No Surprise Amazing Grace
by: Ronovan
I close my eyes
To see your face
No surprise
I hear Amazing Grace
How sweet the sound
Of your love
Reigning down
On me
More of my lyrics I found from long ago.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-May 07, 2014.
Cologne and Glass: The Things Memories are Made of (Writing Tip)
by: Ronovan
What takes you back to childhood days? So you smell the autumn leaves and think of the schoolyard playground, or jumping in leaves? Does a crisp morning with clear sunshine peeking through bare tree limbs throw you back to high school weekends? Can you use this to help your writing? Sure you can. Write what you feel.
For me there is a love affair with glass bottles. Really it can be any type of bottle that has character to it. But today I want to share an art that isn’t really given enough credit.
Avon Cologne Bottles
One of the great tragedies of the world is that men are afraid of the word Avon. That word bring
s the idea of makeup and pink cars with oh just so perfect looking women with samples for the woman of the house. But there is something a generation or two of men have missed out on. Let me show you why men should be a little more open to Avon, and it has nothing to do with makeup.
Cars are great, especially in glass. Imagine being a kid and walking into what you think must be the oldest house in the world and seeing a whole desk lined with cologne bottles like this. At that moment I was hooked. But maybe cars aren’t really what you are into.
A how about a motorcycle?
A steamboat? Sailboat?
Or maybe even animals.
You just never know where and when you will find works of art. I see these and get flashes of old feelings and they bring words to describe old moments of an old time. Anything can inspire a moment of writing and help capture a feeling you need. When you want to have that nostalgic feeling or a need to feel like a kid, look at something from your childhood. Then close your eyes and write what you see and feel.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-May 07, 2014.
Blogging/Writing Tip: Use Animated Gif’s Wisely.
by: Ronovan
The animated Gif’s being used are hilarious at times, but sometimes too many take away from your content.
Just as you want to work on short paragraphs to encourage people to move on and keep their attention you also want to keep from distracting them from what you have worked on.
If possible place them either at the very beginning or very end to introduce a tone or leave the reader with some visual message on the way out.
The other part of this is that using too many can actually make some people feel queasy or physically ill. They love your content but have to hold their hand over the Gif in order to read.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 07, 2014.
Media, Massacres, and Madness
by: Ronovan
Why do we have so many mass murders of late? Blame the media.
There are so many reasons given for why someone writes a note or letter, suits up movie or video game style and then finds a crowded place to unload on. Ultimately what it comes down to in my opinion is they want the attention or fame.
Enter the media that is happy to give it to them.
Do I mean that they are happy to report such events? No, but you know the ratings rise and so do those behind the scenes. Not even the most professional reporter can hide how they feel about having to report on these situations. They are as disgusted by it as we are. Yet they report it and we watch it.
You will have news agencies say “We must keep the public informed of the situation”. The person is in custody and has been for five hours. Nothing but news has been on for that entire time. What are you informing us of?
How about the media flip it?
Break in for five hours about something amazing someone did. Promote the positive of the world. Sure, give us a blurb about the negative, but let that be it. Give the lime light to those doing good in the world. In other words, flip it from how it is done now.
If people want the attention then maybe they will start doing some amazingly good things to get on the news instead of violence.
In the past I always received blank stares when I mentioned why not doing this or that for good. Why not make a community one that promotes good over bad. And this was in a church. Perhaps I’m just naïve about things and try and act on what I believe we should do in society. Speak only what will help build another up and let no foul word come from my mouth.
Sure it’s good for us to know about the bad, but not to promote it.
Enjoy your day by tuning out the news. Read a book, listen to your favorite music, enjoy the outdoors, but whatever you do, don’t help promote the madness.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 07, 2014.
Yup, what she said.
A recent conversation and the #YesAllWomen response to Elliot Rodger’s deranged murders began me to thinking a bit.
Notebooks are a great source for inspiration. You write down important thoughts that you don’t want to forget, such as a conversation I had about the subject of men finding women from other countries more attractive than the women of their own country. Or more specifically it was that they were fascinated by them. Just to clarify, the conversation was with a woman. Twitter can bring things to your attention you try to avoid, like the Elliot Rodger insanity.
Men like to say that it’s the individual person that matters and we look for;
• the intellect over the eye candy
• the heart over the hairstyle
• the soul over the sexy
• the tenderness over the–you can fill that one in
But is that really true?
