Good Things

There are many good things in my life and many blessings that I do not deserve. Going home for Christmas was a good way to remind myself of that. My parents home is always a little crazy around holidays. This year was even more so then normal. First off my grandparents were up from Florida which was nice, but it meant that there were 8 people sleeping, eating, and taking showers in my parents house. Plus a dog and cat to get in the way of all those feet. Secondly there was no snow, but it was cold. So there was nothing fun outside to do, but there was really not enough room inside. Thirdly the construction of the new mud room was still very much in progress.

But despite all the crazyness, and too many people, there is a real blessing about being home. I got to see some friends (although not as many as I would have liked, nor for as long as I would have liked). I had a couple of fun talks with my grandparents. I got to hang out with my brothers. I pray, laugh, sing, joke, cry, dance, sigh, and be with some of the most amazing people I know. So many good things. And it makes me excited to see what is ahead in this coming year. It also makes me wonder what is ahead.

Let Me Die Aspiring

My Great, Great, Great, Great Grandfather S. Hall Young was an Alaskan Missionary during the gold rush. He was a close friend of John Muir and traveled with him. The poem below was one that Young had started before his sudden death and never finished.

Let me die, working
Still tackling plans unfinished, tasks undone!
Clean to its end, swift may my race be run.
No laggard steps, no faltering, no shirking;
Let me die, working!


Let me die, thinking.
Let me fare forth still with an open mind, 
Fresh secrets to unfold, new truths to find, 
my soul undimmed, alert, no question blinking;
Let me die thinking.


Let me die, laughing.
No sighing o'er past sins; they are forgiven.
spilled on this earth are all the joys of Heaven.
The wine of life, the cup of mirth still quaffing;
Let me die, Laughing!


Let me die, giving.


Let me die, aspiring.

I've recently rediscovered this poem. Part of me wants to know how he would have finished it. And the other part of me likes that it is unfinished. He was working on this very poem when he died. Its a beautifully sad reminder of the power of death and the joy we have in what we have been given. Spilled on the earth are all the joys of heaven.

Knitting

So this year I decided that I would knit several of my Christmas gifts. Part of me as always loved knitting. I'm not horribly good at it. I know how to knit and purl. I'm kind of good at following patterns. I'm really good at making a mistake and having to undo several rows in order to fix said mistake.

Knitting was one of those creative things that my mum taught me when I was younger. My dislike of having my mum telling me what to do, meant I did not really get very good at knitting. If I could go back in time I think I would tell my younger self to shut it. Funny now I wish I knew how to do more then just basic knitting.

Of course by the time I'm done with all my projects I'm going to be really good at basic patterns. At some point I might even get the guts to try my hand at socks or gloves. Of course I think I would need to get a lot better at following directions before that happens. Hopefully after Christmas I'll be able to share some pictures of my creations...

Christmas Flowers

One of my Christmas Cactuses has decided to bloom this year. I currently have three different plants and they seem to like to take turns flowering. I love these plants. Before they bloom they don't look like much. They are a bunch of oddly shaped leaves that build on themselves in rows. Then all of the sudden you have this little red dots at the end of one of the leaves. This dot is followed by several others. Slowly the dots grow until they break open into these cascades of red, pink, and white. And the flowers last for a long time. 

I love this plant. Most of the time they are just some cactus. They are impossible to kill (not that I have tried). They aren't necessarily beautiful. Then they flower and they are suddenly beautiful and interesting. Sometimes I feel like these plants. Most of the time I'm hiding waiting out, enjoying good food and sunlight. But I'm also waiting, waiting for the time to come when I can just kick peoples socks off. I feel like I'm still waiting to arrive. 

I wonder what else December has in store.

Thanksgiving

The only time I really get a chance to go home is for the Holidays. Thanksgiving and Christmas mainly. Sometimes I get to go home for other reasons, but mostly its just the Holidays. Last week I got to spend a ton of time with my family and a little time with friends. I helped paint my sisters room, hurt myself while running the turkey trot 5k, ate way too much food, went bowling and even got to do a little shopping. 

The great thing about going home is that I can kind of unplug for a little bit. Sure my parents have internet and even dish TV, but its a very different tempo at home. In one way things are so much slower. When you are out of the city, life itself seems to be more of a crawl then the sprint. And yet in other ways being at home seems like a race. Normally I am trying to see and do as much as I can while I'm at home. I want to see as many friends as I can (I always fail at seeing everyone), and do as much as possible. Its almost as if I do more work when I go home on 'vacation' then I do when I'm in Philadelphia. Sure Philly runs at a faster pace then middle of no where Groton in upstate NY. Philly is all go, go, go. Groton is a small town without a traffic light (yes they still don't have a light in the village, lots of stop signs, no light). 

But in someways comparing the tempo of Philly to Groton, is kind of like comparing a Foxtrot to a Tango. Both can be fast paced, it really depends on the music. Having a whole week at home was kind of like having a change of music and different lighting. Somethings at home really make you stop and take a break, like the fact that you can actually see the stars. 

And yet the busyness of the cities is really the busyness of everywhere. The TV shows are the same, the internet and cell phones have made communication the same. Cars make transportation the same, traffic might be less in upstate, but you have to go further to find things. The world used to be this huge place in which people felt small. Now the world seems small. 

I love being at home, but the foxtrot was never really my dance. There is still a part of me that remembers its steps and hums the music, but most of me has changed over to the tango... I mean come on who doesn't want to tango? 

Late Night Creativity (or really early mornings)

There was a moment sometime yesterday night (well it was actually this morning to be honest, really early this morning), when I was trying to decide if I should keep writing the story I am in the middle of, or if I should go to bed. Now there are several things that should have made it easy for me to go to bed. (1) I was tired, (2) I am dealing with my lovely cold still and a very runny nose (thankfully the throat is feeling better), (3) my hand was really sore and cramping up from writing so much, and (4) It was 2 am. However, despite all of these really good reasons that should have made me go to bed, I was in a pickle. 

