I realize it’s been six months since I wrote a legitimate post on here. Please pardon the length and the typos.  Especially since this is probably some of the worst writing I’ve cranked out in years.  You don’t have to suffer through this if you don’t want to, anyway, right?

Today’s post was wrenched out of me by a girl I saw at the train station when I got home this evening, Tuesday, May 15th, 2012.  She was wearing a tie dye shirt and blue jeans.  She didn’t say a word to me, and I’m not even sure she noticed I was there, so why the specifics?  I guess, because, if she ever reads this, she’ll recognize herself in the description and know that she was the seed from which this scatter-shot blog post was borne.  But, to make my point, I have to go back in time a bit and you’ll just have to trust me that this bit of writing has some deeper meaning and isn’t just a trumped-up salute to tits and ass.

I first saw this girl a good while ago.  I noticed her face.  It was really cute, but I couldn’t look directly at her.  I ended up mostly staring at some sad looking skinny girl who, as cruel fate would have it, turned out to be a friend or acquaintance of hers although I didn’t realize that then.  Thankfully, I didn’t commit any cardinal sins.  Not because I have game, just because I have some common decency.  And, even though it probably doesn’t need to be said, for those of you guys out there that might make this mistake, a small piece of advice:  If you’re interested in a girl and you’re having a hard time making eye contact, don’t distract yourself by checking out another girl’s body.  I’d have to imagine it sends the wrong message.  Never done it, but it seems like a bad play no matter how you run it. 

Still, that same day, after the train passed and we could all walk across the tracks to the parking lot, I thought about her friend when I caught her eye as she was getting into her car and I felt like an asshole, since I realized that the look on her face might be one of wonder: “Why is this guy looking at me when he’s spent the last five minutes looking at some other girl?”  Anyway, I figured I’d see her again soon enough and thought maybe I could say something relatively innocuous that would bring the whole incident out and downplay it, but she was gone and, a week or so later, I figured I’d never see her again.

Sooner than later, my mind was rationalizing that she probably didn’t really look all that cute and I was probably just tired and what difference did it make anyway?  I still had work to do, bills to pay, weight to lose and a life that I was still searching for real meaning in.  Was this what it really was?  The day in and day out?  Chores?  Debt?  Occassional good times with friends?  Family?  Labor?  Death?

I’ve always believed that there must be something more personal, or spiritual, to all of this, or there would be absolutely no point in continuing.  If life is a zero-sum game, then the first idiot to get the fuck out in a moment of clarity wins.  I’ve had plenty of time to contemplate my mortality and I’m fine with the fact that this part of the ride ends at some point.  At the same time, a life spent slaving to masters who only own you in the material world seems like a waste, and an insulting one at that.  Doing what you’re supposed to may be “mature” and “the responsible thing,” but what joy is there in being responsible?

Granted, there is some, some times.  But it’s an after-taste.  It’s the joy you feel after being responsible because you took care of someone you loved or did something you believed in.  Not because you were “supposed to” be at work at 8am and you got there at 7:45am and didn’t complain about it all day.

I feel the same way about love and beauty as I do about life.  Love and beauty may, in fact, be the only real reasons to stay alive.  The love of living one’s passion.  The love of good friends.  The love of another person that makes you feel alive and helps you grow.  The beauty of nature.  The beauty of another person’s soul.  The beauty of a woman that inspires.  Love is life.  Life is love.  Beauty + Love + Life = Truth.  What else is there?  Don’t bother telling me, because I probably don’t give a shit about whatever it is.  Everything else is a by-product.  I write on my own time, after I finish doing what I have to do to pay the bills, because I love it.  If I didn’t, I wouldn’t bother.  I only do things I “have to” because of some misguided sense of love, too.  Perverted as the intent becomes, I often do things I don’t want to, because those things are important to people I love or care for. If they weren’t around, I wouldn’t be doing those things.

But, life has a funny way of coming around and kicking you in the ass when you need it.  In my experience, it has to kick you more than once.

I was actually thinking about this girl the night before as I drifted into sleep.  I don’t know why the blurry remembrance of her popped into my head as I was dozing off, but it was a pleasant memory to go to sleep to.  Then, on the train home, stuck in the only car that didn’t have a ventilation system, wearing my coat that I brought along because I thought it would rain (which it did, about 15 minutes after I got back to my house), feeling like a piece of bacon left out in the sun, I started thinking about her again.  I’m one of those crazy people that still doesn’t have a walkman or a Kindle, or even a book, on me most of the time.  I’m that loon that stares out the window thinking about things and smiling for reasons that you don’t understand.  I wasn’t fantasizing about her, really. More like just reliving that moment and wondering why she’d popped into my head the night before and what did that mean in the grand order of things?  And what difference did it make? And about how I have a tendency to embellish the past in my own head and that, whoever she was, I’d probably kicked her up the scale a few notches just by virtue of the fact that I had a hard time recalling her exact defining features.

