FIRST QUESTION: Are you curious by nature?
ANSWER: Heck yes. I mean, of course I am. Burning with curiosity that would light ten-thousand cats on FIRE!
SECOND QUESTION: Are you a drug user?
9/24/2008
Art Critic
He was a man unaware of the fair,
unaquainted with the painted,
and unimpressed with the best.
"Art matters because life matters."
according to that logic, "Socks matter because feet matter"...etc.
unaquainted with the painted,
and unimpressed with the best.
"Art matters because life matters."
according to that logic, "Socks matter because feet matter"...etc.
Ecclesiastes
there's a broad & arrogant suspicion
spreading among the young
like a disease.
as each day goes by i notice it more:
they think they will inherit
this world when we are gone.
they do not realize this world will die with us.
spreading among the young
like a disease.
as each day goes by i notice it more:
they think they will inherit
this world when we are gone.
they do not realize this world will die with us.
Goodbye
My breath is sore within my chest
my chest is sore beneath my shirt
my shirt is torn above the breast
from where you arrow caused this hurt
In disbelief I mark the wound
A wound of spirit and of kin
Could kin of mine by blood-ties bound
cause this grief now lodged within?
No splintered cross or thorny crown
No crown or cross claim I to wear
I wear but what you’ve made my own
This fresh and crimson stain, despair.
I stagger back - my hunted heart
Haunts the ruins of our days.
No wholeness there, no joy, no art
all destroyed by traitors ways.
Bridge and boat lie burnt behind
and burns the friendship that we knew.
One hour past your words were kind-
How strange is change to false from true!
my chest is sore beneath my shirt
my shirt is torn above the breast
from where you arrow caused this hurt
In disbelief I mark the wound
A wound of spirit and of kin
Could kin of mine by blood-ties bound
cause this grief now lodged within?
No splintered cross or thorny crown
No crown or cross claim I to wear
I wear but what you’ve made my own
This fresh and crimson stain, despair.
I stagger back - my hunted heart
Haunts the ruins of our days.
No wholeness there, no joy, no art
all destroyed by traitors ways.
Bridge and boat lie burnt behind
and burns the friendship that we knew.
One hour past your words were kind-
How strange is change to false from true!
9/22/2008
A Plan
take it wise & slow/a look before a leap
this desert rose will grow/baby go to sleep
take one step at a time/one ephiphany a day
time alone will prove/if love can make a way
patience in your touch/iron in our will
we don't know too much/we probably never will
building higher walls/around an open gate
should we walk though now/or baby, should we wait?
this desert rose will grow/baby go to sleep
take one step at a time/one ephiphany a day
time alone will prove/if love can make a way
patience in your touch/iron in our will
we don't know too much/we probably never will
building higher walls/around an open gate
should we walk though now/or baby, should we wait?
The Queen Mother and the Queen.
weak & wounded words pour from my mouth
o mother no
not again not another exchange of hurt.
i am finished,
in your eyes i have seen love, i swear. what about the
sledding times? apples and horses and diamonds-in-concrete?
hold tightly to that memory i try to, but
don' t you see in my eyes, the normal defeat
weeping. (its been years. its been years)
i think that as new baby i was afraid to cry in front of you.
i have always been awed by your strength, but afraid too.
once, i think, you were tender & green & shattered even as I;
but somewhere somehow you became
a tower of thorns
and why why why do you want to add another dagger-child
to your quiver?
more noise (abandon ship).
there is no wildness like that of a reckless woman; no savagery in the world like her tongue.
o mother no
not again not another exchange of hurt.
i am finished,
in your eyes i have seen love, i swear. what about the
sledding times? apples and horses and diamonds-in-concrete?
hold tightly to that memory i try to, but
don' t you see in my eyes, the normal defeat
weeping. (its been years. its been years)
i think that as new baby i was afraid to cry in front of you.
i have always been awed by your strength, but afraid too.
once, i think, you were tender & green & shattered even as I;
but somewhere somehow you became
a tower of thorns
and why why why do you want to add another dagger-child
to your quiver?
more noise (abandon ship).
there is no wildness like that of a reckless woman; no savagery in the world like her tongue.
from A Letter, Written to Miss L. in My Head While In Key West
Dearest-my-friend,
the thought of you and your ambitious summer plans and appetite for literature and good poems inspired me to try and hold on even when my brain had gone all sleepy and numb so i fought to remember: what were all those poems that coursed down my face early as i walked and sweated under the huge cloud formations in view of the sea? I will try to remember and if i cannot oh what will you say? You will smile and shake your head and say "child, thoughts can be as whorled as the shells tumbled in the surf and their beauty sometimes eludes us like a wave snatching back its treasure. Only some shells stay on shore long enough to hurt your feet, and only some thoughts form long enough for their beauty to cut into you. Just write down what you can, silly girl. That's all you can do."
So i heard you say that in my head and it was less lonesome and then i lay and for a while thought about the book Killer Angels and the Civil War. I lay, sweaty and dreamily happy with stars in my eyes at the great deeds of Chamberlain and Kerlain and Tom and Meade and Hood and the tragedy of Lee and Longstreet and the soft decaying dead and the rank smell and the fierce eagles that watched Gettysburg destroyed. I lay on a white beach in the south, in the Deep South of Florida and there are no slaves or weeping slave children, but just Americans and it is an odd feeling, stepping out of the heat of that horrible, exulting time back onto the beach of America. I feel stretched and breathless, like i have been in the grip of some thrilling fever....battle-blood.
