I write poems off the top of my head
Some fall off and end up dead
Some turn out fantastic and wild
Others seem quite tasteless and mild
And page after page can seem kind of sad
But I'm not saying that sad is bad
I'm actually saying it's like a girl
On one day you will mean the world
But next week you'll seem pretty dull
She'll takeover thought if you're not careful
In your heart, she'll coyly puncture a whole
Yes, just like girls there's these things called poems
No matter your age, you'll never out grow 'em.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Chapter THREE
CHAPTER THREE: TALL TALES AND SHORT STORIES (from KUN-AZ)
“Well, what kind of story are your ears itchin’ for today?” the man asked, stroking his beard. I liked to think that that was the way he created his stories; churning the thoughts and dreams in his head by tugging on that old red beard.
“What about a story with wizards?” Nad suggested, and I could not agree more.
“Yes please, sir! About the old wizards of Kûn Az!”
Mr. Eldhart made a strange expression. It looked like a mixture between anger, confusion, and concern. None of which are good expressions in my opinion.
“The wizards? Ah, but those are not good stories...”
“Why not?” I asked, “They were the heroes of the old days! Masters of trickery and of immense power; feared by all their enemies!”
“The latter part of what you spoke is true; Masters of Trickery they definitely were, and they had immense powers that were feared by all their foes. But we were their foes, young Tristram.”
“We were?” I asked, confused.
“In the olden days (about 250 years ago), we, the humans of Raële and the dwarves of Ieliathia, were the only ones who dared to oppose the wizards of Kûn Az in their rapid rise to power. You see, the wizards came to the shores of Käorgan in a ship called Aëlvrídashabül.”
“Try sayin’ that about five times faster,” Father said with a chuckle.
Mr. Eldhart laughed too and continued:
“They came from a land across the sea—an island some have said—that lies hidden behind thick fog. An island that the wizard’s referred to as Kûn Az.
“You also have to understand, at this point in time, magic was only a bed time story to these warriors that stood on the banks of Ieliathia, awaiting the wizards’ ships to come ashore. Some didn’t even believe such a power of matter existed. Some did believe, but they still didn’t understand where it came from and why. Or how one could obtain the power to control it.
“When the leader of the wizard army, Lord Extraceon, stepped off his craft, the armies of Ieliathia were frozen fast. In the wizard leader’s right hand he held a sword that was enveloped by a black flame. He raised his arm and pointed at our armies, screaming his battle cry, and his wizard’s charged off the ships. It was a bloody day. The Ieliathians were driven back all the way to the Cliffs of Elien Hravil, where they were cornered and forced to surrender. The wizards took most as prisoners, and those prisoners were never heard from again.
“For months, the wizards went through all of Ieliathia, burning and plundering, murdering and kidnapping, until one day, a man rose up out of the blue, wielding a sword of diamond and the power of magic. This man was Alatarae, the first and only good wizard. His origins were unknown, how he got his magic powers, no one knows. Though there are some rumors and tales that suggest the powers were given to him by a dragon…”
“A dragon?!” Nad and I exclaimed in unison.
Mr. Eldhart smiled a mischievous smile. “Aye, a dragon. That dragon might still be up in his lonely, wintery mountain to this day. The mighty warrior Alatarae climbed to the monstrous Cave of Dreams at the top of the mountain, and found the old dragon. The dragon, Asher, put Alatarae to the test to see if he was worthy of the power of magic. Alatarae was a man of honor, so he passed Asher’s test—eventually. Upon passing it, Asher had the warrior make a promise. A promise to never use his magic for anything but good; to only use his powers to protect those in harm. And Alatarae swore to it.
“Alatarae returned to Ieliathia, where hope was all lost and some of the greatest cities ever built in Talesia had been overrun. He led an army of brave men against the ranks of wizards. These men following behind Alatarae were not even soldiers. They were husbands, fathers, widowers, blacksmiths and farmers, salesman and bankers. What made them soldiers and warriors at heart was their bravery; their resolve to save their families and their homes. Their will to survive was greater than any others’ in all of Talesia. The wizards of Kûn Az soon realized that truth. When Alatarae’s army swept upon them, not even their magic could stop the onslaught. The magic-less weapons in the hands of these brave men proved to be too much for the magic men. Soon the wizards’ stronghold in Käorgan fell, and Lord Extraceon was led out of his place of hiding in the towers of the Käorgan Fortress, and forced to fight Alatarae one on one in the Fields of Markí.
“The sword of black flame and the sword of diamond clashed, and one of the most epic and famous duels in history took place. The fate of Talesia rested upon the outcome of this duel. Lord Extraceon was a strong man, even outside of his magic powers. There were many times where Extraceon beat Alatarae to the ground, nearly killing him. Though Extraceon was big and strong, he was a man full of fear. His army was just depleted, and the armies of Ieliathia and Raële were just waiting to pounce on him and him alone in the possible moment that he bested their leader, Alatarae. Whereas, Alatarae was the opposite. His fear was his fuel, his fuel to overcome this evil man who entered his land and destroyed so many lives. Alatarae battled his way back to his feet and fought even harder than the start against Extraceon. In just a matter of minutes, Extraceon’s weapon flew from his hands, and all of his bolts of fire and earth could not hit the Talesian warrior, who parried all of his shots. So Extraceon just fell to his knees and looked his assailant straight in the eye. ‘Kill me,’ he plead, ‘I cannot return to Kûn Az, for there I will surely die a horrible death. Pierce me through the heart. You have bested me, warrior.’
“But Alatarae refused to kill the man in cold blood, so Extraceon just touched his index finger to his temple. In an instant he fell to the ground dead.
“The few wizards who remained after the war fled back to their ships and sailed back to their land, never seen or heard from again.”
Mr. Eldhart shrugged. “All very good questions that I unfortunately don’t know the answers to. I can speculate though, that the thing he was afraid of was the origin of that evil magic they wielded. Perhaps it is not even human, it might be a Shadow of the Creatures of Old…”
“Creatures of Old??” I asked aloud (quite loud, actually).
Mother cut in then. “Ah ah ah, I can already tell that is a story for another time, son. It’s already time for bed for you two.”
Ugh, it was kind of embarrassing to have Mother announce that it was bedtime for Nad and I right in front of Mr. Eldhart! Mothers.
“Yes indeed, that is a much longer story!” Mr. Eldhart said, stretching his huge arms up above his head and yawning. “As you can see, it is a little passed my bedtime as well!”
Well, maybe it was not that embarrassing…
Father and Mother walked Mr. Eldhart to the door, and my brother and I made our way upstairs. When we made it to the top landing, Nad turned to me and asked, “Can you imagine living in the time of the war? We could’ve been one of those men behind Alatarae! It is something quite amazing to think about…maybe someday that will be us…”
“Yes,” was all managed to say, as I was already thinking deeply about that same subject.
Nad and I wolfed down Mother’s bread
and soup; while Father, Mother, and Mr. Eldhart exchanged stories of their
arrivals to Prew. But I was restless. I wanted to hear Mr. Eldhart tell a real story. None of this...small talk!
The parents’ talking began to wind down, and Mother got up to see about
dessert. I tapped my fingers on the edge of the dining room table, and awaited
my turn to pounce on the opportunity to ask Mr. Eldhart. The very moment there
was even a slight break in conversation, I asked Mr. Eldhart for a story.“Well, what kind of story are your ears itchin’ for today?” the man asked, stroking his beard. I liked to think that that was the way he created his stories; churning the thoughts and dreams in his head by tugging on that old red beard.
“What about a story with wizards?” Nad suggested, and I could not agree more.
“Yes please, sir! About the old wizards of Kûn Az!”
Mr. Eldhart made a strange expression. It looked like a mixture between anger, confusion, and concern. None of which are good expressions in my opinion.
“The wizards? Ah, but those are not good stories...”
“Why not?” I asked, “They were the heroes of the old days! Masters of trickery and of immense power; feared by all their enemies!”
“The latter part of what you spoke is true; Masters of Trickery they definitely were, and they had immense powers that were feared by all their foes. But we were their foes, young Tristram.”
“We were?” I asked, confused.
“In the olden days (about 250 years ago), we, the humans of Raële and the dwarves of Ieliathia, were the only ones who dared to oppose the wizards of Kûn Az in their rapid rise to power. You see, the wizards came to the shores of Käorgan in a ship called Aëlvrídashabül.”
“Try sayin’ that about five times faster,” Father said with a chuckle.
Mr. Eldhart laughed too and continued:
“They came from a land across the sea—an island some have said—that lies hidden behind thick fog. An island that the wizard’s referred to as Kûn Az.
“You also have to understand, at this point in time, magic was only a bed time story to these warriors that stood on the banks of Ieliathia, awaiting the wizards’ ships to come ashore. Some didn’t even believe such a power of matter existed. Some did believe, but they still didn’t understand where it came from and why. Or how one could obtain the power to control it.
“When the leader of the wizard army, Lord Extraceon, stepped off his craft, the armies of Ieliathia were frozen fast. In the wizard leader’s right hand he held a sword that was enveloped by a black flame. He raised his arm and pointed at our armies, screaming his battle cry, and his wizard’s charged off the ships. It was a bloody day. The Ieliathians were driven back all the way to the Cliffs of Elien Hravil, where they were cornered and forced to surrender. The wizards took most as prisoners, and those prisoners were never heard from again.
