Write On, Man

Those aren't pillows!

Prompt:  Why do I write?

(Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg)

Date: 18 October 2011

Location:  26B

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I write because I know it is going to take a lifetime of writing to explain the answer.  I write because there are novels with my name on them; maybe even a poem that comes from my own mind yet still makes me blush.  There are blog posts, too, which are part of the process where I become comfortable with my voice.  My voice is why I write, because it is how I tell my story, and I still need to find it.  A writer’s voice is in his words, and how can I find my voice unless I ink these words?  But will I find the words?  The only way to find out is to write, and that has to be the reason why I do it. 

My story is in books, letters, blogs, and e-mails.  It is within the thousand words that my craft sleeps.  My story is about catching up with words to the crazy thing that happened to me yesterday.  It’s my voice and I write because I am trying to find it.  I have been lead down a path with forks, spoons, knives, and sporks.  The path leads to my voice, to the reason why I write.  That reason is something elusive, but we know it is there.  All of us do, now it is only my subconscious that needs to be convinced.  It’s a Stanley cup in L.A., but it is mine.  It is the way I show you how I live, breath, and want to feel.

I Remember When

I remember when…

Mrs. Garcia, my fifth grade teacher, would punish me with an order to “write lines.”   Whether it was 100, 200, 500, or a thousand lines, and exactly what the script was to say, depended on the severity of the crime. 

I do not remember what the lines said, how many pages they took up, and how often repetitive ink served as my punishment.  I do know that it happen enough, enough for me to remember that in my past I had to write lines.

Harley Worth a Dime

Harley’s Bowl was where we rolled, almost every weekend.  The 60’s inspired single-story building towered over the otherwise empty field, unless the circus was in town.  The bleak architecture neither inspired nor dissuaded us.  The Nihilists  weren't scripted yet, there were no Little Lebowski Urban Achievers.  No, it was the shine of the oiled lanes that drew us inside.  Well that and the nachos. 

Bloody Hell Quintana

That summer, Harley’s was our numero uno hangout.  With rented shoes and sore thumbs, we mingled with the drunks and degenerates who welcomed us with open arms.  We bowled our asses off, and when we were finished we would request a print-out of our scores, averages, and ranks.  We were bowlers, man.  I’m not afraid to admit that I bowled my best game when I was eleven years old.

Let's Talk About the Birds and the Owls

I have always wanted to be a morning person.  It just never happened for me.  I tried all the tricks of the trade, especially the entire alarm clock thing.  But, for whatever reason “the morning” is just not for me.  Ah, for me, I agree with Ray Charles, the night time is the right time.  

Five more minutes Ray?

I’m grumpy without at least three cups of coffee.  I am lethargic until I have a shower, eat a solid breakfast (none of this cereal crap), have another cup of coffee, and then have lunch.  And then, finally, I’m awake and potentially happy.  I can face it, I’m an afternoon person.

And I have to say to all you haters, quit being so damn harsh on night-owls.  “Oh good morning, whoops I mean afternoon, sleepyhead.”  Oh really?  I was up until two in the morning; you went to bed at nine.  Do I dig on you Mr. Rip van Wrinkle?  No.  Do I really care that you have already put in half-a-day?  Not really, I put in my half while you were asleep.  And do I say anything negative to you early bird?  Give the sleepers a rest, will you (yes, this is a terrible pun)? 

Oh right, the point.  So I wanted to be a morning person, and it finally happened.  Simple solution: move into a flat on a busy road that's adjacent to commuter railroad that sits under a flight path to one of the worlds busiest airports.  

It is 6:46am and I have only had one cup of coffee.  This is what happens.  Sorry.