Books, Names, Things

I've encompassed myself with literature. I'm double stacking my bookshelves because, until I own a house, it makes little sense buying more bookcases without anywhere worth putting them. Actually, this is one of my favorite and least favorite aspects of Oregon. Powells is awesome. For the last several weekends, I've invested a little time in visiting the Beaverton branch and studying, reading, researching. Powells is a magnificent beast, though beast it is. With such a marvelous new and used bookstore stamping its colossal footprint into the valley, how can smaller bookstores compete? Countless customers flood into the Portland Powells every day, and, though quantitatively less, Beaverton Powells exhibits the same draw (without the intimidating city aspects of parking and entry/exit).
But in the surrounding cities and towns, the quantity and quality of everyday bookstores feels almost non-existent. This is one of the draws of Washington. Half-Price Books was nearly a second home for me, and the Redmond and Sammamish libraries offered vast collections of books for perusal, and an incredible system for inter-library requests in the greater King County region (Seattle, Redmond, Bellevue and a whole host of great libraries besides - though Seattle eventually decided to be lame). Where I am situated in Oregon, counties are bordering on all sides, and each neighboring town seems to claim its own library system. It makes for a miserable me when wanting access to all the vastness of literature immediately.

Erhem. Anyway...

I've little time left. November approaches in tumultuous bounds and my frozen fingers fret over story strings, but my rhythm's off-beat and my prose's pitch poorly sings - my muse's gut requires replacing and a fine-tuned vacation. The only reliable aspect is the metronome clicking in my head, reminding me that time ticks forward inexorably. It's the names, there are too many. Characters dreaming and flying in season, capturing a magic and the mystery of life unto their own. My creativity insufficiently breathes their dusty ink into life. Then the trees: the sugar maples and japanese hedge, the round-lobed leaves of oaks and gyro-copter seeds of maples, the rust hues of cedar and the deceptive camouflage of shaking aspens among the birch - how can I ever remember their names, Old Man Willow?
The flowers, oh so many flowers. Gallant sunflowers, fragile snowdrops, intrepid trilliums, dichotomous roses, delicate daises, gentle germaniums and fragrant violets, lurid and voluptuous tulips, splayed lilies. Would that I might taste with my toes like the butterflies, and see in so many colors that the flowers are a forest, a coral sea of colorful creativity, where each flower paints an invitation to sensory ecstasy.  Would I were a bumbling bee, capturing the world in ultraviolet, where whites are blues and nectar ambrosia is a visually euphoric entreaty of blooming delicacy.
And what of the stars stories and names? Of Cassiopeia vainly boasting in her chair, or ursa major, glancing at his cousins below, bafflingly bereft of tail, or Orion shaking his shield and sword, or bow, and hunting the with the likes of Nimrod. The wind shivers and drags us into the mountains whose names I cannot recall, their silvery peaks smiling as the gods teeth, as a fiery chariot drags that unnamed beacon across the blue vastness of the heavens.
I cannot even remember the animals: the black-tailed deer, the sly bobcat, the eager raccoon, sly as a burglar, the mountain jay and the vexatious starlings tunneling into roof slats, the cougar, the crafty coyote, the industrious beaver, the scampering squirrel, the chattering chipmunks, praying with their hands cutely clasped, the mantis, praying a different prayer of predatory efficiency, the dragonfly with rainbow wings.
Hopefully, if nothing else, I can remember the name of wisdom.

Adventures are coming, distant and many, and I'll be seeking the intricate naming of many things: the touch-smell of the grey wolves racing through alpine woods, the graceful wings of the nighttime sky on the tops of mountains, the coinage of the sun on the steppe, the shifting of the seas of crimson sands.
I'm full of half-thoughts, now and always.

Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
- Everything is Illuminated

Having just finished Everything is Illuminated, I figured it was time I considered it, briefly. The tale itself is psychological - nothing of great import happens, and everything of any importance comes to pass. What is illuminated? Ah, everything is illuminated. There is much sadness, and a continual examination of the hole of love and memory in our spirits, and how that affects the present. We're drawn into the memories of the characters as a sixth sense, much like the Jewish members of Trachimbrod possess. I think the most fascinating part of this novel is the tricky way in which it deceives you into believing that Jonathan is the hero. Right from the beginning, Alex refers to Jonathan as the tale's protagonist, its hero. But, as you find out, Jonathan is merely along for the ride in helping Alex discover his courage, his identity, his determination to develop memories of beautiful things, his desire for positive change. 
During some of Alex's letters, he asks Jonathan if he couldn't just create a better world, since it is a fiction, and let Saffran love the gipsy girl, or allot Brod happiness and love. Alex has a dream, an American dream, of moving with his little brother away from his violent father, and starting fresh. Throughout the story and following the Augustine chronology, Alex sends letters to Jonathan and develops into a stronger, more courageous character. It was craftily done, and though it is not my favorite novel, I think it grants some insight into character development and the different ways that is managed, as well as providing a window into the author's soul. There is something here we can glean about his view of the human condition, no?

