to fall, also. Looking at my hands waiting to write, they know of my dependence. If they fail to bleed thought or purpose, the red within shall flow unevenly… only to learn that emptiness is forever.
March 21, 2002
I really don’t know what to say
I’m paranoid! So much so, anyone who looks at me is set to be my killer. The insecurities of tangled hair versus a good thick brush do nothing but invite pain. Mimicked are the actions of what we know, and not what is challenged… people know what to say to me—we’re all programmed into believing security isn’t a risk.
Interviewer: You of all people—he who claims to not fear death.
I have screwed up my marriage! I have taken the lid off my job by openly searching for something new. My own forest is losing trees! My insecurities are based on having no foundation.
Interviewer: You’re killing yourself!
Who better to know that than me? Don’t look at me in the eye, for my soul has done enough damage. Can a man know, without life happening? Can a trail have been blazed before me? The blood leaks from my canvas. The heart shapes are invisible tears. I’ve made a mess of this journey, therefore I hate the self I am during each moment of every passing day. Take from me nothing! I have nothing! Gone is my confidence and willingness to learn. I’m dead! Can’t you see it? Or—are you like the rest of them demanding from me, “Please don’t die, until I get one more thing from you.”
March 22, 2002
Do we ever open our eyes?
The music makers wait patiently while the poet wades through his most recent challenges. Masks thrown aside, the scratches heard from within resemble the handwriting associated with the writer’s ambition to be open, and fear of remaining uncovered—for no man can walk without a shield unless he is a poet.
To whom it may concern,
The poet laughs in your face while ripping from his soul. The poet tears into his flesh, but to you it’s mere creative flow. The poet carves until there’s blood, swallowing his pride but never death. He takes nothing from you, for he only wishes to become silent… not a word spoken, nor a breath or sigh shared—it invades his quiet place… damn you for thinking I can do everything!
Why it is lives goes on around me, but in some cases people make me believe that without me their life is left without air? What I hear is sight beyond sound. They accuse me of being conceptual! They are too stupid to understand the importance of being unique.
**note… in tiny letters firmly printed on the bottom of the page the poet writes: Radio will never understand who I am; therefore, they will always try to shape me. Since the arrival of N*** in late 2000, the journey has been met with images of failure. He has given me nothing, but disrespect and faceless critical accusations aimed at doing nothing, but severing my ties with anyone willing to help save me. Yet, I’m the only one who hears it. View not the eyes of he who writes… taste the airs of his surroundings… watch with an open soul and you too shall paint pictures.
**note… on October 26, 2005, N*** was the only person who sat with me while the office was being emptied. He cried real tears. He hugged me like a brother. He shook hands with me knowing it would never happen again. What was the change? Because, I wrote every day, facing the emptiness everyday… I learned to build foundations toward someone I assumed didn’t believe in my efforts of bringing radio to a higher level. By means of communication, selfish wars, and honoring the distance we put between each other… the respect I wanted four years ago only came to light in the moment I said goodbye.
March 23, 2002
Ever been back to something you passed?
Time changes—visions we can’t see affect everything. Decisions made by leaders create separation. I will never forget where I once sat, only to realize that each place of creative flow is nothing more than a tiny section of a closet. Our connection served as a great place for hiding.
March 24, 2002
Exposing the fakes on the trail
I was recently accused of being confident—strangely enough, I couldn’t be more distant. The General Manager spoke of me being creative. It’s a one sided opinion that falls short of being the truth. My willingness to be a creative has roots that take you into the shadows of doubt, fear, anger, and depression—anytime I hear someone call me a great creator… I look into this self I am and apologize for not seeking other avenues of release.
Why hide when defeat is what I attempt? Defeat is a two sided word—I will be, or I will see.
March 25, 2002
I don’t want to be the echo you hear in the hall
As mind boggling as it seems, how does an artist not get caught up in the conceptual disease? Isn’t it my duty as an artist to look beyond the expected in sheer hopes of favoring the hollowed out empty presence of the un-traveled? I stood in front of a friend yesterday, and politely ask that he drop his judgment against fellow workers. We both agreed that it’s a self driven weapon that causes more pain than gain. I’d love to do this form of forgiving with my program director, but is it right to perform such a forgiveness on a daily basis? Who do I look like, the fool? Just once I’d love to hear someone speak to me first… If I’m so bad, why keep me? The choice is always mine to stay.
March 26, 2002
I’m weakened by a lifestyle I couldn’t control—I’m guilty of everything and my punishment is life, and not death.
Interviewer: Don’t you find that being a negative? I assumed you were repenting—it’s been your goal to deal with, rather than run.
Repenting is a lot like life after graduation—you dream of reaching a certain point, only to realize that no one taught you about the effects afterward.
Interviewer: Do you feel lonely?
Not at all…I’m too angry, hurt, and used up. I’m numb and hateful at the same time. If God would let me, I’d sweep the floor while washing my clothes. I have no more pain to give… please believe me!
March 27, 2002
Learn to interview the self you are
I see two globs of ink—they’ve been stretched for me to believe white is never just white. Nor is a path so empty. A particle of existence invisibly meeting, therefore they’re one. Now I’m challenged to remember the origin of how they came into being. Two globs of ink stained into the surface of my almost full canvas. The left looks to be an embryo of life while the right resembles a falling feather from my desk. No one is laughing, giggling or playfully inspired—not the creator, the mess maker, or the spiller of ink. Inside the globs of ink, music appears, so I sing along in the way of keeping great time. No one will understand, or even try. I’m nothing more than a bag of air prepared to die. Yet today, my two globs of ink gave me something to believe in.
Interviewer: What does this mean? You want it your way or no way?
No moment of any day slips by without me believing that unique exists. I’m addicted to the idea that creative flow is “not” in us… it’s “around” us. We choose to be inspired! We ask to be challenged! I don’t want to believe that talent has anything to do with the presence of creative flow. By becoming part of the current… we learn to impersonate it.
Interviewer: What do you fear most?
I fear that I won’t cut it. I’ll just go to sleep, and locate a more peaceful way to let go.
Interviewer: Why death? Isn’t there a way to free yourself from this?
You have to believe in death in order to die. I see it as an open field of flight. As sickening as it seems, as judgmental as people will be—until you’ve been inside this body, going through what I’ve endured… you cannot blame crazy on me. It’s you! It’s you who has failed to listen. Not all birds were born to sing.
Interviewer: What is the current root of your low?
Failure… I’ve looked deeply, and openly admit that many things I’ve come in contact with are nothing, but… if I could, I’d fly, but not away.
Interviewer: Why not? You’d think being in so much pain you’d force yourself to do so!
It makes me look lazy doesn’t it?
Interviewer: Who are you right now?
Surely not my best friend, coach, or team player! And yet, I can’t stop walking forward.
March 28, 2002
Words I’ve chose to live by
I don’t believe in talent. I don’t believe in the gift. The flow of creativity is shared by listening through means of inspiration. Anything you can do—so can I. But… do you inspire me enough to want to listen?
**note: The above quote was pasted to my door at the radio station—I constantly used it as an example when attempting to rebuild the spirit of someone who had become lost.
We all dream of one day being famous—once there, most of us don’t know what to do with the side of our brain that once dreamed.
Forever is a very long time. As a child, it takes forever to get through school. As an adult, it takes forever to make up our mind.
My inspiration in life is the daily challenge to figure out why I’m alive. I’m not great at anything! Therefore, my purpose must be to promote the normal-isms of understanding nothing.
Must the wind be the only thing that carries a bird’s simple song? What do we share through our powers to breathe?
Must a man be so sick in the soul that he bleeds ink through a pen? Must I always question a question with a question? For even if I were to grasp an answer… I’d still choose not to believe a word I said.
March 29, 2002
I am who you say I am…but maybe I’m not
People naturally assume I can do it all! Do what all? Take chances? Challenge darkness? Accomplishment isn’t always a victory—the depths of my personality reach anywhere from one inch to two hundred feet. Somewhere in that mess is a stack of determination cards that can’t be turned back over. Is it a one day wish to attain the height of being recognized? Radio could only take me so far—then God whispered, “Figure out the rest.”
March 30, 2002
The wives of radio
It’s a reckless energy that requires a shipload of something beyond the normal vows shared by two people in love.
**note: On this day, I dedicated my new production room at the station to the wives of radio—the women who put up with the wild antics of their radio men. The women who’re forced to travel when the call is made—they’re the people who must endure the silent at home hardship of bad ratings, and the hidden fears of jocks who’ve been washed away by hidden addictions and pains. The wives of radio are more at peace than God, the very man who gave his children a pleasant voice to create with.
March 31, 2002
Mr. Poet you shall teach proper methods of leveling
I don’t believe depression is a forced reaction—it’s not a mind set, nor is it the final resting place before anger. How and why someone is down is nothing more than a reason to give it a name. Inside this body, before there’s reaction, I feel it first. It’s a combination of wanting to be lazy, and knowing my bathroom is a mess. It’s a war between likeable and sick in presence. I can’t believe the indifferences between moods are worth of medical cheating. If there truly is a misguided balance between chemicals, then my goals have been to better understand the moments of low flight. In the beginning it feels as if I’m comparing it to nothing—only to learn, a well documented journey showcases lessons even a medical expert can’t know until you are faithful. Melt not the wisdom—heal not the wounds… remember by example.
April 1, 2002
Please God, what did I do wrong?
The only thing I want to do is take the past five years of my life, and make it into a positive. I want to write a book about this—to tell the true story of how a state’s hidden greed is to give children away to the highest bidder. Point the finger, cheat on any test, and force the innocent into believing they should care for someone they don’t know. I’ll never forget the social service worker ordering me to do this, or I’ll find myself immediately back in front of the judge. “If you don’t do this, I will make it a point to put your name everywhere.”
April 2, 2002
Echo
Interviewer: What do you regret?
I couldn’t control my life enough to say, “No.” Now I’ve got to defend myself for the rest of my life.
Interviewer: Are you dangerous?
Only to myself
What did I do wrong mom? Why won’t you love me? You act better than me, but it takes me to see. Your acting seems so empty—are you tired? Maybe I’ve traveled too close. Come to think of it… we never really were, were we? Close… That’s why I hid! That’s why I leapt out of places where love isn’t wanted. Did I run at eighteen? Why did I get married? You never talk to me mom. You only plow through the emotions. Most importantly, you only call my sisters.
April 3, 2002
Argument with the self I’ve become
I’m a volcano—I think I waste a lot of incredible energy trying to remain level headed. I bust my ass at work, and fear it’s over… only to come home to another world I’ve destroyed.
Interviewer: What are you going to do with yourself?
I want to cut so damn bad! I know it’ll free some of this horrible pain! I don’t know where to cut… I need to cut! Its proof I’m really not numb.
Interviewer: How can you be numb if you’re angry?
I force myself to become numb by pushing everything aside.
Interviewer: Why do you say that?
I fight everyday to lead a purified life! I do all I can to walk a straight line. I have no escapes! I’m not writing! I’m not painting! There are no drugs, nothing! I’ve chosen to take on life. It’s the battle of me against the beast. No one hears my pain! No one sees my pain. I can’t help, but force myself everyday to keep pushing forward.
Interviewer: This pushing forward, aren’t you getting deeper into a false setting?
What am I supposed to do sit back, and let life destroy me? The enemy is on the run! He attacks me and takes off. If I don’t hunt down his horrible way, then he can’t be defeated.
Interviewer: In essence, you go looking for the pain? I’d say he’s defeating you by doing nothing. You’re doing all the work. The beast, as you call it, has you predicted! Do you think the beast wants you dead? I don’t think so; I believe you’re his toy. He wants you to cut. He wants you to think you’re a failure. In pushing forward, do you think it’s positive? I don’t think you do… you have a way of peacefully taking the world with you. What do you see when you look out your writing window?
I see dogwoods blooming with red birds at their side, week old leaves on trees, and a lawn that needs to be cut.
Interviewer: What do you see while looking out the window of your heart? Why are you the only one who sees negative? You’ve chosen to push forward, to hunt down this beast… in doing so; you do nothing, but add more to what is already expected of you. Everything you want to be is filled with”can’t be” You refuse to let go of the things you can’t control. You’ve fallen into the hands of the perfect beast. Hell yes, the whole world pisses you off! So what! You piss them off too!
April 4, 2002
God is that you speaking to me? Who are you?
I still remember the days when creative flow didn’t exist within my daily chapters—the horrible aches that I felt in my stomach keep me from realizing what I could have been… rather than what I am. As mystifying as it may seem, it is as unchallenged reality is to me. The path I’ve chosen is nothing but four walls, a book and a pen. Do I write to write? Do I paint to paint? Whatever I feel like doing is the only time I am me. Take away my eyes, and I’ll feel with my heart. Take away my hearing, and I shall dream about everything. Take away my ability, and I’ll create from passion. You can take from me my hidden music, but because there’s no such thing as the perfect crime, I’ll always have something. Visualize in your heart, what it must really be like to be that person you know who’s dedicated their life to the willingness to create.
April 5, 2002
The truth behind such art
I spend too much time looking down and not outward at the open horizon.
Interviewer: How does it feel that people want your paintings?
Personally, I don’t see it as “want.” I’m trapped inside this mindset of “They choose to accept what I’m willing to share.”
Interviewer: When does it cross over to want?
It doesn’t! As long as I’m willing to share my works, then why should anyone ever want? I don’t think people understand where my best paintings come from—the depths of darkness as fed by past mistakes. My biggest dream is to one day be filled with the most incredible warmth. I can’t explain it! I have no father!
A. The sun and the moon painting represent the hard times I had trying to decide if I wanted leave W*** for WS**
B. The tree with the two shades of white and black was ignited after my ex-wife, Sande, told me the reasons behind her abortions.
C. The “Before we go on” painting was brought to life after my wife, Lee, found out about my biggest mistake in life, the birth of a child after a love affair.
I can’t see what people find in what I used to bleed the hurting soul!
note: Upon writing these thoughts into Another 1021 Thoughts, I turned the journal page and came face to face with the original brilliant painting of a dove whose wings act as shields, protecting it from the crashing waves near an ocean shore. This painting was given birth shortly after hearing Lori Deboise had been stricken with cancer. In talking with her, she never let it affect her belief of surviving. She is, and was a true champion.
April 6, 2002
In total dedication to Lori Deboise
We’ve learned to listen to so many things—I often believe that’s what life’s about. Somehow, no matter how bad the storm, seashells appear… bringing unto us all, music from the shore. Quickly, the shell is raised to our ear—the whispers of waves, pictures of seagulls, memories of so many things are painted on a canvas within the stories we tell. Through all walks we encounter, the strength to believe is nothing more than a seed of faith. Sitting inside a shell along the shore, reaching outward to catch the wind—it allows us to believe even more than yesterday. And in that shell a face shall appear… a portrait of you—for faith had brought you here, and will get you there inside the curved, carved out secrets a shell holds, which allows us to have something to forever listen to.
April 7, 2002
Popcorn between the sheets
I remember watching movies at the outdoor theaters in Montana—before becoming a teenager. We’d jump into our pajamas and fight off the sleepies… anything to say we watched the back to back flicks, usually priced at five bucks a car load. It was a personal victory to survive a dusk-till-dawn—the first sign of truly growing up. The older you got the more fun you tried to get into—it was if life was allowing you to spread your wings, blessed by fairy dust from adulthood. Foggy windows with huge metal speakers—every now and then, a head would pop into play. The source revealed the next day—bright red bruises on the necks of the innocent, lip burns, trademarks, weapons of war from the outdoor theater.
April 8, 2002
Tell me God…why me?
Ninety percent of the time, my willingness to paint is nothing more than a release—be it upbeat, or another low moment… any avenue of creative flow is how I flush my internal toilet. I don’t have fun desiring this need to be creative! I have no idea what the attempt is, and besides nine out of ten times, I’ve gone in a totally different direction. We artist folks feel too much! Does it require hate to love a bird’s song?
April 9, 2002
I would die for you
The worst thing I ever did was ask people to read my book… their opinions shut down my creations. I’m never going to be great at anything—not until the mind decides its personal point of perspective has attained a level of acceptance. I’d love to write a book that touches millions of lives. Not to inflate an ego, make me rich, or to be turned into a movie. I want to prove to the silent artists of the world that sound really does exist.
April 10, 2002
Belief starts with self
What makes me an artist aren’t the dark spots that appear, but this inability to never want to stop. If I can’t see music, I’m not finished. If I don’t hear color, I’m off balance. People look at me not up to me. The difference between any of us isn’t inability, but rather jealousy. We want what the other has—if it lasts longer than a week, inspiration sets in. I fear life will end every day. I don’t fear death—the fear is not being able to complete someone’s project.
April 11, 2002
Who am I really?
We live in a society addicted to being up all the time—the slightest slip is urgent, heart wrenching, and worth sacrificing everything to change. I’d rather say, “I can’t.” rather than, “I will.” On the opposite side is always someone demanding to take.
April 12, 2002
Embryo of a future I can’t see changing
Accepting reality is the vision quest—respecting reality is the conquest. As often as I dream, is nowhere near what I’ve lost—therefore, I choose to eat sugar glazed donuts.
I don’t dream of success and wealth… my only wish in life is to pay my bills on time.
April 13, 2002
The reason why I’m so fucking different
Wolfman Jack inspired me, because of his sheer belief in showmanship. He vowed to entertain us over a thirteen second song intro—every break had a purpose, nothing was a throw away. I got into radio because of the 7-midnight and overnight talent who shattered the rules to play. From midnight Jello jumps to the Kiss look-a-like contests… radio goo goo ga ga grabbed me by the ass and said, “Yes!”
April 14, 2002
The unsightly beast rests in the shadow
I’d rather stay silent than evolve into the person I once was. I can’t the fight crimes I’ve committed! I confront people with assumption—don’t have a lick of proof, just a gut screaming at me that something is very wrong. If I don’t face my fears, I’ll kill myself assuming the end of something is very near.
April 15, 2002
The very moment you discover chance, the average person must be prepared for failure. I will spend the rest of my life wishing I didn’t, and wishing I did. If a bird could speak a normal conversation, would it stop singing every morning? If a dog could smart off to its owners, would unconditional love take on a new meaning? The sun raises then sets—does it ever make a mistake? If I had two bucks, would I purchase lunch, or hope to have it another day?
April 16, 2002
Hey…maybe he’s already here
What if the second coming of Christ were to happen right now… would we believe it was him? I spent my entire childhood believing it would take place during my time. As an adult, I find myself wondering if such an obscure saintly act wouldn’t be looked upon as being a form of terrorism—man’s intuition seizing the only hope available to spend his or her life in eternity.
April 17, 2002
When true broadcasters quit
I’m not filled with magic, or the hope to one day to be inducted into a hall of fame—I have a job to do… it must forever remain a job, and not a passion.
April 18, 2002
Art isn’t a light switch
I bleed creative flow… unless you’ve shadowed my journey, there’s no way to better explain this sickness.
April 19, 2002
Documenting the birth of a new age forest
Hold in your hand the roots of a living tree—see if it will grow. Reaching upward while listening carefully… the tree becomes part of you. I can’t imagine the walk I’ll one day share. These roots will be king, and my words will be the only proof til death do us part.
April 20, 2002
To my surprise
Visitation from places untouched equals new born silences—they arrive to help heal, to lend guidance through gardens not heard nor felt with the open palm nestled next to the forgoing soul.
Interviewer: What does this quote mean to you?
My ability to listen has strengthened, and shall remain open to all who travel nearest my farthest touch.
Interviewer: You don’t see silence as a negative?
If the heart is given time to rest, from its depths a root will reseed itself which enables the unsought to seek new grounds to grow.
Interviewer: Why do you concentrate so much on growth?
A mind that stops is a dream… be it faith and reality that which blooms, adding glow to the simple song performed by a bird. Through light, we seek confidence to step forward—through darkness, the once welcomed visions now follow.
Interviewer: Why are you the only one who sees this path?
Something guides birds north and south each new winter—someone teaches the vine to wrap perfectly around the trunk of a tree. Who formulates the equations of how tall a tree shall climb? My path is what I’m told as gifted by the silence, is kept in the corner of my soul.
Interviewer: That soul being where?
The center of all things that matter—therefore, all things develop a true purpose reaching inward and out… basically meaning, build with what you have, not with what you’ll get.
A small Chinese man stopped today—took one look at me and asked his God, “Why me? Why teach the tree chaser? Why speak to the word creator? Why listen to his vivid dreams? My sought adventure need not relate.” I looked from a distance—he being of one, I said, “Move on.” Only to learn his picture I did paint. To my God these words I tossed, “Why me? Why turn my inks into the steps he values? Why hear nothing, but the lyrics he creates? Why tear from me a purpose or reason? His sought adventure need not relate. He looked from the distance, I being of one…he mumbled, “Move on.”
**note: As of yet, I had not become a martial artist. In looking back, did the desire to become one visit me in the way spirit guides lead their warriors? On this date January 18, 2006, I was shocked to read about the open palm… I didn’t know until I became a martial artist that such a description is the true meaning of karate. Who visited me and why? May his face be identified to me.
April 21, 2002
Internal flower
Sundays have never been my favorite day of the week—they signal the end of something… yet, here I sit at 8:05 am at the beginning of one. I refuse to admit that I’m having a good day! Without notice it’ll change. Sacred is the circle, until the moment I walk away. What if one day I can’t control the change? What if I can’t fake the smile, or impersonate the mood? What if I fall into total emptiness? Then, I’m just a number! A spec of dust tossed into the wind… I become pollen.
April 22, 2002
Never ask me to sit alone
The “What ifs” of the world are invisible assumptions—they disease the thought process to the point of becoming addicted to the final outcome. Another disease… if we live like today is our final day—when do we start living? I’m convinced that life gives us a ball of cheese. It’s how we spread it onto a cracker that tells our story. Some days I’m rushed, while other days I eat the damn ball of cheese while giving the cracker to the dogs. They’re happy, and I’m lactose intolerant.
What if I fail?
What if they abuse me?
What if I’m not accepted?
What if I stay busy? They won’t be able to locate me to fire me. Depression sets in.
April 23, 2002
I shall challenge you to fight
Am I doing the right thing? I’m no angel. Nor do I pretend to be… yet, who are the angels we meet? Didn’t they serve as human beings, too? Therefore, they too made mistakes. I’m not here to fool the eye—the willingness is an attempt to rest the soul. Silence isn’t meant to be feared… even in darkness life still exists. I don’t believe in fantasy! To fake a dream is un-daring. If I were Cinderella, I would’ve stalked the king’s palace.
April 24, 2002
If only you would stop judging me
People need to know—I’m not who they think I am… I must never leave anything behind for them to assume.
April 25, 2002
Hey me, are you listening to me?
What is it supposed to be, visions, or something I’ve been sketching? Who am I supposed to be, chances conquered, or impossibility? Mangled and tangled, torn to symbolize, a misfit, or un-ironed clothing ransacked then put away. Light rain carries with it a scent, while storms bring anger. Newborn grass is the perfect green, yet I still cheer for the weeds. What is it this is supposed to be, enlightenment or doodling? Who am I today, the actor or me?
I question not to be a child at play—I want to learn by example. Books are inches thick… my depth is miles inside concept. The view of my soul is much darker than night, and yet I’m inspired by the growth of a forest. The goal is to take a knife, and stab the wound until I bleed again. If that doesn’t soothe the pain, I’ll take a razor blade, and dig out the pain. The moment you step back, how quickly you’ll learn… my weapon of choice is only a pen.
April 26, 2002
When someone close steps toward a bigger purpose
I stared into the eyes of an owl yesterday morning—the forest was busy with uneven music. I assumed the cardinal wasn’t sure of my welcome—only to learn, the owl had appeared within the breeze, while my eyes remained embodied by the sacred circle. Standing nearest his wonder, the owl and I viewed each others purpose, visions, hunger, purification, simplicity and friendship… three hours later Todd’s baby was born. Sure I cried! Anytime someone helps to bring life to something filled with love… I’m extremely touched. I don’t remember holding onto something so tiny—her eyes, a gray blue looked through the mists of mystery, enabling her soul to embrace what will become God’s planned journey. Karly looked for her father as if she already knew his voice—that to me is the true gift.
April 27, 2002
By means of mediation I shall be
No one should go through the unexpected quick fisted spins of life without having sat at his own place of escape. Not a victim, but rather a seeker… mission time keeper, submission reminder. Seize neither the strength, nor the vivid presence of exaggeration and flow—believe in capability, taste, and probability. Venture deeper into the miserable workings of a mind that barely sleeps—for it knows that one day; it may never wake, and inside its shadow remains the written words of a dreamer.
April 28, 2002
I’m ignoring something…but what?
I wish I could explain the strangled hollow emptiness that often attacks my body. I’m without air; my body is unwilling to do anything including breathing. It’s as if the body’s telling me that it doesn’t need to do what I need it to do. I swear if I don’t change my outlook, I’m going to be an old wilted peach alongside the road. A day of not wanting to write is a day where force is put into play. I become the captain of several ships thrown about like cottons balls on a windy day. It makes you wonder why the flight seems so smooth, only to learn the final destination is more unknown than the next passing breeze.
April 29, 2002
Writing in code but for what reason?
I can take any painting beyond expectation and deliver total crap—only to prove what I created isn’t anything, but a brief moment in time. I don’t want you to like what I do! I don’t want anyone to like me! It makes me more determined to want to fade. Once out of sight, life can go on without a single drop of proof that I existed. Take what I’ve painted, and throw it back to the earth. Give it to the birds, for it’s their music I heard. I see it as jazz. I hear it as solitude. Don’t both looking back—it didn’t exist! The forest grew without me. Time changed but not by my hands. Give back the works of expression, all things including the mist. Therefore, I can’t be mistaken, taken, forsaken, hated or remembered. Not a thread of evidence says I once lived.
**note: Writing in code means bleeding through words—pouring out emotion without giving it a face. I can experience seven mood swings within a five minute period, maybe more… and never know what truly had me wrapped up tightly in their poisoned grip of strangulation. Today, January 21, 2006, my assumption is it was my employment with JP. I’ve never been in a place where one footstep inside was enough to convince me to reach for a razor blade… and yet I gave them twelve years of my soul. To this very day, I still own six razor blades with my blood stains still on them. I kept them to try, and convince myself to stop cutting. In time, I picked up a pen and the cutting continued, but in a different form of expression.
April 30, 2002
Why must it be?
Do I create my own depression? Do we all create empty heartedness? Why then do we do it? If all I have to do is perform a certain number of positive vibes—how is it I decide what wins? Am I low, or am I addicted? Have I wanted so much that desire has sickened my personal path, so I do nothing but stumble? I injure myself more than anyone harming me. If you’ve been damaged by the sharp words I toss out like candy… then do us all a favor and close the bathroom door.
May 1, 2002
Locating forgotten rivers
The creative world is one that chose me. I sat in my bedroom, daily dreaming about better ways to understand a need to build things from nothing. I wrote music, drew incredible homes, malls, and skyscrapers—played self created card games, and talked to myself, so much that Jim finally answered. Suddenly, my alter ego was no longer faceless.
Interviewer: Let’s talk about Jim…who is he?
When I’d play with my Tonka trucks Jim was with me. Maybe I wanted to have a little brother—maybe he was my spiritual visitor. He never stole from me, nor did he call me to make bad decisions.
Interviewer: But you did! Look at your life!
Arroe made the bad decisions! Arroe abused radio!
Interviewer: Who are you now?
A basket case who thinks people speak through him. A dream who believes that one day time will no longer exist… which will give him enough reason to finally rest.
Interviewer: Why didn’t you become a musician?
Nobody believed in me. I believe if you’re going to exercise your soul by means of displaying music, your parents have to be there to catch you. Radio took me to a stage that didn’t require the artist to have instruments, nor the support of anyone nearby.
Interviewer: If there’s one thing you’ll be remembered for, what would it be?
He became his real father Kenneth Bakken—he blew his dreams by never gaining the strength until it was too late. My life lacked the deepest form of love you get from mothers, brothers and sisters… it’s taken me a lifetime to locate a best friend that isn’t a dog, bird, or for that matter, invisible. I’m hollow, empty—no God can fill it. Nor can my mother wish it away. I want to become whole again, to fight a bitter battle without cracking, breaking apart, or getting tossed aside by the wind. No one will ever know what I feel… it isn’t real to them! I’ve hurt them that bad.
May 2, 2002
Sorry isn’t enough
I’m trapped with a child that I can’t love! Not because I don’t want to… I just can’t! Love didn’t create it! It was hatred, rebellion, and angst—anything, but true depths of emotion. I’m dying so much on the inside that it’s reached the point of outside.
May 3, 2002
You had me at hello
Four paintings are currently being displayed for my Poets silent auction for Lori. I stand back, and watch while others seem to stand back, and view where I’ve been. Each new day, another painting arrives… soon there’ll be ten. Inside those hours I prepare for the artist’s silent goodbye—that’s when a piece of your heart waves back at you a final time before stepping into another life to continue its life changing destiny.
**note: Lori had no idea that my art would reach from the secret shelves I keep, to not only raise funds for the American Cancer Society, but to help offer awareness in the way of educating people to never stop believing. While putting the fourth painting into place, God handed me this quote, “Depression isn’t hatred toward self or others—its God’s way of saying a gift for you! You’re now un-numb.” The thought hit me so hard; it took the life right out of me. Maybe, I’m nothing more than a minister of reality.
May 4, 2002
Please stop asking who is it and where did it come from
All too often I’d rather draw than write… I call it my leveling time—the area when reality is blocked out by tiny bubbles of travel. I walk into valleys flow, to quickly paint what I see. We’re all politicians and CEO’s! Some of us just get paid more.
May 5, 2002
Captured prayer
A pen isn’t just a pen—for no two people share the same personality. What I write with this pen won’t be anything like what you read. No one can determine the moods of the creator unless they’re sitting with me. Looking toward the opposite horizon, I see nothing, hear nothing, and only feel the cool breeze unassociated with the fires of hell. It is my one day wish for people to stop for a brief moment, and listen to the view of the unwritten in ways the normal speak. He that aims ability toward inability, cares not to build bridges into his tomorrow. Fame is never my choice of dreams, nor the luxury of having what all wish—laughing inside isn’t a spot on my chin… this new sun enlightens no chapter written for cake has spilled, and I am here to clean with the strawless brooms a normal couldn’t speak. Hath not the greed of one third the man, beg not, I live. Masks of many, but none shall be used today—above the normal, one would think noticing how below them I sit at their feet. It’s raining inside this body, and I forgot my raincoat.
May 6, 2002
Because
I share with you not to glorify the existence of creation—my wish is only to share a warm smile. My choice is build upon what you already know—that’s why you see no full faces inside my art. For whom I meet could never be. What connect the dots are the wings of an angel passing by. The soft breath of a spring breeze, blessed with harmony not heard inside music.
May 7, 2002
Even in passing road kill deserves respect
Mr. Owl of the forest sky… we’re connected in ways I can’t explain. Seeing each other only to stare, and then flapping our wings to fly away. Gifts we give to one another, they’re silent as the wind… yet each of us felt the strike of thunder even more so when I picked up your friend. I laid him near a growing forest, we spoke in silence—raising my arms I asked God to give him flight again.
May 8, 2002
One month twenty days from hitting a milestone
They say life begins at forty. What is life? Is it making sure you do all you can to gain strength before sliding into the downward motion years? If life does begin at forty, will I be slowing down, or adding to the never ending jobs I create? Wisdom isn’t the knowledge; it’s a fear of going through. If the path has been created, any step taken is in reaction to. Wisdom is a human word—a price tag, name tag, discounted seventy five to ninety five percent… Wisdom isn’t a power tool. There are no chords, batteries, or solar devices. Wisdom is a disease, an addiction, a fear of nothing being accepted. For I don’t know it all… I am not wise.
May 9, 2002
Too many people live in this house
Looking at this daily journal, I see every chance available to get to know a better me. Whether I shake hands with that self or do battle, the entire journey is documented for me to laugh at later.
Although I don’t fear death… I’m always in a state of wonder. How will it occur? My most grand wish in life is to do all I can to perform the best of my ability, so that people don’t have to say, “He was so young.”
I laugh at the bird world! They always seem so honest… The robin survives on the ground, while the blue jay takes no time to push another to the side. Look at the blackbirds! They have the balls to chase down a hawk and owl. They make it clear who they like, dislike, and love—and yet no one is shouting racism.
A vision is poetic, because it allows your imagination to breathe.
May 10, 2002
Fighting off the needs of wanting to be accepted
Any type of display I offer gives people too many reasons to offer their opinion. I allow this pen to do whatever it wishes… my job is to fill in the blanks. Like most, I’ve spent my life trying to feel great… only to learn, it’s others who push me away.
May 11, 2002
To whom do you wish to speak?
I question not the events taken place, only the chapters that remain unwritten. What I write is what I see. What is painted is what I’ve heard. The story unites becoming the enchanted discovery. I watch as wind races, and trees fall to their sides. Rays of sun push downward making dust ribbons for the wind to slide. A promise of no tomorrow but an opportunity to at least try—the wind my guide, the wind my God.
May 12, 2002
The ark must not have wings
A picture painted is a moment of travel. It’s where I’ve been. Although I could never tell you to who was my guide, the eternal purpose of such travel gifts is not me, but someone willing to sneak a peak. For what I paint is in fact for anyone needing a reason for such travel—be it for whatever purpose, I shall not stand in the way of a heart in flight.
May 13, 2002
The birth of creative flow
I wanted to do a painting that said, “Allow life to happen and it will… Bring life to your method of living, and suddenly new worlds shall be born.” Love can’t just happen—it must be led through all fires of challenge, adding strength to those days we assumed were weak. Never should you forget the love you create, is in fact a mold for others to follow.
May 14, 2002
Seek sought sunk
Give to me, something I can call my own… not my memory, not my mistakes, not even the cast of colors associated with my paints. I want something that’s me! To call my own, to be all that I am—not my fathers shadow, not my brothers hand me downs… a vision of my own, to call my own—to be me, without having to live out this life.
May 15, 2002
Documenting to later recognize before destruction
Drawing gifts me with the only chance to turn violent hatred into something positive. I don’t set out to be angry! I don’t wait for anger to take over. From hatred comes my best work—the end result is listening to people speak of how great the art work is. So, if I suddenly become silent, what then would be my expression?
May 16, 2002
Hey honey, it’s happening again
I stopped winding the mantle clock—got tired of having to do it over, and over again. Time can’t be moving that fast! The only thing that slows it down is the constant reminder of my biggest mistake in life. The self hatred that consumes me wants everything to come to an end. I don’t expect anyone to understand, or for that matter to hear me suffering. I hate myself to the point of total destruction. I’m so depressed that all I want to do is close my eyes and sleep forever. No drug can free me from this. No cut on my arm can release the hidden depths of what can’t be explained. My body is crying and I can’t stop it. My heart puts on an act, because I’ve got to be upbeat, fresh, and always moving forward. Yet, I’m getting angrier than any other time in my life. One day, I won’t be able to control it.
Writing daily is my habit. Without it I’ll have withdrawals and shake violently… it’ll look as if I’ve been on heroin. Writing is my drug; it’s my hiding place to create.
May 17, 2002
Paul Franklyn is dead
My wife, Lee just woke me up… she said a radio talent is dead. Oh my God it’s Paul Franklyn!
**note: Paul and I met on several occasions. We never let radio wars and ratings stand in the way of two broadcasters sharing incredible journeys. We spoke of radio, and how no matter what, we’d always give it our best performance. Paul loved radio! Those who do wear it in their eyes—they’re bright and uplifting yet deep inside the soul.
And so… radio loses another. Does this mean we’re getting old? Does it show how reckless we are? And so… the answers try to come out, the reasons behind the purpose, and the value of every step taken. The lives we touch. The long lines we don’t wait in, not even in the way of returning to heaven. The rebels of radio, the music players, not the makers… we live in worlds of our own. Some are willing to share while others keep incredible secrets. Trust me, 90% of us have been there. And so…
May 18, 2002
Truce
Pen meets paper. Paper touches writing hand. The mind begins to travel. My heart flutters. Something is falling through this hand, to the pen, onto the page. Now the eyes wish to dance, to review the written, to judge the outcome… until I whisper, “Please, another day… for this day just let it flow like ice cream. We’ll put toppings over all that makes it sweet… let’s make this my morning dessert.”
May 19, 2002
No doctor can properly heal…it requires you
Until I shook hands with my shadow, the only person I met was the reflection in the mirror. Today, a pen takes me toward all roads leading to and away from shadows that peak out from closed closets. What isn’t perfect doesn’t reflect how out of tune the artist may be… it allows those who view, the necessary time to piece together their own memories. To walk, to sit with, to be the one who seemingly becomes the one… he or she who touches the unheard song, inspiring us to dance—and when it’s over… the world seems sad again.
May 20, 2002
I see too much and wish to carry it with me
Impossible is not a world I relate with. Chance is desire, because its final outcome could be greater than. I keep waiting for someone to scream, “Stop!” To which I would… at least until the next picture is painted. Even then, it could easily become the next generation of often overplayed mixtures of paint that seemingly took shape after empty air had been discovered.
May 21, 2002
Seeking shelter
I don’t know what death is, to fear it. All I know is, suddenly you’re gone from this present state of being. I’m intimidated by its power. You can’t beat it! Death is a snow flake that melts the moment it touches earth—a star that’s fallen during the night sky or the song a bird that sings before a car zooms by, and hits it. It’s the what-ifs of everyday life. A leaf falls to the yellowed lawn, a frog leaps out, and hides beneath it. What if it hadn’t fallen? What if I had mowed over it? What if I had cut my arms? What if I hadn’t slept outside my marriages? Answers can’t be located! What if I became friends with the frog?
May 22, 2002
Embracing the constant me
I see myself as the man who can but won’t. I see myself as the man who will but won’t. I can’t see the man I ever think he’s better than, even the weakest. My willingness to paint expressions isn’t mine to hold. If I wanted to really do something my way, it would constantly be empty.
My writing of One Man’s 1021 Thoughts scares me to the point of believing that life as I know it will soon change. I’ve always heard those who pass to the other side know of their journey, but don’t understand the signals. My path is very visible, and I fully understand the crumbs left behind. If a man is given 1021 days to pen out his thoughts, pictures of his true identity arise. In a moment of courage, his thoughts bleed real tears allowing the next generation to believe a little more than he did.
Who I am, isn’t the question. No, is it what I am? If you have such desires to know, then be bold enough to ask.
May 23, 2002
God doesn’t need a book to spread his word
The traffic light had been damaged—the green light was missing. I honestly thought it was poetic. For a split second, I looked at what others also saw… something very valuable was gone. Within a very brief moment of a complicated life, reality whispered.
May 24, 2002
Death happens inside your visions first
A self portrait of me would be flowers put in places where shoes grow.
It’s ok to dream. It’s ok to fantasize. To get anywhere in reality, the journey starts with sacrifice.
I hate people who suddenly want to shove me onto a path without carefully planning out their thoughts. I’m a realist! I’ll take you on…
Life is living life in a world created by people who don’t run away.
note: At the end of this day’s writing, I penned out a vision that instantly took over my views. I was going to receive a phone call from the station manager. His vocals wouldn’t be an act. I was told to come to the station to pick things up… a bad email was the reason for my firing. On October 26, 2006 that vision came true.
May 25, 2002
Untitled until written
Ink is my thought creator…
May 26, 2002
Unaffected by blood stains
Give me a writing instrument, and I’ll go in any direction. Give me an imagination, and that direction shall have purpose. A doodle is but a reason to travel. It’s not only safe, but it allows time to heal the silence generated by energies disliked when standing alone without a pen.
I wish to be looked upon as nothing more than the child who took what he saw while sitting alone, and decided to prove that nothing is invisible.
Fantasy is taking a simple moment, and turning it into something you can keep.
May 27, 2002
Bloodless coup
Take from me everything I create, because its true purpose is to be shared.
One of the greatest gifts handed to me is a forest that seemingly grows every year. It must! Or am I getting smaller?
One day my son will walk up to me and ask, “Why” The answer shared will be nothing but the truth—how can I love what wasn’t created through means of love? I felt it was a horrible waste of his time to place faith in a liar.
Make not the love you see in dreams… create what reality gifts you with everyday.
May 28, 2002
Spirituality in seed form
There’s nothing I can do about the avenues man has taken—I’m only here to represent my path, not the trails connected to the billions of people who want a better tomorrow.
I can’t help it! One minute I believe in everything I do, only to learn I can’t figure out what I’m doing.
The moods are many… the dreams I savor are few. If every day was treated like my last, then where within this dream am I given the chance to breathe?
We interrupt your special moment:
By being faithful to the art we hold, countless times it’ll take over, or you’ll stop breathing. After it’s completed, you still can’t find enough air in your lungs to grasp the reality you just brought into a world so untamed. I had been working on a canvas for two weeks… each day something new arrived. I’d rip it off the art studio wall, and hang it for all to enjoy. Try tuning out a piece of art that doesn’t believe it’s reached its full potential of messaging. You can’t, which is why I document the journey of art by taking digital pictures of the process, only to be struck hard in the soul when something goes extremely right. The following is the poet’s response to his artist friend’s delivery.
Warning... what you're about to fall witness to is the first ever painting that has left me in total tears. It has evolved from so many evolutions, but because I don't turn my back on failure... the end result of the unconditional is innocence. As mechanical as we've become in this society of forward motion... mark my words, the greatest creators you'll ever meet will fall to their knees in believed silence, because those in control failed to see the torture these artists’ were put through to achieve a manager's level of masking dreams come true. Therefore, heads of homes will try to hide the artist like a retarded child of the sixties and before... be it as such, but in due time, what was once in control will fall even farther than the artist, and it will take the unconditional love of an artist to pull them from fires of their self created hell.
The Poet M’e
February 9 2006
Dedicated to my brother, Teddy, who would still be in a special home for retarded children if it wasn't for my mother’s ambition to treat her son like a human being. More importantly, this painting is dedicated to the artists who've been shamefully beaten by upper levels of control and then tossed out like a dog, because your breed no longer matched the popular brand. I still believe in you. Just think, if you had been an alcoholic, drug abuser, or your body filled with cancer... life wouldn't have ever changed. Your only sickness is having the strength to seek what ever methods of madness it takes to make sure your manager lives a life better than you.
Who is your role model? Essay for Black Belt exam
If I can’t be me…then who shall I be? If I can’t rip from this soul the purpose and reasons behind such decisions made, than who am I to say that anyone can be my role model? My mistakes are what weigh me down. To place a name over the head of a leader points fingers at the teachings of models who seemed effective until judged by a community striving to be perfect.
This life I claim to be my own isn’t one to be proud of. I’ve shattered hearts, broken dreams, and destroyed reasons for others to believe. Who in this life made me this way? Because this isn’t the man I was supposed to be! Never at any given moment in time did I set out to become who I am.
In 2002 martial arts selected me. I had spent several years studying the wisdom of Native American chiefs and medicine men, while viewing the grounds so easily called Wounded Knee. By means of animal speak, the trails became rugged almost impossible to see—anger, hatred, and disgust fed the veins of a creative spirit who’s acting abilities portrayed a lifestyle of hope, helpfulness, and human compassion.
I was an actor! Everything I did was nothing more than a stage. I lived a life of lies—just like my father Kenneth Bakken. Therefore, my role model must be the very man who walked out on my mother. I was only three. And everyday since that page, I’ve never trusted, properly forgiven, or attempted to heal the very soul carried in my gut on a daily basis.
As hard as I’ve tried to never be this man, shoving razor blades into my left arm could never carve his blood from hidden aspirations so out of control.
Role models are the people our lives are shaped after. The elements the Dali Lama and Thich Naht Hahn speak of when combining the histories of nations yet unborn. What we did today was nothing more than already planned out in the chapters before by people we had come in contact with.
Can a forty year old man who has spent the past eleven years researching depression without drugs have a role model? No. That would require trust; faith, and a spirit of loving that doesn’t have a home in my heart.
What do you tell your seventeen year old childhood sweetheart when she looks deep into your eyes, and orders you to be silent while sitting inside an abortion clinic in Billings, Montana? Love is so strong that it takes the air from your lungs before the body can use it to stay alive.
I still married her. For the next twelve years she led my life through thirteen more abortions. She didn’t hide her love affairs, nor did she set aside her fueled temper, which did nothing, but force me toward bigger, darker corners of depression. I became physical proof that domestic violence isn’t a male driven sadness, but a poisoned example of bad energy exposed by a woman totally out of focus.
Whispers of wind carry our lives from childhood to adult. They don’t teach us in high school that suddenly we become the elders. We carry things on our backs, often invisible, hardly if ever vocal, and in some cases… no day passes that a chunk of the carriage doesn’t fall in front of your next step.
We stop. We wonder why… most move on. I’ve chosen to seek out the rhymes with no hope of discovering the reason. It’s not my job. Nor was it my role models.
I am who I am, because who I am is what became of the initial reaction to an event I couldn’t control. Be it a role whose model shattered, or a player on a field… time slips into no coma, only minds that have given up do.
Who taught me to become the writer? Who placed the words on paper before I could read them? Who stepped forward to tell the tale, only to quickly wisp away so that his or her image may not be seen or credited?
I learned to write in a creative manner to hide the truths of my expressions. I exposed nothing while discovering flowering examples of words meeting the imagination, which do nothing but make you a pissed off poet.
It had to be someone who knew in their heart that failure exists, and if it continued they didn’t want to achieve its identity. Therefore, if anything has come of things I’ve touched; its only inspiration is nothing more than a passerby met along the path leading toward Old Faithful at Yellowstone National Park.
How then am I supposed to identify the role model expected of me, so that I may gain access to a nicely cut piece of material dyed black? An interesting point, but only if you are me, and not an outsider who assumes they know of me.
It all seems so negative sitting in the hands of the life once lived, and yet I wouldn’t trade any of it in. Upon this soil my roots seem exposed, but deep below, the elements of tomorrow take shape in ways I can control.
Sought are not models or frames to step inside. A vase breaks spewing water onto a floor once connected to a tree, to a seed, to a drop of rain, to a cloud, to a body of water connected to a forest surrounded by trees recently rained upon.
That’s where influence begins.
Whatever voice gently spoke into a hurting soul to seek more knowledge about avenues of creative flow… that is the owner to whom I owe this adventure to.
The cutting has stopped and paintings have grown—stages are measured in growth, and not by the number of people who bring their performance to its reason for being so high above the crowded streets below. Spirit guides and keepers… feathers that fall from birds above, Native American spiritual tools, are blessed by the hands of a man or woman who once touched the mother earth.
Not one person, but lists of many. Not one generation, but a total replenishing.
I was never given a choice to participate with martial arts. It grew outward from a room at the gym, and consumed me. Geraldo said to me, “You aren’t learning how to kick someone’s ass… you are investing in your life. Martial arts will get into the deepest roots you can no longer reach, and rip them to shreds. You will not become ill. You will locate an incredible amount of happiness, and not know where it came from. It’s an investment in your future. Rather than collecting money to be saved, you’re locating amazing amounts of energy that will keep you positive, and very much alive. In time and without notice… you’ll deliver your body, mind, and soul to higher levels of performance, and experience art the way it was meant to be born.”
Interestingly enough, Geraldo never made it to black belt. Neither did the other students who studied with Julio Hildegra. Once that family shattered into colorized pieces, each clump of clay landed in places unexpected. Dr. Roger went back to practicing medicine, and Jeff is still playing with computers at Microsoft. None of them continued, not even Bruce who walked into King Tiger with me during the early months of 2003.
It was my dream to be Julio’s first black belt. No, it was my mission, which is why it was so difficult to cut away from his fat.
I cheated on Julio in November of 2002.
By invitation only, Master Aughtry of Monroe, to whom I still respect with all of my life, approached me to join his ranks of training. He had seen me spar, and found it entertaining how I smiled during every match. Was it confidence or stupidity? By using methods of Karate, I penetrated the circle, only to smile in your face. Native Americans call it a game of Coup. He loved that about my spirit. I’ve always wondered what he would have thought if I had been honest with him about such chance taking? I didn’t need blades anymore… Karate was cutting into the core of my reasons to quit life.
We did nothing to exercise the heart… within months, the sickness in my soul had returned, as did the razor cuts, and total disrespect for the self I had become. My long drives to Monroe were blanketed with thoughts of suicide, and every reason why being on a back road would be the perfect place to commit to the final breath.
I learned quickly that an injury in martial arts was a badge. No more razor blades with lame excuses for cuts. I had suffered three major rip fractures, several badly beaten leg attacks, and bruises to the face. Martial arts took the numbness out of my dead soul.
Master Aughtry assumed I had left Julio. When he learned of my reasons for staying true to my loyalty of being his first black belt… I was dismissed.
Julio was all about injury. His rise was through the ranks of ultimate fighting, and professional wrestling. It was blood and glory, or you were asked to leave class. I finally left Julio the night he made me run 3 miles with a broken rib. I never cried so hard in my life. Not because I left Julio… I had never felt that kind of pain. I wanted, more than anything on earth to kill myself, just to get away from the pain.
I walked into Master Todd Harris’ class with no confidence. I must have looked like a ragged torn dog freshly thrown from a moving car. In going back and reading my daily journals… it was worse. I was poisoned by a need to stop, because such an action would in fact end the eternal pain that consumed my every breath.
I came to King Tiger injured, beat up, and deeply scorned by the reckless means of a monster inside. I have no idea why I walked through that door. It had to be the same ghost, spirit keeper, or spirit guide that put me in Julio’s class a year and a half earlier.
“Build the ark.”
Master Harris told me to go back to Julio. He said that my heart would know when the breakup would be proper. I couldn’t be the best student available if my heart wasn’t in the right place.
Three months later I walked out of Karate class. I mean, right in the middle of doing front kicks, my heart, my energy, my every reason to be in that class died. To this day, I’m in shock. Julio never trained me how to quit. It took me to do it. A new shame had been born, so painful that it was extremely difficult to face my wife. I couldn’t believe I had walked away from something that powerful.
The next day… I was training with Master Todd Harris.
The space above shall forever remain blank—because I have no idea why he allowed me to be in that school. The color of that empty space represents the white belt I wanted to be but he said, “No…I want you to be a green belt. That’s how much experience you have to be in my class.”
We compromised… I started at yellow.
I don’t know what’s happened to my life since becoming a student at King Tiger. Except to say, I’ve lost a lot. I mean, I really have lost a lot!
1. I’m no longer 242 pounds
2. I no longer think of suicide as being my only answer
3. I try everyday to work one on one with people to end my fear of them
4. My marriage has become incredibly strong
5. My faith in God is unstoppable
6. I read more books on leadership than any other time in my life
7. I build positive conversations by means of taking the first step toward it
8. I do all I can to halt all forms of judgment, and will take you on if you begin it
9. My writing is being published, my art is in galleries, I have a production studio
10. Radio no longer treats me like a slave, because I’m not there to let it
So, to whom do I owe the honor of being my role model? It’s too easy to write Master Harris when I know in my heart that our sentence writing has barely left word creation form. His goals in asking that we write these paragraphs isn’t to inflate his ego… but to take a look at the entire picture that makes up the elements in our lives. He has shown us the path… how we get to the other side is based on those who continue to lead in ways that weren’t visible to us until we opened our eyes.
It’s too easy to create a list filled with names of individuals who have become stilts during bad rain storms, large stuffed animals during moments of great loss, and hearty feet when I chose to walk no more.
A role model is a piece of a puzzle. Michael Jordon didn’t win six championships for the Chicago Bulls… the team did.
To single out or to group together invites judgment, and or reasons for someone not mentioned to think incredibly valuable time had been wasted, when in fact; my entire purpose would rather be to face you eye to eye, soul to soul and thank you. No… even that is too much of an act.
There will come a day that you will know deep inside the soul you carry that what you offered, not only affected me, but generations that follow. That’s when you’ll realize how incredibly important you were alongside a path once made of pushed down grass, and no way out.
You will meet someone on this path whose passion for creative flow will be an exact copy of what I once offered. When you see what they’ve done with it, and how their positive attitude continues to pour visible excellence onto the trails of those who need an open palm… that’s when you will look in the mirror, and realize the importance you have played in my life today.
I am nothing more than the messenger. I will die trying to make sure someone on this planet doesn’t feel the horrid emptiness I face on a daily basis. But because you chose to put your brick inside my foundation… to keep me from leaning… what is offered is every reason why one person cannot hold the world on their shoulders… it requires an entire forest filled with jazz. It takes a lot of musical instruments to perform it properly, and not once does someone say… me, my, or mine!
May the sun rise above your tears…
May 29, 2002
Even I can’t hear the call
Interviewer: Are you building walls to keep yourself out?
At any moment without notice, anything can, and is happening. These terrorist threats against the country eat at me constantly. I’m letting acts of assumption affect me. My job life is filled with people being fired. Then you have the fear of dying, because someone like Paul Franklyn passed so unexpectedly. I’m not lost… I’m in wonder! What can I do to prevent life from happening?
May 30, 2002
Clouds that speak are worth listening to
This heart I own belongs to a creative afterthought—a passing of humanisms. A ghost one day saw me sitting next to a tree, and softly whispered, “Will you be my friend?” Before I could reply, all that once was… became. Challenge not he who decides to visit, allow what he offers to blend with the path of choice. Although his ideas may not be in harmony with yours, make what you want out life’s second nature. Feed not the hand that craves ice cream, for it will always return. View the soul of he wanting ice cream, and decide for yourself what the difference is between passion and addiction. Ice cream is like sunshine, it’s available somewhere twenty four hours a day.
I fear terrorism. I fear losing my job. I walk forward as if to challenge fate. I want my creator to put me in front of a moving train. I didn’t ask to paint. I didn’t choose to become a writer. All in all… life is funny that way.
May 31, 2002
Word vomit
I’m tired of having dreams where I’m fired. It’s the one fear that controls me, please God in heaven make them stop.
I’m not proud of my past, which means I look forward. Feet pointed straight, and ability aimed away.
I hate people who abuse me—my words no longer keep them away. They expect me to change, and I do. I’m taller by being smaller, and I’m wiser by playing stupid. Does everything in life have to be an act?
Being silent makes me want to sing.
Who am I? I’m the asshole who’s about to have you for dinner.
June 1, 2002
Dedicated to everything and everyone but me
Just because I’m not Gene Simmons doesn’t mean my life isn’t a tour. My reality versus his is simple—I don’t have roadies setting up the next show. I don’t have the balls to look at life and shout, “Give me more!”
June 2, 2002
Labels are for lost souls
Interviewer: Are you bored with writing daily?
It’s a mental exercise—I plow through fields of corn only to see more walls in places others step through. Just being here daily grants me permission to walk around it.
Interviewer: Are you a poet?
I’m a writer! I toss out thought.
June 3, 2002
Who is it we wish to become when it’s almost too late
It was only yesterday that I was a lonely kid in the 3rd grade. I loved music with more than a passion. I could hear it even in silence, which forced me to get home quickly each day just so I could bang out the music on my cardboard boxes—four of five of them set inside a corner of my bedroom, and Lincoln logs served as drum sticks. The step going into my sister’s bedroom served as my stage—I would sing loudly only to find myself racing to reach the living room piano. Without lessons or encouragement, I’d sit on that bench waiting for God to touch me, to somehow whisper into my ear. In reality, I was given only mixed notes. If I had only become encouraged, offered support, or given a reason to believe in these childhood dreams, I would’ve become the musician my heart says I am. In twenty five days I will turn forty. Not twenty five, not thirty five, or thirteen again… forty. My heart still sings the way it did when I was ten. Age is a number right?
