The musings of a madman...

     When I was 12 and in seventh grade, my aunt came to visit my English class.   She was, unbeknownst to me until that class on that day, a published author and a good friend of my teacher whose name alcohol has erased from my 41 year old memory.   She spoke of a book she had recently written and was on the way to publishing that happened to be stories of my family and her and her siblings (including my own father) during their own upbringing. These were stories I knew first hand, but the way she presented them made it so…   ENTERTAINING.   It was something completely new to me to see something so mundane as a story that every kid knows of what begat them presented in a manner that could hold the attention of 20 twelve year-olds.      I was hooked… As a middle child, also-ran, “who is that guy” kid, I have always been used to things just being whatever they are and cruising through life without any specific dream other than “making it,” whatever that means.      I deci

     This is as much for me as it is for you… Given family history, a period of undiagnosed depression and a healthy/unhealthy fondness for fermented beverages, I am full aware that my mind will one day begin to slip. I was reading some articles a few years ago that explained the connection  of creative activities (writing, art, etc…) and the slowing of the process. [ link1 ] [ link2 ] [ link3 ]      Knowing what I know at 38 and of sound mind to think of it, I intend to stretch this process for as long as I physically can.  As long as I have my eyesight and my hands can perform the action of typing, I am going to keep writing.  Even if I don’t make a dime doing it, the value gained from preserving my future for as long as I can makes it worth it.      I know I can’t realistically expect my audience to be my forever audience, and as a middle child I am more than adjusted to this.  Given the information taken from the above links, I am of the mind that continuing

Everyone is my  buddy… Well, almost everyone is. My nephews are my buddies. YOUR nephews are my buddies. Little kids in public spaces are my buddies. Little kids in public spaces who behave like incorrigible little shits?  Still my buddies. Big dogs are my buddies. Little dogs are my buddies. Old men playing chess at McDonalds at 11am are my buddies. My own granddaddy was my Buddy, and everyone called him just that. My own dog responds to “Buddy” as much as he does “Bruiser.” The last thing I say leaving my house every morning is “bye Buddy, see ya later” and his response is as priceless now at 8 years as it was when he was 8 weeks old. I randomly high-five 3 year olds in Wal Mart who elatedly grin when they hear a large black man smile and say “high five, lil buddy!” Parents love it too. I guess you could say I use the word “buddy” a lot with the people I come into contact with.  And I am okay with that.

     Don’t let the titling fool you…  My fortress of solitude is a LOUD place.  It is an isolation from everything I need a few minutes away from.  The hour I spend in the car every day with enough entertainment to DJ a block party.  A lunch break with the above-pictured devices.  It is never enough to simply see earbuds as a deterrent of extraneous conversation.  The car makes it obvious; announcing that I won’t hear you three blocks before I ever even alive.      But on the ground, out in the world?  That will require some closed-back cans.  It needs to be obvious that I am not ignoring you (or am I?).  It needs to be apparent why I just can’t be bothered right now.      It creates a space where I am around people who speak my language.  People who talk about shit I want to talk about.  People who enjoy things that I enjoy.  When I am with my music, I am in a space without the disappointment of general human interaction.  I get to choose my spots, I get to explore things

     I have a massive amount of respect and sympathy for tortured creative souls… There was a time where I just didn’t get it; the grief that comes with being one of those people who is constantly looking to pull everything they see/say/do into something that is their outlet du jour at the next moment they will arrive to their medium to do so.  As I have been back writing for the last 16+ months with an all-new focus here, I see it more than ever.      I look back to the last time I was actually motivated and I see it.  I finished my novel in 30 days, all 50k words of it.  Waking up at 5am to pound out an idea brewing.  Carrying a flash drive with me everywhere and writing without eating lunch.  Ignoring the whole-ass world around me, for better or worse.  I did it all.  Two of the four albums I listened to for that September/October month were Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter in America .  If ever there was a succinct definition of tortured creative

     Life is a weird thing… It is this dance of things that will inevitably happen to us, fought against how we will react to them. [Phlip note: isn’t it weird how we often use the word “inevitable,” but I have never heard the word “evitable” used in my 38years?] In 2015, I had some defeatable health issues that I spent the necessary time, money and medical attention addressing.  It took until the end of the yea to be cleared of it all.  2016, I rediscovered my pen--… err, keyboard and ran with it (more on that Friday).  I also got the clearance from my doctors from the above situation to resume vigorous physical activity. 2017 was my year.  Cleared for action and newly motivated to eat right and attempt to live forever, I started walking/running and eventually bought a bicycle to get my physique under control. And I threw off 40 pounds in 9 months. October, we consolidated households and life became easier still.  No back-and-forth, no maintaining two sets of bills and

