All In a Day's Fun

This was an entertaining assignment - again from a creative writing class. We were supposed to write about an event (I selected the occasion of when I bought my first DI bike; first lesson in bikes my friends, buy a decent one. The time spent fixing a crotchety one will not equate the money saved.), write about it from the imagined perspective of someone else involved, and then write it with a happy ending. I think the point of this exercise was to demonstrate how much more entertaining life is when it doesn't proceed correctly or as planned...) 

As a side note, it was this very event that launched my intense interest in how mechanical things (especially mechanical things that provide transportation) work. I'm still not much better - but at least it's become another interesting hobby...

PART 1 – Me and Xander

            The cold black frame turned slick and warm under my untrained and impatient hands as I wrestled with this strange thing before me. I knew what to do with it. When I was seven years old my mother put me on one and pushed it down the hill. The pedals slipped then under my nervous feet clad in sneakers without socks again. I always forgot socks. I wobbled and fell. The grass smeared my pants green, but I tried again. Eventually, the day ended with my first successful journey across the grass. All by myself, without training wheels. I loved it. I felt like I was flying.  No, twelve years later, what to do with it was not the problem. How this strange frame functioned was the problem with which I wrestled. 

            I met my dear bike Xander hanging innocently enough in the inconspicuous back room of the Provo Deseret Industries. There began a strange relationship. No matter how much he frustrated me, I was determined to fix all his problems. The more often he broke, the more attached I became to him. I determined that there was nothing I could not do, with enough time and effort. This evening, however, looked like it was shaping up to be an exception. My unskilled fingers could not find what was wrong with him.

            It began as normal, I hauled Xander outside and flipped him upsidown as I began the normal diagnostic to see what was wrong with him this time. I had work in three hours, but I was sure that I could finish in time. The wheel was obviously a problem, but I had replaced it before. Two weeks ago I had bought a slightly smaller parts bike from the same DI, which I affectionately dubbed Cordie (short for Cordilia), in order to use her back-wheel to replace his worn, rusty, bent and battle-scarred one. Unfortunately, no sooner had this swap occurred than the previously good tire from Cordie ceased to function. Frequently, my neighbors observed me tiredly walking Xander to the gas station for yet another air refill. Now, I wrestled with wrenches and stubborn lug nuts as I tried to get the tire back off in order to find the problem.

            While Xander had apparently rejected this tire for his own use, he seemed equally stubborn in his fervent desires to prevent me from fixing the wheel. I sweated, fumed, came up with a hundred new insults, and still the wheel remained firmly stuck on the bike for one reason or another. The chain was in the way, now the lug nuts slipped back on and needed to be re-loosened, and now the brake pads clamped down firmly on the wheel and refused to release it. My ignorance was plain to be seen, and just as many insults rained down on Xander as reached my own clumsy fingers. Somehow, I finally wrestled the wheel off and took the tire off so that I could examine the tube.

            Now it was time to discover the hole in the tube, for that was surely what it was, every internet athourity I could find said so. I tried in vain to find the hole, but it evaded me. One site suggested filling the tube with air so that I could find the hole better. Thrilled with this suggestion, I raced from apartment to apartment looking for an air pump, until I reached the man who had been polishing his car across from me all evening. I had seen him on several bikes, including a unicycle, and was sure that he would have one. He looked faintly amused when he saw me, and I had the sneaky suspicion that he was enjoying the show. He good naturedly, however, offered me several different brands and types of air-pumps. I wildly selected the one that looked the most familiar and easy to use. I thanked him and rushed back.

Failure to find the hole after blowing it up (being unable to hear or feel the air escaping) I rushed back to my great sources and searched for a solution. I eventually settled on carefully submerging the full tube into the toilet tank in order to see the air escaping. It worked remarkably well (if it did knock a few things askew and require maintenance in the tank itself) and I quickly set about patching the hole with a proudly purchased kit. That part at least, was simple. Scrape the rubber, enlarge the hole, peel the white patch off the sheet (which would avoid my fingernails) and place over the hole.

