I don’t know what I want. I long expected to hear those words from her lips but even so, the moment stuns me a bit in its rawness. I feel a crackle through the air and I feel the sudden urge to sneeze, the same urge that springs upon me in those pivot points of life. So too here, as the air fairly shimmers with possibility. She turns to me in faintly disguised anguish, eyes wet. I know I’ve kept you waiting, I know the ball’s been in my court for oh far too long. But what was I supposed to say? You wanted to hear me say I love you? I couldn’t and I can’t still. But there is something here, I know it and so do you. And I fear if I shut it down and let it go, there will be regret someday. Does that make me selfish? Don’t answer that, I’ve already punished myself enough for not being able to make a choice. Decision paralysis. That’s me and not even the excuse of immaturity. Also don’t answer that. I reach my hand across the table, a mute reminder of my initial question. Although it seems perhaps now is not the time. I draw back. She bites her lip as we both stay silent and I hastily take a sip of tea. She takes a deep breath and puts her hands to her face as if to delay the moment a little longer. I hear the rain patter on the cobblestones outside and think that I will always remember this August afternoon.
Tag: writing
A Day Arises She Sings Once Again
I really must write more. It is early Monday morning here in the flat and I have been perusing old entries and it has perhaps put me in a nostalgic mood. Also I have noted how my writing style has changed and morphed over the years in both content and form. For better or for worse? I shall leave others to say. But it is certain that in the past my entries used to be a bit more proper journal style and now, well…it seems that only my poetical or grasping creative fancies are what I decide to pour out on this screen. Oh, and book reviews of course. Never forget the book reviews! I wonder what it is, this slight drawing back, this pulling the curtain over my face ever so slightly. It perhaps reflects my growing, maturation dare I say? Maybe it is an acknowledgement that the internet is not quite as young and innocent as it was back in the day. Of course it never was, but I was more naive back then. Now, if I share on here, it feels riddles is the order of the day. Wade through enough metaphorical language and you may glimpse my heart. I know not all the reasons yet still it is fascinating to wonder.
And now my mind drifts as my fingers wander and I think perhaps it’s alright that I don’t write of my days in detail as I once used to do. Though I’m grateful for the chronicling of the past and the memories that now float through my mind for it spurs thoughts of gratitude and joy. Gratitude to the God who has blessed me far more than this young man could ever have hoped to dream. Joy for the life this same God has given me – a life poured out as offering devoted to the One who holds my hand yet a life blazing forth full of light from that same God who fills me in ways I most likely won’t ever truly comprehend. I am a broken vessel, a clay pot. Who am I to show forth this brilliant glory? Who am I to write down this achingly beautiful song? I bow my head in praises to the One who made me, to the One who called my name.
Perhaps I shall write more of my life in the future. Perhaps not. But I’m grateful for the thoughts that flood my being and the emotions that well up within.
Alley Cat
Hello friends! A little Sunday afternoon writing extravaganza – or perhaps more of a small digression on the ordinary – and I’m really not sure why I’m writing other than the fact that I do happen to have a bit of time and I felt it would be silly to waste it. Hence laptop open and all that. I really don’t have much to write about but from time to time it’s important to leap headfirst into the chasm without the benefit of any sort of extraction plan. It’s a bit freeing and even beneficial, I would argue, for strengthening the creative muscles that too often can lay dormant as one lazes about here and there. But now, in actuality, I am writing far too many words on nothing as a vacant look begins to grow in my eyes. I allow my imagination to wander afield but now I think I’ve lost her and wherever she is now, I suppose there isn’t any signal. It is a shame, really, when I think of all the wasted moments when I’m driving on the highway and my muse sparks to life. I construct a cathedral of perfect images and the moments that cause one’s heart to stutter in awe and disbelief. But that super structure is ethereal of necessity and given enough time – say, the ten minutes more it takes for me to complete my drive and pull into a parking space – the distractions of what some call real life creep stealthily in and before I know it, I see a puff of smoke upon the wind and pronounce in subdued tones the burial rites for that which may possibly be the greatest creation ever to grace the alleyways of my mind. Now though? I write about all and sundry in part just to drive away the growing dread that I have nothing of worth to say. At least I’m writing I tell myself. At least the words are pouring forth and if no one judges them to rank high in profundity at least no one accuses them of being bland. At least no one says this to my face. Behind my back, who knows. All the comments may be bandied back and forth and perhaps some harsh words on my output may trickle forth from time to time. Yet worse than that of course? The sheer apathy of most and the highest of likelihoods that in actuality no one says much of anything about my work at all. This is of course true and I write these words acknowledging the fact to steel my soul and grimly laugh and acknowledge that even what I love to write here and now does not really have a lasting place beyond the here and now. If I in self-deprecating humor poke at myself and acknowledge my lack of worth or art, does that mean I cry a little less inside? Perhaps. Is it worth it? Perhaps. Still my soul aches to know that I’ve written something beautiful, even if it just once or twice. I doubt I will live to see that day. But let not my bitterness cloud the moment, let not my weeping smear the panes. Instead, I’ll flick on the windshield wipers and allow myself to keep driving forward and I’ll focus on the taillights in front of me as I do my best to escape this pouring rain. Even in the mixed metaphors which clutter my writing it seems I can’t escape my own mediocrity. But to reference my above, is it still not better that I’ve written something? Look up above and see the sunlight breaking through. Do you happen to have a pen and spare piece of paper about you? I’d love to write a quick poem if you do.
