Archive for the ‘Piece of Mind’ Category
The paint flakes on the white-washed railing around the frontporch. A pair of flower baskets loaded with dirt and geraniums overflow – purple petals lie scattered on the slatted floor in the spaces between boards. Sometime in the night or perhaps the lazy day a spider has woven a web across the porch swing and as I look out on the parched August grass, I wonder if there is any view more American than this one.
Down the street past the stop sign’ a farmer with a potbelly unloads a tractor from the trailer he pulled behing the giant extended-cab truck parked in the street. He starts the engine, which pierces the soft afternoon rustling of leaves by the steady wind and drives it up the slanted driveway to an opwn garage door. He leaves it there and climbs back in the pick-up to the sounds of American flags beating in the wind. (more…)
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Tags: America, Free Writing, Suburbia
Prison Time
Sunday, August 3rd, 2008
At nap time, the children come to think me the enemy – a vicious, vindictive warden that patrols the upstairs and peers in on them, dragging my billyclub across the door jam in intimidation.
I don’t actually carry a billyclub and it wouldn’t make difference if I did because they are hard-timers, familiar to my threats and not the least bit afraid of what will happen to them (generally, nothing.) They have been conditioned and toughened by sleeplessness, going without rest for years on end -for as long as … however old they are. (more…)
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Tags: Kids
I have a new page up on MySpace. Check it out!
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Tags: Social Media
An Eccentric
Saturday, August 2nd, 2008
The charge has finally been made. I am an “eccentric writer” who has immutable quirks in the way that he perceives and experience life. It’s hard for the people I am closest to … to “track with me.” Who I am when I speak, I’m told, is far worse off and laconic compared to the person who sits down to capture his thoughts in writing.
I announce these shortcomings with a bit of satisfaction because I know them only to be partly true and because, on some days, to be referred to as a writer even if it’s one that is enigmatic is a strong enough connection for me. The great ones are generally thought to be a bit off kilter (Kerouac, Sexton, Joyce, etc.) like train cars sitting in the pulverized railroad ground, just off the tracks. (more…)
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Tags: Writing Practice
I can’t see her face from here, but in the blazing August heat, she has her dog on a leash and has taken him two steps outside her front door, the full distance of their drip. Bent branches form the perfect wreath hangs on the front entryway, giving a beauty to the air-conditioned haven inside and place from which she’ll watch her terrier do his business.
She has a cordless phone up to one ear and the sun shines through her coarse golden hair, the dark roots still prevalent 100 yards or so away. Her face might be washed out, but she seems afraid to step too far away from the shadows cast by the overhangs and the eaves behind her. (more…)
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Tags: Kansas
