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.

Alluding to Lucy

After reading Lucy's most recent post, (which I would suggest anyone) I got to thinking about this entire concept of aging.

Our age proves nothing. I know a girl in particular that is at least four years younger than I, yet her scope on this whole "life" ordeal seriously leaves me in awe. Sitting and having a conversation with her has made me envy her wisdom. Her thoughts much more profound, much more original, much more real than anything I can compose.

I also know an adult who goes through life looking over his shoulder. Everyone is against him, and it's him against the world. No matter the cost, he'll keep himself and his son safe from this cold place. His son however, fears nothing. Not in a rebellious or and audacious sense, but in confidence in his will, self-preservation, and trust in God.
Which is more mature? That battle could perdure with no answer.


I feel like age can't be determined by a number, but by experiences. Determined by the people you've met and the stories you've heard. Determined by the scars you have and the people you've healed... An ancient man can have lived in the same place his entire life, but the young travelling musician will have a circumspection the old man could never understand.


It makes me wonder how old, in the sense of exposure to life, I will live to be.

All I know is that I will refuse to live in a cage that will prevent me from taking life in; having the scars to provide wisdom to those who are ready to hear it.

I want to be the old man who has a story for every situation, and advice for every downfall. I intend to have trouble walking because of all the places my feet have taken me, and trouble seeing because of the sunsets and sunrises I've seen.

I think then, maybe, I will be content.

Sixty Bullets.

Sixty bullets from a vexed barrel, more than half met their intention.
The other half left scars bad memories that will go down in history books.
The books will spell out how devastating the massacre was.
How horrible it was, how evil the kid had to be to do such an "incomprehensible, heinous act."
And horrible it was, evil he must have been.
So evil that he couldn't have anyone to help him before he reached this place.
So evil that his mental instability wasn't noticed by anyone.

--
I feel deeply for those affected by this ghastly instance.
I also feel deeply, however, for the kid who bore the gun.
He needed help and didn't receive it.
He then proceeded to make an unmistakably irrational decision that affected the nation.

There's a poem by C.S. Lewis that I've read a number of different places that keeps coming to mind.

"all this flashy rhetoric about loving you
i never had a selfless thought since i was born.
i am mercenary and self seeking through and through
i want God, you, all friends merely to serve my turn.

peace, reassurance, pleasure are the goals i seek
i cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin
i talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
but, self-imprisoned, always end where i begin..."

it goes on, but that's the part i wanted to highlight.
we think about ourselves so often.

suppose someone, one of us, thought about that one kid instead of ourselves.

could the outcome of this day be different?

Trench coats and Accords

I spent the day walking around DC today. I walked passed about fifty people dressed in the same trench coat, twenty people driving the same black 2006 two-door accord, and one man dressed in an American flag toga singing improvised protest songs while his wife, (who was similarly dressed) attempted to sing along, despite the fact there was no possible way of knowing what he was about to say.

but she kinda did.

I knew the words he was singing were improvised because the song was never ending, the structure was uncanny, and the melody was similar to that of a Presbyterian hymn i used to sing when i went to an orthodox church. He sang about guards walking by and the monotonous people in their black trench coats and black accords who are too wrapped up in their everyday lives to realize how Bush is moving towards monarchy. Obviously topics which could flow in any direction, yet about a fourth of the words that flowed from this man's mouth were predicted by his wife.
This couple was in their sixties both with long gray hair that fell to about their shoulders. The man's hair fell tangled under a beret, and the woman's was dreadlocks tied loosely at the back of her neck. They obviously had been married for a long time, because they had grown slightly crazy together. They dressed alike, protested Bush's obvious plan to overthrow the democracy together... and I envied that.

It takes an incredible amount of love and trust to reach an extreme like that; but much more, it takes an incredible amount amount of love and trust to look at those people in the trench coats and accords and look down upon them.

Knowing that the people around you will never, ever reach the point of comfort and contentment that you have, i believe, is bliss.

Truth and Trust

The statement below is true

The statement above is false

I've found the problem isn't deciding which is true, but which you are willing to trust.

Are we really telling the truth, or trusting that others will trust and believe it is?

Inability.

i can see perfectly what i want to write... but that's the problem. i see it.

i see predestined heartbreak from a much higher source. it's his time to leave soon, but he doesn't know how. he has blue eyes. she has green. the girl wears dark colors, not as sign of depression, but as a sign of earthliness, thoughtfulness... for the reader, not for herself. her colors are subconscious. i see guitars, lattes, a blue crayon, a single bedroom apartment, an unlit pipe, shaggy brown hair and and overgrown beard. i see fading hope, but passion. i see maroon walls. a lover in the corner of the crowded room, smiling at this shaggy, overgrown musician. smiling cause she knows the song he's playing is for her. She's sipping on her favorite drink. cafe latte. simple, but that's the way she likes her things, simple. she's writing in her notebook that she carries everywhere with a blue crayon.. cause that's all she could find on her way out of work. (she's an elementary school teacher... first year.)

