Nikolas the Wonderworker

When a person dies he enters a new life and a new realm and except in rare occasions may not go back to his old. God makes two exceptions. He often allows the newly departed from earth to comfort those left behind usually shortly after the departure.

The other exception God makes may come as a surprise to my readers. At the exact same time ever year God calls on one person, the same person, to make pilgrimage to earth. Every year Nikolas approaches the throne with the same childlike surprise that he showed last year and usually petitions God to send someone more worthy to which all of heaven giggles and applauds and then chants “Nikolas, Nikolas, Nikolas.” You see, heaven's citizens love him too.

Parents as a whole lack faith, and as a result have invented ridiculous myths to explain miraculous events. In their attempt to explain the unexplainable they have unwittingly caused children to reject the reality of the events altogether. When children reject the reality, they also reject the magic.

This writer has no intention of confounding the problem but rather has the desire to restore the faith of children in the miracle we call Christmas. I present to you a story on which you can depend. My dear children, you will find much more magic in the truth then you ever found in the fable.

Let me set something straight for the children among us. How old is Santa Clause (another name for Saint Nikolas) and how can he keep it up these many hundreds of years? Well, the truth children--Santa Clause died and went to heaven where he lives forever. Every Christmas he returns to earth to help us. Every year he comes back to hungry children, war, disease, and problems of every sort most of which earthlings have caused and brought upon themselves. For one magic month Nikolas brings hope back to a world which, of course, forgets that hope for the other eleven months. However, he continues to return year after year after year.

Every journey has adventure. Adventure is a grownup word which means problems. Nikolas had problems when he lived on earth; of course, he has problems when he returns to earth. Heaven's citizens as a whole avoid a return trip to earth but rejoice with Nikolas knowing the good he does.

Alexander lived in a land of beauty with clear seas, colorful fish, and warm winds caressing his hair every night. He loved his mother with a great and unusual love. Alexander's family lived in a little fishing village. His father went to sea for long periods of time. Alexander had never seen snow. He had never felt cold. The only cold he had known came from the sea hardened hands of his calloused, cruel fisherman father.

Today we would call Alexander tender. He loved reading, writing, music, and pictures. Every night he crawled into his mother's lap for a bedtime story. He snuggled into the warmth of her body and the comfort of her words. She read poems and sang sea songs that her mother had sang to her.


Saint Nikolas never comes to earth without visiting this small Greek village by the sea.

Oh so very very Bohemian

I gain. I write tomorrow's blog today which means I will have some editing time and not publish the tripe to which you have grown accustomed. I rushed, swore, and ran to get to a poetry reading only to find that I arrived a full month early. Lesson--read a bit more carefully, plan, and breath prior to an event. Cut me some slack. I have had little sleep the past few days. I think I may have to give up coffee for my writing career's sake.

With all the effort described in the preceding paragraph, I decided to recharge my battery along with the computer's. I have parked myself at Powell's book store. Good picture huh? I think it might work well in the cover of my first book. I had a Indian guy (read from India) next to me laughing at Indian poetry. Dreadlocks, tattoos, tie dye dresses, pierced and persecuted we sit. And me so conservative yet committed like my fellow Bohemians to the words.

I should probably write humor because I see much irony in the world e.g. the CD disk behind me entitled Essential Thoreau. The poor man probably turned in his grave to think the simple life he prescribed has come to WiFi, Internet, CD's, and cellphones. Could Thoreau have birthed Walden Pond with a cell phone violating his natural paradise.

In each body a soul bound or expressed? My how my mind jumps. I think I scratched the record somewhere. I think much about perspective these days. I can look at this decaying body as the prison of my soul which keeps me from realizing my potential. Or maybe this body serves as the medium by which I express the eternal within.

I see so many here in Portland use the body as an external canvas to paint and pierce and drape in retro. I believe that what comes out of the body makes us unique rather than the external adornment we attach to it.

The building where the Literary Arts plans poetry in August had an atrium. People dressed nicely sipped wine and ate fine cuisine. I have missed so much of the life with senseless forays into self-destructive behavior. NO MORE FORERAYS!! I feel ready to put on the shirt that reads "been there done that and have no desire to return thank you very much."

