Sail Home, Teddy Bear

On my desk is a musical snow globe. I’ve had it for almost ten years now and I look at it as a reminder of times long before now. When times were much more simpler and the answers were much more easier to come by.

The inside is that of a teddy bear in a blue sailor suit looking through a spyglass. He’s standing a toy sailboat with a patch in the sail and treasure box behind him. When you wind up the music box part of him, the song that plays is “It’s a Small World After All.”

I was in high school when I got this keepsake. It was given to me by a teacher I still talk to today. While she was out shopping one day afterschool, she saw this snow globe and she thought it reminded her so much of me; a lost soul with so many talents and dreams, but hard pressed to find where it was he belonged in the world. That was me. In a way, I still think that’s me.

Over the years, I’ve started numerous projects, helped complete strangers, dedicated a portion of my life to helping the generation after me get a foothold into lives they didn’t think were possible. All the while, I set aside my own hopes and aspirations to put theirs ahead of mine. Was it because that was just who I am as a person, was it because that was what God wanted me to do with that period of time in my life and wanted me to go through the personal hell in the background that I was going through, or was I just not selfish enough to throw everyone else under the bus and do what I wanted? I still don’t have an answer to this day.

What bothers me more than most is that I’m not sure if all the time that I put into half the things in that part of my life were even worth it. I’m reminded periodically by some of those people I helped how ungrateful they actually are to the  years I put into helping people. Perhaps it’s their loss, but it certainly is disheartening to know that there are people who’s souls are just that dark.

At night, as part of the curse I have endured ever since I had taken pencil to paper and fingers to keys, I stop and wonder if every story is worth telling. There are millions and millions books in the world and my story will soon be part of the masses. It will be part of a silent society of hard bound pages sitting in store or library bookshelves. I often wonder, is the story I intend to tell the world the story I really want them to know.

Beyond that, I wonder about my future. I wonder about the dreams that I think of every time I listen to music and think about what life would be like if I hit the writing jackpot of having a best seller. And I wonder of a simple life. A life spent on my own, doing the things that normal people do, spending my days working and writing, every now and then having the dream that I once had that I would be great and people would would know my name as they might remember recent authors like Dan Brown or Stephanie Meyer. I wonder what I would be doing with my life while I’m writing and working on another story that I will probably spend years writing and perfecting.

While it’s not a sad thing to think about one’s future, it can become overwhelming to wonder about so much and wonder even more about how soon you might actually get to that point. It’s even more of a wonder to think that even if you get to that part of your life, is that really where you were meant to end up? With all the talents and abilities that we’re born with and we never use, do we ever really end up where we truly belong? Do we ever really find the place in the world we’re meant to spend our days?

And when the world is just too much to handle anymore, when the questions of my destiny and my future are just too much to hold onto in my mind, I look over to the corner of my desk. There, looking at me through his spyglass is my companion. The little teddy bear in his boat trying to find the place to leave his treasure. I play his song and realize that the world is indeed a small place with many questions we never know the answer to until the time comes that they need answering. But the journey that we take to find them will determine if the answers we get were the ones we were hoping we’d find.

“The journey home will be rough, Little Bear. Guard safe your treasures as I will guard safe my dreams of your final destination.”

Remember Me When the Ink Fades

Maybe it’s the writer in me that is always coming up with the scenes in my head that look like scenes from movies I might have seen before, but I don’t think of it as a bad thing. They might come in handy one day when I need a visual image.

One that sticks out the most is the opening scene to a movie about me. You see, life in itself a huge movie that we’re constantly writing the script for someone else to read one day. The writers of the world have the major advantage because we’re actually keeping notes.

My movie opens up like this…

The sky is mostly clear with the presence of several puffy clouds trying desperately to climb higher but to no avail.

On a paved road, in between two fields of freshly plowed land, drives a black, sports-car with the top down. The leather interior is completely untouched by age. The two-seat car has room for the driver, a young man with black hair, sunglasses to hide his deep brown eyes, casually dressed, with a smile on his face as if he’s driving towards a destination he’s been waiting to get to his whole life.

And in the passenger seat is a leather bound notebook. It’s the only companion he’s taken with him that has never left his side and was always willing to hear his side of the story at a moment’s notice.

In front of them, the road is leading straight to a major city. Skyscrapers are few, highways are clearly visible, and it’s free of memories he’d rather leave behind.

