Hello everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve really posted anything. I don’t even know if most of you remember me. But I wanted to share some good news with all of you, I finally self-published my first book! You can check purchase it via lulu.com, it will also be available on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com in the next few weeks. Please click the link below my cover and it will bring you to the above mentioned website for further detail.
Author Archives: Papparaci
A friend of mine recently accused me of being privileged for my being white. Here is a list of things I am privileged for:
- I am privileged for being forgiven in the eyes of Christ, because I do not deserve to be.
- I am privileged for being born in the greatest country in history, because some are not.
- I am privileged for being able to look beyond the color of skin, because some cannot.
- I am privileged to have been raised in a family that loves, because some are raised hating.
- I am privileged to have been an alcoholic, so I may appreciate sobriety.
- I am privileged to have been homeless, so I may appreciate shelter.
- I am privileged to have gone bankrupt, so I may appreciate money.
- I am privileged to have known loneliness, so I may appreciate friendship.
- I am privileged to have known heartache, so I may appreciate healing.
- I am privileged to have been incarcerated, so I may appreciate freedom.
- I am privileged to be single, so I may appreciate relationships.
- I am privileged to know failure, so I may appreciate success.
- I am privileged to have traveled the country, so I may appreciate liberty.
- I am privileged to have been a dishwasher, so I may appreciate good jobs.
- I am privileged to have been kicked out of school, so I may appreciate learning.
- I am privileged to know how to read, so I may appreciate history.
- I am privileged to know how to write, so I may appreciate the written word.
- I am privileged to have health, so I may appreciate my body.
- I am privileged to ride my bicycle, so I may appreciate my driver’s license.
- I am privileged to know hard work, so I may appreciate a paycheck.
- I am privileged to have gone hungry, so I may appreciate food.
- I am privileged to have gone thirsty, so I may appreciate cold water.
- I am privileged to have slept in subways, so I may appreciate warm beds.
- I am privileged to have known mercy, so I may appreciate compassion.
- I am privileged to have prayed with the hurting, so I may appreciate peace.
- I am privileged to have known destitution, so I may appreciate my blessings.
- I am privileged to have understood death, so I may appreciate life.
- I am privileged to ride the public bus, so I may appreciate cars.
- I am privileged for my meager possessions, so I may appreciate the less fortunate.
- I am privileged for my talents, so I may appreciate my weaknesses.
- I am privileged for being born, so I may appreciate the world around me.
- I am privileged for understanding hard times, so I may appreciate victory.
- I am privileged to have known brokenness, so I may appreciate wholeness.
- I am privileged to be able to read my bible, so I may appreciate religious freedom.
- I am privileged to be able to speak my mind, so I may appreciate free speech.
- I am privileged to be mental, so I may appreciate sanity.
- I am privileged to stop writing this post, so I may appreciate free will.
- I am privileged after all.
It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything on my blog. Five months to be exact. I know it’s been too long because the creative blood in my veins have begun to clot along the interior walls of my heart. I wish I could give you semi-decent excuses for my absence. You know the usual balderdash. This happened, that occurred, I was too busy with work, I got married and the wife popped out a litter of pups, went on a walk-about in Australia so I could seize manhood by growing a scraggly beard and skinning rattlesnakes, or that I was building a sailboat in order to ride the high seas like some rich kid who has nothing better to do with their time. (Just for the record I don’t know how long it would take to build a boat, considering I have no idea how to use tools or even the basic concept of woodworking. I would have to interrogate my friend Jacob on that one.)
Excuses like that seem legit and some would even consider them noble undertakings. But alas, I don’t have any room for them in my excuse folder. Although I did manage to grow a beard towards the end of 2013. I was very proud of my beard. But it’s too hot in Florida, even in the dead of winter so I shaved it off.
In a one of my previous posts I had mentioned that I moved down south to get away from life up north. That kept me busy for a while. You know, settling in, finding employment, etc. But then (unfortunately) I was called back to New York for several weeks in order to take care of some personal business. After those shenanigans were dealt with and after it was apparent (yet again might I add) that my New York Jets would not make the playoffs, I flew back down mid-December in order to find work and wait out the rest of the horror that was last year. I am not complaining, unloading, or even giving you a list of things that in all probability you don’t really care about (wait, that last one might be true), I am simply trying to explain where I’ve been.
I think mindsets have a huge say in when a self-entitled writer decides to pick up their pencils (or laptops) and squeeze out a few coherent sentences. For instance, I take Instagram photos and write silly little fiction tales to go along with them just to keep sharp. But I don’t think many people appreciate my doing so (with a few exceptions of course). I mean come on, who has time to read fifteen sentences these days (he says with the roll of his eyes)? People probably think I am being snooty, or showing off, or just plain bats. I don’t care. Like I said, it keeps me sharp and it’s nice to think it could invoke emotions out of the crowd. Who doesn’t like a little commentary to go along with a pretty picture?
