"A writer must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid."
William Faulkner
I've heard writers' block described as the fear that what is written will not come out right. That's something I should quickly get over; as Forrester said in that great movie, "Write first. Edit later."
Later. Sleep now.
June 21, 2005
June 18, 2005
This, butterfly.
First try:
I think
Start over:
I wish I could tell you how I felt when I saw that butterfly, or rather the shadow from his stained-glass wings. I wish I could describe how it rained and then the red glow from the sun through his wings fertilized a small seed of hope in my heart and how that made me smile half a smile.
Say it simple:
Until today, I didn't know butterflies had wings like the windows in a church.
Elaborate:
I don't remember what I was doing, or how the weather was or what I had for breakfast. What I remember is the flash of red, like a shadow you could see through, when it bounced off the ground and I followed it just in time to see a stained-glass butterfly eclipse the sun like an airplane in a movie about love.
Now I'm desperate:
Oh that I could put into words the picture I would have taken had I had a camera when the butterfly crossed the sun and left a trail of stained glass in the sand. In holiness, hope cast a kool aid colored shadow, and then...
Here, try this:
If you stood with the sun on your back and stared out at the sand, lost in thought. And if you poured strawberry kool-aid in the sand, or if you held a stained-glass window above your head, and if you blinked and it was gone; and the sand was sand again. And the sand wasn't red and wasn't magical, but you knew, regardless, that holiness had graced you and would again, with the next butterfly. Then, then you might tell me how to put -- that -- into words.
Thanks:
I think
Start over:
I wish I could tell you how I felt when I saw that butterfly, or rather the shadow from his stained-glass wings. I wish I could describe how it rained and then the red glow from the sun through his wings fertilized a small seed of hope in my heart and how that made me smile half a smile.
Say it simple:
Until today, I didn't know butterflies had wings like the windows in a church.
Elaborate:
I don't remember what I was doing, or how the weather was or what I had for breakfast. What I remember is the flash of red, like a shadow you could see through, when it bounced off the ground and I followed it just in time to see a stained-glass butterfly eclipse the sun like an airplane in a movie about love.
Now I'm desperate:
Oh that I could put into words the picture I would have taken had I had a camera when the butterfly crossed the sun and left a trail of stained glass in the sand. In holiness, hope cast a kool aid colored shadow, and then...
Here, try this:
If you stood with the sun on your back and stared out at the sand, lost in thought. And if you poured strawberry kool-aid in the sand, or if you held a stained-glass window above your head, and if you blinked and it was gone; and the sand was sand again. And the sand wasn't red and wasn't magical, but you knew, regardless, that holiness had graced you and would again, with the next butterfly. Then, then you might tell me how to put -- that -- into words.
Thanks:
June 16, 2005
What one decides at Wal-Mart
1.) I have a sunburn.
2.) Fish are not human.
3.) Rain is depressing or refreshing, depending on whether you are inside wishing you were in it, or whether you are in it.
4.) Fishbowls are cages made out of glass.
5.) Lives are fishbowls made out of money.
6.) If you write it for them, they won't read it; if you write it for you, it doesn't matter.
7.) "It doesn't matter": those are poor words to end on.
8.) I smell like a fish. My life smells like a fishbowl.
10.) Which needs to be cleaned.
12.)
--------------------------------------
I may not have enough money to go back to college next year. That's something to be praying about. I'm ambivalent. Which I always thought meant "good," until I realized it meant "the state of being ambiguous," and now I'm not sure what it means when I say I am ambiguous. I will be happy if I go back to college next year. I will be happy if I don't. This circumstance, though one of the largest in my life, holds no sway over my apathy.
I feel I'm in a fishbowl, not because everyone can see me, but because I can see everyone, and no one notices me. I can see my own reflection wherever I swim, and I can't swim far at that. No matter how much speed I gather, the glass is unrelenting; I am trapped here. Now I sit and stare at myself, wondering what it could be like. How are the fish faring in the river? And those goldfish who live... where do real goldfish live? My life is a farce and I stare at my cage, at me, and like Narcissus, I will die in this water. If I could blink you would see a human expression of boredom; since I cannot, imagine a goldfish in a fishbowl and you will see me, in my life.
2.) Fish are not human.
3.) Rain is depressing or refreshing, depending on whether you are inside wishing you were in it, or whether you are in it.
4.) Fishbowls are cages made out of glass.
5.) Lives are fishbowls made out of money.
