Inklings of Surrealism

On ponderous nights, the clock never dies.
it ticks, it tocks, in silent watch of twilight -
if you tell me your dreams, I'll tell you mine,
when I find them - I fear I've lost
the road between the folds of the skies,
the clouds, and starlight.
Flee the path... come, dear,
until you dance in the trees, you'll never feel
the
  brush
    of
      falling
leaves, imbibe the scents of pine and be
one with the wolves and the wind, again,
drink in the freedom of the springs,
leaping, running, flying -
if even the woods understand,
can love really be so hard?



I've started drawing. If you know the first thing about me, it's that I'm the worst artist in the history of everything. My stick figures look like they were hit by a stick-truck, and then were stick-mauled, and stick-mugged. But I purchased a book from Powells on drawing for idiots, and I'm sketching a couple of hours every day (during lunch hour and breaks).
Yes. After two days, I am still at least as lousy as before.
I'm finishing up the Prophet (Kahlil Gibran) tonight - it's a thirty minute read - and reading some more Neruda. The translations of Pablo Neruda were written and edited by James Wright and Robert Bly, both famous modern poets in their own right (wright, aha!), and at least one other poet whose name I do not recognize.
Discovery of the night: Neruda is a fascinating surrealist writer. (though I already knew this)

March days return with their covert light,
and huge fish swim through the sky,
vague earthly vapours progress in secret,
things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,
grey lurchings of the ship of winter
to the form that love carved in the guitar.
O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,
dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,
to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,
so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,
the sea forget its cargoes and rages,
and the world fall into darkness’s nets.
- Pablo Neruda


He translates so seamlessly the intangible into the picturesque, so we see, clearly, a galvanic image of reality through the lens of poetry. It's a beautiful writing that I can only imagine being all the more exquisite in its native tongue. One of the great parts about this Bly-edited book of poems is that it leaves the spanish translation on the left side, and shows the translation on the right. Unfortunately, I cannot speak spanish well (or at all), and even reading it, I know I skewer the pronunciation. Still, I feel so close to the original beauty, how can I not try reaching out with shaky, greedy hands?

You're lost in the cities of anthill life
searching the clouds, you eagerly sought to fly
and found no one in the skies -
is it lonely, seeing the world as the stars?
is their vision blurry with tears, or just mine?
come home
i'll love you ever, still

Composition

Why the mountains beneath the sea? They are birds in a cave, in a cage, was the sky not made for thee? I'm worried, reaching into a hive of bees, looting nectar from venus' barbed maw. Well? I'm a flying hawk who cannot land, cannot see, legs broken, heavy beneath, but with the wind brushing my hair? I don't care, really I don't care, tell me not to care. The beautiful hair, I cannot run. Nothing for to run no more. I'm flying.

Today my reading was all over the literary sphere. I read poetry by Sylvia Plath (so incredibly talented, so intensely macabre); a long essay regarding ADHD and educational differences; Jane Kenyon poetry; a little fantasy novel, some mystery/sci-fi; some comedy; some news. Mostly poetry. I'm fairly certain my technique for learning poetry is flawed in nature, but for a beginning it is a fascinating endeavor. I'm simply gorging on poetry, consuming entire novels of poetry in hours, or less, and writing all my favorite lines and images.
It is a gluttonous abuse of reading speed that ill-considers the delicate work spent in craft. My apologies, artists. I must consume. I constantly feel as though I'm running shy on time, as though I must capture every adventure, every moment, and drag them deep into my soul.
I have a friend who learned countless orchestral instruments, hoping to compose. He said that most, many of the greatest composers died young, and he understood why. It is the same with me. I understand the drag of perfection, the standard against which I compete and never shall beat. And I understand how far I must travel. I'm running a race where every other entrant started hours before me. How will I ever catch up? I'll never stop.
Everyone might write better yet, might think, see, intuit, understand better now. But not forever, not for long. It is almost my time to compose.

