I think of my own neighborhood, how people do not know each other.  How quickly we go out to get our garbage can.  As we nod our heads briefly so that we might understand, that there is something more important going on inside, than to chat.  Maybe a pot of something boiling for a recipe.  Another meal is always being prepared.  Something is always too important than to share.

I say to my girls, put up your hands high and block. Bend your knees there so that you can’t be pushed over and stopped. Kick them in the balls if you have to.  Scream till their ear drums pop.  I speak to my seven year old as if she’s going to war.  I think of my not being here to look out for, the men and boys that she will encounter.  I think if I train her now, she will not suffer.  She will remember what her dad said ten years ago.  As he tried to pass down a little Aikido.  A little karate. A little boxing.  Keep strong and flexible. Roll when you fall.  Get up quickly and always stand tall.  And most importantly, RUN.

There is a wildness in all of our hearts, that remembers deeply the pain inflicted by others.  It goes deeper than photo albums or family horror stories.  It is scarred into our genes by villages pillaged and raped by mounted horsemen hundreds of years ago.  Homes burned down in a flash as lifetimes flickered out.  This past haunts us and dwells in our hearts.  I might worry more because I want them prepared if I leave in a hurry. Because of the mortality I know I carry.

Anything to make them tough.  To harden them up. I am a man and I know how deeply flawed men can be.  How our culture objectifies women while worshipping violence. As adults, with this training and talking to, I hope to not steal their innocence.  Only to prepare them for the worst.  I do not wish to scare them so, they do not notice the goodness in others.  That if love is walking by they should grab it.

As I prepare them for adulthood, I also teach there is a humanity full of love, not hate. Right under their noses as they seek happiness.  They might pass Jesus.  They might pass Buddha.  They might pass themselves and not recognize they are lost.  Because they are too scared to talk to neighbors, while preparing to defeat strangers.

This letter is to all who survived and did not cheat.

How you punched me in the gut. How you stole our dignity. I now envision your bracelets being recycled to help another cancer cause. Maybe from yellow to gray they might say, BrainStrong.  Taken out of all the dresser drawers they are hidden in. Given a new life for the millions who supported you when, we needed you. Please, help me understand how a man can lie to so many? Bully so many. For victory.

How were you able to sleep all those years as you injected yourself with steroids?  Did you ever weep thinking of the millions you lied to each day to win the yellow jerseys? When you visited the children in cancer clinics, bald from treatment, how could you look them in their eyes as their lives disappeared?  Did you wear a disguise?  Was it the cause that kept you going?  Knowing that if you lied enough you could raise more money and maybe save someone?  Did you ever think that your lies could kill?  That they might make a person more ill.  Realizing what you did to win, many might now give up. Not willing to lie, cheat and steal.

How many are able to raise the money you could that it takes to kill the disease, we share?  When I read your books, I was going through treatment too. Like so many, they gave me hope and they renewed my faith in life. We are all so close to giving up but you rode on.  No matter what the odds were stacked against you, you continued to train.  Stories of you being totally drained from chemo but still biking.  Riding through the storm as we all try to. You made it to the other side where the light shined.  You were lucky enough to be able to share your story, as millions continue to pass. No more time in their hour glass.

When you were writing your chapters how could you leave out the private doctor who helped you beat the hundreds of doping tests?  How could you leave out the how you led a team to cheat in order to beat the world’s best.  How did you leave out all the hours planning how to beat the tests? How did you leave out how you felt when you looked in your wife’s eyes, as she realized you were not a natural man.  Did the drugs drive you to divorce?  Surely a chapter could be written about the course your life took once your loved ones found out that you were a cheat and a bully. How hard it must have been to love you fully.

I call to you to edit your books, now. Hollywood will soon have its take. They will compile the truth from your friends and mistakes, making another fantasy for us to forsake. For yourself and us all, take your timeline and tell the truth.  Write it raw and share deeply, as you must have tried to the first round.  Let us know when you decided to cheat?  How you did it and on what race? What you thought when you looked in the mirror and saw your face? How did the drugs make you feel? When did you realize you could not be beat?  When did it begin to take over you life?  How you decided to not turn back?  How you forced others to be silent, when you put up your hand and swore an oath.  Did you ever think, millions of survivors might read your books now and decide to give up?  To take their yellow bracelets off and throw them away.

Yellow Livestrong Bracelets floating deep.  Bobbing up and down as we sleep, adding to our oceans and landfills. Twinkling like a fish lure into a belly. Into the stomach of a whale.  Into the stomach of a yellowtail.  There are 50 million of you.  How will you impact our ocean’s blue?  Will you find each other soon?  Will you become the next Pacific garbage patch or help grow another landfill’s cocoon. Yellow dye intact, rubber floats, you will surely attract the sea life we need to live. Fish and birds will now use your cause as food and swallow your lies again.  So many species will eat your cancer and die.  Soon to be seen from space above.  FLOAT STRONG.  May your lives take on another in the deep.  Recycling itself of our hero we once held so high. Cleansing itself of the lies molded into glory. Live strong to tell another story.

