Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Patterned Thoughts - Prying up Scattered Pieces of Poetry

Something in the lacklustre light, the chai tea seeping into my marrow, the morning lethargy of this coffee shop, transforms this dawning day into a poetry and "thoughts organization" day.

I was going to transform this one into a story, because it has a melancholy aspect that I suspect might make a tragic tale with, perhaps, a heartwarming (or devastating) end.

Rain pitter-pats down the roof
A faucet taps an equal tune
In a room where a carefully constrained fire coughed with the old man
Sitting in the rocking seat
Each dying of consumption.
Trophies mounted along log walls
Glazed eyes glaring down
Matching his now vacant stare
Remembering times both wild and strong, once unlike that old man
Staring there, past nowhere
Just sitting, listening now
Watching the dying fire.

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A floaty composition. Not so much a story as a dreamy compilation of words.



A dirge of footprints, en passant
Sorrow-filled, awash with want
Lamenting distant days and daydreams
Tie your hands tight to balloon strings
And sail away

Through stormy days and sunbreaks
Past sleet and rain and jet planes
Still racing on
Passing people holding hands, sharing smiles
Then waving, waving

Down below the city’s lights
Are fireflies
Mimicking the heavens
Dreaming stars in silken radiance
Floating on

Bursting bubbles, shifting sands
Falling falling
To fields of goldenrod and thistledown
Drifting round
Taxi
Beneath cherry blossoms and midnight moon
A dance, a song, a distant tune

(unedited, but finished)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Yet the leaves drift with the wind

Iron bleeds in the soil here
A distant fear's great debts
Bought and paid in a crimson age
A soldier's high priced gift

Are they but men, our heroes dear?
Serving freedom you blithely wear
Iron seeps in the soil here
Yet the leaves drift with the wind

(unfinished - two incomplete stanzas)

----------------------------------------------------------------------

These last few days, my muse has been overactive in artistic contemplation. However, despite the absurd influx of ideas, everything has been stymied in a frenzy of life activity, disorganization, an over-enthused escalation of summer plans that has asphyxiated my attention to detail. Here are some things I wanted to write about: legos and the creative process; competition and its evolution; the great romance of the seas; Esther; and the Night Circus; Gambits and stories (Notebook, Ocean's Eleven, Fantastic Mr. Fox). I think there were a few more, even, but ideas often fall by the wayside. I'm certain I've captured at least a few in a journaling capacity.


Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending

As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.

In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities.  Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.


---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.



Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Now I'll go to sleep.



Monday, July 29, 2013

Old Spontaneity and Taxing Mondays

Some days cost more than others, and, when finished, I just want to run out into the sun and capture its rejuvenating rays. It was a day steeped in memories, without occasion for fully fleshing them out. I often wish writing was my current vocation, though I've much practice remaining before such time.

Following work, I biked to Freddies, grabbed a bunch of veggies, and biked home to make a vegetable-medley curry. No one was home, so while I ate, I played a solitaire game of bananagrams. 











I could probably play that forever and it might never get old. (though I did make one mistake: qiut is not quit)

~Storybook Princess~

Once upon a time, I fell in love with a princess
Not for her tresses, or dresses or wealth
Not for her smiles, perfect and white
Nor for sweet silence, beneath perfect starlight

Nay, though I’d love these, and more I am sure
But this storybook princess I never quite saw
For she lived in a tale, a world of her own
Lonely and sad, beautiful but alone

Surrounded by suitors, greedy and insane
Desiring her beauty, wealth or her name
Yet I fell in love with the words that she said
The air that she breathed, the paths that she tread

Some strange sort of magic, made of love and divine
Carried her words from her world into mine
And my world into hers as I read her sweet tale
As she scorned every suitor, even princes did fail

Every night by candlelight I dreamed in her land
Adventures we’d have, across warm desert sands
Forests and seas, clasping our hands
Always hoping and praying this night may not end

I fall fast asleep book cradled in arms
Praying she slept, my words cradled in heart
Until one fateful day, dream we gained what we sought
To come close together and never need part

--------------------------------------------
I wrote this poem years ago, when I wrote an amusing personal essay on something literary or other. I remember thinking, why would I fall in love with a princess when I could fall in love with a librarian or an explorer (I'll probably marry Carmen Sandiego when I find her - I suspect that name is really just an alias for Irene Adler, though). I was going through my old poetry, and thought this one charming. It fits in nicely with the thematic elements of the book I'm reading.  (I'm no poet, so forgive its lack of artistic merit)

Right now, all of my reading is geared towards my next piece. I was considering, at first, writing a mythos, but I'm contemplating something a bit out of my comfort zone: a mystery. I used to love watching mystery shows with my mother, even when they scared me as a child: Perry Mason, Matlock, Diagnosis Murder (the scary one of the three). I love the Sherlockian method wherein, through intellect and careful study of relevant information, a solution is intuited, however unlikely. I considered, after reading this poem (which is why it's here, however embarassing), whether I might consider writing a piece like the hallowed hunt - a mystery set in a fantasy world.
I also considered writing a piece in chapter snippets, like the Count of Monte Cristo, and every day for NaNoWriMo just publishing that day's snippet here. I'm excited, though. Another entry, full of digressions. Maybe this justifies more sleep.

Sunday, July 28, 2013

All over the place and nowhere useful (+Ragnorak Editing)

It was a silent weekend, perhaps a necessary one. I went on a walk, biked around a while, wrote at a small park where a small stream ran past a couple of picnic tables and a candy purple playground. Every other weekend until early September contains at least one wedding event, so the relaxation should compose me - but all I wanted was another delightful wedding.
I woke up early, wrote later into twilight than desired, played soccer with a boisterous bunch, visited some coffee shops for tea, writing, and reading, went to church, talked on the phone to distant friends, talked on skype to other distant friends, watched a show with roommates, picked roommate and his girlfriend up at the airport - all this, and I felt like nothing happened. I'm ready for a weekend adventure: backpacking, hiking in the woods, weddings, climbing a mountain, kayaking down a river with friends, canoeing on a lake, more soccer. Sometimes it feels like, what with the weddings and general busyness, everyone's lives are leaving me behind, so they've no time for stories anymore. I always want time for stories.

Today's sermon was on the topic of fear, something which everyone, at some juncture, interacts with: anxiety, stress, panic attacks and so on. With the amount of times God says: "do not be afraid" or "be anxious for nothing", one might expect Christians would possess greater skill against these debilitating psychological foes. Often, we do not. I don't consider myself an anxious person. Work is friendly, my friends are kind, even intense social situations often don't stress me out so much as making me step back, and evaluate from a different vantage.
There are some things that I do fear, one of which I even ran away from this very weekend. I'm still working those out. I remember as a kid dealing with fear as though I was a protagonist in a fairy tale. Nothing could really hurt me (this is not a Game of Thrones tale), as I knew the hero of the story would prevail in the end. You'd think I'd be a fearless child with that, but I was quite shy of people. I felt like it wasn't the hero's lot to die, but he could be tortured by uncomfortable scenarios. I suppose it is safe to say that once in a trial, I felt less fear than before. That's often the truth of things though, isn't it? Sometimes, the unknowing is the most intimidating portion. It's amazing how mystery can be both unnerving and fantastic. In the case of the northern lights, which I saw just a while past, I find myself more fascinated by the mystery of the event than the knowing. But other things, darkness, public speaking, spiders under the bed - the unnerving unknowing can be more frightening than the thing itself.

