Jesse Koepke

2/04/06      (though posted 2/05, it was written late 2/04)

            Yes, I skipped a day. Rats. But I’m back! (See, that’s why I write that so often in my journals.) I finished Fellowship of the Ring last night and started The Two Towers today. Boy, J.R.R. Tolkien was an incredible writer! Listen to this description of Rohan:

            Turning back they saw across the River the far hills kindled. Day leaped into the sky. The red rim of the sun rose over the shoulders of the dark land. Before them in the West the world lay still, formless and grey; but even as they looked, the shadows of night melted, the colours of the waking earth returned: green flowed over the wide meads of Rohan; the white mists shimmered in the watervales; and far off to the left, thirty leagues or more, blue and purple stood the White Mountains, rising into peaks of jet, tipped with glimmering snows, flushed with the rose of morning.

            What? Are you serious? The combination of colors in that paragraph blows my mind; and yet it’s not forced. I’ve written stuff like that, with a bunch of different colors, but that is something else. And really, The red rim of the sun rose over the shoulders of the dark land? That line is incredible! And flushed with the rose of morning; the shadows of night melted, the colours of the waking earth returned – you can see it all! It’s a strange land that we’ve never been to, and yet with incredible ease he describes a landscape complete with directions and physical layout and emotions and burning colors! – I bow my knee to you, good sir Tolkien. If I meet you in heaven I would very much like to shake your hand.

            Such a pale comparison my own writing is, like the landscape I sought to describe the other day. Alas! If only I had not let this sword of mine grow dim and discolored. But, I hold to this: that, through hard work, diligence, and perseverance, the blade shall yet again be reforged, the fire rekindled, and that I may as yet wield my pen and paper with similar power and control as those that have gone before me. To that end, today’s exercise shall be a conversation between two people, sitting at an outdoor table in downtown Missoula.

            So, the word: imprison.

 

            He sat at the table, his fingers dancing across the dripping glass before him. It was hot out – the air wavered on the street as cars poured by – and the cold water inside the glass had condensed in seconds, cloaking the hand-blown cup with a shimmering waterfall of moisture. It was a cool break from the hot, still air; even if it was only his fingers. But small relief is better than no relief, and so with inward glee he closed his eyes and let the tips of his fingers trail loosely and freely about the glass, imaging that he was not sitting in a chair of metal rods, with the hot wind of cars folding over him every moment, but rather that he lay reclined in some small schooner off some sunny, empty beach, and his hand, as the boat lolled gently in the waves, dangled half in, half out of the cool, relaxing water.

            Grating across the crusty cement, the other chair at the table was pulled out. He heard the sharp squeak of someone sitting and cried out in his mind for the picture to remain, to not flee into the shadows of oppressive reality…but to no avail. The dream was gone, he was once more in that valley of buildings, that hot enclosure of Higgins St, and the water upon the glass seemed to have fled to safety beyond the reach of his touch. Reluctantly he stirred, bumping away from the round impressions the bars of the chairs had pressed into his back, and with a cringe he peeled open his eyes.

            Then he felt not a breeze on his face, nor touched a delicious cool, but saw a blessed northern breeze, for sitting across from him, checking her shadowed face in a small pocket mirror, was a woman of delightful beauty. While the surrounding buildings were gray and brown, that rust color of yesteryear’s building material of brick and stone, she wore the softest of blues and the creamiest of whites. Her blouse, which rested like leaves upon the streams, was settled gently on a slender torso, open slightly at the neck so as to uncover that dimple between the collar bones. A creamy white, flat sunhat, with a small impression in the middle for her head, haloed her soft face and diffused the harsh sunlight into a gentle kiss of light upon the smooth skin of her cheeks. Her jaw belied a firm resolve and strong will in her heart, and eyes that were quick and sharp looked fixedly at the mirror, intent on this one task before her and distracted by nothing else. The heat which the cars blew upon him as they passed seemed to be change as they neared and wrapped around her, becoming a quiet breath that gently lifted the delicately curled, flaxen hair that rested on her shoulders, and he fancied he saw in the locks those great plains of wheat that lie unending in the prairies.

            She looked at him as he straightened, and the corner of her soft lips lifted ever so slightly in a heart-warming, sincere smile. “Good day, sir,” she said with the clearest of voices, and he felt as though the heat of that day was lifted from his weary frame.

