Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:
---I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
...In my beginning is my end.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence.
Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty,
beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence. Hands
and and night and morning
shadows and here and gone and
words and silence. Not to touch
because
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Sunday
Saturday
Friday
I don't think I
"And I know, and you know too
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
that what this is is bad, bad news."
---She and Him, more or less
...but...
...but...
...but...
What I don't do do want don't dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think don't think daren't think think anyway do want don't want do want, don't want don't do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do: your hair through my fingers and your neck on my cheek and head-spinning scent of you and I know what makes you laugh when you don't feel like laughing and you let me know when you don't feel like laughing because I can trace the weave of your speech-spinning hands and I've felt your fingertips on my palm and I've known the stretch and shrug of your shoulders and know how they hunch when you feel heavy and how to hold you to help shoulder the weight and you share my weight and everything's lighter when we're together, even the serious things, so sometimes we get mixed up and take the silly things seriously and the the serious things sillily and sometimes we're simply silent and stare into one another and this used to terrify me about you because I have walls for everyone but you- everyone but you, but I never had walls for you because something there is that doesn't love a wall that's for you so I'm for you and you are the spring and the mischief in me and when we meet to walk the line it isn't to heave stones or even sighs because there's nothing between us but what we want there and what we want there is shared and what we do is like like two-wise pastries and identical disinterests and word trades which sound nonsensical because we have eyes and minds in common enough to not need breathe long explanations of being so it's so easy to be honest and this used to terrify me, too, but when walking side-by-side feels more intimate than any love I've made then how could I not...
And it would be easier if you were a stranger or I could forget all your sweet smiles, all the time passing, the peace, the heat, the pain, and all those long nights where our words were our freedom, but I can't unknow don't want to unknow don't do do want dare wonder do, do, do wonder don't do do think do think do think daren't do do want do want, don't want to not do daren't do do think, do think do want but don't do.
Wednesday
Sunday
The View from Room 3324
I sleep in a bed where the infirm have lain.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.
People come to this building to die every day;
I know them in whispers, but also out loud,
"Adult code blue," shouts a voice 'bove the crowd.
From the floor to the ceiling, the walls to the drawers,
everything's muted, everything's pure.
There are no signs of living, no scuffs anywhere
to show that before me lungs have breathed in this air
which is always a-buzz with false lights and machines;
they're muffled by day, but roar when I dream.
I'm alone in this room, save a plant on a shelf
which I scouted, and purchased, and brought here myself.
'Neath the sink there is poison disguised as free food;
it's probably coating the gray baseboards, too.
It feeds roving rodents and gives them their ends;
it kills every insect- it robs me of friends.
'Tween these walls I've seen one face that wasn't like mine:
'twas that of a beetle. Black. Shiny. Divine.
I needed to see it, for its presence allayed
my distrust of a place that can't even sustain
the life of a creature so hardy and small
that it feeds on refuse and resides in a wall.
I stared at the walls and they stared blankly back
so I took up my pen and crayons to distract
my ears from the droning, my eyes from the glare,
and my nose from offensively clean-smelling air.
My fingers have worked words of far-away lands
over and over, 'til my tongue understands
how to say "mirror", "hot", "soap", and "the door"
in Arabic, Spanish, and metaphor.
To each measured meal I add my own spice
of colored creation - imagination - life.
From the stroke of my hand and the edge of my mind
have come to be chickens and children and chimes.
I've visited ghettos, I've looked down on Earth,
I've consoled the downtrodden, I've reveled in mirth.
Truth be told, though I'm stuck here and seldom may leave,
it's not nearly as horrid as you may believe.
In three weeks I've done more than many still free
and I've digested more dreams than many who sleep.
So, friend, do not worry that I feel I'm alone
for I've my mind, and the Web, and books, and my phone.
Sure, ill people come here each day and some die,
but many also come here to bring forth new life.
Part Two
Twelve years ago I sowed a seed
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.
Thursday
Saturday
Part One
Twelve days ago I sowed a seed
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?
Sunday
On Chicken
There was an old man from Kentucky
who fancied himself rather lucky
so he jumped from a bridge
to prove that he'd live;
afterward he didn't feel quite as plucky.
who fancied himself rather lucky
so he jumped from a bridge
to prove that he'd live;
afterward he didn't feel quite as plucky.
Tuesday
On Cleanliness
I usually shower.
For me, taking a bath is an act of self-indulgence. Of extravagance.
