Protecting Your Assets

Or, Protect Your Neck

In my former post I began describing my pilgrimage back into the inner, outer, real and imagined world(s) of writing. That return was, as I described, largely inspired by the renewing of my mind in regards to writing and art in general, and I described it as freeing. And it is.

Just like all things good and especially liberating, there is in instinct to protect it once acquired. To guard it's safekeeping and devote oneself to it's propagation, if it's really that important. And this is. So I'm not surprised that I am holding my newfound epiphanies close to the breast, savagely, as if I possess the incandescent spark of life itself. I've also developed some paranoia, but more on that later.

Oral Quiz Question: What Are the Necessary Conditions for... Writing?

I am realizing that there are conditions for my writing life that I must adhere to if I am going to at all. As time moves on, a clearer vision emerges of what these might be, but I will try to sketch out what has been realized thus far. As a quick note, and I say this with a deep twinge of sorrow, I have judged other writers/artists in the past for needing their unique, perhaps idiosyncratic, pre-conditions. Ancora imparo...

On Non-Existent Writer's Block

My instructor for my WR402 class, Writing Stories, had this to say about writer's block:

"I believe we only suffer from writer's block when we try to write to some preconceived standard. We want this scene to be the perfect one for this place in the story. We want the words to sing.

The cure is, just write what comes, with the assurance that if it's not right, you can throw it away, if it doesn't sing you can revise until it does.

Confidence in your ability to rethink and revise trumps writer's block every time. And the way to get that confidence is to practice the craft until it comes. "

That's his font too, which over time I have come to associate with really good advice and excellent writing (and a 97/100 on my first assignment that has eclipsed his thousands of compliments.) Whenever I write now, I put that text, which I saved into a word document, on the screen as well and glance at it when I feel discouraged, which is often. It is the above-mentioned "pre-conceived standards" that obstruct the will of my voice. It is those which I am trying to overcome, and will.

Writer-friend Jennifer Spiegel offered this:

"it should be called "Non-writer's Block." Sure, normal, nonwriting folk sometimes don't know what to write. Those who write write. When stumped, which happens, they write themselves out of the corner. Just keep at it, even if it's not good. Revision is the real art, right? So, write if it's bad. Then, go back and clean it up. It's not that it's laziness. It's that it's unwriterly!"

One word: amen, then.

On One Condition... or Two

My first condition is: away with preconceived standards. This is simple enough, but has several manifestations. If i had to stratify them, and if I had to be honest, I would say they go in an order such as this:

• Standards of genius: if I can't be Shakespeare, why try at all?
• Standards of form: if each sentence is not a stand-alone poem, it is not worthy.
• Religious standards: this is HUGE, and if I were not being honest, I would put this standard first on my list. But I'm being honest, remember? The clout of this standard is almost entirely self-generated, resulting from my own truncated version of how we should live vs. any imposition from others. Though whatever percentage is not self-imposed, though small, does come from those authors and teachers within my tradition who were, eh ehm, wrong, on the subject. Though I never had to believe them, did I?
• Familial standards: Do my in-laws know I know the F word? I can't write about my mother, what would become of Christmas?

There are more, I am sure. And those are only sub-points!

Borrowing a Little from Feminism and Burning the Rest

Virginia Woolf, great-writer and feminist-extraordinaire said that in order to write, a woman needs money and a room of one's own. I was taught this is not a metaphor. Physical money, like, real cash, and a real room. So far the library has worked okay, as well as my desk at work. But I am realizing that my second condition is a comfortable space. This is a given, especially considering my life-long, deep, important relationship with space (title for future blog?) I will not belabor the point, but I will mention that atmosphere may be necessary but is not sufficient (my belief as a young, sapling nihilist.) Which reminds me...

Philosophy of Religion, You've Done it Again

Yesterday evening in Philosophy of Religion class I realized something so profound (to me) that was the closest I will ever get to a word of knowledge. It has to do with redeemed and unredeemed characters, which is one of the many subjects I have formerly held different, opposing views on. It goes something like this..

