Filler Space

The Lord's Prayer

2010-09-19T15:14:00.001-05:00

I remember the first time I braved the darkness before dinner. Everyone sat peacefully around the large, rectangular table with their eyes closed, myself included. It was our family routine to pray before we ate any meal.

My father’s uncle was a priest in the Catholic Church, so needless to say he took it very seriously. This religious interest became my father’s own divine hobby because of his admiration for his uncle.

“Let us pray,” Father said moments before.

I closed my eyes long enough to fold my hands, then cautiously stirred my awakening. I had never opened my eyes during prayer before, though I had been a part of it my entire life. It was a rule that was taught when learning how to pray. It was also a rule not to break any rules. A child, however, can only abide by certain rules for so long before a hankering curiosity takes over.

I opened my eyes and looked to my left and saw Father sitting at the head of the table. “Our Father,” he said, “Who art it heaven.” I looked to my mother’s side of the table and watched as she calmly took her easiest breath of the day.

My eyes watched quickly so I wouldn’t get caught. The two oldest siblings, my twin sisters, sat silently reverent on their side of the table. They don’t do anything but act like twins and sing in the church choir. They were in high school.

“Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” my father continued.

I then turned to my sister Mary on my left with her eyes pinched shut, hands and fingers flatly frozen together as if in applause. She thought she was my mother and acted like it. I don’t know if I looked up to her at the time because she demanded it or because I actually admired her. She seemed to be the golden child while I grew accustomed to the leather belt. Maybe that is what I admired in her. With the prayer coming to an abrupt, insincere ending, I quickly and inconspicuously shut my eyes.

“Forever and ever, Amen.” My father said.

I finished my dinner like a fugitive without saying a word.

In a family of four teenage girls, and a devoutly religious father, it is hard to achieve attention. Between puberty, vocally prude twins and a self-righteous sister, I found myself sitting on the church steps in a sense, waiting to be allowed inside. It is hard to get God’s attention in a “perfect” world.

One day, weeks later, Mary and I were walking home from school. She would wait for me at the stop between our two schools so we could walk home together.

“How was school?” She asked.

“Fine.”

“Did you kiss that boy Sam again?” I casually kicked a stone down the street and then looked up at her as she talked.

“I don’t know any Sam.”

“Yeah you do. Did you kiss him?”

“I don’t know Sam!” I screamed and bolted up the pavement. My bag weighed me down and swayed side to side with each frantic step.

Within seconds a firm hand grabbed my backpack and slammed me to a stop. Out of breath, I whimpered, “I don’t know Sam, and it was only on the cheek,” and sat down on the curb to cry.

“So you do know Sam,” she accused with her shoulders back, smiling.

I sniffed my snot and wiped my salty tears on my sleeve. Calmly, she said, “look at me.”

I did. I looked right up into the darkness of her big brown eyes. She waited a second before she spoke, maintaining her power.

“You can’t kiss boys. You are far too young. And that is not just me talking, that is what Mother says.”

“You don’t kiss boys?”

“No, she said, and looked down the street. I couldn’t tell if she was looking worriedly for someone or just ready to move on home. I followed her eyes down the road and saw nothing. She then turned back to me and said, “It only leads to sin is what Mother says.”

We walked the rest of the way home in total silence, I about three paces behind her trying to keep up with her long, scrawny legs, and she keeping her eyes fixed on the road.

When we arrived home in the mid afternoon, we had to fend for ourselves like we always did. Father and Mother worked late, and the twins had choir practice up at church. We were on our own until supper.

“Now go inside and do your chores, I have to clean the shed out back.”

“Why?”

“Because that is my chore this week silly. Don’t you need to pick up the kitchen?”

“No, clean Sandy’s box.”

“Oh. Well, go along inside and I will find you later.”

When I opened the door, I dropped my heavy red bag to the floor and walked to the kitchen. Sandy sat on the countertop meowing her little gray head off. I fed her. Then I went to her box and clumsily scraped its contents into a clean, white trash bag. When Sandy was finished eating she ran out through the kitty door and into the back yard.

“Sandy!” I yelled. “Sandy get back here! Where are you going?”

I ran to the door, unlocked it and stood in the doorway trying to locate her silky gray fur in the tall green grass.