“For months, the wizards went through all of Ieliathia, burning and plundering, murdering and kidnapping, until one day, a man rose up out of the blue, wielding a sword of diamond and the power of magic. This man was Alatarae, the first and only good wizard. His origins were unknown, how he got his magic powers, no one knows. Though there are some rumors and tales that suggest the powers were given to him by a dragon…”
“A dragon?!” Nad and I exclaimed in unison.
Mr. Eldhart smiled a mischievous smile. “Aye, a dragon. That dragon might still be up in his lonely, wintery mountain to this day. The mighty warrior Alatarae climbed to the monstrous Cave of Dreams at the top of the mountain, and found the old dragon. The dragon, Asher, put Alatarae to the test to see if he was worthy of the power of magic. Alatarae was a man of honor, so he passed Asher’s test—eventually. Upon passing it, Asher had the warrior make a promise. A promise to never use his magic for anything but good; to only use his powers to protect those in harm. And Alatarae swore to it.
“Alatarae returned to Ieliathia, where hope was all lost and some of the greatest cities ever built in Talesia had been overrun. He led an army of brave men against the ranks of wizards. These men following behind Alatarae were not even soldiers. They were husbands, fathers, widowers, blacksmiths and farmers, salesman and bankers. What made them soldiers and warriors at heart was their bravery; their resolve to save their families and their homes. Their will to survive was greater than any others’ in all of Talesia. The wizards of Kûn Az soon realized that truth. When Alatarae’s army swept upon them, not even their magic could stop the onslaught. The magic-less weapons in the hands of these brave men proved to be too much for the magic men. Soon the wizards’ stronghold in Käorgan fell, and Lord Extraceon was led out of his place of hiding in the towers of the Käorgan Fortress, and forced to fight Alatarae one on one in the Fields of Markí.
“The sword of black flame and the sword of diamond clashed, and one of the most epic and famous duels in history took place. The fate of Talesia rested upon the outcome of this duel. Lord Extraceon was a strong man, even outside of his magic powers. There were many times where Extraceon beat Alatarae to the ground, nearly killing him. Though Extraceon was big and strong, he was a man full of fear. His army was just depleted, and the armies of Ieliathia and Raële were just waiting to pounce on him and him alone in the possible moment that he bested their leader, Alatarae. Whereas, Alatarae was the opposite. His fear was his fuel, his fuel to overcome this evil man who entered his land and destroyed so many lives. Alatarae battled his way back to his feet and fought even harder than the start against Extraceon. In just a matter of minutes, Extraceon’s weapon flew from his hands, and all of his bolts of fire and earth could not hit the Talesian warrior, who parried all of his shots. So Extraceon just fell to his knees and looked his assailant straight in the eye. ‘Kill me,’ he plead, ‘I cannot return to Kûn Az, for there I will surely die a horrible death. Pierce me through the heart. You have bested me, warrior.’
“But Alatarae refused to kill the man in cold blood, so Extraceon just touched his index finger to his temple. In an instant he fell to the ground dead.
“The few wizards who remained after the war fled back to their ships and sailed back to their land, never seen or heard from again.”
I caught myself almost drooling from
my jaw hanging slack for so long. I had never heard the full story of the
Wizards of Kûn Az before. How amazing! Alatarae; just a normal man at one
point, and then just—rose up to
defeat the greatest threats this world had ever seen! Mulling over the story again
through my head made me want to jump out of my seat at the dinner table and be a hero. Just like Alatarae!
Nad asked the question I was thinking about asking but could not bring
myself to. “So where is Kûn Az? Are the wizards still there? And was Extraceon
really their leader? Who was he afraid of going back to in Kûn Az?”Mr. Eldhart shrugged. “All very good questions that I unfortunately don’t know the answers to. I can speculate though, that the thing he was afraid of was the origin of that evil magic they wielded. Perhaps it is not even human, it might be a Shadow of the Creatures of Old…”
“Creatures of Old??” I asked aloud (quite loud, actually).
Mother cut in then. “Ah ah ah, I can already tell that is a story for another time, son. It’s already time for bed for you two.”
Ugh, it was kind of embarrassing to have Mother announce that it was bedtime for Nad and I right in front of Mr. Eldhart! Mothers.
“Yes indeed, that is a much longer story!” Mr. Eldhart said, stretching his huge arms up above his head and yawning. “As you can see, it is a little passed my bedtime as well!”
Well, maybe it was not that embarrassing…
Father and Mother walked Mr. Eldhart to the door, and my brother and I made our way upstairs. When we made it to the top landing, Nad turned to me and asked, “Can you imagine living in the time of the war? We could’ve been one of those men behind Alatarae! It is something quite amazing to think about…maybe someday that will be us…”
“Yes,” was all managed to say, as I was already thinking deeply about that same subject.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Chapter TWO (my book!)
If you haven't read Chapter One yet, you definitely should! It's right here on the blog!
MR. ELDHART
“I don’t think you routed this thing out all the way,” I complained.
“No...are you sure your angle is straight?”
“Yes I am sure my angle is straight!” I snapped back. I dropped to my knees; hoping that maybe it would give me a better position to slide the fence post in. Alas, I forgot about the holes in my trousers; I could feel the moisture of the ground and grass wetting my knee caps and chilling my legs. Perhaps there was an earthworm pinned under my knee as well...something was moving underneath me. I paid it little mind. More mind than I should have, though.
It was well passed noon now, maybe three hours after, and Nad and I had just replaced four fence posts for our corral. And each and every one of them was as annoying as the other.
So I began my approach again, but this time, I had a hint of resolve. A resolve that was most likely plastered all over my face; a resolve that would probably send ogres running back to their caves in the mountains, crying like little infants. The random thought amused me so much; I might have washed some of the resolve off my face with a little grin. It was not too much of a grin though—I was sure I still had enough resolve on my face.
However, my resolve was depleted when my father’s voice rang out behind me: “How many grown men does it take to put a post in a hole?”
Father laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, and another man laughed with him.
I turned at the sound of the other man’s laughter, and my heart crashed when I saw who it was.
It was Mr. Eldhart, the biggest man I have ever met. He was at least seven feet tall, and by my estimation, his shoulders could barely fit through our doors. But that was beside the point. Mr. Eldhart was Prew’s most famous story-teller. Many a night I would go to The Bonfire and listen to his wild tales. Mr. Eldhart had written so many stories, I was sure he was running Prew out of parchment paper. Mr. Eldhart was my inspiration...he was the greatest writer of all time!
And I wanted to be a writer.
Now, one of the few times I ever got to interact with the man, he was laughing at me. That was disappointing.
Nad muttered something and took the post from me. “I’ll get this, Tristram. It seems you are rather incapable of anything requiring physical effort.”
I resisted the urge to tackle him right then. It would do no good to further embarrass myself in front of my role model.
The two men, my father and Mr. Eldhart, stood right outside the back door. They watched Nad put the post in from afar, then decided to make their way over to the corral, where Father would introduce Mr. Eldhart to one of our five horses. Father and Mother were in the business of breeding horses.
Now the sunset was arriving with a small
fleet of gray, gold, and purplish clouds, but it did not take too long for Mr. Eldhart to come to a
final decision about a horse. His decision surprised me. Out of the four other
horses we had, the tawny mare, the brown/white stallion, the white gelding, the
black mare; the story-teller chose—
Mr. Eldhart laughed. His laugher was contagious; so deep and full of mirth. A chuckle always escaped me when I heard him laugh.
“I assure you,” the big man replied to Father, “she is just what I am looking for. A man could always use a horse with character. In the end, they have the better instincts.”
Narina was a storm-gray mare, with a white stripe starting from the crown of her head to her mid back. A friend of my father’s found her running wild up in The Mountains of Olgrff (the mountains that surrounded Lake Bergonon). After trying to keep the wild animal for himself, he gave her to Father. She was too much for the man.
“I’m hesitant to sell you this animal, Mr. Eldhart,” Father said, patting Narina on the back (who was surprisingly calm at the moment—as if she knew Mr. Eldhart was choosing her), “I’m sure she’ll give you nothing but trouble. I don’t think she’s worth your money. As you probably gathered, she ruined part of our corral. She kicked two of the beams in half!”
“That means she’s strong!” Mr. Eldhart said and came along the other side of the mare, “and I will buy her for seven socré!”
“You’re too generous, sir,” Father said, shaking his head. “I’ll except four socré—no more.”
Mr. Eldhart tsk-tsked and shook his head more fervently than Father, “Five! And we will leave it at that!”
Father sighed and then chuckled. “Perhaps you and Narina are a good match; you’re both the most stubborn beings I have ever dealt with!”
Mr. Eldhart smiled a great big smile and nodded in agreement. “Aye, that we are! And that we always will be! Here Nad, there’s the five. Pleasure doing business with you.”
Father (whose name was Nad, my brother’s namesake) took the money in his left hand and replied, “Likewise!”
“Would you like to join us for supper, Mr. Eldhart?” Mother called from behind. She was poking her head out the back door.
I verbalized my agreement with Mother’s invitation. “Oh please sir! Please eat with us! I’d love to hear some more of your stories!”
“Me too, Mr. Eldhart!” Nad chimed in.
“I’ve made some fresh bread and soup!” Mother added.
