I write for silly thoughts can be expressive

When the world, at least this portion, spins silent darkness I hearken to the soft ringing of relaxing cilia and supercilia, to the gentle relaxing beat of an eardrum. I can hear a quiet symphony build, mostly strings, light woodwinds, and a brass that is ever-sentenced to play rhythm and undertones, rarely featured, and never above D (frankly speaking I find it atrocious that my mind would confine such a beautiful sound). But, inevitably the cello builds and the violin takes over, perhaps a nicely paired piano can weave a tonal pattern accepted by the night. It is always in question which mood is being played, either one I need, or one in which I lay, as though they were drinks or tonics or puddles to cure or kill the day and leave blank space (I rarely dream well) for the next day, a blank page to begin, apparently I may be in need of a dedication (and I will apologize for run-ons) or title page, what good is a story without at least a working title upon which to build, what man went to build a road and dug a river? how absurd. I.eye.aye.I.
Some days, when it is gray, or the sun has a gentle hand, or is mitigated by mist..or, at least when it can feel like rain, but it has yet to divulge its location, or be brought to light (funny, I think, this pairing of light with rain), or after it has stopped or moved on to water other peoples' gardens, I can see it rain before my eyes, upon the streets and the passersby. Unusual how someone drenched by such heavenly downpours can walk with such a valiant carelessness as to neglect the state of precipitation, or their need for an umbrella, or towel. Perhaps I should be so easy to acquiesce. But I prefer my precipation consolidated, in streams or puddles, lakes or oceans. I do like it to rain. I like my shower (though a good bath is hard to beat). I like to stand in the rain and look up and watch it fall, holding my dry hands out for help and feel it splash upon my fingers and then squeeze it in my hands, holding a place foreign and unkown to me (the world is at your fingertips).
Somedays, when the time is just right and I slow myself down from the bustle of car horns and wheels on pavement, when I can find the right breath and look between the distance that leads away from this moment (I simply cannot find the right wording to describe how a moment is stolen by the object ahead of you), I can see the sunshine. It dances, in a congealed motion (like jello jiggles) with all the other sparkling, dancing pieces of sunlight. It doesn't flow like a river, it sparkles like the sun upon it (or perhaps it flows and I can just see the sun sparkle on the air). Oh, and it does love to dance. Just for your eyes and your amusement, joy, wonder, awe, and attention it loves to dance (though it dances whether you watch or not). I call it sparkles, but you can call it what you like, I'm sure you'd name it something wonderful and more creative than sparkles, or give it some technical name, like, "solar refraction of scattered hydrogen dioxide from a fixed, or nearly fixed, point."
I am not deep. The world is. The more look through both concave and convex lenses, the more you will see- the more you will realize how much is out there, either way out there, or just right there, or over there, or down there, or up there. The puddle reflects the sky to unimaginable depths so long as it is still and quiet.
I have a wish, before I post this ridiculous prose of a post of what I see and hear (I do, actually, see and hear these things on occassion), and my wish is to be what is needed and wanted by others... I have no need for me (and if I said no want, they might lock me up, so I'll leave it at need).. what good is a hammer to itself? or a cup to itself? I was put here, as you were, to serve others and enjoy the music, rain, light. Oh, my stars.. my wishes.

Sky Blue

Apparently this is my 100th blog... Happy Anniversary? whatever the appropriate salutation may be, I had a thought a few days ago which tucked itself into the side of my mind. Consequently, it is not as fluid or eloquent as the first time it rang in my head, but such are the words which become damaged by days of pondering.

While walking down a lane lined by trees and curling into the same trees, I noticed a magnificently blue sky, and began to wonder upon its blue-ness. I declined the scientific explanation in hopes of finding a child-like answer to the question, "why is the sky blue?" Well, it is blue for many reasons.

First, it is blue because blue so perfectly complements the greeen of the earth (even when the trees turn yellow, red, and then brown, it is still a perfect match).

Then it is blue to block the stars during the day so that you may realize that life is what occurs everywhere around you; that it is here, on earth, and so that you may focus on those things around you.

