After years of sharing my thoughts, stories, and poetry. I have found my life going in new directions. While I love writing on this blog. I have decided to start a new project. Please join me at my new blog (link below). Thank you and God Bless.
http://digitallettersoffaith.blogspot.com/
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Airless
Drawn taunt, a vacumn, a wall
chest tight, sides pinned, pained
Body rigid, wound tight
lungs airless, hungry yet dry
nostrils flaring, mouth sucking
Air! Oxygen! Anything,
Just to breath, to feel relief
to hold life, to live, to rise
or perhaps: find peace.
chest tight, sides pinned, pained
Body rigid, wound tight
lungs airless, hungry yet dry
nostrils flaring, mouth sucking
Air! Oxygen! Anything,
Just to breath, to feel relief
to hold life, to live, to rise
or perhaps: find peace.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Wicketty Wack
Shadow places, wicketty wack
with dark flowers, darker rain
greys and black on black on black
wicketty wack
bricks of dark and a vacume
the thrust of archetecture
the doom of progress
the black and greys and shadows
play, rewind, play again
wicketty wack, goes the slap
the stars in colorless glory
float before bright green eyes
and it rains wicketty wack
shadows and black paint
glass that can't be seen through
rain which is felt and not seen
a metalic taste, blood black
bricks in darkness and endless hole
the tumbling modern view
the doom of technology
the loss of morality
play, rewind, play again
wicketty wack, goes the slap
and history comes back
in black and black taps
and the rain goes wack, wack, wack
wicketty wack
with dark flowers, darker rain
greys and black on black on black
wicketty wack
bricks of dark and a vacume
the thrust of archetecture
the doom of progress
the black and greys and shadows
play, rewind, play again
wicketty wack, goes the slap
the stars in colorless glory
float before bright green eyes
and it rains wicketty wack
shadows and black paint
glass that can't be seen through
rain which is felt and not seen
a metalic taste, blood black
bricks in darkness and endless hole
the tumbling modern view
the doom of technology
the loss of morality
play, rewind, play again
wicketty wack, goes the slap
and history comes back
in black and black taps
and the rain goes wack, wack, wack
wicketty wack
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Glory's Seas
A drift upon dark lonely seas
My heart navigating to lust
Astern defiently to G-d
listless, tideless, without wind
a boat, stagnat, waiting endlessly
Yet I turn, and You redeem
a storm takes up boat
billowing sails full of love
waves wash and toss about
mercy thrusts my heart forward
to break against the Rock
only to anchor me safely in hope
love breaks, tears away the rot
Grace rebuilds, boat, mast, sail: Gloriously
And joy finds heart enveloped
transformed, whole, patterned
Ready to sail, full sail, on glory's seas.
My heart navigating to lust
Astern defiently to G-d
listless, tideless, without wind
a boat, stagnat, waiting endlessly
Yet I turn, and You redeem
a storm takes up boat
billowing sails full of love
waves wash and toss about
mercy thrusts my heart forward
to break against the Rock
only to anchor me safely in hope
love breaks, tears away the rot
Grace rebuilds, boat, mast, sail: Gloriously
And joy finds heart enveloped
transformed, whole, patterned
Ready to sail, full sail, on glory's seas.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Creating a Digital Life
My brother, at age 13, as finally started to join the digital life with his first personal email account. This might seem a stupid simple step which doesn't mean much. In today's world digital life is expected. Babies have a digital life (due to their parents uploading pictures), that will travel with them all their lives. However, it is creating the first digital life, the person that you are online, which seems so significate.
An Email account is the first step in a very deep hole. Facebook, twitter, blogging, and who knows what else, becomes almost as important as life itself. Pictures which seem funny at 13, will look horrible and might be detrimental at 18 when your hoping to go to college. Life online has a weird powerful implications into our regular lives. Once you start to be plugged in, its nearly impossible to be unpluged.
My brother's excitement is understandable. I'm sure at 13 an email address seems like the first step in becoming a grown up. When I was 13, I wanted to start working so I could make money (and buy things that I wanted). I didn't even think about an email address till near the end of high school, when it became necessary. I wonder how my parents, who still aren't very plugged in (dsl, cellphones (not smart phones) and my mum never used FB are as close as they get), are going to teach my brother about building his online character. And who can tell what that online personality will mean by the time he's my age and out in the 'real' world.
An Email account is the first step in a very deep hole. Facebook, twitter, blogging, and who knows what else, becomes almost as important as life itself. Pictures which seem funny at 13, will look horrible and might be detrimental at 18 when your hoping to go to college. Life online has a weird powerful implications into our regular lives. Once you start to be plugged in, its nearly impossible to be unpluged.
My brother's excitement is understandable. I'm sure at 13 an email address seems like the first step in becoming a grown up. When I was 13, I wanted to start working so I could make money (and buy things that I wanted). I didn't even think about an email address till near the end of high school, when it became necessary. I wonder how my parents, who still aren't very plugged in (dsl, cellphones (not smart phones) and my mum never used FB are as close as they get), are going to teach my brother about building his online character. And who can tell what that online personality will mean by the time he's my age and out in the 'real' world.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Running the Race
It was kind of like a slap in the face. That moment when you’re expecting pain, you know you’ve been hit, but the full extent hasn’t gotten to your brain yet. Then I was transported back to my sophomore year of high school, sitting in Bio class, glued to a TV watching the towers burn in NYC. That memory of the first tower falling mixes with the images from Oklahoma. My mother hadn’t wanted me to see those images, had tried to protect me from them. The images of children, the same age as my brother, covered in blood, limp, obviously dead. Then the pain sets in and I’m back to the present, looking at pictures from Boston.
My family has always been sports intensive. But from the merriment of different sports, soccer, baseball, football, volleyball, and others; we slowly gravitated to running. My sister got into cross country. My brother wanted to run too, so my father started to run to keep him company. Soon my father was running his first ½ marathon, followed by marathons, lots of marathons. We started the tradition of running a 5K every Thanksgiving. My dad started getting the Running Magazine. Running permeated our lives, and it still does. Less than two weeks ago I decided to do my first ½ marathon this fall.
Runners have a certain resilience that bleeds into everything they do. In my experience, most runners have supported some cause or run in the memory of someone dear to them. Running is a very personal, individual, event. However, when you become a runner, you become part of a family. Runners keep track of their own. I’ve had complete strangers, give me encouragement and push me to the finish line. Not only that, but many runners run for reasons outside themselves. Whether it’s raising money for a cause or running in the memory of a loved one or even protesting injustice. Many runners aren’t in it just for themselves.
That’s why the attack in Boston seems so senseless. The finish of a race should be a moment where the pain becomes justified and joy abounds. In Boston that glorious personal victory was turned into a dark ugly scene of blood and destruction. And it would be easy to only see the bloodshed, to only see the worst of the situation. We can ask why and who. We could wallow in the despair of another heartless, senseless attack.
However, that’s only part of the story. The best of human nature always get shown during and after acts of horror. People carrying and comforting complete strangers, Bostonians opening up their homes and restaurant’s giving away free food. There other a huge number or stories of people doing things that can only be call heroic. For all of our ability to be killers and destroyers; we humans can also be selfless and caring. So despite the darkness and the horror and all that blood; I will bend my thoughts and prayers on the good things. And I will give thanks to a God who despite our propensity to great evil, created us with the ability to do greater good.
‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us,’ Hebrews 12:1
My family has always been sports intensive. But from the merriment of different sports, soccer, baseball, football, volleyball, and others; we slowly gravitated to running. My sister got into cross country. My brother wanted to run too, so my father started to run to keep him company. Soon my father was running his first ½ marathon, followed by marathons, lots of marathons. We started the tradition of running a 5K every Thanksgiving. My dad started getting the Running Magazine. Running permeated our lives, and it still does. Less than two weeks ago I decided to do my first ½ marathon this fall.
Runners have a certain resilience that bleeds into everything they do. In my experience, most runners have supported some cause or run in the memory of someone dear to them. Running is a very personal, individual, event. However, when you become a runner, you become part of a family. Runners keep track of their own. I’ve had complete strangers, give me encouragement and push me to the finish line. Not only that, but many runners run for reasons outside themselves. Whether it’s raising money for a cause or running in the memory of a loved one or even protesting injustice. Many runners aren’t in it just for themselves.
