Perfect Writing

Every once in a while (every year, actually) I purchase a copy of my favorite novel by my favorite writer and make a gift of an awe inspiring tale to a friend.  I'm speaking of Charles Dickens, of course.  I know, his characters may be somewhat predictable and his villains tended to be highly exaggerated  but his themes and cadence have always spoken to me.  It's truly beautiful writing and if you've not revisited his works since middle school, I highly encourage you to do so.


Dickens was one the writers that made me want to pick up every book in my youth, hoping that within those covers would be a work of equal worth.  Sadly few have met that high expectation. (Larry McMurtry is quite brilliant, as is Stephen King, James Patterson, Patricia Cornwell and Shelby Foote.) As you may have surmised, I do enjoy a diverse genre.


But Dickens? Who can resist the words so perfect they might well never the like be seen again. It has every element of what we strive for in each of ourselves. Self discovery, romance, redemption, selfless love and sacrifice. Carton who is known as "The Jackal" and by everyone's estimation has led a wasted life. Yet in his waning hours, faced with his own mortality, ensures the happiness of the one he cares for, knowing he can never share in the joy. What scifi fan does not recognize his final thoughts of "it's a far, far better thing I do...".


Carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it.  He had heard of her going to the prison every day. "She came out here," he said, looking about him, "turned this way, must have trod on these stones often.  Let me follow in her steps." - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.


The beauty of pure, unrequited love sparked merely by another's lingering presence. I wish authors today strived for such excellence. Instead we're treated to the same banality served under different scintillating titles. Gore versus horror, techno-babble in place of genius science fiction borne from imagination. A work should be more than just a thirty second advertisement; it should grab you, shake you to your core and leave you with thoughts of the characters for days, even years afterwards.


A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.


My thoughts for this evening.  Thank you for taking the time to read.

Hope Lives On

HOPE LIVES ON. 1/24/12


"What a wretched corpse hope leaves behind."


I wrote that.  Yup, that was me during my "I'm Grim and I write <really bad> brooding poetry" phase. Dark glasses, black on black attire and fearing to make a connection with anyone lest I be disappointed and hurt again.  I was actually pretty distrustful of everyone, which often surprises people today.


"I suppose nice guys are lucky to be in the race in the first place." Another one I wrote.  Are you seeing a pattern here?   I was a pessimist throughout most of my mid to late 20's and I do not mean sort-of or kind of, I mean hardcore. 


It's been awhile since I leafed through old scraps of short stories and prose.  A lot of it came from a pretty dark place and writing was my outlet for exorcising emotional demons.  As I read it again, one thought came to mind.


What a self absorbed tosser, I was.


Hope doesn't die.  Hope is something that lives in each of us, whispering our hearts desire of the little things that we may never tell another soul.  We may hope for a better life, for the safety of friends, for riches, for health, for love.  We never really stop hoping; through disappointment we sometimes simply stop listening.  Hope may weaken and grow hoarse but it's still there, trying desperately to be heard.  It lives in the corners of memories of days past and in the most remote possibility of things to come.  It's a gentle caress  of a lover's hand, a sleepy sunrise,  shared laughter,  a piece of music.


Life isn't easy and it's not supposed to be. Life can be a cold and incredibly lonely place and the journey is going to grind you to your knees at times, there's no shame in being knocked down.  It's what you do when you're feeling lost and disheartened that matters. I choose to embrace hope as a beacon in the night rather than a flame by which to burn.


Maybe that which we desire most may never come to pass but there's always hope. 


I'm a steward of hope.

"What a wretched corpse, hope leaves behind."


I wrote that.  Yup, that was me during my "I'm Grim and I write <really bad> brooding poetry" phase. Dark glasses, black on black attire and fearing to make a connection with anyone lest I be disappointed and hurt again.  I was actually pretty distrustful of everyone, which often surprises people today.


"I suppose nice guys are lucky to be in the race in the first place." Another one I wrote.  Are you seeing a pattern here?   I was a pessimist throughout most of my mid to late 20's and I do not mean sort-of or kind of, I mean hardcore. 
It's been awhile since I leafed through old scraps of short stories and prose.  A lot of it came from a pretty dark place and writing was my outlet for exorcising emotional demons.  As I read it again, one thought came to mind.


