call2create

Unemployed?

2011-01-05T18:31:00.000-08:00

I guess that I could count this as a good thing. I write. I write much. However, I really haven't written for an audience to whom I felt a particular accountability. Now writing everyday I somehow feel that responsibility toward my reader(s) of which I have few. I like to write humor and could do a good impression Erma Bombeck's style. Having so much talent makes it hard to know where to put all that talent.

I have a problem. I take life way too seriously. Recently, I have tried injecting a bit of humor in my writing. On the positive side I find the funny headlines grab attention. You see the struggle. To thy own self be true. Does that include being true to one's pocketbook?

I have started this book about unemployment and the pursuit of its gainful opposite. Having lived these nearly six decades on the earth, I recognize that the powers that run things around here have failed to set things things up in my favor. For example, I believe that the whole cover letter/resume thing may just favor the businesses as opposed to the job seeker. Somehow I think they use this approach to weed humorous writers out the serious business of “making a living.”

My book, thus, has to do with circumventing this resume/cover letter process. I have based the book on two scientific principles (1) Valuing and (2) Six Degrees of Separation. I believe first of all that most people have as their greatest concern in life old number one. I feel okay with that. I think that God has hard wired us such. If we failed to concern ourselves with number one, who would?

Finding gainful employment follows the same route as following a gainful mate. Hear me out here. On a date we usually skip the cover letter and resume. And we usually skip the part about trying to sell ourselves to the potential mate as practiced in a job interview. Instead, we talk about them. “I love your sense of humor. I really enjoy talking to you.” We value them, right? In turn our value goes up in their eyes. My book builds on this principle. Value them. They value you.

Secondly, infiltrate the circles of those with whom you want to work. The job marketeers would have us shotgun the job market with our cover letter/resume campaign. Or they have us pick out one employer and try to convince them of our value. I believe in middle ground here. I say, “Conquer the world. Just make sure you pick a small world.” The book describes how to identify the six-degree worlds out there and make connections within that world.

So today, I throw out this blog to see what interest people have in the topic of unemployment mixed with humor. You don't find it funny? I don't either, but I tried.

Poseidon, Tridents, and Other Mysteries of the Sea

2011-01-04T16:26:00.000-08:00

Oregon posted bounty on a fish lovingly called the Northern Pike Minnow aka Sqawfish. You see, Northern Pike Minnows have this bad habit of eating salmon smolt. If you catch enough Northern Pike Minnows, you can earn five dollars a fish. I figured it up sans calculator. All to soon I had visions of a bulging bilge of green-backed Northern Pike and a bulging bank account with green backs of another sort. I untied Lulu from the dock and set out to make my fishy fortune.

Northern Pike Minnows haunt the shallows where small salmon congregate. I own a sailboat with one of those things that sticks down about five feet. We call em keels. They keep one upright in the wind and downright stuck in the sand. The keel meant that I had to anchor out in the rapids as opposed to the safety of the shoreline. Lulu, my sailboat, settled up-stream of a wing dam. I suppose that I have to describe a wing dam for the non-native species among us. Interestingly enough, wing dams have nothing to do with wings or damming the water. Rather they redirect water and more importantly sand flow They help to keep river channels open for commercial traffic—read barges. Wing dams look like a tepee without the skin.

Lulu hated anchoring, and so does her skipper now. She started lunging and lurching at her water-bound tether. I felt before I knew that something had gone awry. Somehow the anchor line had wrapped itself around that keel. Lulu started spinning and slipping quickly toward the wing dam. Wing dams from the road appear rather small in contrast to the mile-wide Columbia. Let me assure you. Up close they have enough bulk to sink a sailboat with one wing tied behind their evil backs.

As Lulu slithered toward the wing dam, I started my motor to keep me requisite eight or so inches away from death. Running forward with a knife in hand (don't try this at home) I cut my anchor and escaped. Anglers watched wide eyed as I nonchalantly eased away from the wings of death. This day I felt glad to have covered my entire body with a water-proof rain suit. It failed to keep me dry on the inside if you get my drift.

All real sailors have a secret suicidal side. It really took little time to talk my friend Dave into an anchor recovery mission. With a grappling hook and fifty feet of line, we transversed the very burial grounds of my anchor. In short order we lost both the hook and the line. Dave has a firmer grasp on reality than myself. “Wait, till Summer. When the water level goes down, I bet you can stand over there and retrieve your anchor. This comes from a guy who fished his cell phone out of eighteen feet of water after having left it there for two days. It still worked. ” I figured with his record that I should listen.

Summer came. I took a pitchfork and carefully probed the river for my anchor. My boating adventure next to the wing dams had garnered some stares. However, if you really want to draw attention to yourself some time, try walking in the river with a pitchfork in your hand. “What's that?” The pitchfork caught on something. I pulled up his grappling hook, his line, my anchor, and my line. I pulled them ashore with a smile as if I always fished for anchors with a pitchfork nice summer days.

I never really understood the whole trident (pitchfork) thing with Poseidon. It makes sense now. For all you Greek mythology scholars it has nothing to do with dishing out godly disciplines on mere mortals. The poor guy just lost his anchor.

Writing with Brown Ink

2011-01-04T02:41:00.000-08:00

I would like to tell you that I loved writing ever since I discovered brown ink in my gaping diaper. Even though I spoke it every day, writing the English language evaded me most of my young life. Every year the subject grew a little harder. By the time I reached my senior year I just guessed at punctuation.

With my dread of English I have little idea why I chose journalism as an elective in my senior year of high school. I just chock it up to one of my many clueless decisions in life. The journalism teacher gave us a lengthy assignment on the first day of class. Because it came on our first day, most of the students considered the assignment an unfortunate mistake. I had a nasty habit doing my homework even if it took all night. The next day the instructor asked who had done their homework assignment. Only I raised my hand. On the basis of that one assignment, she chose me as the paper's editor.

Even though English made little sense to me, journalism for some odd reason did. It appeared simple enough. Answer the five W questions, put the important stuff at the start of the article, create a catchy headline, throw in a picture or two, lay it out, and publish. Fortunately, I had a column called Aden's Anecdotes which required little actual English. I wrote this pun-filled satire about teachers with the help on an excellent caricature artist. It usually ran a hundred words at most.

With that illustrious background I marched off to college to pursue a degree in Chemical Engineering which I abandoned when I discovered the true nature of engineering. Do you know that they actually calculate fluid flow through pipes? I wanted something more exciting. In another clueless decision I switched to English. They tried again. I still failed to learn the fine art of writing.

Along the way, I have had near misses with the writing life. A seminary professor encouraged me to publish. A pastor friend sent me to a writer's conference. A friend explained to me the rules of grammar in a way that I could understand. I sent an article to a health magazine. Wham, the first time out of the box I got published and a $300 check. It still represents the easiest money I ever made as a writer. Evidently, fate has either blessed or cursed me and now you. I'll keep on writing. I just hope you'll keep on reading. Oh, and send some money please.

One Season, Two Angels, Three Women

2010-12-24T19:34:00.000-08:00

One Season

Charles Dickens walked a winter night and watched white snow turn black in the acidic rain of nineteenth-century England. He saw children as young as five filing from factories dirty, hollowed-eyed, silent,and tired from the long hours of work in dirty factories fired with greed and fraught with danger. Raw sewage from the thousands of horse drawn cabs, cattle, and hogs mixed with human waste that ran down the street into the Thames where London's masses got their water and their cholera. Dickens often walked ten to twenty miles a day through London's filth. Privileged kids sang in a school yard, “Ring around the Rosie, pocket full of poses, Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down.” The cryptic song echoed through the streets. Coal fired chimney pots belched black soot that covered London's edifices and coated London's lungs. Two classes of people passed in a cloud of pollution mistakenly called fog. They seldom acknowledged one another, but barriers break down on Christmas Eve.

