Holy shit and fuck. (Might as well get those out the way, the cussing.) It’s going to be 2017. No one cares. I will be 30. No one cares. I sit here eggless, full fridge, and reflect on what I can remember about 2016. I am watching a documentary on my Chromecast on my television as the Google Home stands silent. Ok Google, get me a beer.
That is how modern we are. Let’s discuss modernity. Ok Google, clean out the litter box. In the same vein I want to discuss the upcoming revival of The More Or Less podcast, last Christmas, and just talk about a life in general, in prose, in relative brevity. (Also, please donate to a struggling artist–me!)
The More Or Less podcast has been a favorite pet project of mine. We just barely got it off the ground with 3 episodes a few months back, and then we decided to take a sabbatical.
Meantime, I had a son, started volunteering, and built equity within the libraries. Even so, with the time off to attend other details, I felt we were moving in the right direction, and needed to reboot. So reboot we will.
Much of our idea stems off of the idea that we, Ed and I, listen to a similar podcast that we enjoy–The No Agenda Show. Tho, we are going going to try and talk more openly about life, not specifically focus on news media or global politics. We are not trying to be them, we will be us, and now we live in the Midwest together, so we should be more Minnesotan.
On life in general, work, marriage, and being a father has been particularly great–there is no real word to describe it precisely and accurately exactly. The three can cause a person to become tired, can also cause a person to smile. One pays in money, the others in happiness. There is some balance, yin and yang.
That is how it goes, so it goes. Novices will call it Adulting. They will bitch about work and not sleeping, but they don’t have kids. When you have kids you sleep very well, but not very much.
One issue I will reflect on within the podcast will be the inequality between mothers and fathers in relation to parental leave, in Minnesota and in the US. For fathers there just isn’t much for parental leave. Let’s try to fix that by cajoling it locally, sure.
Still no one cares. And some big words. My peers in a college English poetry workshop would reflect on that idea and call it simple or common and ask for more deeper metaphors and bigger, bigger words–don’t deign to colloquialisms.
The big words part makes it exclusive to smart people, the privileged, that is what is important to up-and-coming poets. That and recognition from publishers, and money! So make friends.
I might put a photo at the top of this rather carefree essay, or art work to make it sort of like a picture book for those who don’t read. As I do this, I am watching the last hot print typeset of the New York Times. Fair well! So much lead! So much pipes and smoking and paper and heat. That is why they say hot off the press! There is nothing cold in this documentary.
And Christmas. As I descend to become older, more people I am close with die. I have become the age that I remember meeting my parents at. This year my dad is dead, and my mother is alive and very well. She does a good job. My mom and my stepdad and my family went to church without us. They spoke about the man who sings Mary Did You Know every year on Christmas Eve, he sounds like Chef from South Park–now that song is stuck in your head, in that voice. He is a gentleman, and smooth.
We couldn’t go to church this year because of Teddy, he is a devout satanist–he was fussy. And then Christmas came. Consumerism. Presents. Of course NO MONEY. I loved everything I got and thought of the past, always something missing tho–some life. People got upset. People got mad. Shocked. Then we were sent home into bold winds and grey clouds of high plains. It was 22 degrees out when we arrived in St Paul, all the banks were closed except one.
Aside from that, nothing is new, like everything under the sun. There is no poet or actor position in my future. I will continue to do hard labor until I die. Then the day or year after I die, someone will find my work and want to publish it, a million dollar contract, and no me. I am just here now, an unknown (it’s great; carte blanche!) because I am not easy with friends or people.
Interesting: I have lost more friends, or people I had called “friends” in 2016 than in any other year of my life because of ideological differences; astonishingly, I feel I have rekindled more important friendships, more real friendships than at any other time in my life. This is great. Like a garden, even if you like the color green cutting all the weeds will make those other more beautiful and worthwhile plants seem that much more greener. I guess that is like life.
I guess what I am trying to say is listen to our podcast, and feel free to share my works. It should take place next Tuesday and be posted some time next week; my poetry (at the link above) comes inordinately throughout the week, so watch out. No pressure, right? Also, feel free to donate–hit the button–all donated monies goes to free thought, free idea, and future frees the same.
I don’t use advertisements like MPR uses underwriting, I don’t have someone telling me what to think, like CNN has corporate sponsors, and I don’t write prose or poetry that is approved by publishing houses just so they can put it in their book with their bottom line idea and claim they do it for justice or for equality, to share to their demographic community. And that is important to me. One day I hope my ideas can help you and me and make things easier for the better for all. Sounds vague, it is, well, so what?