Manic Frustration

Sick Day

2012-02-17T00:06:00.000-05:00

my mind is not my own today.

it is cold pavement. wet snow.

grey, chilling winds and

overcast memories.

in my skull, an ocean

fluctuating high and

low frequencies. crescendos.
atomic blasts.

scrawled words the
tongue struggles to pronounce
cut my mouth like chewing
gravel, spitting
sand.

and the day tightens
steel jaws around
my bones.

crush my eyes
to diamonds,
they cut
through
the fog.

~Dale Wilsey Jr.

Smart as a FOX: Mr. Gainor, Your Bias is Showing

2012-02-09T23:38:00.000-05:00

There's one thing that every "news" team has gotten right: there's a lot of bullshit in the news. What they all fail to realize, however, is that it's spread around on all sides. Left-wing, right-wing, and everything in between. Today, I had a delightful reminder of all of this and an incredible look into irony and complete jackassery.

A close friend of mine had pointed out VP of Business and Culture for Media Research Center Dan Gainor's Twitter account. The MRC is an organization founded by conservative activist L. Brent Bozell III. Its goal is to "prove — through sound scientific research — that liberal bias in the media does exist and undermines traditional American values, but also to neutralize its impact on the American political scene."

You can click on his name above to get the full scoop on Mr. Gainor from the MRC's site, but it does state that he has had almost two decades of experience in print and online media editing for multiple papers and magazines as well as contributing to the Fox Business Network and the Fox Forum.

At the time my friend brought him to my attention, though, he was lashing out at a gay individual who happened to be a Christian. Apparently, in Mr. Gainor's eyes, this made the individual a "pretend" Christian.

Seeing as how Mr. Gainor's remarks seemed a bit un-Christian, I reminded him of Matthew 7:1-5. There must be some hidden meaning behind the words of that particular section of the Bible to Atheists. When I woke in the morning, I found this reply:

Interesting considering that I had not even mentioned abortion (this, I assume, is what Gainor means by murdering "babies") and was simply defending the other person who Mr. Gainor said was "violating basic tenants of the Christian faith". Again, I fail to see how Mr. Gainor was adhering to the basic tenants by vehemently judging another individual, but maybe it's just my blackened, soulless self who is blind. I also fail to see how the gay individual was a baby murderer considering he never has nor ever will have an abortion.

So began my conversation with Mr. Gainor throughout the day. And he displayed hypocrisy and abundant idiocy splendidly.

The individual who Mr. Gainor was bashing had brought up the recent firestorm over the Susan G. Komen foundation's decision to de-fund Planned Parenthood. Mr. Gainor contests that Planned Parenthood is the "number one abortion operation in the U.S.". When I reminded him that less than 3% of Planned Parenthood's services were abortion related and that countless lives have been saved due to their breast cancer and STD screening services:

OK. I'll bite, Mr. Gainor. How and why is that statistic bogus?

I wasn't quite sure how this response answered my question considering 1) he was offering a single number and doing math with a single number is rather pointless and 2) that his un-cited statistic proved nothing contrary to my own statistic that only 3% of their services were abortion related.

What I was looking for was some supporting evidence that his "1,000 daily abortions" comment was, in fact, correct. Again I asked him to provide a citation for his statistic, at which point he furnished me with this link: Planned Parenthood Releases Annual Report: Abortions top 329,000.

Convenient that Mr. Gainor provides a link to an "article" written by the very news corporation which he contributes to. Also convenient that the article doesn't actually link to the annual report, but to other articles referencing Planned Parenthood. All, of course, portraying the organization in a negative light. This is a common practice, I've noticed, of many "news" organizations online. There are very few references to the actual reports and, when there are, there are even fewer links to them.

The casual reader, and especially those who are die-hard fans of one bias over the other and who obtain their news from a single source, would more than likely take what Mr. Gainor sent me as proof and believe what he said. And, judging by his response while I was looking for the information ("Hmmm, you appear to not have liked that stat") he more than likely assumed I had done just that and felt "beat" by his spin and omission of all the facts.

Taking some initiative and Google searching the report, I came to find this (link):

Planned Parenthood 2009-2010 Annual Report

According to the statistics, Mr. Gainor's stat of approximately 1,000 abortions per day was correct. Let's look at the rest of the chart, though. I notice that, in 2010, "Total Services" equaled 11,003,366 while "Abortion Services" totaled 329,449.

Mr. Gainor suggested that I "do some math", so I'll try that now. Keep in mind that I was never spectacular at math, but I believe I remember how to figure percentages. Also keep in mind that these are the numbers which Mr. Gainor provided himself and used to refute my claim that only 3% of Planned Parenthood's services were abortion related.

329,449 / 11,003,366 = 0.0299407...

Abortion Services / Total Services = 3%

Planned Parenthood 2009-2010 Annual Report

Mr. Gainor has yet to explain to me just how my statistic was, as he states, "bogus" while his statistic, which uses the same set of numbers and he claims is undeniable truth, is not. He presented his case and his own data and, in doing so, supported the very argument that I had made. Yet, somehow, my claims are "bogus". Unfounded.

Through the conversation, Mr. Gainor kept asserting that he was "pro-life" and for the protection of innocent lives. The fact is, Planned Parenthood helps to save innocent lives by offering affordable services to those in need. By offering STI/STD treatments and screenings, Cancer screenings, and various other services, the organization helps to prevent the loss of innocent life.

Yes, they do provide abortion services and yes those abortions work out to be approximately 1,000 per day, but that is a fraction of what Planned Parenthood does. That is a fact. And until Roe v. Wade is overturned within the Supreme Court, these abortions are legal and safe regardless of your religious or moral stance.

Mr. Gainor exemplifies what is wrong with "news" and the spread of disinformation in this country today. A huckster who sells you his biased and altered perception of the world through spin and hysteria. Do not swallow what he or any of his kind, be it Right or Left, have presented to you as the "truth".

The truth does not up ratings. The truth does not feed the machine. And to find it, you need to dig and wade through the muck and shit that is presented to us every day by smiling, raving, talking heads.

Your move, Mr. Gainor.

...

Constitution Becomes Harrisburg's Doormat

2012-01-30T01:16:00.000-05:00

"Christianity neither is, nor ever was a part of the common law."

~Thomas Jefferson, letter to Dr. Thomas Cooper, February 10, 1814

Originally, I had thoughts of composing a post concerning the issue heating up in Rhode Island over atheist Jessica Ahlquist and the removal of a "school prayer" from Cranston High School West's auditorium. I'd read the stories and the judicially dry, but incredibly well-written, 40-page document outlining the court's ruling. Visited Ms. Ahlquist's blog. Read the rude, often hate-filled comments hurled at the young woman in the name of Christianity.

This is what I was going to write about until I began researching more stories on infractions of the separation of Church and State. There were more stories of religion, making its way into public classroom. Indiana state Senate passed a bill which would grant permission to teach Creationism in its schools. As my gears turned, forming the words I'd write within my head, I was alerted of a new story. One in my own state of Pennsylvania.

Pennsylvania General Assembly names 2012 ‘the year of the Bible’

That is the headline which leaped from my laptop screen and smacked me in the face. Surely, this was some hoax. An Onion headline of sorts. With a few keystrokes, a click of the "Enter" button, and a split-second later, my hopes for hilarity were dashed. This was not a spoof. This, my friends, is real. The General Assembly of Pennsylvania "unanimously" passed House Resolution No. 535 (text here) declaring 2012 as the "Year of the Bible" in Pennsylvania.

The shear fact that my tax dollars, and the tax dollars of every other Pennsylvanian regardless of religious denomination or absolute lack of belief, went into paying for the time to draft and consider this resolution is an insult in and of itself.

During a time when the burdens of their constituents and lack of jobs in the state should be at the front of the docket, this is what they're doing in Harrisburg. The educational system is being reduced to shambles. While a multi-billion dollar industry is spilling over our hills and clogging our roads, transforming the landscape, and life as we know it here in Pennsylvania, with little oversight, possible environmental impact, and health issues, our legislature is spending time naming the year on our dime. And this is simply the tip of the iceberg when it comes to House Resolution No. 535.

It is a blatant disregard to the separation of church and state as outlined in the U.S. Constitution. Many representatives, not only in Pennsylvania but across the nation, have been touting their love, adoration, and undying allegiance to this document with renewed gusto over the past few years as evident by movements like the Tea Party.

However, in the same breath, the Constitution and the original framework of the founding fathers has been trampled and spit upon. They invoke the Constitution, but only in name. They use it to justify an agenda which completely opposes that of the Constitution.

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion...

Nuts to that, apparently.

No, the resolution is not law. However, the resolution does promote a singular religion. It stands for the progression of Christianity and, in the same light, denounces all other religions that may be represented within the state by way of alienation. The "Year of the Bible"? Without even asking which version of the Bible they're speaking of, what about the Tanakh or the Bhagavad Gita? What of the Qur'an or, for the sake of diversity, Dianetics?

The promotion of any singular religion by any level of government is unconstitutional. Period. The Forefathers had the knowledge of history and the foresight to lay out the separation of the state from the church to avoid imposing upon the rights of individuals regardless of religion. In the seminal case of Engel v. Vitale in 1962, which outlawed prayer in schools, the court had this to say of the Forefathers' beliefs:

By the time of the adoption of the Constitution, our history shows that there was widespread awareness among many Americans of the dangers of a union of Church and State. These people knew, some of them from bitter personal experience, that one of the greatest dangers to the freedom of the individual to worship in his own way lay in the Government’s placing its official stamp of approval upon one particular kind of prayer or one particular form of religious services... The Constitution was intended to avert a part of this danger by leaving the government of this country in the hands of the people rather than in the hands of any monarch. But this safeguard was not enough. Our Founders were no more willing to let the content of their prayers and their privilege of praying whenever they pleased be influenced by the ballot box than they were to let these vital matters of personal conscience depend upon the succession of monarchs. (source)

We are not, as many seem to believe with searing intensity, a "Christian" nation. Even if the Forefathers were Christian themselves (This is hotly debated. Many were believed to be, at best, Deists. Much of the evidence in their writing and lives suggests this.), it would not make this nation a "Christian" nation anymore than a meal prepared by Richard Dawkins would be an Atheistic dinner.

We are a nation of many beliefs or lack there of. And we all are granted the right, by our Constitution, to practice whichever beliefs we hold free of persecution. It's one of the main reasons we came to this hunk of land in the first place.

The representatives in Harrisburg have crossed a line. They have committed a crime against the U.S. Constitution and against their constituents. There is no reason for this to be taken lightly. Regardless of your religious beliefs, the Constitution and all of the rights it guarantees to the citizens of this country must be upheld. House Resolution No. 535 is a slippery and sickening glimpse into the thought process of those in Harrisburg and it should not go unnoticed.

Religion is a personal choice and an individual's concern alone. And when government dips their pens into the inkwell of faith and personal belief, they breach a wall constructed to keep them out of it for their own good and for our own personal safety. This is not the "Year of the Bible". And this is not the time for any of you sitting in Harrisburg or in Washington to be concerning yourselves with topics that, constitutionally, do not concern you.

The U.S. is hungry. We want to work. We want proper educational systems for our children. We want safety. And we want to know that you're doing everything possible to provide these things for this country using our tax dollars that we fork over every paycheck. The Church does not pay your salary, we do.

****

Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature should 'make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,' thus building a wall of separation between church and State.

-Thomas Jefferson, letter to

Danbury Baptist Association, CT., Jan. 1, 1802

...

Prose in Pubs & What You Missed

2012-01-25T02:03:00.004-05:00

Laura E.J. Moran @ Prose in Pubs
Photo from Amye Archer

It was another exciting night at Prose in Pubs this past weekend. Not only was I able to be part of it, but, as always, the people I met, writers I listened to and good vibes I received were incredible. Friends from the Endless Mountain Writer's group, who meet every Thursday at the Dietrich theater in Tunkhannock, came out for moral support. New friends, who I'd met at the last reading in Hawley, PA, made a trip out as well.

My reading went well. Like the last, I shared new works with the crowd. They were received well and, at the end of the night, I was approached by someone telling me that some of my words had hit a connection him. For that alone, I am grateful for that night. For that moment where someone within the crowd caught my words and felt them as I did.

Dawn Leas, who I had heard read a few times before, was incredible. The way she frames her world within a poem, the imagery she paints for the reader or, in this case, the listener is vivid. Close your eyes, and you can see.

Gale Martin, one of the only novelists to read at Prose in Pubs as far as I can remember, read from her new book Don Juan in Hankey, PA. Hysterical. Her humor brings a whole new side to opera. Don Juan is the story of a small-town opera company who decide to stage a performance of Mozart's famous work to save their opera house from foreclosure. Just the idea of Don Juan performed in some rural, dirt road community is hilarious in itself but, the way Gale writes, brings a whole new level to the hilarity of the idea. Look for a review here as soon as I finish the book. If you cannot wait, check it out on Amazon. Link below.

The feature, Laura E.J. Moran, brought an excellent performance to Jack's Draft House with a mixture of laughs, heartache and, simply put, life. Laura comes from the same poetic camp as past reader Jason Carney, who's work you can see in an earlier post. Her words are raw. Dusty in that real, worked way of hard work. Words chiseled using a sledgehammer and a bit of whiskey. Or, as Laura mentioned, lots of Pabst.

If you missed this Prose in Pubs or if you haven't attended one yet, you best get a move on. You're missing out on one of the most incredible nights in north east Pennsylvania. This isn't simply poems and prose. It's a night of connections. Of finding a corner of life that may be missing in your own. At the very least, come and have a drink. You've got nothing to lose.

--

Please check out these links to learn more about the readers:
-Gale Martin's Don Juan in Hankey, PA
-Dawn Leas's site & her chapbook I Know When to Keep Quiet
-Laura E.J. Moran's site

Qouth the writer; Nod to a writer's birth

2012-01-19T11:12:00.000-05:00

A Dream Within a Dream

 Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

..

What to believe in

2012-01-19T02:18:00.001-05:00

Through the years of interaction with people in my life, I've had some rather incredible, awkward, weird, interesting, humbling and fascinating conversations. Over the weekend, however, I was confronted with one so unexpected, I was momentarily rendered speechless.

While I tipped back a delicious Blonde Ale and shared words between fellow writers and others who had attended the reading where I had just read, one of the familiar faces from the event approached me. He began simple enough.

How do you go about getting published? It's a god damned mine field on crutches. You have a lot more bad luck than good, but you keep going anyway. Life is short. Words go on.

How do you write? I write the way anyone should write. Honestly. No bullshit. Most importantly not to yourself. It's OK to embellish a bit for the reader. Write what you know.

The questioning and conversation went on like this for some time while I began another bottle of the Blonde. The brewing beer had been carried out to chill. I grabbed a cube of cheese and listened to the chatter. The inquisitive one came to my side and put his arm around my shoulder.

Whether it was the free-flowing, home-brewed beer that was, at that particular point in time, adequately coursing through myself and the bodies surrounding me in a garage warmed by brewing beer or not, I'll never be sure.

What I want from you is this. He trailed off. I stood apprehensive of what he would ask. My Blonde was almost finished. I needed more.

What I want from you is...I want you to tell me what to believe in.

Words didn't come to mind. How does one answer a request like this? Though this fellow was certainly under the cloudy powers of free-flowing alcohol and I could have answered by telling him to believe in a Rock Lobster, it wasn't that easy. I pondered it.

What the hell do I know about beliefs? My own are simple. Books and truth. Knowledge. The earth is round. Good scotch. Writing. Art. Women's legs. And yet, here was a man, intoxicated or not, asking me to tell him what to believe in.

"Yourself," I said. What else could I say? It seemed honest enough.

He stepped back and considered my answer. At least he seemed to. I thought about it myself. Probably more than he did. Thanks, man, coupled with a hand on the shoulder.

That was it. After that, he stepped out the door and into the frigid night air.