Artist live on little sleep. I know it seems cliche. We see pictures of a painter late at night agonizing over that last brush stroke and the composer writing the last bar in candle light. If you watch too many movies (like I do), all the best art seems to take place at night. Shakespeare finishes his greatest play when the moon is about to set. Mozart is writing his last piece in the candle light. When I was in college matinees seems strange because they were in the middle of the day and theatre was suppose to be at night. I'm not sure if there is something scientific about the creative brain that makes it lean towards work late at night, but I am sure someone could test it and prove that it is something to do with how the right side of the brain works.

So last night as I was trying to decide what I should do, the choice came down to which cold medicine should I take. Nyquil would make me sleepy and very groggy the next morning (making that five hours later when I needed to be up very difficult). But if I took the regular decongestant I knew I would not sleep, instead I could keep writing. I hate stopping my creative juices from flowing. Even when I was in college I had a hard time balancing sleep with that huge paper I needed to get finished. Luckly I tend to be able to pick things up where I leave them, as long as I make sure that I keep at least part of my mind on it. And to be honest I was a little stuck (I get stuck a lot when I write). 

So Nyquil it was. Sleep won out over my creativity. My cold and sore hand and the 2am hour, worked against every little bit of me that just really wanted to keep on writing. I wonder what Shakespeare did when he was in the mist of the story. Could he stop? Did he write until he no longer could keep his eyes open and his hand could no longer hold a quill? I do wonder if all artists find themselves working best late at night. Are all artists night owls because of their creativity? 

Fall Cold

I offically have a fall cold. My tonsels are swollen, my nose is running, my sinuses very full. My throat is scratchy. I'm even a little achy. Yesterday I was feeling a little out of it, but I figured it was just my allergies having one last hurrah before winter, after all I spend a couple of days deep cleaning my room, which was sure to knock a lot of dust into the air. If only it was just my allergies. It seems without fail I tend to get sick at least one a year. Its never really bad enough to keep me in bed all day (I had full blow pneumonia once and was still playing soccer). However, when I get a cold I can be a very bad patient (like still playing soccer while sick).

So today I have decided to not go for a run. I'm going to drink a lot of orange juice and tea. I'm going to make myself soup for lunch, and I'm going to get over this stupid cold before then end of the week. I even took nyquil last night (I'm never actually sure if it helps or makes things worse). At least I can still breath out of my nose... that is normally the first thing to go.

And at least part of me just wants to yell "MOM" and let her fix it. Of course that would mean a four hour trip. And I'm going homewards this weekend for Thanksgiving. Maybe I'll be better by then. I hope I'm better by then.

I HATE BEING SICK!

The Choice of Everyone

(The below poem is from reading too many Medieval plays, like Everyman. It is in a way meant to be played out, with different characters. I might expand this into more of a play at some point, but I kind of like it in poem format.)


Gather 'round, Gather 'round
listen in and listen well
For we're about to share
a well earned trip to hell
were it not for strange grace
So gather 'round listen well

So gather 'round
listen and watch
As our well loved Everyone
transverses this terrestrial ball
and talks to his vices and virtues all
Everyone pay close attention

For Everyone is judged
judged as only Truth can judge
Come Truth tell us what you see
Gather 'round and tell us
how should we judge?

Truth Answers
"Oh how can I judge
all though the truth I am
my verdict is death
death and separation
for that is the justice
Everyone deserves

"Yet I tell you all
death deserved
does not mean
to death condemned
for all make a choice
and that choice
their bondage
or death surmised"

Oh Truth how real
how justice and right
for in deeds only one
only one is important
but what choice?
Oh what choice
will our dear Everyone make?

Come thou vices dreaded
Come thou virtues embolden
For Everyone must choose
what would you have him do?

The Vices Answer Together
"Oh why must he choose?
Would it not be better
to not have to decide?"

Pride adds
"And why must we
why must we decide?
Who made Truth
the only, the only Truth?"

The other Vices join in
"Yes! Pride, how right
what makes Truth
the only Truth."

The Virtues Answer Together
"But even not choosing
is a choice in its self
Everything is a choice"

Meek Adds
"And is it not God
who created Truth
who created Everyone
Is it not God
who gives us Truth
And names it Truth"

The other Virtues Join in
"Yes! Meek, how right
God, the holy one,
makes Truth, true"

Everyone answers,
"Then a Choice to make
but what choice is there?
How can I choose
anything other then what I am?
Is not all meant to die?"

The Virtues cry
"No! no and yes
For all must die
but some can
some can gain
For through death
comes more life."

Love Adds
"death is not an end"

Joy Sings
"Death has no power"

The Virtues join in
"Death has no sting
When the choice is made
from death comes life"

The Vices cry
"No! how is that possible?
Once you are dead,
You are dead!"

Hate adds
"Death is to be hated"

Bitter whispers
"Death is to be avoided"

 The Vices join in
"Death is coming
Why not run the other way?
Who wants to die?"

Truth Answers
"Fools, all die.
None, none live
all must die
does not the grass die
to feed the lamb?
Does not the lamb die
to feed Everyone?
Fools, all die

But life is given
to those willing to die
to those who choose."

The Virtues Sing
"Amen!"

Everyone wonders
"Could this be true?
Through death comes life?
How can one know?
How can one be sure?"

Truth answers
"Everyone, you know
you know the answer
the questions you ask
come from your knowledge
Did not you sit at the knee of your mother?
Did not you read the words of the Book?
Everyone the answer is belief
Belief in that which
you know, but don't understand."

The Vices laugh
Belief?! Ha,
what is faith?
How can belief save?
How can you be sure?
Is it not better to enjoy
enjoy this life?
Live to the fullest!
Do what what you want!
Faith is a cage,
Belief a prison
Have fun, let go
Why waste time on Faith?

The Virtues answer
Sin is the prison
self is the cage
only belief and faith
in the true one saves
Life in its fullest
is a life of belief
Joy comes only from
one place.
Trying to live apart
only leads to disgrace...

Death Calls out
Come what is the choice?
death is not patient
Death is not kind
I come for a soul
For all shall be mine
Virtues and Vices
silence your tongues
Truth hold back your verdict
Till the time comes.
Everyone! speak
what do you choose?

