Yes yes I know. I haven't forgotten you! (me) The holidays and chaos got the best of me, but I'm back! I'm too late for Christmas day. But lets make pretend! To the one that makes Christmas, Christmas...
Someone once asked me, if I sin. They asked me this because I said that I was a Christian, I loved the Lord and the Word of God. You might have thought that I said that I was perfect. I'm not sure why anyone who was perfect would need Christ. But I guess you never know. So, I thought about it for a minute. I mean, of course I sin. I try not to. But sometimes I'm not that great at controlling myself. Fortunately God is patient with me and helps me grow. Jesus said He took my sins and washed me clean. I know that they don't count anymore. That God doesn't see them. But people do. If I say I do not sin, I lie. If I say that I do sin, they might think its because God is not strong, or that I don't love Him or that what Jesus did for me didn't work or wasn't good enough. Then I had an idea. I said, You should ask Jesus! What? They asked looking at me strangely. So I repeated, "Ask Jesus to check His pockets. Cause one second I was a wretched sinner and the next I was all shiny. See, someone told me not too long ago about a man named Jesus. Before that, I thought this world was pretty great and that life was good and that I was a pretty nice person. But then I learned more about Jesus and God and heaven. I was taught about a love like nothing I had ever known. I knew who God was, but this was different. I didn't quite get what I was missing. This man, Jesus loved me so much, that He let His flesh be torn open and made ('made') my sins enter in, just so that I could be clean enough to enter into His Fathers house. A gift, a home I did not earn. I don't know why, I sure didn't love Him at all, but He did it anyway. See, He was so sinless and so perfect, that he had a ton of room to fit all my garbage. And I don't mean just trash. I mean my sin, my bad habits, every bad thing that ever happened to me, every bad thing I ever did, and believe it or not, every bad thing I will ever do. Lots of others have their stuff in there too. You really should ask about it Anyway, So He took it and He carried it away all by Himself. But it was crazy cause, He had to die. I thought that was so sad at first. He didn't do anything wrong. He got caught with my sin not his...but He didn't get caught at all. No one made Him do it. He volunteered He actually wanted to do it. But whats really cool is, because all the sin was in Him, IT died too! So He took sin straight to its grave and left it there. The most amazing part was when He told me, that not only did He take my sin, but He took my death too! He took it, death, and He killed it! Did you even know that death could die!? So guess what? Not only am I clean enough to enter Gods house...But I can't die now either, ever! Amazing stuff!So now the world may see a sinner. Someone who says they are good, but sometimes still does bad things. Bad things is what the world likes to focus on.I guess that means I do sin. But here's the thing, what the world thinks, it doesn't matter anymore. Because I don't live for the world. I am just here for a while. Just like Jesus. I am in the same world that killed someone who was perfect, and did nothing wrong. This world is something I will never be. It seems alive, it thinks its alive, but it's already dead. They only see the dead parts of things. They don't realize that they focus on my bad parts because they are with my sin and death in the grave. See, they can still die. They have not seen nor do they know true life. So they see with dead eyes. Its like they don't really see me at all. At least not what Gods sees. Its very strange tho. Like some kinda weird double vision. From the grave they can see the parts of me that Jesus took there. But, the part of them that is not yet dead, the part that they don't even know is in them, you won't believe this...they see God. Some really hate that. But a few, they want what I got. So now I can tell them how to get it. Then I get to watch Jesus do it again! Its great when their double vision goes away. Their new eyes, living eyes, can tell what is living and what is dead. And not only can they somehow see that spirit living in me...but I can see theirs too! Now, we don't just know each other, but our spirits know each other too. Can you say chills? So cool. Its breathtaking. Now get this...its the best part! (yes, it actually gets better) God said that I am without blemish. I was still quite shocked to hear that, even knowing what Jesus did. Its hard sometimes to feel clean in this world. But He said it. He said, my new house was clean and empty and brand new . Being vacant and shiny and so spacious now with all the garbage gone, the Holy Spirit said, My that looks like a nice place to live. Neighborhood kinda stinks. But the house is great! In fact, its perfect! He moved in the same day. He decided it was so nice and clean, that He did not want to rent. So he bought this house and called it His temple. I know He means that literally because I can hear Him singing songs about God all day long...its really, really nice :-). Then He made me a promise. Yes! A promise. After all that He still wasn't finished with me. He said, my debt was fully paid. Whaaaa??? No debt? You mean, I'm free? In every way, from every burden? Yep! He bought, cleaned up, fully furnished, replaced the old stony heart with one of His own, a special soft warm fleshy heart AND paid in full everything that He just gave me. But! It gets better! Now, when I am ready to retire, He is going to knock this temple down and make me a new one. Not of flesh or of wood or of stone. It won't need maintenance or repair. It will be glorified and perfect and it will be on mountain top on my Fathers land in a great neighborhood and it will last forever. It will have to, because remember, I can never die. It is to be called, Gods house. In Gods house I will dwell.So back to my original point...While I try soooo hard to be good every day, to be a good example and to show people, not the old Jesus I thought I knew, but the real Jesus I know now...sometimes, I still mess up. But He paid in advance remember? This day I speak of, the day He did all this, was long ago and His wounds have since healed. So if really you want to know if I sin. You'll have to check Jesus I try to lighten His load, but its all in there. He says he never looks, though people will always want to see.You'll have to check fast.He cleans house daily. Oh, and if you're interested, He's got room for yours as well. In fact, He asks for it. He already paid, you just have to hand it over, hold His wounded hands and walk with Him always. Go ahead ask. I am not ashamed. Take a peek. Tell me what you see.If, while you're searching in there for all the things that I have done wrong, you find any loose change, that's mine too. But you can keep it. Because my debt is paid in full and my house is clean and my Father is the Almighty God. I don't need money where I'm going. I just need to hold my Saviors hand.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Beautiful Cage
Live free or die. A literal motto for many. One taken not lightly, but with courage, pride and blood. For thousands of years human history repeats the theme again and again. Who wields the chains, who wears them and who breaks them. Stories of great evil, great power and great triumph. The greatest victories time and again won by those who are the least among us. Least in power, and riches but mightiest in heart and virtue. Yet men still seek power over honor often at the cost of their own souls.
Man is a funny animal. He has a habit of caging things he says he loves. He sees a great bird soar far beyond the reach of any man. Like a feathered god the eagle carries himself higher than all life on earth. Man envies the wings that take to the air with an ease and grace that he can only dream of. He loves it so much, he steals the very gift he admires from its rightful owner. He rips the birthright from the sky and into a cage it goes. The cruelest of doors slams shut. Is not the bird in the air more beautiful than the bird in the cage? Would we hide a Monet under the bed, or toss Bach into the sea? To enjoy music it must be heard. To enjoy canvased art it must be seen. What of a bird in flight?
You see, man also sees himself as a god, higher than all else on earth. Often he believes he is greater than that which is in heaven as well. But while the eagle proves its greatness with his own glory. Man proves it with force by stealing the glory of those he sees as lesser than himself. Why does man have to own, life? Does he not know that he doesn't even own the life he calls his. Gianna Jessen so beautifully states "Do you not realize that you cannot make your own heart beat." For all his might and all his power he cannot make his own blood course through his veins.
Is there a creature that prefers captivity? The companion dog or the loyal soldiers horse maybe. But is there a bird, that once loosed from its iron bars would return? Its cage means safety. Bird is always warm and dry and fed. Free from predator, disease and parasite. A long charmed life, behind bars. But the bird...he knows. With his primitive mind he knows what man has yet to figure out.