There was also a little part in Everything is Illuminated that reminded me of the beginning scene of Amelie. There is something strange and moving about how he says it, the section on sexual intimacy creating lights and electricity, if enough loving is collected in once place. It is a strange novel, but, I think, a good one. I'm still digesting it.

I had more to say, but I'm *all* the exhausted. Definitely a good time for sleeping.

What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little.

Cinderella

I've always loved fairy tales and fables. Stories where the clever rabbit fools the vexed fox; or where the jack tricks the giant and scampers away with the golden hen; or stories when a simple maiden is blessed by her fairy godmother and allowed to attend a ball and dance with the prince.  Something has always endeared me to underdog stories. I think that I've always cherished these characters as akin to myself. Many of my favorite, nostalgic, childhood reads contain characters that exhibit depths of courage and heroism despite inhibitions, whether social, physical, or temporal. Ender (only because he was the third child - otherwise, he was quite gifted); Taran Wanderer, the pig-keeper hero; Cinderella, a maid stuck cleaning while her sisters attended the ball; the cobbler in the Thief and the Cobbler (possibly my favorite childhood movie); Benny in the Boxcar Children (only because he was youngest and had a splendid name and broken cup).

There is a yearning in my heart for a hero who, facing impossible adversity, rises to the challenge in faith and courage, and triumphs. Cinderella comes from nowhere and captures the eyes of a prince. She's poor, but she has a beautiful heart, and great courage. One of my favorite Miyazaki movies (and movies in general) is Spirited Away where a little girl's parents are transformed into pigs, and she braves a strange, spirit world full of kami and oddities in order to restore them. It is when the hero surpasses the mentality of weakness before overcoming what before seemed impossible - I love these stories.

The other thing I always liked about fables and fairy tales was their allegorical nature. Stories like Narnia, various mythologies, The Remarkable Journey of Prince Jen - stories where the characters are more than just pictures and facades, but archetypal exemplars of humanity. Even exquisitely crafted stories like East of Eden or Lord of the Rings contain pieces wherein characters transcend into substantive symbols. These stories, too, I love. It is why I shall always enjoy the Silmarillion and Gaiman's varied mythologies.

I think in my heart there is another reason I like these stories so much. I always felt like I empathized with the characters in broken circumstances whose mountains seemed without summit, trials without end. Everything I gained, I always felt like I had to fight for, nail and tooth, until beaten and wearied. Nothing came easily unless I struggled and fought my way through things in a blind scramble. Sure, I learned to read quickly, write passing fair, compete, win. But all I really ever wanted was to win my very own Cinderella story and, overcoming impossible obstacles in faith and fight, have a chance to go to the ball (or defeat that Horned King. What a monster!). In the end, I think I have, multiple times, but instead of living happily ever after, I crave my next encounter with impossible adversity, for what can surpass God's power? The wanderlust of adventure is upon me.

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.

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.

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.

Here there be Dragons, Monsters and Spoilers (Quotes Galore)

**Warning: rife with spoilers **

"Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten." Recently, I attended a Neil Gaiman signing, the last of his signings. I adore Gaiman’s writing, mythological and fantastic. Forever, he will be immortalized in the Sandman, weaver of stories, our age’s dreamer of marvels.  “Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot.” He turns the phrase, molds it, and transforms an algae filled pond, dead and swamped with reeds, into an ocean at the end of a lane.

                Certainly a number of lines within Ocean at the End of the Lane piqued my interest, or churned across my thoughts until my brain was lightly creamed. The story delved into topics of monsters, youth and adulthood, trust and sacrifice.  It is a mythos of fantastic fashion, a neatly blended nostalgia and entirely other. The main character finds himself recollecting a series of events from his youth, forcibly removed from his memories.  He’s bookish, introverted, friendless, and honest, and he encounters a monster, a devil beyond his ken.

                “Monsters come in all shapes and sizes, Some of them are things people are scared of. Some of them are things that look like things people used to be scared of a long time ago. Sometimes monsters are things people should be scared of, but they aren't.” There are a lot of quotes through this book that struck me, and I dare not entertain the time evaluating them all.  A monster comes into the main character’s life, intruding and catastrophically altering things for the worse, and almost getting him killed.  At one point, an ancient,  good witch, Lettie, is working with the boy to send the monstrous woman, now his sinister nanny, home, and the main character and Lettie are discussing fear. She asks him if he thinks that Ursula Monkton is scared of anything, and he replies that she’s a grown-up, and that grown-ups and monsters aren't scared of anything. Lettie replies, “Oh, monsters are scared… that’s why they’re monsters.” 