I don't know whether I'll ever meet up with him again. Or, if he'll even remember the conversation we had and what I had told him. If it actually meant anything or if it was merely the booze speaking. The only thing I know for sure is that it's a memory which will stay with me for some time. If not, always. It's the abnormal experiences that find a niche within the confines of my memory.

I've got no problem with that.

Going Dark for SOPA Strike

2012-01-17T20:49:00.001-05:00

When midnight chimes, my blog will be going dark in support of the fight against SOPA and internet censorship. I'll be joining hundreds (thousands) of sites including Wikipedia, reddit, Wordpress, and Google.

To join in or to lend support, visit sopastrike.com/strike/ now. Voice your support on Facebook, Twitter, Google+ or any other social platform you are part of. Call your representatives. Spread the word. Don't let internet censorship become a reality. It's time the government remember who they work for.

Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.

The Silk Mill & Other Updates

2012-01-17T11:38:00.000-05:00

hawleysilkmill.com

On another dreary, rain-filled day in what's supposed to be winter, my coffee steams up from the stoneware glass in front of me. I've accomplished one thing this week which I set my mind to. The alarm on my phone only had to rind a half as much as it did yesterday to rouse me from my bed. I've finally gotten up prior to ten. Though, I have been sleeping better. Maybe in part due to the enjoyable weekend.

Saturday, I had a chance to read at the Hawley Silk Mill in Hawley, PA. The Mill, native blue stone and mortar constructed in 1880, stands like an inviting castle on a tight corner of Route 6. Interesting facts about the building are numerous: largest blue stone building in the world, housed one of the most technologically advanced and most powerful electrical grids of the time, and burned down in 1890 only to be resurrected.

I digress. Within the confines of this beautiful piece of Pennsylvania history is Harmony, an art space created and run by the talented Jill Carletti (www.jillcarletti.com). Jill hopes to turn this past weekend's poetry reading, which featured the talented Alexis Belluzzi and myself, into regular event at Harmony. Attendance was promising for her vision as Harmony was filled with people. After our initial readings and a short break, Jill opened the mic to anyone in attendance who felt the urge to share some of their own words. I always love being surprised by an incredible writer out of the blue.

Post poetry, the night was celebrated with incredible eats at Cora's in Hawley and amazingly crafted, and dangerously delicious, home-brewed beer. I've got to get that fellow's name and information again. It seems almost blasphemous that my refrigerator has none of the Blonde Ale or Stout waiting for me.

Anyone around the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre and NEPA region, remember that the January edition of Prose in Pubs at Jack's Draft House in Scranton happens this upcoming Sunday at 7 p.m. See my earlier post about the poets who will be joining me that night in serving out words.

My photography gallery has been removed from the Dietrich theater in Tunkhannock. Thanks to everyone who stopped by to take a look at it and for those who offered their kind words and compliments. That goes for those of you who enjoyed my reading at Harmony as well.

As for any type of book, I've been working hard at getting enough poetry around to fill one. Poetry that I'm satisfied with enough, that is. As for right now, you can visit my "Published Work" section to read a few pieces which have been published.

Now that this small update is out of the way, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Cheers.

Purchase Alexis Belluzzi's chapbook "Practicing Distance": http://www.thechapbookstore.com/alexis.html

Harmony @ Hawley Silk Mill: http://silkmillharmony.wordpress.com/

The Hawley Silk Mill: http://www.hawleysilkmill.com

Readings & Photos

2012-01-08T12:42:00.000-05:00

A quick post about what's going on in the next few weeks. As mentioned in prior posts, I'll be taking part in January's Prose in Pubs event with fellow writers and poets Gale Martin, Dawn Leas and featured reader Laura Moran. Prose in Pubs takes place on the 22nd at Jack's Draft House in Scranton, PA. It officially begins at 7 p.m., but come early and enjoy Jack's menu and good drinks. Stay late to mingle with the local writer's scene.

Also, this upcoming Saturday, I'll be reading with good friend and writer Alexis Czencz Belluzzi at the Hawley Silk Mill. This reading will begin at 7 p.m. as well. Visit the Mill's website at www.hawleysilkmill.com for directions, history and photos of the venue.

Also happening on Saturday the 14th is the second Writers Showcase at New Visions studio in Scranton, PA. Hosted by Jason Lucarelli and Brian Fanelli, this reading will feature work by Dawn Leas, Rich Howells, Bridget McIntyre, Frank Sabina, Beth Burke, Tricia Kinney and Jen Bokal. The reading begins at 7 p.m. and New Visions is located at 201 Vine Street.

My photography gallery, currently up at the Dietrich Theater in Tunkhannock, will be coming down early this upcoming Saturday as well. Some of my work will be moving across the street to Seasons restaurant where it will remain on display for a time.

Come on out to one of the readings and enjoy some great prose and good company. If you're in the Tunkhannock area, stop by Seasons for a bite to eat and to check out my photography work beginning the 14th.

Dear Sleep, Bring on the dreaming.

2011-12-29T13:11:00.000-05:00

"Insomnia" artist unknown from flickr.com

Insomnia. For a year, now, I've become rather familiar with this bastard companion. I've spent whole nights lying awake, turning from side to side in a desperate effort to sleep. Books move from my nightstand, to my hand and back again. Sometimes the pen will find a way to scrawl words in that half awake, half mindless state. So close to sleep, yet unattainable.

The whole world seems to make its way through my thoughts while I lie there, eyes wide, staring into nothing. And all the words I searched for earlier in the evening come spewing forth. All I want to do is sleep. I don't want to write the poem. But my brain has other plans.

When I was young, I can remember lying awake for hours constructing richly detailed stories in the darkness. High-speed car races twisting around curves, tires screeching. White knuckled and high on adrenaline. Hitting home runs out of Fenway or Yankee stadium along greats like Mickey. Getting the girl who sauntered down the halls of my high school, unattainable to me for whatever reason. Eventually, I'd sink into the mattress wrapped in a world of ethereal thoughts.

tumblr.com

That, however, was childhood. When energy was abundant and worries were few. Now, instead of concocting fiction, I wrestle with reality. Sometimes the reality seems more unbelievable than the fiction.

What really has me worried is wondering whether or not this is simply an unfortunate phase or if this will continue on throughout the rest of my days. I suppose, either way, it's something I've got to face. On that same thought, it may be a way for my own restless mind to force me to confront those things I'd rather not.

Dear sleep, bring on the dreaming.

--
If anyone happens to know the artist of the first photo,
please let me know in the comments.

The writer's harvest comes in winter

2011-12-27T14:47:00.000-05:00

“I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at,

what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

~Joan Didion

tumblr.com

Writing has been a bit of a difficult task for me this past year. It's not that I haven't any material from which to cultivate words and scrawl them across the pages, but every word, it seems, has been stubbornly yanked from stone like a sword. When I finally do come to pull them out, they've become deformed and ugly. Useless. Or, seemingly so.

The words have not ripened. They're still growing within the fields of thoughts sprawling through my mind. I've spent the year gazing over the endless acres of memories. Taking a broad look. Watching the growth. Now, as the year ends and the snows near, it's time to look closer.

Now, I'll look at the pebble and not the mountain. Trace its subtle curves and grooves. I'll gaze into the puddle, not the storm, and watch each drop of rain expand through ripples. Concentrate on the minute and not the hour. It's time to focus in on the details. Harvest my words and prepare them with great care.

Pages turn as I catch up on my reading. Patience sets in while I wait for submission responses. And my pen, my typer and the keys of my laptop begin to chisel away at the granite. It's time to sit before the blank, white expanses of what could be and create. Time to roll up my sleeves like Hamsun's Isak, dig in and bleed.

..

The lake of reason ripples; Hitchens gone at 62

2011-12-16T11:06:00.000-05:00

“The only position that leaves me with no cognitive dissonance is atheism. It is not a creed. Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more.”

Christopher Hitchens, a voice of reason and advocate of free thought, passed away at the age of 62 on Thursday after a battle with cancer. An extraordinary writer, exquisite speaker and thought-provoking man, Hitchens leaves this world with less like him when we desperately need more.

Hitchens was a man who asked you to think. Who made you challenge your deepest beliefs. We, as humans, have the extraordinary ability to question and philosophize. To use our minds and reason to understand the world around us instead of falling into ignorance.

When I read a Hitchens piece, I find myself exploring my own thought patterns. Asking myself questions that I had never asked before. While I didn't always agree with what he said, Hitchens' work always came through honest and sincere. I respect that, in writing, more than anything.

He didn't try to beat a new way of thinking into your skull with no supporting argument. Hitchens painted a mural and asked you to actively partake in it. To ask him as many questions as he was asking you and to deduce your own conclusion.

What people should learn from Hitchens and what they should remember is not how controversial he was, but how we all should question our world. That we should use our minds to explore and ponder. That only through the exchange of ideas and thought, not bullets and bombs, will we understand one another as one human race and not multiple, feuding teams.

And we should always remember that, as Hitchens' words speak above, life is to be lived intensely and fully. There are no second chances. This single clock is all we're given and, when it winds down, it is over.

Pick up a book from Hitchens and read it. You don't have to agree with him. You don't have to like him. You just have to think.

Photo by John Huba, Vanity Fair

Christopher Hitchens 1949 - 2011

Keep our internet and speech free; Strike down SOPA.

2011-12-13T11:07:00.000-05:00

████ is █████████, ██████. ████ █████ ████. You ████ to see ████ ████ █████████ █████ ████ in ███████ and not the ████████████ █████ ███████ of ████? If not, ████, █████ and █████ ████ ███████████ and █████. Don't let ████ ████. ████ our ████████ and ██████ ████.

The Wolves are Feeding the Sheep: My rant on SOPA

2011-12-08T11:07:00.001-05:00

digitaltrends.com

Since the election of Barack Obama, the words socialism, communism, fascism and various other terms have been thrown around by fear-mongers and the Right to frighten the populace into believing that we are one step away from concentration camps and Riefenstahl films.

Although this is hardly the case, an alarming amount of citizens believe it to be true whether they understand what socialism or communism is or not. It's an incredible feat of trickery, then, when those who scream communism and socialism, in an effort to preserve our American ways, come to support dangerous legislation that could and would bring the United States closer to the realization of such government.

One bill, H.R. 3261 - Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), being pushed by both Republican and Democratic members as well as media giants like NBC and affiliates, Rupert Murdoch behemoth News Corporation (which includes FOX News and 21st Century Fox), and virtually any company tied to Hollywood and the like, threatens to strangle the internet in censorship much like communist-controlled China where what you see online is strictly controlled by government.

SOPA supporters say that the bill will allow law enforcement to better combat "rogue sites" engaging in Intellectual Property Theft, which they claim costs the U.S. between $100 billion, by conservative reports, and $200 billion a year. The bill would allow sites to be blacklisted and blocked using practices such as DNS blocking if they were found in violation of the law.

Stopping illegal copyright infringement and the sale of counterfeit goods from "rogue" sites may be the overall intentions of the bill, introduced by Rep. Lamar Smith (R-Tex.), but H.R. 3261 is written so broadly that negative repercussions, internet censorship and Free Speech infringements are inevitable.

Even now, media corporations are pressuring affiliates and anyone associated with them to stay away from the discussion and support the measure. Television outlets are barely mentioning the bill or any of its problems. You can rest assured you wont find any negative commentary, if any, about the bill coming from FOX news and their "fair and balanced" [sic] reporting, but you wont find much on MSNBC, CNN or anywhere else, either.

Assück's "Blind Spot" cover.

What does this all mean for the average internet user? It means that the possibility of sites like YouTube and Facebook facing private legal action and, in accordance with the bill, being blocked through your ISP or nationally is very real. And those two are media giants in the online world. Smaller sites, blogs and personal sites could also face censorship or be blacked out completely.

Imagine being fined for embedding a YouTube video on your blog. Or maybe something like the Occupy movement would have never happened, a movement largely organized and orchestrated using the internet.

Smith claims that this will not be the case, however. That his bill is solely aimed at combating and eliminating internet piracy. He even goes so far as to compare internet piracy to child pornography in the National Review, another great shock-inducing tactic perpetrated as a means to scare up support for the bill.

The fact remains that this bill is dangerously written. That the possibility of a communist-like internet is very real if H.R. 3261 were to be passed. It is broad, held up by shaky arguments, and an actual threat to Constitutional rights. While pundits and members of government are trying to frighten you into the belief that you're living in a communist-led, socialistic, Marxist society, they're marching in secrecy to try and push laws through that will actually lead us there.

They're playing you for fools. And some of you aren't seeing it.

A new bill, called the OPEN Act, will be introduced by Sen. Ron Wyden and Rep. Darrell Issa to combat the dangerous aspects of SOPA. The OPEN Act is described as targeting financial flow to piracy outlets rather than targeting and censoring any portions of the internet. SOPA is an "overreaching approach to policing the Internet when a more balanced and targeted approach would be more effective," said Wyden.

Whether or not the OPEN Act will be a much more reasonable and Constitutional alternative to SOPA remains to be seen, but at least the opposition towards SOPA is growing.

Keep an eye on all of this and contact your representatives to say NO to SOPA. There are a myriad of sites which help you contact your reps if you are too busy to find their email or telephone information.

Articles Referenced:

H.R. 3261 Bill Text

FBI Site on Intellectual Property Theft

How SOPA Would Affect You

SOPA On the Ropes? Bipartisan Alternative to 'Net Censorship Emerges

SOPA Foes Ready Alternative Plan--No Web Blocking

Big Media VS. Google on Capitol Hill

NBC Wants Partners to Support SOPA or Else

U.S. Firms Paying High Price for Global IP Theft

This Bill Seriously Screws the Internet

Defending SOPA by Lamar Smith

SOPA Could Shutter Registrars & Other Domain Name Intermediaries

Lamar Smith Tries to Defend SOPA; Suggests That Infringement...

Congressman Blasts Google's Stance on Piracy Bill

In the works

2011-12-03T09:05:00.001-05:00

It's been quiet for me as far as writing goes. Publicly, anyway. Between long work hours and various other projects, I haven't taken part in a reading since summer. But the pen keeps moving. Fingers keep clacking away. I've been working on new poetry and tackling bigger projects as well as diving back into photography.

Winter always seems to get me writing more, though. While the molasses slows, my words quicken. I've got to do something with my time cooped up indoors. Something tells me I'd more than likely begin emulating Jack Torrance without writing. Then again, he was a writer. Maybe it's innevitable.

This winter I've been invited to trudge from the confines of my home and release my words before an audience.

Prose in Pubs, brainstormed and created by fellow writer Amye Archer, has been, in my opinion, the best ongoing literary event in the northeast Pennsylvania region for the better part of a year. Amye has consistently showcased local writers from around the NEPA region who's talent never ceases to amaze me. And, for the last handful of Prose in Pubs, she has begun adding one national act to the mix.

Prose in Pubs is a no frills event. Sans-microphone, even. Couple that with the incredible venue which is Jack's Draft House and you end up with a laid-back, thought-provoking beautiful night.

In January, I'll be joining Gale Martin, Dawn Colangelo Leas and Laura E.J. Moran for 2012's first Prose in Pubs. It promises to be an incredible night, as every PiP tends to be. So, when you've got nothing to do on a cold (if the weather ever decides to match the season) January night, come out to Jack's on the 22nd to join us for a drink and some words.

- You can find more information about Prose in Pubs by visiting the Facebook page here.
- Visit Dawn Leas's site here.
- Visit Gale Martin's blog here.
- Visit Laura E.J. Moran's site here.

Watch Jason Carney's performance during October's PiP.

A shivering sun

2011-12-01T10:27:00.001-05:00

December. After a week of unseasonably warm weather, it begins with a chilling frost. The icing of winter. Even the sun seems to shiver in the sky with promises of warmth. I can watch my breath form around my words as I speak. The year is slowing to a crawl. Trembling while a gravedigger breaks ground.

