To All Poets

It's funny; it's as if philosophy
has been completely abandoned.
Now all we get are snapshots of your lives.
Unconnected moments float disparate,
longing for each other, for something
outside themselves. Verily, I'm afraid that
language is lost.

No, not forever,
And not from everyone. Some still know
secret chants. They sing sotto voce, but
it's an esoteric art: allowing words to make meanings.
Meanings weave the story together--the real story,
of you and me, of why and how--
the questions that drive us forward and
keep us looking back.

Yes, forever.

*Poem [To All Poets] by: Marcus Irving Crutcher

Today's word is: caper


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A Photo Is Worth A Thousand Words

Yesterday one of my ya-ya's (aka best friend since pre-stuffing the bra phase) sent me a link to We Love It. A great place to find inspiring photos that you can source on your blog. I'm still getting used to blogging, and I don't want anyone to think I'm a pirate, so her link and information were exceptionally helpful. While I was scrolling through the photos, losing myself in their imagined worlds, I couldn't help but ponder on how significant images are. How much they show and offer.

They're so important, that as a reader many of us choose our books based on the cover. Yes, yes, we all know that you can't judge a book by its cover, but that doesn't stop some of us from trying. The picture -- it sets the scene with a glance. When you linger, it takes you into a whole other stratosphere. Captivating. Invoking. Occasionally frightening. With a photo - we transport ourselves entirely, much like we do with a good book.

Here are a few images that had me holding my breath, dancing in my seat and stepping inside a new story:


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Story, story, everywhere. And not a drop of rain.

Today's word is: simulacrum

PRO-Crastinator

Have you ever seen Reality Bites? No? If you haven't, go watch it. It's one of those cult films that was an instant success in the 90s and has haunted me ever since its release. Today, I feel like I should be in the film, sucked through a portal and lodged next to Lalaina on her couch as she smokes pot from her diet Sprite coke can.

There's more to the film than Winona Ryder getting high, procrastinating and falling in love with her slightly dirty, grungy soul-mate. But what I'm zoned into is her slackerdom. The scenes when life won't seem to get out of the way and let her live. Where she's just cruising, aimless yet determined.

I feel that way. Often. Like I'm coasting towards something, but I can't seem to get there. Chances are I'm what's standing in my own way. My lack of patience, need to react and fear can misdirect me. 

I have four articles to prep for this week, but I'm sitting here, singing in my head that:

I'm just a bill.
Yes, I'm only a bill.
And I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill.

Procrastinating like a slow drip of molasses, in no hurry to run onto the plate, here is where I am. My drive will return, and this slow motion funk will soon speed up again. But for the moment, my tackling fuel has been chased away by the storms, weariness and a little pool of exhaustion. 

But I have company, here in my mental haven. Pockets of laughter and memories that keep me entertained as I daydream of tomorrow. And I know I will see the days of My Sharona again.

Today's word is: audacious

Life, Or Something Like It

I'm not sure what I thought life would be like in my twenties and thirties when I was a kid. I grew up in a very nice, well-to-do neighborhood. Surrounded by a colorful group of misfits, we banded together and survived ourselves, our families and the darker side of Middle Class. Some of my memories are bright, others are faded and a few remain blackened by turbulent storms that washed most of the color away.

I think many of us have similar stories. Life isn't always a pretty picture frame we can slip inside of and smile winningly for the camera. As adults, we are bound to the ropes of time - the links that pass back through the looking glass and clasp us to who we were, and those who helped us move through the stages of life.

But we don't all come out on the other side. Sometimes we slip through the cracks like Richard Mayhew and enter our own London Below. Lost, forgotten and beholden to the pedestals we think we're supposed to climb atop.

Sometimes we lose members of our tribe. When someone you have cared for leaves this world on their own accord, it's with a heavy heart you look back. Wondering what led them from one path onto the other. Questioning the way of the world and her harsh realities.

I believe in so many things. In philosophies, poetry and ideals. But most of all, I believe in the people who have touched my life. We are all worth so much love, celebration and acceptance. We all matter.

The sky is heavy with rain today, bringing the dark clouds closer to my atmosphere and spilling out the liquid of life. But I see the imperceptible fog. Baring witness to what it lifts and veils.

I offer this to you today, that you are (without a doubt) worth this life. That your dreams are waiting for you, seeking you out as you search for them.

Be true to yourself, be kind to your heart and good to your mind. When you need a hand, reach out. When you grow weary, rest. But don't give up, because I, and so many faceless others, believe in you.

Today's word is: neverwhere

The Long And Unwinding Road

Every so often, I get out of my own way and allow myself the privilege of a spectacular weekend. This past weekend fell delightfully into this category. Full of familiar faces, old friends and new beginnings, it felt like a trip down memory lane that curved into my future.

It was full of my favorite things, people and places. It wasn't a hard pocket of time to create -- I simply had to go along for the ride. To make the choices to spend my time doing what felt right, devoting myself to living research and accepting happiness.

I can't describe it better than that, and I recognize that is a terribly fallible way to explain what I'm feeling.

