Every Moment

     My phone rings. I stand and search for it. It is my mother calling. She never calls me at this time of day– never. She knows that I am in the middle of my meditations every day at this time. I've done this since I was in middle school, and I have continued to do so every morning since. She knows this. Why is she calling?

     "Bell?" My mother's voice is just below a whisper coming through the static-filled cell phone.

     "What is it?" Her tone concerns me quite suddenly. Everything stops for a moment and I listen to her utter the next sentence.

     "Zack is..." As she trails off in a blur of details, my mind sprints ahead, not stopping for a moment. It continues sprinting through all the possible meanings and implications of that line, all the way to the hospital. Upon my arrival, I am whisked into the Emergency Room, and watch in horror as he lies still on the stretcher. If the hospital had not been two blocks away, I would have missed him. His clothes had been quickly chopped away, and they had left his chest exposed and bloody. His arm has a bone protruding at a queasy angle through his elbow. Blood is everywhere, coating instruments, crisp cloths, uniforms, and the floor. Several nurses are busy cleaning up from the hurried procedure. A doctor is pacing in the corner. The machines are dead– no hopeful bleeping this time. It is all silent as I watch the aftermath.

Coffee Shop Writer

Here I sat in the coffee shop, day in, day out. Warm tones, soft music, chatting folks milling through. Every day in, and every day out, I sat in this overstuffed booth, watching the shop, drinking mocha and beans and milk and cinnamon. Watching.

I had a notebook in front of me, perfectly centered. The napkin holder, the small flower in the vase, the salt, the pepper, the menu, all were straightened in the middle of the table. My stack of impeccably sharp pencils at a ninety degree angle to the edge of the table, resting across the top of the pages. One of these pencils always perched on top of my ear, through my hair. My mug of coffee never left a single stain, my crackers never left a crumb. It was the perfect environment for my work– the music, the inspirational atmosphere, the coffee and soup and panini's and overstuffed chairs. I looked down toward my page, day in and day out, looking over my marvelous brilliance from the day before.

The blonde waitress would come every hour, refilling my coffee with a smile and a stack of one cream and two sugars. At least once a day, she'd always ask what I'm writing that day, and my standard reply would be uttered. "Oh, a great novel," or "A catchy tune." I would never let anyone peek into my notebook, that notebook that sat there, perfectly centered.

My smoking jacket, with my neatly pressed pants, my dark shirts, and my characteristic hat– they would always put me into the right mood to write. I'd feel creative and free of social expectation. I felt I'd be able to write a Bestseller, or a Platinum Single, or win an Oscar for my great screenplay. It would be perfect, free of any mistakes. It would have the most intriguing beginning, the most intelligent middle, and the most clever end. It would have the most memorable tune, and the most meaningful lyrics.

Here I sat in the coffee shop, day in, day out. I had a notebook in front of me, perfectly centered. Each morning I opened it carefully, pulling back the pristine cover, watching the blank page.

The Poem "Fall"

When strong walls built
    begin to crumble– wilt
When found what one can find
     release tears from their eyes
When that special place they know
     collapsed– dead in water's flow
When vibrant trust had
    shattered in Maker's hand
When those wishes dreamed
    only lasting memories
When body– mind
     life's unkind
When weakness in the heart
     played its part
When no energy is left
     no motivation kept

               Fall.

When the Future Becomes The Present

The shutters on the house were a brilliant red. So red, it almost looked like house was crying, the windows being eyes, the wide red door being lips. The rest was a dismal gray, sad but homely, in a way. It was surrounded by droopy trees, and fallen leaves. The white rock driveway was no longer white– it was a dirty gray-brown. Weeds grew along the front, so tall they looked like they would suffocate the porch. The house stood tall, though. It was surrounded on both sides by smaller mobile-homes, all tattered and in huge disarray. It was there to stay, unlike the others. I wanted to hate this house, with its sadness and self-pity, but I couldn't bring myself around to it. It was pathetic, like a rainy day that never ended, and yet– there was something about it that was familiar.