If you listen, you will hear cries
Of a world becoming desensitized
To the tragedy of tomorrow
Bombs blowing up
Buildings falling down
Shootings in schools
Children stolen and abused
The slaughter of innocents
In another country prevents
Us from taking any stand

How can we make a difference
When the world watches it all fall
Without the power to do a thing
As tyrants trumpet nuclear weapons
As poverty grows in our backyards

Next door you have neighbors
Do you know them
Do you understand
That we are only as strong
As we want to be
Will we hide in our shells
From the sirens and bells
From the horrors our media tells

Because we feel, we can’t collide
With the reality of the people
That live next door
Because of religion or politics
We can’t find common ground
We do not understand that
We do not need all the screens
To look at each other and feel
We are the change we need

Through the kindness of strangers
We can cure the cancer
That eats our culture
And makes us believe
That we do not need each other
To be whole
To be one people
Our back yards connected
Our lives interlocked
So that we might not feel blocked off
By the invisible boundaries we pay for
So that we might be friendly to each other
For our community
For our security
For our humanity
For our future

Let us be neighbors

as you wake each day
there is a mission
get them to school
get them fed
pick up family members
drive them to doctors
be there by our sides
to be an extra pair
of ears and eyes
pick the kids up
let them play for an hour
get them showered
while making dinner
and remembering
all the housework
that is piling up
get them in bed
take a nap if led
then pay the bills
organize the mail
mission accomplished…

but where are you
did you disappear
by being a mother
as you sometimes mention
is it time for an intervention
as i went to the office
to build a career
adding to my resume
so that one day i might say
we are a success
as i lost time with you
losing touch with my kids
i did not focus on us
when trying to pay for us
I became lost too
doing what I must

now second chances have come
we have time
to come together
like our rings
the yin and yang
like the songs we sang
our day on Siesta Key
just like our children
we complete each other
you will find you
in all that you see
for what we do is
what we believe

you are in
the way you read children’s books
you are in
the way you research schools
you are in
the organic food you cook
you are in
the community you have found
you are in
the soil of our garden’s ground
you are you
and you are here
you are Momma
you are Granddaughter
you are Wife
through being you
you complete our lives

Happy Mother’s Day…Dana King

From,

Byron, Willow, Claire

There is grace in you
The way you carry you
The way you lost Mickey
No goodbyes, so quickly
The way you held Joel
Through and through
Till death did you part

The way you worked and toiled
Grading papers till midnight
Putting up with bullies and school fights
So many years of not having
So many years of giving
Back breaking
Bones breaking
Arm torn into
Breast cancer too

There is grace in you
Watching your husbands die
And then lifting yourself up
And helping your son through
Cancer treatment

There is grace in you
For who knew
Your son would become a friend
Our family evolves
Keeps us intertwined
From one life to another
You have held us together
When so many would have given up
You continue

There is grace in you
Received from the divine
Educated by sorrow and time
Given or borrowed
You let it show
Through the love you bestow
To your friends and family
To your church and community

There is grace in you

Either it is or it isn’t
There is no in between
And is does not ask for anything
It just is
It exists
It is not objectified
It does not have value
It does not ask to be bought
It cannot be contained

And isn’t is purchased
It can destroy
It can cause pain
It needs a place
It takes up space
It needs a time
It does not seek the sublime

An isn’t does not exist without you
If you do not control it, it leaves
If you do not feed it, it dies
As you collect more it collides
In your garage, in your attic it hides

In your space an isn’t lives
Beginning to hold you down
Growing mold
Building anxiety
Inside your mind
For the isn’t has no isness
In retrospect people find
Isn’ts build ego
by seeking business
To build a career
The root of all fear
As one’s isness disappears
Into thin air

I did not get the context
That was intended
I did not understand
What was transmitted
It was cut and pasted
You did not think I would take it
Any other way than
Here is something I should know

You did not get the context
When I went on that rant
You did not hear the inflection
From the voice in my head,
On the screen when you read,
What I typed thinking you would know
That I speak for the dead
I speak for those who are silent
Never knowing their context
I sometimes bully with subtext

I did not get the context
When I read someone was flaming you
I wrote an email that used truth as a weapon
Using ultra-honesty to disarm
Metaphors are not funny when one has
Already put up their alarm

I did not understand
When this all started so many years ago
First email, then blogs, then Facebook
One cannot convey the face to face…look
The way we talk with our hands
The way our eyes speak volumes
The way our body bends
Will we break the digital bonds we seek
Abusing the avatars and profiles through which we speak
Until we bleed our egos dry
Left abandoned to cry for a new beginning
When paranoia does not rule good intention
When we do not seek to hurt but to heal
When each dialogue is a chance to feel
MORE HUMAN

Be it staff, faculty or students
The tower constantly produces
Followers of their major’s creed
Graduates know not what to believe

Students come out ready to bleed
For the letters behind their names
Not knowing why they are not hired
They take a job not desired

For this is the game we all play
Secure the now, throw away tomorrow
Maybe just two years here and see what follows
But often nothing ever comes

No amount of tuition
No amount of resumes sent
No amount of deferment
Another degree might make one stand out

But the ivory tower never cowers
For each day it grows higher and higher
With clowns at the top, selling their crop
To the highest international powers

Flying across the seas to court Saudis
The princes of oil come to bring
Money in exchange for engineering
To build more towers in the sand