If moral evil is removed abruptly, a revelation will not be seen. As for a character, if moral evil is removed abruptly, they are at risk of appearing shallow. It would be as though the prodigal son returned home after his first night of "riotous living" with his inheritance still intact. No. Let evil work on him a little bit, so when he does see the revelation, the reader feels it is honestly earned and not merely reported. This enables the rendering of a redeemed character with authenticity.

If moral evil is never removed, a revelation will not be seen. Take personal-favorite Daniel Plainview of the film There Will Be Blood. Danny gets no comeuppance, imho. He learns nothing and does not change (except for becoming increasingly cut-throat.) No. He is compelled further and further toward darkness until he moves from sly evil guy to utterly malicious, contemptible drunk beast, in all it's no-comeuppance glory. This too, I believe to be a guideline for rendering an unredeemed character with, well, humanity. For you and for them.

Where Does Your Allegiance Lie?

Which leads me to a third condition: no allegiance to a redeemed or unredeemed protagonist. (Jennifer Spiegel, I need to bake you something, it's my way of apologizing.) To limit the palate of experience to redemption only is, just that, a limitation. And limitations work with preconceived standards to trap me in gridlock. Awful, mid-July, NYC, behind-a-bus gridlock.

Another limitation has to do with the understanding. Let me explain. There is a profound difference between coming to understand something, and intending to transmit it in order to effect a certain result. This is the type of thinking behind essay-writing, something I also have a life-long, deep, important relationship with (ehh, maybe not deep or important, on second thought.) Though this is the type of mindset required to write essays, it is my fourth condition to be without it: the freedom to perceive being.

In a recent discussion, the question was asked, (I am paraphrasing) "Would Babe Ruth have hit more home runs if he were a Christian?" This question brings out an axiom often assumed in circles which I frequent. The more knowledge, the better the art. The more holy, the better the art. The more righteous, the better the art. I want to say "yes" to that. I also want to say "not necessarily." If art-making is a talent like home-run-hitting, then that power has the capacity to be exercised apart from knowledge, holiness and righteousness. Not that this is my attempt, though it has lifted a huge (HUGE, people) burden from my shoulders to know that they are not inexorably connected.

To Quote Myself, If I May

But only because it's easier than forming new thoughts. This was in a discussion about the film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

"i would hasten to agree that every story has a premise, upon which the elements of storytelling are constructed, and that authors should be aware of this premise. my preferred definition of premise is: what happens to the characters as a result of the core conflict in the story. example: sister sensibility learns about sense. though this is the premise of the novel, i would not say S&S is a campaign for sense, but rather a natural outworking of two human lives.

[...] [in regards to] being a conduit rather than a commentator, [it] does not require neutrality, belieflessness or passivity.

[...] the dictum "show, don't tell" is inclusive of [the] description given, which uses symbol rather than that which is literal. i would also use it to disclude indoctrination, which occurs when art forms are used to deliver moral conclusions."

Drum roll, please. This may be the most important piece of them all thus far, the last shackle. (Jennifer, cookies? brownies? muffins?) The fifth condition I require in order to write is the freedom from a responsibility to propaganda. The above-mentioned authors and teachers who were, at the risk of being indelicate, wrong, wrong, wrong, were those who conflated the role's of artist and preacher. Art became parable or fable - the artist, at best an evangelist, at worst a total hack.

Before you object, consider the words of the almighty O'Connor:

“The artist has his hands full and does his duty if he attends to his art,” O’Connor maintains. “He can safely leave evangelizing to the evangelists.” She would have us Christians realize that Christian stories are not necessarily about Christians and their concerns but are simply fiction “in which the truth as Christians know it has been used as a light to see the world by.” -Ken Kuhlken in Writing and the Spirit

Ouch! Gotta love it.

'Tsall on the Table

Oh yah, lest I forget, my sixth condition is that all content must be permissible. (Jennifer, we've gotta up it. We're talking cakes now. Home-made croissants.) Again from our Flannery: "the truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it." I must be able to pursue any topic, for "the writer can choose what he writes about but he cannot choose what he is able to make alive."