“What soup might that be?” inquired Mr. Eldhart, though by the look on his face I think he had already made his decision, no matter the soup.
Mother answered, “Potato and cheese, sir!”
Mr. Eldhart laughed and mock-rubbed his belly. “Well, I might just have to join you folks now! And I think I have a story or two up my sleeve...”
Nad and I exchanged excited looks as we followed Father and Mr. Eldhart back into the house.
MR. ELDHART
“Tristram!” Nad exclaimed, “It isn’t
that hard! You are forcing it...you should not have to!”
I growled and stomped my foot. I was
frustrated that the end of the horizontal fence post refused to slide into the corner
post’s newly carved port-hole. “I don’t think you routed this thing out all the way,” I complained.
“No...are you sure your angle is straight?”
“Yes I am sure my angle is straight!” I snapped back. I dropped to my knees; hoping that maybe it would give me a better position to slide the fence post in. Alas, I forgot about the holes in my trousers; I could feel the moisture of the ground and grass wetting my knee caps and chilling my legs. Perhaps there was an earthworm pinned under my knee as well...something was moving underneath me. I paid it little mind. More mind than I should have, though.
It was well passed noon now, maybe three hours after, and Nad and I had just replaced four fence posts for our corral. And each and every one of them was as annoying as the other.
So I began my approach again, but this time, I had a hint of resolve. A resolve that was most likely plastered all over my face; a resolve that would probably send ogres running back to their caves in the mountains, crying like little infants. The random thought amused me so much; I might have washed some of the resolve off my face with a little grin. It was not too much of a grin though—I was sure I still had enough resolve on my face.
However, my resolve was depleted when my father’s voice rang out behind me: “How many grown men does it take to put a post in a hole?”
Father laughed as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, and another man laughed with him.
I turned at the sound of the other man’s laughter, and my heart crashed when I saw who it was.
It was Mr. Eldhart, the biggest man I have ever met. He was at least seven feet tall, and by my estimation, his shoulders could barely fit through our doors. But that was beside the point. Mr. Eldhart was Prew’s most famous story-teller. Many a night I would go to The Bonfire and listen to his wild tales. Mr. Eldhart had written so many stories, I was sure he was running Prew out of parchment paper. Mr. Eldhart was my inspiration...he was the greatest writer of all time!
And I wanted to be a writer.
Now, one of the few times I ever got to interact with the man, he was laughing at me. That was disappointing.
Nad muttered something and took the post from me. “I’ll get this, Tristram. It seems you are rather incapable of anything requiring physical effort.”
I resisted the urge to tackle him right then. It would do no good to further embarrass myself in front of my role model.
The two men, my father and Mr. Eldhart, stood right outside the back door. They watched Nad put the post in from afar, then decided to make their way over to the corral, where Father would introduce Mr. Eldhart to one of our five horses. Father and Mother were in the business of breeding horses.
“Narina—I like this gal! She’s a sport, I can
tell.”
“Narina?” my father said in a
half-yell. “Sport isn’t quite the
right word you were lookin’ for. I would say—‘rambunctious’? ‘Insane?’”Mr. Eldhart laughed. His laugher was contagious; so deep and full of mirth. A chuckle always escaped me when I heard him laugh.
“I assure you,” the big man replied to Father, “she is just what I am looking for. A man could always use a horse with character. In the end, they have the better instincts.”
Narina was a storm-gray mare, with a white stripe starting from the crown of her head to her mid back. A friend of my father’s found her running wild up in The Mountains of Olgrff (the mountains that surrounded Lake Bergonon). After trying to keep the wild animal for himself, he gave her to Father. She was too much for the man.
“I’m hesitant to sell you this animal, Mr. Eldhart,” Father said, patting Narina on the back (who was surprisingly calm at the moment—as if she knew Mr. Eldhart was choosing her), “I’m sure she’ll give you nothing but trouble. I don’t think she’s worth your money. As you probably gathered, she ruined part of our corral. She kicked two of the beams in half!”
“That means she’s strong!” Mr. Eldhart said and came along the other side of the mare, “and I will buy her for seven socré!”
“You’re too generous, sir,” Father said, shaking his head. “I’ll except four socré—no more.”
Mr. Eldhart tsk-tsked and shook his head more fervently than Father, “Five! And we will leave it at that!”
Father sighed and then chuckled. “Perhaps you and Narina are a good match; you’re both the most stubborn beings I have ever dealt with!”
Mr. Eldhart smiled a great big smile and nodded in agreement. “Aye, that we are! And that we always will be! Here Nad, there’s the five. Pleasure doing business with you.”
Father (whose name was Nad, my brother’s namesake) took the money in his left hand and replied, “Likewise!”
“Would you like to join us for supper, Mr. Eldhart?” Mother called from behind. She was poking her head out the back door.
I verbalized my agreement with Mother’s invitation. “Oh please sir! Please eat with us! I’d love to hear some more of your stories!”
“Me too, Mr. Eldhart!” Nad chimed in.
“I’ve made some fresh bread and soup!” Mother added.
“What soup might that be?” inquired Mr. Eldhart, though by the look on his face I think he had already made his decision, no matter the soup.
Mother answered, “Potato and cheese, sir!”
Mr. Eldhart laughed and mock-rubbed his belly. “Well, I might just have to join you folks now! And I think I have a story or two up my sleeve...”
Nad and I exchanged excited looks as we followed Father and Mr. Eldhart back into the house.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Storms: Figuratively Speaking
I had a really cool conversation with one of my best friends the other day. We've had so many cool conversations in fact, that we were both tempted to blog ALL our conversations, just for the sake of the world's entertainment. But anyway:
The conversation was about storms, in the figurative and spiritual sense. I was talking about how God had used pretty horrible circumstances in my life to lead up to the more recent, inspiring events that have transpired; and he wondered, "I wonder if there is a way--if we could somehow see God's plan--that we'd avoid those storms entirely." And that question really got us both thinking. A brainSTORM had just begun. (Heh heh...)
Then it occured to me, and it quickly occurred to him as well, that God shapes us through his storms, he pushes us in the way we need to go. He gets us to go to His side of the boat and ask him to save the day. If God doesn't rattle us up a bit sometimes, we'd never see glorious changes in our lives that God knows we long to see. We might not even know what those changes are. For example, if I didn't have my bout with cancer, or my other dramatic battles during that time, my life would be completely different right now. The San Diego Christian College opportunity would never have happened, if my storms never happened. I would still be a depressed, self-hating, fake-faced boy if I was never diagnosed with lymphoma. I would have never known who was there for me, and who was not. I wouldn't have a story that kept both me going, and some people around me. Now honestly, the storm sucked big time while going through it. I know it wasn't a punishment though, because NOW, being on the otherside of it, I'm a new man. I'm tight with God. I'm going to college (I was not even considering college before), I'm passionate about life again, and I've seen a side of God I've never seen before. So in an attempt to wrap this up, the thing is simply this:
If "storms" are of God, then should we pray them away? If they are to do us good, should we curse them? For me, I will pray God's storms upon me; I pray he opens up the heavens and thunders and rains all over my life. Yes, His storms are difficult. They are heavy, therefore not an easy burden. So I pray for better ways to WEATHER these storms. I pray that I will be on God's side of the boat when it hits my seas, I pray that when he's out there on the water calling for me that I jump right in and never take my eyes off him.
We gotta raise NEW sails, and pray and prepare for the worst. For God sends His toughest hurricanes to show us the biggest miracles! And not only will OUR story and inspiration be effected, but so will our peer's and the rest of those around us. I look forward to the next rainy day or typhoon God sends my way, for in the end, God is victorious, and in the end, life is how it needs to be, whether we are personally benefited, or someone else entirely in God's kingdom. Afterall, life isn't all about the individual, it's about God. HIS plan. If HE'S victorious, He will make his children victorious as well.
This day I find ways to weather the storm. This day I wait anxiously for it.
The conversation was about storms, in the figurative and spiritual sense. I was talking about how God had used pretty horrible circumstances in my life to lead up to the more recent, inspiring events that have transpired; and he wondered, "I wonder if there is a way--if we could somehow see God's plan--that we'd avoid those storms entirely." And that question really got us both thinking. A brainSTORM had just begun. (Heh heh...)
Then it occured to me, and it quickly occurred to him as well, that God shapes us through his storms, he pushes us in the way we need to go. He gets us to go to His side of the boat and ask him to save the day. If God doesn't rattle us up a bit sometimes, we'd never see glorious changes in our lives that God knows we long to see. We might not even know what those changes are. For example, if I didn't have my bout with cancer, or my other dramatic battles during that time, my life would be completely different right now. The San Diego Christian College opportunity would never have happened, if my storms never happened. I would still be a depressed, self-hating, fake-faced boy if I was never diagnosed with lymphoma. I would have never known who was there for me, and who was not. I wouldn't have a story that kept both me going, and some people around me. Now honestly, the storm sucked big time while going through it. I know it wasn't a punishment though, because NOW, being on the otherside of it, I'm a new man. I'm tight with God. I'm going to college (I was not even considering college before), I'm passionate about life again, and I've seen a side of God I've never seen before. So in an attempt to wrap this up, the thing is simply this:
If "storms" are of God, then should we pray them away? If they are to do us good, should we curse them? For me, I will pray God's storms upon me; I pray he opens up the heavens and thunders and rains all over my life. Yes, His storms are difficult. They are heavy, therefore not an easy burden. So I pray for better ways to WEATHER these storms. I pray that I will be on God's side of the boat when it hits my seas, I pray that when he's out there on the water calling for me that I jump right in and never take my eyes off him.
