Paper Planes

I got lost on my way here. Neither I nor my browser could remember the way. But here I am, dusting off creaky keys and polishing up my vocabulary.

Actually, no.

I'm just gonna sit in the dust for a little while.

My life has been incredibly average this summer. I worked 40's, did very little traveling, did very little reflecting. My sister got married in May. It was the most beautiful weekend. I returned to Omak for the first time since my parents moved down to the Tri-Cities. I didn't get to see most of the people I wanted to, but I got to spend time with some people that mean a lot to me. I spent most of my time in Pullman with my co-workers. We often went beyond the mandatory 40 hours a week that we were required to spend together in order to hang out more. They are fantastic people and I hope I can treat them as excellently as they deserve. Tomorrow I set out on a roadtrip to end my summer. It will include a wedding, camping, and a rodeo at least.

But tonight, I sit in the dust. I unroll the map and look at where I've been.

And I think I'm done trying. I've spent so much energy over so many years trying. Trying to impress people. Trying to impress myself. Trying to impress God. Trying to look like someone who matters. Trying to look like someone who doesn't matter. Trying to look like someone who doesn't care whether he matters or not but who really cares about looking like he doesn't care.

Esse quam videri. To be, rather than to appear. I'm done appearing. I'm done trying to look like or be or feel anything. I'm ready to be. I'm ready to feel.

This summer, I've learned to be and to feel. I've learned that real life can be boring. I've learned that even my most intricate webs of lies still fall apart eventually. There's no sense in building them back up. It's better to just leave them lying there in the dust.

PAPER PLANES

He stands up and carefully steps towards the door, map in hand, and then out of the dusty room. The door creaks shut slowly, pauses with just a sliver of light still coming in, and then closes gently. 

CUT TO:

His hands brushing dust off of pants. He picks up the map and walks down the blank hall, folding the map as he goes. The walls are painted navy blue and completely unadorned. There are no windows and no other doors or walkways. At the end of the hall nearest the ext. door, he sets the now folded map down on an end table that is painted to look like mahogany. The map is folded into a paper airplane. HOLD ON folded map. CLOSE ON view from outside of hands pushing on the bar of glass ext. door and body leaning forward as ext. door opens.

THE END

My Lady, Africa.

Occasionally a loose glance still captures my heart. I used to be so ready to dedicate everything to her. After our last encounter, there was no question in my head or heart that I wanted to spend my life with her. I couldn't shake the thought of the beauty of our life together. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but it has only made my heart grow absent. It's not that I didn't still dream of her or want to spend time with her, rather, I simply didn't want. Anything. At all. I'm sure that's not entirely true, but the bored man and the starving man have different appetites and my apathy doesn't build an appetite for truth. Truth is, I probably don't love her the way I used to. Maybe I'm coming out of my own personal honeymoon phase and need love harder, but maybe I'm just really done. Maybe she was just there to remind me how to dream.

But I got a text from her the other day and it turned my world around again. And everytime someone reminds me to dream I think of her and everytime something reminds me of her I start to dream. I can't separate the two in my head. Maybe beyond the Apathetic Ocean, across the great River Self-Denial, there is some fountain of youth or city of gold or promised land, but I haven't found it yet and my humble vessel isn't fit to fare those waters. You reassure me and tell me to set sail and I realize that I've never really sailed before. Sure I've practiced in the harbor a few times, but always in sight of others and never further than I could swim. So really, you're asking too much of me and too much of my boat. Neither of us are fit for the journey you have mapped out, and I can't even read the map. Even if we found the way, all the other promised lands I've found have dried up shortly after my arrival. I can't let that happen this time. I can't watch her die on me.

"So you'll just drown her in your own apathy?"

The Fall

Dad was a wood carver. When we were young, he would take us to his shop in the woods we called our back yard and show us how to carve. His hand would rest powerfully over mine and guide the blade to create lines, forms, shapes, figures. I made a game out of trying to guess what these lines and shapes would come together to create. As I grew up, I got better at the game and gradually I developed some of my own skill with the blade. My creations were never quite on par with Dad's, but he told me they were good and encouraged me to keep trying. Every once in a while the blade would slip and I would ruin the carving. Dad would always take those ruined pieces from me and encourage me to keep trying. I drew blood a few times too. I remember the moments of shock, paralyzed at the sight of the loose skin and blood rising and eventually running down my hand. I felt completely isolated in those moments, Dad could not have been further away. But he always showed up at my side in time to stop the bleeding and bandage me back up. I took a break from carving after these incidents, but when I came back, Dad would be happy to see me and encourage me to keep trying.

During an exceptionally hard winter, Dad sent me and my older brother to Mr. Nelson's store to get some bread for the family. It was a long trek in the snow, but Dad had bundled us up and I had just begun to feel the sting of the cold when the store came into sight through the fog and snow. I removed my hood, beanie, scarf, and gloves when we got inside, but my brother did not. He told me to go get the bread and he would meet me back up front. The bread was in the second aisle like it had always been, across from the milk and the eggs. As I made my way up to the front, I saw my brother leaning in over the counter and Mrs. Nelson, on the other side, had a worried look on her face.

