Don't go to Boston.
You'll find that there is no point. That eventually, people will start to call you by the same name, as they did in California. Canada 3 years ago was my Boston. And I have found that the people I ran away from were those who knew me, who cared, and who would gladly wear my chains.
She said I think I'll go to Boston. I think I'll start a new life. I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name. I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather, I think I'll get a lover and fly 'em out to Spain. I think I'll go to Boston. I think that I'm just tired. I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind. I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of Sunset, I hear it's nice in the summer, some snow would be nice.
And thinking though this song, I think I've learnt that I needn't be in a difficult relationship. I don't need to demand, to intimidate, to be insecure or to manipulate. I can just sit and be with you. I don't want to have people (or flowers) crying or bleeding over me. I'd love healthily, and keep my heart here.
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In other news, I received a Greek postcard today, with Bulgarian stamps. It had one sentence written on it in some cyptic alphabet. I believe it's Greek.
For a couple of moments, I was arrested by wild thoughts of some DaVinci-esque adventure. What does the postcard say? Perhaps a message about a plane ticket, a secret gathering. something?
No, I haven't dechipered the text yet, but whatever it is, it's great to have friends around the world. Literally, around the world. Eh, my friend? Buddy?
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"Do you believe that?" she asked.
Her question stopped me. How could I answer, honestly? I recalled Iran and the time Yamin described me as a man caught between two worlds, a man in the middle. In some ways, I wished I had been in that camp when the guerrillas attacked, or that I was one of the guerillas. An odd feeling crept over me, a sort of jealously for Yamin and Doc and the Colombian rebels. These were men with convictions. They had chosen real worlds, not a no-man's territory somewhere between.
"I have a job to do," I said at last.
She smiled gently.
"I hate it," I continued. I thought about the men whose images had come to me so often over the years, Tom Paine and the other Revolutionary War heros, pirates and frontiersmen. They stood at the edges, not in the middle. They had taken stands and lived with the consequences.
You'll find that there is no point. That eventually, people will start to call you by the same name, as they did in California. Canada 3 years ago was my Boston. And I have found that the people I ran away from were those who knew me, who cared, and who would gladly wear my chains.
She said I think I'll go to Boston. I think I'll start a new life. I think I'll start it over, where no one knows my name. I'll get out of California, I'm tired of the weather, I think I'll get a lover and fly 'em out to Spain. I think I'll go to Boston. I think that I'm just tired. I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind. I think I need a sunrise, I'm tired of Sunset, I hear it's nice in the summer, some snow would be nice.
Boston ~ Augustana
And thinking though this song, I think I've learnt that I needn't be in a difficult relationship. I don't need to demand, to intimidate, to be insecure or to manipulate. I can just sit and be with you. I don't want to have people (or flowers) crying or bleeding over me. I'd love healthily, and keep my heart here.
-----------------------------
In other news, I received a Greek postcard today, with Bulgarian stamps. It had one sentence written on it in some cyptic alphabet. I believe it's Greek.
For a couple of moments, I was arrested by wild thoughts of some DaVinci-esque adventure. What does the postcard say? Perhaps a message about a plane ticket, a secret gathering. something?
No, I haven't dechipered the text yet, but whatever it is, it's great to have friends around the world. Literally, around the world. Eh, my friend? Buddy?
-------------------------------
"Do you believe that?" she asked.
Her question stopped me. How could I answer, honestly? I recalled Iran and the time Yamin described me as a man caught between two worlds, a man in the middle. In some ways, I wished I had been in that camp when the guerrillas attacked, or that I was one of the guerillas. An odd feeling crept over me, a sort of jealously for Yamin and Doc and the Colombian rebels. These were men with convictions. They had chosen real worlds, not a no-man's territory somewhere between.
"I have a job to do," I said at last.
She smiled gently.
"I hate it," I continued. I thought about the men whose images had come to me so often over the years, Tom Paine and the other Revolutionary War heros, pirates and frontiersmen. They stood at the edges, not in the middle. They had taken stands and lived with the consequences.
Confessions of an Economic Hit Man ~ John Perkins
If anyone should be living as dangerously as this, it's the Christians. It's not about a comfortable cell group. It's about being real, and as dangerous as the heart of God.
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