The musings of a madman...

       If I told you I noticed what was happening and specifically planned to do so the way it has unfolded, I would be lying… True Story© has created itself as its own host, as a perpetual virtual novel, if you will.   It was “officially” born on September 1, 2016 as an exercise, a place for me to flesh out ideas and keep my pen game up on the chance that one day I might realize my dream to write for a living.   Comments on The Bookface and a push from a then-girlfriend-now-wife and three other friends who I love dearly caused it to become “a thing.”      “A Thing” became, as is my nature, something I became obsessed with the very production and presentation of to present every available Thursday and I did just that for almost two years before a surprise week in the hospital and the resultant fallout in 2018.   I still WANTED to write, but sometimes being benched can throw things askew.      Two years of sitting still does NOT make a creative mind rest.   I still had ideas.   I

I collect things…      I collect things that are of interest to me.   One of the things I collect most intently and intensely is Hot Wheels cars.   I pass by two Wal Mart super centers and one Neighborhood Market on my EVERY day trek.   That will change soon (more on that Sunday) .   But I used to – say about from the early 00s-09ish – be hardcore about finding and possessing hot wheels that were of interest to me.   It was something fun to do, going from store to store to store, seeing what they had and picking up the ones I liked and bringing them home just to have them.      Someone who was living with me at the time basically told me that all of my hobbies were stupid and I lost interest. But then it became obvious that I was what was stupid, not necessarily my hobbies, so she left me with a lesson to continue to be me and enjoy all of what makes me me.   Around 2014/15ish, I was back in the stores all over, thumbing through the racks and pegs and bins of Hot Wheels

     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

(sorry, I HAD to do it)      For all we think we know about love, the real fact of the matter is that we really don’t know shit. Ask 50 people the question “what is love?” and you will get 47 answers. Sure, there is a textbook definition: But really, what does all of that tell us?  We have a biblical edict to love one another, but I am have been through my bible time again and have yet to find the words on exactly HOW to do so. Please note, I am taking nothing from my bible as I find nothing anywhere else specifically telling me this either. We find ourselves left to learning everything we know about love from those who love/loved us… My pops: I don’t know I am willing to call this love.  Sure I know him, but do I?  So little was contributed, so little was available that his mother did most of the things that he should have been doing for us.  To him and to everyone he should have been making moves for, his love was for himself. Shit, if this lottery ticket i