Never Blog When You’re Angry

They say to always keep your blog shiny and happy. Never criticize or belly-ache. Stick to the positive and never let on that something might be bothering you….

…bullocks to that…

So the interview with the recruiter went well. It was congenial and went pretty much as expected with, thank you for your time and we’ll get back to you. Although the friend of a friend of a friend of a colleague was so sure that this place was desperately looking for positions to fill, they still took one look at me and decided, “Mmmmmwell…maybe not…hiiiim.” Which is alright. I went in not expecting to be swept up and immediately asked to work that day. What one person says, and what is reality have always been entirely separate things.

Before my first face-to-face meeting with them, I was asked to finish a couple of assessment tests to see where my strengths and weaknesses are in regards to workplace acumen. Since I expressed an interest in Accounts Payable and Accounts Receivable work (something where I have very little experience in, but find myself drawn to because it’s detailed work and I don’t have to deal with people), they provided me with tests in both. I failed miserably in both. “Not to worry,” said the nice representative. “I have a few more tests that you can take that would give us a better understanding of what kind of work you can do.”

“Oh,” I said. “That would be great.”

After a few moments of inputting data on her computer, she turned to me and said, “There. I’ve just emailed them to you. Just complete them soon and we’ll get started looking for you. So,” she continued studying a copy of my resume, “what are you looking to be? Reading your resume, it looks like you’re all over the place.” Which I am. In a normal situation, normal people would finish their normal school and find that normal job, and normally advance or apply their skills to a better paying position and another place of employment. Normally. In a normal situation, one would work to strive toward a certain goal. My resume looks like someone who is just trying to survive; instead of a straight line, it looks about as complicated as the tire tracks of a kid trying to parallel park for his driver’s test in the snow. I had no 5-year plan. Nothing is for certain. Especially when it comes to employment. I did what I had to do until I could no longer do it. As I explained this to her, she half-sympathized as she perused the rest of my resume while taking notes.

We finished our meeting, and I left. I got myself situation as soon as I walked through the door; changed into comfortable clothes, made sure my son was dry and comfortable, made myself a cup of coffee. I fired up my computer and readied myself for a session of test taking. I opened my email and sure enough, there was a list of tests, ranging from spreadsheet skills to proofreading prowess. This was all well and good until I got to the bottom of the list. There was a test that wanted to check my proficiency in Spanish.

I grew up in central Maine during the mid-70s to the late 80s. The landscape is rolling and mountainous. It’s people are and have always been a homogenized mixture of English, Irish, French, and Dutch…except for me. My lineage didn’t come from a straight line. I’m Italian, German, French-Canadian (Acadian) and Philippine. I was the darkest kid in those Grammar School class photos. I was 8 years old, playing in a playground when I was told by some fat, sickly, trailer trash Cracker to “get off my playground, nigger.” I am reminded of my non-linear heritage in the eyes of everyone I grew up with. I suffer the slings and arrows of bigotry blatant or implied. I get beat up for no reason. I move to New York where I could be amongst a deeper shade of soul, and nobody knows what I am. White people think I’m black. Black people think I’m Mexican. Mexican people think I’m Asian (I’ve been given the nickname “Chino” on more than one occasion by more than one person). Asian people think I’m a goddamn rock star….and I’m okay with that. I have seen bigotry for years, I know what it looks like, sounds like. Tastes like.

I see that test, and I’m back at that playground.

I try to blow it off. Focus on other things. But, it’s always there. I take a few more tests, then I tend to my boy, feed him, change his diaper. I go back to the list, and I cannot proceed any further.

Technical difficulties, the kind you experience when you have been at a company at least a little while, were preventing me to continue. A page kept popping up saying that my session was still going on. I log out, thinking that might help. I log back in, same response. I leave it alone for a few hours, come back, same response. Come back the next day, same response. I contact the help desk, they respond back…hours later, essentially telling me the problem is at my end and not there’s, turn it off and turn it back on….that kind of thing.

I respond back, something to the effect of, “All I wanted to do was take some tests, how did I have to end up at the mercy of a third party IT department?” They responded back…hours later saying, “Look dude, I’m super lazy and it’s Friday. Could you like, give me some contact info and I could like, probably get back to you? Thanks, dude.” Paraphrasing, but not by much. Hours later. Not within the hour, many hours later.

So, let me sum up: I’m at the mercy of an apathetic, third party, IT department who can’t do anything because reasons. I’m waiting for them to get their act together so I can take a list of tests that I’ll probably fail, to be checked and scrutinized by a woman who thinks I’m a migrant farmer only to be told that my resume is screwy and they might get back to me once they have a position open up for a groundskeeper. Which is, y’know, KINDA the same as accounting.

