Well, it has been a long while since I have been on here. I should be inspired by my very prolific writer/artist wife who manages to put up several posts a week. I have had a few different ideas on my mind but wasn't sure how to write about them.
A few months back I thumbed through a journal that Na and I shared as we reflected on chapters from Shane Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution. He talks about spiritual bulimia, this sort of pattern where we take in as much as we can and we spit right out with those of us around us, not taking the time to absorb and digest it. While he was discussing it on the level of spiritual matters it got me thinking about information.
We have so much right at our fingertips with lightning fast internet and our 4g networks and XmRadio and tv. I find that I am out there looking for new things, new information to absorb and read all the time. The internet is such an amazing resource for random information. What I have noticed is the ability for retention is significantly reduced because I have all this information right at hand. Why bother to really remember something when I could just look it up?
Another strange and possibly scary thing is that I find that I read a lot of things without really reading them. If that makes any sense, I have noticed I will click on a bunch of articles and lose interest before I finish or find that I am simply skimming it for interesting parts. As I close the window or tab, I often walk away with not much more than I started with in my mind.
I think that part of this is linked in to an addiction to accessing the information. I find myself wanting to log on and see what information I can find when I could be doing more important things. I even look forward to it when I am doing other things. Hours and hours go away and there is still more out there. Perhaps this is a personal slump, but I wonder in this day and age where we are constantly distracted if there are others, many others, out there like me? I find it disturbing that my consumption is like that of what Shane Claiborne calls spiritual bulimia, I graze the information without really processing it and move on. I have observed as well that due to not wanting to dwell on a certain subject for too long I can often avoid issues that are important and that run deeper. Instead I might spend a long time researching something of little substance.
It is kind of an empty feeling, as if you are going in each day to distract yourself from something else. I think that this simply comes in different forms. People distract themselves by spending hours playing video games, alcohol, tv, drugs, sports, obsessing over almost anything. What is it? Is it knowing that we are called to more responsibility and accountability and yet are overwhelmed with it? Are we afraid to face ourselves or the questions that persist when we STOP? Are we avoiding the people around us, avoiding deep, real relationships? Are we drowning out God's voice with noise? Are we avoiding Him?
Showing posts with label questions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label questions. Show all posts
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Catch
Sometimes I feel like we are playing a game of catch. Catch requires a minimum of two people working together to create a flow of catch and release. We throw the ball differently each time—although the people that do it for a living have a machine-like precision—which usually requires the other person to adjust. (Now, bear with me as I try explain this silly little metaphor which is actually more of a picture in my head that popped in there a few years ago and some reason had lay dormant until now.)
Suppose we are playing this game with our dad for the first time. He is ever patient with us, encouraging us so that we do not despair and give up. We look stupid as we fumble the ball and drop it the first million times he throws it to us. He says, “Don’t worry about it son, have your hands ready and keep your eye on the ball” as he throws it so that it requires little of us to actually catch it. When kids first learn they have to develop their reflexes—how many of us have seen kids grab at the ball in the air after it’s already landed? Then we learn what to do with our hands, you cannot have them stiff otherwise either your fingers get jammed and hurt for weeks or it just bounces off. They have to be relaxed and yet ready to snap, grab, and cradle at the right moment.
Once we get the hang of it—you know, when we get really good and there is not much that can wipe that huge grin off of our face—he changes it up a little. He starts throwing it at different distances with more or less power and speed. We go, “what am I supposed to do now?” as the ball no longer lands in our hands but five feet in front of us. Soon we begin to figure it out, “oh, I actually have to move to the ball now.” This makes it all the more complex, having to figure out how to factor in all of these things—you know, wind chill factor, not running into trees, not tripping on roots or sprinklers, and so on and so forth. Then to make things worse—or better?—he throws it harder and it comes at you faster than you can say ouch and it hurts more than a dozen bee stings. As your hands swell and throb he then throws so high up that you cannot help but wince as you squint into the sun and can only hope it does not hit you in the face.
