And my favourite line is...

An August Midnight

By Thomas Hardy

I
A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .

II
Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
- My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I.


Yep that last line, the one hopefully in bold, which may or may not appear as such in the post since I am sending this one in.

I have a few stories coming out. One is a story about my grandfather, though it did not start out that way at all. The others are eulogies to two friends who passed away this year, both far too young, both of whom I deeply miss. 

It is interesting trying to find the patience for writing for others reading than just writing for the sake of getting something off ones chest or out of ones brain so that it is out there for out there's sake. Unlike the longlegs, moth, dumbledore and fly from the poem above, I know not the Earth-secrets to matters such as these.

I feel at a loss for words. This is not something new.  I am not one to shy from conversation, but I am shy about a different kind of words. I want to write, but I am at a loss for how to get to the words to do so. This is not writers block though, it is about the translation of verbal stories into written form that renders me quiet and reticent.

I find that literary flourishes more often detract, rather than add, to a story. They can be misleading and create mental imagery that is called in to question with later portions of a story. I suppose that my mark of a good writer is one who can tell the story in as few words as possible, convey the spirit of the story's point (or message) and lead the reader on some glorious path of whatever the path is that a reader takes.


Don't get me wrong, I have lots of stories... stories I even want to tell. I am just stuck on the part that translates a story from an oral tradition to the written form. Then, I feel compelled to wonder if the stories are just a narcissistic extension of some part of my psyche and while I think that most art forms are, I am just not sure if I am completely comfortable with this. I also wonder how I can escape it, it seems like the natural state in some ways.


blah, blah, blah

So, maybe I am thinking about what makes for good writing. Someone I know told me that writing is about taking the ordinary and "turning it up to 11"(being provocative, maybe). I see why, no one wants to read about the boring, but I would argue that turning things up to 11 can also be dishonest, especially when trying to tell stories that are personal. I can see the value, but the process of of being able to make the mundane seem vital escapes me on so many levels and for so many reasons.

When I read my favourite authors, I don't get the sense they they overplayed the story to make it more interesting. In a story in one of my favourite books there is a scene at a dinner party and while I may like the story because it directly involves my mother as one of the characters, I don't feel like the story in the book was over played. It was just told well in a written form.

I wish I could do this, write well. Tell the abundance of stories that reside within me and that do them justice... the justice they deserve.

Another friend told me that to learn how to write one must read. I think that is very true, but what have I seen come from this attempt is that I tend to copy styles. I want to find that voice which is my own, which allows the person I let read the story to hear it in their heads as if it were coming from my very mouth.

So, backtracking a bit... over the last year or so I gave poetry a chance. In general I hated poetry, I found it soul killing and overly flourished. So, I made a concerted effort to read more poems. I find that I am much more generous to poetry now. I still do not think it is a higher form of writing or some deep look into the soul of humanity. But I will state that the poems I found compelling used wonderful verbal imagery and I am more apt to stop and take a look at a poem now, than I was over a year ago when I started this path.

So, having had that learning experience with poetry.... I think I need to practice writing in that same vein.

I have a place; here.

That, sadly, was the easy part.


The hard part is that elusive what.


Where do I begin? It is a mix off too much to choose from and fear.

Annual family prom portrait

But what kind of pizza and what kind of beer?

Desire

by George Bilgere

The slim, suntanned legs
of the woman in front of me in the checkout line
fill me with yearning
to provide her with health insurance
and a sporty little car with personalized plates.

The way her dark hair
falls straight to her slender waist
makes me ache
to pay for a washer/dryer combo
and yearly ski trips to Aspen, not to mention
her weekly visits to the spa
and nail salon.

And the delicate rise of her breasts
under her thin blouse
kindles my desire
to purchase a blue minivan with a car seat,
and soon another car seat, and eventually
piano lessons and braces
for two teenage girls who will hate me.

Finally, her full, pouting lips
make me long to take out a second mortgage
in order to put both kids through college
at first- or second-tier institutions,
then cover their wedding expenses
and help out financially with the grandchildren
as generously as possible before I die
and leave them everything.

But now the cashier rings her up
and she walks out of my life forever,
leaving me alone
with my beer and toilet paper and frozen pizzas.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair...

Last night, after a fabulous outing (with my aunt and uncle, the Austrian Hordes, Schatzy and Squink) to the wonderful and gorgeous Pinto Creek in Haunted Canyon Squink and I were on our way home... driving along on what I now know is the Red Mountain Freeway... no other cars to be seen in front of us or behind us, mere hints of the mountains visible in the dark night.  I was driving in my preferred lane for distance driving on multi lane freeways, the one just next to the outside lane.

Suddenly, a car speeds past me on our right, the kind of speeds that means that it was probably over 100 mph... though I don't know, it was fast, shockingly fast, and I thought to myself  out loud "w...". The rest was supposed to be "...ow" but I did not get that far because that car drove straight into the median wall and all I saw were sparks and smoke and the car spinning what seemed like at least 7 times and frighteningly in my direction.  I started braking, terrified the car would spin into Squink and I....  I would say it stopped a mere 50 or so feet. It was smoking, facing the wrong direction in the middle of the road... I was frozen with fear, time stood still and tears ran down my face. Squink did not see any of this thanks to the wonders of a gaming device that had absorbed all his attention.

I know we are supposed to stop and render aid but I had no clue where on this freeway we were, there were no car lights coming up behind us and I had a small child in the car with me... I decided the best thing I could do (for all of us) was to drive on to the next exit as I dialed 911 with hands shaking so bad I can't believe I actually pushed the right buttons... it felt like forever to reach the next exit and let the dispatcher know where the accident was. I was a mess, I could not give clear directions using proper names... I had to say things like "I am at the 202 and Recker", "the accident is east of me", the "202 north of the 60" The 202 is a circular freeway and was thus very confusing to the woman who had to deal with my phone call...

I hope this was the right choice. I don't know, I was up, off and on, all night with crash images in my dreams.