i heart literature

I've been meaning to sit down and write a decent article, worth submitting to someone.

But, its been mostly being too busy with the small details in life- the cashing of cheques, buying of food, and e-mailing contacts for the arts and peace festival (Nov 7-9. you should go). I'm trying to finish East of Eden, and i'm at the part of the book where every detail of every character begins to drive the story, and realize the difficult themes that come with mr. Steinbeck's writing.

from what i can gather, from my years of reading john Steinbeck, the most interesting and compelling characters are also the most broken. the depth of character comes from unmet expectations, and unrealized dreams. Its kind of an grim outlook on life- realize the despair of the human condition, and fail miserable time and again at trying to find redemption in that.

I'm sure there are other, less complicated, ways to express how Steinbeck's characters are formed, in relation to his view of the world. maybe later. with less commas.

I was thinking about reaching down to pick up the said book, to try and find a good excerpt, but its nowhere near the orange camp chair, outside on my back deck. ok. i'll go find it...

..."It was a deluge of winter in the Salina Valley, wet and wonderful. The rains fell gently and soaked in and did not freshet. The feed was deep in January, and in February the hills were fat with grass and the coats of the cattle looked tight and sleek. In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sank beneath the ground. Then warmth flooded the valley and the earth burst into bloom-yellow blue and gold."

-east of eden, chapter 25. there are much better excerpts than this... i just couldn't find them.
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I've been meaning to read some Anne Lamott for a heck of a long time. I was walking along one of the library shelves today, trying to waste the last ten minutes of work, and i came across "Travelling Mercies", nesteled between lesser books of dry prose. So i read the first short paragraph, and i was sold -

"My coming to faith did not start with a leap but rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another. Like lily pads, round and green, these places summoned and then held me up while I grew. Each prepared me for the next leaf on which I would land, and in this way I moved across the swamp of doubt and fear. When I look back at some of these early resting places--the boisterous home of the Catholics, the soft armchair of the Christian Science mom, adoption by ardent Jews--I can see how flimsy and indirect a path they made. Yet each step brought me closer to the verdant pad of faith on which I somehow stay afloat today."

If anyone is considering purchasing a late-birthday gift for me, i think this would be a good choice.

I think that, to re-write the cliche', you are what you read. and what i tend to read is anything but dry- prose that comes out as reflections upon life, from a perspective of a imaginative heart. not that i'm trying to toot my own metaphorical horn or anyhting.

which, actually, leads to a good point. I was listening to an interview of Anne Lamont on the best ever podcast called "the brown sessions" (I insist you download it now! the allure? interviews with Donald Miller, Renee Altson, and Shane Claiborne). In this interview she mentioned how "sometimes writers try too hard to be a writer". and thats me, i'll be quite honest. for the past couple days i picture myself sitting here, outside, writing anything with a pot of coffee sitting beside me.

in other words, i intentionally try and build a mood for myself, so that i can write something good. or, something that i think others will perceive as good. i'll look back on these writings and realize how much of what i do, how i write, is dependent on who i read. if i read sad novels i will write sadly. if i read Anne Lamott, i will probably write very reflectively.

this is the beauty of literature. it reveals a part of yourself that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. when i read the reflective prose style writers i picture myself feeling the same things they have, thinking the same insights they have. the difference is that i don't have words for them. the grace of literature is that for every word we can't picture, someone else will be there to draw it for us (someday i'll thank Anne Lamott, and Madeline L'Engle for this).

So, thats my thought for the day. i'm not sure if any magazine would accept this random string of reflections. they might just send it back, saying "you do not seem to have one distinct discernible thought, or solid idea". so... i'll have to work on that.

(my head is spinning because i am dehydrated, and drinking coffee. boo me).

-Adam
(forgive my use of lower casing. its not intentional at all).

infusion and some imagining

(i don't like the word "infusion" all that much. its like the "hey, look at me" of words).

this will be my last cup of coffee,
on the cafe built beside some cobblestone streets,
old London, or Paris, i can't remember
all a long memory, i can't separate the two.
was it in europe, with wine, that day,
or was i tasting some coffee all alone?

this will by my first summer alone,
far removed from my lofty dreams of romance.
sometimes the place live stops feeling like home.
and we'll taste anything with flavor,
stand in any rainstorm to remind us what it was like.

