Aspiring to be what I aspire to be.

Destreza and Me: In which we discuss the value in knowing how to dance (or knowing how to move your feet around in any way other than walking).

2010-01-22T18:24:00.000-08:00

A lot of you may know that my two biggest fears have always been spiders and dancing. I'm starting to regret never overcoming the latter. It seems as though a little dancing experience would make my fencing footwork a little smoother. I'm apparently a fairly clumsy and uncoordinated person (go figure!).

The only thing I've ever practiced that forced me to move my feet in strange and awkward ways was tennis, and it's been years since I've played. Learning to fence means, first and foremost, learning to keep your balance centered. We've been going over the footwork a lot in class and, so far, it's proved to be my biggest challenge.

Of course it's also the key component in keeping your organs intact and unperforated, so the practice is certainly important.

An interesting facet of Destreza is its mathematical foundation. Its seems the Spanish really systematized swordplay using geometric theory and other science "stuff" (that's about the best explanation my right-brain dominance can give). Camillo Agrippa, an Italian architect and engineer, set a lot of the groundwork for this and his work was recently translated into English.

The stuff we are being taught in our class is the later Spanish works. They're being translated by Mary Curtis (the wife of my instructor, Puck Curtis).

Anyway, we moved on to some attack and parry drills after the footwork. I was paired with Tyson who is a bit taller and a bit larger than me, so it was interesting having to adjust some of my foot-work in order to hit him. My biggest challenge is going to be my reach disadvantage. There's some fancy stepping I can use in order to compensate for this though, so in reality it's just going make me that much more badass.

Here's a short clip of one my instructors, Puck Curtis, fencing at the Western Martial Arts Workshop (he's the one on the left). If I'm not mistaken, it's the same bout that he mentioned in my SNR interview with them and shows a shorter fighter going up against a taller one:

Here's one of my other instructor, Eric Myers (it's sabre, which i'm not learning, but still really cool) He's also on the left:

Before you ask, we don't wear period clothes in our classes.

Well I better get going. Hope you find all this as interesting as I do. Also, don't be afraid of the linked reading material. There's nothing wrong with a little learning.

Destreza and Me (and you too if you're reading this).

2010-01-14T17:12:00.000-08:00

About a month ago I interviewed a couple local guys who run a fencing school here in town. It was a lot of fun. I learned what it means to be a Maestro in the fencing world, the differences between classical and "sport" fencing, and heard some stories about some pretty awesome historical figures. I also came away with about an hour and a half of recording which I ultimately had to condense down to that "15 Minute" piece for the News and Review.

The only problem with the whole experience was that they let me hold a sword. And wear a fencing mask with gauntlets. And swing said sword at an actual living person (albeit a suitably protected one).

Before I knew it I found myself searching Wikipedia for more information about classical fencing, specifically Iberian fencing. I was reading translations of old fencing manuals and flirting with the idea of starting an account on the sword forums. I stopped making fun of my friend Tyson (who got me into this mess in the first place) and actually starting asking him more about swords and history and various 16th and 17th century fencing masters. I even started pricing the class and the equipment and asking Lucy if we had anything really pressing to do on Thursday evenings (I can watch Fringe on Hulu, after all).

During college, my best kept secret was that I really liked swords and castles and knights. I wrote my fantasy stories alone in my dorm room at night and pretended I was "cool" during the day. After all, that stuff didn't get me very far in High School. College meant I could be anybody I (thought) I wanted.

I've since grown more comfortable in my own skin and, over the past few years (much to Lucy's dismay, as she slowly realizes the extent of my lies) I've been letting my geek flag fly higher, inch by inch.

I'm reasonably certain that Eric and Puck (the Maestros) knew exactly what they were doing when they handed me the sword that evening. They probably took one look at me when I walked in the room and said to themselves: "Oh yeah, this guy definitely read a lot of fantasy when he was a kid. He probably even has a secret Dungeons and Dragons game on the weekends."

So, to make a long story short, I'm now taking an Iberian fencing class on Thursday nights where I too will learn how to use a sword so that, if need be, I can someday defend my life and/or honor. Or my family from zombies.

Anyway, in all seriousness, I'm excited about this whole thing. It's like getting a history lesson every week and learning a fun skillset. The instructors are extremely intelligent and love what they do. The syllabus they're teaching out of is one they are actually translating themselves from the original Spanish, so it really gives the feeling of being a part of an ongoing research project.

I'm going to be blogging about it more, so stay tuned. It's about damn time this site had some direction anyway.

"I....am not left-handed."

Drowsy Mornings

2009-12-08T13:21:00.000-08:00

     I felt like a shitty dad this morning. Lola waking up every couple hours has our nerves frayed even though we know it's because her gums hurt or itch and she's just so uncomfortable. But then waking up in the middle of the night with her screaming just made me feel so stressed and I cussed and Lucy held her, trying her best to be patient also.
     So I put my head back on my pillow after the screaming subsided, feeling like an asshole, and looked at my daughter. She was laying with her head on Lucy's chest, just looking at me with her big red eyes. Sort of hiccuping as she drifted back to sleep. My heart broke a little bit.
     Then later, after Lucy went to work and Lola woke up again, I laid her on my own chest and just felt her breathing, trying to get comfortable. Her little face twisting back and forth, deciding which side felt better.
   When she started stirring again an hour or so later I braced myself for some more tears. Instead she sort of propped herself up on my chest, looked me in the eye and gave me a big toothless grin.
     We played for a while and I changed her and took her to her little bouncer in the living room. She watched as I bummed around the apartment, trying to clear the morning fog. Every time I looked back she'd give me the same grin and bounce a little harder.
     I think she forgives me...

Pretty cool.

2009-05-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

It looks better in print.

New Comic

2009-05-23T13:15:00.000-07:00

Suckers. I found that baby.

Take advantage of every opportunity...

2009-04-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Apparently my right side is my chubbiest side.

Comics you may have missed by not joining the Twitter Nation

2009-04-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the LARPing in my head gets out of hand.

Mmmphdon'ttalktomei'meating.

Silly me, bills must be paid.

Good Judgement

COMIC #4: An Alternative to Nigerian Princes

2009-04-14T13:12:00.000-07:00

COMIC #3: Just nod and smile and sign here.

2009-04-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

POST-IT COMIC #2: What you don't know can't hurt you (unless there's a claim).

2009-04-10T14:23:00.000-07:00

As promised, comic #3 will include mouths.

BTW

2009-04-08T17:48:00.001-07:00

Because someone asked: This is NOT the webcomic I've been referring to.

Thank God.

POST-IT COMIC #1: A Serious Conversation

2009-04-08T16:44:00.000-07:00

Hollywood here I come!!!

2009-02-26T17:24:00.000-08:00

Please view the linked video for a sample of my acting work.

Yes I am currently looking for representation.

Although I would love to do your little "indie" film, frankly they just don't make enough money. I have a reputation to build.

In other news...

2009-02-13T13:06:00.000-08:00

The weather outside: Not as frightful.

Last night's pub night was especially exciting. As of Monday we have an artist for our webcomic (Matt Day) and Tyson brought by the rough script for our first post along with character sheets. Matt is hopefully working on the character designs as we speak.

Keep your fingers crossed. Our plot device has infinite possibilities. You guys will hopefully love it (or at least be mildly entertained by it). Our goal is to have some flyers and promotional material ready for this years Comic-Con.

I'm obviously really excited about a number of things this year and this project is quickly climbing that list, although everything else is going to be vastly overshadowed by Lola's arrival. She's kickin like a CHAMP. Maybe it's her mom's soccer skillz.

I also met a really interesting fella at the pub named John. He's from Australia and is a friend of a friend. Talking to him reminded me of how much I want to travel again.

If you're watching "Lost" at all this year, here is some food for thought courtesy of the wise Adam Gildner: Could Jacob and his well be a reference to the biblical "Jacob's well"? If so, what does this mean for Locke? Leave comments....

Talk to you soon.

Quick thoughts...

2009-02-05T16:39:00.000-08:00

The weather outside: Frightful (in a good way).

Work is going well. It amazes me that my uncle was able to get this place up and running in such a short time considering the economic climate.

I am (not so) ashamed to admit that I've been really into American Idol this year thanks to Lucy. I didn't realize how emotional I'd get watching reality TV.

"Lost" is as exciting as I'd hoped it would be this season as well. Oh and Battlestar Geeklactica (as Lucy calls it) is equally intense. I've stopped being ashamed of my TV watching habits and my love for B-grade, mindless entertainment. There are gems here and there most definitely, and I figure if I try to look at all the crap I watch/read from the standpoint of a student, I actually can learn a great deal from it. By that I mean that sometimes watching/reading crap really teaches you how to tell a better story.

I wanted to talk a little bit about my growing love for comics as a medium. This will fall on mostly deaf ears I'm sure, but that's ok with me. The whole genre really fascinates me. I never really realized how much you can do in the medium that you can't do in others (like TV, Movies, or literature). I have Tyson to thank for that. He pointed me to "Watchmen" and Neil Gaiman's "Sandman" a couple years ago and they both really gave me a deeper appreciation. Sandman especially. I still haven't finished the series because there are just so many layers and literary references, you just want to savor every page.

I'm excited about writing our own for a number of reasons. 1.) It's forcing me to develop my dialogue. The creation process (as far as the writing is concerned) is very similar to the screen-writing process in that the focus is mostly on description and character voice. You're challenged to be as concise as possible in the dialogue (being limited by physical space in each panel) while still keeping each character's lines meaningful and unique. I sort of compare it to a cross between children's book writing and screen-writing. Incredibly fun and extremely difficult.

