Blogging Makes Laughter

Releasing my thoughts and feelings in a free flow in the hope of making the world a better place, and finding encouragement as I do, is rewarding me with laughter.  Wouldn’t it be great if we had an economy based on laughter?  What if the goal of making money was to laugh?  The ones who laughed the hardest could be the richest, and you know what I think?  I think they’d probably share the money to promote somebody else laughing.  I pledge to you, that if you donate a dollar to my blog, I will find somebody with a need, and find a way to make them laugh with the dollar.  Heck.  I’d pay them a dollar for the laugh, and take a picture of them laughing for you to see what your investment did.  That seems accountable.  Whatever.  I’m gonna have to pay somebody for a laugh whether you give me money for my writing or not.  I’ll post the picture at some point….because work can be play with a little shift of imagination. 

Thanks TK and Marina for liking my post about character development.  I read back through it after you clicked there, and laughed.   I have to admit I did a little bit of good-natured trolling earlier, so I’m in a pretty good mood, and I did just finish a beer, but whatever.  Goodnight.  🙂   

Oops. I just got caught spreading smiles on Facebook with a like notification here. Thought I’d come back and add in this link for his SEO, because he liked my post, and has a harmonic reason for being here. 🙂

This article is starting to get out of hand, and I like losing control of my laughter, so I’m going to keep putting links for the people who encourage it with their attitudes of pleasure. Thanks for the chuckle Otrazhenie.

It was great to read this post from Brad after writing the last paragraph, because his article supported it in a way that didn’t bring me laughter, but made me want to ask; is blogging a symbiotic relationship? This post, his like, my link, and his article…with my like…. 🙂 After further review, I’m finding that he has a menu item dedicated to humor, so if you want a laugh, I’m sure you’ll find one free here.

Perfect timing Erik. I enjoy reading your smoky love poems and the presentation of your writing is top notch! I wish I had the talents to make the face of my blog as aesthetically pleasing as yours. Thanks for letting me know you were here and liked this post. My reference in the first paragraph to jolly trolling, was your article here, so it won’t hurt my feelings if you never take it out of moderation. It was interesting to read your “about” page while researching for this link placement, I hope your book series brings you happiness and prosperity, now I see why we enjoy each others craft. I found this link in your “just for fun” category, and it gave me a medicinal grin. 🙂


Focus Stall Ranting

I enjoyed your article, as I also find myself in the unenviable position, of freezing my life due to heart breaks, to reflect on the patterns in the pain of the past. As you said, my symptoms are flight, fight, and freeze.

On my blogging adventure, I’m fighting by writing for the growth of my well-being, and yesterday I watched an interesting video on the study of perspective in time, that helps build my serenity for that purpose.

In the flight from emotional pain over the last year, I’ve become fascinated by how time relates to my spirituality and identity. It has a harsh impact on the judgements of others for who I am(an emotional trigger you shared too),so you I hope this video helps you too. Food for thought in The Secret Powers of Time.  The only criticism I would give, is that I wouldn’t choose to represent the present tense derogatorily as “Present Hedonist”, as I find the spiritual practice of “Mindfullness”, and living in the moment, bring me contentment.

I used my desire to comment on your article, as a motivator to edit my long list of backlogged drafts, so thanks for sharing your struggle, it inspired me to improve this article from 2012:

Why am I doubting the darkness, and interrogating the sun? Why does the cold make me angry, and the heat make me sad? What is this thing that makes me look up, expecting to see the ceiling, and finding the closet floor? What is the combination of the lock to the cellar door?

Why am I so tired, with rest evading me like a bouncing deer? Staring at one of my biggest fears, shaking my head and grinning, a mantra uttered to survive. Turning on the music, taking a shower, shaving, turning up the music, dancing, singing, drinking water….

Taking on something simple while physically demanding, as a challenge that will exhaust me to complete. A work that takes all of it away, and leaves me trembling for a different reason, than the one that motivated me to write this.

It’s a precipice, a focus stall, a pit. The scattering fragmentation and suffering of doubts, popping up like bubbles in a boil.

Putting my ear muffs on to cancel out the noise of the chain saws hitting rock, in my head, and again, turning up the music. Dancing to feeling it, loving it as a moment in time. Always as my salvation, the double safeties with end knots, rescuing my lost soul.