What a self absorbed tosser, I was.


Hope doesn't die.  Hope is something that lives in each of us, whispering our hearts desire of the little things that we may never tell another soul.  We may hope for a better life, for the safety of friends, for riches, for health, for love.  We never really stop hoping; through disappointment we sometimes simply stop listening.  Hope may weaken and grow hoarse but it's still there, trying desperately to be heard.  It lives in the corners of memories of days past and in the most remote possibility of things to come.  It's a gentle caress  of a lover's hand, a sleepy sunrise,  shared laughter,  a piece of music.


Life isn't easy and it's not supposed to be. Life can be a cold and incredibly lonely place and the journey is going to grind you to your knees at times, there's no shame in being knocked down.  It's what you do when you're feeling lost and disheartened that matters. I choose to embrace hope as a beacon in the night rather than a flame by which to burn.


Maybe that which we desire most may never come to pass but there's always hope. 


I'm a steward of hope.

Floyd!?

So I've found out that my cousin (Let's call him Floyd in case he discovers the "portal to the intenetteds" and I would hate for my rant to embarrass him.) is now married.  Floyd. The man who would offer to eat oddities for beer money.  The man who never met an itch he wouldn't scratch in public and who once said to me "David Lee Roth don't need them Van Halen assholes."


Don't get me wrong,  I'm actually pretty happy for Floyd and if he's found someone whom he loves and loves him in return, that's a beautiful thing.  I'm not jealous or resentful;  it's just difficult to put my initial reaction into words. 


Just... Floyd?!?


I was counting on Floyd.  As the only other bachelor in the entire family (Not including "Earl" who can now get married in several states), Floyd gave me a cushion. I had padding.  I had time and a distraction to all of my aunts, elders and married friends. "Go pick on Floyd, he's not married either!"  


Yes I verbally kneecapped Floyd on more than one occasion. If you knew my family, you would too. Don't judge me.


Oh the devious machinations this will put into motion.... Thank goodness the holidays are past so I do not have to fear the "fix-up, the set-up and the mix-up" for awhile yet.  (See my October 2010 'He's Single' entry for details.) 


I don't really have much contact with my father's side of the family anymore but I can practically smell the smoke from the phone lines crossing the country, from the Southland to central California back to the Southland and finally to here.


"Floyd got himself hitched. When is Grim going to get married??"


"He's too old to still be a bachelor!"


"Is he catting around? Fornicator!"


"Well you know how they live out there, they're all hippies."


"I will put his name on the church's prayer list and we will pray for his wicked, wicked soul!"


And so on... and so on...


Basically Floyd just made my life a little more difficult for the interim. So if you see a child with overly large gums, permanent baby teeth and hair in places no human should have growth, that'll be my new second cousin, Floyd Jr. or little Floydette.


And all kidding aside, Floyd is really a terrific guy and will make a heck of husband.  He's loyal, trustworthy and generous. I really do wish him all of the happiness in the world.


Damn it.


Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, Life goes on.


Thank you for taking the time to read.

Goodbye to 2011 & Hello to Possibilities.

It's the last week of 2011.  It's been a year of amazing highs and pretty rough lows and like most, I'm anxiously awaiting the new year of possibilities. A chance to better ourselves, our relationships, our place in the universe and maybe lend a helping hand to those in need.  It's kind of a pensive night dear reader, perhaps not the best time to blog but I've neglected the poor thing for so long.


Last year I made the resolution to be more outgoing; I think I accomplished a fair amount of that in the course of 365 days.  I attended two large geek conventions, rocked out to Joan Jett at my very first concert, found friends, tried my best to be a friend, lost others and ate the best hamburger and pizza in the world, during the most wonderful summer of my life. And yes,  I lived to tell the tale.


I recently replaced all four tires on my car, an unexpected purchase at the wrong time of the year but I suppose there's never a right time.  I just feel like those tires this time of year; I think we all do at one moment or another.  Too much pressure ripping at our seams and wondering when that last bit of friction grinding us down will prove too much.  It's as if we're just hoping to make it over the next hill, alone in the darkness. I don't mean to come across as bitter or melancholy, I've had a many, many blessings in my life, much more so than a good number of people and I'm so very grateful.  I try to focus on that sense of gratitude on nights such as these, when I feel really very tired in almost every sense of the word. Tired, depleted and unable to shut down. I'm thankful for my small family, my dear friends and those who are dear to me.  I'm warm, I do not go hungry and I've a roof over my head at night.  That in itself is far more than some have ever known.


