Don’t Blame the President

You agreed to settle for lesser products in exchange for lower overhead. You put it on plastic while your bank accounts remained empty. You decided to be a liar. You placed appearances above truth. You bought a house and car you couldn't afford and blamed your losses on the cost of higher education. You agreed to eat garbage and called it a value. You created, supported, and passed corrupt legislation to advance your selfish wants and needs. You let your family and marriage take a backseat to financial gain and self absorption. You made life into a television show and chose to believe the lies it fed you. You became impatient and hateful. You agreed to pay at the pump. You forgot the working poor. You submitted to the rich and powerful in exchange for anonymity. You diluted religion until it fit your needs. You made enemies you cannot defeat. You repeated the mistakes of Rome. None of this is the President’s fault. You have only yourself to blame and now you’re totally fucked.

In My Mind Vol. 2: The Anatomy of Random Writing

Just because they go there doesn’t mean they should. No one ever asked about the taste. What if it was more than palatable? What if it was tasteful? Curiosity and morbid taste full of tired bywords and meaningful rhetoric is not enough here (pointing, always pointing. Pay attention!). Here you will get no answers. Here you will be forever lost among the turbid plumes of a mortal’s threshold for thought and dream. Don’t assume you can unveil what lies beneath. Even if you arrive primed with ten pair and one, you will be too late- will you not? Sanctions are lurking, and yet you trifle on a crusade for things better left unsaid. Follow me for a circuit whilst I show you the worlds within worlds, within words, within worlds, and suffer my affections: In the dark there was a craven crow and in his heart there was a box and in this box there was a key to a house made of what? That’s the question I ask myself everyday. Quite trite I always say. What’s the diffidence? Who would sacrifice themselves to be lost? Usually such tasks are left to fate, or stupidity, if there is a difference. Don’t ever forget: just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. And grey is still a color, strictly speaking. Don’t pine for me, don’t mourn for me, don’t cry for me, don’t speak for me, don’t think for me, don’t wait for me, don’t question me- I take that back, question me frequently. The fractions of this you recognize speak only to your knowledge and logic. Wisdom and truth, beauty and love, death and life are what I seek.

The Anatomy of Random Writing

I will now attempt to diagram some random writing and explain the meaning line by line.

In My Mind Vol. 2

Just because they go there doesn’t mean they should.

“They” referrers to a set of people, two or more, who engage in an activity, either literally or metaphorically. They could be physically going somewhere, or going there in slang terms, which would mean they were altering social conditions, perhaps undesirably. “Doesn’t mean they should,” equates to shouldn’t, which is a subjective word used to judge right from wrong. In this case, someone is judging the aforementioned set of people. We don’t know who they are, where they are going, or who is judging them at this point. Are they going to McDonalds and you, the reader, think fast food is gross? Or, are they breaking informal social constructs that offend social norms, and society as a whole is judging them? Or, are they being judged by a higher power?


No one ever asked about the taste. What if it was more than palatable? What if it was tasteful?

The next few sentences are a play on words and shed light on the first sentence. Unlike the first sentence, these sentences have an actual author-dictated meaning. The taste the author is alluding to is that of the fruit from The Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Knowing this, it can then be assumed that they are a man and a woman, not a group of people, and what they are doing is probably not a trip to McDonalds. But what is it they are doing? Palatable means food that tastes good, but it also means palatable ideas: acceptable or agreeable to the mind or feelings. The word "tasteful" adds the idea that whatever it is they are doing might possibly be in good taste as well.


Curiosity and morbid taste full of tired bywords and meaningful rhetoric is not enough here (pointing, always pointing. Pay attention!).

Where is here? Here is in the mind of the author, hence the title. Again the author uses the word “taste,” only this time in a negative context, possibly hinting at an outsider’s psychologically unhealthy curiosity. To whom this sentence is addressed is unclear, but it can be assumed it is either the female mentioned above, or society in general who sits in judgment of them, or both. A byword is a proverbial phrase, like saying, “Man’s best friend,” instead of, “Dog”. It also means an object of notoriety or interest; the object in this case being the author’s mind. The phrase “meaningful rhetoric” as an oxymoron is intended for the judgmental public; however, it also has a positive translation which is intended for the female. The parenthesized words, “pointing, always pointing,” are for the public, and the short sentence, “Pay attention!” is for the possibly distracted female. The author is saying to the girl that his mind is a complicated place. He is also warning the public that their negative opinion of his relationship with the female is probably incorrect.



