Friday, December 31, 2010
Natural Disaster
Laying next to you I know I heard it. A flutter. A Shuffle. A burn or a shiver. I’m not sure what, but it was movement, friction. An archaic, rusty beating despite the death we both knew hung over your head like an Old Testament curse. It was delicate and humble like the seed we saw in the garden, accidently sprouting before the spring. I remember how you bent over it with a quiet bewilderment. It was so tiny and green and desperate to drink in the sun. It was precious. And it horrified you. So you plucked it, brow furrowed. But the roots did not come so you violently clawed at the soil, staining and crusting your fingers with time. It took you minutes to undo what took nature thousands of years to pack down. And I’ll never forget how you looked back up at me and smiled. Eyes large and ferocious, fresh from the kill. You were so pleased with yourself, dangling this web of thin life from your fingers like a trophy. I should have known then you weren’t a soul to nurture so much as a force to reckon with. A natural disaster that lived above, maybe below, but definitely outside any of the moral laws that bound the rest of the world together. Something other. That freely allowed itself to tear up all things intentional, beautiful and delicate because it was in its power to do so and do so gracefully. But I still slept with you that night…and every night after, because I felt it when you closed your eyes. The humming that resided deep within your cavity. That almost sounded like my name. That drew me in and stirred me up. Made my hair stand on end. I thought it was connection. An intimate dance between protons and electrons that raced and charged and could not be reproduced. Electricity. I should have known I was only chasing a storm.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Undecipherable
The rocks or the waves; you can’t tell which one you are…worse still, which one is which. Deciding where one thing begins and where one ends is something you’ve never been good at defining—it’s the reason your silverware drawer is a pill to open and why you can’t remember who came first: Jake or Lucas…or was it Leandro?
Teaspoons and tablespoons go largely undefined in your presence as do salad forks and dinner forks. You carelessly toss them in so they crisscross, lock and ungracefully spill into one another with sharp hostility and nest. Forging a mêlée of edges you know your fingers won’t be able to emerge unscathed from the next time you dare to reach. Utensils come with a fight, much like your memory.
Rehashing yesterday’s love songs could make anyone raw and a bit unnerved, but being unable to confidently see the face of the person’s pants you were unzipping when you heard it can really fuck you up and loosen a couple screws. Shoulders lose their curvature, eyes their color, whispers their breadth and depth of tone till the only thing you have to anchor you is a month and three possibilities tallied in a diary you forgot you even kept till you needed it. You still can’t decide, is that even worth keeping?
The way the fog congregates and swells around your head makes it damn near impossible to see past your nose. Or maybe that’s your bangs. They haven’t been cut in a while. They shag at an awkward level that lets them brush up against your lashes. You like the way it feels when you close your eyes. Butterfly kisses that bristle and caress the base of your lids. Small sensations that make you involuntarily inhale and unknowingly wake with child. But it doesn’t look flattering. You’re sure of it. Almost. You’d go fix it now if you could remember where you put their card, or if you even grabbed one as you ran out.
Your coffee’s cold now—rendered useless, though you’re not sure you ever had much of a use for it—you remove the lid and give it some momentum. Let the wind do the rest. Watch it carry it up and over in one graceful swoop to greet its first death, or second, who are you to judge? It merges with the mist and breaks mercilessly against the rocks below, where it scatters into a million crystals that swirl and glisten defiantly in the sun ‘till it’s reunited with a force that drives it asunder to wind it up again. And you lean over the ledge and wonder, would you ever look as beautiful and broken crashing?
You can’t see that you already are.
That you lost your footing, and forgot about the railing. And never once grabbed for the belly that, despite yourself, was quietly trying to grow something inside.
You just fall.
And leave the divvying of sinew and bone up to the elements, allowing them to rhythmically fracture parts equally you and not you, 'till you become what you always wanted. Undecipherable.
Teaspoons and tablespoons go largely undefined in your presence as do salad forks and dinner forks. You carelessly toss them in so they crisscross, lock and ungracefully spill into one another with sharp hostility and nest. Forging a mêlée of edges you know your fingers won’t be able to emerge unscathed from the next time you dare to reach. Utensils come with a fight, much like your memory.
Rehashing yesterday’s love songs could make anyone raw and a bit unnerved, but being unable to confidently see the face of the person’s pants you were unzipping when you heard it can really fuck you up and loosen a couple screws. Shoulders lose their curvature, eyes their color, whispers their breadth and depth of tone till the only thing you have to anchor you is a month and three possibilities tallied in a diary you forgot you even kept till you needed it. You still can’t decide, is that even worth keeping?
The way the fog congregates and swells around your head makes it damn near impossible to see past your nose. Or maybe that’s your bangs. They haven’t been cut in a while. They shag at an awkward level that lets them brush up against your lashes. You like the way it feels when you close your eyes. Butterfly kisses that bristle and caress the base of your lids. Small sensations that make you involuntarily inhale and unknowingly wake with child. But it doesn’t look flattering. You’re sure of it. Almost. You’d go fix it now if you could remember where you put their card, or if you even grabbed one as you ran out.
Your coffee’s cold now—rendered useless, though you’re not sure you ever had much of a use for it—you remove the lid and give it some momentum. Let the wind do the rest. Watch it carry it up and over in one graceful swoop to greet its first death, or second, who are you to judge? It merges with the mist and breaks mercilessly against the rocks below, where it scatters into a million crystals that swirl and glisten defiantly in the sun ‘till it’s reunited with a force that drives it asunder to wind it up again. And you lean over the ledge and wonder, would you ever look as beautiful and broken crashing?
You can’t see that you already are.
That you lost your footing, and forgot about the railing. And never once grabbed for the belly that, despite yourself, was quietly trying to grow something inside.
You just fall.
And leave the divvying of sinew and bone up to the elements, allowing them to rhythmically fracture parts equally you and not you, 'till you become what you always wanted. Undecipherable.
Here's The Deal
I'm trying to be more disciplined with my writing. So, with a little nudge, I'll be aiming to write two pages every day. Fiction, non-fiction...perhaps even a bit of crapy poetry. But mostly fiction. 'Cause that's what I truly like to do. They'll mostly be character sketches or the humble beginnings of somethings and nothings. They'll have to be waded through, but the point is writing every day. Practice. In hopes that I'll get better, and the words will flow more freely, and I'll learn how to derrive inspiration from things even when I don't necessarily feel it. It's time I started to take this stuff seriously.
So, first up...
So, first up...
"I'da Called You Woody, Joe"
August 21, 1952 - December 22, 2002
Song of the Moment: Long Shadow - Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros (Streetcore)
Well I'll tell you one thing that I know
You don't face your demons down,
You gotta grapple 'em jack and pin 'em to the ground
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Witness
Sometimes I feel like Moses, stumbling and tripping over the flesh of my lips. Gasping for words unformed to tell of miracles and horrors fully fledged. And I ponder Aaron and wonder, who'll speak on my behalf?
God shakes his head and whispers, would you ever let someone see you stagger through a sentence?
Song of the Moment: Your Love Is Strong - Jon Foreman (Spring EP)
God shakes his head and whispers, would you ever let someone see you stagger through a sentence?
Song of the Moment: Your Love Is Strong - Jon Foreman (Spring EP)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Today Feels Like Summer...
Song of the Moment:
If (Acoustic) - House of Heroes (The Acoustic End EP)
Truth is, there are few bands that have the crooning capabilities to make a girl swoon over Sci-Fi.
You'd make a beautiful bird on a line
A beautiful bride of Frankenstein, a beautiful drop of iodine.
