The Crucifixion of 2014

"We dedicate 2015 to You God."

This post comes after I bound faith with a brother at my home on the east bank of a river that splits Oregon at its valley. The most of my past year was spent working my first full time job and writing a book about what God did with me when I was homeless in leading me into restoration with community. The reflection of that has been fruitful to invigorate my relationship I found with Him when no one else was around me in my travels. 

When there is a book to write for that long, as well loans from film school to pay back and the daily grind of life – this night we spent in prayer together was a place for me to mine for gems that supersede the circumstances of life. My brother spoke prophesy over my life that I could receive for the New Year and it was well with my soul to transition in this manner.

This New Year for me has the exercise with it of what characteristics God has spoken over me with self control. How I plan to demonstrate this is by trimming the fruit of my life that is not beneficial so to make room for the will of God to abound. If God is willing, come the end of summer, I will ride my bicycle to California with Marilyn for me to finish my associate degree in the science of film. 

Valley

“That’s what I wanted tonight,” the young man watches traffic stop as she crosses the street, “I wanted to lean over the boat and slit the rope from anything else besides this.”

She smiles to him with an open glance that he studies in all shades of light from the shops they pass that wash over her.

“There’s writing – where I have the pressure to improve, and work – where I have to perform, and even by myself – I become my own critic.” He looks with vigor toward her, “But this – this is dynamic.”

“I looked forward to this," she whispers, "but I felt bad because it’s right before I leave.”

“But that’s good – that’s exciting.”

In two days she’ll be on a flight back halfway across the country to live out semesters of her life that are left wide open to the will of God.

At her car, he hugs her with the grip of months since, and leaves a store for the months left until they see each other again. His hands fall to his waist side first, but hers tremble from their grasp to the material of his jacket.

“Is this locked?” He stretches around her for the door. It is.

He fades from the light of a nearby restaurant into the cold of a clear winter night.

In between them both was a passion to commence in a relationship they both had seen at arm’s length for the past year. Her move to study across the country put itself up against all reasonable hope and left them to live on the surface when together – with slivers of explosive light to slip from within them to acknowledge the other’s feeling.

When alone, the imagination of this relationship working out plays itself an exploratory plot line and holds them over where possibility may lay ahead or just be – for him – a scene to write about. That’s all it is for me.

Step Back, Let Go

“Write with the door closed,

Edit with the door open.”

n  Steven King

The ideal reader for Fog On Fire, the story of my bicycle trip from southern California to Seattle, was my brother Mason. He and I met as roommates over the summer at Varsity House with my cat, Marilyn.

After months, drafts, and thousands of my words were spilt – Mason partnered with me to flesh out the book. This has been an intimate process. Academy Award nominated screenwriter, Scott Frank, had said that watching his finished film was weird, but it was the conversations over drafts that stuck with him as worthwhile. So goes for literature at this state.

The process is dynamic for growth in telling stories and communicating with an audience. What I’ve learned is that I’m not as good as I would want you to praise me for – plenty has been removed. The project started out obese and is getting trimmed down. With his insistence, I see what muscle is there that can be built up to a project of stature worth presenting. In the end, I’ll be thankful for the quiet nights we could spend to work out the story.

Corvallis in December

There are not enough deciduous trees with spunk in them. They are fine to bear leaves in harmony, but when it comes to display – I travel past two decade old saplings spaced even from each other along popular tourist pathways. In competition to succulence of the Appalachian Range I grew up in, there is a slaughterhouse filter I placed in my brain when downcast comparisons pass over.

The Willamette Valley is alright. It is narrow with short grass, moderate health, and more noisy opinions than it can handle. Oregon State University is here, caged within the boisterous chatter of short fused natives, who hope to wall their small town in from eternity (if they can muster the group effort).

To be honest, I am teasing this culture of Oregonians with their miles per gallon Prius's, Natural Foods Cooperative cards, and 401k plans. To give credit, their rank of livability and educational grouping is above the American average – reining in hordes of out-of-state license plates that have chosen to retire here.