The conversation led me to wondering what men looked for most on the internet about women, such as the nationality or what the internet calls race. (An aside here, I prefer one race, the human one.) Do men in the United States prefer one ‘race’ of woman over another? Do they prefer traditionally Asian women, African women, Egyptian women, French women, or Indian women?
A search will find different answers but it seems in general Asian women top most lists, followed by African/African American, and probably Latin women are a close third if not tied for second. But there is no specific research pointing to any definitive answer.
As with many ideas one has there occurs an evolution into another idea.
Where this train led was internet pornography. Don’t worry I didn’t go searching those sites. I’m no prude or hypocrite. It’s just not my thing at this stage of my life. Maybe when I was younger, but I really don’t know. You all know why. But these days I have other things to focus on or at least try to focus on.
But if we men do find intelligence and the like attractive then why in 2012 were there 40 million Americans regularly visiting pornography sites? To be honest, not all of those were men. Women also enjoy pornography. But I am speaking from the male side because,well,I am one.
Think about that quote for a moment and let it sink in. You can apply it to men and women watching videos as well. These ‘manuals and training videos’ teach SOME men and women about the wrong kind of sex or what sex isn’t. Then when the real world hits them in the face, they strike back.
I’m not saying that pornography is the cause of all the crimes against women, or even men, but I think it does dehumanize people in one’s mind and desensitize people to what is respectful or reality. I know that’s an old fashioned phrase but it shouldn’t be. People cry out for respect but when you use the words ‘be respectful’ they treat you like a joke or some alien.
This is a quote all people need to realize. If you’ve ever seen the documentary Supersize Me you see that eating McDonald’s for every meal for an extended period of time is not good for you, a too much of a good thing scenario of sorts. Some might say pornography is such a thing but that’s an opinion.
You love McDonald’s for what it is but it’s not real. You go home and eat a real hamburger and it is the best tasting thing. It’s just right on the outside, just slightly charred with the inside still tender and moist, and you actually have to open your mouth wide to eat it. Your mouth begins to water even before the bun reaches your lips. Then that first bite makes you wonder why you ever went to McDonald’s in the first place.
In truth pornography also makes what you ARE having less than what it is. You expect the almost impossible. You expect what people are being paid to do or are intentionally performing for viewing.
Pornography is a temporary fix. For some it may even be an emotional fix. But it’s a fake fix, a placebo. You took a sugar pill to cure a disease. It gives you a buzz, a momentary high, but minutes later you crash and feel as though you just wasted your life. You promise yourself you’ll never do it again, you’ll never eat another Big Mac. The next day you are in the drive-thru because the fix is intentionally created to be addicting.
What’s the solution?
Pornography can be an addiction which is a habit. Break the habit with another habit. If you feel porn calling, go outside and walk, or start writing. You find that email in your inbox? Unsubscribe, block it, do whatever it takes to stop it from being delivered. You find yourself typing that site address? Well, that one is on you my friend. But you can set your filters to stop sites from being accessed.
This article started as one about why men thought women from other countries were more fascinating but it ended up elsewhere. I guess the fascination is like going on vacation. Do you want to stay home for that week, or do you want to go away for a week? You want to be home but you enjoy the scenery of the vacation.
As for the pornography, what suggestions do you have to help people who really struggle with this? Keep in mind this is an addiction for some, a real illness. It’s like smoking, binge eating, drinking and any drug you become addicted to. It induces a release of those endorphins to make your mind temporarily happy. So sincerely think about it and leave a thought or suggestion.
In conclusion I would like to say that anything that demeans another person isn’t right. We’re meant to lift each other up in positive ways. Even though I see pornography as an addiction, an illness, I don’t condone any of it. It’s kind of like an episode of Happy Days from years ago when one of the characters named Potsie, an innocent teen, sees a centerfold and says something like “I bet that would look great in a sweater.” Potsie got it right.
One last quote.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 07, 2014.
At Your Risk
by: Ronovan
Speak of me harshly,
While you think I am asleep,
I plan your demise.
Inspired by a MaraEastern Photo and story.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 07, 2014.
Writing Tips: How to Improve your genre writing.
by: Ronovan
“You are what you eat from your head down to your feet,” a somewhat paraphrase of Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin’s, who lived on both sides of the year 1800, “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.”
I was rummaging in my files here and found notes on something I used to teach. No, it wasn’t a History lesson, at least not exactly. But I suppose if you really look at it and think about it History is a big part of it, your intake History. And yes this has to do with writing.
There was a pastor at my church a number of years ago that influenced me in a great many ways, his name was/is Dr. Jim Burkett. He has retired from pastoring now, I believe, but he hasn’t stopped ministry. He teaches Apologetics classes and does conferences.
