Day 1 Draft 1

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There was a time when I would lay with my head in your lap, and you would stroke my hair and sing to me.  It was so long ago I cannot remember a single word, but I remember the melody.  Soft and sweet you would sing me to sleep.  I was your beloved, your son.  You held me in your arms and I was safe.  I was so safe, so happy, so content.  No one ever felt as loved as me.  You were my mother, and you would never leave me.

You were there to teach me how to ride a bike, and when I fell, you stood me up and brushed me off.  When I said I didn’t want to keep going, you told me I needed to, and that you would be there to pick me up when I fell again.  Begrudgingly I got back on, again and again, until I stopped falling.  I don’t know that I ever thanked you, but I knew you were proud.  You were my mother, and you would never leave me.

You were there in middle school when I failed my English class.  You told me I couldn’t go to camp because I needed to go to summer school.  I was mad and I yelled at you and Dad, but you told me I had to be responsible for my actions.  I finished summer school and passed the class. But I never went back to camp and I would never admit that you were right.  You were my mother, and you would never leave me.

When I became ill you were the one who took me to the doctor.  When I couldn’t get out of bed, you stayed home and looked after me.  You and Dad sat in the hospital with me while they hooked me up to the iv, and while they ran their tests.  And when I was finally healthy again you celebrated with me.  But the whole time I never realized quite how much it had been hurting you too.  You were my mother, and you would never leave me. 

Then college came. I grew up and moved on.  My emails and calls became less frequent, as the years went by.  After my sophomore year I was spending my summers in Chicago in an apartment down the street from my campus.  My senior year I had a chance to study abroad in Barcelona.  I never came back.  But you were my mother, and you would never leave me.

The day came when the boxes with all my things arrived; cardboard boxes covered in our home address, postage, and red stamps in all caps that read fragile.  My teddy bear, my blanket, and my tattered old poster of Omar Vizquel. I left it all in boxes in my storage space downstairs. These were all part of my childhood and I had grown up.  You were a part of my childhood and I had grown up.  But you were my mother, and you would never leave me.

Then I met her, she was beautiful and brilliant.  Her name was Maria, and she was very much like you.  We spent all of our time together and decided to elope, I wrote you and Dad from the honeymoon, to let you know.  You wrote back how happy for us you were and how proud.  I knew that it must have hurt you, so I didn’t even save the letter.  But you were my mother, and you would never leave me.

When I heard that you were dying I was on the first flight home, but I didn’t make it in time.  When I got to the hospital you were covered with a sheet.  Everyone left the two of us alone, and I dropped to my knees and wept. I was there when they lowered you into the ground, and I asked dad if I could give the Eulogy.  He told me I could, he was never a man of many words. But it didn’t do you credit, no words ever could. You were my mother, and you never left me.

9 Drafts, 9 Days

I'm going to be trying something a little different over the next few days.  Starting today, I'm going to start writing the first draft of a new piece every day, for nine days.  Each of these works will be based on a prompt given me by a friend, that I have simply asked for a subject to write about and a form to write in.  Based on their brief responses I will write a short piece that will stay at least mainly within their framework.  My goal?  To advance my versatility as a writer, to be an active creator over the next week and a half, and to gather ideas for work in the future.  Well, here goes.

The Only Man Who Could Turn Me On To Folk

Iron and Wine is a band I heard of three years ago in the beginning of my freshman year from the same man who introduced me to bands the likes of Death Cab for Cutie, and The Shins.  Steve Rigby, seriously, thank you.  Now of the bands my dear friend Schtv (above) has introduced me to, two of them now have albums in my top five of all time; one of these being Death Cab's Transatlanticism which is, I feel, given its dues.  The other, is Iron and Wine's The Creek Drank the Cradle.  Oddly enough, I heard about Iron and Wine back in two thousand and seven and I honestly don't listen to any of the stuff he's produced since then nearly as much as his first album.

Iron and Wine is Sam Beam, plain and simple. Yes, he has a full band on his later albums.  Yes, his sister does backup vocals on a good share of his tracks.  Yes, sometimes he tours with... guys, you're missing the point.  Sam Beam's later music, as good as it is, is nothing compared to his first album.  It may be just him and a guitar, however, it was just him and a guitar.  He recorded his first album The Creek Drank the Cradle alone in his basement. Seriously.  This guy lives in Florida with a wife and a few kids, has a masters degree in something having to do with film, teaches at a local college, and in his spare time writes some of the best music of my generation in his basement.  I'm sorry, I'm gushing, aren't I?

