A Case for Journaling

The annual Comber Christmas tradition is to free the artificial Christmas tree out of the attic. Every year this means facing THE BEAST. The Beast is everything we've accumulated that never found a proper home: childhood memorabilia, seasonal things, assortments of wires and out dated electronics, and boxes we have yet to unpack from our move 16 months ago. Normally, we let the Beast out for an hour or two and put it back in again while promising our selves that we will organize and tame it for next year. This is the year. I can feel it. The Beast will be conquered just as soon as I finish this post... oh, look a BuzzFeed quiz...

#UnpackingTheAttic #WhyIsAllTheXmasStuffInTheBack #GetReadyFreeCycle #VirtualYardSaleComingSoon #WillNotJustDealWithItNextYear #HoardersAtticEdition
#KeepSellGiveAwayToss

And... Then, I found my journal from when I was 16... oh, no.

They're multiplying...

Between shifting through old papers and school projects, cards and photos, little scraps of paper that contain love notes from Kid 2, and so many other things that were once deemed too special to throw away but too miscellaneous to take up space anywhere other than our attic, I found these journals. My ghost of teenage past had arrived, and like the ghosts of Dickens' Christmas lore, she came with a lesson. 

If you asked me to describe myself from high school, I would have told you about the boys I dated and my friends rather than presenting a clear concept of the person I was 20 years ago. Something happened that muddled my memories of myself, so my identity became wrapped up in the people who once approved of me and found me worthy of their time. 

Enter the ghost of teenage past to roll her eyes and point in pugnacious fashion to the pages littered with evidence of a more complete person than I remember. Someone who could stand her own. Someone who was a friend to herself and preferred time alone. The only mention of boyfriends are the reminders to myself to call them. The rest of the pages are filled with a wild stream of consciousness about books I read, plans for the future, quotes I found insightful or funny, and stories/poems. 

When I wonder about my previous notions of who I was and why my relationships dictated my concept of my teenage identity, I have a theory. The moments with the most heightened emotions caused highlights in time so when the past was condensed, I remembered those things: key relationships, embarrassing moments, the moments that I (if social media existed beyond AIM) would have catalogued, etc. and subtracted out the whole personhood of that time. I don't know if the theory is correct, but my journals from teenagelandia stand to prove one thing: that keeping a journal of the things that seem too mundane, too personal, too ordinary, or too "you" to share with the social media hive mind might be the key to understanding one's humanity in the future. With this in mind, I'm sincerely hoping Kid 2 keeps up with her journaling so I can point to her journals years from now when all she remembers about high school is her goofy boyfriend.

Offertory: July 17, 2016

My church does an incredible thing. Every Sunday, people go up in a time of offertory and present their stories. There are songs, poems, and testimonies... all gifts. This Sunday, I got to present a new poem. It's still raw, but today I needed to share this raw verse because I have become raw. The world is slowly peeling me, layer by layer.. this is what I shared:

My name is Katy Comber and I worship through the coordination of letters. Most of the time, I take this gift of language and dump it out like a toddler with a bowl of alphabet soup until I am completely covered with thoughts and ideas. Only after I have achieved this chaos do I feel allowed to put them in order.

Lately, my stories and poems have been digging, prying, focusing, and highlighting flawed humanity in conjunction with God’s intricately designed perfection that we as imperfect beings feel the constant desire to question and know. The poem I have prepared today is in response of a recent quote, “The world has not changed, there are just more cameras." I’ve considered this and all the responsibility and heartache that comes with this limited omniscience. I've thought about how I have responded lately and out this poem came--part confession, part-plea, followed by a charge to truly see…

Turn up the Bass

By Katy Comber

Turn up the bass.

Let it thrum.

Let it rattle our souls awake

as you, we, i pray for comprehension.

Headlines: spear, dig; numb

an intellectual shot of novocaine

as we gather, this is our world

these lives seem like fragments

while others seem like run-ons

but i am not Your editor.

i am out of tears

but my fears keep

adding

up, up, up

You, Dear Lord,

promise love so pure

there is no room for anxiety

yet i turn up the volume

to jolt myself back into living

in this broken planet-sized waiting room

where those made in the image of You

do not always act in Your image

they are, we are, i am

rough drafts of your vision

walking, breathing outlines

of immaculate art;

revised, refined, re-tuned,

every second of the day

by the consumate Artist.

Once published,

Your masterpieces

will make the heavens

weep and sing with joy

But. Until then...

i will see You

i will see You in the pieces

i will see You in the rough drafts

i will see You in this movement of bodies

delightfully and delicately designed

and i will feel You in this bassline pulse

in synch with my heart that beats

one by one, precisely measured,

for its opus.

