The Lost Journals: Chapter One – Pg. 5

St. Matthew Island, Bering Sea

11/25/1975 – Journal Entry One

We have been out for a few weeks now. The weather has been fair so far and I feel right with the roll of the sea beneath my feet. I sleep better when I am on a boat. I try to forget my troubles when I come to work… it is hard. There are few things to do but work, play cards, drink, tell bullshit stories, and work some more. There is little time for sleep, but we are having a very profitable trip so far. The traps are full and the crabs we are bringing in should pull me a nice bonus for this year. That should finally make Cindy happy… ungrateful bitch.

She gave me this journal years ago, I don’t remember why, probably a Father’s Day gift or whatnot. I never thought I would use it, but I have actually taken to writing in it during my down time. Ships are small places, even if you are alone… especially when you are alone. I will admit I never thought I would find it as it pleasant as it has been to write out my thoughts of the day and release some of the pressure that hours of hauling in traps hasn’t helped relieve. I may continue to do so during this next few weeks.

Cindy has filed for divorce. She claims I am never there for her anymore and the children are unhappy. I am not sure what she expects. I pull in nearly $80,000 a year and we live in a nice neighborhood with good schools that our children have always attended. I work on a boat, I can’t teleport myself home each night. Sometimes there is no pleasing women. Actually, scratch that there is no pleasing a woman period. I am not sure why I thought an American woman would be different, Canadian women are the same. That isn’t why I left Canada, but it definitely contributed to the inspiration to find new cities to explore. I never thought I would end up on a crabbing boat in the middle of the Bering straight.

There were many steps that led to me coming here. Maybe I will take the time to relate some of those, but I wouldn’t want this journal to come off as some kind of whining session. That would be unfair because honestly I like my life. It is other people that seem to be unhappy in my life.

Peter North


This is my blog book I am offering to the readers of my blog. The whole story can be found at the following link I hope you enjoy the story. All content is owned and copyrighted. You may re-blog, pingback, or share the contents but please give credit to the author and this website. Thank you, -OM

Page 5 OM 01/04/2014

The Lost Journals: Chapter One – Pg. 7

Santa Monica, CA

Linda Borra Conaughey

2/7/1995 – Journal Entry One

My only comfort is the companionship of my sorrow. It has been five years since he passed and also five years since I have painted. My hands ache for the feel of a brush, even as my soul rejects the comfort that may come from it. A single canvas, still pure white, sits in the sunroom waiting for my attention. I have left it there since the night I received the phone call of his passing. The moment he died the will to paint died as well.

I see images that beg to be captured all around me. We artists see still images, even as the pace of society moves around us. Sometimes it feels as if we are an island in a sea of chaos. We strive to find that one thing worth seeing each day and on those days we do not find our hart of pursuit we die just a little more that evening. Passionate of heart, we cannot keep that same passion from affecting our lives. And thus when tragedy comes we embrace that tragic sense with a foolish bravery that we do not recognize till after the damage is done. Here I sit damaged.

My counselor tells me that to get over the pain I should try to write in this journal that she gave me. I wanted to throw the notebook in her face and scream “I am an artist… not a writer!” But who am I really mad at? As I pen these words I feel my heart tremble just slightly… as if awakened by the tease of a thought. What is it that moves me now?

My pastels sit unused next to the dull acrylics. They sit lifeless having lost any desire they had due to neglect. As I neglect my art, I also neglect my soul. But what color would my painting become when mixed with my tears…


“How I Write” By OM


I hope Jami doesn’t mind, but I will reference her comment for this post. She requested it and I am always willing to write about things I am not good at. I will post here comment first.

“I still watch it sometimes, as she is just freakin hilarious! Good blog, btw…I admire how eloquently you can rant and make us all come back for more. I would love to know more about the mental process you go through to create a post of this nature – do you have a post on that topic? They all just read so so effortlessly.”

“I thought so, as they do read like a stream of consciousness. It would still be interesting to read a post on that process though. Perhaps you learn something you hadn’t thought of, and it might be helpful for those of us who overthink/over-craft, which is my issue. I let my ego bully me. It tells me I have nothing interesting to say, or that I can’t say it with any sort of finesse. It’s about fear, or maybe misplaced need for validation instead of that pure need to just write, as you covered in a recent post on blogging and followers. Anyway, I’ll keep a look out!”

I obviously appreciate the compliment and that is also why I am writing this post. People will generally throw small chat at you or give you a passing compliment, we writers are jealous creatures, but when someone asks me a question via comment or email I always try to respond.

I’m not sure I would say it is effortless. There is still effort in that you must take the time to write and keep up a steady pace. Right now I also write still at my host site, which is where I gained a lot of confidence through posting eight times a day. I just decided I would go right at it, which is in my personality. I think we portray our personalities into our writing and even if we cannot write at a high level we should be encouraged in the fact that there are many different levels of readers out there. There is a reader for everyone. I also like to control the “tone” of my articles and it allows me to “influence” my audience into the perfection of my reality. That is a connection that only comes through writing with heart I think. Heart and not being afraid to be judged because you know what? Fuck people’s judgment.

Topics are easy for me. When I don’t have a topic I write a poem. Then I browse blogs. I look for current issues mainly from CNN or from many of the main websites, but I don’t generally write on issues like that right now. If you notice I have actually moved on into the fiction, inspiration, and humorous types of posts. I also have laid out my game plan on my front page which shows my categories and that helps me to focus on what I write about. Those categories are a mixture of what I do well and what I am learning.

