I struggle to write sometimes of that which I know best. Instead I wish to write of dreams, of imaginary scenes, of the tapestries that run through my head in lush depictions of those stories for which I long. And sometimes I actually succeed at hitting the mark and am able to depict the glories for which I wish I was now participating in most fully. But alas, often times my pen runs dry and the prose I affix in permanency seems to be most dull and really a waste of time – both mine and yours, sad to say. What does that mean then? Should I stick to the here and now and write the mundane, the hours that fill my day and the little funny things that pop up in my life that yes of course pop in rhythm with the experiences of you all? I suppose I could. And really I wonder why I don’t allow myself the freedom to wander about and explore the experience of writing which I know. Sometimes I do, do I not? The best writing is that which weaves in the common and familiar and acknowledges the everyday realities which we experience in such concrete ways. And so let me remember that. Yet still if I refuse to write that which burns within and decide to not let my pen linger on those dreams that rise to those mythical images that even now dance before my eyes, then I would be denying the truer realities that dwell beyond the veil. May it never be. May I never focus so much on the here and now that I forget the later and not yet – the truer possibilities that in fact are sure because the faith in which I now abide is not to be gainsaid. So instead let me dance upon the asphalt in this present reality as I look up to heaven opened and gasp, dreaming of the future reality that is mine and yes just possibly yours as well.
Tag: writing
Let’s Talk
Do you hear the whispering around the corner or is it just me? She asked softly and eagerly with her eyes she hinted more. I knew not how to respond for it was one of those questions that didn’t really need an answer as you knew it was just a lead-in to a grander theme. But really, she said, isn’t it something how we all go through life as if this was just the beginning, an opening to a play that’s far grander than we could hope to do justice to? Or is it just me? Even those who carpe their diems and proudly proclaim their yolos seem to in an undertone admit that even so there is a faint whiff of dissatisfaction and that the meaning of life is not quite fulfilled. I hesitate to say all is vanity but do you not think that just about sums it up? I lean back and take a sip of my cold drink and let the luscious bitterness roll across my tongue and ponder the truths of what she’s just said. Or are they truths? Or perhaps just grand philosophical statements of the unexplained phenomena that the firing neurons in our brains frantically seek to connect in the patterns that we love to caress once they are defined and neatly boxed? I think sometimes the latter yet she speaks with such fervent adoration for the mystery that she almost understands. I for one cannot understand her fire yet I cannot doubt there is a fire there. So that is the question. From where does that spark come? And is it an eternal predestined flame or is it just a random outshoot of the conflagration of the universe in all its infinite randomness that must in its ways produce a moment such as this? And she as she sips her drink peers back at me, understanding the moment demands a silence and a question as that demands a pondering. What shall I say? I do know that there is something beyond the veil but sometimes I wish someone would tear it down and tell me that all is done and dusted and that here you go – the truth of it all is plain to see. I startle as I realize I have said this aloud. So yes she said slowly, the beautiful real smile dawning upon her face. You do hear the whispering. And you are more fortunate than you know, for your wish? Granted. We cannot see with eyes now but still yet there were some that have. That veil has been torn down and that true answer granted. All in one it was done and now all eternity lies bare to see. No, I say, in sudden realization. You tricked me. And here I thought it was an innocent philosophical digression. Is there ever really such a thing she mused. If you play at seeking answers you do indeed run the real risk of facing truth. Simply taste and see. Look at the words that were written. I choked in fear. Dare I go on another step. If so I may be caught and unable to escape. Or perhaps it was already too late. Those words that were written. They were written in blood, were they not? Veritably, she replied. Blood and water and spirit. The historical accounts all agree. History I muttered. It would be my nemesis. I cannot resist a good story. Well she smiled once more. Let me tell you one.
