Wishing on the Sun

When I was little, my dad used to take us out to see the stars. When we climbed the Blue Ridge mountain range, we saw the Milky Way spill across the night sky. When we visited relatives in the middle of nowhere NY, we lay in the middle of a small town street and looked for Cassiopeia, Orion, and the dippers. At home, in the heart of suburbia (because, despite rumors to the contrary, it does have one), we watched meteors streak the sky over street lamps and headlights.

We didn’t wish on the stars then. We didn’t believe in Santa or the Easter Bunny- just the tooth fairy. We looked at the stars because they were beautiful, because they were the sailor’s constants in the sea of daily uncertainty. People come and go, but the stars stay. People change, but constellations are constants.

I changed. And I started wishing on stars. I still didn’t believe in them, but I wanted to -so I wished. And I changed again. The stars were no longer full of wishes for the future- they were the laughter of a girl who was gone. The stars in the night sky weren’t pinpricks of hope for tomorrow- they were memories of things that would never be again. So I loved them even more than I had before.

I needed more then ever, however, something to wish on. A magic, even if I couldn’t really believe in it, to help me make it through the day. I stopped wishing on Orion’s belt buckle, on the gilded edges of Cassiopeia’s chaise, on the water sparkling on dippers’ rims. I started wishing on the sun.

The star we build our lives around. That numbers our days and counts out the hours. The star who always shines somewhere in the world. The star that, on blinking out, will end our need for wishes anyway.

Science, the Big Bang, and God. .... And I'm Not Quite Sure What My Point Is.....

We know all about conservation of mass/energy. We know that there is no such thing as spontaneous generation (and, of course, by know I mean that is the current understanding of Science on this matter. Science, being man's current belief scheme as supported by facts elicited through observation and experimentation. A belief scheme that changes just as much as religion has, as we build upon the ideas and discover the mistakes of the past). So then: some matter, some energy always existed. I call that God. Actually, I just said that because it sounds neat and concise. I desperately want this to be neat and concise, but it is not. So let me start again.

Some matter, some energy has always existed. In order to explain the big bang, some existing force had to act upon some existing matter. The Big Bang theory has never been an explanation of how matter and energy came to be. It assumes the existence of both matter and energy, and extrapolates how they formed the world as we see it today. It is not, in essence anti-theistic because it does not explain the origin of original matter and energy (A point that is not really what I'm talking about, but bears keeping in mind).

Whether approaching the creation of the world from a scientific or deistic point of view, there needs to be an acknowledgment that matter/energy/life do not spontaneously occur. Some force has to act on the appropriate matter in order to create mass/energy/life. I believe this force is a divine being.

Why? Well, firstly-why not? Really, Pascal's Wager people.

Secondly, life experiences. I know! So suggestible, biased, and unscientific. I get it, after all, I am by nature fairly skeptical. I doubt strongly the experiences of others due to emotional and hopeful natures. But I know my life, and I know that the most profound experiences I have had are all linked to God. Scoff, mock, or agree, God has unavoidably put himself into my life's story at several critical times.

Thirdly, and a little more scientifically (However, I think we should all know by now that you can neither prove the existence of a god nor the lack of existence of a god. Nor can we scientifically prove phenomena that there was no witness to. Both sides of the Deist/Atheist debate can only extrapolate the creation of the world, etc. using the evidence we have before us now.) I believe in God because there is something in me, as a human, anthropologically, that wants to. Because humanity as a whole seeks to explain things outside of our frame of reference. Because we, as people, never create a truly new idea. Because the probability of this world being formed by chance are so minute, I struggle to grasp the tiny odds.

If I was trying to explain my belief in God in terms of the humanities, which is, admittedly, the way I am inclined to look at the world, and therefore God, I'd have a whole different set of reasons. But here, I'm trying to explain my belief in the second language of my brain (science, not humanities). I know many people who are scientists, doctors, mathematicians that understand these ideas better than I do, but they don't often choose to use their second language, writing, to explain these things. So this was a stab in the dark, hopefully a workable translation that will get ideas and thoughts started.



