Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

Scranton was in for a storm. An intense one, by all reports. The skies darkened their ugly, menacing grays and blacks. The rain fell at angles in sheets while trees bent against the wind, their leaves flipping up and down flashing shades of dark then light green.

Then, as soon as it began, it was over. There were no tornadoes. No fallen trees. The power hadn't even gone out. Just flickered a few times like a hiccup. The ravaging storm that the weathermen had predicted turned into a temper tantrum. It came close, but fell just a bit short.

Out I ventured. After learning of the planned open mic cancellation, I made my way to the Radisson hotel where author Stephanie Powell Watts was to read for a Pages and Places event. One Jack-and-Coke, a comfortable chair, and a few moments later, Watts took her place at the podium.

Watts read the first in her debut collection of short stories We Are Taking Only What We Need titled "Family Museum of the Ancient Postcards". Despite the chilly room and the minor microphone problems, Watts managed to engage the crowd with a great reading. Afterwards, she spoke a bit about her writing process and the completion of the collection.

Watts takes time to develop her stories and the characters within. She commented, during her reading, that "Family Museum of the Ancient Postcards", a 23-page story, took almost three years to finalize. Her process of writing is slow, by her accounts, and it's reflected within these stories in a good way. There's thought here. There's a carefully crafted image. 

Southern writer. It's a title, as Watts explains, she tries not to think about while writing. It is a title for publishers, librarians, and people like me to use when describing her work. Southern writer is a title that fits, but only superficially. Her writing goes beyond the borders of the Mason-Dixon line.

This debut collection was a PEN Hemingway Award finalist and contains the short "Unassigned Territory" which won the Pushcart Prize. Many of the stories have been featured in well-known short story anthologies. And it's no wonder why.

The stories contained within We Are Taking Only What We Need focus on a rural setting that is most certainly intimately familiar to Watts. Criss-crossing, dusty back roads dotted by houses every few miles. The hardened lives and the people who live them. These stories focus on the lost and found. Not material, but mental and emotional.

Like the storm that threatened Scranton, though, there are a few things that make We Are Taking Only What We Need fall just short of what it could have been. However, I don't believe it's much of Watts's fault as it is poor editing.

Throughout the book there are errors. Glaringly obvious errors that should have never made it past an editor. Anyone who reads knows that an awkward phrase, misspelled word, or errant punctuation can completely pull you from a story. I know it does for me. It's a shame that, because of a lackluster editor, an author's work should suffer, but it does.

I also feel that a truly good editor, or publisher, would have ordered the stories differently. This, I noticed, with the first two shorts. Both began with a character just being released from jail. It's not a bad thing to start multiple stories in a similar fashion or with similar events, but to place them one after the other in such a small collection of shorts becomes detrimental, in my opinion. It can make the writing seem redundant even when it's not the case.

Maybe it's just me, but I seem to be finding slack editing in contemporary publications more and more. Maybe it's a sign of the times. Whatever it is, I hope it stops. I hope editors begin taking their jobs seriously and realizing just how important they are when it comes to a final product.

Despite the editing problems, We Are Taking Only What We Need is an incredible read. Watts writes with beautiful description. I can see the snaking dirt roads and taste the dust. I can feel these characters' emotions. The tension and moments of clarity. Watts has a tendency, in these stories, to bring you from a wide, breathtaking view of your surroundings and focus you in tighter and tighter until the very end where she opens the chest of her characters and lets their entire being pour out.

Pick it up and read it. My hopes, for this particular collection, are for better editing in a second printing. Fix the errors. Order the stories a bit better. But, until then, you'll have to read this version. And it's worth it.

Caravaggio's St. Jerome

There's a space between the words. A brief moment where you breathe. And for a split second, everything is still. Everything is clear. I spend every day trying to capture that moment. To live in it. I haven't been successful just yet.

Sometimes I feel like my words are as light as bird bones. Like they'll slip from between my lips and float off into the sky without ever landing on the ears I wish they would. There have been too many times the words I speak aren't the words you hear.

Other times everything that spills from my mouth is lead-heavy and falls to the pavement below. Just stays there. This might be because I can't look people in the eyes. And that might be because I look away every time things fall apart around me.

Everything has been in some state of disarray for so long, I'm not sure what the words whole and complete really mean. I keep thinking I find the definitions written in dust, but the winds always blow the wrong way. I swear I hear them laugh every time.