Curtain Falls
Storms roll in on the tide of weekend dreams. Sufficiently pretentious opening line aside, I do marvel at the fury promised by the cloudbank that peers at me over the horizon. I wish I could stay a moment to linger and watch the trees around me welcome the storm as they all lift their hands and celebrate its arrival but alas my feet are not planted quite as deep and firm as their roots and so I must away and fleet to home sweet home where shelter awaits. Oh part of me wishes to throw my hands up wide as well and feel the first winds of the advance guard buffet my shirt with their hearty embrace. Even to feel the sheets of rain fall around me and drench me entirely with the bounty of the heavens would not be a bad thing, for the storm is a clean thing, mighty in its power and joyous in all the clamor that it creates. Lift up a new song this day, ye heavens and even now shout aloud ye earth! This storm that so many cower from as they peer at their small bright screens and tap in disbelief that happy hour plans should be so rudely inconvenienced – it laughs and shakes its fists in hearty disapprobation at your antics. But as for me? My soul strains to escape the gravity of this plane and rise to higher heavens to shout aloud with angels at the mystery that is merely hinted at by the chaos of this storm that all earthly intelligence – artificial and otherwise – fails to truly grasp. See how the stars peer down and marvel at the beauty of the approaching thunderheads. Alas but I cannot see them. I look up and sigh for I cannot see the stars any longer. The last dark clouds roll overhead and thunder whispers it is time. I spread my arms to the heavens. Take me away with you and let me witness the purity of your wrath! For a second I stagger. It is stronger than I expect and then I blink as in an instant I am wet to the skin and feel the water pouring off me. I open my eyes and gaze up into the heart of the storm. Lightning flashes in golden chorus and my heart beats the rhythm of the rain. Oh sing with me this night my dear comrades, sing this anthem of creation’s might! I hasten to sing though my voice is drowned out by the angels. I am grateful that I have a front row seat this evening to the grand old show. Thank you for this opportunity, my good sir. It is very good for us to be here.
Another Turn about the Room
A few book thoughts this grey Saturday.
26. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. A strange and beautiful delight of a book. Typically one reads a book and feels that one has a decent understanding of it and feels satisfied upon reaching its close. To the contrary with this one – I feel that five more rereads will not begin to plumb its depths. And I greatly look forward to reading it again. I could talk more about the many characters who are so richly presented and teased throughout – the titular Clarissa, Peter Walsh, the Warren Smiths, even all the smaller bits that still receive more lavish study and attention than the main characters in most other novels – the scene-stealing Sally Seton, the contradictory Mr. Dalloway, Elizabeth and Miss Kilman and others. I think that’s what I loved most about this book, the empathetic and deep look into the lives of those who in other cases would be passed over as mere superficial things. Of course the imagery and description is simply luscious. This book is veritably cinematic. But even so, much of the action is internal and in the minds of the characters we follow, so in a way – is this a story that can only be told properly in the form of a novel? Perhaps perhaps. I feel as if I need to read this again in a year or so and see how it strikes me then. The storyline following young Septimus and Rezia – powerful and affecting and the scene near its close still haunts my dreams. I think on how Septimus and Clarissa mirror each other in certain ways yet wonder on the thread that binds them. Also it’s fascinating seeing the comparison and contrast between Sally and Clarissa and the lives they once led and the lives they now lead. Are they so different now after all? Many more words I could write but I fear without insight. This book is not one that can be entirely captured or comprehended on first read.
27. Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar. This book is written masterfully yet I confess I struggled with it at times. The themes in this one are deep and rich and highlight the inability of the mundane and human to fulfill the eternal longings of the soul. For what are we on this earth? Why do our hearts cry? I wish I could write half as well as this author, whose prose is such that it quickly and incisively places one in the midst of a richly textured scene, all the particulars laid out that one can imagine you’re actually there, watching and hearing and getting swept up in the drama of this young man Cyrus Shams. The character work is strong and though I’m not always a fan of many POVs, the author here handles it marvelously, even with the dream sequences that while a bit self-indulgent, are a delight to read and aid well in developing and revealing the character of our protagonist. I do feel though that the scenes where Cyrus is center were my favourite and I was always excited to get another glimpse through his eyes. This book is a weird one yet wonderful – showing us a man who feels a bit lost and searching for meaning, trying to understand how an Iranian-American can feel at all at home in the Midwest, USA. Does he have a home? Or will he forever be an outcast, a wandering pilgrim in a land that knows him not? I will always resonate with a book and protagonist that has poetry and art – I do love a book where I feel a bit akin to one who feels so fulfilled in writing and where the struggles of such are laid bare. There is a great line about the best part of writing being what comes after it has been accomplished and the satisfaction and feeling of completion it brings. I wish I could whole-heartedly recommend, but as those who know me would not be surprised at, I did cringe and wince at times at the profane and graphic content in this book. Not a fan, though yes it is a part of reality of life. Still, I struggled with it and thus would not recommend this book to all. Yet! There is beauty in this book at times. A bit dreamy and searching and I appreciate reading the heart cries of one who knows this world is not enough.
