LACUNA

 Entwined branches scraped across the larger of the windows like shriveled hands clawing their way into something precious while gusts of wind howled angrily through the corridors. Solomon Charnel lay in his bed so still, that one would think him to be lifeless. A cold, sleeping statue he was when it came to resting. But sleep hadn’t visited in nearly three days due to recent stress influences that arose in his life. So the only thing to do was pass the time by counting the tiny, floating dust specks that drifted by his tranquil body.            By the time number three hundred and twenty six hovered above his head, sunlight leaked through the carefully fastened velvet red curtains and spread across the chivalrous bedroom. The low chime of the clock tower rumbled through the stone walls announcing that it was time for the world of Latromm to rise out of bed. Shortly after the clock’s song, soft footsteps and hushed voices occasionally traveled past the chamber’s entrance.

            “Still awake, I presume?”

            A quiet rustle of the bed sheets brought the cold statue to life. Solomon slowly turned his body to face his weary wife.

            “Sleep just hasn’t been a reliable acquaintance these past few days.”

            “I am sure that everything will fix itself if you give it time. But you should rest. Making choices of great importance on little sleep is not very professional.” A light sigh escaped from Elsbeth as she wrapped her left arm around her husband’s torso. A feeling of detachment washed over her as Solomon made no notion to acknowledge her.

            “Have we received any word from you brother?” She asked as an attempt to burry the feeling deep in her subconscious.

            “Draven is…” Solomon paused. “Let’s not talk about him.”

            Elsbeth inched closer, hoping she would receive some sort of feeling.

            A soft knock on the door distracted the couple, followed by a slow turn of the silver doorknob. Entered an older man carrying a tray of tea and freshly picked fruit.      

            “Good morning Sir.” The man bowed as he gently rested the morning meal on a small table not three steps from the doorway.

            “Madame,” Another bow followed.

            “Good morning, Senis. Have you been informed of my schedule?” Solomon asked as he scanned the tray for something to eat.

            “The counsels of Citadel and Terces would like to have a word with you sometime before high noon. I presume they would like to speak about the recent…events… that have taken place in Latromm,” Senis turned to Elsbeth. “And how are you this morning? Feeling sick?”

            “I’ll be just fine, Senis. Sometimes I think that you are more worried about this pregnancy than I am.”

            Elsbeth let go of her husband and proceeded to sit back down on the bed. “Solomon, wear your white button-down shirt and black trousers. This meeting will not take long so there is no point in getting all dressed up.”

            Solomon did as he was told and motioned for Senis to leave.

            “Shall I let the council know you will be attending?”  he asked.

            “Please. Tell them to start without me if I am not there in fifteen minutes.”

            Senis bowed to the King and Queen of Latromm before exiting the chamber.

                                                            *   *   *   *

            Solomon sat down at the head of the table.

            “I know that this issue is the least popular to discuss but we cannot dismiss it.”

            “Solomon, what do you plan on doing? He is your twin.”

            “It also means that he is family so this is just as hard for me as it is for you.”

            Everyone important had attended this meeting even though the problem hadn’t leaked into the other worlds. Normally, having all the worlds gather like this rarely happened, but when Earth attempted to destroy the two other worlds, security measures had to be raised.

            “We all know what he wants.” Emperor of Citadel piped up.

            “We also know what he isn’t going to get.” Solomon sternly said.

            “I always get what I want.” Draven sneered. 

            A new presence stood in the entranceway, startling those who were in conversation. Everybody started whispering and worrying when Draven slowly walked to his twin brother.

            “May I have a word with you alone?” Draven smoothly said.

            “I am sure that whatever you have to say can be said right in this room, Draven.” Solomon’s voice hardened as he motioned towards an empty seat.

            “Brother,” Draven grinned. “I would like to speak with you. Alone.” The harshness in his voice made each ruler quiver with disgust and it was evil enough to convince the King of Latromm to excuse himself from the meeting.

