Monday, March 25, 2013

...




            I lay in bed last night, dwelling on my life, the life of my family members and of those closest to my heart. As I remembered the struggles, the concerns, the disappointments and all the scenarios of the past that could have turned quite sour, there seemed to be a banner that covered them all with the words "But God is faithful." My mind was flooded with memories of how God had been faithful in my life, in my brother's life, in the birth of my niece and the list could go on.
            I was then struck with a burning desire for this to be the banner over my life. I want to be someone who speaks in such a way so as to point to God's faithfulness even if the cards of life that I've been dealt don't make it easy. My mind was then brought back to a conversation I had a year ago with a new friend about thirty years my elder. We were sitting in a breakfast cafe getting acquainted and she began to unveil her story to me. As she shared the events of her life, she brought every element back to "but God was faithful..." I was dumbfounded. There were parts of her story that, by our cultures standards, would give her every right to bitterness, unforgiveness and anger toward God and people, but in place of those, she always pointed back to God's faithfulness. Every hurt or struggle, she used as an opportunity to look for and find how God was being faithful. I was quite humbled.
            I often find myself buying into the cultural cues that we have a right to and even deserve a "good" life. This, in turn, only leads to complaining and an annoying entitlement attitude. I believe remembering God's faithfulness in my life is the antidote to this attitude. I found that as I meditated on God's faithfulness of the past, the worries and concerns of the present diminished. The small ones seemed suddenly irrelevant and the big ones seemed to fall under the banner, "but God is faithful." I can trust and hope in God's faithfulness for the present concerns because his faithfulness will cover the worries of the present in the same way that it has covered the anxieties of the past.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

A playlist of places


Yet another 2 a.m. homework session found me last week at my desk, curled up in my swivel chair. Strong coffee and a plate of Eggo waffles sat beside my computer like encouragement to tackle the grammar and Associated Press handbooks I eyed with resentment. I started putting together an iTunes playlist of study music as a stalling tactic.
After about 10 minutes, my gaze wandered up from my screen to rest on the black and white Eiffel Tower photo hanging on my wall, and next to it, the front page of a London newspaper I bought months before on a study abroad trip. Right then, I really wished I could go back. I wanted to be sitting at the dinner table with my host family, riding trains and climbing ancient bell tower steps and gaping at stained glass and cathedral arches instead of slogging through questions of misplaced modifiers and the proper usage of semicolons.
I came back to the playlist and realized every song – all of my favorites – all were about places. Each was about going somewhere, whether physically or emotionally. I realized it’s human nature to want to feel like we’re going somewhere, to feel like we’re making progress, to not feel like we’re stuck in the unmeaningful.
Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about that Old Testament saga where God leads the Israelites through the dessert. They got their cues on when to move from a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night – the visible evidence of the presence of God with them. When the cloud lifted and moved, they packed up camp and moved to follow it. When it rested, they rested. I realized God’s leadership was irregular. The intervals of moving were unpredictable, but His leadership was always visible. All they had to do was keep looking to the cloud to find direction and contentment on the journey.
And I realized that’s what I wanted: Not to go back to the summer. Not even to travel. Just to find the adventure and joy in the place God has me now. I just had to stay in step with God’s spirit leading me forward – that cloud, of sorts. And right now, it seemed to resting over college, which meant doing that grammar homework. So I hit “play” and picked up my pen.
If you click through the links below, enjoy the music, reflect on your journey, and remember to keep an eye on the cloud. Rest when it rests; move when it moves.  


Friday, March 22, 2013

Looking at a Picture of...

As I sit here in bed, Caroline sleeping next to me, I look over at a picture hanging on our bedroom wall.  It is the second picture we ever took as a couple, and was taken the morning I first met her parents.  Snow is in the background and we are beaming with happiness.  This is one of my favorite pictures of us.
Looking at this picture, I think, "This version of the Caroline I knew is like the seed of the Caroline I know now."