After a discussion about the King's Speech, which led to a discussion about Requiem for a Dream (we do a lot of discussing) I was surprised to uncover I was the only one in a room of 6 that "enjoyed" tell-all stories of unstomachable greatness. Child prostitutes. Any kind of prostitutes. Heroin addicts in Boston and their lost, lost mothers. My oldest friend, the Holocaust. Yet, I can't give too much away now, because my next story, Mourning For the Jews and My Father will tell you all about it. For now, I leave you with a qualifier: I do agree with Aristotle that profanities are most satisfying when "off-stage."

We're Getting There

In short, I'm slowly being released from the blockages that have hindered me for almost 3 years. Writers write, right? So I was told, and so I am finding. Under certain conditions, that's all.

Projected publication date for first story: very, very soon.

What I've been doing in the mean time:

Reading this story, For You We Are Holding by Matt Bell, which none of you will read. But if you do, let's discuss. It's about loneliness and is, in my opinion, better off as a poem. A long and horrible and wonderful poem.

Which led me to this story by Charles Yu, which is refreshingly different, and also about loneliness. "Refreshingly different" sounds so cheap, but it is just that (refreshingly different, not so cheap.)

Reading The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her Heartless Grandmother by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Which really is incredible, and really is sad. And is sick and freaky in a way which I find satisfying.

Reading Visibly Quotidian, a blog that I frequent and enjoy by performance artist Natalia Jaeger , who is pictured below.

And this, which is kinda nice: The Literary Calvinism of Marilynne Robinson

Holding it all in the palm of my hands,

a

Notes From the Underworld

...but only because Notes From the Underground was taken.

*

A Writer Who Writes

Recently I started writing again. Since then, I've been hoping to express my thoughts on me writing in some form other than rapid-fire, manic utterances to my husband over dinner, and have been somewhat successful. I've been consistent in posting to my (private) livejournal, which is a stellar accomplishment for me, and have been discussing with uber-insightful friends, who I bow to (that means you, JS.) A particular note of interest is that I have kept a livejournal (an lj, for us vets) since 2000.

This is relevant because it testifies, from myself, to myself that I do in fact have a writerly spark that so many (all?) writers speak of. I even feel a pang of guilt when ending sentences in prepositions. I have at times questioned that spark, that "impulse within, like a biological fact" mentioned in my previous post, because I have, in comparison to others, rarely produced pieces of writing. Perhaps this is a good thing, considering my age and overall hour-count of sweat and blood poured out for my craft. I also have taken intermittent writing reposes due to demands of practicality, other creative endeavors or generally being lazy. There's been fear and cowardice in there too. A lot of fear.

Who's the Greatest?

I mention on my profile for the online college I attend (how many hours of sweat and blood did I pour into crafting that baby?) that there are people who make me want to write and people who make me want to never write again. After about 30 minutes of consternation, I arrived at the following list.*

People who make me want to write: Jonathan Goldstein, E.B. White, Flannery O'Connor

People who make me want to never write again: Marilynne Robinson, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Anton Chekhov

These carefully selected gods are stratified in my mind on a purely subjective basis. The former reflects a (wishfully) homologous voice and vision to my own. I feel we see the horrors and humors of life, the glory and foibles of man, in a similar way. When I read their work, I understand it deeply and easily, and it causes me to reach for that same place in myself. I greet them like old, true friends. The latter, however, posses qualities which I know nothing about and will never know about. In fact, I don't want to know about them. No. I want them to lead me, and I will devoutly follow. Though they slay me I will trust in them.

There's really no greater significance in me mentioning (justifying) this; I have no grander thoughts on the subject as of yet and thus, no plan. If I am honest, I will admit that these blog posts are going to be a bit myopic. It's a time thing, and that's the truth. If I had more of it, I'd make each blog sing. As it is, we're settling for scatteredness (no spellcheck, not sacredness, not yet) and incomplete thoughts. But that's what blogs are for, right? This one, anyway. Though I will be posting complete works (assignments) here too which will expand the audience beyond other artists who already know what I am talking about.

