From Jesus Calling

Words I think will help a friend—as they did for me this morning.

THIS IS A TIME IN YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU MUST LEARN TO LET GO: of loved ones, of possessions, of control. In order to let go of something that is precious to you, you need to rest in My Presence, where you are complete. Take time to bask in the Light of My Love. As you relax more and more, your grasping hand gradually opens up, releasing your prized possession into my care.

You can feel secure, even in the midst of cataclysmic changes, through awareness of My continual Presence. The One who never leaves you is the same One who never changes: I am the same yesterday, today, and forever. As you release more and more things into My care, remember that I never let go of your hand. Herein lies your security, which no one and no circumstance can take from you.

Devotional taken from Jesus Calling (March 24) by Sarah Young

Poppycock

Driving to work today I was surprised by what looked like a large cloud of smoke—a huge gray mass (thanks, Don Delillo) that blotted out the world beneath. I was mistaken, and what looked like the signal of a massive fire was merely a remnant, lone bank of fog still traversing the valley floor unaware of Spring’s recent return. Part of the city literally lie encased in cloud—and my path to work led directly through it. Outside, around and above: breezes grew in flits of bird feathers and falling petals; inside: sunlight fell as though through a damp washcloth, diffuse and wan. Summer reclined behind a sheen of soft-pulled cotton. Beautiful, but unreal, I had wakened to brilliant rays of golden light shining overhead—only to once again be driving through the gray soup of an ominous winter cloud. Windows down, dew clutched at my outstretched hand.

I just heard: my grandmother died today at 5:48pm. I am back under that cloud again.

…

I remember a pot of flowers in a jar, sitting atop the credenza by the door.
I remember peanut butter and honey sandwiches with butter.
I remember ragged handfuls of dryer lint, collected to become a future art project.
I remember clusters of brown and blue Bennington pottery on the windowsill.
I remember Pyrenees french bread left on the cutting board, a trail of crumbs left in the wake of the knife.
I remember piles of fall (and other) leaves lying in stacks on the TV tray: a current art project.
I remember a moody painting on the wall above Grandpa’s chair that drew me like moth to flame.
I remember “Poppycock” being the response to anything and everything.
I remember an insatiable smile, intelligence and will to live.

…

Her last words to me: “Nice knowing ya.”

Poppycock.

Basin

The mountains lie like a distant calico under meandering clouds.

Driving Home

Headlights from oncoming cars projected out into the intersection, illuminating the falling rain. Columns of clouds stood, chiseled from the very air into sculptures as firm as the earth below, slowly, crumbling in a stop-motion time lapse. Shadows cast from the rim of mountains hundreds of miles away crept up these shifting giants as they fell facewards into the setting sun.

Ahead: a fantastic wall of billowing rawness, pushed up against the hills where it would spill out guts of new life onto land emptied of itself—always up, up over and thinner into the distance. Behind: a golden haze of sunlight and diffused hues, all spun horizontal and slowly descending.

I spent the whole drive home staring at the sky—my camera locked in an apartment I would reach long after the moment of its need. My eyes and memory would have to suffice for these shifting scenes… and the only Take-Home worth unburdening was the mantra I’ve said a hundred times already: don’t ever leave home without your camera again.

Still, the value of the day lies not in what I saw, but in what I foresaw. That place I glimpsed full of monster clouds and prism brilliance, of shifting blues-in-shadow across standing golden-hued pillars. That, or somewhere above it, is my future home…

…and I can’t wait.

I even asked God for a hammock (for that day). I don’t think I’ll need it, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.

Brokedown Palace

Help me to feel complete in You—
in the way I think her love
will make me feel
in the way buying that
will make me feel
in the way knowing that
will make me feel
in the way realizing that
will make me feel
in the way having it
will make me feel
in the way being it
will make me feel.

I’d rather fight you for something
I don’t really want
than take what You give that I need.

You made me. I want You—
I just don’t know it or see it
most days. Help me.

The Artist’s Struggle

Zack Arias is a photographer I’ve been watching for about 4, maybe 5 years. I think I first came across him in the forums on OpenSourcePhoto.net in the days when I was there nightly, asking questions and gathering up ideas and tips like Hansel & Gretel in the forest. His Onelight Workshop was my top choice for what I wanted to do for self-improvement. Of course, that was years ago when photography was a part of my job description.

But even now I follow him. For the learning, and for the connection. He doesn’t offer much pretense; just himself.

I’ve moved past wanting to host a workshop for him. I let go of scribbling ideas to help brand him. We’ve conversed, but only just. He’s busy and I’m a fan from afar. It’s totally cool.

And while in the past I’ve connected with his photography, what I’ve identified with is his person. It comes thru in one’s art if you know how and where to look. People I’m close with (and trust that they’re not just yanking my chain) say there’s something definable in my photos. Yep, that’s a Josh photo—you can definitely see it. I don’t even know what that means, or what they refer to. But it encourages me to think there is something there to define me. That I come thru in my art.

Much of that voice of mine contains struggle, contrast, moodiness. I wrestle with the artist in me. Fangs bang against claws, sometimes.

