I've been away. . . Sorry to say!
To a land where time is lost, no purpose, anyway!
Lost into the good side of my mind. . . where I wanna, stay!
In one's mind, lies many caverns. Some too deep, uncharted, I dare. . . say!
I'M GOING TO THROW OUT MANY THOUGHTS WITHOUT A PATTERN, A PLAN. AH, SEEMS MUCH LIKE LIFE, (MINE ANYWAY!)
I do not think in perfect rhyme, nor reason, do you?
Life makes no sense! Soo. . . why make sense of life?
I see life, for what it truly is. . . a ride on a thrill ride at the country fair!
Where we partake of the carny side, cheap thrills, cheap games we know! They're rigged!
We puke our guts out from the sidewinder ride. We call it fun!
It was for awhile, was it worth it though?
Yes. or at least it would'a been before the elephant ear, cheap/expensive carny food!
We ride life without a plan, sometimes it's so fucking fun!!! Sometimes we puke our guts out!
Is there a meaning to it? NO!
Was it worth living? YES!
The smell of a baby! Rubbing it's hairless head! Feeling the softness of it's skin!
Is the flu bug worth the suffering? YES!
Do you have to suffer a heart attack, cancer, a brain tumor to see that life is worth living?
If you don't understand what I just wrot'a. . . I feel compassionately for you!
I come at you today with little hearing left. Yet, I hear more than the fall college game of screaming alumni!
A late summer's allergy has robbed me blind. (Correction has robbed me hearing!)
Does one pay the piper for eternal life?
Just a asking! Don't get yer panties in a pinch at me!!! (Have you not asked that same ?)
It seems we pay our whole life and know not what we pay. . . for!
We pay for the privilege to be brainwashed. Is that not freedom?
I pay, I pay, I pay . . . and yet. . . all I ask for . . . IS JUST ANOTHER DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
The Ol' Fishin Hole
Strangeness R Me. I have struggled all my life to be me. Mixture of confusion from too much darn thinkin, I reckon. Tain't easy being me! Please take my word for it! A hodgepodge of thoughts/emotions have always roamed too freely about, in me head. That's the way it's always been for as long as I can remember. The only logical reason I can come up with is, yes! My childhood. Everything goes back to that doesn't it. Of course! That's when we the ones that different. Different in that we are different!(I was going to go into detail, those of you that different knowsa-whata-I'mma sayin, and you'll understand this!)
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The ol' Fishin Hole.
There was this one place that was special. The old man thinks fondly of every time he drives by this one curve that seemed to be way out in the country when he was ten and accompanied his uncle and father to this one spot "the ol' fishin hole." Thinkin back on the first time, he remembers I'm going to miss The Beverly Hillbillies, his favorit television show. Going fishin was so much fun. This time his father and uncle were a talkin bout a special fishin hole. They have not been there in many a years and talked like this was the fishin holes of fishin holes. Beverly Hillbillies or no Beverly Hillbillies he were not gonna miss this fishin hole. As customary back then, fishin consisted of evening fishin and stayin over after dark to see iffin the catfish were bitin. Kerosene lanterns was the light source and the nighttime hee-bee-gee-bees always saw him sittin between the two grown men. Cat fishin was a different fishin, usin stronger fishin poles and line. Little be knowst to the boy he was to be their pack mule, it did not matter he craved the excitement of getting as far a way from schoolin and the everyday world. Thinkin back he reckon that fishin was as close as he ever come to truly bonding with his father. Listening to the two brothers talkin and the stories that were always a flyin made him think there was hillbilly in his genes. Times were so different as they grew up in the 30's and 40's.
If they weren't workin, they were a drinkin or fishin, sometimes drinkin and a fishin.
Back then in the 60's railroad tracks were still going every which direction criss-crossing the county, The interstate system wasn't complete and the mighty steel horses spewing that black smoke from them mighty engines.