Perhaps it was the past few days of putting up with this nonsense. Perhaps it was the rejection letter I received today had something to do with replying to everyone at the organization by saying, “Look, thanks for everything, but I can do rejection on my own.”

So, I’m back. Back to blogging, back to writing, back to creating, back to my quest of working on my own. I know I’m missing something about the 9 to 5 world, but if it means ignorance on this level, I’m not missing a thing. I’m glad this happened.

REVISED: I apologize. I’ve always had the habit of not completing a thought. It’s a nasty habit that I hope to shake the longer I write. This post was a lethal combination of writing while angry and continuing to do so until I fall asleep on my keyboard. I had more on my mind that I meant to get out there so, here it goes…

I’ve always been a subscriber of the “Do What You Love…” movement, and I’ll probably continue to do so no matter how many times I get slammed to the dirt.

However, that being said, I’m finding less and less things to love. I try and fail and repeat and hopefully love might come out of it. These days, I’m trying real hard to hold onto the things that I love to do. I have passion, but is it enough? I have ambition, but it is enough? I have a plan, albeit flimsy, but it’s better than nothing. Is that enough? Seriously, I feel my mood starting to stain everything in my brain a deeper shade of burnt umber. I’m doing what I love, just waiting for the money. Is it enough?


A 1 Hour Journey to Re-Discovery. (caution: some pictures not for the faint of heart…)

For the past couple of years, I have found very little reason to leave my house. I worked from home, and whenever I did leave, it was to the store and very quickly at that; constructing a planned route and a shopping list to minimize overall human contact was about all I could handle as far as human interaction went.

I turned into, for lack of a better term, a hermit.

WHAT…is the air speed velocity of an unladen Swallow?

This is what happens when you work from home. You start off with the best of intentions; adhering to your schedule as if you were going to leave the house. Eating your breakfast, shaving, putting on clean clothes and generally preparing for the rest of the day, and then sitting down to your computer to telecommute to your job. Eight months later, you forget to shave and you abandon any notion of regular upkeep and hygiene. Ten months later, not only do you not bother changing out of your bed clothes, some days, you forget to wear pants.

This goes on for a while, until one day, the company you work for decides they’re liquidating the entire department. Which is okay, I figure I look like a homeless person to begin with, I’m halfway there. This goes on for a while; you put yourself out there through traditional and unconventional means in hopes that even though I’m a shut-in, my networking skills are up to scratch. In the meantime, I learn the ropes of what it means to be my own business and set out to be an entrepreneur. This goes on for a while, until one day, right around the time when the bank account seriously starts to dry up, a miracle happens, and a friend of a friend of a friend of an associate says they might have something open, and when would it be possible to get an interview. “Oh, next week!” I reply without a second thought…or….looking in a mirror.

The first shot fired…

Mind you, this is by no means the first time I’ve let myself go. This is not my first go around with a head full of dreadlocks. The last time was in college. I know, big surprise there. The last time, they were lovely, long dreads that cascaded past my shoulder and had a nasty habit of getting into my tofu tacos and getting caught up in my “No War For Oil” protest signs. Ahhh….good times.

A healthy specimen from the back of my head. Nice, huh?

These days, I’m living in Florida, and the crop of dreads this time around weren’t as luxuriant. This time around, I’m about twenty years older, spend most of my time in air conditioning and STILL sweating, not moving around much and falling victim to massive amounts of humidity. Instead of uniform dreads, it was more like a nest.

Considering a career in topiary, while at the same time wishing for an autoclave.

For the past year, I would wear a tam just so I wouldn’t scare people at Wal-Mart. Not to say I was ashamed of my appearance, but it was more like that this is who I am and other people not accepting it. But, presently, I have a 4 week old son. I love squeezing him and kissing his cheeks so hard that they turn to raspberries. However, he doesn’t feel the same way. All he would see is this big, black, scary thing swooping in to eat him. He always has this gravely concerned look whenever I would hold him.

Now we’re getting down to business.

While I’m on the subject of my hair and my son, I will never forget the day we were cleared to leave the hospital. Momma and son were resting comfortably. I had just come from home where I had spent the morning constructing a stroller and putting a baby seat in the back of the car. Summer was coming with a vengeance, and it felt like a solid 98°F in the shade. I was sweating up a storm before I left, on the road and all the way up to the delivery room. Thinking it would have been a good idea to make myself halfway presentable, I put on my thick, black wool tam before I left. When I got up to the room, all I wanted to do was dive into a mountain fed lake. Deciding I had enough of overheating, I let my hair down and waited for the doctor on duty to come in and clear us.