The best part of it (to me) is that you get to develop these really unique characters in these really exciting and action packed (sometimes off the wall) settings. Yeah the medium is cartoony and campy sometimes but often when you're reading comics you're sort of surprised by little gems of truth and brilliance. (There are also some that are achingly heartfelt).

Anyway, I'm rambling now which tends to happen a lot these days. If you're interested in some reading or viewing suggestions that you may not have considered before, let me know.

Look forward to hearing from you guys. Lucy and Lola (from the womb) say hello.

Addendum

2009-01-28T17:20:00.000-08:00

To be fair (before Tyson points this out), I'm the only Attention Deficit writer that has lost steam. Tyson posts semi-frequently, as does Danny.

Hmm..

2009-01-28T13:50:00.001-08:00

Ok so disregard my last post (obviously). We ran out of steam a lot quicker than we thought we would.

It's been a while since I posted because I am currently engaged and an expecting father and have had a lot on my plate dammit!

That and I haven't really been writing any prose to speak of. I'm working on a comic book (don't laugh) and it's going really well. I'm also brainstorming for a possible webcomic (exciting huh?).

Because of those last two sentences, this will probably be the last time Sherry checks my blog (unless my last post was the last time).

Anyway. I think I want to make this about my life because I so enjoy reading the updates on my friends blogs. It makes me feel involved in their lives. I hope that people will want to feel involved in mine as well. So I'm committing to at least three blog posts about my life and what I'm thinking/reading/watching/playing.

What do you think?

P.S. I miss all you guys.

Chickity Check This....

2008-06-18T02:20:00.003-07:00

and keep checking it. Every day. For the rest of your life.

www.attentiondeficitfiction.com

This is the time to rethink your life...

2008-05-27T19:54:00.000-07:00

Actually, that's every day for the past month. My decision? There's really nothing to rethink. I love where I live. I can tolerate what I do because of the free time it allows. I love who I love because she helps me look up instead of down and helps (forces) me to see the brightness of my future. I don't tell her that enough.

There's a sign in front of my desk that says "Every person is the architect of their own character." I always put it in the stupid office motivational blah blah booster category in my mind, but I can't escape the truth of the statement. I'm the architect of my entire life and, although it sometimes resembles a barrio rather than a basilica, there's beauty there too. Sometimes more.

So anyway, long story short (I spaced out for a while), life is good and I hope yours is too. To everyone who occasionally reads this: I miss you. Please write soon.

Oh and read a graphic novel sometime! That goes for you too Sherry. Sometime in the near future you might even see one on the shelf written by myself and my good friend Tyson and drawn by the creative talent of TBD.

Any further inquiries should be directed to my email. If you don't have it you will be kept in the dark (you can ask me for it if you want, but don't ask about the project because Tyson has put us on media blackout).

Sincerely,
Me

"The Reverend Wayne's Pearly Gates is the cult of Asherah."

2008-05-25T11:47:00.000-07:00

Fair warning: Don't mess with large Aleuts driving nuclear motorbikes and carrying glass knives.

Unless you have a very unique anti-rape device...

Creak

2008-05-24T16:16:00.000-07:00

I wake to a thud. Something's fallen downstairs. Probably from an endtable. The wife's still asleep as are the kids down the hall. I'm pretty sure whatever made that noise is a biped, probably dressed in black, hopefully sans sharp objects.

I've only shot my revolver half a dozen times, but I keep it in a black plastic case under my bed. I bought it for a time like this, but keep it locked because of the kiddies. It's one of those cheap little suitcase locks with the three rolling wheels. I thought I'd be clever and keep it pretty much unlocked, only rolling one of the wheels one click so that, if someone broke in, it would be a simple matter of rolling that wheel, flipping the case open and blasting away.

The only problem is I've forgotten which wheel I rolled and that creaking floorboard I just heard is at the top of the stairs. At this point that biped knows someone has to be awake, but it's still coming.

Pretty quick little exercise. Thanks for the idea Tyson. It's not 101 words but the brevity thing is good practice.

sort of preview

2007-09-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

He was pulled from the oily river by an old man, oddly familiar. Sputtering and sucking at the air he blinked through his wet hair as his feet found their grounding and he stood. The old man had him by his coat still and, when he was able to stand, released him and stepped back. Owen wiped the hair and the water from his face and gazed at his apparent savior.

The man was older than he'd realized, crouched over, his thin and crooked hands wringing the water from his pant legs. His hair was thin and grey and wispy, ruffled by the soft heavy breeze. Owen didn't think to thank the man. Only gazed around at the strange dusky sky.

The old man finally looked up and when he did something inexplicably clicked for Owen. He stared at him, bewildered.

"Grandpa?"

The old man chuckled and shook his head. "Not really. Not yours."

"What happened to me?"

"You fell into the river and I pulled you out."

"But I wasn't in a river." He looked around again. "Am I dead?" he shivered.

"Not quite, no."

"Am I dreaming?"

"Not quite that either." Grandpa smiled. "Follow me..."

Freedom?

2007-07-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

I am an unholy mess of unholiness
And the stink of it is overwhelming
I am whelmed overly

I want to choke on every follicle
Of your glorious mane
And every inch of your pewter frame
Inch by inch
By inch.

I want to be your colonel mustard
And you be my miss peacock
Without the pea.

You told me inaudibly and unwritten
That you’d be my orgy
An orgasmic, triumphant cacophony
Of light and wet delight

I thought to myself that
If I were a tree
I would stick you with all my branches
And soak your blood through the earth
With my roots

Call me over these electric lines
So I can feel your electric delights
Even if it’s just with my wrinkled palm
And what’s left is a flushed face

That’s gross but it’s my mess
And I can’t clean it by myself.

I want to glue your clue
With my dice and my cardboard chart
Until the light in these five candles
Is a corkboard of all that is childish and wildly radiant

The way our dreams became a reality
But only in our minds
That’s how I think of you and about you
In fictional retelling of our facts
But in verse. And not paragraphed very well

Because I don’t know how.
I don’t know how to cross these borders
With their rebel machetes
And glassy eyes
Staring at my arms deals and my
Array of purple blood diamonds

I am the god of war in our melting world
And you are my liberating force.
Here in controversy and against popular opinion
So feed me a grain of rice
Which is all my swollen belly can take right now.
And I will cry out for more
More, though its taste will kill me.

You will kill me with two grains of rice
And the blinking gaze of your carbine
But it will be a slow and swelling death
And I’ll rejoice in its beauty
As my innards burst and the hole
In my chest bleeds slowly
Because my pulse is low and slow
Like the dying dog my mom hit with her car
As I watched from the backseat

Even if its not your rifle or your well-intentioned feeding,
Its you in the backseat watching
With a morbid curiosity and a touch of sorrow
Because I have curly hair and sad eyes
As I gaze at the fender and the parts of me
That are stuck to it still.

These are my inner feelings taking shape as I breath
and watch my fingers coming together.
Over me. Over me.
I roller coaster with an early warning
Even though I don’t know what that means.

I walk through a desert of clichés,
Searching for your drink of water
And its your puddle that leads me
To the darkly paved road where your mother
Where you are driving.

I’m trying to turn this spasm in two
Something beautiful but its just not coming to me
You are, though only halfway because your mind,
It’s else where. Where else?
But maybe its you bleeding into
The puddle.
And my tire tracks over your torso
Who knows but the owl watching from the gnarled
Spiny arms of that desert tree
With its biblical shape and its biblical name.
It’s violent shape and its violent name
But the beauty that sits amidst those spines
Is a beautiful cacophony
Of feathers and soft hooting.

I wish I could take its place
With the crows and the carrion
Birds that seek out
The smell
Of decay
Maybe it could be me that eats your carcass
Instead of the opposite.
Maybe your bones in my scat
Instead of the opposite.
And I could walk away full
With satiating death
In my gut
Instead of that grain of rice

So shake your head
Until it spins around
I’ll wave my arms
Until I float away.
Either way,
We’re both still stuck here
With each other’s blood mixing with
our roots and our rain water.

V...

2007-06-13T23:02:00.000-07:00

Later on a Tuesday night all misty and cool we drove to Bible study and she sat beside me in the passenger seat, her feet up on the dash, toes pressed to the glass. Writing in a book and slouched in the seat, she would smile occasionally and I would glance at her from the corner of my eye or watch her reflected in the windshield like the specter I was afraid she was already becoming.

We stopped at the house and walked through the front door. She was greeted and touched by smiling sad faces and led to the living room. I felt her awkwardness, knowing she didn’t like being the center of anything, especially attention. We sat beside eachother, me in my best shirt and she gave me the lightest touch on the knee.

The room was dark and filled with more people than was usual on these nights. All here to pray for her as if we could raise our voices in unison so that God might hear our mutterings and cries more clearly. As if he had the weak hearing of the old man we all pictured him being in our youthful ignorance.

There was a reading from the Psalms. Then a song of petition and we led her to the floor where we gathered and our pastor washed her feet and she hid her face, so shy and serene. Then we laid our hands on her as she lay amidst us supplicatory and we prayed. Some aloud, most, like me, silently. I whispered to myself and stared at her feet all washed and white and hiding the decay beneath and I thought that when Christ called them white washed sepulchers, he really meant us all. That we all decay from the inside with the most lovely and loved of us doing so at a swifter pace. How I wished my own would quicken as well.

After, I drove her home to her father and she slept while I drove and blinked until the road blurred before us. Only the days ahead would show to me more clearly then ever that God is indeed hard of hearing.

IV.