We gotta raise NEW sails, and pray and prepare for the worst. For God sends His toughest hurricanes to show us the biggest miracles! And not only will OUR story and inspiration be effected, but so will our peer's and the rest of those around us. I look forward to the next rainy day or typhoon God sends my way, for in the end, God is victorious, and in the end, life is how it needs to be, whether we are personally benefited, or someone else entirely in God's kingdom. Afterall, life isn't all about the individual, it's about God. HIS plan. If HE'S victorious, He will make his children victorious as well.
This day I find ways to weather the storm. This day I wait anxiously for it.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
You're a Star and I'm a Stage
I deserve poetic justice after all these silly tries
With silly songs I wrote for you
With melody lines you harmonize
Granted though they told me that you would be hard to get
So I guess I get a pat on the back
For the courageous words I said
The aftermath is and has been awkward and disdainful
But I find it much more saddening and frankly much more painful
That I know that I will always be the pitied fool who tried
The little engine that thought he could
But all his thoughts had lied
To think that I'm not interesting
But too nice and kind of strange
When I feel like Im so perfect for you
You're a star and I'm a stage
With silly songs I wrote for you
With melody lines you harmonize
Granted though they told me that you would be hard to get
So I guess I get a pat on the back
For the courageous words I said
The aftermath is and has been awkward and disdainful
But I find it much more saddening and frankly much more painful
That I know that I will always be the pitied fool who tried
The little engine that thought he could
But all his thoughts had lied
To think that I'm not interesting
But too nice and kind of strange
When I feel like Im so perfect for you
You're a star and I'm a stage
Friday, April 27, 2012
A Night in the Recording Studio
My band and I went into the studio the other day! It was so awesome. My bandmate and I met them at this fundraiser for my chemotherapy treatment/bills, and they offered to record some of our originals--for free! It's literally blows my mind and blesses my socks off that people like that exist. Every time I bring up any kind of payment, they turn it down, saying "Your payment can be getting the word out that there's these guys out in Sahuarita who record." So here's the word guys, seriously, if you want to get some stuff recording, they're your guys. Nicest guys in the whole world, Scott and Jake Smith.
But yeah, my band, The Ungeneral Public, an acoustic/indie/alternative-rock sounding group, recorded a song of ours called "Yours Truly"," and we went through the whole song and got the vocals done, which is a miracle, and awesome. Vocals take forever--normally. But I guess you could say it was a good day vocally for both me and Taylor. Brad (our other band member) experimented with a drum track, but it turns out the kit that was provided wasn't quite what we were looking for in sound, but we're going in next Wednesday evening to lay down the final brush kit track (we're bringing in the right drum mics) and to throw in the bass line.
It's always really encouragin and exciting to hear a musical work that you've heard pretty much only in your head and on a guitar come out through pro-grade speakers with other instruments. It puts the biggest smile on my face. Yes, I can hear the stuff in my head, but it's really not the same. And it makes me appreciate the musicians I work with so much more. I know some talented people!
Talk of going to Nashville for a small amount time next year has actually been going around, and I agree, that would be pretty cool. We'll definitely see about that! Any n kind of travel like that for our band will defnitely be encouraged.
So yeah, we are most definitely hoping to get a record of about 6-8 tracks out this year; that's our official goal. And it most definitely is a fun goal! Be following us on our facebook page: www.facebook.com/theungeneralpublic and on Twitter: @ungeneralpublic.
But yeah, my band, The Ungeneral Public, an acoustic/indie/alternative-rock sounding group, recorded a song of ours called "Yours Truly"," and we went through the whole song and got the vocals done, which is a miracle, and awesome. Vocals take forever--normally. But I guess you could say it was a good day vocally for both me and Taylor. Brad (our other band member) experimented with a drum track, but it turns out the kit that was provided wasn't quite what we were looking for in sound, but we're going in next Wednesday evening to lay down the final brush kit track (we're bringing in the right drum mics) and to throw in the bass line.
It's always really encouragin and exciting to hear a musical work that you've heard pretty much only in your head and on a guitar come out through pro-grade speakers with other instruments. It puts the biggest smile on my face. Yes, I can hear the stuff in my head, but it's really not the same. And it makes me appreciate the musicians I work with so much more. I know some talented people!
Talk of going to Nashville for a small amount time next year has actually been going around, and I agree, that would be pretty cool. We'll definitely see about that! Any n kind of travel like that for our band will defnitely be encouraged.
So yeah, we are most definitely hoping to get a record of about 6-8 tracks out this year; that's our official goal. And it most definitely is a fun goal! Be following us on our facebook page: www.facebook.com/theungeneralpublic and on Twitter: @ungeneralpublic.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
My Book
This is Chapter One of the book I've been working on since October. Enjoy! Let me know you think.
“Tristram!” the lady called again, but this time I just let her voice wash over me. It was so beautiful, like a song. She was so beautiful, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
The wispy clouds swirled about her, as if the image I was seeing was all choreographed and rehearsed to perfection. Much like the movement of the clouds, her hair danced about above her head; splayed about every which direction, but beautiful all the same. It was black as night but glossy like obsidian. Her skin was dark and her eyes a deep brown. Her nose was a gentle slope that turned up at the end, which gave her an air dignity and perhaps royalty. And maybe she was, I could not tell. But whoever she was, she made my legs feel boneless.
Her lips were luscious, and her teeth a brilliant white. Her chin and jaw gave her the angular shape of her head, which made me think of the illustrations of the many elven princesses of old. Perhaps she was an elven princess. After all, the elven princesses were known to be the most beautiful things ever beheld in all the world.
Her dress was a silvery silk, with a deep purple sash wrapped about her; from her left shoulder to her waist. And like the clouds and her hair, her deep purple cape flitted about behind her, as if it was the very source of her levitation.
Again, she called out “Tristram!” ...but this time, she sounded more like...
“Tristram! You do not want to deal with your father when he sees your chores
unfinished! Again!”
...My mother.
My eyes snapped open, and my mouth
answered my mother out of habit: “I am awake! Here I come!”
But I had disciplined myself not to give in to such depressing thinking, for if I did, I would surely have quite a dreary day. So I threw off the blankets that lay atop me and swung my feet off the edge of my bed, testing the ground with my bare toes. At first touch, the wood slats were rather cold, as usual. I needed a rug. Ah, but so much work went into the making of a rug. If I really wanted a rug, and brought the subject up to my father, I knew he would put me to work on making myself a rug right away. My father would sooner cut off his hand than spend his hard earned money on something he could make for himself. A rug is one of those things one could make for himself. It was a lot of work though. Work, in that degree, was never my strong point. I would have to hunt the creature that provided the rug. Hunting the creature was not so hard, but effectively subduing and killing the creature was quite a challenge, and my whole family could attest to the fact that I was not a very good hunter. Furthermore, I’d have to skin the blasted animal. That would probably be the worst part, I decided. After skinning the animal...well...I was not quite sure what happened after that step. I would have to learn. And learning took patience. And patience—I had gotten pretty good at faking the quality. Learning also took humility. Granted, humility is an important thing, although I felt like my humility often turned into self-loathing at some point. Actually, it always turned into self-loathing for me. Maybe that was just me. Either way, a rug was out of the question for me. It was nothing but a little day-dream. After all, I was only a dreamer. Someday, I would put feet and wings to my dreams. I needed the motivation though, and I had not the foggiest idea where I could find such a thing as that—motivation.
I stood up from my sitting position on my bedside, and reeled as a strange head-rush came over me. My desk and bookshelf teetered dangerously in my vision, and they duplicated and re-duplicated themselves, and tiny specks like little gnats flew about the corners of my eyes. Interesting, I thought, I must be dehydrated.
And that would not be too unheard of. I could definitely use some more water in my daily diet.
I walked groggily over to my dresser, where my mirror was mounted. The dresser was about three feet away from the foot of my bed. The face that stared back at me in the reflection surprised me greatly, and a laugh escaped from in between my lips. My thick, curly, straw-blond hair was going every which direction but down, and my face was scrunched; my forest green eyes were barely visible behind ‘the scrunch’ (as Father called it). Lines etched my cheeks from my sheets and pillow-case...yes; I somehow managed to ruin everything from the neck up during my sleep.
I slid into my moccasins and pulled on my beige trousers. I sighed as I noticed that the right leg of the trousers had developed a hole in the right knee as well. There was no way my mother would ignore the state of the trousers now. Soon she would be chasing me with a needle and thread.
“Mothers,” I sighed aloud, “their sons can turn seventeen, but they will still fuss over them as if their sons were still toddlers.”
I opened my bedroom door as I was sliding on my shirt and coat simultaneously. My door opened up to the banister of the house’s upper hallway, and just to my right was the descending flight of stairs. I made it all the way to the first landing in one bound, then slid down the banister the rest of the way. The wooden posts groaned and complained under my weight, and I could not help but wonder if someone as light as myself could actually cause those posts to falter. I highly doubted it.
