A wonderful sky last night! The Moon casting shadows through the clouds, Saturn shining high in the south, and Venus and Jupiter and their astounding conjunction over the western horizon. I watched with my mom and my brother, Randy. Then, my wife and I took the twins out to see, looking through grandpa's old binoculars, their sleepy eyes gazing wide. Even my nephew, Aaron, showed up to see. We spoke of how, today, many scholars hold that it would have been such a majestic conjunction long ago that led a few wise sky-gazers, seeing His Star in the east, to a humble abode. (It might have been some other mysterious occultation; nevertheless, how intriguing.) Standing there, beneath the sky and before the horizon, we were all astonished and amazed as the planets shone so dazzlingly and blazingly bright together.
Then, I sat quietly on my back porch, alone save with the silence of the wind, and watched until Venus and Jupiter set. Wondering all the while.
Wondering upon all who were gazing upon them that very moment. Wondering upon all who had ever gazed upon them before. Wondering upon all who would gaze upon them ever after. Wondering upon all those ever to follow such a beacon across the horizon. Wondering upon all the wonders of the Heavens.
Wondering...
01 July 2015
01 June 2015
Thunderbird's Transformation
My 1990 Ford Thunderbird. I bought it in '02.
I drove it away with just a couple spots of faded paint on the roof.
Over the last dozen years, the clear-coat has flaked and peeled away, the exposed paint has oxidized, and rust has begun to set in. Still not a dent, though, and when it runs it runs well; so, I have always wanted to refinish it.
It just so happens my sister married a painter.
After years of saying "we really should," we finally did.
Rather, he finally did.
I was supposed to help with the sanding and taping and spraying, but during a down stretch of rainy weather and while I was busy tackling the end of the school semester, he and his men dragged it into the shop and finished it up.
My thanks to Jeremy Clark and his Jereco crew for a fine job.
(Keep in mind, I have three other vehicles ready and waiting for you!)
The 'before' pictures fail to convey just how rough a shape this automobile really was in. Still, they do give a shade of an idea.
My wife, always mindful, snuck these pictures when we dropped it off at my brother-in-law's shop. Thanks, Rainbow!
Now it's like a brand new car!
If only it would start on a consistent basis...
I drove it away with just a couple spots of faded paint on the roof.
Over the last dozen years, the clear-coat has flaked and peeled away, the exposed paint has oxidized, and rust has begun to set in. Still not a dent, though, and when it runs it runs well; so, I have always wanted to refinish it.
It just so happens my sister married a painter.
After years of saying "we really should," we finally did.
Rather, he finally did.
I was supposed to help with the sanding and taping and spraying, but during a down stretch of rainy weather and while I was busy tackling the end of the school semester, he and his men dragged it into the shop and finished it up.
My thanks to Jeremy Clark and his Jereco crew for a fine job.
(Keep in mind, I have three other vehicles ready and waiting for you!)
The 'before' pictures fail to convey just how rough a shape this automobile really was in. Still, they do give a shade of an idea.
My wife, always mindful, snuck these pictures when we dropped it off at my brother-in-law's shop. Thanks, Rainbow!
Now it's like a brand new car!
If only it would start on a consistent basis...
25 May 2015
Or Quick As A Flash
Last month I wrote about the excruciatingly slow pace with which I have been writing of late.
Just yesterday, though, I wrote an entire story all in one sitting.
Of course, it's only a first draft, and it is but a piece of flash-fiction at around three hundred words. Still, to compose an entire tale at one single strike is--for me, at least--like lightning.
What's even more astonishing is that I got the idea for the story just the day before. Usually when an idea for a story comes to me, I mull it over for days, weeks, months, even years before I commit a single word. Especially such an idea of existential speculation. This idea so inspired me that I simply had to record it. And once I started I had to finish.
Anyway, perhaps it's being on a break from school, or having a day off of work, or maybe it's a just a singular stroke of creative energy, but it sure does feel inspiring. I could almost get accustomed to it.
I have read of writers composing stories in a single sitting. I have heard of authors writing a story in a day. I have even seen mention of writers challenging themselves to come up with a story per day for a year. I always thought such feats all but impossible for me with the way I write. Now I know different of myself. It's encouraging, but it's also, honestly, a wee bit frightening. What if the whole way I work--letting stories develop day to day, across entire seasons--is changing? What if my work, itself, is changing? What if, as a writer, I am changing? What if...
What if there's nothing wrong with that?
What if that's all right?
Even still, I do not envision myself quickening the pace of my writing to the point where I am tearing out story after story whenever I sit down at my desk. I suspect I will keep at it slow and steady overall, writing each story as it demands
For, no matter what else, it is as each story demands, in the end.
Just yesterday, though, I wrote an entire story all in one sitting.
Of course, it's only a first draft, and it is but a piece of flash-fiction at around three hundred words. Still, to compose an entire tale at one single strike is--for me, at least--like lightning.
What's even more astonishing is that I got the idea for the story just the day before. Usually when an idea for a story comes to me, I mull it over for days, weeks, months, even years before I commit a single word. Especially such an idea of existential speculation. This idea so inspired me that I simply had to record it. And once I started I had to finish.
Anyway, perhaps it's being on a break from school, or having a day off of work, or maybe it's a just a singular stroke of creative energy, but it sure does feel inspiring. I could almost get accustomed to it.