Here you will get no answers. Here you will be forever lost among the turbid plumes of a mortal’s threshold for thought and dream. Don’t assume you can unveil what lies beneath.

Again, here means the authors mind, where there are no answers. Answers to what? I don’t know, hence, no answers. A mind with no answers is probably full of questions, which could cause someone to become lost. The atmosphere of the author’s mind is seemingly unstable and not completely coherent. He warns her that she will probably become another set of questions rather than the answer to anything. Turbid means cloudy, murky, or muddy; it’s what happens when sediments are stirred up, which is possible, metaphorically, if she starts poking around at the, “threshold for thought and dream”. What ever it is he is truly hiding, she will probably never find it, especially since he most likely doesn’t even know what it is to begin with.



Even if you arrive primed with ten pair and one, you will be too late- will you not?
Sanctions are lurking, and yet you trifle on a crusade for things better left unsaid.

Primed means to be ready and it also means to be of high quality. Ten pair and one would equal 21, which is the age of the girl, who, although in the prime of life, is too late. Too late for what? Here we get the idea that the relationship between the author and the girl could have been more had the timing been right, but apparently he has moved on, is much older, or is committed to another woman, which would explain the previous judgments by society. Sanctions can be permissions or punishments depending on the context. In this context they could be both. The author could be saying that certain permissions will be granted, but that these permissions may lead to negative consequences.



Follow me for a circuit whilst I show you the worlds within worlds, within words, within worlds, and suffer my affections: In the dark there was a craven crow and in his heart there was a box and in this box there was a key to a house made of what? That’s the question I ask myself everyday. Quite trite I always say. What’s the diffidence?

Despite all of his ambivalence, the author decides to take the girl for a spin. The words within worlds are what make up his reality. He knows she will not understand, but shows her anyway with a riddle. After the riddle, for which he gives no answer, because, again, there are none, he then seems to fall apart into word play that suggests he may not be as interesting or as confident as he seems.



Who would sacrifice themselves to be lost? Usually such tasks are left to fate, or stupidity, if there is a difference. Don’t ever forget: just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. And grey is still a color, strictly speaking.

These lines are pretty clear once you understand the previous sections. The author is surprised at the female’s audacity, and warns her again about the risks of their relationship, but ultimitly decides that what ever it is they have is acceptable.


Don’t pine for me, don’t mourn for me, don’t cry for me, don’t speak for me, don’t think for me, don’t wait for me, don’t question me- I take that back, question me frequently. The fractions of this you recognize speak only to your knowledge and logic. Wisdom and truth, beauty and love, death and life are what I seek.

This is the author’s final disclaimer and stipulations. We see that although he shows resolve, he also obviously lacks it, possibly because he has feelings for the girl; feelings that he doesn’t totally understand, yet is judged on anyway. In the end, the author has noble pursuits that do not include deception and seduction. It's important to remember that all of this takes place in the author's mind, which, as we've learned, is not always clear. That's why we can only use our knowledge and logic to figure it out.

A toy and a weapon: Why I like to write

Me and writing
I was seven when I wrote a series of illustrated children’s books. I published them under my own (pretend) publishing company, Big Box Books. Among the titles: The Hunter and The Bear, The Bear and The Bees, and The Adventures of Mr. Peabody.

In fifth grade I wrote an epic love story based on real life events around the classroom. It was fifty hand written pages long and included a hand drawn centerfold of a limousine.

My fifth grade teacher was awesome. She taught me the mechanics of writing, and, perhaps more importantly, the process. I had writer’s block so badly one time that I broke down in tears and couldn’t finish the assignment. She was a very compassionate person and always did her best to meet me halfway. I wish more teachers understood the value of support and encouragement. It’s not always about the finished product or the grades.

