Orion's Between the Wrought Iron

there's times when i sit by the pool at my complex at night and stare at the moon and stars. i light a cigarette and watch the smoke filter up to it's cousin clouds. my mind goes from blank, to outrageous to insane to content and back again in these times. the following is a peek at what happens inside of that reckless wandering in my mind.

Orion's between the wrought iron
with satellites blinking above
a riot turns to a choir
and all we can sing is love

failure's never tasted the way you do now
so damn the clasps on your blouse
they make me cry
a wailing walled inside of the city glow
and the feeling of your breath i know
they'll make us die

stammer clamor the glamor of this night
while walks beneath the city lights
flesh of my flesh, i made you with her
but what's making me make me, what's making her stir?

i'd rather sit and stare than think and thwart
my plans, your plans, our plans' parts
in the play of the lifetime of a million men
give me my lines and for God's sake, tell me where to stand

song game (beta version)

sometimes i'll take a song and change all the words into words that rhyme but make it mean something completely different. maybe i'll start making this a game. guess this song:

run now, sprout a wary fleshing
fumed thy parts few, bring shy hate
beams love hurting, leverage keeping
fall on throngs, some crowded place
reach, see, come, tell odious conquest
flung high, shaming rungs of love
raised amount, rhymed sticks, i'll pawn it
count love high, pre breeding son.

Dear JohnPaulGeorgeRingo

Thank you.

my heart went boom
when i crossed that room
and i held her hand in mine
we danced through the night
and we held each other tight
and before too long
i fell in love with her
i'll never dance with another
since i saw her standing there

what is a border?

dear neighbor,

there are two of us, and the only way to distinguish you from me is this thing i just dreamed up in my basement. i spent hours down there. the moment the idea hit me, i was sipping on a small glass of the worst bourbon made. there was a breeze blowing in through my window and the curtains swelled and regressed like the chest of a woman lying under her sheets. i could hear you outside. you and your dog. with the occasional bark at a passing car, i was bringing myself into a trance. the symphony of noises outside created a rhythm that made it easy for me. then, as the dog bark therapist snapped his fingers i woke up to the idea. as i crept up from my wing back chair, i refilled my glass, lit my cigarette and opened the creaking door to my dungeon. with each step into the recesses of my mind and house the idea was forming and growing and coming to life. in the dark coolness i sat at my work bench and flicked on the 120 Hz hypnotic bulb that was sure to increase the likelihood that my thoughts would form into a cohesive mixture of ration and common sense. this idea in its infancy seemed outside of both those realms. up until now, you and i, we had no distinction. both images of the same Thing. both created wonderfully. but nowadays that's just not reasonable. we've come too far to maintain this facade that we shouldn't be distinctively perceived from one another. my right hand formulated the equations needed to accomplish the practical parts of my idea while my left hand sketched lovely pictures of what beauty this thing would bring. topography on my right and scenery on my left. required rules on my right and resulting liberty on my left. this was a difficult process. trial and error was my modus operandi and it wasn't pleasant company to keep. but after hours and hours of tossing away reams of paper and refilling my glass with the Tennessee fuel that kept me going, it happened.

the idea was formed.
the creation was made.
i created a border.

in the initial stages, this may hurt a little. as the first to become separated there will be some pain. a scalpel wasn't made to tickle, but once this is done you will be free. i will be free. free to shed this burden we've borne our entire lives. the burden of each other. its still unclear what, if any, new burdens may come into play, but how can we not at least give it a try? if you start to feel as though you can't handle the in's and out's of daily life alone, just remember the impossibilities we faced every day when we had no borders! in remembrance there should be peace. and if all goes according to the plans my hands put to paper then we'll soon have a world of freed slaves. i remember a man saying that we can't be a slave to two masters, but i propose that we need not be a slave to any master! i propose that we all be free! free of all hindrances and weights that will surely bring us to our demise. this is a new concept to you, i understand, but it's new to me as well! why should we question the huge wad of cash that has been placed in our inside jacket pocket? why would we ever doubt that every gift is perfect? in the days prior to our pending separation we had no choice but to trust each other, and i'm not saying we need to lose that. quite the contrary! now we have the freedom to choose who we trust and when we want to! i hope that you agree with me that the onus of trust felt like an anvil on my head every second of the day. now we can remove the anvil if we want!

now, here are a few of the necessary rules to life with borders that i've come up with to help make the transition seamless:

1. respect me. now that i'm free, i may or may not want to be a part of whatever it is you may be doing. if i want to, then rejoice. if i don't want to, understand and move on.
2. be independent. i don't expect you to help me accomplish the mundane tasks anymore, and so don't expect me to help you either.
3. create an established system for yourself and question all other systems. in your new freedom there is a responsibility to accomplish what you need to, and the best way to do it is to create a system by which you can judge all things and weigh their relevance to you and your life. and please, remember i'm doing the same and i'll be questioning your system daily. i'm unsure how we'll each feel about each others' systems but i'm convinced mine will be the best. you will probably feel the same about yours.


there is sure to be amendments to the constitution of independence, but those will come in time.

i hope that you are as excited about a border between us as i am. freedom is going to feel amazing, and i highly doubt anything negative will come of this. one day our grandkids will look back and thank us for making their world better. for making their world clear cut and organized. i will be over later tonight to begin the process of changing the world. see you then.

no longer yours,
James

a question of origin

how did the organization of organized religion become organized in the way it is?

