Kim's Korner: A Place for Words

Thursday, March 11, 2010

I Don't Remember Being Forgetful

Let me just first say that my memory isn't that bad. In fact I have an excellent track record of memorizing lines for plays, poetry, and countless talks, speeches and other messages. However, if you ever visit my family down in South Carolina, within 15 minutes you will begin to hear stories about my childhood and one of them will no doubt be about my forgetfulness.

There was the time when I was 7 or 8 years old that my mother sent me to the front yard to empty the waste basket into the large metal outdoor trash can. For those too young to remember (there's that memory again) they look like this.

So, out I went to empty the trash and apparently while on my way back to the house I came across one of the neighborhood dogs wandering through our front yard. Dogs wandered in those days (can you imagine that, or do you need another photo).

Now it seems perfectly reasonable to me that a 8 year old boy would stop and play with a readily available dog. The story, as my mother tells it - endlessly - is that i came back inside (after a prolonged time) happy and clueless of the fact that I had left the waste basket in the front yard. Therefore, I am forever deemed "forgetful."

To me it is a simple case of priorities. Which is more important: an empty waste basket, or a wandering dog?

That's my story and I'm sticking to it - like white on rice.

Labels: blogging, family, life on life's terms, stories, writing

Monday, March 08, 2010

Bloggers' Words - Is It You?

Bloggers' Words

words on my screen

tokens of life well lived

speaking of actions, attitudes

options, for living

words of one's journey

signs, revealing and deep

challenging me to thrive, live

choose, grow

words launched into timeless space

floating in e-land, wandering

coming home and sinking deep

lifting, my heart

sings

words from you, my friend.

Labels: blogging, poetry, word play, writing

Friday, March 05, 2010

The Sea - A Poem from Memory

The Sea

Swirls of foam around my ankles

Wiggling toes intwine archaic sands

Minnows dart, carving the tidal plane

Sun bares upon my bare back

Gulls sing anthems of the dawn

Waves rise in the distance, announcing the coming change

Hear it roll closer, ascending

Fleeing tides rip sand and shell away

Sand moves beneath my feet, as the wave breaks

Salt burns, eyes and nose

Water cascades off of me

Surpries of familiar currents

Laughter swells within my sea

My soul welcomed home

Bellows joy

Labels: blogging, poetry, sea, word play, writing

Monday, March 01, 2010

From Dusk to Dawn

From Dusk to Dawn

Before dawn
The moon looms
Bright, bold
Shining through the film
Of clouds
Sliding across her
Like lace gliding off your
Shoulders
Last night…

Labels: emotion, gender stuff, poetry, word play, writing

Sunday, February 28, 2010

An Open Letter to Hallmark

Dear Hallmark:

Thank you for your wide and creative selection of cards. As a man, it is most helpful that you provide me with cards that speak of love, commitment, passion and adoration between a husband and wife. At each season and holiday, when I reach to purchase a card – I am glad you have thought through these details for me.

I would like to make one request, however. Can you please not design these cards to appeal to me just in order to sell them? Yes, I like brown, tan and other earth tone colors. I am a bit uncomfortable holding flowery, glitter laden and sparkling cards that sing love songs. And yet, even at the risk of making me uncomfortable can you NOT design any cards that will result in my wife saying – “How nice. You picked this one because you like the colors – didn’t you?” I promise I will buy whatever you sell, just help me out will you?

Sincerely,

Theguythatlikesearthtones…

Labels: gender stuff, life on life's terms, stories, writing

Friday, February 26, 2010

On Having Lunch at Panera - Repost

The din resonates

Countless voices frantically

Proclaim facades and personas

Below the cascade

Simplistic souls stand

Wall flowers alone and longing

Within, a voice asks

Shall we dance?

*I wrote this one a while back after having lunch at Panera Bread.

Labels: blogging, poetry, sacred moments, writing

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Writing Prompt - Dolphin Musing

Dolphin Musing

Using a writers prompt, I penned these words and posted them elsewhere previously. May they bring you some of the peace that they brought me this day.

"Write a one-page description of what it would be like to swim with dolphins."

It seems like more than a few years ago. I stood on the bridge spanning the inlet at St. Augustine, Fl. Statuary of regal lions poised themselves as sentries guarding access, an access now in no need of guards, concrete or otherwise, a mere gateway from one tourist infested section of the town to another.

That evening, late, I stood on the crest of the low bridge and gazed blankly into the grey swirl of sea below. Small caps of sea foam occasionally formed and then faded, improbable punctuations, a writer's words quickly deleted returning the emptiness to the page. I had been unable to write for weeks. My mind blank, no, so filled with images and sensations falling over each other in chaos that no assembly of words could seem to contain my thoughts. So there the formless confusion of my mind was met by its reflection there in the dark sea.

The first one almost escaped my attention. A thin slice of light grey broke the ocean plain, a small twist of foam, and it was gone. I strained to see. I heard the song. At first I thought it was the wind carrying children's voices, softly to my ears. Then I saw them, dolphins. They swam below me, hiding just beneath the sea's veil, shadows, wisps of silver form. I leaned over the railing, dangerously far. They circled below me, entwining among themselves. There where three of them, two adults and a small one. They seemed unaware of anything but their own dance. What grace and poise they created with movements so fluid and quick; touches so gentle and tender.

I fell. Somehow my foothold failed and although I grabbed hold of the rail, my body already hung over the side and my one handed grip wasn't enough. I tumbled the few feet and into the surf. I felt the sting of the water's chill. It had barely warmed from these early spring days. Something brushed my side and I felt myself being pushed toward the surface. I lifted my head to the night air, rubbed the salt water from my eyes, and as I began to tread water, was astonished to see the smallest of the trio of dolphins floating just inches from my face. It rolled onto one side, exposing one eye to the surface and lifting a fin as if to wave. I laughed. I heard them sing again. A gentle high note that seemed to hang in the air and settle in my soul, even more, it settled my soul.

