Planet

A Challenge?

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about "forever". The thought of dying and going to a magnificent place that never ever ends is mind blowing. However, it is so hard to even begin to conceive. No amount of straining will bring you any closing to grasping it. Much like writing, two great tumblers must align. First, you must randomly happen into the proper state of mind, and then the thought must cross your mind.

You can say the words "eternity" or "infinite" all day and it won't bring you any closer. So my challenge is, in the coming days, just try to keep forever in the back of your head through your day to day activities. At least a time or two you will draw it into your conscious mind and be completely in awe.

This is not to say that I or any other human being can comprehend eternal life, but we can begin to have an inkling of an idea, and even that is a very overwhelming experience. It makes me feel very small and extremely thankful.

Oh, I've been in a way

i've been in a way these past few days,
and since i've not much to say,
i'll continue on my way, in way, of continuing to sway,
for swaying is my way, today, delay, then sway,
though it's not much of a way, i'd say,
so avoid my swaying way,
but if you say, hey, to sway i may,
then sway, and sway away,
but when in the star's bay the moon does lay,
and your day is swayed away,
you will bay your foray of the sway,
and cease your swaying ways

Summer Feelings & Flora

"Are you like me? Is there just no such thing as too hot a day?"

"Oh yeah, there's just something about being miserably hot."

"I know. Like no matter how hot it gets, it just fills me up with energy."

"You know one of those days where you're sticky from the heat, you get in your car and it's even hotter so you turn on the a/c but for the first few minutes it's just blowing hot air. Like I said, there's just something about it."

"It gives me so much life."

"I swear, every year I look more forward to summer."

"Yeah, I mean just look. You have all these different shades of green already starting to come to life. And that purple stuff, I don't even know what that is."

"Me neither. I've always thought that it kind of looks like upside down Blue Bonnets."

"Yeah it really does. Look at that Post Oak. It's funny, a lot of people wonder why they're called Post Oaks, 'cause when you see them in someone's yard they just look like any other tree. But when you see a bunch of them together they grow straight up just like a post."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah. It's all about competing for sunlight. When there's just one alone in a yard it gets all the sun it wants. Its lower branches can grow out wider and get sun too. But in a forest, it has to grow tall, the lower branches get blocked out by other trees and die and fall off. That's why all the tallest trees tend to grow in the most dense forests."

"Oh, so that's why when you see a random tree off in a field all by itself, it always grows really round and wide."

"Exactly."

Your Father's the light within all that you see

He fills up the ponds as He empties the clouds
Holds without hands and He speaks without sounds
He provides us with the cow's waste and coconuts to eat
Giving one that nice salt taste, and the other its sweet

Sends the black carriage the day death shows its face
Thinning our numbers with kindness and grace
And just as a flower and its fragrance are one
So must each of you and your Father become

-mewithoutYou
King Beetle on a Coconut Estate

I work, I sit, I pass time shuffling around the pillar island, drinking half glasses of water, and thumbing through hair. While my hand wears a print on my head, between awake and asleep, my ears pique. I'm hearing a young girl stating complaints and searching for solace from a voice on the other end of the phone. I'm hearing more than that though.

I'm hearing an attempt to convince herself that the current situation isn't her fault. She lists grievances that have been leveled against her in exaggerated tones and facial expressions. A phantom in her own stories, you hear nothing of her part. What is in her mind are the extremely unecessary sacrifices she made in hopes of justifying her love. A troubled boy enters her life with similar interests and she jumps. Leaving friends and home, traveling with him to a town in which she doesn't want to live. The bigger the inconvenience, the more the pain, the stronger she is convinced of their relationship. Months pass with his constant refusal of seeking employment, which results in an failure to pay rent. Now, faced with tough decisions, she is at a loss. As a substitute for making a decision, she complains, denying her role in this state of affairs. That's where she is, roughly fifteen feet away, back-tracking through a year's complications.

I open my eyes and look over my left shoulder. At the back of the restaurant a man stressfully sifts through checks with forgotten birth dates and missing driver's license numbers. More years are piled on his face than he has lived. But I am not seeing just my boss.

I'm seeing the formerly successful member of the european lumber industry. A business his father built, and he inherited, honoring his family's name. And then the war. People fleeing homes, soldiers forcing them from their vehicles along crowded highways. I see a small family, walking back after its conclusion, in hopes of some remaining familiarity. They find their house burned to the ground. Two growing young boys and a father wondering how he will provide for them. His relatives having been doing well in the states, and it seems the most logical plan. After spending a few years in the city, although his restaurant is providing more than sufficiently, he cannot supress his country roots. They move to a small town and set up shop, but italian is not in high demand in such a rural and uncultured area. He makes enough, but with a growing family and slowing economy, only enough. Close margins force an added attention to detail, and the lines continue stacking upon his brow as he scans the checks.

I scratch my stubble and wonder if there are any tables at the moment. My question is answered by two hefty women, one chattering between gulps of her chicken alfredo and the other nodding as she inhales her lasagna. But I see beyond their lunch.

I see them sitting on benches outside of outlet malls, multiple bags from beall's and old navy stationed by their ankles. As they are heading back into town they see a billboard for a restaurant they have never heard of. Pulling in, they notice a woman descending the steps of the courthouse, and comment on her wardrobe or standing in the community. They briefly examine the menu, ordering the only items they know how to pronounce. The clinking of their furiously shoveling silverware conducts the gossip.

Time is inching by. I'm feeling more than just seconds slipping by. I'm realizing that it is from these seemingly endless variables that one single moment is comprised.

a delayed arrival

Hello friends, acquaintances, strangers. My name is Will.

Ever since the rough idea of what has now manifested itself as the tortoise was orignally conceived, I was very supportive. A group creative outlet has been bounced around and attempted for years now, but never successfully executed. Despite my initial enthusiam, I found that sparse internet availability and an ironic lack of "initiative" were obstacles too big to overcome. Enough motivation remained, however, to check in from time to time. What I discovered was that in my absence a small community was thriving. Now, after much delay I find myself standing on the welcome mat, trying not to scuff it with my muddy shoes.

Just like a father serving a prison sentence while his newborn child is quickly developing, I feel very deep regret for missing the tortoise's first steps. Upon my metaphorical release, and actual inception, I realize there is still time left to teach the tortoise how to ride a bike. In an effort to make up for all that I have missed, I am instituting two cardinal rules for myself.

First, I will struggle to be open, which is quite a lofty goal with my pinky backspacing more than my fingers are typing. This is a much more critical environment than I have been affiliated with in the past. That is not to say that the current condition is stifling creativity, but when you come from a background of constant back-pats, so much as a "your last post was okay" can seem harsh. Obviously, my former experiences were not very conducive to progress so I would like to go ahead and welcome any future criticism one might have.

Secondly, I will not deal in putting down another's work. The last thing I want is to advocate the same attitude that makes me cautious of posting. While I may have a few critiques, they will remain constructive and never be voiced in a joking manner. To be supportive is to aid in the growth of others and of myself, which is my intention.

Now that all the formalities are out of the way, all thats left is to sit back and muse over what my favorite things about the tortoise initiative will be. Maybe it will be perusing past posts, and giggling over all the grammatical errors we've made? Or being so filled with inspiration that I stay up until midnight just so the post will be on my day? Or the mixers that we'll attend with people from other blogs? Oh boy, oh boy.