That’s why the attack in Boston seems so senseless. The finish of a race should be a moment where the pain becomes justified and joy abounds. In Boston that glorious personal victory was turned into a dark ugly scene of blood and destruction. And it would be easy to only see the bloodshed, to only see the worst of the situation. We can ask why and who. We could wallow in the despair of another heartless, senseless attack.
However, that’s only part of the story. The best of human nature always get shown during and after acts of horror. People carrying and comforting complete strangers, Bostonians opening up their homes and restaurant’s giving away free food. There other a huge number or stories of people doing things that can only be call heroic. For all of our ability to be killers and destroyers; we humans can also be selfless and caring. So despite the darkness and the horror and all that blood; I will bend my thoughts and prayers on the good things. And I will give thanks to a God who despite our propensity to great evil, created us with the ability to do greater good.
‘Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us,’ Hebrews 12:1
Friday, April 12, 2013
Beginning of a Story: The Chasm through the world.
I wrote this today during work. I would like to clean it up a bit and make it a short story. Not sure how to end it though.
Sarah stared across the chasm of the world. The world which tumbled in two halves around twin stars, the world to which Sarah had been born. Although it should be said that she was born to the eastern half of what was once a complete and whole world. No one knew how the chasm came to be. The two tribes had very different ideas of how it happened. The scientist in the Northern City of Washburn, held that a great world war, mainly the weapon’s used in that war, were the cause of the chasm. The Southern spiritualist believed that the great gods, in their wisdom, had separated the world, so that the people would not destroy each other completely.
Sarah wasn’t really interested in why the world had been split in two. She was more interested in getting to the other side of the world. It had never been done. At least that was what everyone always said: Her parents, her teachers, the librarian, and her friends that where training in the ways of the spiritualists. So Sarah, along with skeptic Jerry, and followed by a very spiritual guardian Sam, decided to train with the Scientists. The Spiritualist’s, believed that the world must stay split, and travelling to the other side should be forbidden and impossible. Whether it was forbidden because it was impossible or impossible because it was forbidden had never been made clear. Sarah hated the silliness of it.
“Perhaps it is not a question or can or cannot, but should or should not.” Sam had said mysteriously when they were a day out of the southern city. Jerry had argued with him the rest of the day on the semantics of word usage. Sarah had only half listened. She wasn’t interested in semantics; she was much more interested in possibility. The can but should not, wasn’t something she was going to waste time thinking about. She had no interest in sub-planting the gods, destroying humanity, or even changing history. She merely wanted to reconnect the two halves of the world. If they had once be one, why shouldn’t they be again?
“We should travel by sea, it will be quicker.” Jerry said.
“Not necessarily” Sarah replied, daring to argue with Jerry. “There are bandits and pirates. If we run into them, it would be a much longer trip. Also the weather is harder to predict.”
“Distance-wise the sea is shorter” Jerry said unwilling to concede completely. Sarah had learned long ago to use Logic against Jerry and to only fight when she was going to win. This had created a friendship of mutual respect between the two of them. If Sarah had known Jerry viewed her as the leader, she might have been tempted to use more of her power.
“Sam?” Sarah said asking her guardian to voice an option. Despite their difference in belief, Sarah had a great respect for Sam.
“There are robbers in the woods, if we go by land, so either way is in fact dangerous. A fact that I expressed to your father before we started the trip. I believe that the sea passage might not be the safest or quickest, but it is perhaps the best option. I have friends in the Dam City; we can get passage from there. It means travelling half the way over the dam and is perhaps the longest way. But it is also the safest.”
“You should have mentioned that earlier.” Sarah said softly. Sam seldom offered information.
“Do not offer unasked for wisdom” Jerry said mocking the voice of a spiritual elder who had often spouted out weirdly annoying says throughout their early education. Sarah smiled despite herself. Sam tried to look offended, but Sarah could see his eyes smiling.
“Jerry to you have any problems making for the Dam City?” Asked Sarah, she didn’t expect Jerry to disagree.
“The City of the Damned? Sounds good” Jerry said drily. Sam winced at the word play.
“Alright then, Sam you seem to know the way, led on.” Sarah said, she normally laughed at Jerry’s jokes, but this one gave her pause. The Dam City was often called the Damned City, because of its location. It was said living close to the chasm did weird things to some people. There was a sect of Spiritualist that believed that jumping over the edge, into the chasm, wasn’t suicide. Rather it was a return to the gods and this return was often taken by those who were old or sick.
The Great Eastern Dam ran along the edge of the chasm. When the world was one, there had been a great ocean between the east and the west. To keep the water from pouring down into the Chasm, the long forgotten people had built a great Dam. The Spiritualists believed that this was done with the help of the gods, who held back the waters from the edge for 40 days and nights. The scientist scoffed at this. On top of the dam to the south, a great road had been built, leading to the great Dam City. The City itself lay halfway along the great Dam and was a hub for trade. It was also the site of a great holy place, which was build below the city on the side of the chasm. Great patios and balconies were built out over the nothingness. How deep this holy place was, no one seemed to know. The monks who lived there moved ever downward, but visitors were only allowed in the top two stories.
From the dam it was possible to see the other half of the world. It hung oddly about a mile away. Between the two halves several rocks and boulders hung at various heights. How they stayed there was under heated debate. Gravity it seemed did not affect them. While the great rocks seemed to float, nothing else did. A kite which flew wonderfully on the one side of the dam would fall like a stone on the chasm side. A rock that was thrown over the chasm would quickly fall. Some said quicker then on the world. And yet there were stories of people falling over the side, only to find themselves pushed by the wind back to the surface.
Sarah stood on the edge of the Dam staring out over the chasm. Behind her rose the great city. It was walled, but huge expansions existed outside the original walls. The wall on the side of the dam was little more than four feet high. The main assaults had always come from the sea. Jerry and Sam had gone together below to visit the holy site. Sam had gone to see his friends. Jerry had gone to be skeptical of spirituality and see what he called ‘a triumph of earth bond bodies’. Sarah had no real wish to travel to the holy site. She had already seen it. She had seen many of them. Her father had been raised and trained in the north, but he had become interested in the holy places of the south. Thus, all throughout her childhood, Sarah had been dragged from one holy site to the next.
Sarah wasn’t interested in the sites on this side of the world. She wanted to see the sites on the other side. Her father despite his background in science had told her that this was too far. Her mother had nearly fainted. But Sarah had been born with more than her share of her father’s determination. After all it takes a great amount of determination to travel on a great never ending pilgrimage. The boy who had grown up a scientist was now called the great travelling holy man. Sarah the daughter of the great travelling holy man, wished to be a scientist. Perhaps someday she would be called great.
The blue sun and its twin yellow sun were setting to the west, far behind her. The blue sun was already below the wall of the city. The yellow sun following close behind. ‘Forever the two twins dance around the heavens and forever would the two halves of the world dance around the suns,’ read the small green pendant Sarah’s father had given her before she had left for her own journey. Sarah touched the pendant unconsciously as she stared at the other half across the world. Darkness would soon make it impossible to see that far. Later that night the suns would show briefly through the endless chasm a shadowy light. While the light shown the holy men would sing loud prayers and bang on drums.
“Were you waiting for us?” Jerry said breathily from her left. The many stairs did not seem to have exhausted him, only make him energetic. Perhaps her father was right; Jerry would make a great holy man.
“Just staring out at the other half” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. Much slower then Jerry, Ben came up exhaustedly, heaving large gulps of air.
“Did you enjoy your visit?” Sarah asked politely.
“Amazing” Jerry said simply. Sam only nodded between breaths.
Sarah stared across the chasm of the world. The world which tumbled in two halves around twin stars, the world to which Sarah had been born. Although it should be said that she was born to the eastern half of what was once a complete and whole world. No one knew how the chasm came to be. The two tribes had very different ideas of how it happened. The scientist in the Northern City of Washburn, held that a great world war, mainly the weapon’s used in that war, were the cause of the chasm. The Southern spiritualist believed that the great gods, in their wisdom, had separated the world, so that the people would not destroy each other completely.