The two adults were on each side of me now, and as I shifted my weight and began floating on my back, I could feel them moving around me. Soon, there dance included me. I joined them. I swam gently, rolling my body with the shift of the currents, allowing my hands to touch them and then the sea. I closed my eyes and listened to their song and swam with them.

Perhaps it was the caress of the sea, or the magic of the moment, or maybe just the release of my daily constraints, but, my head spun in delight and I felt a drug-like euphoria rise within my being. I was at once lost in bliss and fully present with myself.

Later, they bid me farewell and I felt a bit of sadness as they vanished into the darkness of the night and the vastness of the sea. I know that I found something that night. For even now, years later, I can close my eyes, breathe in the smell of the sea, and hear their song, the song I learned the night I swam with the dolphins.

Labels: meanderings, prose, stories, word play, writing

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Amusing Myself - Critical Conversing

Amusing Myself

Me: You are dancing again.

Muse: Yes.

Me: Have you missed it?

Muse: The dancing?

Me: Yes, the dancing.

Muse: Yes, but I have missed other things more.

Me: Really? What?

Muse: I have missed the attentive look on your face as you treasure me.

Me: Treasure you? That is a bit assumptive of you.

Muse: Perhaps, but I see it tonight in your eyes.

Me: You annoy me sometimes with you self assurance.

Muse: I'm not so assured, so confident about most things. But, I know you.

Me: Indeed you do.

Muse: Dance with me.

Me: I already am.

Muse: Do you love me?

Me: Always.

Muse: I'm glad.

Me: So am I, eventhough it keeps me forever troubled.

Muse: Troubled?

Me: Perhaps unsettled would be a better word.

Muse: If you were not unsettled by me, you would be worthless, you know.

Me: Yes, and sometimes I get tired of the desire, the longing, the...

Muse: Amusement?

Me: You make me smile.

Muse: I make you laugh.

Me: And dance.

Muse: I dance for you.

Me: Thank you.

Muse: You make me laugh.

Me: I know. I know. Shut up and dance.

Labels: meanderings, prose, sacred moments, spirituality, stories, word play, writing

Friday, February 19, 2010

Writing Prompt - Spider's Web

Write for ten minutes, beginning with the following sentence: “I’d often thought I’d like to watch a spider spin his web from start to finish; now I had little choice.”

I’d often thought I’d like to watch a spider spin his web from start to finish; now I had little choice. I could feel the throbbing in my leg, and as I shifted my weight was reminded of the restraints that held me here, bound in this bed, tilted on my left side, staring out of the window. The spider had arrived a few moments ago and begun his web.

“Why me,” the thought came to me again as my mind drifted back to the events of last week.

“Kim, come here,” Erin’s voice called from the base of the old oak tree.

Erin and I were best friends. We had been since elementary school, and here we were, now in our twenties wandering the old wooded lots behind what remained of Beachwood Elementary.

“I still can’t believe they are going to tear down the school, Erin. I mean Beachwood has always been there,” I commented as I arrived beside her at the foot of the old oak tree.

“I can’t believe it is still here,” Erin remarked.

“I know. Look up there,” I pointed to the gnarled branched above our heads.

The planks of wood still spanned the distance between the branches. I remembered the many times we came running through these woods and scampered up the tree to our “fort.” There we had talked about all of life’s great topics: girls, boys, teachers, parents, and high school.

Erin put her hands on one of the short boards that still remained nailed to the tree, making a ladder up to the fort. She took hold of the board and pulled. It held. Erin looked over her shoulder at me and smiled.

“Come on,” she teased, and began scampering up the side of the tree.

“No way!,” I exclaimed and continued, “I am twice your size. We aren't kids anymore, Pixie!”

I always called her Pixie when I wanted to point out that I was about twice her size. Erin was always a small, thin girl. Today was no different, although, she had shaped up nicely over the years. It is amazing what breasts and a firm butt can do to transform a twig of a girl into a beautiful woman. She laughed from her lofty position in the branches overhead.

--ten minutes up--

Labels: blogging, prose, stories, word play, writing

Thursday, February 18, 2010

In The Sand*

In the sand

Our foot prints

Hearts

Shells

Kisses

Lines left by the tide

Castles

Dog paws

Cans

Bodies

Tears

Clothes

Dreams

Names

Our Life time

In the sand

*I grew up at the beach. I spent a great deal of time day and night, wandering the shores, feeling and exploring the sands of that shore and all that could be lived and love. There isn't much I haven't done on those shores. There is a lot of life lived, left and found there...

Labels: beach, meanderings, poetry, sacred moments, stories, word play, writing

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

IF, by Rudyard Kipling

I was named after the book Kim, by author Rudyard Kipling. Early in my childhood, my mother introduced me to one of his poems. It has always challenged and inspired me in life.

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,

if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling

Labels: emotion, family, father's wisdom, life on life's terms, poetry, word play, writing

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Simply Move

Hanging on the wall in my office, there is a picture of a tree that changes color and definition to reflect the four seasons. As you walk by the angle of the print causes the tree to shift from a winter scene of bare branches and snow, through sprouting spring foliage, the full greening of summer and then the autumn leaves of fall. From my desk seat, it always looks like autumn.

I like seeing the different images of the picture. The variety, changing colors and images offers a nice change from what is often the static unchanging art of an office space. There are times when I will just move to a different place in my office to see and enjoy the picture differently. It isn't that I don’t like seeing the fall tree, I do. I like seeing the other images, too.

Here’s my thought: My living is often the same way. It is easy to settle into the same routine, the same patterns of moving through life and soon – everything seems to look stagnant. In the same way I have to get up and move to a different place in my office to see the variety of the tree picture, I can move to a different place in my living to see life with new colors.

From a simple move, like visiting a different coffee shop, to a more dramatic change, like ending or starting a new relationship, we can experience the very different seasons of our living. I’m not advocating change for change sake, but I am encouraging myself to remember that sometimes I need t move a little and change my perspective in order to appreciate the rich variety of life.