            “Ma’am,” he replied, and his voice caught. He coughed at the catch and reached for the glass. What water was left he swallowed as she smiled yet once more, and that small swallow of water was the best of its kind for many years to come. He sat the glass down and wiped his mouth. Sitting back straight against the chair, he leaned to one side in feigned nonchalance and surveyed the traffic – though keeping a corner of his eye always upon her. “What brings the lady out on a such a day like today?”

            She settled her lips into a amused smile and pulled a small case of makeup from her purse. “Should I be elsewhere?” she asked, with a hint of hidden laughter playing at the edge of her voice. He quailed at the sound but resolved to sit strong and composed.

            “To that effect I said nothing, ma’am. I merely meant that today is exceptionally warm, and that usually a, a woman of your…”

            “Station is usually the ending of that phrase,” she offered as she went back to the mirror.

            “Well, yes, station, I suppose you could say, if you take no offense to it.” She shook her head and delicately reapplied her lipstick. He coughed and rested his hands on his legs, back straight, watching the traffic race by (though of course he kept a corner of his eye directed her way). “I mean to say that, given today’s heat, most people are indoors, enjoying the pleasures of modern conveniences.”

            “Indeed.” The pocket mirror clicked shut and was stowed in the purse, along with the lipstick. Then she applied her attention to him, though keeping her body faced to the road as before, and it was a sly look of coyness that gazed at him from across that metal-wrought table. “And how does the outdoors imprison you so? Surely a man of your station would be far better suited for the cool breezes of a gentleman’s bar than the boiling noon sun.” This she said without the slight condescension, and he marveled that she had not returned his slight.

            Feeling sweat upon his hands, he wiped them slowly across his legs and swallowed hard, though quietly. “Well, ma’am, I must say I, for my part at least, enjoy the heat, insomuch as it allows my mind, as is my particular gift at certain times, to wander to those far off places that might be better suited for enduring heat such as today’s.”

            “Indeed,” she said again, and he, looking fully upon her with all of his eyes, saw within her smile not aloofness or derision, but that comfortable, happy friendship which one finds in the eyes of close acquaintances. It truly was a remarkably composed, confidently assured, delightfully accessible woman that sat across from him, and he marveled at his fortunes. “Well,” she continued, and rose. He felt compelled by chivalry and stood with her. She smiled at the gesture and returned it by lightly curtseying. “I believe I must be off. Good day to you, sir.”

            He nodded his head in a bow as she turned and walked down the sidewalk, a floating sky and cloud until she turned round the crumbled and countless times repaired corner of the buildings of Higgins valley, and slipped from sight.

            Strength left him, heat washed back over him, and he collapsed in a heap upon his chair. “Well indeed,” he said, and returned to watching the waves upon the street.

 

            Wow! That was pretty good! Of course, I think I spent close to half an hour at least on it. But who cares! That was pretty good! (sigh) I’ll take it. Oh the blessed flow of rich writing. Indeed. Here’s to hard work, diligence, and perseverance!

 

2/02/09

            Heyo. Back again. I don’t have any big thoughts to start off today’s writing exercise, so I guess we’ll just get right to it. Except I need to clip my fingernails first…ah, much better. Nothing as terrible as long fingernails on a keyboard. Well, okay, there’s lots of things worse. But you know.

            I think today…I’ll take whatever word I find and describe a landscape. Just take the first image that comes to mind after reading the word and go for it. Don’t self edit; just write and let it flow.

            So, the word: cruelly.

 

            I looked out my window as the train sped across the countryside, and marveled. Thirty years ago, nay, twenty, these hills were rolling with golden wheat and green alfalfa, an ocean that wafted gently in the east wind. But times had changed. These had been the last of the hayfield lands, and now even they had fallen into despair.

            The trees, when there happened to be any, were wilted and shriveled, thin poles that struggled to rise from the dust. Can you image a hill with no grass? Not dust like the desert or rocky as a mountain, but rather ground that has been scorched by a thousand hot suns, shaken till any plant had been uptorn from its bed; nothing compares to it. Cracked and dry of blood, the prairies lay baked under a noon sun, but nothing rose. There was no life here.