The driver reaches to the center of the dash and clicks on the radio and it begins to play “Forever Young” by Rod Stewart. He takes one look over to the book on his right, then to the road in front of him. A grin crosses his face as the camera leaves him and watches the car drive off in the direction of the city.

The song continues to play and the title “As He Once Wrote” appears on the screen.

You can use your imagination as who you could see playing me. I haven’t really gotten that far in my fantasy. Besides, I’m only 24. I’ve not written anything worth while that people would actually remember me for. And even if I had, it would still be one short script.

I’m pretty sure it’s healthy to imaging myself being a great writer one day. I’m sure that even if I don’t make millions of dollars, which writer’s usually never do, I will have gotten the one thing that every writer wants. Immortality. The ability to transcend generation after generation. When the story we tell is just as powerful or as meaningful as the day it was published and read for the very first time.

Even if I write a horrible story, I want to write the most horrible story that was ever written. Why? Because you will still be speaking my name long after I’m gone as the example of how not to write a book. It doesn’t matter if the book was any good, the point is to never be forgotten.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been trying to do all my life. I’ve met people from all over the world and have made friends in all corners of the globe thanks to the Internet. Most of those people know that I write. Whether they think I’m a good or great writer is still up to them but they know that much about me. Perhaps it’s my talent that is asking that I don’t let myself go to waste by not using it to create something that will leave my mark on the world? It’s the essence of every writer to write something great. Great enough that he’ll get his name noticed just once and that would be sufficient for him. But that’s not what I want for me.

I want my writings to make people stop and wonder. Wonder if how they always thought of something is the way they should keep thinking about it after they’ve read the words I’ve written. Where I can challenge the thoughts of millions and reach those would would say, “Archangel wrote ‘(insert future quoted text here)’ and now people stop and wonder if that’s the way things should be.”

THAT’S WHAT I WANT! I said to myself a long time ago that I wasn’t going to do this for the money. While money can buy me the things that I need and the short term wants, it will never fill the void in my soul that needs to be place by the thing that I feel I need to do with this life. My very existence needs to be validated by someone other than those who can physically see me or talk to me. I need the validation from the people who haven’t met me but have read my works. My soul cries out for them to read the words I pen and remember who it was that wrote them.

Money will never buy my destiny.

It’s All a Matter of Faith

Yeah, it’s kind of funny a guy who writes under the pen name “Archangel” is writing about faith. I can’t even tell you how many times people have asked me, “What’s an Archangel?” I just smile and tell them, “They’re messengers, defenders,  believers, but most of all mysterious.”

But it doesn’t escape me that I can’t write under this name if I’m not going to at least be the embodiment of what the entity actually is. While I understand that fact, those who know me know that it has never been part of my nature to be one who is really into his faith. I believe in what I believe in because of what I have experienced and what I have been taught, but how I chose to believe and how I chose to live my life is still up to me.

That is one of the major problems with religion in this day and age. We’re so lost in the idea that if we don’t follow The Bible word for word that when our time is finally up, St. Peter will look over our life and if we did one thing out of place that we didn’t feel we should do, we will not be granted access into Heaven.

I, using the title that I call myself, don’t believe this in the slightest. I believe that our faith will define us as a person. The morals that we hold dear and how we treat others will be how we are seen in the eyes of God and those who watch us from Heaven.

It’s for that very reason that I don’t claim a religion. You see, religions make you follow so many different rules that I just can’t get into. Church for the most part is just a chore. Have you ever noticed that there are some people who go to church in these days mostly because it is out of habit? They aren’t getting anything out of it. I wasn’t raised to go to church every single day, but I wasn’t raised without the understanding that I don’t do anything in this world without God watching over me. The things that I do against myself and against people will be the evidence that is used when I make my final journey from this world and into the eternal realm that is Heaven or Hell.

The other thing that I never understood was confession. I don’t understand why it was that God needed a middle man. If God says that I can come to him for any reason and at any time, why is it that I need to report my sins to a preacher? I think telling God that I’m truly sorry for the things that I’ve done and am asking for forgiveness from him directly should be good enough. What does the preacher or deacon want? Is it in the event that he should die before me that he’ll speak to God or St. Peter on my behalf? I don’t think so.

What angers me more than anything is when Christians try to convert people forcefully. When you are a believer in God or in any religion, I don’t believe that you have the moral right to try to convert as many people to your side as possible. When a man or woman realizes that they aren’t anything without God in their lives and they need to be around people who believe the same way, that is the power of God. That is the power of faith. When we realize for ourselves that we cannot function in this world without knowing that there is a force out there that is watching over us and will help us if we ask for it and are deserving.

