Sorry for mass tagging, I’ve never done this before and I probably won’t do it again, but I really don’t want to leave anybody out. If I tagged you, you’ve liked one of my posts before. This is just a thank you, but don’t feel obligated to keep reading just because I tagged you. (I’ll try to keep it short) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Like most people on this site, I’ve always loved reading and writing, but before Prose, I lacked motivation to write anything that wasn’t a school assignment. My confidence about my writing was really low, and my first post caused me soooo much anxiety. I refused to check my email for notifications, because I was absolutely dreading all the negative responses and hate I thought I was going to get. I honestly thought there would be people telling me to get off of the site, since I didn’t think my writing was good enough. Instead, I woke up the next morning to people who actually liked my post and it was seriously a life-changing day for me. Just one person reading (and enjoying) something I’d written is so insane and motivating, and I just really want to let you guys know how much your encouragement changed my life.

I know I still don’t post often, but I’ve been writing more, which led me to discover that poetry is a really great coping mechanism for me. I rarely share my writing with people I know in real life, so I really love having such a supportive place to share here on Prose. The community is so uplifting, and your support has given me the confidence to share more of my poetry and writing with my friends and family.

I can be a really shy person, and even online interactions freak me out sometimes, so in all of my earlier posts I just didn’t respond to comments... sorry about that. I love every comment that I get, I’m just bad at any kind of social interaction.

Anyway, thanks for reading this, and thank you so much for giving me the encouragement and support to keep writing. :)

i am not down to give myself a hug

although reading through everyone's bios

i would be down to give everyone here one

writing is so pure, and it's our livelihood

but in the real world my personality is centered

around carefully hiding who i really am, lest i freak someone out

with my intangible thoughts

scattered like so many moving parts

my writing on here is a random

bleeding of thought and feeling;

a messy canvas of later regret

at what I have to say, a paintbrush gone astray

but in the real world i am careful to hide what's inside my mind

for there are voices that tell me things i

don't believe; in the hour of honesty and conviction

i am sadly not present, somewhere else entirely

this fourteenth

i want to celebrate love full circle

i don’t care if it doesn’t fit

the shitty standard of valentines day love

did you know

love is around us, everywhere

even without a significant other

appreciate your family

and your friends

the rowdy neighbors next door

the wind that sneaks through your window, even

i don’t mean to destroy the sacred

eros or whatever that’s worshipped on this day

but if i’m being honest with you,

you’ve felt this love

before you were aware that another kind existed

you’ve felt this love

from the moment you arrived in this world

and i’ll be damned if that isn’t something to be

celebrated or even recognized

on february fourteenth

look at the love that surrounds you, daily

and even if it isn’t your ideal kind

i still think it’s something to celebrate.

i smoke a cigarette with my hair down.

ponytails look young and

i am attempting to suggest maturity

as my mother is thrown from a bar

by a man in a uniform

he bought

at a strip mall.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

when she falls to the bedside

crying whiskey tears

and lapping up blood

from a nightstand head wound.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

as a cop asks me if im old enough for that

and hands over my mothers ticket of indecency

for making love to Jim Beam

in public.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

as she wakes to tiding sink waters and asprin,

tightening a robe around her sickness and

asking if i got a light,

because she knows i always do.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

while she forgets the nights spent

sobbing in her daughters lap

gripping her bruised chin,

spitting and slurring:

"your daddy was right about you girl, you know that?"

now i am smoking a cigarette

with my hair up

in the bathroom of a Motel 6,

a blonde mass of tangle

held together by a rubber band i found

in her purse.

and as she beats on the door

with whiskey fists

i lock tired eyes with the mirror

and cut it off.

you hooked me brought me in

to a world fish-eyed and how lovely the

brooks from beneath how sincere the crooks

of your fingers of your nose of

the rows of pews we tore up in your

church we ate the body

and didn’t mean it we drank the blood i

sipped you too what wrecks we find

next will be purple your flower my

sheets will make do as religion

I always prided myself on my calm.

It was the one aspect of my life I had total control over.

No matter had bad it got

I just stood there

and helped.

I was everyone's anchor

I would never fail

So focused on keeping the others stable you don't notice the cracks forming

Then

I realized

how broken

I was

And

I had

nothing

left

to

lose

Bob Dylan once wrote, “Nobody can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell.” Who am I to argue with that?

