The Call : Amos 9:11

The melodies caress the room-- filling the air with tone and voice. With one voice, the worshippers cry out for healing, praising the Highest of Highs. From movement to movement, the piece floats, each note breaking a brick off the wall surrounding every individual. The ceilings echo with joy and song, the floor pounds with each cheerful leap of a dancer. Artwork and artists line the walls, easels, colors, and sketchbooks are scattered throughout the room. Writers, their piles of dictionaries, notebooks, rough drafts, and utensils covering their spaces, compile poem after story after song for the Lord of Lords. Actors play parts of wounded, rescued, saved, and broken, worshipping through their own imaginative world.

Conquering the Blank Page

This is based off of my 2013-Challenge post from Tuesday, but I liked it enough to post it here as well... Enjoy!

This 2013-Challenge is an actual challenge! I'm really nervous about this project, still, even though we are almost halfway through the third week. You'd think I would have calmed down and settled into a groove by now, wouldn't you? Not a chance! I'm still anxious about having such a heavy commitment. I'm still jittery about meeting the blank page every morning, and fearful of going to bed with a blank page.

But today I realized that when all the structure and rules and demands are striped away, the point of this project is to create stuff constantly. The point is to form new artist habits. The point is to face this blank page every single (week)day, and fill it with 'me' through writing, learning, thinking, drawing, and just creating. The 300-word rule is there to force me out of laziness, and even today at the late hour I'm finishing this, I'm not going to break the 300-word rule! I can't be complacent in forming habits, or I won't get the results I'm going for. But this is me, sitting down at the tail-end of the day, conquering the blank page. And I'm not doing it for you, a reader. And I'm not doing it to become popular. And I'm not doing it because I want to be published or anything like that. I'm doing this to prove to this blank page that there is absolutely no reason to leave a page blank.

The 2013 Challenge Project

I was considering keeping this a secret-- just for me, myself, and I-- but I've started a New Year's Resolution project and I wanted to share it. I want the accountability of my family and friends asking about it, I want an audience that depends on me to continue it, but I don't want people to read the crap that is bound to come out of this project. But I've decided to share.

The project is to write something every weekday for the entirety of 2013. Instead of posting on the Wrandom Writer blog and clogging up my good posts with a lot of every-day yuck, I've decided to start a new feed that is dedicated to the challenge. I will still be posting things on Wrandom Writer just as much as I always have-- I try to post between 2 and 4 posts a month, when possible. If I write something extraordinarily good for my Challenge feed, I will post it here as well.

Hopefully, this challenge will make me write more, and it will help me come up with better ideas, better posts, and better art. As they say, practice makes perfect, and that's the point of this Challenge blog. To practice. To make mistakes. To make terrible first drafts. So enjoy!

2013-Challenge.com

Canine Possibilities

As a dog owner, a former seeing-eye-dog puppy raiser, and general puppy enthusiast, I am considering going into the field of dog training. I don't want to just teach, "sit," or, "stay," I want to teach canines useful things, like operating light switches for disabled people in wheelchairs, or providing a young autistic child with social skills, and maybe giving a dyslexic kid the focus needed to learn. Well-trained dogs can be taught anything-- giving a hug when a PTSD or anxiety disorder patient is having an attack, guiding a blind person, aiding a deaf person, searching for and rescuing accident victims, sniffing out drugs in police investigations, attacking on command for police protection, and on and on.

But never once have I thought of teaching a dog something like this.



I can't be sure if all this is for real or just a hoax or what, but it's something to think about. It would be ridiculously fun to teach a dog how to drive a car-- and if we could do that, think of what else we could teach dogs to do...

The Risk of An Artist

When you think about a career as an artist-- in any form, whether it be writing, painting, playing music, dancing, etc., what is the first thing you think of? 'Instability' is the first word that comes to my mind. Financial crises, sacrifice, poverty, imbalanced self-esteem, emotional waves, and other negative concepts closely follow. But what if doing one of these things is what truly makes you happy? Would you be willing to sacrifice your family's security, or a better lifestyle, to do something that makes you happy? Every artist has to make that decision at some point-- whether to just off the cliff into a pool of uncertainty, not knowing whether you'll drown or stay afloat, or to stay on the edge of the cliff where it's safe, warm, and dry.

A close friend of mine asked this question today: Why do artists typically have the short end of the stick? He pointed out that it's not right that artists get the smallest percentage of their own sales. It's not right that someone else can profit more from a product than the person who created it. It's not right that the people who have made the sacrifices for their art still have to live with so much uncertainty, and it's not fair. My friend had a good point: There is something wrong with this picture. Something is off.

