Rekindling

Months have passed,
my hands have forgotten their purpose.
My Brow furrows,
trying desperately to remember.

Perhaps too long,
nary a spark of imagination.
My very will,
my purest desire struggles in searching.

My gaze lifts,
jealous of the productivity abound.
Eyes watching others,
jealously wondering what they’re accomplishing.

Left to right,
I see eyes consume words of a hand worn book.
The pupils dilate,
in what might be excitement known only to them.

A palette drops,
noise startling all but the artist.
Stretching her back,
her eyes assess her hands’ labor.

The musician continues,
fingers strumming with practiced comfort.
His voice reaches,
song gently touching the ears of all present.

All minds calmed,
save for my own restless mind.
Exercising my consciousness,
mining the depths for precious jewels of creativity.

An ember grows,
a smile appears in sought after contentment.
Joining the din,
the tapping of keys answer the gentle fervor of fingers at work.

Tapping translates to letters,
the letters begin forming words.
Hiatus coming to an end,
the words begin to accumulate…

…filling in page after page after page…

Melancholy Imagination

This isn't really happening.
Eyes not daring to leave the corner of the street,
I wait for the school bus to bring them to me.
Waiting to hear the faint sound of the motor,
the familiar sound of brakes sighing,
dying to see the red stop sign reach out to protect the children as they exit the bus.
My heart constricts in familiar anticipation,
dying to see their bright, shining faces.
That won't happen, not today.

What purpose did this serve?
Only a monster could have done this.
A monster takes their life with a finger twitch.
Steal from them their hopes and dreams;
remove from me my hopes and dreams.
Never again to see them at play,
to hold them when they hurt.
Never know what sort of adult they would become,
nor know what sort of parents they'd become.
Never to cry with their child,
or to wipe the tears from their face.

Name your price, oh Lord!
The now empty home, I'd give up.
Everything I have is yours to give away,
just give them back, please.
Take my home, my career, and even my own life.
All of the time I have left alive, I offer.
Take me, oh Lord. Take me and give back to them.

Our home a mausoleum,
filled with cold relics and memories.
Empty of it's greatest treasure.
No laughter to be heard.
No voices to echo through the cold halls.
Dust gathered on forgotten belongings.
Toys no longer in use.
A puppy sick without a center to it's universe.
Arms that ache to feel the warm pressure of a hug.
Dry shoulders longing to feel the moist sting of tears.
A room empty, but full of pain;
a reflection of my heart.

"...disrespecting my spiritual beliefs..."

Okay, this isn’t so much a concrete exercise in putting thoughts to paper as it is to put on display an example of something that has recently become more of an issue. That issue, to which I’m referring, is an off and on again debate with people who happen to be atheists. Not that I find anything wrong with atheism at all. My faith does not require that anyone else believes as I do, and in many cases, I’ve preferred the company of non-believers over the years. It really boils down to a matter of politeness and non-judgmental attitude. 

Anyway, this post is a copy and pasting of a brief interaction between a (subjectively) good friend and I. He does have the capacity to be a great friend, but as I distance myself from my formerly antagonistic and judgmental mindset, he appears to have embraced it more fully. Maybe it’s not that he has really embraced it, but he definitely has begun to pick the wrong battles and shown a certain obnoxious quality. 

Anyway, read on. This is but one example of many of discussions we’ve had over the years. Yes, I’ll not show the name, but for there are some closer friends that may be able to guess the name of this person. Yes, in this case he doesn’t chime in as often as usual, but it’s the most recent I have. If you think any of my words rude or inappropriate, then so be it. Without further ado:

*My Initial Post*
I have enough questions regarding God’s actions (or lack thereof), so don’t expect me to be able to answer your questions reserved for him.

 

*Their Response*
You really think some imaginary figurehead had anything to do with it? It was the actions of a whacko with a gun, that’s all.

 

*Me*

Umm….Yeah. That I know.

 

*Me* 

Why do you feel compelled to enlighten anyone on the folly of their thinking? It was more annoying than pertinent. Also, read my post again. Did I blame anyone for anything?

 

*Me* 

Why is it so important that people accept your perceived truth? Why must I accept it? Do I cram it (my truth) down throats? I’ve said before that if I could stop having faith, I would. It would much easier to live without it. I am no more proud or happy that I have faith than I am for being white or hazel eyed. I just am. Lastly on the topic, if my resolute faith doesn’t appease you, move and ignore me.

 

*Me*

I value diversity in friendships, even your unique brand, but, more often than not, you’re just plain rude.

 

*Me*

Also, even if I was on the cusp of abandoning my “imaginary figurehead,” I wouldn’t turn to atheism based on your asinine example.

