Jason White is a father, a grandfather, knowledge seeker and sharer. Jason is the owner of Growth Positive Consulting where he puts his fundraising and management skills to great use. He is a writer, a woodworker, and a philanthropist.
You want passion, or so you say. Without an understanding of what passion is. You want it when he kisses you, anytime both of you touch. You want it in his voice when he says: I love you so much. You want it in the look. You it in the lie he tells you when he says before you he was never in love. You want it in the way you fuck. You want passion, or so you say. But you do not know of what passion is made. Passion is the perfect storm consuming everything, including itself. It is the most destructive beautiful thing. It’s like tearing at the fabric of life one piece at a time. Until you face a whole new world. It will always be the most beautiful thing if you never see the destruction you left behind. It remains the most beautiful thing until the day the passion wanes. And you begin tearing at the fabric again. Do you still want passion? Or do you want to save yourself?
The Finish Line
You want to be at the finish line but you’re not even ready to start. You have so many other things to do before you take part.
Become A Writer
“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.” ~ Stephen King I have always loved this quote. Not only is Stephen King one of my absolute favorite authors, but he is also a master storyteller. I aspired to be like Stephen King from a rather young age. Then I didn’t write. I didn’t write, and I didn’t grow as a writer. I would ask myself, “Why am I not making it as a writer?” But then I’d hear Stephen Kings voice telling me that if I want to be a writer I need to write, and to read. Not only was I not writing, but I pretty much quit reading. This is the worst kind of failure; the one that is in the realm of self-sabotage. I wasn’t making mistakes and learning from them. I was literally looking my dreams in the eyes and saying, not right now.
Please, don't take him in his inside clothes. She said in a distant low. This is not how he'd want to go. He mirrored his sister's sorrow.
For the Passion of Poetry
When I was fourteen, I fell into poetry through my grade nine English teacher. Closer to the beginning of the school year we had a poetry unit, and the assignment was to create and submit at least ten poems. My first inclination was to take a zero on that assignment. I had written some things, but I thought they wouldn’t be good enough to share. This mindset of not being good enough was cultivated through the daily pain I felt in my home. The pain I did everything possible to hide from the outside world. I completed my assignment with fifteen poems that I wrote over a three-day period. On the day when I was to hand it in, I left it in my bag and told my teacher it wasn’t done yet. At the end of that period, she asked me to stay behind for a moment. She confronted me by saying she doesn’t buy my story, that she thinks I am a naturally talented writer and was looking forward to reading what I had to say. I am still not certain what changed my mind, but I pulled my work out of my bag and handed it to her. To which she simply said, “thank-you, see you tomorrow”. I left her class still afraid of what she would think of what I wrote. To this day, I still am not even sure what was on those pages. I went to class the next day, then the next, then the next without any word on my assignment. The anxiety was growing to an intolerable level. The day after she began the class by handing out our poetry assignment, I flipped my work over nearly ready to pass out because I was holding my breath and saw A+ You Have an Old Soul. I didn’t even know what that meant, but it must have been good because I got an A+. Again, she asked to see me for a moment after class and said that she cried while reading my work and asked me if I knew who Leonard Cohen was. I said yes, of course. He was one of my favorite musicians. Then she told me I write like him. I told her I was surprised that I got such a good mark because I knew nothing about poetry and have never read a poem in my life. She just smiled at me and said I earned it. I learned two things that day:
Let me clear my throat Let me use my voice Let me show you what I've become Let me agitate your fear Let me arouse your hate
You Called It Love
You called it love I don't think it was But maybe I am wrong Maybe I was just overreacting To the games you played To the names you sprayed
Maybe One More Day
When I can't seem to get out of my own head. When I feel I'd be better off dead. I just lay down and cry. And ask myself why.