Thursday, January 10, 2013

Throwback Thursday

Every Thursday I am going to be posting a piece of my writings that I have had locked away, begging to be dusted off and shared with the world. Since I mostly wrote poetry up until the very recent past, most of these little peeks into the jumbled mess that is my head will be poems constructed over the past few years, at least until my short stories and essays can be considered old enough to be "thrown back", that is.

This poem is from a collection I hope to soon be putting together and publishing myself (if ever I take the time to actually fine tune my formatting skills).

*If anyone has book page formatting skills and would like to help me out with making this self publishing dream come true, leave your email or other contact info in the comments. Thanks. I love you all*

Monday, January 7, 2013

The Magic Of Snow

The above picture was taken from my fourth story apartment window this morning shortly after I rolled out of bed, wondering why the norm of a warm (in color only) orange and pink morning aurora wasn't doing it's usual job of waking me on my day off. Even at 26 years old, I never cease to be in awe of a fresh blanket of snow when I get to see and experience it for myself. Maybe it is the school child in me that remembers that snow, when we rarely had snow, was associated with missing school, or maybe that growing up just barely on the Oklahoma side of the Confederate border I was never exposed to what is considered traditional winter precipitation enough to be jaded by its annual visitation. Whatever the case may be, I find that I can never be complacent about even the slightest frosting on the ground.

In a way, it has this magic quality to it. Not the Penn and Teller, Criss Angel slide of hand nonsense, but rather the kind of magic that is real, or at least was real when you were a child and magic was the explanation for all things ineffable. For me, there is this calming feeling that comes with it as it falls and covers everything below, showing just how small and vulnerable the world around us truly is: it has no answer to the collection of minuscule, fragile flakes of whipped water that cover it in such a duvet of purity. I know that there are plenty of examples of natural weather that pronounces itself in such ways that covers and/or lays waste to its surroundings, but none that give such peace. 

When I see a yard or street of fresh, undisturbed snow, as was the case today, I see the wholeness in the good of the world. I feel the innocence of who I once was laying before me, waiting for me to ramble through it in such a way leaving it to resemble the thrashed and chaotic dissidence I carry within myself, about myself, on a daily basis. It lets me know that there is still untapped brilliance within me, within you, in that although every sheet of every layer of snow seems uniform in size and color, the uniqueness each flake holds tells a different story of it's decent from the heavens to the earth. And finally, it is the embodiment of the metaphorical end of the cyclical composition of our worlds: In nature, though the grass and trees never actually die in the sense that we as animals know death, they do go into a point of rest in order to be prepared with the energies necessary to bring forth new fruit and decorative flowers.  

The two winters I have had the privilege of experiencing here in the Grand Ronde Valley have not failed to disappoint in teaching me more about life and myself than I ever thought I could know, and from what I've been told these have been rather mild winters. I can't imagine how enlightening a regular Eastern Oregon winter season would be.

Sunday, January 6, 2013

A new chapter, carved, folded, and glued from another.

In the past few months I have become introduced to, and intrigued by, a movement called book art. In my favorite indie bookstore hangs a book that bears fruit, literally. The cover is suspended from the roof and held open with what looks as if a bunch of grapes made from gently folded pages springing from the spine, almost as if to say "Come, get drunk from my vine".

This amazing, inspired creation really opened my eyes to the multiple possibilities I could dive into with the ever growing collection of dust gather-ers I have on my bookshelf, bedside table, coffee table, beside my recliner... You get the idea. So for my first project, I am going to be creating (attempting) a Mississippi steamboat from a Mark Twain collection. Hopefully I'll somewhat successful. I'll have postings with updates on this and further looks into this world of book art and all it involves and births.

Let me know what you have going on. What hobbies/art/projects are consuming your free time?

Saturday, January 5, 2013

Promises promises...

Is it just me, or is there anyone else out there who finds themselves wanting to do things and it seems like divine intervention to prevent it? Maybe this is the case. OR maybe since I am one who is lacking in belief of the divine, I may just have the worst set of timing and/or "luck" in the world. I have been wanting to keep up with this blog and keep it going since I started it and reentered the world of, as I quote a man I once knew and once thought to be brilliant, "writing a million words to say nothing". Between being in and out of school, full time work, my laptop frying from having the worlds largest cup of water fall on it, almost in a choreographed manner, I might add, and also the countless hours of therapy from watching too many hours of Bones on Netflix and worrying about the extensive number of people I have pissed off over my life and where they will possibly hide my body (or if Dr. Brennan and Booth can be reached to solve my murder), I have been at a loss of time to update this and keep a conversation and interaction going with you.

But not anymore. I hate to be one of THOSE people who have New Year's Resolutions, mainly because I find the people who do make them are doing so for the same reasons that people who spend hours exercising and dieting with a scale and mirror no more than 15 feet away from them at any point inside their home, vain and shallow (I can be such an ass sometimes). If things were really that important, then it would be a priority year round. BUT, here I am, in the same shallow end of the pool with the same vain and lazy folks I grew to have a distaste for over the past 26 years. I will go as far to say that I am not making a year long resolution, but rather a month by month resolution. Maybe my resolution is to have monthly resolutions (or whatever). I find this to be a more realistic approach to getting things done, something that doesn't look so staggeringly monumental that it can't be achieved realistically. Like most great ideas that are passed off as our own, I immediately stole this when I read this interesting article and passed it off to you, here. I believe this can be taken from the perspective on writing and adapted to any facet of life, though, I am just mainly sticking to the writing thing because writing seems to be the only thing in this world that makes sense to me anymore.

So here it goes. For the next 25 days (26 if you want to be a stickler and count today and this post) I will be posting something different  and new, ranging from documenting my early twenties mid-life crisis-esque  nomadic ventures and exploits, which may or may not be finished, to current art and writing projects, sports, movies music, and my pup, Bookonon, may even make an appearance.

Even more than that, I want to interact. This blog is not a soapbox, and I do not want to use it as such. I am no one special for you to hang on every word for your entertainment and you are smarter than to allow yourself to do so. I know there are things like Facebook (and the joke it has become) and Twitter to connect with people, but in a life where everything is a lack luster distraction or forced into 140 characters, it's hard to be able to seriously relate to one another.

Two things to leave with: 1. I hope you are as excited about this as I am (but I doubt you are. Why would you be? We just met, you don't know me...).

2. I never know how to end these things so I'll leave you with this ridiculous poem I just made up about a squirrel I almost pet yesterday:

No Bread
Walking to work
and there was no mail in my slot today.
I passed a tree,
a MIGHTY one at that,
that was clothed by catatonic leaves and
one MIGHTY squirrel.
He looked at me
this MIGHTY squirrel,
with one eye to show he was manlier
than I.
Fearless, he scampered around the trunk,
and I stood in bewilderment at this
MIGHTY squirrel.
"It's January," I said,
"Shouldn't you be asleep?"
Immediately he knew I was no man
of science.
He raced down from the tree to my feet,
save half my height,
and looked me in the eye,
this time with both of his
as he took a slight scamp closer.
"I have no food for you good sir,"
I tell him,
"No bread at all to share."

He turned and climbed back home,
that MIGHTY,
January squirrel.