April 17th Offertory, Katy Comber

The Offering is a fellowship that was established as way to connect artists and share ideas. It's a great group. We meet every third

Friday at my place to talk about projects we are working on, creating, not creating, and life in general. So, taking on scouting people for the offertory seemed like a natural component to what we do as a fellowship. Offertory was one of the things that drew me to this church. I saw a body of believers who recognized art as essential to worship and who supported creativity and thought Yes! I have to live there! The only issue with the scouting is, though we have a ton of talent in this room, most of the creatives here cringe and practically melt into the floor at thought of delivering a presentation. I’m here to encourage you. When I spoke to Darin about this, and my uneasiness about presenting again so soon he mentioned that at his NYC church, the person in charge of offertory would share his poetry for months until people were comfortable enough to come up and share. I want to hear from others, from you… So, please, consider it. Okay. That was my plug, now here’s what I’ve been working on:

The poems I’m sharing today revolve around God as Author. As a kid, God as father was the God who loved at a safe distance, a God for whom I reached for the fig leaves because I was afraid that if he really knew me he would not love me, instead he always saw Potential Katy, the Katy I deemed lovable. It wasn't his fault, and with this association, I knew this God adopted and loved me, and that was so incredibly powerful, but I needed an association for God from whom I could understand unconditional Love. A God who would love me despite myself. A God who knew my true character: an awkward, rebellious, quirky, kind of twisted, haven't got a clue what I’m doing here, self. God as Author was an association I could understand. These are my pieces, Recovering from the Tempest and Writer's Block.

Recovering of the Tempest
"What's Past is Prologue"

By Katy Comber

you are my prologue
deemed unnecessary
in my novella
but scrutinized
by scholars in my epic

you are my prologue
pages that can be ripped
torn like the curtain
split from the ground up
words that made me be
plotted, charted, drafted
words before I could see [that]

you are my prologue

grains of salt before
specks of earth before
restored sight

soil within bellies of worms
before vineyards before
that last sip of wine

seeds planted before
future saplings before
the cross that made

all things restored,
after the Fall that dropped
the Earth and let her shatter
into pieces called World,

so that you could be
just a prologue written
in a story  
about grace

Writer’s Block

By Katy Comber

Sit to govern
a make believe world
but the keys don't clack
and the ideas don't click
and the space before me
remains white nothing

In the Beginning
There was the word
And the word was with God
And the word was God

Listen for the word
Listen for the BOOM
Listen.

Type whatever comes to mind:
Brussels Sprouts
Sonic the Hedgehog
White rabbit
Dishes. Augh. Cross that out.
Avoidance
Ah, ha ha! Yes. Keep going.
Pi, the number not the food, though blueberries will be in season soon. Wait, no. This is not right.

go, go back and

Listen…

Listen for the word

Listen for the BOOM

The word, the word, the word...
Got it.
Good. Now, let it go.

Thief, Katy Comber

The Bowling Shoes

The night I experienced the high of small scale kleptomania in the name of “character development research,” something magical was set in motion in my small Chester County town. Something that years later, whenever I tell this story, people shake their heads and wonder if I’m telling one of the tall-tales I generally save for the page. For some, this story just affirms their belief in a higher power, God as Author, writing one hell of a micro-story. For others, it is just another example of how damn small the world truly is and how fortunate my 17 year old self was to have pulled off The Great Bowling Shoe Heist of 2000 during a time when the world wasn't so serious.

The story is set in a local bowling alley called Fraser Lanes. Fraser Lanes had its glory days when the place would be packed with leagues and birthday celebrations and kids who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. That night in particular, wasn’t one of them. The place was empty. I had been in the middle of writing a short story when my friends talked me into a night out. The story centered around a man named Al whose hands produced a sticky glue-like film whenever he neglected to steal something. Al hated stealing, but he was in love with a girl named Rhonda whose idea of romance was holding hands in the park and sweet pecks on the cheek, and boy his hands needed to be primed and ready for holding Rhonda’s because they were the smoothest and most delicate hands in the universe and Al loved them. I didn't say it was a great story.

That night, my thoughts stuck with Al. I thought about how his hands were cursed by a wiccan librarian because he’d once found stealing pages out of reference books thrilling. The thrill was unfamiliar. How could I write about a thrill I had not experienced for myself? I looked down at my shoes. This was a thrill I would know. I formulated a plan.

Moments later, I walked out of Frazer Lanes with my head held high and falsely confident. The bowling shoes were still on my feet. My converse sneakers were clutched in my right hand as I swept through the door. My friends ran to the car, and before I could go with them, a girl my age cleared her throat behind me.

“Excuse me? Those shoes. You forgot to return your shoes.”

Forgot? “Oh. Right! Ha. I just thought that since it’s such a nice night, I’d change my shoes out here.” That is so stupid. Katy. Come on.

“Oh, okay.” The girl turned back to the door. No way did that work.