The only star to be seen during the day is the sun. This is so that you may come to understand, daily, that life is dependant on something other than yourself. And the moon also, which guides the tides, can be seen. This is so you may understand that not everything is in your control- there is a greater force which guides us.

Then this perfectly matched blue sky, which by day conceals the depths of the universe, dissolves as the sun sets so that you may wonder upon the stars before you go to bed. And the blue sky remains hidden until morning so that your dreams my have no limits, that you may be without bounds before it gently reminds, with the help of the sun, that there are things here that need to be done.

A Great Canyon

Echoing in fading rhythmic tides: a shout dissipates into a quiet space. This is my canyon. I hold it in my back pocket. Someone will read it (maybe) someday. But being read isn't the point. Being heard isn't either. The point is to release the word like a jumper into a great canyon. And when the echoes have faded, and the vibrations of the words have dissipated. And when your words can only be found in the law of conservation of information (or the internet), then the canyon has served a purpose.

It is true. I make myself naseous on the things I see that I have done. It is no wonder to me that I make others naseous also.

I am a weak individual, unaware of what lies in the depths of me; afraid to go exploring- for those things near the surface can only pale in comparison the ugliness of the things that lie beneath (right?) There is a great depth that is the soul, it is unsearchable and unknowable (even the oceans of earth aren't completely known, and a soul is far more vast than the oceans)

I do love, but not as I should.

I am deserving of love, but don't really think so. I confound myself in this.

I don't know. Of the few things I do know, this is what I know best.

I find it easy to forgive. Certainly a sign that I am need of so much of it. They say a minister preaches what he needs most. If I were a preacher, this would be my message every sunday.

What I love is who you are.(what you have shown yourself to be)
What I love is the amount of you I have yet to know.
What I love is waking up next to you, even when I've failed and you're mad.
I could holler in this canyon a million things I love about you, and I just might, knowing that through the law of conservation of information it will be kept and held by the universe, until it ends, and known throughout the stars that I love you.

The Final Transmission

I have been eager to make a pointed transmission, ending the ragged run of sporratic excerpts and lessons from my life. I am happy to say I have discovered my final point. It is the one thing I truly wish to pass on. It is the legacy I wish to leave behind, and the work I wish for us to do.
In my mind, I always seek out efficiency of action, not because I am lazy, but because I ascribe to the motto: "work smarter, not harder." But, truly, smarter work has higher, and more effective, gains. So let me begin.
Proverbs 11:30 "The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life, and he who wins souls is wise."
Be wise and win souls.. and I shall tell you how. As it requires the most simple of regurgitated questions.
Ask those you meet, "Who do you say Jesus of Nazareth was?"
In this way, you allow them the opportunity to accept and profess that he is the son of the living God, avoid it in shame (and thus the Lord will be ashamed of him), or deny it.
it is in Matthew 16:15-19(Peter's confession of Christ) that the revelation of Christ as the Son of God, comes from the Father himself, and on the rock of this confession is safety from hell, and thus a person has been saved.
So go, save lives, be fruitful and wise.

until you know

Until you know, understanding is as inconsequential, and far less frequented upon, as a two dollar bill. Simon had a ball that bounced well, multiplying the force which he induced. It was a solid ball, but not so hard that it hurt if he pelted you with it, as he enjoyed doing on occassion- not because he was mean, but, as he put it, he "liked to keep you on your toes." Neither the ground, nor the sky, could grasp that shaded sphere the way he did, nor did they enjoy its beautiful sophistication and grandeur the way he did, however, they were capable of giving it demensions his hands could not, and this is why I say he bounced it on its way. Giving it every chance to see the ground, the grass, the sky, the tree, the sun, the rain, and a passerby's temporary pain. That ball caught glances, and peers, frowns, and tears once when he had to take it back from a small child. Until you know, understanding is a left handed turn into a brick wall that doesn't move or acknowledge your existence. Simon also had a bucket he tended to leave at home, in a dark corner of his closet behind a bag and next to some shoes he had outgrown. He kept it empty always, thus not having to debate the merits of it being half full or half empty. When he brought it out he would hold it for a moment, staring into its slightly narowing space and into the bottom. It had finality and he seemed to take comfort in that notion, and in filling it up with water from the tap so that he could dump it back out again and place it in the same spot behind the bag and next to the shoes. until you know, understanding is an effort in futility. Simon, had a ball and a bucket, they were his two favorite things.

