something new.

While this blog did well for what it was, it was rather one-sided and happily showed of the intense, pseudo intellectual side of Stephen Baker.

So, in an attempt to be more honest and more rounded with what I put on display:

The Beat-Speak Organ

Read it, link it, comment, or not.
This blog will stay up, but will be innactive.
If you wish, replace links to this blog to my new one.

It's time for better things.

not only by reason, but by heart.

My thoughts have of late been focused on somewhat of a truth-seeking inquisition. I've found that while i know for a fact that my God is real, my erratic doubt leaves my faith --and by that i mean my belief that He will, not that He can-- a reality that is only sporadically within my reach.

The difficulty in following Christ isn't believing that he did what he did. That said, I'm very aware that it's certainly not the easiest thing in the world to grasp... much less believe. Had I not experienced God like I have, I'm sure that I wouldn't have believed it myself. I feel the difficulty is knowing Him and trusting Him.
(I hate the Christian answer as much as you do.)
Once it's unearthed, however, it is a flagrantly terrifying thing. We refrain from handing over our entirety because we're placing everything we are into something that we don't entirely understand, or more truthfully, something we aren't 100% sure is factual.

If our absolutes are founded in our truths and if we are so certain of our God and our faith, why do we as Christians not ask the hard questions and relentlessly challenge our beliefs?
If God is who we believe He is, then why is it that we avoid challenging Him like the plague?
Truth has this arcane way of exposing itself.
Are we afraid that when we seek out truth, Christianity will not make the cut? That God will be proven to be nothing more than a myth and the sophistry of the age?

I have my doubts about God. There are some days that my doubt outweighs my faith by a few anvils. More important than those doubts, however, is what I've found in response to them.

If we find that God is a fallacy, then good for us. We've found truth. However if we find (as I have) that truth seems to rest on the bedrock of a Creator, do not stop until God is as real as the eyes you're reading with. Relying on tradition or the faith of your family will leave you either a nervous wreck or worse,

indifferent.

[On that, allowing only your own perception to be the judge of truth and fiction is a rail towards failure. Einstein said "Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods."]

Test everything. Hold on to the good.
- 1 Thessalonians 5:21

...and paper takes the gold over technology.

so it's been a bit since i've written anything on here.
in all honesty my Moleskine has been robbing this blog of my creativity... and i suppose everything else i write about.
but for the few that do read and periodically check-- i do indeed care about you, so i will leave you with something i'm learning.

(and by that i mean something i've begun learning as of four minutes ago.)

How dare i assume that in this second (minute, hour, day, week, etc...) I'm to be waiting on something else in life to happen? I know that God is far too precise, too much of an ace to let myself think that there's never something to learn. or do. even if it is resting.

the second i (we?) become bored, perhaps we've stopped living as we should.

"we were made to live creative lives."

off brand cereal with cheap milk
in a plastic bowl that matches our translucent
red and blue plates.
they were given to us because we had no dishes.

(but we don't mind. they go well with our broken table
and magazine artwork on the walls.)

and if you think about it, we're trading nice dishes, a larger apartment and a little more heat
for a life that demands truth, honesty, and a brilliant community with those we see every day and with the One we can't see every day.

when there's no tv, no internet,
and nothing too senseless to distract us
we become more creative in everything.

we've found new things to talk about.
new things to pray about
new things to fight for
and new people to embrace.
i've learned more in these four months
than i ever have at any school.
[not that school is bad. it's just different.
the learning environment institutions
provide have proven to be the bane of my existence.
however... that too will be an adventure
when the time comes]

when we find ourselves trying to push to the middle of God's will
things get rough, challenging, and often awkward.
we get angry and frustrated with ourselves and each other
because in all honesty, none of us are perfect in the slightest
and we are very prone to miserable failure.
however, a wise man once said that God doesn't use us
in spite of our weaknesses
but through them.

if we have committed ourselves to Christ,
we have committed ourselves to each other.
not just the ones who are white or black. or rich or poor.
Christian or Muslim.
we are called to reach out to all ethnicities.
with our truth, yes.
but also with our hands, our hearts, our ears, and our conversations.

i've made some incredible friends that are nothing like me.
one of my closer ones is a mexican immigrant in his late forties.
a brilliant man with hundreds of stories and a heart for God's people.
where would i be without him?
farther from Christ.
and what would i be if i had never said hello?

praise Him with drums, strings and joyful conversation.
worship with feasts with new family and a hunger for abundant life.
My God is good because he loves in a way that doesn't adhere
to our greed and our selfishness and narrow perspectives.
He grows and fills us in a way that makes us His.

He's a consuming fire.
plan on spreading it.
but as we know, fire isn't tamed...
so plan on getting burned (and know that it's good.)

shake the dust

yesterday i watched a nearly immobile woman who is coming to the very end of her life story be helped to the front of the sanctuary and lead everyone (without any prior worning or preparation) in the song "running for my life." I've never seen someone so elated because of Christ in my entire life.

over the past month i've met several guys who have beaten addiction and homelessness and are now finding jobs to start new lives. They have hope that for once in their lives something will go right because of who's hands their lives are now in.

i've met jobless women who volunteer every day that they aren't job searching. they serve 200 people food and take a small bag of whatever is left home for themselves.

during my two days of homelessness i encountered a woman with a beautiful heart
who took a friend and me under her wing, taught me to panhandle, and helped me find food and money.
she gave me her only spare sign
which was "i'm just hungry" scribbled the backside of an bus advertisement
and half of her earnings
just because she wanted the two of us to eat.

