Post series: A Story In Song (Page 1 of 3)

A Story In Song (The End)

March 10, 2017 / danburi777 / 0 Comments

This is post 11 of 11 in the series “A Story In Song”

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly.

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 10 reflects Jesus’ words to one of the criminals hanging on the cross next to him, “This day you will be with Me in paradise.”)

This is the final part. If you missed Part 1 through Part 10, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

The End

Mike knelt at the gravesite and kissed his fingers. The sun continued to shine brightly. It had been a year since Chris’ passing. It had felt like a lifetime. He placed two fingers on the stone and whispered, “I love you.”

As he rose to his feet, Lisa handed him the handkerchief she was holding. Mike wiped his tears away and thanked her.

“You think that’s it?” Lisa asked, putting the handkerchief back into her purse.

“What’s it?”

“Do you think this is the last one?” She pulled the folded blog back out of her purse.

Mike stood in silence for a minute, pondering as if Lisa had asked the meaning of life, or the meaning of death, for that matter.

“I’m afraid so,” Mike finally replied. “It’s finished. That’s it. Isn’t that what the last blog said?” Lisa unfolded the blog and read the last paragraph aloud again.

So as I am stuck in traffic that’s moving slower than I can walk, I realize that how I react to unforeseen problems, what I do each moment, what I even spend my time thinking about, they all greatly impact my character and my life’s direction. Life’s simple moments are not wasted and unimportant. They are the foundations that shape our lives. They are the formational moments, one added upon another. At least that’s how I see things. But what do I know? One thing’s for sure, I guess—it’s finished. That’s all I have to say. Thanks for reading.

She finished the final sentence with a question mark that wasn’t on the paper as if to question whether Chris actually cared if anyone read his blog or to question whether she could accept they were finished.

“It is finished, isn’t it?” she exhaled.

“It looks that way. I hope so at least. I don’t know if I can handle any more. Constantly checking back to the website. The disappointment that comes when there’s nothing new posted. Not to mention the range of emotions I face when reading those blogs.”

Mike would have previously hesitated to say this, fearing that his words would hurt Lisa or that she would think it meant he didn’t love their son. He no longer found himself able to worry about those things. He thought what he thought. He didn’t want to read the esoteric words of his deceased son any longer.

“I’ll miss them,” was Lisa’s response. “I found them cathartic.”

“I know.”

Mike reached over to give Lisa a hug. They embraced at their son’s grave for a minute. Then, with all the love and sorrow and time the two of them had experienced together, Mike kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll always love you both.”

He turned and walked back down the path from where he came. Lisa watched him follow the path as it curved out of sight behind a grove of trees.

“Me too.”

Lisa sat down on the grass. She took her son’s final blog and put it underneath the candle, which continued to burn protected from the wind and elements by its glass casing.

“Me too,” she repeated.

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)

March 9, 2017 / danburi777 / 0 Comments

This is post 10 of 11 in the series “A Story In Song”

A Story In Song (Part 1—Tom Waits)
A Story In Song (Part 2—Kings of Leon)
A Story In Song (Part 3—Ben Harper)
A Story In Song (Part 4—Amos Lee)
A Story In Song (Part 5—Blind Pilot)
A Story In Song (Part 6—Right Away, Great Captain!)
A Story In Song (Part 7—Amos Lee)
A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)
A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)
A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)
A Story In Song (The End)

If you missed Part 1 through Part 9, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 10

Things went on like that for two months. Mike kept thinking Lisa would return. He would arrive home from work every day expecting to see her on the front porch, but she would never be there. He would turn on the television for company and with every creak of the wind outside or slam of a car door down the street, Mike’s ears would perk up in anticipation. Lisa would never arrive, but the alcohol would. He was numb, and the alcohol allowed him to actually feel; at least that’s what he convinced himself.