Oh how Wonderful
On this day I sit and think and ponder on all the fingers that point at me and signal with their urgency – it is you! And thus do I walk forward now on this path and as the relaxed posture of the flowers show, it is hot outside and so it is not surprising that a drop or two of sweat slowly slides down my brow. To return to the theme, perhaps I am a bit too self centered in my musings so I consider that all I see is concerned with me when in reality I know that this cannot be. For true, if I were the center of this world’s play then would not I perhaps inhabit a more prominent role? Or am I just doomed to be the bit character, the one with a single line in the third act that perhaps isn’t even heard over the shrill whistling of the birds perched overhead on the balcony. Perhaps so. Yet if I have a line and if this line must be said, should I not practice the all important art of elocution to ensure that at least there is a chance the few words I have fall gracefully upon the ears of those still perked towards the stage? That is my attitude and hopefully it is not arrogant to assume such, especially if I have manfully resigned the expectation that the central part is mine. In fact it never was. Grateful for that I am for it means I can rest in the shadow of another.
In fact all my hope for a better life lies not in what I can do for myself for all my own strivings show is – in proven fact – how inept I am at bettering myself in the attributes that have that certain something – oh you know what I mean – that aspect of the infinite, that piercing rhythm of eternity. So my ineptitude points to the fact that I cannot in and of myself contribute anything of lasting value to the novel whose pages so rapidly are flicking flicking towards its close. But why yet does my finite sluggish mind grasp so much for the beauty that it cannot in itself define? If I cannot so define, how do I know that there is such a possibility? This concept has stubbornly embedded itself in my mind and perhaps is an original feature of my soul, that idea that the infinite exists and that it is beautiful beyond compare. Where is this treasure, where is this pearl of great price? Perhaps oh if the infinite would bend down and say a word or two to give me that glimpse for which my soul longs. Oh for this word to come down and in itself give me such life that in comparison to it all else is merely grinning death. Oh for this word to stretch forth a hand and say that which my soul aches to hear. Where is this treasure, where this pearl of great price? Perhaps it truly is found in that song of grace and truth which I so casually dismissed so long ago. Perhaps it truly is found in that old worn story that says that man or god or perhaps both came to bring peace to earth. Where is this treasure, this pearl of great price? I shiver as I say aloud that name that rings redemption in divine majesty. I weep as I sit at the foot of the cross and ponder he who is called Jesus Christ.
Understory
See back and forth swings this pendulum above this weary earth. I wish that I could write now of all the things I’ve dreamed yet for some reason – as seems common to most – my dreams are so hazy now that to write them would be fun for only one person – me. I see them still with my inner eye yet to put them to paper would just bore my readers. Is that not true? How often have you told your dream to friends and been oh so excited to share the mystical reality of your sleep state and yet their eyes glaze over for…well, for some reason dreams lose the power in the telling for the majority of their power is in the gauzy visuals which cannot easily be communicated in words. Most dreams, of course. Sometimes though, a dream is vivid enough and one’s command of language is enough to communicate in entirety the luscious richness of the realities of your mind as it trawls the depths of deep subconscious. This is rare though. I have never quite accomplished it, as much as I wish I could. Speaking of dreams. I oft wonder why it is that we so often dream the same dream again and again. Do we all have a dream unique to us yet somehow we are dense enough it must be repeated? Or is that just me? Or another question. Do you have a dream you remember from childhood, one that happened again and again and yet at some point it stopped and you now feel its absence and it makes you weep for nostalgic loss. Our minds are odd to be sure.