            Closing the doors behind him, Solomon eyed his brother. The two weren’t very good twins. Growing up, they had never gotten along and even their appearance was so drastically different that Solomon was sure that nobody would have known if it weren’t for the fact that they were born into royalty.

            Draven stood beside Solomon and started walking down the marble-floored hallway.

            “What is this about Draven?” Solomon asked.

            “A brother cannot come visit his family without question anymore?”

            “A brother has every right to visit family, but not a stranger who waltzes around destroying my kingdom.”

            Draven stopped and turned towards his brother. His cold eyes traced Solomon’s body.

            “I don’t know how we managed to be brothers, Solomon,” he said. “You seemed to have let yourself go.”

            Solomon knew this was a distraction. But he couldn’t help but think that he was right. While Draven possessed the looks in the family, Solomon was glad that he received the features that did not make him look like a serial killer. He didn’t have the dark eyes or the sharp cheekbones like Draven. His face was much more round and even his hair was a completely different color. A honey blonde to Draven’s raven black.

            They continued down the hallway until they came to the two enormous doors that guarded the main ballroom. Draven grabbed a hold of the large iron ring and pulled. The door revealed a white and black-checkered floor and numerous pillars that held up the balcony that wrapped around the entire room. Two thrones sat at the far wall, raised by a small set of stairs. Each was the color of gold and towered over anyone who stood beside them.

            Draven marched forward and threw himself on the throne so his legs dangled off of the throne’s arm. “I want the throne.” Draven’s bluntness came as a surprise to the King.

            “We can all have our dreams, Draven,” Solomon chuckled. “But you are never going to get the throne.”

            “Oh, I know I would have to fight for it,” Draven said. “Oh, Shadow! Would you be so kind as to come out and show our beloved king what you possess?”

            A tall woman entered the room. Her hair had been tied into a tight bun, revealing the pointed tips of her ears. Hung around her waist were several hunting knives, each carefully tucked inside of its carrying case. Brown, baggy pants accessorized with numerous pockets hung loosely on her tiny frame while a backless black shirt allowed her black wings to move freely.

            “Solomon, this is my new friend from Tearsee. Her name is Shadow and she will not hesitate to perform extreme measures to gain power over Latromm. This is your last chance. Give me the throne or pay the consequences.” Draven lost all sense of sarcasm in his voice.

            “I will never let you have the throne,” Solomon said coldly. “Now get out.”

            Just as Solomon opened his mouth to call for his guards, Shadow raised her hand toward the open door and closed her fingers one by one. The gigantic doors slammed shut with such a force, any man would cower.

            Solomon grabbed the handles and pulled, only to realize that they would not budge.

            “My dear brother, we can do this one of two ways. Either you give up the throne so nobody will be injured or — ,” Draven paused and grinned. “We’ll look at that second option if the situation needs to come to that.”

            “I will not throw this world into the pits of despair.” Solomon stood firm.

            “Very well then.”

            The air stood still. The world around the two brothers seemed to stop in all of its place. Within seconds, the doors swung back open and Elsbeth stumbled through, her face tinted crimson red.

            Panic jolted Solomon out of his solid state and he ran over to his wife.

            “The baby,” Elsbeth moaned. She raised her hand to touch her husbands face one last time. Solomon noticed that the roundness of her belly was gone and her clothes were drenched with blood. Anger boiled in his throat and his face turned bright red.

            “What did you do with my child?” 

            “What child? She was like this when I found her.” Draven appeared to be as confused as his brother.

            Solomon looked at his wife. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was unsteady. He knew she didn’t have long.

            “Elsbeth. Where is the child?” The tone of desperation in his voice caused Elsbeth to open her eyes. She looked at him for a moment and began to speak.

            “Sea Reese,” She gasped for air.

            “Elsbeth. Hold on, darling,” Solomon started sobbing.

            “Senis!” She whispered, this time, clearly. Her head fell back and her breathing stopped. Solomon knew she was gone.
            Hatred clouded his mind. Solomon’s breathing deepened as he rose. Without any words said, he charged at his brother, hoping to bring him down.