I turn 30 next Sunday. An age that as a child I saw from such a distance. It didn't have much of a connotation for me - neither old, nor mature. Settled or responsible. I'm sure I assumed it as "grown up," but only in passing even then.

There's something amazing, being able to blow a kiss to my twenties as I slip into a new decade. An era of comfortability and courage. Two seemingly opposite attributes that feel as though they're setting in. As though I'm molting away the fears of yesterday and my new layer of skin is firming from the qualities I always wanted to become.

It's not the 30. Age doesn't change a person, a person changes the self. And I'm ready for that next leg of this unwinding road. To see where it leads me and how I find myself there. Change is coming. Isn't it always? And I'm getting closer to being able to welcome it, to recognize that it's not the harbinger bearing ill will, but opportunity, wearing a sweet smile and opening its outstretched hand.

Today's word is: marginalia

Studying Ginsberg

I'm not very well versed in The Beats. Which seems at odds with my personality. A rambling, boisterous and affected girl -- I'm surprised that I don't know them better. Growing up, like-minded friends revered The Beats, and would visually molest the words of Ginsberg, Boroughs and Kerouac. Hands groping, fingers tracing, need searching for something in the stream of consciousness and expressed angst.  Escape from repression that was born in another era, but whispered back empathy for today. Ah, The Beats. And the beat goes on. I understand the tangibility of the words now. The musical chords that each sentence strikes, punctuates and reclaims as its own. At the hands of these poets, wordsmiths and renegade souls. The first round of literary gangsters to penetrate the written form. The kind of language assassins that draw out expression like teeth tugging a lower lip before the smile. An effort that is demanded and seductive simply by taking the time to be itself. I am basking in the rhythm of the words and the words of the dance. Because that is all expression really is. A dance that turns into a march, a run, a slide or a wake. Because we're all trying to matter. To celebrate what matters to us. So I am studying Ginsberg. I'm tripping over my own feet trying to circle around and keep up, but I am so very happy. To give into my desire, to revel in the way the sound moves my mouth, sways my hips and curves my lips. I am home.


"America why are your libraries full of tears?" 


Asks the poet, his words remain - the lingering shadow of the ghost. I stared at that line in Ginsberg's poem, America, zeroing in on its relevancy in a new way. Surprised by how the fibers of time and life are intricately sewn.As a reader, I have been observing the uncertainty of the fate of our great libraries. Wary and fearful of the loss that may await us all. Knowing the eBooks bring a change that could lead us away from these matriarchs and patriarchs - taking from us the gathering places for story and companionship. These homes of words and the halls of their potential. I can't predict the future, or save them with the wave of my hand. But I can find solace in the words, in the question and the knowing. Knowing that the words, no matter where they spring from, no matter how they are stored, the words will never be lost.  There has always been uncertainty, and always will be. But if we use our voices, we can (at the very least) always be heard. And with our words, we can bring the changes we desire and save the things we hold most dear.


Today's word is: athenaeum

Poetry Month Makes Me Happy

It's National Poetry Month. *happy sigh*

If you dig music, you'll feel at home in a poem. Even if you don't yet know it. Poetry and music share DNA. They're both rhythmic, engaging and invoking. The right song will bring you from a gloom and shake you out of any heavy doldrums. A poem of the right sort can raise the sun, awaken a true smile and unfold new expression.

Either can have you dancing in your seat, snapping your fingers and bobbing your head. If you don't believe me -- look back at The Beats.

Words, man. The right ones say everything and the wrong ones lead to every thing that could have been said. They're tear drop shaped stepping stones that rush you on or flush you out.

Words hold memory, trap fear and release ambivalence. They are the gateway from one thought to another. In the palm of the soul of a word is the breath to every question you've ever desired to pose.

It's all in the word, and how you use it. And aren't we such lucky, lucky ducks that there are so many for us to create from.

Poetry is in motion. It's in the way you bat your lashes, roll your shoulders and cross your ankles. The part of her hair, the twitch of his lips and the wink of an eye.

Don't let these poetry days pass you by. Create, in your head or on the page. And the turn up the radio -- it's all music to these ears.

Today's word is: pulchritudinous

image: via tumblr

Writing What You Know

I'm fascinated by people. But this is something I would wager most pen-monkeys are, otherwise we're a sorry lot to write about something that doesn't inspire us (even if that inspiration is born from incredulity).

It's a matter of one of these things is not like the other -- in the broadest sense of the term, painted on the largest canvas of the bigger picture. As many friends as you have, as many people as you know, you will never find someone who is an exact replica of yourself. Who views the way of the world in the same ways you tilt your gaze and level your observations.

And isn't that wonderful?

On occasion, and to varying degrees, it's a frustration. Because no one else will ever live inside your head, and can't entirely understand your perception. Which, maybe, has a little to do with why writers write. Grand communicators, we need the understanding - the acceptance of our point of view. Even if the acceptor rejects what we're saying.

It's a need, this writing. To share, to broadcast and to explain. Even if only to yourself. The thoughts, they must come out. The stories, they desire to be told. Leaving them locked away in our own mental rooms feel self-serving and a little mad.