This thought inspired this poem.  I also felt motivated to write poetry because only prose has been represented on this blog - poetry ought to at least be posted once.  Please enjoy.

-----------------------------------------------


Looking at a picture of
Someone whom, now you love.
Time displaces who they are,
Though in your hand, they now seem far.

A different version of the one,
Which makes the person now undone.
Who they were, and who they are.
Can one quite know, just how far?

Glad you are that you could see
Who this person soon would be.
But what might happen, later on?
Down the road, might I be gone?

This present version of myself,
Melted into someone else.
Churning forward constantly
With no consistent melody.

The one I love will change with me.
I pray our change would somehow be,
Tied together, not alone,
Knit together, eyes on home. 

Looking at a picture of
Someone whom, now you love.
Grace will find us patiently
Walking towards eternity.








Thursday, March 21, 2013

The point of the story


A few weeks ago, I spent a while apologizing to God for being so busy, for living such a fast-paced life. I said I was sorry for doing so many interviews and writing so many articles and doing so much schoolwork, and for falling directly into bed by the time I finished my day's obligations - usually at 2 a.m.

I apologized for not having more time to study His word or to reflect on stuff that happened in hopes of seeing His hand in it. I told God I was afraid I was missing the point of things because I was living so fast. But I told Him I didn't think I could help it right now. 

That night, I picked up the book “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years” by Donald Miller that had been sitting beside my bed for several weeks since I borrowed it from a friend.


I felt guilty for devoting time to it (shouldn't I be sleeping or memorizing Bible verses or doing that writing assignment for the next afternoon?).  But instead, I laughed and cried through the first chapter because the writing was entertaining and emotionally engaging. Then around 3 a.m., I was arrested by this paragraph:

“I wonder if that’s what we’ll do with God when we are through with all of this, if he’ll show us around heaven, all the light coming in through the windows a thousand miles away, all the fields sweeping down to a couple of chairs under a tree, in a field outside the city. And we’ll sit and tell him our stories, and he’ll smile and tell us what they mean.”

I just sat in awe. The things that unfold on earth have eternal significance and impact. And all these things we don’t understand, or the significance we missed because it all happened so fast, He’ll explain those things to us because He was the author and finisher. It will be the crowning event of a lifetime to talk to my Maker about that lifetime and what He was up to when I couldn’t tell. 

And so I stopped apologizing. I saw that God is writing a story through this messy tangle of time and activities and people and events that we collectively call "life." I saw that I don't always have to be on top of the plot. He's keeping track it. His Kingdom is coming, and the story won't be lost just because I fail to remember or recognize parts of it. 

For Sale:


There is a story I want to tell you.  I do not know if it is true.

The story goes something like this. 

Ernest Hemingway was bet that he could not write an entire short story in six words.  The challenge may have been “less than ten words” but the story says he did it in six.  To communicate in six words whole story, with conflicts, characters, love, disappointment, human emotion and struggles seems like an impossible thing to do.  But he did it.



Here is the story:

“For Sale.  Baby shoes.  Never worn.”


I’m sure you've met people who seem to talk and talk and never really say anything.  Words, then, seem to me to be rather like an engine.  Some people rev their engines or put them in first gear, the engine turning at five or six thousand RPM, but never really go anywhere, and certainly do not get there quickly.  Other people try to start in a very high gear to show how grown up they really are, but that generally results in someone stalling out and looking very foolish. 

The proper use of words involves every gear, not just the ones you think the grown ups use.  Hemingway wrote a powerful story in six words, with no word over two syllables, and I have seen people use thousands of words to say absolutely nothing. 

C. S. Lewis has a quote that I recently discovered and immediately fell in love with.  It seems to capture how I would love to be, and how I would love to use words.

“When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.”

Being an adult means not being ashamed to play with crayons.  Being a good writer is not being afraid to step outside your desire to be grand and powerful, and just write. 

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Why drag racing isn't a drag


With clenched fists stretched in front of him, 8-year-old Kyle Molina gripped an invisible steering wheel. He grinned when the roar of two cars jetting down the track shook the bleachers.

