Tiny Box

A tiny box is where I live.   Any time I reach for something, shit breaks.   Think it’s time to make a change.  How the hell am I gonna get out of here though?  Gravity seems to suck me down.

What are my long-term plans?  Got pictures of what my bed will look like?   How will each inch of the pavement look while driving to this new place?   On what day will someone pay me?   Will I get undercut?   Will it work out?   Are there enough people out there?   Do I have…

How I loved that tiny box!  Now, I say fuck it.  Just gonna walk, see where the road takes me.  Don’t really care what the fucking pavement should look like…just gonna see how it is as I stroll across…

An Italian Feeds A Pigeon

She went by the name Giovanna.   It had been discussed weeks before her birth to call her Gloria or Greta but it was insisted upon, by both soon-to-be parents, they take their time.  Scolastica, weak and fearful she wouldn’t deliver safely, prayed every night before her bowl of gnocchi.   Her husband, Bruno, a gourmet gnocchi maker, also worried about his wife’s health but kept his feelings hardened, never bringing them around Scolastica.   He’d pamper his wife, bathe her while singing, “Abballati Abballati”.   This would surely put a smile on her face.  Bubbles would splash everywhere.

In the delivery room, Bruno hummed “Abballati Abballati” yet all Scolastica could scream was, “stai zitto” [shut up].   Had she thrown hot irons at him, Bruno still would have persisted with the upbeat tune.   Once Giovanna was out, wailing with joy, Bruno looked over at his wife who had passed out, white as a sheet.  Scolastica stayed strong for three days, afterwards giving up on the struggle, she released hold of her body.

Bruno, the widower father he was, got sucked into a depression.  This he passed onto Giovanna, who grew up guilty, feeling as if she released a toxin into her mother’s womb.   Not a single therapeutic technique could shake this feeling.  Once she turned eighteen, Giovanna took her misery to the streets.  Moved into a cardboard box.   Pushed two shopping carts glued together, the interior filled with buttons and bread.   She used the bread to feed a pigeon she befriended.   Over time, Giovanna grew convinced this pigeon was her mother.  She stroked the pigeon, mumbling, “mamma”.   The pigeon cooed in her hands, slowly dying.

Disgusted with life’s sorrows, Giovanna gobbled a handful of buttons, swallowing one at a time.   She hummed a slowed-down version of “Abballati Abballati”. Inside her belly, the buttons dissovled into miniature pigeons. They eventually burst through her stomach, taking with them into flight Giovanna’s misery.

Advice to Writers Using Mac

Yesterday, an email went out to a potential employer.   It was for a journalist job.    I assured the letter was error-free.   This morning, I noticed one silly mistake.   Where there was a “for” should have been an “of”.   How could this have happened?

It dawned upon me that a setting on my computer automatically corrected the spelling.   Here’s what I think occurred.   While I was in the midst of writing “of”, I typed  instead “f-o-[spacebar]”.  The computer switched the two letters.   While editing it, my eyes skipped over the “for”.

After this, I now want to see all the errors on the page.  Makes it easier to edit.  If you’re in the same boat and are using Mac Lion, here’s how you fix this:

  1. Open System Preferences
  2. Click on “Language & Text”
  3. Select the “Text” tab.
  4. Uncheck “Correct Spelling automatically

Happy writing!

Harry’s Dirty Feeling

Feeling kinda dirty, I am.   You might ask, “Have ya showered?”  and I’ll say, “Fuck yea, I showered.   What kind of man you think I am?  Have I showered?   Of course, I showered!  Have you showered?”

What’s behind this dirty feeling?  Well if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.  Yup, I sure fucking will.  You can just sit back, take off your blouse or trousers, whatever you got on and I’ll be happy to tell you.   Get yourself all roused up and such.   What rouses you?   What makes you so wet or hard that you can barely think of anything business-related?   Granny Smith apples?   A sweater chewed up by moths?   Fat men tossing corn at pigs? Whatever the hell it might be, think of it.   Stare at it.  Do to it with your mind, finger or tongue as you will.   Feels nice, does it?  Do it some more.   Do it till exhaustion.

Back to what makes me feeling so dirty…is nothing really. Just wanted to get your attention.   Wanted to see what would happen if I took you somewhere you’ve always wanted to go.   Hope you had a nice journey.   That’ll be fifty dollars, please, you sexually defunct lunatic.  Make the check out to Harry Trulo.   Thirty-eight twenty-one Bronco Road.   Rochester, NY.    One four six oh four.

