There once was a young man from Limerick
Who had no idea that short, usually humorous poems often bore the same name as his hometown.
k
I
n time, he knew, his transgression would be forgiven (though not forgotten, for during their thirty tumultuous years, his wife had proven the tenacious nature of her memory when it came to remembered wrongs), but oh, in those first raw moments when his sleeping, animal mind awoke to action, its raging mouth spewing vowel-filled vomit and its sharp-clawed arms flailing the air with a strength that quite overwhelmed his usually reasonable demeanor, while his shrieking brain was infused by a single thought–Damn you!–and his only goal was to win, to beat down any who had the stupefying arrogance to question his authority, he was transformed by the heat of his frustration and anger from his normal self into a god–not the loving God of Creation, possessed of boundless serenity and knowledge, but one of the ancient gods, in whom everything human was magnified and every act saturated with earthly emotion–and though the rational part of his mind recoiled at the anguish he sculpted, his chiseled words striking her features with cold, steely precision, he could not suppress (and in truth, actually reveled in) the pounding exultation he felt as each tear tracked down her wizened cheek, a flood of salt water pressed from a frozen stone.
k
Posted in Writing | Tagged character study, creative writing, vignettes, Writing | 3 Comments »
The last time I walked into David T. Stone‘s luthier shop, I didn’t have much money. It was a quarter century ago, and I was going through tough financial times. My wife’s health prevented her from working outside the home, we were suffering through a long string of cheap but unreliable cars, and we were trying simultaneously to pay off our credit card debt and save the down payment on a house, all on a single salary. So, back then, when I brought my viola into David’s shop, I was just there for the bare minimum.
As a semi-professional musician (principal viola for the Bellevue Philharmonic and member of a couple working string quartets), the bare minimum meant two things: cat-gut and horse-hair.
Strings and bows. Continue Reading »
Posted in Music | Tagged classical music, david t stone, luthier, viola, violin, violin repair | 3 Comments »
I used to be a musician. In my early years, it was my destiny, my fate, and my doom.
It was my destiny because of my mother. Her father was a music teacher and she herself played piano. She encouraged all her children to enjoy and play music, leading us in “kitchen band” sessions where we accompanied her rendition of “The Girl from Ipanema” with our percussion section made of pots and spoons. I showed an aptitude for it, and thus I graduated from a ladle-struck saucier to a real instrument: a violin.
Fate stepped in when it became clear that my aptitude was actually a talent. In addition to playing in school orchestra (back when every public school had a music program) I also began private lessons. These torture sessions–scales, arpeggios, the dreaded Kreutzer etudes–were held in the back room at a neighborhood music shop. The shop was a dark, cluttered space that smelled of rosin and slide grease. Instruments hung on the walls like hunter’s trophies, and the glass case was filled with paraphernalia of all kinds, from strings to reed cutters to mutes of all sorts. Mr. Meacham, my violin teacher, was a stern, unhappy man with curly grey hair and a prim smile that never reached his eyes. He set a very high bar which I approached but never met; it always seemed to be just out of reach, moving higher each time my skills improved. Continue Reading »
Posted in Music | Tagged classical music, music instruction, music lessons, public school, school orchestra, viola, violin | 1 Comment »
The spruce stood tall, a shadowed cone against the cold and dawning morn, a giant sentinel overlooking the crossroads along my route to work. The bus rocked like a ship in rough seas as it rattled into the intersection, fatigued metal complaining, whirring heater blasting air like a blow-dryer, but as we passed the ancient spruce, above the din, I heard music.
From atop the spruce’s coal-dark spire, the first robin of spring, eyes wide and heart in dire earnest, sang his unmistakable song of spring. To him, it was a song of warning–This is MY tree, mofos, MY tree, ALL mine–but to me his music painted a future of lengthening days and budding groves. In his song I heard the buzz of bees amongst the blossoms, and could smell the green, green scent of new-mown grass.
I continued onward to work, departed my bus at the station and walked through the freezing city where the sun’s first rays lanced in to melt the frost from a thousand glittering windows. Around me was the bleak, chaotic noise of urban life, the only music the beeping of a dump truck set to the percussive beat of early morning construction, but that robin’s song, so high and confident, so filled with simple promise, echoed in my mind.
I hear it still.
k
Posted in Seattle, Writing | Tagged creative writing, first robin of spring, Seattle, spring, vignettes, Writing | 2 Comments »
Last night was a first for me. Last night I did not watch the Oscars.
Frankly, I just couldn’t bring myself to care. The Academy Awards have no relevance to my life. They don’t affect my choice of movies one whit. The hype, the red carpet, the fawning, the sniping, it’s like watching a nuclear-powered high school reunion on steroids. Plus, when you boil it down, it’s all about money, money for those at the top–the producers and directors and stars, not the key grip or the clapper-loader–and I grow tired of everything always benefiting those at the top, so I saved myself several hours and gave it all a pass.
So, what did I do on Oscar Night instead?
I watched a movie, of course.
I’ll bet it’s a movie you haven’t heard of, and that’s sad, because it was remarkable.
Posted in Movies | Tagged At Any Price, Clancy Brown, Dennis Quaid, Kim Dickens, movie reviews, Ramin Bahrani, Zac Efron | 17 Comments »
Something…Wonderful
25 Feb 2015 by KRAG
Last night, as I was doing my taxes, something wonderful happened. Keep in mind: this is “wonderful” on a small, very personal scale. I did not happen upon the answer to problems in the Middle East or a cure for rampant stupidity. Nor did I find a loophole in the tax code that doubled my refund.
So, that’s what it wasn’t. With your expectations properly lowered, let’s move onward to what it was.
I was filling out Schedule SE (rather pleased that I had enough writing income to warrant its use) when an email came in. It was a message redirected to me from the Contact page here on this blog. I don’t get many direct messages from blog readers, and about half of those I do receive are from people wanting to market their wares via a guest-post on my blog–cheeky bastards–so when it was clear that this message was from a reader and not a self-promoter, it was already a good sign. I opened it, and I read.
In the hyperbolic style of internet memes: What happened next blew my mind. Continue Reading »
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Posted in Culture, Writing | Tagged creative writing, Dragon Magazine, reader comments, short stories, Spencer's Peace, Writing | 4 Comments »