I don't want these eyes, anymore. Why can't I see the earth as Mary Oliver: a gentle mother scooping me up in her skirts, revealing her pocketed lichens and seeds, flowers and trees, and cradling me to sleep. Or Walt Whitman, when a child asks, what is the grass, and he sees a flag, the uncut hair of graves, and knows the identity of grass may be beyond understanding. Give me the surrealist mind of Van Gogh (maybe not the sight. He probably had enough chemical poisoning he actually saw the sky like he painted), that I might see the heavens in surrealist splendor. Open my eyes, so even a cut like Sylvia Plath hath had, might reveal a pilgrim, redcoats, a turkey, or a Plath-ian macabre element.
I don't see the world like Martin Luther King Jr, Gandhi, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglas, or Mother Teresa, but I want my sight opened unto that world, tragic and devastating though it may be, for all I see sometimes is fog hovering over the little pond of my world, and a few concerned frogs croaking on lilypads. I want to see people's souls like orchestral movements - the violin is hurting and a bit bitter, playing a sharp minor movement in cut time; or joyous, dancing between dam-bursting crescendo and frenzied, whispering mezzo-piano, allegro allegro! I can't tell if a river is a dance, or a mountain a ballroom dress, or if the world might make less sense with ever metaphorical pass-around.
Wisdom?
Words aren't working, anymore, and perhaps never again
I forget, friends, what breathing is and isn't,
though a mist rises in my gorge, is this it?
a statue sits in the courtyard of a city street,
eyes scrunched shut, hands pressed tight, kneeling
he never opens his eyes, never sees,
but even he knows
visions exist so beautiful that, if truth hides
another more resplendent sight, I may be made blind -
shush, I shush, and shush again the silence
it bellows in my mind and a fearful fire rages
in appalling quiet
is this, Elijah, what the wind-passing-God -
oh God, she's so divine - is like?
My heart begs the mendicants for spiritual alms
and mother God plays the accordion
while urchin Jesus tugs at her drab dress and smiles
where is she -
there is something here so imperfectly clear,
you must let the mud in the water settle,
if you want to see your reflection -
(I want to see the sky)
I don't want these eyes anymore, I want yours
Showing posts with label reflections. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reflections. Show all posts
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Friday, September 20, 2013
Swampy Swamp Swamp.
Words that slump into a murky swamp, ugly-low on the land. Moss-algae-mud the colorsmell of sulfur-rotten-ancient-scum-lichen-toady-sewer death.
Even the mushroom-vultures and cultured cultures steer clear.
I cannot see my face; the swamp bog of words renders, replies nothing - who am I in this?
WHO? Even the owl shrugs and stays not long in this TS Wasteland.
Eckleberg averts his gaze, rubbing his crimson-cream-eyes, tired, so tired, and removing those circular owl rims
Still, no words mirror me in this grog
And these are my words - or yours.
How can we live without our lives? How will we know it's us without our past?
"The master's words, not mine", the quag belch-spake
My words, your words, I'm in none of these
Emptyeverythings
Your words, my words, ignore my endless pleas
Fen beyond my ken, humor me
everglade, mire mirror, won't you reflect one image, please
Or at least, explain what needs change
afore I sink, before I drink,
the muddy-gummy-grimy-boorish dismay
of bitterfoolish defeat, viscous-morass-sighing dreams.
Is it naught but quicksand goodbyes and rodents of unusual size?
I see.
And this you can know- fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe.
~ John Steinbeck - Grapes of Wrath
Bogged down much? Aha! Or perhaps, swamped in life? Time to marsh away! Or marsh-all yourself to peace? Aha Aha! In one of today's many lulls, I read some of my recent writings. I noticed a distinct trend toward short, concise, shoddy sentences in my casual writing that describe ill-defined ideas, and leave the reader with a frustrating staccato of stutter-stepping sentences. They are not eloquent, not clever, and the length rarely varies. Worse still, a hastening leaves pieces behind, like carrying too much laundry and dropping socks; like a leaking vessel at sea, jettisoning the hold; like a bleeding engine, hemorrhaging across the paved and murdered earth; like tree leaves come Autumn, though not beautiful - no, not beautiful.
Then the stories. My missing, mutilated muse: asphyxiated, poisoned, exsanguinated, diminished by degrees like a diaspora of belief, and yet I'm basking in stories as silver and swaddling as a lunar swoon, silken and heavenly. Not without existential quandary, without patient angst leaking into each like crimson ink in crystal water - the stories subtly infiltrated with ideas and poisoned with pulchritudinous emotions. It's your fault, yes it is, I say to the dreamers, the dreaming, sand sifting between his piano-fingers, spindly thin and wily. But it is also hers, and his, and always theirs, the blame shifts as the breeze, resting eventually in the billowing sleeves and the earl-grey-tea eyes of the painter, turning easel lakes into splendid scenery, a majestic, endless, panoramic canvas of subconscious imagery.