One little finch knows not what life outside the cage means. He was born and has lived his entire life behind bars. Some would say he knows no difference. His heart cannot long for what it does not know and has not seen. But I beg to differ. Freedom whispers her song to all with a beating heart. Finch knows you are outside and he is in. He knows you are free, and he is not. He knows what his wings were created for. He knows his God given gift has been taken against his will. So he waits. His sharp eye each day watches and his mind conspires according to the plans Freedom has for him.
One day his loving captor missteps. He seizes the moment and without the slightest hesitation he flees from his cage. The open air under his wings, the rush of air for the first time forcing through his feathers. Flight! Fan! Wall! He lands on the threshold of a door. As if fate could hear him pleading, the door swings open as an unwitting family member and co-captor passes through. Out he goes! He races though the open door as fast as he can carry himself. His wings beat nearly as frantically as his heart and he carries himself higher and higher. The rush, the glory, the truth all around him. He made it. Chest pounding he finds a branch and struggles to catch his breath. He's never exerted that much energy in his little life. His cage would not allow it. He listens to the world singing to him. Welcoming him home. The world he once watched from behind bars through no fault of his own, now is his own. The breeze greets him as well, softly rustling his feathers reaching through to his tender skin. Birds who have only ever known freedom singing all around him like its just an ordinary day, but its not. It is not an ordinary day at all. This day is extraordinary for little finch. Little finch is free. He wants to sing but isn't sure what to say. So happily, and even a little nervously he sits and watches and listens to freedoms song. Maybe tomorrow he will sing along. As the sun sets and his body relaxes he falls asleep.
There is an unusual chill in the air when he wakes. He turns to find a bowl of fresh food, but there is only freedom to enjoy on this morning. Happily he realizes that his flight to freedom was not a dream. He is hungry. But he cannot forage. He does not know how, or where. What he eats, what he has been eating, does not grow wild here. There are no bowls of fresh food or water. But there are no bars to set them on either. For several days he watches a flock of wild sparrows. And as each new day passes he is still unsuccessful.
Daily he hears the tender voice of his captor calling out. The familiar whistle she sang back to him every day gets his attention. He flies in closer, then sits very still, careful to not be noticed on a nearby branch of an ornamental tree. He knows this particular whistle is the one she uses when she feeds him. He also realizes that he is sitting in the tree he always admired from behind his golden bars. The sun would dance on its scarlet leaves creating a glow. Like fire, it was almost blinding in the afternoon sun. It only had a crisp leaf or two still holding on now. He watches as one of the last is taken by the wind. His captor continues to call. She knows her little bird must be hungry and fears for his life. She wants him back safely behind bars. In her hope, she removes a screen from an open window, opens the cage door and leaves the room. His captor has never brought him harm. She simply stole the greatest gift of his existence. He sees his cage through the un-screened window, but will dare not return.
The free little finch tried to be accepted into a flock of sparrows. Surely it would increase his chance of survival, not to mention subdue his loneliness. Perhaps they would even be willing to share some food. But he is a strange bird, and food is scarce this time of year. It seemed no one needed a new friend.
Days quickly grow shorter and colder. While watching the cardinals he tries to explore a bird feeder full of seed. But the cardinals do not wish to share their unearned spoils. They are unkind to him. He sits and waits for a chance that never comes.
The next morning he manages a seed or two before the larger birds show up for their feast. He again returns to his perch in view of the slightly open window and the cage they called his home. He does not know why he stares into the window. But everyday, he does. The limited amount of food he is able to find is simply not enough to sustain him. He has lost the desire to try. He flies off to catch a passing breeze and soars above the trees. He flies up and up into the bright winter sky. The spinning world below him can only watch. The joy drowns the hunger and the wind disguises the weakness. He flies like a little acrobat, carelessly, poetically, freely before returning to his branch with joy. It is the same branch he first landed on, on that first day of his freedom.
His branch is cold. His body empty. But his heart is not broken and his will is secure. He looks contented into the limitless sky, then once more into the open window, still waiting to accept him, to ensure his survival. He is not tempted. The freedom he has known is worth his last breath. To be caged again would be the truer colder death. He tucks his tiny face under his wing and closes his eyes for the last time. And with every faltering beat, his little heart's song grows quieter, but no less sweet. For his heart got to live the freedom that it always knew existed, even when all his mind knew, was a small cage in a warm home and a single window to the outside world.
His captor continues watching the skies for quite some time waiting for the return of the little finch. Always leaving the window open, just enough for him to get through. She could have put his seed in his familiar bowl out on the lawn or porch at any time. Something he may have been attracted to. Something to help him along. But she did not. She wanted him to suffer long enough to learn his lesson and come home. But the lesson was hers alone to learn. He already knew what she never would. And the little finch would probably not have risked his fragile freedom anyway. The kindly captor eventually replaced the little finch with another. Another chance to learn simple lesson. She smiles at him, as he watches the birds on the other side of that window.
There are many ways to define freedom. Some profound. If you could ask any slave who survived the birth and development of America he would tell you by the stripes upon his back. From underground railroads to a lone woman with a spine of steel refusing to take a back seat to anyone. These are the painted pictures colored with freedom. You cannot see her. But she stands like a mighty oak in the beating hearts of even the smallest of those who fight for her. Live for her. Die for her.
Some might offer up their view on different freedoms. The freedom of paying off a debt, like the last check written to your mortgage company for the house that owned you for so many years.
Some are slaves to brand, desires, stature, money, insecurity, needs, wants... I could go on and on. Sadly, many of these slaves do not even know that something unseen owns them, completely. Beats them, mercilessly. That the show they put on for the world is their golden cage.
There are cages made for us and those we make for ourselves. Yet only the ones made for us, anger us. Even if the ones that we create are the ones crippling us. The smarter of those among us know their cages. They either accept them, or they work toward freeing themselves. Artists free themselves through their art. Writers with their words, singers with their songs. Some simplify their lives, giving up the excess, the clutter, the noise. Many give their time to those who need a hand. All of the above, even if gratified in their work are giving in some way. Isn't it marvelous how we are the most free when we lighten our load. The less we have, the more we are. When we do something, give something, share something we are at our greatest.
I think my rambling is now at an end. My long and sorted vision of a distorted perspective born of a twisted world. I like to think that I have my priorities straight. But I know better. Just when I think I can finally say I have my act together, I come to another door. I do believe it leads to the wide open world. But when I open it, its just another ladder and another decision. Up, or down?
Like the finch we are all living in a world within a world. The one we own and the one we long for, without even knowing what waits if we were to ever find our way there. Freedom itself trapped the little finch and did not let him go. It was at the cost of his life but not his soul. Freedom was simply a bigger and more beautiful cage. But it was the cage he chose. Ultimately, freedom is not about space or time or things or power. Its about the absolute right to choose our own cages.
~Raven, caged not on the outside, but within.
* The complete version of little finches story, "The Beautiful Cage" is available upon request
Man is a funny animal. He has a habit of caging things he says he loves. He sees a great bird soar far beyond the reach of any man. Like a feathered god the eagle carries himself higher than all life on earth. Man envies the wings that take to the air with an ease and grace that he can only dream of. He loves it so much, he steals the very gift he admires from its rightful owner. He rips the birthright from the sky and into a cage it goes. The cruelest of doors slams shut. Is not the bird in the air more beautiful than the bird in the cage? Would we hide a Monet under the bed, or toss Bach into the sea? To enjoy music it must be heard. To enjoy canvased art it must be seen. What of a bird in flight?
You see, man also sees himself as a god, higher than all else on earth. Often he believes he is greater than that which is in heaven as well. But while the eagle proves its greatness with his own glory. Man proves it with force by stealing the glory of those he sees as lesser than himself. Why does man have to own, life? Does he not know that he doesn't even own the life he calls his. Gianna Jessen so beautifully states "Do you not realize that you cannot make your own heart beat." For all his might and all his power he cannot make his own blood course through his veins.