they're walking home, hand in hand... a loft apartment downtown. they have to climb up a narrow flight of stairs to their place. they don't talk much at all on the way home. not because of nothing to say or anger or awkward situation... but because there is comfort in their silence. They take in everything. They soak up every bit of goodness that they can, because life is hard. a cool night like this can get them through five bitter ones.

i see all of this in picture, but not in structure. absurdly frustrating.

i can write all of this, but i can't seem to put together everything i want you to see.. i see this... i dunno perfect picture. i see this happen, and as it plays in my head on my own little personal projection screen I'm frantically trying to write it down before the next scene.

i think that's my problem. i want people to see movies in what i write, and vice-versa if I'm to act something out. i feel like if i act something, I want them to see the work and thought and detail behind it.

i suppose this as a post will be more productive than what i would try to write. I'm aware that it is difficult to follow and doesn't make a lot of sense, but maybe you can see where my mind is going with this.

hopefully this did someone in the world some good.

cloaks

I've been told you take the broken and reconstruct them, but in contrast take the strongest man and break him down til there's nothing but flesh and utter humility.

I hear that you bless the prostitutes, the tax collectors, and the unclean; that you take the most miserable, most pathetic, most unworthy waste of life and you love them. I hear that the blind crawl to your feet to see again, and that the dying are lifted to their feet by grabbing on to your cloak...
that they drag themselves through crowded streets, exposing their every imperfection to grab hold of you, so that they may be fit to see you, fixed by you.
and you healed them.
I'm afraid to do such things only because i feel i wont be able to let go.
to clasp on to my life's hope and purpose would be the most amazing and horrifying thing i would ever experience.
to have faith in such power that proves that there is something good in this hopeless place, and then have that power be proven valid... my elation would be unmeasurable.

but that was then. you used to walk the streets. You'd teach, impress and save... it was so easy. You are no longer tangible. We can't grab onto your cloak... right?

but then... what's a cloak? fabric to cover something better than itself.

if your cloak is out of the question, then I'll grab onto you.

---

and pray I'll be to afraid to let go.

Trains and a thought process.

Trains.
Travel.
Map.
Roadtrip.
Aviators.
Sunlight.
Ocean.
Surfing.
Wax Burn.
Rest.
Sunday.
Worship.
Him.
You.
Sorry.
Forgive?
Regret?
Never.
Forever.
Promise.
Broken.
Mirror.
Discontent.
Dispondency.
Distance.
Compass.
Lost.
Wilderness.
Hatchet.
Flannel.
Warmth.
Home.
Safe.
Routine.
Monotony.
Boredom.
School.
Exams.
Coffee.
Relaxation.
Sunshine.
Moonshine.
Illegal.
Rebellion.
March.
Month.
New Year.
Resolutions.
Failure.
Bush.
America.
Freedom.
Counrty.
Manifest.
Railroad.
Trains.

Follow?

What else was there to do but smile?

The two sat on top of his car, both in an utter daze. Anxiety had set in about 5 hours ago, but all the worry eventually led to numbness. His back was on the hood of his '87 Toyota and his eyes were set on the orange-red clouds above his head. She had her knees pulled to her chest and was looking down at the city below them. They didn't come home the night before. It would've been nonsensical to do so, the thought of sleep wouldn't have crossed their minds.

They hadn't spoken in about a half hour. They had prayed, cried, and mused to extent their bodies could take. Now it had become a matter of rest and waiting.

He closed his eyes and managed to smile... perhaps out of stark submission to the situation. What else was there to do but smile?

She looked at him and said half-smiling and asked, "Any good news?"

"Well, I'm going on twenty-four hours without sleep, i haven't showered, I'm going to be a father in nine months, and I'm most likely to be excommunicated... and i just got hit with an absurd epiphany. Now how I came to this conclusion, I couldn't begin to fathom... but somehow, I'm positive that two cups of coffee and a sunrise might take our minds off of the fact that we've completely demolished our chances of ever being perceived as reputable human beings."

"That was a lot of big words for you. I'm impressed."

"Eh, I've had a good 5 hours to think about it." She smiled. "So? You, me, some coffee?"

"Yeah... yeah I think that would help."

They didn't move. They kept their eyes fixed on the sky.

"What do you think of the name Emory?" she asked.

"Isn't that a band?" she smiled again. "I like it."

Rambles

[I find it frustrating that i can't speak well at all. I never find the words i want to say, and I more than occasionally don't make coherent sentences.

I also it find irritating that i can have an amazing assiduity when working on something i like doing, like typing this now or playing music, but i can never pull that attention and discipline out of me when i need to study or do anything else constructive.]


[Attention Deficit Disorder. With it, I suck at school.

Without it, I suck at life.

One unfortunately can lead to another. So I'm trying to find a happy median, and medication is out of the question.]


[I feel like I'm intellectually inferior. To trump this, i learn a new word every day. And also learn something about history and music. That may seem ridiculous, and it probably is. But i don't mind. Ridiculous works for me.]

[Some will seek forgiveness, others escape.]




I'm happy with life. I don't know why, but for some reason i feel like everything is going to fall exquisitely into place.

And what's great about this whole situation is that i have absolutely no control over it...

and frankly, that's perfect. I'm glad to sit in the passenger seat for a while.