Education for oil barons
Traded with a wink and a nod
On a balcony with a quick drink
Hear their glasses clink

So many countries now harvest
America’s minds programmed to profess
What they were forced to digest
In order to get from tier to tier

The Chinese are now placed starboard
Those who can not get into Harvard
Fill up the smaller schools
To join America’s dream of fools

As we all now sharpen our tools
Mass shootings in public
No legislation to protect us
Why would anyone ever want to emulate us

As I climb down from the tower
I look up and I am showered
By all the sweat and tears
Falling from the bodies above

Hoping to find their seat at the boardroom
Where a weeks work is done with a signature
To keep the tower oiled and clean
To grease the walls of the ivory machine

Bleached white for all to see
Consuming without empathy
For machines do not feel anything
Soon … towers are all there will be

When you close your eyes
Can you hear their cries
As the ball-bearings pierce
As the nails curse
Flesh shredded and searched

When you saw their photos
Their limbs blown off
Was your face full of disgust
Questioning all of humanity
Did you think about history
Did you think about OUR story

The tens of thousands of years
We have been inflicting fear
From one tribe to another
From brother to brother
As we fight over our lands and gods
As we murder for peace

If I close my eyes
I can hear the hum
I can hear all of humanity
All our laughter and tears
All our joys and triumphs
All our stumbles and falls
As our buildings grow tall
Reaching for the heavens
Reaching for something
That is within us all

A peace that needs no religion
For the path is ours to choose
To let go of our genetic memory
To purge our DNA of hate
Before it is too late
To find internal peace
To renew Earth’s lease
 

How to frame the situation
Take a word and make an allegation
Let us use the word terror
For its weight is more than gold

Destroying countries sold
Black blood flowing deep
Beneath the desert keep
Once an oasis

How to frame a nation
Pin the tail on the donkey
Come to think of it
There is that one honky

Down that dirt road
Who always goes to gun shows
Who is building a huge bunker
Who drives that old clunker

Pin the blame on a situation
Where poverty grows rampant
Where television grows paranoia
As if…blood could be shed

By the millions led
To believe that their country
Is coming to get them
As he digs another chamber

Inside his little shop of horrors
All mirrors reflect George Soros
As conservative media hosts
Haunt him like a ghost

As if…blood could be shed
By that old man down the road
He’s a patriot and God only knows
What tomorrow will unfold

ten kids biked and roamed.
land full of pine trees,
empty lots,
where freedom rang

as children ran among
the Summer long and hot,
dirt under nails for months forgot
what school was.

forgot what lessons we learned was,
all night board games after
we ran until our legs fell off.
having sleep overs and wars over

backyard kick the can
until the sun went down
and parents started calling around.
we were safe inside our small bubble.

not aware of the world’s trouble.
walking in and out of friend’s homes all day.
never staying in one place
with plenty of open space.

jumping backyard fences.
running through cow pastures.
sitting by that lazy creek
watching storm waters.

mind focused on here and now
and what to do and how.
what toys are coming out
of the Sears Christmas catalogue.

No internet to stream consumption
to interrupt playing hard
and waking early
to do it all over again.

without a worry in the world
we grew up free range
cultivated in a small town
before reality TV

before spree shootings
before internet bullies
there was peace
for just a moment

in a forgotten town in America.

what would you do
if you looked at you?
not in a mirror
but at another you.
sitting in a chair.
over there.
that is you.

what would you
think of you?
what would you
say to you?

what conversation
would you have with you
interviewing you?
are you happy?
do you like your choices?
how is your life?
is there enough love in you
to share with two?

would you
help yourself to food and drink
break bread together and think
about all your fond memories?
would you ask yourself for forgiveness?

would you find peace?
would you see an equal
or would you shiver?
scared of you.
call yourself the devil
who uses witchcraft.

would you declare war?
see you as an enemy.
not liking what you stand for.
would you plan a preemptive strike?
decide it is time to fight
that very night.
mutually destructing you
before the devil ever knew.

Vacation can be as simple as a box of dirt.
Seeds to plant and water for the earth.
This vacation we stayed in town.
To build a garden from what was bought and found.

There is a time and a place for everything.
The seed needs the sun and moon.
The soil needs the water to balloon.

One raised bed garden.
One engaged family softened
By years of screentime.
Seeking to learn from each other.
All children in the grace of nature.

One week later we can now look back.
So much learned in such a small time stack.
The season will show us what will take.
What plants will grow and what recipes to make.

We openly admit what we do not know.
For we had so many questions to bestow.
Using a smarthpone to Google nature’s instructions.

Sitting in our dirt, hands filthy, barefeet below us.
We streamed gardening videos to show us.
Martha Stewart spoke of what plants need a trellis.

Little knowledge of plant companions.
We were guided by the internet in our pockets
and the sweat of our brows.

With preparation, it was over in a few hours.
Having begun, Spring had sprung.
Memories now can grow like wild flowers.
Where man remembers what was seen
Seeding immortal towers of green.

This might not rhyme.
This is a share.
Something I have to put out there.
I was asked to come to a 5K run
supporting brain cancer cures.
I have known about it for months.
Thought if I got my poetry book together
it would be a nice thing to be a part of.
That I could help with my poems.
That maybe they could touch someone.
Let them know they are not alone.