These men are in my heritage.
I want to be a warrior.
(Isn't it remarkable how books make you think bigger thoughts and dwell on greater truths than you are actually capable of doing? They are mind-stretchers, laboring with pick and axe to hew out enough complacent ignorance so there is room for doubt and questions and homegrown, original thoughts).
the thought of you and your ambitious summer plans and appetite for literature and good poems inspired me to try and hold on even when my brain had gone all sleepy and numb so i fought to remember: what were all those poems that coursed down my face early as i walked and sweated under the huge cloud formations in view of the sea? I will try to remember and if i cannot oh what will you say? You will smile and shake your head and say "child, thoughts can be as whorled as the shells tumbled in the surf and their beauty sometimes eludes us like a wave snatching back its treasure. Only some shells stay on shore long enough to hurt your feet, and only some thoughts form long enough for their beauty to cut into you. Just write down what you can, silly girl. That's all you can do."
So i heard you say that in my head and it was less lonesome and then i lay and for a while thought about the book Killer Angels and the Civil War. I lay, sweaty and dreamily happy with stars in my eyes at the great deeds of Chamberlain and Kerlain and Tom and Meade and Hood and the tragedy of Lee and Longstreet and the soft decaying dead and the rank smell and the fierce eagles that watched Gettysburg destroyed. I lay on a white beach in the south, in the Deep South of Florida and there are no slaves or weeping slave children, but just Americans and it is an odd feeling, stepping out of the heat of that horrible, exulting time back onto the beach of America. I feel stretched and breathless, like i have been in the grip of some thrilling fever....battle-blood.
These men are in my heritage.
I want to be a warrior.
(Isn't it remarkable how books make you think bigger thoughts and dwell on greater truths than you are actually capable of doing? They are mind-stretchers, laboring with pick and axe to hew out enough complacent ignorance so there is room for doubt and questions and homegrown, original thoughts).
VALIDITY
max weber
seems like someone who
would come in and order a large americano
and rib us barristas about
our politics, skills, and choice of shoes;
someone we'd only put up with
if he tipped well.
seems like someone who
would come in and order a large americano
and rib us barristas about
our politics, skills, and choice of shoes;
someone we'd only put up with
if he tipped well.
TEN OUT OF TEN
Amazingly graceful and without scent
i can't believe i ever went
a day without admiring you
and all the crazy things you do
i'd never guess you had to fart
your honesty delights my heart
the way you burp is joyful, too
I like everything you do
for a certain non-roadtrip carride i will never forget.
i can't believe i ever went
a day without admiring you
and all the crazy things you do
i'd never guess you had to fart
your honesty delights my heart
the way you burp is joyful, too
I like everything you do
for a certain non-roadtrip carride i will never forget.
9/21/2008
Rational & Cautious
i'm fighting laughter:
you're in the middle of a forest fire
with a dipperfull of well-water
you gathered at the world's end -
but this is the the world's beginning
and
it's burning with the sunrise and flames from where my eyes
met your eyes.
the wise man who sent you out with that tiny silver cup
who turned you out and sent you off with a high quest and glory-thirst;
the old, scarred knight whose tales of brave adventure spurred your feet
through lone and undiscovered countries-
don't you think he too, long and long ago, reached his journey quest,
dipped up the stars
from that fabled & unchartable deep
and drew that cup of striving to his lips
to down a draught unparalleled...
don't you see, before that liquid mystery kissed his tongue
a billow of smoke
from an olive grove afire
walled him in, distracting and the seeker in him paused,
just long enough to hear the cry
of a desperate, wide-eyed dryad in distress...
look closer: why is your ladle's handle all scorched and charred?
you are not the first foolish son
to sail past the sirens
to the uttermost of reason and enter the forest beyond.
nor are you the first wise man to find
that love,
love,
love is burning in unquenchable light around you.
Come on, laugh with me-
your journey was not vain!
Come, let's watch the colors of the cinders dance
and marvel at their brief and brilliant rain!
you're in the middle of a forest fire
with a dipperfull of well-water
you gathered at the world's end -
but this is the the world's beginning
and
it's burning with the sunrise and flames from where my eyes
met your eyes.
the wise man who sent you out with that tiny silver cup
who turned you out and sent you off with a high quest and glory-thirst;
the old, scarred knight whose tales of brave adventure spurred your feet
through lone and undiscovered countries-
don't you think he too, long and long ago, reached his journey quest,
dipped up the stars
from that fabled & unchartable deep
and drew that cup of striving to his lips
to down a draught unparalleled...
don't you see, before that liquid mystery kissed his tongue
a billow of smoke
from an olive grove afire
walled him in, distracting and the seeker in him paused,
just long enough to hear the cry
of a desperate, wide-eyed dryad in distress...
look closer: why is your ladle's handle all scorched and charred?
you are not the first foolish son
to sail past the sirens
to the uttermost of reason and enter the forest beyond.
nor are you the first wise man to find
that love,
love,
love is burning in unquenchable light around you.
Come on, laugh with me-
your journey was not vain!
Come, let's watch the colors of the cinders dance
and marvel at their brief and brilliant rain!
9/15/2008
monday
walled in by days
where little but the noise of straining hearts is audible
mired in thoughts
that circuit in unsatified interrogatives
beset by feelings
small growing things fighting for any drop of rain
I,
I think of You, who once was darkened by walls and mired for me.
