It's Wednesday night in the Southern Hemisphere, and it's cold here in Sydney. The cold doesn't sit well with me. Why should it? I haven't truly endured it in at least 5 years, at least not to any long-term degree. The lack of heating systems in this country is something to which I am trying to adapt. I love my new country and I live within the Aussie way of doing things, but adaptation is often a challenge.
My mind keeps tripping back to days that are recent, but seem so far away. On an entirely different continent, I shared parts of my life with you. The threads of our lives wove in and around each other, away from each other, tangling into other threads as well. God only knows how tangled up we got in our own web.
I moved on, I moved away, and you were sad. I was, too, but I had adventures waiting to distract me from your infrequent calls. Really, I just didn't want to think about you anymore. But I did. The thoughts, they came and they went, like waves against a distant shore. I blocked them with any damming material I could find, but the tsunamis continually found their way to my new home along the Southern Coast. In the dark of night, lying beside my sleeping (sometimes snoring) roommates, I'd allow them to crash into me, to overcome me, to drown me. I, the guard of my emotional prisoners, would only allow them into the jail yard for exercise in such darkness. Some of them would sit along the fenced in yard to watch the magnificence of the powerful ocean rolling in under the moonlit skies. They longed for such relation, but understood the helplessness of their own reality.
Time passed by even more quickly than the cities. I celebrated another birthday, another year in a foreign country and somehow felt like I was home. It was a beautiful time spent traveling, despite the exhaustion that resulted. We bid adieu to our triplet and sent him packing, on his way back to the motherland. I was jealous.
The more I talk to you, to best friends at home, the more I realize I voluntarily left a world that I adored (though far too often took for granted.) And when I left, though I was not the ruling monarch of this nation, the world ceased to exist. It died away as if the sun supernovaed, disintegrating the oxygen in our atmosphere.
And the glue which tightly held our friend group together dissolved instantly, leaving a separation that I doubt to be beneficial.
And so it goes, as Vonnegut proclaimed.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Dreams.
I had a dream last night. One thing that Mel knows about me is that I very frequently wake up from an entire night of restful sleep, remembering absolutely no dreams. Lately, it seems as though I've been waking in the middle of them, thereby helping me to remember them better.
My dream last night involved a dream within a dream (DWID). In the DWID, Mel and I had returned to Orlando shortly after Walt, and I think we were at a welcome back party. In the dream, at the party, and in the following scenes, I was internally ill at ease with being back home. I knew in my heart that I should have stayed in Australia for the time being, and I was struggling to be in Orlando. I couldn't afford to come back to Australia, so I was having a difficult time even being present.
I don't often feel that my dreams have significant meaning, but there are times that they have a spiritual aura, such as this one. Mel and I have already been in the mindset of wanting to live here in Sydney, trying to find housing, jobs, etc, but this dream solidified my desires and confirmed our decision.
For the time being, Sydney is my home. :)
My dream last night involved a dream within a dream (DWID). In the DWID, Mel and I had returned to Orlando shortly after Walt, and I think we were at a welcome back party. In the dream, at the party, and in the following scenes, I was internally ill at ease with being back home. I knew in my heart that I should have stayed in Australia for the time being, and I was struggling to be in Orlando. I couldn't afford to come back to Australia, so I was having a difficult time even being present.
I don't often feel that my dreams have significant meaning, but there are times that they have a spiritual aura, such as this one. Mel and I have already been in the mindset of wanting to live here in Sydney, trying to find housing, jobs, etc, but this dream solidified my desires and confirmed our decision.
For the time being, Sydney is my home. :)
Friday, May 22, 2009
Savvy
You may have been right,
Smart, to preserve your detachment
To recoil from unveiling your mystery,
(that tantalizing reveal)
To anticipate improper intimacy
Had you dared,
I would have stolen the stars you trustingly gave me
And ran far, far into the blackened night;
I would have raped your fertile mind to serve my own purposes
Leaving naught but a salted field in my wake
You may have been right,
Savvy, to impose silence upon my incessant inquiries
Recognizing the curious olive eyes, their true intentions
Shying from the implicit danger
Reading betrayal between the lines of flowery persuasion.
Had you risen to my challenge,
I would have branded your soft skin,
Emblazoned my mark, my claim upon it;
I would have ravaged your spirit
Leaving naught but a bleak, bereft soul in my rearview
For I am a vigilant vixen,
Scanning the horizons for favorable conditions
An ornery opportunist,
Searching for advantageous information
Your subconscious has saved you.
Smart, to preserve your detachment
To recoil from unveiling your mystery,
(that tantalizing reveal)
To anticipate improper intimacy
Had you dared,
I would have stolen the stars you trustingly gave me
And ran far, far into the blackened night;
I would have raped your fertile mind to serve my own purposes
Leaving naught but a salted field in my wake
You may have been right,
Savvy, to impose silence upon my incessant inquiries
Recognizing the curious olive eyes, their true intentions
Shying from the implicit danger
Reading betrayal between the lines of flowery persuasion.
Had you risen to my challenge,
I would have branded your soft skin,
Emblazoned my mark, my claim upon it;
I would have ravaged your spirit
Leaving naught but a bleak, bereft soul in my rearview
For I am a vigilant vixen,
Scanning the horizons for favorable conditions
An ornery opportunist,
Searching for advantageous information
Your subconscious has saved you.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The thoughts, they come, they race, they stop momentarily in my head.
I turn up "Closer" louder, until my iBuds are throbbing within my ears.
The reverberating sounds soothe my strangled heart, my mangled mind.
Both are rather overworked.
Most of the time, music at full volume chases away any demons,
Even yours
But sometimes, even the most poetic lyrics with the funkiest tracks aren't the right medicine.
Like Tonight.
I turn up "Closer" louder, until my iBuds are throbbing within my ears.
The reverberating sounds soothe my strangled heart, my mangled mind.
Both are rather overworked.
Most of the time, music at full volume chases away any demons,
Even yours
But sometimes, even the most poetic lyrics with the funkiest tracks aren't the right medicine.
Like Tonight.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The War between the States
I am currently in the midst of a book published in 2007, by Donald McCaig, called Rhett Butler's People (RBP). I am reading this as a follow up to Gone with the Wind - which I finished last month. I also watched the award-winning movie produced in '39, and I LOVED it.
This latest book is written from Rhett Butler's perspective: it has flashbacks as far back as Rhett as a 9 year old (12 years before the War between the States) and I believe carries on beyond the end of GWTW. The book was authorized by the estate of Margaret Mitchell, as the estate had reportedly been searching for an author to complete such a project.
I'm in the beginning of this book, but there are a few things I've been thinking over since I started it.
First of all, there is a rather startling difference between GWTW and RBP, which becomes apparent in the first few pages of this book. I've often commented that GWTW can be rather misleading, as it shows a kind slave owner and his family, along with slaves who feel to be part of the family. While I am certain that this likely existed in parts of the deep South, I was disconcerted at the lack of balance Mitchell displayed (or didn’t) in regard to slave treatment. As previously noted, this was not necessarily the point of the book - to debate the morality of slavery - but the lack of objectiveness caught my attention.
However, RBP, surprisingly, comes from the opposite end of the spectrum. Rhett's father, a rice plantation owner outside of Charleston, is a vicious man, who treats his slaves as property, and punishes them accordingly. The reader is introduced to Will, an incredibly hard-working, efficient, and honorable slave (second in command at Broughton), who is shortly whipped to death for throwing a white man (who was intending to rape his wife) out of his home.
Even the white man's father, who was the overseer of the planation, disagreed with Mr. Butler's decree; however, Mr. Butler stood by his decision to reinforce the idea of authority.
Reading through the Antebellum section of this novel, I am barraged by different historical occurrences preceding the War between the States. I find that I'm intrigued by all of these different happenings - whether national or local, political or social, etc. I've been doing some research in regard to this war and its happenings (we were taught this information at far too young of an age, and likely by biased teachers - regardless of their origins).
I began to consider the North and their side of the war. In no way do I support slavery and its ideas, its lack of morals, its complete disregard for humanity. I was raised within the Southern perspective, which I tried to balance out with my sense of cynicism towards the older people of the Deep South. I find myself surprised, in one aspect, that the North was so insistent upon keeping the nation together. Surely, there were economical, political, and social reasons for the unity of the North and the South - I cannot deny this reality. However, a mere 90 years before this War was an even more famous one: The Revolutionary War.
