Moroccan Lullaby

Sitting out in the gorgeous, fall Texas weather for lunch, the flavor and scent of my Moroccan beef stew takes me back to meals cooked over camel dung fires by gracious Bedouins...

I'd gone to north Africa seeking World War II relics since demand was up and supplies were down. A friend of a friend of a distant relative told me of lost Nazi weapons cached in abandoned outposts. My niece, Desiree Rose, loved to travel and had just graduated high school, so she went with me.

The bus ride along the coastal plains from Tangier to Rabat was wonderful. We knew a little French; between that, hand gestures and drawing in my journal, we swapped introductions and stories with those around us, mostly locals. On the road from Rabat to Casablanca, we stopped in the middle of nowhere, presumably to take on passengers. A half dozen masked men with pistols, carbines and knives got on. They demanded identification from everyone. When they saw our US passports, their eyes lit up. Blindfolded, hands zip tied behind us, Des and I were marched off the bus. We never saw our wallets or passports again.

Our captors led us, stumbling, across dunes toward the sea. We ended up on the beach, breakers mocking us as they crashed, wild and free, onto the shore. We were shoved into the back of a truck. A couple of rides and hikes later, we were given something to eat and drink. Apparently it was drugged.

I woke up with the mother of all headaches to swaying and clacking, a demonic train horn piercing my ears, squeezing my skull. After a while I could think clearly and croaked Desiree's name. She croaked something back. We wiggled around on the floor until our hands were at each others' heads and got the masks off. I talked Des through getting a key out of my pocket and walked her through releasing my zip tie; then I released hers.

We had no idea how long we'd been unconscious except that we were starving (yet queasy) and thirsty. We drank from the sink. As I opened the curtains to look out the window Des noted the train was slowing. A sign flew by; we were entering Marrakesh. We tensed up as voices approached in the corridor, but they continued past the door and faded. We had no idea who or where our kidnappers were. Des locked the door. The train slowed more. I opened the window.

We stopped jerkily, the horn blowing repeatedly. Probably someone or something on the tracks. We were on the outskirts of Marrakesh. With nobody in sight close by, I went out the window and helped Des down. Just before we made it around a corner I heard a shout and a shot. Stone splinters splattered a foot above my head. We ran.

Fifteen long minutes later, winded, weary and wary, we found ourselves on the edge of town. It was late in the afternoon. We decided to hide in the desert until after dark. It was mid-day. Fortunately we still had our hooded jackets. We were sweating like pigs, but we wouldn't burn.

An hour after sunset, we wished we had something to burn. The desert cools quickly once the sun goes down. Just as we decided to start the trek back to the city, howling somewhere ahead of us froze us in our tracks. Morocco has jackals. Did it have wolves? Neither of us knew, but we heard several canine voices, and they seemed to be drifting closer. We headed away from the city.

The howls tracked us all night. By morning, exhausted, we found some rock formations with a shallow cave. We dragged rocks up to make a wall and collapsed as the sun came up. Late in the day I awoke to find a small fox staring at me. Somehow I managed to kill it with a rock before it got away. Raw fox is nasty, but we were desperate. We didn't just thank God for the food, we prayed for our health. We felt rather less hungry, but only slightly less thirsty. We set out before sundown, carrying stones, hoping for another fox, or even a jackal. Out of all my nieces, I thanked God Des was with me. I don't think any of the others would have handled things quite as well.

By dark, we could see lights in the distance; those had to be Marrakesh. We started that way. A couple of hours later, sloughing over a sand dune, we stopped. There was a fire. There were tents and camels. Men, women and children. Men with rifles. Hands up, starving, we called out and stumbled down through the sand.

As we got closer, rifles were lowered, and hands reached out to help us. Soon we were sitting on a hairy, skin rug of some sort, eating goat and drinking thick, rich coffee. Our Bedouin hosts asked nothing until we, and they, had finished eating. One of them spoke broken English, and called for our story. I looked at Des. She arched her painstakingly sculpted eyebrows, grinned slightly and shrugged.

