Writing Vs Writing

There is a lot of evidence that people who are good at something get better when peers are watching them do it but people who are not "experts" do worse. I recall something vague about cockroaches in bleachers in one study.

I wonder what compels us to move beyond the starting stages of "not so great at..." to "look at me expert". Much of my life I have hid what I felt best at and avoided praise when I got "caught" being good at something. I believed it was humility I was practicing.

Every so many trips around the sun I choose a hobby and pursue it with some minor degree of conviction. When I was a middle schooler I would walk a couple miles from my house up a hill (usually as the sun was going down) and write poetry. Most of it was about how I felt, how hard it was to be a shy person in a hard be out there world. At first I was just happy to be writing. Then I showed some to a couple teachers. Suddenly what I did for myself became something I wanted approval from others for. How quickly my joy fled when I opened myself up to the scrutiny and evaluation of others. I don;t really write poetry anymore. Cooking, swing dancing, short story writing, board game design, massage therapy have all followed similar spirals, though the ellipse has grown wider and the time it takes for the joy to completely leave, and the growing need for external validation.

This summer I began to lose the joy in the last and longest term creative endeavor. For many months I had been working really hard to make a game design meet with what a company wanted and then had them hard pass. The disappointment struck a deep nerve. No so much that they didn't want the game, I liked earlier versions much better myself, it was that the joy of creating and the joy of making a space for people to have fun in had become work. I was trying to make money, and to some degree justify all the time and energy I had put into the design as well as the countless others who had supported me along the way.

Designing for pleasure, creating for the sheer joy of making something and seeing people enjoy it had vanished. I stopped game design immediately. I had invested years in honing a set of skills, learning a new language, as well as forming many relationships and woke up to feel like a fake.

Something about being boldly creative in secret calls to me again. Making for the joy of sending a small peace of what was once only in my head, our into the world, but without a return address.

I had thought about beginning a video blog and talk about board games, or maybe parenting, but I fear the same future would meet that endeavor. Aside from hiding or anonymity I still seek creative expression that is joy filled and critique proof.

 So, take this small letter set upon the waters and read it if you find it and think about what keeps you afloat in uncertain seas of life.

Dream Farm Part 1

Dream Farm Part 1

J.R. Burns

Imagine, if you can another world, one in which the entire world has been ravaged to fuel monstrous machines. The machines have polluted air and sea and sky and even the heart of man. Still more bleak yet in this quest for a better world, conformity has reigned for 500 years.

Within a life time we will have no more power. Society and the earth itself will let out its last great groan and cease altogether. We who have been its faithful guardians for these past generations cannot conceive of how this came to be.

Then came the day when one stood, in our midst, he was an aesthetic, one of great contempt, he was one who lived outside the law, and yet we could not touch him. Worlds he had, worlds within him that we could not hope to understand or think to enter into. And yet we did hear his voice, his rebel tongue which he oft used to fuel-fire the cursed individuality dream which the masses clamored upon as senseless drowning rats, the daft fools following a larger fool.

He spoke out “This world need not altogether die.” A loud shouting and murmurs arose and all but smothered his voice “Blaspheme!” the common thread between them. His voice rose still higher, and yet more resolute in patience.”This world can go on, I know well a source of power which you cannot rival with all your splitting and burning, combining and consuming.” The assembly hushed when the revered world was spoken, power, even from the tainted likes of he, the word in itself pulled tight the strings among the faithful.

“What is the name of the new source, and what is the riddle of its combination.” I demanded to know, being of one mind with the sensible present.

“Imagination.” was his simple reply. In my ears I heard a great tumult, a tempest of contempt hurled upon him. And yet silence was all that was outside. This loss of sense was jarring; in all the worry I must have forgotten my tranquility pills. All leaders took them, they were our source of clarity to numb the mind and make us alike, of one mind.

The others looked to me, as I had asked, so should I continue to interrogate, as is but proper ordinance. I gathered my wits and set them aside and questioned as made sense. “And how exactly can this outlaw venture, this great divider of peoples, turn into a source of…” I paused as not to say the revered world in sentence with that which is unclean “of a solution to our situation.” There would be no way he could respond, and I knew the meeting would go forward without further incident.

No more had I thought this then he replied as if expecting what I had said. “I have found a machine which can convert novel ideas into energy which can run these things on which you depend.” Again the room took in breathe as such taboo words, novel ideas…and energy bound together to defile the sacredness of machine. “This cannot be,” I said without thinking as makes only good sense “You will prove this theory or be gone at once.” The crowd grunted agreement. We were of one mind again and would crush him once his postulation proved false.

