Imagination

I am composing this directly into the body of this post, something I rarely do.  This is just a short thought, so I don't think it will affect content.

There is a phrase, "By no stretch of the imagination..."  then a situation is given.

Who says that my imagination has the same elasticity as yours?  The two words the imagination when paired thusly seem so static.  There is no room for differentiation between minds' ability to stretch reality.  The phrase could use a possessive pronoun, my imagination or your imagination.

Let's not limit ourselves or each other by restricting how far our minds can stretch the truth.

Off the Page

If I gave you a sheet of 8.5”x 11” paper and told you to fill it with a drawing you, would most likely be able to do it.  But I imagine you would only ever go up to the edge of the page and never draw off of it.  The edge of the page would be a very strong border holding you in.  Plus, why draw off the page anyway?  You filled the page just fine by drawing up to the edge and not off it.  And you’re right.  What’s the point?

But writers on the other hand must write off the page if they want to create a world in which their story is set.  Otherwise the story is an isolated string of events that happen in a very contained environment.

Of course words shouldn’t flow off the page and get cut off.  There should be margins and the text should be legible.  Writing off the page is creating the content that never makes it into the story, but is still there. 

What does it mean to write off of the page? It means making connections to something larger than the story being told.  It is creating the world in which the story happens.  Why?  Because it makes the story more credible and more interesting. 

Take J.R.R. Tolkien for example.  In his story, Lord of the Rings, there are fragments of hundreds of other stories that pass through his but are never told.  Why does that happen?  Because he has created a whole world and it naturally seeps in.  A story is not a straight line that moves from one point to another, its more like a rope made of hundreds of threads that are tangled and weaved with many loose frayed ends.  It wraps around and maneuvers a landscape, never in a straight line. 

Or, it’s like a picture that runs off a page.

God's Tree

There is a tree in the old city of Jerusalem.  It stands in near an ancient road near an old city wall.  The bright yellow sun shines down on it and makes it grow.

The tree is proud and stands tall and happy.  It makes shade and on hot days people come and sit under its shade on a bench that sits near its trunk.

A man comes and sits under the tree.  He is hot and tired.  Sweat shows on his forehead. He is dressed in a thawb and wears a Taqiyah on his head.  He is Muslim.

Another weary man walks by and sits.  He is also tired and hot.  He doesn’t notice the first man until he is sitting.  His appearance is very different.  He is wearing a large black hat and has a beard.  Long curls hang over his ears.  He has a black coat and trousers over a white shirt.  From under his shirt hang tassels.  He is Jewish.

Both remained quiet, their religions are very different and they are not friends.  But neither wants to leave the shade. And so both remain as a third man shows up.  He doesn’t look like either of the others.  He is wearing a pair of jeans and a button up shirt.  He takes the last seat on the bench in the shade and lets out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, what a blessing the shade is.”  The man eyes the old olive tree, “This must be a Christian tree.”

Both the other men eye him.  He continues, “Yes, it is an olive tree and that symbolizes life, Christ was resurrected here.  It must be a Christian tree.”

The Muslim shakes his head.  “Not so.  This tree is here where it can see the Dome of the Rock.  It is here to provide shade to the seed of Abraham and his Muslim posterity.  You can see that is leans toward Mecca in the south.  This is a Muslim tree whose shade we enjoy.

The man with the hat countered both with his own explanation.  “It is an ancient tree, that can be seen.  Before there was Islam and before there was Christianity there was a chosen people.  This tree is Jewish. Look you can even see its seven branches that look like a menorah.  It is a reminder that God looks out for his chosen people.”

Each of the three men had given their explanation and in turn listened while the others had given theirs.  None of them agreed and the silence showed that.  They were sitting again in silence when the Muslim spoke.  “Well what ever the tree is I am glad that God has blessed us with the shade.”

“Yes,” the other two agreed.  They sat in silence until each in turn left, leaving the tree alone.