By eighth grade I was passionate about writing. I liked to read, but I loved to write. Of the many short stories I wrote in eighth grade, two still stand out in my mind. The first, Too Many Deer in the Mall Bathroom, was a story about a boy who slips and falls in a mall bathroom, which causes the bathroom to morph into a forest. More and more deer pile into the bathroom, and after a short adventure or two, one of the deer instructs him to wake up. He awakens in a doctor’s office, recovering from a mild concussion, and despite the fact he had not been outside that day, his pants are grass stained. The second story, The Dangers of Being a Frog, was about a teenage frog who becomes lost in the big city, where he experiences a series of misadventures. He is captured and kept as a pet for a short time, but escapes, and, with a much greater appreciation for his parents and the comforts of home, he makes it home in time for dinner.

Formal writing took a backseat during my high school years, although I did write over 300 pages of notes to a girl- a girl I eventually won over and married. My love for creative writing would have died completely if it hadn’t been for one of my English teachers. While my other high school English teachers lectured on how I would always work for someone else and never become anyone important, this teacher took the extra time to try to understand me as an individual.

I grew to hate high school. It was corrupt, superficial, and pointless. The last formal assignment I completed in high school was to read The Catcher in the Rye. I identified with the main character, Holden Caulfield, and found the story eerily familiar, with many lines I had said, would say, or had thought:

"I'm six foot two and a half and I have gray hair."

"I passed English all right."

"He started handling my exam paper like it was a turd or something."

“You don’t have to think too hard when you talk to a teacher.”

“I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It’s awful.”

“He was pretty handsome, too- I’ll admit it. But he was mostly the kind of a handsome guy that if your parents saw his picture in your Year Book, they’d right away say, ‘Who’s this boy?’”

“I told him I wasn’t going to chuck it at anybody, but he wouldn’t believe me. People never believe you.”

I have read the story many times since then and I am still struck by the similarities between myself and J.D. Salinger’s creation. If you want to know about me, read about Holden.

I dropped out of high school during my senior year and got my GED a year later. I didn’t write much of anything until 2002, when I started school at the University of Maine, at age 23. I was incredibly nervous about returning to school. It had been a long five years. English 101 was my first class. The professor was exceptional. The class met twice a week for six weeks. I was required to write an essay for each class and memorize a list of vocabulary words. Class time was spent learning all of the things I had missed in high school. I learned more during that six weeks than I thought possible. By the end of the six weeks, I was tutoring other students and was often called upon for advice. There I was: a 23-year-old high school dropout, who hadn’t passed an English class since the tenth grade, giving advice to people twice my age, some of whom already had degrees and careers. I was shocked when I realized how difficult writing was for most people. I had always taken my abilities for granted; I figured everyone could write well.

I aced English class and most classes thereafter, earning my Associate degree in mental health in just over a year. I had always told myself my failure in high school was voluntary, but it was nice to finally have proof. I loved college almost as much as I had hated high school.

Writing papers for school reignited my love for writing. I retrieved my old journals from storage and started writing stories based on the entries. Over the course of a year or so, I posted several short stories online in my blog at myspace.com. At the time, I had many “friends” on myspace, because I was also making short funny movies with my friends. My written blogs received a lot of positive feedback, while my movie-making days came to an end. I removed the blog entries, deleted my fake friends, and began to write a book about my teenage years. I finished the rough draft of Mr. Anjela about two years later. I am currently in the process of editing the 320 page 100,000 word document.

Why Writing?

It may seem cliché, but I think of writing as painting with words. The canvas is the reader’s mind, and the paint is the words, or more specifically, the meaning behind the words. One of the many things I find fascinating about writing are the possibilities. There are infinite options to describe the same thing. Good writers merely find new ways to say the same old things. Whatever a writer is conveying may be new to you, but the actual building blocks are the same as the ones that make up this crappy sentence.

I like writing because it is the ultimate form of communication. It has been said that I picture is worth 1,000 words. It is not worth 1,000 thoughts, or even 1,000 more pictures: it’s worth 1,000 words. When two people make an agreement, they put it in writing. They don’t paint a picture or sing a song. And, even if they did sing a song, what would they need? Lyrics. Which is? Poetry. Which is? An artistic form of writing. Everything comes back to writing.