"Now I'm going round, going round, going round one more time." James Taylor crones into my ear buds. He saw himself going into another relationship even while suffering from the last. The past few days I have practiced my enjoyment skills as a single guy taking in sand sculpting, a jazz concert, a near-miss poetry reading, and now Powell's Book store soaking in creative ambiance.

Well, fellow Bohemians....Seek beauty in all places at all times

Letting the Cat outta the Bag

Be careful what you ask for they say. I have wanted a cat of my own for years. I now own, No, let me rephrase. A cat now owns me. I wanted a literary cat to keep me company through a long night of writing. I had images of him laying on my lap as I write the Great American Novel. I am presently writing that novel, and Buddy takes his role seriously. In reality it proves difficult to see the screen over the fur. At five this morning he looked ready to jump ship literally. I live on a boat. He gets a bit grumpy when tired and has yet to learn of coffee. Thank you, Buddy, for hanging in there with me.

I stayed up all night writing on my novel. I have wanted to write a novel for sometime now but could never figure out how to proceed. It has come to me, and so far the novel flows from flying fingers at a scary pace. I feel somewhere between possessed and obsessed.

This is a book about Ryan Rouse a high school student who loves to write and decides to try his hand at investigative writing to secure a summer job with the local paper. Ryan finds himself matching wits with a serial killer to save Sally, the head cheerleader and a girl with whom Ryan has secretly fallen in love.

Scenes..

Scene One....The capture of the serial killer's first victim....

Twelve inches of snow covered every surface and sucked the sound from the Denver metropolitan area. Few cars passed. In a ditch by a canal east of Denver in the suburb of Aurora a girl whimpered. Although in merciful coma, something visceral fought to stay alive even though her conscious mind rebelled at the horrors she had already endured. Blood seeped from her mouth and ears. As the snow slowed the temperature crashed. Snow covered her body. The blanket gave her just enough warmth to stay alive and slowed the flow of blood poolinginside her brain. The cold that saved her brain at the same time froze her extremities. If she survived this night, she would never walk again. She would lose all her toes and fingers.

A police car on standard patrol stopped to help yet another motorist who had overestimated the ability of his four wheel drive vehicle. Mad motorist one moved through twelve inches of drifting snow with reckless abandon. However, the four wheel drive did little to stop him when mad motorist two showing off his four wheel drive slid through the intersection at Alameda and Missippi. Mad motorist one managed to avoid a collision but ended up in a ditch close to the canal. Officer Stanley called a tow truck. They got the guy out okay. He slunk home to his wife with the fifty dollar tow truck bill firmly implanted in his left shirt pocket. The tow truck driver roared off to yet another ditch. Stanley stood beside the road alone.

He soaked in the peace of a new fallen snow. His thoughts turned toward home. Jeannie would have just finished a bedtime story with Allie. He hated leaving them at night even though he liked the action of the night shift. Then he heard it-- a mystical moan carried on a snowy wind. Slight, weak, almost musical he tried to sort reality from imagination in his police mind. Then all went quiet. He stood several minutes straining his ears against the driving snow. His hands stung. His nostrils stuck together in the dry Denver air. His ears turned red. Police hats afford little protection from the elements. Then he heard it again. This time his heart verified what his ears had questioned. He knew that he heard something and rushed toward the canal.

The police academy prepares your eyes and body to react to crime and to react quickly. They fail to prepare your mind to process the things that to which your eyes so quickly react. He noticed the blood seeping from her ears first. The damage to his mouth touched him at a place that science has yet to identify. He felt stabbing twinge of pain somewhere around his chest. It lasted a nanosecond but stayed with him the rest of his life everytime his mind went back to that scene.

What cat would you like to let outta the bag today. Do you have a driving passion? News? Something big on the horizon?

Why Play Guitar in Pioneer Square or Write on the back of Dancing Cow?

