http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/06/june-bug/
Hello, June. I look away a moment, and you’ve arrived in alexandrite, pearl, sunshine, and a weightless world. Everything’s on me, Heracles, but I’m along the ridge and gone. A season of life is come and aloft, and suddenly I’m a child no longer. May I still be one?
I’m wobbling in place, and flirting with the precipice, and everything is upon me at once: summer, home buying, weddings, graduations, mortgages, goodbyes, travel, moving, faith, love, hope, patience, hurry, flowers, exhaustion, tension, uncertainty, opportunities, roads, activity, danger, water, the warrior, the king, anima, existentialism, philosophy, friendship. It’s the realization that the daffodils, rhododendrons, tulips, roses, strawberries, raspberries, grapes, geraniums, nasturtiums, crimson dragons, maples, poplars, plums, apples and all the beautiful trees are efflorescing in time with the weeds: the horsetail, scotch broom, thistles, dewberries, poison oak, nettles.
Spring does not choose only joyful blooms, but the weeds spread seeds in sync. And are they not beautiful, also? The blackberries, “big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes / ebon in the hedges, fat / with blue-red juices” as Sylvia Plath wrote; or the belled foxtail and the huckleberries with their lovely little berries hung out; the blue-button flowers, pervasive and poisonous; queen anne’s lace, so blithe despite its near resemblance to hemlock, and the death of Socrates.
My life is such, as wide with weeds as the world, yet full of trees, valleys, rivers, and peaks as well, wildflowers gracing the faces and banks of each. I’m reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, currently, and I see in the fanciful fiction some of me: the journey, the home, the community that comes and goes, the unexpected additions, blessings and curses, and the oddity of it all. But it’s still lovely, and it’s mine, absorbed into a little Macondo in me, like the precious pearl in Steinbeck’s story, both drawing me together and rending me apart. I’m a cross-stitch mess, a knitting nightmare, and I’m likely to be unraveled and re-begun for the summer’s out.
And I’m excited, frightened, ready – anyone can come along.
My heart’s a magic carpet
aloft beneath the heavens
my arabesque thoughts
and minarets, whirl,
a world to resurrect
with regress and love
I’m signing a curvature of signature into a thousand filed bureaucracies, an ugly necessity of an angry system. So many complaints, so much nightmarish idiocy and everyone covers their tracks with a thousand words of legal mystery.
I’m too late, too late by half. With some stories, the protagonist never has a chance, but history is writ by the winners, even if there is none. Is this all Pyrrhic?
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Spinning on a Dime; Tea Time
Spinning on a dime, friends, our tiny-toothed edges
augmenting our rotation with wobbles. Love used to be a function of chemistry,
a mingling of elementary romance; now it’s interdisciplinary, a little messy
geometry mixed with theatre. Oh, such a masquerade, with such interesting
shapes, distinctions made on circles and squares. Sit back, mon ami, soon drama
and entertainment will ensue, and an interlude before the comic end, or tragic,
depending on your view.
Today, I went on a long walk. The sun was out and the
weather sat perfectly at eighty. Is it sad that only as I went outside I
put shorts on? I’m always cold: how is that? The orchards smelled of newness
and spring, and I walked past roses, hydrangeas, poppies, daisies, geraniums,
nasturtiums, and dozens of flowers whose names I don’t know. Will someone tell
me the names of flowers, please? I want to know the names of all of the
flowers, and their stories, but I have no one to tell me.
I wrote this as a bit of silly poetry, and though it’s a tad
lousy, it was fun. Someday, I’ll even edit things like this and they won’t be
so completely ugly. I actually cringed a bit re-reading it, but figured any
changes I made tonight would only be undone tomorrow if I look at it again. For
now, here it is: Tea Time.
The Mad Hatter another tea party holds:
Psyche arrives in formal attire,
Bacchus, bearing a barrel of beer,
Pan appears in
a flourish, theatrical,
piping a tune;
a boy shuffles in tow.
Ah, tea time,
as always, the Hatter sighs,
but Bacchus
pays no mind, and starts
on wine, while
Pan guffaws.
Psyche’s eyes
are lost with love,
beautiful, sad, and demure.
The boy,
however, with thoughtful eyes
asks what is the
matter with tea time?
Nothing’s wrong,
but it is ever the matter,
the Mad Hatter brusquely
replies,
and never time
for love or wine -
Bacchus,
though, begged to differ.
What, my boy,
begins the Hatter,
have a faun, a
madman, a god,
woman and boy
in common?
Drunkenness, remarks
Bacchus.
Why yes, mused
the faun, it is
what a tea
party is for.
Love, mumbles
Psyche.
Everything else,
as this god, is a boor.
Bacchus,
asinine, paid her no mind.
Only he is
here, the rest are who
here is for,
said the faun.
Ah, things have come to a tee,
The Hatter clapped with glee.
What may we do you for?
I don’t know, what do you mean?
Asks the boy, sipping his tea.
Mean? Mad, perhaps, not mean.
Mean? Mad, perhaps, not mean.
Psyche answered: a gift each
will bring, to guide you
to wherever it is you dream.
Bacchus began with a blessing:
be not an ass, revel and sing,
who knows what tomorrow may bring?
Psyche gave the boy a golden apple.
Choose what your heart desires
and pay dearly the cost for love.
Pan piped a ditty and passed over
a song and flower; remember
my boy, the earth and the water,
and the path the moon takes over sea.
The Mad Hatter, last, asked:
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
The boy, for this, had no answer.