“I was pretending I was in the car,” he said.

Kyle was one of about 100,000 people who flocked to Gainesville Raceway to watch Gatornationals, an annual drag racing competition held March 14 to March 17.

Although professional dragsters race in NHRA competitions around the country, drivers and fans alike seemed to fit in comfortably with the North Florida atmosphere and culture. Like NASCAR, the roaring engines and staggering speeds hold a certain Southern appeal. It’s dangerous enough to get the thrill of living vicariously through the drivers, and it’s safe enough to bring the whole family.

Although I’d grown up and lived my whole life about 30 miles from Gainesville, I’d never been to a car race before. I showed up on Day 1 equipped with only a notebook and pen. I though the people milling around with cool, neon earplugs and earmuffs plastered with NHRA stickers were making fashion statements until the first car fired down the track, and I dropped my pen in terror. The bleachers were vibrating, and my chest was pulsing like I was at the loudest metal concert of my life.

I crawled up into a corner of the stands and braced, hands clapped over ears, for the next explosion. Why do people enjoy this? I wondered as I watched kids like Kyle soak up the festivities with their families. I left an hour later with a splitting headache.

************************

During top fuel qualifying rounds Saturday, I was back in the stands. When I watched the pairs of 25-foot-long cars lining up to zoom down the straight, quarter-mile track, I was ready.

I’d gone home and trolled the Internet the day before, looking for some insight into what was happening on the track. What I read started to instill a respect for the sport in me. I learned the cars travel at speeds sometimes topping 300 mph, and the name of the game is basically to stay in control of your car while driving straight ahead. When they do the ear-splitting burnout before taking off on a run, it’s not to be obnoxious. It’s to lay some rubber down for traction. It’s science – the science of speed.

I’d also bought a 10-pair pack of orange foam earplugs from Walgreens on the way. I popped them in, feeling like I was jumping on the fashion bandwagon – at least at this event – and joined the mobs swarming under the grandstand to the pits.


*************************

First glance could tell any bystander that the fans of drag racing come from a wide variety of ages, backgrounds and economic statuses. Some were perhaps stereotypical of the sport: men in their 50s wearing camouflage baseball caps and sipping beer from Coozies. The fashion choice for many of the women – and there were a lot of women at the event – seemed to be flawless makeup, big hoop earrings and jerseys sporting the number of their favorite driver. Kids trailed adults, squinting and sweating and either wearing earmuffs or earbuds.

There, behind the east grandstand, spectators hoped to get closer to their favorite drivers, with their helmets off, maybe spitting sunflower seeds, foot propped up of the tire of their car.

Unlike professional football and basketball, where the stars scurry to the seclusion of the locker room after games, Nitro drivers hang out in the public eye. Many of the drivers had been eliminated by this point and were standing by their RVs interacting with fans.

The pits resembled the midway of a county fair. Crews rebuilt engines and changed out tires beneath colorful awnings attached to RVs and trailers. Most drivers had a mini complex of three or so trailers clustered together that were plastered with sponsor ads: Michelin, Valvoline, Vodka, U.S. Army.

VIP areas with decorative fences extended off of some RVs. Small, round tables topped with checkered cloths and potted flowers created a coffee shop ambiance amid the smell of diesel and burning rubber. Drivers’ guests relaxed in the shade nibbling on horderves, and onlookers on the other side of the fence cast longing glances at them as they were carried along in the stream of people.

Despite the blatantly public VIP areas, Nitro drivers seemed to prefer what one of my professors calls a “low power distance.” For the drivers, stardom seemed to mean letting fans watch them work on their cars and greeting bystanders. No hierarchy, really. No aloofness.

Wearing knee-high black leather boots and watermelon-colored lipstick, 26-year-old Brittany Force autographed T-shirts, seat cushions, ticket stubs and ball caps and let fans scoot in close for photos.

Force said she grew up watching her father drag race, and 2013 is her rookie season of competing professionally.

