I am Stepping up...

Stepping up., originally uploaded by Christopher Rauch.  View the LARGE version

to the plate.
     In soooo many different ways. Dat's whats up. Tonight, on the Starbucks patio, I have coffee at my right hand, and a good cigar in my left. I have been in constant motion for days and tonight I have chosen to sacrifice a little sleep to get my bearings. I am taking stock. I am evaluating a few priorities and taking a personal inventory. 
     I have been accepted into the nursing program. It has taken me over three years to get here (really it's taken about eight... I needed a few years before I could even find the balls to listen to that quiet little voice in my head, and look at the picture I kept seeing...) When I began this journey, I wasn't even a high school graduate. Now, three years hence, I have graduated Magna Cum Laude from the Georgia Military College, and I am awestruck when I pause to consider the sheer enormity of what God has accomplished with an attention-deficit dyslexic who left home at seventeen without ever having learned how to live. I have a degree today, and I am engaged in seeking another one. I dream of one day being able to provide for a family, and impact my world in a positive way for the glory of my God. I also hope like hell that this is not entirely my idea, but my faith in this grows stronger with every miraculously opened door, and I have finally come to a place where I am at least a little bit comfortable with letting God handle his end and concentrating on mine. Concentration is not my strong suite, especially if I am distracted trying to handle God's business.
      As soon as I decided to go back to school, my dying marriage took a nose dive, and I ended up getting a divorce. As I was driving across town to have my wife sign the papers, I got a phone call. My father had died. The next forty eight hours were incredible, and I have never been the same. Depression seems to come and go, and returning to school after a twenty five year break has been indescribably stressful. I got more than a little crazy, and still have a difficult time remembering how I managed to get through school with the grades needed to make it into the nursing program at my college. Several times it seemed that someone else was in the driver's seat, and I am grateful. I have also become aware of how unlikely my success was, in the face of my lifestyle and attitude. The stakes are now much higher, both financially and emotionally. I really don't want to deal with the consequences of dropping this ball, and it has become important to come to clarity about my big picture, what I have been doing wrong, and what needs to change in order to pull this off.
     A little over nine months ago, I heard the clue phone start ringing, and when I answered it... it turned out to be for me. Whaddya know. The voice on the line basically said: "You're fucking up. Not only do I have a much better life prepared for you, but I have a job for you to do, and you're not doing it!"

     I argue with God often, (though he has yet to strike me dead, obviously.) This time, I took the divine asschewing without complaint. I knew I had it coming. I was miserable. I was wallowing in self -pity and had fallen into depression. I was drinking daily, and had returned to some old ways of thinking, which I've posted about earlier. In my anger and disappointment, my prayers became arrogant, accusatory, and infrequent. I began romantic involvement immediately, and began to take several hundred pictures a week. Anything to avoid dealing with multifaceted grief, grow the fuck up, and learn how to live. My life was a mess, and I was ripe for the divine wake up call. I had  gotten off track, to say the least. I am among other things, a mystic. Many of us pray. If the surveys are to be believed, even atheists pray, but as Andy Stanley says, a mystic is someone who believes God talks back...or talks period, I forget which. 
     C.S. Lewis tells us that God "whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks to us in our conscience, and shouts to us in our pain; It is his megaphone to rouse a dying world." My world was dying, and I heard the shout. I have, along with the every other living creature, experienced my share of pain. I have slowly, stubbornly learned to recognize the voice of my God in these instances, and further- have been growing ever more sensitive to the speaking and whispering. Still, he must shout at me from time to time, because, like D.L. Moody, the sensitivity to God's voice leaks out of me, through the many holes in my character.

     Anyway, I heard the message and made the decision to return to habits and disciplines that had brought me so far, and helped me so much in the past. I began to again seek personal growth, and the struggle to redefine and rebuild my life, this time with a commitment to surrender to God's design for the life of Chris Rauch. 
     Now, a decision is one thing, and for the most part, an indispensible prerequisite to intentional progress, but it is in the theatre of practical application that the rubber truly meets the road. In my resolve, I must answer the question: “How do I do this?" For me, the renovation of life is a process, and it begins with constructive action. I work out before I develop muscles. My inclination is to lose weight, develop muscular definition, and then start going to the gym, but things don’t work this way. I have to figure out what to do. To obtain knowledge I must go to those who profess to have it… and if I am wise, I will go to those professors who are actively engaged in ongoing practical application. The best hospitals are research hospitals, and the best universities are those that research the frontiers of knowledge. 
     Self-actualization, as defined by Maslow, is when the desire for fulfillment drives us to reach our maximum potential. When our life is lacking joy/fulfillment, this absence drives us to grow. So the question for me is "Who is busy today, taking practical action to reach self actualization? Who is doing the research?" 
     I find upon reflection that it is usually not the politicians, not the proponents of religious piety, and not the millions of couch potatoes that claim Oprah Winfry as their guru. In all of these cross sections of western society, those who actively seek personal growth are a tiny minority. Honestly, there is no demographic that that is not dominated by apathy, but there is a global community represented my members of all areas of humanity where the minority seeking to actively improve their lives reaches the point of statistical significance. This is the recovery movement. The Twelve Step Programs. It is the alcoholics, the addicts, the codependents, the gamblers, and the compulsively promiscuous, that are driven by the pain of their dysfunction, to apply spiritual principles in their lives and strive toward their maximum potential. These people with all their failings, are my teachers. 
     
     I'll post next on the twelve steps programs, and my take on how the steps operate, but it is late, and this post has gotten a helluva a lot longer than I intended. 


"Now, With God's Help, I Shall Become Myself" ~ Soren Kierkegaard.

   


       Good Night. :)

Blood Drive

Blood Drive, originally uploaded by Christopher Rauch.



     I gave blood for the first time in high school as a sophomore in ’84. Needles held no fear for me, the ex Allergy Shot Poster Child, and the novelty of being excused from school to be bussed to the rec department is one of my last memories before being asked to sever my relationship with the Houston County Board of Education. Since then, I have given blood many times. Things are a little different now, They no longer use the blue juice to see if your blood sinks, checking for enough iron. Nowadays they use a device that looks more like a blood sugar monitor. Another thing that is different is the prevalence of  invisible death, 2 diseases  that will kill you, and that you can only catch by exchanging essences with another human. There is also some brain eating disease connected somehow to spending more than three months in England, and/or  having used a certain pituitary growth hormone. It doesn’t seem to make sense to me. The Red Cross site gives some fascinating historical information and some interesting statistics:

• 1pint of blood can save three lives
• Every two seconds, someone needs a transfusion
• In the United States, five million people a year need blood.
• Less than 38 percent of the population can give blood.
• Some blood components have a shelf life of only 5 days