June 4, 2002
No President has pardoned yesterday
The what ifs of modern ways takes its toll on our dreams—statues cry human songs allowing time to stretch one more hour. These are the days we live, the moments of lacked trust… whatever faith one holds between their captured breaths could very well be the gift of a tomorrow that may never come. It’s time to stop placing importance on the past—don’t concentrate on what’s been for it has been, an attempt that was made. My view is that of an uncut rock, its name will be, can be, must be, shall be, and forever be. I am to believe that nothing lives in the past, and yet I write it every day.
June 5, 2002
Mr. Poet meets a new forest neighbor
I saw a turtle yesterday… in the forest! He slowly turned to look at me, his face a dark brown, and a nose that resembled a beak. It was if he was a hawk stuffed comfortably into a hard as a rock shell! I stared deep into his yellowed eyes; it became my quest to discover if this turtle from the forest truly was a land crawler, or a secret agent hawk. For the first time ever I questioned the wind, for this turtle did not look like a dinosaur, and I shall prove it time and time again.
June 6, 2002
Changes in life equal gallons of more fear
Bad dream last night… blood. I felt human fear! Nobody could be told the vow was to move forward without anyone realizing a body had been discovered, and in the end, it was me shutting down.
Interviewer: Do you fear this?
I’ve reached the age where people no longer say, “He was so young.”
June 7, 2002
New book idea the world will never see
I can’t count the number of tears that escape my eyes while thoughts of this project become a reality. I can’t set aside the trails walked upon, nor can I properly display the enormous amount of love I have for this child. Yet in the end, I will grow old, hold her children, and die a very lonely man. For it has always been my deepest wish to be the father of a girl just like Jenny.
note: The Forest Wedding was the name of the children’s book that I dedicated my life to during the closing months of the spring 2002. Laid out in poetic style with hand sketched drawings of each animal presented… it was to be the gift given on this special girl’s wedding day. I took the bounded book to Los Angeles to share with the blooming buds of this new family to be. The book laid unread three days after departing. Words of advice… never write, paint, or display any form of art to those you allow to step into your heart. The end result is the sort of pain that silences every reason why you enjoy being creative. Your art isn’t for your family and friends… that creative spirit belongs to the world you’ve not yet met. Now go find it!
June 8, 2002
This is who I am
It’s not that turning forty bothers me, I almost feel like I should be getting a bowling trophy with it.
From the depths of all four corners there lives a collection of balloons—they’ve waited patiently to float… just as you have your dreams. Within a moment, the soft summer breeze shall pick up one maybe two… their climb is the birth if inspiration. Their travels are an invitation for the awaiting next generation.
June 9, 2002
When others don’t see eye to eye
I see it! I know it! I can do it! I did it! Challenge me again…
June 10, 2002
Dearest Jenny
The poet sits with a pen in his writing hand… fear nestles in the shivers of his soul. Judgment is a disease no one likes, especially a poet reaching outward. He comes with not painted faces. He leads no other to this destination. The poet had in mind a simple smile—a place to run off to, to hide, to sing about, and dance if need be. A collection of simple poetry with paintings attached. These are the little places to sip coffee—even tinier places to hum lullabies. The poet sits writing his thoughts; his fears have the best of him. Sometimes he’d rather run himself, than face the images in the mirror. But he stays… to share this gift. It’s simple poetry with paintings attached. Gifts from where the poet once sat. I build not a bridge to your dreams… I place each stone away from the path, believing our hearts are only a bridge… everything that follows are your dreams come true.
note: My stepdaughter Jenny stood one week away from graduating from UCLA. All too often, the stepfather doesn’t get to step up to the podium and whisper, “I’ll forever believe in you.” Therefore, the poet penned what my heart was speaking—it was his way of saying that life didn’t stop when you dropped out of school… achievement was fed by hidden desires your teachers failed to recognize. No matter what were your decisions, and how wrong they may have seemed… we as parents never stopped believing in you. Let this be a lesson—a student in growth is but a mind set to bloom. Turn your thoughts away from judgment, and equal the presentation of both sides. Every day is the first step toward a brand new beginning.
June 11, 2002
I can’t look away but rather within
A terrorist was arrested in Chicago, his mission was to build what is called a dirty bomb—a radioactive device that would kill millions. I’m at a loss of words. Why are people so willing to sacrifice their lives to do nothing more but bring more harm? We live in a modern world more dangerous than the cold war shared between the Soviet Union and the United States… no one blew up buildings, we just didn’t speak, and we used giant weapons to offer promises and guarantees. Today, nobody wants to talk—man has become his own God. We’ve suddenly decided when innocence must pass to the other side. No God is an evil God. No God places destruction into the minds eye! We are a world of blind fools! We stand alone believing all shall pay for the silence in our hearts. Anyone who is truly near God must know that silence is sometimes God speaking.
I echo a thought that others don’t share. I argue to take no sides, unless what you say is against me—is that what war has become?
June 12, 2002
R*** J fired two more, please God let me bleed
The days move too swiftly! We don’t live life… it’s all a movie. Its two hours of cramped butt boring chapters, and scenes, actors, and reactors, directors telling us what to do, orders barked out as loud as can be. Here… gone… someone new—tempers, egos, and attitudes. It’s Hollywood set inside current life. Who’s entertaining who? Don’t ask me! I’m currently in the midst of changing moods…
People think radio is this sweet offer sent down from Heaven… it leaves me wondering which God they’re praying to.
I don’t set out to create “Great!” My mission is an attempt on “Unforgettable.”
Radio isn’t something you can easily tune out. Radio people are thinkers—try living life without a thought.
June 13, 2002
The poet’s prayer
Be with me my mighty father… creator of all things. Allow your strength to walk within my heart adding confidence, and faith to any step I take. You’ve taught me patience my father, my creator… although deeply challenged, I ask that the lessons never stop, for my spirituality is what makes me who I am. I shall build my tomorrow by whispering, “I can.” I will play with my today by admitting change… for no heart beats the same, there are too many steps leading toward heaven. I shall not pretend my father and creator; it only puts value in dried flowers sitting on a shelf.
June 14, 2002
Stop abusing yourself
People spend their entire life never realizing what exists outside their comfort realm. Why must our thoughts be based on the perception of success? No man’s fame can be determined by the gift God gave us, which is nothing more than a willingness to live another second.
June 15, 2002
If I could invite change, I would
Within the depths of anyone’s drive, a voice screams out—its goal is to do nothing more than get you to aim your abilities at what it’s shouting. When you finally accept the ambitious flaw of a willingness to listen, victory becomes the steps leading toward a lasting success. I mean no harm to anyone’s dream! My purpose is to stare failure in the face, and challenge it until it bleeds. Someone will watch, only to be inspired, if not but for a breath of time.
One day my wife, Lee, will be forced to have a conversation with the child who became my son. If she chooses to walk the very path I did with her daughter, Jenny… I’d say we lived happily ever after.
June 16, 2002
Left out of a toast for Jenny
I’m not feeling artful today—no real desire to build pictures with words, or paste thought in the way of forward motion. I try to offer only smiles while others patiently wait for me to suddenly become real.
note: We were in Los Angeles to celebrate my step-daughters graduation from UCLA. Everybody at the dinner table was given the chance to toast her success except me. I took it to heart. When you aren’t invited to toast, the feeling isn’t anger or pain—it’s an expression of being left on the other side of the fence, and damn the person for putting a window there.
June 17, 2002
My heaven on earth
Being in Santa Barbara didn’t feel like we were returning—it actually felt like we never left. The city of Santa Barbara releases just enough scent to leave you satisfied. It’s one of the fewest places on earth where you don’t have to act out your true happiness.
June 18, 2002
Even I have moments of writer’s silence
I put the pen to paper in hopes the mind would bleed—I push and push! There’s nothing to write! Oh boy! Now I sound like the typical bullshit wanna-be writer. What would you like me to say? Am I to say that life is great? At times, I feel like an angel… more than often I watch failure attack all sides. I’m Charlie Brown! Nothing goes right! Why the fuck didn’t I go to college? I could paint! I could’ve thrown my weight onto the family. Never once did anyone support my dreams. Boo fucking-hoo me! I’ll move one step forward… hmmm not bad. I’ll take another… fuck! I’m falling!
June 19, 2002
What would you be doing if you didn’t fear?
Again, I’m not willing to be open with my writing. I’ve sat here for over an hour! Am I locked up tight inside my own world? If being confident is what it takes to bend all levels of being shy… then let me learn how to better act in front of those I love. I can’t write what I really want to—I fear someone will use this as a tool against me. No day passes that I don’t feel a need to keep being a better actor for my true self is incapable of keeping a clean house.
June 20, 2002
Shattered paths make better mud
To create, one must take on failure, and believe it can work in a way that no one but the artist can understand.
June 21, 2002
A dream I can’t catch, God is more important
I’m mystified by my needs to be in Los Angeles. Yet, I know my path makers, spirit guides, and keepers have aimed my reality in directions I must always remain faithful to. Without spiritual growth and determination to remain loyal to my creators ability to make me who I am, I still feel any gift to walk forward must be based solely on the depths of my reality, fed by actual trust that I have placed in those who visibly pour their passion from beyond into the vials leading toward any outlet that makes me creative.
June 22. 2002
The wedding day arrives tomorrow
Stepdaughters and stepfathers are often thrown together due to marriages that would easily work if natural were to be part of someone’s vocabulary—natural meaning, open to both chapters presented and accepted. All I ever wanted was reality, and I got it. Stepfathers cry at wedding ceremonies, we do this while mothers with weakened knees support the children now grown. This is not a negative… it is the unknowing reality.
June 23, 2002
Life after life
Larry has asked that I make my way here to spread the ashes near the place where his sister will walk—a very special form of spirituality blessed by all that have passed. Larry sits nearest my writing hand with the very smile he’d showcase when most excited—he knows, this is the day; true love blooms, and his sister shall forever remain in the arms of a stronger man.
note: My first book One Man’s 1021 Thoughts was dedicated to Larry—an incredible creation that took the shape of dog. He loved Jenny, and protected her late into several nights. Nine hours before the outdoor ceremony in Burbank, California, I silently walked up the isle Jenny would step onto making sure Larry would continue protecting her this day forward.
June 24, 2002
Words she will probably never see
When it’s your own, when it’s her eyes, and when it’s her smile… everything suddenly becomes alright. When time says it’s for keeps, when healing takes more time than most things, and when time no longer resembles a clock… everything suddenly becomes alright. The last minute forgetfuls, the last day you dreamed as one, and the last moment I saw you as a single woman… everything suddenly became alright.
The view I saw of you in the window, on the fourteenth floor of the Hilton, standing as if you wanted the world to see what God had wrapped in his arms.
I saw you laugh and dance, like nothing I’d ever seen before. You knew the lyrics to every song, and then someone said the wedding reception was over.
Words shared with Juan—we have something in common, through marriage, we are family.
She didn’t leave me in silence, although that’s where I wanted to be. She hugged me at the end of the evening in front of the whole world to see. “I love you more than life.” I whispered to her. She stood back and didn’t respond, for in her heart she knew—as she turned to walk away with her husband.
In time, a simple bud blooms and I’m left here with a pen—writing a book of chapters and unedited poetry. The mind’s eye appears into the souls of peace—the hearts baritone drum beat marches to the steps we take daily. Be what we are by learning from each other—tomorrow is going to be better. Knowing that our chapters are incomplete, and here I sit with only a pen.
Forever means until our next meeting—be it here, there, in heaven… or somewhere in between. Forever means, we are family.
note: I’ve never shared words, nor the painting of their wedding day… fear of failure is my reason why.
June 25, 2002
Corporate American warfare
Today I return to work, and like all other days before it, I’m filled with the fear of this being my final one—maybe they’ll choose this one.
**note: I leave this thought for you to serve as a reminder; do not attempt to go the distance with your current position at work. The signals of departure are vibrant… learn to listen to them and understand the fear you have today could save you from tremendous amounts of embarrassment tomorrow. I understand your need to walk ten miles on a three quarter mile road—fed into your veins is a passion to outlive those who are making your life a living hell. The most difficult part to digest isn’t your wasted loyalty, but the idea that they have the power to destroy your life, and there’s nothing you can do about it unless you start listening today. Tuck this final thought into your heart’s pocket; if you were a soldier at war in Iraq or Afghanistan, your leader forever holds the power to put you in a situation that could cost you, your family, and your friends… your life. They died for their country… who are you dying for?
One day, I’d like to make a difference, but where? Look around us… how can I put faith in humanism? I have a child through adultery. I hate myself more everyday. The crumbling of the soul is due to a one time feeling of being close. We’re all breaking the rules! Including our spiritual leaders! I wish my grandparents were here! Their tough way would be the one I’d like to follow.
June 26, 2002
The letter was never sent but it was released from me
Impossible isn’t what I’m capable of doing—my dedication is based on who’s available to help “me” after I’ve tossed my life into the hot fire to bail your ass out?
My General Manager continues to be un-conversational—doesn’t he realize that without communication, it affects the entire foundation of his creation?
Dear ****
**** *** for not taking the time to talk with me. You couldn’t share a simple hello? You’re proving your past employment record true—feed off what’s great, and leave the rest for someone who begs. I’d rather spit on your path than put up with your ill fated leadership. You choose to hang with what’s hot for the moment, calling all things great until challenged—then the almighty steps forward destroying what will soon become silent.
**note: Thich Naht Hahn teaches us, someone’s lack of communication could be the result of someone outside your circle treating them wrong. Rather than attack, learn to use compassion. I chose to write my anger and frustration into a daily journal, never once revealing the horrible pain he was putting me through. He didn’t know of such pain until the day he let me go in October 2006. He got to keep his job while I’ve spent every day since the departure trying to put dirt into the very holes created by his tremendous weakness… lack of communication.
June 27, 2002
Life begins
Twenty four hours from my fortieth birthday—who would’ve thought? My teen years are the most memorable. From the band to the parties, the dreams of wanting to be in radio while living in an unfinished house, one that featured a bedroom that became my place of fantasy. The homemade music making radio station, the battles with my brothers and sisters, we even had chickens and pigeons! I still hold an incredible amount of love for Dawn Sampson, mainly because she said I’d never live past thirty five. I remember wanting to screw the Miller sisters. Patty shocked me on my eighteenth birthday, and it really wasn’t what I had hoped. Nobody told me sex came with strings, interestingly enough. I was the one who had them, and she was nowhere in sight.
Twenty four hours away from turning forty—does that qualify me as being old? I have hair past the middle of my back! Forty! What does it mean? For me, it’s been a daily chore to forgive what we regret on a journey we never paid for.
My greatest moments aren’t historic. At the age of seventeen, I felt a burning desire to no longer drink alcohol. I don’t know why I didn’t take up smoking, or for that matter drugs.
Will life give me another forty years? Looking back, could I withstand it? To be eighty in America, at a time when nuclear war is visible, makes me wonder if I’ve lived in the best of times. From 45’s to 8-tracks, then into compact discs and musical downloads. Musicians are starving, banks keep taking money, and hey the stock market was once a gold mine.
Forty years from tomorrow, will North Carolina be a desert? Will she be left without an ocean to call her own? Will we revisit the ice age made of sand and stone? Will it be too cold to snow, or too dry to live within? Yet, here we sit… man still isn’t living on the moon.
June 28, 2002
Keep hands inside ride at all times.
How do you expect me to act? I’m forty! This coming from the opposite hand of a left arm that’s been cut by knives, razor blades, and anything else sharp enough to penetrate a soul that’s bled my entire life. I’m not forty! I feel sixteen, or at times maybe nineteen. They say life begins at forty—an interesting thought, because the older I get the more open to reality my vision becomes. At forty, I have to focus on better preparing the circle for sudden unexpected twists and turns. At forty, I see ability being defeated by a need to wonder, “What if?” I see turning forty as being an invitation to dream. A secret path toward something I can’t see. Fear encompasses the unchallenged; a need to take on life exists. “What if?” At forty, I blame everything on being too young to know. Now, I should know better, do better, and always feel better. I know what it took to get me to this milestone, a giant dream, and buckets of fucking luck. For at anytime God can whisper, “You’re coming home.”
June 29, 2002
Molded by whom?
Mile markers—sandstone on a desert, bear claws scraped across a tree, and a once living river. Places where memories were once born, only to return, and nothing exists. There are no mental pictures, painted masterpieces, snapshots, or planned out poses. View what has been left behind, and one must trust the story shared. Endure what will become for experience blesses the unaware. A path shades the overgrown… it’s where I’ve once been. If you could properly identify, wouldn’t you notice steps in the sand? A stone has taken shape, the river remains dry. I’m not who I once used to be. The mask lay silent at my feet, for I assumed no reason to wear it. Faith be my guide, trust be what I speak. Only to learn, reality carries with it too much weight. I don’t hide! I don’t run! Yet chapters of past mistakes are read to me daily. If I were God, would I forgive myself? My pen has now become silent.
June 30, 2002
Sought peace is a war building
A poet’s favorite blessing is a pinch of unexpected beauty—only to learn, its now up to him to preserve it—to allow it time to bring itself back into formation during moments of need, or unexpected bouts of sadness. Such an expression shall serve as a form of medicine. My lungs expand knowing the journey to feel is without sight.
I had a vision come to me yesterday—it told me to stop painting, and challenge myself to become even more silent, especially with my art. I felt incredible fear knowing how much it would hurt. Could I go an entire journey without painting? That would be, like not writing poetry. Bringing this vision to my daily writing has done nothing but to invite horrible anger to my soul. I currently feel incredibly bad!
“Challenge yourself to become silent in your art.”
-The unrecognized voice-
July 1, 2002
Silence shall not call victory over me
To tell my imagination it can’t paint is a brutal attack against the heart’s decision to speak. The only way to get out of this state of mind is to stare into a mirror, and firmly say, “Fuck you!”
July 2, 2002
We did it!
The morning radio show played my childhood band on the air—it took twenty five years to make it! Guess this is what happens when you turn forty… suddenly your past becomes something to laugh at—only to find yourself, still walking.
July 3, 2002
Elements
Beautiful isn’t a red rose on a brightly lit new morning. Beautiful isn’t a bird calling as it races through the forest. Beautiful isn’t an orange butterfly scraping the tips of the Queens Anne’s Lace. Beautiful is taking in all things as one… therefore; harmony is where beauty is born.
July 4, 2002
Through a DJ’s eyes
Music is the missing link between laughter and fun. If both are attained, your feet begin to move.
July 5, 2002
The burping artist’s statement
My mind is a tool that governs no man’s land, but my own. To say I can’t is admitting not only defeat, but injuring all that makes up the edge of my unique creative flow. If I knew who I really was… would I change?
July 6, 2002
I was running on the treadmill when the news flashed on the television screen—Ted Williams is gone. My knees buckled. I wanted to fall down. My eyes filled with tears. America didn’t lose a sports legend, but rather a proud National hero. Ted Williams was the bridge found inside many gaps. Generations were linked due to one man’s gift to play baseball, and fight in two wars that have kept our freedom alive. It’s only appropriate that he’d pass so close to the fourth of July. It was my dream day to meet Ted one day, and like millions of people worldwide, that opportunity came during the 1999 All-star game. I saw Mike Piazza and Mark McQuire crying. It was if their own dreams had finally come true that day. Ted Williams was more than a hero... he was the closest thing we’ll ever get to Batman.
July 7, 2002
In reaction to Ted’s son wanting to clone his father
It saddens me to hear that humans want to keep what they love most… when in fact; the absence of who inspired us is what influence becomes. The spirit of life is a beautiful memory, not a clone that’ll be compared for its entire existence.
July 8, 2002
How we choose to walk supports the stumble
Water conservation is like smoking cigarettes—neighbors always try to sneak one in. Roger’s had two heart attacks, he keeps puffing, but his lawn looks great!
A word game to play: I’m trying to think of the last time I was extremely _______.
My chosen word is safe. I’ve learned to look at any situation, smile then move forward—if I didn’t care nobody would. The single most horrific problem is I honestly don’t care for those I work with. I want them to let me go. Why? They’ve offered me no reason to feel safe.
note: My fears reached a level of serious paranoia, which in return guided me toward avenues of self protectionism, but more importantly, unrecognized self destruction. Here I stood weeks away from stepping into the channels of martial arts. Spirituality was to be my shield, my sword, and guide, only to learn that without proper guidance, it was nothing more than hand delivered reasons for people to laugh louder, or walk away.
I honestly had entered a stage of my life where I had pushed so many people away… I required acceptance to move forward, only to learn that the shadows no longer held the helpful hands once attached to helping me reach that addiction. I drowned in a burning desire of trying to keep everyone safe. Was it due to the two wars brewing overseas? Maybe it was, because I failed to believe in **** *******’s radio dreams, yet I guaranteed the guarantee… I will die trying to prove his vision right.
On October 26, 2005… he pulled the trigger, leaving me for dead. Nearly five months later on the morning of March 4, 2006, I starred into the face of fate knowing that if I didn’t run the mile in under twelve minutes, my black belt stood farther away than from the day before.
Salt flavored tears strolled down the runner’s cheeks one quarter of the way into the chapter—I had reached a level of martial arts few attain, but more importantly, radio had nothing to do with this dream. A major portion of the mile run included an extremely difficult hill… one that stole from you every breath available from this generation, and the six that followed. We had to climb it twice! By listening to those who’ve made the run, I was able to lift, tuck, and cross it before gliding down the backside a second time. The tears wouldn’t stop… I had truly come face to face with an ambition only I controlled. I don’t know what it is about running, but if you honestly want to spend time with God… get hooked up to a jog, and let go of life the way you know it. Your creator will speak to you in unexpected ways, to the point of crossing that finish line in 9:40… not 11:59:59
It was spirituality that made me feel safe, and it’s spirituality that’s energized me for the next level of testing. It’s ok to build the bricks that make up your foundation, but never stop believing that God hasn’t already put some vital support in places that you thought to be weak. Don’t waste precious time creating a structure that’s always been there.
These thoughts are in total dedication to Master Todd Harris of King Tiger Academy in Charlotte, NC.
July 9, 2002
Secret shopper
While showing my paintings recently, I was accused of trying to self image the people staring out from the canvas. I explained to them, “I don’t know who it is I draw! I simply call them a passer-by.” The person questioning me continued, “Artists who paint faces are in reality sketching the creator.” I became silent… only to reply, “If that’s the case, then forty eight million times a day I walk beside God.”
July 10, 2002
Improperly placed energy
No matter what seems… isn’t—no matter what you fear, there’s no reason.
July 11, 2002
Nine year old vows
Anyone who claims their years of marriage have been without bad times is a husband and wife who live in closets.
I don’t want to write about where we’ve been, and how we got here. What I look forward to are the unwritten chapters that feed the mouth of a new river, not an ocean. Around its purpose life grows, and from those destinations simple songs become tiny memories, allowing the next generation to believe… just as we did. No life is ever complete, especially if fate is allowed to just happen. Love needs to be challenged like bubble gum.
July 12, 2002
Most can’t make it a day…you bastards!
I’ve now written one thousand three hundred and eighty six days in a row—that’s one tenth my life—a sliver, a pinch, or quite possibly a half of breath. Taking on this journey isn’t an adventure, nor do I find it exciting. It’s a reflection of the many masks I wear. Depending on the moods of society’s change, we either hate the walks we take, or endure the essence of unsatisfied dreams. I’m nowhere near where I want to be, nor do I think I’ll ever get there. Too many things appear in corners assumed safe. What I am is a seeker! I’m the person who hunts down the ability to stare life in the eyes, while listening to God whistling on paths made through a forest of trees and turtles.
note: A willingness to write by means of sharing erases personal fantasy, which in return gifts the path with reasons to never stop writing. Call it a habit or ministry… the reasons why we write isn’t to communicate first, for every thought starts with the art of listening. This day of research is March 7, 2006… at sunrise I celebrated my two thousandth six hundred and eighty seventh day of putting pen to paper. I’m not shocked that it required thirteen hundred days to return to this page… what carries my imagination are the events that have changed peoples lives due 100% to what was written on paper.
July 13, 2002
Methods of madness leading to career suicide
I honestly believe I suffer from what’s been introduced to me as Ace Frehley disease—I can invent the path, but do nothing to make it my own.
Shhhh, don’t tell my heart anything, keep it safe from everything. Let it never see what it is you do to me—take me down the dreamer’s way, thinking I can do something. A fear of falling is what I hold, back away mirrored image, because today won’t be any different from the unfertile beginning of the story. I see it as my protection device—the pictures are drawn while my eyes are closed, only to open them slowly to better accept a sip of a brand new story. Shhh, the heart is sleeping.
July 14, 2002
Ying Yang
I hear the creator’s conversation—some have asked if it’s God. No, it’s a turtle. You’re right, it isn’t God. I didn’t say that! Who was it then? I say it was a Blue Jay and a Cardinal. What are you Doctor Doolittle? I ask the same question. Animals don’t speak to you! Oh but they do! Then it must be God! No, it’s a tree made of leaves. What? A circle located in the forest of trees. You’re nuts! I agree, but that won’t stop me from talking. Then it is God! No, it’s my path, and I’m just listening.
July 15, 2002
Tortured artist
I’m so tired of people assuming they know what my art is about. For God sakes, even I have no idea what the hell I’m trying to say! Art is the ability to take on inability, and creatively defeat I can’t. Being kind to an artist is a good idea! I believe we’re connected to something that most people want nothing of… reality. Writing everyday for over thirteen hundred days straight has taught me how to do whatever I wish, whenever I wish. Outside of that, I’m still a son of a bitch! What I put people through is horrible! The mood swings are mental bathroom breaks, and somehow I use other humans as my toilet paper. Learn to challenge life—become the weed bent at the stem. Pick up your pedals, and hold the wind. I am the path locater, and will die trying to protect it.
July 16, 2002
I still can’t seem to fit the image
If God didn’t want me to be an artist, he would have put a hammer in my hand. Wait! Carpenters are artists! So are plumbers, car builders, mechanics, and shoe repairmen. If you aren’t part of the creation, how unhappy must you be?
The wind is my guide. If I don’t stop daily and listen to the message, my heart becomes dry, and I fall five hundred feet into an uncontrolled depression.
July 17, 2002
Visionary versus ordinary
I often look at my multitudes of paints and wonder—what if? What if we become known for these expressions? What if we had never met? What if I never use you again? I look deeper into the rainbow, and a tiny tube of blue acrylic whispers, “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?”
July 18, 2002
Mistakes lack communication
The only thing I truly believe in is assumption—it does nothing but invite personal injury.
July 19, 2002
Pink clouds and honeysuckle
The funniest thing about expressing through art isn’t that I did it for anyone—no matter who gets the work, not anyone receives the emotional uplifting, everyone will, and does! My work has never been a solo enjoyment. You’ll be touched! Even if you hate the piece, it still affects your senses. That to me… is art! Be it mine, or Picasso, the expression has the energy to change directions.
A true artist is homeless, for it’s our imagination that travels.
July 20, 2002
Kevin Russell gets my first 64x48
I ask, “What does this painting represent?” No one really conquers all their dreams. The birds are music makers whose view of the world is nothing more than an uncharted flight.
Feed me ageless mind, tell me what is to be. Is there purpose, or reason? If not, then am I being me? In time, an answer will arrive… without it, life continues to grow. For a rose carries no talent or a gift, nor does a raging storm. It’s all part of what exists and today, I’ve become part of that creation.
note: The painting as seen on this day never made it to Kevin and his family. I learned a nasty habit during a showcasing in the months before… display the art for the public to see, which gives me reason to hear what they don’t like, allowing the creator to change his path of thought. In this case, it worked for the good. I located the sheet music to their first dance; it was to personalize it, to let it become part of their love, compassion, and creative way. An artist knows, you can’t toss in an item and still feel balance—once the music became part of the piece; the entire concept disappeared leaving me with a brave attempt at trying to save rather than present. From this day forward, I spent the majority of my artist time trying to locate better ways to seek balance, while letting visions escape my in fingertips. The answer was the digital camera—take photographs while the art is coming to life… questions and corrections are easily fine tuned on a computer screen… it allows me to locate peace, before displaying the piece.
July 21, 2002
I’m not perfect nor is my circle
When you switch the texture of the paper you create on, the mind argues with every reason why it should stop! Loyalty to that page is what puts air into the pictures, and words that which arrive in any shape and color on any canvas and or wall. The days go by too fast!
Before long we’ll be observing the anniversary of 9-11. What about Pearl Harbor, the Vietnam War, and Ronald Reagan? Several years, and yet it feels like just a few hours. No wonder I’m tired! To rest properly requires a century. Which explains reincarnation… we leave long enough to get a good night sleep. Oh well, enjoy it while you can, a person never knows when they’ll be born again.
July 22, 2002
When God speaks
The door leading to the forest is open… a bird with a unique song has signaled. He’s been within the trees since my return from Los Angeles. I feel nothing but warmth, it’s consuming my imagination. Birds are jazz singers—without their presence we’d be living within the realms of silence. The greatest mocking bird on earth is a human in search of music.
July 23, 2002
Taking control of a negative
A great sense of hatred lives inside of me. I believe it’s fed by fear and fear alone. I’d rather hide in a box than face another human being. I’d rather be silent than speak another word. I can’t believe how I’ve allowed life to dominate the core of my soul. I even hate the idea of writing everyday! I’ll probably paint… another face, a fucking bird, some musical note! Bullshit! This has got to stop! I demand change! I expect it, and require it! I’ve got to stop living in my own shadow.
Believe in one, believe in me. Believe it can be, and believing will be. Believe in all creations, believe in peace, believe in… and believing will be easy. Believe in the birds, believe in the moths, believe in the wind that carries, and that believing will be shared. Believe in faith, believe in reality, believe in can be… and believing shall be.
July 24, 2002
Distant drums ring louder
I grew up in shadows! I’ve never been my own ray of light. I’ve had my own share of horrible problems, but why are my mistakes constantly rubbed into the depths of this existence? I’m constantly on the defense! I’m guilty of only one crime… being alive. To this very day I wish my weaknesses would’ve turned to drugs or alcohol! My brother and sister found them! Yet here I sit, having to endure everything they chose to run away from. It’s not fair! They find escapes, and I have to write or paint! I don’t recognize a lot of the stuff I do, because I’m aware of everything I can do. I don’t approve of my life! I don’t approve of my mistakes! I don’t approve of my career! This is where the root lives! I don’t approve of me being affectionate to myself! Masturbation is nothing more than every attempt to rid the body of its self created poison. I am a copperhead snake!
I try everyday to visit the sacred circle that I created in my forest—not to be spiritual, religious, or holy. I go there to listen, to hear what the rest of the world ignores. My path is my path! My choices are my choices. I’ve made horrible mistakes, and no one knows more about them than me! I hurt, but no one takes care of my hurt. I don’t need them to. This body is mine, and it’s taking me to task to try to better understand this God wrenching suicidal pain.
Does any of this belong to me? Only the words I keep inside. Once written, the entire world can do what they wish. I’m used to people laughing at me, hating me, and seeking their own shelter under me.
July 25, 2002
Repent
Don’t put the light on me! To approve of what I am or do, requires a need to accept my past, present, and future. I’ve made horrible mistakes. I didn’t turn unfaithful until I went face to face with my first wife’s constant need to hurt me. My heart told me that I wasn’t being untrue! Instead, it was an attempt to locate whatever love was available without hurting the woman you’ve chosen to love. My real father ran out on me at the age of three. My mother was never home, my brother ran away at the age of sixteen, and my first wife had a love affair three months into the marriage. I chose to create my own little world, and required a shrine fed by inner peace. No matter what, in my corner of the world, an invisible place of solitude, the only person who could run out on me was me. In 1982, I turned my back on the morals of life, and had sex with an outside temptation. Because it was so easy… I just couldn’t stop. I instantly became addicted, not to the fifteen seconds of orgasmic energy, but to the presence of a line drawn in the sand that sang out to me, “I dare you.” Giving someone attention made my life better. I was able to turn my sad, ugly, lonely self into someone that others could relate with, and feel stronger standing next to. When someone physically realizes they’re making other people feel incredible, you can’t stop. I’m not addicted to sex… I purely love trying to give people the opportunity to have what I’ve never held… someone who would take the time to listen. Dear God, please be my teacher.
July 26, 2002
Crashing without recognizing the shoreline
Interviewer: For a brief moment yesterday you called yourself an artist…
And for a brief moment yesterday, I was very happy.
Interviewer: Why do you always come back like that?
That’s easy to answer; life’s too short for me to agree with anything. I’m not a lost artist! I’m no better than a brief gust of wind offering change. I’m a human being who’s located an outlet… in reality, that doesn’t seem lost.
July 27, 2002
The visitor
The vision came to me within a dream—Sam Rideshorse, from the Crow Nation in Montana. His exact words to me were, “Build bridges to self first, all things shall follow.” I quickly recognize this to be wrong! It showcases conceit, big headedness, and over confidence. I’ll await the arrival of a second visit! What I affect are other people’s paths, and that’s not me! I want to be liked by someone other than the man I am.
note: On the evening of March 9, 2006, I stood before my mentor in Martial Arts arguing this very point. If having an ego and pride are part of being a true black belt, I couldn’t allow myself to move forward. Nathan’s words were, “That black belt serves as a bridge, and there are plenty of people waiting to follow. It’s ultimately up to you to decide if you’d like to teach them the way Sabumnim wants it, or yes… walk away now.”
July 28, 2002
Can a self have a world at war?
I quit my radio career. I play the game to keep money coming in. I hope this book’s existence proves that the origin of fire still breathes within. They say life starts at forty. Kiss my fat ass! A bridge is built to crumble. I’m used to it! I’ve been doing nothing more than going on for too many years.
July 29, 2002
Fear
If I take my imagination, and let it have just enough time to travel—suddenly, the sights, and sounds living beyond my circle evolve into the depths of what will become my art. I was asked again yesterday, “What will it take to make you happy?” My only thought shared was, “Why waste your energy trying to figure out what can’t.” My spirituality hasn’t changed, only the view I have of the world we can’t stop changing. No day passes that brutal acts of humanism don’t sicken the headlines, and there’s nothing we can do! At that very moment, I turn to my dog, and wait my turn.
July 30, 2002
Welcome to the first step of a brand new beginning
I gave myself approval as well as affection last night by taking my first karate class.
I’m not taking the class to better my odds in war. Two things, I’ve met a master with the same, if not more powerful demands than me, and I’ve met the mind, body, and soul of a self whose life needs harsh discipline to make it to fifty. I’m a warrior! In karate, I will be taught to face walls, and walk through them. After suffering from a twenty year old depression, I see this as my first opportunity to shatter the face of the beast who consumes my every breath. If I lived in true Native American times, I would’ve been dead years ago.
Rivers of red, a path by water—take me to your source. Learn not from the un-traveled, only view where weakness begins. A million drops of water can’t make it to the ocean… where then do they fall? Rivers of unread, allow me to breathe your air, to live like you, to feel the wind, and most powerful storms. Your banks swell then fall, revealing unto the world the roots of hundreds of living trees. It is there that I’ve chosen to sleep.
Give me a bridge, and I’ll cross it. Give me a valley, and I’ll climb out of it. Throw me a rope, and I’ll toss it back.
note: Research date March 14, 2006; I stand one month nineteen days from my black belt test. This journal entry has waited almost four years for me to return to it. I find it fascinating that I write of mountains and valleys, because I’ve challenged myself to set two bricks in front of me on April 23, 2006… from a push up position I must enter a realm of deep meditation. The power of ki energy will shatter the mountains I’ve built, and the walls that remain miles thick. My master in martial arts has changed. Although Julio’s roots continue to breathe energy into my soul, and Master Aughtry’s compassion was an incredible healing experience… today, I’ve been gifted with the opportunity to study with Master Todd Harris of King Tiger Academy in Charlotte, North Carolina 704-364-1880. No man on earth has been so open to help purify the clouded streams than he. For the first time in my life, I’ve met someone who accepts mistakes as being part of the teaching process, which in return is shared with everybody who comes in contact with the circles we create, without ever tossing a rope into the holes they’ve elected to bury themselves within.
July 31, 2002
To the soul, to the soul
Affection is understanding, affection is painting, taking a walk through the forest, and taking the time to share. To show affection, I must learn to recognize the difference between each simple expression. I must learn to turn to a painting, and say, “Great job!” Now I’ve entered the world of approval and recognition.
August 1, 2002
How to rid the fakes from life
We live inside a world where people assume all too often. They assume in a caring way. They ask how you’re doing, how are your loved ones, and how’s life in general? They force me to assume they care. Yet nobody asks about my mood swings. They’re more interested in why I’m limping down the hall, but feel no need to ask why I might be worried, or why depression consumes everything I touch. Why should anyone care? I don’t expect them to! Just stop assume caring. My way out of such conversations is blunt, “I’m old! The body no longer wants to work up to my expectations, and this is how it gets back at me.” They have no idea what the fuck I’m saying, so their next step is to walk away.
August 2, 2002
At which point do we begin
Some say this is the driest summer is one hundred years. If caught watering, I could be fined! Yet, a true friend always finds food for the hungry.
My writing instrument sits bathed in ink and paint—the child laughs inside. No one knows of the ability, what a pen must endure—to take ink to canvas, only to learn. It’s an artist’s view of the world, we hear things you can’t see, taste what’s without birth, and feel too damn much about everything! That’s why we have instruments… to place blame, to give reason, hope, and to listen better to everything.
August 3, 2002
Ask and you shall see
I’m such a dick head! I wish my writing could be taken seriously! What am I doing to get better? Jotting down words doesn’t do anything, but teach me discipline! I need to grow beyond the artwork!
I get so lost when people tell me how much they love how open I am. Just because there’s light between the cracks in the wall doesn’t mean the best view is where you assume. My openness about spirituality isn’t a choice! Things are presented in a way from where I’m standing knee deep on someone’s path—I only offer what I’ve learned. I’m not a Preacher or Rabi! I’m someone who lends a helping ear. When Tony’s secretary came to me with tears in her eyes, the over three thousand mass mailings needed to be sent ASAP… I calmly replied, “Don’t think of this as you being a low man on the totem pole position… if it wasn’t for you, lives wouldn’t be touched. In order for lives to change, it has to start somewhere, and right now that honor belongs to you.”
God calls on me to be the normal, peaceful friend who stands along the runner’s lane, and screams out, “You can do it.” I obey God! Obeying my creator is my mission. Sharing a simple smile, and or understanding invites sunflowers.
Note to readers:
During the morning of August 3, 2002, it was presented to me that these writings would be burned at my cremation. The thoughts presented at that moment of delivery were as followed:
I’m not conceited! I believe what’s been written isn’t for this generation, but for those that follow. To destroy my writings is stealing from the unknown. It must be preserved! I could die today, and never know if the writing made it to the seventh generation. Did anyone ask Ansel Adams about his photography? What about Picasso? Maybe he was supposed to destroy his work too! It’s not what I want or what they wanted… this writing is about what you hear inside.
Hello Mr. Frog! May I walk beside you this new morning? It’s as if I need to learn how. Two steps forward and you’re gone! Please Mr. Frog, teach me to be un-startling. I don’t want you to fear my steps. What is there left besides just you and the water? When I kneel to look at you, I ask softly if I may pass your castle. Your stare seems welcome until I stand up, and then you quickly disappear. Please Mr. Frog, teach me to be invisible. You look so peaceful before I arrive… I don’t want to be the reason why you leap farther from warmth of the open sky.
Follow up:
The preservation of thought is nothing more than a gift to an awaiting dream—can you imagine returning to school, and not having a library lined with hard covered sketches from imaginations that chose to share? My favorite book of all time is Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. What if I hadn’t spent countless childhood hours in the backyard digging holes in places that pissed off my parents? The adventure taught me how to never stop digging for better ways to entertain the innocence that the imagination holds before it dies. What we choose to do in life has every reason to be written. Stand up for what you believe in, and make sure your art lives forever! Trust me, a young mind will make the connection generations from where you stand, and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop the growth from affecting their path. That’s when you look up to God, and whisper a simple tear. Because you took the time to share… tomorrow offers an innocent ear.
Since confronted with the idea of these writings being destroyed during my cremation, such thoughts have been erased. Once completed, each book is now placed in sealed containers that allow no sunshine, wind, or rain to reach their fermented state of being. The greatest scent given to me at the age of forty three is taking the time to open one of these containers—once free, the aroma of ink, paper, and paint ignites the soul into believing that each step taken is always in forward motion.
August 4, 2002
The birth of a new art form
I’m nothing more than a doodler whose ambition isn’t to brave the challenges of perfection, but rather communicate a simple existence of harmony.
note: People stop creating the moment they’re given a new challenge, which is why I feel sorry for artists who draw only apples and oranges. Once we let go of this burning desire to perfect an eye or pouting lip, suddenly the expressions take on the perspective of what we as artists offer the world, and not the copy machines sold at your local business hut.
August 5, 2002
The warrior’s journey
As a white belt in Karate, I’m learning; in a time of requirement… part of the mental building process is to look beyond the surface while focusing on the ability to become. Karate is taking me to a level of self trust that life’s never given me.
August 6, 2002
The reason why God made me a martial artist
If I’m so creative and into everything, what must the world see when looking at me? Am I a runny egg, or a melting ice cream cone? I had no father to teach me the mental fundamentals of survival. My mistakes have been my lessons learned; therefore focus will become my greatest tool.
August 7, 2002
Karate is my Drano
It’s my dream to become spiritually stronger. It’s my wish to build the confidence, and strength to finally make decisions on my own. I’m a leader! Without quality, I shall fail.
Assumption is a cartoon character filled with brilliant human traits—you fall in love with it, only to realize you’re acting like a child.
Assumption should always be followed with a question mark. It doesn’t matter how educated you are, you’re still barely 49% right.
I try to never assume… I already have nothing.
What erodes can be reshaped. What is blistered by a hot summer sun can be replanted. Learn to visualize by listening to the wind, and from the great storms that shall pass. Life delivers to every path what you require; it’s ultimately up to you to keep it alive.
August 8 2002
And God reminded me
My goal is to defuse the snake—to use my arms and legs to weaken the attacker. I’m to be well aware of the aggression used against me, believing my mind, body, and spirit, will take me to the end result without having to think about it. Anyone can draw! Anyone can do radio! Anyone can be a lover of birds and animals. Only I have the ability to allow myself to grow.
August 9, 2002
Hey, it’s me…um, why do you want to know me?
I made contact last night. Does anyone actually believe I had a conversation? Anyone who has children knows that strangers and seven year olds don’t communicate. I’m told the call lasted six minutes. How many minutes of that were spent waiting for him to answer the phone? Does he know who I am? No! That would be like me meeting my real father Kenneth Bakken. I’d spend hours not knowing who he was, and why he called to have a conversation. When I go into the forest this morning, I’ll face the beast I do every morning—a self I don’t love. A self I don’t have to be loyal to and a self that needs no air to continue. As much as I’m at fault… I’ve admitted to being nobody but me.
August 10, 2002
God speaks to me through methods of Jazz
My forest sits staring at me, not a leaf sits on a lonely path. For in time, even they realize how short our breath becomes. To be one with the body requires two dreams—life and death.
August 11, 2002
To be so damn cool
As I sit looking into the forest, a vibrant glimmer of the sun whispers Larry’s bark—a howl that sang out to you with clickity clicks created by melodic toes, and a sharp edged tail. Larry never stepped out of his tuxedo, his style was Bogart, and his view of life extremely Homer Simpson. Larry was our classy, no-nonsense; just love me baby, from the city of L.A.
note: The first year anniversary of losing someone so close is more difficult to digest than the actual day your hearts separate… only to learn they never do. In October of 2006, I challenged God after the immediate and unexpected loss of Mark Jefferies, Dr. Ronald Mack, Woji, and Nicki. I wanted God to physically leave my path. I had enough of his life and death decisions, and required an answer as to why such journeys must be taken. His reply came only days after putting razor blades into my left hand… a permanent vacation from my job, time spent alone, to write, paint, be creative, to teach, to build, to listen to the wind while cardinals created new seasons of winter and spring. He doesn’t have to ask me daily if I have rediscovered his passion to unconditionally love… he sees it in the eyes of those who have been influenced and inspired by his decision to never turn his back on the creative flow, that somehow has never died in the days of my darkness. Which is proof that what we think is death, is in reality the birth of someone else’s first step into a world we aren’t supposed to understand—we’re here to study it, and then share it.
August 12, 2002
We miss you so much
It hurts to think that I still see you—a walk through the forest at night, and into the muddied creek that always made you stink—through the vines that stuck to your fur, then up the bank into the house where you’d come in to dry. Why did you smell so bad? Did you run, leap, and play underneath the tummy of a snake? How did you always make it back? The cowardly type you were not… into your mothers arms you’d prance—creating faces that spelled B.A.T.H. You were the king of the cool, more mighty than super heroes, and even Scooby Doo. I know you’re still with us! I couldn’t help but notice a tiny nose print next to your mommy’s pillow.
August 13, 2002
The sign read: Clean top soil for sale
Look within the sacredness of all things, a common bond we all hold. Stare into the sights of man’s inventions, and only he is expected to remain.
August 14, 2002
Nearing the first year anniversary of September 11th
I don’t fear death. I fear failure. I’m not afraid to walk. I’m horrified to run. Emptiness doesn’t mean loneliness. Being lonely doesn’t require fear. It’s just there, fed by dark headlines, and poetic expressions sold daily. I don’t fear chance. I fear judgment. I’m not afraid to say no. I’m horrified of how hard you’ll push. Emptiness doesn’t mean unwilling. Being without doesn’t require fear. It’s just there. You too must fear, but would you die for me as I would for you?
August 15, 2002
Gut check
Interviewer: What are you learning from Karate?
I’m learning balance and strength—a mental presentation toward a self that’s viewed life as being non-existent toward its own beliefs.
Interviewer: Your dream?
To hold in my hand, and around my waist nothing more than accomplishment—the only way to get there will be through several hours of study by means of practice.
August 16, 2002
Visualize the birth as seen by my fingertips
I know this hollow soul, and how it’s easily convinced to sever the agreement in order to please the rules that have seemingly changed. I wish to ask why it’s taken me so much longer to understand that discipline starts in the soul.
August 17, 2002
It’s a simple request
Shadows of thought overcrowd the imagination—some want to pace back and forth while the rest strive to push ahead. I want to write about those who continue to abuse my rights as a creative person, and then I say, “Shhh… no need to waste my time.” I call these shadow thoughts—energy sources that waste time, and yet here I sit stewing. The storm that continues to bring thunder to my path is simple—I’m forty, and nowhere near my dreams! I bust my balls making sure others get what they want, and not a soul helps me. I don’t need their help! I only want to know the reasons why they’ve never offered me their help.
note: It’s almost too easy to line up the names, but why offer bad karma? Time hasn’t the strength to heal the wounds, therefore each step taken forward on my behalf is to forgive and forget. I pray each day for the people now creating for them… it’s a free ticket to the devil’s chambers, to which I ask, “Why did you have to sell your soul?”
August 18, 2002
Mental puking
Paint with your hands, not a man-made brush made of horsehair. Feel from the soul, to give and take, leaving behind, and forever change. Fingerprints—not for others to follow, are for you to see…are just how it is. Life, here at this moment, another page, and another day… we are only to be reminded of the fingerprints left in the songs we sing. They become the source of tomorrow’s journey.
One day someone will read my words, but never will anybody get the true feeling. But who will it be that will read? Will I get to know you? How many generations are you away?
A pen that writes is a mind that trusts. A page that welcomes is a heart sitting open. As one, we walk forward, no matter what’s written, its twenty nine words beyond silence.
Must the wind be all that I listen to? If it is, then why am I so easily convinced to be sad so often?
Life is a book of empty pages, and only some of us decide to play with ink.
August 19, 2002
A wall at a time for less than a dime
I don’t trust… does that mean I don’t even trust myself? Am I so afraid to trust, because my father walked out on me at three? When will this feeling go away?
August 20, 2002
Born again Christian
A pen to me is a tool, an ice pick that will garnish nothing from me—only reveal the soul unto a world I face in the depths of night. These tools take me toward the darkness of life, only to share with me a simple thought… there is light in death. My arms are bruised, and yet I smile. My soul has been injured for years until now… Karate has been that light nearest my death. The mind is working with the soul—the heart feels a presence of ability.
August 21, 2002
Paranoia killed Marvin Gaye
My path has always been to study all things that move. Karate has taken my fear, and allowed me to believe that attacks are rare… just be prepared.
August 22, 2002
Listening to the wind
A tree is more than a moment in time—its several chapters spiraled into a tightly gripped natural notebook. A fearless walk, the sacred circle awaits… no words from the heart; it’s not my time to speak. It’s a fearless journey, to watch. Only to listen—realizing sight is sound. I too fall, only to be replenished. Masks, too many to count—songs in far away places, to learn, like a tree… circles are what we create.
August 23, 2002
Dying for the right reasons
This is the first time since hanging out with my childhood friends that I’ve become part of a brotherhood. The enormous amount of trust slowly builds bridges toward a skilled leadership. When Sensei throws a closed fist punch into my throat, I must have the confidence and trust that he’s not trying to go through me. Control is a tool as well as a weapon. I want no control over you… just the ability and knowledge of protecting what is mine.
August 24, 2002
Death doesn’t begin when you say no
I do all I can to face the beast, and then defeat any action that tries to stop me. If I’m not brilliant at the given craft, all that matters is my willingness to try.
August 25, 2002
Mastering the obvious
A child’s toy box is his imagination, where all things including Self are extremely safe from destruction.
August 26, 2002
Ode to Keith Richards
Dream songs are attractive. They carry incredible harmony, and surprisingly you know every word and note. Yet when you wake up, they’re gone. Dream songs make up for the silence often heard when reality wakes up with you. It’s music! It’s energy! It’s a piece of a dream created by the existence of chance.
note: One of the most difficult things for any human to do is to stand up, and write down what they just dreamed. Ask Keith what life would be like today if “Satisfaction” had not entered his dreams first. No matter what you dream, learn to write it down. The world may be asking for it tomorrow.
August 27, 2002
Can I be changed?
If you want perfection, don’t take up martial arts. I’m learning about how the mind and body are supposed to be confused. Learn to take it slowly, and don’t let anyone know of your personal disappointment. In radio failure never leaves me with a loss of words. Karate is costing me! Anytime I’m caught beating myself up… I’m forced to do more pushups. Sensei put me face first into the mat, and told me to look into the mirror. His words rang out, “Trust that self you are, or be defeated before you begin.” This proves that I am nothing, but a frog in a nearby pond—the master of my kingdom until danger nears… then I leap from sight.
August 28, 2002
Why are you doing this to me?
Expectation is a disease… especially, since I never expect anything from you. You expect me to reach beyond my circle to harness the depths of your imagination. The only reason given is, because you claim I’m good! Good? Your answer isn’t a good enough reason to believe.
note: I was asked to produce a major project that had nothing to do with me, and yet they felt it had everything to do with me—a tenth year anniversary celebration that would honor two people for their commitment and success in radio. Because I was branded ‘good’… and I had nothing to do with the show that became the only requirement for me to set aside everything else expected of me to put my total focus on a project that would never carry my name nor honor what I put into the work. It would be like everything else associated with that show, one more project their paid producers didn’t have to do. I’m not bitter! After five months from being fired from the company, my voice, production, and vision are still heard daily on that show. You know what? I am good!
August 29, 2002
Sautéing the Karate mind and soul
Ask me in six months. Ask me in a year. Ask me how I’ll feel if suddenly quitting becomes the angled choice rather than the right decision. Executing the initial thought without correct form makes me nothing more than a wasted piece of meat taking up too much room in a locker.
August 30, 2002
If but only…
I’ve dreamed my entire life of being able to fly, and the closest I’ve gotten to it is sitting next to a bird. What lifts me up aren’t their wings, but rather their songs—the ability to look straight into my soul, and deliver a chirp of rolling echoes.
August 31, 2002
A new form of God
If art is a reflection… then I must be the mirror.
Am I in the mood to write? Am I supposed to be? Aren’t I always supposed to be ready to fight? Then, I’m in the mood to write.
Putting my life together:
Writing: Creates the trail
Painting: Purifies the mountain
Creating: Brings it all into reality
Karate: Protects what I’m building
Spirituality: Gives me time to talk to my creator
The horrible pain in my leg: A reminder of how thankful I should be that life
exists
September 1, 2002
Masters who shake hands
I credit Peter Max for inspiring my art to be what it is. His paintings are thick and colorful, rainbow like—they ache of expression, while singing out loud to any passerby strolling through a rainy Sunday. You can look at an original, and it says, “Peter Max!” You can say the same about an original M’e!
September 2, 2002
Fact versus fantasy equals?
Not one inch of me sees a black belt wrapped around my future waist. It’s not that I’ll lose interest; confidence teaches—the unlearned can tear your desire to shreds only to be blown away by the wind.
What I fear isn’t death, but rather the whereabouts of my travels. What if reincarnation isn’t? What if hell doesn’t exist? A believer knows where he’s going. Really? Then why is this nation depressed? There are murders, robberies, and other crimes! Safety is no longer an issue in America. Paint for me a new world, only to be called… a dreamer.
note: Day of research is March 30, 2006. I stand twenty five days from the Tae Kwon Do black belt test. When writing the above thoughts in 2002, maybe I foresaw that I wouldn’t be wearing Julio’s black belt. Let the truth be known, I wanted the tattoo on my leg more than I wanted the cloth around this aging waist. Sadly, our class was shattered a year in a half after I began by reasons of personal nature and survival which I’ve never held against my former Sensei. Master Todd Harris picked up the pieces, and has since turned the second thought into a better understanding—martial arts isn’t about kicking ass and breaking boards… a true black belt has been given or will be given a path, because it is ultimately the black belt’s choice to build upon his purpose. Few make it to second Dan, since they get lost and confused. Not if you’re a student connected to Sabumnim. Like an angel sent directly from the side of God, Master Harris protects the visions of those who’ve elected to live out rule number seven: Establish trust between teacher and student.
September 3, 2002
Locked beneath the darkness
I hate looking out windows that refuse to share with me. It’s as if the conversation has suddenly become lopsided.
note: Because the sun rises so late in the beginning days of fall, the writer was having a difficult time dealing with seeing nothing but darkness in the forest, so he closed the shades only to feel as if his love for life had just been stuffed in a box.
September 4, 2002
Taming the ego in Karate class
Did I die in class last night? What if I did? Why isn’t anyone sad? Not even me! Damn I really didn’t make a difference.
note: Sensei loved keeping his Dojo at a temperature of 85 degrees—he created mind confusion so that we could better withstand any situation. It taught us to tune out what could be bothering us. Because it was extremely warm, it became difficult to breathe, and as a white belt, breathing properly is the first step toward learning how to achieve inner peace. Thich Nhat Hahn has written several chapters on mindful breathing. Once you learn proper technique… even in the hottest of rooms, the body automatically takes care of itself.
September 5, 2002
From the mirror we do see
If my body was a different person, its view of my control would be a war with no rules.
note: By electing not to listen to the body’s warning signs, I’ve pushed myself beyond the limits of pain. Without these daily writings, there’s no physical proof of the pain that consumed the path. Is it a negative to read what the writer had written? No… Revisiting your daily steps into the pages after only days or weeks aren’t healthy, because growth can’t be measured by freshly scented notes. Physically reopening a month or year several chapters down the road enables the person to recognize who he or she might have been, and through their methods of surviving, the tools used can still carry an impact during a current situation or need. It’s obvious by the quote above that my body was attacking me. I remember the pain of career meeting life. I remember the struggles and the inner battles of setting the ego aside to withstand the kicks and punches of a lifestyle I chose to live. I’d do anything to go back and help this writer out… life doesn’t allow that to occur, therefore I’m left with every reason to recognize the same songs through other people’s eyes, and spend my time teaching them ways to break free from the aches that are consuming, or soon will be taking over their next breath. The body is a warning siren, it will let you know when something isn’t right… at the same time, the body is your best friend, and it’ll think of every reason why you should stop growing. Sadly, your dreams will allow it to be.
