The Power of Writing

 Is the pen mightier than the sword? Not today’s topic at all.

I recently saw a video listed on YouTube, titled something along the lines, in relation to, expounding on, under the general theme of, how writing is beneficial in organizing your thoughts or brain or something. I did not watch the video.

I started blogging in 2006. “No Sanction”; intended to be a type of sword, and that still is its intent. It was not my first blog, though I had previously thought it was.

I have a tendency to speak truth to power on all my blogs. I question if that is always a good thing.

Funny story, my first blog, centered on my most loved chosen profession of architecture and planning, “Global Imprint” was started months prior to the aforementioned in 2006 because of an opinion piece of mine printed in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel.

I was replying to an article on some planned development in Waukesha county. The paper liked my perspective, at least that was my initial impression, and asked permission to print my letter to the editor so to speak.

The problem was it read so terribly in print. The reply window through which I created my opinion piece on the newspaper’s website, was not big enough to show even a full sentence. Due to a format that hindered any potential to edit, the state of print in which my opinions appeared would have sent any of my past English teachers into a comma. I had no choice but to find a way to correct my errors, not to be misunderstood, my intelligence misrepresented, on a topic near and dear to my heart.

So I started a blog to put forward the edited revised version; to make a better impression.

And here we are now.

“A Dog’s Life”; was started in 2007 over my pursuit of fitness and the appeasement of a long denied desire for competition. If I knew then what I know now I may have given the blog a different title. But it fits I must confess.

I investigated my faith life through my personal writings on “From the Inside”.

“Poker Facades” (entailing another extension of my competitive nature) and this blog, my relationship with God our Heavenly Parent acting as a sounding board, spurred me on to contemplate and evaluate activities and story creations that have not been traditionally considered part of a life of faith.

After all that what has writing done for me?

On a generic level, especially when taking time to step back, to review and to edit, every single grammar lesson I had been given in my youth has come back to me in vivid detail. The horror. I recognize mistakes and problems with my writing more and more frequently because a person in the past, who believed in the proper use of language and its importance, did their best to bore those lessons into my brain. I somehow actually must have been listening.

So the practice of writing opens our mind’s memories to the expanse of time bookended by conception and future.

In the sense of wording, the practice of writing makes you a better communicator. It increases the comprehension with which you present your own thoughts; it enlightens and promotes creativity.

These are my own observations, arising from my personal experience with now fifteen plus years of writing, including works of fiction (see sidebar for links to purchase) and a touch of poetry.

Now we approach the essence of the journey writing takes one on; the path of self realization and the growth that comes with it.

Particularly in works of fiction, one cannot help but adventure through the ins and outs of one’s life, the foundations of one’s imagination and world view.

Which brings me to the point of this contemplation. More than organizing one’s thoughts, beliefs, desires, perspectives, world view, the origins of our imagination and creativity… writing, trying to get out what is inside, opens many doors; reveals many truths to those willing to look inside.

From a humanistic perspective, something I distain, some would call this therapy.

I call it digging into one’s own mind, freeing oneself from the shackles of the world around us; a world that condemns humankind to the imprisonment which ignorance enforces upon the lost.

Know thyself. The truth shall set you free.

God Bless.

Thank you for reading.

Happy 2021!

I encourage you to write in a fashion fitting to yourself. We spend a lot of time on our annual Christmas letter to family and friends for example.

The chronology of my blogs.

“Global Imprint”                        2006 June

“No Sanction”                           2006 September

“It’s a Dog’s Life”                      2007 May

“From the Inside”                      2008 March

“Poker Facades”                       2009 June

“Versus, Haikus and Memoirs”  2009 June

What’s with June?

Okay, I’m done now.

Thanks again. Really done.

I should try to spend a whole week on developing a post rather than just the better part of the waking day.

Yeah. Done.

Is 2020 Real

 Are we caught in a social science sci-fy spectacular where truth and free thought are condemned by a willfully complicit public?

The truth is stranger than fiction? Reality is in question.

Have you seen those new “911” shows? I haven’t.

But I have seen the advertisements.

Tsunamis, the HOLLYWOOD sign sliding into oblivion, a volcano in Texas; right under a public swimming area of course. And each week the show goes on.

The norm is to confine events that permanently alter the path of history and society to movies, or a series of movies, …because you have to create a whole new realty that does not jive with what currently exists.

Our 911 operators and first responders truly deserve our respect. Is that the gist of the show? Would not reality convey that sentiment more deeply?

Who writes this junk?

Reality is relative, just as is morality. No questions allowed.

If I had just awoke from a forty year sleep, yes I am twice as tired as old Rip, I would think I had awoken in an alternative universe.

No matter how familiar my family members would appear to me I would question if they were the same as those of old whom I had known, the world being so incongruent with the past.

I mean… Donald Trump is President.

Hoorah!

Many a film, from possibly the very beginning of film making, (from the start of the written story itself) depict a future parallel to where many of us believe this nation is heading, and henceforth the world.

Dystopia comes to mind.