     This poses some interesting logistics issues, further complicated by the fact that not all blood is the same, you can’t just suck out some blood from donor 1 and shoot it into recipient 2. This can kill people. The Red Cross has got a big job, and I’m sure I don’t know the half of it, but I wonder about the boundaries, if they are a reflection of politics and marketing as much as genuine safety. If you’ve had a recent tattoo, ever shot dope without paying a doctor to a assist or ever been intimate with someone else’s penis, while possessing one of your own, they would like you to remain a part of the 62% of the population that is ineligible. This is statistics at work. Each donor’s blood is tested for infectious diseases at one of the Red Cross’s five national laboratories. and I would like to think that they are effective. Could we not increase the amount of available blood while decreasing the amount of labor and resources need to obtain it by relaxing these guidelines a little?
     Being in the system, I have received 2 phone calls and 2 glossy, very nicely appointed mailers letting me know about this last Tuesday’s blood drive.  That stuff is expensive. I wonder if the eligible population was larger, could the Red Cross spend less on marketing, and shift some of those resources to something else? Perhaps establishing caches of disaster supplies near heliports, would be a good idea, as Arod in San Francisco suggested in a recent post. A more efficient disaster response could conceivably reduce violent crime in disaster areas, which would possibly have a slight mitigating impact on blood requirements. I don’t really know the answers to any of these questions, but from a stewardship perspective are we minimalizing our blood supply out of fear for public opinion on Red Cross safety measures or are the disease scanning protocols not as effective as one would hope, and do the risk categories provide a little statistical cushion needed to keep transfusion recipients from dropping like flies from AIDS and Hep C?
     Has fear been a factor in setting these guidelines? I wonder.

I haven't got all day, originally uploaded by Christopher Rauch.

My First Fiction. This One is Pretty Dirty.

This One is Pretty Dirty., originally uploaded by Christopher Rauch.

     Sorry.
     I kinda had to write it that way. It's offensive.
     Twice I have posted schoolwork here on the ol' blog. The comparison of Dunbar's Mask with President Carter's World was for English 102. I was actually impressed with both poems. It seems at some point, I have lost some of my hatred of poetry.The Homosexuality Post, I originally wrote for English 101. It is by far the most viewed post on my blog. There is no close second. This will be my third posted assignment. I believe it is  the first fiction I have written. Both my previous papers were A's but this last one has the highest numeric grade I have ever gotten, which is amazing. In the days following Aunt Judy's death, I was immobilized, unable to accomplish much, so this was written in the space a couple hours under an enormous feeling of pressure, without my usual visit to an English tutor to proofread my grammar, which is a little bad, since I am a high school dropout. The rush also forced me to finish before I could smooth some of the rough edges of the plot. I printed this thing less than 15 minutes before it was due. It takes 7 minutes to drive to this class.
     Robert Browning has a poem called Porphria's Lover about a man that strangles his lover with her hair so (I speculate) that her love, for him which he is insecure about, will be frozen into eternity. Yep. Pretty sick stuff . The murder of his woman is a theme Browning uses in more than one poem,..hmmm. I wonder If he resented the fact that his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning ("How do I love thee..."), was more highly regarded.

     My last writing assignment was to tell this story from Porphyria's perspective, which posed some interesting problems for me. 

1. Browning has his victims cheeks blush after death. How do I do that?
2. Much of the poem takes place after the murder. How does Porphryia witness it?
3. What kind of backstory is needed to account for the shocking sequence of events?

     
     Porphyria's lover can be read here, It's not very long. I am mildly amazed that this is literature, but then I look at the Bible and there is some pretty disturbing stuff in there, too. My paper is a little more graphic then the Bible. I would never write any feminine first person story (remember, I don't think I've ever written a "story" ) unprompted, so this stretched me and possibly the writing sux.  Browning's poem is hellaciously shocking. 

     My own story is probably more shocking, and  a LOT sicker. Not everyone should read it. I am slightly dismayed it sprang from my head.

     Didja get that?  In my story the motive for Porphyria's murder is her promiscuity, a dysfunction resulting from being sexually abused by her father. The story also contains sex and violence. Together...  in an unusually nasty way (at least I think it's unusual. We don't do any of this stuff over here...). So consider yourself warned. Fairly.
    

Chris Rauch

ENG 202

12 August 2009

As Long as I Can Remember

I. Up the Hill

I run full tilt up the path in the rain, my boots throwing up handfuls of water. Each step displaces sheets of glass and flings them upward where they unweave into tiny diamonds, glittering in the light of the moon. They seem to float, keeping pace with me as my lungs suck fire from the frigid evening air. Slowly, they drift to the rear as I overtake the jewels my hurried progress has cast before me. I curse the weather, the transportation, and the opium. I curse my brokenness, and my inability to forget the man I was with before I married his best friend. I curse my inability to stay away from him. I‘ve acted like a stupid slut all my life, I think. 
“And what does that make you?” the voice in my head asks….

II. Aside

 I’ve had a little voice inside me for as long as I can remember. The voice doesn’t like me much. I can’t remember the voice ever liking me, but I noticed after getting married the voice sounded just like my husband, Jim. 

And my husband Bill.

As a matter of fact, The Voice sounds like whichever husband I’m on at the time. Whichever husband I’m married to, I mean. I’ve been married to 5, but I’ve been on considerably more than that (Hopefully, I’ve never been on yours, but it wouldn’t surprise me). I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember.

Of all my husbands Ted  was different. The Voice never sounded like Ted. For seven years of heaven, The Voice did not sound like the man I was married too. For seven years, The Voice sounded like my father, not my husband, not the man I was trying to love. I really liked that, and I knew I wanted to keep this one.

I leave husbands. It’s what I do. I leave mine, I leave yours. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember. I go away. I go home to my father’s, and I never come back. I came back to Ted, though… Again, and again. What can I say? He was just different. Finally, Ted left me. Brokenhearted. Older. Wiser. Out of patience, tears, time, and money, the one husband I couldn’t bring myself to stay away from became the One That Got Away.

Now, two husbands later, I lope around the bend, and see Ted’s cottage bathed in swirling luminescence. I am amazed at the clarity of my night vision. Tonight, I resolve to tell him that I have married again. Some strange alchemy occurs as the wisps of opium float over the sea of adrenaline that surges through my veins, spiking at the thought he will be able to resist me, this time…that I am simply too broken to make this happen, that he will send me away.

III. Around the Bend

My heart beats an impossibly sluggish  metronome that sets the slow-motion pace of my pumping arms and legs. Even the law of gravity kneels to this magic, and I see suspended droplets (rain? splash?) in exquisite detail. Each is a tiny little world, a mirrored sphere reflecting the night sky, where  the Moon is alternately shrouded and revealed by wind whipped clouds with burgeoning  rapidity, punctuated by flashes of lightning. My thoughts gather speed  to match the wind I hear in the treetops, The husbandvoice is silent as we both observe the unlit windows. The Chimney mouth is mute, empty of smoke. Noiselessly, I push open the door, and see him, the love of my life, sitting in the cold anguished dark of a single candle. My eyes take in the room - the dying embers of the fire, the extinguished lamp. I am hours late. 
Again.
Has he been brooding all this time?

IV. In the Cottage

I move to the hearth. As I pass by Ted, my fingertips brush the meerschaum on the table at his side and note its lack of heat. He probably has not smoked since the fire went out.  I grab a few pieces of kindling and begin rebuilding the fire. As I work, I hear the occasional, sizzle as stray drips fall from my hands onto the coals. I know I cause his silence and dejection. Tonight, I am the source of his pain, not the pipe at his side. Tonight is my last chance, I think as I rebuild the fire, and warmth and light trickle into the room. Tonight is my last chance, and I will throw it away, like I always have. The Fathervoice mumbles a few choice comments.

