Part 4 of 23: What My Mother Whispered to the Whaler

from: Saturday, January 10, 2009

"Drink me,
before
I am sweetened by my sorrows."

A Story to Tell

from Thursday, January 8, 2009

A short film created for Central Christian Church in Mesa, Arizona. The goal was to create a modern version of an aspect of the Christmas story. Hence, the backpacker-shepherds. A little cheesy, but hey, it's in HD! :D

HD Version HERE: http://vimeo.com/2754811

Credits:

Tim Allen - Camera, After Effects
Mark Miller - Production Manager, Additional After Effects
Jonathan Roberts - Writer
Directed by Jonathan Roberts and Tim Allen
Shot on location at South Mountain Park.

Script:

Tonight we watch the Western star in the wild sky
And we tread a broke-down path beaten by massive-
monsoon-winds and the clouded desert sun.

We pant, we trod, we take six thousand bold steps
and brace our strength for this last and great ascent.

We are shepherds and we have come to touch this wild sky
With our hands raised high and our knees bent low.
On this peak we stand as the guards and wide-eyed prayer-
warriors of the heavy-hearted, hemmed-in people we love.

We lay down sweat-soaked shoulder packs and walking sticks
And we bend our knees to keep our people at peace and rest.

We feel the slingshot rocks of this barren face tremble and
vibrate like a swollen beehive under our bare-skinned knees.

“Hush! Wait! Don’t speak!
Rise! Run! And tell this Joy”

Hemmed-in by mountains of sin, we can see the glory
Of our Lord fall like the light of seven thousand dancing stars
Filling the sunken valley below with hope in the distance.

The sky erupts in torrent and fury of sound and silence
And the chorus of high angels lights up the city in color,
With kited small circled-spheres of night and half-light,
rising and spinning through refracted red heat storm hazes.

Our faces are all alight with good news and great joy,
We rush and stumble back down the desert mountain
Like little kids on an early Christmas morning because
We are the swift and blessed ones…
and we have a story to tell.

Desert Children

A flicker in those bold, wild eyes

And the bright morning star ignites

The perennial flames of the youthful sun;

They dance along the grey, muted skies

Dawn whispers, 

And a hushed red glow 

Emerges, brooding amidst 

the brightening horizon,

Spilling and casting soft, dreamy hues

upon the wakening world.

The Eastern wind roams and whistles

Across ageless sands and sleeping deserts,

“Baérohsh aer zoé kånahk!”

Abba flings open the floodgates of time, 

Unleashing the ripened store of 

Vital light and roaring heat,

Chasing yesterday’s shadows 

through the hidden wilds of eternity.

A Voice, riding on the wings of light,

Roars for the children of the West,

His conquering sons and dancing daughters, 

to bind their wounds,

To gather their naked hearts,

And clothe them with Heaven’s garb.

The old beauty breaks down to dust

under the beat-down sun.

New waters burst o’er the Sonoran lands

And the desert children begin to dance,

“Awake! Awake!

Put on strength”

The Children rise in blazing glory of the Son,

“Rahshaht ao ner tzishet!

Båarraoke attah Yeshuah a Meschiach…”

~*~

And I woke to the whispers of angels.

“They shall go after the Lord; 

he will roar like a lion;

when he roars,

his children shall come trembling from the west;

they shall come trembling like birds from Egypt

and like doves from the land of Assyria,

and I will return them to their homes, declares the Lord.”

-Micah 11:10-11

For the Days We Wish to Cry

Just let me spill over,

Fall with the dripping rain,

Spinning till we crash and split

Into seven drops of serenity.

But I am still falling, love.

Brightly Violent

She thinks in colors too,

looking forward to the prolonged nights

of utilizing firehoses to extinguish

the inner rage and frivolity

suppressed by family and discordant relationships.

My, how she dreams, and smiles,

and without even knowing 

pulls me in

gently

to her warmth

of both subdued and 

brightly violent colors.

Appreciate love?

I’m so happy to have existed

were I to have known only her.

I am a being of higher value,

above the animals that haunt and stalk

the memories of the Egyptian ghosts.

In her painted eyes

I beheld man,

clinging to a rose of beauty,

rising out of chaos and into light,

but his roots pulled him back down…

it’s all in the upper body, I s’pose.

I saw myself then.

And now it's cold outside,

but thanks to you

the imagination's warm again. 

Far Forever

The history is in your eyes,
New moments spilling over wells of memory
Carving new paths for each tear to take.

They will find their way home,
Here in my hands, in your hands
let my fingers start the healing,
Not even the ancient father will avert the end,
The sweet consonance to come.

It seems Never soon enough.
Never is a naughty word.


Don’t be far forever.
Sometimes a man must take the path less traveled by
His needles and lovers must stand by.
Sometimes I think I’ll never turn back
Or will be overtaken by lovers less thrilling.

My heart has its home, though these feet roam
Wounds will rise, battles wage in the skies
The Wanderer will have his way and then
Come hell and heaven, I will have you,

Again.

I won’t be far forever.

The Sea Wolf

"...down I fell to dwelling upon the romance of the fog. And romantic it certainly was - the fog, like the gray shadow of infinite mystery, brooding over the whirling speck of earth; and men, mere motes of light and sparkle, cursed with an insane relish for work, riding their steeds of wood and steel through the heart of the mystery, groping their way blindly through the unseen, and clamoring and clanging in confident speech the while their hearts are heavy with incertitude and fear."

Jack London in The Sea Wolf