The stairs dropped me off in the front room of my house. A couch built for three had its back to me, and a large, sketched family portrait stared at me from the far wall, across from the couch. That must have been, oh, maybe four years ago that that picture was drawn by a friend of my mother’s. She was a good artist. Though, in my opinion, the sketch she drew of me was not very accurate.
Next to the portrait was a window. The only window in the front room. Mother was in the process of making some curtains for it, actually. And perpendicular to this window was a book shelf. Every room in this house had one thing in common, and it was a book shelf. Books were important to my family. For in books, were knowledge, and “knowledge is everything,” my father once said. I believed that he was right at one time. And then I grew into a teenager...
A small table with a candelabra on its surface stood just beneath the portrait frame, and another, smaller couch was set perpendicular to the large couch. It was a fairly small front room, compared to some others I had visited, but it was comfortable.
To the immediate right of the stairwell was the front door. And the front door opened to a hallway that passed right through the front room and into the dining area, which was also the kitchen...which was also where I happened to be heading.
The dining room and kitchen were significantly different from the rest of the house. While the upstairs, stairs, front room, and hallway had wood flooring, the dining room and kitchen were tiled with slate rock. This was because only the front half of the house was the original building and floor-plan...
When my family had traveled to this town (Prew) from Fardûnôs, I don’t know, I think it was ten years back; my father was looking for any land he could afford, so he could do what he originally planned to do; build us a permanent home and start a ranch. As we were passing by this area, we saw the house, and noticed it was abandoned. My father asked around town about it, and found out from Old Hursteid that the house was actually a shepherd’s shed. It was long out of use, and the townsfolk of Prew had almost forgotten about it. When Father inquired about the price, Hursteid shrugged and replied, “Don’cha worry ‘bout it, no one knows or cares about the price. All we know is; its owner has been gone for nearly a decade. It don’t belong to nobody now!”
So it seems that things worked out in our favor. Father wanted a ranch, and he got a whole sheep pasture with a shed—for free! My mother said it was certainly a “divine appointment” that we had so much luck with the house, and the rest of us could not help but agree with her. After we took a little tour of the shed, it was evident that it would not make a large enough home, so all we had to do then was get the supplies to add on to the shed.
We tore down the whole back wall of the shed to add in the dining room and kitchen area, and it was Father’s and my older brother Nad’s idea for the slate rock tile to be the flooring. Sure enough, it proved satisfactory for us...
Mother was in the kitchen, pounding a big ball of bread dough with a floury fist. Behind her, the brick furnace was lit, and I could almost feel the heat radiating off the hot coals from where I stood by the dining room table.
Without looking at me, Mother asked, “Did you check on Lathríl’s and Nimmiel’s water yet?”
“I just came downstairs, Mother.”
She let out a short burst of humorless laughter. “You had better start moving! We’re wasting daylight!”
I moved toward the back door that was just beyond the dining room table. As I turned the knob, I asked over my shoulder, “If I may ask, what is the hurry for today?”
Mother sounded exasperated. “You don’t remember? Father told you this yesterday...Narina, our newest horse you know, broke the gate in the southwest corner of the corral the other day, during one of her tantrums. You, Nad, and Father need to get that repaired before Mr. Eldhart comes through.”
Mr. Eldhart?! I repeated to myself as I opened the door. Mr. Eldhart is buying today?
As I stepped out from the doorway, I was suddenly greeted by an extremely friendly group of flies and by the eager paws of my dogs, Lathríl and Nimmiel. Lathríl was ancient in comparison to most dogs. She was sixteen years old, whereas Nimmiel was only two years; still just a pup. Both the dogs were big Labradors; Lathríl was white with brown splotches all over, as if someone dumped some paint on her. Nimmiel was a more...interesting color. He was the darkest shade of blue there could be; perhaps it could be described as a just-after-sundown-blue. Truly, it was quite remarkable, and no one I knew had ever seen a dog like him. Yes, Nimmiel was special, and I loved him for it. Both dogs stood about three feet in height.
After greeting them and exchanging some slobbery kisses, I pushed my way passed them and walked toward the west side of my house, where the dogs’ huge bin of water was stationed. As always, it was nearly empty. Filling the bowl would be a rather easy task on any normal day of the year, but alas, winter was coming, and the cold had frozen the pipes that led to our family’s pump. So the solution to that problem was not all that hard either, it just meant more work. I would have to get two buckets from inside the house and take them down to the river. It was only a half mile down the old deer trail to the creek, but the trek back with the buckets full of water would be a sorry one. Oh well.
When I went inside to fetch the buckets, Mother made sure to remind me to fly like the wind, since Father was expecting me to be ready to work on the gate by the time he returned from town. A near impossible task she had given me—to fly like the wind with a five-gallon wood bucket full of water in each hand, heading up hill! I sighed as I hurried back out the door and started across the meadow behind my house; past the miserable, frozen pump, and towards the tree line that prevented the rays of the morning sun from penetrating its depths.
Once in the woods, I found the trail that led to the creek, and began to follow it down. I thought about how disorienting it would be to live in the woods. It would be nearly impossible to tell what time of day it was until nightfall, but even then, it was not that much of a difference in lighting. I imagined many people went crazy after having spent too much time in the darkness. The sun is a medicine, and you cannot go too long without it.
The trail wound its way towards the bottom of the hill, which is where the creek lay. One of the best things about living where I lived was the fact that I could hear the babbling creek every time I stepped outside. It was always a joyous noise to my ears.
I hopped onto the large rock that ventured from the shore to the running water, and I dipped my buckets in until they were full. In turning to jump off the rock, I thought I saw something across the creek and upstream of me. I quickly looked over that way and examined the shoreline. Nothing out of the ordinary—wait!
Was that a man poking his head around that tree over there? I could not tell. I stared at the shape for a little while longer. My heart started to slow to its normal tempo when the shape did not move, and I began to doubt my eyes.
It moved! It moved!
The shadow shape stepped out from behind the tree and ran up the hillside—through the woods and over the thicket!
I did a similar thing—I ran like I was being attacked by a hive of bees back up the trail towards the meadow; trying my best not to slosh the water from the buckets too much.
When I came through the tree line, I could see Nad making his way over to the corral with Father’s canvas bag of tools. I kept up my speed, but remained careful of any gopher holes and other such things that could trip me and send me sprawling.
I was panting like Lathríl and Nimmiel by the time I dumped the buckets contents into the dogs’ water bin. I was still reeling at the thought that someone could have been spying on me. What was that man doing down by the creek anyway? My family’s house was just out of town, and the creek cut right through Prew; it would be silly for someone to travel this far upstream and out of town while there was plenty of water and fish in town. ‘Unnerved’ would be a great word to describe how I felt about the matter.
Just as I was going inside to return the buckets, Father was coming through the front door. He raised his eyebrows at me, a common greeting from him. He took of his wide brimmed hat and hung it on the hat rack that was right next to the front door. He ran a hand through his thinning dark gray hair and started down the hallway into the dining room.
“Tristram, you remember you’re fixin’ the gate with Nad and I, right?” Father asked.
“I remember, sir.”
Father went over to Mother’s side and kissed her cheek. She smiled. “Well go on out there,” he said as he went over to the fruit basket by the flatware sink and picked out a plum (we had three plum trees on the east side of our house), “Nad’s all ready to go. He already has an idea about what to do, so let him get you started on somethin’. I’ll be right out.”
“Alright...and Father?”
“Tristram?” he replied, mimicking my tone of voice.
I hesitated for a moment. I was suddenly worried that I might be ridiculed from my father. It needed to be brought up though.
“There was a man down by the creek this morning...I think he was spying on me.”
Mother looked up from her kneading and gave me a look. It could have been a look of amusement, or maybe it was look of concern. I could not tell.
“A man down by the creek was spyin’ on you?” Father asked with his mouth full, and plum juice dribbled into his thick beard, “Well what were you doin’ at the creek?”
“I was fetching water for the dogs.”
“Ah.”
“Isn’t that strange? Why would a man be up so far north of the main creek? And he was definitely spying on me father. He was farther up the rise and crouched behind some thicket! Certainly, a man of good intention would not hide himself like that...and he was staring at me for the longest time! He ran away when I noticed him.”
For a brief moment, Father looked concerned. But, like I figured he would, he waved it off and said, “You have an overactive imagination son. And that’s not a bad thing...but it could be a bad thing if you start believin’ your games.”
I was a little hurt that he thought it was my imagination, but the last part of what he said troubled me more.
“Games? What games? Father, there was a man down there!”
“Tristram, do not raise your voice at me! I meant it all in good humor. If there was a man down there—he was not spying on you!”
I was getting frustrated; I slapped my thighs and practically pleaded my case as if I were trying to sway a jury. “I promise he was spying on me, Father. What else could he have been doing?”
Father wiped his mouth clean and sighed. “Now you’re getting too excited about this boy. We will talk about it later...if it still needs talkin’ about. Now go to Nad! I have some things to discuss with your mother.”
Court was adjourned...for now. “Yes, Father.”
“I wanna see you runnin’! There’s no walkin’ when you’re workin’ with me!”
“Yes, Father,” I said, and hurried out the back door.