“Wait a min-” The girl blushed, and as the lameness of my excuse to get the shoes outside occurred to her, my friend drove his car around to get me and I jumped in before the girl could even finish the word. I stole a quick look back. The girl’s shoulders slumped forward and her mouth gaped as she faded from view. My friends and I laughed in disbelief, and I had a new pair of shoes.

Two years later, the shoes sat in a box in my dorm room and I had become a person who attended a weekly co-ed collegiate Bible study. Regularly. I loved it. It was a small study, so when new people arrived it was easy to introduce them around and get to know them. One night, a newcomer named Susan walked in. Susan had an easy smile and I liked her immediately. When she mentioned that she’d attended my high school’s rival school, we started listing people we knew and common friends and marveled at the smallness of our world. As the night progressed, Susan became more and more familiar to me. Where had I known her? Where had I seen her before? I couldn’t focus. Then, Susan’s posture changed. Her shoulders slumped forward and her mouth opened in response to a story being told across the room. The girl. The bowling shoes.

“Susan?” Susan looked over at me and grinned. “Did you ever work at a bowling alley?”

“Frazer Lanes?” Susan responded. Crap. The shoes.

“That’s the one!” I exclaimed, but could not venture further. The rest of the night, I held my truth in tight. My boyfriend looked over at me on the drive back to my dorm in such a way that the entire story swiftly tumbled out. I cringed until he responded with a laugh. What are the chances, we both wondered out loud.

The following week, I wrapped the shoes and bought them to the study. Before the evening discussions began, I pulled Susan aside and gave her the gift. Her smile wavered a bit as she curiously looked down at a gift given randomly by a girl she’d only met a week ago.

“I’ll explain everything after you open it.” I promised. My heart thumped heavy and quick. The unwrapping was swift, but seemed to take years. When Susan lift the lid and unveiled the pair of bowling shoes I’d stolen years ago, she looked up at me in immediate recognition.

“You!” She stopped. She looked at the shoes. She looked at me. “That was my first day!” She looked back down at the shoes. The silence that followed was broken by my boyfriend’s hushed retelling of the story in the next room and a bout of laughter. I looked at Susan. Susan kept looking at the shoes. When she finally looked up at me, the shock of the moment broke, and she began to laugh.

The years that followed had so many ups and downs. The boyfriend who took me to Bible study became my ex-boyfriend, then friend, then boyfriend again. In fact, one of the only constants seemed to be that if I ever went home to bowl at Frazer Lanes, the shoes would be there, reserved and waiting for me behind the counter. And when the boyfriend became the fiance, Susan was invited to the wedding. Her gift to me? A beautifully wrapped pair of size 10, worn out, red and blue bowling shoes.

Everyday Heartbreak and Echo, Katy Comber

-st/-end/-ever
By Katy Comber

If there were candles
that once lit
echoed sounds
attune with scent
(Ours would smell of
old textbooks, m&ms;
Trident Original gum),
I could strike a match
to hear our laughter
free and unfettered

Until then, memories are fleeing
from my grasp
and I have lost your number

Three Siblings Unite, Katy Comber

The Dream House Chronicles: Adam, Joe, and The Kid

By Katy Comber

Henrietta sang an old tune

she sang it low like a thorn

in the side…

The song echoed in Billie’s ears as she jolted awake. Was it in her dream? Was it the house? The house. Her ears perked and listened as a bass line thumped softly from downstairs. Billie reached for the softball bat under her bed. She was an attractive, single woman living in the large family homestead alone for the first time in her life. The bat was a gift from her dad. Dad. The graying mustached man with the crinkling eyes flashed in her mind. Crap. What was that? She never thought of her father if she could help it these days. Maybe it was because the bat was a gift from The Great Before.

A clatter, a gruff and muffled curse, and a girly giggle sounded from the direction of the farmhouse’s kitchen. The owner of the giggle was foreign, but the low voice and that particular word belonged to, quite possibly and quite impossibly…

“Adam?” Another curse practically growled downstairs. “Adam? Is that you?”

“Yep. Yeah, Kid. It’s me.”

“Holy crap, Adam. You scared me.”

“You got the softball bat in your hands don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Well. It’s safe. Are you coming down or what?”

“Are you guys decent?” Billie heard the giggle again, but it was clipped short this time. Billy imagined Adam’s warning look; his latest conquest rolling her eyes. Then Billie heard the rustle of clothes being gathered. A scampering pair of feet. The click of the powder room door lock.

“We will be.”

“Crap. Just crap. Adam. I eat off that counter.”

“Whoa, Kid, that language.” Adam’s voice carried over as Billie padded down the stairs. Patronizing sarcasm coated every syllable, and Billie realized how many years had passed since she’d seen her oldest brother. She looked down at her braless chest covered by an oversized striped t-shirt and stirrup leggings with ripped knees and a waist folded over as it was two sizes too big. Perfect outfit for a family reunion.   