To get to the ol' fishin hole we had to park and walk the railroad track about a mile to a bridge over this creek. There according to the tall tales of sometime drunken men from somewhat hillbilly roots was the best fishin hole ever. There was absolutely no way the boy was gonna miss out on this adventure. The boy was a thinkin what if a train were to come by as they were walkin the railroad line to the bestus fishin hole ever. The railroad bridge slowly come into focus. Built at the turn of the century and spanning the river, it was breathtaking. Never a fore had he walked right up to this type a structure. They walk onto the bridge a short distance and look down at the water. The boy was a mite scared, but tried not to let it show. They walk back off the bridge and down a rather steep embankment about a hundred feet or so away from the bridge, down onto a sandbar stretching out onto the river. Being the end of July the river was at its lowest level of the year. From the sandbar viewpoint the bridge seemed humongous. It was a couple hours before dark and they lay out their tackle and gather wood for a fire. The boy thinks, "I hope a train comes by, it sure would be fun to see." As the two men began fishing the boy wanders about exploring taking in the surroundings. Anytime he had gone fishin before there was a bank you sit on overlooking the water. Here you sit down and could touch the water. Fish wee caught but thrown back seems these two had the hankerin for a big catfish, to filet and fry in cornbread. Darkness was upon us the fire was crackling, the kerosene smell of the lanterns create another world, By this time the boy settled in between the two adults. The big fishin poles were brought out. A large y shaped stick was placed into the sandbar so as to hold the pole upright waiting for them catfish to take the bait. When catfish hit they take the bait and if you're not attention a big un will take pole and all. All was peaceful and quiet then a train come across the bridge. The boy found that somethun, scary, exciting and downright noisy. To this day he can still sense that black as the night train, clickey, clackin on that bridge. Even though we heard it a comin fer along ways, nothing could compare to that gigantic light shining. The blanket of darkness returns, then a pole bens in half. The first catfish of the night. Several catfish were caught, no monster catfish of which sometimes would tip the scales of over 30lbs. A mighty nice mess of 3 to 7 lbs, perfect eating size. Back then we somewhat civilized hillbillies, could still eat the fish caught.
The old man chuckles, every time he drives the high spot where the old rail road tracks used to be, they were remove over thirty years ago. The same story always flashes through his mind. It was a fun, yet, scary, beautiful night, even though he missed The Beverly Hillbillies. A special evening to relive forever. As he grew older he realizes why his favorit television show was what it was. His family was poor hillbillies, on one side. Simplistic people living off the land, hunting game, fishin, raising crops, butcherin pigs to survive. One of his earliest memories was of drivin with Ma and Pa far out into the hills and hollers of another county. There Grandma and Grandpa was livin as their parents before them off the land with no electricity, no indoor plumbing, chickens running loose, pigs a squealing. When darkness hit, you're in a world all your own.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ol' Fishin Hole.
There was this one place that was special. The old man thinks fondly of every time he drives by this one curve that seemed to be way out in the country when he was ten and accompanied his uncle and father to this one spot "the ol' fishin hole." Thinkin back on the first time, he remembers I'm going to miss The Beverly Hillbillies, his favorit television show. Going fishin was so much fun. This time his father and uncle were a talkin bout a special fishin hole. They have not been there in many a years and talked like this was the fishin holes of fishin holes. Beverly Hillbillies or no Beverly Hillbillies he were not gonna miss this fishin hole. As customary back then, fishin consisted of evening fishin and stayin over after dark to see iffin the catfish were bitin. Kerosene lanterns was the light source and the nighttime hee-bee-gee-bees always saw him sittin between the two grown men. Cat fishin was a different fishin, usin stronger fishin poles and line. Little be knowst to the boy he was to be their pack mule, it did not matter he craved the excitement of getting as far a way from schoolin and the everyday world. Thinkin back he reckon that fishin was as close as he ever come to truly bonding with his father. Listening to the two brothers talkin and the stories that were always a flyin made him think there was hillbilly in his genes. Times were so different as they grew up in the 30's and 40's.
If they weren't workin, they were a drinkin or fishin, sometimes drinkin and a fishin.