A few moments later, an older, African-American gentleman in scrubs walked in with his nose buried in a clipboard walked into our room. I could only presume it was the doctor we were waiting for. He was a soft spoken guy. There was a hint of an accent somewhere in his words, but it was so watered down by living in America for years that I couldn’t quite place it. He smiled as he went through his standard operating procedure of asking questions. His focus was more on the mother and child rather than me. When he finally looked up long enough to notice me, his look went from normal to shocked in no time flat. Not “shocked” in the sense of running to the hills, but more like shocked that he wasn’t expecting to go back in time that day. Once his eyes locked on me, the full accent came out.

Are you from Jamaica, mon?” he asked in full Caribbean goodness.
“Unfortunately, no sir.” I said, slightly creeped out that this guy’s stare.

Are ya sure, mon?” He then proceeded to tell me about all the mixed races in Jamaica, and how they were referred to as “Royal” (pronounced roy-YAAL), and more importantly, how much I reminded him of his uncle whom he hasn’t talked to in ages. Eventually, we went back to the business of checking out my son. For the past few hours of his preciously short life, my son was prone to the these abrupt spasms that came out of nowhere. Being a concerned father, I inquired if it were something I should be concerned that it was epilepsy. 
The doctor then explained that it wasn’t and that this was a normal thing that babies do. His Cerebral Cortex was still forming and his body was just getting used to the impulses that it was sending. If it were anything else, the spasms would come rhythmically…like music, mon. I added, only if it comes on the 1 and 3 beat. Uproarious laughter was had by all, which was a relief.
 A few moments and a few more words later, he left. All the while catching glimpses of the abandoned rodent’s nest on top of my head. I’ll never forget the expression on his face as he was leaving. It was the look of remembering what a tropical breeze felt like. I would like to think that he called his long lost uncle later on that night. 
Never forget the little things.

It’s almost been a month since then, and the summer is killing me slowly every time I go out and mow the lawn. It’s almost been a month since then, and while all my intentions still remain to become an entrepreneur, paying rent and making sure my kids have food have become more important. For the time being, I will take steady employment in my quest to become financially independent.

Phase 1: Completed. HIT THE SHOWERS!

Tomorrow, I sit down for a consultation with a recruiter to see if I’m what the workforce needs. It’s been so long, I think I forgot a few things…like..what a spreadsheet looks like…basic accounting principals…you know…nothing major.

Post Shower and Shave

I’m not sure what to expect, and I’ll keep that in mind as I ask ten thousand questions and become as forthright as possible. It could be nothing and I could wind up back here at home, pantsless and drinking my weight in coffee. Or, who knows? Maybe I’ll be a valuable asset to someone.

I’ll keep y’all posted.

Unintentionally doing my best John Turturro impersonation.


Previous version…

Once upon a time, I made my own bread.

Not out of any type of arrogance. Not to hold it over anyone’s head or to feel the need to be superior to people I no longer know for reasons I can no longer fathom. It was more important for me to lose myself in the details of recipes and the attention that needs to be paid in the development in making a starter; it is, after all, a living, breathing thing. It may be a small thing, but to me it was quite significant. I made life. I made my own bread because it was the next logical step from making my own pizza dough. I made my own bread to see if I could do it; to satisfy a need…

…To follow in the footsteps of the masters who came before me.

…To fill a void left after I stopped smoking.

…To prepare for the frickin’ zombie apocalypse. Whichever superficial reason I may have spun would have danced around the truth. At the end of the day, my real motivation was simply to find a way out.

In 2008, I readied myself to the best of my ability to welcome my daughter into this world. In 2009, I began to concern myself with leaving behind a legacy. I found a job. It paid the bills…sort of, but the satisfaction level was somewhere near subterranean. With the possibility of being chained to a cubicle for the rest of my years (and entertaining the idea that I might actually like it), I cast a weather eye toward doing something else with my life other than working for under a living wage. Something that was a far sight better than just tolerable. Something I could be proud of, something worthy.

…and I had no idea what that meant, or what it was.

follow the link here

It was around this time where I discovered a series of photographs online. They were all answering a question set forth to them which was: Why Do You Do What You Do? On the surface, they’re just simple, black and white photos of random people holding up hastily crafted signs reading something to the effect of, “If I don’t, then who will?” Were I different person, I’d probably regard these as a really clever meme and go back to watching cat videos. But as with most art, these pictures stirred something in me, the longer I stared at them.

