Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me

“It’s hot.” That’s the first thing I said to her, and she responded, “It’s because the earth tilts.” Then I fell in love with her and wondered what to say next.

“It won’t always be like this,” I said after a few minutes’ silence.

“No?”

“No. I’m pretty sure it won’t always be like this.”

“Why?” Her Prettiness asked.

“We won’t talk about that. I want to see you nights.”

She smiled and my heart melted, but I didn’t tell her that, because then how would I feel anything for the next 80 years if I didn’t have that important organ anymore?

One thing I might regret is not smiling much. A guy told me yesterday I have really white teeth. He dispensed this information after asking if I used teeth whitener.

“No.” And then some laughter.

But I wanted to be witty around Her Prettiness, and witty people don’t smile. I know this because I watch comedy television.

There have been times when I was flipping through the channels and FRIENDS came on and I said, “Where’s my life like that? I want to be like that.” I think I was quoting a rock song, which I know from listening to the radio a lot in high school.

It would go like this: normal line, normal line, normal line, punch line without a smile, audience laughs.

So I tried this with Her Prettiness, and I don’t know if it worked, but she did stay in the seat across from me in the coffee shop and she didn’t move, not even when my punch lines without smiles weren’t funny. Sometimes I would laugh at those because it seemed a shame for the sound waves to float out into infinity unnoticed. Then I wondered how many jokes that weren’t funny to the original audience landed on ears across the room and were carried out and taken to homes where the outside paint cracked and the 13-inch color TV with an antenna blared into the living room while a man in overalls held a beer in his sun-colored, rough hand. And the carrier became the teller and the beer-drinking recipient said, “Ha!”

Here, though, I swam in her eyes for a little bit, even if it wasn’t socially cool, because what if her pool dries up? I’d regret never taking a dive for as long as we both shall live.

“When it rains do you ever wonder if each drop has its own story and on the way down they all have a little party and are nothing but happy because, hey, we were up high and now we’re going down to soil and cement and horses and roofs and Singapore, but then we’re going back up again, and then it’s another party!”

“Do you spend a lot of time alone?” Her Prettiness asked.

“I don’t see the relevance of your question.”

“Has your best friend ever died?”

“No.”

Her Prettiness looked down and I knew what was going on in her beautiful mind. I almost grabbed her hand like old men do to their elderly brides, which I know about from the movies, but I held myself back because while eye-swimming is a little strange it’s not nearly as strange as touching, even if my soul did already shoot towards her and hover around her body because my insides can’t help but be near her, so my fingertips on her skin would have only been ceremonial anyway. “Tell me about your dead friend.”

She smiled a little because she draws from a deep well. “He”

He?!

“liked to hunt for frogs. He was very deliberate about making sure they could breathe in the little cages he made for them, though. ‘Death is not for the living!’ he would say, so he avoided ants on the sidewalk and captured spiders and took them outside, and made sure the frogs had big breathing holes.”

I loved her more than I did while swimming in her eyes because now I knew one more thing about her, and I already forgot that I was jealous her best friend was a boy. Then I might have said something stupid: “But isn’t death only for the living? I mean, a dead person can’t die, so death really is for the living. Does that make sense?” I asked tenderly because I wanted to be able to swim for the next 80 years.

She smiled because she understood that humans, even the good ones, say stupid things they later regret. “I think you’re right.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t miss him.”

Pause.

Another pause.

I stopped looking at the ceiling because I remembered I’m self-conscious about my Adam’s Apple. “I don’t read comics.”

“Not even the funnies in the paper?”

“Not even the funnies in the paper.”

Thirty seconds or more of silence passed. I only looked at the ceiling for a moment this time because I caught myself, and she wouldn’t say yes to forever with me if she wasn’t attracted to my throat.

Silences were OK around her because the soul operates differently than the brain: the brain needs stimulation like from sound waves or touch or taste. I wanted to ask what was at the center of her world because that was pretty important to me, and she was also important to me, so why not put the two together and have happiness times two?

“Do you think Hawaii gets lonely?”

“Hawaii is a couple of islands, so they have each other,” Her Prettiness said right away, and that just made me think of having her and her having me, but how can I have a normal conversation when that’s going on in me, or rather around her, since my soul had already found a home near her?

“How long have you been the smartest person you know?” I asked.

“I don’t mind your questions,” Her Prettiness said, and I hoped she said that in 2017 and 2022 and 2057 around several different dinner tables; I wanted to see her nights.

“Sometimes when the right song plays I forget sadness exists,” I whispered to her while leaning forward, but she didn’t lean forward like me because she’s read a lot of British Literature and she knew where she’s been and where she’s going and therefore knew the best choice to make in that moment. “For a couple minutes, anyway, but the feeling goes away pretty quickly and – bummer – it’s back to life, back to reality,” which is a song I’m familiar with.

“I come here a lot,” Her Prettiness said, and she might as well have said, “I do,” because I made a plan.

I didn’t watch her leave because I know about the good guys in British Literature.

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Letters to Dimlat: Starve the Old Man

How does a man die, Dimlat?  He may expire in diverse ways, of course, but some men die of starvation, and this is how we will kill the old man: we will starve him to death by ceasing to give him all the delicacies he needs in order to thrive.  We will slowly shift the rhythms of your life so as to create the sort of conditions where a new life can be implanted inside you, and the old wretched man will starve for lack of sustenance.