I have made this cup well, in this house that feels quite calm.
i chose a place that most felt like safe, to me.
but sometimes the day keeps me up all night,
and I'd try anything recapture some innocence.
I start you wonder if it's worth staying here.

lets stop this beautiful mess we've fallen in.
and we'll take that last cup of coffee.

something beautiful always starts that way,
really unexpected and unreasonable.
and something unimaginable pulls itself together,
bound with some old hope, and a little bit of sadness.

and, i think thats as close to love as i have come in years.

they say the sun sits higher, more rich
in the clouds of somewhere unfamiliar.
and, i hope i'll find out for myself, sometime.

~

for the record, I've never been to Paris or London. My imagination is just alluringly alive today.

if only i lived beside the lake...

today at the library i listened to some Ravi Zacharias... and i was ridiculously challenged. i actually had to stop for ten minutes, and take down some notes.

and then i listened to some justin king, and put my worries to rest. nothing makes me realize the infinite simple beauty of a summer day like acoustic guitar. i still have a lot (a lot) to learn.

~

after that i found a bible, with metal hinges, from 1879. it had that "old forgotten treasure" smell.

i need to find a ride to lake. so i can use the sound "woot" in the proper context. the lack of a ride, and the knowledge that i used to live within walking distance of a lake in nanaimo, is a drag.

oh well. i need to put my worries to rest again... and never combine coffee and philosophy ever again. dangerous mix.

~
update- the next morning.

i never did end up going to the lake... which doesn't really make much sense. what do you do if you are hot in canada? go to a lake. what if you live in abbotsford? sit around and complain how much life is boring and useless, even though life isn't useless, you just live in a culturally dry and lifeless city. but thats just my biased opinion. hm. life goes on.

22

besides being completely emo on Sunday nights, I've been writing lots... or at least, trying to. my new laptop, that i picked up from my roommate, allows me to sit on my back deck, with a pot of green tea, listening to the wind in the trees. which is much better than sitting in my dark little room, feeling like *something derogatory*. ahhhh.

I read an article in Geez today, whilst sitting in a closed library on my break, and i read that "North Americans spend 90% of their time inside". and that struck me. i wonder if thats what drives my evenings of feeling sad- being alone at home for hours, not listening to Relient K (i'm never sad when i'm listening to Relient K).

hm. just a thought.

~

And lately, the weather has been so bi-polar
And consequently, so have I.

But now I'm sunny with a high of 75,
Since You took my heavy heart, and made it light.
And it's funny how you find you enjoy your life,
When you're happy to be alive

-Relient K

...and its more than i can handle

things to talk about (not interesting, but whatever);

one) I was reading some of my old poems, in my secret journals (oooo. mysterious. i can hear the owls hooting in the background... whoot!), and man... i am a very sad person. i was feeling down last night, and even most of the day at work, because of my little trip into not-so-far-past-thoughts.

but, i guess thats one of the good things about poetry- you get to express the lousy sadnesses, which are not always a joy to talk about.

two) i haven't felt a lot like writing lately. what else is new? (my thoughts and feelings are always on a gradual shift from low to high to low). the reason, i think, is that i have started to hate work less... and thus, i have changed my mindset from hating work and loving being at home, to disliking sitting around home and working all day.

its a weird shift to make. i'm going to work some Saturdays, so the mindset will return to normal.

three) i'm trying to take days off work, which always feels like an awkward thing to do, so i can spend some weekends in Vancouver. i'm thinking english bay, the drive, some "celebration of lights" action, and... hm.... maybe some granville island fun. we'll see.

well, until then i'll be counting the days, so work goes fast. and after all this travelling i will contin ue to count the days, remembering all the fun. with those two key strategies to "make time fly" in place, i should be in school in no time.

four) i really need to stop spending so much time on ze computer. i really should be reading, writing, and conversing (all of which can be done from the safety of my own couch). and, i should really be spending my time online managing the cash i am earning, and figuring out how i can give some of it away to better causes... better, that is, than my cause of wanting candy. that is a lame cause.

i've been telling myself that for the past two months. one of these days, it might actually happen
.
five) it seems like no matter how many books i read / buy, there is always someone around to remind me which books i should be reading... apart from the ones i've already bought... grrrr.

why do i even buy books? for my current situation, i really don't need to. my current situation being that i live beside a college, with a library, filled with all the books that i should read (like Travelling Mercies, or some Wendell Barry).