Then he says, “Go long!” And off we run.
Why am I so rigid?
Why are my legs so stiff?
Why is it like my feet have buried themselves underneath the grass and have taken root?
Why am I so reticent?
Why can’t you throw the ball right to me where I want it?
You mean I have to run? But I’m tired, my hands sting, my lungs burn, my legs feel like they are going to give out—or rather, they will if I choose to go for it. What do you mean I can do it? How do you know? What? You’ve done it? You’ve been in my place and know how it is? Is that how you are so patient and good at coaching me along in this?
He knows what we are capable of and thus pushes us beyond what we though we could do. It is hard for me to believe that he knows these things, but I have to. I have to just believe that my little legs will take me the distance, the only thing spurring me on is his voice. In the end, I want to know that I ran as hard as I could to try and make the catch to make him happy. He knows how much I can handle and if I do not make it, maybe I did not push hard enough. I do know that when I trip on my own feet or get clothes-lined by a branch or just plain screw it up that he loves me all the same. Then when I am sweaty and thirsty, “hey, good job out there, lets get some lemonade.”
Suppose we are playing this game with our dad for the first time. He is ever patient with us, encouraging us so that we do not despair and give up. We look stupid as we fumble the ball and drop it the first million times he throws it to us. He says, “Don’t worry about it son, have your hands ready and keep your eye on the ball” as he throws it so that it requires little of us to actually catch it. When kids first learn they have to develop their reflexes—how many of us have seen kids grab at the ball in the air after it’s already landed? Then we learn what to do with our hands, you cannot have them stiff otherwise either your fingers get jammed and hurt for weeks or it just bounces off. They have to be relaxed and yet ready to snap, grab, and cradle at the right moment.
Once we get the hang of it—you know, when we get really good and there is not much that can wipe that huge grin off of our face—he changes it up a little. He starts throwing it at different distances with more or less power and speed. We go, “what am I supposed to do now?” as the ball no longer lands in our hands but five feet in front of us. Soon we begin to figure it out, “oh, I actually have to move to the ball now.” This makes it all the more complex, having to figure out how to factor in all of these things—you know, wind chill factor, not running into trees, not tripping on roots or sprinklers, and so on and so forth. Then to make things worse—or better?—he throws it harder and it comes at you faster than you can say ouch and it hurts more than a dozen bee stings. As your hands swell and throb he then throws so high up that you cannot help but wince as you squint into the sun and can only hope it does not hit you in the face.
Then he says, “Go long!” And off we run.
Why am I so rigid?
Why are my legs so stiff?
Why is it like my feet have buried themselves underneath the grass and have taken root?
Why am I so reticent?
Why can’t you throw the ball right to me where I want it?
You mean I have to run? But I’m tired, my hands sting, my lungs burn, my legs feel like they are going to give out—or rather, they will if I choose to go for it. What do you mean I can do it? How do you know? What? You’ve done it? You’ve been in my place and know how it is? Is that how you are so patient and good at coaching me along in this?
He knows what we are capable of and thus pushes us beyond what we though we could do. It is hard for me to believe that he knows these things, but I have to. I have to just believe that my little legs will take me the distance, the only thing spurring me on is his voice. In the end, I want to know that I ran as hard as I could to try and make the catch to make him happy. He knows how much I can handle and if I do not make it, maybe I did not push hard enough. I do know that when I trip on my own feet or get clothes-lined by a branch or just plain screw it up that he loves me all the same. Then when I am sweaty and thirsty, “hey, good job out there, lets get some lemonade.”
Sunday, September 2, 2007
November 30, 2005 - Diatribe Against the Diet Tribe
Diatribe against the Diet Tribe
Figure - plump,
Intellect - emaciated.
Social insouciance.
Christless crisis.
