How One Moves On?

It's been a while since I wrote here. Secretly, i wanted to try and reclaim the pieces of my life, shortly after returning from Edmond's washington, where I underwent a distinctive, therapeutic month, of working and missing all my friends. All that time, i faced some nagging questions about myself, and my Father, my relationship to my Grandparents, but i was never sure if any of it, was utterly me. When I came back, I continued to feel as if it was utterly me. I felt lost and abandoned, to a place, that I felt had promised me more than I had achieved. I felt broken, and my return was less than spectacular, it was a return to little or no money, which felt like God had abandoned me, for I wanted to put so many things into a new order, but I couldn't pay rent.

The second thing I felt was that I had let my mother down again, moneywise, and I was unhappy. My relationship to Hollie began to disintigrate and I continued to feel as if there was no answer to a returning, nagging depression that could easily take over me. All of this was in relation to an unhappiness i felt--my world was different, and so I moved out,and then, I lost Hollie. Hollie and I were no more, not inthe way that I once rememered, so, the truth of the matter is, the banner you see aove will have to change. All of this was hard and the future looked dim. There will be more soon, because at I have just started to pull things together and write again.

More indeed soon.

Tonight Hollie was Baptized.

To see the way that Jesus is working in Hollie’s life is indeed a miracle. The way he has lifted her heart and those around her, still amazes me, though recently, I broke down completely at Recovery and said, I want you in my heart Jesus and I don’t want to wait.

Tonight at Presonwood—Hollie was onscreen for 10 Minutes. She cried and every eye cried with her. She was brought before everyone in a very real, very intimate way, and she was a living stone, a testament unto Jesus. And when she appeared in the Baptism tank, the entire congregation stood and began to clap. They clapped for the woman I love, and she has made her conversion a living example and a flame of righteousness. I repent often of my jealousy, but tonight, I was proud. I love you Hollie Taylor.

More soon,

James

A long time gone and going somewhere fast

It has been a while since I came to this blog. All of my students are working hard on writing and I am struggling into a new position with the love of my life, and my life as I know it. My life is about to change. This month alone I will be learning to squeeze a penny so hard, that it will probably scream. My season in the sun is now over.

It has been two months from returning from the Center, and you can learn about my other blog, which has also been on hiatus. The almighty creative "word" has left me. The Word of God is still inside me, but I wonder for a month did my savior and God have me think strongly on how it is I write and what I write about. This month alone has been hard. I have struggled with no money in the bank, or hardly any. I am still struggling with being a Father, which comes and goes in spurts of happiness, and I am overcoming my addictions. Inside the bubble of therapy, I felt secure in my ways, but it is in the real world that I am coming to terms with my future. The distant horizon looms like dreamy and scary future. I will probably be moving out, so that my relationship with Hollie can be made legitimate and that is something I deperately want in the sight of my God.

All this week, God has been taking from me in order to know that I have real needs, not material ones and that my soul is at stake for the things I worship in Idolotry. This is a hard message to take for a man who loves the image on the screen, who sees the larger than life director/author/auteur figure as his model. This is going to take some work.

Today is the first day with money in my account--money that is already fleeing my account, but I am going to pray with strength.My future is bright, and if all this seems abstract, I do indeed need to be able to make it clear. I am having the strangest season ever. My life is deeper, but I have less stuff.

That in itself is a mystery. Hope this wasn't too philosophical.

Back Again Soon,

James

My Uncle and His Legacy

My Uncle was a great man, a pillar of his community. The reason I know this is because, most of my life I have sought elusive things, that came with a price--fame, through means that when I was younger caused me much embarrassment. Wealth--through means, sometimes that drove me to ignore fellow human beings, and distempered my actions among fellow human beings and the people I love. Popularity: which follows some of the same paths as Fame, but is centered on almost nothing except the infantile understanding that people think you are something which is really nothing.

Following this line of thinking might make your head spin, but each of us can remember high-school. High-school breeds that kind of destructive thinking that pushes men and women to do things that make no sense, and it also pushes them to commit offenses against other people.