In actuality, he was too scared to feel anything anymore, so he ran to the bottle to hide. It was a safe and comfortable place. Lisa sat across town in a similar fashion, not running to alcohol, but she hid in a host of other things. She continued to “investigate” her son’s death. She made slideshow montages of her son’s life. She drowned in her sorrows and lost touch with most everyone near and dear to her. She fell into a cloistered routine that alienated her from everyone she ever knew. No one could understand her pain and her sadness, so she stewed alone amidst sepia photographs. In the end, both Mike and Lisa were grasping for lifelines wherever they could find them.

They would speak occasionally over the phone, but as the days wore on Lisa became more distant and Mike began to give up hope that they could return to any normal life together. They met up for coffee once. It was clear to Mike that Lisa was simply checking up on him to make sure he still cared about Chris, and it was clear to Lisa that Mike was just wondering when she would move on and they would get back together. The conversation stagnated quickly as they just spoke about the weather and the latest news.

Not long after that, Mike cut back on his drinking, slowly at first until eventually he cut booze out completely. His had been a two-month bender on the train tracks of a functioning alcoholic. Mike missed drowning his sorrows at first, but soon he felt better. He found solace in cold winter walks and cups of tea by the fireside. Moving on from his son was never something he’d wanted, but it was something he was callously forced to face. In reality, he didn’t move on, he simply kept moving. He found he would sink into a desolate despair if he stopped, or he would lean heavily on alcohol, so he just kept moving. It wasn’t so much that he moved on from his son, as it was that he was just forced to continue. He was forced to face a similar reality in his marriage.

It was only a few days after cutting his drinking that he found Chris’ latest blog. Mike had stopped checking back to the blog on a daily basis. He found this one had been posted for three days already.

“If my savior comes, will you let him know I’ve gone away for to save my soul.”

December 15^th

I watched a young woman the other day who was completely distraught over her lost keys. She was riffling through her purse and frantically checking her pockets. As I sat at a café across the street, I could hear her mumbling things to herself not so quietly. How can you be so stupid? What the hell is wrong with you? You ALWAYS do this? You’re going to be late; serves you right. I smirked as I watched her because I could see what she couldn’t.

The keys, the ones for which she had been frantically searching, were sitting right in front of her just on the other side of the curb. I quickly realized that as she was overwrought on the sidewalk, she was unable to see the keys, which were gently hidden wedged up against the curb. I walked across the street and handed her the keys.

Maybe this is how we all live our lives. Maybe what we need is right in front of us, if we’ll only take a moment to actually look. Like Peter Leavitt’s Rule of 48, maybe it’s not just scientists that are blind; maybe we’re all blind. What if the happiness we’ve always wanted, our own personal heaven in this cruel world, is actually all around us? What if our bliss, our utopia as a society, is in fact right here in front of us, pent up in the subtleties of life? Maybe we just have to peek over the edge of that curb.

Mike sat momentarily before grabbing his jacket and winter hat. He waded out into the cold winter air. He could see his breath before him. The night was peaceful with the thinnest layer of snow blanketing the earth. Soon the snow would accumulate into larger snow banks, and the cold nights would drag on well into the new year, but for now, on this night, there was only a thin cover of fresh snow.

Mike wandered the streets longer than normal for how cold it was. He found the temperature stimulating. It acted as a cardiac shock to remind him that despite the pain, he was still alive; he could still feel through the fog of sorrow. There wasn’t another soul out that night as Mike wandered the neighborhoods. The stillness seemed to call him in deeper as he walked. It was over an hour before Mike found himself back at his front door staring at the massive oak tree in their front yard, exhausted, quiet, and alone.

Check back soon for the next section of the story.