            A dusty red haze lingered on the horizon. Like the sea the land stretched out as far as the eye could see, a barren wasteland. This was the Midland Waste, once inhabited but now inhabits cruelly spit out to the east coast.

            Then, wonder upon wonders, I see a tree upon a knoll in the distance. It is far enough away to be faded into the dying breath of the land, but close enough for me to stare long at it as the train barrels relentlessly through such an empty place. 

            It’s base cannot be large; perhaps two men could stretch their arms about it. Gnarled and thin, its bark is gray and sickly. There is no energy for numerous branches. Rather, it has opted for only a few near the top of its height. Only a leaf here or there clings to the thin arms, and they drink deep of the sun which will be their death.

            I feel sadness as we pass through that land. This was once the great pride of the land, but now all is laid bare, naked under an infernal sun. Long ago the rage of the sun was kindled against us, and it burned patiently, waiting the day when its restraints would be pulled back and it would be allowed to unleash fire and burning upon the land. What caused the enmity between sky and ground, sun and root?

            I bow my head as we pass into crags and spires that thrust up from the ground, and I lament the passing of that which we took for granted, of which we treated too cruelly as to appreciate before it was gone.

 

            Hmm. Well that stunk. I learned two things today: first, choose a smaller object. Perhaps we’ll be able to get bigger as the sword is freed from its sheath, but for now be content with single, easily imagined items. Second, atmosphere is very important to writing. Not that one should wait till everything is perfect to write. It is not so much about inspiration as it is perseverance. But atmosphere does help or hinder, in its own right. Noises from the other room, and loud banging on the piano, should be classified in the hinder category.

            But still, I press on. (sigh) “God, forgive me letting my talents lie neglected these past years. I was like the servant to whom one talent was given, and I, taking it for granted and assuming the Master would reap with no effort, buried it in favor for other ventures. Forgive me, Lord. Teach me to be faithful, and please grant me ink for my pen. I am too dry on my own to write. I am too dry on my own to write.”

 

            Look here, young one. I see a flame, caught within the branches of a tree. Let us look to it, shall we? Forget what you know of flame and heat, and look with me. Perhaps we shall learn something from it. There is flutters, a cold and blue light. The smallest wind that spins about would puff it out, would cast it down to the icy coals where it would starve and die. But if it lingers, if it takes hold of that tree and digs in, it may yet find strength to grow. Grow it will, till the tree has begun its bed and fuel, and it, like its brother fire, will begin to kindle, begin to eat deep of the wood, and in time stand tall and strong. So do not give in to despair, my friend. There is yet a sun that lingers behind impassable mountains. Traverse that snowy pass, and you may find quiet glen close by. Here is your quest. Here is your journey. Endurance is called for; persistence is needed; a strong will and resolve, a set jaw is required. But again shall untapped strength be reached. At last you shall find yourself kneeling by clear brook and gentle wind, if you indeed press on. Do not faint, but trust to the One from whom all blessings flow. Our blessings are from Him and they are through Him. We cling, then, to Him, and hope that we may yet break through the veil to blessed paradise, and if not that, then perhaps it will be place where joy comes forth and ink like blood flows from our fingers.

            So we press on. We press on.

            We press on.

2/01/09

            “ ‘Good night, my friends!’ said Galadriel… ‘Maybe the paths you each shall tread are already laid before your feet, though you do not see them yet.’ ” And that is a comforting thought, the idea that though decisions may be made, the path ahead of me is chosen and directed, laid out as one might lay out a meal or set of clothing, and requires only the willing participation of the traveler to bring it to pass. Hmm…encouraging, yes. Not sure of the theological accuracy, but interesting….

            So. Today is the first of February. Ha. I have to be careful not to write for an audience, if indeed the blog on which this writing journal is posted does accumulate one. Knowing I have an audience elevates my speech to near ecclesiastical; even the use of that word is brought on by a rising urge for philosophical and literary phrases. (sigh) But that’s not the point of this. The point is to write, and work the muscle after a long absence.

            Today whatever word I find will be used to describe a room. Not an inviting one, with a warm fire and close blankets, but an unfamiliar one, a room in which I feel very uncomfortable, cold, and in danger. And the time limit is ten minutes, from 10:09 to 10:19.

            So, the word: giving (really?! Oh man. Well, here goes).

