Something in the lacklustre light, the chai tea seeping into my marrow, the morning lethargy of this coffee shop, transforms this dawning day into a poetry and "thoughts organization" day.
I was going to transform this one into a story, because it has a melancholy aspect that I suspect might make a tragic tale with, perhaps, a heartwarming (or devastating) end.
Rain pitter-pats down the roof
A faucet taps an equal tune
In a room where a carefully constrained fire coughed with the old man
Sitting in the rocking seat
Each dying of consumption.
Trophies mounted along log walls
Glazed eyes glaring down
Matching his now vacant stare
Remembering times both wild and strong, once unlike that old man
Staring there, past nowhere
Just sitting, listening now
Watching the dying fire.
---------------------------------------------------------
A floaty composition. Not so much a story as a dreamy compilation of words.
A dirge of footprints, en passant
Sorrow-filled, awash with want
Lamenting distant days and daydreams
Tie your hands tight to balloon strings
And sail away
Through stormy days and sunbreaks
Past sleet and rain and jet planes
Still racing on
Passing people holding hands, sharing smiles
Then waving, waving
Down below the city’s lights
Are fireflies
Mimicking the heavens
Dreaming stars in silken radiance
Floating on
Bursting bubbles, shifting sands
Falling falling
To fields of goldenrod and thistledown
Drifting round
Taxi
Beneath cherry blossoms and midnight moon
A dance, a song, a distant tune
(unedited, but finished)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Yet the leaves drift with the wind
Iron bleeds in the soil here
A distant fear's great debts
Bought and paid in a crimson age
A soldier's high priced gift
Are they but men, our heroes dear?
Serving freedom you blithely wear
Iron seeps in the soil here
Yet the leaves drift with the wind
(unfinished - two incomplete stanzas)
----------------------------------------------------------------------
These last few days, my muse has been overactive in artistic contemplation. However, despite the absurd influx of ideas, everything has been stymied in a frenzy of life activity, disorganization, an over-enthused escalation of summer plans that has asphyxiated my attention to detail. Here are some things I wanted to write about: legos and the creative process; competition and its evolution; the great romance of the seas; Esther; and the Night Circus; Gambits and stories (Notebook, Ocean's Eleven, Fantastic Mr. Fox). I think there were a few more, even, but ideas often fall by the wayside. I'm certain I've captured at least a few in a journaling capacity.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending
As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.
In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities. Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.
---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.
Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Now I'll go to sleep.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.
In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities. Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.
---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.
Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Now I'll go to sleep.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Old Spontaneity and Taxing Mondays
Some days cost more than others, and, when finished, I just want to run out into the sun and capture its rejuvenating rays. It was a day steeped in memories, without occasion for fully fleshing them out. I often wish writing was my current vocation, though I've much practice remaining before such time.
Following work, I biked to Freddies, grabbed a bunch of veggies, and biked home to make a vegetable-medley curry. No one was home, so while I ate, I played a solitaire game of bananagrams.
I could probably play that forever and it might never get old. (though I did make one mistake: qiut is not quit)
~Storybook Princess~
Once upon a time, I fell in love with a princess
Not for her tresses, or dresses or wealth
Not for her smiles, perfect and white
Nor for sweet silence, beneath perfect starlight
Nay, though I’d love these, and more I am sure
But this storybook princess I never quite saw
For she lived in a tale, a world of her own
Lonely and sad, beautiful but alone
Surrounded by suitors, greedy and insane
Desiring her beauty, wealth or her name
Yet I fell in love with the words that she said
The air that she breathed, the paths that she tread
Some strange sort of magic, made of love and divine
Carried her words from her world into mine
And my world into hers as I read her sweet tale
As she scorned every suitor, even princes did fail
Every night by candlelight I dreamed in her land
Adventures we’d have, across warm desert sands
Forests and seas, clasping our hands
Always hoping and praying this night may not end
I fall fast asleep book cradled in arms
Praying she slept, my words cradled in heart
Until one fateful day, dream we gained what we sought
To come close together and never need part
--------------------------------------------
I wrote this poem years ago, when I wrote an amusing personal essay on something literary or other. I remember thinking, why would I fall in love with a princess when I could fall in love with a librarian or an explorer (I'll probably marry Carmen Sandiego when I find her - I suspect that name is really just an alias for Irene Adler, though). I was going through my old poetry, and thought this one charming. It fits in nicely with the thematic elements of the book I'm reading. (I'm no poet, so forgive its lack of artistic merit)
Right now, all of my reading is geared towards my next piece. I was considering, at first, writing a mythos, but I'm contemplating something a bit out of my comfort zone: a mystery. I used to love watching mystery shows with my mother, even when they scared me as a child: Perry Mason, Matlock, Diagnosis Murder (the scary one of the three). I love the Sherlockian method wherein, through intellect and careful study of relevant information, a solution is intuited, however unlikely. I considered, after reading this poem (which is why it's here, however embarassing), whether I might consider writing a piece like the hallowed hunt - a mystery set in a fantasy world.