and its funny, the job that i will be doing for the next two weeks at my job is washing bookshelves in the library. so, i will literally have to pick up every single book in the library, keeping a long subconscious list of good sounding book titles, to remind me of how little i read in ratio of how much i spend on books...ah!

i'm getting a lot of book titles read. thats one good thing. it is a very humbling (slash tedious) experience.

six) i changed my mind on this one. the CD that is defining my summer is "The Message: Psalms".

and i've had a lot of the songs from the "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" soundtrack in my head... like that one Five For Fighting song. so good. maybe its my subconscious telling me i should travel... and that i should wear pants.

stupid subconscious. its making my whole plan of "not having fun or enjoying life, but only focusing on work" plan difficult. i'm feeling a real conviction, as so many punk rock songs have told me about before, to live life.

(the movie that has define my summer so far- Stranger than Fiction).

ok. i'll leave you alone now. unless you want to come over, and share coffee with me. that would be nice. Ethical Addictions has a very nice Guatemalan. it kind of tastes like dirt.


-Adam.

for the writer / some place with strength

you're hands hold writing block in one,
and a sense of loss in the other.
in you're heart, the constant fear of failing,
not being good enough to love.

and you try.

you're feet walk empty roads, and ocean banks,
only one set of footprints.
in you're hands, the summer air
not enough to fill this place.

you try.

you're mornings waking up with music,
sip tea waiting for good weather.
you're hands hold old paper, quill pens in the other,
trying to find someplace to write.

------------

it feels a lot like
that kind of day.
give me a reason to run
somewhere with water.
or somewhere quiet, a monestary.
give me a reason.

i'm not much
of a poet today.
not much of a wordsmith
or writer of prose.
i'm not much built for
these sorts of days.
even so, i've done alright.

it feels much like,
those days of longing
to write beside a brook.
to be somewhere else,
with no real reason, i suppose.
some place with strength.
or somewhere with the sound of running water.

rainstorms

... and rain. some of the best memories of my life happen in the rain.

(i'm not so sure if anyone who reads this shares my love for large expanses of water, being the lack of comment. i must have a lot of readers from the prairies.

even then, Manitoba has a lot of lakes and rain. and where theres rain, theres sliding across wet grass and getting muddy, and feeling the pain of it all later. and commenting on friend's journals who have done the same.

or, at least there should be).

green tea,
tired eyes. frail dreams,
and grace to try.

its kind of nice when the sun separates from the blue,
and shadows on the trees across the way.
sleepless night,
followed by the thought,
the feeling that somethings wrong.

some old things on the floor, the shelf
new music. fresh life,
and cold in the window, again,
to remind me what life feels like.

cold tea,
tired eyes, frail heart,
(some life i don't want to face),
and grace to try.

-Adam.

running water

...I think that all my best memories have the sound of running water in the background.

...seems like I'm always on my own

this was a good weekend. oh man.

a friend of mine from school came into town, after spending three months in Eurpoe, and another month in Africa. If you can picture it, a bunch of us guys sat in the living room, telling long and deeply inspired stories, with numerous honey lagers.

we talked intently about shalom, and home, and loving God. I think we all share a common idea about how we find shalom by reaching out to the least. shalom exists when everyone has enough.

i woke up at about 10 the next day, to find that the rest of my party had crashed on couches. and we summoned the comfort of the couches, and pots deep, rich, Tanzanian coffee and chai tea with unrefined sugar, writing music and playing guitars (well, i can't play guitar, so i was playing with a round shaker thing). to me this felt like community as its finest, a revival of sorts.

later on that night an even older (as in, how long i've known her), and maybe even more dear, friend showed up, and more music ensued.

i'm starting to wish i had written all this down yesterday, when the thoughts were still writing themselves in my head. today i'm much more tired, and way more overly caffeinated and obnoxious. i still have a lot to learn about writing it seems. either write when the moment occurs, or write long after in a slowed down reflective mood, pulling together a warmth of insights as if they were kept safe in a precious room in the heart. I think its those kinds of reflective times that shed light on how profound a moment was.

i'm in neither of those places right now. if the "standing on a mountaintop" analogy works at all in this situation, i'm climbing down at the moment, the air still fresh in my lungs. and i'm already trying to plan the next great hike in my mind.

listening to : Augustana

(reprise)

i think i was wrong when i wrote "the poor playing home at night". its not the poor who are playing home... its us.

lets talk about it sometime.

frail hands and home, part 2

today at worked i listed toooo;

a) showbread, no sir nihilism is not practical

b) POD, testify

c) ben harper, diamonds on the inside

d) imogen heap, i megaphone

and e) brand new, the devil and god are raging inside me.