Sarah wasn’t really interested in why the world had been split in two. She was more interested in getting to the other side of the world. It had never been done. At least that was what everyone always said: Her parents, her teachers, the librarian, and her friends that where training in the ways of the spiritualists. So Sarah, along with skeptic Jerry, and followed by a very spiritual guardian Sam, decided to train with the Scientists. The Spiritualist’s, believed that the world must stay split, and travelling to the other side should be forbidden and impossible. Whether it was forbidden because it was impossible or impossible because it was forbidden had never been made clear. Sarah hated the silliness of it.
“Perhaps it is not a question or can or cannot, but should or should not.” Sam had said mysteriously when they were a day out of the southern city. Jerry had argued with him the rest of the day on the semantics of word usage. Sarah had only half listened. She wasn’t interested in semantics; she was much more interested in possibility. The can but should not, wasn’t something she was going to waste time thinking about. She had no interest in sub-planting the gods, destroying humanity, or even changing history. She merely wanted to reconnect the two halves of the world. If they had once be one, why shouldn’t they be again?
“We should travel by sea, it will be quicker.” Jerry said.
“Not necessarily” Sarah replied, daring to argue with Jerry. “There are bandits and pirates. If we run into them, it would be a much longer trip. Also the weather is harder to predict.”
“Distance-wise the sea is shorter” Jerry said unwilling to concede completely. Sarah had learned long ago to use Logic against Jerry and to only fight when she was going to win. This had created a friendship of mutual respect between the two of them. If Sarah had known Jerry viewed her as the leader, she might have been tempted to use more of her power.
“Sam?” Sarah said asking her guardian to voice an option. Despite their difference in belief, Sarah had a great respect for Sam.
“There are robbers in the woods, if we go by land, so either way is in fact dangerous. A fact that I expressed to your father before we started the trip. I believe that the sea passage might not be the safest or quickest, but it is perhaps the best option. I have friends in the Dam City; we can get passage from there. It means travelling half the way over the dam and is perhaps the longest way. But it is also the safest.”
“You should have mentioned that earlier.” Sarah said softly. Sam seldom offered information.
“Do not offer unasked for wisdom” Jerry said mocking the voice of a spiritual elder who had often spouted out weirdly annoying says throughout their early education. Sarah smiled despite herself. Sam tried to look offended, but Sarah could see his eyes smiling.
“Jerry to you have any problems making for the Dam City?” Asked Sarah, she didn’t expect Jerry to disagree.
“The City of the Damned? Sounds good” Jerry said drily. Sam winced at the word play.
“Alright then, Sam you seem to know the way, led on.” Sarah said, she normally laughed at Jerry’s jokes, but this one gave her pause. The Dam City was often called the Damned City, because of its location. It was said living close to the chasm did weird things to some people. There was a sect of Spiritualist that believed that jumping over the edge, into the chasm, wasn’t suicide. Rather it was a return to the gods and this return was often taken by those who were old or sick.
The Great Eastern Dam ran along the edge of the chasm. When the world was one, there had been a great ocean between the east and the west. To keep the water from pouring down into the Chasm, the long forgotten people had built a great Dam. The Spiritualists believed that this was done with the help of the gods, who held back the waters from the edge for 40 days and nights. The scientist scoffed at this. On top of the dam to the south, a great road had been built, leading to the great Dam City. The City itself lay halfway along the great Dam and was a hub for trade. It was also the site of a great holy place, which was build below the city on the side of the chasm. Great patios and balconies were built out over the nothingness. How deep this holy place was, no one seemed to know. The monks who lived there moved ever downward, but visitors were only allowed in the top two stories.
From the dam it was possible to see the other half of the world. It hung oddly about a mile away. Between the two halves several rocks and boulders hung at various heights. How they stayed there was under heated debate. Gravity it seemed did not affect them. While the great rocks seemed to float, nothing else did. A kite which flew wonderfully on the one side of the dam would fall like a stone on the chasm side. A rock that was thrown over the chasm would quickly fall. Some said quicker then on the world. And yet there were stories of people falling over the side, only to find themselves pushed by the wind back to the surface.
Sarah stood on the edge of the Dam staring out over the chasm. Behind her rose the great city. It was walled, but huge expansions existed outside the original walls. The wall on the side of the dam was little more than four feet high. The main assaults had always come from the sea. Jerry and Sam had gone together below to visit the holy site. Sam had gone to see his friends. Jerry had gone to be skeptical of spirituality and see what he called ‘a triumph of earth bond bodies’. Sarah had no real wish to travel to the holy site. She had already seen it. She had seen many of them. Her father had been raised and trained in the north, but he had become interested in the holy places of the south. Thus, all throughout her childhood, Sarah had been dragged from one holy site to the next.
Sarah wasn’t interested in the sites on this side of the world. She wanted to see the sites on the other side. Her father despite his background in science had told her that this was too far. Her mother had nearly fainted. But Sarah had been born with more than her share of her father’s determination. After all it takes a great amount of determination to travel on a great never ending pilgrimage. The boy who had grown up a scientist was now called the great travelling holy man. Sarah the daughter of the great travelling holy man, wished to be a scientist. Perhaps someday she would be called great.
The blue sun and its twin yellow sun were setting to the west, far behind her. The blue sun was already below the wall of the city. The yellow sun following close behind. ‘Forever the two twins dance around the heavens and forever would the two halves of the world dance around the suns,’ read the small green pendant Sarah’s father had given her before she had left for her own journey. Sarah touched the pendant unconsciously as she stared at the other half across the world. Darkness would soon make it impossible to see that far. Later that night the suns would show briefly through the endless chasm a shadowy light. While the light shown the holy men would sing loud prayers and bang on drums.
“Were you waiting for us?” Jerry said breathily from her left. The many stairs did not seem to have exhausted him, only make him energetic. Perhaps her father was right; Jerry would make a great holy man.
“Just staring out at the other half” Sarah said with a wave of her hand. Much slower then Jerry, Ben came up exhaustedly, heaving large gulps of air.
“Did you enjoy your visit?” Sarah asked politely.
“Amazing” Jerry said simply. Sam only nodded between breaths.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Hot tears and cold shame
I have been reminded over and over again that my view on reality needs to be adjusted. The reason for this adjustment is mostly due to the fallout from decisions and my sarcastic (unfunny) sense of humor about those decisions. I tend to (always) make things worse by talking about them. In my family we call this foot in mouth disease. As in open mouth insert foot, open mouth wider insert other foot. Some people are amazingly good at verbal processing; sure they might wander about a bit, but stream of consciousness is usually entertaining and to the point. I’m not at all like this. I process internally and sometimes only when I write them out. Often when I speak before I have a firm thought, my words make no sense. In conversation my thoughts or questions may seem out of the blue or totally out of place. Emotions, fear, sleep deprivation, and being sick bring out the worst of this.
So when I tried (read failed) to express my annoyance at my lack of self control at the St. Patrick ’s Day parade this past Sunday, my friends were a little confused. I tend to use harsh language when disappointed with myself. This harsh language is often me being dramatic, sarcastic, or just silly. I also tend to make stupid, unfunny, confusing comments that lead to weird outcomes. I also found it impossible to answer questions that were being thrown at me, because I couldn’t process them. Or the response I wanted to say, didn’t seem to be able to get itself out of my mouth. To make things worse; a need to express annoyance and need of growth, ended in tears and a feeling of shame about the whole thing that had not existed before. True the correction which my friends gave me was true and totally understandable in the situation. I can understand their reaction and the words they spoke were true. The fact that that correction caused tears on my side was a surprise and annoyance. I hate crying and I do it a lot more than I care to admit.
When I don’t expect a reaction I try to figure out where it is coming from. I wondered if internally I was feeling a lot more shamed and guilty then I thought. Some of it was probably because I made a choice that I’m not happy with. Like every bad choice there are consciences (namely throwing up green mint shake from McDonalds, followed by a feeling that my insides were imploding). But there are other consciences that could have happened and did not (thank God). I realized after getting back to my apartment, after making a fool of myself and crying, that I was more shamed that the idea of being corrected. I felt like I was back in my childhood facing my mother, who was asking me a simple question. I knew the answer of the question, but couldn’t express myself in the face of her domineering spirit. Frustrated I tried and failed to prove that I was smart, only to be corrected and see the disappointment on her face.
