Tangent Fest 2015 – Featuring Run-On Sentence Extravaganza!!!

Ah, my life.  Is it a puzzle?  A labyrinth?  A work of subtle fiction the author of which I am destined to eventually meet and be resolved whole by?  I don’t know.  Maybe you do.

I think at the extremely young end – or beginning – I was a pretty good kid.  I recall my sole aim in life was to be good.  Do my chores, love my sister and mom and dad, do my best in school, repent appropriately when I slipped off true moral North.  There were lots of smiles, hugs and “I love you’s.”  Life was good.

I don’t know what happened.

Was it Catholicism?  A Father who worked too much and whom I came to know only as a punisher?  Was it that my mom suffered from clinical depression?  Perhaps it was the bad spirits released by the trees as one by one they were chopped down and removed in order to clear land for development.  I always did love trees.  Maybe it was soccer – 5 years of soccer with severe ingrown toenails.  I tried to back out of it early on around the age of 9, but my parents told me I had obligated to it and had to honor my commitments.  I remember not quite grasping that logic, all I knew was that my toes hurt, weeping blood and pus after every practice and game.  Did I make the wrong friends?  They often taunted me for “throwing like a girl” every time I was cunningly coaxed into playing a game of baseball with them and the other neighborhood boys… I got good at finding excuses to retreat to Nintendo and the land of Super Mario Brothers, where nobody told me I “threw like a girl.”  Could it have been Mrs. Kiriluk?  3rd grade started off with such good promise – the first day I stayed after a bit to clean up the colored plastic blocks… and over the remaining 9 months the sought-after approval of Mrs. Kiriluk melted into her black cauldron witch-buckled shoes as stern words in a response to an initial innocent faux pas dynamoed the consistent birth of ugly pink slips sent home in disciplinary disgust.  And thus that year I officially became the said and final problem in my home of rearing.  A few years between of trying to keep my head above academic and social water, dog-paddle effort, eyes fixed desperately on the horizon for the ship of rescue, I remember not letting my desperation show… 6th grade and I, exhausted from 2 or so years of nearly constant dog-paddling, confused rap music with my rescue ship in a drawn out year-long delirium, and I learned to be hungry for girls and the satisfying zap and sting of curse words as they flew off my 11 year old tongue… But the girls seemed drawn to physical prowess and coordination, of which I had very little, so I compensated for the lack of almost-adolescent estrogen exploiting by stocking up on my arsenal of curse words and as the sophistication of my intellect grew along with my body hair, I began to immerse myself in the study of an imaginary world far, far away from my own – that of Black American males isolated amongst themselves in urban war zones of perpetual rage born of demographic chains I knew nothing about and had no way of comprehending or understanding – at least one would think, and so I have often been told by human beings who might just find themselves as media-labeled in same said description, both in major label recordings and in person…  So that became a masochistic study of mine, rap music.  I learned from guys who had a lot more real-world experience than I, albeit only being a few years older, that the cause of all the problems in the world were my family, or at least people who might just find themselves as media-labeled in same said description as my family were they ever to find themselves in a police report…  Which happened, my subconscious could not deny, to include a mysterious someone I saw with increasing hatred in the mirror every morning before school.  This entire developing complex of mine really came from a single source: I will call it “Please don’t make fun of me or beat me up.”  Then fashion began to evolve into an issue of consequence… It really began to be a useful tool to avoid social obliteration to have a pierced ear AS LONG AS IT WAS THE LEFT ONE.  Piercing the right one was a worse death-wish than not having an ear pierced at all (Einstein Middle School, Shoreline, Washington, U.S.A. – 1990 to 1992)…  Mass disdain for a whole other demographic of human beings that to me was likely even more subconsciously confusing than the buried almost-as-deep confusion about the footballesque charade of white team versus black team while neither team is actually wearing black nor white, and I always liked art better anyway… I will just say God Rest Your Soul Mathew Shepard and maybe shed more sunshine on that tangent-tree later…

I think I just made it up through about 8th grade, and this could be a really long story.  Obviously a great amount of thought- organization is in order.

I was getting to the here and now, being that the past is exactly as we call it, and can not be revisited outside of memory, youtube videos and that magic place where one can remain there for years on end without moving because of intense bitterness, nostalgia, or whatever other strong emotion that can only be found there.

I’m such a sucker for the past!  Sorry, I had counseling today.  Thursdays are like this for me.  Now I am too burned out to write about the arduous, uneventful present.  Coamhim.com.

