Greeting the Goodbyes

I am no stranger to goodbyes. We meet on a regular basis. Sometimes we get coffee.

A few minutes ago, I scooted my desk chair up next to the closet, used it as a footstool, and opened the cabinets to swing down my two suitcases. Now they're half full with button-down shirts, running shorts I never did use, and the trinkets I've accumulated during three months of study in York, U.K. I'm getting ready to say goodbye. Hello, my old friend.

This will not be the saddest or most traumatic of the goodbyes I've said in my life. Third culture families know how it is. My parents have lost everything to rushed evacuations. We've exchanged continents and countries multiple times. Mom thought she was bidding permanent farewell to Dad when he chose to remain in Liberia during the civil wars. And sometimes, you don't get to say goodbye. Sometimes, the chance is taken from you.

You know how it is. That ache, deep in the pit of your belly. That numbness, dulling the edges of your brain.

Sometimes you don't get over it.

I think there's an expectation for these types of reflections: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." But I'm not about that life. I mean, I am, but that's not a legitimate way to deal with grief. Weep. Weep for the loss, weep for the pain, weep for the friends left behind. Weep because something that brought you joy will never return. There may be other joys. They may be grander. But this joy, this beautiful sliver right here, has ended. And you will never get it back. Face that. Maybe you don't need to weep, or need your mom's friends to psychoanalyze you (they will anyway), but acknowledge your loss in whatever way works best for you.

Those accustomed to goodbyes develop rituals. Songs, movies, things we do before we leave. When I packed to leave Nigeria after senior year of high school, I listened to Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" over and over again. It's a song about life moving on, about someone who waits for you through the changes and uncertainty. To me, that person represents God.

"Steal my heart, and hold my tongue,

I feel my time, my time has come.

Let me in, unlock the door.

I've never felt this way before.

The wheels just keep on turning,

The drummer begins to drum,

I don't know which way I'm going,

I don't know which way I've come . . . ."

I listen to that song every time I leave a place.

For my sister, the song was John Denver's "Leaving on a Jet-Plane." And in Nigeria, at a mission guest house where many missionaries stay before departing that final time, there's a bunk bed in one room where dozens of MK's have Sharpied their emotions and graven their names. Some little piece of themselves, remaining in the place they called home. The place that could never be home. The place that will always be home.

Sometimes we don't greet the goodbyes. I've had friends and family who've lost clumps of hair over the stress of leaving, and others, including myself, who've cut everyone off, become instinctively mean to chase friends away. Still others refuse to acknowledge that it's sad, and rejoice that they're returning to "civilization," until years later when they realize what they've lost.

Let me tell you a secret: sometimes I get so, so jealous of my "normal" American friends. I am tempted to belittle their pain: "No, you don't get to say that your half-year mission's trip was 'life-changing.' I lived overseas my entire life; you can have your Thanksgiving, you can have your Independence Day, but you can't have this. This pain belongs to me."

But that's wrong. Every place we visit clings to our souls, like wet paper. Every place becomes a part of us, no matter how briefly. I am addicted to that sort of pain, because I know it helps me grow, though it hurts like hell at the time.

As I leave York, I will walk the Roman walls, I will do my writing, I will sip my mulled cider, I will listen to my songs. I will perform my rituals to greet the goodbye.

But greet her I will.

And as we leave together, she will put her arm around me, and I will say, "It still hurts this time." And she will say, "I know, Luke. You're welcome."

She is familiar to me, even when nothing else is. As strange as it sounds, I take comfort in that. That is why I greet her. That is why I know how to say goodbye.

Goodbye, my beautiful city

The ECHO

The ECHO is Taylor University's weekly newspaper, and today they kindly published a piece about my interaction with Brimstone, written by a fellow Professional Writing major. If you'd like to read it, the article can be viewed here.