2007-04-18T21:20:00.001-07:00

In the evening we sat with coffee in her kitchen at either end of the rough wood table, our hands wrapped around our mugs and warm. Her father was asleep upstairs and she was tired but wouldn't sleep herself. There would be time enough to dream later she figured. So we sat and spoke. Of the past and our previous hopes for the future.

She recalled the time I wondered what she would look like older, as a mother or a grandmother. Later when we had both grown and moved on, together or not. The former had been our hope since we met in school. She figured that she had her mother's face. Her mother who had aged little physically and, if she had lived, would have still been youthful in her old age. These were her father's thoughts as well who spoke of his wife often in hopes that his daughter would grow up with the feeling of her presence if not the actuality.

I wished to change the subject, so she began to talk about her thoughts about God and eternity. How she was beginning to believe that all would reach heaven if they truly desired to please God during their life. She thought that truth was too far-removed from human understanding for God to hold man accountable for their ignorance. I don't see that as justice, she said.

I told her that I hoped she was right although I knew that there were many we knew who would disagree.

-I'll find out soon enough, she said, half smiling.

-We all will, I said, and she smiled again.

We both were quiet for a while after because each subject seemed a reminder somehwo of the short time she had left, but anything ordinary seemed inane and shallow. I was sad and picked a pomegranate from the bowl at the edge of the table. I sliced it in half with a knife, glad for the distraction and hoping that my sullenness wouldn't affect her. She reached for one of the halves and we sat for a while, silently picking out the red jeweled fruit. Stripping the soft flesh from the tiny seends and spitting them into a saucer.

There was something comforting about the shared repetition. I watched her pick a clump out of the shell and separate each seed before putting it in her mouth, one by one. Like the fruit, I felt that she too had jewels, waiting to be pried out and enjoyed. I wanted to be the one to taste them. I pushed my portion aside and watched her until she too stopped. She reached for a napkin and rubbed her stained fingers. Then she took my hand in hers from across the table and told me that things would be alright for me and not to dwell on her or the inevitable. I told her she should go to sleep because I didn't want what we had to be reduced to such cliches.

So we got up and she walked me to the door and out on the porch and we stood in the dark for a while, quiet. I felt that things were changing too fast for anybody to adjust so we could only think of gestures and words we had seen in movies. I would rather be still and silent than be dramatic even though I had no defense for this sort of thing, but before I left I kissed her on the mouth, knowing the complications it would bring.

III.

2007-04-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

It was morning and i woke to the sound of turning pages. The shades of the window were drawn open and a hand's width of light was shining into the dark room. I lay twisted in blankets and pillows and it was still early but she was awake and sat reading in a chair by the window.

Her brown hair was pulled back and tied with a band but it was long and draped down over one soft shoulder. She wore sweatpants and a loose sweater, unzipped towards the neck and her feet were bare despite the cold.

I turned and watched her but she didn't look up. She was reading and the book was held in the path of light from the open drapes. It came through the pane and over the smooth bare skin of her shoulder where the sweater draped low and askew. From her shoulder it shone across the book and brightened the white pages, then trailed across the end of the bed.

She was reading Thomas Merton and I smiled as she frowned slightly and her brows knitted. I watched her ponder glory and love and the mysteries of contemplation, all thigns that seemed so fruitless considering that all her questions about things eternal would soon be answered in full.

II

2007-04-15T12:31:00.000-07:00

II.

When her father called it was the first time I had spoken to him on the phone but despite our distance and differences, there was a fellowship of shared grief. He spoke to me of her doctor's visit. She had insisted on going alone. The news was bad and now she was home sleeping. Can I go see her? I asked. He said no, that tomorrow would be better and then his voice cracked and I was silent.

Finally I asked if he was alright and he said yes, that he was going to take a drive. Collect his thoughts. So I hung up and sat in my room next to my window. It was late but I couldn't sleep so I thought about the wedding and how nice she had looked. How soft the skin of her bare arms felt around my neck as we danced and watched the bride and groom. I wondered about marriage and about love and happines and all the things your hear in songs and see on screens.

There is value in fiction and if an artist can look at life and see the good that should have been and write it or paint it then perhaps one day our hopeful expressions will begin to look more like reality. Those were my hopes and I thought on them until the sun began to brighten my room and the dried flowers outside. Then I dressed and walked to her house.

She answered the door in her nightdress with her hair straight as if she hadn't moved once during her sleep. There was nothing in her face or her walk that suggested that she would be dead by spring. That deep in her bones something was spreading that even her smiles wouldn't be able to stop.

We need to find my dad, she said. So I followed her to her truck and sat behind the wheel. She sat next to me, still and quiet. The morning was gray but as we drove through the woods and over the bridge, we witnessed the rest of the world subtly awakening with short flights from limbs and shivering bushes along the road. We drove and drove. Through town and the industrial plants, until we came to the shipyard where he worked and there we found his car, parked at the end of the road, overlooking the water.

We stopped and got out. I stood by the truck and watched her walk slowly to the car, wondering what she was thinking. She tapped on the glass and I saw her dad sit up in the back seat. His thick black hair disheveled. She stepped back as he opened the door and I heard her ask what he was doing. Why he was out there. He said he had slept there. That he didn't know what else to do. She hugged him as she asked him why. He wrapped his thick arms around her and said, "because I'm so so sorry."

Fourteen Scenes About the Death of a Loved One

2007-04-14T20:04:00.000-07:00

This is a story i've been working on based on a Sufjan Stevens song....As always, feedback will be appreciated.

I.

It was a cool fall evening, the sky gray and the air still. The goldenrod tied with a blue ribbon and held under my chin as i walked, wrapped in a coat and a scarf and just beginning to see my breath in the air. She lived six blocks away and was sleeping, but i wouldn't wait until morning. She needed something bright when she woke.

It was dark when i arrived and so was her house. I went to her window and her curtains were drawn so i laid the bright little bundle on the windowsill where it would draw all of the East's early light. The defiant yellow flowers, growing in the wild and the cold, seemed to speak good things about the end of a year when everything else was closing and falling.

I wanted to tap on the cool glass because i knew she was there, eyes closed and breathing, and i wanted to see her, but instead i pressed my palm against the pane as if i could feel the warmth of her heart or the lingering smile from her dream. Then i left.

I walked slowly for a while, in the middle of the street, following the reflectors and staring up at a sky framed by branches. I felt that, despite its infiniteness, there was a sort of intimacy to space and the heavens. That perhaps it was that feeling that caused things to grow upwards, like trees and men.

As i neared home i picked my own yellow flowers to put on my sill, hoping there was something symbolic in the same light warming different windows, but mostly i too wished to wake to something bright.

Untitled

2007-04-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

A string of lights in the sky outside
this boy's window.
Some ordered migration to heaven.
Are you waiting
like I am?
or are you already there?
If so
what becomes of me?

I wished for a light at night,
a beacon
to where you laid your head.
I wished to follow its glow
no matter how far.

Sibelius said of his sixth,
"this reminds me of the smell
of winter,
the first snow."
How it glittered and shone
and chilled his nose but
awakened something as well,
when all else slept.
Something slumbering too most of the year
but
out of hibernation
spoke beautiful notes
and the harmony of the world
would flow through his creased fingers.

I wish you to be
the smell of the first snow
to me.
That light in the sky
that purposes my wanderings.

The Janitor... (working title)

2006-12-13T17:59:00.000-08:00

He thought of his wife as he looked at the blood. It wasn't much blood and it wasn't his wife's. He didn't know why it made him think of her. Many strange things did lately and he thought it might have something to do with the holidays. He never remembered that he felt this same feeling every winter although, if it were pointed out to him, he certainly would be able to explain why.

Josh, the robust but slightly overweight wrestling coach opened the door as he was spraying disinfectant over the bloody spot on the mat.

"Hello Caleb, sorry about that. They got a little out of hand again."

"It's no problem," answered Caleb as he wiped the spot with paper towels and sprayed it again.

"Poor kid busted his nose pretty bad. Almost had the other guy pinned too," Josh said with a chuckle. "It's going to be a great season I think."

Caleb didn't know whether the blood was the indicator of a good season, or the other kid almost getting pinned. He didn't ask. He just smiled and nodded, his mind on other things.

"Anyway. I'll try and have 'em be more careful from now on. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do as it is," Josh said and stood awkwardly for a moment until he realized that Caleb wasn't going to reply. He turned and left the room, muttering to himself.

Caleb didn't try to make other people feel uncomfortable around him. He also didn't make much effort not to. His mind was simply on other things. For instance, why blood on a wrestling mat would make him think of his dead wife. As he pondered this, he went over the spot one more time with his mop. One thing the faculty of Brightwood Academy for Boys would always say about Caleb, long after he was gone, was that he was a careful worker.

Important question:

2006-12-01T17:20:00.000-08:00

I've been suffering from writer's block for a while now. Obviously haven't posted anything on here for a while. Any ideas for me anyone?

The wind and her...

2005-12-25T17:34:00.000-08:00

Something about wind and her hair makes her eyes that much sexier.

I was thinking about sand and an hourglass. That bird that carried those grains to a distant shore, one by one.

For eternity.

Alone but not lonely because of a purpose however mundane. He's changing the world with each piece of sand carried in his tiny beak. And it's changing slowly but surely. Improving. Changing into something more beautiful because he is beautiful.

Like her. Sweet and young and pure of soul. White and wonderful. And if you look beneath his wings you'll see her reflected there. You'll see the form of the world's beauty because it contains her and she contains it. Complet and sublime. He'll save the world and carry her with him, wrapped in soft feathers.

