I doubt that two people will read this. We must accept our inadequacies. Forgive ourselves for not being what we want to be. Forgive yourself. You deserve it after a long day of doing nothing and eating ice cream. Here I am, at two o’clock in the morning and there I go. Forgive yourself. I don’t do half of what I say I will, but the half I do do, when I do it, often overcompensates for my worse days. I don’t have a lot of bad days, just hours that last too long and make me feel void of meaning. And then I do nothing. Guilt. It isn’t until it is twilight when everybody is asleep that I find the time to let my heartbeat. Blood my loved ones, blood that is warm as the lake in my veins. It is worth the whole day. I don’t have to try because I should know by now, I’m not getting up in the morning. My brother is visiting tomorrow. We’re not letting him inside because my dad is…crazy. He’s mean to me as I expect, but it makes me try harder. My brother taught me that trick when we used to play videogames. I can’t decide on “the half brother character” in the book I’m writing but I want to go with Dean. Connor has a more symbolic meaning to me. But hot damn I like Dean. Should the art suffer over sentiment? I think it might add to my good nature, and be a worthy story if I ever run into Connor again but I’m so tired of not asking for attention; Doing the things I love for nothing else. At the same time, I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’m happier without being told I’m lesser by people who don’t know any better. Nonetheless, I’m trying to get paid for writing. It’s a stressor. I just want people to read…anything at all, maybe by me, but besides the few I know, they don’t, and none of my friends read my first book, except one. I still think Spoon in the Road is kinda good because it makes me smile whenever I give it a look. I know it’s not important but it still made me sad. I heard once that brilliant people think they are stupid. I did too, once, apparently not often enough. Was it worth a broken heart? Worth the sentiment? Love is so short while forgetting is so long – my Spanish poet friend once said. Forgiveness is a necessity, even to yourself.
Poet Without a Pen
Ben Bonkoske
-
Money Hungry
Not out of joy, but lust
for glory, unjust
no longer a fight for what’s right
but a monologue in the spotlight
it might be directed at you
Not out of love, old and used
but enough, just
-B.B
-
friendSHIP
I enjoy the stillness of the night. One day, I believe I might sail across the ocean. I’m afraid to, but all the more reason to do something. Overcoming fear is not just about courage, it is about understanding that the revelations one will discern from escaping comfortably are more valuable than never unveiling them. I’m scared every day of everything. It’s healthy. What is scariest is nothing. By doing nothing we cease to be anything. I want to do a lot of things in life. So many, I doubt I will get to share them with anyone. I wrote out a few memories I shared with someone important to me during yesterday’s “arts and crafts” hour. It was therapeutic, but it also reminded me of the compensation one makes in love. I love to do it if the person loves me for it. I think people often want, expect, desire, and believe in too many things. Moderation in all things, even moderation – Oscar Wilde. Believe me, I was done about an hour ago, but I thought why not be naughty and write my little heart out past midnight (when the good demons come out). I’m so used to routine it is killing me.Write. Run. No more Fun.I would know. I am averaging too many words a day. I can’t stop writing. Even when I don’t feel like it, I know I will do it. It is worse than an addiction. It’s a prescription that if I don’t oblige I will go insane. Similar to love. I miss my old best friends. The first ones I ever made before I knew what friendship (or love) was. Those are the people I accept most. Why do people have to die, so I can live in paradise? And why must the paradise of youth always come to an end? It is a question I am facing for the first time in my life unlike anything I’ve ever overcome. I hate questions because it’s always about the answer, never left open-ended. I’m so ready to betray myself. I would happily be unhappy, but that is what is so hard. I am trying, so hard, to do the thing I love, even if I hate it. I rush things out, like a breast pump that will surely dry up. I wonder if most people feel as uncomfortable as I do every night before I try to go to bed. I couldn’t sleep I was so excited (for what I am to write, but day comes and I push it off like nothing). I blame a lot of things. Nicotine withdrawal is going strong so I can live a long life of misery. Just the scent makes my blood boil with mania, but it’s good for me. Shows how far I’ve come. Not yet, better than a hundred days, but I’m on my way. My blood circulation is overwhelming -in my brain and my jubblies. It is like a car waiting to come home, the drive is more important. Especially when you get home all alone. -
The Fountainhead (Late night critique)
