"i would find a way..."

Now listening to: American IV by Johnny Cash


"early one morning with time to kill..."

Lazily I feel so. I don't know why i get into these "fits".
I guess if it's not a "fit" if it is my life.
Everyday i think about what is better, what i should do instead of what i'm doing right at that moment. I think...

"I hung my head, I hung my head..."

I don't like feeling like this. It's not like i want to. Why would i? I'm not massichist. I want to swim in the glory of the love of the Lord and scream on tops of mountains to people of why they should love this man that has made me who i am. Why they should go around running like crazy people, with the full knowlegde that they are not perfect, but that's what makes life more beautiful.

"I set off running to wake from the dream..."

Again, i make myself come back to reality and "get in check with myself" so-to-speak. I know that dreaming all day won't fix anything. I must live. I must grasp that thing unto which i need to grasp.

"What have i become?
my sweetest friend.
Everyone i know
goes away in the end.
And you could have it all.
my empire of dirt.
i will let you down.
i will make you hurt..."

Someone asked me why I write this thing for anyone to see. I know i don't want attention. I dont' think anything will change of the people that read it, or of myself for writing it.
"We need to be honest,' a very close friend told me recently.
I would love to be honest. I would love to know what being honesty without telling the unecessary actually meant.
I don't think i know where to hold back. All i can do habitually write like a fiend into this thing that tells of these everyday, common emotions that everyone goes through at some point of their life. At some point some is going to feel like crap. That is life. We cannot prevent it. It's not the worst part of life. No. Pain and tribulation is where we find glory, where we find what true, unconditional love is, where we find something we were missing before, where we find the "it" that we neededl. Where we find out that life is harsh, but the righeous stand firm and press on, continually toughing it out so that they may make their path to the final point of what it is all supposed to end at-- Love. Love more than we understand it.

Am i supposed to be that ache of glory for others to witness? What do the events in my life lead me to be right now? What do all the things i love, i hate, i yearn for, come to right now? Do i sit, do i stand, do i do a little of both?

I know i cannot have answers unless grace gives them to me and unless i look to something much larger than the question.

I must be as honest as i can be with myself, with heaven, with God.
If i must scream out why i still hold strong to a belief that seems childish, then i must.
If i must write pages of what seems as increasingly annoying jibberish for what seems to be no reason, then i must.

"I pray for God's mercy for soon I'll be dead.
I hung my head, I hung my head..."

I read a book last night (yes, a whole book in one sitting).
It had a quote that said, life and eternity are not in terms of "heaven" and "hell".
Those who are in hell, will say that all they have experienced is hell.
Those who are in heaven, will see the rough times, will see all the crap in their life, and see the glory-- the heaven in their life.

That is to say, do not feel depressed or sorry or whatever,
because,

i see heaven.
And it is beautiful.

"if i could start again
a million miles away
i would keep myself
i would find a way..."

shalom.

fool for now.

I turn to my left and walk around the row of double-load washers. Take the Fonz-looking, groovy-looking stool: shiny metal and leather top, take a seat on the thing if find myself most on: my rump , and admire the armies laundry fluffily drying in front of me.
AMC is playing silent movies on the tiny television set in mute. How ironic. It's that funny man with the really dark, short mustache (that always reminded me of the pictures I had seen of Adolf Hitler. How sad.). He is silly, yet sad.
I grab a national geographic and start to read about the human brain. How educated. It says we only use ten percent of our brains. I doubt that. I use far less than that ninety percent of the time. I look at the infrared diagrams and see the corresponding parts of the brain to thoughts and actions. I wonder. I wonder, how could I make myself use more of my brain? Not quite feasible to be done. You can't just make yourself be smarter. I want to be a C.S.Lewis-- an entrepenuer of thoughts.

Not today.

I'll just be a fool.
A boy who takes his visions of people shooting up heroin, a man cursing out a woman in the worst excuse for a building that I ever did witness, a man who is too dirty to even eat in a soup kitchen, a lady missing shoes, and a group full of white people witnessing all these people for the first,
then tries to make connections with visuals of kindergarten family trees so that I can make a grain of sense in this ocean of a thing called God's children.
I'll just be a fool.

