Tagged: poetry

Through His Eyes

A bitter poem as the worst holiday ever conceived approaches dreadfully slow.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long hours at work to buy you jewelry.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lines with other procrastinating men to buy you flowers.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of staring at some perplexingly huge teddy bear that got me laid once.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long explanations about why you can’t make friends with women.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long lists of men’s names who you thought really loved you.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long years of hoping you’d get the clue that I wanted to be more than friends.

Longsuffering does not mean suffering through long periods of silence as you conclude life is as your dad said it was, not as you wanted it to be.

Longsuffering does mean suffering through long days and nights which add up to years of wondering where the hell a woman worth her salt hides and if I will even be able to recognize her.

Arpicembalo Che Fa Il Piano E Il Forte

“Large keyboard instrument that produces soft and loud (Barron 95).”

At seven feet long, six hundred seventy pounds, and taller than a toddler, it demands attention. But for a few aesthetic nuances, there is purpose in every handcrafted stationary and moving part. Equally beautiful and functional, the black behemoth exemplifies creativity. Neither do its origins disappoint. Cristofori’s problem was monotony. The harpsichord produced one sound. The strings were plucked. No matter how hard or soft the musician pressed down on the keys, the resultant volume was the same. But life’s spark would not let the matter rest. He sought both soft and loud, and henceforth created a new connection to the Infinite.

Mystifying in its identical name, the keyboard these words are typed on sits atop a wooden table in a room whose walls and closed blinds seem inclined to constantly advance inward. The piano keeps them at bay. Its weight symbolizes its persistence to preserve its place in this world.

The words begin to grow short. The afternoon advances. The man approaches confidently, if lazily. As he steps around the bench, his body brushes against the hanging blinds. He pulls his hand up short of the light switch. As if unable to contain a joyful secret, the swinging blinds reveal the sun is shining. He opens them and smiles.

There is nothing, I mean nothing, that compares to playing the piano in the light of the sun.

*Barron, James. Piano: The Making of a Steinway Concert Grand. New York: Times, 2006. Print.

Notes On Money And Self-Publishing

Some of you have suggested that you’d love to hear how book sales are going and also just about the self-publishing experience as a whole. I am flattered that you would consider my opinion on this subject valuable, and as such, will gladly indulge you to the point where you wish you had never asked.

To begin, I need to freely confess that I don’t have a clue about how to make money. I don’t. I never have. I loved my high school and college jobs–I probably would’ve worked them for free. After college I was shocked when I discovered how much I was paid to be a hero. And as for the rest of my jobs since then, I have quit them for one of two reasons. Either I felt guilty for being paid too much money or I quit because you couldn’t pay me enough money to do the job. Reiterating then, I don’t have a clue about how to make money. I don’t. I never have.

On top of this, I happen to believe that if I know anything valuable–anything of real value–I shouldn’t charge you for it. Now, I’m not going to get all Christian-ee on you, so settle down. But case in point is the Gospel. Let’s say for a moment that the story is true. Let’s say that you and I are wretched sinners without a hope, save one unbelievable notion. And let’s say that that notion is that recognizing the state of things taken together with following Jesus is the only way to balance the books, but balance the books it does. If that were the case, and I knew it to be true, I would never charge you for that information. No way.

Just the same, H- and I need money for life’s necessities, no different than you and yours. So I wrote Simon Pastor with the hope of paying for these necessities. Next up, I’ll tell you how to write a book like Simon Pastor, then I’ll share how it’s selling. Feel free to skip to the end.

Step 1 – TYPE book in MS Word

Step 2 – SAVE file every time you think of it. 😉

Step 3 – SAVE AS a PDF/A when it’s final. (Only if you care about a paperback version. If you don’t, skip to step 8)

Step 4 – CREATE createspace.com account

Step 5 – UPLOAD PDF/A file

Step 6 – FOLLOW createspace.com steps to proof book and create cover etc.

Step 7 – DOWNLOAD Kindle cover file when prompted

Step 8 – SAVE AS final MS Word file again–this time with the name Kindle added on. (You need a file to mess around with and don’t want to screw up your paperback version, that’s why I do this step.)

Step 9 – CREATE kdp.amazon.com account.

Step 10 – FOLLOW kdp.amazon.com steps to modify MS Word Kindle version as required

Step 11 – SAVE AS Web Page, Filtered

Step 12 – UPLOAD that and Kindle Cover from Step 7 to kdp.amazon.com account (plenty of instructions on their site)

Step 13 – FOLLOW the simple sequence of pricing/distributing

Step 14 – SHARE the news that Amazon is selling your book with every human being you come into contact with

Okay. Truly, it is simple. It is also free. If you don’t care to feel a paperback copy in your hands before you list it on Amazon, you never have to pay a cent–not one penny–to publish your book in either paperback or Kindle versions.

So how are sales? Since last weekend, the 4th, I have sold a grand total of twenty copies. Another one hundred eighteen kindle versions were downloaded (via the free Kindle promotion last Friday). One thing I forgot while setting the price for the eBook is that I have no idea how to make money. Amazon recommended setting the price at $3.99 when using the 70% royalty model. Up until that moment, I had been planning on selling it as cheap as possible in order to encourage heavy readership. But greed took over along with thoughts of glory and roller coasters in my backyard etc. It is a good book. I’m sure of that. But I’m also sure that while $3.99 is a cup of coffee, it doesn’t take hours to drink a cup of coffee. And it will take at least an hour to read my book. Your tv watching habits prove you are willing to waste time for free, but paying to waste time? That would be something. I see now that four bucks is a bit much to invest in possibly wasting an hour with an unknown author. So after a week I’m changing it up. I’m going back to my original plan and it is now for sale for the lowest price Amazon will let me sell it for, which is 99 cents.