But I am a coward and I can not go
because I don’t want to know.
How many people have died from brain tumors.
What state of decline are the survivors.
And I don’t want to show my wife and my girls.
This is what they have to look forward to.
Pasting daddy’s photo on a survivors wall.
Coming to 5K runs to help fund a cure
with my photo on the back of a t-shirt.
To help them have hope
that one day a cure will come.

Because right now, to them,
Cancer is daddy napping.
Cancer is daddy always being tired.
Cancer is trips to the doctor or to the labs.
Cancer is not the end of our togetherness
Into a huge void of otherness.
Where they might take solace in my watching from above.
Cancer is foreign and not much to speak of.
It was that one time daddy lost all his hair.
It is that scar on his skull he always wears
It was that time he had to go to another city
for a couple of months to work (for treatment).
It is our long Skype sessions we had.
It is daddy getting to stay home more instead.
It is the garden in the backyard we grow for memories.
The constant photos we take to know
That our time here is beautiful.

I apologize if I have not responded
I am being reborn
Becoming unattached
All my tubes are coming out

It is a slow rebirth that is felt
As you begin to reach
Out from your second womb
Eyes blinded now can see

Tubes attached to my back and mouth feeding this reality. Programmed through DNA. By culture. By ancestry. We built this machine. That swept over the world with “progress”. That took away most hard work and shipped it overseas to another country. Taking their land.
Feeding
Eating
Excreting
Needing, more
More natural resources to fill the continual holes we feel. Clearing rain forests for wood to use for everything. Turn a forest into a corn field to feed the cows we eat. For toilet paper to wipe our ass cheeks.

Same old bullshit
Same old bullshit

A native walks over a hill
To see what will become
Another landfill
Just a block from
His backyard

The breeze blows smoke
From the clearing
That makes him choke
Makes his child tired
From the debris’ fire

There is no future
But survival
One day we live
One day we die
Under the watchful eye

Of the machine
As we cry
As our bellies swell
They sort trash
For a little cash

So that they might eat
So that we might keep
The land capitalism reaps
For slavery
Exporting freedom is cheap

In the morning I wake
Muscles sore, tendons tight
Fight or flight
Hard to get up because
I know all my moves
Will be for others.

Each choice I make
Based on fear.
Fear of losing my job.
Fear of losing health care.
Fear of not having enough
To pay the mortgage.
To pay the bills.
One paycheck away.

Each week it continues. Mondays are the hardest. I get to work and I feel like I’m going to vomit. It’s a nausea that creeps. Sits in my gut and keeps me from doing what I want. From following any dreams that might still exist. It comes from the fear that if I leave this job, I will not be able to pay my way. Take care of my children. That everything will be taken away.

The nausea continues throughout the day. It lets up for three hours as I get home and tuck my kids into bed. I help clean up the house and then it creeps back in as I prepare for the next day, the same way. Monday through Friday are slow. Wednesday is a hump day they say and I feel it that way because you know Friday is surely coming. This feeling in the gut is real, not imagined. It can choke me out at the throat some days. Make me pack my office up and wait as if it is my last day. Fight or flight. No choices. No rights.

Friday comes and the entire office mood is high. It feels like Christmas. Everyone is getting a gift and that gift is time with their friends and family. I enjoy Friday night, almost too much, as I watch movies past midnight and enjoy time with my wife. We act as if this is enough, these few hours and such. This time we have together. This is what I worked the whole week for, seemingly forever. Saturdays are even harder because I know Sunday is coming too soon.

Saturday morning can be fun if you try to focus some and be in the moment. Watch the birds. Watch the clouds. Listen to your little ones. How they laugh, unaware of what day it is. Saturday afternoon comes quickly and I’m already getting sickly from the idea of Sunday. The day my nausea turns into choking. An invisible hand that grabs me by the throat and makes me know that I am a slave for tomorrow. That I can’t say no to anyone. That I must always smile and take it. That no one wants to hear my opinion. Because I am the one, who makes the stuff, not the one with the ideas.

I make the digital stuff for those who can actually say, in 2013, I don’t know anything about computers. I’m their boy who clicks till it fits. Troubleshoots till it works. As I cry inside, choking from not breathing. For allowing this to happen. One paycheck away from another Monday.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/266350

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Byron:  I shall dive into your questions as fully as possible. Here…..we…..go……

Gil, it was such a pleasure meeting you and getting the chance to hear your story. Your writing really resonates with me because you share so deeply. It is a very dangerous line you are walking, as we discussed on the phone. You share fearlessly.

What is your perspective on sharing and story telling? Can a writer ever be too honest?

I ask this because when I write, sometimes I catch myself editing because I feel that it might be taken the wrong way or hurt someone by being taken out of context.

Gil: My words are my legacy. That is the core of the writing. The why of it for me. It is a gift of storytelling that is to be shared freely and fully.

What do we leave behind? Betterment? Truth? Example? Our humanity with all its highs and lows so that others may see and know and choose? The danger lies in disappearing without a trace. Even worse, in leaving behind something other than what we were. A mirage. An illusion. A slight of hand.

Whoever looks shall know me if they care to see. As Popeye said, “I am what I am and that’s all what I am”. The words rise above my own dust waiting in the wings.