But how did these dystopian worlds, societies of gloom and oppression, come about… the meat of the how is seldom deeply elaborated upon in the story. The process of getting to the supposed future neglected, almost as if the story teller themself could not possibly believe it could really happen.

We are in the midst of the how, and when it comes to story telling the ability to write appears to have led us all astray.

I am fascinated by how oral traditions, often belittled, only to be proven accurate when the archeology is done, have been conveyed accurately through history generation after generation.

The sources of the Bible began as oral traditions. People took  their traditions and history seriously, when conveying them to script; accuracy being of utmost importance.

Of course much of the New Testament began as the written word in the form of letters. Only a fraction of those associated letters were chosen to be anointed as God’s word, and then by a select few. So …how many Christian denominations exist today?

Thousands, and now the Chinese communist party is literally rewriting the Bible.

Every religion began with a man conveying a word through his very mouth to the very ears of others. And hence that man was judged by how he embodied the words he conveyed and the fruits of his beliefs.

And these beliefs formed the fabric of their associated societies.

To what standards do we hold our media personalities and politicians; our now elite conveyors of the word? (perhaps ‘controllers’ is more appropriate) Time and time again the supposed best and brightest in both professions are shown to be perverse and corrupt.

We have replaced the fabric of society with the king’s new clothes.

And whereas we have all sold our souls to the shiny screen, looking to it for the answers to all our questions. Longing to receive its' accolades. Betrayed by our own creation we are lost; truth denied.

Betrayed by one’s own creation, most often facilitated by the socially blind and the greedy, is a familiar storyline. The topic here is writing. Please do not misunderstand my contemplation over the ins and outs of storytelling as politicizing.

Thank you for reading.

Does the fabric of our society yet shield us, or have we discovered ourselves beaten and naked along the side of the road?

Happy Halloween

A full moon tonight. Not a common occurrence for this day of what is more common than we all comprehend; our parlance with the world unseen.

The Winter of our, or rather my… something or other.

Winter is coming and it is going to be deep. Is that the right word?

The point being, I was at the farmer’s market Thursday, standing, attending to my business, then in a start spent some moments when no one was around going over my notebooks. Seven years of writing, not a whole lot the last two years, took some review.

This is the Winter, where I either make something out of my writing, or take it in a totally different direction. I different direction does not necessarily mean a cryptic end to my writing, perhaps a change of direction.

Yes, it is November; that write a book in November thing that comes up every year. But I have one Farmer’s market still running until after Thanksgiving. Beside, much of my work is in a really raw state and needs sooo much refinement.

More of hazy apparitions than novels in some cases.

The wherewolfal for just a quick post this month. I would have four blog posts (on four blogs) this month if I had the time and means. Put all the posts together in my head but finding the proper atmosphere and taking time to write and revise just did not materialize. (no ghost writers here)

I need to let a draft lie dead at least five hours before going back over it. If I can make it a three day process I get the best results.

Rising from the grave so to speak.

When I first started blogging an entire post took not much more than an hour.

A major change I hope will make both my wife and I more productive. We are rising significantly earlier and getting to the sleep sooner.

No fear of the sun in this house.

Thank you for reading.

Ah-chew! : Another Short Story

Ah-Chew!

Randy's face awoke with wonder. 'What a sneeze.'

Ah-chew! Ah-chew!

Ah-chew! Ah-chew! Ah-chew! Ah-chew!

"Wow." Randy's brain churned, his eyes narrowed. 'Odd' impressed upon his mind.

Tick  tock, tick  tock, tick  tock, tick  tock, his grandmother's coo-coo clock pinged off his skull. Set high on the wall Randy was always forced to look up to read it. It was where his grandmother wanted it.

A soft bubbly hiss rose off the essential oil diffuser.

A mutt, a German Shepherd-Lab mix, sighed slow and deep projecting a restful spirit, disrupting Randy's concentration.

A car rumbled harsh along the street in front of his house. The wheels ground out a squeak as they rolled.

Outside the trees lining his street rocked, leaves thrashing loudly together as the wind waxed and waned under a carpet of gray autumn sky.

Randy shot to his feet from a worn winged arm chair his mind trapped in a desperate pursuit.

The noises of the old house, left to him by his late grandmother; the only house he had ever lived in, the noises of the house settling with the wind, creeped, creaking and rattling in around him.

A draft freshened the musty air, thickened by a vapor of pine and oregano essential oils.

Randy looked at the dog, snoring softly, resting upon a yellowed sheet draping the fitted cover over a couch older than himself.

The dog had looked happier and more upbeat lately, Randy running the diffuser for him now near daily. The pine and oregano espoused as an anti-bacterial as well as an anti-viral: a holistic treatment for the dog's Lyme disease, or so he was told.

Anti-viral pierced Randy's thoughts. "Of Course." Randy began to dictate to himself, "The virus. I must be infected. And the essential oils..."

Now he understood. Randy could sense the virus, its' futile struggle for survival, for dominion over his body, controlling his sneezes in an attempt to expel the antidote with its final death throws.

