What Is eyeofh?

eyeofh is both a concept, and a cause.  Such duality relegates true definition to the eye of the beholder.  In other words - YOU are eyeofh!


The concept is ridiculously simple.  
The Eye Of Horus sees all.
The "Artist" attempts to see all.
eyeofh was borne out of one artists attempt to illuminate what he has seen, smashing headlong into the dreaded realm of choosing a username!
And so, eyeofh was borne.
I know.
It sounds silly!
What comes next, however, is what it is really all about...


...The cause is where YOU come in.
eyeofh.com operates under the premise that there is no greater purpose for a piece of art than to provoke thought.  The only way a thought can be provoked is if it reaches someone other than its intended audience.  The person walking around there own home will only see what they have seen everyday previous to this one.  Dare them to spend the night in the haunted house if you want change their perspective.


So eyeofh will, ultimately, be a dare.  
A dare for the audience.
A dare for the artist.
A dare for us all to come together in the name of challenging each other to see what may come of inspired, cooperative vision!


These are the humble beginnings.  
The Goal is anything but.
The internet has allowed artists of all kinds to get there work in front of more people than they had ever before dreamed of.  
And yet, It is still a daunting task for most of us to even think about attempting to break into the "Mainstream".  In todays economy the "starving artist" has even fewer options as far as where to gain sustenance.  
eyeofh.com will seek to remedy that.
We want to create a community site whereby artists and fans can congregate to inspire each other.
There will be no fee's...only benefits!


The rest is truly up to you.  
We start humbly with huge aspirations.
As the site begins to evolve it will be up to both the artist and the audience members to seek a common vision.
The best way to get started is to check out this link for information on the InspireArt Of The Week.  It is the simplest way we could think to start this off...

Tether

Image via Wikipedia

Tired and true, these thoughts dangle
at my wits end, hanging above the fire
of my bridges burnt.  They are my
assets, liabilities, and follies.


At once, they mock and flatter,
portraying a clown's sophisticated
manner to the apathetic audience
which lines the shore.  JUMP...


...to the valley far below.  Plummeting,
now--through the rage set fire, and 
foul air these creatures breath--to
the soft, forgiving valley floor.  FREE...


...from the imposition of ignorance'
will.  This temporary death cleanses
the stink of regret and self doubt from
my soul--even as my wits end slides...


...down the canyon wall.  As a snake
it slithers--hissing my defiance.  Soft
and slow--so not to startle--it curls
round' my thoughts, subdued.


Then--with the snap of an overstretched
umbilical--I'm dying, once again,
in the comedy above.  The reviews
are repulsive, and the jeers just the same.


No matter, I've vacationed the valley,
and rewritten the script...

Cadence

In slow motion,
death renders my soul to life.
Realization ignites
denial, and acceptance.


What would be is not
unless taken away!


Denial creeps fast
through every dream wakened.
Furiously, hate
burns passions wings.


What could be is lost
unless given hope!


Acceptance dawns slow 
on each wished horizon.
Uncontrollably now,
the cadence of life...

Time To Testify

The world is BROKEN! 


There is not a single leader in the world today that is doing the right thing.  People thought Obama would be the savior of our ravaged hopes and dreams...HE IS NOT!


It is time for each and every one of us to stand up and be counted no matter what side of the proverbial fence we call home. 


IT IS TIME TO BURN THE FENCE TO THE GROUND!

The Drive

It's all about the drive.

It's all about the ride you take,

the path you make,

it's all about the stride.

It's all about the step you stroll,

the rock you roll,

it's all about the glide.

It's all about the wants you need,

the beasts you feed,

it's all about the pride.

It's all about the gas you burn,

the speed you turn,

it's all about the ride.

It's all about the chance you take,

the rules you break,

it's all about the drive.

War Ensamble

This is the song driving me right now...The double bass pounding, rhythmically, straight to the core of my creative being...the frantic guitar harassing and goading my spirit to action...time to focus...time to fight...time to harness the nightmare!

Rage And Solemnity

Image via Wikipedia

Rage And Solemnity

This is a short essay on the power of words.

            There are two conditions, and two only, that lend a sense of power to any written or spoken word.

            The first of these is the most obvious.  No word—no matter how it is used or in what context it may appear—has any claim to power without an audience before which to perform.  It is with this in mind that I say to you that never was there a word, either spoken or written, that does not possess all of the power of all of the words that were ever scrawled upon the pages of time.  For even these words—which are written to play for an audience consisting of one—do indeed have an audience.  The fact that they may never be seen by anyone other than me only serves to intensify their power.  Could there exist a more intimate literary connection than the one between an author, the one, and only fan the he writes for?