My task completed, I stand and strip off my sodden outer garments, conscious of the heat radiating from the fireplace, my cheeks…and my sex. It’s unnerving, this lack of speech. I am terrified it is over.  I sit next to him. My voice breaks in synchronicity with my with my heart as I say his name and he doesn’t answer. Galvanized, I murmur love and endearment, as I unlace, rearrange, adjust. I half rise, swinging around to face him. Some trick of the flickering light keeps his eyes in shadow, denying me their message. My tears begin. I smile and I draw his arms around me, his face down to the juncture of my neck and shoulder. I murmur love and apologies through my tears, pleading, repeating old, worn promises . I grow desperate, hungering for a response, waiting, and wanting so badly.

V. Love and Death

It seems hours before he begans to move around me. I feel the arm I placed around my waist come to life, hardening and tightening,  pulling my skirt up on my thighs as the fingers of his other hand tangle in my hair, pulling me back as I sink to my knees in front of him.  He eases forward, expressionless.  He joins me on the floor in front of his chair,  pulling my head back cruelly, and burying his lips against my throat as his free hand continue the work of opening my bodice,  burrowing past layers, roaming over nipples harder than gravel.
My breath catches, quickens. He begins  sliding warm, callused fingers along one inner thigh to my center, pulling whimpers and sobs from within me.

“You don’t love me.” I felt his lips move against my throat.

“Oh, baby, I do!” I moan, soaring through the skies as I kneel on the floor, the pain in my scalp intensifying with my desire. He twists my hair into a cable, his fingers dance upward between my labia with virtuosity, playing a sonata on my clitoris. I surge upward toward my crest, and feel the cable of my hair pulled around my throat working between his lips and my skin as orgasms flood my senses…once, twice, and a third time. With each strangling jerk of my hair twining around my neck, I come again, dimly aware I can no longer get air, that my love withholds breath and life as I struggle weakly, his fingers slowing, and his flat cold eyes boring into mine.  

“You don’t love me.” Now he sounds like Daddy! 
As the world grows dark, and I slip from it, I feel Ted’s fingers twitch one last time, And I think he even touches me like Daddy!  and with this the veil is torn from memory, the images flooding back into my awareness.  I hear Daddy murmur love and apologies through my tears and pleading,  as he repeats old, worn promises.
I hear my heart stop beating, and I see nothing.

VI. Epilogue

I observe from by the window, as Ted’s screaming shatters the night, drowning out the last remnants of the storm. I look down at myself and nothing is there.
I know what I have become. 
I feel tired despair, and the weight of life wasted as I find myself once again in the room listening to the labored breathing of my lover. I cry out. There is no sound. I cry louder, nothing. I watch in horror as Ted draws his knife and lay s the edge against his throat. I shout with everything I have, and he seems to react. I pour myself out, I tell him I love him, I forgive him, I understand. With each utterance, his eyes seem to open wider, the windows of his soul torn open as he searches for the source of haunting.  Finally I can see the man I know  and realize the madness has left him, though he believes himself still in its grip. The blade glitters one last time as he slices himself from ear to ear, and the blood fountains out in powerful spurts. Dropping the knife, Ted bends over, bathing my corpse in blood, loosening the hair from my neck. He lifts me in his arms, and takes his seat, his lips smearing blood and tears on my cheeks, a strange sigh coming from the sliced trachea.

Ted arranges my corpse in his lap, his heart slowing, his blood no longer pumping with the original force, but welling down his chest in a rhythmic ebb and flow. He places my head on his shoulder, and I watch the flow of blood trickle away to nothing as the light in his eyes goes out.

I sit (stand? float?) with our corpses. I see that I left my wedding ring on. Oops.

Ted never comes. His soul has gone elsewhere. People come. They close our eyes, They clean up our mess. Time passes. I find I cannot leave. No matter how many walls I walk through, I’m still in this room, waiting for Ted.  I’ve been here for as long as I can remember.

.

.

Horseless Carriage

Horseless Carriage, originally uploaded by use2blost.

     Well, I've decided against afflicting the blogosphere with another self portrait. Day 6 nicotine free. OMG. THTKMA. (This has totally kicked my ass.) I have ventured out to the Atlanta Bread Company as an experiment. I have gone to a couple social things, small group and such with a 'leave whenever you want' attitude. I went to church this morning which was a first...an event with a beginning and an end, which I intended to endure for the duration. Without my crutch. I even had a conversation with Katie at church while she smoked a cigarette.
     The whole thing.
     I felt like my conversational skills were clumsy, and undiplomatic. It was hard to concentrate. I never forgot about her cigarette for even a second. (I remember talking to a titty dancer at a bachelor party...Patrick's.  It was like that. You never forget they're naked, not for a second.)
     I never forgot about Katie's cigarette, but every time I wanted to interrupt and ask her for one (twenty in all, at least.) I just sat there withdrawing, and taking no action. That worked out so well, I felt up to a test, so I have braved the real world, and came to ABC to begin my reentry into the fledgling decade. To reconnect  with a life of direction and purpose, to see what this day day holds for me, in my new freedom.
    

Update:Evidently this day does not hold long periods of concentration, or productivity. The balancing act of keeping the important nominally prioritized over the urgent brings to bear a feeling of pressure. I need to crank out a paper on Tartuffe. It doesn't have to be profound, it just has to be drafted, proofed, and submitted by Tuesday evening, and today is the window of opportunity. Pressure makes me want to smoke, and that makes me feel pressure. It's better than it was yesterday. Wish me luck. The Gaping Hole in my spirit is less visceral, more mental. The trial by fire is over, I look now to some lifestyle changes, like don't eat something just because it was motionless for a moment.

Byron Methodist

Byron Meth, originally uploaded by use2blost.

     A couple of weeks ago the world record largemouth bass was caught. The interesting thing to me is not the weights involved, but the locations. The old record holder was caught in south Georgia, within a couple hours of here. So this catches my interest, and surfing around trails.com, I notice a icon near Byron, over by my church. Trails says a neighboring church, Byron Methodist is built next to the largest blackjack oak in the world.
     Yup.
     Well I decide to ride to church early and swing by this tree, to get a shot of the hopefully spectacular sunrise over the largest blackjack oak in the world.
      In the world!
The Pastor, who took a break from his preparations and strolled outside, showed me the spot. There wasn't even a stump.

'Bout a year and a half ago, we had to take it down. It was a sad day. It dwarfed the church. It was dying.

     Dissapointed, I told him to get out of the weather (18 degrees F), walked to the van, and drove to Lifepoint

Busy...and getting kinda fat. 4/365

Busy...and getting kinda fat. 4/365, originally uploaded by use2blost.

