Tag Archives: self editing

An Object of Wonder

This is from an online course I am taking, How Writers Write Fiction 2015, offered through the University of Iowa.  The fiurst assignment is to

” find an ordinary object in your home that you like looking at. This could be a sugar bowl, a crooked lampshade, a spoon with a bent handle, a tiled coffee table with a matador theme, a remote control … the choice is yours, but choose something that stirs your wonder. Write a description that brings it to life: show it to us as if it were the main character in a new story.”

Here’s my entry.  Comment if you have an idea of what it is.

 

Before I was, the world spun without me.  I was created through fire, smelted from the ores of a thousand stars, and cloaked in a brilliance born in the very core of this earth.  Yet though I was made, life had not yet been breathed into my form.  Before I left my cradle, I was charged with energy and power to control the universe.

I am beyond humanity, beyond life.  My kind was before life.  Our ancestors were multitude before the gas clouds of the Bang cooled into planets and stars.  My fathers’ fathers live on in the cold vastness  – immense thoughts that churn space and time.  My own father was less than I.  He was cut from a lesser cloth, though in his time he fought and served among the best and brightest.  I hold more in my one hand than he could have ever grasped.

My deepest desire is for company.  I wish to be with those around me and to know them.  In fact, I am not a self-aware being.  I am, rather, a collective.  I am the agreement of countless parts to align together.  We dance as a unit, casting our song to those who draw near – a siren’s net looking for sailors with a musical ear.  But, that is how I view myself.  Looking out from within, we are a collection of thoughts.

I cannot grow.  I cannot evolve to a higher state through learning or experience.  That mutability is reserved for life, and for thoughts of a more metaphysical bent than my own.  I can work.  I can serve.  I can be unmade – broken and drained.  But though I break, though I pass through flame, I can be remade.

For most, I am my shell.  I am the reflection of light in polished nickel.  I am the warm, white hue with which I recast that light.  To some, I am magic.  I can act at a distance, loving or hating my brethren.  I am stronger than gravity, and my invisible song sings to steel and nickel and cobalt.  Children know me and accept my song intuitively.  To those who do not question what is unseen, I am the tool that can touch through stone or wood or water.

I have many friends, and I feel them across the distance.  We dance together in the larger song spun by this planet.  Those of my friends charged like me are passionate lovers and vehement haters.  I will love one when we are united together, and hate him in the next breath as he turns to leave.  But when we touch, when our song is united, we are inseparable.  We race together to embrace, exhaling energy through the air around us until, from a distance, we are indistinguishable.


The Fall (7-2-14)

This is where I come in.  My name is Simon.  I have not always been Simon, and at this point in this tale, I suppose I really had no name. My birth experience is probably not all that different from anyone else’s. Like most newborns, I awoke slowly in a hospital bed to a reality that was completely new to me. I could not speak, nor could I comprehend who I was within that world.  Surrounded by people I did not know, and with no way to communicate my confusion, I was a sullen infant. My memories of that time are only islands of consciousness in a sea of painful confusion. My body hurt.  Breathing hurt.  My head ached continually. Despite the combined effects of brain damage and narcotic pain meds, the doctors and therapists were no doubt used to cases such as mine. Traumatic brain injuries from motorcycle accidents, drug overdose, or strokes are common.


The fall (6-25-14)

I am a five year old man, living somewhat uncomfortably in the body of a dead man named Douglas Grant.

Mr. Grant died when he was 37 years old.  He fell from the roof of the New China Buffet restaurant early on a Thursday afternoon in late June five years ago.  No one knows why he was on that roof.    The papers hinted at drugs.  I am sure his family had some theories.  Maybe he simply snapped.  Whatever the real reason, it was dashed from his brain when his skull impacted the concrete.

Doug did not die on the spot.  Both the police and the paramedics were at the restaurant before he fell.  Someone had reported a man atop a restaurant downtown.  After an airlift to a regional medical facility, Mr. Grant lingered for some time in the intensive care unit.  It looked as though he would recover.  After several weeks, he was responding to stimuli.  He could squeeze fingers and would move of his own accord.  The doctors urged cautious optimism, and his family began to hope.  Unfortunately, it soon became evident that Douglas would never recover.   Douglas Grant was dead.