Mr. Dickens faced his own set of problems. His literary career teetered on failure's ledge with attendant financial ruin. Nineteenth century Britain used debtor's prison as common means of punishing the poor; thus, even a person of Dicken's stature feared poverty. Watching a family trim a tree through a frosty window, he probably reminisced about past, simpler times. Did a father coughing up black mucus tear him back to the present? A man and a nation hung in the balance. Dickens later wrote in The Tale of Two Cities, “It was the best of time, it was the worst of times. This night Dickens thought of Christmas past, present, and future. He went home and wrote a haunting tale about greed and death and the consequences of a life spent chasing wealth. Unlike the cutesy Christmas movies we watch on television this Christmas Eve, “A Christmas Carol” paints a bleak picture. In spite of the soot and sewage Dicken's finds a message of hope. People can change, and they can make a difference in the lives of others.

Today I pedaled through a bitter cold wind sucked from Hood River down the Columbia River Gorge into Portland's streets. I stopped my bicycle on a bridge overlooking Interstate 205 to warm my hands and to practice something they call “mindfulness “in psychology. As a writer I simply call in looking--really looking in the same way that Dicken's looked on his twenty mile walks through the city. He observed with all five senses. I attempted the same. The harried air carried no smells as if in too big a rush to carry odoriferous baggage. It's cold sting on my face made me feel strangely alive in it's deathly grip. A dark, gray cloud blanket muted winter's light, and drivers turned on their lights not to see but to be seen. The clock read 2:30 pm. Like a huge Christmas tree, a red string of taillights snaked through the gigantic fir boughs covering hillsides adjoining I 205.

Standing over that highway I thought of Dickens and the world he faced. I thought of my world. A few days ago a young man plotted to blow up thousands of Christmas revelers in Portland Pioneer square at the annual tree lighting event. America fights on the fronts of two wars this night. Iran and Korean could make for two more. Setting a new high for Christmas, gas prices surpassed the three dollar mark. Over-population, pollution, world-wide economic collapse, and threat of pandemics threatens our very existence. Rather than seek solutions, nations fight. Wikileaks exposed them. The Wikileaks founder finds himself in jail.

As in the days of Dicken's Our Christmas Carol has a bleak side. It also has a bright side found in people driven by the cold winds of Christmas that in some way makes one feel strangely alive even in the presence of death and disaster. One finds hope in the random acts of kindness (RAK) performed on city streets without fanfare, at little expense, with no expectation of profit or payback. My Dicken's experience highlights RAK's of five women on a cold day in Portland, Oregon.

Let me start some years ago on a summer day actually to introduce my first woman. Why? Well, she sets the stage for the other four, and she deserves honorable mention in my tale. Please reader, indulge this one anachronism.

Two Angels
I've met two angels in my life—one white and one black. Both came to me during difficult circumstances. Both came to me early in the morning. Some years ago a white lady walked over to me in a forest park in Sandy, Oregon. Only she I inhabited that park that morning. She handed me a tract which simple read, “Publish the Name of the Lord.” I have never seen a tract like it before nor have I seen one since.

“God, told me to give this to you.” As quickly as she arrived, she left. Pondering in years gone by I would even say, “She disappeared.” I felt as if I entertained an angel unawares as the Bible puts it. I glanced at the tract. I had just lost a secure job with Multnomah County in Portland, Oregon. I had a dream to write full-time but had a family to support. I had a decision to make to seek another JOB or follow my dream. She came to me in the midst of this turmoil with that message. I chose writing. Her simple act to obey a higher inner voice had a profound impact on my life.

The other four ladies I met in the Christmas season 2011 in the course of two days. A young, black lady stood on a street corner paralleling the street where I waited on my bicycle for the light to change. Normally a busy street Martin Luther King Blvd this morning could have hosted a church service. We glanced, but before I could appropriate avert my gaze, a smile exploded across the twisted, tortured muscles of her palsied face.

“Merry Christmas.” She spoke with a tenderness that nearly made me cry and makes me cry now. I wanted to kiss that twitching face, but I dared not desecrate the moment or the beauty of my black angel.

“You got your shopping done?” She asked.

“I'm all alone.” I replied.

Most would pity or patronize me. She only said, “God, bless you.” As the light changed, a peace fell over me, and I felt rather than heard a message from my angelic friend that said, “Everything will be okay.” This time I disappeared; however, I think had I looked back I would have seen an empty street corner.

Three Women

Old
Permanently hunched over, she looked up at her world as if looking from under a baseball cap pulled down too far on the her head. However, instead of a baseball cap she bore a gold BMX helmet. She had obviously fallen before and wore the helmet to protect the last valuable asset left her. This little lady walked at her own peril,l but she walked, and she displayed a courage and dignity greater than any helmet bearing athlete I had ever seen. I whispered, “Merry Christmas, sweetheart, as I passed.”

Middle Aged Mom
She had cute face but carried a bit too much junk in the trunk as the kids say. Loud, brassy, and showy she liked drawing attention to herself. She got my attention. I watched her and her two little girls at the checkout. One of the girls had sneaked a pair of pink slippers into the shopping basket. Mom loudly but patiently explained to the little sneak that she had three identical slippers at home. She stopped short of yelling, berating, or slapping her daughter. For once in my life I picked the fast line. I loaded my bicycle trailer as the trio pasted me outside.

“Thank you for taking another car off the street.. Merry Christmas!” She spoke to me before I came to understand that she had directed her comments at my wide backside.

“Well, thank you.” A motorist has never thanked me for riding a bicycle in the years I have ridden Portland's rainy routes.

I head her exclaim as she flew out of sight, “See, girls, that's what we call THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT.” She referred to herself. Showy, brassy, but classy,she had her faults, but she had the right stuff for momhood. Through her faults she taught by example both the value and ease of saying something nice to another. It cost her little, taught her children something, and meant much to me.

Young Oriental
I followed a crowd toward the crosswalk on Powell Boulevard which would take me back to the other side of I 205. She kept looking back at me. Many guys stand my height and many of us unknowingly intimidate small women. I slowed to give her space. She slowed. Everyone left us standing alone on yet another street corner. She looked up into my face.

“Which way to one--two--two street?” She asked in broken English.

I have a horrible sense of direction, but I knew that I 205 runs in the low to mid nineties. “Let's see. We're on ninety-second.”

“Which way to one two two?” She repeated patiently as if to say, “I don't need your rambling. I would like an answer you dumb American.”

“It's that way. She turned and walked over to the bus stop.”

I followed. “Let me check the schedule.” The number nine bus only went to ninety-eighth. It would take her another a six blocks before turning in a way perpendicular to her course. How does one explain that through a language barrier. I tried. I failed.

She smiled at me. “You're so nice.”

I didn't feel so nice. I feared for her, and tried to once again explain.

“Is one-two-two that way?” She asked yet a third time.

“Well, this bus will take you in the right direction.”

She smiled again. She had left for an adventure and had found it and felt satisfied just to travel in the right direction. She seemed nonplussed by the fact that her ride would only last six blocks. I walked away still fretting for her.

Returning to the crosswalk, I looked back to see if she got on the bus okay. She stopped before boarding. She looked over at me, smiled, and gave me a shy little wave. I had made her day, and she mine.

Undoubtedly my little tale has little of the magic afforded Dicken's Christmas Carol, and will probably fail to set me on literature's stage. However, like Dicken's I can say that I stopped and looked. I saw a world in trouble with a coal-dust kind of misery that has clung and continues to clog and cling to man's walk through history. I also saw that glimmer of goodness that reveals itself at this time of year that allows people of different classes, race, and sex to talk to one another and pass on a simple Merry Christmas. Portland, family, and friends I wish you just the same.

Pain

2010-08-05T20:16:00.000-07:00

Some say that writers live as tortured souls. I doubt it. I don't know that writers have any more pain than anyone else. Jesus said, "The rain falls on the just and unjust alike." Everyone experiences pain in life. Writers may have an allergy to pain. Allergies occur when the body has increased sensitivity to an irritant. I do believe that writers by nature of their giftedness and the practice of that giftedness may experience pain more keenly than the general populace.

Some turn to alcohol or other drugs to kill the pain which I believe ranks as the biggest mistake a writer can make in life. I do my best writing writhing. For the writer facing pain does not mean developing a thick skin. If anything, the writer should want to feel more.

