Reading/Writing Journal (Day 28)

Finished "Draglines" tonight. Whoo-hoo!

I just about laughed when I saw the title of the final poem in the book: "Peonies." Considering that's what the poem I wrote for Day 27 started off with. The content of the poem would be nice: I'd love for the parent with the peonies would only talk about what's growing. I love the look of peonies--my mom's get huge--but I couldn't stand all those black ants! The way they defile the blooms disgusts me.

"Winter Counts" had a really interesting theme at the end of it: history in reverse. The narrator is looking at a a buffalo hide in which Native Americans mark the years and depict stories of their people. I think my favorite lines from this poem are the first three in the final stanza: "But when these winter counts are read backwards,/the buffalo multiply, prairie schooners are driven away,/and the land-stakes are replanted with bur oaks."

It reminded me of a scene in my favorite childhood book: Bridge to Terabithia (hm...if I have twin girls, I might name them Tera and Tabitha). Jess and Miss Burke go to a museum in D.C. and Jess is both frightened and fascinated by a three-dimensional scene of Native American life. So I opened the book to page 100, and discovered the scene is only two paragraphs. Considering I haven't read that book in a long time, it's amazing to think I remembered that much about it. Although, I have read it dozens of times. I love it. Actually, I think I read it in late 2007. And I cried, like I always do. At least one tear.


But now I can begin "Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card. I read the acknowledgements (since I'd rather be acknowledged for helping an author than actually be one) and the first paragraph of the introduction. Why only the first paragraph? Because that one ends as follows: "the novel stands on its own, and if you skip this intro and go straight to the story, I not only won't stand in your way, I'll even agree with you!"

Sorry Card, I couldn't help but also read the final paragraph. Which is poetry in the form of prose.

The story of Ender's Game is not this book, though it has that title emblazoned on it. The story is one that you and I will construct together in our memory. If the story means anything to you at all, then when you remember it afterward, think of it, not as something I created, but rather something that we made together.

I hope my copy of it fits well enough in my purse to take to work. Otherwise I might not finish it before Good Friday, when I want to start whatever is next on my list. (I can't remember right now, but I know it's documented and owned by me.)

Oh, and I feel inclined to point out that the back jacket said the name of one of Ender's siblings (I think it's a sister) is Valentine. Which is likely to be a tribute to the last sci-fi/fantasy book I read: Stranger in a Strange Land. Valentine Michael Smith is the name of the man from Mars.

_________________________________________

Driving home from Institute, I looked over into the lane next to me and noticed the hubcaps on the car passing me as I slowed to get on the on-ramp looked like they were moving backwards, when they were clearly moving forward. Within a mile, I had decided to change the radio station and ended up on one of the public radio stations. I have no idea which one or what show was currently on, much less what artist was being featured. And, part of me wishes I cared because I'd like to listen to the song whose ending helped inspire part of today's poem.

Here are the lines I scribbled while driving. (Yes, I know it's dangerous, but if you saw the poor manner in which they're written, you would conclude that I was concentrating on driving. And I always keep a pen within arm's reach while I'm in the car.)

"Wheels moving forward/Looking like backward/Sounding despairing/yet full of hope & joy"

Dichotomy
Forward, moving motions
Make the wheels appear in reverse.
Those atop the spinning circles
Know which way they're headed.

A song comes on, and the
Volume goes up.
The listener can hear
A high run and a low line,
With a gentle, hurried rhythm.
It sounds like something old
But is new in every moment.
The song is sounding despairing
With undertones of hope and joy.

Writing Journal (Day 27)

I was listening to Pink Floyd, and the song "High Hopes" came on. Which I describe as a song about the reminiscenes of childhood. Got me to thinking about the 7 kids I grew up with. Man, we had some good times! I could write an entire book of poems about it...hmm...add that to my list of books to write! Here's the start of it: (although, if I do compile a chapbook, I'll probably want this title for the book and not any individual poem.)