Just another throwaway post, huh? I'm well beyond the tl;dr portion of this mental surgery. I'm in that stupor before sleep, that unsleeping dreamy territory well before true unconsciousness. I should stop, while I'm behind.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Mid-height and not a penny more, with a penny-colored nest of hair, and penny eyes, and he wasn't worth scarce a penny in a fight.  Yet it was this man who threatened the world with apocalypse. This man, with eyeglasses precariously perched on nose, fingertips pattering as raindrops across a keyboard, was about to destroy the world in a flood, a flood of media silence.  Discarded pizza boxes and crumpled soda cans carpeted, and stained, the floor.  Jak’s only focus was the computer screens, the array of eight screens, on which highlighted code scrolled in tropical-candy colors on a black background as Jak prepared his worm, the greatest worm of all time. He called the program Jörmungandr, and tonight it was ready.
                It was genius, he suspected, a titanic achievement.  It systematically destroyed media outlets from the highest level down, leaving all vital functionality until the end such that each increasing level of chaos was captured perfectly as phones, television, radio, and eventually the internet itself disappeared in a whisper, and the world erupted in a bang.  His finger hovered over the button from whence Armageddon would commence. It was the ultimate prank, he thought with a wicked grin, his ultimate prank.  The world would remember him for this, oh certainly, if they ever found out who did it.
                He pressed the button.
               
                An ancient wood hides from searching eyes, under the sea.  Eldritch and petrified, it still silent sits, shamelessly pacified. Before Atlantis was even dreamed, a glade formed inside spherical reef, a punishment, eternal grief. The water hung at neck level, always neck level, clear as a mirror.  Grapes and ambrosia hovered scarcely out of reach, his fingertips brushing the leaves on his highest leaps.  The glade  was edenic, full of crystal waters and abundant fruits, though he despised its… tantalizing, elusive deceit.
                The almost god still reached when the branches swooped close, still dipped his head for a drink, and the fruit and waters receded. Famished, agonizingly parched, the ab-god waited, not patient, not passively.  The bowels of the earth, hell and hades, were not his alone.  Another’s anguish resonated from the deeps, troubling the earth in violent sweeps.
                But today, while the fire in his gut seethed in unremitting pain, a great power hurricaned through the glade, blasting the ab-god from his feet.  A great light, an aura of flashing pain struck him in his temples, and he saw:
                A cavern, pitch and drab, pockmarked with caustic holes.  Around a great stalactite was wrapped an eternal serpent, mouth hissing wide and dripping with sizzling venom.  Beneath, on a circular platform lay a god on an altar, bound in entrails beneath the serpent. From above, the serpent’s venom dripped towards his face, only impeded by a tiny, ceramic bowl, held by a silent, patient woman.  The god cursed the woman, and still she faithfully protected his face, until the bowl was filled and she carried it to the edge and spilled it into the vast, cavern depths. 
                And suddenly, the cave rippled with power, and the god’s eyes widened with surprise.  In a sudden feat of strength, the entrails were snapped apart, and the god was in the cavern no more.

                When the ab-god awoke in his glade, he was not alone. Another stood in the water beside him, bowl in hand.  The god proffered him the bowl with a broad, mischievous smile. The bowl was filled with water, and for a bowl of water, the ab-god would have sold his very soul. 











Au Clair de la Lune --or-- Dreams in Aquamarine

I slept in until 7 today… well done circadian rhythm. Or something. Figured with a few hours until church, I may as well write. I usually do all my writing at night, so this may turn out disastrous. This story does not carry my sentiment – I love, love, love fall and it’s colors. And I lovelovelove the sea and it’s briny smell and everything. I just copied this over from journal into virtual, with very little editing. I do know that it needs it. Hopefully the typos are not miserable, and that you soon sea the puns not abysmal (hahaha – too funny). I think I stretched every single description in this story for the sake of using lousy oceanic diction. In due course, this story may be a shipwreck. (I so desperately wanted to say on the last one, "just wait, there's moore", but that was a stretch, even for me). Neither of the titles above refer to this story which has but a pending title. Besides, I cheated with the last line, so.... maybe I should just title it: "young man and the sea" and make another reference.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------




If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.


He hated fall.  Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His  vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"

He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town.  Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room.  The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
          A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience.  The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
          Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
          “Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
          He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
          She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
          “Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
          His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
          “Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
          She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
          And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
          When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone.  A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home.  Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
          Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
          He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone.  As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.



O more than moon,

Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne

Saturday, July 27, 2013

Sea Summons

For M- (not Matthew)  - May you find home soon, or love. Or perhaps these are the same coin.



From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.

If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

He hated fall.  Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His  vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"

He cringed, but kept walking, pushing open the swivel doors into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room.  The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.


to be continued...and edited.... and fixed....
--------roiling, spume

**Notes:
- turn away
- catcalls
- definitions and detachment
- distance a la lounge?
- lighting
- smells




(other messing around)
The trees are foreign, though perhaps everything was these days.  His station wagon trundled down the winding hills, and though a town approached - he could always feel a town approaching, now - he saw nothing save the aspens and the pines. His was a nomadic life, as late, wandering from town to town, state to state, in a desperate plea for home. Each town was but a different name for heartbreak, growing about his heart like poison ivy.
Now? Now he just needed a place to weed out his brokenness. The loneliness already gnawed at his guts. As his station wagon hurtled down the hill, he knew this was his last attempt, for even if his heart was strong enough, his transportation was not. He could almost smell it: the town. There was another entrance, of that he was certain. He approached it obliquely, coy and coquettish, and the town loomed heavy upon him. As he turned a corner on the hill, he caught his first glimpse, hundreds of feet below, a new world of chimneys, greenery, vineyards, farmsteads and cottages, clustered as they neared the village center.
And then the trees regrouped, hedging out his view once more so he wondered whether it might have been but a phantom whimsy. It was beautiful, a glen of green and cozy cottages. He'd even imagined a forest distant, and a great river running through it.

My Hope is in the Lord

Zephaniah 3:17 The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.

Shabbat Shalom, everyone. I admit that, sometimes, the busyness of life prevents me from taking needed Sabbath breaks. "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." I used to believe this meant that as long as we *could* keep going, Sabbath wasn't requisite. This is true, in some sense. But if you ask any authentic Jewish man what the most sacred of holidays is, he won't answer Pesach (Passover) or Yom Kippur (the day of Atonement), or Rosh Hashanah (feast of trumpets), but the Sabbath.  It was the first holy day, set apart from the dawn of creation.
Another interesting point is that "holy day" and the word for "festivals" in the Bible can be translated appointment. I was reading an interesting book on Messianics (Jewish Christians), and it mentioned how the festivals and holy days were greater than simply vacations from work, they were, and are for many Jews still, appointments with God. And the Sabbath is the greatest of these. I wouldn't miss a dentist appointment, or a doctor's appointment, or even an appointment for a phone call, but, many weeks, I so blithely ignore an appointment with God? I go to Church, I read my Bible, I philosophize about theoretical Christianity, and, when possible, I try to share my beliefs, but there is something intrinsically fantastic about an appointment with God.
I'll explain it this way. I'm something of an introvert.  5 years ago, when taking the Meyer Briggs test, I scored over 90% in all my categories, one of which was introversion. Years later, my score has dropped more towards the median point, a bit, but suffice it to say that shyness understates my original introversion. I was downright petrified of group situations. So in Church, the times I most feared were greeting times. A whole bunch of smiling faces mingling and sharing tiny tidbits of their lives - not my favored activity. It was almost a nightmare. (this has all changed to some degree) Once I started talking to any individual, I immediately felt more comfortable, as if I'd entered into a zone of communication, and fenced off outside elements. So yes, stamp me an introvert and ship me into a corner with a book. 
In the same way, giant group Bible studies and open-speaking scenarios frighten me. I'd rather talk to individuals, small groups (small = 2-3). I'd rather interact with people on a personal level, so why not God? I like the idea of Sabbath because I can choose a personal appointment with God, I can meet with God with friends, I can rest in a meditative contemplation of a divine who has tucked me under his wings, congratulating me for a week well done.
There aren't many weeks where I'm destroyed by the end. My job is gentle, and I've time in my life on the side for writing, reading, playing in the great outdoors, friends, and so on. But I still desire a specific time where I can rest, Sabbath, in the Lord. I can appoint a time where it's Yeshua and I. And when the week is tough, and there appears to be no path of escape, no solution for problems, no winning an intractable situation, God speaks those words from Zephaniah into my ear. And then I always hear my favorite verse: "Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near." (NASB)
Let your hope rest on the Lord, He is near. Shabbat Shalom.