Comme ci comme ça

The more I see of people's lives, the more I'm dazzled by each person's fantastic defiance of expectations.  I see a couple people who are, at first glance, so similar: sporting, outdoorsy, lovers of good books, outgoing, competitive, *swedish*.  I think, "those two are like twins! They are so similar!" Then, as I interact with each, alone and in tandem, I realize they are so different as to be beyond belief. He likes soccer and running sports, she all sports, especially football, soccer, and ultimate frisbee; he enjoys day-hiking, and she prefers backpacking and long hikes; he endeavors to understand all the rules in games so he can compete with authority and knowledge, while she tends toward sneaky strategy and feisty competition. He's a hopeless romantic and she owns no jewelry, wears no makeup, dislikes receiving gifts and is ambivalent about dating.

What did I see at first that was so similar? It's mind boggling the difference I see now! Perhaps I'm simply unobservant, or perhaps this is simply the nature of persons, the marvel of creation. At the atomic level of being, God made us unique. I think this is why the tragedy in Death of a Salesman always breaks my heart. It is the tragic lie we swallow so heartily: "you are not important; you are a dime a dozen." It is the most malicious of lies, that which (thank you Obi-Wan Kenobi) is true, from a certain point of view.

But it is not true. The more I see, the more I realize that if I knew all God knew about each one of us, I could not but love everyone with all my heart. I would sacrifice myself for any one of them, knowing the trials and obstacles each has faced, bringing them to this point of life, and knowing their thoughts and reasons. It places things into perspective if I get angry or short with anyone (hopefully I don't). "What was life like in their shoes, today?" Or this past week, or year. 

Well, that was a series of thoughts that might be long essays if I spent more than a couple sentences on each.

I was planning on a Sabbath day, a rest from activity at home. "Introvert time" if you will. Of course my hopes were stymied. That's fine though, I still had a good (if not the most restful) day. I did have the whole morning to myself and I got to read a book (Fellowship of the Ring). It has been weeks (June 26th I think, waiting in line to have my book signed) since I've read a book in one sitting, so I'm thankful I got that opportunity, finally. I did not have time for writing that short story. I wrote a little more of the Jak "Ragnorak" story, and perhaps detailed a little for myself of the Harold the Walrus story, but I wrote no stories about clouds or not-people. Sorry, P. Next time.

A person who won't read has no advantage over one who can't read.
~ Mark Twain

With that, I think I'm going to surrender writing, and go do some reading. Maybe I can read two books in one day. How magical would that be? So much for writing a short story tonight. Shikata ga nai.

It's a Dangerous Business

The more he looked inside the more Piglet wasn't there.

Why must the fire die?

When hope is frail and twilight nigh

Why must now we say goodbye,

The night still young with fireflies

One boon I ask if you may tell

What hope you passed yon wishing well?

I pray it not to end this spell,

forced to face what the toll doth bell.

There are many goodbyes, these days, and feared goodbyes.  Just this past week, I hugged and whispered goodbyes to A and S. Two other friends are terrified of goodbyes to family members suffering from cancer - and prayer is, seemingly, the last bastion. It is hardest to say these goodbyes.  I find myself constantly praying for these, and others: friends abroad, suffering, disappearing from my life, friends getting married and settling into new and adventurous lives, friends anxious and burdened by life.  In these times, where I’m feeling like the center of a giant web with strands stretching on the corners of the wind, my prayers are uncertain. Am I being selfish? I do not even know what to pray for at all. Do I pray for healing? Ease of passage? A happy new life? It is difficult to pray unselfishly. 

It is as times like these that I continually remember these verses from Romans:

For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it. In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for the saints according to the will of God.

The Spirit intercedes for me with groanings too deep for words. Too deep for words. There is something powerful in the mysticism of those words, and reassuring.  “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” It is dangerous, Bilbo, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. I've the best of friends, and I'd pray and love on them if I had to sacrifice everything to do so. Sometimes you must.

I think the last time I got some alone time was almost two weeks ago.  I have read less than 300 pages in the last two weeks; missed writing on numerous nights due to busyness, though a good busyness. It’s been an exhausting run, but somehow restorative.

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.

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

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)

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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)

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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.

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.

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.