Tee hee. This makes me happy and nervous. Also, where did they get that picture? Did they get that from my old facebook photos? That's from, like, eleventh grade. Just goes to show, you never know where things on the internet will wind up!

This is the picture in question, so that you know what I'm talking about.

Where do I get my ideas?

Of late, I have observed a trend among cool-writer people. 

When they are asked the dreaded question: "Where do you get your ideas?" they instantly fire back with a witty, pithy, memorable response. (Actually, in my mind the dreaded question has always been "So what's your book about?" but the first one is a close second). For an example of such witty responses from literary superstar Neil Gaiman, click here and here.

Because of this trend, and because I am generally terrible at improv, I have decided to prepare my answer in a pre-written blog post. For those of you familiar with my thoughts on Mbombo and Ragnarok, you may recognize some of these elements.

So, you want to know where I get my ideas? I'm so very glad you asked.

In an ancient part of the world, in deepest, darkest, Central Africa, there is a village named Kuna. Every nine years a market is held in Kuna, called The Selling of the Glass. You must arrive at this market during the heat of the noonday sun. Then you must wander, paying no attention to sight or sound, until you are lost. When you are good and truly lost -- only then -- you will happen upon a hovel selling straw. Do not approach the owner of the hovel. Approach instead the beggar who squats at the hovel's corner, and address him by his name, and offer him a speckled cowry shell. The beggar's name is Mbombo.

The beggar will open his eyes and say to you: "Only a camel can travel through the eye of a needle."

"Yes," you must say, "but when the needle is lost in the haystack, even the camel cannot find it."

The old beggar will smile a toothless, gummy smile, and he will produce a single shard of broken crystal, glistening in the palm of his hand. You will take the crystal and you will gaze at the sun through it. The sun will hurt your eyes. Then you will place the crystal in your mouth, atop your tongue, and you will swallow it. The beggar will look at you very strangely. The temple drums will then begin to beat. On the fifth drumbeat, the beggar will offer you salt, and you must swallow the salt and vomit. 

For as every fool knows, it is a very bad idea to swallow glass.

You will leave that place, never to return, and you will proceed to write and think about things and write more things. You will do this because at the heart of our world there is a truth: the only way to catch an idea is to snatch at straws.

I hope I have made myself crystal clear.

Will I remember all of this, when people ask me the second-most dreaded question?

Duh, no. But even as a serious amateur, I can assure you that people do ask me this all the time, just as soon as they discover that I'm a Professional Writing major. No, not riding major. I . . . you know what? Yes. Yes, I ride horses, and I make money at it. Like, equestrian studies. *Sob.*

That is all, friends. Goodnight.

Here is a picture of Neil Gaiman, because attaching pictures to blog posts is supposedly a good idea.

Cathedrals and Wasted Perfume

I've continued to consider the subject of Tuesday's post: are cathedrals beautiful monuments to the God who created art, or are they wasted riches that should've served a more practical function? To me, this ties in with the issue of art in general. When it comes down to it, I write because I want to say worthwhile things, to ask important questions -- but also, and perhaps more-so, because I just want to tell stories. I believe that crafting stories honors God. I believe in the power of beauty, and I believe that God is honored through art.

Is this wasted? Is a fun, fictional story - or an ostentatious cathedral - a futile pursuit in misdirected resources?

While I was reading the Bible yesterday, I came across Mathew 26:6-14. It's a poignant passage. In a way, it's the heartbeat of silence before the battle lines smash together. In the coming days, there will be accusations, legal proceedings, betrayal from Jesus' followers, denial from his staunchest supports, silence from God. Finally, He will endure the horror and the power of the Cross. But at this simple supper, a woman named Mary takes expensive perfume and dumps it on Jesus' head. Judas, always the financial-minded disciple, declares angrily that this perfume should've been sold, and the money given to the poor. Surely that would've been more God-honoring stewardship than this transient waste of purposeless emotion.

