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 Road I've Traveled By

Nostalgic Mornings: Friday Edition - The Road I've Traveled By - by Benjamin
In a former post, I discussed my slow start into writing. I believe my first incursion into purposeful writing and reading began in my early senior year, when A decided art what was he truly loved, and disappeared into the art studio for a year. I was in a unique stage in life, with some close friends trickling out of life and some new friends stampeding in, and I'd much on my mind worth considering. I still have all my journals, and I can still see my original, first journal piece that I ever wrote on this train into now. I wrote a poem titled "The Oasis Divine" and a small piece on roads. I did not expect I might be still writing today, or that the journaling would continue at that time, and did not date my entries for some time. Everything started out slow, and I believe my journaling probably did not truly pick up speed until late 2009. That 2009 through early 2010 journal was far more utilitarian: a sequence of diary notes.

What is fascinating is glancing backwards and seeing these journals now. Most of my journaling was done through poetic prose, story, essays, and vague dialectics. Rarely did I discuss actual events occurring in my life. Yet, I can see as I walk through each life segment the tragedy of each time, the triumphs. In the end of 2009 where my writing dives into sadness at the loss of a great friend; in the hopeful, early seasons of 2010 where I was realizing dreams; in the mid-seasons of 2010 when I lost the same friend, again, and the crushing of dreams; in late 2010 with A's difficult time where his brother was sick; in 2011, when A found S and I started my first nanowrimo. In 2012 when A disappeared into California, Matthew had some interesting relationships, P got out of the house, a family friend died, new house with new people, a graduation of my best friend, Matthew (was that really just 2012? 7 years of school... hehehe) - so much changed in 2012. And now, this year with its own crazy ride. I look back at the prayers I wrote, the fasts I followed, the stories I wrote, the pain I battled, the joys I praised through over and over, the friends I pleaded for and love so dearly, the poetry of a soul living.

There are some motifs, it seems.  Two favorite recurring phrases in the darker times: Dum Spiro Spero and "Time Inexorable" which is something that comforted me when high school was miserable. During blessed, joyful times, motifs such as different Psalms of joy, more poetry, paeans, a bright fable or myth.  I did not get my story into the anthology (only twenty people got in out of over a thousand entries). I'm a bit disappointed, but the publishing is creative commons, which means I get to see who did end up winning once it's published. I actually suspect that I could have been denied because my story was a tad... odd. It leaned towards the urban, weird genre rather than traditional fantasy or sci-fi. The experience was by no means a loss, and I actually do enjoy the story I wrote (at least a bit). Hopefully another anthology opportunity stumbles on by soon enough.

Words

Every now and again, I stumble across words whose sounds and associated meanings surprise me. Pulchritudinous is an easy favorite, but recently I stumbled across the word crepuscular again. I've used the word, myself, but in the context I saw it in, the author meant it as a beautiful palette of colors - I always imagined it when describing a shadowy, creepy setting. It sounds creepy, cavernous, like the maw of a mountain seeking to devour you whole once the sun fully crawls beneath the horizon.

I'm excited, as I suspect that these next few weeks will prove more than interesting. I've pulchritudinous paths prepared before me, if you will. How is it already mid-August? Wanderlust August.

Some difficult circumstantiae have wandered past, and some blessings. Standard fare for the inexorability of time. It is a shifting season, but the crepuscular tides of even summon me to sleep.

-- this had a point.. but I got back home about 2 hours later than I was willing to fight with it. So I truncated the ending and slapped a disclaimer on the end. Victory. --