Then, on my walk to the place were we all wait for the train to move along so we can cross over and get to the parking lot, I saw that skinny sad looking girl again.  I’m pretty sure she was wearing the same greyish black ensemble I’d seen her in before.  At the risk of offence, I thought to myself that her seeming affinity for the darker colors was a pretty good match for the gloomy look she had stamped on her face both times I’d seen her.  A brief flicker of thought occurred to me, then, because I equated seeing her with seeing this other girl.  I got a little pep in my step, even though I couldn’t remember exactly what about her had grabbed my attention the first time.  Like I said, beauty inspires.  Even the most diluted memory of it.

So I got there and stood, moritified on the inside, as she and the sad girl talked to one another.  It was comical, in a depressing way, that I’d distracted myself from looking at her face, that one time a few weeks ago, by looking at her friend’s face instead.  Even more comical in that her friend was, empirically speaking, very good looking.  Could I have fucked that up better if I’d planned it?  Probably not.

But when I looked over at her, I was amazed.  Her face was even more beautiful than I’d recalled.  She was stunning.  And, although 90% of the people I know might not agree with my assessment of her looks, these aren’t things I ever really consider.  If something’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for me.  If you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in longer than I care to recall, no one else’s opinion is of any consequence.  I don’t believe in consultation and I don’t require validation.  I let what I find beautiful make me feel good and I enjoy it while it lasts.  Being cool is a loser’s game.  Of course, so is being a blubbering idiot, so I kept my mouth closed.

And I continued to look at her and I don’t think my heart has raced like that since the last time I contemplated doing serious exercise.  I was so thrown by my distortion of her memory that I didnt even think to try and remember anything about her.  Like a raccoon in the headlights, except I was moving and still had a pulse when it was all over.  The only regret I have about the entire incident is that I didnt just do something stupid and say hi or wave or do anything to get her attention, even if it would have made me seem like a complete douche.  Perhaps it’s best that I didn’t.  There’s a fine line between mysterious and creepy.

I hope that, in a few weeks or so, I will see her again.  And I hope that I can catch her eye and smile at her, or wave like an idiot.  If I’m never going to see her again, why not be a giddy dipshit in the process?  I’m happy right now just thinking about seeing her and I’m not even sure she knew I was there.

I want to feel like that all the time.  But, I’m somewhat realistic and would settle for feeling like that every now and again.  And I hope that I will see her again and that I will say hi to her or, at least, smile and look at her directly.  In my life, I’ve experienced many connections and loves that would never have been if the game were being dictated solely by myself.  If you’ve ever met any of the attractive women I’ve enjoyed some time together on this earth with, you can be assured that I was the lucky one in the relationship.  Had they not made the hard decisions and acted on them, I wouldn’t have enjoyed the pleasure of their company.

And I want to experience that pleasure, again. And again.  And again.  Until I die.  Love. Beauty.  Truth.  Life.

I feel like I should apologize to myself for wasting so much of my existence hoping things would work out and never getting past my fears and trying or being an active part of it all.  I should also apologize to everyone who’s still gracious enough to read my writing, even though I haven’t doled out so much as a short-short in the last 8 months while I write my own stuff and re-write and re-write.  I promise I’ll be writing something for you soon.  Something much better.  Something I hope you’ll actually enjoy reading.

Life is too short to spend sitting on the sidelines.  It doesn’t matter when you realize it, as long as you act on it.

And to the girl in the Tie Dye and blue jeans with the beautiful face, natural hair and unassuming walk; thank you.  Thank you for waking up a part of me that I thought had died a long time ago.  Thank you for reminding me of the importance of living life to the fullest.

You may never read this.  You may never recognize yourself if you do.  But, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  Hopefully, in some way, if only indirectly, I’ll be able to return the favour and you’ll realize that your life can become all you’ve ever dreamed it could.

Peace,

    , Mike

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Hey there,

It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  Mostly been working on my next book and working on my next dime (somebody’s gotta pay the bills, no matter how high that hill becomes ;)

Pardon this little excursion if it’s a bit abstract.  I’ve been nailing out straight-up “story” for a while and I can’t stand it when I get bored with myself.  Hopefully, neither can you… That was supposed to sound good… Oh, well

Enjoy and Peace,

Mike

——————————————————————————————————-

DARKNESS (c) 2011 - Michael Golvach

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- 999 Words - 1000 With Title

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Long as I can remember, I’ve been sitting on one bar stool or another. Sippin’ whiskey. Gulpin’ one down. Maybe two. Maybe fifteen. If it wasn’t for the bar’s TV and my tab, I don’t think I’d have any concept of time.

“So, it’s been, what? Thirty years now, Bobby?” the guy sitting next to me says, throwing me a smile like he knows me. I’m pretty sure he does, but I can’t remember his name for the life of me. His face is familiar. Maybe an old schoolmate. Maybe a guy I saw on “America’s Most Wanted.” It doesn’t really matter which. Old friend or deranged serial killer, I’ll probably never see him again.

“Yeah,” I smile back. “Been a while.” He’s still smiling. Waiting. “Time flies, huh? So, what you been up to?”

“You know. This and that.” His hands tremble as he gestures, looking up at the invisible Teleprompter in the ceiling. “Not much goin’ on with me really. Same guy I was back in school.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” I joke, as he pats me on the shoulder. But, I really wish he would. “They still call me Cruiser.” I’m looking in his eyes for some form of recognition. I’m getting nothing. “Don’t remember how I got that nickname, but it stuck… You?”

