I am ten. My weapon is plastic, but I attack again and again even as it bends and breaks from the blows. My Father has another blade, shorter and fatter than mine but not by much, he alternates with my little brother as together they take me on. I always attack with fury. It doesn't hurt, I get smacked a few times sure, but I am in a comfortable living room jumping on couches and off the arms of furniture. My dad tells me not to, I'll break them. But this is battle. I am ten.
The sword divides. "One who does not have a sword should sell his cloak and buy one." In the Bible a sharp two-edged sword separates bone from marrow and soul from flesh. It pierces to the heart. What is a sword? It is an extension of the arm, a partner in a dance of death against an opponent and his partner. It is hardened by fire and made of steel, sometimes it is quenched in blood and sharpened and otherwise used to kill. It sings when swung, whistling through the air. The sword divides.
I am sixteen. Six years later. I am in high school, and I have made for myself more dangerous weapons. The swords are now forged of PVC pipe and foam, but when swung like baseball bats they leave bruises welts and sometimes they draw blood. I beat many, but when I fight an ex-military guy I find myself flat on my back on the pavement, sword knocked from my hand. I grow tough, cracking my neck and knuckles I jump back in to take it. Often my glasses are knocked from my face and skid across the black tar and gravel, but I learn to swing the great swords single handed. With either the left or the right I windmill the power back at my foes, inventing anew an ancient sport. Six years later. I am sixteen.
The sword unites. Common groups of people with common ideas take action together. They form alliances, patrols, divisions and companies. A community, international, called the Sword of the Spirit. They started right here in Ann Arbor, now they are tens of thousands strong, with communities in every continent and dozens of countries. More countries than I can keep track of, and still their unity grows. I was born into this community, we pray for each other and for the world. We go on mission trips to foreign lands and local slums. We fight our foes together, as one. The sword unites.
I am twenty-two. Six years later. I no longer am hit by the swords, unless I want to teach a skittish new beginner that it's ok to hit the other person. You can't win if you only go for their sword, a sword can be held out as a distraction while moving in for the kill. The focus is on the other person, or persons when you fight a whole contingent of swordsmen together. I train my boys to be tough, and when they can take it I hit them back. They learn to move quickly, their reflexes sharpen and their footwork becomes light and agile. They make their own weapons now, and fight even when I'm not around. I still can take them when I fight with a sword in each hand, and I have the advantage of stronger arms than they have, but fighting is a young man's sport. Maybe my heart will stay young forever. I hope so. Six years later. I am twenty-two.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Goldberg final post
I agree with the instructor in "claim your writing", where she tells the students to recognize a good piece of their writing and claim it as their own. I often have a problem doing that, I'll write something and never be sure of how good it is. I feel like I am looking for the perfect reader, and that I won't trust anyone else until I hear from them and hear that my writing is good. It's helpful to work on something and then approach it with the mindset of "this is good. I like this piece."
In addition I also appreciated the parts in Samuri where it talks about cutting apart your writing for the pieces. This is also a helpful technique, because I'll find something I like while being unsure of the rest, and then I tend to be unsure of how to proceed. Cutting and editing even large parts of texts may be what I need.
Rereading and Rewriting is actually something I do a lot. I learned this skill with an art class, to put aside a painting or a drawing and come back to it the next day or a few days later. My hangup with this method is I often find myself proofreading, editing, and rewriting my entire story every time I sit down to look at it, so I don't get a lot of new material out of my system. Sometimes I just need to put text on a page and then forget about it, rather than mull over it for hours on end. But I like the idea behind this chapter.
And the last part was a little much zen for me- but oh well. We knew that was the philosophy behind this book from early on, I disagree with big chunks of it, but that's life...
Or death, as the case may be.
Rereading and Rewriting is actually something I do a lot. I learned this skill with an art class, to put aside a painting or a drawing and come back to it the next day or a few days later. My hangup with this method is I often find myself proofreading, editing, and rewriting my entire story every time I sit down to look at it, so I don't get a lot of new material out of my system. Sometimes I just need to put text on a page and then forget about it, rather than mull over it for hours on end. But I like the idea behind this chapter.
And the last part was a little much zen for me- but oh well. We knew that was the philosophy behind this book from early on, I disagree with big chunks of it, but that's life...
Or death, as the case may be.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Don't let me be lonely
In all honesty I didn't mind this book.
Compared to our other readings this one made a lot more sense. The focus is very human, on the pain of life, and it doesn't run and hide from anything.
If something looks or feels fake, that is stated. There isn't some huge deal about nothing- there are gut reactions, such as reading a lable on a bottle of pills that says you can't give them away and then desiring to give them away anyway, but it doesn't say that the whole world should simply burn.
The author leaves thoughts openended, so the reader is at liberty to finish them or put them down.
Drugs are a huge part of this entire book. There are many facts to life, and few solutions. Somehow you have to put all the pieces together to make them fit, and if they don't fit, you need to fill in the gaps. This is a dangerous game to play, because those gaps if you're truly honest with yourself often times cannot be filled. They leave you, as the book would say, lonely.
Lonliness is not a curse, not a poison, it is a gift. You hear about monks of every religion abstaining from food, drink, sex, and other "worldly" supports to a normal functioning human life. There is something powerful in the void, something they seek, and something this author also seeks- although she doesn't find it in the end. She's still looking. She's looked at God, but He remains one of those unanswered questions.
It's easier to take a pill than have to think and sort things out, but the beauty of life is that it does make sense if you look at it through the One who is real.
Compared to our other readings this one made a lot more sense. The focus is very human, on the pain of life, and it doesn't run and hide from anything.