My Uncle who lies in rest at Rose Hill Cemetery in Georgia. One space away from my Father. My Uncle was a great man to my father, a great friend, and confident, and my Uncle wept openly when my Father died at the age of 56. My Uncle told his daughters, that he had hoped that he and "Jimmy" would be around to see the golden days of their retirement. My Father saw some of those days. And he went on trips with my Uncle and his family. He visited Hawaii with my Uncle--he always thought well of my Uncle.

This is why it is fitting that they lay next to each other, and that at my Uncle's funeral, the church was packed with people who loved him, and who at his own visitation, the funeral home was worried it would have to extend its hours of operation, because, my friends, the friends of Uncle David simply did not stop. They came around the corner of this small Georgia Funeral home, and parked across the street and in vacant lots.

They had their husbands and their wives park cars two blocks down, all to pay tribute to a man who lived an unassuming life, and who made an impression on everyone he met, in a community that was small, but loved him for being simply himself.

My Aunt and my Mother are currently looking through my uncle's paperwork. They discovered the will yesterday, and today, my Mother is helping her settle all his accounts--and on the top of his desk is a set of trophies. Little white and gold trophies--marble bases with small golden footballs.

These trophies are from the Kiwanis Club--an organization that he attended and was a model member of. The truth is I never knew what the Kiwanis Club was, but I was proud he was a member. He was a member in good standing, and every year the Kiwanis club has a "football Picks" championship. My uncle loved football, and so he knew his football and his stats, so here's what happened, my uncle was the pic champion for 87, 88 and 89.

Three years in a row, my uncle David picked the most winners and they gave him a little trophy for being the first place winner (with the most picks.)



The story I heard from my Mother is that a year or two after, they wouldn't let him play again at least, by what the trophies say, for 3 years, wherein, he was rewarded second place at unknown year and second place in 2004.

Now, I laugh at the story, and I know in my heart that it is true. You see, I've been to gradschool, and from what I can remember, from other gradstudents, is when you are good at something, you become a targest for other gradschool students. You become what they must eliminate, and I believe with my heart that someone told my uncle not to play anymore (at least for 3 years or more), and I know this about my Uncle, by his kindness and the life he lived.

I believe this-- he didn't care.

If I can learn anything from my Uncle, he was above that kind of petty jealousy, jealousy of the type I have let eat up my soul, have let shape my actions and my anger and have lost it over. As I sit in my Uncle's office and type this, I know something more--I too can be above it.

At my Uncle's funeral, I have never seen so many people cry. I have never seen my Grandfather weep so openly and even though I know he is sick and the medication he is on makes him overly emotional, I know he wept genuine tears for my Uncle, in the same way, his son-in-law wept for him, and in the same way, when I was woke at 3 a.m. by the woman I love and hope to marry, that I leaned into the couch and cried a little, leaned closer to Hollie and wanted to hold her.




I love my Uncle, David , a rock of our family, and I know he has gone on to his rich reward after this, one I hope to go onto myself If I am good enough. God Bless you Uncle David. I hope you and my father are enjoying your new bodies, while we wait a bit longer to join you. I know you and my Father, two great men will be the first to greet us at those tall, great gates.

Maranatha.

More Soon.

Me

Elisabeth Sladen Dies and I don't know how I feel

With a title like that, I'm pretty sure glossing over her would be the wrong thing to do. Yes, I'm one of the nuermous guys out there, who flocked to doctor who and now, with my appreciation of classic who, I'm stuck with a quandry. Sarah Jayne Smith has passed on. She's gone--and i considered her to be around for a good long time.I thought she would surely be around for a 12th doctor, but i think about the Brigadeer who also past recently. All that is left in the club is Tom Baker. Today, I read a little of Marcus Aurelius, who spoke of fame being fleeting, and that generation after generation would forget those who came before them.

The good news is, that I have a couple of wonderful students who really love literature, and through them I can see that Literature will do just fine. One Student, has her own Blog, and it looks to be going very well. She works very hard, and as a teacher I'm proud of her. Check out her blog: The Life of Loza.

