billfriday.com

fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Archive for the tag “Bill Friday”

30 Days of Night: #NaBloPoMo on the Graveyard Shift

30-days-pngIt’s been one year.

Three-hundred-sixty-five days, plus one leap day, and a couple thousand cups of coffee, since the last time I stared November in the face. 

And the first time November stared right back.

One year ago tonight, I got lost in something so frightening that, until I lived to see the end of it, I had always been too shaken by the very idea to even let myself speak its name.

NaBloPoMo.

To be asked, no… forced, to go through an experience so life-altering that some I once called friends never recovered.  Just 30 days on a calendar that, coincidentally, begin in the still quiet hours of All Hallows Eve.  When deals are done with whatever tells grown men and women that everything will be okay, if they just keep their hands and feet tucked inside the covers at night.

The name that, if you’re a writer, you know.

NaBloPoMo.  The writer’s boogeyman.

And every writer knows that, on All Hallows Eve, you can’t kill the boogeyman.

So here I am, one year later, and the boogeyman is back.  Only this time, he only comes out at night.  This year, very unlike last year, the world… my world… is lived from dusk till dawn.  And I write for the boogeyman on the graveyard shift, in November, during 30 days of night.

And for those of you who write in the safety of the day, NaBloPoMo is just another word.  Like sunshine, or coffee.  But for those of us who live to write at night, well…

It’s waiting.

 

*for a Facebook LIVE reading of this post, CLICK HERE.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday    

Stuff and Things

stuff and things xI’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,

“I am NOT a blogger.”

I know that’s confusing, for bloggers and non-bloggers alike, because… BLOG.  THIS BLOG.  THIS BLOG you are reading.  Right NOW.

So, for those who don’t know me well…and that would be most of you… here’s how I have navigated the phrase, “I am not a blogger”.

I am a writer.  First and foremost, beyond all other labels, I am and will always be, a writer.  Not a blogger.  Not a poet.  Not an author.  A writer.  Even though I maintain a blog, and I have a whole book of published poetry.  So what, for me, started out as a blog, then became a place to post what I’ll call, for lack of a better term “content”… like a podcast which ran its course in just 13 weeks, uncategorized things I had written in the past for two websites I was no longer current with, and finally, poetry… it all seemed out of place for the form known as blogging, or at least what I had come to know as “blogging” from a few of my fellow bloggers, most of whom I barely read.

Until this year.

This year, everything I knew changed.  All the stuff and all the things.  About life.  About writing.  About blogging.

I went from writer to author, seemingly overnight.  With the unforeseen help and tireless teaching, editing, and emotional hand-holding of a friend and genuine blogger, I finished and published my first book.  Then, over the remainder of the summer, without warning, I saw what blogging really could be.  Not for expanding my contacts list.  Not for sales and marketing.  Not even for the joy of having others read my words.

But for experiencing life through others, beyond my writer’s walls.

And, with this actual BLOG post, I’m ready to call myself a BLOGGER.  Finally.  Once and for all.  Without fanfare.  Just acceptance that what I’ve been told is true, and there’s an entire world of writers and authors, bloggers and humans, out there.  Beyond my walls.  Beyond their own walls.  Ready to say hello.

So, without knowing what I’m doing, today I am Bill Friday, blogger.  With no agenda, no axe to grind, and no idea what I’m doing.  All I’ve got is a title.  These posts, mixed in with the poems and podcasts, will be known as “Stuff and Things”.  Because, as my friend and genuine blogger has told me on more than one occasion, that’s all a blog, and life, is really about…

The stuff, and things.

Love Unwitting

nano safety pin heart

 

Your words once meant more to me than my next breath, until they didn’t.  So well you did making that happen, through silence and invisibility, entered into, I assumed, for your own preservation, that you have seen to mine as well.

Till now that I, instead of hating you, thank you.

For what I once endured as a sign of your contempt, I now accept as a last act of love, unwitting. From which I emerge, knowing that, for both far better, and a little worse, I will never be the same.

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Today Was A Day

stop TODAY WAS A DAY

Today was a day

The sun rose before I opened my eyes to its light

Fat were the clouds come in before dark

colder than the air conditioning at Starbucks

 

Today was a day

I learned the truth about the emptiness of the night

Full was her mouth with come in the dark

older from this youthful indiscretion

 

Today was a day

When football takes the place of church and feels more right

Empty was their comfort come after dark

and guilt in the past pleasure of the two

 

Today was a day

As every other lapsed memory lost without fight

Thin my acceptance of life come against the dark

where acceptance is the last

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

This Is An Actual Blog Post

nablopomo, nanopoblano

Nano Poblano 2015

 

This Is An Actual Blog Post.

(you’ve been warned)

I became a poet towards the end of the two-thousand-oughts.  It wasn’t by design, but rather, desperation.  I was writing for an online Citizen Journal, enjoying some popularity there, and learning what it meant to contribute regularly with my words to a community of writers.

