The distant waterfall seemed quieter as Charlie tugged on the rope. She had been in the woods for three days. Her tummy growled as she thought of cartoon characters that used to tie belts around their bellies as if somehow it would save them from hunger.
Something woke her up last night that sounded like a train whistle and a chimpanzee. It didn’t matter. This rope trick would get her food.
Satisfied with the knot, she ducked behind the tree and waited. The woods grew quiet. A kind of quiet that made her hum to make sure she could still hear.
And then it came from behind her. That awful chimpanzee being bludgeoned by a train whistle sound. Charlie dashed out of the trees toward her rope trap. She could climb to safety. Her hand slipped on the rope and she felt it wrap around her ankle before it whisked up the tree limb. It was too fast. The rope; that noise. That wicked sound came again as Charlie hung there. She wished she had brought her gun.
That old addage (or maybe not so old – I think I heard it in an Alien Ant Farm song, aptly titled, “Movies”) life is like the movies has been rattling around in my head for years… years and years. And actually, that song has really nothing to do with life being like the movies.
What the fuck am I talking about?
Life. Freaking life that, if lived in a somewhat reckless manner (or a complete cluster fuck of utter abandon), really can give you shit to write about, talk about, laugh about, cry about.
Anyway, I tend to get preachy and condescending in posts and I promised I wouldn’t do that in this blog. I promised myself that for once, I’d write from my fucking heart. Let it bleed on the page all gooey and gross to either be scooped up, swept away or blatantly ignored.
Because I need to write for me. I need to tell my story for me and yeah, I need to put it out in the world because that’s just what I need to do. It’s kind of like a form of validation.
This really happened to me and it may have happened to you (in similar or different ways) but it happened. So there.
Sometimes I feel like I am a big joke that God (I’m kind of questioning God these days, but I still pray every morning, out of sheer fear of fire, brimstone and clowns) or the universe created for amusement.
Because for the most part, things have gone relatively well for me…. but then again, they’ve been total shit.
I’m an alcoholic. Sober since May 26, 2006… but an alcoholic forever.
Before I got sober I was a fucking basket case with a death wish and I just couldn’t die.
And I really tried. Three suicide attempts and ten years of vodka, Blackaus, pills and cocaine sprinkled with sketchy decisions.
Could. Not. Die.
So, now since I couldn’t die I have this notion in some tripped out narcissistic, egomaniac way that I was put on this earth for something bigger than myself.
And that made me feel guilty. And oh, how the loathsome love guilt. But I am trying to put that guilt on the shelf (with that creepy ass clown) and honestly make the world better, somehow. And then I thought, surely others have felt this way else we wouldn’t have any famous people, world leaders, etc.
So I’ve kind of squashed the guilt between the size five jeans I no longer fit into and writing.
So yeah. This is my blog about writing. I have started about seventeen (17) blogs in my entire writing career which began around the age of 24 when I was a raging alcoholic and had no fucking idea that was why my life was shit.
I’m better now.
So… I decided to start a blog so that I can write about writing. You know, because that’s what writers do. We write shit. We write lots of shit before it actually becomes coherent, cleverly chained words that form witty sentences.
I have written three (3) books; zero (0) published. I have had two (2) poems published, however. So roll out the red carpet for me.
I’ve had a lot of trouble finding my voice… and, surely there could be a better word to describe someone’s writing style. I mean, We read with our eyes, not our ears. Am I right?
I think a lot of my problem is that I have a few mental issues… namely: bi-polarism, attention deficit disorder, and I get depressed a lot. I’ve been called other things like: psycho, crazy, manic, weird, bat-shit crazy, strange, really fucking strange… but they aren’t official diagnoses, so…
So, basically my attention to important stuff is that of a cat stoked on catnip where attention to dumb, mundane bullshit is similar to a creepy guy with a drool puddled chin staring at the hot chic.