Gogyohka-Thursday [99 & 100]

This is my last Gogyohka-Thursday on Salt-Rain Tidings. It's been delightful. And yes, unless some honest-to-goodness salt-rain falls, this is also my last post on my beloved Salt-Rain Tidings. I am so thankful for the time we've had... for your support, encouragement, understanding--for reading. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, you have blessed me beyond words can express. If you're interested in other blogging of mine, please message me. God bless and keep you,
             -L.E. Fiore

We've had our days

our years, two

but now it seems time

to say good-bye

to You.

So wish me well!

and every good thing.

And may the seas we sail

to heaven's shore

 us bring.

Gogyohka-Thursday [73]

I want to write the poem

perfect for this space

a passing insight

in phrase so sweet

you'll smile or maybe weep

Fond Fare Thee Well

It's been about a year since I began Salt-Rain Tidings in August, 2010. I have so enjoyed blogging- documenting my experiences and sharing my thoughts. However at this time I think it wise to give my blog a rest as I have found it difficult to live in the present when I am constantly thinking and writing up posts. These next few months will hopefully provide me opportunity to devote more time to the people around me and to work towards publishing some children's literature (a project that has long been shelved in the shadow of my blog). This isn't a good-bye, just a take-care and see-you-later. I may begin re-blogging when I transfer colleges in January- or next year- or maybe just some time "in the distant future". But at any rate-  don't forget the archives, and per request I WILL be keeping up Gogyohka-Thursdays- so do stop in and check them out.

blessings,

L.E. Fiore

Rivers of Thought

It seems with every flurry of activity comes a downpour of thoughts in my brain. When they first form they are distinct little raindrops- yet once fallen, quickly becoming indistinguishable from one another. There seems too great a river in my brain to share anything cohesive with you.

Nearly a week ago I took a walk through the woods (its memory still plays in my mind). I tickled my sister with a fern I picked- she went for the tight muscles in my side- and then we were chasing and giggling and tickling and dragging and squealing and the ordeal was not over until we passed a stone cave built into the hillside and I threatened to throw her in. (It's either a root cellar or a druid hole- historians can't make up their minds- so take your pick). She calmed down, slipped her hand in mine, and told me firmly that, "We are at peace now." Then from her tongue came the most tender confidings- about sisters... and me... and laughter. (My heart still gasps when I remember- not the words that she spoke- but all that lay behind them).

This weekend was a whirlwind. On Saturday we drove down into the city and went to Zabar's- an incredible (and enormous) Jewish deli. We walked in and were immediately confronted by 40 barrels of assorted olives- and the smells of cheese, fish, and coffee. My grandfather bought all sorts of amazing goodies (meat, salad, cheese, bread) and we picnicked in Central Park (while listening to a jazzy street band). Oh, yes. And then we went to my Met again. Afterwords we sat out on the front steps in the sun and listened to a saxophone player... by the time we left a crowd had amassed around him and three young guys (two  in suits) were dancing.

I keep thinking of what God showed me when I prayed (thoughts oppressing my heart) for evidence of His love curled up in a hotel room... and it seems I have not yet had time to digest all that I learned and felt when I heard a sermon on Sunday from a visiting missionary.

I'm sitting at my computer (feeling hot and sticky and tired) and my mind is rambling down alleys... past the people I met... the music I heard... the foods I smelled... the feelings I felt... and the littered highways we passed which made me daydream about clean-up projects.

I live life through my experiences- and I see life through my thoughts. I don't know which part of me is larger- the half that delights in experience (and consequently adventure, sensory information, and the unexpected)- or that which longs to understand and conclude and realize and immortalize (and so betakes itself to the quiet to reflect and create).

My writing routine is a bit happenstance. I live (and don't think). And then I think (and don't live). I have to live to have something to write about. But I have to be still and think to write. Yet the longer I wait  for  ruminations to ripen- the more fuzzy the memories become in my mind.