            Shadow stepped in Solomon’s path and drove one of her hunting knives into his stomach. Solomon fell back and took his last breath.

            Draven let out a laugh and stood up from the throne.

            “I told you I would get the throne.”

            Draven stepped over the body and walked out the door, leaving the old King and Queen of Latromm lifeless on the cold, hard floor.

 I am an eighty-three year old woman. I have lived a very basic but at the same time complex life. Like every other person in their eighty’s, I can say with confidence that I have seen many things in my life. I have seen my children grow up. I have seen my children produce their own children. I have seen my children’s children, have kids themselves. I have seen wars start and end. I watched my husband build our summer house at the beach by himself, with my help of course very long ago. I was even there as my husband of over fifty years passed away.  Living at the beach for most of my life, I have seen storms and hurricanes that most people will never encounter. Some were a pleasure to witness while some at the time left me in fear for my life. As the stubborn lady I am, I never abandoned our house in time of stormy weather. This place remains the liveliest memory of my husband that I have left. And I would never leave it, even by force.

            At this point in time, I am still walking and talking like I am twenty years of age. Well, maybe at a little slower pace. My daughter often comes and visits, and stays with me for long periods of time.  And during winter months, I stay with her back in Western Massachusetts. Our thing is to sit on the porch and watch the lightning storms. There were two roads in the cove that shaped in V. One side of houses bordered the ocean while the other row was against the beach and marsh.  It was amazing that we were only a thirty-second walk to the beach.

            As October approached, we usually started the process of boarding up the house and preparing the move back to western Mass. The pipes get emptied and the windows all get locked and boarded up, the whole nine yards. My daughter Dona had been working a good job at the time and decided to wait till the first snow fell until we actually made the move. We did leave the house for the most part winter-ready, except the water was still running. I didn’t argue to leave, because I would stay year around if I could manage alone. But what the hell. Who says you can’t be at the cape when it isn’t summer anyways? I happen to think it looks marvelous under some snow.

            I was never big on television, and raised my children to survive without. So naturally, this place did not have normal channels. There were maybe four or five that never really caught my interest. There was a weather channel, but I thought I could make more accurate forecast then those idiots. “Tomorrow, you can expect light, followed by dark! And for the next day, you can expect the same!” My forecast was always correct. I have learned in all my days that if I watched the weather channel every day for the forecast, they were actually right about once of the week. Maybe two times if on top of their game. So if I did hear the weather, it was in one ear and out the next. The tropical storm advisory was the same way. It caught my eye that something like this would arise now at the end of October though.

            To my surprise, I heard it was heading our way. I have seen many thunder storms, but very few hurricanes or tropical storms have actually made it to land, or even as far as the New England coast. So I wasn’t worried the least. I kept doing my morning three mile walk. I got to keep these old bones in shape somehow.

            One chilly late October night, we all watched the updates on this storm. I don’t know much about all those technical weather people’s storm terms, but I did understand the meaning of fifteen-foot swells. This was reported on the 27^th. I have never seen swells that big with my own eyes, but assumed that was average for a storm out at sea. I didn’t want to hear more about some stupid scare so I didn’t turn on the TV for a few days.

            Let me just say, for the first time in my life, I had regretted not turning on the television for a few days. What I saw made me a bit nervous. This tropical storm has grown quite a bit, and they made it sound like it was coming right at our part of New England. There was no name designated for a hurricane so I did not think it could be too bad. But, I clearly was wrong. I stood at the top of the beach one afternoon, and did see swells that must have been over fifteen feet. There is a giant rock, probably ten feet or more above the water where the kids jump off at high tide. Waves were splashing over it very easily today. I was nervous as to what this may lead to.

            I was up all night watching off my porch. I had my full yellow old fashion rain suit on. The house spot lights were on and I was on the lookout. The basement was flooded to the point where you could swim in the bedroom. The marsh had overflowed the whole street. Dona was sound asleep, and I don’t know how. Then again thunder storms never bothered her.  

