The Yellow Brick Road

The Yellow Brick Road

We’ve started anew, but there is a question that persists. A question that can bring this whole thing to an end if we aren’t careful. If we don’t answer it correctly. Leo’s story has become an open ended question. There is no real story to tell. We have the same starting and end points, still with nothing in between. As we have talk about ad nauseam, this no longer Leo’s story. It’s a new story. The story we’ve been telling since the beginning. The story of two guys and a hat full of dreams. It’s our story now. Leo is a set piece of sorts, helping move us along. The problem is that the story doesn’t have an ending. We can write it down, but it hangs there. With no neat conclusion. We have to solve this riddle to complete the story. We’ve discussed this endlessly, asking where this all goes. We have the beginning and the middle, but there is no real ending to it. The ending is the hardest part. Beginnings are easy. It doesn’t take much to get moving, but to end well takes skill. We’ve pondered over how to leave this story. Where do we finally end up. Inspiration struck and the hard work began. It’s about friends and dreams. That’s all it is, about two guys who found each other by accident and whose dreams just fit together neatly. That’s the ending but how to write it. That’s where the work begins.

One At A Time

When it all comes pouring down on you at once, how do you pick your medium?  How does one go from a short story about shoes in a ditch to a poem about racism to a children’s book about luchadores?  At times, it seems I spend more time capturing these blasts of potential brilliance than I do writing them out.  And then there’s the whole Pour on the Cool book, the story that started all these other stories, the eloquence that Bill continues to put out for everyone’s enjoyment. You work yourself up, up into these tangled ruminations of who you are and what kind of stories speak to you, of which ones are worth pursuing first, which ones will be the best of the bunch because you are ready for the harvest now.  It spins and spins until you find yourself overwhelmed with the prospect of what this whole thing is about.  But then that’s over, it has run its course, and you are surprised that a neat little cliché has come to the foreground.  A little mantra of a cliché that you can repeat to yourself when you flip through the ideas, eyeing your next pursuit.  You don’t know which ones will work best or which ones will bust.  So you take it one story at a time my friends….just one at a time.

 

 

 

We’re already there?

It’s all a matter of perspective and what we are trying to accomplish with the poems, the children’s stories and Leo. There are several ways to look at it. We could be trying to find our medium as artists. Trying until something seems to work. We could be trying to set a platform for the future. One success, even if minor, can help us build for the future. We could be working towards being published authors, where any success counts. The matter of what is ultimately important. If we are trying to claim the title of published authors, we have met that goal, if only because of a technicality. Putting our work on a blog counts us as self published per some publishing entities. If the title of published author is all that matters, then we are there. We can rest easy knowing we set out to do something and we have. Mission accomplished. Unfortunately, that is not what we are going for. It’s part of it, but hardly the whole. We do want to acknowledgement that our writing is worthwhile and that we can produce good art. That is the point of making art, to find an audience. For us, the audience is part of bigger picture. The audience is part of our trip. The audience, the acknowledgement that we can make good art is necessary to build something bigger. This was never supposed to be about being famous authors or even mildly well known authors, but it was a means to an end. So while we could say that we have arrived and we have accomplished a goal, we are just getting started.

Oh Shoot! It’s Wednesday!

Oh Shoot! It’s Wednesday!

Um, so, what’s today?

Yeah thought you’d say

That to me.  You sure?

Probably could use one more,

Maybe just one extra night.

To try and get something right

For my weekly post.

I feel like a poor party host.

But, anyway thanks for stopping by

Next week I will really try

For something bold yet, a little off

Something to create an involuntary cough.

Like lunching on alligator casserole

Prepared in a sourdough bread bowl.

Like watching hipsters put their heads in the sand

While crossing a wild, broken, barren land,

Or like wrestling luchadores

On ships sailing to distant shores,

Or maybe a yellow pontoon

With large swells that make us swoon

Until we get tossed like a balloon

And float up to see Jay Z on the moon.

Yeah, Oh yeah, that’s the one…stay tuned.