There was something that he used to say that I use in every part of my life, not just church life. Dr. Burkett had a take on that expression about being what you eat and it came from scripture about renewing your mind.
I paraphrase here his idea in my own words but with the same meaning.
“What you put into your mind is what you get out of it.”
For me I keep my intake as uplifting as possible. If I intake uplifting then I can give out uplifting.
“But how does this apply to writing?”
If you read great writing,
You know great writing,
Then you can recognize great writing in your work.
Don’t read junk!
If you want to be a science fiction writer what kind of books are you reading? Cookbooks and Romance?
If you want to write great science fiction then you need to read great science fiction.
“But I don’t want to be like everyone else.”
Neither do I, but what you are doing is
learning a genre, its elements so that you
can incorporate those into your work.
If you pitch a science fiction piece of yours to an agent and they end up reading a fantasy romance, they are likely going to pass.
Why?
1) You may have pitched to a science fiction person who doesn’t represent fantasy
2) Because their mind was geared for one thing and you gave them another and now they think you don’t know what you are talking about.
“But I want to be writing, not reading. I don’t have the time.”
Yes you do. If you want to have your work out there for the world to see then you need to do the homework.
A lot of agents say read and read more of what you want to write but they don’t always say why. I wanted to give you an idea of what part the reason is.
If you want to have an output of confused junk then read confused junk. If you want an output of great writing in your genre, then intake great writing in your genre.
What Good Intake do you put Into your Mind?
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 03, 2014.
These are some photography sites that I follow that have great photos to give you inspiration and help when just needing that visual help you might need in your writing. There are more but I unfortunately cannot remember them at the moment and failed to write them down in my notebook.
http://maxreynolds.wordpress.com/
http://retireediary.wordpress.com/
Much Respect
Ronovan
“The Knicknackery is a new online magazine of poetry and prose, launched earlier this year. As their name suggests, The Knicknackery aims to publish an eclectic collection of misfit pieces, the kind of strange heirlooms you might keep on your shelf, the kind that might haunt you. They want off-kilter, boundary-hopping experiments. As a new magazine, their taste is still a bit unpredictable, but you can get a sense of what they like by reading past issues online.”
http://www.authorspublish.com/the-knicknackery-now-accepting-submissions/
Much Respect
Ronovan
If you fit the picture then go for it.
“They publish unusual and ambitious works filled with ideas. They like novels that are unconventional and play with readers’ expectations. They are not interested in genre or non literary work. Do not submit a query for work that falls into either of those categories.”
http://www.authorspublish.com/atticus-books-accepting-manuscript-submissions/
Much Respect
Ronovan
Love Letter Found
by: Ronovan
I would give it now,
If only you could be found,
Other than in tears.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 06, 2014.
Holloway
by: Ronovan
Part One
The lightening was high up in the clouds, threatening of the coming storm. It was the only light in the cloud covered night. The boys face was drenched and his forehead was plastered with his brown hair, not from the first drops of rain but with the sweat of anxiety of what he was facing. Hundreds of feet below lay trees and rocks and a river.
The boy’s chest was heaving as his breaths became quicker and quicker. He looked over his shoulder. His eyes suddenly became clear and void of the panic that had filled them moments before. He looked back out over the scene below him, closed his eyes, and leaped outward.
That’s where I wake up each time, and have every day for the past week. I could follow Eric all the way down, just like I did that first time, but I can’t, I won’t ever do that again. His funeral had been a week ago. After that my parents had given me something to make me sleep.
I stopped taking the pills when I couldn’t wake up from that first dream. Falling through trees and feeling them and hearing them as they snapped and tore at Eric and then the impact of his landing, never again.
At Ridgeline Lake we had all been at the cabins like we did every year. I was there with Emily and Abbie in one cabin, and Eric had been there with Jessie and Milo in another. Our parents had their own cabins. It was a tradition before school started back. We had to make it a week earlier than usual because of football practice for Eric and Jessie who were starting quarterback and tight end, Milo was team…well I don’t know exactly what he does, but it’s not water boy or anything like that, he does something with the electronics for the stadium and things like that.
It had been the best summer yet, with Eric and I having just started dating during the spring. He was a year older, which was fine, and the brother of Emily, which was weird because that almost made him my brother too. Emily, Abbie, and I had been best friends since Kindergarten so our families were each other’s families.
