Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own

She hangs out under the mantle as photos of our relationship’s core sit, above. Seeing her grow, radiate, and wonder is like watching pie crust in an oven. But her taste is sweeter.

****blogger’s note***

This is for the weekend Trifecta Writing Challenge –  Give us 33 words from it.  Interpret the prompt however you wish–literal,
metaphorical, or somewhere in between.

This is personal, about the woman who graciously puts up with me. Bono wrote something similar for his long suffering wife. Here’s Sometime You Can’t Make It On Your Own.

There There

The name of our every day show should be bestowed the title; Accidents Waiting To Happen. The time is always early. The setting is always dark. The mornings are comedies, performed in three acts with me as the star fool.

First is started with a furry, spoiled boy who demands me awake with a wet nose and slick tongue. By the time his needs are met, I’ve hurt a toe, or finger, or cap of a knee as the path to his breakfast is bathed in shadow.

Second happens as I stir the oldest, still a girl, but sleeping as hard as she can before womanhood calls. There’s never a smile, always a grumble, and I smack a darkened wall with an elbow or hip.

Third is a prolonged finale. The baby, though eight years in age, has to be stirred, fed, clothed, and readied. It leaves little time for much else.

I save something for the audience in each performance. In some plays, it’s what the other actors do. But this time it was all me. An unlocked door, it’s always one of those. I showered and went looking for cover. That unlocked door was dressed in morning black. I didn’t investigate. The Third’s lead actress, innocent and in need, pushed the unlocked door open, and terror swept over us both.

It will be alright. We’ve both been traumatized greater before. But that unlocked door gave me what I deserved. It was an October morning scare, and I had to comfort her, after I was clothed. There, there, my youngest, and there, there me.

Accidents Waiting To Happen draws its curtain, for now.

****blogger’s note****

This is a true story. It happened this morning. Trifecta wanted 333 words or less of something “dressed in black”.

Today’s song is almost perfect lyrically. Plus, it’s Radiohead so you win just by clicking. Here’s There, There….and yes I have clothes on, now.


There was nothing to write that didn’t include describe a bosom. I walked, shuffled, to be honest, to my bedroom and saw the red notebook next to the dog and a bundled blanket. Leaning over to grab the spiraled diary, I felt the friction of an ample belly against my waistband after too much chinese food. Gross vanity disgusted me.

“I hate feeling old.”

Making my way back to the living room where the safety net of her, sat a few feet away, I opened the notebook.

On the third page was a story I didn’t think was worthy to transfer from paper to screen. Handwritten in number two pencil, with notes in the margin, was an idea that made me smile. The night before, in the midst of madness, I’d written without fear.

I unbuttoned my jeans, smiled at the middle-of-the-night creative bent, and started turning it into art.

****blogger’s note****

I had nothing for Trifecta Writing’s “ample” until I chowed on chicken lo mein, went into my bedroom, and flipped open my notebook. This is a true, personal, anxiety-related story.

Today’s song is probably my favorite one out right now. Gaslight Anthem’s new album, Handwritten, is excellent. Get it. This is the title track and it works for this. Crank it.



If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it three million times, forget cleanliness; self-awareness is next to godliness. On my thirty-third birthday, September 10, 2003, I implemented that philosophy into my sad life. After three decades of being average, okay, and just getting by, I held this five-pound bald cherub in my left hand and got “it”. You know “it”? Oh, not that obvious platitude of parenthood changes you. Of course it does, you’re up half the night feeding and wiping a tiny human. No “it” is where you realize your failures and selfishness, that “what about me” bullcrap that you think is important but isn’t, becomes unnecessary and purpose matches philosophy.

I see them in the mall. I click on their Facebook pages. The sad eyes of men with no purpose are telling. They have wives, kids, cars, boats, mistresses, fantasy baseball teams, and gas grills the size of Volkswagens but they have no idea who or what they are. I doubt they want to know.

My daughter, now almost 9, was only 11 days old that September morning when I stopped being a rudderless person. She was tiny. I held her in one hand and made her bottle with another. I carried her to the couch and we watched the three a.m. Sportscenter together while tears streamed down my face. She opened her miniscule mouth and I turned the plastic container upside down so she could drink. The baseball scores scrolled by and I started planning. Get out of this marriage. Quit whining. Write. Be the kind of father she’ll dare other men to aspire to later.

It took years. Hell, we’re on nine. But I finally accepted myself. Birthdays mean little to me, now. If anything, they serve as a reminder of how I didn’t really deserve one until my thirty-three. On that couch if in front of ESPN, was the last birthday that mattered. After the thirty-third, celebrating was just cake.

 ****blogger’s note****

I went rogue, true and personal for Trifecta optional prompt, choosing Smashing Pumpkins’ video of their song Thirty-Three. I had to write for this one. This song means a lot to me.

Born of Frustration

Happy Birthday Jack Kerouac. This is for you.

James was brawny and tall, 6″4″, with a coif of long blonde hair that layered over his impressive head and shoulders. I couldn’t stand looking at him, well, at least in the way everyone else beheld him. I felt like a little boy, a pipsqueak of nothing. No matter what I said, tried, did, played, or wrote, it fell at his feet like broken arrows in a bad television western. I was too young to understand that James was a moment in time not an era of accomplishment. We were early twenty-somethings trying to figure out if screwing or doing or brewing was the way to be men. He called me by my last name, an insult that kept me in a place, my pathetic place, of insecure discontent that walled much more anxiety that I already experienced through my own disordered brain. Women tossed their bodies at James, he’d treat most of them with groupie indifference, work when he wanted, and get away with things that would’ve crushed my reputation. I would get lost in plotting, scheming, and pontificating how I would make the idiots around me see how I was smarter and more interesting than him. Nothing ever worked. Instead of getting attention or, God forbid, poetic justice on the smug lug, my words and thoughts would wander like smoke trailing into my nether region of envy, born of frustration. Time showed James peaked, back then. He was only what he was in front of everyone’s face. My 5’8″ brown-haired twitch of motor-mouth, dark moods, grunge clothed, music lyric spouting, notebook writing stress ball was a work in progress. I was minor league to his major league. But looks fade, people change, things move, thoughts matriculate. I used to see James as this Goliath and me this pathetic David, slingshot unarmed, a fool’s view. Years have a way of evening scores while maturity and gravity laugh at them over lunch, something grilled and diet, of course. Cheers, James. Hope you’re well.

*****blogger’s note****

In celebration of one of the truest artists in history, Jack Kerouac,  and a nod to three prompts; StudioThirtyPlus’ “Envy” , Trifecta Writing’s “Trail”, and Write on Edge’s “This week we’d like you to write about a time you found yourself comparing yourself, unfavorably, with someone else. Focus on how the comparison affected you, negatively or positively.” I wrote in the unstructured, stream of conscience style of the late beat superstar. It’s a great day to celebrate being a writer.

Today’s song is a distant memory. This is something emo and dumb and almost forgotten that I listened to during my time of comparision to someone else. Here’s James – Born of Frustration.