Tomorrow is a new day. In two days it's a new year; an open page to write your own story, a canvas to paint as vividly as you will.  All you must do is act quickly while the ink well is full and the paint still fluid. I wish grand masterpieces for you all.


Last year was my year of adventure, I think this year my resolution is to be more appreciative.  If you've taken the time to read my rambling dear reader, I'm pretty grateful for you.


"Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts." - Charles Dickens

It's Not Just a Case of the Blues

Washington state is considering eliminating funding for their Youth Suicide Prevention Program (YSPP).  I can't think of a worse idea than to cut funds for a program that if anything, should be over-funded.  We must find better ways to help the youth fight or learn tools in how to deal with bullying and depression.  


Depression affects 19 million people each year and the severity ranges from mild to major and one of the most at risk are teens.  It’s an unseen wound, when left unchecked can worsen over time to the point of debilitation. 

Depression is different than merely being depressed.  We all have those moments of sadness, an off day attributed to everyday living: disappointments, cancelled plans, breakups, another Dallas Cowboys' losing season. You'll get down and then back up, life will go on. 


I mean depression as in someone can’t eat, sleep or summon the will to get out of bed.


I’ve had several clinically depressed close friends in my lifetime, I'm still dear friends with one. They never knew each other, but eerily, both used the word swimming in describing depression.  One described it as “swimming in a murky pool of bad feelings" while another said she continually felt like "swimming in glue with weights tied to your neck".  Swimming. Drowning in every negative emotion and insecurity. For the clinically depressed, that overwhelming feeling of sadness is their life and entire world. I can’t imagine being in pain every waking moment; to not be able to at least identify the source of my sorrow.  Worse still is the stigma associated with depression; as the person is condemned as ‘crazy’ or dismissed as “being a downer”.

If you know someone who’s showing signs of depression, don’t wait, reach out to them. Don’t assume it will blow over or they will find something else to occupy their time.  There is nothing, nothing in this world worse than the feeling of regret for not being there for someone in their hour of need. Believe me.

If you have thoughts of suicide or self harm, please call 1-800-SUICIDE or  1-800-999-9999 from anywhere in the US. There is a person waiting to talk to you twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. If you feel you're suffering from depression, not just a case of the blues, please seek help and don't be afraid. You're not alone. You don't have to suffer in silence.

I’m not sure what made me focus on this topic this week. I had intended to write of autumn with my grandpa, but I don’t think he would’ve minded stepping aside for a moment.

I still remember you, Joshie. I pray you’ve found peace.

Thank you for taking the time to read.


(Thank you "MaryAnn" for the heads up on the WA situation and insight) 

Bulkheads.

"Her sides must be made of iron!" 

A quote attributed to a sailor during the sea battle of the USS Constitution and the HMS Guerriere in the War of 1812, where the cannonballs seemed to bounce off of the USS Constitution's double plank oaken hull.  Hence the nickname "Old Ironsides".

The topic my dear readers, is bulkheads.  It's not a flashy or sexy subject for this week's blog but it's what's on my mind.  A bulkhead is any vertical partition within a ship's hull.  A shipwright may use these to create storage areas to prevent cargo from shifting within a ship's hold or for creation of an airtight compartment in case of damage. It also reinforces the ship's hull for durability as the open ocean waves can create quite a pounding. The bulkheads are cumbersome and weigh the ship down but it's an integral part, born out of necessity.

Me? I just like the idea of safeguarding the ship; to minimize the damage before it reaches the innermost core.  To protect the heart of the vessel, to prevent anything from getting too close; because it's only at close range that the real damage occurs.

And ultimately that's what a bulkhead is. A safety valve.  A means of self preservation.  If you want to get beyond the emergency bulkheads, you have to take time.  Get to know why they're there or you'll never know what's behind them.

But then again, that's the point.

Thank you for taking the time to read.