I sat in a meeting yesterday with a successful local entrepreneur – a very rich man. He was clearly tired, almost exhausted throughout the meeting. After we had finished our business discussions, the conversation shifted as he explained his fatigue. He had spent the previous evening volunteering at a local homeless shelter. As he begin to tell the tale of his time helping others that night his energy lifted, his spirit soared and the conversation moved me to a different place. The business of life glowed more brightly than the drab hues of the previous conversation about his business.

Get up. Move. See. Enjoy.

Labels: blogging, emotion, life on life's terms, meanderings, word play, writing

Thursday, February 11, 2010

12 Words Stolen by The Internet

This week another innocent word was commandeered and made to serve a new master and a new meaning. The vocabulary of our world is being stolen and redefined. Words are re-purposed right before our eyes!

Google announced the launch of a new Social Tool and it is named “Buzz,” Google Buzz to be more precise. The Internet is now buzzing (the way the word use to be used) about Buzz. This re-purposing of innocent words isn't new. Here are some others…

Tweet – use to be a sound a bird made.

CD – once referred to a bank note, Certificate of Deposit

Web – was once something a spider wove

Net – was a web of rope used to catch fish

Wave – use to refer to something you rode with a surf board, then a thing the spectators did at games, and now is something that belongs to Google – in beta.

Flicker – was the way a flame moved

Picasso – was a painter you studied in art class

Mouse – was a small rodent

Windows – were part of a house

Friend – was someone you liked and spent actual time with from school, work, the house next door

Caffeine - formally linked to beverages is now another - you guessed it - Google Product

What is a writer to do? What’s next - Microsoft ‘Prose’ or Google ‘Poetry?’

Labels: blogging, emotion, lists, meanderings, social networking, word play, writing

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Red House Talking - A Poem

During a visit to Levering Orchard, I spoke with one of the owners about his childhood memories of home, a house that now stands empty and in disrepair, yet a dominate fixture overlooking the orchard. It seemed to speak to me.

Red House Talking

heat scared twisted tin

metal remains of the shelter of generations

once marking the boundary between security

sky and seasons' harsh torments of ice and wind

once shielding mother and child and keeping

home hearth's warmth within

sentinel timbers stand charred

remnants of hard taught lessons

essential knowings of words and deed

those shadows of learning that walk with us

stand undaunted, proclaiming our way

through life's course

holding us to right of way

pane-less windows black and lost

tell of eyes peering outward

watching for familiar faces

tracing memories in winter's vapor

smudged glass and

of curtains drawn tightly muffling

the magic giggles of life long love and randy youth

now the boundaries of roof and wall

yield openly, freeing lives long bound here

as prolific gaps

grasp not even nature's breeze

releasing it to dance delightfully

resting on my mind and dream

before wafting on

leaving a whisper of

a voice talking with

a red accent

Labels: blogging, emotion, poetry, word play, writing

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Another Stranger I'll Never Know

Her head turned and she gazed over her shoulder, across the red silk of her blouse, rippled by the tilt of her head, the pivot of her neck. Her jade eyes, clear and moist, seemed to find mine and I felt a stirring of hope, a long absent curiosity. I wondered about speaking to her, just a word to break the translucent expectations that divided us, that had always divided us and made us strangers. My mind raced to summon the right words. My legs flexed to stand, to walk.

She turned, her hair sliding back into place along her back, bouncing, as if swaying to the final measure of some distant rhythm, and she was gone – again.

Labels: emotion, life on life's terms, meanderings, prose, word play, writing

Friday, February 05, 2010

How We Do Winter In North Carolina

Since this area is due for some more winter weather, I thought I would share some of an email I received last week…

In case you're new to our area, let me tell you how we do winter here.

Someone somewhere says snow is coming to North Carolina.
We start paying attention.
Someone says it's coming to the Triad.
Now we really start paying attention.
Someone brandishes the word "accumulation." Done. Finished. Over. We who call North Carolina home all-out lose our minds.

In the case of this snow, it happens like this:

Tuesday morning: The word "accumulation" is used.
Tuesday afternoon: Accumulation confirmed. All weekend plans put on stand-by or out-right canceled.
Tuesday evening: First trip to supermarket for bread, milk, wine, beer and cookie dough.
Wednesday morning / afternoon: Calls around town for sleds begin. No one has them.
Wednesday evening: Local news does a story about the run on supermarkets for bread and milk. Second trip to supermarket for extra bread and milk, plus frozen pizzas and non-perishables, because you never know.
Thursday morning / afternoon: Spend workday obsessively checking the forecast. More calls for sleds. Search online for sleds, but decide against them because you can't believe how much sleds actually cost.
Thursday evening: Meet friends out for drinks or dinner because you never know when you'll get out again. Realize you forgot to buy bagels. How could you forget bagels? Third trip to supermarket.
Friday morning: Alternate staring out window for snow and consulting forecast for exact snow start time. Cancel the rest of weekend plans.
Friday afternoon: Weather.com reports that it is snowing in your area. Run to window. Spend at least one hour yelling at weather.com because it is clearly not snowing. Ask boss about company inclement weather policy. Complain about said policy. Wait an hour; ask boss if company is closing early.
Friday evening: Fourth trip to supermarket on the way home for last-minute necessities, like chocolate and fancy hot cocoa. Alternate staring out window and watching local news for exact snow start time. Watch the Closings scroll to see if your work is closed on Monday, because you never know.
Friday night: Snow finally begins. Call/text all of your friends and family to see if it's snowing in their area and to make sure they're OK in the storm. Update Facebook status to reflect snowfall in case you missed anyone. Order pizza so you don't have to break into rations too soon.
Saturday morning: Marvel at snowfall. Fling pets / children into the snow so they can marvel and so you have pictures for your Facebook page.
Saturday afternoon: Drive or trudge to nearest hill and attempt to sled on a cookie sheet/shower curtain/trashcan lid/pool float.
Saturday evening: Meet friends out for drinks or dinner to celebrate snow.
Sunday: Eat leftover pizza and stare out window, watching snow melt. Obsessively watch Closings list. Feel happy when the county you once lived in announces closing and then sad because you never became a teacher and now you have to go out, clean off the car and then go to work tomorrow. Plus you've got all that bread and milk to eat.

