Famished Writer

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Totes

Painting attributed to Willem van der Vliet, early 17th century in [Public domain]. A man will call it a 'bag' no matter what it is. It makes a woman feel like a bag lady. We all have them. Some are bulging, few are empty, all are recognizable like the childs voice to its mother. There is the cross-body strap style which was thoughtfully designed to distribute the burden more evenly across the back. How thoughtful. Shoulders are still integral to this onus. Could you keep these keys/glasses/wallet/stub for me (?) he asks rhetorically. Of course, there is room to spare. That is how we learn to save space for others and their other things. A book bag is a bag worth its weight in pulpiness. Heavy, yes, if not comical. Another ilk of book-bag with back-straps and a small handle at the top is also called a back-bag, I mean backpack. As you may guess, it is designed to be work on the back. And I do not mean the sixty-pound backpacking back-pack with a

E-goes on and on

It is not just those of us that have that creative inclination that suffer most acutely. And there is no doubt that we are not the only creatures that are creative, obtusely, perhaps this eludes to a subjective response-'it depends on what is considered creative. Sometimes survival is the most creative thing I can think to do. It is speculated, even assumed, that humans have a greater capacity for empathy, case point-you reading this-we have a disturbing desire to understand each others experience-even if for selfish reasons. This so-called deeper sense of something and someone else is nothing short of a relief. We have saved each other from harm countless times, we have relieved the burden of others as well as consoled and comforted other souls in our days, if for nothing else other than the altruistic feeling-relief for the suffering, the pride of the savior, the nobility of caring, the power of human connections. Deep listening, according to Buddhist principles, is

Creatures of habit

M y cat is huge. He’s actually lost weight, as have I, with all the recent moving around and changes in our lives. He could be called a rescue, but he found me. When I look at his blockhead and rolled mane of grey, I think ‘animal’. He is a creature-not a domestic cat. We have come to know each other over the years. Our relationship grows stronger with every adaptation we must make together in order to survive. So far so good. He used to get into fights, it seems he has retired from keeping up his ‘street cred’. I would give him a saucer of warm milk when he came home limping with large open gashes, which used to happen all too often back then. He has wizened or become secure. He is mostly an “inside kitty” now and right now he is likely sprawled on my Queen bed positioned directly under the ceiling fan lying on his back with his belly hairs being gently blown in the circular breeze. I have been allergic to milk since birth. I was forced to tolerate goats milk (which is blue

Resolutions are for quitters

I have not quit. A lot of people quit this time of year. I have started 2017 with ‘I’, thereby breaking my own ‘rules’right here. While every great blog writer it seems has quit this year-my inkwell is still full of uncoagulated blood. I suppose this should mean more room in some invisible Blog-o-Sphere for me, but I am not in some ‘ great ’ category so it only means less inspiration for me (and admittedly a slimy sinking feeling that perhaps I am about to give up). Neverthemore, I am still sitting here typing away, writing things not read, acquiring more debt every waking moment, and stacking up the disappointment of those closest to me. Towering. The main difference between working at invisible arts every single day and a low paying 'part-time' service job, aside from adding to my invaluable social security would include; precious time away from my (Frmr.) Stray Cat (Editor in Large)-resulting in a serious decline in his treat consumption, a total void of f

You can’t handle social media

The internet was supposed to make us smarter. Google thinks that’s one of Alphabets main jobs, or they advertise themselves as Information Providers anyway. It’s not working. We are either getting righteously naive or socially inept, or both. Way back in the early 2000’s, at the peak of my world wide connected optimism about this new democratic, humanitarian, freedom of information age, I taught my toddler how to ‘surf’ and ‘use a mouse’-now that terminology even dates him. On a positive note, he actually did turn out to be really smart. That may be because the chicken came before Google or if you asked the nurses at the hippie hospital he was born in, they would say it was the breastfeeding-but I have proof that’s not it. And that is just it-yes, I said it’s not it, but it is. The amount of misinformation that lingers and spreads, the lies that are let live-it’s not any better with the internet-or smart phones. Proof? Ok, my daughter. As though needed more to be said, still, I wi

The Write Kind of Crazy

You’re sick. You are all sick, those of you that are writers, you are, and you know it. Let’s talk openly about it for a moment without fear of confirming anyone else's assumptions about what being a (w/ air quotes) “writer” (hand does circle motions by the ear) means. It's neither wholly crazy or lazy (although both are constant threats). Honestly, it’s quite chivalric the way writers donate their minds and bodies for the sake of the craft and not for want of fame and money- No Siree! Nope, most writers give their work away for free and willingly even, like charity without philanthropy. Because ultimately a writer has to get it out and if its good-someday, someone may notice, that’s why. That’s what motivates writers to spill ink on the page-I know, that isn’t the way it’s done anymore, 'spreading ink', but spreading pixels across the screen doesn’t sound dimensional or nearly dramatic enough. “Get Ink and weep/ Write of it. Sob your heart out sin