At this point I had become an expert on taking tires apart, so with wild glances at a clock which showed that I had to finish, dress and leave in exactly 15 minutes, I rushed back outside and began hastily throwing the entire assembly back together. I was in a bit of a rush, so I didn't worry too much about those warnings of taking care that the tube doesn't become pinched in the frame or anything. I managed to do it all, finish everything, and leave only three minutes late. I stopped to return the bike pump with a swiftly uttered thanks and fled, pleased with my accomplishment.

Five hours later, I left work, footsore and glad with the knowledge that when I reached the outside I would have a bike to carry me downhill all the way home in a matter of mere minutes. I proudly strode towards my bike, turned the numbers to line up for the combination, and began to back my bike out of the rack. Then I saw it. I froze, moaning my disbelief. There sat that backwheel, flat. I then remembered those neglected instructions about pinched tubes and groaned aloud. I slowly, slowly backed my bike out and began the long walk home to repeat the process again.

PART 2 – From the Neighbor's Perspective

My hand slowly warms under the running water as I wait for it to reach the right temperature. I nod in satisfaction and stop the rise in temperature with a twist of the cold water knob. I stick the bucket underneath it and begin filling it, dumping in car soap. When it reaches the exact level I turn the water off. I grab the bucket and some rags and head down to my black SUV. I pass four bikes lined neatly inside my apartment. Three belong to me: my unicycle, my sleek red mountain bike and my delicate blue road racing bike. The fourth is my roommates battered, green around town wonder. It works, but I shudder when I think of riding it.

I reach my SUV and begin washing it. Soapy water first, then a gentle scrub, then a rinse, then toweled dry. As I work, I watch people around me. There she comes, that girl with the crazy bike. I think I see her walking it home with a flat more than I ever see her returning on a round wheel. She spends at least one night a week with it up-si-down on her lawn, fixing something else that went wrong. She doesn't really know what she's doing, but she looks so ferociously intent on her work, I doubt she wants help. The SUV isn't really dirty, but I don't have anything else to do with it. That's the problem with keeping beautifully working equipment, there is never anything broken to tinker with. Is she ever going to get that tire off? Good grief, it's not that difficult. Maybe if she'd put a tire of the same size on it she wouldn't be having such a problem.

I start cleaning slower, her frustration is too entertaining to miss. I head inside to get a sandwich and come out. I dry the SUV slowly, deliberately. She finally has the wheel off.  I mutter a dry congratulations as she proceeds to dismantle the wheel and takes the tube out. I can see from across the parking lot that she doesn't have enough air in the tube to find the hole, but she'll probably figure it out eventually. She gives up with exasperation and runs inside. I am beginning to think maybe she gave up.

I go and get the wax from inside and start waxing the SUV. Suddenly she comes running out again. She starts at one row of red brick apartments and begins going door to door. What on earth is she doing now? Probably doesn't have an air-pump. Well I know that none of those places do either. I wait with a slight smile. Eventually she comes to me and runs over.

"Hey, do you happen to have a bike-pump that I could borrow?"

"Yeah, let me grab one," I go inside and grab the three from their neat positions on the wall.

"Here, which one do you want?" She looks bewildered and hesitates before selecting the smallest handpump.

"That one, thanks a lot!" She runs back to her tube, grabs in and runs inside. She doesn't come out for awhile. I'm done with the SUV and bored, so I head inside. 20 minutes later I hear a knock on the door. I open it and see her standing there, hand on an assembled bike, hair tucked up under an MTC dining hat and the pump in her proffered hand.

"Thanks so much, it helped a lot!" She climbs onto her rickety bike and rides away. I watch her leave in amusement, wondering how she'll return. About five and a half hours later, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to get the mail and went outside. As I was turning away from my aluminum mailbox, my hands full of glossy flyers, I saw her coming home, walking. With an amused smile, I waved and went inside.            

PART 3 – The Better Conclusion from my Perspective

My beautiful bike had a flat. It didn't happen very often, in fact had never happened before. But I had seen my Dad fixing my bike, and of course remembered exactly how to do it. I easily inverted my bike on the ground and set about with my socket set to remove the wheel. After taking it off, I took the tire and tube off and examined them. A quick inspection showed that I needed an air-pump to find the leak.