I remember a dream of long ago and though I can’t recall having it in oh so many years, its tracing is still fresh and I still feel the rhythm of its lilt in my mind. I am afraid to try and type the bones of this dream here for I fear it will dry up its verdant wonder, yet I will at least say a few words. This dream that haunted my childhood is one of beauty and motion, adventure and gratitude. Gratitude? Why do I use that word. It springs to my mind when I recall this dream, yet I do not know why. The dream itself is tinged in yellow. Yellow grass, the trees on the leaves tend towards yellow and even the air has a golden tint. The path that lies before me is of course made of dirt that seems less brown and more yellow. But though the predominant color of this dream is determined, the destination is not. In the dream my body is less a body and more a disembodied soul. I rush forward quickly and effortlessly, bouncing. There is such a feeling of bouncing and swaying and unstoppable forward momentum. Ever onward I go, along this path, seeing the yellowed grass bend and sway to my side as the trees laugh in my face as I cruise past. I cannot stop even if I wanted to. Onwards I go. I mentioned the leaves, I will mention again. They are yellow but not just a mass of yellow on the tree. Each leaf leaps forward distinctly, the veins bright brown atop the yellow backdrop. I see the leaves vividly even as I soar past. I suppose I don’t have legs, though if I do they must possess marvelous springs for I do bounce wonderfully. Ever on I go through this yellowed wood. There is perhaps a cabin ahead? At least that is the faint thought in my mind as I rush through this forest, but I do not see the cabin. I do hear the stream nearby and now and again catch a flash that must be the sun off the water. The sun’s light is yellow which I feel I must mention because it fits the theme, yet I cannot in honesty say I noticed the sun in this dream. I only look straight in front of me, all else is peripheral. Onward I go. Why is the light so yellow, why is the air so silent? It is a beautiful dream and though I cannot quite tell you why, I can in confidence say that. It is a beautiful dream.
I do not think I have quite captured the beauty of this dream, which hopefully my hints early on in this essay prepared you for. Alas. I suppose I have only my own lacking literary talent to blame. But I am also secretly happy – selfishly so, of course. This dream will forever be mine. It will not be shared and so diluted. The nostalgic spark that flares within me shall not die. I feel joy as I roll this dream around inside my head. But oh! How I wish I could share the beauty now. Beauty unshared tends to turn a little cold, does it not? I have changed my mind. I wish you could see what I see. I wish you could feel what I feel. I wish the truths that spring to my mind unbidden could also flame into life in your very soul. Maybe that is possible. Maybe you will also dream of spring. Tell me if you do. Or if your mind seems to be too much dry tinder and not enough bright fire, tell me that too. We must meet up over a coffee and discuss. We shall discuss the dying thoughts of winter and the yearnings of the west they stir up. And then yes. We shall talk of spring.
Louisa
lightly she galloped up the mountain
her feet barely touching the rich green grass
instead she soared and leaped and yes
even flew
as her eyes focused on the still higher
quickly moving stream
for if she dared to cross it
and win the alpine meadow for her own
there’d plenty of wildflowers to pick and treasure
perhaps even a wild mountain rose
and then when she had a full and hearty bouquet
then she would be happy to descend at pace slightly
more leisurely
but wonder do you what she did when all a sudden
clouds sprang upon the scene
and thunder bellowed and lightning struck
and rain soaked her head to toe
perhaps her fortitude would be sorely tested
and her spirit promptly damped
but instead her eyes shone all the greater
and still up the mountain she danced
for a little rain was not enough to thwart her
and into the teeth of the storm she laughed!
and soon enough the clouds gave up the onslaught
and the drenched young maiden continued on
her hair wet and dripping down her back
but who cares for that when again
shone the sun!
and finally near dry she crossed the little streamlet
and let her feet feel all nice and cool
but not to be too distracted
she kept her gaze pointed at the wind tossed rainbow hue
her flowers were here and hers alone and enough for an armful
and many more to spare
oh but what is that whistle that sounds from the hut on the horizon
is it another little girl now coming out to play?
perhaps they can gather flowers now together
and sing and dance and laugh and pray
and then a hearty supper of stew and boiled potatoes
and lots of berries black and sweet
for though flowers are nice to look at and truly very lovely
a bouquet is not at all for one to eat!
so now the maidens tired at last from all their toils
sit around a little fire and look at their flowers dear
and eat their fill and a little more still
and whisper of things they fear
for the night has come and dark has fallen
and ghost stories are fun to share
yet the girls hearts are full
and their feet are warm
and they have flowers in their hair.
