The grass is always greener on the other side. But it’s not always cut.

I’ve been thinking recently about the way my life was constructed, organized whilst in Australia, contrasted to my current life here in Orlando/America.

I remember missing my community and my close friendships when I was in Sydney. I loved being with Mel, but it was hard having only one person who REALLY understood me and all my American ways and my silly psychological issues and my ridiculous sense of humour.

And being in America I am overwhelmed by this thing that I missed so entirely and it’s beautiful. But I find myself longing for the days when I’d be so alone and more adequately able to focus on God and His Majesty and His Beauty. And I miss that introverted time. A lot.

I need to find balance for this. It’s hard to do so when I want to see you people who I love so much. I forget to take time for myself.

Part of it is probably too that I don’t want to be left out of something exciting. So I just go along for the ride without considering that I should be alone a bit.

Anyway, just random thoughts. That’s what blogs are for, right?

Playing with Dynamite, John Updike

Yet another podcast from The New Yorker Fiction. I believe this is my favorite quote from this short story:

“Like the Titans, they seemed beautiful but sad in their brief heyday, transition figures between chaos and an airier pantheon.”

ghost of christmas past

i miss the days when we would have a new adventure waiting whenever we felt like leaving.

i miss the hours we’d trek across the city to a surprising new locale, breathing in the foreign air.

it almost seems unfair that we experienced such a reality — maybe nobody was ever intended to live such a life in this mortal body.

Signs & Symbols, Vladimir Nabokov

Excerpt. Check out a reading of the entire story on Podcast (The New Yorker Fiction). Brilliant.

“The system of his delusions had been the subject of an elaborate paper in a scientific monthly, but long before that she and her husband had puzzled it out for themselves. “Referential mania,” Herman Brink had called it. In these very rare cases the patient imagines that everything happening around him is a veiled reference to his personality and existence. He excludes real people from the conspiracy – because he considers himself to be so much more intelligent than other men. Phenomenal nature shadows him wherever he goes. Clouds in the staring sky transmit to one another, by means of slow signs, incredibly detailed information regarding him. His inmost thoughts are discussed at nightfall, in manual alphabet, by darkly gesticulating trees. Pebbles or stains or sun flecks form patterns representing in some awful way messages which he must intercept. Everything is a cipher and of everything he is the theme. Some of the spies are detached observers, such are glass surfaces and still pools; others, such as coats in store windows, are prejudiced witnesses, lynchers at heart; others again (running water, storms) are hysterical to the point of insanity, have a distorted opinion of him and grotesquely misinterpret his actions. He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes
were limited to his immediate surroundings – but alas it is not! With distance the to rents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up in terms of granite and groaning firs the ultimate truth of his being.”

tears of fire

I find myself wishing we were walking together. As I sit in my room and read about social injustice and big-picture worldly ideas, I just want to be where I don’t have to think.

I wish we were walking down the chilly streets of Portland, hurrying hand in hand, fighting against the bitterly cold winds that threaten to overcome us. But they don’t, because we are unstoppable. And so we’d run, faster and faster, until the cold air snatched and kept our breath and we’d duck into the nearest local coffee shop for a freshly made Italian latte or English Breakfast (even though it’s far past dinner.)

I’d stare into your eyes over the steaming hot cup and wonder what you were thinking. I’m so happy to be here with you, That’s what I’d be thinking. In the moments in which I have no desire to analyze or overthink or dissect, I’m so happy to be here with you. It always feels that way when I’m with you, and I miss that.

We’d rush back into the deeply dark frigid evening, renewed by the hot liquids coursing through our veins, the crazy hormones sprinting through our bodies. And we’d go to a place you told me about once, which I never imagined attempting in the cold. Never one to let you outdo me in any contest, I’d acquiesce. And we’d climb to the top of that canyon, hike to the height of that gorge, just to stand along the very edge and stare, wide-eyed up to the heavens.

Meteor shower.

The heavens rained down flaming, fiery tears at the distant sight of the injustices of which I read about.

And my dream of Winter-Port-land fades into the distance as the voices in the living room come back into being.