I bathe only when I feel really, really dirty.
I want to see the water cloud with my filth.
I want to feel it flow over every inch of me.
I don't want to turn the water off.
It's not that I want it to keep running and running and growing deeper and hotter and higher.
It isn't, really.
It's that I want it to be loud.
I want its rushing torrents to drown out the silence.
Oh, intolerable silence!
When I'm in the mood for bathing, silence reminds me why.
I put my head under the water,
see how long I can hold my breath.
Warm embrace of the water and beautiful black,
then white and then air.
It reminds me how enjoyable breathing is, after all.
I want to get out as soon as possible,
to watch every last drop spiral down,
dark into the drain.
I dry off:
two towels, sometimes more.
And a blow-dryer for my hair.
I don't want any of my damp past clinging to me.
For me, taking a bath is an act of self-indulgence. Of extravagance.
I bathe only when I feel really, really dirty.
I want to see the water cloud with my filth.
I want to feel it flow over every inch of me.
I don't want to turn the water off.
It's not that I want it to keep running and running and growing deeper and hotter and higher.
It isn't, really.
It's that I want it to be loud.
I want its rushing torrents to drown out the silence.
Oh, intolerable silence!
When I'm in the mood for bathing, silence reminds me why.
I put my head under the water,
see how long I can hold my breath.
Warm embrace of the water and beautiful black,
then white and then air.
It reminds me how enjoyable breathing is, after all.
I want to get out as soon as possible,
to watch every last drop spiral down,
dark into the drain.
I dry off:
two towels, sometimes more.
And a blow-dryer for my hair.
I don't want any of my damp past clinging to me.
Friday
SOS
Ok, so. This isn't my usual type of thing. Then again, neither is the topic. The words aren't quite mine, they're as I remember them: tragic and raw. I don't apologize.
I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.
I'm drunk as fuck.
Did you ever want to fuck me?
I wanted to fuck you.
I always thought you had beautiful breasts.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I guess it doesn't matter.
I don't have anyone else to talk to.
Don't tell my mom and girlfriend, ok?
I miss my mom.
I never liked my mom until I left home.
I want to go home.
I want to hug my little sister and
kiss my little brother's forehead.
She's a good sister, she's always been
so nice to me.
They're both still kids.
I want to have kids.
I want to put my penis in someone's
vagina and make her pregnant
and I want a baby to come out
and I want it to be my son.
I want to kiss my son.
I want to hug him and tell him that
he's a good boy and teach him to
play the guitar and watch all
the Batman movies with him in
one day and never pressure him
to join the army.
I don't want to die.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I'm a good soldier.
I follow orders.
I'm infantry: I'm trained to break
down the door and kill everything
I find: mothers, children, pregnant
women, cripples, blacks, Jews, even babies.
Black Jewish crippled babies.
I'm trained to rip apart their bodies
with my bare hands if I have to.
Why?
Because they worship a different
God and because they don't practice
democracy and because they
speak a funny language and
because they want to kill me.
But I don't want to kill them.
Not over ideas.
I mean, why can't we all just
fucking grow up?
What kind of fucked-up thing is it
to say, "Ok, you killed more of
our guys than we did of yours,
so here's this much land."
Why do we need countries?
Why do we need continents?
Fuck, why do we even need a universe?
Why can't we just sit down and have
donuts together and say, "I don't
want to kill you, but I don't want
you to kill me. I'm not going to kill
you, but please don't kill me, ok?
Because you're alive, and I'm alive,
and we both want to stay alive,
so we should help each other
out 'cause we're friends, brother."
I don't want to die.
I want to go home.
I don't want to kill anybody.
I don't know if I'll be able to; I'll
probably cry.
And then I'll die.
In the desert.
I don't want to die in the desert.
I'll get hit by an IED or a grenade
or some other shit and all that
will be left of me is some scraps
of skin and some fucking bloody
sand, and no one will look at
me and be sad or know that all
I want to do is go home and
see my friends and play my
guitar and write. All they'll
say is, "Look, it's another dead
American soldier."
On the back of my dog tags it says
"Lutheran," but did you know
that I can have it changed to
anything I want, no questions
asked?
I'm going to have it changed to Sith
and make them give me a fucking
Sith funeral.
I don't want to die.
I want to come home and see all
you guys and hug my mom and
make love to my girlfriend.
I don't want to die.
I'm really fucking skinny, you should
see me.
I've got abs to die for.
