Dad: a late Father's Day post

I love my dad. He's my dad. When I was little, he was my hero.

In later years, though, if Mom really wanted to annoy me, she would say, "You're just like your father." It was not intended as a compliment.

Dad, like all of us, is a frail human being. Despite not knowing how to swim, he joined the Navy to avoid being drafted and sent somewhere he might not want to go during the Viet Nam War. (Yes, war. There were bullets flying and people dying. "Conflict" is just semantics.) He made friends easily, could tell funny stories that were most often true, and women liked him. He liked them, too -- rather too well.

Although he is much older now, somewhat wiser, a better worker, his personality is essentially that of the young sailor who married a college co-ed in the autumn of 1970 and brought her back to California where he was stationed, and sometimes sneaked off base -- AWOL -- to go visit her in the apartment when he was supposed to be on watch.

A woman knows the face of the man she loves as a sailor knows the open sea. 

Honore de Balzac

An uninformed observer looking through the family photo albums can see the love through who and what this young couple chose to photograph: her in the park, him sleeping with the baby (me), her in an apron and smiling into the lens, him hiding from the camera by ducking behind a newspaper. Skip a few pages, skip a few years, and there's my fat little brother (who grew up to be bean-pole skinny) offering the photographer a jolly grin. There's me in a wide-legged stance inside Dad's giant work boots.

If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you.

A.A. Milne

But not every couple is allowed to grow old together. Some separate by choice, some by death, some by force or circumstance. Infidelity is the simple reason my parents separated, but there was much more festering in that wound than just my father's desperate search for something he could not quite name but thought he knew.

I learned about Dad's latest marriage when I called him to ask what he wanted to do for his birthday. For months, I wasn't sure if he was married or not, just that he was pretty much living with someone. However, I've tried to be incurious, not asking too many questions, not asking the wrong kinds of questions, waiting for Dad to talk about the situation.

Strange, that. When I was young, we sat together at the dinner table as a family, and there was conversation. Only as we slowly, slowly broke apart did the conversation cease.

And only as we slowly, slowly are coming back together has the conversation returned.

The attempt to redefine the family as a purely voluntary arrangement grows out of the modern delusion that people can keep all their options open all the time.

Christopher Lasch 

As Dad learned, one cannot repeatedly go looking for "love" far afield and expect those who love to remain unshaken, arms wide open, ready to forgive and be hurt again. Although that's how I picture Christ -- always ready to lift us up when we fall -- I am merely human, and forgiveness is not my first instinct.

There's still a certain stiffness in the dialogue sometimes, but now we can laugh together. Now we can share a family memory and not immediately clear our throats, grow quiet, change the subject.

The joke in our family is that we can cry reading the phone book.

Ron Reagan

Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.

Cary Grant

There are still inside jokes that make us laugh -- or, at the very least, smile.

A few weeks ago, Dad borrowed a book from me to share with his wife: A Six-Cylinder Courtship, a laugh-out-loud funny short novel by Edward Salsbury Field, published in 1907 and telling of a young man's love for a girl and for a not-so-reliable automobile. I'd read the book aloud to my brother, sister-in-law, and parents one afternoon many years ago, and perhaps I laughed louder and longer than they did, but Dad remembered the tale and wanted to share it with someone new.

My first reaction to his request was an internal NO! I didn't want to lend a family memory to someone else. That was our laughter. That was our time.

Then I realized that sometimes forgiveness and healing are incremental. And, just because he shares the book with his new wife, it does not lessen the value of the book nor the memory.

Besides, I like Wife #4. Other than my mom, she's the best one he's married.

Looking back, I have this to regret, that too often when I loved, I did not say so.

David Grayson

I love you, Dad.

Granfa Grig, The Hobbit, and Finding My Way: a Ramble

When it comes to writing new blog posts -- or writing fiction -- these past few weeks, I've become a sluggard.

Sluggard.

photo by Jose L. Ramos, from Amazon.com

Whenever I hear, read, or (in this case) type that word, I am reminded of a "nursery rhyme" I first encountered as a little kid while reading Granfa' Grig Had a Pig and Other Rhymes Without Reason (granfa' being short for grandfather):

Slug-a-bed, slug-a-bed, Barley Butt,
Your bum's so heavy, you can't get up.

If I recall correctly, the corresponding picture was of a pig in a too-small bed.

I don't know what's happened to my well-worn, well-loved copy of that insane and happy book of Mother Goose rhymes -- the illustrations are fantastic -- but I suspect I gave it to my niece or to some other child who would appreciate the goofiness that sometimes hides a comment on life.

The publication year is 1976, the year I turned five, went to kindergarten, and started learning to read -- the year before the animated version of The Hobbit was released. (Someone later gave me a copy of the read-along record, too.) I tend to say that Tolkien's novel was my introduction to the fantasy genre but, truthfully, all the nursery rhymes, fairy tales, tall tales, myths and legends that I'd heard and read before I finally picked up The Hobbit and read it for myself, those were really the beginning for me.