Note:

This story came as a result of a trip to Israel at the end of the summer.  In Jerusalem there is much conflict, misunderstanding and hate.  I wanted to write something of hope and unity.  This was the idea that I had.  It is a simple story but it focuses on finding common ground instead of differences.  The world, no doubt, would be a better place if we all could all just appreciate the shade and not be so concerned with the tree.

The Most Impressive Library

          He raised his hand and knocked on the door. He heard the sound as it echoed around inside the large interior. It bounced off of walls, pushed down corridors and through doors. The sound diminished as it penetrated the mansion home and was absorbed by it.
          He thought back to the first time he realized what a library was. The change came in understanding. Before he understood what books were, a library was just an empty room with walls that were decorated differently. But when he learned what books were that all changed. The walls weren’t decorated differently, they were actually very different in nature. They were alive with wisdom, learning, and stories. One volume alone could represent the distilled and refined knowledge of a man’s whole life; a whole soul could be contained in a few hundred dusty pages trapped in a leather bound cover. When he realized what the books meant the walls changed. They were no longer vertical but seemed to lean inward as if stretching out for attention, longing to be read. Leaning so far they looked ready to cave in and crush any unwary entrant. Libraries scared him for a long time.
          Inside the house he heard a sound, or many sounds all from one source. The sounds of approach. It wouldn’t be long till he was admitted and was shown to the library. Instead of being scared he was excited. Not a frivolous excitement that accompanies silly things; excited as the sensation of vibrations deep within the body that indicate the coming of something great—something life changing. From ignorance to fear his feeling toward libraries matured into love and respect. In libraries he felt comfortable. And happy. And content. But this library was different.
          There was a clank, then a subtle grinding sound, then a thump—all from within the solid wood of the door. Slowly it swung open.
          "Welcome Sir. We are pleased for your visit." The woman was old and grayed but her eyes showed that she was not frail, she was tough as steel. "Your coat?" she said extending her hand. He stepped in, set down his satchel, removed his coat and handed it to her. She hung it and turned, motioned for him to follow, and headed down a corridor. "This way."

          Of course the woman had expected him, he had been in correspondence with the manor’s representative for quite some time. He had been long waiting this visit. And not just the months he had been arranging the visit. It was as if his whole life was leading up to it. There was something sobering about visiting the most impressive library in the world. Again, that feeling deep within, the rumbling of a soul in anticipation of something great.
          She stopped in front of a door. She turned to him and spoke, "Take as long as you like. If you need anything, just ring the bell." She opened the door and motioned him in, closing the door behind him.
          The woman was careful on her part to do only as much as required. It seemed that it always worked best that way, when she was not part of the process any more than a guide. When she opened the door she made sure to stand back to let him enter while she remained without. She waited until he was inside before reaching in to pull the door closed, only letting her arm enter. Now her part was done. She would wait, let the thing unfold and lead the man out when the time came. She would listen to his comments, but not direct them. The responses from visitors were varied, as was the experience they referenced. She wondered what was in store for this particular gentleman.

          He was first struck by the shear size of the room. It was massive and rose to three full stories. But that alone was not sufficient to warrant the title The Most Impressive Library in the World. He had seen many large rooms filled with unimpressive collections. Others that were much smaller had more interesting and valuable collections. But his recognition of size was quickly replaced by another recognition.
          What was more astonishing than the rooms size were the shelves that ran along the walls and that jutted out into the room creating nooks and alcoves. The shelves looked sturdy and well suited to bear the load of many thousands of books. Yet they were not. The shelves were all empty. With a quick sweeping glance and a quick survey, there appeared to be not a single book in the whole library. What a strange place, he thought as he took two steps forward into the open expanse.
He stepped to his left with outstretched arm. He rested his hand on one of the empty shelves, feeling it to be certain it was real. He turned to look at the closed door through which he had entered. He half expected the woman to be there to offer an explanation. There was no woman, and no explanation.
He began to wander the room. His legs moved beneath him propelling him around, though he didn’t connect with the feeling. As if in a trance he floated around the room. Around corners, past shelves, and up stairs. He glided, looking for the one thing that the library should have, and in mass. And yet there were no books. The shelves were as dust-free as they were book-free.
          Was it all a joke? The most impressive library in the world to have no books. Some play of words. Most impressive indeed. It had made an impression to be sure. Such an unexpected contradiction was sure to make a mark in one’s mind. But what was the point? Why all the work and to what end? The questions floated into his mind and then out of it—drifting, much in the same way he moved about aimlessly.
          He stopped. He realized that he was on the third floor. He tuned to overlook the expanse below. Leaning on the railing he gazed. And then it caught his eye. With a start he straightened and dashed to his right, running to the stairs. He descended in an instant and in a flash was standing—panting—in front of a shelf.
          The shelf, unlike all the others, held a book. It stood upright, at eye level at the center of the open space. The only book in the library. It was a leather-bound volume that looked tremendously old in style but very new in condition. There was no writing on the spine. He reached out to touch it. He wanted to know it was real, not some mirage his mind was creating amidst the barrenness of the place.

          Memories are strange things. There are parts that are so clear that they can be pulled to the surface and examined at a moment and in great detail while other parts are lost entirely. He had one memory that stood out as being so complete that it was almost unnatural. He was sitting in his father’s lap. They were in the overstuffed chair in the den. There was a fire in the hearth. Sandwiched between the heat of the flames and the warms of his father he felt totally safe. Eyes closed, he had his head resting against his dad’s chest. Father was reading to him. The words drifted down to his ears and made their way into his mind, there sprouting into moving scenes of color and detail that are only possible in the fertile soil of a vibrant imagination. He could also feel the words. One ear against his father’s chest he could feel the vibrations of the words as well as the rise and fall of breathing.
          The stories were not new. He had been hearing them for as long as he could remember. And to a child as young as he was it felt like forever. But even forever old and often repeated and retold, they still captivated. He loved the stories and the characters. He liked the story of Trindle and the forgotten inheritance. Another was the story of the man with the stone heart. But his all time favorite was the one about the story-telling peddler who was always around when something important happened. They were lovely stories and rightfully they were all held in a wonderful book. Old and warn the leather book was a chest full of treasure. He always called it The Book as if that were all the title it needed. There were lots of books but this was The Book, the most important of books. It was his book.
          When his dad stopped reading he waited. When the silence dragged on he opened his eyes and tilted his head up to look and dad. When the book slid from his dad’s hand and fell with a thud to the ground he sat up straight. Dad? He asked at first. Then louder and louder he repeated it until he was shouting. At some point his mother rushed in, pulled by the urgency in her son’s voice. He remembered the expression on his mother’s face as she took in the situation. What followed was a flurry of noise and action. It wasn’t long before sirens could be heard and his father was rushed off. Later that day when he ventured back to the den and looked for the book he could not find it. In all the years since then he had not been able to figure out what happened to it. Nor had he been able to find another copy of the book. It was a book that did not exist, at least not outside of his mind.

          So when he reached out to touch a book that alone populated a whole library, he did it to be certain that it was real. Not the invention of a crazed mind. How easily his mind could have deceived him to imagine a book that for so long he had fruitlessly sought.
          He touched the book. He could feel the leather’s texture. He lifted it gingerly and drew it from the shelf toward his body. With a hand on the front and the other on the back he slowly open the book letting the pages fall past each other. He scanned words and illustrations. This was The Book.
The pages seemed to turn of their own accord. First only a few, then many and ultimately the bulk of the pages flopped back, showing him the inside of the front cover where there was an inscription.
          The ink was clear, the writing sharp. The handwriting was unmistakable. It was the flowing letters of his father’s hand. Utterly impossible but completely true. Not only was his father long dead but this library was remote and unknown to his father. Then there was the book itself. A book that never really existed except in his childhood and now in a library that only had one book.
          There was no date and no names to indicate who it was from or to. And yet he knew that the book was for him and from whom it came.
          "Stories to intrigue and amaze. These are my gift to you. Real stories are true across space and time. May you always find comfort in these."
          He let out a long sigh of relief that turned into a sob. His body shook in nearly silent crying. A weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. But with the removal of doubt of the book’s existence his repressed pain was also unstoppered. A deep and fermented sadness washed over him. He felt in a moment all the pain of loss and loneliness of years lived without a father. Tears rolled down his face and fell from the bottom of his chin, falling to the ground.