And so it is with love, boy,
The impossible is possible if
You believe impossible things.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Sidereal Stories
You’re hurting, Olwen, I know, and the glass is empty though
it’s full. You’ll find little hope there; at the barrel bottom only dregs reside.
And you might cower under the bed, shirking in shadows whose shapes you know;
you shiver, under blankets piled high though the night is warm, and the wind
stumbles against the shutters with drunken abandon, a sound you know and yet it
frightens. This is it, you know this fear, this comfortable sickness whose
poisons slyly sit near, known since the drugs of depression took hold.
I see it in your eyes, and remember mine as distant things.
It’s not only in dreams you can fly; it’s only in flight you
may dream.
So leap with me, out the window into the night, past the
breeze blowing across the waters where the lady waits, garbed in silver stars
and moonlight, her fingers reaching through the ripples whose grasp we’ll evade
like a whisper.
Trapped in the mirror of the waters, look down, we’re
dancing on reflected stars.
Beneath the shadow of the mountain where the dragon sleeps, tiptoeing
over his hoard of melted gold, our fleet figures bent in gilt reflections –
linger not here, dear, roads await.
Into a thick and grasping wood, whose long-limbed mysteries
and webs do collect uncertain travelers, we are not caught. Two roads, and no return,
a cottage, a hovel, candle-lit faces in a bog – choose, Olwen, with love not
fear.
Tell me you still yearn, you still burn with pain; tell me
you must return beneath the covers, to Harold before the world, and I’ll let
you go. Or follow me beneath the sea, where kelp forests wiggle like green worms,
and orcas sing of the ocean’s melancholy weight and depth of being, and
everything hears and agrees.
Little lasts forever; most worries are tomorrow – let’s
glide across stars lupus and orion tonight, the bear lumbering over the
pre-dawn sky whose tail is not yet lost to fear’s unknown, and leo and the
little old lady whose rocking chair groans with eternity. I’ll tell you their
stories, if you’ve lost yours in the struggle for hope, and Olwen, you’ll find
the universe is not always whole, but it’s ready. Let it be, and let your heart
soar, string-less as the bird over the storm, for there’s a time for rain and a
time to be reborn, in red, in white, in black.
http://benjaminwblog.com/2014/05/sidereal-stories/
Friday, February 28, 2014
Stories and pieces
There's an art to it: letting go.
Or perhaps that's what art is.
I'm a monkey, hand in jar, and craving
every candy, but I'm trapped
with full hands and an empty heart.
where every one is a child,
smiling, vested in filthy rags and hungry,
let them, too, find the world and love -
peace without me, or pieces
crushed in my unyielding clasp.
there is always a choice
there is often a goodbye
hello, mon ami, farewell.
I'm appreciating Ted Kooser more with each poem I read. He captures moments of time as exquisite pictures, as though he's frozen moments of ordinary and, by radically shifting our lens, transforms them into the extraordinary and the beautiful. A female figure-skating into the future; an overweight fisherman becoming weightless in the moment of reverie, casting into the lake of peace; a poem within a poem on morning rushing over the hilltops.
I felt the need to cry and soak my tears into the moments of incredible joy, melding my experience into those poem-graphed. As Ted Kooser sends me skating, dreaming, trembling at the dawn soaring in like swooping hawks, and Robert Bly reminds me of the Virgin and her candles, and how a starfish is more than it seems, and how to unearth the mystery of the night. Poetry gently soothes me and I wish I could fly on these words and lift others off the earth with mine.
What a magic these poets possess - what pulchritudinous prowess.
-- I invented the word poem-graphed
-- I had to use the word pulchritudinous. It's the lumpiest word for beauty ever imagined. Like if I was writing a story from the perspective of toads, they wouldn't consider each other beautiful, but pulchritudinous.
Or perhaps that's what art is.
I'm a monkey, hand in jar, and craving
every candy, but I'm trapped
with full hands and an empty heart.
where every one is a child,
smiling, vested in filthy rags and hungry,
let them, too, find the world and love -
peace without me, or pieces
crushed in my unyielding clasp.
there is always a choice
there is often a goodbye
hello, mon ami, farewell.
I'm appreciating Ted Kooser more with each poem I read. He captures moments of time as exquisite pictures, as though he's frozen moments of ordinary and, by radically shifting our lens, transforms them into the extraordinary and the beautiful. A female figure-skating into the future; an overweight fisherman becoming weightless in the moment of reverie, casting into the lake of peace; a poem within a poem on morning rushing over the hilltops.
I felt the need to cry and soak my tears into the moments of incredible joy, melding my experience into those poem-graphed. As Ted Kooser sends me skating, dreaming, trembling at the dawn soaring in like swooping hawks, and Robert Bly reminds me of the Virgin and her candles, and how a starfish is more than it seems, and how to unearth the mystery of the night. Poetry gently soothes me and I wish I could fly on these words and lift others off the earth with mine.
What a magic these poets possess - what pulchritudinous prowess.
-- I invented the word poem-graphed
-- I had to use the word pulchritudinous. It's the lumpiest word for beauty ever imagined. Like if I was writing a story from the perspective of toads, they wouldn't consider each other beautiful, but pulchritudinous.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Blank
Blank. I cannot remember, anymore, what I dreamed of writing, discussed writing, or actually have written this last week. Everything swirls together, a beautiful misery. I'm sleeping, dreaming, writing, thinking, seeing, ingesting words, and jettisoning everything temporarily superfluous, extraneous, inessential. And it's a race against my leaking intellect. Will I realize the race continues without end, surrendering first? Can I lose a game that exists only within? Or, perhaps, not even there?