I left the camera home on purpose. A camera forces the eyes to capture the moment. I wanted to open up all the sense gates. I find myself at the "Sand in the City "event in Pioneer Square. I rode MAX down and let Rollie out of the box. Portland reacts badly to the friendly mode. Sometimes I do it just to piss people off but mostly because I like people. Now I assure you that I don't jump in a lap and talk about senseless stuff just to hear myself talk. I keep proper distance and talk with them about meaningful but safe topics. Sadly, society has grown wary, weary, and willfully distance.
I did get some good tips from a well dressed lady about the Nordstrom Rack. She jumped on the packed Max with me for the half yearly sale at Nordstroms.

A string quartet graced the square with music. A teen led the group with a broken arm and did a fine job I might add. While to the side an EMT had her peer tattoo her arm in the shade of the ambulance. Guys out front played chess on roll up boards with timers. They take it seriously.

Do you ever wonder why people do play a guitar in Pioneer Square? publicly? Why play chess outside in front of a Max stop? Can I count it up to sheer exhibitionism? Or is there something else here? Is it a desire to share something with others, to get affirmation, to find feedback, or just to combine activities (what I love with an enjoyable day at a public event)?

It just hit me. Maybe I have the answer. I write publicly much. I get out among the masses to gather grist for the writing mill. Today's writing will show up in a novel someday. I will have a scene in a book involving a public event. The quirks and observations about people adds much color to a novel and the personality of a character actually moves the book along come to think of it. My main character will revisit the scene I saw today. He or she will see the homeless girl, the guy collecting cans, the broken armed conductor, the guys playing chess, and oh yes the sand sculptures. My time outside the sterile environs of a library adds color to my life and thus to my writing. I suppose it applies to the guitar player.

A young lady sits on the ground collecting money from passing patrons. We visit the patron Saint of Coffee Saint Arbucks. She collects money at the temple door. I wrote on Facebook "Downtrodden blond sits outside Starbucks. Her sign reads "A Little kindness would make life a lot more liveable (sic). Givers give her kindness. Hopes it helps sweetheart."

The clerk (what'd you call them again Barista)at Starbucks said he has observed a network among the homeless. A homeless handler shows up once in awhile. He has wads of hundreds. He collects from the gal sitting on the street. They exchange food through the newspaper distribution box in front of the store. He surmises that drugs enter the picture somewhere.

Oh, the sand, I guess my senses took me to other places. The sculpture amazes me. It's that kind of art that asks the question "How do they do that?" I plan on visiting Saturday market on the way out and hope to ask the question many more times today.

I started a novel this last week and so far so good. It's moving along nicely. I can see that like a weekly television show, it eats up material quickly. I will need to spend many days like this to have experiences from which to draw. Oh, the pain of it all.

I write on the back of a coloring sheet of a dancing PGE cow. I forgot my journal. I remembered the Space Pen and computer though. How many people can claim a dancing cow as their muse.

I gotta go meet my brother coming from Salem. Please write and tell me why you think people do creative things in public.

Creative Pearls Illiterate Swine

Don't throw your creative work before illiterate swine. I write much poetry these days. Figurative, personal, and sometimes frightenly emotional, I have found that people (read friends and family) usually fail to appreciate the poetry or affirm the poet. I have some thoughts about my relationship to the uncreative world. Read more in my blog call2create.

People have told me that I should create primarily for me and my joy. I understand their point. However, honest writers, painters, or singers will tell you that they want to touch others with their creativity. I recently wrote a tribute to my coach who just passed the baton into the race beyond. I cried while writing this tribute to a special man. I processed pain and felt joy from my writing. I wrote for me. However, I also felt great satisfaction to hear from my family, friends, guys I ran with thirty years ago, and especially Coach's brother that my words had brought tears to their eyes.

Fastforward to this July 4th weekend. I wrote a poem about freedom and slavery. The poem talked about the possibility of reenslaving ourselves to various addictions and thereby defiling the freedom that brave men and women purchased for us with their blood. People at the party too busy making jokes and talking nonsense had no time or appreciation for such thoughts no matter how beautifully expressed.

One woman I greatly respect read it out of courtesy but responded, “cute.” Cute wasn't exactly the response I expected. Okay, I'll try to develop a gift that every established novelist probably already possesses. I will try to put myself in the place of the people to whom get my writing shoved at them at parties, meetings, etc.