September 6, 2002
The true radio jock
Those in radio share one common goal—individualism. We carry the tools to bend, and reshape a listener’s daily path without exposing who it is we really are. Being a broadcaster has nothing to do with team spirit, and play. If either of those methods were physically visible, we would’ve chosen anything, but radio as a career. Which is the very reason why most get out—their need to belong is weightless.
note: A former program director once told me, “I’m searching for someone who can change their own oil.”
September 7, 2002
No matter how much it hurts…I write
The sky is dark black, no sun has risen… an early fall breezes bites me while holding onto last night’s dreams. Yet, I don’t remember anything about them. I do remember darkness inside the dream, and a fear of being in the dark—but I didn’t leave. Waking up, I realize this day, still in birthing form, is completely cluttered and waiting for me. I’m still in the dark, but I feel no fear.
September 8, 2002
So we meet again
Peter Max is such a great painter of simplistic mind soothing expressions—its easy to see why he’s brilliant, and well accepted… he lets you hold a rainbow. My art on the other hand is used to improve the odds of adding sunlight to a shaded corner.
Interviewer: Why did you go see Peter Max again last night?
We have one thing in common, the ability to be ourselves. I enjoy viewing his art while he’s there—each piece screams for its creator.
Interviewer: What did you notice?
Mr. Max is very receptive to the people who visit. He greets them while they steal from his soul. He welcomes them during the handshake, only to have magazines and other items tossed into his face. Yet, he never takes his eyes off his children. I watched him view every piece, for no painter ever forgets.
Interviewer: Why didn’t you shake his hand?
I didn’t need to—we’ve met several times before. I respect people, not by touch, but by presence. Being there in support of his art was enough. I didn’t come to borrow his gift.
Interviewer: If you could ask him any question, what would it be?
How can he expect to be paid $60,000 for a painting? In my eyes, in my soul, I find it difficult to understand why people should have to pay money for something that happens to flow from the tips of my imagination. Art is an expression that can’t be explained! If someone stares into one of my pieces and tries to tell me what they feel, I turn them off.
note: Life delivers unexpected gifts—in 2004 while writing for Image Magazine, I interviewed Peter Max. We spent forty five minutes talking about everything but the $60,000 question. Two of my greatest inspirations in life are Peter Max and Gene Simmons of Kiss… how can I go wrong? Beyond their separate forms of art, they’re the most successful marketing experts on earth. I can’t imagine what it takes to bridge, not one decade but several, and still be successful. To play fair… I interviewed Gene Simmons in September of 1985. My life is complete. Wait! My next goal is to interview Hilary Clinton, another brilliant master at marketing.
September 9, 2002
Nearing the one year anniversary of 9/11
Before birth, do we know we’re next in life? Walk forward with no attempt to hide, for the journey has already begun.
September 10, 2002
Shedding the bricks one wall at a time
I laugh, but it’s not real, my dreams are filled with failure. I look to the floor; it fascinates me to watch dust grow. I know my name, but my heart can’t stand me. “Get over it!” I scream, “You chose this destiny!” I push ahead as hard as I can, only to realize I have no turn signals.
September 11, 2002
In memory of peace
I find myself unable to run, for no calendar has the ability to ignore. Life has no ink. The blood we lose feeds the emptied valleys of what used to be, reminding us that God is always in control of our tomorrow.
September 12, 2002
My first martial arts test
The view is that of a new path, an open window toward better controlling speed, temperament, success, and strength. Turning toward my heart and lungs, I no longer see the self I used to be, but rather a changed bird, one that can almost fly. I don’t search for entanglement; I divide everything into pieces, deciding within seconds if what is presented is worth the energy it’ll take to completely change the course of my connection.
September 13, 2002
Its time to stop giving your air away
Life gives you no guarantees—I watch people fall while watching others climb. No matter what they do, my path is what should remain the total focus of my being.
September 14, 2002
The within
Closing my eyes, the mind paints for me—solitude only a writer knows. It’s a depth of travel unseen by the naked eye. I feel a rhythm inside the cuts a pen makes into a simple sheet of paper. If you’re reading my words, touch the opposite page lightly, feel the edge of each word written. As the writer, I feel as if I’m holding the hair of my inner soul, while it pukes all over this page.
September 15, 2002
Mindfully breathing
If I wasn’t gasping for air… life would be too easy.
September 16, 2002
Standing up for God
Interviewer: You’re near completion of the first book “One Man’s 1021 Thoughts” What next?
I dream of getting it into the hands of someone who believes in the book more than I do.
Interviewer: To publish it… you’re nobody!
Right! Yet, I feel deep within that there’s something extremely untamed within the pages that may in fact touch another human life.
Interviewer: Why you?
I’ve asked that very question my entire life. To this day, I still have no answer. This project started in October of 1998, I’m only the messenger. I write what I’m told.
note: From 2002 to 2006, One Man’s 1021 Thoughts was handed to several fistfuls of people, some enjoyed the work, and others quickly pushed it away. A bodihistivah became the first to demonstrate a real need to get it published. It took more than hard work and dedication to reach Ligatt Publishing. From what I’m told, the book affected her to the point of extreme anger, hatred, and fear, and yet she could never put the book down. I’ve worked one on one with her and Ligatt Publishing, to make sure each paragraph is preserved in the way it was written. Anger, fear, and hatred are portraits of an image that don’t exist, and yet it has the ability to change your life forever.
September 17, 2002
A gift for Lisa
I never got to say hello to my father. I didn’t get to hug him, or throw a ball back and forth with him. Nor did I know what he looked like. Every day I stand in front of the mirror I ask, “Is that you? It’s funny, how we wear our hair the same. Do you like Karate? Oh, I get it… you can’t answer. Were you with me in the production room yesterday? The girl’s father said, “I love you” I cried Kenneth… not even my stepfather has said that. What am I supposed to do? At least she can still hear her father say it.”
note: Lisa lost her father unexpectedly; she had a difficult time letting him go, so much so that she lost her job. His voice was still heard on the telephone answering machine. Asked if I could record it, I did… and while doing so I heard something extremely special, it was the voice of God telling me to listen beyond sound. The exact message was “Hello this is _____ I’m not in right now, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you!” Go back and read the message again and again… what was the real message delivered there? As a producer, I heard something else and located it—Lisa’s father said, “I love you.” I was able to take his word formations, and perfectly edit the sounds together… he physically said, “I love you.” To this day, Lisa protects that compact disc with every bit of strength she has in her heart.
September 18, 2002
Without warning
To take a pen and write about being low is like asking a bird to sing on command.
I feel emptiness in my soul, the center of my stomach aches, and my mouth is very dry. Therefore, I stretch… it’s an attempt to break free of this horrible pain which even this morning sits in the soul of my being. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there, and it’s eating me alive.
Bible thumpers say it’s a lack of God. I call it a shedding of characters. It best suits the victim, for the mirrored image is of me—a paper doll changing personalities. People bump into me, and I don’t feel it. Leave me alone! Can’t you tell I’m not me! The day changes but I don’t.
September 19, 2002
The depth forces you to figure out the low
I’m a man who walks like he’s ancient, yet I feel twelve to fifteen years old. Maybe I shouldn’t fear this odd combination. If the mindset is to continue growing, and the younger years are where we grow most… then let me live again, this time with fewer stupid mistakes!
September 20, 2002
Live and on stage
Listen to them sing, hear them belt out a strong song with Broadway tendencies. Listen to them harmonize; hear them form each unwritten word—they are the lyrics of Okalahoma, West Side Story, and Camelot. It’s as if I’m in New York City! My seat is located next to the stage, the songs so clear, the view brightly lit—each color is an essence of belief. Listen to them sing! It’s something that can never be taken away, only revisited again and again… my children of the morning have shared with me their Broadway dreams.
September 21, 2002
I turn, you walk away
I fail to trust any story; fear is delivered from the ambition of another soul taking over me like kudzu.
September 22, 2002
Kept to be kept
Music is the core of my soul—it’s never afraid to appear, yet it acts as if life is the disease. It needs to understand that any step taken, forward, backwards, and to the side… is a chapter within itself. All things lead from somewhere and it affects everywhere you go.
I once wrote in a song, “Life to me is never boring… I had my friends, but had no family.” I love listening to the old stuff… it connects me to a time that I still don’t understand.
note: During the final moments of the twentieth century, I completed two books based on the stories behind each piece of music penned out. Due to the tremendous amount of memories gifted back to me, it proved to be a difficult journey. The lyrics are about a time in my life that I’m not willing to share. I learned how to write by searching for ways to hide true feelings. Once I discovered the magic of creating thoughts, life was never the same. Until people started asking me what I meant to say, they get the entirely wrong concept of something so simple to view.
September 23, 2002
Above Nathan’s head
Creativity is digestion—it’s the constant flow of eating the new day with yesterday. Life is a shadow—we spend every breath creating new places to walk… only to learn, it’s only another shadow.
note: In gaining access to the black belt, my mentor was a man who often accused me of putting ego before anything else, when in fact my only mission was to be the voice of those who didn’t have the confidence to stand up for themselves. The greatest gift handed to me was a burning desire to walk into walls—if you hit them hard enough and long enough, eventually you become greater than the judgments harshly shoved into your soul along the way.
September 24, 2002
Fifteen minutes equals a lifetime
How can I love what I don’t see? How can I do anything with a child if my own background fades in and out? I’m extremely guilty of being me! I personally believe that’s pretty sick.
note: Although often accused of not having a caring bone in my soul… I search daily for reasons why these bones have never surfaced. Had my mother shown more love, simply called on the phone, or had my ex-wife Sande, not aborted every breath we took, then might there have been a time that a skeleton appeared?
September 25, 2002
Self portrait
A couple of times I got smart mouthed, but not as bad as I’m known for.
September 26, 2002
From anger comes
I fear becoming angry—hate is planted… followed by giant blooms of expression, colorful words, exaggerated hand movements, and hair fiddled like a violin. I don’t want to move an inch… I’m angry! I hear every word over and over again, their words of disappointment, the very thoughts that led me here. My solution is a large tablet filled with sketch paper 24x36… I shall call this connection of letting go “The midst of creative flow—when the river stops, and I throw in the stone.”
note: The art delivered to these pages shot from me like fire on a California hillside. By trapping anger, depression, and disgust inside the depth of a rainbow, I was able to create a journey of its own, a place of letting go, a hidden circle of self love that when revealed to the world wouldn’t showcase the horrible suicidal tendencies that raged through my system. People look at this art and see beauty, while inside I whisper, “You have no idea.” Over eighty pieces of art grew from this tablet—one was given to Debbie Pascone who had shown great interest in the purpose of the art, while losing not one but two fathers within a month. Another piece was ripped from the tablet and shredded, only to be pulled from the trashcan, and glued to another canvas. To have such anger, to reveal such energy, only to make it part of another journey, is truly a self driven hope of one day gaining access to the soul of the beast to which I’ve never known.
September 27, 2002
Forcing the hand of God
Looking down at this notebook, I aim my thoughts toward ending it, as well as cutting my hair—to endure the odds of shock.
September 28, 2002
The reminder of why
My eyes swell with tears each time a message is given to me—sometimes I wonder if its God saying, “You miss heaven don’t you?”
September 29, 2002
Elements of likeability
The shadow carries with it a breath of fall—leaves of incredible green, but for how long? My little music makers take over the natural setting, mimicked are the songs combined with sweet I love yous. Autumn in Carolina comes quick. Within days, each leaf sits on a carefully designed floor made of dried moss, the frogs run to hide, and the robin continues to search for food. In time the owl reappears, or has she always been there? A new window to peer through—summer is behind us, a winter’s kiss is two shakes of the wind away.
September 30, 2002
Since day one
I woke up this morning with the fear of losing my job—if it’s going to happen, it’ll be during my anniversary month. The mission today is to swing to the side, to do all I can to avoid this feeling from hitting me. What scares me more is the idea that people believe what I offer is too costly. They have no idea how much I do for free; I do it to make the resume look great, maybe too great… Another fear is the act of change. I see my life as being nothing more than a weed growing in someone’s beautiful flowerbed.
note: The firing finally arrived on October 26, 2006, my anniversary month. For the first time in 12 years I could breathe, and no longer fear that everyday would be my last. The biggest mistakes I made in working with **** weren’t the chances I took to lift the level of creative flow. I decided years ago to challenge myself to outlast them. It didn’t matter how bad the situation was, I proved my strength by never turning my back on their efforts. It got me two employee-of-the-year awards and acid reflux.
October 1, 2002
Sips of tea while watching
My dearest Caroline… an avenue of trails blanket what is assumed soft, rolling, and extremely gentle—only to learn of the winds that shaped the fog now hiding the tops of your trees. Quietly, the poet scribbles each thought painted, only to learn… nothing can ever be expected.
note: To vividly watch the evolution of seasons at sunrise is a taste of life most people miss due to a need to sleep. We sleep like we feed our dogs… too much!
October 2, 2002
Art in reincarnation
Look at these hands! They’re covered in paint! The imagination takes over… what would it look like if my hands were magnified? I’d see giant mountains of afterthought, gaping holes filled with vibrant springs of multi colored expressions.
October 3, 2002
I smell you
Having a nose that quickly identifies change is a gift. When something isn’t right, I’m able to alert my soul. The reaction is fear. I fear fire. I fear guns. I fear getting to know someone. I believe danger lurks in the eyes of a passerby. Maybe this is why people call me a loner, a tight wad, conceited, and or a danger to others—when in fact, it was me who feared first.
October 4, 2002
Animal speak
A giant moth zooms around the room, this new sun—boom! It hits the wall. Boom! It hits the ceiling. Boom! It hits the wall again. Maybe this moth is me. They say moths are dirty nasty ugly creatures… that’s only because man is jealous—he can’t fly, nor hang from the ceiling without passing out.
October 5, 2002
What you don’t think about can’t hurt you
I keep trying to figure out the reasons why I’ve chosen this Karate adventure—I’m not into it for the belts, yet my Sensei talks about nothing but. He says my first test will be two hours long—I refuse to ask questions, it’ll spoil the element of surprise.
note: I laugh at the quote above, because I haven’t changed. April 2006 has proved to be a greater challenge due the importance of getting a black belt. Not an importance to me, but rather my mentor. He feels I’ve accomplished something most only dream about. He’s displayed great disappointment in me, because I refuse to offer excitement, and or any reason to stand up and be filled with pride. I laugh again… in 1987 the Charlotte Observer printed a newspaper story about my radio efforts which had earned an open door to being one of the finalists to replace Casey Kasum on American Top 40. I choose not to invite excitement, because the pain of being let down is greater than the joy of excitement.
October 6, 2002
Waving goodbye to the years I can’t change
A hollow empty feeling woke me—an actual thought of being forty years old. How have forty years gone so quickly? I want to be alone, to rest, to view this new path… with you. It’s just you and me, but without a funeral. No thanks, that’s not for me.
October 7, 2002
What’s the one thing in life thought to be absolutely horrible that has since changed my life for the better? It’s getting off the air as a radio talent.
note: On December 4, 2003, I was tricked into returning to the air. It was a bold move on their behalf; just ask him to answer phones for a couple of days… each player involved knew of this. For two years I set aside my personal goals, dreams, and aspirations to make sure those two hours a day were 100% the best of my ability, plus all other events that were expected of me at the time. I stopped taking vacations. I refused to take sick time. I wasn’t given more money. Nor did I earn the respect of my leaders as to how each project was delivered on time, and at a quality most still can’t touch. I sold my soul to the devil to make sure the *** ***** Show survived. It cost me a career!
October 8, 2002
Setting the path
A true black belt doesn’t sport his ability in plain view... we walk almost unknown. Modern leaders demand recognition… I require no headline.
October 9, 2002
We buy computers to remember for us
My mind—am I too late to penetrate? Am I too late to test its will, to accept failure? Is this what getting old reminds us of? Will I eventually forget, the teen years, the band, the dreaming of… If not challenged, will I forget tomorrow? If I do, will I be locked away forever in the present? I can’t run from the mind.
October 10, 2002
Vomit worth eating
I’m a chair with no cushion, a willow with no bend, a riverbed of rock lined with feasting elephants preparing to stomp the crap out of my meandering spine. To assume anyone else can relate with this takes the humor from my grip, and stuffs it back into my already snotty pollinated filled honker. Whew! Good morning!
When does this daily writing stop? It was a one time journey to pen out a thousand days, and now it’s turned into a habit filled memory. I can’t tell you what’s been written, only that I’ve been here before. Just yesterday and the day before, and I’ll be here a month from now. But, for what reason am I doing this? Time doesn’t change… only the desire to dream does.
October 11, 2002
New millennium America
A sniper has entered the state of Virginia—seven innocent lives have already been taken. Seven innocent bystanders, who were doing nothing, were taken by a sniper claiming to be God. A man who sits in silence knowing he’ll kill, but doesn’t feel a need to understand the lives he’s taking… that doesn’t seem God-like. I thought all Gods knew their students and or children—what if this God can’t be stopped? To be a sniper must mean you fear your own shadow, once attached, the addiction sets in… you can get any high as long as you don’t have to continue donating to the spirit of unfaithful losers.
note: The sniper proved to be two men… a father and his son. They rebuilt the interior of their car to gain easy access to the trunk where they could watch as the world walked by. A truck driver was responsible for finally bringing this east coast nightmare to an end. Their journey had started in Washington State.
October 12, 2002
True story
While within the sacred circle, I raised my prayers to the north, to further my education. I instantly fell to my knees. I was dizzy, and without energy. Turning to the south, I raised my prayers to see the past, then the east to welcome the new beginning, and west to be grateful for all gifts shared. I heard the blue jays, felt the rain pour onto my face, and could see the earth washing away below my feet. I stood in the sacred circle without speech, only to learn that a turtle was standing next to me.
October 13, 2002
Cuz this is who I am
I love rain! It doesn’t matter how hard it comes down in Carolina, the essence of what bled from the sky turns my soul into the bird I am. It makes my heart race toward the clear shapes and formations, then like a true child I splash into each uncaught drop.
I’m deeply inspired by the role this forest is playing… it’s not about the hours of tree planting, it’s about life. I’m inspired by life.
Religion spells out war—your relationship with God has nothing to do with me. So stop pretending your God is better than mine! The truth is, “our” God’s play poker every Friday night!
October 14, 2002
Three days from the Karate blue belt test
It’s an open forum of intense mental competition set within the unwritten chapters of self. It doesn’t matter who you are, or what your chosen career is—your sole purpose in Karate is to learn, while pissing off the collection of muscles that assumed they would never be used again.
October 15, 2002
Make it or break it
So many things added up to what took place, yet I couldn’t locate the energy to be faithful. As much as I’m sorry… I hate myself one hundred times more. A moment of weakness, un-trust, unfaithful, uncaring, unrehearsed, unheard of, misunderstood, untold, until time caught up with me, unhealthy, unexpected, uninvited, underestimated, uncalled for, unmentionable, un-denounced, un-numb, un-real. One day, I wish for someone to read these journals—the evidence of total mental control is deeply carved into the pages. I call them my bloodstains. Each thought is a heroic adventure into the world, where it’s only I who sees his pain.
October 16, 2002
Tonight is the blue belt test
A writing instrument is an extended arm—it takes from me the hidden, and then makes it real. So real, I physically react with deep sighs, or disappointing moans. I’ve reviewed the handwriting of a fear filled man. I’ve relived the anger, and the deepest portions of his sadness. I’ve fallen witness to his willingness to live or die—the bloodstains left on the pages on early March 2001, are very real. Darkened with time, maybe the song will fade, but never the memories of how that blood got onto those pages. Are you ever really ready? Take me on, I’m prepared to lose. I am my own power, and will somehow someway strive to perfect the ability to know victory.
October 17, 2002
I know who you are but who am I?
I looked into the mirror on two separate occasions, and refused to acknowledge the person. I’ll never recognize the self I am until something’s been accomplished that I’m extremely proud of. Earning my blue belt is a step in the right direction. Sensei openly admits, “You’ll fail somewhere along the line. I need you to fail! Being perfect doesn’t feed the desire and or need to be hungry for success.”
note: I never failed any of the tests—they were difficult, memorable, and all too often I felt the urge to walk out. It didn’t matter how bad my ribs or knees hurt. My vision was to become Julio’s first black belt martial artist. In February 2003, he left our Dojo to pursue a serious career that would support his family. I was two belts from conquering my goal. On April 17, 2006, five days before my black belt test in Tae Kwon Do, I will meet with my first master to do nothing more than thank him. I can still hear his voice, “Of course we have to meet! I want to see how you’ve grown! I am so looking forward to seeing you!”
October 18, 2002
You have no idea what this is doing to me
Watching the world march by doesn’t inspire the tingles of influence—I don’t like being the person sitting alongside the path. I want my ten fat toes to constantly be in motion. Karate has taught me a new way to look at life—kill or be killed… meaning do the job, or be like everyone else, and pass it off. I am to look at the storm in the eyes, and never fear its rain.
October 19, 2002
Whispers
I decided somewhere in the middle that uniqueness is who I am, and it’s that side of my personality that people expect of me. If I were to ever appear on a biography special, the announcer would read, “The poet embraced no idea longer than he had to—purpose was instantly covered up by attempts with better temptation.”
Picasso and I… two artists, separate generations—one is brilliant, and the other believes he’s nothing more than a doodler. Yet, they’re one in the same—two men, a pen, paint, a canvas, a view of looking within, only to quickly lock it into places. No matter what shape, Picasso and I are artists of deep thought—reasons behind, and explanations if asked… but why? Please just accept us for us.
Picasso had an extreme fascination with sex—his secret paintings were about everything dealing with sex. He had a way of not offending those who viewed it. Go back through my writing! What are my exact words? I’m trying to create brilliant displays of sex without offending those who view it. The shock isn’t that I’m just another artist, but the great Picasso was no better than me!
note: I stopped painting nudes because nobody understood them—more importantly I was tired of being accused of having love affairs. I once challenged myself to do a self portrait, and I reacted like any man. The end result was way too much of me to face.
October 20, 2002
Justifying my purpose in being
An artist’s flavor is the scent of wet paint stains on his untouched fingertips. All that’s invisible belongs to any artist who’s willing to see it, and then paint it for others to see.
October 21, 2002
Why won’t you talk to me Lord?
I’m a rock in the middle of a mountain—glaciers carve and carve, and I patiently wait for the passing storm. One day I wish to fall to earth, probably end up in a rock garden next to a palm tree. Wait! That would require sand—maybe I’m just a pebble held tightly by a nearby ocean.
October 22, 2002
And so he begins to whisper
Interviewer: A voice?
I can’t put a face on it, yet I’m able to say it speaks directly to my soul.
Interviewer: Is it the same voice that told you to get into Karate?
It tells me to breathe, and then let it out—we are wasting paper talking about this.
Interviewer: I just wanna know who to blame when you finally snap.
October 23, 2002
Where are you Lord?
While in my twenties, I did all I could to be heard—what didn’t work, I tried again until one day the only person listening was the dead man’s ambition. For a very brief second yesterday, I felt emptiness that I had not experienced since early 1998. Am I the winged one kicked out of the nest? “Fly kid, or die doing your best.”
October 24, 2002
To get anywhere close we’re required to sell out. To get away from the ugliness of fear, the ambition switches toward the avenues of addiction.
note: Chances are you’re probably thinking… he just openly admitted to returning to a lifestyle of uncontrolled affairs. He hasn’t learned from his mistakes… all of this has been a mere waste of time. Until you read the sentence that follows:
The ambition switches toward avenues of addiction, which in my modern way and style is played out through writing and painting.
note: In looking back, the culture shock of Martial Arts meets Native American Spirituality, has been the war of a lifetime. I didn’t have any reason to be in Karate, nor did I feel it was my choice to continue moving forward with it. Then one day I realized that from each lesson taught by means of Mother Earth, Grandfather Sun, the Sacred Circle, and by carefully delivered messages handed to me through avenues of Animal Speak—I now stood alone, and very scared.
I fear my spirituality’s in danger. Have I lost my spirit guides? What about my spirit keepers? Being available for Karate isn’t supposed to replace them! What about my trees? Do they look at me, and wonder about everything? I don’t read spiritual books anymore. I place thought into martial arts. It’s not to replace! It’s to make me a better warrior! I am to be prepared for the cold, to cool off when it’s hot, to stand up when all are sitting. I’m lost! Are my spirit guides with me? Don’t leave! Don’t run from me! I’m trying to get stronger for you, to be the white eye you can trust.
M’e
10/24/02
note: Between July 30, 2002 and April 2006… my passion for the forest had almost disappeared. I stopped visiting the sacred circle. I stopped searching for the turtles. I stopped believing the wind was talking to me. I physically felt as if I was asked to leave the encircled stories and stone covered tellers, until I was prepared to withstand the storms that would destroy them. Standing only inches from the black belt test, I heard for the first time a voice… the very energy that once took my hand and led me toward a vine covered canopy in 1996, had softly whispered again, “Koo sha tay—ooo koosh tah.”
Picture if you will a dreamer, a poet, fighter for trees, and honest to God spirituality… the child had come back to his home, stronger than he was before. And the trees spread their roots, so that he could practice for what would become the test that few ever reach, yet they brag their entire lives about trying to.
Confidence is a level of humanism that can be severely damaged, and never regained.
M’e
10/24/02
October 25, 2002
Living off the negatives invited by fear
Man can never be at peace with himself—not until he realizes life isn’t always about him, but all living things including the red ant.
October 26, 2002
Just another way to push away
It seems the older I get, the more I replace who it is I’m vowing to protect.
October 27, 2002
I’ve lost
Why am I so paranoid? My entire being is nothing but fear! This can’t be healthy! This can’t be a good way to live. Yet, I do nothing to improve it. Fear! I’m living it, eating it, and shaking without control. The imagination is more powerful. Fear! I can’t run, hide, or be trained to ignore it, or take it on. Fear! I’m losing, not growing. I’m weak with no true view of strength. Fear! It owns me, and drives me until I stop failing…
note: I had been called into the radio station on a Sunday—I knew it would be my final day. Sadly, I missed it by exactly four years.
October 28, 2002
Death by vision alone
When a painting doesn’t give me reason to perform, I sit in fear wondering if the gift giving is over… it came to me unexpectedly, why wouldn’t it leave the same?
As I near the completion of my first book One Man’s 1021 Thoughts, I can’t help but think writing on a daily basis means nothing to a lost man—he who sits in chosen darkness is unwilling to view what life’s other gifts might be. I didn’t become a better poet. I didn’t paint better pictures. I won’t even admit that I’m a better writer. In those one thousand twenty one days, I learned what it was like to live with me. Unlike when looking in a mirror, I couldn’t comb my hair a different way.
October 29, 2002
Vowing to understand the roots of my fear
Test not the willingness to learn, build upon the active reaction.
October 30, 2002
Dear God
I see strength, feel weakness, hear challenge, smell fear, and taste choice… yet I won’t look in the mirror.
October 31, 2002
Where pink and purple clouds grow
Spirituality isn’t a daily adventure of catching leaves, and chasing turtles—it’s the flow of spirit located in every step. Life, it’s everywhere we look! The late fall color of green ignites the yellowing of all other things. Vines stand by; they wait to collect tiny bits of heat, to lay like a blanket over the spread out wings of a full grown tree. The fog starts to rise—the spider writing Chinese gasps for enough air to complete her unique designs. Sitting in a chair, I do nothing but stare into their world. I take with me the purpose of the forest while adding on a poet’s willingness to dream.
November 1, 2002
Obe-God-Kenobi
The letter read, “I feel as if someone is talking to me in the very language I’ve kept hidden for years. I assumed that I was the only one who felt this way.” Depression and struggle are part of our everyday—Noah claims someone told him to build an ark. I was ordered to put a pen in my hand.
November 2, 2002
The path lives in places where we hide
It’s as if I’m stuck in the midst of the same ole song without a channel changer. I want to look deep into the mirror, and scream, “Get over it!” Today, I saw a black belt in my hands; it was then wrapped around my waist. To get there requires not a mirror filled with dreams, but rather an entire life change.
note: What is the writer supposed to say, when his current life sits only three days from reaching into that mirror, and grabbing the belt from the vision baring his likeness? My journey as a martial artist is documented by hands that have shattered bricks, wood, and the wild spirit of a horse so often accused of being too set in his ways to survive even in his home state of Montana.
November 3, 2002
Freeing up some space to download a new me
I’m lazy! It’s starting to bother me. Well fuck you! Get over it freak! Draw! Draw! Draw! But, I’m getting tired of painting! I’m very tired of me! I’ve got an attitude, but for what reason? You ain’t shit long haired boy! You ain’t shit! You’re a big ass baby! Yep… and I’m damn proud of it.
November 4, 2002
Addicted to excitement
What I love most about my art is the enormous amount of playing by no rules. I exercise the extreme right to be different.
November 5, 2002
Another family member kicked out
As on-air radio talent, we’re trained to easily forget; therefore radio lives by the out of sight out of mind theory. How dare your personal views, problems, and sickness be invited to our current success? The most impossible thing to achieve in the business is the right to be human. Radio is merely candy coated dreams and fantasy—anytime realism sets in, you should expect to be delivered to the front door of your house with a pink slip penned to your shirt pocket.
November 6, 2002
Life isn’t fate unless you make it that way
The one thing I’ve noticed about participating in sports is what it offers—you aren’t perfect, and there’s always going to be someone who sticks out a little more. When I took up Karate, it wasn’t to be the best… I was willing to give you “my” best. Early lessons in the martial arts have taught me to recognize the ability inside ability. If that’s confidence, then my ability is to reach beyond ability.
November 7, 2002
To view the poet in prayer
Arms raised, the wind blows through his hair while drops of rain sprinkle the sacredness of this place into the soul of a lonely forest. Its power overwhelms. Not a sound is made, only the ability to listen comes into play—a black squirrel wrestles, the once dried creek trickles, a crow calls out in the distance, and the geese brag of falls arrival. The forest… before leaving I kiss two trees—they are my future kings. And there rests the vine once thought to be a weed, until the day I cut into it, and bleed for a week.
November 8, 2002
Before truth came into play
At no time have I stepped forward without being hit by something. Do I ask for it? Do I need it in order to believe I’m alive? Watching the sun rise each new beginning should be the only evidence required.
When I envision the future, I see the stuff people try to run from. When the president speaks of Saddam Hussein having weapons of mass destruction, I want to believe in my leader! Then, I realize… we could be the next country set for self destruction. Did Hitler’s people know he was evil? Is this World War III? Are other nations waiting? Do they want to take us out, wash us away, and make us fade? What if we are… the modern Nazi Germany? If we do go to war in Iraq, does this nation embrace the brutality of oil wars? Who protects the American people, when the American soil no longer carries weight? The world is poor, greedy, and it doesn’t seem to want to emulate us. Are we on the brink of World War III?
November 9, 2002
Nestled within but never without
Any painting I create is my way of supporting effort.
November 10, 2002
Write your own story at all costs
The biggest mistake I made in radio, was allowing someone else to control my dreams. Am I proud of this? I have to be! I let this life happen. Fear has controlled every step. I love a vision that doesn’t exist, and it pisses me off that I physically believed it did.
November 11, 2002
Unusual invisible storms
I sit here looking at a pen touching paper—so often I wonder why I write everyday. Karate… I wonder why I do that, too. Only to remind myself of what it was like when I didn’t. I try to enforce change on a daily basis, only to learn change has the capability to whip my ass quicker than a bad career. Will I ever be at peace? Not even in death—I get so tired of the normal. I strive to be unique.
November 12, 2002
Just another brick in the wall
Weather is such a mystical trip through unpredictable procedures. We need weather, yet do nothing but find fault with its performance. It’s like the date on a calendar… it still happens! No matter how bad my chest may hurt, the clock still moves in forward motion.
November 13, 2002
My first martial arts injury
I’m at war with myself—to exceed the daily dosage, but at what cost? How much am I willing to pay, or is this just another knife on the wrist? Am I still contemplating suicide?
note: Methods of moodiness take over the mind, body, and soul, when suddenly your body decides it’s been hit too hard, or twisted farther than usual. It doesn’t take long for true martial artists to realize, that it’s not about if we get injured, but by when and how? I’ll never forget enduring the endless amount of pain granted to my frame after a swift knee was raised into my rib cage. The only way to outweigh the pain was to quickly get back to doing sit ups. I couldn’t let the body control what I was successfully doing to it.
November 14, 2002
It’s just me
Art is who I am… the way I speak, the way I dream… and the way I defend. Am I such a realist that time spent sitting still beats the crap out of me, until I spurt up my lack of desire to play along?
November 15, 2002
Possible terrorist attack on America
I sit with my window blinds closed, as if to be saying, “Not me! Don’t get in, and I can’t see!” We’re a nation built on the innocence of trust, yet today I can’t leave my house without wondering if a neighbor or co-worker is loaded with explosives, or willing to die for another nation.
November 16, 2002
Fine tuning the art of tuning out
The birds are too noisy for me to concentrate. This is an on going battle between concentration and frustration. Nobody really wins, therefore I should expect to be angry, and start craving ice cream. Such is the life of the wanna-be. I wake up, run until the eyes can no longer see, only so I can dream about waking up again.
November 17, 2002
The ego boost
The greatest moments in any broadcaster’s life are those attached to offers that almost never materialize.
November 18, 2002
But when will I know
My teachers today are life’s everyday challenges—to get into class requires gut instinct, and full capability.
Interviewer: If you could do anything in life, what would it be?
I would make my wife, Lee, happy. Life is filled with pages made from the trees of once living fixtures in a modern day society. No matter how bad it hurts to watch a tree fall to the hardened ground, from it new life grows—be it on paper, or food for the forest, a place for a Robin to sit, or a Woodpecker to workout, a tree gifts more to the heart of true love than fresh leaves every spring. Yes, my tree has fallen… I’ve spent years trying to slam this trunk back into the mud only to realize the music in her eyes is what I love, and somehow I need to become part of that song.
November 19, 2002
The first book is finally edited and ready for print
One would naturally think that One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts is nothing more than good-ole-fashioned diary writing. If so, this book wasn’t meant for you. It paints for anyone the truest sketch of a personality in motion—the up times, lonely moments, and the inner battles kept from the rest of the world. I learned a lot along the way… at times I felt not enough was written—so I played mind games and took on mystery. In the end, I still draw faces, my heart is shattered, and I’m very much guilty of the crimes I committed.
November 20, 2002
Don’t hug me
I love my family! I just won’t admit it. Rebels aren’t into that sort of thing—we move snow, not play in it. We complain a lot, and then do something about nothing.
November 21, 2002
Only one controls your final page
I can’t stand to hide! Then again, sometimes silence is the path of my best choice. That’s where the art of listening truly begins.
If I honestly believe God put my here to be one of his messengers, who then is the receiver? Whose life is supposed to change?
November 22, 2002
The beast barks like a monkey
Depression has sent me into an area I’ve not visited in several weeks. I’m low. I’m hurt, angry, and walking down a path with no exits. I was first bumped into, four nights ago… like water released from a dam, as was my willingness to take any step forward. I had no wind. I had no heart beat. It continued the following day, forcing me to become hollow yesterday. Yes! I knew it had arrived! Yes! I chose not to write about it. It was a bad decision. Look through my writing, and there’s evidence of the depression gaining strength. It’s a sickness I can’t control. Evidence of an honest to God dangerous depression can be found at work—my sketches were destroyed.
note: My own handwriting challenged the researcher in me to locate the evidence it suggested. It invited me to go back four days… and I would see it! Discovered was the conclusion of the writing assignment One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts. The writer was suffering from post production blues. For many, this is a very dangerous state of mind—a chunk of your foundation isn’t part of your path anymore. That’s how you invite in the never happy perfectionist—then you spend the rest of your life editing and editing, and hey even more editing. Many will argue, but I have lived this life… when you hit this low, you spend every second in it searching for a high… at all costs, even if it means destroying your marriage and career. Oh, let me explain high… anything that relates to giving you a false up, from chocolate to sex, or drugs to shopping. If you look real close, you can spot someone in a depression miles away, and yet they look happier than a mouse in a famous park.
November 23, 2002
I’m not a jerk, I just don’t fake it
All too often people assume I’m this great piece of human flesh blessed with the ability to write, paint, draw, produce, and create anything his imagination sees or hears. Yet hardly if ever, does anyone tempt to ask how the real person is, and not the actor. Do you really think I enjoy sitting at work doing art? It’s my protection from falling deeper! My little Jo Jo sits next to me, enduring our friendship—a poet, and his puppy. Wait, he just moved! My little Jo Jo once sat next to me, now I’m back to being lonely.
November 24, 2002
To flee or de-flea
At no time do I expect to taste what my artful ways may attempt to bring. The only thing I’m willing to offer is belief—the belief that anyone can be creative. It’s neither a talent nor a gift… just a willingness to do it.
Depression isn’t an emotion; it’s an excuse not to move forward. Depression is your mind’s eye trying to peer into the depths of self while the rest of you keep each arm wrapped around the ones you love.
November 25, 2002
Bruised ego
Nothing sickens me more than to hear someone try to figure out one of my paintings. “Oh! The arrow is pointing down… you must have felt negative at the time.” Anything I create must be met by balance. If all things are pointing upward, nothing is equal, or less … therefore, minuses have no equator. Stop trying to read messages in the art! There’s nothing to be found! I don’t paint to express. I paint to give me something to do other than sit, and twiddle my thumbs. I love flow! Can’t one of my paintings have an even balance of flow without featured judgment?
November 26, 2002
Cast shadows bark like dogs
Handwriting that seems almost a mess is in fact a melodic burp. A writer then tries to scratch it out, to re-channel its shape, only to realize its nothing more than a mind booger.
As kids, we’d run to get away. The adult self wishes new things—to belong, to listen, to be a family again… only to learn that the importance of family has never moved from its original position.
November 27, 2002
Keep reaching for the stars…Casey Kasum
I love the essence of big city lights, and how each twinkle represents people. Those lights wouldn’t be there without connection. Connecting with the beauty of tall buildings makes me believe there’s still plenty of room to one day become famous. My heart knows radio won’t take me there. Writing won’t either. So maybe, it’ll be the art. What a dreamer boy! Get a life dude! Fame isn’t what happens to you… it’s the combination of supply and demand. It’s not your fault the warehouse is empty.
November 28, 2002
Becoming aware
A martial artist learns to study the passing moments of time before deciding if he or she participates in changing the course of an unpredictable future.
November 29, 2002
What if second chances did exist?
And so, the holidays come then go… as do the memories of your childhood. For a brief moment, at forty years of age… you remember being that kid who watched your baby sister taking her first step into time. Christmas tree flashbacks, jokes that still make you laugh—visions of your brother coughing up soda through his nose. Jokes so funny your stomach still hurts. Today, I don’t know where he is… and I no longer celebrate the holiday.
**note: After eleven years, I returned to Montana in August of 2005. My brother stood by himself in the laundry room too afraid to walk toward the family conversations. Realizing the importance of forgiveness, I entered his world with no judgment, no weapon, and or reason to set off what had already been shredded. He looked deep into the aging carpet of my father’s homemade structure, his words were blunt, and three steps past sarcastic. I asked no questions, choosing instead to hold in my arms the brother I had never stopped loving. I’ve not talked to him since.
November 30, 2002
The elimination game
Gambling looked at me and I looked right back—not a word was shared. I harshly judged its appeal on others—their eyes were like giant posters bathing in neon lights. Being inside my first casino proved I didn’t have the addiction. It’s not alcohol or drugs, either! What then destroyed my life? Was it the need to be accepted? Am I wrong in my desires to help others believe? Did I crave to be too popular? I’m addicted to excuses! How much can an aging man’s heart grow cold? The lesson learned implies evil lurks in shadows—when in fact, you could see my face the entire time.
**note: To have what is called the addictive personality, and not know what you’re craving turns your life into a paranoid existence. Playing the elimination game is dangerous, because what if I fall face first in the very addiction I should’ve been aware of? Whose life will be destroyed?
December 1, 2002
No wait!
War is on the horizon. The world waits for the next attack. What are we doing about it? The news channels speak of nothing, but chemical warfare. Saddam is an evil man. The Al Qaida invites world fear. Ben Ladin, is he dead or alive? What are we doing about it? I have to watch what I’m writing… don’t want anything to be read wrong. Please use no assumption; I’m just as American as the other guy. Yet, what are we doing about it?
**note: There were no weapons of mass destruction, yet we still went to war. Never stop asking questions.
December 2, 2002
Vomit vapor I trust
Tear from the heart everything that makes me, and I shall still bleed a soul unlike any person you’ve met. I’m not greater than, nor am I near being the assumed talent portrayed. Built is a ship of many colors—storms I’ve faced, yet inside I know it can end without a whisper. I’m not fearful of such a journey. Therefore, I accept all things as being their own unique power and entity. Just because one doesn’t properly fit into the realms of another’s travels, doesn’t force silence to require sound. I build bridges, without them I’d still be a kid locked up in a Montana bedroom.
December 3, 2002
Multiple personalities
What is change if you experience it every day? To view isn’t to judge, but to accept the habit’s ability to raise above the fog—left behind, the dusting of a footprint.
December 4, 2002
If silence could kill I felt its sorrow
Time is the only thing man can put his weight in, loyalty in—no matter what takes place, time still moves forward.
I placed my steps within the sacred circle yesterday… at times I feel as if she no longer speaks with the wind, only to learn… this could be a thought of me being selfish.
**note: I struggled hard with the idea that my spirituality was slowly changing. How could a man feel this empty? It’s not that I didn’t pray or meditate, nor did I turn my back on the higher being of my creator… a silencing of the soul had entered the birth canal of every thought… I would blame it on martial arts. In looking back, a lot was learned… I was nothing more than the student, one who required a furthering education offered on other lands and territory. By leaving the forest, I became the warrior. I studied Buddhism, Kabala, Corporate American success and loss, sports victories, and marketing magician-ship as proudly displayed in two Gene Simmons hard covers. I spent four years being faithful to a whisper, “Go be a martial artist.” On April 23, 2006, it became my vow to end this separation by allowing the chapters of my sacred past enter the footprints of the newly born black belt. The test featured a weapons display in which I chose to invite a sacred tool created by a Sioux artist from North Dakota. For the first time since 2002, I felt the energy of the sacred circle into which I put my trust, hereby proving that spirituality never leaves you… it tests you, to the point of spreading your wings to soar over valleys once thought to be found only in dreams, and books of fantasy.
December 6, 2002
My kids
Noisy house! Ernie the green bird screams, while Addy the cockatiel makes stupid squeaky sounds. The music channel is blaring, and there’s news that Jenny’s having a baby. Please don’t call me Grandpa!
**note: Nobody understood the purpose behind such a request—it generated negative energy, which wasn’t the intension. I loved the idea that my only daughter in life was giving birth—I knew in my heart that being called Grandpa would require that the next in line would have to lift themselves to the highest of standards, as demonstrated by my Grandfathers. They were men of great honor, and constantly blessed with endless pride. And yet the day Mia and I met for the first time, the unforgettable love that poured from my soul is what makes Grandfathers sit up, and stand up straight that much more. Suddenly your wings have an unspoken lift, and every decision made is based on how we can bring our families closer together each day.
December 7, 2002
My other kids
“Not this child Grandfather Sun, it’s much too early for Mother Earth to have this one.” And so the weight was taken from the willows trunk, and wind from all four corners helped the poet lift the tree back to its original place in history.
December 8, 2002
Natures paint
The frost on the ground is thick—crystals made from fingers I’ve never met… an artist, a craftsman, a unique bi-polar display of man, earth, and tiny tingles.
December 9, 2002
Victory by defeat
I’ve destroyed my life and those associated with it. I can’t point at anything or anyone, but myself. I’ve located every new high without having to shatter the very morals of what made me a good kid. I’ve beat the system on manic depression—I’ve chosen to study the path, rather than sink into a doctors hand written prescription. No drug use! I chose to create!
Interviewer: What are you addicted to today?
Trying to stay alive! At the age of forty, I’m looking into a mirror asking why I wasted so much time chasing dreams. I wanted to die! I wanted to leave and never come back! Today, I deal with the scars of a dreamer whose sickness is a reality. Nobody wants to deal with it, so I’m very much alone.
Interviewer: Are you a failure?
Yes… but that’s ok. It helps me enjoy those who aren’t.
December 10, 2002
Second test, the student begins to fold
I will fail! I’ll fail to the point of being ridiculed for the next month or two. I’m not ready! Being hurt has set me back. My ribs, elbows, and legs! I fear the pain. It controls me. I can’t sleep. The only thing not injured… my nose.
**note: Setting yourself up for failure is a sickness that you can overcome. It’s easier to back out of a tough situation than it is to face it. It’s as if we’re magnetized to bad luck. Gaining the confidence to proceed isn’t going to happen overnight. Learn to listen to the body while trying to teach your mind and soul to keep moving forward. I earned my black belt on April 23, 2006... to read this not only echoes my past, but every student who enters the dojang from white belt to green. We all fear pain… it’s only natural! You can overcome this fear by not put yourself in situations that may serve as an invitation. Learn to pivot your feet while properly doing your blocks and punches. If we’d invest more time in practice… the number of injuries would decrease. Two final thoughts… (1) I injured my nose, but not until I was three weeks outside my black belt test. It was during a Tae Kwon Do tournament. I got cocky, and it cost me. (2) I was the only one who passed the martial arts test on December 10, 2002.
December 11, 2002
Shape shifting outside of animal speak
Journalizing on a daily basis allows me time—it gifts the mind, body, and spirit with an entire page of openness. Once you complete the unexpected, the tale evolves into better communication. Through those efforts love for thyself is born, and suddenly you no longer want to die.
It’s hard to believe that twenty four hours ago my entire focus was fed by failure. I’m currently staring at my writing hand wondering when it’ll locate the proper confidence to heal what the rest of the world has already destroyed.
December 12, 2002
Unpredictable high
What? I’ve got nothing to bitch about! That’ll change! Give me three more minutes, and somehow this body will spin itself back into a Charlie Brown approach to the runway. I smile, and then quickly close my writing for the day.
December 13, 2002
When it’s still dark outside you see it all
The view in the window is of me—sitting on the leather sofa writing. My ribs are tightly wrapped, ankles are sore from kicking, and my knees are killing me… and yet, the reflection in the window acts as if he feels nothing. I reach to dip my nib into the ink well, as does he. “Are you too in pain,” I ask softly? No words are returned, so I’m left to judge this person. I’m such the fool to believe that even I would say no to a self I barely know.
December 14, 2002
I too fear. It’s my goal to teach you not to
I don’t look at my book as being a positive. If placed in the wrong hands, it could become a weapon that Karate can’t protect me from. It’s as if the writer in me is running away from its biggest project. My book is nothing more than a replica of its creator… something that prefers to remain hidden. Note to the writer self… if you can’t take it to the next level, stop wasting my time.
**note: During my days on the writing tour, I spent countless hours working one on one with writers whose best work was locked up in closets or worse… their imaginations. Fear of letting go, or revealing your thoughts governs the channels of all writers. Julia Cameron once printed the quote that changed my life forever “Let him display his art so that he can learn to ignore criticism.”
December 15, 2002
What else could I be feeling but the evils of lowness? It’s the silent attacker, the invisible depression. I’m becoming lost as well as weak. I want to let go of the book—to set it free! Yet, I keep hearing this voice, “Complete the project. Get it into the hands of someone who believes.”
Interviewer: Let’s talk… I understand you felt a new vibe.
When you set something aside and come back to it, it gives you enough time to forget what remains so fresh.
Interviewer: What are your favorite conversations in the book?
When I sharply question something, and locate the answer before ending the sentence.
Interviewer: What is the number one reason why you want to drop this project?
Fear of people looking at it and judging me. It’s my dream to one day be introduced to the person who’ll help take it to the next level.
**note: Pay close attention to what’s happening in this daily writing—it starts off as a negative, but rather than continue to beat myself up over an issue that obviously is hurting the writer… I start questioning what he enjoys most. Interviewing yourself during bouts of doubt and fear is a process that’s extremely healthy. Give that interviewer a name, or picture someone you’ve seen on television. Make them your friend! Allow them total access to your path knowing that in the end, peace can be felt. My writing is no different than yours… I remember the days when hiding it from the world was the most important part of my day. But I ran out of hiding places! Instead of stopping, I finally located enough guts to leave the journals out. It killed me! Talk about trust issues! It taught me to creatively write. To come up with my own word patterns, and thought digestion process… before long, the emptiness was gone. My biggest problem now is trying to understand what each thought once meant. It’s fun to get a different aspect! Suddenly, I feel like I’m back in English class wondering what Shakespeare meant to say.
December 16, 2002
Unconditional
Looking up from my daily writing, I notice my little girl Meisha. Her Maltese hair is very long and white as she gently steps forward in her way of living. She looks into me as if to say, “Hi daddy!” It’s a soulful, “Hi!” She is the little girl of my life. If she were a cube of sugar, I’d sprinkle her over everything I touch, just to add her sweetness to any dance created. She is the true love of my heart—a fuzzy puppy with storytelling eyes. “Hi Daddy!” Whoa… I’m weak in the knees… this girl kills me.
**note: I shared a guarantee with Meisha on her sixth month birthday—she would be the one woman on earth I’d vow my soul to. I’d forever remain faithful to her spirit and love. I’ve stared deep into her eyes on countless occasions and softly whispered, “How can I be so close to you, and miss you this much?”
December 17, 2002
Peace can’t be found through constant accusations
Don’t give me reason to declare war! I don’t want war! I don’t want to fight! I know of my mistakes, but at least I’ve done something to correct them. I could’ve become my brother, and run… I could’ve lied! I came clean to better our way of life. My name tag reads: Loser. I wish I’d been a drug abuser. I wish I’d become an alcoholic. You make me want to commit a crime, so that I can do time, pay the price, whatever it’s going to take to repent. Did I expect to hurt like this? For the rest of my life.
**note: The divorce rate in America has reached over 51%. I don’t know why others call it quits, I only know of the reasons why my first chapter ended. Newspapers and magazines call first marriages “practice”—we giggle and write it off as such, only to deal with the pain in later days and years. I wrote a song for my wife, Lee, called Especially for You… its purpose was to explain how love carries with it hidden chapters, and personal reasons to stop pain from existing. In the end, without communication… your silence is dead weight compared to a lie. Yet, nobody looks at your reasons for being silent as a form of protection.
This is a song I’ve written for you, not as a way to say I’m sorry, but to help you understand. There is a story I’ve been wanting to share, taking place before your time, before your eyes met mine. Hold your head up, hold tightly to my hand, my dear best friend, the sadness and anger was before your time… hold your heart, hold up your shield, if I practice long enough, I might even sing in tune. But for right now, this song is especially for you. This piece of poetry I’ve written especially for you, I never thought I would need it… thought all this music was chapters already lived. I’ve been wanting to share, the true story as to why… why the writing lay silent this night… for something did take place, before your time. There is a story I’ve been wanting to share with you, explaining why time has left me so hurtful and misunderstood… for who I am and what I’ve become, was all before your time, you’re not to blame, you’re not the one to feel this way, you’re not to blame…it’s not you.
**note: Thanks to pianist John Negam I was able to put these lyrics to music and record them inside my production room at W***. Like all things I write… the messages shared face two degrees of separation… someone will either find inner peace, or someone new will be injured. Just like in my books.
December 18, 2002
The scarlet letter
I don’t care about her dream! I don’t care about her fear! I’ve done the correct steps to heal a life destroyed by my first wife. I’ve been to Dr. *****! I write! I do Karate! I do everything to lead a life blessed by the hands of my creator, only to constantly hear of my mistakes. You’re hurting me! The accusations are like knives. Your words are cutting me like I once did. If your wish is to hurt, then do it to yourself… I’ll be the one waiting to catch you.
**note: It’s almost too easy to quit, setting aside and wasting a lot of energy in trying to forget. Marriage isn’t about quitting! Moms and dads never tell their kids of what haunted them. We had a divorce and I found my soul mate. Shut up! It’s that silent advice, about what they don’t know that won’t hurt them that teach our kids how to stop putting importance on the true acts of love. Start talking people! Start sharing the life you once lived! Welcome to the jungle—the giant beast may look like a monkey, but his King Kong attitude is about to kill you.
December 19, 2002
Are we living the book of Revelations?
We are a world at war—words thrown out like nothing matters. Money is our best bomb. To take a life means nothing. Look at what people do with video games! The sliver of disaster, to train the American eye—reaction versus right from wrong, a threat is our best defense. I’ll stay in the corner, watch your mistakes, and then decide if I need to participate. Iraq and the United States—the lines have been drawn in the sand. To kill is to be killed, not to fall at the cost of human life. We’re pawn’s in W’s world at war… he just won’t admit it.
December 20, 2002
Can’t I be two or three maybe many?
My left side becomes right—the view of my eyes is confident. Looking at my arms, I no longer see just a creator… these limbs catch the wind, and then turn it loose to play somewhere else.
**note: martial arts teach you to put trust in all sides of your body. Your feet are an extension to your trunk to which you must protect. Your elbow becomes a weapon when your fist has been stopped. Every inch of your body must be loved and respected.
Who are these people I paint? Why a face? The poet in me turns to view the questions… only to see himself staring into the eyes of a ghost. I am the poet, a big talking; writing foolish man who believes God has blessed him with the ability to create. Smarten up poor boy from the Southside—for if you had been rich, your imagination would have never become your best friend.
December 21, 2002
Searching for help
A depression has set in, a low flying mood that’s made me ill. I’m not willing to look outward but rather in. The first thing you do are try and figure out the steps leading to and from where you stand. Where on this path has there been a shift? Why is there an ache in the pits of my stomach? It’s a lonely feeling—all alone, lost, un-relating to anything, it’s not harmonizing with the slightest of sounds. I hate being this way! I feel change. It’s going to have to be something I force into play. I need days away! Am I running, or have I decided it’s no longer worth keeping up? Time is invisible to the naked eye—it’s seen only by those who stop, and recognize boredom.
**note: I was the two time employee-of- the-year who never took time off to rest. Vacation days were hardly if ever consumed, and if they were, I spent the time doing work for the radio station. I knew what it was doing to my life… the lack of rest devoured me. Although the department head wrote constantly in my yearly evaluation that I needed to take time off… he gave me absolutely no reason to believe that it wasn’t anything, but an open door for him to fire me from the family that I had become addicted to. You’d think getting bronchitis seven times in one year would be enough to keep a damn good broadcaster down. Not when you know in your gut that management’s best way to let employees go was during an employees time away.
December 22, 2002
Poet puke
Finally! I see the sun! I don’t know why it seems so important to catch it every day, but there it is! It doesn’t matter how cold it is, how rainy, or cloudy, or even muggy… the sun always rises. That’s extremely important to me! My real father was never there. Because my mother fought to keep our family fed, she was never really there. To see the sun daily puts light inside the deepest roots of my darkest days—it’s God’s way of saying that he’ll never turn his back on me.
Nobody really wants to own a piece of sunlight…they steal it like everything else.
Life isn’t fair…which is why I’ve learned to love life without expecting to be surrounded by friends.
I can’t believe I’ve allowed a forest to control my reasons to be anchored in Charlotte, North Carolina. Every year at winter, I endure the worst forms of self hatred, never realizing that exists beyond the windy days of March.
Most people trick me into believing anything I create is unique, when in reality… they got what they wanted, and I’m still horribly lonely.
