On Writing

The mind full of words empties in spiraling conflagration; all that it knows spills out. It cannot be kept inside any longer and seeks refuge outside the spinning, wet box of brain it soaks in. Out the nerves and down through one right shoulder into a three-fingered grip it squeezes out the prose of expansion, concentration until liberation. Saturating the ideas with stuff of dreams and hints of recent poetry, it delivers balloons popped and let loose of waterweight onto the concrete half-eternities of a single page. Engraving into manufactured bark the conditions of being alive unto dead leaves like dry bones, the two meet and make some strange hybrid of reality, tapping into a world that demands another because it cannot be kept inside any longer. Centrifugal imaginations turn and cannot be forced to turn but turn into characters with personalities and feelings to be felt by yon human interpreters, travelers between the unphysical and yet entirely actual realms of writing. I wish I could.

Deep blue

It was a time between times—there was enough for me to stay at school without going home. So, like other teenagers have been spending leftover time for generations, I hopped in the back of my truck and made myself comfortable. With the back lid propped up and my feet dangling from the fender, I was in a position to observe and absorb.

The orange and green trees, along with a small, plain garage served as the foreground of my stage for sight: a great, big, Texas sky with only a few low clouds bordering the horizon—a sky between skies. I guess you could consider it empty as a result of being cloudless, but to me it seemed full of something else. When I looked hard into the deep blue, it started to move and I saw shapes and thought of cells and biology class. In trying to see invisible stars through the daylight, I saw other figments that might not have been in the sky but were real enough for my eyes.

Now I did see a strange white dot moving almost too slowly in a descending arc from the top of my view...a satellite during the day? It must have been broadcasting dusty soap operas or professional bowling. I saw it better with one eye than two and held up my keychain, so as not to lose track of it if I blinked. Once it finally submersed into the graying bottom of the blue, I decided to hunt for more air traffic in the big sky country, catching small white planes in the ring of my keychain as they raced through space until they, too, disappeared into the deep blue.

I found that although it is immeasurably easier to cage a flying bird than a flying plane, it was much more difficult to for me capture one of the former within the sightlines of my keychain. Yes, commercial airliners can cross oceans, but blackbirds can twitter and swoop and dance elusively around my imaginary ocular enclosure like naturals, which they are. And geese, whose flight paths are considerably more predictable, span thousands of miles each year but can still ruffle their feathers and make little geese in the springtime. This was a comforting indication to me that more aspects of life remain inimitable by human science.

But back to planes—the sky was full of them. Each one left behind a great sweeping sound while passing overhead. The faraway swoosh of white wings thousands of feet above the roof of my school was both wistful and soothing. Another joy I felt was that of anyone who has ever played a perfect game of hide and seek, without ever letting their gender be reduced to “it”: to those unsuspecting passengers careening through the atmosphere aboard 757s, I whispered, “I seee you.” And the blackbirds in the orangegreen trees laughed and danced and crooned background music all the while.

These moments cannot last, though, and after a long nap and some more sky hunting, my time was no longer between the two it had been before. Coach Gillum walked over and asked rather amusedly, “Why are you sitting in the back of your truck?”
To me, the answer seemed like common knowledge: “’Cause it’s great.” Coach looked around the truck’s interior—a skateboard, a box of tissues, a mound of uniforms, a red backpack, and me. “Uh...no, it ain’t.” And I just smiled and smiled.

All Aboard

Passing
fast—
Moving pictures
(through glass)

The ground speed,
A sound speed,
(my sound sleep)

When words travel,
Unravel,
(after Babel)

Open wide,
We collide.
(a train ride)

Questions

Is there a time when loving in imitation of Christ requires no more than just being? "They also serve who only stand and wait." But if I acted, I could not have done anything good...is good sometimes achieved in a lack of action? Can the right way out be the easy way out?

I always thought I would die for someone

if need be. I always thought I would stand in the way of someone else's bullet if the time came. But if it didn't matter? If they would never understand, if they would keep living their life without a change. If I knew they would never understand, would I still die for them?

And then there is Christ. Who died...for us. Some will never understand. And I will never fully understand. I know I can never measure up to Christ's love; I am called to what I am capable of, through Him of course, but would you give up your own life on earth as a Christ follower for someone who would never see? Should you?

And I think...and regardless of everything, it doesn't matter. Who can answer these questions but God? And there is no simple explanation. We have our different situations...I sincerely think I have done my job, and that God knows everything. If I have come to a consensus, it is this:



"Shout unto God with a voice of triumph,
Shout unto God with a voice of praise,
Shout unto God with a voice of triumph,
We life your name up, we lift your name up!"

space

I asked You for space,

and here it is. A wide open landscape of infinite containability, waiting to be filled.

After consuming word after word

and idea after idea

this is where mine can manifest. My ideas, which are most likely shared by someone else, seeing as how we take from the world around us continually...they can live here.

