Sunday, September 11, 2011


Hope is fulfillment deferred
A foray of the will
Tides that flow and ebb
A thought from the past bringing a smile

Hope is a child's voice
Asking questions, confident of answers
untamed, tumbling hair
Eyes so bright

Hope is admitting your wrong
Proving your humanity
Thoughts that burn

Hope is a Man
A body pierced
Blood and water mixed
A divine remedy

Friday, September 2, 2011

The Space In-between

The space in-between, where dreams are spun but never realized where fantasies are conceived but inevitably die

Pictures of life that are different somehow, better, brighter, more beautiful, and fake

Dangerous are the creations of this in-between, just real enough to tease, but never true enough to taste

Sweetness indescribable and seeming of no end , but bitter bite of winter when trod under by experience

Somewhere in-between what is and what could be, people you think you know but not really

Carbon copy shells, that smile, wave, laugh, love, and lie

Stuck in-between prophecy and lunacy, the ideal of joy and the cruelty of fate

Life and death are bed-fellows, feasting tables laden in the middle of barren fields strewn with bones

In-between decision and action, such an easy place to be

Yet endlessly frustrating, ultimately debilitating

In-between emotions that ebb and flow with fury

Impossible to stem, here creating, here destroying

In-between good and evil, imagination and asphyxiation

Born to dream, but destined to fall short

All have encountered in-between, some perpetually, some only on occasion

Once visited, truth is clearer, but it is in some small way, wished incoherently false

A friend, G.K. Chesterton, works of literature, and life..Part 2

The Body
      First, to clarify, the term "body" references the bulk of a work of literature and  is not an allusion to the how many odd pounds of flesh, muscle, and bone that happen to house the human soul. In short, I speak of written text and not human anatomy.

     There are many functions for the body of a work of literature. One of those main functions is character development and nuance. Generally, many of the main characters are introduced in the first several chapters, although this is certainly not always the case. It would be theoretically possible to read only the first several chapters and the conclusion of a work and get a very general sense of what happened in-between. However, the end result would be a disturbing lack of satisfaction and a fundamentally shallow understanding. The body of any text is there for a reason, to better inform the reader and allow he or she to develop a relationship with the characters and story-line. Each part of the body is crafted to guide the reader into a better understanding of each character's feelings, personality, and experience, as well as the overall theme. When the conclusion of any work is reached, it is as if the reader has taken a journey with each character and emerged better and more aware of human experience as a result.

     The body of our lives is very similar to the body of a text. It is where we find ourselves, develop relationships with others, and learn about what purpose and meaning really entail. Major and minor characters pass through our lives, some merely remembered for one solitary conversation, others for years of investment and shared tears. Yet, all somehow significant in their influence.
    There are peaks and valleys, highs and lows. But, just as in literature, it seems the deepest understanding stems from the times of suffering and heartbreak. Such times are what make us able to relate to the other characters that enter our lives, humanity understood through similar experience.
     A good literary work is infused with artistic unity that leaves no fact insignificant. The author crafts and forms each section to cry testimony to his overarching purpose. The Author of Life crafted His story in the very same way. Every individual witnesses the glory and purpose of the Author through all He has created. This can be seen just as equally in a full and crimson sunrise or a beautiful and chaotic gale.
      Yet, the difference, is that in the story of life individuals are given the choice to follow the Author's plan or to reject it. If indeed there is an Author of Life, it would only make sense to reason that entity would have a purpose for such a creation and that those involved in His story would find their ultimate calling and fulfillment when they are in right relationship with the author.

At some point, I will continue with a post on endings in literature and life. But, there may be some random interspersing of other material between that time and this. Or there may not be. 

Thursday, August 11, 2011

A friend, G.K. Chesterton, works of literature, and life..Part 1

"Books are not real life". Those championing this phrase generally do so with a kind of superior practicality and rustic sophistication. They live in the "real world" and therefore are more acutely aware of those that do not. If you are one of those people, please do not take offense. I am not insulting you, but merely offering some thoughts upon which to muse. In fact, I would go so far as to state my conviction that books are at their very core, real life. Please do not misunderstand, there are those who misapply my conclusion. For I do not refer to some melodramatic and nebulous ideal of every book's content as correspondent to real life. Rather, I use the term "book" as a reference to literary form, as its specific medium of printed communication. Allow me to explain..

Author, Dedication, Introduction, etc..
How many times has some individual or another read a dedication at the beginning of a book and wondered at its significance? Why is this specific work dedicated to Maud Beacher(fictional name used to prove a point)? Why not some other book? Why not some other women, man or child? Why not a virile beast from some other continent? Why not a blathering blogger such as myself? Forgive me, I digress..

The point, is that every book has some form of inspiration, reason, or background for its creation. This is true from the dullest textbook to the headiest novel. There must always be an author. Since it is intrinsically impossible for an author to be completely devoid of some sort of experiential existence, it follows that their creation undeniably stems in some form or another from this same experiential existence. Therefore, it seems reasonable to extrapolate that if a reader is better acquainted with the circumstances surrounding an author, that reader will better understand the author's inspiration and his or her resulting creation or work.

Is this not also true in life? Life, just as any other grand work, has an Author. Consequently, life can only be best understood when the "liver" is as familiar as possible with the character of the Author and His purpose for creating. What reader would not exult at the opportunity to question Homer upon his meanings and inspirations concerning The Iliad? Would it not make sense that this same passion and interest should be put forth to better comprehend the Author of Life's intent for creating?

 Many times, authors are misquoted and taken out of context. Some do this out of an intent to maliciously misrepresent the author. Others, simply act out of an uninformed naivety. Still others argue it is impossible to truly know the author's intent and therefore whatever application best describes an individual is the one that individual should propagate.

The Author of life is similarly misunderstood, misquoted, blasphemed, taken out of context, or simply ignored. Yet, apart from Him, it is fundamentally impossible to truly understand and fully comprehend why there is life, what life is, and the result of its conclusion or ending. 

On an individualistic and profane(as in non-religious, not evil/bad) level, this principle similarly applies. Each human being has a background, and their parents have a background, and their grandparents have a background, etc.. Each life has an author, two that have become one. Each life is by default dedicated to something or someone, if nothing else, to the self. Each life has some sort of introduction/back-story by which it is best understood.

This post was inspired by a friend, G.K. Chesterton's The Man Who Was Thursday, and an unforeseen set of circumstances that required a pause before completing the last chapter of the aforementioned book. The result of these factors led to contemplation, and the result of that contemplation led to this monologue..More to come..

Saturday, June 11, 2011

A lazy summer night...

I sit, contemplating the landscape spread out before me. Lady wind playfully frolics in the branches of a willow tree in the distance, dancing from one leaf to another. The sun sets slowly, its last fading rays casting a reddish blush in the vast reaches of the sky. My heart rests within me, full of the beauty that permeates my eyes. God is good...