I took a chance, and told them our whole story. Abduallah translated. When done, they asked questions, then introduced themselves. They were the Al-Sabal amm, a lesser branch of the Bani Khalid tribe, but well known and respected. Shaykh Muhammad ibn Abd Al-Sabal explained that kidnapping was common at the moment, and offered to let us travel with them. Only then did we realize they were breaking camp. They preferred to travel longer distances by night, navigating by the stars.

I won't say much about traveling by camel except to note that Des tired of it almost as quickly as I did. It was a week or so before we truly got used to it.

Abduallah explained that we had probably heard golden jackals. We'd have likely been perfectly safe heading back to Marrakesh. I noted that safety from jackals didn't mean safety from kidnappers. Abduallah grinned. Now we were heading away from Marrakesh, more or less east. The Shaykh said they would hand us off to a group headed northeast toward the coast in two days.

I've always loved moonrise, no matter the time of day or night, but moonrise over the desert is my favorite. Tonight the moon was just past full, a huge, brilliant orange disk on the horizon as we crested a hill. I saw Desiree's face light up. I asked what she was thinking. She laughed and remarked how boring home life was and how much larger the moon seemed here. We were both strangely content.

Pitching their tents was easy for the Bedouins, trickier for us. They left is to our own dwelling, never quite laughing in our presence. We finally finished a half hour after everyone else. We collapsed and fell asleep long before it got too hot.

That night, using rifles borrowed from the Shaykh, Des and I each killed a wolf. Having little else to give, we gave the skins and meat to the Shaykh as gifts, since he insisted we owed him nothing. He beamed and had his wife, Noora, give us kufiyya. Throughout Arab and middle eastern culture this is traditionally male headgear, but the Al-Sabal all wore them. When I asked why, Abduallah smiled and gave me a non-answer. Whatever the reason, the women here were treated far more equally than I'd seen elsewhere. A couple of them carried rifles, which is Des had been offered one.

We met up with the Al-Saribn at an oasis. The Shaykhs talked at length, looking at us every now and then. Muhammad waved Abduallah over. After a moment he called for us. The new Shaykh, Labad ibn Abu Al-Saribn, bowed and smiled. Muhammad wore an odd expression. Abduallah explained that the Al-Saribn would be happy to take us to Jerada, near the coast, if his son could wed my niece. Seeing Desiree's expression, I immediately bowed low and apologized, explaining that she was already sworn to another. Des managed not to bust out laughing, rightly guessing I meant Jesus. I added that we apologized for bothering them, and would be happy to walk to the coast.

This, of course, was patently absurd to everyone and Muhammad roared with laughter. Labad asked through Abduallah what else we might have as payment. Muhammad broke in, noting that he'd given us rifles (a surprise to us!) and that we were expert shots. Labad's group had suffered several deaths the past year and needed more hunters. If we could do our share to keep pots filled, they would take us. We thanked Muhammad profusely. He then presented me with a khanja-- the traditional, curved knife carried by Bedouin men. Noora presented Des with one as well, drawing glares from some of Labad's people.

Despite a much longer time with Labad's tribe, we never felt as close to anyone there as as we had with Muhammad's people. Labad's were more traditional, and prouder. I think they were still a bit miffed that Des was "spoken for" as well; her beauty is obvious in any culture. Then again, they seemed mildly annoyed that she was a hunter, nevermind a good one. She took off her kufiyya while we were with them; this seemed to help a bit.

Despite never feeling fully accepted, we ate like royalty. I haven't had many meals better than those cooked in huge, copper pots over camel dung fires-- especially Moroccan beef stew, goat milk cheesecake with pomegranate syrup, mysterious wines and thick coffee. To my great surprise, I even liked snake. The Bedouins refused to eat it and seemed somewhat in awe of us for eating it. Neither Des nor I intended to eat the thing, but we were in a fey mood under a full moon, and dared each other into it.

We spent weeks crossing the desert and hills of Morocco. By the time we neared Jerada, Des and I were lean and tough, with darkened faces and hands. The seats of our jeans were nearly worn through from riding camels. We smelled like the camels. We smelled like last year's locker room. We smelled like burning camel dung. We wanted to burn our clothes.