While I'm at it, here I go. I have had a problem with using the name of Christ without thinking, His name becomes a copout when we don't know what to say. I guess I am also tired of us throwing His name around to try as if we feel like we need to to prove our faith. Should not our actions and words be in the context of Christ? That people can tell by the way we talk that He is the starting point, the foundation for all we do and say? He should be evident, He should permeate our lives, not a mere name that we have to integrate into our speech. Maybe I am wrong, maybe I am being defensive as someone that does not talk about my faith 24/7 against a conviction to do so more. Maybe I'm just jaded.
Hmm, that's probably the world's shortest diatribe. I guess I usually try to be more diplomatic and nonopinionated or relay my thoughts through metaphor or poetry that nobody understands. Arg, going against all my hesitancy and just saying it.
To explain is to ruin the effect, but oh well. For those that do not catch on "Diet Tribe" refers to the people of this land. Obsessed with the quick and easy solution to solve our problems without any effort. Going off of my last blog I guess (referring to what people read and what they write)--people do not like to think about things so you have to spell it out plain and simple (hrm, is that what I'm doing now?) so that they can get whatever substance out of it in as little time as possible. People just write whatever they are thinking--yet I guess that is what blogging is for. Moreover, I observe that people tend to prefer reading predigested material.
Or perhaps I just tend to favor high-falutin malarky.
Am I over-analyzing and being cynical for little reason? Likely. Am I fettered to the desire to look for the quick and easy way? More than I wish was true. Am I feeling insecure about posting what I am actually thinking? Yes. Is there a point to this paragraph? Not really.
The irony: this blog is predigested. All these words to explain 8 words (and its title) and give them context. [Originally the diatribe was meant to consist of just the first 8 words so consider them two separate sections]
I wonder if that came out right, I've been mulling over this for awhile and these are the thoughts that fought their way to the forefront of my mind as I wrote this.
Figure - plump,
Intellect - emaciated.
Social insouciance.
Christless crisis.
While I'm at it, here I go. I have had a problem with using the name of Christ without thinking, His name becomes a copout when we don't know what to say. I guess I am also tired of us throwing His name around to try as if we feel like we need to to prove our faith. Should not our actions and words be in the context of Christ? That people can tell by the way we talk that He is the starting point, the foundation for all we do and say? He should be evident, He should permeate our lives, not a mere name that we have to integrate into our speech. Maybe I am wrong, maybe I am being defensive as someone that does not talk about my faith 24/7 against a conviction to do so more. Maybe I'm just jaded.
Hmm, that's probably the world's shortest diatribe. I guess I usually try to be more diplomatic and nonopinionated or relay my thoughts through metaphor or poetry that nobody understands. Arg, going against all my hesitancy and just saying it.
To explain is to ruin the effect, but oh well. For those that do not catch on "Diet Tribe" refers to the people of this land. Obsessed with the quick and easy solution to solve our problems without any effort. Going off of my last blog I guess (referring to what people read and what they write)--people do not like to think about things so you have to spell it out plain and simple (hrm, is that what I'm doing now?) so that they can get whatever substance out of it in as little time as possible. People just write whatever they are thinking--yet I guess that is what blogging is for. Moreover, I observe that people tend to prefer reading predigested material.
Or perhaps I just tend to favor high-falutin malarky.
Am I over-analyzing and being cynical for little reason? Likely. Am I fettered to the desire to look for the quick and easy way? More than I wish was true. Am I feeling insecure about posting what I am actually thinking? Yes. Is there a point to this paragraph? Not really.
The irony: this blog is predigested. All these words to explain 8 words (and its title) and give them context. [Originally the diatribe was meant to consist of just the first 8 words so consider them two separate sections]
I wonder if that came out right, I've been mulling over this for awhile and these are the thoughts that fought their way to the forefront of my mind as I wrote this.
