These things

It doesn’t have to make sense.

The best parts aren’t there.

It’s a hole.

I’m not a poet or a writer

Notice things.

Write them down.

Connect the dots.

Two random things. Connect them.

That’s new.

What to do? What is a writer who doesn’t write? When you stop writing for yourself and start writing for an audience you’ve lost. You write not what you want, but what you think they want. So it’s fake, it’s phoney. It’s seen through, it lacks authenticity. You know, as some might say.


These things.

Help people.

Help people feel.

Help people feel what you feel.

In that moment. At that time.

Then you have something.


I am not a man. I am a machine. Yes, there are chunks of flesh tied to bones but make no mistake, it is a machine.

It thinks. It constantly analyzes the possibilities and selects the course of action which is in its best interest.

Physical pain registers but it is not processed as pain. It is merely an obstruction, an impediment to reaching a goal.

These things.

These things that whirr and click

And do all sorts of things.



They’re all going to laugh at you.

Who cares?

What if the milk gets spilled?

The entrenched do not want to change. They do things how they do them. You cannot expect to get anywhere towing their line. Line up for your handout, this is what we get paid. That’s what you change.

If you’re doing something different, you’ll know. They’ll tell you. There will be fear. There will be confusion.

How to do it better?

Connect the dots.

How to do it your own way?

These things.

Forking around

30 ideas on how to improve a table fork

  1. Elongate the fork handle and add a spoon to the opposite end.
  2. Narrow the outer edge of each of the outside fork tines to make cutting your food easier.
  3. Add a carabiner to the end of the fork to clip it to things (like your work bag) so it doesn’t get lost/left behind for lunches.
  4. Make the head of the fork detachable and create an assortment of compatible utensil ends for the handle, ie. knife attachment, razor attachment, whisk attachment, shoe horn attachment, pencil attachment, screwdriver attachments.
  5. Make the end of the fork handle a flat screwdriver to pry and open stuff.
  6. Forkbells. Make forks with weight added to them so you can work out while eating.
  7. Create a set of forks that can combine into a wicked robot-like transformer.
  8. Make the fork handle a ruler/straight edge.
  9. Instead of making the fork tines all the same length, make the one on the right the longest and shorten each one until you get the shortest one on the left. This would give you more tine to plate contact for better raking/collecting of food. “Eat with less effort.”
  10. Make a fork out of material that smells funny to help prevent overeating.
  11. Make a fork an unappetizing color to help prevent overeating.
  12. Add a really thick handle a to fork for use with winter gloves.
  13. Forklight.
  14. Make the handle end a cuttable key and have your forks cut to match the locks of your house, car and any other key you tend to lose or misplace.
  15. Heated forks to add to your culinary experience.
  16. Forks signed by popular chefs.
  17. Designer forks. The fork is the new watch. Diamonds, gold, jewels. Refuse to eat with “common” cutlery found in restaurants or neighbor’s houses.
  18. Smart Cutlery. Connected to the Internet. Measure the calories in each mouthful as you go. Set warnings for calorie, fat, carb, etc intake. Weighs and records each mouthful. Connects to Smart Fork app to measure and track eating habits, diets, etc. Tracks all online. Relays data to smartphone/watch.
  19. The fork handle is an Apple TV remote. When your kids lose the damn Apple TV remote again you have a spare.
  20. Enlarge the fork tines and handle and use materials for the fork that allow it to be strummed and played as an instrument.
  21. Wearable cutlery. Fork fashion.
  22. Forkhammer.
  23. A fork that randomly emits a farting noise at some point during the meal.
  24. Forkcorder. A fork that records meal conversations and allows for playbacks to determine who said what.
  25. A fork that tastes like salt but isn’t actually salt so you don’t have to add salt to your meals. “The healthier way to eat.”
  26. Forks with a temperature gauge in them. Never burn your mouth again.
  27. A fork with a small parachute in the handle that is triggered when the fork reaches a certain speed. Prevent your 3-year-old from beaning you/your dog/the wall/your four-year-old when he or she throws their fork during the nightly dinner tantrum.
  28. Edible forks instead of disposable forks to reduce waste when camping.
  29. Black forks.
  30. Forktober. The 13th month.

Old Man Strength

Don’t take shortcuts.

I like lifting heavy things.

The gym, you can find me there.

Lots of weight.

Every day.

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.

Eat. Consume.

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.

The rhythm builds strength.


Old man strength. That’s what I call it. That’s what I want. The fathers, they have this ridiculous strength. They can lift more weight. They can outwrestle. Outlast. I work hard and hope

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.

I’ll get it.

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.

Eat. Consume.

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.


Don’t take shortcuts.


I like lifting heavy things.

The home, you can find me there.

Lots of weight.

Every day.

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.

Feed. Give.

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.

The rhythm builds strength.


Fatherhood, that’s what I call it. I do the things that need to be done. I don’t like doing all of them, necessarily. But my disliking is subordinate to the strength of my purpose.


I must lift more weight. Survive. Work hard and hope

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.

I’ll make it.

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.

Feed. Give.

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.


There are no shortcuts.

Warm up. Push weight. Cool down.

Lots of weight.

Dirty diapers. Do dishes. Bedtime.

Every day.

Giving yields the greatest gains.

I am the strength of my purpose.


I am you

What we are

I am you

There is no me

I am.

You hear me,

And I speak.

You feel me,

And I am here.

You see me,

And I am.

It’s black. Filtered light. Grey. White. The lungs expand, sucking in air. I become alive. The eyes open, taking in the light. I become aware. The neurons fire, recognizing my bedroom. I become human.