But Jesus rebukes him. He does the unheard-of: defends a woman over an educated Jewish man. He says that what Mary just did was beautiful, that it was symbolic, and that, while helping the poor is good, beauty that honors God is never wasted. More than this, He tells the disciples that Mary's action will last through the ages. Her moment of art has become immortal.

That is why so many writers write. They want to achieve immortality. Personally, I don't think this motivation will ever bring true completeness. I agree with Woody Allen:

“I don't want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying. I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen; I want to live on in my apartment.”

Clearly, I'm taking Allen's quote out of context. But, while immortality is not why I create art, it still ties in with it.

I think there are two reasons why Jesus defends Mary's actions. Firstly, He appreciates the spirit behind it. It is a spirit of love for Him, greater love than Judas demonstrates in his desire to serve the poor. Judas' ideas are good, but his heart is in the wrong place, much like the sacrifice of Cain versus that of Abel.

Secondly, there is so much symbolism. What Mary has done is a symbolic act. In the ancient world, corpses were anointed before burial. Jesus is about to die and be buried. The analogy is as poignant as the perfume.

Jesus appreciates symbolism, and a capacity for symbolism is one of the ways in which art, specifically writing, I believe, is powerful.

Any piece of art, from perfume to architecture to literature, can be done in the right or wrong spirit, and any piece of art can provide potent symbolism and deeper meanings. Look at the statues and crosses that cover cathedrals.

Just like perfume, I believe that art doesn't have to be transient. Art has the potential to endure. I believe that God can be honored through our art as much as through our charity.

A view of the York Minster Cathedral. Visiting it is what sparked these thoughts that I had to write down, if only for myself.

Cathedrals and the Forgotten

Hullo again, friends. It's been awhile. Some of you know that I'm now living in the city of York, in the U.K. I'll be here for three months; it's a gorgeous city, cram-packed with history and traditions, culture and kitchens. The alliteration works, and it's also true.

Today, I finally visited the inside sanctuary of York Minster Cathedral. It's an immense, cavernous space, filled with kings and saints keeping vigil, gargoyles clambering the channeled walls, arches meeting like the limbs of a great forest in the top reaches. A hallowed place, I thought, and surely God is pleased with it. Didn't He delight in the Israelites pouring their craft into Solomon's temple? God desires beauty. He takes honor in our art.

Sorry for the quality of my ipod photos. Fun fact about the Minster: various apprentices have been brought in on the restoration projects, and each one adds a tiny face from Star Wars or Star Trek in some out-of-the-way crevice.

But at the risk of sounding overly-millennial, what else could those resources have been used for? Who starved while the elite built their church? And, after all, were the cathedrals really built as true monuments to the Lord of lepers, or as idols to the pride of human wealth and ostentation?

I don't mean to come across as all "Churches-should-send-money-to-Africa-rather-than-buy-new-pews." I'm also well aware that the building of cathedrals probably spawned entire miniature economies and generated settlements, not to mention the education, culture, and preservation of knowledge that they provided. These are just my thoughts of reflection, and I'm glad that the cathedrals exist. If they didn't, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to visit the Minster at sunset. The light smoldered behind the stained glass; in a way, the beauty provided by God was completed by the beauty that man had created to honor Him. As I left with my friend, the organs were beginning to boom, and people were just gathering for Vespers.

Alexa​ and I wandered our way through the nearby sidestreets after leaving the Minster. She pointed out a little bookshop in the shadow of the cathedral. Several mythology books penned by Tolkien snagged my eye, which I intend to return for. There was also a copy of Neil Gaiman​'s Neverwhere! With the possible exception of Patrick Rothfuss, Gaiman is my favorite author, and the book was well-priced, so I bought it. The cashier wrapped it up in brown paper for me; I've always wanted to buy a book like that. :D

Over the summer, I listened to a story that's something of a sequel to Gaiman's Neverwhere (although Gaiman technically doesn't do sequels). It was called How the Marquis Got His Coat Back, and can be found in the Rogues anthology edited by George R.R. Martin. I listened to it as an audiobook, as I did with my first perusal of Neverwhere itself, so I'm looking forward to returning to the actual book in a written-word format. If you've never entered the world Gaiman created under London's streets, let me implore you to do so. It is the world of people who've slipped through the cracks. The Marginalized. The Lost. The Forgotten.