And Your heart, O jesus,
your heart feels what mine cannot.
Create inside another one.
Like yours.
where little but the noise of straining hearts is audible
mired in thoughts
that circuit in unsatified interrogatives
beset by feelings
small growing things fighting for any drop of rain
I,
I think of You, who once was darkened by walls and mired for me.
And Your heart, O jesus,
your heart feels what mine cannot.
Create inside another one.
Like yours.
8/16/2008
Remember
August 15, 1:30 p.m.
Paul Dwyer: Yellow polo and red L.L. Bean fleece vest that his daughter picked out cover his gaunt frame, his shaking hands the spotted and bruised of the very old. He travels slowly, even just rolling the walker into the library takes an eon. Libraries don't look much different than they did in the 1930's back when he was in school, except for the computer monitors. I was online trying to figure out my class schedule when I noticed the old man. "B.G. 224" and a B-17 were on his baseball hat, and beneath the brim were a pair of prominent blue eyes. As he looked around the Patrick Henry Library, those eyes watered. "I wanted to see this place...before I passed away," he mumbled through his remaining teeth. The librarian continued giving the tour, timidly raising her voice when Dwyer kept saying "I'm pretty much deaf!" Curious as to why our tiny library deserved the last pilgrimage of a dying man, I asked him why he was here (rather loudly. The librarian was not happy with my tone, but I didn't care). Paul Dwyer is one of the last WWII veterans still coherent, and the first one I'd ever had the courage to talk with about America. Bloody Omaha, 9,000 dead on the beaches of Normandy. The doughboys who bore the brunt, Don Gionova standing on the flight deck, 21 years old and full of life, and then two hours later crashing into the North Sea, plane destroyed by flak. "We didn't have a body, we couldn't recover anything. We would go down to the Officer's Club and hoist a glass. That's all we could do." He marveled at the era of Strategic bombing, how the pilot's trained at 1,000 feet but then in actual combat bombed from 2,000; often destroying only the frames of the enemies' artillery and not the weapons themselves. How their radar systems still in the "initial" stages of technology were sketchy at best, treacherous at worst. How his desk in the Astro Dome got wiped out by a piece of flak when he miraculously wasn't at it. "The men you were with, 10 of us, we were family. If something happened to one of us, it happened to all of us." Several times he lowered his head and I thought he was coughing, sick. But he was weeping, weeping for an America that was worth fighting for, that our boys died defending. "You see the rapes and robberies that are happening in this country, not in Baghdad. These are problems that need solutions now. I've been looking for answers, I've been looking for answers my whole life, but I haven't found them yet." He flew in on D-Day - the weather was so bad they didn't drop a single bomb. He spoke of the Luftwaffe and countless names and dates. It was marvelous that an old man's memory could be so sharp, yet tragic that all he was dwelling on were the dead and gone. America has lost its hope for Paul Dwyer. He attended Harvard and Notre Dame studying economics on the G.I. Bill. He married his sweetheart and had 4 children, none of whom married. When his wife died of emphysema "Half of me died with her" and now he's just waiting. Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf and Iraq are merely "history repeating itself" in the same old cycle. He tried to move to Ocala, nice quiet Florida because it was the place to retire, but was drawn back to Virginia in the end, to D.C. and the shrinking circle of veterans he loves, his brothers.
I found out the reason Paul Dwyer was at the library is that he had donated books to us. He was looking for 8 volumes of Nubbin's biography of Lincoln. "There's no point in reading what people are writing nowandays about Lincoln when you've read these books," he confided to me. "They just keep cutting out excerpts of the great biographies and repackaging, reselling them to make a buck." He wheezed, he talked slow, he forgot names and he idolizes the America of the past, and he bears on his body the marks of a different era - a living piece of our past, my heritage: An American Hero.
Paul Dwyer: Yellow polo and red L.L. Bean fleece vest that his daughter picked out cover his gaunt frame, his shaking hands the spotted and bruised of the very old. He travels slowly, even just rolling the walker into the library takes an eon. Libraries don't look much different than they did in the 1930's back when he was in school, except for the computer monitors. I was online trying to figure out my class schedule when I noticed the old man. "B.G. 224" and a B-17 were on his baseball hat, and beneath the brim were a pair of prominent blue eyes. As he looked around the Patrick Henry Library, those eyes watered. "I wanted to see this place...before I passed away," he mumbled through his remaining teeth. The librarian continued giving the tour, timidly raising her voice when Dwyer kept saying "I'm pretty much deaf!" Curious as to why our tiny library deserved the last pilgrimage of a dying man, I asked him why he was here (rather loudly. The librarian was not happy with my tone, but I didn't care). Paul Dwyer is one of the last WWII veterans still coherent, and the first one I'd ever had the courage to talk with about America. Bloody Omaha, 9,000 dead on the beaches of Normandy. The doughboys who bore the brunt, Don Gionova standing on the flight deck, 21 years old and full of life, and then two hours later crashing into the North Sea, plane destroyed by flak. "We didn't have a body, we couldn't recover anything. We would go down to the Officer's Club and hoist a glass. That's all we could do." He marveled at the era of Strategic bombing, how the pilot's trained at 1,000 feet but then in actual combat bombed from 2,000; often destroying only the frames of the enemies' artillery and not the weapons themselves. How their radar systems still in the "initial" stages of technology were sketchy at best, treacherous at worst. How his desk in the Astro Dome got wiped out by a piece of flak when he miraculously wasn't at it. "The men you were with, 10 of us, we were family. If something happened to one of us, it happened to all of us." Several times he lowered his head and I thought he was coughing, sick. But he was weeping, weeping for an America that was worth fighting for, that our boys died defending. "You see the rapes and robberies that are happening in this country, not in Baghdad. These are problems that need solutions now. I've been looking for answers, I've been looking for answers my whole life, but I haven't found them yet." He flew in on D-Day - the weather was so bad they didn't drop a single bomb. He spoke of the Luftwaffe and countless names and dates. It was marvelous that an old man's memory could be so sharp, yet tragic that all he was dwelling on were the dead and gone. America has lost its hope for Paul Dwyer. He attended Harvard and Notre Dame studying economics on the G.I. Bill. He married his sweetheart and had 4 children, none of whom married. When his wife died of emphysema "Half of me died with her" and now he's just waiting. Korea, Vietnam, The Gulf and Iraq are merely "history repeating itself" in the same old cycle. He tried to move to Ocala, nice quiet Florida because it was the place to retire, but was drawn back to Virginia in the end, to D.C. and the shrinking circle of veterans he loves, his brothers.
