collected works

on a top shelf in our library downstairs sits a gigantic three ring binder filled with hundreds of dated journal and poetry pages / the pompous title R K Leroy Collected Works is printed in big terrible letters on the cover / this amazing testimony to self absorb-ness covers events and musings in my passage from years ago

from time to time it calls to me / i take it down and thumb through the yellowing dog eared pages / its hard for me to read / it is virtually without editing / streams of personal passages / lines that make me cringe / as bad as reading old high school love letters / written in many ways as therapy for a thoughtful and sensitive younger man filled with turmoil

he wrote voraciously / prolific without pretense / delusional in the hope he had the ability to write something of enduring value / and upon closing the cover / and recovering from my gag reflex / i always make plans to use the nearest fireplace in hopes of saving myself from the embarrassment of exposing this sad material to anyone

so far this document has survived along with a dozen other notebooks filled with similar angst / their ultimate fate is still in question / but indeed how arrogant is it to think anyone would waste their time with this drool / to suffer such foolishness

i have always felt things deeply / but i dont think i deserve to express them unless i can do it in this elusive voice that i sometimes hear but cant translate into words

i look around and see there are so many people in pain that have nothing or no one / and tell their poignant stories with clarity / power / elegance / they deserve to be heard

i on the other hand have so very much / so much to be thankful and joyful about / yet so often my soul is filled with senseless darkness and regret / passion without a way to share it / without a voice that could justify my words / validate my expression

since i met my lovely wife some seven years ago now / she has been my outlet / and will always be my outlet / so why do i still have this pressure to share what is in me on the page in a way that i am unable? / i sometimes listen to the way i express myself to her / and it is in a voice i recognize that once in a great while speaks in words that am able to write down / more like simply taking dictation / those are my best days / when i can glimpse a lost beauty somehow there in me pouring from this gentle unknown source

i fear i am all i will ever be here

if i keel over tomorrow there will be a few facets of my personality people around here will freak over i think lol

Dot Com Man

December 20, 2011

Keep those old note books, man. They will continue to give you pleasure. After all, you accumualted them over the years for yourself. I know. I have one going right today of my day to day scribbling. I’ve got old ones two. I enjoy looking at my thinking at an earlier time. They would be junk to another person thumbing thru them. But I like’em. So keep your old journals…..and look at them and enjoy them from time to time. You are one of my favorites. However, I’m a very infrequent noter. Dang me…..they oughta hang me.

lelis

Journals should not be subject to judgment, I don’t think, unless published and even then opinions are subjective. You’re judging your writings so harshly but they obviously serve a purpose for you. That’s all that really matters. And honestly, I’m not sure there’s ever been a writer without some angst in him or her!

On Exhibit

December 21, 2011

Your comment of others w/ stories that have clarity. Simply because another knows how to write and express their thoughts better than another doesn’t lessen your thoughts nor mine or anyone elses. You? An honest treasure.

woman in the moon

December 23, 2011

We write it down. Some of it anyway…