27 November 2016

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

This blog is not "moving" strictly speaking, but recently I have become a creator for a student-run newspaper called the Odyssey Online. For a newspaper, I write very little news (nothing's news to me) but if you want more posts of the thoughtful/philosophical bent you are well-advised to find them here, at my very own corner of internet real-estate! It's called "www.theodysseyonline.com/@dokupil". I've already created quite a few figs for your mental consumption, and new content comes out every week! You can also follow me, which benefits the both of us, because you get to stay updated, and I get to have five followers instead of four.

I will still be cranking out content on this blog, but it will probably lean towards more creative and experimental writing like poetry and fiction. And possibly art. So stick around and leave comments, so I know that someone reads this.

Stay beautiful,
-The Minstrel Boy


17 November 2016

Unbound

I had a dream that a thousand books were crashing down on me
yellowed, dusty hard covers that had aged and aged like wine
pages torn from their spine, come to the end of their line.
I braced myself for the overwhelming wealth of words
fluttering fervently with impending proximity
but as they hit my head,
they turned into birds.

they brushed past my cheeks with swift and silky lightness
(some blue, some yellow, some red)
but their talons did not scratch me
and the multitude of beating wings
engulfed me in a whirlwind of breezes
from all directions, the air was thick
with the vibrant spectrum of feathery colors.

every bird (that was once a book) was different,
shimmering with every splash of ink the book once contained
and contained no more. Each was singing
the melody of a story that had at last escaped words
the masculine became males, the feminine, females
and not a single melody felt wrong or out of place
amidst the wild warble of primeval music.

the sound itself I could not understand
but the sheer concentration of urgent energy
caught me up within it and had
me shivering with excitement, excitement
for I knew not what, but it did not matter,
for now I was one of them, dancing, singing, (flying?)
who could say, playing my part
in a four-part symphony larger than life.





And every word was set free
From the tyranny of words
What every word had wished to be
Before it became a bird.





14 October 2016

Farmer Brown

“Hush, Joseph. Someone’s coming up the hill.”

“Another dead one, I’ll warrant. The pace picks up every year.”

“No. Alive.”

“What’s his business up here? Admiring the view? I swear to God folks are so much more sentimental than they used to be. Why, when I was among the living—”

“Hush, Joseph!” said everyone.

It was Farmer Brown. He was carrying a bouquet of flowers in his hands, just like last week.  This time, he chose to lay them on the gravestone of Julia Brown.

“Well, one thing’s certain, he likes you the most,” said the grave of Joseph. “He’s given you more flowers than anyone else. Are you sure you don’t know who he is?”

“I know I’ve seen him before, I just know it,” said Julia Brown helplessly, as she watched Farmer Brown weep silently at her feet. “But it was all so long ago.  You know when you’ve been dead for so long, all the faces of the living begin to look the same. You ought to know best, Joseph.”

“Yes, they all look the same. Ignorant and miserable.”

“Look here,” said one of the cleverer gravestones, who had been an attorney in his waking life. “There’s something fishy about this whole business. This chap has been coming up here for God-knows-how-long. And every time, he chooses the same four gravestones: Edith Brown, Robert Brown, Susanna Harrington, and Julia Brown.  Notice anything peculiar?”

“I don’t see much of a point,” said Joseph blankly.

“Isn’t it obvious?” expostulated the attorney. “Three of you have the same last name.”

“Why, he’s right,” said Julia suddenly. “Now that sure sends a chill up the spine. We could have been—we could have been—”

“So you all have the same last name,” grunted Joseph. “Lots of people have the name Brown. My mother’s maiden name was Brown. Besides, what about this Susanna Harrington? It’s all a coincidence, I tell you.”

“All the same, he still puts flowers on my grave,” said Susanna, a little defensively.

“Stratford has a point, Joseph,” said Robert Brown. “Look at us. We’ve all been placed right next to each other. I think the case could be made that we were all related in our waking life. What do you think, Edith?”

“Yes, it’s all very peculiar,” agreed Edith. “But if it’s true, why can’t we remember him? Surely we should remember him if he were family. If we were family.”

