Archives for February 2014

Eternal Sleep.



Eternal Sleep.


I had a dream last night where I was

supreme and had so much money and

fame that everybody knew my name.


When awake, nobody knew any of my

prose or me, but everybody knew because

I drank, my bank account was a blank.


I judge my life when I’m asleep and when

awake, I perceive there’s no reprieve and

yearn to return to my nighttime world.


When I’m there all is fair, and women gift wrap

their love for me and give it to me underneath a

tree. Like a sailor on shore I couldn’t shut the door.


Similar to a sinking whale, they’d dance, sing, and

even prance to get me to make an advance. My daytime

women treated me as though I was made of ice?


That world was s a hurtful place and I only took up

space, until reality smacked me in the face and my

morality decided, I’d rather be asleep than awake.







A Story

Sent off a novel today to be dissected

as though the words I used were resurrected

from the graveyard where unused words are sent

when they’re no longer of any use.


Like my manuscript, editors scrutinize my words

about my past for clues of future success without

regard to my exceptional ideas because they all have

subway imagery and only see profits as the next stop.


Writing is a way to work for less than minimum wage.

Unlike others on the lowest rung of the pay scale, I enjoy

getting up at the crack of dawn or before to create a story

or a poem that will welcome the light of day along with me.


When I see what I write grow and grow, I begin to believe

I have an angel or a muse, putting words into my brain until

my computer screen is full and saying things I’ve never heard.

Makes me wonder if I’m but a receptacle for another’s words.





Risky Behavior

If you’re a cheese or a wine

It’s okay to age, but humans

don’t want to be told that they’re

old, so be bold, try something new.


Now that you’ve reached retirement age,

feel free go on zip lines, airplane rides,

and to have a passionate love affair.


Prove to your peers that you’re

not too old for adrenaline to flow

in your aged and clogged veins.


Snow skiing and mountain biking may

be harder for any with so many aches

and pains caused by years of wear and tear,


but there are easy activities for weakened

muscles and bones that probably got that

way from watching TV all day.


If sex is just a memory and little blue pills are

of no use, get out of your chair and jump from

an airplane, or raft down a whitewater river


to jumpstart your life and libido so you’ll  live

until you die instead of drying up inside to

become mummified while you’re still alive.




My Flowery 3-d painting is coming along


Writing, a beautiful curse.


F. Scott Fitzgerald almost got it right.  He wrote, “Writers aren’t people exactly.”  He was just one word off.  He should have said, “Writers aren’t normal people exactly.”

When I worked at CNN, a new manager breezed through the newsroom one day for get-acquainted chats.  When he came to my desk he said, “You’re normally a writer, aren’t you?”

I replied through a smile, “There’s nothing ‘normal’ about writers, believe me.”

There is a reason for that.  Compared to the general population, we writers suffer a disproportionate degree of depression and melancholy.  That’s a cliché, but it’s still true.  A look at the 20th Century’s great American authors is like strolling through the Depression Hall of Fame.  Faulkner, Fitzgerald, and of course that poster boy for the chronically depressed, Hemingway.

I understand where they were coming from.  I call writing, “Crawling into that dark, lonely hole.”  I love writing with all my heart, and have ever since I first learned to put words together.  Writing is not what I do; it’s who I am.

I am also a Melancholic Personality, and the two intertwine perfectly.

The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates identified four personality types: Sanguine, Choleric, Phlegmatic and Melancholic. Consider the traits of that last group:

Melancholics are trapped in an inner struggle between an imperfect world and an intense desire for perfection.  They’re idealists who hold themselves and others to unrealistically high standards, and become upset when those impossible standards aren’t met.  They want to know the details of every little thing, which makes them over-analytical, neurotic worriers. They blame themselves for mistakes, because they’re acutely aware of their own imperfection.

Then there’s the sensitivity. Melancholics are emotional. They are thin-skinned and easily hurt. Their moods are like a delicate crystal vase; easily broken and hard to repair once shattered.  They hold onto emotions, both good and bad, for a long time.  They can be very moody and difficult to deal with because they’re so easily hurt. They often wish to flee from things that cause them distress.

Loneliness Writer Insights: A Writers Beautiful CurseStop me when you recognize the traits of a writer.

But before you say, “These folks are too weird for me,” consider this: it’s often said Melancholics are “the richest of all temperaments, but at the highest personal cost.”

And that’s where their writing ability intersects the melancholia.  Here’s why.

We Melancholics aren’t alone in experiencing sorrow and joy.  It’s just that we experience them more deeply and more intimately that others.  We have the ability to “feel,” ramped up on steroids.  We’re not bipolar; that’s something else entirely.  But I can tell you from personal experience, I have walked in sorrow so deep that many people don’t know it exists that low, and I have also extended my hand to touch the upper limits of sheer joy.  Yet the ability to do that carries a painfully high price-tag.

Most folks never understand what we go through, but our readers reap the benefits of it.  I call the writing experience, “pinching off a piece of my soul.”  That’s because I take my deep, intensely personal feelings and transfer them to my characters.  That may be enjoyable to follow in a book, but the writer had to live through the emotions those characters experience before they were created.

People realize it takes a lot of effort to sit down at a keyboard for an extended period of time and turn random ideas into a story.  But they don’t know the half of it.

They don’t know the beautiful curse that makes good writing possible, and which writers live with every day.

Got the hot air balloon trip off of my bucket list.

Staying Alive

Craving to die since I became alive.

Pain, hunger, and discomfort steadily

haunt me. The future seems to hold no

relief and is bleak every week.


I have dreams of a long painless sleep

that after I die will deliver me to heaven’s

gate and they say things will be better on

the other side.



I watch others that enjoy being alive and I try

and try, but can’t find a good reason to stay

alive and not to die when living on the other

side will be so much better than living here.


I believe there’s some good in everyone and that

my wife will be faithful until she dies. I choose

to survive by medicating myself with booze,

drugs, and lies


Many years go by and I’m still alive, even though I

know I deceive myself until things change. It’s plain

that neurons in my brain have evolved, so I perceive

how lucky I am to have had my life begin on the downside.


Unlike others I know whose glory days are in the

past and now regret that’s where they must go to

relive what they had because what they see

is all downhill from where they’ve been.


For me the past is a place I don’t like to revel in.

Life has got what it takes for me to want to stay alive

until I die, because every day that I wake and every

year that I live is getting better than those that came before


I wrote this poem remembering how I treated my brother.


I can remember


The look on his face when searing

words passed through my lips hurting

him simply for not knowing where we

were going.


If only I’d have known that the Grim

Reaper was stalking him, I never would

have let those awful words I could never

retrieve pass through my lips


I can hardly believe I was like that and

remember measures I’d taken to belittle

people close to me and to some I didn’t

even know.


Pitiless and callous I didn’t care who I

Verbally abused, but I’ve changed now,

and cringe when I meet someone who

reminds me of when I was like them.




A short video od Ra Paulette.

A one of a kind artist! Fascinating!


I went to see 5 Oscar nominated short film last night and 4 of them had depressing subjet matter, but the 5th was an eye opener for me. Ra Paulette is an individual who digs caves out of mountains and each cave he builds is a work of art.

He doesn’t use any power tools. Everything is pick and shovel and carved by hand. He’s like Michelangelo because he has no plan but builds as he sees the mountain wanting him to. None of these caves are open to the public. If they were I’d be on the road tomorrow to see one. Go to his website and look through it and if you have a chance to see the documentary. Do so.

He is a true artist in every sense of the word as he isn’t laboring for money. Only to create.