I was lent a poetic book, and I've been enjoying every moment of it. The book's writing is quite sensational (aha! pun night!) It is called, "A Natural History of the Senses" by Diane Ackerman. It is poetic, and it is lovely. She breaks each sense into sections in the book and each section into tinier segments that capture a specific detail, a "sense" of each of the 5 senses. In 'smell' she writes a section regarding violets and perfume, and in taste, she describes a grotesque and morbid cuisine invented by the British in the 1800s. Each section is meticulously studied, and, though each is but a brief and poignant essay, she infuses poetry into the fiber and blood of each and every sentence.
It is strange, the assortment of books I've read in the past week: a myth-fantasy with celtic, norse, and tolkein-esque motifs; a russian satire; a book of romantic poetry; a history of the senses; Bible passages; an enormous pamphlet on a proposed super-futuristic evolution of earth; the count of monte cristo; the two towers. What imaginations, what grandeur God has allowed us to dream! I'm thankful every day for creative license, and, more than just the freedom, the encouragement in artistic pursuit by the very creator of the universe. See what God has created? I feel like a young child with playdough who, on twisting and wrangling the dough, produces an indecipherable mess. Proudly, I hold it up in both hands, beaming face angled toward the heavens. "Look! It's a giraffe!"
I was lent a poetic book, and I've been enjoying every moment of it. The book's writing is quite sensational (aha! pun night!) It is called, "A Natural History of the Senses" by Diane Ackerman. It is poetic, and it is lovely. She breaks each sense into sections in the book and each section into tinier segments that capture a specific detail, a "sense" of each of the 5 senses. In 'smell' she writes a section regarding violets and perfume, and in taste, she describes a grotesque and morbid cuisine invented by the British in the 1800s. Each section is meticulously studied, and, though each is but a brief and poignant essay, she infuses poetry into the fiber and blood of each and every sentence.
It is strange, the assortment of books I've read in the past week: a myth-fantasy with celtic, norse, and tolkein-esque motifs; a russian satire; a book of romantic poetry; a history of the senses; Bible passages; an enormous pamphlet on a proposed super-futuristic evolution of earth; the count of monte cristo; the two towers. What imaginations, what grandeur God has allowed us to dream! I'm thankful every day for creative license, and, more than just the freedom, the encouragement in artistic pursuit by the very creator of the universe. See what God has created? I feel like a young child with playdough who, on twisting and wrangling the dough, produces an indecipherable mess. Proudly, I hold it up in both hands, beaming face angled toward the heavens. "Look! It's a giraffe!"
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
Skipping Stone
Some days I feel as a skipping stone
sharply thrown
How long until it drinks dark waters?
Spssh against the waters, raising a spray, fwoooo through the air, the waves whizzing by beneath the spinning stone, flat and volcanic. Sleep.
Fwoooo
The seas of my dreams were savage with squalls, last night, where the sleeping oceans tasted the tears of the sky. Dream-tales of friends beside, then waving goodbyes before dissipating into mists like ghastly wisps of twilight fog - graveyard mists. I slept and woke, drowning in an inexpressible sorrow, for the images on my bleary eyes were fleeting, but stained the somber shores of waking. I woke every hour for a few minutes, surfacing for moments..
Spsssh
Then awakened, and the morning drizzle and southeast breeze pulled over the hills the sweet resins of the forest, the pines, the maples, the birch and fir, the mighty elm and the regal plum. The rich scents of mud and chilling rain.
Fwooooo
Work was... different. The project is vague and disorderly, through no fault of my own, and much time was spent grinding out irrelevant details while important points gathered dust in the corner. Blind eyes turned onto difficult problems while we leaped over anthill obstacles, thinking we'd determined the course of the world, ignoring the mountains rising up before us. And always a definite consternation, lingering, of inhibited progress on milestones ill-defined.
Spsssh
But, freedom. I read, in its entirety, The Summer Tree by Guy Gavriel Kay, and though not the greatest work I've read, it contained some interesting developments and its flowery diction was smooth and easily read. I slept through my lunch hour instead of writing or reading, as intended, but the sleep was needed after last night's choppy
Fwoooo
Sometimes days are like skipping stones, ever striking the sea, dousing you in a salty spray like a slap in the face before you are, again, soaring above the waves. Today was such, though I believe it ended soaring.
sharply thrown
How long until it drinks dark waters?
Spssh against the waters, raising a spray, fwoooo through the air, the waves whizzing by beneath the spinning stone, flat and volcanic. Sleep.
Fwoooo
The seas of my dreams were savage with squalls, last night, where the sleeping oceans tasted the tears of the sky. Dream-tales of friends beside, then waving goodbyes before dissipating into mists like ghastly wisps of twilight fog - graveyard mists. I slept and woke, drowning in an inexpressible sorrow, for the images on my bleary eyes were fleeting, but stained the somber shores of waking. I woke every hour for a few minutes, surfacing for moments..
Spsssh
Then awakened, and the morning drizzle and southeast breeze pulled over the hills the sweet resins of the forest, the pines, the maples, the birch and fir, the mighty elm and the regal plum. The rich scents of mud and chilling rain.