Mountains
Oh how I enjoy the eating of strawberries and the concept of picnics underneath gently spreading willow trees. And sometimes in past years I’ve entertained pieces of poetry in my own imagination as I’ve opened wide my heart to those friends whom I hold dear. These times in which the mind soars on the wings of a fresh spring day and feels unreasonably exuberant at the thought of stable intimacy in the frolic of conversation with another? These are the moments which I treasure and hold up to the lamplight in my mind’s eye. Do you remember this? That night in the parking lot when you held court with those dear ones and talked for hours on the subjects that so inflamed your heart? I do, oh I do. And that is why it is not ridiculous to seek to create such environments in which these moments of near divine coherence might bloom into glorious life. I cannot lay claim to such power or intellect that I can in and of myself cause such profound utterances, for that is beyond the power of mortals, even ones as fair as we claim to be. But perhaps I recognize the fact that eternity is not at all as nebulous as it would seem to those without eyes to see. Instead in faith I look with eyes new opened to a sight that is not in my mind’s capacity to fully grasp at least not yet. See the far off shore appearing now even through the fog? See the budding trees and the mountains rising high? So yes, dear friend, let us talk of matters eternal and seek to know the face of God. And as we fill our dreams with thoughts of glory, I ask if you’d join me for a picnic by the gentle flowing stream. I have chicken sandwiches and chips and pickles and yes you don’t have to ask, also strawberries.
The Process
What one does when one seeks to relax says a lot about a person. Or at least, that’s what I’m pondering now as I – in my own way – spend a few minutes sprawling on the couch attempting to put words to page. When one’s creative juices have gone dry and there are no more faded memories fit to be mined, what does one write about? Well that’s when it all goes meta and the wannabe author starts talking about the process of writing. Nothing more boring for the non-author, am I right? But for some of my fellow authors, well…maybe you’re interested in what I have to say? At this point probably not, because I’m just spinning my wheels in this endless intro and you may now suspect – and you’d be right – that I don’t actually have a plan for what I’m writing. And there’s a reason for that.
I most certainly cannot speak for all writers but guess what? I can speak for myself, and so I do. Writing is something that ends in somewhat the same destination. There are words on a page (or on a screen, or on a wall, or various other surfaces, who am I to judge) and these words are presumably an expression of the author’s mind. Yet the process of writing varies in an almost infinite kaleidoscope of ways. The routines and the tics, the little tricks an author does to trick himself into writing something that could be construed as creative are some of the most treasured tools in the author’s toolbox. And I cringe that I have finally used the dreaded toolbox metaphor. Oh may I never do such again.
And I have now wasted another paragraph spinning my wheels. Oh what is this nonsense! I could be smug and say there is a purpose to that and you know what? There is. But I must also be a bit humble and admit that the fact I have spent two paragraphs talking about nothing to illustrate my point is a fortuitous turn of events that I did not realize its ultimate end until now. And that point shall now be illustrated.
Simply this – and I am proud to think that I am alone in this technique but I am sure I am not and I wait for the other writers to hoarde around me and echo that I am not at all unique – I write of random thoughts and tidbits in my brain knowing the writing soul shall not awaken until I give it a good few kicks. Much as one primes a pump, I know that my best output won’t happen right away. Indeed, I can stare at the screen all I want but it is very rare that my best words bloom immediately. Instead, I write. Sometimes nonsense, such as now. Other times, I will visualize a random scene and simply write what comes to me, allowing my imagination to slowly wake and rub the sleep out of its eyes as it looks around and sees what there is to see. But this is the important thing. I write. It is the most basic and excellent writing advice there is and it is preached for a reason. It works. How does one write? You write. It matters not what one writes. Of course eventually one may seek for quality and depth of substance in one’s prose or poetry, but initially? Just write. I stretch my mind and as I write and let my fingers outpace my conscious mind, sometimes I am even stunned at what is eventually resting on the page, alive and vibrant with meaning and truth that I did not myself know was waiting to spring forth from my soul.