Back then in the 60's railroad tracks were still going every which direction criss-crossing the county, The interstate system wasn't complete and the mighty steel horses spewing that black smoke from them mighty engines.
To get to the ol' fishin hole we had to park and walk the railroad track about a mile to a bridge over this creek. There according to the tall tales of sometime drunken men from somewhat hillbilly roots was the best fishin hole ever. There was absolutely no way the boy was gonna miss out on this adventure. The boy was a thinkin what if a train were to come by as they were walkin the railroad line to the bestus fishin hole ever. The railroad bridge slowly come into focus. Built at the turn of the century and spanning the river, it was breathtaking. Never a fore had he walked right up to this type a structure. They walk onto the bridge a short distance and look down at the water. The boy was a mite scared, but tried not to let it show. They walk back off the bridge and down a rather steep embankment about a hundred feet or so away from the bridge, down onto a sandbar stretching out onto the river. Being the end of July the river was at its lowest level of the year. From the sandbar viewpoint the bridge seemed humongous. It was a couple hours before dark and they lay out their tackle and gather wood for a fire. The boy thinks, "I hope a train comes by, it sure would be fun to see." As the two men began fishing the boy wanders about exploring taking in the surroundings. Anytime he had gone fishin before there was a bank you sit on overlooking the water. Here you sit down and could touch the water. Fish wee caught but thrown back seems these two had the hankerin for a big catfish, to filet and fry in cornbread. Darkness was upon us the fire was crackling, the kerosene smell of the lanterns create another world, By this time the boy settled in between the two adults. The big fishin poles were brought out. A large y shaped stick was placed into the sandbar so as to hold the pole upright waiting for them catfish to take the bait. When catfish hit they take the bait and if you're not attention a big un will take pole and all. All was peaceful and quiet then a train come across the bridge. The boy found that somethun, scary, exciting and downright noisy. To this day he can still sense that black as the night train, clickey, clackin on that bridge. Even though we heard it a comin fer along ways, nothing could compare to that gigantic light shining. The blanket of darkness returns, then a pole bens in half. The first catfish of the night. Several catfish were caught, no monster catfish of which sometimes would tip the scales of over 30lbs. A mighty nice mess of 3 to 7 lbs, perfect eating size. Back then we somewhat civilized hillbillies, could still eat the fish caught.
The old man chuckles, every time he drives the high spot where the old rail road tracks used to be, they were remove over thirty years ago. The same story always flashes through his mind. It was a fun, yet, scary, beautiful night, even though he missed The Beverly Hillbillies. A special evening to relive forever. As he grew older he realizes why his favorit television show was what it was. His family was poor hillbillies, on one side. Simplistic people living off the land, hunting game, fishin, raising crops, butcherin pigs to survive. One of his earliest memories was of drivin with Ma and Pa far out into the hills and hollers of another county. There Grandma and Grandpa was livin as their parents before them off the land with no electricity, no indoor plumbing, chickens running loose, pigs a squealing. When darkness hit, you're in a world all your own.
Friday, August 16, 2013
The Wall!!!
Been in a strange, yet. new mood this week, even for me. I reckon just when you think you have experienced it all, you experience something new, if you're aware.
For a few years I was in a groove that seemed to work for me. Not a rut, rather a period of enlightenment, in a new way, through this format you're now reading. I was content to work the late shift hours. I was approached about a new job on dayshift, unknowing at that time this was uniquely tailored for me with the necessary skills I had gathered over the years. It took many months to actually start this job that was offered to me on November 7th, of last year. Only after five months of dilly-dallying (Not on my part!) A demand to give me what was promised was asked. I'm not one for demanding, it was the principle of the thing that drove me. I was in a comfortable, guiding rut for the first time in my life. My life's suit seemed wearable with the addition of my new nightly hobby . . GLENVIEW. Releasing pent up emotional baggage in a new way and the persistence of learning to type (No I never knew how to type! Believe me it ain't easy to teach an old dog new tricks!)
