Posts Tagged ‘Michael’

I can’t count the number of times I have exhorted myself to sit down and write on this damn blog. I sit in front of wonderful technology, with multiple screens, and everything that I need literally at my fingertips, and I can’t do it. As I age, I feel myself becoming more careful, more conservative. I think I have figured out part of it: now that I have a platform that is beyond scribbling in a spiral notebook, or sketching on the beach in an art pad; drawing on big sheets of paper while bored in class or even pecking away at a keyboard into AppleWorks, I am aware that I have an audience. And that’s frightening. I don’t want to let you all down.

And that, my friends, is the problem. This is MY blog, and — as Eminem has deftly reminded all of us — I’m not afraid. This is pretty simple to do: just write.

“Write, and be prolific / Not everything written is monolithic” ~Thee Froggacuda, 1988

That is the best two-line poem ever for Michael. And I wrote it. I have ignored this advice from the past me to the future me, and it is powerfully captured as a nine word reminder. I think everyone can benefit from this. It’s a simple distillation of my “press record” rant. Nike has made an entire multi-year campaign out of “just do it” that everyone loves because everyone needs to hear that repeatedly over their lifetimes.

I have a lot yet to be said. I am Thee Froggacuda. Release Teh Tadpoles!

Ho!

once again it's on

So here’s what I did, relatively present tense: I got a little inebriated, put on the new Chicane album “Giants”(reference: Middle Distance Runner), and reskinned my blog to give it a whole new appearance, even to me. After some WordPress admin tweaking to get the elements in the right places, I hit the button labeled “New Post”. And I sat in front of the screen daring myself to write something — anything — and publish it. Tonight.

I am angry with myself that I let the Kanji-Part-1 blog lay fallow in the Drafts folder for as long as I did. I was waiting for the Muse to strike me with inspiration and that’s not how she visits you or I: thou must seeketh out the opportunities, and if you have a fully functioning blog, just write for no reason, any reason, because you are writing for yourself.

That is the point of a personal blog — [insert legal-compliant disclaimer from professional life] — it’s to be able to write; not about whatever you want, but also not because you have an audience. I’m a Libra; there’s a balance to be struck. This gift of a new album from Nick Bracegirdle even has a beautiful song on it called “Where Do I Begin?” Synchronicity is serendipity. I am learning that restraint is not always care; however, baring my soul is not always as simple as it used to be. That’s why there are archives, and I will never regret being unemployed and casting around for a project important enough to deserve all of that free time, and entering all of those poems and stories and rants you’ll see on the left-hand side month-by-month, year-by-year. There’s some good stuff in there; I am committing to digging some of it back out and throwing it in my face again. Here, on the Virtual Lilypad; you can come along and read if you like, but it’s not for you. It’s for me. Because I can’t help but think that I am actually smart enough to code messages into my content for my future self. Maybe it’s a function of being on the bleeding edge of human evolution because I have ADHD and society and civilization have not caught up to how many threads my brain is processing at any given time.

literally -- burning love

literally: burning love. // Jamie Huffman

I am a single human being trying to make a difference with my life. Everyone struggles with this same thing. I write who I am because at an early age I was inspired by Jared D’nofrio to tear out the back of an old math notebook and try to write poetry. Shit, we were studying Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Pope, in school, and if he could do it; why not me? Well, Jared’s stuff was great, and I never thought I could equal that elegance…but I gave it a shot anyways. It was like drawing block letter names of girls I had crushes on and spending a whole science or math period at Correia Junior High School coloring them in uniquely with fluorescent hi-lighters. Y’know what? I just found that I was good at it.

DJing is a lot easier than writing. You get to express yourself with the beauty of other people’s interactions with their Muses. The problem is this: if you are good at something, don’t you owe it to yourself — and everyone else — to share it? That is why I have a drive to capture things in cages of ink and tape and 010010 and MP3. I think this is fundamentally the human condition; interaction is like breathing to me. I have just forgotten that I can target myself, and that I am my own primary audience.

I cannot depend on messages that I have coded myself in the past unless I make the effort to read them again; to listen to them again, to experience them again. And I certainly cannot pass any of my current wisdom on to myself in the future unless I produce content right now. This is the heroic circle of one’s life, Scar.