6.) If you write it for them, they won't read it; if you write it for you, it doesn't matter.
7.) "It doesn't matter": those are poor words to end on.
8.) I smell like a fish. My life smells like a fishbowl.
10.) Which needs to be cleaned.
12.)
--------------------------------------
I may not have enough money to go back to college next year. That's something to be praying about. I'm ambivalent. Which I always thought meant "good," until I realized it meant "the state of being ambiguous," and now I'm not sure what it means when I say I am ambiguous. I will be happy if I go back to college next year. I will be happy if I don't. This circumstance, though one of the largest in my life, holds no sway over my apathy.
I feel I'm in a fishbowl, not because everyone can see me, but because I can see everyone, and no one notices me. I can see my own reflection wherever I swim, and I can't swim far at that. No matter how much speed I gather, the glass is unrelenting; I am trapped here. Now I sit and stare at myself, wondering what it could be like. How are the fish faring in the river? And those goldfish who live... where do real goldfish live? My life is a farce and I stare at my cage, at me, and like Narcissus, I will die in this water. If I could blink you would see a human expression of boredom; since I cannot, imagine a goldfish in a fishbowl and you will see me, in my life.
June 8, 2005
Death and hope.
I know I'm losing her. That's why the stew bothers me when I see it left on the stove. It's evaporating, and it needs to be put away. That's my job, to put it away, because she is too weak to do it. She's gone upstairs; she's left the stew behind, for me to put away. She's left me behind to deal. I know it's coming. Whether now, in 8 years, or in 25, it's coming. People whose kidneys fail don't live as long as everyone else. She must know that. What agony to know the end is coming quicker, and inescapably. Her sickness happened in the past; that cannot be changed. And so, her death is inescapable. None of us can avoid death, but for us, death is over the horizon. We don't think about it, because there is so much sea between us and the far shore. Her sickness has placed a new horizon near her, and she can see the shore. She cannot turn back, this is not reversible. God could heal her, but this is irreversible.
And these thoughts haunt my 21st year. That I'll be left alone, and soon. And that I'll have not put the soup away. That she'll die, and the soup will simmer on the stove. I'll have been a bad son, and not put the soup away. I'll have been a bad son and only watched movies with her, too afraid to talk. Talk about what? About those things that scare me. She knows I'm terrified. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe she does. Maybe it will validate her illness. Maybe it will affirm that she's human and that it's ok to talk about her fears. Maybe it's ok and she doesn't know that. Maybe she was raised believing weakness and frailty and transparency to be signs of complaint, of ungratefulness towards God. Maybe she doesn't remember that Jesus asked to be excused from the crucifixion. Maybe she needs to know it's ok to be afraid, cause Jesus sweated blood, and I'm scared too.
***
I don't think too many happy thoughts. Not me, stuck in these two worlds. One is of reality -- and it is painful. The other is my fantasies -- and it too is painful. I look at the death, the Rwandas, the mothers, orphans, sick, diabolical, poor, rich, unhappy, experts, soothsayers, prophets who've got it all figured out. All figured out. Right. This chaos? No. Liars. And this world really hurts. I close my eyes. I dream of tropical islands, my island, with the wrinkled Japanese soldier, defending his nation from me, and American. "The war is over" I would tell him, and we'd be friends. I'd visit him, sailing up to the island and splashing through the blonde sand to his lair. He'd tell me he would die soon, and in peace, and that he had one more thing to show me. He'd lead me through the cave, holding an ancient lantern guilded with gold, azul and rubies. The false wall would swing open and he'd tell me, "All this is yours." I'd be amazed by the glistening treasure and by the stories all the pirates told on their voyages to this island, my island. The pain deafens me to all those who say, "Write first, then look for islands later." I know this is a fantasy, people. It hurts, because by it reality appears so much worse, as a bright light makes the shadows darker in my father's worried brow. I know it's a fantasy, that I'll never have my island, and this makes me want to write less. There's no way out of this reality, so why try? There's no better it could be, so why dream? Hope deferred makes the heart sick; hope will be deferred till death. Funny, the hope kills us, and the death presents us finally with that for which we hoped: a reality we can stand. The glass isn't half full damnit; I'm not a pessimist. There is no glass, no hope of a glass, and there's this pouring rain that I can't drink; the few drops on my tongue only ravage my thirst. I want to think happy thoughts, but hoping for happiness hurts more than just being honest about reality. Maybe this is why my mom is a realist. She knows she'll die someday; now that she's ready for it, it hurts less. She's got it beat. Beat death? We can only hope.