Fwooooo
Work was... different. The project is vague and disorderly, through no fault of my own, and much time was spent grinding out irrelevant details while important points gathered dust in the corner. Blind eyes turned onto difficult problems while we leaped over anthill obstacles, thinking we'd determined the course of the world, ignoring the mountains rising up before us. And always a definite consternation, lingering, of inhibited progress on milestones ill-defined.
Spsssh
But, freedom. I read, in its entirety, The Summer Tree by Guy Gavriel Kay, and though not the greatest work I've read, it contained some interesting developments and its flowery diction was smooth and easily read. I slept through my lunch hour instead of writing or reading, as intended, but the sleep was needed after last night's choppy
Fwoooo
Sometimes days are like skipping stones, ever striking the sea, dousing you in a salty spray like a slap in the face before you are, again, soaring above the waves. Today was such, though I believe it ended soaring.
Saturday, September 14, 2013
100
I had something worth writing, on the topic of fasting and fellowship and atonement. I've lost all that. It was a genuinely peaceful day, full of repose, prayer, thought, and excellent friends. But what ideas have I left at the moment? Few. I was asked countless times today (while watching Star Trek) - are you happy?
This stems not from an expectation of "no", but from a nervousness at no longer being around much, and knowing little of my current experience. Am I happy? I think I'm happy. I don't feel unhappy, and I'm enjoying my life. Am I content? I think I'm content.
I expect there are moments on either side, like I'm tiptoeing across a balance, and it shifts with each step. I'm happy I'm happy whoa whoa whoa I'm in trouble! Oh, things are good again! And so on. I remember thinking once, at one point in my life: "does sanctification mean loneliness?" I think that is what people think, sometimes. Solitude, setting yourself apart, distance - are you lonely? Are you okay?
This is why, I think, that Yom Kippur denotes a little bit of loneliness, in my opinion. Fasting always seems a little bit like solitude. Does it mean I'm not okay or unhappy? Of course not.
I learned some things in my holyday meditations and reflections. I think the holy days prepared in the Old Testament sometimes are my favorites, simply because they exhibit a different viewpoint, a world we've mostly forgotten. Anyway, I've rambled enough. This is what happens when you don't eat for a very long time, play soccer, bike around, and then eat as much as possible when your body is falling to pieces - you go a little loopy.
Maybe that is just me. Happy 100.
This stems not from an expectation of "no", but from a nervousness at no longer being around much, and knowing little of my current experience. Am I happy? I think I'm happy. I don't feel unhappy, and I'm enjoying my life. Am I content? I think I'm content.
I expect there are moments on either side, like I'm tiptoeing across a balance, and it shifts with each step. I'm happy I'm happy whoa whoa whoa I'm in trouble! Oh, things are good again! And so on. I remember thinking once, at one point in my life: "does sanctification mean loneliness?" I think that is what people think, sometimes. Solitude, setting yourself apart, distance - are you lonely? Are you okay?
This is why, I think, that Yom Kippur denotes a little bit of loneliness, in my opinion. Fasting always seems a little bit like solitude. Does it mean I'm not okay or unhappy? Of course not.
I learned some things in my holyday meditations and reflections. I think the holy days prepared in the Old Testament sometimes are my favorites, simply because they exhibit a different viewpoint, a world we've mostly forgotten. Anyway, I've rambled enough. This is what happens when you don't eat for a very long time, play soccer, bike around, and then eat as much as possible when your body is falling to pieces - you go a little loopy.
Maybe that is just me. Happy 100.
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Day of Atonement
I'm eagerly looking forward to this Yom Kippur. Many Christians have thrown out the holy days of Israel all together. I don't think this is a problem, but sometimes I enjoy the appointment days. I've actually never successfully celebrated Yom Kippur. It is the only true fast from the Biblical holy days, though several others have been added to Jewish tradition (the day before Purim: celebrating Esther and some others).
The last time I attempted to celebrate Yom Kippur, I was out on a camping trip, and while walking and thinking (I was in the process of losing a friend, and processing that), I came upon some blackberries and mindlessly ate a whole bunch before realizing I was supposed to be fasting. I've managed a number of different fasts and find the meditative aspects and discipline of fasting useful for me in my faith. I have not, as yet, successfully celebrated Yom Kippur as a fast.
The day is considered to be the holiest day of the year for the Jewish peoples, although if you ask a Jewish person what the holiest holy day is, they may very well say "the Sabbath". It is the day where the entirety of God's people was atoned for, and was accompanied by much praying as the gravity of sin was upon the nation of Israel. I will not be going to a Synagogue for this (I've actually never been to a Synagogue service, in my recollection. My Jewish relatives are not very devout). I actually let it creep up on me, and didn't even take the day off of work, though I should have. It will also mark the day, I believe, of my 100th post. I think there is a landmark there, a finality.
I think with Yom Kippur, it has always felt like a very heavy holiday. Whereas Yom Teruah (Feast of Trumpets) is a celebratory feast, full of fellowship and fun, and passover, however intense, is my favorite holiday ever, Yom Kippur carries a strain with it, as though a weighty holiday, a dark one. Is that strange? It is the day of atonement? I think, perhaps, it felt like a duty. Like a failure meant that you were not atoned for the year, that you were cursed. It seems like so much more depends on obedience on this day, and there is no accompanying celebration. Perhaps fasts have always carried that somber disposition for me, as they seem... lonely. You can feast with friends, but fasting seems so solitary. Part of this stems from the passage in scripture where Christ says that if you fast, don't broadcast it. This was due, in large part, to the overzealous pride of the Pharisees in their good works. I do not think a collective fast is without merit.