I'm a fucking god.
I don't eat.
I don't sleep much, either.
I haven't slept in more than 24
hours now.
I once stayed up for 27 hours straight
once, cleaning my gun.
And then I put it on a towel on the
end of my bed for inspection
and while the sergeant was
standing there I just passed out.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.
I'll probably be embarrassed as fuck
in the morning, but right now I
don't care.
Another time they made us run ten
miles at night in the rain with
seventy pound packs on our backs.
When I got back, all the skin had
rubbed off the bottoms of my feet
and they were so swollen that
I couldn't walk for three days.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving.
I didn't get to go home.
I haven't eaten, either.
It's the first time I haven't
been home for Thanksgiving.
I want to make a difference in
the world.
I want people to know about me,
and I want them to be different
because of it.
I don't want to kill anyone because
of their ideas.
We all want the same things.
I want to be able to write again,
ever since I've been here I haven't
been able to write.
I used to think that I was so
different.
I wasn't, though. Now I am.
I am not a unique and beautiful
snowflake.
Who care's if I die?
I don't want to die, but they
want me to die, but I don't
want them to die. How do you
say that in their funny language?
Fuck.
I don't sleep, and sometimes I
hallucinate.
Like, this one time I was Princess
Leia, you know in that Star
Wars movie, and Darth Vader
was blowing up my planet and
I was watching and I was
screaming, and I was standing
at attention and I was just like,
"Holy fuck! What the fuck just
happened?"
I don't want to die, but I'm under
contract.
I'm under contract to die.
You don't disobey orders in the
army or they put you in jail.
I saw them put a guy
in jail for rolling his eyes once.
They put him in jail for thirty
days because he rolled his
eyes. I mean, Jesus Christ.
The only way I could get out is
if I'm gay, but I'm not. I want
to stick my penis in a vagina,
not have someone stick his
penis in my ass.
I always thought you had beautiful
breasts, did I tell you that?
I love you.
I love everybody.
I think everybody should love
everybody.
Why do we even have war?
Why can't we just sit down and
talk things out and each give
a little because we're human
and we love each other and
we don't want to die?
Why do we have to kill each other?
I hate war, I don't want to
kill anybody just because they
worship differently than I do
or love differently than I do
or what the fuck ever.
I hate those hippie bastards but
they're so damn right a lot of
the time.
I don't want to be a soldier anymore.
I want to go home.
I miss you.
I miss everybody.
I'm sorry, I'm probably boring you.
What time is it there?
I should let you go to sleep.
I'll probably be embarrassed as
fuck in the morning.
Bye.
Thursday
Tuesday
A manifesto of sorts
To you: I believe, and yes, I love. I don't give a damn what those scientists with all their diplomas and test tubes say. I do not believe that anything as beautiful and perfect as this world, as the sky above and earth below and birdsandbeesanddaisiesandcocoatrees and everything else in between could have just HAPPENED. I can't watch the turn of the sun in the sky or feel the embrace of a cool breeze on a hot day or hear the whispered ecstasies of two young lovers and not know that someone is responsible. Someone amazing, and beautiful.
I can't watch the color come to your cheeks when you smile and think that you are an accident. I can't feel life pulsing through my veins and imagine that were it not for a highly specific, highly unlikely set of circumstances I wouldn't be here. I can't. I have someone to thank for you, and for me.
There are no accidents, there are no mistakes. Not when it comes to things as large and lovely as life and limes and leopards. Imagine the artistry, the intellect! Imagine what it took to design one wing of a plain brown moth! Imagine what care and patience it took to design each of the shells in the ocean. Can you? I can just barely grasp at it, like there's something much, much bigger and much, much more important to be seen..
What a master of art, of creation, of compassion and kindness and generosity. To have made all these beautiful things and not kept them horded away? To have been as proud of each and every one of them as it would be impossible not to be (of daisies and of lemons and of you and of me), and to have given it all away. Given us away. To free will. To each other. Given us everything that we need, and more. Not just the skills to survive, the skills to scavenge and hunt and keep safe in bad weather and avoid dangerous animals, but the ability to think! the ability to love!
We are given the ability to love, and as far as I am concerned that's good enough for me. I love and trust this creator much too much to begin questioning intentions. I am a work of this hand, in this image, and I am not so ungrateful as to reject the ability to love as it is given to me.