All this will sound like the ravings of a lunatic to most. Some will get it. Some will know how it feels to be driving down the highway at 65mph wishing you weren't the only one in the car singing like a madman to your favorite tunes.  Some will know the feeling of an empty bar-stool next to you. How the curves of a bottle are the most familiar.

A friend asked me a few days ago, "Where do you want to be?" I didn't know how to answer. There are places I want to be that I don't think I'll ever see. There are places I want to be that I only get a taste of.

The space between words. That moment where I breathe and everything becomes still. Peaceful. The portion of the Lacrimosa dies illa in Mozart's requiem where that one angelic voice rises above the rest of the chorus as Mozart's last breath rolls forward from the composition. The space between light and dark of Caravaggio's work. That's where I want to be.

By Jim Prisching, AP

"The most saddening finding by the Special Investigative Counsel is the total and consistent disregard by the most senior leaders at Penn State for the safety and welfare of Sandusky's child victims...Four of the most powerful people at The Pennsylvania State University -- President Graham B. Spanier, Senior Vice President-Finance and Business Gary C. Schultz, Athletic Director Timothy M. Curley and Head Football Coach Joseph V. Paterno -- failed to protect against a child sexual predator harming children for over a decade." (Freeh 14)

These are some of the opening lines of the 267-page Freeh report that outlines the history and magnitude of the child abuse perpetrated by Jerry Sandusky at Penn State. Abuse that was, as the report outlines in incredible detail, enabled by the inaction of university leaders in an effort to keep the face of Penn State clean.

I read the report. Every detail. With every page, my stomach tied into knots. (download it here)

There's no justification for it. Any of it. Paterno, Spanier, Schultz, and Curly are, in my opinion, just as responsible for the ruined lives of the victims as Sandusky. While none of these men perpetrated the physical crimes, they did nothing to stop them either. They chose, instead, to bury the actions of Sandusky to avoid tarnishing the reputation of Penn State and the PSU football program. And they denied it. No longer. The Freeh report has exposed their true colors.
Yet some people continue to support Joe Paterno and his football empire. Why? Why should any of these other men avoid blame for what they've done? True, Paterno has since passed away, but that doesn't negate his utter incompetence concerning the abuse and how Sandusky was, or wasn't, dealt with.

It is this blind praise that borders on worship which allowed these abuses to happen in the first place. Paterno was not, and never will be, an untouchable god. He was a football coach and he is responsible, along with Spanier, Schultz, and Curly, for allowing a sexual predator to continue abusing children on campus grounds for over a decade, as the report outlines.

How can anyone review the evidence, see the lives ruined and devastated by these crimes, and then say, "Well, yeah. But he did a lot of good for the university," or, "But he was one of the greatest coaches that ever lived."

It doesn't matter. His good deeds do not change the fact that children's lives were ruined. That he, along with other high members of the PSU regime, turned a blind eye to a child molester to avoid bad publicity. The rights and well being of children took a back seat to everything else.

Is this what we've come to? Elevating sports above morality and child safety? Why do we grant individuals, like Paterno or Sandusky, an "untouchable" status?

Let's look at it this way.

Mr. X is a man of somewhat high standing in a community. He's not the most well known or important figure in the community, but people know him. He does, however, work alongside the community's most respected and adored figure, Mr. Y.

Years ago, Mr. Y had planned and set up funds to create a recreational park for the community. Mr. X, to gain notoriety and good standing with the community, has decided he wants to fund a playground for children in a section of the park. He does this under the good graces and support of Mr. Y.

Now, being the man of importance he is, Mr. Y has an assistant. One night, while walking through the park and checking on the general goings-on, Mr. Y's assistant observes Mr. X molesting a child in the new playground. No one else is around. The assistant is the only one to see this.

Immediately, the assistant goes to Mr. Y to report what he's seen. Although Mr. Y shows concern, he is worried about the possibility that any media coverage of the incident may not only make his park look unsafe, but it may make him look bad as well. Instead of alerting the proper authorities, Mr. Y decides to have a talk with Mr. X about the situation.

After the talk with Mr. X, Mr. Y puts the incident behind him and assures his assistant that everything has been taken care of. But it hasn't. Mr. X continues to molest children at the park. He continues for years. Mr. Y hears rumors. He knows it's happened before, but he does little to nothing to stop it or alert the proper authorities.