With the new year closing in, many things have been running through my mind. The holiday season is a time of interaction, not only with family, friends and disgruntled shoppers, but with thoughts and memories of the year passed.

I look at the soles of my boots to see where I've been. Toward the mountains to see where I'm headed. I never look too far ahead anymore, though. One lesson I'm walking away with this year is that the future is never guaranteed. Right now, where my feet stand, is the only moment promised. And even that can be fleeting.

I've been remembering back further and further to past holidays. Joyful and miserable. Times spent in the company of family or good people. Times spent alone. Times spent grieving.

All of the memories have a way of whittling down the excess of the season leaving me with a clearer view of the core. Instead of seeking shinning wrapping paper and disposable like I did as a child, I look for a smile. A laugh. Warmth.

During winter, moments seem to hang suspended like photographs. Maybe we all just slow to take it in. Remember it better. Etch the seconds into our mind to relive time and time again.

Here's to another year. Here's to experience. Here's to life.

“In the depths of winter, I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer”

~Albert Camus

Visions and Thought: Gallery at Dietrich theater

2011-11-01T09:32:00.000-04:00

Snow was falling in large, lazy flakes sticking to ledges, coats, and sidewalks. It wasn't even Halloween. I loaded my truck, after brushing away its powdery coat, and headed to town. Parking in front of the Dietrich theater, I looked at the clock capped in snow and tree limbs that grew fat and heavy.

While jack-o-lanterns sat abandoned on porches hidden beneath a wintery mix, I unloaded my truck and ventured inside to begin setting up. Earlier in October, the Scranton Cultural Center hosted a gallery of my photography to benefit the flood-damaged Deatrich in Tunkhannock. Members of the theater's board stopped by and, after viewing my work, asked if I'd be interested in showing at the theater itself.

Now through the month of November (and quite possibly a portion of December) a gallery of my work, entitled Visions and Thought, hangs in the Sherwood Gallery at the Dietrich theater in Tunkhannock. Photos that I have taken through the years are accompanied with my own words in an attempt to convey personal experience and thoughts about the moment captured.

All work is up for sale and, if you stop by and happen to be interested, my contact information is available here and at the theater. For more information about the Dietrich, call 570-836-1022 or visit DietrichTheater.com. The theater is located at 60 East Tioga Street in Tunkhannock, PA, 30 minutes from both Scranton and Wilkes-Barre.

"Fear of Heights" for dVerse Poet's open link night

2011-10-25T08:28:00.000-04:00

I've been pointed toward a very interesting and exciting link by Twitter user @crosescribe. Over at dVersepoets.com, they have what's called Open Link Nights where writers are encouraged to submit links to a piece of their work. Since this sounded like an incredible idea, I've decided to participate. Below, you'll find a piece which was published in the Summer 2011 issue of the Boston Literary Magazine entitled "Fear of Heights".

Fear of Heights
Dale R. Wilsey, Jr.

The sound of roofing nails
piercing tin. Finding the
skeleton of heavy
timbers beneath.

Strength in my father's
shoulder swings the hammer
in a perfect arc, driving
nails through in a single
blow.

It's 1986. I am 2 years old
on a tin roof in a cloth diaper
creating the earliest memory
I'll ever hold on to.

A sunny day carried on a cool breeze.

Playskool hammer in hand,
I mimic my father.

Imaginary nails are driven
through thin metal
beneath my
child strength.

My mother is still here.

They're still married.

That was 24 years ago.

Nails still hold fast
in the roof of the
crooked barn.

But everything else
fell apart from then on.

And today I have
a fear of
heights.

Thanks for stopping by and make sure to stop by dVersepoets.com to check out more great writing.

Hell's Breaking Luce: Tom Waits' "Bad As Me"

2011-10-24T23:06:00.000-04:00

Tom Waits has always had an extraordinary talent for weaving the real with the surreal. The every day with the oddities of life. He's a circus midway in the middle of a swamp. A Peterbilt hauling a diner down a desert road with the Tattooed Lady from the sideshow in the passenger's seat. And blaring through jukeboxes, bullhorns and radios everywhere is Waits' new album Bad As Me. His first in seven years, Waits has delivered once again.

Right from the get go, "Chicago" sends you flying down the rails on a trip to the unknown as Waits gives you his own brand of a history lesson on the Great Migration of African Americans to northern cities beginning in 1916. Waits states, "Maybe things will be better in Chicago / well it's brave for us to stay / even braver to go", ending with an urgent "All aboard!"

One of the things you'll notice about Bad As Me is that Waits touches upon some current sociopolitical issues in a few tracks. Something, I feel, he doesn't often do. "Talking at the Same Time" is a blatant, melancholy comment on the current state of the American economy and the contrast of poverty and wealth.

Get a job, save your money, listen to Jane

everybody knows umbrellas cost more in the rain

and all the news is bad

is there any other kind?

Everybody's talking at the same time.

Well it's hard times for some

for others it's sweet

Someone makes money when there's blood

in the street.

Some artists can overdo the political commentary, but Waits approaches it with a subtle touch. The backing instrumentation to "Talking at the Same Time" paints a picture of trudging, down-on-their-luck feet walking along the street, peering in at well-off fat cats profiting from the labor of the lower class...

Well we bailed out all the millionaires

they got the fruit

we got the rind

Bad As Me is an eclectic mix of sounds. Something all Waits fans will expect before hand regardless, but here he really swings in all directions of sound. From the rockabilly infused "Get Lost" which professes a want to ramble and roam with a tight sweater-wearing love to the flamenco-tinged "Back in the Crowd" to the uncharacteristically heavy anti-war song "Hell Broke Luce", a track only slightly rivaled in intensity by previous Waits' tracks like "God's Away on Business".

Kelly Presutto got his thumbs blown off

Sergio's developing a real bad cough...

Hell broke Luce...

Boom went his head away

and boom went Valerie

what the hell was it that the president said?

Give them all a beautiful parade instead

left, right, left

Even for Waits, this album touches an incredibly varied amount of sounds and ideas. It's as though a pinball was fired through his gray matter touching every corner of his creative conscious before constructing Bad As Me. For some, this may be a bit to take in but, for the experienced and seasoned Waits fans, you'll enjoy just how much he can still surprise you after almost 40 years of creating music.

Waits' tender, romantic side shows through in tracks like "Back in the Crowd", a western-tropical sounding, love lost ballad, "Kiss Me", a crackling, jazzy tune that searches for the excitement of new love in a long-time lover: "Kiss me like a stranger once again / I wanna believe our love's a mystery / I wanna believe our love's a sin". In "Last Leaf", Waits creates what most will interpret as having a deeper, more personal meaning of holding on to more than what he shows on the surface. Waits explains, in a recent interview, "...you could say everything's a metaphor for everything else, but sometimes it's just what it is. It's just what it's about...a tree."

There are a few, small, almost insignificant issues I have with the album, but the good has so far outweighed those issues that I have trouble remembering them. Also, if past experience is any indication, any problem I may have with a Tom Waits track slowly erodes over time leaving me with only the good. Songs that I may not have much affinity for at first become clearer over time as the nuances come to the surface and pull me in.

Bad As Me has, so far, been another incredible Waits experience. It's filled with just the right amount of every human emotion, gradually floating between melancholy and longing. Falling fast into madness and landing in a pile of tender love. Maybe I'm just too much of a fan of Tom Waits, but I really have nothing negative to say about him right now. Unless he decides not to tour. Then, I may be a touch angered.

Overall, I'd have to rate this up there with some of my favorite Waits' albums. The best? No. But this album is incredibly diverse and full of incredible art and vision. The only thing I ask of Mr. Waits is to not keep us waiting another seven years. Bring it on the road, Tom. We all want to see your magic explode on stage like a calliope full of dynamite.

ANTI Records has released a deluxe edition of Bad As Me that includes three additional tracks on a separate CD as well as a 40-page hardcover booklet containing images and lyrics of and inspired by the album. It is also available in a 180 gram vinyl version which comes complete with a slightly altered paper booklet and CD version of the album. Note that the vinyl version does not contain the three bonus tracks.

All photos included in this post are created by photographer Anton Corbijn. See more here.

NYTimes' #whyIwrite and Dietrich writer's group discussion

2011-10-21T10:02:00.000-04:00

Spurred by the National Day of Writing and NY Times' #whyIwrite topic on Twitter, I lead a discussion during my writing group last night on the topic of why we writers write. Here's the comment I left for the Times about that discussion which has been "retweeted" by @NYTimesLearning:

picture-poems.com

NYTimesLearning,

Every Thursday night in Tunkhannock, PA at the Dietrich Theater, a group of local writers ranging in age from 18 to late 60’s come together in an effort to grow, learn, and sharpen their skills as writers. Some of us have been writing our whole lives. Others have only just began. The incredible diversity not only in writing styles but in individual backgrounds and personality has created a dynamic environment.

There is a set schedule of who is to read at each meeting and last night was supposed to be my turn, but I had nothing to bring to the table. The novel I’d been working on had hit a wall and every short story rolling around my desk was unfinished. After informing the moderator of the group about my predicament, she suggested I lead a discussion. Fine by me, but what about?

That’s when I noticed the #whyIwrite topic on Twitter. I’ve always been interested in why those of us who write choose to do so. What drives us to pour it all out? Surely we all have our own beginnings, but it seems that every true writer, at their core, has an undeniable force within that propels them to write.

With this in mind, I lead a conversation on why all of us in the group write. I started the group by quoting Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, one of my favorite and most beloved books on the subject of writing: “No one can advise or help you — no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.”

While Rilke’s position may be a bit extreme, I believe he exposes the core of why writers write. It is a need. It’s not a choice, but something we must do because our mind and heart command us to do so. Lord Byron said, “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” I think most of us might do just that if we could not write.

The responses were as varied as the writers themselves. Most of us had always been story tellers. We lived in our minds among our imaginations. We constructed whole worlds during our childhood that continued on throughout our lives. And we all felt the need to tell our stories. To record them lest they be lost. One of the members commented, “I’ve had the urge to write since before I could actually write. I’d tell my sister what to write…and I’ve always had the urge to make a mark on the world even if it’s on a scrap piece of paper.”

After the discussion, we all felt a bit more connected. More open and personal. Not that we were not a closely knit group before hand, but now we had seen each others hearts beating with the passion of the written word.

Thanks for such a wonderful idea. I’ve enjoyed reading all of the #whyIwrite responses and hope that this discussion is explored even further. I also think it is essential for young children who feel the urge to write hear these responses. To discuss writing and reading. Too many today are left to stray away from such an amazing and beautiful world.

Cheers,
Dale Wilsey Jr.

----

Check out the Times' blog entry over at learning.blogs.nytimes.com.

If you're on Twitter, tweet why you write with #whyIwrite. Also, I'd love to hear why any of you write here on my blog. What drives you to write? How did you begin? How does it effect your life?

October off to a good start

2011-10-09T23:59:00.000-04:00

Central display at my gallery.

It was a beautiful night this past Friday in Scranton for October's First Friday events and, with the help of some incredible people at the Scranton Cultural Center, my debut gallery benefiting the Dietrich theater went off without a hitch. Between the bake sale held in conjunction, personal donations and the sale of two of my pieces, the event raised approximately $500.

Throughout the night, I was approached by many in attendance who offered great feedback and, more interestingly, stories of Tunkhannock and life in general during and after the flood.

The general buzz and interest in my photography work has given me the push I believe I needed to take it a bit more serious. For a long time, I neglected my camera in favor of the pen and other pursuits. Though I'm not sure why. Training my eye on different subjects allows me to inspect them more closely and, in turn, study my surroundings and life more intimately. Ultimately, it combines with my writing to give me clarity in certain aspects.

The ladies from the Dietrich have also asked me to hang my work at the theater and, as soon as I get in touch with them, the details will be ironed out and announced here and on my Twitter account.

Following the gallery there, I will more than likely begin to sell some of my work online. I've yet to figure out exactly how to go about that, but ideas for a full-fledged site and such have been rolling about my skull. Below are two of the prints I sold at this past weekend's gallery.

Alley at Night

Alongside the Dietrich, an alleyway is illuminated

in a way that makes the brick and mortar come to life.

The bricks almost breathe with pulsing life in the

constant glow of a single bulb.

Steam Engine at Riverside

In the morning, I wake to the hollow,

echoing sound of an iron ghost bouncing

from ridge line to ridgeline. I can hear the

grinding of the wheels along the snaking

tracks. Smoke billows from the stack

and hangs lightly in the air tracing its path.

I may post images of work I have done here on my blog with ways to purchase prints for now until something more concrete comes along. However, if you are interested in seeing what I have to offer or in purchasing a print of those pictured here, feel free to email me. Contact information can be found on my contact page.

Thank you to all of the people who stopped by and especially my dear friends who came out to show their support. An extra thanks to those of you who donated and to those who purchased my work. To those of you who shared stories about the flood and life in Tunkhannock and also those who complimented me on my work, I thank you as well.

Countdown to exposure

2011-10-05T00:35:00.000-04:00

This month has started out as crazy as the last and, for the most part, things have been gliding along smoothly (though somewhat overwhelmingly). Then, along comes that inevitable hurdle. As I crack open the seal to a bottle of Theraflu and fight back a cough, I look at the photos and frames strewn about my room. I'm determined to kick this cold before week's end.

Enough of the bad news, though. Some of you may have noticed by my constant Tweets and updates here on the blog that, at the end of this week on October 7th, the Scranton Cultural Center will be hosting a gallery of my photography to benefit the Dietrich theater in Tunkhannock, PA. The theater was recently damaged in the flood and is in need of over $100,000 worth of repairs.

The event and, by proxy, have been getting a bit of attention. In an earlier entry (here), I posted the interview that Electric City reporter Julie Imel conducted with me. There have been various mentions of the gallery in local papers and online, but, most recently, this blog was chosen as NEPA Blogs' "Blog of the Week". Consequently, I was also featured on the local program PA Live! during the NEPA Blogs segment where Harold Jenkins shared his thoughts on myself and my blog. He also managed to give the gallery a plug. See the footage here and the NEPA Blog entry here.

If you're a local to the northeastern region of PA, please try to stop by the Scranton Cultural Center from 5-9. All donations will be accepted and every piece of my work will be up for sale. Every penny made will go straight to the Dietrich theater.

War is Hell, but colds are just bollocks.

I'd like to thank everyone in advance for everything they've done. I will be posting after the gallery to let everyone know how it went and to give proper thanks to those who made it possible and who helped to bring attention to it.

Come this Friday, I hope to have beaten this illness which has filled my skull with fog and water and made my body ache more than usual. Off to the frontline. I come loaded with gallons of OJ and cough drops. Do white blood cells bleed if they're wounded in battle?

(Please excuse any grammatical errors. The germs are waging war against my cerebral cortex.)

Information on my benefit gallery this Friday

2011-10-03T01:39:00.001-04:00

On October First Friday, there will be a gallery of my photography opening at the Scranton Cultural Center in Scranton, PA. This gallery will serve as a way to raise funds for the restoration of the Dietrich Theater in Tunkhannock, PA, my home town. All of my work will be for sale and, if purchased on the first night of its showing, every penny will be donated to the Dietrich Theater. Donations other than the purchase of my photography will also be accepted up until 10p.m. Here is the information about my upcoming gallery:

WHO: The Scranton Cultural Center featuring artist Dale Wilsey Jr.

WHAT: First Friday Exhibit: to benefit the Wyoming County Cultural Center at the Dietrich Theater

WHEN: October 7th, 2011 5-8 p.m.

WHERE: The Scranton Cultural Center
420 North Washington Avenue
Scranton, PA 18503
4th Floor, Shopland Hall Lobby

TICKET PRICE: Free
FROM ONE CULTURAL CENTER TO ANOTHER: SUPPORTING ARTS IN NEPA: Scranton, PA -- Sept. 20th, 2011 -- The Scranton Cultural Center at the Masonic Temple will host a benefit exhibit to raise money to help restore and rebuild the Dietrich Theatre in Tunkhannock. The Dietrich Theatre (the Wyoming County Cultural Center) was recently devastated by record flooding. Estimated costs to restore and repair are close to $100,000.