Labels: meanderings, weather, word play, writing

Thursday, February 04, 2010

Writing the Right Word

Do you ever find yourself stuck, fingers poised upon the keys and yet – nothing. There is a thought, the beginning of a phrase hanging on the very edge of your mind and then – nothing. You know there is a genesis word needed, or at least some word that will begin the avalanche of prose that is pressing so dutifully upon your mind, straining to flow through you and onto the page and into the world, a message of fine worth and clear depth – waiting for that beginning, that right word to give the process the smallest nudge into existence.

Well, that is where I am tonight and that word eludes me…

Labels: blogging, prose, word play, writing

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

5 Things Only Facebook Can Do

1. Reconnect me with 6 classmates from High school, 25 years after the school closed.

2. Allow me to peep in on my children’s lives to get a clue how they are really doing (NOTE: never actually engage them over Facebook – not a good idea.)

3. Stay connected with friends and business colleagues on a daily basis. Oh the joy of status updates!

4. Make it easy for my Mother to ‘see’ her children, grandchildren, great grand children and yes great-great grandchild moving through life – and all of us each other and her!

5. Encourage all of the above to have a little fun each day with status update games, apps, photo tagging and more.

Thank you Facebook!

Labels: blogging, facebook, social networking, writing

Thursday, January 28, 2010

On Visiting Blue Hole - Bermuda

A did a piece of writing after hiking an area in Bermuda called the "Blue Hole."

The Blue Hole has an interesting history and contains some amazing submerged caves and private pools. One of the very few unsolved murders in recent Bermuda history occurred there, and it is the location of the oldest rock type on the island.

THE BLUE HOLE'S HOLD

Your now seldom trodden paths fall under new feet, withstanding each impact of soul and sole, bearing up upon unyielding and ancient rock the weight of another exploration, an adventuring spirit, another of the millions of creatures that you have felt wander across your very spine, and with thoughtless query your impatient question of 800,000 years rises again...

Will this be the one? Or will this be only another impertinent and transient creature that errantly uses the earthy mystery of this space for gathering dirt and stone, or ripping foliage aside for consumption, or splattering in fury, another's blood upon you hoping you will shroud its evil form detection? Or will this one impede the conquest and domination long enough to pause momentarily, stand still enough - long enough to allow your archaic message to creep from the core of this vain of our origination and stir as deeply within them as it resides within you, the tendril of impervious and undaunted myth that is your message?

Labels: blogging, prose, spirituality, travel, vacation destinations, word play, writing

Tuesday, January 19, 2010

5 Signs Twitter Has Destroyed Your Writing

1. You use the shortest words possible – distilling your vocabulary to sprite-like verbiage (a phrase you would never us on twitter)

2. Compound sentence structure disappears; therefore there are no flowing poetic descriptions.

3. Characters begin talking in short less than 140 character, abbreviated, direct thoughts.

4. When discussing back story, sentences begin with RT @Character’sname and a quote from earlier in the text.

5. You spend time pondering how tweet shrink and url shorteners can be applied to the editing process.

Or, you find yourself writing a short, 5 part post in the affects of Twitter on Writing.

Labels: blogging, twitter, word play, writing

Friday, January 15, 2010

I'm Thinking Tropical

In the tropics, the air whispers tales of the end of the journey and the beginnings of breathing. The horizons appear endless, barely even the fine line dividing planet and heavens can be seen, and that as only the obligatory nod to the proclaimed laws of physics. Seas pool in transparent marine, crystal refractors of laughter and indulgence. If the breeze blows, it is the compilation of every faded caress, every long lost lover, as the humidity clings, mocking her absent touch.

In the heat of these places, a man’s metal is tested, not by the level of his strength or the length of his endurance, but rather by the depth of his passion. For the blasting sun will lay siege to all muscle and cause even the fittest flesh to run dry. Left only with emptiness where fictitious power did reside, the soul of the man of the tropics must find relief and value elsewhere. In time, in his weathered smile - carved with canyon lines of today’s joy - can be seen the scars of victorious battles with self and the final surrender to all that surrounds and captures him. The paradox of surrender and freedom combine on the shore as waves meet sand.

There, where the deep is found in one man’s being or lost in the darkest of sea resides my destination.

Labels: blogging, sacred moments, travel, writing

Thursday, January 07, 2010

Allow Me to Introduce to You, Harry Chapin

The words of his that are most likely familiar to you are “The cat is in the cradle and the silver spoon – little boy blue and the man in the moon – when you coming home dad – I don’t know when - but we'll get together then son...”

Harry Chapin stands alone in my mind with the few true storytellers in the music profession. His music is not only made of melodies that can be as haunting as inspiring, but of words, beautifully crafted words that cast a spell of magic – taking the listener on a journey into themselves, into life lived and life often lost. He was a troubadour of American life at the time when we needed a voice of conscience. Most of his songs were too long for radio broadcast, so only those willing to invest time in an album or a concert truly got to know Harry Chapin. If you don’t know his music, give him a listen – it will be unlike anything being written and sung today.

A consummate entertainer, Harry Chapin died early in an auto crash in 1981. He was an advocate for political change, ending hunger and human rights. He was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal after his death, in 1987.

Of his songs, I recommend to you – “A Better Place to Be,” “I Wanna Learn a Love Song,” and “W*O*L*D” to get you started.