I found out the reason Paul Dwyer was at the library is that he had donated books to us. He was looking for 8 volumes of Nubbin's biography of Lincoln. "There's no point in reading what people are writing nowandays about Lincoln when you've read these books," he confided to me. "They just keep cutting out excerpts of the great biographies and repackaging, reselling them to make a buck." He wheezed, he talked slow, he forgot names and he idolizes the America of the past, and he bears on his body the marks of a different era - a living piece of our past, my heritage: An American Hero.
6/03/2008
The Arena
What do you notice when you're on vacation.........?
******************************************************************
In the arena where the competition is fierce
you have held your own nicely;
there were only 3 or 4 awkward pauses tonight. i am impressed.
you've begun to relinquish the story-book
misinformation
the comfort of a sheltered, sequestered mind. welcome to the table.
we play for money here, so stack your chips
and don't shake like that--you're eyes should give
nothing away...free.
Keep your oar in as long as possible, let him lead,
let him dream, let his handsome ignorance
pay the bills for as long as this
gloriously ill-fated round lasts. but then assemble your weapons.
Get them out like you mean it, this time draw your blade
for conquest, not just defense or survival,
if there's a blink or a stagger, draw blood without a second thought.
I know, it seems rather feral, to corner the weak & move in for the kill,
but what are your alternatives?
You've waited a long time for a significant word, an order,
a quest, but as far as I can see,
the angels never showed up.
Are you just gonna wait for ever?
Jesus went out as usual to the Mount of Olives, and his disciples followed him. On reaching the place, he said to them, "Pray that you will not fall into temptation." He withdrew about a stone's throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done." An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.
When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow. "Why are you sleeping?" he asked them. "Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation." - Luke 22:39 +
are you willing to wait for even a little while?
******************************************************************
In the arena where the competition is fierce
you have held your own nicely;
there were only 3 or 4 awkward pauses tonight. i am impressed.
you've begun to relinquish the story-book
misinformation
the comfort of a sheltered, sequestered mind. welcome to the table.
we play for money here, so stack your chips
and don't shake like that--you're eyes should give
nothing away...free.
Keep your oar in as long as possible, let him lead,
let him dream, let his handsome ignorance
pay the bills for as long as this
gloriously ill-fated round lasts. but then assemble your weapons.
Get them out like you mean it, this time draw your blade
for conquest, not just defense or survival,
if there's a blink or a stagger, draw blood without a second thought.
I know, it seems rather feral, to corner the weak & move in for the kill,
but what are your alternatives?
You've waited a long time for a significant word, an order,
a quest, but as far as I can see,
the angels never showed up.
Are you just gonna wait for ever?
Jesus went out as usual to the Mount of Olives, and his disciples followed him. On reaching the place, he said to them, "Pray that you will not fall into temptation." He withdrew about a stone's throw beyond them, knelt down and prayed, "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will, but yours be done." An angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground.
When he rose from prayer and went back to the disciples, he found them asleep, exhausted from sorrow. "Why are you sleeping?" he asked them. "Get up and pray so that you will not fall into temptation." - Luke 22:39 +
are you willing to wait for even a little while?
5/29/2008
It's all good
she used to think in that situation she'd have a stinging retort & a dagger-stare, but these days she doesn't feel so brave. so she's talking to Him more.
5/27/2008
INTERDICTION
For her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. None who go to her return or attain the paths of life.
Proverbs 2: 18-19
Ha, you haven't met her - she's like Skylla
times ten.
An immortal devastation
a wrought evil
crafty, crafted from the shattered reputations
of old flames, younger brothers, and good friends
everywhere
there is no nightmare or chaos
formed by imagination or bounded by language
that gives expression
to the brevity of her goodness.
Did you catch that? I said
GET OUT OF TOWN -
there is no fighting her. Don't be a fool,
don't trust your
upbringing or your love
of honor or virtue or the-girl-back-home.
Illiadic bravado will get you exactly where
she wants you -
tethered to the mast and raving mad.
Trust me, all that avails is flight.