I know there might be some of you who are probably skeptics and are saying “You can’t make me believe in something you can’t prove to me exists.” You’re absolutely right. But that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not up to me to prove to you that God exists. It’s not up to any of his followers to prove to you that he exists. It’s completely up to you. But you do not have the moral right to tell me that I’m crazy for believing in something that I cannot see or touch anymore than I have the right to tell you that you’re going to go straight to hell if you don’t find God.

So if I don’t claim a religion, how can I possibly follow God? That’s easy. I don’t have to follow a religion to believe in God. All I have to do is have faith. My faith makes me a believer, not my religion. If there is one truth that is evident in this world, it’s that faith was a fantastic idea until we decided to make it into a religion. Man’s need to be social has caused him to ruin so many things. Having faith is one of them. I’m not saying there is anything wrong with  having a religion. If you need to have that in your life then that’s wonderful. What I’m saying is that you don’t need to have one if you just want to believe. You don’t need to say, “I’m Christian, I’m Catholic, I’m Baptist, I’m Methodist.” What you need to tell people is, “I’m a believer. I believe that if I do right unto people and I live my life to the best that God has given me the wisdom, knowledge, and the ability to live, then in his eyes I honor him by doing good in my life.”

I won’t have a problem joining you on a Sunday morning at church and listening to a sermon. But do not expect me to help you convert the masses. Do not expect me to stand on street corners in front of bars or in front of rallies of people who go against what your religion says is wrong and tell everyone that they’re going to Hell and they need to believe like you do. Even those people who don’t believe like you can have faith. They have the faith to know that one day, you won’t see them as different from you because they think a different way. One day… one day we’ll stop and ask ourselves, “Do I really want to know the meaning of life? Or did someone already tell me and I missed the point?”

It started with a Notebook… and a Teacher

It’s amazing to realize that it’s been nearly two years since I last posted on this techno-journal of mine. The time has passed by so quickly. I recall it wasn’t too long ago when I was lost in a world of empty spaces (I loved that line from back in the day). I was a poet searching for the starlight that was the every essence of my core. The one beacon that would give me the inspiration enough to keep going. Alas, some of the stars in my universe have faded, but not all stars die at the same time.

It took me years to get over the real reason as to why I started this blog. Reasons that only those close to me will ever know. Perhaps one day I will tell the world of why it was that certain things came to be with me. For now, as I still try to understand my craft, my stories are calling out to be understood and I must listen to them first.

I remember the days when it was anger and depression that fueled most of my poetic works. I used to call my works “Mortal Nightmares”. As a writer, I’ve found every work that has ever wanted to be created, wanted to be spoken, wanted to be written, demanded it. They never ask. When they do not get what they demand, they make you suffer every moment of every day. They rob you of your sleep, your concentration, and punish you for even attempting to create them on a schedule that isn’t their own. Sounds nuts? Have you ever made plans to write something and created every single idea in your head, but when it came time to writing it, you went completely blank? You wonder why some of us writers aren’t completely all there? It’s not us. It’s the stories that take hold of us once we give ourselves that title.

About that title, however. Writer. Perhaps I should find another title for myself. Not that “writer” is a bad title for what I do. But there is a sense of honor that comes from it that must be earned. I don’t think I’ve made the jump from storyteller to writer.

A year or so ago, I lost a very good friend and gained another angel. He was more than a friend, really. He was teacher as all good friends should be. They should teach us the things about ourselves that only they can see. But he, in fact, was literally a teacher.

I had a friend named Richard back during the days when I was still trying to figure out what in the hell I was doing with my life. I spent most of my days hanging out in my old high school’s library. Hey, at least I was hanging out in a library and not on a street corner.

Richard had a way of explaining things about life. He’d been around quite long enough to tell you how people worked and when people were blowing smoke up your ass. Of all the people I had the chance to get to know while I was there, he was the one I connected more with. Such a down to earth man. I still remember this jokes. Only he could tell the punch-line of a joke and walk of being ever so proud of how bad or rude it was. I loved it.

Richard died not too long ago. I think about him from time to time. Now you may be wondering what he has to do with me not wanting to call myself a writer. It has to do with the day that I actually gave him something of mine to read. I told him that I’d had this story in my head since I was 13. I’d never been able to finish it and every so often I would pull out the old pages of my work and look them over. Something compelled me to give them to him that day.