Force started drag racing at 16, and her younger sister, Courtney, followed suite. By the time they were students at the California State University, they was competing in a gig every weekend.

Force said balancing the sport with academics was tough, but she made it work. She scheduled all of her classes late Monday night through early Thursday morning so she could fly out of town over the weekend to race.

“I’ve been out here since I was a little baby, and now I’m actually driving one of the cars,” she said, grinning behind amber-tinted aviators.

And right then, when she grinned, I knew I liked drag racing because it’s personable. I saw that it’s not about the car or the technology or the speed or the noise in the end. It’s about people. It’s a place where families can bond and enjoy each other and the outdoors. It’s where drivers fulfill lifelong dreams, and in doing so, spark dreams in others.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Books and Ourselves


How are you created or defined? What circumstances generate who you are? And can we know who we are? How a human being is created or defined is always in question. “What forces have come across the generations to create who you are today?
I believe the types of books I have read create my “identity” and the books I will read in the future will recreate my identity. Andrew Bennett and Nicholas Royle say it best in their book, An Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory. They state, “to identify with a person in a novel or play is to identify oneself, to produce an identity for oneself. It is to give oneself a world of fictional people to start to let one’s identity merge with that of fiction.  It is, finally, also to create a character for oneself and to create oneself as character” (70).

Literature is the space in which questions about the nature of personal identity are most provocatively articulated (Bennet & Royle 130).

            My interpretation of their claim is that we recognize a characteristic or a complex in a “character” that we ourselves (the readers) possess. I have a tendency to read the same genre of books, for example- Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Frankenstein, and North & South. I think I read these books because I sometimes possess a melancholy side of my “personality” and I “identify” with the female characters. The genre of books I started reading as a young girl greatly impacted me. My opinion of how we create ourselves through reading fiction comes from my belief that what we read will stay with us forever. From reading we learn empathy, how to react to situations, and we develop a deeper understanding of language. As a result of reading, I believe we create ourselves. We become what we wish to become through the observation of these characters.

Characters are the life of literature: they are the objects of our curiosity and fascination, affection and dislike, admiration and condemnation (Bennett & Royle, 62).

            Reading sparks one main question of humanity, such as, ‘Who am I?’ Literature is where one develops character or identity, which provides the answer to the question listed above. Reading diverse books can construct one identity, one person. After all, a person is a unity of dissimilar forces and an individual is the unity of various divisions.

Through the power of identification, through sympathy and antipathy, they can become part of how we conceive ourselves, a part of who we are (Bennett & Royle, 63).

            The characters that we read about and experience are the life of literature. They inspire, engage, and interest the readers. Readers will learn vicariously through reading about the lives, events, and circumstances of the characters they come to love. We learn from the characters we read about; we learn what it is to be human- female and male. Learning through fictional characters is somewhat paradoxical, but nonetheless very effective. Bennett and Royle state, “To identify with a person in a novel or play is to identify oneself, to produce an identity for oneself. It is to give oneself a world of fictional people, to start to let one’s identity merge with that of a fiction. It is, finally, also to create a character for oneself, to create oneself as a character ” (70). When reading, readers always identify themselves and think about themselves in reference to either a single character or multiple characters.

We construct ourselves through and in words, in the image-making , story-generating power of language (Bennett & Royle, 64).