From Scratch

From Scratch

It’d be a lie to say we hadn’t already invested in writing a biography for Leo, but those efforts stalled, leaving us wondering what to do. We had invested too much time and effort to let it go. Besides even when we tried to move on, it kept coming back to us. Seeing as we had little idea of what we were doing from the beginning, we’ve always worked to serve as conduits. To let the story speak for itself. We’re starting over from scratch, still a little unsure of what the story will be. This is the first draft of a new story.

Wednesdays aren’t known as seminal days but it was for us. It could have been a typical Wednesday counting hours down to the weekend and it was only a few minutes that ensured it wasn’t. We could have easily missed each other. But we had a date with destiny. As the rain clouds scattered outside, we huddled inside, hiding from work. The conversation started with the mundane. Slowly, the conversation shifted. Books were a safe topic for work friends, personal but not too personal. Then it happened. We decided we were going to write a book. Looking at what’s published, it couldn’t be that hard. More specifically, my grandfather. A man who crash landed in the South Pacific during World War 2, punched a shark and partied with cannibals. That may be a glorified remembrance of the moment or how I actually sold it. Either way Ryan was hooked. The book should be easy to sell. World War 2 stories were in vogue and with a little research the book could be printing in time for the holiday season. Looking back, agreeing to this was the easiest part of it. Neither of us had the slightest clue of how to write a book. We assumed we would need an outline and research. And a schedule wouldn’t hurt anything. We would quickly learn that we were slightly mistaken in our estimates of both time and research. Properly researching a book, as it turns out, is a time consuming process, so is actually writing it out. We would deal with those problems when we got there, but for now we were hopelessly optimistic about our chances.

I don’t know if we were really that interested in writing a book or simply excited at the avenues that could be opened up as published authors. The idea of being writers was appealing to us but there was something more to it than that. We wanted more than a life as city workers.  This was our way to build a life of more. Not more stuff. More meaning. It was here that we acknowledged that Jesus changed the world when He was thirty three and our average age was thirty two. It was never too late to start building something. As Jesus was the Son of God, He had a few significant advantages over us. We quickly accepted that we were neither going to change the world when we were thirty three nor on as a dramatic scale as the Son of God. All this was said with belly laughs, which drew unnecessary attention to our loafing. Despite the laughter there was a seriousness that we kept at bay with our laughter. We wanted more from life. That was never in question but I don’t think either of us was prepared to accept that we had found more in our office lobby.

The allure of my grandfather was genuine. We weren’t looking at him and his story as nothing more than a vehicle for us to encounter our better envisioned future. He was an enigma to me. There was little I can recall about him. He mostly was a presence in my life. We spent time together but I can’t say there was a ever a bond between us beyond him being my grandfather. He was quiet. That is probably what I remember most about him. It’s also the thing that made it the hardest to know him. The problem was exacerbated by my social awkwardness as a child which can be contributed to how similar Leo and I were. We both enjoyed our own company to a great degree. People often felt like an option in life. An additional side with dinner. We said little because we weren’t entirely sure of how to exist in relationship with others. We were content by ourselves. This left a gap between us (and most of the world) that neither were much bothered by or much interested in finding a way across.  So Leo was left as almost a ghost haunting my childhood. A quiet, dutiful spirit that came, ever ignoring the call to stay. The book would be a way to finally find a road between, a chance to know the man that had existed throughout my childhood.

Like that, we were off and running.  What started with unbridled enthusiasm would eventually encounter life and reality, both of which would slow us down. This journey would move in fits and starts. Sometimes we were consumed by the enthusiasm of it. Other times we were weighed down by the difficulty of the task we accepted. There was rarely a middle ground. And often times we simply moved forward because we had agreed to. It seems that we mostly kept pursuing it because we had agreed to. A begrudging stubbornness drug us forward when we our wide eyed wonderment faded and hope of completing this book had been trampled by reality. We took turns on watch. Neither of us was fully responsible for setting the pace. As one of us fell behind, the other would carry the promise of it all forward. Calling the other along. Neither of us seemed particularly suited to this role, at least in this context. Our hopes generally existed in a realm alongside some of history’s greatest fiction, so they could easily capsize.  Given they had little tether to reality. This would show itself to be an exhausting emotional rollercoaster over time as we quickly and regularly travelled the distance between hope and disillusionment. Our only saving grace is that we somehow always found ourselves at opposite points. Our despairs never lined up.