I crave to write things that are of beauty and truth. I often fail, it is true. But occasionally I succeed. And I cannot credit my own foreknowledge or depth of craft that I possess in such meagre quantity. Instead, I am grateful for what I have been blessed with, the ability to communicate somewhat of the miraculous, releasing spirit thoughts from my brain to the great beyond, words on a page. If I simply put fingers to keyboard and pound away, eventually some gold emerges from the dross. Not all the time. Not often even. But when from beyond the great sea come words that ring true in a way that leaves my soul in stunned silence at what has been wrought? I lift my eyes to heaven and say a prayer of thanks. For this is how I rest, by pounding out the fresh harvest of my thoughts so that the chaff may be released and perhaps pure silken wheat may be left behind to witness true. I don’t know what it says about me. But in this ultra modern era in which I inhabit, I write to rest. Writing slows my thoughts and reveals inner dreams that soothe and invigorate my very soul. I cannot promise any of these words are or will be of any use to anyone else. But writing them was of use to me. And why not now release them into the wild? These words are not of anymore use to me now – may they run off into the woods and bless who they will.
That Which We Confess
Would that I were not currently sitting in front of an empty desk centered in an empty room bathed by the sweetly luxurious outpourings of the fluorescent lights mounted in the recesses far above. I could wish for another fate this late winter day I suppose, but perhaps it is not a bad thing to be in the stillness and in the quiet when so easily might I be in a shrieking cesspit of calamity and chaos. Is this harshly sanitized environment in which I sit not a respite from the nightmares that howl in the greater world outside? Perhaps it would be desirable to sit in this cheery sanitorium if only I believed that the world outside was truly as uncontrollably monstrous as some cannot help but preach. Instead I think that perhaps I do wish my feet were falling in rhythm upon an old stone path as I ponder the fresh air that piles in from the sea and brings the breezes that so often soothe my weary soul. I cast my mind away from this vacant island of pretense and script that vision of reality that so often sweetly haunts my dreams.
In this staging I walk in an old and hallowed courtyard, one lined by brick buildings laced with ivy and a few nodding northern elms who stand proudly in their nakedness. I have an important appointment to keep with a dear friend and though I don’t particularly want to keep her waiting, I do stop for a moment to admire the way the early morning sun filters through the grey clouds above to grace me with a small slice of beauty. I would love to spend a bit of time sitting against one of the trees and writing in my little notebook, yet I cannot spare the time today. Perhaps tomorrow. I put my feet back on the stone path and urge them back into some semblance of pace as I resume my walk. I feel almost as if I could be alone even as I know there are many souls in the buildings that surround me. Yet in the windows that I peer up at I see no signs of life. Only old oaken furniture and a few fluttering curtains in windows that have been left open. Perhaps my friend was leaning out of one of these same windows earlier to watch the sunrise. I know that she likes to do such, even if the sunrise does not promise to be momentous. Ah but there she is now. At the far end of the green I see her sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches that line the path. She waits for me yet makes the most of the time. I see her scribbling away in a notebook of her own. A poem or treatise on theology? Sometimes they are one and the same. Is not a true poem a very reflection on the reality of God? I like to think so. And that’s why people find poets so pretentious at times, for the fact that we seek to impart the deepest of meanings to the most mundane of words. But what are our words but grasping after the most profound realities that our souls ache to know in full? We know how feeble our words are. Yet still we write, in futility and dreams. Now my steps slow as I crunch through the frosty grass. She looks up and smiles.
Let’s talk about all the things and reflect on what our God has revealed to us this day. Let our hearts sing in harmony with the song of heaven. Let’s fill our minds with thoughts of beauty, for vanity unfilled will tends toward chaos and I’d rather not have that. Instead of vacant half-acceptance of the tossing waves of this raging world, let’s set our course by the star we know and firmly with resolve look towards the horizon where the far country grows. We see it now yet dimly. Yet in faith we see it true.
Something Weird 