The Longer I Run (Lyrics)

Peter Bradley Adams

When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine
I miss the life that I left behind
But when I hear the sound of the blackbirds cry
I know I left in the nick of time

Well this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand
And leave me lost in a far off land
So let me ride the wind til I don’t look back
Forget the life that I almost had

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Tell my brother please not to look for me
I ain’t the man that I used to be
But if my savior comes could you let him know
I’ve gone away for to save my soul

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Losing again

The longer I run
I’m losing again
Losing again

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)

March 8, 2017 / danburi777 / 1 Comment

This is post 9 of 11 in the series “A Story In Song”

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 9 reflects Jesus’ prayer, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”)

If you missed Part 1 through Part 8, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 9

Lisa squeezed Mike’s hand as he bent over to light the candle sitting at the base of the grave. The wind momentarily died down as if to assist.

“We raised a good son,” Lisa whispered.

“You were a good mother,” he replied. “You cared for him like a saint. You gave him everything.”

Lisa smiled as if to acknowledge her appreciation of the kind words. Her thoughts wandered, and her eyes drifted across the graves that stretched out before her. A family gathered in the distance. The family was quite large, maybe eight adults and another ten children or so. One of the adults was an elderly man. They each carried flowers and trinkets, one by one placing them on the ground. A visit to their grandmother on the anniversary of her death, Lisa thought.

“I’m sorry I had to leave,” Lisa lamented.

“I know,” Mike replied. “Me too.”

They both stood peacefully holding the silence.

After what felt like years after Chris’ death, but in actuality was less than five months, Lisa moved out. She could not take the reminders. Every room in the house, the cars they drove, the food they ate, and Mike, poor Mike, they all reminded her of Chris. She couldn’t take it. The sorrow came in waves with each reminder. So with little fanfare, Lisa told Mike she would be moving out at the end of the week.

Mike half-heartedly protested. He didn’t want her to leave. In fact, he longed for her to stay. He hoped they would be able to rebuild a life together, some fraction of the marriage they once had. He knew that this was no longer in the cards, though. Lisa had moved out of the house mentally months ago. While her physical absence would certainly add to the agony, he had been staring down the barrel of this reality for quite some time.

When Lisa left later that week, she kissed Mike goodbye on the cheek. Both of them fought back tears as they found themselves at a loss for words. What was there to say?

Lisa reached into her purse and handed him a folded sheet of paper. Mike instantly knew it was a new post from their son. Lisa liked to print out each entry.

“I love you,” she said as Mike accepted the blog from her.

“I love you too,” Mike replied.

Lisa collected her suitcase and turned to go out the front door. Mike sat in disbelief on the couch at the front of the house. He was numb from the agony of it all. He unfolded the paper in his hands. A blog from Chris hadn’t appeared in quite a while.

“Please don’t you leave me, I feel so useless down here with no one to love though I’ve looked everywhere.”

October 24^th

Everyone wants to love and be loved. We often look for the love of others to save us. This is not a new concept. I don’t purport to be providing deep insight into the world. It has been written about since the time of the ancient thinkers. Sophocles knew that love is the only freedom from the weight and pain of life.

While it may not be a new concept, it is quite an astounding one, both in its simplicity and in its difficulty to grasp in our every day lives. Each of us yearns to love and be loved, yet we constantly push that love away when it approaches. We’re afraid to be vulnerable. We are our own persecutors. We are crushed only by the mountains we create. Our need for love is our collective search as humans, it is common to us all. Our constant failure to accept love is because of our own arrogance, addictions, pride, and fear; this failure is the fastening of our hands and feet to the fate of our misery. Maybe Sophocles was right thousands of years ago, we are the sole cause of our adversities.

Mike felt the cynicism building up inside of him. His immediate thought was that his son, his dead son, was naïve. He couldn’t fight the immediate reproach he felt. It washed over him like dirty dishwater. His wife whom he loved dearly had just walked out of his life because the son he missed and loved deeply was no longer with them; because he knew deep down that she thought he didn’t love his son enough because of the way Mike mourned his death. Now he felt as if his son were judging him from beyond the grave. Mike understood the absurdity of the feelings that were rushing over him, but that’s the irony of feelings. They tend to control much of what a man does, but they are rooted in emotional reaction, not logic.