Go, Go Intuition

I was recently involved in a discussion about the play My Name is Asher Lev, which implicated me in more ways than I can probably imagine (the discussion, not the play.) For the record, I cried, but only because someone asked me to think of everyone who's ever hurt me - who can deflect that? During the talk, several of the gnawing ought-to questions I'd been wondering about for, well, a long time, were quelled. To be fair, and honest, I did a lot of wondering about these questions without a lot of thinking. They loomed, but never pressed. I wasn't struggling with them, but they were there - merely on the basis that I knew they should be.

Questions about intuition. Feeling. A mode. The mode, like sinking downward in still water, and the overall permissibility of such things (not that I have ever not lived like that, though I have tried, sadly.) The constant perception of being. No critique or analysis, just perception and transmission to words and images. Conduit, not commentator. And come to find out that's what a true artist does. I dare say I was very, very wrong about a lot of things, which is no new occurrence. Though I am elated to discover that my strong and natural inclination was in fact correct. To borrow from Cream, "I-i-i feel free."

Pump Up The Volume

As I return to words, I return to sound. I could have predicted this but was too busy doing the dishes and loving my husband and reading Hume and a bunch of other good stuff to notice. Anyway, music is returning to the position in my life that it formerly held as a consequence of my return to writing. I think this is the case because a return to writing is a return to a state. And states often have soundtracks, or they should anyway. And I'm not talking about Bach, though a small part of me thinks I should be. No, I'm talking about Coldplay.

I've recently been unearthing old songs I loved via YouTube. Here was the crown of them all, my life's favorite song. I providentially just got a new iPod, even. Music is a big part of my writing life. Music that moves me, not really music that is great. *winces and waits for stoning*. There's also poetry, my favorite music, to which my allegiance belongs.

A Return to The Subjective

After studying philosophy --- and being delivered from the hell of nihilism --- I noticed a great pendulum swing in myself from exclusive subjectivity to exclusive objectivity. In an effort to correct the relativistic whirlpool that was my thinking, I created a truncated, abstract version of the world and began acting like a robot in order to maintain integrity within it's system. After a few years of that, and some, eh ehm, confrontations, I find myself slowly reaching equilibrium. Truth and feeling. Law and art. Ahhh.. that's better.

And so it is, a return to the underworld, my underword. They know me well here, and I know them. Since my last stay, I have learned that feeling does not have to be at the expense of thought, nor thought at the expense of feeling. For a time I imagined a re-entry to the world of writing causing a tsunami of contempt and compassion and curiosity and restlessness (and it has) that would drown out my mind and pull me into a mine pit operated by my own demons. However, I think it was cowardice that moved me to that conclusion. It hurts to make art --- did you know that?

At peace with God,

A

*subject to revision.

Perelandra College Letter of Intent, Draft 1

During my freshman year of college I was introduced to the essay I Am Writing Blindly by Roger Rosenblatt. It first appeared in TIME Magazine in the winter of 2000, shortly after the Kursk submarine disaster, a Russian nuclear-powered cruise missile that was “lost with all hands” – sunk with no survivors. At the time of Rosenblatt’s writing, the media was abuzz with the news that, contrary to the claims of Russian officials, several men had survived in a chamber for a time before their deaths and that, from the recovered remains of the Kursk, written messages had been found. What intrigued Rosenblatt, and me, was not that the letters had been found, but “the matter of writing the message in the first place.”

The essay gives other examples like the submarine accident – passengers on a fiery, spiraling jet using their final few moments to scribble letters to loved ones, or concentration camp victims stuffing poems, letters and memories into gaps of the ghetto walls. “Why did they bother?” asks Rosenblatt, and he gives this answer: “the impulse was in them, like a biological fact.” That line did it for me. It gave a reason, or at least a name, for one of my most natural instincts – to write. It also fanned into flame the sense of responsibility that always came with it, which in The Ring of Time E.B. White describes as feeling “charged with the safekeeping of all unexpected items of worldly or unworldly enchantment, as though I might be held personally responsible if even a small one were to be lost.”