I also considered writing a piece in chapter snippets, like the Count of Monte Cristo, and every day for NaNoWriMo just publishing that day's snippet here. I'm excited, though. Another entry, full of digressions. Maybe this justifies more sleep.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
All over the place and nowhere useful (+Ragnorak Editing)
It was a silent weekend, perhaps a necessary one. I went on a walk, biked around a while, wrote at a small park where a small stream ran past a couple of picnic tables and a candy purple playground. Every other weekend until early September contains at least one wedding event, so the relaxation should compose me - but all I wanted was another delightful wedding.
I woke up early, wrote later into twilight than desired, played soccer with a boisterous bunch, visited some coffee shops for tea, writing, and reading, went to church, talked on the phone to distant friends, talked on skype to other distant friends, watched a show with roommates, picked roommate and his girlfriend up at the airport - all this, and I felt like nothing happened. I'm ready for a weekend adventure: backpacking, hiking in the woods, weddings, climbing a mountain, kayaking down a river with friends, canoeing on a lake, more soccer. Sometimes it feels like, what with the weddings and general busyness, everyone's lives are leaving me behind, so they've no time for stories anymore. I always want time for stories.
Today's sermon was on the topic of fear, something which everyone, at some juncture, interacts with: anxiety, stress, panic attacks and so on. With the amount of times God says: "do not be afraid" or "be anxious for nothing", one might expect Christians would possess greater skill against these debilitating psychological foes. Often, we do not. I don't consider myself an anxious person. Work is friendly, my friends are kind, even intense social situations often don't stress me out so much as making me step back, and evaluate from a different vantage.
There are some things that I do fear, one of which I even ran away from this very weekend. I'm still working those out. I remember as a kid dealing with fear as though I was a protagonist in a fairy tale. Nothing could really hurt me (this is not a Game of Thrones tale), as I knew the hero of the story would prevail in the end. You'd think I'd be a fearless child with that, but I was quite shy of people. I felt like it wasn't the hero's lot to die, but he could be tortured by uncomfortable scenarios. I suppose it is safe to say that once in a trial, I felt less fear than before. That's often the truth of things though, isn't it? Sometimes, the unknowing is the most intimidating portion. It's amazing how mystery can be both unnerving and fantastic. In the case of the northern lights, which I saw just a while past, I find myself more fascinated by the mystery of the event than the knowing. But other things, darkness, public speaking, spiders under the bed - the unnerving unknowing can be more frightening than the thing itself.
Just another throwaway post, huh? I'm well beyond the tl;dr portion of this mental surgery. I'm in that stupor before sleep, that unsleeping dreamy territory well before true unconsciousness. I should stop, while I'm behind.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I woke up early, wrote later into twilight than desired, played soccer with a boisterous bunch, visited some coffee shops for tea, writing, and reading, went to church, talked on the phone to distant friends, talked on skype to other distant friends, watched a show with roommates, picked roommate and his girlfriend up at the airport - all this, and I felt like nothing happened. I'm ready for a weekend adventure: backpacking, hiking in the woods, weddings, climbing a mountain, kayaking down a river with friends, canoeing on a lake, more soccer. Sometimes it feels like, what with the weddings and general busyness, everyone's lives are leaving me behind, so they've no time for stories anymore. I always want time for stories.
Today's sermon was on the topic of fear, something which everyone, at some juncture, interacts with: anxiety, stress, panic attacks and so on. With the amount of times God says: "do not be afraid" or "be anxious for nothing", one might expect Christians would possess greater skill against these debilitating psychological foes. Often, we do not. I don't consider myself an anxious person. Work is friendly, my friends are kind, even intense social situations often don't stress me out so much as making me step back, and evaluate from a different vantage.
There are some things that I do fear, one of which I even ran away from this very weekend. I'm still working those out. I remember as a kid dealing with fear as though I was a protagonist in a fairy tale. Nothing could really hurt me (this is not a Game of Thrones tale), as I knew the hero of the story would prevail in the end. You'd think I'd be a fearless child with that, but I was quite shy of people. I felt like it wasn't the hero's lot to die, but he could be tortured by uncomfortable scenarios. I suppose it is safe to say that once in a trial, I felt less fear than before. That's often the truth of things though, isn't it? Sometimes, the unknowing is the most intimidating portion. It's amazing how mystery can be both unnerving and fantastic. In the case of the northern lights, which I saw just a while past, I find myself more fascinated by the mystery of the event than the knowing. But other things, darkness, public speaking, spiders under the bed - the unnerving unknowing can be more frightening than the thing itself.