Some people talk about journaling as a means to deal with pain, to get it out of the mind and body on to a page. They feel unburdened. That particular benefit of journaling has never worked for me. I write with passion. When I journal I feel things more deeply, and I ingrain the pain deeper into my psyche. I learn and remember more when I write. I always take notes at church. Taking notes makes me process more, remember more, and apply more.

I have to exercise caution when I journal. In the past journaling has lead me to the edge of what I can handle. I turned to poetry for processing pain. When I write poetry I tend to get wrapped up in the beauty of the language and the beauty around me. That beauty balances the pain I feel inside. It keeps me a safe distance from the edge.

Recently I lost an opportunity to work for a relief agency that seemed like perfect fit for my passion and talent. They hired me. I met with the co-director. I told my family, friends, and even announced it on Facebook. And then they backed out without explanation or recourse. It all seemed so unfair, so calloused, so hurtful that I really felt at a loss to deal with it.

And so I wrote poetry. For some reason I found myself writing about a Bible personage named Joseph. Joseph's father favored him and gave him a coat of many colors. As a result his brothers hated him. They sold him into slavery. God blessed Joseph with wisdom and success in Egypt. A great famine came upon the earth. Joseph as a result of a dream from God had saved up seven years of food in Egypt. With that food Joseph saved his brothers and father from starvation. It's a poem about having a gift and living misunderstood by family and friends.

Here is that poem.

Recognize

I had a many colored coat
my blessing under cloth remote
judged by my covering
tossed in the pit my own brother's hovering
coat now tattered
sold, slaved, and battered

Stripped of all that mattered
a blessing exposed and scattered
past a family to a hurting world
as abuse from brothers hurled

Embrace pain
polish gifts from God's blessings gain
favor from God and man
free from coat, free to stand

to brothers who to me meant harm
I offer naked blessing's arm
the many colored coat gone
they see the future beyond

from my outer royal cloak still they shrink
can they ever see the real me I think
and remove the blue garb. I weep
your money keep

It's your brother it's me I'm the gift
the one from whom my coat rift
and exposed to develop a blessing
to all the world addressing

their needs met by God through me
now you see
the painful plan
enabled by a gracious God enacted by sinful man

Now let's eat
tell me can I my father meet
tell him my gift shines
of the colored coat remind

him of the son
dead, gone, in pit buried on eagles wings runs
his talent once hidden by coat gaudy
fully developed, gifted, now strong in both mind and body.

from a coated boy now man size
Do you him now recognize?

rollie aden 2010

Un-Unemployed

2010-07-29T01:41:00.000-07:00

Sleep escapes me. I have a JOB interview tomorrow and could use it. However, I feel at peace. I write. Today I rode up beside a fellow on my bicycle for the purpose of intercourse, social intercourse as the word used to mean. Portland has a great bicycle system. For the life of me I fail to figure why folks who use it ride as if they still sat in a car. Portland, if you want to isolate, drive. If you want to enjoy relationship, ride. A bicycle poses few barrier between you and the person next to you. Why create one?

I found out that he worked at a restaurant. I told him that I had joined the ranks of the unemployed. I nearly choked on the words. Why do I keep saying that? The dictionary listed four definition of employed. Only one had to do with the exchange of money for services rendered. The other definitions talked about "employed" as the verb one use to indicate the use of time, talent, and energy. For example, "I employed my time reading and writing at the library."

Recently, I decided that I would no longer wait for someone to do something that I can do for myself. I employ myself. I have talents, time, and energy to use now. No one has to pay me to use them. I will not allow those precious commodities to waste and wane waiting for others to accept me as qualified. The deacon complained to the pastor, "Pastor, you're paid to be good. I have to be good for nothing."

I decided to volunteer; rather, I decide give my talents away to others who could use them. I can tell you this. I have had the best week of my work life maybe even the best week of my life. I have never felt so alive, so creative, so useful, so full of hope. In the best sense of the word I self-employed which I can tell you has many more benefits to the self-implosion I did prior.

I have eliminated the U word from my vocabulary. If one proves faithful in employing oneself without money, then employment with money follow. My needs will get met in a big way. Tomorrow, rather today is my birthday. This paradigm shirt truly ranks as the best birthday gift I have ever given myself or received from God.

So my advice to my dear readers, all five of you. If you find yourself unemployed. Un-unemploy yourself right now. You employ you. No one else does it for you. They only give you money. Good night P. town.

Shell Shame

2010-04-06T22:14:00.000-07:00

scared, alone
a pile of clothes turtle across the floor
block escape to fear's door
boyhood fear in a man's body now roam

glued to basement bed
neglected middle child
escaped fierce and wild
conquer turtle's dread

scared, alone, tired
a pile of clothes still turtles
man-sized hurdles
rise middle child on turtle backs step up, step higher.

Take Your Muse on a Date

2010-03-28T12:44:00.001-07:00

I recently read a book about the writing life. The author suggested that one should take his/her muse out for a date. Treat her write. She inspires, fills, fulfills, and makes your life richer. By the way, have you seen the movie "Muse." If not, do so. I refuse to give away the plot, but will give you a teaser.

The muse, a beautiful woman, inspires these men to greatness. However, she demands much in return including expensive motel rooms, elegant dining experiences, clothes, etc. The guys sink thousands of dollars into her upkeep. On top of it she seemingly fails to deliver. She simply takes them to an amusement park or on a drive. However, the date does it.

The concept: Stepping back, enjoying the muse, enjoying the moment gives the muse her space inside the mind to do her best work.

Right now I find myself completing a couple term papers (for hire, Halleluiah!) on topics a bit challenging and dry. I need Ms. Muse. Here's some flowers for you, my love. I give myself over to your every whim. Just inspire me.

Intersection

2010-02-22T17:43:00.000-08:00

Decision time
walk, run, or drive
follow the rules, the lights, the line
find yourself dead or alive

Run the risk of street using
crossroad, crosswalk, crosstalk
bear the cross of your choosing
choose, lose, but no balk

embrace your intersection
green light look ways both
personal vivisection
you made your choice, make of it the most!

2009-11-24T13:26:00.001-08:00

Worthy of the Words.....I believe that words have a sanctity, a holiness, to which God has entrusted the writer. I compare words to atoms. On the macro scale words serve as building blocks of the idea world. On the micro scale words have within themselves an internal world of ideas. Each word contains a novel within and without.

I have not lived true to the calling. I have compromised.

The writer must have one light face. The dark side will destroy the atom.

Do what you love. More important, love what you do. Show the words love. Respect them. Respect yourself enough to handle them with clean hands.

Keep Writing Lover

2009-08-15T17:53:00.000-07:00

"I'm a writer." Invariably my rapt listener will ask, "What do you write?" I write much poetry but never call myself a poet. I don't feel like a poet. What do poets feel like? Now there's a question. I started writing poetry after my divorce to deal with emotional pain. I tried journaling but found that journaling intensified my feelings to suicidal levels. I tried to quit writing but have a serious addiction to words. One day at Portland's original Rose Garden, Pennisula Park, late in the afternoon I wrote a poem. It saved my life. Thank you, God.

I needed a way to let out pain that did not involve guns, knives, or carbon monoxide. To my delight I found that poetry had a built-in safety valve. The beauty of the language made the pain of the words bearable. I cried tears of pain and tears of joy at the same time. Over the next months poetry helped me see beauty both inside and outside of the words. The more I wrote the better I felt. For a time people wondered just where I got my smoke.

Poetry's gave me an avenue to reenter the writing world. Originally I wrote to express deep emotions. Today, I have wider purpose. My poetic healing has freed me to start a couple novels. I write less poetry today than I did early on in the divorce. However, I still write two or three poems a week. Poetry feels like singing to me. I can write something; however, if I want to bring music to the words I resort and revert to my poetry. To me the world seems ugly. Poetry helps me see the beautiful.

Today I went a poetry reading sponsored by Spare Room featuring Crag Hill and Douglas Rothschild. As mentioned above I don't feel like poet. Let me say that differently. I feel inadequate. Today I went to the reading with the feeling very much on the frontal lobe.

