The Absence of Wavelength

seeks love without that fart in the room between us. Honesty without mincing words has come with a price for those juggling the hot takes on what’s ‘truth’ (here’s some oven mitts). Best to stay clear of those surrounded by moat rules (not my attempt to disrespect, shame or shun. Just doin' me, which has come with its price [I've accepted.])..

Real dialogue accepted.

Wasn’t as open at first about recent diagnosis on spectrum with ADHD (complicated by PTSD, life of brain traumas). Been suggested by doctors of late I might want another brain scan (since 12/4/17…blogged).

This poet’s words collect, arrange on a kaleidoscope spectrum. The experience of discovery through writing is THE reward that allowed me to grow and learn who/what I am — what other people get naturally, immediately, as I stomp around in it.

Been blessed, but pushing it — envelope, world, all inhabitants away. Push buttons, find boundaries to trip traps. No clue why cat curiosity, living in your dark. (Bored, perhaps?)

Now and then, push dirt out of this hole; someone/thing/entity might envision me how I need be viewed (if I knew what that was). Cryptic, yes. Try living in my dark, find comfort amid strange, virtual, wonderful walls that tower above, tempt me to scale.

{dropnote:"Not the same as what I write now, more of a traditional flavor"}

 

 

2X, nominated three years straight. I was enjoying myself, head bagged. A happy idiot. Sabotaged it, apparently. No coward; not starting feuds or wars over ideals and beliefs. Know pile of crap packaged with dreams of pretty things to sell the next boob that walks by.

scripturam in hoc non mutamus, quia stultus es et differentiam nescies.
Examples of excellence in serious repose and self-regard and just a pretty placeholder, sadly

 

Published four times with one a literary journal, including…    "The Tender Core (Sedona)" 
I don’t submit—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration.

 

?

Going forth, I’ll attempt to document my daily life, experiences in hopes to rediscover my past through old journals to bridge last 15 years of a writer’s life.

Hope to reconnect with my endeavors, carry forward, now that I’m home with kids, unemployed and legally blind from glaucoma. I'm rebuilding this old motor, mount in a clunky, rusty beater of brain, before setting course for a horizon full of misdirection, construction, detours, off ramps and other hapless excursions — put the past in rear view. It's only an automatic; don't get too excited. Oh, no seat belts…or air bags, or 'oh shit' handles, because this baby can still rev rpms to rubber black a road.

I travel light, don’t consult maps or ask directions until really lost. Not unaccustomed to small talk with strangers, getting a feel for ventured countrysides. I like to really know these towns and cities, rivers and lakes, mountains and hills — anything thrown in my path.

Now that I've drained the gas from that metaphor, (Gasp!) throwing this thing into gear. I hear gravel under my wheels! Have to stock up on some Pennzoil. Okay, done. Ah...that's pretty much it...for now.

ADDED: This may be just about basketball going forward (6/2018) and boasting to help appreciate what I still do, legally blind, aging, with shot knees, and psychologically truncated as neuro-divergent with ADHD (among other things).

I've hammered away at this glass with forefinger since resurrecting on iPad in 2014. Always ready to say too weary, compulsion compels where instigation informs. Bright, full of dark, hidden colors and shapes I reveal as my truth unfolding…into what?

I’ve heard what’s said and what’s unspoken and struggle inside a neurodivergent bubble. Part of my dues as human? But, getting through it, somehow.

Restrained, not always easy to understand. It will be clear someday. Hard, but hide in my heart, making no apologies going forward. Not interested in the trap of stereotypes. I leap out of your box constructs before they close. Responsible for my own emotions, can only do for me when it’s tough times…translate?

This is my pulpit. I'm no preacher. Beginning anew in 2020/2023, maybe I am!

The common denominator in all unfair aspects of life by choices made, surround myself within thorny walls of indifference I dare ascend time to time. I scar, like a good challenge, rebuff conformity. Realize someone somewhere (everywhere and anywhere) has it worse. You won't hear me drowning out their cries. I confide here, look for others who relate. I question what drives me to share, need to be understood with this obtuse, oblique language. No amplifier or soap box needed. Joy is in doing the work, connecting dots in brain…puzzles I forget, repeat. It's catharsis, this discipline called writing. I assume that's why we're all here…?

 

 

             

"Prose And Dead Men by Brian K Compton"   "Wake by Brian K Compton"