I know a little about a lot. I wish I knew a lot about a little. But I'm so very curious and often too impatient. If I had a sifter (and magic powers), I would call all the knowledge in the world inside it and then slowly sift it inside my mental haven. Give it over to the characters and let them assign it to the stories as they will.

Perhaps that is the job of a muse. To infuse what is already there, to infiltrate our thoughts with knowledge we've only grazed or forgotten and boost the energy of awareness.

Or maybe they simply observe and giggle at the gibberish we pour out and call matter. Either way, it's nice to know that creating comes from within, that it is inspired by the world around and that it gives back simply by existing.

I write what I know. I write a little about a lot, and I write a lot about a little. One is not better than the other, because both matter most to me. That, well, that is the beauty of it all.

 

May the muses be at your back today, whispering in your ear and guiding your hands as you create your day.

Today's word is: presage

image: Dante Gabriel Rossetti A Sea Spell Painting

Kick, Kick With The Drum Lick - Takin' Agin' My Nook Color

I've taken agin' my Nook. Not an all out war, but I've begun eyeing it with disdain and muttering obscenities its way.

Why? What has turned my head, had me flashing my well-crafted (and often artistic) hand gestures at what was once my beloved? I'll tell you what: breakability.

Nook Color upgraded, or had a make-over, or bought itself a new pair of big girl panties. Unfortunately its upgrade didn't reach worldwide, and now my Nook is now acting like a drunk chick at a frat party. She's all over the fucking place.

It's not that big of a deal. A trip back to B&N, a phone call into customer service (also known as the fourth circle of hell) and a few kick stomps should do her up right. 

My issue is this -- if she were a real book, like if Pinocchio were a real boy, this would never have happened. A real book doesn't have wiring issues or faulty server domains. It isn't battery charged, and does not need a weather man to know which way the wind blows. A real book I can drop. Or throw it at the wall when a very slight, though aggressive flaw penetrates my happy norm.  

Clumsy, erratic and constantly with my nose in one -- a real book appeals to my sensibilities. I can't put my nose in my Nook. Though I can check my makeup in its glossy reflection and play on a variety of social media sites.

I still respect the awesome power of the Nook, and the value and increasing foothold of the eBook. I'm not against change - rather, I welcome challenge. But a sweet escape should be a sweet escape. Not a battle through a murky swamp inside an overgrown mosquito jungle.

It's all about the books. The read-ability and friendly access. Right now, my Nook, she's a filthy whore.

Dig. My baby's got sauce, but your baby ain't sweet like mine.

Today's word is: aspersion

image: Comstock/Thinkstock

Doing Your Best - A Point Of View

We should always do our best. I think this is something that, at the core, we know without question. But it's tricky when we deal with other people -- especially if we appraise whether or not they are doing their best. The plainest truth is this: we often judge someone when they're not doing our best.

What a funny thing, but there it is.

I hear this from friends, family, co-workers, the random lady in the grocery store or at the post office. When someone acts in way we would not, or that we think we would not, we immediately assign them as "not doing their best." Which really is "not doing what I would," or if we're naked honest "they're not doing what I want them to do."

So yeah, someone else probably won't ever do your best. They wouldn't really think to, because they're just trying to live up to themselves.

Empathy. It's a lovely concept, a yummy word to chew on and a relaxed state of mind. But it takes effort, awareness and desire to achieve.

We're all just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round. Sometimes we crank them up and spin the tempo, other times we kick back and observe in awe or exasperation. But here is where we all are, together.

A simple acknowledgement, very difficult to remember when the day greets you with someone who is extraordinary in their oppositeness to you. When someone demands of you, or gripes at you -- it's easy to become affected.

To choose to feel less, or become beaten from their snapping jaws. But here's the rub: it was never about you. That anger, agitation and brutal force of asshickory, that is about them. Something is in their way, most likely themselves, and they are their own maelstrom - whirling as they spiral on the near line of being out of control.

When someone is inside their own tin cup derby, when they treat you heinous, without respect -- this is the time for empathy. And not for yourself, well okay, maybe a little. But for them. For whatever unhappiness they've blown up in their mind to rule the day - to take them from the happiness they're truly seeking.

Because none of us want to be miserable. Some of us simply don't know how to find the way out, yet. How to let go and step aside and smile at the absurdity of it all.

So do your best. Laugh when the chaos flames around you, and choose compassion. Because you never know what the person next to you is going through.

Today's word is: redress

Friday Shorts: Foiled By Lovecraft

Untitled

Under pale moonlight, on the edge of his world, stood James Suture. His hand was poised, raised with the index finger resting lightly on the pulse of electricity. He forced the finger down, dropping the nipple of a light switch into the off position. Waiting, brows narrowed in consternation, he inhaled and flicked the same switch up with the tip of his pointer finger. The moon remained his only illuminating companion.

James closed his eyes, attempted the procedure of commanding false light again, and opened them to an unchanged result.