Then from his bag a glowing orb appeared. “Light!” was the awed word which echoed through the gathering. “This is a receptor.” The heretic said “As I dream of new things, as my mind visits other worlds this picks up my thoughts and coverts them into light. However, one must un-shield their mind in order let it function to full affect.”

Travelers Thorweneo

The Thorweneo traveled together as long as any could recall.

As companions where they a sight to see as most could view but one.

Times past when passers few might glimpse not one but two.

Far more seldom, and lucky be, a soul to see all three.

It happened just that, one fortunate chap, perchance the three reveal.

Of The Ephemeral he saw blazing gold of radiance non-reflected.

Of The Kinestetic, the most oft’ seen, a bold and ripplin’ motion.

And of The Intermediary, who is of often spoken, did he see many form flash upon its shape not in full but mere as a token.

The three did seem to blend as they traveled on together.

The one begin, the other end neither fool nor wise could quite render.

In image as stories alike they do attempt to capture.

Many did in ignorance attempt the three to master, and thus end in folly and disaster.

Others did a slave become, not to all but only one, and likewise themselves rend and in so met their down fall end.

Ultimately holi the body be who travels in their company, and cherish sight and be in aw of that which is in their stead oft’ hid.

The secret now in mind reveal, The Ephemeral, Kinestetic and Intermediary do in dwell not outside on journey take but venture within still.

Winter of the Mind

Winter of the Mind

By J. R. Burns

It was a cold crisp morning that I would never see. The kind of morning where breath hangs in the air and all noise is muted by the snow and ice smoothing the world. I would have liked that morning, as the sun would cause the ice to sparkle, and causes mists of snow as the trees unburden themselves before another cold night.

I had lived in the mountains for years, the twilight years as we had come to call them, before my wife passed away. But I guess there is no justice in a story began at the end, so let’s begin at the beginning.

I was born in the evening of a balmy spring day. My mother had become used to children arriving in their own time, as I was the third of four to bless my family with noise. Three hours and I arrived, no worse for the wear.

The first few years flew by, I was growing and changing so much, and my mother had my temperament pegged even then. She wrote a note to be in those early years that I would only get to read once she left this world, but that will come in due time.

My mother stayed home with us kids, on our five acres of land, when I was in my third week of kindergarten I broke my arm trying to dive into the above ground pool, and instead of in I ended up out. I still remember the dull pain to this day, though I no longer feel anything.

Those five acres I grew to know as my own paradise, my refuge from school, and eventually girls, and life expectations of others in general. I learned so very much in that laboratory. We’d build race tracks for the good ole Radio Flyer Wagon; we even made a mud hot tube after school one afternoon when the heavy rains had caused the spring to flow. Freedom and fantasy were the air and food of my childhood. But we all grow up, at least in the physical sense.

In middle school and high school girls entered the picture, more as a backdrop and an unattainable companion whom I longed for, yet could see no logical reason why. I dated a couple times, had my heart broken more than a few times, and learned the dance.

College began one brisk fall with a church service and seeing my Father cry for the second time in my life. The first couple weeks were rough as I broke up with my long distance girlfriend of over a year. Then I was truly on my own. I loved and lost and lost again. My mother passed away my sophomore year and I was never the same again. A summer later my Father was remarried and my would be wife entered my life. The Christmas my Father shared a note written to me when I was weeks old, telling of the man I would become, of the way I would draw the world in through my eyes and let it seep into my heart. A year and a half later I was engaged to be married and my Father was in the process of getting divorced. My older brother was married and sister was engaged and the world was spinning faster.

I graduated from college, barely, and begun my journey of life with no direction and crushing depression. Then, as often things do, they got worse. My soon to be wife temporarily called off our engagement, I had a summer job that all but robbed me of any sense of self-worth, and life seemed as dim as could ever be.

I survived that run in with death, but just barely, and the scars would follow the rest of my life. Two years later I was married and beginning a new position. A new hope arose and fell again within months, depression dogging my every step, and unhealthy workplace and I was almost down for the count. Then a strange thing happened, I lost almost everything and was freed. I quit my job, and began loving life again.

Years past and we moved from this place to that. Jobs came and went, children came and left. And then it was just the two of us, wading into the warm waves of our sunset years, approaching the twilight. She was first to go, she always had to be first, both in life and death. The habits I abhorred in life were endeared in her deafeningly quiet absence. I returned to the small town of my birth to live out my days, to be in the land that had formed my soul even as my body grew weak. And so on the cold night, somewhere around 3am, with the bitter wind causing the house to shake, and the soft dance of the fire with its crackling… I let go and was…. Something else… and I never saw the morning.

