…and isn’t it ironic how you find the growth in yourself that you felt would always be hidden.  And that growth is like a ticking time bomb just waiting to be triggered by fate.  For me that explosion usually happens after a mistake or situations of being at the wrong place at the right time.  Times that I feel like a character perfectly scripted by a screenwriter to be the plot point to transcend the ongoing action of my own existence.  Some say ‘shit happens’ as an excuse to give up on what was meant, but not I.  No I embrace all the shit happening as my chance to find that growth that plays hide and seek with my self-definition.  Without the shit happening at the right times I wouldn’t be the main character in my own sequel.  I would just be the observant silhouette watching my own life rolling with the ending credits of wasted time.

And isn’t it ironic how your thought process changes as that same shit happens.  I didn’t think I would be a fucking poet writing and writing to the masses who decipher my expression into the many interpretations of a man complicated by chance.  Everything I thought wouldn’t happen to me have happened too early but perhaps at the right time.  I wouldn’t have made connections if it wasn’t for loss and I wouldn’t have made many transgressions if it wasn’t for fear.

Yes…fear

Because there were times, and still are times I want to fun from the clarity that will continue my growth of further exposure.  To befriend poetry and leadership in the midst of an alternative lifestyle where childhood fears because I was the quiet one and the unseen one.  And now I stand in the eye of observers inhaling with anticipation my awakened silence.   So it’s pure irony to me that I have shifted into every reason I hid behind silence.

Many of those reasons being sculptured by success.

But why fear success and exposure?  Because then you have no choice but to live when irony checks for a pulse.

Life peeks at me just to make sure I’m living

© 2009

There are no experts in the world of expression.

We all read and interpret for different reasons.  As observers we challenge with opinion and gain knowledge by offering knowledge but we can’t critique someone’s heart even if the emotions are misspelled.  I once found myself endlessly free writing in my freshman year writing class.  My TA was a woman in your mid twenties, a very enthusiastic scholar type who gave us the exercise about writing about a moment in time.  She offered us to take ten minutes to write whatever came to mind however we wanted to write it so I took my mind on a mental voyage to a summer barbeque in the back yard in a neighborhood I once lived.  I was able to capture the atmosphere as though I was actually there from the buzzing of the bees to the charcoal aroma of hamburgers and hot dogs sizzling on an eighty-five degree day.  For those ten minutes I was a young teenager again sitting around watching the grown folks play spades and sing along to Al Green.  But my vision inside this time capsule was the presence of the older man who sat alone across the street watching us.  My free write became more about my observance of him and how our day of joy was viewed through his eyes.  He began to take control of my pen and when that enthusiastic TA said “Time is up”; I realized I ended with a different journey than I began.  I honestly thought I wrote a piece of crap.

When we live the moment, we are our own worse critics.

The next class a few days later, our TA instructed us to take that free write and write from another perspective.  I wasn’t too fond of what was written but it gave me the opportunity to put my mind inside the mind of that older man watching us.  He became my voice and I captured his loneliness in watching his surroundings.  Through his eyes was a vision of change.  Things were different than when he was young.  He remembered a time when the sounds of fireworks were actually sounds of delight and not the sound of gunshots.  He remembered when there was a respect for elders; a respect he recognized again in watching the young boy who was me.  Again, I didn’t think I wrote anything great until the TA called me into her office one afternoon with a smile ear to ear.  She wanted to ask my permission to use my piece for her dissertation.  Her vision of the story was that I was connecting generations by becoming this man and what he was actually watching was his history as in my original piece I was looking into my future.  Towards the end of the story I had the young boy crossing the street to ask the older man to join them.  She evaluated this as a merging of generations.  She found genius in something someone else may have read as just a story about a barbecue.  What impressed me more was she took the time to understand and appreciate the emotion and never once tried to correct my heart.

Critique is the journey of interpretation not its destination.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

Public Journal

My expression has been copyrighted by time.

 
The greatest struggle I’ve had to face in my life has been finding a way to explore the many techniques of my own mind.  I have visions no one else has but yet perhaps share in a different unique interpretation.  And that’s what we are as poets:  interpretations seeking new outlets to solve the emotional puzzle of what’s written inside.  We create our own language poetically to be translated as an inspirational dialect spoken by many and understood by those who connect on a deeper value.  We are the thrill seekers, the lovers, the depressed and the challenged but we also are dare devils launching words into atmospheres of new perspectives and old perspectives not ready for change.  And this is where I admit that I had a sickness.  I had an illness I didn’t think there was a cure for until I found a new medicine called literature.  It was injected into my blood and ink poured out in great depth and I myself became one of these interpretations.

Fate is the great editor of transgression.

There was a revival within my own mind that released thoughts as lessons and ideas as new ways of healing.  There new feelings reeling through the printing press of my heart therefore publishing different emotions edited by definition.  I went from struggling with expression to manufacturing stanzas of relevance by being a witness to the publications of life known as Hughes, Plath, Milton, Rosetti, Black and Whitman.  They produced so many stanzas of time and discovery and so many metaphors of simply living with a new pulse known as words.  They were the doctors who cured my silence.  And now as I look out into the night I see the stars twinkling in a dark sky waiting for the sunset of a new day.  I see trees ready to be written and Rose bulbs ready to burst into the blossom of new poems.  And I see the reflection of the cover revealing my own book of life.  There are thirty-four chapters so far and many pages structured into the manuscript of a man who will linger into the archives of tomorrow.  My words will be the footprints left on the mind of my readers and future generations.  My words, our words will be the palpitations that will keep us alive forever.