            Of course, this is a mere self indulgent fantasy—to believe that I could eve4r be happy with the thought that no one, other than myself, will ever read these words is an out and out lie—and yet here and now,, while it is just me, myself, and my words wrestling around in a room together, there seems no greater splendor than to follow their lead and see where they take me.

The second condition serves to stipulate the actual degree of power too which these words may attain in the annals of time and space.  This condition is a mental connection that is forged between the intended audience and the words being used.  It is, perhaps, the more important of the two in that it is not a pre-existing, built-in, facet such as is the first condition. 

The simplest form of this connection is the particular literary taste possessed by every individual.  If you, the reader, have a natural predilection for a good spy novel—and would prefer to skip all other literary fare altogether—than the words of someone such as Stephen King or Edgar Allen Poe would hold little or no special value in your mind.  It is to the fan of the macabre and malevolent that these two men speak.  This is the most basic form of human interaction with the things we call ‘words’.  It is simplistic in its ability to focus in on only those types of word that, when arranged correctly, dance the way we would like them to in our minds eye.  Some people like to read about marriage—some about murder.  It is all a matter of taste.

The next level of ‘word connection’ is a great deal more personal, and yet a grater majority of the human race experiences it.  In fact, all of us feel it very deeply.  It follows no rules, and no medium confines it.  There is no condition of length or content and it may range from the most benevolently beneficial to the most detrimentally damaging evocation of ideas under the sun.  it is both the truth and the lie and the gray area that we all—regardless of whether or not our sense of righteous materialism will allow us to admit it—know to be the shadow that will forever obscure the actual realization of either.  It is what happens when one man says or writes something that another man can simply not agree with or when that same man spews forth a waterfall of words that bring the whole world together—if only for that one, all to brief, all to infrequent, moment in time.

It is Martin Luther King telling us about a dream that he has, and Adolph Hitler unleashing a raging torrent of madly inspiring words that would plunge the world directly into his own hellish nightmare.  It is all of these words—leaping from the tongues of saints and lunatics alike—rushing from mouth to ear—from heart to soul—with the intensity of life itself—that, for better or for worse, make us human.  These words play to an audience otherwise known as humanity; there connection with that audience—and, therefore, the reason that they hold so much power—is that they crawl inside the very soul of our minds and make us think.

The final level is so ambiguous that even the most powerful words ever uttered can only dream of the day when they will be of use in describing, to human ears, what that connection is.  And therein lays the absurdity of it all.

It is in the rage and solemnity of the poets of all ages that we come closest to seeing the true meaning and power of words.  For—even as the final drop of their blood splatters upon the page before them—they are the only ones that truly realize what words are.  They know that all of these little symbols that we call letters are forming tiny little blood clots of their soul on that page and that—when all is said and done—the images formed are nothing more than larger symbols built from small.  The meanings that we have attached to these words I order that we might make sense of all the things that we perceive around us are but pale veils with which to shield our frail minds from the truth of what is actually there.  That is the true beauty of the poets and the reason why nine out of ten people either do not understand—or thumb their nose at with no intention of ever trying to understand—the world of poetry.  They will not accept the fact that words can mean more than what they actually spell out on the page…

Nothing Sacred

Call it a rant.
Call it a mission statement.
Call it whatever the fuck you want to...this is my approach from here on out!
Nothing Sacred

I discovered my love of writing in the fifth grade. My teacher gave us an assignment to create a book from start to finish--story, art, and binding. The only stipulation was that it had to be funny.

My first awkward story was called THE COFFIN SQUAD. It was—if I remember correctly—a silly little piece about two Italian brothers who came to America with the dream of starting a coffin business that they could use to help their friends in the mob. You can imagine that—while my classmates thoroughly enjoyed it—I found out quite quickly how much commotion saying the wrong thing to the right people can cause. It was not intentional, but the effect was the same as if it had been.

For years, I continued to write. Everything that grew from my imagination drew some type of negative attention. The truth is that, at first, I was not doing it on purpose. My writing has always been offbeat. I have always had an affinity for the shadowy side of the human condition. I meandered, however, from that first stereotypical endeavor through a series of mediocre short stories and essays. There was no real style. No real substance. No real heart to speak of...just words and situations thrown out onto the page.