I saw my neighbor, who I knew was good with bikes, polishing his automobile across the parking lot. Heading over, I asked if I could borrow a pump. He offered several, of which I accepted the easiest to use. I quickly filled my tube with air and found the leak by holding the tube in my hand and rotating it next to my ear. I fixed the hole in a matter of minutes and twenty more minutes of careful work found my tire nicely assembled and my bike back together. I returned the air-pump with cookies, and spent a leisurely hour reading before I needed to dress and leave for work. Later that evening, when I emerged from a long shift at work, I was very pleased to see that my work had been well done and the wheel was still round. It only took me 10 minutes to ride home.

The Old Man and the Music

Angela insisted. This is actually not well written at all, but it shows what a 14-year-old will write after reading a little too much Dickens and listening a little too intently in a classical music class to tales of the woes of all good composers...Incidentally, were there any happy famous composers? Are happy and famous never allowed to be synonymous? 


An old man hobbled down the cobblestone street. The weight of the old sack his rag-wrapped gnarled hands clutched bowed him over. It was late; the smoky light cast by the lampposts was too dim to see his frosty breath. As he turned onto one of the more exclusive streets, he heard a choir singing Christmas songs in a church with beautiful stain glass windows. He caught his breath and listened eagerly for a few moments until it ended. Then, with a sigh, he painfully walked around to the back of one of the most expensive houses on the street. Carefully setting the sack down on the step, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and blow on his freezing fingers. A frail waif in a ragged dress answered his knock on the door and ushered him into the kitchen.

“Is that coal man here yet?” The cook roared from the end of the kitchen.

“Yes,” the girl answered in a nervous voice, barely over a whisper. The cook turned from the pot over the stove she was stirring for the Christmas dinner and wiped perspiration from her brow.

“About time! We’re almost out of coal waiting for you!”

“I’m sorry, the cart lost a wheel so I carried the coal today.” There was a curiously distinguished note in the old man’s voice, unfitting to his ragged appearance. The cook harrumphed loudly as the old man dumped the coal into the bin. She pursed her lips in disapproval as she reached into the teakettle over the stove for a few coins. “I kept part of the pay this week for being late. Don’t do it again.”

The old man sighed as he accepted the coins. The cook usually found a reason for pocketing part of his pay; he had learned long ago that there was little use in arguing with her. The meager amount he received barely paid his rent on his tiny room; much less left anything for living expenses.

He turned and left the house, catching his breath at the gusty wind that blew icicles of cold through him. His footsteps trudged slowly down the street to his little home. It was so cold that even the mocking youth who usually roamed the streets had forsaken their games for shelter. Turning down several alleyways, he worked his way through the familiar maze to a poorer part of town. He ducked into a small sheltered alcove next to a dreary, gray apartment building. Turning his back to the streets, he reached into the tiny rag under his coat and untied the few coins from the corner before he turned and entered the building.

A sharp-faced woman greeted him. She was untidy, her hair hung in strings, and her gray dress was covered in dirt and grease. A pipe dangled out of the corner of her mouth. “Rent’s due” she snarled “overdue really, it was due this morning.” The old man calmly handed her his few coins. Snatching them, she counted them twice before she jerked her head. “Alright, it’s all there.” She spun on her heel and left.

The old man sighed as he climbed several flights of stairs to his room on the top floor. Definitely nothing left for food. How she justified raising the rent for the extra cold was unfathomable. At the top stair, he paused as a hacking cough overtook him. Gasping for breath, he stumbled to his room. A cold blast of air struck him as he opened the door. A young lad crouched in front of the tiny fire jumped up as he entered.

“Good evening,” the boy said. The old man nodded shortly and went over to coax a flame in the tiny stove with some scavenged coal. He lit several candles and set his thin soup on to heat.

“I’m sorry that the soup wasn’t ready Master, the coal was gone and…”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” The old man demanded. The lad looked at him steadily.

“Several I believe, and I shall continue to call you that, for it is the title you deserve.”

The old man grunted softly. Finishing his puttering, he walked over to the corner of the room, carefully pried up a floorboard and pulled out his treasures: a violin case and a sheaf of music. Opening the case, he gently removed the instrument, running his rough fingers over the polished wood. Taking it from the case, he handed it to the boy.

“Play.”

The boy looked at him hesitantly, “No lesson today?” The old man scowled and motioned for him to begin.