The exhibit will take place Oct. 7th, in conjunction with Scranton's First Friday, as well as, the kickoff of the SCC Electric City Listen Local series. The free exhibit will begin at 5pm on the 4th floor Shopland Hall and run through 8pm. Money will be raised through individual donations, sale of artwork and a bake sale. Donations will be accepted until 10pm.

Photographs in the exhibit were taken by writer/photographer and Tunkhannock native, Dale Wilsey Jr.

All proceeds will go directly to the Dietrich Theatre.

All the leaves are brown

2011-10-02T22:29:00.000-04:00

"Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day."

~Elizabeth Bowen

It's been a long, stressful, busy and, most of all, wet month(s). On the surface, in Tunkhannock, everything seems back to normal since the flood. The roads are clean and clear of mud and people go about their normal business.

Look closer.

Brick's Market is "Closed until further notice". There's still a drooping barrier of caution tape strung across the parking lot of Gay's True Value. In small corners, I find caked mud. Stains of oil. Ghosts of the flood remain on stalks of corn and trees in pale shadows left by the water.

While driving around, I've felt I've been sailing. Waterfalls are still pouring down the side of Avery Mountain and the Susquehanna runs muddy and high along its banks. Route 92 was closed for a second time just last week.

The weather sways like an erratic pendulum taunting me with shining, beautiful days only to pull blankets of dark, miserable clouds across the sky dumping sheets of rain down over hills and across my face.

Leaves are beginning to change and fall, covering my lawn in speckles of reds and yellows. I find myself closing my window at night to keep the chill out and, in the morning, it's harder to leave the comfort of my blankets. Even the sun finds it hard to come out. I smell winter coming.

Jack, my niece's horse who stands quietly behind the weathered wood of the old barn, will grow thick with a winter coat. Snow will fall, clinging to the lashes around his dark eyes. His breath will billow out in gentle clouds around his snout.

Watch the trees grow naked. Feel the crisp retreat of another summer. Another year. Unpack the jackets and mittens and store away the memories created in the passing months. Pick pumpkins from the field and cut character into their face while you drown in cider. This is the winding down of time.

The deep slumber of the land is coming. The hollow winds of winter. Blank canvases of land lit by the moon and pinpoint stars.

Another year is just beyond the banks of snow to come. All is reborn when the last bits of ice melt away and hearts begin to beat faster.

"O, wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?"

~Percy Bysshe Shelley

An interview with the Electric City

2011-09-23T23:48:00.000-04:00

Photo by Tom Bonomo

By Julie Imel

Published: September 22, 2011 in the Electric City and on the570.com

Writer and photographer Dale Wilsey Jr. loves Tunkhannock. It’s more than just his hometown, and more than the place his ancestors settled in so many years ago. To him, Tunkhannock is inspiration. His roots in this lovely Wyoming County region are evident in his work that he takes great care to perfect. Wilsey’s subject matter is as varied as his interests and perhaps even as varied as the jobs he’s held over the years. He’s done everything from working in a stone quarry to a bustling newsroom. Influenced by Hemingway, Bukowski, John Fante, Faulkner, Ginsberg and Rilke, Wilsey loves to write and has been published on several occasions, including in the Boston Literary Magazine. He participates in a writers’ group every Thursday at the Dietrich Theater, and has aspirations to write a novel. Most immediately, though, he is compiling his best photographs for a benefit show for the Dietrich Theater on Friday, Oct. 7, at the Scranton Cultural Center. A place that is close to his heart, the Dietrich Theater, sustained damage from the recent flood. And while the theater is open thanks to the efforts of committed volunteers and staff members, funds are needed for more repairs. Without hesitation, he is ready to help. Meet artist Dale Wilsey, Jr…

How did you become interested in photography?
I've been into photography for a long time. My father got me into it. I wasn't even a teenager yet when he started taking pictures and he got me interested in it, and probably around age 16, he gave me one of his old Nikons and I started shooting with that and experimenting. That was about the time I really started getting into the arts. I started meeting more people in the area, and I had more of a creative outlet. I started traveling, too, especially at 16 because I got my driver's license, and I went all over taking photos.

At that point, what was your subject matter?
Very early on it was all sorts of things. I never really had one focus. There was a stint where I just liked to go around and take pictures of architecture and then there were basic landscapes - things my father was into and anything from Tunkhannock.

Tunkhannock is so beautiful.
It really is, and I've grown to appreciate it so much more over the past five or six years. It's really grown on me and it's something I appreciate more and more as I grow older. When I was young, I wanted to get out. I was in Wilkes-Barre every weekend when I was in high school, going to punk shows and driving all over and wanting to just go - and now I find peace in Tunkhannock, and a lot of inspiration.

Funny how your perspective changes with time-
It definitely does. My entire father's side of the family has lived in Tunkhannock for eons.They came over here through New England, came down and plopped into a little village called Eatonville right outside of Tunkhannock. That's where my father grew up and I lived close to my grandmother's house when I was young and we sort of grew up there and we never really moved too far away from Tunkhannock. I'm used to Wyoming County and the valley and the river and the woods. I've been all over, and it's something that I really love.

It must have been difficult to see all the flood damage in your hometown. Did this inspire your work?
I did write a three-piece blog entry about my experience, not really too in depth about any particular portion of the flooding or anything, but I did mention that a bit. I'll probably do more with it as it sinks in. It usually takes me a while to process and get things out on the pages. I roll things around in my head for a while before I actually write about them. I usually have a couple ideas rolling around up there (laughs) but it comes out eventually.

Tell me about your show coming up at the Scranton Cultural Center. Can we expect to see a lot of scenes from Tunkhannock?
You'll see Tunkhannock shots, and you'll see modeling shots that I've done with people. I grew up a "gear head" around my father, so you'll see some shots of older cars, but it really goes all over - from architecture to humans to everything. I'm putting all my work up for sale and everything that I make is going straight to the Dietrich. I figured maybe a mixed bag would be better for this show because I can sell all sorts of photos to all sorts of people. I'm really hoping we can make some money for them. One of the first things Hildy (Morgan) told me was that the theater didn't have flood insurance. The biggest thing they lost is the heating and air conditioning in the old section of the building because it was downstairs. And that was one thing they were looking at renovating and updating, but it never came about. So I'm really happy to try to help out.

Do you remember when the Dietrich first opened?
Yes, I was there when we started cleaning it out. In high school, a class of mine walked down there and we started pulling out all the old stuff. And I remember back when it was closed and boarded up and we walked in and it was really cool to see. I could only imagine what it was like back in the day, back when it was first built. And I loved it, just looking at it and knowing it was going to be up and running again. I thought it was something really great to come to my town. That's when my town started really growing up a little bit from what it used to be and it was great. So I was there when they started it and I guess this is giving back a little, and I'm happy to do it. It's one of the best buildings in Tunkhannock and one of the best things to come to Tunkhannock.

-julie imel

Photographs by Dale Wilsey Jr. will be on display at the Scranton Cultural Center on the evening of Oct. 7, and all proceeds from sales at the show will benefit the Dietrich Theater in Tunkhannock. For more information, visit www.scrantonculturalcenter.org.

The original article can be found here.

October First Friday benefit gallery for Dietrich Theater

2011-09-21T01:35:00.000-04:00

The day after the waters had retreated, I visited the Dietrich in hopes of finding Hildy, owner of the theater and all-around sweet woman, and to see just how badly the building had been damaged. It was only the day before that muddy water surrounded and engulfed the beautiful building.

When I finally found Hildy, there was still that gleam of happiness and optimism in her eyes even though she was obviously exhausted and heart broken. An army of volunteers had already completed a massive amount of cleaning and the theater, although down, was nowhere near being out. Hildy even spoke of the upcoming (and still happening) film festival.

Somehow, I wanted to help. As I snapped a few photos of the inside of the oldest section of the theater, I told Hildy that if there were anything I could do to help, not to hesitate in calling. Only a day or so later, my opportunity would arise.

Stephanie Bush, friend and fellow Tunkhannock native, contacted me on behalf of the Scranton Cultural Center and asked if I would be interested in displaying a gallery of my photography to benefit the Dietrich. Of course I accepted the offer, though nervously, and felt that this was my chance to give something back to my hometown in a time of need.

On October 7th, during Scranton's First Friday celebrations, the Scranton Cultural Center will be hosting a gallery of my work throughout the years. It will be a mixed bag of photos ranging in content and focus. Admission will be free with a cash bar. Donations will be accepted and I have decided to put every piece shown at the gallery up for sale with all proceeds going directly to the Dietrich. I will not be collecting one single cent. This showing is for the Dietrich and all that it's given to Tunkhannock and the residents who live, work and create there.

Come out and support an incredible cause and enjoy a beautiful night out in the Electric City. Donate what you can. Every single dollar helps to bring the Dietrich back. Tell friends and family. Mention this to anyone you know. Please come out and help me make this a success.

Thank you in advance to everyone.

Cheers,
Dale Wilsey, Jr.

Look for an interview in the Electric City paper in coming weeks about the show and a little about my rambling mind.

'72 Déjà vu : September flooding in Tunkhannock Part 3

2011-09-16T00:00:00.000-04:00

Tioga Street, downtown Tunkhannock.

Through the years, my love for the town where I've grown up and lived most of my life has grown with me. The subtle nuances and quiet, easy life has become a treasure when I search for peace and calm. Its history and age reveal gems through weathered buildings oozing with character and stories, the sprawling forests where maple, birch and evergreen trees mingle whispering amongst winds that roll over the soft undulations of the Endless mountain ridge lines. Some of my best memories were constructed amongst brooks and creeks that carve paths across the face of the land.

But now, the Susquehanna was carving a memory through me that would last until my final days like it did in '72 to my father and his sisters. My grandmother. All of those who have called Tunkhannock home their entire lives.

Down among the brick buildings of town, I could hear the rushing roar of the river as I walked east along Tioga Street. The water had come up to the main light, wrapping around the corner from Bridge Street into Tioga. The scent of diesel fuel was heavy in the air and a slick, rainbow sheen colored the surface of the muddy water.As I stood in front of the Prince Hotel, I looked across the street.

The Dietrich Theater seemed as though it were anchored to the sidewalk floating in the current of the river. Standing in the doorway of The Second Wind, a man sipped a beer behind sandbags protecting the entrance to the bar. It was all too surreal.

I made my way around to a back alley where I could see the True Value hardware store. The first floor was completely submerged beneath the river and its weathered white paint and the uneven lines of the roof seemed like the aged, wrinkled face of an old man. On any normal day, the beaten soles of work boots would be walking along the warped floorboards shaped by every flood the town had ever lived through. Now, the river filled the aisles and burdened the ancient store once more.

The sun was beginning to fall low in the sky and exhaustion was taking over my body. By now, it would be too late to travel back along the narrow mountain path that had brought us into town safely. It would be a night of half-sleep on my mother's uncomfortable couch just outside of town.

Newswatch 16 glowed on for a few hours while I sat up watching images of surrounding downs along the river engulfed and swallowed like my own. Residents and officials in Wilkes-Barre waited nervously as the waters rose higher and higher up the levee walls that had been built to avoid another tragedy like '72. They had not been put to the test like this since being built. No one was absolutely positive of their strength and resiliency.

A video of the house I had seen crash into the river bridge looped over and over between aerial shots of West Pittston beneath water. The Bloomsburg fairgrounds. The river was cresting. The level gauges had stopped working hours ago. And I was falling asleep. When I awoke, the waters would be slowly receding and we'd all begin the process of returning to normalcy. The river would return to its banks. Mud would be washed from the streets but the memories would always remain coursing through our minds.

Part 1
Part 2

'72 Déjà vu : September flooding in Tunkhannock Part 2

2011-09-13T00:27:00.001-04:00

Rt. 6 East out of Tunkhannock.

From the mountain, we could see how quickly the water was rising. Once-visible trailers were now completely submerged beneath the muddy river that crept further and further into Tunkhannock. My father was watching the shop where he worked along Tioga Street and the waters that moved closer to the front door. It was only around one o'clock and the news stations kept saying the river wasn't going to crest until late night or even the next day. How much higher could it go? How much more of my town could it swallow?

As the crowd gathered around us, my brother and a few of his friends arrived. Chatter about the rising water evolved into questions of when everything would be back to normal. When could we work? When would we be able to make it off the mountain and back into town? My brother's friends had the answer to at least one of those questions for anyone willing to take a bit of an adventure.

There was a way to town, we found out. I had kept mentioning how much I wanted to get into town to document anything I could. Get a closer look at things. Be there to help in any way I could. All conventional ways to anywhere were blocked by flood waters for those of us living at the base of Avery. Four-wheel drive and a bit of off-roading provided another route, however. My brother's friends explained the way and then left to try and make their way further down the ridge line. I was determined to make it to the downtown area.

We began our descent along the rocky, washed out trail that wound down along the backside of the mountain. By now, the rushing torrents of water had slowed a bit and the rain had finally tapered off. My boots we covered in reddish, slick mud and my pants were soaked dark below the knee.

****

The local P&G credit union.

At the end of Lane Hill road, the only other way to Tunkhannock besides the flooded route 92, the water lay deep covering a stranded car in a parking lot behind the gas station. It lapped at the entrance to the local credit union like gentle lake waves as a man bent low to mark the height with a quick spray of white paint. Near by, a little girl splashed in the water with her rain boots as her mother scolded her.

After a bit, my brother and I decided to find our way to town through the trail his friends described. As we hopped into the truck, I threw my camera in its bag onto the bench seat and settled in.

The path was narrow and the water rushing down through the mountain carved gullys intermittently along our journey. The full-size Chevy barely fit within the confines of the eroded trail as we slowly made our way along. Onward we went. Pushing through the brush, down through an open field and onto another dirt path which led to an open road. We emerged on the outskirts of town, the bridge before us invisible under the swift current of the Tunkhannock creek.

When flooded, turn around don't drown. The message couldn't be clearer.

We climbed back into the truck and headed along route 6, turning off the road and up through Lake Carey. We'd be able to find our way down through town and into the middle of everything that was unfolding before our eyes at the top of the mountain. What waited for us was something I never thought I'd witness in my lifetime. Especially not this early in my years.

Batron's Supply and "The Skidder Shop" in Tunkhannock.

Read Part 1 here.

'72 Déjà vu : September flooding in Tunkhannock Part 1

2011-09-11T23:33:00.000-04:00

Rt. 92 South of Tunkhannock. Sept. 8th, 2011.

Thursday morning, I woke up to the constant sound of rain against pavement. The same white noise I had fallen asleep to. On Wednesday, people were talking about flooding. Serious flooding. Irene had just slipped through causing damage all over NYC, New Jersey and portions of Eastern Pennsylvania. A few small towns around me had been severely flooded by their small streams.

With the ground saturated and the skies pouring oceans of water over northeastern Pennsylvania and southern New York, we began to see the streams and creeks, something Pennsylvania has an abundance of, rise and spill into each other until finally feeding into the Susquehanna. The way things were shaping up in the storm system and the rapid rising of the waters, it was beginning to look serious. Hushed whispers of a tragedy not seen since 1972 filled the voices of many.

While my coffee brewed, I watched the news outline what was happening. Binghamton, NY had received ten inches of rain in approximately two days. A fact that was repeated over and over by meteorologists on the local news. Three months of rain in such a short time. Towns upstream from Tunkhannock like Meshoppen, Towanda and Wyalusing were already experiencing major flooding.

I called my boss to find out what was happening in town. He and other employees were moving equipment from the shop to higher ground. There was already a foot of water in the building. New comments began to saturate the news coverage: "Worse than Agnes." "Record crest for the Susquehanna." We were in for a disaster the likes of which I had only heard stories.

