LoV-Write

Archive for the month “February, 2014”

Dear You: December continues

Dear you,

Despite my recent complaints of financing and the uncertainties of post-collegiate life, there is one thing that seems to be reaching completion: December.

I received an email from marketing the other day, suggesting that I start promotional efforts for December using bookmarks and other small-scale advertisement efforts. Naturally, I just had to write you and offer you a small distraction from your daily tasks. So there you have it;  December is continuing and I’ll be starting a campaign of shameless self-promotion.

Good-bye for the moment, I hope your day goes well (especially if you have as much snow as I have)

Until the previous time,

Truly yours,

 

You see, in Ame…

You see, in America, we are accustomed to believing that slavery no longer exists; the idea that slavery should thrive in a world of Starbucks, seemingly benevolent red-light districts in Western European cities, and general openness and civility seems almost absurd. Only that, of course, is the illusion that allows us to sleep at night.

Taken from “Natasha From Russia” by Antonia Antonova at http://nataliaantonova.com/stories/natasha-from-russia/

Dear You: Running Late

Dear You,

I’ve started a rather long letter for you “On Time” which is turning into a lengthy digression on history, and will, I think, turn out to be an excuse for not writing you sooner. Today, though, I’d like to write about running late.

We had a discussion awhile ago about oversleeping, and anxiety and/or panic that comes with waking at the time one usually leaves. My morning has begun as one of those mornings.

My first alarm rang at 4:00am (I’d gone to bed by 10:00pm), and as I turned off the noise I thought “I could get up and make coffee, shower, have breakfast, read awhile then leave for work by 5:25 without having to rush.” then I looked at the green numbers of time and thought “Or I could doze a bit longer, then get up and make coffee, skip the shower, have breakfast, read and leave by 5:25.”

I reset my alarm for 4:30 and dozed off. Of course, one can never have just one snooze, so when that alarm went off at 4:30 I decided to reset for 4:55. “skip coffee, skip the shower, have breakfast, skip reading then leave for work 5:25.”

I should mention, at this point, that my car (I call it ‘Mabel’) hates the cold, and insists that I remove her battery on cold nights if I want her to start on cold mornings. Note that, in my snooze logic, I had forgotten the little detail about the battery.

You can imagine my dismay when, at 5:34, I woke with my ‘internal clock’ and realized three things: 1) I overslept 2) I’m running late, and 3) the battery is in the hall and needs to be re-attached to Mabel. I managed to dress, attach the battery and leave by 5:42. No coffee, shower, breakfast, or reading; just mild panic and resignation.

I did make work on time (my shift starts at 6am), but what remains of the day is yet to be seen; and with temperatures around 32F, wind chill, and the promise of more cold and snow, I’m sure the day and the week will only improve.

Until next time,

Your writer,

The Drifting of Waft-Hazy Clouds

Ah, by the drifting of waft-hazy clouds

Plaintive shadows fall faint-slow from above

Over the streets and busy bustle of crowds

Evoking some hearts to sweet mem’ries of love

Moments of lone longing with heavy sighs

Fireside musings of a lover’s eyes

Or other quaint symptoms of this repose

Reducing sweet sen’ments to poetic rows

Mayhap some others with sorrowful eyes

Yearn on in silence without dreary sighs

Daring to dream of a far deeper love

Enclosed somewhere hidden from peering crowds

A way far beyond in the heavens above

Reclined in the drifting of waft-hazy clouds

Dear You: An Apologetic Prequel

Dear You,

I have not written for some time and for that I apologize, but I have faith that you will be understanding when my reasons have been made clear. (Alas, understanding as often brings condemnation as it does forgiveness!).

My reasons for lack of letters, then, are these: primarily, the absence of time for leisure pursuits and contemplations; secondly, the sudden appearance of sequential tasks; thirdly, the realization that present, past, and future have a similar quality in our minds.