     This is the SP from a couple days ago. I'm getting jowls. I did not overeat today. Much. I actually, to borrow a phrase from Arod, feel like I could get a pretty good write on...I'm thinking about profanity, what's okay, and what's not, and exactly what the hell is meant by the taking of someone's name in vain. But alas, the voice of wisdom calls from a tub of scalding, sudsy bathwater, saying to read up on the enlightenment before my analysis of Tartuffe. This is good advice. Who said the voices in your head have to be a bad thing? The smoking update: I shall have 72 hours nicotine free at nine in the morning. 72 is the magical number of physical detox, having to do with things like half-life, and metabolic rate, which are not blogworthy at this time. After seventy two  hours the physical addiction is supposedly broken, and it becomes a psychological from that point on. That's not what I feel at the moment, but I won't chase that rabbit. (It's psychological from the beginning.) I have noticed my pants get tighter in the last five days as I have tried to do this...

So, I backslid.

Oops...I left the coffee pot on., originally uploaded by use2blost.

     Yesterday morning and had a cigarette. You can buy singles illegally from certain ethnically managed convenience stores, and (the going rate is .50 a stick.) I had to hook up. I immediately felt shame and remorse, and smoked the (Newport is the only flavor Mr. Patel does. He offered to do Marlboros once, but I declined. I didn't want to make things too attractive.) fag right down to the taste of filter. I cut the filters back on 'Ports anyway, to get more of the good stuff. Anyway, I now have once again detoxed for 36 or so hours.
     I can definitely say that breaking the 24 hour barrier ushers in a special increase in the suck factor. It's exponential. You could say it was SUCKQUARED. Truly. I am not fit company for humans.  I have made no attempt to encourage interaction, though I did drop by Debbie's for a minute or two at some point earlier. I could tell as soon as I was in an environment with other people, that my inner asshole lurked just beneath the surface.
     I split.
     The Craving is intense, and deep, it is accompanied for me, by feelings of anger, loneliness and hopelessness. They come in waves, usually three at a time lasting about three minutes a piece. I have killed a box of Pop-Tarts, and yearn for more, even though full. Coffee is an old dear friend, but detoxing from nicotine, by some cruel twist of fate effectively halves the ex-smokers caffeine tolerance, so my comfort food is denied me. Hopefully, another nights sleep will take some of this edge off.
     I hope this is it.

Freedom

Day two, originally uploaded by use2blost.

     Okay...that is a picture of yours truly... smoking a cigarette 25 something hours ago. He hasn't had one since. He's been here probably 10 times or better. He's a stubborn bastard when it comes to shakin' a bad habit.
     The first 72 hour period is the trial by fire. I have a little program I downloaded. It tells me how long I have been quit, how many cigs I have not  smoked, how much money I have saved, and chronicles the statistical increase in my life span. like this:

Chris - Free and Healing for One Day, 1 Hour and 30 Minutes, while extending my life expectancy 2 Hours, by avoiding the use of 27 nicotine delivery devices that would have cost me $6.38.

     Kinda neat. It helps. This is a terribly lonely endeavor .

Other Worlds Than These

Other Worlds Than These, originally uploaded by use2blost.

     The title is actually a quote from one of the old Dark Tower novels (Stephen King)...Jake spits it at Roland as our hero abandons his friend to fall to his death. Something along the lines of "Go on, then. There are other worlds than these..."
      There are other worlds than these both in a physical sense, and otherwise. IMHO, the spiritual world encompasses our own, this world that activates and stimulates our senses. In some geometry that my feeble math skills cannot analogize, this sphere ( the spiritual one, that is.) surrounds ours in every dimension. This means time, space, beyond the tesseract, even. This view holds no heresy that I know of, to religion or science. The nature or boundaries of this other world(s) are simply speculation, (for me) but as to existence, I have no doubts. Doubts become impossible in the face of memory. I have been spoken to from the distance half a dozen times, and have twice been present at the proper location in time and space to witness when the line of demarcation became blurry and indistinct, between this world and another. Twice I have come across a temporal/ physical point where the fabric of this reality was worn and frayed, like the denim on the knees of incredibly comfortable Levi's. A place  where the warp of reality has been abraded away, and the threadbare weft permits glimpses of  flesh beneath the surface. A place where I perceived stuff I will not post about today.
     Yeah, baby.
     Here be Dragons, demons, and things that go bump.
     The Light of the World is there as well. He is a reality that encompasses all worlds, in every conceivable dimension.
     Believe it.

The 365 pool on flickr is challenging. You are challenged (and not many succeed) to upload 1 self portrait a day, shot on that day. This is yesterdays.... shot at work, post processed in Elements, and Photo-bee. The early light on this jobsite, is interesting... and I am to busy to think, so this is an easier post than any of the theological musing that flit through my awareness, and slip away before I can consider them properly...The idea of taking a self portrait a day for a year arouses very mixed feelings in me. I may explore this in a later post.

Hearing God

pipecutter, originally uploaded by use2blost.

Perhaps we do not hear the voice of God because we do not expect to hear it. Then again, perhaps we do not expect it because we know that we fully intend to run our lives on our own and have never seriously considered anything else.

Dallas Willard, Hearing God, p71.

     I read this after returning from the Tuesday  morning Men's Breakfast, where the host royally pissed me off. The man who has provided my breakfast on most Tuesdays for several years aroused my anger after announcing  that his political opinion and God's were in close parallel (yet again!). I should mention that I had resolved  to quit smoking the afternoon before, about five thirty (yet again!). I am grumpy, and unforgiving. Dallas's book is a reread for me. The last decade has had a kneeling effect on me...like a camel desperate for refreshment. I'm rereading some of my favorites, hoping for fresh insight. My life has seemed dry, in terms of God. I am sharply aware of character deficit, both my own, and society's. It has taken a conscious act of will to maintain my faith, though perhaps what tattered remnants* remain are a divine gift. Conventional Religianity in my neck of the woods, teaches that faith is a gift of God...and that pleasing God is impossible without faith. Hmmm. That sounds like a spiritual protection racket, but I digress.
     I am angry and desperate for a cigarette.
     I go to the store. I get cigarettes.
     Sin. Disobedience. Bondage. Right?
     I've been taught God does not speak to those wallowing in sin. There is that verse in Peter about hindered prayer, after all...
     In spite of this, I am seeking with a greater diligence then usual. (another issue here is the "All your heart" verse...our hearts are pretty screwed up, according to God, so doing anything good with all our hearts is pretty much impossible isn't it? we do things "with all our hearts" for brief shining periods, or (hopefully) briefer periods of depravity, not as an ongoing state of existence.)
     Anyway, I am looking for a tool and pause to read a snatch of theology... this is the drudgery of the attention deficit, a man diagnosed as a retard in childhood, as he shuffles about attempting to function, prior to seven in the morning. He is struggling with nicotine, depression, and a drastically reduced income during a time of life when he must concentrate as never before...My morning 'on task' quotient is less than mediocre today, I suspect.
     The tool I seek is an adjustable assembly of tiny rollers and a little blade, for cutting copper line neatly without crushing it. This is the kind of tool that painter/carpenter may purchase and not need again for years. I know I have one. I am also a little too broke, working a job I underbid, to throw away ten or twenty bucks on a new one. And, for about two years I have been actively angry/dissappointed with God. (Now that I think about it, thats kinda like being a bitchy bride.) This is getting better, but it's still there, so I am talking as I migrate from the kitchen junk drawer to the patio shed. I inform God that finding this tool would be a perfect miracle. Not death-defying enough to rob me of an opportunity for faith, but strong enough to give me a DAMN good reason to see his hand.
Cause I am never gonna find this pipecutter.
      I fix stuff for a living. At your house. When I show up, I am pulling a 10x6 trailer fulla tools, and I have two rooms and an outbuilding of assorted saws, wrenches, levers, rusty junk and odds an ends.
I know I'm not gonna find this six inch tool I've used 4 times in 30 years. Not before I have to show up for psychology at 11. I  am finding a lot of other stuff. In the bottom of a five gallon bucket, I find an ultra tiny crochet needle I got when I was learning make fishnet lingerie ( It's good to have me as a boyfriend). I am amazed. I go so far as to tell God :

This is what I'm talkin' about, Papa. If I prayed about this crochet hook and then found it...that would have been perfect! Why can't you show me where the pipecutter is?