 

I posted another commented directed at this person’s example, and the example of others with whom I have dealt similarly over the years.

 

*Me*
As much as Christianity makes me want to eschew religion, recent atheist interactions make me want to embrace religion with open arms.

 

The reply I received:

 

*Their Response*

good luck with that, hide your head even deeper in that cloud and continue to blame things on the boogie-man.

 

This has gone on for years. Different words, not always questions, but dialogue bordering on rude harassment. Some of you (my Facebook friends reading this) will likely know of whom I speak and also have no doubt that I speak accurately of this person. This is also reflective of more recent interactions between others and I concerning my faith or their non-faith. 

 

I don’t care if you have faith or don’t have it. All I ask is that we be excellent to each other, and display respect for another, not that we do either because the other deserves it, but because we are worthy of such. If you want someone to value you enough to learn from you, then live in an admirable way. Condemnation of one’s lifestyle isn’t going to earn you any admirers of the condemned lifestyle, that’s for certain. By not respecting a person, you’re only going to put distance between yourself and them. 

 

[Edit] I took the time to omit certain statements that would otherwise give the person away, and I collected everything into an easier to read paragraph format. Originally posted via a social media platform, I didn’t want to give too much away and have you hunt this person down, as I likely would have done were I the reader.

 

Final thoughts, I don’t want you to hate this person. I don’t hate them, even if I become infuriated at them from time to time. What I want to illustrate, is that even a person I call a friend, has no problems disrespecting my spiritual beliefs. That bothers me more than the people I don’t even know.

Self Doubt

Self doubt has become too frequent.
I find myself wondering,
if the decisions I’ve made are the right ones;
wondering if the decisions yet to be made will be the right ones.
Confidence is fleeting;
self-doubt lingers like a headache,
causing pain without a determined source.

An idea sparks in the mind…

Positivity holds sway,
the future shines so clear and certain.
Not having yet made the choices, the destination seems obvious.
Blinders made of excitement and hope cloud your vision;
opacity surrounds the periphery,
showing you only the goal.

Then the choices beg to be made…

Ambivalence closes in,
smothering you in a blanket made of uncertainty.
Vision entire returns, allowing you to see the path fraught with obstacles.
Challenges loom overhead like immense collosi,
barring the way  for those daring to challenge.
Air becoming unbreathable,
I begin to lose consciousness…

Reality dawns.
The choice must be made…

"Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life."

Death has been called the "great equalizer." I know this is true, from an ashes-to-ashes point of view. We are all born and we all die, regardless of the impact we have, or do not have, during our time on this Earth. It's a curtain call for the wealthiest and poor alike, the most erudite and the most ignorant, the most benevolent and the most sinister. In dying, even the most insignificant person can be made to sound grand and the most grand person made to sound unimportant. Indeed, the great equalizer, is a very apt description of death.

As a member of very large, Polish Catholic family, I've been to a fair share of funerals. The earliest of which I don't remember, and even those I remember having attended, I wasn't particularly knowledgable of the person being mourned. In fact, I'd say my Grandmother passing in the summer of '96 was the first time in which a person's passing was felt so intensely, the first in which I remember having shed significant tears.

Around the same time of my Grandmother's passing, I experienced losing a person of my own generation, my own age. Jared Alger, a young guy I was aware of from band at Parkside Junior High School, made a few poor choices that resulted in his entering the great beyond via an auto accident. The impact of his passing shook up the school, as far as my class was concerned. The impact on me was less one of true loss, rather one of "someone my age I know died! Holy shit!" Not to suggest his passing wasn't met with sadness, but we weren't close at all. I thought him a good guy; was aware that many others were fond of him. Yet, the overriding impact was shock to see someone of a similar age die.

More than a decade later, I suffered the loss of someone much closer. My token lesbian friend, Tara Kate, left this world less than two weeks after she had been released from military service. Having moved in with me, I was the one who discovered the empty shell that housed her wonderful soul, and who - sadly - has that visual forever burned into my memory. Not just a great friend, Tara Kate was a soul who dispensed happiness like it was candy on Halloween. Yes, I lost a great friend, but the world lost a person epitomizing love.

Several years ago, I lost my Uncle John. Better said, my cousins, Nikki and Steve, lost their father; my Aunt Linda lost her husband. Any melancholy felt by me pales to what they must have felt. I say this with confidence, because during his funeral, I was overwhelmed with love for my own father, which they must have been. I could only think of how acutely I didn't ever want to lose my father, of how I never want to see either parent alone. This translates to the profound empathy I have for their loss of my Uncle John.

