On Giving Thanks

I know you are supposed to do this on Thanksgiving Day, but a day late never hurt anybody. The following is a list of things for which I am thankful.

1. Grace. There can be nothing more rich in my life than the gift of eternal life given to me by the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
2. My family. Being at college, I sometimes forget just how wonderful these people are and how blessed I am to call them my family. It is a knowledge that is always present in my mind, but I am not always conscious of the extent to which they are wonderful. My father is an incredibly strong and compassionate man. My mother cares so fiercely for all of us. My sister is always surprising me, and I am so proud of her.
3. My friends. It would be unfair to try to list all of the friends for which I am thankful because so many wonderful people have come into my life, and it would be a tragedy to forget one of them because each of my friends has been so integral to who I am today.
4. Bethel College. The place is certainly not perfect, but what on earth is anymore? God continually works through this place in my life, and I know that it is exactly where I belong.
5. Gifts. Not presents. That will come in December. No, these are the gifts that God has given me. I am aware that he has blessed me in so many ways, and I want to do my very best to use these talents to their fullest in his name. I can think of no better use of my abilities.
6. Weaknesses. If I am thankful for my God given strengths, then I must be thankful for the weaknesses he has given me as well. I am more acutely aware of some of my faults then others, but it is good to be reminded that I am far from perfect and not nearly so deserving of praise as I sometimes fall into thinking.
7. Changes of Season. As a poet, especially one who loves nature's beauty as much as I do, few things brighten the day more than a new view out the window. Fresh inspiration.
8. The Lack of Sharp Objects on Bethel's Grounds. This affords me the freedom to go about barefoot with relatively little concern for the well being of my soles.
9. Great Artists. Few things inspire me more than seeing the passionate art of others in any medium. My subject matter may come from a variety of sources, but the muse so often strikes after being impacted by the product of someone else's muse.
10. Unlined Leather Bound Journals. Does this really need an explanation?

This list is far from complete, but it is a sufficient sampling of some of the things for which I am most thankful. Finally, thank goodness for a holiday that forces us to think about our blessings. It can heal a lot of pessimism and cynicism if you are serious about it.

On Delineation

I have recently been thinking about the increasing ocurrence of my poetry in my blog. It did not take long for me to realize that this was probably connected in some way to my discipline of writing a poem every day. I continually find it remarkable what a dynamic outlet my writing has become. My journal is quickly filling as at least one page every day receives the mark of a poem. I cannot wait to go back through these poems someday and see what it is like to re-experience the feelings that went into all of these scratchings, as I am sure I will be able to do. The more I write, the more I begin to see my poems falling into very distinct categories. There are nature poems. I seem to write an awful lot of these. Then there are venting poems or expression poems or whatever you want to call them. These are the poems that say what is going on in my heart...my feelings. I write a lot of these as well, but I share fewer of them. There are also my thought out poems. These usually involve a bit more structure, they are centred around a specific theme, and they are usually longer. Finally, there are poems about writing. I am not sure yet whether those poems are more often written on nights when I am to exhausted to be creative or if they are just as creative as any others. This is hard to say because I write most of these poems late at night, and I am often exhausted. The problem is that I am bound to write a poem every day, but I usually only have free time late at night. I wonder if the quality of my work would go up if I wrote in the morning or afternoon when I am more awake. Who knows? Regardless, last night I wrote a poem that very much amused me. I do not know if it is acceptable to be amused with your own work, but I definitely was in this case. The poem falls into the latter of the aforementioned categories, and I think it pretty accurately describes much of my writing process.

Those Nights

Sometimes
My mind
Races faster than my pen
I could write the greatest poem
The world has ever known
If only
My fingers
Were faster
Fast enough
To catch the thoughts as they come
My pen in rhythm
With the beats
Of my heart
My overflowing
Heart
Pouring out emotion
Faster than my pen can set it down
The ink flows like blood
Coursing with feeling
Not flowing fast enough
Before emotions
Are lost
They pass
Unwritten
Those are the nights
I feel I could write
Something
Something that is
A good poem
A great poem
Something that is great
Yes
Tonight
Is not one of those nights
It is one of those
Other nights
The pen
Is heavy
And slow
And every
Word
Is a labour
My pen would love to race on
If the ink starts flowing
Let it flow
But
My mind
Misfires
Thoughts come too slow to
Lines are disjointed
I wonder why
What
Ramble, ramble, ramble
The writing continues
But the words mean nothing
I'm rolling a ball up a hill
To see it roll behind me
The ink
Dries up
Waiting for a though
Dries
Like a wound
That's when it really hurts
Still the poem tries
Even though its dying
Slowly
With sporadic
Breaths
That are so painful
Stumbling
Yes
This is one of those nights.