That is Christ.

If you allow yourself to stand with your feet cemented in your comfort and allow the dust to collect on your shoulders, you will never see Christ as He hoped you would.

the frantic construction of a palisade between God and my own selfishness

i'm starting to come to the realization that joy isn't necessarily a sum of your happiness over a certain period of time. It's not the amount of fun we have or achieving our goal of frowning less and smiling more. I think that it may be part of it, but when i look back on the most joyful times in my life and back on the joyful times of Paul and Daniel and Isaiah, i can't say that it was because there was some overabundance of sunshine and unusually green grass that they found on the other side of some white picket fence.

cause in all honesty, when we're trying our best to do what God wants

(at least in my personal experience)

anything in overabundance is scarce except maybe second chances and undeserved love.

and joy.

cause i mean, my happiness doesn't come from myself. it's difficult if not impossible to take no other resource but ourselves and flip our mood to be something authentically good. Why? because the center of our discontent isn't anything outside of ourselves. we can blame everything, but ultimately it's because we are doing too much or too little of something.

Alcohol and over-socialization are only two of the virtually fool-proof ways to distract ourselves from the fact that the joy we have falls short of what it is we're actually craving.

what i'm trying to work out is that what we're craving
this comfort,
this sense of belonging,
this sense of identity,
the sense of accomplishment,
and a means to reach all of these,
and even though we can fill them with all of our stuff (that's always really cumbersome and really, really empty,) something always ends up falling out or falling short.

In between the lamentation or discontentment we call our short lived high "joy."

but for some reason or another, when i tie a blindfold around my eyes and march to the beat this ancient drummer that i'm trying so hard to know and understand, all the things that i've convinced myself that matter like financial comfort, my dignity, or my own plans for my ministry end up building a barricade between myself and the life and Christ have for me.

such a bulwark keeps us far too focused on ourselves, and i think that is the root of our discontentment and the ultimate obstruction of our joy.

just an observation.

chapter 6: chicago or "let's see what happens"

by tomorrow night i will have met my new family,
moved into my new house,
and begun my next task for the son of david.

i'll meet new people
make new friends
who need him as much as i do

and i will love them
and love them
and love them.

when he shows up, i won't be surprised.

faith?

pause the music on my playlist above.
it will be much more enjoyable with the correct music playing.

the winner is... devotchka

we've been trusted with things that only we can do.
so we've got to go to do what we have to.
but you need to know that i try daily
to love you as much as you have loved me.
i am the most blessed... though i don't deserve it.

the trickle effect of power and a literal take on the whole "mustard seed" thing.

our heroes are idols standing on thousand foot towers with power, influence, merchandise and witty catch phrases. They promise us solution, fashion, and thirty second prayers to save us from Hell. We flash pictures of their faces hugging poor black children and elderly women in nursing homes just before they retreat to one of their beverly hills fortress... which is one of several.

we drool over their beautiful faces, their inspirational words, their wonderful intentions, and then we wait to see change trickle down from their sky scraper status and giant-sized power to us.

we argue what will be best for the world, we vote, we listen to sermons justifying the military gaining ownership of the cross, we decide that an unborn baby's life should be protected but a criminal's should not, and we wait for the big dogs to change the world for us. we are then left to pat ourselves on the back and sleep through the night knowing that we've done what's asked of us. We are the good citizen.

widows are made from campaigning and overworked heroes. Holy families eat their overpriced post-church meals disregarding the several nearby who would trade their bottle for half a sandwich. All of us rely on services and organizations and politicians to help the world. We love the poor when we get up on saturdays and go to the food pantry. we do something nice for the community for that annual event. so much is missed and left to wilt in the shadow of government plan and the church's limited interests.

meanwhile, a few start to realize that passion, motivation, and a legitimate love for neighbors and Christ spreads fast enough to make an arsonist envious; and while the heroes bicker over each other's opinions, much needed change disseminates households, neighborhoods, cities.

we become friends with the poor. we pick up trash because it helps others enjoy creation. we reach out in love rather than obligation or some twisted sense of self gratification. we write to the soldiers and we baby sit their kids out of love, not pity. we demolish social status and give our extra coats... not because it's nice, but because it makes everyone a little more alike.

but i tell you:
vote, find your opinion, volunteer.
then pick up the pieces that all of these things leaves behind for the sake of being what Christ asks us to be.

it can happen
or it can end with my punctuation.

He will be pleased. I swear it.

from eyes gazing up at our shining city.

every single time i hear exhausted chord progressions
with tired, stereotypical lyrics sung in your identical voices
and watch you smile at all the people you've gotten to sing along,
my toes curl and my eyes tend to role.

however, when you shout through your cross-shaped megaphones
that you're presenting this bland and empty lump to the most creative, brilliant, and deserving
as an act of worship,
it makes me want to smash your oh so coveted acoustic guitar
into your faux-hawked, soul-patched face.




our shining city on a hill has termites and water damage and is rusting and falling apart from the inside out.
to be quite honest, i'm not so sure that i'd want to be a part of something that is noticeably messed up from a distance.