The Woman In Apartment 3B

A creative writing prompt at a conference last year started as "The woman in apartment 3B," Angelo from New York," and "stalking." I wrote this passage based on the prompt, and it spurred the "Book in 55 Days" attempt. Enjoy!

     I miss her. I wish I could see her one more time, but she sent away a long time ago. Her blonde waves cascading from her head, her sweet smile, her magical honey-and-cinnamon perfume, that wafted around the room, and enraptured everyone around her in a captivating hypnosis.
     Emily has that same perfume. She lives at the end of the hall, and walks past my door to get to and from the elevator every morning and night. I watch her through my peephole most times. Memories of her– long nights, adventures in Long Island. Smells of sweaty people, hot dogs, and car exhaust. The loud music, people laughing and screaming, and motorcycles honking at much bigger cars. Her sweet perfect perfume.
     I turn from my door after Emily has disappeared into the elevator, and my heart sinks as I look around. I begin to cry inwardly, wishing, and hoping. My L.A. apartment is cheap, with peeling paint and and unpacked boxes. The faucet drips throughout the night, the kitchen always smells like burnt popcorn. I much prefer to spend time in apartment 3B, at the end of the hall. I've found that my key works in her lock, too. I like to study the pictures and paintings she's hung on her wall; they're beautiful. I like to look at her little notes– Emily's handwriting is so similar to hers, and its fluidity is soft and sweet. I look at her kitten calendar, so I know where to look for her at concerts and dinner dates.
     Sometimes, I'll steal a hair, a blonde one, from her brush and tie it around my finger. Or, I'll spray her honey-and-cinnamon perfume on my jacket, so those memories will follow me home.

The Games

In honor of The Hunger Games, I felt inspired to write a little this evening. I'm in the middle of book 3, Mockingjay, and I'm also reading The Ender's Game (not a good idea to read them simultaneously). So with all the themes and concepts arising between both books, I had both author's writing styles buzzing inside my head all day. I just had to write my own couple of scenes, and put my own twist on their beautifully written books.

My mind is consumed with the focus it takes to steady the gun clutched between my palms. I try to think, catching only glimpses of the scene beyond the mixture of blood and sweat dripping down my face. I aim at her again, trying desperately to stay silent while my entire right side, leg and arm included, scream with a sharp pain. She finds her way between the ticks on my gritty viewfinder, and I have my chance. This is it. Everything up to this point is hopeless, unless it happens. I have no choice– it has to happen. In a split second, I clamp my eyes shut, and listen to the sound of the gun firing in my bloody palms. I can't open them to find out if I had hit my intended target. I listen, waiting for her footsteps to come closer to finish me off. I listen for the rustle of trees that meant she had made it to safety on the other side of the clearing. I listen, but I hear nothing. I collapse to my knees, my eyes still glued shut, and wince in pain as my weight falls on the ground. I hear nothing, and that horrid knot in my stomach tightens even further. My brain clouds with the overwhelming thoughts that I can never escape from. Why? was the most prominent among them. I can't open my eyes to watch the black-suited men appear and take away the last body. I still can't open them when the announcer states the winner. The scores. My brain clears for just a moment, and I suddenly feel my entire being shiver and knot with utter hatred at the nonchalant way he addresses the deaths of all five of them. I still can't open my eyes when a team of black-suits lift me onto a stretcher and roughly carry me out of the forest and into the walls of the Bowl. I can only see the dancing of light behind my eyelids. They went from yellow to red to black as we moved into more dimly lit areas. My eyes are still closed, and I listen. People passing orders in a heartless tone. Attendants passing and following. It's all I can do to keep my eyes closed, because I know that the moment I open them, her death will flood my vision like every other kill before her. I must be hard. I must ignore it. I can't open my eyes long enough to see her scarred face as the bullet I fired penetrates her chest. I won't let that happen again. If I do, I will lose it. Lose everything. Again.

A New Way of Living : Part 3 - Health Advantages

To read Part 1, click here.