          He pulled himself together after a moment and wiped his tears with his sleeve. He held the book to his chest with both arms and headed to the door of the library.
          He opened the door and stepped into the hall only to realize he didn’t know where his hostess was, nor how to find her. Stepping back into the library he rang the bell and turned back to the open door. He gave a start and recoiled backwards because there was now a figure standing just outside the door, the woman from before. She motioned with her head for him to follow her. He did so, the two walking in silence. At some point he looked over at her and held out the book. She smiled in response and said, "Well, if that’s what you found I imagine it’s for you." Seeing his confused expression she continued, "It’s yours. Take it." He put in back to his chest and nodded.
          In no time they were again at he entrance of the manor, (rather the exit since he is leaving).
          "If I come back here—" he started but she cut him off.
          "You won’t be back. You’ve been here once. And that is all you get." With that she shut the door between them, leaving him in the dim light of dusk.

Creation and Writing

I want to write about the process of creation.  I am a creator.  I am moving from the adjective creative to the title creator, much the same way someone becomes a sailor when they get on a boat and actually sail (which reminds me of the classic children’s book Finally a Sailor, read it if you haven’t yet).  Yes, I am a creator because I make things.

One question that I am often asked when people see my creative output is, “How did you think of this?”  That is a hard question to answer because the cognitive process is fast and elusive, as if it is what happens behind the scenes.  One moment there is not an idea in the mind and the next second there it is, as if appearing out of nowhere. 

 Actually there is a halfway answer that I have been coming to for the last long while.  I am going to sum it up in an analogy that just came to me.  Picture, if you will, a slot machine.   Not the fancy video ones with monitors with so much color and action that it gives a headache just to look at them (let alone try to understand them [I tried to play one once while on a writing-road-trip-pilgrimage, it was interesting—for further reading on that get a copy of Finding Ray Bradbury]). No, imagine an old-time slot machine with a long silver lever on the side and a three-compartment window.   Pull that arm and the wheels start spinning in a whiz of color.  Slowly, one by one, each wheel stops.  Most of the time the combination is nothing special; not a winner.  But every so often the match up is right, and out come s the money, the prize.

The mind is full of ideas, thoughts and pieces of knowledge.  Creative minds are the ones that are constantly, ceaselessly putting together new combinations of the old.  They are the addicts who cannot quit playing, pushing on until coming upon a winning combination even though victory doesn’t satisfy the need but rather feeds it.  My mind is in constant motion, always putting things together and occasionally getting something that fits just right.   When that happens it’s time to run with it.  Turn it into action.

As a writer I am constantly coming up with ideas for stories.  Are they new?  No, I suppose not.  They are made with other ideas and thoughts that are common, what makes them good is that they are combined in just the right way.  For every good idea I have there are scores that didn’t measure up.

Lately I have been weak on the action part.  One story in particular seems beyond finishing.  It has taken me months to get to where I am, which is in the still-not-finished-yet-but-getting-there phase.  The idea is great but laziness is holding me back.  Its time to buckle down and finish it.  Wish me luck…and keep your eyes open for the forthcoming story.

Long Past Due

I haven't been posting recently.  I have been busy.  I seem to be able to put my energy into only so many projects at a time and for the past few weeks the project has been a board game.  It is finished and available for purchase.  There are limited quantities and the price is $15.  Take a look and tell me what you think.  The brief explanation is that players try to make the longest snakes possible by playing the tiles.

This was an idea that came to me while I was writing.  I put together a quick mock up and then with prompting from my wind-in-the-sails friend I took this one to completion.

The Alchemists' Folly

Prescript- I wrote this some years ago.  I didn't reread it before posting (oooh, dangerous, I know).  It's kind of longish.  I hope you get through it.

