I have officially decided and it is my firm belief that time is not rubber. And time isn't a line.
Time is not a circle, a ring. Like a donut.
Time it like a dime.
Round and circular and there and solid. Like a dinner plate.
Like a dime in this big black thing we call infinity.
And God is outside of that. And He does His thing in time all at once according to His will.
Even though we have free will. We're making our decisions freely and being predestined. We are already there. Somewhere on this dime, our souls have already been sucked clean out of our bodies and are in heaven.
I am never in the future and never in the past. There's just still images of me on a line of indefinable present'(s) forever.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Easter
Easter Sunday. A day when everyone assumes they are obligated to act more holy, but find themselves inclined to act more hellishly selfish. From the moment they arise and see their calendar reminder say “The one day you go to church!” on today’s square, their whole weekend has been ruined. I, too, find that I get ‘holier’ and more ‘loving’ on Good Friday. But by the time that Jesus has conquered the grave the joy has faded. And what the deuce does a large, multi-color egg-laying rabbit have to do with anything? It sounds like the product of a bad acid trip. People will go to church. They’ll sit quietly in the front row and wrinkle their programs. Anyone less than 9 years old will simply be anticipating the end of church so that they can go hunt for candy filled plastic eggs in their grandparents’ yard. The married women are devising plans to rebuttal against the in-laws obsessive degradation. Men calculating the cost of all that lamb they bought for tonight’s dinner. And everyone in between just wants to suffer through another showing of The Ten Commandments with a box of Peeps. Why do we eat lamb on Easter anyway? The Christ is often symbolized by a lamb, no? “Hey everybody! Christ rose from the dead. LET’S EAT HIM!” And why does the actual Easter date change every year? A cruel trick perhaps? Normal day, normal day, normal day BAM! EASTER DAY! BAM! CHRIST IN YOUR FACE DAY! These are just observations about this most holy of days.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Diving
Dive one modified.
Here I am diving again. How I miss those great whales that we all became when we realized that we were greater than the average fish. I have seen many cats. All disappoint me. They follow me into places when I go to the library. I often watch the girl with the raindrops stained on the back of her hand pick up books at the library. She rides to see her friend. The boy with the striped sweater. He is abused; his hood always pulled to his brow. He stacks wood at the yellow house. No, the man with the beard. He lives at the guard tower that tries to keep me out of an alley of lost dreams and sweaty nightmares. Oh, how the light is burnt to a scentless smell. The ground is computerized. The forest, a simple graphic. But I find my way anyway. Especially when I paint my face. I remember the time I tried to paint the ocean in the mercury of a broken thermometer. I often want to write about the moon. But my words, like blood, are a primitive tool. And in a tangent universe my brothers are at war with specialized soldiers. Am I playing it up? Or am I playing music? Who are you to decide? Why do I find myself craving only the dead? Who were you to die anyway? What made your life so great that you had a right to its exit? I want to be released sometimes. I think. No, I just want to be released from you. Demons don’t control my hand nor tongue. I am collapsing with anguish and anxiousness. I feel like my desires have been warped like soggy Bibles in the camp chapel. But all this time, all I have ever wanted to write about is cornfields. Yes, cornfields. Fields of corn. And how they dance in blue dresses beneath a coin that is sinking into a sea they will never see. Cornfields help me get a grip on things. But, how different they are from cleavers! What has changed? I bring myself to that question of the first musical layer. Does what I make of the present determine the future or what becomes of the past? What have I done! Oh, Eli, what have I done? Who really drives that bus? The 15th. Does she even know that I am always right behind, next to, passing and speaking to her? Of course not! No one drives the bus! The devil drives the bus full of children straight into an ever friendly abyss of chalkboards and text written by a man called Nietzsche. Oh, oh my soul! Corn fields. Whales
You. And me. And you. And…just a little beyond. You.