Across the room his bedside clock shone, its echoing color staring at him like an underwater beacon. Blue, hypnotic digital lines blurred and moved, reminding him of what it felt like to try to focus after spinning in a circle with his eyes closed. Vaguely, he was aware the sensation hurry was attempting to scramble up his spine. Slipping on each vertebrate, and barely nudging the base of his skull, it tumbled back down the intestinal rabbit hole.

Time seemed far away. Like a concept he’d tucked in a box with a faulty lock and rusted key. Something was there, something…wasn’t it?

He stepped away from the wall and grabbed his coat from the unmade bed. Feet still clad in yesterday’s shoes carried him away from the room, towards a light that echoed the sun. The carpet began to grow soft, more plush over the mounds and divots he now skirted. As James watched his feet, he slipped out of time and into the dream, understanding washing over him as he looked back up to find the outside world had crawled inside.

*short from a short story I'm playing inside of.

Today's word is: chimera

Image: painting by Salvador Dali

Pearls Of Wisdom Inside A Chicken Nugget

Welcome to my mini-rant this morning about the unity in community when it comes to celebrating authors. I've been to enough events over the past years to become truly (almost fixatedly) baffled by the lack of turn out at author events. And not simply by readers -- which as a reader, I get. Readers can attach themselves to works so completely that it's overwhelming to go meet the author. It's like shaking hands with Robert Plant, philosophizing with Bob Dylan or getting a hug from Paul McCartney. Not something you think of as being an achievable accomplishment. And when it is -- do you deserve such an honor?

I am a reader. I've been there, and grasp the line of "am I a dork, or not good enough to rub elbows with my literary hero?" The funny thing is that writers are readers. They're also human. Great, talented and occasionally normal people. The kind that want to connect with their readership, and may even be nervous themselves about having to speak to an audience or attempt to live up to your expectations.

Apparently, I've discovered the soap box I keep in my back pocket. Forgive me. I'm almost done. And I may actually have a point.

Reading is such an important art. It's one that is as solitary as the writing of the work. The foundation for losing yourself in a story is a secluded effort (aside from the new friends you make in the book). But celebrating the written worlds shouldn't be. There should be a coming together, a union of story, reader and writer.

And this goes for writer to writer amalgamation, too. Authors should attend other author events -- should desire to mingle with their people and lift them up. We all know that great writers do two things beside live in their imaginations: read and write. What better way to further your reading blocks than to listen to another author read from their work and then lift open the top of their quixotic head and give you a peak inside?

We're all in this together. Reader and writer. Author and writer. Author and author.

It can be difficult to discover author events. That's something, perhaps, we have to work on as a community - spreading the word that a meeting of the minds is occurring on this night at this place. But once we discover the location (much like finding the map for a speak easy), we shouldn't ever hesitate to go. To hob-nob with the amazing people who provide us sweet escape and the charming readers who devour their words.

But don't take my word for it. Go. Meet an author, hear him or her speak and make up your own mind. I promise something in your universe will unlock if you take the step.

Now here's a little Simon & Garfunkel -- to sweeten the ramblings of this half-crazed word player.

Today's word is: coterie

image: Reading on a Sunlit Afternoon by Allan R Banks

Listening To The Echoes Of A Past

It's my due week. Or it would have been, had I not miscarried. There's a lot of I, me and my there, though the process was one of we. But it's a thing I carry this week. The remnants of a failed life, a lost future and a letdown that I still struggle with not carrying as my own.

It's been 7 months since the road crumbled and the horizon dipped. My mind is forever in the future, while my body stays in the past. It's a yogic principle. That we're always looking ahead -- trying to predict or jump into the future, rather than simply bask in a moment. The cracks of our pain, the wear and tear of years gone by are buried in the posture of our bodies frame and we carry that past in the tension of our shoulders, the heavy exhale of a broken heart.

But we're spiritual beings on a human journey, not human beings on a spiritual one. I find knowing in that. Or maybe I find that knowing telling. Either way, it brings me a sense of peace. A small one today, but one nevertheless.

There is pain in the echo. Sadness in the memory of what once was dreamed - once believed real.

But there is also sweetness. In the care of my friends, the notes of encouragement and love. In the women that have stood by my side for twenty years solidifying their friendship further. Staying my unflappable pillars that hold me up when I crumble.

There is joy in the new friends that came into my life during the aftermath of our loss. In the beautiful spirits that I have now added to familial circle of friends. From my yoga family to my writing team who allow me to bare my soul to them at all hours of the day.

And there's you, dear reader. Whoever you are.

Like a burning ember, I never went out, though at times my strength, resolve and faith wavered. Lost in the dark shadows of yesterday, each step into today has been a heavy, kick-stomp of movement.

Today I am looking back. It's inevitable not to remember the roads we traveled. But I am also blessed, and I feel that love and joy from the crown of my Queenly head to the tips of my bubble toes.

I did not go gentle into the good night. I have raged, raged and turned around the dying of my light.

Today's word is: eclipse

Painting: Duy Huynh – Awakening

Starry Heights and Golden Throne

It's raining here. The roads are blackened from wet, the newly bloomed sprigs and leaves hang heavy as droplets cling. The sky overhead is gray, full and banking on dreary. But there is something soothing to it all. A nourishment that makes me grateful to be here, witnessing the flowers bathe and the trees drink tall.