Another student seems to be doing very well. Two students from another class are fantastic editors, and I told them so last week. I know they will do well--I can sense they are cut out for College.

The world goes on, and so do we. This post has little of great value in it, but I don't know how I feel. More soon.

James

This Sunday beneath a overcast sky

Outside, my woman is tending her garden. Basically, I am told this is her womanly spring thing, and at times, I almost don't care--the truth is I care, but i'm only barely into it. These pages were supposed to be regularly filled, but at present, my blod is as empty as you can imagine. Today is Sunday, so i can expect the to-be-inlaws over, roast beef, russet potatoes and cooking shows deep into the night. All of this doesn't bother me. I am moved by these Sunday dinners. I am moved lately by intricate gatherings of generous and fine people, and I know that in my life, I want more of this.

More soon...

James

Tonight I lost what I never knew I had

For over 20 years I've used floppy disks--a lot of them. I collected disks--I scavenged disks, kept things on disks--transferred writings to disks, where they sat on disks, in the dustbin of my desk and waited and waited for me to use them.





They waited on me, or at least I thought they waited on me...

I dreamed they waited on me. My disks were my life, or what I thought were my memories, of everything I thought I had to save.

I kept them, thinking i would look at all my old writings, would go back to them in desperation, or in triumph and people would look at what I wrote, even as an undergraduate, and I would have to transfer all that I wrote from that time in my life--I would transfer everything back from the "dust bin of History"--My history.

That is what I thought, so i sat and let my disks sit, for years and years, and i held onto those disks which i thought were me. And it took a good woman to help me let go of those disks.




It took her to make me give them over and to let her take them outside and smash them with a hammer. I couldn't watch that of course--as the hammer went down upon the fragile plastic and what were in my mind's eyes my memories.--my father. I heard the sickening crack of them, and i rolled on my side and let her do it--because I knew she was trying to save me--albeit rough and brutal. She was trying to help me.

And she did.

More soon.

James

The first day amelie made her own breakfast

Dear Amelie,

This is the first day you made your own cereal breakfast:

I had set up the bowl and cereal for you overnight and the footstool.

The milk was on the bottom shelf.

You stood on the footstool in your panties and Texas t-shirt, and crossed your arms. "I don't want to." you whined. I kept a firm voice and said. 'The only way you get cereal from now on, is to do it yourself except on the weekdays.

"You were adamant that you didn't want to".

I firmly crossed my arms, and didn't raise my voice.

Step by step, you didn't want to do it. You fought me constantly. You opened the cereal and had to be shown. You didn't like it when i asked you to open the fridge. You responded, "I know how to open the fridge."

You complained the milk was too heavy but you carried it over to the footstool and stood up.

You cried twice that the milk was to heavy, so i showed you how to lean the milk on the counter, so you could pour it, because lifting it was very hard for you. After much complaint, you did it. This was now going on 10 minutes.

You opened the drawer for a spoon, and decided three of them were too dirty.

Your fourth spoon was apparently okay, because you put it down on the counter loudly with a "Hmmmph!"

You walked the milk back to the fridge, still saying it was too heavy and then you stopped complaining and ate your cereal in front of the TV.

Soon, you'll be using the remote and the Wii to keep yourself entertained while mommy sleeps.

Hooray for progress!

Daddy

From the Pile

Today's entry is an old story. A story I took part in, to be exact, that involves a fight. This fight unfortunately was over the silliest of things.. . the word "as.".

Actually to be specific. This fight started over "poetry," something about 8 years ago, I was as eager to fight over as i was to live as a hermit.

What I will post for you is an event, which is narrated by one of my mentors--A poet named Phebe Davidson.

Shortly after going off to McNeese to study poetry and writing, I returned home to a weekly poetry workshop, hosted at that time by Doctor Phebe Davidson from her home in Aiken,

For Weeks, Davidson had invited several prestigious or and well known poets to her house to discuss, and critique and work with poetry.