Byron: How do you feel cancer has changed your perspective in story telling?

When I read your stuff, I get the feeling you are writing as if each piece is your last. Is that your intention, and if not have you heard that before from your readers?

Gil: Every word outlasts me. I write all the time. As of this moment, there are 198 pages of items “In Work”, 6 pages of which are merely one line reminders of entire documents in various stages. Things written there may merely be for me to noodle. There are one-line truths, poems, and bits and pieces of things that might be part of something important or merely fragments of nothingness. It is a go to document for inspiration, humbling, and more. Some of those things move to posting for they let me know it is time. Time to birth. Words pushed to the world are out there forever. Notes in a bottle set adrift on the sea of eternity.

Every piece could be my last. That remains to be seen. Everything will out last me. That I know. It really doesn’t matter if they are remembered as mine as long as they are remembered. Let them fly on whispers and laughter and shine long after anyone remembers my face or name. What we did and left behind is more important than who we were.

Has cancer changed my perspective? Only in reminding me of the tick-tock of now. In the peace of knowing more of me is in the world while cancer is limited to the vessel of flesh. My words are cancer survivors……..forever.

Byron: When we talked, you went through many of the books you have written, giving me the story of how they came together and how you seem to channel the voices of others through your writing process.

This is amazingly interesting to me because when I read your stuff, I always thought it was first person perspective, but now I realize you are acting as merely a narrator for others. Sometimes dead loved ones, or even the voice of a woman in New Jersey you never have met.

How clear are their stories when you hear them on your walks? Can you ask them questions, or is it like a dream state? Are you in a sort of walking meditative state?

Gil: The path of others speaking through me began with automatic writing exercises. Setting a timer, thinking of a word, and typing free flow. Above punctuation, grammar, editing, and fear. Those exercises freed my voice. At least, hints of it. I was out of the way. The messages in the seeming gibberish showed truths. Linking all of me in ways new and even frightening. It was the beginning of dangerous writing.

Soon, my voice was louder than my fear of being seen. Soon, I was a writer.

“Jersey Sure” was the first book. My youth. It was storytelling based on facts…and love and embellishment. It is me……at ten years old.

The chapter “The Haircut (Barber Shops and New Chevys)” was the first time a character took over my writing. It began as me having the ten year old me in the book head to the barbershop. My goal was to tell of the barbershop experience so much a part of being a ten year old in the 60s. The character began to move on his own. He headed over to a milk machine, yes there were milk machines, and looked for money that might have been dropped. Found an anthill, ran into a buddy, and headed to points far away from the barbershop. The writer in me tried to move him and he just headed off on his own. It took me a while to realize, he was off and running. I followed and wrote about his adventures. I laughed knowing he was not going to make it to the barbershop and would be in trouble when he got home. Wondered how the heck he was going to get out of the mess he created with each diversion. It was a blast writing a story revealed in the making of the character that was me and not me.

Years later, my Uncle asked me to write his story. His forty years of sobriety. It was to biographical at his request. On my morning walks during the writing, I felt my father and my grandmother, both long deceased, walking with me. Each morning. Soon, they shared stories with me. Family stories I included in the book on my Uncle. My Uncle asked how the heck I knew the stories since he had not told me them. Explained to him it was his brother and mother telling me. He was stunned.

In the midst of it all, my Uncle backed away from the book. He changed his mind. I honored his request and silently hoped he would reconsider. On the morning walks, my father stayed with me. That had me wonder. Was he there because Tom would come around and want the story? Was he there just to be with me? It continued for days. I settled in and enjoyed his company. Then I noticed he was smoking. Why would you smoke in the afterlife? Twenty-eight years dead and still smoking? Because he could? What other habits had he kept? What other human choices? Then I realized my father had yet to recover. He had yet to choose sobriety. The book was not supposed to be about Tom. It was to be my father doing the 12 steps. “Dead Drunk” began that day. I sponsored my father in AA. My father lwrote “Dead Drunk”. I was just his typist and sponsor.

Years later, another voice spoke. I heard it. Heard her. Felt her words and story. Mallory. Knew the images seen were bits and pieces of places I knew yet the story was her and her dealing with her father’s Alzheimer’s. A story that began at the end because Mallory’s father had already died. Soon, Mallory spoke freely and I wrote. There was a time when she went quiet. Made me wonder if the story was done. Did not force it. Could not force. Accepted it. A few months later, she returned and was ready to tell the rest of the story. It became “Fuggeddaboudit”.

Several people did just as you did, Byron. They thought it was me speaking. That my father died from Alzheimer’s. I explained it was Mallory’s story and that I suspected Mallory was out there somewhere. A real person whose story “channeled” through me.

Kinda weird, ain’t it?

Then a reader from New Jersey emailed me and said it was great that someone told Mallory’s story. She knew Mallory and loved that I told her story.

Kinda weird, ain’t it?

Byron: I have heard that writers have this power to see stories completed, and they are merely giving it life and allowing it to take its first steps.

Is that how you see your stories, as completed works, or do they flesh themselves out through your working process?

