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.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Rain
There is something satisfying in rain, in watching behind the window-screen, hands underneath my chin, as droplets plop into the grass and trees, gravel and streets. and against the eaves and tiles. And going outside into those tiny streams, drops collecting into damp sections and dampness into puddles, and puddles into tiny rivulets that pour downhill along streets towards grates or channels. The soggy grass yields beneath my feet and the puddles soak my shoes. It's easier to write in the rain, easier to think and dream and sleep and breathe, sometimes. I feel like the moisture pulls the the smells of life right into the air, and the sweetness of earth and vines, wood and pines.
I like the rain, though many may not. I love the sun as well, and snow - hail and sleet less so, though they are a novelty, sometimes. But rains at night are one of my most favorite things, a beautiful musical prelude to sleep. If only rain combined with stars, I believe I'd be in heaven's arms.
to be continued.
I like the rain, though many may not. I love the sun as well, and snow - hail and sleet less so, though they are a novelty, sometimes. But rains at night are one of my most favorite things, a beautiful musical prelude to sleep. If only rain combined with stars, I believe I'd be in heaven's arms.
to be continued.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Losing Battles and Joyous Reminders
Some wars cannot be won, no matter how the battles are fought. Countless times, I've come across these: Pyrrhic victories, where every battle is won, but the cost is too great, or the loss inevitable. These are the worst. More than ever, these drive my competitive spirit, rekindle that flame of conquest I've denied. Why can I not win? Surely I just need more motivation, more study, more understanding... Perhaps that is true, or perhaps another force exists beyond what I can compete with, and impedes my victory no matter the invested effort. Whatever the case, I know I'm not the only soldier in these battles.
I see that others also engage in inevitable defeat, and strive until the bitter end for a lost cause. When I see others endure these losing battles, my empathy cries out. I shudder and cry for them, I pray desperately that theirs will be different - can I help? Can I shift the inexorable tides? And here I sit, suffering that same generational weakness of the pharisees and Israel, asking for a sign, a miracle, a prayer of a chance for the sufferer. My eyes are fixated on the fact that a particular door is closed, and I cannot deign to see whether any other doors might be closing and opening, for myself or them. So I and they continue fighting, keep on winning battles in a losing war, or not, and the outcome appears an injustice forced upon us, when, if only we'd had faith, we might walk the water away from a sea in storm. Sometimes, there is more than life to gain, more than pride to lose, more than selfishness at stake.
So how can I help?
I'm an empathetic person, mostly. When my closest of friends suffer, I suffer also. I've endured fevers and sleepless nights, nausea and visceral agony (mostly all at once) for friends in hurtful scenarios, and they'll never know. I would not add to their pain. I cry out all night for their anguish - oh, may it cease, may it cease - and when it does, or if, I praise the Lord as in the most triumphant of Psalms. In fact, I believe I suffer more for other's angst than my own, for I know that God will get ME through. He always has, however much through the threshing (and the threshing often comes). Would that I had that same faith all the time.
But I read some comforting words in Psalms, today, chapter 46:
God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change
And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.
...
Come, behold the works of the Lord,
Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
“Cease striving and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.
Beautiful and important words. He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth, even wars in me. Break the bow and cut the spear in twain. My God is a consuming fire, and full of loving grace. Have faith.
I'm praying for you all.
(And this is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was reading one of my favorite poems tonight, and was just jarred by its lyric:
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
---
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
TS Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Such a master of verse, rhythm and rhyme.
I see that others also engage in inevitable defeat, and strive until the bitter end for a lost cause. When I see others endure these losing battles, my empathy cries out. I shudder and cry for them, I pray desperately that theirs will be different - can I help? Can I shift the inexorable tides? And here I sit, suffering that same generational weakness of the pharisees and Israel, asking for a sign, a miracle, a prayer of a chance for the sufferer. My eyes are fixated on the fact that a particular door is closed, and I cannot deign to see whether any other doors might be closing and opening, for myself or them. So I and they continue fighting, keep on winning battles in a losing war, or not, and the outcome appears an injustice forced upon us, when, if only we'd had faith, we might walk the water away from a sea in storm. Sometimes, there is more than life to gain, more than pride to lose, more than selfishness at stake.
So how can I help?
I'm an empathetic person, mostly. When my closest of friends suffer, I suffer also. I've endured fevers and sleepless nights, nausea and visceral agony (mostly all at once) for friends in hurtful scenarios, and they'll never know. I would not add to their pain. I cry out all night for their anguish - oh, may it cease, may it cease - and when it does, or if, I praise the Lord as in the most triumphant of Psalms. In fact, I believe I suffer more for other's angst than my own, for I know that God will get ME through. He always has, however much through the threshing (and the threshing often comes). Would that I had that same faith all the time.