Isn't all fiction fantasy? After all, unless it's somehow autobiographical, based on history, or a modified version of fact, all fiction springs from the fantasies -- be they dark, merry, extravagant, simple -- of writers who let their imaginations roam free.

I used to get irritated at my dad analyzing Westerns, telling me that a horse had the wrong saddle or that an outlaw was using a gun that wouldn't work. "A real cowboy would never treat his horse that way," or "A man trying to hide would never ride the ridge like that, " and so on. My response was always, "So? It's not real life. It's a story. Anything can happen."

Well, technically, that's true. Just a story. Just a fantasy.

All stories are fantasies -- we make them up -- but even the most improbable fantasy should make sense within the parameters of its world.

Granfa' Grig can keep his pig (in a field of clover. Piggy died, Granfa' cried, and now the fun was over), Thor can wield his hammer, the three billygoats can fend off the trolls, Raven can play his tricks, and, sure, a fairy godmother can swoop in out of nowhere and make magic -- but has anyone else but me ever wondered where she came from and why in the world she'd help a perfect stranger go to the ball to meet the prince? I mean, what's her angle?

Maybe that's just the cynic in me, but everyone -- real or imaginary -- has a motive. What they say or do, what they believe, why they change or remain the same, it all has a reason. It may not be a very good reason, but it makes sense to them if to no one else.

So, even in fantasy, writers need to keep their facts straight, and be aware of the why of things.

photo by D. Friedman, on Amazon.com

I'm preaching to myself here. When I'm not sure where to go next with a story, I go back and try to get back inside the characters' heads, try to view a situation from their perspectives. What do they value? What do they need? What do they hate, love, want?

That doesn't mean I don't lose my way, but losing the path is part of the journey. Wander around, check out the forest, find a new route through the city, return to the main road, continue the journey.

Maybe while I'm spending time finding out what my characters will do next and why, I'll see a previously hidden path, surprising myself and, hopefully, the reader.

Bilbo Baggins met Gollum while trying to escape the goblins, thus placing himself in new and more intense danger -- the riddle scene is one of my favorites in literature -- and leading Tolkien to write the finding of a ring capable of making Bilbo invisible. In the beginning, it was just a magical ring. Only later did it grow in Tolkien's imagination to become the center of an epic fantasy, The Lord of the Rings.

The things we discover on the way can be treasures untold.

A Funny Spoiler for Thieves' Honor

Saturday, I was generally a slug, mostly inert all day, but my mind was busy, and I've jumped from one writing project to another, pondering older projects that need new life, and progressing on more recent ones.

There's a joint project -- existing in partial scenes and handwritten notes -- that I need to start working on with my writing partner,  and an old short story idea that may need expansion because its themes are so deep and broad they may not fit into a few thousand words without making the story appear to be a giant in a clown car.

As for Thieves' Honor, the following are notes on a scene for an upcoming episode; I laughed as I wrote them, so I figured you might laugh, too:

Someone wants to join the Vega crew -- who? why?
do they follow Ezra around?
pick at him?
admire him?

Corrigan tries to discourage them: "We're men of the worst sort."
Finney raises her eyebrows.
Corrigan amends: "We're women of the worst sort."
Wyatt scowls, and sucks his teeth.
Corrigan, embarrassed: "Well, anyway, we're the worst sort."

At the moment, the scene in progress involves Kristoff being recruited to be a thief.

Reminds me of Bilbo Baggins being told to go "burgle" something.

Update on Thieves' Honor

By the way, Episode 14 of Thieves' Honor is up at Ray Gun Revival. This serial is probably the most experimental writing I've done -- and, well, experiments can be succeed wildly or fail dismally. You be the judge. This particular episode is an even further departure from my usual writing.

A friend suggested that I start taking bets or suggestions on how the lead, Captain Kristoff, is going to injure himself next. That may become a running gag in the series. This time, he's just about blown his eardrums by firing a giant gun in a confined space.

One thing I do need to keep track of, though, are all the potential plot developments. Right now, I'm deciding whether or not Kristoff gets to rid himself of the device in his head -- but the tension is richer, I think, if he has to keep it. And then has a showdown with the person who has the kill codes. Mwah-ha-ha-ha!

Also, I want to start exploring the fate of Ezra's parents, and what will be the fallout now that Lieutenant Mars and Ensign Gains have sprung Captain Zoltana from the brig?

But enough about me! My current favorite story up on the RGR site is "Suited for Command" by Adam Colston. Funny and original. Check it out.

The Mighty Pen, Teaching Kids Photography, and General Rambling

At the youth organization where I work, we are hosting a regional photography contest in which entries from several states are being submitted. As I've been sorting boxes of photos, marveling at the photos taken by kids, I'm reminded of what little artistry I had when I first started taking snapshots on Mom's little point-and-shoot film camera, borrowed for a trip to Honduras when I was fifteen. Photographing people, I made them look like cons in mugshots. Landscapes were generally busy pictures with lots of stuff but no real focus.