One, they have come not to a literary group but a social event. They want to socialize. They have in their mind a definition of socializing that includes food, laughing, and pulling legs. They had a hard day at work. They don't want to think. They're distracted. And from I observe are probably uncomfortable. Two percent of the population does well in a large group setting. They light up the party. The rest of us walk in fear. We have never quite left high school. We fear rejection. The milleu hardly lends itself well to creative art.

I have noticed the same issues for my good friend Isaac. Isaac can sing. I mean he can really sing and has performed in some impressive venues. He brings his guitar to almost every event that I frequent. We welcome him with open arms. Few listen to him. Few compliment. He becomes noise in the background. Now if Isaac fails to command a crowd with music auditory and involving little thought, what chances do I have with my figurative, obtuse poetry that requires an attention span more than a fifteen second commercial.
Isaac truly does it for the love of the music and to keep in touch with performing before a crowd.

My other friend, Jessica performs all around Portland. She too has increidble gifts that she has honed through much patience and practice. I have never seen her perform at social events. She performs when booked and paid. I watched her at Mock Crest recently. She takes the crowd by storm. She loves her music as much as Isaac. However, she has chosen a venue where people have come to listen and appreciate.

So what's the lesson for this writer and hopefully you in your particular, peculiar ilk. Create where appreciated. I will no longer show my work to friends at parties and meetings. I will showcase on my blog, my hubpage, my webpage and in print. I'll put it in a book for people who actually read and appreciate language. And yes, I will get paid for my creativity and will nolonger throw my creative hard work before the unappreciative swine.

That sounds a bit harsh. I don't really mean swine. I just harken to the Bible verse about throwing your pearls before the swine. Even Jesus saw that people of his hometown, including his family, failed to appreciate him or his work. He offered his gift to those who wanted it. As He started to heal people He always required the recipients to do something in order to receive the gift. He made them express their faith in some way. He came to realize that people would appreciate more that for which they had paid.

People assume that something free probably has little value. Good artists put a heafty price on their work. They more they charge the more people seem to appreciate. God must shake his head sometimes huh? Creative types learn this lesson well. Charge for your hard earned creative talent. Someone asked a painter how long it took him to paint that picture. The painter replied, “All my life!” Think about it.

I have made some decisions then about my work. I will publish on my blog in first draft for the interested. Readers will still have to click to the link. The interested will go. Then I will publish in Hubpage where I get paid for them to make that click. Then I will publish on LuLu where readers will paid to get my ideas electronically or on paper.

Looking at it a different way. Me pushing poetry at parties feels like peddaling rolex watches on the street. Me offering my creative talent online or in book form feels more like owning a legitimate bookstore where people come to me.

I have tried door to door sales. Give me a storefront any day. I started this blog call2create to encourage and influence other creative types. I hope that this particular article helps you avoid one of the subtle pitfalls. Choose your venue carefully. Create, offer your creation in an appropriate venue, and charge people for the lifetime you have put into developing your creativity.
Now go create.

^{Come 4th}

^{Colors explode ink black skies}

^{“Let the party begin!” corpses cry}

^{Celebrate right and left shore}

^{Come 4th!}

^{Claim freedom rights}

^{break chains personal, national, and international this night}

^{dance freedom's fight}

^{in exploding lights}

^{King over serf, master over slave}

^{substance over subject freedom saved}

^{Sing, Dance, Create}

^{Love over Hate}

^{Come 4th friend}

^{Wield freedom's sword and pen}

^{put away chains}

^{freedom rains}

^{America, the world needs you free}

^{we need freedom's creativity}

^{Mr. Politician put away your power}

^{the world needs a free America this night this hour}

^{Miss Liberty hold that light a little higher please}

^{shine from sea to sea}

^{to see what enslaves outside and in}

^{our world's demons and our personal sins}

^{Celebrate and guard your freedom puchased with blood.}

^{Let freedom flood}

^{every aspect every pore}

^{Come forth America Come 4th!!!}

^{© rollie aden}