“Like I said, they all look the same,” said Joseph bitterly.

“The question is, who was he?” asked Edith, ignoring Joseph. “Father, brother, cousin?” she hesitated. “Husband?”

“I should have remembered him for sure if he were my husband,” said Susanna, almost dreamily. “He can’t have been that. At least, not my husband.”

“Well, there’s one thing we could do,” said Robert, who was always the reasonable type. “We could read our gravestones.”

“What a swell idea, Robert!” Edith beamed. “I’m proud of you. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I’ve been meaning to do it for years,” said Robert humbly. “But you know how things are up on this hill. Things like that sort of slip from your mind.”

“Well then, let’s start with yours,” said Edith. “Hm. Here Lies Robert Brown: 1956-1989. Brilliant businessman and talented organist.  May God grant rest to his restless soul. Why, you were only thirty-three years old. Still, it doesn’t tell us much about this fellow here,” she glanced again pitifully at Farmer Brown, who was still on his knees before Julia’s grave. It had begun to drizzle, but Farmer Brown did not seem to notice.

“Read mine, read mine,” said Julia eagerly.

“Now, now, dearie, one at a time,” said Edith. “What does mine say, Robert?”

Edith Brown: 1932-1982. Wife, mother, and friend. Organist for Southern Orthodox Presbyterian Church, before Our Lord took her home. We will miss you, Edith.” Robert whistled. “So then, you were married.”

“I was a wife,” said Edith, in wonder. “And a mother. I wonder how I died?”

Stratford grew ecstatic. “See, see, it’s all coming together!” he exclaimed. “Could it possibly be a coincidence that two people, both with the name Brown, should both be organists? There’s no other explanation!” He sighed in contentment. “No other explanation” had been one of his favorite phrases in the glory days.

Joseph made a loud scoffing noise, but nobody marked him.

“Let’s recap,” said Robert. “You were a wife, mother, and organist. I was an organist and businessman. Could it be—could we have been…”

“There’s no way she could have been your wife,” Susanna interrupted, with a tinge of haughtiness. “First of all, no one would marry you. Secondly, look at your birthday. 1956. She would have been your elder by twenty-four years.  Imagine a marriage like that! She’s old enough to be your mother…”

She trailed off. They all fell into silence as Susanna’s words sunk in. It had stopped drizzling. Joseph coughed.

“That has to be it!” Robert burst out. “You—you were my mother! Well, I’ll be. All these years on this hill and I never knew I was standing right next to my own mother.  Funny what a little conversation can do, eh?”

“You still can’t know that,” Joseph mumbled, although he knew he has lost the argument.

“What about you, Susanna?” said Stratford. “Let’s hear it.”

“I’m always the last one,” complained Julia. “And Joseph said that the man liked me best.”

“You’ll get your turn, Julia. We’ve got plenty of time,” said Robert. “You’re not getting any older,” he added with the ghost of a smile. “Now, let’s take a gander. Here lies Susanna Harrington: 1959-1987. Loving mother of two boys. And then it has a Bible verse at the bottom. Well, that doesn’t tell us much.”

“28 years old,” remarked Susanna. “None of us lived very long.”

“None of us live very long,” growled Joseph.

Robert, losing his patience, turned upon Joseph. “You know, you’ve been griping and grumbling this whole time. It made me realize that we haven’t read your gravestone.”

“Hey now! That’s my affair!” Joseph started, speaking much louder than he intended.

“Robert’s right,” said Edith. “We’ve all been reading our gravestones, Joseph. It’s your turn now.”

“You’ve no right. No right I tell you. That’s private!”

“No one has rights after their dead,” said Robert wisely, “Come on, why get all defensive all of a sudden? There’s nothing to hide up here. Not on this hill.”

“Besides, don’t you want to know what’s written there?” asked Edith. “It seems we’ve all forgotten who we were since we came here.”

Joseph said nothing. He did not want to tell them that he already knew. Robert began.

“Here lies Joseph—” He stopped.