Even the words are blank, like fake bullets the target ignores, or disregards - a nuisance, a distraction, a trifle, a red herring, if you please. Color me... disinterested, they say, child's play. They turn away into the sea, a vastness unexplained (by me, at least).
The moon's a mistress made of me, grasping at my tides, I, a pendulum in lunar sway. This lunacy, I plead - do the ocean's truly rise and elsewhere must recede: a teeter-totter, I see, I saw, now my vision's clouded intimately. I loved once, and lost twice, and regret thrice, afore the rooster crowed; and I love thee Lord, but scarcely feed myself. The wolf's teeth are canine white, angler fish's lure so bright, dart frog saturated with color, belladonna - doth beauty's embrace only destroy?
Fairy tale me is no hero, but the crooked man, swallowing stories for life. Not mine, the princess, nor battles won, riches gleaned, the dragon slain. No, I quite believed a different tale. If, knowing everything of everyone: dreams, desires, hopes, prayers, experiences, I expect I'd love them, wholly, unconditionally. The double standard is this: I believe if you knew the same about me, I cannot believe the same, or anything near. There is knowing... yet, understanding is supernal, a celestial gift. This I hide behind lest you enter the shell and find the sea.
Knowledge forbidden?
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know?
Can it be death?
(Milton - Paradise Lost)
Even the words are blank, like fake bullets the target ignores, or disregards - a nuisance, a distraction, a trifle, a red herring, if you please. Color me... disinterested, they say, child's play. They turn away into the sea, a vastness unexplained (by me, at least).
The moon's a mistress made of me, grasping at my tides, I, a pendulum in lunar sway. This lunacy, I plead - do the ocean's truly rise and elsewhere must recede: a teeter-totter, I see, I saw, now my vision's clouded intimately. I loved once, and lost twice, and regret thrice, afore the rooster crowed; and I love thee Lord, but scarcely feed myself. The wolf's teeth are canine white, angler fish's lure so bright, dart frog saturated with color, belladonna - doth beauty's embrace only destroy?
Fairy tale me is no hero, but the crooked man, swallowing stories for life. Not mine, the princess, nor battles won, riches gleaned, the dragon slain. No, I quite believed a different tale. If, knowing everything of everyone: dreams, desires, hopes, prayers, experiences, I expect I'd love them, wholly, unconditionally. The double standard is this: I believe if you knew the same about me, I cannot believe the same, or anything near. There is knowing... yet, understanding is supernal, a celestial gift. This I hide behind lest you enter the shell and find the sea.
Knowledge forbidden?
Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord
Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know?
Can it be death?
(Milton - Paradise Lost)
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Seasons of Dreamings
The seasons are changing. Now, leaving my window open all-night-all-day requires an extra blanket at night, as temperatures drop below 50 at night, and mornings leave a crystalline dew that collects in lazy droplets against the screen. I even start each morning in sweats or warm-ups rather than shorts, and slipper usage on hardwood floors soon becomes a necessity.
Rain approaches, and the cinereal sky darkens the mornings, burning away in afternoons into an archipelago of popcorn-island clouds. The first leaves metamorphose. It is a season of stories approaching, myths, and my muse is blind, or deaf, or distant, or dreaming.
Last night, my dreams consisted of an apocalypse, and twin whirlwinds, spinning around like a destructive helix, approached the town. Only a tiny string of townhouses, rudely erected on the edge of the forest in which I played the piano in a log cabin, stood between me and devastation. I knew my older brother and the female goddess each slept soundly in those buildings, though I could not play loud enough over the deafening tornado winds to awaken them. I had not time to find them, for I knew not in which house they slept, but if I could only play a little louder, the apocalypse might end, and they might awaken to soothe the winds into sleeping.
That's two days in a row of oddly melancholy dreams, though only the first day I awakened in grief. This last one came with a strange expectation of hope, a belief of conclusive victory, however violent the storms and imminent their devastation.
Rain approaches, and the cinereal sky darkens the mornings, burning away in afternoons into an archipelago of popcorn-island clouds. The first leaves metamorphose. It is a season of stories approaching, myths, and my muse is blind, or deaf, or distant, or dreaming.
Last night, my dreams consisted of an apocalypse, and twin whirlwinds, spinning around like a destructive helix, approached the town. Only a tiny string of townhouses, rudely erected on the edge of the forest in which I played the piano in a log cabin, stood between me and devastation. I knew my older brother and the female goddess each slept soundly in those buildings, though I could not play loud enough over the deafening tornado winds to awaken them. I had not time to find them, for I knew not in which house they slept, but if I could only play a little louder, the apocalypse might end, and they might awaken to soothe the winds into sleeping.
That's two days in a row of oddly melancholy dreams, though only the first day I awakened in grief. This last one came with a strange expectation of hope, a belief of conclusive victory, however violent the storms and imminent their devastation.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Ghosts of Faces
ghosts of faces are passing by
past they fly
could they be your friends, or mine?
or I theirs? - it's fine
for on streets or trails there's no goodbyes
for passersby living their own lives
rarely intersecting lines
and what of friends in different places
gone ten million paces
witness distant times
sharing but a moon and stars
of the sky's -
not ours
mountains here, desert there
forests and valleys
or dunes and seas
our times may meet but never, or twice
And your eyes say,
I love
I fly
my spirit's a dove
you'll never watch scrape the sky
nor the tears,
it cries,
of the endless phantoms you never meet
never treat for cups of tea
or campfire retreats
where rivers run besides
and their stories, well
you can never tell
they might have changed your life
might have loved, too
if only you, they, had chanced to say
who are you?