------

reconstruction is essential
and it starts with you and me.

it's not actually what i want

i opened my window in time for the rain to stop and my disappointment was immediately met
with the urge to be somewhere else. even if i am the first to preach against it, i sometimes rationalize that just a day or one hundred miles would fix everything that seems to be out of whack in my chest.

that kind of perfection only lives inside black and white televisions



and as far as i'm concerned, the color is worth all the malady of occasional unrest.

and my heart is broken before work

St. Petersburg police cut up tents of the homeless










with liberty and justice for all.

the breath of frigid air after the exhale of smoke.

he had these aspirations of being a writer, a beat poet, a rapper, a teacher, a famous musician, and a silent revolutionary. everything was perfectly designed and had a consistent underlying utopian aroma.
but as he expected (and hoped)
he had come to the inevitable place where he stood at the edge of everything that was familiar
and looked out at the world completely unversed.
he asked his father if it were safe to jump






and his father said

of course not.
but the consequence of not jumping is too severe.

sparrows

i came across some letters that a convict wrote back in the day. He laid out these sixteen points that have inspired me to love the sparrows
like a brother loves his brother,
or a mother her son,
or a lover his wife.


I don't really know how yet,
or why, really.
but i have an ambition,
i have One leading me,
one beside me,
and a heart that's still beating.


The next chapter in this story is finally less about me.

an epiphany.

I'm not so sure i can change the world or lead these people. I'm unable project my heart loud enough for coats and ties to care, and I can't feed all the mouths that I would like to. I can't tear down the all walls i'm suppose to or teach all the cold hearts how to be warm.

I know for a fact that I cannot do these things.

However, I'm convinced that we can.

Tie your blindfold, darlin; It's nearly time to jump.

so when all else fails..

"For it is a fire that, kindling its first embers in the narrow nook of a
private bosom, caught from a wandering spark out of another private heart, glows
and enlarges until it warms and beams upon multitudes of men and women, upon the
universal heart of all, and so lights up the whole world and all nature with its
generous flames. "

that's a bit from Emerson's essay on love. he was referring to it in the romantical sense at that point.

i feel that it's something to strive for, lovey-dovey or not.

in hopes to destroy the wall created by those who help.

There is a blatant difference between the people of the social classes; A very distinct constant that separates the pinstriped plush from the pauper. The difference is something far more obvious than money... it's one of those deals where everyone knows it, but no one talks about it.

all sorts of people hurt, all kinds of people are addicted, and all types of people partake in domestic violence. These aren't characteristics of class. these are characteristics of people. Money has absolutely nothing to do with it. There are people who have been well informed about investing, banking, mortgages, budgeting and government aid for schooling. There are others who don't really have the money to be advised. But money is the difference in class, not the difference in people.

Money doesn't create separation. money doesn't force individuals apart. money doesn't make the majority of your friends within the same monetary standing as you. Money doesn't make you the more significant and hold more worth.



This narcissistic perception of ourselves does.


I stood at the top of a hill that plateaued under a bridge downtown today. There were hundreds of liquor bottles, fast food bags, used condoms, containers from donated food people picked up from Daily Bread. The place was dirty, graffitied, and isolated from the rest of downtown. I passed a guy on the way there who I'm sure had been there a few times before, and I gave him a friendly hello. He responded seconds after we had passed each other with an inaudible grunt; this was after he stared at me as if i was crazy. I didn't belong there, and he knew it.

The class itself is divided by money, yes. but the dividing wall that ultimately divides God's children rests on the soul fact that we want to view ourselves as better off, as more in tune than those around us. We crave this need to hear from those in close proximity in our lives that we're doing something right, that we're successful, that we're loved, that we're witty, that we're beautiful, that we're wanted.

People see the poor as just that.

Poor.

Therefore, we, the UNpoor, see ourselves as their source of hope. We as the unpoor see ourselves as what these people should be more like. because we have our lives together, because we have a car. because we have nice clothes. because we sit behind a desk all day so that we can by the new shoes and plasma screen and vacation want. The poor are the sick, and it's up to the rich to heal them from there terrible fate.

Our relationships with the poor revolve around donating, around helping. we are the supplier, we are the doctor. We hand out food and donate clothes because "they need it". Sitting and smoking a pipe with a less fortunate friend for the sake of friendship has never been considered an attractive act of kindness. There is no organization involved. nothing to promise you safety. It's nothing you can take your Christian friends to and help the hungry and feel good about yourself.
So this healthy, loving exchange between people never occurs. Because it doesn't fit the comfortable mold of the contemporary idea of "loving the poor."

And our excuses? We can't instigate friendships? we don't live in the same areas? we have nothing in common?

we have the same hurts, the same questions, the same kinds of relationships... we'd just never know because clothing and houses and distanced neighborhoods get in the way.

Those with less see that, i've been told.

Being on the "more fortunate" end of the spectrum may be nice for the reputation and ego. But it leaves very little room for love. It seems to me that those who don't have a lot seem to understand the idea of love and God.

Jesus Christ seemed to think so
.

"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God."

tears from the saints

-------
[My friend, if you cannot see over or much less tear down your wall, perhaps you aren't meant to do it alone.]



We are a family of a gargantuan number. We have our brothers and sisters dying from a lack of hope while we sit and proclaim that we are God's faithful children. Love is perverted by the media and men who make their living by selling the one's they're suppose to be cherishing.


What is it going to take for us to understand? Will it take more extremists smashing airplanes into buildings? Is it going to take more orders to fly our planes over there to kill their people, innocent or not?

Last time i checked, knocking on your neighbors door and buying lunch for Leroy from the corner of 5th and Main didn't have to be instigated by a life-altering predicament. For whatever reason, our society has decided that mass death and tragedy is a fitting catalyst to start loving each other.


at least for few months... until the shock of the towers falling becomes old news, and the acts of love quickly become shooed away by our business of life. Because our lives are far to important to jeopardize by truly helping someone else.

