Midnight Freewrite

What is it about life? In the best of times it is bliss, just seeing the little amazing, mind boggling, miracles that keep it full of spice, variety and wonder, yet at the same time saying one comforting word: home. Life is home. At other times it might as well be a horror film where every moment you wonder when the zombies are going to tear someone’s heart out, literally. I know I was taught symbolism doesn’t have meaning without the literal translation, but I’m not sure I can translate life without the symbolism first. Is it the language or the things themselves? Sometimes I feel I’m only a bunch of words in someone else’s mouth; I have no substance myself. What is reality? What’s real? That is the question we are really asking, Right? It’s not all about Truth, right? We are talking about what is going on in our living breathing lives here. Where’s the beauty, the joy, the peace, the vibrancy that keeps us existing, it only slightly seems to gleam from us, or from some idealized heroic figure, like Einstein, or Churchill, or Mother Theresa, who we keep in the public eye. The truth is they are like us too, people who fall and pick themselves up again, have worries and troubles and for a moment think they are the mud of the earth, fearing they will fail in their hopes and aspirations and lose all, even, or mostly, themselves. I can’t describe very well what it’s like to be there, except it sucks. Friends are the only thing that can pull you out of that again, or be there till you get through it. Churchill began to paint; Mother Theresa had prayer and an entire world of poor people. (I can’t think of what Einstein had right now) There is something redeeming about laboring for someone other than yourself (I think it always comes down to a someone, and I’ll tell you why another time), whether it’s a connection with the light of a landscape or the light in the faces of the poorest of the poor. I suppose the laboring part began at the beginning, (well, shortly after), but the redeeming part was always there part of the potentially that is a single human person, an amazing beautiful, joyful, peaceful, vibrant individual who shines light on every other. This is what I dream of, this is my idea of life, to be such a person and still fully me. I only know of one such person (or is it three?) who labored to this degree, and as far as I know that’s why the rest of us are here, real.

[1] quod fuit ab initio quod audivimus quod vidimus oculis nostris quod perspeximus et manus nostrae temptaverunt de verbo vitae [2] et vita manifestata est et vidimus et testamur et adnuntiamus vobis vitam aeternam quae erat apud Patrem et apparuit nobis [3] quod vidimus et audivimus adnuntiamus et vobis ut et vos societatem habeatis nobiscum et societas nostra sit cum Patre et cum Filio eius Iesu Christo [4] et haec scribimus vobis ut gaudium nostrum sit plenum [5] et haec est adnuntiatio quam audivimus ab eo et adnuntiamus vobis quoniam Deus lux est et tenebrae in eo non sunt ullae

John 1:1-5

Sunday Morning, woke up just in time to be late for 7:30 Mass, so I decided to go to one of the later times. The day was beautiful. The rays of light streaming through the yellowish array of the oaks, putting out their pollen, came down to the lemon-lime grass spotted with patches of Carolina Buttercups. I was sent to the store for bacon and cheese, and whisked away a half dozen gorgeous roses I spotted on sale for two dollars, with thoughts of arranging them for the Our Lady of Guadalupe statue at the front door.

After Mass I found two! Dresses which fit (with minor adjustments), and went to the knee. I am so happy I have a dress I can feel comfortable in and wear every day. So many dresses in my size are thin, short and/or look like they are for special occasions only.

At home I followed a recipe for lunch. I am not on a diet by any means, but this dish was satisfying and refreshing. Roasted carrots with parsley and feta cheese: Wash and peel carrots, slice into chunks at an angle. In a walled pan toss carrots with a healthy drizzle of olive oil and pinch of salt and pepper. Roast in the oven, at 350 degrees for 20 to 25 minutes. Remove from the oven and mix in chopped parsley (or cilantro), and feta cheese. Simple, fast, and delicious.

Hmm, Do I sound too positive today? People all around me were complaining, were anxious, and were not feeling well. How can you help people who have difficulty letting go of their troubles and need to just Trust in God and do what they need to do, or need comfort and help you can't necessarily give? Well first I guess, do what I can and then, Trust in God for the rest.

Literary ponderings

I suppose if I'm ever to make a habit of writing I will have to start out with more typing than editing. So, I'll just type away. . . .

I finally found a story I like in my creative writing book. Each chapter of instruction is followed by several stories as examples of that chapter's topic. They are all short stories. Most of the ones I have read so far (more than ten) have been bleak, depressing and self-centered. I suppose all this is part of the conflict which I am having difficulty understanding as the main movement of a story. I thought there were different types of conflict, but I'm not sure if I am seeing them all used among the stories I have read:

Man vs. Man (a physical struggle with men, animals or nature)
Man vs. Circumstances (the struggle against fate, providence, or destiny)
Man vs. Society (struggle against ideas, customs, and concepts)
Man vs. Self (struggle with the person's own views, state of life, condition of soul, physical limitations, etc.)

In these stories I see mostly this last, Man vs. Self, and even though this may be the conflict which no story is without, for all conflict is between man (a self) and an other, I cannot help but think there is a sort of hopelessness found along with it, at least in these stories. Each creative story:has a negative note ending. The sick foot soldier:dies, the teenage girl:kidnapped, the clown seeking lover:pitiful and rejected, the imaginative boy:a mentally mixed up adult, the unfortunate man:dead, philosophical, or intoxicated. For the students who read these stories, what they read is captivating and disappointing at the same time. Life is much like the story and they will be as sick of the latter as they are of the former.

I am not saying these stories should not have been written. They convey a truth of human emotion and experience. Struggle is part of that, but I say, We, the real human beings, are in need of more of what is just beyond that struggle, an insight, a change, a hope, a victory. I believe here on earth we may have victory, and yes, perhaps the only human victory we will have is the one which overcomes the Man vs. Self struggle, but, I believe this victory is possible and should be hoped for, fought for. And, I think more stories should reveal, point to, and highlight this possibility.

The story I enjoyed tonight is called: Mrs Dutta Writes A Letter, by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. The story is about a Indian widow who comes to live with her son in America, and her memories and thoughts as she attempts to write her best friend back in India. Why Do I like it? Maybe it's because I agree with the old lady's disapproval of the in a hurry, don't have time for you, mind your own business, society. Maybe it's because I can relate to her, embarrassed, desiring companionship, do-not-belong-in-this-world, feelings. I am not even sure if what I see in this story is really there. I only can say I see that among the difficulties she has adjusting her traditional ways to fit in with the acceptable American way, one traditional persisting thought prevails. She writes to her friend, "It has something to do about love, I still think that" Love, and thoughts and actions for others, for the sake of love, will help us be victorious even in our most degrading and lost of times.