So flee. I can't believe you're asking this
or I'm answering. It's not like your some holy monk, not with that physique. What's the matter, don't your eyes take in
the deadly shore, pretty bluntly
strewn with the bones of those "enchanted" by eternal evil itself, now
a heroic breed of skeletons.
What?
Me? Jealous?!!!
Fine, Rower-boy, shove off. You just keep surfing that wave, ride the wine-dark sea
into her hell-hole.
Moor and be merry, that's what she'll say,
right before her song shatters your eardrums.
Why must I always try, always warn them. It's not like they ever listen,
and it's certainly not good for my self-esteem.
For her house leads down to death and her paths to the spirits of the dead. None who go to her return or attain the paths of life.
Proverbs 2: 18-19
Ha, you haven't met her - she's like Skylla
times ten.
An immortal devastation
a wrought evil
crafty, crafted from the shattered reputations
of old flames, younger brothers, and good friends
everywhere
there is no nightmare or chaos
formed by imagination or bounded by language
that gives expression
to the brevity of her goodness.
Did you catch that? I said
GET OUT OF TOWN -
there is no fighting her. Don't be a fool,
don't trust your
upbringing or your love
of honor or virtue or the-girl-back-home.
Illiadic bravado will get you exactly where
she wants you -
tethered to the mast and raving mad.
Trust me, all that avails is flight.
So flee. I can't believe you're asking this
or I'm answering. It's not like your some holy monk, not with that physique. What's the matter, don't your eyes take in
the deadly shore, pretty bluntly
strewn with the bones of those "enchanted" by eternal evil itself, now
a heroic breed of skeletons.
What?
Me? Jealous?!!!
Fine, Rower-boy, shove off. You just keep surfing that wave, ride the wine-dark sea
into her hell-hole.
Moor and be merry, that's what she'll say,
right before her song shatters your eardrums.
Why must I always try, always warn them. It's not like they ever listen,
and it's certainly not good for my self-esteem.
Hail, Hail, Lion of Judah
Broken cry at Golgotha.
Torn curtain;
a Roman spear in the last sacrifice, in the hope of Abraham.
His left hand and right are outstretched.
The fingers of the Godhead reach out to clothe me.
I cannot grasp this kind of love.
"Let the little children come unto me."
There are veins starting, wrinkles & sunspots - I'm not a little child anymore. Remember not the sins of my youth... His love is deep enough to swallow the past? My past?
I worship.
"Come, you have have no money, come buy milk and bread."
That statement is ludicrous, a fantastic offer...and then I look around, at all the grubby children, naked & starving.
"Lord, where will we find food for so many?" He replies. But not with words only.
With action.
Three days.
Darkness.
Decay.
Death.
Myrhh and aloe and spices could not conceal it.
Death.
Welfare and education cannot cure it.
I do not have to grasp this love. I just have to hold my cup steady
long enough for it to pour down
and overflow
into the streets.
My street. Your street. His love is a river; the water and the blood flow from wounds. He bleeds for them.
(For us.)
Christ has taken hold of me; I am no longer free/
/Sin the master is no more. I'm done with slavery.
Torn curtain;
a Roman spear in the last sacrifice, in the hope of Abraham.
His left hand and right are outstretched.
The fingers of the Godhead reach out to clothe me.
I cannot grasp this kind of love.
"Let the little children come unto me."
There are veins starting, wrinkles & sunspots - I'm not a little child anymore. Remember not the sins of my youth... His love is deep enough to swallow the past? My past?
I worship.
"Come, you have have no money, come buy milk and bread."
That statement is ludicrous, a fantastic offer...and then I look around, at all the grubby children, naked & starving.
"Lord, where will we find food for so many?" He replies. But not with words only.
With action.
Three days.
Darkness.
Decay.
Death.
Myrhh and aloe and spices could not conceal it.
Death.
Welfare and education cannot cure it.
I do not have to grasp this love. I just have to hold my cup steady
long enough for it to pour down
and overflow
into the streets.
My street. Your street. His love is a river; the water and the blood flow from wounds. He bleeds for them.
(For us.)
Christ has taken hold of me; I am no longer free/
/Sin the master is no more. I'm done with slavery.
5/26/2008
Bhutan: some random thoughts inspired by Nat. Geo
King Wangchuck quietly crossed the hall, the ancient Samteling tiles cold under his royal feet.
He could feel the wheel of heaven turning.
The gardens were spotted softly with lanterns, small red dragons with open mouths, and he walked to a bench and sat, wrapping his long sleeves tightly and tucking his hands close.
It was now, in the dog watch of the night, that the weight of his name pressed him most. He stared at the jet depths of the ornamental pool, blind to the golden glint of koi beneath the surface.
His name.
Jigme Singye Wangchuck -Druk Gyalpo-The Dragon King. Foreign dignitaries knew him as Singye, as did Choden and Pem, his oldest wives. His children when they were small had shyly called him Daddy Druk, and he smiled into the darkness.
Father Dragon.
Had he ever called his own father that, he wondered? Probably.
Dorji, Third Dragon King, was a warm man and an enlightened ruler. He read a great deal. He loved plays and poetry, wine and dancing (and one woman, one woman only). He was the first Bhutanese king to brave the skies in an airplane, and he loved his country with his whole heart.