Along the way to Jerada, Des and I had killed fifteen of the red foxes common to the area. We made a nice cape as a present for Burin, Labad's son. When we got to Jerada, Burin insisted on providing us with clean Bedouin clothing. We thanked the group, especially Labad and Burin. We gave them our rifles as gifts, bowed, and went in search of somewhere to bathe, thankful we still had a few Moroccan darahim and a few US dollars. After bathing and eating, we had about ten dollars between us. That wasn't going to do much.

Late in the day we met some Oxford college students heading to Oran in Algeria. Over a beer they told us their adventures (including being chased out of town by a khanja wielding snake charmer after Owen took him up on a bet he wouldn't touch the cobra; when Owen had discovered that the snake's mouth was sewn shut, he couldn't quit laughing, infuriating the charmer). Upon hearing our story and plight, the students offered us a ride to Oran. About then we watched a local bus plow into their car across the street. So much for Plan A.

I came down with a fever that night. I mostly remember dreaming of Labad asking for Desiree as wife to his whole tribe (including the women), and turning into a cobra when we said no. He sewed my mouth shut and made me dance to his flute and live in a basket. I dreamed this over and over. I vaguely remember waking up now and them in a car. Des pretty much just kept wet cloths on my face and slept the whole trip, so neither of us is sure how we crossed the border without passports. For that matter, the old, English couple who drove us never asked or gave names. They saw Des trying to deal with me in a feverish state, and offered a ride and penicillin. She said they were sweet, silly, in love, and very mysterious. They called each other Tommy and Tuppence, but Tuppence, at least, seems an unlikely name.

The fever broke the day we hit Oran; thankfully nobody else had gotten sick. Our host and hostess bought us supper and asked about our plans. We told them we planned to swim to Italy, but if we had to, we might work our way across on a ship. We never did learn anything else about them; it's strange owing a life debt and not knowing who to pay. They went in search of their hotel and we went in search of the docks.

The first ship we came to was surrounded by hostile, lean, Africans with scorpion tattoos and AK-47s. We kept going. We'd passed a number of men selling weapons out of crates on the way to the docks and saw similar crates coming off this ship. Des recognized the Somali flag flying over the prow. They were pirates, or close enough it didn't matter. We kept our distance and our eyes open. It was probably good we didn't look like westerners any more.

A few minutes later, I realized we were being followed. Two men from the Somali ship had taken an interest in us. Moving into a crowd, we hid behind some boxes and got behind our pursuers-- well behind them. When they gave up and headed back to the ship, we helped move cargo from another ship to get closer. We never found out what they were up to, because a Zodiac from their ship roared up to the dock next to us. Several men got out, looked arrogantly around, and carried a heavy box onto the dock and off into the crowd.

The salt air was suddenly thick with irony. Des and I looked at each other, grinned like thieves, jumped into the pirates' Zodiac, and headed out. We found plenty of gas, a hidden satchel full of various local African currencies, fish on ice, wine and water. The night air tasted more delicious with each passing moment. I cut the motor for a few minutes as we collapsed, laughing, in the boat. We hugged and cried, laughed some more, looked nervously around for pirates, and got moving again along the coast. By daybreak we were at the port in Algiers.

At Bizerte we waved goodbye to Africa, heading across the water to Marsala. We followed the coast around Sicily, around Italy's boot, to somewhere near Vlore in Albania, and up the coast to near Durres. Lacking passports, we beached in a secluded spot and hiked several miles into Durres. We stayed with missionaries I had met on a previous trip, not burdening them with our story or lack of papers. They were obviously curious, and I felt rude not explaining. But if we were arrested, I didn't want them in trouble.

Des and I both found normal civilization strange. The rooms David and Valbona had provided were simple, but after living in the desert and on the sea for almost two months, they seemed fancy, complex, and almost like a trap. Rather than climb into the confines of a bus or taxi, we hitched a ride in the back of a lorry to Tirane. We bought gas and lunch for the driver, so after he unloaded his machine parts he took us into town. Still mildly paranoid, we asked him to let us off a mile away from our destination.

