I post a bit of everything, poetry, ramblings, short fiction, novel sections, in my blog, An Arguable Truth, easily arguably, too much. I keep up with the Journal-Writing page to aggregate and find a place for pieces as I shed them from the archive. It’s also a neat space to post older work, bits of novels, short fiction, ancient journal entries, scribbles from the margins of wire spiraled college notebooks, anything really. I do this because A I enjoy the work, I love each and every form of stories. And B, well, nothings coming to me. Thanks for reading!
It would be safe for all of us to never again commit to the fallacy of thinking someone doesn’t matter. Or that their mistakes wouldn’t look different if you knew their context. Not read it once. Not looked it up online. To know their context. A professor of philosophy once asked a room of students if they could become any animal whatsoever, which animal would they choose. The professor called on a young man who had given up an easy answer. A dog. What would that be like, the teacher asked. It’d be all smells, and windblown ears, and sniffing other dog’s asses. The class laughs. So where are you in that description? The laughter stops. I’m the dog. Well that’s different than being a dog, isn’t it, if it is you, a human, early twenties, all your experience, then being dressed up as, or imitating, or some sort of virtual reality is the experience you’re describing. I asked if you could become a dog, what would that be like? Well, the student began nervously, I’d have to completely give up being me first.
Home doesn’t really exist for men like me. Too many nights wrapped up tight in backpacks. Too fond of the percussive collaboration between a walking stick and my two let loose feet
against an angsty planet. I’m wasted. I’ve wasted every bit of attachment potential on the people who I love. The animals and the living things I need.
Have become home.