I think this is a finish line, and hopefully a successful one. I've run a race, and though I did not win, did not, in fact, even do well, I'm still going to cross the line with dignity. I was the only one running this invented marathon, and the only one playing this imaginary game. I finished, and even though I know I lost, at least I tried. It was worth the try. I'm not sure what God has in store for me next. I only pray, with faith, God will lead me through unto green pastures beside still waters. Though perhaps I'm more ready for the spiritual warfare analogy right now than the lambs metaphor. My sword is sharpened, my shield lifted on wobbly arms, and I'm girded with truth. No weapon formed against me shall prosper? Sounds like a winning game.
The last time I attempted to celebrate Yom Kippur, I was out on a camping trip, and while walking and thinking (I was in the process of losing a friend, and processing that), I came upon some blackberries and mindlessly ate a whole bunch before realizing I was supposed to be fasting. I've managed a number of different fasts and find the meditative aspects and discipline of fasting useful for me in my faith. I have not, as yet, successfully celebrated Yom Kippur as a fast.
The day is considered to be the holiest day of the year for the Jewish peoples, although if you ask a Jewish person what the holiest holy day is, they may very well say "the Sabbath". It is the day where the entirety of God's people was atoned for, and was accompanied by much praying as the gravity of sin was upon the nation of Israel. I will not be going to a Synagogue for this (I've actually never been to a Synagogue service, in my recollection. My Jewish relatives are not very devout). I actually let it creep up on me, and didn't even take the day off of work, though I should have. It will also mark the day, I believe, of my 100th post. I think there is a landmark there, a finality.
I think with Yom Kippur, it has always felt like a very heavy holiday. Whereas Yom Teruah (Feast of Trumpets) is a celebratory feast, full of fellowship and fun, and passover, however intense, is my favorite holiday ever, Yom Kippur carries a strain with it, as though a weighty holiday, a dark one. Is that strange? It is the day of atonement? I think, perhaps, it felt like a duty. Like a failure meant that you were not atoned for the year, that you were cursed. It seems like so much more depends on obedience on this day, and there is no accompanying celebration. Perhaps fasts have always carried that somber disposition for me, as they seem... lonely. You can feast with friends, but fasting seems so solitary. Part of this stems from the passage in scripture where Christ says that if you fast, don't broadcast it. This was due, in large part, to the overzealous pride of the Pharisees in their good works. I do not think a collective fast is without merit.
I think this is a finish line, and hopefully a successful one. I've run a race, and though I did not win, did not, in fact, even do well, I'm still going to cross the line with dignity. I was the only one running this invented marathon, and the only one playing this imaginary game. I finished, and even though I know I lost, at least I tried. It was worth the try. I'm not sure what God has in store for me next. I only pray, with faith, God will lead me through unto green pastures beside still waters. Though perhaps I'm more ready for the spiritual warfare analogy right now than the lambs metaphor. My sword is sharpened, my shield lifted on wobbly arms, and I'm girded with truth. No weapon formed against me shall prosper? Sounds like a winning game.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Three Thunderstorms, Rosh Hashanah, Home to Home
Last night, another thunderstorm crossed over the hills where my parents live, this one by far the most frighteningly awe-inspiring. There is that edge, I think, to beauty sometimes. The beauty of the canyon, staring down over the precipice; the beauty of the spider or the panther, elegant in their predation; and in the volcano and depths of the ocean. The tension of safety and magnificence snatches our lungs and squeezes, and even in the thunderstorms, I felt a little of such. There was lightning like I've not seen since my childhood, too numerous for even calculating seconds between strikes, most of the time. One bolt struck not far uphill, less than a soccer field's distance away from my house, temporarily knocking out a street lamp. A fright possessed me, sitting with my nose to the screen and watching the cracks in the skyline. What if someone's house was struck? What if someone was hurt? I stayed up many hours, watching the lightning crackle and the thunder rumble, and listening to the rain tumbling down. I slept little and enjoyed myself immensely in the cradle of the valley, in the nook of the night.
Rosh Hashanah is the feast of trumpets and the Jewish new year. Rarely is a year's beginning so early in the Gregorian calendar. Unfortunately, I was in the wrong state to feast with friends, but I'll probably celebrate it in some capacity, regardless. (Matthew why you leave the country? Phil, why you at work?) I like the Jewish holy days. Especially the high holy days. Most people, often even Jews included, do not celebrate many of the Jewish holy days anymore (a land and temple thing, but also a parting from belief that the holy days are sacred). I'm not religiously Jewish, but I really appreciate the value in the appointments God prepared. Plus, they are always an occasion for a special celebration. A special appointment holy-day celebration ordained by God? Please and thank you.
