Category Archives: Writing

Vietnam

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When I was growing up the Vietnam War was on TV every single day. We ate TV dinners on portable tables made for the task. Body counts, combat deaths, propaganda, and manipulation were an every day experience. A kid moved in across the street and we would play together until my mom found out that the reason there was no father present was because he was flying B-52’s in Vietnam. I was never allowed to cross the street again. When the Tet Offensive happened in January 1968 we were soon told by the press that it was an unwinnable war. I asked my mom how they could predict the future like that and got my ass beat for not just believing what I was being told. Over the years I have met many Vietnam Vets and cherish the friendships that I still have with many of them. I have watched many movies about the war and I wish I had had a chance to fight in Vietnam. That being said, I am not a fan of accusing people of murder in any combat situation. Nobody knows what is on everybody’s plate or what their entire mission involves. Like the movie Apocalypse Now stated: accusing people of murder in Vietnam is like passing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500.

 

Poet

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I self-identify as a Poet. I hear this goes well with Memoir and other non-fiction type forms. My problem with writing seems to be that I do not want to lose control of what I am doing and the fact that I wrote next to nothing in junior high, high school, and by testing out of college I also avoided a lot of the writing need there as well. If I am a writer, I am a writer who hasn’t written a whole hell of a lot. If I am a Poet, I am a Poet by birthright and by temperament. Perhaps I just need to let go?

Hamlet

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To be, or not to be: that is the ques-
tion:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the
rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may
come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of
time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s con-
tumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
ls sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.

Memoir Start

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Alcoholism remains a horrible disease that causes broken families and broken lives in every culture. Secrets are kept by every family, but alcohol is the worst drug because it is the most socially acceptable drug.

The house was filled with the debris of life, smelling of cigarettes and whisky and a dog. I played violin in an orchestra and played baseball every chance I got. Reading was the escape that kept my life important. Drunken nights of mother were the norm and I knew to keep my head down even in daylight.

Mom would drag me out of bed by my hair and proceed to slap me around and beat me to a pulp while telling me I was worthless and why I would never amount to anything. A 1/5 of Whiskey per night was the norm.

One night, the rage finally tipped my hand and I knocked my mother out cold and went to bed. Fear of consequences was the last thing on his mind.

The next morning, I got up and went out to see if my mother was still out cold in the living room, or if she was dead. Damn! She was not there and must have got up and gone to bed. She got up later that morning, didn’t say anything all day, and never hit me again. If I had known it was going to work I would have hit her when I was much younger. I would become somebody no matter what!

 

Writing fer money

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I have been thinking about becoming a Paralegal so that I can get paid more consistently than my Genealogy ability seems to provide. I am very good at doing the research necessary to create a family tree.

Today, I have been doing some research on Freelance writing or writing fer money. The various websites and videos give a fun and interesting picture of the life of a Freelance writer. Writer as job is a new concept for me after a lifetime of working in a factory. I have about 2/3 of my Certificate in Writing to finish over the next several months and then I will be seeking employment, hopefully in a fun way. Wish me luck.