-----------
We celebrated my mother's birthday today. Surprisingly, the weather held. Here's to hoping it lasts a couple more days, so I might hike along the ridge or up a mountain on Wednesday. It does not look promising. We drove to the beach and went to a restaurant that mother dearly loves, and we all glanced out the windows over the ocean and into the water as the ducks paddled by, the jellyfish bounced their way through the waters, the seaweed drifted in its soggy swirls, and kayaks drifted by in the amiable waters. The sun gleamed off the waters and the windows of passing boats, fishing, drifting or sailing in the brine with sea breeze gently pushing at the waters.
Matthew is going to Korea, tomorrow, which is my last outside-the-house friend in Washington that I'm aware of (currently in the area discounting his family and my family - sorry if I forgot you). It will be quiet, perhaps, though I've long needed a little quiet. And how quiet is it really when the word games get crazy? When the card games with the family get joyful? Not. So. Silent.
Or when the coyotes howl with the distant neighbors huskies or when the wind races through the valley, stirring all the trees into frenzied whispers and wooden groans. It is a good sort of silence, and loudness. A restful set. Maybe I'll finish a few more books this week, too. Time for some creativity, time for some art, time for story magic and myth.
past they fly
could they be your friends, or mine?
or I theirs? - it's fine
for on streets or trails there's no goodbyes
for passersby living their own lives
rarely intersecting lines
and what of friends in different places
gone ten million paces
witness distant times
sharing but a moon and stars
of the sky's -
not ours
mountains here, desert there
forests and valleys
or dunes and seas
our times may meet but never, or twice
And your eyes say,
I love
I fly
my spirit's a dove
you'll never watch scrape the sky
nor the tears,
it cries,
of the endless phantoms you never meet
never treat for cups of tea
or campfire retreats
where rivers run besides
and their stories, well
you can never tell
they might have changed your life
might have loved, too
if only you, they, had chanced to say
who are you?
-----------
We celebrated my mother's birthday today. Surprisingly, the weather held. Here's to hoping it lasts a couple more days, so I might hike along the ridge or up a mountain on Wednesday. It does not look promising. We drove to the beach and went to a restaurant that mother dearly loves, and we all glanced out the windows over the ocean and into the water as the ducks paddled by, the jellyfish bounced their way through the waters, the seaweed drifted in its soggy swirls, and kayaks drifted by in the amiable waters. The sun gleamed off the waters and the windows of passing boats, fishing, drifting or sailing in the brine with sea breeze gently pushing at the waters.
Matthew is going to Korea, tomorrow, which is my last outside-the-house friend in Washington that I'm aware of (currently in the area discounting his family and my family - sorry if I forgot you). It will be quiet, perhaps, though I've long needed a little quiet. And how quiet is it really when the word games get crazy? When the card games with the family get joyful? Not. So. Silent.
Or when the coyotes howl with the distant neighbors huskies or when the wind races through the valley, stirring all the trees into frenzied whispers and wooden groans. It is a good sort of silence, and loudness. A restful set. Maybe I'll finish a few more books this week, too. Time for some creativity, time for some art, time for story magic and myth.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Expectations, Dreams
This week has been a smashing of expectations with a dash of adventure, a modicum of thought, a zealous smattering of joy and friendship: the recipe of my days. I'm sipping mint tea and contemplating my lack of desired success in writing, resting, exploring the world, hiking, playing soccer, all replaced with intimate discussions with friends over dinner, a sharing of hearts, and the blessing of listening ears.
I dreamt, last night, of an airport visit. All my friends were there, even a few surprises from far off places, from locales beyond the oceans. I remember sitting there, realizing I hadn't slept in the airport for days, just waiting for everyone to arrive and celebrate, and all I wanted was ice cream. As I reclined in an uncomfortable position along several airport seats, my friends arrived, each one carrying different varieties of ice cream of all my favorite flavors. I was overjoyed, but claimed I could not blithely accept their kindness. No, I must serve them instead. So I leaped to my feet and began serving everyone ice cream, even those around who were not my friends, until the ice cream was all eaten, and none remained for me, and I smiled, though I still was hungry.
Then, a friend I've not seen for many moons brought me a slice of cake, and I joined in the celebration. I remember thinking that I could not eat the cake, however, for it would be insensitive before my gluten free friends. So I gave it to a hungry child waiting for his parents to come out of the bathroom. For some reason, I was in a giant kitchen, and not an airport, and I remember waking and thinking, "how crafty am I, sneaking that cake to that child so clandestinely."
Such was, I suppose, the nature of this week. Seeing people I've missed so dearly (for they've been busy in other states and places or just being married), discussing lives and the dreams that drive us, and praying for each other.
I dreamt, last night, of an airport visit. All my friends were there, even a few surprises from far off places, from locales beyond the oceans. I remember sitting there, realizing I hadn't slept in the airport for days, just waiting for everyone to arrive and celebrate, and all I wanted was ice cream. As I reclined in an uncomfortable position along several airport seats, my friends arrived, each one carrying different varieties of ice cream of all my favorite flavors. I was overjoyed, but claimed I could not blithely accept their kindness. No, I must serve them instead. So I leaped to my feet and began serving everyone ice cream, even those around who were not my friends, until the ice cream was all eaten, and none remained for me, and I smiled, though I still was hungry.
