The Rational Psychic

This entry is some kind of declaration. It’s my way of talking out loud to myself, hoping that you will listen in. I am in need of love–not just the love of a woman who really cares for me, though that would be a tonic–I’m in need of my love for myself and making myself a part of the universe. Just as importantly, I am in need of a change in the way I define myself. I’ve got to start identifying myself as a writer first and foremost. Then describe my occupation as whatever I do to pay bills.

I have to finish my children’s story that I’m working on. Then it’s time to find a place where it can get a warm reception and be published. That’s the long-term goal, anyway. For now, if I get it finished to my satisfaction and sent to a potential publisher I’ll have to allow myself to feel that I’ve done my job to the best of my (present) ability.

Do any of you wonderful people out there know where a person is supposed to send the text of a picture book for children ages 3-6?

This is going to be a continuing entry as I learn more about myself and my creative process or myself and my understanding of the place writing has in my life. I included a couple of images of scribes as totems for myself.

I found a good article posted on Ralph Reed, the former leader of the Christian Coalition, and how he is continuing to do his best impersonation of a large garden slug: leaving a trail of slime and slipperiness wherever he may crawl.

The Huffington Post has also done a number of articles to chronicle Reed’s slide from respectability.

Mine was good, thanks for asking. I got to see my two oldest daughters, who haven’t visited, gone out for dinner with me, etc., for a long time. I missed them so much that when they did come over I was careful not to start emoting immediately. I treated them like the shy, yet wily, whitetail deer that they are; spread corn upon the forest floor and waited patiently behind the bushes, doused in deer musk.

My oldest girl even bought me a present, “Life is Beautiful” with Roberto Begnini. I must be the only person who never saw this movie among the glitterati literati. I know that it will cause me to weep uncontrollably. Italians, children, WWII, death as a certain and unyielding fate–what could be missing from this film?

 And the littlest one, my four-year-old passed out the presents and loved acting like the big shot. If Santa gets tired of the gig, this one weighs only 27 pounds and getting down chimneys would be no problem for her. She’s also got the stomach for cookies, let me tell you.

And that dear lad of mine (9 years old) was his usual curly-headed joy. Showed off the binoculars he got from my (ex) father-in-law, the remote control dinosaur and an especially lyrical toy: a remote control dragon fly with four clear, veined wings that propel it about the yard.

 Gorgeous stuff. Moments that made me think, “How do I keep this going?” Do I find someone who wants to adopt another child before they’re through with raising kids? Or, were those few moments of peace a gentle reminder to lay down a few burdens by the riverside and continue the stroll downriver?

Enjoy the holiday you celebrate next. Enjoy those you celebrate with. Some great spirit moves amongst us all.

A new poem which is definitely a first draft. I would like to see any specific criticism on language, tone, etc. I wrote it after seeing Neil Gaiman’s “plot-enhanced” version of Beowulf and thinking about the nice feel that it had to it even though it was such a complete falsehood in terms of telling the wrong story–or at least putting the wrong title on a different story than the one copied down by Bede over a millenium ago.

In the last Judgment, when the
molecules of the dead are
cobbled together from their diffuse graves
I will stand with the thieves,
the adulterers; even the murderers.
When angelic trumpets bray to split
our skulls and tear down every false temple
only the tears from my tribe will
dampen a tamped parade ground.
We will have time to worry at
our fates, our inability to beg forgiveness.
The rapturous, too busy soaring
in their small numbers will face the sky
and hear something only they will hear.
Shuffling at the edge of the blanket
you might call eternity, the rebellion
will consist of at least one escapee:
Demon-turned, manifest to an empty world,
entering the fens, shouting,
both arms still intact.

Barrie Evans
December 10, 2007