A place of absorption with mind whipping like a snake rattle…I’m barely alive. Outside the door lying under the floor, lurks my passions, perseverance, drive, resilience, sanctuary, art, and focus. Play that makes me tall, a work that fixes all.

It’s the decision that’s already been made, and a willingness to pursue it with dogged focus. Getting it done for me, means learning to transcend the focus stalls with grace.

So if you see me with bloodshot eyes and grinning, sweating while lifting, moving at high-speed, know that what you see is glee, buried in an uncontrollable passion to finish.

I have no choice to make at this point. My life has become make or die, and I love being an Artist Builder. Thanks again for inspiring me to lift this back up, by writing about the dynamics of your mental health, and the scientific study of it. Be well.

This is little blue man.  He glows in the dark.  My third puppet.  Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semi precious stone beads.

This is little blue man. He glows in the dark, and is my third puppet. Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semiprecious stone beads.  His strings are cut, because making him was my passion, and controlling him didn’t bring me happiness.


Your article farted, need some toilet paper?

Since this is a community of lightning fast encouragement, I pray that my lack of education in punctuation, doesn’t do me from behind with this post. I am not gay, but I find contentment in this place of blind appreciation, for art that brings me satisfaction.

Being brought up in a community of artistic circus freaks, gives me pause to clarify that last line…and this one too. I don’t care if you’re developmentally delayed, man, lesbian, woman, Jewish, or a sneaky kid expressing the wisdom and talent of your years. I want to see the best you have to offer, and from now on will give some of mine, in the hope of gracefully helping that happen.

If I am not satisfied with your work while being an enthusiast of comments with effort, should I write, “good job”, or “that’s swell”? When I find your text lacking in simple spelling corrections, it seems like a chunk of embarrassing food left over on your cheek, and I kick myself for not saying anything.

No more will I placate your lack of proofreading effort, or insufficient understanding of sentence structure with a “like”, and an empty box of constructive criticism. How can I say in code, that a line is failing the happiness of my eyes? How can I avoid shaming or embarrassing you in front of your audience?

Does anybody have a tricky way to give feedback so it won’t be misinterpreted as prideful trolling? Do you think I should fix anything in this article, so it will gain the respect of the more practiced artists in this craft?

Please return the favor, as I have work from the past three years lined up in a standing march of a hundred drafts that aren’t ready to share again, because I’m too busy making new words burn, and editing the ones I couldn’t bear to put out.

I look back at my work and am happy to report that it sucks. My lines are failures of perfect proportion to my skill, lying sullied with novice mistakes, and silly expressions. I’m sure my feeling of dissatisfaction will return to this one, with a keen stroking later…if I don’t get your help now.

As you read through the pages of my dreams, ideas, hopes, and whims, do you find yourself stumbling over misplaced stones in the path? Commas are an example of an editing challenge that prevents this mystery of tasty lines from coming out of me. I put them in to reflect patterns of my speech, as if I’m having a conversation with a reader, and trying to give them a sense of my rhythm, or when I want to build my passion to share.

This doesn’t mean it would be better if it reflected the English code of conduct, as this is my art, but I do know that it’s more fun to read if it flows well. The poetic justice found in messing with spoken English leads to laughter from my peers, so in my improvements as a writer I hope to harmonize with it, and it’s challenging to find a balance.

Should I let go of worrying about people’s feelings, and treat their art as a stand alone object? Would it be better to just lay out steaming piles of composting criticism that cook too hot, and burn the nutrients off the post I find irritating? What do I want?

I want honest reflections through other people’s filter. In the hope of improving my writing, I will pray to the idea of having many editors. This article is a bridge I’m building into your world. I hope the trolls from the fairy tales are real, because without a couple of disgruntled admirers, how can I know what is good enough?

Should I take the time out of my life, to go back to every fence I built, and see if it’s still standing strong? I usually wait for a customer to call, then I go to the site and decide whether it was a failure of mine in the making of the barrier, a matter of a lack of maintenance, or a fallen tree misinterpreted as my fault. If it’s something I’ve never done before, like write every day in the hope of making money, then I search through my first attempts with a critical eye, to preserve my career.

