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

Hallelujah

This is a link to the song.

I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord,
but you don't really care for music, do ya?

Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,
the Minor Fall and the Major Lift;
the baffled kind composes, "Hallelujah."

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelu - jah

(Well) your faith was strong, but you needed proof;
you saw her bathing on the roof.
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.

She tied you to her kitchen chair,
she broke your throne and she cut your hair!
And from your lips, you drew the Hallelujah.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelu - jah
...

Reflection|noitcelfeR

What I would give to learn the secret chord. Music has been a major part of who I am for a while now and I am currently messing with the piano (no matter how noobular I am at it). I heard a multitude of great guitar/singing from a Mr. Stone Meyer the other day (awesome Christian guy). Did he know the secret chord? No matter how much I love the idea of the secret chord being an exclusive treasure, I know the truth of it. It pleases the Lord not in how melodic to human ears our cries are, but the motives and meanings behind them. Raw, emotional, Real Love in the form of praise--worship---->sheer connections with the LORD. That is the secret chord.

But you don't really care for music, do ya? Maybe this an extension of the first two lines and Buckley realizes it's not the music itself, but the substance that is TRUE music to God's ears. Maybe it's a joke to David, whom he calls "you" in the next verses. David's psalms may not rhyme in our language but they are the heartfelt praises of old that God loved. I can't imagine a David who didn't care for his beautful music. We know he did.

Well it goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,
the Minor Fall and the Major Lift;
the baffled kind composes, "Hallelujah."!

The song begins: the secret chords? The fourth, the fifth! the song that is art. the composition that is beautiful. But this is where the roads meet and diverge: What are Buckley's falls and lifts? I know it's music terminology, but something bigger has to be going on here. God sometimes lets us fall, give in to a minor fall, but He lifts us up!! Majorly! If only people realized the redemptive power that Jesus Christ has on a broken life.
I fall, but I am LIFTED UP!
David fell. He fell onto/into Bathsheeba. It snowballed. But in the end...he was lifted. "A man after God's own heart." (Who fell, nevertheless.) Man fell. We are sinners. It started way back. And Jesus, SAVIOR, has redeemed us! The price has been paid.

The Major Lift.

I am the baffled king. What is there to make sense of this world? I can identify with David, whom Buckley is almost certainly referring to. How do we describe all those emotions and experiences and struggles and enlightenments and the overall gist of things? He composes, "Hallelujah." How else can we do life? "Hallelujah." We are the baffled kings. Let us compose:

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelu - jah


Your faith was strong, but you needed proof;
you saw her bathing on the roof.
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya.

Sometimes we have doubts. Sometimes Satan finds just the right circumstances to get at us. What if there was no moonlight--would David still have succumbed to his malignant desire? All I know for sure is that Satan made it so that it was near impossible for him--David--to bear it. He did not call upon God to rescue him from this nature--at least not at that point. He gave in.

She tied you to her kitchen chair,
she broke your throne and she cut your hair!
And from your lips, you drew the Hallelujah.

He was enslaved by then. She had sucked him in. His power was lost. The throne was his position of power, his place of power in the world. And his hair (in this case) was that of Samson's. His hair was his power in the context of ability. Without his "hair", he was weak. And I relate to this in my own life. I was a slave to lust. and when I was still a slave to lust, I would sometimes tell people I'm over it. I didn't even realize it was bad until God put it in my heart to root it out of me. It was probably the hardest thing I've ever done: Battling masturbation and subsequently Lust. Filthy, carnal desires built up inside of me. Over time, my spiritual hair, my strength, grew. It was totally God. And I tell you the truth: He's got the Power in me now.

But/However/Before I go off-topic: When I was down, weak, after my sin, after I committed what I knew in my heart was dead wrong, I drew a cold, broken " Hallelujah " . I drew not the exact word, but the same idea. I was so broken down. We are the baffled kings. You know, one time after I broke, I rejoiced because I realized my forgiveness. I had been forgiven by God almost immediately as I subconsciously asked for it. It was a happy day. One small slip-up a day or two or three later and I was clean. To present day. And into the future...but only because of God.

The rest of the song:

Baby, I've been here before;
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor.
You know, I used to live alone before i knew you.
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
But love is not a victory march!
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.

Well, there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below,
But now you never show that to me, do ya?
But remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too?
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah!

Maybe there's a God above,
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.
And it's not a cry that you hear at night;
It's not somebody who's seen the light!
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.

Correction: Jeff Buckley didn't write the lyrics. Leonard Cohen originally performed the song...but I think Buckley's is a million times better.

White Room

I am in a white room.
Someone is banging on its walls.
This does not bother me;
The walls are strong.
I look around the room.
It looks bare, but it feels so full.
There are beautiful things
In this room that I cannot see.
Who can see them? (he can.)
A framed picture appears
on one of my walls.
It is a picture of me.
Once again, there are beautiful things
In this picture that I cannot see.
But I can feel them.
More picture frames appear
On the clean white walls.
I cannot see what they conceal,
But I can feel them.
Zoom out. Beyond the white room,
Everything is black.
My sin.
Zoom out. Beyond the black,
Everything is me.
My appearance.
Zoom out. Beyond me,
Everything is an illusion.
My world.
Zoom out. Beyond the illusion,
Everything is spiritual.
Your world.
There is a window in Your world
That peeks into the picture frames
Of my white room.
I cannot see You,
But I can feel You.

