The light fades in the western sky. I would love to see the stars this night but I know it is rather unlikely. Instead, I shall set my back against the sun-warmed rock and pull out my notebook and attempt to scribble something worthy of what I have seen this day. My whole life I have longed to witness the grand and beautiful and be a part of something bigger and greater than myself. I have longed to be living a story that could properly be called epic.
Yet as any seasoned reader knows, it’s a perilous thing to wish to live in the stories that so often thrill us. The highs are high yes. But oh the lows. The pain and the anxiety, the heart pounding in your throat and the bile rising as you fear you’ll lose all you ate that day. I do rather wish now to go back to my little town and enjoy a quiet evening by the fireside.
I saw death today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it up close in the raw and wild. And it was a friend. I will talk of her later, I don’t think I can bear to think further on her now. We started this quest together in joyous abandon, sure that it was our destiny and what had been writ for us in the stars. Now a bare few weeks into our adventuring, she is gone and I remain and there are no stars this night.
Tag: writing
Jester
The giant strolls across the moors
and I point my hand across the way
see there he is!
see there he goes!
see there the clouds raised
by his mighty toes!
I sit against the rock on the riverside
and pen a ballad to be sung that night
I wonder if she’ll be there
that lass I love to mad distraction
that lass of the chocolate eyes and raven hair
but now this tale may end in abbreviated fashion
I jump up with alarm as the quaking grows nearer
the giant has come to investigate it seems
why a shepherd boy lazes away by the stream
I hoped to avoid his notice
but alas it seems this tale will have an ending different
than the one I would preferred to have written
instead of the mighty warrior holding court as his words hold sway
we end with our poet lad running fast away!
Sabbath Meditation
I sometimes wish I lived in a little cottage at the top of a cliff overlooking the sea. It sounds picturesque, does it not? Imagine hearing the waves crash ceaselessly against the rocks far below. Look far out across the grey sea and smile as you imagine the sunset that is soon to be. Take a walk in the garden and feel the wind whip against your shoulders as you hear the gulls cry in melodious cacophony. Well, perhaps strike that last. But still, can you imagine sitting on the porch of your little cottage watching the soft rain fall and with a book upon your lap breathing deep the sea air? Perhaps you have a little lantern next to you for that light which becomes necessary as the sky slowly darkens. And inside you know the pot of tomato sauce bubbles away and perfumes the air for the moment when you shall step back inside to stir and inhale the scents of garlic and oregano. I think of what it would be like to have a cottage as I have described and I smile. Maybe someday. But also I know there are drawbacks to such a life. How far away the grocery store, I wonder? Perhaps thirty minutes, perhaps more! And if it is storming, of course I would not risk the muddy drive. And where are my closest friends? Perhaps not nearby. I would be lonely at times, lonely enough that my heart be sore to hurting. And the nearest library would be quite a distance away and I would know all the books on all the shelves by the sixth month, surely. But then, I suppose in this little cottage of mine I could build quite the cosy little library, could I not? So no disadvantage that.
But still my heart yearns for a quiet little home on a cliffside far away. Though at times I would miss those whom my heart holds dear, still it would do me good to gaze upon the beauty of that wine-dark sea each and every day. There is something in my soul that craves such. I would love to walk the garden path and lift my eyes to the stars above and pray to God aloud and relish the fact that He hears me true and sets his hand upon me in firm affirmation of my place at his feet. But then, I suppose I need not a cottage for that last. I can even now on my couch in this little city apartment raise my eyes to heaven and cry out to the God who knows my name. Maybe someday I’ll have this cottage to call my home sweet home. But for the now, I smile and rest in the fact that eternal life is mine no matter where this feeble frame resides. Someday I shall receive the call that even now eternity in my heart prepares me for. Someday I shall walk the garden path with the God who knows my name. Someday soon even I shall see that perfect beauty for which my soul longs. Someday I shall look into the eyes of Jesus.
Oathsworn
Why do you scribble so furiously she shouts in agony
see here all my tears upon the page
they are for you my love for you that’s all
well then please turn your eyes upon me
let me see their grey
and I turn from the stained paper and she feels my gaze
why do you tremble so my honey
what makes your eyes spark in the candlelight?
you know my love i never was much good at talking
why do you think i write so many fevered words?
give me a minute or two and you’ll have your answer
i understand yes i do for you i’ll wait
i’ll sit here upon the crook of the moon
and i smile with that fresh imagery and i answer
you have my lifetime and all my best stories
and yes you have me too
Precipitation
I have been procrastinating writing all day. It is truly tragic, is it not? One has time to write and write finally for the first time in a long time and then for some perverse reason the will decides to keep choosing other things to do instead. It is maddening, truly. So now the afternoon winds on and I had almost decided it was time to do some dinner prep but then I told myself no that it would not do and that I would write something, even if the output turns out to be quite execrable.
