Dracowulf

Pick up the pen to pick up the pieces.  It really is that easy.  Organize thoughts and rationalize all your emotions.  Explain yourself in the first, accuse in the second, give it all away in the third person. Take up something deconstructive.  There is no point in destroying what is or making something new - all the patterns are repetitions anyway.  But there is something in the breakdown.  The bloodletting. There is no me, myself, and I.  There are more than three dimensions to live in.  Run in circles and eventually you will be where you've been.  You will meet yourself, and the third voice will take you in. 12.21.2012

How do we learn to live with ourselves?  How do we learn how to stop trying to be someone else?  How much of who we are is invested in what we do? Finding strength and finding voice are not easy things to do.  I am trying and searching, but I am so afraid that if I finally find and speak, I will discover I have nothing to say.  Then, in panic and bitter agony, I fall silent and still.  Depression is there, waiting, with open arms.  But I don't want to go there. But I don't want to be here either, accompanied by so much doubt and abject uncertainty.  Am I a fraud?  Am I trying too hard?  Where am I on the page? 02.16.2012

So.  Here I am again, at a familiar place - in my mind and on the page.  I am beginning again; I am starting some- thing I have done before - something that was born out of inspiration and initiative, but peetered out as so many projects have, abandoned regretfully somewhere along the way.  Writing that began as little more than novelty silently became a necessity.  And look what happened.  I fell apart.  Earthquakes of unfettered unce- rtainty shook me to pieces, and left me desperate to collect the shards of who I thought I was.  It took a long fall in order to raise my- self up again; but now I am here, and it's not over yet. More unknowns

What pulls us to our feet -- What creates imagined beauty -- What betrays us in all we do -- What contains our dreams -- What holds our prayers as we whisper -- Rough diamonds and polished crystals, shattered dreams and perfect masterpieces, they begin with hearts and minds, but they are born in human hands.  As once we were formed, so too are we potters at the wheel of our own creations - and we are the clay. 12.11.2010

    Signing at the top of her voice, music blasting from the speakers only to escape through wide open windows, she knew this was living.  "If I had two hands," she sang, and "We need a hero." Tunes carried out on the gusts that played with her hair, not to be heard.  That was the very point of it, she guessed; it was this visible invisibility she craved - the bewildering anonymity of faces hovering behind windshields and over black steering wheels.  "Lesson one," she sang, "do not hide" - and she imagined somehow the handsome young man in the squat blue sedan would meet a beautiful woman, they would marry and their children woul

More than any feeling; emotion, sensation, or thought, there is power beyond comprehension contained - untapped - in the spirit of our being. Like potential, or the latent, dormant skill we have yet to discov- er, there is buried strength in us. The seal of the creator, locked deep in our hearts, written in indelible ink.  So often we are loath to recognize it, because it means that we must admit something to God and the world - something we do not even want to admit to ourselves. It requires that we realize that we are broken and incomplete in our very nature, and we must lose our pride and accept the gifts of grace

I think there is a certain joy that blesses us, some days.  A joy that knows no real reason or cause - and perhaps that is the very definition of joy.  Pure, unadulterated, wholly illogical, innocent and free happiness and peace, despite reality.  It can be felt in the welcome warmth of the springtime sun, the pleasure of a favorite song, or the long-awaited return of an absent friend.  It is a sensation we all know and long for.  But for all joy's inexplicable nature, it is best captured by the eternally simple and gloriously childish expression we call the smile. 03.29.2010

There's something in my gut. It stirs up every now and then; awakens, by no apparent motive and to no obvious disturbance.  The something awakens.  And it roars. It eats its way through my core. Devastating in its ravenous destruction, it grows in size and intensity.  The something carves a deep wound in my spirit.  I yield to it so consistently, so wholeheartedly, thoughtlessly.  Before I've fully realized the something has stirred in me again, it already has me. It holds me captive. Prisoner. Prostrate before its clear and irrevocable victory. The something has won again.  N

I want to weave a story like a tangled ball of yarn.  something with many fibers all twisted together and wound tightly into one braided strand of woolen complexity. I don't want to make some fancy pair of socks, or a cliched sweater that no one will ever wear and will always lie and say that they do. I want to create a story that will be wondrous.  I want there to be tangles and knots that don't seem to make any sense on the first time through, and maybe not even the third. But it will make meaning to at least one person at some point. I will make a story that is more than just another kind of entertainment. It will be hard and long and