The boy rosined the bow and gently drew it across the strings. His melody was simple and clear, echoing sweetly across the room. His eyes closed in concentration and his face shone with delight. When he finished, the final notes lingering softly, he opened his eyes. To his astonishment, there were tears on the old man’s face.

“Master?” he queried softly. The old man stirred and sighed. “It was a long time ago lad, a long, long time ago…” The boy searched his face.

“Tell me” The old man shook his head and doubled over in a cough. Then he paused and nodded, “yes, you’re ready.” Reaching into the sheaf of music, he withdrew several pages and passed them to the boy.

“That’s it”

“That’s what?”

“The piece that is the reason I’m here,” the old man said with a touch of bitterness. “That piece was my undoing, if I had never written it I would never be in this place.” The boy touched his arm.

“If you had never come here, I would never have learned to play.” The old man looked at the boy and grunted, but his face softened.

“It was a long time ago Andrew, a long time…” He closed his eyes and remembered…“I was a young lad of 20, about to perform with an orchestra in Landon Hall, a hall where only the most prestigious of musicians performed. It was Christmas eve, opening night…”

40 years earlier…

“John!”

“Charles! What are you doing here?”

“I made it in the orchestra!”

“You did now! Congratulations old chap! Are you playing tonight then?”

“Yes, we are performing a collection of the Masters, all of the best pieces. If I play well tonight he has promised to look at the music I’m writing”

“Well congratulations again! I shall watch for you, what chair are you?”

“Thank you very much. I’m the first chair”

“Why you rascal! Fancy that, first chair in one of the best orchestras in the country and you never said a word! Well I must go, I brought Elaine tonight, see you after the performance!”

Charles’s heart caught at the name. Elaine. Fair, sweet Elaine. Daughter of one of the richest men in the city; and as far above him as the sun. He had first seen her at a dinner party he went to, one of the lowly, invited more by association then by name. Her smile warmed him through, but he dared not speak to her, but had merely contented himself with listening to her gentle voice throughout the evening. Her wisdom and wit surprised him; such a combination was unusual among the wealthy. He was only a poor musician, but hopefully, she would hear his Christmas gift. He had composed a song for her. Perhaps if he played his best she would invite him to come perform at her home. Everyone knew how much Elaine loved music.

Call time. The orchestra assembled and prepared to play the Master’s music. The Master had a name, but no one ever used it, his music was so famous that he was simply referred to as “the Master.” Tonight they would be closing with one of his most famous pieces, one that was hummed and sung all over Europe. Every note was as familiar as a child’s lullaby. Charles seat as first violin meant that he would play the most famous part of all, a violin solo, accompanied only by the soft throb of a cello, like a heartbeat. The Master stepped up and raised his baton; the music began.

An hour later, the room was charged with excitement as the Master began the last piece. Charles was ecstatic – tonight he had played better than ever! Elaine was directly in his line of vision and he had dedicated every note of his performance to her. His solo approached, she smiled at him, and he felt as if the birds were soaring to the sky with him. His moment arrived. He poured his soul into the solo, as if an angel had opened the strings right to Elaine’s heart and his violin was carrying him right in. But wait, the song was different, the audience stirred in amazement. The orchestra froze; the Master furrowed his brow in anger.

The melody Charles played was extraordinary; it stirred the soul of every listener. It sang of sweetness, sorrow, anguish, pain, love, every passion of the soul was entwined the song as Charles played HIS music. He didn’t mean to, he almost tried not to, but the music caught him up and he soared as he had never soared in music before. It was good, too good, too horribly, wonderfully, magnificently good. The Master’s melody seemed paltry and insignificant beside it. Charles heart was born on that music, the passion touching the deepest chord in every heart there. At last, the swells paused and pivoted. Charles drew his song back into The Master’s closing chord. The orchestra mechanically joined in completing the song, too struck in astonishment to do anything else. The Master’s face was like a thundercloud. The curtain dropped at his vicious gesture to the curtain man, whose own mouth hung open in amazement.

The Master whirled on Charles in fury, “YOU!” Charles couldn’t move, couldn’t answer, the music had drained him.

“How DARE you ruin my music!” The Master’s voice was a hiss but to Charles it seemed a roaring lion.