“What?” he replies, looking at me like I’m fading into the background. “Oh, the nickname.” He shakes his head and lets out a little laugh. “That shit never goes away, does it?” He starts to pick at his cuticles. They’re all torn up and bruised. “No one calls me anything ‘cept my name. Haven’t seen anyone for… I don’t know. A long time.”

“Really? Haven’t seen anyone?” I laugh. “You haven’t been looking. They’re all still around.” I slam down my whiskey, motioning for another. Maybe I’ll just ask for the bottle. “I’ll reintroduce you to Tony B.”

“Tony B?” he shoots back, giving me a bemused look. “Never heard of him.”

“C’mon,” I say.  He gives me another love-tap on the shoulder. “Tony B? The Beast? Captain of the football team?” He doesn’t show any sign of recognition. I’m still drawing a blank on his name. “He tends bar here now. Hold on.” I look around and yell out. “Bartender! Tony!” No one’s behind the bar, so I look around the room. It’s a pretty slow night. Small groups of people here and there. Plenty of people my old buddy should recognize. But no Tony. “Well, he’ll be back soon enough.”

“Who are you talking ‘bout, man?” He’s cracking a smile now. Good old whatshisname. “I think you’ve had one too many. I don’t think there’s a regular bartender workin’ tonight.”

“Yeah, okay,” I fake-laugh. He’s yankin’ me. I don’t see it in his eyes, but I’m thinkin’ that maybe he’s figured out I have no idea who he is. “How about Frankie Pazzello? You gotta remember him. He was fuckin’ crazy back in the day. He’s over in the back corner booth.” I pull closer and lower my voice. “Just between you and me, he’s shit nuts. Decent guy. Just watch how you look at him. He’s funny that way.”

“Bobby, c’mon.” He shakes his head as he reaches over the bar and grabs a bottle of Noon High, slapping it down beside my glass. “What’re you getting at? Havin’ a little fun with your old buddy? You always were one crazy son of a bitch.” He laughs and drains his mug, reaching over the bar again; filling it up from the tap.

I turn around and look to the empty booth. “That’s funny,” I mumble, scanning the room; noticing even less people than before. “He was just there. …must have, uh, had to… go.”

“Whatever you say, pal. Drink up!” I toast half-heartedly, looking back again. I don’t know if it’s the bottom-shelf booze, but something’s off. Fewer people. More familiar faces.

“Tracey,” I call out, quickly looking back. “You remember Tracey Landers, right?”

“Who?” he replies. “Man, you’re startin’ to scare me.” He looks genuinely concerned.

“C’mon. Enough already,” I snort and switch my gaze back again. Tracey’s gone. “Where the fuck is everybody going?”

“Movin’ about as fast as you or me, pal,” the voice to my left echoes. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I fake-laugh again. I’m becoming less and less convincing. “Why would you ask that? Crazy…”

“Well,” he starts to count on his fingers as I gaze downward, massaging my temples. “First, it’s, like, 4am on a Wednesday. Second…” He hesitates and I look up. He’s waiting for me to finish his sentence, but doesn’t really expect that I will. “Second, the bar’s closed. Ain’t no one here but you and me.”

I pull my hand down slowly, looking around the room again; wincing. I know what I’m going to see, but I don’t understand. The chairs are all upside down on the tables. “Who are…”

“Who am I?” he asks. “Seriously? You tellin’ me you don’t remember?”

“No, I…” My head is starting to throb now. The cheap whiskey. The fugue. “‘Course I remember you. You’re…” Squeezing my eyes together tight, I still can’t remember his name. My stomach is starting to churn as I work up the courage to admit it.

“That’s okay,” he says as I hear his mug hit the counter. “We’re done. You can go now”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I muster, looking up at the empty barstool beside me. My head darts left, then right. The entire room is empty. No one but me, sitting alone on my stool. Hands trembling. Reaching out for the bottle.

I feel a sting in my left shoulder. A piercing pain. The television behind the bar switches to the test pattern and begins screaming that awful flat-tone. It’s all I can hear.

Looking to the front door, I notice that the sun is up. I grab the bottle of whiskey, taking a slug, and walk outside, into the blinding light.

Cheap Trick Photos - 10/21/2011 - Potawatomi Casino - Milwaukee, WI

(Curtains still closed with effects and short clips playing off of video screens and semi-see-through curtains, behind which they were doing some neat lighting effects)

1. Opening bells from “Clock Strikes Ten”

(Bombastic Symphonic Philharmonic Orchestra comes on with the standard string orchestra startup which morphs into…

2. The first two lines of “Stop This Game” (Sung by The Rhythmic Noise Mind Choir), which morphs into…

3. Heaven Tonight (Heavily featuring The Bombastic Symphonic Philharmonic Orchestra, but also bringing in the drums, etc - starting to get real, but the curtains still down and side screens are showing the back room as the band gets ready to make its way onstage - Miles Nielson - one of Rick’s kids - sings this song and also plays backup guitar during the show)

