Sunday, July 23, 2017

Comparatively Speaking

Ever have that irrational envy when you look at someone else's life? Sort of seeing from the outside how amazing their life is and knowing you will never have that sort of life?

Maybe that isn't a bad thing, you know. Maybe you were never meant to have the wedding with the groomsmen in matching tuxes or the bridesmaids taking funny selfies on the beach. Maybe you were never meant to travel the world with your BFF with nothing but your paperwork and a backpack filled with random clothes and a cellphone. Maybe you were never meant to have roses on Saturday or surprise parties or friends that lived close by and would stop in just because they felt like it for no other reason then they want to hang out with you.

Maybe you were meant to live in the low income housing in the shitty neighborhood, just to put a smile on someone else's face? Maybe you were meant to have your car break down every time things are supposed to start looking better for you. Maybe you were meant to be living paycheck to paycheck working for the paycheck alone and having little to none left to show for it. Maybe you were meant to be in a giant, stupid, ugly, stinking hole.

If that's the case, and 'meant to be' has anything to do with a higher power, or God or Destiny as a creature or deity, then Seriously. Fuck Them.

And fuck those assholes that do everything to tie you down and keep you in that place. Because they've been eating their Wheaties, and shoveling shit onto your plate to keep you weak. Because this is life, ladies and gents, the wonderful kaleidescope of bullshit.

Congrats. We're here. Now why the FUCK are we bothering to stay?

Saturday, May 27, 2017

All of a Sudden

Sometimes a song will come on that has this sort of sadness to it and it doesn't matter how good of a day you are having, or how well your life is turning out, or how lucky you are, but suddenly your soul sort of breaks to pieces and the tears start flowing and everything is awful for no reason.

Or sometimes the morning sun will shine just so and glint just slightly and gleam in a specific way off of the grass and summon a sort of alien longing and yearning and grief from the pits of your stomach and it is crippling and unexpected, so much so that you have to stop what you are doing and just blink.

Or what about those times when a breeze ruffles your hair, bringing with it the scent of something so foreign, like a west wind stuck in a southern gust that brushes the inside of your lungs and makes you desperate to see the ocean, or the mountains, or the sky or the stars, and the impossibility of a voyage of that immediacy and spontaneity makes you rage against the unfairness of it all.

And then that rage sort of consumes you from the inside and everything after that one little breeze tickles the underside of that great beast, urging it higher and higher, near to the knot in your throat, pulsing behind closed eyelids, grinding against the back of your teeth like prisoners digging a tunnel beneath their cells towards freedom.

Don't let it out.
Don't.

Oru

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Monologue

One day I wrote a poem about my heart. I guess I was trying to understand how it worked, or something, so of course I do this stream-of-consciousness sort of freestyle thing that goes on for two pages. Was it good? Definitely not my best, but I guess it was all right. That isn't really the point though, is it? Was it honest, or did it help me to understand myself? Well, maybe in pieces. What I recall the most about the poem was that it was two pages long.

A two page long freestyle, stream of consciousness poem, in size 12 times new roman, single spaced. And at the end of it I still had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. It just went on and on, and I ended up jabbering in circles, as a result? No clarity, only more questions.

Now one day, in the much more recent past, I wrote another poem. It wasn't about my heart, it wasn't about feelings or right and wrong or moral centers or what people expect of me and you and everyone else. It wasn't about acceptance, and it wasn't about friendship. It had nothing to do with social stigma or politics or the education system. It was a three line haiku, written in a chilly, rainy night in a room open to the woods and flanked by wysteria. On blankets that smelled slightly musty, and the noise of a few dozen bees about five feet from the foot of my bed. There was the popping of bamboo stalks on a bonfire in the distance that resounded like gunshots, and the sky was completely inked black by clouds.

See the point is you don't have to puzzle over everything. Not everything can have related logic patterns and make perfect sense.

Life doesn't MAKE sense. Life is chaos. Love is chaos. And the heart? It beats, it pumps blood, it can be dissected and recreated into a jet engine turbine that doesn't have a pulse, or whatever. It can be measured and tested, it is a muscle in a body full of muscles and it is made of flesh and blood, and without one we die.

But it is also the part that links our souls to our bodies, you know. When something hurts, we feel it there, in our hearts. When something gives us immeasurable joy, that is where we feel it. It is the safety pin holding our souls to our bodies and an anchor to this reality, and the string to the end of our kites. And that safety pin bit, the clincher, the anchor, the little golden thread is an inexplicable, incomprehensible mystery.

Who the hell am I to try and explain or fathom or logic it?