For now.

shalom.

"it's so hard to do... so easy to say..."

Now listening to: "walk away" by ben harper

"Oh no, here comes that sun again..."

Eyelids shut. Eyelids open. Only to shut my mind and open my impatience. Lord, Lord, Lord. Another prayer goes up unfinished.

"And it hurts me to look in the mirror at myself..."

I just couldn't figure "it" out. I didn't thump myself enough. Too cool. "I've got it from here," i thought to myself. I haven't seen my reflection for months. I forgot what i looked like. I didn't want to know before. I was ashamed. If maybe i just forgot i was there, then i wouldn't have to confront myself.
I always hated getting in fights. Especially with myself. I wanted to be happy. I didn't want to be happy. I wanted to know what i wanted.

"They say that time
will make this pain go away...
But it's time that's taken my tomorrow's
and turned them into yesterday's..."

Time is so good for wounds to heal. That wasn't working. Oh no, my apologies, i did not make it work for me. I've taken my time and pissed right into the wind (for a lack of better words). God has crafted me. Made me to impact our world like it was my life mission. Boom. I squandered that promise of my life, or so i have felt like i have.

"It's so hard to do, and so easy to say...
But sometimes, sometimes, You just have to
Just walk away..."

This is the point where the story is supposed to get better. I'll try to make it a good story. Happy endings and princesses in fairyland worlds with creatures of bizarre beauty and people of historical magic.

This is the point where i decide. Where i choose. But have to choose so hard, so hard, against the lack of momentum my life has had before. I must push a brick wall over before i can start pushing card board boxes over.

This is the point where i take my brothers and sisters along with me. To those who think they are unworthy, too dirty, or just plain unnacceptable to a loving God. The brothers i've seen sniffing cocaine off the curb, shooting heroine up at 8 in the morn, the sisters i've witnessed renting their bodies like a tuxedo for men to where for one night and return, the brothers in their liesure suits crying at night after another night of fornification, wife-emptied, and God-leaving moments, and the sisters eating a little less and less in order to fullfill this world's order of a deluxe mocha-frappa-latte-chino-whatever.

This is the point where i say, "if we don't walk away right here from all that stuff that doesn't matter-- from the stuff that is killing who we really are-- and start walking how we see fit, the momentum will die, and we with it. We know we can't go back to the way it was. No, no, no... We can't... We know that."




"Once again that rising sun is droppin' on down..."

I was talking with a friend tonight. I was writing to be politically correct. These were the words that struggled through my fingertips and were denied by my heart. Real Friends will be sad with you when you are sad. They won't worrying about making you happy.
Friends can make you or break you.

Both are good.




"it's so hard to do...


so easy to say..."

shalom.

"All your life, is just a shame, shame, shame..."

Spindles and spindles of twine. No beginning, no end, so it seems. Some twine dark. Some twine light. Some twine clean and some not so much. Some twine entangled with other twine. Some twine totally seperate. Yeah, some twine totally seperate. Some twine knows where it's going. Some twine has not idea. Some much twine. The numbers boogle my mind. The randomness, the pointlessness, the intrically woven pattern, and the confusion.
Each twine a person in time. Each twine randomly strung through this factory of "life". Yet, in this barn of string, i am merely a six inch piece of rope wondering where i jump in.

"All your love, is just a dream, dream, dream..."

A record of my thoughtless thoughts spread upon the canvas of a computer screen.
Pointless renditions of a boy unmaking sense of a unsesical making. So...


What actually is the problem?


Oops.


I don't know.

Shalom.

