So, funny story?

I have been writing for longer than I have known any of you. I have had a pencil, then pen, then keyboard, at my disposal for thirty-plus years now. I am not an expert in it, I am not an author of note, I don’t even type without looking at the keyboard on a bad day. What I do know about writing can probably fit onto a postcard because I neither am a student of the craft nor have I ever desired to be.

All I ever wanted, at least in the writing universe, is to be a published poet. I wanted to write verse and make people laugh and cry with it. It was a passion that I had that has, sadly, diminished quite a bit over the years as life has done what life does to people and changed their priorities and their desires. I got married, then did that again, and again, and again. I had a kid, then did that a few more times too, well at least my late wife did, I did the easy and the fun part there.

Then, after my Dove died, I felt this huge bubble inside of me that is swelling even as we speak. I want to believe it is for the stories that I write, the ones that some seem to like so very much, and make me smile with their praise.

No, no I don’t think that is it.

As I sit here at the start of or at least the acknowledgment of, a mid-life crisis, the metaphors and the sing-song quality of words occur to me more and more. Not the cheesy prose of angry youth, but what I think is the hopeful speculation that comes with the beginning of middle-age.

Funny Story? Remember?

Ah, yes. So, about, Goddess, twenty years ago now, my brother brought home a friend of his for me to meet and how he had apparently described me was as a person who could be given a word and write a poem about it in the snap of a few fingers. I was cocky enough to shoulder that praise with determination and I met the challenge presented to me by his friend with enthusiasm. Now, granted, a softball word like butterfly is not precisely a difficult thing to knit verse about in a pretty shape. I did this, or I wrote what I wrote, and I read it a scant few minutes later and forever after that to this particular friend I was the “Butterfly Motherfucker”, a moniker he kept calling me until being recalled from Afghanistan from his third tour and he couldn’t for the life of him remember who I, or his former best friend, my brother was.

Awwwwkward……

Well, it was funny until it wasn’t?

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