You are, I am.

You are sideways, I’m upside down

No, wait

Sideways is what I am

Upside down is for you

Either way the view is off kilter

You get to dance on the ceiling

I get to hop over doorways

Stumbling on the trim I fall

Through the window into the outside

The sun is out

Maybe you could join me

Instead of just watch

Good day sir

Hello blog world!

No deep thoughts from me today. I have been told that I have been too grim lately. Ok, this just may be true, no, it is true. The sun is out, my children are healthy, and I have been blessed with two years of sobriety. So for today I will be light, frivolous, and joyful.

Again I say hello, hi, how are you, and as Bilbo once said (just with a different tone) good day sir.

Inspire me, post fun things, poems, stories, and videos.

Also to my viewers in Germany, talk to me; tell me how you found me. I spent nine days in your country and loved it. I want to hear from you……..

Sadness becomes me 6/21/11

Through my forest

Cold wind blowing

Tempting the few stragglers

Holding on as if

Life will flow

If only

If only it could

If only I could stretch

My winter bare arms in the sun

Dig my roots into the loamy soil

For now this cannot be

The sun is hiding

The ground is hard

Waiting for spring

Spring is not now

So for now

Sadness becomes me



This is has been a tough day, week, and year, but this is not a wholy down poem. There is hope yet, hope for spring, for life returning, and new blumes sprouting.Wandering down this path is a journey; around the next corner, on the other side of that hill lies hope. Or at least the hope that hope lies somewhere near.

One night I was having trouble sleeping, and I did not have a book to read, so I flicked on the boob tube. On the Sundance channel, for some reason, a documentary caught my attention. It was about Norwegian black metal and some of the history and infamy behind the movement.  I have included a link to the movie web site; on the link you can watch the whole movie and extras, please watch. One of the people involved, Varg Vikernes, committed murder, at least that was what he was convicted of; either he is the best sociopath I have ever seen, or he is telling it how it happened.

                Here is some content from the movie’s Facebook page,

"UNTIL THE LIGHT TAKES US is a stunning, voyeuristic window into the morbid world of Norwegian black metal, the most malevolent musical genre in existence, whose surprisingly articulate founders hold complex sets of extreme nationalist, anti-Semitic and anti-Christian beliefs. Unlike musical purveyors of evil who do so only for the sake of showmanship, these young friends actually practice what they preach, engaging in rampant church burning, suicide, and – as notoriously chronicled in the European media – murder.

Co-directors Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell spent two years living in Oslo, where they procured the trust of ringleader Varg Vikernes (a/k/a “Count Grishnack”), architect of the criminal movement. Along with other influential members of the “Black Circle,” Vikernes gave the filmmakers unprecedented, intimate access to their shadowy world. UNTIL THE LIGHT TAKES US chronicles the true story behind the music and mayhem, and reveals what happened when these complicated young artists could no longer control the dangerous scene they had created. Featuring interviews with outspoken black metal fan Harmony Korine, musicians Gylve Fenriz Nagell, Varg Vikernes, Hellhammer, Faust, Abbath and Demonaz, Garm, Faust, Frost and more, and the music of Black Dice, Boards of Canada, Burzum, Darkthrone, Enslaved, Gorgoroth, Lesser, Mayhem, Múm, Sunn 0))), Thorns, and Ulver. (USA, 2009, English, 93 minutes)”

Untill the light takes us

With love, your sun.

A bargain struck, 6/17/11

I said I love you

He said good bye

Walked out the door

Until that day he had been

On borrowed time

A deal had been made

A bargain struck

The one in need had been saved

Under the oak

He went home

My father had been many things in his life: a thug, husband three times over, a father four times over, brother, son, grandfather, drunk, sponsor, friend, and human. Dad drew the short straw in life in life, but through some kind of miracle he was able to stretch it out for sixteen additional years. My father was many things, wore many hats, but to me he was larger than life.

                The day dad died is imprinted in my memory, burned into stone. Even though he passed at forty seven he lived ten lifetimes.  With Father’s day on Sunday, I wanted to write a little about him, and to him.

Dear dad,

Over and over you asked me to write you a letter, even if it was just to say fuck you. I wanted too, over and over, not to say fuck you, to say I love you. I couldn’t, not because I didn’t try, I just couldn’t, life didn’t give me that ability. I was ashamed to tell you, I didn’t want to disappoint, to let you down. You are my hero. Happy birthday, happy father’s day, happy Fourth of July, thank you for the birthday presents, merry Christmas, and happy New Year. I know this can’t hope to make up for all the years without, but this is what I can do. I hope your journey home was pleasant, and you can get some rest.

With love from your son.

Almost he was so good at science they named an elephant after him

Some times it is funny how my brain works. That shouldn't surprise some of you, this brain of mine has taken me to some strange places(some of them real). I was on a friends blog and he had a picture of elephants. This amused me because of a slip of the tong he had while describing a acquaintance from years ago " he was so good at science that they named an elephant after him" said my friend. After discussing this gaff we agreed that I had the privilege of writing a poem about it. After seeing the picture on his blog I thought that was what I would do, then I read his blog. This was my response to his post,

Day by day, 6/15/11

He went by day after day

Living life and loving that way

He went by day after day

Until the day

He didn’t go by

No living No life No loving that way

Where is he now

Why didn’t he stay instead of go

You ask this

At least you think you do

It was not he who left

Instead it was you

He still goes by day after day

Wishing you could have stayed

I still hold the privilege of writing that poem about the man who on a lighter day had his science celebrated that way. This I will do on a different day.

fuzzy

Walking hurt, step after step
He sits, finally
Hands shaking, Eyes down
Fuzzy shoe outline blending
He raises his hand yet again
He is thirsty


This was inspired by my friend Christopher

walk

So I found myself writing a bunch of meaningless crap tonight because I had a hard day and am confused about what to do. That is something I am skilled at, filling up the air with crap so that I don’t have to actually and honestly look at things that hurt. A friend of mine said one time that he had a “rainbow belt in bullshittsu” this has always stuck with me; it has been the belt that kept my pants from falling down and baring my ass. While I was writing the meaningless crap earlier it had a hard time coming out. Although I want people to like what I write I don’t need that as much as I need it to not be bullshit to me.