Averbeck Alley
The black ants crawl
In large quantities
Over the peonies in the
Tractor tire that tried to be a sandbox.
It managed to succeed
In giving us a place to play chicken
And stir up Stink Soup.
Popcorn kernels, old rain water,
Random berries, greens, tree bark, and
Dirt in a pickle bucket.

I wonder if words
Under rotting stairs get faded.
Sitting on cemented gravel,
We wrote things unmentionable.
In black, permanant marker.

The mulberry tree that was
So easy to climb
Still bears the summer-long jump rope scar.
The snow bush, love pines, and yellow worm tree
Have all been ripped out by the roots.
As has the black walnut tree.
We used to climb high
Up that one on Friday the 13th,
Jumping down, tempting fate.

Thought most of the five wire lines are gone,
The crossbars to the clothesline pole remain.
Are there any footprints
One the side of the garage
From any recent flippers?

It's still a clear shot between those garages
To the hill of horse bones.
Strange that we never found any while
Digging to China.
That homemade ditch-hole made a sweet jump.
The grass grows greener over The Pit.
______________________________
This is pretty closed to being finished! Go me! I still want to work on that last stazna, though. I am absolutely in love with that last line, not only because it's true but because it pays homage to the inspiration. And symbolizes how the evidence of 8 childhoods is still slightly visibile to those who know it was once there.

Writing Journal (Day 26)

This weekend, I had some pretty dang good ideas for some pretty dang good poems. And I didn't even write the ideas down, much less turn the ideas into poems. Now, they're gone. This is a stream-of-consciousness that developed from that.

Lost
I had all this inspiration the other day,
And laid it all aside.
As punishment, I guess,
Nothing came today.
I'd like this to be longer,
But there's nothing more to write.
I've failed to use
The triggers pulled for me.

Now the gun is pointed elsewhere.
(What's with all
This violent imagery, anyway?
Am I trying to tell myself something?)
Maybe I do need a good grounding.
One with an Enforcer!
So ground me, pound me,
Beat the sense into my skull.
No-not the skull!
Elsewhere,
Somewhere secret,
Where the words need to be
Drawn and quartered-
Pulled apart and cheered at.

Writing Journal (Day 25)

Once I was challenged by a Creative Writing teacher to try and write something bad. Back then, it was harder than I thought. I tried it again on Day 25, so this is supposed to be chock-full of cliche's and obvious attempts at rhymes. It was surprisingly easy. Maybe that's not a good sign...

My Son
I raised you up,
They shot you down.
I saw you from my body,
Now I'll see you in the ground.

Your friends,
They could not save you.
But they have done enough-
What more is there to do?

They got you into guns,
They got you into gangs,
They got you into drugs,
They all but said the "bang!"

__________________________
I've got to be honest; I've been failing miserably at this challenge. Hardly any of these poems are finished. So I'm really only starting a poem every day, which is not the same as writing a poem every day.

Writing Journal (Day 24)

I went somewhere on Saturday...where was it? I was driving home while it was dark and rainy. Seriously...where was I coming back from? Or maybe I skipped a day and wrote two on Day 25 instead. I think that's what happened. Either way, it's not one of my best...

Stormy Ride
Dirty rain
Streaks the glass.
I crack the window
To take in the scent
Of the pavement as I pass.

The beautiful reflection
Of a double green
Captures my gaze, and
I almost miss my turn.
Lightning is beautiful,
Surrounded by dark, wet silence.

Writing Journal (Day 23)

Day 23 was a Friday, and was easily one of the worst days I've had at work. Summing it up (full story here): a good friend of mine yelled at me. Loudly. Over nothing.

On the plus side, the calm I was able to maintain (through little help of my own) gave me a story for the lesson I had to teach on Sunday as well as this poem.


Smoldering
The purposes of evil are frustrated
When you remain calm.
To not quiver with fear
Or shout back with defensive anger
Is to throw a brick wall
In the face of damnation.

Standing firm in the
Truth of Love
Will harrow the barrel of hate
That is staring you down.

Lashing back and
Punching the abuse down
Will cause it to
Rise higher with fury;
Remaining calm allows the
Fire to burn bright but
Quickly upon the pyre.