Yes this reaction is stupid and silly and unfortunately very real. I’ll be the first to tell you that I need more faith, more hope, more joy and more God. I’m just too good at making a mess of simple straight forward communication. Add in my stubbornness and you’ve got someone who needs a lot more grace and probably more loving correction. Even if it is just so I can grow in how I react. Or maybe I just need a therapist.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
The Nameless One
Below is the beginning of a short story, which hopefully I will finish and share with you all over the next week or so.
The sun’s last rays were losing the fight against the coming dark. Connor stood on the edge of the hill, looking down at the forest below. Twilight had already fallen there; it was going to be a cold night. The trees naked branches waved in the crisp breeze, which ruffled Connor’s hair and made him shiver. He was tired and sore. He was sure that tomorrow he would be worse, after sleeping on the cold ground. Although he was tired and hungry, Conor stood watching the last rays of the day, hoping for a few moments to think.
Behind him the men were making food and unrolling their bed rolls. He was the youngest of the group and unlucky enough to be the leader. He didn’t feel like a leader. He had been told since his youth that he was born to be king. The men behind believed fully in the idea that he would be their King. Conor watched his breath form like a cloud and wished that he could disappear in the same way. He felt the sword which hung at his side. He had been taught how to fight, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was better had handling a plow.
“Seek ye the one who is cursed
To walk under sun and moon
Neither old nor young, yet both
A guide to blood’s sword
And kingship of old”
An old travelling sage had spoken these words to him. Connor hadn’t wanted to leave the farm, but Mathis had insisted. So they had come on this wondering quest, searching for the sword of the king’s. It was said only blood of the king could wield it. They had travelled two weeks to get to the highlands, and here they were on the edge of them. Still the men expected Connor to know the way, Connor had no idea what to look for. He wasn’t even sure how to find the guide.
Connor felt the weight of the expectations of the men who were readying camp behind him. The sun finally sunk behind the hills to the west, leaving the sky bright red. Connor sighed; he should return to the men and do his part. Just as he was about to turn away, something caught his eye in the wooded valley below. At first he could not tell what it was, perhaps a deer, it was walking slowly. As he watched it he realized that it was coming in his direction. At first he thought it was a large cat, its movement seemed so soft and careful. However as if came closer, weaving its way through the trees, he realized that it was a hooded figure. The color was that of a pale grey or blue and shown out against the night with a soft candle type light.
“Mathis” Connor said waving his adoptive father to him. The group fell silent. Connor wondered if he was being foolish, but he felt this figure was dangerous. Although whether the person was a danger to himself he could not tell.
“What is it Connor?” Mathis asked. He was the only one that treated Connor like a child and Connor hated it. Connor silently pointed to the figure below. The figure seemed to be moving faster and had almost reached the end of the trees at the bottom of the hill. Connor saw the fear flash across Mathis’ face as he put his hand on his sword.
“We should treat our guest with honor.” Connor said simply. Mathis nodded slowly, his eyes still on the figure below. “Tell the men to be on guard but to be gracious.”
Below the figure started to slowly climb the hill. As it got closer Connor was struck by the fact that it was an older person, leaning heavily on a staff. The figure paused half way up the hill and looked up at Connor. Connor couldn’t see the face, the hood was pulled down to far over the face, but he felt sudden comfort. Somehow he knew that he could trust this person. Connor bowed his head in respect. The figure bobbed its head back and continued up the hill.
“Well met” Connor said putting his hand over his heart.
“Well met” replied a voice that was neither young nor old, but was most definitely that of a woman.
“Would you like to join us at the fire?” Connor asked trying to be polite. The woman nodded and still leaning heavily on her staff made her way to the fire, Mathis offered her the best seat near the fire. “My name is Connor, and this is my father Mathis.”
“You are very trusting sharing your names.” The woman said slowly. Connor still felt unsure as to her age. “I have no name to give you, since none know what it is. Thus I am often called the Nameless One. You can call my Nameless if you wish.”
“Nameless” Connor said slowly with thought. Mathis looked uncomfortable. “Well, you are welcome to stay here by our fire if you wish and share with us in our dinner. Although I am afraid that we have little to share.”
“You are kind” The women looked at him long from underneath her hood. The shadow it cast made it impossible to tell what she looked like. “Long have the star’s told of your coming. You doubt your birth and your abilities, you should not. You are born of Kings.”
“I still have much to learn” Connor said wondering how this woman could possibly know who he was. Mathis was more nervous than before. Was this a wandering sage? An oracle? Or perhaps a witch come to steal Connor’s power.
“Where are you travelling?” Mathis asked after the silence became too much for him. The woman laughed.
“I walk a long path, who can say where it will end?” Again she laughed. “But for a time I would travel with you, if you will accept my company.”
“You do not know where we travel.” Mathis said in defense. Connor smiled to himself. Mathis was always trying to protect him.
“Not exactly, but I know what you are searching for.”
“And why would you wish to join us?” Connor asked gently. “We can offer little protection. We have little supplies and less money. Our journey will not take a standard path.”
“I have my reasons” the woman said simply.
“But you haven’t given me one for why I should accept your offer. I have my men to worry about and as much as I would like to be able to accept every offer of service, I cannot. Nor can I promise to take care of someone, when I am not sure if I can care for those already under me.” Connor paused. He felt very unlike the speech he had given. Mathis was glowing with pride. “Also as much as I feel you do not mean me harm, I have no reason to trust you.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” The woman asked as if hurt. She sounded far older as well.
“I have trusted you farther then I should have.” Connor said softly. “You have more power in you then any of us here. If you wanted to, you could kill us all.”
“Yes, I am dangerous as an enemy. But that doesn’t mean that you are in danger.”
“I might not be, but I am not thinking of myself.” Connor answered. He no longer looked at Mathis to see what he thought of the conversation.
“You would risk my anger then?”
“Would you risk mine?” Connor asked boldly. He wasn’t sure what power was inside of him, but he felt it grow suddenly with his words. The woman shrunk back as if struck.
“Forgive me” She said softly, she seemed powerless now. “I had to be certain you were the one the Star foretold. You are very good at hiding your power.”
There was silence; the men collectively released their breath. Connor felt that he had just won a battle, a long tiring battle. The woman sat unmoving staring into the fire, waiting on him. Connor felt unsure what his next move should be.
“Why the test?” He asked gently. “Why have you come?”
“You search for something, but do not know where to look. I would be your guide, if you would have me.” She said softly. It was a young voice now. Behind her the moon rose. Connor was silent.
“What am I searching for?” Connor asked. Mathis looked confused, the boy he had raised had finally shown a part of what he would be come. Connor felt different somehow, but wasn’t sure what had changed. He was still his 17 year old self, but he felt older.
“You are searching for your father’s sword, the sword of Kings, the sword that only someone with your blood can hold.” Nameless answered. “It is the only way you can take the thrown.”
“You are the cursed one, neither young nor old?” Connor asked, remembering the words of the sage. In answer Nameless removed her hood. The men gasped, they had not expected this. Before them sat a young woman. She was beautiful, long dark raven colored hair and bright green eyes. There was a tattoo that ran across her face, but it added to her beauty.
“When the moon is in the sky I am young as I was before the curse. However, when it sets I am an old woman.” Nameless said sadly. “And so it will be till one comes who knows my true name.”
“I was told that one would come who would lead me. If in the morning when the moon sets you are old as you say you will be. Then you can guide me.” Connor said.
“Agreed” Nameless said with a smile. Mathis looked unsure, but didn’t debate Connor’s decision.
“Shall we eat?” Mathis asked. Connor nodded.
The sun’s last rays were losing the fight against the coming dark. Connor stood on the edge of the hill, looking down at the forest below. Twilight had already fallen there; it was going to be a cold night. The trees naked branches waved in the crisp breeze, which ruffled Connor’s hair and made him shiver. He was tired and sore. He was sure that tomorrow he would be worse, after sleeping on the cold ground. Although he was tired and hungry, Conor stood watching the last rays of the day, hoping for a few moments to think.
Behind him the men were making food and unrolling their bed rolls. He was the youngest of the group and unlucky enough to be the leader. He didn’t feel like a leader. He had been told since his youth that he was born to be king. The men behind believed fully in the idea that he would be their King. Conor watched his breath form like a cloud and wished that he could disappear in the same way. He felt the sword which hung at his side. He had been taught how to fight, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was better had handling a plow.