Stargazers

It's time.
It's go time.
See that man walking past you in the grocery store? No, he doesn't look up. Trudging around in concentric circles, jumping from one path to another and yet still orbiting the same central mirage that doesn't actually exist. His path will lead him on into nowhere until the timer-bell rings and he is ultimately lost. All it would take is a nudge and a whisper. A whisper of hope and SURPRISE! because who walks around in grocery stores waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting tragedy? A tragedy no more, I would think, but rather a turnaround. People are communal. WE like eachother. I won't say I like him because I don't know him, but I don't. I love him, so what

is

my

problem?

Stop staring, Drew. Start gazing and subsequently reaching, for this life is more than it seems and your time is waning. The stars are closer than they appear: a trick of light. They are within your grasp because you ride on the shoulders of the Almighty. No distance is too great, no opportunity too unfertile. Be salt and be light. Forget yourself because you don't matter, at least not to yourself. At least you shouldn't. But at least you do to a million other people who've already got this stuff figured out. And most of all, to the one to whom it matters most (who happens to be the one/three who thought it all up in the first place). Yeah, we'll change the world. But let's start with that guy...when the timing is right. No need to worry! He'll let you and I know when
it's go time.
it's God time.

Paws

A young wolf meanders back to his den after sweeping the cold forest for anything resembling food…meat…life. His walk-trot is a somber one, for his hunt has proved once again to be fruitless, like it was yesterday and the day before. He is starving; the present winter is a harsh one. A sharp wind nips at his ears while the frozen earth beneath him stings his footpads. How much longer will he last this way before pain becomes irrelevant and his body simply cannot function?

Just as he begins to enter back into the relative warmth of his deep home, he senses movement to his right. One step and a pounce! Whatever it was, he had pinned it on an icy stump. A squirrel? No, a mouse! But it was not stirring…had he killed it already?

Silence.

Out of sheer curiosity, he peeks beneath his paws and examines his prey: a run-of-the-mill field mouse. Alive, but remaining perfectly still and looking directly into his eyes. Its lips seemed to curl upwards, almost as though it were smiling. Who had ever heard of such a mouse? So close to certain death and yet so unmovingly silent.

A great chill shook the wolf right down his spine, causing him to lose his grip on the field mouse for the shortest of moments. It quickly scurried under the roots of the stump, well out of reach.
Completely distraught, the wolf decided to scourge the graying forest once more in hopes that some other morsel of food…of life…would cross his path. Yes, his path of muddy pawprints tracking through the snow.

How had the mouse gotten away? What a silly question; of course it was he who had let it go. But what unseen force had caused him to hesitate? All his life he’d hunted and never, ever let loose captured prey. And now, in his greatest moment of desperation for food, for life, that mouse triggered something inside of him that was very strange indeed.

A weak, but distinct smell began to enter his well-trained nostrils…blood! The pungent scent of fresh blood led him onwards into the very heart of the forest. A mile further, after dodging between the ever-looming snowcapped pine trees and over many fallen ones, a small clearing came into sight.

A mass of torn flesh lay sprawled within: the corpse of a deer, half-eaten, abandoned by some unnamable beast. Its face was serenely tilted to the side and its cold, dead eyes were permanently held wide open. What gruesome reflection had encompassed their pupils a short time earlier, the wolf would never know. He quickly scanned the clearing’s perimeter for a few minutes to discern whether he was the fallen deer’s only pursuer. He was.

What a feast lay ahead! His immediate carnal instinct was to finally satisfy the hunger that had built up inside of him for so long, but he knew that he needed to take his great treasure back to the den before all else. He took hold of the deer’s neck with his formidable teeth and journeyed back in the direction he ventured from, hoping that his strength would not fail him. One particularly rough set of logs he had to cross gave him much trouble—he emerged with each paw full of splinters. Nevertheless, he triumphantly limped back into his den with the corpse, much to the delight of his mate. She licked his face and immediately tore into the deer. She was pregnant.

After eating, the wolf obsessively licked his bloody paws, which only seemed to make things worse. Sharp pangs ran between his footpads. Despite his wounds, he fell asleep quite soundly, having eaten his first substantial meal in weeks.

He began to dream. What a brilliant, marvelous dream it was! He was his former self: a reckless pup, playing and jumping with his mother and siblings. The soft earth tickled his footpads like a thousand warm tongues as he pranced about. The luminous sky above glowed with the Northern Lights and a myriad of stars that licked across the sky like migrating geese.

He awoke to find his four paws splinterless and clean! Was he still dreaming? His mate lay asleep in the exact same position as when she had dozed off the night before, her underside concealing imminent life…the dead deer was ravaged as ever…but a mysterious collection of mouse droppings littered the cave’s interior. The young wolf’s lips began to curl slightly upward, almost as though he were smiling. Peering out of his den once more, he found the ground a little warmer and the snow a small shade brighter, and so he went.