Notes from the Can

Lots of flatulence and everything’s coming out slow.  Strange, had I waited an extra five minutes, a mess would have formed on the bed. That’s where I was, lying there, considering my next move…literally.   Stay here or go elsewhere.

Staying here certainly would be convenient.   Keep up my routine looking for work, milling about the various coffee shops.  Stalk folks at Barnes and Noble.  The same folks.  The ones who threatened to call the cops on me.

Going elsewhere, ah, would be an adventure!  Sell my shit (not what’s leaking into the can right now…that’ll be long flushed), say farewell to all my neutrally minded friends and then dash off to a large vessel of land.   In that land I can heal, grow all sorts of foods, meet a plethora of folks, maybe even come in contact with my right mate.  It was OkCupid who informed me (via the hundreds of questionnaires) that it’s out west where I’ll find more people like me.

Thank you, Can.   I now know what to do.

Inner Dialogue

The last few weeks, I couldn’t help but hear my inner dialogue screaming negativity. So much about my inability to find work, encounter a romantic partner, live in a comfortable environment, etc.   Fate brought me in contact with Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life.  This book has been life-changing.  The main philosophy in this writing is re-imprinting the brain so that it thinks positively about self and self’s reflections (friends, family, employers, co-workers, neighbors, community, etc).

Re-imprinting the brain can be fun.   Throughout the day, I’ll sing songs such as “I accept myself” or “I am sexy”.   Overtime, though, a wall might be hit.   Your emotional center, otherwise known as the Will, might say, “This positive affirmation is total bullshit right now.”   What a perfect time to actually start screaming and beating pillows.  By doing so, space opens up.   Each scream and each lashing of the pillow, you are moving through the energy of “this positive affirmation is bullshit.”   This might be a judgment but we all wish to approve of ourselves.  We all wish to be sexy.  Okay maybe we don’t all wish to porn stars or supermodels but sexy, yes.  Sexy to our partners.  Sexy to ourselves as we look in the mirror.

My suggestions to all who care about healing:

1.  Pick up a copy of You Can Heal Your Life.

2.  Come to understand your limiting beliefs such as “I am not sexy” or “I need the approval of others to get by in life”.

3.  Change it to a positive affirmation.

4.  Say it over and over again.

5.  Should your emotional center say this is bullshit, get to a safe spot, beat a pillow, scream till tears come streaming down your cheeks.

6.  Say the positive affirmation again.   It should feel more true.  If not, repeat screaming and beating of pillows.

How I strongly wish healing for this planet and everyone on it.  Thank you and love to you all for reading this.

Whitley’s Great Offense

Whitley did everything in her powers to avoid being offensive.  Regardless of the path she lead, Whitley left people pouting, blushing or rushing into a state of utter depression.   It took only one man to inform her that she held an unconscious desire to destroy others.  He went by the name Charles Boswell.  Charles was a retired architect living on the upper west side of Manhattan.   When he came in contact with Whitley, it was a sweltering day in Central Park.  Nearly every male was shirtless.  Charles, however, felt his form inferior, thus kept all fabric affixed to his body.

A golden retriever searched for a tennis ball nearby Whitley.  This had been her first time sunbathing in seven months.   Disturbed by the canine’s prodding, Whitley reached for her t-shirt, covering her cleavage.

“Whatever you’re looking for, dog, it ain’t here,” Whitley whined.

The golden retriever leaned in, licking Whitley’s face.

“Yuck,” pushing the dog off her.

Charles rushed in apologizing, “Spark!  That’s not my dog.  It’s my friend’s.   He’s away…”

“I don’t care,” Whitley barked.   “Take that beast away from me.”

“Spark,” Charles giggled.   “He’s a sweetie!”

All Whitley wished for was her space back with the sun.   “Take whoever’s dog this might be and leave me.   You’re wasting my time.”    She then fell back onto her giant beach towel, shaking with grief.

Stroking Whitley’s hair, Charles questioned her mental health.   “I know a great therapist.   She charges little and works her ass off.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You’re delusional and mean.”  Charles then dropped his business card beside Whitley.   “Call me if you’d like the therapist’s contact information.”

Whitley watched the man disappear into the crowd of sunbathers.   She stuffed his card into her purse, knowing full well that a therapist would do her wonders.