“… you’ll see, if you just close your eyes.”

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One of the most foolish and downright insulting things I hear said by people, about whom I care and those I’ve never even met, is this:

 

“I’m too nice.”

 

Why does that upset me?

 

I’ll explain.

 

 

 

First, the individual is saying (perhaps not directly to me, but…) I don’t deserve the level of kindness they show me.

 

Fucking… what‽

 

I’m generous with my time, effort, emotional resources and, when I have them, financial means.

 

Now, in a way, the individual is right.

 

(Although, for the wrong reasons.

 

Which is worse than being wrong.)

 

I don’t deserve their kindness.

 

I fucking earned it.

 

 

 

Second, being “nice” – in and of itself – has never hurt anyone.

 

Ever.

 

Full stop.

 

However, being kind and generous has hurt people that:

 

A} Can’t afford to give.

 

Or

 

B} Give to unappreciative assholes.

 

So, no; no one is “too nice”.

 

Rather, they are too indiscriminate with their kindness.

 

Thus, the problem is one of judgment.

 

Not generosity.

 

 

 

Third, and finally, to forgo kindness and consideration is to cut the cycle of reciprocity.

 

Someone burned you in the past?

 

So your solution is to punish all those that enter your life after the ingrate?

 

Here’s a knife.

 

That nose of yours needs to go.

 

Enjoy the bleeding and the sight of 1,000 doors you just closed.

 

 

 

Instead of the foolhardy, self-defeating, knee-jerk reaction, try this:

 

Practice discretion.

 

Practice introspection.

 

Practice assessment.

 

 

 

Most of all, don’t let a person’s attractiveness or glibness sway you.

 

Sometimes silence speaks loudest.

 

And closed eyes see best.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

 

“… [there’s] oh so many ways for me to show you how your dogma has abandoned you…”

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[This is a revised for clarity re-post.

 

While the song chosen is, without a doubt, anti-Christian, I’ve decided to interpret the art above to make it speak against a different form of faith.]

 

 

 

All pig-tails and patent-leather shoes.

 

Daddy never seems to care.

 

And fathers are the first glimpse of God all children see.

 

Left little choice, you choose to sin.

 

Just to get some attention.

 

 

 

But boys are not the Almighty.

 

Thus, the emptiness still grows—

 

regardless of how much they put in you.

 

 

 

The years fall away and that little girl continues to struggle.

 

(Still wearing pigtails and patent-leather shoes.)

 

To wrestle love from the unloving.

 

To punish herself until absolution arrives.

 

Yet it never does.

 

 

 

The humanist sacristy is empty.

 

The progressive wine is soured.

 

And no one listens in the digital confessional…

 

save the echo.

 

 

 

You were forgiven – and loved – long before you strayed.

 

Oh, child, who told you that you were naked?

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“…you wouldn’t stay with me if something better comes along…”

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In my travels through this digital landscape, I came across the strip linked below:

 

https://imgur.com/a/RmAjE

 

The strip is fairly standard, but one image struck me as particularly self-indulgent.

 

Specifically, the one that reads “Sorry my friendship is a crappy consolation prize!”

 

See, the reason that frame bothers me more than any other is the passive-aggressive arrogance of it.

 

 

 

Putting aside the childishly stated false apology (as irritating as it is), I arrive at this:

 

It isn’t a “crappy consolation prize”.

 

It simply isn’t a prize at all.

 

 

 

It’s wheels on a tomato.

 

It’s a solar powered flashlight.

 

It’s a bowling ball gifted to a golfer.

 

It’s an effectively useless offering.

 

 

 

You’ll “be my friend”?

 

What do we have in common?

 

What are the interests we share?

 

What are the tasks you can and, more importantly, will do for me when I’m in need?

 

 

 

List as many as you like.

 

Take your time.

 

Fill a journal the size of Tolstoy on his most verbose day.

 

It will still be meaningless.

 

Why?

 

Because I already have a handful of men that can and will readily do those things for me.

 

They’ll talk with me.

 

Share with me.

 

Help me out of a jam.

 

I don’t need another person to do those things.

 

Plus, they’ll back me up in a physical altercation, should it be necessary.

 

They’ll also help me move heavy things.

 

The great irony here, is that both men and women seek male friendship for what quantifiable things men can provide.

 

In light of that, the gesture – when offered – is empty.

 

 

 

Not to mention, the majority of women are miserly with their resources, emotional, financial and non-sexually physical.

 

(Yes, NAWALT but I also know people that have seen ghosts and that hardly makes us all believers in the supernatural.)

 

They conserve them, wisely – to be fair, for the men with whom they are enamored (reciprocated or not).