Home for the Holidays, I called Jannette or John or maybe was contacted, i can't remember exactly, but was told, that i should do this, cause its a poetry workshop and it was at Phebes. To which I responded "Damn Straight," or as the Internet might record. "Hellz Yeah."

Ya see, i lived for poetry back then. (I still do.) And when i wasn't writing, i could be bothered to do minimal work until such time as i could be in poetry workshop again. I'm only recently learning how much bad stuff i wrote. Two books full of bad poetry is currently being sifted through, and that was when i found this write-up by Phebe.

I actually howled with delight, because i had been looking for this writeup a while. I save a lot of paper, and only recently has Hollie asked me to edit said paper. into a manageable form. This said paper is the dreams and work of many friends, who are all special to me. So, i found the story and started to immediately type it in. What I then found was the understanding I might need to relive my thoughts on the matter first. To be fair, it has been 10 tears since this incident. Most of the players are still alive, and yet i wonder if it will offend them. I may end up changing some names.

So, excited as I was, I couldn't wait to show off my new poetry skills. Needless to say, i got the invite, and printed up all my best stuff, which i had work shopped over three semesters.

At this time, i had finished four really slam bang poems, which i had work shopped the hell out of, and needful to say, I was a right little cocky young pup.

See, I had spent two semesters in the dirt, and one semester in the pit, to which my poetry skill, was highly in question so much that perhaps it was regarded as a mistake to bring me to Lake Charles to write. I felt this way, indeed, i felt that i had nothing on the other poets who were being published, and who were winning prizes and who were regarded as utterly brilliant.

I had shown almost nothing compared to them. And I had wanted to show I could write. And then after a dismally made move, the "Corwin Sequence," a dismally written poem sequence, to which John Wood, my 3rd Mentor called, "Nothing but bad sci-fi," or he may have used the word "Shit sci-fi"
which didn't matter because the truth was, he was right. I had read so much Dylan Thomas, that I had yoked my brain into a supreme understanding of sound, that what came out of my next was great. So, when I say the "pit" I'm supremely serious, that I had to move through shit to find the Shinola. And I had four awesome Shinola poems.

And I was ready to workshop those bad boys.

Also, I was cocky. I was cocky about telling other people how to improve those poems, and maybe, maybe Marion sensed that, and he didn't like it.

Start the Second: By Phebe Davidson


******

THE WORKSHOP NARRATIVE
Wed. August 5, 1998

Marion arrived with friend, was invited in, said he would sit in the middle (music^up a level) room so that is wouldn’t be crowded in the family room proper.

Position of participants. Beginning in the middle family room. On stairs, Vincent ********** who came as Marion ****** guest. In a rocking chair next to him, thus two steps above the rest of the group in the lower family room.

In family room: easy chair by fireplace, me. On floor in front of fire place, John Lowery. On floor in front of deck doors, James Enelow. On couch: Ilshe Mikos and Monica Dees. On love seat, Linda Lee Harper.

Roughly 9 p.m, James suggested adding the word “as” to a line of my poem. Marion disagreed strongly, challenged this idea, demanding to know where James got that sort of thing. James responded with something g like “I’m going my little tricks of the trade I’ve learned from poets I’ve studied with who have become established…” and Marion (whose complexion had become very flushed) reacted/interrupted with “I suppose that makes you the only one whose ever fucking learned anything, you psycho asshole.” John Lower said “That’s a little strong. . . we’re here in someone else’s house…” I said “Perhaps we can get back to the text.” Linda Lee read the line. “Sweet air blows…” James said to Marion. “Really, I meant no disrespect, I have the greatest admiration for you…” Marion stood (to gather his papers? Started to turn) & said Let’s get out of here, we don’t have to put up with this psycho bullshit” . . . John said something that might have been “yes, why don’t you go” and Marion literally leaped across me to the crouch almost in John’s lap, pushing him back to the hearth, shoving his finger in John’s face. John said “Get your finger out of my face.” I stood behind Marion & put my arms around his chest saying, “come on, Marion, Let’s just go. Let’s go outside. Come on Marion, please.” At the same time Marion was throwing/shoving John (who was a little off balance, Having just risen from sitting legs akimbo on the floor) into the stone wall above the hearth. John grabbed the fireplace shovel to defend himself. At this point, John said something like “If this is what you want, I’ll take your psycho ass out.” Vincent came into the room and took one of Marion’s arms for a moment, I think, or maybe he just stood there. Marion with apparent reluctance walked with us (myself and Vincent) to and out of the front door. Then he turned and said to me. “I’m sorry, but I will never come back here again. I don’t have to put up with this bullshit.”