Then, a friend I've not seen for many moons brought me a slice of cake, and I joined in the celebration. I remember thinking that I could not eat the cake, however, for it would be insensitive before my gluten free friends. So I gave it to a hungry child waiting for his parents to come out of the bathroom. For some reason, I was in a giant kitchen, and not an airport, and I remember waking and thinking, "how crafty am I, sneaking that cake to that child so clandestinely."
Such was, I suppose, the nature of this week. Seeing people I've missed so dearly (for they've been busy in other states and places or just being married), discussing lives and the dreams that drive us, and praying for each other.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Peace I leave with you
Soccer was quiet, tonight, and not full field. But the people were just as fulfilling. Next week I'll return to full field soccer. Still, afterwards P came over and we lazed around on couches and discussed magic and stories, rest and birthdays, love and silence. He asked me what I was going to do on my Sabbath, since I'd mentioned recently that I hadn't had a day to myself for a week and a half, and Saturday was my day. I told him I'd like to read a book and maybe write a story and P said, "Can you write a story about clouds? And not-people?"
Immediately this popped into my head: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-a6Pe1ovKHg
We were both sleepy at this point, and usually my stories don't stem from such, but I think it may be fun writing with a vague, dreamy prompt. Perhaps there will be a cloud story tomorrow, perhaps not. Either way, I'm excited to write about "persons and the death of a salesman" which I've got all stored up in my head. I almost wrote it in my journal, but I've got to save that for the writing that doesn't make me groan - it is harder to edit journal pen, so it has to be marvelous the first time. Blog entries can be terrible for a while, and that's fine. It is super casual writing anyway.
Well, it's bedtime, so peace I leave with you. Grace and peace be with you.
So begins my Sabbath.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Destiny
Walk any path in Destiny's garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times. The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.
Sometimes you dream about the paths of destiny, and speculate, to no purpose. Dream about the paths you took and the paths you didn't take... The paths diverge and branch and reconnect; some say not even Destiny himself truly knows where any way will take you, where each twist and turn will lead.
But even if Destiny could tell you, he will not. Destiny holds his secrets. The garden of Destiny. You would know it if you saw it. After all, you will wander it until you die. Or beyond. For the paths are long, and even in death there is no ending to them.
~ Season of Mists - Neil Gaiman
This is one of my favorite beginnings to any story, though the beginning of Season of Mists holds a special place in my heart. It is certainly one of my favorite Sandman novels, which makes it one of my favorite books overall. Choices are an interesting quandary, in retrospect. With an omniscient God, sometimes I have difficulty reconciling predestination and free will, though that's a philosophical topic too deep, perhaps, for this setting. But I can't not believe in a semblance of free will, for without free will, I'm not responsible for my misdeeds nor, even, for my righteous ones.
So, assuming I must claim responsibility for my actions, and the consequences of such actions carry me along a lane in Destiny's garden that cannot be unwound, I often deliberate overlong about meaningful decisions or happenstance in my life. This is not always detrimental. However, I'm also something of a personal perfectionist. It may matter little whether my friends live perfectly, choose perfectly, behave ideally, but this is my life. With careful choices and faithful movements, should I not be able to live perfectly? Write perfectly? Be perfectly kind or loving? If the possibility exists, with enough rigor and rigid control, surely perfection is not out of reach for the rest of my life, right?
I don't actually think these things. But sometimes, in the aftermath of foolish choices, I wallow. I read a particularly insightful blog post the other day on this topic, and I'm going to shamelessly quote it here: (on the topic of a spiraling downward of shame)
...And you’re not allowed to shame spiral, either.
Why? We both have a life to live. Words of wisdom to offer. Gifts God has given us. And once you and I allow ourselves to be shut down and chained by guilt or mistakes, we are rendered ineffective.
And we both know who does that.
So let’s not let that happen to us, okay? I’ll make you a deal: If you don’t let it happen to you, I won’t let it happen to me.
Let nothing silence you. You have things to say.
And God still likes you.
(Thank you asparaguslane. I appreciate your words and the tactfully blunt way in which they are spoken. I wish I had your talent. For now, I'll just borrow your words)
No one is perfect. Sometimes I feel like I just see my foibles too clearly, like muddy palm prints on crystal-clear windows, or droplets of blood dripping into a glass of clean water (that was a bit gruesome.. make it blue dye). Now that water is undrinkable. Spread it around in 10 gallons so the blood is so diffuse you could not dream of tasting it, and still I'd know it was there, polluting. And it is in these times that I'm thankful for my friends. I often mistrust their kindness, misinterpret it as lying on my behalf, as flattery. Friends don't flatter, they compliment.
But, the reminder is there. I do have things to say, and God (and my friends) still likes me, loves me, even when I make mistakes, and then more mistakes, and even when I make the same mistakes again. While I've not shame spiraled recently, I remember times of having done so. Thankfully, my friends are wise, gentle, and knowing. What I want more than anything is to be there for them when their shame spirals begin, preventing that slippery slope and catching them when they fall. I want to do more than just pray, though sometimes the distance is too great. I want to be there for my friends on every branching path their walk through the garden of fate takes them. Then, when we reach the other side, I want to celebrate at our faith and faithfulness to each other.
Sometimes you dream about the paths of destiny, and speculate, to no purpose. Dream about the paths you took and the paths you didn't take... The paths diverge and branch and reconnect; some say not even Destiny himself truly knows where any way will take you, where each twist and turn will lead.
But even if Destiny could tell you, he will not. Destiny holds his secrets. The garden of Destiny. You would know it if you saw it. After all, you will wander it until you die. Or beyond. For the paths are long, and even in death there is no ending to them.