The children and grandchildren of those who fought for our freedom from Britain were now refusing to let a part of a nation choose its own destiny, its own freedom, its own methods of operating.
I find irony in that, despite the fact that the AR addressed colonialism and the CW addressed the division of a new country. I'm certain that a good historian could cite 100+ significant, worthwhile reasons that the North fought to keep the South within their nation, but the irony is irrefutable.
I am also fascinated by the differences in perspective between the North and the South in regard to the secession. I was interested to read that during Andrew Jackson's presidency, South Carolina threatened secession (those South Carolinians are always leading the revolt!) over tariffs. Andrew Jackson's response was a threat to send Federal Troops to quell this riot and to: "hang the leader of the secessionists from the highest tree in South Carolina." Even more bizarre was the response of Calhoun, who was Jackson's vice president: he fully supported the secession and resigned upon the threats from Jackson. (I feel it worth mentioning that SC also threatened to secede over California's statehood.)
And so, the Union saw the South and its secession as a mere rebellion, incited by numerous traitors within their own country. Lincoln himself gave the south 20 days to 'disperse and retire peacefully' to their homes, on April 15, 1861.
But the South, as continually evidenced by my grandparent's generation, believed that they had successfully seceded, becoming a new nation with the other 10 (debatable, the actual number, as 2 of the 13 attempts were never approved by state governments) seceded states.
History is written by the winners, as they say, and so you will always find it told that the South attempted secession, but never able to consummate it by winning the war.
A final note regarding secession: There was a US Supreme Court ruling in 1869 in which the Court determined the Constitution did not permit states to secede, that the ordinances of secession were absolutely null. The Chief Justice was a former Cabinet member of Lincoln's, and obviously the South felt that he was partial and unfair in his decision. Wikipedia notes that the decision was extremely controversial, remaining so to this day.
A few more interesting facts from Wiki to conclude your history lesson in the fascinating War between the States:
On April 1, 2009, the Georgia State Senate passed a resolution 43-1 which affirmed the right of States to nullify Federal laws. The resolution also included the assertion that if Congress took certain steps, including restricting firearms or ammunition, the United States government would cease to exist.
In April 2009, Rick Perry, the Governor of Texas, raised the issue of secession during a speech at a Tea Party Protest: "Texas is a unique place. When we came into the union in 1845, one of the issues was that we would be able to leave if we decided to do that...My hope is that America and Washington in particular pays attention. We've got a great union. There's absolutely no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, who knows what may come of that."After Perry's comments received considerable attention and news coverage, Rasmussen Reports polled Texans and found that 31% of them believed that Texas has the right to secede from the United States, although only 18% would support secession.
In March 2008, the comptroller of Suffolk Co, New York once again proposed for Long Island to secede from New York State citing the fact that Long Island gives more in taxes to the state than it receives back in aid.
There have also been proposals for New York City to separate itself from New York State citing the vast political and economic differences between the two.
In Florida, there have been calls in the past and present to separate the state into north (a more southern culture) and south (a more northern culture).
This latest book is written from Rhett Butler's perspective: it has flashbacks as far back as Rhett as a 9 year old (12 years before the War between the States) and I believe carries on beyond the end of GWTW. The book was authorized by the estate of Margaret Mitchell, as the estate had reportedly been searching for an author to complete such a project.
I'm in the beginning of this book, but there are a few things I've been thinking over since I started it.
First of all, there is a rather startling difference between GWTW and RBP, which becomes apparent in the first few pages of this book. I've often commented that GWTW can be rather misleading, as it shows a kind slave owner and his family, along with slaves who feel to be part of the family. While I am certain that this likely existed in parts of the deep South, I was disconcerted at the lack of balance Mitchell displayed (or didn’t) in regard to slave treatment. As previously noted, this was not necessarily the point of the book - to debate the morality of slavery - but the lack of objectiveness caught my attention.
However, RBP, surprisingly, comes from the opposite end of the spectrum. Rhett's father, a rice plantation owner outside of Charleston, is a vicious man, who treats his slaves as property, and punishes them accordingly. The reader is introduced to Will, an incredibly hard-working, efficient, and honorable slave (second in command at Broughton), who is shortly whipped to death for throwing a white man (who was intending to rape his wife) out of his home.
Even the white man's father, who was the overseer of the planation, disagreed with Mr. Butler's decree; however, Mr. Butler stood by his decision to reinforce the idea of authority.
Reading through the Antebellum section of this novel, I am barraged by different historical occurrences preceding the War between the States. I find that I'm intrigued by all of these different happenings - whether national or local, political or social, etc. I've been doing some research in regard to this war and its happenings (we were taught this information at far too young of an age, and likely by biased teachers - regardless of their origins).
I began to consider the North and their side of the war. In no way do I support slavery and its ideas, its lack of morals, its complete disregard for humanity. I was raised within the Southern perspective, which I tried to balance out with my sense of cynicism towards the older people of the Deep South. I find myself surprised, in one aspect, that the North was so insistent upon keeping the nation together. Surely, there were economical, political, and social reasons for the unity of the North and the South - I cannot deny this reality. However, a mere 90 years before this War was an even more famous one: The Revolutionary War.
The children and grandchildren of those who fought for our freedom from Britain were now refusing to let a part of a nation choose its own destiny, its own freedom, its own methods of operating.
I find irony in that, despite the fact that the AR addressed colonialism and the CW addressed the division of a new country. I'm certain that a good historian could cite 100+ significant, worthwhile reasons that the North fought to keep the South within their nation, but the irony is irrefutable.
I am also fascinated by the differences in perspective between the North and the South in regard to the secession. I was interested to read that during Andrew Jackson's presidency, South Carolina threatened secession (those South Carolinians are always leading the revolt!) over tariffs. Andrew Jackson's response was a threat to send Federal Troops to quell this riot and to: "hang the leader of the secessionists from the highest tree in South Carolina." Even more bizarre was the response of Calhoun, who was Jackson's vice president: he fully supported the secession and resigned upon the threats from Jackson. (I feel it worth mentioning that SC also threatened to secede over California's statehood.)
And so, the Union saw the South and its secession as a mere rebellion, incited by numerous traitors within their own country. Lincoln himself gave the south 20 days to 'disperse and retire peacefully' to their homes, on April 15, 1861.
But the South, as continually evidenced by my grandparent's generation, believed that they had successfully seceded, becoming a new nation with the other 10 (debatable, the actual number, as 2 of the 13 attempts were never approved by state governments) seceded states.
History is written by the winners, as they say, and so you will always find it told that the South attempted secession, but never able to consummate it by winning the war.
A final note regarding secession: There was a US Supreme Court ruling in 1869 in which the Court determined the Constitution did not permit states to secede, that the ordinances of secession were absolutely null. The Chief Justice was a former Cabinet member of Lincoln's, and obviously the South felt that he was partial and unfair in his decision. Wikipedia notes that the decision was extremely controversial, remaining so to this day.
A few more interesting facts from Wiki to conclude your history lesson in the fascinating War between the States:
On April 1, 2009, the Georgia State Senate passed a resolution 43-1 which affirmed the right of States to nullify Federal laws. The resolution also included the assertion that if Congress took certain steps, including restricting firearms or ammunition, the United States government would cease to exist.
In April 2009, Rick Perry, the Governor of Texas, raised the issue of secession during a speech at a Tea Party Protest: "Texas is a unique place. When we came into the union in 1845, one of the issues was that we would be able to leave if we decided to do that...My hope is that America and Washington in particular pays attention. We've got a great union. There's absolutely no reason to dissolve it. But if Washington continues to thumb their nose at the American people, who knows what may come of that."After Perry's comments received considerable attention and news coverage, Rasmussen Reports polled Texans and found that 31% of them believed that Texas has the right to secede from the United States, although only 18% would support secession.
In March 2008, the comptroller of Suffolk Co, New York once again proposed for Long Island to secede from New York State citing the fact that Long Island gives more in taxes to the state than it receives back in aid.
There have also been proposals for New York City to separate itself from New York State citing the vast political and economic differences between the two.