PS: I would like to point out that: I really only have one friend who reads this blog regularly, so this is not for you. It's for me and her, and if you want to eavesdrop, go right ahead. I know it's public property out here on the inter-webs. But don't be offended if you don't like this 'cause it isn't for you (And friend, I won't be offended if you don't like this). Also, I know I'm not a scientist. I just am trying to put down what makes sense to me in light of what I know. If anyone reads this and would like to politely point out errors in my understanding, thanks oodles for your tact. I doubt anyone is actually gonna read this who isn't my friend (hi again, friend :) but just in case, I wanted to be clear about the intent of this. Also, If you do actually read this for the poetry and stories and found this random religious dissertation, um... I doubt this will happen very often, so come back soon for more of our regularly scheduled programing.  Thanks for reading, and I hope you had fun!


And....
If you are here for the poems, here's one:

Angel

Heaven should be

The way earth was, when you were on it

When there was hair, not streets, of gold

When the gates to your soul were the only sapphires

When the daisies fell from your fingertips, sweetly

When your lily skin curved against my body

When milk and honey rolled themselves into words

Trilled from your tongue through lips like love

Heaven will be

The way earth was, when you were on it.

Longer

My theme for this week has been writing longer. I love writing small poetry: haikus, limericks, etc. I love making every word count and giving depth to small ideas, or making a large one as simple as possible. Or, using the least amount of words to paint the most detailed pictures. And that's good. What is bad is that sometimes I think to myself, this poem could be longer, but I'm afraid I'll mess it up, so I'll stop here. Or I'm too lazy to add to a poem that would probably work better longer, and with a more full story. So this week, I tried to write poems with multiple stanzas, continuing ideas that demand more than just a few lines. Let me know what you think!


Also, I did write something between the 5th and now, I just am not ready to put it online.  So if you want to read it, Facebook or email me and I'll send it on over :)

My favorite parts (Just FYI): Fourth stanza of Nothing....  stanzas two and four and the ideas of stanza's three and five of Losing.





Nothing Good Can Stay
When February falls frozen
And March trudges on her way
Then die the thrushes,
--nothing good can stay

When April rains, harsh and heavy,
that flowers might bloom in May
Then drown the seedlings
--nothing good can stay

When June brings the desert,
July follows with fiery ray
Then burn the forests
--nothing good can stay

When August sends a shiver-
September turns gold to hay
then death to all the roses
--nothing good can stay

When October skies darken,
November nights steal the day
Then sleep steals from the woodland
--nothing good can stay

When December strikes the death blow
January turns bright eyes away
Then dies the old year
--nothing good can stay.




Losing
I lost you, like the keys to an old house
hurriedly thrust in some coat's pocket,
fallen on the floor, soon buried, forgotten

I lost you, like a handful of loose change
drifting in the ether of grey car seats,
fallen careless from fickle fingers

I lost you, like flowers fading on a table
petals tenuously hanging, wearily awaiting
the inevitable doom of all things picked

I lost you, like the last shard of the moon
slipping slowly into obscurity
on a night of wind and clouds.

I lost you, like the memory of a sunny afternoon
that perfect moment, forgotten by a mind
that would have remembered rain

I lost you, like a long year spent sloppily
on splashy second-rate entertainment,
regretted long before it was over

I lost you, like hours wasted on a dream
wrapped in maybes that would never be yeses
living for hopes that hadn't a prayer

I lost you, like love, asked too many times
for forgiving and forgetting, finally closing the door-
leaving only the sound of its' locking.

Mythology

I've always loved mythology. The grand scale of the stories, magic and the telling of how the world became what it is. I was thinking about the gods and goddesses awhile ago, and the idea of the modern Greek tragedies stuck in my head. The gods living on, neglected by mortals, impotent. I also thought about Hera, how nobody likes her. But I feel sorry for her, and I wanted her side oft e story. Maybe its' the feminist in me, but when I think about women living in a society where their only power comes from what man they marry and the children they have by him, I can't help but feel sympathy. So, this is the beginning of that concept. I've done a couple of pictures based on this idea, but I decided to switch over to words- because I'll never do the idea justice with my limited artistic talent.

