Random Poetry Drizzle: An Ode To Coffee

Sing, for the day has begun!
No, no no no I will not escape
This glorious trap of pillows and blankets.
I will be restrained
Til buzzing continues until I find release
And shout, angry at my freedom.

Sing for the day is dismal,
Gray and foreboding with promise.
Oh, joyous foreboding, go away
Until I hear a drip.
A drip.  A slosh, a slip.  That is all
I ask of this day.

Sing the song, embrace the ritual. The ritual of
cleansing.
Clean away the sacrifices of yesterday.
Today's ashen bones are ground, their scent already
Excites the mind with the promise of new life.

And O!  The liquid.  That ruddy muddy liquid
Pours forth from the gods.  In supplication
I hold my hand forward to drink
From the cup of Today, the cup of Awakening.

Sing the Song of Glory:
Ow!  Hot.  Black as tar.  More please.

- Jack Holder

Random Poetry Drizzle: You Will Fail

I will never be Good Enough.

The cold grips at my heart, my stomach,
Steals my breath as it steels my fear
Into Ice, frozen in perpetuum.
I am locked away, and alone.

But warmth comes not from within
Alone, and the hearths without can heat
The heart once lost to frost.

The heart drinks in this ice melt,
And grows strong.  It is toughened by the long winter,
No longer lost on paths of ice and snow.
It has been that way before.

Tomorrow I will learn from today's chill,
Not content to simply stave off cold bones
And Icy veins.
There is more to life than Shivering.

I will Never be Good Enough.  But I will Change Minds.

- Jack Holder

Random Poetry Drizzle: Night Mourning

In night there is Mourning.
Thrice it spins through the air
And settles in joy here.
Let me describe it.

Loss of profound nothing,
Feel the weight of obscure
Pain, what we can't describe
Since it never occurred.

As the lights flicker on
The mind turns inside out
Discovering a lack
Of new paths to turn.

Sleep comes. Sleep goes. Sleep hides.
Where do we go from here?
Right where we were going.
Tomorrow's better.

-Jack Holder

December 2014

Would You Frisk Me?

To whom it may concern,
I don't know what happens in Ferguson, Missouri.  I don't know what's happening in Los Angeles, or El Paso, or Miami, or New York City, or anywhere else that this may happen.  I just want everyone to look at this picture.
It's me.  I'm a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant who can trace his lineage back to the Mayflower.  If you would stop me on the block for walking, then Darren Wilson was right and proper.  But if you would never think I had committed a crime simply because I was walking, then Michael Brown should be alive now.  He was profiled for being black, and young, and obviously guilty of something.
Please don't let this double-standard remain.  Don't let me walk away and he remain to be frisked.  Please don't let this stand.

Breaking the Creative Wall

"Writer's block: hitting your head against a brick wall and expecting silver to gush from the wound."

"Creativity: Spinning rainbows out of ashes."

"Inspiration: The divine reaching down and smacking you with a gold platter."

All written by me.  And all in moments of peak frustration.

Writer's block is something that writers talk about hitting for a certain period of time.  Going months, possibly even years without writing a single word.  It's a phenomena that we don't understand, being unable to strike a key or splash ink on a page without cringing at the very sight of it.  Anyone who declares themselves of the writing persuasion has felt this curse.  I think it hits me about once a week, if not daily.

Frustrations mount in this art.  You look at these words, these meaningless words, and think that your work is nothing more than refuse.  Where is the spark, that inspiration that drove you to the page?  Where are the words that just sing through your mind?  Shakespeare did it, Dickens did it, Fitzgerald did it, and with words that I'm supposedly using.  So why does everything fall flat?

Here's a collective message for all writers out there: your best work will look like your childhood scribbles.  It will never get better, and generally get so much worse as time passes.  Your familiarity, your knowledge of the entirety of the work will make every word seem like it was plucked from the bottom of the creative barrel.  Words that may be splendorous to the populace, will seem passing to your eyes.  And the frustrations will mount.

We do run out of creative thoughts.  I'm not going to lie and say the well within ourselves will never run dry. It shall, and we shall continue writing, and it will be terrible.  But too often we do not draw deep enough, do not go far enough, because for the most part our writings will go unread, our thoughts unspoken, and our dreams unfulfilled.

