Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

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Something Feels different. As I sit here at the keyboard-almost one o’clock in the morning-something feels completely and irrevocably different. Sweat forms on my brow as I struggle through writer’s block in search of my next sentence.

Writer’s block is maddening, you know. To have an idea or something as simple as introducing yourself to a new crowd of bloggers, to have that next word on the cusp of your fingertips, and yet-nothing.

See what I mean?

Oh. There you are. And here all along, I thought I was just talking to myself. Already, I’ve read and reread my introduction several times, because I want you to like my blog, reader. Yes, I want you to like it. You may not agree with my politics or conspiracy theories, but I want you to like it.

Some people take politics too seriously, I think. After all, I should know. At the height of my glory (cough), I was obsessed with not only politics, but conspiracy theories. For days, fictitious arguments with other people would rage in my head (I wish I were kidding about this part). The Kennedy assassination. 9/11. Bilderberg. The Council on Foreign Relations. How could someone not connect the dots?!

The world seemed to be an abysmal failure in my mind. And then, something happened. My marriage hit a brick wall. So I stepped away from this place and allowed us the time to heal-or, for me, the time to pray and hang on! But, as time passed, my blog seemed less and less relevant to the demands of my family. But here I am. I missed this place.

Do you like to read? Fiction or non-fiction? Personally, I prefer fiction. Non-fiction takes me too long to get through. But eventually I get there. Be that as it may, reading does something for me that this blog also does-it takes me out of my life and puts me in another universe.

People around me think I’m crazy for liking movies that don’t have a “happy” ending. Let me put it this way: if a story can bring me to tears or provoke me to thought, then the writer has done their job well. I can’t stomach the work by Janet Evonovich (I think that’s how you spell it) or James Patterson.

Have you tried reading either one’s work? Fragmented sentences. Character descriptions in a paragraph. Chapters, like, two or three pages long. Suffice it to say, I don’t like commercial fiction all that well. But if you do, more power to you.

Now, look at this! You’ve caught me rambling. Have I explained why something feels different?

It’s simple. In the four years I’ve left Waylon’s Revolution dormant (albeit with the occasional posting), things have changed. WordPress has changed. The world has changed. Politics, even, have changed. Has the blogging atmosphere changed?

After more than six-hundred posts, I have earned twelve followers. And in these last few days, I have gone through my comments and those who are following my blog, and I have come across a mystery. Most of them have vanished. I mean, they weren’t like myself. I gave a word of caution. I said that I was going away and didn’t know if I’d be back. But nothing from these people. A post one day, nothing the next. Where did they go?

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I’ll leave you today and end this post with a final thought. If the midterm elections brought us anything besides the hilarious antics of Christine O’Donnell, I would’ve been happy. It was disheartening to see a woman whom espouses some of the same beliefs that I do fall under so much criticism. However, she had that same hokey, don’t cha now persona that Sarah Palin embodied. And I just couldn’t get behind that. Come to think of it, you don’t hear much from either one anymore.

In October 2010, I made a post titled Christine O’Donnell Ain’t No Friend of Bloggers. This is what she had to say:

What makes bloggers good makes them dangerous. They don’t have to answer to anybody. They can give a local story attention, but they can also publish rumors with no accountability. (Wilmington News-Journal, 1/7/07)

I argued then, as I do now, that others having the same blogging rights brings a natural balance to the blogosphere. And I questioned what that “accountability” would be. Can we really trust the government or some blog censorship to be impartial and respectful of the First Amendment rights of all?

As I said, the world has changed, WordPress has changed, my followers have changed (vanished), but my belief that blogs are one of the few places where the First Amendment is fought for in the trenches of free speech, still persists.

(In case some of you were wondering, according to Wikipedia, Christine O’Donnell works for the Washington Times.)

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Every author can write a good story, but few can write one that can touch our hearts.  And as ironically as it may sound, It touched mine.

Most Americans have either seen or read the book, so I will skip the narrative.  If I tried I would probably botch the whole thing.  I will say this though; until I read something better, It will be my favorite book.

The book ends kind of sad really.  After besting the Beast the first time, the teenagers lose their memories of that day.  And the next twenty-seven year cycle brings the children minus one (now grown-ups back to Derry).  Only this time, in the end, they begin to forget each other and their childhood.  They don’t remember fighting the Thing that haunted Derry for decades.  Or why they even dream of Derry.

But I guess that’s the way things go, isn’t it?  Time erases any kind of memory we have of one another.    I’m twenty-six years old, my father has been gone for over seven years, and I still don’t remember all that I’d like to.  I have fond memories, but these are the ones that keep playing over and over in my head.  I forget his laugh.  I forget the sound of his voice.  It’s as if I never heard them at all.

Time will pass by and as the memories fade, distort, or maybe I will remember them differently, the only thing that I have of him that won’t change are possesions he held long, long ago. 

I was sitting outside one day, drinking coffee, when this memory came to me.  You know how Robins, or some other bird, makes that lonesome trainlike sound?  Kind of sad. 

When I was young we lived out in the country in a house that was surrounded by corn fields, and was at the time of us moving in was at least one-hundred years old.  As the story goes; it was one of the first houses in the area to have electricity.  I guess people would come from miles around just to see the front porch light come on.

But that’s just a story.  It may or may not be true.  To be completely honest, I don’t even remember where I heard it.

My father and I had just finished mowing the yard.  In those days he only let me mow one stripe.  Apparently, having zig-zag lines in the front yard didn’t go well with the house.  Even if it was old enough to be condemned. 

We were sitting their on the porch, my dad smoking his cigarette.  And the lonesome call of that bird came.

“That’s the loneliest sound in the world,” he said.  I agreed.

“Have you ever tried to talk to one?”  No.  Before I knew it, he had his hands cupped around his mouth and was mimmicking the sound.  He did quite well, and the bird must have thought so too because he responded.  “Do you want to try it?”  I hedged a little bit, but in the end, I did it. 

The first time wasn’t so great.  In fact, it was terrible.  But the more I did it, the better I got.  That bird and I must have carried on a full converstation.  His lonely song was doubled because he sat on the telephone wire all by himself.  We eventually stopped and stared at the bird.

He called, we didn’t answer, and soon he flew away.

I don’t know how else to describe this memory other than it was a father son time.  A memory to hold onto as long as I have it to help me ride through the storm.

I visited his grave this past summer, talked to him, and cried.  I’m glad he’s not lonely.  I loved him then and love him now.  I hope he knows that.