As for how I write effortlessly… that is easy. Two answers for that and I will give the easy one first. I generally have an opinion on most things and have read at least a book or a page on it. That doesn’t make me an expert, but it triggers my mind when I hear a topic and I have read something on it and it generates an easy topic. I then write my posts on my “not so private” journals…

The other answer isn’t as easy to explain. I wrote a post once on about The Glass House. It was some “Asian Book,” I might have the name wrong, and I have no clue what ethnicity but I think it was Chinese. Basically you placed objects in a mental room and were able to remember long lists with this technique. I loved the idea, because I am a fantasy lover, and decided I would use it to create my own Glass House. In it is different rooms and my study where I have a mental file cabinet. Now here you can choose to believe me or not, it doesn’t really matter does it? I basically have a file cabinet with a paragraph of ideas and I can hold up to 100 or so of these pages. I don’t generally have to or need to, but I have, can, and I do it now. I don’t have photographic memory, I am not a genius, so you can take it for what it is. But it is a mental trick that I have practiced since I was 16 and I am now 33. Maybe there is something to be said about strengthening through practice perhaps. Smarter minds than mine could probably tell you, but that is generally where I pull my articles from.

I don’t hesitate to publish and I only edit once. I will generally go back and relook sometimes for errors. I might even edit an article two days later, maybe that is bad journalism, but I am a blogger and my audience would rather read current than read perfect. I have had “discussions” with other bloggers about this and what they don’t realize is IF they are after traffic they have to drop a little of the perfection. Many of them write beautifully and make perfect articles, but a singular article is limited to the moment. Unless of course it goes viral. But hey, what do I know. I am just another blogger on WordPress.

I hope you don’t mind my referencing your comment Jami and thanks for the mental prompt. I am going to place this article on both websites. One less page in the cabinet.

-Opinionated Man

My Day as Mickey Mouse

Dammit… I am late again. Mr. Hollenger is going to have my ass if he catches me clocking in late today.

No time for coffee, gotta get that heavy ass costume on. Another bright and sunny day in Florida. Another day boiling my ass off in this stupid suit. Whatever… let’s get this over with.

Which direction do I want to walk in today?

“Hello kids! It’s Mickey!”

This grown ass man is not about to hug me…

“OH!!! Thank You Sir!!! Mickey Loves Hugs!”

Get.. off.. me… help I am being molested!!!

“Ok Sir… Mickey has to go!”

“… Mickey is going to lunch now…”

Oh Hell No!!! Not the mother with twelve kids! Every year it never fails!

“Of course Mickey can take pictures with EVERY SINGLE ONE of your kids.”

“Mickey Loves Hugs!”

They should install a toilet in here.

“Hey Kid Easy! Mickey’s EAR doesn’t come off!”

“I mean… Mickey Loves Hugs!”

This job blows…



Disclaimer: Obviously I went to Disney World at a very young age and have no idea what Mickey Mouse says to kids today.

Brushing Death’s Door

I brush my fingers along the metal bar. It says “Press here to Enter,” but still I wait and ponder. I can feel his presence in my fingertips, it does not bring a feeling of sadness or fear. Nor will I pen some overly used quip about a lost lover. Instead I feel a vibration from the door that comes from the steady crooning of a very real voice. A voice that rages, that offers sweet rewards, that consoles after death, and one that offers an opportunity for escape. How permanent that escape feels as my hands finally press the entrance open to the crypt.

The building is warm and inviting. Windows have been placed on the East side and the sun seems placed to greet the dead each day. I turn towards the coffin wall and my eyes attempt to widen and engulf the magnitude of death before me. My Korean eyes strain to open further… but to no avail. I see a few of my ancestors in the corner. Their misty forms seem to shake as they laugh hysterically at my attempts. At least they managed to keep their humor in death, I think to myself as I roll my eyes.

I walk towards a name, five from the top and three over. I place my hand upon the placard, it gleams bright. Brand new, I can still see the glue where the price tag was stuck. I rub at it furiously, its presence suddenly offends me. I step away once satisfied that all is as it should be… as it must be. There are no flowers here, only stone and metal. This actually makes me happy. There is nothing here that will die again, death is here now.

He need not return once more.

-Opinionated Man

Creativity in the Night

He pens his heart in the darkness and releases the light from within. Searching for the perfect words, he closes his eyes to the noise of this world and seeks a better one in literature.

She holds her paintbrush like the artist that she is and traces the glancing rays of moonlight that sparkle upon her canvas. Lost in the moment for a moment… she loses herself to the dream that is her art and the painting that will tell her story.

His fingers dance like raindrops across the strings of his guitar. He plays quietly in the night and the only audience that is there to listen is himself… and the ghost of his father who taught him to play. He feels the vibrations of the music, just as he feels the presence of his dad. They sit in the darkness, under the canopy of opportunity, a place shared in the same song.

She loses balance and falls. Picking herself up, she refocuses and again immerses herself in the ballet. Her life is literally being told as she works to perfect her final examination. As she leaps and spins across the room she removes the burden of obligation and returns to the place of joy… a joy that is still there for the dance.

He walks amongst them, but always apart. Recording what he sees and hears, examining his every emotion from that in which he encounters. They form impressions that wave like banners inside of his head. Ideas, words, and phrases that will never vanish until they are penned. He files them away in his glass house and waits until he feels the safety of his four walls before pulling them from the file cabinet. Changing personas, and yet never a different person, he becomes what he wants to be. What he needs to be. He writes in the night and publishes his words for the moon to read.

-Opinionated Man