So what happens when we are nowhere and what ideas come to mind then, when they have no place to come from except for within one's own head? Or heart? Which? Both? At once?

Too many questions. But we can never be nowhere, because we were made to be somewhere- in the center of God's love. Thank you, Shack.

The idea that we were made to be where we are now wars in me with the idea that we are in Exile.

And the answer, once again, lies between the two polar opposites. But which pole is is closer to? I would say the first one. We are in Exile but we were meant to be in Exile, because how else could we be taken out of it? God knows his stuff--obviously--the joy of the son coming back was different than the joy of the son who stayed.

Heck! Even the Son of Man went out and came back. To his throne, of course.

And we couldn't have stayed. no, not us. And God knew that. And He knows it. And He will know it. but He brought and is bringing and will bring us back to Him!

And though all sorts of negative clouds can cast shadows on our souls, the shadows are proof of the sun.

I will end here.

Machines

Black smog billows from the bleak beaks
Of buzzards who orbit in the dreadful stench.
Dark, dank buildings sink, rise, and clench
Around the one who is lost and seeks
Death.

Selfness and greed run rampant in the streets,
For false treasures lie veiled in fulfillment.
Thick liquid drips crimson on cracking cement
While the old, rotten king eats
his Pigskin.

But beneath the filth, a New Machine churns!
Pumping and flowing like fresheartbeats—
Its untamable flame, strengthening, meets
The city and all is complete; the world burns
Up.

A real blog.

Where do I begin?

Mr. Weathers said today that any accomplished mystic writes poems about love.
I read things about love, and I am relatively unaccomplished in the act of it.
But I guess that doesn't really matter because I'm not really comparing myself to anything, except maybe God, with whom I cannot compare.

Humans love each other and people in books love each other. And God loves us (understatement) , and some of us love God.

People in movies also love each other, but that crosses the line for me because of romantic comedies. They are too pleasant.

"A test of what is real is that it is hard and rough. Joys are found in it, not pleasure. What is pleasant belongs to dreams."--Simone Weil.

I like pleasant things. I have too many pleasant things and not enough hard, rough things. This is a bad thing. However, when I do good things I don't often realize it because of taking them for granted. I revel in the moments of good things done to me, but do not in the reciprocal action.

Sometimes, all I hear are the bad things. Sometimes I need to find the good things myself, rather than others try and alleviate it. Others could be people. Others could be books. I hate it when others are romantic comedies.

I like the word "bothered". I do not like being bothered but I like the word. (Eh, maybe.) Pleasant is a nice word, but it is not good for me. It really isn't good for anyone, but I don't like to impose. Does that bother you? It's probably better for you if I did impose. I'll work on that. Sometimes, though, there is no need because all I see in some people is the joy and the good, and in others the pleasant, and sometimes a little of both, but it has become hard for me to see the bad. I like this, but I don't know what to make of it. It's probably a good thing.

If you're still reading this, I'm sorry. For imposing. For being like Joan Didion when she says that all writers impose. I am not going to try to edit this. Maybe it will be good to work on my impositions, rather than yours. Because these blogs are all about helping ourselves, right? Sometimes a little bit of communication here or there, but it seems to me in my little corner of the internet that I write for me. And that's okay.

I will not bold text, or underline it, or make my blog about conveying something to you. It will be about ....scratch that, it is about filling a void I am experiencing right now. I rejected God for a work of fiction today. And last night. But maybe I will tonight and maybe I won't. This blog will also be about me in the future coming back to this and realizing things and how I've changed. I know you have. It doesn't really matter to me if you're still reading now because I have realized in this moment that it is not about you. When we interact, I will try to make it about you, but this is my time right now and I'm using it.

I didn't start this thing off as Unedited, though I have tried that once. Couldn't do it. The style has changed. Things get longer because I don't look up from the keyboard. Okay, reader, it's back to me. Enough about it not being about you this time. Ha!

Impressions. I live on impressions. They are like food, I hate to use the word drug because I don't like using it on myself, but I really act with impressions. Nice to meet you, except in a nice way that I would say, "You know what? I like that guy" way. Somewhere along the way, I lose who I am. That can be good sometimes. Sometimes I don't like who I am. sometimes I love who I am. But I wouldn't change it for anything, ever. Nope. I wouldn't be you. I do love you though, partly because you're still reading. What a lame thing. But I'm okay with that because this one is not about impressions.

Back to them. Impressions. You can get to know me as an impression. Yeah, it happens. It's been done before. I have a feeling that you know who I really am though. And if you don't, we need to know each other because I really want to know people and you are one of those people whom I wish to know. And even if you know me, the undying odds say that I don't know you. Seriously. I am right in saying that I don't know you. Tell me everything and I will return the favor.

That is so lame. And I care, but not this time. Not now. see ya