A needless update

Merry Christmas everybody! This year:

• My wife carried, and continues to carry, a child since May. I'll leave it there.
• My grandmother on my dad's side passed away at a healthy age in April.
• My grandmother on my mom's side passed away at a healthy age in September. Today being Christmas Eve is not something I look forward to, especially considering it's being held at her house.
• I began work on the second book of my planned series the Five Prophecies, basically a story arc about life, death, God, redemption, hate, love, faith (and lack thereof), and of course - physical intimacy in written form without the use of erotic slang. Maybe next year, I'll conjure up the nerve to allow someone to read the first one.
• My dogs continue to be both ointment and salt to my wounds. Quigley and Daisy remain cute, but grow old. Quigley has arthritis, but still has the luster of puppyhood in his eyes. Daisy is cuter as a greying black pug than she was as a scrawny puppy with mange; her breath also smells like a thousand dumps. Espresso is loyal, silly, and cost us the bank when he swallowed a fucking 3-foot strip of blanket which had to be surgically removed.
• I started composting - a surprisingly therapeutic venture.
• I remain more depressed than ever about my job, since it represents less and less of what I enjoy, and more and more of what I sought to avoid as a youth.
• Some friends remain, others grow distant. Either way, there are still friends to be had and for that - I have no complaints.
• Our country becomes a place for the worse. The evidence to support this remains speculative since I have no opportunities to travel and my sole sources remain media outlets, but I feel it in my spirit. The latter, I trust more than all the aforementioned.
• I've grown as a writer, I feel. There are no secondary voices to back this up since no one reads my writing and I have not asked anyone to. The few submissions I've made do not get read, so I am left to my own judgment. Presently, I recognize that I've overdone it with adverb usage in my writing (meaning my editing has only begun).
• Claire Forlani and Rose Byrne are still the the most attractive actresses out there. Bear in mind, the job field of acting is one where they are expected to be attractive so I'll not pretend that was a shallow statement. Now remaining attractive after a long week of manual labor, no makeup, being pregnant, and raising children or dogs or putting up with shitty husbands like a certain lady out shopping right now - THAT is attractive.
• I curse way, way, way, way, way, way more than I should, verbally speaking (cursing in the context of writing a story is a different pig to wrestle for another day). Assuming I bear the responsibilities of raising a little girl soon, this needs to be nipped and soon.
• Faith remains a painful and sore subject. I love God and adore His word, making my present stagnation of prayer and Bible-reading discipline like a wounded love who always watches and waits for you in a mirror, even if there is no mirror.

That is not all, but that is all I'm writing. I hope to look back at this entry and take it as an example that light always looks better when there is shadow to underscore it. Happy new year, as well.

PS. Right now, I write this in my favorite coffee shop. My favorite barista is a sweet girl who has been dealing with some obvious bag of douchery guy for well over an hour who says everything but 'let's go bang!' I'm worried about having a little girl now (see bullet point 9).

Tree

Scabbed and ugly...coarse and raw
Unattractive...even in Fall
A tree so dead, so sore and mute
Diseased from top, thru trunk and root
Where foliage bursting rich with green
Once gave out shelter, shade, and peace...
Where odors rich with summer's sweet
Did rain on lovers down beneath...
Now stands the stalk of chaff, of death
A grave of winter's chilly breath...
Now reeks the stench of lifeless pulp
A finger of earth...free of pulse.

And here in winter...dead, not free
I am a man...I am the tree.

Nearer My God to Thee

This is achingly beautiful, in the sense that I still return to listen to it whenever I remember to do so.  I dare not say that music isn't the way it used to be, being the skeptical musician I am.  Of course music isn't the way it used to be.  Music evolves...always has and always will.  Good or bad is in the eye of the beholder.  Rather, I will say that the verses in this song, written by the hand that listened to their heart, in that RIGHT place AND time in 1841 so that this was penned...up to the point this choir brilliantly captured it...is completely unique. 

Thank you to Sarah Adams for this work.  Thank you also to all artists living or not, especially those afflicted of the heart for whatever reason, who take the moments to wrestle your words onto paper against your own grief for those of us in the future who cope.
 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwLl5nY5WPI

Happy Young Girl

Happy young girl
Boy at her side
Locked and geared up
For the entire ride.

They chanced on a hill
Then crashed one good time
But felt themselves move
So onward they drive.

"Oh no," she says.
"What, love?" he asks.
"The cliff is ahead!"
She shouts and he laughs.

"Cliffs or canyons...
Oceans or skies...
I'm getting us through this,"
He promises...but lies.

Ideas are ideal,
Reality is real
The boy moves ahead
With pitiful zeal.

Today now they sit
And drown in the tide
The happy young girl
And boy at her side.

Part 3 of a serene moment in a little coffee shop...

Number one, you were my son,
You would have been my pride.
But Labor Day
Took you away
You left me 'cause you died.

Number two, I was renewed
In faith you would arrive
But Christmastime
Would pass me by
Just like you did in life.

Number three, you were to be
My little girl named Mary
And once again
My eyes so dim...
They watched your soul be buried.

Number four, you were the door
Still cracked to light of hope.
Your name was Chad,
That's all you had
Cause you joined your siblings three.

I'm glad you cannot see your dad
And what he has become
He writes these things
Which no one reads
And cannot see the sun.

So dance or play wherever you are and thank the Creator for such...I'm having a bit of trouble as of late.

Poem today

These eyes...can't quite see
And yet, I'm not blind
I'm not suicidal...
But willing to die
I plead the Creator
But it's not a prayer
Surrounded by loved ones
And nobody's there
I've strained for the teardrops
Yet I do not cry
I'm filled with a heartbeat
But nothing's inside
I've tasted God's mercy
And can't feel the peace
I read back this poem
But don't find release.

Change

I think that beginning today, I'll just assume this blog as a depression-oriented site. Since it is not treated as a serious writing outlet, I will treat it the way I usually do writing in general...a channel. Enjoy at my expense.