            Since our house was heavily guarded by other residents’ homes, I could not fully understand this event: I was standing on the upper deck, and loud sounds of water moving approached my ears. I didn’t think twice about a title wave, even though there were 65 knot winds on sea. Just not as strong in my yard because of surrounding houses. But, this storm surge, or wave, whatever you want to call it came out of nowhere. It hit the side of my house, and I thought we were done for. The house was in no shape after all these years for something like this. I held on to the railing for dear life, returning to the house the second I thought I could make it in.

            Morning came, and everything was calm. Not sunny, but light and cloudy. We went out to look at the damage. To our surprise, there was none. There was a hole 8-10 feet deep, and wide as a car. Somehow the water did not wreck the house, only the back yard which is a sand bar anyways. I took my canoe out and paddled down the roads. The damage to all the houses was mind blowing. Houses were fully on their sides, or had thousand pound boulders smashed right through them. There is an old WWI watch tower, which is five stories tall. The top of it was filled with ocean water. Waves were breaking over the top of this tower, which rests at sea side. This storm had come so fast, it was not even labeled. So I named it The No Name Hurricane of 1991.

            Dona and I created a photo album of this. Pictures of waves splashing and wrecked houses filled this. Even a picture of me sitting in my canoe on the front lawn. This storm was a hell of a sight. Like I said before… every other old person will tell you they have seen some crazy things in their life time. I can safely say I have. I witnessed a wave that should have destroyed our house. Luckily, the house survived. I told you the weather people have no idea what is going on. If they did, this hurricane might have properly been predicted and named. The photo album still remains at the house, for all to see and to remember The No Named Hurricane.

 By fire’s incandescence, a ragged beggar warded himself from the cold of the night.
No sounds carried on the wind, save for a horse’s neigh and an alley cat fight.

He sipped gingerly of a cheap wine and roasted mysterious meat on a spit,
while rats watched from the shadows, weighing the odds of stealing it.

From those shadows stepped an imposing figure of copious girth and lofty height.
The beggar remained composed while the vermin chattered and retreated in flight.

“Greetings,” said the beggar. “Come share my fire, cheap wine, and a portion of meat.”
“Well enough you offer me what I could surely take,” replied the stranger, taking a seat.

“It is my custom to be hospitable to all, although I haven’t much to give.”
“Very wise,” the stranger responded.  “I accept, and have decided to let you live.”

The beggar seemed unaffected by such callous threats and offered him the wine.
The gesture was beneficent and sincere; his voice was not unduly kind.

The beggar eyed the stranger patiently, curious to see if he would defer.
His guest reached for the flask with a large hand, clawed and covered with fur.

“Do you hail from these parts?” the beggar asked it as it took a long draught.
The beast-as such its host surmised-wiped a dribble of liquor from its chin and laughed.

“Does it matter to you, old derelict?” it barked, finding the question quite profound.
The beggar shrugged nonchalantly; “I’m just a vagabond making my rounds.”

The beast leaned forward, intent upon its host; “So you’ve sworn no fealty to the throne?”
“I serve no other man,” the beggar divulged, “And answer to none but myself alone.”

From the ebon shadows of its cowl, the beast betrayed a gleam of ivory fang in its smile.
The beggar offered it half the meat without betraying any guile.

“Do you know why I visit this kingdom, old man?” the beast inquired, quite sincere.
“I shall kill the king and usurp the crown, and rule a people wrought with fear.”

“How do you intend to slay him?” the beggar asked, feeling the tension across the space.
The beast stood up and thundered; “The king hasn’t the valor to contest my animal grace!

“I am not enthralled to the fear of man, for not one has yet opposed my might.
I am great and terrible, and I’ve made widows and orphans of many a hapless knight.”

With grunts and growls, it ravenously devoured the meat like it was a fresh kill,
while casting rapacious glares at the castle perched prodigiously atop the hill.