I really wish I could go for a nice walk. It’s been a few days since I’ve stretched my legs properly and it irks me that I feel oh so sedentary in this moment. Yet the rain has been pouring and pouring and though now it seems it’s stopped, I do not trust the sky and I shall not risk the walk, quite certain that more storms shall be rolling o’er head shortly. So. I write! What shall I write? It’s been a long week, what with me and Dani being properly sick and miserable. It’s a garden variety cold/cough for me, but Dani’s been hit much harder. Right now I’m just grateful if she’s able to keep any food or liquids down. Praying for her recovery – oh please Lord, heal her. I suppose it’s normal after a vacation for the body to finally collapse upon arriving home again, mm? Definitely our bodies have been through a lot these past few weeks, what with traveling to Italy (Rome & Positano!) and Greece (Santorini!) and I am quite a terrible chronicler in that I really should detail some of our adventures in the aforesaid, yet I can’t quite bring myself to open the spigot. Instead, I’ll close this little post and then ponder if my creative self can decide to write anything more poetic and dreamy than the dreary prose that has trickled forth thus far.
I really am in a mood, aren’t I? Yet I do long to write something beautiful. I am not quite certain if I can. Yet even if I can’t, it is good to sit here at home, dry and warm on a day when outside is damp and stormy. I will perhaps do some dinner prep now – classic burritos with tomato/avocado salad! – and then see if any writing is to be. Peace and love, my friends. Peace and love.
Anniversary
It’s wonderful to sit down for a moment and to in the moment consider all that has come before. The moments blur and speed up as if memory has undertaken a compression activity in order to improve processing speed for the present. Perhaps that is so, if a crude way of putting it. But still ought not we take time now and again to look backwards? I find it easy to say that for perhaps that is already my natural inclination and I need no reminder. Looking back at a story unfolded and on shiny paper with letters vivid in wet ink upon the page is pleasurable. The story writ there, even if interpreted through smudged lens, is finite and bounded. The book is readable, to come to the point. But the book is lying open, is it not? It will not always be so. Someday it will be closed and there shall be another volume on the shelf which must be pulled down for the continuation. But leave that for now. That volume is for consideration at a later date – when the sea air blows fresh and the gulls call. For now, consider the open book upon the table. The pages already spoken of are wonderful to think on, but they are static. There is no changing what has been printed. The ones still to come? Well, they are a bit blurry, you might say. Yes, perhaps with the right glasses one could read them. But I certainly can’t. You neither, I think. It takes eyes of a divine nature and alas our nature is a bit fractured and marred, nowhere close to the divine that has granted us its imprint. Still we squint. And perhaps certain words can be read here and there, but perhaps to not to be able to read the rest is a blessing in and of itself. I think if I could read the reminder of this volume, I’d need to sit down for a bit, dizzy and faint for that which is not my burden to bear in this moment. Instead, I lift the book up and look at the name of the author on the spine. Ah yes. I’m in good hands. I don’t exactly know how this volume will conclude. Yet I do know it will be an ending worthy of the name. And then as I spoke of before, there is always the volume yet to come. Oh how I do look forward to that one. It shall be a pleasure beyond description to read that one. Someday. Someday.
One More Year
Hello dear friends!! A few short thoughts on a few books read recently. I don’t want to write much here as I’m hoping to write a bit more creatively later on. As always, we shall see.
39. Notes from the Underground and The Gambler by Fedor Dostoevsky. It has been far, far too long since I’ve read words penned by Dostoevsky and reading these two novellas really made me realize how much I’ve been missing out. I don’t truly know what it is about how Dostoevsky writes but when he writes scenes, you really feel them. His prose is exquisite, his scenes imaginative and oh boy the characters. I’m not going to belabor my thoughts on these two stories, but they are magnificent and weird and wonderful in all the best ways. Both of them have a sense of sublime tragedy that is hard to capture yet Dostoevsky does it so well. There is humour galore (please don’t ever call Dostoevsky dull or boring) and there is plenty of the absurd. There are moments where I almost physically cringed with the raw emotion being displayed on the page. In particular I loved the interactions between the narrator and Liza in “Notes on the Underground” – beautifully, beautifully depicted. Also in “The Gambler”? Every moment with Grandmother was a riot and a wonder to behold. Again, I’m not sure what it is about Dostoevsky and his writing that captures my heart so, but I do love reading him. Yes, these are tragic stories and a bit grey and grim at times. Yet there is still heart there, if painfully it beats.