Friday, July 26, 2013

Muse and Music

Etymology is a secret passion of mine. Super secret. I admit that I never liked taking Latin in my preppy middle school life, and only later realized how efficacious Latin can be in "guessing" meanings or deriving understanding with knowledge of roots. One of the recent words I glanced into was music. The obvious root word here is the same as that for muse: "Mousa", or even "Musa" (Greek and Latin respectively).
The muses were the 9 Goddesses of literature, art, and sciences.
The suffix -ic generally just means "of" or "about" or even "pertaining to". If you use the word "acerbic"(root word acerbus: bitter, sour), adding the suffix means "pertaining to sour" or "of sour taste", if you will. It might be easier to see with alcoholic: pertaining to alcohol. Music, therefore, is pertaining to the muses. The most well known example of muse was perhaps in Homer's Odyssey.
"Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy."
Music, then, pertains to those domains of the goddesses aforementioned: literature, art, sciences. There was a belief, or a mythos, that literature, art, and the sciences stemmed from these nine goddesses. Homer was being inspired into his musical rendition of Odysseus' travels. I love music, but it is not where I'm inspired. I delight in violin compositions, classical orchestras, folk traditions and the many and varied forms music assumes in our diverse cultures. Every now and again, when no one is home and the sky's turned dark and speckled with stars, I retreat into my room and light some scented candles, unpack my guitar from its casket, and pluck at the strings until I imagine I'm singing with the heavens.
My artistry regarding music is limited, but I see it everywhere. I see it in the stars as I approach the valley: twinkling, celestial lights spanning the twilight sky; I see it in summer trees, spring rains, winter fireplaces and blankets while charcoal clouds sprinkle outside; and in the autumn colors. I think that's why I appreciate the Silmarillion, and its metaphorical beginnings.
But certain nights exist, certain times, when the original music seems... closer. When the harp strings of heaven and the fluting of earth assemble in ensemble, and walking outside you forget that your bones are tired from running around - a long week. When you forget, even, those trivial worries that plague our everyday, and live. I can imagine myself anywhere in the world, with these stars, staring up and seeing nothing besides. On the cliffs of Scotland, waves breaking against stone beneath; in the heights of South America, among the ruins of Machu Pichu as an anachronism stuck between the ancient and the now; in the steppe of Mongolia, endless grassy fields and hills; in the desert dunes, cooling sands on all sides.
I'm everywhere, I'm nowhere, I'm between sleeping and waking, and the Sabbath rest begins.


Thursday, July 25, 2013

Fields, Fruit, and Valleys Full - Dreamy Thursdays

The day started as a Fleet Foxes morning, wobbled its way into a Sufjan Stevens afternoon, and collapsed into a Sigur Ros denouement.  After work it was smiles and Mumford and Sons babbling with me on the drive to drop off A's stuff and pick up my prodigal pillow.

This morning, the early mountain mists sifting into the valley quickly burned off in the summer blaze, droplets tumbling to the ground and turning the grass into opals on the early harp strings of sunlight. Turtledoves chortled, starlings shrieked and dove between the homes before gliding into roof slats, and high above, the hawks soared on the valley's warm updrafts. Plums now sit ripe on trees of like color, and blackberries sneak tendrils across streets, burdened with berries and bees. And figs, even figs, gather along snaking limbs. It's like Tantalus' wonderland, full of fruits within reach, and the river slouching through town. Lazy summer days, even filled with work, are marvel-filled.

I dreamed last night of a cabin in the woods, old-parchment moonlight piercing the canopy and sparkling against the windows. A bubbling burn trickled through the glade, and low rows of herbs and vegetables in the garden behind the home wavered in the gentle breeze. A hart nibbled at the grass at creek's edge, head lowered without fear, while an owl hroo'ed in the branches above, gold-ringed eyes watching the forest entire, hunting instincts prepared.

The door opened into a cool abode, lightly furnished. A rug covered a cedar floor, and paintings of icons covered the walls, replete with halos. A small twin bed built of beech wood occupied the corner opposite the fireplace in which an ember-red fire sparked its last. Books littered the floor, old tomes filled with burnt-marshmallow parchment sitting atop crumbling scrolls. Knobbly, white, wax candles dribbling into bronze saucers were strewn about the floor. The scroll anchored to the floor by piles of tomes read, "There and Back Again... A Hobbit's Tale".
I think the scroll beneath it was a Virginia Woolf (a room of one's own. go figure what that says about my psyche)

Well, sounds pretty idyllic to me. I'd live there.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

I want to climb (see) mountains again, mountains, Gandalf

I'm not one for favorites, generally. What's my favorite color? All the greens of the trees and blues of the seas, the oranges, crimsons, violets of summer sunsets, the first daisies, trilliums and snowdrops come spring, the color of distant mountains, each season of sky from icy winter blue to gentian summer, coffee and spring-sky eyes, emeralds, amethyst and precious jewels, the color of twilight filled with countless stars and an archaic, fae moon.
What's my favorite number? Number of what?
Favorite time? 1224, 1248, 1111, 1234, 248, 1144, 1122, 1236, 1020. I don't know. What is a favorite time, anyway? My favorite time is time with people, time with everyone I love dearly.
Favorite pair of pants? Shirt? Shoes? I have 1 pair of shoes, a few pairs of pants, and as many shirts as P last gave me because he felt like I needed more clothing.

There are some things I do have favorites for, though, things over which my partiality gets the better of me. The one greatest example that's been stuck on my mind all day is mountains. I have a favorite mountain. It also is one of my favorite Sabbath locations, places of prayer, and a place I climb whenever possible. Matthew knows of it - he probably introduced us, Si and I. Oh, I so desperately want to visit, to scamper up its steep incline, racing towards the summit, and seeing everything stretched out below from Seattle, to the Olympics, to Mount Rainier, to the Cascades, and the entire valley in between, with the Snoqualmie river and each tiny town stretched along its course.

One of the beauties of this land is that I'm surrounded by mountains. Less than an hour drive probably brings me to the mountains on either side. So at least I don't suffer as Bilbo does. I'm already seeing mountains. Now I just want to reverently scale them.

Tolkein
The wind was on the withered heath,
But in the forest stirred no leaf:
There shadows lay be night or day,
And dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
And like a tide it roared and rolled.
The branches groaned, the forest moaned,
And leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
All movement in the forest ceased.
But shrill and harsh across the marsh,
Its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
The reeds were rattling—on it went.
O'er shaken pool under heavens cool,
Where racing clouds were torn and rent.



“Ah, Teneriffe!”
By Emily Dickinson

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages — pause for you —
Sunset — reviews her Sapphire Regiment –
Day — drops you her Red Adieu!

Still — Clad in your Mail of ices –
Thigh of Granite — and thew — of Steel –
Heedless — alike — of pomp — or parting

Ah, Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling — still –

Walking the Week

The word of the LORD came to me: "What do you see, Jeremiah?" "I see the branch of an almond tree," I replied.
The Lord said to me, "You have seen correctly, for I am watching to see that my word is fulfilled."

