A Road Less Travelled

Well, it’s about that time again; the time when I don’t want to bother composing an interesting blog post about my life, but have found a song which fits well with my life right now (i.e. is smacking me upside the head about something), and therefore post the lyrics for everyone to mark as read on their rss feed reader.

My favorite line right now is: “You don’t have to change the world, just trust in Me.” Being rather inclined to want to go change the world, I get frustrated with my life way too easily. I get frustrated that I’m not doing anything big, and then I get frustrated that I couldn’t anyway, because I’m not doing so well at the small things. I think, I’m supposed to do better than this, because I’m supposed to go change the world, right? Um. No.

So, that’s the short version of the post I wasn’t planning to write… And here are the lyrics:

No Lord, he said, you’ve got the wrong guy.
Simple conversation gets me tongue-tied.
And you’re telling me to speak with a maniac king.
Could it be I’ve lost my mind?
And besides, I am weak, don’t you want someone strong,
To lead them out of Egypt when they’ve been there so long?
And anyway, they wont believe You ever spoke to me.
That’s not your problem, God replied.
And the rest is history.

‘Cause, there’s a bigger picture,
And you don’t have to change the world.
I’m your creator, I am working out my plan.
And through you, I will show them,
There’s a bigger picture, you can’t see.
You don’t have to change the world, just trust in me.
I’m your creator, I am working out my plan,
And through you, I will show them, I Am.

–I Am, Ginny Owens

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PURGE, v.t. purj. [L. purgo.]
1. To cleanse or purify by separating and carrying off whatever is impure, heterogeneous,foreign or superfluous; as, to purge the body by evacuation; to purge the Augean stable. It is followed by away, of, or off. We say, to purge away or to purge off filth, and to purge a liquor of its scum.Webster’s 1828 Dictionary online

Purge is a good word. For one thing, it’s fun to say. It has a good solid beginning, flows smoothly along, and suddenly cuts off with a sharp ‘j’ as if to say, “We’re done now–let’s not add any superfluous sounds at the end.

For another thing, it carries the satisfaction of streamlining one’s superfluous stuff much better than just ‘getting rid of’. I’ve gotten rid of stuff before. It’s a continual process of realizing that I have odd bits of things hanging around that I really don’t need anymore. This week, however, I have systemically purged my dresser and closet of each redundant, unused, disliked or otherwise superfluous article of clothing. For instance, I realized for the first time that I owned five pairs of black pants and two pairs of gray pants. Even I find seven pairs of black or gray pants to be excessive, and therefore decisively purged… um, one pair… Yeah. Really, though, I’m working on narrowing it down.

Actually, most of the purging process has gone quite well, and I have removed numerous bags of stuff from my room, to be whisked away to go clutter someone else’s–er, that is to say, be donated to some worthy recipients. In the process of eliminating the superfluous, I have discovered how very female I really am when it comes to collecting clothing and accessories. I got rid of some shoes, but yes, there really are ten pairs I use fairly regularly. (Augh! I’m one of the shoe people!) And I won’t even go into the number of headcoverings I own. (Okay, so I’m a particularly conservative brand of girly female.)

Next thing you know, someone’s going to claim I’m good at Egyptian shopping games, and I’ll completely lose my reputation of being a logical and rational type female…

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Here is the first series of vignettes based on Adiel’s suggested phrase “It was almost like a dream,” If you have no idea what I’m talking about just read the comments here. If you would like to suggest a phrase to help kickstart my creativity just leave a comment there.

It was almost like a dream. She had been focusing so hard on her hands in the rich garden dirt she hadn’t heard him bark until he was almost upon her. She turned at the last moment and threw her arms out wide as he tumbled into them. A laugh burst from her throat for the first time since he’d vanished last week. They wrestled in the sun, laughter mixing with joyous barking.

