Piddling Drivel

  No, seriously, I mean, is this really where we're at?  I read and watch the news most days, and I can be naive and simple, but what the fuck?   A friend and I were catching up the other day, and she was telling me about a vacant commercial property she shared ownership of that'd been sitting on the market pretty much since the first days of the pandemic.  She mentioned that they finally leased it with the option to buy, and the one clause the lessee wanted added was that, in the event of war they could be released from the contract.  Just words, sure, meant to cover their asses, but frightening nonetheless.   No doubt, we're all aware of the headlines from half a world away, and given the past behavior of those responsible for said headlines, times most certainly are causing stress and feelings of dis-ease, but really?  I know I don't have that mature content warning on this blog, but what the fuck?!   How is it that we've come to this?   For that matter, how is

  Yeah, I'm back.  I'd lost that creative spark some time ago, and my blogging/writing time has for months been eaten away at by job and home hunting.   So anyway, Yesterday afternoon, after a vigorous intimate encounter as my wife and I lay in our bed working on a word puzzle on her cell phone, something odd happened.  Apparently, and without realizing it I'd suggested the same word as a guess four times in a row, forgetting between each guess that I'd already guessed it.  My wife looked at me at one point and asked, "Are you okay?"  I felt odd, puzzled and uncomfortable.  Around the same time for who the fuck knows what reason I'd realized that I could not for the life of me remember the names of two people I typically encounter several times a week at work.  Also, I couldn't remember the make of car someone close to me had just purchased and with which we'd had a recent bout of difficulties.  Now, I have no clue why I was thinking about any of t

     My beer, a chocolate colored ale with banana bread notes, was perfectly chilled.  The bright midday sun streamed through what amounted to a large glass-paneled garage door   warming my back and lulling me almost into a dreamy haze.  My wife sat across from me at the tall cocktail table whose top was littered with syrupy glass rings surrounding a stack of obviously unused paperboard coasters, sipping her frosty Kolsch.  Hillman Beer, one of so very many brew pubs in and around Asheville proved to be the perfect spot to break this spell that's been haunting me for so long now.  Our conversation began as a couple took a table across from us, their half German Shepherd/half gray wolf nudging us at the end of her leash for attention.  London was her name, the man told us, and she ate up the attention of strangers.        "We'll stay where we are for the time being as long as you're happy with your job," my wife said.        "Are you sure you'll be okay co

Nothing.   The leaves are turning, the air temperature is dipping and the acorns are dive bombing the car.  The cat's got a lame leg, I've washed all the windows & vac'd all the screens, and my wife's homemade apple pie is to die for.  I can look up the mountain from our home and imagine the bears that'll soon be prohibiting me from continuing my trailblazing.  The wild turkeys remind me of myself as an awkward teen  (not sure I understand this one). I'm surrounded by writing prompts.  They're unavoidable even if I intentionally try.  Point is, I know they're there and free to use, just not for me.  Not right now. What I'm reading doesn't matter.  Oh sure, I've polished off two time-sucks of psychological fiction  since my last "What I'm Reading Now" post, but haven't felt like posting about them. Long story short, the time I'd typically spend writing things and practicing has been kidnapped by work related stresses,

I wrote an op-ed for a small newspaper recently, a blunt assessment of an ongoing local issue that affects everyone and has the potential to cause harm to innocent people and animals.  Not expecting anything to change, my intention was simply to get my thoughts off my chest.  My first submission, which included a few words like "moron", "cretin" and "idiot" (what can I say- it was my opinion, and I was fuming), may have been a little rough around the edges, but the editor helped me pare it down and clean it up so it could be published.  I was fine with that, but he'd also said something that hasn't been sitting well with me since then.  After reading my first draft he'd emailed me that he was the editor of a "positive" paper, and only accepted such pieces for publication.  Opinions are, well, personal opinions.  I understand some of my word choices may have been a little crass and I was fine with making those changes, but this whole &

One for the head, one for the heart. One through an eye, the other between your ribs. I hated your threats, your raised fists and the bruises covering my body.  Night after night you came, smelling of booze.  I ached.  I bled.  I was too scared to see a doctor, ashamed of my shredded innocense.  I hated you for making me your whore. Coming home late you knocked me around and insulted me, then forced yourself into me.  I was scared and you were strong.  You assaulted me, then left me hurting and nauseated from the stench of blood, sweat and your rotten seed. When finished you rose, muttering "You should be ashamed of yourself.  You're filthy and bloody." Tonight was my breaking point.  You lay there in my bed, drunk and snoring. The color drains from your face, and the screwdrivers protruding that way make me laugh nervously. "You should be ashamed of yourself, daddy.  You're filthy and bloody." I don't love you.  I won't miss you. Another of my micro