Is there a creature that prefers captivity? The companion dog or the loyal soldiers horse maybe. But is there a bird, that once loosed from its iron bars would return? Its cage means safety. Bird is always warm and dry and fed. Free from predator, disease and parasite. A long charmed life, behind bars. But the bird...he knows. With his primitive mind he knows what man has yet to figure out.
One little finch knows not what life outside the cage means. He was born and has lived his entire life behind bars. Some would say he knows no difference. His heart cannot long for what it does not know and has not seen. But I beg to differ. Freedom whispers her song to all with a beating heart. Finch knows you are outside and he is in. He knows you are free, and he is not. He knows what his wings were created for. He knows his God given gift has been taken against his will. So he waits. His sharp eye each day watches and his mind conspires according to the plans Freedom has for him.
One day his loving captor missteps. He seizes the moment and without the slightest hesitation he flees from his cage. The open air under his wings, the rush of air for the first time forcing through his feathers. Flight! Fan! Wall! He lands on the threshold of a door. As if fate could hear him pleading, the door swings open as an unwitting family member and co-captor passes through. Out he goes! He races though the open door as fast as he can carry himself. His wings beat nearly as frantically as his heart and he carries himself higher and higher. The rush, the glory, the truth all around him. He made it. Chest pounding he finds a branch and struggles to catch his breath. He's never exerted that much energy in his little life. His cage would not allow it. He listens to the world singing to him. Welcoming him home. The world he once watched from behind bars through no fault of his own, now is his own. The breeze greets him as well, softly rustling his feathers reaching through to his tender skin. Birds who have only ever known freedom singing all around him like its just an ordinary day, but its not. It is not an ordinary day at all. This day is extraordinary for little finch. Little finch is free. He wants to sing but isn't sure what to say. So happily, and even a little nervously he sits and watches and listens to freedoms song. Maybe tomorrow he will sing along. As the sun sets and his body relaxes he falls asleep.
There is an unusual chill in the air when he wakes. He turns to find a bowl of fresh food, but there is only freedom to enjoy on this morning. Happily he realizes that his flight to freedom was not a dream. He is hungry. But he cannot forage. He does not know how, or where. What he eats, what he has been eating, does not grow wild here. There are no bowls of fresh food or water. But there are no bars to set them on either. For several days he watches a flock of wild sparrows. And as each new day passes he is still unsuccessful.
Daily he hears the tender voice of his captor calling out. The familiar whistle she sang back to him every day gets his attention. He flies in closer, then sits very still, careful to not be noticed on a nearby branch of an ornamental tree. He knows this particular whistle is the one she uses when she feeds him. He also realizes that he is sitting in the tree he always admired from behind his golden bars. The sun would dance on its scarlet leaves creating a glow. Like fire, it was almost blinding in the afternoon sun. It only had a crisp leaf or two still holding on now. He watches as one of the last is taken by the wind. His captor continues to call. She knows her little bird must be hungry and fears for his life. She wants him back safely behind bars. In her hope, she removes a screen from an open window, opens the cage door and leaves the room. His captor has never brought him harm. She simply stole the greatest gift of his existence. He sees his cage through the un-screened window, but will dare not return.
The free little finch tried to be accepted into a flock of sparrows. Surely it would increase his chance of survival, not to mention subdue his loneliness. Perhaps they would even be willing to share some food. But he is a strange bird, and food is scarce this time of year. It seemed no one needed a new friend.
Days quickly grow shorter and colder. While watching the cardinals he tries to explore a bird feeder full of seed. But the cardinals do not wish to share their unearned spoils. They are unkind to him. He sits and waits for a chance that never comes.
The next morning he manages a seed or two before the larger birds show up for their feast. He again returns to his perch in view of the slightly open window and the cage they called his home. He does not know why he stares into the window. But everyday, he does. The limited amount of food he is able to find is simply not enough to sustain him. He has lost the desire to try. He flies off to catch a passing breeze and soars above the trees. He flies up and up into the bright winter sky. The spinning world below him can only watch. The joy drowns the hunger and the wind disguises the weakness. He flies like a little acrobat, carelessly, poetically, freely before returning to his branch with joy. It is the same branch he first landed on, on that first day of his freedom.
His branch is cold. His body empty. But his heart is not broken and his will is secure. He looks contented into the limitless sky, then once more into the open window, still waiting to accept him, to ensure his survival. He is not tempted. The freedom he has known is worth his last breath. To be caged again would be the truer colder death. He tucks his tiny face under his wing and closes his eyes for the last time. And with every faltering beat, his little heart's song grows quieter, but no less sweet. For his heart got to live the freedom that it always knew existed, even when all his mind knew, was a small cage in a warm home and a single window to the outside world.
His captor continues watching the skies for quite some time waiting for the return of the little finch. Always leaving the window open, just enough for him to get through. She could have put his seed in his familiar bowl out on the lawn or porch at any time. Something he may have been attracted to. Something to help him along. But she did not. She wanted him to suffer long enough to learn his lesson and come home. But the lesson was hers alone to learn. He already knew what she never would. And the little finch would probably not have risked his fragile freedom anyway. The kindly captor eventually replaced the little finch with another. Another chance to learn simple lesson. She smiles at him, as he watches the birds on the other side of that window.
There are many ways to define freedom. Some profound. If you could ask any slave who survived the birth and development of America he would tell you by the stripes upon his back. From underground railroads to a lone woman with a spine of steel refusing to take a back seat to anyone. These are the painted pictures colored with freedom. You cannot see her. But she stands like a mighty oak in the beating hearts of even the smallest of those who fight for her. Live for her. Die for her.
Some might offer up their view on different freedoms. The freedom of paying off a debt, like the last check written to your mortgage company for the house that owned you for so many years.
Some are slaves to brand, desires, stature, money, insecurity, needs, wants... I could go on and on. Sadly, many of these slaves do not even know that something unseen owns them, completely. Beats them, mercilessly. That the show they put on for the world is their golden cage.
There are cages made for us and those we make for ourselves. Yet only the ones made for us, anger us. Even if the ones that we create are the ones crippling us. The smarter of those among us know their cages. They either accept them, or they work toward freeing themselves. Artists free themselves through their art. Writers with their words, singers with their songs. Some simplify their lives, giving up the excess, the clutter, the noise. Many give their time to those who need a hand. All of the above, even if gratified in their work are giving in some way. Isn't it marvelous how we are the most free when we lighten our load. The less we have, the more we are. When we do something, give something, share something we are at our greatest.
I think my rambling is now at an end. My long and sorted vision of a distorted perspective born of a twisted world. I like to think that I have my priorities straight. But I know better. Just when I think I can finally say I have my act together, I come to another door. I do believe it leads to the wide open world. But when I open it, its just another ladder and another decision. Up, or down?
Like the finch we are all living in a world within a world. The one we own and the one we long for, without even knowing what waits if we were to ever find our way there. Freedom itself trapped the little finch and did not let him go. It was at the cost of his life but not his soul. Freedom was simply a bigger and more beautiful cage. But it was the cage he chose. Ultimately, freedom is not about space or time or things or power. Its about the absolute right to choose our own cages.
~Raven, caged not on the outside, but within.
* The complete version of little finches story, "The Beautiful Cage" is available upon request
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Semblance of Sapience
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."
-yes, I quoted Poe again
Ahh, the constant beating at my door for a fleeting moment, is silenced.