In recent study of poisons I have come across numerous references to the alchemist.  Throughout history there have been individuals who have made it their study to find out certain secrets that would fulfill their dreams.  These were to obtain the knowledge whereby they could turn various metals into gold and to find the elixir of life that would grant perpetual youth.  These two goals went hand in hand.  Alchemists sought the secret of the philosopher’s stone, which would aid in the transmutation process.  Gold was a highly valued and praised metal for its characteristics; these being its luster and resistance to rust (long life).  These pseudo-scientists believed that if they could understand the process that changed a less valuable metal into one that was superior that they could then apply the same principles to themselves and attain a never-ending life, or perpetual youth (such as gold has). 

The contributions that alchemist have made to the field of chemistry as a side effect of their studies have been invaluable.  However, the only real contribution that they made to their own field was to prove that the secret they sought did not exist.

When we were younger I am sure we all heard of the alchemists and were fascinated.  More vivid in our minds were probably the stories of pirates.  Pirates were adventurers who looked for buried treasure with old parchment maps, x marking the spot.  They sailed the seven seas and had eye patches.  My question is why we were fascinated by them. Why did we dress up like them for Halloween and wish to be them in real life?  Why did we make pretend?  More importantly, do we still believe the same philosophy that made us love them?

One lure (the biggest and perhaps the only one) that made us like the pirate and admire the alchemist was the idea of getting something for free.  Pirates “found” treasure and alchemists “made” it.  These people didn’t have to work like everybody else in the same way as the common man to get what everybody else had.  These had the easy way.

The problem is that these were those that tried to cheat the pattern of value for value.  For any and all transactions to be universally justified there must be an exchange of value that occurs.  This can be a good for a good a service for a service or monetary exchange or any combination because these all represent value.

There are two questions I wish to address in regard to the short cutters. What were the results of their choice to use flawed means?  And what were their other choices? 

So what did the alchemist get for his search for wealth and youth?  He got exactly what he deserved and the exact opposite of what he wanted.  Because of the all consuming nature of the alchemist’s quest the alchemist was unable to maintain any activity that would create a means of providing for his support.  When compared to the monumental task of making gold all other labor seemed to be wasteful and below the level of one so entrenched in so grand an endeavor.  Secondly, all resources that were gained were poured into the labor that was second to nothing.  The alchemist never became wealthy and was dependent on others for his support and would gain such through promises of wealth that were never fulfilled.

As for youth, the Alchemist wasted his life away in a laboratory never really being able to experience and enjoy the world that was his to have and to use because he was too enthralled in his own little closed sphere.  His quest didn’t bring youth but sucked it from him and gave nothing in return.

As for pirates they were feared, hated and hunted.  Their capture meant death.  But the problems of pirates were not only the fear of being captured by those who ruled by law, but there was the fear of those on the inside.  Because the pirate’s philosophy was to rob and plunder there was the possibility of shipmates turning and making prey on those who were once their comrades in similar endeavors.  How could one whose means is stealing be expected to maintain the standards of honesty in one facet of life and not in all?  The contradiction cannot long stand and either the honesty wins out and the pirate life must be abandoned, or dishonesty will win and there can be no trust on a ship of wholly treacherous men.  The possibility of back stabbing and being the recipient of plunder were real.  Pirates also did not find the wealth that they sought.

But what were the alternatives?  Only one and that is adherence to the law of value.  The alchemist should have spent his time in the pursuit of making wealth (through enterprise) and not of making gold.  He should also have spent his youth in activity that would have been of value to himself and others.  The pirate also should have put his efforts towards industry or worked to earn money as opposed to stealing the fruits of other’s labor.

The truth is this; there are universal laws and one of these is the law of value exchange.  When any one tries to circumvent or cheat this law they receive the opposite of what they aim to get by doing so.  Do we try to cheat these laws?  Is it in our hearts to get for free what we can only have by work?  And if the answer to these is yes, do we understand the consequences?