If something looks or feels fake, that is stated. There isn't some huge deal about nothing- there are gut reactions, such as reading a lable on a bottle of pills that says you can't give them away and then desiring to give them away anyway, but it doesn't say that the whole world should simply burn.
The author leaves thoughts openended, so the reader is at liberty to finish them or put them down.
Drugs are a huge part of this entire book. There are many facts to life, and few solutions. Somehow you have to put all the pieces together to make them fit, and if they don't fit, you need to fill in the gaps. This is a dangerous game to play, because those gaps if you're truly honest with yourself often times cannot be filled. They leave you, as the book would say, lonely.
Lonliness is not a curse, not a poison, it is a gift. You hear about monks of every religion abstaining from food, drink, sex, and other "worldly" supports to a normal functioning human life. There is something powerful in the void, something they seek, and something this author also seeks- although she doesn't find it in the end. She's still looking. She's looked at God, but He remains one of those unanswered questions.
It's easier to take a pill than have to think and sort things out, but the beauty of life is that it does make sense if you look at it through the One who is real.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The salty sandy stinging stapled silly putty surreptitiously slid silently slowly smoothly stealthily from my hand. Enoch sighed.
Where did it go?
My dexterous dedicated decisive digits
waved wildly wandering under the wet warm waters of the sea.
Stupid salty stinging silly putty. The staples to the sand sliced
rough real rocks really rolling (reeling) relentlessly away,
staples don't stick to sand.
The troubling terrible tremendous tide took tar to the putty, trampling
initial idolized icy ideas of disposing the
dirty dinghy dank dumb drudge from my dexterous digits in the
wild wandering waves. Enoch stared.
Whatever.
Which way will wily wanderers walk when waving wacko driver down?
Wherever.
When whilst whamming whales with wide water slides, who cares?
They all do.
"And that's the beauty of it, one more time than otherwise would have made sense.
Walking with wandering whales on the waves, whacking the wild wackos with whatever, when and where will it all end?" He thought.
"It's ending.
Right.
About.
Now."
Where did it go?
My dexterous dedicated decisive digits
waved wildly wandering under the wet warm waters of the sea.
Stupid salty stinging silly putty. The staples to the sand sliced
rough real rocks really rolling (reeling) relentlessly away,
staples don't stick to sand.
The troubling terrible tremendous tide took tar to the putty, trampling
initial idolized icy ideas of disposing the
dirty dinghy dank dumb drudge from my dexterous digits in the
wild wandering waves. Enoch stared.
Whatever.
Which way will wily wanderers walk when waving wacko driver down?
Wherever.
When whilst whamming whales with wide water slides, who cares?
They all do.
"And that's the beauty of it, one more time than otherwise would have made sense.
Walking with wandering whales on the waves, whacking the wild wackos with whatever, when and where will it all end?" He thought.
"It's ending.
Right.
About.
Now."
Friday, November 13, 2009
11/9 Toscano
Blick! Blicking blick of a blick!
Blick blick blick.
I sat, and society was torn up, the sacred, the profane, power from grace the world was turned on it's head. We learn we can't turn a blick eye on such things. They will escape and blick us all in our sleep.
It's culture really, at the heart of it. To blick. To blave. To blaaaaave. Once we say it we know exactly why we right, why we wrong, blicking's more blickerous than you otherwise might blick.
Blue.
Blick.
Beware. Of Blick. He's a mean fellow.
Not troubled entirely by the cannon fire, the jungle was a quiet and homey place. Standing peacefully on her head, Robert began yelling at his friends.
BLICK IT ALL!!!!!!!! WHAT THE BLICK ARE YOU DOING???????
They were good friends. They would understand.
The quest had gone well lately, there was an abundance of corn in the harvest. Rich, juicy blue corn of every flavor. Sapphire corn, cheap, but the price of ethanol will only go up in the future.
Have you invested enough in corn futures? I recommend it. So does Robert, but be careful, he yells.
Casting one's lot with the sound of the door slamming shut the message is clear. Do you still not get it? I said BLICK IT ALL!!!!!!!!!! We're good friends. You and I. You understand me. Sort of. Maybe. Close enough. We'll try again tomorrow, I can't stand here all day forever tomorrow on this vine on one foot on one hand asking the same old questions again and again without the hope of the truth of the joy of the fun of the real answer and struggle but finally we come to the complete and total finished final end of an end.
Blick out, my friends.
Blick blick blick.
I sat, and society was torn up, the sacred, the profane, power from grace the world was turned on it's head. We learn we can't turn a blick eye on such things. They will escape and blick us all in our sleep.
It's culture really, at the heart of it. To blick. To blave. To blaaaaave. Once we say it we know exactly why we right, why we wrong, blicking's more blickerous than you otherwise might blick.
Blue.
Blick.
Beware. Of Blick. He's a mean fellow.
Not troubled entirely by the cannon fire, the jungle was a quiet and homey place. Standing peacefully on her head, Robert began yelling at his friends.
BLICK IT ALL!!!!!!!! WHAT THE BLICK ARE YOU DOING???????
They were good friends. They would understand.
The quest had gone well lately, there was an abundance of corn in the harvest. Rich, juicy blue corn of every flavor. Sapphire corn, cheap, but the price of ethanol will only go up in the future.
Have you invested enough in corn futures? I recommend it. So does Robert, but be careful, he yells.
Casting one's lot with the sound of the door slamming shut the message is clear. Do you still not get it? I said BLICK IT ALL!!!!!!!!!! We're good friends. You and I. You understand me. Sort of. Maybe. Close enough. We'll try again tomorrow, I can't stand here all day forever tomorrow on this vine on one foot on one hand asking the same old questions again and again without the hope of the truth of the joy of the fun of the real answer and struggle but finally we come to the complete and total finished final end of an end.
Blick out, my friends.
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