Update on Waiting

Last night Obama said that New York Times aligations that Iran is willing to talk with the U.S. after the elections was a rumor or it was false. I personally would have gone along with it this. It would have stopped Romney's argument about Iran cold. All politicians lie. Sometime they lie to protect the country. I am sure republicans and democrats have different interuptations when the truth can be straight. THey lie just like your parents ied about Santa Clause. THink about it. Enough of politcians lying how about the media. Should the New York Times disclose their source or maybe apologise. They probably won't because, hey, it is the TImes and they can do whatever they want.

Waiting

Last night the New York Times posted a news story talking about that Iran was willing to talk about their nuclear program after our election. This makes since they want to know who they are dealing with.
A couple minutes after, a news oragniazation called reuters said that the U.S. didn't approve the nuclear talks which totally contracdicted what the Times said.
I did my best to research reuters.com maybe they were a more conservative news organization or something that tend to bend to the truth.
I read both stories and figured the truth will be heard from the horses mouth on MOnday during the debate or the next day. You can see the New York Times article if you do a key word search in the past 24 hours.
Now I am freinds with conservative and liberals on facebook. Conservatives would say it is just the lame stream media. Liberals would say fox news are liars just look at the fact checkers.
We can atleast agree that this story affects us all.
Another issue are the different revolutions and protesting going on in several Arab countries, I say let them have their revolution. We shoulds stay out of it.
You are probably thinking about the embasy in Libya. I didn't know what exactly to make of this, because, in my opinion, the truth hasn't yet come out yet, or both sides liberals and conservatives have their own side of the story. I thought of this idea, why not, give Al queda their own country. A country that can be govern how ever they see fit. This is country can be made by the surrounding areas. With their own country and with their own governemnt I personally think they would hang, in so many words, themselves.
Even though Bin laden is dead they apparently are a strong force in NOrthern Africa.
We can agree that not all Muslims are extreme. They are loyal to their religion and will stand up for it.
We should not be the caretakers of the world. Let the revolutions happen and give AL Queda some space, and, of course, get out of Afghanistan.
Then there is the truth about Iran. I don't think it will take military action. Military action will put us further in debt. We don't need to declare war on Iran.
We can also agree that we have our own problems here.   

When We Were Young by jason Jepson

Underage

            I’d left the small town blend, and my life was starting to change. Placebo was caught with an ounce of pot and some ecstasy. He was in jail. Gloria dropped out of college and was trying to make it as an actress in LA. I thought about Tactic's last words before I moved away, "You’ve got to find your niche."

            I’d been living in my aunt's attic room for a few days while my parents and I waited for the new house to be built. I wasn't looking forward to the real move because I’d be out in the suburbs away from the action of downtown. I had enjoyed living in the city rather then suburbia. One night I went to a bar that Captain told me about.

            The days were still long, and the heat was directing our every move, but it was dark now. As I stood on the sidewalk outside a jazz bar, God's headlight helped reveal the silhouette of a woman's legs as she bent down slightly to pick up the last of her groceries to put them in her car. The few remaining summer nights were making way for fall.

 “Compose yourself,” I thought, “you're nineteen, trying to drink at a jazz bar. They won't serve you at the bar, so sit at one of the booths and look busy.” I entered the double-swinging doors and noticed they were decorated with the letters R and R. I’d like to think they stood for Rest and Relaxation; instead, they were the first letter of the owner's name, an Asian man with a stained apron who was always willing to talk to the paying customers.  I didn't meet him during my first experience.  But when we did meet, he didn't fit my stereotype of a jazz bar owner. But anyone could tell he was proud of his bar.

            The cocktail waitress, a queen from Afghanistan, came to me with a smile. She wore a revealing, low-cut dress, which helped fill the tip jars at the end of every night. "Would you like a menu?"

"No, I'll have a beer,” I answered.

            I ordered the cheapest one they had. She left with my order, and my eyes followed her firmly sculptured legs as they skipped down a set of steps. Suddenly they were hidden behind the bar. She didn't look suspicious, but the doorman did. He sized me up, and I gave him a nod. The cocktail waitress finally came back with my beer and smiled.

            "When does the show start?" I asked confidently.

            "Usually about 10:30," she said.

            "Thanks." I smiled.  Not busted yet.

            It was still early, and I was the only one in the bar except for an older couple sitting on stools in front of the bartender, slurring the language of a potential divorce. I couldn't make out the language yet.