           

            The middle room of his house was square in shape, with equal walls on both sides. Straight from the doorway ran a short hall, which opened into that room. A fireplace was at the end of the right wall of that walk, and from there the room lay in stark angles. He had done what he could to soften it: put comfortable chairs in the corners, hung a picture or two of sunsets and horses, and even laid a rug across the bare wood floor. But to no avail; there was an air in the room that sucked any warmth from it.

            When lit the fire burned low and blue, casting a pale light that flickered on the walls. A single fixture hung from the ceiling, and before his time the frosted encasing had been cracked, thus allowing the light to spill out and form a swinging circle on the rug below. Shadows from the chairs grew tall and dark on the walls. He tried to light candles, but they only added to the problem, and sucked whatever air there was from the corners.

            The air itself was a problem. Try as he might, he could not get the room to warm up. There seemed to be an immeasurable number of leaks and cracks in the walls, and no sooner had he plugged one up and thought the dilemma solved than he felt another draft floating in from somewhere, and his weekends were once more consumed with discovering it.

            Nothing has been said of the one window in the room, which lay inset in the wall across from the fireplace. Through this window one should have had a decent view of the city below, but that was not to be. Instead it had a natural tendency to frost over the winter, and somehow remain blurred with condensation (from what warmth?) throughout all the summer days. Visitors, if ever one remotely happened to drop in, never sat by it. There seemed to be an encroaching feeling that something, or someone, was looking in from the outside.

            The room was thus in a constant state of need, always wanting some thing to be what warmed it and kept it. As it was, it sat as a dark, empty room, motionless during the day and empty during the night, for he feared it and never sat in it, though at first he had tried. He had given everything he could to that room, but to no avail; it was a cold, heartless room, and nothing could bring it around.

            A knock on the door. He walked from the kitchen and stepped quickly down the hall to the entry. By habit he wiped the thin layer of frost from the handle and swung it open.

            And somehow, he was more surprised by who the visitor was than the fact that he had a visitor in the first place.

 

            Meh. I was picturing my own living room and tried to make it cold and uninviting, which it is neither. I don’t think I succeeded. I saw my own room than I saw his.

 

1/31/09

            Well, I’m back. Ha. I like to start off the page with that, it seems. Look through my other notebooks; you’ll find it a lot.            

            So. This morning I woke up and, after listening to Adventures in Odyssey, I read Fellowship of the Ring for a bit. There was a strange feeling as I did, looking at the way sentences flowed, the feeling behind them (I used to say that Tolkien had no feeling in his writing. I was wrong), how they worked and moved. It was cool. As I then sat down to look at Proverbs, I felt a bit of ink at my fingertips, and although my two short paragraphs in Journal #5 were short, they were writing. They were a bit wetter than most of what I’ve written so far. Hopefully that’s a good sign.            

            Today I think I’m going to take whatever word I find and use it to describe a person. Books aren’t just action; that is a screenplay, and that is what I’ve been doing for too long. The pen’s dried up, and I’m trying to break through that crusty top layer and get back to a bit of the wetness, if I can use that term. There is a dry writing and there is wet writing. Dry is boring and mechanical; wet is captivating and engrossing. Wet flows better. Wet is a stream; dry is a desert.

            I’m trying to get back to the stream. Forget the plains and desert; give me mountains and trees, a fresh west wind, and I’ll be just fine.

             So, the word: diminish.

 

            He sat by the fire, hugging his knees. The wind swirled violently outside his quickly built lean-to, and even though it helped shield him from most of the wind, it wasn’t perfect. The wind had a certain aptitude for finding the cracks in what he had built, and it pierced through whenever it could with a knife and jab. There was a brisk edge to it, as if it were angry; but he knew better, for that is just the way the Northern wind blows: bright and clipped, with a sharp edge and a fast swirl. But then, that is what he liked most.

            His clothes were homespun, made mostly on the trailer and by himself. Tan pants, cured from the hide of a deer. There was a bit of fur still clinging to places where it hadn’t been worn off. But the knees were bear and shined in the firelight. His coat was store bought, mainly because he hadn’t found any bear or buffalo to skin before winter. Gloves made from the same deer as the pants, and moccasins, bought in exchange for a rifle with the Flathead tribe further north. A black hat, wide in brim and thick, was pulled tight on his head. Beside him lay a Winchester, worn yet kept in excellent condition, and on his belt was a thick knife, with a handle made from elk horn. Behind him, against which he leaned, was his saddle. Two travel bags lay next to it, and the saddle blanket, a scratchy, gray wool one, was rolled and positioned on top as a pillow.