Everyone Answers
I know which answer
is first in my heart
for sin has hold
even as I try to depart
but my first love
has called my name
and although I should fear
no fear have I
For Death where is thy Sting?
Oh where thy bite?
I call on the one
whom you could not keep
Who took your keys
and opened the gate
Truth be my witness
show my debt filled
No deed of mine did it
for Love came calling
and I answered.

Death speaks
Good Everyone
then as a friends
we shall go
for with no fear
you have answered
and the power
you call on is greater

Virtues sing
To heaven we go singing
For Everyone has answered!
The choice is made
the prison is empty
come, come!
sing and dance with thanksgiving
Friends we go onwards

The Vices lament
Come back,
oh why would you go?
Your pain should keep you
Your sin our own
Come share our prison
come share our hurt
Come back!
oh why would you go?

Gather 'round, Gather 'round

listen in and listen well

For we're about to share

a well earned trip to hell

were it not for strange grace

So gather 'round listen well

Big Changes

There are times when you have big changes in your life. Normally this causes some kind fear or perhaps excitement (maybe both). Sometimes changes actually break you down and you have a hard time dealing with anything. Fear can over run your life and totally box you in. Or in your excited you do so much that you wear yourself out.

Little changes tend to not make that big of a impact. There might be a little fear, but we laugh at it. A little excitement, but its not enough to really get us going. Little changes sometimes pass you by and you don't even know they are happening.

Today I'm dealing with a huge change. Not just a little one with little fears. A huge, scary, change. True I have know for sometime it was going to happen. True I have braced myself for this day. Amazingly the fear has not fully hit me yet, neither has the excitement. I think somehow my mind knows the change has happened, but it has not processed it yet. Or maybe I already processes it. I was expecting that I would be freaking out by now. But no. I'm calm. I'm ok. I'm happily writing on my blog. Stranger things have happened.

Probably the most amazing thing about all this is how much peace I feel. Yes, the nervousness is still hanging on the fringes of my mind. Yes, my stomach is tight with expectation (and hunger, I really should eat breakfast before 10am). But I was expecting insanity and craziness and fear and horrible things. Instead I have the fear and excitement of a little change. Maybe it just has not sunk in yet. We shall see.

Here is to Big Changes... and no fear.

Beautiful

The grace that you extended to me
before I even knew your name
the bright light of day
the coolness of shade
You gave me life
before I called you Lord
And died for me
before I knew who you were

Chorus:
All things Beautiful
All things wonderful
All things, All things
Your Design runs through
All things torn a part
All things shameful
All things, All things
Your Love runs through


The Mercy that you have given me
before I had even breathed
the decaying flesh
the fallen soul
You gave me life
because I call you Lord
And died for me
before I knew who you were

Chorus

Bridge:

And in the darkness or the light
I wonder at your glorious might
and laugh and sing with joyful grace
which by your mercy saved forever
all who call you beautiful

Chorus

Laughing on the Subway

Yesterday I did a Excel Webinar. The Webinar went well. I had a great time and felt weird leaving work at 9pm. Its funny how having a theatre background has helped me in a very weird ways in things not really related to Theatre.

After leaving work I took the El home. This is a typical practice for me, but I rarely ever take the ride so late at night. I was talking on my phone with my sister and mum, so I was not really paying attention until a couple of stops later. A group of people, probably mom, dad, son and friends, started laughing hard at something outside the subway car. I could not see what they were laughing at, at least not at first. Then I realized it was a person.

I am sure that some people get used to being laughed and made fun of. Others are totally oblivious to the laughter. Some live on laughter and need it for mere survival of their egos. I found the laughter slightly addicting, its late at night, I'm on my way home after 'performing' in a way. I'm talking to my sister and laughing with her about my family.

But there is a point when laughing at others is just wrong. This man was heavy set, clumsy, and cursed with really bad eczema. Sure his movements were kind of hilarious. But it was also sad. Sad that this poor man who couldn't stop itching was having to deal with people laughing openly at him on the subway.

I caught myself remembering a time when everything I did seemed to bring out mean laughter from my peers.

Sometimes I am reminded strongly, like a slap in your face, that there is a lot of wrong in this world.

One Very Long Story

Every story is one, very long story. Somehow everything fits together, but all of human history, all story, are really just one. I say this because everything is interconnect. Everything is from something else. We share a common history, a history that is connected to the earth on which we abide. From the ancient times to the future that we can only dream of, it is all connected.

If every story is in truth one story. If everything is connected, does that mean that there is no Independence? No freedom? No and yes. That story is like a ribbon split into thousands of colors and textures. This ribbon dances through what is our history. weaving the story, telling tales which foretelling others. The ribbon dances. Sometimes the strands seem independent and heedless of the others. Sometimes the strands gather together and dance together for a time. And at some point the muddled disarray will be gathered back together in a singularity or cast off into blankness.

The story is one we are still a part of, still living and shaping. We dance, sometimes against the music, sometimes along with the crowd. We dance, because we must.

Its hard to move backward. And in our pride we gather ourselves and think our way is the best. We do not hear the music. We do not feel beat. We try making our own music, our own dance. We try, without success, to drowned out that which we can feel in our bones. We yell and scream. We run and shout. We hate and kill. We try to destroy. We just want to be free.

But we were not created to be free of the music. Free of that which we are meant to be a part of. We are a part of the story. Our story is the story, and yet the story is more then who we are. If we were meant for Freedom, we would not be connected to everything around us. And we must move to some kind of music. We are bound to it. And the best music, the best dance, is the one we were made for.

Why do I love the Fall?

(Fall is my favorite season.My Birthday happens, there is a ton of good food. The weather starts getting cold. And I start writing poetry in my head about death and life. Maybe its because its easier to see life, when death is so close by.) 

Dark grey clouds hang over me
harsh against the pale blue sky
the mornings chill gets to my bones
through my coat, sweater, and T-shirt
Black birds huddle together
causing the telephone line to droop
even further than normal
The cars splash through last nights rain
And I'm smiling while I shiver
Why do I love the Fall?

