Corner of a Page

I lost my pen. Literally and figuratively. I know that isn't exactly an idiomatic expression, but if you knew me and what kind of writer I am, or what makes me tick as a writer, then you'd know what I meant. But for the benefit of both you as a reader and me as writer I am of course going to explain what I mean by that phrase. Otherwise, there'd hardly be any point in me writing this entry if I kept my thoughts to myself, now would there? But there I go again, rambling (if you can ramble on paper). Though this is next to freewriting---which is writing, no holds barred, the next sentence that pops into your head---still, I always love to put some kind of form, some kind of story and a definite point to my writings. Now that tells you a bit of the kind of writer that I am, now doesn't it? Yes I love a definite point, but I also like the words to flow freely where I can see them and scrutinize them and poke them with my pen and squeeze them out 'til all meaning I can and want to derive is made clear. That is why I need my pen. It's not that I'm a picky writer. If there was anything my college days taught me it was certainly resourcefulness and on the spot creativity. And that applied to almost everything. It wasn't just production for me. No, I could write on a napkin, a scrap piece of paper and I could still squeeze out a good enough line or spiel that sounded professional enough. Though for the most part I do like clean paper with lines as much as possible, and the type of music I like playing in my ears undisturbed. But I could just as easily do with out those writer's rituals as well. I learned to be flexible, having been dubbed a sort of go-to writing machine when I was in school. And so in my relationship with writing I had little demands. One thing I hated though was a dry pen. Something that wouldn't flow right. Since I always want my print to look as permanent as possible, I chose sign pens as my main medium for writing, unless I was on the computer of course. But still then, I would need a nice keyboard and a good clear font to get the juices flowing so to speak. Because I just want everything to flow truthfully without having to be bothered by typo errors, runny or dry ink.

It's not that I don't have good pens in my case right now. I have a colorful array of sign pens I could use. But I'm not gonna lie, colorful pens are a novelty and they don't come cheap. If I use them for good old fashioned writing too much I feel like I'm holding something too delicate and don't want to run out too soon. I need a space where I can spill freely too. The internet is too exposed, even this blog is. And a word document is boring and easy to lose or vulnerable to exposure too easily. At least here anyway.

I feel like Pippin. And no, I don't mean the hobbit in LOTR, even if I am a self-confessed LOTR geek. I'm talking about Pippin the prince of Pippin the Broadway musical (ha! how's that for cultural? and on another note, where is the CD of that we used to play at home?). I feel like I need to find a corner of the sky (note references to the song, here's where Broadway comes in), or a corner of a page, where I can write freely just everything. Words, stories, things connected in my mind that would make me make sense to me and the world around me. I need direction. And I need a pen to point me in the right one.

My Relationship with Writing: It's Complicated

It's a common sickness. I seem to be suffering from writer's blog again. The causes are as elusive as the words I need to put on paper. We could always of course revert to the typical modern day excuse: stress. Yes I have been stressed. Work is well, more than a bit heavy. Inspiration-wise: well being tired has prevented my mind from being cognitive and or creative at this point. Again it all goes back to stress.

So what am I doing here you ask? Writing if I've got a block. How then am I able to do this? Well, honestly I've tried. Several entries left unposted were already written between this piece and the last entry you see. SO I guess in a sense I am trying to push and test myself whether this will be the one to follow through. I really had wanted to continue the "the"anthologies and make it a habit. But as plans go life gets in the way. So here I am trying to get rid of the block by just writing.

My brother asks what's so great about writing. Speaking is better.But words aren't art unless they are captured. And you can't speak without first writing them, either in your head or on paper. If you don't they can come out wrong and sometimes, to the extremes, even ruin lives.

I am going against tradition here though. In accomplishing this entry I am not actually following what the doctor's prescribe for writer's block. Like an old sore I am supposed to "walk it off" meaning don't go to the Waterloo while it remains a point of weakness. I have not come ill equipped, though. I am listening to music I like. And have just refreshed my tired mind with a browse through Shakespeare's sonnets. However another remedy I did not take was to instead of gather strength from my Writer's Creed (my promise to myself that I will not relinquish my sword in writing and why), I am trying to prove to myself that there are some worthy words in me. And am simultaneously trying to explain what writing does for me, how it affects my life and vise versa. Also in describing writing and its effects, I am telling you and myself what writing is to me or at least what it does in my life.

