This’ll scare everybody away. Dare you to watch.

I wasn’t going to write anything today so I was just surfing and ran across this.  So, I watched it.  And I dare all ten of the writers who think my writing is interesting to watch the whole thing.  You can ridicule it later if you want, but only after watching the whole thing.  If you want to start with ridicule, don’t bother to start watching.

If you must cheat, you may start at 3:45.

I have my own opinions of the man Billy Graham, and my own perspective of the God he serves and the message he preaches.  And you can have yours.  But I wanted you to hear this.  I felt it was important for today.  Mr Graham has been sharing this message since he was young, and now he is old and still hasn’t changed his message and I respect that.  A lot of the people that I follow on WordPress are gifted, beautiful writers who I really think struggle with unseen spiritual forces, like I do, and sure, some are probably suffering chemical imbalances too.  Laugh, it’s fine, I don’t judge you for it.  I have to admit, it seems ridiculous sometimes, but I haven’t found anything better than hope in Jesus.

I’ve found a measure of hope and truth I don’t hear elsewhere, not in religion, not in my works, and maybe someone else needs this today.  I don’t put much stock in Christians, but Christ, I’ll try to follow, in my own messed up way.  And in my own messed up way, I’m also praying for those who might actually listen to the whole thing.

I’m Deon, I’m a personal failure and a complete mess, and I approved this message.

~DM

Pouring Out

Pouring Out

I
am
broken
and pouring out.
Seconds tick like blood.
People try to help, but only
Succeed in causing more damage
Stop, I don’t want any more help
Tick.  Drip.  Tock.  Drop. Stop.
Maybe I’m just tired.
Leave me alone.

Deon Mumple, 05/29/2015

Really? WTF, people, Buy a book of poetry and READ IT!

In the name of culture, in the name of the arts, in the name of all that is good in the world,

The Washington Post says poetry is going extinct.  It’s an art form, just like dance or music, but the problem is, a lot of it sucks because a lot of people who shouldn’t be writing “poetry” are writing what they call “poetry,” and it’s just not good.  I won’t name any names, but the bad poets are ruining it for the good ones, because people are afraid to go to the store and buy it.  Also the abundance of good poetry online makes the sales numbers sag so it looks like extinction.  Read it, but know it’s not true.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/wonkblog/wp/2015/04/24/poetry-is-going-extinct-government-data-show/?tid=sm_tw

It’s not extinction, it’s evolution.  Some poets just give it away, and they should.  Because it’s crap.  Some poets sell it and they shouldn’t.  Because it’s crap.  But some poets really go to the trouble of thinking out things, structures, forms, concepts, and putting them into words and imagery, metaphor, simile, et cetera, and they make it good.  Those are the ones you’re looking for.

I know, a lot of poetry is just shit.  Sorry, bad poets, I’m calling you out, just not by name.  I know you hear stuff on the radio or in popular songs and you just want to gag because it’s so bad.  But there are good poets out there. I may or may not be one of them.  If you don’t explore the world of poetry, classic and contemporary, and encourage your children to do the same, they will miss out on the joy of Dr Seuss, Shel Silverstein, and later, they’ll miss out on appreciating James Taylor, William Shakespeare and other greats.  And they may or may not find a good contemporary poet who isn’t spewing the crap they put on contemporary bubblegum popular songs- although there is, rarely, brilliance to be found there as well.

Not all poetry is shit.  All I am saying is give poetry a chance.  Visit your local bookstore today!  Or go online, and find an obscure poet on Amazon or Smashwords or wherever, and buy their book!  Don’t let poetry die.  I implore you.  It’s not all bad!  It’s just got a bad rap.  Oh and not all rap is bad either, I like a lot of it, just not the ones where they overuse the word “Fuck” because it rhymes with “Fuck.”

Accidental Eavesdropping

The names have been left out because she didn’t tell me hers.