Writing is superior to the spoken word. Verbal communication is convoluted by nonverbal communication and other external factors. You can never say the same thing twice. Writing is deliberate and calculated. The writer has unlimited time to think about what to say and how to say it; that’s why people write love letters instead of performing impromptu love confessions. When you put something in writing, it is undisputable (if written well enough). People tend to remember the gist of what was communicating verbally and forget the actual words, which leads to miscommunication and false memories. There is no possible way to prove what was said once the sounds evaporate. A written document can be retrieved countless times and it will always say the same thing. One must use caution when putting thoughts into writing. One-hundred years from now, no one will remember anything you said, but they’ll know what you wrote, word for word.

Writing demands attention and has power. Reading a book is like no other experience. You cannot multitask while reading. You can multitask while on the phone, while driving, while watching TV, but while you’re reading, you can only read. You might read a line, stir a pot, and read a line, but stirring the pot while reading a line is unwise. Audio books are a crime against writing and should be abolished. An audio book is like getting a hand job from a robot instead of having sex with your wife.

As an author, I am able to get inside your mind. Not even the television has figured out how to get where I am at this moment. I am in your head right now, and we are sharing a unique bond. I have the power to make you think whatever I want. Think about a dog. Think about a shoe. Not everyone will see the same dog or shoe. But wait, I also have the power to control what you think about what you think about. Think about the dog again. If I wait too long before explaining further, your dog will change or fade without my approval, so let’s continue. The dog is a German Shepard, black and tan, sturdy and brave. He’s wearing a red and white striped hat, like the one The Cat in the Hat wears. Odd, don’t you think? Why would you think of such a thing? Usually people don’t stop and think. It is a fluid process.

A writer changes the angle of things you already know or understand. You will never read anything new. Much like how there are only so many notes a piano can play. You will never hear any new notes, but you will hear them arranged in new ways. Also like good music, good writing is timeless.

If I write, “The man was angry because his wife left him,” I am simply telling you something, but if I write: “Robert stood at the window in the darkened room, clutching the divorce papers in his fist. The storm outside slatted leaves against the rattling panes, only to rip them away to places unknown. He took a swig of whisky from a nearly empty bottle, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and pitched the bottle at the bed they had once shared. The bottle skimmed the mattress and exploded against the wall. Shards of glass littered the neat folds of the comforter. It would never be the same again. “Sleep well you fucking bitch.”

Did I say he was angry? No. Do you know he is? Hopefully; the author never knows for sure. Why do you know he’s angry? Because I showed you. I left some things up to you, like, which fist the papers where in, what kind of leaves hit the window, the brand of whiskey, and the general size and layout of the room. Most people will put the papers in the man’s right hand and the bottle in the left. The leaves that hit the window are maple leaves in my mind, and the brand of whiskey is Jack Daniels, or at least an amber colored liquid. The more abstract the situation or idea, the more details are needed. You have probably never seen a Beckerlabazzer and have know idea what it is (neither do I, because I just typed that at random). I would have to describe it in much more detail than a bottle of whiskey, which most people in my target writing population have a general idea about. In the end, it is always the reader who decides the meaning. The best stories are the ones where the writer and the reader are on the same page (Ba-dum-dum-ching!).

Another thing I like about writing is almost anyone can do it. Not everyone’s great at it, but at least they can do it. I would love to write music, play an instrument, or paint a masterpiece, but I can’t; some people can, because they have been trained or are gifted. Nearly everyone is taught basic writing, and if the emotion and the story are powerful enough, basic writing skills are all you need. The meaning is vastly more important than the parts used to convey it. Take Mark Twain’s poem, Warm Summer Sun, for example, which he wrote for the funeral of his daughter.


Warm summer sun, shine kindly here;
Warm southern wind, blow softly here;
Green sod above, lie light, lie light;
Good night, dear heart, good night, good night.

The actual words are very simple, but the emotion is deep.
When couples fight, a common phrase is, “It’s not what you said that upset me, it’s how you said it.” Writing is the same way. How an author writes is much more important than the topic. One of the best essays I wrote in college was about my bathroom. Writing is like photography in this way. Some of the most beautiful photographs are of mundane things you see all the time. But when you see it the way the photographer sees it, it becomes interesting, because it is given new meaning.