If you were mine, if you were mine, if you were mine
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
"Last night I dreamed that I was a child..."
I drove through my old neighborhood today and it felt like I tore through time. I could see myself sitting beneath the trees in the Green Area, reading Nancy Drew with Keli. I could see my brother jumping The Three Hills with Joey and his minions. I could see Nellie and Jill laying out, trying to erase tan lines; and Grandma and Grandpa Fisher holding hands, taking a walk, adding a bit of southern warmth to the block. I saw my mom sitting in the car, putting the top down to the Mustang. But when I pulled up to my house someone else's car sat in the driveway. And I felt replaced by a superficial lover. Their yard was prettier--the grass grew for them. The tree I used to do backflips off of was uprooted. I found myself stirring with jealousy, wondering if this person knew what used to reside there. How there used to be a peach tree in the backyard that bore so much fruit it grew limp and stunted its own growth. Or how the apricot tree bustled with so much life it grew over the fence, and our neighbors would pick the fruit and bake us tarts because they were thankful. And how a loyal dog's bones are buried deep beneath the earth. I wondered if the walls felt thicker in my room from all the music, or if they kept the booth Mike made for my mom that lined the bay windows in the kitchen. I wonder if they knew we once fit a Christmas tree in the living room that scratched the highest point of the ceiling, or how I loved to do my hair in the master bathroom because the three mirrors made it possible to observe and carefully pin the back of my head. I wonder if they knew the backyard once hosted two weddings before we put in the pool, or how the back gate was always left unlocked so neighbor kids could come jump on the trampoline when we weren't home. I wonder if they knew I once spent a summer destroying roses with my mother that were planted before her and for another--and how it took a couple years of digging and tearing before they wouldn't rise again. And I wondered, if I was able to enter now would it still feel familiar, or would the tile echo what I've been suspecting all along: a house does not make a home. As I drove past I saw my history unfurl beofre me, swirling images of opened and closed doors. I wanted to stop, linger for a while but I knew I couldn't. It wasn't mine any longer even though it felt that way. So I let my foot rest on the pedal, not slowing or accelerating. Just passing, as if it were just another house.
Song of the Moment: Ten Cent Blues - Eisley (Combinations)
Song of the Moment: Ten Cent Blues - Eisley (Combinations)
Monday, November 29, 2010
Canticle
When there wasn’t anywhere for me to go,
I stumbled into deep love with your Rock & Roll…
Records. Tapes. Mixes. CDs. MP3s. Concerts. Dashboard sing-alongs. Music! All forms and modes that quietly and not so quietly call green into existence, that melodic catalyst of the Holy Spirit; I don’t speak in tongues but I sing in lyrics and I think You hear it all the same. I don’t know what shape my soul would be in without it. Thank You for being approachable (and portable).
My Huckleberry Friends…
You are the select. I am blessed to share this crazy journey with you all. You challenge me, accept me, inspire me, indulge me and spur me on towards love in its many fashions. You’re the dark chocolate and the leafy greens to my life. You level me…and are most likely on my Zombie Killin’ Dream Team.
Talk like an open book, sign me up…
Expression. It’s a gift I often overlook. To write, to talk, to sing, to touch. What a crucial and cherished gift I have been entrusted with. I will do my best to cultivate it for those who can’t and wish they could, and those who stick around and wish I would (and I’ll do my best to avoid rhyming in future occurrences).
Purple irises the camera can’t see…
The little things that make an entire day seem worth while. Unpacking a new life with a friend. Sharing pie and listening to records. Singing along with the only other sober person at a secret show (with the exuberance and ferocity of an inebriated one). Discovering the perfect sentence for a word. The way Ray Bans make me feel. Arizona sunsets. Blankets. Space heaters. Lavender lattes. Welcoming a friend at the airport. Burritos. Rocking out. Sleeping in. Staying up late. Bear hugs. Being the first to clap at a concert. High fives. Swigging rum. Team Nash. Donkey kicks. Laughing so hard you can’t breathe (and fear you might possibly pass out). My brother’s Germaine dance. And a thousand other moments that fall in their decorated origami fashion and are not lost on me.
And I sing, how can I be anything other than thankful?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Start From Scratch
I can't find my paper crane collection—I think it got lost in the move.
I’d say they’re hiding but I know better. They’re lost. Shoved in a keepsake box to reassure them they’re worthy of keeping, but we both know they’re gathering dust. Quietly decomposing somewhere between last year’s burnt-out Christmas lights and a couple chipped ceramic mugs I was too sentimental about to throw away. Abandoned, kind of. Most likely. One day. But not forgotten.
Probably just as well. I’ll call them practice.
I’d say they’re hiding but I know better. They’re lost. Shoved in a keepsake box to reassure them they’re worthy of keeping, but we both know they’re gathering dust. Quietly decomposing somewhere between last year’s burnt-out Christmas lights and a couple chipped ceramic mugs I was too sentimental about to throw away. Abandoned, kind of. Most likely. One day. But not forgotten.
Probably just as well. I’ll call them practice.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Favorite Thing About Being A Writer:
Being whoever I want whenever the fuck I want.
Least Favorite Thing About Being A Writer:
Writing something effortlessly and then being haunted by the suspicion you pulled someone else's work out of your subconscious.
Bonus: Reading becomes more suspenseful.
Least Favorite Thing About Being A Writer:
Writing something effortlessly and then being haunted by the suspicion you pulled someone else's work out of your subconscious.
Bonus: Reading becomes more suspenseful.
Playing Games
Love is a lot like double dutch
Or dodging traffic
Depends on who you're with
I always preferred reading.
Or dodging traffic
Depends on who you're with
I always preferred reading.
Monday, November 15, 2010
"And out of the red, out of her head she sang"
I think certain things come along in life to remind you of the capacity you have to connect—to ideas, to things, to people, to God. To remind you that there are good things in the world whether or not they stay that way. Isn't that sort of gracious? I realized you can live your entire life in fear of something, anything really, or enjoy what you can when you can. Not that everything in life is there for you to enjoy, what right does any of us have to lay claim to that? But to be able to see the goodness in all things, and to be satisfied with your lot, wherever it may fall, seems to be an art worth mastering.
Song of the Moment: I Still Believe - Frank Turner (I Still Believe - Single)
And I still believe in the saints
Yeah in Jerry Lee, Johnny and all the greats.
And I still believe in the sound
That has the power to raise a temple and tear it down.
And I still believe in the need
For guitars and drums and desperate poetry.
And I still believe that everyone
Can find a song for every time they've lost, and every time they've won.
So just remember folks,
We're not just saving lives, we're saving souls!
And we're having fun.
Song of the Moment: I Still Believe - Frank Turner (I Still Believe - Single)
And I still believe in the saints
Yeah in Jerry Lee, Johnny and all the greats.
And I still believe in the sound
That has the power to raise a temple and tear it down.
And I still believe in the need
For guitars and drums and desperate poetry.
And I still believe that everyone
Can find a song for every time they've lost, and every time they've won.
So just remember folks,
We're not just saving lives, we're saving souls!
And we're having fun.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
You Know What They Say
Misery loves...CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP!
Song of the moment: I Was Made For You - She & Him (Volume One)
This song is one of the simple pleasures in life, like walking on the boardwalk in a summer dress with a popsicle.
Song of the moment: I Was Made For You - She & Him (Volume One)
This song is one of the simple pleasures in life, like walking on the boardwalk in a summer dress with a popsicle.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Secrets Keep You Safe
Sometimes, I feel like reverting to the sixteen year-old I never was. Stealing cigarettes from my mom's boyfriend. Playing hooky. Kissing perfect strangers. Living the cliché of reckless abandon. It's about that time that I reach for a pen.