Summers fingers are losing hold
The leaves are falling
And I'm wearing red in their honor
The sky is moody, flinting from light to dark
the geese are flying
in little V's high above
the creak of their wings
mixing with the trafic
And I'm smiling at the clouds
Why do I love the Fall?

October

Leaves falling, turning, crunching under my feet
the warmth of sunlight, with a chill underneath
the pumpkin orange, apple red
the sky all blue, and leaves yellow
There is just something about October

Sweaters, good books, and warm fires
the last of summer, with the beginning of Winter
grass still green, bark still brown
sky still blue, and sun still yellow
There is just something about the Fall

I watch the earth die, decay
And I laugh with the first Snow
I smile at the briliant colors
blues, oranges, reds, greens
There is just something about October.

Working Lunch

I have this really bad habit of working lunch. I warm up my lunch, start eating and then an email comes in. Its just one email, I can handle one email. Right? Of course before I know it I'm done eating and its 2pm and I never really had a break. I've been doing this a lot lately. Which is in part because I've taken on a lot more work and in part because I'm slowly becoming a work-a-colic.

So today I decided, after answering the third email during lunch, that I needed to not have my email open. My Boss could wait 45mins for an answer on this. I really should take my break. So what am I doing instead. Writing on my blog. Is this a break? No. Is it restful? No. Is it work? well I'm not getting paid for it...

This is the problem. I work so hard during the day, that by the time I get home at night I feel like I deserve to do nothing... and then I do nothing. not healthy. I need to figure out a way to spread myself out more. And get more done once I get home.

Anyone have any suggestions?

I Just Realized

I just realized that I'm not very funny
I think that I am, but I realized I'm not
not really,
I just realized that I'm too oft alone
Its not your fault, but I need a little help
its too easy,
I just realized that I've been waiting
for what I'm not sure, but I'm good at it
really good,
I just realized that I forgot to tell you
I felt that you should have known
obviously,
I just realized that I'm forgetful
of all the important things I should know
...
I just realized that I'm not very funny
You think that I am, but I'm not,
not really
I just realized that I hate my self
not all the time, but right now I do
Really do,
I just realized that I've never stepped out
I just realized that I always back down
I just realized that I'm not very funny
I just realized that I laugh way too much
I just realized I don't get life at all,

not one bit.

The Wander Tells a Tale

(this is a continuation of the Logos epic that I started last week, although the story itself is one that is part of Africa folktale. I wish I could remember which tribe it originated with. We had a story book of this tale growing up)

When I first saw you my dear
your eyes shown green flame
yet and yet
Let us start at the beginning
yes, yes, yes
Once there was a great king
Once there was a rich farmer
The King was lonely, in need of a wife
and the farmer had two daughters
two Beautiful Daughters he had
And the farmer boasted greatly
so greatly as to call them the most beautiful
the most beautiful in all the land

the king wishing a wife
wishing a beautiful wife
decided to see for himself
so in the guise of a old man
he set out to beg at their door

It was a cold night, a bitter night
that brought him out of the wood
a storm was brewing southward
the wind howled as a wolf
the king, knocked at the door
knocked with his wooden staff

The first daughter answered
she was beautiful, pale
her eyes blue grey as fog
her hair yellow like the sun
yet there was a look of discust
at the old beggar before her
"we have nothing for you"
she sneered, a howl of the wind
"Who is it my daughter?"
the farmers voice asked from within
"An old Beggar"
the sneering daughter answered
"Bring him inside"
The daughter frowned
yet she obeyed her father
"come sir, come warm yourself by the fire"
the second daughter sang
a voice like gentle rain
The king hobbled forward
and sat on the stool offered
The second was unlike the first
unlike as two sister could be
Where the first was pale,
the second was bright
where the first has sneered
the second had smiled

Bright flaming green were your eyes that day
bright like two emeralds held in gold
for gold and fire was your hair
orange gold of a bright flame
and your smile was healing
and your hand was gentle

And Yet And yet
let us return to my tale

After spending the night
the king saw beauty
but he was unsure of the hearts
for a queen of his must be of great heart
great heart and great spirit.

So the king became a little snake
and going to the elder
curled up at her feet
awaking with the dawn
the elder screamed in fear
and kicked the little green snake
across the room.
hearing her scream
the younger came running
and finding the little snake
took pitty on it.
against the protests of her sister
gathered the snake up
and took it out to the garden
"You'll have to forgive her
she does not like snakes"
the youngest whispered
as brused snake slithered away.

all that week the king stayed as a snake
when ever the eldest saw him, she ran
yet the youngest sang to him
sang as she worked in the garden

Oh little one, little one
little green snake
guard my garden well
oh little one, little one
you are a blessing
slithering so free
were do you go
when you slither from me?

when the autum came, the little snake vanished

"when you left I went looking for you"
"Shhhh my dear I'm telling a tale"
"well then continue"

 The King returned home in the fall
and sent a summons to the farmer
for him to bring his daughters
and he would make one his wife
the most beautiful his wife
So after gathering the harvest
the farmer prepared to set out
but the night before
the eldest wanting to be queen
left
the morning after found her join
the farmer looked high and low
and seeing the way she went
followed with her sister in tow

The journey was three days

the first night the eldest
stumbling through the trees
met a little child
the little one asked for food
the eldest would give him none

The second night the eldest
before a stream she was stopped
by an old laughing women
who asked for a song
in return for the way across
the eldest would not sing
and decided to wade the river alone

The third night the eldest
tired and hungry
came to the capital city
and was told to wait the night

The first night the youngest
stumbling through the trees
met a little child
and gave it a little bread
the child showed her the way

The second night the youngest
before a laughing brook
sung the song of the little snake
and was shown the way across
by means of a hidden bridge

The third night the youngest
reached the capital city
tired and foot sore
she found her sister crying

"Do not go to the king
oh do not go."
Her sister said sobbing
"He is a monster most horrid
with seven heads
oh sister do not go"

the next morning the sister
not heeding her sister
went before the king
and found her little green snake

"Oh little one! what are you doing?"
The youngest rushed forward
"I am the king," the little snake said
"And the child"  the little child said
"And the old women" the old women said
"And the Beggar" The old beggar said
"And the king" I said to you
I said to you as I took your hand.

