Weekly Creative Writing #10

  It is February 14th, and as I put on my earrings, I glance at the black and white photograph of my great-grandmother Mills and her sister - something mama gave me years ago.  Every daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter bears some kind of strong resemblance to the Henderson sisters. The rustic photo still smells of the archaic, apple blossom perfume which the twins must have dabbed on their wrists the night of the dance. Voncille and Vallorie Henderson. Twins in every way.  According family legend, both were born much too early and each fit into a shoe box cradle until they grew sturdier. 

You can see they stand next to each other, smiles almost identical, hair perfectly set, and only a slight height difference to tell one from the other.   

They had done everything momma told them to - put that lucky penny in their shoe, fixed their hair so it wasn’t “perfectly scandalous” but, “proper, like a true lady in want of an enjoyable evenin’.” They made sure their lace handkerchiefs were ironed with great grandma’s unforgiving starch, and, most importantly, their bodices had to be just tight enough to “show their young figure,” but loose enough to show they were still innocent girls, who “have a papa with the best marksmanship records in the proud state of Mississippi...”  

The local Baptist Church was holding a Valentine’s Day Dance that night.  The old white church stood a few miles down the road, with a curiously ancient looking steeple and old stained-glass windows lining the sides of the main chapel.  One twin smiles mischievously, determined that she will have a long awaited Valentine before the night is over, and the other beams with tenderness, at the thought of her sweetheart waiting for her.  Vallorie, the smaller one who is full of deviousness, fidgets with her hair, complaining to Momma that one curl was completely out of place, ruining “the effect.”  The taller one rolls her eyes and elbows her younger (by a couple of minutes) sister.  She is breathing deeply and trying not to catch the staring eye of her suspicious papa who is aware that she is far too composed for a Valentine’s evening as compared to previous years.  Instead, Voncille glances with anticipation towards the country road, occasionally looking towards Mrs. Henderson, who, even after thirty minutes, cannot seem to maneuver the chunky camera borrowed from a neighbor.  Cars honk as they pass by the camera spectacle in the front lawn of this pious farming family - of course, the passing young men do nothing for fear of fatherly defenses.  But, one waves politely and gives a gentlemanly smile towards the family as he passes.  She blushes and fidgets with the embroidery on her dress.  Mr. Henderson, however, rises and begins walking towards the mailbox to “watch the sunset” with a grizzly, protective expression on his face. Vallorie nudges her blushing sister and giggles ever so slightly.  “I think I’ve done fixed this crazy camera!” Mrs. Henderson exclaims... “Darlings you better smile quickly.  This thing isn’t well-mannered.” 

    An exclamation. A click. A moment in time is captured.  Something that will never be repeated.  Two souls, two sets of emotions, two dreams and hopes permanently seized in time and space.  The moment is over before it begins, and the girls are off to the dance.  Mamma and Papa are mumbling over the camera as the girls walk past the picket fence.  Vallorie runs ahead, but Voncille turns back to see her father leaning on the mailbox, watching them leave - a shotgun still in his hand...

(Vallorie Henderson and Voncille Henderson, mid-1930's)

For the wonderful counterpart of this weekly themed writing project, click here: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Weekly Creative Writing #9

I reflect things. I identify myself by identifying others.  When people look at me, all they see are themselves and the world around them.  And to be ever so particular, not just any “person” looks at me.  Only dancers glance into my thinness.  I remember the days when I was cast, delivered and placed on this enormous wall.  My smaller family members were kindly shipped off to some cozy home, but what did I get?  I didn’t get a small family that would eventually put me in a yard sale or forget to dust me.  I became a studio mirror.  I am the kind of 12' by 100' frame never meant for home life, but for a long career in the world of the Fine Arts.  And to be quite honest, I wouldn’t want it any other way.  

During the fifty years I have spent in this studio, a few educated, philosophical concepts have seeped into my glass.  For instance, the truth that you can learn more about something by observing it from a distance, than to immediately participate in or with it.  For many years, I was unhappy - doing nothing more than watching humans, specifically dancers, walking in and out of this studio.  Life seemed incredibly meaningless.   But, one day, the elderly teacher, Mr. Stanson, reproved his little toddler class.  They were not observing and appreciating the beauty of a professional dancer contained in a little electronic, image-projecting machine called the “TV.” I realized that maybe I was being rather like those little toddlers adorned in pink things.  So I began to try observing people - not to just sulk in the loneliness of the moving dark which surrounds me. 

You learn quite a bit about the human nature when you see humans, but they never see you. You learn quite a bit about girls, too, when you spectate fifty years of female tendencies. But, I never get to know the teachers very well, since they always stand with their back to me.  The teachers are all quite the same, although there have been some special ones, I’ll admit.  The motherly and fatherly teachers, specifically.  The ones who forget to look at the clock and end class remarkably late, or the ones who stay an hour later to counsel a ballerina who has been torn limb-by-limb by the cruel world out there. They are a kind souls... but the dancers are the most intriguing to me.