NOTE: Although Bun E. Carlos is still the band’s official drummer, he no longer tours and his place was taken by Daxx Nielson - Rick’s kid - who did a better than great job

(Before the curtains open, and “Heaven Tonight” finishes up, they show a few short interview clips from the band from back in the day when the Dream Police album first came out and show the beginning of the “Dream Police” music video - Bun E. Carlos’ part is left out. Check my links section, or YouTube, for that video in its original form. Once the intro part of the “Dream Police” music video finishes, and you can see the band backstage, heading out, the curtain pulls up and they do the “Dream Police” album, track for track. Once the curtain is removed, the visuals go to off stage screens and a dual layered background on stage)

4. Dream Police

5. Way of the World

6. The House is Rockin’ (With Domestic Problems)

7. Gonna Raise Hell (Extra long jam in the middle and end of this tune)

8. I’ll Be With You Tonight (Robin sang the bridge to verse for the second verse before the first on this song, which goes an extra measure. I think was the only mistake they made and nobody but me - around my area - seemed to notice ;)

9. Voices (At this point, Robin Zander starts playing guitar on some of the songs)

10. Writing on the Wall (Interestingly, the writing on the wall is all in Japanese - This is only interesting if you remember the band’s history. Their first 3 albums were relative flops in the US, back when they were originally released. They did well, but not so much that anyone was really interested in backing them too heavily. They did, however, have a HUGE fan base in Japan. After “Cheap Trick,” “In Color” and “Heaven Tonight” were released and had won them a modest fan base in the US, they released the “Live at Budokan” LP, which contained the (much different than the “In Color” version) hit single “I Want You To Want Me.” That song got everyone listening to their older stuff and primed for “Dream Police” and, the rest is history. The writing on the wall is all in Japanese, because they recognized Cheap Trick as the talented band they were before America did and, if it weren’t for them, Cheap Trick might not have ever gotten very far — For instance, do you know many people outside of the Midwest who’ve ever heard of UFO? Even though they’ve had 4 top 100 hits? — Don’t read any of Cheap Trick’s opinion into this. The following is my take on what I saw and my opinion only …as far as I know ;)

11. I Know What I Want (Sung by Tom Petersson with an extended, and awesome, 12 string bass solo as an intro)

12. Need Your Love

(Did I need to mention that Rick Nielson changes guitars every single tune? At this point, Robin Zander switches from the Dream Police costume. They do a funny little segue on the video screens chronicling pretty much every movie and TV show ever made that mentioned Cheap Trick in it - like the “Fast Times At Ridgemont High” scalping scene, etc - and every movie that’s ever had Cheap Trick in the soundtrack, going from movie to movie, with the list of songs in each movie alongside. Of course, it ended with “To Be Continued…” Then, they resume playing)

13. High Priest of Rhythmic Noise (Complete with comic book adaptation of the song and its lyrics on all screens - Sung by The Rhythmic Noise Mind Choir)

14. I Want Be Man

15. The Flame

16. Stop This Game

17. California Man

(Somewhere, right around this part, the band is introduced, including all the backup performers, etc, including Phil Christian on Keyboards

18. These Days

19. On Top of the World

20. Mandocello

21. Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End (Daxx Nielson cuts loose with a nice drum solo here, at the part where Ringo does his little bit in the actual song. Just think about that, add length, complexity and awesomeness and there you go ;)

22. I Want You to Want Me

And that was it.  Pretty much every song was longer than original, with extended solos and musical transitions.  The Bombastic Symphonic Philharmonic Orchestra added layer upon layer of incredible backup.  The Cello’s, Violin’s, etc, were seamlessly integrated into every song and it felt as if they were meant to be played that way, or always had been.  In any event, the combination of the orchestra and the straight up bass, guitar, keyboards, drums rock & roll was amazing.

Did I mention that it was loud as Hell, but not distorted and that I think I could have jumped on stage if I’d gotten some good air off of the railing? ;)

Hopefully, I didn’t forget anything.  That’s the best I could do for recollection.  There’s still a few weekend shows left.  Check them out. It’s an unbelievable show.

And pardon any typo’s.  I’m too lazy to go back and double-spell-check this ;)

Peace,

Mike

Hey there,

Today’s little opinion piece is going to deal with something every writer has to face at some point or another: Criticism.  Some forms of criticism are necessary, and therefore constructive. I’m not going to write about those today. My post’s title would never forgive me ;)

Today, I’m going to write about non-constructive criticism.  And, then, just to be extra annoying, I’m going to write about a niche within that division that I’ll refer to as “blanket advice” for obvious reasons.

First of all, when it comes to “advice,” never get just one opinion. In fact, ignore the previous sentence and quit reading this post if you’ve already determined that I’m completely full of shit and that reading this post will be a waste of your time.  It’s your right and no one’s holding a gun to your head (I hope!).  I hold my opinion as equally valueless to you as I hold anyone else’s.  Shop around, and, if you’re still here, always question the motives behind the criticism, or advice, that you receive regarding your writing.  I’m not intimating that everyone who comments on your writing is sinister and malicious, or that their motives aren’t pure.  To put it in the most antiseptic terms possible: Not everyone knows what they’re talking about and not everyone has your best interests at heart.