August 12, 2005 - Flotsam
Flotsam
Somehow my soul was jettisoned from this vessel
Leaving it not more than a ghost ship
Tired of sailing whichever way the wind blows
The stars have been veiled
Not permitting any sense of direction
Somewhere along the way the anchor was lost
Leaving this boat to drift, drift aimlessly
Yet stubborn determination drives me onward
To sail to where I do not know
To blindly pull back the translucent curtains of fog
Somehow my soul was jettisoned from this vessel
Leaving it not more than a ghost ship
Tired of sailing whichever way the wind blows
The stars have been veiled
Not permitting any sense of direction
Somewhere along the way the anchor was lost
Leaving this boat to drift, drift aimlessly
Yet stubborn determination drives me onward
To sail to where I do not know
To blindly pull back the translucent curtains of fog
Monday, August 27, 2007
June 28, 2005 - 25 Days
25 Days
so severe
the pang of longing
despite knowing the wait is short
I will see you soon
never has the ache of distance
been this short
but oh so much more painful
ironic
unfair
why?
yet now—different circumstances
forced to change against our feelings
when I see you again
I know I will confuse
my actions will contradict
with what was said in the past
I apologize a head of time
sorry
it will be like the days of old
but we know it will hurt
how it stings to let go
so you can freely roam
to find self and soul
no longer stunted growth
by this hand that holds close
25 days
I’m elated
I’m scared
25 days
can’t wait to see you.
so severe
the pang of longing
despite knowing the wait is short
I will see you soon
never has the ache of distance
been this short
but oh so much more painful
ironic
unfair
why?
yet now—different circumstances
forced to change against our feelings
when I see you again
I know I will confuse
my actions will contradict
with what was said in the past
I apologize a head of time
sorry
it will be like the days of old
but we know it will hurt
how it stings to let go
so you can freely roam
to find self and soul
no longer stunted growth
by this hand that holds close
25 days
I’m elated
I’m scared
25 days
can’t wait to see you.
May 29, 2005 - The Weed
The “Weed”?
**Another story if you will...one along the same lines as the last one, although this one is more relevant to something in the past.**
He reached up to adjust his rearview mirror, briefly taking notice of the shiny new car behind him. A thirty-something woman sipped her Starbucks as she prattled into her cell-phone equipped with internet and camera and from the looks of it—the steering wheel for the car. He sighed as he looked around at the mess in his ’87 truck—waiting for the stoplight which resembled a tomato—it was old but had served him well all these years. He pulled forward as the tomato unripened from a lush red to a bright and sour green, giving him the signal to go. Mellow music mused in the background interrupted by intermittent waves of static as he drove along silently.
Upon reaching the house he got out of his white truck which read “Gardening Service” on the side, and walked to the front door of the medium sized grey house. The nine o’clock sun glared at him while he squinted right back. He rang the doorbell but then realized that there was an enveloped taped to the door with his name on it in careful writing. In it was a note with some basic instructions and a check for far more than his standard fee.
He made his way around to the backyard to inspect his patient to see what he would need to do to conjure a remedy. It was bad, but he could tell that it had once been a decent backyard with a pleasant garden in the corner. The grass was wild and long—briefly bringing to mind his long hair hippy days—and the weeds were looking as if they were preparing to usurp control of the backyard.
In a matter of several hours it looked completely different—he had transformed a jungle into a lawn and garden. There was something that was troubling him however. There was a strange plant, like no other he had seen in all his years in gardening, at the corner of the part where the lawn transitioned into garden. It looked like it belonged in the garden and yet somehow at the same time it seemed so out of place. He was unsure as to what he should do. It almost looked like an exotic plant, but at the same time it could have been a weed. Whatever it was, it was strange and too small for him to determine. He did not want to appear unprofessional and possibly leave a weed growing but did not want to destroy a special plant. The note left by his customer asked him to come once every fortnight and mentioned that he would probably be gone before the gardener arrived to work. With this in mind he wondered if he should let this plant bloom or if he should completely extirpate it. He could trim it and leave possibilities open for either option—which would be avoiding a solution—either letting a weed remain rooted or preventing a flower from reaching full bloom.