I saw her move towards the shed, seemingly assuming she was unnoticed. She explored the overgrown, tall grass like a jungle cat. I began to creep up behind her slowly but surely trying to play with her. As Sandy approached the side of the shed I was crouching by the shed door. I took a deep, quiet breath as I was about to pounce out around the corner when I heard an unmistakable giggling.

“What the…” I whispered. I stood quietly not moving a muscle. I heard it again, but this time there was someone else giggling too. I gently pulled the lever and let the door creak open.

Mary was lying on her back still in her uniform. A boy was kissing her neck and tickling her waist. My mouth dropped to the dirt floor like an iron anchor. Without hesitation and with comfortable practice, the boy undid Mary’s blouse and moved his hand inside, while shifting his kisses to her lips. I couldn’t help but to yell. I took off towards the kitchen door in a haze, my red eyes pouring.

“Kate!” I heard her yell. “Kate, come back!” The wind soared and deafened my ears while her voice grew softer and softer as I approached the door.

I slammed the door, bolted the lock and slid down to my knees, wiping my eyes with my hands and my hands with the carpet. I couldn’t move, so I just cried. Finally, I ran up to my room and didn’t emerge until dinner.

Later that night, Father proclaimed, “Let us pray.”

“Our Father,” he began, “who art in heaven.”

I opened my eyes like the first time and saw my father.

“Hallowed be thy name.”

I looked across the table to my mother.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”

I slowly, guilelessly shifted my eyes to my older twin sisters on the other side of the table.

“Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive those who trespass.”

I calmly turned my gaze to my sister, Mary.

“Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.”

I looked down at my hands resting in my lap. My naivety had vanished.

“For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory for ever and ever”

“Amen.”

I didn’t have to open my eyes this time because they were still open. I grabbed my fork and finished my dinner without a word.

Teeter, Totter

2010-09-01T14:55:00.005-05:00

The little boy made his way down the slide for the sixth time in a row. The slide was his favorite. When his mother took him to the park it was straight up the ladder and down the slide. Beating down on his pale canvas, the heavy sun colored his face red. Other children ran in circles around the playground in a frenzied game of freeze tag, with their parents watching from a picnic. He ran in circles around the slide, up the ladder, and back down again. He let himself go.

“Be careful up that ladder. Don’t fall. We don’t want to have to clean you up later if we don’t have to!” His mother yelled from her magazine on the bench. The boy’s mother liked the bench. Far away from the kitchen and the bills and the cleaning and the lonely, unmade bed. She was free from her regrets and the hauntingly happy memories that wrote themselves into every lyric playing in her headphones. He left her some three years before. Back when the winter cold started to sting her cheeks, and the cool autumn breeze left the door open, just in case. But now, she just read the magazine.

He used to set his briefcase on the floor by the counter and then proceed to untie his shoes, leaving them piled next to his work. His laces were always dirty and untied, like he bought them that way. She always had to put his shoes in the closet unless it was on Friday. Fridays were different because he wore tennis shoes on Friday. He would run upstairs to change so he could work on the yard. She didn’t mind cleaning up after him and even doing the cooking.

He couldn’t resist a salad followed by cheesy lasagna. She loved him through her selflessness, and she was selfless cause she loved him. He would leave a cup by the sink. Every time he brushed his teeth, he would refill the cup with fresh cold water and soak the brush until he brushed again. He couldn’t start the car without having his seatbelt firmly in place and he could never keep a fire burning. In the winter he would wear bright sweaters. Really bright sweaters. They were pink or they were purple or they were yellow. Or they had stripes or they had an argyle pattern. He would wear a navy blue tie under his cotton expressions and he would insist on popcorn laced around the Christmas tree.

Sometimes, in the tension between that fall and winter, she found herself in escalating arguments about the color of the curtains, or what day of the week they drank mimosas with the neighbors. He had to find something wrong in every word that was said.

“How do you know that’s what she meant? Maybe she was just having a bad day?” He started to pick at every word she said. All she wanted was to vent.

“Why are we out of towels? Did you not realize I put the dirty towels in their separate hamper for you?”

Did he not realize she did everything she could? This was however near the closing credits. He was planning on leaving just after the family Easter egg hunt.