            The concept of Nature vs. Nurture also comes into play with the assertion that readers learn how to behave through reading. Nature vs. Nurture is best described as a debate which concerns the relative importance of an individual's innate qualities ("nature," i.e. nativism, or innatism) versus personal experiences ("nurture," i.e. empiricism or behaviorism) in determining or causing individual differences in physical and behavioral traits. Reading has taught me, to some extent, how to be a “woman.” Nature did not make me a woman; nature gave be the anatomy of a woman but did not teach me what being a “woman” entails. I learned how to be a “woman” from language, text, and representations; which was provided to me, to some extent, through literature. Basically, I am individual, unique, and genuine; but paradoxically, I am also mimicry. Therefore, Nature vs. Nurture is interconnected in the attempt for every human to learn the essence of “humanity.”
The Awakening by Kate Chopin is one of the first feminist novels ever written, and therefore provides a perfect example of a character who is learning to become a “woman” along with the reader. The protagonist, Edna Pontellier is a woman trapped in a loveless marriage and stays at home with the children all day living a very dull and empty life. This was a common position for American women at the turn of the 19th Century. Edna is trapped in a misogynistic world and as a result she is stifled and unsatisfied, as a woman. However, through her personal growth and self-awakening she breaks from the shackles of being controlled by a male dominating society by leaving her husband and children for freedom. She gets her own home and takes in a lover. As a female reader, I am not only inspired to live my own life and live the way I want without care of the societal norms, but I am also provided with a looking glass into the lives of the women that fought for the freedom and equality that I am obliged to have.

…she had resolved never again to belong
 to another than herself. (The Awakening, 103)

As we read, we adapt certain characteristics and behaviors of the characters we read. Readers take on personalities they wish to emulate. We adapt to pretense and we are what we habituate. This pretense appears in Maxine Hong’s Woman Warrior, the narrator attempts to be a heroic figure, but she isn’t a heroine in the traditional sense of the word. She speaks of courage, strength, and war; however, she is not a “warrior” in the traditional sense. She is a warrior writer. We are all acting on this stage called life, however, I am not saying that this acting is necessarily false. Readers compare themselves to heroic figures and adapt to what is asked of us in today’s world and therefore we merely emulate different aspects of each heroic character we encounter.

So many have come to dwell behind a panarchy mask
Lost between the delusive dimensions of identity
Unable to perceive that which is deemed real
                     Are you the mask of your identity or are you real? (Façade)

Everyone is molded into who they are by what surrounds them whether it be people, books, or television. Manners, style, and even quirks are taken from somewhere, possibly literature. Through taking these attributes from various characters we create ourselves as a unique, individual. This is not to say that we are “fake” creations, simply that we are all, to an extent, the tinker toys of humanity, taking bits and pieces off what we witness or experience and we build ourselves with this attained knowledge.
A strong example of someone adopting an opinion of a writer is David Lurie, the protagonist from Disgrace, written by J. M. Coetzee. David Lurie is a womanizing literature professor. He has an affair with a student and leaves work after he’s found out. He goes to live with his daughter, Lucy on her farm in South Africa, shortly after Apartheid. It is there that Lucy asks her father, “’Have you thought about marrying again?” his response is, ‘to someone of my own generation, do you mean? I wasn’t made for marriage, Lucy. You have seen that for yourself.’[…]” He goes on to quote William Blake, he says, “Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires” (Disgrace, 69). David’s quoting of William Blake is proof that he has adopted Blake’s belief, pertaining to the idea of controlling desires and fashioned himself as a character of Blake’s.
            Creating ourselves through reading literature occurs through self-reflection. Self-reflection is a major part of reading. In reference to self-reflection, Socrates is quoted as saying, “The unexamined life is not worth living” (Plato 38a). This opinion states that we can only truly reach our full potential if we study ourselves. And if the theory that we create ourselves through literature than it is also true that we must study ourselves in response to literature. Once a novel has been finished it is natural and imperative for the readers to pause and think about what they have just read. Thinking about yourself in
relation to someone else, perhaps a character from a novel is a form of self-reflection. This act of reflection is how we, the readers, create ourselves and learn about ourselves from others.
                        A true reflection of reading is attained before a reading (prediction), during a reading (questioning), and after a reading (reflection). This process creates a vast separation from “me” and others: this is where the truest image of yourself can be attained. Literature is both a descriptive and prescriptive, providing insight into ourselves and the selves we wish to attain.

             








Works Cited


Hockman, Sheri. Façade (a tritina). 2010.
 http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/facade-a- tritina. Web.

Coetzee, J. M. Disgrace. New York: Penguin, 1999. Print.