“Seek ye the one who is cursed
To walk under sun and moon
Neither old nor young, yet both
A guide to blood’s sword
And kingship of old”
An old travelling sage had spoken these words to him. Connor hadn’t wanted to leave the farm, but Mathis had insisted. So they had come on this wondering quest, searching for the sword of the king’s. It was said only blood of the king could wield it. They had travelled two weeks to get to the highlands, and here they were on the edge of them. Still the men expected Connor to know the way, Connor had no idea what to look for. He wasn’t even sure how to find the guide.
Connor felt the weight of the expectations of the men who were readying camp behind him. The sun finally sunk behind the hills to the west, leaving the sky bright red. Connor sighed; he should return to the men and do his part. Just as he was about to turn away, something caught his eye in the wooded valley below. At first he could not tell what it was, perhaps a deer, it was walking slowly. As he watched it he realized that it was coming in his direction. At first he thought it was a large cat, its movement seemed so soft and careful. However as if came closer, weaving its way through the trees, he realized that it was a hooded figure. The color was that of a pale grey or blue and shown out against the night with a soft candle type light.
“Mathis” Connor said waving his adoptive father to him. The group fell silent. Connor wondered if he was being foolish, but he felt this figure was dangerous. Although whether the person was a danger to himself he could not tell.
“What is it Connor?” Mathis asked. He was the only one that treated Connor like a child and Connor hated it. Connor silently pointed to the figure below. The figure seemed to be moving faster and had almost reached the end of the trees at the bottom of the hill. Connor saw the fear flash across Mathis’ face as he put his hand on his sword.
“We should treat our guest with honor.” Connor said simply. Mathis nodded slowly, his eyes still on the figure below. “Tell the men to be on guard but to be gracious.”
Below the figure started to slowly climb the hill. As it got closer Connor was struck by the fact that it was an older person, leaning heavily on a staff. The figure paused half way up the hill and looked up at Connor. Connor couldn’t see the face, the hood was pulled down to far over the face, but he felt sudden comfort. Somehow he knew that he could trust this person. Connor bowed his head in respect. The figure bobbed its head back and continued up the hill.
“Well met” Connor said putting his hand over his heart.
“Well met” replied a voice that was neither young nor old, but was most definitely that of a woman.
“Would you like to join us at the fire?” Connor asked trying to be polite. The woman nodded and still leaning heavily on her staff made her way to the fire, Mathis offered her the best seat near the fire. “My name is Connor, and this is my father Mathis.”
“You are very trusting sharing your names.” The woman said slowly. Connor still felt unsure as to her age. “I have no name to give you, since none know what it is. Thus I am often called the Nameless One. You can call my Nameless if you wish.”
“Nameless” Connor said slowly with thought. Mathis looked uncomfortable. “Well, you are welcome to stay here by our fire if you wish and share with us in our dinner. Although I am afraid that we have little to share.”
“You are kind” The women looked at him long from underneath her hood. The shadow it cast made it impossible to tell what she looked like. “Long have the star’s told of your coming. You doubt your birth and your abilities, you should not. You are born of Kings.”
“I still have much to learn” Connor said wondering how this woman could possibly know who he was. Mathis was more nervous than before. Was this a wandering sage? An oracle? Or perhaps a witch come to steal Connor’s power.
“Where are you travelling?” Mathis asked after the silence became too much for him. The woman laughed.
“I walk a long path, who can say where it will end?” Again she laughed. “But for a time I would travel with you, if you will accept my company.”
“You do not know where we travel.” Mathis said in defense. Connor smiled to himself. Mathis was always trying to protect him.
“Not exactly, but I know what you are searching for.”
“And why would you wish to join us?” Connor asked gently. “We can offer little protection. We have little supplies and less money. Our journey will not take a standard path.”
“I have my reasons” the woman said simply.
“But you haven’t given me one for why I should accept your offer. I have my men to worry about and as much as I would like to be able to accept every offer of service, I cannot. Nor can I promise to take care of someone, when I am not sure if I can care for those already under me.” Connor paused. He felt very unlike the speech he had given. Mathis was glowing with pride. “Also as much as I feel you do not mean me harm, I have no reason to trust you.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” The woman asked as if hurt. She sounded far older as well.
“I have trusted you farther then I should have.” Connor said softly. “You have more power in you then any of us here. If you wanted to, you could kill us all.”
“Yes, I am dangerous as an enemy. But that doesn’t mean that you are in danger.”
“I might not be, but I am not thinking of myself.” Connor answered. He no longer looked at Mathis to see what he thought of the conversation.
“You would risk my anger then?”
“Would you risk mine?” Connor asked boldly. He wasn’t sure what power was inside of him, but he felt it grow suddenly with his words. The woman shrunk back as if struck.
“Forgive me” She said softly, she seemed powerless now. “I had to be certain you were the one the Star foretold. You are very good at hiding your power.”
There was silence; the men collectively released their breath. Connor felt that he had just won a battle, a long tiring battle. The woman sat unmoving staring into the fire, waiting on him. Connor felt unsure what his next move should be.
“Why the test?” He asked gently. “Why have you come?”
“You search for something, but do not know where to look. I would be your guide, if you would have me.” She said softly. It was a young voice now. Behind her the moon rose. Connor was silent.
“What am I searching for?” Connor asked. Mathis looked confused, the boy he had raised had finally shown a part of what he would be come. Connor felt different somehow, but wasn’t sure what had changed. He was still his 17 year old self, but he felt older.
“You are searching for your father’s sword, the sword of Kings, the sword that only someone with your blood can hold.” Nameless answered. “It is the only way you can take the thrown.”
“You are the cursed one, neither young nor old?” Connor asked, remembering the words of the sage. In answer Nameless removed her hood. The men gasped, they had not expected this. Before them sat a young woman. She was beautiful, long dark raven colored hair and bright green eyes. There was a tattoo that ran across her face, but it added to her beauty.
“When the moon is in the sky I am young as I was before the curse. However, when it sets I am an old woman.” Nameless said sadly. “And so it will be till one comes who knows my true name.”
“I was told that one would come who would lead me. If in the morning when the moon sets you are old as you say you will be. Then you can guide me.” Connor said.
“Agreed” Nameless said with a smile. Mathis looked unsure, but didn’t debate Connor’s decision.
“Shall we eat?” Mathis asked. Connor nodded.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Almost There
I've been writing a novel for just over a year. Its a crazy kind of life ubsorbing exercise. Its strange how at times writing the story has taken over my life. I read articals and decide whether it is something I can use or not for the story. I think about the characters, dream about what they would say, what they are thinking. At other times my mind wanders away over unexplored fields of creativity and other possibilities. I have to harken back to the story.
I reached the 70,000 words mark last night. Its a scary place to be. Most novels are in the 100,000 and above range. Meaning that in 30,000 words I will be reaching the end of this story and prehaps the largest writing project I have under taken. But reaching the end of the goal is only part of what makes me fearful. When I'm done with the first draft, I'm going to be editing and re-editing and re-writing. As hard as it is for me to make myself write, making myself edit is even harder. Revisions can make you hate the thing you've created, make you despise your writing style. Things that sounded cool in your head, haven't actually translated to the page and you can't seem to make them cool even after the 8th try. Something that was funny earlier is stupid on the 11th time through. And somehow you have missed not one spelling mistake through all of your revisions, but hundreds.
I'm excited and terrified also because one I'm actually done with this monster in the guise of a book, I must share it. I must release it to the wild, where it will be torn at, starved, and possibly die. And even though I try to not think about the future, I wonder if this will be my chance to move from
I reached the 70,000 words mark last night. Its a scary place to be. Most novels are in the 100,000 and above range. Meaning that in 30,000 words I will be reaching the end of this story and prehaps the largest writing project I have under taken. But reaching the end of the goal is only part of what makes me fearful. When I'm done with the first draft, I'm going to be editing and re-editing and re-writing. As hard as it is for me to make myself write, making myself edit is even harder. Revisions can make you hate the thing you've created, make you despise your writing style. Things that sounded cool in your head, haven't actually translated to the page and you can't seem to make them cool even after the 8th try. Something that was funny earlier is stupid on the 11th time through. And somehow you have missed not one spelling mistake through all of your revisions, but hundreds.
I'm excited and terrified also because one I'm actually done with this monster in the guise of a book, I must share it. I must release it to the wild, where it will be torn at, starved, and possibly die. And even though I try to not think about the future, I wonder if this will be my chance to move from
mediocre nothingness, to recognition. Do I dare to hope or dream of fame? Do I dare wish?
So I continue to write and everyday brings be closer to the realization that this thing that I am creating can't just live on my computer, it must join all the other volumes of written words, good and bad and very ugly. I'm not going to let my fear control me and stop me. I must continue on this path... but I question my mental stability.
'Almost there' I tell myself. I'll worry about the consequences of wishes and hopes later. If this book never gets published, it will live as a testiment of the possibility and work of my creativity. If it is publishes and tanks, I can learn from that. I dare not think what will happen if it does well, but my deep hope is for this. Almost there...
Friday, February 22, 2013
Dreams
Broken windowed, paint peeled back o'r rotten wood
An elegant victorian, cut into sundry dens
domestic shouting matches, blaring rumble
like my dreams, soon blown away, still burning
An elegant victorian, cut into sundry dens
domestic shouting matches, blaring rumble
wind rattles through, chases itself back out
hidden deeds, bruised faces, bartered food stamps
trash in heaps upon floor, smothering
many wrinkles on young haunting faces
dirt, sweat, lust perfumed bodies
bitter endings and darker beginnings
cigaret butts reducing on the porchlike my dreams, soon blown away, still burning
Monday, February 11, 2013
Weekend Aimlessness and Lent plans
Nemo, the storm not the Pixar animated fish, hit the east coast Friday. Philadelphia barely got an inch. I was expecting at least 3 inches. So I decided that I would concentrate on my knitting this past weekend and stay safely inside on Saturday. Although I did do a lot of knitting, I also did a lot of sleeping, watching Netflix and playing mahjong. The problem I am running into constently, is that I need a plan on the weekends. I need to have a list of things to do, or I will do basically nothing.
Yes sleep is important. Yes knitting is productive. Yes I was very busy at church Sunday morning and I did go shopping for the homeless feeding on Friday. However, I feel like I accomblished little and did less. Saturday was mostly me sleeping in and taking a four hour nap. I didn't do any writting. And I feel like I was completely aimless.
This is a problem. As much as I can make plans and tell myself I have to do more then just watch Netflix after work. All I seem to do is watch netflix after work. So I have decided that I need to do something drastic for lent. During Lent I will not be watching movies or TV, not on Netflixs or on Hulu or on the TV. I won't purchase movies on Itunes. This might seem silly, but I'm rather addicted to media at the moment. I need to write. I need to actually read the books that I keep saying I should read. I need to stop aimlessly wondering around my room with no purpose. What better time to gain purpose then during Lent. So starting Wednesday no more online video and more productivness...
Tonight's plan? Binge watch Doctor Who and finish my knitting project.
Yes sleep is important. Yes knitting is productive. Yes I was very busy at church Sunday morning and I did go shopping for the homeless feeding on Friday. However, I feel like I accomblished little and did less. Saturday was mostly me sleeping in and taking a four hour nap. I didn't do any writting. And I feel like I was completely aimless.
This is a problem. As much as I can make plans and tell myself I have to do more then just watch Netflix after work. All I seem to do is watch netflix after work. So I have decided that I need to do something drastic for lent. During Lent I will not be watching movies or TV, not on Netflixs or on Hulu or on the TV. I won't purchase movies on Itunes. This might seem silly, but I'm rather addicted to media at the moment. I need to write. I need to actually read the books that I keep saying I should read. I need to stop aimlessly wondering around my room with no purpose. What better time to gain purpose then during Lent. So starting Wednesday no more online video and more productivness...
Tonight's plan? Binge watch Doctor Who and finish my knitting project.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Grocery Store Panic
Everytime there is a major storm in Philadelphia several things happen.
1) Everyone comments on how bad its supose to be.
2) Every grocery store is inidated with crazy people who think that end of the world is coming tomorrow and they need to buy as much food as possible.
3) Traffic gets worse, even if the storm hasn't hit yet.
In particular for Snow storms:
4) In the winter every girl on Penn's campus pulls out their uggs, which are laughably horrible as snow boots.
5) I start doing a snow dance and cross my fingers for huge amounts of snow. (my roommates, philly friends, and co-workers hate me for this).
6) I wonder if I have the money to go up to my parents house and go skiing (I never do).
But of all the crazy things that storms in particular bring to philly the run on the grocery stores is perhaps the most ridiculous. People don't just pick up the basics, water, milk, bread, cans of soup. No they clear out the store. Ice Cream and beer are my favorite storm foods, but I'm not going to buy twice the amount of food that I can actually eat in a week. Also I'm not going to buy all parishable food. The amounts of yogurt, eggs and shrimp, that people buy is amazing. If we loose electricity and your fridge stops working, what are you going to do? Either put it outside in the snow bank or eat it. And if its the middle of the summer? Your going to have to throw half of it out.
I understand the need to be prepared. To have food and water. I'm not saying don't prepare. I just don't understand the craziness which is grocery stores in Philly.
1) Everyone comments on how bad its supose to be.
2) Every grocery store is inidated with crazy people who think that end of the world is coming tomorrow and they need to buy as much food as possible.
3) Traffic gets worse, even if the storm hasn't hit yet.
In particular for Snow storms:
4) In the winter every girl on Penn's campus pulls out their uggs, which are laughably horrible as snow boots.
5) I start doing a snow dance and cross my fingers for huge amounts of snow. (my roommates, philly friends, and co-workers hate me for this).
6) I wonder if I have the money to go up to my parents house and go skiing (I never do).
But of all the crazy things that storms in particular bring to philly the run on the grocery stores is perhaps the most ridiculous. People don't just pick up the basics, water, milk, bread, cans of soup. No they clear out the store. Ice Cream and beer are my favorite storm foods, but I'm not going to buy twice the amount of food that I can actually eat in a week. Also I'm not going to buy all parishable food. The amounts of yogurt, eggs and shrimp, that people buy is amazing. If we loose electricity and your fridge stops working, what are you going to do? Either put it outside in the snow bank or eat it. And if its the middle of the summer? Your going to have to throw half of it out.
I understand the need to be prepared. To have food and water. I'm not saying don't prepare. I just don't understand the craziness which is grocery stores in Philly.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Keep
There is violence in heart and mind
A deep seeded anger, hatred almost
A crumbling keep, void of windows
With many doors, locks outside
I shove the darkness within
And guard with doubt its tenets
But foundations on sand, crumble
Easily do they escape, yet not vacate
And tangled amidst the ruins,
I hold hands, pain my friend
Blood understood as king
Bruises his foot soldiers
Inside crumbling mess of heart
Depression?
The king’s fool smiling, HA
A deep seeded anger, hatred almost
A crumbling keep, void of windows
With many doors, locks outside
I shove the darkness within
And guard with doubt its tenets
But foundations on sand, crumble
Easily do they escape, yet not vacate
And tangled amidst the ruins,
I hold hands, pain my friend
Blood understood as king
Bruises his foot soldiers
Inside crumbling mess of heart
Depression?
The king’s fool smiling, HA
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Break My Heart
Restlessly anticipating anguish and doubt
I listen darkness, pain, and longing
ghost fingeres acrossed your skin
pains of memories deeply buried
easier in darkness to hide
stop pretending you're alright
Pray that the heart pain will slacken
Pray that the memories are wrong
Pray that in darkness to keep hiding
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray, amen
Restlessly contemplating fear and night
pain too deep for reality and truth
a ghost growing inside, angel whispering
'mama, its alright, forgive'
easier in the darkness to hide
stop trembling, it's gentle light
Pray that the heart pain is real
Pray that the memories, right
Pray that in light to find mercy
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray amen
Restlessly reverie His lovelyness, grace
Listen to the forgiveness which 'round falls
ghosts, demons, angels even, can't know
that pain and love, can commingle joy
Thanksgiving at midnight: pure
Never, ever, give up the fight
Pray that the heart pain is taken
Pray that the memories will fade
Pray that the rightness, compounding
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray, amen
I listen darkness, pain, and longing
ghost fingeres acrossed your skin
pains of memories deeply buried
easier in darkness to hide
stop pretending you're alright
Pray that the heart pain will slacken
Pray that the memories are wrong
Pray that in darkness to keep hiding
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray, amen
Restlessly contemplating fear and night
pain too deep for reality and truth
a ghost growing inside, angel whispering
'mama, its alright, forgive'
easier in the darkness to hide
stop trembling, it's gentle light
Pray that the heart pain is real
Pray that the memories, right
Pray that in light to find mercy
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray amen
Restlessly reverie His lovelyness, grace
Listen to the forgiveness which 'round falls
ghosts, demons, angels even, can't know
that pain and love, can commingle joy
Thanksgiving at midnight: pure
Never, ever, give up the fight
Pray that the heart pain is taken
Pray that the memories will fade
Pray that the rightness, compounding
Pray, Pray, Pray, Pray, amen
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Binge Watching Netflix and 5 Steps to Actually Writing
I think that technology can sometimes kill creativity. Actually I'm sure that it does. Whether you sit before your TV and watch the marathons of MythBusters or if you watch TV on Hulu or Netflixs, the ability to have something inundate you and get you hooked is endless. I spend a lot of my time watching shows that I kind of care about. And I binge watch them. Episode after episode.