“What’s wrong, Robert?” said Julia, after a silence. Joseph expelled a tragic sigh. He looked as if he were attending his own funeral.

…Joseph Harrington,” continued Robert. “1977-1996. Who loved his mother and brother more than anything else in the world. Joseph, we wish you were still with us.

A deep silence fell over the hill as the sun, made bittersweet by haphazard drizzles, disappeared with disquieting finality behind the western mountains. Farmer Brown had fallen asleep at Julia’s feet.
Edith spoke first.

“Joseph,” she began, more tenderly than before, “why did you never tell us?”

Joseph began to weep sad, ghostly tears. “I just wanted to forget,” he moaned. “That’s all I wanted. Oh God, that’s all I ever wanted. Was that too much to ask? It’s not fair. Why did everyone else forget? I’m the one who wanted to. It’s not fair.”

“Joseph,” Julia whispered breathlessly. “You remember? You remember what was like to be alive?”

“Every damn moment.”

No one said anything. No one knew what to say.

“It was my own fault,” said Joseph miserably. “I was ten years old when my mother died--when you died, Susanna Harrington. You needed surgery, and the procedure went wrong. The doctors overdosed the painkiller and…” he trailed off. The faces of the dead were all looking at him, open-mouthed, mystified by his words.

“You,” continued Joseph, addressing Edith, “You died of breast cancer. Died in the hands of deceiving doctors and deceived loved ones, just like my mother was.  You, Robert, you fought the hardest. But you loved the wine-jar too much. Died of alcohol poisoning. Of all the people I knew in my waking life, you were the only one I remember who died with a smile on his face.” He paused. “I couldn’t stand that.”

“How do you remember all this, Joseph?” asked Edith in amazement. Joseph only shook his head mournfully. And then Julia, sounding reluctant, spoke so quietly it sounded like the rustling of the grass:

“Joseph, how did you die?”

The silence that followed Julia’s words lasted for hours. But no one spoke, and no one thought of changing the subject. It was as if the very air refused to receive words, and would continue to refuse them, until the question had been resolved. By the time Joseph spoke, the moon had taken her post and the sky was throbbing with stars.

“My father told me I needed to be strong,” he began at last. “He said my brother was counting on me. He looked up to me. It’s what Mom would have wanted. If it looked like I was losing hope, he would lose hope too. And I tried. God knows I tried.” He directed this last comment heavenward, with an unmistakable note of accusation in his voice. “But if you don’t have hope, what’s the point in pretending to have it? Even for someone else? You can lie to them, you can lie to yourself, you can dull the truth with painkillers and soften the sting with laughter, but we all know who gets the last laugh: Death.”

At this word, every clock in town—in homes, in churches, in stores, over all the unsuspecting heads of the living—struck midnight.  At that same moment, a chilling wind swept over the hill, passing through Farmer Brown. His body quivered for a moment, then was still: as cold as ice. The Moon, in the height of her glory, cast a single beam of cold melancholy on the hill, and at last the invisible was made visible. Each face in the Brown family, including Stratford, began to form—first hesitantly, then boldly, for they had always been there. Robert, Edith, Susanna, Julia, and Stratford, all glistening in the wispy blue moonlight like snowdrops, possessed a certain holy beauty that inspired awful reverence. They were like the saints of old, and Farmer Brown—if he had been awake—would have fallen on his knees at the sight of them. But Joseph, hunched in the shadows of the forest, only half-touched by the moon’s light, was barely recognizable. His shape, indistinct and beast-like, thrashed violently in the breeze and looked as if it bore some horrific scowl.

Robert spoke. “Joseph,” he said in gentle rebuke, “You know very well Death need not have the last laugh. You said yourself that I died with a smile on my face.”

Joseph did not regard this, but continued with his story. “I grew tired of pretending,” he said. “I loved a girl in high-school, but it didn’t last long. She said I took everything too seriously. That’s what everyone says, but that’s because they don’t know. They don’t know the truth about life. I know what’s beneath it all. One night, I was alone in my apartment. My room-mates were out for the weekend enjoying themselves—weed, orgies, nightclubs—the usual stuff. I locked the door, swallowed enough painkillers to kill ten men, curled up on the couch, and died.”