Reading/Writing Journal (Day 22)

"Draglines" is pretty great. I'll have to go back through the BCR's and read what work of his we published. (I think it might have been fiction.) A lot of his themes would be really familiar to the parents of the Baby Boomers. He takes some really cool perspectives.

How I came about this book:
Patrick Hick's came and did a reading at BCU and had some books for sale. Maybe he only had the one chapbook, maybe he had more and I could only afford the chapbook; I don't remember. Anyway, I had him autograph my copy. Last night, I found something I had written on the back page of the chapbook that must have been something he said during his reading: Inspiration is that moment when you see things in a way no one else sees them. Totally love that! Thanks, former seashmore, for documenting that quote.

Some of my favorite poems are:
Lipstick Traces
The Corpse
The Four Elements
The Unimagined

Some quotes (which means, according to the copyright, that this is to be considered a critical article)

The Four Elements
"amid the geometry of the dead."
"The horizon is a peaceful monotone,"

This poem really struck me and I'm a huge fan of the symmetry between the second and third stanzas. It highlights how people all over are simultaneously different and the same. From an individual basis to a general one.

The Unimagined
"At the lighting of each dawn,/he ['my imaginary friend'] collects my old dreams/and carts them away."

No wonder I can't remember some of my dreams! A forgotten imaginary friend has stolen them away! (My imaginary friend is so forgotten and long gone that I don't remember having one. Unless Jonathon Crom has forever been a powerful figment of my imagination that once left me alone. I don't have my old school class pictures from elementary school to prove that he really existed; they're in Wisconsin.)

________________________________
The other day, we rearranged our front room. The couch fits perfectly in the little space in front of the windows. Which means it faces the stairs. Not a big fan of staring at the stairs, but it might grow on me. Of course, it would grow faster if we weren't going to be storing a wedding dress from the banister so my roommate's sister's fiancee doesn't see it. Keep in mind my roommates and I are all 100% single, "with no prospects that anyone can detect." (Utah Philips) Last night, I sat on the couch and wrote this poem:

The Stairs
As much as I'll hate
Staring at the stairs,
I suppose it beats
The table and folding chairs.

Soon the white dress
Will be hung
As a constant reminder
Of what is to come.

The struggles we'll
Have with their troubles;
How there will be triples,
Not doubles.

That looming bag
From the stairs--
We'll try to hide it
To stop the ripping of our hairs,

But it will
Be of no use.
We'll all still know
How men are obtuse.

Writing Journal (Day 21)

Over halfway there!!

Today was my day off, which I love. And being in the outdoors, enjoying the beautiful weather we've been given, was the inspiration for this. How it came to be: I went for a walk. Intending to go to the bank and back. But then my friend called me and it sounded urgent. I wanted to talk to her, but without the noise of traffic. Well....there was an entrance to a recreational trail (used for biking and walking alike) nearby, so I figured, what the heck? Gets me away from traffic and it's nice out.

Well, after I got off the phone, I kept on because I knew there was a bench up ahead that another friend of mine mentioned he wanted to capture on film. At the time he showed it to me, I couldn't think of a way to do that. I thought I'd see what I could come up with. So I kept walking. Good news: I think I might have found a way! (Yay!)

Anyway, there's a park near the bench. It was empty, being a school day and still fairly early in the morning. I guess. I don't really know why people weren't using it. At the beginning of my walk, I had seen a swingset at a church/school and thought "that looks like fun; I haven't been on on a swing in a long time." Well.....the park was empty, there were swings, everything was pretty far from the road. (Not that doing something childish would embarass me or anything...) So I took off my shoes and my socks (but kept my coat on) and went for it!

Here's the poem that ensued:

On the Swing
The stillness turns to breeze
As I soar into the sky.
My hair falls back while
I fly forward,
Through the trees
Into the cloudy blue.

The sand falls from between my toes,
Back down to another place
Along the leafy ground.

"Soar,
two-three,
four"
Drowns out the gentle
Squeaky creak of an
Otherwise flawless flight.