Labels: blogging, sacred moments, songs, word play, writing

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Waving Goodbye

A Child

Pats the water with her foot

Ripples

Spread gently, caressing the surface

Gliding outward, searching for shore

Fading to smooth

Tiny toes

Break the fluid plain

Movement

Life upon the stillness

Reaching

Longing

Hoping for a place to land

Again and again

Each gentle touch fades

Weakened waves reaching

Never touching the distant sand

Destination

SPLASH!

Surges churn turbulence of sea

Arms and legs violate the stillness

Liquid rage calls

To the depths

Unknown concentric waves

Demanding, diminishing, stopping

Stillness

Descending shimmers

Calming the spot

Closing the circle

Cessation

Now

On a distant shore

Small ripples lap the sand

Lap the sand

Home

-Once, an Adolescent that I knew took her own life. This poem is dedicated to Cathy.

Labels: life on life's terms, poetry, sacred moments, writing

Friday, October 23, 2009

My Life Is Waffle House!?

It is very interesting what one can learn from listening.

I treated my appetite and ignored my need for low a cholesterol diet (shhhh! If you don’t tell my doctor, it doesn’t count), and had breakfast at Waffle House "the other day." As I ate, I listened.

Karen is in her mid thirties, has two children and hates it when her kids stay home for snow days. She drives an older Nissan. She has a small space between her two front teeth that she tries to hide by rolling her lip over them when she is laughing. It doesn’t work.

The cook, an all but kid in his twenties, plans to get his GED this year and then study at the community college, or maybe join the Navy. He likes his job, and doesn’t cook rubber eggs. I think that is considered an accomplishment. I know my eggs were very tasty. I think his name is Mack, or Mick. He didn’t have on a name tag.

Betty is clearly the matriarch of the group. She smiles as she listens to the banter of the ‘younger’ staff. She moves effortlessly from one task to the next, often working ahead of the others. She greets regulars by their first name, or with a knowing nod. Her under the cuff comments to the others often brings a smile or a giggle. Betty is, and wants to be the Queen of the WaffleHouse.

As I sat at the counter, eating my cheese eggs, grits and butter soaked raisin toast, gazing at the laminated menu pictures of the many heart-stopping, artery clogging, cholesterol enhanced foods, this thought crossed my mind: Is there really a difference between any of our lives, other than the package that that life might reside in?

Labels: blogging, coffee, emotion, life on life's terms, meanderings, travel, writing

Friday, October 16, 2009

Your Beauty Stops

Your beauty
Laid out before me
Stops

Your beauty
Laid out before me

Orange hues wrapped in purple haze
This sky
Brushed upon a palette
By the descending of the sun
Layers
Broadcasting the coming night
Filled with hope and promise
Your beauty is laid out for me

A beauty that seeks me
Reaches out and touches my eyes
Causing them to scan for you

A beauty that grazes my thoughts
Hunting for understanding
Beyond knowing the work of light
Reflecting through prisms
And chemicals reacting in mist
Longing to be known

Your beauty
Laid out before me ready to be known
As in an embrace lovers know
The caress of wonder
Possibilities of tomorrow
In each gentle sigh
Each kiss of moisture

Your beauty
Laid out before me stops

Longing is left alone
Desire
Calm and undisturbed
Even as your wonder
Strikes the lenses of my sight
Pounding
Nothing but a distant echo

Is heard

Tonight…

Labels: blogging, emotion, gender stuff, poetry, sacred moments, word play, writing

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

The One Word for Access to Success

Yoda said it this way, “There is no try. Only do or do not.”

Nike said, “Just Do It!”

The word is out, and yet we too often keep using it. My days are busy rushing to get things done, and someone asks me to do one more thing. Instinctively, I hedge my commitment with, “I’ll try.” A colleague offers a valid improvement in my technique and suggests that I make a change. Hesitantly I agree, “O.K. I’ll try.”

The difference e between saying “try” and “do” may seem subtle, but it is powerful.

Find a pencil or pen right now.

Yes. Really. Go find one.

Set the pencil on the table in front of you. Now ‘try’ and pick it up. Fact is, either you did it, or you didn’t. Yoda is right. There is no try. Try is something we are not committed to doing.

My suggestion for today is that we stop saying ‘try’ and make the commitment to do things we need to do, or simply want to do. Proclaiming “I’ll do it” may lead us to failure, but failure is the friction that makes success possible – and that is another post…

Do It!

Labels: life on life's terms, meanderings, word play, writing

Friday, September 18, 2009

Another Word Thought...

I often find myself looking at words or sayings and asking things like "where did that come from" or "what does that really mean?" Today I typed my status into Facebook "...is finding Friday to his liking."

What does it mean to find something to your liking? The image that came to me was one of taking the something (in this case Friday) by the hand and walking it over to wherever my "liking" was - and helping them "find" or get to know each other.

Could that be where the saying originated?

Labels: blogging, facebook, word play, writing

Monday, August 31, 2009

Dangerous Passions?

A number of weeks back, several friends sent me the same link to a wonderful video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the angst of artistic genius. I'm not purporting to be a genius, but I have had my share of artistic challenges.

My first true passion was acting. I felt more alive when acting, soaking up the spot light and wrestling with the nuances of character development than I did living my real life. I achieved some modest success while making acting my hobby throughout my life including some professional time with a North Carolina Shakespeare Company, and several cable-run commercials. During college I discovered creative writing and I've had a few article published (during my time as a pastor). Sermon writing, at its best, is a highly creative venue and I relished in both the creation and presentation of sermons for 15 years.

In each of my creative adventures, I discovered the same reality – satisfaction of the urge to create and the compulsion to be a part of something new and dramatic is fleeting.

Often, upon reflection on my own creative internal disturbance, I am left with the following apparent and unsavory thought - The creative spirit, as embodied in so many artists, is its own bane. The artist can devote his/herself to the task fully and in doing so risk a rapid burn or can deny the very passion of the soul and lead a life of frustrated mediocrity. My trouble with this thought is that I don’t want it to be true. Is it possible for an artist to pursue his passion and not self destruct? Is there something in the nature of art that demands the humanity of the artist and leaves her broken?