To read Part 2, click here.

This post discusses an organic way of life. If you're interested in learning more about natural diets and healthy living, visit my friend's blog, Healthy 411.

Organic & Natural Advantages

Eco-friendly products have been all the rage for several decades, stemming from environmental rumors like global warming, disintegration of the ozone layer, talk of nonrenewable energy resources, and more. I don’t know if any of these are false or true, nor do I want to take the time to find out. Growing my own garden and cooking everything from close to raw form is just plain healthier. Large corporations like fast food restaurants and frozen meal providers stuff their foods with chemicals and preservatives. No, I haven’t researched this myself, but this is a basic, commonsense business strategy. The longer the food lasts, the more opportunity it has to get sold. A burger patty can be crammed with preservatives and frozen, to be reheated and eaten weeks later in a restaurant. Because this society demands everything to be available to everyone on a whim, produce from a local grocery store could have been ripe long ago, but it was genetically modified to last longer between picking and selling. After thinking about it, I realize that most of the things we buy in grocery stores are grown somewhere far away, and have been modified to survive the long delivery process. Businesses that sell to grocery stores also want their product to be the best tasting product, so of course they stuff their foods with sugar and chemicals to make it the sweetest, or the best. They don’t use natural sweeteners, they use chemicals like fructose, because it’s cheaper. With applied thinking skills, we can conclude that most of what you buy in today’s store is probably modified by unhealthy and unnatural methods, and is overall unhealthy to eat.

Catharsis

In my school lessons this week, I encountered a strange thought. The "theme" of the week is Transformation, and they discuss it in the context of literature. They outline how a character in a book changes over time, going from a weak, dependent creature, to knowing who he is, what he wants, and how to get there. They have the "Exposition" phase, where the weak character's personality grows on the reader. The "Rising Action," usually beginning with a "Call to Action," which is some grave doom or terrible deed that has incited rebellion, comes next. During the "Rising Action," the character realizes where his faults are and goes about fixing them, trying everything in his power to change his situation. Finally, the "Climax" comes, where some breakthrough or crisis had occurred to provide the caracter with the perfect opportunity to make things right. After that, the "Falling Action," and the "Resolution," the character finally realizes his true faults, and is able to fix them.

A New Way of Living : Part 2 - America Runs On Money

To read Part 1, click here.

Money, just like clothes, or toaster ovens, or computers, is a valuable object in today’s society. America runs on money. Without it, most people can’t eat, can’t buy clothes, can’t rent or own any kind of shelter, and most importantly, cannot live. This is an unhealthy trait of our society. We are 100% dependent on these small slips of paper and coins that are not even valuable by themselves. Through an old-fashioned thought process, it represents gold that is hidden away in a federally protected building, untouchable and unreal for most people. We now have a digital version of our money, in credit cards, and banks. We almost never touch it, and it really doesn’t exist, but our entire lives are supported by this precariously large amount of binary numbers that only exist in a server farm owned by our banks. On top of this, we have the corrupt banking bureaucracy that has complete control over our money, our housing lends, car loans, budgets, salaries, and they own the trust of almost every citizen in America. Keeping in mind that all of this money is either hidden in digital binary code, a number on a sheet of paper, or is a representation of gold that’s hidden in a U.S. Vault, and really doesn’t exist, do you see the absurd ridiculousness in our monetary system?

A New Way of Living : Part 1 - Preface

About a year ago, I became interested in "a new way of living." For about a week, I decided I wanted to live that way. I did research on it, cost and budget analysis, and completed a long breakdown of my conclusion in an essay format. Although I don't really have an interest in doing this anymore, many of the concepts still affect my way of thinking. And, hell! I put a lot of writing effort into it for it to just sit on my hardrive!

I'm going to publish this in 3 parts, one for each (useful) section of the essay. In total, it became 15 pages long, so I'll cut out the more personal-application stuff.