A Different Kind of Music
She sits on the porch in the fading light of sunset, a mug of coffee cradled in her hand. She knows it may possibly be too late for coffee but she cares not. The scent of coffee sparks her soul. The darkness draws closer and she looks out over the fields to enjoy the golden softness of the heads of grain before the curtain falls. It is good to rest this night. Her muscles are slowly untensing after the long day walking to and fro and hither and yon. A hot shower will be most welcome shortly, but not yet. Firstly the sunset must be enjoyed for the moment is not to be missed on a night such as this. The yellow light slowly turns to orange and threatens red as the sun slips ever further down the curve of the prairie sky. The clouds hug the horizon promising her very favourite type of sunset, the type where the garments of the heavens drape loosely about its frame. All the better to showcase the breathtaking beauty that is ever present but only rarely shyly seen. But enough of the sunset chatter, she thinks to herself as she breathes deep. She brings her other hand up to the coffee mug and she drinks. The wind blows across the treeless pastures and causes her to shiver. The sun winks and is gone. She lets herself sit a moment or two longer, slowly rocking back and forth in her chair. She plays a finger through her hair about her ear and considers. The thick book on the table next to her calls her name. But first, hot shower and cozy pajamas and then back on the porch to curl up with aforesaid book and a tall glass of something cold and dark. And she may even light a candle. It’s that type of night, a night for the prolonging of the beautiful and a lingering in the light. But first she must move her tired muscles. She slowly rises and turns to the house. Her hand on the doorknob, she looks back one more time to take a mental photograph of the way the porch railing silhouettes against the twilight. The night is not yet over, she promises herself. But now, shower time.
Counsel
What say you to the charge that is laid before you this cold winter night? Dare you take up your own defense, dare you take up your pen in furious denunciation of the rumors that now stalk the land? Your hand shakes in barely concealed rage. You cannot quite the believe the furor that has been unleased. In this modern age the news travels lightning swift, does it not? Even lightning is slower than the venom that has been unleashed in service of your doom. Will you actually try to fight back this night? You put your head into your hands and slowly slump down in your chair before the fireside. Your phone is on the table next to you, it is no use. Anything you see now will be naught but further acid upon the wounds that now etch themselves down your face. Your tears no longer flow. But perhaps there is one who may take up the case. Perhaps he would. Just maybe. You have no strength left in you and no vigor left in your mind. You have been smartly disarmed and in totality unmasked. There is no other option. You raise your head and breathe deep. You look to the window and see the snow swirl gleefully down. Your hand trembles. It is all arrayed against you, is it not? You are not spotless after all. But who may rise in your defense? Who may clear their throat and speak out against the lies that bind? Who may take your cause for their own? It would be perilous, possibly life threatening. Yet there is one who may just step into the breach. You raise your hand in silent supplication. A knock sounds at the door.