Once, when Singye was only four year old, Dorji had stood on the steps of Dechencholing Palace and challenged a rioting crowd of hostile lords. They were angry with the way Bhutan was being run, furious with the 24 year old dragon pup who was scorning centuries of tradition by introducing dangerous changes under the guise of "democritization." Yet Dorji had faced them, standing on the steps in the pale October sun. He had been majestic, kingly in his gilded headpiece, as glorious as a priest in the dzong. His advisers refused to appear before the crowd; they were afraid. So he went out without entourage; he was the most striking thing on the horizon, and he knew it. He was their king, and they knew it.
"Our mountains are high, my Lords, but they cannot keep out the wind. The times are changing and we cannot hold back from these changes. And we should not, as long as they are good and bring good things."
Grim faces stared back at him, the faces of men with land, with armies, with ancestors and established houses- men who's mouths dictated what was just and unjust - men with power. King Dorji was going to free the serfs. He was going to end feudalism in Bhutan, and chink away at the wall of ignorance and fear that isolated Bhutan. The young Singye had watched with his nurse from a flanking terraced window, and held tight to her hand. His father sounded almost angry. "Would you have the Druk Yul be a place of peace, or war? For our actions here today do not go unwatched. Kings and princes and peoples of many tongues watch Bhutan."
1971 - Bhutan becomes a member of the United Nations. In painfully acquired English, Dorji makes a fifteen word speech. Lords and dignitaries and princes from the greatest nations under heaven listen to him. Bhutan is attempting the impossible; she is trying to leap the chasm from a Middle Ages form of existence into the 21st century. Dorji is determined that she will succeed. Bhutan is not just a tiny indentation on a hill straddling the China/India border; Bhutan is the Druk Yul "the land of the thunder dragon." Starving peasants and serfs with worn down teeth and hearts need to hear the dragon roar. As does the rabble of lords and nobles still an angry mass before the steps. Dorji was no dragonlet.
"They see our green land and venerable priests; they see our children and our well-tended dzongs. But they also see our starving and sick and broken, our bad roads and one-room hospitals." Your starving. Your sick. Your worked-out men and skeletal women. Your profits, and he looks them in the eye. The lords shift restlessly, feeling foolish in their traditional garb, their antique swords heavily in hand.
"Men of Bhutan, we must make war upon the weaknesses of this land, so that we may hold our banner high in the company of all. I ask you to make this your war, for I have already made it mine, and I wish for brothers-in-arms. Go to battle on your land- it is the end of oppression and hunger and disease!"
A small splash in the pool, and the October crowd disperses and King Singye Wangchuck is back in Samteling Palace garden, alone and aware that he is seeking comfort in ghosts and memories. He puts his chin down on his chest, wishing to be lost in memories again. He is old, and has been Fourth Dragon King since 1972. He was sixteen when Dorji died; he was the youngest monarch in the world, and everything he did for a very long time after, he did for Dorji. But times had changed in Bhutan, and both Dorji and his beloved wife, Queen Ashi Kelzang Chhoedon Wangchuck, were at rest under a green hill in Thimphu.
With the rising sun would come more changes. Assamese separatists had been using Bhutanese territory to launch raids against targets in India, and Bhutan was an ally of India. Singye had spent most of his rule fostering good relations with the giants of China and India. Bhutan was just a sliver of untouched forest between them, and if India decided that the Switzerland-sized nation was hosting terrorists, it could be the end of their autonomy.
Singye pondered his options.
But in his heart, he knew he was going to declare war. His adrenaline surged.
War.
The first military campaign in over a hundred years, and it came under the reign of the Fourth Dragon.
(good grief. so this is why you have to plan a plot BEFORE you start writing. well, wangchuck, you are boring. I'm gonna let you freeze your little Himalayan butt off staring at the pond full of koi until you decide you're gonna do something. Sheesh. You do have four wives, after all...)
He could feel the wheel of heaven turning.
The gardens were spotted softly with lanterns, small red dragons with open mouths, and he walked to a bench and sat, wrapping his long sleeves tightly and tucking his hands close.
It was now, in the dog watch of the night, that the weight of his name pressed him most. He stared at the jet depths of the ornamental pool, blind to the golden glint of koi beneath the surface.
His name.
Jigme Singye Wangchuck -Druk Gyalpo-The Dragon King. Foreign dignitaries knew him as Singye, as did Choden and Pem, his oldest wives. His children when they were small had shyly called him Daddy Druk, and he smiled into the darkness.
Father Dragon.
Had he ever called his own father that, he wondered? Probably.
Dorji, Third Dragon King, was a warm man and an enlightened ruler. He read a great deal. He loved plays and poetry, wine and dancing (and one woman, one woman only). He was the first Bhutanese king to brave the skies in an airplane, and he loved his country with his whole heart.
Once, when Singye was only four year old, Dorji had stood on the steps of Dechencholing Palace and challenged a rioting crowd of hostile lords. They were angry with the way Bhutan was being run, furious with the 24 year old dragon pup who was scorning centuries of tradition by introducing dangerous changes under the guise of "democritization." Yet Dorji had faced them, standing on the steps in the pale October sun. He had been majestic, kingly in his gilded headpiece, as glorious as a priest in the dzong. His advisers refused to appear before the crowd; they were afraid. So he went out without entourage; he was the most striking thing on the horizon, and he knew it. He was their king, and they knew it.
"Our mountains are high, my Lords, but they cannot keep out the wind. The times are changing and we cannot hold back from these changes. And we should not, as long as they are good and bring good things."
