Writing.

     I've picked up writing as a hobby. Mostly fiction, and mostly short or flash fiction. I may try to write a novel someday, but there's something satisfying about writing a story and finishing it in the same day. Ever since I "snapped," dropped out of school, and abandoned my very well planned out future, having deadlines, or even things on a "back burner" to finish/edit later drive me absolutely bonkers. I now need things to be done and off my plate. Period. But the writing process... it's such a relief for me! It amazes me how much better I feel after allowing myself to enter the strange worlds in my head. As a reader, I crave fiction that takes me to a world outside of reality, yet filled with characters that could be my best friends. And I prefer that they have a quest; a great, epic adventure that takes them traveling. The stories I write don't really offer that, at least nothing that lasting, but in my head... those little snippets that I type out feel like I've just purged myself of creativity that's been hidden away and dying to get out. What's even better, is that while it gets purged, it leaves a seed behind allowing me to create again and again. 

     I make no claims that anything fictional I write is good. I will say it's better than the writing in this blog, but that's as far as I'll go. I don't really do it for praise or money, though. I do it for the way it makes me feel while writing, and how great I feel afterwards. This is especially the case on days I feel like a lazy, useless human being who can't even keep the dishes clean. Writing completes none of those chores, obviously, but for some unknown reason I feel like I've been just as productive as if I'd spent the day cleaning. This makes less sense when you consider the fact that most people never even read what I write, preventing me from using the "it's productive because I'm providing entertainment for others" rationale. This line of thinking works really well when I practice my bass... as people eventually do hear me. But writing? Most of it is just on my computer, that will disappear when the computer dies. But this doesn't sadden me. It's about the process. The journey my head takes while I write. The absolute best part though, is the moment when the story takes over my thoughts and I feel like I have lost all control. It's as if the story is writing itself. There are even times when it seems as if the story already exists, and I just happen to be able to hone in on the signal and put it into text. Silly, I know, but that's how it feels experientially. Is that a word? Spell-check is telling me that it isn't, but I don't care. I like it and so am leaving it. Take that spell-check. I am the master of my own vocabulary. 

     At any rate, I'm starting to send my stuff out to see if it'll get accepted. I could use the extra money on the off chance people like what I write. And really, the worst that can happen is that my work gets rejected. A small shot to the ego, sure, but that's really it. And the benefits are the exuberant feelings that come with an acceptance letter, and hopefully one day, money. In the meantime, though, I'm going to keep plugging away at it. Even if I suck now, it's bound to improve. One of the few consistent pieces of advice I've been given about writing is that you improve with frequency. Here's hopin'. 

More libraries for all!

I came across this article today while stumbling on the internet. While I realize the reason this building is free is because Wal*Mart upgraded, I can't help but smile and have the smallest feeling of hope in knowing the old building was turned into a library. If we always use resources and abandoned buildings to further intelligence and creativity, the world would be a better place.

Poop

I never considered myself a fan of the Beat Poets. When I am in the mood for poetry, I usually turn to Yeats. I've recently discovered, however, that despite my dislike of most beat poetry, I love a number of Charles Bukowski's poems. My favorite of all time from him is a poem entitled "Poop." It's amazing. I even find myself craving to read it from time to time. The problem here is that I can't seem to find it anywhere online! Many poems by many many poets can be found somewhere in the interwebs, including most of Bukowski's catalog. Poop, however, cannot. I imagine that part of the reason is because it went unpublished for quite some time. As to why it's never made it online since being published, I have no idea. I finally found the book that contains it, and so for my future enjoyment, and for any others who love this poem and can't find it, I'm going to list it here. It can be found in his book called The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993 published by HarperCollins in 2007, pages 189-193.

Poop by Charles Bukowski

I remember, he told me, that when I was 6 or

7 years old my mother was always taking me 

to the doctor and saying, "he hasn't pooped."

she was always asking me, "have you

pooped?"

it seemed to be her favorite question.

and, of course, I couldn't lie, I had real problems

pooping.

I was all knotted up inside.

my parents did that to me.

I looked at those huge beings, my father,

my mother, and they seemed really stupid.

sometimes I thought they were just pretending

to be stupid because nobody could really be that

stupid.

but they weren't pretending.

they had me all knotted up inside like a pretzel.

I mean, I had to live with them, they told

me what to do and how to do it and when.

they fed, housed and clothed me.

and worst of all, there was no other place for

me to go, no other choice:

I had to stay with them.

I mean, I didn't know much at that age

but I could sense that they were lumps

of flesh and little else.

dinnertime was the worst, a nightmare

of slurps, spittle and idiotic conversation.

I looked straight down at my plate and tried

to swallow my food but

it all turned to glue inside.

I couldn't digest my parents or the food.

that must have been it, for it was hell for me

to poop.

