Saturday, August 15, 2009

.... and on a completely unrelated note, I revel in the wonderfully feeling that is being loved, being cared for and provided for in every sense of the word. I am grateful for the little things that fall into place, for having my courses settled, having clean water and cold showers, a little excitement, a little cash and a flea market tomorrow. Good food, good friends, good family and a good future.
"pretty, poignant, clever, lah. kind of like someone else we know."

You do not, after all that has happened, show up to say shit like that. You might as well eat your own excrement, and take that as the physical manifestation of eating your words - every empty, meaningless, worthless one.

Needless to say I am a little angry today. Unfortunate, as it shows that I am a little off the end goal of having him not matter. Incidents will always hold significance of course, as they are the experiences that sum up our existence. But the people behind the experiences do not have to matter - and eventually, this one will not. I look forward to the day when there is no more anger, no more sadness, no more fear ... simply nothing. When I can look into his face and not sense a thing, as if he were merely a cup, a bowl, or something else inanimate and dispensable. I doubt that will ever happen of course, at least, I hope I never have the chance to figure out how far I've come and that I'll even forget I had such a goal.

But of course I have to turn everything into a spiritual / academic exercise and will agonize over the theology of it all. Thankfully, the distance that every day brings offers a little more perspective and clarity and for now, this is where I stand, more or less: I will wish him the best in life and love and will, with God's grace, do so willingly and with joy, as I do not wish anyone to suffer. But I will not concern myself with the specifics that is him, or care for who/what/how he is. Jesus loves him, but I am sure as hell not Jesus. I feel like Jesus died so that I am not responsible for such failings.

"I've lost all respect for him."

"Hannah! I am proud of you!
You said that a lot last month,
but I didn't believe that you really felt it.
But now I do.
And I think, it takes a lot to lose respect such as yours."

Thursday, August 13, 2009

I haven't talked in a while, so I can't quite gauge the extent of my/its development. T'will be interesting.
I thought I told you to leave me alone.
There's no space or time to waste anymore, on all that has failed.

Nothing personal. Because, from experience, nothing ever was.
Teach me to do more then just love.

Ecclesiastes 3
A Time for Everything

1 There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:

2 a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,

3 a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,

4 a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,

5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

6 a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,

7 a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,

8 a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

9 What does the worker gain from his toil? 10 I have seen the burden God has laid on men. 11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.


So why need we be afraid? Time heals all things, if not, it erodes that which needed healing in the first place.

~ AL

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Confidence turned into intrigue, which turned into friendliness, which in turn transformed into openness, but later weariness and discomfort at residual arrogance. This arrogance later transmuted into a soft cry for attention. I'm also not entirely sure that all this occurred in a linear fashion in so much as they shifted with the shifting of my moods and lenses. I am wondering now then, how to do justice to all parties invovled. How far should I understand that a snub is really insecurity in velvet while maintaining a decent level of respect? Perhaps it just boils down to minding my own emotional and psychological business.

He once said that I ought to be ashamed for riding through life on my smile and sweetness. Emphasis on shame (I soon forgot to smile and that life was sweet). I took the point and a little more, for I discovered that it is the same crime to bludgeon through life, blind, wielding the scars and insecurities with little grace. So I came to the conclusion (and boy do I love conclusions! Temporary as they may be) that I must now learn to be firm, be precise, be good both in person and in work, be confident and productive, without losing either smile or scar - for we are the sum of our experiences.

If the story's written on my face, does it show:
Am I strong enough to walk on water?
Smart enough to come in out of the rain?
Or am I a fool going where the wind blows?
~ Goin' Where the Wind Blows :: Mr. Big (Concert Oct 12th!)

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

You look like a child!
~ Kind senior student from the LKYSPP.

If I had a penny for every expression of shock that came my way upon revelation of my age... But it is a time to think about growth, I guess. It's a new chapter for me, in more ways then one and I feel like I have been, or am being, reborn into a new state, and with it comes a different way of engaging the world and the people around me. It dawned upon me today that I have reached a point where I have gathered enough potential. I am pleased with my thoughts and the analytical patterns that come with it. They have served me well in dealing with personal ideas of truth, goodness and development.

Now it's time to tune up my technicalities. If you can't articulate your thoughts, as far as I am concerned, you have no thoughts. I think I've spent enough time doing the inward bits and I'd like to work on actually building things. Not to mean something to people, as might previously have been the case, but as a result of the out pouring of the spirit. Just do what you do, and build your peace.
That's because he knows you're easy!

~ CK. Because Lightning the dog wouldn't stop staring at me and my food with puppy dog eyes.

Monday, August 10, 2009

I had an epiphany the other day that really helped in a few ways, but for the life of me I can't remember exactly what it was. It had to do with reconciling expectations, personal standards and individual circumstance, I think. Or perhaps it had something to do with understanding when my role in the story stopped and when my own story continued seperately. Or about not having either power or responsibility (a la Dogville) and that is freedom. It just fascinates me how what sparked off in my mind swiftly dissolved into my spirit and worked despite there being scant traces left for memory.

And in the quiet moments:

I am not learning how to play this song because it is always meant to be told to me. For the rest of my life.
"The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart" by Jack Gilbert

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.


And two evenings ago, I feel sleep to the note-to-self that I must blog about this decision to cease labeling, to stop trying to craft all things into language. For language is, as with all things, a useful tool but terrible master; for while the ability to place a thing on my tongue gives me some power of understanding, some things cannot be made know by skinny utterances of consonants and vowels, but solely by the thick heavy movements of experience and existance.

Crudely put, some things just can't be spoke about.

Sunday, August 09, 2009

The tests of faith come in the tiny mundane steps. The ones that we're all expected to take.

I guess it's not really about what you decide to do, but how you do it, that determines where your heart is. Between trusting God and sheer laziness, I am praying that my heart is set toward the former.