For any reading this not writing, or performing, or creating, please understand that what you see of our creative selves is the barest sliver of our being.  We try desperately to hide our thoughts as we fling them through the air, hoping that only the best will sail away.  Most writers live in the constant fear that the entirety of their thoughts will be published, will be read by the world.  And that is a darkness, real or imagined, that we perceive in ourselves.  That is why many have writers' block.

There's a problem, and it has been identified.  Great, what's the solution?  What is the curative for this self-inflicted wound?  Simple: being.  Talking.  Doing.  In a word: verbs.

Verbs are the lifeblood of creativity.  Actions, life, the lifeblood of creativity are all described in verbs.  Going out with friends.  Getting so drunk you fall over.  Walking reading playing talking praying laughing weeping living.  These verbs fill us with experiences, with emotions that we can translate into thought and beauty.  Just go out there and live, in whatever way your please.

My goal each day is simple.  Write five hundred words a day, of something.  Today, I've succeeded.  Tomorrow, maybe not.  But every day needs verbs that do not start with sleep, or eat, or watch.  Writing is a by-product of life, and enhances its cause to the fullest effect.  Writing is life's grace.

Hmmm...I think this might actually have some merit.

Stay strange, folks

How Far Must We Go For Revisions?

I've resisted talking about the shutdown for as long as I possibly can.  I've tried to look at it from every angle...any angle really, and all I've been able to do is come up with my own perspective.  And I've come to the conclusion that we all need to focus on the concept of revision.

My passion is writing.  I've written on most every topic, in every genre I've ever thought of.  Essays, plays, novels, comic books, TV scripts, blog posts...you name it, I've tried it.  Some have worked wonderfully, others are less appealing to the eye than a New Jersey beach at low tide.  But sooner or later, the first draft is done.  And it's mine, and I accomplished something.  The first step.  And now comes the dreaded step two: revision.

Revision is the hardest part for me.  Looking at my creation and saying to myself "what can be better?"  Once I start looking at my work (generally two weeks later), one of two reactions come to me right off the bat.  Number one is to keep everything generally the way it is.  Why should I change anything?  I worked hard at this, poured everything into it, it's my beautiful baby of joy, despair and wonderment, dammit!  And two, I start looking for the garbage disposal or a match.  Something that will at least sound or feel good as I tear this thing to pieces because, dear god, what was I thinking?  Needless to say, both of these reactions are wrong on many levels.

We all go through first drafts in life, and only a small portion of them have to do with writing.  Practicing a sport or an instrument is a form of revision.  Doing your daily job is revision.  And government, of course it is a revision.  If you've been paying attention at all the past couple of weeks, you'll have seen we just went through a government shutdown, costing the government over 24 billion dollars, i.e. more than me, my friends, and most of the country are ever going to see in our combined lifetimes.  Yay America...

What does the government shutdown have to do with me writing something that most likely won't be seen by anyone other than me and my mother's cats?  It is this idea that revising ourselves, and our government, usually falls into the same mistakes that I make in revising my own writings.  America usually falls into the two categories of keeping what is comfortable, or wiping everything away like a whiteboard.  And neither response seems to be working.

Option one is bad for numerous reasons.  We have senators and congressmen (and congresswomen) who have stayed in office since the dawn of time.  They know the role of politics, they have all their fund-raising in place, they know how everything goes.  And for some reason they seem to be doing nothing.  Why should they?  Doing something could get you noticed, and possibly replaced.  Keeping people around because they're familiar dooms us all to keeping things stagnant, unchanging, stale.

Option two, which has been happening with far more frequency, is doubly alarming.  Wipe away everything, replace everyone, get some new blood in there!  Yes, get a fresh look, and suddenly we have junior congressman with no idea how to get things done other than scream at a camera about the injustice of the world.  New blood, and oftentimes well-meaning new blood, that is completely ignorant to the world of politics, will blindly lead us down the path of destruction.

