Writers Don’t Quit But Bloggers Do

The launch of the mighty sailing ship called The Jack B. was about 7.5 years ago or maybe it is eight or nine, who can remember.

Sure we could go into the archives and locate the date with ease if we wanted to or we could just say we started blogging in 2004 on a different site that was integrated into this one.

If you looked through the joints and removed the duplicate posts you’d probably still have around eight or nine thousand of them.

Based upon unscientific research that means I produced more content than most with a few of those posts falling into the good, very good and excellent categories.

Production levels were steady for the first decade or so and then courtesy of work and life responsibilities they slowed down to the current place of semi-hibernation.

Why is it important to mention?

Because writers don’t quit writing, but bloggers do.

I am a writer who is a blogger, not a blogger who just happens to write.

Stay Drunk

I have been drunk on writing for so long now I can no longer remember what it means to be sober.

There is no time I can remember where writing wasn’t on my mind or a part of me in some way.

Although there were and are times in which it was lower on the list of priorities it always occupied a spot on the list.

I am not sure I recognized its import when I was younger, but for certain I have and I do.

The hardest challenge for me now is to write with the complete freedom I wish to under my own name.

I come closer all the time, but have been holding back just a little, not always, but enough.

That will change.

The Idiot’s Mark

Sometimes people post something they believe is funny or makes them look cool and you shake your head because they are so far off of the mark.

The dumbass that posted this is the poster child for planned parenthood and general buffoonery.

I wonder if he has figured out yet how many recognize him for who he is and who he isn’t.

Kind Of A Test Post…Sort Of

The ape ought to jump off the page and slap some sense into me.

He ought to tell me to give up, move on and walk away from some things but he won’t and it probably wouldn’t matter.

I am going to do what I am going to do until my gut says I don’t what had to be done.

It is not just because the heart wants what the heart wants either but because I hear music and I am following it.

In the interim I have undergone one hell of a battle to recover and restore this place. Came within a heartbeat of losing every damn thing here.

Given the lackluster efforts to keep the doors open and the blog breathing you might wonder if I care.

The answer is I do and I suspect a few others do too.

So if you stick around I expect you’ll see some movement here…soon.

The Hand On The Back Of Your Head

He told me the thing he remembered the most wasn’t the silver bracelets that kept his arms behind his back or the smell of a car interior in desperate need of an odor neutralizer.

Nor was it the chatter of the radio or cackling of the people who saw him get his silver bracelets.

It was a hand.

“The hand on the back of your head stays with you. That rough push down that they do to keep you from banging it on the door frame is the clearest sign that you are not seen as a human.

It is a rough shove like they would give livestock they are guiding into the barn, which I guess is kind what happens.

Because they lead you to a barn or maybe a pen is a better word and lock you in.”

His Profound Myopia

The tweet read, “I like you, get a grip” or something like that.

It made me wonder what the author’s intentions were because if he really likes me and desired to motivate me to rethink my position that tweet was misguided.

Hell, it wasn’t misguided, it is a prime example of how to encourage me to tell you that you’re profoundly ignorant, willfully blind and probably mentally ill.

Ok, that last part is my irritation rising to the surface and sharing its voice with the world.

But the other parts, well I mean them.

I was familiar with some of the author’s beliefs prior to their tweet and had already decided not to bother engaging with them about politics.

Not because I thought it was polite but because their aforementioned ignorance and unwillingness to consider other options made it seem like a waste of time.

His Profound Myopia

I’ll admit my initial response to the tweet was to send something back that expressed my displeasure in no uncertain terms.

Hell, they are lucky I don’t have a phone number because I would have unloaded upon them.

Some of it is because they deserve a verbal ass kicking and because I hope it would wake them up because we’re not living in normal times.

We’re not dealing with a good president surrounded by good people.

There is bad stuff going on and this fool is trying to gaslight us into believing that he is our savior and not an inveterate liar and manipulator.

He is not a steward of our rights and someone who understands how to reach across the table to negotiate compromise.

No, he is a Machiavellian fool who believes fear and cruelty should be part of how you crush the opposition.

So the foolish person who suggests I ought to get a grip better hope and pray that I am truly wrong here because their rights are getting crushed along with mine.

They better pray this doesn’t go down the dark path we are on because it will hurt all of us and the net result could be very ugly.

But what do I know.

Maybe I am wrong and the fool prefers to let the government tell us what to think and maybe they think women are silly little creatures who overreact.

Wouldn’t surprise me because their profound myopia sure makes it look like that.