Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Don't Mind Me Staring At You

So I don't usually use my blog to blog.... because well, that's too cliche and I'm too hipster I suppose.

But lately I've had an.... urge? Inkling? Desire? Thought? Eh, that thing.

To share what's on my mind.

Usually I do this through poetry and such.

But poetry is inaccessible to a lot of people

So here's my new attempt at connecting.

I've been thinking lately about communicating.

Like when two people want to get an idea or concept across.

And the levels we participate in the process

How we have something to say, and we say it and we like to think the other person hears us and then maybe responds.

But that's oversimplifying it and its only when the communication breaks down that we get to see the gears and clockwork running around underneath the normal plastic skin.

And its magnificent to catch a glimpse of.

And its terrifying to think that as a writer I have to recreate that.

Because communication is not just dialogue.

Its the small thinks we say without consciously thinking about it.

When someone sneezes and someone else says "bless you" automatically.

When someone says "thank you" and we automatically reply "you're welcome" or "no problem"

There's a plethora of those kinds of automatic functions that are so automatic that (a) we don't notice them and (b) they are so cliche that we have to gloss over them in writing because they can cause readers to lose interest.

One way I've seen successful writers deal with it is by simply paraphrasing the entire exchange, essentially glossing over the bits we'd gloss over anyway. And using the gloss as a tool for revealing what the narrator or characters view as important about another person.

Which brings us to another element of communication. Perception and Reception.

These two things are what drive the conversation forward and end in either successful communication or misunderstandings (often crucial for a plot as Shakespeare loved to show). But to either create an artificial successful or failed communication still requires that the perceptions of both people need to be somehow hinted at, somehow spelled out without spelling it out.

And the missed reception has to be subtle enough for an audience to catch but not necessarily so obvious that the other party in the conversation ought to see it.

And then there's the multiplicity of meanings that individuals have, their different interpretations and cultural backgrounds informing conversation.

It's all so much and sometimes it feels daunting.

Like how does an artist, a writer, bridge this massive gap that exists between two characters. Sure we spend so much time making them believable that hopefully having two fully formed characters in an elevator dropped form the top of Mt Everest will at least result in some dialogue that's believable.

But....

Sometimes it doesn't. And sometimes the dialogue that comes out is so cliche and eye-rollingly painfull that it almost seems better to create a whole book of mute characters (go ahead, take the idea I don't have room for it right now).

But that is what I've been pondering.

I've decided to watch people talking more.

In bars. On the bus. At work.

How do they communicate.

What do they say? What DON'T they say? How does their nonverbal body language conversation differ from their verbal conversation? How can I incorporate all of these elements in a smooth and fast paced manner that will flow without breaking their ever shortening attention span?

It is difficult.

But then. If it were easy everyone would do it well.

The challenge... and overcoming it.... the journey and arriving at an inn on the way, if not the end, is what makes writing so fulfilling.

So if you catch me staring at you while you're talking to someone else these next few weeks just try to ignore me and no you don't have a piece of sashimi on your face. I'm just watching you like the stalker I am.

Song of the May King

The call rises from the dark forest
Like a flock of ravens disturbed
It wings on the wind like a scream
And settles cold in the veins of every ear

Come away, the end of the year
Come away and celebrate the May King

The song rises with the flicker of flames
The row of candles like fireflies on a string
They weave through tree trunks like pillars
Dark columns of a swart cathedral rebounding
 
Come away and here begins the fear
Come away and bring forth the May King 

The shout is suddenly like a gunshot 
And is followed by silence like a shroud
Like the silence of the cool before a frost
Like the heavy pressure pushing each word down

Come away, children do not draw near
Come away and do not look upon the May King

The drums pound like a heart beat
Like the heavy sudden runs of a convict
Increasing like a symphony reaching a crescendo
Climaxing in sudden beats upon the skins

Come away and listen to what you will hear
Come away and see what they do to the May King

The flowers fall like rain from spring branches
The petals make a carpet for him to tread
The incense is heavy in the air like water
Drowning thought into panic and manic laughter

Come away and join in the frantic dance here
Come away and join hands now with the May King

The knife is made of obsidian 
Black glass that can cut easily through bone
The knife glides fast as a fish in the river
Out of the water, into the air, and then gone

Come away and watch them leer
Come away to the death of the May King 

The blood is crimson upon white blossoms
Speckled paint upon the carpet white
Candles burn beacons in the darkness 
His gurgle dies into the silence of night 

Come away and now let us give our tears
Come away for the gone is the May King 

In silence they take their piecemeal departure
Like ravens biting of pieces of a loaf of bread
Until the small child is left asking so many question
And there is only one answer they will get 

Come away now, for it is all over 
Some day you'll know, when you are May King

Falling Street Song

Fall the pieces
Like the leaves
Like the snowflakes
And the flower petals
That float on the breeze

Fall the shapes
The colors on the wheel
The patterns in the grass
The shadows on the wall
Broken is how we feel

Fall the markers
The place book holders
The binders
The breakers burning
And rise again much older

Fall the phantom
The night terrors
The ghost of yore
The haunting voices
Of our past errors

Fall the wind
Make lack the sails
Driven no more forth
By the fear of winning
Or the salt when we fail

Monday, April 29, 2013

Song for Isimud

He sits in silence with himself
He is the man with two faces
And each looks the other way
And when one turns
So does the other
And it may be impossible
For them to see eye to eye
The one looks down
To the spot on the floor
Between his feet
And thinks about the Lord
waiting below
Who binds the waters
Beneath the earth
And who hovers in the darkness
Over the waters of the Apzu
And he wonders if ever
He'll be summoned again
If ever he'll be called
To tell His stories again
And he waits on the word
To fill his mouth once more
And as his one face looks down
The other looks up
To the spot in the ceiling
Right behind his head
And thinks about the Lady
Who rules above
Who died and descended
And who took the underworld's keys
And who rose again on Easter day
And whose consort Dumuzi was her scapegoat
And who ransomed all life for love
He knows that she loved him once
And he knows he loves her too
But not as much as he loves his Lord
And so he waits in his room
He waits to be summoned
By either of them
But no word comes from the Lord or the Lady
And he sits and wonders
If his eyes will ever see eye to eye
Even if they are on opposite sides of his head
And he thinks that maybe if he looks at it sideways
Maybe he'll finally see the big picture
And know which call to answer
If they ever come at all

Sunday, April 28, 2013

Hamartia

The old men tell stories
And I sit and listen
They seem to appreciate that

They speak of the days
When the skies were all bluer
And everyone still said "How are you?"

They speak of the time
When people went dancing
And blushing boys kept pace with the twirling

Never knowing that someday
They'd be sitting and talking
In a cafe all grown old, and miss it

I watch them talk
I read their lips
I wait my turn to
Say I know

They argue bout politics
And who would have been better
And how things just aren't what they used to be

They shout and they scramble
They play chess and scrabble
And sometimes they deal me a hand too

They tell me to listen
To learn from their mistakes
To find a good girl and to love her

They tell me to take her hand
Hold it so tightly and
Never let go, but don't trust her

I watch them talk
I watch them grey
I wait my turn to
Say I know

Last week they took old Jim
To a home in Wisconsin
His family said it was for his health

And three weeks from today
Mr. McDowell will say
That he can't even remember knowing him

And two years from tomorrow
When I have time to borrow
I'll go back and find their group cut in half

And I hope that I'll be brave
And maybe visit a few graves
And that I'll join the rest at their table

I watch them talk
I watch them go
I wait my turn
To some day say

Me too