Tirane! It felt like home. We walked through familiar streets in the mid-afternoon sunlight, reveling in the shade of trees we knew the names of. We stopped three times for macchiatos (espressos with milk or cream). We bought ice cream cones at our favorite Allucare, but sadly our friend was home with a sick child. At the Qendra Stefan, we had burgers and fries, Cokes, and hugs. We explained that our passports had been stolen; since they knew us, they gave us rooms, anyway, and one of them took some of our recently acquired darahim to exchange for lek (the local currency) . Des slept a day, went dancing with Peter from the hotel staff most of the night, then slept the second day. I blamed my recent illness for the fact that I slept two days straight.

Over the next few days, we met several times with US officials, proving who we were, telling our story, filing police reports, retelling our story, filling out forms, paying fees, retelling our story. The rest of the time we slept, visited our friends, and ate. We gained back a little of the weight we'd lost in the desert. Genti and the Ray of Light Church family threw us a huge party, with food, music and fireworks. Genti and Eviola took us shopping for clothes and toiletries. Chris and Fjo Brent cooked for us, and we took them out to eat, along with their son and pet monkey.

We slept and ate a lot.

We got our passports. We got plane tickets. We gave most of the leftover money to Genti to and to the Romas. Chris and Fjo drove us to the airport. We gave them some money for gas and "a taxi tip". We hugged them about ten times each, and kept slipping the money back and forth into each others' pockets. An hour later, we were in the air. The two hour layover in Munich turned into four, as usual. Once on the trans-Atlantic flight, the walls on the planes kept closing in, so we shunned the food and movies and slept. Breakfast in La Guardia... McDonalds tasted as bad as I remembered. Five hours later, we were finally back in Austin. When we got outside the terminal, I dropped and kissed the ground. Des pretended she had a video camera. She said it was a great cheesy movie moment, and she'd put it the imaginary video on youtube. We made some phone calls and grabbed a taxi. We were home.


That was a few months ago. But I can still smell and taste the Moroccan beef stew. The stew here isn't bad, but-- weird as it may sound-- it just doesn't taste right without the smell of a camel dung fire. And I desperately want an Albanian macchiato. I wonder if Des is ready for another trip.

Djembe Fever Dreams

All my life I wished I could play drums. Several times drummer friends decided to teach me, and almost immediately gave up, telling me to stick to guitar (which I did, and do, love playing). I enjoyed tapping out rhythms on desks and tables with my hands, and thought I was pretty good. I tried bongos and congas a few times over the years, but I was very tentative, and when it didn't just work, I gave up. Again, what little feedback I got was negative. People even hushed me when I tapped on tables. Clearly I couldn't drum, and never would.

Well past the age people normally take up new instruments, I visited a church-related small group (called KISS) in Pam Rose's house in San Marcos. When I walked in the door, two people were playing guitar, several were playing various drums. Fifteen or so people were singing (or whistling!) At some point pretty early I started tapping on the trunk Pam uses for a coffee table. After a minute or two, someone handed me a drum. It was a wild night with intense drumming-- for a while the drums lead the worship. I played that drum between my knees, in my lap, against my chest, over my face, all sorts of ways. Worship was off the charts. I think all we did was worship for about two hours. My hands and arms were sore. It was awesome.

The KISS team gave me freedom and encouragement-- especially Pam and Desiree Rose, Jo Anderson, and Ashley Wellman.

I went to Kiss about twice a month for nearly a year, and played a drum at least half those times. That's the extent of my drumming education and learning to play percussion for worship. (Well, that and listening to the beat for thousands and thousands of hours of music, and beating on tables, desks, whatever was handy. Actually playing a drum is different, though; it hits back, as it were.)

As a result of what I got at KISS, I played percussion in some capacity for 8 or 10 worship services in Albania (djembe, egg and wall-- yes, a wall). I played congas at AHOP in Austin with the band, Patterson. I find myself playing djembe with the worship team for our congregation (True Life Fellowship in Round Rock).

This is just one of the many huge blessings these four ladies have been in my life, but I wanted to point out just one of the differences they have made, not just in me, but for everyone that has impacted. They have no idea how excited True Life is to have drums again. Albania was a Big Deal. And they are very, very responsible. So, ladies, thank you ever so much for being you and loving me, letting me be me, even encouraging that.