One of my father’s favorite Bible fun-facts is that God is a punster.  I remember loving this, and probably telling all my elementary school friends.  Even as a child, maybe particularly as a child, I had a greater aptitude than normal for levity. Sometimes we need levity.  Perhaps because of this penchant for the comic, I find I am rarely a stressed out personality. Not many things actually bear down on me (I actually imagined a bear falling from the sky, hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy style), or cause me undue angst. This isn't to say there are no chinks in my armored psyche, but that most trials I slide through without panic.

This past weekend, I swallowed stress, consuming like a fire.  I kept trying to burn up more stress that A possessed, hoping to bear the load on his back, and provide him some healing warmth in return.  Upon my return, my body was not ready for the abrupt cessation of anxiety, and panicked. I spent all day wandering the house, likely burning miles of useless meandering into the floors in circles, loops, or aimless pathing. I couldn't even sit still for five minutes without standing up and racing around my imaginary track. With the amount of in-house speed-walking I managed, I’m certain I walked at least 10 miles, spending nearly 8 hours of work walking around the house, killing energy I did not possess. For the worst part of this was, I couldn't eat. I ate 3 bites of cereal, 4 blueberries, half of half a bean burrito (yes, a quarter), and a couple bites of an apple.  My general thought pattern was, “Lord, please Lord, help me crash, help me eat, what’s going on, why can’t I stop, why can’t I even eat blueberries?”

That last question is important. I can always eat blueberries.

Then I crashed.

Today was different. I slept almost a full 9 hours before waking up, and an entire restful day stretched out ahead of me: no work. My car was broken from this weekend of travel, and needed significant brake repair, and so I drove my car to Les Schwab, and asked them how long it would take for fixing.  They said by 11 o’clock in the morning (2 hours) they would call me. So I walked the 20 minutes to Chapters Coffee, and sat down to read, write, relax my day away. If my car had not been broken, I might have been half tempted to drive to my favorite mountain and spend the day praying at the peak.
But my car was broken. The point is moot.
I read for a while, wrote for a while, and, come 11, decided I might go on a walk until they called me. So I walked up College towards my church, and past it towards the playground. It was a sunny summer day (90 degrees, brilliant blue sky), and children were everywhere.  I would have stopped and enjoyed the sunshine for a while, but apparently the park was being renovated, and construction noises and voices drown the environmental ambiance and destroyed the serenity of the park. I walked on.
                I traipsed up and down the street 4 times, advancing a block uptown each time, simply looking at the houses and yards, charmed at Newberg’s cute lawns and diversity of homes.  It was now 11:20, and still no phone call. No problem, these places are always delayed, correct? So I walked into the disc golf park and lay down for a bit, reading some more beneath an umbrella pine with long, fuzzy needles, the sunlight streaking through its branches in strings. The small valley of the park was filled with a beautiful yellow-green grass under the firs lining the edges of the creek snaking through the park.  The rhododendrons and small shrubbery guarding the path on my right were golden in the nearly noon rays, and everything was awash in light - even the creek mirrored brightly from my hilltop vantage.
                Another half hour passed, and still no call. No matter. The day is lovely, and I’m getting hungry. I’ll walked the 20 minutes to Les Schwab and checked in, asking how much longer it might be until they checked my brakes.  They were not sure, but they hoped another couple of slots opened up in the shop soon enough. Maybe an hour?
                Longer than I’d hoped. I was rather expecting a Sabbath nap to fully heal myself regarding sleep, but maybe I would just get a late nap? Might as well enjoy the day, right? I walked to Fred Meyer, and took a long route, taking me nearly half an hour. Once there, I bought some light lunch: an apple, some juice, some carbs, and cashed a check. While eating, I began wandering back towards Les Schwab, assuming by the time I arrived, surely they would be checking out my car. 
                I arrived back at Les Schwab shortly after 1, and they said it would certainly be less than two hours until they could check out my car and determine what might be the matter. Not even fix it; investigate to see what needed to be fixed. Well, good times. I was stuck anyway, so I figured I might as well walk around some more. I walked from there to my last place of residence, and wandered around in that neighborhood for a little before walking back towards hoover park. After a while more of walking, they called me at 3, saying they’d checked out my car and it would be a little over an hour until it was fixed. I lay down for a while in the green grass, watching the turtledoves and starlings. After a half hour or so, I got up and began the trek back towards Les Schwab.  It was now 4, about an hour after the call, and they were still putting the final touch-ups on my car. Soon enough, I paid and left.

All the while, I could not get my mind off my mountain. How much more exciting would it have been to walk a mountain instead of 10 miles of small-town? I wish I had pictures of the mountain-top vista for contemplating now, but the only time I ever brought a camera, all I could photograph from the peak was the tops of the clouds beneath me. Soon enough, mountain, you will be mine.

I feel a lot better now: a number of full, giant meals behind me, sleep, a mountain of plums, figs, and apples in the fridge. I’m ready for the week now – unstressed and prepared for conquest. With God on my side, I’m unstoppable.

Kahlil Gibran
When you love you should not say,
"God is in my heart," but rather,
"I am in the heart of God."
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course




Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Captive (Need Sleep)

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you see me with all your heart. I will be found by you, " declares the LORD, "and will bring you back from captivity."

A number of things I've read or experienced recently entertain the concept of captiv...-  I stop there in the word, because I want the root rather than any particular word that stems from it.

Etymology: from Latin captivus "caught, taken prisoner," from captus, past participle of capere "to take, hold, seize"

I was reading a book called Captivating by John Eldridge and his wife (writers of Wild at Heart - don't make fun of me, it was Matthew's fault), and it discusses a desire, of women in particular, to be captivating. It's more than just beautiful, it is a sort of Quality as exists in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. There is a portion in Name of the Wind that I've always appreciated:
...But there's a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you..." Bast gestured excitedly. "Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen."

Bast says this in the end, explaining a point, but it is part of it. I've read Night Circus, wherein a certain captivity forces the main characters into a romantic, death game. This weekend, I was captivated in A's wedding, by the sea, by the community, by every smiling face. Every stress shared, I swallowed whole, and my metabolism and sleeping is only now recuperating. I was captivated, and now I feel as though I'm in excitement withdrawal, as my entire being remains captured, and the weekend is now over, and the question remains: now what?

What does this need? More Jeremiah!
“I have loved you with an everlasting love;
Therefore I have drawn you with lovingkindness."

So, that's possibly far removed from context, but that's fine. I think there is something special about quotes like this, something I often forget: this is God speaking about his love for us - not to mention it is God speaking. Awesome. And even though this initially referred to Israel, we have joined the vine of Israel through salvation as per Romans:

 If some of the branches have been broken off, and you, though a wild olive shoot, have been grafted in among the others and now share in the nourishing sap from the olive root, do not consider yourself to be superior to those other branches. If you do, consider this: You do not support the root, but the root supports you. You will say then, “Branches were broken off so that I could be grafted in.”  Granted. But they were broken off because of unbelief, and you stand by faith. Do not be arrogant, but tremble.

What a rabbit trail of words. This is how tired I am. These words from Jeremiah have meant much to me, today. The Lord has plans for me (for me!). I can be brought back from captivity, whatever it is holding me imprisoned, and I can make every captive to obedience in Christ. My earlier reference to a marathon fell short, unless, reaching the end, I'm exhausted but cannot force myself into a halt, a Sabbath. Captivity and captivation surrounds me: some of it freeing, other portions claustrophobic.