That’s where it all began, and then there was Notes of a Native Son. And the dictum “show, don’t tell”. And Marilynne Robinson, God bless that woman; and everything in between too, from Austen to Chekhov to good ol' Gregor Samsa. But throughout the years of my undergraduate education so far (I am on the “extended” plan) I have done far more reading than writing. A writer friend of mine even rebuked me recently, saying “I know you’ve read Baldwin and are marinating or whatever, but…” which I got such a kick out of, and a reality check. Thus began my search for a writing program, an arduous task considering my many indispensible requisites. It must be Christian. It must be good, too. Really, actually, good. Inexpensive, perfectly befitting my situation, preferably small, and online. It must be the ideal.

Enter Perelandra. I found Perelandra College through Bakersguide.com, like a providential windfall from the hand of God himself. I entered my first search, and there it was, the perfect personal ad: “Writing BA combines art and craft at half the cost. Masterpieces. Imagination and reason. Online.” Amen! I visited the website, read the catalogue and requested feedback from former students, all of which sang the praises of Perelandra’s commitment to quality, which is what I think I meant by “really, actually good.” It is my hope that through your program I can pursue excellence in writing to the glory of God, and so honor the impulse within me, which is more like a spiritual fact than anything else, like a hunger for more than bread.

A Word on Personal Lineage, Pt. I

Where Do I Come From?

Ever since childhood, I have always been interested (obsessed) with the idea of lineage, or more specifically, my lineage. I don't recall fascination with any one else's lineage, be it my peers, or the genealogies of historical figures (though I did intensely long to be of their descent). I had no greater, desperate hope than to one day uncover my scandalous adoption- that I actually hailed from two quite epic figures with long, celebrated histories of anomalous behavior.

As a youth, I dreamed and wondered a lot. Probably not more than most young artistic children, but to be fair, perhaps more than most in my family or neighborhood. I found nothing particularly valuable about reality (this belief continued into young adulthood) and thus preferred books over people. I lived in books like Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren, Ramona by Beverly Cleary, Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli and Matilda by Roald Dahl. These all chronicle the adventures of innocently nonconformist little girls with all of their societal rejection and misunderstoodness. "Yep, that's me," I thought.

I had always possessed a strong desire to know what kind of species I was. By at least 10, it had been, by blood, confirmed: I was a Pippi. A Matilda. I had gone through too much hazing not to be. I was autonomous, idiosyncratic- I was even curiously parentless. Ordinarily, I suspect a young child may find their natural pedigree sufficient for explaining their general origins. Not me. My parents were, in my perception, almost illusory. They were towering, incomprehensible figures that spoke a foreign, incomprehensible language; my many memories of them are mere shrapnel of noise and shapes that I combined to create caricatures of practicality and wrath.

I had a profound mistrust for adults in general, and they were no exclusion. I can partially attribute this belief to the many influences I had which confirmed the anti-adult campaign, however implicitly: Charlie Brown, Rugrats, Goosebumps, Where the Wild Things Are, The Velveteen Rabbit, Winnie the Pooh, the list goes on. Only the teacher of the Magic School Bus could be trusted. As for my independent disposition, I think it can and must be traced to my natural heritage. I am half Greek.

"I don't speak Greek."

My father was raised in a small, racist village in Northern Greece during the 40's and 50's . When my (Hispanic) husband and I got engaged, my father disowned me, not due to his racism, but due to his deeper xenophobia. Even I, in my very being, was subject to this curse. My father himself, upon moving to America, had married a non-Greek: a blonde-haired-blue-eyed non-Greek (they are divorced), of which I was the more obvious progeny, my sister being crowned with dark skin and hair and eyes. From childhood this handicap wretched a deep schism in my identity that by it's very nature was irreconcilable. There is also the language thing.