VOLUME 47

(arise, arise)

 

grey, grey winter skies

wisping, whirling clouds above

morning cold enveloped me whole

drops of dew and tiny drizzles

trekking across our city, reborn

(distort, distort)

 

forces from a source familiar

compressing, colliding, confounding anew

withdrawal sensed, departure felt

at Truth and timeless Words of old.

 

freedom rediscovered, soul rewarded

 

(Distraction, Distraction)

 

Recaptured, Reclaimed by spirits and demons

Projecting Prayer and Power outward

Demanding Release of Captives Enslaved

Insistently Intervening for the Silent Brave

 

Screaming, Swirling, Swelling principalities

 

(BATTLE, BATTLE)

 

CONFRONTED, CONFLICTED, MY WORDS POURED FORTH

ARGUMENTS SHRIEKED, FLESHLY AND SPIRITUAL

WORSHIPING VOICES SING SOFTLY AROUND,

QUIETLY CROONING, LIBERATION OF THE LOST

 

“EVERY HEART WILL SEE THIS HOPE WE HAVE IN YOU”

 

(VOLUME, VOLUME)

BLASTING, BLARING APPEALS FOR THE SEPARATED

FLESHLY WANTS DEFEATED, SPIRIT REIGNS HIGH

EMANATING, EMITTING RIPPLES OF LOVE

ASSURING, CONFIRMING TRUE WORLD ORDER

(quiet, quiet.)

Does Poetry breed Poetry?

I’ve been trying to get inspired to write again lately, as creativity is hiding from me. Mel gave me “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam” which is poetry from Persia. I like it. Some of it certainly flies over my head, but here are a few that I adore:

72.

Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, & whither flown again who knows!

56.

And this I know: whether the one True Light,
Kindle to Love, or Wrath – consume me quite
One Glimpse of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.

37.

Ah, fill the Cup – what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our feet:
Unborn TOMORROW, and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TODAY be sweet!

32.

There was a Door to which I found no Key:
There was a Veil past which I could not see:
Some little Talk awhile of ME and THEE
There seemed – and then no more of THEE and ME.

Life, death, and Afterwards (title, mine)

suppose
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.

young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger

(i say “will he buy flowers” to you
and “Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters, life has a bear” i

say to you who are silent – “Do you see
Life?he is there and here,
or that or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets

yes,

will He buy?

Les belles bottes – oh hear
, pas cheres”)

and my love slowly answered I think so.  But
I think I see someone else

there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
likes flowers.

- e. e. cummings

My home was once a haven.

As I was driving home early this morning, I had a sudden realization. My home was once a haven, an escape from the cares of the world and the pressures of society.

These days, my home has been relegated to a more proper level: it’s merely a place. A place I come to work, a place I come to sleep, a place I come to talk with beautiful roommates and random visitors. And a glorious fall porch.

I believe that the escape and refreshment comes in the form of a Relationship, so my own space is not as significant (though nice).

I also think it’s a reflection not of people, but of a shift in my person. Once a person locked into schedule, rigidity, and expectations, I am now floating freely in my own life.

Traveling around, essentially homeless, for 5 months will do that to a person.

And it’s a beautiful new outlook.

i-heart.org

I watched “We All in This Together” last night, a production by Hillsong United regarding social justice. Beautiful, inspiring. Let our words be few and our actions many. The timing of the film was perfect in my life.

Woe to all of you who want God’s Judgment Day!
Why would you want to see God, want him to come?
When God comes, it will be bad news before it’s good news,
the worst of times, not the best of times.
Here’s what it’s like: A man runs from a lion
right into the jaws of a bear.
A woman goes home after a hard day’s work
and is raped by a neighbor.
At God’s coming we face hard reality, not fantasy—
a black cloud with no silver lining.

“I can’t stand your religious meetings.
I’m fed up with your conferences and conventions.
I want nothing to do with your religion projects,
your pretentious slogans and goals.
I’m sick of your fund-raising schemes,
your public relations and image making.
I’ve had all I can take of your noisy ego-music.
When was the last time you sang to me?
Do you know what I want?
I want justice—oceans of it.
I want fairness—rivers of it.
That’s what I want. That’s all I want.

Amos 5:18-24/Message