Poetic Trifles

I care not for gilded tales

of ruby lips,

nor for flowery meanderings

down paths of nature,

cascading words like lilting streams,

nor even for that cloaking darkness

that weakly veils less than forgotten pains,

.

These are mere poetic trifles,

exercises in word-craft skill,

or so boring,

so mind-numbingly trivial,

another aimless haiku

with no thought,

and no soul.

.

No.

I hunger for truths,

for Truth itself.

My heart burns to witness universality conquered

and confined to the page,

to read of myself,

of all man in the context of all that is.

Speak to me of perception within the great vastness

of Being.

Speak to me guiding words

of the depths of Why

arrayed in robes of bejeweled free verse,

or proclaimed brashly through screeching,

unwieldy rhymes,

.

These poetic trifles –

they bore my senses.

.

8/19/13


Settling Smoke

We were assembled,

all together in that room,

together yet separate.

I could see nothing of the others through the smoke

and the words of so many

different tongues.

Oh,

I could probably have caught something in their eyes,

yes,

even through the smoke,

and across the tongues,

but the eyes were too personal.

The eyes were too deep.

I was kin to each,

yet we were unknowns,

strangers with strange names.

We were kin through our questions,

and through our methods of finding the answers,

answers to questions like,

“Why are we here?”

and

“where do I belong?”

The smoke settled a bit

and the features started to become recognizable,

acquaintances?

But,

the eyes still eluded me,

the eyes were still too personal,

and too far away to touch.

I still avoided those questions,

those deep question I knew we all shared.

I avoided the questions,

but I began to perceive

how each had tried to answer them.

We were still together,

yet separate,

some more together than others,

Some still more separate yet.

Those questions bound us,

but the methods for answering,

the methods began to divide.

I longed to become a part,

a part of this group,

to belong.

I yearned for a place in the group,

and I reached out.

I reached out to take,

but held back

in my giving.

Like so many others,

knew the danger

in giving.

Giving leads to vulnerability,

and that lesson,

oh so painful in the learning.

10.19.98


Truth v2

In the eye of the cat

(Photo credit: hartp)

I have one green eye and one brown eye.  The green eye sees only the truth — the other sees much, much more.  From the day I took my first scalp in a war party, “the shaman is not, nor never was, a warrior.  That needs to be evident.” to the day I first walked in the spirit world, they all knew I was something differentnot looking for this degree of isolation.  There is not a they and I here, but a larger, family-style community identity.  They is the wrong concept here“.  A shaman of the plains People “there are no people other than the People.  don’t identify with indians or locale.” has many children, but he has no friends.

With my one green eye I can see the truth etched on the face of the distant peaks by the voice of the wind.  I can see the sad fate of a small child as he coughs blood and clings to a frightened young mother.  Yes, with my one eye I can see the truth of the all-father in every blade of grass dancing on the plain. “fill in this area — more detail of what truth can be seen

But it is with my right eye, the brown one, that I see that I am alone.  It is through this eye that I see that alone I entered this world, and in a few short years, alone I will leave it.  It is with my brown eye that I see my seed blown as dust across the plains.  Forgotten. “this foreshadows the ultimate tragedy coming down the line.  this is the desperation growing from the pain of the upcoming tale to be recounted.  this is a voice hopeless in its despair


Truth v1

I have one green eye and one brown eye.  The green eye sees only the truth — the other sees much, much more.  From the day I took my first scalp in a war party, to the day I first walked in the spirit world, they all knew I was something different.  A shaman of the plains people has many children, but he has no friends.

With my one green eye I can see the truth etched on the face og the distant peaks by the voice of the wind.  I can see the sad fate of a small child as he coughs blood and clings to a frightened young mother.  Yes, with my one eye I can see the truth of the all-father in every blade of grass dancing on the plain.

But it is with my right eye, the brown one, that I see that I am alone.  It is through this eye that I see that alone I entered this world, and in a few short years, alone I will leave it.  It is with my brown eye that I see my seed blown as dust across the plains.  Forgotten.


Mick On Everything

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