I enjoyed hearing both men read their poems. I realized quite soon that they wrote for a different poetic purpose. Their poems did not drip with emotions or flowery imagery. Neither seemed suicidal. Both men have taught writing in upper echeleon educational instituitions. They had a better, wider grasp of literature than myself. They spoke poetically of international politics and inconsistencies in American policies and philosophies. As you might imagine my inadequate feelings went off the scale.

Surely these guys would see my poetry as mindless, emotional drivel. I rode away on my bicycle feeling full of good food but empty of confidence in my poetic existence. With that feeling I sat to write this blog. I got to right here when I had an incredible, brief, glancing but powerful epiphany hit my brain. I saw a similarity.

It brought tears to my eyes. Both poets spoke of something obviously painful to them. Both spoke of socio-politicial ugliness. It obviously bothered them. They felt pain, yes, of a different nature than mine but pain nonetheless. Ugliness and Beauty Wed in the Santified Hall of Poem's Cathedral. Beauty made the Pain bearable.

Ugliness and Beauty Wed

in Poem's Cathedral

socio-political, personal, human ugly

take thee beauty, metre, metaphor, and rhyme

yielding unbearable children bearable

ugly terrible

with tender and for this time

beast and beauty snuggle

in Poem's Cathedral.

Some people think that writer's live as a tortured lot. To the contrary, I have found most writers happy and well adjusted. I do believe, however, that writers by the nature of their craft observe more than the common populace. They see the ugliness that others miss in the rush. Sensitive souls, that ugliness bothers. Writers and poets in particular long for beauty. Ugliness powers their desire for beauty which accounts for the two sharing the same bed.

I sometimes hear writers criticize other writers. I understand. However, something in me rebels against the criticism. I love anyone who puts pen to paper. I love their courage. I love their longing for a different world made of their creating. We all have room for improvement. Who can say that the poem written from the mental ward in crisis has less value than the one written from the halls of institutes of higher learning?

I left the reading and stopped by Laurelhust park where a symphony orchestra played Haydn. I started this blog there. I closed my eyes. I seldom listen to classical music. I like the lyrical and melodic themes of different musical forms. Classical music feels directionless and random to me. I lean toward composers like Vavaldi because he has clearly musical themes. Please forgive me music critics. Thank God, however, that we have different music genres. Thank God we have different writing voices. God teaches me to look for the similarities and appreciate the differences.

What a day, huh? Ideas for this blog started in my new friends' backyard listening to poetry, continued in the park listening to Haydn, developed into concrete thoughts at Starbucks listening to James Taylor, and at 11:20 p.m. comes to completion at 24 hour Fitness after the hot tub and with a bit more of Taylor in the ear buds.

I usually end the blog with some admonition to the courage creative ones. I woke up late. I felt nothing creative stirring within and went to the poetry reading with high hopes and low energy. I felt little through the reading but took notes and wrote a poem there. I had unrecognized, unacknowledged feelings of inadequacy festering in my pysche. My Muse kissed me on the cheek, "Hey, inadequate one, if there were no ugliness, would you or could you write of beauty? Keep writing, lover." And so reader, listen to my Muse. Keep Writing Lover.

The Advantage of Blind Faith

2009-08-14T16:31:00.000-07:00

I set out for Hollywood and arrived. See proof. See the pained expression. I look that way squinting into the sun and leaning back enough to get the Hollywood sign in the picture. I arrived at Hollywood but someone just told me that I missed California. I sit in Hollywood, Oregon a subcommunity in Portland.

Often in life we end up someplace other than we planned. The years pass, the cynicism grows, and we get beat up along the path toward the wrong place. I have always liked the line in the movie "Seabiscuit" where Smith the trainer says to Howard the horse owner, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little." Smith understood that with horses, but later in the movie their jockey, Spiderman (Toby Mcquire), Red Pollard, admits that he has lost vision in one eye. Smith wants to throw him out on his ear. Howard takes him by the shoulder and gently says, "You don't throw away a whole life just because it's beat up a little."

The road to Hollywood has bodies strewn along it's shoulders. We encounter life. Creativity needs nurturing and usually goes first along with our innocence and imagination and our faith. It takes effort to develop it and faith to keep it. I will show some unusual honesty here. I have trouble keeping the faith in regards to my creativity. Hey, even Stephen King had thrown his books in the trash. His wife fished out Carrie and sent it in to a publisher. King had already done it before. For some odd fate reason, the publisher took it this time. Even Stephen King had lost faith in himself.

What keeps me going? Sometime I give up and go watch a movie or worse. I keep coming back. Why? One, I think God has called me to this and has given me some gifting--that's the way you say it if your from Minnesota or were taught not to have confidence. Confidence and pride meant the same thing to my parent's generation. And so I struggle to believe the calling or the gift.

Sometimes it helps to go back and read something published. Believe it or not I have published. I recently reread some stuff I wrote years ago, and had to admit that "it was pretty good." Sometimes it helps to hear other authors at a book reading. I'm in need of that again. It helps to just keep writing. It helps to dream a little about success even if it takes imagination. I dream of my first book tour. This blog helps me keep going. I know that at least I write and hopefully develop a following.

I have learned that you cannot and must not try to get faith from others. They probably don't know their calling nor do they have faith in that calling. How can you expect them to have faith in you?

You know, it helps to have "blind faith." The Bible says, "Faith is the evidence of things not seen." It helps to go blind because the blindness that prevents you for seeing success is the same blindness that prevents you from seeing the obstacles to your success. Use blindness to your advantage. Turn that blind eye to obstacles, failures, limitations, temptations, and past mistakes. Why do I choose to see failure and refuse to see success? If I pretend blindness, why not live blind to it all?

I have rambled. Today's blog shows me processing during a downtime in the writing life. Obviously, I'm writing and so it evidently worked this little talk with myself. I hope it helped you. Keep living creatively. God made you that way.

Speaking for the Speechless

2009-08-07T18:43:00.001-07:00

I spoke at a memorial service today for my sailing buddy. Bob had wanted to sail his whole life and upon retirement had the opportunity. I had the privilege of learning with Bob in those early years of sailing. His wife wanted someone from his sailing circle to speak. I felt honored to tell some sailing stories and talk about my friend.

Several people came to me after the service and expressed gratitude for my words. It touched me and caused me some thought. In the service I made the comment, “If I had to choose one word to describe Bob, I would choose the the word 'gracious'.” I heard an audible, collective gasp in the audience, and could see the word hit them. All felt the same and knew that I had hit upon the right word. His wife shook her head in acknowledgment and tears came to her eyes. I went on to tell some sailing stories illustrating his graciousness (see yesterday's blog).

Other people felt what I felt. I put it into words for them. Most times I think that I write for me to express my thoughts. Often I think about the people for whom I write. I have never thought of writing as me expressing thoughts and feelings for others. When you work on your particular craft, you develop an ability to do something that others may not have the ability to do for themselves. Today, I spoke for others. I expressed their thoughts, their emotions, and their connections with others.

I need remember this lesson. I write for others, but I express words for the entire human race. I have seen the same in music. I can't make the music, but I trust others who have chosen that endeavor to sing and play for me. I can't do pottery, but the potter expresses what I can't. I can't work on my car either. I depend on the creative mechanic to communicate with the beast.

If you have no desire to live the creative life for yourself, think about living it for others. You creative outlet gives you a unique opportunity to express what others cannot express for themselves. I speak much about writing because I have chosen that avenue. Your creative expession may lie more along the lines of drying flowers. Use it to capture the beauty that I don't know how to capture.

Random Acts of Writing Kindness

2009-08-06T12:29:00.000-07:00

George Bailey Goes to Oregon

He lived His Wonderful Life

now in Stumptown free of Bailey Bank strife

He lives a coffee snob.

He and

Clarence hob nob.

Sip, sip, ring, ring, another angel earns wings.

Your persevered balusters loose wanting to fling.

Tonight you and Mary will Willamette walk

and of your Wonderful Eternal Life talk.

I wrote this poem some months ago in a coffee shop which featured Wonderful Life paraphernalia. When doing my laundry, I usually slip over to this kava shop to write. I like the atmosphere and the folks who work the counter (excuse me Barista...what's a female Barista?)