ANYWAYS! A tense meeting did accomplish what was promised many, many, months earlier. I won, but I also lost! In looking back. I wish this had never been. It was a nerve racking pissed off many months. I'm an old man and afflicted with emotions. After the winning/losing battle my emotions ran amuck, I had to regain my emotions through a somewhat lengthy stay in the bathroom. (Read into this what you, will.) I was took aback at these flowing of emotions. One may play hard-ball yet emotions, cannot be caught, nor controlled.
This year has seen me working strange hours, a combination of day, nights and everything in between.
I had inner gumption to prove to all, and I did! I was asked to return to a split shift to help, which I did. I examine this year so far and find a hollow victory. One can only do so much, especially when words seemingly fall on deaf ears. Admission of errors without correctional fluids, solve nothing.
I have been uprooted from a rut of my design, to a ruthless rut going nowhere it seems. I miss the rut of the same hours, I must endure so as I might enjoy the enlightening reflection of my new found hobby. I feel soul-less at the moment.
I have gone from the brightly burning flame of proving to myself and all that I am up to the challenge, to a new sensation of overwhelming boredom. The mood I found myself languishing in, is not jittery frustration with high blood pressure. Seems as though a heavy sedative has been injected into my will. An emptiness of it doesn't matter. There is not one bright, beautiful, golden light at the end of the tunnel. It has always been smoke and mirrors, a tunnel of a thousand small lights connected to throw you off. The last light should you reach it, lies a cement wall...............................................
For a few years I was in a groove that seemed to work for me. Not a rut, rather a period of enlightenment, in a new way, through this format you're now reading. I was content to work the late shift hours. I was approached about a new job on dayshift, unknowing at that time this was uniquely tailored for me with the necessary skills I had gathered over the years. It took many months to actually start this job that was offered to me on November 7th, of last year. Only after five months of dilly-dallying (Not on my part!) A demand to give me what was promised was asked. I'm not one for demanding, it was the principle of the thing that drove me. I was in a comfortable, guiding rut for the first time in my life. My life's suit seemed wearable with the addition of my new nightly hobby . . GLENVIEW. Releasing pent up emotional baggage in a new way and the persistence of learning to type (No I never knew how to type! Believe me it ain't easy to teach an old dog new tricks!)
ANYWAYS! A tense meeting did accomplish what was promised many, many, months earlier. I won, but I also lost! In looking back. I wish this had never been. It was a nerve racking pissed off many months. I'm an old man and afflicted with emotions. After the winning/losing battle my emotions ran amuck, I had to regain my emotions through a somewhat lengthy stay in the bathroom. (Read into this what you, will.) I was took aback at these flowing of emotions. One may play hard-ball yet emotions, cannot be caught, nor controlled.
This year has seen me working strange hours, a combination of day, nights and everything in between.
I had inner gumption to prove to all, and I did! I was asked to return to a split shift to help, which I did. I examine this year so far and find a hollow victory. One can only do so much, especially when words seemingly fall on deaf ears. Admission of errors without correctional fluids, solve nothing.
I have been uprooted from a rut of my design, to a ruthless rut going nowhere it seems. I miss the rut of the same hours, I must endure so as I might enjoy the enlightening reflection of my new found hobby. I feel soul-less at the moment.
I have gone from the brightly burning flame of proving to myself and all that I am up to the challenge, to a new sensation of overwhelming boredom. The mood I found myself languishing in, is not jittery frustration with high blood pressure. Seems as though a heavy sedative has been injected into my will. An emptiness of it doesn't matter. There is not one bright, beautiful, golden light at the end of the tunnel. It has always been smoke and mirrors, a tunnel of a thousand small lights connected to throw you off. The last light should you reach it, lies a cement wall...............................................
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Let The Words Flow!
I cannot write anything that has not been done, a fore, so why try? A question such as this crosses my mind as I am relaxing in my recliner in total darkness, my self meditation, I suppose, I prefer to relax in my lazy boy before retiring. It is at this point I rethink the important happenings of the day. Why do I attempt? An intriguing question. I must say. In total darkness, without the aid of my hearing aids, I am at peace, without the noise of the world or in this case the common noise in my house.