The Archangel Michael wields a sword. I’m not so good at the martial arts. I promised my ninja-to blade to my youngest godchild, anyways; Belén is going to be a better Samurai than her Unkle or her Father. But this Froggacuda character has a wicked tongue and sharp teeth, and I’ve been representing as Thee Froggacuda for almost 20 years now. Recognizing that you have a sticker that reads PROTAGONIST over the mirror that you never look at, finally you understand: this is the Muse trying to shake you free. The Muse is me. The problem is that I never look in that mirror: my mirror until now been everyone else except me. All of that is changing.

I am Thee Froggacuda. Ribbit; fuck you.

So I happen to be re-reading Larry Niven / Jerry Pournelle “Footfall”, and I am struck by this passage:

“…as far as I know, though, Michael is the only quick and dirty way we have to get a battleship into space.”

“Michael?” The President asked.

“Sorry, sir. We’ve already given it a code name. The Archangel Michael cast Satan out of Heaven.”

“Appropriate enough name. However, our immediate problem is to get them out of Kansas…”

St. Michael and I

Posted: December 8, 1994 in Poetry
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Scales and a sword and a pair of wings
Is not what I have —
I look at St. Michael,
My namesake Angel,
And I want to hug a bear in fear
Of being capable of such judgement:
Fair and exacting deeds.
I find I’m wrong or mistaken
Many times a day:
My own carelessness
Or oversight, usually.
St. Michael has no forethough to him,
Just perfect scales,
The means to weigh is science of judgement,
And a flaming sword to enforce the verdict.
Keeping the Garden of Eden
And throwing Lucifer from the vaults of Heaven:
St. Michael — it is he “who is like God”;
my tenuous relationship:
a shared name,
a Zodiac sign,
and a fascination with blades.

Untitled Poem #171

Posted: October 18, 1993 in Poetry
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wow Michael what a way to get back into
writing in your poetry journal:
a little scotch,
a little blood,
a little scotch in your blood,
[a little blood in your scotch]
and you’re back to begging
that it’s all over.

I am still here;
encased in steel,
frozen in flesh;
I am still here.

the I, the me, and the one and only:
Michael, an Angel, this quality,
definitely the most beautiful man
regardless of position and opinion.

building and building my building,
my self: a tower of faith in feelings.
I’ve mortared each brick and laid each beam,
chosen the colors, welded the seams,
sweated past tears, made real my dreams.
I have constructed my cherished monster
and wobble like a weeble but I don’t
fall
down.
I doubt and I die
every day
sometimes I cry
and fade away,
but I’m always stuck with myself
so I’ve chosen to stick it out
until the morning after.

I’ve got to strip and scrub and look in the mirror
I get misunderstood and filthy bad-mouthing myself;
the more I scrub the more I bleed, feeling clearer –
addicting, this hurting and cleaning myself.

in that soulless mirror
is my only true friend
and he’s true as far as you believe him.
weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
I won’t scream anymore, I won’t make a sound
on finding my construction falling apart
snapping cables in the storms of my heart.

there is nothing that can ever take me away
I’ve done too much damage already.
twenty-one years old, a missile heaven-sent
and where god has thrown me I’ve made my own dent
to sit in and scowl or wave to my stars
as they streak by in the night, fireflies in jars.

Michael of Arabia

Posted: January 3, 1993 in Poetry
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he sat in his room
by orange candle-light.
he sat on a throw-rug
and with his mind,
seized the edges
and flew, a Prince
over endless sand dunes
and past the domes of strange cities.
he wore colorful clothing
with a life all his own,
and a turban, and a scimitar;
people dreamed when he waved.
he was a Hero;
he’d done something courageous,
wild, daring and dangerous,
and was appreciated
with gifts and in people’s eyes.

but he really never left his room.

Hopes and Dreams

Posted: December 11, 1990 in Poetry
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There once was a little boy
Who had dreams which danced behind his eyes
Of magic golden cities,
People merry under purple skies;
The trees and hills behind his house
Where the young boy used to play
Would welcome him joyously
Into their arms most every day.
The boy would lay for hours
Watching people living and dying
Delighted in the magic spent
To dream without even trying
But as the boy got older
His imagination began to soften
And out to the hills and trees
He wouldn’t come as often.
Plastic guns and army soldiers,
Matchbox Cars and other toys
Stole the love and keen attention
From the helpless little boy.
The sun set silent one day
Over the lonesome trees and hills
The happy boughs and glades
Wept and sadly stood still.
No one heard their hearts break,
No one knows how they cried,
But some dreams were lost somewhere in time
When the child in Michael died.