In Florida, there have been calls in the past and present to separate the state into north (a more southern culture) and south (a more northern culture).
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Those four days, which started off innocently enough, seemed to last forever. I tell you, I HATED that place.
Day one: drive, eat, drink, conversations of bases (and far more ridiculous topics), ice cream, drive, hostel, guitar, oppression and sleep. Days two through four were far simpler: reading and oppression (though endured through a complex state of mind.)
Not that I realized it at the time, mind you. And, reader, you might even doubt the reality of what I will explain, yet it exists despite your potential cynicism. Separate views of the same world: mine, holistic. Will yours blend with mine, or do you instead wrap yourself in the mere physical?
It seems that all oppressions are grounded in partial reality, slight as it might appear. And for that reason, I insist that this is not entirely the fault of those daemons. There are, in fact, real matters to be dealt with on my part, and those lessons will be learned, and relearned, in due time.
However, when that truth is twisted, warped, by the imps who chase and tempt us hourly, suffocation ensues. I began to believe and internalize (as I’m certain you’ve done before) these exaggerated, revised versions of my true reality (but what is true reality?)
Thus began my journey, my travels, down the dark road that lie before me. I never saw the enlightened path just to my right, as I wasn’t searching for it. Not until day four.
If you asked me on day three (oh, you say you did?) why I sat listless, quiet, absent-mindedly absorbed in the minute glades of grass between my toes, I would have only stared at you.
Was it the heart of the matter? Was it the confusion, the blackness? Was it simply a day to be?
If I had to testify before the Judge, I would cite all three as sources of my silence, my distance.
I’m still at university, you see, learning through osmosis, studying the lessons of the beliefs to which I adhere, doing my best to experience, to become, these absolute realities. As an ex-disciple of selfishness, gluttony, worldliness, and egoism, I have travelled far from my homeland. And yet, I am still a great distance from the rest area which promises sweet relief.
Today, as we drove farther and farther from that scarred battleground, the rains lightened and the clouds lifted (oh, I assure you, this is quite the literal sentence) and I became reacquainted with both my subdued, battered soul and my risen Lord.
I followed Him with weary footsteps, trusting that He would play the soundtrack of His grace over my life (this song plays incessantly on repeat, until I lose that cd again).
That I might remember who I am, who He is. And what we are to become.
Day one: drive, eat, drink, conversations of bases (and far more ridiculous topics), ice cream, drive, hostel, guitar, oppression and sleep. Days two through four were far simpler: reading and oppression (though endured through a complex state of mind.)
Not that I realized it at the time, mind you. And, reader, you might even doubt the reality of what I will explain, yet it exists despite your potential cynicism. Separate views of the same world: mine, holistic. Will yours blend with mine, or do you instead wrap yourself in the mere physical?
It seems that all oppressions are grounded in partial reality, slight as it might appear. And for that reason, I insist that this is not entirely the fault of those daemons. There are, in fact, real matters to be dealt with on my part, and those lessons will be learned, and relearned, in due time.
However, when that truth is twisted, warped, by the imps who chase and tempt us hourly, suffocation ensues. I began to believe and internalize (as I’m certain you’ve done before) these exaggerated, revised versions of my true reality (but what is true reality?)
Thus began my journey, my travels, down the dark road that lie before me. I never saw the enlightened path just to my right, as I wasn’t searching for it. Not until day four.
If you asked me on day three (oh, you say you did?) why I sat listless, quiet, absent-mindedly absorbed in the minute glades of grass between my toes, I would have only stared at you.
Was it the heart of the matter? Was it the confusion, the blackness? Was it simply a day to be?
If I had to testify before the Judge, I would cite all three as sources of my silence, my distance.
I’m still at university, you see, learning through osmosis, studying the lessons of the beliefs to which I adhere, doing my best to experience, to become, these absolute realities. As an ex-disciple of selfishness, gluttony, worldliness, and egoism, I have travelled far from my homeland. And yet, I am still a great distance from the rest area which promises sweet relief.
Today, as we drove farther and farther from that scarred battleground, the rains lightened and the clouds lifted (oh, I assure you, this is quite the literal sentence) and I became reacquainted with both my subdued, battered soul and my risen Lord.
I followed Him with weary footsteps, trusting that He would play the soundtrack of His grace over my life (this song plays incessantly on repeat, until I lose that cd again).
That I might remember who I am, who He is. And what we are to become.
Friday, April 24, 2009
I sit here, hunched over this patio table and high above the street below, watching the happenings below with a halfhearted interest. It’s 12:21am on Friday night (technically, Saturday morning) in Cairns, Queensland, Australia, and my heart is restless.
A few people online try to distract me from my brief bout with introspection from thousands of miles away.
As I sit, staring vacantly down towards the pavement, I see 5 drunken kids swaggering towards the opposite side of the street, heading home into the dark, cool night. I catch myself thinking that I hope they know which way to look as they walk into traffic.
I’m alone on this balcony and I like it. There are people yelling, there is music blaring, and MW is less than 10 feet away from me, inside our hotel room.
Somehow, miraculously, I have managed to escape into my own cocoon, amongst this madness.
I wonder at our world - what does it all mean?
I have strong beliefs as to why I am here, what my purpose is, and the overarching ideas of my spirituality, but as I stare humanity in the face this early Saturday morning, I wonder what it is that I even see.
I’m tired of relationships; I’m tired of trying to read into situations and events. I am exhausted from analysis; I wish for nothing more but straightforward people with love in their hearts.
I wish I was that type of person. While I'm wishing, I wish that I could just BE. And not think so damn much.
I’d be lying if I said that relationships were not work for me, for they utterly exhaust me. (Yes, yes, they exhaust you, too!) I fatigue myself with incessant considerations that are irrelevant and unimportant. And then, somehow, I manage to halfway offend a friend by not being observant about behaviours surrounding me.
Where is my balance? My scale?
There are days that I think I could live here forever, and nights that I wish nothing more than to be at home. But where is my home? I am nothing more than a vagabond, blowing around as leaves in the wind.
I thank you in advance for assuring me that my home is Orlando, or Atlanta, or wherever my heart is, but the reality is that I feel
homeless.
A friend of mine once told me that he never really felt at home in Orlando, in the multiple years he has resided there. I never knew what he meant until now.
Except, he’s considerably more lucky, because he has a place that he remembers as home.
My memory is far to faint to recall anything of the sort.
I long for it, I really do.
Some day, I do believe I shall find it again. For now, though, I shall kiss Hope and Love on the cheek and consider myself blessed to be in Australia in my current situation. My heart continues to wail out its song, calling for that home that no longer exists. This song will recreate, redraw, repaint over the coming months or years; and I will then rediscover my safe haven and my peace.
But tonight, I sit, perched in my quiet nest, thinking about tomorrow.
A few people online try to distract me from my brief bout with introspection from thousands of miles away.
As I sit, staring vacantly down towards the pavement, I see 5 drunken kids swaggering towards the opposite side of the street, heading home into the dark, cool night. I catch myself thinking that I hope they know which way to look as they walk into traffic.
I’m alone on this balcony and I like it. There are people yelling, there is music blaring, and MW is less than 10 feet away from me, inside our hotel room.
Somehow, miraculously, I have managed to escape into my own cocoon, amongst this madness.
I wonder at our world - what does it all mean?
I have strong beliefs as to why I am here, what my purpose is, and the overarching ideas of my spirituality, but as I stare humanity in the face this early Saturday morning, I wonder what it is that I even see.
I’m tired of relationships; I’m tired of trying to read into situations and events. I am exhausted from analysis; I wish for nothing more but straightforward people with love in their hearts.
I wish I was that type of person. While I'm wishing, I wish that I could just BE. And not think so damn much.
I’d be lying if I said that relationships were not work for me, for they utterly exhaust me. (Yes, yes, they exhaust you, too!) I fatigue myself with incessant considerations that are irrelevant and unimportant. And then, somehow, I manage to halfway offend a friend by not being observant about behaviours surrounding me.
Where is my balance? My scale?
There are days that I think I could live here forever, and nights that I wish nothing more than to be at home. But where is my home? I am nothing more than a vagabond, blowing around as leaves in the wind.