“Oh, Joseph!” cried Susanna, with real anguish in her voice, “if only you had waited! If only you had waited for Death to take you in his own time!”

“Did Death wait for you?” retorted Joseph, as he writhed in the darkness. “You were twenty-eight! Twenty-eight! And you, Robert, well, you practically killed yourself. What’s the difference between you and me, really?”

“Joseph,” said Edith, with sudden tenseness, “be careful what you say.”

“I knew I was going to die,” Joseph went on hysterically. “I watched every single one of you drop off like flies. For the love of Christ, Julia was only eight! I knew, I just knew down in my gut, that I was next. And I wasn’t going to let it get to me. I thought that if I approached Death first, I would at least have the better of him. I would seize his throat before he seized mine. And then, best of all, I would forget it ever happened.” And then, with a red-hot rage that had been burning in the bottom of his heart, he threw up his face and wailed to the stars in unholy wrath. “But still, after all I went through, the joke was always on me! I thought that it was the only way. I thought I could blot out every single moment and memory of my life. I never knew—no one ever told me—that when a man takes his own life, he remembers it forever. They make you remember it. They grind it into your head so deep that you have to watch it happen—over and over again—for the rest of your God-damned existence. Why did no one ever tell me? Did they hate me so much as to wish this upon me?”

His words seemed to be swallowed up by the blackness, and no one—not even an animal in the forest—rose up in answer.

Stratford spoke up, awkwardly. “You know, it just occurred to me: we never got to reading Julia’s gravestone. She’s waited long enough, hasn’t she?”

“Oh. Of course,” said Robert, a little surprised. “Julia, would you like…”

“No,” answered Julia, not unkindly, but with a mysterious firmness.  “I mean, it would be nice to know,” she admitted, somewhat doubtfully. Then suddenly, her face grew beautiful beyond description, and she said, “But it just occurred to me that it doesn’t matter.”

As she was speaking, the early birds of morning let out their first warble.  It was almost as if the very sound of her voice had commanded them.

Dawn was coming. Joseph, still muttering and groaning to himself, grew more and more indistinguishable under the budding light until his shape disappeared altogether. But the five other ghosts did not fade.  On the contrary, they seemed to be becoming more and more solid and wholesome by the moment.  Slowly, knowingly, they turned their faces to the East, where a gush of orange warmth was growing on the horizon so rapidly that they both yearned and dreaded its’ arrival…



And Farmer Brown opened his eyes to the brightest sunrise he had ever seen.




02 October 2016

Take me home // I want to go // Down the road that will take me // To the living oak

My friends are probably wishing I would shut up about this band, but what I want to know is why everyone else isn't freaking out about it. I just turned up with a free Sunday afternoon (a rare specimen in college) so I would be committing a heresy not to geek out about it.

This is a band formed in 2011 by a brother and sister named Tyler and Maggie Heath. I am not just a fan because they write songs inspired by C.S. Lewis novels (oh yeah, they do that too) but because they write freaking amazing songs, period.

Here are a few of my favorites (who am I kidding, they're all my favorite). Just a little sampling from all three of their albums (The Oh Hello's, Through the Deep, Dark Valley, and Dear Wormwood)





Fire and brimstone fell upon my ears
As their throats of open graves recited fear
Like the bullets of a gun they drove my tears
And my feet to run the hell out of here

See, I was born a restless, wayward child
I could hear the whole world calling me outside
Of the masses I routinely sat behind
And Lord, I had to see with my own eyes

Take me home
I want to go
Down the road that will take me
To the living oak
And Lord, I know
That I'm a weathered stone
But I owe it to my brothers
To carry them home

Take me home
I want to go
Down the road that will take me
To the living oak
And Lord, I know
It's a heavy load
But we'll carry our brothers
Oh, we'll carry them home

And oh, there is no power on Earth or below
That could ever break our hearts or shake our souls
And when you lay me down, you'll only bury bones
'cause oh, my heart and soul are going home





