The Beach Remembers

The beach remembers

Lover's tastes and trash

And it can't forget

Too many breezes blow

In strong currents

And sand tossing tourists

Piles of humanity

Discarded playthings

And burnt butts

Cans crushed under foot

Seasoned among sea oats

And barley stained

His hands upon her

Rumpled sands swaying

And tides wetting

Every passion gets remembered

By the beach beneath us

And our trash

Dangerous Passions?

A number of weeks back, several friends sent me the same link to a wonderful video of Elizabeth Gilbert speaking on the angst of artistic genius. I'm not purporting to be a genius, but I have had my share of artistic challenges.

My first true passion was acting. I felt more alive when acting, soaking up the spot light and wrestling with the nuances of character development than I did living my real life. I achieved some modest success while making acting my hobby throughout my life including some professional time with a North Carolina Shakespeare Company, and several cable-run commercials. During college I discovered creative writing and I've had a few article published (during my time as a pastor). Sermon writing, at its best, is a highly creative venue and I relished in both the creation and presentation of sermons for 15 years.

In each of my creative adventures, I discovered the same reality – satisfaction of the urge to create and the compulsion to be a part of something new and dramatic is fleeting.

Often, upon reflection on my own creative internal disturbance, I am left with the following apparent and unsavory thought - The creative spirit, as embodied in so many artists, is its own bane. The artist can devote his/herself to the task fully and in doing so risk a rapid burn or can deny the very passion of the soul and lead a life of frustrated mediocrity. My trouble with this thought is that I don’t want it to be true. Is it possible for an artist to pursue his passion and not self destruct? Is there something in the nature of art that demands the humanity of the artist and leaves her broken?

There is more to say here, but I would rather leave it for your comments. So, dear reader, is your artistic passion dangerous?

A Pending Epitaph - Paint Me Not

Paint Me Not

Paint me not in shades of brilliant blue and red

Coloring over my misguided lines of glossy black

And smeared greys

Don’t layer me over with sentiment and morality

Forgetting my deformity of thought

And bare deeds

Have the fortitude to lay it out

As I was and am naked and old, withered

And decaying now

My life will be dust soon enough and should not be concealed while it can be revealed.

Note: Inspiration comes when it is ready. I was viewing a photo and a post over at MelodyWatson.com and somehow, my thoughts and feelings lead to the poem above...

The Other Day...

The other day… [STOP]

The post I was preparing to write needs to wait for a brief moment while I explain the phrase above – “The other day.”

I grew up in South Carolina. Along with sand fleas, mosquitoes and inbreeding, the south is known for several colloquial phrases. Where I come from, we know what “the other day” means, and it means something very specific.

“The other day” refers to a period of time that can be from yesterday to several decades past. The meaning, when used by a true Southerner, is to say “When it happened is something I am not prepared to commit to right now, and in fact when isn’t the damn point I’m trying to make and so don’t get hung up on when, or who even, just listen to what I’m getting ready to say next and know that it did in fact happen and it is important that you listen to the story and not get distracted by the facts -now.”

So when I say “the other day” I was listening to Oprah – it isn’t to tell you which episode or year so you can go back and watch it, I’m telling you that what I think about what I saw on Oprah “the other day” is something you need to know.

When I tell you “the other day” I was talking to Aunt Margie – it doesn’t matter that Aunt Margie has been dead for ten years; I’m telling you that she knew something that you need to know right now because it may save you a heap of trouble later.

And, most certainly, when your mother says to you “the other day” I was cleaning your room – be sure that what follows next will not be a discussion about which day ‘exactly’ it was but rather something much more critical to your living future…

I hope that helps. So, the other day…

What Wildness Comes Next?

Last night as my wife and I ate dinner at Wendy's in Brevard, NC (yes. I know we are big spenders), we overheard five ladies talking. Here is the truth.

1. They are all over 60.

2. They have dinner and play cards there at Wendy's every Sunday night after church -every Sunday.

3. They were feeling a bit racy last evening since they had 'skipped' church and started playing cards an hour earlier than usual.