But I read some comforting words in Psalms, today, chapter 46:
God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change
And though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea;
Though its waters roar and foam,
Though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.
...
Come, behold the works of the Lord,
Who has wrought desolations in the earth.
He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth;
He breaks the bow and cuts the spear in two;
He burns the chariots with fire.
“Cease striving and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.”
The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our stronghold. Selah.
Beautiful and important words. He makes wars to cease to the end of the earth, even wars in me. Break the bow and cut the spear in twain. My God is a consuming fire, and full of loving grace. Have faith.
I'm praying for you all.
(And this is the victory that has overcome the world, even our faith)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was reading one of my favorite poems tonight, and was just jarred by its lyric:
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question….
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
---
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
TS Eliot - The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
Such a master of verse, rhythm and rhyme.
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, August 3, 2013
Blackberry Season
One of my favorite times of summer is fruit season. Just outside my doors, ripe plums hang from darkly violet (plum-colored, if you will) trees; grapes dangle from vines laced around wires; pear and apple trees lining the streets and in the fields sag under the weight of their ripening loads; figs, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, each bush or tree laden with juicy antioxidants and vitamins (I mean fruit!) bundled in the sweetest of packages. And now blackberries.
Blackberries are my favorite. I think it is the competition with the brier requisite in retrieving the fruit. This morning, sunlight barely peaking over Rex Hill, I snatched the largest bowls I could find (optimistic), and wandered around town to find blackberry plants. First, I tried near the North Valley Friend's Church. Not much luck. The location I'd tried last year was mostly poisoned down (why, Newberg, why?) and after hopping my way between islands of thorny vines, I eventually find myself trapped in a prison of angry blackberries with berries tantalizingly out of grasp. And even the berries I found were dried out, or laced with angry spiders. I managed my escape with only a few handfuls of berries and some bloody ankles. Worth it. I ate most of these.
Next, I tried the river. The entire valley is fertile, but the river region is more so, for obvious reasons. These berries were by no means short on water. The best part was, a private, fenced off region with a barbed wire fence bordered some land, and the blackberries blithely climbed over the fence, allowing for a large quantity of freely given berries that did not require platemail and a broadsword to collect (which is good, because they don't make broadswords like they used to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwibf6t7Scc)
Ta-da, blackberries! I then made a cobbler, went to a wedding, and another. Now, of course, I'm ready to see A and S tomorrow, with gluten free dessert (the cobbler used magic not-flour flour).
Blackberry Poetry Section:
Sylvia Plath: (she always has a... dark side to her poetry. I appreciate it, but if I had been friends with her, I think I would have been worried. Still, it is about blackberries. You're welcome)
I cut off the last portion of the poem because Sylvia Plath got sidetracked from blackberries, and it just would not do. Next time, Plath, stay on the topic of delicious berries. Though, it is actually an interesting end to the poem. So I suggest you go read it anyway (I think here they have it: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178965)
Blackberrying
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks—
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Legos
Many days, the outdoors captivated my attention: sweet smells of pine, maple and wet earth in the darker seasons; sunlight, hills, and fields of green in the sunny seasons. But, of course, some days were too cold, wintry and with a bone-chilling wind that sliced through any jacket. "Cat in the Hat" days, these were, though the insides of houses contain their own expeditions and adventures: building extravagant blanket forts or racing cars with epic gear-shifting noises, multi-floor golf with ping-pong balls and duplos goals, spider soccer, cards, and, of course, legos.
Downstairs, in a crotchety closet, board games are stacked from floor to ceiling, and, even better, building toys. Linkin logs, duplos, knex, legos, all labelled in their respective bins, bulging with colorful happiness awaiting design. Phil and I would clear space, a great, empty expanse in the floor, and lug out the giant plastic bin of legos, grunting with the effort. Then, all gleeful smiles and excitement, rain pattering at the windows and glupping from the eaves and gutters, we tipped over the bin, dumping all the legos into the clear. Phil would start constructing a racecar, all giant wheels and aerodynamic prospect. I'd daydream a castle, a spaceship, an underwater cavern, or a raid on a dragon's lair - a short story captured in a still of legos, beginning in the heat of battle before broiling to a swift, possibly bloody, resolution.
Today, I would think to myself, I'll build a spaceship. Oh, it would be magnificent! Sharp wings angling backwards like a fly, giving a sleek and speedy design, countless lasers arrayed in a deadly composition, a chaotic design making it difficult to disable all these neon weapons. It would have a glassy pilots den, a steering wheel driving system with several strange joysticks nearby, four giant, metallic engines in the rear, like an x-wing, only closer together, escape pods along the side, dangerous looking pirate-astronauts piloting the ship like true rebels, scoundrels each one.
