So-Very-Novel

I curse you Ray LaMontagne for writing things I cannot play! Your groovy voice and “Crazy” cover make my guitar turn and shudder. Shame for shame, it's twangy strings shall never sing your glorious things. (And that makes me crazy.  Probably.)

Kept the clichéd coffin shut hoping what was trapped inside would die. One pinprick of clarity burst the heaving tomb and now I'm covered in the truth.

 Some people refer to different phases of their lives as different “chapters” in their story.  I prefer to think of my life as a library.  That way I can keep the stages of my life separated, leaving the “happy books” open on the lower shelves, while locking the rest away in a dusty corner. The funny thing is, the corner is never dusty and the locks never work. When I was seventeen I was painfully self-assured and self-righteous.  I walked through the world knowing I was right.   Furthermore, I had a plan.  I would join a “discipleship program” for ten month

I gave you keys, but you broke down the door. My heart skipped out in the struggle. Now I'm just a gaping cavity and I can't decide what I want. Should I beg you back to finish what you started? Should I fight like hell to bring my heart back home? Daddy thinks the answer should be simple, but he wasn't trapped in that room.

*Author's Note:  This is more like a letter, but I couldn't find a category for that, so here it is.*   Dear Laura,   When I think of my brain before it met yours, I have to shake my head and say, “What a pathetic pile of synapses!”   When you read or watch, you do more than absorb a story.  You think about ebbs and flows of life and logic that I did not see!   When you chat casually about your brainstorming, I feel the raindrops and see the lightening, and I can't wait for the full-on storm.   Then I see your art and grow more amazed.  That brain of yours not only thinks beautiful thoughts, but it can give your hands be

The hurt reminds me this one isn't fiction. Still, I want it on paper. I'm hoping the demons get stuck in the ink.

Me-Before would hate Me-After, but I hate Me-Before. I blame her for Me-After.

When I was in the crazy house... I met a beautiful girl from Kenya.  She had tried to drink bleach when her boyfriend dumped her. I watched a woman have a conversation with an invisible person.  She even paused to wait for the unseen person's responses. I laughed out loud when an (obviously) insane man said something (obviously) insane.  It would have been okay, but we were in a music therapy class and we were not supposed to be judgmental. An old man tried to grab my ass while we were standing in line waiting for our evening pills.  I was not even aware until one of the staff members yelled at him. They only gave us shaving razors

Psalm 117, A Photography Exhibit by Steven Tryon Opening Reception, January 26, 2009 O praise the Lord, all you nations, acclaim him, all you peoples. Strong is his love for us; he is faithful forever. (Psalm 117, Grail translation)How shall I praise God with photography? For a start, perhaps I can see the raucous, cackling gulls for the marvelous creatures they are. When Kathrine Page asked me for a title for my photography show, I told her "Psalm 117".  Psalm 117 and its much longer neighbor, Psalm 119, have become two of my favorite psalms. Psalm 119 celebrates in many-faceted delight the wonders of the law of God. In the