So many different kinds of dancers... yet, there is an identifiable consistency among them.  They all come here, to this studio, to make something beautiful, something special, something set apart from whatever struggles they find in that vast world I’ve never seen.  And they all struggle.  Every young girl that comes in worries about how she looks in my eyes - tugging at her leotard or gazing at me with a very disappointed expression.  Of course, I’ve learned not to take this personally, since all she is seeing is herself.  I merely reflect to her what is real, and, in my opinion, remarkably beautiful, but she bends the reality I give her into a fraud reality.  She’s quite unhappy, as are all of the girls like her.  When I see them so concerned about how appealing their reflections are, I wonder what a deceitful world it must be beyond this studio to make them think that beauty is other than what it is.  Fear and uncertainty.  I see those things a lot. 

Oh, and pride.  It is rather a good thing I have no arms.  Otherwise, I would be most willing to spank the little divas who think their presence heals the world of its wounds and mends the deepest cuts in the soul of man.  I regret to say that pride is more common in this studio than I wish.  I suppose when you have the ability to make something beautiful, like dance, you would feel entitled to something.  Perhaps all those smirks, haughty eyes, cutting glances or confident poses are just trying to cover something beneath.  The fact that no matter how they try, they will never actually be perfect at this.  And that scares them.  Rather like the moving darkness that I live in scares me, because I know no reality outside of it. 

But, most of all I see beauty.  And, oh, do I envy it!  They have the ability to be beautiful!  To make something!  To bring into being that which is capable of being other than it is!  And there are so many times I wish I was built to absorb this beauty, than just to reflect it.  So many times I wish I could dance with them.  But, I can’t.  And I just wish sometimes they would be more grateful for the beauty they have all to themselves.  My world is their eyes, their feet, classical music, and four walls.  If only I could step out of this moving darkness, greet a world that begs for beauty and dance.  

For the brilliant counterpart of this weekly themed concurrent writing project:  http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Weekly Creative Writing #8

        A cluster of associations, degrees of familiarization, and collections of differences lay scattered throughout this world, as either beacons of light or tombs of darkness.  Knots of illumined galaxies find comfort together, in a magnificently tenebrous universe.   Botanical creatures conglomerate towards their source of life, health, and beauty - towards the light, or towards the darkness.   

        How are we, as humans, any different?  We concentrate ourselves in various poleis - city-states, metropolises, capitals, kingdoms.   Whether by our will or through influence of it, we ask to share something in common with those radically different from us.   

        Architecture soars high into the lowest part of empyrean to stand as markings of our desire to be together.  Populations filter in and out of these steadfast buildings, as the durable material remains uniform as always. Its very presence creates a gravity which rivetingly draws the human nature. 

        But, without us, the stone is an empty ruin - a useless, lifeless, and colorless landscape of empty mortal ambition.  We bring the stone to life, but almost require its presence to activate participation and communion.  And thus, a city stands as the product of man’s natural desire to be loved - to feel, and be felt in return.    The buildings are built for the purpose of inhabitance.  Inhabitance occurs because of the buildings.  Both have served each other equally through centuries.   A puzzle is only completed when its individual, unique, and unrepeatable parts are placed together.  Those parts are made for no other purpose but to be together.  Thus, their purpose and the purpose of the puzzle is complete when they are together.  Perhaps humans are similar - we are quite unrepeatable, but amidst our lovely individuality, the only way part of our purpose is completed is to utilize our unrepeatable nature, to become something united and synonymous.  Quite like a city.  But, we must ask ourselves... Will we be the radiant galaxy in the tenebrous universe, or the bats who cluster toward the innermost darkness of the cave?  Which form of communion shall our cities take?

This city is what it is because our citizens are what they are - Plato

Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King - Psalm 48:2

For the amazing counterpart to this weekly writing project visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Weekly Creative Writing #7

I am inconsequential. Just standing here, in a crowd of a thousand or more people.  It is just me.  Me and this airport.  For the first time, it is only me and the world.  No other barriers or protections. They say this is one of the busiest airports in US.  I believe that, wholeheartedly.  The previous flight has left me thoroughly exhausted, but I still need to navigate my way through this maze of people, to the parking lot, which holds a car and father who will take me back to familiarity.  But, I don’t move.  I just stand here, watching these people pass.   Not only is this airport foreign to me, but so are the thousands of shapes that walk speedily past me and my small suitcase.  How odd it would seem if all of us here stopped and observed each other.  We might just learn something, I suppose.  Maybe about each other. About ourselves.  Maybe if the whole world did that for a few measly seconds, we might not have quite as much strife.  Or maybe it would destroy the world, to look beyond itself for a single moment in time.  Yet, I certainly know something I never knew before.  I am a small soul - one of millions that walk this lovely earth.  I have the rare privilege of seeing so many faces congregated together, so many destinies passing each second, so many stories in all their eyes.   It is so different from any other place - this airport, that is.  No city, town, or community can really compare.  And in many ways, I hope they never do compare to this.  It is so very saddening to see so much human potential fade with a pressed schedule, a late flight, or rushing home.  Such speed.  And, they miss so much.  I’m comforted, though, to see modest glimpses of joy found in this speedy, ambitious current of people.  Next to me stands an officer about to leave for duty again - he smiles happily at everyone passing, although many will never think twice about the sacrifices he is making for their own happiness.  The janitor or little gentleman does a kind deed for humanity, which for a while, stabilizes this chaos.  The world is so magnificently big and all its grandeur culminates in this place to travel, yet simultaneously, it is the smaller than anything I’ve experienced. 