It reminds me of this:



Be gentle with yourself today - there is peace in the air, if you only allow it in.

Today's word is: halcyon

Johnny's In The Basement Mixing Up The Medicine

I had to jump start my day with a little Dylan. I can feel in my bones that the times, they are a changing. That each step I take is leading me forward, to the next fork in the road, the next bend of the land.

When I feel the moments beginning to stretch, to grow wide and prepare for the next leg in this journey of life, I tend to either dig my heals in or break into a sprint. Impatient, stubborn and curious to the core, I contradict my movements with my thoughts half the time.

But today I feel the future opening -- freely reaching out its gypsy hand. Like arms spread as far as they can reach before the kick of a cartwheel, or chest drawn back before feet push off and toes leave the ground as fingertips divide water and the body is submerged from a perfectly positioned dive. The first step is steeped in my soul, ready to make its move.

Monday is a snarky bitch. She's got a perma-case of Flo coming to town, and if I'm not careful, I will let her pull me back from my catapult at the starting line. But that's all in my head. I create the Monday Manic Blues, or I give in to what I feel. To the edge of possibility that I'm inching over and the abyss of dreams I am about to fall into.

"I hear that train a comin, it's rolling round the bend."

Please excuse me, while I pick up my speed and hop the caboose. It's going to be one hell of a ride.

Today's words: hobo slang

Friday Shorts: Inside A Story

  

Part One and Two of:

 THE ART OF LOVE AND WAR

The worst is over. They kept saying that. The Professors, the news lady in the pink and tan checked skirt, even the Dean when he sent out an e-video to the students.

But Ryder felt jinxed. And he didn’t really believe them. It only seemed to get worse.

He hadn’t appreciated the fact that college was a safe haven. But now, six months into his collegiate career, he missed those first few months where he was enclosed in warm, fuzzy school-propelled safety.

Since Jeremiah De’Praved, the student who had gone off the deep end and threatened them with a bomb, had been captured, the students were on edge. Like a door that had been pulled too often, when it should have been pushed - they were coming unhinged.

The numbers of bodies actually found in classrooms kept dropping. People were freaked out. Man, even the Profs were wigged. Half the time Ryder would show up to class to see the Cancelled sign glaring back at him.

The only Professor he could count on to show up was Dr. Acer. His War in Literature professor was hardly fazed by anything. Of course, one would expect his cool handedness. He had, as he reminded them often, survived Vietnam and could therefore survive, “a too scared to even detonate” bombing by “some pansy little turd.”

Most students were being educated online. They had been given the option to switch over to internet based lectures, and almost all had snatched it up. Ryder didn’t like giving into fear. He found a profound need to continue to show up. Proving to himself, more than anyone else, that fear isn’t bought and sold.

He made his way up the stairs to the open building known as Hap’s Hall. He walked around, and through, the marble columns and into the doorway that led him to Dr. Acer’s classroom.

Dr. Acer was seated at his desk attempting to balance an apple on his lemon shaped head.

He turned slightly when Ryder entered, causing the apple to teeter and fall.

“Son of a,” he said, bending sideways out of his chair, and scooping the bruised apple from the floor.

He smiled haphazardly at Ryder. “You still showing up?”

Ryder sat at the desk diagonal from him in the second row. “I am if you are. You oughta earn that paycheck you make somehow.”

Dr. Acer let out a gravely laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Well then. Let me work for the chicken feed.”

            The door opened and a slender girl came rushing in. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Acer,” she said breathlessly. “I had a customer that wouldn’t leave. They were, like, completely draining.”

            Ryder smiled at her and she winked back at him. He blinked, uncertain how to respond. Forward girls scared the crap out of him. Fortunately, she had already turned back around by the time he realized this.  

            “Well Minerva, Ryder,” Dr. Acer said. “Shall we wait another minute or two for stragglers?”

            Then he gave a mellow chuckle. Laughing, Ryder supposed, at his own little joke.

            Minerva rolled her eyes while Ryder stared at the slender way her calf merged into her ankle.

            “Today we will begin our discussion on The Things they Carried. We read O’Brien’s Going after Cacciato,” Dr Acer said, pulling Ryder from his reverie. “So, having read both, what did you all think?”

            “I think that Tim got to Paris,” Minerva answered.

            “How so?” Dr. Acer asked as he propped Tiva clad feet on his desk.

            “Well, Cacciato wanted to get there, but being trapped in Wonderland prevented reality from being, like, real. And Tim, lost in his mind, his own, like, wonderland, wanted to get home, but found home a real wonderland. So, well, I think Tim got to where Cacciato would have if he had gotten to where he wanted to get.”

            Ryder had been struggling to follow her line of reasoning, but caught up at the end and interrupted.

            “Yeah, but The things they Carried, is more about the insanity that war can bring, while Going after Cacciato is about the boredom, illustrated by the notion that all the war was, was walking.”

            She pulled out a stick of gum and began chomping away. She snapped it and cocked her head.