Extent of injuries: 1” cut on my arm (from Shovel?) Two good sized knots on John’s head.

I am absolutely aghast.

What a Soundtrack can do for your day.

Its a Sunday and I'm trying to be productive. Indeed, this morning, I've re-lazed quite a bit, and not wanted to join the world. Sometimes I wish I could relax for most of the day, and that's when i get antsy. I have two movies on my desk that i need to return.

Most recently, two songs started to make me feel fairly happy. The first is "Dear Laughing Doubters" by Sondre Lerche. The Music is quite beautiful and it moved me quite a bit to get up and be a part of the world "Every Second life gets better." is one of those lines that Im still thinking about.

This day has been wute a cold one. Outside the snow piles up outside the porch. So much to do. My Dog senses the cold. He has not moved. He takes his cue from me.

More soon.

James

I can add "birthday card reader" to my repertoire of titles.

The University of Gymnastics hosted my "daughter-to-be's" birthday party tonight. I had waited about two weeks for this and the family came together with all the trimmings.

I got up around eight to get "capri-sun's" and waters and lemonades, and then it was back to the house to Gymnastics, or as Amelie calls it. "Gymnaskicks."

She rolled and rolled over the nearby obstacles and pads. (She absolutely loves tumbling and is unnerved by the "balance beams"). Her trainer is a woman called Coach Brittany who is a very kind woman and very attentive to the lives of 6 year old girls, who run the gambit to satisfy her commands.

My first dog (as an Adult) went on a brisk walk where after a year, we met the actual neighbors who live at the end of the dead end of 10th street. Deano has a habit of getting frisky when he walks, and he also has a habit of getting tissue paper and chewing it up--rrrrr, rrrrrr, rrrrr! I'm sure this would be charming if he was much younger and it was confined to his toys, but at present Deano has earned Hollie's unending "ire" for his Tissue hobby, particularly, because he flips the bathroom trash can over to get to the "said tissues" for tearing.

Amelie has made out like a bandit. She has new toys out the yin and yang. Said Toys can now be added to the hoarde she got for christmas, and she has now two "Nightfury" dragons.. Indeed, one was bad enough, but two dragons will now loop and fight in her hands for days.

I expect she will do this for days. The party at University of Gymnastics was masterfully hosted by by Coach Brittany who tried to keep us from doing almost everything. Coach Yo, another male coach also kept the children occupied. Most of the parents there were charming, including Kaylin's mom and Abby's mom and Jordan's mom who talked with Hollie for a while.

Grandma Taylor seemed delighted. She's also lost so much weight on her plan that i want to kick myself for not taking part in. The dragon cake was delivered, and afterward, the kids did the ceremonial watching of Amelie open her presents, which i'm not sure how i feel about.

When i was a kid, presents were opened at home, which changed occasionally. I guess the idea is simple. Every kid has his day, but if they open the presents in private, tehre's no hurt feelings--no sense of jealousy.

Of course with 7 year-olds, the use of cards, birthday cards, seems a little off. Amelie can barely read, and when she doesn't want to read, try pushing her. So, I sat behind her and read the cards to everyone. This of course garnered many oohs and "aaahs, and awwwws," but after that, we packed up. Oh, a side note was she got a dragon cake, which i will post pictures of. My sister-in-law to be is very talented and has many examples of her work.