It makes me sick that Christian America finds so easily what needs to be done to progress their own holiness, but so easily overlooks and neglects the ones suffering down the street.

The churches are not steping up to the plate,
So now we as the church will.

Father, we will lead them home.

love like smoke

We all should start swinging... And I mean literally start throwing our fists left and right towards everyone we so deeply hate. The immature, the piercing, the angry, the unforgiving, the liars, the heart breakers, the thieves, the murderers, the terrorists, the parents, the children, the deserving, and the not.

I mean come running at them out of nowhere like some gurrila ambush and catch them completely off guard, so that when they see at the last second what they have coming, they won't have time to react, besides maybe a bit of profanity or some awkward sound or movement.

Like, no jokes. everyone should ball their fists and throw them in the direction of the hated. Have every single bit of anger and rage built up so that you can finally let everything out at once, rather it continue to build up over time.


and in a split second, alter the course of our hands so that they fly past their faces and wrap around their backs in an unexpecting embrace. and I mean press the insides of our fists to their backs and pull them into us in a desperate and defeated act of humility.

yeah, we'd squeeze a little hard than necessary, and yeah i'd kinda hope my tears got all over his nice new shirt. and i'd fight to restrain my voice as i told him everything i could think of that made me hate him so much.

but then we would finally let go, and look at them straight. look at them dead in the eye

and be able to apologize for everything; and at the other end of the spectrum, would finally be able to forgive everything. It would be done with. Everything.

It sounds simple and improbable. But i'm positive that we'd see that suddenly eye contact wouldn't be such a burden, and love would pervade the heart like cigar smoke in the lungs.

dislocated hips and scalded lips.

So I have a question.

How do we go about worshiping God when we can never begin to paint an accurate picture of who he is? How can we as people possibly give Him something that's fit? How can we take our tainted, blemished, and faithfully screw-up lives and present something to Him that's acceptable?




I've been thinking about how let down He must feel. How hard it is to watch us and allow us to choose to hit the ground running from Him, only to fall flat on our faces and into the most turbulent of situations.





So how can i possibly show substantial and legitamite gratitude to the King who gave me something to contribute to His sovereignty. I'm no longer living to make a living. Because that, i think, is the saddest, most tedious fate imaginable. instead he asks me to pick up His flag and march, to become part of something that will never die out. Revolutionary? That's a radical title, but it's something to strive for.

how can I give something suitable back? what can I bring to the table that leads God to say "Thanks bro. I needed that."

Isaiah was a great follower, but it wasn't until God brought handed embers to his lips that he saw and understood how much this Guy deserves,


I'm fed up with not knowing who I'm living this thing for. And if it takes wrestling with Him, or having His touch scald my skin, I'm willing.

It's worth a handicap.

A quick 4am proverb.

When our futures are certain (and when I say this, I mean however broad), the segment of time between now and our futures becomes far more precious... And I've realized that this is so because I've never had to prepare for something so epic and beautiful.

How much can one person grow? I mean to answer this.

some beat poetry and commentary.

[You spat in the dirt and healed the blind man's eyes to lead me to the fact that I'll never really understand





and that sometimes it takes the sharp pain from the bright light that blinds me so that i can eventually see and to finally know my real name.



--some percussion interlude of sorts--


And the whole thing makes me sick sometimes, because I'm ultimately the reason you were bound and stuck up there like some piece of art on a wall. And you've become art on my chest that reminds me that there's more



so much more to this whole thing. ]

--------

It excites me that the way I string together my words on paper, the music I make, and my ridiculous, elated dancing are all my language in which to worship creatively.

basically, He comes down to saying this:

Love them all and worship One; do it creatively... And in the most literal sense of the phrase, to hell with the rest .

Pointless and impulsive.

My, my, my.

How I love having a camera of my own.

A haiku and a thought.

[Reaching contentment
Is to relinquish the search
for life and His plan.]

Restlessness and discontent make an impeccable recipe for progress. If we're comfortable in our lives, perhaps we're doing something very wrong.

What are we willing to give up to live past our own potential, and live up to the potential we were made to live up to.

You see, I've given up on my fear of failure because I've come to the realization that with the life ahead of me, I will inevitably fail far more than most.

I'm looking forward to every stumble.
It's all part of the race.
[Heb. 12:1]

Christmas thoughts.

My youngest sister stood by my right side with her arms around my waist and her ear against my ribs, and I listened to her sing a worship song as loud as she possibly could about a God she has only just met. To my left side was a man who hated God, a man who boldly and bitterly shouted mockery at God in a room filled with people praising the one he so despised.



----------------
I want to know why the number seven
and why seven stars, and why you revealed them in your palm
I want to know how you felt after you overturned the tables
and how ironic you found the palm leaves
and how dreadfully prophetic the timber strapped to your back.





and how often did you make a fist?
and then lower it to take the blows
I mean you were a pretty strong guy
you made tables and chairs and
I'm sure you had some heavy callouses





and I wonder how it felt when you made the choice to die?
I mean, you had to be pretty young, maybe ten years old.
at ten years old i was chasing cats with wooden swords
meanwhile, you're reading about how they'll turn swords against you
i can imagine you weren't too stoked to read Isaiah





And what if you had to fall out of love for your cause
I mean, you were a twenty-something who made the point to love everyone
And I can only imagine an unfortunate, beautiful soul falling for you
then having her tears fall for you when you reject her for your cause
I can only imagine you got upset with your father quite a bit









yet somehow you managed to pull the whole gig off immaculately. Your unorthodox life stuck out like well constructed graffiti.



your illustration of love is paramount in my life.