I give to you, my most sacred gift. Perhaps we are one and the same, cast from in the foundry we call life. Why then are we different, if indeed we are?
Languages of the world say the same thing. Properly translated with the humor, love, truth, feelings make us enjoy as if our own.
I'm searching to say what my mind wishes known. That's so amazing and that's what I strive for. That's why I wish to put my words down. I want to unleash all that wants to come out. Unbridled, unassisted. A lifetime of quietness that has been damned up wishes to flow. Seems I learned my schooling too good. When to speak, what to speak, what to think, so on and so forth.
Stream of consciousness writing, seems to be me. I truly do not fully understand that concept. Ain't no spirits writing through me baby! I 'll kick them out!
If indeed you for whatever reason like my words, I thank you. I feel I have much more to write about and hope to write whatever is in my stream, till the day I die. It's been fun so far. My stream's not dry, life as far as working for the man every night and day, has brought that phrase into clarity this year. Have much to reflect on, if, only I could get back into some kind of set hours. I view the world through the eyes of Glen, that's why its called GLENVIEW!
I WISH TO BE NON OTHER THAN ME! I DON'T AND NEVER WILL CLAIM TO BE OTHER THAN A POOR BOY GROWING UP IN THE HEART OF CORN COUNTRY. I'M A GRADUATE OF THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS WITH MANY A BRUISES AND KNOCKS TO PROOVE IT. I'M A STEAM LOCOMOTIVE IN THE WORLD OF INSTANT COMMUNICATION. I'M OLD FASHION AND AM PROUD TO ADMIT IT. I'VE WORKED EVER DAY OF MY LIFE FOR WHAT LITTLE I HAVE, EXPECT TO WORK TILL THE DIE I DIE. IN A WORLD GONE CRAZY I THINK I'M SANE, SHOWS YOU HOW MAD I AM, I RECKON.
Let the words flow, like a mighty stream, there's a reason. I like that, I have written over 600 post. To read them is to know me. I hope you get to know me better in the years to come, for I will simply be me!!!!!! Glen
I give to you, my most sacred gift. Perhaps we are one and the same, cast from in the foundry we call life. Why then are we different, if indeed we are?
Languages of the world say the same thing. Properly translated with the humor, love, truth, feelings make us enjoy as if our own.
I'm searching to say what my mind wishes known. That's so amazing and that's what I strive for. That's why I wish to put my words down. I want to unleash all that wants to come out. Unbridled, unassisted. A lifetime of quietness that has been damned up wishes to flow. Seems I learned my schooling too good. When to speak, what to speak, what to think, so on and so forth.
Stream of consciousness writing, seems to be me. I truly do not fully understand that concept. Ain't no spirits writing through me baby! I 'll kick them out!
If indeed you for whatever reason like my words, I thank you. I feel I have much more to write about and hope to write whatever is in my stream, till the day I die. It's been fun so far. My stream's not dry, life as far as working for the man every night and day, has brought that phrase into clarity this year. Have much to reflect on, if, only I could get back into some kind of set hours. I view the world through the eyes of Glen, that's why its called GLENVIEW!
I WISH TO BE NON OTHER THAN ME! I DON'T AND NEVER WILL CLAIM TO BE OTHER THAN A POOR BOY GROWING UP IN THE HEART OF CORN COUNTRY. I'M A GRADUATE OF THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS WITH MANY A BRUISES AND KNOCKS TO PROOVE IT. I'M A STEAM LOCOMOTIVE IN THE WORLD OF INSTANT COMMUNICATION. I'M OLD FASHION AND AM PROUD TO ADMIT IT. I'VE WORKED EVER DAY OF MY LIFE FOR WHAT LITTLE I HAVE, EXPECT TO WORK TILL THE DIE I DIE. IN A WORLD GONE CRAZY I THINK I'M SANE, SHOWS YOU HOW MAD I AM, I RECKON.