The Susquehanna swallows Tunkhannock.

When I finished my coffee, I decided I'd walk to town since all road travel was being discouraged. There were actually rumors of $500 fines for those caught driving. As I made my way down the road, I could hear the roaring of the Susquehanna over the hill. I had never heard it this loud in all of my years spent in Tunkhannock. There had been plenty of floods that I had lived through, but this was a new beast and the river roared.

The muddy water was already lapping the banks just over the edge of route 92 and, around the corner, as the road dipped down along the edge of the mountain, the river had already crawled up and over the pavement. There was no way I'd make it to town on foot.

My father and I decided that, since we were seemingly trapped between two flood plains, we'd hike Avery Mountain and look out over the valley from Hangman's, an area near the top of the mountain where hang-gliders launch. Hiking up, the waters spilled down across rocks and ledges, mixing into a slippery, muddy mess. Fog rolled through the trees thick and heavy and the humidity made our trip more difficult than it should have been.

As we reached the top, the picture below us was beyond anything I had ever seen. The river had swelled and spread across the valley, engulfing and swallowing everything within its path. Houses and buildings lay surrounded by its muddy waters and round-bales of hay, that once sat in fields undisturbed, began floating downstream.

Slowly, other people began to join us at the top of the mountain to watch as our town was inundated with the rising Susquehanna. While we all stood and watched, each of us remarking on the unfolding destruction, a woman spotted something floating down the river. It was large and moving fast. I heard someone ask, "Is that a house?"

A house floats down the Susquehanna.

Lifting my camera, I focused the lens and zoomed in, finding the object in the rushing water. There, floating along like a toy, two windows were visible. A sharp-angled, green roof. It was surreal, but it was happening right before my eyes. My father had told me stories about the flood of Agnes in 1972 when he and his friends stood on the old, metal bridge and watched as house after house floated down and splintered into nothing against the heavy steel girders.

People on the bridge watched as the house floated closer and closer to the river bridge, colliding into the side and splintering, almost exploding, into a floating pile of rubble. The sound was so intense that we could hear it at the top of the mountain. This was only the beginning.

Downtown Tunkhannock as the waters rose quickly.

See the horsies, Uncle?

2011-09-06T22:38:00.000-04:00

"See the horsie, Uncle," my niece says to me

as I lift her from the bouncing seat of her

carriage. "See the horsie! It comin'."

She squirms and kicks in my arms,

smiling with eyes wide and bright

beneath the sun of the afternoon as

an equine group-- Buckskin,

Palomino, Appaloosa,

Chesnut --come

trotting along.

Men and women, sitting high

cradled in soft, worn leather

wear spurs that chime

with every step. Brimmed hats.

Dusty blue jeans.

Belt buckles.

Sequins and ribbons.

My niece and I sit watching

on the weathered bleachers.

They come one after another.

Shooting down through the arena

from the gate.

Turning quick around the poles.

Around the barrels.

"See the horsie!" she says to me

again clapping and bouncing

on my lap. "Horsie runnin'."

She looks on as hoofs kick

dusty clouds in their wake.

Manes ripple back

through the wind.

Down the fairway among throngs

of people. Old-time farmers in their

overalls walk among young generations

caught between the buds of their iPods

or the clicks of a texting phone.

Lights. Bells. A woman hands small

bibles to those who pass by.

Candy apples for sale amongst

the pink, blue and white clouds of

cotton candy.

A calliope whistles out its tune

from the carousel spinning 'round

among children's smiles and the

dreams of infants.

"Ride the horsies," says my niece.

And I take her through the gate.

Let her choose her fiberglass

stallion.

For a moment,

she rides as graceful, skillful

as any of those in the

arena.

Her steed even shudders ever

so slightly as it dips down,

mimicking a gallop 'round

its endless journey.

And she looks up toward

my face. Smiles.

"I ride the horsie, Uncle."

Her tiny curls blow in

the breeze.

The Three are Free

2011-08-20T00:04:00.000-04:00

On June 3rd, 1993, shortly after the mutilated bodies of three eight-year-old boys were found in West Memphis, Arkansas, Damien Echols, Jason Baldwin and Jessie Misskelley were arrested as the prime suspects in the murders. Evidence to their "guilt": black hair, Stephen King novels, their love for heavy metal music and rumors that the three boys were Satanists.

After questionable police work, no solid evidence and a trial which painted the boys as Satanic, dangerous and cold-hearted killers, Damien was sentenced to death while Jason and Jessie received life in prison.

Now, after 18 years in prison, the West Memphis Three were released today after accepting an Alford plea. The deal, though not perfect, has granted the three, now in their 30's, a chance to live their lives as free men. Something they haven't been able to do since being incarcerated as teenagers.

When I learned about the WM3 around 1999-2000, I became immediately interested and supportive of their cause. It was very obvious to me that there was an incredible injustice which had fallen upon them. Facts had not sentenced these men to prison and death, but fear and ignorance. A need to point the finger at the invisible monster beneath the bed.

Their deal is not perfect and the three men still have to fight to clear their names of the crimes they've been convicted of, but now, as Damien said in a press conference today, they can do it outside of prison.

Damien, Jason and Jessie after being released August 19th.

The WM3 have regained a huge part of their lives. They can breath fresh air. Walk with their families and hold their loved ones. Feel the rain on their faces while most of us duck for cover. Eat a meal in their own home. Wake up to the morning without seeing brick and bars.

Tonight, I find myself happy to see a day I never thought would come for these men. The Three are free. Sleep well tonight, Damien, Jason and Jessie.

Damien Echols, a free man. WM3.org

Some of you may not know that Damien is a writer and poet. Some of his work has been published but, as you may have guessed, being published while behind bars and on death row is infinitely harder than being published sitting on the outside.

Here are a few examples of Damien's poetry:

UNCLE CHARLIE

My best friend’s uncle
used to tell us stories
about life in Vietnam.
He smoked hand-rolled cigarettes
that turned his fingers yellow
and sipped whiskey straight from the bottle
as he explained how they’d used chocolate bars
to lure the children to landmines.
He chuckled while describing
the way the “gooks” exploded,
but told us we were too young
to hear about the whorehouses
he’d visit on his days off.

FIRST LOVE

In those days you were something
felt but not seen
as you handed me love letters
written in dead languages.

The chain link fence behind me
made cold diamonds on my back
and your head was on my shoulder
with only one breath between us.

Your hair against my face
smelled like woodsmoke and chocolate,
your lust was raw and new,
as jagged and dangerous as rocks beneath the waves.

Now I’m trapped here like a ghost
haunting places that no longer exist,
feeding on frost and hummingbirds
during long November nights.

~Both pieces appeared in Rattle issue #28 in the winter of 2007. Rattle.com

He didn't know the man beneath the flag

2011-08-14T03:26:00.001-04:00

Photo courtesy of the Citizen's Voice

Sometimes, moments that dive straight to your core and touch you in a way you never expected happen at the most unexpected times. It's time pausing for a brief instant and singling you out. For that moment, everything aligns and pierces you sharp and exact. Monday, I experienced one of those moments.

It was 11 a.m. when I arrived at the Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport. Nervous about my first flight (though, more nervous about navigating the three airports I would be visiting) I made my way through the doors and checked in. Easy enough. I even managed to meet Katherine, a sweet Irish woman from Dublin, as I stood in line. She was helpful in explaining a few things I was unsure of and even told me stories of her own travels and that of her children.

After moving through security, I headed toward the scent of coffee. Just behind the small vendor, where you could also buy a Budweiser, a group of men had assembled along the wall. All of them were looking out toward the tarmac, but I couldn't see what it was that had caught their attention.

Coffee in hand, I walked to an open spot at the window. There, on the tarmac, was a small plane and a group of Marines standing in formation. They moved forward like clockwork. Exact and angular. Pulling a casket draped in 235 years of blood, sweat, struggle and tears. My hand slowly moved toward my hat, pulling it off and placing it upon the sill of the window.

Next to me, men were silent save for one who I could hear holding back tears. They all looked on at the scene unfolding slowly below. Flags on the backs of motorcycles sitting upon the tarmac rippled and swayed in the wind as more men looked on and saluted the silver casket of the fallen Marine.

As I turned to walk away, Katherine moved toward the window to peer out at the uniformed men placing the casket into the back of the hearse. Most of the men had moved away from the window, but one man remained standing next to Katherine. It was the man who I had heard choked up breaths emanating from.

As the hearse pulled away and the motorcycles followed suit, Katherine and the man turned and moved away from the window. The man walked toward me with his ballcap in hand. I could see the pain in his face and the mist flowing across his eyes.

"Did you know him," I asked.

The man looked back through the window as the last of the procession moved out of sight across the tarmac. With a solemn look, he turned back toward me and said quietly, "No."

He fumbled with his hat and moved on as I looked through the window at the barren concrete where only the plane sat now. There were no sounds except for the quite "no" uttered to me a moment before echoing within my mind. The man, so touched and pained by the loss of the Marine covered with a flag, had made an unforgettable impression upon me. It is this moment in time that I will never forget. A moment where time stopped and aimed its constant flow directly at me to show me something powerful.

*****

The man beneath that flag was Staff Sgt. Patrick R. Dolphin. His wife, Lindsey, and members of Rolling Thunder and Friends of the Forgotten were among those saluting Dolphin as he was carried from the plane.

Staff Sgt. Dolphin died on July 31st while supporting combat operations Herat Province of Afghanistan. Dolphin died in combat. Story here: Citizens Voice article on Staff Sgt. Dolphin.

Taking a shot of ink: Prose in Pubs

2011-08-01T22:30:00.000-04:00

Jack's Draft House FB page.

It's a Sunday night and all of the parking spots on the corner of Gibson and Prescott are filled. Cruising up the block, I find a space sufficient enough to harbor my pickup. Jack's Draft House sits on the corner. Unmarked, save for a neon sign and a small chalkboard in the doorway. Walking through the glass-paneled door, I see people standing about. Sitting everywhere. They're all intently listening. Some sipping dark stouts. Some with gin and tonics or a bourbon.

Mischelle Anthony is standing near the exposed brick archway which leads to the back room of Jack's reciting one of her pieces. Her words illicit laughter as she smiles behind her glasses, reading on about an unfortunate sounding love interest. Already, I'm a bit upset with myself leaving late and missing the majority of her reading. However, my lack of punctuality aside, I become immediately wrapped up in the aura of the night and the second Prose in Pubs is well under way.

Jack's Draft House FB

Prose in Pubs is the creation of local poet/writer/memoirist Amye Archer. Joined by Jim Warner, another area writer who has been involved in readings and the lit scene for some time, they plan the monthly Prose in Pubs, choosing from some of the best talents the area has to offer.

Last night's roster included the aforementioned Mischelle Anthony, Jennifer Diskin, Matthew Hinton and Brian Fanelli. The atmosphere of Jack's lends itself beautifully to the dynamics of poetry and lit readings. So much so that Amye holds the events sans microphone, a portion of readings that I myself have had a difficult time adjusting to. With the comforting glow of soft lights and the warming architecture and aura amidst the crowd, each reader seemed comfortable. In their element. It seemed to me as if we were all long-time friends joining together to share a few drinks and words slightly tinged with hops and warmed by the sound of genuine laughter.

Each of the readers impressed me last night and left me with a hopeful feeling about the growth of the arts in and around the Northeast PA region. Without events such as Prose in Pubs, the arts and talent present in your own back yard becomes hidden. Glowing treasures only unearthed by chance.

Here's to Amy Archer, Jim Warner, Prose in Pubs and all of the amazing talent showcased last night and in the months to come. Bottoms up, my fellow ink-bleeders.

Jack's Draft House FB

-Follow Prose in Pubs and Jack's Draft House on Facebook.

-Read the interview with Amye Archer about Prose in Pubs at the570.com.

-Be sure to visit Amye Archer and Brian Fanelli at their blogs located in my "Less Frustrated Folk" section.

-The next Prose in Pubs is scheduled for Sept. 25th. Stay tuned for details.

Burning bright at both ends

2011-07-23T13:24:00.000-04:00

True talent always seems to burn bright and fade away quickly. Whether it finds a way to destroy itself or the world snuffs the flames that burn at both ends, it's here and gone so quickly that you almost miss it. All of the musicians, artists and true talents of the world who have met an untimely end. It's hard to understand why.

In a world that severely needs huge doses of beauty and true art, the tasteless and bland pollute it with mountains of garbage to dig through before finding the true gems. I've seen it in pop culture and I've seen it happen to personal friends. And today, another one joins the list of tragic ends.

Amy Winehouse possessed one of the most sultry and amazing voices of our time. Whether you enjoyed her music or not, her talent was undeniable. Her voice oozed the soul of yesteryears rhythm and blues with a modern twist of pop. Unfortunately, like so many others, she struggled with her own personal demons and couldn't shake the monkey from her back.

Winehouse was found dead in her London flat today. Another to join such names as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison and so many others who have formed the ranks of the "27 club". Her death is not surprising to those who knew her lifestyle, but disappointing. Disappointing that such a talent was wasted. That she'll never be able to contribute her voice to music again. If there is any consolation, it's the fact that her talent was preserved in recordings. That her voice was not lost forever. That she was given a chance to share her talents with the world.

R.I.P. Amy Winehouse

September 1983 – July 2011

Tell your story.

2011-07-21T23:13:00.000-04:00

That is one of the most important things I was told after reading the first seven pages of what is to become my first full-length book to a group of writers I meet with every week. "Tell your story." That is my plan. The first words hit the page just a few days ago and it has started off slowly. Transitioning from writing mostly poetry to re-introducing prose into the mix has been my most difficult task.

The story is all upstairs. Imagined and envisioned within the workings of my skull. Morphing the idea and imagery into words on a page feels like a futile alchemy experiment at times. But I've got the engine turning. Now it's just a matter of pumping in some fuel.

My characters have begun to breath and speak. They choose their words and actions. Where they roam. How they see and feel. What they believe. How they love, or don't love. Choices. Now, all I need to remember is to let myself breath while I record their lives.

So, I will tell my story. Let it bleed onto the page. Let my mind and hands take over. Let my characters speak to me and one another.

"Writing is nothing more than a guided dream."

~Jorge Luis Borges

“If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing,

or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it.”

~Anais Nin

“There is no rule on how to write. Sometimes it comes easily and perfectly;

sometimes it's like drilling rock and then blasting it out with charges.”

~Ernest Hemingway

Migration

2011-07-16T10:31:00.000-04:00

Twenty-six years ago, my parents put me in the back seat of whatever car they owned and started out for Disney World. I was their first child. This was their first trip as more than husband and wife and my first trip as anything. At one, any experiences you have are almost completely lost within the depths of your ever-expanding mind. The only thing I can recall from the trip is being in the back of the car one night as we headed south. There was a knit blanket of various, warm colors over me. Mickey Mouse didn't make my memory's cut.

There were other, smaller trips from that time on, but nothing which ventured too far from home. Most didn't even leave the state.

I've wanted to begin travelling for the past six years. Every time I'd plan something, I'd back out of it or find an excuse not to go. Friends around the states and different countries have offered me places to rest my head and feel welcome, eliminating the need for expensive and sterile hotels, yet I wouldn't budge from my small corner of Pennsylvania.

It's about time it all started changing. This year has been one of life-altering changes. Experiences that have picked me up and kicked me in the ass to really start living and enjoying the time I have here.

Next month I'll be headed to Orlando. It's come full circle. Though I wont be cruising to the hum of rubber on pavement, I'll be experiencing a first. Flying. No, I've never flown. Nervous? Not really. Not about the actual flight, anyway. The hordes of travellers running and bustling about in the airport is the real worry.

While I'm down there, I hope to visit the house where Kerouac lived and wrote The Dharma Bums. My friends have also promised me book and music stores, among other things. And there's always the people. Meeting and conversing with new and interesting people. It's one of the most overlooked gifts of life. Possibily due to the fact that interesting people are rare.