The smile on my face fades
As I glimpse the shadow that shows
Me to be older than I feel.
The blue plastic seat
Only reaffirms
My battle with the ages.

Writing Journal (Day 20)

I finished "The Bluest Eye" and started "Draglines" by Patrick Hicks. One of the poems in there inspired the following. I'm not sure of the inspiring poem's name, but it's about how the Miss America in 1945 was Jewish. It's very short.

I, again, had title difficulties...

Did Anyone
Did anyone think to ask her
What she thought
As they paraded her through towns?
Today, she'd be
Questioned to death
On the death of the
Kin she never asked for.
Star-shaped yellow ash
Would forever be linked to her.

Reading/Writing Journal (Day 19)

As General Conference approaches, I'm reminded of when I was reactivated. Here's a poem. That isn't very good. But I am rather fond of the title.

Reactiversary
Another year is fast approaching.
The marking of time
Is no longer on a clock.
Now it's on a calendar,
As a beautiful time to gather together.

Another six months to work within me,
Using words I need to hear;
I hope they come in time.
(Lovely how hope can be
Replaced by prayer.)

To think of millions
Standing as one,
Singing from the
Basement of their lungs.
How else could
Love be known and shown?

To stand is to fall,
To fall is to be caught,
To be caught is to be grateful.
And so I am.

Reading Journal

I'm almost done with "The Bluest Eye!" This means I'll be getting to "Draglines" soon!

p. 164
"Knowing his label provided him with both comfort and courage, he believed that to name an evil was to neutralize if not annhiliate it."

I really identify with this. It wasn't until I discovered more about Seasonal Affective (Depression) Disorder that I was able to fight it. When I learned about it, I realized that I had had it for a number of years but had dismissed it for various reasons. Once I was educated, I learned how to take hold of the disorder and have been able to neutralize it more often than not. Which is much improvement from where I was before I knew what was going on with my body and emotional life.

p. 206
"Love is never any better than the lover. Wicked people love wickedly, violent people love violently, weak people love weakly, stupid people love stupidly..."
Hard to believe this is Morrison's first novel. I might re-read "Beloved" again as my next "Old."

Writing Journal (Day 18)

This is the result of my late-night, exhaust-filled attempt at writing a poem from the perspective of another person. Due to distraction, I was not able to give it my utmost attention while composing. Certainly didn't help matters that the event inspiring the poem had happened earlier in the week, so the memory was not fresh. Not my best. I'll be lucky to get 2 decent poems out of this challenge. *le sigh*

Little Girl
Would she have laughed so hard
Had she known what I knew?
I couldn't help but notice
How happy she seemed.
It wasn't a facade;
Those smiles were really real.
And beautifully flushing her cheeks.

Still, I desired to see her
As distraught as I felt.
I wished to take back my knowing,
To pack it all away.
Since I can't share it,
I take solace in knowing
It isn't my place
To fuel her fears
And spoil her smile.

Reading Journal

Finsihing up a chapter in "The Bluest Eye," I came across this passage and it's my new favorite. Even better than the definition of "to the pain" given by Wesley in "The Princess Bride."

In short, it's about the inability to understand unconditional love. The love in particular it's talking about is from child to parent, but it can easily be applied to any unconditional love. One of the times I re-read it last night, I did so with an eternal perspective and was really moved. Our Heavenly Father loves all of us, despite some of us not knowing what to do with it. The answer (for me) is simple: love Him back.

p. 161
If he looked into her face, he would see those haunted, loving eyes. The hauntedness would irritate him--the love would move him to fury. How dare she love him? Hadn't she any sense at all? What was he supposed to do about that? Return it? How? What could his calloused hands produce to maker her smile? What of his knowldege of the world and of life could be useful to her? What could his heavy arms and befuddled brain accomplish that would earn him his own respect, that would in turn allow him to accept her love?

Writing Journal (Day 17)

The inspiration for this poem came from today's entry on Colorfly Studio. (Which I am now publicly following.) It's a picture of an old letterpress drawer that reminded me of a shelving unit we had in our living room growing up. It was home to many knick-knacks and I decided to start a list poem. Again, not very good for anything other than practice and meeting the requirements of this challenge.