     See-through Sunday…  On a Monday. 8:20pm is when my fingers hit the keys on this one.  I have been awake since 6, and even that was on only about 6 hours of sleep, with reasoning for which I can only blame myself.  I have no work tomorrow and could crash out RIGHT now, but I also don’t want to wake up at 3am, so I am pushing through it.      I moved into this house in August 2009 and closed on it 12 weeks later.  This is my 9 th Christmas under this roof, my 6 th one as a father.  Somehow this one feels different.  I spent it with both my existing and incoming families.  I woke up and had to wait on the babies – one of whom is actually 19 – to wake up so we can start opening gifts.  We made said babies breakfast, a tradition in my family.  I am at the age where it is not about what is in the boxes, but for the reaction of everyone else in the room when they open theirs.  The magic of that littler one’s face when she woke up next after me and sees what Santa left her,

     The dog NEVER has a plan for when it actually catches the car. Think about that for a minute.      People tend to aim for a reaction out of people; something they can see, something that can be quantified.  They are not owed that but human nature seems to fuel the ego that causes one to seek it no less.  A reaction is emotional.  It is (usually) immediate, overblown and underthought.  It is a “rise,” as in “getting a rise out of someone.” It is giving the enemy (real or perceived) what they want.  Unfortunately, it is an mentally void behavior that apparently doesn’t disqualify one from the Presidency.  Many think it is a show of strength, something that shows off the preparedness to deal with a situation.  It isn’t.  It is an opportunity to show foolhardiness, usually a show of fear.      Respond, don’t react.  A “response” doesn’t have to be verbal or contain any action.  Sometimes the BEST responses are to deny the attention seeker the attention they desperatel

     I am not famous for a living. Shit, I am not famous for free. I guess you could venture as far as to say I am not famous at all.      There was a time in my younger days where I would legit get angry when people talked about me.  I really didn’t want the attention, mainly because it was usually negative.  Not that there is this aura of negative around me, but I watch people enough to know that when they’re discussing people and not places/things/ideas, then that conversation is very rarely positive. I learned, though, that you can’t stop ‘em from talking.  What you can, however, control is what they have to talk about.  It makes sense to me that if a motherfucker is trying to hang me, the last thing I want to give them is more rope. 1 – Don’t tell ANYONE everything you know.      Some shit ain’t for everybody.  Some shit ain’t for anybody.  If ever, these days I find myself at a juncture where I can’t tell betwixt the two, the world will be largely uninjured by

     Christmas is still three weeks out, yet… From about the time in my life that I would fully credit with making me what I am now, we had some adult-ass Christmases.  I say that to say that we had a couple of things under the tree – if there was a tree at home – and a ton of practical things. Socks, drawz, clothes and shoes fit to be worn to school were staples.      At 12, this was kind of hurtful, but at 38 I would LOVE someone to provide me with some of these things. [ Phlip note : no shit, email me for size/address information] There was no secrets at the time as to why things were the way they were, and since we liked to live and eat, indoors at that, we had no good reason to complain.  We appreciated what we had.      On into actual adulthood, I was kind of conditioned not to give a whole lot of a fuck about the general mechanics of Christmas given our history with it.  A gift or two to the people around me, special focus on helping the kids to not feel what I

     I’m as stingy with loyalty as I am with respect. I don’t often avail myself to people, so the ones I have shared any information they felt should not be shared had better be treated as if they should die with it. As bad as my memory happens to be in the short term, it is dangerous when the topic is things that I feel are important.      My continued circle consists of people I have been given reason to be loyal and respectful to. Sure, I am prone to fits of personal stupidity, but I am at least dumb enough to not be interested in majorly fucking up my plays in a manner I might find egregious.      I have a team… A twin brother, a best friend, several really good friends and some cats that I have never actually met in person.  The amount of “me” that I have given these people is a testament to who I perceive them to be.  This is usually a result of what they have done with or for me with no reason to otherwise.  This is usually a result of shared common interest

     We’re told that patience is virtuous… I did the right thing when I’ve waited      Keep conflict low, don’t make waves… I don’t much debate it      Say what you mean and mean what you say… It’s on them if conflated      Stay in my lane… Easy, most can’t even relate it      Plan hard and work harder… Love what you’ve created      Positivity and focus… At times I feel insulated      Respectability; stand by what you’re about… Time spent doing right is never time wasted      Well I’ve spent years expecting my turn… My time is awaited      Past outcomes speak to norms… I think it’s all overrated      I like to think I am working toward SOMETHING… Perhaps it’s all just belated      I could REALLY use some input… On what has delayed it      Why, all this time doing right… am I the one still frustrated?