Early that Thursday morning, way before dawn I had sat up in bed. Everyone had put it down to a clap of thunder as the storm finally broke over the cabins. All I knew was something was wrong. I woke Emily and she came with me to my parents’ cabin. I told Dad that I was worried about something, that I just felt something was not right. Over the years he had learned to listen to my feelings.
We knew that Abbie was okay, so we went to the boys’ cabin. Eric wasn’t there. Milo, Abbie’s boyfriend, said he had heard something earlier but thought it was just one of the guys going to the bathroom. Dad ran to Eric’s parents’ cabin and a search began. They wouldn’t let the girls go because of the rain and lightening. But the fathers and boys went.
Jessie, Emily’s boyfriend and Eric’s best friend and Eric’s dad were the ones that found the note on the tree. It was too dark to tell what had happened. My Mom had already called the sheriff and as soon as it became light enough the storm had passed and they said they could see broken limbs down below where the note was found stuck to the tree with Eric’s pocket knife.
The river was up and moving fast so they couldn’t find Eric. The note said he was tired of trying to be perfect all the time and was just ready to rest. Wednesday they had a funeral to at least mark a spot for him to rest in. Everyone from school was there. I had noticed a lot of people staring at me, but I just thought it was out of curiosity. Yeah, they were curious.
~~*~~
“McKenna, hurry up, you’re going to make everyone late the first day of school!” Mom called up the stairs…again. This was supposed to be a big day, the biggest day yet for me and my girls. No, we’re not a gang or anything, but we had been looking forward to high school for two long years. The school had a history to it and you just knew when you walked through those doors you were an adult. Okay, so on your WAY to finally being an adult.
But things had changed. Mom had not listened when I said I didn’t want to go yet, that I wasn’t ready. Emily had said the same thing about her mom too. Abbie…well she was always ready for school. She got bored during the summer and wanted the challenge of seeing if a teacher could teach her something new. For her high school would be like a candy store full of new things she had never tried.
I looked in the mirror. I hated what I saw. Holloway High was not a private school but it had followed the trend of a dress code to keep everyone equal. I liked skirts, real skirts, but the gray pleated skirt and white blouse were just not real to me. But it was better than the khaki pants that I could have chosen. I’m sorry, but I am not in the army or like in my thirties. Give me jeans and a t-shirt or even a real dress and I am fine.
Glancing down out of my window I saw the top of a head of dark hair parted down the middle and tied off into two pigtails. It was hovering over a book and moving ever so slightly as the reader moved back and forth from word to word.
I grabbed my bag and thumped down the stairs. “Good luck, sis,” called a voice from an open doorway at the top of the stairs. I ran back up and through the door. The tall boy braced himself as I leaped at him. I felt the bear hug as my brother, a freshman in college showed me he loved me best.
“You too, bro,” I said as I punched him in the stomach. “And no sorority girls until junior year, remember, you promised.” I ran out without waiting for a reply.
Throwing open the front door I had barely opened my mouth when I heard, “Hiya, Mac.”
I looked at the back of the pigtailed head still reading the book. “And just how do you know it’s me?”
“I doubt your mother would resemble a thundering herd of rhinos coming down the stairs like that…twice,” Abbie said. “I take it Ken begins college today.”
Grrr…she knew everything. “Yeah,” I said as I leaped around and in front of her. Ken was short for McKenzie, just as Mac was short for McKenna. Are we Scottish or Irish? I have no idea.
Abbie looked up from her book and scrunched her nose to adjust her glasses. She looked me up and down in my uniform, which she was wearing the exact same version of. She nodded and stood up. When I said she wore the exact same version I meant even the size, although she was smaller than me by a little. She never wore clothes that fit her.
“Did you eat breakfast, or are you sticking with tradition?” She asked me as we began walking to the Japanese but made in America SUV parked in the driveway. It was Mom’s turn for carpool. We could ride the bus but we didn’t. I have no idea why not, the mom’s had just decided it years ago.
The doors clicked and I jumped in the front while Abbie slid into the back and across to behind the driver’s seat. Mom walked around the front with the keys in her hand. “Always stick with tradition,” I said.
“Good, because Em has a new yogurt she wants me to try and some kind of bagel with like all sorts of things in it for you,” said Abbie. “She said she forgot to ask you last night before you two hung up.”
“I didn’t even think about it,” I said. Last night the thought of breakfast had been as far from my mind as…as…hmm…as anything else. “Em always comes through though.” Emily always had something for us for breakfast, just a little something. Okay something little for her and Abbie, and something crazy for me. I liked to eat but I worked out a lot so I could handle it.