Knick-Knacks
R2-D2, a tigerish kitty cat,
Little toy trucks for Raisin Bran,
Pea-sized Disney characters,
California Rasins (or were those upstairs?),
That discus-posed figurine
With the black porcelain hair,
Those tea tins from a rummage sale...
(Had I been the least bit supersitious,
I would have been suspicious I was the one to blame.)

I can't even remember
What all was there, yet I know
Somehow those mementos
Have disappeared,
Faded to who knows where.

Writing Journal (Day 16)

Something happened on Day 15 that, while it was a big deal to a very dear friend of mine, it wasn't something I thought would effect my emotions too much. But I realized on Day 16 that it had. Quite a bit. I had to tap a lot of restraint before I was able to go on break and let some of those emotions out in poetic form.

Final Straw
Didn't think I'd be so mad,
But this so-called love
Is getting in the way.
It's where I eat,
Where I sleep,
What I breathe.

Three dead skunks remind me
Spring in the kingdom
Is not near--it's here!

He knows he did her wrong,
And now he wants her gone.
He battles the weak
And tries calling it fair.
His disadvantage is his advantage.

Writing Journal (Day 15)

I was driving to work and saw a white SUV with dust on the back window and whitewalled tires. Maggie had recently painted the stairwell to the library, and it took a few days of running a fan and keeping the door (to the stairwell) open for the smell to at least fade a little.

I'll be the first (of few, since that's how many I expect to stumble across this) to admit this is straddling the line of crap.

Something So White
I see something so white,
And I start smelling paint again.
Even the dust on the back
Evokes the scent
Still lingering on the stairs.

Writing Journal (Day 14)

I took inspiration from the main event of the day: receiving a new General Manager at work. It reminded me of all the changes in management/leadership I've experienced in the past, well, 7 years. I had about 6 managers at Subway, a couple of changes in the caf, in my 2 years as an RA, I reported to no less than 5 Hall Directors (or acting Hall Directors). Learning to deal with changing superiors was actually something I considered putting in my skill set on my resume.

What's One More?
Another replacement,
Another adjustment,
Another life to break.

The trick to adapting
Is to embrace it.
Lick your wounds and
Pretend you like it.

Hating the allies of the new
Is guaranteed to
Lengthen the road.

Choose to take the higher ground.
Learn to love your life's changes,
Lengthen your stride
As you glide towards happiness.

Reading Journal

A book I wish I had: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst. I'm going to put that on my list of books to look for when I go to Half Price Books. The other one on the list: The Princess Bride. I've loaned out two copies of that book and neither one of them have been returned. Believe me, I've learned my lesson. I'm so desperate to find it that if I don't see it listed under "Goldman" I look under "Morgenstern," just in case someone is interested in playing a joke. Like how Stacy and I didn't really lace that pineapple sherbert with iocane powder; we just didn't want anyone to steal it.

One Thing...
The second half of this book has made me realize that if I've completed a cycle before I've completed the book (because, seriously, who only has a bookmark in one book at a time?), I should give it up. It's just not holding my interest as much as it once was. But if my bookmark's still in it by the time I get to the next book in my "True" category, this one's going back on the shelf. To be donated the next time I get my boxes to Goodwill.

...going over the 4th out of 10 commandments to keep the Sabbath day holy...(p. 114)
"No matter what you consider as keeping the Sabbath, you have broken it--and so has everyone else."
That's all Cahill says on the subject. What? Excuse me? Say that again? So, to paraphrase, you're telling me that, no matter what I do, I can't keep this commandment? What? What?

The Bluest Eye
Normally books make me think about things. I try to make connections, see beyond the words on the page, stretch the story into my life and my experiences somehow. But Morrison's descriptions and observations leave me without thoughts. At least, they are this time around. This is the closest I've come to finding a book that truly allows me to entirely escape myself in a long time. Which is rather enjoyable for a spell.

Writing Journal (Day 13)

Not much inspiration behind this one. I came home from Family Home Evening, realized I hadn't eaten anything since 2:00, nor had I written a poem yet.

