For the Reader

                A blank screen, absent of words or thoughts. A blank mind is never truly blank but definitely void of words. But how does one put thoughts as feelings or emotions in to words? A blank screen. When I write, mostly poetry, I cannot do so without strong emotion. With strong emotion I find my fingers, my hands motionless. Numb hands. I stare into the blank screen tired long, until I give up. This over-whelming feeling to empty my head, swimming in desire to share with this blank screen.

                 I cannot think in words in regards to my work, only in emotion and feelings. I wish I could draw or paint, colors and shapes are more what occupies my mind. The dark blues of sadness and regret, the vivid reds of anger and hurt, can more than fuel a blank screen. Alas writing is my medium, and I forge ahead.

                I want to be a good writer. My wish is not to be a wealthy, well recognized public figure. I want to be able to share my mind, my soul, in hopes that my writing can reach even one other person on a deep level. I value the human connection and only seek to strengthen that connection by making myself vulnerable allowing myself to been seen on an equal y deep level as that one person who will read and connect to my piece.

                Ursula K. Le Guin’s essay “Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?” is about more than the idea of ideas. It is about the elements that make up the writing process. Poetry seems to be simply the most complicated form of writing. The base of writing is to share a story with the reader. Immerse the audiences mind in imagination, inviting them to link their own to the authors. In order to do so, writers must use more than the fanciful world of words. Writers must create images from their jumbled minds, Le Guin writes, “the power and authenticity of the images may surpass that of most actual experiences, since in the imagination we can share a capacity for experience and an understanding of truth far greater than our own. The great writers share their souls with us- “literally.””   

                The writer has many motivations for writing, mine began as an outlet to feelings I could not give voice to. I can see my work develop as I thumb through the pages from beginning to end, and can tell exactly when I really, truly began to write. When I decided that I wanted an audience, some souls to touch, is when my writing took on a new mission. I began to pen my emotions in ways that could be interpreted by someone in means of stirring their own emotions. Great writing is written for the reader, involving the reader, moving and inspiring the reader.

With the act of creating something so personal for others to read and critique comes a level of risk. Perhaps the reason I carry my leather journal in my purse and have a great difficulty sharing the contents. Some have remained only my emotions lying there naked and exposed on the pages for my own critique. It is not until I can share with others my work, can it truly take life and live up to the purpose it was laid to rest for from the tip of a pen onto a blank page.  As Ursula K. Le Guin put it, “the reader, reading it, makes it live: a live thing, a story.”

The Cove

       

                When I was around the age of 12 or 13, I went on a Taekwon Do trip to a tournament in Anchorage with a group of fellow martial artists. The fellow travelers were all young, but still 5-6 years older than I was. After the tournament one night we went out to a local pizza joint (where I got a nasty case of food poisoning!) and was being teased by two of the older boys. While we drove around and checked out a shopping center, I was feeling very upset and hurt by the things the boys said to me. The one other girl that was traveling with us broke off from the group for a while and returned with a gift for me. It was a silver necklace with two dolphins as a charm. I still have that necklace and it brings the fond memory of the friendship that I had with the girl.     

The cove was an eye opening and very emotionally moving documentary. When we first started watching the film, I had very little knowledge of what was happening to the dolphins in Taiji other than that fact that it was awarded the Academy Award for Best Documentary. I did not even know much about dolphins in general. The combination of the personification of dolphins and the brutality of the imagery provided in this film made it very convincing and eye-opening.

At times the anticipation and anxiety that the movie evoked made it feel as if I was watching an action movie. It created a good-guy/ bad-guy bearing between those who were attempting to expose the slaughtering that dolphins and those committing the slaughtering. The evidence of the objections and investigations by the Japanese solidifies the fact that they obviously had something to hide. The footage from the streets of the larger cities in Japan showed that the dolphin killing was not a cultural aspect, furthering the argument that what they were doing was cruel and unfair (not to mention illegal on some level).

The use of the Japanese people’s aesthetics of all the happy and anime-ish whales and dolphins frustrated me. I also think this is what the New York Times reviewer meant when he described this film as a “Trojan Horse”. It is a metaphor for the films use of the Japanese contradictions involving the “love” and care for dolphins and ultimately ocean life.

                I found my reaction to the film shocking. I am by nature an emotional person, but I pride myself on being able to distance myself enough from the one-sidedness of arguments like those presented in this film. But I could not help the anger and frustration that it made me feel. I had to keep telling myself that what was going on in Taiji was unknown to the general population, that it was not all Japanese people who had a part in the killing of 23,000 dolphins a year. I told everyone that would listen after seeing this film about what I had learned, and felt an emence powerless that I couldn’t just fly to Japan and single handily end it. And I know that I am not alone in the idea. The Japanese people should feel an objection to this film due to the emotions and anger that it can cause viewers to feel towards the Japanese people and culture. Instead of objecting and critisizing this film of some kind of slander, they should do something about the dolphin industry in Japan.

Parts 1-3

Time to ditch the almost,

confirm the constant.

You’re alone and your life becomes

an act in three parts.

First the curtain drops

killing the lead. How the play continues

is nothing short of a miracle.

Props are the key, and wires and string.

They string you up and out

make your stage death something to write about.

   

Part two wasn’t too horrific,

it was mostly a war.

Them against you,

in a kind of trench warfare.

You had no gun, no armor.

Instead you started to write

a peace treaty.

The receiver yourself.

You continue to write

a sort of agreement.

To end the fighting, to seize the moment,

You sign it sincerely,

best of luck.

Because the war isn’t truly over

if one side just gives up.

Act three ties up any loose ends,

smoothing jagged metal, making it bend.

The setting is dark, except for a dim light,

it crawls along the floor, it smolders on your face.

The cast, she takes her place.

Alone but not afraid, radiating

the peace she has made.

The light appearing to come from within,

content in her chair, with purpose again.

Alone never more, as the curtain drops to the floor.  

Broken Wing

From an old battered leather bound journal...

When a bird breaks its wing,

It sings.

A song of rescue, a song of regret

never second guessing the distance

between its self and the ground.

Upon its broken wing an answer is found.

As thick as these pages are

these words are going to bleed through.

Staining the pages it proceeds,

you flip back from the end the see

exactly when it broke.

Reliving it all again and again.

You never thought in all your years

you would still be scared, have all these fears.

Never seeing the sun through the clouds.

Paralyzed in your crippled state,

you begin to decide that you’re too tired

to stay awake.

Then you hear the song

of a fallen bird.