Many years later, I have a much better camera, more experience looking at the world with a photographer's eye, but am still nowhere near being an expert. I teach the very basics to kids -- the goal is to interest them in photography, not teach a college course -- and try to help them see the world around them as full of picture potential, but I cannot make them creative. That's gotta come from inside their own minds.

After showing kids the "rule of thirds" or why it's important to be aware of light sources, shadows, clutter, it's always interesting -- and occasionally frustrating -- to observe how some young photographers will only pay attention to the rules, producing technical but uninteresting shots, and some will consistently toss the rules out the window, regardless of how many sloppy, unfocused, or just plain bad shots they produce.

after the storm                       c. April 2011, KB

The best students know there's a time to follow the rules -- "use a tripod for night shots", for instance -- and then there's a time to just go with your gut, take a shot for the fun of it, for the experiment of it, for the moment before the light fades completely, the basketball swooshes through the hoop, or the dancing stops. Y'never know what'll happen.

That's how a lot of my poetry has been written: not because I intended it and followed some rules -- "Today I am writing a poem, and it will be a sonnet" -- but because the words were there and must be recorded before the moment disappeared. Same with essays: I have something to say, it must be said now, and the structure of the essay is dictated by the theme or the subject. Even feature articles and interviews have rules, but those can be tossed to the winds when formality would kill the piece.

Speaking of kill -- in a purely lighthearted sense, of course (laugh) -- here's one of my favorite Geico commercials, probably because it appeals to literature, martial arts, and the absurd little humor gremlin inside my head:

Christ - An Easter Musical Celebration

(click for Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 1 or Part 2)

Unlike the previous two, today's post is composed not so much random thoughts as it is the story of the Cross, comprised of videos of songs that have influenced and encouraged my faith. They remind me of the hope that awaits, that death is nothing to fear, that there is a love that surpasses any human emotion, that Life has conquered the grave.

So, in honor of Jesus Christ--

Video remix of Secret Ambition by Michael W. Smith,

or catch the original video here (complete with mullets, 'cause, hey, this was the 1980s).

Judas Kiss by Petra

(song only, no video montage, but the words are enough)

Watch the Lamb by Don Francisco

Rise Again by Dallas Holm

It Is Finished by Petra

In movies or church cantatas, the story usually ends there, but the songs below speak of the life we can have as a result of the death He died and the life He now lives:

Clean by Petra

Bound to Come Some Trouble by Rich Mullins

(This song literally saved my life during a dark, suicidal stretch of time when the cliff often looked more appealing than the road.) 

Love That Will Not Let Me Go by Steve Camp

(just the song, but what a song)

Road to Zion by Petra

Grave Robber by Petra

It is finished.

Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 2

(click here for Christ - Random Thoughts, Part 1)

Jesus told His disciples:

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."  -Matthew 5:14-16

I fall far short of that, my light often being only an uncertain flicker in the winds of impatience, selfishness, and other ugliness that obscures the flame. I am thankful, though, that -- despite human frailty, rebellion, and outright disbelief -- He will never be truly obscured. Like the moon to the sun, we can only reflect His light; we will never diminish it.

Recently, I went to Eureka Springs, Arkansas, home of The Great Passion Play, and the site of the Christ of the Ozarks, a blockish and simple-looking statue that can -- despite a controversial history -- move a person to deep reflection. The power is in the eyes, a gaze that's almost alive.

The day I took the photo below, the wind was tossing the trees, but I kept fiddling with the camera, trying (unsuccessfully) for an artistic shot. However, despite the wind, the branches parted long enough to frame the statue's face.

Christ of the Ozarks, Eureka Springs, Arkansas                        c. 2011, KB

No, I do not worship an image, nor do I know the actual features in the face of Christ. Yet, sitting on the bench under the awning, and gazing up the slope directly into that impassive and yet challenging visage, I felt a lump rise up in my throat, and tears gathered at the corners of my eyes.

Christ of the Ozarks, Eureka Springs, Arkansas                        c. 2011, KB

In line of that gaze, I sensed a little of what Peter must have felt, looking into the face of Jesus after denying -- even cursing -- Him. Yet He looked on him with compassion.

I am forever amazed at the cross, at what He did for me. I, a coward when it comes to pain I know is on the way, cannot fathom His choosing to go through such agony that I might be free.

"Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set me free from the law of sin and death."  -Romans 8:1,2

Todd Burrows posted this awesome video using scenes from The Passion of the Christ to illustrate the song Didn't He, performed by Geoff Moore, an artist whose songs the teenaged and twenty-something me belted out while listening to them on the radio. Didn't He still gets me every time, with good reason: