A Sad Form Of Truth

I want to write a book. Well, I suppose by all practical measurements you can say that I want to write another one. I am not ashamed of the first one by any stretch, but I want to write a thing that is pure and totally me. Little Boy was an exercise to see if I could complete the National Novel Writers Month challenge, during which you are trying to write 50,000 words in thirty days. So it is rushed and it was something I did purely for the challenge, for the ability to say that I had done the thing.

So, now what?

I have written thousands of poems that are between things that make me cry in memory a decade later and things I will not delete purely because I need to never write that piece of shit again. I love poetry, it was my passion before I truly understood what that word meant. I would write these things to my first wife that would go on and on about her chestnut hair and eyes like smokey mirrors. I would write to Naomi about the beauty of childbirth and the creation of life with a schmuck like me. War and Death and Love, Angst and Joy, Forgiveness and Hatred. I have written about her forever eyes, Valkyries as my salvation and mothers that are far away that my love will never fade for.

I have written about The Assemblage and their awkwardly moralistic power plays on a global scale. I wrote about the Eight Mothers that came from that place Cosmic Horror begins and ends. I rewrote The Inferno as best as I could. The Dark Goddess Siobhan and the glory of her power over the hearts and minds of things that go bump in the night.

Am I out of things to write? No, that will never be the case.

What I don’t have, is courage.

I am terrified of rejection. Personally, professionally, artistically, even spiritually.

That’s it see, that’s what there is no book.

What if everyone hates it? What if it is the punchline of jokes and the object of derision.

Yeah, I know I can’t control any of that.

Truth is a stupid thing when it is in your head.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

19 lines that forever changed who I am.

19 lines that define the essence of humanity.

19 lines that I humbly read for you now.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night – Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Take These Words Into Thine Mind And, Like A Magic Bullet, Pulverize Them And Make Of Them A Smoothie For The Soul. So Sayeth The Bear

Since I have taken a break from social media, I have had a lot of free brain cells dedicated to the writing that I want to write, and with that having been said, I wanted to give you an outline of what I had in mind to write. Not that you need to know, but hey, maybe it is an interesting thing for you to read while you are eating lunch or something. If not, we still cool, I will get to writing the things as opposed to just talking about writing them here tomorrow.

I am not going to set a schedule, that makes it a chore and boring and we never want a passion to become a chore, right? So instead, I am simply going to make a goal for the week ahead and see if I can meet that goal. If I can’t, it’s all good, I will just keep doing it the next week. No pressure situations, just a rough layout is all I need to keep my brain focused on the prize, which I will end this very click-bait thing with.

I want to start heavily developing our good friend James in Pater Noster. it flows so easily and I love writing it, except the dialog. I loathe writing dialog. It will be my second-heaviest piece I think. It has a long time to go before it figures out what it is, but I have a decent idea of the roads it needs to take to get there and the adventure of the thing is the ride after all. I am shooting for three days of it a week, it is better when it is fresh and I have already bled a few ideas out of my brain since the last one, so it should be a relatively easy thing to accomplish if all goes to plan. if not should still be a fun trip anyway.

Now, I know some of you have asked for more of The Assemblage, so I will be putting a single day of writing up for them a week. I not only know what I want to do with the story, but I also have about twenty or thirty more 1,000-word pieces pretty much dictated in my head I should be able to pump and flesh out the characters and universe of the most powerful people on the planet. A few surprises I think, but isn’t that why we read? Isn’t that why we let our brains transport to a place and a time that is solely within the confines of the words written?

My beloved Siobhan will be the hardest and the easiest. I want to write something every single day. Each day. it flows like water when I put myself in the world of the Dark Goddess and now that they have a gal, an endgame, well, maybe we will see what everyone can do instead of just random stories that are disjointed and sometimes completely contradictory. Sister Mine will be happy with how much of it will be coming and that is all that truly matters as they are for her and I simply share them with everyone because I have been allowed to. Siobhan was my gift to her many years ago and the fact that I can still write her is delightful on so many levels. The difficulty doesn’t come in the writing but in the time management of it all, however, that is a Bear problem, not a hypothetical people reading this that aren’t Bear problem.

Blog things will happen when something pops into my head to write. I hate having to force myself to do them so, in epic fashion, I have noped that idea right out of my head and if I have something to say I will write it, if not, I will dive into pretend land and give you stories I hope you at least enjoy to see if nothing else. Poetry, Audio Things, CreepyBear, all of them are free time and noise level dependent. Recording a story in audio with three kids flying around the house with Duck Magic is simply not going to happen, so, expect some tinny-sounding phone audio of me talking to myself before bed for a bed until I figure out the things to do there.

