My Brain Right Now (or lack of one)

I have succeeded in keeping myself rather idle this week. Last week I finished East of Eden in a very aggressive approach. This week has been my brain's vacation, and it has felt great. I've only read about 40 pages of Tortilla Flat, the latest book on my sight, instead of the 100 a day I wanted to. But it's okay, I like this laziness. I feel like I'm recharging. That's probably why there's so much poetry lately on here, because I'm too lazy to write something so I find something that has been written and expresses what I feel. Hmm. I love vacation. =)

What Happens to a Dream Deferred? (or, From Langston Hughes' Inspired Pen)

A Dream Deferred

Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Or does it explode?

"We All Have the Same Holes in our Hearts. . ."

Listener
WOODEN HEART (sea of mist called skaidan)
We’re all born to broken people on their most honest day of living
and since that first breath... We’ll need grace that we’ve never given
I've been haunted by standard red devils and white ghosts
and it's not only when these eyes are closed
these lies are ropes that I tie down in my stomach,
but they hold this ship together tossed like leaves in this weather
and my dreams are sails that I point towards my true north,
stretched thin over my rib bones, and pray that it gets better
but it won’t won’t, at least I don’t believe it will...
so I've built a wooden heart inside this iron ship,
to sail these blood red seas and find your coasts.
don’t let these waves wash away your hopes
this war-ship is sinking, and I still believe in anchors
pulling fist fulls of rotten wood from my heart, I still believe in saviors
but I know that we are all made out of shipwrecks, every single board
washed and bound like crooked teeth on these rocky shores
so come on and let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember
I am the barely living son of a woman and man who barely made it
but we’re making it taped together on borrowed crutches and new starts
we all have the same holes in our hearts...
everything falls apart at the exact same time
that it all comes together perfectly for the next step
but my fear is this prison... that I keep locked below the main deck
I keep a key under my pillow, it’s quiet and it’s hidden
and my hopes are weapons that I’m still learning how to use right
but they’re heavy and I’m awkward...always running out of fight
so I’ve carved a wooden heart, put it in this sinking ship
hoping it would help me float for just a few more weeks
because I am made out of shipwrecks, every twisted beam
lost and found like you and me scattered out on the sea
so come on let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, just some tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember
My throat it still tastes like house fire and salt water
I wear this tide like loose skin, rock me to sea
if we hold on tight we’ll hold each other together
and not just be some fools rushing to die in our sleep
all these machines will rust I promise, but we'll still be electric
shocking each other back to life
Your hand in mine, my fingers in your veins connected
our bones grown together inside
our hands entwined, your fingers in my veins braided
our spines grown stronger in time
because are church is made out of shipwrecks
from every hull these rocks have claimed
but we pick ourselves up, and try and grow better through the change
so come on yall and let’s wash each other with tears of joy and tears of grief
and fold our lives like crashing waves and run up on this beach
come on and sew us together, were just tattered rags stained forever
we only have what we remember

Random Rant V

This Christmas was nice and simple with great food all over the place. As a Guatemalan, we open our presents at midnight on Christmas Eve instead of the American Christmas morning. This made it easier for my parents to keep Santa out of the equation; how could he leave presents at midnight when we were opening them? Consequently, I never believed in Santa. This was good because I never had a broken heart from a shattered fantasy.

Day after Christmas was my brother's birthday. We decided to revisit an ages old tradition and just go to the closest IMAX theatre and watch a documentary about elephants and orangutans and head off to eat. Does it sound dreary? Well, it wasn't. It's been ages since we were children and that was the tradition, but it felt good. I felt as if I was a child again. Man, I'm old. And my brother's older, too. I wonder how he feels.

New Year's coming. Then we will all be older. Oh man. =)

All the Difference

Robert Frost (1874–1963).  Mountain Interval.  1920.

1. The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;	5
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,	10
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.	15
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.	20

Hmmm.... (or, From the Pen of Rudyard Kipling, II)

He that hath a Gospel
To loose upon Mankind,
Though he serve it utterly--
Body, soul and mind--
Though he go to Calvary
Daily for its gain--
It is His Disciple
Shall make his labour vain.

He that hath a Gospel
For all earth to own--
Though he etch it on the steel,
Or carve it on the stone--
Not to be misdoubted
Through the after-days--
It is His Disciple
Shall read it many ways.

It is His Disciple
(Ere Those Bones are dust )
Who shall change the Charter,
Who shall split the Trust--
Amplify distinctions,
Rationalize the Claim;
Preaching that the Master
Would have done the same.

It is His Disciple
Who shall tell us how
Much the Master would have scrapped
Had he lived till now--
What he would have modified
Of what he said before.
It is His Disciple
Shall do this and more....

He that hath a Gospel
Whereby Heaven is won
( Carpenter, or cameleer,
Or Maya's dreaming son ),
Many swords shell pierce Him,
Mingling blood with gall;
But His Own Disciple
Shall wound Him worst of all!

From the Translators of the King James Bible

Part of their famous introduction, in the original. . .

"We are so farre off from condemning any of their labours that traueiled before vs in this kinde, either in this land or beyond the sea . . . . that we acknowledge them to have beene raised vp of God, . . . . and that they deserue to be had of vs and of posteritie in everlasting remembbrance. . . . Therefore blessed be they, and most honoured be their name, that breake the yce and give the onset vpon that which helpeth forward to the saving of soules. Now what can bee more auaileable thereto, that to deliuer Gods booke vnto Gods people in a tongue which they vnderstand? . . . .
"So, if we building vpon their foundation that went before vs, and being holpen by their labours doe endeavour to make that better which they left so good; no man, we are sure, hath cause to mislike vs; they we perswade ourselues, if they were aliue, would thanke vs.
"For is the kindgdome of God become words or syllables? Why should wee be in bondage to them if we may be free . . . .?"

I respect all those who labored to translate the Bible. Here's to them.