I am not I, I am you.

I look toward my wife and become a husband. I hear my children waking and become a father. I build my house as I walk down the stairs. I take it on. I become. I am.

Only without you, I do not exist.

I get into my truck and become a driver. I am not a driver, I am the driver, the one. I are many.

I participate in labor and become a worker. I am. Maybe you know. If people listen, I am called their boss. If people do not listen, they are called my boss. But I am.

If I are you, then we are we, and the table turns on its head. The upside down place. We are here right now, you and I, I and I, we. The mirror lies because it only shows us what we want to see. Go and look. See.

What belongs to I belongs to we. Shared. The language means something. Our lives mean something. But alone I mean nothing. As a we our lives mean everything.

So share. Be kind. Share. Respect. Help.

Because when you do it, you’re doing it for you.

Not because I am I.

But because I am you.



Why can’t I be like that?

The popular crowd gets drunk and drives around with baseball bats. They hang out the car window and swing away, smashing merrily down the road. Sometimes the mailbox gets run over. That is even better.

I start drinking to be normal. You see, I have this constant narrative running through my head. I want to drink enough that the voice goes away, just for a bit. I want a break. My head hurts. Nobody else seems to mind the messed up situation we are in. Why can’t I be like that?

The successful crowd gets funded and starts companies with weird names. They call themselves CEOs and drive around in Beemers and Audis, blinging flashily down the road. Sometimes the status gets televised. That is even better.

I start working to be successful. You see, I have this constant narrative running through my head. I want to work enough that the voice goes away, just for a bit. I want a break. My head hurts. Nobody else seems to mind the messed up situation we are in. Why can’t I be like that?

What is this? Stop it. You can be whatever you want. Drunk. Criminal. Successful. Full. Empty. You get to choose. The labels, they’re just people, just like you and I. Nobody is popular. Nobody is a CEO. People are not their status. People are people.

You get into trouble when you label people. Projecting your own assumptions onto others is a recipe for disaster. Don’t do it. You can’t be like that because there is no “like that,” it’s all in your head.

We find ourselves in each other, becoming those we imitate. Swing away.

Stephen King

Homework, in progress from Stephen King’s book “On Writing.”

He must get up, run, but he can’t move.

The last step creaks, jolting Dick to his feet.

“Jane?” he asks.

“Hi, Dickie.”

“Jane,” Dick says, “what are you doing here?”

“I missed you, Dickie,” Jane whispers.

Dick instinctively moves behind the dining room table. “You’re not allowed to be here, Jane,” Dick replies.

“I missed you, Dickie. I missed you a lot.”

Dick sees the knife. He circles the table, moving as far away from his ex as possible.

“It wasn’t nice, what you did to me,” Jane says. “You took Nell away from me. Took my house away from me. Had me locked up in… that place.”

Jane circles the table too. The knife tip scrapes the wood.

“That… place, Dickie. Do you know how they make you shit in that place, Dickie? You shit right out in front of everyone. Like an animal. Do I look like a fucking animal, Dickie?” Jane growls.

Yes, Dick thought. Yes, dear God, you look like an animal. But he didn’t dare say it out loud. “You don’t look like an animal, Jane. You look beautiful.

“Fucking liar!” Jane shrieks, slashing at the air. “You’re full of shit, Dickie!”

“Mommy…?” Nell asks, frozen at the top of the stairs.

“Nell! Oh baby, come to Mommy!” Jane says turning toward her daughter’s voice.

Dick’s world slows down and he steps outside of himself. Old scars flare the pain of the past roars back. The last time the three of them were in a room together a judge was sentencing his wife to 20 years without parole for nearly beating him to death with a bat while he slept. The doctors had to tell Dick what happened after he wakes from surgery to repair his fractured skull. His parents had to tell Dick that Nell saw it all.

Her daughter’s words distract Jane, and Dick snaps into himself. He’s got one chance. The tea.

Dick grabs the pot of tea from the counter and flings it at his ex-wife, striking her in the head with a thud.

Jane drops to all fours screaming in agony as her skin and hair melt together.

Nell. The stairs. Dick leaps up the steps to Nell, “Honey, let’s go.”

“Daddy…?” Nell repeats. “Mommy…?”

“Nell, we need to get going, Mommy is sick and we need to get help,” Dick doesn’t mention, doesn’t know who the help is for.

Below, Jane is clawing back up to her feet, hands feeling for the knife. It’s too close, they need to escape.

Dick lifts Nell over his shoulder and descends, three steps at a time. At the bottom of the stairs, his ex-wife snags a piece of his shirt.


What do you want?

Forgive me, Father,

For I have sinned.

I pursued the goals of Others,

At the expense of my Own.

I pushed to the limits,

To the detriment of my Self.

I’m not special,

The only skill I have is an ability to work harder, to outlast.

I cling to this belief.


I refuse to give up,

I endure.

I race, seeking proof.

Never stopping to think.

If I succeed?

I’ll be alone.


Be careful what you ask for.


“What makes someone your friend?” I ask.

Somehow I forgot.

“They pick up the phone when I call and we’ve had some laughs,” he says.

“That’s a great definition,” I reply.

I haven’t answered the phone in months.


You might just get it.


I can’t tell if you’re my friend. I like what you say. Am I in a funnel? This feels artificial.

Are we all just funnelling each other?


Time slips through fingers like dust,

And blows away.


Be careful what you cling to.

You are special.

You might just get it.