They may soar to new heights and new sights. A wind-washed cliff or white-capped waves. Because from the first moment he shook his wings, that wind was set in motion and formed the rocks and the waters of the earth with its soft fingers. He formed man from that same sand that he carries still. Sand and clay and the wind from his wings became man's breath.

And man's breath and his body became woman's and she was perfect in shape and spirit. Much like her who is another image of that first woman...

Maybe a sci fi story or something?

2005-11-21T23:37:00.000-08:00

He woke to a foreign voice, sweet and sincere, and he wiped a tear because he feared he'd dreamt it. But working under a shaft of grey light he heard it again, far above his head, and was afraid for a moment because nothing good came from above. God was below, in the infinite depths of unseen rock, molten and scorched. But it was such a pure voice. Perhaps one of the first voices, still seeking a way out of the cold and empty.

So he searched. The dark rooms and dark halls. Occupied only by his sweat soaked and soot blackened companions, banging and clanging and toiling in the blackness. And, feeling his way blindly, he struggled from the earth's beating heart. Pulsing like a piston against its braces. Where the only noice piercing his ears was the straining of steel and rods and hissing of steam. The great machine rumbled its engines as he pushed his way through shafts of dirt and rocks, breathing his first crisp breath on a desert road.

His hair blew and he searched the reaching sky for a fan or turbine but saw nothin but space, dark, perforated by light. Nothing to explain the wind. Never had he felt such wind, blowing cool and fierce against his face. Dust swirled and circled in the air like some pale dancer and he wondered at this new place with no ceiling. Where wind blew of its own will.

Then he began to walk...

The quiet hours...

2005-10-07T00:57:00.000-07:00

In the quiet hours of the night, when all I hear are the day's echoes, I whisper to you. About will and about death. In the hours after the sun has set, I contemplate breath and blood and warmth and how my thoughts cycle and spin like snow and dust, blowing in the same wind. When the body cools and the soul awakes. Passes through dirt and leaves, does its gaze fall back to earth? Is death really, as Rilke says, when the living depart from everything in order to reflect upon life? Will my identity remain with my soul when my breath goes or will it decay with my skin and flesh until it is merely an imprint on my bones. If it imprinted on my soul, will it remain intact? Or will it evaporate in space with other minds and memories, floating endlessly? I want to believe that these fragments of past generations, the thoughts and feelings and passions of others no longer living, have combined in me and I will remain long after I die. I long for that quiet place where I can sleep and awake to consider life and eternity.

Not much sense among these words probably...

Contemplation...

2005-10-02T01:41:00.000-07:00

Who am I in you?
Who are you in me?
I am the seed,
you are the shell,
but we are both also the other.
I am the fruit,
you are the tree,
but we are both also the other.
I am the branches,
you are the vine,
but we are both also the other.
I am the question.
You are the answer.
But you are both in me
and I am both in you.
I am the words,
You are the whispers,
and together we are the voice.

I seek you in contemplation because I forget you elsewhere. In solitude and silence I pretend to hear you and try to speak some phrase to call your presence to me, when all I really need to do, must do, is be content in the silence because your whispers are quiet and still and spoken to my innermost parts rather than my ears. But that is where the greatest movement is, the greatest change. In my true self that only you know and I catch seldom glances of.

Helpless...

2005-08-09T00:51:00.000-07:00

Helplessness is beautiful. Helpless beauty... The feeling that you are at the mercy of another, but that other is good and right and true. I've felt helpless. Helpless to be the man that God has called me to be. The one I dreamt I would be, running through the South Carolina nights. That was where the spark of manhood was lit and I chased it through those trees by the creek with my friends. I've been chasing it ever since.

Then I lost it when I needed it the most and wept because of my weakness. But despite my failures and my faults, the Good brought me back to it and placed that spark safely in my heart. I hope. Because now I see why I needed it in the first place.

There was a time not too long ago in the grass where I watched and heard two separate mouths speak separate words. Those words joined somewhere in the air and became sentences and paragraphs. Poems really, we were right. And like those words our minds joined until our thoughts walked hand in hand. And as I lay on my back, watching this unfold, I saw a dragonfly on the top branch of the shading tree. It sat still and alone except for the slight vibration of its wings in the breeze. Then as I watched, another flew to the branch beside it, to also sit in the warmth of the summer afternoon.

Fly beside me, I wanted to say, because I'm safe although this world isn't. We'll follow the breeze together. Let the Wind take us where it wills, somewhere safe and still and quiet. I will watch over you on the way.

Then, like our thoughts, the two flew off together.

I want to feel helpless in this Wind. Just float where it wills because I believe that it is good and safe to do so. And on the way I want to write beauty into the world. There in the grass and the breeze I began to believe that I could.

Part IX...the end.

2005-08-01T00:56:00.000-07:00

Jonah stood on his tip-toes and stretched as high as he could, peering into the hole. Set deep inside it was a red shining orb, swirling with color. The surface looked smooth and glassy, but inside the glass was a swirl of smoky red clouds shifting and pulsing. He knew in an instant that this was what Madeline and Tristan meant for him to destroy and he reached out as far as he could to grasp it.

His fingers brushed the glassy surface and a tingling went through his hands and down his arms. The orb shifted in its place in the tree and then suddenly stuck fast to Jonah’s hands. He pulled back from the tree and shook, but the orb, surprisingly light, held firm. And then the light of the tree dimmed, slowly at first but it grew darker and darker with every moment.

Jonah turned to look at the field surrounding the tree and saw motion in the tall grass. The darker it grew, the more the motion increased. Then suddenly there was no light except for the warm glow of the ball in his hands. Jonah began to walk slowly away from the tree, back the way he had come. And then the humming and chattering started. Quietly at first but, like the darkness, it grew louder and Jonah began to run.

He ran as fast as he could through the red grass towards the cliff and with every step he heard another creature stir and chatter in the field. Then Jonah began to hear them behind him, rustling through the grass, their hums and chirps coming from all sides. He ran and ran through the field and the trees, pursued by the strange sleeping creatures.

Finally he passed to the edge of the forest and stood at the cliff overlooking the black sea. He turned quickly and saw, at the edge of the trees, dozens and dozens of red eyes. The humming and chattering was constant and the eyes moved in and out of the trees, each one fixated solely on little Jonah. He turned to the cliff, the sea a hundred feet below, and once more shook the orb. It remained firmly attached to his hands and he began to grow very afraid.

When he turned towards the trees again, shaking the orb, the eyes moved from the trees and in the light of the red star he saw many figures begin to emerge from the dark forest. They were coming for him or for the orb. It didn’t matter. Jonah thought quickly about Madeline and Tristan. They had told him not to worry, but with the orb stuck to his hands there was no way of throwing it into the sea. So Jonah, in an act of incredible bravery, stepped to the edge of the cliff, and with the orb leapt into the ocean.

He fell slowly and quietly and made almost no splash as he hit the water. The sea was black and the water was smooth and felt oily. He sank slowly lower and lower with only the light of the orb visible. The deeper Jonah went, the dimmer the orb became and he sank and sank…Then there in the oily black water, one hundred feet below the surface, the orb went dark and Jonah was left blind.

He no longer knew if he was sinking or floating. They felt the same and he wished with all of his heart that he was back in the depths of space with the blue star and the green star. He hoped he had done what they asked and that, if he continued to sink, they would still be able to help him.

And then a voice spoke to him, somewhere in the depths of the sea. “Open your eyes,” it said. Jonah did not know they had been closed. “Open your eyes,” another voice spoke, this one female. Jonah opened his eyes and realized that he was not floating, nor sinking, nor in space, but once again tucked into his bed. Not only that, but he was in his own room beside his own window, the stars shining bright outside in the night sky. He peered and peered and sure enough, far and high in the sky, he saw two stars green and blue twinkling in space.

“Look,” they said to him, and his gaze was brought to another star, a dark shade of red. But as Jonah looked at the star, it seemed to fade to a duller red. It could have been his imagination, but as he sat in his bed and watched, the red star softened and brightened into the warmest shade of orange he had ever seen.

“Thank you Jonah,” said a male voice, Tristan.
“Now go to sleep young boy,” said Madeline. And Jonah did sleep and it was the most peaceful sleep he ever remembered.

The end.

::Thank you for reading and for being patient. I hope it lived up to your expectations. Any feedback would be appreciated::

A dead phone line...

2005-07-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

The phone connected after the first ring and the voice that answered trembled. The sales pitch ended mid sentence when I realized that the old man on the other end was tired and certainly not interested in anything i was selling. He sounded worn out and i thought about hanging up the phone. But then he asked me my name and i told him. And after a minute of listening to a silent receiver i asked if he was ok. He told me that he was exhausted and restless. He told me about his job. How he had at least ten more years in a career he never chose, but he was turning fifty tomorrow and had kids and a dog and a house he couldn't afford. He was broken and poor and floating through life in all the wrong ways. His wife hated him for being boring, his kids never called, and he didn't know if he could take one day more. "If this is what life is really like kid, get out while you still can," he said. Speechless, i held the phone and he thanked me for listening and hung up.

I left the next day in my car with a handful of cash and a bottle of water and just drove...

Part VIII...