I'm hoping this trip will fill me with ideas and words as well. Writing in these past months has been a difficult task. Everything I scribble, I'm more dissatisfied with than usual. The ideas are aching to burst from my pen, but they've been held back by something. Maybe the sun of Florida can burn it away.

Tickets are booked. Arrangements have been made. The only thing I've got left to do is to decide which book I'll be reading on the flight down.

Kerouac's home where he wrote The Dharma Bums.

"On Air" by Robin Stratton

2011-06-28T00:56:00.000-04:00

Taking a break from my current 700-page behemoth reading selection, I sat down with On Air, the new book from author, poet, editor, writing coach and Boston-ite Robin Stratton.

Stratton brings us into Eric Storm's life, a once-successful DJ for KROQ in Boston, who's life seems to be spinning to a disappointing, empty end. Storm's career as a DJ, once considered his dream job, has now become the bane of his existence as he spends time on air playing music he loathes until, after one too many acts of rebellion, he's fired. Three-years divorced from his wife, her painting studio remains untouched in his house, clinging to the memories of a once-happy marriage. His only friend is an unkempt man he met randomly after his show one night and his mother, the only family and real connection Storm has in his small world, is in declining health and driving him nuts through her love.

Though Eric is a middle-aged man, the story is, ultimately, one of maturation and growth. A movement from a self-centered, blame-shifting attitude to that of a truly understanding and mature man. Growth that, as Eric learns, should have been made much earlier in his life. We're dropped in the latter half of this transition, but learn, through Eric's recollections of the past, that his focus was on himself.

"But rather than ask how she is, I start talking, and I don't shut up...and it takes me three years to notice her happy smile fades. She even takes a step back, I see her take a step back. But do I stop talking? Hell, no! Talking, talking, talking...My needs, what makes me happy, what I like to do. Me me me!"

Creating a believable and honest character of the opposite sex is always met with some challenges. There are intricacies inherent with your own gender, as a writer, which can and will seep into a character. Though Eric certainly carries some more feminine qualities, Stratton has created a character where these qualities come through naturally and perfectly.

Eric is not a rough and hard exteriored man, but a soft and timid man. A mama's boy in the best sense of the word, though he tries to deny it. He wants to be the ladies man. The heroic and tough man ready to beat someone to a pulp whenever it's deserved. But, as his friend Reynolds says, playing the role of the wise old man and philosopher throughout the book, "You can't take a break from being who you are".

At first, Eric's character got on my nerves a bit. He was whiny and never liked to examine himself and he approached romance like a child. That side of him comes out during his infatuation with the young street performer, Leesha. As I read on about his lust and general giddiness for this young girl, it was no surprise to me that his wife had left him. He was a child in thought still chasing after ridiculous dreams. Some of his comments and internal dialogue irked me. At times, I wanted to grab him by the shirt collar and tell him to grow up.

And he does. Stratton puts Eric to the test and pushes him further than he's ever been pushed before. She forces him to grow up through circumstances beyond his control and, as we read through the book, we see the transformation. By the end, after I had gone through emotions I had not expected to roll through with this book, I was happy for the man. Glad he had learned the error of his ways and found that the happiness and life he had been longing for was right in front of him. He just had to man up and go after it.

In a 173 pages, Stratton took me through the gambit of emotions. Recent events in my life may have contributed to how strongly some of her words touched me as a reader, but there's undeniable feeling here and connections that any reader can relate to. Stratton's writing is tight and focused, only straying when Eric takes a moment to lose himself within his own thoughts. She always finds a way to bring him back to point, however. Stratton will make you laugh in one paragraph and hit you with some incredible insight on life in the next.

"Sometimes it's possible, for a hundredth of a second, to conceive of the past, present, and future, all happening simultaneously...Only I know, here in the present, which is the future of the past. My mind struggles with the nearness of the epiphany, then retreats, incapable of understanding."

Watch how well she weaves her characters together. If there was any excess to the story, Stratton has cut it all out and left you with nothing but the good stuff. Each interaction and event in Eric's life is essential to his growth and story.

A witty, funny, sometimes heartbreaking book, On Air is definitely worth picking up and checking out. You can read it in an evening and reread it again to pick up on anything you may have missed. Eric's character grew on me and Stratton's style and way of telling a story was a refreshing break from what I had been reading.

On Air is available from Blue Mustang Press and Amazon.com. For more information on Robin Stratton and other books she's written, including her poetry collections, visit RobinStratton.com.

Also, check out the Boston Literary Magazine which Robin edits. Their 5th anniversary, Summer 2011 issue is now available in print from Big Table Publishing.

..

Boston Literary Magazine

2011-06-27T08:51:00.000-04:00

This summer marks the 5th anniversary of the Boston Literary Magazine and the 2011 Summer issue is now available for purchase from Big Table Publishing. Two of my poems, "It's Raining Outside This Neon Brothel" and "Fear of Heights", are included among a jam-packed issue.

The issue is $12 plus shipping. Big Table also offers other chapbooks available for the same price or less. I ordered four copies myself, but I'm hoping I wont be the only one reading it. Grab a copy today and get your hands on some great contemporary poetry.

Many thanks to Robin Stratton, editor of the Boston Literary Magazine, for accepting my work and the many kind words she's offered.

Check out Robin's new book "On Air", available at Amazon. It's a great summer read. Watch for a review here.

No sleep 'til insomnia ends

2011-06-14T23:52:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, the Scranton Zine Fest went on without a hitch, as far as I know. The skies had been opening up periodically all morning, but the rains held off for the crowd to collect and peruse the eclectic mix of zines that ranged in topics from music to the Gay community to bicycling.

Though the fest was of humble size for its birth, it has the potential to grow into a much larger gathering like that of the Philadelphia Zine Fest. Even the poetry reading, which I took part in with some very talented local poets/writers (more on them in later posts), gathered a good-sized crowd in the slowly-fading Anthology bookstore.

Much has been happening over the past weeks and the outdoors have been beckoning to me. Pulling me from the walls of the claustrophobic confines of my home and into the sweet rains and summer breezes. I'm also awaiting my publication in the Boston Literary Magazine where two of my pieces will be featured in their 5-year anniversary Summer issue. There will also be more on this when it comes out.

Robin Stratton, an editor for the Boston Literary Magazine, has recently had her novel On Air released from Blue Mustang Press. There is a copy floating around in the mail system making its way to my box at this very moment. Review to come on the book as soon as I finish it.

What I'm saying is, there's much to come. If this insomnia doesn't come to an end, I'll have to do something more productive with it than tossing and turning in bed. Work has ensued on some new poems and even some short stories. I've been trying to get back into writing some prose. Things are moving slowly at the moment, but the ideas are rolling through my mind quite nicely.

Cheers.

The skies over Tunkhannock, June 12th. A very
fickle weather day.

A surprising treat at First Friday

2011-06-05T21:15:00.001-04:00

What an incredibly filled weekend. Beginning with Scranton First Friday, a bad alternator, replacing said alternator, breakfast at Sky Haven airport this morning and ending with Bluegrass fiddles and banjos at the NEPA Bluegrass Festival. I've got some writing and other, less important things to do. But first, a treat.

Chip Forelli

There is one thing that I must mention about First Friday. Chip Forelli. Some of you may already know about him. Especially those with Apple computers. Chip Forelli, a photographer who's work spans 25 years, is the featured artist at Camera Work gallery in Scranton. He produces some of the most amazing black and white photographs I've seen in a while.

My creative quest is the discovery of visual gifts - those precious instances of unrevealed beauty that we unknowingly encounter every day. Much is to be gained by embracing these opportunities.

That's not your average, artistic banter either. Chip's images range from mysterious and perplexing to absolutely beautiful and breathtaking. In a medium which is becoming over-saturated with bland, cliche and overly Photoshoped work, Chip's images are a breath of fresh air. His long exposures bring an ethereal, dream-like aura into the image captured. A moment in time, seemingly captured in the stillness of the print, begins to play out right before your eyes.

Chip Forelli

Although I didn't get a chance to speak with Chip, I overheard him talking about one of the pieces on display at Camera Work. The image is a frozen, snow-covered lake. Two sets of footprints begin in the foreground together before moving apart creating separate paths to destinations unknown. When asked if he had created the prints himself, Chip commented that the scene portrayed in the photo was found that way. "Two people had a disagreement and went their separate ways," said Chip. A much more insightful and interesting answer than "I don't know".

Chip Forelli

The gallery is on display until June 29th and is free to the public. Anyone heading to the Scranton Zine Fest, where myself and a few other writer/poets will be reading, will be able to check it out.

Chip Forelli

Prepare the tinfoil hats

2011-05-20T21:23:00.001-04:00

Harold Camping predicts the end is here.

Tomorrow is the end of the world. It has been prophesied by the great Harold Camping. This man has never been wrong about anything pertaining to religion in his long career at Family Radio. He has studied the Bible from cover to cover. Word for word. He's crunched the numbers and he's predicted that tomorrow is it. On May 21st at 6:00 p.m. in each time zone, the rapture will occur. Good, God-fearing Christians will be beamed into heaven like holy Batsignals.

Families have been divided. Some have budgeted their savings to have absolutely nothing left come tomorrow. Evangelists are preaching from their piles of cash to save the world and atheists are cashing in on post-rapture pet care. No need to empty the shelves at the local grocery stores. This isn't Y2K. This is the god damn (pun slightly intended) rapture. Tomorrow, the man with the wavy hair, carefully crafted beard and birkenstocks will be knocking on your door and telling you whether you've been naughty or nice. Hint: if you suddenly end up near the largest bonfire you've ever seen, chances are you weren't nice. Or, at the very least, you didn't put enough folding money in the basket when it was passed around during mass. Pearly gates aren't cheap.

After all the pious folk are shot up into their sky-condos, we immoral, corrupted, non-believing blasphemers will have to endure Hell on Earth until October 21st. I could have sworn we've already been experiencing a bit of it here, but this will be the time when God turns it up to 11. It's going to be a vacation created from the pages of Dante. At least people will have no use for spray-tans anymore. Their flesh will be a lovely shade of charcoal. And, on October 21st, God will play Freebird and pull the plug. Lights out. Earth done. Humanity gone.

Or, on Sunday, we'll all sit back and watch Mr. Camping backpedal for the second time. He'll say he must have missed something in the Bible. Families who've torn themselves apart over this ridiculous concept will, at the very least, share awkward moments or be completely torn apart forever. People who've quit their jobs will be scrambling to find another, in an economy where it's nearly impossible to find anything decent, since more level-headed individuals scooped their old positions up the moment they left. And those who've budgeted themselves to have nothing left will be filing for bankruptcy or applying for loans to keep themselves from living on the streets.

Either Camping is right and tomorrow is the end of days. Or, he's simply another religious lunatic who's ruined the lives of many as he sits comfortably upon his cash. Either way, I plan on lounging around on Sunday (towering infernos or not), sipping a beer and probably caring about the passing "apocalypse" as much as an atheist can. Maybe I'll try to buy a house on the post-rapture market.

A quick word on my words

2011-05-19T10:24:00.000-04:00

Recently, my poem "Legs, lips, sex & jazz" was published in issue #4 of Word Fountain, a publication from the Osterhout Free Library in Wilkes-Barre, PA. It's a free, local literary journal compiled and distributed by the staff of the library. Submissions for each issue are based around a central idea. Issue #4's focus was centered on music. Though I haven't had a chance to sit down and read the issue yet, you can read the online version here. If you're interested in submitting or obtaining a copy of the issue, contact information can be found here.

In June, two more of my poems will be appearing in the Boston Literary Magazine for the 2011 Summer issue. It will appear online first and in print shortly thereafter. You can read past issues and find out more information on this great journal at BostonLiteraryMagazine.com.

Lastly, if you live anywhere near Scranton, PA, myself and a few other poets/writers will be reading at the first ever Scranton Zine Fest on June 11th. For more information on that event, see my previous post and visit ScrantonZineFest.com.

Cheers,
Dale R. Wilsey Jr.

Art, poetry and zines: Scranton Zine Fest 2011

2011-05-18T21:28:00.000-04:00

Zines have been a staple of the DIY community, music scenes, art scenes and they've carried the voices of rebellion and free thought for decades. On June 11th, the growing art community of Scranton will converge on Center Street to celebrate this diverse, pulp-filled art form.

Zine Fest is the creation of Jessica Meoni, a fourth-year, Graphic Design student at Marywood, who has been involved with past events such as Scranton Ladyfest. Recently, she has joined the design committee of the Pages & Places Book Festival and the Scranton Reads committee.

Jessica has brought together "zinesters" from all over to participate in the event. As an added bonus, she's invited a few poets to the mix for a reading to take place in what used to be the Anthology bookstore.

The Fest is fast approaching and Saturday evening, amidst a few beers (and one delicious bowl of chili) at Jack's Draft House, I met with Jessica and the other poets who I'll be reading with the day of. Among them are Brian Fanelli, a friend and poet from the area who's chapbook Frontman contains poems which traces the journey of a liberty-spiked punk rocker, Amy Archer, who's made 80's hair poetic (it can be done), Alexis Czencz Belluzi, Rachael Goetzke and Charlotte Lewis. The reading will take place at 4 p.m. and will be hosted by Brian Fanelli.

The Fest promises to be an eclectic mix of people and ideas which Jessica has ideas of continuing as an annual event. Tables will be arranged along Center Street and will feature art work, an array of zines and arts & crafts from varying sources. Even the poets have a table (they'll be selling everything from jewelry to souls). You can check out the Zine Fest site for more information on who will be there and what the fest will entail.

For more about the poets, you can visit these sites:
The Fat Girl Skinny - Amy Archer's blog
BrianFanelli.com

...and you're already reading mine.

I'm five years old

2011-05-02T19:47:00.000-04:00

"I'm five years old," said the unnamed boy running about in his sunglasses and blue jeans. "I turned five on my birthday."

"I'm five, too," said my good friend Gabby's three-year-old son, Miles.

Marcelle, another good friend, Gabby and I all laughed together. We had just come to the park at the end of Washington to let Miles burn up some energy. Like all young boys, he has enough to spare. And, like all mothers of young boys, Gabby was more than happy to let him use some up.

The two boys were climbing about the playground equipment in the park. Across the small bridge, which undulated under their tiny feet, and down the spiral, static-inducing slide. No matter how many times I'd receive tiny jolts of electricity on my way down those plastic slides as a child, it never seemed to stop my fun. Then again, fun is one of the only things you have as a child. What's there to stop it when one of your biggest worries is whether or not you'll get ice cream after dinner?

Gabby snapped photos of Miles while Marcelle and I found ourselves a spot to rest on the walkway of the park below a Maple tree. After weeks of rain and warm weather, the trees had exploded into life with buds bursting open and unfurling their newborn leaves.

As I sat on the shaded pavement, leaning back on my hands and feeling the warm, fresh breeze of Spring move across my face, I couldn't help but think of how much easier it would be if I could return to those days.

"You can't catch me," said the boy in the blue jeans.

They were running about, kicking up the faded mulch and whirling around the chocolate-brown piping of the playground.

"Hey, man," said the blue jean boy. "I'm five years old," he repeated.

"I'm six," Miles responded. He kept making himself older.

There were times when I used to do the same, as a boy. I couldn't wait to be 13 and a teenager. For some reason, I figured it would mean more freedom. Less nagging from my parents. Then I wanted to be 16.

A driver's license, for me, was like the holy grail. It provided freedom. A ticket to the outside world without the constraints of asking your parents for a ride somewhere. When I wanted to go, I went. Turned the key. Fired up the engine and fed that hungry beast gallons of gasoline with the smooth movements of my foot. Then, it only cost $10 to fill my tank. Then, I had no other bills to worry about.