Monday, July 22, 2013

Weekend Words

I don't know what this weekend was. A beautiful mess? I spent all weekend at a wedding in SoCal for one of my very best of friends. Normally, I find time for writing every day.  This weekend was blessedly chaotic in artful and heart-wrenching ways. I laughed until my sides ached, cried salt towards the sea, regaled fairy tales of chandeliers into A's listening ears, was healed and lent healing, was broken and prayed for God's soothing, loved, lived, listened, thrived.
Words of poetry surrounded me surely as the ocean mighty, whose waves cried against my feet each dawning morning. Burgeoning words blossoming as first flowers after forest fires, violet, gold, and crimson in an efflorescent wildfire. And no time for journaling, for sewing seeds and reaping some glorious paean of writing following a nearly ideal weekend.
I'm bubbling over with words, but I can't even begin placing them down correctly. I'm shy on sleep, my metabolism bristled against my despairing circadian cycle and staunchly refused all food all weekend.  Every night, we stayed up late and shared a desperate joy, a last gift whose spiritual offering was not just for A, but was equally a gifting unto ourselves. I want to write. I want to shout and write poetry and scream and dance and live and run around in circles until I wear silly holes in the floor. My heart is ablaze with love, and where art thou now, brother?
Change is this: an end and a beginning. I craved an important piece of this ending, and an earnest christening of this new beginning (A actually broke a wine bottle in the car and spilled wine everywhere. There is some "christening" pun being made here, certainly, but I'm whistling innocently with measured nonchalance). Hugs and photographic memories, heart-wrenching words that followed me all weekend - I'm full of words and empty. I'll never find time for writing everything this weekend meant to me, and I suspect I couldn't. It meant everything to me, and always will. It was sanctified, a holy communion.
I wrote a couple of poems trying to capture my thoughts, and ended up with 6 broken haikus, 1 sonnet (Elizabethan), 1 free verse, 1-ish metric adventure, and nothing worth repeating that adequately captured my feelings as this weekend captured my heart.

These words have soared with me on my journey into normalcy, whatever that is, as another beautiful exemplar of this weekend. I don't know why I put them here. That's how cognizant I am of my current thought process.

The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.


And I come back, remembering two different worlds. Sagebrush and succulents, a saline seaside where sands and shores mingle, and roll uphill into a tanned and sunny world. Palms and aloes dominate the fauna, gulls, pigeons, turkey vultures, and herons the fowl. Adobe and sun-bleached or sandblaster woods are boxes leading into the hills above the ocean. The worlds as like as green and grey, and colored in like pallet, each in exquisite fashion.  The mightiness of the sea, here, in the southern lands, and the mountains, evergreens and trees, here, in the 45th, a green belt of verdant flora with scarce a pace of dirt between where brush or shrub clamber skyward, greeting the sun's harp strings. I would miss my world, though the greatness of theirs burns brightly in my heart. But when the mists roll in over the mountains, and the dewdrops trickle down tulip petals and along the efflorescent hydrangeas and rhododendrons, and each blade of grass prisms the light into tiny rainbow droplets - I know I am home.

Monday, July 15, 2013

More mere musing

Some of the most commonly used terms in fantasy literature involve shade: shadow, black, darkness. The follow-ups are equally dire: war, blood, death.  I suspect this speaks a great deal about the most avid followers of the genre, though I’ll avoid that speculation for the moment.  I think, embedded within many, is an uneasiness and tension regarding light and dark.  Fantasy stories are thus: darkness and hopelessness covers the world with umbrage, and only a spark remains. Slowly, steadily, the hero cossets the flame, coaxes it into a defiant candle against a stygian tornado, the thrumming nimbus of storm that adumbrates a once edenic land.
Is this story familiar?
A salvation: possibly a sacrifice, likely a great battle. Much drama exists en route, but the most frequently ends in familiar fashion: good overcomes evil. Silly isn’t it, but this story sells countless novels, and we beg to hear it again and again. Often, a little love spices up the story, twisting a romantic element into our familiar tale. If there is a sacrifice, this is often its mode of entrance.
I find myself enthralled with light. Its prismatic qualities, its saturations and hues.

U  u      /        u        /    u
In the rests and rhythms

U    /   u    u       u     /    u     u
Of resonance and renaissance

U   u     /    u   u     /   u   u
In the magic and melodies

U    /    u   u    /     u
Of music and muses


This is another spontaneous night. My minds races through nothing in particular and pretends that it’s racing through important topics. There is nothing of importance tonight. Nothing of writing importance, anyway.




Sunday, July 14, 2013

Sunset

A certain quality of light exists, a scarlet sky near sunset, where everything lay in a limbo between light and twilight. Even within the confines of these walls, the lamp does little in illuminating the room. Outside, the red pierces these windows and nullifies this dull yellow into naught. The day dies in an asphyxiation of light: white, red, black. I cannot read, I cannot write, I cannot but be mesmerized, entranced by such a firework display.

A Toast Unsaid (I'm not making one!)

Note: Turns out I'm (thankfully) not making a toast at A's wedding. I wrote one already, but am thankful my words were not required. Public speaking is not my forte. So, consider this an imaginary toast. Without further ado, my imaginary toast begins anon.

The Toast

One of my first and great memories of A was in freshman year Bible study. Our entire floor had gathered in a classroom circle of desks, and, but moments into the study, an argument started. Who knows what the argument  initially entailed, but at some point during the ruckus, A flips open his Bible and claims some insight into the matter. "Open your Bibles to Genesis 2:25, gentlemen," he must have said with sagely sincerity. So we did; and he read with utmost candor, "And the man and the woman were naked and felt no shame."

Whether through perplexity or laughter, the argument soon dissolved into a healing hilarity. From horrible, campy movies, to eternal, comedic floor meetings, road trips, and floor dinners, I grew in my friendship with A. Our sophomore year, we lived together in a four-person suite, and the spiritual motif for our suite-floor was fourfold: men of devotion, men of conquest, men of purity, men of healing.  A immediately chose each of our traits: D devotion, J purity, myself as men of conquest, leaving himself as "men of healing".

I think, throughout our years together, A has proven to be that and more. Many times over our years, I needed that healing presence, likely more than he needed my conquest.  Now, in his relationship with S, I can see his cherishing and healing still, in harmony.  They are a sweet music, whether playing disc golf, nerts, singing strange German tunes, or concocting some delectable dish. I've grown to love this melody, singing healing into each of our lives - a familiar composition, with an aria uniquely new.

I grow even more excited to hear the verses, join the refrain, and dance with them in the chorus of our lives. In the rests and rhythms, the resonance and the renaissance, together let's orchestrate a beautiful future. Together, our euphony will be sweet, our healing bold, in sweeping chorus.

(Toast Portion...?)
To A and S and us all - may we follow carefully the director's guidance, ever creating beautiful music.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Mornings and Sleepless Nights

I'm a morning person. Back in high school, I may have been what classified as a sleep person, one of those rare anemic sorts whose consistently tired body forces them into naps, second naps, and early sleep into sleeping in. When your energy level is on par with cats during the day and dogs at night, something's the matter with your circadian rhythm, iron-blood levels, and energy quotient. Eventually, probably beginning in my sophomore year of college, I developed a preference to mornings. Whether I fell asleep at 10pm or 1am, I generally woke before eight, often earlier.
I took naps - and I still often do - but my body awakened earlier than many. I'm still not a five-am person, though often 7-am is even my weekend call for rolling over and beginning my morning meditation. I think one of the reasons I was always a "sleep" person in high school was because I never actually slept very well. Until only a couple of years ago, I thought my condition was normal. I thought insomnia was something other people endured, that it meant staying up all night unable to catch a wink for nights on end. I guess I just never wanted myself categorized in anything like a disorder. I just assumed I could overcome anything like that. I recently did some (lousy) research.

According to Wikipedia:
Insomnia, or sleeplessness, is a sleep disorder in which there is an inability to fall asleep or to stay asleep as long as desired.

