Colds

So I have a cold. Its basically a head cold plus a really horrid cough. I have a running nose, stuff running up and down my throat, and lungs that want out of my chest. I don't get sick often, but when I do I really get sick. And being sick I don't want to do anything. I want to take medication and lay on my bed feeling sorry for myself.

However, I have found that letting myself be a complete bum only makes things worse. So today, when I would really rather stay curled up in a ball in my bed I got up. I went shopping, cleaned out the fridge, and went for a long run. Of course I am still sick, but I feel better because I accomplished something. Of course my lungs are still trying to get out of my body (they really don't like me most of the time) and I still am sick. But there is something, maybe holistic, about being active when you are sick. Sure you don't want to push it, sometimes you can make it worse.

Of course the one thing that really bothers me about being sick is that I depend on medication to get through it. I can deal with a high level of pain, but when it comes to a head cold, forget it. I take cough medicine, night time stuff that knocks me out for at least four hours, and of course drink a whole lot of tea.  I really hate taking medication. But I have a certain weakness when it comes to coughs and head colds. Part of thing might stem from the fact that I have had pneumonia several times. But I think that mostly I just really had having a cough. I want to knock it out of my body as quickly as possible.

Of course tomorrow I might be a bum because I just ran too hard. And I'm going to be sick and sore and tired. Oh well I guess thats what I get for trying to be active while I'm sick...

Oh Thy Tired Wraiths That Do Fly

Oh thy tired wraiths that do fly
across this dust plagued globe
and cry with wind
and scream in storm
who's suffering shape would drop
and yet is bound to wheel
and mount the air ever
Calling out to heaven or hell
cast in strange mesial
between the two waring states
One's sovereign deals out heavy yokes
One's dictator a stockade of freedom
Whom's captains' play amusement
on the poor dust creatures below

Oh thy tired wraiths, what do you see?
across this orb of waring gods
and blinded flesh
and tolerant souls
who's suffering is self induced
by dealing of the flesh
and freedom of emotions
Who call out to heaven in song
but do not listen to its music
Who's story is short
Calling one Lord of Spirit
while giving another their flesh
And cry in sad vexation
at the poor state thy subsist

Oh thy tired wraiths, fly thee still?
in the firmament is there no peace
and strange release
and hopeful rest
thy distress still a mistress?
who's bound to earth
and its resurrection?
Call out to Zion!
Yell out to New Earth
Break open the seal
Oh thy strange Lion, Lamb
Whom's flesh was cedere
To the ardent architect
Who creates anew.

Oh thy tired wraiths, rest a while
in the word which is spoken
and lived out
and never ending
rest thy in knowledge
hold thy-selves in understanding
for it shall pass
After much destruction
After much rejoicing
Holy, Holy, Holy
We will all say together
Our flesh gone
so that only spirit remains
And we will all be new.

For Flesh Alone

Having touched my heavy heart
The smoke only gets thicker
so much life which 'round me flows
out and away and gone
And heavens tears can not wash
the pain and torment in this flesh
but eternal rest is for flesh alone

Having embraced my sullied self
the smoke remains but is thinning
so much light which is wondrous
in and 'round and through
the touch of angels wings kiss
the pain and torment now replaced
And eternal rest is for flesh alone

Having granted me soul excuse
the smoke can only jeer
but I can not hear its darkening call
far and away and never
the birth in blood and water
the flames, the Word, affect
So eternal rest is for flesh alone

Having called me daughter
all the smoke is nothing
So spirit life is now burning
through and here and ever
Heaven's call is ever singing
the torment fleeting, soon gone
For eternal rest is for flesh alone

Knitting Patterns

I've been working on this hat for the last couple of weeks. The pattern is complicated, the instructions a little lacking in descriptions. And to top it all off I realized today that the pattern is actually wrong in a couple of places, editing error I'm sure. As frustrating as it is to knit and then pull out row after row, it also seems to be a perfect picture of my life.

I like the idea of getting things done. I start projects with the gusto of someone who has the drive to finish them. And most of the time I have the discipline to see those projects through. I might loose some of my gusto, but I still finish things. So why is it that every time I start a large writing project that I get completely sidetracked? I have finished several knitting projects. I've organized a garden project. I cook food. I have done some amazing projects at work. But when it comes to my writing, there is some kind of problem when it comes to finishing the story. I have several novels started or floating around in my head. I can't seem to get any of them completely onto paper.

Its kind of like the knitting pattern for this hat. Sure I could read the pattern. I had to look a couple of things up, but I thought I had the general gist. Then I get into the actual knitting and I find problem after problem. So 20 plus rows in I tear it all out and start over. I think I have the problems figured out, I see where I might have made some mistakes. I've had to start projects over again, no big deal. With my writing its almost the same thing. I see in my head the story playing out. The emotions of the characters. The way they react. I might even have a couple of thoughts to how to end the whole thing. And when I start putting it down onto paper it seems like it is going fine. The after getting stuck, or bored, or distracted  (or some combination of all three). The story gets lost and another takes its place. Another story that is just as important, who's characters are just as interesting.

I just wonder what other people do to get over writing block. Tricks of the trade, or maybe something to help me finish the stories I have started, rather then always starting something new. Any ideas?

When Death Comes

The coming of death is sometimes easy to foretell. There is the look of those who know their fate is sealed. Who lay, pain etched in their faces, waiting for when death will come. For some death is a blessing. The last breath of pain and suffering. The last moment of doom which our flesh has bound us to. Death is coming for us all.