“You will NEVER perform music again! I will write black marks across your paper, no one will ever hire you! Your music is nothing, pathetic! Take it and your violin and GET OUT. Never let me see you again. You are a disgrace to the world!”

“But-“ Charles attempted to reason with the Master and explain himself.

“NO! GET OUT!” The Master’s face was purple with rage. Charles picked up his case and left, stumbling in his weakness. The performance had pulled every ounce of energy from his body.

The Master took all the credit for the music, only the orchestra knew the truth, and they didn’t dare breathe a word of it. Once, when she passed him on the street, Elaine tried to speak to him, but he fled, feeling unclean before her. She died that winter from pneumonia. Charles found work in a small shop, cleaning up and restocking shelves. As the years passed he dropped from one job down to the next. No one having anything to do with music would hire him. The Master’s word was law. Once, a music shop hired him to help sell instruments. The Master got wind of it, and after a mysterious visit, Charles was fired. The years went on, he moved from poor to poorer housing. Eventually, he was reduced to gleaning coal and selling it for the few coins it brought. His hands became gruesomely worn and gnarled; it was too painful to play anymore, physically and mentally…



The old man sighed as he ran his fingers across the strings. He looked at the sheaf of music, written over many years and never performed. A cough doubled him over and for several minutes, he was too hoarse to speak. Andrew touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, tears of sadness for the old man’s story trailed down his cheek.

“But the Master is dead now, why did you not return?”

Charles shook his head. “Too many years, my fingers cannot play anymore.” Another cough shook him and several pieces fluttered to the floor. Bending down, he picked them up. It was the piece that he had played that night, after returning to his apartment he had written it down. Andrew handed him the violin.

“Yes you can. Please, play this song for me, the one you played that night.” Charles accepted the violin thrust at him and stared at the strings. He shook his head.

“Please” Andrew said softly. “It’s Christmas Eve, please play.” Charles coughed again; blood spattered his fingertips this time. He stared at the blood, realizing that he had little time left. He looked at Andrew. Andrew would be his legacy, the only thing he left in this world. Andrew at least deserved to hear the song that ultimately was the reason for his teacher. Charles handed Andrew the sheaf of music.

“My will is in there. When I die this violin and music will be yours. Use them wisely; you have been a good student. I thank you.” Charles picked up the violin and tuned it, adjusting the strings hair widths in his precision. He tightened the bow hairs, breaking off the loose ones. He re-rosined the bow and polished the silky wood. Finally, he felt ready. Tucking the violin under his chin, he closed his eyes, and played.

Feeling returned to his fingertips, gnarled knuckles stretched and flew with the grace and fluidity of a twenty year old. The bow fairly danced across the strings, the melody soared with a sweetness that pierced the clouds. Despite the fierce wind, it seemed that everyone in London heard it. Parents, intent on wrapping the last few Christmas gifts, paused in amazement as his melody floated out in the air. Children, breathlessly anticipating the morning, listened in awe, certain that the angels were singing. Merchants, weary workers, drunkards, even the sharp-faced landlady all held still in wonder as they listened to the sound. Andrew’s face shone with amazement.

The old man truly was pouring his soul into the strings. His heart was beating too fast. A glorious sight was appearing before his eyes. He seemed to see straight into heaven where his smiling Elaine awaited him. With a cry, he played his last few notes all for her, reaching, and then flying towards her.


Several days later, a small notice in the paper stated that Charles Tolmis was dead. His few effects were left to a young man named Andrew Rondan.


Several years later, a small boy stood at a street corner selling newspapers. The headlines read of a rising violin virtuoso, Andrew Rondan. His music, which he said he inherited from his Master had become world famous and he was performing them that night in Landon hall. The date in the corner of the newspaper was December 24th.

Taste Testing

 Another assignment from a creative writing class...Write about something ordinary and revolting. I think the teacher picked such odd assignments because he got bored. Most of them weren't exactly in our syllabus to start with.

Taste Testing

            “Oh come on,” my brother coaxed, “you’ll never regret it.” I stared at the messy, bubbling frothy glass in his hand, filled with a mixture so strange that I don’t think it even had a real color. I slowly shook me head and with all the 13-year-old dignity I could muster announced, “No, I really don’t think I ever will.”