In a way, that is what a cathedral represents to me. It is a grand monument, a city unto itself. But in the sacrifice made for Faith and beauty, what -- and who -- were forgotten?

And who are we still forgetting?

Deadlines, Details, and Other Dead Things

Recently, I've tried my hand at some some flash-fiction horror, with the intent of submitting to Havok Magazine's Halloween issue. I intentionally didn't look at the specific content requirements before writing these stories. This is because, while I did want to submit them if they were good, I mostly just wanted to write them. I figured I could always go back and write more if they didn't fulfill the issue requirements.

Because of my summer factory job, I have a lot of time to think through stories and ideas. I even write large parts of them in my head while folding towels. The first story I wrote was called Double Tap. It's really hard to judge my own writing, and horror isn't my strong-suit, but I think I did manage to create something that was creepy at the very least. After getting it written and polished up, I finally glanced over the content requirements to see if I'd need to tweak anything. If it was an easy fix, I would do that and then go ahead and submit. If not, well, I'd write another story and get more practice!

You've probably guessed that I had to take the latter option.

It turned out that among the requirements, stories for this issue had to feature traditional Halloween monsters. You know the kind: zombies, vamps, werewolves, poltergeists. I considered changing an element of the story to include a zombie, which wouldn't have been uber hard, but it would've required me to take out a detail that I really liked.

No.

Rather than make this change, I went back to work the next day and dreamed up another story. What about a court case where Doc Frankenstein is on trial for creating a monster without a license? And Dracula is the judge! And Frankenstein uses the precedent of Jekyll and Hyde to defend himself! Yeah!

No.

That story didn't work, either. While I had now incorporated traditional monsters into it, it was funny but no longer scary. At least I hope it was funny. It was funny to me.

The Frankenstein's Trial story had no scariness-potential whatsoever, as in, on the scariness meter, it was rated at Powerpuff Girls. So I wrote one more story. This would be the masterpiece to end all stories! The terror to frighten all other terrors!

It had bumps in the night. It had murderous suits of cursed armor. It was told in the Epistolary form, via the case log of a Scotland Yard Detective Inspector in 1855. I just finished it, and I quite like it.

But it will not work for Havok's Halloween issue. Why? Because the deadline was the 24th of this month, which was before I even wrote the second of the three stories!

I need to check my deadlines, people. My writing professor has a saying about them: "Deadlines are literal! As in, cross this line and you're dead!" I'm usually pretty good at this type of thing. This mistake isn't a waste, because I enjoyed writing the stories and I gained practice from them. Still, getting published is always a nice feeling, and is nice for the wallet and the portfolio.

I'll probably hunt around for some other submission venues for these as well as other stories I haven't gotten around to submitting yet (shame on me!), and then possibly post them to this blog if that doesn't pan out. Sorry for the pause in my advice for writing conferences. I really will get back to that. Hey, ain't ya proud of me for updating more regularly this summer?

Have a good evening!

Haystack Livin'

Wasup, y'all? It's ya boy Lil Pig! Check out these lyrics from my new album, It's all Good with Little Red Riding Hood.

I built my house of straw, my brother used brick--
The wolf blew mine down real quick.
Now I'm snatching at straws, just trying to stay grounded--
But the wolf's still around, you could say I feel hounded.
I used a camel to rebuild but the straw broke his back--
I got poked in the foot by the needle in the haystack.
The camel tried to crawl through the tiny needle's eye--
So I guess I'll make hay while the sun still shines.

Editor's Note: There's a reason Lil Pig isn't that well known.