According to WebMD:
Insomnia is a sleep disorder that is characterized by difficulty falling and/or staying asleep. People with insomnia have one or more of the following symptoms:

Difficulty falling asleep
Waking up often during the night and having trouble going back to sleep
Waking up too early in the morning
Feeling tired upon waking


Hmm.. well that changes things. So I started trying to weasel my way out of this one, too. My problem isn't that I wake up in the night and can't fall back to sleep, or that I wake up too early and feel tired on waking. Almost always, when I awaken, I feel refreshed (though sometimes I wonder if it is a faux-refreshment, since if I don't get enough sleep, I afternoon crash like I overdosed on sugar and ran 10 miles). No, my problems are all at night: difficulty falling asleep.  I discovered the average time it takes for a person to fall asleep is close to 7 minutes. 7 minutes? I average 45 at least, closer to an hour, frequently 50% longer. Is that unusual? Is that a problem?

So where did this all start, this topic? Where was I going? I read recently an author stating that many of the greatest authors of all time did their best work in the morning. Waking up early, they simply wrote everything on their mind and later puzzled it into genius. I'm a morning person, this should work for me too, right? Wrong. Mornings are too natural, and, for some reason, I'm closer to dreams at night. When I'm falling asleep, lying on my mattress at night, these are the times that I divine magical phrases and clever story settings. At night, when the sandman sprinkles his sand into the corners of my drooping eyes, these are the times that my muse strikes, and my music sings. For a bit, I wondered whether I might try and fix my slight insomnia (for it is not a dire exemplar of the disorder). However, I realized recently I would not trade it for the world. Why would I? It is my guiding force into creation. Now, I eagerly await those hours lying awake in bed, not sleeping. Insomnia, my precious art.


Friday, July 12, 2013

Foxtail Moon

A long week, but it's over, and I'm rolling in single digits now. A foxtail moon rides the sky low, near the horizon in a dull, ember orange. Dreams cling close to earth this night, sleep light, for morning dawns not nigh. Fae is ever near when the moon's not half ours. Only a sliver sits here, gibbous there, and whether waxing, waning, a crimson moon bears its will in midnight tides.
It's a song, don't you see? A song singing itself from creation's morn until destruction's eve, and into fall. It's a siren song into love and devastation. A nail lune, fingers buried deep into the sky, a golden yellow lulling me to sleep.


Thursday, July 11, 2013

Metaphor

One of my gravest weaknesses as a writer is my lack of metaphor. In one book I read, one of the characters says something to the effect of, "Finding the right metaphor is like... is like..." In context, he was discussing love, or women, or something equally gnostic, but occasionally I get stuck within a zone of metaphoric void. The sun washing over the hills towards sunset while the celestial bodies speckle into existence is like... is like... beautiful? You would have to see it. The ocean lapping against the beach beneath a sea of stars, a gentle breeze against your back as the sea cools and the sand still radiates warmth is like... is like...why weren't you just there? The majestic peak, a pristine white gleaming above the ringlet of clouds as I stare from it's mighty pinnacle, the valley stretched beneath is like... like... well? Edenic? It isn't like you were there, either. How can I explain something in a simple comparison that illustrates something primal, meta-natural. Frequently, these times are just images stamped onto my retina, a mere beach or mountain or valley. But just as frequently, they strike a spiritual chord, and transcend the physical realm. As I glance across these things, I see why God called them good on that first creative run. They are good.

And it isn't just any old sunset I see, showing hillsides in honey and sparking the trees awash in wildfire scarlet-orange. I'm not staring at mundane-beach under everyday-stars with wimpy waves lapping at a soggy shore. Standing atop this mountain, staring across the world stretched beneath my shoddy sambas, a valley indeed edenic, filled with snaking rivers, sand and soil and evergreens, the fall trees decidedly deciduous and marking a fiery swath across forests green. Tiny toy cars dot distant highways and distant structures are the stuff of ants, this is olympus, this is asgard, and huginn and muninn join me in this temperate paradise atop a solitary summit.

Does metaphor suffice? These are moments where the entirety of my experience is swept out from beneath me, and words are whispering hymns of praise to an almighty maker, not petty descriptions that litter the ocean floor, the valley crags, the depths of a cave in time of sunset. But then, these may be just excuses. Because metaphor is not my forte, and finding the right metaphor is like... is like...

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Throwaway Post

Philosophy? No. Poetry? Probably not tonight. Commentary on some literary experience or another? I'm tired. I have a stack of poetry books, essay compilations, and classics arrayed around my bed, and I don't even have the vitality for tasting them. Mentally, I desperately want to dive into Maya Angelou's poetry, or Watership Down's articulate descriptions of rabbit's scampering about the wilderness in search of home. I crave Keat's or Blake's romanticism and Gaiman's magnificent mythology, but my physical energy is ghastly low.
How am I still writing this?
I know not.
Today, I finished wedding shopping for one of my best friends' weddings. That exhausted me. Later, I played competitive video games (lame, huh?), and after several punishing losses, we managed to scrape together a win after a tremendously drawn out game (an hour and a half: the others were all around 30 minutes). Afterwards, I didn't get dinner until almost nine, and we ate celebratory steaks. I was in "tired coma" before the steak, which afterwards only exacerbated my coma-condition; postprandial somnolence crashed into my brain like a truck.
Still, the day was a success: bananagrams, burritos, outdoor mall shopping, breathing in the sun, driving with windows down, resting, chatting with good friends, competing with friends, reading, writing, dreaming, watching the hillsides roll by and driving along the Shins road into the valley. Summertime, the living's easy.
I hope everyone has had spectacular days. I'm praying for those of you that have not.
Enjoy the sun, enjoy the stars, dream yourself into mythical days.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Harold and Maude - Biased Critics

I wrote previously regarding critics. I have a definitive lack of trust in people, sometimes. It may sound strange, but this particularly refers to people that I’m proximal to. I don’t distrust their integrity, or their honesty regarding most things, only those commentaries upon my own person.  I don’t think this characteristic is exclusive to me, but I’ll pretend like it is for the sake of explanation.
                Say a good friend of mine, Harold the Hippo, saunters up to me and notices I’ve purchased a new pair of glasses. I feel a little self-conscious about them, and no one else who’s seen me today has mentioned them, perhaps they are reluctant to admit they aren’t particularly flattering on me. Harold the Hippo, however, is staunchly in favor of them. “Top of the morning to you, Ben! My, those glasses look keen perched ‘neath your brow.  What a splendid style! I heartily approve, my good fellow!”  He’s a good friend, Harold the Hippo, and I know he means well, but why should Harold argue in favor of said googly-goggles while everyone else avoids the topic? Certainly he’s only flattering me. Do these framed lenses obviate my protruding nose or embellish my lazy eyes?
                Surely you jest, Harold. You humble me with your words, but I pray thee not lie on my behalf, I stutter.
                Harold stammers in shock, trying to entrench his opinion, desperately digging. His frantic fight for proving his compliment is valid only solidifies my own self-conscious fortification. My discomfort increases. Shortly thereafter, another friend, Maude the Giraffe, also approaches in the wake of Harold’s ashamed retreat.
                “Why, Ben, I do believe you’ve invested in some new article. Hold a moment, tell me not. Is it not these fabulous rims so excellently framing your eyes, matching your irises and masterfully showing off your greatest features without ostentation? Well chosen, my good sir!”
                Thank you Maude, for your kind words. I wish they were honest, I really do. But you are simply taking Harold’s side, trying to cheer me up. I should never have worn these glasses, I think.
          
