Before I am Famous

It is only a small thing to ask newcomers into this country, speak English. I am not saying completely rid oneself of their heritage. I am not saying to rid oneself of it all. But think about it this way- if I moved to Russia, I better know Russian because how I am going to understand anyone in that country unless I am lucky enough to find someone who speaks English.

A unified country needs a unified language, where we are all on the same page even if we are natural born citizens or immigrants.

I already know some people are ready to fire off about this country was founded by immigrants and all. I know that. I understand that. I don’t speak Spanish. I don’t speak Chinese or Japenses or Arabic, and the general population does not speak it either. By the way I speak very little French, a lot of good that langauge is going to do me, where I live.

So someone comes to America. He wants to be a citizen, isn’t only right to speak the language of the country that person wants to live the rest of his life in?

On the flipside, speaking English is beneficial for the immigrants. There are people out in this world that will screw someone over so it benfits themselves. If, for example, an employer hires a person who speaks Chinese and barely understands English or speaks it, that employer will more than unlikely screw the person over and take advantage of that person.

It is like if someone can not read and someone else knows, do you know how easy it to take advantage of someone who can not read?

Some food for thought.

It is 4 am the phone startles her awake. She reaches over and picks it up with her heart pounding.

“Hello,” she mumbles.

“Hello, Mrs Mulrooney this is… ” The voice on other the line fades with each word he says to her. She drops the phone after he says, “I am sorry, ma’am.”

She starts crying hard, “Why? Why you?” she screams into the darkenss. “We’re going to have a baby. Your baby!” She doesn’t know what to do, she doesn’t want to be alone. She lays back on the bed and cries into her pillow. After a bit, Daylene musters enough strength to pt on some clothes. She steps out into the rainy night and drives to the flapjack house.

She knows she shouldn’t smoke so much be she lights one right after another. Pulling the car into the parking lot, she sits and smokes between sobs. Dionne is at counter reading the newspaper. It is pouring now and the rain covers her windsheild. She gets out and slowly walks to the door. Daylene is no rush. She feels the warm rain flood her face washing away the tears.

She opens the door and Dionne looks up. “My lord, what the matta with you?”

“It’s, it’s,” she tries to tell her but the words get lost in tears.

Dionne comes from behind the counter and leads her to an empty booth. She puts her arm around Daylene and hugs her.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

“He’s dead, Di. They called. He’s dead. What am I going to do?”

“Shh. You gonna be okay. You just stay here with me. I’ll help you,”Dionne gently says, comforting her adopted daughter.

Dionne leaves and comes back with some water,” Anyone you want me to call for ya.”

“I dunno.” she says as she lights another cigarette.

“What about that nice girl, Jess. Give me her number. I’ll call, she’ll know what to do.”

An hour later, Jess appears at the booth. Daylene looks up at her, her eyes blood-shot and her face puffy.

“Aww, Day. I am so sorry.” Jess puts her arms her and Daylene crys into her shoulder.

Feeling small,
leaving the lights
and people.
Like a dream of an Irishman,
New York City now.

Across the river,
across the way,
here I stay.
A feeling of sorrow of
good-bye to
a long-time love.
She is a long-time love.

All the lights twinkling
like fallen stars.
Hanging center stage
is the thumbnail moon.
The people,
the smells
are blanketed by the distance.
To where I live,
to where I am,
to where I exsist.

She changes like the autumn-
predictable
but always extraordinary and beautiful.

Her face is of many.
Her children come and go,
live and die
laugh and cry.

She is the hope,
she is the dream,
she is the future,
to a poor Irishman.

Last night, I was going through a lot of old stuff in my journal, seeing what I wanted to edit and put on the computer. I made the decision the other day that I am going to put a lot of poems together and make a book out of them. I figured if I want to be a serious writer then I actually have to start doing something. Well anything would be a start in the right direction.

Anyway… I was going through the journal and I have to say that I am not as bad as I thought I was. Okay maybe I am tooting my horn but it almost seems like it to me that I have 2 selves. I have the outward self, the one that people know me as. And then I have the writer self, where I actually have something worthwhile to read, at least for some people anyway.

I guess I never thought as myself as having 2 types of personalities. Okay I am not dysfunctional but I feel like the outward self is definitely not the same as the author self. On some level there is some similarity, like writing and saying what I mean.

Sometimes, I think that maybe I am not good enough. But I don’t know, I think maybe that I am. And with that I am starting to think more about my future as being someone who wants to write. I am not talking just a hobby but something that will make me happy in my life.