            My brother, like many other young scouts, has always had a strong propensity for tormenting his stomach with bizarre food combinations and abnormal beverages. He never drinks soda without mixing it with something, never eats ice cream without some sort of unique topping and loves telling shocking tales about the worst thing he had ever eaten. Never, ever, ever, would I touch something that he had created. I flatly refused. Sardines over ice cream, oranges dipped in ranch dressing to me should no longer even count as food.  

            The delight of odd food substances is a strange subject. It is not socially accepted, yet neither is it revolted. When the topic comes up in conversation, someone always proudly volunteers the weirdest thing that he or she has ever eaten. In secondary and high school I would have simply marked these people as attention getters. However, I have seen this strange phenomenon exhibited in all stages of life alike. Perhaps attention getting is not the only reason people go so far out of their way to disturb their otherwise peaceful stomachs.

            Now I sit and stare at this grotesque concoction that I made with my own hands. It goes against everything I have ever taught myself on the subject. What kind of a lawmaker am I if I break them myself? “Oh come on,” my brother coaxes again over the phone, “it’ll be delicious! You’ll never regret it.” I like weird things; I often even go out of my way to find new ways to make my life interesting. I meditated in the JFSB elevator, climbed in the fountains at the JFSB courtyard, stayed up until 4 am outside eating strawberries and hiding easter eggs with friends, spent an hour trying to drop a quarter straight down the SWKT steps, and several other activities which cross the limits of legality. Yet never once did I truly leave my zone.

            There is a comfort in a vague knowledge of what will happen when I do something. But tasting something really weird? I do not understand what vague unease it is that gnaws at my stomach, other than perhaps preparatory revulsion. Somehow, it conjures up an irrational fear, that I don’t know what it will do to me. Obviously, I should know that it won’t really affect my taste buds or destroy my stomach, but somehow, the I find the idea so foreign as to be terrifying.

            Parachutes, hot air balloons, hurricane chasers, food tasters, maybe they all share something in common. They all seek something outside of the ordinary, something that will make them feel or experience something in a way that will make them unique. They do it not so much for the thrill, but perhaps for the chance to have a story that sets them apart. The more people try what they do, the more the thrill seekers have to try to find something better, something more. It defines part of who they are, it makes them cool. That’s one theory anyway. Another theory is that they are trying to repress their childhood demons. Things scared them as children now make them feel powerful to overcome.   

            My brother immediately suggested trying a strange new concoction when he heard about my writing assignment. Since I was too busy to try my original idea of going hobo for a day, I reluctantly agreed. With his coaching, a strange reddish, brownish, grayish, popcornishly crunchy mixture appeared in my cottage cheese container bowl. “What do you have in your fridge? Just start reading me names…Ah yes, plain yogurt, miracle whip, oh, do you have popcorn? Yes, make some of that up. And I think it needs…yeah, add some peanut butter. Hmmm….It still doesn’t sound like enough…I know! I bet it needs color. Okay, what do you have that’s red in your fridge? Spaghetti sauce? Perfect! Just add a little…Excellent..Bon appetit!” I stared at the revolting mixture. Was I really going to eat it? Years of avoiding it when someone else coaxed me to try something gross, and now I was doing it of my own free will? How would it feel? Would it be any different?

            There is that one demon. Many a child with duty-bound parents can remember something distasteful that he or she had to eat at one point or another. I remember once Mom went crazy with a new juice machine. For supper, in my hand was placed a huge green plastic cup of thick, gloppy cabbage goo. When Mom first bought the cups, the green had seemed pretty. Now it just made it look worse. Like eating grass, except I thought grass might taste better. I asked to skip dinner. I would have rather gone hungry. That stuff never could have been intended to go inside a human stomach. I didn’t have to taste it to know I would hate it. However, I wasn’t allowed victory. Being a middle child meant that another generation before me had already worn out the impatience button on my parents. They were never yielding. Eventually, hours of sitting at the table forced my hand. Nevertheless, not even the gimlet glare of my parents could keep it inside my rebellious stomach. 