Waffle
The waffle so warm
Between my fingers
Burns the skin of my teeth.

I am standing in the kitchen,
Watching myself eat,
Wishing today was tomorrow.

Eventually, my bed doth call.
And when it does,
I'll solemnly give it heed.

Away to never-slumber-land
I readily will fly.
Thinking if only, if only,
And always asking why.

Writing Journal (Day 12)

Again, I was inspired by the physical act (and auditory sound) of dropping that little plastic cup into the metal tray during Sacrament meeting. A few months ago, I'm pretty sure I at least jotted some lines down, if not formed an entire poem that Lucy is holding hostage. (Or is in a spiral notebook/journal gone MIA at some point in time.)

Keep in mind, I'm considering this particular poem underdeveloped and unfinished. I still feel that it needs some rhythm and a direction that leads it to an ending.

Sins
There go my sins
Into the cup,
And then into the tray.
I willingly take upon me
The name which clears my own.
My dirtiness is thrown away
Without a second thought.

Writing Journal (Day 10)

Friday, I conjured up a plan involving entering an apartment and removing thousands of dollars worth of merchandise. That plan involved a ransom note. Which I took it upon myself to turn into a ransom poem (with a clever title, I might add). I wish I had had the time to turn it into couplets because I'm really not a fan of the rhyme scheme I used.

Ransom Poem
Take a look around
And soon I'm sure you'll find
Your books cannont be found.

Please be warned: don't call the cops;
Your books are safe and sound,
Sitting in boxes once kept by the mops.

Don't you worry,
And don't you fret,
This was not done in a hurry.

Your books are being cared for
Just off the cul-de-sac
At (I'm not posting the address).

To see them once more,
You'll have to drive
To a house with a (color) door.

If you don't know who we are by now,
You don't deserve to know,
And we'll be trading you in for a pet cow.

____________________________

The story behind this is that, after I had constructed the library and realized it was missing such a large part of it, I had told SH that someday she would come home and all of her books would be gone. Well, when she told me on Friday that she wouldn't be back from out of town until Sunday afternoon before work, the light bulb went off. So I gathered a couple of accompliases and we became felon booknappers.

Which I hope explains why I skipped Day 11 of the challenge....

Reading Journal

Yaaaay!! I finally finished Twelve Ordinary Men and started The Bluest Eye. I forgot that I read it in college, so it's also a reread. And I was surprised to find I finished it (there are my markings on the last page), since I think I read it winter term freshman year, for one of Jim's classes. And I thought the only assignments I finished reading for him were the ones I got paid to do.



That's right, kids, I got paid to not only read, but I got paid to do my homework! I was doing workstudy for him (copying handouts, that sort of thing) and he wanted to make a handout for our Chekov assignments. See, classic Russian authors like to give their characters a name and then 5 or 6 pet names that may or may not be closely related to their given name. Jim asked me to make a handout with the alternate names for each of the stories.



But that's all tangental.



Final thoughts on Twelve Ordinary Men:

The third quarter of the book was the driest. The chapter on Judas Iscariot was interesting at first, but it got repetitive. I don't think this was MacArthur's intention, but his words really only invoked my pity for Judas I. Yeah, what the guy did was tragic, but necessary. I found myself paralleling him to Eve. But what I really think got my heart to bleed for J.I. was all the bashing he got from MacArthur. Just because the guy's a historical figure, doesn't mean you can judge his heart any more than you can judge your neighbor's.

On page 215, MacArthur quotes Charles H. Spurgeon trying to reconcile free will/agency with foreordination. And I've come to this conclusion: God knows us so well, He knows what we will choose. Our choices can please or disappoint God, but they will never surprise Him.

p. 230
"Would that Judas were the only hypocrite who ever betrayed the Lord, but that is not so."
It always makes me sad when people who (seem to) have a close relationship with the Godhead (or any member thereof) sever ties. Nearly paralyzing.

From the first few pages of the Bluest Eye...