(I'm the one in the diaper with the beard) When he worked third shift, he would get home from work right about the time we’d be waking up.  We were often in the house – even outside of the few months we lived there – so we were there when he came in on Saturday morning.  We’d wake up and take us to this tiny greasy-spoon diner around the corner.  They always knew what he wanted before he asked. The place closed sometime before I was old enough to take HIM to breakfast there.  I hate I never had the chance. It is a fish place now, but I still have warm flashbacks every time I am in the building. Often in my school years, especially in 4 th and 5 th grades, we would be in class about to go to lunch.  “Phillip, your granddad is here.”  He would sit and eat with us and our friends and generally be the coolest old man in the building.  Furthermore, he would bring us all happy meals.  Never once do I recall TELLING him how many people I normally sat with at lunch, I am guess

     In all seriousness, I really probably should give more of a fuck about the world and what it thinks of me in general.  The fact of the matter, though, is that I march to the beat of my own drummer.  The “me” that the world is normally allowed to see is an international supervillain, a bearded curmudgeon.      There is this Tiny Human™ in my house who needs a hero.  “DaddyDaddyDaddy” is my routine.  Frustrating as it may be to hear back to back to back, I respond with “yes baby?” and carry it from where it goes. Fun fact: it is fucking EXHAUSTING.  I go out into a world that seems intent on destroying me most times and provide for us, then I come home and put on the happiest face I can.  She picks up on the cues around her and is a very emotional child, I work hard to avoid letting her see me break, despite the inevitable occurrence of it.  It’s human.      To her, I am the smartest, the strongest, the fastest, the best of everything.  True as these things may not be,

She posted that on my wall…      I loved it. It was an explanation to something that I’ve had none for over the last 25+ years.  I am a creator.  I see things that I want to see, I see things HOW I want to see them.  My eye and ear for detail are so tuned to things that I think I will later find important – or better still things I KNOW I will – that small details are outside of my purview.      She is learning, through this, that my issue is not that I don’t give a fuck so much as that I am more for things that one SHOULD be giving a fuck about than to allow time for things that don’t excite me or just probably don’t fit that description. That is why I hate smalltalk and can prattle on for hours about the inner nuances of Herbie Hancock’s Vein Melter .      But it shows that she spends time trying to “get” me instead of applying needless energy to “fixing” me. I know I am broken, and presented myself as such when we met.  A large part of making me better is pu

     No, it wasn’t right… I was never an “easy” child.  I was born with a plot, a scheme to move toward where I want(ed) to be, even when I didn’t know where that was. but life… We left my dad when I was 11 years, 5 months and 14 days old.  Not that I am keeping score or nothing.      Soon thereafter – nah, long before that – I learned that making my way would be what worked for me.  Sure, I have realized late in life that I have a support system.  Sure, I have found my voice over the last few years.  What remains to be realized, though, is that there is very little that a 6 th -grader has left to know about the world.  And I was ill-prepared. Enter: “I don’t know”      The reality of the world is that no one knows everything.  To my parenting, though, this seemed to be an issue.  Fuck, when I don’t know I don’t know.  But instead of followup questions, I got hit with WHATEVER was convenient.      Well…  Fuck it, I can beat “I don’t know” better than I can g

     No one ever taught me to pray. I know a whole life of hearing other people do it and it always felt so…  rehearsed.  The frustratingly long altar prayers in every Sunday service.  Grandma squeezing the color out of your hand for fidgeting during the altar call.  Standing by famished when that one uncle everyone only sees twice a year "performs" grace over Thanksgiving dinner.  "Lawd Jesus, take me with you!" at a funeral.  None of it felt quite standard. I know I was always told “come as you are,” and I totally took that to mean that God as I understood him would meet me where I could understand him.      So sure, we know The Lord’s Prayer, repeat mitzvahs, we know standard graces over meals and we’re advised to pray regularly, but my question has always been “how?” Get slapped enough for unintended-but-perceived disrespect just for asking that question as a child and the adult in you just doesn’t ask anymore even if the question never goes away.