The beggar reached for the flask; “Let me drink to a deed of which bards will surely sing.”
And on his young hand the beast espied a ring bearing the insignia of the king.

With a bestial roar, the usurper lunged for his throat; over the fire it soared.
Claws and fangs bared with intent to rend its foe, it was impaled upon the royal sword.

 Most pets we’d had growing up died relatively soon after buying or receiving them and had uneventful departures from my life.   My family had had a dog, which we got rid of since he occasionally ran down the planks from our backyard fence and subsequently was caught by the “animal-catchers” (which always sounded so terrible) but after our parents’ spending so much money on bailing stupid Buster from the pound (which was somehow worse, though I couldn’t understand how) he eventually stayed there.  Otherwise, we’d usually had angelfish or goldfish and once had a freaked out stray cat move-in, but after receiving painful scratches of reward from the “little shit” (as my step-dad, Ron, would call it) the “damn thing” was taken back to its life of the streets.

            I can’t recall which year it was, but I suppose it was my eighth, and for my birthday, I wanted nothing except a pet bird, one that I’d seen at the local Woolworth’s near my grandparents’ house.  I was sure to get what I wanted, since I’d been so good in school and church and the bird and it’s cage couldn’t cost more than about thirty dollars.  I knew my parent’s sometimes didn’t have money for all we wanted, but my siblings and I could always trust they’d do what they were able.  That morning, my hopes were elevated as I ate my favorite breakfast cereal, Lucky Charms, bought especially by mom the night before (she’d usually not let us eat such expensive, sugary cereals) and after school I expected the usual dinner at my grandparents’ house with cake and ice cream. 

            That evening, I was the first to run through the heavy double-doors of my grandparents’ entryway, scrambling in front of my older brothers, Mike and Jay, and my little sister Sammi while my parents gathered important birthday things from the mini-van.  I was crazed, and just spat a hello to my grandpa reading Popular Mechanics or Retired General in his throne of soft, nineteen seventies brown leather, which we weren’t allowed to “horse-around” on.  He replied with a hearty, “Hey, happy birthday, Joelie!” as I continued down the hall, past the reproductions of famous Mormon paintings and into the kitchen where I could smell and hear my grandma’s cooking.

            “Well, I thought I heard a birthday boy crashing down the hall; Happy birthday, my love”, she said with a hug, thoughtfully not messing my birthday outfit with her kitchen’d hands, “You should go see what’s in the bathtub up stairs”.

             I dropped whatever I was told to help bring in the house on the country-colored woven carpet of the kitchen and spun around to run, passing my parents just entering the hallway and closing the front door, “Slow down on the stairs”, my mother warned with a smile, knowing what I was to find upstairs (she was too smart to store any really exciting gifts at home, since I was a snoop).  After swiftly climbing the stairs and leaping up to the landing, I rounded to corner to the hall, turned again into the guest-bathroom and reached over to turn the light’s timer dial, to find the doors of the tub slid closed and myself reflected in the mirrored one of the two.  I didn’t understand.  How could a bird be in the bathtub, and if one was there, how could it be so calm and quiet after I turned on the lights?  I was already disappointed.  What was it they got me instead? 

I had to look.  I stepped and gripped the chrome handle of the mirrored door, my now frightened face confirming my disappointment as I slid the door slowly, its old, rusty wheels whining lightly as it rolled, and I hear, “Grock!, ting!”  and a bell’s tiny rings:  the sounds of a frightened bird.  All that followed were crazed wing flapping and a metal cage’s rattle.  I needed to move to the other door since the cage was at the other end of the tub.  So I heave the door back, leap to the right and thrust the other door open to a slam!  Now the bird was absolutely terrified, and I was too, but also curious. 