"I remember, we were both young then"
"Yes we were young then"
"Yes we were young"

Lugos

{Lugos (or Lugus) is a celtic god who is in part seen as a triad. He is also related to Odin of the Norse mythology. In Ireland as Lugh and the festival Lughnasadah takes place on Aug 1st in Lugh's honor. The below is the beginning of what could be a long poem, my try at an epic perhaps. It is founded in many of the stories that I know or have read about Lugus, Odin, and Lugh, and I'm hopeful that I can add more to it soon.}

I.

Once there were three brothers

no that’s not right

Once there were three men

no that’s not right

Once there was one man

Yes one man

Yet and Yet 

Sometimes he was old

old and wise as a grandfather

Or as a homeless wonderer

wearing a ragged cloak

Knocking at your door 

with a knotted staff

in the dead of night

or during some terrible storm

In he would come, weary, torn

He would eat your porridge

sleep before your fire

morning would come with him gone

Yet and Yet

Sometimes he was young

young and laughing as a child

or some orphaned cherub

with a wicked grin

Knocking over the old men

Stealing apples in the market

found sleep in the hay of some barn

Morning would bring his laughter

back over the dewed grass

Yet and Yet

He was neither young nor old

He was both old and young

Wise as the eldest

declining in the winter of their age

Strong as the warrior

full of valor as the heros of old

a man in the prime of life

with the wisdom of the older

and the fearlessness of the younger

Yes, Yes, Yes

Once there was a man

And he loved me

Once

II.

When I was a old women

sitting on my porch

he came to me as a young child

laughing at my wrinkles

wondering at my creaks

When I was a young girl

playing in the fields

he came to me as an old man

Cried at my freedom

wondered at my prancing

When I was a women

neither young nor old

He came to me as a lover

Charished me only

wondered at my aging

III.

Winter comes again

with the blistering wind

Winter comes again

a lion roaring out

a dragon of ice

a ghosts falling dread

Winter comes again

without you by my side

without thy steal sword

without thy warm hand

without you by my side

Winter comes again

Winter comes again

rushing in from the north

gathering his sister bitter

calling his brother cold

Winter comes again

Winter comes again

and Lugos comes to me

Lugos full of light

Lugos full of shadow

Lugos fully wise

Lugos fully young

Winter comes again

and Lugos laughs

IV.

During the festival of fires

we danced as lovers

around the flames

between flame and shadow

Between flame and moon beam

wise and young 

beautiful and lovely

together among the bonfires

we danced and sang

Oh! Lughnasadah

Oh! Lughnasa

Oh! Lughnasad

Of festival of lights

Of harvest and good things

To Lugh we sung our thanks

With Lugh I danced and sung

He came as an old man

Danced as a young man

left as a child laughing

And I was left weeping

in the smoke of dying flames

As the smoke blew to heaven

And Lugos laughter 

rang back to me over the hills

Oh Lugos, when will you come again?

Oh when will we dance among moon and flame?

Oh when will you come and stay?

Oh When will your strong arm

wrap itself around me again?

Being Indecisive

I'm feeling indecisive today. I'm not even sure what I want to write about. There is the fact that it is fall, and the fall always makes me home sick (more then any other time of year). Or the fact that fall means I will probably not be able to use my nose for the next two or three months (depending on when it starts snowing). Or I could write about my roommates coming home at 1:30am last night and waking me up (screaming and laughing in the kitchen right next to bedroom is not nice...). Or the fact that I still do not have internet set up in my apartment, although Verizon did send out the first bill (fun, fun, fun).

I don't even have a good poem up my sleeve or a short story to pound out in 45 mins. I hate being indecisive.

The funny thing is that I always feel really indecisive after I have made a lot of decisions. And I've made a lot of decisions lately. Renting a car and driving home for the labor day weekend, running a 5k, making a goal of writing at least an hour every night after work, and add all that to a bunch of decisions at work. Perhaps having a little bit of indecisiveness in not a bad thing. And yet I get really annoyed when other people can't, or won't make up their minds. No one wants to step on anyone Else's toes, so no one in a group will put their foot down and decide to do something. My friends from high school were notorious for this, we would end up doing nothing, because none of us (myself included) could make up their minds.

Then of course there is the problem when one person is always making the decisions and plans. I go through fazes when I want to make all the plans and others where I don't want to think and I want someone else to make them all. Does everyone do this? Or am I the only one who just can't make up their mind? Anyone else feeling indecisive today?

Surprising the Family

I did something that I have never done before, I rented a car. OK let me back up and explain why I rented a car. Several weeks ago, I felt like it was time to go home. I had a long weekend coming up and I realized that I was feeling a little home sick. So I did some research and realized that I could get a rental car for the weekend relatively cheap. Renting a car is very interesting, and I lot easier then you would expect. Well minus the whole having to go to the air port part. I got a better rate if I went to the air port Hertz location. So that is were I went.

The important part of weekend was not the renting of the car, although it did make me feel really grown up. The best part was that only my mum knew I was coming home. The rest of my family had no idea. So I drive into the drive way on Friday night and walk up to the back door. The eldest of my two brothers saw me through the window.

"Hello" I say loudly so he will turn around
"Hey" He says automatically and turns back to the conversation he is having with his friend... Then he turns back and stars at me. Like I'm a ghost or something never before seen on the planet. "Wait what are you doing home?" he finally says, while I open the back door laughing. He gives me a hug while I explain.

It turns out that no one else is home, just my one brother and his friend. So we work out how we are going to surprise the next people home (my sister and my other brother). First I drive the car out of sight and bring in my bags. Second I grab a beer and sit down on the couch (out of sight of the back door). While we wait we watch Top Gear (the original British version, not the horrible American want to be) and talk. Finally the car comes into the drive way.