Here I am diving again. How I miss those great whales that we all became when we realized that we were greater than the average fish. I have seen many cats. All disappoint me. They follow me into places when I go to the library. I often watch the girl with the raindrops stained on the back of her hand pick up books at the library. She rides to see her friend. The boy with the striped sweater. He is abused; his hood always pulled to his brow. He stacks wood at the yellow house. No, the man with the beard. He lives at the guard tower that tries to keep me out of an alley of lost dreams and sweaty nightmares. Oh, how the light is burnt to a scentless smell. The ground is computerized. The forest, a simple graphic. But I find my way anyway. Especially when I paint my face. I remember the time I tried to paint the ocean in the mercury of a broken thermometer. I often want to write about the moon. But my words, like blood, are a primitive tool. And in a tangent universe my brothers are at war with specialized soldiers. Am I playing it up? Or am I playing music? Who are you to decide? Why do I find myself craving only the dead? Who were you to die anyway? What made your life so great that you had a right to its exit? I want to be released sometimes. I think. No, I just want to be released from you. Demons don’t control my hand nor tongue. I am collapsing with anguish and anxiousness. I feel like my desires have been warped like soggy Bibles in the camp chapel. But all this time, all I have ever wanted to write about is cornfields. Yes, cornfields. Fields of corn. And how they dance in blue dresses beneath a coin that is sinking into a sea they will never see. Cornfields help me get a grip on things. But, how different they are from cleavers! What has changed? I bring myself to that question of the first musical layer. Does what I make of the present determine the future or what becomes of the past? What have I done! Oh, Eli, what have I done? Who really drives that bus? The 15th. Does she even know that I am always right behind, next to, passing and speaking to her? Of course not! No one drives the bus! The devil drives the bus full of children straight into an ever friendly abyss of chalkboards and text written by a man called Nietzsche. Oh, oh my soul! Corn fields. Whales
You. And me. And you. And…just a little beyond. You.
God
God. God is someone to fight about. God is something that makes us frustrated. God is something that makes us squirm. God makes us mad. God is controversial. God is Just. Maybe that’s why so many people don’t like Him. God is hard. God is invisible, invincible. God haunts you. God predestines. God follows you until you look at Him. God is love. God is writing. God is God.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sundays
I've always wondered why I always hated Sundays. I always have. Sorry, Lord.
There's just something dastardly about Sundays. People always leave. People always fight. And on the Lord's day. Maybe it is because Sunday is conviction day. The day that everyone has to face reality. I don't know. I'm just kind of rambling here. If there is anybody out there with some way to enlighten me, please do it. Tell me the secret behind Sundays. Cause I hate 'em.
There's just something dastardly about Sundays. People always leave. People always fight. And on the Lord's day. Maybe it is because Sunday is conviction day. The day that everyone has to face reality. I don't know. I'm just kind of rambling here. If there is anybody out there with some way to enlighten me, please do it. Tell me the secret behind Sundays. Cause I hate 'em.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Another poem
This one will be up for only a limited amount of time. Read it while you can. If you like it, fine. If you don't, fear not. For my next trick I shall make it disappear. If you like it, perhaps you might want an explanation of what it means. In that case, I will post its translation.
This is a poem to our Creator
What's yours will be yours
To each its own and mongrel base
Forsooth our days were written and are
As guilty pleads a worthless case
Apathy's dynasties
What's yours will still be yours
Even hesitation's something
Peace is spawning open wars
Render unto Ceasar what
Belongs to Ceasar
What's yours is yours and so are they
But sinless we are neither
All men will still be men
All girls will still be girls
All sinners still in Sheol
And what is yours is yours.
This is a poem to our Creator
What's yours will be yours
To each its own and mongrel base
Forsooth our days were written and are
As guilty pleads a worthless case
Apathy's dynasties
What's yours will still be yours
Even hesitation's something
Peace is spawning open wars
Render unto Ceasar what
Belongs to Ceasar
What's yours is yours and so are they
But sinless we are neither
All men will still be men
All girls will still be girls
All sinners still in Sheol
And what is yours is yours.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Today.
Today, I shall triumph.
Today I will take 21, 600 breaths.
I will blink over 17,000 times.
My heart will beat 100,000 times today.
On average, I will say over 7000 different words today.
My brain will produce over 70, 000 unique thoughts today.
Approximately 146, 357 people will die today, but I will live.
I have triumphed.
But not by my strength.
The chance that earth could even support my life is 1, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000 to 1.
The Lord is my strength, and my all!
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