"have you pooped?"

and there I'd be in the doctor's office once again.

he had a little more sense than my parents but

not much.

"well, well, my little man, so you haven't pooped?"

he was fat with bad breath and body odor and

had a pocket watch with a large gold chain

that dangled across his gut.

I thought, I bet he poops a load.

and I looked at my mother.

she had large buttocks,

I could picture her on the toilet,

sitting there a little cross-eyed, pooping.

she was so placid, so

like a pigeon.

poopers both, I knew it in my heart.

disgusting people.

"well, little man, you just can't poop,

huh?"

he made a little joke of it: he could,

she could, the world could.

I couldn't.

"well, now, we're going to give you

these pills.

and if they don't work, then guess

what?"

I didn't answer.

"come on, little man, tell me."

all right, I decided to say it.

I wanted to get out of there:

"an enema."

"an enema," he smiled.

then he turned to my mother.

"and are you all right, dear?"

"oh, I'm fine, doctor!"

sure she was.

she pooped whenever she wanted.

then we would leave the office.

"isn't the doctor a nice man?"

no answer from me.

"isn't he?"

"yes."

but in my mind I changed it to, yes,

he can poop.

he looked like a poop.

the whole world pooped while I

was knotted up inside like a pretzel.

then we would walk out on the street

and I would look at the people passing

and all the people had behinds.

"that's all I ever noticed," he told me,

"it was horrible."

"we must have had similar

childhoods," I said.

"somehow, that doesn't help at all,"

he said.

"we've both got to get over this

thing," I said.

"I'm trying," he answered.

Spangles is my Star Banner

I think I may have finally found it. The best fast food fries in America. And they're at a place called Spangles in Wichita, KS. I found them while doing a show out there, and believe me when I say that I was impressed with all of their food, but especially their french fries. I can't even explain in words what it was that made them so perfect. They were golden, slightly crispy, fried in good grease that gave it the best greasy flavor without actually tasting greasy. Absolutely amazing. My only wish now is that they open up a franchise in Nashville. Or perhaps that's what I should do with my future?

Today's wit: How do you make an R&B duck? Put it in the oven until its bill withers.

No key to Gnocchi

I am no wizard in the kitchen. Far from it. In fact, the number of things that I can make successfully can be counted on one hand. Despite this obvious hindrance in my character, I continually try to cook. When I'm not too tired from work, it's something that I love to do. There's just something about it that makes me happy. I'm quite the jolly cook. I sing, dance, make my food sing and dance, etc. while I work away. But I'm terrible at it. I have a red thumb when it comes to food. At any rate, most times I cook I either catch something on fire, break a dish, hurt myself, or leave the oven on. Thankfully I have safe guards in place to prevent my actually burning down my apartment, but still. Cooking is not my strong suit. So what do I do? I try to make a notoriously difficult dish: good, Italian gnocchi. Gnocchi, for those who are unfamiliar, are little potato pastas. The problem with most gnocchi is the amount of flour used. Too little means the potato won't hold together to create the pasta, but too much makes it incredibly, incredibly mushy and dense. In fact, according to one site, gnocchi's name is an Italian joke of sorts, as "Gnocco" is slang to describe a very dense person. When done well, however, they are soft, delicious potato pillows that literally melt in your mouth. Most gnocchi that I've had does not, but at a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant outside of Pittsburgh, I was able to taste what I believe to be perfect gnocchi. I'm bound and determined to re-create something close to that amazing flavor and texture.

I have now tried to cook gnocchi twice. The first time was about 2 years ago. The result: completely inedible. And not just inedible by me, but inedible by all those who tried it, including two people who eat everything. I chalked the disaster up to the humidity in the house, as it was summer time and I couldn't really afford to keep the air conditioning running all day. I decided to try it again a few days ago. I re-read the recipe. I bought the ingredients. I made sure to try it in the middle of winter, when I can't really afford heat, hoping that the cold house would fix the problems of my first attempt. Unfortunately, I failed again. This is extremely annoying to me. There are two ingredients in the recipe I use for traditional gnocchi. TWO!!! Potatoes (which I love, for they become french fries) and flour. And I still screw it up. Part of the problem this time, I think, was that I didn't follow the recipe to the letter, which left my potatoes too watery, which in turn caused me to add too much flour to the dough.  But it should be easy. I'm continually baffled by my inability to cook. I'm really good at following directions, and what is cooking but merely following the recipe?  Difficulty shouldn't exist. Just follow the recipe. But I'm also a klutz. I'm now beginning to think that it's my clumsiness that takes away any other asset I have in the kitchen. On the bright side, my second attempt was at least edible. Not edible enough to save the leftovers, but enough to eat the full serving. I'm hoping that the third time will be the charm, but I may just need to add gnocchi to the list of things I can't make, along with Tollhouse cookies.


Today's Wit: Overweight is something that just sort of snacks up on you.