December 23, 2002
Message to writers
The length of a depression is never measured by the distance between Monday and Friday. One day I’ll locate the cause and affects, knowingly reminding myself that drugs were never used to escape it… reality was. I can never locate the source of my low… turning to face my creator; the view becomes a path—I’m told to walk it.
I would openly admit that concluding One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts invited this most recent bout with pain. Nobody understands!
Interviewer: Are you going through what most writers call conclusion blues?
I don’t think the book is finished. I’ve set it aside to ferment, to recharge, and to gather new moss, in hopes of it becoming powerful.
Interviewer: Was it easy to set aside?
I feel relieved that the four year journey is complete.
Interviewer: Who was the book written for?
I don’t know. I was told to build an ark, so I created a canoe instead.
Interviewer: Will the book reach the hands of readers?
It’s not for me to decide. Like all things I’ve created, I’ve been trained to believe none of this is mine.
**note: One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts sat silent until October of 2005. Four years had passed, and it would’ve remained silent if the bodihistivah hadn’t believed in the project to the point of contacting Ligatt Publishing. On April 27, 2006 the un-proofed fully covered book arrived at my house. I was emotionless. It was time to edit, edit, edit! I had to relive my past again and again, but with a different eye… yours. As much as I want you to pick up a pen and write… my ambition with you doesn’t end there—just because you’re a black belt in martial arts doesn’t make you a master. The journey must continue moving forward. Learn to recognize the after effects of a writing project. Study other writers by contacting them. Ask them how their bodies reacted at the conclusion of a project. Did it silence them forever? What did they do to hurdle the mountain? I want you to write forever… to get there is going to require going the distance that most never talk about, they’ve become blocked by their writing ability, because it hurt too damn much to continue. In the end, you might be their inspiration to write again.
December 24, 2002
Tenth anniversary of my confession
Stupidity put me through almost thirteen years of infidelity. The initial steps were purely innocent—it’s as if you’re investigating something you don’t know about, and then you get hooked.
Interviewer: You’ve forgiven your first wife, why can’t you forgive yourself?
Unlike her, I couldn’t declare freedom from motherhood. I was charged with the crime two years after it was committed. Addiction consumed my every step, and to this day I wish it would’ve been a connection to drugs or alcohol. I became my father Kenneth Bakken.
Interviewer: Why can’t you forgive yourself?
How can you forgive what you hate? How can you love what you hate being? I created this life, and now I’m forced to live it! That’s what being forty is about.
Interviewer: Tonight is Christmas Eve, if you could receive the perfect gift, what would it be?
To feel God’s inner security of blessed warmth, and know that none of what they say about him is fake.
December 25, 2002
The message
Envision the wind—cherish its touch… learn to listen, become the next chapter.
**note: Don’t just read over this thought! Embrace it, study it, and try and give me a reason why it was handed through me to you. Until I started studying meditation, I had no idea how important every breath we take really is.
December 26, 2002
When people look at my art, I can tell they have no idea what to say. They quickly search for something to recognize, a person, a piece of fruit, or maybe a replica of another famous painting. I never giggle. I pull myself so far inside that “I” no longer represent the painter. The angriest times grow into unforgotten art. If at anytime I don’t paint, God be with those who have to live with me. Untouched, unprotected—my place to hide. The warmth of knowing that no mater how bad everything is, it fails to carry enough weight to silence the poet’s expression.
December 27, 2002
What if everyone knew?
Interviewer: Realizing your depression is a sickness, and nothing or an event lead to it,
what are you doing to get through it?
I’m doing all I can not to overeat, or buy things. I’m forcing myself to go into a silent reaction stage. Painting and writing isn’t helping me. I feel alone, locked up in a room of one million people, and I can’t see a simple cloud. Am I down because of the holidays? Am I not getting enough sunshine? I’m not seeing the answers in my writing! I sit here with the window shades closed; my office and the radio station control room have no windows.
I’m sorry for this self that feels so low. I’m sorry for the writer whose words lack the flow. I’m sorry for he who paints with ink. I’m sorry for not being up each new day. I’m the only one who sees it, and for that, I’m sorry.
**note: Learning to gain control of your willingness is an act of courage. Be willing to go outside for five minutes if just to do nothing more than feel the breeze scrape your face, or to capture the warmth of the sun on the cold feeling your heart is delivering. Learn to put movement into your emotions. Don’t become a pool of water easily stagnated by the presence of mosquitoes. Never forget, the West Nile Virus starts with no movement on water.
December 28, 2002
Terrorism starts with self fear
Our enemies aren’t dressed like army men—they wear civilian clothes that explode. My inner hatred creates more fear. I can’t help but believe fate can be defeated, only to learn the cost is too great. Who are we as a nation? We tried to buy Christmas, and fell 11% short of last year. Credit card fraud versus domestic violence—Americans want what their neighbors have. Small women are driving giant SUV’s! Tall men are violating their vows, because it’s something they need. Marked is the identity of all creators, and yet a cloned child will still be given birth. We are an inch closer to Darth Vader’s walking army. Is George Lucas our Nostradamus?
December 29, 2002
When God grabs you by the nap of the neck
The painting represents the lives of two people separated by uncontrolled circumstances, but they remain madly in love with the first day they met. Let me touch your finger, to savor the taste of its prints. Store in my soul its purpose, the music of all journeys as presented by your finger print. Teach me to love you. Share with me all that’s you. Let me hold your hand again, to fall deeply in love with your fingerprints.
December 30, 2002
Measuring the distance between my selves
To harness enough trust on a path of disbelief is in itself art. As an artist, I tend to see what most people ignore. I have battles with myself, only to learn. Even if I choose not to listen, the artist still has the passion to measure society’s growth. Why do I have to be the artist? People hate me for this! I hate me for this! We all want to win… only to learn I’ve documented it.
December 31, 2002
If but I really knew
I saw yellow when I closed my eyes—a true visual of you. Yellow is the meaning of sunrise, yellow representing growth, and the existence of new born life. Kept are not the secrets when blessed by the keepers of this wind. Heal thy hand, so it may touch where it aches. Believe in the wind, and it… like your hand, heals all things. I saw yellow when I closed my eyes. My message sent to you. Yellow is the invisible color on every rainbow, yellow, the forever scent on a wild rose. The flow of life Dr. Mack, that’s what I saw. Hold onto it tight, for it was yellow.
**note: My mentor in life feared his visit to the doctor this day. His exact words to me were, “This is going to be a bad day.” The Dahli Lama says that you know of your death two years before it occurs. Dr. Mack passed on December 23, 2004.
January 1, 2003
Please
My speech last night at dinner spoke of the seven New Years Eves that we had spent with our friends. We relied on Steve’s humor to keep us laughing, and that nobody could replace one of us. Then I calmly looked at Lee, and softly asked her to forgive me. Steve’s eyes filled with tears, and the laughter was gone.
**note: Elton John might have penned the greatest quote of all time, “Sorry seems to be the hardest word.” God bless him for giving me the courage to try and whisper it.
January 2, 2003
Signs of change
Oh oh… I’m numb! This is a signal of something coming on. It’ll be showers, but not in a positive way. I’m not here, ask my body. Please don’t let this happen to me. I feel numb, as if I’m not really moving. Everything I touch takes its time telling my brain. I hate this feeling.
At times, you weather every storm. Other times, the hard rains crush you like sandstone. Through it all, if you can’t dance with each other, there’s nothing worth preserving—for dancing is the movement of all angels celebrating the best gift of all… life.
January 3, 2003
CEO or the devil
We live in an age of not having to care for anyone but ourselves. Nobody communicates unless you have to. The current safe zone is my office with the door locked.
**note: Forcing yourself to play nice with others isn’t the answer to our current roles in Corporate America. Enough of us have played the game so long; we recognize a fake fifty steps from a handshake. Money pays for everything, but a shattered soul and lost dreams. Is your job so important that it’s worth sacrificing your integrity? Learn to measure your bad days, if there’re too many… think of it as your calling card to get out. Now!
January 4, 2003
Learning to accept my path
Do I know what I am? Are you kidding me? Part of the adventure is my daily guessing game.
January 5, 2003
The calling card and I still won’t listen
Creativity isn’t impossible—gaining the confidence to showcase what comes natural makes me a very lonely middle aged man. Am I a radio has-been? No! Radio lost its drive, not me!
January 6, 2003
This is how I read
A new book picks me… it says, “I’m the one to read.” Often times, I challenge the purpose, only to realize how wrong I continue to be. It picks me—
**note: I never go into a bookstore searching for something to read. The moment I walk in, the magnetic pull connects me to its energy. It started with Native American Spirituality, and grew through Julia Cameron, the Dali Lama, Thich Nhat Hahn, and Pat Croce. Interestingly enough, out of the hundreds of books I’ve studied, I can tell you exactly where the connection was made--Julia Cameron—Santa Barbara, the Dali Lama, the Charlotte Douglas airport, Thich Nhat Hahn, B&N, and south Charlotte. It helps when you stop reading books, and physically use them as study guides and tools.
The mind’s eye paints for the imagination replicas of distance—until face to face with reality’s touch.
January 7, 2003
It never fades
I received an email from my first wife—she blasted me! Although we’ve been divorced for ten years, I’m still the reason why her sadness continues. I don’t talk to her! How can it be my fault?
My letter back to her was short and simple: I’m sorry to hear of your continued pain. I sought help, and continue to receive guidance through my daily writing and Native American Spiritual studies. You once said to me, “We’re just two kids.” Please let that be your source of healing.
**note: Thich Nhat Hahn writes about letters of love. All too often we’re accused of being someone’s cause of pain, when in reality; we’re nothing more than the nearest touch. Offer them peace, and it shall grow. Walk toward them in anger, and expect it back at you.
January 8, 2003
In trouble again
I draw at work to keep the creative flow intact. It’s a circle of freedoms filled with drawing, producing, and delivering unique methods of art.
**warning: Bosses and fellow employees do not understand this method of meditation, and or personal growth. When you least expect it, those in control will lash out at you, and throw accusations of their weaknesses being your fault. If he would’ve only been doing this instead of that. Interestingly enough, without this… you would’ve never gotten that. If you draw, or use other forms of escapism at your place of work—be fully aware that what you do is nothing more than a weapon for them to use against you. My suggestion is to plan out a daily 15 to 30 minute departure from your place of business. Get away from their time clock. Time is not to be wasted. Time is money. Don’t make them feel like their investment in you has gone sour.
January 9, 2003
Learn to ignore the critics
I draw at work, because it’s the only window I have! It’s my daydream in a box. I bleed art… not by choice. Some people are into sports—I’m sickened by the need to be creative. If I only knew, as a kid I created everything—card games, dream homes, models of malls, and one man baseball games. If I only knew, I wrote songs—sang them to birds, was told to quiet down, so I played louder, banging on boxes, and picking a three string acoustic guitar while pumping vocals through a garden hose connected to my ear. I never once thought I was weird. Now at forty… I only wish I knew what I had known then.
**note: Two days after writing the above thought, I officially put away the art at work. A person should never feel guilty about bringing art to life—if that’s the case, set it aside, and locate what really matters. If the pen’s picked up, the art wasn’t meant to be forced into non-play. As a footnote—the art came home on October 26, 2005. Over eighty pieces sit in silence inside the art room. It’s too painful to for me to view, due 100% to the criticism offered by those assumed to be part of my creative family. I can’t imagine how much art in the world is set free, because of a lack of support. An artist is only strong when deeply within the act of creation. It’s too easy to destroy a path of flow, especially when those in control have no idea what it takes to get their requirements professionally completed.
The shy angel (raised hundreds for cancer research)
Creative mornings by means of music
Ruff… oops it’s you!
Forced to do a radio show!
The depth of disbelief
Spirituality
The essence of self created warmth
Fake friends
In total dedication to Debbie Pascone who lost two fathers inside a one month period. The canvas is
set below the matting. I chose to expand its life as a way to prove that life doesn’t end, but rather that it continues in ways we aren’t supposed to understand.
January 10, 2003
What you would see
The Poet’s bad posture—legs stretched, and the ottoman is taking the weight. He ain’t straight; the poet leans, slouching into his reality. Pen in hand, heart chasing thoughts, toes, all ten twinkling… look at him sit there! A mind that never stops—he documents what comes then runs. What’s left? Are there any crumbs? They’re shaped to look like words—the Poet’s bad posture.
January 11, 2003
No God please!
I love writing on pages where the ink has bled through—it proves to my imagination that life is filled with second and third chances.
**note: I lived out this thought—Woji had become extremely ill. I needed a reason to believe that my Maltese wasn’t passing! With my child at my side I wrote, “The art of depression isn’t by choice—you get so tired of having to express yourself. I try to paint, and come up empty. I try to write, and stop. Enough said… my empty is lost.” By the grace of God, Woji hung with us until September 2005. He was eighteen years old. He was cremated wearing a martial arts doboke with a black belt of a 5th Dan wrapped around his waist. He had to be a Master! He knew how to put up with me!
January 12, 2003
Defeating failure
The painting is nothing more than the full result of depression. I see it as the development of misguided angst. I see it as being a last attempt before it’s ripped from the book. There’s a positive to all paintings gone wrong—through the result of not giving up, there always stands a painting to be born—through all walls of thickness, ability defeats impossibility.
January 13, 2003
At a loss so I stand back and watch
I’ve been closed off to the idea of listening to the wind. It’s been my choice to ignore the messages from what Native American’s call The Great Creator. I’m living in fear! North Korea is threatening nuclear warfare. There are protests in California. It’s not that I personally fear the repercussions of an unfair attack—I can’t seem to locate the trust that I should be having for my nation. Please Mr. President, stop throwing threats.
**note: Thich Nhat Hahn writes of the protests that he once attended during the Vietnam era—they were called peace walks. Therefore he did… he peacefully walked, no loud voices, or angry chants, no banners, or wadded up paper to throw. His example was one to live by… if its peace you seek, then display it in the way it was meant to be. Even in everyday life—learn to mindfully protect the future by peacefully walking into it.
January 14, 2003
All I ever wanted to experience was a full day without thinking about it being my final one. Is this what they call being prepared, or am I just paranoid? When trust doesn’t exist, some religions claim it’s a lack of God in one’s life. I see it differently… it’s God who has taken me by the hand, proving to me daily that all storms have a beginning and an end.
January 15, 2003
It’s not for me to understand
Karate was brutal last night. I’m hurt! But I can’t complain… my choice is what puts me in class.
Interviewer: What have you learned from Karate?
I’ve learned how to deal with physical pain, how to set it aside, and not be such a drama queen.
Interviewer: You keep saying Karate was chosen for you, but not by you.
It’s not meant to tighten me up, but rather invite harmony. The left side of my soul has to unite with all that is right. I must learn to work as one. A rock doesn’t one day wake up realizing its soul is located in the center of the earth. It took centuries to harden the makings of what could be the only thing keeping a mountain in place. One day I wish to look back, and openly admit that I’m no longer an unconfident man stuck on materialistic values, but rather on purpose.
January 16, 2003
To this very day
God placed me in that Dojo to learn how to battle. Those who love him most will come under attack, and what I’ve studied will prepare God’s army to win as well as survive.
Interviewer: What does that mean?
God wouldn’t put me in a Dojo unless I was being trained for something important.
Interviewer: What do you fear most about modern life?
Anyone at anytime can be your enemy. We are no longer about the people. My childhood dreams were filled with the color red. I saw them as bombs. I felt fear each time I shot out of bed, my breath was gone, and I was left to do nothing more than shake. Childhood dreams made of fire, everything! The walls were red, the carpet and the sky outside! I would stand at the window looking out, hitting myself to wake up.
January 17, 2003
My loss, my total loss
Sensei shouted, “You’ve got to run with us! You have to be part of this team!” My letter to him reads, “I’m part of no team. I dance with no one. I don’t walk with friends. I am me at my own pace! If you have a problem, might I ask that you keep it to yourself.”
**note: Moments you wish to live over again—to correct what might have been wrong. I was losing faith and trust in my martial arts leader. In the days ahead, he chose to leave us. I spoke with him on April 21, 2006 two days before the black belt test. It was like hearing my father smile.
January 18, 2003
I knew you wouldn’t understand
While meditating inside the sacred circle, a hawk flew ten to twelve feet from my nearest touch. I quickly thanked him. He didn’t seem startled. My spiritual beliefs aren’t like most, nor can I locate anyone who truly believes that my experiences are worth more than a tall tale. I sit while owls and hawks stare at me from nearby trees. Cardinals stand next to me, to do nothing more than sing. I’m not to learn from these visitations, until the moment is right. I seek no higher power than my creator. Through his power and wisdom, I’m granted permission to step forward. Life has taught me one valuable lesson—words are too heavy to fully believe. Therefore, trust can never grow inside the weighted darkness of friendship, and or a working relationship. To trust is to lower your guard—once achieved, I’m only asking to be hurt. By trusting, I’m giving people permission to go ahead and take a swing.
January 19, 2003
The elements that make up a fruited plain
The moment someone instantly declares me a jerk or hard to play with, that quickly sends a signal to me—they failed to look into the true glass portrait. It features a man who almost never accepts second best. I demand quality! Moments after my death, maybe one or two will step forward, and openly admit that my stepfather’s way of disciplining his children was in fact a positive way to let a child grow. He challenged us to every depth of our ability, exceeding the circles surrounding a simple goal. As a child, I didn’t do anything but chase new inspirations, and I owe it all to my stepfather Joe.
January 20, 2003
Please God let me accept me for me
Who I am and what I am is based solely on the mistakes I’ve made, and the lessons I’ve learned. I don’t dream of reaching back to correct the path—with so much assumption, that would only leave my hands open to make new mistakes.
January 21, 2003
Outlasting the journal
As a writer, the texture of the paper and its strength of its bindings are fully capable of controlling the outcome of any thought projected. I’ve condemned myself for continuing with this current journal. It didn’t live up to my standards as a writer! I’m not a rough holder of things to come—the book, just like anyone near me, couldn’t withstand my way of dealing with reality. We take it on and deal with it, not run away like cowards. Been there, done that.
**note: Pick your journals wisely. Once you write the first thought, they’re no longer empty. Learn to love it more than family. For what has made you silent will come back to life inside its hardcover.
January 22, 2003
Recognition of competition
If I’ve been gifted with the ability to spot a depression before it occurs, I’d say I’m headed in for a very deep travel. The soul tells me this! I feel it in my stomach first, not fear, not shame, but a cold emptiness that orders me to prepare for silence. A body slowly becomes armor, while your heart fights to stay alive. The battle will be swift, forever changing, and my job is to document it.
January 23, 2003
Spoiled Americans
Two snow storms in two weeks! An ice storm in December! I don’t mind the snow. It’s the inconvenience that it brings. This is so like me, wasting horrid amounts of energy complaining about something I can’t control.
**note: Sabumnim (Master in Tae Kwon Do) took me aside one day and calmly said, “Only worry about the things you can control. We spend too much time worrying about friendships, job security, our marriages, and paying the bills. Ask yourself first, “Is this a situation that I can control?” If not, then move on, let it go. You have the power of choice, and this is how you win by exercising it.”
January 24, 2003
Reverb
If my mind suddenly stopped creating, the first thing I’d do is close my eyes, and try to dream. Society will one day get to the point where we can’t afford medication. That’s when God will whisper into the ears of those who’ve learned to battle depression, and ask
us to teach his people the fine art of creative flow.
January 25, 2003
King Bush
Slowly the country wakes—our rights are disappearing. Freedom of what? We have the freedom to fill our cars with gas, only to keep them running. Our President believes a war with Iraq is the only answer… his attitude is, “Who cares what the world thinks!” As Americans we can’t say anything, or react to it… I can’t help but believe we have our first national king.
January 26, 2003
Learn to listen to the wind
I believe all of God’s children are the chosen listeners—very few of us take the opportunity to use the seventh sense—spiritual trust and faith, then communication. True openness is the path that leads you toward inner peace. When that energy passes through me, for one brief moment, a flower blooms over a rainbow of darkness.
January 27, 2003
The world of radio is changing
It’s not about me! It’s never been about me! True victory is located in image. Raw talent is the beauty of a great performance. Those who achieve success are individuals who’ve been given a once in a lifetime opportunity to walk up, and reach beyond those just shy of a pint near death.
January 28, 2003
Maybe it’s not radio, maybe it’s me
I currently stand on a bridge where age gets in the way of completing one’s achievement. Where do I go from here? How do I start over? Every decision I’ve made seems to have been wrong. I wish I could’ve had better control over my radio losses. I didn’t become addicted to all it offers. I became disconnected to the reality life puts us through. If something bad took place, I made sure that it was quick, and completely in the opposite direction. I will never become a black belt in martial arts! My way of living lacks the loyalty required to harness ability and capability. I have a passion only to suffer. I don’t want to be a wanna-be! I don’t want to play, to just play. The imagination is too big, but am I too late? I don’t wish to seek, for seeking steals time away. Am I here? Is this the infamous mid-life crisis? I know it’s over! What do I want to be? Can I just start over? There’s got to be time! Will God say, “Yes?”
**note: I earned my black belt in Tae Kwon Do on April 23, 2006. The best way to achieve loyalty and ability, that which feeds capability—is to learn to teach what you’ve been taught, circles are what we create. Allow yourself to become part of the energy. It adds life to every dream released into air.
From a push up position, ki energy was used to shatter two bricks. The bricks served as the wall, which kept me from reaching the origin of dreams coming true. To attain their wisdom and strength, I took down the border between them.
January 29, 2003
Learn to study paths
The twist in art is its history.
**note: The painting was part of a 1998 fund raiser for breast cancer awareness—its history grew from there. She went through four owners, starting first with the creator. Chris W purchased it, and then donated it to a local office. The new owner was Melody, who was raising money for a high school fund raiser, so she sold it back to me… only to give it to Debbie Pascone who had lost two fathers inside of a month.
January 30, 2003
Do you remember?
The painting—it’s a journey somewhat unlike most. The painter sits viewing his fingers, searching for ink stains tucked under fingernails, looking for pieces that may remain from the original. I want to hold the very moment that I whispered, “There it’s done.” The painting is back in my possession. It’s time to let her see the creator, four years later. Her face is still unfinished and yet, it’s the best feature.
January 31, 2003
The elements that which lead to self abuse
I lay awake most of the night—the threat of war in Iraq eats at me. The nation sits wondering what the President’s up to—why war? Not one shred of evidence has been given to prove Mr. Hussein has these so called weapons of mass destruction. My fears are based on what they’re saying about us.
A razor blade, silver, touched by rust has looked at me three days straight—on the ground it lays, in water, melted snow, and warm rain. A razor blade loosely set free, to tantalize the imagination. I’ve seen it! Three times! It talks to me, “Run now! Get away from using me!” A razor blade, silver, its edges sharpened by the change of weather... war, a few chapters away. Will I have a job today? Why can’t I get rid of this paranoid feeling? The blade sits alone in the water, I’ve wanted to throw it away… but you know me, I’d have to stop and play with it.
February 1, 2003
At a loss
I’m scared! I’m filled with a fear that can’t be controlled. I’m not the actor anymore! I’m afraid but of what? I don’t know! Everyone, everything, war! I lay awake. It feels like something’s going to get me. It could hurt, injure the dream, and quite possibly steal, to take from me my angels of peace. I can’t handle it anymore. I am scared!
**note: I wrote the above thoughts at 6:40 am. The thoughts written below came at 8:15 am
I’ve just learned the space shuttle Columbia broke up in space during re-entry. I need to paint.
February 2, 2003
Uncensored fear
Having the opportunity to look back is a gift—it allows you to study the what if’s, and was I’s. From fear, art is born… have I touched the identity of my new addiction?
February 3, 2003
Caring too much or not enough
I’d be interested to find out how many people went to bed early the night we lost our space shuttle Columbia. Once within the privacy of our homes, the best way to deal with tragedy is to quickly fall asleep. Outside those four walls, it’s shocking to see America still moving! I don’t hear people talking about the shuttle! I don’t see any type of reaction! It’s as if we’re saying, “Oh yeah… that did happen, didn’t it?” Yes! It seems no one is truly saddened.
February 4, 2003
America’s inner city war
Words are painted flowers—some alive, some not so pretty… they make up lines that tell stories. It’s an imagination stuck in caring mode, when I don’t care… I’m labeled an ______.
February 5, 2003
Putting into focus
There are only three things I want out of life—opportunity, chance, and the ability to see both as incredible tools. This is why I don’t read other authors’ books, I study them. From sentence structure, to every thought shared, any paragraph is nothing more than a radio commercial. How long do you have my attention?
February 6, 2003
Mr. Powell speaks to the UN about Iraq’s weapons
A divided nation equals the opinions required to make this country the great nation it is. If asked which side I’d fight for, it would be against those attempting to steal my final breath. If the world was truly prepared for war, wouldn’t the winds of expression be anything but silent? Is the second coming of Christ all but a blink away? My worries lay not in the hands of the creators of war, but with those who’ll be innocent bystanders. I am fully prepared to die for my country.
February 7, 2003
The birth of evolution
My Karate Sensei called me a wimp last night. “I’m not a wimp! I’m just beat up!” He kept kicking, and hitting my already severely bruised ribs. He’s mentally destroying me! Isn’t this belittlement? I can’t think like this! I must learn to ignore what pain does, and put total focus on the new battles waiting to be unveiled tomorrow. I can’t learn to run and hide. I must live the life of staring defeat in the eyes, and destroying it before it kills me.
February 8, 2003
I sat with the owner of an art gallery—while being introduced, he quickly took notice of the pieces that I displayed on the studio walls. He studied the painting of the woman that I had just regained control of. In return, I studied him. To be gifted with a view of a gallery owner, and how they bring to life what could be inside an imagination that’s seen it all. We spoke about my newest painting—which he seemed to enjoy. Then he stepped back, and exposed his true thought, “You sure bang these things out don’t you?” I hated that comment! Suddenly I was cheap.
A sketch and or a doodle are nothing more than an imagination in touch with the fingers given to it at birth. They communicate an invisible rhythm. How I get to and away from art should never be measured with time, but rather the distance between your eyes and heart. Although I never want to hear your opinion, I’ll know within a split second if what’s been handed to me is worth sharing with you—for no artist deserves to hear silence.
February 9, 2003
You only see what will make you great
What I call doodling is in fact a bleeding of the mind. It’s an unfavorable cast of many personalities that have shot through me with anger, depression, and a tip of the iceberg jolt of electronic happiness. When you get tired of being me, all you want to do is create. All you want to do is dream. Everyone’s a critic—they hate by love, or love through hate. I’m too damn tired to stop, yet my eyes pop open every morning at 2 am. The sun is my guide. Circles in the forest make me sacred. Don’t try to be this one called me—it’s anything but a great feeling.
February 10, 2003
Unaware of the beware
You would think a world so creative wouldn’t meddle with war. Two minds are what are required to survive—the artist and his critic.
February 11, 2003
Unforgiving
As an artist, I wish to not hide my mistakes, but rather to train them how to become better actors. I think I’m bored with life. I’m tired of being good, but not great. I hate myself for being alright, but not unforgettable. I threw away the mask! I’ve stopped faking my laugh, my smile, and my emotions. I was to become real inside a world of fantasy—only to notice an uncaught glimpse of the mask I was still wearing. They, who seek, see not what is built, for no path becomes, until the artist paints his fingertips with mistakes.
February 12, 2003
Living in modern America
I can’t live my life wondering if the government is telling the truth. I have to believe in what they say purely out of my own safety. 60,000 U.S. soldiers sitting in the sand—they wait for their orders. Will they be stealing lives from that corner of the globe? How did we earn the right to be within their world? I’ve shoved myself behind closed window shades—a pen is my reality—my travels are anywhere except Iraq.
February 13, 2003
Living in modern America part two
The nation stands on alert—Bin Ladin sends messages of destruction. How many times can you cry wolf? If plastic wrap and duct tape are all we need to create a safe room, why did our elders build bomb shelters in the 50’s? Would I, could I, walk out into a world through a sea of dead? What if one of them is my friend? Would I, could I, survive? Would I want to?
February 14, 2003
Terrorism by means of headlines
The United States government has decided not rule out nuclear weapons in Iraq. Man is so smart, and yet he chooses to defeat himself and all living creatures. Just like the ice age, man will one day be forced to tell the story millions of chapters later.
**note: Today’s research date is May 25, 2006—to expose how protective your mind and body are, I honestly had no idea such fears existed. I allowed myself to forget about the mental abuse our nation was putting its people through, by doing nothing more than playing the bully or the tough guy on the block.
February 15, 2003
The weatherman screams snow
A man looked at me yesterday, his words were soft, “I don’t understand why people aren’t preparing for the cold weather.” My reply came swiftly, “A possible terrorist act carries with it more weight.”
I asked God to stop and listen—is this Lord, how you want your creations to be defeated? Somehow the pillars of your great book seem outdated, for no man was to love false idols, and yet we have a dictator in our presence.
What if we lose all our music, melted by incredibly large bombs of destruction? Will the future know the difference between Elvis and Costello? What if the radio stops broadcasting Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards? Will Yesterday become the whispered lullaby, sang to the hearts of a new nation? Will the strength of Satisfaction feed the soils of hard clay? The music! What if we hand it over to newer leaders? Will their daily prayers replace what once allowed Americans to get lost inside their constantly moving imaginations?
February 16, 2003
Don’t stop
The world already has enough do nothing, powerless, know it all wimps.
**note: The desire to start editing my first book One Man’s 1,021 Thoughts consumed the path. The exact words I wrote were, “I’m getting the itch again.” Only to follow the step taken forward with, “I think the reason why I’ve done nothing with this project is simple… who cares what I think?” If you’re a writer, or have the urge to put pen to paper… never let your subconscious destroy the willingness to share. What we learn in life has been experienced a million times—why? Who forgot to share their challenges in the way of helping to hold another in pain?
February 17, 2003
One song
Emotion from Samantha Sang is playing on the 70’s channel—wow, 1978. I was a junior in high school—the country was having problems with Iran. Talk about being horrified of being drafted. 1978 was the year radio came to me in the way of the career center. My teacher was Tony Swearingine—why didn’t he talk me out of becoming a broadcaster? Oh wait, he tried. It was a great year! I wrote Halloween 78 for no reason other than to keep me occupied in school. Without it, the dropout list would’ve included one more. I met the woman who’d become my first wife in 1978. I was on crutches—two knee surgeries, and yet I could keep up with her. One problem, the girl she was with was my date. 1978 led me to teen alcoholism by means of Tony, Rob, and Neal and the journey began at a Ted Nudgent concert—no wonder I fell to the power of alcohol. Who could hear the warnings? I’m still partially deaf! More importantly, my Jennifer Michelle was born in 1978—she would grow to be my only daughter. At sixteen, I had no idea that I’d one day fall deeply in love with a woman who’d share with me the most meaningful chapter of my life.
Whatever happened to me in 1978 has completely controlled this entire journey. Somewhere on this path is the key that could one day lead me away from so much sadness. Was it the way my brother ran away from home? Had his departure reminded me so much of the way my sperm father took off? Was it my English teacher who literally screamed at me, telling this mind and body that it didn’t stand a chance to become a writer? My ideas didn’t follow her view; she couldn’t see where I was coming from. My drafting teacher hated the dream homes that I brought to life. “If you notice, the rest of the class is creating mechanical blue prints… you’ve chosen to do houses… that can’t happen.” Although a local architect had cleared the way for me to have an internship, I left both classes for easier, more accepting measures—study hall. Something created this loneliness… it could’ve been the teachers. By school year’s end, my lunch breaks were spent drinking beer in the park, only to return heavily wasted.
Dear Mrs. _______, Billings Senior High
You were wrong to tell me I couldn’t write. The ability to express oneself is a gift. From that one moment on, I turned my back. Radio wasn’t my childhood dream! I wanted to be an architect, and needed your creative writing class to create presentations. I needed to learn how to speak better in front of people! Better writing leads to better ways to communicate. You shut me down! Thank God writing found me again! One problem, because of you… I fear sending my work in. It just sits here! I am horrified to let people see what’s been created.
**note: When people tell me they can’t locate reasons to write, or to savor a moment to be shared with the family following… turn on the radio, MTV, or satellite music channels—within seconds you’ll be invited to an area of your life incredibly willing to bloom again and again. It’s your life! Learn to recapture the moments by sharing them.
February 18, 2003
More keys to a locked depression
Twenty-two years ago this week, three doors stood before me. Once inside, my life changed forever. A full time radio journey took off—Lewistown Montana with a $700 a month salary. My high school sweetheart felt it was time to share our vows—I was eighteen, she was eight days from turning seventeen. The state of Montana said, “No!” I wish I would’ve listened. A few days before we eloped in Wyoming, I lay uncontrollably crying in my bedroom—her first freedom from motherhood, and there was nothing I could do to save it from taking place. Little did I know I’d carry it with me for the rest of my life? And you wonder why I can’t love anything.
Interviewer: Did you understand what was taking place?
As an adult, I understood what got me into the situation. As a young man who loved his girlfriend so much, I only wanted what she wanted. I held onto that loyal desire for twelve more years.
Interviewer: Did “you” ever get anything “you” wanted?
I got a divorce… June 21, 1993. Before that and it’s completely sickening to my soul—people knew what I was going through. They either didn’t know how to help or elected to stand back, and pray to God it would one day fall a part. Twelve years people! Why didn’t anyone reach in to help save me? I had to creatively come up with ways to survive. Making it more difficult, a little boy, and tiny girl… Woji and Meisha, two Maltese… I couldn’t leave them behind. They were innocent; a frozen world is all they could see. I feared losing them, more importantly; I hated the idea of them being locked up with her. I also didn’t want to be my father Kenneth! I couldn’t walk away!
**note: Before becoming part of my wife’s Lee’s life, it was important that Woji and Meisha were welcomed with open arms. In the early 90’s it was a freakish thing for a guy to be so open with his pet love! Lee guaranteed my two fuzzy kids a peaceful life—she never let me down. Meisha was the first to meet Lee—a memory we recently held tightly when God called her home on May 19, 2006. Eight months earlier, you can’t imagine how my heart reacted when I learned that it was Lee rushing Woji to the emergency hospital—she felt our doctors weren’t moving fast enough—she grabbed him, and took off like a true mother fighting to save the life of her child.
I will never quit you…
February 19, 2003
But I hate this job!
A screaming voice has greeted me this new sun, “Release your writing! Turn your artwork over to those who own galleries! Build a production studio of your own!” My problem is simple, what does it mean to be an artist? I’m far from being numb! Julia Cameron writes, “Being true to your artist self leaves you open to feel a lot.” I think being an artist means nothing! It’s a legal license to have long hair, and not be level headed. Anytime you think I enjoy holding this desire to create, let me know! I’m going insane!
**note: Admitting you’re an artist is step one in the healing process. Learning to recognize what generates energy within the artist is the greatest journey you’ll ever take. If you ever want to chime into an incredible conversation, locate two open artists… within seconds, you’ll be able to relate, while learning newer ways to better understand the strength required to help bring music to your assumed silence.
February 20, 2003
I feel just like you only to learn how to listen to it
I don’t change moods because I want to—my mind, heart, and soul suddenly become horribly empty, and the first spirit to fill it… is a dumpy fat kid in the front row. From that point, every emotion becomes bloated—
My moods are of many… so many that it’s taking an entire lifetime to figure me out.
Will I ever understand it? Why do I always feel this need to create? The anger, the loneliness, and where did it begin? If but for one second I could see the future, just ten years… all I want to hold is one reason, to believe in me. If I knew where I was going, then my going wouldn’t be so entangled. I’d become loyally dedicated to the craft of creativity. I’d accept trial and error as being incredible tools of the trade. Will I ever understand it? The silence is of something ending.
February 21, 2003
Finding no faith in writing
I’m not without words—I’m given things that aren’t supposed to be figured out. Yet, like everything else in this life—I waste time trying to write about it.
**note: I sat with Master Evans on May 23, 2006—he had just returned from the hurricane Ivan and Katrina torn region of Mississippi. America’s third world, families so poor they share their living quarters with rats and bugs. The next time you think writing is a waste of time, think of the lessons that Master Evans is keeping from those willing to learn by not writing. When he told me about making concrete bricks out of newspaper, I became electrified. I calmly asked him, “Are you writing this down for those who will follow?” He quickly shot back, “I write my thoughts on the Ultimate Black Belt website.” To which I replied, “What if your family never locates it on the world wide web? Please write in notebooks for family members to one day hold.” Writing is never a waste of time, it is the greatest portrait ever delivered…
February 22, 2003
The unapproachable me
Who and what? How and when? Why and where? This is my life. I’ll question everything! Putting people on the defensive, not to entertain, only to realize their egos are beatable.
For me, I’ll do what it takes to bleed my body of its creative flow. This is worse than drugs and sex! Thank God you’re not me—you would’ve been dead years ago.
February 23, 2003
Seeking peace
What is a second? In a second, we could all be gone. Sixty of them spin by without notice or at least until one of them trips—then we whisper, “Goodbye.” Or… we stand below God, kicking him in the knee. If life were measured by seconds rather than accomplishment, would we still be thinking about war?
February 24, 2003
One day I’ll be fired for this
My up-front honest approach is constantly misread. I’ve been dubbed a total jerk, when in reality; the artist wasn’t available to paint a fake smile. Please don’t judge me by my current methods of words shared—ask about what may lead us to my dagger being drawn.
**note: The downfall of being a writer versus speaker is the words. I put more faith in my handwriting than I do inflection… and yet, it’s the inflection you assume to pick up on while reading my words.
February 25, 2003
Putting focus on the glue
Exercise isn’t a fad in my lifestyle—its survival. Without it, I have no outlet for the soul. Writing and painting are surface level reminders of what’s left on the skin after your soul has passed gas.
February 26, 2003
Letter to the editor
Today is your birthday and wedding anniversary! You wanted it all, and pretty much got it. You were a mean person and you know it—my problem is simple. Who do I damn for this wretched mistake, you or me? You taught me how to hate. With you, I could no longer be looked upon as being innocent.
**note: No matter how much you love someone, always seek help. They know every secret, and can work their way into every weakness. If you think divorce is the answer—trust me when I say, your heart and soul never forget. Learn to make nice now, so that love can never be borrowed.
February 27, 2003
Childhood best friends who never met
Poetry written is lost inside books until one’s passing. Those who discover it don’t understand its purpose, and or reasons for birth, so it’s thrown away. I owe my every desire to write to Mr. Fred Rogers. He taught me how to believe in Kings, Queens, and trolleys. I embraced his gentle way of speaking, and he never showcased anger. He allowed me to dream. It was ok to have an imaginary world. While there, a passion of performance was born… radio would become my stage.
Dear Mr. Rogers,
Thank you for being so calm. Thank you for not teaching me to judge. Thank you for training my imagination. Thank you for believing in the little people of America. When the angel learned of who she was taking back to heaven… even her neighborhood became silent.
February 28, 2003
Rededicating my soul
My work ethics are what they are, due 100% to a personal need to never being less than I am. Nobody’s expectations of me are greater than what I expect on a minute by minute basis. Where’s the glory? I can’t help but wonder, while walking across that hot desert, and through walls of water; did Moses ask the same question? The Crow Nation of Montana spent one hundred years walking, searching for their proper land to settle. Whatever the path, I hope the great Creator realizes that my attempts are to help him move clouds and dirt through, around, and beneath unseen mountains.
March 1, 2003
Rededicating my soul
Today, just listen… if anything, to hear their story, to hear the wind whisper, to seek guidance into an unborn tomorrow. We are a society fed by the needs to rebuild another man’s dream. What God didn’t give you; man will search for until he becomes his own God.
March 2, 2003
The value of departure
If I can’t see it, feel it, or expect reaction from it… then it didn’t come from me. I don’t want you to ever expect something from these hands of creative flow. If I feel doubt, then what you expected five minutes ago disappeared. A rainbow is a shape the entire world can see. What I notice are the drops of paint left behind. I am the dreamer, the seeker, and the fearful… no matter what I hear, I see dusty rainbows. Mention my name, and I’ll turn. Call out my name, and I’ll turn. Abuse me, and I’ll turn.
March 3, 2003
Over produced
The problem that I face as an artist is the inability to say, “It’s ok not to be perfect.” When something’s missing, all songs become silent—for an artist, nothing seems to breathe until the mystery solves itself out.
**note: Everything I touch, I overproduce… once reached, you’re gifted with a black dot. My radio station program director acted as if he had just come across this brilliant idea during a yearly evaluation. “You tend to overproduce.” From that day forward, I had to send all production to him to listen to… if required; it would need to be reproduced. I died that day on March 3, 2003. A real radio man would’ve stood up in the meeting and shouted, “I never tell you what songs to play!” The radio station has never attained great numbers, except in the way they somehow locate the research that proves thirty five year old women who drink beer and walk dogs after midnight have made us number one. Quick! Go get the car dealer to buy us!
Letter sent to me three years later on May 31, 2006:
You were so good when you were on the Q. I didn't like you as much on air when you went to ** they put you in a little box and you didn't come out of it. Where is the on air talent I use to know? The one that was willing to take chances? Have you gotten to old? The old you would have sent an air check to ****. Maybe this is what you need to wake you back up, because as far as I'm concerned you have been sleeping for the last 7 years.
March 4, 2003
The comedian is coming and gone by May 24, 2006
The General Manager has dreams bigger than God, and damn if he isn’t pushing them forward no matter what the cost.
**note: The problem with modern America is simple—everyone wants to be a hero. More importantly, if what they took a chance on succeeds, they want to be remembered for it. People in power are reckless—not everyone can be Michael Jordon. Those who try end up wiping out an entire race of once dedicated, determined, and loyal group of individuals who stood behind you all the way… until you lost the company money, and had to invent reasons for their letting you go. The lesson learned… if the dream sounds too big to achieve, get out now! You’re nothing but a pawn, and you will be spent. No man on top is as nice as he or she projects. When money’s involved… you’re next to go. Live and work like today is your final day. It’s unhealthy, but at least you’ll be prepared.
March 5, 2003
Nearing career suicide
I’ve lost my willingness to spend time away from family. My life as a broadcaster has been consumed by nothing but broadcasting. To add a television reporting position and a weekly magazine article to the plate, will force this path into unrealistic change.
**note: When is enough, enough? I assumed the steps taken were proper methods of regaining control until I physically returned to March 3, 2003, and read how those around me reacted when the decision was to start letting go. I lost my edge! I stopped taking chances! I was forced into learning how to become two things—a has-been and wanna-be. I love chocolate ice cream, but I don’t make love with it! It’s too cold, messy, and doesn’t look good on my arm—I’d be called a sloppy, karate pig.
March 6, 2003
We shall never forget
A United States soldier sits alone with the well known news anchor—his life dedicated to this nation, and yet he fears his leaders. He’s been put in a situation where knowledge of his death was talked about, but never stopped. I see tears in the soldier’s eyes; his heart is speaking… no music, only honesty. He sits alone while the rest of the world watches—how fair is that? At what price must he pay?
March 7, 2003
Decisions we as a people can’t control so we fear
I watched the President last night—a national press conference based on mending his relationship with the millions protesting his views of disarming Iraq. He appeared too confident. He was too relaxed, a know-it-all who feels he can’t be defeated. Please God, don’t let this be another Pearl Harbor.
March 8, 2003
God’s picture perfect painting
I’ve always loved the fluffy characteristics of an early morning Carolina fog. The back roads are blanketed with their damp coolness. They can’t hide, nor can you run—within seconds, you’re swimming through each others existence.
March 9, 2003
Reflection
I will die for my America. I will support my United States Government. But why can’t they prove to me, give us, share with the world, convincing evidence that Iraq has weapons of mass destruction? I have compassion for human life. We know what Saddam did twelve years ago. Yes, we as a world agree it was wrong! I wonder what other poets are writing. No night passes that I don’t stare up into the blinking stars, and wonder if man will be here to see it again. If the smartest mammal on earth is to visit with the horizon at sunrise, why does the warm blooded beast contemplate in shadows, only to share what he thinks through opinion rather than hard evidence?
Dear Mr. President,
Any life is worth saving. It starts with those holding the weapons. It starts with us! If you’re so willing to use these forms of destruction, that means we’re no better than the tiny nation you want to steal oil from. No night passes that I don’t stop and stare into the layers of the stars above… I can’t help but wonder if God’s listening.
March 10, 2003
Don’t type your thoughts
My ink well… I wonder what sorts of stories live within its depth? The number of mixed colors can’t be counted—nor the times of depression turned into expression. Writing with a nib dipped into the awaiting ink well is nothing more than swimming in a pool of belief—a strange confidence fed by a dying desire to be recognized by anyone… who better to stand up than self?
**note: Blogging is an incredible first step at recreating a better path toward knowing the inner you. By means of the World Wide Web, we take the core of soul, and expose it for all to see, and yet… you find it difficult to be faithful to daily writing inside a hard covered book or journal. Learn to write with your fingers. Get them involved with the rhythms of your life. A keyboard isn’t anything more than a chunk of modern reality that has no feeling. The moment you look down at your fingers, and see ink stains… then you know you’ve entered the true soul, and you’re no longer acting for a society begging with big snoopy eyes, and no real reason to pry into your life except to offer the very judgment we tend to run away from. Blogging is great! I only invite you to try something a little more private. Now watch yourself grow.
March 11, 2003
I can’t be the only one
6:08 am
Not poetic today—no music, I can’t hear anything but anger. I have to be perfect—no mistakes, no desire to change, make it simple, but I’m too complicated. I draw many lines and fill them with color—not just one rainbow, let me color them until they become black—Oh I’m sorry, you don’t like that. Sigh… I’m not perfect. I don’t want to be—yet I have to be, or you’ll ride me until I’m angry, only to expect me to remain silent.
8:57 am
I’m being called to the blade. My mind is telling me to cut open the arms that reach out to guide. Instead, I’ve chosen to sit and write—yet I’m extremely numb, and it’s the freedom from pain that I dream to touch. Never a gun, never a rope, I’ve always feared our basement. There’s no purpose to this depression except this incredible need to be perfect. I can’t be! I don’t have the proper wings! I can’t be what people want! I’ve tried! I do everything to invite peace, only to learn that what I let go of is still misunderstood. I need to bleed. No! But I’m tired of trying to explain who and what I am! I don’t want to die! I only want to free myself from this ugly hurting feeling on my skin! I’m tired of feeling for the bugs I accidentally squish. I’m tired of crying when trees fall to the forest floor. God, I hate myself!
9:06 am
I want to cut into my arm. I want to bleed. Tell me that you hate me! Tell me that you want nothing to do with anything that I’m part of! If I were to cut, would I be judged before or after? Nobody wonders about the pain until it becomes visible. It’s always been there! If I were to cut myself, where would it get me? Do Karate warriors bleed from their own wounds?
March 12, 2003
Studying the effects of after
Depression is a sickness that can be felt miles away. Like a train, you can’t do anything to stop it. You can run! You can try to hide! In time, it builds up enough energy to take over at a time when locating someone who understands is slim to nothing.
Interviewer: Does it shock you that a peaceful painting is coming together, and yet you claim to be in rage?
I’m not shocked at all. I have to live with my multiple levels—it’s a collision of personalities… when your mind, body, and soul can’t find enough room for everyone, you convince yourself to shut down in the way of becoming depressed.
Interviewer: If you could place blame, where would it go?
You can’t point fingers… this is a natural reaction to an entire self coming to a stop.
March 13, 2003
What if this really isn’t supposed to be my dream?
I am not in control of this life! I know this! I can either participate with the creator, or forever pretend to believe that something as idiotic as talking to your self in a room is worth being famous for.
**note: What if you were to let go, and let your life become what the higher power meant it to be? What if you suddenly decided to give your life to a greater purpose? What if the non-believers are wrong, and you really do have the ability to affect human emotion, but not in the way of popularity? I’d rather know at the age of 43 that at least I tried to hear the calling, than have to wait to be reminded of it at the giant golden gates.
March 14, 2003
Is Mr. Bush the King of the World?
There’s not too many nations like us. I’m lost as to how I’m supposed to react. Like many, the choice is to shove it aside, yet here I sit. I honestly believe bloodshed isn’t God’s answer.
March 15, 2003
That uncontrollable itch
My mind is an instrument of choice. It performs until a thought is completely figured out. If not, I become aimless, and anger heats my guidance system—the ability to trust fades, and I become out of tune. This is who I am! My war is against manmade paths.
**note: Sabumnim Master Todd Harris shared with me an incredible quote, “Put focus only on the things you can control. If in doubt, keep asking questions. If you have the ability to control an issue, do something about it. If you find that you can’t control a sink hole in a highway, live with it, and stop wasting energy trying to rebuild a planet.” By allowing yourself to fall, you become drunk on a reaction that in the end wasn’t worth its weight in spirit. If you’re a control freak, start with self.
March 16, 2003
This will forever be my greatest mistake
They’ve injured me so bad, it can’t be mended. The evolution inside the radio industry is force fed by managers who constantly feed off the depths of chance. We’re expected to sacrifice family, dreams, and careers in hopes those leading play fair, and with common sense. My mentor Andrew had visions of offering unique approaches, but not the resources to carry them out. We all paid the price! Currently, my leader is trying to re-invent personality radio. I honestly don’t have to ride this train—I choose to.
**note: I am man enough to admit I committed career suicide, and lived to talk about it
March 17, 2003
Bush says you’re times up
We live in a land of free speech—be it the voice, art, or writing… free speech is patriotic, not a national leader whose aim is to silence the generations. Are these the steps leading toward World War III? Do we learn to fight on American soil? Will we fall like children playing in the grass? Will the dawn be lined with unsuspected gas? The predicted has risen to the occasion. I turn to look at the waking forest—if we are to die, they too must go with us—one man’s greed, and entire nation’s weight. Mr. President! Shhh he’s not listening… it’s all about being great inside a world posted with pictures of Britney Spears. I have great sorrow for those who follow—we’ve grown into a generation of self centered, self guided, self serving individuals hoping to win the Super Bowl.
March 18, 2003
Dear God,
48 hours—does Dan Rather know? How high will his ratings go? The Stock Market is already up. Americans love a good war, but only if we send someone else’s children. 48 hours—two hundred eighty thousand kids wait in the sands of the Middle East. 48 hours—who’ll be the first to survive? Will we soon see the numbers 666? What if?
March 19, 2003
One day from war
I’m not a fan of war, because an enormous amount of innocence is lost. Justified is never the final feeling—for somewhere along the way, someone, a bystander, or a child was taught not only to hate, but to kill.
March 20, 2003
Painted is the picture of a modern battle—the news is heavy, but they’re still playing commercials. I remember the Vietnam War, television took me there, but I was too young to understand… therefore I grew up fearing what I didn’t know. My Grandfather fought in World War I, my stepfather in World War II… my mother lost not one, but two brothers in the Korean War… and my brother, Danny, chose the National Guard over being drafted for duty in Vietnam.
**note: Knowing that we had gone to war didn’t sit well in my soul. I didn’t understand the evidence presented. I feared our borders wouldn’t be secure, and that the luckiest nation on earth might, in fact, see bloodshed for the first time since the Native American murders, and the War Between the States. How then, was I supposed to go to work, and live out a life knowing that every second of every day could be your final one? Did we become stronger as a people? Have we glorified the beauty of destruction? Those who fought the fight are heroes, for they did what their leaders placed into action. I pray to God everyday for our brothers, sisters, friends, neighbors, and names we may never know. May we one day find peace… may we as a world become unified in the shape of better love, understanding, and communication without having to pick up an assumption, or opinion. Several paintings grew from the pain this war invited. I dedicate them all to men and women who dedicated their lives to a cause we may never fully understand.
waiting for the orders
Santa Barbara beach over 900 crosses and flags
God also cried
The devils touch to a modern war
March 21, 2003
If only for a moment
In fear of losing my job as a broadcaster, I cannot make any public announcement of my true feelings toward the war. I must at all costs remain professional.
Interviewer: Are you saying those who’re protesting aren’t professionals—they have careers too!
How many of the protesters physically get out and vote? The President’s up for re-election… will we hear their voices at the polls? I vote every chance they allow me to! Sadly, because I’m an Independent, both sides don’t evenly recognize the importance of my voice during primaries. Protesting a war is a voice—inside a modern world where the President doesn’t see you… you’re pretty much wasting your time.
Interviewer: Wasting time?
Leaders aren’t listening! Put your focus on other means of getting the point across. It’s almost too typically American to gather in groups in the name of the underdog.
Interviewer: Your suggestion of protest would be?
The first positive step would be to listen to all sides—starting with self. Then seek the power of voting. Attending public meetings, and then bring to the head of the table the people you helped choose that could bring about change. I cannot protest a war in Iraq until it’s unveiled to the people of that great nation who aren’t being set free. These so called missiles of mass destruction are never found. I hurt for the people of Iraq! I hurt for those who live in Afghanistan. The United States stepped into their lives to offer them a voice—that’s the America I’ll die for.
**note: In 2003, plenty of protesting took place in every big city across America, Britain, Asia, Australia, and wherever else people could, and would gather. George W Bush was easily elected to a second term as our President. The weapons of mass destruction didn’t exist. Gas prices are near $3 a gallon and yet, the one thing that affects us most isn’t important enough to protest. Sometimes, I just don’t understand the vibration of what makes our tick, tock. While on the writing tour several years ago, I asked poets and short story performers to research the power of writing. Walk down the alleyway of Irish Limericks, and the most recent works of Sandinistas and Contra’s… poetry written during their times of war carried with it the proper forms of protest in the most peaceful way delivered. Thich Nhat Hahn would probably be the first to say, “Walk in peace, and write what you feel. One day the right reader will come along, your thoughts may in fact inspire a reason to step forward, offering positive change.”
Two minute television time out:
The odds of something strange unwraps its mighty wings. The vision started on June 11, 2006, to which I wrote… “I honestly don't know what to say about my three hours with Jeff (a radio morning show host.) It’s fun to drop a load of radio baggage, and jam. We both have seen a lot, and have invited just as much harm to paths already presented. It was like two artists meeting at a secret location to do nothing more than demonstrate each other’s displays of courage. Just as quietly as we arrived, so were the footsteps that placed me on the road back home.”
This morning, I will start another quest, to deliver packages to every morning show in Charlotte, including a pair I once dedicated my soul to.
I don’t understand the methods of madness. Mark Jefferies made sure that he said goodbye before picking up a gust of wind. A strange lining of the stars has opened avenues not expected, and is this writing my way of documenting a journey that will one day fade like an artist’s paint?
As humans, we forget to write. More importantly, we lazily set life aside, and forget what it took to make whatever wave we invited to the wake.
As people, we dream the dream while meshing thoughts into corner panels—it’s as if we’re the inventers of particle board—a good product to have until wet… and then it never lives up to expectations.
Become the writer, not to enhance your belief… but to give peeks of your world to those who never got to fully see what lives beneath the smiles and frowns of ageless wills and wonders. Give the wind a secret to hold, only to learn that unsubscribed meetings between creative souls can be nothing more than conversations with dust.
Nothing inspires the heart, body, and soul, more than picking up a thought once held, only to giggle like a child because you remember the moments all too well.
What does it all mean?
Are we supposed to know? What if we did? Would it change the way we tend to pace the halls for answers, only to realize we left a mark that will soon fade like an artist’s paint.
-the Poet M’e-
6-12-06
March 22, 2003
At war
As the sun rises this new day, their sun has started to set. The stars I saw last night were frightening—they’d already been witnessed by those who were fighting. The big dipper’s eyes were covered while Orion’s belt had been tossed aside. Why has time led us toward the predicted? The book of Revelations versus Nostradamus—do I start searching for the anti-Christ? Are we living the final chapters of man? Someone must survive! Will it be the cockroach, or the black crow? Will it be the mailman, or the Wal-Mart greeter? The sun is rising onto this new day—thank you God for gifting us with another twenty four hours to better understand all that is taking place.