It’s a masterpiece. The only problem is, to what extent? No, I do not think that Ayn Rand can justify her actions in the same epitome as Howard Roark. The brief story, of the 700-page novel, is about a young incorruptible deflowering architect. You love and hate him from the first sentence. You want to be him and identify throughout the whole book reasons why you are alike him, even in his worst moments, because above all, he has artistic integrity. However, he has no humility since he finds no need for it. In the first chapter he is kicked out of school (a likely story!) and his classmate Peter Keating is awarded valedictorian. Keating has the attributes of a successful man but belittles his ambitions to titles and recognition – a common problem in the modern world (though the book was written in the early ’40s). I found myself rooting for Peter’s evil at the beginning of the book and empathizing with him when he is left a lifeless corpse, unable to obtain any intimacy for the sacrifices he made to get to a position he doesn’t value.Peter Keating’s moral is the problem of living for others.Dominique Francon is hard to avoid being mesmerized by throughout the whole book. She steals the show. Her beliefs, however crazy, are understood through the delicate writing of Rand. I think that Rand envisioned many of the other characters in the book but truly identified with Mrs. Francon. What is brilliant about the book is that although these characters are not necessarily the way we all think, they are the way one wants to think, without emotion, and passes as believable in the backdrop of New York. People I’ve known in my life are just as vicious as all the characters of this book and just as flawed.Dominque’s moral is a tragic triumph – love at any cost.The main villain in the story is Ellsworth Toohey, who represents equality, humanitarianism, and even communism. All of these concepts use to bring me joy and a feeling of righteousness to achieve such harmony in society. One of my favorite enemies wrote that she often feels nothing after the conclusion of a movie. That is what makes this book a masterpiece and has stood the test of time. It will make you think differently. It will make you want to fight for your right to pARTy. It will make you want to fight for the inherent good in men and women and no longer be a slave to the acceptance of culture.Ellsworth Toohey’s moral – the fragile extent of the believability of the masses. A true weakness in society. The concept that we do not think for ourselves, but rather accept what is accepted and condemn what is not and therefore are as controllable as a clockwork orange.Ego is often considered a bad thing. It should be redefined as the quality of a man. His character rather than his evil. It takes a true man and a hero to justify his destiny regardless of what others say. That no matter what, nothing can stop you. This is Howard Roark. It is the man who knows what he wants. A common idea, but rare in practice. Nothing can stop him, because there is nothing to stop. He is the ends in itself. His moral is that we should never compromise what we believe in.The weakest (in a literary sense) character is Gail Wynand. He has an overpowerful but insufficient press empire and tries to redeem himself late in the book. His moral is the tragedy that if we do not recognize our own power, our integrity, and let it fester, it will dry up and die with any worthy opinion of ourselves.96/100Some of the dialogue is highly intellectual and written for its own sake. Rarely boring, but occasionally. A worthy read, and a brilliant mind. I’m sure we will be hearing more about this Ayn Rand. -
dream team
I’m the luckiest loser. I’m so hostile while all I want in the midst of this celebratory social distancing is a hug. I can’t believe how insecure I was. I still am, but all to myself. What luck. Once, I was told I am a good man, but even if I look like one in the mirror there are many debts to be repaid. I romanticize a lot of authors who died before they were recognized for their genius. Toole, Fitzgerald, Lovecraft, and as much as I would rather be understood and celebrated in the afterlife, it would be nice to be remembered while I’m still alive. I have good close friends. They are better men in a different sense than me. Ain’t it the truth that our flaws are our true beauty. I smell shampoo when I run. I think of one of the few people I write for, still, today, years later because I haven’t met anyone worthy of an article in almost three years (had to think about that one). That’s how long I’ve been damned to hell. A self-imposed curse I gave myself. There is a lot of things I would give up for a hug these days, but to my dismay, writing is not one of them. It was the last gift my mother gave. If you didn’t know this about me, I started writing the day after her funeral. I still have it, because it holds me closer than a hug from a spirit. To hell with date nights, I have many reasons to feel inadequate, in so many ways, but I truly feel lucky to be the worst of the best.
Ben Bonkoske is the author of two novels, Spoon in the Road, and Carolina, Colorado, California. He is also the author of two collections of short stories, Ten Zen by Ben, and Eleven Stories for 11:11. He lives in Chicago, where he likes to take walks.
B. A, M.A.T.
Ben Bonkoske 