Seasons

"To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due." ~ Gaiman

Once, I believed it might be nice living in Guam, or somewhere equatorial, enjoying the steady temperatures preferential for outdoor living. In places in Malaysia, mean daily temperatures often range from 75-85, year round. I've often envied the predictability of these averages.  Barring tropical storms, hurricanes, a season of heavy mists, these places offer a picture of idyllic serenity, especially when enduring the upper and lower limits of temperatures in increasing latitudes. Imagine a world where every evening was beach weather, every afternoon ready with fountains and golden sunshine. I'd soon become complacent and carefree as a lizard on a stone, sunbathing ad eternity. 
But then there are other days, days I could not imagine being without. My cynical comeback towards such pluperfect human resorts is, "where does all your green come from if it does not rain?" Yet, this is merely silly presumptuousness, and curmudgeonly at that. These places, for all their glorious sunshine, are frequently not dull, dry, dusty, but often filled with pines and ferns, coffee and sugarcane, butterfly brush, coconuts, agave, flowers and flora high and low.  How can this be fair? For such verdant life in these parts, the weather ascribes to the "consistent rainfall" strategy. Do secret fowl fly the air at midnight in these strange lands, clasping water buckets in their talons and dripping sugar-sweet dew across the starlit shores, an ancient moon the color of yellowed paper lighting their journey across the sky? Herons and storks and albatrosses, gardeners of these moonlit shores? 
If they do, tell me. I'll pack my bags. Still, there are days, I promise you, when every radiant flower blooming: lilac, tulip, crimson pirate, rhododendron and hydrangea, button flowers and wild carrots, nasturtiums, roses and daisies, trilliums and snowdrops, each flower opens agape its maw and exclaims, "spring, spring, spring!" in singing beyond words, a floral cooing of cherry-blossoms and dogwood trees. When birds tweet and nest and flutter along the eaves in the wild proclamation of winter's end. When summer's short sleeves and flowered skirts,  violins, guitars, and mandolins played across the grassy hillsides while butterflies take wing - summer! When deciduous trees decide its time for changing leaves, golden, red and amber, and button-top mushrooms poke aloft, and soggy moss collects on branches. As piles of sodden leaves cluster beneath ghastly trees and pines still sing hallelujah, where the cold dry earth is replaced with coffee brown, and the clouds in every shape return.
Even winter, snuggled around the crackling fire, sweet cider and kittens across our knees, and stories of summers and springs taste sugar sweet on our memories. When every night, piles of blankets protect us from every inspecting eye, and it's only ourselves and heavenly warmth against an encroaching freezing night, clasped in God's perfect embrace of cotton and fleece - even winter is perfect in its time.

It is for these, I could not forego my seasons. Keep your perfect weather, I have mine.

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

Pace

The previous subject of meter has drawn me into the contemplation of pace.  Where metric is measurement, pace is passing over the metric.  In writing, this is controllable through punctuation... or lengthy, drawn out, meticulous descriptions. Or concise sentences. These are, of course, the most obvious methods. More subtle patterns exist for stalling the reader in contemplation, or spurring a galloping, careening, may-day-crash of a denouement that thrills and cajoles the audience into the stomach of the tale.

Pace exists in everything. The tone, setting, rhythm, rhyme, metric - all forward the pace. And now, in this marathon, I've maintained a pace too great. I mentioned before, it is almost as if instead of simply running a race, I'm attempting to juggle flaming torches, paint the sunset, all whilst scampering barefoot along 26.2 miles. And I'm not in good shape. That analogy fails to explain that none of the parts are particularly difficult. It is more like I'm jogging ten miles while reading a book, dribbling a soccer ball, staring at the stars. On their own, each of these activities is trivial. Together, they emerge into a complicated multi-task, a juggling act. Perhaps that is the stem of my dreams.

There is a part in a difficult journey that may arise where the distance remaining is uncertain, and seems eternal.  Where mistakes are made, and each footfall wonders whether it's time for stopping, resting instead of running. It is at these moments where a simple man entertains heroism and cowardice. It is the tired pace. Halfway is almost here.

Poetry Meter by Meter

I'm not as proficient as I could be. Are we ever? Everyday I discover pieces to a gigantic puzzle whose picture is still unknown to me. I suspect I'd be bored with a box-illustration of my life's adventure. Finding pieces under rugs and in book bindings and wise words - a more riveting quest. Today, I discovered just how naive my knowledge of poetic metric stands. I remember as a child struggling with syllables and stress on words. I always suspected I could stress any portion of a word depending on its placement and purpose. While this is technically true, I'd quickly sound like a fool abusing that principle.
I remember learning to clap as a child for each syllable. "Pancakes" -> *clap clap clap clap clap* 5 syllables. The more excited I get the more syllables a word contains? Fabulous! I've been reading poems, and sometimes it is obvious as in the Destruction of Sennacherib:
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

And sometimes I struggle more finding a rhythm, or the rhythm varies for effect:
She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

Reading these aloud, I feel a fight with some of the phrases. I want to emphasize certain parts, even though they are not stressed:
Meet in her aspect and her eyes -> / u u / u / u / is how it is supposed to be read, where sometimes I want to read it: u / u / u / / u
Or rarely :
u / / u u / / u
Both of which unstress the final syllable instead of stress it. Part of the problem is in the difference between this verse and all preceding metric. Each of the former lines are in iambic forms, and the fourth switches things up by starting out stressed? Tricky tricky, Lord Byron.

Then there are these:
Nor law nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds.
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

It starts out in iambic tetrameter, and finishes with a trochee and more iambic verse? That trochee so tricky! I see what you've done Yeats. Or do I? Such simple but effective techniques to alter the audience's perception and flow, focusing them or distracting them for significant, and subtle, purpose. Oh, to be a poet meister.

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.