Blanket advice isn’t really a problem for me, or any writer who’s been writing for years and years, been published, rejected, praised, derided, built up, torn down, chewed up and spit out by the machine. Once you’ve been in the game long enough, you know when you’re being shrugged off or what criticism is actually helpful to you.  You and I may still have more than a few surprises coming to us, but we’ve been around the block enough times to take the bad stuff on the chin and gracefully accept the good stuff, even if we have our own “style.” (Reference Cormac McCarthy)

The real problem Blanket Advice presents is for the new writer. And I should note that, by “new,” I don’t mean an up and comer.  I mean someone who’s just getting started.  Someone who, perhaps, hasn’t yet found their voice.  Someone who’s just learning how to put a tale together. A writer who’s just starting out, thinking “I love to tell a story - maybe I could write.” In short, someone whose confidence might be quickly crushed or who might be easily led by the nose. It’s my opinion that one of the marks of any great individual (no matter his occupation or interest) is the ability to trust. In this cynical age, it’s a rare trait and one that should be nurtured, not taken advantage of.

As a “for instance,” I’ll paraphrase some Blanket Advice I saw posted by the leader of a writer’s workshop once:

“If you want to be a good writer, stop using the words ‘love,’ ‘hate,’ ‘kiss’ and ‘beautiful.’” 

If you know how to fashion a good story and have written your fair share of decent prose, poetry, etc, this statement might seem offensive to you. It didn’t so much offend me as make me stop and think: “I feel sorry for the poor son of a bitch that takes that literally.”

My immediate internal response to reading that was anger. But, within seconds, I miraculously calmed down and figured the teacher probably meant don’t “overuse” those words. That makes more sense to me, although, even that interpretation seems dangerous to me.  This is how I internally processed that advice (and how I’d imagine someone just getting their feet wet might interpret it):

“If you want your writing to be worth a damn, don’t use certain words, because they are cliched and boring. Using these words in your writing makes it worse. Eliminating these words, or replacing them with other words or expressions will make your writing better.”

I couldn’t disagree more.  And, if I haven’t mentioned it yet (or I went over it in a previous blog post), please understand that I’m using this one “specific” instance to cover all Blanket Advice of this nature. I’m only sticking to this one specific instance because deconstructing every possible variation would be even more inconceivably long-winded than this dissection is becoming already ;)

Looking at the big picture this advice gives, one has to question whether words, in and of themselves, can make writing better or worse.  I’d have to say that the answer to that question would be “no.”  Certainly, overuse of certain words and phrases could be detrimental and off-putting.  For instance, this snippet:

“Bob really loved Julie. Bob loved Julie because she was so beautiful. Just thinking of Julie made Bob want to kiss her. Bob thought Julie was so beautiful, he ached to show her how much he loved her. Every time he saw her, Bob’s heart filled with love and an overwhelming urge to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her some more.”

is fucking atrocious.  No argument here.  But, again, the words being used aren’t the problem.  There are a million things wrong with that snippet of text, aside from the overuse of the four “forbidden” words.  I won’t give any helpful suggestions to overhaul this disaster, since this post would run way too long, but I’ll be sure to touch on many aspects of fixing up your prose in future posts (and may already have in past posts)

However, since I consider musical lyrics and poetry to be relatively equal (Let’s face it, reading some poetry is just as painful as reading the lyrics to a Motorhead song), one song popped into my mind immediately.  A song in which the word “love” is used, overused and generally abused non-stop.  Yet, this song is known and loved world-wide by many generations of listeners.  For your amusement, the intro and chorus to the Beatle’s “All You Need Is Love”:

“Love, love, love. Love, love, love. Love, love, love.

All you need is love. All you need is love. All you need is love. Love. Love is all you need.”

Apparently, use (much less overuse) of the word “love” is not necessarily a death sentence.  You may think that’s a silly, excessive and inappropriate comparison, but I’m going to extremes to make a point.

There’s nothing wrong with any of the four words on that list.  Love and Hate (often considered opposites, although my philosophy insists that the actual polar opposites are Love and Fear) are two of the “most powerful” motivators in life and in fiction.  How can we possibly avoid using them? And will substituting random words from a Thesaurus every time they come up solve the problem?  I have no problem with the word Beautiful, either. And, Kiss… yeah, I’m okay with that one, too.

When being tossed arbitrary Blanket Advice like this, one might do well to just remember good old Jim Thompson, among many other great and prolific authors.  He was a master of the terse.  Although he was known to be quite experimental (especially in his day) he would write things as they were.  Rather than searching for hours to find some novel way to describe one character’s feeling of hate for the other, he’d write something like:

I puffed on my cigar, and Jeff’s chair creaked again, louder than the first time, and the hate in Howard’s eyes seemed to lash out against me. He gulped like a man choking down puke.

In this scene, near the end of “The Killer Inside Me,” the exchange between the characters Lou Ford, Howard Hendricks and Jeff Plummer is all to-the-point.  Howard hated Lou.  There isn’t a reason in the world to change that sentence.