It was the exact Call To Action that I was looking for. Why do I do this? Why do I do anything? I started with my present preoccupation. My reasons were pretty straight-forward,“Well, I believe that bread is a universal language. It was the one thing that I was convinced would bring people of whatever stripes closer together. If I could master this, then I would find my place in the universe as some goodwill ambassador, and perhaps give me some sort of life-purpose.” Bake bread, spread happiness.

Unfortunately, the aspirations of being a culinary Santa Claus had to be thrown to the back burner as the feasibility of starting an Artisan Bakery was suffocated by the big, fluffy pillow of reality. Even though my aspirations may have faded slightly, the question hadn’t. ‘…Why?’

I kept searching for a ‘because’.

Driven. That’s what the term is. I’m motivated. If I’m ever going to survive, then I must move forward. The only way forward is through, and I’ll be damned if I was going to leave this world without doing something meaningful. Years passed, along with several other ideas, but that underlying need never went away. It didn’t matter if I was all gung-ho to open my own pizza shop, or my current endeavor to create and sell designs to fund my ultimate goal of writing that novel, to actually writing that novel. The common denominator of all of them is my need to create. It is a need. It is a thirst. It became less about the destination and more about discovering the many paths to get there.

But I digress. Getting back to the original question of what my needs are. Well….

  • I need to survive. Plain and simple. I was raised to believe that if you went to school and found a job that everything would be fine. What I’ve learned since then is that nothing is guaranteed. Not your education, not your job, not your relationships…nothing. The only thing that you can hold on to is what you can truly call yours. In order for me to thrive, I need to keep doing what I should have been doing years ago. I need to grow and learn and not be afraid to do so. I need to create.  In order for me to survive, I need to be paid for it, for lack of a better term.
  • Most of what I do is sarcastic, ironic, wise-ass, but generally harmless. I understand that. But, that being said, I need to be taken seriously. I began this life as a class clown. It’s who I am. I have no preconceived notions that I am otherwise. But, as time rolls on, we all know that they may take the clown out of the class…they’ll never take the class out of the clown. I just don’t seek attention for the sake of seeking attention. No. I seek attention with the intention of making you laugh, think, ponder, muse, cringe, rejoice, live, love, sing. I seek attention to remind you that you’re still alive. You are all still alive and wonderful. I’m serious about that.
  • I need to keep my eyes open. I need to keep my ears open. I need to keep learning. There is inspiration all around. I need to see the world the way a photographer would. I need to listen with the ears of a poet. I need to create with the mind of a baker.

So, what are my needs? Why do I do what I do?

Once upon a time, I made my own bread.

Not because my belly was hungry, but because my mind was.

…Current version

Thank you very much for reading. I’m off again on another great adventure. But before I go, I’d like to know…


Alternate Version

    The Writers’ Bloc Is The Most Critically Acclaimed Blog This Year*

    There is another piece of business that needed my attention from last week. Today, it seems that I’m finally tackling that pile of bills in the corner, going outside to cut the grass, getting to the bottom of what that smell is in the kitchen and folding up that pile of laundry that’s been hiding in the corner for the past few days…but, y’know…with more typing, less physical activity…so…nothing out of the ordinary.

    Along with finding and acting on another subject to blog about, fellow blogger +Teagan Kearney nominated me for the prestigious Versatile Blogger Award, thereby validating my inactivity and complete apathy as to what that smell in the kitchen is. “Meh, I’ll let someone else figure it out.” In all seriousness, Teagan, thank you very much for your nomination. Fellow readers if you haven’t already done so, I highly recommend reading a couple of her posts. It’s like being invited ’round for a cuppa to indulge in some light conversation and gingerbread.

    I consider it an honor to be nominated twice in as many months for two awards. A peer based and cultivated award rather gives me hope for humanity. The rules are thusly!

    • Thank the person who nominated you:….hmmm…think I’ve done that already, but just to make it official, thank you very much, Teagan!
    • Include a link to their blog:…think I got that covered too, but just in case…
    • Nominate 15 bloggers:…okay, I’ll see what I can do with that.
    • Tell the person who nominated you 7 things about yourself: aw, jeez….all right…let me see here….

    ~Welcome To The Randomness~
    1.  I suck at skateboarding, yet I really, really want a Big Kahuna Board someday.