At this point, it occurs to me I used the pipe cutter last summer...fixing my exterior faucet. Then I set it on rough shelving unit that leans against my brick under the kitchen window. Or did I? I have been chain smoking at this this point, and chain smoking after a period of abstinence produces extreme lightheadedness and can be quite disorienting.
     I stumble to the shelves. There is nothing. Okay. Thanks alot, God. (I am childish. When I am pleased, he is Papa, Father, or Lord. When I am disenchanted, he is God. Do y'all do that?)
Something else occurs to me. I gotta dog. Suzie is big, black, and not the brightest puppy in the litter.  
     Literally.
     These shelves are not attached, and frisbees get thrown back here. 55 lbs. of Black hairiness has been known to jostle things. She is a bull in a china shop.
     Proverbially.
     So I start to brush the leaves aside. I get down on my knees. This kneeling, and this brushing are conrete. The substance, if you will... of what I hope for. The evidence of what is not apparent. It's all about the pipecutter. Or is it? I find an old spray can, some bungee. A tiny precision flushcut saw...I should be spanked for leaving out here to rust. No pipecutter.
I give up. Thanks alot, God. As I raise from my kneeling position, I place my hand on the little bricked up well that ventilates my crawlspace. It has a piece of 1/4" wire mesh in a wood frame, to catch leaves and debris. My fingertips dislodge one more large leaf as I push myself to my feet. The pipecutter gleams in the early sunlight.
     Oh, Papa. was that you?

* "The Tattered Remnants" was Larry Underwood's old band in Stephen King's The Stand. They once opened for Zepplin. :)

Going to Hell.

Anonymous said...

December 3, 2009 12:06 PM

Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God. And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God.

(NIV, 1st Corinthians 6:9-11)

Chris, have any thoughts on the "washed" part? I call myself a Christian yet I drink more than my wife thinks I should. Why haven't I been washed of the desire to drink? Greed, I would rather put money in my bank account than give it to a church (don't attend), yet I don't mind sharing with the guy who has the 'will work for food' sign. "...will not inherit the kingdom of God.." does this mean I am going to hell? Didn't Noah dring alot?

     This is a written reprimand against denominations. (my first heresy of the day!) the other stuff is incidental, and I myself will place the words in red before the words of Paul, and I don't believe that ongoing sin causes us to lose favor with God. Ya know, I don't read Greek or Hebrew (I've actually got some curriculum laying around, for when I get caught up...when I got it the first glance was intimidating :D), but your average churchy fella will probably say that this refers to our being "cleansed" of sin. There are lotsa verses people quote. I like "as far as the east is from the west." Quite a few Christians I have talked with teach that God does not even remember our sin (This is total bullshit...as Andy Stanley observes, if this were the case, every sermon that mentioned David nailing Bathsheba would leave God puzzled, and disoriented...divine Alzheimer's.)      Another popular doctrine is that we must ask for forgiveness each time we sin, in spite of the fact that Jesus died for every sin, past present or future. There are a dozen posts just in that concept alone...thanks for the fodder.           God has not removed your desire to drink. I don't know that he ever will. I predict if you continue to drink, the desire will become more entrenched. If we wanna go on a doctrinal acquisition foray through the Gospels, we find an interesting take on what mainstream religianity calls substance abuse.

•       There is a serious party that has run out of the most popular drug of choice for that culture and that time.
• Jesus's  Ma nudges him about this (she must think it's a problem...furthermore, she seems to think he can fix it and his first miracle, according to some, hasn't happened yet)
• Jesus responds with an irritated "so what, Ma...you ain't the boss of me anymore"
• Mary ignores him and tells servants to do whatever he says. ( Have you ever told your Mom you didn't wanna do as she asked, and she just acted like you never spoke? Mary invented this technique. I always forget, as this point in the story, Mary has got to at least  be in her early forties.
• I've been to large weddings. When a large wedding has been drunk dry, their are a few serious buzzes stumbling around.
• In spite of this, Jesus miraculously manufactures between 120 and 180 gallons of wine.
• It's better than anything that has been drank so far that day/evening. (When Jesus makes drugs, he makes 'em good. You would expect no less.)
• This takes us to a spiritual place the average Baptist (or any 'Alcohol Bad!' denominational) cannot bring himself to visit...Jesus has "kept the party going" with over 100 gallons of badass hooch when several people have already got a bellyful. This is recreational drug use.
  

     I get a few unconventional doctrines out of this.

1. Obviously, Alcohol is not a sin.
2. Quite possibly, getting mildly ripped upon occasion is viewed benevolently by God. Let it be so.
3. It's okay to get irritated with your mother. Do what she asks, anyway.

Of course, Alcoholism is real. Will bite your ass. Just ask my ex wife.
     As to greed, IMO greed is not a have/don't have characteristic for most of us. It is a question of how much you got, and what form does it take. If you will give to a homeless guy, you must have a nugget of compassion, or guilt, or something buried in that little heart of yours. :)
    We know Noah got shitfaced at least once, we don't know if Noah drank a lot. I feel safe in assuming he didn't drink enough to be a fuckup.We all have a point where enough alcohol or any recreational drug for that matter, begins to degrade the quality of our life. I assure you that if we have begun to notice it, significant damage has already been done. There are places where "Hell" refers to the Jerusalem town dump, in the red ink, no less. There are references to the "Lake of Fire". Neither is a good spot to aim for, I would imagine. There is no place I know of where Jesus said "This is how to stay out of Hell"
     Religianity will detail things you must do to obtain what they call "The Free Gift Of Grace", which seems a contradiction to me, but I am a heretic. They will list ways you must feel, motives you must have, and even a chant you must utter, as in "repeat after me, to get saved".
     I don't think they quite grasp the reality of unmerited favor. I don't think you are going to hell.

     
Anonymous,
     I would like to mention a couple things.
     More than once, your comments have been sad. You drink. I don't know how much you drink, but drinking and sadness can precipitate a helluva nasty spiral and you know this, though it is easy to forget. If your wife has a problem, You have a problem. Period. Love comes with complications. Also, I've never met a wife who thought her husband drank too much....who was wrong about it. Your wife is afraid. Do something. These things don't go away and they will contribute to your sadness. And we know what sadness will contribute to, in a man who likes to catch a buzz. Be very careful.
    