The Leap Worth Taking.

I've made the decision to move to a major city, live in poverty for a year, work without pay, and live for the purpose of loving and affecting others in any way I can.





Nothing in my entire life has ever sounded more appealing.















One more semester, then I bounce.

The extraordinary life is lived by a person who is willing to risk huge failure and fly beyond all expectations.

The terrible concequence of procrastination and compromised decisions.

There are sounds like foghorns or morning alarms that are trying guide this once was inamorato, but he's so far gone that these sounds seem like a crowd in a close tunnel, a cacophony echoing all over the place and bouncing from ear to ear.







And everything reminds him of it. Payphones start ringing and lights turn red with nobody else around. It's like he's suppose to be still. but he's not still, not ever. Stillness means wasted time, and any wasted time opens the gates for some sort of muse and unwanted thought.

And so he continues moving. He doesn't ever go anywhere, really; he's satisfied with circles. He has to pay the bills and the child support food and has to have enough left over to buy his emotions from Kenny, the guy who cleans up the bistro after closing time, because the emotions he has are far too cumbersome to cope without an extra hand.

He goes home every night to his desk, his bed, his couch, and his refrigerator. He reads his book, drinks cheap wine, and writes letters. Tonight he's on letter number forty-five. They're letters to his son.

Letters telling him everything.

Why he's not with him, How much he loves him, how sorry he is, all of his problems, all of his addictions, all of his regrets, his advice on how getting through school, his advice on women, how to fix up old Mustangs, how to catch a baseball, why the Red Sox are the only team worth rooting for, how beautiful Spain is in autumn, all of his favorite music, how his band sounded in high school, how he had taken the captain of the cheerleading team to prom, where the best coffee place on the west coast is, how he met his son's mother, how he wrecked the car because he was drunk, how his love left him because of his state, how sorry isn't enough, how he can never forgive himself...

He doesn't quite remember if he repeats anything in the letters. He tries not to, because he has so much to say, and can't waste paper and ink on things he's previously stated.

When he's finished, he takes the letters, seals them, and adds the postage and address. He takes one last look at it and walks into his bedroom

opens the bottom drawer of his desk

and drops the letter in.

Transcendentalism

It scares me that since I've been here, I haven't been able to write anything of substance. My way of thinking is gone because everything is loud and shallow.



People care about Calvinism and free will more than the people who believe in it. They care more about praying and reading their Bible than they do actually building a relationship with God, if that makes sense. People pray over their food because "it's what Christian's do." People read their Bible and go "witnessing" to people. If these people cared about the people more than they cared about their souls, they would get phone numbers and hang out with them, opposed to cramming Jesus down their throats for ten minutes, then booking it to save someone else's life before curfew. I know that their intentions are good, but it drives me crazy.



Yeah, Jesus would spread the word, but not because he had to, but because he loved and cared about the people. He had dinner with a tax collector at his home. I doubt if one of these evangelists would go to a party if they were invited by someone to whom they were sharing the gospel with.



...ending my rant.



At one point in my life I believed that if i just moved away, if i just got far from everything that i knew, i would be fine. I would be able to start clean and fresh. This wasn't true at all.



No matter where I go, I'm still myself. Nothing about that is changing anytime soon.



“Traveling is a fool's paradise... I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from."



Transcendentalists make me feel a little less crazy. They also frustrate me with their brilliant diction and illustration. Sometimes I wish I was like Emerson. Back in the day he and a few others formed the Transcriptural Club and published a journal for all of the public to take in. Works like Emerson's "Nature" were first published there, and people were deeply influenced and inspired simply by what he had to say.



I get discouraged because many times I wish that my page, in the infinance of (which isn't actually a word... i suppose i mean the infinite nature of) the Internet will maybe have a fraction of that impact.



However, I'm well aware of the fact that I fall short.

Just a thought.

So I was thinking about it

and when I'm tossed along some valley or stream
or along some westward route by a loved one's hand
and as my dust blows by the feet of everything created
I'll laugh at the erudition and vainglory of men
and the bookish schools and pseudo-intellectuals
when I am able to wrap my arms around Him.

So I mean, what's there to worry about?

The sad fate of photographs.

there's something to be said for
the way I live my life.
I mean, I'm sure it's not a life anyone
would WANT to live.
It's sporadic and spontaneous at times while
completely still at others.
I constantly am in jeans and no shoes, and spend lots
of time listening to music
and writing
and drawing new tattoos
and talking to God.
I don't really pray, really
just kinda talk to him. It's a good way to get my head straight.
most people don't have that problem.
I don't mind though.
I'm getting off topic. Where was I?
ah.
My life.
I climbed a mountain by myself today
so that I could get some peace
and quiet.
I wrote and watched
and read
and took photographs for old people
who for some reason take the most pictures.
That's always confused me. The people closest to death take the most pictures
maybe it's so they can surround themselves with the happy things
maybe not.
maybe it's so they can let their family know that they're still around
cause they're always asking you
"would you like to see some pictures of my family?"
"grandpa, I've seen them. They all look the same."
but you don't say that. that would be rude.
you sit and smile and wait for the time to go.
maybe that's me though.
maybe I'm just rude.
maybe not rude.
but conceited in the fact that my time is too important
to spend looking at pictures that I've seen before with
old people.
...that kinda makes me sad though.
cause when I'm old, I'll want to show pictures
cause that's all I'll have.