And yet it is so easy to forget. So easy to believe that we are invincible. That death can't come yet. That life can not yet be over. For we have too much too live for, too much left for us to do. So often we go on without a thought towards death. We fear it. We hate it. We run from it. 

But it is not easy to forget or disregard death. Our very blood knows of its limits. Our flesh and bones know there will be an end. We are reminded of death every fall as the leaves turn and the grass dies. Reminded every time we loose a pet. We are almost desensitized to death, because of the TV and movies. And yet when someone close to us passes, fear and grief flood in through the broken dams in our hearts. Death is much too close. For another has left our company, left this floating terrestrial orb that we call home. 

I found out today that a great aunt passed away. Yes she was older, but it was still a shock. She was my father's mother's sister. The family historian. The only one of my Irish great grandmother's children to go to church. (My great grandfather would not let the older children go to mass with their mother). And I feel the lose of her. The history and story of her life, which I will no longer have a chance to learn from her. Each of us has a story to tell and now hers has ended. Mourning starts with surprise and tears. Death comes again and reminds me that none of us are invincible. None can save their flesh from the destruction foretold to all made of dust. 

But along with this foretold destruction, this doom which in inherit in all of our stories, is the reminder that we are not just flesh. We are also spirt, soul. And our soul has a choice. And depending on that choice, our soul is either rapped up in the doom of our flesh, or the freedom of our resurrection. Mercy and grace and blood. A Lion and a sacrificed Lamb. A Man who was God, hung on a cross and rising from the grave. Its hard to not think of death without thinking about life. And as much as death is foretold, so it the end of death.

Let Us Rejoice

In pronouncement of death
the seven seals remain closed
I hear my doom, like ringing bells
Oh Lion of Judah
Oh great I Am
The law of death
has a hold on my life

In condemnation, my jail
I see only these steel bars
I hear the chains, harsh screams
Oh Slain Lamb
Oh great Priest
The law requires
that which I can not give

In righteousness, barely
the law of love comes in
and the flames kiss and sing
Oh Spirit of fire
Oh great Love
The mercy of blood
has a hold on my life

In flesh I am dead by sin
In spirit I have life by love
I hear the bells and laugh
Oh Lover of my Soul
Oh great Son
The lover lives
He lives in me.

Let us rejoice.

Fred

I wake up. Sluggishly I make my way to the bathroom, then back up the hallway, past my bedroom, to the kitchen. I put on the kettle and slump my way back to my bedroom, get dressed and ready for the day. The kettle sings. I hurry back into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. Its good tea, the loose leaf stuff my mum got me for christmas. I sit drinking my tea, daydreaming still not fully awake. Something, perhaps a little scurrying noise or a little blur of gray directs my attention away from my dreams. 

Sitting in the middle of the kitchen boldly sits a little gray mouse cleaning its whiskers. He does not seem to realize that I am there. In fact he seems to be oblivious to everything around him. Part of me is wondering where the cat is. She has killed a mouse before in the house, so poor thing she had dragged inside to play with. But its winter now, so this mouse must have found his own way in. Another part of me is thinking about the trap I have somewhere in my room, which I should relocate to the kitchen. Since I know we have mice now, I should be proactive in getting rid of the little buggers. But I do not act. Rather I watch. 

I'm not sure how it started, but at some point in my youth I started naming things. The most common names were Fred and Bob. Fred the spider, who lived in my room. Bob the squirrel that the dog had chased up a tree. Fred was probably the most common name. Of course naming things evolved from Fred and Bob, to Salt and Pepper and Sir Gregory the Brave. Salt and Pepper, or just Pepper, was my first cat. A vary handsome, rather snotty black and white tux cat, whom I loved.  Sir Gregory the Brave is the full name of my parents cat that my brother and I found/saved from our barn. Everyone calls him Greg. He is the second black and white cat to have a home at my parents house (I moved to Philly shortly after he was found/adopted). 

I still name spiders. My roommates, who are terrified of bugs, always want me to kill some spider or whatever crawling thing has decided to make a home in our apartment. I don't mind spiders. I talk to them as I transfer them outside. For some reason they are all named Fred. And there is a possum that lives in the back lot between my row of buildings and the row who's back is to our back. I named him nel the possum. And there is a long haired gray cat named Big Gray, who likes to flirt with our cat and bask himself on our back patio. 

So as I'm watching the mouse, obliviously clean itself in the middle of our kitchen. I'm wondering what I want to call it. Bob would work or Miss Gray. But I decide, since I know I will need to try and kill it, that I should not get too attached. So Fred it is. The name shared by all the spiders that eventually end up getting a trip outside in a glass jar. Or the many poor ones who aren't so lucky and end up very flat. If mice didn't carry scary deceases I doubt I would be so mean. 

The mouse scurries off. Perhaps it finally realized I was watching, or perhaps I had moved to obviously. I finish drinking my wonderful cup of tea. Then I get the trap from my bedroom, the one I have named the jaws of death, because that is exactly what it looks like. I smear some peanut butter in the middle of the trap and place it where I suspect the mouse would go for it. If Jaws and Fred could have any sort of conversation, this is how I think it would go...

Fred: Wow peanut butter.

Jaws: Yep thats right, come right over and get some...

Fred: I don't know, my mom always told me to not trust big black teeth.

Jaws: Oh come on Mister Mouse, what's the worst that can happen...

Of course the real question is whether Fred will fall for it or not.