THE MAGIC WORD PT 2 by Dennis ogle

     PLAGIARISM.  The act of appropriating literary material,ideas, etc. from someone else and presenting them as your own original work. I hate to admit it, but my love for writting began with an act of plagiarism,
     When I was in the fifth grade I had a crush on a cute little girl named Carol. I remembered ,a poem we had read in english class the week before. I can't remember what it was about, but I copied it word for word from a book and told her I wrote it for her. I wasn't prepared for the response I got! She teared up and looked like she was gonna pass out. My first thought was "wow, that went better than I thought!"
But being that Bleeding heart  Narcissist that I am, I started feeling guilty about my act of poetic piracy.
     That night I went home and put pen to paper. I can't remember what it was about, but it was mine. The next day I came clean with Carol about the poem, and presented the poem that I actually wrote for her. She didn't do any backflips, but I could tell she lked it. I didn't even get a peck on the cheek, but I learned a priceless lesson: With words comes UNLIMITED POWER!!!!

     That little incident happened to take place before christmas break, and that was the year I got my first electric guitar. It was a one pick up Encore that came with a little amp. My brother got a set of not to be played like real set  of drums, and my friend Roger and I started jamming. We managed to write a couple of original tunes before Roger desrtoyed my brothers toy drum set. Marc was pissed!

        It wasn't long after that that  started to understand some of the differences between poetic verse and lyirics, and I decided to try my had at poetry. Here are some of those:

                                         ALL THE WAY TO EVERYWHERE

I followed my soul to the end of infinity and stood fast on the edge of everything
I looked back for a last glimpse of home but I had to close my eyes to see it.
I made my way to the bottom of the top and looked at the satelites of the sun.
Transfixed on the complex simplicity of this grand design, I went back to the edge of everything and turned my back to the end of infinity.
Then I opened my eyes and I knew I could rest.
I knew I had time to choose, time to know, and no fear or worry came upon me
as I searched the deepest darkness for the brightest light. The light that shines on my random destination, but I have the time and from here I can see all the way to everywhere.

          I wrote that poem, I was tryin' to describe the journey of the human soul after leaving the body upon death. In my opinion, I think it sounds alot like Buddhism. That is a complete accident, but the observation prompted me to read up on Buddhism, and from what I've learned so far, Buddhism is more a way of life than a religion. More about being a better human than trying to mimic the values of an unseen god, as described by men. I'm looking forward to learning more about Buddhism.
         
          I love to write. I love to see myself think. I'd like to write a novel someday, but I must admit, it seems like an impossible goal for me. I am amazed how writers can look so deeply into a subject that it takes 3 or 400 pages to convey the message. It impresses my to no end. The best I've been able to do is write a few non-fiction essays. They don't even add up to a short story, but maybe you can tell me if I'm headed in the right direction.

                                                       ALCOHOLIC WAR STORIES by Dennis Ogle
                                    Somewhere in the nuclear waste dump of black out binges that is my memory
                                    of the late 1990's, I lived in a house behind a bar called the River Rat.
                                    That was no accident. In fact everything I did back then was a calculated effort
                                    to stay in the company of my best friend, ALCOHOL.
                                          My buddy Carl, also my ride to work, lived just across 2nd aveneue in
                                    what used to be known as Bibb City, Georgia. I had given up driving because
                                    after seven D.U.Is, I still couldn't trust myself not to drive once I started
                                    drinking. Anyway, that established my ride to work, and the River Rat was
                                    right in my backyard. I had it made. it was perfect.
                                           The River Rat was located in the middle of North Highlands, an area of
                                    Columbus GA with a reputation for druggin', drinkin' and fightin'. All of the
                                    bartenders and the patrons knew me by name, and those who didn't knew I was
                                    always there.
                                           On this particular night, I had a date, and that was completely out of
                                     character for me, because at the time I had about a three beer window of
                                     talkin' shit before I lost any kind of game with the ladies. Of course when I
                                     did have a date, it was based on a mutual love of bein' wasted. Sex was
                                     always an after thought, if that.
                                            Her name was Susan something or another and I'm not sure how
                                     we ended up partying together. It was goin' on three days at this point. there
                                     wasn't anything different about tonight. No weird feeling of impending doom.
                                     Just a normal night of binge drinking.
                                            I don't know what time it was, but the bar also served food so it was
                                     normal to see a rowdy young couple with all their rowdy kids so they could
                                     buy them a basket of fries and call it dinner.When they were done eating
                                     out came the handful of quarters. You know, the magic quarters that made
                                     your kids disappear into the gameroom for hours.
                                            The jukebox was playing the standard icons of southern music: Lynyrd
                                     Skynyrd  "saturday night special", Allman Brothers, "sweet melissa", and
                                     Molly Hatchet, "flirtin' with disaster", and maybe some ZZ TOP. Business
                                     as usual.
                                             From here it gets a little fuzzy. I remember Susan and I leaving the bar,
                                     I assume we were going to my house. I remember being approached by a
                                     boy, 15 or 16 who I'd seen hangin' around the game room earlier.
                                     "Hey man, the dude at the end of the bar wants to ask you something. He said
                                     he'd give you twenty bucks to come and talk to him." Had I been in a more
                                     rational state of mind, or sober, I would have thought twice on such an unsual
                                     request, but unfortunatly,I told the kid to keep the $20 and I walked back into
                                     the bar. If there is one moment I'd like to take back...
                                             Frank Coker was sitting at the end of the bar with his back to me. I didn't
                                     know his name at the time, but I do now and I'll never forget it.
                                     I can't recall if I was saying anything when he spun around on the barstool, but
                                     I know exactly what I said next. "He's got a knife!"
                                     With the quickness of someone who had done this before, he sank four inches
                                     of steel blade into my chest, just a half an inch from my heart. While 
                                     defending myself he laid the top of my wrist open to the bone. I fell onto my
                                     back on the floor and managed to back him up with a kick above the kneecap,
                                     but not before he buried the knife in my thigh to the bone. Someone yelled
                                     that they had called the cops, and with that Frank Coker dropped the knife
                                     and disappeared.
                                           Blood was squirting from my chest and I remember thinking " This guy
                                     done killed me." Someone grabbed me by the jacket and told me the ambu-
                                     lance was here. Upon walking out the door I saw Susan sitting against the
                                     wall being treated by an emt. She had tried to help, and for her efforts, she
                                      got stabbed in the stomach, and sliced across the throaght. I had three bone
                                      deep lacerations, and a punctured lung. We both made a full recovery.
                                            They say what don't kill you makes you stronger. That may be true, but
                                     the incident didn't have a thing to do with me quittting alcohol. I had six more
                                     months of misery to live through, but in September of that year, 2001, my true
                                     demon was removed from my life.
                                            Not long after I celebrated my second year of sobriety I heard Frank
                                      Coker took his knife to a gun fight, and was shot and killed. I hold no feelings
                                      of malice against him, as I know the nature of his demons. The first song I
                                       wrote sober is called "Second Chance" and its hookline pretty much sums
                                      it up: "I GUESS SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES ME"

                                                                                                    

I still get the ebee- gbees when I read that. It's been twelve years since that took place and I still shudder.
     There are so many more ways to work magic with words. A child that is introduced early to the limitless toolbox of creativity that words represent is most defineatly armed with an advantage for understanding the world we live in. Of all the amazing things that man has invented, electricity,the power of flight, medicine, it all owes itself to the majesty of communication. The greatest work in man's bag of tricks, the one and only MAGIC WORD!
                                                                                                                            The End.