Eighteen came. I bought a pack of cigarettes for a friend simply because I could. Went to a strip joint and blew every dollar I had earned during my birthday week while simultaneously learning that some women could rob the money right out of your wallet without even touching it. I graduated high school and went to college. There, I learned that it wasn't only women in skimpy clothing who grabbed money out of your pockets. Banks, bookstores and the state were equally as good. They even charged interest.

Then came 21. I had learned enough at 18 that blowing all your money on a celebration was rather useless. I spent July sixth of 2004 watching a movie in my bedroom while drinking a six-pack.

There came a point, sometime after I turned 21, where I realized that everything anyone had ever told me about staying young when I was a boy was true. Like every child, I never wanted to go to school. I wanted to stay home and always envied adults for not having to go to school. I never believed them when they said it was better than working every day. Never believed that being a kid was better than being an adult.

"When you get to be my age, you'll wish you were back in school," they'd say. "Homework is a lot more fun than bills."

When I open my paycheck and see that I've worked over 100 hours in the past two weeks, those days I spent sitting in class, longing for the clock to strike three, seem so far away. Now, I wait for the clock to strike six. And I don't even have the luxury of "snow" days anymore. There's no staying home when my stomach hurts. I go to bed earlier now than I did when I was in school. Why did it always seem like my parents were up so late?

And, as if the working week and bills showing up in the mail weren't enough to make me long for childhood days, there are the truly difficult times and harsh truths that one must face as the years pass by. Those friends you used to run and play with as a child start to thin out. Some move on to other lives. Interests change. There are fallouts and breakups. There are deaths.

As a child, your own ignorance of the world and how life works protects you from many of the worst parts of it. Your beloved dog doesn't die, he goes away to a farm. Or to play with other happy dogs in the sky. Your grandmother is not dead. She's an angel with wings. She's with grandpa, now. These are the things we're told. Things that, as children, we may believe and, as adults, we wish we could. But the innocence and carefree times of childhood are long gone.

Though, growing older is not all terrible or crushing. There are events and bits of happiness which make their way into my life to make it all worth it. The way in which my niece hugs me and calls for me, reaching her tiny arms into the air searching to be held. A call from my beautiful woman whose voice can break through any fog that's moved in on my day. The understanding of a friend. Or, even a moment like this where I sit in the company of friends who truly take joy in time spent with one another. Where each of us can watch two boys, both unaware of anything but how fun it is to be playing in the park, and take joy in their innocence and happiness.

In the same thought where I wish I could return to being a little boy, fishing from a boulder along Bowman's creek with my grandmother, I hope that Miles doesn't grow too quickly. That my niece remains unaware of the pains and sorrows of passing years for as long as she can. It's a tough world and life is not an easy path to travel. But, at least we have our childhood days to ease us into it.

I can't go back to those times. I know that, if I spend the present longing for the past, I'll wake up at fifty and still be longing. Wishing to return to this moment under the Maple and so many like it.

"Let's go for a walk to the car," Miles says. His statement solves Gabby's problem of how to get him to leave the park and head home.

Off over the valley, the stirrings of storm clouds begin to appear and I look at my motorcycle parked next to Gabby's car. It's a half hour ride home. Miles pounds my fist in true dude fashion and I hug Gabby and Marcelle goodbye. My bike rumbles to a start and I push the kickstand up and head out.

The ride home is windy and with every mile covered, the threat of rain seems worse. But I don't let it take the joy out of the cruise. For now, it's dry. It's warm. And it's a good ride. Whatever storms may be ahead, they're not here yet.

So I ride on.

Parting ways with smelly friends

2011-04-26T19:46:00.000-04:00

May you find rest beneath my bed, old friends.

These boots are rather uncomfortable. For the moment, that is. An exact replica of the pair I just abandoned after almost four years of abuse and miles of footsteps. It's hard to imagine that the old, worn leather and cracked soles, which had become comfortable in their embrace of my feet, were ever so cold and rigid.

The leather had become wrinkled with the memory of my movements. Creased and turned with my feet. The back of the heels, like every form of footwear I've ever worn down to nothing, had developed a slight slant wearing more on the inside. It's the way I walk. And I've never been able to correct it no matter how I try. It's a shame you can't rotate footwear like tires.

Three pairs of laces have broken in those boots. Each one right before work as I scrambled to pull them on and cinch them tight. Over the years, I've learned to always have an extra set lying in wait in the top drawer of my desk. It subdues the string of curses which would usually fly from between my lips during such an occasion. It's also much easier than trying to rig a broken lace together.

But the old boots had walked on well past their end. Like two leather zombies, they carried my feet across pavement and concrete, through mud and grime, snow and slush, and countless other conditions. They even made it through a fire and the gallons of water mixed with ash and debris. After that, they weren't waterproof. The soles cracked and the tread wore down to nothing. The leather dried. Water seeped in during the snow and rain. If there's one thing I hate, it's soggy feet.

What will become of these tired, old friends? Truthfully, they will set beneath the end of my bed for quite a spell. I'll even wear them a few more times while these new, rigid monstrosities learn my feet. Like an old pair of sneakers, I'll keep them around. Until I finally succumb to the fact that there is no more use left in them. When the new become comfortable and familiar like the old, they'll find their way out of my life as I forget them.They'll continue some unknown journey past my knowledge until the last bit of leather dries up and decays.

Like this, but worse.

All those miles walked. Rocks kicked to the side. Our old footwear carries with it a story all their own. The places they've been. The horrible things they've stepped in. A life of unforgiving servitude. Maybe it's why most of us keep the old ones around for a while. As a thanks for giving us comfort while taking our abuse. Or maybe we keep them for the stories they hold. I still have my first pair of Chuck Taylors sitting in my closet. The canvas torn from the rubber toe from a punk show. They're beat beyond repair and I never wear them. But they're there. Reminding me, every time I see them, of the many memories they hold.

April washout and roaming the landscape

2011-04-23T12:56:00.002-04:00

Property of Dale R Wilsey Jr.

It's raining. Again. Nineteen of the past 23 days have been full of rain and ugly weather. April showers bring May flowers, but this is a bit ridiculous. Flowers are blooming already. How about we calm down the waterworks, nature? I'd like to get outside and enjoy my days sometime soon.

It's not that I don't enjoy the rain. But I've spent enough time indoors for now and I've felt stifled. It's hard to write sitting inside. What I crave is a walk through the woods. A hike to the top of the mountain to gaze out over the valley and watch the Susquehanna wind its way through town.

Maybe a trip to Rickett's Glen or a cruise out to the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon on the bike. Set up camp. Spark a fire and sit roasting my meal over an open flame. Sometimes, I believe I would have been more at home in this world when the major mode of transportation was fueled by grains, hay and the occasional sip from a trickling stream or still pond.

I haven't ridden in years, though. How would I take to sitting my ass back in a saddle after all this time? Maybe it's like riding a bike. Maybe you never forget. Just like jumping onto my motorcycle and firing it up for the first time after a long winter. A few moments and everything is the way it should be. At least I'd be able to ride a horse through the winter. I can only imagine how beautiful a ride through the hills would be as the snow drifted down among the pines and speckled the stallion's mane.

And here I sit. Rambling on as thoughts come drifting through my head. Daydreams. Images and ideas. Products of another rainy day stuck inside. Here I thought the words wouldn't come as easily. I know they're always there. I've just got to open the door more often.

Let the rain come in through the screen in my window. Walk outside. Let it wash down over me. Warm, summer rains. Those are the kinds of rains you can enjoy. Listen to the thunder rumble off over the hills as it splatters the pavement in with its soothing, white noise.

Happenings in the works

2011-04-18T00:33:00.001-04:00

Submitting work, writing new work and getting involved in a new and exciting happening in the Scranton area. The first ever Scranton Zine Fest will be taking place in June and I've been invited to read some of my work at Anthology, now a part of Pages and Places.

What is a "Zine Fest" you may ask? Well, I asked the same question. This is what the site has to say:

The Scranton Zine Fest will be a celebration of zinesters, zine distros, artistic press publications, crafters, workshops, and live entertainment under one roof for the community to enjoy.
The festival will be a great place to learn something new, get inspired, discuss, interact, meet friends, connect with local writers, and get involved with accessible media.

Jessica Meoni and Dana Marie Bloom are the brains behind the operation.

Joining me at the reading are fellow writers and poets Rachael Goetzke, Charlotte Lewis, Amye Archer, Alexis Czencz Belluzi and Brian Fanelli. I'll be sure to post more about this event as the time draws near. For now, visit the links provided to find out more about the Zine Fest.

http://scrantonzinefest.com/
Facebook Event Page for the Reading

Heart in a foxhole

2011-04-08T23:36:00.001-04:00

Heart in a foxhole
-------------------------

there are times when I can't

feel my heart beating inside my chest.

it seems that the blood in my veins

backs up like a city-wide traffic jam

filled with blaring horns and red-faced

motorists in a rush to get

nowhere.

I listen, but there is no sound of the

constant thump thump...

it's one thing to lose your keys.

not even a reason to panic when you

lose your mind. you can go on perfectly

content being crazy.

but this dead feeling between my ribs

sends me searching. I pull myself apart

like a Cronenberg scene spilling a

cluttered mess of me to the floor.

I have a lot more guts than I thought.

but where the hell is that fickle,

bastard heart of mine?

maybe it is my mind I've lost.

I begin rummaging through the inside of

my whiskey-soaked shell until finally,

tucked away between the aching

bones of my spine, I find that

barely beating mass of muscle.

hiding like a chicken-shit

from the battlefields of

everything.

but it's about time it started pulling

its weight around here.

my liver has handled sorrow for too long.

and my dick is tired of dealing with love.

so I pull its cowardly, beating ass from

the foxhole of my spine and

throw him to the frontline.

face the blitzkrieg.

take a few bullets and

shards of shrapnel.

collect scars.

lose fights.

women.

lose it all and

die bleeding with a smile on

your face knowing you

lived.

~Dale Wilsey Jr. 2011

"Heart in a Foxhole" was recently published on the Young American Poets blog (link).

The first ride and published work

2011-04-04T11:55:00.005-04:00

The first ride

-----

Dust-covered chrome,

a lazy blanket remains

from a Winter's rest.

Two hours, patience,

two bottles and a cut-up

t-shirt.

Stubborn to wake.

Starved for pulses of

electricity.

Force-fed juice from

gasoline-guzzling,

steel-cranking mass.

Roars to rumbling life.

Breathe in Spring day

and kiss with flame.

Cowhide jacket, gloved

hands gripping.

Cradled in saddle.

Grab reins and

twist spurs.

Twin horses gallop.

Snaking road along

muddy river gorged

on mountain springs.

Wind comes rushing

with double-yellow

veins on asphalt.

Taste of sun and

bursting life, waking

to the thaw.

Echoes of throaty roar

bouncing from rock-face

through valley.

Taking in, with every

mile, forgotten, roaming

freedom of cowhands.

Journeys of travellers

seeking new sights.

Expanses of life.

Mile after mile,

along a wandering path.

Riding on.

----

April is National Poetry month. You've probably been made aware of this by hundreds of other blog postings and Facebook updates containing snippets torn from Shakespeare, Poe, Angelou and Frost (I had enough of that through winter). Not surprising since setting aside a single month dedicated to poetry caters mostly to those who, in their daily life, think little, if not nothing, about poetry. To save you the trouble of being bludgeoned with the same spiel from another writer who will tell you that every month, day and hour is somehow related to poetry (and writing as a whole), I'll end my rant now.

The warm weather has finally set in and the above piece was inspired by my first ride of the year. It's always an incredible feeling to jump on the bike and head on down the road, but that first ride after a long, cold and miserable winter is always a bit more special.

Today, the Young American Poets blog published one of my pieces entitled "Heart in a foxhole". You can read it here. The YAP blog publishes work from American poets born in 1972 and later. There are some great writers being showcased over there so, after you finish reading my piece, browse around. There should be something there for everyone. Also, check out their sister site, Young British Poets.

Bluesmen and a bottle of bourbon

2011-03-25T23:02:00.002-04:00

There are some nights where the only thing you can do is sip on bourbon and listen to voices like Junior Kimbrough and T-Model Ford stomp and pluck, wail and moan about much harder times than you've ever experienced. Lots of musicians play the Blues, but there's something about the Blues that enables a listener to decipher the truth from the bullshit.

The guys who've actually lived through seeing family or friends lynched. Who have been to jail. Who have lost everything (if they ever had anything to lose). Or, in the case of T-Model, who have killed a man. These true Bluesmen reach out and slap you in the face. They say, "Look, son. You ain't seen nor been through shit. But, even if you seen a bit a trouble in your life, I know what you're feelin'."

And they play it. They take every bit of heartache and string it across their guitars like sinew. Grab death by the throat and stretch him across a snare drum to beat him down before he beats them. They stomp with heavy heels into pine floorboards in a smokey juke joint on a soggy Mississippi Summer night. Keeping time with every beat of their heart closer to the last.

It's more than music. The Blues feeds off of human sorrow. Devours it. It will suck every bit of heartache and pain out of the listener, chew it up and spit it back out in the form of hypnotizing rhythm. There's been more than one occasion where I've caught myself moving to its sound. Letting it roll down over me like river water, brushing every bit of grime and grit from my day.

Tonight is just one of those nights. A bottle of Maker's Mark, a few Blues albums and myself. I only wish I could be somewhere deep in Mississippi or Georgia. Down some forgotten back road that the tourists don't know about. Sitting at a bar sipping Southern whiskey. Watching bodies dance like hypnotized snakes in the low light of a juke joint on a hot Summer night. Sit and sip the burn while a true Bluesman sweats blood, pouring his life out onto the stage.

Property of http://waynecountyramblin.com/

My heart as an inkwell

2011-03-22T00:24:00.005-04:00

"More than kisses, letters mingle souls..." ~John Donne

Opening the mailbox to find a letter or a package addressed to me still ranks high in my top ten best ways to be surprised. This is why I find it extremely disheartening to know that letter writing has all but died off except in certain cases of writing soldiers or prisoners. E-mail is instantaneous and has made it possible for us to communicate, to anyone in the world, what used to take days or weeks. That's great if you need to send memos or other types of official correspondence (Did you get the TPS reports?). But what of deep, human connection? Who can hold an E-mail? Who can cherish it?

A letter is scattered with bits of the person who creates it. As if the composer carefully folds pages of their memories stained with ink from the well of their heart and seals it with the heat of their fingertips. E-mails come to your inbox while letters are received in the palms of your waiting hands. You can almost feel the letter pulsing within the envelope as you hold it before you, carefully pealing back its paper mouth.

Never, in this day in age, did I think I'd experience this until I found another who treasured such simple pleasures. It was last year, in the heat of the summer, that Stephanie and I began what has become the most unbreakable and loving bond I have ever known. And how could it not have turned out so? Among so many things that attracted me to her, she spoke of names like Gibran and Nietzsche. Most people can't even pronounce Nietzsche. She introduced me to Rilke. She quoted Kerouac and I was hooked. As though Hemingway had fished me out of the lake and landed me upon Stephanie's dock. So, what would be more natural than two lovers of writers writing one another?

E-mails would certainly not do, however. Try picturing Keats composing E-mails to Fanny Brawne on his iMac and you'll understand exactly where I'm coming from. If we wanted to share pieces of one another with each other, only ink and pulp would do.

Every time the tip of my pen glides over the face of a page, I know that some bit of my being is contained within the curves and lines of my words. And, as I fold the pages of my letter evenly and seal them within the envelope, I know that they will be opened and looked upon as though it were my own eyes she were looking into. My own lips speaking the words recorded upon the paper.

I sit here tonight, opening and unfolding letters she has crafted and composed for me, and I feel as though the gentle loops of her handwriting spill out onto the bed next to me and construct her curves. The smell of her perfume still lingers upon the pages and fills my senses. And Stephanie is here next to me, speaking of memories, dreams, hopes and happiness. Before I fold it back into its envelope, I press my lips to hers and inhale that which she has sent over distances for me to hold.