So here's what I discovered: writing and I have had a long arduous relationship. It has certainly been more than a fling or even a trifling affair but a longstanding relationship. At some points it was a love/hate relationship (like it is again now). It is also, more often than not, complicated. But you see what it does for me is provides me with history. Someone once said to become immortal or live on beyond our years you could do three things: have children, plant a tree, or write something. In a way that's how it is for me with writing, even though I am not yet dead. But moments, days, phases of my life get to live on longer because of writing. It's not just a world to explore and express myself, but it is continually leaving my fingerprints, my story, me imprinted somewhere. Recording feelings more vivid than any conversations, photos or videos can capture. Without it, I fade. I forget and am pretty much left dry, redundant and lost. In recording my biggest dreams I can live them or move on. In recording my deepest hurts I can learn from them and also move on. It's not dwelling or holding on to the past. It is more profoundly living in the present. Because everything we are and were and are because of what we were can be captured in a single journal entry or poem. That is the gift of writing. Even simply recording something of note and value to us is a gift and another little element that says we are made in the image of God. It's another big step between the world of difference between us and creatures without souls.

Entry Four in the Anthology of "The's": Crowd Tides at the Station

The train screeched by the narrow ledge of platform where ozens upon dozens of people waited anxiously to get in. Holding on to and with everything I had i waited for the tide of people to push. I was too far back in the crowd (no linger just a line) to get tugged by the udertoe just yet. So I waited impatiently for the sea of people before me to disperse and fill the train. It was too much to hope to get in, though I was already late, but at least if this crowd lessened I could get in on the train. I really felt the urge to push when the next train came in though. I wasn't technically late, in fact at this rate I was early. But my officemates and I had made a deal that whoever came in past our agreed call time would have to treat us out to dessert or something. My only chance was if they came late too, in which case the last two to arrive would be the ones to provide the treats. But since there were only three of us in on it, things were not looking up. By the second--or was it third?--train I has been swept by the crowd to the near front. I was definitely gonna get in. But a trampling was also possible. Around five minutes later I found myself, barely breathing with my sleeves half off my shoulder, wedged between arms, and elbows. I just hope I made it in time. Squeezing out the train after another five long minutes or so I rushed to the FX stop. The train ride had taken my energy and as I sat exhausted on the back seat of the FX I felt my phone beep. Too tired to check I resigned myself to my fate. But as I arrived at the office I found there was some good news: we were all late. So I got a free pie today but I would also pay for meal drinks tomorrow. Life's an empty train on rush hour, you never know what you're gonna get.

Entry Three in the Anthology of "The's": Today's Cup of Coffee

The coffee machine sputtered white and then transparent liquid. It did not at all look like coffee. In fact, if I thought about it looked rather gross. Like baby vomit. Then there was dark brown liquid that came out and the machine ended its sputtering. A few minutes before this the girl behind the counter was changing out the machine. It's the only reason I didn't cancel my order on a cup of cappuccino. My would be cup of coffee is left to steam off on its own beneath the machine's mouth while the girl goes back to the kitchen. I am secretly willing the contents of it to swirl and mix together into the delicious cup of caffeine I will be having later. The girl comes out and does not stir it, as I had hoped she would. I take a stirrer for myself as she seals the cup of coffee ingredients with a cover. But I guess I can't blame her. She didn't see the three different color—that should have come out as one—sputter from the instant coffee machine.

Entry Two in the Anthology of "The's": The Cursor

The cursor stands blinking as I wonder what to type in this new entry. I always liked blank sheets because they promised much. But this is really turning out to be a mind numbing exercise for me. What to write? What comes after the word "the"? SO many posibilities to beging with from a single word. So may stories to be told. So much blank space to fill. Now I look again at the cursor, as it flies through the blank page spitting words out like a hefty sack of flour or rice dragged across the floor with a hole, exposing its contents for all the world to see. And my mind is laid bare as such, even as I look at the moving cursor, and it is no longer blinking the way it did a few moments ago as if asking, "What's on your mind?"

Entry One in the Anthology of "the's": In Which I Recount the Evils of Technology, the Bliss of Coffee & the "In-betweens" Found in Books and Weekends

The weekend was a mind-nubming couple of days filled with the evils of technology and coffee cups bought on a bribe. It also contained an ending to one book, and a beginning of another and your usual mix of tears, frustration, tiredness and breathlessness that comes after and sometimes in between the evils of technology, cups of coffee and books in general. Flash forward to today, Monday. I'm at the office (arriving a bit late thanks to the also evil train) and I must read emails that pertain to everything about getting through some more evils of technology but nothing about books and coffee. (Though perhaps if you read between the lines of tasks you will eventually find coffee and books somewhere there, along with inkstains and frustrations.) It is in such a state I find myself browsing through a favorite author's funny and very wittily written biography and journal. Needless to say, the words (in whatever form they may be) stir up those little atoms that were "awakened", to say the least, also over the weekend (they were more likely prodded and poked and abused to) come out of hiding. They were hidden in my brain and consicence somewhere under parental instruction, godly advice and writing class lessons. They were those atoms--those parts of me--that knew wit and contained it because they also knew what to do with the wit but were probably too lazy or "busy" to do what they must.

