Danny and Steve

                As this is a blog that I post online and share through social media, I’m sure there is a high expectation that I talk about Pokémon Go. I’ll just say this on the matter: it’s fun and it gets you out exercising without you really noticing. If you want more of my thoughts on the matter, just check my twitter. On with the blog!

                Everything is in a state of perpetual flux. Just as things are going smoothly, something will happen that shakes things up. That jars reality. Things will stay rocky for a while, but eventually it will smooth out again.

                That’s how life works. It’s how we expect things to go. What we don’t expect is the involvement of an especially sheltered angel who “just wants to help”.

                I had just found out I was behind on literally all of my bills due to some clerical error, my girlfriend had decided to leave, and the servers were down on my favourite game. I couldn’t see how things could get worse.

                Then a bright light and a screeching sound shattered three of my windows and cracked my tv.

                Plus the sound really hurt my ears. Like, a lot.

                Out of the bright, white light, stepped a figure. Normally angels appear as majestic beings, with flowing locks, and the bodies of athletes. This one looked like a dude named Steve.

                “Hey, I’m, uh, your guardian angel? Yeah, that’s it. Anyway, the name’s Steve. Nice to meetcha,” he said, extending his hand.

                Bewildered, I grabbed his hand, “I’m Dan, but, you—um, you would know that?”

                Steve the angel still had not let go of my hand and began dragging me around the mess of my living room. “Geez Dan, would it kill you to clean up a little? I know your life sucks, but this glass is dangerous!” He snapped the fingers of his free hand, and the shattered glass flew off the ground and back into the window panes. The cracks were still visible, and somehow the one on the TV had grown. He led me to an armchair, where he finally released my hand. He gestured for me to sit, and once I had, sat on the floor in front of me.

                “Uh,” I began.

                “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” Steve said consolingly, I think, but it sounded more condescending than anything else. “Things are kind of a mess right now, aren’t they? Sucks the big one. I been there. Think I was always a lowly guardian angel? Think I always went by Steve? No, at one time I had full, luscious hair, and went by the dignified name of Stefanos. I got to hang out with the archangels! But then, things kinda fell apart for me—wasn’t any of my fault, of course!” He reached up and put his hand on my knee, “You’re gonna get through this, Dave.”

                “My name’s Dan, and I—“

                “Right, right, Dan. You are going to be good, Dan, you got me by your side!” Steve the angel smiled beatifically, and then fell to his side. “Oh, who am I kidding? Look at me, Dave, look at me!” My corrections went unnoticed this time. “I’m a huge mess! I’ve lost my hair, I lost my girl! And now I’m stuck here, slummin’ it with you lot! I used to be somebody, Davey boy! I was there when the walls of Jericho fell; I stopped the destruction of Nineveh! But then, when I was supposed to go to some John guy with a prophecy, I went to the wrong guy. I really screwed the pooch there, Danny-san. Because I told the wrong John, the prophecy got all messed up. I mean, Wormwood? What is that even supposed to mean? That’s when things really started to go sour on me. The other angels started calling me Steve, and not inviting me out. Can you imagine being called Steve for two thousand years? It was pure he—well, not that, obviously.” Steve started gently crying into my carpet.

                “Yes, well, that is quite terrible. I’m sure you did nothing at all to earn that scorn, there were probably loads of people named ‘John’ back then.” I said, feeling oddly compelled to comfort the angel.

                The gentle sniffling stopped, and Steven raised his head, “You think?”

                “Uh, yeah, yeah I do. I mean, I would’ve assumed to take it Jesus’s friend John too, not some other one.”

                “Yeah, the one Jesus knew was the right one… I just couldn’t remember what he looked like. I was pretty high on life at the time. Oh, life is this special kinda drug thing that we angels have. Anyways, so I went and put up some posters, and gave the prophecy to the first John who came. How was I to know there was more than one?” Steve shook his head ruefully, “After that is when I got demoted to guardian angel. At first I was assigned some important people like Joan of Arc, Pope Benedict VI, among others, but after they all got murdered when I wasn’t paying attention, I got demoted again to looking after people who weren’t important. Like you, Danny!”

                I suddenly stood up: “I need tea.” I didn’t actually want tea, I hadn’t drunk tea by choice in years, but I walked into my kitchen and turn the kettle on. What had my life become? How had my life become so messed up that heaven’s least reliable angel had come to have a chat? The kettle begun whistling, so I splashed some water into a mug and added rum.