These folded memories will stay with me forever. Never lost to the voids of cyber trash. Tucked neatly and safely away within an Oak box only after the scent of perfume fades and the beating heart of the writer remains.

Sifting through my family's moments

2011-03-15T22:21:00.000-04:00

Names and places elude myself and my immediate family,

but this moment in time belongs to my bloodline.

It falls somewhere between the late 30's and early 40's,

though I'm too late to remember either of these times.

Yet, I can still imagine bouncing around off camera as a young boy

marveling at the delicate white folds of satin and lace.

Pretending to be a cowboy roaming on horseback, pistol at my side,

happening upon some fair-skinned farm girl running from everything

her family wants her to be.

I can't help wondering where this yard may be.

If that Oak still stands.

And if I can view this moment of time

recorded in its branches.

Give me a saddle to ride upon and a stallion with

sweating shanks that gallops across sunsets

and over miles of ticking clocks

to bring me to this

moment.

Readings, readings and more readings

2011-03-14T19:23:00.000-04:00

On Sunday, when most folks were home nursing terrible parade day hangovers and cursing themselves for downing that last (read: last five to ten) shot, I made my way to the Vintage Theater once more to join in the Mulberry Poets & Writers Association open reading.

Considering everything that the reading had to compete with (the jump-ahead in time, alcoholic comas and the actual time of the event) it was a good turnout with some great writers. Not once did I feel the need to shove my pens through my eardrums to drown out beaten, dead horses and boredom. I met some great people afterwards as well. Some of them even enjoyed the garble which tumbled from my mouth while behind the mic. Though I'd rather not stand behind one again without the comfort of a drink or two.

This Friday, at the Arts Seen Gallery, I'll be attending the first of a new series of readings held during Third Fridays in Wilkes-Barre. The reading starts at 6 p.m. and will be held every third Friday of the month. Arts Seen Gallery is located at 21 Public Square, Wilkes-Barre, PA.

There are other readings which are being planned, and I will announce them here in the future.

To leave you with a little something extra, I was introduced to Buddy Wakefield's work through one of the poets who read on Sunday. After hearing "Horsehead", I was instantly hooked. Since I haven't read him on paper, I'm not sure how some of his work would hold up, but the man can certainly perform his work well. Buddy is published by Write Bloody Publishing. Here's a piece by Buddy titled "The Information Man".

Pennies and steel snakes

2011-03-09T23:04:00.002-05:00

Photo by d.r. wilsey jr.

Train tracks meander alongside the Susquehanna river just over the bank from my house. From Spring until Fall, the whistle of the steel behemoth can be heard bouncing through the river valley like a rubber ghost. As a child, its haunting tune would pull me running through my yard and across the street to stare down over the hill, catching a glimpse of boxcar after boxcar trailing the rumbling engine. Winding like a trudging, steel snake down the track.

If my friends and I were lucky, we'd hear the whistle early enough to give us time to grab a fistful of pennies and run down to the tracks. I'd place a few along the rail like a line of copper ants. Sometimes I'd place a couple with edges overlapped in hopes that the engine would crush them together as if they were made of clay. Someone told me once that "pennying" the tracks could derail a train. I never did believe them.

Today I saw that engine rolling down the tracks along route 92 as I drove home from work. It still fills me with boyhood excitement. I want to race ahead in my truck, grab the change from my cup-holder and sprint down to the rails to lay a line of coins. Feel the earth shake and strain beneath the weight of the steel snake crawling over its shoulders. Watch my coins sprinkle off the tracks like glitter.

- I'd like to take a moment to thank Ada Limón herself for posting a link back to my review of her book Sharks in the Rivers on her blog. She's a great poet and writer that more people should check out.

March First Friday in Scranton and things I've written

2011-03-03T23:45:00.007-05:00

Tomorrow night, at the Vintage Theater in Scranton, Ali Pica and Lynette Thick's "Recycled Communication" Art Exhibit will be taking place with Ali Pica reading some of her poetic works. The exhibit opens at 6 p.m. and Ali will be reading around 7:30. At 8, the mic opens for poetry, music or the mad ramblings of a drunken, homeless bum. Whichever comes first. However, barring any bum takeovers, I will be reading some of my work during the open mic. Brian Fanelli, who I've mentioned on this blog and have had the pleasure of reading with before, may also be joining the open mic portion. Check out Brian's chapbook "Frontman".

Whatever the outcome, it promises to be another good First Friday in Scranton.

A thank you

2011-02-24T14:36:00.001-05:00

Taking a moment to thank Milkweed Editions for posting a link to my review of Ada Limón's "Sharks in the Rivers" on their Twitter. I was wondering why my traffic was spiking and I found out. So, thanks again! Hope all the new visitors come back and check this small hole-in-the-wall blog out every now and then.

Never fear

2011-02-24T00:26:00.000-05:00

This blog has not been forsaken. I've been trying to work through this writer's block (I still hate that term) that I've been having lately. That, and I've been pulled in every direction possible and bludgeoned by another arctic blast of cold and snow. It's about time the warm air move in.

In other news, I finally dragged my ass to the eye doctor after a seven (possibly eight) year hiatus of eye exams. Not much has changed besides the fact that I'm worse off by a fraction in my one eye. I can't remember which. All I know is that I've got new glasses and, with them, I have slightly better than 20/20 vision. Three cheers for not being blind.

Tonight, I celebrated a very dear friend's birthday while reminiscing over a delicious beer named "Old Leghumper". Who could resist trying a beer with that name? Also, I got to see the band Girls Galore perform tonight for the first time. My dear friend's significant other is in the band. More on them coming in a future post. Good tunes, though. I'm surprised I didn't spend money on records while in the venue, though. You couldn't capture my wallet this time, Embassy Records.

First Friday in March I'll be reading at the Vintage Theater. More on that as well, later.

Cheers for now.

Just for the hell of it.

Ada Limón's "Sharks in the Rivers"

2011-02-13T19:29:00.001-05:00

Recently, I stumbled across the work of Ada Limón online. After reading her poem "Sharks in the Rivers", her book of poetry under the same title was on its way to my mailbox. It has proved itself to be the best find this year thus far and it's going to be a hard one to top.

Poem after poem is soaked with imagery and sounds of flora and fauna, rolling hills and riverbanks. Even her pieces constructed in the realm of a bustling, rushing city return to the comfort and at-home peace of California countrysides. Streets turn to rivers and her entire being takes flight, refusing to let the steel and concrete of a metropolis dam up that which flows so freely from her. She is a native soul in a contemporary world.

Her style of writing is refreshing. In tune with the natural world, but able to draw parallels between nature and a world seemingly detached from it. The joy of sex and womanhood is swallowing a live bird. Worries can be carried away by grains of sand on the shoulders of ants, unless your burdens are too heavy to bear. Her work is a trickling, peaceful spring at points and a rushing torrent of feeling and life running down pavement at others.

At no point do her words seemed forced or pretentious (like so many contemporaries today). They grow from the pages as naturally as prairie grass and take root in the readers mind. Ada's world immerses you and makes you feel both her joys and sorrows, doubts and hopes. You become attached, like she's grabbed your hand and said, "Come, I'll show you," before stepping out the door and into her world. It's honest and true writing found here.

This is the first collection of Ada's poems I've had the pleasure of reading and is her third book so far, being preceded by Lucky Wreck and This Big Fake World. Currently, she is working on a novel, which I'm sure I'll be waiting in anticipation for after reading the rest of her published work.

Sharks in the Rivers is available from Milkweed Editions. Her other poetry collections, This Big Fake World and Lucky Wreck, can be found on Amazon. She also maintains a personal blog and her official website can be found at AdaLimon.com.

A bit of an update

2011-02-12T15:41:00.001-05:00

Along with the new look of this place, I've added some separate pages with contact info, any readings that I may be part of and a bit about myself and the town in which I've grown up in and currently live. It's a lazy Saturday afternoon and my internet connection is being rather uncooperative, so I've decided to step away from the computer for a while now that I've accomplished what I set out to do today on this machine. Safe journeys and good times to you all this weekend.

~Cheers

Magic Hat "Encore" for those of you curious.

Time for a change

2011-02-10T23:10:00.000-05:00

If only this were my home.

The old look was growing stale. It was time to freshen up the place a bit. New year, new writing, new things to look at. Maybe it will make me come back here more often to give the few who read this something more to actually read.

Speaking of reading, today I read an article in USA Today about the future of independent and small bookstores in an age where print seems to be slowly creeping towards extinction. It's something I've thought about ever since interning with a newspaper and seeing staff drop like flies as it (as well as the smaller, surrounding papers in the area) was bought up by a larger company.

Personally, I haven't thought much of e-readers or digital books since their appearance. I've always liked having an actual book in my hand. Feeling the cover, the pages and smelling the pulp. That satisfying feeling you get when you open a new book for the first time. You don't get that warm feeling with sterile, cold electronics. Even with newspapers, I prefer to have the actual paper in my hands despite the ink rubbing off.

But, maybe I'm just old enough to be on the cusp of that generational gap. I remember the time before the internet. It's true. We even went outside to play, as children. The old ways still appeal to me and hold a certain connection. I still listen to records and use a typewriter. Then again, I have an mp3 player and I'm writing this on a PC for the internet.

Regardless of the growing popularity of digital books, print will never die out completely. When discussing this thought with friends, one mentioned that if digital music didn't kill the recording industry and CDs, then e-readers will not kill print. He has a very valid point. There will always be people like me who enjoy stacking their shelves full of books. Or, at least there will be until I'm six feet under. And no one is going to burn the books that are here...unless Bradbury was on to something.

So, let the people have their e-readers and their mega-bookstores filled with obnoxiously loud coffee grinders and Twilight posters. I'll just sit back and enjoy cracking open one of the many books sitting on my shelf. Or, browsing through the nook of used and antique books at my local antique shop. At least I won't have to worry about the text being garbled upon opening the book. Unless the editor was asleep...then there could be some problems.

..

Random images of a lazy Sunday

2011-02-06T21:55:00.000-05:00

Flea markets contain the most peculiar characters

strewn throughout the grid of vendors

where treasures are found buried amongst

carefully constructed piles of the past.

My niece is an expert at making me smile

at any time no matter what thoughts are

meandering through my mind or troubling

my heart.

A relic of my father's childhood sits in the pasture

behind us where, as a child, I roamed around

on the back of our pony, Velvet, and

climbed about the hayloft in the barn.

The '51 has seen better lazy Sundays

dragging my father and his sisters to and from

church and across the dusty dirt roads of

Tunkhannock's outskirts.

It's small sights like this, hidden away between

shadows or around corners, that you'll miss

if you're always looking for the end of the

path and never take a moment to

rest and look around.

Wandering amongst the trees,

with only a slight breeze and the rustling

of critters looking for a mid-winter snack,

brings me a moment of peace.

The sun never fails to peak around trunks

and shine through the pines up on the hill.

One day, I hope to look out of my front window

here in the pasture and see this view.

The smile in my driveway

2011-02-05T18:04:00.000-05:00

This Packard has been sitting silently all winter long in the driveway and smiling the whole time. Bearing the chill and the cold of the outdoors in serene patience. I stopped to look at it today before hustling indoors to my typer and a beer.

Yes, I still use a typewriter. It carries me away from the plugged-in and tuned-out, fast-paced world of technology to a simpler time. A time when getting from point A to point B was enjoyable and not a deadline. Are we there yet? Who cares. Enjoy the scenery. It may be slower, but the typer is a lot easier on the eyes and music to my ears compared to the sterile hum of the computer.

Back to the clacking of keys and scribblings of my pen.

..

Ice blankets

2011-02-04T12:25:00.000-05:00

During the day, the ice drips from the overhang outside of my door at work. The gutter is useless as the ice creeps over it no matter how many times I knock it away. It says, "You can't keep me from weeping," with its out-of-sync drip-dropping. I've stopped knocking it down, now. At night, the icicles turn to freezing sleep.

Austin, TX

Everything seems covered in a blanket of ice from here to Texas. My bones feel frozen and as stiff as those horses. These are slow, crawling days. Like glaciers creeping along valleys through time.

It's a wonder how any of us make it through the winter without going absolutely stir-crazy. Without succumbing to the blankets of ice ourselves.

I wouldn't mind the snow so much. Those beautiful nights when everything is still and large flakes fall from the sky like feathers. An ethereal pillow fight. It's the bitter cold. The ice. The driving and biting winds I can't stand. Stepping outside my door is a challenge.

When I was a kid, I loved winter. It meant sledding and days off from school. Snow forts and snowmen. Hot chocolate. This past Christmas brought me some of that joy again. I cling to that moment now with every bit of strength I have. The woman I love and her beautiful children were close. My best friend was still here laughing and smiling. Everyone seemed so happy and calm...and I finally felt at peace again after so long. Happiness. I hope it's not over.

..

Waiting for the sun

2011-02-03T20:12:00.000-05:00

The fluctuating of the weather between moments of sun and warmth to the bitter, chilling winds and ice mirror the climbing and falling of my own heart and mind. It's been an entire month since my dear friend passed away so suddenly, but the days still seem long and the nights endless. Sleep is a difficult chore and when it does come, it comes in small doses. It's hard to see beauty anywhere sometimes, but it finds a way to wander into my mind or into view.

Ice clinging to a chain-link fence. Small prints of a rabbit in freshly fallen snow. The embrace of a friend. Love returned from the one you love so deeply. And the sunsets. They've seemed so beautiful since you left. Or maybe you just make us slow down to notice them now. In either case, thank you.

Words don't come easily right now. It seems like a death in itself to someone who holds the pen so close to his heart. Sometimes I'm just afraid of what may escape me. That I may not be able to hold onto it after it bleeds onto the pages. Memories are so vivid in my mind. So perfect. Words don't seem to be enough right now.

But I'm trying. And every day I get out of bed, struggle to push through the exhaustion. It may get worse before it gets better, but I hope the storm will pass. I need the sun on my face. To feel the grass and the trails beneath my feet. To see life springing forth from every nook and cranny. Maybe there's still some left inside of me. It's hard to tell some days. Some days, I feel for a pulse. Or pinch myself wishing it were a dream. But my heart still beats, however faint. And I still feel the pinch in my flesh.

Usher in the Spring. I'm tired of the cold and the darkness.

Pre-holiday reading @ Exhale Hookah Lounge

2010-12-08T10:26:00.000-05:00

On December 22nd, Brian Fanelli, myself and a handful of other writer/poets will be having a reading at the Exhale Hookah Lounge in Scranton, PA. The reading will begin at 7 p.m. and each of us will be on for 10-15 minutes a piece.

For more information on the lounge, check out their website.

EVENT INFO:
----------------
Exhale Hookah Lounge and Kabob Grill
136 Wyoming Ave.
Scranton, PA
(570) 955-0250
www.exhalegrill.com
Reading starts @ 7 p.m.

..

March "First Friday" reading in Scranton

2010-12-03T10:03:00.001-05:00

The details for the March poetry reading, which I've been invited to, have been finalized.

On March 4th, First Friday in Scranton, PA, poet Alicia Pica will be the featured reader at the Vintage Theater. The reading starts at 6 p.m. After Alicia Pica is finished, I will be reading some of my work. Author and poet Brian Fanelli, author of "Front Man" from Big Table Publishing Company, will be following me. We'll each be reading for around 15 to 20 minutes.

This event will be free to the public, but donations of old cellphones and cellphone accessories will be collected for local battered women's centers.

Along with the poetry reading, artwork from Alicia Pica and Lynette Thick will be featured in the theater.

Event info:
------------
MARCH FIRST FRIDAY

Readers:
Alicia Pica
Dale Wilsey Jr.
Brian Fanelli

March 4th @ 6 p.m.
The Vintage Theater in Scranton, PA
119 Penn Avenue