But since you are not those atoms, who undoubtedly understand what I am talking about, I will explain in normal story-telling speak what I am talking about, because what else is a blog for, right? So here's what happened over my weekend:

Saturday was the day before the long awaited Youth Sunday. Needless to say, forget about everything else happening in the world, I had to get the video done in prepartaion for the Kabataan Mismo, Youth Sunday. We were already cramming as it was (or at least I was), but I also had to meet a friend to give her back the Seattle's Best Sticker card she lent me to help her fill it up, since Seattle's Best is rare over the metro but I do have the fortune of working in a building that has it and near a mall that has a better branch as well. So runniing late and rushing to the editing (fortunately half my commute was answered for by my oh-so gallant friend), I amde my arrival at the church center. While it is fun to poke around a new computer it is equally frustrating. It's like moving to a new house that is, sure, nice and clean, but then you don't know where the light switches are and what's the use of a new house if it is left in the dark?

So. Back to the video editing. Let's sum it up and flash forward. After an ardourous day on Adobe Premier CS4 Pro (yes, we are now that high tech baby), I click the button that shall seal the videos fate (and that of mine and my OC-ness since I can't change it anymore) and it...has to close because of some blah blah whatever problem. I'm cool with that coz I saved it anyway right? (Yes I have learned. A lot. Over and over) But then the program won't open again. Liek, ever, no matter what I do. It's near 11pm and I am too tired to be angry, sad or frustrated. SO I call it quits knowing in the morning it'll hit me. And come Sunday it does. I try not to let it get to me. God is still sovereign. And hope does come in the form of IT people (thanks Moncie and Ruthie). So while Youth Sunday is going on out there, hopefully stirring up some other atoms in other people, we sit in the editing room trying to make it to the end. To sum it up, Uncle Jun comes to our aid. We figure a way out. Export. Burn CD. And play.

I missed a few details (as usual) and my eye does that little twitching thing because I'm holding it all in. We end on a note from my brother (who I did not coherce to saying what he said. I'm just saying). And fade to black. Clap. Breathe. A long fresh breath.

Several hours later, past the picture taking, baby pinching, lunch eating and free coffee with a book (exchanged for a long nap which I had late afternoon instead), we flash forward (again) to devotionals. Wherein my dad proceeds to tell us of doing what we did and continue to do for the YF ministry as something with a heart for service. I'm kind of sad at this point that I only half heard the preaching, but I have more than a few lessons learned (which involve trusting God and not cramming/losing it when technology fails), so I guess it was still a fruitful day. Anyway I get my dad's point and will certainly never cram like that again. It is easy to overlook a lot of things and become a Martha in prepping for a big event like that.

But just to connect this stream of consciousness (or rambling) to its original thought, it is also worth mentioning one small discipline that came up in our family devotionals at the end of the day. It was something I'd actually been thinking a lot about lately. Especiallly since being reasigned monthly tasks wherein I must come up with 20 or so articles a month. This is the small discipline of writer, Arthur Miller. (Short Wikipedia moment: Arthur Asher Miller was an American playwright and essayist. He was a prominent figure in American theatre, writing dramas that include awards-winning plays such as All My Sons, Death of a Salesman, and The Crucible.
Miller was often in the public eye, particularly during the late 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s, a period during which he testified before the House Un-American Activities Committee, received the Pulitzer Prize for Drama, and was married to Marilyn Monroe.)

So. The small discipline or "small hard thing", to borrow the words of the Harris brothers, he did everyday, was to type the word "the" and from that come up with one paragraph. I imagine the excercise as the writing part of one's brain doing a little sit-up, push-up or what have you. Papa makes a point about little disciplines and hearts of service and that's when I decide, I can't come up with 20 articles a month without a little excercise. And so this begins my first entry in an anthology of "the" entries. Let's hope it works. As for Monday blues and the evils of technology, well this writng freeflow does nip Monday blues in the butt but just a bit. Perhaps I shall recount more of that, along with the evils of technology, in another entry. So here's to the anthology of "The's"! I certainly hope it gets me somewhere even for a while.