2009. February 3rd. Tuesday. 08.15. Steve Renko Blog.
This is how I started writing back there in 1968, pen and paper. Across the years free poetry, none rhyming poems was the hit of my success. The very fact I was writing made it a success. As yet, no one had rejected it, nor was any one's approval required. I never did publish out there in the real world, in the land of publication, where those real authors had their books immortalized. I daydreamed about it. As much as I imagined publishing poems as I felt they were great in their own right I was easily defeated with criticism and subjective opinion. What did I know? What I did know was very little. I was naturally talented with imagination and creativity. What I was missing was a mentor. I had plenty of tormentors across those years, very few mentors.
In 1968 I was in high school. I was attending St. Joseph High School at Lakeshore Boulevard and E. 185th Street. That made the school on this side of Cleveland, Ohio. It was an all boys school. The girls school was down the Boulevard, Villa Angela Academy. The city population shifted, moved re-arranged itself so much so that the two Catholic high schools had to merge to survive financially. If the Pope had sold some of that Vatican gold maybe, just maybe, the Catholic schools would be amongst us to this day. Today, St. Joe's is a co-ed high school. It is more expensive and full of students inside different music, attitudes and fashion. That was my high school up to 1971. Today's boys and girls would react to 1971 as ancient history.
The start of my poetry writing was back there in 1968 in that sophomore year learning something from the blah blah teacher while I entered free flowing words in a ring binder notebook. I kept the original notes for years. After I moved out of my parents house in March 1975 I still had them somewhere. They didn't see the years ahead. I threw them away, frustrated and demoralized at the daily grind of emotional confusion. It is 8:20 a.m. in downtown Cleveland. I am daydreaming and I am feeling what I believed I was in 1968, a poet.
The sun is shining over Cleveland this Tuesday morning. Over the weekend, Pittsburgh won another Super Bowl in Tampa, Florida. They outplayed the Arizona Cardinals. This was the Steelers 6th Super Bowl win. How many have the Cleveland Browns won? They are thinking about it. They have been thinking about it as many times as the Steelers won it. The other sports team in town is winning handsomely. The NBA Cavs are tops in their division and are in the top four best teams currently. They are up there with the Lakers, the Celtics, and the Magic. The Pistons are not making an impact this season.
Going about God's business so that my life has a meaning. What does my life mean to me? It means I lived long enough to feel the need to satisfy my Holy Spirit messages that I do something of value, be an example.
I am here in this department where the paper is on the left hand side in the morning. By the 5 p.m. hour it will be on the right hand side. Amen!!
Writing is a daily pre-occupation for my personality. As I have to have music everyday, I must write, also. I am a blogger now. It's the latest craze. Anyone can publish now-a-days their material via the Internet. Rejection is no longer a road block. The only blocks I have are the other kind, especially, procrastination. If it wasn't for procrastination I wouldn't get anything done.
How do I compose this blog, I do something else during the daytime, Monday through Friday. I want to blog the years and years of frustration. I have emotional issues. I have mixed up feelings. I have to discover that I have had a good life. Do I have to walk through the emotional junk yard near the shallow lake by the crooked river to get to God's plan? There's a learning lesson there. Joel Osteen always suggests in his messages to appreciate everything, everybody, or any reason. God sent one of His messengers to whoever wants to listen. Joel Osteen is one of God's messengers. He's good for a message once a week on cable TV. Then there's his everyday message, weekdays via my email address. I had a large emotional junkyard in my whispering mansion, around it. I call my mind a “whispering mansion.” Through these blogs I hope to be a narrator in the first, second and third person. I do have a bitch personality at times. I hate when that happens.
The USA and the world economy are in the tank for years to come. Thank God Obama was elected by the American people as our next president. I am fortunate to have a daytime job with a regular cash flow. Our health care is very inexpensive. Anne is my wife now for two years. We have survived and enjoyed the bonds of marriage. It is going on two years we are married.
Anne works, also. She has her own place and income. I hesitate to name the place just because it's early in the blogs. What is more important here is that our faith in each other includes the rules of reality, a job for the both of us. An income on a regular basis. We have good health care, rather inexpensive. Such a deal. The cash flow that comes from my job is limited in resource and outcome. Still, I find something else to do in between. I do have to act as if I am working. I must produce something as daily production numbers are officially recorded. They act like they pay me. I act like I work.
The Cleveland scene is not Hollywood. Yet, it might as well be a set with actors and actresses. I'll name it “Club 12.” It is named “Club 12” for obvious reasons, legal and the freedom to say something. It isn't as if they're going to listen to my complaints. Back to that paper route so as to produce something for the likes of Bob. Bob is an almost important person. He is almost a manager. He is like a supervisor. He acts like a supervisor when he wants to be one. We nod and pretend to obey. Bob doesn't like to send emails when he is in charge. That means Sue is away for the day. The other important person, what shall I call her, “Rude” that be it. Rude is, well, rude. I know this is subjective to my angle of interpretation, but, that's OK, it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to.
3. My favorites across the decades have been movies, television programs, plenty to eat at home, traveling outside of Cleveland to places like, Zagreb, Croatia, Dubrovnik, Croatia, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Vancouver, Toronto, Homes County, Ohio and Niagara Falls.
--Two dollar bills can't make a go of the pennies, nickels and dimes that linger out there in someone's pocket, purse, briefcase, or a window sill near the morning sunshine across the shallow lake, Lake Erie, as it's known on the maps. (09.16)
4. Are you one of those packages that arrives early, stops late, then is left to stand at the RTA bus stop at East 9th Street going east in the weekday evening hours? Perhaps not! With briefcase in hand I am in the right place.
5. Advice comes from prayers.
6. A professional does not like nor dislike. A professional does the job. I'm still arriving at that piece of advice. I do like it. There is less wear and tear during the daylight hours.
7. The Beatles were a favorite in the 1960s. They wanted to hold someone's hand, they tried crying instead. Baby wanted to drive Paul's car, John tried crying instead.
There they were out of the Norwegian woods, walking across the street from Abbey Road only to experience Paul's almost death scene later followed by John's real New York City death scene. A reluctant personality trapped inside a personal hell room pointed and said shoot here. Listening to the devil's voice the full metal jacket hit the spot. John fell there migrated to strawberry fields, forever. Yoko went on to have her Ono, three Beatles turned into two fab boys with George leaving the scene quietly after the second hand smoke did him in close to but not in Penny Lane. Ringo and Paul just weren't the four lads anymore. On their own with postcards and a flying nostalgia machine individual songs only reminded the walking public that the dark side of the moon now rule inside the wall full of animals.
Modern talking took over along the Croatian seacoast resort cities. The walled city south of the original capitol succumbed to the Yellow submarine crowd. A gypsy plied her physical wares for a backpack far far away from a mother rose and an ex-prisoner of war. Mr. Child wore his heart on the sleeve. Friendly strangers blossomed under the big lamp. A dog was seen licking the hot beach sand sun. No one noticed expect the man in a three piece pin stripe suit with a farm town compliment inside his coat pocket. (10.35 a.m.)