And in that case, who the hell do you think YOU are to try, either?

Saturday, April 15, 2017

Love Poem


To Jes & Jayce

My heart Believes in many things
In first sight, distance growing & true.
It used to believe that one was for one
Until it began to think anew.

There are so many of us here,
dwelling, fighting, laughing on this rock,
And we are split, fractured and divided
as we look for a heart's building block.

Who is to say that you love only once?
That only one person will be all you own
That you can only live in monogamy
Or else be damned, outcast and thrown.

My heart Believes in many things -
That My Love is true and kind
But that another can make us whole?
"Yes," my heart made up it's mind.

So when we three walk hand in hand
With smiles and hearts linked like a fence
One man, two women, all friends in this void
If we're at peace? If just to try, it just makes sense.

Monday, April 10, 2017

How Many

When man was new
And soul-gifted, freely given
And Will and Spirit born,
How many were there to go around?
When the Earth was young,
And man first crawled about,
helpless infants fresh to life
They all had a soul each, I assume.
One for each matron, girl and crone
One for each brother and father
One for each lover and each villain.

But that was many years ago.
There is no newness about man,
And I wonder, at what point
Did whomever-up-there decide
"Well, I just ran out -
So let me break them into pieces,
That way everyone gets at least a little."
Because they evidently thought it fair.
But it isn't.

Since we all only have a piece
A sliver of something once whole,
We slave and search and wonder
for the rest of us, driven, determined
to find just one other piece of us.
So in fact, whomever-up-there gave us holes.
And if you happen to find one piece -
Or Good gracious lucky you, Two! -
Hang on to them good.
Because it only makes sense that you -
And them, and her and he and whomever you see -
Can fill each other's souls in
Like a puzzle. (Or another cliche.)
Add thus be a little more whole
Then you were before.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Free Fridays

Ahh, the first day off of the week!

So let me update you loyal readers with a few things!

Until March 31st, 2017, I will be participating in a Novel Contest through Inkitt.com. (Although it asks you to sign in, it is totally free, and is basically just so you can add things to your personal reading lists.)

Anywho, this writing contest isn't just voting and such. There are several factors that go into judging all the fine stories that were submitted. Firstly, there is the count of 'reads' a story gets. This is basically every click my story gets that would send a reader to it's first chapter, as well as all subsequent clicks to other, later chapters.

I am currently at 94 'reads'!

And though that makes me feel wonderful, there is another aspect in which stories are judged. This is the over-all 'hooked-ness' of the readers who click on my story. This is judged by time spent reading a chapter, how many chapters are read in succession, if a free copy is downloaded for reading, if it is added to a reading list, etc... Inkitt will collect all of this data and analyse it to see if it is publish-worthy.

Every contestant gets 100 free copies that are available to readers. I am down to 89.

The number of copies left also factors in to where on the listing your story places. For example - contest entries with 0 copies left are usually at the top of the list. Therefore, people are far more likely to click on them and read them, as opposed to mine, which has 89 copies left, and takes 5 clicks of the "show me more" button to find.

SO I took the liberty of posting the link to said tale in my right hand link column there --->

It is The Cellar City Chronicles.

It is also Rated R, mature audiences only, at least 18+ please.

PLease enjoy and support your local Oru!

It would seem she very much needs the support that is sometimes very fleeting in these parts. Of time. And The World.

Oru

Tuesday, February 7, 2017

The Wedding

Someday, there will be an autumn night with a crisp, clean sky, free of clouds. The stars will shine in their sockets like diamonds and a cool breeze will drift lazily across the rolling yard. Several red and brown leaves will scatter into the paths of patrons as they arrive, all dressed to match their masks.

The invitation will be written on them, arriving like a mystery to their doorsteps. A singular note attached for a response says, 'This mask is your invitation & entry, so please dress to match.' On which will be the date and time, in silver or gold ink, scrawled like magical items.

The affair would be in and outdoors; a hall to eat with a lawn beside, tables dotted among the stars with lanterns burning and a few fire pits glowing, like the campfires of a traveling gypsy band on the road. Indoors shall be lit by crystal and candle; colored glass and paper to match the wedding party.

Each one wears a mask. All of them do. Including the bride and groom, situated as royalty among their subjects. A gown from a dream, dotted with shimmer and cut well out of fashion with the day and age of things. Tapered sleeves - or not. Perhaps a half cloak lined with deep, deep crimson satin. Or not. Perhaps a flowing sash & twist down the side of burgundy and deep-sea blue. Maybe. But out of a dream. Happy and smiling, mysterious eyes, surrounded by friends.

