the Prose Problem solved.

It seems lately I've been hesitant to write prose--afraid, even--since every time I sit down with my pen and start writing I never like what comes out. Either it doesn't make sense because it's all jumbled into one eternal run-on sentence, or it's empty and has no meaning, or simply is not entertaining...

In short, it's been rather disheartening, since I have always wanted to be an author of fiction. I have countless ideas that I want to pursue, and plan to do so -- yet, for some reason I find myself unable to put pen to paper and like the result.

Perhaps it seems I'm being too critical of myself? Not giving my work a chance to grow, or to be read. But I don't think this is the case. I've felt on numerous, countless occassions the feeling of being "on". When the words flows from my fingers like a rushing tide, unstoppable, at times insatiable. It's a burning, a tingling, if you will, of my writing sense. I know when it's being stimulated, when it's being used. And lately as I've tried to write short snippets of stories I simply haven't felt that tingle, that rush of the writing sense that I know and am so familiar with....

And then yesterday I dusted off the ol' laptop. Not mine, but the families. The model is a few years old (which, in these days, is decades behind in the latest technology). But yesterday afternoon I decided to crack her open. For old time's sake. And to my surprise I found some of my old writing. Some of my old prose. And I liked was I reading (not in a prideful way...but an encouraging way. You know?). My spark was rekindled, and hope for my writing renewed. I can write prose!

Then what has been the issue the past couple weeks?! I haven't been able to put my thumb on it. Until last night as I laid in bed, staring at my brother's top bunk and letting my mind seep into some form of rest. But I was restless! I could not figure this out. Then it hit me.

(I apologize for the suspenseful build up. Perhaps I'm making it too melodramatic than this humble epiphany deserves. But nonetheless -- )

It is often said that each writer is very different from the next. In the way they think, the way they convey their ideas, their styles obviously. But also in the environment in which they work best, and the medium with which they choose to write... Perhaps (and only perhaps), my writing sense is not easily stimulated when I choose to write with a pen. I mean, I can write for hours in my journal, rambling about my thoughts, goals, ideas, challenges, joys, and heartaches. I can sit and puzzle at my desk and write verses of poetry, spending oodles of time just thinking, trying to summon that perfect word, that exact rhyme. I can philosophize and theorize to my heart's content with a pen. But my writing sense just isn't stimulated in the same way when I try to write fiction by hand. My mind seems clouded, and my perspective dull and narrow. Yet as I sit perched at ol' Dusty, my fingers clacking on the keyboard, my mind is clear and focused. And I begin to feel that tingling for prose once again...

*End of Epiphany*

And so, with that pretense, I post some of my old work. The following remains untitled, though I believe I intended it to be the prologue to a story. This is what rekindled my desire and hope to write prose...