A Revolution

Why does America live the way we do? Why do we all have singular occupations that consume our time, our interests, our entire lives? Many people in today’s working class have similar life paths, including graduating high school, getting a degree in something that may or may not interest them, then searching for that one job that will allow them financial success, an upward trend in salary, and a good future. They might have hopes of marrying, having a family, and they hope that they will eventually get to a point of living that meets the standards of a normal, or abnormal, lifestyle, depending on the person’s wishes and dreams. Many others still have wants of having less financially viable occupations, such as an artist, or a pastor. Although these hopes are passionate and honest, they may not provide the future many people want. They either settle for a less enjoyable option, or they find their life hitting rock-bottom the minute they begin. The former person, although admirable for achieving or trying to achieve, are still unhappy and find themselves trapped in a circle. The latter will usually find themselves unhappy, unless they are able to come across that one-in-a-million opportunity of success. There are, of course, exceptions to these stereotypes; the stay-at-home-mom that crafts on the weekends, or the deranged nerd who has dreamt of working day to day in a tiny cubicle since he was a little tyke, but most fit into an unhappy category of some sort.

Independence

Again, a past school assignment. :)

by R Jazz Biel, 9/28/11

Money makes America go around. We all use money every day, from bills and groceries, to our TVs, computers, clothes, and more. Americans and our modern lifestyle has become 100% dependent on money, and this an unhealthy place to be. At the rate our government has spent our tax dollars, the American dollar has declined in value in the international market, which means our money is almost insignificant in trading with other countries. Currently, our absurd system of money barely supports the majority of our population, and without it, life as we know it would cease to exist.

Eulogy : A Poem

Here is another school assignment - to write a eulogy. I hoped to make it ambiguously meaningful, so try to figure it out before moving on to the "Explained" section... :P

Eulogy

That distant girl, in faded clothes

Marches behind the clouds of the dawn.

Her radiance masked by the dissonance between

Far are we from similarity,

But one we are, she- me, and I- her.

She whispers from the grave

Laid distilled upon the mantle

Captured in modest frames.

We have already met and goodbye.

There is another, she- us, and we- her.

She lies somewhere beyond, unknown, a stranger.

Her back to me, she walks away.

I don't know her, but she knows me.

And as I to the first, she has to me

Said goodbye, and left me be.

R Jazz Biel, ©2011

Hell & Back Again Excerpt : Prologue

This is the prologue from my second unfinished novel, Hell & Back Again. It will probably remained unedited and unpublished, but I really like my prologue!

It is a sin to write this, but I don’t think that anyone will know. All I have left is to write. I can’t stop writing. I suppose that there is so much to write about— all the legends and tales of mystical things. I remember the stories so clearly, and they ring in my mind for quite awhile, until I write them down. I think that I love to write so that everything that I’ve learned can be contained and passed down for the future, so that I am not lost. So many wonderful things have been lost that way.

The Problem with Power: Corruption in the Christian Church

This is an open-ended English assignment that encouraged me to discuss a situation having to do with power.

(Ananias Receives Saul, St. Mary’s Cathedral)

Power is all around us everyday. The government, by definition, embodies power. The media, which holds the ear of most of the population, has control over the supply and demand of the entire economy. Everywhere you go, there are signs of greed and power. There are innumerable examples of power in our society, and, as is human nature, countless examples of power abuse.

Reactivating My Blog

My blog has been inactive for awhile, because I stopped writing my first novel mid-stream and never finished. So, I've decided to turn this blog into my own writing journal, like a collection of my writings.

I, like many, am a wanna-be writer. I, like many, struggle with "scheduling" writing time, and completing novels. I, like many, am unpublished (with the exception of this blog), and would like to have an outlet the I can just release my writings.

I have attempted to write 2 full novels in the past. The first was posted here on this blog as I wrote it (previously named "Book In 55 Days,") and I only reached the halfway point of my writing goal. Although I didn't finish, I accomplished what I needed to: a starting point, and a lesson. I learned many things with that first messy half-novel, that I would never learn in a textbook.