Toni Morrison has the most captivating descriptions of settings.
p. 6 (Just before the "Autumn" section.)
"But since why is difficult to handle, one must take refuge in how."

p. 23
"I learned much later to worship her, just as I learned to delight in cleanliness, knowing, even as I learned, that the change was adjustment without improvement."
I like that idea: change being adjustment without improvement.

Writing Journal (Day Nine)

In the same way that a Law & Order episode can be "ripped straight from the headlines" in the promo and they still show the "any resemblance to any real persons, events, etc. are unintentional" (or however their legal jargon phrases it), this poem has been influenced by events, emotions and experiences actually in my life, but any resemblance to any one in particular is purely coincidental. Believe me as you will.

That being said, I won't reveal what, precisely, from my past influenced the writing of this poem. Partly because they're very personal. But also because I'm not entirely sure. Some stanzas were from something that happened to me, some were from something that happened to someone I knew, some are purely fictional.

This one has been the hardest for me to title thus far.
__________________________________________
Freight Train

The trouble that you've been in
Is more than I can share.
I know that you've cried through your dark
For someone there to care.

With their own ears full of steam,
They simply could not hear you.
Not until it was far too late,
Did someone know they knew.

It was a lonely train whistle
Coming round the bend.
At merely seventeen years old,
You were ready for it to end.

But someone else had switched the tracks
And you were losing steam.
That lovely face appeared to you
In the middle of a dream.

She didn't try to stop you;
No way she ever could.
Instead she simply let you coast
While living as she should.

Sooner or later,
The time would come, she knew,
When you would finally see the light
And find yourself renewed.

Reading Journal: The List

This could be dangerous, but...it's a reading list. My bajillionth one. I actually have a spreadsheet so I can sort it by title, author and category (see list below). There's also a place for me to document the last time I read it. However, said spreadsheet is on Lucy, who is currently in a coma. And since I can't find a spreadsheet program on this computer, the blog gets stuck hosting the list. I try following a memorable pattern; otherwise, I'll get caught reading the same kinds of things for too long. I've done pretty well with this one:

• Something old (classic, something from the canon)



• Something new (less than 3 years)



• Something borrowed, reccomended or random



• Something true (not fiction)

I try to read only one at a time, since I seem to read them faster that way. But every once in a while I sign myself up for something that gets dry or tedious. (10 months for Canterbury Tales, I think.) And by the time it's made me bored with reading in general, I feel I've invested too much time to just abandon it, so I start something else. Another reading rule I have comes at the suggestion of a Reader's Digest article: if it doesn't hold interest after 50 pages, ditch it. (Once you're 50, cut a page for every year. So once you're 60, only read 40 pages.)

Since I have it in mind to read everything filling up my bookcases (excepting textbooks and other general reference) as well as all of the books listed in "The Book of Great Books" by W. John Campbell, I'll save the huff and puff of typing those titles out. And since they pretty much work together filling up the next few rotations of the Old, Random, and True, I guess that just leaves me to go for the New, huh?

New"Freedom Writers"
"Draglines" by Pat Hicks
"Reading History at Lunch" by Chase Hart
"The Greatest Virtue" by Pat Robertson

Next CycleOld: "The Bluest Eye" by Toni Morrison
New: "Draglines"
Random: "Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card
True: "Six Hours One Friday" by Max Lucado

My goal is to be on the last leg of this cycle by Easter, which is approximately 32 days from now.
Guess I'd better stop blogging and start reading, huh?

Writing Journal (Day Eight)

Well, I got to that poem about the escalator I talked about the other day.
The analogy my friend gave was this: "Life is like going up a down escalator; if you're not running up, you're riding down." And, who knows? Maybe those words are more poetic than today's poem.

Up the Down
I’m so very weary,
For this illusion is killing me.
There is no wear that this place shows.
Nor is there place where these stairs go.
I’m just climbing up and climbing up
As these gridiron lines
Slide beneath me.

It seems like these steps
Should be moving faster,
Picking up the pace.
But they don’t.
They just continue on,
And on and on and on and on.

