Tag: wordpress

Notebook Craze

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A sample of the notebook craze

I appreciate technology really; I’m just as addicted as you are. But when I say notebook craze, I’m not talking about the computer, I’m talking about actual notebooks. You know, those pieces of paper held together by glue and metal rings, yea, those. I want to take the time to thank the founders of Dollar Tree, Dollar General, and Family Dollar for all the hard work you put into stocking your shelves with these babies. The $1 store itself has become a treasure of fresh inspiration for me, a living blueprint for whatever it is my mind feels like building up. Every new notebook is an opportunity to create something new. If I can spare it (which I somehow always can), I have to purchase a new notebook. Maybe it’s a small journal of a thing. Maybe it’s a 180 page 5 subject wide rule or 100 page composition book who knows. Perhaps I’ll get the same one as last time in a different color. I am after all looking to brighten things up a bit around here. How many? Two? Three? Four? “No, that’s obsessive, one step at a time EC. Just pick one you really like.”  One? “Yes, one. And don’t forget the dish washing liquid you actually came to get but somehow got distracted by the school supply aisle.” Oh yea, that.

Spiral Notebooks

But this is really only the beginning. I still have to take the notebook home, and that’s when the fun really starts! I still have to decide what kind of notebook this is. What will I carve on the front cover to illustrate this new beauty to the world? What kind of purpose will this new storage place hold for my thoughts? Maybe I’ll fill it with random fragments of sentences, little immature and underdeveloped thoughts. A preliminary of something great but that looks right now like a foreign language. Maybe I’ll jot down a scripture or two, or elaborate on full sentences and transform them into a poem or two, a short story or an entire manuscript. Or this could just be the “just in case” notebook. You know, the little notebook you carry around in your purse (or suitcase/backpack for the men) just in case something good happens.(Please tell me you have a just in case notebook). But then I have to get into the notebook, and let’s not even talk about the intoxicating aroma of fresh paper; the undiluted blank state of blue and red lines. So pure and inviting, let me just write my name real quick. There, now that’s art.

These are the kinds of thoughts that run through my head all because of notebooks. A simple mission turned writer’s paradise. Is it an addiction? You can call it what you want. I mean, technically I don’t really need another notebook, BUT it will soon be a question of how I ever lived without it. So I guess I need another one because I will eventually need it. Makes sense? No? Good. I still got it. 🙂

Writing Desire

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As the hours turn into days and days into weeks and weeks into months and months into years, what keeps a writer writing? This is a question posed by writers, bloggers, poets, victims of writer’s block, etc. It is a question begged to be answered by the blank stare of white paper, literally or digitized into Word Documents and notepads. But the answer is simple: what keeps a writer writing is his desire to write. His need to pluck at random thoughts and stitch them into language. Sometimes it is a line or two, sometimes a whole paragraph, sometimes an entire manuscript, sometimes a poem, anything to keep writing; a transcribed confession of the heart that must be communicated on paper. Anything you want to do can only be done if you want to do it. It is a lesson that applies to positive and negative, good and bad, right and wrong. To right my wrong I have to want to do it. To strengthen my right I have to want to do it. To write I have to want to write.

imagesWriters are often told that doing more of it sharpens the skill, this is true. You’ll become more familiar with your individual writing style and your individual writing voice by doing it more. But the key to getting this far is to actually want to do it. What are you willing to sacrifice to ensure that you keep writing? Perhaps you’d like to set aside 15 minutes a day. This alone can make a big difference in shaping your writing habits and inspiring you to want to write more. Whatever it is, there must be an unquenchable desire to write in order to continue to do so. This desire may be influenced by a lot of things, but nothing should be able to kill that influence itself. It is untainted by the greatness or failures of those before or behind you. They are just grand instruments striking a cord at your beloved longing. Striking against the wanting in your chest and fueling a fire that just makes you want to write even more. The desire to write, it is the undying flame, and the living water. Even if you are your own audience, your ambition to create and invent and revolutionize through words is something you always hold on to.