Into this foray steps Zack again. It’s encouraging to hear he shares some of these struggles. It’s interesting to hear his voice in words, overlayed to moving photos. I’ve followed him (via his blog) through some tough times, especially this year. I can’t even appreciate how difficult it’s been for him—but he brings it all into the discussion. He doesn’t hide it, like so many other artists I know who feel a need to project a continuously sterile smile. They’ve adopted the plastic surgery philosophy for life, but they’ve lost their elasticity. Following them on Twitter and blog leaves me feeling like they’ve really convinced themselves everything is always okay; every tweet and micro blog ends in four exclamations points and begins with “I met <insert famous name>” or “Just ate at <insert famous restaurant> with <insert famous name>” or “My new blog entry Roxxors <or insert your own newer, better adjective>”.

I grow tired of reading what feels like falseness to me. If this is something you identify with, then you’ll love Zack’s recent video. Watch it here.

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Bill Watterson on Art

In The Calvin and Hobbes Tenth Anniversary Book Bill Watterson writes a few first chapters on the state of comic art that is some of the most insightful thought on (any) art I’ve read in some time. I’ve always admired his brilliance; Calvin and Hobbes has long been my favorite comic, followed closely by The Far Side.

Watterson writes on a variety of topics in this long preface that cover everything from the status of comics in the modern world to licensing and his process for creativity. So much is applicable to the creative!

Below are a few of my favorite quotes. I hope you find them wonderful.

On Business:
The commercial, mass market needs of newspapers are not often sympathetic to the concerns of artistic expression. (true of so much!)

On Licensing:
…I Believe licensing usually cheapens the original creation. While cartoon characters appear on countless products, the public inevitably grows bored and irritated with them, and the appeal and value of the original work are diminished. Nothing dulls the edge of a new and clever cartoon like saturating the market with it.

The world of a comic strip ought to be a special place with its own logic and life. I don’t want some animation studio giving Hobbes and actor’s voice, and I don’t want some greeting card company using Calvin to wish people a happy anniversary, and I don’t want the issue of Hobbes’s reality settled by a doll manufacturer. When everything fun and magical is turned into something for sale, the strip’s world is diminished. Calvin and Hobbes was desgined to be a comic strip and that’s all I want it to be. It’s the one place where everything works the way I intend it to.

When the cartoonist is trying to talk honestly and seriously about life, then I believe he has a responsibility to think beyond satisfying the market’s every whim and desire. Cartoonists who think they can be taken seriously as artists while using the strip’s protagonists to sell boxer shorts are deluding themselves.

On Creativity:
People always ask how cartoonists come up with ideas, and the answer is so boring that we’re usually tempted to make up something sarcastic. The truth is, we hold a blank sheet of paper, stare into space, and let our minds wander. (To the layman, this looks remarkably like goofing off.) When something interests us, we play around with it.

True Worshippers

“The true worshippers will burn their shovels and their buckets and simply plunge in.”
– Erik Reimer

I love this quote. In a short essay Erik emailed me about the difference (physically and spiritually) between cisterns and fountains, he writes that we as believers tend toward our own dependence. Nothing uncommon, but it’s a point that’s illustrated historically and biblically. Why wait on the Lord when we can store for ourselves money, food, water? Why accept His rule when we can establish our own?

While it no longer suffices for answer to the modern mind, ” Because” is still the Truth. “Because He calls us to; because He IS God, provider, sovereign Lord. Because His care of us is infinitely better than our own meager potential. Because weakness is strength.”

I rail against this. Especially today, as I am impoverished and weak. It is difficult to say, “This is good.”

Starvation

Steel cage, this fence
of clouds releasing bars
of sun, a wall
over spring

I wish the other side
for myself, tomorrow
fancy flight into light
no feathers no wings
just dream and air beneath me

neighboring mountains slide
beneath the gray of moving clouds
showing momentary gaps
of a white-toothed smile—
fresh snow spotted hills
whose underfoot crunch
no longer exists to my ears

a fleeing terror at noonday
forces me from the confines of a
whirring humdrum and overwarm
lethargy, my modern cave
into a full-out run, breakneck
speeding toward the horizon—
any distant place unprotected from
nature’s beautiful crushing
of human domain.

I want away, alone if need be,
but unfettered confines
will be my sun, moon,
sky and air, my next
breath.

I will not feel the end-tug of leash
to run my length
in shallow breaths of
another’s span.

I wish for the strength to starve
on my own.

Gone

Ghost moon hiding in fog
lost above the clouds of winter,
in waves of wisp and tendril
caught by the thin fingers of gray
sky running alongside my truck
night drive home.

the long canal across the valley
holds your friendship
light on waves in night
skipping the lampposts,
a tree, a house,
each throwing new color into pale—
heartbeats in the thrumming wan
of tires on wet pavement

I would climb a limb to see you closer
only to find you distant
from my perch. Suddenly looking down
high but alone still.

I never followed her home
as I have you. Worst of all companions.

___

Ghostly moon in fog
Above winter’s clouds
Just as I love her