Monthly Archives: August 2013

Charles Warnke

I came across this writing by a friend. She sent it to me and recommended it to me. I loved each and every word. This is what inspires me to write. It’s what motivates me to keep going for me dreams. Read this and enjoy every moment.

An original piece by Charles Warnke that, at its heart, urges one not to settle but to embrace life and the challenges of a good woman.

“Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life. ”



There I was and there she was. I stood there right in front of her more nervous than ever. She approached me and have me a huge hug around my legs. I bent down and scooped her up. Gave her an even bigger hug.

She was barely two when I met her and all I had was the urge to love and raise this girl as she was my own. I wanted her to know that I appreciated her welcoming me into her life. Wanted her to always know that she was and still is a beautiful child with a heart as big as mine.

We spent months together. We did it all together. Showers, beach, shopping, reading and learning. I was her friend and she was mine. She called me Tip Sip a name I miss hearing now. I loved her and she stole my heart. I’d look at her as we laid I’m bed ready to sleep and thank God for brining her into my life. She brought joy and great memories into my heart that I’ll never forget.

All of a sudden at the blink of and eye my whole life changed. I lost her. I lost the little laugh she had. I lost hearing my name come out of her mouth. I lost part of my joy and part of my heart.

If ever I were to see her again I hope she remembers me. I’d love to let her know how much I love her. How beautiful she is and how much of an amazing heart she has. She may be only two but it’s what I’d want her to know. She has my heart.


Free. Free like a bird.

Free from all the pain and angst. Free.

With no care in the world I wander trying to find who I am. Trying to find my place and peace of mind.

I battle every day. Day by day trying to piece together the puzzle of my life.

Frustration grows with in me. Questions arise and sadness consumes my body. The feelings behind the smile are of hurt and pain. Of confusing and a strong feeling of being lost.

All I want is piece of mind. Peace from my thoughts. Peace from my doubts and anxiety.

Peace like a free bird who soars high in the sky.

Clear my mind and find my joy.

All I want is happiness.

Her bag….

There she stood helpless and out of breath. An elder woman in her late seventies dragging a roller bag larger than her with a purse by her side. As I walked with my lunch I stopped and looked at her.

Her body was tired. She was out of breath and seemed like she couldn’t go any further. I asked her what gate she was off to and kindly took the larger than life roller bag from her hand.

As I slowly walked her to her gate she spoke to me about being a flight attendant back in the early years. She told me how glamorous people would just to board a flight and how service was a lot more tasteful. I used my imagination to picture her so young working in my field. Enjoying the smelly two years she spent there.

She quit because back then you weren’t allowed to be married or have children. She fell in love and the rest was history. She quit her glamorous job to marry the man of her dreams and be happily ever after.

A sweet story from a sweet woman who told me not to give up or feel discouraged. We got to her gate and I wished her a safe flight.

She made my day!

Rock solid

It started as a Boulder. There is was high and proud until an event made it fall. Event made it tumble and tumble through time until it suddenly became a rock. A rock that would no longer take life’s events and would become stronger than ever.

Peacefully the rock sits enjoying the sun, ocean and all that life has to offer because it has finally found its place. Amongst the others in the ocean where no troubles can get in the way. Still as strong as the boulder the rock sits happy.

Troubles and tribulation are all apart of life. It’s how you handle the situation that make you unique and happy. I will be that rock one day when I can finally find myself and say, “I am here!”

The world isn’t nice but you must take it with stride and see the best in it. At the end of the day things happy for a reason and once that lesson is learn you can move on and find happiness just like the rock.

Be you! Be the best you! Be happy!