Jim

Gazing Away, originally uploaded by use2blost.

Jim called me last night for a ride. After posting about the cigarette thing, I talked to my IRL buddy, Scott. I also played around between my ears, thinking a little harder about Jim than I have been. I am almost positive he lies a little, and he has a couple of behavioral thingies that stand out. I have some questions about the disability/ physical address issue, and a lot of details in general are sorta foggy. I plan to start paying more strict attention (I mentioned Jim to a guy in my small group about a month ago, but my attendance is spotty when class is in session, and nothing has come of it). Over a few more run-ins, I may develop a little more clarity, about Jim’s life.

So, I drive out to meet Jim, and it’s dark. There is about a half a mile stretch of bad neighborhood that is one of three likely parts of town for Jim to request a rendezvous.

The last time I was here I had the chance to (there’s a whole post in here, but jeez, I’m wore out!) buy some crack. I think it was the eye contact (note to self… don’t be eyeballin’ the crack man!). I meant to speak to Jim about some other options. Evidently I dropped the ball. Jim is nowhere in sight. Damn. I turn around, and make another pass. I’m getting a little grumpy…don’t forget, I’ve been on steroids for a week and I don’t have my glasses.

OK, I wanna mention a few things:

1. At this time, I am in a painter’s van, no question. I got paint-spattered ladders strapped to it, big “SPRAY TECH” sticker on the rear window.
2. Umm…of all the construction trades, with the possible exception of roofers, none is better represented in the general crack-smoking population than painters. FYI most guys don’t get into house painting because they were a smashing success somewhere else.
3. Appearances matter, at 10 pm as you fly through the local crackport waggling your wings for the third consecutive pass.

I can’t believe I didn’t get a chance to buy some crack, this time. I was plenty stressed when I finally spotted Jim through the gloom. I swung in, he threw his bike in the van, and we split. I was still riding the warm fuzzy feeling from Jim’s earlier generosity and I had gotten paid for a small job. I wanted to hook him up, so we Taco Belled and got some smokes, and I gave him a little cash. When I let him out, I may have still been a little agitated. I was agonizing about the whole shower thing and suddenly rediscovered my testicles. I decided to offer him a shower.

He told me he was nervous, no thank you

It was uncomfortable. He probably thinks I’m a homelessguyophile (that's sorta funny, to me...but I'm strange). I have decided regardless, to have greater intentionality trying to impact this guy’s life in a good way.

Oh, and I told him I blogged about him…that was bothering me.

Cadillacs...

Jim's Good Side, originally uploaded by use2blost.

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Homeless Jim bought me a pack of Cadillacs today. Caddies, refer to premium cigarettes... Newports, Camels, Marlboros and the like. He pitied me in my affluence. My financial circumstances are stressful by my standards, though Jim probably wouldn’t agree. He smelled bad. He called a little squatting spot a place of his own for a week or two, but somehow he lost it. Jim tells me that social security requires a physical address to send a check. A P.O. box is unacceptable. I think Jim’s progress at obtaining disability income runs into a stone wall, here. This hurdle confounds him. Jim needs a lump sum of 300-400 dollars to get his foot in the door and rent some slum property, but he has no slum to send the check to. Hmmm. Direct deposit comes to mind….
I first met Jim last summer, and he has survived the winter. He truly lives Hand to Mouth. I should mention that Jim is dying, I think. The Hole in his face was my first clue. The cancer distorts the whole side of his head, giving it a caved in appearance. One eye twists askew, peering downward and to the outside, oozing pus perpetually. It’s not pretty, and coupled with the smell, it really cuts down on Jim’s attractiveness as an employee. He employs himself, tackling odd jobs, and sometimes gets ripped off. I’m afraid to let Jim know where I live, and this shames me, a little.

Of course Jim panhandles, which I find strange. Here in Warner Robins, my roots go back over thirty years. Growing up as an Air Force Brat on the Base, I never saw panhandling, and I’m pretty sure I never saw it in town. Twenty years ago I saw panhandlers in Little Five Points, when I ran away to Atlanta after flunking out of college. So, I am not shocked (much), but this takes place 5 blocks from my House. Going out for a stroll can bring me across the trail of a homeless guy before I finish a small Hemmingway. It’s kind of new to me.
Anyway, I am favorable disposed toward panhandlers. God is good, and today a home of my own awaits my evening return, but this was not always the case. I remember leaner times, and usually will contribute a buck or two for the Cause when approached. The first night I met Jim I got an inner nudge, a wordless articulation of compassion for this stranger.
I have this little light inside me, you see. It swirls and it twirls. It flits about, focusing on one thing or another. Sometimes it locks in on something like a pit bull, and explodes with brilliance. It terrified me this night. I think it wanted me to take Jim to my house and let him shower, wash his clothes. Spend the night. Have ten hours as a normal American.

Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s what it wanted. Instead, I emptied my change into his hands. I had probably broken a hundred for some gasoline, and a carton of smokes. Some Marlboros.

Cadillacs.

Jim probably cleared 15 bucks, plus my last open pack of cigarettes, and a brand new pack from the fresh carton. Oh, Glory. I lavished these gifts casually with a secret shame at my fear, but this windfall made Jim cry. We both went on our way, after a few words on…theology, and economics. I had a hard time thinking of Jim for a day or two, but I got over it. It seems I can do that for a little while.

So Jim and I have engaged in this dance. I am suspicious and freaked out, and I try to catch him in a lie. He is destitute for the most part, and tries to catch me with a few bucks in my pocket. Jim succeeds more often than I do. He has my phone number, and sometimes calls and asks for a ride, or a little money (I have called my buddy Scott and kept him on the phone while dropping money off to Jim… just in case he cut my throat, or popped a cap in my ass.) The hole in his face has to be stopped up with a paste in order for him to swallow properly, and he can’t enjoy anything like coffee or ice cream. Everything must be lukewarm. I guess it’s very painful otherwise.
I will cough up nine bucks and change for his paste prescription or other medication and occasionally get him something to eat. I will also speak to Jim with irritation, if he calls when studies press upon me, or my wallet is empty. The little light inside me can be eclipsed…by a selfish prick, it seems... but I digress.

Today, Jim and I made eye contact across Watson Boulevard. I made a left, waved and then saw Jim turn in my direction. Damn. Looking in the rearview, I became worried that Jim might be able to triangulate my neighborhood location if I continued, so I made a U- turn and waited. I have no money. My financial aid is a month late, I missed my house payment, the water will be shut off Thursday, and my power on the 14th. I’m holding, though. I got one cigarette, my last one.

You would have to be a lifelong smoker to completely understand. As addictions go, smoking is unique. Cigarettes are legal, and the addictive behavior happens in public, it’s easy to forget the strength it has over you. Until you’re broke. (Imagine trying to kick a cocaine habit if you saw crack every time you stopped for a cup of coffee, or walked by a public building, or picked your kids up from school.) I had been starving the monkey on my back for two days. At this point the occasional cigarette I came across simply whetted my appetite; I existed in a state of constant deprivation, and an underlying feeling of piss-off from the steroids they put me on Saturday.
Jim asked me for a cigarette. I declined, and it hurt. I got frustrated. I was embarrassed. I had never denied Jim a cigarette, so he knew something was up. He reluctantly asked for a ride, I agreed, and we headed up town. Jim listened to me bitch, and took the other half of the cigarette. When we arrived at Jim’s destination, his job had been given to a nephew. Too bad, so sad.