When I listen to music, my fingers automatically press up against imaginary ivory keys. I miss my piano.
My brother is the only other person I feel comfortable singing in front of.
I like a dash of cinnamon in my coffee.
Sometimes I put on lipstick even when I'm not going anywhere.
I wrote poetry before I ever wrote fiction.
Despite what I say...I actually feel if I found the right person, I'd be ready for marriage. But not kids. But I'd be a good mother when I am.
I don't understand those that "grow out of" concerts.
The most romantic thing a man could ever give me is my own library. I've been swooning over Belle's since 1991.
At some point in time I want to be the girl with the tambourine.
Song of the Moment: Achin to Be - Pinhead Gunpowder (Shoot the Moon EP)
When I listen to music, my fingers automatically press up against imaginary ivory keys. I miss my piano.
My brother is the only other person I feel comfortable singing in front of.
I like a dash of cinnamon in my coffee.
Sometimes I put on lipstick even when I'm not going anywhere.
I wrote poetry before I ever wrote fiction.
Despite what I say...I actually feel if I found the right person, I'd be ready for marriage. But not kids. But I'd be a good mother when I am.
I don't understand those that "grow out of" concerts.
The most romantic thing a man could ever give me is my own library. I've been swooning over Belle's since 1991.
At some point in time I want to be the girl with the tambourine.
Song of the Moment: Achin to Be - Pinhead Gunpowder (Shoot the Moon EP)
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Every person has stories they keep. Some share these with loose lips and open hearts, others keep them guarded and feel they have to be earned. It took me a long time to figure out that being a woman means never being one or the other, but both. At all times. With the right things.
Song of the Moment: Little Light - Jets to Brazil (Four Cornered Night)
Song of the Moment: Little Light - Jets to Brazil (Four Cornered Night)
Monday, September 6, 2010
Redemption Song
I'm not who I was when I started. I'm not who I was five seconds ago. I can thank God for that.
Album of the moment: Can't Maintain - Andrew Jackson Jihad
Album of the moment: Can't Maintain - Andrew Jackson Jihad
Sunday, August 8, 2010
"She will come in first for the end of Western civilization..."
So I've officially decided to read all of the prophetic books of the Old Testament. I started off by reading the book of Daniel and just really got into it. I've always been that weird kid who excitedly snorts and pushes up their plastic rimmed glasses at the thought of discussing a post apocalyptic world both in the secular and spiritual sense (whether it be under the pretense of a zombie attack, widespread virus, nuclear war or the glorious second coming of Jesus).
Post-apocalyptic and dystopian movies are my favorite genre of film whether they serve as a subdued background for the movie or the main plot--Book of Eli, The Crazies, The Happening, The Road, Resident Evil series, Shaun of the Dead, Battle Royale, Children of Men, District 9, The Matrix, V for Vendetta, Avatar, the Terminator series, Alien(s), 28 Days Later, Blindness, I Am Legend, Mad Max/Road Warrior, etc. etc.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite books ever--I spent an entire day hopped up on steroids fighting off the swine flu reading this book. Not to mention the classics: Fahrenheit 451, Brave New World, 1984, and Lord of the Flies. And the not so classic but just as classic, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and The Zombie Survival Guide. One of the first books I ever read by myself as a believer was "Revelations," which I didn't understand at the time (and still don't), but understood enough to be awestruck by God's glory and fearful of His wrath.
I spend my life rewatching and gushing over the finer points of Battlestar Galactica (which, in fact, IS the greatest show of all time...I have a growing list of converts to prove it) and the Sarah Connor Chronicles and have apocalyptic concept albums on constant replay on my iPod: House of Heroes' The End Is Not The End and Green Day's 21st Century Breakdown.
Simply put, I'd make a damn good candidate for The Colony.
So, needless to say, reading the book of Daniel was pretty interesting for me (half of it is prophecy God gives him concerning the end times). While I know a lot of people and churches don't even like to touch the subject or teachings of Revelations and a post apocalyptic world (Revelations is actually outlawed in China and might as well be in America since we don't really take advantage of the fact that it's not)--many find it dismal, scary, and the story of an angry, vengeful God. In which case I understand not wanting to hear it. However, I actually see it as hopeful tale of God's victorious, epic 'happy' ending (though no epic tale or happy ending can be appreciated or executed without sacrifice and pain). A place and time where God is able to rebuild a decayed and disbanded kingdom.
Daniel reminded me that the loving and selfless Son we saw beaten, tortured, humiliated and sacrificed for our sins, the Son who is continually mocked by today's society and whose teachings are laregely seen as hippy feel-good folly, HE gets to come back as THE most quintessential badass in history with a triumphant tattoo on his thigh declaring "King of Kings Lord of Lords". We're talking Johnny Cash stuff here. Yes there are bowls of wrath, death, famine, and despair poured out over the earth--some really frightful things that should make us pee our pants if we take it seriously, however, if we look at the larger picture it's actually just another extension of God's grace before he fulfills His promises for His faithful followers.
Now I don't like to get into really crazy theological discussions that try to hash-out and decode exactly how the end-times are going to pan out and when they'll occur--I find it pointless considering only God is completely clear on those details. Regardless though of your theories as to timelines and the occurances or non-occurances of Rapture, the one thing God seems to be especially clear on is that all that wrath is to make way for love. God rids all immorality, all blemishes, all sin, all wickedness, perverseness and rebellion--all the things that make us fall, cry and beg for healing so that we can live in a kingdom on a renewed earth free from all it's chains and remnants of death. God destroys in the end so that He can create something new for us that lies outside the clutches of The Fall.
I'm not saying I understand it all, I don't even think that God meant for us to understand it all. But I get it a little bit. God doesn't want to patch up man's mistake, He wants to give us a new slate. But sin is messy--it's contaminated. Soft-soap does nothing for us. We suffer from something that's more than just surface level...so God has to go that deep and remove it from us. In order to rebuild society he has to seperate the living from the dead--the ones who have a chance at life from the ones who were dead even when they were alive (the ones that contaminated, manipulated, and exploited the sick--who kept the sick from getting better so that they could stay on top). Jesus will wipe them clean from the earth because He is just and righteous and loving. But he has to go deeper than even that; he has to seperate the ones too afraid to trust Him to help...from the ones who knows He's the only one with the cure. And in order to protect the ones that'll survive, He has to destroy those who are still infected. It hurts Him to do it, but it's the only way.
As I read Daniel I was reminded of how God constantly persues us and draws us in, trying to make us better so that we can survive the end and live with Him...alive, well, and free. It made me curious as to all the things he had to say to his people through the prophets of the Old Testament. So that's exactly what I'm setting out to study.
Prophetic books- 17 books
Major Prophets - Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, Ezekiel,Daniel
Minor Prophets - Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah,Malachi.
Currently reading: Ezekiel
So from time to time I'll probably post my progress, and some key versus I find inspirational, piercing and/or just want to ruminate on. This stuff is heavy and complex, and for people who want to figure it out with me...feel free to post your thoughts and reactions.
I'll leave you with....
Song Of The Moment: Field of Daggers - House of Heroes (The End Is Not The End) AND Last of the American Girls - Green Day (21st Century Breakdown).
HOH gets to me every time; it captures the pain of a spiritual battle but reminds you what your fighting for and just builds till you feel like you're rising to meet Glory. It's truly beautiful.
GD gets the longing of waiting and standing for something resolutely. It makes you feel like a BAMF. A very rich anthem.