                While extreme, I believe this pattern of thinking and reacting comes naturally to me. People say, “you’ve performed so well!” or “this story is really fabulous!” This only makes me more competitive, as I believe them not. Why would I believe people who love me? Does not their love cloud their vision?
I think that everyone needs a critic who has no reason for niceties, no obligation towards the person in question. Unbiased, perhaps a little critical: these are the people I want to evaluate my writing and give me an authoritative explanation of where my weaknesses reside, and where my strengths lay. My mother would love my writing even if she couldn’t understand it (which, most often in my stories, she may not… my fault). So would my best friends. Without impartiality, what hope have I of improvement?

Monday, July 8, 2013

Forest Foray

----notes: not actual story as yet----

The canopy was thick: a combination of giant palm leaves, mushroom caps and underbelly gills of the giant shrooms that towered alongside the trees. The colors were splendid, if you could see them: umber and pale yellow, dark forest greens sun-bleached down the spectrum into lime greens.  You could not see them from the forest floor, not in most places. Whole swathes of the forest were dark as night, darker even, for no stars or moon touched these barren floors. Even in the summer, the warm winds never reached this forest center, for it was larger than even kingdoms, ancient and cold.  The icy floor of the forest earth cracked lightly with each step, the sounds reverberating, ringing in your ears. Yes, without sight, every sense grew more vivid until you saw through tastes and sounds and smells.

And the people, can they be described? You cannot see them anyway, but they are dark of apparel and light of skin, for black has blanched their features. They are humanoid, yes, though covered with tiny feeling hairs on their feet and hands that sense vibrations in the air. They can smell blood for miles, fear from a day's distance, and their ears are sharper than any owls. Creeping through the darkness, they avoid all sticks, twigs, and even stones, running silently across the bare, pallid ice and earth.  Every stump and clump of mushrooms evaded with ease.

Almost two full days, the race into the forest continues, with scarce rest for food and water. No sunshine is seen, no light of any kind.  Lost still slumbers, thrown across a man-creature's back who scarcely heeds the burden, leading the rest into the vastness of the old woods. Occasionally, the man-creature lurches to a halt, making no visible motion of any kind - they would see nothing if he did. He sniffs the air and knuckles his forehead, reaching out with his mind, sensing the mental vibrations of the forest: a mushroom there, some great mountain firs, and small life feasting on fallen leaves and decrepit mushrooms. It is not these that frighten him - a saurian form pounds through the trees nearby, several men high, though it is not hungry. It has just feasted on a climber. Less than a mile away, a many-leg insect scuttles, and even its careful vibrations and fierce hunger they can feel. The centipedes kill, hungry or not, and it has caught their scent. And lastly, there is another, a girl not unlike the man they carry now: alien and pulsing with the strength of gods. How she has survived, they do not know. They fear her also.

Satisfied, the leader hoists the man once more, and with a silent telepathy, urges them forward. The city is near; the man soon awakens.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Destoryer

It is with slight embarrassment that I write this. A friend of mine once created a character whose name was the Destoryer. Originally a typo, upon seeing this, I only scarcely concealed my excitement. Wouldn't such a character make a more dastardly villain even than the original intent? Not someone who destroys, but someone who steals stories. One of my favorite quotes in Name of the Wind (Patrick Rothfuss) is by Kvothe in the presence of a social-working priest who lives in a basement caring for a bunch of waifs, the ignored children of impoverished urbania. One of the children, a suffering and likely traumatized child, moans, asking for a story. Trapis replies that he knows no stories, and Kvothe thinks: "everyone has at least one story."
Another story I read, at my best friend's behest, was a book called The Book of Lost Things by Connolly. While I have mixed feelings about this story, and mixed feelings about grotesque, grim tales like that in general, the concept was incredible in a sense. A crooked man who promises a different story, an escape from a troubling story. But if there was a creature that might steal your story, might leave you a helpless shell, a husk of character, personality, and past, would that not be the most diabolical of entities? I long to develop this character, and need only a fae enough world for housing him - something between Coralina, Stardust and Wildwood. This character I've only imagined already frightens and awes me. He's more intimidating than Mr Hyde, Dracula, the Wicked Witch, or even the white witch. Does his power require and bequeathal from the victim? Or does he possess legendary powers of leaving behind a wake of soulless victims? His story approaches, and he haunts me creative dreams.

Nothing much more interesting tonight. Reading some Maya Angelou and marking down what I want to read over the next few days. Time is slipping through the hourglass' waist and down to her toes. This is the sinking sand of my dreams, turn me over, turn me over and let me fall into sleep.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Forgotten Thoughts

When I was but a boy, I loved reading. My greatest heroes were not basketball stars or football legends, movie celebrities or historical tacticians of some distant violence. No, my heroes were fabricated from imagination, mine and others, and I sought them out in each of their worlds: Narnia, Lord of the Rings, the Boxcar Children, Ender's Game, Taran Wanderer. It should not be surprising, then, realizing that I desired of my future not a successful sports career, or being a film artist or superhero, but to be an author, a definer of story.
Even in my youth, I recall car rides where I invented the catch line the protagonist might say that would catch the villain off guard, shredding his schemes and administering justice; or that perfect phrase that captures the heroines heart; or that aha! moment where the mystery is unraveled, the culprit's elaborate plans falling apart in the face of sherlockian rationale.
I wish, even now, I could have seen those phrases. The mind of a child has immense power, and I suspect that while they might have been unformed, even those trivial lines, in the eyes of a child, contained much magic.  Writing innovation might arrive at any point, and I've learned one must be wary, always possessing some tool for inscription at all times.  Who knows when that character's motivation will be illuminated, sitting in the back seat of a car on the road to nowhere? Or when the opening hook of a story falls neatly into place, or the denouement crashes into your mind like a hurricane of hammers - what if you have nothing to remember these ideas with?
You think, I'll just remember them all later, sometime when I'm at ease and writing in the safety of my home. But will you remember then? Hours later and life impeding? I suspect not. Even today, I imagined some fantastic lines in the car and neglected to set them into a device or notebook of some kind. Now, I sigh at the loss of creativity this world will never see. I'm no titanic author, not now, but my words, to me, still possess much creative merit, however unformed. It is like the cooling of the earth, formless and void. Eventually, I'll put everything into place: plants, seas, life. Every time I forget, the world never gets to experience a dodo bird or a rhinoceros. It may never know, but I'll never see things the same without.

Friday, July 5, 2013

Fever Dreams


Lost's days were a nightmare of frozen frames of heat waves, hot and cold. He woke seating, his skin itching as it dried from the heat and sweat in vain to saturate his scalding limbs. Or he woke violently shaking, or cold beyond shaking, glaciers running icy channels through his veins and lungs gasping for warmth. Those few moments of clarity, scarce contrasted with feverish agony, collected disparate images of lying on a stretched, animal-skin litter hoisted by two burly blurs Lost couldn't quite discern.  The air wavered angrily, shimmering, as though a lens of gauze covered Lost's eyes, and Lost suspected they crossed a vast desert.

He would have been correct. Chaos, only kilometers behind, watched as the caravan carrying Lost progressed from oasis to oasis in the arid wasteland. The sands shone like reflective glass, a second crimson sun, leaving no solace from the sky or surface from the overbearing light, no remiss in the endless, rolling sands. Entropy had torn through this region as a detached and implacable force, crushing the iron stones into rust-red sands, a desert chaff full of scattered memories.  Small, finely sandblasted rocks littered the ever-shifting dunes, a flaky, craggy hide of earth that looked like the scabbed skin of some subterranean monstrosity.

The rolling hills eternal, Chaos thought, an ocean of stone and silicon in everlasting swells with scarce a cactus or shrub interrupting the cruel monotony. A halo of clouds coated the horizon like sea-foam, upsetting an otherwise perfect blue sky, glossed over with heat haze. Small rodents scampered along the cracks and seethes of the low ground, and the caravan ahead threw whirlwinds of sand into the air, leaving clouds of iron which Chaos carefully followed, always keeping low and silent, a huntress.