_______________


The light was dim in the small attic, illuminated by a single bulb that hung from the rafters. It was dusty and old, and the air smelled of musty clothes and candle wax. A wave of nostalgia nearly overwhelmed me as I climbed up into the room. Memories. Long nights spent by candlelight, remembering, recording; writing until my hand cramped and all semblance of a candle had disappeared. It all came back: The window. The desk. The ink. The pen. The yellow tint of the pages.
The notebook.
It had been ages since I’d been up there. But there everything was, exactly as I had left it all those years ago.
And there was the chest.
Nestled in the corner, caked in a layer of dust, it sat. The wood was faded and the metal rungs tarnished. Where had I hidden the key?
The boy timidly peeked out from behind me. He had a youthful glow about his face, and his eyes gleamed with a curiosity that brought me back to when I was a kid.
“It’s alright,” I said, and beckoned him follow me as I crossed the room. He trailed behind me, transfixed. “This is where I used to come to be alone. To think.”
I wiped the dust from the desk.
“See here?” I gestured to the stool. “This is where I sat.”
“What did you do?” the 8-year-old asked.
I shrugged. “Mostly I wrote.”
“About your adventures?” The light in his eyes flared.
I smiled and ran my hand through his hair. “Yes. My ‘adventures’.”
“Aw, c’mon Grandpa!” He tugged on my sleeve. “You promised you’d tell me the story!”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Please, please! You promised.”
“What would your mother think?”
“She’ll never know. C’mon! Please.” He looked up at me with his big, little boy eyes. “…please?”
I sighed.
“Alright, alright. You got me!”
He clapped his hands together. “Yay!”
“As long as you think your old enough.” I gave him a stern look.
“Oh, Grandpa, I promise. Last week I helped Dad cut the grass, and he said I was driving all by myself!”
“Oh?” I chuckled. “Well, if you were driving by yourself…”
His hands were folded and he stuck his bottom lip out.
“And you promise you won’t tell your mother?” I winked.
He shook his head solemnly.
“Okay then…” I smiled. “I will tell you the story.”
He whooped and hugged my waist. “Thank you, Grandpa!”
“But first,” I said. “I want to show you something.”
“What is it?” He followed close as I moved to the corner with the chest.
“It’s where I kept all my things.”
“What things, Grandpa?”
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” We knelt on the ground.
The top of the chest was probably two feet off the ground and about double that in length. The grain in the wood was twisted and stained. I reached around the back and felt for the loose board in the floor. With a little bit of prying I pulled it up and slipped my hand into the small space.
There was the key. The metal was cool against my skin as I picked it up.
“Ooh,” the child’s eyes widened as I opened my palm.
It was black and slightly rusted from its long spell in the damp space beneath the floorboards; and small, no longer than two inches.
“Take it,” I offered.
“You mean I can open it?”
I nodded.
Slowly, almost reverently, he took the key in his little hands.
“Where’s it go?” He asked.
“Right here.” The hole was in the center.
It fit. One full turn, and then – click.
He looked up at me, a smile on face.
“Open it!” I, too, smiled.
With some effort, he pushed the lid up on its hinges and rested it on the wall. And we both gazed inside.
Books lay upon books, their bindings clearly worn; and papers, yellowed with age, were stacked and folded, scattered atop the pile and wedged in between pages. In one corner sat an old kerosene lantern with a book of matches. Next to that was a cup filled with pencils and pens.
“Whoa…” the boy marveled. “Look at all this old stuff!”
I shifted some of the books aside, looking for it.
“What’s this?” He held up an old copy of The Alchemist.
I smiled to myself. “Inspiration.”
He paused, giving me a questioning look, but then shrugged and picked up another book. I, too, continued sifting through the contents of the chest.
I knew it was here somewhere. How deep was it buried? Surely I…
Then there it was. I felt it first, beneath a stack of what appeared to be notes, before the sleek red cover caught my eye.
I picked it up.
It felt familiar in my hands; like a friend I’d parted with, only to be reunited after years of growing and learning. Like coming home.
The boy looked up, realizing that I had found what I was looking for.
Slowly, I opened it, feeling the resistance of the binding, stiff with age and neglect. On the inside of the cover, in scratchy handwriting that I very much recognized, were the words:

Ben Aarons

I fanned through the pages, every one of them filled to the edges with words. Words of love and laughter, of joy. Words of feeling, of revelation, discovery; of encounter, of perception, words of reaction and invention – handwritten words. Lasting, indelible. Enduring words.
My words.
I looked down at my young grandson kneeling beside me – as curious as any little boy ought to be – and our eyes locked. All was still in the old, dimly-lit attic. Not a noise, not a stir in the silence.
“Are you ready for the story, lad?”

the Web.

The following few entries correlate with last night's entry (Dec. 8th) regarding noise, but focus more on its affects on a larger scale -- on the nation, and society as a whole; on youth and adults alike; on the world.

Our society is growing ever-steadily more connected. Advances in technology are linking us in ways philophers of the past perhaps never thought imaginable. It has become so even in the comfort of our own homes.

Picture this: the world is a giant spiderweb of singular beauty, made up of billions of tiny, little, delicate strands of silk not dissimilar to we as people. This Web has been spun since the beginning of time -- since the great Author himself created the void in which the Web was first birthed-- it's design and purpose beautiful. Each delicate strand serves in their own unique function, contributing in small, yet crucial, ways to the Web. For millennia the Web continued to grow outward, spun by the Master, until, quite suddenly, there was no more void in which to expand. Yet the spinning still continues. And as time drives ever on, the Web fast approaching its imminent and predetermined end, these strands begin to become closer and closer together, tighter knit and exceedingly crowded. With the addition of new strands over the centuries, and the necessary losses, the Web has reached a stage in its development where there is no apparent space between the strands. Indeed, they are cramped, and spun one on top of the other. A strand's individual domain in the Web has seemingly been done away with. There is always constant, persistent connection with other strands in the Web due to this sudden "inward" expansion (to wit, the sudden expansion of technology, or the interest of expanding, figuratively, in connection rather than a physical outward expansion).