Some people worry that teaching us about evolution in school will make us question faith. Before that they feared that if we studied anatomy of the human body we would offend God. Before that, it was heresy to suggest that Earth was anything but flat, with Heaven above and Hell below. We now know that the world is a sphere. We have studied and labeled every piece of man's physical form. We are taught evolution. These things do not make me question my faith, rather, they make me believe even more strongly than before. And yet, how exquisite is the brain, the mind, that through its study even our most learned doctors are left with more questions than when they began so many centuries ago, and scarcely many more answers! How perfect that every creature in nature exists as part of a large-scale pattern! How appropriate that with the discovery of Earth's shape there is no longer room for Hell in the layout of our world.
But, oh! there is certainly room for Heaven! All you have to do is look up, and there is your proof. Look inside yourself; it is there, too. With as much care and precision as it took to construct the wing of that little brown moth just so perfectly that the creature can fly, my our aligned and arranged the cosmos to give us a glimpse of the wonderful world that is waiting for us (and in a way so that they don't get all tangled up and keep bumping into each other, besides.)
This is how I see my creator, who you may choose to call God, and this is where I see Him: in nature, in the heavens, in you, in me.
My creator, as I understand it, does not feel hate. Nor wrath. Nor the compulsion to damn any single one of we beautiful, perfect creations to an eternity of suffering. Each of us is loved unconditionally. My creator, as I understand it, would never even allow such a place as Hell to exist. My creator's forgiveness is too great; love, too strong. Such base sentiments as hate and loathing do not belong.
It sickens me to see how over the ages this messages of love, kindness, respect, generosity, and forgiveness have been muddled up and made subject to the whims and grudges of, pardon the term, mere mortals. I loathe to see atrocities carried out in the name of God, of Allah, or Yahweh, etc., against objects of the creator's adoration. Christianity and all other faiths, in essence, are about being the best that you can possibly be. They are about loving unconditionally, respecting uniformly, and forgiving absolutely. It isn't easy. That's the point.
My creator demands nothing, but expects everything. My creator expects me to see this wonderful world around me, and to see you before me, and to love it all, and to love him/her. And I do. My creator expects me to strive to be the best person that I can be, not in fear of eternal torment, but in anticipation of eternal paradise. My creator expects me to ensure that I feel as if I deserve to be there when finally my time comes.
I talk to my creator. I pray. I talk about my problems, I ask for strength to make it through tough times, I offer praise. Praise of those cocoa trees and those leopards and of you. Praise of my mind, thanks that for all the opportunities to use it that I have. Thanks for the glorious ability to love and be loved. Thanks for you.
I consider myself spiritual. I do not go to church. To me, it seems more appropriate to worship in nature, which was created by the hands of my creator, than in any structure made by the hands of men. I do not ridicule or disparage those who do choose to worship in these holy houses. However, I harshly condemn those who go through the motions, go to the services, claim that they're faithful.. but fail to show it. You know the type. They damn the people I love, the people that our creator loves, and praise God/Allah/Yahweh/etc. all in one breath. They beat down the spirits of others and then turn those same hands upward. It is they that I do not want praying for me. So, forgive me that I offended before.
I love my creator. I love the life that I am given. And I love you.
If this is a sin, then I understand neither the nature of right or wrong nor my creator.
To everyone else: I do not expect you to agree with me. I do not expect you to disagree with me. I do not expect you to respond. I would not mind hearing what you think, how you feel, how you react, though. However, if you can not keep it respectful, keep it to yourself. If you can not keep it to yourself, it will be deleted. These are my thoughts and beliefs, and I put them forth simply in order to clear the air of some misconceptions that may have been floating around lately. Finally, if you read all the way through, I commend you.
I can't watch the color come to your cheeks when you smile and think that you are an accident. I can't feel life pulsing through my veins and imagine that were it not for a highly specific, highly unlikely set of circumstances I wouldn't be here. I can't. I have someone to thank for you, and for me.
There are no accidents, there are no mistakes. Not when it comes to things as large and lovely as life and limes and leopards. Imagine the artistry, the intellect! Imagine what it took to design one wing of a plain brown moth! Imagine what care and patience it took to design each of the shells in the ocean. Can you? I can just barely grasp at it, like there's something much, much bigger and much, much more important to be seen..
What a master of art, of creation, of compassion and kindness and generosity. To have made all these beautiful things and not kept them horded away? To have been as proud of each and every one of them as it would be impossible not to be (of daisies and of lemons and of you and of me), and to have given it all away. Given us away. To free will. To each other. Given us everything that we need, and more. Not just the skills to survive, the skills to scavenge and hunt and keep safe in bad weather and avoid dangerous animals, but the ability to think! the ability to love!