I thank you in advance for assuring me that my home is Orlando, or Atlanta, or wherever my heart is, but the reality is that I feel
homeless.
A friend of mine once told me that he never really felt at home in Orlando, in the multiple years he has resided there. I never knew what he meant until now.
Except, he’s considerably more lucky, because he has a place that he remembers as home.
My memory is far to faint to recall anything of the sort.
I long for it, I really do.
Some day, I do believe I shall find it again. For now, though, I shall kiss Hope and Love on the cheek and consider myself blessed to be in Australia in my current situation. My heart continues to wail out its song, calling for that home that no longer exists. This song will recreate, redraw, repaint over the coming months or years; and I will then rediscover my safe haven and my peace.
But tonight, I sit, perched in my quiet nest, thinking about tomorrow.
i once read a line on a page that said, 'i know everything.'
and so i thought. and i thought.
everything? to know everything! what a blessing. and what a curse. to be burdened by the mundane knowledge of the average life of a fly during a nuclear winter, or the number of times the light in downtown cairns blinks per hour: overwhelming. but maybe worth the trade off to be aware of your nemesis' strongest power or greatest weakness? to hold the secret of the event horizon, the big bang, within your brain, to be able to explain the idea to the most brilliant minds of our times as if they are children?
ah, maybe.
and then i realized the one who wrote it wasn't considering the literal statement made.
eureka.
and then i smiled.
because i knew that the author was only fooling himself; for even all of the facts of all of the events and the happenings
could
never
contain
everything.
and so i thought. and i thought.
everything? to know everything! what a blessing. and what a curse. to be burdened by the mundane knowledge of the average life of a fly during a nuclear winter, or the number of times the light in downtown cairns blinks per hour: overwhelming. but maybe worth the trade off to be aware of your nemesis' strongest power or greatest weakness? to hold the secret of the event horizon, the big bang, within your brain, to be able to explain the idea to the most brilliant minds of our times as if they are children?
ah, maybe.
and then i realized the one who wrote it wasn't considering the literal statement made.
eureka.
and then i smiled.
because i knew that the author was only fooling himself; for even all of the facts of all of the events and the happenings
could
never
contain
everything.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Fade Away
Ebbing and flowing
But ebbing more readily
Further and further back
Away from these dangerous shores
These cliffs made of age old rock
These crashing waves that force you inward
You and I
We embrace each other
We fool each other
We fight each other
And we give in
But both of us hold back
You say you give,
But you really don’t.
I don’t either.
We are both far too protective of our exoskeletons
And so we ebb
And ebb.
But ebbing more readily
Further and further back
Away from these dangerous shores
These cliffs made of age old rock
These crashing waves that force you inward
You and I
We embrace each other
We fool each other
We fight each other
And we give in
But both of us hold back
You say you give,
But you really don’t.
I don’t either.
We are both far too protective of our exoskeletons
And so we ebb
And ebb.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Swept away by a storm (My alternate title)
When I was mentally planning my trip to Australia, one of my top priorities was reading.
I love to read. I find that since I've become very involved in the Status community, my reading somewhat decreased due that increase in my social life. Therefore, I made a vow to myself to read unceasingly on this trip, when time was plentiful and books many.
I've failed. Miserably. I find that spare time is spent online (when available) or chatting with M, W, or both. A bonus is that some of that time has been followed up with discipline in my Spirituality. But I have only completed 1 book since I left the States (for those of you who care, it was Angels & Demons, which I was re-reading before the movie came out.)
Despite all of this, I recently picked up the 1000+ page book, Gone with the Wind, which I lovingly stole from my mom when I was in Georgia this winter. My mom is an English teacher who has thousands of books, so it would be years (or never) before she realized it was gone. I must add that any time I read a book she owns (that she has found time to read), I learn much from it due to her markings, scribblings, and highlighting. Enlightenment.
I'm about 1/3 of the way through this book. Disclaimer: for those of you who haven't read it and want to read it, you might not want to continue. I have many thoughts on it which might give away plot points.
I've just arrived at the point in the book where Scarlett has arrived back home at Tara, following her departure from Atlanta, which was under attack by the Yankees. She has only just been told that her mother is dead and that Tara was spared, but desolated, by the Yankee army.
This book fascinates me, while depressing me thoroughly.
I grew up in the Atlanta area - the deep South. I understand the Southern sense of pride, their attitude towards the war in general, their attitude towards the North in general, etc. Particularly the older generations, of which my grandparents were part.
I suppose that I should feel more appalled at the situation that the South found itself in; however, this novel is not designed to question the morality of slavery.
Well, at least not by page 400, which is where I'm at.
I have been wrecked by the significant, massive separation of my world and the world of the late 19th century, the Civil War world.
First, the South was ablaze with tradition, politeness, and what many would call ignorance. They wouldn't tell women truths much of the time, for fear that women couldn't (physically, mentally) handle the truth. Women were not allowed to show their bosom before 3 pm. Women in mourning were not allowed to go to parties, or to dance, or to see other men, for many years after the death of their husband. It was shameful for a woman to talk about being pregnant with a man other than her husband.
These traditions seem ludicrous in this liberal world in which we live. White Lies? Separation and Hierarchy? And yet, there is so much history in these ideas. Misguided, ignorant, maybe, but history and reality nonetheless.
Second, I am astounded at the South's pride. Mind you, I've told you that I grew up amongst people who were very prideful of their heritage. Georgia's state flag has incorporated, and still proudly displays, the Confederate Flag. But the sense that the author would write "One confederate soldier is worth 12 Yankees!" is outrageous. They were confident without much reason, as far as I can see. I will never forget my grandmother telling me that her great grandmother believed the war would quickly be over, with a Southern victory easily at hand.
This very reason is that I adore Rhett Butler's entrance into the era before the War began. His character isn't concerned with what society thinks of him, but instead is set upon wreaking havoc (polite havoc?) amongst these haughty and intolerant, yet beautiful and family-oriented Southerners. Rhett loves Scarlett because he sees a bit of his rebellious nature in her, and he works endlessly to bring these qualities from the confines of her subconscious into the reality of her culture.
And yet, I must interject here that the personalities and the characters - feeling as though I'm their friend, or at least an associate - their ideas, their misguided notions, their methods of thinking - they all give me a more sympathetic and understanding insight into this world which I was once so quick to logically write off.
Thirdly, I am incredibly frustrated by the senseless death that this war brought about. The conditions of a 19th century war are so far removed from modern wars. The same can be said even for WWII, but the vast difference in the methods of strategy is blatantly evident. I must confess that I am a bit ignorant myself about the real reasons that the North was adamant about keeping the South as part of this nation - I do intend to do follow up research on this very topic. However, both sides appear to have been so very quick to jump into a battle, to believe in their own rights, their own superiority. And this stupidity on both parts frustrates me.
I believe the largest American death toll of any war is the Civil War - some 600,000+. While in one sense, this is logical (being that we were fighting both sides of the war), in another it's completely ridiculous. The statement of brothers fighting brothers and neighbors fighting neighbors is 100% grounded in reality.
That is shocking and disturbing.
There are many other things that strike me about the war, the environment, etc just from reading this book; these are the main ideas at this time. I continue to be depressed as I read about this young girl's journey before, through and after the war. It's a heavy topic, a real topic that can't be waved away by the mere idea of fiction.
I should also reference the book The Unvanquished, by Faulkner. I read this book at my mom's this past holiday season and was absolutely fascinated Civil War fiction. (It spawned my interest in GWTW.) Again, the idea that the literal ending of the war was not known by the public, particularly the remote regions of the South, for the longest time (due to differences in technology) blew my mind. I think I even blogged about it on this blog before.
I highly recommend reading GWTW if you haven't. And if you know of any literature that is similar, but written from the Union's perspective, PLEASE recommend. I am so curious to read something from that mindset, from those ideals, from that culture from the same period.
Cheers!
I love to read. I find that since I've become very involved in the Status community, my reading somewhat decreased due that increase in my social life. Therefore, I made a vow to myself to read unceasingly on this trip, when time was plentiful and books many.
I've failed. Miserably. I find that spare time is spent online (when available) or chatting with M, W, or both. A bonus is that some of that time has been followed up with discipline in my Spirituality. But I have only completed 1 book since I left the States (for those of you who care, it was Angels & Demons, which I was re-reading before the movie came out.)