The band members arrived one by one. The alto saxophone player opened his case beside me.  Like the bottles of whiskey behind the bar, I stared straight ahead at the scene unfolding before my eyes.  He took out a rag and wiped off the excessive fingerprints on the instrument and smiled at the trumpet player, taking off his hat as he entered the bar. The drummer set up beside the window and had a conversation with the front man, who played the tenor saxophone, but there was no sign of the trombone player. I was the only one who seemed to notice. They finally  walked to the stage in a slow pace, each instruments whispering faint warm-up sounds

            The front man took his position at the soundboard, and the drummer played the cymbals, molding a soundtrack as the crowd stepped in, looking for an escape from their daily lives. The trumpet, alto, and tenor played chaos, while the drummer switched to the snare with a bass drum, forming a drumbeat that sealed in the already drunken voices of the crowd. I was not going anywhere.

            I counted the beers I drank and realized I was running out of money, but the show hadn't even started. The cocktail waitress came back to check on me.

            "How much is one beer?" I asked

            She looked at me as if beer was shooting out of my ears.

            Realizing the question sounded slightly underage. I explained to her that I just moved here.  

            "Two bucks." She stride away as the band played a song by Sonny Rollin off of his Saxophone Colossus album. I was hooked.

            The trumpeter played a solo. He walked around the bar with his stiff cheeks and profusely sweating forehead, making eye contact with everyone. Everyone was forced to listen. I thought he sounded like Lee Morgan. The other musicians did the same thing, not competing with each other, but telling the story of their shitty work week.  There was still no sign of the trombone player.

            As the cocktail waitress checked on the individual booth, Lee Morgan's wonderful imposter was in the aisle and blocked her from getting out, so she sat down next to me. She smiled and I smiled back. I wished I had money for more PBR, and the last thing I wanted was to be sober in a jazz bar--underage. The last few sips created a bittersweet taste for alienation and the jazz.

            Suddenly the trombone player walked through the swinging doors, already in sync with the other members of the band. I quickly knew I would became a regular, as the whole place erupted in applause, and the jazz band howled throughout the streets of Richmond. The melody echoed throughout the bottom of my empty beer can. I was content.

            When the intermission was called out by the tenor saxophone player, I asked for my bill as the cocktail waitress passed by.

            "You mean your tab," she corrected. “I’ll get it for you."

            Since the band had stopped playing, the bartender had turned on the stereo.  Sinatra sang “The Good Life.” I paid and felt bad for leaving a shitty tip, determined that I’d make up for it next time.

            I went outside, where two band members were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Another musician came out and told them he was going across the street to buy a hot dog at the convenience store.  I talked to the remaining musicians and asked if they would take requests when they began the next set.

            "Sure, what would you like to hear?" one asked.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis,” I answered.

            They smiled at me. One of them knocked on the window that said "Rick's."

            The band leader, the tenor saxophone player, came over. He opened the door beside the window, where the band loaded their equipment in and out of the bar.

            "This gentleman has a request," said one of the band members.

            "Really? What would you like to hear?" asked the leader.

            "`Blue into Green’ by Miles Davis, and could you dedicate it to the cocktail waitress with the black skirt?"

            "Sure thing."

            The band members went inside to start their second set. I stayed outside, staring and watching as the band leader announced that tonight, and every Friday and Saturday night, featured vocalist Miss Lady E would perform.  I could hear her opening lines of “Summertime,” and I walked to my car, hoping my request would make up for the dollar tip I left the waitress.

 

What is Epic about you?

