Losing My Religion Pt 1

Monty this week started a new topic, one that perhaps many people think about but find no safe place to talk about: What do you do when your gods fail?

I know this seems like old-fashioned language. We don’t talk much of gods and devils today, or of a supernatural “over-verse” that somehow encapsulates reality (the “universe”) without being affected by it. As Carl Sagan famously said in opposition, “The cosmos is all that there ever was, all that there is, and all that there ever will be.” It’s atoms, and energy, and a vast, empty, and silent space.losing_faith_pt1

I suppose it might be better cast in modern language. Perhaps it might be more meaningful to say it this way: What do you do when the political party you believed in shows itself to be hypocritical and abusive? What do you do when a relationship you trusted shows itself to be built upon lies? What do you do when a business you have trusted—perhaps even a business you work in, invest in, even represent—turns out to be nothing more than a few men making scads of money from unsuspecting, trusting fools?

I’m sure you can find more examples from your own experience, if not from web articles and TV exposés. We set up for ourselves to believe in a safe world where we understand what is going on, where there is payoff for doing the right thing, where the rules make sense to us. If we are fortunate, we have many years of this work-and-reward system. If we vote for a particular party and avoid some of the discrepancies, we are repaid with the satisfaction of knowing that our party is right. If we keep in a relationship with unexamined parts we can sail along to life’s end untroubled. If we turn a blind eye to the abuses of our business world, our social relationships, our churches and temples and mosques, our fraternal organizations, our unions—well, then, we will have a happy, fulfilled life. As long as we ourselves are not inconvenienced by what’s happening, as long as the rules work, we can convince ourselves that our gods are alive and well, rewarding us for our obedience and the shutting down of our faith.

I know. You didn’t think that’s what you’re doing. You were being honest about your lack of religion and skepticism towards the supernatural. You were thinking that by ignoring the sacred and emphasizing the secular, you were being true to yourself.

But I think that if you look at yourself, the nature of your belief, and the touching way you believe that your beliefs will result in something that no belief can result in—you will find you are actually quite credulous. You believe not with a lack of evidence—but in spite of the evidence.

People lie. Societies crumble. Businesses fail. Political parties speak one thing but pursue an opposite agenda. These are our gods, and they are proved not to be so much lies as they are simply untrustworthy—literally not worthy of our trust. Not worthy of us.

At least that’s the way I see it, because I believe we, as humans, are worth so much more than we actually understand. We are beings who see the universe of true and false, and then deduce what is right and wrong. We are worth more than these systems deserve, and far more than these systems deliver. They are false gods who claim to listen but either do not act—or act in opposition.

So “losing my religion” is actually a good thing. It’s a good place to be. It means we are ready to look at ourselves, what we believe, and what we think is really worth living for.

I’m on the edge of my seat to find out how it all ends. Because it’s just starting.

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Reading at the Black Dog

I’m reading from Stars in the Texas Sky tonight at the Black Dog in Snoqualmie, Washington.

http://www.blackdogsnoqualmie.com/index.shtml

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Freewrite 2012-04-30 Departing Ways

Rules are the same: the first line, 10 minutes, and no editing.

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I’m gone, and if you needed proof, you’ll find my driver’s license all cut up in your sock drawer.

You didn’t believe me four months ago when I said it was temporary. “No, you’ll change your mind once you meet the others,” you said. “They’re nice – not like your old friends. They’ll like you.”

And at first they were. We had fun, you know. I thought I had met my soul-mate. We shared a love of French philosophy, Dutch Old Masters, and Italian sports cars. You in your white sundress that day on the beach, clutching your hat to your head against the breeze which threatened to blow it out into the bay beyond Cap d’Antilles. The sun sparkling on the water, reflecting the blue of your eyes. It was then I knew I loved you – loved your face, your body, your mind. We spoke that night late of the essence of being, of wanting, of desire, of knowing and surety. You dropped chocolates one by one into my mouth as I lay there quoting Sarte, laughing at me as I mangled his complex French, misquoting hilariously to the point where I had granted dormice the dignity of essence.

You gave me the complete bound works of Cassini on car design, which you saw me eyeing in that used bookstore in Berkeley Square. We listened to the chimes of Big Ben and shared a lunch on the quay, and I marveled then – as I still do – at the lean, long lines of the cars, the blues and yellows and whites all proclaiming fun and youth and happiness. We went to the sport car dealership and pretended we’d be rich enough some day to buy a car off the lot, perhaps a Lamborghini or a Renault, rich enough to pay cash without another care in the world.

