why i cannot sleep tonight

if only one- the one who has been on my mind half the night- reads this, and it changes her, then it has been worth it all. but, if this is for you, another, because God will not allow me to go to sleep tonight without writing this, then accept it.

when faced with what happened in your life...the heartbreaking childhood...because other people made horrible life decisions that could have ruined the entirety of your childhood...and your life...you must compose the story of your survival. the brutal truth. it is there because you must compose- write, interpret, sing, dance- the truth. not a religious blanket thrown over your life so that it looks like everything is fine now. No, you must face every last sentence of it. it does no good to write platitudes, to write around the subject. we do not want your rubbish. you can make it a poetic journey, yet it reflects nothing. vacuous. what does that accomplish? do you think that God is impressed by a piece of Art, a book, or a random collection of something that is not your heart and soul? 

i lie awake because i had to repent. i tried writing someone else's story. that isn't my job. you have to go back and find out what really happened to you...not what you remember happened to you, but all that you went through, including the truth about your parents. 

one of the key verses in scripture reveals that the Spirit of the Living God can and will reveal everything to you. every point, every angle, every place each character in your story has played. even those who have died. and certainly, those who left you confused. God is not the author of confusion. You may have yelled up at Him as you wandered around, and you can be sure He heard your heart. But, did you hear His heart? He wants to tell the Whole story. What good is it if only part of the story is conveyed? 

God wants you to tell the story. All of it. Good night.

Silence in Red

 so beautiful, so tragic

this figure of vibrance...

this lion of ancient grace

slain by blind madmen

in a lust for destruction

in a lust for disgrace.

what Hell has awaken

stains alleys and sidewalks

bloodprints on buildings

bodybags in schoolrooms

lace, bows, ribbons all red

silence the sister of the dead.

An Interlude

 While I am working on my novel, I shall share with you a series of stories in a series called "The Speckled Seagull." Although I have written a fair number of these, I have not returned much to them in several years. I am revising them, re-orienting them more toward the central character- a woman extracted from her childhood in a different land, where she daily enjoyed the seashore, her father's nurturing love, and a time she desperately longs for. The story deals with her life as a woman, a mother,  a wife, and a 'speckled bird," not the common bird. Enjoy these short pieces.

a day in the school house

 she sharpened her pencil...until it filed down to a mere nub. but she was not there, she was watching a movie in her head...remembering the early days when she would walk with her father, hand-in-hand, her wee little one in his- down along the strand...in the days before America. before she lost him. and he lost her.

it was not the best of times, nor the worst, nor the in-between. not, in a sense, much different from anyone else growing up along the seacoast. she expected nothing but his big clammy hand, a cup of the warm stuff, and always that scrumptious-wool-blanket when the nights chilled her father's features so.

she played by the sea, took in it's breath, drank deep of it, and lived in those salty breezes, but as the pencil stub fell from her hand, she forgot herself and fell back into the present, in her place of exile. and as she cupped the pencil shavings in her hand, she glanced at the boys in the back of the classroom and smiled. for one day, they might grow up to be as tender as her father...

the ruddy-cheeked boy in row 4 raised a hand and the girls around him giggled.

"Uh...may I go to the restroom?"

"Why, of course, Billy. Take the pass and don't forget to sign out," she chirped.

the ruddy-cheeked boy left the room and the class continued working on a mathematics assignment meant to stimulate their secular side. she moved up and down the aisles, careful not to brush any chairs. the students worked feverishly, their pencils squeaking.

"You have ten minutes."

the ruddy-faced boy opened the classroom door, but it did not close. for behind it stood a man in a white collar, and that ubiquitous black outfit they all knew too well. for here at Saint Anne's Preparatory School, the children expected the bellowing voice to find their room, one time of the day or the other.