It was a pretty epic day, in terms of music. all day long i was in suspense, wondering if my ipod was going to die. it didn't

-----------------------------

today wasn't such a lousy day. for the past month i've been cleaning Montecito Place, the place where most of the guys on CBC campus call home, 8 months a year. my job is to wash the walls, and clean the carpets, in order to remove weirdy looking stains that hang around the walls and carpets, like a creeper at a club.

my roommate shared some insight about this job, which in the past all i have done is complain about. he said that people probably wouldn't notice that the job was done... but they would notice if the job wasn't done.

which was a comforting thought today. rather than think about dorm guys thanklessly scuffing up the nice clean walls and creating questionable stains, i thought more about guys sitting in the dorm rooms reflecting and wrestling with things raised in class...

... rather than being distracted by odd marks, saying "what the heck is that bug shaped thing on the carpet in the corner?!?... it kind of looks like the Eucharist."

so, my job is to get rid of distractions, negative things that interrupt the work of grace. this makes the job less annoying... even so, two months and counting and i'll be finished (insert positive face here).

------------------------------
you know, i realized something today, by one means or another (its a rather long story, filled with irony and conviction... which i can tell you some other time).

when i stay home and worry about my pains, and anxieties, i start to live a really selfish life. i start trying to live by my own strength, it crashes down, and i wrestle with God wondering why it crashed, blaming the circumstances.

then i get too stuck on my own shit, and forget that there is a world of other things to worry about, let alone my own small worries. why should i be so stuck on my worries when there are people who love me and care enough to help me carry them. and it goes both ways.

i'd hate to think that these worries are "all there is in life". and thats a danger that comes up when i live my life like this. i start to think that my immediate worries are all there is in life, then dwell on them completely, wrestling with sadness. but if i get out i realize that there is so much more "out there". i think that the kingdom of God concept isn't something for the "loners", not to say time spent alone, solitude, is not valuable. the concept of a kingdom is for the poor in spirit to come and gather, praying "God, have mercy on us... we're in this thing".

umm. yeah. i feel a little free-er tonight, as i said by one means or another. i hope it lasts more than a couple hours... well, maybe it will if i start acting practically, rather than just talking about it all the time. lets have coffee sometime soon, share some conversation. or maybe, over the phone, since half the population of people that read this, i'm sure, live hundreds of kilometers away.

oh well. much has yet to be said, but enough has for now. goodnight.

simple dreams and grace to try

i think sometime, in the next 5 years, i'm going to backpack across europe. i'll hit up my homeland (italy), check out Iona, and pass through Greece.

but before that i'm going to plan concerts, and try to pick up a minor in worship arts.

we'll see.

unbalance and the discontent thereof

i'm not articulate everyday.
i wish just one good day would last longer,
wish the ratio, the range, were not so unbalanced.
i wish one good morning would last all afternoon.

i was looking back at some old entries, where my writing seems to have a good flow, strong transition, and solid conclusion. it seems like these kinds of entries only show up once or twice a year, when i feel inspired and content with myself, for the short span of a couple hours that i happen to feel good.

i'll slow down, and explain what i'm talking about. since i left high school, i feel like i've only had a handful of "good days"- days when i feel right about myself, and where i feel good about what kind of life i'm in. on those days i feel confident, outgoing, outspoken... all that good stuff that is supposed to be social accaptability.

i can't control which days are good. i mean, i've tried to force good days, but they just turn out awkward. does anyone know what i mean?

i'm always wondering why i can't have more days of feeling good about myself, days where thoughts flow with ease, days where i'm not fighting waves of down-ness. i have to ask God everday, why can't i feel like i'm socially on top of things all the time? why the long periods of time when all i can think about is how off i feel? i hope i'm not alone in this.

houses, part two

made this day to
shelter me.
these days aren't much
like houses...
more like the poor playing home at night
like cardboard boxes and alleyways,
the downcast eyes and complications,
the dreams of dignity and grace.

made this rain to,
carry me.
these lives aren't warm
like tea...
more like the depressed playing security,
more unsure than i've ever known.
the lies that say it will heal with time,
memories yelling, I'm not worth love.

