More Writing Spaces Posts on the Horizon
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Late last summer, a series of writers of all stripes contributed Guest Posts about their writing spaces. The posts were as varied as the people writing them and that’s what made it so wonderful. I had plans on making it a semi-regular series but life intervened. However, I am thrilled to say that I’ve asked a few people to add to the series which now has its own page (tab is up there, on the far right) where you can see who has already joined in the fun.
Stay tuned as I am excited about the writers who will be adding to the series.
Paterno Is Dead and I Don’t Feel so Good Myself
I know a man who is a convicted sex-offender. He molested his grand-daughter and spent several years as a guest of the State for doing so. Hes paid his debt to the Justice System, but not to Society. He is listed on the Sex Offender Registry, has taken shit from neighbors and some people dont want him around anymore.
I know somebody who was sexually abused by her father. He wasnt prosecuted, even though there was sufficient evidence to do so because the victim didnt want to testify in court and the mother wouldnt force her. She also didnt get counseling because it was difficult for the girl to face and again, the mother didnt force the issue. I still have problems with that set of circumstances. That means the girl, the victim here, is still a victim.
I know somebody who was abused by an uncle. Never told anyone when she was little because she was afraid nobody would believe her. I know more than one woman who has been raped. I know a couple of women who have been beaten by men. We all know victims.
Joe Paterno is now dead and as a iconic figure in American Sports, the Sweat Sock Set and Sports Psycophants will try to be fair and reasonable and respectful and what have you (If you dont know who Paterno is or about the scandal, a quick Google Search will bring you up to speed. Its not for the faint of heart). Most of them wont come straight out and call Paterno what he was in the only instance in life that mattered, a failure. An abject failure. No excuses.
Winning football games doesnt really mean much in the big picture. Helping boys become men is, and when given the opportunity to lead by example, Paterno fumbled. He choked, blew it, pick your cliche. Joe Paterno faced one of those moments that define a person and in his own words didnt know what to do.
Fuck that.
So, hes dead. Died of cancer and some are saying of a broken heart because he lost his job as head football coach and the will to live that went with it. Some ill-advised people have said that the last few months of his life were tragic.
Fuck that.
They werent tragic. They were avoidable. His legacy didnt get tarnished, by doing nothing when given the chance, Paterno pissed all over his legacy and himself. No pity for him there from me. Nor for his family. Im sorry they have to suffer the loss of his passing, sure. But the other stuff? His name being dragged through the mud? He put it there. They are still trying to make excuses for him and I get that. Its natural. Id probably be twisting myself into pretzels trying to balance love for a family member with outrage at the weakness myself. That doesnt make it right.
Dont allow yourself to get caught up in the so-called Tragedy of Paterno. There isnt one for him. No, the tragedy is what happend at the hands of his friend and colleague, it happened to those boys. Thats the tragedy. They have to live with this for the rest of their lives. There were adults who could have helped them and didnt. Paterno happens to be the most public face to get blamed for doing nothing. He got most of the blame, goes with the territory. Tough shit.
If you suspect a child is being sexually abused, dont pull a “Paterno” and do nothing. Report it. DO something about it. Dont make excuses, dont sit there with your thumb up your ass dithering, telling your boss, not following up, its a kid were talking about here.
So, you are probably wondering why I told you about the people on both sides of the crime I know right? Simple. I know the damage it can do first hand. Ive seen it, up close and personal. I also know a perp, an abuser. My faith demands forgiveness. Yet, I would never leave him alone with any kid, no matter how old. And if I thought he was up to it again, Id slap the shit out of him then call the cops. Forgiveness doesnt equate to dropping your guard and not being vigilant. It also means that I dont drip sympathy over the situation he finds himself in. He cant find a job around here, because of his conviction and all. Thems the breaks. Thats the consequences of his actions.
It also goes to illustrate vividly my understanding of both sides. And in this and every instance, my side is with the victims. Always will be as well. So, if youre one of those well meaning, but misguided people who are trying to prop up the football legacy of a man who KNEW somebody was fucking kids up the ass and didnt fire, have arrested, beat the shit out, keep off the property, something, anything, well…you might want to go look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself why. Because putting football games and coaches who win them over the safety and welfare of our children is just plain wrong. Period.
Oh, and the reason I dont feel so good? Because this needed to be said. Should be self-evident to me.
It’s Sunday And My Notebook Pages Are Still Blank So I Typed This Up Instead
I read a marvelous post close to a month ago, penned (does one who types still get credit for penning?) by @rkrystalli at Stories of Conflict and Love about the reminders of the past year. My comment mentioned how I also keep little bits of ephemera and errata and slap them in my notebooks. Roxanne directed me to another post she had written about notebooks. It was about more than notebooks, of course. It was about how She uses notebooks and writes her life. She let us inside her life and provided a guided tour.
Not only did she point out her post, she suggested asked that I write about what’s in my notebooks and how I choose what gets to reside there. I’ve been thinking about avoiding writing this for a while. There isn’t any set rule or guidelines to what I do. Perhaps I should attempt to explain.
