Noise

Silence is impossible in this century.

Everything howls. It has no way to flourish.
The wild animal of ourselves, this learned condition
growls relentlessly.

Might we then remove ourselves from the bustle.
Build a nest atop some lull
or find shelter that’ll hold
our anxious knowing, that we die

awfully small
awfully momentous
among endless noise.

Ruido

Es imposible el silencio en este siglo.
No tiene cómo darse. Es que tanto ruge.
Imparable ronronea la bestia que somos
la que hemos aprendido.

Será posible entonces ausentarse del bullicio.
Hacer nido en la pausa
o encontrar resguardo que acurruque
la ansiedad de sabernos morir

tan pequeños
tan importantes
entre tanto ruido.

None of us understand what we’re doing

None of us understand what we’re doing but we do beautiful things anyway.

Allen Ginsberg, The Letters of Allen Ginsberg

Life is not about who you once were

Life is not about who you once were. It’s about who you are right now, and the person you have the potential to be.

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Never another wirter

“I will be very careful the next time I fall in love, she told herself. Also, she had made a promise to herself that she intended on keeping. She was never going to go out with another writer: no matter how charming, sensitive, inventive or fun they could be. They weren't worth it in the long run. They were emotionally too expensive and the upkeep was complicated. They were like having a vacuum cleaner around the house that broke all the time and only Einstein could fix it. She wanted her next lover to be a broom.” ― Richard Brautigan, Sombrero Fallout

To my friends....

A referral point for my friends (personnel friends, meaning people I know in my personnel life) who want me to “Take a look at my stuff.” For years I’ve said sure, I’ll look at it, meaning edit it. But I have always forewarned them that I take the processes seriously and I won’t pull any punches and not to get angry with me. They always, always, always assure me that they want to a professional edit and that I shouldn’t pull any punches just because we’re friends. Then I edit their work and they get angry at me. So here’s what we’re going to do. If you want me to give my opinion on your writing or edit your work, the charge is $50.00 an hour with a four hour minimum. That should stop most of you from asking me to look at your work and while preserving our friendship.

Why this blog is here.

I am largely self-educated, and this blog is continuation of that education. I have an MFA, but that doesn’t have much to do with an education, not the kind I’m talking about. An advanced degree means I am able to follow instruction.

Never ending self-education means I adore knowledge and enlightenment of both the ordinary and the odd and that’s what this blog is about. It is by me, written for my benefit. You are more than welcomed to drop by as often and for as long as your heart desires.

John William Tuohy

I was born and raised in Connecticut and now live in rural West Virginia with my wife, Mary, and my dog Eli.

I hold an AA and MA in literature and an MFA in writing from Lindenwood University. I spent most of my career as a political consultant and hated every living second of it.

I am produced and award-winning playwright. (Cyberdate, The Hannigans of Beverly, etc.)

I am the author of 12 books on traditional organized crime, an autobiography (No Time to Say Goodbye) two books of short stories (Short Stories from a Small Town, Washington Behind the Monuments) a novella (Imago Summer, 1971) and several books on Connecticut history. I proud to be the historian of Ansonia Connecticut. I sit on the board of Mt. St. John's School.

I occasionally and reluctantly work as an editor but only when I need money to travel.

I am an accomplished amateur photographer, a frustrated painter and not a half-bad gardener and I cook. I collect coins, stamps and political memorabilia. I love film so much that I built a large theater in my home. (I also wrote "On the Waterfront: the Making of a Great Amercian film")

MY WRITERS SITE

Welcome

Noise

Noise

Ruido

None of us understand what we’re doing

Life is not about who you once were