I could leave a tip like normal folks, and I do. However, I like to utilize the personal touch occassionally. And so, I'll write a

poem for a shopkeeper or a brief note to someone who looks down. Words have great power.

Recently, I came across an old friend through Facebook. We worked "together" for a curricula publisher. I laugh when I read that last sentence. I never met my boss nor did I meet this friend. I worked as a freelance writer in Oregon for the company based in Texas. Anyway, the company went under and put the employees through some rough stuff. In the middle of it all, I wrote my friend a note.

Some fifteen years later I learned that she has kept that note. I love that about writing. Had I just spoken a word of encouragement, it would have encouraged for the moment. Writing has an eternal quality. "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was God."

Last summer I got a job helping paint a house. The crew usually retired to a coffee shop in the locale for lunch. The Black Cat has a unique atmosphere. We have a large lesbian population in Oregon and seemingly many of the shops cater to and/or have that population as proprietors. Did I say that delicately or what? As a side note they had a sign in the restroom which read, "The hardest thing about explaining my move to Oregon was convincing my mother that I wasn't a lesbian."

Anyway, I liked this little shop and it's folks (Baritas again). One day I got to talking with the baritas about writing--imagine that. I asked her about her writing life. I felt connected and wrote her a poem. I don't think I save that poem which strikes me as odd. I gave it to her and left. Let me put your mind at ease. The poem encouraged her as a writer. I kept the love part to myself; although, as a fellow writer I did feel a good measure of "love" toward her.

I love to see my work published. I like money and acclaim, but I live for these little moments writing where I can touch another's life with encouragement or comfort. Use your creativity to enrich the world. I have this theory. If I learn with my writing to enrich my world with the little "w," quite possibly God will use me to enrich the World.

As always I end by encouraging my fellow travelers toward creating. Create people! Create in love. Create to enrich the lives of others and in the process find your own enriched.

Words that Touch the Soul

2009-08-05T10:32:00.000-07:00

We write to describe, inform, instruct, and entertain. Occasionally, a writer gets to use his writing in a personal manner to encourage, to express love, to extend empathy, or to show sympathy. I've had two such occassions this week. Like most writers, I have a sense of satisfaction seeing and reading my words in print. However, my spirits soar knowing that those same words touched a life.

I write these words through tears. I just lost a dear sailing friend. The family has asked me speak at the memorial service. I will share the following:

I met Bob through a mutual sailing buddy. Bob had a boat and needed a mate. I worked nights, sailed days, and looked for any opportunity to sail. Bob and I cast our lots together on his little boat we called the Compaq. I had a little more experience than Bob but not much. We learned together by many errors and even more trials.

I had the privilege of sailing with Bob alone. I know him as a sailor and a friend. If I had to pick one word to describe Bob, I would pick the word “gracious.” Bob carried himself first and foremost as a gentleman. He had class.

Bob invited myself, my wife, and another couple to Hawaii. The women looked forward to land activities. The men went over to sail Bob's newest boat. With the boat largely untested and unknown by this crew, we set off to Diamond Head from Pearl Harbor. The wives wisely stayed home.

We had a great sail aside from dodging nuclear submarines which kept popping up beside us at inconvenient times and aside from one-third of the crew now incapacitated below with seasickness. Once again, Bob and I found ourselves sailing alone together. He and I sat on deck the wind blowing through his full head of hair and blowing through my ears. We teased our sick mate and enjoyed the wind, wave, and wonder of Hawaii. I'll never forget that glorious day with Bob.

Bob graciously suggested that we turn around for the crew's sake. I reluctantly agreed. We sailed until we could see the entrance to Pearl Harbor. I walked back to the motor and gave a hearty yank on the starter cord which promptly snapped off in my hand without unfortunately starting the motor.

I yelled at the sick mate to come topside. “No, I don't care how you feel. I need your help up here.” We had our continuing sub escort, the wind on our nose, a narrow inlet to navigate, no motor, and one very sick mate. We called on the radio for help, and heard only silence in reply. I remember as an added bonus that the poisonous jelly fish had started their annual migration through Hawaii. The water teemed with them. I really wanted to avoid a swim. Dave and I tried to sail in. I believe Bob finally raised someone on the radio.

But you know what I remember most about the day? Bob never yelled at me, never accused me, never even teased me about the starter cord. Ever gracious, he never converted his fear into anger. He handled it well.

On the Columbia River in a different boat with a brand new motor I tested Bob again. Why these guys ever let me start a motor I can't figure. This time the entire throttle unit came off in my hands and promptly dropped to the bottom of the river.

We had to negotiate a three knot current and a crowded marina with an engine that ran but ran without the benefit of throttle control. I remember Bob kept asking over and over, “How did that happen? Where did it go? It just fell off?” Incredulous, yes, but ever gracious he never pointed a finger at me even in jest.

Bob had his theories about boats as do all sailors. He hated a low boom on a boat. The boom runs along the bottom part of the sail and ranks as the most dangerous part of a sailboat. In pirate movies someone always get thrown overboard by a swinging boom.

In Pearl Harbor with the wives aboard we sailed blithely along having cheated death on the open seas. We felt secure inside the harbor. Hawaii, however, had another dirty, little secret for us called Kona winds. A downdraft they slide down the mountain side gaining momentum as they go and then rush silently across the water at tremendous speeds. They made the submarines look tame. We got hit hard. I still have scars on my hands where the nylon main-sheet ran through my hands burning my skin as it went. I really had no time to see if any one's head stood in the path of the boom. This boat had a high boom thanks to Bob. It probably saved some one's life. You were right, Bob.

Bob has many qualities that I lack. I sail on the edge. I like my adrenaline rush. Bob sailed safely, cautiously, conservatively. He knew when to quit, when to start the motor and go in, when to call it a day. He didn't have to sail to dark every time. He didn't have to sail just because the wind blew.

Bob had the money to buy a bigger boat. In the time I knew him he owned three boats—in succession I should add. He didn't have to have the biggest, the best, or the most expensive. He bought little boats, used boats, boats with high booms. I never forgave him for selling the Compaq. I loved that little boat. That's the boat he and I sailed on most together. Bob prided himself on “never losing money on a boat.” We teased him about his perceptions of boat ownership.

Most of us who sail soon find out that our wives and families don't necessarily share the same passion we do toward this sport. They indulge us. Bob loved sailing, and Sylvia wisely let him enjoy something that he had both wanted and had earned. Ever gracious, Bob did not take undo advantage. He kept things in perspective. He kept expenses reasonable. He kept his priorities straight.

Bob and I have one thing very much in common. We both like to talk. I said to Dave, my sailing buddy, on a recent a sail. “You know, I wish we could get Bob out again. I miss him.” I'll never forget and will always miss having Bob in the companionway telling some story or encouraging us to plan for our futures.

Sail on, Bob. May the wind always be at your back. Stay clear of the boom, keep your deck shoes dry, and we'll meet you on the other side.

A Steady Healm

You sailed this life and now a different realm.

You put your head down and earned

supported your family to one day sail you yearned.

And one day you did

the river, the harbor, the ocean to rid

yourself of land's cares

to float trade wind fair

against low booms you railed

with steady healm to seas beyond you've sailed.

Patching up Your Definition of Creativity

2009-08-04T14:30:00.000-07:00

I had to patch a couple inner tubes yesterday. I had a slow leak on my rear tire which needed immediate attention and another tube which I had procrastinated with for some weeks. With bucket of water and pump in hand I went about the discovery phase. Just then Mr. Naysayer entered my patching domain. "Why fix it? You can buy a new one for three bucks."

People often say the stupids things when trying to make small talk. One, tubes for my bicycle costs closer to five bucks. Two, a patched tube probably has more strength than a new one. It would take a knife to puncture a patch. Three, if I can make a tube "stretch" through four or five punctures, then I have saved fifteen to twenty dollars. I patched mine while watching television. It took one minute to scratch the tube with sandpaper and apply glue. I let the glue dry five minutes, and then applied the patch. I held my tongue understanding that his small talk qualified for the adjective "small" perfectly.