We rode back down Watson Boulevard and Jim directed me into a parking lot. He produced a handful of singles, went inside the store, and bought cigarettes. He bought himself some cheap, shitty cigarettes, and he bought me what I smoke. They cost nearly twice as much. He bought me some Caddies.

He bought me some Marlboros.

Jim is homeless. He and I live in totally different economies. Four dollars and eighty-five cents, for me is merely a more pleasant evening, with my legal drug. I can write my paper, study my psychology, be warm and civil to people I bump up against. I’ll spend the whole night without losing my temper. For Jim, four dollars and eighty-five cents is 6 Checker Burgers on Sunday special. Jim gave up a day of eatin’, and I’m afraid to let him come take a shower....

BTW... Check out Mama's writer's workshop.

...

Bride or Whore? Is Your Love Real?

Special thanks to Tracy Taylor, one of my flickr contacts for the use of her image, and her quick reply to my request. I needed something appropriate, and googling "bride whore" and the like REALLY wasn't getting me what I needed.

I was tracking down an email in an old unused account, and stumbled across one from an old friend, entitled "lover or prostitute". My friend Rick is a respected thinker/mentor figure in my life, and a devout Christian,whose opinion generally carries weight with me. Also, I have never rented a prostitute, and that whole thing is mysterious, and titillating. Of course I stopped scanning the other 400 chunks of forwarded jokes, ads for camping gear (not spam) and products to make my boobs bigger, or my butt smaller (spam). I opened it. I was an article penned by David Ryser, who writes with a clarity I envy. It was VERY thought provoking.
Now, Rick is an entrepreneur, restaurateur, and executive of tremendous success, but Rick don't blog, and Rick don't HTML. No link. It was weird, I found references to Ryser's article all over the web but couldn't find anyone who had linked 'im.

LINK!

So there. One of the no-linkers posted his email address. His url was in my box bright an early this morning.
Dude has posted an enormous amount of stuff on theology, and this was the first article, entitled "Lover or Prostitute? the Question That Changed My Life". It must have changed his life if his blog is one of the results. It's not light reading, but it's clear. What he writes doesn't confuse me. What he makes me think about... THAT may be a little confusing.
Dr. Ryser recalls a day he was teaching in a school of ministry:

I came across a quote attributed most often to Rev. Sam Pascoe. It is a short version of the history of Christianity, and it goes like this: "Christianity started in Palestine as a fellowship; it moved to Greece and became a philosophy; it moved to Italy and became an institution; it moved to Europe and became a culture; it came to America and became an enterprise." Some of the students were only 18 or 19 years old--barely out of diapers--and I wanted them to understand and appreciate the import of the last line, so I clarified it by adding, “An enterprise. That’s a business.” After a few moments Martha, the youngest student in the class, raised her hand. I could not imagine what her question might be. I thought the little vignette was self-explanatory, and that I had performed it brilliantly. Nevertheless, I acknowledged Martha’s raised hand, “Yes, Martha.” She asked such a simple question, “A business? But isn’t it supposed to be a body?” I could not envision where this line of questioning was going, and the only response I could think of was, “Yes.” She continued, “But when a body becomes a business, isn’t that a prostitute?”

I'm goin' kinda slow here, cuz the email was abridged. So as I read the article I'm stumbling over even more stuff to think about. Martha has asked a couple humdinger's and Dr. Paul makes a couple points about knowing/knowledge, and motives, expressing the an opinion that most American Christians do not know God--much less love Him. If I can muddy the water a bit, I would like to interject that in English, the word love is extremely vague, defined by context, often used in speech between people who have different things in mind. One way to minimize this miscommunication would be to write much more cumbersome paragraphs, where we substitute sentences in quotes for the word love. This would make the meaning more clear. like this:

• "I want to have a lifelong relationship of mutual submission(and hopefully you'll be better at this than me), transparency, and deepening emotional intimacy seasoned liberally with unbaggaged, guilt free sex"
• "I have a really warm fuzzy feeling when I look at you and remember all the things you've done that please me...and I want to spit out a nice tribute to this moment"
• " You have said you love me, in front of witnesses, and I don't want to be an asshole."

Whaddya think? Y'all wanna start doin' that? Or....We could add 20 or 30 or 50 words to the English language. When I marvel at how quickly and completely we have integrated the metric system here in the U.S., I think that would only take us a century to agree on the specifics, and another one to implement it. Or we could write all our posts on theology in Greek. Or we could look at a couple things.

Did Jesus say "Love God with most of your being, and direct the leftovers at your neighbor"?
No. He said to give it all to God. And then directs us to give some to others. Hello? Does anybody notice this seems paradoxical? I think we gravely underestimate the totality of agape. Dr. Ryser speculates:

“What’s the difference between a lover and a prostitute?” I realized that both do many of the same things, but a lover does what she does because she loves. A prostitute pretends to love, but only as long as you pay. Then I asked the question, “What would happen if God stopped paying me?”

It seems like Dr. Ryser believes a bride has agape, and a whore does not. What if the bride does stop receiving her pay? What if the groom denies her affection, conversation, disclosure, protection, and smokes the family budget in a crack pipe. You think this will affect their sex life? What if after a month of uncomfortable abstinence, He comes home geekin' an peekin', with no money, but his crack dealer in tow, so they can gang rape his wife for a $50 rock. These things happen. When she leaves, does that mean she is a whore? Or is she human, like me?

A parent claims to have unconditional love for their child, but it's their child. That's a condition. (I do think parent-child love is the closest picture, however...please, no insulted moms armed with torches, tar and feathers)

A spouse truly thinks they have unconditional love for their other half, until they catch em bangin' the secretary, mailman, or whoever.

Pastors (not mine!) claim unconditional love for their congregation. Huh.

Jesus says the greatest love is laying down your life for your friends. For most of my searching, starving, "where are you God?" life I thought this referred to the whole cross thing, but does it? If I died for you, as like a real big favor, because you sucked so bad you needed to be killed, but then I showed up 3 days later, what was my sacrifice?

Say a man goes from the age of accountability to the time of his death at 33, focused only on God's agenda for the benefit of those he loves. He rejects the women who want to marry him (you know there at least a couple). As the heir, he turns his back on the family carpentry business, to wander about as an itinerant rabbi, and serve God's purpose. Say he does this in the face of grave abuse, and crushing disappointment. Doesn't that more accurately describe the laying down of life? Could that be agape? Even the spiritual giants (and I use this term respectfully) that I know personally have families, homes, lives. Their ministry is just a part of it.

Perhaps agape sojourned here for 33 years, visiting from another world, the only place it occurs naturally. Perhaps love left a picture. Maybe we are just trying to sketch the photograph we have been given. Perhaps some of us sketch better than others. Teresa of Avila comes to mind:

Oh God, I don't love you, I don't even want to love you, but I want to want to love you!