 “Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out like a child would the gum. “But there’s the element of insanity in Cacciato, too. I mean, like, look at Billy boy. He totally died because he wigged once he lost his leg. And really, the definition of insanity sorta sums up the whole walking dealie. I mean, ‘doing the same thing over and over again,’ is all those guys did, and they ‘expected different results’ even knowing they probably wouldn’t get them.”

            “Interesting,” Dr. Acer mumbled - his eyes half-closed under crescent moon spectacles.

                                       ...................................................

            “OK, I give you that,” Ryder said, “but the parallels between the novels don’t define them. I think that the point of The Things they Carried is what war takes from you. How insanity is the minds way of coping with that loss. Look at Mary Ann, she goes nutters and joins the f-ing green berets to escape the fear. She loses her mind to the brink, and just walks out on life and into the woods. All the soldiers eventually walk out on life. Probably as precaution to doing so before it walks out on them.”

            Dr. Acer opened his eyes. “Let’s explore that,” he said. “What makes you think they ‘walk out’ on life?”

            “Because they all go bananas,” Minerva suggested.

            “Yeah, but the way they go, um, bananas.” Ryder said, letting his words lead him. “I mean all these guys carry symbols or tokens that they expect to protect them. Like the pot, slingshot, stockings and the letters. Each are talismans to keep them safe. But they aren’t protected. Heck, look at Kiowa. He carries the moccasins and hatchet, but mostly he carries his faith. In the end, he drowns in crap. That’s the theme of the war. Nothing keeps them safe. That lack of protection, that, um, vulnerability, makes them lose it. It didn’t matter what they carried with them, the war and its cruelty would take it all away.”

“That’s, like, pretty deep,” Minerva said, her head resting on the support of her hands.

Ryder looked at her and quickly glanced away. Dr. Acer watched the interplay.

“Well, the truth of it is that the novel represents many aspects of war. Not just one theme or thread,” he informed them. “What did you think of the chapter, “Speaking of Courage” and the character of Norman Bowker?”

“I thought the title of the chapter was, like, a little ironic. Who hangs themselves and calls it courage, or even alludes to such a thing?”

Dr. Acer waited to see if Ryder would respond. When he didn’t, he countered, “Well, what would you say was courageous about Norman Bowker?”

“Not much,” Minerva said. “He didn’t have any love for himself, his family or maybe even his country. He drove around a lot. Was totally suicidal, a complete Ana even, and then hung himself at the freaking Y. The Y is supposed to be uplifting. He was a complete downer.”

“He was a hero,” Ryder disagreed. “I mean, he was a true war hero. But he came home and everyone saw him as a nobody. Worse, everyone saw him as evil for fighting a war that they opposed. He felt invisible, and so he eventually disappeared by walking away from life. Would you love yourself?”

“There,” Dr. Acer said. “You found it.”

“Found what?” Ryder and Minerva ask at the same time.

“The thing they all carried. The inevitable shame and guilt of it.”

“Oh,” Ryder said, the word heavy, drifting in the air.

Minerva stared at Ryder, and then back at Dr. Acer. “Is that what they carry now? The soldiers that fight for us?”

Dr. Acer frowned. “We are quite surrounded by parallels. That’s one of life’s more jocoseness ways. This current war we are in does have parallels, in some ways to Vietnam. Perhaps all war does.”

He rubbed at the bridge of his nose where his glasses pinched and perched. “I would wager a guess, that many soldiers understand Mr. Bowker’s plight. But this war is strange as well. We have mothers and father’s fighting in this war. I would say we have yet to see the likes of devastation this war will bring to the minds of the soldiers and civilians.”

“Would you go?” Ryder asked Dr. Acer.

“Fight or flight, you ask?” He said. “Well, as a youngster I was terribly adventurous and bound by pride. But as an adult… well not a lot has changed.”

“The better question, is would you go? Either of you, because you both may be called down. You never know what the future will bring.”

Ryder looked over at Minerva. She absently picked at the black polish coating her fingernails. It slowly peeled off, layer after layer, after layer. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, and every few moments she would slip one slender foot from the sandal she wore and set it on top of the other. Ryder realized he had never thought about girls in the war. For some reason, he had never imagined Minerva fighting against The Enemy overseas.

Minerva let out a huff of air. “I can’t make up my mind,” she told them both. “I mean, I’m like scared to bits, but I don’t want that to control me. I was scared when Jeremiah tried to blow us up, or threatened to anyway. But I got his anger. We all get lost and angry. Fear can rule where love should reside. But I come to class. I won’t give in to the fear. So maybe I will go. Just to show myself I’m not scared. Even though I would be.”

Ryder just stared at her, this little girl who thought just like him.

“And you Ryder?” Dr. Acer asked him.

Ryder looked back at him and shrugged. “Well, if she goes, I guess I’ll have to. Someone’s got to be there to listen to her babble.”

Minerva threw her pencil at him and Ryder caught it. He winked at her and she smiled, before she snapped her gum.

*Short story from Paige's pages

Today's word is: librettist

The Missing Story

There are many methods to a writer’s madness. As I sat in my critique group last night, listening to my mentor build suspense, inside loss, through the impenetrable world of story -- I was struck by the notion of filling in the missing parts.