When I first told Ashley all this, her response was, "I never suspected you weren't a drum player before you came to KISS!!!! Seriously, you've got rhythm, and I'm just so excited that God made one of your dreams come true!!!"

Wow. Me, too!

All of us have the power to encourage or discourage. I'm not down on anyone. I am, however, greatly appreciative of the people who love and encourage me. I encourage you to look for the gold in people, and help them mine it to become all God made them to be. Encourage those around you. The word "encourage" means "to inspire with courage, spirit, or confidence". Give those around you the courage to be themselves, to chase their dreams.

And don't give up on your dreams!. Go for it, even if people aren't encouraging you, even if they are discouraging you. Encourage yourself. Be brave. Just do it. Don't worry what people think. Do your best. Have fun with it. There may be a handful of people in all of history who looked back on their lives and wished they hadn't chased their dreams; I assure you there are many, many more who look back and wish they had.

Whether it's playing percussion, rescuing orphans, or building an auto racing empire, be one of the people who looks back and says, "Wow! I did it! What a great ride! Now what do I want to do?"

Evil-o-ween? Whatever.

At least twice this week someone's Facebook status has raised the spectre of the true origins of the day we call Hall-o-ween, and whether human sacrifice was involved. Here are my thoughts.

I've heard about Hall-o-week starting out as a pagan holiday with human sacrifices, as well as the evil origins of trick or treat, for years. I've heard all sorts of other stuff, with various levels of contradiction. I don't know who to believe, and I frankly don't care. (Gasp!)

I don't care, in terms of what happens today, what it meant to people thousands of years ago. I don't care about the origins of trick or treat. I don't care about the origins of costumes.

I have to admit, I wouldn't mind knowing, because I like knowing things. I like understanding.. But (a) I don't really trust most people writing for the public to really know and be honest, because it's so polarized and (b) it wouldn't impact my view of it today. I expect that somewhere there's historically accurate, unbiased research or records. But that's not what gets bandied about.

I quit worrying about whether the rapture will occur as described in Revelation, and whether it's pre, mid, post, or trans-trib. I get to be with God forever and that's good enough! I quit worrying whether "once saved always saved" is correct. What matters is, "Are you right with God? If so, yay! If not, why not! Get right!" If I don't worry about these "weighty, theological matters", the "true history" behind knocking on doors in a costume asking for a treat isn't going to make me break a sweat.

"But Miles! It's a threat! Give us a treat or we'll play a dirty trick!" Um, no. Sorry. Again, regardless of the origins, this isn't what most people are out doing. You could make a much better case against it based on fostering an entitlement mentality, but that doesn't seem to be most peoples' issue with it.

Just as going to Church doesn't make one a Christian, dressing up and going door to door asking for treats, or handing out treats at your house, doesn't make one a Druid, Satanist, or backslider. Even assuming Anton Lavey was correct in calling Hall'o'ween was the high, unholy day of the year for Satanists. (I'm sure it was for his branch, since he declared himself "high priest.)

Then there's the idea that there are still all sorts of human sacrifices by Satanists today. I don't buy it. And I say that as someone who was, for a while, a Satanist. The devil's biggest weapons are lies, fear and confusion. He's a loser., and we too often credit him with far more power than he has-- thus giving him the power we fear. My God is infinitely bigger than this pathetic, would-be usurper. Would he love to have lots of human sacrifices? Sure. But-- at least in the USA-- I don't know of any real evidence of this.

Let me clarify. There are plenty of human sacrifices. But they're not made directly to Satan, and if they occur on October 31 at night, it's only because that's when they happened to happen. These sacrifices are to subtler, everyday gods such as Greed, Power, and Hatred. You can find these human sacrifices everywhere-- on the MX/US border, in the inner city, in houses of prostitution, in semi trailers with corpses in the desert, on the battlefield,and in children crying, terrified someone they once trusted will come into their bedroom again. These bother me infinitely more than questions around Hall-o-ween.

If they bother you, don't celebrate it! Turn off your porch light. Go to a church having a Reformation Day or All Saints Eve service. Sacrifice a pumpkin and bake a pie or three. Fill up your tub with hot water, get the beverage of your choice, and read a book.