Let the words flow, like a mighty stream, there's a reason. I like that, I have written over 600 post. To read them is to know me. I hope you get to know me better in the years to come, for I will simply be me!!!!!! Glen
PLAIN OL' ME!!!
Sometimes, I feel so TIRED.
Escaping, INTO, my dreams.
Not ever, to be SEEN.
There, and there, ONLY, I feel, I am me.
Dreams a plenty, yes, LET IT BE ME!
Reality too real, too MUCH for me!
I'm NEVER, tired, in my dreams.
I'm never SICK in my dreams.
I never say a BAD WORD, in my dreams.
I understand ALL, AND EVERYTHING, yet nothing too question, in my dreams.
My LOVE, is greater than ever known, in my dreams.
No HATRED, in my dreams.
Simplistic BURDENS, of the everyday world, so INSANE, or is it just me?
I'm OUT OF PLACE, in all places!
Except one, my DREAMS!
MAYBE WHEN WE DIE, WE CONTINUE ON, IN OUR LAST DREAM.
FOR IN MY DREAMS, I'M TRULY ME!
I WISH TO BE. . . NON OTHER. . . THAN PLAIN OL' ME!
Escaping, INTO, my dreams.
Not ever, to be SEEN.
There, and there, ONLY, I feel, I am me.
Dreams a plenty, yes, LET IT BE ME!
Reality too real, too MUCH for me!
I'm NEVER, tired, in my dreams.
I'm never SICK in my dreams.
I never say a BAD WORD, in my dreams.
I understand ALL, AND EVERYTHING, yet nothing too question, in my dreams.
My LOVE, is greater than ever known, in my dreams.
No HATRED, in my dreams.
Simplistic BURDENS, of the everyday world, so INSANE, or is it just me?
I'm OUT OF PLACE, in all places!
Except one, my DREAMS!
MAYBE WHEN WE DIE, WE CONTINUE ON, IN OUR LAST DREAM.
FOR IN MY DREAMS, I'M TRULY ME!
I WISH TO BE. . . NON OTHER. . . THAN PLAIN OL' ME!
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
The Young Man and His Gang (James Gang. I like it!)
I truly do take my nighttime medicine and am sitting in complete darkness, exceptin the light coming from my monitor. I wish for it to illuminate me, give me strength to write a wee somethun. My meds have not kicked in yet so ya see this is the real me. When my meds kick in maybe it's not the real me OR MAYBE IT'A ALL ME!!! AH,HA,HA,HA,HA,HA. (Should I of put a dot at the end of the last sentence, OR, not? Also before my meds make me silly and woozy. How come when I hit the capital key the comas or the apostrophes are not bigger. JUST WONDERING!
I'm bout as limber (relaxed) as me body and mind gets. I had me a piece of apple pie with some vanilla ice cream and watched a movie that I don't know quite how to explain. This movie was watched on my old 30 year old television with an antenna. This movie titled Identity with John Cusack held my interest. Very few movies do that. A couple other well known people are in it BUT wouldn't you know I can't remember at this moment. I can't turn loose my stream of river, consciousness whatch-a-ma-call-it and remember too! I caught it on This channel.
I came up with a bit of an idea before I sit down here. I thought what if? What if I start a story and write some of every night in addition to my screaming out, consciousness, something or the other, meandering free spirit kind of thing. WELL SHITE I CERTAINLY HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE! (Except my mind, and it ain't mine anyhow! It belongeth to all the people who madeth me this-away!)
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James Gang
The young boy lay in his bed thinking about many things. Being a teenager is hard enough, being poor in a house full of brothers and sisters and him being the oldest, plus sleeping in the basement. Can it get any worse? Then he reminds himself of his home, with the interstate almost in his backyard, one side is a road leading under the interstate, a heavily traveled city street in front. The only comforting somewhat normal evidence still left of what once was a real neighborhood is old Mrs. Worthington and her rundown house. Beyond that was an eight foot tall fence of the city cemetery. Seeing that eight foot fence makes him smile to himself as he thinks "why do they need such a fence for, are they afraid some bodies will escape?"