We all lived on the same street, although it was a long street. Abbie always walked to my house because she wasn’t far away and she liked to read along the way. Then either Mom or Emily’s mom would take us to school. Abbie’s mom was the pickup mom after school. Emily lived a little further along the street at the very end. The gates were just shutting as she was attempting to hold a bag of our food, a holder of drinks, and wondering what to do with her book bag.
Mom saw the situation, sped up just a little and came to a quick stop. I jumped out and grabbed the drinks. “You seriously need to have like someone out here and help you or have them put a table by the mailbox,” I said as she hugged me. I stood back and looked at her.
We wore the same thing but she still looked like a million dollars. I looked like just the average girl who just…didn’t…care? I cared how I looked. It’s just that there wasn’t anyone at school I cared to impress enough to take the time. Not that Emily really took much time. She was just naturally gorgeous.
Even though we all had to wear the same brand and colors of clothing, shoes and accessories were different. And accessories made the difference. Don’t ask me the name of her shoes or the cut of the diamonds in her ears. But she made them both work, not that she needed them.
She jumped in behind my seat and I got in with the drinks. I handed Mom her coffee, and passed Abbie her juice, and Emily her smoothie. I had a big bottle of milk. I liked milk. When we were all little people thought we were sisters because we all had dark hair and dark eyes, and we might as well be. But we had always been very different in a lot of ways.
The bagel was loaded with roasted veggies and some white cheese, amazing. Before I took my second bite, I asked a question. “Hey, Abbie?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you have your locker planned yet?” I heard an almost snort from Emily.
There was a muffled noise from Abbie and I glanced back. She was nodding with one hand slightly up to her mouth as she was swallowing her yogurt quickly. “Yes. I was able to get the list of books and find out the sizes. I have the perfect plan for what I want to do.”
I didn’t dare look in the mirror. One of the last things Emily and I had talked about was Abbie’s tradition of planning out the most efficient locker. It was a thing she did and it actually always worked out best. Our lockers were never that neat and we always had to hunt for things.
I caught the raised eyebrow from Mom. I gave her my toothy innocent grin and she just shook her head and took a sip of the gourmet coffee from Emily’s housekeeper.
“What class do you have first, Mac?” Emily asked.
“I have English with Ms. Trask. “How about you?”
“P.E. with Coach Tompkins, can you believe it? First period?” I could see her eyes rolling in the visor mirror. “What do you have Abbie?”
“Honor’s Algebra with Mr. Mason.” We all got kind of quiet as we realized that we weren’t going to be in the same classes any more. Emily and I might luck into some, but Abbie was going to be in a whole different world than us. I mean Emily and I are good in some classes but who knows if schedules will let all three of us be in those together.
Mom joined the line of cars dropping off students. I guess if every student rode the bus then they would need a lot more busses.
“There he is!” Emily shouted in my ear. She had leaned forward and for some reason was looking over my shoulder at exactly the same view she could have seen from her window.
“Might as well let us out here, Mrs. Lark,” said Abbie.
“Yeah,” I said, as I gathered up my bag. “She’s spotted Jessiekins. Bleck.”
I felt the tap on the top of my head. “Oh, hush,” said Emily. But Mom stopped and before Emily could even touch the handle the door was promptly opened by the muscular blonde boy wearing khaki pants and pale blue polo, of course covered by the Holloway High crimson and white letterman’s jacket.
“About time you showed up, princess,” said Jessie. Some might almost hurl at hearing his nickname for her but the truth was he treated her like one. It wasn’t a cheap name every boy in school called their girlfriend. You could see it in his ice blue eyes that he really adored her.
Abbie scooted around the oblivious duo and slipped her hand into Milo’s. Their adoration was less obvious but no less real. “Call me if you need me, McKenna,” said Mom. “I have to meet a client about a catering assignment but it’s okay to call.”
“Will do,” I said smiling. Mom was her own boss. She ran a catering company that didn’t just handle business in Holloway but pretty much anywhere. She even had assignments several states away. She was good. She pulled away and I turned back to look at my new school.
Holloway High was at one time the home of an exiled member of French royalty. He had this huge palace built out here in the middle of nowhere that was now a school. There were a lot of stories about from when the guy lived there.
The walkway to the main doors was wide and designed with tiles. There were tall trees everywhere and flowers of all kinds. It was really an odd place for a school and had even appeared in magazines and on TV several times. Movie companies used it during the summer sometimes.
“Don’t be too impressed,” said Jessie, who had finally stopped hugging Emily. He nodded at the high school. “It looks impressive, sure, but once inside and in classes, it doesn’t take long to just think of it as a school.”