There is more to say here, but I would rather leave it for your comments. So, dear reader, is your artistic passion dangerous?

Labels: blogging, emotion, life on life's terms, meanderings, poetry, prose, writing

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Ride The Storm Out

Have you ever had to write?

I have.

There are times when the creative urge within us demands to be released and those of us that contain even the smallest creative tendency are imposed upon – it is a tempest. For these are the moments when the convergence of internal climates mock the posing power of even the most extreme external weather - for in these moments, the storm of passion assails us and we can but ride the storm out.

Sometimes the storm washes up marvelous beauty upon the sands for others to find as they walk by. Sometimes.

Labels: blogging, life on life's terms, meanderings, prose, sacred moments, spirituality, writing

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

A Pending Epitaph - Paint Me Not

Paint Me Not

Paint me not in shades of brilliant blue and red

Coloring over my misguided lines of glossy black

And smeared greys

Don’t layer me over with sentiment and morality

Forgetting my deformity of thought

And bare deeds

Have the fortitude to lay it out

As I was and am naked and old, withered

And decaying now

My life will be dust soon enough and should not be concealed while it can be revealed.

Note: Inspiration comes when it is ready. I was viewing a photo and a post over at MelodyWatson.com and somehow, my thoughts and feelings lead to the poem above...

Labels: blogging, emotion, family, life on life's terms, meanderings, poetry, writing

Monday, August 10, 2009

The Other Day...

The other day… [STOP]

The post I was preparing to write needs to wait for a brief moment while I explain the phrase above – “The other day.”

I grew up in South Carolina. Along with sand fleas, mosquitoes and inbreeding, the south is known for several colloquial phrases. Where I come from, we know what “the other day” means, and it means something very specific.

“The other day” refers to a period of time that can be from yesterday to several decades past. The meaning, when used by a true Southerner, is to say “When it happened is something I am not prepared to commit to right now, and in fact when isn’t the damn point I’m trying to make and so don’t get hung up on when, or who even, just listen to what I’m getting ready to say next and know that it did in fact happen and it is important that you listen to the story and not get distracted by the facts -now.”

So when I say “the other day” I was listening to Oprah – it isn’t to tell you which episode or year so you can go back and watch it, I’m telling you that what I think about what I saw on Oprah “the other day” is something you need to know.

When I tell you “the other day” I was talking to Aunt Margie – it doesn’t matter that Aunt Margie has been dead for ten years; I’m telling you that she knew something that you need to know right now because it may save you a heap of trouble later.

And, most certainly, when your mother says to you “the other day” I was cleaning your room – be sure that what follows next will not be a discussion about which day ‘exactly’ it was but rather something much more critical to your living future…

I hope that helps. So, the other day…

Labels: emotion, family, father's wisdom, life on life's terms, meanderings, writing

Monday, July 20, 2009

Miasma Episode I

NOTE: This is a creative writing piece and could be one of a series that creates a fantasy character to allow for observational prose...

My name is Miasma. Actually, Miasma isn't my real name and if I tried to tell you my real name your ears would not hear it nor would your mind grasp it, so for you and the world you see, I am Miasma.

I am a watcher of people and their things for in my watching I find some degree of comfort, some measure of essence that I would otherwise lose and soon I might fade beyond the reach of this world. I cannot touch it or you anymore, so I watch. My presence is veiled to you, no more than the wisp of a cloud or the last mist of a spring morning. I can only watch. I watch the beauty and the ugliness.

Today I watch her, this child with brilliant blue eyes, dancing with light. If you would see her you would most likely be so struck by the particular shade of azure blue brimming from her eyes that you might miss the truly brilliant light that is her eagerness of being as it radiates into the world around her. Yes, I see this radiance. Some might discount her shine as youthful and untainted enthusiasm, but I know better. I have seen this before and today as I watch her trace her fingers along the cracked mortar between the smooth wall stones, I know that this youngling is a rare and delicate version among your kind. She hums a simple tune, one that rises from her inner being and as her wordless song touches the air and all around her I feel the urge to bow, I and every form of life around her would sway upon her song if she only wished it so. She doesn't, for she doesn't know how, yet...

Labels: blogging, emotion, family, gender stuff, meanderings, prose, word play, writing

Thursday, July 09, 2009

Quoting

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.

-Ernest Hemingway (1899 - 1961), in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech

Labels: emotion, quotes, writing

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Skin Crawling

Spend some time with someone who gets under your skin.

When I as in college, among the various subjects I studied was physics. I remember very little of that complicated subject, but one concept that sticks with me is that in order to have movement, friction is necessary. Just a quick jaunt down memory lane to the last time my truck as ‘stuck’ in the mud and I fully understand the need for friction in order to move.

The need for friction makes sense in physics. In order for an object, a car for example, to move from one point to the next, friction must exist for there to be sufficient traction for movement to happen. There are obviously many more factors - laws even - at work in the equation needed to get that car moving, but my point about the necessity of friction make sense easily enough.

What brings me to this – and what this is about, really – is pondering the need for friction on an interpersonal level as we attempt to move through life. Without stretching the analogy beyond recognition, I have thought quite a bit recently about how even though I often choose to be around like-minded people, very often it is when I am face-to-face with an individual or idea that just grates on my nerves that I become most passionate, and I know passion moves me. Isn’t it true that we often hone ourselves against the wet-stone of contrast?

So, I hang out this thought today – Should I intentionally seek out times to be around a person, place or thing that I know irritates me? Is a possible solution to ease, and perhaps apathy as simple as forcing myself to experience something I am against?

Should I spend time periodically with someone who gets under my skin?

Labels: life on life's terms, prose, spirituality, word play, writing

Monday, June 29, 2009

A Musing Space

The water, hot and welcomed, pounds my shoulders and cascades around my neck, stripping away the dirt and sweat. Anchoring my hands on the shower wall, I let the water work its magic. I close my eyes, exhale strongly, and release my mind. The water envelops me, my senses, my mind...

