Writing a book,blog,article….why do it?


When I was growing up in the little beach town in San Diego there were always some pretty colorful characters I would come across especially in my teens.  Teen years are when your eyes start to open up and you realize there are some freakin weirdos on this planet.  One of the people I knew was a guy that used to go around and fix peoples antennas for their TV.  This was back in the 70s when I was just a kid and I would see this guy and he had these huge eyebrows and they were real black.  I think he was from the Mediterranean somewhere and I remember he stuttered when he talked.  He never drove a car, he just rode an old bike and it was always piled high from all the shit he found in the alleys of Ocean Beach California.  He would also take old antennas and “plant” them in his backyard.  I thought this was soooo fucken wierd but the guy was totally harmless.  My dad went to high school with him back in the 50’s and I know the guy was hassled by people in HS.  Im sure my dad may have been in on it even though he said he wasnt.  Anyhoos…it got me thinking that maybe since being diagnosed with HIV and getting so FUBAR from being hospitalized.  maybe I got freakin weird too.  I mean I take pleasure in watching leaves now, I love to just stare at trees in awe and think…wow that’s a big fucking tree.  I bet that big ol’ tree has alot of stories to tell.  I see past the people and the cars and the shit everybody has.  Sometimes I feel my mind can travel to places nobody has been before.   I can go to that place in my head and stay there.  It is void of traffic, progress, problems and wants..Its free of desire and need and greed and selfishness.  It’s a place for me I call home.. And that is why I write.  I can’t pick up trash or junk and see that as a way of filling the void in my life.  It just doesn’t work because  material things hold little to no value to me.  But it wasnt always that way.  I used to honestly think that the more shit I get, the more money I get Ill finally find true happiness.  Thats bullshit.   I know because at one time in a hotel in Tennesse while staying at an old hotel in a small town in the mountains I rememImageber I had finally felt I had everything I needed.  I had tens of thousands of dollars in the bank from my sale of my home in California, I had a convertible Camaro outside ready to take me anywhere.  But I felt alone, sick and depressed.  I was depressed because in that hotel, at 41 years old I realized that the thing that I had wanted for so long, yearned for because I never had it as a kid was all a  lie.  The money, the car, all of it didint make me happy.  Happiness comes from withing.  Its a journey or a place in our minds that creates  a place of contentment.  A feeling of being ok.  Thats why I write, because it takes me a way from me, from my mind, far far away to somewhere I belong.   Happiness.

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