    2.  Once upon a time, in a previous life, I hit B♭ above high C…then, it all went downhill from there.

    3.  After giving it a lot of thought…I think I need a haircut….naaaaaaaahhhh!

    4.  I think having an expensive taste in alcohol has helped me not to become an alcoholic.

    Mmmm…Hello, Lover…

    5.  I’m one of those people that will judge you silently by your video collection (see also: library, Netflix queue, contents of your iPod, whether you use Comic Sans or not).

      via Mariantonietta Continenza

      6.  I used to play guitar. Whether I was any good or not isn’t the point. The point is whenever I played her, I would slip into a trance and go off into my own world. I would find my own rhythm. I would find my own breath. I would find my own voice. I would find my place in the universe. I find no difference when I write.

      Mmmm…Hello, Lover…

      7. I try something, I fail, I start over. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. These days, it’s starting my own business. Soon, it will involve getting published. Recently, it’s my biscuit-fu.

      Before: Freshly baked hockey pucks

      After: Fluffy, buttery pillows of southern goodness, y’all!

      Right, now the fifteen…ish.

      List is short, but that’s okay. It’s not the quantity, it’s the quality. *winkwink*

      WDYDWYD Part 1

      Photo courtesy of Kyle Harmon

      I’ve never been to Burning Man. It was one of these phenomenon that arrived a little too late in my life for me to truly appreciate. Were I a younger man with literally thousands of dollars, weeks of time, and an abundance of unused brain cells at my disposal, I would make that yearly pilgrimage to the middle of the desert not giving a flying cuss as to my motivations for doing so. Sure, I would have gone. But, I’m not that younger man anymore. The older man is failing to see the appeal in it.

      I didn’t have Burning Man when I was growing up. We had The Grateful Dead when Uncle Jerry was still alive. Back then, it was different. Back then, it was all about freedom and love…and…music and…expressing yourself…and…oh, never mind.

      Honestly, the much-hyped festival has hardly crossed my mind in years. That is, until recently when I was reminded of one the movement’s rallying cries: WDYDWYD? I’m sure there are one or two of you out there that are nodding in recognition, but the rest of you are all like, “Does he know he printed a typo… in all caps?” Stick with me, explanations in the form of long winded posts are coming.


      Got knocked down again last week.

      Strange feeling, this. This feeling that all of your progress gets swept from underneath you. Perhaps it’s some psychic payback from some botched employment from years ago. Perhaps it’s the universe letting me know that this is how it’s going to be when I strike out on my own. I’m hoping that all the bad stuff is getting out of the way early so the rest of my endeavor would provide smoother sailing.

      Here’s to hoping.

      I took some time off. Partially because I needed to regroup. I needed to regroup because I spent a lot of time on some t-shirt designs that I thought were at least slightly unique, only to be told that all my hours of planning and constructing and publishing that I needed a note from a live author and a dead author in order to continue using a concept; I wrote a Stephen King quote in Quenya. Granted, I should have researched further to find out that the quote I used was in The Shawshank Redemption, but it didn’t matter because the quote was written in a fictional language. It didn’t matter because at the end of the day, nobody cares!

      Nobody cares.

      You can read this? Man, you’re good!

      In today’s world, the most anyone is able to do is just catch a quick glance at what you’re wearing, like it, dislike it, acknowledge it, and move on before they get accused of staring at someone’s chest. I honestly don’t think that people will stop someone on the street who is wearing my shirt and say, “HEEEEEYYYY!….Hold on a minute!…is that a Stephen King quote?” For a while, I was thinking that it might have been better if I left a few things out of the description of the product. Maybe I shouldn’t have name-dropped and played dumb, “Uhhh, I made this. I don’t know what it is…anybody want it?

      The rules stipulate that I can’t use a quote for monetary gain if the author is still alive and the only quotes I could use are the ones in the public domain, or if the author has been dead for at least 70 years. If the author is still alive, you need to ask permission. Fine. I made a mistake. I don’t think I should have been censored for it, though. I didn’t see what the problem was and I told this company so, which also turned out to be final correspondence as I yanked all my designs from the site and shut down my store.You could say I threw a tantrum. I did. I’ll admit it. I picked up my football and went home. Not because I felt I was unjustly scrutinized…well…not entirely, anyway. I did this because several other designers on several other websites (including the one I just left) are doing and have been doing the exact same thing, but on a grander, perhaps more professional scale, and no one bats an eyelid. I contribute my ideas, and I’m told that I’m breaking the law. How can other people do it with impunity, and I get crushed?