----notes----
While Lost tossed and turned, fighting an endemic illness, Chaos tracked, wondering what these strange people wanted, where they were going. They were not the same, she'd realized, as those that had attacked her near the ship. It wasn't until the fifth night that they reached a destination. The caravan stopped on the edge of a great forest of towering trees and fungus, stretching high as the hills. 

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Borealis

Was it fortune or destiny that I saw her then, a wisp of ribbon light? She glided past, the song emanating from her person as surely as the aura of colors clothed and spun about her.
"Wait!" I called, but I knew I may as well try and stop the morning. I followed. Vibrant multi-chromatic strings of light writhed and whirled in her wake like wings, raising prickles on my skin where they stroked and swept. I noticed nothing but she, in all this, and now I can scarce recall anything save her form in flight. My vague recollections of the path we followed involved no burn, no memory if any bubbling brook or the sound of trickling water over river stones. The scene we drifted through, for I recall no walking, was fae, pierced by mercurial shafts of lunar silver.
Abstractions of trees and brush outlined the narrow trail, mere shadows on the wall with the iridescent flame flickering before me. Perhaps we traveled, or perhaps the landscape simply slid past as we ascended into the hilltops.  Time passed as a series of impossibly fast, freeze-frame images, lightning fast, glacier slow, and eventually we arrived.
I walked up beside her, gazing over a precipitous clifftop across a valley of lights: a city of embers and bonfires, or sparks and fireplaces. She spoke, and her voice was sweeter, even, than the song now silenced. I could not look at her face.
"These are their loves, and they spark and burn to dust. These are their hopes, warmth in cold and light in the dark. These are their memories, brilliant, destructive, and beautiful as the stars. These are their lives, fireflies in a magical, mysterious world. Fly, burn bright, and you will receive what's given."
Before I could respond, she leapt from the cliff's edge, sailing into the sky. The entire sky glowed like a new dawn of wind and colors, an iridescent flame burning at the horizon of time. And I knew, I knew I must leap after her.

I do not know if I leapt or if I woke first. I woke in my be, that night, whispers of a distant stream prevalent in my head. Sitting here now, sputtering candle dimly illuminating this scratchy parchment on which I write, I wonder if I dreamed it all - could I have dreamed it all? But each time I hear that trickling burn, I know, I know, I must return, return to that world of fire and light, and leap into the night, become the dawn.


When the wine of her lips upon this heart sits
and the song of her memory
most luxurious melody
in my mind no recollection rests
in my soul a holy honey sits
honeybees buzzing will you be mine
until sunset dawns on the midnight of time?

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Aurora

A little burn trickles, not far from where I sit, writing this now. It is not an ostentatious brook. It was never meant to be. An observant man might have found it sooner; I learned of its existence only a fortnight past. It is not obvious, no, but it is not hidden, either. For those listening, carefully heeding the sussurrus of the wind, it beckons. I found it thus. Perhaps you may, also.

The moon was low, and words were scarce that night, flightier than dreams. A corner lamp flickered with weakening fluorescence, and the empty parchment shone a dim gold on my antique mahogany desk.Through the drawn shades, a whiff of breeze fluttered the violet curtains, and the sound of trees swished outside. I knuckled my forehead, praying for even a paucity of words, even one that sounded... precious. I sighed and pushed myself back in the chair, the front legs raised off the ground as I leaned back, my tenuous grip on the desk's rim allowing my precarious perch.
Abruptly the wind stopped, and there was silence: no owl hru-hru, no kiro-kiro of toads, none of the cautious pips of nighttime birds or the rustling creatures in the underbrush. Straining, I heard but a tiny trickle, as of a faucet left running over dishes. I got up slowly and tip-tapped towards the kitchen, my bare feet cold against the cherry-wood floor.
The sound almost receded as I entered the kitchen, and I knew it was behind me. A cursory glimpse around the home revealed no tap or spigot unplugged. The sound originated from outside. I didn't even bother with my shoes, pushing open the sliding glass door with surreptitious care. The pine needles and softened sticks littering the ground felt natural, familiar under my feet, though I'd never walked such before. Moonlight filtered through the trees, and when I glanced up, I noticed it was lower than I'd expected, and fuller. Indeed, a full moon shone through the glade the color of decaying parchment, an ancient, yellowed moon, old and gnostic in the sky.
I crept down the hillside into the deeper woods behind my plot, surprised at the soundlessness of my feet against the earth. The trickling grew louder. I imagined I must be drawing near, for the sound filled my ears with a half-music, a fluting whistle and a brush of graceful fingers across an aqueous harp. Soon I saw it, nestled among the river-smooth stones in the crook of the hillside. Trees and flowers jigsawed around the burn protectively, and I brushed past, the champagne moon casting a chill lunar light over my shoulder, reflecting in the water as a rippled face, timeless and patient.
It smelled different here, distant, as though this stream was the stuff of memories and I merely a player on a stage of stories. A rustling noise, and I heard a shape across the creek.
"Hello?" I asked, my voice sounding invasive in the calm. A shape darted across the other side, and moonlight displayed a feminine figure briefly, before it passed into the trees, rustling and then silent. I clambered across the water, parting the tall grass and stepping across the burn by means of the great stones.
"Hello?" I called again, curious at this fantastic coincidence. Who else would have found this brook this night? As I stepped onto the other shore, a blinding light struck me, and a loud roar filled my eardrums like a typhoon.
I collapsed, curling into a ball to protect myself from the noises, the lights burning into me, before I realized everything was within my head. What must have been centuries later, or moments, I opened my eyes. A strange lilting voice replaced the hurricane in my head, a sweet and sorrowful song, both - the most beautiful I'd ever heard. Was it that woman I'd seen? Colors filled my vision, and I could see nothing but. Crimsons and greens, violet and cobalt and silver, as though I'd stepped into the northern lights, and stood amidst their ephemeral threads. As the voice sang, the colors changed, like ribbons of melody distorting and contorting with the voice, an intricate dance of color so beautiful, I stayed entranced for another eternity, breathing, drinking, swallowing up that aria of hues, saturated in sound.


To be continued...

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Ramblings - Nothing to see here

Today, I worked deep into the night. It is possibly my ego that drove me into it, for my boss might have been understanding had I returned to work unfinished, with a plausible explanation as to why. However, having said it would be finished, I counted myself tethered to that statement. It is this industrial "ant" mentality that drives me along creative strains also, however. I cannot complain about the results.

It is a rambling night. I'm not certain I have anything worth saying, and I'm a wee bit exhausted (I finished all of the work things I had to do at 10 instead of 5). I suppose I can at least discuss a little bit of my marathon continuation. Still, quite successful in all avenues. There may be another stage of the race I previously neglected: the camel's bump, the peak of the bell-curve. I don't actually believe marathons quite work that way, with everything being downhill after the middle. I suspect they run more like stories, with a steady rising action leaning into a steep climactic climb, and then denouement! We've crossed the finish line after a bit of falling action and an excited leap towards the delimiting flag.

Still, there is something about the middle that is not unlike a story. Sometimes, when reading a particularly difficult or intense piece of literature, the beginning portion of the story is overwhelming. How will I ever make it to the end of if I struggle so heartily early on? But once you reach the middle, it is like walking a trail halfway up a mountain. If I've made it this far, is it not just the same distance back? Might as well keep going, because I've already shown I can make it this far, and giving up now seems ridiculous. It is past the stage of early abandonment. At least I have that, right?

I think it's definitely sleep time. I'm not certain I've said anything remotely intelligible, or of any form of utility. I hope and pray you are all sleeping well this night, however uncomfortably warm it is. May your dreams be sweet.