Big Air
Hello friends! At the coffeeshop this gorgeous mid-February day! It is such a nice day out – one of those rare Houston days that causes one to rise up and take notice and nod slowly in approval – that it is really almost a shame to sit indoors at the moment, but I do crave some writing time. And I don’t feel too guilty for wasting the beauty of the day since it was well enjoyed earlier today. Had my traditional early Sunday morning walk down to the bridge and it was simply lovely breathing in the fresh air and observing the fresh-washed surroundings after our downpours last night. And then after church, Dani and I thought that this weather simply demanded that a picnic be adventured. And so it was. We grabbed some poke bowls from HEB and proceeded on our standard MKT walk, ending up at a little picnic table where the poke was enjoyed in the open air, with the people walking by serving as entertainment and the various conversations and children’s shrieks serving as our background music. Bit better than a couch in front of a TV, mm? It was beautiful, all the more though because it was with the Dani and mid-afternoon on a simply sublime day. Can my heart repine? I think not.
So now at the Antidote and I am enjoying sitting in my tall hard-backed chair and typing furiously away on this keyboard as I raise my head now and again to observe the patrons that sit around me. There’s an older couple sitting in the central couch, enjoying the Sunday paper and a magazine as they now and again whisper smiles to each other. The woman’s long hair is a gorgeous silver and the man looks quite happy with the little comments he tosses her way now and again, her breaking out into laughter at his last. I look forward to the day when that is Dani and I! Then the majority of the rest of the people inside here are mirroring I (or am I mirroring them?) and on their laptops, some with headphones/ear buds, some with the naked ear exposed for all to see. Scandalous! And I sit here, writing about all and sundry as I sip slowly on my smolderingly hot decaf americano. Yes, decaf. It’s approaching 5pm, after all! Now? What more shall I write about? Well I think this chatty post has about served its purpose, warming up my fingers and stretching the thoughts of my muse to the point where it is about ready to burst forth into spontaneous song. Pardon for what may follow. But for all of you wherever you may sit and whatever you are doing, thanks for reading a little bit of my nonsense. Peace and love.
Notes
It’s a Tuesday night. It’s warmer. Why. I want our nice cold winter weather back! Alas, I suppose I will just have to grin and bear it. For now. So while I bemoan the unseasonably warm temperatures and pine for winter once again, I will write a few words on my latest.
7. The Winds of Change by Isaac Asimov. I’d forgotten I’d read this before and pulled it off my shelf thinking it was a new read. By the time I had a funny feeling that I had indeed read this before, I was already about halfway through and decided to just finish it! And it…was fine? Either I’m starting to outgrow Asimov a bit in my advanced age or this is one of his weaker collections. Either way, the short stories were reasonably entertaining in the moment, but not much more than that. Some of them were downright clunkers! Ah well, still better than a lot of sci fi being published at the moment!
8. By Blood, By Salt by J.L. Odom. What a stupendous book. Oh how I do delight when I find a book that so thoroughly surprises me as this one did! I bought this one off a recommendation and kind of forgot about it until a few days ago when I was perusing my shelves looking for a new read. Saw this and shrugged and thought why not try it? It looked a little grim and daunting and I wasn’t entirely sure I was in the mood for such. Still yet? It won my heart. I shall attempt to not spoil this one as I really feel much of the beauty of this book is in the discovery. But it is a fantasy, I guess you could say. A work set in a place and time not quite our own. Yet there are similarities – obvious and not disguised ones – to cultures and personalities of our own human history, and while I first wondered if it was perhaps a bit too pat in its appropriations, I soon found myself marveling at the deep and intricate world the author had constructed. This may be a debut novel, but the writing feels confident and self-assured. The author knows where she’s going with this. One of my only qualms is that this book is not the end! I have already sourced the next book and eagerly await it arriving so I can drop once more into this world. Some may think her themes and touchpoints too obvious, yet I feel they work. I do wonder where she’s going with this and I’m pleased that I can’t quite tell. I get whiffs of some of my all-time favourites (particularly some resonance to Till We Have Faces) and I’m frankly a little shocked that this is the author’s first published book. The writing is grounded, detailed and feels utterly real. The characters are a bit foreign at times yet…with the world and history that they’ve lived, is that not surprising? I mentioned at the start, but this is indeed a grim book. Not much light-heartedness, quite a bit of violence and trauma. If you’re looking for a bloodless adventure, this is not the book for you. Yet sometimes the shedding of blood is necessary, is it not? I can’t wait to read the second and see how the story of Azetla continues. Stunning work, truly.