So please be the lightning that comes out of the sky to fry the posts of my fence, and feel free to write what you will on my comments. If you’re in doubt of being too mean, use the link to this article as proof to people who might judge you wrong, for giving me what I cannot give to you….for the fun of a well made script.

Seriously. Lay down some ugly. I grew up with Southern men yelling at me(they lost their hearing due to using power tools with no hearing protection) because their father’s did, so I’m comfortable with enthusiastic criticizers. If you find an article that squeaks too much, do me the big favor of telling me to get the grease gun.

When your comment blasts my phone, I’ll pursue harmonizing with your appetite diligently, and will do my best to take it seriously while preserving the presentation of the dish you returned to the kitchen, so I won’t need this toilet paper as much in the future:

Thanks for enjoying my blog. If you don’t for any reason, please read these articles, to inspire the fire in your remarks. 🙂
I hope you have a really shitty day sweating your work, because it’s only fun when it’s done as a team, and I want to be on yours.

The Poet Pool

570I drank that shot at midnight to honor my grandmother, and pounded the beer backer to give the games fairness. It’s a handicap for your pleasures, as my last year of avoiding misery has given me too much practice at winning, and I don’t care to use that to build my pride.

Your weakness is clear in your friend worrying you might lose, and with his doubtful eyes my game is tainted. If he could just step out of his shell of potential shame, and meet my gaze with a smile, we might have fun.

Did you see me flame out in ping-pong, because I haven’t played that game in years and lost with style. Some of my best friends would have been irritated about the way I played, not for the actions in the volleys, but for the ending of it. I was glad they weren’t there for that, because my failure was beautiful. Everybody laughed, and the hearty handshake I got wasn’t faked, as I had done my best….with a handicap.

The two of you are in the corner, and I wouldn’t have chosen to play with you, but the other tables were taken up with pairs of lovers. Looking back I wonder if maybe you were gay. I hope not for the sake of your lonely beds. Why didn’t you encourage both of us? Was it another moment of us and them?

You both left your table discussing the next place to go, and he stuck around to ask me questions. Either that or he wanted to see what I would do in my next game. I had another beer to honor the fact that I am too lucky, and winning is not why I play.

I love the moment when the cue leaves the table, spins out-of-bounds on top of the rails, and comes curling back onto the deck. I pray for the winning shot to be true, but in the last moment of your dissatisfaction’s, to lose by a scratch.

I cannot play to lose, but I can shoot to have fun. It’s like staring into the sun of a good time, and expecting it to stay clean. While you chalk your stick, I’m waiting for my shot. Don’t you chalk your stick before you shoot? Didn’t you just miss? So I get the other chalk, and we stand there like fools, chalking our sticks at the same time. Man, mine is all chalked up already, I was ready to shoot, when is this going to end for us?

Finally, convinced that I’m willing to rub that thing into a blue cloud of dust, you put the box of precision love powder down, and let me finish my turn. Did you learn anything here? It didn’t help your next try, did it? Now we get to play the who is crazier game, and frankly, I’m writing a book of poetry on that, are you?

This dynamic doesn’t change much with alcohol….for you. It does for me, so Happy Saint Patrick’s day to you my new Muslim friend, sign language for lift up the spirit, is the same for all people. I hope if you ever get as practiced as I am at this game, that you understood what I was doing.

Welcome to the school of pool. I lose better than I win. Mostly because I don’t tolerate my own imbalances, and winning every time feels like that. Losing feels like that too, but at least I did my best and got drunk, while you got some practice behind the eight ball.

Having not forgotten to ask if you loved the game, I did my part. I cannot hide the joy bursting out of me, and it makes me the freak. Well, I’m getting less tolerant of my enthusiasm being a problem for other people’s attitudes. Is that why the bar’s keep emptying when I play? I cannot seem to grasp the knack of entering alone, having a good time, and leaving feeling like I haven’t cleared it out. It doesn’t have to be late or early.