Despite all of this, I recently picked up the 1000+ page book, Gone with the Wind, which I lovingly stole from my mom when I was in Georgia this winter. My mom is an English teacher who has thousands of books, so it would be years (or never) before she realized it was gone. I must add that any time I read a book she owns (that she has found time to read), I learn much from it due to her markings, scribblings, and highlighting. Enlightenment.
I'm about 1/3 of the way through this book. Disclaimer: for those of you who haven't read it and want to read it, you might not want to continue. I have many thoughts on it which might give away plot points.
I've just arrived at the point in the book where Scarlett has arrived back home at Tara, following her departure from Atlanta, which was under attack by the Yankees. She has only just been told that her mother is dead and that Tara was spared, but desolated, by the Yankee army.
This book fascinates me, while depressing me thoroughly.
I grew up in the Atlanta area - the deep South. I understand the Southern sense of pride, their attitude towards the war in general, their attitude towards the North in general, etc. Particularly the older generations, of which my grandparents were part.
I suppose that I should feel more appalled at the situation that the South found itself in; however, this novel is not designed to question the morality of slavery.
Well, at least not by page 400, which is where I'm at.
I have been wrecked by the significant, massive separation of my world and the world of the late 19th century, the Civil War world.
First, the South was ablaze with tradition, politeness, and what many would call ignorance. They wouldn't tell women truths much of the time, for fear that women couldn't (physically, mentally) handle the truth. Women were not allowed to show their bosom before 3 pm. Women in mourning were not allowed to go to parties, or to dance, or to see other men, for many years after the death of their husband. It was shameful for a woman to talk about being pregnant with a man other than her husband.
These traditions seem ludicrous in this liberal world in which we live. White Lies? Separation and Hierarchy? And yet, there is so much history in these ideas. Misguided, ignorant, maybe, but history and reality nonetheless.
Second, I am astounded at the South's pride. Mind you, I've told you that I grew up amongst people who were very prideful of their heritage. Georgia's state flag has incorporated, and still proudly displays, the Confederate Flag. But the sense that the author would write "One confederate soldier is worth 12 Yankees!" is outrageous. They were confident without much reason, as far as I can see. I will never forget my grandmother telling me that her great grandmother believed the war would quickly be over, with a Southern victory easily at hand.
This very reason is that I adore Rhett Butler's entrance into the era before the War began. His character isn't concerned with what society thinks of him, but instead is set upon wreaking havoc (polite havoc?) amongst these haughty and intolerant, yet beautiful and family-oriented Southerners. Rhett loves Scarlett because he sees a bit of his rebellious nature in her, and he works endlessly to bring these qualities from the confines of her subconscious into the reality of her culture.
And yet, I must interject here that the personalities and the characters - feeling as though I'm their friend, or at least an associate - their ideas, their misguided notions, their methods of thinking - they all give me a more sympathetic and understanding insight into this world which I was once so quick to logically write off.
Thirdly, I am incredibly frustrated by the senseless death that this war brought about. The conditions of a 19th century war are so far removed from modern wars. The same can be said even for WWII, but the vast difference in the methods of strategy is blatantly evident. I must confess that I am a bit ignorant myself about the real reasons that the North was adamant about keeping the South as part of this nation - I do intend to do follow up research on this very topic. However, both sides appear to have been so very quick to jump into a battle, to believe in their own rights, their own superiority. And this stupidity on both parts frustrates me.
I believe the largest American death toll of any war is the Civil War - some 600,000+. While in one sense, this is logical (being that we were fighting both sides of the war), in another it's completely ridiculous. The statement of brothers fighting brothers and neighbors fighting neighbors is 100% grounded in reality.
That is shocking and disturbing.
There are many other things that strike me about the war, the environment, etc just from reading this book; these are the main ideas at this time. I continue to be depressed as I read about this young girl's journey before, through and after the war. It's a heavy topic, a real topic that can't be waved away by the mere idea of fiction.
I should also reference the book The Unvanquished, by Faulkner. I read this book at my mom's this past holiday season and was absolutely fascinated Civil War fiction. (It spawned my interest in GWTW.) Again, the idea that the literal ending of the war was not known by the public, particularly the remote regions of the South, for the longest time (due to differences in technology) blew my mind. I think I even blogged about it on this blog before.
I highly recommend reading GWTW if you haven't. And if you know of any literature that is similar, but written from the Union's perspective, PLEASE recommend. I am so curious to read something from that mindset, from those ideals, from that culture from the same period.
Cheers!
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Parallel Universe
Climbing, Climbing
Higher, higher
The boundless ocean below, an orchestra,
Crescendoing against the sands of the beach below
Fortissimo!
I hear the winds howling
Blowing powerfully thorough the trees deeply rooted behind me
In awe of Your might
Mouth gaping at displays of Your power
I smile inwardly at my smallness
My cockiness, my egocentric view of the world
I know You are changing this
I laugh, often, at my jokes
So rooted in my reality.
The music plays on
As I hear with my eyes
And see with my ears
As I taste with my nose
And smell with my mouth
Everything is different
But You remain the same
Everything is foreign
But I find stability in You, Written for me to believe
An ounce of Faith,
Granted so mercifully
Growing incessantly
Clarifying internally
All that I am
All that You ask me to be
I fall
I fall again
I fail
I fail again
Frustration abounds.
Self-reliance is intoxicating.
She wrote, then sang:
Even the high and mighty ones learn to slide.
I’m sliding, tripping, falling;
Hands reaching,
Grasping, grabbing for anything to hold me upright,
To pull me back to my higher stance
And I fall to the sandy beach below
Broken in body
Torn in half
But entirely whole in Spirit
I lay with the sea lapping at my feet
Unaware of the frostbite encroaching
My focus, and fear, drawn only to Your presence beside me
Inside me.
Awestruck and Dumbfounded
I ask no questions
I need no answers
You are more than enough.
Higher, higher
The boundless ocean below, an orchestra,
Crescendoing against the sands of the beach below
Fortissimo!
I hear the winds howling
Blowing powerfully thorough the trees deeply rooted behind me
In awe of Your might
Mouth gaping at displays of Your power
I smile inwardly at my smallness
My cockiness, my egocentric view of the world
I know You are changing this
I laugh, often, at my jokes
So rooted in my reality.
The music plays on
As I hear with my eyes
And see with my ears
As I taste with my nose
And smell with my mouth
Everything is different
But You remain the same
Everything is foreign
But I find stability in You, Written for me to believe
An ounce of Faith,
Granted so mercifully
Growing incessantly
Clarifying internally
All that I am
All that You ask me to be
I fall
I fall again
I fail
I fail again
Frustration abounds.
Self-reliance is intoxicating.
She wrote, then sang:
Even the high and mighty ones learn to slide.
I’m sliding, tripping, falling;
Hands reaching,
Grasping, grabbing for anything to hold me upright,
To pull me back to my higher stance
And I fall to the sandy beach below
Broken in body
Torn in half
But entirely whole in Spirit
I lay with the sea lapping at my feet
Unaware of the frostbite encroaching
My focus, and fear, drawn only to Your presence beside me
Inside me.
Awestruck and Dumbfounded
I ask no questions
I need no answers
You are more than enough.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Islands Away
She floats atop the turbulent sapphire sea, eyes scanning the horizon, subconsciously searching for something, for someone.
Her search is continual, an incessant journey across the perilous waters, passing the expansive seven mile beach, steering clear of the jagged rocks and red clay cliffs which lead inland.
She occasionally sees fellow travelers along the horizon, floating along on their own little piece of earth.
She frequently floats up next to these vagabonds, upon the enormous sea of life.
One of these welcomes her over with waving arms, a toothy smile, and a hearty hug. She hops upon this stranger’s turf, unaware of the influence she exudes. She sits alongside her new friend, listening to the exciting tales of her past and watches the hopeful lines this friend casts out toward the future.
She is slow to offer herself, but always quick to lend an ear, or advice.
Finding common ground within the strong words her new friend offers, she enthusiastically engages in conversation. Her face is animated by the various stares her enormous eyes emit, and her new friend is encouraged to give more and more.
