November 30, 2012

To Change or Not To Change, That is The Question.



The following is a copy of the piece I wrote last week, titled, Breathe, and an explanation as to why I won't edit it.


Breathe

These shoulders of mine slumped in pain.
I could no longer stand on my feet, my knees buckled under the strain.

In circles the ground lifted; top soil gathered and skittered side to side, the particles landed and flew...up, up, and up once again, filling to blacken the sky.  Dust flew past, and into my eyes.

The soil, once goodness of labor produced, now hard pan, a cement to destine our journey across this land.

Bouncing and skimming the cracks, sideways, forward, and backward, we hold on, hold on to the words and memories we once knew.

Hand to mouth, we tried to hold on when the dust rose up, but now rains in these clouds come down, and down, floating life away, taking breath in smothering rain.

Starving words sailed out of my mouth to give thanks, the wind blew them away.

God help us all!
We cry.

Wind whipped the earth
Breathing is shallow
Lungs filled with mirth
Land lay fallow

God help us all!
Until we die.


Last night I read this piece of writing to my writer-critique group.  A line and a word were discussed, to possibly change the word, and delete the last line.

To omit the last line of this piece, and to change the word "Mirth", which means happy, or gleeful, etc., would change the effect of what I had in mind when I wrote this story.  And I do have to admit, it’s hard for me to clarify my intent at the time of writing, therefore I was hard pressed, after reading it last night, to give an explanation to why these words can’t be changed.  As I read over what I had written, again today, I felt the need to explain this intent of mine. 

1)  The last line, “Until we die”, reflects the line, “We cry”, and appealing to God, as these people were God fearing people, didn’t feed their mouths.  Over and over their lament was to God, and even their last breath was for help, but they died anyway.  The reasons for their dying is in their story, but they did die, as we all do eventually.  It’s a given, but it is how they died that touched me so.

2) The word, “mirth”, was written in a place that sounded out of context.  I agreed, last night, I didn’t know why I’d written that word in that particular place.  My mind doesn’t always let me in on why it wants one word; opposed to another...I just write what I hear.

The wind is whipping these people to death, and as their lungs filled with the dirt they were standing on, their land that was being taken with so much force, it was as though the land was laughing at them...they were inhaling that laughter...it telling them they will only lose against this mighty force called nature.

I don't try to make excuses for what I write, nor do I usually give explanations, but in this case I tried to give an explanation, only because I have the feeling this story is going to continue at a later date...this is just the being of the first chapter in these people’s lives.

I have yet to write a review of John Steinbeck’s story, The Grapes of Wrath, written over eighty years ago, because it’s a story that continues to this day.  It’s hard to know where it began, and where it will end. 

I wrote this piece in response to how Steinbeck’s migrant workers left me feeling, after I closed the last page.  It was a hard pill to swallow, let alone digest...I hope I can continue this story....




November 26, 2012

Breathe





These shoulders of mine slumped in pain.
I could no longer stand on my feet, my knees buckled under the strain.

In circles the ground lifted; top soil gathered and skittered side to side, the particles landed and flew...up, up, and up once again, filling to blacken the sky.  Dust flew past, and into my eyes.

The soil, once goodness of labor produced, now hard pan, a cement to destine our journey across this land.

Bouncing and skimming the cracks, sideways, forward, and backward, we hold on, hold on to the words and memories we once knew.

Hand to mouth, we tried to hold on when the dust rose up, but now rains in these clouds come down, and down, floating life away, taking breath in smothering rain.

Starving words sailed out of my mouth to give thanks, the wind blew them away.

God help us all!
We cry.

Wind whipped the earth
Breathing is shallow
Lungs filled with mirth
Land lay fallow

God help us all!
Until we die.

 

November 14, 2012

You Win Some, You Lose Some


I’ve come to the conclusion, or so I think it’s a conclusion, that friends can come and go like the wind, and heaven knows I’ve written enough about the wind this past year, to make this point clear.  It isn’t always nice.  I was going to talk about love, but I’ve also worn THAT subject out.

If you want to know who this hateful person is, never shying away from the human condition (whatever that is), who writes in metaphor, you need to learn to read between lines.  But I’ll save you the trouble - I lost one of my dearest friends because of my metaphorical writing. 

Was I too straight forward, too honest, to hurtful...to be believed or not, as I encompassed many people in that big lump of metaphorical dialogue?  How many read my blogs?  I doubt a whole lot, but this one person happened to that day; and the next day I had a change of heart, and removed it, dumping it into the trash, unknowingly along with our friendship.

Understanding metaphor is to understand a conundrum; puzzle pieces of minute intrigue.  My words can be harsh; seemingly uncaring in the lack of compassion, while getting across my inner-most feelings through this type of writing.  I don’t write compassionate metaphor, I aim for the gut, and most often than not, it’s my gut that is hit and splayed for viewer consumption.  Mincing words is just not my idea of honesty.

But, we all have our comparative notes on what honesty means, as we watched the candidates debate for high offices in government, sliding right through one big commandment, and into the valley of the Kingdom of Lying-Hoodwinked.  And, they honestly believed all those words they spewed to the American public.

Enough about friends, truth, lying, metaphor, and Hoodwinkleddom, it just means that the human condition isn’t always what we think it is, or should be.

  Honesty is put in the pockets of many, pockets with holes....falling to the ground, stepping over, on, or around, but none-the-less falling; falling out of sight - out of sight, out of mind.....falling as you win some, and falling as you reluctantly lose some.




One Last Time




Is it for me
or is it for you?

One last drink
one last time.

Amber liquid; beautiful and bright cosmic liquid shoots into the gut, like stars bursting apart.  

Yet, there is darkness all around. 
Stars fall to the ground. 

Black holes left behind; solitary and alone, to tear away light, one last time.