We are given the ability to love, and as far as I am concerned that's good enough for me. I love and trust this creator much too much to begin questioning intentions. I am a work of this hand, in this image, and I am not so ungrateful as to reject the ability to love as it is given to me.
Some people worry that teaching us about evolution in school will make us question faith. Before that they feared that if we studied anatomy of the human body we would offend God. Before that, it was heresy to suggest that Earth was anything but flat, with Heaven above and Hell below. We now know that the world is a sphere. We have studied and labeled every piece of man's physical form. We are taught evolution. These things do not make me question my faith, rather, they make me believe even more strongly than before. And yet, how exquisite is the brain, the mind, that through its study even our most learned doctors are left with more questions than when they began so many centuries ago, and scarcely many more answers! How perfect that every creature in nature exists as part of a large-scale pattern! How appropriate that with the discovery of Earth's shape there is no longer room for Hell in the layout of our world.
But, oh! there is certainly room for Heaven! All you have to do is look up, and there is your proof. Look inside yourself; it is there, too. With as much care and precision as it took to construct the wing of that little brown moth just so perfectly that the creature can fly, my our aligned and arranged the cosmos to give us a glimpse of the wonderful world that is waiting for us (and in a way so that they don't get all tangled up and keep bumping into each other, besides.)
This is how I see my creator, who you may choose to call God, and this is where I see Him: in nature, in the heavens, in you, in me.
My creator, as I understand it, does not feel hate. Nor wrath. Nor the compulsion to damn any single one of we beautiful, perfect creations to an eternity of suffering. Each of us is loved unconditionally. My creator, as I understand it, would never even allow such a place as Hell to exist. My creator's forgiveness is too great; love, too strong. Such base sentiments as hate and loathing do not belong.
It sickens me to see how over the ages this messages of love, kindness, respect, generosity, and forgiveness have been muddled up and made subject to the whims and grudges of, pardon the term, mere mortals. I loathe to see atrocities carried out in the name of God, of Allah, or Yahweh, etc., against objects of the creator's adoration. Christianity and all other faiths, in essence, are about being the best that you can possibly be. They are about loving unconditionally, respecting uniformly, and forgiving absolutely. It isn't easy. That's the point.
My creator demands nothing, but expects everything. My creator expects me to see this wonderful world around me, and to see you before me, and to love it all, and to love him/her. And I do. My creator expects me to strive to be the best person that I can be, not in fear of eternal torment, but in anticipation of eternal paradise. My creator expects me to ensure that I feel as if I deserve to be there when finally my time comes.
I talk to my creator. I pray. I talk about my problems, I ask for strength to make it through tough times, I offer praise. Praise of those cocoa trees and those leopards and of you. Praise of my mind, thanks that for all the opportunities to use it that I have. Thanks for the glorious ability to love and be loved. Thanks for you.
I consider myself spiritual. I do not go to church. To me, it seems more appropriate to worship in nature, which was created by the hands of my creator, than in any structure made by the hands of men. I do not ridicule or disparage those who do choose to worship in these holy houses. However, I harshly condemn those who go through the motions, go to the services, claim that they're faithful.. but fail to show it. You know the type. They damn the people I love, the people that our creator loves, and praise God/Allah/Yahweh/etc. all in one breath. They beat down the spirits of others and then turn those same hands upward. It is they that I do not want praying for me. So, forgive me that I offended before.
I love my creator. I love the life that I am given. And I love you.
If this is a sin, then I understand neither the nature of right or wrong nor my creator.
To everyone else: I do not expect you to agree with me. I do not expect you to disagree with me. I do not expect you to respond. I would not mind hearing what you think, how you feel, how you react, though. However, if you can not keep it respectful, keep it to yourself. If you can not keep it to yourself, it will be deleted. These are my thoughts and beliefs, and I put them forth simply in order to clear the air of some misconceptions that may have been floating around lately. Finally, if you read all the way through, I commend you.
Thursday
Summer Thoughts
As the ocean caresses the land,
so I wish to caress you.
As the sky embraces the earth,
so I wish to embrace you.
As the Sun shines for the Moon,
so I wish to shine for you.
As the Nightingale praises the dawn,
so I shall sing for you.