The Commuter

        “Write about what you know, and you can’t go wrong,” my old teachers would tell me. I’ve gone wrong lots of times, and had I stuck to their golden rule, I would have run out of things to write about by now. But now that I’m 30, I know a few more things, and can return to the old rule for a moment. One of the things I know about now is work. Like most people my age, I’ve spent the last twelve years of my life making other people rich. People I’ve never met: people I don’t want to meet. I don’t intend to shove my résumé down your throat, so don’t get all excited about it. Actually, what I intended to do is share my commute with you.
        I don’t get up at the crack of fucking dawn, like the radio jocks imply all day. FM radio was made for nine-to-fivers I guess; FM radio is dead to me anyhow, so what the hell do I care? I start out at noon, and it’s not ‘cause I’m lazy. I happen to work nights. The most I ever hear of the peppy “Lunch Bunch” set is maybe a syllable of a Jolly John used car ad, which, if you’ve ever heard one, you know is more than enough to make you want to kill yourself.
        So, like I said, I leave my place at noon. I drive by the old lady with the perpetual yard sale, the house with the barking dog, and sometimes, depending on the weather, the old man who spends all day making love to his vinyl fence, with Windex. Shit, imagine Windexing a fence. I’m morally opposed to vinyl fences. Pretty soon even Tom Sawyer will be Windexing the fence and nobody will remember what paint is.
        Every so often the people who own the dirt road I live on pay a bunch of rednecks to come and fill in the potholes with dirt. Last spring, the owners sent a letter claming that the new dirt was “special” and would last longer. Special must mean more expensive, because my lot rent went up by ten bucks a month too. Ten bucks don’t sound like a lot, but that’s 120 bucks a year I could be spending on better stuff than dirt. The special dirt, by the way, didn’t last any longer than the regular dirt, and the potholes were back, bigger than ever, by mid summer. Shocks and struts are two things I could be spending that 120 bucks on.
        The road to the main road isn’t bad; it’s all downhill and not much happens there. You’d think I would know the name of the damn street, but I don’t. One day I hit a cat on the hill that goes to the main road. I stopped and looked around for the owner, and all that came of it was practically givin’ an old man a heart attack for no reason when he thought it was his. Turns out, it was nobody’s cat and I ended up leaving it in the woods behind a dumpster. I didn’t know what the hell to do with it. What would you do with it? I’m sure you have some great ideas now, but at the time, you wouldn’t have known either.
        Anyway, down at the stop sign, at main road, there’s enough room for two cars to stop side by side: cars turning left across traffic, and cars simply turning right. I turn right. I’ll be damned if every day I don’t get stuck behind some jackass who sits in the middle and waits to turn left. To make things worse, people turning left off the main road sometimes try to pull a Mother Teresa and wave on the person turning left from the stop sign. The only trouble is, they don’t have the authority to say when it’s safe, because cars are rushing past them while they’re waiting to turn. I’ve seen some close calls at that stop sign.
        After the stop sign, I drive passed a pharmacy, two gas stations, and a McDonald’s. The line for the drivethru at McDonald’s sometimes spills into the street. You know you’ve got problems if you end up in that line. How fucking stupid is that? - Blocking traffic so you can get a fucking Happy Meal. I don’t eat that garbage at McDonald’s, but I do get a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts.
        Before I turn in to the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot, I count how many cars are in the drivethru. If there’s three or less, I join them, but if there’s any more than that, I go inside. There can be as many as fifteen cars in the drivethru and it never occurs to any of them to go inside. On days like that, I go inside, get my coffee and then drive by the line outside to showoff my coffee. I don’t always win at Dunkin’ Donuts though. It’s a gamble either way. The other day I spent 17 minutes behind some prick in the drivethru who thought it was cool to order a dozen fancy drinks. I swear, some people order the wrong shit on purpose just so they can have something to bitch about. I get the same thing everyday: medium coffee with cream and one sugar.
        My next stop is the gas station. Everyone’s bitching about gas these days, but not everyone has the right to. If you’re stupid enough to buy a big truck or SUV, suck it up. Ten years ago, gas was around $1.00 a gallon. Now, it’s $4.00 a gallon. That’s a 400% increase. So, when I’m 40, I plan on paying $16.00 a gallon. I don’t know about you, but my pay certainly hasn’t quadrupled in the past ten years. If I make $8.00 an hour and my car gets 30 miles per gallon, I’m spending $8.00 an hour to drive at 60 mph; I’m spending more to drive my car per hour than I’m making at work per hour, and that doesn’t seem right.
        The first thing I see once I’m on the highway is a line of shiny blue State Police cars, sitting in a row in the “authorized vehicle’s only” strip between the lanes. There must be half a dozen of them, waiting like cowards for people traveling north to crest the hill. I push my car to about 100mph for a mile or so after I go by. I see more shit on my ride to work than they’ll ever see sitting there. They could spread out and actually do some good, but that’s not what it’s about. It’s all about money. They steal it from the public so they can buy more shiny blue cars and make more money. Law enforcement is a business, not a service. I’m not on either side though. I don’t like the shitty drivers either, but at least they don’t usually cost me money, except for when they run into me.
        I put my car on cruise control, around 75mph, and watch the show. That’s what I call it, The Show: young drivers with loosely connected heads, old drivers with bad depth perception, dick heads with no patients. I watch it play out like a bad physical comedy. I don’t care enough to play their game. I just laugh at them and roll on. They will all get what they deserve; most of them are getting it already and don’t even realize it. I don’t have any control over any of that. I don’t care if they know it or not.
        After I get off the highway, I race up through a bunch of lights and usually make it to work on time. Sometimes I have a few minutes to sit the car and shuffle though my mail before I go in. Other times, I button my shirt on the way through the door. It all depends on the commute.