I have read of writers composing stories in a single sitting. I have heard of authors writing a story in a day. I have even seen mention of writers challenging themselves to come up with a story per day for a year. I always thought such feats all but impossible for me with the way I write. Now I know different of myself. It's encouraging, but it's also, honestly, a wee bit frightening. What if the whole way I work--letting stories develop day to day, across entire seasons--is changing? What if my work, itself, is changing? What if, as a writer, I am changing? What if...
What if there's nothing wrong with that?
What if that's all right?
Even still, I do not envision myself quickening the pace of my writing to the point where I am tearing out story after story whenever I sit down at my desk. I suspect I will keep at it slow and steady overall, writing each story as it demands
For, no matter what else, it is as each story demands, in the end.
26 April 2015
As Cold Molasses...
My goal is to write every day.
In my formative days, I always had a goal of a thousand words per day: four pages, or so. Doesn't seem like much, but that pace would produce 365,000 words a year--the equivalent of three or four novels.
I have come nowhere near meeting that goal for what seems like ages, ever since I finally decided to break down and go to college.
Almost five years ago, I began the pursuit of a master's degree in library science. I went on to earn an associate's and then a bachelor's in elementary education. Presently, I am about to finish my second semester of graduate work toward the long-sought degree in Library and Information Technologies.
For all that ceaseless while, almost every word I've written has been for school work.
Nevertheless, I have not completely abandoned my prose and poetry. Even if only a single sentence or verse, I have succeeded in writing each and every day.
I suppose that whatever I endeavour, I do try to devote myself.
One of the strategies I have employed in order to keep writing no matter what is to have a string of seasonal stories and poems that I keep in the drawer, pulling each one out as its season rolls around. I have a Christmas story that I've worked on every December for a few years. I have a Lammas piece that I work on each August. I also have a verse with which I continue every February. Working in such a way, indeed, I battle against fits and starts. Yet, each piece demands its season and so compels me to to write on it. In the last few years I have completed writing on an Easter story and a tale of Hallowe'en. Thus, I have been accomplishing progress.
Just the other day, I pulled out my Beltane pieces. I have a poem and story involving Walpurgis Night--April 30th to the 1st of May--which I have been working on for the last few Spring seasons. Looking them over, I was immediately excited to return to them. I might be able to come close to finishing the first drafts this year--after starting on them years ago--even if I work on them only a little bit each day for the next couple weeks. That is, if I can get my school work done and over with for the semester.
Anyhow, I am aware of writers that plunge themselves to the hilt into whatever piece they are writing until it is done. I was that same way once. Writing on a story or a poem and then putting it away for most of a year might seem like a maddeningly slow way to go, terribly inefficient, even lackadaisical. Still, it is the best way I have found these last few years--during which I have also been drawn away from my focus on writing by more than just school work--to keep myself writing each and every day.
I would be interested to hear what other writers think of such a method.
Still, even if as cold molasses, the ink keeps flowing.
In my formative days, I always had a goal of a thousand words per day: four pages, or so. Doesn't seem like much, but that pace would produce 365,000 words a year--the equivalent of three or four novels.
I have come nowhere near meeting that goal for what seems like ages, ever since I finally decided to break down and go to college.
Almost five years ago, I began the pursuit of a master's degree in library science. I went on to earn an associate's and then a bachelor's in elementary education. Presently, I am about to finish my second semester of graduate work toward the long-sought degree in Library and Information Technologies.
For all that ceaseless while, almost every word I've written has been for school work.
Nevertheless, I have not completely abandoned my prose and poetry. Even if only a single sentence or verse, I have succeeded in writing each and every day.
I suppose that whatever I endeavour, I do try to devote myself.
One of the strategies I have employed in order to keep writing no matter what is to have a string of seasonal stories and poems that I keep in the drawer, pulling each one out as its season rolls around. I have a Christmas story that I've worked on every December for a few years. I have a Lammas piece that I work on each August. I also have a verse with which I continue every February. Working in such a way, indeed, I battle against fits and starts. Yet, each piece demands its season and so compels me to to write on it. In the last few years I have completed writing on an Easter story and a tale of Hallowe'en. Thus, I have been accomplishing progress.
Just the other day, I pulled out my Beltane pieces. I have a poem and story involving Walpurgis Night--April 30th to the 1st of May--which I have been working on for the last few Spring seasons. Looking them over, I was immediately excited to return to them. I might be able to come close to finishing the first drafts this year--after starting on them years ago--even if I work on them only a little bit each day for the next couple weeks. That is, if I can get my school work done and over with for the semester.
Anyhow, I am aware of writers that plunge themselves to the hilt into whatever piece they are writing until it is done. I was that same way once. Writing on a story or a poem and then putting it away for most of a year might seem like a maddeningly slow way to go, terribly inefficient, even lackadaisical. Still, it is the best way I have found these last few years--during which I have also been drawn away from my focus on writing by more than just school work--to keep myself writing each and every day.
I would be interested to hear what other writers think of such a method.
Still, even if as cold molasses, the ink keeps flowing.
13 March 2015
In Memoriam
It has been a year now since my Dad died.
In his honour, here is the poem I wrote for his funeral.
In his honour, here is the poem I wrote for his funeral.
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