I'll have the memories of my friends and family.
and when my memory starts to fade.
I'll have pictures.
Lots and lots of pictures.
And maybe if i have enough pictures, I can string together some some sort of a timeline.
YES! Some sort of picture show to show what I can't explain.
everyone will want to see my pictures I'll have a wall to walk down and tell my story
of this life that I'm so fond of.

but then..
they won't want to listen.
because "grandpa, I've seen them. They all look the same."

It's a sad fate. Being overlooked.

it hurts more i guess when it's photographs your memories rest it.

Six years past.

Sometimes I find myself angry

Sometimes sad.

Sometimes confused.

But all of that is selfish.

It's not what makes the world go 'round, it's what makes the ride worthwhile.

Perhaps

maturity is achieved when love becomes not only a catalyst for change, but for responsibility.

That statement really only makes sense if it's applied to very particular situations. None of these situations have anything to do with romantical love. Love initially is relational, Godlike. It's never infatuated or romantic.

And it's love in that form which instigates the perfection in life... at least the perfection that lasts.

love -noun
1. A silent conversation soundtracked by mixtape #13.
2. Fireworks in the snow
3. Necessary too-long hugs.
4. Running to catch torrential downpours
5. Hot chocolate with a hint of french vanilla.
6. Playlists specifically for hookah.
7. 3:32 am coffee runs.
8. Stories from the crazy war vet.
9. Stars, pipes, and fresh tattoos.

Thanks for the worst.

There's something to be said for the most awful, terrifying, odious times of our lives.

I think it's
Thank You."

Thanks for every dark,

depressing, hating,

angry, violent,

lustful,

and destructive night that I've had to go through.

Thanks for all the pain and isolation I've braved,

and for all the idiotic and harmful decisions I've made.

Thanks for my falls,

my addictions,

my lies,

broken skin,

and broken holes in my walls.

Somehow you managed to let it all pull me closer to you.

You've got my trust.

Freeman

So I met this man the other day
Freeman
dressed in his suit and hat
on the corner of Commerce and 9th.
You always see people like that, you know?
Nice clothes that have run slightly shabby
and they call to you to see if you can spare some change.
It never really made much sense to me,
the irony, I mean.


I spared him
my fifty cents that i had in my pocket
and bounced.


I made my way to Dave's Dogs across the street.
"2 hots. 1 with chili, 1 yellow relish.
oh, and a coke if you could."

Freeman starts screaming.

Like, flat out belting in the middle of the road.
Cars speeding past, honking, people staring, industrial smells, freakin..
people throwing trash at his feet all day... and he just can't take it anymore and he yells





STOP!! EVERYTHING'S SO F*CKING LOUD!! JUST STOP!




and everything did.








...guess everyone's glances got too loud for him.
He kicked his cup full of money for his "bus to Memphis" and nickels and dimes went rolling every-which-a-way.

He kinda paced around for a bit then just sat against the wall of some store and just watched the world slowly gain back his momentum.

I walked over to him after he'd chilled out and sat down. I kinda awkwardly hit his shoulder with the outside of my hand and said

"thanks."



he looked at me just really baffled.
Any sane person would do the same. and he WAS sane. probably more so than anyone else on Commerce St.
But I didn't really have anything else to say... I mean he had the nerve to stop downtown. He had the competency to pull the power and volume of glances into something everyone could see.



So I just kinda smiled ineptly and walked away.

Brushes and Paints.

"Meaningless! Meaningless!" says the Teacher.

"Utterly meaningless!

Everything is meaningless."

-Ecclesiastes 1:2

I found this particular verse by reading a devotional put together by Martin Luther. At first it comes across as incredibly emotionally driven and ridiculous; and Solomon's intentions were just that, he was basically venting when he wrote it and came to his realization through his rant.

This guy owned everything. like, literally.

He had slaves, entire vineyards, basically all of Jerusalem... no jokes, if this guy wanted it, he could have it within a day. He goes to the extent of saying "I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure" in 2:10

So obviously, the tangible things: Food, wives, followers, palaces, the grand typical wants of the times. But atop that, he had an immense amount of self-derived wisdom. He soaked up every bit of everything he could and took it to heart. He was a ridiculously intelligent and wise man. On paper, this cat pretty much had it made... He lived the American dream by starting from scratch and building himself up using his own sweat and blood.

and then the next verse comes.

"Yet when i surveyed all that my hands had done and what i had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun."

I think in a conceited sort of way, I deep down consider myself to be relatively wise for my age. I've put myself through a substantial amount of unnecessary problems that I've gathered wisdom through. But it goes on to say that unless the wisdom in me isn't of God, it's meaningless. "like chasing after wind" it says.

Solomon basically speaks down to people like himself who live like they're living on this place forever. He poses the question of "why live like this?" Why live to form some image, to build up some massive stage to stand upon, when in an incredibly minuscule time frame you'll be gone from this place.

An image is something that everyone has, whether they like it or not. It's just been recently brought to my attention that my image has absolutely nothing to do with me, other than the fact that my body wears it. I'm to be sculpted. I'm the blank canvas that God paints.

I have a say in the matter obviously, but I'm making a pact right now to work on handing over the brushes and paints.

Up a creek without a camera.

He saved a million men starving from their lack of bread and ripped their souls from the tempters hands by taking lashes from lesser men striving for a heavier purse.