I went to the concert because I was invited by a friend.  I found a seat on the second row, since it was general seating, and sat to enjoy the music.  Seated to my left was a young Vietnamese woman and three young children, who wandered short distances and randomly changed seats.  Seated to my right, another very pretty brunette lady, I estimated about 45, maybe younger, was alone.  One of her friends who was also attending the concert came up and they struck up a conversation.

I overheard because we were next to each other, but did my best to feign disinterest.  But I overheard everything and felt the overwhelming sadness.  I wanted to say something, but thought it would be dumb.  So I sat quietly and just clapped for the concert and enjoyed the music my friend was playing along with the rest of the band.

She said that she was a month away from turning 50 years old, and had just divorced her husband because he was only home about two months out of the year, between business trips.  I watched this beautiful woman, telling her friend she felt fat and had gained a few pounds during the stressful season of divorce. Her female friend tried to be encouraging, “Let’s go to the ‘Y’ together and work out.  Call me and we’ll set that up.”  The lovely lady disclosed that her ex was a “fucking idiot” who said “the stupidest things” to her kids.

Her friend sounded almost masculine to me.  In addition to commiserating like other women I’ve seen, she offered practical support.  If I were single I’d have tried to say something intelligent, but I’m so married.

The lady on my right was just beautiful, with the saddest eyes.  She was wearing a denim dress.  And she had the most perfect mouth I’ve ever heard in such a short conversation.  Can a persons choice of vocabulary be attractive?  Honestly, I loved it.  It made her more beautiful.

I wanted to reach out but we are trapped in our social conventions and pre-existing suspicions and conditions and expectations.  I didn’t want anything except to encourage.  I kept my mouth shut and went home wishing I had a “silver tongue” and a way to blast through all of the social constructs just to say something affirming.

I wanted to tell her that she is beautiful, that a guy would be fortunate to find her, to fight for her, to win her heart.  I wanted to tell her that she is a treasure worth any effort.  And I wanted to tell her that she deserved a guy who was good with her kids, since they’d be the ones setting him up for hospice care in his old age, and he really shouldn’t be an idiot about encouraging them, while he is working to support them.

And just to put things into perspective, if a guy is traveling that much, he’s probably raking in the dough and assuming he’s at her age, he’s aware he’s nearing retirement at warp speed, and wanting to continue to live at that standard after retiring.  True, he should know how to be nice to people, especially people he wanted to call “family,” but I wanted to tell her there was a chance she was being a little bit penny wise and pound foolish to divorce this guy who was making these kinds of sacrifices of time now in order to have money sufficient for later.

It’s a delicate balance.  I have difficulty with it myself.  I fall short on some things.  Many things.  But I do well at encouraging most of the time.  I wish I could have said these things to her, in a way she found non-threatening and wouldn’t set any further expectation of me.  Instead of the “Y” I might have asked her to meet me at church over a cup of coffee to pray about it.  Yeah, I’m a “fucking idiot,” a swearing ass hole, but I know some things.  Among them, that God seems to care about other people, and on random occasions has actually answered when I asked, to my utter shock.  Maybe He’d answer her.

She was a complete stranger and if I had said anything she would have thought I was making a pass, or thought I was a complete “fucking idiot,” which I would readily have confessed is absolute truth.  All guys are.  Discretion made me keep my mouth shut.  But if I had opened it, I would have prayed with her: – that she would find peace in her present circumstances, -that she would be encouraged because God made her beautiful, and -that she would find a good companion who could be loving and encouraging and supportive to her and her family.

But instead, I’m praying for her by myself.  If by some random chance she reads this, maybe she’ll remember me.

I was the “fucking idiot” on your left, dear.  And I think you’re beautiful.  And I’m praying for you.