Brother, forgive me
We both know I'm the one to blame
When I saw my demons
I knew them well and welcomed them

But I'll come around
Someday

Father, have mercy
I know that I have gone astray
When I saw my reflection
It was a stranger beneath my face

But I'll come around
Someday

When I touch the water
They tell me I could be set free

So I'll come around
Someday





Well, it's a long way out to reach the sea
But I'm sure I'll find you waiting there for me
And by the time I blink, I'll see your wild arms swinging
Just to meet me in the middle of the road
And you'll hold me like you'll never let me go
And beside the salty water, I could hold you close,
But you are far too beautiful to love me

It's a long climb up the dusty mountain
To build a turret tall enough to keep you out
But when you wage your wars against the one who adores you,
Then you'll never know the treasure that you're worth
But I've never been a wealthy one before
I've got holes in my pockets burned by liars' gold,
And I think I'm far too poor for you to want me

It's been a long road, losing all I've owned
And you don't know what you've got until you're gone
And it's a nasty habit, spending all you have, but
When you're doing all the leaving, then it's never your love lost
And if you leave before the start, then there was never love at all
And heaven knows I'm prone to leave the only God I should have loved,
And yet you're far too beautiful to leave me



I can't even wrap my mind around this. Oh my gosh oh my gosh it's so good




Was it you 'mid the fire and the ember?
Were you there to bedevil and beguile?
See, your face wasn't quite as I remember
But I know that wicked shape to your smile
Bury me as it pleases you, lover
At sea, or deep within the catacomb
But these bones never rested while living
So how can they stand to languish in repose?

He has thrown down the cavalry as gravel sinks
And as the stone founders underneath the sundered sea of red and reed
The shadow of Hades is fading
For he has cast down leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider

Where is your rider?

He will hold with all of his might the armies of night,
Still as boulders laid to the side 'til we pass by
He has hoisted out of the mire every child
So lift your voice with timbrel and lyre
"We will abide, we will abide, we will abide"


Other songs you need to check out: Like the Dawn, Wishing Well, Bitter Water, [Soldier, Poet, King], Dear Wormwood...

What am I even saying guys. Just do yourself a favor and buy their albums. All of them. I have seriously waited half my life for this band to start existing.





Turn to the person next to you and give them a big hug.
-The Minstrel Boy




03 September 2016

Fern's Lament

I visited the barn again today.
Nothing has changed much.
Same old smells of manure and hay
Same old empty wooden doorway
With a new web strung in the corner.
I found the old trough, where my
Terrific, radiant, humble friend
Used to eat my leftover
Breakfast. But new snouts plow
Through the middlings now.
Nobody wants to chat with me
I forgot the gander's name.
"Will you please play with me?
Does anyone want to play?"
They stare back at me.
I keep on telling myself
That they understand
That they will ask
"How's the family?"
The cow goes moo.
The horse goes neigh.
The pig goes oink.
No answer.
Where was I
When the morning stars
Sang together?
When I grew up
I remembered the animals
But they
Did
Not
Remember
Me.


***


I wrote this originally as a "concrete poem", but I was reluctant in posting the original because I didn't want anyone to break their necks trying to read the thing. You can try, if you want, but I'm not responsible for anything that happens to you.






28 August 2016

Happenstanza


I don't know when it happened
But it happened
Long ago
I can't recall the moment
But I swear I used to know

I don't know how it happened
But it won't happen
Again
I know that you were there
But I didn't know it then

I don't know if it happened
But if it happened
It was quick
And you disappeared with it
Just like a magic trick

I don't know why it happened
But I wish it happened
More
But I'd probably forget it
Just like I did before

And if it ever happens
To happen across you
Please tell me just what happened

[whisper]

Because it happened to me too.




12 August 2016

[Untitled]


I will love love love
Until I descend into dreaming
The heart is a voluntary muscle
And as long as I say the word
It will keep on beating
Love love love
Don't stop, or the body will grow cold
Love love love
And we never will grow old