I had thoughts yesterday. And the day before. But I didn't write them down. And so now everything feels fuzzy and half-baked inside... like I lost something and I'm not sure what.

Experiences are raindrops... they conjoin in pools, slip into streams of thought, and become the rivers we call our past.

Random News Flash From a Fanatical Writer

GUESS WHAT!?! It's today. I get to start a whole, new, fresh, blank diary.

I'm a diary writer. Did you know that?

I began my first real diary when I was ten... but I stopped... my life didn't seem interesting enough to me- and what was the point in writing in that beautiful, little, red-velvet bound journal if it would be filled up before all I had to say was written down?

Then I was twelve. And on May 27th, 2005, my grandmother gave me a huge, gorgeous, 2'' thick VOLUME... lined, blank, and waiting. And so I began. I decided I had to write regardless of how interesting the day was. And I would write a page- a whole page- always- every day. I missed two days in the first six months.

I haven't missed a day since.

Those diaries have heard everything. It was- and still is- a growing experience- as I learn how to craft a day into a page- that page into a memory. I've learned what not to write down- so that it won't be remembered. And I have found an incredible delight in rereading the pages of past years and seeing God's sovereign hand unfold my life.

Each diary has a name. I'm not sure why- perhaps it's habit- perhaps I have some fundamental need to feel like I'm writing to someone. I choose each name very carefully- weighing the name's sound, the way it writes, and its meaning. The name becomes a sort of person- and that entity comes to embody that year.

And tonight I have a new name to write on the first of 400 beautiful, blank pages. I have chosen a name which means Wisdom- for I've been thinking and reading of wisdom lately ("If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God (...) and it shall be given him." - James 1:5) and this year I feel a need for it more than ever. So here we go.

Tonight begins my new year.

And Then I Showed It To Dad

It is a curse to be a writer. Truly. A curse.

I get ideas in the middle of the night. Right before I'm supposed to sleep an idea pops into my head- a phrase, a concoction of lines, a single sentence which sparks an entire monologue. My best ideas usually come to me at night. I know better than to ignore them. What makes it all worse is that I am typically incapable of remembering an idea for more than five minutes. -So the light goes back on. I grope for a pen and scrap of paper- and write.

Sometimes the simple act of getting the idea outside of myself is enough. But even then (and certainly if I keep it within) often my brain takes the idea and runs with it and the race of my brain keeps me up forever- as I think and create things that will be lost by the time I wake up.

So about three nights ago I had such an occurrence. An idea. I grabbed the pen and paper.

I had no time to write it up yesterday because I was at school. And even today I  had a long list of school assignments, but the idea was plaguing my mind. So I gave into this disease- this plague- this madness called writing. I flipped to my notes, I grabbed some water and almonds, I let my fingers touch these keys, and instinct took over.

I wrote for a good three hours strait... and then worked on the thing for another three hours or so. Needless to say I got little school done. But I was pretty happy with the results. It was a story. An allegory of sorts- and theological at that. I'd never done something in that venue before but really, people, it was decent.

Then I showed it to Dad. He reads so fast. And when he was done he told me it was too short (for the questions I asked) and I needed to write a book on it.

A book?!!

People. I don't want to write a book. I barely have enough time to blog. But to an extent I agree with my Daddy- the story needs flushing out and fine-tuning. So stay tuned. But not too tuned. It may take a while.

Because tomorrow I go back to school... and hopefully other, easier ideas will come to me to write about- and hopefully not too late- 'cause I have exams coming up and I need my sleep.

Letters

There's nothing quite like getting a letter in the mail.

On several occasions I have hypothesized on just what it is that separates cards from letters and e-cards from e-mails. There seems to be a hierarchy of specialness which I want to understand- so I can master- so I can act not in instinct but concrete knowledge.

There is, we well know, an entire art to letter writing- the composition of the letter, the content of the letter, the voice of the letter, and the aesthetic of the letter. Does someone get right to the point? Do they ramble, rhapsodize, or hurl themselves down rabbit trails? Is the envelope plain? Do they decorate it with flowers? Romantic? Business? Classy? Cute? Feminine?

I began letter writing when I was about seven or eight. I remember how each letter would begin.

Dear Samantha,

How are you? I'm doing fine.

(After a year or so I grew tired of that.)

Dear Samantha,

Salutations!

(Getting all fancy.)

Now I say whatever I want to say- and so I think it is the truest expression of myself. Yes. Isn't it that very expression of self which compels us to read letters- blogs, books, e-mails- in the first place? Because I know that I have for years, whenever I sign onto my e-mail, network, or Facebook- I hope against hope that someone- anyone- will have thought of me- and written.

"What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you." -You've Got Mail

I think it is the thought that counts. Because it's not about whether you compose a masterpiece. It is about the unmatchable knowledge that someone, amidst their life, stopped and crafted, communicated, a message from out of themselves to nobody but you.

I always save letters (and messages and e-mails) for special moments, free of distraction (sometimes I even make myself clean my room just so I'll have visual peace when I read them). Then I saver every word and reread every line. Your comments on my posts brighten my face. An e-mail makes my day. But letters, letters make my spirit dance.

Then what is it about a letter?

The physical existence of the letter, I think, has something to do with it. E-mails don't really exist. Numbers inside wires send little messages and light flashes on the screen- just as easily gone- just as easily annihilated all together. Existence is part of a letter's specialness.

I speculate that handwriting plays a large role as well. A person's handwriting is an extension of themselves- the very imprint that their hands have made. Personality on a page. You can not help but feel physically closer to someone when you have the work of their hands in your own.

Letter - noun 1: The concrete culmination of all the heart-to-heart communication that souls wish for... when apart.

So talk to me.

Gogyohka-Thursday [18]

Writing,

out of desperation,

words that don't make sense.

Erasing...

starting again...

Blogging, HCB, and Time

I joined Higher Calling Blogs within twenty-four hours of beginning Salt-Rain Tidings. I think that’s equivalent to being handed a sea-diving suit and oxygen tank and being dumped overboard in the middle of the Atlantic.

I have yet to discover if this dumping will result in drowning or a glorious adventure.

I am overwhelmed, thrilled, and maybe even scared by the world which I have suddenly entered. With HCB I have become a member of a community. -Now people outside of my immediate social group can find my blog and read my writing. Already I am meeting wonderful bloggers- and with a click of my mouse their thoughts are laid open to me- I lose myself in their wisdom, wit, heartache, and love.

I am anxious to emulate, eager to share. Yet just when I have so much to say- I have no time to say it. College starts tomorrow (can you hear my heart pounding?) and with it commuting, homework, and a social life even as I remain home and a member of my family (daughter, sister) and member of my church and local community.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. It is so easy to disappear on-line. You just don’t get on.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be scribbling down my thoughts in the middle of the night- and those scraps of paper with lines crossed out and words written over them to remain in notebooks and in piles on my desk- the overflow of an irrepressible writer.

I am confessing. Busyness never means I stop writing. It just means I stop sharing it. Life doesn’t mean I have less to share, it only means that the more my writing reflects who I am the more I feel the urge to keep it within me. I have begun blogging because far too often my writing is completely selfish.

I won’t drown. I just might get back in the boat.

So here- now- I am committing myself to you. -

- For His glory, by His grace -

June 10th, 2010

I wonder about my writing. Have you ever had the indescribable feeling you were being laughed at? Perhaps that is why I laugh – so their laughter will seem intended. …my sister once said she liked – or appreciated – my e-mails to her because it was “the only time she got to hear my voice”… But is it my voice – more true than my audible one? Or is the projection of myself which I want people to see – something my artistry has fabricated? But is that not why writers can sound such depths- endlessly create – and are their creations not, to say the least, reflections of their innermost selves? If this were an e-mail – I would now waver between sending and deleting. And I hope you are not laughing at me.

–L.E Fiore