Never slowing,
Never stopping,
Never will I reach the top.
Never will I allow myself to reach the bottom.

Writing Journal (Day Seven)

Last night, during the FHE lesson, a poem was read that had some imagery that really struck me. I liked it; it was semi-unconventional. I'm working on getting a copy of the poem for my personal collection. It reminded me of one of my favorite images that someone gave one time about life being an escalator. I woke up still thinking about it, so I'm going to try and make today's poem about that.

(Update)
So the escaltor thing never got developed; maybe some other day.

Instead, I managed to come up with two things. One is barely considered crap and the other is too short; maybe I'll flesh it out someday. I lost where I was going with it.

Those Two
I worry that he'll be a dick
And leave her with their baby
In their house
For no place with no job.

I wish that I could take him in
And make him want to change.

It's sad to see her see
She's lost the power
I know she never had.

Poor sir (almost),
We all wish
She wasn't pregnant anymore:
You just had the balls to say it to her face.

______________________________
Those Two
Their bodies made a pup tent,
Their hands, they slept inside.
There was no place for them to run
Nor was there peace to find.

Writing Journal (Day Six)

I was having some trouble with inspiration for today's. I tried figuring out which sense of mine was at it's peak, but couldn't come up with one. Did I want to write about what I saw? What I heard? What I felt (physically, as in with my fingers)? I was just having the hardest time finding something to notice!

After my break (where I had tried to work on the poem), I was talking with my crew-mates. Tab and I ended up talking about rap. Got me thinking back to the rap stage in my writing during high school. Very brief. But I asked around: what is something that a rapper wouldn't rap about? Because that's precisely what I wanted to "rap" about.

The answer I came up with: Trivial Pursuit.

I was going to come home after FHE, go down to the library and bust out my Genus Edition of the game and go to town. But when I got home, I got distracted by Maggie and Jay's Headlines and then the two movies that we watched before I went to bed....
So I struggled with this one, again about my younger years.

One of my goals for Wednesday (since I've effectually grounded myself until Institute) is to go through the poems I've forced out and see if I can't find something to work with here.


Echoes of the Past
Echoes of the past come back
To haunt me in my dreams.
Through the three-tiered windows,
I am taken back to a younger self,
Legs dangling out the middle
As I devise ways to sneak
In and back out when I was older.

I tried to be rebellious,
But I saw how that turned out:
No one home to know if I'd been a fool.
Even at my worst,
I never was that bad.

A lump on a log,
A knot in your throat;
You never did tell me
What it was all about.

Writing Journal (Day Five)

Again another below-par poem for today. But, hey, the challenge issued was for one poem a day, not one good poem a day. Crappy title included.

Inspired by my wondering about my teenaged spiritual life (and lack thereof). I'm not even going to consider it good enough to be cliche.

What if...
What if I had done more-
What if I had finished?
Would someone there have seen the light?
Could someone else have chosen right?

The people in the dark are falling,
Calling for someone to save them.
How I wish I could.
But if I cannot be their savior,
I pray for someone to be sent in my stead.

Writing Journal (Day Four)

I didn't make much time for writing on Saturday. Between working, watching curling, and shoveling, I just didn't have much time. I was lucky to snatch these lines while in the car:

Dirty snow covers the signs.
Light on a flag captures my eyes.
Slivers of a silvery moon hide in the skies.

Can I make it a haiku?

Winter Ride
Gray snow covers signs
Lighted flags capture my eyes
Silvers slice the skies

Writing Journal (Day Three)

I'm not promising anything good with these poem-a-day's. I'm going to extend the challenge to give the poems titles, which is something I've always struggled with. Echoing my previous statement, I'm not promising anything good with these titles.

I've always liked the sounds of curling, especially in a traditional rink setting. So while I was on my break, I tried to tune out the jazz and focus on the memory of the sounds.

Good Game
Echoes of the evening shouts
Sink into the clean white sheets.
The scratches and the gliding
Are hardly heard
Beneath the hurries and the hards.
The stones across the pebbled ice
Are soothing to the soul.
Cheers arise as the
Click of a take-out fills the air.