With the
stealth of night itself, and the intent of a lion stalking a deer, the claws of
shadow stretched eagerly towards the child wrapped in cloth, lying flat on the
bed. While the boy was oblivious and always oblivious to his presence,
Sadisarius hovered over the weak creature and studied him for a few brief
moments. An excitement swept over him as the gravity of his mission settled
into his mind. This youth was surely made for something great, but now, that
would all change. His purpose would be morphed for a new outcome. The bedroom
darkened to a pitch black as Sadisarius’s cape unfurled and touched every
corner of the room. He lifted his left claw, and with a malevolent laugh, he
swung it down and tore through the heart of the boy. And as fast as he had done
the deed, the devil was gone, leaving in his wake a despair; an uneasiness that
the boy was sure to feel when he awoke in the morning.
CHAPTER ONE: GOOD MORNING TRISTRAM
“Tristram!”
It was at that moment that I felt like
my heart would beat out of my chest. But I could not reply. My mouth refused to
open, as if a large hand smothered my face; or as if I had lost all sense and
had just lost the ability to actually
speak. Panic stabbed through my heart. I desperately wanted to reply, to
acknowledge the call. “Tristram!” the lady called again, but this time I just let her voice wash over me. It was so beautiful, like a song. She was so beautiful, the most beautiful creature I had ever seen.
The wispy clouds swirled about her, as if the image I was seeing was all choreographed and rehearsed to perfection. Much like the movement of the clouds, her hair danced about above her head; splayed about every which direction, but beautiful all the same. It was black as night but glossy like obsidian. Her skin was dark and her eyes a deep brown. Her nose was a gentle slope that turned up at the end, which gave her an air dignity and perhaps royalty. And maybe she was, I could not tell. But whoever she was, she made my legs feel boneless.
Her lips were luscious, and her teeth a brilliant white. Her chin and jaw gave her the angular shape of her head, which made me think of the illustrations of the many elven princesses of old. Perhaps she was an elven princess. After all, the elven princesses were known to be the most beautiful things ever beheld in all the world.
Her dress was a silvery silk, with a deep purple sash wrapped about her; from her left shoulder to her waist. And like the clouds and her hair, her deep purple cape flitted about behind her, as if it was the very source of her levitation.
Again, she called out “Tristram!” ...but this time, she sounded more like...
But I had disciplined myself not to give in to such depressing thinking, for if I did, I would surely have quite a dreary day. So I threw off the blankets that lay atop me and swung my feet off the edge of my bed, testing the ground with my bare toes. At first touch, the wood slats were rather cold, as usual. I needed a rug. Ah, but so much work went into the making of a rug. If I really wanted a rug, and brought the subject up to my father, I knew he would put me to work on making myself a rug right away. My father would sooner cut off his hand than spend his hard earned money on something he could make for himself. A rug is one of those things one could make for himself. It was a lot of work though. Work, in that degree, was never my strong point. I would have to hunt the creature that provided the rug. Hunting the creature was not so hard, but effectively subduing and killing the creature was quite a challenge, and my whole family could attest to the fact that I was not a very good hunter. Furthermore, I’d have to skin the blasted animal. That would probably be the worst part, I decided. After skinning the animal...well...I was not quite sure what happened after that step. I would have to learn. And learning took patience. And patience—I had gotten pretty good at faking the quality. Learning also took humility. Granted, humility is an important thing, although I felt like my humility often turned into self-loathing at some point. Actually, it always turned into self-loathing for me. Maybe that was just me. Either way, a rug was out of the question for me. It was nothing but a little day-dream. After all, I was only a dreamer. Someday, I would put feet and wings to my dreams. I needed the motivation though, and I had not the foggiest idea where I could find such a thing as that—motivation.
I stood up from my sitting position on my bedside, and reeled as a strange head-rush came over me. My desk and bookshelf teetered dangerously in my vision, and they duplicated and re-duplicated themselves, and tiny specks like little gnats flew about the corners of my eyes. Interesting, I thought, I must be dehydrated.
And that would not be too unheard of. I could definitely use some more water in my daily diet.
I walked groggily over to my dresser, where my mirror was mounted. The dresser was about three feet away from the foot of my bed. The face that stared back at me in the reflection surprised me greatly, and a laugh escaped from in between my lips. My thick, curly, straw-blond hair was going every which direction but down, and my face was scrunched; my forest green eyes were barely visible behind ‘the scrunch’ (as Father called it). Lines etched my cheeks from my sheets and pillow-case...yes; I somehow managed to ruin everything from the neck up during my sleep.
I slid into my moccasins and pulled on my beige trousers. I sighed as I noticed that the right leg of the trousers had developed a hole in the right knee as well. There was no way my mother would ignore the state of the trousers now. Soon she would be chasing me with a needle and thread.
“Mothers,” I sighed aloud, “their sons can turn seventeen, but they will still fuss over them as if their sons were still toddlers.”
I opened my bedroom door as I was sliding on my shirt and coat simultaneously. My door opened up to the banister of the house’s upper hallway, and just to my right was the descending flight of stairs. I made it all the way to the first landing in one bound, then slid down the banister the rest of the way. The wooden posts groaned and complained under my weight, and I could not help but wonder if someone as light as myself could actually cause those posts to falter. I highly doubted it.
The stairs dropped me off in the front room of my house. A couch built for three had its back to me, and a large, sketched family portrait stared at me from the far wall, across from the couch. That must have been, oh, maybe four years ago that that picture was drawn by a friend of my mother’s. She was a good artist. Though, in my opinion, the sketch she drew of me was not very accurate.
Next to the portrait was a window. The only window in the front room. Mother was in the process of making some curtains for it, actually. And perpendicular to this window was a book shelf. Every room in this house had one thing in common, and it was a book shelf. Books were important to my family. For in books, were knowledge, and “knowledge is everything,” my father once said. I believed that he was right at one time. And then I grew into a teenager...
A small table with a candelabra on its surface stood just beneath the portrait frame, and another, smaller couch was set perpendicular to the large couch. It was a fairly small front room, compared to some others I had visited, but it was comfortable.
To the immediate right of the stairwell was the front door. And the front door opened to a hallway that passed right through the front room and into the dining area, which was also the kitchen...which was also where I happened to be heading.
The dining room and kitchen were significantly different from the rest of the house. While the upstairs, stairs, front room, and hallway had wood flooring, the dining room and kitchen were tiled with slate rock. This was because only the front half of the house was the original building and floor-plan...
When my family had traveled to this town (Prew) from Fardûnôs, I don’t know, I think it was ten years back; my father was looking for any land he could afford, so he could do what he originally planned to do; build us a permanent home and start a ranch. As we were passing by this area, we saw the house, and noticed it was abandoned. My father asked around town about it, and found out from Old Hursteid that the house was actually a shepherd’s shed. It was long out of use, and the townsfolk of Prew had almost forgotten about it. When Father inquired about the price, Hursteid shrugged and replied, “Don’cha worry ‘bout it, no one knows or cares about the price. All we know is; its owner has been gone for nearly a decade. It don’t belong to nobody now!”
So it seems that things worked out in our favor. Father wanted a ranch, and he got a whole sheep pasture with a shed—for free! My mother said it was certainly a “divine appointment” that we had so much luck with the house, and the rest of us could not help but agree with her. After we took a little tour of the shed, it was evident that it would not make a large enough home, so all we had to do then was get the supplies to add on to the shed.
We tore down the whole back wall of the shed to add in the dining room and kitchen area, and it was Father’s and my older brother Nad’s idea for the slate rock tile to be the flooring. Sure enough, it proved satisfactory for us...
It gave the house beauty, taste, and a sense of character, but only a
fool would walk across this floor with bare-feet. Hence the moccasins—I never
forgot the moccasins.
In the middle of the dining room was a rectangular table about five feet
long, with two chairs along each side and one at the ‘head.’ Father always sat
there. Nad sat nearest to the head on the right, Mother sat nearest to the head
on the left, and I sat by mother. The vacant chair was for a guest, on the rare
occasion we had one. Most of the time, if I wanted some social interaction, I
would have to venture forth from the house. My parents were always on the
anti-social side of life. It bothered me only sometimes.Mother was in the kitchen, pounding a big ball of bread dough with a floury fist. Behind her, the brick furnace was lit, and I could almost feel the heat radiating off the hot coals from where I stood by the dining room table.
Without looking at me, Mother asked, “Did you check on Lathríl’s and Nimmiel’s water yet?”
“I just came downstairs, Mother.”
She let out a short burst of humorless laughter. “You had better start moving! We’re wasting daylight!”
I moved toward the back door that was just beyond the dining room table. As I turned the knob, I asked over my shoulder, “If I may ask, what is the hurry for today?”
Mother sounded exasperated. “You don’t remember? Father told you this yesterday...Narina, our newest horse you know, broke the gate in the southwest corner of the corral the other day, during one of her tantrums. You, Nad, and Father need to get that repaired before Mr. Eldhart comes through.”
Mr. Eldhart?! I repeated to myself as I opened the door. Mr. Eldhart is buying today?
As I stepped out from the doorway, I was suddenly greeted by an extremely friendly group of flies and by the eager paws of my dogs, Lathríl and Nimmiel. Lathríl was ancient in comparison to most dogs. She was sixteen years old, whereas Nimmiel was only two years; still just a pup. Both the dogs were big Labradors; Lathríl was white with brown splotches all over, as if someone dumped some paint on her. Nimmiel was a more...interesting color. He was the darkest shade of blue there could be; perhaps it could be described as a just-after-sundown-blue. Truly, it was quite remarkable, and no one I knew had ever seen a dog like him. Yes, Nimmiel was special, and I loved him for it. Both dogs stood about three feet in height.
After greeting them and exchanging some slobbery kisses, I pushed my way passed them and walked toward the west side of my house, where the dogs’ huge bin of water was stationed. As always, it was nearly empty. Filling the bowl would be a rather easy task on any normal day of the year, but alas, winter was coming, and the cold had frozen the pipes that led to our family’s pump. So the solution to that problem was not all that hard either, it just meant more work. I would have to get two buckets from inside the house and take them down to the river. It was only a half mile down the old deer trail to the creek, but the trek back with the buckets full of water would be a sorry one. Oh well.
When I went inside to fetch the buckets, Mother made sure to remind me to fly like the wind, since Father was expecting me to be ready to work on the gate by the time he returned from town. A near impossible task she had given me—to fly like the wind with a five-gallon wood bucket full of water in each hand, heading up hill! I sighed as I hurried back out the door and started across the meadow behind my house; past the miserable, frozen pump, and towards the tree line that prevented the rays of the morning sun from penetrating its depths.
Once in the woods, I found the trail that led to the creek, and began to follow it down. I thought about how disorienting it would be to live in the woods. It would be nearly impossible to tell what time of day it was until nightfall, but even then, it was not that much of a difference in lighting. I imagined many people went crazy after having spent too much time in the darkness. The sun is a medicine, and you cannot go too long without it.
The trail wound its way towards the bottom of the hill, which is where the creek lay. One of the best things about living where I lived was the fact that I could hear the babbling creek every time I stepped outside. It was always a joyous noise to my ears.
I hopped onto the large rock that ventured from the shore to the running water, and I dipped my buckets in until they were full. In turning to jump off the rock, I thought I saw something across the creek and upstream of me. I quickly looked over that way and examined the shoreline. Nothing out of the ordinary—wait!
Was that a man poking his head around that tree over there? I could not tell. I stared at the shape for a little while longer. My heart started to slow to its normal tempo when the shape did not move, and I began to doubt my eyes.
It moved! It moved!
The shadow shape stepped out from behind the tree and ran up the hillside—through the woods and over the thicket!
I did a similar thing—I ran like I was being attacked by a hive of bees back up the trail towards the meadow; trying my best not to slosh the water from the buckets too much.
When I came through the tree line, I could see Nad making his way over to the corral with Father’s canvas bag of tools. I kept up my speed, but remained careful of any gopher holes and other such things that could trip me and send me sprawling.
I was panting like Lathríl and Nimmiel by the time I dumped the buckets contents into the dogs’ water bin. I was still reeling at the thought that someone could have been spying on me. What was that man doing down by the creek anyway? My family’s house was just out of town, and the creek cut right through Prew; it would be silly for someone to travel this far upstream and out of town while there was plenty of water and fish in town. ‘Unnerved’ would be a great word to describe how I felt about the matter.
Just as I was going inside to return the buckets, Father was coming through the front door. He raised his eyebrows at me, a common greeting from him. He took of his wide brimmed hat and hung it on the hat rack that was right next to the front door. He ran a hand through his thinning dark gray hair and started down the hallway into the dining room.
“Tristram, you remember you’re fixin’ the gate with Nad and I, right?” Father asked.
“I remember, sir.”
Father went over to Mother’s side and kissed her cheek. She smiled. “Well go on out there,” he said as he went over to the fruit basket by the flatware sink and picked out a plum (we had three plum trees on the east side of our house), “Nad’s all ready to go. He already has an idea about what to do, so let him get you started on somethin’. I’ll be right out.”
“Alright...and Father?”
“Tristram?” he replied, mimicking my tone of voice.
I hesitated for a moment. I was suddenly worried that I might be ridiculed from my father. It needed to be brought up though.
“There was a man down by the creek this morning...I think he was spying on me.”
Mother looked up from her kneading and gave me a look. It could have been a look of amusement, or maybe it was look of concern. I could not tell.
“A man down by the creek was spyin’ on you?” Father asked with his mouth full, and plum juice dribbled into his thick beard, “Well what were you doin’ at the creek?”
“I was fetching water for the dogs.”
“Ah.”
“Isn’t that strange? Why would a man be up so far north of the main creek? And he was definitely spying on me father. He was farther up the rise and crouched behind some thicket! Certainly, a man of good intention would not hide himself like that...and he was staring at me for the longest time! He ran away when I noticed him.”
For a brief moment, Father looked concerned. But, like I figured he would, he waved it off and said, “You have an overactive imagination son. And that’s not a bad thing...but it could be a bad thing if you start believin’ your games.”
I was a little hurt that he thought it was my imagination, but the last part of what he said troubled me more.
“Games? What games? Father, there was a man down there!”
“Tristram, do not raise your voice at me! I meant it all in good humor. If there was a man down there—he was not spying on you!”
I was getting frustrated; I slapped my thighs and practically pleaded my case as if I were trying to sway a jury. “I promise he was spying on me, Father. What else could he have been doing?”
Father wiped his mouth clean and sighed. “Now you’re getting too excited about this boy. We will talk about it later...if it still needs talkin’ about. Now go to Nad! I have some things to discuss with your mother.”
Court was adjourned...for now. “Yes, Father.”
“I wanna see you runnin’! There’s no walkin’ when you’re workin’ with me!”
“Yes, Father,” I said, and hurried out the back door.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
If YOLO, We Got One Shot
If We Only Live Once, I want to make an effort to succeed and to change when neccesary.
If We Only Live Once, I want to be an inspiration.
If We Only Live Once, I want to learn to love the hated. I want to learn to accept the rejected.
If We Only Live Once, I want to be confident in myself.
If We Only Live Once, I want to make moments matter, to me and those I'm with.
If We Only Live Once, I don't want to break hearts, even if it means waiting a while for love.
If We Only Live Once, I will love my future wife as if I had no second chance.
If We Only Live Once, I want to say what I need to say when I need to say it.
If We Only Live Once, I want to have changed at least one life for the best.
If We Only Live Once,
I will never give up.
If We Only Live Once, I want to be an inspiration.
If We Only Live Once, I want to learn to love the hated. I want to learn to accept the rejected.
If We Only Live Once, I want to be confident in myself.
If We Only Live Once, I want to make moments matter, to me and those I'm with.
If We Only Live Once, I don't want to break hearts, even if it means waiting a while for love.
If We Only Live Once, I will love my future wife as if I had no second chance.
If We Only Live Once, I want to say what I need to say when I need to say it.
If We Only Live Once, I want to have changed at least one life for the best.
If We Only Live Once,
I will never give up.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Drop Love on a Stage and the World Will Be Entertained
Why the heck are we so coy?? I mean, I've had some time to look at boys and girls falling in love from a distance; and it's depressing. I can know for a fact that one boy is in love with one girl, and that one girl is in love with that one boy, but nothing happens next, because they keep playing these little games with each other to test and see if the other has a mutual feeling....
Oh wait, I'm the same way, all the time.
So I guess I can't totally hate it if I do it all the time too, but I guess I am kind of frustrated as to why it is that way with young romance.
Kids might be better off these days if they learned how to not be so darn apologetic for their feelings. Maybe there's a happy medium....but the medium can't be that happy.
Of course, the sad thing is I can go give plenty advice to both boys and girls and probably be able to help in some way; but I'll probably be single for another significant length of time.
But hey! YOLO, my friends. If you're interested in someone, at least try to do something about it. And don't forget say what you need to say. Seriously though, that's the most important part, is using your words. Not using some song you didn't write, not using your eyes, not some coy refference to your love-life...just use your words.
Now I'm going to go take my own advice, I'll be right back.
....
....
Okay, so maybe tomorrow.
...
Let's try this weekend, that's a far enough date a way for me to forget about it for another while.
Oh wait, I'm the same way, all the time.
So I guess I can't totally hate it if I do it all the time too, but I guess I am kind of frustrated as to why it is that way with young romance.
Kids might be better off these days if they learned how to not be so darn apologetic for their feelings. Maybe there's a happy medium....but the medium can't be that happy.
Of course, the sad thing is I can go give plenty advice to both boys and girls and probably be able to help in some way; but I'll probably be single for another significant length of time.
But hey! YOLO, my friends. If you're interested in someone, at least try to do something about it. And don't forget say what you need to say. Seriously though, that's the most important part, is using your words. Not using some song you didn't write, not using your eyes, not some coy refference to your love-life...just use your words.
Now I'm going to go take my own advice, I'll be right back.
....
....
Okay, so maybe tomorrow.
...
Let's try this weekend, that's a far enough date a way for me to forget about it for another while.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The Good, The Bad, The Middle
Ah, the curse of mediocrity. Oh, the bummer of always coming in 2nd place. You're almost there, but not quite. You're good, but not that good. I feel that way a lot of the time.
What's better? Being the worst, or being somewhere in the middle? If you're the worst, you're more likely to go unnoticed, which I know some people would love (including me). If you're 2nd or 3rd to "the best" (by whatever standards), it sure feels like you're the more prominent loser.
And continuing on this stream of thought that is passing through my brain right now -- confidence is a hard thing to come by. It's so hard to come by in fact, that most of the time it is faked. I am guilty as charged on that one. How is it that I can find confidence when there is this "curse of mediocrity" going around?