Wild times in Brevard, I tell you. I'm not sure it is truly safe to be there on a Sunday evening! What will happen next - Dogs and cats sleeping together?

Seriously, I found the entire scene delightful and worthy of a movie script.

Just Not Feeling It

I am mostly a happy person. I enter each day with a determination to be positive, smile and find the opportunity in every challenge. Yes, I am one of those people.

Today, I wasn't able to make it happen. Nothing bad happened. Nothing monumental broke or went awry. Yet, I have found this day empty of enthusiasm and lacking in luster.

Chalk it up to "one of those days."

One of Those Days

Walking through cement

Wading in the swamp

Paddling up stream

Strolling up the down escalator

And

Simply not really caring about getting there

We are all allowed one of those days. Right?

Submerged

It is all gone now - the world of air breathing creatures and screaming sounds demanding, requiring something every moment of all days. Gone. This viscous shell into which I have plunged protects me and presents to me colors vibrant and dancing on the scales of fish and small bubbles of relief, ascending, taking with them each a small measure of my former dependence on demands and oxygen. I grasp razor edged rocks with delicate fingers ignoring pain for freedom and beauty of this moment. I will soon need to return, but not now – not for an eternity of heart beats measured in a few more clicks of the clock – the clock that ticks still, up there.

Blog moving...and Gender Variants

Hopefully, in a few days this blog will be moving to my new site - http://www.kimewilliams.com.

In the mean time I have been wondering about some gender issues. I have noticed - with all due reverence and distance - an interesting discussion over at Simmonne's about 'bums' - butts. The discussion has been mainly among women and has been a delightful, if playful, affirmation of physical attributes. It is lovely, actually, that these ladies are so supportive, complimentary and encouraging of each other's appearance.

Which got me to wondering if men would be similarly impassioned to each other. The following is the imagined conversation that went on in my head:

Me: Hey, Dave... I was reading this woman's blog about liking her own butt, and how interesting it was that the ladies that comment were celebrating their favorite's among their own and each others body parts. Do you have a favorite physical attribute?

Dave: Dude. You're gay. I got your body part right here! Hey - where was that site? Do they post pictures?

Yep. What was I thinking?

Quoting

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.

-Ernest Hemingway (1899 - 1961), in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech

A Musing Space

The water, hot and welcomed, pounds my shoulders and cascades around my neck, stripping away the dirt and sweat. Anchoring my hands on the shower wall, I let the water work its magic. I close my eyes, exhale strongly, and release my mind. The water envelops me, my senses, my mind...

Are there sounds that are only heard by the deaf? Are there things unseen to those with sight? Might the angst-ridden beauty of artistic accomplishment reveal itself more clearly to those burdened of twisted mind and unbridled emotion?

My life has been one of growing peace and routine more than artistic angst or spiritual distress. For awhile now, I had grown accustomed to percolating emotions, those feelings that lurk, coiled and ready to strike, manifesting malformed action and self-destructive choices. I have found solace regularly in the creative word. The twist of a poetic phrase or the presence of a story unfolding beneath the key stokes often releases much. Now, it seems that I am driven less and less to release my serpents of spiritual distress. This is different. Not good. Not bad. Just different.

I know the truth. I know that there lies deep within me an eternal presence, my creative magical essence that demands to be known - my familiar, my dragon, The lines of poetry, the tales woven in prose, the occasional burst of fire breathed from comments, are all glimpses of a piece of her being: scales of translucent blue, a sapphire eye blinking in the dusk, the sound of a gentle, rumbling breath, a brush of a powerful tail. She is my eternal muse. I miss her, these days. I sense she misses me.

Yet, here in this steam cloud, beneath the relentless waterfall, while all sound is blasted away, I hear her breath, steady and smooth. Through closed eyes, I see again, the cave where she dwells. It is in this moment I know that I could extend my arm and touch her. I can't help but smile, wondering what journeys await.

We live.