And these thoughts haunt my 21st year. That I'll be left alone, and soon. And that I'll have not put the soup away. That she'll die, and the soup will simmer on the stove. I'll have been a bad son, and not put the soup away. I'll have been a bad son and only watched movies with her, too afraid to talk. Talk about what? About those things that scare me. She knows I'm terrified. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe she does. Maybe it will validate her illness. Maybe it will affirm that she's human and that it's ok to talk about her fears. Maybe it's ok and she doesn't know that. Maybe she was raised believing weakness and frailty and transparency to be signs of complaint, of ungratefulness towards God. Maybe she doesn't remember that Jesus asked to be excused from the crucifixion. Maybe she needs to know it's ok to be afraid, cause Jesus sweated blood, and I'm scared too.
***
I don't think too many happy thoughts. Not me, stuck in these two worlds. One is of reality -- and it is painful. The other is my fantasies -- and it too is painful. I look at the death, the Rwandas, the mothers, orphans, sick, diabolical, poor, rich, unhappy, experts, soothsayers, prophets who've got it all figured out. All figured out. Right. This chaos? No. Liars. And this world really hurts. I close my eyes. I dream of tropical islands, my island, with the wrinkled Japanese soldier, defending his nation from me, and American. "The war is over" I would tell him, and we'd be friends. I'd visit him, sailing up to the island and splashing through the blonde sand to his lair. He'd tell me he would die soon, and in peace, and that he had one more thing to show me. He'd lead me through the cave, holding an ancient lantern guilded with gold, azul and rubies. The false wall would swing open and he'd tell me, "All this is yours." I'd be amazed by the glistening treasure and by the stories all the pirates told on their voyages to this island, my island. The pain deafens me to all those who say, "Write first, then look for islands later." I know this is a fantasy, people. It hurts, because by it reality appears so much worse, as a bright light makes the shadows darker in my father's worried brow. I know it's a fantasy, that I'll never have my island, and this makes me want to write less. There's no way out of this reality, so why try? There's no better it could be, so why dream? Hope deferred makes the heart sick; hope will be deferred till death. Funny, the hope kills us, and the death presents us finally with that for which we hoped: a reality we can stand. The glass isn't half full damnit; I'm not a pessimist. There is no glass, no hope of a glass, and there's this pouring rain that I can't drink; the few drops on my tongue only ravage my thirst. I want to think happy thoughts, but hoping for happiness hurts more than just being honest about reality. Maybe this is why my mom is a realist. She knows she'll die someday; now that she's ready for it, it hurts less. She's got it beat. Beat death? We can only hope.
June 5, 2005
Dawn.
The dawn creeps up on us, and we do not wish to acknowledge its coming.
Why do we roll, pull the sheets over our eyes, hide ourselves from something beautiful?
It comes, but we deny it; we'll meet it when we're ready, on our terms.
It fills us with joy, if we are happy to accept it; with resentment if we long for just a few minutes more of darkness.
Why do the birds greet your dawn so early? And must I resent them for their joy? Only, they shouldn't be happy yet, not till I too am ready to see your sun. They annoy me now, so full of their righteousness, because they have no shame, no pride, and love to leave early from the dark.
I'm tired of the dark. I'm ready for the dawn, but I do want to sleep. I hate my slothfulness. I hate that I've missed so many sunrises. I hate that I've wasted hours. You do realize, it will take all of your blood to erase this. But, I don't want to be separated, and you say you don't, so let it be enough.
Why do we roll, pull the sheets over our eyes, hide ourselves from something beautiful?
It comes, but we deny it; we'll meet it when we're ready, on our terms.
It fills us with joy, if we are happy to accept it; with resentment if we long for just a few minutes more of darkness.
Why do the birds greet your dawn so early? And must I resent them for their joy? Only, they shouldn't be happy yet, not till I too am ready to see your sun. They annoy me now, so full of their righteousness, because they have no shame, no pride, and love to leave early from the dark.
I'm tired of the dark. I'm ready for the dawn, but I do want to sleep. I hate my slothfulness. I hate that I've missed so many sunrises. I hate that I've wasted hours. You do realize, it will take all of your blood to erase this. But, I don't want to be separated, and you say you don't, so let it be enough.
June 3, 2005
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