10 Things I Do

I’m reading through OM’s blog and he’s inspired me to write a top 10 list:
I like his opinions and his great sense of humour.
Ten Things I Do That Annoy Me and Everyone Else

I can’t stop myself, unless you want to pay for years of therapy sessions and free time to write and fish and commune with my wife.  Any takers?  Didn’t think so, so here goes:

10  In spite of mum’s warnings and teaching that people don’t like a swearing person, a swearing person demonstrates a lower intelligence, a lack of a good vocabulary, etc., I still fucking swear.  I love you, mum, and you’re right.  But unless I get another stress reliever, it’s going to happen.

9  I’m impatient.  Ramble on about your crap, sometimes I’ve got the time to listen and if I like you I might.  Kids, you’re exempt.  Wife…  most of the time you’re exempt.  Because “love is patient,” isn’t it.  My kids can talk and talk, I am treasuring it because in a few years they’ll be out of the house and I won’t get to hear their lovely voices, rambling on about their video games, their favorite TV shows, their school friends, blah blah blah blah blah just keep talking because I love every minute.  Your voices are music.  And Wife, you can tell me all about your day at the office and coming home and the things you did, and I will lose interest about the time you hit a hot button that pisses me off, but otherwise I will be hypnotized by your beautiful fantastic lips, your eyes, and your …everything else.  God, I love that woman.  Mmmm.  All the rest of you?  I’m aware that I’m impatient and I’m working on that.  Be patient with me, maybe it’ll mirror.  Or not.

8  I can be long winded, you can shut the hell up.  When writing, and generally when you’re talking at any time about anything, that is.  In person I’m your basic, gruff, quiet man of few words.  And those are often swear words, too.  I love your writing, keep on doing that, long as you want.  I might edit you or joke about you, but I like you.  Mostly.  But in conversation there comes a point at which I totally get what you’re saying and I don’t care any more.  To be safest, and to avoid being offended, just don’t talk to me, or call on the phone.  Just bring me coffee and food and don’t ask me to do shit, and all the world (my world, that is) will be happy.

7  I look at people.  I try to look away, I really do, but if you’re beautiful I’m hypnotized.  There are way too many beautiful people, since I learned to see beauty in fragility and brokenness and strengths that people don’t usually see in themselves, or don’t want to see.  So you’re beautiful, you’re handsome, you’re interesting, I’m watching.  Fortunately my wife wins, now, back when, and forevermore.  But you might think I’m staring if I look, a second too long.  I don’t have any ill intentions and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.  I just think you’re beautiful and I might like your tattoos or your nose piercing or jewelry or your face.  And I am a fan of balance and symmetry, so you might just be perfect or something.  I’m learning not to “stare;” proxemics are a delicate thing and different in different countries.  I’ve learned that normal people get uncomfortable when other people are too close, but even if I can smell your Thai food you had for lunch, I’m fine with that.  A fraction of a second too long and I’m thought to be rude, so I try to look away before I think I’ve looked long enough.  When I was a kid, my mum never told me not to stare.  Maybe she didn’t notice I was doing it.  So I’m sorry.  I like people.  I like to watch you people.  You’re fascinating.  I’m looking away now.  But you’re hot.

6  I’m insufferable.  I want to be liked, and I can take that a bit far.  Not to changing my preferences, or necessarily accepting yours, but I do want to be liked.  Your habits are yours, my habits are mine, I might think your habits are gross, but I’m glad you don’t know what my habits are because mine are gross to me.  I just really want you to like me, even though if you don’t I’ve learned to tell you to fuck off.  I used to be more apologetic, but I’m a lot less.

5  I have habits.  I used to bite my fingernails all the time, now it’s only when I don’t have clippers and a nail file.  It’s my floor and if I drop a kernel of popcorn on it, I know if it’s clean and I’m going to eat that if it is.  I have other gross habits too, but I won’t get into that.  Just suffice it to say, thank God my wife hasn’t thrown me to the curb for anything.  What she does know is evidently tolerable, and what she might not know or maybe doesn’t care about, well I’ll just keep it that way.  I can spend hours accomplishing absolutely nothing, and think that’s fine.  If she’s going to kick me to the curb it’ll most likely be about that.  I hate to shave my beard, so I don’t care if you shave either.  It’s your hair, do what you want.  I could make a top ten list of either your annoying or gross habits, or mine but that’ll be another list for another blog if I ever decide to do that.