"What's wrong Mrs. Nelson?" I asked.

Without turning around, my brother yelled back "Just take the bread and go outside and wait for me!"

His voice was strained and nervous. I didn't know what to do, but Mrs. Nelson's eyes seemed to be telling me to do what I had been told. When I passed by my brother on my way out, I saw one of Dad's carving knives in his hand. It was pointed at Mrs. Nelson.

My internal shock and disbelief was matched by the numbing cold outside. For years Dad had taught us to use that knife to make useful things for the house or to make beautiful carvings. He taught us to use it as a tool to create with, but now my brother was using it as a weapon for violence. He came out of the store stuffing a small box into his jacket pocket. He caught me looking at the knife in his shaky hand and fumbled with it for a second before hiding it in his boot.

"You don't tell Dad anything! Okay? I'll tell him about the trip and you just be quiet! C'mon, we need to hurry back."

We jogged most of the way home, stumbling recklessly down the road. I was breathing hard and getting hot so I loosened my scarf, took off my hood and unzipped my coat a little. My brother kept running until we could see the house then he slowed down and told me to put all my stuff back on. I gave the bread to Dad as my brother lied. I still don't know why he did it. Dad had given us money to pay for the bread and Mrs. Nelson had always been nice to us, sometimes sneaking candy into the bag with our groceries. I sneaked into my brother's room that night and found the small box of cigarettes in his jacket pocket.

After that day, I didn't want to carve any more. I never wanted to hold a knife again. I never wanted to see a knife again. Dad tried to get me to join him in the shop but I would always make myself busy with other stuff around the house. One day he asked me to come carve with him and I stammered a little before telling him there was a book that I really wanted to read. He stood silently for a moment.

"I miss having you out in the shop, bud. Why don't you want to carve any more?"

We stared at each other for a moment and I could feel my eyes screaming silently. Fear boiled up inside me and I replied angrily.

"It just seems so dangerous! I was never very good at it and I don't want to get cut anymore! Those knives are too sharp!"

"Well you can't carve anything with a dull blade, son. You just have to learn to use the blade right. And besides, you're really good at carving. There's a spark to your work that can't be taught."

Adventures in Wonderland (Part Three)

Suddenly he knew the truth in what the rabbit said. It burrowed deep and stirred up something inside of him.

"Can you take me back? Can you take me back to the land of color? I hate it here! I have always hated this place! There is nothing here but slow rotting death. I want to feel again; I want to BE again! Please, take me back!"

"But you have duties here, milord." The deep voice startled him.

"My duties here are meaningless, Commander. There is nothing for me to accomplish here; nothing for me to live for! Please, rabbit, take me..."

But the rabbit was gone. He stood bewildered and defeated, his hopes dashed. The commander stood silently as the king walked over to where the rabbit had been and picked up a small pocketwatch that the rabbit had apparently left behind. The king stowed the pocketwatch and sullenly trudged back to the castle with the commander.

In secret, when he could, he would examine the pocketwatch. It was a curious piece, ever ticking, but with no numbers or tick marks on its face. Its hands circled aimlessly, never telling where they were going or when they might stop. It just ticked on.

He carried on secretly observing the watch for years. Never in that time did he gain anything from his observation, but it was a constant reminder of the life he now longed for. He wanted out of this kingdom and wanted to see colors again, but he had no way of leaving. He had spotted the rabbit a few times, but it always evaded him, sometimes diving into brush, somtimes under furniture, and even once out a first floor window, always disappearing before he could catch up with it or ask it that one question that burned inside him. How do I get out of this place?

Adventures in Wonderland (Part Two)

Read Part One here first:
http://papermeetspen.blogspot.com/2011/12/adventures-in-wonderland-part-one.html

His rule was not a great one, but he kept the kingdom intact. Until one day a rabbit bounded through his court. He was captivated by the creature, having seen nothing like it in all his time there. It's perfect form reminded him of another life, one far away and long forgotten.

He pursued the rabbit through the castle and beyond its walls. It led him into a deformed forest of gnarled trees with twisted trunks and bent branches. He could not follow along its graceful path through the bramble, but the rabbit stayed within sight of the road. They reached a clearing and here the rabbit stopped. It turned and asked him:

"Why do you chase me? You are the king, aren't you? Why do you chase me? What could I have that you want?"

And once again he found himself unable to answer.

"Surely you, king, can see past this black and white. You must certainly know what lies beyond. Why do you fear it so?"

"I lived there once!" His shouting reply came as a surprise to his own ears. "I lived there once and it was a land of foolishness! A childish waste of time! Always staring at the colors, making something out of nothing, it was all just pretend!"

"Have you forgotten how you came upon this kingdom, my lord? Have you forgotten..."

"Why do you call me 'my lord'? I've never seen you in my service and clearly you come from a land beyond my own! Where is it that you come from, rabbit?"