For my absolutely brilliant friend's counterpart to this concurrent themed creative writing project, visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Exams Are Complete!

I am thoroughly glad to announce that exams are done in the Smith residence!   Καλή δουλειά to those who have finished, and καλή τύχη, να παραμείνουν ισχυρά! to those with an exam or two left. =)   Regular posts and Weekly Creative Writings will be up and running again soon!

Weekly Creative Writing #6

       
       The radiance of a fiery dawn felt its way through the clouds and it scattered itself across the dew-studded field, which was thoroughly unadulterated except for an old cypress tree.  Underneath that solitary tree was a modest grave - newly filled and wet from the last night’s rain.   The headstone was imprinted with the name of Levi Merrill, a soldier only twenty-eight years old, married, a father, and dead - in the company of a mourning cypress which had been planted there only ten years before, by two loving sets of hands.   Gentle sobs came from a young woman sitting at the foot of the fresh grave, holding her small child tightly to her bosom.   Her hair was dappled with water - she had lingered by this stone since the darkest hours of morning.  Tugging at her mother’s damp red dress, the baby asked to be put down.  Hesitantly, she placed her down, whispering a soft command mixed with the name of Iris.  She handed the baby some white rose buds she had found along the trail to this place of joyful memory, yet painful circumstance.   Black roses were scattered around the gravesite by mourners, so that the white, girlish rosebuds yielded a hopeful contrast to the deathly appearance of black.  According to childish whims, the baby crawled happily away towards a field full of dancing grasshoppers, but the mother stayed facing the grave.  Reaching into her small sack, she pulled out a dried red rose from last year’s deployment and placed it on the grave. 

        Black, white and red.  Black, the color of despair.  Red, the color of desire.  And white, the color of childlike innocence.  His life had ended.  And with that vanished the ghosts of two sweethearts dancing around innocently on the dew-studded grass and the echoes of their sweet, care-free laughing as if eternity was theirs, whispering across the green - all that must now end, and find its rightful place in her memory.  Yet, the life of the baby beside her was just beginning - rising brilliantly out of the dark of ages past, out of the black roses - a white, innocent light.  

       Light... A fiery dawn like no other had come upon her soul when they met - red like the color of desire, and crimson like the blood he spilt fighting.  And yet, as the light had set in the West with his cold body, it rose once more in the East with the light, and warmth of a baby girl - a world about to dawn, and the night that ends at last.

For the fantastic counterpart of this weekly themed writing project:  http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Never Stop Learning

Ah, I have neglected this site for a while.. needless to say, hopes are that such neglect will not occur again. =)

Anyhow. School begins again on Monday!  I’m sure we are all having a lovely time adapting to that cruel thought.  Although I adore the smell of books and the satisfaction of academic achievement, every corner of my mind and soul is currently resisting the reality of school beginning again.

All the same, the picture below still holds true.  Never stop learning.

Breaks are truly blessings.  They allow us to breathe and rest - enjoying life with one less responsibility.  However, we should not forsake the virtue of learning amidst our lax time.  

Why do you think so many people grow old, calloused or miserly upon leaving systems of education?   It is simply because they categorize the art of learning as a period of time in their life they must endure, or complete for a “higher” goal.  They turn their brains off - allowing life to become mere habit.  Slowly, they grow unaware, then their minds blurred, and lastly blind to the beauty of learning.  Our ability to learn, rationalize, and love with both our hearts and minds is what puts us apart from the rest of creation - it is God’s image reflecting within us.  Learning should not be likened to merely dry history books, SAT/ACT prep, or dreary Algebra lessons... all that passes in time and is, by nature, exhaustible.  

But, learning - true learning - is to see the world around us and never cease to be amazed. 

It is the ability to say little, but think deeply.  

It is to love wisely. 

It is the child who asks too many questions. 

It is the echoes in the hallways of churches, long after services are over as the priests and laymen discuss the heavenly realm. 

It is the mother teaching her daughter to bake.

It is the tears of a tried and broken heart. 

It is the madness for an answer, yet the acceptance of mystery. 

...and it is the adventure that will never be completed.

Never stop learning, my friends.  When you rest, don’t rest.  Even when your mouth is shut and your hands inactive - keep your mind and heart forever open and alert.  Never allow yourselves to fall unaware of what you are given.