4  I talk to inanimate things and to animals.  Not that they’re necessarily listening or give a shit what I have to say, but if the lawn mower doesn’t start, it’s going to know I’m pissed about it.  And if the rodents in my yard don’t stop burrowing through my grass…!

3  I live in my own fantasy world and think reality, the forces of nature, and all who dwell therein should bend to my imperial will.  Yes, damn it, I’m old enough to remember prices from 10 or 15 years ago.  I think, because my income hasn’t gone up to accommodate price increases, if things cost more than I think I can afford, or should have to pay, they cost too damn much and I’m going to say something.  And you, the merchant, aren’t going to like it.  It’s OK, I’m still wearing the jeans I wore 15 years ago so they were worth the price back then.  And I think things today should last like that.  Got a good toaster, refrigerator, standalone freezer, washer/dryer longer ago than that, and they still work, and I’m satisfied.  Waffle irons should be a once-in-a-lifetime purchase.  And damn it, so should cars and they’re not.  I think people should drive safely and I get unhappy when I observe them breaking the law and not getting a fucking ticket too.  I tried driving like them once and a cop gave me a damn ticket.  When I explained myself, he wrote me the ticket anyway, even though I’ve seen in the past, and as recently as yesterday, someone or ones, doing the same damn thing.  In fact, yesterday I witnessed one, and the day before I witnessed 2.  If I had a day off, a video camera, and nothing better to do, I could make the police a fortune if they took my photography in as evidence.  On any given day, except Friday because the traffic is lighter.  I saw a bumper sticker I liked yesterday.  It said “Horn Broken.  Watch for middle finger!”  Except, people carry guns and they use them when they’re psychotic.  Don’t shoot, Mr. Wheeler, just understand you pissed me off and did something stupid and possibly dangerous.  Just like I said about wishing I could tell the boss off, yeah I wish I could tell that quota-seeking, judgemental ass hole that he needs to ticket EVERYONE ELSE if he’s going to ticket me for doing the same damn thing.  In his defense, if there is one, I was driving a crap car at the time and he could have also cited me for my tailpipe or my rear bumper and he didn’t.  But fuck that, he should be there writing tickets every day for what he said I did that was so bad; he’d make his monthly quota in a week.  If it was so bad, why isn’t it bad for the hundreds of other drivers doing it?  But the cops swear they don’t have quotas.  Bull shit.  They have budgets and quotas just like any other business, because my tax dollars aren’t enough.  Some days they are watching, when the budget is tight, others they look the other way -when the car is fancy, or when the budget is flush.

2  Sometimes I’m absolutely psychotic about the desire to control my little corner of the world.  I know I’m yelling, but it’s not at you.  I’m yelling at the universe, or whatever shit just happened, and I know there isn’t a damn thing anyone including me, can do about it.  It’s because the world isn’t under my control, in fact the opposite, has just proven itself yet again, and I’m just having a 3 year old temper tantrum about it.  Just. Walk. Away.  Or bring me a winning lottery ticket, Or bring cash, as tribute to my lack of greatness, until I can afford to have someone fix whatever broke. Or better still, bring me a winning lottery ticket with my name written on the back.  I used to love the song “If I Had A Million Dollars,” except I was well aware it’s not enough.  What I’ll need is, on the lower end, $100K per year for the rest of my life, or, if you really want to make me happy, $100M, after taxes, right now.  Then I’d feel like I had an adequate measure of control.  Maybe.

Speaking of the song, “they” now have pre-wrapped bacon, making that little dialogue out of date and I think that’s a good thing.  Bacon is awesome.