Fondly She Says
They sit around the table talking of all the delicate things of life. They speak of loving from a distance and friendships severed and high drama now converted to a steady well-banked fire. On the table is laid a feast with one large pot of meat and sauce and other smaller bowls with various accoutrement and at the end sits a plate of sliced bread still slightly steaming and a small dish of butter invitingly placed nearby. It may seem slightly unnecessary to take the time to describe the food and its placement on the table yet does it not add to understanding the back and forth of the hands that go here and there as various bits of this and that get added to bowls as the conversation carries ever on? I am attempting to paint a scene and sometimes I prefer to let my gentle readers fill in the dialogue for themselves if only they see the staging well described before them. So yes. Back to the table at hand. The four friends talk in a way which indicates kinship or union of some kind, even if it can also be seen that they do not know each other as intimately as family might. Yet there are smiles that linger on one face long after an encouraging word has been said and no one is looking in his direction. What is it to share your heart with another and know that it is being seen as true? This is rare, is it not? I know I crave such. But now I leave the table and glance at the tea kettle that already is near at a boil. Four cups on the counter with tea bags placed within. A glance into the living room where sofa and comfy chairs sit and I can imagine them sitting there with cups cradled gratefully in hands, steam rising to caress joyous faces. They sit as I knew they would and then of course the continued chatting about life and death and the divine amidst the mundane of which we everyday breath and see. There is nothing grand to be said about this whole evening of course, it is just a small homey scene. Yet perhaps are not those the grandest? I think so.
Fare Thee Well
She stood at the window gazing with calm equanimity across the chaotic void. The last ship had launched and the fiery remnants of its wake still glistened and yet her face did not display any trace of tears though she knew she would never see her love again. She stood for several long slow beats of her heart feeling her body pulse to the rhythm of the station’s reactor. There would be time to mourn later, of course. There would be nothing but time and she would struggle to know how to fill it. But for now, for this moment, she wanted to feel her union with him as a still present reality and to admit to separation would be akin to standing over her own grave. She refused to think of the long years that stretched before her. Instead, she felt the press of his hand on hers and the lingering touch of his lips. She remembered the small smile that graced his face as he had turned one last time before walking down the gangway. She let his final words ring in her ears. They would meet again, to be sure. But it would be on the other side of space and time. She would see his face again in a place which she now saw only vague outlines of in her dearest dreams.
And now comes the long march. Now comes the cold dark of the unknown years which stretch afore her. She must fill the void with the little graces and beauties that she had spent so many years cultivating in fertile soil. Now comes the refining fire and the test of faith. But the void is too vast for her to fill with the finite scribblings of a weary heart. Yet still it must be filled.
Juliet let her shoulders relax and she sighed a mortal sigh. And in the light of the star filled sky she felt tears begin to fill her eyes.
Signed and Sealed
in the fog he strides and sings
glory glory to my king!
he lifts his head and smells the smoke
whispering to himself of what he knows
promises that were long ago written
words of life that for him were given
and though too oft he tends to stutter
and wastes his thoughts on another
there are times like now when he stands tall
and remembers seeing the rainbow at the falls
so please forgive him for not always being plain of speech
for it brings him perhaps perverse delight to weave poetry
that subtly whispers truth that aches with love
and gently hints at the truths of him who sits above
but now he laughs and cries as he remembers his story
his heart burns within him as he ponders that farther glory
and he knows that though he was lost and broken true
and that he had no idea what if anything he could do
there was one who reached out his hand
and pleaded him to come into the farther land
all he had to do was fall and kneel and pray
and in desperate humble brokenness ask and say
Lord I bring nothing I am but ash and rust
save me save me oh save me or I am lost!
and so he looks to the cross and says i believe
help me God to come now to thee
for on my own i would surely be done
but now i rest my faith in you God’s own Son!
and that is all and that is enough he cries
for he knows that for his soul the Son did die!
so now he’s washed and now he’s clean
and now he stands forever among the redeemed
he rises up through the waters of the brook
and to the far shore he now dares to look
the pilgrim way continues on and ever on
but now he walks with the light of God
and though his writings still sometimes stumble
and though his poetry tends to kind of mumble
he leaves this here for a witness
to the God whom he confesses
Father, Son and Spirit Holy
eternity now whispers
and I follow
Something Weird 