He can make fun of the situation sometimes, however after watching a scary movie on television and retiring to his bed beyond the washer dryer, furnace and all noises that an over amplified childish imagination can come up with, and the biggest fact that he sleeps six foot underground, well . . . think upon that in the darkness of the night as you normal sleeping ones above ground do. NOW! only the width of one city lot, is, a lot of people eternally sleeping inside their own cement tomb of foreverness. Can you appreciate now, that he sleeps with two lava lamps on????? He has done it since the age of twelve, its been four years and well he does not let himself dwell on the dark side, of the dark side. The basement helps to block out the continual noise from the interstate. The non stop sounds of the large over the road diesel trucks roaring from the back yard no longer bother him, actually they soothed him in the beginning, blocking out the fear he allowed himself to think about of the city cemetery so close. He, being the eldest had to man up, even if he was only twelve at the time. Now it seems normal and comforting in a strange way. When he does his homework he comes down to his room because of the quiet it provides him. His grades has spiraled upwards, crediting it to being able to concentrate and get away from his brothers and sisters. They do make a lot of noise add, the television, his parents, the continual noise seeping through the cracks and the sinking old house. He and his father built a nice room in the middle of the basement. Although his father never mentioned it, he knew his father was ashamed, yet proud, that he accepted it and never complained.
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I decided to start this story and have not thought of a name for the boy. It will come. I decided to do this on the spur of the moment. I hope I don't regret it. I think I'll sleep on it! Up above ground! Glen
PLEASE DON'T BE THINKING THIS STORY IS GOING TO CREEPY. I GUARANTEE YOU, JUST THE OPPOSITE! OKEY-DOKEY! (The boy will be called James.)
I'm bout as limber (relaxed) as me body and mind gets. I had me a piece of apple pie with some vanilla ice cream and watched a movie that I don't know quite how to explain. This movie was watched on my old 30 year old television with an antenna. This movie titled Identity with John Cusack held my interest. Very few movies do that. A couple other well known people are in it BUT wouldn't you know I can't remember at this moment. I can't turn loose my stream of river, consciousness whatch-a-ma-call-it and remember too! I caught it on This channel.
I came up with a bit of an idea before I sit down here. I thought what if? What if I start a story and write some of every night in addition to my screaming out, consciousness, something or the other, meandering free spirit kind of thing. WELL SHITE I CERTAINLY HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE! (Except my mind, and it ain't mine anyhow! It belongeth to all the people who madeth me this-away!)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James Gang
The young boy lay in his bed thinking about many things. Being a teenager is hard enough, being poor in a house full of brothers and sisters and him being the oldest, plus sleeping in the basement. Can it get any worse? Then he reminds himself of his home, with the interstate almost in his backyard, one side is a road leading under the interstate, a heavily traveled city street in front. The only comforting somewhat normal evidence still left of what once was a real neighborhood is old Mrs. Worthington and her rundown house. Beyond that was an eight foot tall fence of the city cemetery. Seeing that eight foot fence makes him smile to himself as he thinks "why do they need such a fence for, are they afraid some bodies will escape?"
He can make fun of the situation sometimes, however after watching a scary movie on television and retiring to his bed beyond the washer dryer, furnace and all noises that an over amplified childish imagination can come up with, and the biggest fact that he sleeps six foot underground, well . . . think upon that in the darkness of the night as you normal sleeping ones above ground do. NOW! only the width of one city lot, is, a lot of people eternally sleeping inside their own cement tomb of foreverness. Can you appreciate now, that he sleeps with two lava lamps on????? He has done it since the age of twelve, its been four years and well he does not let himself dwell on the dark side, of the dark side. The basement helps to block out the continual noise from the interstate. The non stop sounds of the large over the road diesel trucks roaring from the back yard no longer bother him, actually they soothed him in the beginning, blocking out the fear he allowed himself to think about of the city cemetery so close. He, being the eldest had to man up, even if he was only twelve at the time. Now it seems normal and comforting in a strange way. When he does his homework he comes down to his room because of the quiet it provides him. His grades has spiraled upwards, crediting it to being able to concentrate and get away from his brothers and sisters. They do make a lot of noise add, the television, his parents, the continual noise seeping through the cracks and the sinking old house. He and his father built a nice room in the middle of the basement. Although his father never mentioned it, he knew his father was ashamed, yet proud, that he accepted it and never complained.