Some people actually thought I was kinda good at it.

My intention all along was NOT to blog, but rather, to write.  As in real writing, not the self-congratulatory bullshit that passes itself off as writing in the blog world.  Writing, as in script-to-screen or, if I was lucky and could fool the right people, a long-form short story or novel.  Blogging, to my snot-nosed thinking, was what people who could neither do, nor teach, did with their caffeine-addled latte musings.  Writing was what genuinely talented people did to convey their misunderstood genius and get PAID for it.

Like Aaron Sorkin, but without all the rehab.

But like a great lost number of self-described writers, my words became fewer as my problems became greater.  Employment, intended to pay the freight and pave the way for enough income to support my future career, became more and more time-all-consuming, and insensitive to the needs of the future I imagined.  Marriage, once the backbone of my beliefs about existence and God, crumbled, leaving me to spend more hours re-evaluating what I believed and stood for than I had ever spent in the crafting of beautiful strings of my meaningless vocabulary.  Life, for all its infinite beauty, wore a widow’s veil, obscuring my vision while I waited for the exile of mourning in the guise self-pity to pass.

It never did.

Until the day I posted,

“If you don’t love your life… change your life.”

Because employment was not my life.  Marriage was not my life.  And life (for all its infinite beauty) was not my life.  As I looked around at what was passing (and passing away) as my life, I realized that none of those things could any longer define me.  None of those things any longer made me who I was.  A job was just a job.  Expectations and commitments pass away.  And words don’t come neatly packaged for the gifting of them.  Existence is sloppy, but life is beautiful, if you live it beyond the details.  So, in just one moment of time, I wrote, “If you don’t love your life… change your life.”

Which brings us to November 1st, 2015.

Nothing says change quite like swallowing your pride and letting go of your preconceptions, or in my case, BLOGGING.  November 1st is the official first day of Blogging Season.  Having once mocked all the Nano-this, and Poemo-that, today, I give in to change.  This is my first entry in the 30 day rollercoaster of word terror called Nano Poblano, a tiny, less neurotic subdivision of NaBloPoMo.  The month when writer’s lives are ruined for the better.  If you’ve made it all the way down this page, you have just read post number one.  For 30 days, I will be opening myself up to all manner of writer crazies, shared with you in the form of posts, poems, photos, and… lots of other stuff, written on the fly and on deadline.  I’ve been told it’ll be fun.  For you, AND me.  Not sure if I believe that yet, but you’re here and I’m here.  Let’s find out.

Next up, for tomorrow…

Rhyming words that don’t.

Summed Up

Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity's Gate) Vincent Van Gogh

Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity’s Gate)
Vincent Van Gogh

 

So much of my life has been

summed up

in the words,

“I don’t want to be with you.”

 

My life is now

summed up

in the words,

“I don’t want to be without you.”

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Ockham

William of Ockham

William of Ockham

 

The simplest answer

Usually

Is the right one

Thanks razor-boy

Of all the

Possible answers

To life’s

Dramatic questions

The simplest never

Includes the heart

 

Because the heart

Has been cut out

 

© 2015 Bill Friday

Today

jeremyriad.com

jeremyriad.com

 

There are days

when I think I have

lived long enough

 

Days after birthdays

and when holidays have

passed for the year

 

Personal days of remembrance

anniversaries

and deaths

 

Days of finality

after celebration

or mourning

 

Days that follow

the emptying

of my soul

 

Days I can’t remember

why I’ve hung on

for so long

 

Today.

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

Older and Frailer

frail

 

I avoid thinking about my childhood

Unless someone asks me to tell them

Why I am the way I am

And then I’m forced to

Or I lie

 

And usually

When I talk about the distant past

I spend that time remembering my dad

Whose influence always finds

Its way to the surface

Of my thoughts

The quickest

 

He would yell when he got angry

Mutter when he knew he was wrong

And condemn

When warning me against things

That could lead to harm

 

But as he got older and frailer

With age and a failing heart

He also would

Own up to his yelling

Muttering

Condemning ways and speak

With genuine contrition

 

Until the last night I saw him alive

And I knew that he

Loved me more on that night

Than on any day

Which had preceded it

 

 

© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Closer to Becoming

 

I’m sitting cross-legged

on my bed

returning correspondence with friends

on the internet

fucking buck-ass naked

The light from the cresting

August sun makes the

piles of dirty laundry seem

less than it is

Maybe a load tomorrow

maybe not till next week

The coffee isn’t strong enough

but I won’t go downstairs

like this to make more

or get dressed so I can

And now, the two o’clock breeze,

fifteen minutes early

telling me that Autumn is

closer to becoming

than an empty bedroom floor.

 

 

 

© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: