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.

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.

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

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... 

Dreams

Broken windowed, paint peeled back o'r rotten wood
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 porch
like my dreams, soon blown away, still burning

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.

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.

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