And now, after a fantastic visit home, it is time to go home. With slightly more laden packs filled with new books, my heart is light and my drive looming. Goodbye beautiful forest backyard with its large maples and droopy pines, its jolly firs and wild blueberries, its garden and hills. I'll miss the nightly games, family dinners, and my charming closet of a room. Hasta luego, Redmond.
Rosh Hashanah is the feast of trumpets and the Jewish new year. Rarely is a year's beginning so early in the Gregorian calendar. Unfortunately, I was in the wrong state to feast with friends, but I'll probably celebrate it in some capacity, regardless. (Matthew why you leave the country? Phil, why you at work?) I like the Jewish holy days. Especially the high holy days. Most people, often even Jews included, do not celebrate many of the Jewish holy days anymore (a land and temple thing, but also a parting from belief that the holy days are sacred). I'm not religiously Jewish, but I really appreciate the value in the appointments God prepared. Plus, they are always an occasion for a special celebration. A special appointment holy-day celebration ordained by God? Please and thank you.
And now, after a fantastic visit home, it is time to go home. With slightly more laden packs filled with new books, my heart is light and my drive looming. Goodbye beautiful forest backyard with its large maples and droopy pines, its jolly firs and wild blueberries, its garden and hills. I'll miss the nightly games, family dinners, and my charming closet of a room. Hasta luego, Redmond.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Dichotomies
We love our dichotomies, our contrasts and comparisons. It is almost an inherent dualism, a study in black and white, light and dark, love and hate. Many favorite phrases in our languages are contrived on this principle. Look up any famous writer, rhetorician, or anyone with meaningful quotes, and swiftly you'll discover a dualistic quote of some sort:
The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it. ~ Einstein
Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company. ~ Mark Twain
Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. ~ Phil 4:6
We could write without these, but comparisons, metaphors, similes, dualisms, couplets - these are the strongest points of linguistics. Pictures through verbal tension. Verbal tension is one of the greatest tools of our language, the strings we tie around our readers fingers, drawing them in with promises and poetry. What is poetry but beautifully rendered comparisons and metaphoric linguistics? I'm simplifying things, of course. I often do so. Frequently, we invent our own clever metaphors and creative comparisons. I do. And when I do, I often beam at my ingenuity, pleased to have cleverly devised an artistic glass through which I can contemplate creation. It sounds right, it sounds perfect, it even sounds clever. Then, almost by accident, you stumble across someone with an equally clever witticism, reversed, and it, too, sounds valid, sound. Paradox, another piece of our cosmos that we hate and love because it draws us nearer as easily as it drives us away, drives us insane, or into faith.
-----
The pot of gold cheapens the rainbow.
Before the strength of man's conviction twisted the earth into a sphere, there was a village at the end of the world. Built into the basalt cliffs on the shores of earth's edge, it sat and watched and waited until such time as it was needed no more. The village had long past been named Rope, for that is what it guarded and waited upon. Or so the boy was told.
Down by the beach, waves still washed up against the shore from an ocean only paces wide, and a blackness lay beyond, deep and dark as before-time. At the furthest point of the beach, against the precipice of the world, an arm's length over the water into the great void, there was a rope, or a perhaps-string. It hung from the heavens, falling between the stars, and in neither night nor day could you see its end, but it shimmered as gossamer in the daylight, and as opals in the night, an ever-shifting glimmer of light. It was a single strand, and none in the village knew its purpose, many thinking it was simply a portion of the frayed edge of the world. Beneath the rope, on the barest edge of the shore, sat a boy. He was from the village, though it had been some time since he was of the village. He was forbidden to approach the string, but no matter the punishment or the confinement, the next morning he was always discovered on the beach once more, staring up at the gossamer thread.
It may have taken a year, a season, it may have taken only minutes, but the boy decided, eventually, the string was to be pulled. It was not fear that stayed his hands, not precisely, but the mysticism. Was it better imagining what might happen? If the stars might fall behind a curtain of night, or the sky itself collapse; or if the earth would become the heavens, the heavens the earth, and they might all traipse along island clouds, drifting along sky spume into an unblemished horizon, replete with salty stars. Would the angels corral in chorus to this world on the ringing of a bell, or demons rise from the gaping maws of hell? Would the world curl into a ball, like a giant rolypoly? Or would the world's edge be drawn back, and whole new lands unveiled to explore? What equally stayed the boy's hand were the disappointing outcomes he conjured in his imagination. What if nothing happened? Or what if the string itself fell, and disappeared off the edge of the world, and he could no longer gaze upon its illustrious glamour? What if it crumbled to ash in his hands? Perhaps it was a fear of a sort, but not of his fellow's punishing, but of an unforeseeable end.
It was wodensday, only a fortnight following fall’s blue moon, and the moon died tonight, only a pale sliver remaining. The waves were calmer tonight, softer, and a chill breeze forced the boy to cinch his scarf and tuck his hands deeper into his pockets. The rope drifted subtly, though not with the wind, and the boy imagined he could hear the tinkling that might draw the angels earthward to listen, like the gentle plucking of silver violin strings, high, and quieter than the crickets.