~ Season of Mists - Neil Gaiman
This is one of my favorite beginnings to any story, though the beginning of Season of Mists holds a special place in my heart. It is certainly one of my favorite Sandman novels, which makes it one of my favorite books overall. Choices are an interesting quandary, in retrospect. With an omniscient God, sometimes I have difficulty reconciling predestination and free will, though that's a philosophical topic too deep, perhaps, for this setting. But I can't not believe in a semblance of free will, for without free will, I'm not responsible for my misdeeds nor, even, for my righteous ones.
So, assuming I must claim responsibility for my actions, and the consequences of such actions carry me along a lane in Destiny's garden that cannot be unwound, I often deliberate overlong about meaningful decisions or happenstance in my life. This is not always detrimental. However, I'm also something of a personal perfectionist. It may matter little whether my friends live perfectly, choose perfectly, behave ideally, but this is my life. With careful choices and faithful movements, should I not be able to live perfectly? Write perfectly? Be perfectly kind or loving? If the possibility exists, with enough rigor and rigid control, surely perfection is not out of reach for the rest of my life, right?
I don't actually think these things. But sometimes, in the aftermath of foolish choices, I wallow. I read a particularly insightful blog post the other day on this topic, and I'm going to shamelessly quote it here: (on the topic of a spiraling downward of shame)
...And you’re not allowed to shame spiral, either.
Why? We both have a life to live. Words of wisdom to offer. Gifts God has given us. And once you and I allow ourselves to be shut down and chained by guilt or mistakes, we are rendered ineffective.
And we both know who does that.
So let’s not let that happen to us, okay? I’ll make you a deal: If you don’t let it happen to you, I won’t let it happen to me.
Let nothing silence you. You have things to say.
And God still likes you.
(Thank you asparaguslane. I appreciate your words and the tactfully blunt way in which they are spoken. I wish I had your talent. For now, I'll just borrow your words)
No one is perfect. Sometimes I feel like I just see my foibles too clearly, like muddy palm prints on crystal-clear windows, or droplets of blood dripping into a glass of clean water (that was a bit gruesome.. make it blue dye). Now that water is undrinkable. Spread it around in 10 gallons so the blood is so diffuse you could not dream of tasting it, and still I'd know it was there, polluting. And it is in these times that I'm thankful for my friends. I often mistrust their kindness, misinterpret it as lying on my behalf, as flattery. Friends don't flatter, they compliment.
But, the reminder is there. I do have things to say, and God (and my friends) still likes me, loves me, even when I make mistakes, and then more mistakes, and even when I make the same mistakes again. While I've not shame spiraled recently, I remember times of having done so. Thankfully, my friends are wise, gentle, and knowing. What I want more than anything is to be there for them when their shame spirals begin, preventing that slippery slope and catching them when they fall. I want to do more than just pray, though sometimes the distance is too great. I want to be there for my friends on every branching path their walk through the garden of fate takes them. Then, when we reach the other side, I want to celebrate at our faith and faithfulness to each other.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Hook, Line, Sinker
I've been thinking lately about beginnings, and endings. Many of my favorite books I remember via their beginnings and endings, and I picked up more than a few of them sheerly through becoming hooked on the first line.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wheel of time has always held a special place in my heart. I remember once, during the peak of my reading prowess, I read two in one night in high school (slightly over 2100 pages) before going to school the next morning (biology lab, 7:30). Despite this beginning being slightly overdone - Jordan does not alter it throughout the series beginnings - it has still stuck with me as a moving entrance into an epic saga. It was also one of the first high fantasy series that I read.
This is a tale of a meeting of two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a planet which was dying fast.
I've always had a little soft spot for Vonnegut, even though he's a tad vulgar at times. Though I may enjoy the beginning of Cad's Cradle even more than this one.
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.
I've always really loved this introduction as something truly mythical. It is a mystical entrance into a divine work of art - our world.
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.
I love Neil Gaiman, so it comes as no surprise that the beginning of Graveyard Book (one of my favorites of his novels) has a chill and incredible beginning.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a fantastic satire and comedy, and the beginning certainly did not let me down. I still read sections of this book when I see it lying on my shelf, forlornly, and it never gets old.
I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.
Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky is not his best work, but I do still think the beginning immediately captures your attention. He knows how to develop characters like no other author I've ever read, though I've not even read all his stuff, someday I hope to.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
This one is cheating, since it is a poem and not quite a story. Though perhaps it is a story after all...
The story so far: In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.
However irreverent, Douglas Adams never fails to amuse me.
There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.
Oh, CS Lewis.
Walk any path in Destiny's Garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times. The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's Garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.
Season of Mists have one of my favorite beginnings of any of the Sandman graphic novels. This section continues further, and it is splendidly crafted.
I've been contemplating beginnings quite a bit, in stories and life. Sometimes, we fear them, though perhaps not so much as endings. Many endings are just beginnings in disguise, though the unknowing can be frightening. I'm walking my way through Destiny's Garden right now, making choices and turning along the hedges and vines - sometimes there seems not to be a path at all that I follow, just an imagined destination. Who knows where I will end up.
I contemplate beginnings because I'm seeing endings, though they frighten me not. I've read some interesting books, lately, and many have had their own interesting hooks and I've swallowed line, sinker, pole on others. I also really like the beginning to Going Postal by Terry Pratchett, though that book is hilarious in its entirety. And the beginning of Name of the Wind, but that takes an entire prologue.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.