Hollie has gone to work and it is me and Amelie, who is watching Spongebob and half blissfully unaware there was even a party tonight.

Fatherhood. That's something I've fuddled my head up against many times.



Already, i feel sad, as I cook a home-style bake, which does not burn--let me make this clear, but sets off the fire alarm. I tell Amelie its okay, and let me repeat, my dish is not burned, not in the least! Still, the alarm goes off, I tell her its okay and she goes into panic mode. I take the smoke detector down, and she says, with a distinct edge in her voice. "It's loud because of burning."

I pause for a second. To explain this further would do nothing. Yet, I can tell, she believes i have burned the dish. I have not. I invite her into the kitchen to see the golden brown casserole. She declines.


Right about now my ego has been kicked in the balls.

Yes, it has. So I just smile and move on.

I didn't burn it folks.

Anyway. When I place this dog and my daughter-to-be side by side, I realizes that many things in this life require care. Even my fragile ego, which gets excited and anxious at plans and can splinter at the thought of being blamed for a casserole i clearly did not burn.

Dog Handler. Capri-sun buyer. "Gymnaskicks Dad." "Writer." "Birthday card Reader." Casserole cook (Burner.) I'm coming along in the world.

Now if i can only keep the dog from being a "tissue chewer"--I'm set.

Wednesday Blah... Wind Chimes and Hugo

This morning, the alarm went off and i was still asleep. It's cold here and the weather has dropped two degrees, the light is low around the house, so even in the morning, there's little movement.

I juxtapose my responsibility with my anxiety this morning. There is so much to do. My landlord rolls up outside in his white SUV. White pants. White T-shirt. Black Coat. Black Hat. White Moustache.

I've already paid my rent, or at least my half, so i don't flinch, but i can hear his voice outside--loud and angry. My dog is asleep on his pillow. He moves slightly, and I want to go back to sleep as well. Poor Deano.

Two emails go out. One text. The oil is checked. I shave my neck. Old razor. Richard Hugo looks up. His book is still only barely cracked.



Stephen would be upset. I had hoped to finish the entire Hugo book by now. It's in my pile, which really isn't one pile, but rather piles. The sounds of Hollie's windchimes cling and cling outside my door driven by a clutchy cold wind are starting to slow.



We live near the road that is the gateway to plano. Cars zoom nearby passing only a boat dealership and a cut rate pawnshop, before hitting the sanitized, revitalized downtown and its tram. Grrrrr. Kelly's Eastside makes a great burger/briskit sandwhich, and fries. Hugo would have loved that. Great Woodchuck Ale. Lived hear two years, but i don't follow Plano Pawnshop on Facebook. It's not my style.

Last Week was filled with good things. Nivea shaving supplies. Pajama pants. Vodka sauce pasta. A lot to do. Last night, we had tacos, and i used puppets to tell a story to my daughter to be. She kissed my cheek she laughed so hard. Top Chef on the DVR plays in the background. It's still too early.

More soon.

James

The "My blog is not a pornsite" Dilemma. Sayonora Hello Hollie

My girlfriend was at Work. I was at home, writing my first, new first, blog entry and decided to give her a nod, a wink, a reference, a shout out--what you call it, and I didn't know her address. I knew her blog was titiled Hello Hollie (And it was as new as my blog was new.) Would you believe there are at least 10 other blogs/sites named Hello Hollie and one of them is a porn site. Hence, the whole, My blog is not a porn site statement, out of the red lips of my woman, straight to my blog.

And so, at about 10:39 this evening, I am troubleshooting with her, to find a better name. One might think this would be easy--I mean, I'm a writer, and my trade is word smithing (took me an hour to settle on my own blog's name) and yet, I am not settled, nor do I have any idea what my woman should call her blog. She's screwed--at present, and has not decided to change it. I threw out some ideas, which she threw back, hard at me, and there was little smiling from her. Well, there was an occasional smile. Even a broke clock tells the time correctly twice a day--she however has not settled, nor is it settled within her, nor on her blog. Still trying to get her to tell me the full address for the blog that will be called formerly, "Hello Hollie." or the Makeup Artist formerly known as Prince, or Hello Holly, or a weird symbol with a smokey eye, and big boobs. Something of that nature will in fact emerge, though I doubt it will be hot mama, or "whatey" one of my two suggestion.