Life has published my soul.

Somewhere within time, there is an answer.

And as the day drifted slightly into a new direction he remained standing there exploring all aspects of that something he seemed to be seeking.  I wondered what it was that kept him mounted there as a motionless mime with a painted on face resembling discovery but I couldn’t figure out his motive or the thoughts that were transitioning though his mind as figures passed him by without any reaction to the introduction of his eyes.  He seemed to be admiring the activity known as action.  He stood paused within a time frame trying to capture moments; a moment he never let go of or a moment he never lived…yet.  And then a younger man stopped directly in front of him to tie his shoe.  The older man blinked for what seemed like the first time and then smiled as the younger man raised his head up to notice a man no one else seemed to have seen.

“Hello” said the older man with a slight nod.  But the younger man just watched with stunned eyes.  He didn’t answer back but instead slowly backed away as if he was seeing something spectacular.  The older man finally captured the attention of that one someone who was once him in a different fragment of time.  He was that younger man’s future and that younger man was his past.  The answer was found and the truth was in the proof that he lived once before in front of that same local storefront where he once tripped over his untied shoe lace that broke his hip and fractured the rest of his life.  He found his truth and that truth was that he was meant to be there again but this time to change the path of his own fate.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

The greatest abandonment is when one forgets to love themselves.

There is certain predictability in life and we usually don’t see it until its right there in front of us, usually a moment too late.  The early evening began to collapse into night and I locked the door to my car and cautiously looked around as I commonly did on those kinds of nights as the downtown area had become a place where desperate eyes lurked for any breathe of criminal need.  But still a part of me felt I was always safe in that area; I felt I was immune from the thievery of starvation’s greed as no one ever targeted me as vulnerable in those situations.  I always believed in giving the benefit of the doubt in those I, myself, stereotyped as potential harm because I knew that feeling of being wrongfully accused from frightful perception of being something I definitely wasn’t.  And as I walked against a gentle breeze I could feel an activity in the air.  It was the beginning of the weekend and many scents of drunken smiles were in the air as well as the perfume laughter and the aroma of stressed souls taking shots of relaxation even if temporary.  Maybe I was one of those souls, but I knew I was happy to be out and soon amongst friends and neglect the pressures of this world.

There are times our surroundings manipulate our minds.

As I walked I paid a little more attention to the atmosphere of shadows walking past me.  I didn’t walk with a fear because I knew I wasn’t the usual target for any type of trouble.  I had on a muscle shirt that outlined a tough looking exterior and consciously hid a soft heart.  I was pretending to be unapproachable but it wasn’t believable enough as I heard his words ask for spare change.  He was slender in stature and work clothes dirtied by days on the street.  He had a distance in his eyes that I recognized and an annoyance I heard before but couldn’t place it.  I kept walking without acknowledging his presence and I neglected his question because I didn’t want to be bothered but the further I was away from him the more familiar he became.  Just a few months earlier he was the same guy, cleaner and with more spirit, who greeted me on that same street.  Back then I took the time to acknowledge his appearance.  He was pleading for help even back then but I never thought it would get that bad.  As I looked back I saw many others passing him by and I saw anger exploding as each stare ignored him.  He was addicted to his own neglect.

When one fails to recognize themselves others no longer see them for who they really are.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

Public Journal:  A Collection of Thought

Life is a diversity of tears.

We are all the same because we cry different and we are different because we have our own ways of believing.  I walk the streets at night on the feet of a tired mind watching and seeking that one vision of change.  I see lampposts blink in a magnitude of light exposing eyes that hope to conquer the many forms discrimination that lurk in dark alleyways and hide behind the boarded windows of crumbling dreams.  It was a long time ago when I was much younger that laughter taught me to be afraid of these same distorted streets but resilience taught me to study each insult and magnify them into new forms of compliment.  I am no longer afraid of this sort of darkness because in each embrace of a new stare relinquishes that fear we develop of being an image of non-acceptance.  We are a diverse determination of hope because we are not who we are through birth; we are who we are because we have to dissect and sculpture the challenges of this earth.

On these same streets I saw a homeless white man praise a rich black man and thank him for recognizing his value as a human being.  They touched each other’s hands as if they were brothers because they were and because somewhere before in time their roles were opposite.  I saw an Asian woman kiss the smile of a Latino woman as they stood on the same curb; one on her way home from night class and the other singing into the night with a voice heard by an elderly gay man who never thought he would see the day that a young straight man would stop to offer him a hand to help his old youthful bones a guide across a street where different cars honked out of tune towards the same opposite direction.  There was harmony as the many songs became of chorus of growth and exposure.  In each flaw was an originality of prosperity and I begin to feel the tears rain from a clear night sky.  These were tears of joy, anguish, failure, achievement and realization; these were tears of Black men and women who challenged prejudice with pride and self beauty; these were tears of the Irish overcoming struggle through hard work and self-preservation; these were tears of Japanese children who were led to believe they didn’t have a place in a country built on freedom; these were the tears of Jewish boys and girls born in concentration camps before they even had the chance to breathe equality and these were the tears of Cuban travelers swimming miles to rest on the land of liberty.  Each of us no matter the skin we are born in have face and will challenge adversity so why not do it together in the fields where all tears have created a beautiful garden of victory.