The first person in is my little brother. He bounds right into the living room and sees me. He's eyes get big. I put my finger over my mouth telling him to be quiet, while my other brother and his friend start laughing. Then my sister comes in. She does not walk right into the living room, but rather stands in the doorway. My little brother is jumping in his seat with excitement. and trying not to laugh.

"What in the world is your problem" My sister says seriously, not seeing me. For a while she stands there trying to figure out whats going on. Then I laugh. She looks my way and is floored.

Then my parents get home. My mum walks right into the living room and smiles at me. My dad comes into the house. Grabs talks to my sister for a little while, who is trying to not give away the surprise. Then he walks out and sits on the back porch. So much for having him walk into the living room and seeing me sitting there. So I walk out side and say hello. My father did the opposite of the rest of the family. My Brothers and Sister make a huge deal, start asking questions, laughing. My dad, looks at me, slightly shocked, and says... nothing. In fact he was very quiet that whole night. I guess the surprise worked.

The best part of the whole trip was probably the surprised look on everyone's face Friday night. That made it all worth while. It was also a great weekend to go home. And a really busy weekend. Saturday night was a church dinner (chicken gravy and biscuit), Sunday was church and a shopping trip to the outlets, and Monday a 5k run in a down pour. If only the traffic coming back into Philly had been better. I've never had a traffic jam before the tunnel that lasted all the way into the city before. made my whole trip at least an hour longer. Now I just have to figure out how to get home for thanksgiving.

Protected from the Outside

Thy walls are magificant
Thy boundries well secure
Stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Heart sealed shut
Mind all made up
stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Thy courage is strong
Thy mind is wise
stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Attackers come
Attackers fail
stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Hiding safe in thy walls
feeling safe all on your own
stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Thy facade may crumble
Thy steel may rust
stone, brick, iron, steel
Protected from the outside

Thy courage fails
Thy mind falls
stone, brick, iron, steel
Trapped from the inside

Thy wall gone
Thy mind useless
Love, hope, peace, joy
Protected from thy self.

Hello Pain

Hello Pain, how have you been?
Hello Pain, when are you coming again?
Hello Pain, why aren't you here?
Hello Pain, your my only comfort
Hello Pain, Hello Pain, Hello Pain

Hello Night, were have you been?
Hello Night, when should I except you?
Hello Night, why do you have to leave?
Hello Night, your my only cover
Hello Night, Hello Night, Hello Pain

Hello Love, were are taking me?
Hello Love, when are you going away?
Hello Love, why won't you leave?
Hello Love, your my only light
Hello Love, Hello Night, Hello Pain

From the Ghost Moon And Other Stories of the Insane: Marcus

(I got started on some of these ideas kind of randomly. From a mixture of C.S. Lewis Space Trilogy and watching Twin Peaks for the first time.) My first story is unnamed still and I'm not actually sure if I like the title for this one either. The idea is to have a bunch of loosely connected short stories with Dr. Mike being the uniting figure).

"Leon, calm down." Mike put his hand on Leon's shoulder. Leon was shaking and it had nothing to do with the fact he had been running.

"Mike, Marcus, he's..." Mike saw the rest of the sentence in Leon's eyes, before Leon could finish Mike sprinted down the hallway. One of the inmates cheering him on as if he was in a race. Mike had worked so hard to protect Marcus from himself. Marcus had been okay for month's. Mike had taken him off his medication and Marcus was sleeping better. Marcus had said (rather seriously) this was because the new Nurse smelled like dogs.

Dr. Michael 'Mike' Mathew McMahon stood in shock at the doorway of Marcus's room. There were somethings that he really wished were not true. At other times he had really wished that some of the things his patients imagined were real. Who wouldn't want to travel through space and see a Ghost moon? Explained to him as a mere illusion of a moon, seen as a ghostly grey sphere made of heavy gas, which gravity had gathered together

Or the fact that Joycelin actually thought that she was a super hero, able to fly and stop bullets. Joycelin also believed that every man was instantly in love with her. She was his happiest patient. Mike wished sometimes that he could have super powers and the love of all women. Life would be so wonderful...

Then there was Marcus, poor Marcus who he had not been able to help. Marcus who's room he now stood in the doorway of. Marcus who believed in Elves. Mike shuttered how once he had wished he could believe Marcus. That Marcus was one of the chosen who could actually see the Elves. That there were other beings in this world, unseen.

Marcus had always been Mike's most disconcerting patient. Marcus had seemed to be completely normal and sane. Actually at some points Mike thought that Marcus was probably more sane then half the population outside of the institution. The problem was that Marcus had this uncanny inability to be dissuaded away from his belief in Elves. In fact Marcus had spent most of his time almost convincing Mike of the likely hood that Elves could actually exist. If Marcus would had stop trying to kill himself in bizarre and unexplainable ways, Mike would have released him from the institution a long time ago.

In fact it was the bizarre and unexplainable instances that seemed to follow Marcus like the plague that made Mike wonder about his own sanity. Of course working with the insane always made you wonder about your own sanity. But Marcus's high intelligence and reason made it so hard to believe that he was insane. Marcus never tried to hurt others. This was, according to Marcus, because others could not be hurt by that which they did not believe in. It was actually safer if people did not believe in Elves.

"Then why do you believe in Elves" Mike remember asking during one of their early sessions together.

"It is no longer a questions of believing for me. I know that they exist. I can not stop knowing. Once something is proven beyond a doubt... one no longer needs to believe. Knowledge is a dangerous thing Doctor. You know about the insane, but does not that knowledge make you question your own beliefs? Do you not wish that you could believe in something as foolishly as some of the people who are interned here?" Marcus had smiled at this point. Mike remembered with a chill that Marcus did have the strange ability to know what he was thinking.

"Marcus I do believe in things that can not be proven. I do sometimes wish that I could believe with such foolish abandonment. And I guess you could say that my belief walks the line with knowledge." Marcus had shook his head at this. "You do not put your knowledge on the same plain as mine?"

"No it is not that. I share some of the same believes with you, after all there are many things in this world that we must believe in rather then know. If there are somethings that we must believe in, why can't other things be true as well?" Marcus had said this in a simple tone, conversational. As if he was the doctor teaching a wayward student.