'Control of our bodies... Beyond our own thoughts...' It all began to fit together.

Another sneeze began to rise behind his nostrils. Randy focused his will and took in a deep breath through his nose. The urge to sneeze subsided. He had won.

"How does the vaccine fit in?" Randy pondered out loud as he stepped to the sash windows of floated glass and gazed over the empty streets of his neighborhood.

Drive thru trash lined the curbs. Cars, new and expensive to dilapidated along with an old pickup piled with scrap lined the far side of the street, every house like the other but each different, each run down in varying degrees.

Dusk began to dim Randy's view when suddenly it hit him. 'The virus needs a receiver. A signal translator, an operating system to facilitate commands. The vaccine?.. Yes, the vaccine, it must be the vaccine.'

"5G" Randy hissed. 'The signal carrier, or is it HD signals' Randy always wondered why they kept changing the HD frequencies, why he always had to rescan the television.

'Were they monitoring changes in the crime rate? Consumer confidence with each adjustment?

'But I am free now,' Randy cheered in his imagination, 'thanks to dog.'

"HD or 5G?" slithered through his teeth. A toss of the dice as far as Randy could tell. 'Best to cover both.'

A shadow shrouded Randy's face. A sternness darkened his gaze. "My guns need cleaning." a small firm voice exhaled. He mulled over his collection in his mind and took a mental inventory of his munitions.

"A man is only as good as his tools" Randy's father would always say.

"Keep your tools clean." he would scold.

Randy's father lived in his mother's, Randy's grandmother's basement with his tools. Then he was dead.

"Keep your tool clean." Randy's father would laugh.

"I like my tools." Randy chanted through a blank stare and vacant smile.

Randy had work to do.

Hey! Radio signals and the like as control agents have always been part of science fiction in both books and movies. And it goes way back to the day when science fiction was based on science fact, not fantasy as it is today.

Just some things to think about. This story just came to me when I had my own sneezing fit. We were running the diffuser because our dog has Lyme disease...

Never mind.

So what will become of Randy? Perhaps if he had bought one of those new fancy condos that are all the rage among those young successful people these days, had made some friends, things would have brightened for him.

Certainly finding the Mother of Peace, watching the Rally of Hope, will turn his life around.

"Hope springs eternal."

Don't be a Randy.

Thank you for reading.

Comments and feedback of any type is greatly appreciated.

Static

Does static add tension to a story? Static as noun that makes a message unintelligible. Things must be hidden in order to be revealed, and it is the reveal that adds the punch.

Or does the distraction, the veil of noise, just fill our lives to the point where we miss what is important?

Perhaps literature no longer exists for a lack of static; the crackle and hiss.

How does that man arrange his plate and consume his meal? Why do we add such detail, sometimes dwell on it? Even if just for awhile. Telling or misleading?

Lives are full of static. That which shrouds what is of greatest value, that pull us to a status quo that thrives on mediocrity. Our deepest desires and wounds, joys and pain are all muzzled, often by intention, willful or otherwise, by the static, the chatter, the day to day buzz.

Literature: does a man need to overcome unimaginable fantastical obstacles to make a story exciting, or does true literature arise from struggles more basic, more universal?

Super heroes. All the rage. I was never a big reader of comic books. Perhaps the depth of human experience, or lack thereof, found in a comic book is reflected in its brash flash and material lack of substance.

There are countless stories all around us hidden among the clutter. But one needs first to address one’s true heart and recognize what wounds. People need to decide to be happy and long to heal.

People create static, distracting voices, to manipulate, to deceive, to.keep the truth out of sight, out of the conversation.

Is organized religion mostly static? Are callings of faith lost under doctrines and tenants designed to confine?

The answers are never found in the static; the noise. To break through the static, or perhaps decipher is more accurate, is where victory is gained; where the answers are revealed.

To write without static is to miss the whole human experience. A man seeking virtue through the static is like a superhero confronting his villain.

Have I lost you yet?

Or am I simply writing about detail? There is detail which distracts from the virtuous, like that devil on one’s shoulder looking to dismay. Versus the detail which brings peace and happiness conveyed by a messenger from on high. Subtle messages hidden among the static.

Who will win? Where will the story go? Is not every life filled with such a dynamic. I know it is. If you think Shakespeare would doth protest at my confessions you haven’t read Shakespeare.

Science fiction is a popular genre for many young writer’s. Why not? You have a static environment; static in the sense of adjective, a lack of change.

Put people on a ship, an unchanging set. Of course, since they are on a ship they must be going someplace. Where? Why? How? (did that worm hole take them someplace unexpected, as it always does) For who do they fight?

Such a story is a static killer in the sense of both noun and adjective. Where is the noise!? How do you find the moral of the story without traversing the noise?

Oh, our crew is good, those are the bad guys.

Gotcha.

Just sharing my reflections.

I will be setting aside specific hours to write. Thanks to my helper at the farmer’s market.

Thank you for reading.

Go out and make some noise.