Same as it ever was.

I come here less frequently than I should like, but I suppose that I can attribute that to the static nature of my life. Same as it ever was. The only thing that changes from one day to the next seems to be the date, the different lines and farthering distance we travel. I keep few friends, some acquaintances, but rarely indulge in trusting another person, though it seems to be becoming fashionable again- to trust.
It could be said that if you wish to further your life, to take another step and dig yourself out of mire, you should let me befriend you, for as I have learned I maintain a magical quality that allows people to become greater than this city, to find what they love or what makes them happy, and then seek it elsewhere. Make no mistake, I do not begrudge these people for leaving. I suppose I could leave, but what in this world could make a man, so discontent, fly past contentment in a yellow ray happiness? or waggle in pale blue and dark green to grow thick roots and leaves and bask simply under a burning sun... caring not about the heat of summer or the snows of winter?
I should look to the positive, but alas I have no will, no desire, to seek out such things on a warm, thick night when even the stars have trouble seeing; have trouble communicating the cold solitude and endless ocean of black choking eternal night where each must be its own light, its own day, its own ray of hope- for who runs to them for hugs and kisses? no, no, it is only wishes they are asked to grant, like a genie confined to a lamp but with less, more distant contact. (sigh)

Just so you know

Faltering and flailing, through screams and harsh whispers, it all remains in a constant flux of poorness of spirit, of hope, of light that anything should end and leave a better beginning.
I write occassionally now (being daily), but the words, as the days, are insufficient and yield fewer results than a field baked in drought, left thirsty for water that doesn't exist. It doesn't exist as it once was thought, or was hoped to be. I'm tired and if I had the strength... if I had the strength.

How many times, how many ways
can the days, be counted and numbered-
ravaged, torn-through, plundered and razed
to the ground and be left buried deep
within its own walls, below its own ash:
the haze of a memory that slowly fades?

Why can the light be measured, not saved,
like the remnants of a well-prepared meal
wrapped neatly in celaphane, tucked away
for good use tomorow, or the day after?
....

The mountain was mine from dry brush to green pine
to the snow capped peak blurred by the breeze
and seldom reached, rarely touched, but by the careful hand
stretched out from a calm blue sky, and water
like a floating river or poind. Always seen a challenge,
a goal, for one to aspire to climb, to conquer,
never to hold or carry, for certainly a mountain is too heavy,
too wide, too big for a pocket, or wallet, or purse-
unless, of course, a silky sleek snapshot in perfect light, a perfect memory
lacking the wholeness of even a moment
and certainly the fullness of a day, ayear,
or the ages required to form the shear-faced cliff
of dangling men and loose rocks- the face of a thousand years
formed of ages and wearing and purpose; for a moment in each moment
of motion, of growing, of sowing, saving, spending, shining glory,
shining in day or night, under the milky stars.

oh what cruel futility lies
in the utility of this world
that started,
that ends,
that bends with each season
for the single reason:
to start
to end
to render a page, a book,
the words of the world you speak
easy and without care: like the leaf
in the air that begins the end:
the turning of leaves to a burning fire of smoldering
envy; into dry brown ashes covering the ground that crunch
beneath each step of useless wandering you take,
as the cigarette smolders teh world burns,
and turns,
and yearns for the meaning of destiny,
of fate,
of a life lacking the hate
clutched in your cruel, dull, beating heart
and you ponder upon the light
of water-the cool cleansing rinse;
or shower
to rid you of the grime of the day.

All these miles.

I am quite certain that nobody reads the words I put forth here. But hesitation remains. So I will try to write fluidly. May the possibility of your eyes not be a hindrance to the opening of my heart, or the purity of my words.

