Archive for the ‘home’ Category

I don’t think I have any followers and that’s okay. I realize that my poor editing abilities are not only lacking, but entirely non existent. My spelling isn’t atrocious, although auto-spell sometimes just doesn’t know me at all.
Being that a very good portion of these entries are written by lieu of thumb, not too mention a very small screen. How a writer can live with an iPhone 4 I will never know. I need the big screen of the i5.
What I really need is to go back to pen and paper. That’ll teach me a thing or two. Maybe it is writing on this tiny window that makes my eyes oh so sleepy. Hmm I am onto something.

When I leave Mr John’s office and the unicorn princess’ looney tunes television show, I should go home and edit. Corrections would so easy. I haven’t even been to my WordPress site in months. Life surrounds me.

Ok, the unicorn princess is watching a show. I can not see this show. I can only hear the voices and the sound effects. One thing I. Life that I am good at is recognizing specific sounds or voices and recollecting where I first hear them. I know. I know. Why haven’t I cashed in on this amazing talent? I ask myself that almost every day.
Point is is that she has watched this episode before. It wasn’t too long ago either. I specifically remember it annoying me then too. Some sort of western themed action bonanza. Lots of gun play. Not lots of dialogue. It sounds old. It also sounds like a canned script.
It’s way too distracting. How can a man write about wanting to write with all these distractions? It’s a good thing I want to be. A professional.

I need to edit. Grasp what I have by the ears and shake it straight. Get a solid paragraph. A fantastic sentence. A wordy chapter.
Something. And then the eyes become slits


Should Be

Posted: November 20, 2012 in Autism, couch, doctor, fault, home, mr john, soul, truth

I should be writing my book, but the unicorn princess is feeling lively. From high atop her perch comes the swinging strong sounds of what I am not sure. This genre is rock. It sure is not offensive by any stretch. It could be classified as teen Disney. Maybe?
I thought it may be Christian rock, but I hear no thous. It may very well be, I been wrong one time before.
What I do know is that it is not good writing music. Things with beats and hooks and frenzied guitar solos have no place in this writers world. Don’t get me wrong, I adore a good old fashioned head banging. Now though, whilst I pen my finest, I prefer jazz or classical or even nature sounds. The mind should be not distracted but enveloped within one’s surroundings.
The book I should be working on is not lost. That is a good thing. I have more done than when I first started. That is for sure. I have nothing but excuses right not. Most of it is my surroundings. Kids, pets, wives and possibly one bigger: the television. That thing truly is the devil. And she loves it.
And it is always on. And it makes you duller. And it lures.

I have quit do many things. It just makes me want to go back.

I really have to remember my headphones when I come here. I can tune out the unicorn princess’ strange rock and roll. She even knows the words. The unicorn princess has sung! I guess this is a cd. May e I could have figured that out if I paid more attention. She truly haunts me. She will be a major player I my book. That book that sits in space.

Yes headphones next week.

It’s Always My Fault

Posted: November 14, 2012 in couch, fault, home, Uncategorized

I keep forgetting that it always my fault. I need to hold a better check on that one. I always forget.

My son forgot his monologue. It lay somewhere in the hall of the church. When he got I the car, I asked. He told me what I needed to hear to put the car In Drive and head across town.
So I head a moderately more than average speed, not zooming but very quickly across town. This theatre is is I. The middle of downtown. A few lefts and rights. A bump or two over railroad tracks and there the theatre looms. It’s in a Masonic temple. Now that’s another blog waiting to happen.

In order to pick up this thespian of a son, I first had to prepare the other son for the evening. Feed and bath the boy. Homework and dog walk. Dishes done and dried and put up. Perfect timing. Five minutes to the church, ten minutes to the theatre and waa laa! Fifteen minutes to spare. By my clock, that is truly right on time.

All parked and settled, the boy went in. I facebooked a picture letting my adoring friends and fans know that I was outside the theatre. I even took a picture. As the immortal memory was about to upload, a frantic boy came running to my truck.
Chapstick! Does the boy need Chapstick? A swallow of water to loosen the vocal chords up a notch? Why no, he has done and gone lost his monologue.

The harps begin to play. The flash back scene begins in slow motion.
“Do you have everything?” Say it with a mouth full of marbles to simulate slow motion flash back.

A bottle full of rage, a bummed out kid and a bedtime quickly approaching, I zoomed towards the church.
Call your mother, I said. Don’t stop until she picks up.
I try it myself but I don’t really care to drive and talk. I don’t really care to use the phone much at all. If I call, I have a reason. That’s one of my faults also. My communication is terrible. I did stop trying. I admit it. Every once I. Awhile I forget and just start talk about anything, then I remember why I stopped this communication thing. It usually takes less than a minute or two before I’ve said something that reminds her of something that I did at one time and that cross referenced with another thing I might or might not have said at a certain date. The. I forget what the hell I was talking about. Someone storms off into the bedroom and sit with a stupid look on my face. So you don’t want a baked potato for dinner then.

Zooming casually as one can do in a chur h parking lot, she stood with said monologue in hand. Wanting me to pull into the side driveway instead of just coming over quickly to the car. A few words of encouragement to the boy and reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault, I receive the eye of stink.
“You were the minutes late!”
A mental FU because I actually care about what crosses the children’s ears, I begin the zooming procedures.
“See buddy, it wash fault all along. Now lets get you back to the theatre. You’ll only be fifteen minutes late. Use all this energy and put it into your performance.”

That’s all I really said. As much as I try, I can’t communicate well with my son either. Funny thing is that we have so much in common. I think there’s something in the way.
It’s not me. But it’s my fault.