Are there sounds that are only heard by the deaf? Are there things unseen to those with sight? Might the angst-ridden beauty of artistic accomplishment reveal itself more clearly to those burdened of twisted mind and unbridled emotion?

My life has been one of growing peace and routine more than artistic angst or spiritual distress. For awhile now, I had grown accustomed to percolating emotions, those feelings that lurk, coiled and ready to strike, manifesting malformed action and self-destructive choices. I have found solace regularly in the creative word. The twist of a poetic phrase or the presence of a story unfolding beneath the key stokes often releases much. Now, it seems that I am driven less and less to release my serpents of spiritual distress. This is different. Not good. Not bad. Just different.

I know the truth. I know that there lies deep within me an eternal presence, my creative magical essence that demands to be known - my familiar, my dragon, The lines of poetry, the tales woven in prose, the occasional burst of fire breathed from comments, are all glimpses of a piece of her being: scales of translucent blue, a sapphire eye blinking in the dusk, the sound of a gentle, rumbling breath, a brush of a powerful tail. She is my eternal muse. I miss her, these days. I sense she misses me.

Yet, here in this steam cloud, beneath the relentless waterfall, while all sound is blasted away, I hear her breath, steady and smooth. Through closed eyes, I see again, the cave where she dwells. It is in this moment I know that I could extend my arm and touch her. I can't help but smile, wondering what journeys await.

We live.

Labels: blogging, emotion, hiking, meanderings, pets, prose, sacred moments, spirituality, writing

Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Thinning of One

If I am not careful

With my thoughts

My ideas

Plans

Dreams

I will become thin

On artistic endeavors

Of creativity

Possibilities

Virility

Thin

Is transparent

Lifeless etching

On contemptuous bones

Labels: emotion, gender stuff, life on life's terms, poetry, word play, writing

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

A Writer's Block of Stone - Public Journey #001-2

I'm a bit late with the second phase my public writing journey. Here is what I've 'carved' from the raw block of words - so far.

I grew up in Myrtle Beach, SC one of the largest beach tourist destinations on the east coast. In many ways I was a beach rat, spending my summers working at my family’s ocean front hotels and making friends with our weekly guests, and their daughters. Mine was a life filled with those summer days of youthful zeal, sun-tanned skin, wind blown hair and new beginnings. Every week was a new start with clean rooms and new guests. The four month vacation season dominated all that we did. It seemed that school, and all things winter, were simply the time we spent remembering or preparing for summer. Summer was our time. Summer was the time when we thrived economically and personally. I always lived in summer. The heat of the sun blazed down from the sky and up from the sand. The sea tossed its mist into our air and we breathed in the damp essence of life. Living so close to the sea, we drew our life from it day in and day out. The sea held us and brought life to us. Its vast reservoir, pulsing with each tide, offered to and collected from everything it touched. It is this giving and collecting, that I have witness many times.

The sea gives. My grandfather and father were both sailors. Their comfort with the sea and its gifts of food and fellowship were passed to me. I can remember the day my brother and I spent a day catching hundreds of small ‘spots’ only to face the task of scaling and cleaning them into the night. My grandfather taught us that day about finishing the tasks we started and about the sequence of work to reward. It was fun to catch. It was work to clean. We had to do both to eat. It was the sea, as it lingered in the marsh and inlets that gave us this opportunity.

The sea gives. I have witnessed many occasions of children and adults finding the sea for the first time. They had been inlanders all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me, even now. What a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created…

Labels: blogging, emotion, family, father's wisdom, sea, travel, word play, writing

Saturday, March 28, 2009

A Writer’s Block of Stone, Public Journey #001

I attended a writer’s class recently for five weeks. Christopher Laney (writer, pilot and all around amazing human being) lead the group. I have struggled with writing. It isn't the need for stories to tell or a lack of love for words that holds me back, but one of my blocks is that I sit down to write and what comes out, for all of it’s potential, isn't that good. It has ‘good’ in it, but it just isn't the ‘perfect’ piece I would like to write – so, I write only rarely – when the inspiration bludgeons me to action.

Christopher shared an analogy with us. In the same way a sculptor must begin with a block of stone in order to carve a work of art, the writer must begin with a mass of words and begin the process of carving piece from them. I have been experimenting with this approach by writing free-form for 30-40 minutes and then slowly sculpting something from the mass of ideas and words generated in the free-form time. I thought it might be fun to share one of these sculpting projects with you, so I have posted below the mass of words from which I will be seeking to carve something akin to an essay. I plan to post another phase of this next weekend, and I invite you to return and see what has been released from this writer’s block of word stone…

Rivers, oceans and streams collect things – rain, mud, branches, sand, and the dead. Dead birds, fish, people. He went to sleep with the fishes.

Time heals all wounds, well time allows for adequate decay, anyway. It softens, swells, expands until it pops- melts looses from its form (lets loose itself?) and changes into the collective. In water we are all borg – resistance is futile – really it isn't present at all.

Finally it becomes homogeneous – a mixture of all things , formless, laps with all tides and waves, a rocky cradle of the world’s mush – oatmeal of everything.

Some would say we came from the sea, an evolution of undaunted genetics that have to, must evolve – gather its one self and form to conform to demands of our own becoming. So with the waxing and waning, the tugging of the moon’s tidings upon us – a planetary massaging of our little planet – we have become this formed p[lace and these formed creatures, plants, people and things.

Some speak if coming from and returning to our creator, and if such is true then we are created by the hands of the sea. See then the sea in all of us? See all of us in the sea?

We do return to the sea – the splashing of childish play and delight (I witnessed many occasions of children and adults witnessing the sea for the first time – they have been in-landers all of their life and never seen the sea. That seems strange to me – what a change of perspective that must be – to see the sea, to see and feel for the first time the sea from which we are created?), the percussion of a dead body dropped form the pier, the trickle of mucus-like decay through soil, water tables and into the streams that feed the sea – we all return. We return and melt and blend in to the great sea – dissolved and transported.

