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
The "shruggish" beginning and a new attempt to write a regular blog for a man who is learning everything he needs to have a varied and successful life. The search for true love,happiness, pride, joy, clarity and truth. The blog records my interests, varied and hereditary, my loves and my fandom. It exploes the truth of life lived out loud and the juxtaposed elements of a life lived in full--with pictures and words.
Taken in the "Booth of Life?"
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
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
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
Saturday, January 8, 2011
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.
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, January 5, 2011
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
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
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
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
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
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