The little boy climbed the rungs once again. He grabbed the rail to pull himself all the way back up to the top before screaming the whole way down the mirrored slide. This time, he turned around and suctioned his way back up with all his might. He scrambled to the top and sat on the ledge, dangling his untied, dirty-laced sneakers. They narrowly scraped the top step. He sat there in a daze, watching his mother as she fiddled with the radio and moved on to the paper. She looked up at her son on the slide and smiled. He smirked back and continued his daze, watching the pearly clouds drift past the sky’s blue.

“Hey,” called his mother as she strolled to the bottom of the slide. “Hello up there!” She cocked her head to the side and playfully threw her hand on her hip. “Psst!”

The boy turned around grinned down to his mother.

“What are you doing up there?”

“Sitting”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Well mister, what do you want to do?”

“I dunno.”

“How about the teeter-totter?”

“Ok, but I hate the teeter-totter?”

“What? Why? It is fun!”

“It is hard, and scary. What if I fall off and hurt my elbow or something? How about something else?”

The boy turned, pushed off the railing and slid down the slide as she drifted out of the way. “It is easy, I’ll show you.” She said. They ran hand in hand over to the wooden plank, one with glee and anticipation, the other with a hesitant, growing excitement.

“Just sit down here and hold on, ok? Hold still, so I can get on and I’ll show you.” She skipped to the other side and jumped on. “Ok, when you’re ready, push off, and I’ll come down to the ground. It’s easy.”

“But what if I fall? I don’t want to get up that high,” he whined.

“You have to! It is fun, I promise. You won’t fall.”

“I want to, but I am scared. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Come on, you can’t totter if you won’t teeter! Just push off!”

After a silent moment of uncertainty, the little boy pushed off with all the nervous might he could muster, propelling himself high into the air, hair fanning back then blowing over his closed eyes as he held on for dear life. He erupted with laughter as his mother teetered back down to the ground.

“Let’s go again!” he giggled. “Let’s go again.”

Row Craven

2008-12-05T13:19:00.002-06:00

here is the artist bio i mentioned. check out his myspace... myspace.com/rowcraven

Row Craven

Within the pining lyrics desperate for discernment, Row Craven is just trying to come to grips with love and pain. He brings a relational sincerity to the Nashville folk scene that includes inventive, corporate choruses and vivid lyrics that will slap the dentures straight from your mouth.

With a fresh sound and style of writing, Row Craven recently released his first full-length, self-titled record. Driven by acoustic guitars, fervent strings and poetic lyrics, Row Craven is an honest album about finding the hope hidden in the ‘proverbial pain.’ “Most of the record deals with disappointment, but my biggest desire is to encourage people and let them connect with my experiences. I hope they hear certain things and say ‘he's been through the same thing I've been through.’”

Row Craven gets his distinct sound and style from southern Georgia, but recently moved up to Nashville to more avidly pursue his music. Hitting local spots like The Basement, JJ’s Coffee Shop and the 12 South Tap Room, Mr. Craven is putting on his plaid shirt, leather boots and strumming his metrical melodies.

Row Craven’s new album was recorded in many locations in the south and has come together into quite the compelling narrative. Songs like “Curtains” will ignite remonstration with its chanting melody, while the strings and piano on “Ashes Over Spruce Knob” will rip your heart out quite literally. “Even though a lot of these songs are sad, I feel there is a lot of hope in the sadness,” Mr. Craven remarks. This record will hold your hand through any rainy day, so pick it up at Grimey’s.

hello, and thank you for joining me...

2008-12-04T22:26:00.004-06:00

my dearest loves (well, some of you that is (probably only 2 of you that is)),

i have had a blog for almost 2 (dos) months now and have yet to post anything. i thought having a blog would be a good (bien) place to share poetry, songs, opinions, ramblings, remedies, short stories, ideas and so on and again, but it has served as a mental suspension of thought. as i type, i am not thinking a thing.

i initially write for my own gratification and conscience, but i post for feedback and to force people (as much as i can online) to read and appreciate my opinions and commentary. that being said, please leave a note constructively or de-constructively criticizing my consonants, which aren't vowels, which are words and sentences and paragraphs, which are some sort of contemplative conclusions about life and love and why.

i go to belmont and know everything music business, as well as writing artist bios. so... i delectably wrote a bio for my friend richie, aka row craven. if i can figure out how to cut and paste on this lame blog that won't let me cut and paste, i will post it

gracias,

michael