Back when I drank in bars, I was at Applebees, and it turned out some of my neighbors were there talking about cars. I didn't know anything about cars but I was still interested. One of my neighbors had this car that you could always hear when he was coming or going. It was grey with a spoiler on the back.
Eventually they asked me, "What kind of car do you drive?"
I answered, "Toyota Camry."
One snickered, and another shrugged their shoulders.
Then someone said, "That's almost as bad as prius."
They laughed and I even snickered. They were surprise by this.
THey mentioned this guy who the fast and furious movies were based on.
He said, "I've been faster up side down then most people have been their entire lives."
I was impressed but it didn't make me want to drag.
"Have you ever gone really fast?" One asked.
"I've been on a roller coaster." I answered.
One snickered and another shrugged his shoulders.
One of them started to explain to me the thrills of going fast. If I was in my twenties or younger I would probably take them up on their offer to ride with them.
Over the years I have gotten use to the typical man questioning me. Chances are most guys out their wouldn't understand not only writing poetry but sending it off only to be rejected. Writing. I Invest in my own writing like my neighbors invest in their cars. I can't see myself doing anything else. It is in my blood just like turing wrenches is in their blood.
As my mom would say it is a "Pissing contest."
I didn't mention to them that sometimes I feel the need to put on the gloves and go at it. I didn't mention to them that in basic training I was the only one to volunteer to carry the M240 bravo, which is a machine gun that weighed about 25 pounds, when ever we went out marching.
My dad has said to me and my brother to have a balance.
During little league my dad would not only help coach the team but sometimes after dinner we would walk to the baseball field near our house and he would hit pop up and grounders to me. He took time for me.
At a young age I have questioned the typical man. I would question the stereotype. Afterall they would question me for driving a Camry to put it one way. I didn't want to be like them.
I found that when I went to bars I was with a bunch of guys. One guy would be talking and I would be searching for the women.
In my opinion the barfly is not what you want to be. I am all in favor of after a busy work week or something like that to go out and have a couple. The point of this is not to ask the male race to sober up, but quit competing with each other. And if the light at the end of the tunnel is fogged with beer then do your best to make a change. Seriously I am not saying don't drink, good times are nice.  

 

The Sickness in Writing sbr143

THE SICKNESS IN WRITING

 

            When Hemingway spoke the words, “Writers are alone,” what did he mean? Did he mean writers are alone in their thoughts, or did he mean that in most cases writers are misunderstood? Or was this his isolationism speaking.  Was he possibly depressed?   What are the underlining factors for those writers whose work we consider great but who seemed to battle mental health concerns? 

            A writer with a mental illness like me can feel alone and misunderstood.  Worse case scenario is that the writer is not taking the proper medication.  Their writing becomes a handicap, causing them to feel as if they don’t belong or as if there is a dark cloud overhead. Medication may not get rid of the entire cloud, but perhaps make it becomes less dark.

            I’ve been writing in a journal since the seventh grade. The journaling later inspired poetry and then short stories. Writing was a release for me, and I felt it came naturally. It was my way communicating because I was born with a speech impediment. I couldn’t say “R’ sounds. I had plenty of things to say but hardly said them out loud in fear of being tormented by the other kids. In fifth grade an experience was monumental for me. That was where my speech therapist said in her words, “You will never talk like the other kids.” Forced into being an outsider I think that statement helped me prepare for schizophrenia.

            How has schizophrenia changed my writing? Without medication I would write pages and pages about things I thought were going on. I would write down the voices in my head. MY words then only made since to me. I obsessed over my writing. It was the only thing I wanted to do. I thought I was changing the world with my so called special powers. I was indeed a troubled mind.  

            I think about my own life and how my writing has changed as I have worked through my mental illness.  I was depressed, maybe even suicidal. My writing was cynical and maybe seen as dark. A short story that I wrote might have the main character die. I thought that was the best way to end a story. Now, if I have a dark thought or write something that is dark, I don’t like the feeling inside.  I take medication now, and that has changed my outlook.  Now I hate killing a character. I often write about little kids--their innocence or their playful ways.

            I definitely have a story to tell but I realize I will never be recognized as much as Hemingway and DR. Thompson. I will still write. Writing is breathing.

I often write about my theory about why I have this illness. I mentioned the speech impediment which was probably a great stressor for me as a baby boy. In my early twenties I thought I was being stalked by an ex-girlfriend. I often thought she followed me in her car, and I thought her friends spread rumors about me at my job and other places. I am told delusions do not get cured or are the hardest thing to cure. I still have that delusion. I stopped writing about it.

I was in the army, there were definitely stressors there. I was also in my early twenties. I had a bad bump to the head where I was knocked out for a second. I experienced hazing where five guys tried to duct tape me. I fought so hard two of them left to tape another guy. I fought off another two; however it took a man bigger and stronger than me to bring me down. Imagine fighting for your life and losing or having your own guys punish you for being the new guy. 

I thought the hazing split my world into two realities. There was the everyday reality and there was an under the surface reality. In the under the surface reality you would hear voices in your head and see the person in your head or so I thought. I thought in order for a person to do this they would have to look me in the eye so I did my best to wear sunglasses as much as I could, because the voices in my head and other people’s head could influence them. IN other words they could make a person do something they wouldn’t normally do.  