            The lights above the mirror and sink on the opposite side of the room emboldened the brassy luster of the cage’s canopy and the clean, glossy brown newness of the cage guard at its base.  Awesome.  The bird calmed and I was able to see it: a gray and black little Parakeet with a blue flank and puffy white “cheeks” around its beak.  I kneeled down to lift the cage by the hook at its crown, to get a closer look at my bird, but this totally freaked it out. Maniacally, it flitted and fluttered about, knocking its water, seed, and its own feathers around and out of the cage.  Momentarily, it quieted and just stared at me, then it stepped to the side of its perch to sharpen its beak, apparently to frighten me, which it did, so I turned around, one knee on the fluffy bat mat and set the cage on the toilet.  I wasn’t going to bother with him until later.  After dinner and its birthday ending with a box cake from mix frosted in the same 9″ x 14″ pan it was baked in, candled and sung around in our traditional American fashion and followed by my favorite ice cream and other presents, none of which I can otherwise recall. 

            Later that Fall, my grandparents moved to the MTC, or Mission Training Center, to prepare for a later-life mission many able Mormon elders volunteer for or accept when called by the church to do so (they were on their way to South Africa) and asked my mom and Ron if they wanted to move us into their house for two years whilst they were gone, since they were in the neighborhood and only renting our then house.  We did.  My brothers and I were happy not to switch schools again and finally have a house with at least five bedrooms, so we and our sister could each have our own rooms, this meant I could have my bird in my own room, without the brother I  was then sharing a room with complain.  The bird was noisy.

            It was very bizarre to have a room in my grandparents’ home, especially the one which used to be my Aunt Ginger’s with its mirrored closet doors which held, loosely, her old, outlandish, sequined 80’s fashions still laced through plastic hangers, covered in dry-clean plastics or piled in plastic bags on the closet’s floor.  But after we cleared those room’s other items, I was able to move my bird upstairs with me.  Actually, I was doubly excited because left in the room was a round table about three feet tall with a decorative iron base and stem, perfect to accommodate the cage and cardboard box of seed-mix. 

            The white cold Sacramento Winter set in and we realized that my room, with its mauve metal Venetian blinds over a single-paned window, wouldn’t keep my bird warm enough. I felt I needed to do something, so I covered his cage (I dubbed it a male) at night with an old pillowcase and would let him out to fly about my room whenever I had time.  This was pretty funny.  As he would fly around the room and up the white walls, he’d routinely be drawn to the curious dimension of the mirrored closet doors and fly swiftly as spatially possible toward them and ram beak-first into the glass with all the ticks and clacks of nails, beak and body and crash from there and fall softly onto the thick, brown shag carpet.  “That stupid bird” , I’d think to myself, especially after watching that the bird would do this anytime I let him out of his cage.  I thought he’d learn, so I let him out to perch on my finger or try playing on my desktop while I drew or did my homework, but he’d always fly over to the closet and most often hurt himself (or so it seemed at the time).  He couldn’t have been too badly off for he’d usually return to his loud, needy self in a day or two and the cycle would begin again.

            Weeks and months passed, my pet’s limited entertainments became evident, and my want to visit or play with him waned.  The weekly cage cleanings became just another chore and spending my allowance on birdseed and cage liners siphoned my Ninja Turtle funds.  I found myself focusing on my acquiring those, instead of playing with the live animal caged in my bedroom.  I was conflicted and out of patience for this loud, filthy animal.  I began to wish it would die.  Somehow it must’ve sensed that, for a few weeks after acquiring this new resolve, it did.  My mother had stronger feelings about it’s passing than I, but I was really excited to bury it in the yard.  I was a young child very fond of formality plus I’d seen Pet Cemetery by then, so it was great to do something so cinematic and closing as burying my little blue bird behind the cover of the great ivy which cascaded from the second story to the ground in the front yard.

CHEETO

cheeto, cheeto
tiny curved delight

whenever i am down
you’re there to make it right

for cheeto, you are cheezy
yet i am much the same

but for America’s obesity
i feel you are to blame.

TOASTER

small metal box
with artificial heat

fits all my bread
wholegrain, white and wheat

small metal box
made an inferno for my bread

leaving only remnants
in your crumb collecting bed.