High school found me still without focus. I enjoyed writing, and yet it began to feel as if it was just something I did to bolster my grades. It was the one thing I was good at and—even at my least enthusiastic—I could always put enough quality on the page to please a high school English teacher. However, with nothing substantive to speak of, this collection of mediocrities failed to impress even myself.

At some point, someone realized that I was bored. My grades were slipping in areas that I used to navigate with my eyes closed. A move to AP Math and English classes was the prescribed remedy. It worked!

I was given an assignment that had something to do with the holidays. If I remember correctly, it was to come up with a new twist on your favorite holiday. I blended Christmas and Halloween—five years before THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS—into a delightfully evil little funfest--that not only skewered two of my favorite holidays, but also managed to question the existence of God! The Teacher loved it and that felt good. Half of the class, however, was appalled, and that felt even better!

From there all bets were off. I started to push the envelope as much as possible. As much as I liked the good reactions I received, I always found the negative ones to be more honest. It is always easy for a friend to tell you that your story is good. That is usually an emotionless transaction though. Occasionally someone will show genuine excitement for the words on the page. However, for the most part, "Great Story" means that they either did not read it, or worse—they totally missed the point.

The opposite reaction is filled with life. If they are angry, or disturbed, or sad, or confused then they are thinking. They are connecting with the words on a level beyond the meaning of those actual words. They are involved enough to react and that is what I have been striving to achieve since the moment that fact dawned on me.

The point is that people do not have to agree with, or even like the things that I--or anyone else, for that matter--write. If it strikes a nerve; if it draws a tear; if it causes the mind to shudder than it has done its job. I want people, above all else, to think! Think about things that the hustle and bustle of our ordinary lives keeps hidden behind the veil that separates the mundane from the truth...

The truth is that we do not look into the shadows because we are afraid that what we find there might upset the status quo. Or, even worse, that what lurks in those shadows might be just a little to close to who we truly are. God forbid we have an 'abnormal' thought. God forbid we question authority. God forbid we tackle the hard issues. God forbid we stand up and fight! All of these things would discomfort us. All of these things might flash us a glimpse of the wizard behind the veil.

I want to shatter what we call reality. I want to draw the veil and peer into the darkness. I want to open the soft underbelly of our psyches from navel to neck and see what falls out!

When I was fourteen, I wrote a short essay/poem on abortion. It has offended nearly everyone I have ever shown it to. It appears on hubpages now as GENERATION NEXT. I hate that story for being misunderstood, but I love it because I now it touches a nerve.

Now here is the important part. Shock value in and of itself is meaningless. Anybody can find a way to offend. You can skim the internet right now and find millions of examples of heartless exercises in hatred and anger. That does no good.

I see writing as the conquering of a great beast. A beast with no heart is easily slain. It is loosely connected bits of flesh and bone and—while it may strike terror in the heart of the first soul it comes upon—someone with even the mildest will to live will quickly dispatch it. However, if you give that beast a heart and a purpose it becomes something altogether different. Even a hint that this beast has any type of emotional ties to the real world will give a victim pause. Did it have a family? What brought it to this lowly state? Is there a possibility of redemption? Can the beast be saved? These questions can only exist if there is heart!

In my darkest hour, and on the bleakest note, there is always heart, and love. Shock alone can neither raise a question, nor change a mind. If your path lies along the darker corridors of this great existence you must love that very existence enough to cut it wide open, and trust it enough to know that is stronger than any, save a few, on this earth have ever given it credit for.

About seven years ago, I lost that trust. Fear and doubt crowded my mind. I was terrified that if I kept going the way I was—and writing the things that I did—I would lose some of the people I loved. The ideas piled up in my mind and created a great depression. I grew resentful towards those people whose love I was trying to hold onto. No one—with the exception of my wife—had read anything I had written since GENERATION NEXT. Until, that is, about four weeks ago when the damn broke.

I do not know what brought me out of it but I simply had to write. For the first time in my life, I truly do not care what anybody thinks. My friends and family love me and this is what I need to do.

For anyone who is kind enough to spare their precious time and read this—or anything else I have written for that matter—please understand one thing that I believe to the very core of my being: NOTHING IS SACRED!

That is the point of all of this. The stimulation of new thought and the desire to evolve spiritually are the most important endeavors a human can undertake. I do not care what anyone says—that growth can be achieved only after one’s demons have been confronted. There is no nice way to go about confronting the darkness. It must be confronted steadfastly and without remorse. It must be loved until it is light.