Post-apocalyptic and dystopian movies are my favorite genre of film whether they serve as a subdued background for the movie or the main plot--Book of Eli, The Crazies, The Happening, The Road, Resident Evil series, Shaun of the Dead, Battle Royale, Children of Men, District 9, The Matrix, V for Vendetta, Avatar, the Terminator series, Alien(s), 28 Days Later, Blindness, I Am Legend, Mad Max/Road Warrior, etc. etc.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy is one of my favorite books ever--I spent an entire day hopped up on steroids fighting off the swine flu reading this book. Not to mention the classics: Fahrenheit 451, Brave New World, 1984, and Lord of the Flies. And the not so classic but just as classic, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and The Zombie Survival Guide. One of the first books I ever read by myself as a believer was "Revelations," which I didn't understand at the time (and still don't), but understood enough to be awestruck by God's glory and fearful of His wrath.
I spend my life rewatching and gushing over the finer points of Battlestar Galactica (which, in fact, IS the greatest show of all time...I have a growing list of converts to prove it) and the Sarah Connor Chronicles and have apocalyptic concept albums on constant replay on my iPod: House of Heroes' The End Is Not The End and Green Day's 21st Century Breakdown.
Simply put, I'd make a damn good candidate for The Colony.
So, needless to say, reading the book of Daniel was pretty interesting for me (half of it is prophecy God gives him concerning the end times). While I know a lot of people and churches don't even like to touch the subject or teachings of Revelations and a post apocalyptic world (Revelations is actually outlawed in China and might as well be in America since we don't really take advantage of the fact that it's not)--many find it dismal, scary, and the story of an angry, vengeful God. In which case I understand not wanting to hear it. However, I actually see it as hopeful tale of God's victorious, epic 'happy' ending (though no epic tale or happy ending can be appreciated or executed without sacrifice and pain). A place and time where God is able to rebuild a decayed and disbanded kingdom.
Daniel reminded me that the loving and selfless Son we saw beaten, tortured, humiliated and sacrificed for our sins, the Son who is continually mocked by today's society and whose teachings are laregely seen as hippy feel-good folly, HE gets to come back as THE most quintessential badass in history with a triumphant tattoo on his thigh declaring "King of Kings Lord of Lords". We're talking Johnny Cash stuff here. Yes there are bowls of wrath, death, famine, and despair poured out over the earth--some really frightful things that should make us pee our pants if we take it seriously, however, if we look at the larger picture it's actually just another extension of God's grace before he fulfills His promises for His faithful followers.
Now I don't like to get into really crazy theological discussions that try to hash-out and decode exactly how the end-times are going to pan out and when they'll occur--I find it pointless considering only God is completely clear on those details. Regardless though of your theories as to timelines and the occurances or non-occurances of Rapture, the one thing God seems to be especially clear on is that all that wrath is to make way for love. God rids all immorality, all blemishes, all sin, all wickedness, perverseness and rebellion--all the things that make us fall, cry and beg for healing so that we can live in a kingdom on a renewed earth free from all it's chains and remnants of death. God destroys in the end so that He can create something new for us that lies outside the clutches of The Fall.
I'm not saying I understand it all, I don't even think that God meant for us to understand it all. But I get it a little bit. God doesn't want to patch up man's mistake, He wants to give us a new slate. But sin is messy--it's contaminated. Soft-soap does nothing for us. We suffer from something that's more than just surface level...so God has to go that deep and remove it from us. In order to rebuild society he has to seperate the living from the dead--the ones who have a chance at life from the ones who were dead even when they were alive (the ones that contaminated, manipulated, and exploited the sick--who kept the sick from getting better so that they could stay on top). Jesus will wipe them clean from the earth because He is just and righteous and loving. But he has to go deeper than even that; he has to seperate the ones too afraid to trust Him to help...from the ones who knows He's the only one with the cure. And in order to protect the ones that'll survive, He has to destroy those who are still infected. It hurts Him to do it, but it's the only way.
As I read Daniel I was reminded of how God constantly persues us and draws us in, trying to make us better so that we can survive the end and live with Him...alive, well, and free. It made me curious as to all the things he had to say to his people through the prophets of the Old Testament. So that's exactly what I'm setting out to study.
Prophetic books- 17 books
Major Prophets - Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, Ezekiel,
Minor Prophets - Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Jonah, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah,
Currently reading: Ezekiel
So from time to time I'll probably post my progress, and some key versus I find inspirational, piercing and/or just want to ruminate on. This stuff is heavy and complex, and for people who want to figure it out with me...feel free to post your thoughts and reactions.
I'll leave you with....
Song Of The Moment: Field of Daggers - House of Heroes (The End Is Not The End) AND Last of the American Girls - Green Day (21st Century Breakdown).
HOH gets to me every time; it captures the pain of a spiritual battle but reminds you what your fighting for and just builds till you feel like you're rising to meet Glory. It's truly beautiful.
GD gets the longing of waiting and standing for something resolutely. It makes you feel like a BAMF. A very rich anthem.
Friday, July 9, 2010
"Pack your things up come on lets go, didn't you know that we own this world?"
I should be sipping dark coffee on a terrace someplace exotic and moody. Somewhere with rich smells, wet dirt and cardigan weather. A breaker in me flipped and I can't shake that deep soul yearning. I want to explore! I want to write. I think half of the reason I'm having trouble writing is the fact I don't have anything to really say at the moment--not to the world anyways. Nothing's really stirring me, stimulating my heart and soul. Well, that's a lie--life events are--but I don't have that inspired giddy feeling. You know? I know, I know, I should learn to write without that feeling--which, believe you me, I'm working on. But I feel like a fool that keeps trying to stoke wet wood.
I feel kind of guilty about desiring the whole traveling thing even. It's like there's this fat bastard, Southern Baptist preacher residing in me scolding, "Really? You're gonna pay to go travel and 'explore' when there's starving people and missions trips you could be partaking in?"
The thing is though, I want both. I want to see all sides of the earth. I want the museums and mountains and villages and ghettos. The cafes and the orphanages. I want to go everywhere. Experience everything! But not just experience, I want to pour myself out. I just keep feeling like I have nothing of worth to say.
How do you write a good story when you feel like you don't have very many of your own to tell?
Song of the Moment: We Can Live Anywhere! - Big D & The Kids Table (Fluent In Stroll)
This song is a glass of sunshine and bear hug to my soul.
I feel kind of guilty about desiring the whole traveling thing even. It's like there's this fat bastard, Southern Baptist preacher residing in me scolding, "Really? You're gonna pay to go travel and 'explore' when there's starving people and missions trips you could be partaking in?"
The thing is though, I want both. I want to see all sides of the earth. I want the museums and mountains and villages and ghettos. The cafes and the orphanages. I want to go everywhere. Experience everything! But not just experience, I want to pour myself out. I just keep feeling like I have nothing of worth to say.
How do you write a good story when you feel like you don't have very many of your own to tell?
Song of the Moment: We Can Live Anywhere! - Big D & The Kids Table (Fluent In Stroll)
This song is a glass of sunshine and bear hug to my soul.
Monday, July 5, 2010
The Problem With Alice
I looked down at my feet, a pair of ordinary boots straddling two worlds—one of comfort and luxury with teacups and quilts and controlled, subdued fires; and one of mystery and intrigue that looked both familiar and strange all at the same time. And I knew I had to choose between two sides of the looking glass.
Or did I?
In all actuality, I felt perfectly content where I was. To the left sat my large, striped chair with its dip in the seat, contoured to my comfort. To my right were flowers that were so magnified and bustling with life they looked less like plants and more like beasts. The view was more than anyone could ask for—home and adventure all at the same time. And it seemed final at that moment; I would live there. Forever. I would make my home in the in-between.