I put the period at the end of my first chapter today. Of course that is far from it being complete. But it is, in its own way, an accomplishment. The first chapter of the story itself is written. However, punctuation it seems will be a very consistent thorn in my side. A big, angry, bossy arrogant thorn. I do not like it. Not punctuation itself...but not knowing how to do it in a way that expresses perfectly what I am trying to say, While still being accurate and acceptable in novel form.
I want to write a good book with good ideas. But I am not a great, educated or experienced writer. My strong-suit is more in the category of concepts, ideas and scene building. But connecting the dots is literally, painful. If I am to try to do something that professionals do then I have to perform professionally. Pretty funny considering I am someone who claims to be doing this for me and me alone. This whole dreaded book thing (my apologies, Mortimer) started because I've spent my life starting books but never completing them. Dozens. Dozens of great and not-so-great ideas never came to fruition. Laziness, busyness, tiredness, excuses, excuses, excuses. This book is a personal challenge. I may finish the book and never even attempt to publish. But that does not mean that I can do it halfheartedly. If I don't do it right, then technically all I did was plot some ideas down on paper. Having a beginning middle and end does not constitute a Novel. Rather it remains a collection of ideas, sequenced scenes and characters that will never take their first breath.
Like it or not I have to write something that resembles a coherent focused representation of something real. I am fabricating a story that needs to convince the reader to believe it. A story that the reader accepts as, and even wants to be real. Even if that reader, is just me. The suspension of reality. Its not actually that hard, until you screw up. I think we all love superman. I am borderline obsessed. He lives in our world and we accept that. Some long for it. Until that is, they deviate from the mythos...then suddenly something that is unbelievable but believed, becomes unbelieved, far fetched, lost or worse, really annoying and disappointing.
So, how do I do this? How does someone like me, write in a way that resembles someone who actually knows what they are doing? And how do I stay sane while doing it? How to I keep violent "head meeting keyboard" episodes from occurring and reoccurring? How do I stop getting so overwhelmed that I walk away for days at a time too frustrated to sit back down and just write? I am not sure that I can. Something has to give. Ultimately, what I do know is that I should. That giving up diminishes me as a person and discredits me as a writer (something I cannot even claim to be...sigh, this is exhausting). Will I, once again prove that "I can't" when I know that I can...I think.
I hesitate to say that I am a writer. I feel that that is presumptuous, pretentious, and inaccurate. Sure, I am a person who likes to write. But that certainly doesn't make me a writer. Perhaps hobbyist would be the correct term? An aspiring writer may be better. So what makes a writer a writer? Does one wake up one day, decide they want to write, start a blog and call themselves a writer? I feel there is in some way, a degree of disrespect to great writers in that thinking. Will I have to be accomplished in some way to call my self a writer? Be published? Win an award? Honestly, I am not sure I will ever feel like a real writer...Truth is I still don't feel like a grown up. Sure the law says I've been one for nearly 20 years. But wasn't a light suppose to turn on or something? I never got a badge or official license, nothing. I ask myself...why do I need something official to tell me who or what I am? Why is it I always wait for reassurance, I need it, yet when I get it, I find it far from convincing? Is it crippling insecurity? Or do I just know myself better than anyone? Am I unwilling to accept complements because I am a realist who knows they are not true and that I am factually unworthy? Or is it because I simply cannot except that I might, in fact, be good at something? Is that the artist in me? The one who is never 100% satisfied with my work. Or the classic self-deprecating me that keeps me in my perceived place? How long will I have to endure myself? Will me and myself ever not be such completely different entities? And is there a magic pill for that? (straight jacket, padded room?) And while I'm asking all these questions, is it really a bad thing that criticism holds more weight with me than praise?
I am not sure certainty will ever play a leading role in my life. But there are few things I am certain of. My belief in God. My devotion to family and my love for country. To me, these things are as natural at the color of my hair or my very average height. But they have little to do with my aforementioned capabilities. The ones that live behind the silken curtain. Rustling uncertainty their only lifelong companion. Longing for the assured fortitude that comes with experience and the legitimate reassurance that comes not from a loved one, but from a critic, or someone with a badge or a license of some kind. The one that believes her ideas are worthy of the ink on the paper, of being brought to life, while still believing she is unworthy of giving breath to the very life she created.
For now, I will enjoy this first feeling of accomplishment that will, I pray, precede many.
Hmmm, It seems the visitor is knocking again. I will try to ignore it for a short while and just enjoy my first chapter. But it will persist. It will persist until I succumb. Until fingers meet keyboard or pen meets paper again. Until then, I hope it doesn't kill me....
~Raven-Don't come to me for clarity-Cloud. Because a cloud cannot exist in clear skies...
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."
-yes, I quoted Poe again
Ahh, the constant beating at my door for a fleeting moment, is silenced.
I put the period at the end of my first chapter today. Of course that is far from it being complete. But it is, in its own way, an accomplishment. The first chapter of the story itself is written. However, punctuation it seems will be a very consistent thorn in my side. A big, angry, bossy arrogant thorn. I do not like it. Not punctuation itself...but not knowing how to do it in a way that expresses perfectly what I am trying to say, While still being accurate and acceptable in novel form.
I want to write a good book with good ideas. But I am not a great, educated or experienced writer. My strong-suit is more in the category of concepts, ideas and scene building. But connecting the dots is literally, painful. If I am to try to do something that professionals do then I have to perform professionally. Pretty funny considering I am someone who claims to be doing this for me and me alone. This whole dreaded book thing (my apologies, Mortimer) started because I've spent my life starting books but never completing them. Dozens. Dozens of great and not-so-great ideas never came to fruition. Laziness, busyness, tiredness, excuses, excuses, excuses. This book is a personal challenge. I may finish the book and never even attempt to publish. But that does not mean that I can do it halfheartedly. If I don't do it right, then technically all I did was plot some ideas down on paper. Having a beginning middle and end does not constitute a Novel. Rather it remains a collection of ideas, sequenced scenes and characters that will never take their first breath.
Like it or not I have to write something that resembles a coherent focused representation of something real. I am fabricating a story that needs to convince the reader to believe it. A story that the reader accepts as, and even wants to be real. Even if that reader, is just me. The suspension of reality. Its not actually that hard, until you screw up. I think we all love superman. I am borderline obsessed. He lives in our world and we accept that. Some long for it. Until that is, they deviate from the mythos...then suddenly something that is unbelievable but believed, becomes unbelieved, far fetched, lost or worse, really annoying and disappointing.
So, how do I do this? How does someone like me, write in a way that resembles someone who actually knows what they are doing? And how do I stay sane while doing it? How to I keep violent "head meeting keyboard" episodes from occurring and reoccurring? How do I stop getting so overwhelmed that I walk away for days at a time too frustrated to sit back down and just write? I am not sure that I can. Something has to give. Ultimately, what I do know is that I should. That giving up diminishes me as a person and discredits me as a writer (something I cannot even claim to be...sigh, this is exhausting). Will I, once again prove that "I can't" when I know that I can...I think.
I hesitate to say that I am a writer. I feel that that is presumptuous, pretentious, and inaccurate. Sure, I am a person who likes to write. But that certainly doesn't make me a writer. Perhaps hobbyist would be the correct term? An aspiring writer may be better. So what makes a writer a writer? Does one wake up one day, decide they want to write, start a blog and call themselves a writer? I feel there is in some way, a degree of disrespect to great writers in that thinking. Will I have to be accomplished in some way to call my self a writer? Be published? Win an award? Honestly, I am not sure I will ever feel like a real writer...Truth is I still don't feel like a grown up. Sure the law says I've been one for nearly 20 years. But wasn't a light suppose to turn on or something? I never got a badge or official license, nothing. I ask myself...why do I need something official to tell me who or what I am? Why is it I always wait for reassurance, I need it, yet when I get it, I find it far from convincing? Is it crippling insecurity? Or do I just know myself better than anyone? Am I unwilling to accept complements because I am a realist who knows they are not true and that I am factually unworthy? Or is it because I simply cannot except that I might, in fact, be good at something? Is that the artist in me? The one who is never 100% satisfied with my work. Or the classic self-deprecating me that keeps me in my perceived place? How long will I have to endure myself? Will me and myself ever not be such completely different entities? And is there a magic pill for that? (straight jacket, padded room?) And while I'm asking all these questions, is it really a bad thing that criticism holds more weight with me than praise?