March 23, 2003
War by means of great ratings
“Shock and awe,” that’s what our government is calling the attack on Iraq. The Super Bowl of battles! We’re out to amaze the world by means of satellite—pictures digitally displayed inside thin boxes called HDTV. Do we support it, or walk away? There are giant signs of protest inside the city by the bay. The remote control spins through hundreds of channels. Hey, look there’s Katie Couric! Innocence is shattered by a nation whose newscasters find it to be extremely important to work on a Sunday. They’re paid to tell America what it wants to know, “The Stock Market is rising! People are buying! Another nation will soon fall!”
March 24, 2003
Our silent wars at a time of war
Hello Mr. Man… do you know where I’m going? Is it to a place far, far away? Is it made of sand, torn up by man, so even the birds refuse to sing? Hello Mr. Stars… do you know which trail to take? Am I the only one who see’s what’s been seen? They’re tiny picture frames that move, so lost are the chapters, and they’re words that’ll never take their proper place. Hello Mr. Dark Sky…are you running like the moon and stars? What’s happening on the other side of this world of ours? Hello God…
March 25, 2003
Dear Soldier Tim
I don’t want to write about war today—it’s going to last longer than what most Americans assumed. I feel guilty—my feet are up… I’m writing, while Americans are fighting. I’m using ink to place words inside a book. They’re spilling blood and being captured. I feel guilty—I’m covered in a blanket, took two aspirin, and will drive to work. They’re stuck in the sand, heated by a wild man’s hatred, and most haven’t slept in almost a week. My headache is allergies, their headache is blood shed, bombs exploding, and tanks rolling in. I feel guilty—digital television allows me to hear my favorite songs. What are they listening to? Dear God, why did you allow man to invent war?
March 26, 2004
What if?
I fear everything, but keep walking. Isn’t it funny how man can’t run from his final day? No matter which trail is chosen, the decision could be one step closer. What is a dying man’s wish? Wouldn’t it be to have another wish?
**note: Learn to accept you as being a unique creation—it’s the first step toward inner peace. I’ve always believed judgment begins on the outside; the reason why we learn to hate ourselves is, because the caverns inside the soul have no way to absorb the echo. Put something in your soul! Be it love, art, music… accept the idea that we’re all artists. Learn to feel without expecting to use your senses. Look outward and the wind will speak. If you see it, teach us all to view it.
March 27, 2003
War played out on television
It’s a football game in the sand—fifty miles between the end zones. Forget the referees from the United Nations, because they were eliminated for not properly supporting the effort. P Diddy Bush screamed, “We need some cheerleading from the French and Germans! This is a game of mass destruction.” Both sides claim to be fighting for peace, and yet there’s pain. The injured sit on cot-like benches, while the rest of the world hates the pushy Americans. The coach, he just keeps on a-talkin’, “If you’re not for, then you must be against us. This is a game of intense man-power… may God Bless America.”
**note: What amazed me most were the number of people who stopped working to do nothing more than watch television. They gathered one by one in the cafeteria. It was if Carolina and Duke had been given the chance to play. The collecting of people reminded me of the old stories still hanging from the rafters in Charleston, SC… the reason why the rooftops were flat, was to host parties for war watchers. The rich would gather to see the heated flames rip from carefully forged barrels that sent giant balls of thunder from Fort Sumter to an awaiting mass of Northerners, who were chomping at the bit to break the backbones of an untamed South.
March 28, 2003
The search of origin
I’ve always believed God gives us a book to read during the first nine months of creation while we’re within the womb of our mother. Inside this book, is every purpose of why we were given life, and what we are to do with it. It’s an individualized mission, laid out in the way of God’s love, and desire. Once birth comes into play, the book is left behind. The painting depicts my vision of a child, slowly walking beside an angel toward the fascinating blue marble.
A book, to have, to hold, and to study. A book, filled with wisdom, purpose, all that’s supposed to be and yet, in the womb… we leave it behind. The corners are bent and turned, circles created by fingers that painted the changing of time. The book, the way, a trail, and the kept secrets until remembered. That’s you become you.
March 29, 2003
It is I who has the problem
The forest is in full bloom—purplish flowers, baby green leaves, bright red Cardinals, unforgettable screeches from Blue Jays, the crab apple tree with its white bouquet, the shallow pinks offered by the Chinese Weeping Willow, and even the webbed sack of fuzzy worms looks to be in its proper place. And yet, I sit here, and I’m doing nothing to become part of that world.
March 30, 2003
When did Rome fall?
We live in a time when Americans feel that they are unstoppable, unbeatable, and unforgettable. How can this be? The greatest soil on earth is polluted, over built, and horribly addicted to false happiness. My boss could cut my throat, and walk away an innocent man.
March 31, 2003
No wonder I was fired!
The power of assumption is what makes us a nation of uncaring fools. We’re a society of followers—those who’ve chosen to seek other means are quickly named unholy, and a traitor.
**note: Assumption is a disease. You can’t predict the future, or the final outcome of a professional wrestling match. Stop trying to read a person’s eyes. Stop trying to help! If you want to knock someone deeper into a hole, assume you know what’s best. The power of choice is an incredible energy, until you’re faced with to whom you wish to please first. I’ll never forget my early days of doing morning show radio—the GM said to be upbeat and bright, while the program director asked me to lay low on presentation, and then the sales staff, who blatantly stated, “We need more funny! It sells!” Show me a jock who doesn’t constantly ask, “How did that sound?” and I’ll give you a conceited moron who assumes he’s the greatest talent gifted to a two speaker stage.
April 1, 2003
Rebuilding a LINK
Your career should be used as a centerpiece with an entire world around it to explore. It’ll take time, maybe years, but winning can’t be handed to you.
**note: Nothing kills me more than a hot shot radio newcomer who thinks his worth is an approachable figure. The greatest basketball player of all time, Michael Jordon, didn’t make his millions playing the game—he explored the avenues leading to and from that beautiful white net that seemingly caught a lot of balls that he passionately tossed into thin air.
April 2, 2003
I won’t act out this play
When I walk through a parking lot, I constantly hear doors being locked—people accuse me of taking drugs. It’s because of the length of my hair! This shocks me; the criminals featured on the local news channel are usually short haired white men. I’m an expressionist; you already know how I’m going to react. It’s you who’s unpredictable; therefore it’s you who frighten society.
**note: I wore my hair long for one reason—the accusation of becoming Mr. Corporate America. It didn’t bother me when children asked their mothers if I was a woman. It didn’t injure my ambition when students of Karate used my hair to take me down quicker. I had to let it go, because it made me feel incredibly uncomfortable knowing people felt a need to lock their car when I walked by. I’ll wear an odd ball costume in front of thousands, have paint balls shot at me until I welt… but damn if I can handle someone fearing me.
April 3, 2003
Circles
Before I created a radio station in my bedroom, my place of safety was filled with drafting. My bedroom was a world of its own. I drew dream homes and malls—pasted together underground bunkers before Saddam Hussein made them famous. I created highways and freeways, race tracks and airports. The lesson learned—I never put limits on my dreams. I was a poor south side kid from Billings, Montana who wanted it all.
**note: While visiting the homestead in August of 2005, I ventured into the attic to grab what I could of the childhood I wanted to hide. Nearly everything was tossed into garbage bags for future use. Once back in the Carolinas, it took eight months for me to perk up the guts to see what the fishing trip earned me. There were Jr. High picture annuals, songs I had penned out as an emerging teen, and the drawings—homes, malls, and those darn underground bunkers. The lesson learned was, if you didn’t save anything from your childhood… do everything you can to save your kids.
April 4, 2003
Whoa
A new page! It’s the hardest thing for me to handle. I feel as if I’ve being attacked by Iraqis! The imagination is taking over—what do I write, paint, or bring to life? I’m not God!
**note: People tell me all the time, “I can’t find the time to write. I don’t know what to write. I don’t want my writing to be discovered by uncaring eyes.” You’re right, don’t write. How could you ever relate with a need to be creative? How can you survive the several points of life without a plan? A blank wall to you is… a blank wall. John Wayne used improv and the national nightly news is adlib. Who needs writing? Besides, how could you ever survive the presence of an empty page?
April 5, 2003
Realisms
The older I get, the more I realize five bucks controls a lot of my visions—anything beyond that is a blessing from God.
**note: My first wife and I purchased our happiness by shopping all the time. My second wife and I started things out by never shopping. Then we discovered flea markets, second hand stores, garage sales, and buy one get one free bargains. Rule number one: Expensive clothing isn’t made to last, yet the name lives on. Treat yourself often without having to bust the bank. A quick run to the convenience store to chug down a Slurpy, or to hit the dollar menu at McDonald’s is an incredible cool way to date. If you require healthy snacks, grab a carrot and a cheap can of tuna. Be a kid and often. First love never rusts. My pantry always features one box of macaroni and cheese and Hamburger Helper. It constantly reminds me of my roots, and how quickly life can change to put you back where you once were. Be wise with your spending by learning to eat and shop in a more caring way… the love of self, today, tomorrow, and into a future we cannot control.
April 6, 2003
Hermit by nature
I dream of one day walking into a gallery filled with my paintings—to spend a moment with what’s been brought to life… not to brag, “I did this!” I want to continue a relationship that was never given to me through the heart and soul of the man who created me.
Interviewer: Do you think your father’s decision to spend no time with you shaped your creative life?
Absolutely! It gave birth to every reason why I created my own world. I masterminded homemade one person games! I drew! I built a radio station in my bedroom, and played with stuffed animals like they were my own children. I sang out loud while beating on boxes.
Interviewer: Will the creating ever stop?
That depends on how angry you want me to get.
Interviewer: You’ve been off the air for six years… what would the child you once were in the bedroom do about his current situation?
I would’ve rebuilt my life years ago. I tell my child self everyday to paint a new mood to hold. I ask him what does he wants to be remembered for—a has-been, a runner, a poet who paints, a forty year old long haired man, or someone who took chances? I have to tell you… life bores me!
April 7, 2003
What would Walden do?
I no longer locate wildflowers, or expect to visit with birds the moment I walk outside. Hawks and owls no longer fly over—it’s as if Karate has told Mother Nature to step aside. I can’t force a spirit keeper to walk with me! They do, or they don’t. Messages from afar stay right where they are. I’ve not been visited in months. What has Karate done to the writer? Am I no longer the Poet of the forest?
April 8, 2003
What would Walden think?
Carolina, my sweet gentle landscape, how do you do what you do so early in the morning? My heart, it flutters, my lips start to whistle… it’s so unfair, this mindset you’ve placed within me. Tell me Carolina, how do you do what you do so early in the morning?
April 9, 2003
Thanks for asking
I’m not afraid of the dark… I’m only bothered by its lack of companionship.
An empty mind is a decision caught in the water drain. When someone tries to explain to me what they can’t do… I place my hands over each eye to put myself in prayer. It’s not for them… I ask God to make sure their plugged up laziness doesn’t become contagious.
Creativity isn’t an “I can’t.” Creativity is an “I will.” God doesn’t look at you, and judge the final outcome. Your heart is filled with third, fourth, and even fifth chances. Completion is a feeling that requires nothing more than an open mind.
All I’ve ever heard is how music is the universal language. If so, why are compact discs still $17.99? That’s a pretty expensive conversation that you keep hearing over, and over, again.
April 10, 2003
Leadership
I’m deeply bothered by the way my boss bullies his way onto the paths of others. I’d love to one day give him back the medicine he delivers… but why? That would make me no different than his poison.
April 11, 2003
Two fires one flame
The pain I feel after Karate reminds me everyday of how important it is that we never stop learning. My Sensei said, “Your body eventually stops bruising.” The mission is to rebuild the soul—to get there requires a desire to break through my thick skin.
The war lives on in Baghdad. It’s unfair! We have a beautiful spring morning here in Carolina, and our soldiers are sitting in the sand. Americans live like nothing’s happening. I’ve chosen to document the behavior—is that good or bad? Wait! American Idol’s on! No, it’s not… but if it were, we’d have no war.
April 12, 2003
The artist listens to the wind
True inspiration arrives when the imagination switches gears in the middle of a journey.
**note: This thought originated from a painting that consumed the path of several ideas. We were enduring several days of rain. In the end a different positive existed. People tend to see many different shapes and thoughts hidden within each expression brought to life. Can you imagine what it does to me, having to deal with all these mood swings? Painting allows them to all show up for the cookout.
Birds!
You’re being too noisy!
Can’t we all just wait until I’m finished writing?
I can’t concentrate!
You’re too loud!
I don’t scream at you.
Wait!
I am in writing…
You can’t see this.
Can you?
Damn!
I’m the guilty party.
April 13, 2003
The forest
I can only hope that it’ll last forever—longer than me, longer that the next generation. Maybe one day someone will see everything I saw…incredible amounts of inner peace.
**note: I stood talking to a minister who had no problem asking, “What church do you go to?” The reply came with a warning, “You might not like this… but my church is the forest. There are so many different lives out there! More importantly, there are weeds, and each has a unique way to bloom.” The minister shook my hand and softly answered, “Praise God.”
April 14, 2003
Excuse for being an artist
Interviewer: Do you have a sick mind or heart?
Both! What fascinates me is what fascinates others! We all laugh and cringe at weird stories and behaviors… some of us just play it out a little more than others.
April 15, 2003
Don’t let people forget
What do you write about when everything around you seems wrong? To right the decisions that made the wrong actions taken. What do you write about when everything around you has changed? No one’s talking about the war in Iraq… is this un-patriotic?
Interviewer: You act as if you support the war in Iraq
They haven’t located these so called weapons of mass destruction, but Bush and his men have found children in prisons. They’ve uncovered torture chambers that Iraqi citizens feared on a daily basis. I stand tall knowing that God brought freedom to their dreams. Russia and China don’t save nations from dictators! Yet, here comes the United States and Britain, and suddenly we’re labeled the evils of an empire.
**note: Like a fan of professional sports, we’ve become a nation of supporters only when the winning is performed by your favorite team.
April 16, 2003
Denise, Victoria, and Bob…each have cancer—bone marrow and two livers. Since my arrival, I’ve never seen so much sickness, and disease. Vicky and David have earned the right to be called survivors. I’ve looked into sick building syndrome. I’ve sent the information to management. The reply came in the shape of a retiring employee, “There are certain things you shouldn’t take on.”
**note: Denise, Victoria, and Bob are gone, and the list of others with cancer continues to grow. The building lives on.
April 17, 2003
To my lord I do vow
Karate has given me something—for the first time I’m walking through life, not running away. I’m learning to control the outcome of confrontation. Knowing how much Karate has taken from my Native American studies… I keep hearing a single voice, “Warriors must learn to defend. It can’t be handed to you through prayer.”
April 18, 2003
Evidence of a split personality
My hands are metallic blue, yellow, white, and naturally pink… why they chose me to enlighten an artist’s path is never questioned. I believe all humans enter a world of art—look at Evil Kenevil and Ozzy Osborne… it’s as if we were given the chance to see art only to say, “I can do that!” Few of us prove it, while others march toward the day when personal respect is placed inside a doodle.
Having an open door policy does nothing but injure my relationship with spirit guides and keepers—each have walked through my office like a subway station. Today, they sit silent on the sofa waiting for me to close the door. Once that happens, the office is filled with ghosts who have to pee.
April 19, 2003
Leading the way of two separate lives
Change the subject! I’m picking the day apart… that’s when anger starts setting in. I want everything to be perfect! I want it all to go smoothly! To attain that level requires total focus with an incredibly great and unchanged attitude. I’m not searching for one chance to make it right… I need whatever number it’s going to take!
The flow you see inside my art is the music that keeps me awake all night. Music is my heartbeat… art is the fingers way of tapping out a rhythm.
April 20, 2003
When you say no to arthritis medication
The pain is so bad! I’m sick to my stomach and head! Is this what life is about? I would’ve been a better kid. I jumped and wrecked bikes; played football and hockey in the park… I thought I could do it all—only to pay the price as an adult.
**note: I called it the curse, a physical voodoo-like method of passing pain to another being. My right leg was on fire for several years, and doctors couldn’t pinpoint the reasons other than, it must be arthritis. “Here take a pill!” I vowed as a child to never do drugs. It’s my problem, my pain. Then I realized that the searing heat of the California desert took me away from me all that hurt… dry air. Upon my return home, I vowed to suck every drop of humidity from the corners of my house, and the pain has not returned.
April 21, 2003
Size doesn’t matter
All too often, an artist wants to seize the size—to captivate by making big. All too many times ego gets in the way. “My paintings must be big!” Yeah right… tell that to the canvas near the hallway—the painted eye is no larger than my finger tip, and it still has the guts to stare at me.
**note: My journey into the world of art started inside journals—the only reason why I explored the idea of taking them to canvas was, because it became too expensive to photocopy color prints to show my friends. Like all others, how dare anyone get that close to my writing? You can see my paint, but writing? Um… no way.
April 22, 2003
Unbridled horse
Martial arts is changing me… those who have come to know me better are falling witness to a man once consumed by radio. Today it is only a sip, and not the entire glass.
I’ve learned to cherish, as well as challenge this face of many masks. A mask today is by far not a mask that predated 1994. Before I started writing on a daily basis, I had no place to be, to accept, or to beat up this chance taker. Masked is not my identity, or the avenues I wish to achieve. Masked is the voice or voices who don’t want to wait their turn to become me. Today I draw… in five minutes, I pay the bills.
April 23, 2003
Selfish or proud
What would I be if I wasn’t American?
April 24, 2003
Am I supposed to wonder what if?
I honestly don’t understand—in 1979, I met what every teenage boy fantasizes about, a girl who loved sex and did hard drugs. I was around it all the time! Gary, Tony, Neil, Bart, and Rob, all did drugs! I chose not to take that path. Why? Was it because of what I saw that kept me from what would be felt? One night while at a party, they were sucking on a bong… a giant Native American man calmly stood up, peacefully walked outside, and then you heard a scream… from a woman, he took her front teeth. Six weeks after falling witness to this, I stepped into the world of radio. At seventeen, I left my friends behind… I entered a world that required only one player.
April 25, 2003
Learn to live it
Spirituality… allowing “all” life to exist. It’s ok to question, to teach the next generation. If I don’t feel, the stones become cold… allowing no heat to penetrate the existence of my being. Spirituality… music unheard while I sleep—the same song later in the day, while hope fades to guidance…
April 26, 2003
In God we trust…I think
What makes me want to write is habit… what allows me to write, is the knowledge of communicating with a higher power. We walk in ways of truth, only to learn we’ve questioned trust. Until faith is the harvest, I shall be the student.
April 27, 2003
To whom shall I say is visiting?
I was walking one day, only to visualize I was flying. Until the moment we meet, until the moment life becomes an angel of peace.
April 28, 2003
At war
I’m very unforgiving of whom I turned out to be. To this day, I believe life would’ve been better if I had located other addictions. Sexuality is a human trait—the Bible stops humans from pouring their connections into a glass of acceptable behavior.
April 29, 2003
What you can’t see you may feel
Life is a giant ball of chance… once set inside a hot day, change evolves. I have to believe in angels! If you’re open to life’s existence… you must remain faithful to the chapters written about the afterlife.
April 30, 2003
Reasons to believe
Staring from my writing window, the forest sits so bare… who knows, maybe it’s suppose to inspire me to do a little more with each passing season.
Death is a celebration of reaching the highest point of our studies. We’re here to help influence, teach, and or guide others toward a more beautiful place in the future. Through our mistakes and gains, new chapters of better understanding grow. I see it as God’s way of building a bird that can survive in water, and on land. Wait! That’s a penguin! Wow! See how it works…
May 1, 2003
Recognizing depths
I was mentally gone… usually in that state, I get injured.
**note: We live in an age where the face of a computer stares into our soul longer than any other living thing. We put faith into these manmade objects to the point of pretty much praying to them in a ritual called “Get the job done at all costs.” Then it happens, someone walks into your zone… the tiny little wall that surrounds the comfort level you reach when your heart, body, and mind, are sunken chin deep into that computer screen. The visitor wants something, it could be anything… a conversation, more work, a pick me up… it doesn’t matter… 90% of the time they didn’t allow you enough time to escape the zone. You are judged by your reaction. You are labeled by your reply. You are caught between two worlds, and the boss will hear about it. Two of my back to back yearend evaluations read identically, “He doesn’t seem to get along with other employees.” Because of what we do on that computer, our co-workers don’t expect us to be in two separate places with only fingertips gripping the current reality. I worked around this zone by creating noise barriers—from locking my office door, to setting plants near the door… any sound made before they spoke allowed enough time to come back to reality. Don’t put your desk by the door viewing the hallway… you’ll never get work done… you tend to watch everything that moves. Set up sound barriers, and enjoy your return to being one of the greatest players on your corporate team.
May 2, 2003
Fat chance
If I had to live this life again, I’d do everything possible to find out what it takes to feed my source of loyal desire. If I had known about this in the ninth grade, I’d be a more respected person inside the four walls that make up Corporate America.
**note: Those who care too much, never gain access to levels of decision making. We waste years worried about what others think, and do everything possible to push them ahead, so they will one day think good of you.
May 3, 2003
When art doesn’t work
Interviewer: Do you like poetic mystery, a painter’s invisible line?
I’m drawn to it by the fear of failure. I can’t stand to leave behind the partial birth of art.
Interviewer: Why can’t you hold failure?
Everything I touch is a failure; you see what is delivered by means of me trying to hide it.
May 4, 2003
It’s not just another piece
The Artist in Hiding is a creative that allows an unchallenged attempt to come to life in places he or she can’t control. I don’t try to hide! The pictures I create do. This is why I’ve always believed a canvas owns the painting until I touch it… as a messenger; I reach into what’s always been there, and give it color. I rob silence from the air allowing hidden art to breathe. Who am I? Ask me tomorrow…
May 5, 2003
Teach the white eye the purpose of Pow Wow
Explain to me why this tool has been created. Don’t just set it on a table, and expect me to follow through with a thought.
Interviewer: Didn’t you purchase a peace pipe?
Not because I was in search of a pipe to smoke! The very wood it is made of is dogwood, which grows wild inside my forest. The bowl represents the deer, which I dream of will one day be visiting inside the forest. It is my biggest wish to stare into the soul of a doe resting within the tall grass and shade, which makes up my favorite place to write.
**note: Those who display dream catchers and other Native American creations such as love jugs and turquoise jewelry, rarely if ever understand the true story as to why such a piece was brought to life, and or what it represents inside the comforts of a spiritual world. I call them candy coated toy stores. In south Charlotte rests a true trading post where Garrett shares the tales of the many who have traveled before us. Not one piece leaves his post without the buyer realizing what they hold. He speaks of one day closing his doors forever. History will be lost forever. As a footnote… the doe came to my forest during the early spring of 2006. She and three offspring stare out at me daily. As does the owl that patiently waits for the poet to one day share the tale of what lives beyond life as we know it. Field of Dreams shared with us a thought, “Build it and they will come…” I created a forest, and God gave the owl a landing strip.
Interviewer: You aren’t Native American, but if you were… what purpose would you serve?
I’d be the hated backbone—he who stands tall, and refuses to sell out. I was extremely bothered by one thought at yesterday’s Pow Wow… the medicine man said, “Please clean up Mother Earth.” The moment his words rang out, I was quickly shot back to my Montana childhood where places of living were decorated with junked cars, trash, and poor living conditions. In North Carolina, I walked by people who asked if I wanted a picture with a real Native American. I know this is my problem! Pictures steal from your soul! If you want a true replica of him or her who has lived and continues to live the way of the path, convince them, reach to them, ask them to write.
Interviewer: Would you die for your true belief in preserving Native American history, and the forest you call your own?
I fully expect to
May 6, 2003
And God spoke to me
Show me the light, and I shall give back to you gifts you’ll never forget—gifts made of genuine loyalty, all that you lack… for no one shall be held captive inside prisons of their own making.
Interviewer: This was your first thought today… what does it mean?
Show me the light: Let me put trust in you
I shall give you gifts you’ll never forget: My friendship is real. I won’t steal from you
Gifts made of genuine loyalty: Even if it’s a leaf from a tree, it won’t be candy coated
All that you lack: Emptiness
For no one shall be held captive inside prisons of their own making: We build walls due to the way others treat us.
May 7, 2003
When two separate paths meet
Master of my Karate, teacher of my kata… fill me not with anger, teach me to be receptive of peace. It is my wish to walk forward. It is my wish to look into the distance. It is my belief that all shall be righted, and for those who have wronged shall one day face the eyes of fate. Speak to me my Grandfather sun. Take from me nothing that I would steal from you. Give to me your lessons in life, allowing them to be planted in the soil nearest my feet—to bloom into rows of harvested example, so that all who wish to study can learn from these chapters you’ve given to me. Speak to me my Grandfather sun.
May 8, 2003
Rethink your plans to cut the life of a weed
Sip from the water. Take all its travelers… carry your dreams to the next destination.
Interviewer: What does that mean?
Not just a river flows. Kooshatay Ookooshtah is the flow of everything—seeds, the pedals of a flower, a ray of sunlight. Allow your dreams to flow like a stream, that’s where inner peace begins.
Interviewer: A co-worker mentioned to you that he finds your form of spiritualism inspiring.
I never try to flaunt it. I never push it onto anyone. They come to me, and I offer views from all eight eyes that have seen. I offer an example, only to agree with their outcome of thought. If that’s spiritual, I guess I still don’t understand.
I invite the wind to sit within my soul, raising my arms to accept all living creations—the bird, the cricket, ant, and snake. By accepting all, we learn a lesson… a vine has the right to wrap itself around a tree. Therefore, don’t we too have the ability to embrace unexpected challenges and fear? Close your eyes and look upward—rainbows start to appear in darkness. That’s where your soul rests. That’s where dreams begin. The wind placed over your calm face, envision the steps, but not as a human. Become the bird, the cricket, the snake… learn to see through their eyes of many. Life is everywhere, and you steal from their air. Respect the winds of all storms. If life comes to an end unexpectedly, never forget the truths of the land—even without your dreams and desires, the spirit of the land is carried to another, be it a bird, a cricket, and or a snake.
**note: The next time you mow your lawn, think of those requiring the protection it offers. Study the life that lives around you by looking deep into the blades we firmly plant our feet within. Staring up at you in fear is a particle of life that our human egos assumed never existed. If you feel depressed, walk across your lawn and take note of the millions of different forms of life that you are part of. In reality, you are never alone. This is how God speaks to us… he sends us art.
May 9, 2003
How martial arts works at work
Let it hit me and I shall defend my soul… I fear not failure, for that is where I learn. I fear not my boss, for I know there’ll be others. My weakness is another man’s words. It rots inside my stomach until I puke assumption. I suffer greatly, but I don’t fear. I look toward silence, the darkest corners of my soul—fear grows there… it shames the man who thinks he’s strong.
**note: A fellow employee walked into my recording studio, and unexpectedly told me that he couldn’t figure out how he was going to do imaging for the radio station. I did the imaging. Was my job coming to an end? The more I studied martial arts, the easier it was for me to realize nothing matters in Corporate America except personal happiness and inner peace. Once you locate it, your fears of losing your job, or having to attend another meeting will no longer be an issue.
May 10, 2003
I’m telling you…they hate me
I don’t belong to anyone’s clique… nor do I create paths for you to join me. I’m very much a loner! I don’t party with myself.
Interviewer: Why do you want to be this way… alone?
Creative flow is a disease I don’t understand—if confused, I tend to run and try to hide. My best weapon is my mouth. Therefore, I become silent during moments of something too heavy to hold… guilt.
May 11, 2003
Gone
My moods of many aren’t based on chemical balance—it’s a war of words between spirit guides and keepers who refuse to share while taking over every limb of my open mindedness. I feel locked up! It’s a tight feeling in my head… the mind is unclear of whether it should dream or breathe. The only way out is to put pen to paper, and push as hard as I can until noise is made. If I have never passed along a level of conceit, why do I allow the egos my co-workers carry to destroy my life? Why do I allow others to affect me? As a child, I ran away to my room, a world of lets pretend. As an adult, I want to take on everything so that one day I can realistically die.
May 12, 2003
Remembering my Grandmother
It’s funny how the tiniest of giggles can be held for several lifetimes.
**note: Until your kids start having kids… you’ll never know the deepest path love offers. Mia and Carlos complete me. Now its time to be the teacher my Grandmother was to me.
May 13, 2003
Bob Knowles is gone
Death isn’t forever… we’re taught as children that we’ll get to it. Yet nobody really teaches us to learn from its presentation, and then share what’s been lived. We see the passing of someone close as being a great loss—when in reality it’s very much the greatest gift to be back with God. When there’s a loss, Native Americans believe most get selfish—they feel as if we’ve been left alone to cry alone, totally taking our eyes off the chase. Take my hand oh Lord! Take my heart. Take my shoes. Take all you can with us into heaven. “Bring it yourself my child…” And yet, the only thing I could carry was my soul.
**note: Bob reached 42… a television news anchor whose passion for the public took him three steps beyond brilliant. I wrote to Bob on Friday May 9, 2003. My words were, “My forest is open for you to visit, to pray, to be with an incredible energy.” His words in reply were, “If I get to the point where I need to visit, I’ll make sure I do it.”
May 14, 2003
Late night call
What is it I’ve become, or not forgiven? What’s keeping me from allowing flesh and blood from gaining ground in my life? Am I so cold?
**note: Family wars are Bible pages deep and damp, til improperly painted. I’m shocked by the enormous amount of misguided connections we’ve severed with those gifted to our parents, to create this emotionalized word “family…” I’ll never forget a quote shared with me, “People don’t create families… God does.” I can’t imagine the number of emails the great creator receives hourly that ask the burning question, “Couldn’t you have placed me with better people?” I love my family dearly! I just don’t enjoy what we’ve done with this once in a life time opportunity to be The Brady Bunch.
May 15, 2003
At war
I walked away from Karate last night. My body, mind, and spirit, had had enough. I can still hear Sensei yelling, “Do not turn your back on me!” I left my warriors alone in the field of battle. My heart kept telling me to go back. My soul told me, “You made a statement. Be strong, and live with it.”
Interviewer: Why this time?
I was injured. My ribs were cracked, my wrists twisted, and my right leg could barely keep a proper balance. My back turned, and I fearlessly said, “I’m injured…I’m going home.” It wasn’t Sensei’s fault! It was mine! I tried to push my boundary beyond pain…
Interviewer: You aren’t a quitter! What really happened?
As walls break, revealed is the soul. While the soul gets stronger… emptiness declares war.
May 16, 2003
Eastern medicine
I’ve slipped into a major depression… I’m filled with fear. I have no confidence! I’m stuck in the middle with no place to go. How can I love, when loving my own family is impossible? Hold for a while, the shoes I wear… try to put the shirt from my back inside your pocket. What? It won’t fit? Then why do you think I can help?
**note: Buddhists share one thought: Happiness is a temporary state. Don’t just read this thought. Learn to live it. Learn to weigh out what you assume is happiness, and what is looked upon as being a bad day or moment. Read the line over and over again… happiness is a temporary state.
May 17, 2003
The loss of an inspiration
All too often an artist leaves nothing for the imagination—they take us too close. This time, I wanted true love to blossom between two people whose music created life. Cherished are the songs we write, lyrics made of passion… from hands being held, to the molds broken by several shapes… the art of love is loving change.
In May of 2003, the country music world lost a strong pioneer—June Carter Cash. Within the chapters of American Music History, her roots have been woven into the seams of an endless amount of lives. Be it music related, or as common as an artist sitting down to remember what her impact has done and will forever do.
**note: This painting is of Johnny Cash looking into the eyes of his angel June Carter Cash
May 18, 2003
Is this why my mother never chooses to remember
Minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills, nor does a monthly salary. We’ve enveloped into a society that expects you to work more than one job. No matter what you assume, I’m always one sign away from Will work for food.
**note: When I hold a picture of Ted Williams hitting another ball out of a park, it’s always in black and white. Without color, we have no opinion. What did those days teach our parents about life? Did they speak the tongue of a tired society, or were they trained from birth about the importance of get the job done?
May 19, 2003
Then God said to me
My forest… there you sit inside the rising of a new sun. Do we share each others expectations? If so, teach me to bend in the wind. Teach me to swiftly move like the cardinal, and how to patiently watch like the hidden owl. Show me the way of natural presentation, and how it moves in the way of inviting new ideas every day. My forest, if you could only see how much you enlighten me… maybe you can, therefore I ask, “What could you like from me?” I’ll patiently wait like the owl. I’ll not swiftly fly away like the cardinal. We will sit, looking into each others souls… to do nothing more, but wish each other a good morning.
**note: On July 3, 2006, I sat inside my forest asking if it was time to return to Montana. If the answer was yes, it meant leaving every tree behind. If the answer was no, no requirement was necessary to perform. I came from the forest with no thought to hold, only a radio dream that would live or die. Then it occurred to me, that in every adventure fully lived out I had never put family first. In reality, setting the career aside meant I had finally learned how to bend in the wind.
May 20, 2003
Dear self
I want to write, but not about the pain. I want to think, but not be afraid. I want to sing openly without needing to be accepted. I only want to be me. I want to wish without losing hope and desire. I want to taste what it’s like to be a bird in flight. I want to fly across a tiny forest, only to notice the beauty of being incredibly wild. I only want to be me. I want to hear, knowing that the lessons were taught well. I want to hold your hand to feel the smiles again. I want you to forgive me… forever.
May 21, 2003
And to whom might you be
Amazingly, being an artist has invited more pain to my heart than my ex-wife Sande’s decisions to create freedoms from motherhood. To remain so open to life leaves me in a place of constant target practice. Anyone thinks they can shoot at me, believing I can take it. Am I an artist because I feel? Do I feel to better understand the artist? Is being an artist an excuse? Are these nothing more than mental exercises before addiction? They are brought before me in silence. Yet, I keep walking.
May 22, 2003
Ancient wars once fought in the Bible
I wish I could love and trust someone who deeply hurt me at the age of fourteen. He chose to run from home! I’ve held onto that for twenty six years. I’ve been lonely my entire life! I blame him… I’ll help him in every way he wants, but I won’t just give it away. I hate to hear he’s suffering. He has to learn that I didn’t make his path; therefore I can’t be blamed for the choices he’s made. I’ve reached this point in my life by total default. I run my life like a business. To which he replied, “You’re arrogant.”
**note: The wars generated by means of sibling rivalries invite ache to levels beyond the soul. The constant need to fight injures every generation not yet born. Thich Nhat Hahn teaches us to look into their lives and help to heal the pains that make them suffer. Rather than locate personal peace, help them by being a great listener.
May 23, 2003
Always a kid
As a kid, I didn’t understand being poor. All I knew was the sight of our house, and how hard it was to invite people to visit. My bedroom was unfinished, so I covered the walls with concert posters. It forced me to live a life of let’s pretend.
Interviewer: Will you ever accept yourself?
Why should I? There’s an entire life of unexpected change out there. The moment I accept me, I’m bound to invite something new to my personality. Fingers stained, with ink or paint… dreams that never come true, but it was fun trying. I’m everyday life’s Charlie Brown. I trip, stumble, and devour way too many donuts. Another page is filled; the heart becomes sad… for I still can’t find the origin of life.
May 24, 2003
Interviewer: Where do you travel?
Somewhere between reality and heaven… artists feel a different universe, or at least we’re to invite the presence of something much bigger than life itself. The second coming is witnessed every day we thank God for what we have. Having the knowledge of knowing is what feeds the channels of where we end up. What we offer to society on a daily basis and what is sacrificed, is in the name of true love.
Interviewer: So you don’t think a physical God is coming back?
I have to believe it… the Bibles says it to be true, but why can’t the second coming also be the human race inviting God into our daily lives? The need to rediscover God enlightens the true spirit of Christianity.
May 25, 2003
Letting go of life without cutting
People think that what I do isn’t an object of sale… therefore they take and take. In the end, they got what they required, and I’m left with an empty soul. To make matters worse, my wife has located new reasons to hate my guts… Lord have mercy, I’m condemned for the rest of my life! How much more can people make me hurt? Doesn’t anyone realize that I shame myself one hundred times more after the knives have been delivered? I hate thinking about calling life quits! But who knows more about how I feel than me? I can’t say I’m sorry any more. It doesn’t work! You aren’t hearing me. Life may be short, but it’s too long to draw straws. I shall never wish upon you what you deliver to me in judgment, for if you felt what I feel now; you couldn’t survive the ridicule of me accepting your mistakes as being nothing more than human nature.
May 26, 2003
When others destroy you
If I had been born Jesus, the second coming still wouldn’t make it better. The letting go part is yesterday. Criticism hails over paths already taken. I’ve been to the head doctor, and studied ways to defeat my own pain… I didn’t tell you, because I knew this day would come one day. I still wouldn’t have enough blood to feed your hungry appetite.
**note: I spent three years in therapy without my wife knowing I was there. I saw it as a bold move to correct a personal silence, while hoping to rediscover reasons for all of us to become one. In the end, the very pain I feared reared its ugly head, anyway… for any move made without the knowledge of your partner still qualifies as lying, and is subject to the very punishment you assumed you freed yourself from.
May 27, 2003
What does it mean to repent?
A side of me wants to list every mistake I’ve ever made, to do nothing more than pinpoint the exact areas of weakness. Two things scare me: Preachers always warned me as a child that God already has your movie review, and anything written is nothing more than a weapon fully capable of destroying you. If mistakes are made, never forget what shatters a mold… it’s the idea that you think your relationship is different from next door neighbors. Attitude and constant reminders do nothing more than irrigate the devil’s blood. Once placed upon your surface, an arrival of unblessed visions destroys anything once believed to be good. Was it when I stole the pen? Was it when I stole money from my mother’s purse? Where did this life go wrong? Why can’t I forgive the person I am? Was it my real father’s blood that led me here? Was it the beer we consumed as teenagers? Something took my innocence away… then again, maybe I never had it. Was it her reasons for the freedoms from motherhood? I need to know! There’s nothing I can do about it, but I might finally get the answer to what my wife is currently looking for.
May 28, 2003
Physical contact
It’s not that I over produce! I’m guilty of not being able to read the message until after the sentence is complete.
I am not a great painter! Angled views of shadow allow me to hide.
**note: Robin Williams once said, “The funniest comedians are the shyest people you’ll ever meet.” I can spot a shy person six blocks away. I’m glued to their energy! What they hide could very well be the next Lifetime of Achievement Award, the novel of the century, or the answer to cancer. The greatest gift a shy person holds is the urge to create, only to rush off, and hide the shadow. The greatest gift those who are confident hold? The creations a shy person shares when they learn to step away from closet.
May 29, 2003
Dr. Mack calls my favorite writing place a room filled with several who are my muse. They are my teachers, my kingdom of intellect, and my separate songs which enhance harmony. If we are to be a nation in one hundred years, it won’t be credited to the efforts of our supporting elders… we as a modern day nation are unlike my writing room—if there’s nothing in the end, we walk alone, to be alone.
**note: The internet has taught the world how to abuse the power of being an individual. Learn to walk. If you are an at home mother, cubical prisoner, or sit facing a wall with no windows—force your mind, body, and spirit, to walk. Interestingly enough, when my cockatiel Addy sings to me in an out of tune tone… I take that as being God’s way of saying, “Step away from the world of creative flow, and become human again.” Between 1993 and 2005, I earned two employee-of-the-year awards. I was also reprimanded in my yearly evaluations for not getting along with other employees. How was this possible? The very people who voted for me also took me out. No… I took me out. It took two years for me to understand that work is a great place to be, but you need to push your body away from the desk, and learn to walk. In those steps, I located the desire to become a martial artist. In those steps, I practiced my forms and defense moves. In those steps, I learned to hear the robin and cardinal. In those steps, I became me without Corporate America screaming at me. In those steps, I held back the tears wanting to stream down my face. In those steps, I learned that life moves too quickly, and we waste way too much time worried about things we can’t control. In those steps, I learned how to create friendships, and not business related endeavors. Learn to walk for you.
May 30, 2003
What does all this mean?
The body has no reaction except to become angry—any emotion is fine, as long as I can feel it. I breathe deeply to help free the mind, and yet the mind wishes to compete with the body.
**note: Upon turning the page, I learned on July 28, 2006, that my next action on May 30, 2003 was to put a razor blade on my arm and cut. I am he, the writer, the dreamer, the one who sat in pain so deep, that he had to bring injury to himself. I sit in the year 2006 having no idea how to help the man I once was. My tears are very real.
May 31, 2003
Family first
If we are truly meant to live in the light of our Great Creator, then we are to love all the living things he created—the birds, the dogs, and the rose. We are to cherish the rivers, the oceans, and the sky. We as a human race cannot set aside in order to love what we choose, for if we are to live in the true light of our Great Creator, we must also embrace a weed.
June 1, 2003
The pleasures of life aren’t always located in a new Shania Twain video. Although she is beautiful, reality rests within the presence of summer, and how it slowly knocks on our door.
Interviewer: Do you fear what people will one day read?
Historians will look through my daily writing, and instantly come to the final conclusion, “He was hell bent on complaining.” Everything I touch is nothing, but what I was yesterday.
Interviewer: How do you force change?
By looking into the soul of boredom, and then taking it on—I shall learn from the waters that flood my boat, only to see that I must bail it out.
**note: On July 23, 2006, I took a short drive from Chicago to Stevens Point, Wisconsin, to do nothing more than say hello to great friend, Rick Muzzy, and his wife Eva. We had lunch, and then I drove back to Chicago. Total time driving: 9 hours. On the way back, it occurred to me why I did this… in my attempt to slow down the process of time, I have found value in attempting to locate boredom. One problem, it didn’t exist.
June 2, 2003
Preparing for death
What is money, but something you spend? The government takes their cut; the insurance company grabs theirs, utilities, too, and so on. Survival in modern America requires the need to build steps toward several avenues, rather than one career.
**note: I titled this Preparing for death based solely on the Dali Lama’s vision of knowing two years out, from it actually taking place. After losing my job in October 2005, the conclusion was simple: don’t settle on a career, build a new life doing the many things you love. I came across this quote on July 31, 2006. My mind, body, and spirit, had already started preparing for the future two years before this reality took effect.
June 3, 2003
I guess we should call it quits
We try to hide too many times—I call them Adventures in running. I’ll stop to look at others gathering, constantly wondering why this wasn’t my family? Was it smart to start drifting? If I hadn’t, would life be any different? Love is what you make of it. I won’t apologize for not getting along with them. I’m not sorry for being so unwilling to share. All circles begin on the front page—one day the musical chairs stop at one. Do I race to fill the emptiness, or continue walking away?
**note: Thich Nhat Hahn writes page after page about the healing process of peace, and what it has to offer once it’s been invited to your path, then properly lived out. I’m not a master at family togetherness, and have come to the conclusion that I’ll probably never make it. Interestingly enough, I’m not alone. A preacher once said to me, “Man doesn’t create family… God does.” That was his way of saying, “Locate what makes you happy.” I’m at the age of 44, with no guarantee of tomorrow… I sit back watching my birth family drift farther apart, knowing that judgment, ego, selfishness, greed, and the lack forgiveness, destroyed what God laid out. My butt is grass when Heaven appears around the corner.
June 4, 2003
I honestly don’t get it
Family can be comical. It can be as serious as a soap opera. In the end, all that remains are the cartoonists who knowingly make a ton of money sketching what people can relate with.
Interviewer: If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?
I’d be afraid of what’s connected to that one thing—therefore, I’d rather live out this life filled with the choices already made.
As a kid, how are you supposed to know what’s right from wrong, when the voice of God is silent?
**note: I did everything as a child to locate God. They claim you only need to be saved once. I can recount eight times, and baptized twice. I needed God, and located him in a chicken coop. I’d sit with those birds daily, doing nothing more than staring into space. My psychotherapist wanted to know why I ran from life. He asked deep questions filled with concern. Nothing surfaced except for a burning need to know God.
June 5, 2003
Well lit darkness
If I surround my heart with art… inspiration through art builds new places for me to run and hide. Once my imagination is set free, it convinces the rest of me that it can play like a child. Art is an open field with no ends… the taller the grass, the more places to hide.
June 6, 2003
God whispers through us all
My first wife was numb about the past—she denied it ever occurred. I couldn’t live that life anymore… If you aren’t available to learn from each passing breeze, the only thing available to enjoy is an uncertain future.
A lifetime is nothing more than a representation of chapters—without them, we’re nothing more than a magazine cover.
The difference between my life, and the future is simple… one of us isn’t prepared. The future is unpredictable. It’s a journey through chance, with no availability of fear. I on the other hand am a wall of anxiety, which is nothing but a walking case of paranoid phantasms. The future isn’t worried about what it can’t protect. It knows God will make more.
**note: Please read through these thoughts one more time. We are a nation of set-me-asides. We deal with the present by physically telling those we love, “I don’t want to deal with it, and hope God will work things out.” Stop it! I can’t be the only person who see’s our current state of living as being nothing more than a hardwood floor covered in dog hair and waste, with very few willing souls available to change the bucket of water. I think its time we look under the sofa, and find out what’s really stinking this place up.
June 7, 2003
Jesus sat with the students never above them in pulpits
People ask me all the time if I’m religious. No! I’m a human created by the hands of God. He gave me an imagination blessed with choices. Within its grip, I’m left to believe more in spiritual flow.
June 8, 2003
I’m not supposed to understand
All too often, I’m lucky that something appears on a canvas, when in reality 90% of my art is the result of chance brutalized by three steps gone too far.
**note: The painting is called Soul Mates—a pinch of dust vividly seen in the hearts of two creations, the root of something special bets to be put together, recreating to the origin of angelic inner peace.
June 9, 2003
One frame at a time
Reality is dealt with through all levels of creative flow. If only more people discovered how something as simple as putting a pen to paper really works. But what could you write about? Part of what’s great about being alive today, is taking the time to understand all levels of culture. I’m fascinated with every living person, and what they have to offer. I wish I could give to another society as they have given to me… but why would anyone from Mexico want to eat Hamburger Helper?
June 10, 2003
Honesty
I’d rather be alone than have to fake a smile… therefore I create.
I wish I could paint the first light—the stray streaks of sunshine touching the tips of the forest before me. Not another person understands the flow, the unperfected beauty of this natural scene… If I take a brush, stroke color into place… would you feel what I see? I can’t seem to locate the right amount of color, yet it’s so forest green, with a sip of light on the highest of limbs. Maybe I should use words instead? Dampened by past rains, the forest floor cuddles the trunks of every tree, knowing in time, a sliver of light will try to dry what the poet couldn’t. Looking upward, the dampened reminders of weekend storms can only smile, and slowly wait its turn.
**note: Julia Cameron calls it painting a room. If you are short on words to write, paint the room by writing about everything you see. The writer in you will be given a voice. Within minutes it shall be heard. Journals aren’t always about Dear Diary. Paint the room for those who couldn’t see what you were staring into at the very second you sat down to write. You can openly change lives.
June 11, 2003
Battles I cannot win until I learn to listen
Life moves so fast that the imagination tries to catch up by overshooting the boundaries of reality. The best way to slow down is to firmly grip time.
Interviewer: How do you grip time?
I write everyday! I don’t treat this 24 hour period as something you write at the top of a check. Can a grown man get old? Is it all about age, or do we slowly crawl away? What if I battle the odds? I don’t live life to enjoy life—I embrace it to invite change. If I am getting older, then let me be wise. Let me choose the right words to say, while enjoying the wind and bringing them to the next generation.
June 12, 2003
I just give it away
An empty mind, active heart, and vivid dreams—a new sun to stare into. I vow to one day return to the origin, yet none see me as the performer. I hate them for it! Where did I go wrong? I stay for what reason? The writing instrument stops while my mind melts… the pushing away of a childhood fantasy unveils an unhealed reality of a man’s solo journey. I’m having to be a who inside a whom generation. Hatred is eaten like sugar candy. It’s become the total inspiration of all things created.
**note: Until I stepped away from twelve plus years at one company, I never realized the number of people in the real world who’ve dedicated their lives to the success of that company, only to learn Corporate America never really cared. It doesn’t matter to them unless it’s making stockholders and CEO’s meet their projected figures. We’re banking on money that’s invisible… the very drug that brought Enron to its knees. A co-worker once said to me, “If you want to keep your job, stay close to the money.” I challenge you to stare into the soul of your GM, and softly ask, “Are you my leader or their puppet?”
June 13, 2003
The introduction of MJ
**Note: Rescued from a puppy mill in Monroe, NC. I call him my Doggy Lama
Welcome to our Maltese world—fuzzy, white faces, and innocent, angel eyes, with tails that curl, tongues that wag, springy, happy leaps, and hearts bigger than the universe.
**Note: Thousands of dogs a day lose their lives due to owners who didn’t know how to properly care for the breed they chose. Know everything about your dog before adding it to your steps. Learn to expect the unexpected high cost of vet bills that your chosen breed may require, never forget that your cute little bundle of love isn’t a Hollywood star, and that it takes countless hours for them to understand the tricks you wish they’d perform. If you wanna feel great about life, or to add beauty to your beliefs, rescue innocence from the hands of those putting prices on animal slavery. Rather than continue the tragic tale of the puppy mill nightmare, foster a lost soul, or adopt a new fuzzy into your life. Save a life before you inspire someone to create another.
MJ loves to paint! He’s completely jealous when I grab a canvas, and walk into the art room. He wants to participate with the process. If he doesn’t get his way, he opens my paint drawer, and does his own thing. What do you expect? He’s the Doggy Lama!
June 14, 2003
All living things talk
Never stop questioning the taken steps—without a tree, would we burn up? Without a rose, could we enjoy flowers? Put value in communication—learn to break the barriers by forming unspoken words
**note: Native American spirituality teaches us that it was the human who walked away from the circle of animal speak. The ego and its strength have the ability to build amazing ways of life, only to learn there are millions daily who are silent. This is due to a lack of faith to speak, and be heard. We already ignore a squirrels calling. What’s a human emotion really worth? Learn to listen to all living things including a weed, for it can be amazingly beautiful inside a forest recently destroyed by fire.
June 15, 2003
Ego II
A blank page could never explain what my little puppies bring to me. Even the depths of thought scratched into a book almost never paint what’s been lived. Therefore, if you didn’t get to know me, how could you ever realize the blossomed ability creativity brings me? You chose to walk away. Once time was spent… all that was left behind was a bunch of chicken scratch.
June 16, 2003
Stop asking God why…
I didn’t ask to be part of a peaceful family… part of getting close is being at war.
**note: The Brady Bunch kids fought. Those who made up the Partridge Family shared foul words. Bud and Kelly Bundy battled it out on Married with Children and what about Bart and Lisa Simpson? Get the picture, yet? Even on television, inside a man created world… the characters were born to fight. Stop spending so much time trying to be perfect… even John Boy Walton had faults.
June 17, 2003
It’s not their life for you to live
Anyone can be a writer, a producer, or a poet—the lessons learned in life are based on getting over the fences that we place around the walls we built yesterday. We do nothing to allow life to grow—our choices are based on staying cooped up inside a cabin made of self doubt.
June 18, 2003
Understanding tomorrow
All things living deserve enough space to stretch openly. I don’t expect to be remembered for dedicating my life to the forest. It’s not my path to be known for what happens to these trees. I only wish to make sure they’re here for the next generation.
**note: The next time you feel worthless, tired of life, and bored—plant a tree. You’re preparing shade for a generation that won’t carry with it the very judgment you’re putting yourself through, today. Who knows, a piece of poetry may be brought to life by a passerby who’ll look to the sky, and wonder where such words originated. You won’t be able to speak; you’ve been gone two generations. But because you planted a tree… the next seven families have something to hold.
June 19, 2003
Sips of the wilderness
Always remember—when you pass, you have to give up your name. A legacy isn’t handed to you… it starts with positive influence.
**Note: My mentor Andrew Ashwood once asked me, “What is your long term goal in radio?” I replied, “To be in the Hall of Fame.” He laughed, and sharply asked, “What are you doing to get there, because it won’t be ratings that’ll win you the vote.” His comment changed my life forever.
June 20, 2003
Never stop
A stream never returns to its origin—it helps to feed lakes, and other raging rivers. A single drop of rain has the ability to one day become the ocean.
June 21, 2003
The second worst mistake of my life
Part of who I am is taking you to the next level of your dreams—I’ll sacrifice my life to make sure you get to your intended destination.
**note: Visitation rights are given to family members whose head of household has openly become connected to his boss’s backside. It’s human nature to want to win. It’s perfectly normal to want to belong. Every quarterback in the NFL does what they need to do to make their team owners proud and richer. Interestingly enough, while millions page through books written by NFL players and coaches, our society has become addicted to achieving the very goals of over the top success. So in reality, we too are part of the NFL… the Not For Long club.
June 22, 2003
Paul McCartney was once a Beatle
The Foo Fighters are on VH-1… by the time someone reads this; will they be asking who the Foo Fighters were? I wish I could’ve been there when Stairway to Heaven was recorded. Can you imagine what it must have been like to bring Sweet Home Alabama to life? Does an artist know that they’ve just recorded a classic?
**note: Fact of the matter is… we all think we’re the start of a new fad. If not, you’re only a follower. Sometimes we have to stop believing that we’re the next best thing, and settle for taking fourth place in an American Idol contest.
June 23, 2003
Are you my mother?
The end result of something that tastes good is a bigger bite that might choke you to death. There are no guarantees once you step out of the womb.
June 24, 2003
Shadows
Until I turned thirty five, I didn’t give a rats butt about my real father—today, his departure lives in every step I take… it’s called abandonment.
**note: I spent an entire childhood doing everything not to become the man who was my father, only to learn I was born in width of his shoes. What we do today is reflected upon in the lives of those who follow. You can hate me all you want, but ultimately what we did today is what you shall become. Can we stop this process? Great Masters in Martial Arts say, “Yes!” The United States Court System says, “Guilty!” The purpose of this book is to inspire the desire to offer change in hopes that by being influenced by its positive outcome, we realize lifestyles can be changed. If not, sell this former living tree on eBay.
June 25, 2003
Physical evidence of should’ve been a departure
I’ve wasted more ink talking about my boss—you’d think by now my imagination would tame itself into believing he doesn’t exist. I fear going to work! I hate this burning feeling—perform, showcase, create! It’s a never ending book of wild living, but not in the way of Snoop Doggy Dog.
**note: It was a personal challenge, “Outlast them. Push the limits of dedication and loyalty to levels they couldn’t break… but never walk out on them—if that occurred, I would be no different than my real father.” 100% unhealthy! My daily writing became an anger pit with which I assumed would serve as a positive place to dump ill fated verbal vomit. Then I realized that each day began angry, hurt, torn, and beat up. I carried it with me everywhere, never allowing my system to fully digest what made me mentally incapable of being normal. They got what they wanted, because I refused to give up. I got kicked out the door, instead. Be faithful to your daily writing; also use it as a tool to recognize signals that may lead to career suicide.
July 26, 2003
Don’t you go weak on me!
How do you get control of a mind that’s burdened with a dull roar of hurting so deep in the soul? Put your passion in art. It’s a state of peace that is accepted without having to search for drugs.
**note: Hemmingway was an alcoholic. Lennon openly used drugs. Julia Cameron once wrote, “Sex and creativity use the same sources of energy.” Both men easily made love with their words and ways to influence the awaiting world. Both men had troubled childhoods, therefore that dull roar of pain harnessed their souls for decades. Two separate forms of communication, both requiring needs of escapism… if they had not located a pen—how long do you think they really would’ve lasted?