After enough time, she leaves her new friend, and both of them exclaim their delight at the new friendship, and their hope in the fates allowing future meetings.
So she is back to this beautiful water which has forever been her home. She ponders this latest relationship that she was part of for a brief time, and considers her feelings towards the introduction, the experience, the potential for growth.
Oh, how she values her time alone with Him as her own island swims along beneath her.
And shortly, there is yet another who is watching her from his own side of the ocean. He sits behind his fence, eyes peering over the top, wondering at her expression and her approach.
She doesn’t let the fence deter her - in fact, it might even be what spurs her towards the hidden man. Or boy? She’s not sure until she attempts to step onto his land.
“Why are you here?” He asks gruffly.
She turns on her charm, greeting him with the eyes he can’t stop staring into. “You were floating by and I thought I’d introduce myself to you, to share a bit of my food with you. Are you hungry?”
And so, he doesn’t open the gate, but he puts his hand through the narrow slit, hand open for her peace offering. She sits along the far side of this fence, directly in front of him, and waits for him to speak. She chews slowly on the Bread that has always been her lifeline, pondering his questioning stare.
She asks him a question.
She asks him another question.
And another.
Fairly soon, the gate has slightly opened, but she doesn’t go inside just yet. While the open gate is significant, she still continues to attack this one’s attitude - the mental obstruction. Her charm and wit fight hand in hand against any guard that he could put out.
Before she knows it, she’s in the gate.
There’s a wall that separates this front yard from the deeper parts of this small island, but she doesn’t concern herself with it at all. She is where she wants to be - where she needs to be.
The conversation carries on rapidly, until it comes back around to her. She adeptly parries the heavy fire of questioning, without allowing this new intimacy to circle back around to her. Her tactic of keeping her new friend focused on his own story has been successful so many times before that she is caught completely unaware when her mind connects with what her mouth now utters.
And she wonders how in the hell she got here.
On this stranger’s land - so close to home, but not home - how did she end up revealing so much?
Surprisingly, she doesn’t desire to run, to paddle away, to escape like she has before.
For the rest of her time in this foreign land, she is completely within her own mind, analyzing feelings and logic, while externally appearing to be focused only on the conversation at hand.
When she leaves later, the fence is in shambles, but the wall stands strong behind the man.
And her own piece of life never felt so welcoming.
Her search is continual, an incessant journey across the perilous waters, passing the expansive seven mile beach, steering clear of the jagged rocks and red clay cliffs which lead inland.
She occasionally sees fellow travelers along the horizon, floating along on their own little piece of earth.
She frequently floats up next to these vagabonds, upon the enormous sea of life.
One of these welcomes her over with waving arms, a toothy smile, and a hearty hug. She hops upon this stranger’s turf, unaware of the influence she exudes. She sits alongside her new friend, listening to the exciting tales of her past and watches the hopeful lines this friend casts out toward the future.
She is slow to offer herself, but always quick to lend an ear, or advice.
Finding common ground within the strong words her new friend offers, she enthusiastically engages in conversation. Her face is animated by the various stares her enormous eyes emit, and her new friend is encouraged to give more and more.
After enough time, she leaves her new friend, and both of them exclaim their delight at the new friendship, and their hope in the fates allowing future meetings.
So she is back to this beautiful water which has forever been her home. She ponders this latest relationship that she was part of for a brief time, and considers her feelings towards the introduction, the experience, the potential for growth.
Oh, how she values her time alone with Him as her own island swims along beneath her.
And shortly, there is yet another who is watching her from his own side of the ocean. He sits behind his fence, eyes peering over the top, wondering at her expression and her approach.
She doesn’t let the fence deter her - in fact, it might even be what spurs her towards the hidden man. Or boy? She’s not sure until she attempts to step onto his land.
“Why are you here?” He asks gruffly.
She turns on her charm, greeting him with the eyes he can’t stop staring into. “You were floating by and I thought I’d introduce myself to you, to share a bit of my food with you. Are you hungry?”
And so, he doesn’t open the gate, but he puts his hand through the narrow slit, hand open for her peace offering. She sits along the far side of this fence, directly in front of him, and waits for him to speak. She chews slowly on the Bread that has always been her lifeline, pondering his questioning stare.
She asks him a question.
She asks him another question.
And another.
Fairly soon, the gate has slightly opened, but she doesn’t go inside just yet. While the open gate is significant, she still continues to attack this one’s attitude - the mental obstruction. Her charm and wit fight hand in hand against any guard that he could put out.
Before she knows it, she’s in the gate.
There’s a wall that separates this front yard from the deeper parts of this small island, but she doesn’t concern herself with it at all. She is where she wants to be - where she needs to be.
The conversation carries on rapidly, until it comes back around to her. She adeptly parries the heavy fire of questioning, without allowing this new intimacy to circle back around to her. Her tactic of keeping her new friend focused on his own story has been successful so many times before that she is caught completely unaware when her mind connects with what her mouth now utters.
And she wonders how in the hell she got here.
On this stranger’s land - so close to home, but not home - how did she end up revealing so much?
Surprisingly, she doesn’t desire to run, to paddle away, to escape like she has before.
For the rest of her time in this foreign land, she is completely within her own mind, analyzing feelings and logic, while externally appearing to be focused only on the conversation at hand.
When she leaves later, the fence is in shambles, but the wall stands strong behind the man.
And her own piece of life never felt so welcoming.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Day after day, the girl pasted pieces of her heart into the brown paper journal. She loved the time she spent with her heart and her journal, baring it all to the lined pages. She played with the rubber cement she applied, pulling off fingerprint after fingerprint. She smoothed down the edges of the bits of her tender heart she placed so gingerly onto the severed trees.
Every now and then, she’d go back and look at the parts of her soul strewn across the pages, smiling at a past thought, frowning at a past demon. All in all, you were written within the pages of this journal and that’s what made her happy.
Something was amiss today, as she came down for breakfast and sat sullenly at the table. The book she always had by her side (as if her imaginary friend was trapped within) was not there. She answered none of our questions; she parried our interrogations rather well with her silence.
And later in the day, as the sky grew pink with its snowy potential, we sat on the front porch smoking cigars and talking in hushed voices as to not disturb her. She sat in the corner of the yard with her once-treasured papers, weeping over the heartache contained within her human heart. The pages apparently no longer meant anything to her.
I nudged my neighbor and we watched her set the journal afire with a single match. The wind whispered loudly, nearly extinguishing the match, but Fate was intertwined with my little girl that day as the inner pages suddenly caught fire and burned quickly. She sobbed and sobbed at her heart blowing away as ashes on the cold breeze. The thicker paper cover was slower to light and still remained when all of the insides had burned into the atmosphere.
She spoke words of wisdom to us (far beyond her years) as she brushed by with only the cover left: “This paper shell is all that remains of my heart; the insides are nothing but ash.”
She dropped it at our feet and sulked inside to sleep again.
It would be years before my angel drew near to the One who could restore her heart.
Every now and then, she’d go back and look at the parts of her soul strewn across the pages, smiling at a past thought, frowning at a past demon. All in all, you were written within the pages of this journal and that’s what made her happy.
Something was amiss today, as she came down for breakfast and sat sullenly at the table. The book she always had by her side (as if her imaginary friend was trapped within) was not there. She answered none of our questions; she parried our interrogations rather well with her silence.
And later in the day, as the sky grew pink with its snowy potential, we sat on the front porch smoking cigars and talking in hushed voices as to not disturb her. She sat in the corner of the yard with her once-treasured papers, weeping over the heartache contained within her human heart. The pages apparently no longer meant anything to her.
I nudged my neighbor and we watched her set the journal afire with a single match. The wind whispered loudly, nearly extinguishing the match, but Fate was intertwined with my little girl that day as the inner pages suddenly caught fire and burned quickly. She sobbed and sobbed at her heart blowing away as ashes on the cold breeze. The thicker paper cover was slower to light and still remained when all of the insides had burned into the atmosphere.
She spoke words of wisdom to us (far beyond her years) as she brushed by with only the cover left: “This paper shell is all that remains of my heart; the insides are nothing but ash.”
She dropped it at our feet and sulked inside to sleep again.
