Author Archives: Peter S. Kahrmann

Writing no matter what

I wish, no matter what, I could write for hours, no matter what, every day, no matter what. I know this to be near impossible for me.

For more years than I will think about I’ve hoped for that moment when I could get myself to sit down and write for hours at a time, every single day. I’ve read about writers who can tuck themselves away in their writing space, and pen away or tap keys for hours on a daily basis.  I keep wondering, what am I doing wrong? Or, am I a fraud as a writer? A fake of some kind? Something like that.

As true as it is that I’m not able to write for hours at a time with any kind of consistency, it’s equally true that I’d likely be a dead man if I did not write at all. It is near fact to say, I wouldn’t know how to function. It’s also stone-cold fact to say that in my darkest moments, writing and books have prevented my suicide.

I often write because I want to, I always write because I have too.

Where do I take a listen?

For the love of God,  will someone please tell our country’s overabundance of news folk and talking heads to stop saying Take a listen when they introduce an interview clip, or anything for that matter? 

Take a listen?

Where?

 Where do you plan on taking it, and how does one take a listen? 

(Can I pick any listen I want?)

If the person takes a listen, are they obliged to bring it back?

*********

For my mother, VBK.

The pain is not less

My tear ducts have been to the gym. 

Let me explain. I am 65 and in the process of taking things out of storage. I’m going through boxes and large (sometimes clear, sometimes not) garbage bags. The bags are filled with soft items that mostly turn out to be curtains, fleece blankets, stuffed animals, clothes. Old t-shirts of mine that when held out full, look shockingly small. 

I’m clearly not half the man I used to be.

And then I emptied the contents of a pale cotton bag, maybe a pillow case and a half in size. Out fell a dozen or so neatly folded washcloths,  colors faded, pinks, yellows. Two hand towels. 

I couldn’t place them. 

And then, the coin dropped. They were my mother’s. She committed suicide August 12, 1992. Today is January 17, 2019. No, the pain is not less.

My tear ducts have been to the gym.

Our Congressional Cowards

Most Republican members of Congress are afraid to stand up to Donald Trump, because they might lose their job. Are you kidding me? Lose a job? You really won’t put your job on the line for the good of the country?  Despicable.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, Trump may as well declare himself Putin’s employee. Every decision he’s made of late empowers Putin and others like him and damages our allies. He’s a traitor, in my view.


But let me get back to our congressional cowards. God forbid standing up for the country cost them their cushy jobs.


Firefighters, law enforcement officers, paramedics,  EMTS, the military, Doctors without Borders and those cut from similar cloth, all these people put their lives on the line when they do their jobs. Yet our Congressional Cowards won’t put their job on the line.


You mean, I might not get re-elected and enjoy my perks? You mean, I might not be on TV? I might not be famous? 


Get up off your ass and fight back, fight for us. Remember us? We’re the Americans.