2005-07-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

He walked quickly through trees and around trees, all the while watching for the flashing glow that would warn him of anything approaching. Nothing happened however, and as he began to see the glow of the huge tree growing brighter and closer, he relaxed.
And then, all of a sudden, he was in a clearing and there stood the great tree before him in all of its red pulsing brilliance. Jonah began to walk to the tree. After a few steps he noticed small shapes lying in the reddish grass. He approached one for a better look and saw a small furry body lying motionless. It looked like a cross between a monkey and a raccoon. It had long arms and legs, a long tail, and its head was round with a small snout. The snout was covered in white stripes, as was the head, which stretched across the face and widened down the back.
There were what seemed to be primitive tools shaped from branches and stones lying here and there in the field. Jonah now saw a number of these little furry shapes lying here and there. He couldn’t tell if the one he stood next to was sleeping or not so he stepped gingerly around it and began to walk towards the tree again, taking slow careful steps.
Finally Jonah reached the tree and stared up. The trunk of the tree was extremely wide and stretched high into the air. Jonah realized that the tree’s branches covered the entire clearing and shone so brightly that it seemed almost daylight. The light of the tree seemed to emanate from a hole in the trunk just above Jonah’s head.

Idealism...

2005-07-12T23:54:00.001-07:00

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Some of them hurtful, some very thoughtful. Idealistic. A romantic. A romantic idealist. These are the words that were thrown out and struck me recently. The funny thing, to me, was that the title wasn’t meant to be a compliment necessarily. I find that to be disheartening. I listen to my friends whose hearts I deeply admire. Whose minds I deeply respect. They all seem to be echoing the same cry for something beautiful and perfect and true. True love, perfect romance, a beautiful intertwining of souls and bodies into one wonderful shape. Is that too much to ask? “Yes” is the answer I receive far too often. The majority of the time, to be perfectly honest. And I sit wondering what my flaw is. What my curse is. To hold out so much hope for something so unreasonable. The fact is that I’ve heard those stories of perfect harmonious love affairs that led to perfect harmonious marriages. They exist somewhere in the cracks of the broken and painful failings. They do exist. For me though? I’m not sure. I’d like to think so, but the truth is that it’s quite possible that they will never come true. My only comfort is that I know somebody who holds my life, and he has my best interests at heart. My cry to all those hurting and hoping is to always, always remember that our idealism is not merely our stretching imagination, but the intended reality that was meant for all of us.

untitled

2005-07-06T17:22:00.001-07:00

I touched the untouchable,
I kissed the unkissable,
and her hair swallowed the night,
the moon's light,
and shone it through her eyes,
perfect and bright,
and i watched, illuminated,
until I could no longer see
and she took my hand
and led me through life,
to peace and rest
and warmth and breath.

cold thoughts about warm dreams

2005-06-29T23:48:00.000-07:00

I sat cold,
watching her approach with a smile
like a dreamless sleep.
Beautiful and pure.
The lightest touch on the knee
and me in my best shirt.
Her, a nativity scene
and my hibernating soul
awoke to discover its host,
merging to completion.
Solitude is a blessing
when you are not alone.
When there are two souls,
one with a darkly framed face,
soft hair begging a soft hand,
and the other waiting to discover
who he is.

Part VII...

2005-06-15T11:03:00.000-07:00

He walked for a little while, coming to a small group of trees. He was almost certain that the shore lay beyond the trees and entered the small forest. It was dark and the smooth trunks of the trees were a deep red, almost black. As he passed, each tree would brighten for a moment with a pulse of brighter red that lit the area around him for a moment. Jonah wondered if somehow the trees knew he was there as a he walked.
He continued to walk until he began to see the tree line clear somewhere up ahead. He was almost to the shore he realized, and walked faster. As he neared the edge, he began to hear a strange humming around him, followed by short chirps and snickers. He froze and remembered his friends warning about the voices. They seemed to be growing louder around him and when he looked, he could see other trees around him in the distance, pulsing with the strange red light. He knew something was out there, probably following him. Maybe the saw my bed fall from the sky, he thought, and began to run.

He ran and ran, the humming and chattering growing louder and louder behind him and around him until, finally, he reached the edge of the trees and darted out onto the black sand of the beach. He stopped then and looked behind him. The line of trees stood silent, but the humming continued and between the pulsing trees he glimpsed dark shadows moving. He looked at the sea. It was dark and calm, the sand soft under his feet. He turned, the water on his right, and walked north, remembering that as long as sand was beneath his feet, he would be safe.
The beach continued for what seemed like miles, further and further north. From time to time, Jonah would glance to his left and whenever he did, he saw the trees pulsing and the shadows moving. They were following him, but they would not leave the trees so he continued walking. Finally, after a long while, the beach began to slope upwards, and here and there patches of grass grew through the sand. The more he walked, the more the grass replaced the sand and Jonah worried that perhaps the shadows that followed him would begin to emerge. The stars however had told him not to worry, so he forced himself to be brave, though with each hum and chirp that he heard it became more and more difficult.

When Jonah reached the top of the hill, he looked to his right at the cliff, dropping straight and severe into the black depth of the ocean. To his left, sure enough, the tree that the stars had told him about, stood tall above the rest. It was much closer than Jonah had thought it would be. The sky had brightened a great deal while Jonah had been walking, although it was gradual and he didn’t notice until he had reached the top of the hill. The strange thing was that the light was very obviously coming from the direction of the tree. In fact the tree stood silhouetted by an orange and red, pulsing glow.
It was the only tree glowing though, and Jonah took that as a good sign. The shadows had stopped following him and it seemed safe to go back into the woods. So he walked to the trees and entered again, following the glow that he supposed came from the orb.

I'm reading about shit...

2005-06-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

I’m reading about shit in a book of prose poetry. Scat. Scatological. My uncle asked me once if I knew what that word meant and I said yes, that it always reminded me of my grandma and the habit she had of examining the piles of animal feces we would find on our walks through the New Mexico desert. Chimney rock and it’s surrounding canyons and cliffs. Chimney rock was this beautiful sculpture of red stratified rock with a sort of mesa at the top and then a little pillar of rock barely connected that stood like a chimney. I used to speculate whether a climber could jump from the mesa to the chimney and make a camp on top. I concluded that nobody had ever tried because of its obvious danger. My grandma and I would walk with my mother and sister, sometimes Jim Hall or my aunt. My mom had an eye for arrowheads and spent some time as an amateur archeologist. My grandma’s uncanny gift was being able to deduce any number of things about the environment and nature simply by examining the excrement of the areas numerous animals. I always thought it was weird. Now I see the strange beauty in what she was doing. Immersing herself in every part of the natural world. Appreciating every piece of matter and mud and rock and chlorophyll. Appreciating the beauty and, in so doing, joining the community of seekers who can find deep spiritual truths and lessons by entering into natural creation. There was a rock climber that my grandmother knew who, in my mind, always appeared as one of these people. I would picture him climbing a rock sheer, his hands on the stone, feeling and listening to God through that rock and learning his purpose and his passion. He fell from one of those walls and broke his back. By the time anybody realized that he was gone, he had died. Somebody carved a bear out of soapstone and it sat for years where his body had lain. My grandma would sometimes take us to that spot and I would stare at the bear in awe and respect of the man that it memorialized. To me he was the epitome of adventure and an example of one who sought peace and found it amid rocks and sage. The fact that he died doing what he loved only reinforced my idealistic image of him. It’s funny that now I can’t even remember his name but I can picture the little smooth black bear surrounded by rough sandstone and dust.

Boy's story part VI...

2005-06-03T23:41:00.000-07:00

Jonah spun and spun, quickly at first, towards the large planet, but gradually he slowed and neared its orbit. The red star was huge and bright on his right, pulsing slowly, its colors blending and swirling from ruby to maroon to crimson and blood red. His bed shuddered for a moment and made one last rotation before the sight of the red star. Jonah worried that it was no longer the force of Tristan and Madeline that moved him as he watched the frightening star.
He was still floating towards the planet however, and that reassured him. He floated closer until he was caught in its orbit. The planet’s gravity was strong and pulled Jonah’s bed through its atmosphere. He thought for a moment that maybe he wouldn’t land where they said he would and what would he do then?
Jonah forced these thoughts out of his head and watched as he sailed through the planet’s cloudy atmosphere. It was strangely dark and he passed through dense smoky clouds that he thought should make him cough until he remembered that he no longer needed to breathe.
After a minute or two he broke through the clouds and the vast landscape of Jude’s planet was laid out before him. It was spotted with tall mountains of red rock surrounded by orange-leafed trees and plains of yellow grass. He watched and saw that he was indeed headed for a clearing near the shore of a huge black sea. He wondered what color the water was during the day, if it every turned to day. The sea seemed to cover half the planet as Jonah rushed to a landing.
The shore and the land grew faster and faster before Jonah’s eyes until, finally, his bed thumped to a somewhat gentle stop in the middle of one of the yellow grass fields. He looked around him, making sure he knew which direction the shore lay. The stars had told him to find the shore. He decided that it was definitely to his right and, mustering his courage, Jonah pulled aside his blankets and slid barefoot off of his bed…

Boy's story part V...

2005-04-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

Jonah’s bed traveled faster than ever. Through galaxies and constellations and gaseous planets and planet’s rings. Through meteor fields, comet fields, around moons and through suns. Tristan spoke and said, “Listen.” Madeline spoke and said, “This is important.” And Jonah listened while the two stars, his new friends, told him what he must do.

“When you land,” they said, “it will be cold and dark. You will hear strange voices that you will not understand. Don’t try to listen to them. Just walk. Walk until you reach the sea. It won’t be far. Once you reach the shore you must walk North, so that the water is on your right. Walk and keep walking. It will be very far but you will not grow weary. If you hear voices to the left of you do not be afraid. There are creatures in the trees and behind the rocks that will mean you harm but as long as you stay on the shore, on the sand, you will be safe.” Tristan and Madeline were speaking at the same time, their voices mingling with one another to form a sort of music and Jonah listened, the sound filling him with peace and courage and goodness.

“When do I stop walking?” he asked.