Grim faces stared back at him, the faces of men with land, with armies, with ancestors and established houses- men who's mouths dictated what was just and unjust - men with power. King Dorji was going to free the serfs. He was going to end feudalism in Bhutan, and chink away at the wall of ignorance and fear that isolated Bhutan. The young Singye had watched with his nurse from a flanking terraced window, and held tight to her hand. His father sounded almost angry. "Would you have the Druk Yul be a place of peace, or war? For our actions here today do not go unwatched. Kings and princes and peoples of many tongues watch Bhutan."
1971 - Bhutan becomes a member of the United Nations. In painfully acquired English, Dorji makes a fifteen word speech. Lords and dignitaries and princes from the greatest nations under heaven listen to him. Bhutan is attempting the impossible; she is trying to leap the chasm from a Middle Ages form of existence into the 21st century. Dorji is determined that she will succeed. Bhutan is not just a tiny indentation on a hill straddling the China/India border; Bhutan is the Druk Yul "the land of the thunder dragon." Starving peasants and serfs with worn down teeth and hearts need to hear the dragon roar. As does the rabble of lords and nobles still an angry mass before the steps. Dorji was no dragonlet.
"They see our green land and venerable priests; they see our children and our well-tended dzongs. But they also see our starving and sick and broken, our bad roads and one-room hospitals." Your starving. Your sick. Your worked-out men and skeletal women. Your profits, and he looks them in the eye. The lords shift restlessly, feeling foolish in their traditional garb, their antique swords heavily in hand.
"Men of Bhutan, we must make war upon the weaknesses of this land, so that we may hold our banner high in the company of all. I ask you to make this your war, for I have already made it mine, and I wish for brothers-in-arms. Go to battle on your land- it is the end of oppression and hunger and disease!"
A small splash in the pool, and the October crowd disperses and King Singye Wangchuck is back in Samteling Palace garden, alone and aware that he is seeking comfort in ghosts and memories. He puts his chin down on his chest, wishing to be lost in memories again. He is old, and has been Fourth Dragon King since 1972. He was sixteen when Dorji died; he was the youngest monarch in the world, and everything he did for a very long time after, he did for Dorji. But times had changed in Bhutan, and both Dorji and his beloved wife, Queen Ashi Kelzang Chhoedon Wangchuck, were at rest under a green hill in Thimphu.
With the rising sun would come more changes. Assamese separatists had been using Bhutanese territory to launch raids against targets in India, and Bhutan was an ally of India. Singye had spent most of his rule fostering good relations with the giants of China and India. Bhutan was just a sliver of untouched forest between them, and if India decided that the Switzerland-sized nation was hosting terrorists, it could be the end of their autonomy.
Singye pondered his options.
But in his heart, he knew he was going to declare war. His adrenaline surged.
War.
The first military campaign in over a hundred years, and it came under the reign of the Fourth Dragon.
(good grief. so this is why you have to plan a plot BEFORE you start writing. well, wangchuck, you are boring. I'm gonna let you freeze your little Himalayan butt off staring at the pond full of koi until you decide you're gonna do something. Sheesh. You do have four wives, after all...)
this CAT
she walks over & drapes her fatfurry stomach all over the keyboard.
i wake up & she's licking the skin off my left eyelid.
there is nothing i can do if she wants to lay there- apparently she has a monopoly on sunshine.
whenever i walk through the door, she will bring me a gift - a little lizard tail with the back feet still dangling, or a the antennae of a cokeroach.
she dominates the room. i should be thankful she doesn't shed.
its strange. when i pet her i forget & usually end up hollering upstairs for you.
thats when the silence hurts the most
& i sorta hate her purring.
doesn't she know this house isn't supposed to be so cheerful?
i wake up & she's licking the skin off my left eyelid.
there is nothing i can do if she wants to lay there- apparently she has a monopoly on sunshine.
whenever i walk through the door, she will bring me a gift - a little lizard tail with the back feet still dangling, or a the antennae of a cokeroach.
she dominates the room. i should be thankful she doesn't shed.
its strange. when i pet her i forget & usually end up hollering upstairs for you.
thats when the silence hurts the most
& i sorta hate her purring.
doesn't she know this house isn't supposed to be so cheerful?
5/25/2008
After reading Romans 9
He raised an indignant hand, calling for silence. I saw his face
and the mirrored irritation in the eyes of the whole synagogue. Again,
he raised his right hand - and my heart shattered -
o my brother!
I could wish myself cut off from the Water of Life if it would let you drink
(your own prophets have spoken it: if you stand, you will be shattered; the ram's horn & silver trumpet will not avail)
you walk through Netanya, Rehovot and Rishon Lezion,
the scowl of centuries still furrowing your brow;
you are diligent. you mix the charoseth & you call for Elijah - but the aficomen is just so much broken matzo.
You hope obstinately & you will not listen-yet you walk in fear and call it tradition.
you sneer, you call us "messianics" and everyday you
stumble on
the Rock of ages.
I weep for you, men of my race. He wept blood for you, men of my ancestry.
It is not as if God's word has failed
though my heart may fail;
Sarah had a son and Abraham was faithful,
but not all who descend from Israel are Israel -
o men of my race, why do you exchange your inheritance of glory for the shards of old scrolls?
For I could wish myself cursed...