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My Second Blog… A Long Time Coming…

Well, I just read part of my first and previous blog, and I have to say that I am slightly embarrassed.  So negative!  So sarcastic!  Two attributes of which I am no longer a very big fan.  I don’t even like to swear anymore, although I do still catch myself doing it from time to time, usually either when I have permitted my anger to get the best of me or when I have let my moral guard down around somebody who still likes to swear themselves.

Life is still not quite perfect: I remain technically unemployed, primarily by choice.  But I do assist my girlfriend with menial tasks here and there as apply to her occupation.  She has been selling advertising spots in a local Spanish periodical and also doing Spanish to English translations of court documents.  OK, she has only recently done one Spanish to English court document translation, but still, I remain proud of her.

That is the biggest, most terrifying and most wonderful development in my life since my first and only other blog: I have a girlfriend.  Love is awesome.  It changes everything.  I have never been in anything that has ever really resembled even near a healthy, functional relationship, but it works for both of us and that is what counts.  We have been together since June 27th of 2014, and have been living together since November 1st of 2014.  Yes, we moved in together rather fast, and yes, I love it.  She is simple, accommodating, attentive, forgiving, resilient, witty, innocent, affectionate, wears rose colored glasses, is cute, unwittingly lovable, just plain lovable, brave, supportive, pure-hearted, optimistic, idealistic, charming, charismatic, open, open-minded, easy to get along with, and doesn’t like to swear either.  And, oh, yeah – she is an incredibly gifted cook.  She is more loyal and faithful than any dog I have ever had or met, including any golden retriever.  She is a beautiful soul.  I have learned that a relationship is not always easy (especially for her), but that it is always worth it.  Investing in something real and dedicated, emotionally and otherwise, is so much more reassuring and powerful and rewarding and, well – romantic than just jumping around from distant person to yet-even-more-distant person like a tiny, helpless vessel cast about in a stormy sea by the relentless tumult of the waves of one’s own unwillingness to love and be loved by someone real.  That strong foundation gives life to the beautiful architecture of greater and more inspiring designs the more time entwines the two of you, and the more you give and receive, the more you want to give.  I love being in love.  Now that I have it, I realize I never really have had it before this, and to be honest, I don’t see myself ever having it after this.  What an incredible Love you are.  Thank you, Angeles.

Well, I wasn’t planning on this being about my girlfriend, but I am tired now, so I guess that is what it will be about. It is fitting enough, she is the oxygen of my emotional center.  And now I am sleepy.

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  If you put your thoughts above you

  for everyone to read

  would they spit in your face

  or would their hearts bleed?

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My First Blog by Kevin Atwood

No, I am not a 5-year-old.  I am a 35-year-old.  I am saying this in humorous reference to the title.  It is interesting, most people that know me consider me to be very creative, but when I am put on the spot all my creative juices are suddenly seeping into the ground rather than dowsing the desired canvas.  Hence the title.  So here’s my first blog:

I think I will give a rundown of what to expect.  You will probably notice a great boost in prolificity (I like to make up words and word tenses) whenever it is noted that I have been ingesting caffeine.  This is frustrating for me having been a heavy ‘recreational’ drug user in years past.  I do not like drugs, I do not like the way they carve their way into your bloodstream, into your mind, into your thoughts, into your actions, and ultimately have a profound influence, if not even a domain that could be described as control, over YOU.  Thus I do not like to be under the influence of any neurochemically-altering substances, including caffeine.  That having been said, I am a mean bastard of a writer when high on caffeine.  I have been told such, but didn’t have to be because I know it already.  There’s just something about caffeine – like – I think the acids in caffeinated beverages sear a wormhole to the primordial creative core of existence in the lining of my stomach or something.  So, yeah – get excited when the blog is introduced with something like “So, I’m really high on caffeine right now…”

Speaking of drugs, I am a heavy smoker.  I smoke roll-your-own cigarettes, commonly known as ‘rollies.’  I started smoking them in prison, in which I spent a little over 4 years, mainly due to budget restrictions.  It is difficult to subdue one’s conscience into accepting that it is ok to smoke taylor-made (ok, fuck spelling ‘taylor’ correctly, I thought that was how you were supposed to spell it but the squiggly red line indicating a defective spelling is there and I’m not going to look it up…) cigarettes when, if you can even get a job, you are making 25 cents an hour or less and marionetting your Dad into putting money on your books every month.  So, out of moral necessity, I started smoking rollies.  I have heard that one rollie is equivalent to 3 ‘regular’ cigarettes.  I hope this is not true, because I have been smoking going on 21 years and am starting to hack shit up in the morning as of about 3 or 4 months ago.  Do I want to quit?  Damn right I do.  Am I able to?  I have been told I am, that each cigarette I smoke is a choice I have made.  My God, do I make a lot of choices each day!  Will I quit?  I hope so, hope so, hope so.  But then again, a sick part of me really enjoys smoking.  A lot.  