Dear Mom - You'll Never Know

Dear Mom,

It has been years since I saw you, years I refuse to count. So much has changed. I can still remember the last time I saw you, I cried as I went to my plane, I felt death even then, from the moments we hugged goodbye. I thought Julie was going to die, but it was you. I still cannot shake that moment.

I have been thinking of all the things you’ll never know. You never knew that I went to college just to make you proud; you’ll never know the struggle after you died to finish. You never saw James married, or Julie, or Jeffrey. You never met the women I married who you’d prayed for all those years. You didn’t see the rose we had for you at my wedding, or the music to the dance that should have been ours. You’ll never see the faces of your grandchildren, or meet the woman who is married to Dad. Since you left there have been so many struggles, so many losses, and so many stolen moments.

I am in massage school now, I remember you asking me to rub your neck, all those pains which were missed signs you were sick. I want to be a healer, because of you another thing you’ll never see. Sometimes I imagine your view point, seeing everything, but that is no comfort for I will never look you in the eye again, face those fierce blue eyes which burn with love, harsh, judging, soft knowing, comforting eyes.

We spread your ashes under two trees we planted for you at home, though the word home doesn’t fit without you in it. I planted a tree at college for you, I saw it last week and it is still growing, now taller than you ever were in life. Yet your shadow still remains, you will never know the impact you’ve had both in life and death. I was so very mad at you in life, how you pushed toward a non-directed perfection, pushed to love the other no matter the scars it would cost, my anger died with you.

You’ll never know how you shaped this world by your presence as well as your absence. The people in my life who remember you are dwindling, as are the ties I can touch and see that remind me of you. Your pictures are so very small in comparison to the women you were.

All this, all that happens in my life from that point where you staggered and fell for the last time… all the joys and pains we yearn to share, all the hopes and dreams that were born and died since you went away, everything that is stuck inside of me, all I want to ask and share… all of it, you will simply never know, never hear.

With Love in Sorrow,

Squeaker

Full Circuit

It had been many years since Louise had walked on her own; so her previous care taker had told me. I watched Louise each morning struggle and groan to her feet, half shuffling, halting stutter steps with her walker to the bathroom, and back to her bed again. It was hard to inspire her to do much else, many had tried and all had failed. Louise was a good fifty, slender graceful beauty of her youth intact; the doctors could not find a reason for her motor skills’ deterioration. The wiring seemed all there, they’d said, but something is missing to complete the circuit.

I’d only been her care taker for 6 months when I first heard her story, or rather stumbled upon it, or maybe it stumbled upon me. I was fetching Louise a blanket from the hall closet when an album came off of the shelf and landed on my foot. As the throbbing pain subsided, I delved into her past. Pictures leapt out from the pages, over and over all the same, her and a dark haired man dancing. Occasionally one would bear the title of this regional semi-final or that, this championship or that. The costuming changed; as did the style of dance as the dancers gracefully aged, but the couple’s posture was the same always linked, then the pictures abruptly ended. One last photo had been removed; I could see the aged yellow frame with a crisp white space where the photo had been.

I phoned Louise’s last care taker and found that she had indeed been a famous ballroom dancer who had disappeared from competition after a love affair. Thinking there was no more to the story I let it go.

Three weeks later flowers arrived. I brought them in, and just before I put them in a vase she came to the kitchen, out of breath, and flushed. I quickly asked what the matter was, and prepared to dial 911. The words tumbled from her mouth… She had smelled the flowers, and wanted to know who had sent them. The card was blank. Her face fell again as did the energy she’d just had. I assured her I would look into it as they were from a florist just down the street.

The next day I stopped in and asked about a bouquet sent to 1027 Valley View Drive the day before. The man behind the counter lit up, yes he knew the order, he had arranged it himself, the older gentleman who ordered it had insisted on every detail. He’d figured the arrangement was for some sort of surprise celebration, perhaps an anniversary. I told him that the card had been blank, and he was puzzled, the gentleman spent half an hour writing, it cannot have been blank.

I returned and shared the news, again there was a brief burst of life, and then her face fell again when I said there was no name, and the man had paid cash.

Another week passed and we had a caller, this was a rare treat as she had no family, and too little time for friendships during those years. A tall man with silver graying hair asked for entrance, on a visit over due. Recognizing him from the pictures I let him in smelling his strong cologne. He had barely crossed the threshold when Louise met us in the hall, his cologne her call.

He handed me his hat and coat, and a CD and bid me put the music on. Both looked at one another aged, stumbling, as they walked. He held his hand out for hers, and she accepted it. And they danced, oh how they danced. And for that brief moment Time stood still to watch. And as the music ceased so did their moment frozen in time, and back to their seats they went. The circuit found its completion after all, and so does this story end.