“Very true,” said Milo.
Before we could even take a step toward the school four figures stepped in front of us blocking our way.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 05, 2014.
My Teacher
by: Ronovan
Who would I want to teach me on any given topic?
Jesus and love of others without fail.
The Word of God has been misused through the centuries for man’s purposes and has marred the truth of it. Man’s traditions have twisted the true meaning of the teaching of Jesus and become part of denominational divisions.
I attempt to love everyone regardless of everything. What they do is not what God meant for them to be. I understand that and try to push those actions away. It’s difficult sometimes.
Jesus does teach me through his words and even his actions about love, but it would be magnificent to be in his presence and hear those words spoken and see the actions. I’m a historian by education and training thus this prompt brings out so many facets that I churn inside.
I will leave it there. Jesus and love, that’s who I want and the subject.
From The Daily Post prompt today.
No image for this one. I think for obvious reasons.
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 06, 2014.
Spunky
by: Ronovan
This is Spunky. You can’t see it from this picture taken with a phone, but he has blue eyes and tan stripes up his sides. I call him my little white tiger. You may have seen him before in a picture with his twin, who actually has rounder eyes, and their fluffy dark tortoise haired sibling.
Spunky is the sociable one. Each morning I quickly finish my breakfast then sit on the back steps and he and I talk. It took a while for him to find his voice. He would open his mouth and I knew he wanted some attention. Now he speaks, but he has a great voice, just like his mother, Kitty. You’ve met Kitty before.
Spunky loves to be petted and will lay in your arms and let you love on him. That’s what I like about cats. They are honest creatures. They don’t return affection just because you give it, they do it because they want to.
Whenever I need a pick me up or a laugh, Spunky is available.
I know this isn’t a normal article but Spunky is an amazing little guy and deserved some web presence.
Much Love, Respect, Admiration, and Gratitude to all those who Follow and and inspire me,
Ronovan
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 06, 2014.
Losing a Moment in a Blink
by: Ronovan
Sadness is not a pleasant thing
I had to write about loss today
Then I read about it from others
Not smart as it pushed me further away
I knew some things earlier
They are gone now
Fortunately for me
I wrote them down
I wanted to write a poem
About a certain person
But I can’t remember who
Because of today’s lesson
I think maybe it’s all coming to a head
The constant writing and hearting
I push and pull and do my best
But each day I dread there will be a parting
© Copyright-All rights reserved-RonovanWrites.wordpress.com-June 05, 2014.
A song for the day.
Melancholy has set in.
And the sun chased away.
I don’t write poetry.
I write micro chapters
Of my autobiography.
-Ronovan
A Loss of…?
by: Ronovan
Loss: The experience of having something taken from you or destroyed.-Webster Dictionary
Everyone loses something in their lives. Sometimes there are happy losses, like you lost that hideous sweater your aunt gave you for Christmas one year, actually your mother’s aunt so you had to wear it, until it mysteriously was ‘lost’.
Most often the word loss brings about feelings of sadness. I’m no different, in a way. This is a story of something I lost.
August is unbearable in the South. The sun burns through the walls of your house to tickle your skin with a glisten of perspiration. I’ve said in poetry that the sun is a jealous lover, and I say that with knowledge.
Early Sunday mornings are for relaxation and rejuvenation in most small southern towns. You make sure your clothes are straight and unwrinkled and you sneak in the back door of the steepled building with seconds to spare before the opening prayer of your class.
That’s an ordinary Sunday.
August of 2013, the first month of my life, wasn’t an ordinary Sunday. The sun had taken its toll on me over the course of the previous week and it was about to take revenge on my having enjoyed life in spite of her.
My Sunday sneak in for prayer did not happen. My brain ached, my world spun, and I needed a splash of cold water on my face. Or so I’ve been told. Mistakes are made without warning. You walk down a hallway you’ve walked down thousands of times before, passing slowly from the bright white walls lit from the living area through the grayed area midway and into the dark.
That is when IT happens.
gettyimages © Original Photo by Matej Michelizza
Was it passing from the bright lit walls to the dark? Is that what turned my mind from light to dark? Was that passage what made me lose my mind?
A few hours later I was in the hospital with strangers around me. Everyone was a stranger.
Days went by as white coats came and went along with brief hopes that quickly vanished. I say I write through the eyes of a Lost Mind. That’s what I lost that day. I lost a filled mind. It is empty now, except for brief flashes of what might be memories.
“It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
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