"I would believe you Marcus, if only you were not constantly trying to kill yourself."

"It is strange to me that the very thing that should be the strongest evidence of the validity of my argument is the very thing that makes it impossible for you to believe me."

"Strange, in what way?"

Mike felt the questions echoing down the hall ways. There were many things that he wish that he could believe in. Many more that would be cool if they were real. Who wouldn't want to travel through space and see a ghost moon? But Elves whom no one else could see, who were trying to kill the one man who could see them. This was just ridiculous.

Or it had to be ridiculous, if not it was to scary to believe. The room looked like an image out of some sadistic Japanese manga. Too much blood to be realistic, too brutal and gross to be real. It could not be real. But even all of that Mike might have been able to deal with. It was the look on Marcus's face, that made Mike wonder again if he was really insane. Marcus had a look of extreme happiness. As if he had died in mid-laugh.

Dr. Michael 'Mike' Mathew McMahon, really wished that some of the things his patients imagined were real. Then there were things that he knew were real, real and horrible. Perhaps it was better to be insane, delusional, and happy. Perhaps it was better to be insane and die with a laugh.

Another Story Without a Title...

(I started this a little while ago after reading 'Out of the Silent Planet' by CS Lewis. Not sure what to call it just yet, any suggestions would be welcome).

Pagan had never thought space was cold and dark. Yes space was cold, bitter cold. Yes the darkness seemed endless, even with the stars. But space held something more, something close to an addiction to Pagan, the promise of more. People, smart people, talked endlessly of the slow descent to madness that plagues all long term space crews. Whole ships of hundreds of people had been destroyed by the madness of one of their fellows.

Pagan traveled alone, deep out where others did not go. He would spend months out among the stars, traveling from one planet to the next. No one thought he was crazy, unless he let it slip he was a space pilot, which he was smart enough not to. For Pagan the stars and void were his closest friends, his sanity, his home. Pagan had been born out among the stars, maybe that was the reason he found them so comforting. But he was sure that in reality it had more to do with the sheer beauty of space around him. Whether it was the gas clouds off the Androbiline quadrant or the ghost moon of the planet someone with a good sense of humor (or a old English degree) had dubbed Hamlet, there was a beauty that sadness could not ruin. A beauty that madness could not compete with.

Pagan was sure that he would be forever content traveling from star port to star port. He was not mad, he was a modern Hermit, or a mountain man, a lone Indian, or a cowboy, or just a simple man who was in love with space. He hated sharing space with anyone else. He knew others traveled as much as he did. Others that fearfully moved to new planets with the hope of a better life. For others space not the goal, but merely what you traveled through. For Pagan space was the destination. Any space port was simply for refueling and getting odd jobs to pay for him going back up into space.

Big Town's space port, was the opposite of what the name suggested. The town, nor the planet for that matter, had reached the size that the original pioneers had dreamed of. The space port was hardly a port and more of a landing pad with a fuel tank. Of all the space ports Pagan went to, this was his favorite. There was a two fold reason for this, first it was small and second he made a lot of money by stopping there every once in a while. For despite (or prehaps because of) Big Town's smallness and the almost non-existant space port, Big Town had become a haven for crime. Not petty crime and normally not grusome crime, but Big Town hid one of the largest gangsters of the galaxy, and Father Mike loved Pagan.

Everyone else was sure that Father Mike was the Saint he looked like. And Pagan knew that Father Mike thought him insane. Most people thought he was simply because of his trade. However, together they had managed to do some very dubious work, make tons of cash, and most importantly never get caught. When Pagan needed cash and fuel to continue his space travels he would normally come to Father Mike and Mike was happy to help.

It must have been a Sunday when he landed. It was the only reason the town would be so empty, and that the pub would be closed. Pagan never kept track of the days of the week, it was nearly impossible while in space. He now begrudged the fact that he would be stuck, grounded for at least one day longer then necessary. Father Mike would be at the church, preaching, keeping the mask, that made others so sure of his sainthood, well in place. Pagan hated church, hated the institution. Father Mike often told him he should come. Pagan often refused. Pagan worshiped the stars and the gas clouds and the ghost moon. Today he decided to make an exception.

So depressed Pagan turned from the empty pub and walked down the street towards the Church. Dust and smog blew through the wide streets that had been built for a time when more people would live in Big Town. More people who would never come. And yet as Pagan sneaked into the back of the church, he found that there were a lot of people he did not recognize. Father Mike was just winding down from what Pagan was sure had been a fiery sermon. Mike had not seen him. Pagan counted this a blessing. Together the congregation rose with the swelling of the electric organ. It was played by a very pretty red haired girl Pagan was sure was someone he should remember. Pagan sat and watched from the shadows. While the people sang and prayed, stood and sat and kneeled. As Father Mike bellowed out prayers. Then suddenly it was over. The people stood and suffled out, some giving him a weird look, others ignoring him.

"James, how good to see you!" Father Mike, young and handsome and fiery as ever. Pagan offered his hand, "Father Mike"
"Have you met Alex?" He turned and Pagan saw the young red haired girl, blush and offer him her had. Pagan felt a strange stir in his heart. She was too young, too beautiful.
"Alex, No, nice to meet you"
"You too" She added again blushing. Pagan liked her blushes.

Later Pagan would realize that Mike had always wanted to ground him, always wanted to take away his space. Fucking Father Mike actually being a saint and saving him from what he was sure was madness. But right now, right now Pagan was totally falling for the Blushing red haired Alex.

Father Mike lead the way out of the church and around to his tiny house next door. Alex followed, shy and blushing every time Pagan looked her way. Once they were inside Alex fled up the stairs to what Pagan gathered was her bedroom. He watched as her red hair streamed after her. Father Mike was leading the way to his office. Pagan reluctantly followed.

