Thirty//Thirty 2014 9/30: Voices

These characters won't stop talking to me:
gibberish whispers, when all I wish for
is a coherent sentence
traveling tides
from here to there
and back again.

Competition is stiff
like the risen undead
in Five Ancients
or wherever that thread sends us.

Not cutting it
when the Barbershop Quartet
can't sit still
long enough for a trim.
No help looking for other Supers
hidden behind their masks.

And how's about Traveling Tales?
Hitch a ride
at the end of my pen
walk all through this notebook
with footsteps I can't fill.

Bearded Ballads 10/30: Fishing

Our lives 

intersect like shipping lanes

as poems

trawl the open waters

for words.

Struggling with the

nets all night

but because

You say so,

we’ll let them down

again.

Beginning to break

all for your sake.

Go away from me,

for I am a sinful man.

Laying out the ground rules.

 

I had a show tonite with my new band project Whitman's Ghost.  We're a six-piece Americana/folk outfit that writes all original music.  We've only just begun (four months or so) and we still need to iron out some things, but we've got a really fun sound.  I'm also in this other band (first and foremost) called The Echo & Sway who just celebrated five glorious years.

I'm finding that a little something on the side isn't necessarily a bad thing.  What I am realizing, however, is that there always comes a little bad with the good.  As of tonite's post, I'm in the middle of a four-gig stretch (plus practices) in a little over a week.  Next Tuesday I've got a short fiction reading in Williamsport at Alabaster. 

Long story short: I'm finally coming to terms with a bit of depression after the fact.  Had a really great show tonite, really great, and stuck around to listen to American Opera whom we opened for.  Got home, though, after the second act and all my kibitzing, relaxing with the wife and watching an episode of our show.  Suddenly, I realize that as the credits roll how sad I am.

It's not that there's anything really wrong with me.  I could have talked longer, offered the musician a place to stay the nite, helped close up shop...trying to get a fix on the problem.  The problem is that I'm trying too hard to put my finger on a pulse that is only beating improperly because I'm making it so.  Please, let me explain.

I'm not doing my duty as a christian, as a man of God, as a matter of fact.  Did I pray before tonite's gig?  Nope.  Did I pray after tonite's gig?  Not then, either.  What about five years with The Echo & Sway?  Can say I can recall definitely one.  And therein lies the problem:  the fact that I'm the odd man out in these situations (a third of WG and half of TE&S) is really only the tip of the iceberg.  No wonder my Titanic self-esteem gets ripped apart once things have concluded.

Like I said, we did well tonite.  I can point out positives and negatives, but that's something I do on a minute-to-minute basis anyhow.  With last Saturday's performance, the show was EPIC.  For an anniversary show we were golden.  Seriously.  You can't make this stuff up.  (You could, but I can't embellish that much.)  The joking around, spot-on poems, even getting past the flubs--is was the cat's meow.

I'm no slouch behind the mic.  Could really use an instrument to round things out, but I have fun with what I'm doing, and it's hard to dance with a guitar.  I've been given a gift with voice, harmony, writing.  But it's not from me.  God has given me the fruit of the Spirit and I should be honing it through prayer, praising Him for the gifts He's given me, even using them to show others what Christ has done through little 'ol me.

Plan of Attack

Right before bed, I bring up some silly story idea about a faerie magician who has a monkey wrench blasting rod.  I've not gotten any further than an object and a short paragraph detailing just how said object was being contrived by one whom would be unable to wield such a weapon, due to his fae nature.  This had been discussed previously today with a colleague, I'd have a lot of  explaining to do: the logistics simply weren't there.

Enter wife.  After going on about this at length after prayers (and doing a horrible job of reiterating what my intentions were for the character and said weapon) she says to me:

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Of course." I say, knowing full well she's going to tell me not to listen to this writer-friend of mine, to just go with whatever idea it is that makes it my story.

"I think you should set yourself a deadline for the book."

I'm flabbergasted, to say the least.  That she didn't take the route she normally would, of course; what's worse, she offered something so preposterous that would lead to things like goals.  Time management.  Maybe even...sacrifice.

We bat back and forth the idea of having something ready to send out to a publisher (?!) by Christmas.  At the very least, I can have a nice gift to give this year.  She doesn't fail to point out that this was indeed the goal I've been setting for myself the last two years in a row.

Knowing I'm a bit of a numbers guy, she conned me into my birthday on 08/18.  I tried to jockey for more time.  08/18/18 would be so much better.  For hating math, I'm a little nutty when it comes to repetition [insert weird sounding math term here.]

"Absolutely not," she states, "that would be another five years."

I mumble something about Stan Lee not getting his start until 40, but to no avail.

I suggest we pray about it, but give the stipulation that she be the one to do the praying.  It was her idea.  I try for the impossible, knowing full well that she's not an "out loud" prayer.  We're quiet: I empty my head to listen to my wife, to God and His direction and will for my life.

But I really hear her.  I almost can't believe it because even though were close, she's got this cold--enough so that this is the first time in five months of marriage that I've seen her prop her head up to sleep--and the humidifier is turned up full blast.

It's faint, but boy-howdy she's whispering a prayer somewhere under her breath, I can hear it.

I'm filled with the Spirit for this woman, for this book, for my God.

08/18.

What's seven months, give or take a couple of days?