Diversity is the many bloodlines of life.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

An open window

halfway shut keeps me optimistic that everything around me will make sense…eventually.  The air escapes inside and the sweat on my fingertips shiver with heated anticipation.  And I write to find truth; to find the answers of hidden questions within my own mind.  I write in Bold to express tears of laughter that cover up a pain that have bullied me for years.  But now I’m fighting back with underlined run-on sentences of a built up strength only paused by a comma (,).  Traffic noise argues with my thoughts…temporarily.  And I write again.  There’s a lot of bullshit in this world, it’s usually the bullshit I misspell…on purpose.  Lies challenging every moment I think is honest; exclamation points (!) non-expressive to the heart.

I search for truth in strange places.

A trash can…

sitting empty in the corner of my room is filled with cluttered confusion.  A stench lingers out and blends with the oxygen I need to think.  Time can be waste and so can life when we fail to understand the little things that we are quick to throw away.  Like a half written stanza on a torn piece of paper.  It deserved to grow but now it makes it home in that trash can of incompleteness.  And I write.  To unravel thoughts into something more clear but the only clarity is within the chaotic streaming of consciousness in what we believe to be truth.

I find truth in strange places.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

If we could not feel what we see then we would not hear what is heard.

We are the sensitive animal that roams in the open fields of negativity and vulgarity.  We are open targets aimed at for any difference our images communicate and we are often attacked right in the flesh of our flaws again and again until the wound becomes unhealed.  Some of us are tougher than others but mistreatment hurts us all in some fashion.  We can pretend to not see the slurs looking at us when we walk down barren streets but we notice and often wonder why our individuality sometimes isn’t enough to been seen through an understanding.  A blind person uses other senses to get a feel of his/her surroundings so therefore understands what can’t be seen much deeper.

Often we are defined before our pages are read.

I was a witness.  On a cloudy night in the distant past a young girl stood on a corner scantily dressed.  Whistles and yells of ‘slut’ were shot at her in drive by attempts not to see her.  She was lost and was just seeking direction.  Mascara ran down her face and there was no one willing to see her and show affection.  They were blind to her real presence because they looked at her and didn’t want to read further.  Her flaw was to look appealing by revealing what she thought the world needed to see to notice her.  Society should be ashamed of itself because we are what put her there, alone and ignored because of perception.  That night she became blind to her own self-worth.

We use our eyes to feel when we don’t want to understand.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

Public Journal

And the world can be a fucked up place to be.  But do I pay attention more because I’m a writer?  As I look out the window I see the moon shining like the glow of a halogen lamp as it stands alone surrounded by stars that sparkle like the glitter on a Michael Jackson jacket.  It’s natural to see beyond the curtains of my reality out a window that connects me to the simple pleasures of the eye.

Wait…let me write that down

So they say life can be a bitch or is a bitch depending on where you’re at in life.  I think it’s more of a stage where we perform until the curtain falls.  We exists to encounter problems, we glow to encounter new problems that help us either fall or rise again depending on how much strength we gained from the previous problem.  And then there are those damn metaphors.  Those comparisons that give us a clearer glimpse into what something is like or about.

The other day I was as cold as ice.

My heart that is (as I was angry at a few situations that caused me to shut myself off towards emotions).   Being cold as ice could’ve meant temperature but now that I told you it was a coldness involving the emotion of anger, you know how fucking mad I really was.  Slyvia Plath loved metaphors as many poets and writers do.  They help the transition of our ideas and gives purpose to our description of aspects of life such as those problems and life being a bitch.  I personally do enjoy the usage of metaphors because I see them daily even when simply looking out my window.  I see them driving, conversing in crowds, jogging through parks, barking at strangers walking past and sitting on park benches.  They are all around me and as a writer of poetry I just inhale their presence.

M E T A P H O R S are the distractions and attractions

That inspire.

I have an appetite for success.

And I will feed starving thoughts.

I do a lot of thinking without opening the mouth of my ambition and making the moves necessary to fatten everything I can be.  There is a hesitation to put myself out there and instead there are times I stand in the soup lines waiting for someone to feel my bowl with what I need.  But I realized that too much sodium of dependence would have me waiting forever and it was up to me to create my own gravy.  Life isn’t meant to be a plate of fluffy smashed potatoes but it sure tastes good when you know you have given your all to succeeding.  I still hear the rumbles, I still have the hunger pains but without them I wouldn’t be living and achieving and have that determination to go even further.

A hungry mind is an accomplished passion to achieve.

© 2010

Tarringo T. Vaughan

Public Journal