It would be years before my angel drew near to the One who could restore her heart.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Sometimes, the words just don't come out.
There are emotions and frustrations brewing within. There is a storm of epic proportions - one that can lift a 252 ton (that's 500,000 pounds) rock from the bottom of the ocean to the edge of the shoreline cliffs - that is causing a deadly rise and fall within.
Isolation and lack of comfortability consistently bring issues to the surface I had either long forgotten or never known.
So I sit, my cursor blinking, trying to compose my thoughts into coherent poetry to express this storm. But the storm will not be described. It will not be quelled by an outpouring of wind or rain. The storm refuses to weaken by such understanding, but instead will smirk and strengthen by repeatedly regurgitating the emotion(s) on which it feeds.
I think about him, multiple hims.
I think about me.
I think about the patterns, the compositions of my relationships.
I think about identity.
I think about God.
I wonder how He is capable of explaining my world in more clear terms (or probably less clear, knowing Jesus).
I wonder how I can change behaviours, even if only mental.
I wonder how relationships form and how they are destroyed.
I wonder how I relate to people.
I wonder at being isolated, forever.
To say I feel anguish would be inaccurate; it is far more similar to confusion, to reaching into a murky ocean and wondering what might be swimming amongst the coral or sand along the bottom.
Who Am I, and Why do I feel this way?
There are emotions and frustrations brewing within. There is a storm of epic proportions - one that can lift a 252 ton (that's 500,000 pounds) rock from the bottom of the ocean to the edge of the shoreline cliffs - that is causing a deadly rise and fall within.
Isolation and lack of comfortability consistently bring issues to the surface I had either long forgotten or never known.
So I sit, my cursor blinking, trying to compose my thoughts into coherent poetry to express this storm. But the storm will not be described. It will not be quelled by an outpouring of wind or rain. The storm refuses to weaken by such understanding, but instead will smirk and strengthen by repeatedly regurgitating the emotion(s) on which it feeds.
I think about him, multiple hims.
I think about me.
I think about the patterns, the compositions of my relationships.
I think about identity.
I think about God.
I wonder how He is capable of explaining my world in more clear terms (or probably less clear, knowing Jesus).
I wonder how I can change behaviours, even if only mental.
I wonder how relationships form and how they are destroyed.
I wonder how I relate to people.
I wonder at being isolated, forever.
To say I feel anguish would be inaccurate; it is far more similar to confusion, to reaching into a murky ocean and wondering what might be swimming amongst the coral or sand along the bottom.
Who Am I, and Why do I feel this way?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Psalm 102
The Lord looked down from his sanctuary on high, from heaven he viewed the earth/to hear the groans of the prisoners and release those condemned to death...
I am reading Psalm 102 this morning & this catches my attention.
I spent Wednesday afternoon touring Alcatraz, the infamous prison in the San Francisco Bay. We took a boat over to the island, disembarked, and were instructed a bit in the history of this island. It was many things, including a military compound, before it became a prison. After after it was closed down by the city of SF because it was too expensive to run, Native Americans came in and took over the land. They were soon kicked out, and the island was taken under the city or state's national park program.
The rock was a prison for roughly 30 years, which is far shorter than I had realized. We toured everything from the warden's house to the social hall to the cell blocks to the recreation areas. The cell blocks were the most haunting. Al Capone was housed in Cell Block D, which was for the worst of these misled souls. There were cells in this block that were a decent size, but they weren't allowed out at all, unlike the other cell blocks. And then, there was solitary. Confinement without light for days on end.
Walter has written, or at least spoken to me, of the way that the prisoners were so isolated from society. If the wind blew just right, they might be lucky/unlucky enough to hear trailing sounds from the shore. It seems like these sounds would be both wonderful - connecting them to something from which they came, which they could remember - and horrible - reminding them of their extreme isolation.
This recent venture is why this verse from Psalm 102 called out to me as I was reading through it.
Our cries from the rock - the earth - are haunting, desperate, loud, frequent, and frustrated. God heard those cries and came after us, saving us from our own isolation. Our souls heard the soft, stealthy music coming from the other dimension in which we truly belong, and we consider ourselves lucky and unlucky to hear them. For they make us long for our true destiny, for our true nature and for our true God. But they also remind us how we have fallen and are not yet able to get to that other dimension.
Longing. Beauty and Hope in isolation. This is the difference between Alcatraz and Christianity. There was very little, if any, hope in Alcatraz. Even an escape to the exterior of the prison, which was near impossible, meant you were faced with about a mile swim in shark infested waters. If you were lucky. And if you weren't - and you were caught - you were punished with a ball and chain upon your return. Good luck swimming with that, the guards would say, smirking.
This has all been said before; I think that the reason I wanted to write about it was simply a better understanding of the desperation and separation of the Rock as compared to the Savior of Humanity.
Nobody hears the cries from the Rock.
The creator of the Universe hears the cries from this rock.
Meaningless humanity made ever important through Christ.
Paradox.
I am reading Psalm 102 this morning & this catches my attention.
I spent Wednesday afternoon touring Alcatraz, the infamous prison in the San Francisco Bay. We took a boat over to the island, disembarked, and were instructed a bit in the history of this island. It was many things, including a military compound, before it became a prison. After after it was closed down by the city of SF because it was too expensive to run, Native Americans came in and took over the land. They were soon kicked out, and the island was taken under the city or state's national park program.
The rock was a prison for roughly 30 years, which is far shorter than I had realized. We toured everything from the warden's house to the social hall to the cell blocks to the recreation areas. The cell blocks were the most haunting. Al Capone was housed in Cell Block D, which was for the worst of these misled souls. There were cells in this block that were a decent size, but they weren't allowed out at all, unlike the other cell blocks. And then, there was solitary. Confinement without light for days on end.
Walter has written, or at least spoken to me, of the way that the prisoners were so isolated from society. If the wind blew just right, they might be lucky/unlucky enough to hear trailing sounds from the shore. It seems like these sounds would be both wonderful - connecting them to something from which they came, which they could remember - and horrible - reminding them of their extreme isolation.
This recent venture is why this verse from Psalm 102 called out to me as I was reading through it.
Our cries from the rock - the earth - are haunting, desperate, loud, frequent, and frustrated. God heard those cries and came after us, saving us from our own isolation. Our souls heard the soft, stealthy music coming from the other dimension in which we truly belong, and we consider ourselves lucky and unlucky to hear them. For they make us long for our true destiny, for our true nature and for our true God. But they also remind us how we have fallen and are not yet able to get to that other dimension.
Longing. Beauty and Hope in isolation. This is the difference between Alcatraz and Christianity. There was very little, if any, hope in Alcatraz. Even an escape to the exterior of the prison, which was near impossible, meant you were faced with about a mile swim in shark infested waters. If you were lucky. And if you weren't - and you were caught - you were punished with a ball and chain upon your return. Good luck swimming with that, the guards would say, smirking.
This has all been said before; I think that the reason I wanted to write about it was simply a better understanding of the desperation and separation of the Rock as compared to the Savior of Humanity.
Nobody hears the cries from the Rock.
The creator of the Universe hears the cries from this rock.
Meaningless humanity made ever important through Christ.
Paradox.
Life, lately, is a seemingly endless array of minutes, hours and days. I find that without a job, or school, or church, to keep me aligned with what day of the week it is, it's near impossible to remember. Every morning, I wake up and ask Mel or Wally what day it is. I find that they often take a few minutes to try to recall themselves.
It seems that thus far, our flights have kept us semi-grounded in the day of the week, when we ARE able to remember. We know we leave for San Fran on Wednesday. We also leave for LA on Saturday (tomorrow) and for Fiji/Sydney on Monday, very late at night.
But what happens when our last real connection to a day disappears, following Wednesday (our connection to Sydney from Fiji)?
Walt told me today of a camp he attended where the attendees were required to give up their watches. They could tell approximate times from the sun, sure, but real connections with the exact time were lost. Only the counselors and/or coordinators of this camp were privy to such information.
I begin to wonder, as I continue to feel lost in my days, what relevance this has to the picture of life. Does it matter whether today is Monday, or Thursday? I have no real commitments once we leave the states, so what relevance do time and dates have for me, really? Do I need to keep a calendar with me, marking off my passing life, or is it more reasonable to simply be instead?