It was almost like a dream. The sun shone off of her golden hair as he walked through the meadow towards her. She was bent over a notebook, no doubt writing a letter to him. He tried to be quiet, but the clink of his medals betrayed him. Her head snapped up at the noise and then she was buried in his arms, the letter forgotten. He held her close, never noticing that they were ruining the perfect creases in his uniform. He didn’t plan on needing that uniform anymore.

It was almost like a dream. I came to the window when he yelled “Look at me, Mommy!” I saw him poised at the top of the slide, I saw the tricycle, I saw the rock at the bottom. A shout formed in my mouth, but time stopped as he pushed off. The pedals whirled as he and the tricycle plummeted down the slide. I shouted, “No!”, but it was far too late. He hit the rock at the bottom and the great trick ended in a tangle of metal frame and little boy. Time started again and I rushed to him. I unearthed my little boy and found him smiling at me. “Cool, huh?”

It was almost like a dream. I was driving down a lonely road when I saw the first one. I slammed my foot on the brakes when he stepped into the light of my headlights. We stared at each other, his brown, soulful eyes staring into my brown, startled eyes. He looked away first, glancing over his shoulder to summon the rest of his herd. They crossed the road behind him, calmly, orderly, silent in the night. When the last speckled body was across and had vanished into the trees he bowed his antlered head to me and rejoined his herd. I didn’t move for a long time.

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I would really like to be able to write something nifty and witty. I would take the mallet of awesome words and bash through the wall of Writer’s Block. I would burst out the other side and stand triumphant before a crowd of the few and the faithful who care about my words. There would be a smattering of golf claps and then I would leap forward to accomplish another feat of wordsmithing worthy of remembering for minutes and minutes. Behind me the Wall of Writer’s Block would crumble in the sun. The dust from its crumblings would be scattered to the eight winds never to reform, never to trouble me again.

Instead I’m sitting in front of my computer trying, with a just a dab of panic, to find something nifty to write about. I started writing about the realization I had about myself last night because of Theresa talking about the book on home design she’s reading. I was going to write about how I realized that I like big, open spaces and why. I figured out why I’ve never felt comfortable at a certain house and that it wasn’t anything I was doing wrong. I even figured out why I was freaking over the seating arrangement I’d set up outside. But that’s not interesting enough to write about.

I started writing about the insane, crazy, psycho move I was involved in on Saturday. I was going to write about how I felt like I was standing on the line between the women of the group and the men. I was lifting boxes here and there, but then I stopped that to finish packing the old apartment. When I got to the new house I started helping unload, but I stopped to clean the new kitchen. And then I stood in the backyard drinking beer with the guys. It was a peculiar day. And I was going to write about it, but it’s too finicky to find the right words; I could easily be misunderstood. So I’m not going to write about that.

Which leaves me with writing about writer’s block. It’s not that I can’t think of anything to write about. It’s just that I can’t write about anything. I’ve even composed posts and ideas in my head. But apparently my head isn’t on speaking terms with my fingers so we’re stuck with nothing written.

I even had this nifty thought to write a series of vignettes all starting with the same phrase, but making that phrase mean something vastly different each time.

“He reached for her, but at the last minute she ducked out of his reach. His hands closed on air where her throat had been and he swore in frustration. He whirled just as she drew a gun and leveled it at his chest.”

“He reached for her, but just as his hand touched her pillow he remembered she was gone. He had laid her to rest in the ground and now she would never lie beside him again. He rested his hand against the empty pillow and cried long into the night.”

“He reached for her and caught her just as she jumped from the swing. The wind played with her curls as she cackled at her own cleverness. He tossed her up in air once, twice before setting her feet back on the ground. She ran toward the swing set to do it all again.”

See? It was going to be brilliant. But it’s just never going to happen at this point. I’m just going to be stuck with nothing interesting to write about. I guess the Great Block won again.

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For many years now I have been a self professed book nut. I love reading books, I love holding books. I will gladly browse when I have no money to buy and I get excited when I find a really good book even when I already own it. Some of the most restful and pleasant times I’ve had have been surrounded by books.