I will not be held down. I will do everything in my power shove you—kicking and screaming if need be—out of your comfortable little hiding spot. It is okay if you hate me for doing it. I hate the dentist for the pain he inflicts. However, when the Novocain wears off and the wound heals I am better off than when I stepped into his office.

I do this because I love to write. I do this because I love to make people think. I do this because I have demons of my own to face down. I do this because, above all, I love humanity, and the chance to be a part of it!

Beside Myself

Beside Myself

Ever faced down one of your DEMONS?


This is how it went for me!

 I open the door and walk sullenly into my room—head down eyes still wet from the storm of emotions. My day has been anything but good. 

     I search half-heartedly for the light switch on the wall. I know exactly where it should be but am not quite sure if I want to turn it on. Somehow, darkness seems as bliss right now. 

     I am in luck; a flip of the switch brings the sweet sound and brilliantly bright flash of a bursting filament. The floating orb of annihilated light lingers for a moment, then dies, leaving only the violent vacuum of darkness to consume my sight. 

     Staring into nothingness has always been a great thrill for me. The notion that God was in it, or rather, was it, has comforted me since the very first time I comprehended the fact. 

     That realization came an eternity ago, and my days have grown darker ever since. 

     My drunken stagger brings my shin in painful contact with the glass table at the end of the hall. The pain awakens a sudden awareness of the room—and the shadow lurking in the corner. 

     “Shadow” seems to be the only word that makes sense to me right now; and yet that word seems to be a mere fraction of the complex equation that is unfolding before me. I blink my eyes hoping to relive myself of this vision, but to no avail. As my beer-addled sight adjusts to the darkness, so to does the thing before me seem to adjust to being seen? It is feeding off my curiosity; changing itself a little more every time I start to get a fix on it.

     The shadow is “evolving” with my foolish expectations. It begins to collapse upon itself, never changing size but folding, repeatedly, from the inside out. Each fold brings a new color, a new texture; from the brilliant azure waves of a sea I once dreamed myself drowning in, to the hellish crimson inferno I once believed would be my final resting place. It is as if my entire life has been reduced to the coalescing madness of this little orb of light. 

     Suddenly there is a sound such as none I have ever heard before. It is not even so much a sound as it is the ‘feeling’ of a sound. I try to understand ho the thing is making it but I cannot fix my thoughts well enough to comprehend—the sound is absorbing all my thoughts, all my feelings, everything I have ever known—if I could formulate a though, I would probably think that I was in heaven. 

     Suddenly, with the evaporation of thought, everything is gone: the table, the hallway, the light switch, the apartment, the little ball of chaos that had started this all… EVERYTHING! 

     A new type of thought begins. It is the thought that is no though; no me, no you, no I, just us. Time, space, and entity itself are but undreamt nightmares from a bygone era. I am in neither heaven nor hell, I just am. Everything is… 

     What the fuck?

     Where am I?

     Who am I?

     What is that thing in the corner? 

     Slowly I remember. I have begun to seep back into me. But what happened? Did I pass out? I vaguely remember a dream of something wonderful, but… 

     …that thing. It is different somehow—more menacing. The colors and shapes have disappeared and left what appears to be some sort of demon. It is watching me as a sentry would his castle; with tentative eyes and a grin of anticipation. Our eyes meet and it is as if we were born of the same womb. I feel as if I know this curios little creature, as if I had been his friend fro and eternity, or longer. 

     However, the anticipation is growing in his eyes. I can feel it piercing me like an arrow. He is daring me to approach his castle and telling me that he will destroy me whether I do or not.

     The choice is no longer mine. The battle must be fought. 

     For a moment, the alcohol tells me that I can win. That moment passes quickly, however, and it is upon me. 

     I feel its lithe little body scrambling up my legs. Tiny claws, like a cat, sink into the flesh of my thigh. Its speed is amazing; its ferocity even more so. There is a sudden rush of confusion as it sinks its razors into the soft flesh of my throat and uses its speed and momentum to vault over my shoulder and land on the nape of my neck. This must be its intended destination for there is a moment of anxious stillness—what feels like a slight caress on the back of my neck—a low, guttural moan—and then… 

     …I feel a piercing pain at the base of my skull—small at first, and then mind numbing. The pain grows as the hole widens and the shadow begins to crawl in. Its claws are reaching for something to grab onto; searching for the handhold that will gain it access to the shell I call ME. They find my spine and the journey begins. 