On Surprises

I have always wanted to be a writer. I am pretty sure that when I say always, it actually means always. I do not actually remember desiring any other career. While it is true that I have always love art as well, the only career association I ever made with that field was the possibility of someday being able to illustrate my own books. I am pretty sure that this desire is genetic. My mother is an amateur playwright and my father is a skilled journalist; somehow, I decided that my goal was to be a novelist. I guess we need one in the family.
However, after 19 and-a-half years of life, I have written poems, short stories, essays, news articles, and even plays, but never a novel. Essentially, I have written almost everything but a novel. During my younger days, I made a few fleeting attempts, but none of these even surpassed a score of pages before my efforts were abandoned. While it is true that I am young, I still find it somewhat ironic that I remain so far from what has long been my greatest ambition. To add on top of this, I am now in the beginning stages of writing a screenplay.
I have never wanted to write scripts for movies. The closest I have ever come was thinking of an idea for a play that would work better as a movie. However, in a slew of videos made by friends and a striking of the muse, I found myself with a strange desire to make a movie sometime. I expressed this idea to my roommate, and he wisely replied, "So make one."
Brilliant.
Since that moment, thoughts of what this movie could possibly be have flooded my mind. In a day, I have already begun developing plot and characters, come up with camera angles, and thought about a soundtrack. In my head, it seems like a pretty incredible movie. However, I have never made a movie before. I have very little idea how much it requires. Nevertheless, inspiration has struck me, and I feel that this is an idea worth pursuing. My only qualm is not even my lack of experience, but my lack of resources. Being a perfectionist in my art, I would not want this film to be shoddy. If I were to make it, I would want the final quality to be superb. Unfortunately, I do not have access to the sort of equipment that would make that possible viz. camera, microphones, editing software... I also have very little idea how to acquire these items. So, I am determined that this movie will be made, I just have no idea how.

On a Different Perspective of Winter

Yesterday I posted a poem relating falling snow to deaths. I was really happy with the poem, but a certain friend of mine (cough-cough-HANNAH-cough-cough) had quite an adverse reaction to the association between death and snow, even going so far as to say that her world was shattered. I would hate to be responsible for the destruction of someones world, especially by means of darkening their love for the beauty of snow. As a result of this friend's comment and the picturesque landscape that was so pervasive today, I decided to write the following poem. Hopefully, it can in some way rekindle this friend's hope in winter.

Waking

I forgot how to use my eyes
Until today
And the brilliance
My eyes
Had grown quite lazy
With rainy spring mornings
Hazy summer days
And muted Autumn afternoons,
But now,
Now,
Light
The sun rose on a whitewashed world
The rays don't just fall on the earth
They race in every direction
And it hurts my eyes
To take in the glory
Long forgotten
Now returning
Snow

On a Perspective of Winter

Attention

Snow
Falls
Like the dead
We notice
Flakes
Fluttering down
Here they come
A snowflake
Such a little thing
Passing
We notice
We ignore
They fall
Sometimes more
Sometimes less
More and more
Accumulating
We notice
The lines
Blur
It's harder to see
In a white out.
They fall.
The snow
Is heavy
What remains
When the deaths stop?
Confusion
Unrecognizable
Forms
Irreconcilable
Distorted
Pristine.
Everything is joined
Division Ceases
If enough fall
Because snow
Falls on all
And covers all
We find
New paths
For snow
Hides the familiar
The walks
We know.
To find old ways
One must push aside
The fallen
shatter the beauty
Rather than enjoy
The gift
Of the fallen
The beauty
The chance
For new.
They fall.
We notice
Snow.

On Flashbacks

This afternoon I visited my old high school. Despite the nearness of my alma mater, this was only the third time I had visited since my graduation a year and a half ago. I went to see my sister in a showcase featuring performances by the choirs and a one act play. Entering the auditorium was like putting on a familiar pair of jeans at the beginning of fall after having worn shorts for the duration of the hot summer months. It was a strange feeling to be surrounded by all those red chairs and those pale taupe walls, but at the same time, it felt somewhat natural. As a student, I had spent a lot of time in that auditorium. I have always been a theatre kid. For several months a year, that auditorium was a second home. A part of me felt like I belonged there. However, another part of me had pushed high school behind me. It is not that I am ashamed of my high school. My time there was wonderful, and I would not trade it, but that chapter of my life is over. I am very different from the boy who used to walk those halls. A very different actor would stand upon that stage today than the one who used to get the leads of so many shows. Nonetheless, as I spoke to my former director, revisited the scene shop and the wings of the stage, he was not so far away. That theatre, that school is a part of how I got where I am today. It would be impossible to deny that part of myself. I suppose you can take the boy out of Jimtown, but you can't take the Jimmie out of the boy. A part of me will probably always dislike Concord and Westview, and a part of me will always scoff at Laville. As unwarranted as these attitudes may be, I do not mind. They come from my heritage. I can prune myself as much as I like, but I still came from Jimtown, and it is a part of me.
I find myself drifting into the age old battle of free will theory vs. a whole is the sum of its parts. It is such a silly argument, at least, I seem to think so. I am no expert. However, it appears to me that it is both. Such drastically opposed arguments usually are. It is impossible to separate a person from their experiences. They shape our perceptions and and our understanding of forthcoming situations. Nevertheless, it is still possible to make a choice different from that for which they are conditioned based on how the person affects himself. Regardless of the choice, the mark made by past experiences always remains.
This became quite a different post than I expected it to be when I started writing. I just meant to expostulate on some of the qualms I had about reentering the halls of my youth (yeah, because it was SO long ago...), and suddenly I am getting philosophical about it. I am not quite sure how that happened. All that is to say, it was refreshing to return to my high school, and remember a bit of how I have become who I am. That's all.