Then, scarcely as I'd begun imagining, I'd dive into the pile, picking out every piece matching some ideal struct in my spaceship daydream. This silver triangle might make a magnificent wing or this underwater piece might serve as an excellent escape-pod front-cover, and on and on. The problem was, this didn't stop. I'd find another piece that made the wing design more fantastic, a sleek-black piece more acutely angled and ideal for the shape of my wings, or a different color scheme of lasers that might make an excellent addition to the ship's underbelly, or 5 more possible designs for the escape pods, some with magnets or spinning parts, so the pirate-astronauts might man an escape pod and shoot lasers to ward off enemy fighters, or launch the escape pods as short-term ships in a small dog-fight. And, wow, this piece allows me to swivel my cockpit open in case I want a parachute-escape in space, or in an atmosphere - totally useful! I definitely want that piece.
This continued until I'd developed quite a stockpile of pieces, all intrinsic portions of a tree of daydreams, branching out into the most epic of spaceships. So what if I built it it would have 10 wings, 50 lasers, a command center, two cockpits, seven engines, and a small fleet of escape pods. It was magnificent. Once I'd gathered all my prospective pieces, I'd glance over them with pride, a happy creator of the greatest spaceship of all time. Magnificent.
Then, I'd calmly place all my pieces back into the pile and be finished, having never built, nor even started, the spaceship at all. Often I might build a racecar with Phil and race away, never once looking back or considering my time wasted or my endeavor a failure. Why would I? I'd constructed the greatest spaceship of all time, even if it only existed within my head.
It was a long time until I discovered I've the same process with writing. When I was a child, I read everything I could. When we were not playing games as a family, I was holing myself up in a corner under some blankets, listening to the rain and journeying into the worlds of imagination. As a child, whenever I could, I constructed my own little worlds created from words, and invented phrases different characters might say, or clever plot twists. While every other child wanted to be a sports legend, an astronaut, a mad scientist, I wanted to be an author, right from the beginning.
My greatest obstacle, which I found out later, was my legos mentality. I imagined all these great worlds, these deep, clever personas, fantastic settings of all types and colors, and even some crazy, unique stories, but I never wrote them down. I didn't have to, right? I knew what the story was, full of surprises and twists and witty repartee. Wrong.
Throughout high school, I wrote almost nothing of creative merit. I wrote my essays, lousy though they were, and never even bothered listening to teacher's criticism on my work. I got A's, didn't I? What could be wrong with my homework if I was still managing A's? It is a common mistake of teachers not granting the grades deserved, or marking down more for consistent errors not fixed, perhaps, but really it was my fault for not trying to improve. I disliked high school, because my preppy, tiny school contained cliques of friendships where I never felt I belonged. I had a few friends, but none I felt strongly attached to on leaving home for college. In fact, I maintained contact with almost none of them save through the barest of technological means. That's a rabbit hole.
So when I got to college, I received a rude awakening: I didn't know how to write. I had a magnificent vocabulary and enough credit from my SAT scores and AP scores to cover all of my general education classes, so I dove right into upper level courses. And got slaughtered on my first essays. "Where is your thesis?" "What is this paragraph structure?" "Where is the constancy in this philosophical assay?" I had to start from scratch. Fortunately, I had a wealth of knowledge built up, so I wasn't dead in the water, but I was far behind expectations, and already suffering a brutal series of essay grades (B's - grades in this world are ridiculous.. do some professors feel bad about failing students?)
It took some time, but I harnessed my competitive nature and started collecting knowledge. I read every essay I could find, from celebrated authors like Orwell and Twain, or Swift and Nietzche, or Lewis and Thoreau. I read essays from my fellow students, asking them to share with me if they'd received stellar grades, and learning from their styles and patterns of thoughts. I consumed knowledge, and, before long, it paid off. All my essays began receiving exquisite marks, no longer suffering from significant grammar mistakes or syntactic and semantic holes.
Once again, I returned into my legos mentality, this time with a wealth of production knowledge backing it up - now it was useful. Not only could I imagine all the fantastic conceptions I might place into a story, but I could nurture my ideas into fruition. A seed of thought blossomed into a flowering essay, simple and effective. I've a lot of learning to go; I didn't learn everything there was to know in that short period, but at least I was no longer producing literary failures. I still have a long way to go, but I'm learning so many fantastic ways of arranging lego tiles that every new day is enlightening.
Once again, I returned into my legos mentality, this time with a wealth of production knowledge backing it up - now it was useful. Not only could I imagine all the fantastic conceptions I might place into a story, but I could nurture my ideas into fruition. A seed of thought blossomed into a flowering essay, simple and effective. I've a lot of learning to go; I didn't learn everything there was to know in that short period, but at least I was no longer producing literary failures. I still have a long way to go, but I'm learning so many fantastic ways of arranging lego tiles that every new day is enlightening.
Time to invent some spaceships.
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