myopic pilgrim

I was finally able to apologize to Dad.

He did his best to raise me right. He never lifted a hand to me. He showed me how a man should act and speak. He worked hard all of his life only to have me squander what he gave me. He was a good man.

It was hard (I’m too stubborn), but I formed the words with my trembling lips, thankful I didn’t have to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. But I’m not sure he heard me—his head beneath the gravestone.

Reno News & Review, a weekly paper, has an annual contest of a 100+ word story. They add a word to the limit every year. Presumably, in 2004 it’ll be a 104 word contest. I remember thinking a 500 word essay was a beast of an assignment, but after trying to write a 100 word story my viewpoint has changed. I used up all my words long before I got to the point.

I’ve suggested to a couple of teacher friends of mine to severely limit the number of words a student can use in an essay, hoping it would teach them about the economy of words. If they would focus less on getting word number 500, they would write less fluff and more meat. On the other hand I know a lot of folks would take advantage of the parameters unless other criteria was stressed. For example, it needs a beginning, middle and an end; a strong opinion has to be expressed; or the reader needs to feel something.

The 100 Words section is my attempt at practicing the key to good communication which of course is brevity.

If you can’t wait until May for the next 100 Word Story Contest, head to 54 Words where they’re accepting 54 word entries all the time.

Last Sunday after lunch my wife and I go to an art sale held in one of the Holiday Inn convention rooms. I was expecting to see art on the walls, on partitions, on easels. Instead I see rows of chairs placed back to back with paintings, unframed, resting in stacks of six or seven. As my wife and I peruse the paintings, I recognize a painting that seemed to be modeled very closely to an actual painting. I mean, a famous painting by Matisse or someone. Then I see a painting done in a surreal style, not only similar to Dali, but just like Dali though not as well done. Then I see Starry Night (all told over five versions of the painting) and I finally understand how the ad could claim a $50 price tag for famous paintings. Read the rest of this entry »

I’m underwater. My thoughts move slowly, trying to cut through the waters, like trying to run neck-deep in the ocean. My game plan is murky. Not sure what goal to shoot for first. And truthfully I’m fearful of the deep end.

I can’t remember the last time the holidays were a joy to me—a pure joy. I know what it’s supposed to be. Peace on earth; goodwill towards men. God’s plan of reconciliation with mankind coming to a head with the incarnation of Christ. I find solace in those thoughts during the moments I can catch my breath, feeling safe as if in sheltered cove. Then I take a deep breath and plunge back into the tempest.

Let waves of your mercy,
Vast as you are vast
Great as you are great
Powerful and free,
Crash over me—taking my breath.

Crisp and clean
Scrubbing the grime on my skin
Pummel my chest
Toss me off my feet
Hurtling beneath the surface
Breathless, buried, dead
Till I’m offered up again;
My face washed from saline to saline
My skin salted
My body accelerated
My soul new baptized