On the Little Things

As the title of this post implies, the following poem is about some of my little joys in the mess of a daily routine. If you can find joy in a constant, so much the better. It will be there for you later. I do not necessarily recommend adhering to a routine, but if you happen to be stuck in one, try to find some joy. And now that I am well off track, I present to you a poem. I had help with the title from my roommate, Chester.

Defribulator

Ceramic
Cool to the touch
Smooth and glossy
Open
Awaiting
The darkness
Enter the contrast
The white
the black
Inhale
Ah, there it is
The comforting scent
Steam
Rising
Swirling
Curling
Dispersing
Like a dying pen
Whose trail
Slowly
Fades
To blank
There's the cloud
Spreading in the dark
Enter the contrast
But the pale cloud grows
Stretching
Thinner
Reaching
Blending
With the grains
Dancing
Like fools
Spinning away
Untill all are one
Ah, there it is
Good morning

On a Frightfully Honest Self-Analysis

Greg often walks barefoot. He enjoys it. Often, immediately after exiting a building, he will stoop over and remove his sandals, Old Navy flip-flops: 2 for $5.00. These sandals have a thong that slides between the first and second toe. Long ago, though not really so long ago, he would never have worn such a thing. He only wore flip-flops with a broad strap arching over the entire foot. Before that, he would never even consider buying flip-flops. The only sandals he would buy were clunky, leather beasts, encasing his foot in a loose net. However, that was in his distant childhood. Now Greg buys his flip-flops from Old Navy. These flip-flops are very popular. Greg really likes his. Nevertheless, he readily takes them off in favour of dirtying the souls of his feet.
Why does Greg walk barefoot? He is asked this quite often. he could give you many different reasons. He likes the feel of the ground. The world is more interesting when you use all your senses to experience. Greg is very in tune with textures and greatly values touch despite his apparent avoidance of physical contact. It is also a bit of a discipline. Greg has thick callouses on the bottoms of his feet from many steps taken on rough cement. Occasionally he treads over gravel as well. This is a bit more unpleasant, but Greg enjoys overcoming pain, and it is another interesting texture after all. Also, by walking barefoot, he is able to preserve his flip-flops. When bought at 2 for $5.00, one cannot expect the flip=flops to be long lasting. In a time not too far past, when Greg was barefoot less often, he quickly wore out his sandals, not only from much walking, but also from his heavy footstep. The last pair of his that wore out, broke in early fall, long before the weather necessitated the need for shoes, but well past the days when Old Navy was still selling flip-flops. Since only the thong had come loose and was able to be repaired, he kept wearing them, but they were prone to fall apart often. At this time, Greg became much more vigilant about the removal of his shoes outdoors in order to get the longest possible use out of his flip-flops.
Greg has a couple of other reasons for walking bereft of shoes, but they are reasons he is unlikely to share. For one, he likes being asked. He likes being identified by the sandals, not on his feet, but carried instead in his hand. It is a conversation starter. It makes him unique. it gives him the slightest bit of self-affirmation, sort of like when he wears his flip-flops and shorts in cold weather. True, he has a great tolerance for the cold and feels it differently than others, but he is always greatly pleased by stares of those bundled up and warmly shod. Being barefoot is an attention grabbing trait in a similar though not as extreme way.
However, Greg has another more deeply hidden reason for his habit of removing his shoes. There was that girl. She too can often be seen carrying her sandals at her side. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Greg always had a bit of an affinity for being barefoot, but it was never a habit until he met her. It was in observing this friend that he first learned to remove his flip-flops when exiting a building. For a time, it took the sight of her bare feet to prompt him to do the same, but soon Greg did so on his own, perhaps in the hope that she would see him being unique like her. Slight affections come and go, and thus did this one, but Greg still can be seen walking barefoot.
All of these reasons for Greg's barefoot walks are true, but there is still some question which is the real motivation. As a result, Greg can be seen without shoes regularly for reasons unknown, or at the very least, undefined to all; perhaps even to himself.