This one makes me smile. I suspect where the stories are going……..and then am reminded of my place as reporter rather than director. Some stories just stop……and taunt me to force them. Others head off on their own and basically tell me to shut up and type. My stories have the power. The words have the power. They use all of me in the process of birthing….and I can see bit and pieces of me in them…..as well as wondering if there is any of me in them. My best work comes when I surrender and let the Muses have their way.

Byron: Thinking of process, I am interested in your backyard garden and how much food your household is growing. Do you find the garden becoming part of your writing?
Has the nurturing of plant life and seeing it come to fruition been instructive of nurturing your writing projects.

Gil:The garden is indeed linked to all things……and effects the writing very directly. In 2008, I made a dramatic and life changing decision. Over the recommendations of my accountant and the IRS, I liquidated all my assets and paid off as much debt as I could. The Accountant and the IRS said the penalty in fees and taxes based on early withdrawal of IRAs and 401ks would be too much and to just declare bankruptcy. Quite frankly, it pissed me off. It also showed me that the system was broken. To recommend walking away from valid obligations rather than use available resources to honor them is to dishonor promises made. I liquidated and then let the IRS come after me. When they did, I said perhaps bankruptcy was the right option now. They opted for a payment plan that will likely outlive me.

In that shift, I was forced to make life changes that were some of the best ever…….and that I must admit would likely not have been made unless it was forced. Gardening became essential for health and self-sufficiency. Walking the neighborhood and riding my bike became the norm. Met neighbors. Really got to know them. One, Paul Farber, is an expert on self-sufficiency. He truly introduced me to gardening. Even worked with him putting in tire planters in a few local community gardens. His example inspired me to start “Green Arts’ in Facebook and further review each and every choice of diet and purchases. The learning was deep and rich. It opened me to a world of people who honor the impact each of their choices have on the planet and every living thing on it. My writing became more personal and global in the process. We can save the world…..beginning with our own back yard. I see that change every day. My world is what I make it and my world is joyous. It is a garden spot and I share the fruits of labor freely with neighbors around the globe.

Byron: Also, as far as process goes, I am interested in your writing studio or area. Can you describe it for me? When do you write, how many hours a day?

Gil: Although I write in many places, the most common one is my office. It was a bedroom at one time and allows for privacy. It is where I am caged to work. To produce. To feel and report. I usually spend a few hours a day sharing, creating, and putzing. It is free flow in many ways yet does have routine to it. The words flow when the words flow. Lots of inspiration comes in the shower and it is very common to capture those thoughts quickly and go where they go. It is common for me to get up once in the middle of the night and capture thoughts from dreams. Things that might show more light with the dawn.

Byron: You mentioned setting deadlines for projects. What does that entail? If you do not hit a deadline what do you do then?

Gil: It is rare for me to set a deadline for a work. One exception was my work on “Notes to Mom”. It began as book of poems. Poems written over many years. Decided it was time to collect and edit them for free download. Began as a summer project with the idea of doing the Top 100 akin to the Billboard Charts. Actually started on that work and the document “disappeared” on my computer.

As with most things, I took that as something spiritual. Trusted I would find it again if it was meant to be. Then trusted there was some reason for the disappearance and peeled it back for weeks. One day, in the shower, I was driven to write to my Mother to explain a bit about the poems. Felt the need to show her my work. To send her notes in the afterlife explaining how the poems felt and what they meant to me. Did a few notes and realized that was to the poem book.

The notes to my mother were soul ripping. They became more important then the poems. It became a singular focus with the sense of some deadline looming. I looked at the calendar and saw Solstice, the Equinox a few months off and realized the completed book would be a wonderful gift for people. That birthed the “deadline”.

Several weeks into the project, I was diagnosed with cancer. Bam. It fed into the project and changed the feel of the perceived “deadline”. There was a new urgency in the book. My soul was emptied in the writing. It was deeply spiritual. I was spent. Yet then flowed the writing about the cancer experience. I was made to share it. Picked up like a drained and empty puppet and commanded “More!”. I obeyed.

On a side note, “Notes to Mom” was completed and given to people a week ahead of schedule.

Byron: When you write, you said you try to not edit and you actually have someone who helps you edit your work. What is the relationship with your editor?
How did you meet? How many books have you worked on together?

Gil: The person that edits my work and makes them ready for smashwords is Malia Legros.
I am her life coach, mentor, and more. In that process, she offered to edit my work so it could be published. Quite frankly, if it were not for that, much of it would remain fragmented and even out of view. My forte is to spew my soul……..editing for format and all that jazz has my attention for barely a nano-second. It is her work that makes all that possible.

The five books on smashwords were her doing.

In that process, she asked some key questions about things that improved the work. One of the questions helped me realize how “dangerous” my writing had become. It was during the work on “Reports from the Frontal Lobe”. The question……”Do you really want to share some of this with the whole world?” It gave me pause so I looked at some of the items she thought might be a bit much for such a broad audience. The concerns were valid…….if I was showing less than all of me. The book went ahead and has me hanging out there for anyone to see. Their opinion, pro or con, is about them. I am comfortable with that reality.

That level of freedom in exposure prepared me for the depth of “Notes to Mom”. What comes will be shared. I am a writer.

Byron: How long did you study with your shaman, and are you two still in touch? Does she help you with your writing process as well? What were her credentials
for being a shaman? I’ve always been interested in urban shamans and feel that is something that is needed in our society.

Gil: We are missing the witch doctors in our cultures. The town philosopher. The Socrates on the corner. Do you see that as the role of the shaman and or artists?

I studied with my Shaman for years. She changed my life. She is a licensed massage therapist and we met through connections with my wife and her network of friends. I showed up at a Halloween party as a pirate and was hamming it up for anyone that noticed. She noticed and we spoke of massage and energy work, both things that intrigued me but that I had yet to try. A few days later, I scheduled a massage with her.

In that first session, we spoke of many things and she answered my questions about what the heck energy work was. It called to me in ways that touched on great insights of self as well as fear. Scheduled another session with her and obeyed an instinct at the beginning of the session when I turned to her, took her hand, and said, “I trust you. Go wherever you are supposed to go.” She smiled a smile that would have me squirm many, many times for the next few years and said, “Alright.”

The learning was nothing short of incredible. Energy work. Assignments. Books to read. Exercises in sensory deprivation. Places to visit. Skills to learn. She became a dominant force in my life and I realized she was a Shaman. It opened me to journal in full disclosure, probe each of my own intentions, evaluate each life choice, and own that my world was exactly what I made it.

In time, I ended up sharing much of what she taught me with others. Became their life coach. Explored things beyond my own comfort level and realized the great learning that hides inside of our fears.

She merely pointed to places and things and learning. Then she held me accountable to what I chose to do with the information and what was learned in the doing. It opened me to a new me and a world of spirituality that honored and then dwarfed everything prior.

We need Shamans. Life coaches. Kindred spirits. Mentors. Tribe and herd. I became who I truly am and the Shaman helped me. I hope I share that gift with many others.

The Shaman and I parted company when my resources shifted. Another lesson for me on giving of self. When I learned Swedish Massage, Reiki, and other body and energy work things, it was my choice to give away the sessions to ensure people could come when they needed, regardless of resources. Balance and trust that what is given is returned many fold.

Byron: When did you know that you could not quit writing? Speaking to you, I know you find a lot of comfort through the writing process. It empowers me. Makes me feel as if
I am part of the everything. As if the universe speaks through me. Can you speak to that for a moment because we mentioned writing on autopilot?

Can you remember when you did not have this connection to writing how you felt? When you do not write, how do you feel?

Gil: My writing was linked to my relationship with money….although that was not clear to me until I changed my relationship with money. Writing was something I did on occasion…….while moving on the career path that measured success with promotions and accumulation of wealth. My writing was used when needed while other things became the things I did each day. Accountability. Leadership. Learning. Commitment. Teamwork. Many other things became the best use of my time and talents. Writing helped…..but was used on demand rather than as a gift. Writing as a career? Making money writing? Too iffy for me so I chose other careers.

As life changes had me writing more, the writing became more urgent. More true. As my relationship with money and the accumulation of wealth changed, my writing became freer. There is irony in that. I did not write because I did not trust there would be audience. I do write because I trust there will be an audience. It was money that determined my fear……and then lost its power over me.

Writing is my gift and it is to be shared. I choose to honor it and let it be my legacy for it is the thing I brought with me and shall leave behind when I return to wherever. I was sent to deliver words about my experience. That is why I write. For others. It has become my calling……full disclosure.

Byron: You write poetry as well. What do you feel the role of the poet is in today’s society? It does seem poetry is one of the least respected of the arts. Do you agree, and if
so why do you think that is so?

Gil: Poets are writers. Writers are artists. Artists show their souls for others to see. In the sharing, others see what they see. New things. Old things. Answers. Self. Others. Those that choose to see will see and the artist has touched in the seeing. We are to live our art in the way we are called to do so and, in doing so, touch the world.

Respect comes from inside. We respect what we determine is the measure of our worth. When we place that measure in other’s hands, we must then earn our respect from them. We will know we did well only when they let us know.

Each of us is a gift. A beautiful gift. We must respect our gifts and then we can respect everyone else’s.

Maybe there is a poem in there somewhere. Quite likely.

Byron: If you had just begun taking your writing seriously and had a new lease on life and wanted to figure out how to adjust to making it something you could do full-time,
how would you go about it?

Gil: I have, I do, and I am.

Byron: We also discussed how the monetary system is essentially a scam and that paying our debt off is the first step to freedom. What do you suggest is the second
step to freedom if that has been completed?

Gil: The first step is the beginning. Each day thereafter is a learning of choices on the path to self-sufficiency. Once we declare Financial Freedom, we are free. While it can take years to rise above the self-inflicted wounds of debt, the first step to filling in a hole is to stop digging. Then we focus on daily things that enhance all aspects of our life. Health. Family. Sharing. Global responsibility. Everyday we move to the light of joy and sharing. We find how much more we have already and how much we have to share with others. The world becomes sweeter and easier.

To begin is enough. All else follows.

Byron: Do you feel that artists are closer to some sort of universal truth? If so, why do you think it is that way?

Gil: I think the world is closer to Universal Truth. We are on this side of a major shift. Everyone feels it. For some, it is felt in fear and they begin to horde, hide, and live a life of either/or. For others, it is felt in ways of gathering of light and love. Everyone deserves joy. Everyone. There is enough for all of us and we must learn to share as we live in peace where everyone is a neighbor and all life is respected.