So I am a freak of a weird guy.  If I was more outgoing, I probably wouldn’t say that, and not because I would think that I was less weird because I was more outgoing, but because I figure I would meet more people that were actually not that dissimilar from me.  I mean, I’m friendly – I say ‘hi’ to strangers at the bus stop, the grocery store, walking down the street, the mental health clinic – and all to the point of criticism.  I am not a master of small talk, but I am pretty good at it.  But when it comes to more intimate (I wish there was a less severe adjective I could come up with) connections with people, I tend to hermitize.  As you may have stumbled across, the description of my blog is something like “Whatever I Feel Comfortable Enough To Share.”  I am pointing this out because, at this point, I am not comfortable enough to share in much revealing detail what exactly has spurred me to say that I am a freak of a weird guy.  Don’t dwell on that in your less-rewarding dreams, though, I am not a Jeffrey Dahmer in the making or anything – I just ate at a normal Chinese Buffet – but I just feel, for the most part, less than normal.  Or maybe a little more than normal.

I have a Mental Health Condition.  My current diagnosis is Schizoaffective.  I disagree with the diagnosis for the most part.  I think I am Bi-Polar Type I with Psychosis.  It’s ok, though, World, Kevin Atwood is taking 20 milligrams of Abilify every morning.

I will tell you a little about my photo, which may lead into a heavy, one-sided religious discussion, but it may not because I have not had any caffeinated beverages since about 6:30 this morning.  We will just have to see:

Here Comes Jesus

  I have entitled it “Here Comes Jesus.”  If you have not happened to come across any mass-media such as a major journalistic publication or the 5 o’clock news for a few days or so, do not panic, Kevin Atwood is here to comfort you.  Jesus has not shown up yet.  As a matter of fact, this is not an actual picture of Jesus (though I know they be common).  This is actually a picture of the Sun as seen from somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona, United States, Earth, Solar System, Milky Way, Universe, Existence I took with my iPod a few weeks back.  I think it is mid-afternoon, but I can’t remember.  I thought it would be funny to call it “Here Comes Jesus” because I am a sarcastic fuck who doesn’t believe in Jesus.  Wait – that’s not totally true.  I am convinced there was a Jesus.  Let me correct myself: I don’t believe in Christ.  There is no Christ.  I would say I’ll armwrestle you to prove it or something like that, but there are likely enough of you who would beat me armwrestling only to be later disappointed to find out that, even though you won, there still is no Christ.  Of course, if you believe in Christ now, chances are you will never stop.  I know people backslide and all of that, but (take with grain of salt, I haven’t done a study or anything) I am willing to bet that most Christians never give up Christ completely.  If one were to delve heavily into the loving arms of Jesus Christ and spend a significant amount of time there, if they eventually came to draw themselves from His Almighty Grasp, the next time they looked in the mirror I suspect they would see their ass instead of their face.  I say this with a substantial amount of confidence not only because there is a computer screen and who knows how much physical distance between whoever is reading this and I, but because I myself spent a good portion of the last several years Praising Jesus and one day, after a ridiculous amount of self-reflection and painful time alone, I was brushing my teeth and lo and behold, there was my ass.

I need to clarify here, I am only being somewhat serious.  I have a lot of respect for many Christians.  It’s just that I have respect and admiration for them not because of what they believe, but because of what they do and how they are.  And, also, not because of why they do it.  The why they do it actually kind of pisses me off.

I hope I remind you of Holden Caulfield.  I haven’t read an entire book in months.

Well, I am getting tired and bored and it is time to smoke a cigarette.

Check out my music: http://www.soundcloud.com/coamhim or http://www.reverbnation.com/coamhim


If you want to see funny pictures of me and sample my Dad’s writing capabilities, check out coamhim.com – don’t know how much longer it will exist, we’re poor.

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