Every first-generation American child knows about the language thing; it's when you don't speak the language of your foreign family/family member. There we would be, in Greek diners in New Jersey, my Dad at a bar stool emphatically gesturing and uttering with other men, my sister and I in a booth, playing tic-tac-toe on the back of paper placemats, writing our names in cursive and speaking in pig latin. And then we would be addressed.

"Hey, mori" (do not ask what this word means) my father would whisper. I'd look up, all big eyed, high hopes for affirmation, and a man behind the counter, always offensive and fat and bejeweled with gold rings and necklaces, this man - his huge black mustache parting, would ask me a question in Greek.

"I don't speak Greek" I'd say, transitioning into an emotion that children (or adults) should never feel. My father would give a slight nod, turn his back and begin to raise a chorus to which fat man would laugh and wheeze. They would continue, totally absolved from responsibility perhaps because of their sheer Greekness (once upon asking my father about his thoughts on the afterlife, he replied challengingly, "to heaven, where the Greeks are!")*. As a child I thought his post-humiliation rave was about me; in my teen years I realized it was about my mother.

*A friend of mine once asked, "Does that mean he thinks all Greeks go to heaven, or that heaven is a place where there are only Greeks?" I remembering laughing, and also feeling nauseous, shuddering at the thought of either one.

The Union

for Christa

The Union

of who one is
and who one ought to be
is consummated by suffering.

At times, he who sins against his brother
has forgotten what he has been given.
At other times, it is simple failure.

I can imagine two who, before Babel
enjoyed the benefits of like speech –
understanding, agreement, even laughter.

Now the great event has come,
parting in two even those from
the same womb.

And they just make sounds high and low,
sharp and flat, in the native tongue
that all men know: silence.

Between Cain & Abel
are 1,000,000,000 Milky Ways.

The Story of Felicity Abigail

Felicity Abigail Gastelum was born on Monday, June 7th on a hot-but-not-too-hot afternoon. She weighs 6 lbs. 11 oz. - as perfectly predicted by her grandpa. She is 20 and 1/2 inches long.

****

Cheyanne called me early Monday morning and told me Felicity was coming, probably later that night. I was at work, but we decided there was no need to leave just yet. A few hours later, Haven called me and said: "We see the head." Okay!

When I got there, Cheyanne was having a contraction. I had never seen a birth before, so I took my cue from Desiree, Haven, Serene and Tearah that what was happening was a-okay.

Once her contraction subsided, she greeted me and confirmed that all was well. Arturo was by her side, talking in Spanish and looking characteristically relaxed.

Between contractions, Cheyanne would talk to the finch as it tweeted merrily. Poor Luna was locked outside, though she watched expectantly through the window.

Between tasks and preparation and questions, there would be long moments of time where we would all stop and quietly watch and wonder. The experience is at once both natural and not original. It is more than wondrous. It is not frightening at all. It is powerful.

Every so often, the pain would come. A pain that can only be described as the worst pain of life.

Her knowledge guided her; the Lord upheld her. Felicity was coming.

Glory was having a blast. She was very focused and devoted to taking as many pictures as possible, as close as to the action as possible. Unlike Tearah, Serene and myself, no looks of aghast wonderment or worry or tears crossed her little face at all.

For Pam, births seem both altogether sacred and also, for a midwife, the norm. She was very calm- very calm, affirming, present and had the utmost respect for Cheyanne. Above she is giving Chey some honey to boost her energy.

Periodically, Chey would want ice, or watermelon, or both, or neither. Later in the evening I asked Desiree if she was proud of me as I ate slices of watermelon while looking at and studying the placenta.

And then...

All of the hard work came to fruition. The hard work of 9 months previous, and the hard work of labor. She labored for 10 hours, and had active labor for 5.

Felicity!

Cheyanne scooped her up out of the water and with all knowledge and instinct, starting rubbing her and talking to her as though she had known her for years.

The whole thing caught on film...

