Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Late-night musings.

This, likely, will be my only post unrelated to writing -- whether fiction or poetry or nonfiction or a discussion on the writer's purpose.

I'm up and alone, having just finished some assignments for the newspaper. I'm playing the 'End Title' from Revolutionary Road, a small part of sweeping, powerful soundtrack by Thomas Newman. It, as it always does, pulls me into the contemplative.

Oh, all right. I relent. This will, to an extent, discuss a project.

I'd like to work on a memoir. A good friend gave me the idea, and, honestly, it excites me. At first, I scoffed:  how pretentious. Seriously. I'm 22, and I'm just beginning a writing career. What have I done to warrant penning some piece that delves deep within memory?

But then, I realized that it would work. I saw how cathartic it would be.

I think - honestly and seriously - that such a project will help me figure things out. I'm not going to do this simply to get a publication:  thought it would be nice.

There is much I need to know.

Why am I here? Will I find success as a writer? Will I find love?

Such questions ring tired and smell of cliches. But they plague everyone. And, on nights like this, they hit me especially hard.

I hope I'm taking the right steps. I hope I'm supposed to be doing this.

My goal:  get out there. Make my mark as a novelist. Or something with creative nonfiction.

And, someday, I hope to raise a family. But, again, I cannot be too sure. What if I never meet who I'm supposed to meet?

I hate this. My mind flies toward the future. But what I see may not transpire.

Still, though:  I want to accomplish this.

I'm ever and eternally afraid that I will be awash in the vortexes and singularities of perpetual sameness. I will try to pull away, but I will be sucked back in, forever swirling.

Some late night - or early musings - for y'all.

Cheers.

Monday, September 26, 2011

late night poetry.

Life ravages the body. 
But, if left untreated, 
the soul, too, begins to break. 

Take heed. 
Take heed.
Take heed.

Turn inward.
And remember:

The crackling 
of inner darkness
hurries to take
hold.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

New publication.

www.bostonliterarymagazine.com

Look under 'quick fiction.'

Mine is entitled 'Hardware and More.'

Et cetera, et cetera.

Alone, one can realize that
the quiet and a
sinking heart remain
interwoven - brothers,
it seems, in the quest
for understanding
amidst the
unknown.

Etc.

Outside. Look. Do you see it?

It rests among the darkened clouds and the blowing wind. There, further, just past the tree line. Do you see it now?

Run down, careful, though, to the lake in the midst of the tight, claustrophobic trees. See the blackened, still water. Take a drink - the water is fresh and it will not harm.

Pus further. Pay no mind to the noises you hear:  they come from the bellowing stomachs of frightened animals. None will harm you. Keep pushing.

Up a little further now. Do you see it?

The temperature warms and the wind slows its pace. No longer will it engage in such a race of the natural things. Wait:  listen. Do you hear it?

The sun begins to awaken and rise. The skies turn a brilliant bright panorama of varied hue. The frightened creatures begin to chatter excitedly. Fear no longer consumes.

Look down.

See the light shine across the miles of majesty. Listen for the sound of millions of yawns. Hear the pouring of coffee, the munching of food, the growling of engines.

Do you hear it? Do you see it?

The day begins.

Listen.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Some freewriting.

Rocketing through the various stages of life fascinates and exhilarates me. All of us become one with a community, an association -- whether it be a college or a town or a church or a team. Our time ends, and we travel onward. But the connections stay:  they build.

Sure, we shift toward the solitary and the singular. Large groups of friends dwindle to the occasional gathering and get-together. But the bond remains.

We move on.

And then, we are older. Our hairs grow grayer and thinner. We travel, alone, or with a group, but we are in pursuit of something:  a promotion at work, a client, a simple vacation.

We go to the airport. We stop and buy a snack or a newspaper. And we wait at the seats.

And then an employee calls our flight. We rise and hustle to the doors. But along the way, we bump into a friend from the past. It's a shock:  a surprise. It's someone from years and years ago. But the conversation flows like time hadn't flown skyward to the continuing, eternal heavens.

We part ways. We smile as we do.

The memories return, the nostalgia bursts, and the smile stays etched upon our face for a little longer.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Some press I've received.

Some press I've received:

"...a very nice personal reflection on the quality of liberal arts education written by a student from Assumption College..."

--St. Joseph Basilica in Webster, MA (on my piece "Saved By a Classical Education," which was published in the Worcester Telegram on July 27.)




"Jon Bishop delivered a concise, funny and geeky-hip story..."

--Invest Comics (www.investcomics.com)


Another op-ed of mine, "Running with Lit Matches," received an indirect reference on the Forbes Magazine website:

http://billionaires.forbes.com/article/05nqgvYaxo6WU