Was it time? He pulled his shaking hands from his pockets, feeling the wind against his trembling fingers, wrapping around each digit and pushing it towards the shimmering strand with gentle insistence. His hands hovered there, only a wrist-width away, too tentative to touch.
It might have been courage, though it was likely a clumsy motion that made him stumble forward and latch onto the rope. It was silken, but elastic, and strong as web. It stretched slightly as he fell forward onto it, hanging over the precipice of the world and staring down into bleak nothingness through the translucent waters of world’s end. An eternity of tiny moments he hung there, now clinging tightly onto the strand dangling over an impossible abyss. Then, without any lurching motion, the rope drifted higher into the sky, higher than the shrubs, higher than the houses against the cliffs so that the candle-lights in the windows looked like jack-o-lanterns or wisps inside glossy eyes. Above the hills he clung, until the walls and shores below became like golden and grey landscape snakes beneath him. He climbed up the rope a short ways, wrapping his legs around the strand with terrified fervor, though, in truth, he was more fascinated than frightened.
Alongside wispy clouds he floated, his clothes dampened by the foggy strands as the stars winked at him conspiratorially from above. Along the shores and into the hills, east, east towards dawn he was borne aloft. He stretched how his legs and imagined he was walking on the clouds, and from above he heard the singing of the winds, sweet as the songs of the angels. Over the hills and mountains along the spine of the world, rivers racing as the veins and arteries bringing life to the forests and living things. A volcano gaped is orange maw from beneath the boy, spewing its boiling fires from the underworld, and the mountains melted into valleys. Vineyards and grapes hugged the hillsides, and roads of hard-packed earth traced webs into the grasslands leading towards roads cobbled together with lime and quarry.
Down below the cities lights were fireflies, like the skies had fallen into the ground, and twinkled on a carpet of farmsteads and village homes of candles and fireplaces. The rope swooped nearer, and the boy glanced down into a city. On the still lively streets, lit by warm, yellow lantern-light and chimney-glow, a few faces gazed up into the sky and saw him, giving him a confused wave and pointing for their friends. Though the boy was whisked by, and stayed not long in place, sweeping over town like a falcon and soaring back into the sky on the updrafts of the night, back into the anonymity of the heavens.
Hours still, he drifted, his arms never tiring, his eyes never shutting as the world shifted past in twilight hues and crepuscular tides, until, at last, a dim fire flickered at the horizon like dragon’s flame and honeyed gazes.
As suddenly as he was raised, his descent began, and soon his toes touched the ground in a glade of maples and elms. Low grasses and thistledown crowned the glade in a fairy ring, the center of which was quartz, burning garnet with the dawn. Nymphs and fauns and dryads emerged from the tree-line and the fluting of pipes and the piping of flutes set their feet to caper and frolic and dance, a sonata to sunrise played by the early birds and the fa of the forest. And the boy danced, and danced, and when a girl floated into the circle and danced beside him, he clasped her hands and danced some more, until he could dance no more.
When he awoke, they lay, she and he, on the beach by the sea on the edge of dreams on the world’s final beach. Worried, still clasping her hand, he glanced up, fearful of what he might see. The sun warmed his neck as he stared up into the rainbow beauty of two gossamer strings, drifting against the sea breeze, singing the song of dawn.
The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it. ~ Einstein
Go to Heaven for the climate, Hell for the company. ~ Mark Twain
Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. ~ Phil 4:6
We could write without these, but comparisons, metaphors, similes, dualisms, couplets - these are the strongest points of linguistics. Pictures through verbal tension. Verbal tension is one of the greatest tools of our language, the strings we tie around our readers fingers, drawing them in with promises and poetry. What is poetry but beautifully rendered comparisons and metaphoric linguistics? I'm simplifying things, of course. I often do so. Frequently, we invent our own clever metaphors and creative comparisons. I do. And when I do, I often beam at my ingenuity, pleased to have cleverly devised an artistic glass through which I can contemplate creation. It sounds right, it sounds perfect, it even sounds clever. Then, almost by accident, you stumble across someone with an equally clever witticism, reversed, and it, too, sounds valid, sound. Paradox, another piece of our cosmos that we hate and love because it draws us nearer as easily as it drives us away, drives us insane, or into faith.
-----
The pot of gold cheapens the rainbow.
Before the strength of man's conviction twisted the earth into a sphere, there was a village at the end of the world. Built into the basalt cliffs on the shores of earth's edge, it sat and watched and waited until such time as it was needed no more. The village had long past been named Rope, for that is what it guarded and waited upon. Or so the boy was told.
Down by the beach, waves still washed up against the shore from an ocean only paces wide, and a blackness lay beyond, deep and dark as before-time. At the furthest point of the beach, against the precipice of the world, an arm's length over the water into the great void, there was a rope, or a perhaps-string. It hung from the heavens, falling between the stars, and in neither night nor day could you see its end, but it shimmered as gossamer in the daylight, and as opals in the night, an ever-shifting glimmer of light. It was a single strand, and none in the village knew its purpose, many thinking it was simply a portion of the frayed edge of the world. Beneath the rope, on the barest edge of the shore, sat a boy. He was from the village, though it had been some time since he was of the village. He was forbidden to approach the string, but no matter the punishment or the confinement, the next morning he was always discovered on the beach once more, staring up at the gossamer thread.