            For all his clothes and trappings, it was the man’s face that was most interesting. His jaw was set and firm; it was sharp, almost gaunt, as it tapered straight from his ears to his prominent chin. A smooth nose – not blunted, but not sharp – dwelt inconspicuously between two weary eyes. Indeed, it was not the weathered skin, nor the faint scar upon his left cheek, nor the graying stubble, that drew the most attention, but rather his eyes. For they were gray and hard, and were tired.

            You can tell much by a man’s eyes. The saying is true that proclaims them the door to the soul. With this man, his eyes belied a weariness in his bones. Though he sat with back straight and ready hands, it could be seen that this alertness was due more to habit and surroundings then vigor and energy. For his eyes told of countless paths traveled, of many winters weathered on bare slopes, or days upon days without sight of game or friend. They were the eyes of a man accustomed to hardship, and who was now tired of fighting.

            The wind howled with a vengeance, and he glanced out the small opening in the pine branches that served as a door. His horse sat picketed just outside, its head curled round its side as it huddled in the cold. “Winter’ll be here soon, Jemina.” His voice was hoarse and gritty, dry from lack of water. He coughed at the words and looked back at the fire. “The end will be here soon.”

             His voice was a whisper, the words ominous and true. For the years of the traveler, that man of the west, who survived by skill and resoluteness, who burned into the unknown when others failed to stand strong; the days of this man were coming to a bitter close. There was no place for them in a civilized land, as America was becoming at last. As England was proper, having been lived in and cultivated for centuries, so too was the fate that was befalling America. Gone were the open prairies, those wild stretches of mountains that hardened a man, that made him a man of rock and granite. He was being replaced by civility, by gentlemanry, by domesticity.

            The man sat by his fire and inwardly pined the fail of the west. His one hope was that it would not die in the end; perhaps it would only diminish, and that in some its flame would still burn on.

 

            (shrug) Neat. That was way better than most. It’s good to be doing this. Of course, my initial thought of taking only ten minutes to do this is kind of being left in the dust; I started at 2:47, and its 3:10 now. But that’s cool. I think every once and a while it would be good to hold myself to a time limit, giving myself only ten minutes to write – meaning I would have to start and finish a short writing in that time. But for the most part, just writing is the key. Can’t let the sword get rusty again. Never know when you might need it.  

1/30/09

            Well, I’m back for round 2. I’ve had a thought: it takes way less energy to consume than to create. I feel like I have the option of watching a movie (consuming) or writing a movie (creating), and consuming entertainment is soooooo much easier. All I have to do is lay there and soak in someone else’s hard work.

            Which, of course, means my own never gets made. It’s taking the easy way out. Why? Because it’s easier! Few people want to plow the ground. They begin with much gusto, their eyes dazzled with the glory of that prize they’ve come to see. But when the plow cracks on the rocks, or they run into roots, most will give up. I know I have. When the going gets tough…we stop and wait for ‘inspiration’ to come. But there is much to be said of pushing through. Those who succeed are those who persevere, those who conquer.

            I also had a thought tonight as I ate my hamburger, and I might write this down in my journal, too, so it’s official: I have pictures and stories in my head, and I seem to have an aptitude to write them down. I have the skills necessary to express them. That’s why I write, because stories burn in my chest and I have the talents to express the flames.

            BUT…will I?

            Today’s word is: institution (really? Oh gee).

 

            Fog usually likes institutions. It’s true; watch any film about school in England and you’ll be sure to seem some fog floating around somewhere. Usually you can find it in those scenes that show the sun rising early in the morning, with the birds chirping their morning songs as they flit up and down and all around. But what those movies don’t tell you, what no one is brave enough to show you, is where the fog comes from. This terrible duty falls to me, I am afraid, for I have heard the story of whence the fog arose, and it is my duty as a teller to share the narrative with you. Sit back, then, and prepare yourself for a tale of grandeur, of romance, of danger! of guilt, and of suspense.