You strong-jawed men, you busy-handed women - you are the rightful heirs! Yours is the adoption,
the legacy of divine glory,
the covenants,
the receiving of the law,
the temple worship
and the promises;
Yours are the patriarchs; men like Moses and Issac and Jacob and Joshua and Gideon and Abraham!
You have been accorded honor upon honor, if only you will don the wedding garment. You have been given the leading battalion, a place of glory in the ranks of a victorious army.
You are first-born. Take this pride and make your synagogue the dwelling of a mighty king! Ah, this unceasing anguish! Do you not see that from your blood & sinew is traced the human ancestry of Christ?
His hand is no longer upraised -It is withered. The time for waiting is past and in horror I see
that the synagogue has become
a tomb - the Torah lies unmolded amid the moldering dessication.
They would not shift camp, they would not follow the pillar of fire and cloud incarnate;
yet he came, he became One who's face glows like coals & he carries the Book and eternity surrounds him.
O Israel, O Israel. He loves you with an everlasting love,
come! COME!
and the mirrored irritation in the eyes of the whole synagogue. Again,
he raised his right hand - and my heart shattered -
o my brother!
I could wish myself cut off from the Water of Life if it would let you drink
(your own prophets have spoken it: if you stand, you will be shattered; the ram's horn & silver trumpet will not avail)
you walk through Netanya, Rehovot and Rishon Lezion,
the scowl of centuries still furrowing your brow;
you are diligent. you mix the charoseth & you call for Elijah - but the aficomen is just so much broken matzo.
You hope obstinately & you will not listen-yet you walk in fear and call it tradition.
you sneer, you call us "messianics" and everyday you
stumble on
the Rock of ages.
I weep for you, men of my race. He wept blood for you, men of my ancestry.
It is not as if God's word has failed
though my heart may fail;
Sarah had a son and Abraham was faithful,
but not all who descend from Israel are Israel -
o men of my race, why do you exchange your inheritance of glory for the shards of old scrolls?
For I could wish myself cursed...
You strong-jawed men, you busy-handed women - you are the rightful heirs! Yours is the adoption,
the legacy of divine glory,
the covenants,
the receiving of the law,
the temple worship
and the promises;
Yours are the patriarchs; men like Moses and Issac and Jacob and Joshua and Gideon and Abraham!
You have been accorded honor upon honor, if only you will don the wedding garment. You have been given the leading battalion, a place of glory in the ranks of a victorious army.
You are first-born. Take this pride and make your synagogue the dwelling of a mighty king! Ah, this unceasing anguish! Do you not see that from your blood & sinew is traced the human ancestry of Christ?
His hand is no longer upraised -It is withered. The time for waiting is past and in horror I see
that the synagogue has become
a tomb - the Torah lies unmolded amid the moldering dessication.
They would not shift camp, they would not follow the pillar of fire and cloud incarnate;
yet he came, he became One who's face glows like coals & he carries the Book and eternity surrounds him.
O Israel, O Israel. He loves you with an everlasting love,
come! COME!
5/13/2008
it is written
Psalm 15
A psalm of David.
1 LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
2 He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from his heart
3 and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,
4 who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,
5 who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.
it is written
"Do not spread false reports. Do not help a wicked man by being a malicious witness.Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawsuit."Exodus 23:1-3
it is written
"Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place."
Psalm 28:2
it is written
"David said to Gad, 'I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.'" Samuel 24:14
it is written
"Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed." Psalm 57:1
it is written
"Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief."
1 Timothy 1:13
it is written
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:16
it is written
"And forgive your people, who have sinned against you; forgive all the offenses they have committed against you, and cause their conquerors to show them mercy..."
1 Kings 8:50
it is written
"Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?"
Matthew 18:33
it is written
"Take your brother also and go back to the man at once. And may God Almighty grant you mercy before the man so that he will let your other brother and Benjamin come back with you. As for me...I am bereaved, I am bereaved."
Genesis 43:13-15
A psalm of David.
1 LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
2 He whose walk is blameless
and who does what is righteous,
who speaks the truth from his heart
3 and has no slander on his tongue,
who does his neighbor no wrong
and casts no slur on his fellowman,
4 who despises a vile man
but honors those who fear the LORD,
who keeps his oath
even when it hurts,
5 who lends his money without usury
and does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things
will never be shaken.
it is written
"Do not spread false reports. Do not help a wicked man by being a malicious witness.Do not follow the crowd in doing wrong. When you give testimony in a lawsuit, do not pervert justice by siding with the crowd, and do not show favoritism to a poor man in his lawsuit."Exodus 23:1-3
it is written
"Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place."
Psalm 28:2
it is written
"David said to Gad, 'I am in deep distress. Let us fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.'" Samuel 24:14
it is written
"Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed." Psalm 57:1
it is written
"Even though I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and a violent man, I was shown mercy because I acted in ignorance and unbelief."
1 Timothy 1:13
it is written
"Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need." Hebrews 4:16
it is written
"And forgive your people, who have sinned against you; forgive all the offenses they have committed against you, and cause their conquerors to show them mercy..."
1 Kings 8:50
it is written
"Shouldn't you have had mercy on your fellow servant just as I had on you?"
Matthew 18:33
it is written
"Take your brother also and go back to the man at once. And may God Almighty grant you mercy before the man so that he will let your other brother and Benjamin come back with you. As for me...I am bereaved, I am bereaved."
Genesis 43:13-15
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