When my mentor tells you a story, there is no lack. A perfected craft, combined with a phenomenal layer of talent round out masterful tales penned by her hand.

But she, like all writers, begins with the missing story.

To write, you simply open your mind and ask the muses to pour out the best parts. Sprinkle the fairy dust, set out a plate of Oreos and soon Polyhymnia, Clio and Euterpe are beating down your door. Right? You just open it, curtsey or bow, and whamo - you're all set.

As if.

I think of the process more as a photograph. Perhaps of a dilapidated Victorian house, where the paint peels off in layers, like a begrudged onion. And the shutters hang on by the tips of their fingers, as the front door collapses in on itself after too many nights of befriending moonshine.

Forgotten, the weeds have grown over the rose bushes. The dogwoods have begun to attack one another and vines have constricted, as they suck life from the dying embers of a memory.

In the photograph, the sun pours in from the back of the house, spearing out through cracked glass of the front window panes. A few survivors, taught little wild flowers, perk up behind the blades of unruly grass. The dogwoods bend, as wind pushes through the overgrowth, a visible sigh over the forgotten home.

Missing is the story of what once was. Of how the home came to be, of who painted the trim when it gleamed pearl and lilac. The picture of young love buying dreams and children trampling over lawn. Of chaos and mirth, destruction and devastation -- of life in all its many splendor and form.

Writers breath the soul back into the husk. Searching inside the cracks of our own crevices, to find the answers that make potential a promise.

I come from a long line of storytellers, and marvel that I am privileged to be surrounded by more and more amazing spinners of story every day. My mentor, and the rest of my BMW writing babes, shows me that missing story is always in bloom. When we invite it back to life, well, here the muses dance.

Today's word is: cogitate

What We Think, We Become

I was listening to one of my favorite songs on the way in to work today. It's called Lie In Our Graves, and it's about being in the grave, looking back and wondering why we hadn't spent our living days well -- reminiscing, and dreaming of the things that we might have been.

A musical whirling dervish, the song at 16 swirled through me the same way it does at 29. I would like to be sitting on top of the world, my legs hanging free and surrounded by all the things I ever dreamed - as they have become realized. 

But those dreams require courage.

Words inspire me, other people encourage me and my desires embolden me. I thought I would share a few words from dream pavers that have traveled the long and winding road, shaping destiny as they believed it into existence. 

A hero is no braver than an ordinary man, but he is braver five minutes longer.  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I'm not funny.  What I am is brave.  ~Lucille Ball

Cowardice, as distinguished from panic, is almost always simply a lack of ability to suspend the functioning of the imagination.  ~Ernest Hemingway

It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived.  ~Harper Lee -- To Kill a Mockingbird

 It is curious that physical courage should be so common in the world and moral courage so rare.  ~Mark Twain

 

How few there are who have courage enough to own their faults, or resolution enough to mend them. ~Benjamin Franklin

We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot. ~Eleanor Roosevelt

 

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting. ~Buddha

All your dreams can come true if you have the courage to pursue them. ~Walt Disney

Don't give up. Wherever you are in the quest for finding your happiness, have courage. What you are seeking, is seeking you. What you dream is waiting to become your reality. Hang in there, baby.

Today's word is: hypnagogic

image: painting of Vladimir Kush

Thumb Twiddling

The weather can set my mood. Today it's a little dreary. The rain has fed and begun the slow revival of grass and flowers. Storms blew out power, wore down shingles and opened its hand to destruction. While the earth may be rejoicing for the new awakening, there is damage on the surface.

April showers bring May flowers.

I am a child of May Day. Prone to the celebration of the May Pole, Morris Dancing (at least in my head) and the welcoming of an open flower, I thrive in the time of Spring.

But I grow weary when the storms become fierce and violence crackles through the air. Split with the intense desire to run out and dance in the rain, or cower from a growing fear of its power, I bend. Reaching for the rain, while searching for the sun. Wanting to embrace the season and the coming of new beginnings, but filled with trepidation for the rise and flow of nature's beckoning hand.

I hope that if the storms passed you, they simply waved, bowed and carried on.

Because there is beauty in the rain, in the coming times and bringing in May and all her many flowers.

   The Court of Love

  ~ G. Chaucer (attributed author)

And furth goth all the Court, both most and lest,

To feche the floures fressh, and braunche and blome;

And namly, hawthorn brought both page and grome.

With fressh garlandes, partie blewe and whyte,

And thaim rejoysen in their greet delyt.

My Dream Is Not For Sale. Is Yours?

The strangest part of getting older (as I listen to 30 calling), is that not everyone grows up to follow the dreams they had once upon a time.

Sometimes dreams evolve. What was morphs into something new, growing limbs and clamoring off into a redesigned future.

Occasionally they get packed away, like a favorite pair of shoes that we can't throw out, but don't feel comfortable wearing any longer.

I wonder, if we throw away our dreams, do we also throw away a piece of ourselves?

It's not easy, staying the course to go after your passion. It's never what you imagine it to be. It can be tedious, time consuming and a shade closer to the color exhausting. But it's also more rewarding and validating -- in the end. Or so I'm told.