 

So little, if anything, remains for “friends” (least of all male friends, who are expected socially to fend for themselves in all things).

 

 

 

Thus, my sincere, honest and heartfelt response to that frame is:

 

I’m sorry, too.

 

I Truly am.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“Yet in the dark, still he screams your name…”

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Often I’m asked:

 

“How can I get her back?”

 

 

 

The men posing the question are always the same.

 

Hardy stock.

 

Solid work ethic.

 

Bright and clever.

 

Yet, beneath all of the positive attributes, flows an undercurrent of self-doubt.

 

Whose rushing waters can be seen just behind the eyes if one knows when – and how – to look.

 

 

 

Invariably, the women they wish to recapture are fun girls.

 

Pretty girls.

 

Girls that say the right things at the right times.

 

Girls that keep the party going.

 

Girls that liven the night.

 

And ease the harshness of morning’s light- if they stay that long at a visit.

 

 

 

Now, the issue at hand is not that these women are “out of their league” or such.

 

The issue is that the men in question did not have them in the first place.

 

These specific women were using them as rebounds, providers, temporary entertainment, distractions, tools for validation, etc.

 

See, no one – not once – that’s ever had an actual, firmly based relationship has asked me, personally, how to get the woman back.

 

Because, quite simply, that fellow already knows why they split.

 

He’s already well-informed as to a reunion’s possibility, or desirability. 

 

Therefore, he either can – or can’t – do it, regardless of assistance. 

 

Lamentably, after all this, each and every man that approaches me with the interrogative presented at the outset of this post receives the same answer:

 

She’s not coming home.

 

Because she was never there.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“Was it life I betrayed, for the shape that I’m in?”

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I had a great time speaking with Beppo Venerdi; he covered much of my past and my ideas.

 

 

Here, Matt Forney asks me a great deal about my writing.

 

Its style, its origins and its goals.

 

 

 

 

Both interviews are worth a listen as they complement one another extremely well.

 

 

I hope you enjoy the duo.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“… telling tales of drunkenness and cruelty…”

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I usually leave it to my readers to figure out why I choose the songs I do to accompany the posts.

But this one begs some explanation.

It’s very tongue in cheek, since:

I’m not at all wealthy.

It’s storming like mad outside.

And it’s late at night.

Thus, my point here is this:

I do what I do to help.

 

 

 

I don’t scam folks.

I don’t make glitzy promises.

I don’t spew bullshit to get attention.

I do what I do because, as you may have heard in the interview:

I like people.

And I want to help brothers out.

 

 

 

So, now I’m asking you:

If you can (times are tough, I know. Boy, do I know), pick up Whiskey and Ashes: An Inebriate’s Avowals, Maxims and Observations.

Sure, I want to help.

But I need to eat, too.

Granted, I’ll keep writing even if no one buys it.

But, more than the little money I’d make, it’s a gesture that shows you get some value from me.

Maybe it would be better to put a “donate” button up.

I don’t know.

Although, I prefer giving folks something for the money they work hard to earn.

Think it over.

I’ll be here, regardless.

 

 

Ω

 

 

“…if I was in a movie, I would never be this sad. And if I was in a movie, I would have more than I have…”

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The few that know me (in real life) are aware that I adore screenwriting.

 

It is, in fact, my biggest passion.

 

I’m enamored of the idea that I can grab folks by the hand and lead them through emotions and events beyond the ken of daily experience.

 

 

 

I’m in love with the idea that I can make them laugh and cry.

 

Gasp and sigh.

 

Tremble and cheer.

 

All with the stroke of my pen and the images matching them by those that translate me well.

 

 

 

With that firmly in mind, I pass onto my readers one of the best pieces of advice I’d found in learning the craft:

 

Don’t write a film you wouldn’t watch.

 

Which is, gentle reader, to say:

 

Don’t lead an existence of which you would want no part.

 

After all, if you wouldn’t watch your script made images:

 

Why would anyone else?

 

 

 

See, the only audience you’re guaranteed for your entire time here on earth is in the mirror.

 

Thus, if you find what you project to be boring, unpalatable and unrelatable, don’t expect others to feel differently.

 

 

 

I strongly suggest you take these words of mine to heart.

 

Because, to paraphrase Ms. Chambers:

 

This is not Hollywood.

 

This is your life.

 

 

 

 

 

Ω

“…if you will, please, move in closer…”

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I was deeply honored to be invited to speak with Beppo Venerdi on his podcast.

 

I had a great time and invite you to share it.

 

(Youtube embedding has been causing me quite a bit of trouble so it may be necessary for you to “rewind” the following video to the beginning.)

 

 

 

 

It’s my sincerest hope that you enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ω