Bennett, Andrew and Nicholas Royle. An Introduction to Literature, Criticism and Theory.
Malaysa: Pearson, 2009. Print.

Chopin, Kate. The Awakening. New York: Bedford St. Martins, 2000. Print



Thursday, March 14, 2013

Remarkable Man


*Short story I'm working on:



There is only one truly remarkable man I have ever had the good fortune and the god-awful horror of knowing.

Thomas was a simple man, the kind of calm, patient man you could never imagine getting angry, but knowing that if he ever did find something to get angry about, it would be the most terrifying thing you had ever seen.  He was the kind of man who didn't say very much, except that everything he said had a kind of weight to it.  Watching him talk was like watching someone juggle fifty pound weights without so much as breathing harder. 

Thomas used to say that “everything worth knowing was already known.”  First time I heard him say that, and this was only a few days into knowing him, I laughed out loud and walked away, thinking that this was the simplest fool I’d ever seen.  But Thomas’ words, had this weight to ‘em, and they would slowly sink down into your head like quicksand.  Before too long, I was struggling to keep those words from crushing me like a bug, so when I saw him again, buying seed at McAlister’s, I struck up a conversation with him.  Well, I thought I was having a conversation.  I imagine it looked more like a puppy nipping at the heels of a mastiff.  I would throw myself into a suspiciously casual thought, and Thomas would nod or smile, not really saying much.  After what felt like a long time, I finally asked him, “Hey, while we’re here talking, do you remember what you said before about how everything worth knowing was already known?”  Smile.  Nod.  I continued, nervously, “So I've been thinking, and I just can’t shake it, that maybe, you know…”  I trailed off waiting for him to pick up where I left off.  He doesn't.  I continue.  “Well, what I mean is…what do you mean?”  Faint twitch at the corner of his mouth – like a laugh would have been too heavy for me, so he spared me weight of it. 

“You’re a fool if you think that some new discovery is going to make you a better man, or father, or friend, or Christian, or brother, or son or worker.  If some new discovery helps you be better at anything else, I wonder if it’s worth being good at it.” 

He finished talking and there was a thud in the air, followed by a kind of lightness.  Everything that those words pressed down on before, it turns out that those things weren't important.  It’s like juicer, squeezing down and squeezing down until what is left is exactly what you need. 

Thomas just stood there, both feet flat on the floor, hands in his pockets.  He smiled, full and strong this time, lifted his fifty pound bag of seed to his shoulders like it was air, and walked to his truck. 

I all could think was, “remarkable.” 