July 27, 2007
Until now
At thirty, I looked at life, and kept challenging it. A decade later, I realized that everything but me existed.
July 28, 2003
Cancers are too emotional to know
I can’t let life be simple! Simple is too much of letting things go. Lazy, accepting, no chance, no gain… a painting must be in-depth to the point of blackness. Stay long enough and something will speak. I could’ve made it simple… but it’s not me! The attempt is to take it for what it is, only to realize I’m the only one who hears thunder… so I call it a day.
**note: Point blank, stop being a perfectionist! The average person digests sound one piece of noise at a time, while hearing only seven seconds of your thirty minute lecture. In radio, we’re taught to get your attention, and then re-attract your attention. We concentrate so hard on being someone who’s accepted, that we totally forget the idea of accepting who we really are. Until the mail arrives from heaven… then we’re stuck wondering did we love enough?
June 29, 2003
Why Chicago?
A single whisper can set off an overload of thought. If stopped, a dam mystifies the soul leaving not a sip to savor, forcing me to becoming angrily torn. I say words that hurt. To set aside this pen is the envisioned need, but I force myself to keep writing… fighting what I call a leveling experience.
**note: I found this entry to be fascinating in the way of mind sets. Upon my return from Chicago in July 2006… again, I was facing the beast. The words I wrote were, “My moods are of many, I’m flying like a bird in search of seeds. I feel dark, hateful, and scared—it’s horrid anger that lives within, and it’s fighting like hell to get out.”
A few hours earlier I had written my daily thoughts at a table once owned by my wife’s mother.
It’s not a hidden fact that I brought this upon myself. In 1993, I elected to visit Lee’s childhood home; sitting in the very closet her mother’s murdered body was located. Upon my return to Charlotte I started writing. It’s not impressive until you realize that I didn’t write or read books until that closet study. Not impressive until you realize that Lee’s mother was a writer, and a brilliant poet.
If you feel you’ve picked up a visitor—allow the spirit guides and keepers to stay, but learn one valuable lesson that I picked up from Native American studies; control their presence. Invite them to stay only if they offer no injury to you, or your loved ones. Their entire purpose must be positive, or they’re required to leave immediately. There are many books available on learning how to better understand the messages delivered by those communicating through you. In this generation of the World Wide Web, connections search wisely, and never forget—to whom you recover from a past already written, it’s not always proper to invite them into a future not yet known.
June 30, 2003
Martial arts controls anger and focus
It’s not that I don’t trust… I’m only making myself unavailable to be hit by thrown stones. No matter how much anger attempts to paint its purpose on your door step, any kind of lashing out isn’t a release—its just another reason to feel guilty.
July 1, 2003
Foster house
My little MJ, so warm inside, so blessed with unseen love—it makes me wonder what took place. How could a little boy be so warm, never realizing how to use it? We sit holding each other. Laying your head on my heart your breathing slows, yet you never fall asleep. In time my baby MJ, in time you can trust. There’s no rush… for God has blessed me with your patience, so I’ll wait an entire lifetime. Lay your kepi cap down my little boy. In this house, there is love.
**note: My Maltese, is now five years old—when he came into my life, he walked on his elbows, because the cage they had him in was too small. The puppy mill fed him birdseed, not dog food. He lost 35% of his teeth, 40% of his bodyweight, and he was afraid of the wind. Today, he is my Doggy Lama of peace. He has become the alpha.
July 2, 2003
Bread crumbs
How can a mountain be smoothed over by centuries of disaster? Is that what happens to human reaction? In time, we kneel only to be rounded by passing days. If it’s not written about, what are the chances it existed?
July 3, 2003
MJ wins
We live in a society of I want, but I don’t want to take care of it. Animal cruelty is no different than child abuse, and yet people toy with them like Tonka trucks and trains.
**note: A highly publicized court case against a local puppy mill finds the owner guilty of the crimes to which she was accused of committing. The fine is $10,000 and she can’t sell another pet for five years. MJ was one of 250 dogs pulled from the mill—I’ve been told he passed twice before grasping onto the idea that God was set to give him a more loved life. That second and third chance is priceless.
July 4, 2003
Hidden fear
A world without our great American soil could be more barbaric than caveman mythology. As a people we are united as well as divided. What makes us a strong nation isn’t a need to be one, but rather a requirement to challenge simple thoughts that become law. If we’re losing our rights, don’t place the blame on senators and court systems—we’ve decided to stop voting in this nation. We’ve decided to stop fighting, and have begun a mission to do nothing more than complain. We as a people police the weak corners of this world, because our soil is plowed by the blood of all nations and not one drop should be shaped into a one world government. But are we spreading our wings too far?
July 5, 2003
To be or not to be inspired
The art we create doesn’t officially become famous until someone realizes there can be no more. Unless you’re Peter Max or Andy Warhol—Peter shattered the rule by utilizing his gift to market, while Andy masterminded the famous by simply relating with a society starting to become addicted to catch phrases and culture.
**note: Picasso’s gift to the world was a burning desire to savor his art—to never set it free to those who properly owned it until, they who held proper papers, deserved to be the rightful proprietor. What’s keeping you from sharing your art? We all doodle. We’ve all been impressed once or twice. Very few exercise that energy until we get old, then it’s too late to pull off a classic Peter Max. You don’t have to sell your art to be welcomed into the world creative flow. I only ask that you share it. To be hidden in closets until your passing has robbed the world of the emotion you set free. Sadly, those you left behind see nothing better to do with it than throw the art away.
July 6, 2003
Blood stains
I’m living this life is by choice, and it comes with an edge that’s quite easy to become addicted to. I’ll never be Gene Simmons! For that matter, I’ll never be the “Me” I always dreamed. One look at my career and you can easily see I reached for Jack in the Box and got McDonalds instead. When all is said and done, my only regret is not having a father willing enough to teach me something other than, “Keep your zipper up.” There were levels of anxiety he forgot to discuss and teach me to control. If half the young men of the world who fantasize of having adventures with multitudes of Gods, beautiful roses know how morally wrong it is… they’d rebuild their dreams, and focus more on a career.
July 7, 2003
The new piece of art
I know what adding white paint to a canvas can do—suddenly life has started over, and you have new parents. I look at my creations, feel the presence of something, but never pinpoint what it is, or was before its existence. When you bring a canvas to life, you’re doing nothing, but entertaining the soul. Suddenly the real you is up on stage starring in a Broadway play.
July 8, 2003
Celebrating one year of martial arts
I stand up and take pride—we aren’t a hidden group of people, but a respected collection of travelers. Karate people are diseased, we have failed at something. We have suffered, and we lack what can be called normality. Nobody gets into Karate to kick tail… if you did, it would last about a month. Karate teaches us to understand weakness more than strength. It teaches us to walk during a moment of complete exhaustion. Inside my palm there is energy—I shall open it for you to see, to touch, to taste—a seed, a dream, and a fear of becoming something without a need of being better than. Step inside my soul, and suddenly you’ll realize life exists.
**note: Martial arts are for everyone and every walk of life. It’s not a loyal dedication to mastering the concept of war, but rather a self driven requirement to locate an even pace of peace. Most stop taking martial arts, because either they fear the changes placed before them, or they look at being challenged as a chapter that’s too difficult for them to digest. Martial Arts is Eastern Medicine that’s great for the mind, body, and soul, in the way of bringing to life the person you are, by walking a path of confidence and self control. A true black belt never counts the bricks he’s shattered—for that matter, we never count the lives we change… it just happens.
July 9, 2003
A need to let go
All children dream of being liked, loved, and looked upon as being open minded enough to be accepted.
**note: We spend way too much time worried about what others think. It’s your life!
July 10, 2003
Whispers
Be not in love, because you want to be—unlike a friendship, love is the heart’s way of singing in the rain. Forever is a long time… infinity is what I guaranteed.
July 11, 2003
Learning forgiveness
The problem with life is simple… we don’t live inside a radio station production room where it’s too easy to hit the undo switch. We tend to shoot for the stars, and usually end up in cow dung. The Dali Lama writes, in everything we do, we should ask, “Is it for happiness, or pleasure?”
July 12, 2003
So, you want to be a published author…
We aren’t raised in America to understand poetic value; it’s nothing more than another book on the shelf.
**note: The beauty of living in modern millennium times is having access to the World Wide Web. I stood in shock the day I discovered my first book “One Man’s 1021 Thoughts” on a Japanese web page. Do not let American culture destroy your passion to write. There’s an entire world waiting for your creative flow.
July 13, 2003
Native American studies
A forest never shares its tales until you advise your feet to step within the rooted replicas of where life once stood.
**note: The greatest storytellers are trees and rocks—sit next to either of them, and close your eyes. Let their history dissolve into your body. Your life will change forever. If you’re riddled with sickness, or your body has aches… take what ails you to the ancient healers, the tree and rock. You’ll be amazed at the powers of each. Religion can take you only so far, spirituality gifts you with forever.
July 14, 2003
Unexpectedly invited to a world of change
The Karate man/Buddhist way is to think not of self, but of tomorrow—build upon without taking from. Value every word shared without creating enemies. Do not become a victim of your own sadness.
July 15, 2003
Saying so long to a radio friend
A forest can’t be replenished until a wing is spread, and seeds are carried with the wind.
This is how art is born…an idea is sketched,
Then it’s taken to a canvas, and dedicated to a radio friend searching for a new beginning. This was the painting I did for on-air talent Chris Allen, which to this day he still hasn’t received. The time hasn’t been right… I’m such a Picasso!
July 16, 2003
A newer way to welcome the beast
I’m mad, because nobody cares! I’m forgiving, because I too don’t care! I’m mad, because I’m lying! I’m forgiving, because I really do care. I’m mad, because I want nothing to do with these people! I’m forgiving, because at least I have a job. I’m mad, because I fear the future! I’m forgiving, because my leaders can be trusted. I’m mad, because my career is over. I’m forgiving, because I need a new challenge.
July 17, 2003
My Dearest MJ
He lays his head on my wrist… I’m not strong enough to move—for his love weighs more. I feel his lungs expand, only to notice the song in my pen—it sings about us, my sweet child. No passing storm, no nightmare shall penetrate the relationship we’ve fallen into.
**note: MJ, the rescued Maltese, is my creative child—nicknamed Warhol, he sits on my lap each new sun, and writes with me. When I paint, he walks into the art room staring at the creations above. Even while I research “Another 1021 Thoughts” my little boy is within two feet of my nearest touch.
July 18, 2003
To whom I owe my vow
I don’t expect anyone to understand the bond I have with animals. It started as a child, a field of clover, somewhere in upstate Wyoming. I’d walk for miles, doing nothing but listening to the wind. It wasn’t until years later that I realized every step I take is a continuation of my hike across sacred Native American Territory.
July 19, 2003
Nothing could be more truthful about me than this need to hold a writing instrument in my hand. Once there, the heart and soul take a walk toward a place of solitude. Twenty-two years ago my first wife and I lived out the fantasy of bringing her writing to life—today I put every attempt into locating a painting that leaves me breathless.
Interviewer: Can that be obtained?
Never! I’d be afraid of what my expectations would be thereafter.
July 20, 2003
Making friends with a self I don’t know
Keep the mind in total focus, what grows from it are flowers and vines—the flowers soothe the soul, while each vine reaches upward to a destination fed by the sun. Until I get there I calmly whisper, “At least I’m trying.”
**note: Learning to listen to the body in motion is an act of courage. We spend too much time searching for successful careers, only to realize our purpose had another plan which we eventually meet along the trail. Gifted aren’t those who create, but rather the individual who fully understands what makes him or her internally happy.
July 21, 2003
Moments like this
Interviewer: Why are so many creative people depressed?
I don’t think they are. Low moments aren’t based on what’s lacking, but rather are lost attempts at trying to understand why being creative has the ability to make you high. Being creative puts me on a course that offers no limits. Judgment by family or friends is what feeds depression.
Interviewer: Why are people shocked to hear of your dark side?
I quietly remind everyone who I meet to never pretend that they know me… those who lack the grasp of reality challenge the thought. In the end, we equal the playing field by admitting, “How can you know a man with multiple personalities?”
Interviewer: You left Dr. Mack’s house without saying goodbye… why?
Sometimes it’s best that we leave the room knowing that a lasting friendship wasn’t severed by something as solid as a goodbye. I call it my game of peek-a-boo. I was always guaranteed my mother’s return.
**note: On December 24, 2004 I physically lost Dr. Ronald Mack forever. Spiritually, he’s inside his office searching for a new book for me to study. Playing the peek-a-boo game prepared me for his death. As I write, he sits with me. In his words, “Of course I do! I spent way too much time making sure you understood art, poetry, and history.”
July 22, 2003
Go unforced
When ink spills, my thought process is ignited. It’s an attempt to believe that something could be growing.
July 23, 2003
For the next generation to answer
Not a single poor man has held a decision making office in Washington DC…
**note: They’ve either been rich by dollar amount, or brimming with enough education to fill the minds of one hundred men. The rich decide which paths are taken in America, yet it’s the middle class and poor who must show up at the polls to vote them into office. Network television newscasts report that the rich, who once controlled the castles of Iraq, have lost two sons. American TV seems to be celebrating their death. Who have we become?
July 24, 2003
Two thoughts, separate personality wars
If you can’t feel what I’ve created… then I didn’t bring it to life.
I hate admitting that I love it, when in reality it is job security that makes me so nice.
**note: A quote from the movie The Last Kiss, “We are moving so fast that we’re chasing something we can’t catch. If we don’t learn to breathe, we’ll die.” Don’t live life… study it! Put forth the effort to locate the air to put into your lungs. The two thoughts above echo an artist versus an employee. One placed razor blades on his left arm, cutting until it bled. They both survived, only because the artist stepped forward and took control of the oxygen feeding the dreams. You are not one person. God creates everything! We are to live in the way he lives… therefore, you were born with multiple ways to live, breathe, and create. Study your life.
July 25, 2003
Please don’t ever pretend you know me
All I ever wanted to be was something on the radio. The only thing I didn’t become was that something. I should’ve been more focused. Radio isn’t about lopsided dreams. On-air talent balances it out with daily gut checks, and new reasons to ask why we’re here. I don’t whistle. I don’t dream. Hello, is anybody here today?
**note: I’m a two time employee-of-the-year. I’m a onetime talent looked at to replace Casey Kasum on American Top 40, the host of numerous countdown and musical features. Blah blah blah… the real me wants to know, “What does this have to do with the listeners I should’ve put my focus on?” I didn’t get into radio to be a star. I wanted to touch lives. It was my pulpit, and I lost my focus. On October 26, 2005, God grabbed me by the nape of the neck and whispered, “Let’s go have a conversation.”
July 26, 2003
Silence hurts, for fear of thinking leads to imprisonment
I don’t understand the game of mental abuse—they keep showing photographs of Saddam’s dead sons on the TV. Why Mr. President? You try to be this peacekeeper, and yet you ridicule the nation we’ve invaded. Mr. President, we’re becoming cold hearted, numb, and over-confident. The year 2003 will always be known as, the year that we the people of this great nation don’t have the power to think with open thoughts. My mind fights to stay clear knowing how out of control my lips remain. If thou shall not kill… then why do we?
July 27, 2003
It’s only to God that I shall repent
Something is foiling the real picture… it’s as if I’m protecting me from me. Never think life lasts forever—what you do on a daily basis is a reflection that’s not only seen today, but is in reaction to what took place yesterday.
Interviewer: You fear death don’t you?
I don’t fear death… I fear getting there.
July 28. 2003
The mask is falling off
If I can’t dream, who am I? I’ve tried to return to the basics of cleaning the house, wearing soft warm clothes, bathing the puppies, and walking through flea markets to do nothing more than look at life around me without comparing myself to others.
Interviewer: You’ve always compared the younger you with the aging self.
If there’s a comparison, it’s because nobody looks at me and sees a future—they’re blinded by what’s already been accomplished.
July 29, 2003
Karate Green Belt
Radio has taught me one thing—it doesn’t matter what you bring to the table, you’ll eat with no fork unless you’re told to. My Karate Sensei has become the first person outside of this career to see me. The biggest battle last night, was trying to hold back the tears—I had accomplished enough respect from the toughest man I’d ever met.
**note: Anyone can be a martial artist. One in one hundred attain black belt status, one in five hundred reach 2nd Dan… one in ten thousand make it to Master. To become a true black belt, an act of selflessness must be performed—teach a four year old how to properly kick and punch. On August 22, 2006, I reached beyond the limits of my personal expectations to attain a level of trust between teacher and student. I instruct five classes each day, and this fall I will start a new program at Berryhill Elementary called Kinder-rate… to do nothing, but coach the growing visions of tomorrow in courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self control, and indomitable spirit.
July 30, 2003
Hey me! Is that you in the mirror?
The more I dive into spirituality, the more I try to keep the world around me safe, and much cleaner. We all make horrible decisions in our lives, and through these mistakes, we either eat more chocolate chip cookies, or switch to apples and oranges.
July 31, 2003
You aren’t alone
You can’t endure a moment without making documentation through the avenues of art. I don’t care if you’re happy or hurting… life gave us emotion—we choose to express it through celebration, or clogged up veins dying to burst.
August 1, 2003
Stop trying to please the world
I never expect anyone to get what I’m about—the only problem is I spend too much time trying to sell the idea.
**note: No matter what you do, someone is always going to try to become part of your path. Ultimately it’s up to you to let them in—one word of warning, relatives, friends, and those you’ve never met always hold the upper hand when it comes to silencing your art. Never forget what happened to the Latin World’s top female performer—her fan club president pulled the trigger.
August 2, 2003
Mamma why didn’t you let me be a musician?
Music is my gasoline—a drive down a lonesome highway, and I instantly connect with drums. Providing that luxury is the dashboard, my right leg, my tongue meeting the back of my teeth to creak a clicking sound—my musical instrument happens to be me. Invisible songs, any lyrics sang out loud… hummed until I let go of life in general. Then I sit there; stand there, walk, but then stop—for a brief moment I thought Mozart had been with me.
**note: I have a friend who spends hundreds of dollars each month making sure his son gets the very best in basketball training—he calls his son a future investment. When is it too much? When isn’t it enough? Please view the movie Little Miss Sunshine. Parents supported the dreams, aspirations, and fantasy of becoming a true talent, and not the figment of an art teacher’s imagination.
August 3, 2003
The value of listening
The urge to paint hit me like a freight train. A new challenge… no writing instruments, or ink at all—it must be brought to life using only brushes and paint.
**note: What you paint never has to be perfect. There was only one perfect man, and you aren’t it. Learn to listen to your art filled instinct. Give your imagination what it needs—survival.
August 4, 2003
We all ask, “What does it mean when we dream?”
I kept telling him, “Look up! Don’t lose where up is!” Suddenly, I was standing next to my wife, Lee. She couldn’t see me. She couldn’t speak to me. Inside the dream, my life had been taken, and there was nothing I could do about it. I watched her learn of the news. I stood next to each tear, feverishly attempting to catch every strand leaving a soul I could no longer touch.
**note: I can escape most dreams. Most are quickly left behind in hopes their way doesn’t impact or encourage the waking hours not yet approached. Today, I reenter the real world by methods of meditation, performing every martial arts poomsee and self defense learned on the journey toward my black belt. I encourage you to never let a dream control you. A friend said to me yesterday, “You can’t predict the future, so why waste energy trying to?” As a child, I looked at dreams as being movies from the soul. Today, I view them as being control-alt-delete on a computer keyboard. It’s your mind, body, and soul flushing something out. How can you explain Keith Richards writing Can’t get no Satisfaction? How do you explain my painting entitled The Dream? Each is seen in the chapters of sleep, and carries an amazing ability to affect lives outside of the worlds we keep. Why then, learn to ignore the strength of a death dream? Unless you’re willing to write about it, the moment you wake and keep written documents of all your dreams… let it go. You can’t focus only on the good and not the bad. Dreams are open wounds, weak moments, wishful thoughts, and every reason to stop believing in the self you’ve become… and yet on the opposite side of a dream rests a newer you, a stronger you, a person most accepted. Write about your dreams. Bring the songs to life that you hear inside a dream. Paint the portraits you saw. Don’t just sit up in bed and let a bad dream consume your emotions. Let life exist outside, and in the end it could be extremely positive.
August 5, 2003
Readjusting what’s meant to be
My imagination is a muscle all its own—I can’t stop it, or want to stop it from being the greatest gift I own. Who I am is what I’ve done. What I want to do can’t be achieved, because I’m too busy being what I’ve done. Plastic spoons, artificial memories of leafless trees—hopes that fall short, and dreams much too big. Here I sit wondering where life got me. Chinese food and Big Mac’s have never changed.
August 6, 2003
To whom does the bell toll?
I can’t change the past—so what am I doing “not” to carry it with me?
Interviewer: Why can’t you live life? Let go of all things, and play out this journey.
You mean act? A pimple gets popped. A mask on the wall never reveals its eyes. I’ve created a career that’s been hitting walls since 1997—eventually the wall is going to win. When you can’t change the future, silence is followed by anger.
August 7, 2003
Who will I become?
He’s living proof… the abused become the abusers
**note: In martial arts there are some pretty cool kicks and spins that require total focus, or your teeter totter rocks the walls of your stomach—when that occurs, prepare to continue class even if it means wiping vomit from the floor. My Sensei was out the night before; his senior student took advantage of higher levels most of us couldn’t attain. My reaction was brutal sickness. Hey! It happens… only to look into the eye of the substitute, and realize the abuse was hand delivered in the same way the alphabet is given to a first grader.
August 8, 2003
**note: The following discusses thoughts not presented in this book on the day they were written. I felt they were too angry and too personal to share—yet I didn’t understand.
Look at my writing! Look at it! On the 4th I spoke of the song Time from the Alan Parsons Project “Goodbye my friend.” On the 6th I wrote of being trapped inside an un-relaxed battle. On the 7th I was unexplainably, seriously ill starting at 8:55 pm. I got word this morning—my very good friend Victoria passed away at 8:53 pm.
I painted a portrait of Elvis Presley as an angel for her… I hope the first thing that God gave her when she entered those gates, was a backstage pass to the music legends heavenly tour. She was mentally challenged, yet in her own way she could mimic every stroke I used to bring art to life. She’d watch me from the first sketch to the final thought.
August 9, 2003
Creative burps
Steal from me this writing instrument, and you’ll offer the next generation silence.
Mix not the nuts in my mind. Filter together every personality I am, and make me an original.
It doesn’t matter how strong the inner circle of your soul may be… the true artist is all too often blinded by true ability. Therefore, we sell ourselves short by letting other people make decisions for us.
August 10, 2003
The first step is becoming aware
A mind that sits empty is one barely awake to enjoy life. I sit here at 5:10 on a Sunday morning wondering why I haven’t showered since Thursday. I’m not a difficult person to please… I don’t lift my leg like a dog, and pee on everything. I’m the selective type who has to spin in circles one hundred times.
**note: When someone speaks to me of their depression and or lack of energy, I pay close attention to what they did before recognizing their method of moodiness. Your body talks to you days before it elects to share the idea that it’s down for the count. Need a reason to write? Learn to document the multitude of madness surrounding your everyday path—in a matter of days the focus of your life will change. Warning: Loved ones never understand change. They must learn to grow with you.
August 11, 2003
I allowed depression to happen
My biggest dream as an artist is to one day hear that someone is willing to give me ten bucks for a very early piece I did in ink.
Interviewer: Are you going to reach a level of fame?
I don’t have the guts to reach for that dream. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your work featured in a gallery. I’m several years away from that sensation.
**note: Moments after writing these thoughts my mind and body fell into a very deep depression. I became angry and sick to my stomach. I allowed myself to believe that having such an art filled dream would never happen. At that moment, I started pointing fingers.
It’s as if I’ve been thrown to the floor—the people I’ve helped walk by without helping me, back up.
Interviewer: You try to ignore the abuse by jumping into art.
They want, I give. They want more… I give more. I laugh inside for about a minute, only to realize its not laughing.
August 12, 2003
Am I aging or getting tired?
I’m not the perfectionist that I used to be. Today, I’m guilty of being a chance taking foolish man whose heart is made of glass. No matter how many times I break, I’m capable of reshaping ability.
**note: My entire life I’ve been made fun of and or ridiculed—my difficulties aren’t based on achieving a conclusion, but rather gaining access to acceptance. The book Jesus CEO from Laurie Beth Jones opens the valve, and pours from your system the silence that consumes the reasons behind the dams that stopped personal growth. Master Todd Harris of King Tiger adds to that theory by admitting that no man or woman can win by being one. Build a library of books. Feed your weakness with the knowledge of others. Within those books all those pages that once held back your dreams from being realized, are particles of a past that you left behind.
August 13, 2003
Pebbles that make up a sandy beach
I was born with the horrid inability of being able to fulfill a true dreamer’s ambition—to remain focused on one thing is difficult for me! I do chunks of so much, that it sickens the heart into believing how much of a failure I continue to be. Successful dreams consist of three things—interest, open mindedness, and flexibility.
August 14, 2003
I foresaw the future
I hate fear. I fear hatred, it’s a constant reaction—rivers of unexplained numbness. It must be fear! You crossed the line! It felt too good to. Then why do I fear? Because I feel hatred, invaded, and violated. They took it to the extreme! I had to react! That’s me! Will it cost me my job? Hope not… I hate fear.
**note: My Aunt Louis used to call it Black Magic. The best way to handle a nightmare is to ask it why it chose the night before to spend time with you. Show your subconscious that you’re in total control of your final outcome.
August 15, 2003
A great friend’s birthday Papa Gaitsch of Chicago!
Interviewer: Do you think you’ll make it to seventy years in age?
I have less than thirty years to practice till then. Thirty doesn’t seem like much, especially since forty-one of them have already passed.
Interviewer: What do you think an eighty year old man thinks about?
He fights to create new memories, like a miner panning for gold. Then when God calls for you, the riches you stuffed into your pockets are that of experience, and not materialistic value.
August 16, 2003
At all costs never stop talking
Through a brief moment of communication, a war can be stopped—even if it means the keeper of peace was left for dead.
August 17, 2003
The death of a radio wanna-be
How many times must I admit that radio has injured me more than my first wife, and I divorced her? I’m not afraid to admit that I should’ve left this job years ago, but I entered the most dangerous place to be—the comfort zone. Why change the color of the wall if the paint isn’t cracked?
Interviewing: Because you’re dying inside.
I seek peace… not the strength to invite war. Must I always have to be on the defensive? If that’s the case, why do I bother to make it to another day?
August 18, 2003
Seeking an end to personal warfare
Solidarity is the art of togetherness. Love, peace, and words unheard that seemed to be missing—it’s an uncontrolled togetherness, an emotion requiring words. Yet, we’re being silent, uninviting… without solidarity. Without peace, there can be no love… solidarity is an agreement, not an act of peace. They are words that can grow from this art handed to me.
August 19, 2003
I have no clue who I really am
My hands are completely covered with white paint… a signature is placed on the canvas. It’s quite possible that the artist is finally happy. My goals are to create pieces that allow you to stare deeper into the presentation without having to maximize too much energy. You have to be prepared to digest my creations.
August 20, 2003
The death of a great piece of expression
I’ve tried to bend the odds of an unfinished piece of art—the emptiness was to feed the imagination. It worked inside of me! Being that I was the artist, I took the brush into hand, and continued to seize control of it. In the end, I lost what was to be an original idea. Without art, I have no place to hide my invisible songs. I try not to extend a simple line, only to learn an entire work of art has blown up in my face… of course I feel guilty!
August 21, 2003
Stop thinking of excuses to quit
Thoughts of Monet enter my flight pattern, only because I hurt so badly in my joints. Yet, here I sit, still wanting to paint. You have to love art for that very reason! No matter how hard it rains, the bright lights associated with creativity blind every reason not to paint.
August 22, 2003
Take me on
The feeling that disturbs me most in everyday life is exhaustion. I hate feeling tired! I have major problems with having to decide if I can or can’t do something, because my mind has problems focusing on the final outcome. Writing every morning at sunrise has taught me great discipline. Be there no matter what.
August 23, 2003
Machines win wars
Karate teaches you to be a warrior. Sitting Bull had to learn how as did the chiefs before him. The forefathers lost to the white eyes, because the firearms were too big to handle not the imperfections of a body.
**note: The Idiots Guide to Tae Kwon Do as well as every true master in the martial arts will teach you that what we do inside the dojang might not save your life on the streets of America. What it does teach you is confidence. No man waiting to attack will attempt to conquer a mountain, because his interests are mole hills and ditches—those who aren’t, are physically aware of what their next step is. Master Todd Harris constantly works with us to develop a plan. But the plan is not for thirty days, it’s for thirty years. Look into the future and lay out the ground work of the path you’ve been informed how to create. After reading Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, I sat in great sadness wondering if those who were the true Native Americans were prepared for the white warriors fresh from a Civil War. What if the planning they painstakingly set aside for a future that can’t be predicted, foresaw the sticks that blasted. Could they still have been defeated? Or was it the tongue of false promises from US leaders taking over the land that sawed through the value of mind, body, and spirit? In reality, the greatest fighters to date have always been the Native Americans. I’ve read books where their methods of martial arts mimicked the animals to which they studied… bears, eagles, badgers, and more. I laugh while traveling through zoos, knowing how quickly the white eye jumps when confronted by the curiosity of an animal that could’ve beat them, if only a future might have been put in play several generations before our time.
So silent was God’s whisper but I heard it
Love is an acronym—to listen often, voice everything. Through shared thought and open palms, we learn to love.
Without knowledge yet the vision grew
My weakest bricks lay within my attitude. The color of the sky isn’t purple, therefore each day is a performance fed by a dream not to become a black belt, but rather live the lifestyle. It is my vision to grasp the identity of a spirit filled warrior—to embrace the lifeline of man versus machine while encompassing the daily routine of body, mind, and soul. I do more damage to myself by being weak in the attitude than I do by being thrown to the ground with my fist pointed upward. My dream as a green belt isn’t to walk the path, but practice living the path.
**note: When you learn to let go of your personal wants and needs in everyday life, you’re gifted with a purpose by the hands that created you. In September of 2006, I began instructing martial arts. My web page arroe.net expresses one thought, “Until my final breath, I’ll always believe martial arts selected me. I was never given the chance to say ‘no.’ Because of that commitment; I was able to prove to myself, my family, and friends that no matter what the obstacle, victory can be achieved in all levels of performance.”
August 24, 2003
Writers block can be beat
What do you write when your mind, body, and soul are this tired? My eyes are staring into the vivid space of nothing, while the birth of a real thought lays silent, for it hath not been set out to conquer, but would rather rest. It’s not that I’m running, time is! What could I create if you were told years were only days? Would I take a brush, and throw it away? Could I really be angry? One plus one equals luck. We fight about nothing, while never getting the chance to control wars overseas. The sun rises, as it will beyond my time. What will I say to my friends? Could I keep it a secret? Don’t bring any attention to me, don’t feel anything, become numb, look outward, and walk. Time isn’t fast, it’s the same everyday.
August 25, 2003
Thought dump
If it didn’t make it to paper, then it’s purely not ready to be picked. I looked at my art yesterday, and realized how far I am from art galleries. I’m lost as to why I don’t stop. The people who change your dreams are blessed with the ability to stop life. We stand on corners without looking both ways—the next step is like flying over a valley floor, or it’s a slow dance in chocolate pudding, and there’s nothing we can do to push it away. I take thin air, and make it music… paint replays life, knowing that tomorrow is always a newer day. At forty-one, I’ve come to realize and fully expect not to become who I’ve always dreamed of being. If I don’t accept the idea, life is over. It’s time to stare into my face, and recognize that my energy should be placed on the front cover of unwritten chapters. I believe that the higher power has his hand on my shoulder, and is about to spin me around to face who it is I’m about to become.
Interviewer: Let’s be perfectly honest here… get over yourself and become what everyone else is… a puppet.
Maybe it’s time.
August 26, 2003
Enough said…
Am I what I preach?
August 27, 2003
45 minute interview
Peter Max has attained the right of being The Artist who not only lived it, but is willing to share it—to educate the following generations with chapters of this is how it really was—from Woodstock to Regan, and the events that which make up September 11, 2001. Peter’s voice consumes what’s been seen, and then relentlessly putting that passion onto a canvas. Peter Max is America’s time capsule.
**note: I heard the best quote the other day, “The reason why reading is good for you is, because it has a way of reaching out from the pages and grabbing your imagination.” Who is your greatest influence in life? Why do they have so much influence over you? Reach to them as they have reached to you. The greatest gift an author and or painter receives isn’t the dollar amount attached to their works of art, but rather the enlightened eyes and dreams of someone who steps up from nowhere and calmly says, “Thank you.” I have interviewed multitudes of famous individuals with always one rule in mind… treat them like the humans they are, and the two minute interview you were supposed to get will stretch beyond the limits of a lifetime.
August 28, 2003
Strength by means of spirituality
Art isn’t a painting or music featuring the flow of thought—art is what happens when the heart and soul team together, and for some reason you chose to listen. What is felt becomes a pattern of speech or a rhythmic brush stroke aimed at soothing the soul. I can’t stop myself from being creative! It’s a consumption that millions push away, only to learn that depression or being empty is a great reason to take a pill, when in fact it’s nothing more than art screaming to get out. I’m not what you think I am, nor will I ever become what I dreamed… therefore, let me be the best me that I can be! If being creative invites a smile, then why try to steal it?
August 29, 2003
Too dangerous to play
I run with lines that are shot at me—to which I follow through… that is where trouble locates my middle name.
Interviewer: Will you ever learn to stop accepting everything as a challenge?
I’m guilty of building onto sentences that are delivered to me. It’s my way of proving that I’m listening.
Interviewer: Learn to practice control.
Yeah right… become the actor! No! Don’t set me up!
August 30, 2003
Reconstruction of destruction
I don’t know when to stop—I haven’t learned the importance of imagination over existence. To extend distance can be your best friend until you’ve pushed the existence too far.
Interviewer: Basically meaning you’re willing to destroy things you’ve touched
I want you to know it’s my art… do not compare it. Art is a level of communication that is not set in stone—it’s borrowed to the soul. My poetry is nothing but the wind—my colors are your imagination.
August 31, 2003
Resurrected depression
To open or to step into the birth of thought, few understand what it takes, or how I fight an inner war with a self that can’t handle not being creative. My spiritual flow is damaged! My access to lands in centuries past no longer exists. I’m blocked!
September 1, 2003
Hairstylist’s nightmare
I’ve reached a point where having hair thirteen inches below my shoulders isn’t me being me. I’m forcing change in myself.
Interviewer: The identity crisis? Is it Change of Life? Could it be The Body Clock?
A dream… I had a thought that’s still very much alive, and I can’t get anywhere near it looking like I’m a drug pusher or an 80’s reject. I love having long hair and the attitude that comes with it… but I’m quickly being left behind.
September 2, 2003
Out of pocket out of mind
Getting sick in this modern world is nerve racking. You can’t go to a doctor and say, “Fix me!” He has no idea what to prescribe, unless it’s going to earn him points towards winning a free trip to a major theme park from a drug company.
September 3, 2003
If listeners only knew
Radio is an adventure blessed with many tricks of the trade—eventually life catches up. The world doesn’t spin on one man’s finger.
September 4, 2003
Why artists stop dreaming
I will give you my book, to hold the paintings, to see with your eyes, to feel, to touch, and to build upon what being invisible is all about. The art of being unique, while displaying the what if’s that fill my soul, clouded by discouragement, floods of failure, dried up like a desert floor… only to learn, something caught your attention.
**note: I was getting the chance to meet Peter Max for a fourth time. Two days earlier, his manager cleared the way for me to interview the artist for Image Magazine. During the forty-five minute conversation, we spoke about poetry and art colliding—Peter wanted to see my words. He wanted me to hand deliver them to him. Like all who create, we are fragile pieces in a musical pie. It wasn’t Peter who took the envelope, nor did I approach him on the idea so that we went nearly a half an hour over the time he granted to the interview. I put so much love, trust, and faith in God that words shouldn’t be shared. Birds don’t wait for the wind to blow, they just jump. Basically meaning, like those purchasing art… if you feel nothing, keep walking. I took home his painting Andy with a Mustache that night. To this day, it sits farthest from my view in a corner completely dark… it’s there to do nothing more, but remind me that trees eventually fall, and so do the birds that don’t move.
It’s called Give Peter air to breathe…
September 5, 2003
For what reason do I paint?
It’s my dream to see the most blessed smiles when someone comes in contact with an object of color created by this thing called my imagination.
**note: You can’t walk up to a budding artist, and warn them of the possible feats that lay ahead. You can’t stand before a class of wandering imaginations and claim, “I am here to prepare you for criticism.” Seek nothing higher than a simple smirk. Inside its presentation is the very person you were before the art was publicly displayed.
September 6, 2003
The messenger
If I’m not moved by a piece of inner thought, you’ll never be… which explains why simplicity and I can never share a slow dance.
September 7, 2003
Be ready
No matter how great or horrible the dream becomes, the journey won’t lend you a sip of fame.
**note: Fame isn’t a soft drink, nor is it the-be-all-to-end-all. No matter how hard you stuff your face with a willingness to succeed, the opposite end of any spectrum is humble pie. As much fun as one can have attaining the full right to be recognized, within the ranks of your planning stages should be a furthering of your education that includes how to handle the silence brought on by America’s addiction to hot new fads.
September 8, 2003
Interview with a vampire
Interviewer: Stop painting! Peter Max told you to always stay three strokes from completing it!
There’re already enough incomplete feelings in my life—all I want to do is bring the viewer to a complete stop.
Interviewer: Do you honestly have to pick up the pieces before the perfectionist calls it quits?
I only want to attain the right of holding your attention longer than most thoughts
Interviewer: Is that a control issue?
No… it’s just a simple high without drug use.
September 9, 2003
What if I’m reincarnated, will it be like living it again?
The taste of dissatisfaction is a poison to the soul. I try my hardest to paint my emotions in the proper direction, only to learn that circles have no corners to sleep. Listen; are you there, Mr. Spirituality? Listen, can you see me birds who tell me stories? Listen, do you still speak to me, Mr. Guardian angel? Listen, can you hear my heartbeat, Lord Almighty? Listen, you didn’t leave did you? Why am I wandering?
September 10, 2003
Who invented Corporate America but a group of losers
The war with one’s self is an entangled web of decision making—in no matter what direction you turn, the reaction is hardly, if ever what you predicted or unexpected. I’m tired of the way people take my gifts of creative flow, and call it their own! I may work for you, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with the way the river ignites the origin of art.
September 11, 2003
Third anniversary
As a nation we remember the events of terrorism, but as an individual we try to turn and march into a future that time refuses to quit fueling.
September 12, 2003
Remembering those who innocently passed
It would’ve hurt more if it had been kept in the open for all to see.
Interviewer: Are you proud of the effort?
As an artist, I continue placing expressions in places screaming for a little love.
Interviewer: Do you think it’ll ever be located?
I would love to talk to the person who discovers it first. Without education, the wall will be knocked into silence.
September 13, 2003
Toxic exposure
The mind has been busy all night…all I’ve thought about are tubes of paint. It’s a sickness! Is it possible to reach a point of being so tired that every step taken feeds it?
**note: My adopted brother, Todd Midgett, has called me a Jack of all trades for years. Those addicted to the landscape of constant job titles never realize the dangers that stand before us in the way of becoming destructive rather than constructive. What we see as a positive is in fact powerful enough to destroy your life and those who make up your circle. The best way to handle a work-a-holic is to immediately get them help. Their instant anger is nothing compared to the hardships that lay ahead when they aren’t creating.
September 14, 2003
Even more toxic
My hands have got enough paint on them to soak rays from the sun. It’s my hidden way of searching for willingness. If it’s not located, I’ll be emptier than before.
September 15, 2003
Closet creative
Interviewer: Will you ever do anything with your art?
No… poets of this modern generation are a penny a in a pack of 2000. Everybody thinks they can write, and I don’t want to play that game.
Interviewer: But you physically write daily!
And the sun rises, but we never hear him bragging.
**note: Test, test! Is this microphone on? My un-named writing supporter CR shattered the barrier that hid my words and pictures from those who put value in their presentation. Our first major art show under her guidance took place on December 15, 2006. The marketing, the planning, the layout of how each portrait is to be displayed are all credited to her mission from God to un-silence the soul of a single creative individual. From this, I shall learn to teach others to reach outward. It is a quote from the film The History Boys, “Take it, feel it, then share it.”
September 16, 2003
Unmasking the makers of my mask
What I feel is weirdness, a spiritual awakening… visitors chasing shadows, and climbers scaling stones and boulders. I hear something—its identity covered and yet my imagination is being told to trust for the sake of my being is at risk. I fight with myself every day. I do all I can to battle the indifferences fed by anything that would make me not like me anymore. You might as well call me mentally challenged. They say I’m aware of everything, yet failure made me put it all on the surface. They say I’m higher than most reach, but I feel street level stupid. I refuse to let things conquer my soul, but still everything gets inside!
September 17, 2003
What have we really learned?
Dig deep; locate the sip of invisible nothing that’s fully capable of shoving me to my knees. I spend every day doing nothing but pushing forward—I’m getting away from a life I easily could’ve controlled, but chose instead to live. Risk is an addiction. Risk and chance are related, but chance has a higher level of succeeding. When I risk something, I’m already in motion. Taking a chance is more of a thought.
Interviewer: Did you risk or seek chances in your past?
I did it by knowing how high the Aids stakes were… I risked my life, I didn’t take a chance.
Interviewer: What do you feel?
I feel how stupid I was to put that kind of situation together. I deal with it every day! I’m angry with the person who I once was! Today, I live life to better see and feel all that this journey has to offer. Each lung full of air is risking the chance that another one doesn’t come. There’s too much life to live, and not enough time to step through it. That’s why we tend to go backwards—without a past, we haven’t the passion to fully explore the undiscovered destiny the imagination brings. Out of all the people who’ve lived, Christopher Columbus will always be credited for discovering America.
Learn to climb the ladder of your own ship—whatever spills out is for the world to hold. All that’s kept inside is what makes you the journeyman. Even if you never discover your true self, all not you but those watching for the opportunity, fill their lives with the music you can’t remember sharing. It’s within those hummed lyrics that time captured the harmonic whispers of touch and go.
September 18, 2003
What if?
I stare at the art, not out of conceit, but rather disbelief that it was created by me.
**note: Julia Cameron in The Artist Way best explains what silences the artist—lack of confidence, and the people that surround our desires to move forward. In her book Vein of Gold she teaches you to become creative beyond words. I was asked to bring life to a handmade doll. Rather than use normal means, I elected to use plastic fruit—an apple head, banana body, string bean legs and arms. Learn to be you while seeking the truth behind a passion to create. If you’ve lost hope in that department, I ask that you stop mowing your lawn, and purchase a painting for your living room. If you’re so convinced that you aren’t creative… then halt it all together. The challenge has been issued. Learn to step from your silence into an awaiting world of truly unique behavior and fun.
September 19, 2003
Seeking the blood of truth
I sit here and all I hold is nothing… it’s a feeling felt in the center of my stomach, a twisting, or a meltdown of a need to be creative. So, I pick up a writing instrument, and shove the soul into overload. I want my body to scream! I want to capture a mindset in the mood of motion. All too often seized anger lives out a brief moment, and then accuses everything of being in its path.
Take it from me, this hatred with no face—rivers made of a core, of a blood-like reminder of lives passed, and tempered until steel. Therefore, I carry it with me, at a side I cannot feel—for the gut tells me to run the opposite way. If it were to become the mindset, then what music will put me there? I see walls and cliffs, sandstone and thin paper, each are wired into place, ceiling fans creating my only wind, it lifts not the spirit of a dream, nor does it take from the beast. I wish to beat him until just I remain; only to learn that yesterday’s scars are only part of this year’s war.
September 20, 2003
Ode to Gene Simmons and Kiss
I won’t know how to react on the day something won’t feel right—gone forever, but not the memories. But was this the last time? This is not a negative, but a modern day reality. Nobody’s getting younger, not even the faces behind the paint. You can slim down and get tucked, but you can’t steal from the eyes what you borrowed to bring each song to life. I’ve seen it all before, twenty-six years earlier—I know how to react and will forever thank you for the good times. The albums, the 8-tracks, the cassettes, and compact discs… yet, the design of the face paint has always been the same—rock-n-roll all night and party every day.
**note: I saw Kiss for a ninth time… I’m not a Kiss freak, but rather a typical American male that grew up in the 70’s staring into the eyes of every poster and magazine cover wondering who the hec were these guys, and why such a mystery? They were my heroes! They were my lifestyle; they cleared the way for me to hide while still making a positive choice in being no one else, but me. Face it… Simmons is a marketing masterpiece. Love him, hate him, whatever the reaction, you can never take away the imagination he shared with the world—he didn’t have to do it! It’s you who decides to remain quiet. He elected to make a difference.
September 21, 2003
Until death do us part
When I’m not in the mood to write, I draw… if I can’t draw, I sulk while thinking about every reason why I should never stop changing. We live in a time many think is difficult to digest—things move too quickly, if you don’t keep up, all that is… becomes a was, which is why I write everyday… to prove I was here—if a mark isn’t left, then you’re forgotten. We are the masterminded un-professionals in control of the biggest corporation on earth… our self.
September 22, 2003
Recognizing loss
I became a prisoner of time—I was locked inside a clock with no freedom to set the alarms. I sold my soul to the clicks of the clock, so how do I regain control? Looking into the forest, no answer comes to me—therefore, I must go to it, to repair the origin of vision, to sit within its grip, and to do nothing more than just listen.
**note: I jokingly laugh when people wonder how I’m able to do so much in so little time without taking my eyes off how much time is spent working. Fear of failure has destroyed my life. No matter how much success one might have, there’s never a reason to celebrate. Losing Dr. Ronald Mack, Mark Jefferies, and my dogs Larry, Nicki, Woji, and Meisha were not methods of life I understood, nor did I want to be a part of. So I declared war on God, and his reasons to create and destroy life. Within moments, he grabbed me by the arm and took everything creative from the path I walked. One year to the day, and two hours shy of the hour… God gave back to me the very life He had taken—except that now I had a new role. It was to head the entire creative department of a major broadcasting company. I was no longer just a player… it was time to lead in the way of teaching people the importance of having faith in a plan, that doesn’t always come with answers.
September 23, 2003
Irregular heartbeat
For a brief second, I thought it was over—I spun, incapable of balance. I had become numb, and couldn’t tell if I was talking. I stood up but quickly fell down. I was no longer in control. I knew who I was and I knew where I was, but for a brief moment I thought I was dead.
September 24, 2003
Letters unsent to general mangers
I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. The bridges are weak as are the dreams that carry you. Hello! Are you listening or pretending? Your failure will cost us, not you—your decisions to weaken while trying to rebuild better walkways are nothing but a dictator’s ambitious way. You’re losing! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.
**note: Julia Cameron has a brilliant book called, The Artist Way at Work. Stronger businesses require team work, not one man shows governed by hidden desires to conquer what nobody else is trying. Jesus CEO from Laurie Beth Jones is another honest approach at developing skills to inspire the worker bees to want to build the same comb. When will people learn that Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards were teams?
September 25, 2003
A calling? No… a hobby
My worst mistake is having the ability to do, and do, then do, and do again, only to suddenly quit. Yet, I never think of painting a canvas as being a waste of time.
September 26, 2003
Researching other artists
Am I jealous? Of course! What if my mother had discovered these gifts rather than the self I became? If I only had someone to push me along! I’ve had to discover this imagination all on my own—do you really expect me not to get jealous of those who had support?
**note: The greatest songwriters of our current time come in teams of two—Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards, Bon Jovi and Sambora, and Elton John and Bernie Taupin. What if for one brief moment, God put us face to face with the energy source that could lead to unheard of chapters? Would we treat it like our government would a space alien? Would such a greeting be dissected to the point of killing what should’ve naturally blossomed into a wild rose? All too often we put too much dependency on those who raised us. It’s not their job to locate our fame. I love my mother dearly, and feel it’s because of her honest approach to each new discovery that she’s allowed to grow with me.
September 27, 2003
The skipped edge of disbelief
If I could concentrate on one thing, it would be my imagination—without it, I’m nothing but a follower. With it, life evolves into pictures that I’ll never be able to explain. If I could hold onto one thing longer than life itself… it would be the moment my heart asked, “Have you ever thought about drawing?”
September 28, 2003
We don’t suddenly become
As a kid, I knew in my heart that sips of something unique and unexplained would control my every step and decision made. My bedroom life was blessed with hours of singing, writing books, drawing dream houses, and falling deeper in love with a passion to create.
**note: Our nation’s greatest weakness is a lack of true faith in our teachers—those who have the ability to locate what makes something much bigger than a parental assumption. Children aren’t kids anymore; they’re investments in a future with frozen 401 K plans.
September 29, 2003
Oh well
Presentation is my pain—I paint inside books that are not ready to be read. Would God be mad at me if things changed? Would God be bothered by the willingness to stop giving away what originates from a soul belonging to him? That’s where the journey loses light—I only wish to be what God has allowed me to become. Part of being alive is holding onto wishes. Is it ok to whisper, to wish, to sit inside a dream? A gentle breeze, music, flowers, cuddling puppies… a wish, to set free, to place within a passing bird song—once out there, will it grow? Could it invite sips of sunshine, add blankets of warmth to an unknown passerby? I have a wish… one to call my own, in hopes of reaching cloud.
September 30, 2003
Just shut up and listen
My daily walk through heaven can’t be written about—not because I don’t believe, but the reader will think I’m just being poetic. They’ll accuse me of tossing colors onto a rainbow—when in reality; I’m only documenting the thoughts of angels of peace and angels of design.
**note: Prayer doesn’t mean we have to do the talking. All too often God sits back and says, “Whatever.”
October 1, 2003
To whom do I become?
I can’t just throw paint onto a canvas—I’m out to force your knees to buckle. My heart controls the final destination of imprint and impression—they meet somewhere nearby and discuss hidden steps before realizing that I went ahead without them.
**note: There’s no such thing as the perfect artist. God had fun messing around. Look at the duck billed platter puss and the giraffe. By allowing mistakes to flow, the essence of creation rests in how we accept what’s been delivered. Sadly, there are more judges then there are artists who believe in the spirit of creative flow.
October 2, 2003
Losing but not in the eyes of those I work for
I’ve let radio control me to the point of settling—I can’t find it in my heart to continue being anything except a jack of all trades.
Interviewer: Why so negative?
I seem to find myself touching the edge of something that could be great, and yet it never falls into a loophole of being unforgettable.
Interviewer: Who are you angry with?
I’m angry with myself! How could I let this life get away from me? How dare I let time steal every chunk of my ambition! I was gifted with drive until it became my addiction.
**note: The signals were there, and I’m shocked that only I recognized them as such. Hindsight proves not only how wise we are, but how weak we become in correcting the assumptions we live by. I was in trouble mindfully, spiritually, and physically. I knew the consequences of my personal mistakes, and could not locate a high to take me away. Therefore, I sat down and accepted life for what it is and isn’t, refusing to enforce the changes that would lead me toward a more peaceful tomorrow. The journey was a spiraling one man plane, and land was just two inches away. By September 2005, I had declared war on the very God that I had dedicated my entire life to. He could’ve taken my life, but chose instead to make me a teacher.
October 3, 2003
The completion of two paintings
The Statue of Liberty symbolizes the freedoms of a nation, and those who’ve sacrificed all to become part of our blessed soil. We weren’t a guaranteed the land of dreams, but rather a place where thoughts have become reality. Music can be sung out loud! Speeches, no matter how political can echo the strings of an origin, or push us deeper into the annals of tomorrow. This land is “our” land, the people of many races, colors, religions, and backgrounds. This is “our” land, led by laws and written documents that were brought to life to protect the very core of who we are as a people… not a person.
**note: As a writer, poet, and a citizen of the United States of America, I remain lost at the idea that Bin Laden felt that he was hitting into the core of our soul by knocking out the World Trade Center. I thank God everyday for Mr. Laden’s misguided instructions. I wouldn’t know what to do if he had chosen the most beautiful woman on earth.
October 4, 2003
Who are we?
A new day—a gift, handed to us through clouds. Fantasy set aside, we live it out one breath at a time. A new way, a fit, fists that smash through brick walls—reality is the chosen desire, is living it out without a single swagger. Painted, but there are no faces—it’s hard to tell reality from televised realisms, they make it look so simple, a total set up, and we’re made to believe it. We’re just living it out with a simple kiss, a sloppy one at that, to the forehead from a fuzzy baby—a dog… now that’s reality.
October 5, 2003
Some beg to differ
I’m not stuck between the lines, but I’m stuck doing the same thing over and over again. I don’t like people, and people don’t like me. I enjoy being alone, yet I feel alone all too many times. The sky can be blue, and so can my story—there I go again, trying to make it all about me. I wasn’t spoiled, but I’m guilty of being a stinky rotten wanna-be. I’m trying to be everything! But I’m not conceited.
October 6, 2003
Culture
Sports—barbaric attempts at being a man… giant cathedrals filled with sweat pouring from fans holding buckets of beer to cool them off. To achieve victory, one must learn to hate the other. For the ball is God, and those who make it work in their favor become heroes inside the American dream. It’s then that we learn that Bart Simpson isn’t getting any older.
October 7, 2003
It’s not about killing
My eyes are more open to all things that move—Karate has made me a better artist. I see that the body tends to flow, where at one point things seemed to almost stand still.
October 8, 2003
A way of life
Learn how to properly disarm, to better live the lifestyle that is governed by methods of incredible leadership, taught by the masters who once lived it. My first lesson for anyone is to locate freedom from judgment.
**note: You’re considered very lucky to walk the path of a black belt having only one master. Those who lead, live the life, too. And in most cases beyond their control, a master must walk away from the students they teach. I had now made the transition from Karate to Jujitsu. By far, two separate forms of martial arts, two completely different masters—hard versus soft. How well would I fare on this unspoken journey? The best news wasn’t that I held grudges against my origin, but rather I had an incredible peace for him, and his wishes to leave. My ambition was to step forward, and continue my education.
October 9, 2003
Multi-task thinking
What is it about people you meet in your dreams? They impact you with such force that you’re left wondering who and what they really were.
Life isn’t meant to be heaven on earth. We have great moments, but to every positive there is a negative to be endured.
I’m tired of asking God for help. He has bigger things to tend. I depend on the sun to rise. I want flowers to bloom. I want weeds to succeed.
October 10, 2003
I’ll do the shaping
My problem is simple—I don’t like to do pretty. I like to create in the way of too much depth. If my art were a puddle of mud, it would somehow make you think of an ocean. Too much is what I’m guilty of 99.9% of the time is, because chance and I look at each other and play truth or dare. Chance always wins! I get to take home the painting.
October 11, 2003
Over your head…maybe
What is meant to escape isn’t a battle but rather an agreement—invisibly; I shake hands with a non-existent replica of Gods gallery, from that meeting. Colors convince your imagination that life blooms roses inside the unsheltered depths of a secret darkness.
To take an empty white piece of paper and create something is a brave attempt at preserving the gift of air moving through your lungs—
October 12, 2003
Who am I really talking to? Oh it’s you!
Interviewer: Is your artwork marketable?
Some of it is… the early day material is a little off balance, but like all weeds in a field of corn, someone has to step forward with a bloom. Poetry isn’t what you see, it’s what you live. Writing is my paint. Paint is my handshake.
October 13, 2003
Male inside moments of pause
It doesn’t seem to matter how many chapters long life is… the child inside ignites when connecting to the passing of a fallen leaf. At forty-one I want to see the future, but lessons have taught me to back down and play it safe. The artist’s identity is barely seven years in age—my angels don’t match the circular evidence that is as often masked as events that even I can’t explain… yet, I write every day. Where are the books? Where are the beads of excitement associated by this drive to write? Who am I at forty-one? I know where I’ve been. I know what I’ve done. But in reality, what can I be proud of?