About ten minutes later I found myself at the same hose with the same bucket washing my bicycle. Mr. Naysayer came by to once again enlighten me. "I gave up riding."

"Why's that?"

"Too many flats. The last time I had about a twenty-minute ride to someplace. On the way back I got a flat. I ended up walking and arrived late to work. I got in trouble. I bought Kevlar tires but haven't ridden since."

I so wanted to blast him with my logic laser. However, I took the path less travelled to mix my metaphors. "Well, I always carry a spare tube in one pocket and a plastic tire iron kit in the other. Yes, I hate changing a tire alongside the road. Punctures come with the territory. I would rather take ten minutes alongside the road than walk fifty miles."

My mouth said one thing. My mind said another. In my mind I yelled, "You idiot. You chastise me for taking five minutes to patch a tube and for saving twenty dollars. And you don't have the sense to spend "three" dollars for a spare tube to avoid an inevitable event. You gave up riding because you didn't have the forethought to stick a tube in your pocket. Would you drive your care without a spare? Cars have exponentially fewer flats than bicycles and yet you ride without a spare?"

In the middle of my internal rant I heard a still small voice ask, "What about you? What insignificant event or setback has caused you to give up on something? When have you stopped writing? Did someone say something to hurt your oversensitive feelings? Did you freeze? Did you park your future over a three dollar tube?"

My friend has a creativity problem. He froze. I got a flat on my way to work. I got in trouble. I can't let that happen. I don't trust bicycles. I will take the car. He had the flight or creativity choice. He chose flight. His circumstance blinded him.

We tend to define creativity as art, writing, music, and movies. Creativity is as big as God. In the beginning God created. Creativity is my cat throwing his weight in his carrier to knock himself off the boat onto the ground in order to spring the door for the purpose of running amok and afoul. Creativity is putting a spare tube in your pocket to avoid a long walk home. Creativity is my father designing and making a tool when the tools manufactured at the plant fail to meet his needs. Creativity is using dental floss to remove a ring stuck on a swollen finger. Creativity is finding a means to stay alive when it seems like you have used up all your options. God has woven creativity into the very fabric of our existence. Creativity is not an option. Creativity is the thing that keeps us alive and makes life worth living.

What are you waiting for? Stick a tube in your pocket and get back on the road. Live creatively. Get unstuck. Look for solutions. Focus on the possibilities. Bloom. Forget the politics, the naysayers, the economy, your critical mother, you high-brow ed English teacher, and your boss. Create like your life depends on it because it does.

Go Visit Your Fairygodmother-I Did

2009-08-03T14:06:00.000-07:00

For some time now I have wanted to write a Christmas story combining the fictional and the real. Recently I came upon the idea of writing the story of Saint Nikolas who just happens to have both the fictional and real going for him. I needed a little help with the story and decided to have a visit with my fairy godmother. That's her stage right. Where does one find one's fairy godmother? Well, you can try scrubbing floors for a living. I did that for many years during the college days. Or you can go to a Powell's author reading. I like floors and feel that no building should go without them. However, I enjoyed the reading much more.

My fairy godmother, one Carolyn Turgeon, has just published a book entitled Godmother. My FB friends can go to her Face Book "Godmother-The-Secret-Cinderella-Story" page. So what's this have to do with creativity?

Sometimes even the most creative types need to cross pollinate. Every experience, every day, in every place serves as grist for the writing mill. You can get inspiration at the park or the shopping mall or even with a writer on tour. Since I have this Saint Nikolas idea, I thought it might prove beneficial to hear from someone who has recently enhanced a standard tale.

Publishers expect writers to make tours. Writers make tours because tours sell books. News flash--not all writers like public speaking. I have not done a book tour yet. I yearn for the day. However, I think it could prove scary. Think about it. In a single day you might address a radio audience of millions, speak at a writer's conference to hundreds of eager writers with not-so-easy-to-answer questions, go to a local book signing, visit a book critique group, teach a college English class, or read to kids in a library.

We writers spend a good deal of time alone. I write much in public places, but I write alone. We keep our own company with our little fictional friends and our writing voice running through our creative little heads. We get used to it which means that we get out of practice with the public thing. Carolyn approached the podium shyly. She briefly explained her book with a nervous smile. Dare I say, "It was cute." Then she started to read. The cuteness slid away as did Carolyn. I could tell that she had reentered the world of her book. She grew animated and mesmerized by her own writing. She loved the words, and so did I.

Carolyn has studied Victorian poetry. I could tell. Her writing had a lilt and a fresh imagery that you learn writing poetry. I have written much poetry lately and wondered about its value and impact on my writing. I could see the effect in her writing. The imagery engaged me. It drew me into the story. You know how some movies just throw sex in when the movie is about farm trucks in Pennsylvania. Other movies it may actually fit into the storyline; at least, you can kinda see it. Imagery can feel the same way. With some authors I skip past lengthy descriptions because I want to get on with the story. I felt no inclination to skip Ms. Turgeon's descriptions. She captures the music.

It came time for questions. I hate to dominate a group. I guess I have writer's syndrome too now that I think of it, but I raised my hand. I asked her how she came up with the idea of writing the story from the standpoint of a jealous fairy godmother. She asked for more questions. I had many more but hesitated. Carolyn stopped. I bought her book and then asked two or three more shop-talk questions. She solved a problem for me in the Saint Nikolas book.

So what's the point Rollie? If you don't feel creative today, go visit your fairy godmother. See Powell's website for author readings or the Oregonian or the Willamette Weekly. It will inspire you, and it feels all authorly if you know what I mean.

When You Live Under a Bridge

2009-08-02T19:05:00.000-07:00

I don't live under a bridge. I live here. I ride a bicycle. I'm unemployed. I don't think that I will appear on the cover of Fortune 500 this month at least.

I called a county hotline one night in a bit of a crisis. Divorced, alone, broke, dissillusioned, depressed, and yes, even suicidal, I'll never forget what the gentleman at the call center told me.

He said, "When you live under a bridge, you start where you're at. You work with the resources you have. You don't focus on what you have lost or what you don't have. You focus on what you have. You survive by using the resources at your disposal."

So what does that have to do with my blog about creativity--everything. Creativity by definition means using what you have in and around you. Life is about creating opportunity at the place where you reside. What better place to learn creativity than under a bridge? If you can create there under a bridge, then you can create anywhere. The call center guy got it right and write.

In the creative life you start at the beginning. You start with you, where you are, who you are, and with whatever resources at your disposal. You learn to live faithful to your creativity. You create. I have discovered that when you get good at using what you got, you get more. You start to see more opportunities. You get more exposure. The Bible says it this way, "Be faithful in little things and I will give you more."

Here's an example. I decided to show my AllClear blog to the Clear representative at my local shopping mall. He shook his head. "What a great idea--a place for people to write in about their Clear experiences. Say, you should come to work for us."

I actually have met quite a few homeless folks. I used to supervise crews that cleaned up homeless camps in Portland. I have talked with them and have found a universal cynicism in each. Now you might assume that when life has knocked you down that you grow cynical. Actually, I believe that the cynicim precedes the fall. Homeless folks universally see conspiracy, coverup, and evil under every rock. They have a helpless, hopeless feeling. It all feels bigger than them, and so why try. Just live under the bridge.

You see, they try to create with what they have lost or what they don't have rather than create a new life with what they have. You have to bloom where planted. You have to start with the shopping cart, the people, the gifts, the community, and the life given to you. Sure I want to write a best selling novel about Ryan Rouse my high school imaginary writing hero. It's coming. But I have to live faithful to my bridge first.

Yes, I consider the future. Everyday I explore other writing opportunities. I have started two books and have signed up for contract work on Odesk. My vision of the world and its opportunities increase when I do my daily eye exercises under the bridge. Now, I'm just out there writing what floats up to me under the bridge and have this opportunity to work for Clear. Who wudda thunk it!!!

You don't feel creative? Go sit under a bridge. Talk to the folks there. I guarantee you will have something to write about at the end of the day. Hey, post a comment here when you get home.

Nikolas the Wonderworker

2009-07-26T02:09:00.001-07:00

When a person dies he enters a new life and a new realm and except in rare occasions may not go back to his old. God makes two exceptions. He often allows the newly departed from earth to comfort those left behind usually shortly after the departure.