I wanted to run to my room and grab a couple pillows to situate myself and then see how far I could see to my right, but as I lifted my foot and felt the weight shift I was struck by the realization that I would have to leave my post. In order to accomplish anything I would have to submerge myself completely into one world and shed myself of the other. To grab a book I’d have to go home; to explore the garden I’d have to run through it. And if I jumped in, either way, I’d go without the assurance of knowing if I could ever return.
Or did I?
In all actuality, I felt perfectly content where I was. To the left sat my large, striped chair with its dip in the seat, contoured to my comfort. To my right were flowers that were so magnified and bustling with life they looked less like plants and more like beasts. The view was more than anyone could ask for—home and adventure all at the same time. And it seemed final at that moment; I would live there. Forever. I would make my home in the in-between.
I wanted to run to my room and grab a couple pillows to situate myself and then see how far I could see to my right, but as I lifted my foot and felt the weight shift I was struck by the realization that I would have to leave my post. In order to accomplish anything I would have to submerge myself completely into one world and shed myself of the other. To grab a book I’d have to go home; to explore the garden I’d have to run through it. And if I jumped in, either way, I’d go without the assurance of knowing if I could ever return.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Away I Go...
I rewatched Away We Go today, a movie I love and am amazed I don't own. There is something about it that, for as sad as it can be, retains such a hopeful air to me...something I actually am able to draw encouragement from when it comes to family. Which is very characteristic of Dave Egger's work, it doesn't suprise me his screenplay has that same real yet romaticized tinge to it; Things are broken, but they seek to carve out a space where they don't have to remain as such.
Today, for the first time, admidst my physical and emotion rubble, I realized life doesn't have to be like this. Sure, there are things you can't really control in life--like the family baggage you are dealt (divorces, remairages, and others' addictions and actions or inactions etc.). But I can go wherever I want. I can get out of here, I can leave this place. I can breathe out there on my own and grow into the sort of person I want to be. Like a walkabout. I think I need a walkabout. I think I need to go somewhere other.
My good friend John I haven't seen in a while asked me, convictingly, when am I going out of the country? Which sounds small to some people, but it is everything I've ever wanted to me. He knows that. He knows I thrive in that with different scenery and experiences and people. I thrive when i'm pushed out of my element. I'm in my element out of my element. I grow from that. I explore through food and culture and art and I want to run everywhere and do everything.
I want to leave before I get sucked in and tied down into something I don't want to be.
I don't want to settle. I don't want to sell out. I don't want to wonder seven years from now why I've never left the one place I've ever lived in my life. I think it's time for something new.
Song Of The Moment: Why Try To Change Me Now - Fiona Apple (The Best Is Yet to Come - The Songs of Cy Coleman)
I don't know why, but I could listen to this cover endlessly on repeat, and I do. The first line might be the best opening line of any song ever. It's the type of song you walk at midnight to.
Today, for the first time, admidst my physical and emotion rubble, I realized life doesn't have to be like this. Sure, there are things you can't really control in life--like the family baggage you are dealt (divorces, remairages, and others' addictions and actions or inactions etc.). But I can go wherever I want. I can get out of here, I can leave this place. I can breathe out there on my own and grow into the sort of person I want to be. Like a walkabout. I think I need a walkabout. I think I need to go somewhere other.
My good friend John I haven't seen in a while asked me, convictingly, when am I going out of the country? Which sounds small to some people, but it is everything I've ever wanted to me. He knows that. He knows I thrive in that with different scenery and experiences and people. I thrive when i'm pushed out of my element. I'm in my element out of my element. I grow from that. I explore through food and culture and art and I want to run everywhere and do everything.
I want to leave before I get sucked in and tied down into something I don't want to be.
I don't want to settle. I don't want to sell out. I don't want to wonder seven years from now why I've never left the one place I've ever lived in my life. I think it's time for something new.
Song Of The Moment: Why Try To Change Me Now - Fiona Apple (The Best Is Yet to Come - The Songs of Cy Coleman)
I don't know why, but I could listen to this cover endlessly on repeat, and I do. The first line might be the best opening line of any song ever. It's the type of song you walk at midnight to.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Torchbearers
We flicker like stray sparks flitting about
Till we boldly shed our bones of ember and rise up Up UP
Departing from the very elements that shaped us
Blazing through chills gales and rain
To burn up a dark that seeks to snuff the heart of the heat we carry
While trails of smoke swell and sing in rolling waves
Of the all consuming fire
That was
And is
And is to come
Till we boldly shed our bones of ember and rise up Up UP
Departing from the very elements that shaped us
Blazing through chills gales and rain
To burn up a dark that seeks to snuff the heart of the heat we carry
While trails of smoke swell and sing in rolling waves
Of the all consuming fire
That was
And is
And is to come
Sunday, May 30, 2010
"I got an Irish name and an injury A blessing and a curse cast down on me..."
I want to live
Epically. Biblically. Lovingly. Daringly. Morally. Freely. Sacrificially. Fully. Intentionally. Longingly. Emphatically. Humbly. Joyfully. Poignantly. Meekly. Sincerely. Gently. Honestly. Persistently. Truthfully. Abounding in grace, depth and soul.
When I die, I want my life to look like a Johnny Cash song. ...The American Recording years.
The word 'drama' gets a bum rap. We associate it all too often with volatile tweens feeding flames to social fires for the sake of something to do. As in "OMFG they're so drama." I just threw up a little in my mouth...and rightfully so, needless, hollow drama is a waste of time..and I would even go so far as to say decays the soul. But what we forget, is the word has positive as well as negative conontations, and unfortunately the positive all too often gets overshadowed by Lindsay Lohan. What of it's sophisticated brother, the one that captures our hearts and speaks to our spirit? As in the hallow arch of struggles and obstacles one must bravely and honestly cross to emerge at the other side of a desired destination. Every person of note lives a life of good, engaging drama: every biblical character, every song, every book.
Our heroes are good drama. Not needlessly dramatic, or even necessarily mindfully seeking drama...just simple men living as honestly as they can. And as we know, the world hates nothing more than honest men...and the world seeks to break them down. What makes good heroes isn't necessarily how many battles they win or obstacles they overcome, but the fact they keep fighting and persist through them. They get back up even when they lose and try again. Those are the ones that succeed on to the end.
Fuck TNT, that's good drama.
Song of the moment: Red At Night - The Gaslight Anthem (Sink or Swim)
The song is simple, but rounded. A man living through blues and blessings. When I die, I want this song played at my funeral.
This band knows the ins-and-outs of my soul. It's one of the reasons I know there's a God...and He loves me very much.
Epically. Biblically. Lovingly. Daringly. Morally. Freely. Sacrificially. Fully. Intentionally. Longingly. Emphatically. Humbly. Joyfully. Poignantly. Meekly. Sincerely. Gently. Honestly. Persistently. Truthfully. Abounding in grace, depth and soul.
When I die, I want my life to look like a Johnny Cash song. ...The American Recording years.
The word 'drama' gets a bum rap. We associate it all too often with volatile tweens feeding flames to social fires for the sake of something to do. As in "OMFG they're so drama." I just threw up a little in my mouth...and rightfully so, needless, hollow drama is a waste of time..and I would even go so far as to say decays the soul. But what we forget, is the word has positive as well as negative conontations, and unfortunately the positive all too often gets overshadowed by Lindsay Lohan. What of it's sophisticated brother, the one that captures our hearts and speaks to our spirit? As in the hallow arch of struggles and obstacles one must bravely and honestly cross to emerge at the other side of a desired destination. Every person of note lives a life of good, engaging drama: every biblical character, every song, every book.