Both solutions are problematic, he did not know what to do, there was no way he could ask the owner for he would never meet him. Which risk must he take?
**Another story if you will...one along the same lines as the last one, although this one is more relevant to something in the past.**
He reached up to adjust his rearview mirror, briefly taking notice of the shiny new car behind him. A thirty-something woman sipped her Starbucks as she prattled into her cell-phone equipped with internet and camera and from the looks of it—the steering wheel for the car. He sighed as he looked around at the mess in his ’87 truck—waiting for the stoplight which resembled a tomato—it was old but had served him well all these years. He pulled forward as the tomato unripened from a lush red to a bright and sour green, giving him the signal to go. Mellow music mused in the background interrupted by intermittent waves of static as he drove along silently.
Upon reaching the house he got out of his white truck which read “Gardening Service” on the side, and walked to the front door of the medium sized grey house. The nine o’clock sun glared at him while he squinted right back. He rang the doorbell but then realized that there was an enveloped taped to the door with his name on it in careful writing. In it was a note with some basic instructions and a check for far more than his standard fee.
He made his way around to the backyard to inspect his patient to see what he would need to do to conjure a remedy. It was bad, but he could tell that it had once been a decent backyard with a pleasant garden in the corner. The grass was wild and long—briefly bringing to mind his long hair hippy days—and the weeds were looking as if they were preparing to usurp control of the backyard.
In a matter of several hours it looked completely different—he had transformed a jungle into a lawn and garden. There was something that was troubling him however. There was a strange plant, like no other he had seen in all his years in gardening, at the corner of the part where the lawn transitioned into garden. It looked like it belonged in the garden and yet somehow at the same time it seemed so out of place. He was unsure as to what he should do. It almost looked like an exotic plant, but at the same time it could have been a weed. Whatever it was, it was strange and too small for him to determine. He did not want to appear unprofessional and possibly leave a weed growing but did not want to destroy a special plant. The note left by his customer asked him to come once every fortnight and mentioned that he would probably be gone before the gardener arrived to work. With this in mind he wondered if he should let this plant bloom or if he should completely extirpate it. He could trim it and leave possibilities open for either option—which would be avoiding a solution—either letting a weed remain rooted or preventing a flower from reaching full bloom.
Both solutions are problematic, he did not know what to do, there was no way he could ask the owner for he would never meet him. Which risk must he take?
April 13, 2005 - Listen
Listen
[...spring break...]
(I’m deaf – help me defeat this
Lend me a hearing aid, I’ll buy the battery
I’d read your lips
But I could never look upon your face)
I wish I knew how you speak
So that I would know how to listen
I know that would reduce your majesty to simplicity
And less effort for me
I just am overwhelmed
I cannot concentrate
I cannot focus
I cannot quiet the din in my mind
So many mediums for your voice
This time which did you choose
Are there fragments from each that I must piece together
Are you a human voice
Are you in metaphor, parable, analogy
Are you in scripture
Are you the faintest whisper that spoke to Elijah
Are you the awesome flame that humbled Moses
Are you the man that wrestled Jacob
Are you the light that blinded Saul/Paul
Are you the dreams of the night
Are you what prods my mind
Are you what tugs at my heart
When do you want me to be logical
When should I look in the mystical
The silence proclaims the answer
Frustrated that I cannot hear it
Dizzied by the frenzy of possibility—
Daunting—all too often resort to apathy
Half-heartedness won’t get me there
I know you hear me, listen as I say
I’m trying I’m trying
I’ll never utter another word
I’ll listen forever
I want to hear you
[...spring break...]