Did I forget anything? Did I leave a thing you want to see out? Well, I turned comments back on because I am a masochist, so if you want to say something, request something, give me your PIN, the comment box is open. Or, you know, Facebook, Twitter, all the places.


PS. All of that is for next week, for the record, I am just going to do what I want to do.

PPS. Insert the if you like the content support me by clicking the Buy Me A Coffee Link at the top of the page.

PPPS. Pandering Over

Well, If Being A Dad Doesn’t Work Out For Me, I Can Always Come Up With Overly Complex Metaphors For Not So Ordinary Situations Inside The Human Psyche?

There is a stupor that happens when you write a lot all at once. It isn’t a high, or a low for that matter, it is this blissful stupor of momentary emptiness that is a feeling that needs to be felt instead of described. A lot of you got all kinds of pissy and confused about the airplanes, so I think I will try another way, something a little less flowery, but it will do I guess.

There is a lot of water in a cup, when you walk with the container, the water sloshes around and gets everywhere if you are not ready to move accordingly and empty the glass periodically. The glass, in this case, is the writing part of my brain, the part where I need to do a thing and I cannot remember the last time there wasn’t water pouring down the sides of it. I can’t remember the last time it wasn’t overflowing to-the-point of soaking every other thing in my brain that should be getting attention, like personal paranoia prevention and the ability to sleep at night. It isn’t a choice mind you, I have written and written, and still, it is always there.

So, I think I know why.

It isn’t some egotistical thing where I was born with a glass too small for all of my brilliance. If you have met me, you realize that is not the way I think at all. Instead, I think it is more of the mental health issues have made everything swell, and the glass isn’t exactly where it is supposed to be, so it is being crammed in a back cabinet where it was never meant to go. It is literally a case of the glass not being half empty or full, just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or something to that effect.

I could give you a dozen more graphical and auditory examples of it, but if you don’t get it, you don’t get it, and that is okay. It is my thing, and if you have a thing I don’t understand it is okay because I am not you. However, with a little bit of cooperation on both parties part, there is a way that we can come to an understanding.

I lost whatever train of thought I had when I started this because I am editing the audio of Shakespearean Sonnets. The first five to be exact.

So yeah.

Water glass, or something.


I Really Was A Cute GothBoi You Know. Tall And Hopelessly Hooked On Heroin. I Mean, Worship My Angst As I Tell You The Sorrows Of My Woebegone Life.

I was going to post a new part of the tale of our Dark Goddess, but my head is ripping itself apart and creativity is not at the forefront as much as wondering if I can shut down the local air show by willpower alone. I am thinking I cannot do this thing, but it is a pleasant way to divert myself from the pulses of agony that occur whenever one of our nations finest fucking strike aircraft fly over my house at whatever altitude going Goddess only knows how fast. I will let the people who enjoy that enjoy themselves and I will hunker down for the last week of involuntary incarceration before the baby ducks go back to school after Labor Day.

I have been futzing with my website for the last little while and while you won’t see much, it makes me happy to do that and it takes my mind off of, awkwardly enough, my mental pain. I will be doing more of it here in the next little while, maybe some other computer things, but anything creative has to be put on the back burner until I don’t feel like I need to take a drill to the side of my face. Honestly, however, the pain has dramatically reduced from where it was a few days when both the weather and the head cold I am still fighting off the last of had me in their clutches.

There truly isn’t anything else to say, even for me, so I will leave you with a copy of a poem I wrote before at least one person I know reads this blog was born.

Yay for feeling ancient!

Oh yeah, feel free to vehemently mock my tender little gothboi self for writing this at the soft and drug-addicted age of 16.

With each day I see the beauty in perversion.
Its sultry smutty world calls to me over and over.
It begs me to join and be one with it.
What the fuck, why the hell not?

I can sit and watch this desire grow more and more.
Or I can take the tiger by the tail and do something about it.
Fuck, I am human you know, it is a normal thing.
Perversion you call it? Fuck it, I call it normalcy.

I have the urge to be one with another and another one with me.
To fuck and screw and all of those other fun words we don’t say.
To not call and say I love you, to just let it be what it is Fucking.
I loved it when I was a teenager, I can’t now? Bullshit.

I can do what I want for whatever reason I want. Fuck the rest.
I will sit and fuck forever and a day if it pleases me.
It doesn’t please you? Boo Fucking Hoo.
Such is Fucking Life.