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.
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