Our heroes are good drama. Not needlessly dramatic, or even necessarily mindfully seeking drama...just simple men living as honestly as they can. And as we know, the world hates nothing more than honest men...and the world seeks to break them down. What makes good heroes isn't necessarily how many battles they win or obstacles they overcome, but the fact they keep fighting and persist through them. They get back up even when they lose and try again. Those are the ones that succeed on to the end.
Fuck TNT, that's good drama.
Song of the moment: Red At Night - The Gaslight Anthem (Sink or Swim)
The song is simple, but rounded. A man living through blues and blessings. When I die, I want this song played at my funeral.
This band knows the ins-and-outs of my soul. It's one of the reasons I know there's a God...and He loves me very much.
Monday, May 24, 2010
"Through The Times I've Faded, And You've Outlined Me Again"
I have been feeling very misunderstood lately.
It's been a long time since I've had to introduce myself to new people, and a lot longer since I've actually cared what those people think. And I'm not sure whether my current circumstantial pressures are coincidental or divine challenge, but regardless I'm faced with new people; and while I feel very blessed that these new people are in my life, I also am faced with the challenge of expressing myself to others who don't already know me like the back of their hand. Which leaves plenty of room for comical misunderstandings as people are left to little else than literal interpretations of what I say or write. People with whom I have not yet achieved that intimate, comfort level where you can say something incomplete, yet still be given the grace of having the thought finished for you. It's not so much predictability as just being...understood. And man, when you are, it's like fucking hot cocoa for the soul!
Every person should be so blessed. But I recognize those relationships take time to build, which these new additions and I have shared little of (though not to discount them because they have been deep encounters). But till we get there, I fear I'm going to just be completely out of my element (Donny).
For instance, I've been meeting with a pastor lately. Brad has been encouraging me to meet with someone since he's left...something I've been hesitant to do over the past couple of years for the obvious reasons. There's not a whole lot of frickin' Brads walking around in the world. But I know it's unfair to compare people with others, especially to someone who holds such a high place in my life, so it's something I'm fighting, but I can't help that it's there.
Anyways, I let him read one of my stories--something a bit more pastor friendly, you know to ease in the poor fella. But immediately he started trying to attach the piece to my life and I got uncomfortable. Even after I answered his questions and tried explaining, I'm not sure he believed me. I know it's hard for people to understand fully if they don't do it, but not everything you write is a direct reflection of who you are as a person. My favorite part about writing fiction is being able to write about someone or something so other than me. I love thinking about people and figuring them out--I pose a lot of "why" and "what if" questions. And I am a very emotional person. Not psycho emotional...that's not what I mean. I mean God just blessed (and cursed) me with an ability to feel strongly. As a result I am a very empathetic person, I can easily put myself in another person's shoes and kind of figure them out.
I am also very thoughtful, detailed and analytical. This, I think, is why I enjoy writing so much, and perhaps what actually even enables me to do it. Each one of those previously mentioned characteristics/gifts gets put to use to tell a story and explore a topic--a sentiment I think is pretty magical and only possible by the grace of God! Now of course I have to care about the topic to write about it, so that I suppose can serve as a reflection of myself. However, it's very hard for people to imagine a person writing a character that isn't a mirror image of themselves. But it's possible, and something I love to do. And something that I think is even natural and spiritual. I don't do it to avoid myself, but rather to find out more about myself and the world around me.
Any person who has tried to write a character can tell you that no matter what divine plan you have set for it, the character ends up diverting from your narrow path and writing itself. Sometimes it takes a darker plunge than you intended, but if you can still write it and you find there's a story to tell, I don't know why you wouldn't. I personally find it really interesting to write these darker characters. You can write someone who you literally have nothing in common with, but if you research things enough and 'suppose' things enough, you can begin to understand why they do the things they do--and more often than not you can begin to identify with them. It doesn't necessarily mean the character is myself, but rather I'm becoming more humane and sympathetic to things I didn't once understand. It gives me a chance to stretch and grow. I like that about writing.
Now, I know I can be a darker person as well--I see a lot of beauty in the shadows, but make no mistake, it's only because "the shadow proves the sunshine." And I'm not delusional, I know I struggle with pessimism--a battle wound I'm working on healing--but people think I'm so unhappy because of what I write or quote or listen to. And it's a little disconcerting sometimes. I'm not. I love God. I love life! I love beauty--and I like to explore its many facets.
I just can't help that sometimes the things that convict me most are emotionally charged and speak of darker places. Those sad bastard lyrics, they remind me of what I've been through. They make me feel validated which helps me move on and makes me see what God has delivered me from. Those Cormac McCarthy and Dave Eggers books, they are earth shattering works of prose that shows me the very present tension between good and evil and the struggle for humanity. I quote them because they inspired me and I found them encouraging, not to commemorate my misery. That's not how I do.
The characters I write, they're not always a direct reflection of my life. I am a creative person and I use characters creatively to explore various things and topics. Sometimes it's simply a means of exploration. Yet, other times, it is because I have something my life has inspired me to write or incorporate into my writing. So just ask me...but believe whatever it is I tell you, I won't lie if there's something autobiographical in my work.
I guess it's not something that everyone will understand, and I guess I shouldn't expect them to, or get so frustrated at it...I understand how it happens and the human need to identify and label people and things. We are creatures of connection--and we like to draw them, even sometimes falsely. I just hope that people will take the time to get to know me and will see there's something more and other about me.
Regardless though, I'll just keep being me. :)
It's been a long time since I've had to introduce myself to new people, and a lot longer since I've actually cared what those people think. And I'm not sure whether my current circumstantial pressures are coincidental or divine challenge, but regardless I'm faced with new people; and while I feel very blessed that these new people are in my life, I also am faced with the challenge of expressing myself to others who don't already know me like the back of their hand. Which leaves plenty of room for comical misunderstandings as people are left to little else than literal interpretations of what I say or write. People with whom I have not yet achieved that intimate, comfort level where you can say something incomplete, yet still be given the grace of having the thought finished for you. It's not so much predictability as just being...understood. And man, when you are, it's like fucking hot cocoa for the soul!
Every person should be so blessed. But I recognize those relationships take time to build, which these new additions and I have shared little of (though not to discount them because they have been deep encounters). But till we get there, I fear I'm going to just be completely out of my element (Donny).
For instance, I've been meeting with a pastor lately. Brad has been encouraging me to meet with someone since he's left...something I've been hesitant to do over the past couple of years for the obvious reasons. There's not a whole lot of frickin' Brads walking around in the world. But I know it's unfair to compare people with others, especially to someone who holds such a high place in my life, so it's something I'm fighting, but I can't help that it's there.
Anyways, I let him read one of my stories--something a bit more pastor friendly, you know to ease in the poor fella. But immediately he started trying to attach the piece to my life and I got uncomfortable. Even after I answered his questions and tried explaining, I'm not sure he believed me. I know it's hard for people to understand fully if they don't do it, but not everything you write is a direct reflection of who you are as a person. My favorite part about writing fiction is being able to write about someone or something so other than me. I love thinking about people and figuring them out--I pose a lot of "why" and "what if" questions. And I am a very emotional person. Not psycho emotional...that's not what I mean. I mean God just blessed (and cursed) me with an ability to feel strongly. As a result I am a very empathetic person, I can easily put myself in another person's shoes and kind of figure them out.