In this crazy, spinning world
of crazy, spinning things
and hordes of confused people,
oh! what joy it brings
to know that of the billions
of us that come to be,
I happened to you!
And you happened to me!
So forgive my enthusiasm
if you think I'm in excess
but I can't believe you're real
'less I feel your soft caress
And I can't believe you're mortal
with your ethereal charms
'less I feel your heart's life-rhythm
when I hold you in my arms.
And I'm sorry that there's hatred
in this world that we both face
but I'm trying to improve it,
to fill it with love and grace.
For that's my greatest tribute,
the best that I can do:
to recreate the world
and deliver it to you.
so I wish to caress you.
As the sky embraces the earth,
so I wish to embrace you.
As the Sun shines for the Moon,
so I wish to shine for you.
As the Nightingale praises the dawn,
so I shall sing for you.
In this crazy, spinning world
of crazy, spinning things
and hordes of confused people,
oh! what joy it brings
to know that of the billions
of us that come to be,
I happened to you!
And you happened to me!
So forgive my enthusiasm
if you think I'm in excess
but I can't believe you're real
'less I feel your soft caress
And I can't believe you're mortal
with your ethereal charms
'less I feel your heart's life-rhythm
when I hold you in my arms.
And I'm sorry that there's hatred
in this world that we both face
but I'm trying to improve it,
to fill it with love and grace.
For that's my greatest tribute,
the best that I can do:
to recreate the world
and deliver it to you.
Tuesday
If you were to crack my head open, these would spill out
Forgetmenots, judgemenots,
call them what you may,
my linguistic buds
Bloody mannequins
on a mock battlefield
in remembrance
Fruit fly flitting
and living and loving for
two weeks, max
The sun's affections
lost on scholars-
exam week
Outside my window the bird
drags morning out of bed
three hours early
The warm spring breeze
whispers through the curtains
in a thousand languages
call them what you may,
my linguistic buds
Bloody mannequins
on a mock battlefield
in remembrance
Fruit fly flitting
and living and loving for
two weeks, max
The sun's affections
lost on scholars-
exam week
Outside my window the bird
drags morning out of bed
three hours early
The warm spring breeze
whispers through the curtains
in a thousand languages
Monday
The Problem
It's not that I'm trying to be different, it's that everyone else is trying to be the same.
Friday
The hypochondriac
My nose is dry, my eyes are wet
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night
Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.
You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night
Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.
You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?
When I settle,
I'm building my house of cards solely from hearts. There'll be no room for war or diamonds in my home.
Tuesday
An Eye for an Eye, Love
Chewing on a Sunday afternoon
with you sitting heavy on my brain
If we're not careful we'll be insincere-
and we're not really fond of mirrors
No wonder it's so easy to believe your words
and ignore your hands
No, wait, that's backwards.
It's not the smoke, but the fire that gets in my veins
and ties knots 'til I'm at her mercy again (and her voice is so low)
Before you know it you're belly up in bed
feeling like the fly that's buzzing at my window pane
The lady spider let you in and was polite as she sucked us dry
You scream 'cause (plucking flowers from your mouth) nobody wants to listen,
but don't you know that every flower has its time
and that every bouquet one day must die?
Put the shards in my eyes, make me see from your side
with you sitting heavy on my brain
If we're not careful we'll be insincere-
and we're not really fond of mirrors
No wonder it's so easy to believe your words
and ignore your hands
No, wait, that's backwards.
It's not the smoke, but the fire that gets in my veins
and ties knots 'til I'm at her mercy again (and her voice is so low)
Before you know it you're belly up in bed
feeling like the fly that's buzzing at my window pane
The lady spider let you in and was polite as she sucked us dry
You scream 'cause (plucking flowers from your mouth) nobody wants to listen,
but don't you know that every flower has its time
and that every bouquet one day must die?
Put the shards in my eyes, make me see from your side
Thursday
Ashes, ashes, sheesh
You never know when some owl is going to fly into your car and run you off the road.
Humpty Dumpty felt very small.
Humpty Dumpty climbed up a wall.
None of his family, not one of his friends
got to tell Humpty they loved him again.
Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet
wishing her life away.
She grew very old
and then she got cold,
now she's utterly rotted away.
Humpty Dumpty felt very small.
Humpty Dumpty climbed up a wall.
None of his family, not one of his friends
got to tell Humpty they loved him again.
Little Miss Muffet
sat on a tuffet
wishing her life away.
She grew very old
and then she got cold,
now she's utterly rotted away.
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