So, getting back to the main point and wrapping this up before this post gets any larger and ends up consuming us all, take Blanket Advice for what it is.  By definition, it’s advice that’s meant to cover as much material as possible in as generic a way as possible.  Some Blanket Advice is good, but some of it is incorrect, irresponsible and, possibly, damaging to the receiver. If someone, like myself, deems it necessary to give you advice on your writing, I feel that it’s incumbent upon me to give you the best possible, and most specific, advice I can. You deserve nothing less, no matter how far along you are in your writer’s journey.

So, to tie this up with a bow, a blanket of Blanket Advice:

Always get more than one opinion and never assume that the person from whom you’re receiving advice is necessarily correct.  Always question.  Always.  Above all, believe in yourself. Know that you will make mistakes and that you will learn from them. Remember that you are your own best advocate. And, if you choose to be led blindly, expect your face to bump into the floor every so often ;)

Here’s to seeing you on the best-sellers list!

Peace,

Mike

Hey you, yeah you - the person reading this,

I’m feeling a little dissociative/episodic (or maybe I’m just having a dissociative episode) tonight.  I’m not even sure dissociative is the correct term to describe these mental fits I have from time to time.  It’s more of a total flood of extremes.  Nothing means a thing to me, but everything simultaneously means so much that I’m flooded with emotion.  You put those two things together and - BAM - it’s a stalemate.

I was in the middle of writing something of an essay tonight (because, when I’m done writing my quota of fiction for the evening, nothing hits the spot like more writing ;) and I had to stop because I realized my level of detachment was becoming more pronounced and the whole thing was turning cold.  That would be okay, if I wasn’t writing on a subject for which I feel passion.  I’ll finish that up some other time.  I may or may not remember to reference this post when I do.

This, below, is a little something I like to do from time to time. It’s basically flash-fiction, but it’s also just a really long joke.  Some might argue whether or not there’s a distinction to be made.

I hope you enjoy the humor I tried to rip from my sharp turn-around this evening.

Peace,

Mike

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Think (c) 2011 - Michael Golvach

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- 332 words - 333 words with title

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You know how sometimes you just want to strangle the shit out of someone, so you do and then, somewhere along the line, they start turning purple and you think “maybe this wasn’t such a good idea” so you stop and then they tell on you and you get in a lot of trouble and you think “maybe that wasn’t such a good idea,” so you end up in a shoot-out with the Police and pretty soon your family’s out there and they’ve got them pleading with you through a megaphone and you think “maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” but you figure, fuck it, you’ve come too far to go back on your commitment to screwing everything up now, so you end up getting shot half to death, thrown in jail, and the guy who takes care of you in the prison infirmary knocks out all your teeth so you’ll be able to give decent head once you get into gen-pop and you think “maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” but now you’re totally fucked anyway, so you shank a few people you don’t know to get protection from some other people you don’t know and, ten years down the line, you finally realize that you’ll never be a functioning member of normal society again and you think “maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” so you buy some really heavy drugs from your connection inside, and fashion a home-made noose out of the belt they let you keep for some reason, and then you hang yourself by the neck on the water pipe that runs across the roof of your cell and your neck breaks, but it doesn’t kill you right away and, as you swing back and forth, you think “maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?”

As much as I’d love to give you some positive sounding advice, like “quit while you’re ahead,” or something comfy and kitschy like that, you’re fuckin’ screwed, man.

Nice job.

“Strawberry Fields Forever - Ringo Gangsta Remix”

This could still use some work, but I’m satisfied with it for now.  A little channel separation, subtraction and overlay makes this tune “feel” a lot different.  You should notice the change dramatically beginning on the second verse.  Forgive the rough transitions in parts that I’m going to let stand for the time being.  I only have so much time to screw around ;)

Enjoy :)

, Mike

p.s.  As far as I know - since I purchased this album (yes, the record), cassette, CD, etc, multiple times - I’m not violating any copyright laws.  If I’m incorrect, please bring it to my attention and I’ll be glad to take this down.

Time for some more poetry (that still doesn’t rhyme ;)

I don’t mean this as an insult to any of my human friends out there, but I think I’ve spent more time in my life crying over the loss of my animal companions than my human ones.  I’m not sure why. I just take losing my pets harder than losing my fellow people.

The Zen Buddhist’s have a term they employ in their philosophy, that I like a lot, called “Impermanence” (or “Anicca” to be precise). This basically states that all things have no “fixed” nature and exist in a state of flux.  There is no self, there is no death, there is no life - not as beginnings or ends - there is only the continuous cycle of birth and rebirth (“Samsara”). 

I take some comfort in that philosophy. It doesn’t stop me from going through grief when I experience loss (I’m not all that well-disciplined, I suppose), but I like to think that my cats, dogs, friends and family never really “die” in the final sense of that word.

So, before I get to that day when it all ends for me in “this” life, let me just say that I hope I’ll be seeing you all around shortly thereafter.  Unfortunately, you may not recognize me and I may not remember you when we’re not on the other side ;)

Today’s poem is a little sad (for me anyway) and has to do with the death of my last cat.  It’s pretty self-explanatory.