I am also very thoughtful, detailed and analytical. This, I think, is why I enjoy writing so much, and perhaps what actually even enables me to do it. Each one of those previously mentioned characteristics/gifts gets put to use to tell a story and explore a topic--a sentiment I think is pretty magical and only possible by the grace of God! Now of course I have to care about the topic to write about it, so that I suppose can serve as a reflection of myself. However, it's very hard for people to imagine a person writing a character that isn't a mirror image of themselves. But it's possible, and something I love to do. And something that I think is even natural and spiritual. I don't do it to avoid myself, but rather to find out more about myself and the world around me.
Any person who has tried to write a character can tell you that no matter what divine plan you have set for it, the character ends up diverting from your narrow path and writing itself. Sometimes it takes a darker plunge than you intended, but if you can still write it and you find there's a story to tell, I don't know why you wouldn't. I personally find it really interesting to write these darker characters. You can write someone who you literally have nothing in common with, but if you research things enough and 'suppose' things enough, you can begin to understand why they do the things they do--and more often than not you can begin to identify with them. It doesn't necessarily mean the character is myself, but rather I'm becoming more humane and sympathetic to things I didn't once understand. It gives me a chance to stretch and grow. I like that about writing.
Now, I know I can be a darker person as well--I see a lot of beauty in the shadows, but make no mistake, it's only because "the shadow proves the sunshine." And I'm not delusional, I know I struggle with pessimism--a battle wound I'm working on healing--but people think I'm so unhappy because of what I write or quote or listen to. And it's a little disconcerting sometimes. I'm not. I love God. I love life! I love beauty--and I like to explore its many facets.
I just can't help that sometimes the things that convict me most are emotionally charged and speak of darker places. Those sad bastard lyrics, they remind me of what I've been through. They make me feel validated which helps me move on and makes me see what God has delivered me from. Those Cormac McCarthy and Dave Eggers books, they are earth shattering works of prose that shows me the very present tension between good and evil and the struggle for humanity. I quote them because they inspired me and I found them encouraging, not to commemorate my misery. That's not how I do.
The characters I write, they're not always a direct reflection of my life. I am a creative person and I use characters creatively to explore various things and topics. Sometimes it's simply a means of exploration. Yet, other times, it is because I have something my life has inspired me to write or incorporate into my writing. So just ask me...but believe whatever it is I tell you, I won't lie if there's something autobiographical in my work.
I guess it's not something that everyone will understand, and I guess I shouldn't expect them to, or get so frustrated at it...I understand how it happens and the human need to identify and label people and things. We are creatures of connection--and we like to draw them, even sometimes falsely. I just hope that people will take the time to get to know me and will see there's something more and other about me.
Regardless though, I'll just keep being me. :)
Song of the moment: Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright (Poses)
Other than a woman, only a gay man could write this song. He's a damn genius.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Black Rose Mix
I know it's a large no-no to name a mix after the first song in the line-up, but some rules beg to be broken...by me. Tracks go as follows:
1.) Black Rose - Blindside
2.) The Unwinding Cable Car (Acoustic) - Anberlin
3.) Tremble - Nichole Nordeman
4.) This House - Edison Glass
5.) Down Towards The Healing - Lovedrug
6.) Gloria/Us Appearing (Acoustic) - Acceptance
7.) Blue (Acoustic) - Ever Stays Red
8.) Broken - Lifehouse
9.) Where Do We Go From Here - Mat Kearney
10.) Combinations - Eisley
11.) We're So Far Away - Mae
12.) A Way To The Heart - Noise Ratchet
13.) You Have My Attention - Copeland
14.) Silence - Blindside
15.) All Around Me (Acoustic) - Flyleaf
2.) The Unwinding Cable Car (Acoustic) - Anberlin
3.) Tremble - Nichole Nordeman
4.) This House - Edison Glass
5.) Down Towards The Healing - Lovedrug
6.) Gloria/Us Appearing (Acoustic) - Acceptance
7.) Blue (Acoustic) - Ever Stays Red
8.) Broken - Lifehouse
9.) Where Do We Go From Here - Mat Kearney
10.) Combinations - Eisley
11.) We're So Far Away - Mae
12.) A Way To The Heart - Noise Ratchet
13.) You Have My Attention - Copeland
14.) Silence - Blindside
15.) All Around Me (Acoustic) - Flyleaf
"When Life Has Me Weary, Bring Me Your Tea""
It's summer time. You know what that means...sun tea, reading lists and [GASP!] a writing project!
Well, the sun tea is kind of a recent development. My mom used to do it all the time when I was a kid; it'd be so annoying, I'd be on a pretty damn life altering chapter of The Babysitter's Club and she'd call me from work to bring in the tea from off the diving board. Let's just say there were verbal consequences for this...you know, things that consisted of "pssshht" and extensive bargaining of chores I could exchange out for such a demanding task. Yeah, I tried to make it so she wouldn't ask me to do it again. Apparently Nellie and JR were better at that, 'cause she always ended up asking me. Despite my bitching though, the tea made my summers.
Peach, unsweetened, lots of ice.
I've been craving it lately. Yeah, that's right, I've actually been craving summer. Strange oddities. I guess I shall try my hand at it.
Speaking of trying...apparently I should be writing more extensive and demanding pieces. My professor has recommended I aim for writing a novella this summer; something 40-60 pages double-spaced. This frightens and excites me all at the same time. In all seriousness, I feel I have been ridiculously blessed this past semester, to garner such radical support from Mac (visiting professor Kevin McIlvoy). I don't think I've had someone believe in my talent that much before. It kind of feels good, like I've legitimately found my place in creative writing. I mean, he's served on the AWP board (Association of Writers & Writing Programs), is a well-respected author and has directed many MFA Creative Writing programs at various colleges and universities. He's a beast! And every conference I've had with him has been overwhelmingly supportive and encouraging.
And oddly, I'm not sabotaging myself yet. I'm not telling myself "I can't do it, he's crazy"...I mean, sometimes I feel it, but there is actually this little spark inside of me that believes I can. I actually feel confident that this is something I can do. I can be a writer. I will be a writer.
And I'm gonna write the fuck out of this novella.
First drafts are a bitch, and extensive pieces are challenging for me...but what better time than now to try? I have to start somewhere, I guess.
But I'm going to stop typing now 'cause I'm starting to sound like a crappy Canadian after-school special. And for those who like crappy Canadian after-school specials, don't get your panties in hitch...I watch Degrassi, too.
Oh! Quick note: I think I'm going to try and read Willa Cather's repertoire of novels in chronological order? I haven't committed fully to the idea yet (hence the statement in question form), but I'm gonna head to Barnes I think and check out what they have.
Song of the moment: Secret Garden - Bruce Springsteen (Bruce Springsteen Greatest Hits)
Despite what Shea thinks...this song is NOT about sex.
Well, the sun tea is kind of a recent development. My mom used to do it all the time when I was a kid; it'd be so annoying, I'd be on a pretty damn life altering chapter of The Babysitter's Club and she'd call me from work to bring in the tea from off the diving board. Let's just say there were verbal consequences for this...you know, things that consisted of "pssshht" and extensive bargaining of chores I could exchange out for such a demanding task. Yeah, I tried to make it so she wouldn't ask me to do it again. Apparently Nellie and JR were better at that, 'cause she always ended up asking me. Despite my bitching though, the tea made my summers.
Peach, unsweetened, lots of ice.
I've been craving it lately. Yeah, that's right, I've actually been craving summer. Strange oddities. I guess I shall try my hand at it.