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

Beautiful Catharsis

   
I had a dream a few weeks ago about a garden I used to go to when I lived in Tallahassee- it had been a long time since I had thought about the place. This dream reminded me that time can slip through your fingers, this then sparked a tiny story which I had to write down. It's personal and a first attempt at fiction. But as we are all writers, I'm sure you understand that once I have an idea I have to either write it down or think obsessively about it (which would lead to insanity). 
Beautiful Catharsis
          40 years sinceI have been back, returned to this old haunt of mine. This place is in me and Iam within it. I am forever here; it is pleasantly and effectively inescapable.I revisit with my old images and old memories. So long I have been parted fromthis world, without ever stepping through the black iron gates and beneath theperfect Ivey arbor- until now. I have at last returned to the garden.
          My mother and Iplayfully walked down these dirt paths winding through this beautiful Edenbefore the anxieties of adulthood. Running our fingers over the droopingMagnolias trees, their limbs so full of blossoms they struggled to support thefull load of its blooms.
We broughtbooks to read in our favorite sections of the garden, providing peaceful hoursof growth. Warmth of the sun and the trinkling of water-fountains supplied mewith the perfect environment for growth, as though I was raised in a rosegarden.
          A dock wasanchored in the middle of the lake. I loved floating on my back as the wavespushed me towards the dock. Mother sat on the strong roots of an Oak Tree whileI swam. I never asked her what she thought about, she was simply my mother.
          I had brought mylove here. Sharing this garden was exciting and strangely spiritual. Uponarrival I began to tell him the old stories of my mother and me, showing him myfavorite sections and walking down the hidden paths.
He and I hadwalked together in love. This garden of mine was inspiration for love, erasingany semblance of sadness. We had sat on a bench in front of a long, thin bluepool. We always hoped to return, then life started and the years past by us theway they years do. 
           As I walkthrough this garden, which used to be my wonderland, I am pained by what I nowsee; grays and browns of a large withered wasteland. The place, which had onceencompassed feminine grace and beauty, is now brutish and ugly. There are noblooms, no radiance, just desiccated leaves, brown meadow, and collapsing waterfountains. 
           I go to the spot where our bench was, his and mine. But there is no bench nowor any proof it was ever there. It is gone away and lost from me, forever.Nothing is as I remember it. I am overwhelmed with a devastating sensation of sadness.I see this place now realizing my own age and mortality. As I reflected,the more this old garden began to symbolize me, my life. Through tears I strainto search for life, hopeful, desperate for the loveliness I remembered.
           Moments pass as I walk toward the lake where my mother and I had sat, anxiousto be where she had once been, where we had once been together all those yearsago. There, finally, was the lake, full, alive, and spectacular. My heartlightens and my breath releases with a sigh, and tears streamed. This was a much-neededpurgation of my heartache and I feel transported.
           The given name “Mom” is called out and echoes through the trees and moss. I amawakened from this terrible daydream. My heart lifts to my throat and I amlightened once more. I recall why I am come back to this place. I brought my daughter to see the place I had for so long told her about. This was where herfather had once been and where my girlhood days were spent with my belovedmother.
            I feel that every naked tree she passes blooms with Magnoliasand every bush explodes with Hibiscus. Water fountains begin to spit water inspurts and then there is steady flow. For a short time, I had lost mywonderland and could not find it again. Now it shows itself to me and I amglad. I swear the winds whispers to me, but I do not know its words. 

Monday, March 11, 2013

Stream of Consciousness


 I love reading stream of consciousness but I have never attempted to write it. Turns out, it is extremely liberating. I thought I'd try to write it very quickly (I feel stream of consciousness is created quickly and should be uninhibited). 

Funny, once I began monitoring my thoughts I became incredibly self-aware. We should all go through our day so aware of our honest feelings. This awareness makes us healthier and allows us to deal with our fears, anxieties, and loneliness. Knowledge of our underlying thoughts make them much less daunting.

Warm water soothes an aching body- bubbles act as calming agents. Bubbles are a funny thing- I see them everywhere- they are signs of pollution in seas and lakes but beautiful fun in tubs.

Darkness fills the room, one sole flame sputters out smoke-signals.

I’m young, without sorrow- and living is easy.

But in solitude my mind races, concocting and fabricating worries. Am I happy? The world screams one definition of happiness- but the romantic notions are elusive. Is happiness love, independence, or fiction? 

Love stories always end at the beginning- leaving me no guide.

Laying in warm water, listening to the high tone of bursting iridescent bubbles, shadows cross the room- always escaping the darkness.

My cellphone buzzes- illuminating the tiny room filled with steam. Odd, I seek isolation from modern distractions yet cannot bear the disconnection from what I desire to break from. 

My eyes crave darkness but imagination cannot allow it, I light another candle.

Only in solitude do my worries arise. My imagination is too vivid. Darkness brings seclusion with it, an anxiety rarely experienced.

In freedom I assign myself chores and make myself busy instead of enjoying the solitude and peace.

Unable to be alone with my thoughts- I stay busy.

Unwilling to be still- I stay busy.

Getting out of the tub, unable to bear my solitude and thoughts- I make myself busy.


Sunday, March 10, 2013

Road to life

I'm sort of cheating with this one and bring back one of my favorites from the past.  Tell me what you think, since it's more of a short story than a blog post.

Eric.