(I’m deaf – help me defeat this
Lend me a hearing aid, I’ll buy the battery
I’d read your lips
But I could never look upon your face)
I wish I knew how you speak
So that I would know how to listen
I know that would reduce your majesty to simplicity
And less effort for me
I just am overwhelmed
I cannot concentrate
I cannot focus
I cannot quiet the din in my mind
So many mediums for your voice
This time which did you choose
Are there fragments from each that I must piece together
Are you a human voice
Are you in metaphor, parable, analogy
Are you in scripture
Are you the faintest whisper that spoke to Elijah
Are you the awesome flame that humbled Moses
Are you the man that wrestled Jacob
Are you the light that blinded Saul/Paul
Are you the dreams of the night
Are you what prods my mind
Are you what tugs at my heart
When do you want me to be logical
When should I look in the mystical
The silence proclaims the answer
Frustrated that I cannot hear it
Dizzied by the frenzy of possibility—
Daunting—all too often resort to apathy
Half-heartedness won’t get me there
I know you hear me, listen as I say
I’m trying I’m trying
I’ll never utter another word
I’ll listen forever
I want to hear you
April 06, 2005 - A Metaphor
Below I have a story which I wrote pretty much in a stream-of-consciousness manner. I got an idea and decided to run with it. It is a metaphor, analogy, or short story or something for what we face in life with decisions and what is on my mind. I realize it is not very deep and it is imperfect. Usually I try and develop an idea before I write it but this time it just all spewed out. This will probably bore you if you actually read to completion anyway, but I realize that if you analyze elements of my life (allow me to be narcisstic for a moment and pretend that it is even a possibility) it could seem that this has specific implications. Please do not assume so.
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
Mouth agape he entered the massive library, the wise incandescent glow watched from above. The smell of old books filled his nostrils as he stood in awe, gazing at the daunting labyrinth of books. The library was empty except for the sole librarian who sat at her tiny wooden desk, illuminated by a small bronze lamp. She was probably in her sixties, her gray hair short and curly, she looked up at him with faded green eyes through her spectacles, offering a gentle smile. "May I help you?" she asked. He looked at her sheepishly and admitted, "I'm here to find a book, but I don't know what i want." She chuckled and said as if she understood, "Take your time and browse, since you are new around here, I'll only let you take one book out, okay?" He nodded and began on his way, scanning up and down and along the towers of bookshelves. His eyes were drawn to many different types of books, whether it be the title that captured his curiousity, or the familiarness of the author or even an unfamiliar author with an interesting name. There were books that had colorful and artistic covers that caught his eye, others that drew him out of their simplicity. He visited the multifarious seictions systematically, in some he lingered for a long time while others he quickly left.
After going through several books which he decided he did not want to read for various reasons after reading little portions of them, he finally settled on one. He had walked by this book many times but did not really notice it until he had become frustrated with his previous selections. He found that he really enjoyed this from the start. He began to read it earnestly and as quickly as he could when suddenly the librarian rushed over and snatched it from him. She asked if he was sure this was the book he wanted and he said, "Yes, I think so." She said, "Well, I'm going to take this from you for a bit, you can sit and think about it some more. You can browse some more if you like."
Instead he sat there dejected because he had been so excited about that book. It seemed like an eternity had passed when finally she returned it to him. He read for a long time before she came back and did the same. She repeated this everal times, so he began to look around timidly, not really searching for anything because he had made quite a bit of progress in the other book. It pleased him and kept his interest, "it is good" he thought to himself. As he was wandering aimlessly he accidentally bumped into one of the bookcases which were so solid it did not even budge, but a single book fell off. "Silly fool!" he thought to himself, "watch where you are going!" He looked at the label of the section he was in and walked over to replace the book to its original location. There was something about it that made him not want to put it back, so he looked at the front cover--the title was an interesting one but he hadn ever heard of the author. He then flipped the book over and read the back and this really made him want to read it. He could not, he told himself, because he needed to finish the other one since he had read so much already. He refused to put the book back however.
The wait for the other book was forever. Finally the librarian returned and he tried to ask her which he thought he should read but she refused to answer, "you must make the decision yourself." She did say that it was time for him to leave as the library was closing. He was puzzled, which to read? The one he had begun, which he already knew as good or the other which was a new possibility? Risk keeping the good to find out the other was better? Or take the new and risking that it be a letdown? To go with what he knew already, could he make himself satisfied knowing that he had made a good choice? Or would the possibility of "better" haunt him?