Speaking of trying...apparently I should be writing more extensive and demanding pieces. My professor has recommended I aim for writing a novella this summer; something 40-60 pages double-spaced. This frightens and excites me all at the same time. In all seriousness, I feel I have been ridiculously blessed this past semester, to garner such radical support from Mac (visiting professor Kevin McIlvoy). I don't think I've had someone believe in my talent that much before. It kind of feels good, like I've legitimately found my place in creative writing. I mean, he's served on the AWP board (Association of Writers & Writing Programs), is a well-respected author and has directed many MFA Creative Writing programs at various colleges and universities. He's a beast! And every conference I've had with him has been overwhelmingly supportive and encouraging.
And oddly, I'm not sabotaging myself yet. I'm not telling myself "I can't do it, he's crazy"...I mean, sometimes I feel it, but there is actually this little spark inside of me that believes I can. I actually feel confident that this is something I can do. I can be a writer. I will be a writer.
And I'm gonna write the fuck out of this novella.
First drafts are a bitch, and extensive pieces are challenging for me...but what better time than now to try? I have to start somewhere, I guess.
But I'm going to stop typing now 'cause I'm starting to sound like a crappy Canadian after-school special. And for those who like crappy Canadian after-school specials, don't get your panties in hitch...I watch Degrassi, too.
Oh! Quick note: I think I'm going to try and read Willa Cather's repertoire of novels in chronological order? I haven't committed fully to the idea yet (hence the statement in question form), but I'm gonna head to Barnes I think and check out what they have.
Song of the moment: Secret Garden - Bruce Springsteen (Bruce Springsteen Greatest Hits)
Despite what Shea thinks...this song is NOT about sex.
Monday, May 10, 2010
We’re Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner
It was one of those places with a rotating pie display. Triple pane thermal glass, fluorescent interior lighting…but the bathrooms were always out of soap. You’d have to order a slice of pie ‘cause it’d be the only thing that was safe—coffee was always burnt, eggs were always runny, and the milk I had reason to suspect was really water and half-‘n-half. But the pie lived up to its claim.
A faded billboard stood erect in the parking lot pronouncing “Best Pie in New Mexico”, not something that seemed to attract a lot of folks, but the way the crust crumbled we knew it must be true.
She said it felt like a country song. And with her hair pinned up in curls and her summer dress tied taut round her hips, I was fine with living my life caught somewhere between a Johnny Cash and Springsteen song.
Every Sunday I’d give her a dollar. She’d get up and saunter real slow to the jukebox—prop herself against its neon lights and flip through every song, tapping her fingers lightly against its aluminum sides, weighing her options. But she always settled on E-04, “Atlantic City.” I figured she had an affinity for The Boss. She called me her Johnny 99. So every Sunday I’d take her hand, pull her close to me and sway with her. I couldn’t two-step, four-step, or waltz so we just swayed. …But I’d always make sure to dip her real low at the end.
Then, one night I gave her a dollar and she clicked J-11. Nancy Sinatra came on and she told me she was seeing someone else—like the ring on her finger didn’t mean a damn thing.
Behind her I saw the waitress break down a Smith’s Marketplace pastry box for a Dutch Apple Crumb.
I don’t know what I was more upset about.
* * *
We saw it off the highway while heading to Albuquerque—wait, were we heading to or from Albuquerque? —I think we were heading from actually because I remember the stars being out and getting real tired, but not in need of coffee tired…more like…like a lonesome that’s exhausted its stay tired—tired in the soul—do you ever get that? Regardless, I was looking out the window and I saw a big ol’ piece of cardboard pie in the sky claiming to be ‘the world’s best’—or was it ‘Albuquerque’s Best’? Shit, I don’t know, but I thought to myself I want a piece of that. I guess I might have said it, too ‘cause next thing I know we were sitting in a booth.
The place was rundown and trashy, or maybe just trashed? I could never decide. The first time we went in the bell kept ringing till someone got up and closed the door all the way. There was a ketchup bottle in the ladies room labeled ‘soap’ with black sharpie, part of it washed off already. Scuffmarks from boots littered the floors. Everything else was so shitty the pie had to taste good.
…But I think the pie probably really did taste good, too—not just in comparison good, but good-good. Must have actually. Sometimes I’d wake up Sunday morning before him and I’d just lie in bed and wonder what would be tonight’s special—lemon meringue? Sour cream and apple? Pecan? Key-lime? Pumpkin Spice? French Silk? Strawberry Rhubarb? There were so many flavors with different notes; different textures satisfying the palette in different ways. I could lie there for hours thinking about the choices. Sometimes I’d be so focused on pie I wouldn’t see him wake. He’d ask me what I was thinking about—what man actually asks you what you’re thinking about? I’d turn to him real serious, look him in the eyes, and say ‘pie.’ He’d just laugh and kiss my forehead.
But that’s just the way things are I guess. Some things matter and some things don’t; but you never knew which is which till they’re both gone.
A faded billboard stood erect in the parking lot pronouncing “Best Pie in New Mexico”, not something that seemed to attract a lot of folks, but the way the crust crumbled we knew it must be true.
She said it felt like a country song. And with her hair pinned up in curls and her summer dress tied taut round her hips, I was fine with living my life caught somewhere between a Johnny Cash and Springsteen song.
Every Sunday I’d give her a dollar. She’d get up and saunter real slow to the jukebox—prop herself against its neon lights and flip through every song, tapping her fingers lightly against its aluminum sides, weighing her options. But she always settled on E-04, “Atlantic City.” I figured she had an affinity for The Boss. She called me her Johnny 99. So every Sunday I’d take her hand, pull her close to me and sway with her. I couldn’t two-step, four-step, or waltz so we just swayed. …But I’d always make sure to dip her real low at the end.
Then, one night I gave her a dollar and she clicked J-11. Nancy Sinatra came on and she told me she was seeing someone else—like the ring on her finger didn’t mean a damn thing.
Behind her I saw the waitress break down a Smith’s Marketplace pastry box for a Dutch Apple Crumb.
I don’t know what I was more upset about.
* * *
We saw it off the highway while heading to Albuquerque—wait, were we heading to or from Albuquerque? —I think we were heading from actually because I remember the stars being out and getting real tired, but not in need of coffee tired…more like…like a lonesome that’s exhausted its stay tired—tired in the soul—do you ever get that? Regardless, I was looking out the window and I saw a big ol’ piece of cardboard pie in the sky claiming to be ‘the world’s best’—or was it ‘Albuquerque’s Best’? Shit, I don’t know, but I thought to myself I want a piece of that. I guess I might have said it, too ‘cause next thing I know we were sitting in a booth.
The place was rundown and trashy, or maybe just trashed? I could never decide. The first time we went in the bell kept ringing till someone got up and closed the door all the way. There was a ketchup bottle in the ladies room labeled ‘soap’ with black sharpie, part of it washed off already. Scuffmarks from boots littered the floors. Everything else was so shitty the pie had to taste good.
…But I think the pie probably really did taste good, too—not just in comparison good, but good-good. Must have actually. Sometimes I’d wake up Sunday morning before him and I’d just lie in bed and wonder what would be tonight’s special—lemon meringue? Sour cream and apple? Pecan? Key-lime? Pumpkin Spice? French Silk? Strawberry Rhubarb? There were so many flavors with different notes; different textures satisfying the palette in different ways. I could lie there for hours thinking about the choices. Sometimes I’d be so focused on pie I wouldn’t see him wake. He’d ask me what I was thinking about—what man actually asks you what you’re thinking about? I’d turn to him real serious, look him in the eyes, and say ‘pie.’ He’d just laugh and kiss my forehead.
But that’s just the way things are I guess. Some things matter and some things don’t; but you never knew which is which till they’re both gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)