The lights in the city went out
On the street roamed a sunken movie star
No place to call home but a sour trash can
Roaming until he found a rusty waterfall
At which he stared into pools of still water
And loved his face
And wondered where all who once loved it went to
So he found comfort in the flirty mud
When you don’t have much anything will do
In despair he cursed the moon night after night
It sat lazily in the sky like a darkened ornament
He’d give anything for some abandoned alcohol
He’d even take old pepper
Starving to nothing but brittle bones
He ate sticks and dirty lilac
Whimpering and wishing for his city
So he took his last happy belt from his pants
He wrapped it around a giant tree branch
And hung himself above the falls
And swung to and fro like a dusty clothespin on the line
With pretty chainsaws and sad race-cars in his eyes
He howled to the moon, I apologize!

Fact:

My skin adores Ra,

Some say I´m cursed

But I call it a blessing.

I am not black for black is a color

 The sprits within me raise and set on Ra´s command.

Who am I if I’m a reflection of him?

 I am Son

Factor:

 Ra shines life unto the earth and dominates the skies

He gives consul to the bird that flies on a lonely path.

The falcon was black and prestigious inside the Nubian comfort zone.

Long time since he’d been brought, stolen, raped and

Reduced to savage peasants in the West.

Betrayed and diseased!

Broken Hearted!

Experience is a good teacher

There the last lecture

I am not black for black is a color.

These words are therapy.

They help me,

To forget the,

Things that live inside my mind.

The nightmares I find,

Of distant memories,

Of things I’ve seen,

And wish would not be,

But unfortunately,

I’m brought back to reality,

With harsh ferocity,

And unforgiving hostility.

You’d be shocked,

At the scenes I’ve blocked,

From the view of you,

And those who knew,

The truth but choose,

To lose themselves,

In their own comfort zone.

Now I’m left alone,

To hone my abilities,

And practice the futility,

Of working melodies,

Into sensible stories.

Time slips by slowly,

So I drink profusely,

And smoke heavily.

Everything is blurry,

I’m in some kind of hurry,

People start to worry,

I’m purely,

Trying to maintain control,

You don’t need to patrol,

This misguided soul,

After all you haven’t been told,

Of the things that have made me cold and bold,

And cause me to fold,

Under the pressure,

Of all these constant stressors.

Writing takes diligence. It takes discipline and timing. Writing is not only about talent and ability, not even mostly. It is about perseverance and ego. It takes self-esteem, self-worth, and acceptance. It is about having something to say and believing that the world ought to hear it. It is about observance and experience. It is about compassion and understanding. Writing takes involvement and experience. It is about honesty, brutal and beautiful. It is about being in the world, being part of the world, and being removed from it too. It is about emotion, but not too much about emotion. It is about balance and willingness. It is about communication. It is about change and inertia. It is about stories and histories. It takes a command of language. It takes courage. But mostly, writing takes fortitude and diligence and discipline. As a writer, I am an abject failure.

Over the years, and surprisingly to me, through the course of this class, I have had the opportunity to discover much about myself as a writer, about where I am at presently. To be completely honest with myself, taking into account what every teacher has ever told me, I have skills as a writer. I have an ability to lay down words and to open them up. I have the motives of a writer. Writing is much like breathing to me, and I must do it or my insides begin to burn. However, I have nothing of diligence and responsibility. I have nothing of the cohesion it takes to be a writer, of that balance between creation and work.

I can set up sentences easily. At times, I can even weave paragraphs together, but there is something of completion that I am missing. I lack that ever-important piece of ego it takes to actually be a writer. To me, my words are useless. I cannot place the value and talent on them that others keep insisting is there. I think this has much to do with the story of my life, but also a phenomenon I have seen in others. There is something about a natural talent, one that takes little work to have emerge, that creates a difficulty in finding its value. When work is not required for a valued outcome, it is hard to see the talent in the thing. Perhaps if I had worked more, attended to the cultivation of my writing more consistently, with more purpose, I would not have this gap.

