I've Been Texting God Since Birth

Listen to the message on I Heart Radio Put a pen in my hand and I'll write for you. Put a pen in my heart and I'll say. "I love you." Julia Cameron was the first to shout, "We were born to write!" Everybody before that 1994 meeting did everything they could to silence my writing. I've spent the past nineteen years busting down walls and doors trying to get to closet writers. To help them understand how much peace they can and will live if they just stop turning off the light that gives them their right to write. Oh... the photo next to the page is not me. That's Hemmingway.

Page One: Hello Clarence. It's me looking back from 50.

The idea came to me this morning. As a Blogger I write about anything. Nearly everything. Almost about nothing. I write to write. To hear music flowing from outer space. Oh great. Now you think I'm just another freak, nerd, geek, weirdo wanna be that spends what little extra time he has spitting out words like Little Leaguer's chewing on sunflower seeds. This is gonna be my Blog. I'm Arroe. I've always been Arroe. No matter how many times I change. Including my name. On paper. I'm still Arroe. I create. What? A mess. A mess of hope, fear, desire, greed, need and wash it all away with pre-workout powders vowing to give you a bigger better rush than Red Bull, Monster and Rock Star. This Blog is gonna be my place. I won't be the radio jock. I won't be the commercial copy writer. I don't even wanna fall into the ranks of producer, musician, artist with a paint brush, poet, published author, university lecturer or second degree black belt. I'll still be the martial artist but with a white belt approach to living one moment at a time. I have a hard time talking about what I do and what I've done because I've never truly been proud of it. What comes from me isn't me but rather a reflection. I do what others have done. I feel more than I listen. I speak way out of place. If my stepfather was still living with me he'd knock me clear across the street. Call me a know it all. Force me to pull nails from a large 2x4 then send me out to take care of the chickens, pigeons and nearly 200 rabbits. I pretty much lead an Arroe life. The moment someone finds out I write. I instantly send up the walls of protection. People don't understand writing. They think those doing the writing just happened to pick it up during a boring weekend. I wish it was that easy! At times I hate myself for picking up a pencil in the second grade to document what was racing through my imagination. Cars at the time. Pictures. Hundreds of them from Mrs. Keefe. "Here!" She said, "Stop talking in class and write me something." In several hidden away places I still hold the wide lined elementary school pages my seven year old fingers touched first. "One day I'm gonna be a writer! I'm gonna keep this stuff for the museum!" I'd think to myself. Breathing in a huge lung of unpurified radio station air. I sigh to myself knowing I still know that kid. His name is Clarence. This is gonna be his Blog. It'll be updated. A lot. No really! Arroe talked a lot in class. Outside. In real life he hasn't changed! Do you know how many times I look at Arroe in the bathroom mirror and scream, "Shut up! Just shut up!" Looking on my fingertips. Scarred by bike crashes, changing parts on car engines and other sharp things. I often wonder what they think of Arroe. A laugh. A single one. Almost like a burp. Makes itself present. Then Arroe gets serious. For the love of God that little voice is a pimple that just won't go away!