I feel that I need this writing thing, like I need air or food, I don’t want to get in the habit of wasting it. Back to the bullshit, no, the reason for the bullshit, I am hurting, my arm is being amputated while I watch. I’m seeing my writing hand disappear and trying to see life as it will be without it. Of course I am speaking figuratively but that is how it feels; knowing that I don’t have the ability to see in that way leaves me in a position that I have to rely on something other than myself.  Here goes, God I don’t know what to do, I can’t do this on my own so I’m asking you to carry me when I can’t walk, to help me sit and be still when I feel I need to run, and help me be kind and gentle when I feel angry and mean.

Mine is the...



I jacked this picture from a friend of mine, a man with a view.

This is me

Mine is the picture

The vivid

Sometimes overwhelming colors

Weaving line by line

Traipsing through flower strewn valleys

Marching

This is me

Mine is the sword

Aching to swing

Weaving its deadly arc

Slashing through foe and fiend

This is me

Mine is the boy

Alone

In an attic

Surrounded by the clutter

Unwanted discards left here and there

This is me

Chris McQueeney 2011


Here is a late link to jingle poetry at the goose berry gardens



Lace

What weaves will she make
From tattered wool she will take
Off the likes of me
No lace for her
Oh what weaves she will make
From the worm wool she will take
From the likes of me
No lace indeed

 He ment well 6/3/2011

Lupe

      

                 So as a kid my home life was very dysfunctional, I have talked about my home life before and I will again at some other time. My next door neighbors were the Sanchez family. They basically adopted me as a child, I ate meals with them, I played with their children, and I went along on family adventures. Lupe is the father in this family, and in case you haven’t figured it out by the name they are of Mexican descent. The love and guidance I received from them helped to shape the best parts of me; they were under no oblation, had no requirement, and gained nothing of a financial nature from me in fact I'm sure it cost them money to have me as a guest  so often. I have a great debt to the whole family, and in the future I will write about the family a lot.

           
 I just got off the phone with Wally and the conversation I had with him got me thinking about the last conversation I had with his father. It had been ten years or so since the last time I saw Lupe and his wife, my god parents, and I was telling them how much what they gave me meant and how it must have been hard to have four kids and to have me around all the time, his response to me was that he had told the rest of the family early on that he felt that I was in need and to make me welcome in their home and life. When I told him about how sorry I was to have vanished for so long he said they allow people into their life for as long as they needed it, and were glad to have them. Thinking of this conversation and the man the words came from humbles me, this is what I think a father should be, not just a father, a man.

Hazard

        I have a hard time writing about what is going on in my life, a good Friend tells me that this will get better with practice. I am writing to the world at the end of a very hard day. At this time it would not be appropriate to go into detail, first off I don't know that I have the skill to not be spiteful, and second it would be childish of me. I will say that I behaved poorly, childish, and mean today, like I have said in other posts I will be brutally honest about myself.       
        I am hoping in the next week to have the freedom from my morose state, there are some good experiences I've Had in my life, and I would like to share them with the world,but I find it is hard to write about the light when I am sitting in the dark. If I was to hazard a guess this would be one of those things that will gain ease with practice.

View

This blog thing is pretty cool. I get to express what is going on in my head, and then others get to directly respond. After checking my posts I look at the stats to see where my views are coming from. I thank all of you for going down (or up) this road with me.

                Today I looked at my audience and saw that I had a couple of views from the Netherlands and   Germany. This struck me as a huge thing, not that I have viewers, that I can have the potential of speaking to people in Europe, and the ease of it is amazing. I have been in the superhighway, It is a place that is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Thank you fellow wanderers.  Tomorrow I want to write about Germany, I was there in two thousand five, and I had a good time.

I would write more but I am tired, bone weary. Good night.

Keys

I was thinking tonight. I know, that could be dangerous, but I digress. The thought occurred to me that I am young, young to this writing thing, new and untested. I have yet to find my corner, my slot, my cubby. What pictures will I hang on the walls? Will I put the lamp on the desk, or on the filing cabinet? Speaking of the file cabinet will I fill it with work that I am proud of or will it be where I through the dung from the squirrely recesses of my mind?

This line of thinking is kind of daunting; the carpet of my life is frayed and tattered. I walk hard, and for a long time my walking was only in circles. One thing I am coming to understand is that the decorations are just that, decorations, the writing will be me. Mine. People may share the joys and pain I feel while writing, but they are reading, they are not in my head while I am speaking with my fingers.

Reading is a huge part of my life. Books have filled the shelves of my life; in my file cabinet other author’s works are stored. I have always felt close to the authors that I read, as if I was seeing into their soul’s window. Words streaming across the page, guiding me, challenging me, taking me to worlds that never were, or never will be again. But I will never know what was going on in the head guiding the fingers making the words that made my world worth living. I am grateful for what has been shared, that small part of the bare soul.  

With the keys of this board I have been given the keys to the kingdom. I get to decide what door the keys open, and while daunting, it feels…it feels. 

Chris McQueeney       6/1/2011