*BTW, I have since been told that bastards (which Jewish culture would have considered Jesus) would not have been allowed to inherit... so I guess Jesus didn't turn away from the family business...oops.

The original shriners... Memories as milestones

The original shriners, originally uploaded by use2blost.

I noticed early in my experience of community (It began with support groups, and moved into Bible studies, and now has become something more authentic- I have a few intimate friends, and am blessed to be able to engage more deeply as time goes by...) That I was better at talking about my feelings than I was at feeling them. Talking about my emotions in detail became for me, a way of actually escaping the raw emotional turmoil of trajedy, burying it so that It haunted me rather than dealing with it and moving on. It seems to me, that God calls me to a deeper more personal walk alongside him, and lately, I am  alone more than I have been in years. Studies take up a great deal of my time, and though I feel somewhat disconnected, I know that this is only for a season. (It should actually improve in about 4 more weeks.) Grief in the past has been something to run from, cover, or deny in busyness, and though I am busy, It seems that many of the tools I used to avoid the process have been removed. Flitting to and fro in the blogosphere and obsessively photographing nearly anything, has had to take a back seat to matters of greater import, and as a result, I find myself moving through emotions, and seeing a little bit of light at the end of the tunnel. My good friend Kemp lost his father a few days ago, and stopping by to express my condolences evidently stirred up a little emotion. I later found myself at home alone, and came across the cache of old photographs that my Father left behind when He moved on from this world.  It occurs to me that me, and possibly my sister  are the only ones who know the story behind these old black and white photographs. My Father was a photo enthusiast, back in the day when that meant nailing plywood over the guestroom windows so you could develop your own prints. Electronics were huge, filled with vacuum tubes. My Dad's first calculator was 75 dollars and the size of a brick. this was back when when he made less than $275 a month. I can remember that these pictures were already around, before the Casio miracle. If I had to guess, these were taken around 1969. it was a wonderful surprise to stumble across them after He died. These pics are, I think of a place called Niko (not sure about the spelling) it was an area of Japan that was thick with shrines. Like most pictures, it looks better on an uncluttered black background

I emailed the dead yesterday.

Running Out of Daylight., originally uploaded by use2blost.

Is that morbid? If you send an undeliverable message, at least on Yahoo!, you will get a reply from the "Mailer Daemon". I half-expected that to happen, but evidently the account is still taking incoming mail. I missed my Dad so much, and needed so badly to talk to him about the emotional and logistical cataracts and white water that my life has become. It was pretty raw,  I wanted to engage and at some point, in my mind's eye the intended recipient grew blurry, and it was unclear if I was writing an FYI/lamentation to my deceased father, or a prayer of supplication to my Father In Heaven.  it did me a lot of good, get get some things out onto paper, if only the virtual kind. I cannot over-endorse the benefits of writing down thoughts for the severely attention deficit. Hopefully, Dad's widow, Rosemary doesn't check the account, or she may feel the need to send the Men in White Coats, but I figure the probability of that is low. CyberSpace has never had any attraction for her.

Tropical Depression Fay has cramped my style, though I'm not really complaining... much. I need money, and since taking on school full-time (math test tomorrow morning! :D) returning phone calls, giving bids, sleeping, etc. has been hard, and for the last two weeks, the only option I have had work-wise has been an exterior paint job. The class Saturday, from 8:30 to 2:00 leaves me two days a week to work, and they were both rained out. Now, I know I don't live in Florida, like my friend Melissa Drewry, And the bad timing couldn't have come at a better time, I was evidently (considering my E-seance) overdue for a little mental R&R. I even went to church (didja hear that, Chris Taylor?)!

Ol' Joe Has been working through a series on spiritual disciplines, and truly nailed me. This weeks message was on varieties of prayer, and the disciplines of self-denial: fasting, solitude, and such. The "podcast"  is worth checking out. Over the last few years, God has occasionally knocked indiscreetly on my forehead about this very issue. For some time he has patiently and repeatedly brought to my attention that consistent chunks of unstructured time, in silence, solitude and study are the next step for me. I tend to do enough along these lines that I can hold my own in an argument with my conscience but not enough for significantly deeper intimacy with God. Naturally enough, God hasn't been fooled, and I can no longer fool myself.

My! this post has gotten long, and the torrential downpour sounds awfully soothing.

Good night.

He was so cold

YOU MUST VIEW IT LARGE TO READ IT

 the moisture in an air-conditioned funeral home was condensing on his head. this was because he was not embalmed. My father's wife asked them to hold off on the cremation so that my sister could see him one last time.
A couple of years ago, a man co-ordinating a retreat asked me to teach on the study of scripture. He said the Holy Spirit directed his request. I was sick with anxiety. I had never before felt humbled and greatly honored simultaneously. While researching, I stumbled across another author quoting Philip Yancy's Disappointment With God:

• “Power can do everything but the most important thing: it cannot control love. In a concentration camp, the guards possess almost unlimited power. By applying force, they can make you renounce your God, curse your family, Work without pay, eat human excrement, kill and then bury your closest friend or even your own mother. All this is within their power. Only one thing is not: they cannot force you to love them. This fact may help explain why God sometimes seems shy to use his power. He created us to love him, but his most impressive displays of miracle—the kinds we may secretly long for—do nothing to foster that love.”

When It became clear that I was getting a divorce, I purchased the book and read it in it's entirety. In my emotionally raw state, Phillip's writing struck me powerfully. Possibly a week or ten days after I completed it, I found myself reeling from the death of my father. At this time it feels as though I read it years ago.The divorce papers sit in a kitchen cabinet in my new, beautiful, empty house, unsigned. My to do list has been put on hold, at least until tuesday. Since the tornadoes passed through the Macon state campus, I'm told that this semester will not begin on time. Last month, I could look back on the last six or seven years, and God's hand on my life seemed undeniable. My sight grows dim, My dreams are a joke, and I wonder if I deceived myself. I have journals going back to a time when I wrote prayers to a God whose name I did not know, I know If I could bring myself to read through them, I could trace my path as my Savior drew me to Him, and taught me his name. My faith is in shreds, I am suspicious even when comforted. Seven years Papa. 10 percent of my life. I have followed you, as best I could. My anger grows, I am surprised and fear you. I'm sorry. I have never been more aware of the gulf between souls. I know many suffer greater pain than this. I am so tired in the deepest part of me I yearn for rest. Reassure me of your love. Tell me again that this matters to you.

Denied Prayer

He died. It is likely that after 16 minutes of CPR he would have not been himself if he had recovered. It is hard to sort through my feelings. There is bitter disappointment, lonliness, an inarticulate longing for closeness and love. It is strange. I am loved much, and greatly, by many people, but my inner emptiness resounds within my soul...ebbs and flows, retreating when I feel like another moment would be my undoing. I find another hour has passed. I was a failure as a son and as a man for much of our relationship, but by God's Grace, a bridge had been rebuilt and my father knew many of my regrets, and freely forgave me.
I harbor no resentment at the Ancient Of Days, He administers the universe as he sees fit, and some time ago I surrendered, and said "let Him do to me as seems good to Him". I may complain, question, even wallow in childish petulance, but I know I have no where else to turn. When things were inconvenient, and difficult to understand Peter said "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life"