But of this be sure: while you will receive help from another place, it is vital that you continually prove your commitment to carrying out this murder – this new life in you depends much on the perishing of the old man, and you possess considerable amounts of control over this.  That is why it’s been written: “You will always reap what you sow,” and also, “You cannot serve two masters.”

Until next time,

Serif

Inspiration Comes Because of Discipline

Elizabeth Gilbert’s thoughts on creativity and work are running through my head. The more I read and the more time that passes, the more I realize that if I’m going to do anything, I should spend my time creating something and then putting it out there for the world to see, not keeping it to myself for somebody to maybe discover when I die, and not writing random blog posts or linking to interesting Youtube videos or articles on Facebook. If I want my life to matter then I need to put in the hard work of creating something – a book or film – and then sending it out into the world. If it sucks then it sucks. If no little genius visits my corner of the library as I concoct a story of D******** or whatever I am compelled to work on, I will still show up and write because that’s my job. If I am visited by little fairies and they choose to sprinkle me with their magic dust and my story ends up being fantastic, then great. I will celebrate, thank the god, have a little rest, and then move on to the next project, because that’s my job. Humans were made to work really hard and then rest for a bit, and then work real hard again and rest. And after a time of rest, get back to work. That is the rhythm of life – work, rest, work, rest, work, rest. Don’t wait for a little muse to descend onto your shoulder and dictate to you. If Madeleine L’Engle was correct, inspiration comes during work, not before it. If Rob Bell is right, inspiration comes because of discipline. If Stephen Pressfield was on to something, sit down and don’t quit no matter what.

(from april 15, 2009)
(do as i say not as i do)

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Don’t. Waste. Your Life.

humans said, “who are you, god?”  and the god said, “once upon a time…”

and so if you’re going to do anything in this world, tell a story.  if you’re the business type, tell a story by leaving your house, making a plan, and investing money creatively and for the common good.  if you’re the science type, tell a story by looking into the endless sky or tiny atoms and share with the world the wonders you find there.  if you’re the creative, non-type-a personality type and have much to say but no magic tongue to say it with, exert your energy towards creating something beautiful and true with your hands and imagination – a painting? a novel? a movie? – for the world to see and experience.

but don’t sit around doing nothing worthwhile.  don’t waste your life.

we are to be people who celebrate the beauty of the world, and who through art and music and dance and literature and whatever, create more beauty ourselves, which will enable people to grow in their imagination to the point where they can actually understand something of the beauty of god himself and so be drawn into his life.
–nt wright

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And that Light was the Light of Men

It’s almost 9 pm and it’s still light out.  Here on the edge of the time zone it stays dark later.  Across the big lake – one of the GREAT lakes, actually – the sun is going down even though it’s only almost 8:00.

I remember when I moved here last June and I didn’t arrive until 10:00 PM and the sun’s presence was still sort of felt and seen even though she went away about 10 minutes prior.  The horizon still glowed, but I couldn’t see it very well because of all the buildings and houses.

It’s pretty crowded here, but not too crowded.

I don’t know what it is about light, but there’s something to it.  I think photography and videography are all about the light – capturing the light, using the light to your advantage.

Wikipedia tells me that a shadow is an area where direct light from a light source cannot reach due to obstruction by an object.  I think this is a good definition because I think of it metaphorically.  I think about the good things hiding in the shadows because there’s more darkness than light.  I notice this especially around Winter, but it turns out the seasons only matter partially.  Really what matters is events and relationships.  And stuff gets swallowed into the darkness.

When your fingers are locked with somebody else’s fingers it’s like summer of the hands, even in December.  I know because I felt it.  At that point the shadow metaphor doesn’t work, though, because it’s dark where the fingers lock, dark and sweaty, but guess what?  It doesn’t matter because it’s summer of the hands.

At work the other day I was talking about how I needed another job and a co-worker said I could come be his house boy, but I said no.  Actually I think I laughed because I’m laid back, obviously, and don’t like even small confrontations.  He’s in his 40’s, he has a beard and he’s gay.

My friend from New Jersey says “retarded” like this: “retardit.”  I don’t usually use that word.  I do miss my friend from New Jersey because I could tell him anything.  There aren’t many people I could tell anything to, but he’s one of them.  He got his Master’s in counseling.  He’s dating a girl named Sarah, and she’s nice.  She gave me two movie tickets for my birthday last year and I still haven’t used them.

Why don’t I go to the movies more?  It’s dark in the theater but a story unfolds for a couple hours and the flashing light is the writer & director’s vision of what life is like, or should be like.  It’s his master metaphor for life, or at least that’s what Robert McKee says, and he’s an expert.

When I was in New Jersey last year I didn’t make much money but it was really expensive to live.  That’s one of the reasons I moved to Michigan where it’s a lot cheaper but I still don’t have money because I have lots of bills to pay, what with school loans and car insurance and rent.  Oh, and food.  I buy food, too, so after all those bills are paid I don’t really have much left over to save.

It’s pretty easy to separate things into to light and dark, but I read one time from a smart theologian that people full of shadows might also be full of a light that causes them.

And there’s so much more.

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