In Your World my Feet are Out of Step

So okay. This one's about God. He hasn't come up in awhile and that saddens me. Mostly because I haven't had any revelatory thought involving him for almost two years--until last night.

The lead singer of the band MewithoutYou was giving a sermon at Cornerstone 2005 () and in it he mentioned concerning the word God--that the G- Ah and the Duh are merely sounds that are the truest humanizing of a God we cannot understand. For in those three letters, there is no subtext, pretext or context that is wide enough, deep enough, tall enough, to describe who..what..why God is. And God is our greatest attempt for the word invokes revelry in something bigger. It invokes the thought that we aren't alone, that God is there. This is why I've come to the conclusion that the only true swear word is God for utilizing it incorrectly blasphemes all that it meagerly represents. The truth, though, is that no word however long or short can describe God in a box. We can say God is great, yes. But the truth is that God is. He just is. God is___. I mean, the word God enough is evocative enough to left the sentence a fragment, the tail end grammatically skinned away for trial and error in our seeking for what's beyond the is and inside the God.

John 6: 53 Jesus said to them, "I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you.'" Think about this. The Catholics take this literally with the Eucharist and that whole ministry which those not Confirmed cannot take part in (right? I could be wrong and that's okay too.) and the Christians do with occasional communion. However, think of the bread--his flesh. Jesus (Another word unable to fathom the God of man of God) is within us all and we are all within him. The terror is that the bread, the flesh, is made of wheat, that which we are, crushed and risen--much as in life we crushed, having tragedy and demise and morose sorrow carve out a hole for Joy and the joy of Christ God to fill. We are crushed and risen together, in heat and fire, and then given to be broken again in remembrance of just who God is. Dust to dust.
And the grapes, just as that, we are each one grape to be crushed underfoot in order to leave the juices--his blood--to ferment in waiting for us to become exactly what the blood of Christ is--his lifeline. We are to eat his flesh and drink his blood--eat each other in camaraderie, as one in the body of Christ, and drink each other as in camaraderie against all things sectionalized.

This brings us to the bureaucracy of Christ--the sects, the hierarchy of churches--and how it has pushed us away from the truth of God. John 9 is the story of a man born blind and made to see by Christ. The Pharisees, in this story, are the antagonists, the bad guys. However, in their day, they were revered as those that knew the most, thought the most, had their shit most together. However, this beggar, born blind into a leper's life of melancholy, is now the greatest witness to his friends about the power of God, the power of the Son of Man.
The leaders, those in suits and screaming at television cameras and congregations of thousands, reaching out and "healing" have created this bureaucracy, this rift, in God, forcing them to a life in Christ with the sole purpose of bringing others to the Cause--though our ultimate purpose is first to love God and second to love others, the rest should fall into place--and suddenly, we wonder why this world is torn.
Sometimes, it's those that don't have their shit together, their clothes on straight, they hair done nicely and their bible written upon, that have their shit together... For outer image does not reflect that which is inside. As MTV's show "Diary" states, "You think you know. But you have no idea." You got that right.

Monotheists and Polytheists alike should not be torn, but brought together in the true thought that God is so unfathomable that you may be right, I may be right, they might be right, we might be right. God is so inherently beyond our comprehension that perhaps it is that each philosophy of East, West, and Central is merely another interpretation, another side of the stratagem that is God. For no one is left out.

--
I am blind.

Blood on the Median like a Boat Without Oars

The detriment and sacrament of the Septuagint and the vile Torah! Torah! cry of the sweet graey skies of the lesser tomorrow.

With 13 days of High School left, I have to wonder whether or not I'm sad to be leaving or sad to be going... I wonder if I am afraid of life and what it holds for me and how I have to find a job and all that shit... I want to just write but I know that just writing will find me as a failure in the eyes of everyone--a hobo that lives with his parents and doesn't work. Appeasement, that's what it is--and oh how I've learned of that term!--and how I have to practice is to get anywhere in this facade we call Life and all its virulent consequential denials. To make money, you gotta have money. Vicious cycle.

Speaking of my writing, I've been re-formatting and retitling The Purple Calligrapher's Angeles Step in an attempt to get it ready for the next step which is to self-publish and mass produce. The new service I'll be using allows for my book to be sold at Barnes and Noble and Amazon and Borders et al, giving it an ISBN number and perhaps a chance for everyone who says they're going to buy my book to actually buy my book (except for you Max, you rule. And you'll get a free copy of the remade version for buying my book the first, albeit shitty, time around...)