Through a casual conversation, before he had to go back to teaching, he told me something that I have carried with me ever since the day he spoke the words to me. He told me that it takes 10 years to become a writer and even then there’s still a chance that people won’t respect you for it. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when he told me that. I know that I was old enough to completely get the point of what he was telling me: Just because you can write, doesn’t make you a writer. You can write all you want, that doesn’t mean people will automatically give a damn about what you’ve written.

To this day, every time I sit at my computer or I pick up a pen / pencil to make a note in a journal or write a story idea, I remember him. I remember that every time I touch ink to paper, or every time I type a key to make a word on a screen, I’m taking time off of that ten year clock and I’m perfecting myself more and more. I’m not the best at writing and I don’t want to be. I just want people to remember that I could write.

So I guess the most fitting thing to call myself would be, instead of writer, is a creator. Because every time a person sits down to write words on paper or to draw the images in his mind, we spark a dream. A dream that we may one day be more than what we are even if that’s not what we’re aspiring to be. We spark that imaginative sprit, maybe not just in ourselves, but in the mind of someone else who doesn’t know they can create just as well as they can dream.

Right now, I’m sitting in the desk were it all began. The same desk I sat at when I pulled out a whole bunch of paper at two in the morning and started writing the very story that still haunts my very dreams and imagination. It’s my master story. It’s the story, I know and believe, that I was created to create. Heh, God made a creation to create something else.

I’ve come full circle. I’ve spent the days of these last two years wondering why it was my life has felt so empty. I’ve finally figured it out. I’m nothing if I can’t do what I was given the talent to do. The more I deny who I am and what I should be doing, the harder life will be for me. The more I defy the intended purpose of my creation, the more empty I will feel and worse the feeling gets of my dreams slipping away. Ever since that day that I started writing my master story, I can envision myself capturing that dream I’ve had for so long.

It’s not a dream of fame and fortune. It’s not the ability to meet people I might not have ever had the chance to meet ever. It’s the dream that people will know me for one reason. I’m a writer. “Archangel is the pen name of a famous writer.” To me, the immortalization of my name, my works, and the spirit I had when I wrote them will be worth more than what any riches in this world can buy me.

I’m not doing this for the money. I’m doing this for the title. I’m doing this… for Richard.

Rhyme and Reason

I've spent the last few months of my life trying to find a rhyme or reason to my sudden failure to write something and why it angers me so. Perhaps the springtime rains will bring forth some new ideas on fantasy and reality and help me once again start creating things as I did a long time ago....when I was happy.

Over my desk in my office is the poster for my first "personal" novel. As much as I would love to give the name out right now to those who have been reading my blogs since I first started writing them, I have a funny feeling that the people who are in the book who will subsequently receive my version of "shock and awe" are one of the many who are reading this and are still following my life. Perhaps it's a way to not completely lose track of me. Perhaps it's fear of what little they knew I was capable of doing when pushed to the outer limits of what a person should actually take. Or perhaps it's mostly to understand now what they couldn't understand then. I don't think I will ever have the chance to find out. But if my daydreams are true, then maybe I just might get the chance.

It's by this uncertainty that I still am able to write. Not because I have "The Urge" as I've called it, but mostly because it helps me to forget and focus on the tasks ahead. There is still much work to be done on my novel and concurrently with this one, I'm working on a couple of others. Needless to say, the task is a great one.

But I will always have time for those who have long enjoyed my poetry. For you few people who are reading my essays, I thank you and I value your opinions. You are the reason that I will continue writing. For as long as I know I am writing for more then myself, I will continue.

I said to a Canadian friend of mine not too long ago, that if I had the time I would dedicate the next poem that I worked on to him. I'm a man of my word and I will honor him in a poem.  Justin....this one's for you....

There are times I'm awakened
in the night with great fear
that these could be the last days of men
and the end draws near.

There are rumors abound
of wars putting
crown against crown.

The people they suffer
and wonder if ever
if they will find a leader
who will beg the world to differ.

One thing is constant
of this I am sure,
these times are not pure,
we are children no more.

Forgetting ourselves,
forgetting great laughter,
it is our own vanity
that most of us are after.

Lifting my eyes and what should I see,
but the essence of winter
falling so neatly.

I kneel in respect
to that which created me
and say the prayer
which asks so sweetly...

"I ask unto you,
oh Heavens above me,
for years I have wondered
has love bid the world adieu?"

"Can it be so
that the world is so empty and cold?
Like an answer to my dreams,
I leave that up to you."