Yet Mike’s feelings, which were once sadness and loneliness before his wife walked out their front door, were now anger. After that day, Mike began covering his feelings of loneliness with anger. It didn’t take long at that point for Mike to cover his feelings of anger with alcohol. He would go to the cupboard for the whiskey and drink until he couldn’t feel a thing. Love, sadness, loneliness, anger, they were gone, awash in a sea of whiskey.

Check out Part 10 of “The Gravesite.”

Work Me Lord (Lyrics)

Janis Joplin

Work me Lord, work me Lord.
Please don’t you leave me,
I feel so useless down here
With no one to love
Though I’ve looked everywhere
And I can’t find me anybody to love,
To feel my care.

So ah work me Lord, whoa use me Lord,
Don’t you know how hard it is
Trying to live all alone.
Every day I keep trying to move forward,
But something is driving me, oh, back,
Honey, something’s trying to hold on to me,
To my way of life.

So don’t you forget me down here, Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
Ah, ah, don’t you forget me, Lord.
Well I don’t think I’m any very special
Kind of person down here, I know better,
But I don’t think you’re gonna find anybody,
Not anybody who could say that they tried like I tried,
The worst you can say all about me
Is that I’m never satisfied. Whoa.

Whoa, oh, oh, work me Lord, hmm, use me Lord,
Please, honey, don’t you leave me,
I feel so useless down here.
I can’t find me anybody to love me
And I’ve looked around,
I’ve looked everywhere, everywhere
And I can’t find me anyone to love,
To feel my care.

So honey don’t you go and leave me, Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no,
Honey, don’t you go off and leave me, Lord.
Can’t I show you how hard it is
Trying to live when you’re all alone.
Everyday I keep pushing,
Keep trying to move forward
But something is driving me, oh, back,
And something’s trying to hold on to me,
To my way of life, why.

Oh please, please, oh don’t you go and
Forget me down here, don’t forget me, Lord.
I think that maybe you can ease me,
Maybe I can help you, said uh whoa,
Oh please, please, don’t you go and leave me Lord,
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, whoa, whoa please,
Hmm please, don’t you leave me, Lord.

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A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)

March 7, 2017 / danburi777 / 1 Comment

This is post 8 of 11 in the series “A Story In Song”

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 8 reflects Jesus’ prayer, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”)

If you missed Part 1 through Part 7, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 8

The weeks that followed Mike’s discovery were when everything finally drifted apart. Mike left work early that day and found Lisa at the computer again. She was reading a new blog written by her deceased son. She had a sad yet wistful look in her eyes. Mike crouched down next to her and grabbed her hands in his.

“Honey, I found out where the new posts are coming from.”

Mike then went on to explain what he learned from his coworker. He had called the company himself later in the day and was able to guilt the poor customer service rep on the other side to give him more information. Chris had contacted them via email over a year ago and paid the minimum fee for ten blog posts. The representative said she could lose her job for sharing the information. Mike thanked her, telling her that she was giving peace to the parents of a dead son.

Lisa’s eyes were hollow by the time Mike finished. The wistful glint was gone. The sadness had darkened. Her eyes were wet, but tears were not coming. She got up and walked upstairs past her husband.

Mike stood in front of the computer and then sank into the chair. Like a building that had just imploded, his knees broke, then his waist, then his shoulders, and finally his head sank into his hands. Mike wept uncontrollably in that chair. He had lost a son, and he knew he was losing a wife. The life he knew was crumbling before his eyes.

As Mike’s head pounded from crying, he looked blankly at the computer. Chris’ new post that Lisa had been reading was still on the screen.

“That you never saw the signs, that you never lost your grip. Oh, come on now, that’s such a childish claim. Now I wear the brand of traitor. Don’t it seem a bit absurd.”