I am not sure certainty will ever play a leading role in my life. But there are few things I am certain of. My belief in God. My devotion to family and my love for country. To me, these things are as natural at the color of my hair or my very average height. But they have little to do with my aforementioned capabilities. The ones that live behind the silken curtain. Rustling uncertainty their only lifelong companion. Longing for the assured fortitude that comes with experience and the legitimate reassurance that comes not from a loved one, but from a critic, or someone with a badge or a license of some kind. The one that believes her ideas are worthy of the ink on the paper, of being brought to life, while still believing she is unworthy of giving breath to the very life she created.
For now, I will enjoy this first feeling of accomplishment that will, I pray, precede many.
Hmmm, It seems the visitor is knocking again. I will try to ignore it for a short while and just enjoy my first chapter. But it will persist. It will persist until I succumb. Until fingers meet keyboard or pen meets paper again. Until then, I hope it doesn't kill me....
~Raven-Don't come to me for clarity-Cloud. Because a cloud cannot exist in clear skies...
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Gratuitous Gratitude
So, I said I would do this once a week. Probably on the weekends. But given the holiday, I decided to slip an extra one in....Its Thanksgiving in America and I have much to be thankful for.
Its the time of year to show gratitude. Its not easy for everyone. Knowing that it can always be worse doesn't bring much comfort, but it is most certainly still true. A few years ago I was having a mini tantrum because once again, the moment I had built a little "nest egg" for myself, or received some form of extra or "free" money....well, I bet you can guess. Something of course had to go wrong. This has happened, quite literally, every time I have ever had extra (bulk) money in my life. It seemed cash was a bad omen for catastrophe of equal or greater value.
During this mini tantrum I vented to my mother in typical woe-is-me fashion. Every time I have some money...BOOM...something has to happen so I can't even enjoy it. I can't have fun with it, or save it, or pay off a stupid bill! No, nothing <insert Charlie Brown Ugh here>
My wise mother then said something that changed my outlook on everything...forever. She said, "Why is it that you say, whenever you have money, suddenly something bad takes it away? Instead of, whenever something bad happens, suddenly you have money to pay for it?" Well didn't I feel like a schmuck. What has happened in our society of plenty that we (namely ME) can no longer see the bright side of anything, when we are living directly inside, the bright side. I have a lot to be grateful for. The list starts with God, country and family and ends with my last breath. I will not forget that again.
Today, I wish to express gratitude on simpler scale. It starts with the kindness of a stranger...
I love pictures. Love to look at them. Love to take them. But Im not that great at it. Remember the whole attention span issue? I have a great digital SLR that I keep on IA (intelligent auto) all the time. What a waste. Photography is yet another passion that I love but neglect. I am such a slacker. I'm below par for my own course....sigh. That said, some people are just gifted and what they have cannot be taught.
I troll the net sometimes looking for inspiration. I usually know what I need to see. I will look up a color, like orange or a subject like "Moss" or "Clouds" and search until I find the one that satisfies whatever it was my brain was looking for. I often wondered what it meant, that people are my least favorite subject. There are some, that without an individual perfectly placed, the symmetry would be lost, or the point ineffectual. Not to mention how often looking in the the wide open eyes of a very young child or infant is your door into an unwritten world. But still, they bottom out my list
Photographers, the good ones. The dedicated ones. The ones that see art in the strangest places and smallest details. The ones who always have their camera ready, they way I always have a pencil and paper hidden somewhere...I have great respect for. They express what I am thinking, without even trying. They know what I was trying to say, without words.
Besides being part of my name, I relate to clouds in many ways. A clouds lifespan is about that of my attention span. They can be beautiful and cheery. Or dark and ominous. They can look like a teddy bear or a raving lunatic Crocogator. Oh yea, they exist. They tell you things without a word...hows the weather outside? Ask a cloud! They are common. Always around in some form. I think most people forget them. As pretty as they are, people cherish clear blue skies. I have never ever understood that. A cloudless sky to me, looks empty. Lonely. Its like a salt-less dish. I appreciate them. I enjoy the ever-changing sky. Its like...my mirror twin. I feel a strange bond when I look up. Day or night, she is always there. A new print every time I look. Why have so many stopped looking up? I can't even speculate.
So, back to my point. I found a picture recently that resonated with me in many ways. This picture to me, was art. It was on flickr from an Italian photographer named Andrea Cucconi. While I got stalled on his albums for a while..this one picture burned itself into my mind...it was like a self portrait...of my mirror twin, ha! The photo, titled "Nuvola nera" (black cloud) is just stunning. It is a photo of the Italian sky...but is so much more. It seems to almost fade from some perfect oil painting, into nature. A bright illuminated sky, with a rogue raven cloud passing through. I am posting the link below with permission from Mr. Cucconi. But he went a step further and gave me, a complete stranger and amateur rambler in every way, permission to actually use the photo on this blog. The photo is below and is one of the new loves of my life. I thank you very kindly Andrea Cucconi! And to you, I offer my gratitude today!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/andreacucconi/508643366/in/faves-88361884@N00/
It will become my main photo as soon as I figure out HOW to do that...it seems I am not so fast a learner!
It is now the very end of my day. I am tired and more stuffed than any old turkey could be. Now that I am three blogs in and I feel like its something I can do, I will get back to what was supposed to be my original point this weekend. I will begin to verbally walk through my attempt at writing this novel. Probably while still avoiding proper punctuation. (Its a blog! Thats like dressing up to go to walmart!) This will be my outlet, good bad and ugly. And I hope that it will help me track growth as a writer and progress toward my goal. And to anyone who takes this journey with me, I pray I neither bore you to death or drive you insane. And if I take the walk alone, well, I hope I don't bore myself to death or drive me insane! Unless bored insane people write good books....
Once again, out to the open air I say, goodnight. If the sun rises on your tomorrow, say thank you. Or, say thank you for no reason at all, or for every reason in the world. And when a black cloud passes though...don't be so quick to think that there is not some small reason that even it, deserves your gratitude. It was one passing black cloud that inspired me. And its photographer made that possible. He stopped to take a picture of the darkness in his Italian sky. And years later someone who found it beautiful took it home. Even if home is just right here. It was not darkness I saw. But a stroke of Gods brush, and a photographer who knew divine art was just passing through...
~A Raven Cloud is a happy cloud
Its the time of year to show gratitude. Its not easy for everyone. Knowing that it can always be worse doesn't bring much comfort, but it is most certainly still true. A few years ago I was having a mini tantrum because once again, the moment I had built a little "nest egg" for myself, or received some form of extra or "free" money....well, I bet you can guess. Something of course had to go wrong. This has happened, quite literally, every time I have ever had extra (bulk) money in my life. It seemed cash was a bad omen for catastrophe of equal or greater value.