Or, leave the light on, give out treats, along with words from God and offer prayer. You never know. God can use anything, even modernized, costumed, possible pagan holidays for His good, and the good of those who love Him, and the good of those who need to know His love.

Whatever works for you is fine by me. But don't expect me to get too worked up over it; I'd rather take Jesus's approach, and just love on people.

Sky Dance

An eternal chase in slow motion,
Or perhaps a game of tag.,,
Or, as with other denizens of the sky, a mating dance.

Who can tell? For we can only guess their ages.
Today she is ahead; another day he will be.
Some days they are close enough to kiss, to wrap in a lover's embrace,
other days so far apart we see only one at a time.

But they race joyously, content and unconcerned about "winning" or "losing".
When they draw close, she seems lost in his glory;
Apart she may hide or dominate the view according to her whim.

This morning she races several hours ahead.
Smiling serenely down from the lightening sky
As he prepares to peek over the horizon,
Moon and Sun locked in an eternal, blissful race.

Across the sky, stars run and hide
As Lord Jupiter refuses to wane, ruling an empty, western sky.

Rough Night in Jericho

Out of nowhere, there was this horrific, loud, deafening blast. It was like a few hundred rabid elephants in heat being tortured, like every last song with tubas being played at once. By the time I struggled up from the depths of sleep and staggered out into the yard, most of my city was in flames. The walls had collapsed. Thousands who lived in or near them must be dead. The invading hordes seemed intent on destroying us to the last man.

I got off a few short bursts, wounding a few of the infidels. Then my AK jammed. Before I could free it mortar fire hit all around me, and I had to eat dirt. Flames were springing up everywhere.

Fire behind me, to my left, and to my right. No idea where my regiment is. I stand alone with a jammed AK-47 in my Batman boxers to defend a few women and a goat from the invaders.

Twelve of them come at me. Judging by their colors, there's one from each division. Great. They'll all be trying to outdo one another. Mightiest man of God and all that.

I pull the pin on my last grenade, count, and throw it. They dive, I dive, we all dive for cover. Nothing happens. One of them laughs as they get up. He picks up the dud grenade and heaves it into a nearby burning comm shack, where it explodes, knocking us all back down.

Nobody is hurt by the blast, but the women are screaming behind me as the invaders approach, confidently. Smugly, even. The Kalashnikov is still jammed. Despite all the kids and infidels I've sent to Baal, it looks like he's deserted me now.

The goat butts me from behind and breaks for freedom. As it runs into the enemy ahead, one of them tosses an empty magazine at it. The tall guy in Benjamin's Division throws a satchel charge around the distracted goat's neck and swats it off in the direction of what's left of Abdul's Terrorist Camp.

One of the women, a joy girl I recognize, is screaming something about this all being Rahab's fault. I don't know what she means and I don't have time to worry about it-- the enemy is closing fast. The guy wearing the colors of Dan's Division is grinning like a thief.

I throw down my rifle, reaching for my pistol. I realize my belt, like my uniform, was in the room burning so brightly off to my right. I throw up my hands, but the grin just gets bigger and the Uzi comes up. I suspect they remember my face from TV a few years back after we torched that hospital in Tel Aviv. I have a sinking feeling surrender is not an option...

---

The first version of this wandered into cyberspace in 1989. Inspired by Dreams So Real's song of the same name. it drew from the (hopefully obvious) Biblical references and the tension in the Middle East, especially between Israel and Palestine. While there were terrorist events in 1989, to the best of my knowledge nobody torched a hospital in Tel Aviv. This is NOT a political statement of any sort. It's simply an ancient story in a modern setting, told from a different vantage point.

Copyright 1989, 1994, 2011 Miles O'Neal, Round Rock, TX. All rights reserved. Please contact author regarding republication or distribution.

Man vs Muse

The Tropics of Hutto

I just bought my third Tropical Blend sports coat; they're made from a mix of fibers-- hemp, sugar cane, those vines Tarzan swings from and whatever kind of straw goes into Panama hats.
Most of my clothes are edible in a pinch and some of them are rather tasty. As a Boy Scout and a geek, I try to be prepared for everything. They laughed at me for my (admittedly inedible) asbestos and lead underpants until flaming nuclear waste from the Russian space station landed here in Hutto. Then they just screamed in agony as I carried them to safety.