At present, Deano, our dog is sleeping on a pillow, and I am writing to show that writing a blog can be done. Right now, i am juxtaposed with a book called "Organizing the Creative Mind" and cleaning off my massively cool desk, which will become my hub station.



The juxtaposition here, is how does one be a supportive boyfriend, and also help. The answer is probably not to help too much. Most of what I have suggested, she has vetoed, which of course if her function as Girlfriend in chief, and I am still on the hunt for Blog October, the elusive Blog name for her sight.

In othernews, she made 15 bucks tonight, an all time low for her business, and i could see the pain in her eyes, when she admitted she smoked two cigarettes, after two days of being clean.

Juxtapostion two. Hollie and Cigarettes. She's trying to quit. Trying is really the wrong word, because she really is kicking ass in this regard. She is trying her ass off. However, as our life coach told us, before she got sick, (not sick of us.) that we will all fall off the wagon. So, I am supportive, yet firm, in this regard--She will conquer this. Just as I will conquer time management.

Paper. That's another of my heals--My Achilles. I have a s###load of paper, to get rid of. I'm throwing receipts, which apparently was my Dad's thing, to keep reciepts even to the point that he shoved them in his pockets, which is exactly what I do, and and have inherited from my father, along with nigh terrors from my mother.

The juxtaposition here, if that I hate night terrors, and would gladly end them. Hollie would also gladly end them. Let's hope she doesn't end me. It is nearly 11 and thus far, I have written a second entry. Side by side. Object by Object. idea by Idea. Woman by man. Father by son. Cigarettes by Time mangagement.

Look at your own juxtaposed elements and decide between them.


More Soon.

James

Juxt for starters

There have been two blogs before this one. Yes sir. And I've either lost the address, or I've outgrown them, or I've failed to do what was necessary to maintain my thoughts. In any case, having been in school for over ? years, I feel it necessary to state, that I'm better than that, and those. Part of this blog will be a distinct test to see if I'm capable of maintaining one and of recording my thoughts and ideas in the right (write) way.

First off, I'm James. You could say that the title "Juxtaposed James" is a better name for this blog than "Juxtaposition Collision" because i've spent most of my days juxtaposed between several subjects. Here he is, folks, place James next to a subject and see how he fares.

In high school it was Journalism. Journalism and poetry, and then it was a brief stint as an actor, due to my specific bizarre attributes amd skills, I would suppose and my ability to shift my voice and then in college it was a mixture of cartooning, and acting, writing.

Short stint as a fiction writer. Short stint as a poet which took. I went to graduate school for poetry after studying under Stephen Gardner, a beautiful talent of a man who sadly died three days from my birthday last year.


3 years in Louisiana honed by poetic ability and my use of sound, and then on to graduate school, where i had to and still have to be really academic. Indeed, being academic is a struggle, as I'd much rather watch old movies, and read graphic novels, which i did, fr a long long time.

I've written papers, and poems, and I'm just getting into my own with the writing, and now I teach several courses in writing and I try to finish my Ph.D.

I'm still placed next to many objects. At present the object of my juxtaposition is a multi-colored scarf about 14 feet long. I'm a bit of a nerd, and lately you can juxtapose me next to the love of my life, one Hollie Taylor, who I'm learning to love and who is also helping me to grow up. We're in the early stages of all this, but i hope to have good news about my growing up and what it might mean for my life and hers. Hopefully it'll end with a wedding--maybe kids.



Still, this is an intro and hopefully, this blog will juxtapose me, (James) and several aspects including learning to cook for my new family. I'm learning still learning and all of that adds up in a life juxtaposed against many subjects.

Anyway, with that in mind, welcome to my blog. I'll start the show off hard with an entry tomorrow. That's the plan for sure.

James