Do days matter?
I'm guessing that once LOST in Australia catches up with where we are (I think it's about 3-4 weeks behind), we will organize our weeks by Wednesdays.
It's very bizarre to feel so unaware of something that recently held such significance for my life.
And on we go...
It seems that thus far, our flights have kept us semi-grounded in the day of the week, when we ARE able to remember. We know we leave for San Fran on Wednesday. We also leave for LA on Saturday (tomorrow) and for Fiji/Sydney on Monday, very late at night.
But what happens when our last real connection to a day disappears, following Wednesday (our connection to Sydney from Fiji)?
Walt told me today of a camp he attended where the attendees were required to give up their watches. They could tell approximate times from the sun, sure, but real connections with the exact time were lost. Only the counselors and/or coordinators of this camp were privy to such information.
I begin to wonder, as I continue to feel lost in my days, what relevance this has to the picture of life. Does it matter whether today is Monday, or Thursday? I have no real commitments once we leave the states, so what relevance do time and dates have for me, really? Do I need to keep a calendar with me, marking off my passing life, or is it more reasonable to simply be instead?
Do days matter?
I'm guessing that once LOST in Australia catches up with where we are (I think it's about 3-4 weeks behind), we will organize our weeks by Wednesdays.
It's very bizarre to feel so unaware of something that recently held such significance for my life.
And on we go...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Blackjack at the Hard Rock
Today we are in Las Vegas. We arrived here again last night from the Grand Canyon around 7pm. We checked into the Hard Rock hotel, which is just off the strip, and hung out in the gigantic room for a while, trying to recover from the 5 hour drive.
I needed alone time last night, so Mel and Walter went off on their own. I went downstairs to play Blackjack. What I love about blackjack is that if you sit down at the right table, you can have a fantastic time with the other players. I love players who are excited and optimistic. They stand up, or sit down, and they ask for the cards they want. They do it like they are commanding an army, demanding pushups or something: "Come on Dealer! Give me that 4! You know I NEED that 4!" And sometimes the dealer gives them a 4, and sometimes the dealer gives them a 10, but they usually don't lose their optimism. These are my favorite types of people to play with, especially on a hot table. They dance around, yelling for blackjacks and tens like they are preaching on a Sunday morning, inflamed with excitement and obsession. These are the type of people who make you look across the casino at their table and consider leaving your own perch to join their fantasy world, where the house doesn't always win.
So, I sit at a table with 3 guys (I tend to gravitate to these tables, because often they know how to play BJ by 'the book', thereby increasing my own odds of winning. I sit at 'Third base', as they call it, which is the seat directly before the dealer. I also tend to gravitate to this seat or 'First base' (the first chair, always the first hand dealt). What's interesting is that the luck of Third Base is constantly changing as people sit and leave, where First Base is always the first hand dealt. So I sit by this guy, I forget his name, but I'll call him Timmy for kicks. I sit down by Timmy and immediately like him. "What's your name? I'm Timmy." "Jeanne" I reply, "How's this table doing tonight?" So we carry on the intro conversation that's so common at these places. He makes me laugh, even though he's more of a pessimist than an optimist. He's also one of those guys who consistently interacts with the dealer, calling her by name, tipping her, etc. One of the other guys at my table is quiet, so he doesn't talk much. The final guy is a German from Bavaria. This makes for an interesting time when the dealer changes and a Bosnian-American sits down to give us our cards. She talks A LOT more than the last dealer, giving the German a hard time, casting out her opinions on everything from discipline for her stepkids to German-Bosnian relations to how effed up (her words, not mine) America is, despite her adoration for it.
At first, the dealers are consistently taking my money. I'm winning a few hands, so I stick around, but I get down to about $25 out of my original $100 after about 45-60 minutes. But then our table gets a great shoe (8 decks, the place the cards are dealt from) and I go on a roll. A while later, I'm up about $75, and I leave the table as it cools off. I head to another table after wandering around the Hard Rock lobby a bit, and win another $25.
I find a $10 single deck BJ table (my favorite type of black jack) and stand behind it. There are 5 guys at the table, with 1 seat open. I ask one of the guys if I can sit and he nods his approval. I sit after the deck finishes. These guys are AWESOME. They are what I would label biker-rockers. They have long dark hair. One of them has on a cowboy hat - but it's a rocker cowboy hat, not a genuine one. The first thing the one to my left says as I sit down (because I don't look like your stereotypical BJ shark) is "You better know to hit a 16 against a 17." I smile grandly at him, because I adore his no bullshit introduction, and assure him that I know most of the rules, and I ask if I don't. There is an audible sigh of relief as I tell him that and we play the game. Despite the fact that I lose $87 in probably 15 minutes, which is most of my winnings, this is my favorite table of the night. They tell me their favorite parts of Australia (Brisbane being the best, apparently) and wish me goodbye as the dealer takes the last money I am willing to part with.
This is how I end my evening - walking to the cashier's cage with $113. I realize that many people see gambling as wrong (and it certainly can be addictive and destructive), but it's purely entertainment to me. I walked away $13 richer and several hours of enjoyment later, I am happy to head to bed.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Pride versus Magi
My weary soul has traveled this road before
I stand at its start
Once again in awe at my re-arrival,
Convinced I took a different turn at the noted black rock this time
Apparently, more than one path returns this way.
I stand back, wary of wandering that way again
There are whispers on the wind;
There are deep voices calling, echoing my way
Even the wind seems to push me towards you
But I don’t know that I can return, retrace my steps another time
Pride
Oh she is the assertive & mighty one
Shrieking gleefully
As her hands pluck at my ego:
She is familiar with which chords wreck my soul
But I sing louder,
Louder than the tune she strums against my heart
And for a brief moment I have shut her down
Refusing to allow her presence,
Her reaction to affect my decision
The next maestro brings the orchestra into full volume
Crescendoing as I turn the benefits in my mind
The noise hardens my heart
And thus my heart throbs in time with the vocals of pride
(now resurfacing)
Demanding vengeance and retribution for your wrongs
Exhausted from the battle of the symphonies,
I take a seat along the edge of the path
Lying back on the green, green grass
Letting wisdom, freedom and forgiveness
Arise to their proper position of Magi
They convene and converse
They frown, then smile
They lean in closely, debating wildly
As I simply watch with a bemused smile
Finally, clapping their hands in glee
They will now distribute and confirm
Their position on this decision
(which I’ve known for some time)
Their optimism shining through any doubt
While their realism advises a secure distance is prudent
And together, the four of us stride towards the far, far end of the path:
Reconciliation.
Quite a long road
And we are all indeed aware of the potential of death before arrival.
Regardless, we confidently set off on that route,
Our futures tightly bound by
Hope.
Monday, March 2, 2009
There is this push and pull with you that I can't wrap my mind around.
In previous times, I would have certainly tried to control it, manipulate it. Twist it, turn it; weave it, thread it.
Become it.
And while it exasperates me, the aura of confusion that you reside within, it also causes me to revel in my own transformation.
Freedom to allow you to choose how you want: I will not define this relationship. Even in regard to friendship. Does it really exist? I'm confident you are interested in the person that I am, but I believe you feel that way towards many friends in our community. The thoughts in my head collaborate and deliberate and come to agreement over convenience and distraction as your primary other motives.
This is acceptable, provided I understand your motives.
I chide the older, immature sections of Jeanne who want to force YOU to recognize your motives as well, but she's no longer in control. Your growth is not my responsibility.
What I have acknowledged, again (I had forgotten the 4 Jeannes have already had this conversation), is that I can't confuse the adept manner in which you entwine your words and actions of intimacy with the idea itself.
So I smile at our laughing snapshots and put them where I can remember the night, but they won't force their way into my heart the way the last smooth-talking, intimacy-tossing man did.
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About Me
- Jeanne
- I live amongst the dragons and the warriors of the 21st century. I surround myself with both the peasants, the aristocrats; the knights and the maidens. For a long time (now quite in the past), I wove the structure of my life around the mold others saw for me. I've since learned to live for God and myself. Freedom comes and goes as I remember this lesson of mine. But my life is MY life: a series of events and remembering such. And this, this beautiful montage, is why I wake up every morning. God willing.