"Now James tell me how have you been?" Father Mike sat in the same large leather chair he always did.
"Pagan, Father, how many times have I had to tell you that?"
"As many times as I've had to tell you its just Mike" They laughed. But Mike's eyes were serious.
"Kenny tells me that you have been talking traveling to the ghost moon again."
"Who's Kenny?" Mike smiled, in a slightly condescending way and indicated behind Pagan. Pagan looked and recognized a man he felt he should know. Pagan stood and walked toward Kenny.
"And when did you hear that I was planning this trip. Surely not the last time I was down here?, I have not been here for three months." Pagan wondered if he could take on the said Kenny. Obviously this was Father Mike's new muscle.
"Now James" Pagan let it slide, "why don't you sit down" Father Mike was smiling, but it did not reach his eyes. "I had not realized you had been gone so long. Were have you been?"
 "To the gas clouds again, its just so beautiful" Again Father Mike smiled.

Pagan felt the smile growing and realized he did not like Father Mike. Kenny pushed him towards the chair, and made him sit. Pagan glared at him, there was no way that he would be able to take on Kenny.

"James why do we keep having to do this?" Father Mike sounded tired this time.
"What do you mean, this is what we do." Pagan was getting tired of being called James.
"You have been living in Space so long have you forgotten that it is not real? That we don't have the ability yet to travel to the stars?"
"What are you talking about?"Pagan could not believe it. Father Mike actually believed that he was insane. That after all he had done for him, that Pagan was mad. Could he have gone mad and not realized it? Hardly. Mike was obviously delusional.
"James we have gone over all this before. You live in this institution because your family could not keep you, you were becoming too violent. That was your daughter, Alex. You've met her before. And you love her because she reminds you of your wife."
"It Pagan"
"James Peter Miller, you are going on 45. Your daughter comes and plays piano ever Sunday for you, and ever Sunday you act as though you have never met her. This has to end."
"Father Mike"
"Mike" Mike smiled was gone, he looked tired "Or you can call me Dr. Mike, but I am not a father."
"Mike" Pagan hated giving in, but he needed to say what he was here to say. "Mike I'm not insane, or crazy, or mad. I know a lot of other piliots go mad in space, but not me. I like it out there."
"James, you have never been in space, its all in your head." Mike shook his head. "Your daughter needs you James. Can you snap out of this?"
"No" Pagan felt attached, this could not be right, could not be true. He stood and fought of Kenny. Daughter he could not have a daughter.
"Dad?" Alex was standing behind him silently crying. Pagan turned toward her, he could not stand her tears.
"Don't cry hunny, it will be alright." James hugged her close to himself and she sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you Dr. Mike, Thank you."

Pagan had never thought space was cold and dark. Yes space was cold, bitter cold. Yes the darkness seemed endless, even with the stars. But space held something more, something close to an addiction to Pagan, the promise of more.

Slightly Manic

Sometimes I go through a slightly Manic periods in which I get a lot of work done and sleep very little. This past weekend was one of those periods. I spend over 8 hours on Saturday writing an outline and character details for a new story that I am starting. I've been wrestling with this story idea for the last couple of weeks and I decided that I was not going to just start writing, that I really needed a plan first. I'm not done, I've got a little more work to do. But the cool part is how much I was able to write. I so often just start writing and don't think fully about where the story is going or even what I want to story to do. So I'm trying something new.

There are two hopes in making myself be more organized. First that I will actually be able to finish the project that I am starting. And second that will finish the project that I'm starting. No these are not the same hope. The first is based in the fact that I so often get stuck while writing, unable to move forward with out a lot or re-writing. The second hope is based not in my ability to finish, but my drive too. I so often start something, and very seldom finish something. Or I'll get to a certain point and then get detracted.

I've been trying and failing to start and finish projects. I'm hoping that I can actually finish this story (which will probably be a very long Novel). I want to be able to finish the project and I want it too be good. But I first need to finish the story. Then I can worry about making it good. One step at a time.

First step is to get some sleep and finish my outline. Second step is to write the first chapter... and not to stop till the story is done... Any step after that is in the future and to be thought of in the future.

The problem is that I would love to be able to have a Slightly Manic Saturday for foreseeable future just so I can get this project done. Of course the problem with being slightly Manic is that I also have to deal with coming down from that... and being slightly depressed is stupid.

Squash Bugs

My Zucchini have Squash Bugs. This is an annoying and rather gross part of Gardening. Annoying because now I really need to pay attention to how my plants are doing. Gross because I need to squish all the bugs (and their eggs that I can). I don't normally get skirmish, but the idea of needing to squash as many squash bugs as possible does not really sound like fun. Of course I could just dump them all in a bucket of soupy water... Either way I'm about to go on a murderous rampage to defend my Zucchini.

Murderous rampages aside (or actually an update on past murderous rampages), the weeds have finally been made to behave themselves. Of course it took a lot of cardboard boxes and more then a lot of mulch. At least the flowers look better now. Tonight I'm looking forward to doing some killing (for bugs), eating dinner with friends (this is one case were I'm not going to be eating what I killed), and just enjoy being outside.

The only thing I have to do now is figure out what to do with all the Zucchini that I have in my fridge. I've have Zucchini almost every day (sometimes twice a day), for the last two weeks. I'm running out of different ways to make Zucchini. I might have to freeze some. I've made squash with cheese, squash tomato sauce, Squash and parm filled crescent rolls (using Pillsbury rolls), and my roommate made an amazing chocolate squash bread (which is more like cake). Idea's anyone?

Where Ever the Wind Do Blow

I thought that I had once found love
that in that lightness I would find wings
but my love left me grounded here
and took those wings I thought to gain
And traveled into the vast sky following
where ever the wind do blow

And oft I have wondered with ever breeze
when he will come flying back to me
But the wind does not blow here as oft it should
And without wings to follow, I wait
For him to come back traveling while following
where ever the wind do blow

I fear oft that his wings have been clipped
like I should have done years before
Yet clipped wings would do him good
If only he was here and in my arms
not traveling hence while following
where ever the wind do blow

Oft I have heard, in the mid-night
a great gust which bangs on my door
and flinting down the stairs I run
to hear the wind blowing upon the door
As I open the door, I wish for wings to follow
where ever the wind do blow