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| august 2013 |
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| Good | 12:03am friday, 30th august |
So what’s been going on with you? Myself, I have put my book up in Amazon for the world to see. I have this feeling that something is going to happen with it, but it hasn’t yet. I’m in no rush. Basically at an equilibrium as far as all forces in my life balancing out. Except no chick, but I’m pretty used to that aspect in lack. Now that the book is done, I have been doing a few things with book promotion, but we get to my weak point there. I’m no salesman. I’m a freakin’ scientist. What do I know about what will turn someone on to the churn of my brain on paper? Whatever. Like I said, I think it might be some little thing that makes it take off. I wonder what it could be. I’m sure things will go crazy at that point, so whatever. Whenever. I’m good.
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| Memory | 1:22am monday, 26th august |
We remember the odd thing, here, there, no one knows why there triggers in us the memory. I have forgotten important things, I am sure, and recall the exact color of a childhood toy; and this oddness is what we call normal, regular: the exception is the rule. I might think there is some purpose to the whole affair, but what it may be cannot easily be discerned by these senses of mine: the mystery lingers, the peculiar mystery of it, the eccentricity of this unknown. I could guess that such things reflect the nature of the world, if we think on it, and only consider it odd because of how we perceive what is important to us: through these finite eyes. It may be that infinity must reflect upon the limited in eclectic ways if we are to receive the flavor of what is beyond. Or at least, realize what is out there, out there, odd that we might even conceive that it is.
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| Prayer | 12:25am thursday, 22nd august |
A function of prayer may be that God lets us ask for things and not just give them to us, so that we might become better, wiser people. Even better, that we ask things for other people. Perhaps it is only secondary whether or not our prayers are answered, especially in the way that we mean for them to be. Or as George Meredith said, “Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered.” After all, God already knows what we need and what we want: it is we who are clueless about the whole affair. In seeking God, then, we find out our own true selves. Not that we should not care about the things we pray for, because that is a part of it too, I think. To quote Ani DiFranco, “God’s work isn’t done by God.” Amen to that. Indeed.
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| secret | 5:53am sunday, 18th august |
in my blood is the secret written
like a whisper upon the heart of the wind
it cast me from the upper night
my pride was laid waste, destiny’s joke
as the enterprise of chance placed all the pieces
i to enter into a peace strange with oil
a force of light whose wings were not as fashion
and numbers flash by, dense with meaning
tomorrow is preparing to be dangerous
there is no luck, only the mercy of the tide
and am i saved, washed in starlight
but caught in the backdraft of destiny’s wind
fires everywhere i look with my ruby eyes
to travel where no light is familiar
i have come to the source of myself
the same place as destiny is born
like a whisper upon the heart of the wind
in my blood is the secret written
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| Skies | 12:53am wednesday, 14th august |
I have seen skies that were like the grandest paintings, surreal in their vivid blue, with clouds that seemed to have been shaped by angel wings. Then there were others that were more mundane, some that seemed almost fake, as if the real one were out for cleaning somewhere, and some placeholder poster were filling the space of the masterpiece. It’s just air, though, isn’t it? With the specific chemical mix that scatters the light so that it is the blue that we know? But of all that is of the world, there is nothing more otherworldly than the sky, nothing else that evokes all the kinds of dreams that matter. Even after taking it for granted for years and years, there comes that moment when one looks up and is amazed: why it is that they are called the heavens.
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| wind | 12:21am saturday, 10th august |
i speak of love like a wind across the plain
like ashes of a dearly departed scattered upon the the earth
quiet in my brooding, to sound in joy
knowing nothing but with a promise in my heart
dreaming of possible things — this is courage
all of it rests upon the will of the believer, a calling is so
merely words carried through the mundane atmospheres
who will do what he can? this is courage
who will dare to love as it was intended of us?
not to call upon the furies, but to hold a hand
quiet in prayer that does not rely on a miracle
i speak of love like moonlight striking water
i believe. you need not ask in what, if you believe it, too
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| Edit | 12:15am monday, 5th august |
So, my friend, the professional writer who was editing my book, called me the other day while I was on my way to 7-11. He said that he couldn’t in good conscience charge me any money to edit it, because apparently it made him feel uncomfortable to do so, and would not go further than the 8 pages that he already had gone through. He apologized profusely, but I don’t think he quite “got it” as far as what I’m about is concerned. The Lord said that a prophet is not without honor except in his own household, and I think this is one of those circumstances. Myself, I have no regrets in having written what I have written. There’s nothing wrong there, and maybe that’s it: from my past he’s seeing things that a more open mind would see past. That’s the way it goes, I suppose.
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| undercurrent | 1:12am friday, 2nd august |
i sense the undercurrents building
wonder when the breaking moment comes, or if
all will subside, as if nothing ever were
either way i know that my heart will break
i’ve held the words of unfolding until the time ignites
the fire like brooding at the outskirts of doom
now the wind dreams through the trees
and the momentum of the sorrow throws me
out of orbit and hurtling through the infinite sky
to perceive the darkness born before the world
and the light that forever owes its weightlessness to
i have come to the edge of oblivion to stare
there is no beginning and there is no end
not if you believe: just one drop of courage
and you will find the strength to move that mountain
the miracle in the very blood, the beginning is near
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