Several years ago, I found myself in a downtown store that is now closed. It was called The Pen Point and sold very nice pens, greeting cards, upscale toys, stationary, doo-dads, gee-gaws and notebooks. I honestly forget now why I was there on this particular day, but I ended up buying a fountain pen. Or ink cartridges for a pen I already had. I’m not sure and it’s not important. The other thing I bought was a Moleskine pocket sized notebook. Lined, of course. Problem was, I had no clue what to write in the darn thing.
I’ve always wanted to BE a writer, but for one reason or another because I’m lazy I never quite got ’round to writing very much. Oh, I wrote a few short stories and and various and sundry times toted around a spiral notebook full of deathless prose and angsty “poetry” that dripped so schlock you’d think it just got out of the shower or was trying to drown. However, I’d never made a concerted effort to actually write for a sustained period of time. It would get ‘hard’ and I’d see something shiny and become distracted. Or quit something.
But I had fallen in love with the feel of the Moleskine. It’s weight was perfect, it fitted in my hand like it was made for my hand. It had the spiffy pocket in the back where I could put “stuff” even though I was baffled as to what. Then, oh then I read the “history” of the Moleskine that came tucked in said spiffy pocket. It sang of Chatwyn and Picasso and even though I’d never heard of the former or cared about the latter, I just KNEW I was on the precipice of…well, of something.
So, I numbered the pages. In green ink, as I recall. And started to carry it around with me. But I didn’t write much in it because I felt that such a perfectly sized work of art notebook needed something Grand and Wonderful lovingly written on it’s creamy off-white pages numbered with green ink. Truth is, 192 pages of blank paper scared the bejeesus outta me. So, I tucked my fear in my back pocket and tried to vanquish it by sitting on it, walking around with it and thinking.
Gradually, bit by bit, I started writing in it. Horrible stuff. Baseball scores, thoughts, and dreadful poetry. I tried being a deep thinker and made it about as far as a row-boat captain. Slowly, gradually, I saw the green page numbers getting larger as I put more of myself on the paper in the little black notebook that now had a slight curve in it from riding in my back pocket and being sat on.
That same day, I also bought a couple of notebooks that are considerably larger. Well, in paper size they are. They only have 68 pages in them and they are from Japan. They are divine to write in with a fountain pen. I carried one of those in my back pack for a while, trying to decide what to do with it. It had the same problem gave me the same dilema as the Moleskine in that “whole-gotta-fill-it-with-something-special” nonesesne. In time, it became a journal.
I’ve been writing in or at these two sorts of notebooks for a while now. Along the way, I’ve taken to decorating them. Since I have the artistic senses of a drunkard in the gutter, I tend to use what’s at hand. Stickers from bananas, apples, oranges, new CD’s, DVD’s, or whatever else falls my way. I use all the stickers that come with special edition Moleskine’s as well. And warning stickers, and…like I said, there isn’t any rhyme or reason. If it’ll stick, it gets stuck.
I also like to tape fortunes from cookies on pages. And tickets from movies. When I was a kid, all the tickets looked the same. They came on huge rolls like you get at the county fair and were usually green or gray with ‘Admit One’ stamped on it with a number that meant nothing because there wasn’t a drawing for a door prize. These days, you get the name of the movie on the ticket, what time the show is, what theater, blah, blah, blah. I like to tape those in my notebook. Usually my journal. It leaves a marker of where I was or what I did and doesn’t require a lot of work. I don’t always do it because sometimes I forget or I get lazy. Or both.
Newspaper articles, notes, wristbands from events; sometimes these get taped in the journal. Or slid between pages and held in place with a paper clip that I’ll just end up losing but feel compelled to try and use regardless. Take 0ut menu’s, brochures, napkins, receipts, bus passes, losing door prize tickets, whatever appeals to me at the moment. I’ll put them away for someday. Or better yet, for somebody else to throw out when I’m dead and gone.
We don’t go much of anywhere, or do much of anything. Not like many of you who travel all over the world doing great things and seeing wonderful places and meeting with fabulous people. So, when we do go to Chicago or New York or St. Louis or even down the road a piece, something solid to remember it by, I put in my journal along with parts of me in the form of spilled ink and emotions and thoughts and run on sentences.
I paid too much for that first Moleskine. I always pay too much for them. I’ll continue to pay too much for them. They’re not notebooks for me anymore, they’re bandages and bags and scrapbooks and wallets and….
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Thank you for reading!
Three Thoughts for Saturday 1/21/12
- Three weeks into 2012 and I wonder how people are doing with their New Year’s Delusions so far.
- I was watching a TV show where one of the characters mother was driving him nuts. It struck me that the best part of my mother being gone is she can’t do that to me anymore. I immediately realized this is the worst part of her being gone.
- It’s funny how listening to the songs of one artist can create an earworm out of a song by somebody else. Case in point, after listening to the new Alex Chilton re-issue (The “1970″ Album), I keep hearing The Replacements song, “Alex Chilton” percolating in my brain.
Have a great week and thanks for reading.
Three Thoughts for Saturday 1/14
- While still a killer song, the lyrics to Van Halens song Hot for Teacher border on creepy to my almost 50 year old ears.
- After years of fake snow on TV and in movies, real snow looks fake to me now.
- I become more like my father every year. This is a Good Thing.
Thanks for reading and I hope you had a good week!
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My Book ‘Tender Mercies’