40. Roman Stories by Jhumpa Lahiri. A collection of short stories set in Rome, I enjoyed these in the moment but I’ll confess now that I’m not certain how long they shall stick with me. The writing is technically proficient but something about the stories themselves left me a bit cold. I may just not have been in the proper mood for them, who can tell? The prevailing themes are strong – marital tensions/dissolution/aging, living in a foreign land as a stranger yet not, racial animus and racism writ large – yet even with those themes being solid in and of themselves, the stories felt a bit stark and bare at times, feeling a bit too carefully crafted. Ah well, like I said, I did enjoy these in the moment for the most part.
41. Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay by Elena Ferrante. Another novel in the Neopolitan series by the brilliant Ferrante. Yet as much as I can acknowledge the craft in this one, I think this is a turning point novel for me. Don’t think I can read another. Very possibly I said this about the last one, but this time I think it’s true! Possible spoilers ahead, so read with care if not wishing to be spoiled. Anyways. The cast of characters in this one grows ever larger and while some times I struggled to remember who was who, the character list at the beginning helps with such. As always, any scene with Lila in it simply sings. I think the author knows this and deliberately deploys these scenes as needed, as her writing of the character sizzles with warmth and realness. Elena Greco, as typical, is a bit more of a boring character, but the fascinating thing here is that I think the author realizes this and even nods to such, attempting to show Elena buck against the norms and silken cords that bind her tight. Elena is always struggling to fight her own feelings of inferiority and is not helped by the many in her life – even her own husband! – who think she’s really rather second rate. It’s fascinating for the author to choose to depict her main character so and I think it’s really rather clever, even if it does come across as making Elena the duller character in pretty much any of her interactions with anyone else. Still yet, this book is eminently readable and as before, all the Lila scenes are fire – not to be missed. But this book ended in such a way that made me very angry and though I could argue that it only makes sense for it to have ended how it did, I abhor marital infidelity and the depiction of such…even if it seems warranted or even the right thing to do to abandon a spouse and children, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around Elena’s actions here. She’s impulsive and destructive and while I suppose we could say it only makes sense living with a husband who seems so neglectful and dispassionate, there is no way I can justify her leaving her family for a stupid affair of the heart. Nino is his father all over again (as I believe is pointed out) and I simply raged to see that Elena gets taken in by him so easily. Perhaps Nino actually does feel for her – as seems to be the case – yet even so? Two families wrecked just so that two people can indulge their feelings for one another. I loved hearing Lila tear into Elena and perhaps the last book in this series will show how these choices only lead to further destruction and misery. Perhaps, yet I don’t even want to find out. I knew this series got grimmer by the book yet I thought I could handle it. Ah well, perhaps not. I hate unfaithfulness.
42. Enjoying God by Tim Chester. A simple book on how we can grow in our enjoyment of God and communion with Him in the every day hardships and mundanities we face. I greatly enjoyed this one. Yes it is simple at times, but maybe we need that? This book had so many good reminders of how we ought understand who God is – in the three persons of the Trinity – and how we ought understand our relationship to Him – union with Christ and therefore relationship with God in true fashion – and then how we ought live and breathe to grow closer to our God in the everyday. I confess my full theological nerdery and say that my favourite chapter by far was the chapter at the end where the author dug into some of John Owen’s writings on communion with God and really went deeper on what it means for us for our union with God to be the foundation for our communion with him. Superb writing and fantastic summary of John Owen (not easy to do!). This book was good for my soul.
Slow Down If You Please
A few thoughts on a few books this lovely grey Wednesday evenig.
29. The Apostolic Fathers in English edited by Michael W. Holmes. I had forgotten I had this one on my shelf! It has sat there for a few years now without me sparing it even the slightest thought. Finally though. It was time. I’m glad I read this work. What is it? Well, it’s a compilation of some of the earliest (non-canonical) writings of the early church fathers. We have works by Clement, Ignatius, Polycarp…the early-church manual “The Didache” and others. It was extremely fascinating to read words that had been written so recently following the life of Jesus Christ, even as the church was forming and coming to be slightly more structured and even as certain doctrinal elements were yet rather fuzzy. I think it important to read this with a discerning mind, especially if one reads – as I did – with the belief that the canon of the New Testament was divinely ordained by God and that these writings are not part of it. So are the words I read divinely inspired? I would say not. Yet still these writings give a glimpse as to the thoughts and beliefs of certain ones in the early church and I’m grateful for that. Some of the writings were truly fascinating and encouraging. Funnily enough I found the Epistle to Diognetus the most edifying! An apologetic for the Christian faith addressed to one who did not yet believe, I found it a clear and well-structured proclamation of the gospel. Some of the writings were a bit more odd. The Shepherd of Hermas? Yeah, that’s an odd one. I don’t quite know what to make of it and it made me uneasy at times. And some of the letters of Ignatius made me quirk an eyebrow, especially with his emphasis on the primacy of the bishops and their standing in the place of God. Hm. And I did note with sadness a vein running throughout many of these writings on the emphasis of works and holy living with a bit of a neglect on the work of Christ and what that work means for those who are his. Legalism and formalism already creeping in a bit. How quickly did errors accrete, even in the early church! So if you read this, read it with discernment and care. I would still heartily recommend this to anyone interested in theology and the early church. It’s a fascinating read and well worth the time taken.