During this mini tantrum I vented to my mother in typical woe-is-me fashion. Every time I have some money...BOOM...something has to happen so I can't even enjoy it. I can't have fun with it, or save it, or pay off a stupid bill! No, nothing <insert Charlie Brown Ugh here>
My wise mother then said something that changed my outlook on everything...forever. She said, "Why is it that you say, whenever you have money, suddenly something bad takes it away? Instead of, whenever something bad happens, suddenly you have money to pay for it?" Well didn't I feel like a schmuck. What has happened in our society of plenty that we (namely ME) can no longer see the bright side of anything, when we are living directly inside, the bright side. I have a lot to be grateful for. The list starts with God, country and family and ends with my last breath. I will not forget that again.
Today, I wish to express gratitude on simpler scale. It starts with the kindness of a stranger...
I love pictures. Love to look at them. Love to take them. But Im not that great at it. Remember the whole attention span issue? I have a great digital SLR that I keep on IA (intelligent auto) all the time. What a waste. Photography is yet another passion that I love but neglect. I am such a slacker. I'm below par for my own course....sigh. That said, some people are just gifted and what they have cannot be taught.
I troll the net sometimes looking for inspiration. I usually know what I need to see. I will look up a color, like orange or a subject like "Moss" or "Clouds" and search until I find the one that satisfies whatever it was my brain was looking for. I often wondered what it meant, that people are my least favorite subject. There are some, that without an individual perfectly placed, the symmetry would be lost, or the point ineffectual. Not to mention how often looking in the the wide open eyes of a very young child or infant is your door into an unwritten world. But still, they bottom out my list
Photographers, the good ones. The dedicated ones. The ones that see art in the strangest places and smallest details. The ones who always have their camera ready, they way I always have a pencil and paper hidden somewhere...I have great respect for. They express what I am thinking, without even trying. They know what I was trying to say, without words.
Besides being part of my name, I relate to clouds in many ways. A clouds lifespan is about that of my attention span. They can be beautiful and cheery. Or dark and ominous. They can look like a teddy bear or a raving lunatic Crocogator. Oh yea, they exist. They tell you things without a word...hows the weather outside? Ask a cloud! They are common. Always around in some form. I think most people forget them. As pretty as they are, people cherish clear blue skies. I have never ever understood that. A cloudless sky to me, looks empty. Lonely. Its like a salt-less dish. I appreciate them. I enjoy the ever-changing sky. Its like...my mirror twin. I feel a strange bond when I look up. Day or night, she is always there. A new print every time I look. Why have so many stopped looking up? I can't even speculate.
So, back to my point. I found a picture recently that resonated with me in many ways. This picture to me, was art. It was on flickr from an Italian photographer named Andrea Cucconi. While I got stalled on his albums for a while..this one picture burned itself into my mind...it was like a self portrait...of my mirror twin, ha! The photo, titled "Nuvola nera" (black cloud) is just stunning. It is a photo of the Italian sky...but is so much more. It seems to almost fade from some perfect oil painting, into nature. A bright illuminated sky, with a rogue raven cloud passing through. I am posting the link below with permission from Mr. Cucconi. But he went a step further and gave me, a complete stranger and amateur rambler in every way, permission to actually use the photo on this blog. The photo is below and is one of the new loves of my life. I thank you very kindly Andrea Cucconi! And to you, I offer my gratitude today!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/andreacucconi/508643366/in/faves-88361884@N00/
It will become my main photo as soon as I figure out HOW to do that...it seems I am not so fast a learner!
It is now the very end of my day. I am tired and more stuffed than any old turkey could be. Now that I am three blogs in and I feel like its something I can do, I will get back to what was supposed to be my original point this weekend. I will begin to verbally walk through my attempt at writing this novel. Probably while still avoiding proper punctuation. (Its a blog! Thats like dressing up to go to walmart!) This will be my outlet, good bad and ugly. And I hope that it will help me track growth as a writer and progress toward my goal. And to anyone who takes this journey with me, I pray I neither bore you to death or drive you insane. And if I take the walk alone, well, I hope I don't bore myself to death or drive me insane! Unless bored insane people write good books....
Once again, out to the open air I say, goodnight. If the sun rises on your tomorrow, say thank you. Or, say thank you for no reason at all, or for every reason in the world. And when a black cloud passes though...don't be so quick to think that there is not some small reason that even it, deserves your gratitude. It was one passing black cloud that inspired me. And its photographer made that possible. He stopped to take a picture of the darkness in his Italian sky. And years later someone who found it beautiful took it home. Even if home is just right here. It was not darkness I saw. But a stroke of Gods brush, and a photographer who knew divine art was just passing through...
~A Raven Cloud is a happy cloud
Saturday, November 20, 2010
To be or not to be? Stop avoiding the question!
Ok, so now that I'm here (again) and I took the first leap on to the 2nd step...am I a blogger? Is it real yet? I'm going to do my best not to abandon myself now that the blog is officially made. But is this really, real?
My whole point in finally taking step one was to find an outlet for all the static in my mind. To put all the little things that really don't lead to a bigger thing, in one place. Maybe if I give the words a place to live they will stop living in my head. They are after all, pretty crappy neighbors. Noisy, heavy footed busy bodies. Sometimes what pops into my head is a simple idea or quote, other times a poem. Often its a realization. I do know that in the past there were things that I would write down thinking it turned out ok, just to misplace it. Or things I thought up and convinced myself there was no way I'd forget it. Its just too good! Of course, the next day or by the time I got home, I just couldn't piece it back together quite the same way. Is this the cure? A collection of moments like a photo album for words? A viable collaboration between then inner and outer me? I recently bought myself a voice recorder. I often lose thoughts simply because I cannot write as fact as I can think. Perhaps I am finally taking writing seriously? I hope so. I really hope so. Its in my heart. And I have neglected it for a long time.
This is, I hope, like exercise. As I attempt to actually complete the dreaded book, I will see this as baby steps to gradually increasing my attention span. And as I clear my mind writing all the "extras" here I hope to make room for the bigger ideas I need to put into this book. The ideas that will take more than 5 minutes to type. The ones that have no real end, unlike my moments here. The book excites me. But it overwhelms me. When you have so many ideas, and so many very large scenes to write, where do you start? And can I ever make them look they way they do in my minds eye. Can I do my characters, who I already love dearly, the justice they deserve? Or will this end up in a heap of chicken scratch tucked away in a box somewhere, never to come to life. If I truly love them, I shouldn't let that happen right? Or, like most dreams are they better off dwelling where they were born? Sometimes I feel like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third kind...remember the terrible scene where he was making the mashed potato plateau? I still recall the stress I felt even as a child from his extra-terrestrial haunting. But will I ever find that fantastical realization that he did? That moment when I stand face to face with the words I gave a home outside my gut? Will I ever know that I was right all along?
My thoughts have been hijacked. My quiet moments, gone. My former thoughtless videogaming/TVwatching/internettrolling moments squashed under the weight of...I just decided I will call Mr.Dreaded book, Mortimer. And Mortimer is not petite. I am eating, but the story is floating around in my head. I do not think I actually sleep anymore. I lie awake thinking of who, how and when. When I do sleep, I dream the scenes as if they are real. I relive them again and again. I don't wake feeling rested. I simply close my eyes to one world, and open them to another. No matter what I am doing, my mind is always, at least partially elsewhere. The only way to stop it, is to allow it to live outside of me. And so, I write.
Edgar Allen Poe wrote at the start of "The Raven"
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."
This was me tonight. The gentle rapping on this dreary day is simply the desire to tap a keyboard or pick up a pen. It calls to me. Its funny though, unlike all the other stories I've always wanted to write, this one leaves me no choice. It used to be that I thought up an idea that I liked and wanted to write about it. I thought of a scene and wanted to build around it. I thought of a character and wanted to create them a world that fit them. But this one...It is demanding and noisy. The story is telling me what needs to be written. The concept was not something carefully developed and thought out. Something born of creativity. It came to me, like the vision of a memory of something real. Something I'd seen before. I did not create it. It is living inside of a crowded & distracted mind and it wants out. It is rapping at my chamber door.