Just another throwaway post, huh? I'm well beyond the tl;dr portion of this mental surgery. I'm in that stupor before sleep, that unsleeping dreamy territory well before true unconsciousness. I should stop, while I'm behind.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mid-height and not a penny more, with a penny-colored nest of hair, and penny eyes, and he wasn't worth scarce a penny in a fight. Yet it was this man who threatened the world with apocalypse. This man, with eyeglasses precariously perched on nose, fingertips pattering as raindrops across a keyboard, was about to destroy the world in a flood, a flood of media silence. Discarded pizza boxes and crumpled soda cans carpeted, and stained, the floor. Jak’s only focus was the computer screens, the array of eight screens, on which highlighted code scrolled in tropical-candy colors on a black background as Jak prepared his worm, the greatest worm of all time. He called the program Jörmungandr, and tonight it was ready.
It was genius, he suspected, a titanic achievement. It systematically destroyed media outlets from the highest level down, leaving all vital functionality until the end such that each increasing level of chaos was captured perfectly as phones, television, radio, and eventually the internet itself disappeared in a whisper, and the world erupted in a bang. His finger hovered over the button from whence Armageddon would commence. It was the ultimate prank, he thought with a wicked grin, his ultimate prank. The world would remember him for this, oh certainly, if they ever found out who did it.
He pressed the button.
An ancient wood hides from searching eyes, under the sea. Eldritch and petrified, it still silent sits, shamelessly pacified. Before Atlantis was even dreamed, a glade formed inside spherical reef, a punishment, eternal grief. The water hung at neck level, always neck level, clear as a mirror. Grapes and ambrosia hovered scarcely out of reach, his fingertips brushing the leaves on his highest leaps. The glade was edenic, full of crystal waters and abundant fruits, though he despised its… tantalizing, elusive deceit.
The almost god still reached when the branches swooped close, still dipped his head for a drink, and the fruit and waters receded. Famished, agonizingly parched, the ab-god waited, not patient, not passively. The bowels of the earth, hell and hades, were not his alone. Another’s anguish resonated from the deeps, troubling the earth in violent sweeps.
But today, while the fire in his gut seethed in unremitting pain, a great power hurricaned through the glade, blasting the ab-god from his feet. A great light, an aura of flashing pain struck him in his temples, and he saw:
A cavern, pitch and drab, pockmarked with caustic holes. Around a great stalactite was wrapped an eternal serpent, mouth hissing wide and dripping with sizzling venom. Beneath, on a circular platform lay a god on an altar, bound in entrails beneath the serpent. From above, the serpent’s venom dripped towards his face, only impeded by a tiny, ceramic bowl, held by a silent, patient woman. The god cursed the woman, and still she faithfully protected his face, until the bowl was filled and she carried it to the edge and spilled it into the vast, cavern depths.
And suddenly, the cave rippled with power, and the god’s eyes widened with surprise. In a sudden feat of strength, the entrails were snapped apart, and the god was in the cavern no more.
When the ab-god awoke in his glade, he was not alone. Another stood in the water beside him, bowl in hand. The god proffered him the bowl with a broad, mischievous smile. The bowl was filled with water, and for a bowl of water, the ab-god would have sold his very soul.
Au Clair de la Lune --or-- Dreams in Aquamarine
I slept in until 7 today… well done circadian rhythm. Or something. Figured with a few hours until church, I may as well write. I usually do all my writing at night, so this may turn out disastrous. This story does not carry my sentiment – I love, love, love fall and it’s colors. And I lovelovelove the sea and it’s briny smell and everything. I just copied this over from journal into virtual, with very little editing. I do know that it needs it. Hopefully the typos are not miserable, and that you soon sea the puns not abysmal (hahaha – too funny). I think I stretched every single description in this story for the sake of using lousy oceanic diction. In due course, this story may be a shipwreck. (I so desperately wanted to say on the last one, "just wait, there's moore", but that was a stretch, even for me). Neither of the titles above refer to this story which has but a pending title. Besides, I cheated with the last line, so.... maybe I should just title it: "young man and the sea" and make another reference.
------------------------------------------------------------------
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
------------------------------------------------------------------
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Sea Summons
For M- (not Matthew) - May you find home soon, or love. Or perhaps these are the same coin.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, pushing open the swivel doors into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
to be continued...and edited.... and fixed....
--------roiling, spume
**Notes:
- turn away
- catcalls
- definitions and detachment
- distance a la lounge?
- lighting
- smells
(other messing around)
The trees are foreign, though perhaps everything was these days. His station wagon trundled down the winding hills, and though a town approached - he could always feel a town approaching, now - he saw nothing save the aspens and the pines. His was a nomadic life, as late, wandering from town to town, state to state, in a desperate plea for home. Each town was but a different name for heartbreak, growing about his heart like poison ivy.