30. Tiger by the Tail by Alan Nourse. An old slim paperback I found on my shelf, it’s a collection of old-school sci-fi stories, just what I was in the mood for! Yet…the stories weren’t anything much to write home about. These stories definitely felt in the vein of silly 50s/60s sci-fi, even reminding me a bit of Asimov’s lesser stories at times. I know this is technically “Golden Age” sci-fi, but I just didn’t think these stories were that great. There are better old sci-fi collections out there.
31. Dungeon Crawler Carl by Matt Dinniman. Finally. I’d been hearing about this one for a while and dismissed it figuring it was not my speed. Well, a friend finally lent it to me this past week and I knocked it out in a couple nights. Did I like it? Yes and no. It’s remarkably well crafted and the writer has a strong voice, to be sure. It’s a fun read!! But I probably won’t be continuing this journey. Even though I’m a bit curious how Carl and Donut’s journey progresses, I don’t think I can bring myself to read another one. I may have liked this book a lot more 10 or 15 years ago, I don’t know. If you play (or have played) video games, you would probably love this. I did appreciate the game references and it felt very Borderlands-esque (even the humor! especially the humor!) and the characters are strong. And I’ve heard the series only gets better. But! This book is just a bit too crass and profane, a bit too violent and dark…and…though I appreciate what the author is doing and it is a rather fun read, I just don’t need this in my head. So shutting it down after one. I wonder if this is a sign I’m just getting old? Or perhaps more weary of certain things I once found funny. Anyway, I do get the hype and I understand why this series is loved. Just not for me.
32. The Paradox of the Sets by Brian Stableford. Every time I read a sci fi novel by Stableford I find myself happy and pleased and wondering why I don’t read more by him. The author is wildly imaginative, wonderfully nerdy (especially on the subject of biological/ecological subjects!) and decently philosophical. This book is in a series that I have read a few books of before and technically this is the last one, but it didn’t really matter as the story is pretty stand-alone. It’s a mystery of sorts and I enjoyed trying to figure out what was really going on as the narrator attempted to discover the secrets of the final colony world on their mission. Well-written sci-fi goodness. Full approve.
In All of Time and Space
A momentary beauty and a fundamental truth encourages me in this day that feels so real and present yet I know by tomorrow it will be yet another wafer thin page quickly fading in my memory to mist. But does that fact that the existing moment in the present is quickly shoved aside to become ever less important in the grand scheme of the timeline that rushes stubbornly in one direction mean that moment is in actuality less important or is it only a trick of perception? I would argue so though it is difficult to state my case when I can say for almost certainty that if this earth still spins a few hundred years hence there will be no one left alive who remembers my name (and certainly not my face). I’ve had the thought myself when looking at old photo albums – who is that? No clue. Turn the page. Page turned and accomplished and we move forward in swaggering sureness of importance of self. Hard to think otherwise when one exists as one does and can only reference to self because well one thinks as oneself does one not? Oh pardon me for this angst induced overly indulgent existential rage. I am proud and selfish as most of us tend to be, us mere humans scraping through the rubble of our shattered dreams attempting to salvage an idea of the grand reality that was promised. Does your heart thrill to that thought too? Is there a true myth that causes your heart to skip a beat and the hair to rise upon your neck as you put your hand to your lips as unconsciously you yearn for a taste of the miraculous? Or is it only again the scrabbling through the ashes of the forest attempting to construct a mansion out of trees that never could bear the weight of expectations as you turn your face aside to cry? I ask for your forgiveness, friend. My thoughts dance ahead of my reason and I fear the turmoil of my heart is now bare for all to see. What is this lot of mine, this suffering? Do you hurt too? I ache for that weight of glory. I beg for the veil to be removed. I crave to live in a real house someday. I can’t bear this tent much longer, surely not. But there is a sense of something beautiful in the corner of my eye and I rest my hand upon the truth that truly never lies. Someday resurrection will be seen face to face. For now though I see not, I believe. I can’t help but otherwise when the fire burns within me so.
Snapshot
she darts a gaze my way
that woman leaning against
the little yellow car
profound in its solidity
she slumps in her transience
and meets my eyes
small smile plays about her lips
even as the cigarette touches
i walk past the stranger and don’t look back
oh now i smell the smoke
Something Weird 