Today, the 7th of December, marks the funeral of André Breeding, a former classmate of mine. I didn't attend his funeral, rationalizing that we weren't especially close friends. André was someone whom I held in high regard. When his name were to come up in conversation, my thoughts to surface were "what a good dude" and "I wonder what homeboy is up to these days?" Never, as far as I can recall, did I think poorly of André, nor could I ever see him as undeserving of a good life, which was taken from him unfairly.

No scripture will I share. No talk of Heaven or the afterlife. My beliefs in such are strong, but, right now, unneeded. All we have left are memories of those who have gone before us. We will see them again, of that I am sure, but we're faced with the waiting period; the moving on and living. Their memories live on with us, and I hope we do them, and their memories, proud.

Yes, André, I write this with you in my heart. Not just you, but the people to whom I've referred as well. I suppose, the love I have in my heart is also for everyone, living and dead. Again, to André, this is really directed at you when I say that you must have lived well enough to leave behind so many positive thoughts and memories. God Bless and Namaste...

Naked

My skin chafes at the restraints of prudent fashion.
Generations of indoctrination pull at the strings to my thoughts,
manipulating my desire to embrace the new and different.
Wanting, aching, fighting, I finally rebel!
An article at a time, I undress.

Prompted by my body's whims, my clothing to falls to the ground,

not caring where it comes to rest.

Opening myself to scrutiny, I step into the open so all can see and judge.

The judgement never comes.

So many not noticing, I experience an epiphany.

I was the one judging all along, allowing myself to be deceived.

Shedding more than just garments, my heart and mind open to new thinking.

Clothing was the deception;

being naked the truth.

Misconceptions shedding as easily as the once restrictive garments, my pulse quickens.
Elements embrace me, rousing my senses as never before.
My body is tickled by a wave of curious new stimuli, my mind is laid bare;
laid bare to what could have been,
were it not for misconceptions.

Seeing with new eyes, I bare my body for all and no one.

Both humbled and exalted, I learn.

I am capable of seeing and not judging, of experiencing before rejecting.

My heart and mind are open, ready to be filled anew.
The mind is as naked as the body.

Awakened, enlightened, unfettered; I am naked.

Idle Hands....

"Shine On...Shine On Harvest Moon!"

As November draws to a close, I frown at my lack of creativity this month. There's no end to material to write about, but whenever an idea arises it is neither the place or time to jot the idea down for later exploration. Not that this is the best of excuses, I know, but it's an excuse nonetheless.

Several times I've sat down to my 'puter with an idea burning in my mind, but then I sit there, stumped, with writer's block. Waiting it out a few minutes, I then place my hands on the keyboard and let my thoughts flow, but the thoughts never seem pertinent to my original idea. They're just random thoughts, which have greased the way for insertion of more relatable words (brainstorming on the fly), but they remain just that, random. Saving my barely started draft, I vow to come back to it later, but even when I do, I'm more of the mind to scrap it and start fresh with something else. Such is the case tonight. This blog is the the third attempt at producing something; the first two drafts, hardly being anything more than a couple of half-assed opening lines, will soon face an unceremonious expunging.

Where I'm at with writing is difficult to put into words. As source material, I'm not one to journal, at least not in the conventional sense. You won't often find me detailing my day/week/month in a chronological way. Rather than linear or structured journaling, however, I'll let one...thought or revelation I've had that day become the starting point at which to begin. Things just flow from there on out, and sometimes, a new thought causes my entire blog to change. Sometimes, this change in direction results in the deletion of a bulk of my work in lieu of the newer thought.

I enjoy the writing process more than I ever did in High School, though I did enjoy it then, but I wasn't as aware of it. Similar to the way mathematically inclined people describe their love of the rules of arithmetic, I describe a love for the rules and structure of grammar.

Deviating from the unbending rules of mathematics, however, grammar can be flexible. Sure, there are rules to follow, but you can work within those rules to express something. Balancing out an equation is very linear and there isn't much in the way of expression to it. Take a single sentence - any random sentence in the world, and depending on the person, it can be expressed in a nearly infinite number of ways. "Love," for example, can be (has been) expressed in...well...more ways than I can count. And each way has the potential for being grammatically correct.

"All You Need Is Love!"

Of course, you can bend - or ignore - the rules of grammar to vary degrees, and still achieve a level of mastery that some of the most profound adherents to grammar will never achieve. It really pulls the saying, "he who is a master of words is a master of men," under the microscope.

Forgive my digression, but just being able to spew words with which I'm comfortable is a good thing. It could be about defecation, but as long I'm happy with the flow it's all good. That my fingers are moving like they haven't in a month's time is amazing.

How shall I overcome this...stagnation? This writer's block? Read more and live more, I think. Exposure to more stimuli might help. Stir things up a bit and see what comes out of the cauldron.