      All of a sudden, I’m back at my grade/middle/high schools where I’m getting beat up because the color of my skin was a threat. All of a sudden, I’m making a point about the First Amendment and expression at a previous job, only to be
      told I was being ridiculous. All of a sudden, I’m told by the woman that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with that the business plan that we both came up with was a bad idea and it’s all my fault that it didn’t work, and that was the reason she was leaving me.

      All of a sudden, I’m left with nothing but great ideas and good intentions of which no one cares. Just like always.

      I took some time off.

      “Chewie, is that you?”

      I’m a freshly minted father. I’m an old father with a fresh coat of paint. For the passed few days, I’ve been sitting in front of my screen trying unsuccessfully to type with one hand while I cradle a baby and a bottle with the other. I found it more important to look into my boy’s eyes and to kiss his chubby cheeks and to have little conversations about whatever’s on his little baby mind then to scream into a vacuum and ultimately get nothing done anyway. Of course, these days, he takes a lot of naps and when he does look at me, he looks at me with this little disappointed look. I know, in the grand scheme of things, he’s just moments old and he is still working on focusing on things that are a few inches in front of him. But I can’t help but think I see my own reflection when I look at him, and it chills my bones; this disappointment feedback.

      I haven’t posted anything in days, and I hadn’t planned on it either. I needed a break, and that involves doing a whole bunch of nothing. Take the time to breathe. Get my bearings straight. Clear my head. Start fresh when I’m ready. Before I took my sabbatical, I engaged with fellow Google plussers by inquiring if anyone knew of a place where I wouldn’t be scrutinized on a daily basis and conduct my business peacefully. One of the answers came back in the form of a question. +Deborah Chezem asked:

      I wanted to respond. I really, really did. I had every intention of going through my back-story one more time and probably give her all the links to my posts that pretty much say the same thing over and over again. I could have gone that route, but a memory from back in my Facebook days came back and painted the question in a different color. What are my needs? Why am I doing this? To put this another way…

      Why Do You Do What You Do?

      Am I doing this for the right reasons? Are my intentions correct? Is there such a thing in regards to this?

      More on this later…

      Upon Staring at Something a Little Too Long…

      Have you ever wrote a word down, perhaps in the middle of a sentence, and you are confident that that’s the word you want to use. It’s correct in it’s spelling and usage, but for some reason…


      Maybe it’s because you’ve been staring at it for so long that the meaning of the word itself has been lost, so much to the point that you forgot why you put it there in the first place, has that ever happened to you?


      Okay, just me. Moving on.

      For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been, among other things, creating new designs and polishing up some old ones, and putting everything on t-shirts. After a few marathon sessions of uploading everything to CafePress, I have a feeling I’m turning into something resembling this…

      I have researched my competition, and have decided to cast a wider net; take a chance and apply designs on items other than t-shirts. Take every design that is black and white and apply a little color to it and see where that takes me.

      I started with this…

      Just a little totem of positivity that I introduced a few posts back. It seems to work for the most part, although for some of the dark shirts, it might not. But I can’t be hindered. I need to take chances and make mistakes, something has to catch on. It’s not that I’m worried, because I’m not. I’m enjoying the process. Honestly, I’m having a good time.

      Then, I went out on a limb and tried something new…

      “Hope is a good thing… and no good thing ever dies.”

      Something happened. Whether it was on purpose or not, I felt the need to steer my ship in the direction of something hopeful. As if I needed some psychic healing and the only way to get it was to send out messages of hope. As if every message I interpret, gets me closer to feeling…I dunno…better? The feeling closer to having air in my lungs rather than feeling like I’m drowning? The feeling like a future isn’t as murky as it once was? Hope? The above is a quote from Stephen King, and it’s translated into Quenya to the best of my ability (somebody, please feel free to correct my grammar). This one feels good. This one feels like I’m onto something.

      After I exhausted every possible product to put that design on, I decided to venture further into this. The next project, I feel a little iffy on. This one, I may need a second opinion.

      This is a derivation of a quote from Antonio Porchia; an turn of the century Argentinian Poet whose concise; almost haiku-like poetry has influenced many of his contemporaries. Blah blah blah, read the article.

      I don’t think I have a real question at this late hour as I finish off this post. I am, however, looking for opinions. I’ve been staring at this for too long, and it’s losing its meaning the longer I look at it. Is this too vague? Should I even bother? I kind of like it, and it means something to me, but that doesn’t always mean it’s a good idea to act on it. Please let me know what you think, and thank you very much.