You have to understand, Sam Beam is like a mentor to me.  His work is incredible, his beard is incredible, and on top of that he's a quiet family man.  In my intro to literature class we were separated into groups, actually allowed to choose our own, score right?  So Tay Beals, Luke of Luke and Jim's Bluebeedew, and I sat down after class to pick a poem.  I told them, we're doing a song, it's by Iron and Wine.  We then dissected, interpreted, preformed and presented the song The Trapeze Swinger for our class.  We literally spent hours working through just the lyrics of the song.  Studying his intricate rhyme scheme and his careful meter.  I'm sorry, I'm gushing again, aren't I?

Well I suppose I will leave you with this.  When I left to study in Belfast I ran into Sam Beam in the Dublin airport.  Said hey, shook his hand, and made small talk about my studies and his work.  The very next day, jet lagged, no local currency, in a foreign city; two friends of mine and I walked down the street, hailed a cab, and went to see him live. It was possibly the best concert I've ever been to, and it was just him with an accompanist for a few songs who jumped from instrument to random instrument.  Sam Beam proves that he is truly an artist in his comprehension of when enough is enough, and that less is often more.  His lyrics could stand alone as poetry, but who would want them to after hearing him sing them?  I'm sorry, I'm gushing again, aren't I?

Check him out for yourself.  The songs: Upward Over the Mountain, The Trapeze Swinger, and Naked as we Came wouldn't be a bad start.  And come on, look at that beard.

Welcome to the Exhibition

Fastforward to two thousand and thirty dirty thirty pabst blue ribbon college cribin is twenty years behind me remind me confide in me again the way you used to abuse my sensibilities because I was mad for you sad for you and now a grad for you I would do anything the funny thing is a ring does not define you but confine you to another so you prefer I call you lover than wife all my life I've been begging dredging hedging my bets I'd find someone like you two peas in a pod of whales sings us the most beautiful song it's all wrong you know that dress always turned me on again off again are you kidding sinning is what we did best man I expect to have to choose loosing you was something I never could have imagined managed to break my heart don't start with me you knew I felt flat on my face lace and pillow talk are far behind us now how did we get here sneers and jeers I'll shed no tears you're not the girl I fell in love with yes I'm covetous I want you to be mine fine tinsel and twine Christmas has come and I've lost you cost you everything you ever wanted I'm daunted by the task of moving on pawn the ring I bought for a queen I'm careening there's no weaning me off of love hate consecrate your marriage to another your druthers left me in a gutter my heart flutters every time I see a picture of you a dinner for two the hullabaloo is over red rover red rover let Jenny come rum is what I need to feed no starve my inhibitions welcome to the exhibition of Jacob at his finest

Attempted Transatlanticism

The waves crash over the cracked foot path, submerging the rusty bemoaned ladder under salty sea.  Behind the cackles raise up as the two philosopher kings shed their clothes and walk down the tiny pier.  To the west a lonely road gently makes its way through the emerald hills.  To the east, the town of summer cottages abandoned to the cold breeze of  September.  To the west the Atlantic, the states, home.  To the east a far off horizon, an ancient isle, the land of our fathers.  And in front of us a rough sea, and a blue sky, an endless view of blue and white.  We stand there, he and I, naked and crownless kings.  We stand there, on a the precipice of an abyss, that beckons with open arms.  We stand there for but a moment and then we leap. Enveloped by the sea, a baptism of sorts.  Brought back up through the waves.  Born again.  New men.

Strawberry Banana Bliss

I went to Blue Fig again tonight.  Thought I'd let you know the verdict, Strawberry Banana Smoothie.  Worth every cent.  Great Turkish Coffee as well.  Actually, everything I've had there is good.  Thought I'd keep ya'll posted.

The Lake That Is Fed With A Burning River

I drag deep on my cigarette.  The slow smoldering flame burns closer to my lips beginning to burn the letters in black on white paper that read Turkish Royal.  The smoke filters out of my lungs, caught on the breeze like the wings of a bird.  To the West, dimly lit by the glow of a hundred candles in paper bags I see the creek pouring into the lake, the tall lonesome tree with roots sunk in sand, and the pier that the bags sit upon so precariously perched.  A memorial.  A reminder.  A swan song. A threnody.  To the East jutting out from the shore is a city, a string of lights, like a pearl necklace on this dingy bemoaned shore.  A handful of buildings reach to the sky, kept company by pillars of smoke from factory stackhouses. As I take another pull I look upwards, as a lonely cloud strolls across the sky, in a friendly game of tag with the stars that have come out early to play. I exhale slowly and flick my cigarette into the waves.  I quickly strip down, and within a few seconds I'm amongst the waves, swallowed up by the lake that is fed with a burning river.