Enjoy & Peace,

Mike

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DYING (c) 2011 - Michael Golvach

I remember her

lying along the top of the couch, breathing hard

and settled in with her head and front paws off balance

and lacking vitality; lacking motivation, closing in on death

and I wished that she would die there, with me, alone

and my hand resting on her, comforting her, liked she’d comforted me for so many years

and when she leapt over me, I could see that she was starved

and the shapes of her bones and organs were etched into her skin

and she was ravenous; no matter how much she ate, she needed more

and when we took her to the vet

and they said that she only had a few days left

and that she was in terrible pain

and that she would be until the end

and when we signed the papers that said, yes, please kill her, because we don’t know

and we think you’re better to suited to decide than she is

and when they injected her with the painkiller that froze her in place

and her eyes went dead, even though she was still breathing

and I wondered if, indeed, she was feeling no pain, as they said

and I prayed she wasn’t simply paralysed, feeling everything,

and helpless

and when they put the final needle in her

and checked their watches

and took her pulse with their fingers

and they offered their condolences and left us alone with her again

and it was winter so they offered to bag her for burial in the summer

and I said yes, please wrap her up like a present

and in the summer when I dug her grave and took her out of her bag

and I gave her chin one last scratch and her cheek one last caress

and I placed her in her box

and listened as voices behind me said that we should all say something that we remembered about her

and I was facing away, trying not to cry, holding up my finger,

and eventually mustering up the fortitude to steady my voice

and say no

and this will not be a ritual

and this will not be a service

and this is will not be trite and expected

and inside, I wanted this to be personal.

and I didn’t care what the rest of the people thought of me as I buried her

and arranged the stones around her grave

and, finally laid to rest, I took some comfort in knowing that she had been honoured

and, inside, I still felt like a murderer.

and I hope that she has forgiven me for choosing the moment of her death

If you don’t smoke or aren’t looking for reasons to quit, this post might bore you to death.  Okay, it might bore you to death no matter what your situation ;)

NOTE: For those of you who might take issue with the title of this post, I’d just like to point out that I’m aware that the Latin adjective form of “dedito” is usually listed as meaning “devoted (to)” or “being devoted (to).”  However, when used in context, it can also mean “to give over,” “to submit,” etc.  Therefore, “addicted to” (the ultimate form of submission, devotion and giving over of ones’ self - “being addicted (to)”) is a naturally derivative, and accepted, meaning (At least, in circles where people still fuss over Latin ;)  That’s enough for the pretentious part of this post ;)

If I could go back (like so many other folks, I suppose), I would have stopped smoking (or never started) when I was much much younger.  I’ve over-used almost every illegal substance I could get my hands on in my teens and twenties and (although this still baffles me to a certain degree) nicotine is the only drug that I’m still “scared” will manage to call me back.

This little thought (why do my little thoughts always take up so much landscape?) has to do with my struggle to quit smoking, and one of the worst mind-tricks nicotine pulls on you.  I was going to write about will-power versus choice, also, but this post is really really long already.  Maybe later.

This little article (it’s not a little thought anymore?) is taken from a self-help book I’m writing called “How To Keep Smoking Forever” (Not to be confused with my short story of the same name - Pardon any awkward bits.  It’s a work in progress).  Hopefully, it will be interesting or helpful to you :)

In case I don’t see you at the bottom: Peace :)

P.S. I set up this “joke” quitting page. Feel free to donate to the cause ;)

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How Smoking Restructures And Reclassifies Your Memories:

… People smoke because they associate smoking with good feelings or times when they were really enjoying themselves. This leads to the, supposed, logical conclusion that, when you quit, you’ll be missing out on those good feelings and good times. The link is so strong that one actually believes that those good times and good feelings will be lost to them when they quit smoking. Sure, they’ll come back to a certain degree, eventually, but they’ll never be quite the same. This could not be farther from the truth.

The actual association works in reverse; contrary to what the logical mind would accept, and therefore is almost always misremembered, filtered incorrectly and stored as a base memory (or fact) in the user’s conscious and subconscious mind.

Those good times and good feelings existed for the user before he or she began smoking. Over time, the user would then, once addicted, want to have a cigarette to enhance those good times and good feelings, or to complement them (A convenient excuse, but one that’s perfectly satisfactory to the part of you that’s
addicted to smoking and automatically rationalizes). In fact, those good times were never actually enhanced by the smoking of a cigarette, but the illogical mind would have cemented that relationship, anyway, because it made it more comfortable for
the user to rationalize lighting something on fire and sticking it in their mouths. Most smokers will tell you that, at best, the first cigarette of the day is the only one that provides even the slightest “rush,” which was what caused them to continue smoking in the first place.

So, if those good feelings and good times existed prior to smoking, smoking came along and did nothing to affect those times (except to attach an excuse for their continued consumption by the user) and nothing, on a logical level, ever actually
changed, why does the user feel like they stand to lose something when they quit? Logically, they don’t stand to lose anything. The Person, Being, Spirit, Soul that smokes doesn’t want to smoke anymore. Just ask any smoker how much they enjoy smoking and they’ll tell you they wish they never started. Not because of social mores or having to stand outside the bar or workplace in order to satisfy the habit, but mostly because they “became” the habit. Nicotine has usurped a great part of “who they are.”