            My fingers reluctantly grabbed hold of my spoon. I started at the spoon. I bought it at DI for 10 cents. Now I was using it to betray me. “Come one, stop wasting time, just eat it!” I ignored my younger brother’s all too eager coaxings and slowly shoveled some of the strange composite onto my eating utensil. It looked so disgusting. I gave one final wince, and ate it. As the strange flavor played at different corners of my mouth and confused my taste buds, I tilted my head to one side thoughtfully. It wasn’t actually that bad. It wasn’t good either, but I felt sort of let down. I had avoided it so strongly for so long, what was I to think of it now that it was finished? It seemed that I should at least have received a stomachache for my efforts. Something that bad should by all rights have caused some mild form of catastrophe. Is that all my fears boiled down to? Are they always wrong?

“Ha, told you it would kill you, didn’t I?”

The Storms Have Their Place

This one does have music to it - but my inability to actually write music down means that it's always different...It has probably been set to 3 different melodies by now...so I guess you can pick whatever you want to hear in your head. 

When the Savior whispers the swell to still, all inside bends to his will.
The torrent stops, the floods subside; the Savior always by my side.
The river runs so clear and deep, ages of wisdom, mine to keep.
No longer to run or from foolish fears be locked, but free to fly, forever unblocked.
How I long to be this way, the river inside at peace to stay.
To bid the storms to stay no more, as I sail on towards that distant shore.
Yet I know the storms have their place, pushing me faster as I race.

Waiting in and for Lines

A pink card. A blue card. A line of ink. My name.
Shuffling feet. Moving forward. His turn. Her turn. Their turn.
When is it my turn?
Waiting in line, watching line after line of people, words, and names slip by.
When will my feet in this line meet the line on my card?
Lines, lines, lines and more lines.
Will my card ever come? I waited in lines all my life.
When will my lined face in this long line line of people reach my line of ink?

Connections, Connections

The rather extensive variety of pronouns are not errors; each use is deliberate. 

Connections. Connections. We’re always seeking connections.

Sneakers crunch, sending rocks in patterns behind me. My feet pattern the ground. My heart thuds through my chest. Climbing, running, searching, seeking. Where can I find? Sometimes if I run fast enough, hard enough, strong enough, sure enough, I see it. I catch a glimpse of the place inside. To find that place, the place inside, if I could connect body, spirit and mind – then could I be free. Free from that shell, the rotting shell outside. The prison, the rotting shell, can be a temple only if we connect, like the hermit crab, carrying a house, seeking a home.

Connections. Connections. We’re always seeking connections.

Lips move, fingers tap keys, pens scratch paper, phones ring on and on. People seek people, looking and looking. Connections; connections; we’re always seeking connections. It’s a journey. Finding the connection. Seeking answers from the people around us, how to find the place deep inside.

Connections, connections. We’re terrified of finding connections. Because seeking, seeking, searching is familiar. What do we do if we find? If we really reach that place inside, the place where our spirit resides, will we like what we find? Will we be strong enough? Brave enough? True enough? Will we be enough?

Connections. Connections. Always seeking connections.

When we connect, when we harness the power within, when we touch the place inside, the place where our spirit resides, then we rise. Then we see ourselves. We see what our Father sees. We find the peace. The strength. The answers. The connections. The quiet. The stillness.

Connections. Connections. If you could travel pass the stars, past the veil, if you could pierce through and see, if you could connect with where you came from; could you find that place inside? If you could press aside the veil and touch heaven; would you see yourself? If you could journey through the mind, through the heart, through the spirit; if you could touch memories and finger emotions, if that matter were tangible, what would it feel like? If you could connect inside; if you could touch that matter; what would you build?

If we could reach deep enough, far enough, old enough, past the shallow pieces, past the walls we build around ourselves, past the veil we have to live with, could we meet and connect with heaven? Could we touch the core that is ourselves? Could we find what we are? Could we reach what we are meant to be?

Connections. Connections. We’re all down here seeking connections.

Are we here to wander or to find? If we could reach inside, could we truly find the inner mind? Where are we inside? How do we connect? Do we want to connect? Do we fear to connect? If I connect, what will I be? When I swam to the ocean inside, what did I find? Where was my spirit? Was she enough inside?

No one knows but me. Inside; deep inside; no one on this earth knows but me.