Thanks to YouTube, I’ve had the chance to hear some of McTell’s tunes. Seems to me the quintessential Blind Willie recording is “You Was Born to Die”

“Born to Die” is infused with the authentic and unvarnished DNA of its era — as if you and a friend were walking down the street on a hot summer afternoon and just happened across Willie and a female friend jammin’ on the porch of a small bungalow.

The song is straight-forward: a three-chord progression, the foundational framework of so many bluesy creations. It’s a home-brewed batch of tinny strums, string-slides, and slick finger-pickin’. The vocal is clear, confident, and super cool — in that southern, street-wise way.

William Samuel McTier was born May 5, between two creeks, known as Big Briar and Little Briar, just a half-mile shy of 10 miles from Thomson, Georgia. Some say the year was 1898; others say it was 1901 — either way, he was born with one bad eye and went blind in the other.

Wiki says he went to a number of specialty schools where he learned to read and write music in Braille. He died of a stroke in his home state of Georgia on Aug. 19, 1959.

A documentary created by David Fulmer for Georgia Public Television (1997) described Willie as “an outdoor child born out of wedlock” to Minnie Watkins, age 14, and Eddie McTier, gambler and moonshiner. According to the documentary, “A few months after the baby was born, Eddie was gone.”

William McTier was known by various names: Blind Sammie, Georgia Bill, Hot Shot Willie, Blind Willie, Barrelhouse Sammy, Pig & Whistle Red, Blind Doogie, Red Hot Willie Glaze, Red Hot Willie, Eddie McTier, and, ultimately, Blind Willie McTell. (Word is Willie went from McTier to McTell because that’s how he learned to say his last name so that’s how people spelled it.)

There are various reasons for McTell’s multi-name legacy—for one thing, it was a slick way to get out of a contract. (If Barrelhouse Sammy got sucked into a bad deal, no problem. Georgia Bill could walk down the street and sign a new one.)

Though Willie is known primarily as a guitar-picker, his musical journey began with the harmonica and accordion. In his early teens, he picked up a six-string, and eventually became a street performer. Later he played 12-string. He recorded his first tune in 1927 and his last in 1956. Though he was productive and creative during that period—recording more than 85 songs—he never hit the big time. No matter. He’s remembered anyway.

Why?

For one thing, in the 1970s, Willie’s “Statesboro Blues” was revived and refurbished by The Allman Brothers Band. In 2005, Rolling Stone magazine ranked the band’s version at No. 9 on its list of “100 Greatest Guitar Songs of All Time.” The Atlanta Journal-Constitution ranked it No. 57 on its “100 Songs of the South.” For another, Robert Allen Zimmerman (aka Bob Dylan) wrote a song about him in 1983. The most notable line: “Nobody can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell.”

In addition to the Allman Brothers and Dylan, here are some other artists McTell influenced: The White Stripes, Taj Mahal, Alvin Youngblood Hart, and Chris Smither.

In 1981 Willie was inducted into the Blues Foundation’s Blues Hall of Fame and, in 1990, the Georgia Music Hall of Fame.

By the way, each year there’s a Blind Willie McTell Festival. It takes place one mile north of Interstate 20 in Willie’s hometown of Thomson, Georgia, off Exit 172. This year the festival is on Saturday, May 2, 2020. Gates open at 11 a.m. Music starts at Noon.

Organizers describe it as “a very kid-friendly event”; however, they add, “No pets, please.” For details about the festival, see the link below.

Blind Willie had a way of a mixin’ and matchin’ music that others played and then adapting to his own particular style — whether it was Country blues, Piedmont blues, ragtime, Delta blues, or gospel. Here’s how he described his process:

“I jump ’em from other writers, but I arrange ’em my own way.”

It’s a formula that worked well enough to make Blind Willie memorable all these years later, especially to blues lovers in Thomson, Georgia.

* * *

NOTE: This is an update to a story I wrote several years ago. This version includes additional information about Blind Willie’s life, a link to David Fulmer’s 1997 documentary, and details about (as well as a link to) the Willie McTell Music Festival, which this year (2020) takes place Saturday, May 2, in Georgia. Here are the links:

“You Was Born to Die” (song)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OtNZm9KXm8w&feature=youtu.be

David Fulmer’s 1997 Documentary

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPn_DyDd-KY&feature=youtu.be

Bob Dylan’s Tribute to Blind Willie

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y5hGPZmbQz8&feature=youtu.be