At first this cluttered and cramped association is frowned upon by the strands, most of them quite displeased in the sudden change of pace and space. Until it becomes the norm, the standard even, and it is widely accepted all throughout the Web. Time still marches on, and the Web becomes ever more and more conjoined. The strands learn to adapt and soon grow to love their current condition -- even crave it, incessantly, insatiably.

That's not to say this inward expansion is entirely a bad thing. For, in truth, the Web was created in the beginning by the Author, definite in design and purpose. Everything that occurs on the Web happens for a very particular and certain reason, and is performed to meet some end, be it minute or tremendous, visibly (to those who observe) directed by His hand.

It is from the choices made by each individual strand that the bad comes forth - for indeed nothing comes from the Author that is not good. It is in the habits and desires of the "adapting" strands that the negative is made apparent. In this case, the inward expansion of the Web which has caused, and will continue to cause, a very constant connection and resulting desire for communication, does hold true purpose amidst the initial and more evident negative affects.

For instance, the most prevalent is that connection denotes unity, and how very true this is. Harmony, oneness, good will, and affinity can naturally spring forth from connection.

Then what is it, you may ask, about the "inward expansion" of the Web that troubles me so?

Suffice it to say, for tonight, that I resent the overbearance of some certain strands (not the Web as a whole) in their persistent communications, as well as their (most likely) blind involvement in the rapid spreading of the most contagious Disease in the world today.



BC

Noise.

My life is a cacophany of chaotic happenings. A constant press for connection, an incessant barrage of communication. And I can't stand it.

But I cannot escape.

I think this is one HUGE problem with our society today. Peoples' insatiable desire to ALWAYS be talking with SOMEONE It's a disease, really. And the ease of modern technology is merely wind to the flame. They've made it so easy for us to always be connected. From Facebook, to Myspace, to Instant Messenger, all the way to the mobile "conveniences" that are Blackberry's and cell phones. There is always noise. I don't mean audible noise. I mean the frenzied distractions that are thrown our way every minute of the day. Texts, instant messages. Things that detract from our inner peace.

This is outer noise.

And sometimes we need to conciously make an effort to reduce that outer noise - cause to cease, if but for a moment, the frantic pulse of our lives. Some of that Zen stuff, you know? It may sound shrink-ish to some of you, but I highly recommend it.

Unplug.

Breathe.

Live.


I wish I could take credit for this concept, but I cannot. The advice was initially issued, through inspiration, by a great and wise man named Tom Cheney. And inspired it is. We all need reminders like these to draw us back to the now, to those who are in our lives now - not someone, somewhere across cyberspace, awaiting our immediate response.

I've had it with this false urgency, this bogus bombardment of space, and desperate, constant, clamorous call for attention. In one, huge, bounding stride, I approach this giant that is Communication - it stands on a hill, much looked upon and praised by the average American teen - and I stare it in the face, and say, my voice resonating throughout the valley of the nation:

"I am here, not there. Now...not then. And nothing, no body, is going to pull me away from it."

And so I resolve to live in the now, to give those who I am with my full attention and respect. Right now, I am going to go watch football with my dad. Right now, I am scratching my dog's ears. Right now, I commence this journey. I set out on this road, but not alone.

Are you with me?

Let us begin - right now.

BC

tonight, some Poetry.

Leaves fall,
Burnt orange and red,
To mark the passage of time;
Birds call,
Like sirens in my head,
And drive me to this rhyme.

Wind shakes
The branches; they dance
Like children beneath the sky.
Time takes
Their innocence trance;
Their leaves fall off and die.

________________________________


The Coffee Shop

Warm aromas waft about
And fill my nose.
Hiding crowds from cold without
in winter clothes.

All around me things inspire,
And so I write.
On the hearth a blazing fire
Is burning bright.

Rosy lips are sipping mugs;
cold hands, warm hearts.
Friendly smiles, tender hugs
As music starts.

Foggy windows in their panes,
By candle-light,
Offer views of frosty lanes
And nippy night.

Cozy is this little town;
I'm tucked away.
Dilworth, where I settle down,
Is where I stay.