Now, ask yourself this. Is Mr. Y guilty of any wrong-doing, or does his standing in the community and what he's done for it purge him of any fault? Although he didn't commit the actual crime, doesn't he have a moral obligation to do anything possible within the law to prevent it? Should his concerns be about the children or his public image?

Spanier, Schultz, and Curly deserve nothing from PSU. They, along with coach Paterno, let their community, the institution, the students, and, most importantly, the victims of Sandusky's crimes down. They allowed a sexual predator to roam free amongst them. They deserve no pity. They deserve no leniency. They are, for all intensive purposes, as responsible for these crimes as Sandusky.

As Sandusky sits in a cell awaiting the inevitable 300+ year sentence, he's thinking. He's retracing every event and every memory. At one time during a meeting with one of the victim's mother, Sandusky commented that he, "wished he were dead." I can only imagine that wish burning a hole right through him at this moment.

But while Sandusky is sitting in a cell pondering the expansive amount of time he'll be locked away and the almost certain notion that he'll die enclosed withing cinder block walls, we should all be thinking, too. We should be examining this incident and those like it perpetrated through the Church and other organizations.

Children's rights and safety should never be pushed to the wayside. And we as a society have a moral obligation to obliterate any possibilities of that happening. We must not grant any individual leniency because of their position or standing in a community.

Work days have been slow. Excruciatingly so. I've found myself reading random snippets of news. Searching unknown poets. Researching odd topics. Today, I found myself reading children's stories from an old book on Google books.

I've never got into "creating" found poetry. To me, found poetry just seems to be the art of extreme editing rather than writing. Chopping away every ounce of fat from the words of previous writers to boil down the story into a pure, concise form. For this, though, it seems useful. One thing I've always had trouble with, and I'm sure most writers do, is knowing when to cut the fat from your work. Our words are our children and butchering them is never easy.

Below are a few "found" poems from the day's boredom.

As some of you may know, especially if you keep up with this blog or are acquainted with me personally, you know that I dabble in photography. I've displayed in a few galleries and have had some people ask me about prints for sale. Well, now is the time and the chance for that.

I'm going to start offering a different print every so often. These prints will be limited in numbers and once they have sold out, they will not be offered again. Ever. The only way you'd get to see one if you don't buy one is to come view my copy hanging on the wall. Prints will be signed, numbered, and shipped by me personally. They will come printed on quality photo paper and shipped with care.

The first print I'm going to offer is one that many people have loved when they see it called "Alley at Night". This photo was taken during a quick trip to Tunkhannock, PA for the purpose of catching a sunset over the Susquehanna river valley. When that didn't work out, I began wandering around town.

I came to one of the more interesting buildings in town, the Dietrich Theater. I began snapping shots of the theater as the sun set and the neon began glowing. As I began to walk away, I noticed the alley right next to the Dietrich. At any other time during the day, the alley would be a boring, normal alley. But, in the new darkness of the evening, the exit lamp above the door at the end of the alley breathed life into the bricks. The color was perfect and the shot was too good to pass up.

"Alley at Night" © Dale Wilsey Jr. (Click for larger image)

There's been an absence of words here, but they're spilling out all over my desk. The floor. Pages and scraps of paper. I've begun work on a poetry manuscript. I've been revising old work and starting new. The season is new. The weather is new. My energy and mind are refreshed.

Busy days. Incredible nights. Weekends are always full of something. This weekend, Prose in Pubs swings back around to Jack's Draft House in Scranton on Sunday. Open mic. The first time it has gone non-invitation. It should be an interesting lineup. I'll be reading some new work. Stop on by.


The manuscript is coming along slowly but surely. It will be some time before I have a rough draft completed and probably some time after that until it is finalized and ready to send out. Then I'll find out that it is not yet finalized. Edit, submit, edit, submit. These are the hurdles of writing.

I've picked up my guitar again. Bought a glass slide to try and mimic Bukka White. It's coming along even slower than the manuscript, but it's a release of energy and creativity. It's needed when I cannot form the words. What better way to clear the mind by making music. Or noise. Sometimes I just like to strum and croon along with the old blues masters.

I've been tumbling some ideas for blog entries around my mind, so bare with me. Be patient. Not that you've been sitting on the edge of your seat waiting in anticipation for me. Maybe you have. I'd like to think you have.

Time to fill the apartment with music and the scent of whatever I feel like cooking. Until next time...