                The main character is dragged through a series of inhuman trials, and at each instance, his mettle is tested.  He drops Lettie’s hand, and absorbs a portal to an alien world in his foot in the form of a worm; he tries leaving his house and is almost drowned by his own father, and tormented by an otherworldly housekeeper; he is told, by the varmints, that his heart must be consumed and consumed.

I think what Gaiman has crafted, and often develops so precisely and perfectly, is a meta-story: a story of ideas within parables where tales are formed from the music of the universe. “A story only matters, I suspect, to the extent that which people in the story change.” Throughout this story, the main character is forced into unbelievable circumstances with only three crazy ladies who might believe a word he says.  And he changes. In another of his quotes, Gaiman articulates this well: “Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” Gaiman has dreamt a world full of the fantastic, the implausible, and has forged it into something terrible: a dragon. And as we dive into the ocean of mystery with the character throughout his tale, we, too, battle a raging wyrm, wicked and full of mythical cunning.

And we think to ourselves, this isn't true, this is just a story. But, in truth, Gaiman answers this as well: “Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot” and when the main character says, “I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children's stories. They were better than that. They just were.”  These stories are truth stories, not because they happened, but because they tell us something about ourselves, about everything.

Lastly, this story is a bit about sacrifice and trust.  Into each section, the boy holds Lettie’s hand, and she promises she won’t let anything injurious happen to him.  She protects him, instructs him, cares for him, and in the end, when he fights with courage and despair, running into the very creatures that might consume him, she sacrifices herself for him.  The main character struggles with this, the surrender of a life to save his.  When he’s driving back with Lettie’s mother, he thinks to himself, “A flash of resentment. It's hard enough being alive, trying to survive in the world and find your place in it, to do the things you need to do to get by, without wondering if the thing you just did, whatever it was, was worth someone having...if not died, then having given up her life. It wasn't fair.” 

This quote is interesting because this is, in a sense, my faith.  I live each day wondering whether my actions warrant the salvation of Christ.  Was I worth that sacrifice?  Are my harsh words worthy of that death? Are my lies? My theft of another’s right to truth, peace, and joy? With every theft of mine, I must consider whether my actions are worth having a death, a gift of life, in exchange for those actions. This quote struck me as a poignant reminder of God’s grace and our spiritual marathon. 

                I’m not sure where to end this, for I’m not certain what this is.  I think I’ll finish with another quote from Gaiman, for what could one more hurt? “I suppose the point you grow up is the point you let the dreams go.” Gaiman is, in essence, dreaming the child in each of us. One of the motifs in this book is the contrast of adulthood and childhood. In one curious incident, Lettie says that there are no true adults living. Adults are just children wrapped in a shell. I think it is within me to never let dreams go, and I hope I remain that way until the very end. In one of the Sandman novels, on the topic of dreams, someone says, “Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.” It’s time for beating some dragons, and time for flying.


Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
~ Langston Hughes

Thievery

"Now, no matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft... When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness... There is no act more wretched than stealing, Amir." (Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini)

I've been contemplating this quote recently. One of the travesties our church has perpetuated is the concept of pride as mankind's favorite vice. The problem is that pride is exactly what many within the church are missing. Though I hesitate to embark down this road, our culture often inflicts a lack of self-confidence upon us, through media exemplars of physical and intellectual perfection, through perfectionism and spiritual guidelines with impractically set goals - I just remember that line in Howl's Moving Castle where Howl says, "I see no point in living if I can't be beautiful." It isn't that pride is a virtue, nor that pride isn't potentially harmful, but that a large population suffers from a lack of pride. Perhaps the church shouldn't preach an abstinence of pride, but a presence of pride in the right places.

So when I discovered this theory on theft, that our greatest transgression is stealing, I latched onto it immediately. Lying is theft of the right to truth, murder the theft of living and relationship, abuse the theft of freedom and joy. Patriarchy steals fullness of life as much as sexism and racism, transforming normalcy into an eternal obstacle course, a trial instead of merely living. This too is a theft.

This appeals to me, for salvation is a reclamation of what has been stolen from me: a chance of relationship with God. My sins steal away the intended goodness of creation, a little natural perfection ebbing away from this world. I feel as a devil, stealing from God's ensemble, an orchestral performance of fluid beauty stolen away by my incessant whining caterwaul.  

I pray I may steal no more. No more stealing from people who've rights to create, to live, to live, hope and dream. No more stealing from God, and no more stealing from myself. It is a time for reclamation, and a time for giving.