Hide and Seek with Spring

One minute its warm and then the temperature takes a bow. He’s too clever to crouch, for then I will notice him. So yes, a bow will do. Just enough to add to the confusion of the weather. But today. Oh no today I’m on to him. It’s so very nice outside. Plus, I have seen splashes of yellows and trees budding reds. I have felt the gentle brush of warm air crawl upon my skin. I have watched the sun hopscotch with children and then hide behind the clouds again. I have seen the shelves of stores dressed in organic soil and flower pots. I awake to the kiss of sunlight nibbling at my face, though by the time I make it to the window you vanish before I could let you in. I approach the patio to get a taste of a calming breeze, then shutter at the sight of goosebumps on my skin. My short sleeves and dresses lay intermingled with my sweaters and jeans, poor things. They are confused in this maze of a world, this puzzle of a decision. My blinds are open again, trying to catch up with you. I’m sure the twinkle of the stars is really laughter. I think I even saw them slap high fives with the moon, for I am the peeping tom of the sky. Over here playing hide and seek with spring.

Sorry

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Have you ever been tired of saying that you’re sorry? Can’t courage your way out of this weakness; can’t forklift this stain out of your chest; can’t shatter these words into dust, drive them to the deepest ocean and wave them goodbye. After all, demons are easy to kill, for they coward under the strength of your words, melt under the banner of your truth. But I am no superwoman, not yet anyway. The law of my tongue half written, a scorching painting left unfinished. But I’m sorry sounds like broken English too distorted to be deciphered, so the flesh of my skin crawls away from the filth of this apology. My knees are stitched against the backbone of my breast, my arms stapled around these, my head tucked tightly inside of me. I am twisted. What kind of forgiveness got me in this fetal position? At some point a change has got to come. I have not the time to keep traveling on repeat; the same old album forgetting to change it’s tune; a dangling sacrifice. The birth and death of me are these apologies; both the resurrection and artwork of my eulogy. I have just had enough of these wretched…. I’m sorry’s.

Tainted Love

I-heart-you-hanging-Happy-Valentines-Day-2015-WallpaperIt is the language of all of mankind. I can walk the streets of any Germanic town, and while I am not very familiar with the language, I can still recognize love. If a man was struggling to release himself from a burning car, I and those who see this will not hesitate to assist him. I do not need to know that hilf mir is German for help me to understand that this man needs help. It is his body language and the human side of him that speaks this to me and I am able to understand this language. I can hear the yelp of a puppy and see the movement of his body to understand that he needs help without verbally communicating with this animal. Already we are able to see that Love is an action word.

 

african-american-children-painting1Its power transcends verbal communication. It can be seen on the street corner, in the corporate office, and in the eyes of a child. Children possess the purity of love. When they hug you there is no knife following it. There is no wicked smile behind their pupils, there is no criss cross of their fingers, and there is no deception in their hearts. I love working with children because every smile is genuine. Every “I Love You” is real. We have all experienced this kind of love at some point in our lives. But then we get older. We become grown-ups and we lose this valued possession. As a result, tainted Love is what we often see in a world as cold as this one.

 

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People throw this word around like it is part of some volleyball game. Whoever can use their members to bounce it in another direction must surely qualify as possessing it. “I Love You” doesn’t have the same ring to it as it used to. We have taken something as pure and as genuine as love and polluted it. It is the stench of a rotting corpse; the bend of a broken bow. I dodge tainted love as if running from a plague because it is not love at all; it is hatred glossed over with the words of flattery. Tainted Love is easy to spot. Whenever it is occupied by over-zealousness it sends up a red flag. I can tell that your actions will not mimic the beauty of your words, which are quite over the top. I can see the stain of insincerity and loathing on your teeth; I can smell the dishonesty seeping from your breath. It is not patient. It is not kind. It is not enduring. It is not real. A corrupt “I Love You” stings the skin and rots the mind. It teaches men how to hate and to disguise that hatred so that it looks like love. The greatest struggle then that mankind have to look forward to in this life, is to learn how to love again.