October 14, 2003
Control Alt Delete doesn’t work here
The first time I that dealt with abandonment, was the day my stepfather set free the pigeons that I had been raising. I didn’t trust them to return home. I was hurt! Yet, to see them fly openly and freely above my self pity created one of the most lasting pictures I have ever held. It was music in the shape of life. Suddenly I had a new found respect, not only for Joe, but for the birds that shaped my life in the way of flight.
October 15, 2003
Are you my mommy?
Many masks blanket my soul—fear of trying them on angers me. I choose to keep walking. My desire is to be more than a stick—I wish to hold the wisdom of seasons changed, only to learn that I’m no different than a nearby bush. I’m a junk weed resembling a tree, and some human wants to put me out of my misery.
October 16, 2003
My little dream comes true
My little puppy girl—the daughter of my soul… for no other has been able to reach that special little place that has the ability to make a daddy’s knees buckle. My little girl—an angel’s kiss directly from the sun… how you could be this incredibly beautiful; it so controls the spirit of my soul. I’d buy you the world, give you roses, sing to you, and make you laugh… anything! Whatever it takes! Just to feel your soft puppy kiss, my little girl.
**note: For sixteen years, I whispered nothing but thank you into her soft beautiful puppy ears. Did I know the amount of poetry that I wrote about her? If there is one commitment I invite anyone to make, it’s to write a thought a day… years fade, but ink captivates the soul of true love.
October 17, 2003
Insanity or mental poverty?
Time is something I don’t own or control—if the world could see me now, they would fall witness to something that’s very special—a poet sitting alone in silence. It is the scratching of a writing instrument nib loosening thoughts, and then pouring them onto paper. The rising of a new sun is hidden behind shades, and yet I trust it’ll be out there when I decide to arrive. Every day I dream. Every day I push to catch a falling star. Some days I do nothing but wish a little more, only to learn that every day is a new reason to pick up a few fallen pieces, and to continue recreating the constant flow of invisible energy. The greatest tool I carry is the ability to dream.
October 18, 2003
Practice at all costs
One day people will look at my sketches and travel along the very lines of music that once seeped into my soul.
Interviewer: Why so much focus on being an artist?
I love to dream, and art takes me through an open door. I’m nothing more than a baseball player who tries to hit the ball every day. Players learn to catch better and run faster, while bankers prepare to shake better hands.
What if? Could I? Will I? Andy Warhol guaranteed fifteen minutes of fame. I’ll take mine! And when it’s all over… will I just sit, or might I have enough passion to still listen?
October 19, 2003
Free falling is a pattern
Mentally, I’ve traveled a path without falling to a need of drugs or alcohol—but please believe me… I could very easily do it. Once I start, it’ll be the beginning of the end.
Interviewer: The term is you’re ‘stronger’… does that fit?
No…wiser. If I feel a low coming on, I do what’s required to get air back into my lungs. I create! I’ve learned through martial arts how to reconstruct the air that sinks into the soul via the lungs. Depression is no different than an attacker waiting outside a grocery store.
Interviewer: If you could run off, and be anything you want… what would it be?
Ask me on a different day.
October 20, 2003
Hopefully not over your head
I think I’ve hit the age where there seems to be a space between the generations—the young don’t want to participate, while the older ones do it to keep their jobs.
Interviewer: Are you stuck inside the infamous Change of Life?
No… I’m more in the middle of what went wrong. I honestly believe the change of life occurs when you officially decide that you can’t do anything to change the future, so you rely on the past.
Interviewer: If depression is a sickness, why don’t you fix yours?
I fear that my art will die. Art comes from experience; it arrives from negative vibes that I taught to become positive. Any line isn’t any thought—what bends are paths. We are guided through treeless trails, only to learn that your arms have been broken. A spine isn’t a nerve, not if it’s been shattered by your words. Art is found under your fingernails—it’s the junk you pick, and then spit out. Funny how laughter is based on relating—mirrored images of failure. You’re not alone… silence… I try to stop writing stupid things—a page that needs to be filled could very well be an empty glass. Memories are what we own; the future can be nothing more than a recess from reality.
October 21, 2003
Hiding in fear
What is depression? Is it the opposite of being open to feeling good? I can change moods and mindsets in a split second, but within its leftovers I’m hardened by a need to lean honorably in a direction of self rather than to all.
October 22, 2003
Listen to the wind
If there was a black wall, ten feet tall… I’d be standing in front of it right now. That’s how I feel! I can see so much… but I can’t figure out how to get over it. I’m disgusted with my time management abilities.
Interviewer: Now write something positive. Rather than put ample amounts of reasons to be sad inside this book, learn to seek something positive.
Are you asking me to be the actor?
**note: Winning is a choice. In doing research for this second book, I learned about the ways that each day started… usually negative. So in essence, I would wake up, grab a pen, and kick off a new morning sunrise being a jerk to myself. That doesn’t seem fair. In every step we take there is a positive. Don’t act out your emotions; live them out by putting forth the effort of being positive. In time, that energy will help convince you that letting that blue car make a left hand turn in front of you was only the beginning of a beautiful day.
October 23, 2003
Without
I carried your spouting off with me all day. I put it into the radio production I made. I put it into my martial arts studies. I couldn’t shake off your current class of unprofessional ways. You came into my office in hopes of ruling the kingdom—a simple thought, though I’m not the one you wanted to damper. I’m just the only one who was willing to listen. I’m the greatest actor you’ll ever meet… but let me forewarn you, I’m much better when given the chance to be real. You are an evil man with an overweight mouth—you physically think that you’re the new principal of the playground, when in fact you are no better than a huge bully. I’ve spent the past day asking my spirit guides and helpers to do nothing but help you with methods of peace. I shall stand back, and watch you grow.
**note: This letter was never delivered, yet by presenting it to the rest of my waking soul… the one part of this message that seemed positive was my decision to not lash out in reality, but to pray that he’d locate inner peace. He eventually did. To this day, the man this letter was intended for has become one of my mentors in life.
October 24, 2003
If only people knew
Please let go of me! It’s a dullness in my soul—an ill feeling of self disgust. It hit me so hard yesterday that I gave up and came home. I trust nobody, not even myself. I won’t cut my arms, but there’s alcohol in the house. I’ve entered a time where I want no one near me. I can’t figure this out! I’m lost! I spend too much time viewing reality. The teacher of dreams constantly scolds me, telling the imagination to look outward, not inside. There is no safe zone. I’m wide open for deadly judgment; my dreaming is nothing more than a reason to continue hating me. The day of I wish I could are over.
October 25, 2003
Unmasking what we’ve chosen to ignore
With this new sun, a layer of fog rises over the city—tomorrow it might be rain. What’s envisioned are the ingredients that make me gasp… if not left without air, how do you expect me to be left with the desire of bringing a piece of art to life? An artist must be moved! A morning blessed with a Carolina fog teases this aging soul—blanketed by depths of mystery, new steps appear by means of assumed perception, only to feed each growing thought with all that could have been and might be sacrificed.
October 26, 2003
Visions to which we can hold
I’m such a catcher! I’m the individual who allows all that is filled with life around him to control the steps of his every move. It’s probably perfectly natural, but I don’t want to be like anyone else… there’s only one me.
October 27, 2003
If but you only knew
The ink from this instrument stains the tips of these fingers—from the ink well the journey grows—even if I rub my knuckles on paper, I still see more than the average eye. Any mess I make grows wings. It allows the soul to feel as if it’s stepped outside to endure a few adventures of an elementary school playground.
October 28, 2003
Oh boy…
I hate this job more than my first wife—to admit this in public is a very dangerous game. To make one’s feelings publicly known leads to silence. I draw angles because it reminds my deepest angers of the opposite approaches there are in everyday life. I’m to look at whatever source of power is available, and make it more important than putting a razor blade inside the skin I grow.
October 29, 2003
Trying to believe
Anger—I’ve got gobs of it! I haven’t a clue as to where its source of energy is coming from. Do I blame my job? Do I blame it on myself? I work in a basement! I walk through dark halls. Is it the change of seasons? Has pushing the clocks back an hour affected me? Is it boredom? Am I going through the changes of life? I’ve looked into the eyes of and souls of many artists, and notice the one common bond of them is that our visions are what make friends and family leave us totally alone. There is a look that we carry, and only an artist can physically feel it, because we live it without choice. We are fully capable of feeling reality, and have a way to bring it into the world by means of better acceptance. Artists are people with sad hearts. We are music makers with a lot to share, and the first thing we have to do is locate someone who believes in us more than the artists we are.
October 30, 2003
The location of maybe why
I don’t need a cheerleading team, nor will I brag to anyone if my art is chosen to represent their idea. This side of my life needs to remain silent! Nothing hurts me more than having someone trying to cheer me on.
Interviewer: As a child you wanted to be a loner…
I knew life wasn’t going to give me riches, so I spent my time dreaming. Once school let out, I’d quickly run home. Then I’d go straight to bed just so I could dream. I loved music so much that my imagination created a personal stage. I belt those songs out loud.
Interviewer: Why did you stop being a musician?
It was due to my first wife and radio… the two most important chunks of chapters already written, led me away from what I assumed was my happiness.
Interviewer: Do you still like to dream today?
Only on paper—I fantasize about the art being recognized. I try to live out a life of reality, accepting all that’s bad first, and then whatever energy is left over… I try to give it away. Bring unto all a shadow of peace and all shall walk in harmony. Little bird, sing with me. Little butterfly, listen. Little bug, join in… little girl, this is for you.
October 31, 2003
Learning to display art without fear
As an artist, it’s but a dream to want to be selected not to hang on a wall, but to feel the eye meeting what used to be an empty canvas. I don’t care if you like it! For one second I had your attention, and that’s where success begins.
**note: The city held a contest for artists to design something that brought out the essence of travel by means of history. How could I deny my imagination the right to participate? It wasn’t about winning; it was more along the lines of saying, “I tried.”
November 1, 2003
Land of fantasy
For one brief second, I want to feel what its like to be someone other than the characters I’ve created. I am something right?
Interviewer: Are you going to be a famous artist?
My soul says yes, while my eyes say another thing. But we’re playing a game of lets pretend… so please, don’t steal from my high. My value isn’t the dollar amount… it’s work ethics.
**note: Dreams don’t end the moment you step away from being a child. Betsy Ross was in her seventies when she created the first flag of the United States. Grandma Moses wasn’t street slang or Hip Hop… she really was a grandmother. I question every step, because life is too short not to—from it; I’ve learned to be everything I can be by just believing. If we are live in the light of God, then I shall be as creative as a 24 hour day is willing to let me.
November 2, 2003
Without prayer I beg God
Today is one of those days when I’m not in love with my artist self—I don’t want to look at the paintings, and I don’t want to steer my way toward perfected color blending. I’m in the mood to let myself be stupid. From time to time, I wade between journeys, but in the end someone will look at my accomplishments and finally discover that being an artist is an addiction to life.
Time isn’t measured in my life unless I too am shocked at the evidence of I can’t being defeated by I could.
The only thing I want is to be accepted. I don’t want friends. I don’t require family. I want acceptance of what? To be accepted by no one except me.
November 3, 2003
Finally recognizing my depression
I have an empty feeling in my soul—a spirit guide has let go. A keeper hath turned. Looking toward my colorful forest, the view is that of, “What did I do?” Silently, she stares back at me knowing only the truth—in a whispered wind I am to step within, to learn more of what is to be taught…. and yet, I lack the trust to survive.
**note: Wouldn’t it be great if we knew the steps of depression weeks before they planned out our day? By writing everyday, you’re given a path to build, follow, recognize, or tear apart. Sadly, I knew nothing of these depressions until I researched them on this current date December 12, 2006. What if God gave us the power to reach back—would you change anything, or keep reaching to hopefully hold the hand that takes the shape of your own?
November 4, 2003
Born alone, die alone
The sad part is… I’m letting you affect me.
**note: Grandmaster YK Kim explains how the human being loves a great challenge, and wants to pull off incredible victories—our weakness is that we let others control the steps leading toward that destiny. The challenge should be with yourself, not by inviting others to the party. By winning others will follow. Learn to project a positive outcome without having to pick up on the mindset and mood of dreamers you can’t control. His words of wisdom are proudly displayed in the book Winning is a Choice.
November 5, 2003
Wisdom
I don’t want to start this day over… it may turn out exactly the way this one did.
November 6, 2003
Co-workers aren’t family
Anger sits on these shoulders—people see it, people are writing about it—I swear it’s only because I’m hurting. I don’t mean to fire off… have you stopped me to ask why? I’m expected to fake a smile… how’s this? Wait! I just giggled.
November 7, 2003
Dogs are God’s fuzzy angels
Mr. M stop licking me! Puppy kisses and writing don’t mix well. I can’t concentrate. And yet, I sit here kissing you back. Look at us! With Joey on the other side, we’re all a bunch of sick puppies. I’ve been gone too much. I miss you too! Please let me write without kissing. Oh, oh, Nicki just entered the room… now I have three puppies kissing me. I’m nothing more than an innocent dove protecting her nest.
November 8, 2003
Art resembles the paths we take
Negative feelings are part of the modern American way—we hold hatred and grudges for long periods of worthless time. We feel like willows incapable of blowing with the wind. We’re mountains of sand with no hopes of being the best view on the map. We trust no one by choice. We dislike everything due enormous amount of invisible abuse. Guess that’s ok… our personal mission in life can’t be changed.
November 9, 2003
Are we in harmony
Looking out my writing window, I see the flow of fall… leaves barely hanging onto a past they can’t change.
**note: Are humans the only animal or living thing that wastes its entire life worried about the limbs we once hung from? What if we let go? Would the fall injure the true purpose of our being? What if our journey helped to feed the next season? Is that such a bad song to sing?
November 10, 2003
Paranoid
When someone doesn’t feel secure, they carry with them the weight of departure. Abandonment is what shapes the destinations of lives set free.
Interviewer: You fear unemployment more than death…
Death is made up of memories, while terminating someone’s employment proves a point of a planned motion.
Interviewer: Why do you live your life like this? It’s not healthy to be this worried!
Living on the edge means dying on an unexpected corner. Change is every day. Change is of skin and clothing. Change can be predicted and scheduled. Change is all I have in my pocket. I invite change into my life. I extend the open palm. Although the heart shimmers and the soul duplicates its power… I am eventually left stronger while facing new surfaces to touch. If such strength is weakened, my legs will carry me… shattered, torn, and blistered, each dream I create is but a fantasy… reality is my failure.
November 11, 2003
Art show for Charlotte
I cannot sense the depth of what it’s like not to be a dreamer—the challenge isn’t to envision… for I am nothing more than a replica of what was once thought. You should never be afraid to step inside your dreams, and pull out whatever’s loose. A dream is what we cannot keep unless we use both hands and one heart to tug it into the realms of reality. Once here, it becomes God’s blessing.
**note: The competition was to locate a local artist who could capture the essence of traveled history in our big little city. To take what most hide in closets and book pages, and give it away was a challenge to myself to endure the true meaning of relinquish. I didn’t win the contest—but that’s ok… inside my heart I defeated fear.
November 12, 2003
My five Maltese
It’s like living inside a cartoon made of puppy tails and wagging wishes. I wish I could give them a writing instrument—what could they be thinking?
**note: Imagine a world where angels come to play, a song whose lyrics are easy to remember, or a mountaintop more peaceful than the journey getting there. Imagine being surrounded by five Maltese puppies with nothing more on their minds than to invite peace to the poet who lays claim on being the one called daddy. Julia Cameron taught me how to paint a room. There should never be silence in your pen; the world waits to hear the view of all that makes up the space around you.
November 13, 2003
You have the signs of cancer
When God wants your attention, he never screams… Your life is unlike a book; you can’t flip it over, and read what the critics thought. Nor can you page ahead to prepare for the unexpected. If I wake to see the wind pouring into the forest, I write about it so that those who found you to be unique may in fact carry the rest of your purpose toward a finish line of human success, and not bitter selfishness. If God wants me home today, tomorrow, or next week… I’m ready to give him all I’ve learned. A feather that which floats is homeless until located.
**note: You never think its going to happen until the doctor says, “Something’s not right, so let’s take a deeper more meaningful look.” Skin cancer at age 43…
November 14, 2003
If but for one second we listened to the wind
Part of gaining a sip of creative flow is allowing your imagination the opportunity to step off of the path. Put passion in the idea of becoming not just anybody… if that occurs, drop the plan, and move on.
I rushed outside to take digital snapshots of the rising sun! People have no idea what they’re missing! God shares it with us on a daily basis, it’s my heart you hear screaming for air.
November 15, 2003
It wasn’t your fault
Knowing what this life has delivered, it amazes me that God would plant paintings of angels inside the warmth of my canvas. When I think of human birth, it’s natural for most to assume it’s the most beautiful thing on earth—only to learn that I’ll personally never know it. Which is why God gave me art… it’s something that I’ll never understand, and when I do, I better be standing on heaven’s front lawn.
November 16, 2003
I’ve been here before
A whisper of wind, a game of lets pretend; a past made of paste—lick your fingers, and do it again. Life in the fast lane at K-mart, lights made of dreams… staircases leading upward, but there’s no place to go. I can’t vacuum the floor! Oh well… pop the top, and lets do it again. Sweet dreams, glazed eyes, hot or cold… time flies only to be lived out again and again.
**note: It’s as if we make the same mistakes, create the same conversations, meet, and have fun with the same type of people. To incorporate change, don’t we have to recognize the invisible things first?
November 17, 2003
Pick your battles
I call my addiction to paint a disease. I can’t let go! I go and go until it’s lost its entire purpose… only to learn something new has burped into place. Dear God, I haven’t the faintest clue. Something about thought—a dash of care… only to learn, I’m on a new page. Who Lord? Who am I supposed to be? I haven’t a clue… but I’m quick to blame you.
**note: Watch who you place blame on… there’ll come a time when the only friend you have will no longer stand behind your dreams.
November 18, 2003
I’m not a people loving person due 100% to a personal need to be left alone, and liking it. My imagination is filled with rainbows that are destroyed by the awaiting of judgment.
Interviewer: What are you doing about this?
I accept the daily arrival of failure.
**note: This isn’t a pity party, nor should you create one. The best way to handle people who visibly take advantage of your gift of creative flow is to stop offering it to them. It’s absolutely the greatest feeling to be needed, until the day arrives that everyone that you perform for wants it at the same time. Creative suicide is based solely on your availability. Read Julia Cameron’s The Vein of Gold. Put value in what you bring to this world. Once you’ve achieved it, you’ll start protecting what really counts… you.
A signature paints for me nothing, but an ego trip based solely on a need to let everyone know that not just anyone shook their hand. Today, this day, I thank you 100%, for I am who I am, and you choose to accept it.
November 19, 2003
No “c” word in my bad health
I think this is God’s way of saying, “Learn to love life, and try not to give away every gift given to you.”
**note: I often wonder if doctors are paid to scare people. Do they feel an overpowering need to speak of the things that bring fear to the masses? Might it be that they require truth in their steps taken forward which makes it easier for those involved to digest, if something shouldn’t be right? The cancer scare was real—now that I was cleared, it was time to appreciate what little time might be left. Every day is Christmas… it’s a gift, live like it.
November 20, 2003
Less we worry the more life there is to live
We enter this life fighting to win the opportunity to come back tomorrow—these are the reasons we dream, it’s God’s greatest natural drug. At 41, I look at the morning horizon never assuming it’ll be here tomorrow. The fact that it shows up outside my writing window is proof dreams come true.
November 21, 2003
Another art contest lost
For the love of God, the greatest feeling for an artist is getting the opportunity to add color to another person’s rainbow. One day, I’ll stand inside the shadowed corners of a true gallery which features my works brought to life by a writing hand. Until that day, I paint every morning at sunrise.
The most beautiful piece of art is the one created then left to hide… upon its discovery, tingles left by the arts are still located in its colors for you to hold.
**note: The more I tried to donate my art to the growing story of Charlotte, NC, the more I heard the word, “No.” Which is I believe is the reason why I fell out of love with the city. You think it’s tough hearing your mom or friends wonder why you waste so much paint on canvases so white? Try sharing your creative passions with a city that you once held the highest honors for. Julia Cameron needs to place a new chapter in The Artist Way… beware of art groups and decision makers who feel a higher need to support the already famous. What you love more than life isn’t always a reflection in a mirror. It was my dream to bring rainbows to the shadows so often painted over, only to learn that those with the same vision had bigger names to hang on the walls of newer buildings taking shape. My art went silent until the early chapters of 2006. That’s when a total stranger stepped forward and opened doors for the injured artist to walk through. My first show in a true gallery was December 1, 2006 thru 31st at Original Art in Concord, NC. Try and hide, but God will eventually find you.
November 22, 2003
It’s not about the presence of gifts
Listen, hear the wind? Sounds of change… whispers—leaves of yellow and reds, mornings chilled by clear skies, thoughts of ice cubes, memories of tires spinning—here we go, winter is near. Late morning sunrise, early afternoon moon shadows—hot cocoa scents the air while Christmas seeps into my skin. Listen, it’s almost here… another reason to share.
November 23, 2003
When God picks us up
It sickens my soul knowing how numb I can be to things that once seemed so important, and yet I won’t toss out the junk that brings the most pain.
We are given no choice—drug abusers and alcoholics suffer slowly, while travelers can easily become whispers of wind that barely make it into a whistle. A tree could fall, a small spot on my face could explode, and an ice storm could coat the wings of a butterfly putting all ambitions on emptiness. Unlike the solar system of stars above us, we may never shine.
November 24, 2003
Just one of the rest
How many people can say they’re spending Thanksgiving in Hollywood? I’m not bragging! I see it as a modern day fantasy… so close to where the world dreams, and yet far enough away to keep my focus on all things that are real. It’s a reason to paint new thoughts—a place to burp up a new inspiration… my only goal is to reach up, and touch it then hand it off to the nearest passerby.
**note: I constantly meet writers and poets who instantly become disappointed when their energy source seemingly becomes silent. Learn to share what you’ve been given. Ten people flying to Los Angeles for the holiday—trust me; all ten have different experiences to share. One of them could be carrying the message meant for you to hold.
November 25, 2003
Learning to breathe
The only thing I can do is to sit back and let it hit me, but never allow it to enter into me. Lungs that remain empty feed a lifeless brain. To attain the ability to surface to the levels of unexpected creative flow… build not with your cold heart, but with the tools provided by the air aimlessly walking around you.
**note: We all do it! We spend too much time worrying about the after effects of an effect that hasn’t taken place. Learn to breathe. Change only what you have the ability to control.
November 26, 2003
Los Angeles bound
A pen isn’t an instrument of words and phrases; it’s a brush stroke away from entering the realms of what could make you happy.
Some of my best art has been presented to me while flying thousands of feet above the surface of the earth in an airplane. Up here, the angels are still invisible, and yet time doesn’t stop them from tapping me on the shoulder.
The majority of my time on earth has been spent dreaming… followed by the act of picking myself up after things didn’t come true.
November 27, 2003
Met a new artist
My heart asks me, how is it those who’ve gained wall space got there. Who shall be the one who takes what I create, and hang it above famous names and or ex-presidents of the United States? I too can dance with rainbows—then why is this art so silent? I see galleries of playfulness and miles of technique, but when does it become the original? When does the artist no longer say, “It’s mine?” Even if I did… a giant thorn from my soul would be attached to everything hanging. I know the art by its scent. I feel its depth through experience. Why then, does it sit in books? It begs to one day be famous.
**note: While in Los Angeles, I met up with the works of Michael Hall, and was completely blown away by his ability to blend paint and music. The gallery wrote: It’s difficult to create uniqueness in our society. That single thought changed my life forever.
November 28, 2003
God rested on the 7th day I can’t locate
My mind is always at work… it’s an addiction to completion. Work until you drop, or quickly get to the end so that you can get more. No mountain is too tall. Therefore, every project is worth attacking.
**note: Each twenty four hour period is a gift from God… to sleep through it is nothing more than turning my back on his willingness to share.
November 29, 2003
Screaming without words
My hands are the vomit—my ink the cancer… no mirror captures my face, for no mood is ever the same. I wish all too often that this artful way would end; only to learn that time doesn’t stop, either.
**note: I’ve never been proud to be an artist. It’s a sickness I can’t control; therefore I’m forced to live with its energy, and many times the lack thereof.
November 30, 2003
The chapters before Mia
It was the final time that Lee held her grandchild inside the womb of her daughter—a time that will one day be shared with a child, who’ll never understand the methods of giggles parents share during their bouts with memories. I believe so much in God’s way of making time move, but it takes the human hand to rebuild a simple thought that can instantly shoot you back to the shadows that make up rebirth. I can’t push what God doesn’t want to exist, so each memory is a reflection of his greatest gift… life in every shape that it’s allowed to travel through in becoming.
**note: I lose my breath each time we meet… something so tiny, and I remember every day before she arrived. One day maybe she’ll recognize the travels of those who were with her at the creation of a simple seed.
December 1, 2003
God sent innocence
On the airplane back from Los Angeles, a woman watched as I sketched a thought. Openly, she admitted to falling in love with the angel having a child. I was very embarrassed—such an occurrence had never taken place—someone physically watching a piece come into being. I instantly dubbed it a doodle. My sketches are the mirrored image of not the imagination, but the soul penetrating existence. The very second I’m gone, so is everything attached to it—unless it’s been discovered. All I’ve ever wanted out of life is to open the door to an innocent creation. Believing in them requires an art of patience, which allows a passerby to stop by for a scent of ink in use.
This is the original painting and the completed painting… its origin stretching back to a flight across America. The second angel was taken out due to a backlash of criticism based on how angels can never be pregnant—to which I replied, then you never saw my daughter Jenny.
December 2, 2003
Locating something positive
There are shadows—dreams about trails, mountain like streets that end—a back road filled with oceans and rivers, and animals with giant fish heads. I remain calm. I mean to dream of a tiger with a fish head. That can’t be that wrong. I saw zebras and lions! But only in a dream could something such as this exist, especially since I met a frog with a chicken’s beak. How unique! Shhhh, don’t tell anyone, for I am having an insane way of beginning my new day.
**note: Journalizing on a daily basis paints many pictures, which many don’t recognize until they return several chapters later. As writers we have a choice… turn nasty foul moods into fortified bouts with self hatred and anger, or become playful in the way a child would giggle. If you exercise your ability to write daily, your attitude will change… learn to be truthful to yourself by recognizing the symptoms of self abuse… your chosen statements will evolve right along with the words that make you feel invisibly fun.
December 3, 2003
Beyond religion
The full affects of all lessons learned will be unveiled in chapters held several paved highways from this dirt path on which I walk.
December 4, 2003
Explain who you are to the next generation
We as a nation are poisoned daily by the greedy Corporate American lifestyle. Prove to me that we aren’t slaves to the power of money. Prove to me that we aren’t mentally beaten and bloody. When people look at me they ask, “Why do you spend so much time working?” The only answer available is, “At least I’m working.”
**note: Our personal wants, needs, and desires through everyday life have turned each of us into addicted beings—there are coffee houses on every corner, and powerful sports drinks waiting for you at the convenience store coolers. I fear the eyes of those who are tired, for their next step could be that of possible danger. It isn’t about drinking and driving anymore. It’s called auto-mode. We point the car in the right direction believing that we’ll make it home just in time to wake up for another day at the shop.
December 5, 2003
Becoming open
My heart and soul are open to all travelers—it scares me to think that a gathering of souls are waiting to be located in a mass grave under a house turned duplex.
**note: What we dream affects everything… the Laws of Attraction is fed by unidentified measures of fear versus wants and needs. What we see behind closed eyes baffles the majority, or is easily placed aside as behavioral nightmares. As a writer, I document every dream in hopes of one day writing mysteries. Teach yourself to listen to the future; learn to catch it before it gets here.
December 6, 2003
Once inside
I barely found my finger prints placed softly upon your lips. We had become frozen while slowly embracing within the hand sketched depth of an ice fog. My eyes, your sighs of comfort, our music and a midnight stroll through London, and yet neither of us noticed Jack the Ripper.
**note: The things we miss in life are often lost forever due to accusations that could’ve easily been forgiven… we choose instead to fight, therefore love is lost. No wonder the divorce rate is over 50% in this country! To be human means make error. To sharply accuse and never forget is no different than collecting weapons of mass destruction.
December 7, 2003
The most dangerous game to date
I brought my paints to work—can rainbows exist here too?
**note: To exceed the limits of openness requires nothing from those you work with. Neither man nor woman is strong enough to endure what lies ahead, if they have set aside their shields—therefore they now stand almost naked in the way of saying, “Beat me until I’m dead.” To bring my canvassed art to another side of this life (radio) capsized the guarded gate. I now presented two reasons for co-workers to criticize. I was now a step closer to career suicide. 80 paintings were brought to life inside my recording studio. The goal was to live off the energy of creative flow. It destroyed me.
December 8, 2003
Something or someone is speaking to me
I honestly believe the arrival of Jenny’s baby will change my life. The child she holds inside her womb adds light to the corners of my darkness.
**note: A message to stepfathers; don’t let such titles keep you away from experiencing the elements that which surround the continuation of life. Live through the eyes of your stepchildren, and hold nothing but love for those who shall call you grandfather.
December 9, 2003
The echo’s we ride before the storm
Time gets tighter, not a sip to borrow. It’s on the edge I sit, wondering who it’ll be that’ll push. It’s hard to keep time, when control isn’t part of the plan. Invisible seeds of emptiness invade the journey’s tree creating circular ringlets of hope. It’ll be but for only a moment as the days turn into months, and I’m dong nothing but just filling in. I can’t sit alone and let life happen—I elect to chase it to keep from being enslaved. The nightmare of failure is nothing more than my modern fear.
**note: It came to me the other day March 29, 2007; Success is located in being in the right place at the right time—therefore I spend every second of everyday being everywhere. There can be no failure in my steps taken forward—I didn’t try to be successful, I lived out each day knowing I found success by being an inch closer.
December 10, 2003
Dear Derek and Tony
I’m not one to confront, my most violent way is through the art of silence.
**note: It took just three days for me to invite peace to co-workers who criticized my creative efforts. To hear them accuse the artist of putting paint before radio presentation, was nothing more than placing razor blades back on the artist’s wrists that he vowed to never raise. Two sharp attacks in one day. In looking back, I survived the most brutal verbal examples of lack luster ways to lead. As much as I wanted to let them steal my art… to make me go away by means of silence wasn’t powerful enough to end my reign. It would be two years later for me to finally commit career suicide. The lesson learned is, don’t raise your cup in honor of those you work with—camaraderie comes with a price most can’t afford. Julia Cameron’s book The Artist Way at Work will open your eyes in the way of learning how to place the evil ways of others onto a more peaceful, newer beginning.
December 11, 2003
Conditioning
If I don’t change things, the tendency becomes a reason to pick out why I hate. Who has time for that? So, I push forward.
December 12, 2003
The forbidden garden
Interviewer: Why aren’t you close to your family back home in Montana?
I think it’s, because nobody pushes me to make it work. Turning to my left, sleeping peacefully are the heads of puppies whose warm love touches me every day. I miss them even while I’m with them. Life doesn’t share… you take from it like you pick fruit from a tree. When empty, you move forward.
December 13, 2003
Physical evidence with no way of changing a past
Who am I fighting other than the self I refuse to ignore in the mirror? Silent anger destroys any need to pick up after yourself. I hear nothing, not even the depth of my thoughts. Who am I at forty-one? Who do I want to be at forty-one? For the first time in my life the answer is nobody. Why fight to pretend when fantasy is just as unfair?
December 14, 2003
Chunks of history my generation will forget
Saddam Hussein is captured. Unlike WWI and WWII we have captured a king. My heartfelt instant compassion—not only for the people of Iraq, but for the killer of many by gases that were sucked into their innocent lungs—my compassion is based solely on the sense of forgiveness governed by the Christian God, and his son Jesus Christ. Anyone who steals the life from the soul of another should be looked upon as being dead himself—at that point, they should be buried alive to endure the battle between Heaven and Hell.
December 15, 2003
Turning cheeks
Someone will ask in the years that follow, what it was like in America when Saddam Hussein was captured—while WBT went wall to wall with their coverage, the NFL continued with no delays. Morning radio shows asked the question, “Whose mug shot was the worst, Glen Campbell, Michael Jackson, or Saddam’s?” Mentally, the nation is exhausted. Quite possibly, for the first time in eight months, we might get some sleep.
December 16, 2003
Do you cut anymore?
I often wonder if martial arts replaced the slicing—both deal with releasing pain. I live with a daily desire to cut… you can’t be cured, because the personal need to feel is a constant rush… which would explain why I put myself in situations that upset people… so I can feel pain… whatever the shape!
December 17, 2003
The journey forward
So much time passes inside a twenty four hour day—history bleeds from its pores. I stand here knowing that life is a bus, and I can’t seem to afford the toll. Rivers made of seconds, bridges gapping judgment, and paint brushes that stroke rather than articulate. I keep whispering, “I can do this… just watch me.” Only to ask, “Who am I?” All roads lead somewhere, but anywhere is what becomes—knowing this, I rest only to learn.
December 18, 2003
I follow but only the right way
Most who celebrate the child’s birth are more lost today about the importance of that day than those who lived in Biblical times. I find it difficult to believe that Jesus wanted us to spend billions of dollars at the final moments of every year. This is not to steal from the giving spirit that he presented, if you truly are who you celebrate in being… then bring more people to God. I’m not against the celebration of Christmas… I’m for its observance 365 days a year. Learning to share on a daily basis echo’s a peaceful soul, and not a Target bound soccer Mom vowing to get the next Playstation.
December 19, 2003
Trying to become silent
Even as a child, I walked the edge… how I got here is the biggest mystery.
**note: On December 13, 2003 I elected to pull off my biggest protest—to go silent with my art. To shut down not only myself, but the rest of the world from gaining access to what’s creative. My daily journals speak of being behind closed doors, the body aches; I lack focus and continue to have a difficult time putting trust in those chosen to lead me in martial arts. On the morning of the 20th, I elected to put myself on trial; to ask the sharp questions of why I was allowing peoples’ opinions to govern the unhealthy lifestyle of trying to turn art off. The writer was the first to take note of the negative vibrations created by a selfish act of silence. His words were to the point, “This is hurting nobody but me.”
December 20, 2003
Don’t let me win this war
Do I paint? What will it mean? Am I so addicted to art that people don’t like me? Do I paint? I’m getting meaner. Is it part of the withdrawals of an addiction? Coming clean! “End the silence!” I scream, “If not for me, than for the next generation!”
December 21, 2003
The signature
Shall I sign them on the back? I say no! How will anyone know? Shall I paint my signature in the corner inside the black? I say no! What if I ruin them? My signature is just as important! It’s mine! Radio belongs to everyone else—but this is my imagination. Sure I’m stuck on this that self I am… so I challenge you to do the same—bring to life just one thought, and put it into paint.
**note: Signing a piece of art is more important than the landscape of colors. Ask anyone why they purchased a Peter Max, or why sports collectors make millions off baseballs and shoes. I put more pride in making sure the signature is properly balanced within the shapes and shadows. If it looks off key, it’s quickly repainted, and we start again. Learn to put pride in the only self you truly are. It’s not ego, it’s that invisible feeling that makes you wanna keep sharing your visions with an awaiting world.
December 22, 2003
Gods little whisper
Whoa! Did you see that? Miss Coo Coo just laid an egg standing up! I was set to write not so positive thoughts, and out popped something that went clunk! It’s a white dove egg, a true creation. It’s nice to see God hasn’t forgotten about me.
December 23, 2003
Question in the name of self study
Why go outside, when reality bites like the wind? It’s a cold northerly flow of un-spirited growth, a storm of miscalculated guesses which prove nothing… for nobody is my “favorite” friend.
**note: In the thoughts that followed the quote above, I wrote that any success I endure is based not on talent or having a gift… but rather a connection to failure. In Tae Kwon Do, Master Todd Harris doesn’t see failure, but rather “learning”. We have winners, and we have learners. By being honest enough to write what I fear, the choice was to learn more about the artist in doubt. This isn’t a self driven life we lead… each of us portrays a lyric, and to my knowledge, even if it’s jazz… not one single note can withstand a four minute prelude. It takes the lessons we learn to create a full orchestra.
December 24, 2003
Are you my mother?
An artist sees with a vision unmatched by what the eyes deliver. I can stare nonstop into a masterpiece, knowing it may take several years before it falls back out of me. I’m nothing more than a poet attempting to catch his balance.
December 25, 2003
Losing faith
I struggle with each passing day. I am me! It’s me in the mirror, me who writes every day, and yet I remain unperfected. Like most who write, I am silenced by comparisons. I write with a passion that I can’t control. Sixty seconds of my thoughts could last longer than a generation of photographs.
**note: To go back and read about the sadness that consumed the creative spirit, still has the strength to sicken the soul. Rather than hate the people who put me in this place, I admit to growing wiser by allowing forgiveness to act as my guide, and believing that without it… there will never be peace.
December 26, 2003
Who was I trying to be?
There’s a dead spot in my soul, and I need to locate it. It’s a place of silence and cold—like that of an empty forest, long stems pointed upward, with not a leaf to dry, nor a morning dove to listen. It’s a dead spot in the center of growth. I sit waiting to hear what’s missing, only to learn that something is nothing. There’s a dead spot in my soul, at least until I reach the other side of this paper.
December 27, 2003
Putting focus on the unfocused
It’s a mindset… as long as I keep pushing forward, a fifteen plus hour day feels no different than a normal adventure.
Interviewer: When do you slow down?
I’ve heard that my entire career. My mother taught me to never let laziness get in the way of accomplishment.
Interviewer: Will you be like your Grandpa Bakken, and die while working?
I put myself through each workday to humble every step taken—it’s a constant reminder of where I could end up if I suddenly stop. The reason why I can do so much has nothing to do with talent… my strength is in believing that something bigger and better is resting on the other side of that wall.
Interviewer: What do you have to show for this work ethic?
I have several black books filled with my handwriting.
**note: I once put razor blades in my arm to release pain… now I get cramps in my writing hand.
December 28, 2003
Unrecognized evolution
My spiritual flow is gone—no birds sing to me, no winds get my attention, and the forest contains no impact. I feel as if I’ve become a homeless man waiting for his next bottle of life—the highs are incredible, yet what got me here is number than death.
**note: The personal life was nothing but accusations, the radio career was a blatant lie, and everything in martial arts continued to fall onto an unprotected floor. It was almost too easy to search for other ways to get high. It’s not about drugs, alcohol, sex, or a cut on the wrist… the foundation required was me putting my faith in a physical leader. Most would strongly suggest God, or any other spiritual being. I believe there comes a time when human behavior needs to be accompanied with the help of an open palm, and not words painted on pages several chapters thick. That’s when you recognize God’s plan for other people. He puts them in your life. All you have to do is drop the ego act, and open the door.
December 29, 2003
No different than you
Interviewer: Are you looking for inspiration or influence?
I’m searching for a purpose, a realm of something that screams me.
**note: How far does one travel in life, only to realize it’s not about them?
December 30, 2003
Relentless depression
Interviewer: Who are you right now?
Beaten, weakened, unrehearsed, and trampled—I know what hasn’t been accomplished, and holding onto these daily writings leaves nothing more than a gap in my soul—an endless amount of invisible pain that can’t be identified. I’m a thousand people right now.
December 31, 2003
Corporate American sex
There’s too much to do, and not enough space to attain accomplishment.
**note: Facts, figures, research, goals, deadlines, and bottom line numbers serve only one purpose—each give God another reason to call you home sooner than later. Surviving corporate takeovers, cut backs, and or your job has been outsourced; you’re physically expected to keep up with an invisible demand set by people who’d fail pointing the finger at you during an official police lineup. It’s not about survival in 2007… we’re already dead waiting for a decent burial.
January 1, 2004
Wow…another one!
This day like any day, represents nothing more than just another day—why we celebrate it worldwide symbolizes the importance of ending something, while gaining access to the inner spirits of moving forward.
January 2, 2004
When your kids have kids
A chapter is to be written—a journey to live through and by, for what is to become is to forever be cherished as the result of nothing more than true love. Enter into this world the child shall—adding to it the inviting warmth of smiles… life becomes more beautiful when creating a continued story, one that shall be as natural as change.
January 3, 2004
Separate places at one time
Vivid dreams are movies brought to life by a need to move creatively forward. A restless mind builds pictures that hold no purpose other than to recreate karma.
Somewhere along the way, a child will soon step within the world. Be it a boy or girl, the next chapter shall be written. Several miles away, this child will live where buildings and valleys will separate us. In time, if fate has its way… the missing chapters will bring us together, again. Somewhere along the way, the child will grow and learn to speak—their stories will carry family values and tradition. Their dreams shall be set by the means of a father whose love for life is endless—for this child will be made of nothing but strength, ambition, and courage…be it a boy or a girl, the chapters, they shall be written.
January 4, 2004
The birth of a child must be soon
My newest painting is that of two white doves holding the purest form of family and love—the colorful sun signifies the warmth of our creator, each color a representation of every sunrise and sunset to be witnessed within the chapters soon to be written. I look into a future and wonder how long a second will last, once the air leaves what was once my final thought. Is God like Frank Lloyd Wright, spending centuries training believers? Make happy ones! Make tall ones! Make many who think too much! When a page is dropped, does anyone reach to pick it up? There is silence… two angels looking upward to whisper nothing more than the lyrics of their favorite pieces of music. Their eyes never meet, nor do the tears sliding down their individual slopes of love.
This painting was brought to life 24 hours before Mia Violetta was invited to make her dreams come true on this giant blue marble called earth.
January 5, 2004
We welcome Mia
6:49 am these thoughts were written… Mia was born a few hours later
A white dove arrives late in the afternoon sharing its perfected soft songs—its lyrics are blessed with the arrival of a new child. The parents are filled with joy, a blossoming of a new kind of love, one that can’t be easily explained, and yet each would die protecting it. The arrival of the child, symbolic in the way of spring love, a flower blooming inside a California sunrise, only to slowly evolve into the fruits the rest of the world impatiently waits for. This child shall become her own leader, whose values were and will be set on the maps given to her at the moment of birth… slowly she’ll grow knowing her dreams shall be protected by the man called father.
**note: As a writer, you often blend thought into presentation, a sight all too often seen by the eyes belonging only to you. To have a place to return to, to vividly go back in time, and read about how this child effected her step relation are emotions that can’t be recaptured unless you took the time to capture it with a pen. To read about the arrival of Mia put me back there, something pictures fail to do. Learn to trust yourself in the way of bringing light to the pages that will one day be nothing more than a memory you’ve grown tired of chasing.
January 6, 2004
Unexpected new beginnings
I’ve just learned Dr. Mack’s kidney cancer has turned for the worse… the whisper, not words, is only a passing between the clouds. The creator calls back while pushing forward—the lessons of love post marked by gifts of sharing. The whisper tells me what God meant by this, not words, only pictures we call memories.
January 7, 2004
The simple touch of a new canvas
Take my hand oh Lord, and lay it upon this canvas—let the flow of a creative river carry each thought to an ocean, to do nothing but inspire a true smile. Let it be art! Let it be filled with rainbows that curve and be blessed with butterflies that sing out in unevenly paced harmony. Let there be angels with giant wings blessed with colors so vibrant that they echo your name. We are the children of this world, so often darkened by the shadows of doubt. Please Lord; let this rainbow give us light.
January 8, 2004
As to whom is this written for?
Look down at my hands, and ask them what it took to put thought into motion—a pen scraping across a canvas, a sun filled with mist as it overflows its energy in places where shadows once played. Mind not the old man sitting nearest the tree, the odd thing about him is his ability. Nobody ever liked him. Nobody tried to help him. They threw things at him, only to learn that he had true value. Now they want to call him friend. Take your fingers, and rub them lightly over each page… I see things, do you? I hear whispers of wind haloing over skyscraping dreams, what do you hear? What if I could pen out the invisible? Might you visit longer than just a moment? You can paint in the places where I don’t hear music. And yet, this paper hasn’t changed, nor have your fingers stopped slowly sliding across this existence of my imagination. I keep turning my back to you, only to learn you’re still following me.
January 9, 2004
Why do we do what we do
I have thoughts of an unsettled lifestyle to which I can’t relate with, and yet I often accuse my paper chewing on once being a hobo. I’m either headed toward an un-favored time, or somewhere within the unwritten chapters of karma… I’ve been kept alive by this ability to chew on odd things such as paper.
**note: Was I a goat? Might I have been the earth attempting to swallow man’s trash? I chew on paper as if it were food, like some chomp into pens, play with their hair, or shop till they can’t spend anymore. Vices are human nature… accepting them is spiritual growth.
January 10, 2004
Be the junk collector
Art isn’t new to me… if you were to tour my childhood home, proudly displayed on that bedroom wall is a signature I did at the age of three. I call it my first work of uniqueness.
**note: While in school, Cher practiced signing her name over and over knowing there would one day be fame. My radio career has always been blamed on Eric Clapton—he picked up the guitar, I chose to put focus on the elements between the records. You’re born creative… some wait a lifetime to locate the passion to present it to the rest of the world. Which has got to be the reason why artists are worth more dead… it’s as if they were discovered too late.
January 11, 2004
Maybe one day
I write today, so I can write better tomorrow… therefore the original canvas doesn’t have to be the final piece of an amazing rainbow of expressions. You can’t compare works of art! That’s why I never put a date on them. The way I deal with lumps of criticism is by making sure I leave no crumbs to follow. The only type of fame I search for is reaching out to become a man who seemingly is very much down to earth.
January 12, 2004
Ode to a mentor
The decision to reacquaint radio with entertainment is a bold step toward preserving what listeners have always taken for granted—free radio. This modern day form of communication is very expensive and fully capable of holding its own—although it seems broadcasters have fallen from their perches. The new talkers and performers are used car salesman, stand up comedians, bankers, magazine writers, and the unemployed. I applaud Rick Jackson’s current world—not because he’s turned his back on well trained announcers, but he’s got the guts to look further into the future, protecting the elements that make up what a true radio person is… a path maker. A thought ignored is a dream lost. If a step forward or backward is taken, the gift to entertain is one not taken away by syndication, but by the radio station GM’s who’d rather play nothing but music.
January 13, 2004
Dear God
I’ve become deaf to music’s purpose. The same songs are played a thousand times—only to learn I probably have the same habits.
January 14, 2004
To one day be a martial arts master
There are ends to every day… make the effort to put commitment into every step to lead.
January 15, 2004
Recognizing the roots of self evil
I find total enjoyment in trying to figure out which end is up. How do we know it’s the right direction? As humans, we do nothing but wallow in a past that can’t be changed, which means the future doesn’t have the strength to get better. I believe in the theory get what you can, something is better than nothing. Rather than be happy, I sit around doing nothing but complaining.
January 16, 2004
The reincarnation of Rome’s fall from grace
We currently live in a modern society based on charging what you can, or turning off the luxury. The way we live is a disaster! The way we borrow and spend sends a reflection toward a generation that two hundred years from now will be forced to pay the price.
January 17, 2004
Mama did you ever think I’d see the change
It’s time to start gathering everything that’s “not” been my life, but been part of my life. I’m not reaching back to hold onto a past, it’s time to prove one existed.
January 18, 2004
Captured depression
When the pen goes silent—eyes lock, the mind journey’s numb to what’s to become. I’m no longer here. Try and write! Document this disappearance! Sip it slightly… for the fear of losing control is like living with the devil. The pen has gone silent.
January 19, 2004
When ratings aren’t enough
What we try to do as broadcasters is carve out what could be the “one” thing listeners can’t live without. Will they purchase this hot new idea satellite radio? Those of us in the industry realize, it’s no longer cool to drop needles on albums, so what we face is a much greater escape than Harry Houdini’s. There’s physically nothing for those who’ve chosen to stop by for a sip of entertainment.
**note: I entered the game in late 1979—disco was dying and hip hop hadn’t been revolutionized. Radio would soon see its biggest most complex changes, from something as simple as the compact disc to computers physically running the entire operation. There are morning shows that reached farther than Wolfman Jack’s XERF, and a listening audience who had the power of choice—Ipod, cell phone, and everything else that would shove our art completely off their beaten path. So, how do you get them back? Should we put more focus on the incoming generation who still loves music, but has a thousand ways to get it? Will every car one day feature a connection to the World Wide Web? Will computer chips put forth the effort of you think it, you sing it? It’s a blood bath that constantly spins in ways that resemble already written chapters, yet the egos in control spend valuable time and resources attempting to reinvent the wheel. Everybody wants to be remembered for something…
January 20, 2004
My eyes dart across the room like a squirrel being hunted down by a car—every thought generated is poured into a glass of whatever tea. I can’t be expected to do it all! Yet, I’m the one challenging this self to at least attempt it. I’m a bird trapped in a cage! They buy me toys, I eat the best seeds, but do I look happy? I’m an artist with no vision whose ability is to run and hide… but they keep finding me.
**note: Being a work-a-holic is no different than a drug abuser—you sacrifice it all to catch a glimpse of an incredible high. Twelve years at one company earned me incredible amounts of vacation days that I never took. Hindsight reminds me, that the mind’s ambition needed space to grow, and I elected instead to get stoned.
January 21, 2004
The self guarantee
It’s the Karate way…. Mind, body, and soul are steps that are challenged only to be defeated by a need for inner peace. The Karate way… an open palm to help gather, to share freely and create means that which make up the heavily sought after inner peace. I shall not destroy, only protect—for it will only be me, the writer who gets to the other page.
January 22, 2004
Invisible tears
I keep asking, “What would the Daihli Lama do?” The only answer returned is, “Patience.” If you aren’t into the depths of life after distraction, then life as an artist might not be the stripe in the rainbow borrowed to others in your name.
No poetry today—I’m restless, confused, angry, and un-simplified. I don’t want to listen; my timing is off…my body is not sitting in a great position. No poetry today. I can’t hear the music, only orders, and demands. I’m surrounded by lazy people and sadly… I’ve become one of them. No poetry!
January 23, 2004
What if I didn’t write daily?
As a child I dreamed of getting places fast… today, I’d rather be a turtle. The biggest problem I have with time is the inability to stop it from occurring. History is a book; you either read it or set it aside. And yet, the areas we refuse to forget are nothing more than frozen in time. I’m addicted to time. I tend to save more of it than money. If a thousand words fell from me, could I pick them up carefully? If an artist’s painting fell from the wall, would his thought shatter into a thousand pieces?
January 24, 2004
Learning to be real
A day of serious thought—a moment of careful planning, decisions to last a lifetime, two hands held in the shape of one—symbols of forever… and yet the child within dances. This is an innocent adventure, a soul touching the outside shell.
**note: I was knee deep in a new form of radio that featured a nationally recognized comedian—the mission was to be open and be real by allowing my true life revealed over those two speakers. The funniest thing about radio—everybody thinks they can do it until they have to. The next two years on this show would prove to be a true reshaping of a dead career, proving there is life after death.
January 25, 2004
Codependency
The only true thing I’m guilty of is letting my first wife have total control over me.
**note: What forces two kids to end their connection with parental figures? Are dreams so potent that it’s worth sacrificing the identity of a blossoming adult life? Freedom is an addiction. Like anything you’re attached to, it has the ability to bring incredible pain in places high school never unveiled. I spent twelve years in a connection believing that it was perfectly fine. I wouldn’t become my sperm father and divorce. What I didn’t see was the shovel in my hands that kept digging larger and larger holes to bury my personal dreams. I learned one trick—self abuse. Today, I look at my left arm, and know every scar as if it happened ten seconds ago. Why? Its because life isn’t about control.
January 26, 2004
It’s not about me
Invisible are not my ambitions of love—I’ve often accused God of giving me too much, only to pay the price for the rest of my life. I’ve had to learn how to become numb, ice cold, whatever it takes to see, hear, and feel nothing. I paint and write to duplicate this aura of invisible shapes only to learn, I’m no better than yesterday.
January 27, 2004
Shoes
If for one minute another person could sit inside my imagination—my guarantee is this… they’ll never see black and white again. If I could do one thing great… it would be to accept the facts that it’s ok to be me.
January 28, 2004
Broadcasting dream come true
Live from Hollywood! They come, they dream, to have, to hold, to turn whatever it takes into millions. Fact, fail—turn the page.
**note: Not everybody gets to play radio in Hollywood... God blessed me with six days to do it. Now I can’t stop begging him for more. Guess I’m no different than the other thrill seekers.
January 29, 2004
Dream come true
Live from Hollywood! It’s a two-hour “radio” show from Ventura Blvd. Although the sun is coming up, I don’t get to view the sky… that’s ok, I’m in Hollywood! The two minute warning has sounded. The show “open” has begun. This is a heaping chunk of reckless history to set free on a Montana boy’s radio journey.
**note: This is not a note of conceit, but rather a vote for your confidence. We spend too many years chasing ambition only to learn that the walls are made of excuses not to succeed. A simple “yes” opens doors. Don’t shatter a future through selfish demands. Learn to become part of a circle and let life’s swirls and spins put you in places dreams once built.
January 30, 2004
Is this a Hollywood disease?
I keep waiting for the wind to speak to me—the air I breathe lacks sight, sound, and feeling… therefore, I am numb even in fantasy. Has God left me? I hear a dog barking, not an animal speaking to me.
January 31, 2004
Someone said to me yesterday, “The reason why you’re having problems hearing God is because of where you are…. in Los Angeles. It’s the land of fakes.”
Then the wind spoke to me: Spiritual travels exists without a materialistic touch—unmask the identity of un-mastered belief, heal the un-ridden pains that have swiped from your soul the depths of a simple moment of confidence. To be spoken to or guided doesn’t require the presence of a path, walk through the forested disbelief and visualize the outcome of what would exist without this need to put thought to paper—for every word written will last years beyond your farthest glimpse, and each page shall echo the normality of you bringing life to this page. It’s ok to be unattached. It’s ok to walk from the light, for your soul knows its way back home. Take the way of the Crow nation; they walked for one hundred years. They believed a land existed and through unwritten rules they remained loyal to its purpose, finally locating the greasy grass of Montana where they continue to stand today.
Do not blame your lack of spirituality on this need to grow as a martial artist. You needed to become a warrior inside. You needed to put focus on change not a fist or grip on the efforts of spiritual travel. You are being led to the path by means of study. It may not be Native American, but the shape of its origin is still within the grounds of spirit guides and keepers. It is they who shall become your continued teacher. You are not without, so stare into a shadow—see the remains of nothing, view the hand that writes words that are left behind—proof of there being a God. Air is invisible. Are we bothered by this? LA allows you to see air and yet you find inspiration. You’re not blind, can’t be deaf, just stubborn in your rush. Uniquely me you concede… only to fit within an empty cup. Could of, would of, might be, should become… let it go and just fly.
February 1, 2004
Document everything
Dear Miss Mia,
Eyes made of gray, diapers that always need to be changed… we laugh at your yawns, we giggle when you coo… how funny we must seem to you. Dear Miss Mia, my life has changed; suddenly the greatest piece of art is what you put into the unwritten. Dear Miss Mia, in time, you too shall change… please don’t let us miss it—we, who play the part of grandparents love you more than anything.
**note: You can take a million digital pictures and never have to pay for them to be produced. It’s funny how life has become nothing more than a picture on the back of a camera. One day you’ll be asked, “What was it like when you first held me?” A photo can be like email… the emotion shared is nothing more than assumption. Put your words on paper. Let the world feel the canvas crease at the pressure presented when delivering life’s greatest gift—a simple thought blessed by the presence of your child’s child. By writing, you now have proof that this fully grown child was once a tiny baby and wow… look what you did to change the lives surrounding you.