It may have taken a year, a season, it may have taken only minutes, but the boy decided, eventually, the string was to be pulled. It was not fear that stayed his hands, not precisely, but the mysticism. Was it better imagining what might happen? If the stars might fall behind a curtain of night, or the sky itself collapse; or if the earth would become the heavens, the heavens the earth, and they might all traipse along island clouds, drifting along sky spume into an unblemished horizon, replete with salty stars. Would the angels corral in chorus to this world on the ringing of a bell, or demons rise from the gaping maws of hell? Would the world curl into a ball, like a giant rolypoly? Or would the world's edge be drawn back, and whole new lands unveiled to explore? What equally stayed the boy's hand were the disappointing outcomes he conjured in his imagination. What if nothing happened? Or what if the string itself fell, and disappeared off the edge of the world, and he could no longer gaze upon its illustrious glamour? What if it crumbled to ash in his hands? Perhaps it was a fear of a sort, but not of his fellow's punishing, but of an unforeseeable end.
It was wodensday, only a fortnight following fall’s blue moon, and the moon died tonight, only a pale sliver remaining. The waves were calmer tonight, softer, and a chill breeze forced the boy to cinch his scarf and tuck his hands deeper into his pockets. The rope drifted subtly, though not with the wind, and the boy imagined he could hear the tinkling that might draw the angels earthward to listen, like the gentle plucking of silver violin strings, high, and quieter than the crickets.
Was it time? He pulled his shaking hands from his pockets, feeling the wind against his trembling fingers, wrapping around each digit and pushing it towards the shimmering strand with gentle insistence. His hands hovered there, only a wrist-width away, too tentative to touch.
It might have been courage, though it was likely a clumsy motion that made him stumble forward and latch onto the rope. It was silken, but elastic, and strong as web. It stretched slightly as he fell forward onto it, hanging over the precipice of the world and staring down into bleak nothingness through the translucent waters of world’s end. An eternity of tiny moments he hung there, now clinging tightly onto the strand dangling over an impossible abyss. Then, without any lurching motion, the rope drifted higher into the sky, higher than the shrubs, higher than the houses against the cliffs so that the candle-lights in the windows looked like jack-o-lanterns or wisps inside glossy eyes. Above the hills he clung, until the walls and shores below became like golden and grey landscape snakes beneath him. He climbed up the rope a short ways, wrapping his legs around the strand with terrified fervor, though, in truth, he was more fascinated than frightened.
Alongside wispy clouds he floated, his clothes dampened by the foggy strands as the stars winked at him conspiratorially from above. Along the shores and into the hills, east, east towards dawn he was borne aloft. He stretched how his legs and imagined he was walking on the clouds, and from above he heard the singing of the winds, sweet as the songs of the angels. Over the hills and mountains along the spine of the world, rivers racing as the veins and arteries bringing life to the forests and living things. A volcano gaped is orange maw from beneath the boy, spewing its boiling fires from the underworld, and the mountains melted into valleys. Vineyards and grapes hugged the hillsides, and roads of hard-packed earth traced webs into the grasslands leading towards roads cobbled together with lime and quarry.
Down below the cities lights were fireflies, like the skies had fallen into the ground, and twinkled on a carpet of farmsteads and village homes of candles and fireplaces. The rope swooped nearer, and the boy glanced down into a city. On the still lively streets, lit by warm, yellow lantern-light and chimney-glow, a few faces gazed up into the sky and saw him, giving him a confused wave and pointing for their friends. Though the boy was whisked by, and stayed not long in place, sweeping over town like a falcon and soaring back into the sky on the updrafts of the night, back into the anonymity of the heavens.
Hours still, he drifted, his arms never tiring, his eyes never shutting as the world shifted past in twilight hues and crepuscular tides, until, at last, a dim fire flickered at the horizon like dragon’s flame and honeyed gazes.
As suddenly as he was raised, his descent began, and soon his toes touched the ground in a glade of maples and elms. Low grasses and thistledown crowned the glade in a fairy ring, the center of which was quartz, burning garnet with the dawn. Nymphs and fauns and dryads emerged from the tree-line and the fluting of pipes and the piping of flutes set their feet to caper and frolic and dance, a sonata to sunrise played by the early birds and the fa of the forest. And the boy danced, and danced, and when a girl floated into the circle and danced beside him, he clasped her hands and danced some more, until he could dance no more.
When he awoke, they lay, she and he, on the beach by the sea on the edge of dreams on the world’s final beach. Worried, still clasping her hand, he glanced up, fearful of what he might see. The sun warmed his neck as he stared up into the rainbow beauty of two gossamer strings, drifting against the sea breeze, singing the song of dawn.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Everything is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer
She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.