Though I lack time to explain any of these things in great detail, you may expect more letters in the unspecified future which will expand and explain that, all this time, I’ve been sending multiple letters every week.

Until the previous time,

Your Friend,

Judah LoVato

Brief Biographies: Teresa De Ávila

Teresa of Ávila (1515 – 1582) was a nun and spiritual leader who lived a life of discipline through poverty, social equality, and enclosure. According to Theodore Rabb in Renaissance Lives she traveled extensively, practiced personalized prayer, and conveyed a “sense of a direct relationship with the deity, and of faith as a nurturing force, made her a legendary and redoubtable presence during her last years” (108). Her own writing comments on the materialism of her days, as she says in Way to Perfection “I wish that some of these people would entreat God to enable them to trample all such things [material gains] under their feet. … . are we to waste our time upon things which, if God were to grant them, would perhaps bring one soul less to Heaven?”

Maus Represented: Fragment I

There are truths lying dormant in the recesses of human discovery,

Things long past learned and forgotten under veils of myth and legend,

Disguised by ancient kings who knew too well the price of knowing.

Introduction to Observations

Reading. Writing. Read. Written. Wrote. Word upon word upon word forming themselves into books. Thoughts. Ideas. These words preparing the way for future words that describe society as it was in two-thousand-and-eleven. Two. Zero. One. One. Twenty Eleven. Yesterday, last year, next year. Whenever it was or is. There is always another year, each day is a New Year, a full rotation of the globe. Why not celebrate New Year in June? Too simple. Bright Red. There’s more to society than New Years. Thoughts are always jumbled. Idea over idea. Mosaic of Ideas. Leonardo, Dali, Magritte. Painters. Sculptors. Placing ideas in reality. No place for ideas: reality.
Speak aloud and suddenly ideas seem clear, organized. Arranged. We like organization; clear representation of ideas: over simplification.  Support your claims properly: over complication. Each idea has an underlay and overlay of other sub-ideas. Mosaic. Sentences the fragments. Pixels that form the photograph. Pixels. Pieces. Shells are similar. Each shell is its own shell. Beautiful without the others, but together making a full form. Writing is making mosaics of sea-shells. Let each sentence or each idea be a beautiful shell left alone to be picked up by some passerby for a mosaic.
And so, the shells:

Faith Can Heal All Wounds

There was once a man who became grievously ill. He was not an old man, nor was he altogether young. Thinking of his fate and his illness, he began to pray and devote his life to God.

Daily he’d pray and he’d attend every church service, he sold his belongings and gave to the poor and he’d pray, “I am ill, save me lord. Heal me.”

Friends he’d known most of his life saw the changes in his life, and they encouraged and told him of doctors and hospitals but the ill man said “God will heal me.” And he’d leave his friend and go pray.

Slowly, his illness grew worse and one day a friend of his came into his house with wonderful news: medical scientists had found an exact cure for his illness! Alas, the man had died and was already before the throne of God, confused and frustrated.

“Lord!” said the man, and he wept as he realized that he had died, “Lord!” he said, “I prayed, I served you and yet I died! Why didn’t you heal me?”

And the Lord, a figure which shone so bright the man could see no features, spoke and said.

“I sent your friends to tell you of medicine. I sent you doctors and counselors who serve me as well, that you may have gone to them and spoke with them that your faith would have deepened. Instead, you secluded yourself and prayed selfishly with a conceited heart, denying your friends and fellow humans opportunity to do kindness.”

The man was silent in heaven, while his body was buried below.

How Pretty Are The Fallings Leaves

How pretty are the falling leaves
Which faint as wind blows by
Even as the willow grieves
And trees begin to cry
Though their boughs are born away
And snow falls o’er barren stave
Night is but a part of day
And cold is warmth the fire gave
So take the boughs and drying leaves
And lay them with our memories
Which this sleepy thought retrieves
Then edging close to warmer be
Staying safe from winter breeze
As snow descends on land and trees

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