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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a podcast which ran its course in just 13 weeks, uncategorized things I had written in the past for two websites I was no longer current with, and finally, poetry… it all seemed out of place for the form known as blogging, or at least what I had come to know as “blogging” from a few of my fellow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.

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A Flaw in My Wiring

A Flaw in My Wiring… 

INSTAGRAM a flaw in my wiring PNG

c 2016 William S. Friday

POETRY: On the Edge

Okay, maybe this isn’t really a press release, but…

Come to MADE in Long BeachMADE

on Saturday, July 24th between 3:30 and 7:30 pm, for an early evening of books, poetry, stories about books and poetry, and special guests…

Ra Avis is the author of the book “Sack Nasty: Prison Poetry”.

Ra is a long-time WordPress blogger, SACK NASTY racurrently spending her nights (and most days) at rarasaur.com.  Sack Nasty is her first work to be published after 438 days of incarceration.  The poems and short stories she shares in the book are just the beginning of her story.

William S. Friday is the author of the book “A Death on Skunk Street”

Bill has been published both online and in print, billfridayYOUTUBEhosted an internet talk show, and is the keeper of his very own WordPress blog.  After 10 years of writing online for two citizen journals, as well as two long-running blogs, all those years and all those words became the basis for his first book.

Meet Ra, and Bill, at MADE in Long Beach, along with other incredibly talented guest artists, J.W. Gardner and Matthew Blashill.  All four of them will be reading excerpts from their most recently published works, and Ra and Bill will be signing copies of Sack Nasty and A Death on Skunk Street.

For additional info, click the MADE in Long Beach link at the top of the page.  See everybody there.

Golden

golden woman retriever (2)

A place to live,

quiet and warm.

A dog,

big and loyal.

And a woman,

golden,

right and true,

who will love me

as much

as she loves the dog.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Muth Labben

ben muth labben

Today is for counting my wasted yesterdays
Each one neatly lined up
row on dusty row

Every year the same

Today is for remembering your unborn tomorrows
And the time I sit
because walking is too slow

There is no blame

Today is for pretending to make sense of the past
From a life ended
with nothing to show

When I speak your name

Today is for thinking that memories last
But all they do is fade
until they go

Like every unfinished song to be sung
About the death of a son

Copyright © 2012 Bill Friday

The Urgent Necessity of Words

type blood

I have grown to hate the urgent necessity of words…
poetic in their expression, as though they cannot be, any longer, spoken in something longer than short bursts of weak prose…

I have grown to hate the uselessness of words…
volumes of thought, stripped bare of all muscle and sinew, till all that’s left to show for it is the bleached bones of time…

I have grown to hate the feeble sounds of words…
their drone as repetitive as an infant’s vocabulary of need, never more expressive than I will, I want, I always I…

I have grown to hate the self-awareness of words…
knowledge without understanding, always one step behind, late for every good thing, yet right on time for eulogy…

I have grown to hate the hopefulness of words…
bright future in the shroud of history, always rising from within, like morning sun in the eyes of an all-night drunk…

I have grown to hate the efficacy of words…
healing souls that otherwise would die, mine being the first, as in physician heal thyself before you malpractice upon others…

I have grown to hate the eternality of words…
from the time before there was time, to the time when time is again no more, and how they have found me at my most lost…

I have grown to hate the urgent necessity of words…
complete in their ability, to hurt and to make whole, to damage and to comfort, and to seal their work with forever scars…

And my understanding of their purpose.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Breath on Windowpanes

IMG_6207

Before I got there
it was gone
All the words that
went with every feeling of my heart

Pain
not acute enough to notice
except when accompanied by the will to
give in

Give up
my pursuit of happiness
in the way that turns colors to
chalk beneath December rain

And breath on windowpanes
into wishes
that will not fade until
the coming of spring

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Serial – Three: Purged

man over toilet bowl on white background. Isolated 3D image

man over toilet bowl

I’ve been asked if I will ever write ‘light’, as if the only emotion I have within me is ‘dark’.  When that happens, I usually shrug.  Not the literal kind, with shoulders that move, and a face like an open-mic comic delivering a punchline.  But an internal shrug that says, “You wouldn’t understand”.  These words of mine, in their form and ordered on the page, are not an extension of all that is within me, but an expression of all that must be purged out of me.

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Morning Breath

morning breath

Will you still want me when I have morning breath,
or the hair I have left
sticks up in ten wrong directions at the same time?

I don’t rise and shine before nine on Saturdays,
and I watch hockey
on TV
in my underwear till three.

Will you still look me in my eyes when we screw
in the afternoon,
or will you decline
and tell me to fuck you from behind,
and not look at me,
as the light fades from the room?

Not that I have a problem with it,
unless I want to remember how your face moves
when I move through
you like you commanded.

Will you still kiss me as you leave,
in the bulb light,
when I don’t know your last name,
like your first,
as it echoed off the walls of this bare room?

When I still thought good was right,
until the fade of day to night
let me see
the thing I want for what it is.
Gone.

And is that your real phone number,
or the Compton DMV?

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

The Apology

IMG_4993

I’ve been a shitty friend to a lot of you

And while I had my reasons

I never had excuses

I wish I’d been a better friend to most of you

Or with some

maybe just not known you at all

That would have made life so much easier

and most likely better

at least for you

Because whatever puny light my time in your life brought

it would have been better if I’d left you in the dark

Until somebody with a torch showed up

and lit your path the way you deserved

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

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