And then you became rich – or rich enough. Your uncle Pierre – long-lost and long unknown – died, leaving you the family fortune. Not that you’d be flying to Sao Paulo for lunch and skiing at Gstaad by moonlight, you said, but enough to breeze along the canals of Venice or idle through the canopied walks along the Seine. Come with me, you said, let’s be free and just do what we always wanted.

But then the counting started, and the fights, and the long, long discussions about saving and investing and money, money, money. How everything cost something. Where we used to scrounge around the Tivoli fountain for coins while the Italian cohort was distracted, now you had ATMs to worry about and wallets and cashier’s checks and IDs. Everywhere an ID. Passports for hotels, for bank accounts, for passages through border crossings. Everywhere you  became more chained to your life here and your riches and your wealth and your possessions. You packed and saved and held where once we were carefree and daring, leaving behind silly souvenirs because we knew, we knew that memories are the best souvenirs.

And last night we fought over the silliest of things – whether to have one more bottle of Cloquet ’98. We had several empty bottles already. Perhaps we should not have had the third. But it was a lovely evening, soft, warm, dreamy with moonlight. The light behind the cathedral from the candles rising into the air. It was magical in Warsaw, and we talked of the future. And then you asked the waiter for the price of the Cloquet. The first time you’d ever brought that into a conversation. Money. Riches. Prices. What something cost and not what is was worth. I was upset, I agree. But you and your focus on the future, on the vagaries of chance and fortune. I wanted to live for now, as we’d always done. And then you got up, spilling the wine onto my lap, daring me to follow you. But I did not.

You cried that night. I could tell when I got in, late, smelling of beer and cigarettes. I was angry, yes, but I wanted it to go back to what it was. And then there was the bill – the bill – for our evening, with my share circled in red.

I don’t need your riches and your fortunes and your possessions and your IDs. Your silly connections to this world, the identity you’ve chosen for yourself, a person that no longer includes me.

And so I will return to the carefree life we once had. You can find all that you hold dear in the cabinet. My driver’s license, in pieces, next to the socks you made me wear.

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Author page on Amazon

I’ve updated my author page on Amazon.

amazon.com/author/stephenmatlock

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Three Is the Magic Number

Three Is the Magic Number

Three is the magic number. Our third annual Word Jazz festival takes place at Boxley’s, a jazz club in North Bend, Washington, on April 10, 2012, at 7:00 p.m.

You should make reservations.

Hope to see you there.

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Stars in the Texas Sky – Excerpt

Feel free to read this now and rate it. It’s in the top 250 novels for the Amazon Breakout Novel Award.

Stars in the Texas Sky – Excerpt.

You’ll have to “purchase it” (it’s free) and then read it on your Kindle – but you can read it in the Kindle app on your web browser.

UPDATE 4/26/2012

I did not make it past the semi-finals. :(

So, no more excerpt. You’ll have to wait until it’s published…

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The Communion of the Saints

What kind of people participate in the communion of the saints? I look around at the portrayals of saints – they are painted-on-glass, flat, beautiful, unmoveable and unpassioned. Their only flaws are made by those who describe them – a missing line or a blurred splotch of paint, a mistake of illustration only. And they are unreachable by me, untouchable, clear and cold and perfect. Worthy of admiration, perhaps. Saints, even. But nowhere do they describe me and my own pursuit of saint-ness.

sg2-sI am imperfect and broken, unable to contain all the pieces that shift around and drop unexpectedly. I no sooner pull together my thoughts on one topic when an unexpected situation distracts me, scatters me, gets me pointed in twelve directions. I compare myself to the painted saints in the windows and I know that I grow ever more separate from them. The more clear and transparent I become, the more I see my flaws and awkward parts, my inconsistencies, the gaps between what I say and what I do. The closer I get to touching a glass saint, the farther I feel from him. When I am called to attend to communion I picture the strong blues and brilliant reds of the saints, stern faces, piety and grace, stoicism as the mark of true faith. (If I could just stop feeling and thinking, I could be a much better Christian, it seems. All the me-ness of me gets in the way of being a good believer.)

The communion table is not for the glossy saints, however. It is a place for people in all stages of life. It is not only the perfect and the serene who are invited. (Oh, they’ll be there, surrounded by their followers.) But it is the broken-hearted, the heavy-laden, the weary traveler, the one who cannot take another step but must still continue their journey who are invited to be part of the table.