Honestly, which is the better of these two paths of revision?  Total destruction, or blind acceptance of stagnation?  Of course the answer is neither.  We need men and women of intelligence, just as I need an intelligent process of addition and removal of these words on the page.  Careful examination of each and every individual in congress helps us realize whether these men and women are deserving of these roles that we value so highly.  Look at your congressman's record, all you have to do is google it and his or her votes will become open to you.  Have they voted where you stand on abortion, on gun rights, on immigration, on education?  Did they keep the promises they made during the campaign?  Are they more than just a voice in the darkness, demanding followers?  If you come to the conclusion they are, by all means vote for them.  Please vote for them, and ensure that such a presence remains in government.  But if not, then you must look elsewhere, to other options.  It is all too easy to say nothing changes in government.  Change it, revise it, with intelligence.

Stay Strange, Folks

Gratitude in Faith

It's been a while since I've written anything concerning faith.  I'm at a confusing crossroads in my life right now, and like most times of difficulty, religion is finding itself shuffled to the back of my mind.  But, as is true with almost all problems, an hour or two in a quiet diner with coffee and a good book can bring some true illumination.
I've struggled most often with the paradox of my particular branch of Christianity.  For those who don't know, I consider myself a Protestant, and in a Calvinist branch of thinking known as Presbyterian.  When it comes to actual knowledge of my faith, I've taken enough classes on theology to know that I know almost nothing about theology, but I can understand a few terms and what they mean.  Chief among them is a basic tenant of the Prostestant life: Sola Gratia, "By Grace Alone".  The idea that God is so perfect, that Christ is so wondrous, that everything we say, or do, or even think, is the refuse of a kegger left in the bathroom stall for three weeks.  Not pretty.
For this way of life, there is no getting into Heaven.  We're not buying a stairway, or climbing a ladder.  We're the line of Chinese toys, hoping that our supervisor Jesus is saying Heaven instead of the garbage bin that is Hell.  Either way, there's nothing we can do to help.
Weird as it may seem, I do believe in this.  I would like to think I have some input in the resting place of my eternal soul, truly.  But I feel like I have the same power in determining my salvation, as I do when I place my hands in the ocean and will the tide to turn.  Simply impossible.  My soul is in Christ's hands.
Great.  Crisis averted, salvation is God's alone.  Now what do I do with the rest of my life?  I can't help myself get into Heaven, and yet I still feel it's wrong to live my life like a live-action version of Grand Theft Auto.  I don't know what God wants of me, or even what I want of me.
This is the closest I've come to an answer: there is a certain duality in our natures.  I hope, I pray, that one day - many, many years from now - I'll be standing at the pearly gates.  AC/DC will be blasting, while Angus Young is laughing his head off at how wrong they were about where they were heading, and the dress code is not just white robes.  I hope it will be even more awesome than that.  Regardless, until (or if) that day comes, I am a creature of God.  I am living in this place, this wondrous place, by His will and compassion.  And I want to be good, do good, in thanks.  Not for salvation, or even damnation.  I want to be thankful for life.
I believe life is a gift in itself, something that no being can truly express.  Ladies and gentlemen, we've all had this same dream as children.  Our parents drove us down south to Disneyland.  There are plenty of people so it doesn't feel like a ghost town, but there are no lines.  Perfect weather, cool breeze, Goofy looks like he actually might be in a good mood, and Space Mountain is ours for the taking.  Our parents turn to us, hand us a thousand dollars and say those magical words: "Have fun".
Here's the kicker: God has done this for us, with the entire planet.  We are free to do as we please, build as we please, in something of His creation.  We've conquered and shaped this world as we have seen fit.  And never a word has been said against us.  How sweet life is.
Live in this life, love this life.  We have a world that continues to grow, amaze, change before our lives, and we have decades with which to enjoy it.  This can be seen as the greatest treasure we shall ever receive.  I hope to live it to the fullest.
Before you all walk away from the blog of the Happy-go-lucky-Christian Boy, I'm not entirely naive.  I'll live, and I'll laugh.  I'll also scream, cry, hate, moan, and wish with all my heart for an anvil to just drop on somebody's head (or Washington's collectively, but that's for a later post).  I am human, after all.  I'm going to screw this up.
But what I'm beginning to understand is that life on this world is a gift with no strings attached, and we should treat it as such.  Use it constantly, abuse it a little.  Love it, hate it, do everything to it.  Make sure it ends up on Facebook more often than not.  But at then end of our collective days, when you have to put away the gift of this world for good, try and leave it in a better shape than you received.  That's gratitude.

Stay Strange, Folks.