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I decided to start this story and have not thought of a name for the boy. It will come. I decided to do this on the spur of the moment. I hope I don't regret it. I think I'll sleep on it! Up above ground! Glen
PLEASE DON'T BE THINKING THIS STORY IS GOING TO CREEPY. I GUARANTEE YOU, JUST THE OPPOSITE! OKEY-DOKEY! (The boy will be called James.)
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Sack Man, Panic Attacks, and Strength From The Dead
I took off work today, my body is not back to normal after a couple really hard nights last week. (I'm not sure what normal is anymore, my old body seems to get a new ache, or pain every damn week.)
Ever buy a new pair of shoes and your feet hurts? I wear steel toe shoes and always buy new ones just like the old ones so as my feet don't hurt. (Why is it if your feet hurt your whole body seems to hurt?) I'mma already gettin sidetracked, please bear with me.
I reckon this stream of consciousness thing is what I do. I just start typin and well, seems a few of you out there read my???? Whatever. I'm sure you've heard of spirit writing, this here stream of consciousness thing or WHATEVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I have three stories that would take more time than I have to write that came to me in my dreams. My back has been bothering me so I spent much time lying about this weekend. Seems I can't lay down without taking a nap and believe me I took many naps this weekend including Monday.
I think I'll briefly discuss these dreams so as not to lose them forever. Tentatively titled The Sack Man, The Old Man and Panic Attacks, you'll really gonna like this one, Strength From The Dead. (Yep you read right!)
I'll take Strength From The Dead first. I a teenager living at home with a rather large family in a poor neighborhood am forced to sleep in the basement. The city cemetery has been encroaching ever closer to our house. The poorest ones of the city are being buried close to my house, now only two houses away. My mother and father make fun of the graveyard and the poor and getting poorer neighborhood with crime continuing to get worse. Unable to escape they make lite of the unfortunate situation. My mother inherited this really old, and rundown house from her mother. No one will buy it because of the location to the cemetery and we can't afford to move.
Okay I don't have time to write the whole dream. Place your imagination cap on. I have surreal dreams while sleeping six feet under and gain knowledge not known before. One night while coming home late some a gang of drunken, doped up gang members attack my parents car with my whole family in it at a stoplight. They break the windows and began pulling my sisters out. Then, THen, THEn, I say, THEN! forces from within, I've never encountered took over and I kick some shit out of the drunken dope heads. (Pretty cool huh!)
The Old Man and Panic Attacks. I have experienced panic attacks and can give insight to this dream story. An old man experiences panic attacks from the ever increasing modernization. Working and driving the same route to the factory that once was small and in the country. Now he fights the desire to continue working with all the obstacles he now faces as the company has grown so big he feels so small and out of place. He on the other hand does pretty much the same job, but getting to and from work sends shivers down his spine, until one day he cannot handle the amount of modernization madness, and totally shuts down inside the new building.
The Sack Man is about a well dressed man who gets off the train in the early 1930's after buying a ticket, taking him as far away as he could get from the east coast. He loses his memory of the ordeal. A way of self-preservation He wanders around this small Indiana town. He makes friends with the proprietor of the general store. His walks about the small community sketching his daily encounters on paper sacks. He has become a local sensation as the shopkeeper gives him all the sacks he wishes to sketch, all the townspeople get beautiful sketches for free. One day Sam the shopkeeper gives him a present of paint supplies. Sam spends all his free time trying to learn more about this mysterious man and one day he finds out the answer.
I WISH TO PRESERVE THE BARE BONES OF THESE DREAMS SO AS POSSIBLY TO GO INTO MORE DETAILS AT SOME LATER DATE. Glen
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