Felicity Abigail was ushered into the world by the arms of her mother and father, amidst a host of aunts and grandmas. She started to blow bubbles and Cheyanne kissed her and sweetly asked her, "are you giving attitude already? are you blowing bubbles?"

Soon the Swartz caravan came rushing in and the house was full of God's people.

Roger was sure, after taking one quick glance at her, that she was 6 lbs. 11 oz.

After nine children of his own, I must say, how could I have doubted him?

We joined Pam in the kitchen for a lesson on the placenta. Shown above is what's called the "tree of life." Cheyanne's placenta was heart-shaped!

Felicity was an instant Daddy's girl and Arturo was an instant Daddy. Here he is protecting her already, from the afternoon rays.

Soon enough Arturo joined the guys outside and was enjoying a delicious egg and hot dog sandwich. The girls stayed inside and took turns holding the precious new possession of God in our midst.

What more to say than praise the Lord our God!

"Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wondrous works to the children of man!" Psalm 107:8

Alone Within the Multitudes Pt. I

"What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?" -T.S. Eliot

*

"Who ever did you tell? Who did you confide in?" asks my pastor, who is utterly fascinated by this tale, and every tale. He asks with gentle and blazing curiosity. He is the perfect model for listeners everywhere.

It's a dark evening at his home in the desert. We've just finished dinner, and are now enjoying his famously preferred vanilla ice cream and berries. There are books, literally, just - everywhere.

He asks this question as I recount the torment of my bygone life. I talk of my secret, unquenchable longing - the secret, unquenchable longing - of desire without satisfaction, burning without flux or relief.

And though I pause after his question, I know the answer with certainty, immediately. I watch him and think how noticeably alive and reasonable he is set in contrast to the sea of still books behind him. And I look to him and say, knowing that he too, even better than I, understands the fire of Hell:

"No one" I say, "I never told anyone."

___

Let this be recorded for a generation to come,

so that a people yet to be created may praise the Lord:
that he looked down from his holy height;

from heaven the Lord looked at the earth,
to hear the groans of the prisoners,

to set free those who were doomed to die,

that they may declare in Zion the name of the Lord,

and in Jerusalem his praise,

when peoples gather together,

and kingdoms, to worship the Lord.

Psalm 102:18-22

Distressed Furniture Makeover

Hey folks :)

Below are the results from the first ever Campos furniture makeover. We did three dressers. One is not pictured because I forgot to snap a shot of it :) I'd like to thank Jenn at Livin' the Simple Life Blog for the inspiration and directions for this project. I would also like to thank my husband, who was constantly wonderful, and for our brother Matt Hicks who happened to be at our house every time these dressers needed moved. Also, Jan and Ty who donated the bedroom dressers to us and my Mom who provided the makeover $$ as my birthday gift :) And of course, thank the Lord for good is he!

Dresser 1: For the Bedroom - the other dresser is a smaller, three-drawer version of this one with slightly different handles

*

Dreser 2: Affectionately crowned 'Lucille Ball', she will house our art supplies

*

Some simple directions for a distressed furniture makeover:

Supplies:

1 quart primer

1 quart paint

1 quart polyurethane sealant

1 can spray paint for handles

60 grit sandpaper (the sheets worked better than the hand-held squares for me)

rollers, roller brushes and roller pans (3 of each)

thick handheld brushes

plastic covering for ground

optional 1 quart of gel stain for sanded areas

optional small brush for painting sanded areas with gel stain

optional new handles

Directions:

(for painting I applied large areas with rollers and details with brushes)

1) clean furniture of all dust and stains

2) coat with primer, let dry, apply second coat, let dry

3) paint, let dry, apply second coat, let dry

4) sand raised edges; if you do not like the color of the previous color that shows through, you can paint the sanded areas with gel stain and a small brush (we didn't)

5) coat whole dresser with polyurethane - do not shake can of polyurethane!

6) spray paint handles with selected color, fasten once dry

7) enjoy and give thanks :)

*

This project was very fun. I am officially hooked.

Love,

A

P.S. Look at how hard my husband works! Also, that is the other dresser!