So it takes money to make money and henceforth I need a motherfucking job.

nothing ever changes
except your scenery arrangements
in the affectionate hands of horsepower assault
you best keep your pants on, boy
behind the armor of fault
homeless makeshift triggers
you'll never walk again, you'll never walk again
-At the Drive-in - Shaking Hand Incision

I suppose we make plans in order to give us some sort of truth in our life, make it seems not so trivial or meaningless... We make plans to break plans, we are birthed to die. We are we Are. I believe that things are changing and will change, dear Brethren, and at the helm will be great new thoughts and ideas create by you and they and me and we. So strike forth and live with vigor!

Trashing Days

There's no such thing as proper grammar. There's no such thing as proper art. Books that tell you how to write are fallacies that try and homogenize vision, try and create a western block novel, trudging from plot point to climax to anti-climax, so as to dredge the human mind of all creativity.

We've all used MS Word, right? The little squiggly green lines. "Verb Usage" Fragment, consider revising." All those bullshit remarks that make it seem like you've made a mistake. Maybe they'd be correct if it were an academic paper, for then I can understand some sort of homogeny since you want a good grade.

The red lines tell you that you've spelled something incorrectly. So what if I make up words? Religiousity, Humanal, absurdism are all non-words that need to be words to me because they work better. Bending rules for art is not a sin, it's merely creating your own voice in a crowded world of shouting children so malnourished.

I'm so small, I can barely be seen! how can this great love be inside of me?

I don't need, I want.

I have all I need, dear friends and children of the God above, minions of the devil below. I have the food and water and clothing and warmth and all that necessitates.

I want, now. I want better food and water and clothing and warmth. I want the brand names and the Dasanis and the delicacies, the warmth that fires my bones. I want a passionate love. I want to become all that I am. I want to be as gritty as possible. I seek and evagelize for this Great God Above, the King of Kings who hath created both reverent and contemporary, created all living things both trees and cities--both living wars and living peaces.

I want I want I want. And to suppress this want in shameless humility, to hide my face naught from those that cower at the thought of not showering on the day-to-day in order to save water, to save energy, to save this good earth; to hide my thoughts naught from those that cower away from guilt and humanistic abysmal thought that is so so so intrinsic. I want to save the world since I need no longer. Birds of the air do not worry and we mustn't either. To worry about our Graces and whether we are dubutantes of society will kill all that is worth living for, all the bedrock which we live upon.

I have no great call nor commission--I have nothing save my wants above my needs. My head above my knees which can't seem to make it past my ankles...

One step inside

Materialism is the plight of the masses--the apotheosis of Americana. We as First World Children are bred to consume and to have two cars in every garage and be able to have water flowing through our pipes and electricity flowing through our houses. What some villages have in the ones and twosies we have by the millions.

I first realized this when I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, where a missionary family moves to the Congo and their American lifestyle and the American things they brought dissipate. We are gifted by profit and chain stores and cursed by the same sword. Our consumerism seems to have a takehold on us, and it has since Post-WWII. It seems as if we cannot remedy this since it is so engrained in our thinking. The hippies tried to fight it and I am trying to fight it now. One less shirt I buy is one more statement--one less brand I wear is one more statement. Maybe this is why I felt so ashamed when I got my new car--since I knew there were others out there who had no such luck, no such mind for such a thing.
For some aberrant reason, this may sound pious, or condescending, but it's the truth... For America to prosper it needs to regress, allow for clothes to fade and assimilate to our bodies. Allow for our materialism and our Television and our technology to not sink into our thinking or allow us to stop thinking... To not allow their plights and their spelling and grammar checks to be superimposed upon our writings... we as a nation, as a generation, as friends, must rise up against that which makes us American--that which makes us inhuman.

Prelude to Postscript

I hate people--at least now. Judgemental and vile , at least I only have one more month. I'm going to become a hermit, a recluse because I can't stand a lot of things. The drinking? Oh Christ, make them afraid. The gossip?

Frankly, I was expecting to come unto this creator and be blessed by the muse of God but I have been torn towards virulence. An opiate to satiate the copulation--you've broken my heart.

I want God. I want fear. I want life. I want stability. I'm funny and loud, yes, but the ballast has been offset and my boat is tipping aft.

I'll leave it to Bob Dylan:

All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name

I just want away. To swim away.

All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name

"If you paddle away you know we'll find, and put, you back in this vesicle colony of mute vernacular. No dramatic means of fencing against this solitary sickness as it precipitates gun flare shots firing into the armpit of this mecharest home. Because when it rains, you know it poors." -The Mongrel Tarants