What's in a name?

On Vox: Daily Write: "The Truth"

"...the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God." The bailiff's baritone voice resonated in his skull. Sam squinted into the courtroom, scanning the assembled onlookers, looking for benevolent faces. The bailiff coughed, indicating that he was taking too long to repeat the oath. Sam's hand on the bible was moist; he wondered if a wet handprint would be left on the book when he lifted his palm away from it. He never thought that it'd come to this: ratting out his best friend to avoid jail time. It comforted him to know that he hadn't done it yet. Until he spoke the words that he'd agreed to with the DA, he could still somehow imagine that everything was going to work out fine for both of them. His heart was thudding in his chest, and his ears started to ring, as the judge set the lawyers in motion. The prosecutor got up confidently, deftly buttoning his jacket.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

On Vox: Spring Fever Produces Results!

I woke up a week ago, on Sunday morning, full of the desire to do lots and lots and lots of things. Artistic things. Meaningful things. Creative things. Call it Spring Fever. Call it manic. It's certainly a little crazy (although in a harmless, mostly positive, sorta way), and very energized. And in not quite seven days, what have I accomplished?

• Began writing creatively again, every day.
• Found someone to overhaul (repair/restore) my saxophones, and will likely take them to him today.
• Photographed a friend and his guitars. Posted some of the results to Flickr, but am awaiting film processing for the rest.
• Went to a glassblowing class, and produced a paperweight there. When not holding molten glass at the end of a steel pipe, picked up my camera and took photographs (also with the results posted to Flickr).

On tap for today: cleaning out my basement and my office, so that I can have a good setup for playing music (my bass and my saxophones), and stop feeling so stifled by my remaining boxes and junk that I just don't need. And, going to a music store to buy stands for my saxes, a stand for music, and new supply of reeds.

What a week!

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

On Vox: Daily Write: "An Ugly Duckling"

They were sitting on the floor of her bedroom, backs leaning against one of the twin beds, looking up at the wall. Chris flicked the lighter on, and touched the flame to the bowl, inhaling. He held his breath then, as he passed the pipe, embers still alight, to Sarah. Straining to speak while not exhaling much smoke, his voice constricted and cracking, Chris said, "What is up with that quilt you've got hanging on the wall?"

He nodded in the direction of the wall above the second twin bed, upon which was displayed a crib-sized quilt, in muted hues of cream and mauve. The pattern was haphazard, the fabrics' colors so sedate as to seem dingy, and nowhere was there evidence of any particular quality of workmanship. It was, by all rights, ugly.

Sarah looked up at the quilt, smiling a close-lipped grin, while she held her breath. Exhaling rapidly, she explained, "I just couldn't leave it hanging in the store. It looked so pathetic. Somebody put their time and energy into it, and some love. And it's a vessel for that now, and it just seemed really wrong to let that goodness be left alone there. It was sad. So, I saved it."

Sarah was always a sucker for stuff like this; overly empathetic with people, this trait translated even to inanimate objects. Take Christmas trees, for instance: it just about killed her to see all the left-behind, unsold trees, sitting on tree lots on Christmas Eve. Implausible as it was, some little part of her felt that those trees had hopes, and aspirations. They wanted to be in somebody's cozy living room, sparkling and bedecked with lights and ornaments.

Originally posted on moof.vox.com

On Vox: Daily Writing Practice

A trip to the beach over the weekend, and the Spring weather that's taken over here in Cambridge, has awakened my creative spirit, and I'm back in the mode of writing, photographing, thinking, making, doing.... A bit of a manic phase, perhaps. Whatever exactly triggered it, and whatever exactly will come of it, who knows?

One thing that's happened already: I decided to return to the practice of writing, every day. In 2005, I was at my most prolific ever, in terms of my personal writing, when I took the "Round Robin" class at The Writing Salon in San Francisco. Some of my long-time readers might remember that I posted a fair number of these "daily writes" to my Typepad blog (beginning in Oct 2005 -- you can check out the archives if you like). And so, I'm going to do that again. I've allied with a long-distance friend of mine, as writing partners, and we're doing 10-minute writes, every day... the same formula that was applied in the Round Robin. I'm going to push myself to post as many of them here as I can, although as with any writing, and in particular with writing that's not been polished and edited to death, it's hard to put it out there for all to see... it certainly makes me feel very vulnerable. And yet, I'm writing because ultimately I want people to read it! To that end, here's tonight's "write," which was... a struggle. The prompt was, "Write about flying:"

"I know why the caged bird sings," goes the poem... crying out for the ability to stretch its wings and fly. And so, many of us do this, every day. We sing through our art, our music, our work, our reaching out for connection to others. We sing through our writing. We try to break free of the bonds of self-doubt, of hardship, of fear, of boredom. Pushing oneself against these barriers, and giving, creating, risking... the sensation probably isn't entirely unlike flying. It feels dangerous, dizzying, and just a bit out of control. Much safer to tuck in our wings, and sit quietly alone, perched atop the walls we've spent our lives building.

Ugh. And right now, I'm feeling like what I just wrote is utter crap. I struggled to get started with this "write," and am mightily fighting my way through it, holding myself back at every impulse. Each key press is over-thought, and that feeling of flying through the creative process... the crazy wave that I sometimes ride when I've relaxed all of the internal editing and criticism... it's completely unattainable tonight.

I know it's out there though. I've flown before, and will do it again. That's what this process is all about. Stretching my wings often enough so that, every now and then, I get a good soaring high, instead of a painful fall from the comfort of my secluded nest. Unfortunately, tonight's is a bumpy ride down through the tree limbs of self-consciousness and inhibition. And thank god, that's the 10 minute mark, in which this "write" concludes with a resounding thud!

Originally posted on moof.vox.com