But it’s that whole mindset problem . I’ll tell you a secret, the wires in my brain have managed to get tangled up over the past few years. So much so, that if you took an x-ray of my noggin I bet it would look like a ball of yarn someone left under their recliner. If your mindset is dragging you down and you find yourself trapped in the dreaded doldrums, fear not. It makes great fodder for the weary writer looking to muse something poetic and original. I know this to be true in my own journey through life, especially the past six months. I think one of our problems (the unpublished) is seeded in the fact that we are hopelessly emotional and we sometimes forget how to channel the positive/negative energy emanating from our own deceitful nature. Now I know I run the risk of being mocked, condemned and even tarred and feathered for such a blatant statement, but it’s true. I think of it like this: painters paint by what they wish to see, musicians create music by what their ears want to hear, and writers scribe from what they feel deep inside their bellies, where things churn and swell and eventually come out in a flurry of ingenuity, hoping someone will take notice. Don’t get me wrong, every facet of artistic ability stems from the deep longing in our souls to make beauty out of nothing, to inspire someone, to change the world from their own perspectives, and since I can’t paint nor play an instrument, I have to rely on words and sentences to convey what is going on inside the ball of yarn I call a brain.
What do you like to read when things go sour? What section of Barnes and Noble do you peruse when all is well and the world is your oyster? What corner of the library do you find yourself in when things aren’t going right and when every door slams shut on your face? What’s your favorite Starbucks to visit when you are in love and you want to journal some sappy nonsense about your better half?
Maybe you’re like me. Straddling the fence between every place and no place, reading everything or reading nothing, loving all or feeling nothing but that silent emptiness of loneliness. I’ve been trying to pray more these days. I took a long hiatus from the practice because I felt the Lord wasn’t hearing me, or that I wasn’t asking hard enough. I think King David must have been feeling the same type of emotions when he wrote the Psalms. It’s a wonderful biography of a person that God called “a man after His own heart”. Meanwhile he was one of the biggest basket-cases in the Old Testament.
But the Psalms are different. David takes the reader on a journey to the top of the mountain with songs of love, faithfulness, joy and peace with his maker. On the other side of the token, the not-so-bright side, he brings us into the valley of his lamenting. He is scared and lonely and doesn’t know where to run and hide. He begs for help and sheds tears because there’s no one to comfort him. If I close my eyes I can see him sitting on a hill, faithfully tending his flock while all of these emotions are running through his spirit. This was the man who slew a giant with a stone! A shepherd boy who was to be king of Israel. When he wasn’t writing, he was running from Saul, when he wasn’t running from Saul, he was trying to figure out which road God wanted him to take.
Doesn’t this sound like us at times?
So, my fellow unpublished friends, cheer up. Use your emotions as a tool to write wonderful things. Use it as a compass to change the world because people need directions. There’s too many forks in the road.
Trifecta week eighty-three: Write a Haiku.
Ocean waves thrust lazily onward
Among sandy shores water recedes without grace
Palms sway against time eternal
Trifecta week eighty-nine: Write a 33-333 word story using weak as your prompt. Authors note: Please read my story before watching the video! I do believe this old clip is one of the most inspiring speeches I have ever heard…it’s worth watching.
My friend Charlie brought hope to millions that day. I call him friend but in reality we never met. I happened to be sitting a few rows behind him when he stood nervously and gave the greatest speech my ears had ever heard. Sometimes when the burden of life and lust swarm the confines of my heart I will close my eyes and think back to those years long gone, years that are dissolving from my memory like ink on paper, slowly fading with age. I smile when I picture that little fella standing on trembling knees with the courage of a lion coursing through his bloodstream.
Before entering the arena I overheard pompous aristocrats call his arguments weak and his ideals outdated. They called him foolish as they smoked their cigars and drank their brandy. They mocked his stature and with forked tongues they poked fun at his appearance.
I watched him with hope. I had just returned from the front lines and my morale was desperately low. I was tired of witnessing hatred and listening to evil men spew wickedness from the depths of their rotted mouths. He was sitting patiently for his turn to speak. His head was bowed slightly and his eyes appeared closed, as if praying for the strength to declare to the world what he felt in his soul.
My friend took the stage and silenced the naysayers. My friend walked bravely up the platform and melted the crowd with his first sentence. His words echoed out of the speakers on that crisp afternoon and if I listen hard enough I can still hear them, I can still see tears falling from blank faces, and when my memory does not fail, I can smell victory over gunpowder.
Week eighty-eight: Use the word band as your prompt to write a 33-333 word story, poem, etc. I decided to capitalize on one of my favorite songs. Enjoy.
He brought them together because no one else wanted to deal with outcasts. The man sitting next to Abel gnawed his fingers until they bled. Desperation ravaged his tear-streaked face, his voice was hollow, his soul teetered on emptiness, he sucked on his hand because the drugs were gone and it drove him mad.
A young woman of twenty-eight stood erect in the corner. She spoke to herself in small whispers and played with the dirty locks in her scalp. She had been a mother once but the city took her child. Abel found her curled in a ball behind an abandoned warehouse. “Gone, gone, all gone away, never to return, like the Great Oz, gone from my arms” she had mumbled to no one in particular as he picked her up from the ground. A small shoe was entwined in her thin fingers and she held it close to her chest.
Darrell was rocking back and forth near a dirty window. He was watching traffic slither to a standstill on the street below. Saliva dribbled down his chin and stained the sweater Abel knitted for him.
He loved them desperately and without condition. They were his people. They were his band of merry misfits and nothing would ever hurt them again. Abel stood with a gentle grace and opened a small book.
“OK everyone, let’s begin.”
Like wounded sheep in need of healing they approached their shepherd and listened to the words he spoke.