     Screaming now, I flail around the room. If only I had not gotten so drunk, perhaps I would be able to fight this thing off. Or maybe I would have been quick enough to keep it from getting on top of me in the first place. What the fuck is this thing anyway? No time for retrospective now—my spine is… 

     …broken by the wrenching of his claws; I drop lifelessly to the cold linoleum below. My jaw shatters on the floor and I see a red river beginning to flow towards the upturned palm of my right hand. The world collapses on itself and leave me all alone… 

     Now, as I open my eyes, a feeling of peace rushes through me once again. Below is the foul sight of my body being devoured while up here is nothing but…nothing; no pain; no anger; no drunken befuddlement and apathetic self-pity. Here is just the person I cal ‘I’ watching me be torn apart below. 

     The night grows old and disappears—as do the days and weeks. All the while, I delight in the violent drama below. I know I cannot feel what is happening but, at the same time, I seem to have some sort of knowledge of what is going on.

     The creature works its way, inch by inch, down the broken pole of my spine. I can see it inside my skin—it nibbles on my rotting flesh as it goes. This, however, is not its main goal as the gleam in its eye is ever looking downward—yearning for the feast that fills its stomach with the power to move on… 

     The scene is almost comical—that foul little beast satisfying itself on my putrid remains—and yet I am enjoying it on an n altogether different level. Up here, in the sober serenity of nothingness, the idea of watching the immolation of the vehicle that took me down so many wrong roads in my life is like the sunset at the end of an old western; the blood an endless death that littered the whole of the story are rendered all but forgotten in the warm rays of that forgiving star. All the torment, all the anguish; they are nothing more than the salty residue of my tears, dried buy the sun. 

     That vehicle drove me into the pits of hell. Well, that is a lie. It was more as if I drove myself there while I looked for a place to refuel. This absence of time and body is starting to fuck with me; all that I can do is think.

     Could I possibly be trying to blame the train wreck that was my life on the limp, half-eaten pile of flesh lying below me? I mean, of course the body has needs, but they are nothing but basics. The mind adds to the list of necessities. The mind that controls the degrees of what we call quality of living. Without the mind, we would be licking our balls before breakfast in the morning and rolling in shit the rest of the day. Then again, with the mess I have made of my life, the difference is only a matter of opinion. 

     I spent every waking minute of my life finding blame with everyone and everything but myself and, now, as I float through the ether of eternity, I try to place the blame on the home that I have been living in for this entire life. It is the very object that allows my mind to perceive its own existence and everything around it. The good and the bad are all the same; nothing more than a collection of experiences as known by one little shining light in the abyss of eternity. 

     …and suddenly it has reached the main course. With an orgasmic howl, it thrusts its way around my tailbone and latches its gnarly teeth onto my lower intestine. The art of nibbling is as lost to it now as that of casual drinking was to me—now there is nothing but the binge. 
It begins to move in the exact opposite direction of the course that has taken it months, possibly years to traverse. 

     Three or four bites—the lower intestine is gone. 

     Five or six—now the upper. 

     It is eating me from the bottom up and suddenly, along with the sense of freedom that I had in the beginning, the joy of the carnage is lost to me. 

     Suddenly the sound begins again from behind me—or is it around me—it sounds, at first, like a sweet lullaby. It grows continuously closer and eminently louder, until it is as thunder in my ear and lightning in my soul. It speaks no language I have ever heard before and yet its words become images before my eyes. They are the tale of my life woven of the sorrowful moan of the universe. Everything I have ever known is singing out before me in a chorus that would bring Christ himself to his knees. It is the song of salvation that rings true in the very inexplicability of this sound. It is a cry of hope from all those who have gone before. It is the mantra of the universe urging me back to finish what I had begun all those millions of year’s ago. It is simply the rhythm of life. 

     Its beat is chaos, and its tempo madness. Its affect is a torrent of rage like none I have ever felt before; rage perpetually molested into motion by crashing waves of love. 

     This is not the love of a boy for a girl, nor is it the love of a parent for a child; this is the love of eternity sweeping over the manifestation of time. It is the be all and the end all of everything I have ever known but could never, in a million time a million years, ever learn any multitude of words that would ever come close to wrapping themselves around the object so as to form a coherent picture of what I am experiencing right now. 

     It is that moment, which every person will experience in their lifetime, where, for apparently no logical reason at all, everything seems to come to a halt around you and tears run freely from your eyes. It is the only heaven you will ever truly know. 