The soft hum of the tires reminded him of other numerous road trips.  This one was no different. He left home nearly 12 hours ago and had been on the road non-stop, save for the occasional bathroom and coffee break.

The weather was perfect; no clouds, plenty of stars and a light breeze that hinted to the coming fall weather. He turned on the radio and listened to Ella Fitzgerald sing "Blue Skies" as he veered his car to the exit ramp. Now came the interesting part of the trip, but he'd have to hurry if he were to make it in time.

As he came to the light at the end of the exit ramp, he winced slightly as his bladder reminded him that it was several hours since the last stop. No time for that just now. It would have to wait. An emerald glow lit up the car interior as the light changed to green. He turned right and pushed the car as fast as he could on this rural back road.

The engine roared to life and answered his call for more speed. As the car accelerated, he could feel the cool early morning breeze rushing into the window and he could smell the sweet Jasmine from the darkness beyond the road. Memories came flooding back of his childhood catching fire flies and smelling the evening dew mixed with the fresh cut grass of their lawn. It has been too long, he thought. Far too long.

The road began to wind back and forth like a snake, the curves becoming more and more pronounced as he climbed higher into the cool air of the mountains. Dawn was just starting to break on the horizon and with a sinking feeling in his heart, he realized he may have cut this trip a little too close. He pressed as hard as he dared on the gas. The roads were not safe at this speed, but he just had to make it. He had never broke tradition and he wasn't about to start this year.

The radio was crackling with static as he climbed higher up the mountain. He always thought that it was strange that the radio reception got worse instead of better. By his way of thinking, the radio signal should get better as you got clear of the hustle and bustle of the city, but that never was the case. Still, static or not, he cranked the volume a couple notches louder as Bobby Darin stared to croon out "Mack the Knife". How he missed this old town and the local jazz radio that never seemed to grow old.

As he rounded the next switchback, the sun started to peak over the farthest hill to his left. He still had  five minutes to reach his destination and was starting to feel certain that he'd miss it.  After all these years, he was going to miss the one thing that kept him going each year. The one simple thing that reminded him of how little some of the crap we deal with each day just doesn't matter.

Just as he was about to lose hope, the little hidden turn off that would take him to his destination came into view. The grass was overgrown and the small dirt road was almost hidden beneath brush and vines, but it was still there and waiting eagerly for his arrival.

"Hello old friend", he whispered to himself.

Almost as if by magic, the car started down the old road at a snails pace. He reached then end of the drive and sat there catching his breath. He hadn't realized that he was holding it since he pulled on to the drive.  He turned off the engine and slowly moved out of the car. Gently he closed the door and walked to the front of the car. He could hear the engine still popping from the heat of some hidden metal as he moved passed the car and toward his goal.

He walked as close to the edge as he dared and sat down on the damp grass and waited. It had been a race to beat the sun. Every year he cut it pretty close, but this was the closest by far. It was seconds before the sun crested the highest mountain and shone down into the valley below. This year, like so many before it, took his breath away.

What lay in the valley below was a fire, rippling across the valley floor, engulfing the very trees around him. No heat, no ash, just the searing red, gold and orange of Autumn's best show. Nothing could compare to the sun's light as it hit these trees for the first time in the morning, with dew still fresh on the limbs. The reflection of the sun's light through the leaves and dew drops made the trees sparkle and dance like the licking flames of a raging wildfire.

This is what he traveled 800 miles to see, what he looked forward to every year. This one moment in time reminded him how very beautiful the world could be and was enough to last him throughout the year. His grandfather had shown him this place when he was just 6 years old. They made the trip every year until his grandfather passed 10 years later. He promised his grandfather that he'd never lose sight of the fire and had made the pilgrimage to the mountain every year since. Now, he sat and watched again as nature worked her miracle.

Peacefully, he gathered himself up and made his way back to the car. He gave one last fleeting glance at the valley below and climbed back in the driver seat. The car made the slow return to civilization below as Frank sang "Fly me to the Moon" through the static of the radio. Life was peaceful once again...