It’s called Anchor Steam Beer.  It’s one of the oldest beers in America and one of the reasons we have what you hipsters and wannabes hipsters call “Craft Beer”.  The monolithic shit storm of American Pale Lager ruled the roost for decades until people realized Anchor and some weird concoction called Sam Adams tasted better than Natty Light.  EVEN (can you believe it?) when consumed at a Frat party or some backyard bonfire circa middle-class morality and angst.

After said Anchors I was drifting down the main thoroughfare. Which thoroughfare and which town is irrelevant since most of them are the same unless you’re talking Big Sur or some coastal cruise and then only with a shot of Kerouac love for damn near everything holy, and by the way, everything is holy since Life is a dangerous love from above with daisy-do on a four day winning streak of joy.  Onward, you say.

There’s this guy walking out the convenience store taking the trash and replacing the bags and I was that guy back then and he was thinking, like I was thinking since great minds agree, that man all those people are lucky to be off tonight.  But, he couldn’t know, that some of us were him and that time, decades long, year long time, is what separates us.  Now is now and that is Buddha-groovy but time is what separates us more than place or nationality or race or gender or sexuality or any of that DNA randomness we attribute WAY too much credit every time we turn on (please, off) the news broadcasts.

It’s all time, really.  The little writing I do of any value concerns itself with Time as the meaning, not place, not people.  We are replaceable.  Time is not.  Time is meaning.  We are not.  Meaning can not be replaced, nes pa? What is replaceable?  People.  Money.  Jobs. Religions.  Nationalities. Genders. Sexuality.  These things come and go depending on whom fucks whom and where they fuck and where their parents fucked and when they were born and all that jazz like angry rhymes at a slam poetry session in a forgotten Blacksburg theatre.

“I’ll tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.”  –Tom Waits.

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As Serena once said, Beep.

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I’ve been writing a story about a guy who takes Death from others.  Not a Jesus guy but that’s how it turned out.  Also a story about an interrogation and of course the Stoicism stuff.  I believe it all. That’s the weird part.  Hesse was a bit late to the party, considering the Russians whose long literature dances the split personality tango before Hesse found a pen, but still he was clear on the point.  We are multiple people at different “times”.  (See how that pops back up?)

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It’s been a long time since I posted anything.  I get it.  I almost finished the Christmas Story I’ve been writing for seven Christmases now.  Charlotte will have her holiday, I promise.  She will see the smoke-filled truth and in that moment realize that belief in time is all that we really have, in the end.  Which of course…the end supposes Time.

I told my English Teacher mentor the idea years ago.  She smiled wide and genuine saying I like that! with an exclamation point beyond politeness in her quiet low-lit den of buddha shrines, Two-and-Half-Men phlegm, with green tea floating in the gas log heat and later that same time we’d rehearse a play together and I’d play a cop.  In her way, this was funny. The audience and I laughed at my sheriff’s impressions.

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I was rejected by an agent recently.  He spent time, for once, reading and studying my stuff.  He didn’t want to represent it.  I will continue.  Yes, I could self-publish.  I could use my business acumen to push my own writing. But I don’t.  Maybe I lack confidence.  Or I fear the confidence that I find when I write.  Like seeing a bully when you look in the nerd’s mirror.  I write like a bully.  I live like a nerd.  No excuses.

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Identity politics divides us.  It’s not a leader.  It’s a follower.  Millions of them.  If I see your race, that makes me a human with eyes.  If I judge your race, that makes me a human with no eyes.

Leaders don’t divide people.  People divide themselves.

You are not a victim of traffic.

You are part of traffic.

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Listen to Tom Waits, read Jose Saramago, and cry when you’re alone.  It’ll help.  I promise.

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