                “Listen, Steve,” I said as I walked back into the living room, “I think we should have a chat.” Steve had taken his shirt and shoes off, and was watching rugby with his feet on my coffee table. “I think it’s great that you came to see me and all, but I think I’ll handle this. Ya know, upon reflection, I was probably the cause of most of my problems.  Thanks for those stories; they really helped me clear some stuff up.”

                “What do you mean?” Steve asked.

                “Well, your stories. You told me them to show me that I had to take responsibility for my actions. How everything that’s going on in my life was because of something I have done, in a way.”

                Steve looked puzzled, “Not what I was going for, but you’re saying that I’ve helped? That I have fulfilled my duties as a guardian angel?”

                “I guess so?” I answered with a shrug.

                Steve stood and stretched, “Awesome, I’m gonna head out and catch the rest of this game someplace nicer.” With that, he disappeared in that blinding white light again, freshly shattering my windows. On the positive side, somehow the TV had fixed itself.

                In reflection, I don’t think Steve had taken the same lesson from his stories as I had. 

I am here to listen and speak

Okay, so it's been a long time since I've written anything resembling a parable, so please bear with this one. I feel like it more hits the message right on the head rather gently guiding. Like I said, it's been a while.                 

A man stood on the corner of a great intersection, shouting out his truths for all passing by to hear. He did this every day, and every day people grew more and more annoyed with the man.

                “Can’t you people see what’s going on with the world? It’s falling apart! People are killin’ each other!” He would shout. “Twelve people were killed last night in our city alone! It’s time for things to change!”

                And yet for all his yelling, nothing changed. Every day he went out and yelled, and every day people grew more annoyed, until one day something happened.

                When the man arrived at his corner, he found another already standing there.

                “Who are you? What are you doing? Every day I come to this corner and I try to pull the wool from the people’s eyes!” The man was shaking.

                The stranger smiled, “I am one of the people, and I am here to listen and speak.”

                The man was confused, never before had someone wished to speak with him. “Why? Why would you want to speak with me? No one has ever come to speak with me before.”

                “I came to speak with you simply to ask questions. Every day you come out here and you shout your truths from this corner, and yet it has no effect. How does that make you feel?”

                The man paused. “It makes me upset. I try all I can to make the world better, and yet nothing happens. I do everything and nothing changes!”

                “Are you truly doing everything?”

                “Yes! Of course I am! I put the truth out there, what more could I possibly do?”

                The stranger smiled with sadness in his eyes. “What more could you possibly do? You can lead and teach by your actions. Instead you try to lead and teach by berating and bludgeoning. Whenever has yelling created change better than action?”

                The man was outraged, “How am I not in action? Every day I come out here, and I act! I try, every day I try to change the world by my actions!”

                “What are you actions?”

                “MY ACTIONS? My actions—they’re,” the man was sputtering, and his eyes began to lose their fervour. “My yelling is my action. It’s really not much is it?”

                The stranger reached out and grasped the man’s shoulder. “Yelling by itself is mere noise my friend. Telling people the truth is good, yes, but yelling out the truth from a corner does nothing. Look at all the people. All the cars. They walk over your truths, they drive over your words. Your truth does nothing here because it dies as soon as it leaves your lips.” The stranger smiled sadly, “I was once you, yelling out my truths, forcing my voice to be heard, but it did naught. So one day, with my voice gone from my yelling, I came across a group of youth trying to help a bruised and bloodied friend. Normally I would’ve ignored them, crossed the street and pretended not to see. But I was so tired of not being able to change the world that I stopped and helped these kids. I helped them get their friend to a hospital, and through that action I saved a life. I had finally done something positive in the world. I still go out and talk with people. I still use my words to change the world, but I no longer shout. All my shouting did, was drown itself out.”

                The man had tears forming, “I’ve grown so bitter and resentful of the world. I get mad when I go home because the world isn’t changing faster. But it’s me, isn’t it? I’m the one who isn’t changing? I get mad at all the hate in the world, but all I’m doing is adding to it, aren’t I? I’m magnifying the hate by bringing all this attention to it. Oh God,” the man sunk to his knees. “I’ve been doing this all wrong. I’m not making anything better. Please, help me. Show me how to help others as you have helped me!” But when the man looked up, the stranger was gone, and he was all alone on the corner. 