            Once upon a time, in the fair land of Western America, a young boy walked to school. Winter still clung hardily to the trees, its fingers of frost wrapped tight about the branches. Old Man Sun had come out for a day or two in order to take a crack at prying it away, but to no avail. Winter was dug in deep, and would not be leaving for quite some time.

            Then along came our boy. He was the type of boy that liked the world: he didn’t chase the squirrels, or hide the birds’ food; he didn’t dream of ways to dig up his mother’s flowers, or steal the neighbor’s melons; he didn’t hack at the grass with a stick as he walked, nor looked at the river with a rock in his pock. He let all and let be, and was happy to be content.

            Winter looked at the boy from its perch on a tree, and thought to itself with glee, “Me thinks I’ll rile this boy as he walks, and see if I can provoke him to wrath.” It watched and waiting as the boy drew near, then plop! let a drop a glop of snow!

            What do you suppose the boy did? Why he looked up and smiled, and shook his young head. “Ah, tree. You shouldn’t have shed your coat so early! Winter is still about, and though I’m sure she’s nice and all, she is a frosty one, that Winter, and you’ll be wanting a covering before the month’s out, I’m sure.” The tree nodded gently, and whistled the boy away as he walked on to school.

            (Now you mustn’t be confused, thinking that Winter is a she. It is neither, for being cold, its hard is plum froze! With neither he nor she tendencies, one cannot be expected to be either. But our young boy, thinking in his happy heart that none could be without that vital part, assumed that everything fell into the he or she category. But we know better, for we can hear Winter’s thoughts. And we heard that day Winter’s grumble at the boy’s words. “Who does he think he is?” said Winter as the boy walked away. “Treating me as a person – humph!” And that is that.)

            Two or three more blocks the boy walked, skipping as he went. Little birds twittered beside him, and whistled him a merry a tune. In he joined, and with a wink and nod, skipped down the road with them at his shoulders.

            But Winter was still scheming, and just down the walk it waited with malice. “Just wait and see what he does with this ploy,” it sneered, and froze the walk clean through with its ice.

            Closer, closer came the boy and his friends, till slip! went his foot and up! went his hands. Winter danced and giggled with joy, till it saw what had become of the friends of the boy. Quick as a flick down under they went, from the tops of the trees to the back of the boy. Catch him they did, with their tiny clawed feet, and drew him right up on that frozen side street.

            “No!” cried mean Winter, and through its hands down, which of course sent a shiver and a crack through ice in that town.

            Then the boy turned, and looking around, found fuming Winter behind its tree. Slowly he walked, careful on the ice, and at last came to the tree. He moved round the left side, but Winter also shuffled left. Then the boy went right, and Winter did the same! Winter held its breath, for it didn’t know what would happen if our young boy found it. But quick as a slip the boy jumped round the tree and there was Winter caught, as never before.

            “I know just the cure for you, Winter,” said he, and help up his hand. “I’d like to dance with you, since you’re a she.”

            Now nasty Winter snarled and bristled ice, for no one calls an it a she. “Don’t you  know who I am?!” it cried, sending another crack through the cold.

            “Indeed”, replied the boy. “You’re a she and I am a he; let us dance.”

            Winter frowned, peering suspiciously at his outstretched hand. So long had it hid and tricked that it could not think that anyone’s motives were just as they said. In its heart Winter smiled, thinking at last she had caught the boy. Take hold of his hand, it thought, and freeze him right to the bone.

            A frosty hand Winter extended to him, and slipped it into his. He smiled and bowed, then spun Winter away.

            Then a funny thing happened to the town as they danced, for the boy’s smile warmed wicked Winter. And deep in its chest, where a thick ice block lay, a tiny crack formed. Then another, and another, until finally the ice burst into steam and melted right away!

            And what do you suppose secret Winter did? Why, it smiled! And as the snow on its brow melted away, and the frost on its arms dripped to the ground, what should appear but a head flowing with hair and a wonderful smile! For Winter was, after all, a beautiful girl, and it took the warm hand of our young boy to melt her out of her cold.

 

            Eh. Bizarre. I was really just trying to finish it, because ten minutes turned into twenty-five. And the story had nothing to do with institutions!

            But then, I suppose that’s the point.