True sometimes I do this while I'm knitting. I find it easier to pay attention to whatever I'm knitting if I have music or something playing in the background. But most of the time my TV watching is just me sitting in front of my mac, watching just one more episode. I do the same with a good book. Just one more chapter, one more chapter and then I'll go to bed. All the time that I spend vegging out in front of my computer, whether on netflix, addicating games, or facebook, I could be spending writing. I could have my novel written by now if I just would sit down and actually write.
So here are my 5 steps to actually writing:
1) When writing on the computer, turn off your internet connection. (This way you can't check email, facebook, or your netflix queue).
2) Before you do anything fun like watching a show, or knitting, or playing just one game on addicating games, write. Get the writing done first.
3)Making writing part of your daily schedule. (I come home, eat dinner, do the dishes, and sit down to write)
4) Commit to writing a certain number of words a day. (I write 1000 words a day, except sunday)
5) Take a day off every week. Nothing helps your brain process and think like a day when you aren't working on a project.
Of course the above is difficult and I am easily distracted and forget. There are many nights when I have been drawn into watching 5 episodes of buffy the vampire slayer, instead of writing my 1000 words. Often I write 1000 words during my lunch break and although I should probably still write that night, I give myself the night off because I've already got by 1000 for the day. Still having some basic rules in place, even if I break them, does help.
True sometimes I do this while I'm knitting. I find it easier to pay attention to whatever I'm knitting if I have music or something playing in the background. But most of the time my TV watching is just me sitting in front of my mac, watching just one more episode. I do the same with a good book. Just one more chapter, one more chapter and then I'll go to bed. All the time that I spend vegging out in front of my computer, whether on netflix, addicating games, or facebook, I could be spending writing. I could have my novel written by now if I just would sit down and actually write.
So here are my 5 steps to actually writing:
1) When writing on the computer, turn off your internet connection. (This way you can't check email, facebook, or your netflix queue).
2) Before you do anything fun like watching a show, or knitting, or playing just one game on addicating games, write. Get the writing done first.
3)Making writing part of your daily schedule. (I come home, eat dinner, do the dishes, and sit down to write)
4) Commit to writing a certain number of words a day. (I write 1000 words a day, except sunday)
5) Take a day off every week. Nothing helps your brain process and think like a day when you aren't working on a project.
Of course the above is difficult and I am easily distracted and forget. There are many nights when I have been drawn into watching 5 episodes of buffy the vampire slayer, instead of writing my 1000 words. Often I write 1000 words during my lunch break and although I should probably still write that night, I give myself the night off because I've already got by 1000 for the day. Still having some basic rules in place, even if I break them, does help.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Running
There is a strong connection between exercise and my mental wellbeing. After about of month of not working out or doing anything to really get my heart rate up, I went for a run with a friend. It was painful. My lungs hated me. I had a stich in my side. I'm sore. But its amazing how well I slept that night. Weirdly when I write stories, running ends up being a part of how I write and think about my characters. Its part of the reality of the worlds I create. In epics like Lord of the Rings, running is part of the story. The great race of the three hunters in the beginning of the Two Towers. Of course we tend to not thing about that hardness of what the characters are doing. I don't know what the equivalant is, but I have always imagined it was like running a marathon a day for several days in a row. People have done this, it is not impossible. It is however an amazing feat.
I normally think of my characters as either in shape or out of shape. Those that are in shape, could run 3 to 5 miles with very little problem. The out of shape would be hard pressed to do one mile. However, there is a third group, the extordinary. This group could run a marathon today, fight and win agaist 2000 tomorrow, and not appear to be tired. I almost never write about characters that are this outside the normal, possibly because it seems so impossible. I like writing about normal people doing things outside of what they, or others, think they are capable of.
One thing that I have never done is write about a character practicing or working out. But the more I think about it, the more I realize this is a problem. If I want to write about things that are based in reality, I need to make sure that I keep reality in mind. To often I get in the world of a story and I forget about rooting it in some sort of reality. But the reality of the story is so important to the understanding of the reader.
Its like building a house. If you see the foundation of the house once its built, you can't see all of it. You almost forget that it is there. But since the house (story) is built on that foundation, every time you see a bit of the foundation, it shouldn't throw you off, it is part of the house. It belongs with the house and the house belongs on the foundation. Without the foundation, the house would fall apart. So my reality of the world in which I write, of the characters I create must be placed on an understandable, recognizable foundation.
I normally think of my characters as either in shape or out of shape. Those that are in shape, could run 3 to 5 miles with very little problem. The out of shape would be hard pressed to do one mile. However, there is a third group, the extordinary. This group could run a marathon today, fight and win agaist 2000 tomorrow, and not appear to be tired. I almost never write about characters that are this outside the normal, possibly because it seems so impossible. I like writing about normal people doing things outside of what they, or others, think they are capable of.
One thing that I have never done is write about a character practicing or working out. But the more I think about it, the more I realize this is a problem. If I want to write about things that are based in reality, I need to make sure that I keep reality in mind. To often I get in the world of a story and I forget about rooting it in some sort of reality. But the reality of the story is so important to the understanding of the reader.
Its like building a house. If you see the foundation of the house once its built, you can't see all of it. You almost forget that it is there. But since the house (story) is built on that foundation, every time you see a bit of the foundation, it shouldn't throw you off, it is part of the house. It belongs with the house and the house belongs on the foundation. Without the foundation, the house would fall apart. So my reality of the world in which I write, of the characters I create must be placed on an understandable, recognizable foundation.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Processing Power
There is a constant need to process data. There is a scary amount of information being thrown in our direction every minute of every day. Pictures, music, facebook posts, phone calls, texts, posters, conversations, movies, TV, I could go on. Back technology alluided to a better kind of armor or a new mill, people didn't have as much to process. Yes they had to process their enviroment, but they could really study it. How many people do you know who can actually tell direction by the stars? How many people do you know who can tell when its going to rain or whether the sun will come out?
Of course we have GPS to tell us directions and Weather.com to tell us when its going to rain. In a way we have gotten better at doing things through technology and in others we have become worse. We know rely on the technology that was built by other people. We now just learn how to use that technology, live with the technology, we have to figure out how to process like the machines that we use to make our world 'easier' to understand. The problem is that perhaps, we really would be better off if we didn't try to act like machines. We're human afterall. We shouldn't rate ourselves based on our processing power.
I wrote a couple of days ago that I gather inspiration from all over. That I process a lot of data and fingure out what is useable. But there are days, like today, when I don't want to process data. I would rather not search for or look for inspiration. I want to exist and interact with things that are tangible, human, and failable. Human reactions are dirty, unpradiable, and take a lot more work then a simple facebook update. But we're not really meant to interact via facebook. It might be a great tool, but you can't replace real community and relationship. Because Facebook lets you get away from the dirt and grim. In life, dirt and grim is a part of who and what we do. We don't really need more processing power, we need to learn when to use the processing power we have and when to use that power for something else: Tangible Life.
Of course we have GPS to tell us directions and Weather.com to tell us when its going to rain. In a way we have gotten better at doing things through technology and in others we have become worse. We know rely on the technology that was built by other people. We now just learn how to use that technology, live with the technology, we have to figure out how to process like the machines that we use to make our world 'easier' to understand. The problem is that perhaps, we really would be better off if we didn't try to act like machines. We're human afterall. We shouldn't rate ourselves based on our processing power.
