more poetry.

an existential interrogative  

i ask

with the force of a

gale:  can any of us

see? can any of us

recognize the importance

of soul? do we know

the human condition?

or have we forgotten—

we, forever imprisoned,

know our fellow man

through the television

or the computer, where

no real interaction allows

for the intercession of

persons who, as always,

remain desirous of

companionship and

love.

but, do we even know

ourselves? when we

glare into the glass

mirrors, do we see

what we need? or

is our image merely

a reflection, both what

we present and what

we feel internally?

the intrinsic meets

the extrinsic, and

we forever float

without tether, without

seeing the internal

and embracing the

beautiful.

another poem.

the quiet

the night seems strangely

bright as i drive home

on the long, lonely road

that weaves between the

darkness.

the radio blares—it plays

cheesy, contrived pop

songs. none speak to the

soul. none have meaning.

yet they offer a break from the

silence. solace from the

uncomfortable. i continue to

drive toward the light as I let

the night be, strangely and soothingly,

irrevocably, irredeemably bright.  

untitled.

a smell of bug spray continues

to permeate through the house

as i prepare to step outside and

enjoy the cooling summer air.

soon, briskness will befall the

season and the world will

enter a powerful slumber.

leaves tumble, leaves fall.

alas, i am alone—Providence

my only keeper.

i am separate as it

all continues about

like clockwork.

such are the vicissitudes

of seasonal change.

stuff.

I expect something, and then things change -- my life veers sharply into the dark unknown. Six months ago, I'd assumed I would be in graduate school. When I was ten, I thought I would be at Harvard Medical school -- at some point. Everything changes. Nothing is permanent.

Such is my life. It's always been like this.

A few days ago, I was able to catch up with a professor whom I much admire. He, along with some others, shaped and guided my writing.

I saw him eating lunch -- I had briefly visited my alma matter -- and I asked to join. We talked writing, but I also lamented my frustrations.

I was worried, I told him, that writing would not get me anywhere. He told a powerful, moving story that described his youth. He, too, was unsure. He was expected to be a journalist, but he wanted to venture elsewhere. He took time to find himself. And he walked home, even though the street had no lights -- for a time.

It seemed dark, but something always pushed him. He realized what he was meant to do:  write, teach, and minister.

But he didn't figure all that out until a few years ago. He said he had written down his desires in his youth, but he locked them away -- both in mind and in the tangible.

I know my passions, but I need the moment he had -- everything, at some point, needs to click.

Where's my light? Where's my sign? Maybe God can help me out?

As I told him, I think this is why I enjoyed the show 'Lost' as much as I did. 

I just need to keep writing, though. Keep writing and let the words flow. Let my soul sing and let my mind dance with the language on the page.

I'm on the island. I need to get home. 

freewriting.

The wind blows
cool autumn air
across the faded
grass, while the
sun glows yellow -
the perfect time
to sit on a porch
and sip cider, as
the leaves on the
trees burn bright.

New publication.

New publication.

http://www.ftzine.com/node/47


This is a great, small literary journal. I encourage writers to submit.

a poem.

dark skies loom
overhead as you
speed toward
infinity on a lonely
highway, the radio
blaring, thoughts
pounding, and
the past, ever present,
to remind us of our
unceasing mortality -
the memories, the
memories.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

An experimental piece.

I'd call in performance art, but I'm not sure it's that. I guess it can only be referred to as an experiment.

The Glorious Involution

A Play in One Act

By Jon Bishop

Scene One

We see five actors illuminated by a blindingly white light. The room and floors are pale. They are seated across the stage and are expressionless.

They resemble aspects of a person:  how so may be left to the director’s discretion.

All are named a letter A through E and this is indicative of their order. 

Alternating from right to left, ending in the center:

E: (proudly) Five!

Blackout. E exits.

Lights up.

A:  (frightened) Four!

Blackout. A exits.

Lights up.

B:  (blandly) Three!

Blackout. B exits.

Lights up.

C:  (angrily) Two!

Blackout. C exits.

Lights up.

D:  (bombastically) One!

He stares at the audience.

Blackout.

Close curtain.