Panic gripped him as he could not decide, but he knew he must.
***Yeah yeah, I know, there are many faults where you can say that it's not a big deal because its a library he's only checking out the book, he can get another one later. I could list more but that would be dumb.***
March 23, 2005 - Death=Debt
Death=debt.
Mood: cadaverous.
Stupidity--once you are dead, even though your material possesions do not follow you, they certainly leave you and you are responsible for how they leave you; you have to divide up your junk and will it to people.
Dumb--once you are dead you still have to pay someone to do something with your cadaver.
I just realized how dumb everything in this society is[pardon my generalizations], honestly it is ludicrous. My aunt was telling me how she was making a down payment on her cremation. Her motives are altruistic--she does not want to make the family that she leaves behind have to deal with it and pay for it themselves. Should it not be that once you die, you can finally be free of all the worries of debt and blah blah blah. Well, ok, maybe in some people's minds this does not seem all too odd. Lets take a look at the price tag and perhaps your mind will be slightly swayed. Six grand to burn your lifeless and inhibiting vehicle for your soul. I just do not get it. It costs even more to NOT burn your corpse, so you pay them more to do nothing with it (yeah yeah, I know I am simplifying it). I was already speechless about this whole ordeal when I heard that you have to pay an additional one thousand dollar bills if you want to have your ashes signed over to the care of a family member, rather than it sitting in a wall next to all the others.
Something about the thought of making downpayments way in advance is crazy to me (my aunt is still a quite a ways off from the half century mark). Something about, in a sense, going into debt so that you can die.
Seeing as I have no choice in this, in some way I will be paying for my death which will not matter, I might as well begin saving up for my death. So dumb that even death is not a way out of debt. Why does this country love debt?
Mood: cadaverous.
Stupidity--once you are dead, even though your material possesions do not follow you, they certainly leave you and you are responsible for how they leave you; you have to divide up your junk and will it to people.
Dumb--once you are dead you still have to pay someone to do something with your cadaver.
I just realized how dumb everything in this society is[pardon my generalizations], honestly it is ludicrous. My aunt was telling me how she was making a down payment on her cremation. Her motives are altruistic--she does not want to make the family that she leaves behind have to deal with it and pay for it themselves. Should it not be that once you die, you can finally be free of all the worries of debt and blah blah blah. Well, ok, maybe in some people's minds this does not seem all too odd. Lets take a look at the price tag and perhaps your mind will be slightly swayed. Six grand to burn your lifeless and inhibiting vehicle for your soul. I just do not get it. It costs even more to NOT burn your corpse, so you pay them more to do nothing with it (yeah yeah, I know I am simplifying it). I was already speechless about this whole ordeal when I heard that you have to pay an additional one thousand dollar bills if you want to have your ashes signed over to the care of a family member, rather than it sitting in a wall next to all the others.
Something about the thought of making downpayments way in advance is crazy to me (my aunt is still a quite a ways off from the half century mark). Something about, in a sense, going into debt so that you can die.
Seeing as I have no choice in this, in some way I will be paying for my death which will not matter, I might as well begin saving up for my death. So dumb that even death is not a way out of debt. Why does this country love debt?
March 04, 2005 - Poem
Teach me know when to be content
Teach me when to yearn for more
I know each has its time
Show me the balance in the tension--
Prevent me from tepid stagnation
Protect me from ungrateful dissatisfaction
Each side pulls me
So I do my best to walk the middle, sometimes I lean
This is wrong, I must commit
I am fearful of either side
I know both require sacrifice
I cannot weigh these nebulous things
I wish you would just give me a shove
So I would fall to the side I must go
I know, I know--this is the beautiful gift of free will
Wisdom, guidance, peace, clarity
These I know you give
Please, please--share them.