Here are some images of the garden. Will be sending in a few more in two emails to follow. Will included a piece called “Pea Gravel Miracle” that related to the garden and included in “Reports from the Frontal Lobe”. In doing the garden, I did my best to use existing things or trust in the flow of all things. Hence, the many tire planters, the pool ladder turned decoration, a rock river build one rock at a time from local fields and assembled on labor of self and family. The pea gravel path was a bit problematic since I needed so much pea gravel and it sat waiting for quite some time. Folks asked and I said, “Trust. If it is meant to be pea gravel, it will come.” Became a bit of a joke. That is, until it happened.

Gil

Pea Gravel Miracles

Someone wished me well today and pea gravel appeared just as needed. Not sure who wished me well but they did just this afternoon. Once they did, the other stuff kicked into motion. Pea gravel went from a need to a reality that quickly. The positive energy of a well wished well wish changed the flow of things.

The first time I saw the ad for free pea gravel the other day, it was an hour old and already gone. Poof! Before I had a chance to act, someone else did. Some around me felt a bit of woe. Some opportunity missed feeling. Kinda natural. We needed pea gravel, someone offered a bunch free, and we missed it. Drats.

I was actually reassured. It showed me that pea gravel, or anything else needed, will surface when needed. Yes, that batch found another home. Something else would come though….just what needed when needed. I was happy as a lark. The fleeting pea gravel reassured. Things get to those that need. One person’s excess pea gravel is another person’s treasure. How cool is that?

Emailed the person that listed the pea gravel. Said if things changed, I would happily give the pea gravel a good home. That was a few days ago. My vigilance in watching the free websites did increase in the meantime. Pea gravel or something just right for the path in the blossoming tire garden would surface soon.

Then today someone wished me well. If you are that person, you know it. Thanks. Once you wished me well, the phone rang. It was 12:51 this afternoon. The man with the pea gravel said it was mine if I was still interested. Interested? I was ecstatic and let him know it. Would make as many trips as necessary tomorrow and get as much as was available and possible. Woooooo Hooooooo. I thank my well wisher. Will play it forward. Many times. After all, pea gravel makes for nice pathways.

Note to self,
reveal yourself.
Be dangerous
In your honesty.
Let it be known
That you are not alone.
That we are in this together.

Note to self,
Be thankful.
Write a list.
Check it twice.
Then by no device
Let it be known
That you love them so
They will always know.

I love you
Cannot be said enough.
Cannot be heard enough
Grows stronger with repetition.
Overcomes superstition.
Needs no religion.

I love you
Is felt when we are gone
By the hearts of our loved ones.
Is the strength we pull from
When our notes are left undone.
When our calls are shortened.
When our lists are lost.
Our memories softened.
Three words remain.

I love you.

Mickey King
Julie King-baker
Dana King
Claire King
Willow King
Bunny Johnson
Michael King
Michelle Porter
Marcus King

All my nieces and nephews, cousins, aunts and uncles.

I am not going to lie to you.
I loved Karate Kid.
It changed my life.
A movie about a skinny kid.
The outsider.
The outlier.
Being bullied.
Coming out on top.
Getting the girl.
Getting the car.
And driving off into the sunset
With a trophy to boot.

I mean who didn’t like it in my generation? Ralph Macchio was a household name. That is how I started martial arts. Living through the movies. I was too young to know about Bruce Lee. His movies weren’t exactly playing in our one movie, movie theater in town. There was no internet. Information traveled slowly. Heroes were slim to none. People still looked up to their brothers or fathers. They were the ones who set the example to follow or broke our hearts. Rock stars were burn outs. Jesus was perfect.

I trained in a little dojo in downtown Brookhaven, MS at an old railroad junction. Brookhaven was a railroad town like most, except the train no longer stopped there and most of the stores were starting to go out of business. Wal-Mart was growing across America like a virus, yet to arrive but soon to conquer. The town decided to turn the railroad junction into a small civics center. And that’s where I found my martial art, Isshin-ryu. A little known Japanese martial art that was picked up by American soldiers. Like most American martial arts it was stolen from the cultures we got stuck protecting from our own broken foreign policy but that’s another matter. What doesn’t kill you builds a U.S. military base in your backyard.

I was ten years old. My father was a Marine in the Korean War. I could tell he was proud. I finally learned how to take a punch. How to throw one. How to dance on my feet. How to swerve not to meet, direct contact. And to roll when I did.

Rats interconnected
Brains switch
Legs twitch
Across continents
Moths wired
Neurons fire
Flight is controlled

As billions are spent
on modeling the human brain
So that we may rearrange cells
And cure all disease
So we can scan consciousness
Into machines

I want to see my father again
Where did his memories go
When he left this planet years ago
Were they encoded into his DNA
To be decoded and uploaded
Into the collective to one day play

Stories about the war
About his father and mother
before I got to meet them
I want to still learn from him
Step in his huge footsteps
And make him proud

I want to leave a legacy
For my children
If I don’t get to see them
Take their steps across the aisle
To see their children smile

I want to craft words into heart beats
So that this rhythm will repeat
Throughout the millennium
Traveling across cultures
Across time
To find an ear
To erase a little fear
Of where we have come from
Of where we are going