1  I’m a food snob, and I’m hungry.  And thirsty.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ll eat that, but if I make it, I’m going to remember what you did and fix it better.  I like what I like- good wine, good coffee, good beer, good steak.  Good food and drink.  And I know the difference, and I want good, at a price I can afford.  There are still places out there making reasonable food at reasonable prices, I go there or fix it myself or go without.  If I go without, I’m not happy.  This is the United Fucking States of America.  No one should go without.  If someone goes without, someone else isn’t paying enough money for a wage, or someone isn’t working.  Wait.  if someone isn’t working they probably aren’t going without, because welfare and food stamps have them covered better than me.  If you’re on welfare and you honestly need it, I’m perfectly fine with you getting what you need.  But if you’re on welfare because you’re too damn lazy to get a job, get off, go get one, and start paying taxes to support me.  I’m not getting any younger and I’m going to need someone to pay my way when I’m old, since I paid to support you when you were younger.  Get a fucking job, even if it’s minimum wage.  Work hard and ask for promotions.  If you don’t get one, get a different job that pays more.  It’s not easy, it sucks.  But you’re young and I’m old.  I work a crap job that I hate, so you can damn well do the same until something better comes along.  If you need food and I have it, ask me and I’ll give it to you.  I’ll even cook it for you, and it’ll be damned good.  But if I made it for you and you don’t like it, especially if you asked me to make it, don’t be upset when I’m upset.

0  I think lists of 10 things are frequently hilarious, and they’re more funny when there are 11 things on them.

-1  I’ll get on my blog and write almost every day for a while and then go away for a month or two and come back.  I’m just not disciplined for steady maintenance.  I might take a break.  Or not.  You’ll know when you don’t see me.  Maybe I’ll write.  Maybe I’ll fish.  Maybe I’ll do a novel.

-2  I read books and I think people should read.  I don’t trust or have respect for people who don’t read.

-3  I’ll occasionally rant.  A little.

Moody

Does this happen to the whole family?  My kids are both moody to the point one of them bursts into tears when the smallest thing happens.  She dropped a food dish.  Her “friends” are mean.  He forgot to write down his homework assignment or missed the bus.  The teacher hates me.  I have too many chores and not enough free time. Stuff like that.  Damn.  I’m moody too.

I wish I was more emotionally stable, but fuck me if a James Taylor or Jim Croce ballad (which I dearly love), or even Fleetwood Mac, can make this six foot two, two hundred and something pound, grown man, burst into tears.  I think I’ll pull out some Led Zeppelin or The Doors, something.  Maybe Metallica, but even they sometimes get to me.  What. the. hell…?

And yeah, I drop a dish or a cup and it pisses me off, but I clean it up, and possibly sweep the shards up, and move on after hopefully not hurting myself in the process.  And yeah, “…there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them.”  Shit.  (dabbing a tear away)  And yeah, my “friends” are mean.  Fuck them, that’s why I got a new set of friends who seem to get me here on the blog.  (And if you don’t, well, read another blog if you think this one sucks.  And fuck you if you’re only on here to troll and discourage.  It might suck, which means you don’t have to read it, and you’re an ass hole if you’re here to tell me it sucks.)  I didn’t have time to write my blog because I’m too fucking busy with housework.  Or I have to run an errand.  Or I have to do anything other than sip something libatious and be to myself.  Shit.  I hate when that happens, there’s no stress relief in sight.  And sorry to tell you this, kids, but the teacher hates me, too.

What we need are coping mechanisms.  I’ve got a long history with this.  But it took me forever to learn if your friends, church people (frequently the worst), boss, work ass-hole-ciates… associates, it just came out that way, neighbor, stranger on the street, are mean to you, you can give them an enormous “FUCK YOU” and move on.  God I wish I had the cash sometimes to tell an employer that.  For now I’ll just reserve it and wait patiently until the opportunity comes along, or until my situation improves and I don’t want to say it any more.  Either are possible.