Father McCallister loved every one of them like his own children. but even more, he loved to read to them, just as his father had read to him. and when he saw the face of the still lovely teacher, he sighed. for she too knew what would come next...every one of them would try to finish early, and their scores might not be as good as the next class. they would enjoy themselves, listening to his tales as he spun them wildly through the air, and they were taken back to a time even he did not remember...a time when sailors sailed into ports of distant lands...

and that made her happy. happier than she had been for years. happy, remembering her childhood...before the boat, the nun, and the long voyage away from Prince Edward Island...

but when the bell rang, and she grabbed her purse and Doctor Scholls from under the teacher desk, she remembered to where she was returning, and why. and she held the purse tightly, her hands clasped like fingers around a throat, and she had a flashback...and saw the face of the child...her child...and the face of the stranger she had once called "love." 

the fallen

in memory of the thousands killed in the streets

one wanted to make his mother proud-

blessed with quick reactions, quick feet,

he excelled on a field his oppressors ignored

until he wandered into the wrong alley.

one wanted to make her father proud-

so she studied to show herself approved

and walked into the night with no hijab

with every student from her neighborhood.

one wanted to live a life divorced from the past

driving down I-95 following the lights home,

the smell of cigarettes and dull perfume

and a photo of her cousin on a cell phone.

one wanted to spread joy as a cosmetic surgeon

to fix the smiles of thousands of damaged children

in a world so coarse, cold, and unforgiving

she stood against the sea of oppression and fear.

one wanted to be the strong one, who stood up to evil

though his parents pleaded with him to stay inside the house

he boldly proclaimed: If i don't go, nothing will change.

so, he slipped into the night, into the crowd and gave his life.

the fallen, all of them, so numerous in the street

the people, gunned down, lives cut short by hate.

An adolescent's dream

 written during my adolescence

It whispers down on angel's wings,

 raising hands to the shattered sky

this wintry canopy of velvet white

leaves a spark of tears in my eye

the snow globe whirls round and round

like dream and song and sigh

but far from here you are, my dear 

so in my heart, my very soul, i cry.

If you will but seek your inner desire

you'll find that the longing is there

for i am deep inside your heart

embodied in my every prayer.

So come away from where you hide

And join me so that we may be One

And we can leave our pain behind

Like the setting of every sun.

A Note

 Just a quick note to say I will not be posting political pieces anymore as my audience clearly does not like them. It was an attempt to provide a steadier stream of prose while I am composing poetic fiction.

 I'll return with poetry, prose and poetic fiction another time. Currently, I am writing a novel. Later, this summer, I will hopefully have an author website and a creative project available there.

 Until next time, enjoy the 100 plus posts I have written.

Daithi

  

Can you see life in scenes?

if we are observant, we can reflect on the past and re-imagine scenes, memories written and internal, that tell the story of our stories. many of those scenes have primary and secondary veins running through them, like a complete organ or system that one can visualize as part, section, whole, and even sinew. The latter is our bridge, or connection, between the perceived scenes that, like a chain, make up that story.

everything from our experience can be a relatable story for an audience. so, each scene that teaches a lesson, reflects a truth, or encourages one, we can add that scene to our testimony of life lessons.

the same is true for fiction- written or oral. every author tries to tell a story that has continuity, or what we used to call "flow." It is crucial, for the audience, if the story flows...every paragraph slipping into the next, with or without transitory images, words, or phrases. 

so, in the revision process, we can look at those scenes we write where the story "went off" and figure out if we can place one or two, or all of those scenes somewhere within our story.

someone older and more experienced argued that nothing written cannot be used for that story. it may not be in the first five minutes, the first chapter, the first 10 pages, but the idea, or the entire scene may be useful. and upon further reflection, you may find that the scene or idea is better suited for something you composed earlier. That has happened to me multiple times, including a scene that was dramatically creative but did not fit my current novel. Instead, it fit a series of off-the-wall pieces I have strung together as a skeleton for another novel, a comic piece like Catcher In The Rye.

we need not contain this revelation to literary writing either. the idea can be applied to long speeches, business proposals, policy statements, or bills for congress...