Now? Now he just needed a place to weed out his brokenness. The loneliness already gnawed at his guts. As his station wagon hurtled down the hill, he knew this was his last attempt, for even if his heart was strong enough, his transportation was not. He could almost smell it: the town. There was another entrance, of that he was certain. He approached it obliquely, coy and coquettish, and the town loomed heavy upon him. As he turned a corner on the hill, he caught his first glimpse, hundreds of feet below, a new world of chimneys, greenery, vineyards, farmsteads and cottages, clustered as they neared the village center.
And then the trees regrouped, hedging out his view once more so he wondered whether it might have been but a phantom whimsy. It was beautiful, a glen of green and cozy cottages. He'd even imagined a forest distant, and a great river running through it.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, pushing open the swivel doors into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
to be continued...and edited.... and fixed....
--------roiling, spume
**Notes:
- turn away
- catcalls
- definitions and detachment
- distance a la lounge?
- lighting
- smells
(other messing around)
The trees are foreign, though perhaps everything was these days. His station wagon trundled down the winding hills, and though a town approached - he could always feel a town approaching, now - he saw nothing save the aspens and the pines. His was a nomadic life, as late, wandering from town to town, state to state, in a desperate plea for home. Each town was but a different name for heartbreak, growing about his heart like poison ivy.
Now? Now he just needed a place to weed out his brokenness. The loneliness already gnawed at his guts. As his station wagon hurtled down the hill, he knew this was his last attempt, for even if his heart was strong enough, his transportation was not. He could almost smell it: the town. There was another entrance, of that he was certain. He approached it obliquely, coy and coquettish, and the town loomed heavy upon him. As he turned a corner on the hill, he caught his first glimpse, hundreds of feet below, a new world of chimneys, greenery, vineyards, farmsteads and cottages, clustered as they neared the village center.
And then the trees regrouped, hedging out his view once more so he wondered whether it might have been but a phantom whimsy. It was beautiful, a glen of green and cozy cottages. He'd even imagined a forest distant, and a great river running through it.
My Hope is in the Lord
Zephaniah 3:17 The LORD your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; he will rejoice over you with gladness; he will quiet you by his love; he will exult over you with loud singing.
Shabbat Shalom, everyone. I admit that, sometimes, the busyness of life prevents me from taking needed Sabbath breaks. "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath." I used to believe this meant that as long as we *could* keep going, Sabbath wasn't requisite. This is true, in some sense. But if you ask any authentic Jewish man what the most sacred of holidays is, he won't answer Pesach (Passover) or Yom Kippur (the day of Atonement), or Rosh Hashanah (feast of trumpets), but the Sabbath. It was the first holy day, set apart from the dawn of creation.
Another interesting point is that "holy day" and the word for "festivals" in the Bible can be translated appointment. I was reading an interesting book on Messianics (Jewish Christians), and it mentioned how the festivals and holy days were greater than simply vacations from work, they were, and are for many Jews still, appointments with God. And the Sabbath is the greatest of these. I wouldn't miss a dentist appointment, or a doctor's appointment, or even an appointment for a phone call, but, many weeks, I so blithely ignore an appointment with God? I go to Church, I read my Bible, I philosophize about theoretical Christianity, and, when possible, I try to share my beliefs, but there is something intrinsically fantastic about an appointment with God.
I'll explain it this way. I'm something of an introvert. 5 years ago, when taking the Meyer Briggs test, I scored over 90% in all my categories, one of which was introversion. Years later, my score has dropped more towards the median point, a bit, but suffice it to say that shyness understates my original introversion. I was downright petrified of group situations. So in Church, the times I most feared were greeting times. A whole bunch of smiling faces mingling and sharing tiny tidbits of their lives - not my favored activity. It was almost a nightmare. (this has all changed to some degree) Once I started talking to any individual, I immediately felt more comfortable, as if I'd entered into a zone of communication, and fenced off outside elements. So yes, stamp me an introvert and ship me into a corner with a book.
In the same way, giant group Bible studies and open-speaking scenarios frighten me. I'd rather talk to individuals, small groups (small = 2-3). I'd rather interact with people on a personal level, so why not God? I like the idea of Sabbath because I can choose a personal appointment with God, I can meet with God with friends, I can rest in a meditative contemplation of a divine who has tucked me under his wings, congratulating me for a week well done.
There aren't many weeks where I'm destroyed by the end. My job is gentle, and I've time in my life on the side for writing, reading, playing in the great outdoors, friends, and so on. But I still desire a specific time where I can rest, Sabbath, in the Lord. I can appoint a time where it's Yeshua and I. And when the week is tough, and there appears to be no path of escape, no solution for problems, no winning an intractable situation, God speaks those words from Zephaniah into my ear. And then I always hear my favorite verse: "Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near." (NASB)
Let your hope rest on the Lord, He is near. Shabbat Shalom.
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