I am not good at school, because of this problem. Comprehension and connections are not my problem. Study skills are, the ability to fulfill a due date and take responsibility for my education are. This, likewise, is my failing as a writer. I cannot take a piece and see it through to its end. I am too surrounded in fear to work through my characters and see them out the other side. I posses an inherent void in this department, and thus will never be able to call myself a writer. I will never, as such, be a writer.

As to the architecture of my writing, that same fear keeps my writing in deep metaphor. Although my lines may sound pretty, they are so wrapped in disguises and subtleties that their truths can never quite find their way to the surface. There is too much frill, bile, and mire in the language. It is sticky and thick, not smooth on the back of the throat, as it should be. Writing ought to have daggers and fire, but they should be clear, not encoded or supposed.

The beginnings of my stories come out racing and strong, but before long, turn to dribble and run down the page like a watercolor caught in a rainstorm, like the chalk drawings in Mary Poppins. That is where I lack the diligence. I cannot keep up with my characters, and once I understand where fate is taking them, I lose interest in carving out their stories. If I had more ego I would think their stories necessary for the betterment of man, or the enjoyment of man, but I do not have ego in that department.

I think my lack of self-worth and that ever-present (and annoying) shame keep me from developing as a writer. In all honesty, I would love to be a writer by trade, to make my living as a poor starving artist with a spark towards the creative, but I do not have the courage for life on the ledge like that. I do not see the point of it in myself. I do not think of my writing as indelible or ancient, or withstanding any test, let alone the test of time.

If, however, I am ever to succeed at anything, this is a border that must be crossed. If I am to grow up, to become responsible, then this nagging sense of insecurity must be sacrificed as a piece of innocence lost. One cannot afford to harbor and carry such heavy burdens as hate if one is ever to carve out a life. Sometimes I feel old. I fear that my writing will reflect that premature aging. I fear losing a piece of myself to the world, because that’s what writing is, giving up a piece of your life to the microscope of perceptions and projections thriving in the world. Once something is written, once ink is against paper, it is no longer mine, as the writer. Once I submit to the urge to create, the creation is defined by what anyone aside from myself can take from the words. Perhaps I fear what people will see in me. The only cure for that is acceptance and faith in oneself. Is that something I can manage? I think not yet, but it is something to strive for.

I have never excelled at school, although I have been warned of my potential time after time after time. I have never excelled at anything because I must defeat myself before anyone else has a chance to. I know I have the ability to write papers, to do assignments. Academically, I have that ability. Realistically, however, I am indeed disabled at this point in time. There are many things I never learned how to do that range far beyond turning in a written and proofread paper by deadline. The question is, for me, can I allow myself to write a mediocre paper and realize that perfection is unattainable, and more importantly, a bad paper is better than no paper at all, and in the end, the learning is the thing, not how cohesive a set of paragraphs thrown on a page are. Can I get over my own ego, in that sense? I do not know.

I have received so much help, support, and encouragement in this class this semester, and I feel like I have somehow managed to squander whatever respect I may have cultivated through my shortcomings as a writer. I feel as though my shortcomings, through my own machinations, define who I am as a student, and how professors will view me. At the end of all of this, thought, at the end of all of our dialogues, tears, histories, and trajectories, how many of us will allow ourselves to succeed? As a writer, I have failed miserably, but can I take that and find strength in it? Can I somehow overcome this obstacle of guidelines and deadlines and make something to my benefit? I do not see how, right now, but at least I have faith enough to keep coming back, to continue to ask for help even after the doors have been shut, and to smile in the face of my complete and utter humiliation. Maybe that smile is part of my downfall. In any case, I have not yet earned the right to call myself a writer, but I am well on my way in an apprenticeship to life, and perhaps a little farther down the line, writer can be added to my bi-line. For now I will hope for diligence, discipline, and strive for self-worth, no matter how slow in coming.