Operation

Often, I read. Internet articles, interesting blogs, classic and fanciful books, short and long stories, myths and fables - all these and more, I pore over each day. Then, clambering into my writing nest, cozying beneath pyramids of blankets, I create. Leisurely, meticulously, I craft each syllable and phrase, aligning and puzzling each piece into place. Am I an artist or a surgeon? Excellent query. I'll remove these vocal cords and ask the patient's opinion when finished with this writing operation.
Weaknesses in my intellectual scribbling abound. Each article, each blog and artfully manifest bound book I flip through shames my own conceptions. My worlds are barren, theirs flowing and bright; where seas clash and thunder roars, on my world the sea gurgles and storms are but clowning clouds; animals caper, crawl, and canter in their worlds, mine only cower. Is my imagination inadequate? Are my tales lacklustre?
I've no critics, you see. If I had but one: an outspoken, violent critic of great authority and grating wit, well, then I might be great. My competitive nature might spurn me into incomprehensible heights: empty skies would fill with salty stars and perfect, argentine moon, where below pixies and satyrs prance and chant around mirror ponds where listless maidens lay, basking in fae-light, baited until dawn of day.
But I've chosen an auto-didactic trail, a road from which few prevail. The poetry pool beneath and impassioned, fiery fruit above are my Tantalus aches - I cannot reach, I cannot drink, I suffer only to wait. Wait as each classical piece draws unwittingly nearer, as each persuasive prose or poem swishes in the air overhead, as my legs strengthen to leap. The waters around my neck, the breeze brushing the branches just out of reach - it is only time, then, and patience.
I can, of course, be overcritical of my own writing. Yet, still, the ardent nature of my writing is frequently lacking. I hate being overly informal. I despise writing (not necessarily reading) evaluations and descriptions that serve only to claw sermons from nothing. I always feel as if I'm drawing analysis on credit, and eventually someone might realize I've nothing worth saying.
Still, the onomatopoeia in daily experience is rarely utilized within my writing, for I scarcely delve into my experience. I vaguely bounce around it, scuttling like a crab sideways instead of forward through my beliefs and ideas. It is a paranoid, terrified principle, and one I fear stymies my growth the most.  If only I had the guts to define my ideas in honest terms, to risk everything, and then risk everything thrice more. Sometimes, dear Ender, you must do the unbelievable to prevent the inevitable to win the impossible. In the end, you can only pray your punishment isn't Xenocide.

Timshel

I admit a certain... hesitance regarding somber stories. I'm a sucker for the fairy tale finish: happily ever after. Despite all that, Steinbeck's East of Eden struck a chord within my dissonant soul, and I'm left with a lingering "timshel" on my lips and philosophy in my mind.  There is injustice portrayed on an outrageous level in East of Eden, and, simultaneously, a craftily recipied illustration of a jihad in humanity: man's holy struggle for dominance over self.

I'm reaching a bit, but in audience absentia, I allow myself a minor fallacy or embellishment now and again. There is no greater dread than reading the line "am I supposed to look after him?" from Cal. My spirit was ravaged, my hope dashed into despair. Drawing close to the end of the book, I felt I was being shipwrecked with land in sight. I believed hope was within reach, but the distance was still too far, the waves too great. What should I have expected from such an author as Steinbeck? He cinches my soul onto an anchor and drags me along the bottom of the sea, salty tears mingling with an ocean of such.  Should have stuck to Pratchett. 

Voyage of the Dawn Treader

I'm not much of a television person, and I suspect visual media mattered little in my psychological bloom.  What captured my interest most was literature.  As a child, my heroes were not like Disney princes or Star Wars' jedi, but characters like Ender Wiggin, King David, Benny from the Boxcar Children, and the Stainless Steel Rat.  I wanted the kindness and loyalty of Sam, or the wizard powers of Gandalf; the bravery of Peter Pevensie, or the charismatic wisdom of Ged. I expected, given my literary earnestness, I'd develop into a hero, not vapid like the beast-slaying princes of movies, but honest and true, as Taran Wanderer or Peter Pan.

I was wrong.

Biblical literature is full of fantastic stories, many of which may surprise the most conventional, conservative Christian.  One of my favorites is the story of David and Michal.  King Saul requests that David produce a hundred Philistine foreskins as dowry for Michal's hand in marriage.  David, pleased with the arrangement, kills two-hundred Philistines and returns with double the endowment. I'm not even certain whether I should be impressed, or disgusted, surely.

Would that I were such a hero! (Though I suspect such a prize, currently, would not garner much approval in American households) David's faithfulness to God is astounding - why is mine not so?  As such, I've dedicated fifty days towards a fast of my own, a fast in faithfulness and, perhaps, a desperate prayer. Let the games begin - or, as Sherlock might say, the game is afoot.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
~Yeats

As the sun rises, and my journey ambles from night into day, perhaps this is the tale of:
Voyage of the Dawn Treader.