Give me an hour, and I’ll have the bartender cleaning the counters and staring in exasperation at his failed tilling. It’s like the enterprise is my responsibility. If I plug the jukebox well, and buy just enough alcohol to fit in, everything is okay. If I don’t do it right, then it could be a blessing that everybody went home early. It’s weird, and in my mind is my fault. If it didn’t happen so many times I’d say it was a fluke, but at least I hide it in a few days when all the pieces fit together, and people stick around.

In my mind fitting in isn’t the ultimate goal, but I still do my best to try. Writing isn’t helping the fitting in, but it is helping the outfitting. Taking in the details of why I’m not like people in a room, and occasionally finding a kindred spirit who will encourage my presence emphatically with a concentrated discussion on any art, my hat stops chaffing my brow, and sits precisely on my well-being.

Does the Artist in your life hate you?

They may, but for your sake and mine, I hope not. Do you ask them to make you something, and tell them how? When you order food from the restaurant, do you ever let the artist who is sharpening knives back there surprise you? Is your life so fixed on exactly what would please you, that you miss the chance of luck, and taste in the mediocrity of planning forever? Have you forgiven them for being early…or god forbid, late?

I read somewhere that, “a true friend only get’s in your way, when your on your way down”, or something like that. Anyways, is this artist who might secretly hate you, wearing a watch? This could be a bad sign if the kid doesn’t play pool. Only time will tell right? When was the last time you burnt a steak, and dryly ate it to celebrate your failure?

I miss the ring on my wrist that tells me I fit in with a certain crowd. They run around when the night becomes day in the halls of the devil’s playground. Some of them are certainly sociopath, appearing as miscreants with no conscience. No con science? I believe too much in the power of honesty I guess. I miss the liars out of hope for the truth.

I like to believe that they make up the minority, and that they’re attracted to people like them. Well, having met a player with the name of “Murderer”, and been convinced by his arrogant brilliance in conversation, that he had studied too much math, I’m wary of the people who poke balls with sticks.

They tell me to talk to a girl but they won’t tell me her name, and the fact that she strips for money, strips it away from our relating. I wonder what she does when she’s not spinning in the air for money. Might she be financing an improvement of herself in the best way she can? I’ll never know, but I’ve seen that form of art a couple of times, and it was beautifully tragic.

I’m disgusted and repulsed by the disrespect, while wishing it could feel different for me, as I want to leave. I don’t though as she’s smiling and playing with another boy, who could probably make more money than her doing the same thing. He was handsome and smiling, so I put money in the jukebox, and got his attention. I was there to play, not fight happiness, so I gave him the pick of the tunes, racked up, and shot well.

Micro management is telling someone what to do, and then adding how. Macro management is telling someone what to do, and disappearing for eight months while they wait for permission to finish it how they hope to. The balance of this lies in giving a what, and teaching a how if they need it. Giving a how, and skipping the what. Sharing a what, and waiting around to see if the how they come up with, can possibly be good enough…to satisfy the needs of what.

There is joy found in the witnessing of an artistic pursuit. Have you ever told someone how to dance? How about told someone they should dance at all? Was there music? How about gun smoke? Did the artist dance, or sit there with smoldering eyes which burnt into your memory? It’s a sensitive dynamic. Their lives are wrapped in the scorns of the unfit, unpracticed, uncaring, and whimsical judgements of a hurried time.

They are the patient. They care enough to fail for years in a glorious celebration of hope to make. Can you see the patina on their cheeks? They are embarrassed for lack of a better word to describe it in my practice. You should be able to relate, but in shame maybe, you pretend not to.

She’s called crazy for wanting to die in starvation, rather than let go of a dream. Is she really crazy then, or addicted to a higher hope? Does her pursuit of an immaterial passion, a love for something she can recognize as greatness in herself, is that why you hate her?

Should he hate you for the feelings you cannot hide, while stomping on the ones he shared out of love for you? Did you see his tears? Where has he been for all these years? Did you think he was lazy, because he didn’t believe in himself? Was he distracted from his purpose by the need to survive, and each time he returned to it, had to start from ten steps back?

We are all artists in my mind. We make. We hope to make better. We strive in dedicated pursuit of an efficient mastered finish. Some of us have talent, some of us have to build it, and some of us don’t dare to. Which one are you? I feel all three in me. Let them be……an artistic spill of will….in a forever unfilled till of skill.