i went to lunch last week with my dad and two brothers at my dad's church. it was a luncheon for their men's ministry at which the head pastor spoke for about 15 minutes. as he spoke one thought kept ringing in my head: "how did it ever become this way?" not that the way it is now is completely bad or completely good. i just wonder (at least as far as Christianity is concerned) how did we get a bible? what events or moments led us to deciphering those scriptures through the channel of a leader who has at least a masters in theology? who decided that it goes: sing songs, pray, listen to a man interpret God's word, sing some more, respond to the interpretation, pray again, then go to Luby's?

these questions i'm sure could be answered with some intensive studies on the history of the church. but the question of "why?" isn't so easily answered. why have i come to accept that if i trust someone, for whatever reason, that their interpretation of what i believe to be God's word is as gospel as the Gospel? and more than that, why do i suppose that i may have a better insight into that word? maybe i do. maybe i don't. the conclusion i've come to is that none of us can fully or reasonably interpret His word. not today. or tomorrow. it can't be done(accomplished to an end). but it should be done(attempted by all means). God is God and i am man. God's language might never make sense to my ability to translate, but that hasn't stopped Him from speaking. nor should it stop me from listening. i hope to understand when i need to, and if i don't or can't then hope that just the sound of His voice soothes, stirs and saves me. (see what i did there? alliterated three point sermon? come on.)

as for the problem of the organization of our religion and all of its pitfalls, well, here's this:

"Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress and refusing to let the world corrupt you." -James 1:27

so lets do that. and let the organization be formed inside that frame. in the meantime, lets keep talking and listening.

a story in parts. this is three. (and the last for now)

all she wished she could do was wash her hands of the whole thing. there was a moment that the dirt under her finger nails reminded her of the times digging for treasure with Ethan in her back yard. the filth on her hands was a sign of a time full of happiness, regardless of the obvious health issues of living her entire life never cleaning them. but now... now that she was where the dirt had so embedded itself into her skin, she scrubbed and scrubbed with metal brushes and he wouldn't come out. all she wanted him to do was come out. after a lengthy talk with her mother about the pitfalls of love and the perils of life, a quick drive around the old neighborhood with a few cups of tea in her veins, and she felt calmer. she felt ready to confront it all. to get back in her car, drive to his house, walk to his door, knock, wait, smile, hug, walk, talk, confront, cry... and after that she wasn't sure. what came after that she could never have written in her most imaginative moment. so she stood up, determined as the Philistine facing down a young boy who claimed his God would save him. and as she walked towards her front door, the rock hit her forehead. there was Ethan. at her door. all strength she hoped to gain on the drive to his house was waiting outside on the road. all the emotional fortitude she'd hoped would grow in her in the time it took to get to his house was still a fetus. helpless. she was helpless. Constance could feel her Atlas knees giving way to weight of this world of Ethan. through the window was his smile, and below his smile was the second bouquet. somehow she made it to the door, and as she opened it, the breeze blew in and brought tears with it. all he said was "hi." and her arms were around his neck. she had those laugh cries that people get when they don't know how to emote. if a cough was a person and that person was laughing like a middle aged woman screaming at a spider, that was how she sounded.

after the whirlwind settled they started to walk. it was beautiful spring day and the sun couldn't have been more appropriate. the breeze was playing its role perfectly. and the words coming from his mouth were singing the soundtrack. as he waxed eloquent on his time in Europe she could hear the Lord. as he spoke about the tragedy he lived in she could see God's face. and she felt low, humbled, ignoble but still somehow, loved and welcome. they spent the remaining daylight hours sharing what their lives were while they were apart. she let the vulnerability that she knew so well with him be her language. and by that, learned that even in his missionary life, he felt the same loneliness she had donned all these years. he had come home for her. it was true. and when he walked her back to the front door of her parents' house, stars blinking lovely above the cloud they were on, he kissed her.

and now we're here. now he is back in the US and looking for his next step vocationally. now she is amidst a love that would cripple a nation if it were a bomb. and the next steps we don't know about, but we know they're taking them together.

this was a story about Constance and Ethan. and its not over yet.

i am not a prophet

[see: blog title] i don't know where this came from but i wrote it to myself and thought you might like to read it, too.


Allow me to exonerate you for your moments. All of them. The moments you thought you were accomplishing good or making the world a better place. The moments you were secretly hoarding all the glory for yourself as you built up your reputation under your name. For the moments that you selfishly wrapped your arms around your brother to comfort him with your expecting hug. Those moments in which your character shone to the world as the brightest light in the sky... your character. You assume your words have power because you have assigned them such power, but who assigned you with an ability to speak? You feel as though you have an ability to reconcile your race to the creation in which you live, but who is the Creator of it and you? Take your abilities, take your words, take your momentous occasions and burn them. The smoke will be lifted up to my nose and I will be pleased. The scent of the false hopes melting brings joy to my heart. When did you ever begin to think that you could find hope in each other? You are all as fallen as your neighbor. The power of 6 billion is that of monarch moth under My foot. Do not claim your convincing arguments have any weight in my court or you will be shot down by my judgment. But just sit there. Sit in the chair and listen to the Words that spoke everything out of nothing. Listen to them speak to you through the filter of my grace. This filter saves you. It saves you from the Power that would surely kill you in your broken state. I am. I am perfect. I am that I am. You cannot understand that, nor can you understand me. But sit. Sit and listen. Listen because of grace. Hear by faith that you are able to hear Me. You are mine and now due to the prayers of my Son, I am yours. Exoneration from yourself is yours.

Now let's talk about who you're going to become...