So. To be or not to be? I fear my sanity shall not retain its composure if I give up on the dreaded book. And, I do think I am enjoying this whole blogging bologna. Though I by far prefer salami or roast beef...blogging bologna, is an aquired taste I think I can get used to. As for the book, the dreaded thorn in my side...I will continue to call him Mortimer. I should hate to give him a complex with the repeated title of dreaded.
So, this is blog two. I did not give up...yet? I am not generally a pessimist. More like an optimistic realist. And, I would rather not set myself up for failure, but...again I ramble, incessantly....
This will be my last blog about blogging indecisiveness...promise :-) My goal is to get here at least once per week. Kinda like the gym....
Quoth the Raven...I'll be back, once upon a bloggers query....
My whole point in finally taking step one was to find an outlet for all the static in my mind. To put all the little things that really don't lead to a bigger thing, in one place. Maybe if I give the words a place to live they will stop living in my head. They are after all, pretty crappy neighbors. Noisy, heavy footed busy bodies. Sometimes what pops into my head is a simple idea or quote, other times a poem. Often its a realization. I do know that in the past there were things that I would write down thinking it turned out ok, just to misplace it. Or things I thought up and convinced myself there was no way I'd forget it. Its just too good! Of course, the next day or by the time I got home, I just couldn't piece it back together quite the same way. Is this the cure? A collection of moments like a photo album for words? A viable collaboration between then inner and outer me? I recently bought myself a voice recorder. I often lose thoughts simply because I cannot write as fact as I can think. Perhaps I am finally taking writing seriously? I hope so. I really hope so. Its in my heart. And I have neglected it for a long time.
This is, I hope, like exercise. As I attempt to actually complete the dreaded book, I will see this as baby steps to gradually increasing my attention span. And as I clear my mind writing all the "extras" here I hope to make room for the bigger ideas I need to put into this book. The ideas that will take more than 5 minutes to type. The ones that have no real end, unlike my moments here. The book excites me. But it overwhelms me. When you have so many ideas, and so many very large scenes to write, where do you start? And can I ever make them look they way they do in my minds eye. Can I do my characters, who I already love dearly, the justice they deserve? Or will this end up in a heap of chicken scratch tucked away in a box somewhere, never to come to life. If I truly love them, I shouldn't let that happen right? Or, like most dreams are they better off dwelling where they were born? Sometimes I feel like Richard Dreyfuss in Close Encounters of the Third kind...remember the terrible scene where he was making the mashed potato plateau? I still recall the stress I felt even as a child from his extra-terrestrial haunting. But will I ever find that fantastical realization that he did? That moment when I stand face to face with the words I gave a home outside my gut? Will I ever know that I was right all along?
My thoughts have been hijacked. My quiet moments, gone. My former thoughtless videogaming/TVwatching/internettrolling moments squashed under the weight of...I just decided I will call Mr.Dreaded book, Mortimer. And Mortimer is not petite. I am eating, but the story is floating around in my head. I do not think I actually sleep anymore. I lie awake thinking of who, how and when. When I do sleep, I dream the scenes as if they are real. I relive them again and again. I don't wake feeling rested. I simply close my eyes to one world, and open them to another. No matter what I am doing, my mind is always, at least partially elsewhere. The only way to stop it, is to allow it to live outside of me. And so, I write.
Edgar Allen Poe wrote at the start of "The Raven"
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."
This was me tonight. The gentle rapping on this dreary day is simply the desire to tap a keyboard or pick up a pen. It calls to me. Its funny though, unlike all the other stories I've always wanted to write, this one leaves me no choice. It used to be that I thought up an idea that I liked and wanted to write about it. I thought of a scene and wanted to build around it. I thought of a character and wanted to create them a world that fit them. But this one...It is demanding and noisy. The story is telling me what needs to be written. The concept was not something carefully developed and thought out. Something born of creativity. It came to me, like the vision of a memory of something real. Something I'd seen before. I did not create it. It is living inside of a crowded & distracted mind and it wants out. It is rapping at my chamber door.
So. To be or not to be? I fear my sanity shall not retain its composure if I give up on the dreaded book. And, I do think I am enjoying this whole blogging bologna. Though I by far prefer salami or roast beef...blogging bologna, is an aquired taste I think I can get used to. As for the book, the dreaded thorn in my side...I will continue to call him Mortimer. I should hate to give him a complex with the repeated title of dreaded.
So, this is blog two. I did not give up...yet? I am not generally a pessimist. More like an optimistic realist. And, I would rather not set myself up for failure, but...again I ramble, incessantly....
This will be my last blog about blogging indecisiveness...promise :-) My goal is to get here at least once per week. Kinda like the gym....
Quoth the Raven...I'll be back, once upon a bloggers query....
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Is this blog haunted?
One giant leap (compared to a few small steps)
For many years I toyed with the idea of a blog. Besides the fact that I found it quite presumptuous that anyone would want to read anything that I had to say, I doubted my ability to say anything consistently. What is the point of a blog, if you do it once then show up a year later to maybe do it again? Then again, can this be the perfect tool for someone with great big ideas, but a very not so great, little attention span?
So, time and time again I revisited the idea of maybe, possibly doing slightly more than simply considering the conception of a blog. And, time and time again, the idea of a blog revisited me and considered doing something different, with this preconceived idea of a writer. It seemed...I was haunted. I would hear the haunting whispers of the blogging I should do while at the store. The little green ghost called envy would woooo, its way through the room whenever I read someone elses very crafty quip filled blog about whatever. I would hear the creaking of the dried up floorboards I called imagination lying unpolished in my head. And I even heard the squeaky hinges of half thought out ideas restlessly waiting in the thresholds of daydreams...their doors remaining unshut, yet not really satisfactorily opened either. The haunting remained in the cobweb filled forgotten, yet always there attic of my unwritten mind.
When most of us think of attics, we think dust and cobwebs and even spooky haunted things. But we also think lost treasures and memories. A safe and fun place to hide and play where old and tattered items fuel imagination. We find forgotten keepsakes hidden in old dusty chests that we were just a little afraid to open seconds before. This kinda sums me up. I am, by nature an extremist. Not by principle or in a behavioral or political or even emotionally reactive way. But sitting beside my gray and rational self is the eclectic wildly over analytical artist in me. One that generally lives, not in the warm center of my mind, but in the outskirts or the depths. This....is maddening. Yet, it is a great place to escape the walls of this very limited, unlimited world.
So, after pondering the idea of my blog being haunted I realized that I could not figure this one little detail out...Was it me who was haunting my attic, or was my attic haunting me? I will be sure to let you know as soon as I figure that out. But for right now I will begin to end right where I began to start....
I realized today, that at least for me, a blog was not actually about writing anything that anyone wants to read. It is about writing out loud, just because I can. Caging the words that often escape me. I decided this will be my therapy. Though I am not sure if it is writing me, or I am writing it. Unlike shouting from the rooftops, anyone who trips over my benign little blog still has absolute control over their free will. I simply cannot force myself on anyone. It is as invasive as noninvasive can be. A crazy hack screaming from a roof top can only send a voice as far as the nearest ear. But this...this can end up down the road, or in Japan. Being so comfortable in extremism, I find these points both comforting and disconcerting. The fact that people can find me by accident and stay....or hit that little boxed-in X to the top right, or backspace into the next parking lot means I can talk to the whole world...and no one has to listen. Or they can all listen, whatever. Too bad that does not apply to my singing at home....