It was only when I moved to Peoria that I became acquainted with used books stores. Either there aren’t any in Erie or I just never knew about them. I bought all of my books (gasp) new. Shopping at a chain bookstore is very different than browsing at a used books store. When I find a book I wanted at a chain store it’s just what I expected. It was supposed to be there. But when I find that same book in a used book store it’s like I’ve just discovered the Mayan temples deep in the jungle. I would dance around in joy, but then I would probably drop all the books in my arms so I restrain myself. I’m dancing on the inside.

When I first moved here Seth and I stopped in at a used book store called the Book Nook on University. Sadly it was mostly full of bad romance novels and even those weren’t very well organized. I gave the Book Nook up for lost. I was very excited then to hear that someone had bought the Book Nook and was trying to make it someplace worthy of good books. Then I met the new owner, Michael Langley, and decided that he struck me as someone who would run a bookstore well so I decided to give the Book Nook another try.

The Book Nook is obviously run by someone who loves books. I spend two thirds of my time in the store looking through the books and the other third talking about books with Michael. I’ve always thought it would be cool to be a well-known regular at a bookstore. I got a jump start on being well known because we met Michael in a social setting before I went to his store, but even then he remembered the sort of books I read and had a suggestion for me the last time I was in.

The books in the store go from practically new to gently used and he has a good selection in a variety of genres. I have found several books in the store that I haven’t found at any other store. I even found a P. G. Wodehouse. I never see Wodehouse anywhere! The prices are a little more than some used bookstores I’ve been in, but he gives a comparable amount in store credit if you trade in books.

The store has been in a bit of disorder for a while because Michael recently expanded into the store next door. He just about doubled his space and still has more books than could easily fit in the store. If you ask, and even if you don’t, he’ll tell you that the best books are most likely in the stacks around the store. I’m not sure I’d say the best books, but I have found some good books in the stacks.

There are three used bookstores in the Peoria area that I have visited. The Book Nook is my favorite. If you like books and have an hour or more to spend in a store you should definitely check it out. And hey, maybe I’ll see you there.

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There is a thrill that comes with finding a good book. That’s why I like used books stores. You’re never sure what you might find. It’s like a game, like you’re the predator prowling among bookshelves.

There you are, moving among the shelves like a panther stalking a moose. The lights hum above you, the smell of book is in your nose. Somewhere out there is a book you would enjoy, a book you would love, a book so delightful you probably won’t sleep until you have finished savoring every page.

It’s waiting, hiding, sometimes cleverly sitting in plain sight. You whip around a corner and bounce! Nope, that’s not it. That’s just a Judy Blume. So, you move on. You’re getting close now. The book just ahead is witty, is intense, is a book you would love more than life itself. You can feel it, you can smell it, you can almost taste it.

There! You leap from your place of concealment and pounce on the book. Victory! You hold the book above your head and roar your triumph at fluorescent lights. Take that, you shout at the shelves of romance novels, I found good here, no thanks to you! And then, the magical moment when you lower your hands and take a long, lingering look at your catch, your delight, your bounty. It’s beautiful, it’s spectacular, it’s… Oh wait, never mind. You already have this one.

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I’m hoping to get another renga started soon. I’m also hoping to have a smidge more participation than last time. (Well, I can dream, right? ) In light of that, I was curious as to the reasons people have for avoiding the renga.

Lack of interest? Is it just that it sounds boring or poetry (or at least Japanese poetry) just isn’t your thing? I can’t do much about that, but it might be interesting to find out why it sounds boring.

Lack of time? This is also a reasonable and acceptable excuse. I will not beat you about the head for using this excuse. Still, there’s no commitment to adding the renga. You can bop over and write a verse and then drop out entirely if life gets crazy. You can just read as we go, and add a verse if you happen to feel inspired by the last one. Or even just read along and drop a quick comment if you like it.

Lack of skill? In this case, simply shut up and go directly to the renga blog. Okay, okay, I’m exaggerating, but seriously, if you’re interested and just holding back because you don’t think you’d be good at it, you should come give it a try. None of us here are really experienced at collaborative Japanese poetry. It’s just fun. And, the collaborative aspect means that even if a few specific haiku are lacking in polish, the renga as a whole will likely be more interesting because they were included.

So, anyone up for some renga?

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So I was going to be all cool and nifty and write about last year. I was going to look back over the year and reflect about how the year had started and how I’d changed and grown. And then I was going to be only mostly cool and write about what I hope for this year. And then I was going to scrape by on the coolness meter and write about something I was thinking about. And then I cleaned out the refrigerator.

There is very little that sucks out one’s creative energy quite as much as figuring out if these green beans are from last week or the week before; trying to decide if these leftovers are past their prime and, if not, whether they’ll get eaten before they reach that point. There’s the joy of trying to fit the contents of this half-gone bottle of ketchup into that opened bottle of ketchup without asking anyone who ventures into my surrounding area why we have two open bottles of ketchup when one usually serves us just fine! I have to answer questions like should I consult Crystal or just do the family a favor and get rid of the months-old bottle of fish sauce everyone hated with an impressive passion? Do I mix the last dregs of spicy brown mustard with the dribbles of horseradish mustard, keep both bottles or get rid of one or the other? There’s the bottle of leftover coffee we were saving to make cold coffee drinks and the bottle of homemade syrup someone mistook for cold coffee and mixed with real coffee and then just put back when she discovered her mistake. Should we keep the coffee-syrup the grown-ups don’t want to eat and that we’re never going to give to the children lest their bodies explode with the stimulants? Or should I put it back in the fridge and hope someone else will have to make that decision like I did last time?

It’s these vital, life or death questions that swirl around my head and make all my creative words leak out my ears. Gone, gone, I say sadly and then go back to sniffing the mashed potatoes. Smells okay to me, but I could be wrong.

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You may have noticed that I have now posted haiku three days in a row. (Actually I kind of cheated and lined them up to post daily for a few days at a time.) This is of course not a new years resolution. There is no warantee (express or implied) that such posting will actually continue. However, as I am now past the Christmas rush (and over the stomach flu I got on New Year’s Eve) and taking stock of what I’d like to accomplish this year, it seemed like a good time to grab some stray haiku I had hanging around my notebook and inflict them on such innocent bystanders as yourselves. (Cue evil laughter.) I’m actually starting to run short on finished haiku, so hopefully I’ll hit a creative streak soon and either polish up some partially written haiku or write some new ones.

I’m also going to nudge the renga blog again pretty soon and see if we can get a little more participation this time. We finished our last renga (here) right around the time I started really scrambling to finish Christmas presents and I never made an official announcement. So, if you haven’t yet, go read it. Isn’t it pretty? Wouldn’t you like to help write one?

I was planning to write an overview of my past year, as has been our tradition on this blog, but as I mentioned, I caught a mild stomach flu on New Year’s Eve when I planned to write it. I may still get around to it in the next couple of days–we’ll see. In the mean time, enjoy the haiku, and do let me know if they’re ghastly or not. Happy new year, everyone.

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 I bought a camera case today. Specifically, according to the package it was digital camera case. Apparently it makes a difference. The package also proclaimed that it “holds all digital cameras small enough to fit”. Taking them at their word I purchased the case.

It wasn’t until I got at home that I noticed the inscription, “Unit automatically becomes portable when carried”. Um, yeah. Did I mention I was really worried about that? I mean, how many times have you bought a digital camera case only to realize that carrying it around did not make it portable? And don’t you feel silly lugging around a non-portable camera case at special occasions?

“Well, what have you got there Bob? Didn’t you know that camera case isn’t portable? Hey everyone, did you see Bob? He’s got one of the camera cases that isn’t portable! And he carried to the party anyway! (Bless his heart!)”

I, however, will sleep soundly tonight, secure in the knowledge that my new camera case becomes fully portable when carried. No embarrassing party moments for me. No siree! Wait, what was that? I spilled dip on my shirt? Oh, bother. If you’ll just excuse me a moment while I find a napkin…

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