----

That was the start of a post i planned to finish a week ago. I never got around to it. However, I liked the sentence, and feel that it should stay... so I hope you enjoy.


So a good bit has happened.

-I've graduated from high school and my sights are set on LU, which I'm not entirely stoked about.
-I'm putting every ounce of my graduation money towards a Canon EOS 400D Digital Rebel XTi, 28-135mm and 70-300mm lenses, and a tripod. Unfortunately for me, my graduation money combined is worth not even half of what I need... so most of the summer will be working towards it.






Now, I kinda find this selfish. Despite the fact that the camera will probably be used more for others than myself, it's and incredibly hefty dent in my wallet. Even more so, that's a lot of money going towards me. Me has a heck of a lot of things. Me doesn't exactly NEED this camera, but wants it very, very, very badly.

I have this very bold and audacious (I don't know if that's a word, but I'm running with it,) idea of taking pictures of life and working them into stories in this blog and really giving people something to learn and experience. And I feel with such an able camera, and with all of the research I've done, I can achieve that.

Thanks to the wise words of Steve last Sunday, I prayed about this purchase. I'm kinda waiting for something to pop up and be all like "STEPHEN, PUT ALL OF THAT MONEY TO SAVE THE CHILDREN IN AFRICA!" And I actually expect an answer much like that one, but so far, haven't received it. I've even gone to the limit of finding what I could to to serve with this thing. Cause I mean, at the end of it all, it is a thing. That's it. But my desire for this thing has driven my to put most of my money into it.


Is this bad?




















I'm trying desperately to make this a good thing.










I mean, perhaps the beginning sentence does in fact relate to all of this.

My Castle in the Air.

So I was flipping through photos when I found this one.

I mean, I have absolutely no reason to begin thinking about this now, but this picture made me.

I had no choice.

This is my fantasy as an elderly man.

-------------------

I'm (hopefully) going to be that guy at that bench one day.

I'll have my wife of a million years beside me under my arm, looking out at the world and finally be content in stopping. My skin will be weathered and wrinkled and my hair and my eyes blurred, but still blue. People will see life in my wrinkles.

And I will know exactly what love is.

I'll be able to answer my grand children's questions of:

"What did you used to do when you were younger?"

"How did you meet grandma?"

"Grandpa, what do your tattoos mean?"

I'll be a bottomless vat of stories.

And when the time comes to stand before God, when I'm up there shuffling my feet, recollecting how I was planning to explain everything, He'll stop me and tell me I did alright.

The Grand Oil Party.

We went to war with Iraq because they had weapons of mass distruction, which oddly enough were never found or used.

We also went to war with Iraq because of Saddam Hussein. We wanted to protect the Iraqis who were getting thrown into jail and being tortured for speaking out against the government... Quite like China. But we don't invade China, because they pay children 5 cents a week to produce products for America, so that makes them okay.

And let's see... why else did we go to war?

oh yeah, Saddam was an illegitimate leader because he came to power by military coup. Kinda like general Pervez Musharraf did, but since he's the leader of Pakistan, it's cool because they helped us invade Afghanistan.

And the reason we went to fight in Afghanistan was because nineteen men, fifteen of which were Saudi-Arabian, were trained in Afganistan by the Taliban and smashed two planes into the two towers. They were trained by Osama Bin Laden, who was also from Saudi Arabia. But Afghanistan was where that particular training supposedly took place. So that made the whole deal chill.

I'm so sick of this war.

But hey, if all goes well, we'll have more oil and better gas price. A deal of lives is a fair price for a deal of gas.

3466 dead.
25549 wounded.

I support our troops. They're far more brave than I think I could ever be.

It's the one leading that frustrates me.

A tenebrific week into a hopeful one.

It's been a while since the last time I've posted anything of substance. I've been unbelievably busy with theatre and music... so busy that I've kicked God out for literally about a week.

I mean; I've acknowledged his existence, talked to him here and there... but at the end of it all, I suck.

A substantial amount of change is going to happen very soon for me. Granted, I know I've said this before, but It's reached a point of paramount significance. I've been living for Stephen for the past two weeks and I've gotten absolutely nowhere except further from everyone who means something to me.

I've realized this week that when I have too much to do, I block out everyone. Then, when I have time, I look behind me to see if I've run anyone over during my frantic race to get everything done. I hate it because I always find a way to set time a side, and recently I haven't.

-------------------
Lots has happened recently.

-Jerry died, which means Lynchburg will be wiped of the media map forever.
-An LU student made several homemade bombs that were to blow up Ben Phelps and his "GOD'S YOUR ENEMY! GOD HATES FAGS! EVERYONE BESIDES US IS GOING TO HELL!" Westboro Baptist Church brigade who were picketing Jerry's funeral. The explosives were found in his car before any damage was done.

(Their whole view irks me. [you can read up on it here http://www.godhatesfags.com/] God hates everyone who isn't a puritan-based Christian like we are. Everyone who doesn't believe in exactly what we do is going to Hell, because we're the only ones who have ever interpreted the Bible correctly.

Somehow, I don't think Jesus died for people he hated, seeing as he pushed the whole 'love-love deal. I also think it soils the entire idea of salvation... I mean, It's wrong to sin, yeah. But if you do, you're alright, cause that's why Jesus died in the first place. But you know what guys, maybe you're right. But come time to stand before the Big Guy, you may wish you had drawn people toward God, not scared them away.

Just a thought.)