"My wife and I looked all over the state – because we said we wanted to live in Oregon – and when we came through Corvallis, we knew this was it."

The smile just explodes from their face and sets a display within the atmosphere that drips culture all over Benton County. The weather is temperamental, but that is expected of the northwest, where it rains such a large percentage of the winter. Leaves have fallen from the walkway ornaments while fog blankets the coastal range of conifers that drip what feels like rain as you pass under. Oh, wait – that is rain. 

In conclusion, I am a part of the catered populous of locals – but just in the physical constraint of a home address. Above all, I am a son of God, and that is my identity. But, O is it hard to not get upset when you see adults act like children do. Truth is, I am just as human, and it’s easier to judge people than get to know them. Thanks be to the love of God that reminds me of my responsibility to be salt for a bland taste.

32nd of December

It's a nice winter in the northwest, though my opinion is based on what exists within the mile visibility I have through blanketed fog. It's been nice to commute through rain, contain hand warmers in my gloves, and wear short sleeves at midday. Fred Meyer is treating me well and the more I commit to the company, more benefits come out to celebrate, which I'm thankful for.

Bred with a passion for the arts, I still pursue creative endeavors and grow in them each day. Fog on Fire, the story of my bicycle trip, is close to finished. Right now Mason, a dear brother, and I are mulling over 7,500 words a day in edits. Within a week, I'll have to take pages of black typeface and red edits back to the computer for a final draft before going through it with an editor to finalize it for print. After that edit is revised, I'll self-publish a copy for myself and more for people I'd like to read it first, then take orders and print more. If God is willing, I’ll set up meetings with publishers to discuss opportunities in a wide release.

In the meantime, I have been reading a lot of books, and writing each day. If I can't cover ground in word count, I decided to blog for further practice. Once FOG was finished; I started and finished Clover, which I wrote for myself and then my mom. Once that was done, I started working on a non-fiction, the one I am on right now, Film Theory (working title). This book is a memoir of the craft from what I've gathered in my short career married with the passion I've had since a child.

I like this girl.

This might just be what I do, and perhaps has nothing to do with you, but my hope in writing this is that it does resonate; or maybe it's just for me to capture as a writer to draw you in. Whichever the case, here goes. When I pass most girls, I look at their eyes, and I see a myriad of things*. Most times they look to me with the same glance I do in whether one is attractive; that's the first. Others don't acknowledge me, and those invite my thoughts just as much - what are they thinking about? The most grasping glances are the ones that encouraged me most to write this. Encouraged is setting the bar low of word choice. I get this wet feeling of exclamation. It warms my chest up right inside my heart, and I begin to envelope the world around me; I take on this strength that exclaims in passion (weak wording). 

When I was riding to the library on my bicycle today, I looked up into the eyes at this young lady strutting down the broken concrete sidewalk. With my eyes locked on hers, we watched each other, and waited. Seeing how she didn't look away in reaction, she matched me in this desire to test the others watchfulness, holding the gaze until I looked away in what I concluded as pride on my part. Let me catch that for you. I come from a bad breakup that leaves me looking for who I can flood love into next. When I look at a lot of females, I watch them to see if they are at the same place of heart as me; do they want to love somebody, also?

This observation is just discernment I perceive many people live with that haven't found the proper place to communicate it. That's why I wanted to write this, because it would be a challenge to communicate, which it was. Nonetheless, I wanted to share with you the timeless back story to something that takes seconds to occur. In conclusion, I found my observation valid and exciting to share, but of no success in working on the matter at heart; the burner that warms a zeal for an area of focus that is growing to align itself with the thoughts of God.

*Update (3:38 pm): I looked up from the computer at this girl waiting for the printer. This is another kind of look: she looked at me with a softened glance before she trembled to look down. What I discerned was she looked down to look away and wanted to look up again, but was fine with leaving it go.

Chariots of Fog

When people ask how I am, how work is going, my new living situation, or what I have been up to, I mention the books I am writing. Praise God I have been stirred to spend at least an hour each day on new material, which has got me through one book and almost to the finish of a novella.