“Listen and we will tell you,” they said to him. “As you walk through the night you will see a light ahead of you as if a great sun is rising to the North. The light will grow and grow and it will become brighter, but not bright like the day. It will be a reddish light. The light comes from a crystal, which is set in a great tree. This crystal’s light is the bad will of Jude, the red star. He is the rebel and the deceiver and is slowly killing those that live on his planet.”

As the stars told Jonah this, he saw a small red speck far, far in the distance, directly ahead of him. He knew that the speck was Jude and he began to be afraid for the first time since his journey began.

As if the stars knew what he was feeling they said, in unison, “Jonah, everything will be fine. You have a strength in you that you do not yet see.” And the fear in Jonah shrunk until it was merely a tiny thing in the back of the young boy’s mind.

The two stars went on: “The shore will take you up a large hill and the ground will begin to drop off to your right. The hill will become very steep and, once you reach the top, you will be at the edge of a cliff to your right, a forest to your left. There will be a tree in that forest that is so large it can be seen rising above all the other trees. You will see it from the cliff. It holds the crystal and that is where you must go next.”

Jonah watched as the red speck in the distance grew and grew while the stars spoke and filled him with their strength and direction. “When you reach the cliff Jonah, you must wait and make sure no voices can be heard. If there are no voices it means that it is safe to enter the forest. You must walk to the tree, find the crystal, and destroy it.”

“How do I destroy it?” Jonah asked, the red star had grown large in front of him and he was afraid that he was almost there.

“We cannot tell you that Jonah because we haven’t been told. You must trust that you will find a way. You are almost at your journey’s end Jonah and we must stop speaking. We have carried you far, through many eons and many ages, but now it is up to you.”

“Have courage,” Tristan said in his strong, sad voice.

“You have strength,” said Madeline in her sweet, musical voice.

And, with that said, they gave him one last push and he was flung, alone and spinning into Jude’s domain.

Some thoughts before part V....

2005-04-13T01:23:00.000-07:00

I am a raven. Am I a raven? No. A hawk? No, too noble. A sparrow maybe. I don’t scavenge or hunt, I wander and hope to not be devoured. I hope to find somewhere safe to lay my head under my wings, folded back in peace. Peace is such a word. So hopeful. Unrealistic? A dark wind carries me to places I don’t want to be or places that I hoped would be different and I chase this idea of fulfillment, of love perhaps.
Or just peace.
I feel like that boy sometimes, whose bed carried him through space. Carried him into some strange and turbulent conflict. His future looked hopeful. It looked as though he were to play some noble part in the action of the cosmos. Maybe he will yet. Maybe that’s why the story was never finished. I don’t know how to write an ending to something that I am still in the midst of.
I know the ending I hope to see though. A happy one that ends in a sweet death which is really just the beginning to something even more beautiful. Are happy endings just hopeful creations by people who believe that there should be something better to this world, to this life? God, I hope not. At least I have comfort though. Some don’t even have that. The discomfort I feel at times is my own fault and I’m too self centered to see the bigger picture. That my life is easy because I have more good days than bad. That, and food on my plate every night.
It feels like the dark corners of the earth are sometimes growing towards each other. Or the darkness is growing outward so that it is no longer restricted to the corners, but the middle places as well.
I awoke one morning with a weight moving across my legs. It traveled up my body to hold to me to my bed, under my blankets. I struggled, but it felt as though I were struggling against my own body…struggling to free myself from the strange grip and utter some phrase that would free me. And then a warm breath spoke dark things into my ear, telling me that I would never make it out of this, that I would never be more than this. “Always remember that,” it said. God help me. Help me move, I thought to myself and slowly I was able to open my eyes and shake myself free.
How often are dark things whispered to me in my sleep? Things meant to destroy any sense of peace and hope that I hold. How often do I listen to them? What else is out there that I don’t see? Things that hold me and chain me to my darker thoughts and sinking feelings. How do I fight against them? What causes a child to watch helpless as dark figures enter his room and cover his face with their hands, or gives him nightmares of cities turning to ash and rubble as other men stare hatefully at each other?
I wish I were a sparrow...

Part IV...

2005-02-13T15:23:00.000-08:00

"I would like to stay Tristan, but how can I help? I'm just a boy..."

Tristan answered, "You just need to be willing. We the stars will help you on the way."

Jonah through again and looked around him; at the stars in the background, the planets behind him. "Where is the bad star, Tristan?"

"Far, far from here. When you are ready we will send you. It will be a longer journey than you have experienced so far but you will be able to hear Madeling and myself speaking to you along the way. And, if you look very closely, you'll be able to see us far in the distance. Even when you reach your destination Jonah. So there is no reason to be afraid."

"Will I be able to still hear you when I get there?"

"Not at the end of your journey Jonah, no, you will not be able to hear us. If you could, then the bad star would hear us too and if he knew we were speaking to you, he would look for you and it would be very dangerous. We can always hear you though Jonah. Let that bring you courage and comfort."

Jonah sat in his bed thinking until a sudden reckless excitement overcame him and he grinned. Tristan watching him and asked: "Are you ready now?"

"I think I am, Tristan."

"Then listen carefully while you travel. Madeline and I are going to give you instructions."

With that said, Jonah's bed sped away from Tristan the green star and once again into the black depth of space...

The Boy Part III

2005-01-23T01:28:00.000-08:00

The next star Jonah met was a green one and, like Madeline, this one too shone with all shades of green. It was bigger than Madeline, perhaps older, and its planets were many. All covered with green growth and water. Jonah's bed sped to the star and began to orbit slowly. Again, Jonah could feel the star's presence and mind and warmth, and he knew that it too was watching him.

He orbited the star slowly, around and around. His bed turned over and under, each side facing the star as if he were being examined. When the bed finally stopped its movements, the planets were all behind him an dhe was again facing the star. Suddenly all the dark shades of green went to the edge of Jonah's view of the star and its center was a brilliant shade of emerald green. Jonah waited patiently for it to speak, propped up against his pillows.

When the star finally did speak, its voice was strange. It was a sort of masculine voice; strong but sorrowful, but with a hint of sympathy that sounded almost motherly...

"Hello Child, I am Tristan," the star said.
"Hello. My name is Jonah," he answered, "where am i now?"
"Many miles from home Jonah. I hope that doesn't frighten you. I have been told to answer your questions. Do you have any questions?" Tristan asked.
"What is happening to me? I know that my heart has stopped beating, but I don't feel like I have died" asked Jonah, a look of genuine concern on his face.
Tristan smiled. Or at least Jonah could sense him smiling, although the star had no face or mouth. "Your life as you know it has been put on hold while you are here visiting with us. Think of it more like a dream. Time has no meaning out here and, if you should choose to return home, you will be perfectly healthy."
"Why has this happened to me?" Jonah asked.
Tristan's light strobed from bright to dull rapidly. Jonah decided that he was laughing. "I am so very glad you asked that Jonah, it's what I really need to speak with you about. I have a favor to ask of you. A task and, if your brave enough to agree to it, you will be taken far from here."
"What is the task?"
"We need your help Jonah. Not all the stars you see around you are kind or benevolent. There are bad stars out there too. One of them has put many beings in danger and he must be stopped. That is why you have been brought here. The good stars feel that you can help us and we brought you here to ask if you would. It will be dangerous and very frightening but you will have our help and all the protection we can offer you Jonah."
Jonah sat in his bed, deep in thought. He still believed that he was probably dreaming, but it was the most vivid and best dream he had ever had and it made him sad to think that it might end.

to be continued...

The Boy continued...

2005-01-11T20:19:00.000-08:00

The first of these minutes took the boy and his bed to a blue star and he watched it pulse with every shade of blue and violet and indigo imaginable, some that can't even be imagined. He watched the star bulge and shiver, it's blue gases burning and shifting. Suddenly and unexplainably, the star turned its countenance to the boy and watched him. There was no face, no eye, just the feeling that it was somehow looking at him. The boy was startled and if his heart was still beating, it would have skipped. He felt helpless and vulnerable, but looked back at the star and then his bed was pulled to the flaming ball, until he could see nothing before him but blue fire. He felt no heat though, just the warmth of his bed sheets, that and the sense of the star's life and mind, fixated on him.

They sat like that for another eternal minute until the star showed it's face, or a face. It appeared out of the shaped gas and it was a woman, a girl really. She looked at the boy and she smiled and he caught a glimpse of the star's warmth. "She's lovely," he though to himself, and the star smiled wider.

Then he heard her voice in his mind and she asked him, "What is your name?"
"Jonah," he answered.
"Pleased to meet you," said the star. Jonah smiled and sat up straighter in his bed. It shifted under him to accomodate the new position.
"Do you want to go home Jonah?" the star asked and her flames and gases shifted to form an image of Jonah's home, and his empty room. His parents were sleeping, as was his sister. The star showed him all this and his street at night, but Jonah did not want to return.
"I don't want to go home yet," he said, because he was alive and wanted to see more of space and meet new stars and see new worlds Anything his bed or the mind guiding it wished to show him.
"Fine," the star said, smiling, "but be careful because not everyone you meet will be glad to see you."
"What do you mean?" asked Jonah.
"You'll see," she answered, "if you ever need help just call my name Jonah."
"What is your name?"
"Call me Madeline. I hope we meet again Jonah."

And then Jonah and his bed soared away from Madeline the blue star and through space. Jonah began to motice other specific stars of different colors, but no matter how far his bed took him he found he could always look and see Madeline shining blue and bright somewhere in the great map of twinkling space laid out before him....

The boy.