With all these thoughts is in my mind, I have come up with some goals for myself. In one year’s time I want to finish writing and illustarting my children’s book, construct a book poetry and finally… get more than half of my novel finished. The last one being the hardest but the story is there all I have to do is put to paper.

I will let you all know the status of those three goals, periodically. When I am done that I am going to start looking for publishers. Okay well enough for now.

Have a nice day.

TV Goddess
wears a misty rose gown
beautiful,
lusty you see her.

But you see me not.

Boil the petals of honey love
produce summer lathers.

Please soar with me,
drool over me,
worship me.

I will for you.

*another poem that I wrote using magnetic poetry*

comment from blogger-

Dear Daylene, I am sorry to hear that you are leaving the club but you know it is probably for the best anyway. I don’t know but I am sure you can get some jobs singing commercials and all. Speaking of singing… I went to a USO show last night. It was great, it almost made me forget where I was. I am sure the baby is getting real big now. I know that he will be born when I come home I can’t wait to hold him.
How is my mother treating you? I hope she is being nice. I know sometimes she is rude but that is the way she is. I really can’t see you being a check girl at the Piggly-Wiggly, that is one picture I would love to see is you in your uniform. Haha. Okay well I am looking forward to your next letter.
Love Always, Jason

She smiles at this new letter. She gets Jess to take a picture of her in work uniform and she places the picture in the envelope with her new letter. “Only three more months, little one and you will be here and so will Daddy,” she tells her stomach. She sits down and writes him a return letter.

Dear Jason, Things are really good here. I talk to your mom once a week. Since you aren’t going to be here, she is coming to stay with me until I have the baby. I am kind of looking forward to it but I am not at the same time.Well at least she can help me out. But what I am glad is that me and Jess are coming pretty good friends. She is helping me out a lot.
I got my friend from New Orleans to take over my singing at the club. She’ll be here next week. She’s has some loose ends to finish up or something. So I only got a couple more weeks there. Hell some days I can’t even show up at the grocery store for work but some how I do anyway.
I got Jess to take a picture of me in my uniform since I will be long from the Piggly Wiggly when you come home. I am sure it will make you laugh a little.
Well I have a doctor’s appointment soon. I can’t wait until you are home. I love you so much.
Your baby’s mama

I did not think that it could happen.
Why would I? This world like me
is a paradox. A loop of reapeating histories
and blood shed. The spring maiden stomped out
the north winds but she let us down and let him
come when he was not supposed to.

The sky is a dark blue which makes me
think of a disaster looming in the distance
over a cold ocean that wants to be warm, that reaches for the sun,
that hides behind the rain. On the crisp, youthful leaves;
aged snow tries corrupt them and tries to make them
soggy and yet the leaves remain strong.

Where one thing does not always lead to something else
there is no sense and sensibility; just a world like
every other finding answers to enigmas and making sense of
paradoxes. Like today, we can explain everything but we
can not explain snow in April and
we can not explain ourselves.

We do not know what they, the creatures beyond the sun see.
Nor can we care because that would shake our
so very logical, linear planet.
We know the Earth is round but we believe that the Earth is still

flat and square.

comment from blogger-

Last night, I finished the book I was reading which was Maeve Binchy’s Nights of Rain and Stars. Believe it or not, I read the last 180 pages in about hour and half. It was a pretty good book. I really like stories that have so much going on but not too much where you don’t know what the hell is going on.

I was thinking about the novel because the last one I read was Harry Potter, thinking about the amount of discipline to actually write 300 pages of a story that is interesting and realistic. I guess I always knew that writing a novel would be a lot of work but I guess I always thought it would be some what easy. Wow, I don’t know how people do it. And they do it everyday.

Okay so I have a novel in the works. When I first started out, it was only a novella that was inspired one night when I was playing galaga on my PS one and drinking Pepsi. But the more I worked on the story, the more ideas flowed for stories about some of the other characters.

As of right now, my novel is about mothers and daughters and the life they lead is similar to the previous genration. By the time I hopefully done, there will be 4 novellas. And the novellas can stand alone or be read together. I am working on the 3rd novella and haven’t even started the others.

Truth be told, it is sitting in the notebook collecting dust since when I started the story I actually wrote it on paper like in the olden days. So anyway, I know I should I transcribe the written story to the computer. In one way I don’t want to because the edit monster will come out and I will never finish transcribing. What I really think is going on is that eventhough I want to write it bad enough, I can’t want to write it that bad or would I have done it.

I actually wake up some days and think today is the day. I just have to get off my ass and do it.

Have a nice day!!