Then some poor fool turns on a tap and drinks us.

Labels: blog games, blogging, emotion, family, life on life's terms, spirituality, word play, writing

Friday, March 13, 2009

A Cup of Character

Below are some excerpts from an essay I'm developing.

The coffee here is horrid. I forget this little fact between visits. It is weak in flavor and appearance. As I settle into my place among the identical sets of heavily varnished oak furniture, I notice this restaurant offers a similar transparency. Country curtains on every window and systematically placed cut-glass salt and pepper shakers proclaim homey character. Maps printed on faux aged parchment and brochures labeled by decade tell us this place is rooted in our own ancestry. Here our personal memories have been catalogued for us, our own character defined.

The character they would have us find here is one of home as if presented in the tidiness of a Norman Rockwell painting. Yes, this place has character written all over the walls, menus, nick-knacks, and the wardrobes of the waitresses. It is a script carefully written by some deliberate designer and published by a majority vote in a boardroom. Yet, if it reads character it reads too loudly…

… This place fails. It isn’t the character that fails. This restaurant doesn’t lack for location, or presentation. What is missing here is something less easily conjured up on design tables or decided upon in board rooms.

The ‘Stinky Cat Coffee Shop’ wasn’t pre-planned. It just happened. Over time, it grew. In its own lore the place was a house, a home. People lived here. They dreamed away nights, ate breakfast together, thought of and planned for days at work and activities at school. They went about practical tasks and created meaningful moments. There are records of this planning and living preserved here. Faint lines on the back of doors catalog the slow ascent of children. Scars on the cabinet doors mark the memory of child safety latches. Claw marks on a door frame are deep assurance that a cat was part of the family.

Time passed and the family left. The house passed from family to tenant to vacancy with each chapter adding its own story to the place. For a while the building sat empty, housing only the occasional vagrant that slipped in to sleep or drink himself into unconsciousness. One sometimes stood in the corner and peed himself when he could do no better. Those stains don’t really come out, no matter how many times you clean and polish. The stains fade and become part of the character of the wood, but they do not disappear.

People disappeared and smaller occupants arrived. Squirrels hoarded acorns, rats nested, insects bored into the wood and things too small and transient to leave much of a legacy for us to see all made their contributions. In the scratches on the doors, the discolorations of the wood, the layers of paint, partially missing wallpaper and yellowed tile they all left their marks. People, insects and rodents alike have all left something of themselves…

…This place speaks its story softly but intently brushing against every occupant, purring an old and worthy message…

Labels: blogging, coffee, emotion, meanderings, spirituality, travel, writing

Saturday, February 28, 2009

Plane Truth

The planes don’t bother me anymore. When I first started traveling to Raleigh, NC, the roar of the jets landing and taking off was disturbing. The first few nights, sleeping was impossible, rendered fretful by the random rumblings and vibrations. The deepest slumber couldn’t prevent their intrusions into my mind. Sporadically they bludgeoned me awake, torturing me in tension between denied sleep and imposed consciousness. Tonight I barely notice them, a transient drift of sound, a passing song. The planes don’t bother me anymore.

When does something bothersome get absorbed into our awareness and become normal? What shifts in our perceptions and understandings might allow us to accommodate such a change? Is it a slowly growing numbness like getting accustomed to cold ocean waters on a March morning? Does it happen more suddenly as if the nerves that carried crisp messages of pain suddenly misfired and went silent? Is it a choice? Do we choose to adapt one day and casually flip off the switch of caring? When does the new become old?

What is that old saying? “The devil we know is better than the devil we fear?” No, that isn’t it, but I know there is one – something about new things becoming old things. “Something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue.” Yes. It is like getting married, in a way, when the new becomes familiar.

Getting married used to be, or at least we pretend it used to be, a rite of passage when many things formally taboo suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the moment of a kiss and the placement of a ring, are turned to sacred and expected to become normal. Permission from some higher authority gives us consent and instantly we change. Yet, it doesn’t happen so quickly. It takes time for us to travel from the something new to the something old, the familiar something.

We travel, though, finding ways to understand, cope, and even accept things that once surprised us. The towel left on the floor every morning, tucked away in the corner between the tub and the wall annoys us. At first we discuss and argue over the silliness of it.

“Why don’t you just hang it up?”

“I don’t know. I’ll pick it up next time.”

The next time it does get hung neatly on the rack, but soon the ‘next time’ gets lost and there’s the tossed towel, again; a damp, lifeless testimony to some inability to change. Then there comes a moment when we realize that this is a small thing, after all, and there are so many, must be so many, bigger than damp towel things. So we adjust. The cap gets left off the toothpaste and we manage to stop seeing it. The crumbs settle into the sheets and we grow accustomed to the little nuisances, simply brushing them aside to scatter somewhere else.

It isn’t a problem, really, accommodating the nuances of another, is it? Most would say, “No.” But, we have seen it matter. Sometimes it costs us too much.

Who knows when it happened to Sally? Somewhere between the something new and the something old she lost herself. Somewhere beyond the damp towel and a routine of rage she found herself staring at the barrel of a gun pointed at her like an accusing finger, like his finger. She trembled with fear. She stood there with a docile acceptance that kept her stationary when running should have been an option. It was her passive, undaunted acceptance that did her in. The bullet launched from the barrel and punctuated its own message through her skull and brain and into the plaster. She had accommodated too much. Some higher authority had been heard by her alone and commissioned her journey from startling to familiar, too far.

It is a precarious route we maneuver when we make those things new into things old, when we cease to be surprised and alarmed by the unkempt towels, loud noises in the dark and the violations of our peace. Sometimes we travel too far. Tonight I find myself wondering what else has found its passage to benign acceptance in my world along with the planes that don’t bother me anymore.

Labels: blogging, emotion, family, life on life's terms, word play, writing