This concept can’t be explained in more powerful terms. “Who you are” - your identity - is one of your most highly prized possessions. If you’ve done work in altered states or other brain entrainment or spiritual meditation, etc, you may not be so attached to the “self,” but the average person will cling to it for dear life. Who they are is, to them, literally, their existence. If it goes away, they will die. This is not true, but when your “minds” believe it, they’ll do anything to stop it. It’s actually a natural reaction. When you find yourself in life-or-death circumstances, or even in the mildest of circumstances that make you feel as if your safety is in jeopardy, the “flight or fight” response will kick in. When your “minds” believe you are in mortal danger, they will do “anything” they can to keep you alive. This is why people in serious car crashes or other such life-threatening situations will often experience a slowing down of time (actually, a speeding up of the processing of signals by the mind, fueled by massive amounts of adrenaline).

Quitting cigarettes, and dumping nicotine in the garbage where it belongs, is, at the very least, activating some degree of this kind of response inside you. Even if you really really mean it when you finally decide you’re going to quit. You can test this yourself by stopping smoking at 8pm - assuming you go to bed around midnight - with the knowledge that you’ll start smoking again in the morning. Make whatever excuse you need to, that justifies your not being able to smoke for the rest of the evening. You will experience almost no stress. If you’re heavily addicted to nicotine, you might feel a little edgy from time to time, but not much. Your body is used to going without nicotine for hours and hours at a time. If it couldn’t handle the absence, you would never sleep. Then, the next day, quit smoking at 8pm and do whatever you need to do to let your mind and body know that you firmly resolve to “never” smoke another cigarette again. You should be crawling the walls or sentimentalizing some form of excuse to have that “one last cigarette” within the next half hour. At the very least, you’ll think about it constantly and, every time you do, it will irritate you or weaken your resolve in some way.

Here’s something else that’s interesting to note. Adrenaline is the most powerful drug in the world. It is more powerful than crack cocaine, heroine, alcohol and certainly more powerful than nicotine. People who’ve undergone intense trauma - which invariably involves their bodies producing great amounts of adrenaline over an extended period of time to ensure their survival - will often report feelings of angst, panic, anxiety and restlessness days or weeks later. Real, physical symptoms. Nicotine will stop affecting you physically in about 48 to 72 hours (2 to 3 days) and after that, the only thing you’ll have to contend with is the psychological aspect of your addiction. And, that brings us back to where we started.

Realize now, that all those bittersweet memories of the good times you had smoking during lunch, dinner, the drive-time commute, while watching TV, even after sex, are fabrications constructed by a drug that has confused and inverted your naturally perfect way of thinking. Nicotine has to throw logic out the door, or you wouldn’t continue using it anymore. Remember that you had good times and good feelings before you even knew what a cigarette was. And, you may have, at one point, actually believed that smoking during those good times, or in response to those good feelings, actually enhanced them to a certain degree. Even if you do believe that, you must concede - especially if you’ve smoked for a long time and are ready to quit - that the feeling of enhancement has very rarely, if ever, re-presented itself. Your cigarettes are not a representation of good times and good feelings. They are leeches that have confused your mind for so long now, that they’ve made those good feelings and good times become bad feelings and miserable times, in your mind’s recollection. That is, until you were introduced to the miracle of nicotine and you suddenly, and finally, began enjoying your life. Can you see how ridiculous that line of thinking is?

But what can you do about it? 

Make smoking an activity unto itself. Remove the pleasure by making cigarettes deprive you of “any” activity other than smoking and thinking how boring it is just sitting around slowly killing yourself. Yes, and you may not even talk to anyone else, watch TV, etc. No distractions. Just the cigarette and the smoking of it. This should be enough, if what your addiction is telling you, over and over, is the truth.

Consider that smoking may be something you hold on to because it’s one area in your life where you can assert control totally. Even if you have to go outside in the middle of winter, you’ll have your cigarette and fuck the rest of the world. When that gets taken away, you may find that you feel less empowered. If this is an issue, be sure to replace the sense of total control that smoking gave you with some other activity that will give you that same psychological buzz, once you’ve quit. Something you can stand your ground for. Something you believe in that, in the best possible scenario, lots of other people don’t. Keep that conviction. Argue it if you must. Keep that rebellious streak going with something that’s far less hazardous to your health, if possible (Don’t start snorting cocaine to get over smoking!)

One really simple alternate activity to engage in, is to find a vegetarian (or a meat eater, if you’re a vegetarian) and start an argument with them about why it’s perfectly acceptable to eat meat. Tell them that you reject their premise that it’s murder, or that it’s necessarily “bad” for your health. Do whatever you have to. Piss that vegetarian off and don’t give in. Vegetarian ex-smokers, let those meat eaters have it, too. Resolve to never give in, no matter what side of the argument you’re on. You’re both acting like idiots now, but you’re healthier idiots and you’ll still be getting that “rush.”

You’re a rebel. Don’t take shit from anyone!

And have a good time. It’s possible with, or without, a cigarette dangling from between your lips. …

Peace,

Mike