"I come from the land of color, the very land that you denounce. I come from the childish land of emotions and heartache. And so do you, oh king."

Adventures in Wonderland (Part One)

Her words stung more than the cold that had settled in over the past week. Winter had come and come fierce with claws and fangs. The cold bit at his skin and there was no snow to warm his heart. While the cold could be countered with layers, he had no armor against the things she said.

"You're just a boy!" She spat. "Just an immature boy! A boy, not a man!"

The words dug deep into a wound that had been there for years. He had never really admitted it, not even to himself, but this injury had to remain hidden. There was no fixing it, it was a terminal wound that would destroy him. And her words had stung it back into reality.

She was only joking. Pestering and sparring like they always did, but today she chose to hit hard. He would never know if she meant for it to hurt like that, but the pain made it impossible for him to fight back.

So he sank.

He sank into a fantasy where apathy was called invincibility. It was a weak facade, to be sure, not nearly enough to prevent the damage from her words, but it numbed the pain enough to where he could pretend everything was okay. So he kept pretending.

But he got lost in the fantasy. The black and white world was simple enough. It required little but took everything. The deformed creatures there seemed to be up to something when they called him "King," but they called him king and that was enough. He continued to rule there for years.

A Hipster Parable

Today is like a guy who was trying to get some work done. He sat precariously amidst the seasonal decor, gossiping housewives, over-enamored young couple, church small group members, and business men trying to keep it hip. The scent of the place had been lost on him. It's deep warm aroma used to be a welcome greeting, but, like the meaningful hug, the solid-but-not-aggressive handshake and the ironic t-shirt, it had been dulled from overuse. Abused as a drug. He wondered if it was there or not anymore.

Between pounding, grinding, and shouting, seasonal tunes play that, to him, are hidden behind The Great Wall of Headphones. Impenetrable as it seems, even its full-force sonic barrier is not going to bring the peace he came here looking for.

Sabbath

Perhaps it's the gentle balance of heart-warming vantages and the bone-chilling breeze
or the lively aroma of the shedding trees
or the crackling of steps through untrodden leaves.

Maybe it's the couples along the river-walk with hands held tight
or the spider's network of labor nearly hidden from sight
or the geese in the park preparing for their flight.

Whatever it is that makes it so neat,
I'm sure today that nothing could beat
This slow walk through the fall on Spring Street.

Ulysses

Josh Garrels is singing my soul again. These lyrics are from his song Ulysses from his newest album Love, War, and The Sea In Between. The album is free, so I obviously recommend that you pick it up (here). Ulysses is in my playlist for the blog, so I also recommend that you listen to it while you read along.

Ulysses

I'm holding on to hope that one day this could be made right.

I've been shipwrecked and left for dead

and I have seen the darkest sights.

Everyone I've loved seems like a stranger in the night

But oh my heart still burns

tells me to return

and search the fading light.

I'm sailing home to you I won't be long.

By the light of moon I will press on

until

I find

my love.

Trouble has beset my ways, and wicked winds have blown.

Sirens call my name, they say they'll ease my pain then break me on the stones

But true love is the burden that will carry me back home

Carry me with the

memories of the

beauty I have known

I'm sailing home to you, I won't be long

By the light of moon, I will press on

SO TIE ME TO THE MAST OF THIS OLD SHIP AND POINT ME HOME

BEFORE I LOSE THE ONE I LOVE, BEFORE MY CHANCE IS GONE

I WANT TO HOLD

HER IN

MY ARMS

(emphasis mine)

Giraffes With Headbands

These are giraffes with headbands. Just a little something I was working on. I tried to find a picture of them online, but the entire first page of Google images didn't have one, therefore I assumed that it did not exist. So I made my own.

That aside, I'm not really sure what else to share. I've been writing some poetry and some other stuff. I've been inspired by the idea of storytelling in poetry as opposed to my typical modus operandi of puzzle-making. Instead of trying to encrypt my feelings into a linguistic and thematic puzzle, I've been trying to tell a story with what I feel. There's still a lot of the old puzzle-making remnants lying around, but I can see a difference in my writing. Can you?

Industry

I hear the whistle as the train comes 'round the bend.

Industry, machinery, toiling to no end.

Wheels turn, fires burn life to death to fuel the machine.

With blinders on, we work to claim what we've never seen.

With no true goal, we strive to see beyond our sight.

But some remove the blinders and in mystery delight.

And there find the life they've been burning all along:

Sight turns to art, confusion to joy, and sound into a song.

But with hammer I keep striking at my cold, dead life.

And here, before You now, life strikes back.

I'm down, out, KO'd, knocked out by life's first punch.

There, between the live I've always wanted and the death I've always feared,

There I will live.

Or how about this one?

Butterfly

There's a butterfly on the palm of my hand

It tickles but I hope it stays

I can't use that hand now

But I think I like it best that way

I remember when it landed there

It was too good to be true

And ever since I've been fighting

I want to grasp, squeeze, and hold it

So that it won't fly away

But my most tender grasp will kill its life

So I can only embrace it with open hand