Why I Write

 All of my life has moved to this point.

That's the way it is.

For good or for ill.

And a little of both.

And in the midst of all that motion.

Commotion.

Coming and going.

Words came to matter to me.

Because I read a lot as a child?

The Hardy Boys.

Zane Grey.

The Weekly Reader.

National Geographic.

A Bible illustrated by Albrecht Durer.

U.S. News and World Report.

Reader's Digest and it's "Word Power."

All along the way, Words.

The Word made flesh.

Reality yearning to find a home.

Words to capture it.

Which can never be captured.

Reality, Divinity, the Universe.

It lends itself to us.

And then walks away.

And we wonder what happened.

We had it for a moment.

And then our hands are empty.

And we grasp again for the illusive wonder.

And it welcomes our embrace.

And it dances with us.

For a time.

And then it's gone again.

Leaving us with memories.

Thoughts almost forgotten.

A sense of once possessing, and then losing.

Only to try, and try, again.

That's me.

I sit here with reading.

Yearning to know.

I sit with my cup o'coffee.

And the crumbs of a breakfast sandwich.

I sit with my computer.

Playing with these words.

Infinite words that pull the heart.

Tease the mind.

Point to never never land over the seas.

Somewhere long ago.

Somewhere maybe ahead.

Old and new.

Tried and true.

Or just plain worn out and tired.

Words.

Ideas.

Images.

Enough to make the mind reel.

Or real.

Or true.

Or sad.

And blue.

Or full of energy.

Crazy hope.

Because out of the dusty words arises the Christ.

Stones get rolled away.

Angels say, "He's not here."

He's ahead of you.

Over there, up there, beyond the horizon.

Follow him.

Follow your dreams.

Your childhood dreams of adventure and discovery.

Never stop being a child.

Because children know.

What we're all likely to forget.

So, here I am.

Words piling out of me.

Clowns with sad or happy faces.

Piling out of the clown car of my soul.

And the audience scratches it's head.

Or laughs, or cries.

As the clowns entertain, entice.

So humbly at our service.

Self-deprecating.

Pointing never to the self of words.

But to the worlds beyond.

The sky so brilliant and blue.

The night ringed with stars and moon.

So, I write.

In the hopes of giving expression to truth.

Or at least which I think it might be.

To find the world to which all these words point.

A place where folks can sit in the sunshine of the day.

Or in the moonlight of the evening.

With quiet in the air.

And contentment in the spirit.

That's what I am for.

And if my aim is poor.

Well, I'm not the first to miss the point.

But that's as it should be.

No graven images said God.

Nothing sent in stone, or word, or words.

Except the Word made Flesh.

Which only proves the point.

Because Flesh never rests until it's dead.

Flesh moves and changes.

It's here one moment, and then somewhere else.

And then it's gone.

To find another home.

Somewhere.

So nothing set in stone.

Noting definitive.

But only questing.

And questioning.

And singing.

And some poetry.

To suddenly find Majesty

Sitting by your side.

When "Famous Authors" Bite the Dust

I've written about this before.

But I'd like to put my hand to the plow again.

The Last Bookstore

At the Last Bookstore in downtown LA, a magnificent 2-story's worth of used books, jammed-packed  tighter than a pickle jar, with treasures and also-rans.

It's the also-rans that intrigue me - because, at the time, they were all celebrities of one sort of the other - lots of newscasters had their day in the sun, and then Hollywood types with their "reveal all" memories, along with famous or infamous clergy pronouncing the latest list of who's in and who's out, and why you better watch out, and perhaps the saddest of all, the politicians, who, like a dandelion sprung up with color and pizzaz, only to fizzle out and blow away in the next wind.

Their books sold like hotcakes, and like uneaten hotcakes, got cold quickly maybe could be saved a day or so, but for what purpose? The next day, the next meal - oh well, so into the garbage can with yesterday's cold cakes.

So, here they sit on these fine shelves - if they had a voice, would they be clamoring to be taken in hand and taken home, an orphan no more? Or would they hang their metaphorical heads in shame and apologize for taking up so much paper and space to blather a message that no longer has any relevance, and even at the time, when the writer was "hot," had the seeds of irrelevance sown throughout the text?

Which begs the question:

What endures?

The historians do ... I mean, the women and men with credentials - who've been to school, who've paid the price of learning, with degrees - if not formal, at least the school of hard knocks, who've been around the horn a few times, who've weathered terrible storms in a decade-spanning career, who've asked the tough question, who enjoy a cocktail or two, who entertain friends with their wit and wisdom, who passionately engage the quest for truth, who care about The People - the folks who ride subways and buses and till the soil, folks who work for a living in the mines and mills of the land, who teach our children and rinse out bedpans. Care for The People is what dignifies the soul of the scholar and lends gravitas to their writing, the kind of writing that endures.

Even older historians eclipsed by later works have lasting value. Their's is not some grandstanding effort to gain attention (though everyone hopes to make a living by their pen), but to find the hidden meanings of history, the subtle connections, the mortar between the bricks, the stuff that holds it all together, and to find lessons - not the simplistic stuff of pulpit pounders, but the subtle stuff that's hard to grasp, yet there for taking. Life belongs to those who love, and love much; who learn constantly, who give themselves to the big ideas, who weigh things in the balance of history, often having to make hard decisions filled with flaws, yet willing to risk the approbation of friends and colleagues, in order to chart the clearest course through the thicket of competing ideas.

And autobiographies of writers and soldiers and political-insiders with decent intellectual credentials.  I think it's terribly hard to tell one's story well. But those who do so are always worth the read, because therein we all find bits and pieces of ourselves. After all, we all are human, and in spite of our many differences, we're not all that different after all. Our blood is red, our tears are salty, we all enjoy a good laugh and a bawdy joke; we love good food and fine drink, and sometimes can't sleep a wink because of worry and fear.

I won't name names, so you can guess for yourself who I might mean as an enduring author, or, for that matter, you can fill in the blanks with your own names - those who have been a companion along the way, and who will entertain and enlighten fifty or a hundred years from now, because their words are suffused with life, even if they were wrong a time or two, even when they're all-too human with ill-temper, vanity and spitefulness; when their follies and foibles trump the game.

At the time, they might not have been "famous" - likely, they were not. But they were serious writers, women and men who thought deeply about their lives and the times in which they lived, the people they knew and lived with, and their author's legacy is a simple one - a mirror in which we find ourselves reflected, even as we search our own times and experiences for meaning and hope and reasons to live.

But whatever their name, these things seem to be the descriptors of those who endure, even when they bite the dust.