Do you ever find yourself going from click to click, from circle to circle at big parties, and constantly being on the outside of them all? Most of the time it's because you instantly classify yourself as someone less important than they who have taken reign over the airspace. The irony is; a lot of the time they hog the airspace because of a lack of self-confidence in some area in their life.
Why is it that that is so? In some area, we all land in the middle, and we reeeeeeally don't like it. Why? It racks my brain. Why does it bother me so much? Should I care?
Now, I actually don't have any good answer for the last question. Should we care or should we not care? I'll let you answer that. But I will take a stab at why we might feel those insecurities.
Just as I believe in God, I believe in his Enemy, Satan. I believe that he constantly attacks us to get his footholds, and so much of the time, he attacks our level of confidence -- to boost it or to knock it down. For the strong of faith, for the fighting, loving Christians, it is to take it down. What are we without our confidence in who we are? We are not fighters, that is for certain. We are not lovers either. We get wrapped up in ourselves in our self-conciousness, and the Enemy gets us focussed on our flaws, and the flaws of one another. In hind-sight, we whisper back to ourselves that we should've known better in the moment of that weakness. We should know more than anyone, there is no scale of better or worse that matters here on this foolish, bumbling planet that somehow manages to stay on its axis. But, when turned in on ourselves because of Satan's prodding, we create that scale, and we start sorting people on it, including ourselves. For me, I keep finding myself knocked lower and lower down the scale. I hate the way I talk in public. I hate the way I talk one on one. I hate they way I talk to girls. Heck, I just hate the fact that I talk. But God is always giving me something to say or write, so I guess it'd be wrong to not say some things (I still hate the way I talk to girls, though).
That scale is NOT what God is about. There shouldn't be winners and losers. According to Jesus, if someone lays some scale or chart out in front of you, it's better to be a loser and have only God than a winner and have only them (Matt 20:16). Do you believe that? I certainly do.
If you find yourself "the middle-man" all the time -- God bless you! What a great place to be! You should not consider yourself a lesser, more insignificant person, because at that point you are saying God did not do a good job. We should not consider ourselves better than anyone ever! At that point, we're making them more insignificant than us, and once again denying God's craftmanship and purpose for their lives.
We're The Middle! And we're proud of it!
What's better? Being the worst, or being somewhere in the middle? If you're the worst, you're more likely to go unnoticed, which I know some people would love (including me). If you're 2nd or 3rd to "the best" (by whatever standards), it sure feels like you're the more prominent loser.
And continuing on this stream of thought that is passing through my brain right now -- confidence is a hard thing to come by. It's so hard to come by in fact, that most of the time it is faked. I am guilty as charged on that one. How is it that I can find confidence when there is this "curse of mediocrity" going around?
Do you ever find yourself going from click to click, from circle to circle at big parties, and constantly being on the outside of them all? Most of the time it's because you instantly classify yourself as someone less important than they who have taken reign over the airspace. The irony is; a lot of the time they hog the airspace because of a lack of self-confidence in some area in their life.
Why is it that that is so? In some area, we all land in the middle, and we reeeeeeally don't like it. Why? It racks my brain. Why does it bother me so much? Should I care?
Now, I actually don't have any good answer for the last question. Should we care or should we not care? I'll let you answer that. But I will take a stab at why we might feel those insecurities.
Just as I believe in God, I believe in his Enemy, Satan. I believe that he constantly attacks us to get his footholds, and so much of the time, he attacks our level of confidence -- to boost it or to knock it down. For the strong of faith, for the fighting, loving Christians, it is to take it down. What are we without our confidence in who we are? We are not fighters, that is for certain. We are not lovers either. We get wrapped up in ourselves in our self-conciousness, and the Enemy gets us focussed on our flaws, and the flaws of one another. In hind-sight, we whisper back to ourselves that we should've known better in the moment of that weakness. We should know more than anyone, there is no scale of better or worse that matters here on this foolish, bumbling planet that somehow manages to stay on its axis. But, when turned in on ourselves because of Satan's prodding, we create that scale, and we start sorting people on it, including ourselves. For me, I keep finding myself knocked lower and lower down the scale. I hate the way I talk in public. I hate the way I talk one on one. I hate they way I talk to girls. Heck, I just hate the fact that I talk. But God is always giving me something to say or write, so I guess it'd be wrong to not say some things (I still hate the way I talk to girls, though).
That scale is NOT what God is about. There shouldn't be winners and losers. According to Jesus, if someone lays some scale or chart out in front of you, it's better to be a loser and have only God than a winner and have only them (Matt 20:16). Do you believe that? I certainly do.
If you find yourself "the middle-man" all the time -- God bless you! What a great place to be! You should not consider yourself a lesser, more insignificant person, because at that point you are saying God did not do a good job. We should not consider ourselves better than anyone ever! At that point, we're making them more insignificant than us, and once again denying God's craftmanship and purpose for their lives.
We're The Middle! And we're proud of it!
Monday, March 5, 2012
A Musical
I had an epiphany today -- I think I want to write a musical. I have so much music and chord progressions in my head at all times, and I love drama, I love to write; it just seems like all of the above, and I'd love to at least take a stab at it. I already have the main idea in my head, like the time setting and the type of characters I'll be dealing with. I need a conflict though. I need a bad guy too. And something that makes the leading role different than the rest of the roles being portrayed.
An unusual gift maybe? Or maybe the opposite of that; like a disability?
The tunes would be reverting back to the origins of "pop musicals," with exciting and upbeat rhythms like what you would hear in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and rock ballads with atttitude and catchy tunes such as those found in Singin' in the Rain and The Newsies. I'm pretty excited to get working on it.
I'm alerady preparing to get some of my creative friends together and discuss things about it, like more details about the plot, where we wanna go with music, and dialogues/monologues. It's going to be super fun.
So if you have any ideas, any type of character that you've created in your mind that you would love to see depicted on stage, comment back on this blog! Any character names too, feel free to chime in.
An unusual gift maybe? Or maybe the opposite of that; like a disability?
The tunes would be reverting back to the origins of "pop musicals," with exciting and upbeat rhythms like what you would hear in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and rock ballads with atttitude and catchy tunes such as those found in Singin' in the Rain and The Newsies. I'm pretty excited to get working on it.
I'm alerady preparing to get some of my creative friends together and discuss things about it, like more details about the plot, where we wanna go with music, and dialogues/monologues. It's going to be super fun.
So if you have any ideas, any type of character that you've created in your mind that you would love to see depicted on stage, comment back on this blog! Any character names too, feel free to chime in.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Plead
This is a poem I wrote a few weeks ago, and it could be my favorite yet.
It's called "The Plead." Check it out!
It is after much
wandering that I end up here
I look back on yesterday and it feels like last year
I’m broken and done, I’ve done all I can do
No one can save me, no one but You
My mouth is shut, because its sounds are a lie
So I sit here alone and quietly write
I write of things that are simple and sad
I feel simple and sad; unstable and mad
A lesser man than they who rule their days
They stride with confidence in all of their ways
I don’t feel confident, not in the least
I’m a stranger, a mouse entertaining a beast
Who am I compared to Your greatest, my King?
I am no David, I’m just a sapling
I drank up the earth but refused to grow
I’m rooted and fruitless as You and I know
I’ve always wanted more than I could hold
I wanted my story to be one that was told
To inspire the next generation to rise
So I don’t know why it was such a surprise
To see that dream fall in the pit that I made
When I knew I was talk, and I was just afraid
Of insignificance and discontent
Of having no money to pay the rent
I was leaning on luck and not on You
I’ve broken Your heart with the things that I do
I should be forgotten and left in my pit
Because I have done nothing to deserve what I get
Lord, I know that I have messed up again
I know it’d be just if You left me broken
But Merciful Father, forsake me not I plead
I give up my wants because You’re all that I need
I wish to give no excuse for my cause
Shine Your Light on me, reveal my flaws
So I may see and recognize
The sin that takes me from Your side
I will be content on earth as a stranger
Because You were one too; born in a manger
It's called "The Plead." Check it out!
I look back on yesterday and it feels like last year
I’m broken and done, I’ve done all I can do
No one can save me, no one but You
My mouth is shut, because its sounds are a lie
So I sit here alone and quietly write
I write of things that are simple and sad
I feel simple and sad; unstable and mad
A lesser man than they who rule their days
They stride with confidence in all of their ways
I don’t feel confident, not in the least
I’m a stranger, a mouse entertaining a beast
Who am I compared to Your greatest, my King?
I am no David, I’m just a sapling
I drank up the earth but refused to grow
I’m rooted and fruitless as You and I know
I’ve always wanted more than I could hold
I wanted my story to be one that was told
To inspire the next generation to rise
So I don’t know why it was such a surprise
To see that dream fall in the pit that I made
When I knew I was talk, and I was just afraid
Of insignificance and discontent
Of having no money to pay the rent
I was leaning on luck and not on You
I’ve broken Your heart with the things that I do
I should be forgotten and left in my pit
Because I have done nothing to deserve what I get
Lord, I know that I have messed up again
I know it’d be just if You left me broken
But Merciful Father, forsake me not I plead
I give up my wants because You’re all that I need
I wish to give no excuse for my cause
Shine Your Light on me, reveal my flaws
So I may see and recognize
The sin that takes me from Your side
I will be content on earth as a stranger
Because You were one too; born in a manger
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)