Jig is up

Sometimes you pray for a window, hope for a door, and receive a concrete wall. Glancing right and left, you pace alongside its flat façade, and no cracks are found.  Desperate, you lean close, pressing your ear against the cold surface, knuckling the wall in a silent supplication for a hollow echo, a whisper of direction from opposite this obstacle unjustly impeding your earned, deserved path. It says nothing; it's a wall.
Shortly, you discover your tantrum solves nothing, your whining echoes irritatingly off that haughty wall. You settle your back against a door opposite the wall, fixating your gaze on that inconsiderate slab - if it moves, you'll know. Why is it there? Won't you please move it, Lord?
If walls could smirk, especially plain grey walls, this one's smugly blank expression was enough to drive one mad. The wind sighs through the door at your back, the autumnal smell bringing to mind thoughts of fallen leaves, golden, orange and crimson, and mountain pines with a trickling burn meandering down in a gully, joyful fish leaping out and catching water-skippers. You hear a blue-jay whistling the song of the hills. What is with this abysmal wall? Just. Let. Me. Through. This is my dream!
The sound behind assumes a dull ambiance, and the fragrance melts into the backdrop of your mind. The jig is up. Is that a ram caught in the thicket on that mountainside?


I have an old, old, yellow-leaved copy of a Kierkegaard book that contains two distinct essays he wrote: Fear and Trembling and That Sickness Unto Death. The latter is an assay into the contemplation of despair, beginning with a reference to the story about Lazarus. It discusses different forms despair may take, three in particular, with the conclusion that faith is the opposite of despair. The other story is, to me in concept, more intriguing. Fear and Trembling embarks on a journey into the mentality of Abraham on his journey of sacrifice and faith. Kierkegaard travels through the stages of Abraham's resignation and hope and inner dilemma. It is a fascinating question. What was Abraham thinking as he climbed the mountain towards the sacrifice of his beloved son. There's a metaphorical connection to Christ's own sacrifice, and the faith requisite of the son. I remember a sermon that I heard as a child where the pastor discussed how Abraham had faith, despite the grim outlook, and what he never knew was that a ram climbed the other side of the mountain, a ram destined for a thicket. Seems a grim end for a ram - I'm uncomfortable with the death of anything - but the ramifications are worthy of contemplation (I made that pun un-sheepishly. I apologize to ewe).
Now I'm bashing my head into walls, and maybe I'm not seeing the mountainside, maybe I'm not seeing the Autumn, maybe this obstacle is still too concrete in my tunnel-vision. You have to back away, sometimes, from your tunnel-vision or microscope vision, where a tiny fiasco looks like the whole of things.

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.

Celebration and Sleep Lions.

Since the first week on the dawn of creation, God initiated days of rest and celebration. After working, creating, mythically transforming nothingness into existence (whether in 7 days or 7 aeons, I will not discuss now. That's for another time), God saw his creation as good, and rested.

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day. Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array.

By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.

The word mo'edim used in Leviticus to discuss the holy days means appointed times. I've discussed before the interesting choice of words, here, so I'll skip it this time (lucky you!). The point is, that God realized that we need rest from work, and appointed times of rest and celebration: seasons of praise.  Just today, a friend of mine whose mother the doctors said would die by the end of the week was sent home, seemingly on the road towards remarkable healing. This is a cause for celebration. I think there it is more difficult, sometimes, to notice the praiseworthy things extant in our day-to-day than the painful things. Sometimes it is hard to rejoice in the Lord always. And sometimes, you look up at the stars and celebrate; listen to the breeze shifting the pines and maples and pour out blessings; feast with friends, for today is a day the Lord has made, and we should be glad to share it.

I was going to write more, tonight, but the lion of sleep is devouring me. I feel like the cogs of life are turning a titanic wheel, a big-ben-timepiece with a chaotic cuckoo chanting the time, a tiny train racing around the base, a symphonic piece played on the quarter hours in hollow chimes. My life is like the daytime version of the clock in Night Circus, enigmatic and somehow intrinsically a piece of the greater circus surround. Come, sleep, devour me. Let the dreaming begin, Sandman. 

It's a Dangerous Business

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

Why must the fire die?

When hope is frail and twilight nigh

Why must now we say goodbye,

The night still young with fireflies

One boon I ask if you may tell

What hope you passed yon wishing well?

I pray it not to end this spell,

forced to face what the toll doth bell.

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

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

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

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

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