The wheel of time has always held a special place in my heart. I remember once, during the peak of my reading prowess, I read two in one night in high school (slightly over 2100 pages) before going to school the next morning (biology lab, 7:30). Despite this beginning being slightly overdone - Jordan does not alter it throughout the series beginnings - it has still stuck with me as a moving entrance into an epic saga. It was also one of the first high fantasy series that I read.
This is a tale of a meeting of two lonesome, skinny, fairly old white men on a planet which was dying fast.
I've always had a little soft spot for Vonnegut, even though he's a tad vulgar at times. Though I may enjoy the beginning of Cad's Cradle even more than this one.
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.
I've always really loved this introduction as something truly mythical. It is a mystical entrance into a divine work of art - our world.
There was a hand in the darkness, and it held a knife.
I love Neil Gaiman, so it comes as no surprise that the beginning of Graveyard Book (one of my favorites of his novels) has a chill and incredible beginning.
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small, unregarded yellow sun.
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a fantastic satire and comedy, and the beginning certainly did not let me down. I still read sections of this book when I see it lying on my shelf, forlornly, and it never gets old.
I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.
Notes from Underground by Dostoevsky is not his best work, but I do still think the beginning immediately captures your attention. He knows how to develop characters like no other author I've ever read, though I've not even read all his stuff, someday I hope to.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
This one is cheating, since it is a poem and not quite a story. Though perhaps it is a story after all...
The story so far: In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.
However irreverent, Douglas Adams never fails to amuse me.
There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it.
Oh, CS Lewis.
Walk any path in Destiny's Garden, and you will be forced to choose, not once but many times. The paths fork and divide. With each step you take through Destiny's Garden, you make a choice; and every choice determines future paths. However, at the end of a lifetime of walking you might look back, and see only one path stretching out behind you; or look ahead, and see only darkness.
Season of Mists have one of my favorite beginnings of any of the Sandman graphic novels. This section continues further, and it is splendidly crafted.
I've been contemplating beginnings quite a bit, in stories and life. Sometimes, we fear them, though perhaps not so much as endings. Many endings are just beginnings in disguise, though the unknowing can be frightening. I'm walking my way through Destiny's Garden right now, making choices and turning along the hedges and vines - sometimes there seems not to be a path at all that I follow, just an imagined destination. Who knows where I will end up.
I contemplate beginnings because I'm seeing endings, though they frighten me not. I've read some interesting books, lately, and many have had their own interesting hooks and I've swallowed line, sinker, pole on others. I also really like the beginning to Going Postal by Terry Pratchett, though that book is hilarious in its entirety. And the beginning of Name of the Wind, but that takes an entire prologue.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
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.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Stay on target...
I was doing so well with blog posts for a time, and time, or lack thereof, is killing me. I always try prioritizing journal, anyway, so I suppose as long as I get journaling time in, I'm not completely at a loss. There are always choices, I suppose. I can either play soccer in the rain with the best of people, or not; I can enjoy delicious food with friends I will not see again this year, or not; I can enjoy the company of friends for tea and swedish pancakes and books and entertainment and long conversations into the night, or not; I can tell stories to friends that take three hours, delaying the inevitable tragedy in a rising storm of climactic peril, torturing them in Arabian Night's fashion, or not. These choices are not difficult. But sometimes the things I miss are equally pleasant, in their time: reading, writing, introvert time (scarce, these days), listening-to-the-rain-time.
There are always opportunities missed in either direction. The drizzling rain created the most dazzling of rainbows over the grassy park, shooting out from the pines and firs in a glorious array of colors that arced against the sky. Then, when the sun set, the sky assumed a rare pinkish hue, almost fuchsia, that sparked the clouds alight like a pillar of flame. It brought to mind the Exodus of the Israelites: what would that have been like, a pillar of flame by night? As a child, I always imagined a tornado of flame - how cool is that? Digressions. If I had stayed home and read, I might have been recharged, but surely would not have enjoyed the exquisite sunset, the chance to run in the rain, the delightful squish of grass between my toes, the holler of happy voices playing soccer, the joy of being with friends and telling stories, the love of praying, holding hands, and asking God for a glorious game.
I also had to say goodbyes this week, which is bittersweet.
There are always opportunities missed in either direction. The drizzling rain created the most dazzling of rainbows over the grassy park, shooting out from the pines and firs in a glorious array of colors that arced against the sky. Then, when the sun set, the sky assumed a rare pinkish hue, almost fuchsia, that sparked the clouds alight like a pillar of flame. It brought to mind the Exodus of the Israelites: what would that have been like, a pillar of flame by night? As a child, I always imagined a tornado of flame - how cool is that? Digressions. If I had stayed home and read, I might have been recharged, but surely would not have enjoyed the exquisite sunset, the chance to run in the rain, the delightful squish of grass between my toes, the holler of happy voices playing soccer, the joy of being with friends and telling stories, the love of praying, holding hands, and asking God for a glorious game.
I also had to say goodbyes this week, which is bittersweet.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Ragnorak Part Trois
The incessant sound of a doorbell ringing in his flat awakened Jak into a grumpy stupor. He tumbled a while, willing the noise to disappear through neglect, burrowing deeper into his blankets and covering his head with a pillow. Dingdingdingding. What manner of cruelty brought visitors at this ungodly hour?
"Go away!" he attempted, though his voice was greatly muffled beneath the blankets. The ruckus persevered, undeterred. For a few minutes longer, Jak, through sheer force of will, pulled all the blankets over his head, trying to drown out the invasive noise. It didn't seem to help any, but Jak refused to let this doorbell ruin his morning.