“Are those Mom’s? They’re enormous on you, Kid.” Adam’s greeting was never just hello or how are you. He preferred to greet people with criticisms. The ball forever in someone else’s court. Rejection was easiest when he controlled the reason. Girls like the one in the bathroom were the kind of girls who found verbal abuse refreshing and hilarious until they realized it for what it was.

“Hello, Adam. Yes. They are mom’s. I found them when I moved back in and I like wearing them… obviously. Why are you and some girl here?”

“She has a name.”

“What?”

“Lily. Rose… some flower.”

“Posey.” the girl squeaked in the doorway. Adam rushed at Posey and tossed her onto his back. The action read as affectionate and playful, but Billie knew it was just a distraction for the girl. Posey cackled and grinned over Adam’s shoulder. “We’re here because of the letter.”

As if on cue, headlights shone at the edge of driveway and the sound of a car approaching on the loose gravel announced another arrival. The slam of the car door, triggered something inside Billie. Joe was here.

The footsteps trugged, hesitating and then resolutely pounding, up the front porch that wrapped around to the side kitchen door where the three waited. Two were breathless. One, clueless. Joe. How long had it been? The Great Before.

“Hell-” The booming voice started as the door opened, “oh. H-hey.” Time itself held its breath. Joe, darling, kind, handsome, stood tall and wiry with his feet halfway in and out of the house. His right foot crossed the threshold to meet his left foot. He was inside. Suddenly the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room was extremely loud. Tick. Joe looked at his siblings and the pretty girl straddling his older brother’s back and neck. Tock. Pushed the wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. Tick. And… Tock. Grinned. Tick.

The eruption of Billie and Adam greeting Joe was deafening. Everyone began to speak at once. Adam, perhaps accidentally, dropped Posey to the floor and, with Billie, pounced on Joe with a warm and generous hug. Joe’s scarred arms wrapped around Billie immediately and swept her up as he did when they were kids. In the commotion, Joe and Adam began talking about Dad, a letter, and The Great Before began to stroll around the room like a restless and feral cat waiting to be noticed only to run away as soon as someone attempted to approach it.  

“Alright. Alright.” Billie perched onto the counter. Looked at Adam and Posey, and slid off again. Joe watched. Adam laughed. Posey turned pink. Billie cleared her throat and stared at the floor as she asked her question. “What is this letter you keep talking about?”

“Dad.”

“Dad?”

“He sent us all letters. I have yours. Dad thought if you just saw it in the mailbox, it’d be tossed.” Joe stared at his sister’s bowed head. They all had reasons to hate the man, but no one could hold a grudge like Billie The Kid. The letters were all similar in tone, but had minor differences according to its reader. The gist being: this is where you need to be, this is when you need to be there, this is what you may find when you get there. The minor differences were in the greeting line.

My Dear and sweet Wilhemena,

Please don’t toss this anyway before reading it. I’m sorry…

Hey Joe,

Please make sure Billie gets her letter. It’s important that both of you…

Adam

Hope you’re staying out of trouble…

“Ugh. If he wanted me to read the thing, why’d he start out by calling me Wilhemena? I’ve always hated it.” Billie stared at the envelope, blue and slightly crumpled, and sighed at the return address. “So he’s getting out?”

“Three days.”

“Good behavior.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Adam and I tried contacting her, but--”

“I hate calling that place too.”

“He wants the house back.”

“I know.” Billie sighed for the third time. This was it. They hadn’t talked about Mom and Dad, The Incident, and The Great Before in years. They stayed away from each other for this very reason. Talking about these things seemed to give power to them. Even thinking about The Incident stirred something in the house. The windows opened slightly. The smell of honeysuckle wafted in and the sound of the porch swing’s gentle creak and sway in the summer breeze caused Billie’s heart to pound. The house was waking up.  

BONE FRAGMENTS OF MISSING MEN FOUND IN SINCLAIR HOUSE

….According to testimony, on August 14, 1975, two men followed Wilhemena Sinclair home from school. The men attempted to abduct the girl…”The house. It just swallowed them right up…”

“We didn’t do anything. It was the house....” A townsperson who wishes to remain anonymous states that Joe Sinclair has been committed to Lockend Asylum… “He had scars up and down his arms. Kid must’ve seen something. Overheard him crying about something about a whale made of wood.”

PARENTS CHARGED FOR SMITH BROTHERS MURDER

Clyde and Sandy Sinclair received their sentencing today… Possibility of parole… testimony stricken from record…  Pleas of Insanity not considered by jury…

WILHEMENA SINCLAIR RETURNS

... When asked why she chose to come back to the house after her college graduation, Miss. Sinclair offered no comment...

The floor vibrated for a moment. A gentle purring. The children were home. The occupants gentle and good of heart. For the moment, the house was satisfied.