To process through where I've landed in Corvallis, I cling to my passions as my identity, and I couple that with who I am as a son of God. Like my bank account, the gifts God gave me aren't mine, they are His and a gracious thing to have. The season I'm in has a lot to do with getting undressed of the world, of my self, and being clothed with what God has already accomplished. This is very internal, as people only scratch the surface, which is what emanates from the work God does in me.

My hope is in the follow through of God's goodness having kept me for twenty-three years of life. It's hard to say what it all means, what I'll achieve or aim at, save what God wills; but, what I do recognize is the life still in me. It's hard to come up words to sum any of it up, but I do note the grace, undeserved merit.

This post wasn't preconceived; I just enjoy writing, and I enjoy getting better at it. If I cling to money, my gifts, women, or the like: I have fallen far removed from the source and would be distracted from the simplicity of following a God who gave so much before I existed. I'm not famous like I wanted to be, nor did I have a yacht, but I have breath and I have family.

This coming week, the beautiful field that lay out before us, I want to situate myself closer to the will of God, the relationship of my life with the bounty of those placed around me, and disadvantage myself so that God can touch the world around me. Out of what has gone and the reflections of friends or family that I miss, I know for certain that I want them to have the best life available, which provokes me to sprint the distance for them. Above all, I want to look to the Source of it all, my Poppa in heaven - and grow closer to He who laid out for me.

Shadows of Mystery

Quite the feeling has started to simmer within me as I round the home stretch of completing my thousands of words long book about my arid life getting drenched in a downpour as I lived on the road by bicycle from southern California to Seattle, San Francisco, and into Corvallis, Oregon.

My God, what a trip it all has been. Save the actual riding of a bicycle over 4,000 miles and handwriting the rough draft, and my mom can vouch for this, but the transcription of my second grade handwriting to Times New Roman type face: the venture, my dear, the journey.

What goes on from here is to keep myself in reins of not annoying my guest writers who are doing the fore and afterword, and being patient until I print the next draft on Monday. After that, I'll sit down an ideal reader, the one who I thought would like the book while I was writing it, and flesh that out with him (or her).

From there, I'll retouch according to our going over, and prepare a draft for the editor to fine tune with. Once that is all fixed, I'll have a final draft. Mind you, this is my first real book, so I am finding a process that works. Aside from itching, what has kept me busy in the meanwhile, is the writing of Clover, a novella that should have been written in 2011.

For that book, I'll have a more fluent process of finishing a book, propelling me further into the depths of a literary life. Long term, I would like to alternate from a fiction story to non (unless God intercedes), and I don't care about getting rich, famous, &c. from that (but, by God, would that be cool); I would like to be good at telling stories for the triumphant task of making a movie.

Clover

After rounding the northwest by bicycle, I left 400 pages of journal entries at a beach home on the Oregon coast with a woman, Anne, who I met outside of a grocery store two months earlier. Her plan was to head south, to Texas, by the summer's end. Passing through, she stopped off at Amarillo to see my mamma, a wonderful woman from New Hampshire, who raised me at conception. Anne took the journals, packed them in a cowhide constructed satchel, and handed them over to my mom for safe keeping. 

Months pass, the journals collect dust, and I grow fervent for a look back. Retelling the story of said trip in conversations, I realized the difficulty in sharing the entire story with what attention span we have, giving me cause, joined with a passion of telling stories, to write a screenplay. Finishing the script, ending as a roman a clef (fancy word for real and fake), I knew that a detailed narrative was in order; at least as a source for future projects. 

After many calls of reminder to my mom, days of shipping, and hours waiting outside for the mailman: I unwrapped a postal pack of said satchel with a smell of worn leather. The first order of business was to scan hundreds of journal entries to guide the retelling and interweave as reference for weight. Months later, hours of writing alone in the basement, and 348 handwritten notebook pages later: the rough draft was finished. In the span of one month, two hours of transcribing chicken scratch, and 75,000 words of Times New Roman later: the first was complete.