---

People ask me (as they ask most creative people, but especially those of us they see as more "out there") where I come up with my ideas and stories. My answer often amuses, befuddles or disappoints them. "Everywhere." Yes, it's that simple. I live life, dance, run, swim, mosey, race, float through it, dwell in it, taste it, hear it, see it, smell it, feel it.

It's the difference between driving with your windows up in perfectly climate controlled comfort, noticing nothing outside your Volvo but what's necessary to get you to your destination in your pre-determined time frame, and riding along with the top down in your Miata, tasting the wind, sunshine on your face, hearing the frogs in the stream beside the road, smelling the brook beside the road. In one, you simply do the minimum necessary, arrive at a destination, having experienced and perceived nothing, learned nothing, enjoyed nothing. In the latter, you experienced every glorious second of your trip; it becomes a part of you, you know your world more intimately. (This isn't to say you can't have fun or experience life with the windows up. Don't read more into what I said than I meant, but feel free to be inspired to write a story, paint a picture, sing a song, make a movie about something awesome happening in a Volvo with the windows up!)

Another major contributor is free associating. Despite my geek side, which loves to understand and classify, I also love to let my imagination go wild, with random associations leading me places nobody else thought to go. While this means I occasionally say things that garner odd looks, or even get me in trouble, it also means I can write things nobody else has written.

The last thing I want to mention now is simply that I write. I'm always writing, even if it's just in my head. On the one hand, that doesn't count since there's no "permanent" copy of it. On the other hand, it's good practice. The trick is to put the words onto a physical medium whenever possible, but to still let your mind flow all the time. And I write a lot on paper and the computer.

I always thought constraints on my writing were bad. They can be, but on the other hand, the discipline can bring out things you never had in you. Timed exercises ("write for five minutes and stop, even if it's mid-sentence") and length exercises (a page, under 100 words, exactly 100 words) are things I find not only useful, but to my surprise, a lot of fun. One of the results of doing a variety of these is that you quit worrying about length (unless required for an article or something) when you sit down just to write, or when something suddenly pours out.

The piece with which I opened this blog is a perfect example of all of this. Someone posted something about a "tropical blend sports coat" on Facebook. I thought, "What the heck does that even mean?" I immediately answered that question with some tropical fibers (Free Association), which led to the idea of edible coats (more FA), which reminded me of asbestos underwear (discussed long before Dilbert came out, more FA), and so on. Because I typed this all onto Facebook as I thought of it (write it down!) I had a copy. I squirreled that way in my ideas folder on the computer. Today I ran across it, tweaked it, realized it was close to 100 words, and fertilized, watered and pruned it til it was exactly 100 words.

For informational purposes, this blog is roughly 850 words. But I checked simply from curiosity. I don't really care.


We speak of The Muse, Inspiration, and related names as if some elder goddess walked among us. We say she comes and goes, conveying brilliance or shutting off the flow of words (music, images, whatever) at her will or whim. Frankly, I don't believe it-- whether we speak of a Person or Force. Rather, we either learn to live a life inspired by what's around us, in us, flowing out of us, or we don't.

I do believe in a God who inspires us, and at times even shuts things down. But we're made in God's image, meant to create, If we give ourselves to that, trust God, trust ourselves, then create we will.

The choice is ours.

Thanks to Sally Hanan for re-introducing me to timed exercises and length exercises. I'd forgotten both how much fun and how useful those are.

British Haiku

A friend of ours, Traci Vanderbush, commented today about watching her son drive off to work and how weird it felt. Suddenly it seemed they'd gotten there all too quickly. Britain (her son) seems to be moving toward a career as a stage magician. Here's my attempt to ensconce the moment in haiku.

    The car disappears
Like a teenage magic trick
   Speeding at my heart

(I really like this definition of ensconce from dictionary.com: "to settle securely or snugly". It's how I think of myself settling down to read, and fits beautifully with what I was trying to do here. I love our language!)