- Everything is Illuminated
Having just finished Everything is Illuminated, I figured it was time I considered it, briefly. The tale itself is psychological - nothing of great import happens, and everything of any importance comes to pass. What is illuminated? Ah, everything is illuminated. There is much sadness, and a continual examination of the hole of love and memory in our spirits, and how that affects the present. We're drawn into the memories of the characters as a sixth sense, much like the Jewish members of Trachimbrod possess. I think the most fascinating part of this novel is the tricky way in which it deceives you into believing that Jonathan is the hero. Right from the beginning, Alex refers to Jonathan as the tale's protagonist, its hero. But, as you find out, Jonathan is merely along for the ride in helping Alex discover his courage, his identity, his determination to develop memories of beautiful things, his desire for positive change.
During some of Alex's letters, he asks Jonathan if he couldn't just create a better world, since it is a fiction, and let Saffran love the gipsy girl, or allot Brod happiness and love. Alex has a dream, an American dream, of moving with his little brother away from his violent father, and starting fresh. Throughout the story and following the Augustine chronology, Alex sends letters to Jonathan and develops into a stronger, more courageous character. It was craftily done, and though it is not my favorite novel, I think it grants some insight into character development and the different ways that is managed, as well as providing a window into the author's soul. There is something here we can glean about his view of the human condition, no?
There was also a little part in Everything is Illuminated that reminded me of the beginning scene of Amelie. There is something strange and moving about how he says it, the section on sexual intimacy creating lights and electricity, if enough loving is collected in once place. It is a strange novel, but, I think, a good one. I'm still digesting it.
I had more to say, but I'm *all* the exhausted. Definitely a good time for sleeping.
What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little.
- Everything is Illuminated
Having just finished Everything is Illuminated, I figured it was time I considered it, briefly. The tale itself is psychological - nothing of great import happens, and everything of any importance comes to pass. What is illuminated? Ah, everything is illuminated. There is much sadness, and a continual examination of the hole of love and memory in our spirits, and how that affects the present. We're drawn into the memories of the characters as a sixth sense, much like the Jewish members of Trachimbrod possess. I think the most fascinating part of this novel is the tricky way in which it deceives you into believing that Jonathan is the hero. Right from the beginning, Alex refers to Jonathan as the tale's protagonist, its hero. But, as you find out, Jonathan is merely along for the ride in helping Alex discover his courage, his identity, his determination to develop memories of beautiful things, his desire for positive change.
During some of Alex's letters, he asks Jonathan if he couldn't just create a better world, since it is a fiction, and let Saffran love the gipsy girl, or allot Brod happiness and love. Alex has a dream, an American dream, of moving with his little brother away from his violent father, and starting fresh. Throughout the story and following the Augustine chronology, Alex sends letters to Jonathan and develops into a stronger, more courageous character. It was craftily done, and though it is not my favorite novel, I think it grants some insight into character development and the different ways that is managed, as well as providing a window into the author's soul. There is something here we can glean about his view of the human condition, no?
There was also a little part in Everything is Illuminated that reminded me of the beginning scene of Amelie. There is something strange and moving about how he says it, the section on sexual intimacy creating lights and electricity, if enough loving is collected in once place. It is a strange novel, but, I think, a good one. I'm still digesting it.
I had more to say, but I'm *all* the exhausted. Definitely a good time for sleeping.
What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Betwixt the Paths
I used to be tragically shy, the kind of child hiding behind his mother's legs, whimpering and crying to go home. During these times, I harbored within all my thoughts. When asked about my day, I explained, perfunctorily, each of the necessary events without associated thoughts. In high school, the limited pool of students in the preppy school meant that I was swiftly relegated into the unpopular sphere of social strata. I did not climb clear of that then, for my relationships in-school were kept at careful distance. I said enough to prevent my abuse, for bullies found my small size easy pickings. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not.
But as I changed the rules; the game changed me. In college, I eventually learned (through persistent roommates and friends) to shed my skin, entire. I rarely did, but occasionally, when it suited me, I unloaded my heart unto those willing listeners, asking for assistance and guidance. I valued their opinions in lieu of my own. I'd not yet understood the golden means, the Aristotelian balance of valuing my own experience in measure with that of others.
Then, the most recent game, the game that stretched my everything, the trial of tears, triumph, and terror. With every day, the game's parameters changed, the strategy and purposes changed, all in dicey whimsy. Everything was in a flux, and I rolled through my experience in a regressive fashion: telling no one anything, telling everyone everything and following their rules, trying a balance, and cycling around again and again. I listened to advice even though it was my game, and as I changed, bent, broke, remade, burned through rules and transformed the game in a chaotic evolution, I realized I was defeating myself. It was my game, and the only true opponent I faced was myself. I've long assumed the belief that the only person I struggle to beat, given enough persistence and motivation, is myself. No matter how advanced my strategy, I always find ways to foil my own stratagem.
I've re-learned much in this game. I've learned and relearned these things all my life, and I suspect I will never stop learning them. I've learned to listen and to sequester my feelings in their appropriate times and places. I've learned to fail, and stand back up. I've learned to hope and believe when in a dark valley. I've learned to pray for others when I'm suffering. I've learned to love others all the more, knowing that we are all humans here. I've learned how necessary praise is in the brightest of places and in the darkest. I've learned thankfulness and kindness. I've relearned all these things and more, betwixt the paths.
This actually is not where I was originally going.... pending...
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