Shock Absorbers

Lifestyle is a word we use to describe the way in which we live. Where we work, whether we go to church, how busy we are, and what we do to relax are all a part of our lifestyle. We find houses, cars, and even jobs and schools based on the lifestyle we want for ourselves. Many people dream of that white-picket-fence lifestyle, with two-and-a-half kids, one dog, two cars, a nine-to-five job, and a middle-class economic status, and some of those people have achieved their optimal lifestyle.

This month, my family moved to Cypress, Texas, and I am realizing all the differences between this suburbian paradise of Houston, and the quaint, tropical town of Lakeland, Florida. In Houston, people are always busy. The traffic is horrendous at all times of the day, the map of the area is far too big to remember, and the rows of cookie-cutter housing and identical streets goes past the horizon in all directions. It takes at least half an hour to go anywhere, and there must be a school zone on every other block. When people say the 'suburbs' they are talking about right here, in Cypress, Texas.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Forgive me for interrupting your awesome day, but I wanted to share with you a bit of inspiration and fun!

I recently came across this poster, and decided to find out its history. It really quite interesting, and you can find the complete article here.

This poster was originally created by the UK in 1939, during WWII. It had a very small distribution, but was used to raise the morale of the troops, along with two variations:

Candle Inspiration

We are moving in a few weeks, and we've been burning out our candles so we don't have to put them in storage. As any excellent picture moment, I whipped out my mom's Nikon D90 and snapped some pictures. Of course, I heavily adjusted them in iPhoto. Enjoy :)

The Life of the Writer

The world of writing is a world that I have only recently stepped into. I've always been much better at english than math, but I never realized just how important writing is for me until about 18 months ago. I follow a lot of bloggers that talk about writing (See 12 Lessons Learned from 12 Years of Writing, and The Practice of Writing for more). They always talk about writing as if it's this giant mountain of lifestyle choices and early, isolated mornings with multiple cups of coffee; that writing is something that "writers" can't NOT do. For "writers," getting published is a life-long dream, critiques are heart breaking-- but don't let them get you down!, and your "writing time" is a coveted, sacred part of your day that must be kept clear and without interruption. A stereotype for a "writer's" blog is the concept of "Write, write, write. Write the inspired, write the crap. The only way to get better is to write for those 10,000 hours and keep up the uphill battle." I've heard that message so many times, it hurts to even type this post.

But there must be more advice to be had than the stereotypical "don't give up" speech.

Once

Sunlight danced across the room, over the dining table and into glass cabinets, reflecting off facets of glassware inside. White tile floors bounced sunlight up to a white ceiling. Fresh, green vines hung down from pots between windows. An old ragtime piano nestled between two doors, aging further every day. Yellow keys played everything they could, now resting, waiting for someone to tune their discordant sounds. This room was beautiful in mornings, with sunrise just outside. Smells of damp earth after a dreary rain drifted in through open windows. A painting collected from long ago, from another house-- another life-- was attached above the piano, filling the space satisfyingly. A row of young, happy children filled the opposite wall.

Inspirational Video Games : Visiting Minecraft

There's a video game that I play with my brother called Minecraft. The gameworld is comprised of thousands upon thousands of blocks. They could be ore or wood or stone or dirt, or any of a hundred different types of blocks. By applying different tools to different blocks, you can mine and harvest the blocks to get items like silver or wool, tools like axes and shovels, food, or any of a number of resources. The Survival Mode of the game involves consistent hunting of chickens, cows, and pigs for food, as well as farming, mining, building, and defending yourself against hostile mobs like creepers and zombies that come out at night. It is exhilarating and educational, like the novel Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, where a teenage boy survives a plane crash in the middle of an uncivilized area of Canada, and must learn to survive the wild using only his hatchet. By mining and collecting blocks, you have the ability to build yourself a house, a farm, domesticate and breed animals, and even create railroads. My brother found these amazing renderings of creations built on Minecraft Survival Mode-- absolutely breathtaking.

Every block had to be mined from the ground (or trees) and placed individually.

The Donkey And The Lion

He looked a little like Golom, from The Lord of the Rings, or maybe Yoda from Star Wars, but he was completely black. He was permanently hunched over, like his spine was molded to the inside of a crescent moon. His skin was dark and scaly like a snake’s, his eyes were glowing a dull yellow-brown, and his pupils were as narrow as a cat’s. He sat clinging to the foot of my bed, watching me with his glowing eyes. In the darkness, I could make out his eery silhouette against he moonlit window behind him.