2005-01-11T01:04:00.000-08:00

There was a boy once who would lay in bed and watch light move across his walls and ceiling as cars passed by on the street outside. One night while doing this, his bed began to spin, turning left and right and upside down, but all the while the boy remained firmly tucked under his sheets. His heart beat faster and faster as his bed spun around and around.
And then his heart stopped and time began. The world around him turned to stars and space and his bed transported him through galaxies and dimensions, planets and worlds. And he lay there, smiling as he watched the universe take shape before his eyes. He took no breaths because he didn't need to. He could stare forever without blinking. Hours went by and he did not grow hungry or tired. And as he stared through creation and the heavens, alone but not lonely, calm but not sad, joyful but not happy, he realized that he was now truly alive. And he loved every endless minute of his life....

to be continued?

More thoughts...

2005-01-03T23:12:00.000-08:00

I’m a sucker for the romantic and the idealistic and everything that brings light and goodness into this world. I say a ‘sucker’ because it’s not the trendy or normal way of poetry these days. It seems that way to me at least when so much of the art I witness in the dark rooms below coffee shops is so broken and twisted…hurtful.
I saw a lady at work today who was young and pregnant and wearing a little red jumpsuit. She came in with her mother I guess and described, with the brightest face, how they were together to paint her coming baby’s room. I shared in her excitement and imagined the joy that she must be bringing her husband.
It’s a theme that’s been coming up a lot with me lately. Pregnancy, and the absolute ecstasy it must bring. I thought again about my youth and my parents and how happy I remember everyone being.
I told my dad for the first time in I don’t know how long that I admired him. I talked with friends about it the other night and how my friend, at 22 years old, should never have had to stand up to his dad almost to the point of blows. Over the way his father was treating his mother. I have my own demons of that sort but not to that extent. We talked about it and my friend sat there with this look of detachment. As if he was tired of being ashamed of his dad and tired of being hurt by it.
I understood him that night better than I had before and we talked about who we were because of these experiences and how they’ve caused us to grow so much more completely than we would have otherwise. After a while I just smiled about it all because it’s alright now…completely alright, and it has been so only by the complete grace of God. I love my father very much. And I love his wife who kissed me affectionately for the first time since I met her.
I’m going to hurt someone and disappoint them too some day. It’s a part of life and, in some ways, a beautiful part because I’m a broken person too. An imperfect person who is unstable at times and doesn’t do things the right way. I don’t do the things that are expected of me and usually have very little desire to.
I’m walking my own road, as cliché as that sounds, and I’m learning and becoming who I think God wants me to be. I drink too much and smoke too much sometimes for example, but I’ve seen the most beautiful moments between friends come at those same times and I wonder at how God uses the broken and the confusing moments of life to reveal truth and goodness to the point that sometimes I don’t see how it could be otherwise.
I slept poorly last night and woke up sensitive and frustrated and shed a tear over a movie that I had seen a number of times before. I was discontent and far from feeling the peace I always desire. But seeing that lady today with her swollen stomach and shining smile put things into perspective again. Life is good and always will be.

awaking to a dream...

2004-12-19T22:56:00.000-08:00

I dreamt about a cellar door cracked open and a dim light shining into a dark hallway. I opened the door and I walked down the stairs. Old bare wood stairs, I could feel the grain with my bare feet. I was wearing old jeans and a white t-shirt and I was young. I realized it then as I walked. I realized also that the light drawing me at the bottom was flickering. A candle was burning in the cellar and it's shadows were many and motioned me forward.
I reached the bottom and there, among the cans of paint and nails, the old radio and typewriter, various tools, there sat a small table. The candle was in a dish on that table and my grandfather, whom I hadn't seen in many years, sat in a chair next to it. Rocking back and forth, he wore slippers and a gray robe imported from some asian country. He was eating grapes and offered me one. I took it and put it in my mouth, feeling it's smooth round shape before splitting it in half with my teeth, lengthwise. I savored the soft meat and sweet juice.
Then I smiled at him and he smiled back. "What are you doing here grandpa?" I asked, 'it's cold."
"I was waiting for you," he answered and I realized that I hadn't thought about him for a long time. I looked at his hair, thin and gray and parted at the side. His shoulders, broad and uneven. He seemed thicker than I remembered him being. Maybe younger perhaps as well, but death does that to people.
"You've been waiting a long time haven't you," I said. He nodded, smiling. I said, "I'm sorry."
"It's alright," he said. I stood there in the cellar looking at him and felt sad. All the things he didn't see and wouldn't see. I wanted to thank him for everything he said to me and every wet kiss he gave me and the trains and breakfasts. I wanted to tell him that he was the reason for my passions in many ways and that I wanted nothing more than to read every word he ever wrote. I wanted to tell him how many lives I realized he touched and how I wanted to touch people that way. I looked at him and he looked at me and then he spoke: "I am proud of you Pieter. You wondered once to yourself if I would be proud of who you have become, and I am. I wanted to tell you that."
And then he was gone. I stood in the dark cellar by myself and I heard what sounded like raindrops. I looked out the small windows near the ceiling and realized that the world outside was on fire.

What if...

2004-12-17T01:56:00.000-08:00

"I hear the divine"
August 2004

I hear the divine.
His raspy cough.
Emphysema, leukemia, and who knows what else.
I touch the divine.
His wrinkles and stretched skin.
Oily hair.
I see the divine.
The stains on the knees of his trousers.
The big toe poking out his torn sneakers.
The lice infested hair.
I smell the divine.
Piss and wine and rotting teeth.
The perfume of countless dumpsters.
I taste the divine.
The warm saliva that seeps out the glands in my mouth.
I breathe deeply off to the side.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
Not the threat of tears but the threat of vomit.

"Life Passes"

2004-12-10T01:39:00.000-08:00

"Life Passes"
September 2004

If you turn your head fast enough
the passing cars seem to
hold still for a moment
in suspended movement.
A boy discovers this and plays games;
traces the outlines of passing hills
with his fingertip,
left eye closed.
The world is outlines and images.
Shapes.
Movements frozen between periods
of thoughtless involvement in things not understood.
Not needing to be.
His father drives;
watches the lane dividers,
road signs, brake lights.
Life passes one mile marker at a time
and he wonders into the rearview mirror
when life stopped carrying him,
as he watches his son
squint out the window,
his finger slowly rising and falling.

Train rides....

2004-12-06T01:21:00.000-08:00

"Trains and Memories"
March 2004

Long train rides through new countries
with rivers and fields and gothic cathedrals
I fall asleep to the low metallic rumble
and awake to a sharp hiss as we
go through a tunnel and I look up
smiling silenty at the girl I think
I now love this red haired girl
with those sharp blue beautiful eyes and
that smooth and sensitive soft white skin I
think I'm still so childish but with her
I'm so much more and feel so much
more like I'm changing but I don't know
how completely but it's good and it's permanent
her friend and mind be default is still sleeping
so we're alone in this crowded train just
staring at eachother smiling until she looks away
and I knew when I loved her
in Ireland in that Irish rain
that I thought should be green
but wasn't as I smoked alone
on a bench while she slept inside and
I wonder what will happen when we get back
and we've had this great new experience
together as I talk and try to remember
this trip with other friends a month later
in a crowded room later with pictures
and laughs and drinks and stories
and I find her and she smiles at me
trying but all I remember is that
Irish rain and how her red hair
looked wet and felt beautiful as I
brushed it back to see once again
those sharp blue eyes
and we smile at eachother
alone in this crowded train.

-Pieter

....interesting how things change so much in a year....but i guess poetry is sometimes a record of a life, the good and the bad...and that makes it beautiful.

Another poem...

2004-12-04T14:12:00.000-08:00

My favorite season...

"She is Autumn"
August 2004

In the last days of Autumn
my heart would swell
with a song, a shape
a laugh or a dance.
In the leaves like rain
the rain like leaves
in the sky I viewed
so happily gray.
Gray with the rain that washed
away so happily the world's dirt,
the world's sweat,
the world's hurt...
About what's to come,
what's been done
and I laughed.
I sat.
I walked in the rain.
Through the woods
the gardens, the roads,
because they were beautiful
and she was and she is.
Autumn...
her kiss is the flutter of leaves.
Autumn and her sharp
crisp change.
With her coming sister
she begins the end
of a year, an age,
a life and it's song.

Not sure about this one anymore....too cheezy?

You were lost, or I was...

2004-12-01T01:18:00.000-08:00

Where have you been child? While I have been here, in this filthy city. I looked for you but could not find you. I walked and prayed for your return. I crossed an entire country because I thought that maybe I had left you behind somewhere far away. Maybe on some previous journey. Or maybe I felt that if I left my worries you would find me, and we could move on together. I didn't know what drove you away or if I even needed you still. Maybe this was just a part of life's process, but it all happened so suddenly and expectedly. I had no choice but to look.
I realized later that I didn't drive you off. Leaving wasn't even a choice you made. You just didn't recognize me anymore and became lost yourself. I wept once, picturing you wandering these dirty dark streets alone. Looking for me. Maybe you would even follow me at times, thinking I resembled that man that you wanted to be. The man who once guarded and grew your hopes and dreams. After a while I lost you completely though, and you lost me.
But someone watched over you while I was away and we were separated and I am grateful for that. And when I was at my worst. When I had been wounded the deepest and realized that you were what I was missing, we were reunited and I finally realized who you were and why I needed you. You were wounded too I think because you are quieter and somehow sad in your own way. But you're my anchor in this stirred sea. My compass in this wilderness and I know that I can do nothing good without you and that the closer I am to being you, the better we both are. We can become who we were meant to be. Who we both dreamed of being.

Night thoughts...