Teach me when to yearn for more
I know each has its time
Show me the balance in the tension--
Prevent me from tepid stagnation
Protect me from ungrateful dissatisfaction
Each side pulls me
So I do my best to walk the middle, sometimes I lean
This is wrong, I must commit
I am fearful of either side
I know both require sacrifice
I cannot weigh these nebulous things
I wish you would just give me a shove
So I would fall to the side I must go
I know, I know--this is the beautiful gift of free will
Wisdom, guidance, peace, clarity
These I know you give
Please, please--share them.
February 15, 2005 - Taunting, Transient Terror Revisited
Taunting transient terror, revisited...
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
"Taunting transient terror" thou have proved thyself not a sojourner, but rather stalwart in the tantalizing of my soul.
Have you come to materialize and show thyself to be an oasis and not a mirage? Or have I begun to fade, hiding behind the solid that creates me, from the light and become a shadow? Helpless, fettered to the movements of that which I hide behind. Only extant in the presence of light--that of which I hide from--the paradox of dependence upon its existence and yet it is what erases my existence.
Oh, terror, have you and I traded places?
January 23, 2005 - Taunting, Transiet, Terror
Taunting Transient Terror
The ghost whispers gentle words
Are they elements of truth
Or words meant to be unheard
Or do they say sooth*?
Oh you apparition of the mind
Do you speak of what ought to be
Or are your intentions unkind
With haste bring answers to set free
Ghoul of unsatisfaction why do you haunt
A fleeting thought thou are naught
Thy gentle words pierce and plague
Through a labyrinth of confusion they parade
Writhing wraith of cognition
Do you behold a clear vision
Eschew security, logic, wisdom, reason
To risk following a heart that seems to change with season?
Ethereal eidolon embodies extinct existance
Endless visitation of what was never born
Suffocating grip on to which you have no grasp
Over what is unreal you bring me to mourn
Scourging specter speak
Give me reason to listen
Differentiate--whimsical perfidy and painful honesty
Must what is good come to end?
Perilous phantom I await
For you to determine fate
Your answers so evasive
Yet your presence so pervasive
Will your shadow slowly fade
Or to reality incarnate?
*Sooth as in soothsayer, not soothe as in to calm*
The ghost whispers gentle words
Are they elements of truth
Or words meant to be unheard
Or do they say sooth*?
Oh you apparition of the mind
Do you speak of what ought to be
Or are your intentions unkind
With haste bring answers to set free
Ghoul of unsatisfaction why do you haunt
A fleeting thought thou are naught
Thy gentle words pierce and plague
Through a labyrinth of confusion they parade
Writhing wraith of cognition
Do you behold a clear vision
Eschew security, logic, wisdom, reason
To risk following a heart that seems to change with season?
Ethereal eidolon embodies extinct existance
Endless visitation of what was never born
Suffocating grip on to which you have no grasp
Over what is unreal you bring me to mourn
Scourging specter speak
Give me reason to listen
Differentiate--whimsical perfidy and painful honesty
Must what is good come to end?
Perilous phantom I await
For you to determine fate
Your answers so evasive
Yet your presence so pervasive
Will your shadow slowly fade
Or to reality incarnate?
*Sooth as in soothsayer, not soothe as in to calm*
November 19, 2004 - Inner Paradox
Inner Paradox
The feeling is so deceptive
Soothing yet oppressive
Drains, yet key to survival
This enemy has no rival
This confusion shrivels the soul
No clear thought to grab ahold
Distracts from the world around
Thoughts so loud, they make no sound
So I hide myself in you
For only in you, only in you
Can I find what is true
You are the only place I am not confused
The feeling is so deceptive
Soothing yet oppressive
Drains, yet key to survival
This enemy has no rival
This confusion shrivels the soul
No clear thought to grab ahold
Distracts from the world around
Thoughts so loud, they make no sound
So I hide myself in you
For only in you, only in you
Can I find what is true
You are the only place I am not confused
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