This is kind of a prologue. Hera talking to Atlas about life leading up to the story. I'm not sure what the story is exactly, but I know it involves Zeus, Hera, Aphrodite, and Poseidon with Atlas serving as an audience. We'll see how it goes.
Oh! But before that, here's a poem I wrote that made me decide to turn the tragedies from pictures to words:

Star Gazing
I watched
Liquid light fall from dipper's rim
where Orion paused to drink before
his hunt, shining pelts swinging from his belt
Cassiopeia, watched lounging on a throne
glistening, resplendent, with silver inlay.
Sparks flew from Draco's open mouth
and virgins trembled, hair glistening in it's light
as Hercules sword arced, flashing, toward the flames.
Andromeda strums her golden lyre,
awaiting Peruses' return as creatures of the deep
swim swift around her feet.
I lay on the onyx grass and watched
the diamonds dance their epic paths
of tragic glory one soft summer night.


HERA: Greek Tragedies

Atlas, stooped and old: wrinkles sagging, bagging eyes. Atlas the proud and powerful, the world on his shoulders. Once the world was a trap he fell into, but as the years pass, he has turned it into heroism. He holds the world, and he believes that he stands between it and destruction, dashed to pieces on the heaven's floor. But he has been deluded, like all of us. He is unnecessary: the world hangs on the strong string of science, suspended between the earth and the infinite. But no one will tell him this. We remember. So he sits, the world on his shoulders, and the years roll on.

I don't know if anyone else ever visits him. If they too demand an audience from this captive, I have never heard of it. I started coming here years ago, because where else could I go? Cuckolded queen of the gods. Goddess of the family, yes, who can't keep a husband. Queen, above- and removed from -all. By the power I hold over them still. Or perhaps by the bitterness that emanates from my eyes. What will she do next? I hear them whisper. Just loud enough for my ears, daring me to take them on too. Don't they understand? I've seen them do these things too. Proud, insolent, young. That's what we were. With the might of the mountain coursing though our veins. But as they have, I also have aged. I have, and we have, grown wise. Or I have. I hope.

Atlas, like so many times, I have come to talk. But I have not yet found the words so I sit.

I stare at the world on his back. If I were him, I'd just let the earth fall. I would hope there was no chain to hold it after I was gone. I would laugh as the world turned and I would smile over the screams of the countless lovers during the short drop. Then I would pull a broom from the star-shapes and sweep the shattered glass from my parlor floor, throwing it out into the evening and forming a new constellation. That one is earth, that one is there to remind you what happens when you forget.

Atlas, we have been forgotten. But I have been forgotten longest.

Salting the Wound

I think that is my theme today.  Seriously- my morbidity is showing a lot latley.  (Laura, tell Scott sorry ;)

My dad wrote a limerick, and I realized I'd never written a real limerick (just elementary school fake-outs). So I wrote one. And it's kind of awful (in a good way I think). It seems kind of cruel to write limericks about things that can be so painful, but it does twist the knife well. So here it is, in all of its' morbid glory.

Limerick
There once was a girl who never grew
Though her family begged her to
She lay there all day
Just wasting away
In a box the size of a shoe.

(Also, I learned about this:
OEDLIF (The Omnificent English Dictionary In Limerick Form))

And after that poem, my mind got stuck there (you may recognize the first part from 'ugly baby poemlings' ages ago):

Always Asleep
Empty spaces for ghosts to fill-
She left a bassinet, a tiny shoe
The stars may laugh
But angels cry
As I sing this last lullaby
And while I l hum your empty tune-
With your loss fill the room
Mothers remember
Though brothers forget
Our never awakened, always asleep.

Secretary
Little white fingers,
Laced with little white scars,
Trace crisp white knives
All day long

Little white fingers
Wearing little ruby rings
Dream of lemons
All night long

And this one is a little less like the others.  I was thinking about how Angel finds her way into almost everything I write (very obviously in many of my recent peices, and even in less obvious places, if you look for her, you'll find her). 

Theme
Playfully rolling off of my tongue,
your sounds slip into babbling brooks of ink-
they dance through my dissonance-
as you hum homilies, your elusive echos alliterate
You are my theme

In the spaces between each word,
your breath breaths life into emptiness-
you punctuate my written moments
with your gasps, sighs, and silences.
You are my theme

Similes-metaphors, they are the same
they are you- and you are
daffodil sun, aster moon
my little lost lamb, my words, my life
You are my theme

Have a great weekend :)