February 2, 2004
Forced change
The radio show has kicked off dealing with Janet Jackson revealing her breast on national television. Enough of this! I have better things to do.
**note: Little did this current generation of radio and television broadcasters realize that such a costume malfunction would literally turn us inside out—it became the biggest change in radio since the payola scandals of the late 50’s. Harsh rules with heavy fines were put into motion, designed to do nothing more that create a cleaner, family driven atmosphere. The ruling forced stations to put their presentation on seven second or more delays. Imagine what the world would be like if we could just hit a button and all that was performed never really existed.
February 3, 2004
Note to self
At all costs, always remain thankful—learn to reroute your ill feelings and let life happen without ignoring your true self. Past mistakes make you a slave. Billowing pillows of un-cried tears shape the heart. And therefore you become numb.
February 4, 2004
Careful what you wish for
Must a wish be so true? Can a wish be so blue? Might a wish be the next thing to do? For a wish in reality is nothing more than a simple dream—be the wish in the way of helping others. Become the wish, wear it like feathers. Strengthen the wish to survive the weather by touching the wish with reality’s kiss. My wish is this. Your wish is that. Their wish is to stop wishing, which is the lesson… stop being so selfish.
February 5, 2004
Give me your sick and weary
We live in an age where imaginations, not bodies, are left behind—a weak dream is set beneath—development rests within friendship and not a true business sense.
**note: Nothing amazes me more than the advancement of employees—to attain any rests solely on the experiences required to keep the boss happy. Julia Cameron’s book “The Artist Way at Work” puts focus on surviving in the workplace by learning how to utilize every player and not just those closest to decision makers. Way too often the best answers are located inside the hearts of the silent ones, those no longer sure or carefree enough to share their visions of success.
February 6, 2004
Salt rock in a snow storm
If time had a face, would I recognize it quick enough to hit it? To knock it down! To slow it down! To keep it down until the rest of us catch up. If time could be stopped—would I understand the purpose to watch as nothing moves? To paint the emotionless air? To remember this very moment, just in case something goes wrong. If time really was the music to my soul, would the silence hurt? Could I be picked up? Can I be sped up? Will I fall forever, allowing every chance to gain time to pass me by? Time…
February 7, 2004
Please God…just one life
My absolute destiny is to leave a mark on this overcrowded stage. How it gets there is nothing more than me winning the battle of being only me. Could I ever be? Should I ever try? Might I already be? Then I didn’t try hard enough.
February 8, 2004
A Grandmother’s Goodbye
Physically untouched by the love she offers, spiritually she embraces each moment of their happiness. For her baby has become a woman, through love… a child. Untold are the embraces, closed eyes with tiny giggles, the air that moves invisibly. Physical love that can’t be explained until Grandma sits with Mia on that silenced day—emptiness… the moment she whispers, “Goodbye.”
**note: And you thought empty nest syndrome capsized the heart valves and canals. When your children start having children, it’s God’s way of saying, “You kept asking for another chance… let me lighten up the load a bit and give you visitation rights.”
Dear Reader,
To fully re-grasp the vision of sharing thoughts, challenges, and goals is a journey I’d never wish upon my worst enemy. With each passed day the handwriting changed, the dreams grew, stewed, and some severed their own limbs to free themselves from the anguishes we as a human race put our wishes, fantasies, and ultimatums through.
It’s not easy to relive a life I can’t change on my forty-fifth birthday. This book doesn’t recreate memories as the heart would want it to…it hears the calling, the horrid nightmares, fears of falling, and gasps for air at times when life should’ve been something else.
I see the handwriting. I feel the grooves carved into the paper’s strength by a sharp tongued warrior who took on God and anyone willing to allow fate to be their guide. Life isn’t supposed to happen… we are to create in the way that he our creator brought us into being.
I once looked forward to opening a new leather bound journal, to gawk at the sketches, rub my fingertips over hard pressed aggressions while lifting the pages upward to my nose to steal from the past a scent of cologne.
From February 9, 2004, until… the art started to slow, the radio career was forcing my hands to weave newer mounds of shapeless clay, the willingness to be openly spiritual collapsed while the birth of a distant black belt in martial arts reached outward in hopes of gathering all that might have been left behind.
Three years after closing this journal methodically ripped from the edges of trust and faith from February 9, 2004, through April 10, 2004… I stand on this day June 22, 2007, wondering if I have the guts to step back into this child’s quest.
A Preacher once said to me, “Only God can replay your life, and it’ll happen at the arrival of your first step nearest the golden gates of Heaven. What you saw, what you felt, what you regret, what you would love to do again shall be seen through the loving way only God gives.”
If that is to be true, then I kneel before God asking for his strength.
I know what happens in this movie. Getting to this point has long been forgiven, forgotten, or relived on a daily hourly basis.
Might I fall during this continued walk toward the whispers I once heard, let there be in my place only one who continues to believe. I shall not pick nor look into the eyes of their passerby… for what I’ve guaranteed God is a simple thought, to be carried into the clouds that which shape the seventh generation farthest my nearest touch…. let it be because of we that time allowed life to breathe in 2125.
M’e
February 9, 2004
I guaranteed God
Listen, it’s happening… I can hear it again—the invisible calling.
**note: Call it selective hearing—most expect the higher being to use a language we know and understand. The best answers in life might be handed to you through a spider’s web, a visiting owl, a crack in the sidewalk, a flat tire alongside the road, or the lyrics of a fifty year old song. We’re taught how to pray by moving our lips… teach yourself to meditate, create the open space for the Great Mystery to unveil the plan… then live it. Look how it came to me, the above written quote was penned out the moment I awoke from a dream on February 9, 2004—little did I know its intent might have been for the author who wrote the letter to readers three years later, questioning his desire to continue researching for this book. The letter is a selfish attempt at protecting the sensitivity of a writer when in fact the full intention has been to work for God. Robin Givens appeared on Larry King last evening talking about how difficult it was for her to relive her life of abuse. Danny Fontana spoke on his show about preaching the word of God—it doesn’t have to be from a pulpit but from any street corner, through any form of medium, just make yourself heard.
February 10, 2004
Even after death did us part
My sister has shared a story with me about the man legally called father—he spoke to my mother in the way of his life being an orphan. They lived in a way based on him having no parents, no family, nobody but my mother as his guide. Then it happened, “his” mother and sister appeared at the door, when my mother was pregnant with me.
I didn’t want to live this life! The gene pool wasn’t good enough. I could be a little more forgiving, but why shatter the beer bottle that you left behind. I got your disease! The running! The deception! I’m just as evil and so are those following. Vampires don’t die, because they make more—they suck the life from innocence then set them aside to search for more. Yes Kenneth you brought me here! But did I have to select your bus ride? I can’t be forgiving! Every day I live is a nightmare!
February 11, 2004
Self recognition helps
I can’t figure it out… I’m either addicted or disciplined enough to achieve goals.
**note: I was discovering how close to 2000 straight days of writing I was. April 1, 2004 would be the official arrival and for what reason?
Open eyes, closed heart, and cold fingers on an imagination’s journey. Invisible places, leaf filled trees, and brooks that babble while people stand on the streets. Rising suns, faded moons, music from a passing bird, and yet I feel empty.
February 12, 2004
No longer just radio
Martial arts are about taking a long journey and setting its ingredients inside the soul of a rock. As a student I’ve learned to put value in all things that surround the path—utilizing its ability to better serve all attempts that lead to defeat. The quest is to endure the unexpected while weathering the affects of something as simple as age.
**note: I won’t be remembered for the loyal, dedicated, and determined efforts scratched into the bowels of broadcast history. But as a martial artist, lives will perform the very operation my assumptions painted the moment I stood inches from a tingling microphone. In Martial Arts, the listeners are real, for their eyes highlight the very ambition I have to affect human life. No day passes that I don’t ask, “Which one of these pre-teens will become the President of the United States?” What is taught could be the very reason why this child grew up without a willingness to quit.
February 13, 2004
The owl returns to the forest
I sip on the drops of water shed by saddened clouds—in return the soil is purified by the means of letting go. Taste not what the white eye can see as being an art of success and blend not with the depth of tomorrows unwritten tale—make instead a note, this shall be your reminder to return… for when you’ve learned the last of these teachings… you too shall fly home
February 14, 2004
Who did we become?
My mind is cloudy—no river moves… therefore the wind isn’t speaking, there is silence. No radio to hear great music, it’s the same old songs… tell me, is this the fountain of youth? Marilyn and Elvis couldn’t make it—so we kept the music. A memory sees what the lens can’t catch.
February 15, 2004
Hired help
People with money don’t have real friends… they surround themselves with people who wish they could be you. The women reaching to be touched by a wealthy man are beautifully pieced together by doctors with vivid imaginations. Those who are rich would be extremely happy if they could figure out a new way to sell their money—the cost to be common is astronomical.
**note: Being this character I’ve become has granted me permission to enter the homes of many stylish overrated egos. It sickens me to think that so many want what the wealthy wave around—it’s as if no one pays close attention to the man behind the curtain. How sad must they be in knowing the jokes they share were probably created by the poor.
February 16, 2004
We fail to see
Inside this cube I sit, I believe the world isn’t ok. People charge too much money on a life that could end in the blink of an eye. It’s as if our personalized cubes no longer offer fantasy so we rush out to purchase it. It provides a brief safe place to live. Maybe it should’ve snowed today—I’d have something to complain about. I’d be a kid for a moment! Until then, I’m nothing more than a sack of rocks inside a still stream.
February 17, 2004
When do we forgive?
I laugh when a new page is revealed—for a brief moment I’m invited to sift through the invisible garbage of thought. It is here I ask, “Must a man of 41 be so unkind to a past that he cannot change?”
February 18, 2004
The doctor said possible liver damage
The hardest thing to deal with in life is pasting together how it will draw to a close. You can beg all you want to be the lucky one who hits eighty-one—but that doesn’t come with a promise or guarantee, especially when you realize the tree growing next to the house could be hitting one hundred and twenty-three. It’s torn to shreds, and the woodpeckers have declared it their Holiday Inn.
The shapes of my dreams allow all things to have purpose—the reason for my dreams is to inspire the soul to create energy. A sip of normality—proof that no matter what you create, sing, or mumble, the human life span is longer than an inch and somewhere on that map there’s a slim chance you made a difference. No soul is silent and no palm shall be closed… life is about sharing. Come up with a dance and teach it to those who stand around you watching.
Seek not, assumption… bloom through reality. Expect nothing in return. Be there when your name is called and he too shall be there for you.
**note: I often believe doctors are this nation’s most dangerous terrorists. They shove fear into our souls like a two year old begging for candy. The moment a possibility occurs, they tell it to you straight, which usually leads to more tests… things that you must wait for, sometimes days that turn into weeks. We are a nation built on doing it now. It’s extremely difficult to walk forward when the rest of you is spinning.
February 19, 2004
Is this God speaking?
Pain is a form of reality… it doesn’t matter how uncomfortable you are, the true source of energy it takes to get out of pain is far greater than a need to live within reality. Being in constant pain puts focus on every step taken forward.
**note: Due to the lifestyle chosen, I live in constant pain—knees, ankles, shoulder injuries, and wrists. My poor wife naturally assumes that every day is a good day for me to get sick, because somewhere during that twenty-four hour period I will be. Spiritually I believe it’s a curse placed upon me by a spirit guide who couldn’t let go… it’s as if they’re fighting to stay in touch with the openness of someone who believes they still exist. Their form of communication is pain. Therefore, I’ve learned to listen to a darkness many can’t bear to be near.
February 20, 2004
Putting forth an effort
I will one day be a black belt and beyond—those I teach will be my Masters grand children. I am that loyal.
**note: I didn’t set out to become a black belt Martial Artist… it chose me. I have better things to do than teach five to fifty year olds a new way of life. My Sabumnim speaks of teachers and instructors as being those who carry stones… he or she who becomes a Master learned the art of picking up “one” stone at a time—the heaviest for me is the one connected to my lips… the stone that says, “I quit.” All too often we pretend to know what God’s purpose is. When they say life begins at forty, chances are that’s when our egos finally gave in and said, “I can’t do this life alone.” His reply is, “Great! But before I share a vision, you have to help me affect a few others who could easily become what you have shoved aside. Help me and we’ll see a much brighter sunrise tomorrow.” Because of the state of our modern day up bringing, we choose to halt dreams rather than follow them through and when we do reach a point… the greatest things lost are the words and emotions we forgot to document while methodizing a path.
February 21, 2004
We once fought for change
My view of the world is seen through an optimistic/pessimistic approach toward reality. As much as I’d love to remain positive, I’m forced to believe that every story shared is nothing more than a lie. We don’t live in a country fed by the freedoms of a constitution; the answers sift through cracks in the floor fully supplied by the rich needing to get richer. Being in the oval office isn’t based on popular vote—the cold hard truth is Americans are for sale.
February 22, 2004
Don’t stop believing
I touch invisible air only to watch it become a piece of poetry, a painting, or a simple thought shared with someone listening to a radio. I’m man enough to admit that it’s taken me forty-two years to become a total nothing.
February 23, 2004
Growth
There’s no better way to relate with value than to send your paintings via jpeg to fifteen people you don’t know. The artist must first recognize the depth of reality—it doesn’t matter how much you love to create, giving it away has nothing to do with protecting it.
February 24, 2004
The after life
A dream is nothing more than a message passed by the wind. How far do I extend lessons learned? My mind has to deal with this while the heart grows cold.
**note: Some dreams are vibrant while others are carried back home to reality—are they messages from afar or examples of what television is planting in the bowels of our subconscious? Accessing a dream is nothing more than questioning it. Lives are destroyed everyday because the weight of your mind’s eye developed something while resting—if in question don’t rush it to the grips of another human until you are satisfied that you’ve done all you can to better understand. Interview yourself! View the entirety of the dream. Was it something you read in a magazine? Do your own research before hampering what could be the greatest blessing of your life. No day passes that I don’t shoot out of a dream, research it at two in the morning, and then peacefully return to sleep. Stop interrupting your life with these words, “I’m in a bad mood because of a dream I had.” It’s your choice to carry it beyond the lack of reality that it was created in.
February 25, 2004
Vivid dreams
Visions as seen through night sleep—self written music to invite the travelers… that of a piano with Lennon like lyrics only to learn I was the one being spoken to. The message was of being in balance, mind, body, and spirit. “Leap out toward the fearing and not fall—let the wind swirl around your body like a feather. Be one with nothing except adventure.” Silence is a calming effect and yet I can hear my heart. Visions grow and now I have insight.
February 26, 2004
Reaction to Passion of the Christ by Mel Gibson
Faith bridges the silence, belief becomes prayer—even if you doubt shadowing one man’s walk with lack of concern… respect of this decision invites no need to push, but allow time to be who we were created into becoming… we are human not God. Would you walk the same stone covered path? Could you hold within what made millions uncontrollably angry. May the peace be as enlightening to you as it was so important to him. The wisdom of a father is one man obeying the unwritten testimony. “Forgive them for they do not understand.” What if judgment allowed there to be life? Would the untold story of his dying hold any purpose other than forgiveness?
February 27, 2004
Seventeen inches of snow in one storm
The forest is virgin white—I wonder what the owl is saying to the squirrels who’ll play later in the day when the sky unveils its Carolina blue. The memories will remain and yet in thirty years when someone returns to this page, they’ll discover the difficulties I had in explaining how life suddenly stopped.
The snow was so deep that I had to walk two miles to get home—it was above my knees! The wind was blowing like a Montana attack! To keep peace, to warm my hands, I kept telling myself, “Jesus once walked on rocks and through endless deserts. This is nothing compared to his well documented journey.”
**note: In martial arts we are trained to use verbal Tae Kwon Do. If the aggressor doesn’t fall the way he or she was intended, you add pressure to the points of pain while giving commands, “On your stomach!” The mind listens when confronted with pain. Learn to speak in ways of command and every voice you hear will one day listen, just like the person attacking you in a mall parking lot. If you are prepared for their unexpected visit… handle it in the way of keeping control of the situation. A martial artist isn’t about kicking tail and using fancy moves to bring down his opponent. You are trained to never put yourself in a situation that might lead you down the wrong alley.
February 28, 2004
The writer within
Will we one day look back to this date and see a black and white photo? Or shall it fall into the files and be nothing more than a step to get where we stand today? Is it fair to live out life and think nothing of it until eyes fall onto a path made of ink spots? Am I the only one cheating himself from enduring whatever purpose life has to offer? A decision of what to watch… a past or present or shall I create a third window with this writing instrument, or become part of the fourth… the window leading to the blanket of snow placed upon the forested floor.
Leap year February 29, 2004
Just hours before a hit and run accident
Love, lust, beauty, agony, pain, heartbreak… forever, hope, acceptance, and hate—a single breath holds too many questions. Should I? Why would I? Wouldn’t I? Maybe, what if? The past, your heart, the weary, too many trails blessed with ups and downs—motion sickness becomes your purpose. Live… where? Here! There! Inside and out, I could be stronger but who likes being with someone who is the best? Oh well, time keeps ticking and this is all you’re gonna get.
**note: Do you know before life unveils its secret curses? Are we presented in ways to live the same life over and over? There’s no clue here that points to the reality of what took place hours after this was written—a collision that changed my life forever. To this day, I don’t know who totaled my car and then ran. Why won’t God reveal their face? The worst I would do is just smile and softly ask, “Why didn’t you stop to see if everything was alright?”
March 1, 2004
Reacting to the hit and run
Rather than waste time asking, “Why me?”… The goal is to take the energy off of the loss and put it on gain, which holds not a drop of witness at the present and yet I push to welcome it. Assumption is the disease! I’ve pointed fingers while placing blame. Laying my head back… the goal becomes to let go of the evil. The body is weakened, and the mind fears it will get worse. Life goes on. Oh Great Mystery Grandfather Sun and Mother Earth, please help to heal not me but them who brought injury. Invite a wildflower blessed with love while bringing blossoms to their smiles. Oh Great Creator walk with me, help me to do nothing but to better understand.
**note: As Paul Harvey once said, “Now you know the rest of the story.” The negative energy created by the accident became my medium.
March 2, 2004
From where we’ve been
Shadows, trails of existence, proof that I am here, but there’s not enough evidence to convict me. Shadows tell no tale. They’re silent in step, vibrant in introduction. Without it, mystery wouldn’t live. Shadowed eyes, a seeker of un-captured ability—a thinker knee deep in wonder, a painter between pages, might I add… a shy child. Shadows, aimless and crooked, colorless and flat, at time they’re more brilliant than a single rose.
March 3, 2004
Paths that cross
The forested fog isn’t strong enough to hide the curiosity of a writer, within his passion is the making of words, lined in a row—not to add rhythm or rhyme but figures in the snow. I see it! I can touch it! I can take you there by making you cold and lonely. Only to learn, the writing has stopped. Mr. High, the parakeet is angry with me. It’s as if he’s saying, “Invite warmth and friendship! Pen out something that deals with healing and willingness! Be not the one who is chilled by midnight—for at that time, you shall sleep.”
March 4, 2004
Trying to grow
A mind that’s over-activated with demands falls into clumps of unwanted destiny. Shy not away from unseen opportunity. Allow the seeds to pop their heads above the toiled soil. Looking out a window at dawn leaves nothing to be said, until the rise of an unforgotten sun touches the brim of your wishes and demands that you set aside. Mind the manners of the common man, for character is built by pot-shotting the masses gathered, to critique in ways of closed fisted drops of two week old tea with no water to wash free any desire left to seed. Your lungs are polluted by ambition—set free the fire and burn till you die… like any forest, you’ll grow back.
Interviewer: What does this message tell me?
Drop the rules of life and re-gather the sticks required to stoke a new fire.
March 5, 2004
Part of becoming a warrior
The unseen songs surround the presence of my newest steps—visualizing the light while slipping through rivers of darkness, this mindless attempt only perfects anger. The wisdom of it all seems pointless! Play along to enhance nothing more than untried lyrics. Rhythms become out of tune characters on a cartoon ceiling. The fan runs on batteries that have been dead for months. I am here but am I really? There are scratches in paper that remind not I of a misfortune, nor does it spill the blood of a thousand wars spoken. And yet here I sit with each new sunrise. I tingle in a way never felt before. My knees are weak, my midsection lame, and my hands sting as if to be reintroduced to the blades of depression. I almost felt paralyzed, a loss of flow, no longer in control. I felt a voice tell me to keep moving, “Do not fall in love with this injured feeling!” It was if I had been dropped from the sky and introduced to what could happen if… A matted floor may have caught me, but I still believe I hung in the hands of God and it was he who decided to steal back the explosive tingling.
**note: It’s never if we get injured—it’s when. Are they wake up calls or reasons to believe that martial artists truly are wisdom filled walkers who can outlast what most would rather set aside?
March 6, 2004
Mapped
At anytime, the heart seems to put into place avenues of unfiltered destination—to write is to journey, to be consistent is to view several hundred miles of a self the rest of this generation will never see. Had it not been for the invention of inspiration, influence would be worth only 69 cents.
March 7, 2004
If only…
If I could peek into the future and fall witness to a sliver of reality—I’d dedicate my soul to making sure whoever makes up these maps could have an easier way.
Interviewer: What kind of quote is this?
We are creations of a path—without knowledge, we play out the plan of someone who put thought into every step taken. If I could borrow a sliver of time to see a sip of what is to become, I’d dedicate my life into making sure that all are prepared.
Interviewer: Here’s the plan dude… you live you die!
And if it was that easy then the reality of life would be worth teaching.
Interviewer: What if you had seen September 11, 2001? Nobody would have listened to you! The United States government didn’t listen to itself!
That day in history chanced not only a nation but a frightened world. It was a horrific disaster that saw man against man, religion versus spirituality, and dictatorship masterminding world peace. We as a people continue to face unpaved roads blasted into place by reasons our western culture never step within to understand. As a nation, we are share holders in the world economy. Yet, we barely scratch the surface on human care and existence. We must remain faithful to mankind and not just a borderline of nationalities whose ancestors were invited to locate the essence of freedom. We are not in control of our final breath—it will be given to us when we least expect it. For some, it didn’t come quick enough.
March 8, 2004
Can you see me?
I would love to talk to an owl—but are they willing to listen to the loads of junk I’m guilty of tossing out? Maybe an owl sits in the nearby tree watching humans because in their world we are nothing more than professional clowns. If man is God’s best creation, where in the handbook does it allow us to achieve higher ground by means of knowledge and perseverance? Medically, man is brilliant and yet we allow our hearts to serve us. It is there that war begins.
March 9, 2004
Triple feature
Three visions, an open heart to share—mass destruction, mountains moving, buildings falling, and well known figures injured. The dizziness and prayers sent to heaven. Three dreams, terror filled with screams, an invisible fear, enough to place me back inside reality.
**note: I’m not an expert on why we dream, yet I study the wisdom of those who’ve written books about the darker sides of the things we keep. Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones held onto one of his dreams, so Can’t Get no Satisfaction is one of the biggest songs in music history. Even Michael Jackson keeps a recorder at his bedside. To document a dream is to create paths of better understanding. I physically interview myself after such sharp edges penetrate what is supposed to be a peaceful time. In this case, nothing matched. Each dream seemed different, now connect the dots—destruction, mountains are walls, dizziness is emotion, well known figures could be friends. On a personal front the career was in situated inside an element of giving up too much. I no longer had faith in the systems presented, openly admitting that the passion had turned into nothing more than showing up to do a job. It ate at me every day. In chapters past I found ways to release the self created anxiety. When you are aware of the damage you’re capable of creating, you learn to step back and in this case the outing was three horrid dreams. Different pictures until you write down the events of each and then connect the dots.
March 10, 2004
Speech
We creatively come up with reasons why we shouldn’t do something; the goal is to use that same energy to build, and starting first with writing.
**note: I’ve always taken great pride in the messages I take to middle and high schools. I’ve made over three hundred and fifty DARE graduations and countless amounts of leadership messages based solely on reaching in and pulling out what doesn’t fit. The new invitation was based on discovering creativity. The intended goal was to grasp the hearts and minds of four separate sets of young adults in an after-school program—keep their attention for an hour and a half while delivering a message that quite possibly could change just one of them… but who? Before I became a martial arts instructor, I was a teacher whose words acted out the parts of a high block, front kick, and tiger mouth hand. It’s always been there to share. Learning to hear God’s calling is a lifetime goal, not something you scrape together during an earth shattering weekend jaunt to the mountains.
March 11, 2204
My speech to forty students
You know the rules, why challenge them? Creativity is what we do every second of every day—be it a thought to a lawyer winning a court case, trust starts with self. Ask the questions and get the answers. Then prepare to move forward. Life isn’t a video game, nor can you hit control alt delete expecting to reboot your style. To get from point A to point B you have to ask questions. Creatively become the unique you.
March 12, 2004
Where your head is, the body follows
Balance: At first glance it seems harmless. To attain it requires sacrifice, but what are you willing to lose?
March 13, 2004
Stop asking and perform
I’m often asked how I became such a creative person… instantly the accusation is, “You’re talented!” Any chapter written is nothing more than a gift. Slowly through studies, martial artist, Native American, Korean meditation, Buddhism, Christianity, I’m given the purpose behind the wind touching the skin. Until you feel the blossomed embracing experienced each sunrise, all I can describe is the presence of a being that can’t be seen. I hear almost every word tossed in this direction—like the wind, each thought swirls—just like the wind, what is lost could be forever.
March 14, 2004
It’s off to Winston Salem to visit with Dr. Mack whose been in the hospital for almost two weeks—cancer in his kidneys.
I hold in my hand a knife to scrape this once living tree, a sword to hollow the moods, a shield to block intrusion. I hold in my hand a paint brush to create thought, a thought to rebuild the broken, a sign that reads, “I am me.” I hold in my hand the access to my soul, the key to my dreams, and the openness of reality. I hold in my hand a writing instrument, an ink pen with a gold tip, and a wire to my brain. I hold in my hand empty space, the joys of challenge, and the proof required that I once lived.
**note: From the distance the angels must have seen a forty-one year old man staring into the eyes of his mentor—the words were few but the message was strong. They were locked within a war of life and by God no one would stand in the way of offering injury. By means of faithfulness and a desire to give them hope—the forty-one year old would be the motivation required for his next step. It was within that brief second of silence that something special grew, words that didn’t say ‘goodbye’ but rather, “I am your backbone at your request.”
March 15, 2004
The art of listening
I hear every word spoken before it’s shaped into a thought on paper.
March 16, 2004
No one ever explains
The damp warm Carolina spring morning begins to rise toward a gray filled sky of infinity. Once there why should it come back?
March 17, 2004
What do you feel?
I walk through walls only to feel you that allowed this for no reason other than to bring me down. I’d rather see your dark colors than recognize a fake smile.
**note: This far out—that being March 17, 2004, and this being July 20, 2007… the reader will assume the writer was physically being damaging. The sketch was released after Sabumnim said to us, “For every five minutes of anger you feel—five hours of holding onto the bad reaction should be expected. Depression is a choice.” Events that change your path start with how you react. Learning to spot shadows in your writing is a brilliant beginning that you can change. I write before the sun rises, so imagine what being positive does to the rest of the day? Learning to put something constructive into your vision is a task most chase, because it requires work to look beyond finger pointing.
March 18, 2004
Bushels of reason
I deal with reality and can’t stand it when a taste of fantasy is fed to these lips. I’d rather be open to the point of acceptance than be hurt in the end.
Interviewer: You never sell your art…
It’s not ready! My art is still a grape on the vine if nothing more than a budding flower reaching for a sip of sunshine. Being at this stage offers no guarantee that wine shall be shared in the end.
March 19, 2004
God does speak when you least expect
Inside that forest something grows or is it what I’ve wanted it to become?
**note: It amazes me how much money the human race will spend on perfecting their lawns and garden areas—it must be in full bloom or the plants will be replaced. You can’t do that to a forest—interestingly enough, not even your personal life. The landscapes we replenish, bury, and toil with tillers will eventually catch up to the dream becoming reality. A desert is always going to be a desert. What is your life in comparison? Do you plant to please, or let nature feed what already exists turning your natural gift into beautiful rays of new beginnings?
March 20, 2004
The message from my creator
Death is a celebration of life, a final chapter, the unwritten, unexpected, heavily touched pages of stepping into the days of final breath and sight. Time doesn’t forget nor do hearts properly heal—we are given life to better enhance the land created by God—to be taken from it could be the creators way of saying, “I have an idea, but it means you coming back another day.”
In martial arts we are given belts to mark our travels. In life we tend to hide the wrinkles that surround the territory covered. Between the beginning and final page, what is said and done is more unpredictable than the strength of the mightiest earthquakes… a drunk can sober up, a young child gets cancer, a moon rises then sets, as long as it’s there we as the human race depend on nothing else to guide us into the waters of tomorrow. Who we are is a pimple on a chin—we are a spec of dust mysteriously blown through the greatest of times. Then one day you stand on a beach in south Florida and realize the phone call home hasn’t been ignored.
March 21, 2004
There’s only one challenge in life and that’s life itself
Step up, feel nothing—arms positioned, mind locked on victory. I am to study his path, how nervous he must feel. Make no face unless it is to laugh at. Bow… don’t look up at him, then enter the fight stance. Stare not at his toes nor do you bend anything—within seconds you learn his strongest foot, therefore my first step is to switch, to dominate his fear. I am me against me.
March 22, 2004
But would I be happy?
I hate being committed to sleep! Time is lost. Time you can’t get back. My female Maltese Meisha smooshes her sweet little face into a blanket next to me—what must it be like to locate the time to enjoy a personal pleasure?
March 23, 2004
Reaching an out of touch mind
I’ve got to create a way for them to practice a self belief program that’ll allow them to seek creative peace during times of horrible life changes. I shall let them doodle!
**note: There are one hundred afterschool kids who’ve been described as having no future other than drugs, gambling, and theft. I thank God every day for the opportunity to affect one life.
March 24, 2004
How to handle depression
Step within the music I hear—keep the uneven beat alive and well… meet the challenge of double steps, take no judgment in hand, leave open the door to realize its ok to be the background singer. I walk not the fine line offered, instead I envisioned is the path to follow even if it means being left behind. I color outside the shapes. I don’t stop when the pain consumes me. I am not and will never be… perfect.
March 25, 2004
Approaching a goal
Reaching two thousand consecutive days of writing is a major accomplishment compared to most people who can’t hit one page a year. In two thousand days I’ve committed myself to a project that’s offered me enough space to recreate the fallen and repaint the colors of a rainbow most don’t recognize… and yet, I still have no clue as to who I am.
**note: April 1, 2004, would be the day of accomplishment—the writer knows the feeling all too well, capture the energy while setting sights on the next thousand days. I giggled a child’s chuckle when the writer spoke of that next goal being deep inside 2007. Today’s date is July 28, 2007. I was speaking to myself! How do I get word back to him that I’m listening?
March 26, 2004
Physical signs of the laws of attraction
I’m at a point of forced flow—the fight is not to become stale. I’m loose with my tongue and equal to prove I’m right. This isn’t a feeling and or expectation, it’s real and I’m having a difficult time accepting it.
**note: What you perceive doesn’t have to be what you believe, but if you thought about it long enough the motions of bringing it to life have the power to exist. We don’t set out to bring bad things to us—we see the world as it is and through means of complaint or wishful dreams put the methods of assumption into the hands of can’t turn back. I learned a horrible secret to other people’s success—the squeaky wheel gets the most attention. I elected to become loud. Like an array of brothers and sisters that charm only works on those who use it first—all things in life are lessons taught, by the time the discovery was made, the controlling issue wasn’t to give me room to grow but silence the walker by fighting back—therefore I lost in the game of trying to be just like them.
March 27, 2004
Five planets align in the sky and no one was affected.
The earth is a sip of spit—a bubble in an ancient bottle of time. Life grows in all shapes and forms only to hear God whisper, “Look at what I can perform.” But there’s no applause… life changes without thought.
March 28, 2004
Who are the Jones’ and why are we trying to keep up?
The reflection on the TV screen shows a room not so perfect in placement—a life on the move, a pair of thoughts always on the run. The human race lives in the past—tortured trails of has been and never going to be. Through the powers of assumption we’re granted the ability to look upon not the present or future but rather the past. The depth of our past reaches the nearest comparison. We feed off rows of energy produced by hindsight, believing it gathers enough steam to get us through another twenty four hours.
March 29, 2004
Drunk tired
The body can take only what it’s allowed to devour—once away from the steps of realities realm, the average person slips into a darkness of meditated hypnosis. The body never turns itself off. Its strength is no longer putting focus on the expected but creating sleeps that are deep, travels that are far, and dreams blessed with song you know all the lyrics to.
March 30, 2004
Visitor’s never knock
I lose my strength each time you are near—time stops as does my breathing. We stood within feet of each other this morning. I stared at you like a boy child in the midst of discovery. You sat calm not a fear to display. My friend the owl inside the poet’s forest, share with me my friend the wisdom to which you carry. Might the chapters be spoken in ways for me to understand, to learn then teach, to seek nothing more than a guarantee. The owl within the forest at sunrise—a sight unknown to the darkness of fear, therefore I step forward to believe one day it shall be you who will crown me the warrior.
March 31, 2004
Learning the methods that feed humble ways
It is often that I become injured and all too often it’s because of ego.
April 1, 2004
The birth of a second book
One man, his thoughts, his visions, his lack of support and empowered need to change—I shall call my follow up book Another 1,021 Thoughts. Have I traveled far? What are the companions held within the un-webbed fingers of a soul chasing his shadow? Within its presence a solid question remains—why me? A memory can’t last forever, writing will. A flavor touched only if written daily—sips of thought, bowls of jellied word workings—the need to put respect on paper. I am no better than, yet I could be. Maybe one day Mia will be here to reignite the writer’s origin.
April 2, 2004
To whom do we damn?
We walk into each day expecting nothing more than invisible air to continue pouring in our lungs. Most of us have dreams and goals to conquer. Sadly due to our addictions to dollars and cents, those above us continue to think the average person is nothing more than a pawn. We need this so cut this. Let’s send our jobs overseas where labor is cheap and manpower is within the billions. We are a nation of slaves. We are lucky to be alive. I can’t afford to sleep. Its part of living inside a nation with a big appetite and nobody is prepared to call it quits. I guess it’s time to prepare for our defeat.
April 3, 2004
Don’t use it, play with it
A drop of ink—a thought that may have been, a memory, a prediction, a shadow with no future… possibly dark and yet the sun is rising. A drop of ink— it’s slowly spreading through this page, as if to be erasing or disguising the other side of yesterday.
April 4, 2004
I hate being creative!
I need to start writing the new book Another 1,021 Thoughts. Locating the space to do it is the hardest adventure. Where and when am I going to piece together the time it’s going to take to put this next collection of thoughts together? Every step I’ve taken requires change and chance. Am I willing to chance a possible change, or can I change the odds of chance? How is it that wind can lift a bird and rip a barn apart? The rays of a rising sun reveals a branch of fresh leaves made of spring… if I’m not moving, who is?
**note: How often are we given the chance to relive an origin? Would God appreciate the way we speak of, “In the beginning?” Trying to get writers to put thought to paper is more difficult than convincing incoming broadcasters to pay their dues in small towns. At least they get air time! A writer’s thought may never be heard, unless you allow yourself to become part of the wind. I don’t wish radio upon anyone… I do expect you to write.
April 5, 2004
Change the clocks ahead
I don’t care to spring forward, why do I want to go back? Time is a tool. It’s valuable! Time is a diamond where as we cherish all we get. People waste it. People can’t stop looking at it. The more we wait, the less time we have. Therefore, saving time in essence is admitting an early departure.
April 6, 2004
The chicken didn’t come before the egg, the writer did.
I never know what will be written and yet I feel with my fingers the edge of a spider’s web. As a writer, I choose to push into the flesh of my uncut arm and squeeze from it a sip of unpurified ambition. I live off energy. I crave it! I require its existence until that one day my body elects to fall over.
April 7, 2004
The speed limit people!
Saw a goose in the road, I couldn’t stop to help it cross—nor could anyone before me. Poor goose didn’t make it, I’m hateful for not stopping—careless we are this generation. Poor goose saw something, walked across the intersection and never made it home for dinner. Poor goose didn’t read the handbook, makes me wonder what if? Is there now a chunk missing from the infamous “V” while they’re flying? Had he made it, would the poor goose be my friend?
April 8, 2004
The souls weight loss program
The words I write are thoughts made of great strength—maybe not for all readers but look what it’s done for me. Look what it takes to dam a creek. Slowly removed are the stones allowing newer fresher water to flow. Looking out my writing window it is shared with me, something so imperfect… I think they call it spring.
April 9, 2004
Jazz
Birds fascinate me—they teach us how to listen, to harmonize and to mimic.
April 10, 2004
Travel
A new page, a new mirror to look within—the weight of one mans thoughts, the world before him and I choose to watch… Be it not I who casts shadows of shame! Be it not I who visits in times of loss and impurities! Be it you! Be it your brothers and all other members that’ll be called upon to defend what shall be told as the witnessed act of his second coming. We wait oh Lord! We wait without patience! We make mistakes upon our guided path, electing members to a house who’d rather be known for doing something other than the correct methods of sane madness. Be it you oh Lord who shall rain upon the fires not yet burning, bringing to your children a third chance.
April 11, 2004
Chaotic control
Art is the presentation of open emotion—I am the keeper of such thought. To be so brave, to remain so loyal, is but a war no man but I can win. That is true art!
**note: Nothing amazes me more than people who clog their computers with emails written months if not years ago. I know people who save everything to build a better self defense while others seem captivated by a willingness to hold onto something that time delivered in a way of never being revisited again. I live in a city whose workers emails are being investigated due 100% to possible conversation about a rail system. We save emails! But we never save personal thought. Your destination might bloom a smoother rainbow if you simply share with yourself the visions the outer shell has painted compared to the soul who’s known since birth.
April 12, 2004
Let it go
It’s as if we’re blind… the trail is what we know therefore memory will be allowed to get us there.
April 13, 2004
Origin
Opening my thought process requires an ability taught to me as a child—tune out the activities that surround the movement of air, look within the beating soul to establish a friendship with the elements of being invisible.
Interviewer: What?
In the first grade I stole a watch. Sharply questioned by my parents the idea of being in trouble disappeared the moment my hand was raised between my face and their conversation. I couldn’t see them therefore they didn’t exist.
Interviewer: Why did you think this way?
It forces the imagination to leave skid marks on any angle not yet established. If we would use our imaginations more, the challenges in life would be greater in creating more confidence. The only reason why I produce sound at the levels I do is based solely on the level of confidence held at that particular moment. I have to be inspired on a daily basis to achieve indifference. If I don’t attain a willingness to invite change, my heart sells out forcing everything around me to accept an already presented observation.
Interviewer: How do you reach this point?
Never accept a compliment. Don’t waste your time saying you like something. I’m light years away from listening. It’s nothing more than raising this writing hand over these eyes suddenly becoming invisible to any existence.
April 14, 2004
A new painting
Balloons teach us to love things that fly. They invite fear while teaching us to know when is when. Balloons are rainbows we can touch, flowers in full bloom, and music notes without a full staff. Balloons are every reason to be a kid again. Balloons can be trapped or set free, either way you can never tell if a balloon is unhappy.
**note: I laugh a lost dream… the painting this was written about no longer exists. Yet, on this date the act of art seemed inspiring enough to write about. The array of colors became four faces I’ve yet to put noses on. Maybe I should call the painting Hairy trapped air.
April 15, 2004
Tax day
America is an attitude, a culture, a song fed by the passions of freedom. We as a people have the right to stand on opposite sides of the tracks disagreeing with everything that’s right, wrong, and undecided. Where we fail as a nation is along the borders of trust. Some say we can’t allow God to be part of this modern America—it’s not politically correct. Some say we can’t allow our privacy to be sold to those governing the internet. We don’t trust each other to push ourselves toward a better America! We settle instead on the power of the almighty dollar. America will never learn to fight itself—we suffer from the theory of been there done that. Video games clog our veins, fast food tenderizes our ambitions, and people like me are instantly called insane, artistic, and in the way. The assumed ten year view of this nation is blinded by a requirement to no longer care; we are to stop worrying about the millions of many different people—just do your job and get paid less. America… we are the most powerful nation in the world and do nothing about it, except to bully the small borders.
April 16, 2004
I shall pray for those who have guts
What must it feel like to give the United States Government total control of your steps? If the president asked me to attend his war… would I? Why can’t this modern time be more like the Walton’s?
April 17, 2004
Dear God…why here?
Comedy is learning how to sacrifice everything while accepting the idea that your partners have every right to verbally abuse each effort. And then you can’t take any of it seriously.
**note: I prayed so hard for God to give me one more chance to be an on-air talent. Little did I know it would be one quarter of a struggling radio show? The already written radio chapters had me at the helm several times as a solo performer—but it was time to be humbled. Teamwork requires the confidence to succeed without having to wear a hat made of ego. Once realized, the importance of acceptance no longer plays a key role, and suddenly the one thing you want most out of life is to affect the path of a listener—those who chose to hear reality delivered in a way that helps to heal… comedy. The four of us were one of a kind; to maybe one day perform in front of God only in a way that would make him or her giggle until they wet themselves.
April 18, 2004
Now where?
Good words don’t pay the bills.
**note: I anger people by fluffing off their compliments. They mean well! Through my eyes it’s nothing more than a set up—I owe them a returned compliment. I can’t fake it to just do it. “You’ve lost weight! You look great!” Um, that tooth brush you’re using does wonders. Being an admitted optimistic pessimist not only creates the fire, but puts it out. In 1988 Mother Nature struck the earth with a single bolt of lightning creating one of the most famous fires of our time in Yellowstone National Park, then peacefully put the heat away with a giant snow storm. I visited the park in 1996 and then in 2007… there was very little physical change. Life is beautiful at the point of brand new beginnings. The park is going to take hundreds of years to heal. Humans get ten minutes. Don’t offer compliments to make someone’s day. Share great thought by taking their energy and putting it to great use. If you’re inspired because of a person’s actions, take that source to a higher level. The best compliment is seeing the roots of an original idea blossoming leaves on a once lonely tree. Words mean nothing. Action says it all.
April 19, 2004
The second book under construction
I didn’t change, the world did. The gift is in knowing that I got another 1,021 days.
Interviewer: How did it feel writing that opening thought?
Those who read my thoughts want nothing more than to access the artist—the attempt is to figure him out, when in reality the goal was to get them to write. A word from me sparks the invisible—hate me, accept me, react any other way… If spoken, that word from anyone else would lay flat and you’d step over it.
**note: As a reader, what does it feel like to fall witness to an origin? What are you doing to inspire the same? Writing is free. Creativity is free. Those making millions started somewhere. Writing!
April 20, 2004
Prime the pump!
Oh, oh! I’m staring outside the writing window and this imagination isn’t taking off. My visions are set to begin, and here I sit with mumbles in my pen. Creative flow is the mind’s way of turning itself off. I rarely remember what’s been brought to life. Is that an addiction or a sickness? Give me sixty seconds and I can physically change you forever.
April 21, 2004
Reacting to the new book
Computer screens are the new God. We love them large and colorful and yet the face of our cell phones requires us to wear bifocals.
To write is to listen, as to listen is to be aware. Not beware but understand. Not hide under a stand but walk through. Not that I’m through! But I’m ready—to write, to listen, to be aware while understanding this ability to walk through time and document it.
April 22, 2004
Becoming the martial arts warrior
Too much to do, work, create, meditate, building from within, heart, confidence, spiritual guidance, no masks required, mind, mend, control, becoming the best, listening, stepping, believing…
April 23, 2004
The unchanged America
Speaking to my final Gaston County school I couldn’t stop thinking about how nobody questioned the strange man sitting on the bench. “Why didn’t you ask questions? You have no idea who I am! I’m now inside your school.”
April 24, 2004
Multi tasking personality style
Draw a circle… do it until it becomes a square. Now write down a word. Write it until it becomes a paragraph. That’s how you create.
If I could do one thing in life it would fall within the depths of knowing there was a guaranteed tomorrow. Until then I’ll notice every color, every scent and every bird that happens to fly by.
I’ve spent the past few weeks listening to the songs I wrote and produced during the 80s and early 90’s… Time may be fast and out of control, but I still have the strength to view it through eyes that remain open to every level that we tend to grow through and out of.
April 25, 2004
Beyond the speaker
The problem with modern day radio is simple, who’s the Broadcaster? People on the air spend way too much time trying to be a talent without having the talent. If one third the people in radio were committed to the industry, there’d be less work demands and fewer moments of stress.
**note: This daily entry has nothing to do with writers, garden experts, painters, and other mediums of creative flow unless you undress the picture and recognize it as being the perfect portrait of our current state of middle America on the job. All levels of employment daily face laziness! Every company has hard workers just inches from calling it quits but fear failure, fear losing their homes, and fear not being accepted in a world they haven’t fully focused on since applying for the job. One of the greatest tools handed to me was Julia Cameron’s book The Artist Way at Work. It doesn’t have to be a chore to climb into the ranks of heave and ho… we lack communication skills, therefore we fail to understand who it is we call co-worker. Learn to work with those you are jealous of. Rather than being stand offish or upset because their pay scale is higher… figure out what got them there and become the leader rather than the typical pawn sold to the highest bidder. Be the broadcaster and not the fast food flunky who chose our industry over car sales. Wait! I may have hurt someone’s feelings. I will study their path and get back to you with a more positive response.
April 26, 2004
Get it out right?
Being real with my feelings makes you aware of all levels of travel. I fail to believe in the theory put focus on the things that makes you happy. Cold is the opposite of hot and yet you never hear anyone brag about being in a warm mood.
**note: I openly confess… I’m wrong. YK Kim firmly teaches us the way of winning is a choice. Oprah fiercely promoted the book The Secret. The Laws of Attraction prevail. By writing negative feelings at sunrise, I set up the day already on the defensive, ready for war, searching for ways to feed a negative vibration I couldn’t control. Fantasy, adventure, and love are great works to read, but all too often reality’s bite hurts worse when you can’t keep up with those who inspire us most. I won’t be Jackie Chan. I can’t be Jet Li. That doesn’t stop me from studying their craft. Master Todd Harris totally believes that the best teachers are those who never lose the vision of being an incredible student. Oh, before I forget… losing is a choice. It’s a 50/50 shot. Rather than trying to move the walls that surrounds us. Just do it.
April 27, 2004
Interviewer: What is failure to you?
A pessimistic holiday—I live and work the life of someone whose final product has a forty-nine percent chance of being accepted. Multitasking is an incredible strength until your ability to multitask is multitasking.
**notes: Moments after being named head of creative services at this nation’s largest broadcasting company, a new vision arrived on the horizon and I knew what it was when I picked it up. I no longer faced a forty-nine percent chance of acceptance; an entire sales department depended on me to reach beyond the limits which put me face to face with a ninety-two percent chance of failure. It’s the ache of all aches—not everyone will be forced to follow your dream. Teach success through example. Be peaceful at all costs. People expect anger. Calm earns you respect.
April 28, 2004
Sources of soul sores
A time manager expects nothing but to keep himself in line with time. An artist likes to take his time, to create without limits, and to invite nothing but a freedom of time to his adventure. I am sickened by both. I stare at a clock trying to figure out how to build upon the strengths of any weaknesses, only to learn it takes too much time to attempt to listen.
April 29, 2004
Rising with the martial art
Ford no river whose stones are raged by faceless waters. Bring to the dojang the imperfection of ability, and that step toward honesty will harness the gift to present a self seen to the world as caring and worthy of being listened to. Allow no time to heal. Force upon your soul the strength of one hundred men. Rip into your spin and silence all that is hurting. That’s the purpose of the warrior. Learn to pour victory into every wound. To attain the visible requires the insight to focus on what is invisible. Be not the neighbor of impossibility, but be the soul who would die protecting his leader’s word of honor.
April 30, 2004
Something has to change
Jagged movement, raging heart beats, is this sweat, or clear blood? When did I get done? I don’t remember anything… welcome to Corporate America. If I received a quarter every time my boss exercised his proper people skills, I’d still be the only kid on the block without gum.
**note: I didn’t know what to do! I was dedicated to a cause but my feet weren’t keeping up. I sold my soul to a devil whose face looked all too familiar. Daily writing was my only escape, only to learn three years later it was killing me. So often I hear of the way people are treated in all walks of life. Small company ownership in America is up. I can’t cheer! If we uncover something great we’ll either be bought out or fail to pay the lawyers who couldn’t defend us on the idea of the origin. What about those first thorough thoughts that shaped the Starbucks plan? Who owns them today?
May 1, 2004
Winning is a choice right? What if I’m depressed?
I don’t have problems locating the ambition to use my imagination—my difficulties lay within the depths of managing the anger that develops when everybody but me gets the credit for what I created. Looking up from this paper, I see the forest of green. Looking up from radio, I see people pushing paper at me. Looking up from Tae Kwon Do, I see feet. Looking up from dinner, I see two lives running.
May 2, 2004
What work ethics? It’s who I am!
Being on the road is embedded in my soul. The natural father was a truck driver and I barely saw mom, she was always working. It’s called survival!
**note: I have two employee-of-the-year awards with too many monthly honors to count. I didn’t do it to inflate an ego, my hard work and constant drive is nothing more than the chapters before me. Mom came directly from the farm life of Wyoming. She really did walk in waist deep snow! The father figure was Norwegian, some of the hardest working people in history. Even my stepfather, Joe, framed our lifestyle within the brackets of hard work then play. Who I am today is nothing more than who they were at my age and so on. How long will the lifeline last? Where will it snap? In a letter written to an intern, I recently pointed out my expectations, “There are twenty-four hours on a clock, if you expect to stay alive in my world then you must learn how to make those ticks and tocks work for you. I accept no excuses! Success is based on constantly achieving the requirement to perform quality at all costs. If you can’t see eye to eye with me then might I suggest we walk separate paths?”
May 3, 2004
What art teachers never reveal
Wisdom and art are best friends, yet knowing the final outcome of a piece bores my imagination. I like to take paint and let it work itself into a canvas—to blend fixation with moods and attitudes leaving behind the adventure of captivity.
May 4, 2004
Hmmm…I have to live with this freak.
The cast of many, the closet of several—I can be anybody! Just give me direction, a face I don’t recognize and heartbeats that change. Who will I be today? I like you! I hate you! I don’t want friends. I need you! I’ll push you away! Let me be me!
May 5, 2004
Losing the war
Life is time management. I need to be there by this time or face being behind. Time really doesn’t have hands yet I hear ticking. It teases me! It’s not being playful! Time cheats when you aren’t looking, never slowing when ice cream is melting. Time isn’t my enemy nor is it my friend… it never speaks to me, except to say, “You’re late!”
May 6, 2004
This is what its like to be me.
A thought can’t be wasted. A bird’s whistle must be cherished. Light is a color. I don’t require much to succeed, just believe it can be. If halfway is what you search for, quickly say, “Goodbye!” Quality is my guide.
May 7, 2004
If a prayer was really heard
What would life be like if we knew the name of the final chapter? Might we be so daring? Might our challenges actually increase? Forgive me God, it doesn’t seem fair! The greatest mystery written is but our final breath of air.
May 8, 2004
Are you sure you are who you are?
As an artist, I keep everything close enough to touch but far enough not to become addicted. I’m afraid to start new projects believing that each will consume my every thought while the rest of my projects will wither in the wind. Being an artist requires nothing—you really don’t have to paint, nor do you have to write. To admit that art is my life is a foolish feeling—why be if being does not benefit? I paint to paint! I write to toss words onto paper—each style misses every point then suddenly there’s silence. Hear not what I have to say, see not what colors I’ve used for paint. Become not the artist as labeled, breathe in, breathe out… let them know how much you hate all of this.
May 9, 2004
Still reacting to the last painting
I place my hand on paint and suddenly pictures appear. It’s not great! It’s not pretty! For some reason it was given air and it too shall live.
**note: Almost a month has gone by and the balloons with no faces still captivate the artist’s eyes—return to April 14th to view the painting. I wrote, “Three faces on a cloudy day, no emotion, not even an actor’s attempt, only a bonding that shall not shatter. Who are they? Brothers they might be, friends from a past that can’t be changed. Are they chapters of me? They’re stages of the same life just on different days. The painting is speaking to me today… let us never be complete, for that is where life begins. Let us bend and forge forward so that one day we too can write of this journey you started.
May 10, 2004
My cast of faces and voices
True radio broadcasters push their abilities to every level, even if it means the talent invents new territory.
**note: Study the history of radio and you’ll discover it’s an industry blessed with rule breakers who haven’t a clue what proper healing is. To sink so much energy into something that may never pay off takes its toll on the weak, leaving most untrusting, co-dependent, as well as addicted to something they won’t admit to until it becomes cool to be part of that gang. Captivating a listening audience requires the sheer passion of visions unheard of—basically meaning, no day passes that a broadcaster doesn’t believe he’s the one chosen to reinvent the wheel. Sadly, it could probably happen but Corporate American owners have no room for pioneers. Just shut up and play the song.
May 11, 2004
Stuck somewhere in the middle of a headache
Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m perfectly fine. Maybe I’m somewhere in the middle. Suddenly, I stop writing… my multi-personalities are fighting.
**note: It shocks me each time I come in contact with it—people who don’t believe it’s ok to have more than one personality. I feel sorry for those who don’t. Let yourself go! Let yourself play! Men have a change of life at 45? No, it’s not! That’s your inner being screaming, “It’s about time I get what I want!” People beg you to seek medical help. A great quote from a Native American Medicine man, “Doctors in the Western World brag about how they practice medicine. With continued practice they might become great. They practice medicine.”
May 12, 2004
Day number 1,021 or 2,042
View not with the eyes given to you by God. Learn to put your vision on the trails you walk. Ink is my blood, words are my soul and each is left behind to never be forgotten.
What I fear most in life is failure—the failure of communications, the failure of trying to perform my best, the failure of not being accepted. I fear people… everyday. I fear being fired, being attacked, or allowing people to continue abusing my abilities. Failure is an alarm system. It tells you not to trust anyone, not to belong, and not to be happy. I hear silence near my failure. In life am I this failure? In death would I too be a failure? Failure was my mood change. It became my poetic word play, placed on a page therefore you’ve just been bled upon.
**note: Thank you so much for taking the time out of “your” life to allow the imagination to believe in the spirit keeper you are. If but for one second you felt like writing… you’ve taken the first step required to help change the course of the seventh generation.
August 6, 2010
One day when you least expect it
Is it ok to laugh? What if I snort so hard tears begin to chase invisible streams down the center of my cheeks? Would the salt stains penetrate the circumference of the heart? Might the rings be painted pink and purple to resemble the clouds I’ve been accused of living between?
I am who I am... and shall always be just me.
I have written numerous times of there being a link between the present and a past they say can’t be changed…what then am I doing today? Through displayed expression, visitation rights are given permission to step off the edge of a once living tree and enter the world again through the eyes of another who like me finds faith in discovering dreams.
Deeply etched into my explicit longings are the truths that bring water to open fields of fertile soil so that you may never experience silence alone, for there is no feeling worse than facing the answer that may arise after you ask, “Do I truly belong?”
The answer is always yes. I’ll forever believe in you. Steal my art and teach another to paint the wisdom taught yesterday, so the elements of a new tomorrow are blessed with protected steps of existing peace.
It’s ok to laugh and cry at the same time… it’s called Jazz.
Kooshatay Ookooshtah: The creative river that flows
M’e
No comments:
Post a Comment