My kids are too young to learn the fine, Scottish martial art of Fa-KYU!  I think I’ll wait until they’re in college and teach them that.  For now I hug the crying one because they need a hug; I might even cry along with them, and tell them they shouldn’t associate with the playground bully, and they need to try to at best, respect, or at worst, report, the teacher’s actions and decisions in the class, since they need to graduate.

It took me a long time to learn it isn’t the end of the world when the mower doesn’t start, or something breaks, because just, shit falls apart and you can’t do shit about it except repair or replace if and when you can, or do without.  Still feels like the end of the world though.  Because sometimes it sucks.

I think Led Zeppelin AND The Doors AND Metallica and maybe even RATM (“Fuck You, I won’t do what you tell me!”) will be on my playlist tonight while I do the fucking chores, and maybe, just maybe, my kids will be strong enough emotionally to do their fucking homework without breaking.  Believe me, I felt the same way and wanted to cry enduring MR. FUCKHEAD’s Algebra class with all the hours of repetition, but to this day I can do that shit in my head.  And maybe, just maybe, I can get them to help with the house shit after I prepare and feed them dinner.  Because sometimes I feel the same way I did in algebra about washing all the dishes and taking out the trash, and vacuuming the floor:  why do I have to keep doing the same shit again, and again, and again?!  I don’t think I’ll share the rebellious RATM song with them just yet.  And if my wife doesn’t want to get along, I’ll just play “She Fucking Hates Me (, la, la, la, la!)” at the top of my headphone volume until I can laugh about it and try again.

I’m done crying, “Sweet Baby James.”  Don’t call me, “Operator. (Just forget about this call.)”

So, that’s several of my personal coping mechanisms.  I like to cook, as I find creating something good is a stress relief.  Plus I like to eat.  Thank God for my kids, because I can’t possibly eat all of that or I’d weigh 500 lbs and be unable to move.  Mangia, my darlings, MANGIA!!   I like to write.  I like to write a lot.  I can escape in characters, fiction, ranting, even working through poetry formulas to write what I think might be a good one. (Damn, Mr. Fuckhead, is poetry mathematical too?) I can also find escape through rage-expressive music, and sometimes even James Taylor, et al., can help me when “nothing is goin’ right.”  I can escape through (frequently dark) humor, escape through swearing, through immature name calling (sorry, “Mr. Fuckhead,” you know who you are.), and other silliness.  I like to clean, still, if I get started, in spite of the repetition of it.  If I get started cleaning I get happy with the progress and the clean and the smell of fucking BLEACH! God I love that.  I can sometimes escape through delegation, or ignoring the shitlist, I mean chore list, or just gutting through it on my own and dealing with whatever I can in the time permitted.

Quick, before, you know, it’s the end of the fucking world or some other shit falls apart.  Thank God for Scottish Martial Arts and for laughing along with Mike Myers and others, too.  God, I do love silliness.  Wait.  What are YOUR coping mechanisms?  What are YOUR favorite angry/happy/whatever songs?  What movies make you laugh or improve your mood?  What are your favorite foods/recipes?  “Inquiring minds want to know.”  Plus, maybe it’ll help me.

C’mon already!  DISH!

When Will She Tell Me?

When Will She Tell Me?  5/19/2015, Deon Mumple

When will she tell me if I am the one,
Making her heart flutter passionately?
Am I in school again? That was no fun.
None of the pretty girls I liked ever liked me.

Notes passed between desks confessed my feelings,
They used to giggle or sigh with disgust,
I was so shy, stupid, awkward and moody,
Ignorant, young, wishful, if they would just…

Now the confidence I have doesn’t shake,
I know so much more than I did back then,
They used to call a man like me a “rake.”
Still I doubt.  Will her ardor awaken?

Ever just have all those adolescent school feelings creep up and smack you?  I have that sometimes.  I kind of like it, but at the same time I have the maturity to know nothing will come of them, except I do care deeply for people and without expectation.  Still, I love whom I love, and I do hope, with maturity, that they love me back.