August 15^th

We can only be who we are. I’m not sure I believe that we have a calling, each of us. The closest I can come to buying this is that we are meant to be who we are. I guess you could say I am “called” to be me, no one else, no more and no less. The most forsaken are those who fail to know who they are, or even worse, know it but fail to be it. If we are true to ourselves, we should never feel forsaken by anyone; we should never feel inadequate. This concept is nothing new. Both Polonius and Theodor Geisel said it long before me, yet we have an incredibly difficult time doing it. Be yourself, no one else. That’s all anyone can expect of you. That’s all you should expect of yourself.

Mike found himself beginning to hate each of Chris’ blog posts more and more. He missed his wife and found himself beginning to resent the fact that these blogs were driving them apart. In reality, each post was really only a conduit for the pain and distraction they both felt. Tragedy changes people, especially when that tragedy involves your own child.

As the days passed, Mike could see Lisa drifting away with every passing moment. There seemed to be nothing he could say that allowed them to reconnect. The distance between them was becoming insurmountable.

“How can you appear so calm?” Lisa asked one Sunday morning as Mike was sitting at the kitchen table with his coffee and reading the newspaper. Her question was posed with a sense of desperate longing, a need to understand how Mike did it, as if he had some undisclosed secret. There wasn’t a hint of disdain or judgment in her voice.

“Lisa, I’ve learned a lot of things through this terrible experience. One of those things is that everyone handles sorrow differently. Everyone mourns in his own way. What you see as calm is just me grasping for a semblance of normalcy.”

Lisa didn’t hear him. She continued with another question. “Why did you have to show me that website? Why did you have to confirm Chris’ death? Out of all people, why did it have to be you that finished it?”

Mike sighed. Taking a long drink of his coffee, he thought for a minute. “I’ve seen you struggling, honey. I’ve seen you flailing in despair. I wanted us to move on together. I wanted us to meet this head on together.”

“I don’t want to just move on, Mike. I can’t move on.”

Lisa grabbed the whistling teapot from the stove and filled her mug. “You just said it yourself—we each mourn differently. Why couldn’t you let me mourn? Why couldn’t you let me hold on to the hope of our son being alive? You took him from me again.”

Check out Part 9 of “The Gravesite.”

Lesson Learned (Lyrics)

Ray LaMontagne

Well the truth it fell so heavy
Like a hammer through the room
That I could choose another over her
You always said I was an actor, baby
Guess in truth you thought me just amateur

That you never saw the signs
That you never lost your grip
Oh, come on now
That’s such a childish claim
Now I wear the brand of traitor
Don’t it seem a bit absurd
When it’s clear I was so obviously framed
When it’s clear I was so obviously framed

Now you act so surprised
To hear what you already know
And all you really had to do was ask
I’d have told you straight away
All those lies were truth
And all that was false was fact

Now you hold me close and hard
But I was like a statue at most
Refusing to acknowledge you’d been hurt
Now you’re clawing at my throat
And you’re crying all is lost
But your tears they felt so hot upon my shirt
But your tears they felt so hot upon my shirt

Well the truth it fell so heavy
Like a hammer through the room
That I could choose another over her
You always said I was an actor, baby
Guess in truth you thought me just amateur

Was it you who told me once
Now looking back it seems surreal
That all our mistakes are merely grist for the mill
So why is it now after I had my fill
Would you steal from me the sorrow that I’ve earned
Shall we call this a lesson learned?
Shall we call this a lesson learned?

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Post series: A Story In Song (Page 1 of 3)

A Story In Song (The End)

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

The End

A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 10

The Longer I Run (Lyrics)

Peter Bradley Adams

A Story In Song (Part 9—Janis Joplin)

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 9

Work Me Lord (Lyrics)

Janis Joplin

A Story In Song (Part 8—Ray LaMontagne)

The Gravesite

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 8

Lesson Learned (Lyrics)

Ray LaMontagne

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