But I've always known my dreams. They're as much a part of Paige as the small white chihuahua snapping in her wake and the long, red hair piled on her head. Well, auburn hair. It's evolving, too.

I'm committed to seeing my greatest desires find their way into this world. And not because it's a matter of failure vs. success. My self worth is above fruition of said dream, but my heart's invested. I won't give up on something I love. And I know that my dreams don't give up on me.

The path isn't always the same. It's often narrow, through the undergrowth and bywayed by a hearty feat of spelunking. But we get where we dream to go. If we believe, if we recognize that what we most desire can come true, if we only give it room to grow.

What I'm saying is, I hope you don't sell your dreams, or pack them away. That you keep moving, allowing the set backs to set you forward. That you believe, because your dreams believe in you, and they're waiting.

Today's word is: petrichor

image: photo by Glen Stansberry

Friday Shorts: Inside A Story (Part One)

The Art of Love and War

The worst is over. They kept saying that. The Professors, the news lady in the pink and tan checked skirt, even the Dean when he sent out an e-video to the students.

But Ryder felt jinxed. And he didn’t really believe them. It only seemed to get worse.

He hadn’t appreciated the fact that college was a safe haven. But now, six months into his collegiate career, he missed those first few months where he was enclosed in warm, fuzzy school-propelled safety.

Since Jeremiah De’Praved, the student who had gone off the deep end and threatened them with a bomb, had been captured, the students were on edge. Like a door that had been pulled too often, when it should have been pushed - they were coming unhinged.

The numbers of bodies actually found in classrooms kept dropping. People were freaked out. Man, even the Profs were wigged. Half the time Ryder would show up to class to see the Cancelled sign glaring back at him.

The only Professor he could count on to show up was Dr. Acer. His War in Literature professor was hardly fazed by anything. Of course, one would expect his cool handedness. He had, as he reminded them often, survived Vietnam and could therefore survive, “a too scared to even detonate” bombing by “some pansy little turd.”

Most students were being educated online. They had been given the option to switch over to internet based lectures, and almost all had snatched it up. Ryder didn’t like giving into fear. He found a profound need to continue to show up. Proving to himself, more than anyone else, that fear isn’t bought and sold.

He made his way up the stairs to the open building known as Hap’s Hall. He walked around, and through, the marble columns and into the doorway that led him to Dr. Acer’s classroom.

Dr. Acer was seated at his desk attempting to balance an apple on his lemon shaped head.

He turned slightly when Ryder entered, causing the apple to teeter and fall.

“Son of a,” he said, bending sideways out of his chair, and scooping the bruised apple from the floor.

He smiled haphazardly at Ryder. “You still showing up?”

Ryder sat at the desk diagonal from him in the second row. “I am if you are. You oughta earn that paycheck you make somehow.”

Dr. Acer let out a gravely laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Well then. Let me work for the chicken feed.”

            The door opened and a slender girl came rushing in. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Acer,” she said breathlessly. “I had a customer that wouldn’t leave. They were, like, completely draining.”

            Ryder smiled at her and she winked back at him. He blinked, uncertain how to respond. Forward girls scared the crap out of him. Fortunately, she had already turned back around by the time he realized this.  

            “Well Minerva, Ryder,” Dr. Acer said. “Shall we wait another minute or two for stragglers?”

            Then, he gave a mellow chuckle. Laughing, Ryder supposed, at his own little joke.

            Minerva rolled her eyes while Ryder stared at the slender way her calf merged into her ankle.

            “Today we will begin our discussion on The Things they Carried. We read O’Brien’s Going after Cacciato,” Dr Acer said, pulling Ryder from his reverie. “So, having read both, what did you all think?”

            “I think that Tim got to Paris,” Minerva answered.

            “How so?” Dr. Acer asked as he propped Tiva clad feet on his desk.

            “Well, Cacciato wanted to get there, but being trapped in Wonderland prevented reality from being, like, real. And Tim, lost in his mind, his own, like, wonderland, wanted to get home, but found home a real wonderland. So, well, I think Tim got to where Cacciato would have if he had gotten to where he wanted to get.”

            Ryder had been struggling to follow her line of reasoning but, caught up at the end and interrupted.

            “Yeah, but The things they Carried, is more about the insanity that war can bring, while Going after Cacciato is about the boredom, illustrated by the notion that all the war was, was walking.”

            She pulled out a stick of gum and began chomping away. She snapped it and cocked her head.

 “Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out like a child would the gum. “But there’s the element of insanity in Cacciato, too. I mean, like, look at Billy boy. He totally died because he wigged once he lost his leg. And really, the definition of insanity sorta sums up the whole walking dealie. I mean, ‘doing the same thing over and over again,’ is all those guys did, and they ‘expected different results’ even knowing they probably wouldn’t get them.”

            “Interesting,” Dr. Acer mumbled - his eyes half-closed under crescent moon spectacles.

                                                   .................................................

*Part One of my short story: The Art of Love and War

Today's word is: epoch

image: Writing Desk by Colin Page