I’ll update you guys next week with just a simple number update regarding how sales are doing.

Overall, the lesson learned is write what you must write. My happiness is enhanced because of writing this book. If money is deposited into my bank account, that’s great. But I will never regret writing the book. If you’re a timid soul, this post should warn you off from challenging yourself to finally write the great american novel. But we both know there are no timid writers. Good luck.

Still She Tugs

Biggest surprise of my life? Parenting. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape feeling the complete and utter awe that surrounds the totality of the parenting experience. And yet, despite parenting being a nearly indescribable wonder, there is one moment–one fairly common and frequent action–that keeps surfacing which illustrates it perfectly.

More than the always surprising bump of my hand into hers as we begin to walk toward and away from the car, more than her exasperating desire to be picked up just when I finally can leave the hamburger helper to simmer on the stove, more than her double-checking nightly that after story-time when I get up to turn off the light I will be coming back to rub her for a bit before leaving her alone to dream, more than all these things is her firm tug on my fingers when she recognizes we will be parting for whatever practical reason.

I make her go to her bed when she’s “not even sleepy!” twice a day, and because I am sleepy I linger in my bed when she wants me to get out of it. Still she tugs.

Recently she brought over a toy digital camera and demonstrated first-hand just how annoying it must be to have me tell her that I’ll only be another minute on the laptop or phone for fifteen minutes at a time. (Point taken.) Still she tugs.

I bull-headedly push my play-time agenda to the point of tears when all she wants is to be with me. Still she tugs.

I make her wait as I putz around doing who knows what because I’m not looking forward to sitting on the ground to play stuffed-animals. Still she tugs.

I dictate the order in which she eats her meal and drinks her drink. Still she tugs.

I never let her play in the bath after she’s clean. Still she tugs.

I choose the bedtime story more often than not because I know that these stories will have a lasting impact. Still she tugs.

And no matter how much I want to stay with her, my decisions have given her the memory of constantly leaving one of her parents for the other for an entire childhood. And still she tugs.

I Killed Church

Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.

I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.

Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.

I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.

So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.

I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.

He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.

I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.

Pizza

But what is it?

Not just bread and cheese and sauce, no.  This meal fit for God himself is so much more.

It is the sound of the loveliest doorbell.  It is the acceptable apology for the mealtime “oops!”  It is the welcoming party when the vacation ends.

It is the taste of summertime birthdays.  It is the texture of picking which movie to watch first.  It is the height of soda can towers.

It is the singing clock’s twelve chimes reminding all that Friday is gone.   It is the placing of a small hand into a big one.  It is the compromise between parents and children.

It is soda’s groom.

It is breakfast.  It is lunch.  It is dinner.  It is the substance of every moment in between.

It is nourishment.  And as nourishment, it is life itself.

Is it worthy of worship, this pizza?

Yes.  An unapologetic, unabashed, unable to understand yes.

Sounds of Life

His fingers slid along the front side of the envelope.  He recognized the sender as one capable of bearing no news or bad news.  The fear of bad news might be why he heard his fingers as they slid, a sort of low hiss.  He was near his breaking point.  His body was on full alert.  Finding a slight opening near the seal, he heard the envelope tear as he wondered why anyone would ever buy a letter opener.  He unfolded the pages, hyper-extending the crease with a pop.  Next, the sound of paper against paper filled his ears as his left hand unveiled the second page.

Then, there was no sound.

In that moment, in that void, he did what any good soul does when receiving bad news.  He used the limitless silence to escape.  He filled the silence with questions, with doubts, with denial.  That led to him filling the silence with Lawrence Fishburne’s voice.  “You have to let it all go Neo.  Fear.  Doubt.  Disss-Bee-lief.”  Finally, he filled the void with a smile.  Because the truth was–the truth was that from rock bottom there is only one way out.  Up.

Then, as always, laughter broke the silence.

The Motion Picture

Our widening eyes betray our excitement.  The air conditioner kicks on as we finish up our cereal.  It’s ten-thirty.  We’re going to go see a movie after she comes home from work.  We feel like framing the note she used to share this fact with us, and yet, somehow we know this wouldn’t be a strong enough commendation.  Instead, we re-read it a hundred times and blacken our fingertips as we vigorously review the showtimes in the day’s newspaper.

Scanning the areas she’s most likely to notice upon entrance, we clear the table of dishes, pick up a few pairs of shoes from the hallway, and make a few lines on the carpet with the vacuum.  It’s perfect.  Nothing will detour the event.

During the car ride, the escape begins.  Upon purchasing the tickets, we forget that an entire world exists outside the theater.  The pit stop before heading into the theater is where we last think about eating or drinking ever again.  The previews, the last time we consider looking any direction but forward.  The final removal of light marks the beginning of what we hope will never end.  Good-bye pain, good-bye disappointment, good-bye change, good-bye ambiguity, good-bye senselessness, good-bye sadness, good-bye despair.  Hello clarity, hello love, hello passion, hello happiness, hello resolution, hello caring, hello hope.

Hello hope.