Hey George,

the atmosphere is perfect here too.
the weather let up for you.
to think is weird.
you may have been here.
i don't wanna think anymore...
i don't wanna...
i threw a penny in a well.
i squeezed my eyes tight.
and whispered to God in my mind.
time went by.
it was growing up great.
it never grew up.
it never happened.
why should i seem so upset?
i can wait.
life is like it was before.
or is life like
it wasn't supposted to be, now?
i don't know...
the what...
the when...
the how...
too tired to think...
i don't wanna think...
let life fall like rain on me.
one drop at a time.
it won't land in the same place twice.
if it storms, so it be.
cuz life won't meant to be life
if it was quite too easy.
so,
let it be
what it be.
that's what
you told me.

shalom.

happy?

i can still remember the smell. sniff. like i had actually caught myself on fire. like those were destroyed. those desires. those were the days. when counting the stars and playing guitars was still possible. no distractions. no drama.
i can still remember the sound. crackle. startled almost as if the city couldn't make noise. and quick to react and to snap back. my head was in a room full of toys. entertainment. my cardboard box will suffice for tonight and you conversation is plenty than enough to make me feel like people are persons.
i can still remember the thought. frustration. why would you say such a thing? why wouldn't you let me speak first? was he just wanting the satisfaction of teaching me a lesson-- tryin' to make my balloon burst? dramas begin. lives end. remember the lack of thought? remember how frustrating it was to hear someone tell you what to start thinkin' about?
i can still remember the taste. plentiful. one that would fill my gullet wilst the cold and drowsiness surround me. give me another plate. give me another plate. greed or a desire to stay alive. i try to multiply and justify each piece of my life. it seemed so easy before. when i was shooting my brother with a gun and he was playing dead and counting to twenty.
i can still remember the touch. like death on the stomach. i always got nauseaous from the cold. did you know? you probably couldn't tell from my adoration of the snow. i still remember the feeling. insanity. am i for real? what is my deal? how come i feel like a cinema playing all the films at the same time?
oh yeah, i still remember a lot of things and make them make me happy. let thoughts surround me like an amusement park of nastalgia. let's go on another. and another. and another. till we get sick. and i dot my t's and cross my eyes.
i still remember a lot.
but.

i still forget.
why.

shalom.

A Letter.

now listening to: things fall apart by the roots


truth.
a word so basic so natural so known so assumed.
yet, this man so perplexed.
a stutter for every philosophy corrected,
reality disconnected,
and reward expected.
decided early on that he was smart. knowledge.
he made it easy to see.
for himself.
but little did anyone. from where he from.
nimble and, oh, a prick. on his thumb.
on his brain dumb.
a mass confusion of life with
"life".
head on collision. across oak and division.
the irony
of the sturdy tree
and the lack
of unity.
coming together only to displease.

"first lullaby, first son will ever hear..."
Only a ring of plastic keys,
and a song for babies,
to spark his mem. mor. ree.
Of love so dysfunctional, subliminal.
It'd be criminal,
If he steals a tresure so...
tresured.
with out decoding the message in the letter:
truth is a treasure.
on an island.
swim. stroke. paddle.
lungs gasp.
too far away.
a little farther than he can make.
a secret pleasure.
buried deeper than fate.
dig. scrape.
sand in eyes,
with face covered.
romanticly, as if searching for a lover.
that no man (or politically correct woman) can measure.
not a seventh grade
project on making
pancakes,
or milshakes,
or chocolate no-bakes.
Bigger.
yours no worse no better.
"luck" does not help.
only makes you someone else.
the cards you were dealt
will help
you become "you".

No reason. To go on. To kill.
for himself.
of himself.
But to go on.

Truth.
Swim, gasp, dig.
Dirty fingernails wrap upon a lid.
Only to find.
a letter.

Shalom.

Je dois expédier des colis.

A disposable camera.
A white toothbrush with a bronze ribbon.
A sticky note reading: "I like sticky notes and red sharpie."
A pink playdough container.
A black playdough container.
A green playdough container.
An N*Sync CD. Hahaha...
A drawing.
A letter labeled, "If anything..."
A dried, pressed leaf from the autumn trees.
And four sayings in french.


today was a good day.