Narrative - myths and frogs (snippets)

Two different characters at different points of existential angst. In one of the stories, the character may or may not be somewhat... magical? The first character is a bit unsettled, and oscillating between... well... ideas.

(written in a stream of consciousness style - apologies for typos. I was house-sitting and enjoying the air-conditioned house and just kept typing. Both are, of course, unfinished)

Story #1 Excerpt:
It could not have been worse for me, had she died. No. Dying is closure: an comprehensible finality. Death is easier. The reason I surrendered my comfortable existence grew from that nervous uncertainty, that fear stranger yet than the afterlife.
There is a land, they say, worse by far than death. A place to where a person once removed is forgotten. They become holes within the memories of lovers and friends and family. Like phantom limb itches, those fleeting memories cannot be dredged to the surface, yet eternally yearn to be remembered. Within this deathly limbo of pale fog, those taken wander aimlessly, screaming to be remembered, until they no longer know even themselves. They begin to lose their faces, turning grey and transparent, indistinguishable from ashes and mists swirling in that misty region. I could not bear the thought of her ending there.
Sometimes, I wish – no, believe, that life revolves around miracles like punch lines. The divine weaves elaborate victories from traumatic, climactic swellings. Life always seems to involve treacherous climbs up impossible and unlikely hills or mountains, a trying task, to find saving grace caught in the thicket at the summit, and the most gorgeous panorama of sky and trees and rivers and the journey taken: a journey worth the ending. I argue life without climbing through trials and tribulations towards heaven is like living in grey rooms with grey cushioned walls: safe, yet slowly suicidal.
For these very reasons and stranger subconscious beckonings, I sold my serenity for a battlefield. You’ll never find an oasis without a desert, or a summit without a mountain. And you’ll certainly never find true love in only introspection.

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-- following story would be 60% better with pictures. Matthew: draw some on paint and send them my way --

In the middle of a vast forest sat a walrus, and he was lost. So lost, in fact, was this walrus that he knew it not, but it itched behind his whiskers something fierce. As he sat beside his frog-filled pond, he couldn't but imagine this was not his lot. Harold's Pond, he called it, for he was Harold, and it was his pond. As the sun belly-crawled its way into the sky, Harold still couldn't divest the feeling that he belonged elsewhere.
Croaakck the frogs and toads garbled, hopping on their lily-pads and puffing out their chests in morning greeting.
"Good Morning, Fellows," bellowed Harold in his bluskery voice. Peering at his face in the pond, he brushed back his whiskers and wrinkled his nose, staring wistfully at the rippling sky.
"Top of the morning, Harold," the frogs ribbitted in reply.
They sat quietly, slowly contemplating the sun flickering through the breezy trees. Harold felt a new feeling surging through him, a movement, and even his whiskers hummed in expectation.
"Has Any Of You Ever Believed In Anything... More?" Harold rumbled, his voice echoing across the waters.
The frogs kvakked, berping in confusing.
"Thought Not," Harold grumbled. But Harold knew, in his ample gut, there was more, and today, he wanted to see it. And so, with considerable girth, Harold gathered a sack of his things and set off for the sage of the forest. If anyone knew what life was missing, surely the sage would know.
Harold had never seen the sage. Harold had never even left his glade. But everyone in the forest knew the sage had answers, and answers were what Harold needed.

(continued tomorrow?)

zen and not-zen words. mostly not.
don't walk when you should run
or jog when laying down
sometimes close your eyes to remember
the color of the sun
shut the blinds and realize the beauty outside home
stomp through puddles, 
or barefoot through muddy meadows
and cleanse your heart anon
fall in love, it may only offer once
dance the dares of distant dreams
until your end, the adventure's ne'er done
follow me, truly we are better two than one
and listen, closely dear, 
to the waves of a life begun



I missed two days of blog-writing on this most hectic of weekends. Thankfully my journal suffered not. On Thursday night, I was notified that a bachelor party would be taking place at my house, and one of my roommates was hosting. J was already leaving for Idaho with his girlfriend, so that meant I was stuck entertaining myself. Thankfully, soccer exists. Even then, arriving home at ten meant that I was arriving just as the roommates decided to step it up a notch in alcohol. I said my hellos and then sequestered myself away in my room. I did steal some pico de gallo and chips first. The revelry on the other side of my door was vaguely obnoxious, and managed to make both reading and writing difficult. I don't know how I managed sleep; I suspect it was divine providence.
The next morning, I picked blackberries and then scampered to a wedding, and another, and then returned home to bake a swift cobbler before crashing. Sunday I enjoyed a leisurely morning, went to church, and then went to A's Oregon reception. The wedding reception lasted from 1-3 according to the invite. I got back home at 10pm. I love those people.

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?