Seeing Beauty Again

                I used to write stories. Great epics, touching dramas, cute romances, wondrous fairy tales, and terrifying thrillers. Now I just—no, no. That’s not right. The pencil scratches out the words, the eraser long since used up.

                I begin again: I used to write wonders and epics. Fairy Tales and Ghost stories. Now I write bare truths and hidden lies. I smile. This was better. This was more honest. I used to let my imagination guide my words. Hidden glimpses of potential would fuel my words, as they slowly, magically, perfectly, fit together to form sentences, and those sentences into paragraphs, and those onto stories. Now I—what am I now? I pause. Hand frozen hovering over the paper as my mind tries to puzzle out the answer. I have not written a parable, a poem, a story, anything other than unwanted truths in ages. Am I still the writer I once was? Can I still craft a tale that can make all who hear it weep? Or have I become bound to writing only that which triggers a different primal response?

                I used to write the truths people didn’t want to see or hear, but in a way that made people think and reconsider; now I write them in the open. Hmm. That sounds better. Almost poetic.

                I stand and stretch. Pulling at that knot buried deep in my spine. If you’re a writer, you know the one. The one that is always there, pulling at your soul as if it is trying to drag you somewhere you don’t want to go. Like a mother pulling a petulant child towards some hated activity. I steadfastly ignore it; I don’t want to see the truths it tries to make me see. Flexing my tired fingers, I stare out the window. I do this often to remind myself that there is beauty in the world, but with each passing day it becomes harder to convince myself of that. Where there was once life, now ashes float.

                Words once came easy to me. I could sit and write a short story in an hour, given an hour and half I could write a story that moved people, that made people feel what I wanted them to feel. Now it takes me that long to bang out a mediocre paragraph. My soul was once that of a poet. My words sang and danced! They shouted to the very heavens to tempt God! They could paint a picture to rival the works of the masters! And now my soul is buried under a thousand other titles: friend family mentor worker confidante problem solver coach best friend activist freelancer YouTuber journalist. Down near the bottom of this infinite list lays: writer and poet. Two of my greatest loves, sacrificed for what reason?

                I sat and begin to write again. Truths are easier to see when they fly in the face, yet harder to accept. A truth that hits you in the face becomes a nuisance, a truth that you find in the words of a story though? That truth becomes precious. That truth becomes something that you have earned, and through earning it, you protect it.

                I pause and reflect upon my own words. If I constantly hand out the truth for free, why would people care? I can see the evidence of that every day. People are constantly handed truths that they don’t want, and so they ignore them. From smoking to violence, when people are given the truth they ignore it. So why have I started handing out the truth? When did I turn from an artist to a man shouting on the corners? All my own morals, all my own truths, I learned from stories. I learned integrity from Tolkien, I learned perseverance from Rowling, logic from Doyle, I learned how to lead from Kirk and Picard, I learned faith from Herbert. If I learned from stories, why would I try to impart lessons through anything else?

                I have become a mockery unto myself, my pencil writes, I have tossed away the lessons from my past, and like many fools before me, I have tried to attack the ocean of ignorance, instead of bridging it. I know that it doesn’t work, and yet I try. “Surely if I were to throw enough truths down, I will be able to stand upon them and bury the ignorance!” And, like everything that gets thrown into the ocean, the waves merely bury it, never to be seen again.

                There is a tale that the Emperor Caligula once ordered his troops to attack the sea, and then collect seashells as proof of his great victory. Many people laugh at this, and it adds to his legendary levels of crazy—the story is false however. Even Caligula was smart enough to know attacking the sea does nothing. As a student of history, I should’ve recognized that I was making that mistake.

                The sea will endure long past my feeble attempts to bury it, and in my attempts to bury it, it shall consume me and leave me to a watery grave. So is true with my writing. If I continually strike at the ignorance, attempt to bury it with my truths, I shall become buried by the ignorance. But if I bridge it, if I allow people to find the truths for themselves, we can all cross the ignorance safely. Truth is always in the guise of a story, and a good story can change the world.

                I lay my pencil down beside the paper. Words scramble across it in a mad dash, sentences struck out, words left unfinished only to be replaced by others. I stare at the madness in front of me, these scribbles filled with meaning, and I see beauty again.