So here I am. If you choose to stay a while you will notice a few things. I ramble...semi-coherently or brilliantly. I apologize in advance to both myself and you the reader (which may also be me). I write, the way I speak. Natural and unpunctuated. Confused and concise. I do not try to sound educated. I am not. I will not go out of my way to "smarten up" my marginal musings. You great writers out there may want to stop reading now...before you learn to hate me, if you haven't already. I will not drag you into the depths of my soul or launch into elaborate diatribes about life or the world or the people in it. My soul is neither deep nor shallow for it has no limits. How do you begin to discuss something like that? I will not be pondering the mysteries of the universe or the human mind...I have yet to figure out my own as their mysteries also seem without limit. You won't find intellectualism's because my intellectual mind is constantly being interrupted by my artistic mind. This little spot here is simply my creative refuse. Brain trash if you will. A place to store all my incomplete thoughts. My yet unwritten wild ideas that no one ever gets but me. A place to express all the things I seem to need to express, without actually having to see all the usual looks others seem to need to express back. (run-on sentences? yea, guilty). They cannot see what I can see. And that is ok. My mind is unfenced. For some that creates chaos and for others freedom. Personally, I like to sit where the fence would be if I had one. Grateful to be unlimited, yet as is typical for the extremist in me, creating an invisible fence. A self-limiting barrier to my goals, my dreams, my capabilities. A not quite closed door. One you want to see out of, but do not want to walk through. I either dread the idea of starting a project or I'm so excited I can't contain myself. I am ambitious but lazy. I start and if I have to work three days straight, I will. I won't stop to eat or sleep and will let things fall apart around me. They can wait. Because once I stop, I may never return to finish. I am exuberant but stifled. I am complex but simple. I am an artist without outlet. A writer with an ever blank page. Who I am on the inside is not reflected on the outside. Or am I not who I think I am? Exactly which "me" are we talking about here?
I am a Raven Cloud. Alter-ego. An illusion like any other cloud. Seen only from afar not within. The Reverie Muse, extremist extraordinaire. An artist without a niche. A writer with nothing worth reading. A full deck missing all her cards. A typo queen & punctuationophobe. You can love me and stay a while or hate me and run. Personally I believe that if you both love me and hate me, you will learn to like me a little, you'll find my flaws annoyingly charming and we will get along just fine....In that love to hate me, hate that you love me kinda way...I hope...ish.
Until you decide, I (we?) will be here, writing...or not.
Like a dark cloud in your blue sky...I too shall pass.
~A Raven Cloud without rain
For many years I toyed with the idea of a blog. Besides the fact that I found it quite presumptuous that anyone would want to read anything that I had to say, I doubted my ability to say anything consistently. What is the point of a blog, if you do it once then show up a year later to maybe do it again? Then again, can this be the perfect tool for someone with great big ideas, but a very not so great, little attention span?
So, time and time again I revisited the idea of maybe, possibly doing slightly more than simply considering the conception of a blog. And, time and time again, the idea of a blog revisited me and considered doing something different, with this preconceived idea of a writer. It seemed...I was haunted. I would hear the haunting whispers of the blogging I should do while at the store. The little green ghost called envy would woooo, its way through the room whenever I read someone elses very crafty quip filled blog about whatever. I would hear the creaking of the dried up floorboards I called imagination lying unpolished in my head. And I even heard the squeaky hinges of half thought out ideas restlessly waiting in the thresholds of daydreams...their doors remaining unshut, yet not really satisfactorily opened either. The haunting remained in the cobweb filled forgotten, yet always there attic of my unwritten mind.
When most of us think of attics, we think dust and cobwebs and even spooky haunted things. But we also think lost treasures and memories. A safe and fun place to hide and play where old and tattered items fuel imagination. We find forgotten keepsakes hidden in old dusty chests that we were just a little afraid to open seconds before. This kinda sums me up. I am, by nature an extremist. Not by principle or in a behavioral or political or even emotionally reactive way. But sitting beside my gray and rational self is the eclectic wildly over analytical artist in me. One that generally lives, not in the warm center of my mind, but in the outskirts or the depths. This....is maddening. Yet, it is a great place to escape the walls of this very limited, unlimited world.
So, after pondering the idea of my blog being haunted I realized that I could not figure this one little detail out...Was it me who was haunting my attic, or was my attic haunting me? I will be sure to let you know as soon as I figure that out. But for right now I will begin to end right where I began to start....
I realized today, that at least for me, a blog was not actually about writing anything that anyone wants to read. It is about writing out loud, just because I can. Caging the words that often escape me. I decided this will be my therapy. Though I am not sure if it is writing me, or I am writing it. Unlike shouting from the rooftops, anyone who trips over my benign little blog still has absolute control over their free will. I simply cannot force myself on anyone. It is as invasive as noninvasive can be. A crazy hack screaming from a roof top can only send a voice as far as the nearest ear. But this...this can end up down the road, or in Japan. Being so comfortable in extremism, I find these points both comforting and disconcerting. The fact that people can find me by accident and stay....or hit that little boxed-in X to the top right, or backspace into the next parking lot means I can talk to the whole world...and no one has to listen. Or they can all listen, whatever. Too bad that does not apply to my singing at home....
So here I am. If you choose to stay a while you will notice a few things. I ramble...semi-coherently or brilliantly. I apologize in advance to both myself and you the reader (which may also be me). I write, the way I speak. Natural and unpunctuated. Confused and concise. I do not try to sound educated. I am not. I will not go out of my way to "smarten up" my marginal musings. You great writers out there may want to stop reading now...before you learn to hate me, if you haven't already. I will not drag you into the depths of my soul or launch into elaborate diatribes about life or the world or the people in it. My soul is neither deep nor shallow for it has no limits. How do you begin to discuss something like that? I will not be pondering the mysteries of the universe or the human mind...I have yet to figure out my own as their mysteries also seem without limit. You won't find intellectualism's because my intellectual mind is constantly being interrupted by my artistic mind. This little spot here is simply my creative refuse. Brain trash if you will. A place to store all my incomplete thoughts. My yet unwritten wild ideas that no one ever gets but me. A place to express all the things I seem to need to express, without actually having to see all the usual looks others seem to need to express back. (run-on sentences? yea, guilty). They cannot see what I can see. And that is ok. My mind is unfenced. For some that creates chaos and for others freedom. Personally, I like to sit where the fence would be if I had one. Grateful to be unlimited, yet as is typical for the extremist in me, creating an invisible fence. A self-limiting barrier to my goals, my dreams, my capabilities. A not quite closed door. One you want to see out of, but do not want to walk through. I either dread the idea of starting a project or I'm so excited I can't contain myself. I am ambitious but lazy. I start and if I have to work three days straight, I will. I won't stop to eat or sleep and will let things fall apart around me. They can wait. Because once I stop, I may never return to finish. I am exuberant but stifled. I am complex but simple. I am an artist without outlet. A writer with an ever blank page. Who I am on the inside is not reflected on the outside. Or am I not who I think I am? Exactly which "me" are we talking about here?
I am a Raven Cloud. Alter-ego. An illusion like any other cloud. Seen only from afar not within. The Reverie Muse, extremist extraordinaire. An artist without a niche. A writer with nothing worth reading. A full deck missing all her cards. A typo queen & punctuationophobe. You can love me and stay a while or hate me and run. Personally I believe that if you both love me and hate me, you will learn to like me a little, you'll find my flaws annoyingly charming and we will get along just fine....In that love to hate me, hate that you love me kinda way...I hope...ish.
Until you decide, I (we?) will be here, writing...or not.
Like a dark cloud in your blue sky...I too shall pass.
~A Raven Cloud without rain
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