I thought of that as I approached the communion table this week. The communion of saints includes me, because the saints are really like me – ordinary men and women, perhaps caught in a sudden illumination that shows their glimmer of faith, but people who live their lives in darkness and obscurity. The table is open to those who follow – or even those who just want to follow – Jesus. Sometimes we follow because we are full and want to share. Sometimes we follow because we are empty and cold and lost. He does not set a rule of perfection to participate. He just says “Come.”

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The Writing Finger Having Mov’d Writes On

A counter is the blank space necessary to define an object. Ascenders, descenders, and counters are the shapes of letters and words, forming sentences and paragraphs, leading to stories and tales and the long, long road into another world.

Writers start with that counter – the blank page waiting for something black, something white to bring meaning to a flat surface. Without the writer there is no story. Once the writer lays out the lines and shapes, the story is shaped and enters into the lives of others.

I am a writer, starting with blanks and noughts, counters and lines and emptiness. I must think and feel, and then laying it all out in my imagination, giving it a name and a shape, describing my own unique vision so that others can share in its commonality.

I’ve learned in the two years since I started writing again after a lacunae of circumstance that the stories I tell are my stories. Before me there was no story; after me there will be a history of thoughts, feelings, romances, dreams. I have been learning that a writer reveals what is hidden in all of us, hidden by the busy-ness of our being and living and doing. As a writer I examines what is inside myself and what is inside others, and then I express it so that we share something in common: our humanity, our griefs, our joys, our wonder at a universe that is beautiful and silent.

My current Work in Progress (WIP) started as an insight into a young man standing at the crossroads, watching as someone bigger and better runs the stop sign, a symbol of the carelessness some take with the rules; this sets off his journey into examining what makes right and wrong, and whom we should listen to on our journey. The story at times has approached 100,000 words or has shrunk to 75,000 words, but it has been hovering now at 85,000 words for about a year as I keep shaping it and forming it into something that will become a shared experience with me and the reader. Before I started writing, the story was there all along, but it was waiting for me to have that moment where I recognized it, examine it, and started to describe it.

I expect to have the story truly completed soon. It has been nearly done for a while, though I have been slowly and carefully polishing sections of it. Whole sections disappeared, then chapters, then scenes, and now I’m down to the careful removal of phrases, words, and even a stray punctuation mark. It is the art of building the story through the use of counters, blanks, and empty spaces, giving room for the story to build and to breathe.

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Freewrite 2012-02-20

As usual, a line and 15 minutes. No editing!

Skeeter picked up the ball and ran for Daylight.

“Gimme that ball, Skeeter,” cried Daylight. No one could stop him on the court.

“Ain’t no way you gonna get a ball inna basket ‘less you take it away from me,” replied Skeeter.

They both raced down the court, not together, but in tandem, running to the basket hooked to the concrete brick walls with rusty bolts. There was no one in the gym with them except the guards watching from the booth above them. Incarcerated felons had guaranteed exercise every day, but there was nothing that said they had to be allowed to do anything useful or fun; a one-on-one basketball game with a partially inflated ball was a joy for the guards to watch even as it was an eternal frustration to those trapped in an hour of exercise.

And they had to exercise the whole time; you didn’t exercise during your hour and the warden would take it away with the excuse “Looks like you didn’t really need it seeing as how you didn’t use up the time.” It was the same with books and meals and movies – if you didn’t use it all up, why the next time it was reduced or even missing. So Skeeter and Daylight ran back and forth, from the wall with the basket to the opposite side where the metal cage offered a midcourt wall. Back and forth, endless rocking, the full hour taken up with dribbling and running and jumping and shooting, all for a meaningless score that counted for nothing more than a chance to have another hour the next day for more exercise.

The dead ball was just an irritant to their game now; the game was now about who could keep running his mouth along with his game. Skeeter was the quicker wit but Daylight was the more devastating. His heavier body seemed to give more weight to his put downs. Skeeter would dance around the insults like his namesake, but after months of endless ripostes and put downs he was tired of it.

There would be some changes coming soon, he vowed, and he’d worked with one-eyed Jack for a month now on preparing a surprise. One-eyed Jack, named for his favorite playing card, had shown Skeeter how it was going to work one night earlier in the week during chow time. “You just hit it like this –“ he illustrated the move with his plate and hand “– and you gonna see something special.”

Now was the time. Daylight had the ball and they had turned around at the cage, running back to the basket. With a final triumphant shout Daylight reached up to toss the ball; Skeeter reached up at the same time and slammed the upper bolt with his hand. As Daylight grabbed the basket rim, the entire assembly fell off the wall, and the floor gave way underneath him. He and Skeeter fell into the basement.

“Shoot man,” Skeeter said euphemistically. “You OK, Daylight?”