I have travelled all these miles to pose you a question. I shall first comment on my current condition: ever declining and empty of motivation and full of ideas- stagnant, stinging ideas singing melancholy and steel. I have not written in a while as complacency has befriended me yet again. Not that I am happy with the current state of affairs- either worldly or personal; but, then, don't all personal issues have a worldly weight? My life is not what I would want for anyone. They would tell me the Lord would not give you more than you take.. well, I suppose limits are meant to be tested. And even with my life not being what I would want it to be, I must consider the notion: Perhaps I wrote my life before the world began, and chose this path purposefully. To me, that would make sense. I am increasingly falling out of love with this world... I continue to loathe my dependance on the world, and become ever more aware of exactly how deep this dependance runs. So, when we finally reach the question I travelled all these miles to ask, forgive me if I seem... well, to favor one side. I do not like the way I look, but constantly look with admiration at my reflection. Ugh, even the music I once to consolation in only seems to pertube me. It has come down to a few songs that touch a fervent chord inside of me.. I close my eyes, sitting outside in the heavy night air of Indiana, the sky is clear and the stars are faint through the haze, and as I listen, I feel my heart shake my body with every forceful beat and pause. Then I feel the delay, my heart beats in jazz rhythms. My chest swells, and as I relax to breathe a face peaks through the curtain, "come with me," she says. Anyways, the question. That idea I wish you to consider. The one all my years have led me to bring to your doorstep. That is why I am here, or perhaps I am here to answer it. Dilemmas abound like mosquitos in a rain-heavy season: buzzing and biting, nagging and annoying.
Why do we work for money when the Lord is certainly capable of providing, willing to provide for your needs?
This is yours to consider. Know that you are not alone if this causes you worry or concern, I am mired in its web. entangled never to return. The spider awaits, savors its prey, but alas, I clipped my wings by my words, and can fly no more.

How the story begins

I don't know why my brain is given direction at random times, perhaps it just grabs the oddest things it hears and makes fantastical stories. Anyways, I was sitting on the ledge of a window at work, smoking, when two men walked by, certainly no older than 25, both maintaining heights of 6 feet or greater-it was hard to tell from my lowly angle- when the thinner of the two, built not much bigger than a distance runner, pointed to his arm and said, "this is the biggest I've ever been." Now some people might laugh, he wasn't that big, and surely he was talking about his muscles, but my mind raced with the idea that he had stumbled upon some secret formula that temporarily increased his height, and perhaps age. So, my theory, is that they were two 12 year olds (immature as males usually are) who were in some temporary transition brought on by chemical transformations caused by some secret scientific discovery that will allow all 12 year olds to appear old enough to enter bars and drink until the people around them are sure that they really are twelve.

A thought for today

I know that I lack straightforwardness, and often think myself clever or witty, but I speak (write) in vagueness not to hide the details of my life, but so that the ideas that inhabit me may be shared in their most basic forms. It is how I connect. It is how I wish to be connected. It is how I wish to affect change, by allowing others to think out from the basic idea into their own life and circumstances.
It is a motto of mine, "Cause and Affect" exhibiting my desire to cause and affect change in the world, not by my own will, and not by forcing change upon others, but to show them that there is more, perhaps more than they have dreamed, or possibilities that were otherwise hidden from their view, and that the more is readily available to catch their every step.

A verse I frequently become enamoured and frustrated with is, "a man cannot serve two masters." I have found that the next paragraph is enlightening in that it begins, "therefore," or better to say, "because I have asked this of you" do not worry. because if you seek His Kingdom and His Righteousness first, all the things you need would be given to you.

I have spoken plainly only to a few about the possible implications of this passage. I refuse to believe that I am of greater faith than others. In fact, I believe it to be quite the contrary. But still, as I voiced what I believed to be true and right, as supported by the above passage and still others, my belief was dismissed, each time, with no delay. It would seem to me that basic constructs of this world are well intact and above questioning, perhaps it is for the best. I suppose that nothing questioned can ever be thought wrong.... and if you don't know its wrong, the blows will be few, but those who know the master's will and do not do it will be beaten with many blows.