Two minutes more, the doorbell chimed, and finally he could stand it no longer, sitting up in bed, fully awake and angry. And the doorbell stopped. Now, fully awake, Jak realized two things almost simultaneously. First, he possessed no doorbell; second, his flat had no door.
This realization was punctuated with a loud crash erupting behind Jak, showering him with plaster, insulation, and splinters of wood. He leapt out of bed and turned to see the gaping hole in the wall behind his bed.
"Jak! Why Did You Not Come Out To Greet Us!" bellowed a booming bass. The bed frame was still in the way, and Jak could not see the owner of the voice through the cloud of dusty white from the imploded wall.
"I was resting! Can't a man get some-"
Another series of thunderclap smashes, and Jak's bed was reduced to a smoldering pile of scraps smelling vaguely of ozone. Jak winced. "Well? Aren't you going to invite us in?" said another voice, this one hard and cold.
"Before you what? Break the rest of my home? Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home," Jak said with a sigh. "Or what's left of it...." he grumbled under his breath.
Two figures poked their way through the hole in the wall, stepping across the smoldering remains of Jak's bed, and into the flat. The first was enormous, giant as a bear and heavily muscled. His hair was golden, and flowing down his back like a mane, and his beard was braided with beads and he smelled of mead and meat. In his left hand, he held a hammer that easily fit his palm - a carpenter's hammer, though Jak suspected a mere carpenter's hammer could not have broken into his apartment so easily.
The second was taller, thinner, and he wore a large, wide-brimmed hat. An eyepatch covered one eye, though Jak later could not recall which eye, and his gnarled, grey beard looked like a nest against his chest. He held a staff, a twisted branch of oak, and the intensity of his gaze caused Jak to shudder involuntarily.
edit me please.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This morning, I was reading Psalms and stumbled again across Psalm 42. I could wish that I was alive, then, listening to the Sons of Korah composing, or David passionately strumming out his anguish and angst in plaintive string movements. Yet, even without knowing the tune, this Psalm, I feel it.
First, the writer sings (in King James, because it's prettier today):
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?
Later he/she sings:
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.
These are a little out of context, as they make this Psalm seem like a seeking, when it is a Psalm of lament, of weeping for God's presence in time of trouble and trial. I'm not currently suffering from painful trials (my time will come, I'm certain), but I wonder if my soul pants for God as a thirsty deer? I pray it be so.
Other Notes:
- need to plot out ragnorak (saying it that way sounds epic)
- finish harold's story
- update eternity story
- make list of all currently open stories
"Go away!" he attempted, though his voice was greatly muffled beneath the blankets. The ruckus persevered, undeterred. For a few minutes longer, Jak, through sheer force of will, pulled all the blankets over his head, trying to drown out the invasive noise. It didn't seem to help any, but Jak refused to let this doorbell ruin his morning.
Two minutes more, the doorbell chimed, and finally he could stand it no longer, sitting up in bed, fully awake and angry. And the doorbell stopped. Now, fully awake, Jak realized two things almost simultaneously. First, he possessed no doorbell; second, his flat had no door.
This realization was punctuated with a loud crash erupting behind Jak, showering him with plaster, insulation, and splinters of wood. He leapt out of bed and turned to see the gaping hole in the wall behind his bed.
"Jak! Why Did You Not Come Out To Greet Us!" bellowed a booming bass. The bed frame was still in the way, and Jak could not see the owner of the voice through the cloud of dusty white from the imploded wall.
"I was resting! Can't a man get some-"
Another series of thunderclap smashes, and Jak's bed was reduced to a smoldering pile of scraps smelling vaguely of ozone. Jak winced. "Well? Aren't you going to invite us in?" said another voice, this one hard and cold.
"Before you what? Break the rest of my home? Come in, come in. Make yourselves at home," Jak said with a sigh. "Or what's left of it...." he grumbled under his breath.
Two figures poked their way through the hole in the wall, stepping across the smoldering remains of Jak's bed, and into the flat. The first was enormous, giant as a bear and heavily muscled. His hair was golden, and flowing down his back like a mane, and his beard was braided with beads and he smelled of mead and meat. In his left hand, he held a hammer that easily fit his palm - a carpenter's hammer, though Jak suspected a mere carpenter's hammer could not have broken into his apartment so easily.
The second was taller, thinner, and he wore a large, wide-brimmed hat. An eyepatch covered one eye, though Jak later could not recall which eye, and his gnarled, grey beard looked like a nest against his chest. He held a staff, a twisted branch of oak, and the intensity of his gaze caused Jak to shudder involuntarily.
edit me please.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This morning, I was reading Psalms and stumbled again across Psalm 42. I could wish that I was alive, then, listening to the Sons of Korah composing, or David passionately strumming out his anguish and angst in plaintive string movements. Yet, even without knowing the tune, this Psalm, I feel it.
First, the writer sings (in King James, because it's prettier today):
As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?
Later he/she sings:
Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts: all thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.
Yet the Lord will command his lovingkindness in the day time, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.
These are a little out of context, as they make this Psalm seem like a seeking, when it is a Psalm of lament, of weeping for God's presence in time of trouble and trial. I'm not currently suffering from painful trials (my time will come, I'm certain), but I wonder if my soul pants for God as a thirsty deer? I pray it be so.
Other Notes:
- need to plot out ragnorak (saying it that way sounds epic)
- finish harold's story
- update eternity story
- make list of all currently open stories
Monday, August 5, 2013
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.
----------------------------------------------------------------
-- 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.
(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.
----------------------------------------------------------------
-- 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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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