Hemingway was alone possibly because of post traumatic stress. He experienced war which changes everyone who experiences it. Thompson did a lot of drugs. Some would say because he thought they were fun others maybe because he was lonely. It all sounds like debilitating depression. If anything these two great writers had multi mental disorders. I personally wouldn’t change them, however.  

Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson both were famous writers who committed suicide. If they had experienced the breakthroughs in mental health today, I wonder if they would have written some of their greatest works.  Hunter Thompson died a few years ago, and I feel sure he had enough money to afford help.   However, if he had received help earlier in his life, would he have written his famous works such as Rum Diary and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas?

            Am I fortunate to read the great works which were written by a troubled mind or is it unfortunate?  I feel blessed to have their writing as their epitaph.  Their writing holds the key to how they might have thought even in a troubled state of mind.  But I will never be able to tell them that I have been there too.  I know how they feel.

            After the break up with the ex-girlfriend, I woke up one morning and my tail pipe was cut off. I always thought it was her. Then again I didn’t live in the best neighborhood so who knows. I also thought a publisher was stealing my words. He had a disk of mine and I pretty much told him to give it back. I had a tire iron in my hand to threaten him. I wouldn’t do something like that now, but there are days where I feel that my words are all I have in this world rather they are read by others or not.

            Many of the greats of literature, as well as the other arts seem to be plagued with mental health disabilities. As a mental health consumer I feel blessed to have read and benefited from their darkness.

projector

The projector in the sky is off
the blue screen breathes
still cloudless
where is all the light coming from?
the atmosphere may swallow us too
the tree waves goodbye in the breeze
today no celebrities or drama
shade from no sun
cool breath ignored by glass doors
flannel covers naked skin
not dismal no depression
high on balconies and
mood disorderlies

Predator's web

From a distance you can't see it
it isn't until you are right in front of it
when you see the the net to catch the prey
kids run and play under it never stopping
I don
t see the spider
he must be hiding
this web is attached to a tree's branch
delicately esquistly made to capture
the weak
flies and other insects
yet the spider isn't visible
the spider thirst on blood and we wait
and sit observing his artistry
easily destroyed yet
once the prey is captured
the reward for the spider for waiting
Finally I think of women and marriage

Explaining Men in their teenage years and twenties

We go on a path for as long as we can only to find there is a gap. This gap is massive, and you can't jump over it. You could go the way you came but in the back of you mind you wonder how can I bridge the gap. The gap is inbetween boyhood and being a  man. We are often asked at that age, "So what are you going to do with your life?" Some boys claim they know how to answer but this will not stop the opstacles no matter how small that everyone faces. Some men fall in love so they find their other half to share life with. Some go to college, and they may do well but they may drink alot and find themselve just another drop out. NO real answer is fool proof. we are all fools and in my opinion, the fool and the struggle are beaultiful. THe detours that create new paths the unlikley aquaintance turns into more then a firend and just the moments we have,the few seconds or minutes we have to breathe, and look back are a gift. Are you satifyied in these moments? As a dude I find it helps to pray, and a prayer does not have to be the mona lisa on the wall but just a simple thank you.

Oct. 4, 2012

Early Fall, heaven opens up its eyelids to remind us in our own alone that the heat embraces us all. The top of the tress change color as the leaves stay green closer down down down to the trunk. The few words I know can't capture the bliss of heaven's eyes opening up to show God's pupil. At the close of the week we welcome daylight impressions summer slowly retreating with nonchalant cool nights. we are in the middle of breathing air conditioning and exhaling the heater. No fan to spin and no blanket to cover us. We feel comfort inbetween the closing and beginning of the seasons. We do not look forward to hunkering down in the cold but cheer with hot cider pregaming it. Observing the game of inches highlighting an American made game. On my own I channel surf, thinking of dad as he takes a load off in his comforable chair. I only show interest when his team scores. It is entertaining, when the pigskin slips and falls from hands and dad can't stay still. I laugh at the man resembling a child realizing a dream 

Ya heard

I want to be heard
now only these walls to hear
need a microphone
and my lungs to shout
surpressed
maybe a contradcition
before leaving out my front door
from aquaintances more as firends
but feel as if I am better alone
in my bed restraints
maybe it is just
not wanting a crowd
but just one
I am asking for your senses
hearing and seeing
if you don't want to put
touch on the table that is fine
If I was a painter
I would paint the voices
or the voices in my head
voices flow invisible
my impediment brings questions
my speech can only
be seen before and after the storm