A broken pipe and an unopened Bible (revised)

Life had hit him hard, and repeatedly.

he was punch-drunk and prostrated; an effete of waste of space.

He had known for ages what he should have been doing, but God's hand seemed a bit unsatisfying, at least until now.

He was out of money, out of love, out of heroine... which had really been all the same to this point, and he stood alone in a bummed out room with a broken pipe and a tattered bible laying open, with the spine up against a wall. He held a note balled in his fist that he had reread and reread a million times in the past hour, not out of disbelief or anything like that, but out of inability to really comprehend it. There was nothing confusing about the language, only what it was asking.

You may hate Him, but He still loves you. He'll help you up and clean your face along with everything you are. Just ask Him.

He loves you, and so do I.
I hope to see you again someday.

-Bekky

He didn't understand. He believed in God. He also believed God hated his guts and didn't care if he stayed face down in piece of crap apartment forever. God had taken everything he had made himself to be, everything that was important, everything that would have been good for him and eradicated it right it front of his face.

He was angry... so incredibly choleric. He tried to get himself riled with this rage that he had become so comfortable in. It was so much easier to be pessimistic, to pick up his gear and keep going the way he had always been going... But he couldn't go that way anymore. He'd run face first into a barricade that he was just too fatigued to climb. He couldn't push himself back to his feet, and no one on earth would still want to help him.

He was angry, but only at the fact that he was helpless. he didn't know how else to react. he rolled on his side.

There was the Bible, tattered, with the pages bent up against the wall he had thrown it at earlier. He opened his hand. He read the note once more.

"You may hate Him, but He still loves you. He'll help you up and clean your face along with everything you are. Just ask Him.

He loves you, and so do I.
I hope to see you again someday."

Love.

He knew what love was. He had people who used to sign their letters to him in "love." They either left without warning, died, or stole his cash and supplies and then left. They loved him long enough to get what they wanted... and why not? That's precisely what he did to them; an eye for an eye. it was fair. Love was fair, all strings attached.

he rolled on his side to set his view on the Bible. It was a bunch of words written by old, middle eastern men who thought they knew something no one else did. They knew love like Bekky knew love. Unconditional, forever-and-ever-no-matter-what love. That was then Jesus walked around healing people. It was easy to love when a God is roaming the streets performing miracles left and right. These days love is harsh, miracles don't happen, and cities don't welcome the nice guy with palm leaves and cheers...

And for a split second he stopped thinking. He stopped his pain, his muse, his anger... everything, and just looked at the Bible.

There had to be some sort of love. Bekky had it, or she wouldn't have given him that Bible.

He loves you, and so do I.

He reached for the Bible, pulled it towards him and moved the kinked and ripped pages back into place. He then closed it and pulled it towards his chest, and embraced it.

He held it tightly, helplessly, hopefully. He needed something, and nothing in that room had helped. Tears started to run down his cheeks and onto the floor as he squeezed the Bible closer to his chest; so close that he could feel his heart against it.

he was still prostrated. he was still disoriented. but no longer effete, no longer worthless. to himself yes; but not to God. He didn't know how to love himself, so God loved for him.

My Universal Bulletin Board of Inspiration

I heard a voice through the discord, a deluge of passersby. I saw one gaze frozen in time watching me passing by. And I swear I'll know your face in the crowd... and I'll hear your voice so loud when you're whispering.

When someone has an idea, an epiphany, a joke, a melody, a color that sparks imagination or curiosity, they write it down, or take a picture or hum it out... then, if they so choose, they can display it upon a wall visible to everyone, everywhere. a board of inspiration for someone who hadn't lived the life needed to have such an idea, to have seen the side of the world needed to see to compose such a song.


This universal bulletin board of inspiration would be far beyond any reasonable size, and would be within reach of anyone, no matter their geological location, no matter their economic status... A universal wall of ideas fit for those who live boxes and castles alike. This bulletin board wouldn't be finite. it would have as much room as was needed, but it would never get in the way of common genius. Not a bit of he sky would be covered by it, nor would it get in the way of love. it would sit nicely in the pocket of whoever so desired to have it, but would have capacity of countless Bibles. A life size mountain scape could be painted without crowding another's idea, because it is, of course, just as important. inspiration is inspiration. nothing is to ever be overlooked.





When inspiration has been gathered into a carving, light scheme, or whatever it may be, it could be pin up on the board for anyone to take off inspiration whenever they need. The final sentence of that novel, the perfect spice in the recipe, the perfect material would be all along the wall. All you would have to do is look.





Poetry would be brilliant, paintings never be similar, rhythms would be unheard of, photographs mind blowing and sound scapes arcane. If you ever had an idea, you could scribble it down, and put on this board. if you ever had a photo you wished someone else could see, lyric that would make both a man and his son smile, you could place it on this board. everyone would be connected. We would all work as a single mind of creativity, but none of us would ever be the same because we would never, ever be capable in our entire lives to see the entirety of this board. we would see pieces of brilliance and insanity all working towards the single cause of creation.





this entire idea would go on that bulletin board.
or begin it.
what would you create?