The other exception God makes may come as a surprise to my readers. At the exact same time ever year God calls on one person, the same person, to make pilgrimage to earth. Every year Nikolas approaches the throne with the same childlike surprise that he showed last year and usually petitions God to send someone more worthy to which all of heaven giggles and applauds and then chants “Nikolas, Nikolas, Nikolas.” You see, heaven's citizens love him too.

Parents as a whole lack faith, and as a result have invented ridiculous myths to explain miraculous events. In their attempt to explain the unexplainable they have unwittingly caused children to reject the reality of the events altogether. When children reject the reality, they also reject the magic.

This writer has no intention of confounding the problem but rather has the desire to restore the faith of children in the miracle we call Christmas. I present to you a story on which you can depend. My dear children, you will find much more magic in the truth then you ever found in the fable.

Let me set something straight for the children among us. How old is Santa Clause (another name for Saint Nikolas) and how can he keep it up these many hundreds of years? Well, the truth children--Santa Clause died and went to heaven where he lives forever. Every Christmas he returns to earth to help us. Every year he comes back to hungry children, war, disease, and problems of every sort most of which earthlings have caused and brought upon themselves. For one magic month Nikolas brings hope back to a world which, of course, forgets that hope for the other eleven months. However, he continues to return year after year after year.

Every journey has adventure. Adventure is a grownup word which means problems. Nikolas had problems when he lived on earth; of course, he has problems when he returns to earth. Heaven's citizens as a whole avoid a return trip to earth but rejoice with Nikolas knowing the good he does.

Alexander lived in a land of beauty with clear seas, colorful fish, and warm winds caressing his hair every night. He loved his mother with a great and unusual love. Alexander's family lived in a little fishing village. His father went to sea for long periods of time. Alexander had never seen snow. He had never felt cold. The only cold he had known came from the sea hardened hands of his calloused, cruel fisherman father.

Today we would call Alexander tender. He loved reading, writing, music, and pictures. Every night he crawled into his mother's lap for a bedtime story. He snuggled into the warmth of her body and the comfort of her words. She read poems and sang sea songs that her mother had sang to her.

Saint Nikolas never comes to earth without visiting this small Greek village by the sea.

Oh so very very Bohemian

2009-07-20T19:21:00.000-07:00

I gain. I write tomorrow's blog today which means I will have some editing time and not publish the tripe to which you have grown accustomed. I rushed, swore, and ran to get to a poetry reading only to find that I arrived a full month early. Lesson--read a bit more carefully, plan, and breath prior to an event. Cut me some slack. I have had little sleep the past few days. I think I may have to give up coffee for my writing career's sake.

With all the effort described in the preceding paragraph, I decided to recharge my battery along with the computer's. I have parked myself at Powell's book store. Good picture huh? I think it might work well in the cover of my first book. I had a Indian guy (read from India) next to me laughing at Indian poetry. Dreadlocks, tattoos, tie dye dresses, pierced and persecuted we sit. And me so conservative yet committed like my fellow Bohemians to the words.

I should probably write humor because I see much irony in the world e.g. the CD disk behind me entitled Essential Thoreau. The poor man probably turned in his grave to think the simple life he prescribed has come to WiFi, Internet, CD's, and cellphones. Could Thoreau have birthed Walden Pond with a cell phone violating his natural paradise.

In each body a soul bound or expressed? My how my mind jumps. I think I scratched the record somewhere. I think much about perspective these days. I can look at this decaying body as the prison of my soul which keeps me from realizing my potential. Or maybe this body serves as the medium by which I express the eternal within.

I see so many here in Portland use the body as an external canvas to paint and pierce and drape in retro. I believe that what comes out of the body makes us unique rather than the external adornment we attach to it.

The building where the Literary Arts plans poetry in August had an atrium. People dressed nicely sipped wine and ate fine cuisine. I have missed so much of the life with senseless forays into self-destructive behavior. NO MORE FORERAYS!! I feel ready to put on the shirt that reads "been there done that and have no desire to return thank you very much."

"Now I'm going round, going round, going round one more time." James Taylor crones into my ear buds. He saw himself going into another relationship even while suffering from the last. The past few days I have practiced my enjoyment skills as a single guy taking in sand sculpting, a jazz concert, a near-miss poetry reading, and now Powell's Book store soaking in creative ambiance.

Well, fellow Bohemians....Seek beauty in all places at all times

Letting the Cat outta the Bag

2009-07-19T15:34:00.000-07:00

Be careful what you ask for they say. I have wanted a cat of my own for years. I now own, No, let me rephrase. A cat now owns me. I wanted a literary cat to keep me company through a long night of writing. I had images of him laying on my lap as I write the Great American Novel. I am presently writing that novel, and Buddy takes his role seriously. In reality it proves difficult to see the screen over the fur. At five this morning he looked ready to jump ship literally. I live on a boat. He gets a bit grumpy when tired and has yet to learn of coffee. Thank you, Buddy, for hanging in there with me.

I stayed up all night writing on my novel. I have wanted to write a novel for sometime now but could never figure out how to proceed. It has come to me, and so far the novel flows from flying fingers at a scary pace. I feel somewhere between possessed and obsessed.

This is a book about Ryan Rouse a high school student who loves to write and decides to try his hand at investigative writing to secure a summer job with the local paper. Ryan finds himself matching wits with a serial killer to save Sally, the head cheerleader and a girl with whom Ryan has secretly fallen in love.

Scenes..

Scene One....The capture of the serial killer's first victim....

Twelve inches of snow covered every surface and sucked the sound from the Denver metropolitan area. Few cars passed. In a ditch by a canal east of Denver in the suburb of Aurora a girl whimpered. Although in merciful coma, something visceral fought to stay alive even though her conscious mind rebelled at the horrors she had already endured. Blood seeped from her mouth and ears. As the snow slowed the temperature crashed. Snow covered her body. The blanket gave her just enough warmth to stay alive and slowed the flow of blood poolinginside her brain. The cold that saved her brain at the same time froze her extremities. If she survived this night, she would never walk again. She would lose all her toes and fingers.

A police car on standard patrol stopped to help yet another motorist who had overestimated the ability of his four wheel drive vehicle. Mad motorist one moved through twelve inches of drifting snow with reckless abandon. However, the four wheel drive did little to stop him when mad motorist two showing off his four wheel drive slid through the intersection at Alameda and Missippi. Mad motorist one managed to avoid a collision but ended up in a ditch close to the canal. Officer Stanley called a tow truck. They got the guy out okay. He slunk home to his wife with the fifty dollar tow truck bill firmly implanted in his left shirt pocket. The tow truck driver roared off to yet another ditch. Stanley stood beside the road alone.

He soaked in the peace of a new fallen snow. His thoughts turned toward home. Jeannie would have just finished a bedtime story with Allie. He hated leaving them at night even though he liked the action of the night shift. Then he heard it-- a mystical moan carried on a snowy wind. Slight, weak, almost musical he tried to sort reality from imagination in his police mind. Then all went quiet. He stood several minutes straining his ears against the driving snow. His hands stung. His nostrils stuck together in the dry Denver air. His ears turned red. Police hats afford little protection from the elements. Then he heard it again. This time his heart verified what his ears had questioned. He knew that he heard something and rushed toward the canal.

The police academy prepares your eyes and body to react to crime and to react quickly. They fail to prepare your mind to process the things that to which your eyes so quickly react. He noticed the blood seeping from her ears first. The damage to his mouth touched him at a place that science has yet to identify. He felt stabbing twinge of pain somewhere around his chest. It lasted a nanosecond but stayed with him the rest of his life everytime his mind went back to that scene.

What cat would you like to let outta the bag today. Do you have a driving passion? News? Something big on the horizon?

Why Play Guitar in Pioneer Square or Write on the back of Dancing Cow?