-I'm going to be graduating soon. That's a weird feeling. A good one, but a weird one.
-My band House is basically set for shows in the summer, which means I'll be working from 8-4 every weekday, and practicing every other minute after that. (once again, cramming my schedule.)

Guess it's time to stop writing and actually do what I've been intending to do all day.


My presence will go with you, and I will give you rest.
(Exodus 33:14)

My Darlin Clementine.

"This is it. It's going to be gone soon."

"I know."

"What do we do?"

"Enjoy it."

-------

You can never really know how long you have. Ever.

What time we have will be judged by what we did with it, not what we didn't.

Just a thought.

Subway Dreams

I had a dream I was in a metro car, sitting in a seat to the right of the door (the ones with the glass in front you,) and I was writing and drawing on this notepad. I'm not really sure what I was drawing, though I'm not positive it was relevant.

I just kept writing, watching people get on and off. I wasn't getting off, looking for, or even counting the stops until mine... I guess I had no intention of getting off, but just passing the time and riding it around. It was fall I think, because I was wearing jeans, a black pea coat, and fingerless wool gloves, and my hat, of course.

All of a sudden the train stopped inside a tunnel, with only a couple emergency lights lit. The doors opened, and I just left nonchalantly down the tunnel into the dark.

----------------

I keep reading your letters that I haven't responded to. I apologize for not writing, I just never have much to say, and I really hate writing things that I don't think are important.

It's been an quaint few weeks, I'd say.

Musing.

All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting
go and holding on

--Henry Ellis

.

Childhood playthings.

Once, I built a fort around the dog house in my back yard to keep out all of the attacking infintry. I held my own with sticks, rocks and homemade slingshots, while calling out to my non-existant troops to "push forward! They're retreating!" I would then kick down the wall I built and charge into the very center of the battle and hack away at my advisaries with my mighty sword that I had drawn from my belt loop sheath.


I never lost a battle, yet the victories never grew dull. I was always so proud of my accomplishment.


These days, my battles are against real infintry, and there's nothing good about my victories.

Watching 5th Street

I'm currently sitting in starlight, (which I've decided will become a routine of mine) and I unintentionally sat facing the window, which was a good choice on my part.

that whole people watching deal I have is having a field day.

I started writing about something else this morning, something really pointless actually, so I erased it all and just watched 5th street. I watched the grown men shoot baskets in their coats and ties before going to work, trying to fit some fun and association in before they go and plop themselves behind a cubical and numbers all day. I saw Tony walking downtown in his work uniform, which means he won't be at school today. He wasn't at school yesterday either. I asked him about it once, why he didn't come to school and whatnot. He responded: "You've gotta put the family before yourself, you know?"

In comparison I feel staggeringly selfish. I have a father. My mother works one job, not two. I don't have the names of my sisters tattooed on my arm so they can be assured I won't forget about them.

All things considered, I'm sheltered and again, selfish.

I may or may not continue this one. I'm off to class.

Wednesday Morning Coffee and Fries.

I'm sitting at starlight cafe doing homework, which I find pretty ironic... skipping school to do homework; but it's pretty typical for me.

I was working on my soundplot for tech theatre, which is already two days late, and the lady ordering her drink at the counter passed out and fell to the floor. She seizured, but only for four seconds, (for some reason, i counted time.)

Everyone leaped up to help. Some called 911, some got her pillows, some just surrounded her and asked if she was okay... it had to be incredibly overwhelming, so I thought it would be best to stay out of the way. I have this thing about people watching. It's completely unintentional, but I like it, so I see no reason to stop. I saw the baristas flipping out because they didn't know how to handle the situation, an English teacher continuing to correcting papers, trying to pretend nothing was happening, and a little girl. The little girl was smiling.

Not at the lady of course, but at her mother, who had fled from her table to help the woman. Her mother was fitting a pillow beneath the woman's head when the little girl looked at me, looked at her mother, then back at me... with subtext of "That's my mom." I smiled and nodded. She was then instructed to go to the back and find a damp washcloth to put over the fallen woman's forehead.

She immediately obeyed.



Proud of her parent who, she believed, had saved this woman's life.

Once the ambulance came and left, and I knew everything was okay, I got to thinking on my heroes. I realized my heroes were either dead, intangible, or no longer worthy of being my hero.

Ralph Waldo Emerson one said "At last every hero becomes a bore." Some day, the mother of that girl will no longer be a hero. She will no longer be invincible. She will be a mortal mother "who just doesn't understand."
She will grow to find new heroes, idolize other people that are much more extravagant than her mother.

I realized that a child's perception of any human hero holds the characteristics of God. I was told once that people will only let you down. Friends are amazing, and they can be the most ideal companion, but in some way shape or form, they can't live up to what you'd like.

I've realized I don't have heroes. I look up to certain people, but I keep their flaws and imperfections in the back of my mind, dulling the effect of their awesomeness.

I've raised my expectations for my heroes... so much so that I think only one will ever be considered mine.

He can't let me down.

Sunk.

I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war... if you can tell me something worth fighting for.

======================================

======================================

Lately I've been asking myself what I'm doing this for. This whole life deal. I Initially said "I'm living for Christ," but that was pretty much a lie. I'm living for myself and dragging God along for my own benefit. Listening to Him when he's practiacally screaming at me, and praying when I suck and need help.

Truth be told, I feel as though I'm suppose to be undergoing some titanic change, but I'm missing my directions to do so because I'm so wrapped up with the rest of my life.

I'm not really positive as to why I'm posting this, but I will.

Take it as you will. Perhaps you're in the same place I am.