I wrote a couple of days ago that I gather inspiration from all over. That I process a lot of data and fingure out what is useable. But there are days, like today, when I don't want to process data. I would rather not search for or look for inspiration. I want to exist and interact with things that are tangible, human, and failable. Human reactions are dirty, unpradiable, and take a lot more work then a simple facebook update. But we're not really meant to interact via facebook. It might be a great tool, but you can't replace real community and relationship. Because Facebook lets you get away from the dirt and grim. In life, dirt and grim is a part of who and what we do. We don't really need more processing power, we need to learn when to use the processing power we have and when to use that power for something else: Tangible Life.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Finding Inspiration
The thing about being an artist is that you are consistently looking for inspiration. Things that are fresh and new are built on the foundation of things that are tired and over used. T.S. Elliot said that 'good poet’s barrow, great poets steal'. I feel like I'm forever barrowing ideas, but I hardly ever have the guts to steal. The Greeks had Muses, who gave them inspiration. It’s an interesting concept; that inspiration comes from some mystical, un-seeable force. However, I think inspiration means hard work.
I find my inspiration in knitting patterns, stories I grew up on, new stories I read, movies, music and most importantly online news. I read Wired.com and BBC News everyday at work. I read reviews on new equipment and fill my brain with new knowledge on science and technology, I learn about the history that is being written now in the world. Amazing how much technology can give you a base for imagining a different world. I'm writing a Novel based in a different universe. A universe where there are parallel worlds and a government that is controlling and surveillance heavy. The technology of surveillance is perhaps one of the scariest and most interesting subjects I come a-crossed on regular bases. What's scarier then the government watching you and tracking your every move?
It took me a while to realize that what I take in, what I research for fun, and what I experience in life, is the bases for my creativity. Somehow, from all the information and curiosity of my mind, I am able to create something uniform. The overload of everything floating through the ethos becomes a single stream of conscious thought. All the various ribbons of dancing light gather into one string. What I create is stronger because it is based on so much.
Of course the difficulty in this world where information is only a Google search away, is too much information. You have to decide which information to use and what to throw away. Finding usable inspiration is like finding a needle in a dung heap. T.S. Elliot says to be great you must steal, but I would say a great poet (writer, artist, and performer), must know what to steal. And here we get back to the work. Art, creativity, is something that you have to work at. People are not born with the ability to draw or write or even sing. Sure some have the natural ability to do those things. But its only those who grow and work that ability that ever have a chance to go somewhere. And its a slim chance. Plenty of people with no ability as are working hard to have the same chance. Finding Inspiration is Work.
I find my inspiration in knitting patterns, stories I grew up on, new stories I read, movies, music and most importantly online news. I read Wired.com and BBC News everyday at work. I read reviews on new equipment and fill my brain with new knowledge on science and technology, I learn about the history that is being written now in the world. Amazing how much technology can give you a base for imagining a different world. I'm writing a Novel based in a different universe. A universe where there are parallel worlds and a government that is controlling and surveillance heavy. The technology of surveillance is perhaps one of the scariest and most interesting subjects I come a-crossed on regular bases. What's scarier then the government watching you and tracking your every move?
It took me a while to realize that what I take in, what I research for fun, and what I experience in life, is the bases for my creativity. Somehow, from all the information and curiosity of my mind, I am able to create something uniform. The overload of everything floating through the ethos becomes a single stream of conscious thought. All the various ribbons of dancing light gather into one string. What I create is stronger because it is based on so much.
Of course the difficulty in this world where information is only a Google search away, is too much information. You have to decide which information to use and what to throw away. Finding usable inspiration is like finding a needle in a dung heap. T.S. Elliot says to be great you must steal, but I would say a great poet (writer, artist, and performer), must know what to steal. And here we get back to the work. Art, creativity, is something that you have to work at. People are not born with the ability to draw or write or even sing. Sure some have the natural ability to do those things. But its only those who grow and work that ability that ever have a chance to go somewhere. And its a slim chance. Plenty of people with no ability as are working hard to have the same chance. Finding Inspiration is Work.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Darkness Quickening
Darkness Quickening
Darkness awakens
the light may be shimmering
Darkness is waiting
waiting or willing, but holding
Back
the light may be glimmering
Darkness is shadowing
crowding and wondering
Darkness quickening
a line between shadow and
the light may be flickering
Darkness is gathering
clasping and grabing, but growing
Strong
the light may be lustrous
Darkness isn't worried
Darkness is quickening
Darkness awakens
the light may be shimmering
Darkness is waiting
waiting or willing, but holding
Back
the light may be glimmering
Darkness is shadowing
crowding and wondering
Darkness quickening
a line between shadow and
the light may be flickering
Darkness is gathering
clasping and grabing, but growing
Strong
the light may be lustrous
Darkness isn't worried
Darkness is quickening
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Long Time Waiting
Amazing how long it has been since I have written to you all. I have been writing. I promise. I been like a greedy child in the corner with a stolen cookie. I'm about 60,000 words into a novel. A novel that has taken most of my writing energy and thought. To be honest the only reason that I am now writing here is because I am, once again, stuck.
Sometimes writing a story is like writing a love letter. You write from your heart. You want the words to be true and fit perfectly. You want the reader to fully understand what you feel. There is a relationship in a letter, a sure connection between the writer and the reader. There is a set understanding of the reality and although there might be questions, you at least both know what the questions are. In a story you must write as if the other person knows the world of which you write. And yet you must also teach them more about your world. Its a strange balance. But more then this writing a story is like writing a letter to the characters you have created. The characters know the world in which they live, they understand what the norm is. The characters know what you tell them and do what you say. But they don't know the author, well not unless the author writes themselves in the story.
So I have been sitting in the corner with my story or my love letter or what ever you want to call it. It is far from finished, but a year a go I at only the begining of it. I had the smallest understanding of the characters and the story. I knew where the story was headed, but the meat was still missing. This year is the year to finish the meat, to get it ready for cooking. At some point I will prepare it and let you all eat up the glorious feast (hope it is worth the wait). To get back to my story is my hope and my nightmare. I can feel that the end is near. I'm cooking and can almost taste the meal. But I'm not there yet.
They call its writters block, but it feels more like trying to get out of the way of a run away train. The story is almost more important now then it ever has been. I am in a way a slave to it. And yet the words, which have so long so easily flowed through my typing fingers, have stopped. I can tell my brain is working out what to do next. I knit and think about the characters and the ending. Yes I'm knitting, have to do something. And I write, even if its just a blog entry or a short poem. Anything to get the words tumbling out of my stuck brain. Anything to get my fingers roaming along the key board. Anything to be able to steal another cookie and return to the corner to sulk with my treasure.
Sometimes writing a story is like writing a love letter. You write from your heart. You want the words to be true and fit perfectly. You want the reader to fully understand what you feel. There is a relationship in a letter, a sure connection between the writer and the reader. There is a set understanding of the reality and although there might be questions, you at least both know what the questions are. In a story you must write as if the other person knows the world of which you write. And yet you must also teach them more about your world. Its a strange balance. But more then this writing a story is like writing a letter to the characters you have created. The characters know the world in which they live, they understand what the norm is. The characters know what you tell them and do what you say. But they don't know the author, well not unless the author writes themselves in the story.
So I have been sitting in the corner with my story or my love letter or what ever you want to call it. It is far from finished, but a year a go I at only the begining of it. I had the smallest understanding of the characters and the story. I knew where the story was headed, but the meat was still missing. This year is the year to finish the meat, to get it ready for cooking. At some point I will prepare it and let you all eat up the glorious feast (hope it is worth the wait). To get back to my story is my hope and my nightmare. I can feel that the end is near. I'm cooking and can almost taste the meal. But I'm not there yet.
They call its writters block, but it feels more like trying to get out of the way of a run away train. The story is almost more important now then it ever has been. I am in a way a slave to it. And yet the words, which have so long so easily flowed through my typing fingers, have stopped. I can tell my brain is working out what to do next. I knit and think about the characters and the ending. Yes I'm knitting, have to do something. And I write, even if its just a blog entry or a short poem. Anything to get the words tumbling out of my stuck brain. Anything to get my fingers roaming along the key board. Anything to be able to steal another cookie and return to the corner to sulk with my treasure.
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