2004-11-18T14:55:00.000-08:00

If I sit here long enough will I feel the earth spin, shifting under my body? Will I feel the branches of the trees outside my window blowing in this night's Autumn breeze? Will I understand that the breeze, smooth against my cheek, is the flutter of some faraway bird or a butterfly's wings? The breath of a crying baby or the sigh of it's mother perhaps. Will I hear a child's vespers, whispered into the twinkling evening?
How far have these words traveled, to be heard or felt by me? Alone in this room. Alone with the shadows that seem to me to be the shadows of all lights. Representations, somehow, of everything bright. If I listen hard enough, will I hear you? Will I find your voice, your sound, among the sounds in the night's wind? The night's traffic and trains that i try my best to ignore?
Maybe your sound is there too though. Carried by those trains. I listen for it every night because I feel that it will help me find you sooner. I feel that maybe if I could hear for a moment the sound of your voice or your laugh, your own prayer for me, I would know better where to look. Where to find you among this broken rubble of the world we share. The world that is now still spinning, carrying me on my knees through space or time. Spinning in the hand of God I guess.
I used to look rather than listen in these nights. Look at the lights spread outside a different window. I would guess at which one was your light. Imagine that it shone brighter than the rest. Like some beacon and, if I stepped barefoot into the night, I could walk to it and find you. Under the night sky where we could stand for a while, spinning together.
I started this evening thinking about the night and, like most of my nights, it turned into yet another searching. I feel another poet's reverence for the night. I guess because my life mostly takes place there. Where I can think and live freely. May my reflections and longings lead me home and to you some day.

"A devouring"

2004-11-12T15:42:00.000-08:00

Here is a poem I have been working on. I would appreciate feedback from anyone who reads it. Posting it here is a lot easier than emailing to various friends and family members.

"A Devouring"
October 2004

1.
Is there a word
in this language we share
that I could speak and express in full
my desire for you?
'Inhale' comes to mind.
For the way I want to inhale
each and every one of your exhales
simply because
there is a part of you
in each of them.
'Drink,' perhaps,
for the way I want to drink
every idea or passion of yours.
Every single thought
about life or love
or eternity.

2.
I could spend and entire day
drawing you.
Every curve and pore and hair,
and my charcoal lines
would give shape to your thighs,
your shoulders, your collarbone.
I would trace your lips to your hips
with my pencil
or my fingertips.
And if I finished the portrait
I would set it on fire
and watch your entire body,
from your toes
to the hair framing your face,
turn to ash and dust.
And I would smile because
the picture,
no matter how beautiful,
would always exist
more perfectly in my mind.

3.
There was that time
on the pier one evening,
when I almost touched your hair.
Orange light stretched our shadows,
soaked into our skin,
and I imagined
that this was how i wanted you.
Soaking into my skin.
Seeping into my pores.
I wanted every word
that poured from your throat
like crisp liquid,
and the ponderings behind them,
to pour into mine.
Into me.
Become mine and become me.

4.
My history with you
has been a history of hunger.
A desire to consume
but not destroy.
A sort of merging
or intersecting maybe.
The way I would breathe you,
The way I would paint you,
Or swallow or swim
in you or with you,
is a type of devouring.
And love, I guess,
is a devouring.

-Pieter Lars

Hearts and Hands?

2004-11-09T23:55:00.000-08:00

I have this image burned in my mind of this person, barely distinguishable as a woman, sitting on an empty doorstep in Berlin. She had bandages and cloths wrapped around her feet and her shins were bare. The skin covered in sores and blisters. Peeling and cracked. I thought for a moment as I stared that perhaps this was what leprosy looks like. She looked at me and said something (or wailed it really) in Turkish. I looked at her helplessly and shrugged because i couldn't think of a single think i could do for her. And i walked away.
After a few yards, I looked back and watched her as one person after another passed her. Those that noticed her recoiled as I did. My heart broke as i watched her wailing, holding out her hands. I don't know if she wanted money or healing or just a kind word. Her face was frozen in an expression of such complete sadness. As if she had wept for so many years that not only had her tears dried, but her face had taken that mournful shape permanently.
I figured she was born in the wrong time. A time when not only would the passing people be helpless to heal her, but wouldn't even care. Could I have sat with her and tried to pass some peace to her? A peace that I didn't fully feel myself even if i could have expressed it. I could have given her some change but it just seemed so trite and meaningless. I wondered how long she had sat there and if anybody even knew who she was. Sure my heart went out to her, but my hand didn't and that breaks me over and over.
This isn't some motivational blog to go out and help the homeless. I'd be the first to need it if it was. I guess I'm just trying to make sense of this strange incident that I cannot seem to forget. I wrestle with this feeling of complete helplessness but also the conviction that I should have done something for the poor lady. These sort of people were the exact people that Christ and his disciples healed and we're supposed to have that same kind of faith? Sounds all good in theory but, confronted with a living example of that kind of deep hurting, I shrank away like everyone else that passed her. Afraid i would contract the same disease she obviously had. Or maybe I just didn't want to smell her. I don't know. The point for me isn't what specifically stopped me from reaching out my hand. It's that I barely even considered stopping.
I'm wrestling with that part of me that is afraid of faith and stepping out. Hope this all makes sense.

Inspiration and imagination.

2004-11-04T01:36:00.000-08:00

I don't want to write about love because I haven't felt enough of it. All I've felt is a longing for it. I don't want to write about politics or God because I don't know enough about either. I haven't given much thought to my life or my childhood. Or I have, but not enough to find the poems and the stories that lay there. I'll trip over them one day, fall flat on my face, and give them shape as I heal. At least that's the hope.
I want to write about inspiration... and creativity, but tonight I'm too tired. Believing that I was created in the image of a Creator makes me feel the need to exercize that part of my 'self,' my being. Ideas are hard to come by and are never good when forced. The good ones usually fly away before i can put them on paper. The ones that don't leave before I am done. Forcing me to plead with them at a later date to return so that I can truly do them justice.
I do know that I am more pleased with my creations when I feel as though I am submitting to something outside myself rather than digging within. There is nothing good within me worth writing about. I shouldn't say that. I should say there is nothing within me that I could make good. It has to be pulled out of me by something else, washed, and handed back to me to give it shape. Even now I feel that I am rambling because I am trying too hard to say something worthwhile. What is worthwhile? I'm not going to find it and express it at 12:48 in the (morning?). That's for sure.
But I can't sleep so I will keep trying....
Remember the time, as a kid, when a stick could be a sword or a gun depending on which way you held it? I remember crawling through massive forests and fording swift rivers, tracking some elusive ninja or my imaginary girlfriend's kidnappers. My friends and I truly were whatever we wanted and wherever we wanted. At what point do we lose that? When does a stick become just a stick and not a Colt revolver. (Pardon all the weaponry, but boy's don't really come up with anything else). Those massive forests were really just the the trees and streams between houses.
My point is that at some point we lose that purity of imagination and I want to know why. Why does creativity become something we search for, rather than something we can't stop? My imagination used to be so overwhelming that I often spent more time there than in the real world. Sounds scary but I think it's natural. Something God intended in his creation. Maybe it's because we are stuck in this life knowing that something else exists that we can only glimpse through our imaginations. That reality exists elsewhere and our imaginations are the windows we can look through to see it. I think Schopenhauer or Feuerbach or somebody said this once. Something similar anyway.
Did God create our imaginations so that we would in turn never stop creating? Or was it so that, while stuck here, we could glimpse the Divine and know that something else awaits us one day. Maybe none of this makes sense.

Going home? Just a slice of thought...

2004-11-02T14:54:00.000-08:00

If I could fly what would would I find so high above the earth and the trouble that pulls at me. Until I feel that heaven is home and the sooner I get home the better because life and existence will finally be free and easy and happy. I think about home a lot while I'm here and I miss the family that I haven't lived with for four years. Some of them for longer than that. I miss my sister and her energy that fills rooms and sparks smiles. I miss my mother and her teeth. Her grin that makes you feel like there is at least one person in the world who thinks you're special...thinks you're worth something. My dad and his unexpected hyperness. His lack of care for people's regard that, in the right context, becomes a wonderful strength.
He held the keys to my security and self-worth for years and guarded it safely. I forgive him for losing it because it is time I held it for myself anyway...and I in turn give it to God, and maybe to you as well. The girl I don't know if I've yet met but have anticipated my whole life. As a boy I would see you in the school room crushes and piano class kisses. I would see you in the girl down the street that I sent rose petals to. The friends that I knew would make amazing wives...just not for me. I noticed you in my relationships. In characters in books and movies...stories of my own. All these glimpses have formed a picture in my head and I can't wait until the day I say 'Ah! There you are.' And we go on to complete eachother in all the ways that we always imagined.
All of our imaginings that have been refined and made perfect by our sufferings and stumbles...our joys and excitements. the paths we've taken that took us to places we didn't want to be and had to hack our way back to the good road. I want to tell you about all of my detours and forgings and explorations because, even though they've scarred me, I found myself in the healing. I want to explain how I believe that we are given freedom and God shapes our will back into His when we stray so that, even in our disobedience, His plan is furthered. I want to ask you how our mistakes or our own will could end up playing a role in God's that is so perfect and so crucial, it's as if we never left that road.
I want to ask God what He thinks. I want to ask Him a lot of things. When I get home I will and even though i talk about the return a lot, I know that for the most part I like it here because it's new and exciting and shifting and changing and wonderful. I've dreamt about exploring new lands and then woke to realize I do it every day. Just without the ships, the guns, the horses or cowboy boots. I'm an explorer in my own right and so are you so let's explore tomorrow together.