I am reminded of how I used to write when the click pen I have chosen has trouble flowing and after two short sentences I go looking for the backlit keyboard like Pavlov’s dog salivating over the bell signaling auto-correct of the brain.
You see, I straddle the timeframe between pen and paper (curiously, “pop em” from google algorithms, but not my brain) and backspace keyboard. I am both the white out generation (eschewing the subpar Tandy corporation’s first “word processer” for an electric brother typewriter – the irony still holds).
And so I think (or the voice refuting translation bouncing from coast to coast in the linguistic vortex of my cranium and cortex) I just want to write.
[A little backstory]
I began writing at an early age, possibly 11 or 12, writing in a serious way.
To me, that meant cathartic if obtuse expression of deep pain and confusing, conflicted emotions for what was happening to me and who I was told I was.
Writing is a way through that-being adopted, having dissociative disorder, reliving trauma and actual repeated abise, continuing thru a treasure trove of toxic workplace Who’sWho of Assholes into a wasteland of small-minded, back handed hacks across the industry – of highly paid hacks.
Cho Ch ok Kay oh
Sick of the nomadic privilege
The hours turning into days
of wasted time
Who wants their legacy to be invisibility? What then was the point of suffering then?
… with so much going for me, I’d be more, well, influential. Being “effective” takes too much real-time.
But, according to the experts, my “personality type” is known to radiate authenticity, concern and altruism, unafraid to stand up and speak when they feel something needs to be said.
How do we know when something “needs” to be said versus when it’s best to STFU ?
I was once vehemently presented with a never-ending closing argument from a Berkeley business grad that “there is no such thing as altruism.” So chew on that for a micro-minute.
Unafraid to stand up-well this was demonstrated in fifth grade when I inexplicably, heroically and vociferously stood up for Sharon who I felt was being picked on, mercilessly and without rules of common decency – if you are 30+ years older, maybe it ain’t a fair fight-by our bullshit teacher Mrs. Duff. I had to write an apology letter but I made sure it wasn’t about principle only breach of societal mores. Meaning don’t question your bullshit teacher at a red neck school, unless of course she goes too far and then you can’t take it anymore.
Other occasions during which I was brave: saving Deena from irreparable harm when she went flying off Durante and bounced off her head; getting team through TROUGH of death we’re all gonna die channel during Wailua race; standing up for tolerance first then the hammer as the Solomon of my senior class.
Authenticity is one of those words that has come to mean less than it was intended to when over-adopted as a way to describe anyone who wasn’t a fake asshole, like the multitude of jerk offs I have had the pain of working with in reality (about as inauthentic as you can get) television. The Patricks, the Daves, the snarky little Brady bitches and the schlock editors who weren’t good enough to be the actor they secretly believe themselves to be. And somewhere in this schlockism, Hawaiian shirt-wearing career climbing edifice is a scumbag named D*+# O*~v3* who slandered me for his own perceived gain. Problem is he will always be fake, and not quite as talented as he needs to be. The good looks and low IQ failsafe humor can’t carry you forever, Mr. inauthentic.
Concern? I used to but now it seems the concern is concerning me. Being almost killed by two men’s fists in a McDonald’s parking lot in the armpit of the world City Terrace, East Los Angeles, will do that to a person. #brainttrauma and all…
ENFJs easily see people’s motivations and seemingly disconnected events, and are able to bring these ideas together and communicate them as a common goal with an eloquence that is nothing short of mesmerizing.
These birds your father bore
These flights of fancy
Toned down geomancy
A restless native nature
In the shutter stop
Smash of metal snapped to
The film spool glides
/another butterfly /
Nothing is the same
How could you have prepared my child’s soul for that eventuality?
/there is no way /
*and yet you tried *
In your own flawed way
to show me a world
no one else could see
And this is why
We are still standing
in the desert cold
The frontier spirit
the birds are all a flutter
As they wind down song
for an hour
or two noir
Before the belting out of Broadway musical show boat tunes begins
torrents of warblers skimming night
filling all air with reverie
A symphony of life
buzzes cigarette smoke
And that was
Just the beginning