He had been there every night for the past month. The first night, I had started screaming. My parents had come in and assured me that nothing was there– even though I could see his eyes following me the entire time. They simply couldn’t see him, and told me to ignore it and go back to bed. The second night, I had tried to talk to him, but he just hissed and growled at me, mumbling sharp words in a language I’d never heard before. The third night, I tried to move him, but the moment I laid a finger on him, my skin started to burn. I couldn’t touch him without searing pain, even while wearing gloves. After the first week, I gave up trying to get rid of him. I left him there, staring at me for hours as I tried to sleep.

Mercy

     A moment before, Mercy was standing there. I turned around, and suddenly she wasn't. I was afraid to look down out of the window, to the bright green lawn outside. I just stared out of the open window, at the clear blue sky, and the apple tree orchard. Nadia came in behind me, but I didn't hear what she asked me. A second later, an aching screech unmistakably from our mother's throat echoed up the hallway, followed by shouting. I was rooted to the spot, my brain frozen.

     She had been in an irregular mood lately– wandering through the large house aimlessly, as a ghost. In fact, she had been pale as a ghost, too. She didn't speak much, but had begun to stare at nothing, as if in thought, much of the time since her return to the estate. Her normally effervescent voice would be so welcoming in the mornings, and quite animated after a glass or two of her favorite deep red wine from the Kenworths' vineyard. More recently, however, she was lackadaisical and solemn. We had all wondered furtively what had occurred at the Women's College to have affected her, but we didn't ask in the case that she might be offended. Her sudden introversion had put the house in a pensive mood, and we were all hoping that she might surface at some point, and perhaps awaken her usual self, never the wiser that she may have acted strangely at all. As this was not the case, however, I regret not questioning her reservedness immediately upon her homecoming.

The Song of the Heart : Power in Testimonies

To Create Something Meaningful:

1. Take a part of your heart (usually the hardened, crusty part).
2. Beat yourself up about it.
3. Rip it out of your chest (some bleeding may occur).
4. Massage that part of your heart into soft, supple words and poetic emotions.
5. Create a piece of art directly from your raw and broken heart.
6. Broadcast that broken (and sometimes mended) piece of your heart to the rest of the world.

Art in any form requires an intrusion into your heart and soul. Your human emotions are what translate best into art, because that's what an audience of humans can relate to. I'm not saying that the formula for a good song is to create a pit of self-pity and sing about it. Instead, find something that has meaning to you. Use an experience – or a grief, a victory, or a journey, a lesson you've learned, or a lesson you're learning – to find out where your heart is. As in the movie Happy Feet, a song must come from the heart. But creating something from the heart is only step one through five!

Wiper Blades

The morning was blustery– The wind was strong enough to force leaves across the street and into the neighbor's porch. The sky was having an off-day. It's normal brilliant blue was more of a solemn gray, and the sun had decided to sleep in. Contrary to the typical chirping, fresh, dewy morning that greeted me, today was dreary and humid. The Earth was taking an abnormally long time to awaken.

I looked at where I thought the sun should be– where it always was– and willed it to appear from behind the clouds. This day of all days, I needed the sun.

Mike's First Year

I was thinking of posting this when Mike goes IFT, but on his blog. But I'll post it here as well.

I wish I could just capture him–
His long coat, the thick baggy skin.
All the wrinkles under his chin.
How his face crumples up when he smells something.
The way he mopes around with big heaving sighs,
And snores when he lays his neck across my foot.
The way he tries to hide,
When he's doing something I don't like.
All the sarcastic expressions on his face when I talk to him.
The way he looks when he's half asleep.
And the big swirls of fur on his butt.
The way his panting feels like laughter.
And the way he acts like an elephant,
Afraid of a mouse around the vacuum cleaner.
The way he'll push his shoulder in, and rolls over onto you,
Or maybe the way he softly places his chin on your lap,
And licks your hand so gently when he needs attention.
How his lips flap around lazily,
When he looks at you upside-down.
Or how he points his toes when he stretches.
All of these little things make up him,
And I'm scared I'll forget something so important about my sweet baby.
I never want to forget the feeling of his velvety nose and chin,
Buried warmly into my neck,
Or how strong he is when I hug his chest,
And hear his heart pounding.
How safe I feel,
Like nothing will ever touch me,
When I snuggle up between his paws.
That face he gives when he is looking for me,
And then when he's found me.
His eyes are so heartbreaking,
When someone is leading him away from me.
I never want to forget these things,
Because maybe I'm the only one who will ever know.
His future mom or dad will know a loyal service dog.
But I know him differently–
I am his mommy, since birth.
I know everything about him,
Head to toe.
And I almost needed him,
As much as he needed me.



Mike, I am so honored and privileged to have been your puppy raiser. I hope you go on for great, beautiful things. Thank you for this year. I will miss you always.

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.