Divine Revolutions

We say our founding fathers founded this country in the name of god

But we forget that by founding this country

We were challenging that same one

For up until then leadership was thought to be divine

Something that could only be taken by death

Given by royal blood, by a crown, by a birthright

But if God was wrong then

He can be wrong now

God is what you make him

And sometimes that’s shouting against what everyone else thinks to be right

To make a difference in the lives that need ten times more might

For a fight

To show the truth to those that have been blinded by hate and rage in their sight

And if that change comes, I can think of nothing more holy, nothing more divine, than god parting the ways to make your century better this time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Books Remember

History is not made quietly. It is made in shouts and blood.  In pushing ideas that some would rather, never be thought of. In the breaking of chains and old systems. And we forget that in the breakdown there are those on both sides.  And that those who were quiet will find their voice only when they see a world that they dislike. But the books remember, and we do not forget how they wrecked their own time. And we’ll not let them make a mockery of our own modern minds by trying to stop the tides.

Journeys

I’ve been posting things on the internet since I was nine. I have everything on here from very bad Harry Potter fanfiction, to junior high journals ranting about obnoxious teenage boys, and bad poetry. Now okay poetry. This was back before anyone had thought of the word “platform” and what it should look like. The internet was in its beginnings, and we didn’t fully understand its power. All I knew was that online, during the early 90’s, I wasn’t the only one obsessing over a book about a boy wizard. Online, there were people making up whole stories and drawings about him. My internet journey started because of Harry Potter really. Trying to find others like me instead of the kids at school who didn’t fully understand why I was wearing a bright, orange t-shirt in 2000 that said Nimbus 2001 on it. I sifted through old writings today. Writings from back when I was 21 and didn’t know what to do with this “blog thing”. At first, I thought, “I’ll delete them. They can’t be any good.”

But then I thought why? And I even transferred some of them here, onto this blog. The “proper” one. They’re all part of my journey. And if the Bronte sisters haven’t risen from the dead from having their juvenile fiction published, then I can leave my bad stuff out there. And aren’t we our own worst critics?

It’s all part of my journey, anyway. Until I get “there”. Whatever “there” means.

I’m a product of the digital age, and I’ve got a digital story, and I’m alright with people seeing that. It’s all part of my process as a writer down to the bad Smallville fanfiction I was writing at thirteen. If I hadn’t written that, I never would have written a full length novel or gotten to where I could write short stories or learned about voice and character.

I’ve also been in a unique position of knowing what I wanted to do since I was nine years-old. That’s a lot of missteps, a lot of trial and error. And growth. Some peoples journeys involve walking sticks. Mine just happen to involve bad teenage websites.

Old Friends

Another body, the old man thought wearily with a sigh as he stopped his digging for a moment and rested against his shovel. After all of these years he should have been used to it. Death was something that couldn’t be stopped. Though death was what kept him employed that didn’t mean that he liked it any more than the next person.
Off in the distance, an owl hooted as it woke up with the moon that was rising. He could hear the crickets chirping and the sound of the cars from the high way as they made their way to their destinations. He sighed and forced himself to keep on digging.
For a while the only sound he heard was of his shovel picking up the dirt and dropping it six feet down. Then he heard the snapping of a twig, causing him to jump. Shock shot through him and he clutched at his heart in fear. “Jesus!” the old man exclaimed, dropping his shovel to the ground.
“Not quite,” said an amused voice.
The man looked up and found himself staring at a very good looking gentleman in his early twenties. He was dressed impeccably in a fine suit and reminded the man a bit of that film star he used to idolize when he was younger, Carey Grant. The man noticed then that the air had stilled and the grasshoppers were quieting. He stared at the younger gentleman as though he were meeting a challenge.
Neither of the two would speak first. So they just stood there, sizing the other up. “So this is to be it then?” the old man asked.
“Indeed,” the younger replied.
“Can I at least finish my job?”
“Your job is finished.”
The old man looked at the grave and he found himself staring at the body that had formally been his. Then he looked to his partner. “Would you mind?”
“Ah, yes,” said the young man. He bent down and grabbed the shovel that was on the floor then dropped it gently into the grave. Then he looked towards his companion. “Are you ready?”
The old man chuckled. “I’ve been ready for years, you could say.”
His partner laughed as well, dryly, and then together they started walking out of the cemetery

Place of Death

The obituary says ‘place of death, Hollywood, California’. It’s such a strange thing to see. Hollywood isn’t the place of death. It’s the city of dreams. People come with nothing but seven dollars or sometimes less than in their wallet and they leave with more money than god. They start off as that girl taking orders or that guy behind the counter and they leave as that face that shines brightly on the silver screen, like a beacon of what things can be. They start off as nothing and end up shooting stars that give people hope and make them want to lose themselves in worlds that don’t exist. It’s the place where James Dean still smokes cigarettes on the sidewalk as he waits to cross and Marilyn Monroe still walk the streets, blowing kisses at passersby. It is the place of dreams, hopes, fears and false immortality but it shouldn’t be the place of death.

A Sort of Magic

There once was a boy who had a very gruff father who didn’t believe in nonsense, especially magic. One day when the boy had the nerve to ask why, his father replied sternly, “Look around….there is war, death, famine…the worlds going to the dogs. How can you believe in magic in a place like this?”
The boy thought over his father’s question and he replied, “There is magic in the world. It’s just not what you think. It isn’t so obvious as a dragon or an enchanted mirror. It’s something not everyone has, but those that have it make the world better.”
“What do you mean?” the father asked.
“I mean creativity,” the boy responded, “because you see, story-tellers are in their own way witches and wizards, casting spells over readers or audiences with the right set of words or images. Artists are hypnotists, making things that are too beautiful to look away from. Musicians are sirens, creating music people can’t stop listening to. Actors are shape-shifters changing into people that can either be alive or dead, real or make believe. Creativity is magic father, and as long as we have it the world will be okay.”
His father shook his head and muttered something about “day dreamer” before going off to work and the boy just smiled because he knew he was right. Then he grabbed some pencils and paper from a drawer and went to go make his own sort of magic.

Happiness

Two men stood before me. One was dressed impeccably, in a suit that must have cost a fortune and he was smoking a cigar. The other man was dressed in well worn, humble looking clothes. He had lines on his face, which was tanned from spending so many hours in the sun.
“What do you do?” I asked them both.
The man in the suit smiled. “I work for a firm. I make more money than you could ever imagine. Some of that money I keep and some of it I donate to charity. When I get home I eat dinner by myself, read a book, and then go to sleep.”
The other man, the one that was poorly dressed, said, “I’m a farmer. I get up early and I work all day in the fields. By the time I’m finished I’m exhausted but at the end of the day, I sit down to dinner with my wife and family.”
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“Yes,” they both said.