Willie McTell Music Festival:

http://blindwillie.com/

I am jolted awake again; the third day this week where I am filled with anxiety for no apparent reason other than existing. My heart is racing and my skin is tingling; my body in fight or flight mode, full of adrenaline. Sitting up feels necessary but as I do it, the weight of a piano sits on top of my chest. I reach for my water on the nightstand and force myself to drink even though I don’t feel thirsty. Shaking takes over my body and the urge to run is rushing through my veins. My throat begins to swell uncomfortably and a familiar sour taste makes its way to my mouth; I swallow disgusted. I close my eyes and hold my hand to my chest; I’ve never been sure what “proper meditation” should look like but this helps me to stop the “freaking out” that is happening. I focus on nothing but the breathing, nothing but the air… In and out… Tears pour from my face and I acknowledge them and then ignore their presence. I don’t brush them away. I don’t try to stop them. My mind is lost in the breath, lost in the air.

When my heart has slowed down, I open my eyes to rain. My body filled with an indescribable rush, I grab my favorite hoodie and pull it over my head before leaving my bedroom through the french doors. The porch wood feels warm on my feet even though the sun is not shining… I take the steps down and embrace the feeling of the sand beneath me. I find myself soaking wet in just seconds; the cold rain rushing down my face. I am lost in something; a feeling of dread and numbness… Maybe. I’m not completely sure what it is but I am running. My ankles immersed in the waves now, the water crashing into the shore as the storm continues to pick up. I am in the water; floating. My face up towards the sky and my eyes closed once more.

I don’t know what I’m looking for but I find it here. In the ocean. I wonder if the ocean ever has anxiety. If it ever cries or worries about the problems that it faces. Does it feel the oil spills? Does it feel the ever changing heat? The reefs dying? I think it must. She must and yet I feel calm here. It is as if the rocking of the ocean and the rain drops on my face take away the feelings of “something is wrong”; it changes the rhythm of my heartbeat.

May! May! What are you doing?!

I am one with the ocean now; I’m not here at all. I am just a grain of sand or a star floating in the galaxy…

He grabs me and I’m shaken back to reality. It feels harsh, like a punch to the gut except he’s barely touching me.

May! What in the world? What are you doing out here? My name bubbles out of his mouth with a small giggle. Didn’t you see we’re having a hurricane? Come on, we need to go inside.

I nod but I don’t speak. He holds my hand gently and I know he must have been worried. I can see it all over his face. His eyebrows always give away what he’s thinking; he’s trying to figure out if I’ve lost it this time or if this is just another thing that is “normal” for me.

Aren’t you freezing?

No, I’m okay. I’m sorry I scared you. I just needed to get away for a minute… I woke up with the worst feelings.

Okay… I’m sorry. Let’s change. I’ve brought some supplies… We can eat.

He closes the french doors and begins to remove his clothes. He’s not very graceful but still, I enjoy watching him. He doesn’t notice me watching until he’s done; naked. With his attention on me, I start to undress… My hoodie is off and my clothes are see-through. He watches but is unsure of what he wants to do. He is always delicate, thoughtful, calculated… I wait though. I wait for him to decide, for him to give in. It doesn’t take him long. As soon as I smile, he is rushing over; the warmth of his breath gives me goosebumps as he wraps his arms around me and kisses my neck. We find ourselves under the sheets in seconds.

“I love you.” He whispers and my heart feels like it will burst… Tear drops fall into in pillows and I know he feels everything too. In that moment we both fall into the ecstasy of the moment, into the gentle lull of lust turned to the depths of intimacy. I lie in the space between his arm and body tracing the stretch marks that run up and down his stomach and chest as he tickles my back softly until we fall asleep.

When I wake up, he is still fast asleep and I feel, full. There is no anxiety sitting in my ribcage. I sneak away and get into the shower. The water immediately turning my pale skin meteorite red. I take my time, scrubbing every part of my body, washing the salt water from my hair… I get out and feel a rush of emotion, no longer numb; my hair up in a towel, I sit and I write until I feel empty. I wonder if love can be labeled as a coping mechanism… I find sandwiches in the fridge ready to eat. I take one and pour half a glass of wine and I eat there at the kitchen counter alone listening to the distance sound of you snoring.

Paper-white spirit,

in my body, soul,

entwined —

every black ink stain

left, justified,

by crimson wine

Each revision,

cover page, dust jacket;

heaven’s redolence

dyed pages watermarked

with grace

Authored and signed,

Love

(out of print)

Slow, deep breath.

Close your eyes.

One more breath.

By a pond.

Feel the breeze.

Leaves applaud.

Slow, deep breath,

hold it in,

count to three

and release...