2009-07-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

I left the camera home on purpose. A camera forces the eyes to capture the moment. I wanted to open up all the sense gates. I find myself at the "Sand in the City "event in Pioneer Square. I rode MAX down and let Rollie out of the box. Portland reacts badly to the friendly mode. Sometimes I do it just to piss people off but mostly because I like people. Now I assure you that I don't jump in a lap and talk about senseless stuff just to hear myself talk. I keep proper distance and talk with them about meaningful but safe topics. Sadly, society has grown wary, weary, and willfully distance.
I did get some good tips from a well dressed lady about the Nordstrom Rack. She jumped on the packed Max with me for the half yearly sale at Nordstroms.

A string quartet graced the square with music. A teen led the group with a broken arm and did a fine job I might add. While to the side an EMT had her peer tattoo her arm in the shade of the ambulance. Guys out front played chess on roll up boards with timers. They take it seriously.

Do you ever wonder why people do play a guitar in Pioneer Square? publicly? Why play chess outside in front of a Max stop? Can I count it up to sheer exhibitionism? Or is there something else here? Is it a desire to share something with others, to get affirmation, to find feedback, or just to combine activities (what I love with an enjoyable day at a public event)?

It just hit me. Maybe I have the answer. I write publicly much. I get out among the masses to gather grist for the writing mill. Today's writing will show up in a novel someday. I will have a scene in a book involving a public event. The quirks and observations about people adds much color to a novel and the personality of a character actually moves the book along come to think of it. My main character will revisit the scene I saw today. He or she will see the homeless girl, the guy collecting cans, the broken armed conductor, the guys playing chess, and oh yes the sand sculptures. My time outside the sterile environs of a library adds color to my life and thus to my writing. I suppose it applies to the guitar player.

A young lady sits on the ground collecting money from passing patrons. We visit the patron Saint of Coffee Saint Arbucks. She collects money at the temple door. I wrote on Facebook "Downtrodden blond sits outside Starbucks. Her sign reads "A Little kindness would make life a lot more liveable (sic). Givers give her kindness. Hopes it helps sweetheart."

The clerk (what'd you call them again Barista)at Starbucks said he has observed a network among the homeless. A homeless handler shows up once in awhile. He has wads of hundreds. He collects from the gal sitting on the street. They exchange food through the newspaper distribution box in front of the store. He surmises that drugs enter the picture somewhere.

Oh, the sand, I guess my senses took me to other places. The sculpture amazes me. It's that kind of art that asks the question "How do they do that?" I plan on visiting Saturday market on the way out and hope to ask the question many more times today.

I started a novel this last week and so far so good. It's moving along nicely. I can see that like a weekly television show, it eats up material quickly. I will need to spend many days like this to have experiences from which to draw. Oh, the pain of it all.

I write on the back of a coloring sheet of a dancing PGE cow. I forgot my journal. I remembered the Space Pen and computer though. How many people can claim a dancing cow as their muse.

I gotta go meet my brother coming from Salem. Please write and tell me why you think people do creative things in public.

Creative Pearls Illiterate Swine

2009-07-06T15:00:00.000-07:00

Don't throw your creative work before illiterate swine. I write much poetry these days. Figurative, personal, and sometimes frightenly emotional, I have found that people (read friends and family) usually fail to appreciate the poetry or affirm the poet. I have some thoughts about my relationship to the uncreative world. Read more in my blog call2create.

People have told me that I should create primarily for me and my joy. I understand their point. However, honest writers, painters, or singers will tell you that they want to touch others with their creativity. I recently wrote a tribute to my coach who just passed the baton into the race beyond. I cried while writing this tribute to a special man. I processed pain and felt joy from my writing. I wrote for me. However, I also felt great satisfaction to hear from my family, friends, guys I ran with thirty years ago, and especially Coach's brother that my words had brought tears to their eyes.

Fastforward to this July 4th weekend. I wrote a poem about freedom and slavery. The poem talked about the possibility of reenslaving ourselves to various addictions and thereby defiling the freedom that brave men and women purchased for us with their blood. People at the party too busy making jokes and talking nonsense had no time or appreciation for such thoughts no matter how beautifully expressed.

One woman I greatly respect read it out of courtesy but responded, “cute.” Cute wasn't exactly the response I expected. Okay, I'll try to develop a gift that every established novelist probably already possesses. I will try to put myself in the place of the people to whom get my writing shoved at them at parties, meetings, etc.

One, they have come not to a literary group but a social event. They want to socialize. They have in their mind a definition of socializing that includes food, laughing, and pulling legs. They had a hard day at work. They don't want to think. They're distracted. And from I observe are probably uncomfortable. Two percent of the population does well in a large group setting. They light up the party. The rest of us walk in fear. We have never quite left high school. We fear rejection. The milleu hardly lends itself well to creative art.

I have noticed the same issues for my good friend Isaac. Isaac can sing. I mean he can really sing and has performed in some impressive venues. He brings his guitar to almost every event that I frequent. We welcome him with open arms. Few listen to him. Few compliment. He becomes noise in the background. Now if Isaac fails to command a crowd with music auditory and involving little thought, what chances do I have with my figurative, obtuse poetry that requires an attention span more than a fifteen second commercial.
Isaac truly does it for the love of the music and to keep in touch with performing before a crowd.

My other friend, Jessica performs all around Portland. She too has increidble gifts that she has honed through much patience and practice. I have never seen her perform at social events. She performs when booked and paid. I watched her at Mock Crest recently. She takes the crowd by storm. She loves her music as much as Isaac. However, she has chosen a venue where people have come to listen and appreciate.

So what's the lesson for this writer and hopefully you in your particular, peculiar ilk. Create where appreciated. I will no longer show my work to friends at parties and meetings. I will showcase on my blog, my hubpage, my webpage and in print. I'll put it in a book for people who actually read and appreciate language. And yes, I will get paid for my creativity and will nolonger throw my creative hard work before the unappreciative swine.

That sounds a bit harsh. I don't really mean swine. I just harken to the Bible verse about throwing your pearls before the swine. Even Jesus saw that people of his hometown, including his family, failed to appreciate him or his work. He offered his gift to those who wanted it. As He started to heal people He always required the recipients to do something in order to receive the gift. He made them express their faith in some way. He came to realize that people would appreciate more that for which they had paid.

People assume that something free probably has little value. Good artists put a heafty price on their work. They more they charge the more people seem to appreciate. God must shake his head sometimes huh? Creative types learn this lesson well. Charge for your hard earned creative talent. Someone asked a painter how long it took him to paint that picture. The painter replied, “All my life!” Think about it.

I have made some decisions then about my work. I will publish on my blog in first draft for the interested. Readers will still have to click to the link. The interested will go. Then I will publish in Hubpage where I get paid for them to make that click. Then I will publish on LuLu where readers will paid to get my ideas electronically or on paper.

Looking at it a different way. Me pushing poetry at parties feels like peddaling rolex watches on the street. Me offering my creative talent online or in book form feels more like owning a legitimate bookstore where people come to me.

I have tried door to door sales. Give me a storefront any day. I started this blog call2create to encourage and influence other creative types. I hope that this particular article helps you avoid one of the subtle pitfalls. Choose your venue carefully. Create, offer your creation in an appropriate venue, and charge people for the lifetime you have put into developing your creativity.
Now go create.

2009-07-04T10:23:00.000-07:00

^{Come 4th}

^{Colors explode ink black skies}

^{“Let the party begin!” corpses cry}

^{Celebrate right and left shore}

^{Come 4th!}

^{Claim freedom rights}

^{break chains personal, national, and international this night}

^{dance freedom's fight}

^{in exploding lights}

^{King over serf, master over slave}

^{substance over subject freedom saved}

^{Sing, Dance, Create}

^{Love over Hate}

^{Come 4th friend}

^{Wield freedom's sword and pen}

^{put away chains}

^{freedom rains}

^{America, the world needs you free}

^{we need freedom's creativity}

^{Mr. Politician put away your power}

^{the world needs a free America this night this hour}

^{Miss Liberty hold that light a little higher please}

^{shine from sea to sea}

^{to see what enslaves outside and in}

^{our world's demons and our personal sins}

^{Celebrate and guard your freedom puchased with blood.}

^{Let freedom flood}

^{every aspect every pore}

^{Come forth America Come 4th!!!}