 

Until next time.
© Archangel 2008

Warmth of Spring

The winter sky is over here in my small part of Heaven which I call Texas. I can tell it's over just by the disappearance of the hunter in the winter sky. Of course, I'm talking about Orion.

Of all the constellations in the sky, he is the one I watch the most all year long. I guess it has to do with the fact that I've always been close to stories about warriors and mythical creatures. Or maybe there was a time when Orion pointed to something more special in my life. For whatever the reason, his time is come and gone. I'll wait for him for a few months and I'll know winter has come back when he's arrived.

I've taken a long break from writing. I've been trying to clear my head of past ideas that never worked and ideas I have yet to put on paper. When I was younger I remembered writing stories about places that I could see only in my dreams and how I would one day get to see these places. I guess my mind knew that I was lacking for ideas of what I feel I should be writing and I'm suddenly a child again. Filled with the memories of places long forgotten and people who I left behind.

To all the new people who've stopped by my blog and have wondered where I've been, I apologize. Even writers need a time to gather their thoughts every now and again. But thank you for your kind words about how much you like my writing and look forward to when I would be writing more. I'll try to be a bit more consistent this year, but I'll make no promises.

So, I guess it's time for a poem. After reading a few of my past poems I noticed that I don't really have any love poems besides the ones I wrote for the new year. I never was one for sappy love poems because anything you've ever wanted to say to someone you love has already been said by someone else a million times. But I would think the real challenge to writing a poem penned by love would be to be able to say something that has already been said and be able to say it better than they did. Maybe now, I'll give it a shot.

 

Forever watching
a moonlit covered sky
filled with millions of stars
that remind me of your eyes,
I lay here with you
and quietly slip into what would be reality
if holding you in my arms
was merely a dream.
 

Letting cool winds cover us
to send a chill through your body
and a message to my heart
to warm you with my love.

And until the time should come
that we should part from
this petite part of paradise,
I shall forever be with you
long after the moon has set
and the stars no longer twinkle.
 

All I ask until then
is for you to love me the same
and when you utter who you love
let it be my name.

 

Until next time

© Archangel 2008

Warm Winters

The worst part of the winter is now over and now it's becoming more and more like spring each day. The weatherman on the Tv is always calling for colder weather coming. Somehow, I don't think that'll be happening anymore. This year is the year of changes. At least it is for me. It's the first year I actually start anew. It's my reinventing year and a year of actually making a name for myself. I actually don't care how hard it gets from here on in. I've lived through worse and now that it's over, I can see what I'm supposed to be doing and not having to be dragged by dead weight.

I've finished a section of my new book. For some reason I got hit with a rush of "The Urge" and I'm trying to see how long it will last. The title of it is pretty much set and it actually fits perfectly. I think once I've got this book out of the way, I talk more about the original project and how it actually got to this point. Besides, if you've been paying attention to my blogs for the last few months then you know what this book is for and what exactly I'm planning to do.

But moving on beyond that, I've been asked about a new poem. It's funny when people ask me when I'm going to post again. The truth is, I don't ever really know. Right now, it's 8:26 A.M. and for some strange reason, I am very much in the mood to create something. There was a thought I had a while ago about this vivid day-dream I have. Perhaps if I just wrote it down I wouldn't have it anymore. So that's what I intend to do.

Danzer...this one's for you.

Colored light brightening the hall
taking the shapes of the memories
etteched into the aged glass.

The room so filled with peace
the silence is thunderous.
The wooden seats all empty
and the robed speaker long gone.

A symbol of love and protection
hangs from the pale ceiling,
the figure on it in much pain
and though he shows it on his face
never in a million moons
will he ever feel it.

Below him kneels a figure
silhouetted by the darkness of the clothes he wears.
By his side, a rememberance of the oath he swore long ago.
Time has not been kind to it nor him.
As it has aged, so has his will to honor a promise
he made long ago
before the very figure above him.

The expression on his face
could speak the words of a thousand books
and could never express enough of what he's seen.
Without a word
he speaks to the figure which gave him
the strength and the will
to do as he has done for so many years.

Now,
in a room filled with the sounds
of souls long forgotten
and thoughts left unspoken,
he makes one last request
of a father he never met in person
but walked with all his life.

He reaches for the burden at his side
and casts it in front of him.
A promise is now broken,
the weight on a mind now removed.

The echoing clatter fills the hall.
Ringing forever in his mind.
Nothing left for him to carry
except the memories in his heart.

They do not clatter
like steel and stone.
They will linger
as a scar for all time.


Until next time.


© Archangel 2008