When God Speaks

        I have been a Christian for 25 years and prayed many prayers (I’ll skip over the disclaimer about how I’m a “real Christian” and not the kind from your propaganda-poisoned mind. If that's you, the stereotypes you believe and the judgments you impose have already caused you to stop reading this). I believe God communicates with everyone, through different means, on a regular basis. My thoughts are often directly involved it the process of communicating with God, as is common with many people who are led by the Holy Spirit, but this was different. Never has God spoken directly to me in my own tongue. It was not an audible voice and really was no different from the sound of my own thoughts, except that the words did not originate from me- I am not crazy; I know the difference. Although, up until that night, I didn’t know that I would know the difference between my thoughts and God speaking words directly to me, because it had never happened before. If there is any question in your mind whether God has spoken to you in this way or not, he hasn’t, because it is undeniable.
        I was angry one night before bed. The day had not gone well. Things were not adding up. Life itself seemed trivial, and all I wanted to do was complain and go to sleep. I have been aware of God’s existence since I was a young boy. I do not have specific times I pray or meditate, except at church. I typically talk to him on a regular basis throughout the day- he can seem quite annoying by the way. My stream of multidirectional thoughts ran deep in the recesses of my mind. The exact path I followed is untraceable. Like an overtired two-year-old, I angrily rattled off many different questions in my mind as I turned off the kitchen light and made my way into my bedroom.
        “Why would you even bother to create our realm, our universe, our planet, and us? If you have always existed and are all-knowing, why would you suddenly decide to create mankind? Were you bored? Why create life?” I had just shoved my head onto my pillow and covered myself with blankets when my mind abruptly quieted and God spoke three words to me: Because it’s beautiful. I was deeply humbled (beyond anything I can explain) and began to cry softly, not only because of the answer, but also because I was even given an answer. Let’s be clear: God does not have to explain anything to me. But for some reason he did, which only adds more to the list of things I don’t understand. I don’t think I am special or more deserving. On the contrary, I do not feel worthy of this experience. This may not seem like a big deal to some people, especially to people who don’t believe, but I’ve never cared too much about what other people think.

It’s the same deal as everything else: take it or leave it.

Ode to my Daughter

You are just seven years old and I am so afraid of losing you. Sometimes I don’t know how to show you how much I love you. You force me to be stern. You force me to correct you. On the outside I am strong. On the inside I am so weak. I live in amazement of you. You are beautiful in ways that most people do not know but someday will. I see myself in your eyes and it frightens me. Many of my lessons were learned the hard way. You have it in you to be good, to be wonderful. The dark forces will call your name as they call mine. My only wish is that I can somehow muster the strength and find the power to teach you how to choose well. For now, you are my little girl. You are compassionate, loving, and imaginative. You are cunning, manipulative, and stubborn. Time will pass and I will lose you; I dread death less. Silly rhymes and storybooks will no longer be enough. Your laughter will cease. My head will turn and you will bear the scars of life. As long as my body walks this mortal plane, I will wait with open arms for your return. I will love you, always.