Jotted below the machine-generated signature of the editor was this mot: "Not bad, but PUFFY. You need to revise for length. Formula: 2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%. Good luck." 

                  - Stephen King

Thanks to an engineer friend, with hundreds of free prints left on his account at Oregon State, I printed the book in single space to 152 pages. Taking a red ink pen, I read the entire book in two days (ten hours), making a glide of corrections as I went.

As of now, I am halfway through trimming down the book, ready to be done so that I can put it down for awhile while I finish up a fiction story I have been wanting to finish for three years. That book, an adventure story, is six thousand words into its rough draft. Hint: www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJdWneTeiAM

Some people live their lives as if nothing good will be the end result.

They live without deep intention, and only for the shallow moments that pass as wind does in the dark moments of the night's hour.

As I must confess, that I once lived this way:

The way of the aging,

I am now forever indebted to the newly constructed constellation in the sky.

I no longer live without a purpose.

In being, there is truth.

In truth, there is life.

Forever in unison,

You will never be alone.

Brevity

At 4,000 words written a day, I will have the first typed draft of my book complete by the end of this week, God willing.

Having a vision what a good cover would look like, I am growing my hair and beard out to match the grubbiness of my state on the road, watch out.

Due to the season, I haven't been wanting to write like an enlightened man, rather like one with True Grit.

Love.

December's Spring to Life

In passing, 

The splitting flood of daylight cuts my view,

 Seeing her watch the shadow of buildings come over my leaning look,

 Recalling her past us.

An increasing simmer boils up an emotion, 

"if they cannot control themselves" warms a thin built home.

Letting flames grow,

dancing down every square section of frailty, 

What glory that facade becomes ashes.

Exposed: a burning heart,

That "it is not good for the man to be alone,"

Make him a helper suitable to build for;

Be housed with.

Stare of a scared girl,

Hurt by an exposed heart blown over,

Wide eyes well at golden hour.

Soaking her expression with comfort;

She releases through warm waves of floodgates thrown open,

Quenching a fire she leaves in between us.

She goes home,

We lost it;

Tossed between the season and a calm heart.

Son of Man

Sunday

7:30 am

For reasons to publish, reflection, or rudimentary scribble in cleaning lingual bladder - a story of recollection from living on the road during June of 2013:

In Monroe, Washington, Marilyn (my cat) and I stopped on a concrete footpath that led into a convenience store to dial back and have a smoke (she forsook the latter).
This store coupled as a fuel station; passing of people paying inside, buying snacks, or to the perimeter for a quick drag. 

A young family passes us from the store back to their vehicle, young kids dragging their feet, twisting in a double take to see "is that a cat?!" 

Doors shut, latch opens, nozzle trigger releases, engine starts to hum.

Light footsteps and a brief voice; their son (no older than six), comes over to hand me cash - without fear of confusion or trembling - &c.

[November 9, 2014]

What compelled my sharing of this story, was the study of this occurrence impressing on me about parenting style: to encourage a lifestyle of generosity, along with the obedience of their son in a call to love.

Further than the money, what it could afford, or anything devoid of the like - was the jewel of value that registered longstanding in my existence - a compassion in household and choice to live out generosity in trusting obedience by their son.

At church, last week (November 2), the congregation was challenged to take a portion of cash (given to them), and plant a seed of loving justice by generosity into the community. 

During this telling of story, I was brought to mind the challenge with Church, inspiring me to shine a personal light from an engraved experience at how a seed of generosity grew in the garden of my life.

of Works

Important to writing is reading and listening for ways in learning what not to do from terrible material while grafting quality linguistics of which to cultivate from the best material we have. Reading a Stephen King book about writing: his memoir of the craft, I took from it a place to evade bad books for utilizing time in reading those of quality ("He who walks with the wise grows wise, but a companion of fools suffers harm." - Proverbs 13:20). This morning, after returning A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson before finishing it (188 pages of its 274), I took out Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke, an admired classic, in exchange.

By Bill Bryson, the work stung in scattered opinions, a cliff note rambling of historical facts along the crushed vertebrate of plot, itching me to the bone with his childish outlook about being human while he (could have been) sitting at some desk in home with his wife threading her opinions into his patchy story for print at her passing to shower. He, several times, ran off course to a part of him that scratched for words in filling a quota, returning to the back cover synopsis at the very last possible sentence before I should have closed it earlier. This paragraph is counter intuitive, using a myriad of words to conclude that I hate being pulled around in a book by an author with an arrogant typeface.

At the fuel center, my manager, a scholastic collegiate for literature, helped me walk through said issue; him echoing that "classics" (such as Walden, which I finished just before A Walk in the Woods) "spoil us from contemporary works", since awarded classics have been regarded high above others for years.

Becoming a writer (a person who has written a particular text) is not just a gift, it's a commitment to hour long entries that may include a backspace key punch many times. No one who does it can achieve much without writing a lot, drafting, and having to exchange terrible for improvement. That process could never end, but at some point, it has to. Movie editing is considered the final rewrite of a screenplay, when still it could have been done better.

My conclusion: for a focus to grow in telling stories, growing learned, and becoming more at mind than have been; it is my desire to inherit from those works regarded as top tier for the divine improvement associated with what passions have been put into my hear for pursuit. For this time of life, which ticks away, I will run frequent at improvement, at increasing the ability, to shoot arrows at the stars than be scattered about by drawn lines connecting dots of disarray.

Man: Untold

Just 55 five minutes ago ended a straight five day work week at the fuel center, here in Corvallis, Oregon (44.5667° N, 123.2833° W).

Without seeing what application this duty has to my desires in heart, I could forsake mention of the job, other than to tell you how good it feels to be out of there (which it does); though, thanks be to God, I can look at is as helpful in preparing me for my future. Directing on a movie set, you have the leadership to walk with an intimate crew through constructing a scene, while having to discern creative decisions in balance. Without detailing specifics, attending fuel is similar, granting me hope enough to sink my teeth in with passion.

Hours following from here, I'll type more transcribing of a book being written on a bicycle tour I took from Los Angeles (area: Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo, Cal Poly) to Oregon, Idaho, Spokane, Seattle, south to San Francisco, and hitchhiking north into Corvallis. Right now, in it, I'm north of San Francisco at the beginning of my ride (20,000 words in, about one third of the way through its bound totality).

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

~ Ernest Hemingway

Man of Earth

At the seventeenth hour and its thirteenth minute -

Waking up, though awful in an ache to rise from comfortable sleep with my cat, Marilyn, it is an abounding enjoyment to see another day. Still in youth, growing to "wake up" at life, we know enough now at how fleeting it has proven to be, and what myriad of gifts we are given by the moment it possesses.

Reminding myself of that surges my sensory in coming to its front and typing to you a cleaner outlook of where to write from. My day went well; working from 5:30am until 2:30pm, before sitting down for a time to transcribe my handwritten skeleton of a book into a typed first draft, which is such fun to involve with.

Reworking the journals of my life at a pivotal spot, where I walked from being a boy into more handling personal responsibility, accomplishes a thankfulness for how much God has done in taking something broken and restoring it to His image: outside myself.

Going home now, gathering to rest a hand on Marilyn's belly before coming back to work, tomorrow.


Love &c.,

Caleb

Preface

Sunday, November 2nd, 2014
1:52 pm


The start of this had to begin somewhere.

Inspired for an idea as such began out to lunch with a friend on whose couch I spent my earliest of nights in Corvallis. Most of the writing in this season that has been getting accomplished deals with a book I'm writing, a subject that you'll be painted about in the great rotation of time, save journal entries done by hand in a loft apartment in Oregon I dwell nights at.

In order to demonstrate growth as an author, combined with the mayhem of opening a window for humanity to observe, this blog was born for you to read.

For time of day, I'll let you browse the interweb longer, while I spend the next couple hours typing a book I'm writing about my bicycle trip taken from Los Angeles to Seattle.


With abounding love, &c.

Caleb