     Rushing now, with the pace of fire and the intention of earth, onwards towards the body I shunned and the demon that is raping it. My thoughts are a dagger that I wield with pure intent; to carve this unwanted filth from my very being and set it to the task once occupied by myself—that of slave. 

     There is a rush of adrenaline as I plunge back into my half-devoured carcass. My mind engulfs the mass now gnawing on the bottom of my heart. Its attention diverted, the thing fights back. Words and images are the weapons of choice; all flung at me with the intention of distraction. They are demons in their own right, this barrage of obscenities, culled from the, seemingly, bottomless pit of my minds own illusion. 

     Everything is somehow different now, however, as I no longer see things the way I used to. Fear no longer has any meaning to me and death is something I’ve already overcome. The rules have changed and these temptations to doubt myself are so many empty threats hanging limply in the air outside. In here, in this circle of fire born of my own burnt understanding, there is nothing that can lead me away from myself. There is only me, and I am no one if I am not we…and therein lay the goal. 

      It is not the complete transformation, but it is the start of something so wondrous as to defy explanation. Even now, as the dominatrix howls with every lost ounce of control, the world is changing before my very mind; that is what I see with now. Your arguments hold no water, for they were mine a million years ago. You are no less than an extension of ideas I had when I was a child. There is no hurt, no fear, no doubt—it is all the same to me know. I yearn only for the day when I can perfect myself and will happily pass the time with this apish little creature by my side—doing my bidding for the sake of light and the destruction of darkness. 
The goal in mind, I set forth…

The Fear Of Being Me

I have heard it said that every writer should have a blog.   I don't know exactly when this became the rule, but far be it from to try and buck the status quo...so here it goes... Today's topic is 'The Fear Of Being Me'. I am sure most, if not all, of you have--at least at one point in your life--experienced a point where you were not really sure wether or not what was on you mind right then and there should be allowed to see the light of day.  Maybe it was a nasty thought about a co-worker, or perhaps a political point of view that did not really fit the current climate.  At any rate, the feeling is always the same--it is a nagging need to say something, coupled with an overwhelming feeling of dread over what might happen if you actually put it out there. I have been writing since I was in the fifth grade.  I have been told by some that I possess some talent for the process, although most would agree (myslef included) that the skill definitely needs to be honed.  I am now thirty five years old and no one has ever heard of me and, sadly, I can tell you right here and right now why that is. It is not for lack of talent.  I am not trying to be arrogant, but I have the ability to tell a tale.  I also have the ability to twist it which, for me, is the most exciting part of the process. It is not for lack of imagination.  I see a story in every moment of every day.  It may sound corny, but the simple beauty of a falling leave can, and has, set me off on a creative tangent.  Admittedly, there have been times in my life where I have sought to calm my wild imagination with the help of alcohol--and other nameless substances--in a half-hearted attempt to just be "normal". It is not for lack of life experience.  While I have not seen it "all", I sure as hell have seen alot.  So much so that it would probably shock those closest to me to learn exactly what it is that I have seen. And therein lay the cruxt of the problem.  The things that go on in my mind...the things that I want, no Need to get out on paper are bizzare at best, and downright off the hinge at worst.  In my dreaming eye I gravitate towards the dark side of life.  The dingy underbelly of the human condition is where I always felt the most comfortable exploring.  I know this sounds strange, but I like to search for the light in the darkest corner of my soul. Everything that I have ever written scares me to death.  Not because of the material itself, but because of what impression I feel that material may give of me to the ones I love the most. My mother is very religeous and I live in constant fear that any success I might have with what I have loved since the fifth grade may damage the relationship with the person I have loved since birth. I feel the same dread regarding every person that I hold dear in my life; my Father, my sister, my brother, my grandparents, my best freind.  In my heart I know they love me--and will continue to do so no matter what I publish--but my mind has tricked me into thinking that their love could be altered by what I have to say.  My, occasionaly, inteligent mind has given them all of the power over what I feel comfortable unleashing upon the world! That, however, was yesterday. Today I have rediscovered my love of writing.  I have started publishing my older stories online, and have even begun to write new ones.  The fear of being me has kept me from doing that for years now!  I will no longer give that fear the power to hold me at bay.  I have accepted the fact that some of my thoughts are downright insane.  I have also accepted the fact that the people I love will either accept  that same fact--or they won't.  I cannot control their feelings any more than I can keep mine at bay So now I do what I am told is the norm for the day and begin a blog...it is anybodies guess where this will go...I think I'll just sit back and enjoy the ride--and stop fearing being me!