Daylight was still stunned, shook his head, and then responded. “What the blazes was that?”

“Got me a plan to get outta here. We gotta book it, though.”

Skeeter grabbed the flashlight from the shelf in the dim basement, snapped it on, and they escaped down the tunnel together towards freedom.

Up above the guards were blowing whistles frantically as lights flashed and sirens blared. They ran down to the hole and looked down into the darkness.

“Well, Larry, looks like they’re gone. Off somewhere.”

“Never thought I’d see the day, Bobby-Joe, where this’d happen, but it’s like Pappy always said.”

“Yep. Looks like Daylight’s finally gone where the sun don’t shine.”

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Freewrite 2012-02-13 Probationary Jinn

Freewrite 2012-02-13 – as usual, we get a prompt and 15 minutes, and we have to type fast.

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There was a crash, a bang, and blinding flash of light, but it was no angel come to meet the prayer of Gordon James.

“Jeepers, I’m sorry about that.” The shining figure in my doorway dimmed for a moment. It – he, it seems – bent over to pick up the lamp he’d knocked over.

“Who the blazes are you? Have you come to torment me before my time?” I nearly screamed in terror, but my terror was rapidly subsiding. Now I was just curious. Why was this somewhat lumpy man standing in my room carrying a hockey stick and dressed like a Christmas elf twenty years too old for his costume?oldman3

“I’m so sorry, but it seems that there’s been an emergency in Belize, and we’re all out of guardian angels. My name is Eustace. Eustace Cotterwood Shrump. I’m a probationary good jinn, sent here to perform acts of mercy and wonder. Only – all they gave me was this hockey stick, and all I can do with it is knock things over and maybe scare people.”

I let down the covers by now that I had pulled up around me in fright. A probationary jinn! So that’s what my prayers of desperation warranted me! Not even a second-class angel like in the movies. “So why the probation – and what’s with the costume? Stole it from a Christmas play?”

“This old thing? No, it’s not even my size.”

“Yeah, I caught on to that right away. Someone tried to stuff a 10 pound angel in a 5 pound outfit.”

“It’s not my fault – really. We were in a hurry, and there was that dam that broke in Sudan, and – well, I grabbed the first thing I found on the way out here – down here, I mean.” He looked up through the ceiling. I mean, as if the ceiling wasn’t there. “Got waylaid at Saturn which threw me a mean hook. Tried to get here earlier, but – well, you know how things are.”

“No, I don’t. I was promised assistance when I needed it. ‘Shearing the storm for the lamb’ was how I heard it. Needed you three weeks ago, when the foreclosure notice got posted. Now we gotta leave the place tomorrow, and there’s no place for us.”

He looked crestfallen. “I tried – I really tried…” but he trailed off, downcast.

“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have a mortgage payment stuffed somewhere in that cheap flannel outfit, would you? Maybe a lawyer with some fancy words and a nice suit? Or just a magic invisible wall to keep the sheriff from evicting us in –” I looked at my smartphone — “three hours?”

He laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t have any of that, you know. Even guardian angels don’t come with bags of money — too heavy to carry, for one, and why would we bring something we use as road pavement?” He laughed some more. “No, all I have is what you could not get otherwise from your earthly cares and possessions. You think that your life consists in the things you have and is diminished by the things you fear. But that’s not what life is.”

“Listen, Eugene –”

“Eustace. Eustace Cotterwood Shrump. Mother named me that after my great-granddaddy.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t like that name either.”

“Well…”

“Let me continue, Useless. You’re come down here to tell me all about how I don’t need the things of earth to keep me happy. How I don’t need birdseed and fertilizer – because even the birds of the air and the flowers of the field are taken care of. I’ve heard all that before, and I have to tell you, it really doesn’t work when I’m down here wondering what we’re going to do next without money or a job, and when we’re thrown out on our a–”

“Now, now, no need to get vulgar.” He delicately adjusted his elf-cap, and let his hockey stick loose, which fell down against the dresser, knocking over the crystal vase holding the wilted flowers, a vase given to us by our dear departed and beloved Aunt Vicki.

“Dammit,” he said. “That always seems to happen.”

“Now, now, Useless – no swearing.”

He colored red. “Don’t tell them about this! They’re still after me for the Constantinople thing. I swear it wasn’t me that made the Blue Mosque turn red. I was just there – someone else did that!”

I laughed this time. “So they sent me a bumbling second-class probationary jinn! And it looks like I might need to be saving you!”

“Well now, that might be a great way to look at things,” he said, and sat down on the bed. “Let’s think about that some more.”

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