Update: Future Plans

Hello all!

I haven’t been writing on here in a while, and I know. Laziness, I guess. Anyway, I wanted to keep any readers out there up to date on some current projects and ideas that I have in the mix. First, my wife and I are moving next week, so I probably won’t be posting much (if anything at all ) on here until after that move. But we have decided that once things are up and running at the new place, we’ll start doing a series of posts. The way this will work is my wife will give me three words – they could be objects, people, places, or ideas – and then I will write a story based around those three words. This story will be posted on the site. This won’t be every day, but maybe every two or three days so that a steady stream of posts will be flowing onto the site. Also, I have a project I’m currently working on and contemplating that will be a mystery/thriller/detective story. I haven’t written anything solid yet, but I have been sketching some key plot points and ideas in my notebook. Maybe in a month or so that story will be on here for some critiquing. Anyway, that’s all that ‘s going on right now. Thanks for reading!

On Gnosticism and Mysticism

There has been a lot of talk in recent years about the Gnostic Gospels, the life of Jesus in his early years, the authority and accuracy of the traditional Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), and other related issues. A lot of people have flocked to the likes of Deepak Chopra and others who claim to know the “real” story of Jesus. This got me thinking. I mean, it’s not as if these things are exactly new ideas. People have been undermining the truth of Biblical accounts for centuries and disagreeing with the stories presented in the traditional Gospels. But why, I asked myself, are these ideas given so much credence in today’s time? Why are so many people flocking to the likes of Chopra and New Age gnostics? And I think, at the heart of it, it’s the spirit of our age – Postmodernism/ Deconstructionism – that has given rise to such widespread acceptance of these “secret” Gospels. Continue reading

This is the blog of ML Candelario

And you are a visitor here. Welcome. This blog is a place for me to display my prose, poetry, and philosophical musings. I hope you enjoy reading them. Feel free to leave a comment or two (or as many as you like) providing constructive criticism. Be nice. Thank you. Have fun. That is all.
Email: authormlcandelario@gmail.com

Hand

An earthy terrain

with sparse trees of hair.

Each peninsula

has at its base a

mountain – there are five.

Beneath the surface,

rivers make blue trails.

On the underside,

the ridges form a

map of altitude.

And yet, each schoolchild

knows this land. They have

traced its shape: a plump

Thanksgiving turkey.

One head, four feathers

splayed – a prideful pose.

Add light and shadow

and it becomes a

rabbit or a dog.

This hand, indeed, can

metamorphosize.

Clenched into a ball,

my hand’s a weapon

after school. Yet with

it open I can

greet family or

friends. A changing shape,

quite ethically

ambiguous, my

hand is a shaper

of who I could be.

The Restaurant’s Countertop

is scratched metal.

Splinters of light bend and refract,

radiating outward in concentric circles

so that, no matter where

you look, it seems as if you

are staring at the sun

– though less bright –

and all the circles of light

are planets trekking their

ways across the galaxy of

polished gray steel.

A nebula of cloudy,

milk-white steam engulfs

the countertop as the cook,

a sweaty and rushing

linebacker of a man,

slams down a basket o’ fries and

disturbs the universe.

Sermon

The room is dominated by a crucifix

crucified to the wall.

At the front of the aisle,

the preacher stands.

His feet shuffle on the carpet.

His arms raise toward Heaven.

A tingle creeps up my arms,

the details of crucifixion

making themselves known along my skin.

Sitting on the hardwood pew,

my feet barely touch carpet.

The girl beside me picks at her hangnails.

The Preacher moves down the aisle

amidst hallelujah!s and amen!s,

pointing at the crucifix looming

in the background, slapping his palm

against his Bible, mimicking nails.

I stare at the carpet.

A carpet of dryness grows inside my mouth

as the Preacher makes his way

down the aisle. A line of sweat grows

in the crux of my back

as the shadow of the crucifix

leans over the congregation.

Moving back toward the crucifix

at the front of the aisle, the Preacher

makes dark tracks in the carpet.

Arms raise like Hosanna palm

branches as he begins to pray,

beckoning converts with arcs of his arm.

The crucifix sits affixed to the wall, nailed

to plaster and wooden beams. I walk

toward it and the preacher, making the slow

pilgrimage of new believers, carving my own dark

tracks into the carpet.

I raise my arms.

The Funeral

The cemetery was gray, or maybe that’s just the way I remember it. It’d had the feelings of ghosts and lonely corpses even though the sky was clear and the grass was green. I remember seeing a mound of sand, all brown and soil-black, where the gravediggers had cleared a fresh space for him. I imagined that it smelled like vegetables in the hopes that maybe he’d feel somewhat at home there, in the ground. My grandfather had been an excellent cook.

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