And the groom is so charming, like a prince from this fairy tale. Elegant and poised, a delicate smirk perched on his lips at all the little joys that his bride receives on this night. He is groomed and well-pressed, and shines like satin himself, and only shines brighter when the bride is near.

Their first dance is like the perfection of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Like butterflies they swirl about the dance floor, enthralling their guests with a dream-like display, where their eyes are locked, and their bodies move without the second-guessing hesitation of beginners.

The banquet is home-made and with love, by friends who smile at the plentiful compliments. The speeches are tearful and humorous, with quick quips and sincerity enough to fill the room with light. The vows - oh the vows, all hand written. Gasping as if speaking their emotions for the first time, discovered anew in the beauty of their words. Hands held. A kiss, a kiss to soothe a tempest-sea, a kiss to level a mountain, a kiss that could shear a whole field of wheat, break down doors, shatter windows, stoke a dying ember into an inferno, a kiss is shared.

And celebration? Lasts until the wee hours of the morning, where the patrons finally seem to awaken, as if from a dream. Most seem to have lost their masks, and now look upon each other as if recognition had just touched them.

They smile.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Another Moment of Panic

SO sometimes I think I can submit things to publishers.

I'm sure I could. It would be easy. Now-a-days it is mostly just copy & paste, copy & paste, copy & paste, send, send, send. Put your name + 'Submission' in the subject line, write a goddamned query that outlines the story and the main character and lays out themes that are focal to the plot, and please also list any credentials that you may have that we say we aren't going to be influenced by when we read this.

I've got this problem. I Love-hate writing. (Love is capitalized, so that's the bigger half.) I want to be able to tell the damn story I want to tell. That's it. I want to be able to put it into words so that someone else can pick it up, read the damn thing, and then look at me with understanding and appreciation because they could see what I saw. I just want to share.

Writing is flipping hard. And Editing makes me want to die. Shoot me in the foot, club me over the head and toss me off the boat, die. What made perfect sense before becomes this shameful, slobbering mess of garbled nonsense drooling all over itself for attention. It's desperate, sloppy, half crippled, mangled by the elements, with blood trickling down its face from an open head wound that is causing severe memory loss and dementia.

Just being created in the first place seems to turn all of my stories into traumatized war zone survivors.

I end up looking at them and just freeze. Who ARE you!? Where the HELL is my story?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH THEM!? I can't work with you, I barely KNOW you! What are you wearing? Where are your shoes? Wasn't your hair brown? Weren't you supposed to be funny and wacky? Where is your continuity? What the hell drugs are you on right now!?

SO. I look at the publishers and I get all excited. Not a lot are accepting submissions, you know. Writing is a very popular past-time. Lots of people are doing it. Everyone. In the world. Is submitting. Except me.

But then I think of the puss-oozing, infected injury that I have saved on my hard drive, and I run. LIKE HELL. That isn't what I want people to see! I want them to see what I see! Or rather, What I SAW. The glory, the awe, the emotions, the viscera, the inspiration, the glowing summer sunrise in a far off land.

They aren't finished. They aren't good enough to send out. SO I struggle, painfully, slowly, achingly, desperately to edit, chip and polish them. And underneath the ripped clothing I had so carefully laid out for them when this all began is more ripped, soiled clothing. And beneath that are muddy hand wraps and leg warmers, unecessary and too loud, and beneath that are mismatched socks, drawstring underwear, and then dirt. Dirt, dirt, dirt. Layers of the stuff. I have to scrape at it.

But I can hear it whimper when I scrape too hard. Or maybe thats me. And when I try to throw out the torn shirt, I realize it's their favorite, lucky shirt. It could be the only reason they survived. And maybe the dirty hand wraps are gifts from a dear friend they lost in the war. The legwarmers were the last remaining posession of a little girl it had saved from falling debris, and thus were given as thanks for my tale's heroic act.

And the story looks at me with such great sad eyes. And I know it blames me for the blood trickling down its face, dripping off of its chin. And the worst part, the absolute worst is that it wants me to fix it. It is begging for me to fix it. It howls at the moon, praying to be fixed. And I know that in order to fix it, I first have to tear it to pieces. I have to take the lucky shirt and patch it. I have to find the other matching socks. I have to run a load of wash, and throw the story into a boiling kettle to clear the filth. Then I have to perform surgery without anesthetic. I have to go in with sharpened pen and snip and stuff and clip and poke. I have to bear through the weeping and the screaming and the protests.

And then I can only hope that it survives.

.... No pressure though, I'll submit. Eventually. Sure. No pressure.

No pressure.

Oru