Thursday, January 10, 2008
Filler
All this overtime will eventually result in a handsome paycheck, but, in the meantime, doesn't leave me a lot at the end of a day for things like blogging. But I have found time to begin magically converting my old travel pics into shiny digital. A few of these, for lack of anything better to do, have found their way to a curious site going by the name The Mad Nomad, which , by happy coincidence, seems to be linked to this one (under Photos). For those whose very purpose in life hangs on my regular updates - first...get help. Seriously, you need it. But if you really need to see something new from me...I personally think some of these are kinda cool, and I'm throwing more up every few days...so, as the two of you wait in eager anticipation for my next profound discourse, check it out. Or not. Really, its still kind of a free country....
Saturday, January 05, 2008
My chariot awaits...
He shall be a faithful steed, and bear me fearlessly into all sorts of mayhem. I think I shall call him "Porthos". (I don't know why,but while ships may be girls, cars are always male, to me. Figure that out.)
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
I grumble because of what I do not have. But, just possibly, I do not have because I do not ask. And when I ask, I ask amiss.
......
Thank you. You are, incredibly, still there. You do not hide. Perhaps you are done hiding, or perhaps, you have taught me better ways to look. You wait for me to come around, to come home. You are patient. You can afford to be. You know I can’t write without you. I am only honest, I am only myself, I am only at home with you, and I can only write from home. Everything I attempt from that split self trails off in a realization of its own redundancy, knowing that no matter how I smash the words together, I can’t make them say anything. You know who I am, and I know who I am only when I stand in that one spot, the familiar one, where I see things in their places, and you in the one that is naturally yours – filling all of it, expanding, frighteningly fast, beyond the edges of visible space...that direction I can face, only for a second, and must look away. You know I have seen too much. I have known you, my God, and you know I will never be content, not now, not with anything else. Not with anything less. You can be patient. You know I’ll come back. I scream and rage, I tire myself out…and your answer comes quietly. You move silently, in the night…and I wake to find my monsters slain. I thank you. After storm, whirlwind, fire, thunder and shattered rock...I hear that whisper, faint beneath thought, stronger than the certainty of death - Yet I hear it. I crawl out of my cave, and, again, I find you. I hear you. You speak.
......
Thank you. You are, incredibly, still there. You do not hide. Perhaps you are done hiding, or perhaps, you have taught me better ways to look. You wait for me to come around, to come home. You are patient. You can afford to be. You know I can’t write without you. I am only honest, I am only myself, I am only at home with you, and I can only write from home. Everything I attempt from that split self trails off in a realization of its own redundancy, knowing that no matter how I smash the words together, I can’t make them say anything. You know who I am, and I know who I am only when I stand in that one spot, the familiar one, where I see things in their places, and you in the one that is naturally yours – filling all of it, expanding, frighteningly fast, beyond the edges of visible space...that direction I can face, only for a second, and must look away. You know I have seen too much. I have known you, my God, and you know I will never be content, not now, not with anything else. Not with anything less. You can be patient. You know I’ll come back. I scream and rage, I tire myself out…and your answer comes quietly. You move silently, in the night…and I wake to find my monsters slain. I thank you. After storm, whirlwind, fire, thunder and shattered rock...I hear that whisper, faint beneath thought, stronger than the certainty of death - Yet I hear it. I crawl out of my cave, and, again, I find you. I hear you. You speak.
This is a good day. “ Behold, I make all things new…” Today, at least, I believe it…
Waking in one household, and stopping , briefly, at another – strikingly illustrates for me the different places one can live their life from. In one house for no more than 5 minutes, and those are filled with bitterness, curses, anger and complaints. In the other, the sort of chaos only children can produce…but it is chaos with laughter, and though I must leave in a hurry, I leave with an odd feeling rising inside…something perilously close to Joy. Peace. All may not be right in the world, but, at least in this little world…all is pretty darn close. And I, a guest only, am warmed by being here, and carry that with me. The five minute tirade at my other stop is a jarring contrast, like finding broken beer bottles and fast food garbage in a sunlit mountain meadow. An icy blast of winter wind in a warm and happy room. But not enough to smother this. Not today.
Waking in one household, and stopping , briefly, at another – strikingly illustrates for me the different places one can live their life from. In one house for no more than 5 minutes, and those are filled with bitterness, curses, anger and complaints. In the other, the sort of chaos only children can produce…but it is chaos with laughter, and though I must leave in a hurry, I leave with an odd feeling rising inside…something perilously close to Joy. Peace. All may not be right in the world, but, at least in this little world…all is pretty darn close. And I, a guest only, am warmed by being here, and carry that with me. The five minute tirade at my other stop is a jarring contrast, like finding broken beer bottles and fast food garbage in a sunlit mountain meadow. An icy blast of winter wind in a warm and happy room. But not enough to smother this. Not today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