Here we gather, friend and kin;
From toe to top
We're filled with peace as we are in
The coffee shop.

________________________

Bryce

the Sandbox.

Do you remember the days when things were simpler? When Hotwheels were the crap and bouncy balls were the best invention since pull-ups? Days when a plastic airplane could entertain you for hours on end, when the sandbox housed your dreams and held no limits.

You could do anything. You could be anything. No one could stop you from going to the moon, or from leaping off your roof in attempt to fly. The world was your playground, and everything a toy especially designed for your enjoyment. It didn't matter that your mother's pantyhouse wasn't intended to be used as a rope in a tug-of-war match. You had fun, and that was all that mattered. Mommy loved you, so she only sent you to time-out for 10 minutes. And then it was back to the toddler drawing board.

What was next? Who knew? The sky was the limit because you didn't care. It was all about the fun, the sheer joy that can be found in the simple, simple things. A smile, a funny face. Sitting in the backyard with the dog as he scratched his ears. Watching mom cook (or better yet, helping her cook - there's a novel idea). Laughter amongst siblings. Funny stories. Shared triumphs.

Life is full of simple moments. I think sometimes we let them pass us by because we're too caught up in whatever else we think is going on. But this is it. These are the things we must live for.

This is my challenge to each of you, regardless of your age, gender, or present circumstance. No one is "too busy"; they just think they are. So be a kid for once. Let's take things back to the sandbox, and enjoy the simple things in life.


Bryce

Blockhead.

There once lived a great carpenter who was very skilled in his craft. Indeed, the finest craftsmen in the valley. One day he set about carving a large block of wood from a giant piece of mahogany. After hours of sawing, shaving, and chipping away in his shop, the carpenter began to sand down the rough edges and sides until it was smooth at the touch and one had no fear of getting a sliver. Upon finishing, he stepped back to assess, with pride, his handiwork.
Yet pleased as he was, his work was not finished. The piece itself was complete, yes. And it was beautiful. However, the mahogany block had a foreordained purpose, a destiny set from the start that it must fulfill.
The carpenter leaned into the side of the block and began to push it across the room and out the wide open door of his shop, where he then proceeded down the path that lead through the village and up out of the valley.
As the path grew steeper the carepenter only worked harder, pushing and shoving with all his might. He wedged and wiggled and walked the block up the through the hills, never taking a pause for respite. Finally the path relented and began to plane off. The carepenter then guided the block to the edge of a precipice where he faced a sheer drop into the gorge below. Without hesitation and with one final grunt of exertion, the carpenter pushed the mahagony block over the side of the cliff. It fell through the air rather gracefully, almost deliberately -- only to land on the writer who puzzled beneath the willow tree below.
Satisfied, the carpenter returned home and immediately sought after another piece of mahogany.



Writer's block hurts.

Bryce

what it is to Write.

Writing...

To write. To think and then to write. To write without thinking. To write to impress. To write to express. To write to explore. To write to indulge. To write to dream. To write to imagine. To write to...inspire. To think, and to muse, and to ponder in your mind what exactly is the meaning to...write.

To write...or not to write?

To write.

I am a writer. So I write. I must write. But my impish little shoulder Bryce is always whispering, always talking - and it begs the question: Do I write often enough?

Oh, certainly not... But I will. It is the dawn of a new age. A new sky, with miles to roam free - complete with turbulence, hang time, and that tickling sensation we all love so much. A new page. Blank. Open. Gaping wide open. Waiting, just waiting, with its ivory stillness, its glossy sheen that almost taunts, yet virtually begs to be showered upon with words. Words that fall like rain drops when released; words that flow freely when called upon. And I, the writer - I, the cloud - seek to please the earth with cleansing rain. To refresh the world with this inspirational precipitation.

Lately I've been wandering in that stark land of overcommitment I hear is common among teenagers. My wandering has resulted in a persistent, yet dull, drizzle. The rain has been there, yes, but it has lacked wind to drive it sideways. Been missing that mysterious factor that puts the thrill in the storm. But I officially declare a warning: From here on out, it's hurricane season. Draw the storm shutters. Secure the levies - The flood is coming. The storm approaches. The cloudburst, the downpour. There is rain on the horizon. And it whispers of words.

Words. Writing. To write....

Written.

Bryce