(pain takes more than time to heal,
it takes love and belonging as well).

i don't live like,
(shelter me)
i've got some life.
save some for me,
these houses
aren't much to cover
to keep me safe.

i originally i wrote this poem for facebook, of all things. then I thought of some new lines i could add to it at a conert, and wrote them back of a cheque. i originally thought about reading it in public at my homechurch in nanaimo, one of these days. but, i don't think its going to happen.

anyway, i hope this expanded version doesn't wreck it.

why the fear

i used to be sick of living with people.
well, i guess i still am.
but i can't live alone,
and i can't lie awake,
i guess i'm still the same.

the days used to have this mystery
and i could taste it in everything
the lightest rain,
the water glass.
God, why the constant losing faith?
why the fear of praying anymore?

i used to love writing, time with you,
but today, nothing is the same,
the constant lows,
i don't feel like it,
i guess i'm still the same.

prone to wander, Lord, I feel it

today I listened to "Songs For Christmas" by Sufjan Stevens, in its entirety, while washing walls and 30 year old carpets. It was a good place to be.

Then I felt horribly convicted about all the free music I've been adding to my computer lately. i wonder how an artist would feel about me.

or i wonder, even more, how I'm supposed to feel about myself... as an artist. hmm. i think too much.

Bradley Hathaway, by the way, is awesome in concert. I feel very inclined to learn some guitar, take writing seriously, and go on tour sometime.

sometime. we'll see. All i can really think about these days is how easily i could have a more enjoyable job. and then, i wander back to recognizing how much a blessing the job i have now is- being that it's right beside my house, and it pays well. gr. This is one of those things I've realized in the past year, one of the side effects of maturity-

we will always wrestle with our blessings. we're always wishing that there was more. and maybe thats a side effect of our broken nature- we are prone to feel incomplete.

alas. I feel too down to write a lot today. what a horrible way to feel.

concerts and convictions

John Mayer is pretty spectacular in concert. and, the Gorge has the best acoustics i have ever heard. i could hear every word Johnny Boy was singing, without distortion, in perfect clarity AND i could hear my own voice as i was making comments with my friends

get this- the very first thing John Mayer said was "So, who's sleeping in my tent tonight". Hmmm. Then he said "this venue has a great backdrop. Its like, when you look out at it theres no problems... no problems." I think the highlight of the night was the acoustic set, lit dimly with purple lights, and a dark blue, starred atmosphere.

Ben Folds was a very solid act, as well. It was, i will say with confidence, the best show i have seen in my short 5 years of seeing shows.

I can't wait for September, when i'll get to plan shows. i was considering putting together a small coffeehouse concert, with my housemates. that would be pretty cool. but its pretty much just a dream right now. i dunno. part of me just doesen't feel like putting the effort in. its probably because i was awake for 20 hours yesterday.

PS, i've promised myself that I will write some thoughts down next week, in the form of prose. Though, I've already broken the promise to never let good thoughts go to waste.

until then, waiting for... a lot of things.

roommates and pages

(sorry if my writing has been infrequent, anyone who cares)

i moved. i now live with this guy,



and this guy.




oh no, wait... this guy.




Its a pretty handsome house, I must say. The house that i wrote about for the past year is no more. except that the house i moved into is identical, in layout. alas.

oh yeah... I adjusted my hairstyle today. now I look like this guy-




more writings to come. as soon as i get my stuff together.

crows and life

I was at work today (actually, i'm still at work. i'm just taking my break at home), and i almost got attacked by a crow!! aargh!

I was walking towards Columbia Hall, aka the girl's dorms, and i heard a crow in small bush. I didn't realize it was a baby crow until i saw his mom (or dad) fly out of a tree, towards my face!

so then i ran to a different door, yelling in my cheesy high pitch voice, while the crow chased me.

that was about it. not much else happens at work, save for me almost getting eaten by birds, and kicking the steamcleaner when it stops working.

prose

i miss the long stretching summer days,
sitting by the water writing prose.

i miss writing prose.
i miss the thoughts that would stretch my arm span,
open like leaves, in the air floating about
from my hands across the sea.
i miss my couch and my coffee,
miss my kind relationships.
and i miss how it go away,
couldn't keep the days around, how they wouldn't stay
i can't much help when the seasons stay.
when they come, or when they leave.

i miss the thought of writing prose.