(preface: so okay, a religious essay dealing with theology is weird coming from a guy who doubted his faith a few days ago. Whatever, it's all in the struggle.)
As Christians, we shouldn't completely dismiss karma as a purely Buddhist idea, or as one that is not in correlation to our beliefs. The difference between the general idea of karma--that is, doing good and having it come back around to you in a different form during your life--is that, with Christian Carma, we are asked to do good for others, but we are not expected to receive anything in return. Instead, we are to do good in order to store up our treasures in heaven, where thieves don't steal it and moths don't eat it, because where our treasure is, our heart is as well (Mt. 6:20,21). If our treasures, our karmic payoff, are on Earth, then our heart is with the Earth, and everything which we mercifully do or humbly do not do will pass away with our bodies.
With that in mind, we then begin to have confidence in the flesh, which, as Paul writes to the Phillippians, of which we are to have none.
And this idea of Christian Carma is nothing foreign to the writings of Paul. In the closing words of his letter to the Galatians, he writes, "Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life. And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart. Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good to all, especially to those who are of the household of faith."
He knows that we reap what we sow, that we as farmers with plant rows and peas and thusly get peas; if we plant sin and hate and malice, we will reap malice, hate, and sin. He knows that, if we have mercy and humility and expect nothing in return, we will grow weary because we as humans have within us the "What's in it for me?" complex, and, when there seems to be nothing in it for us, we grow weary. We want cognitive results, while Christ Jesus gives us metaphysical results--our souls feel better, our treasures are storing up in heaven.
So we as Christians have Carma. We are to do good and expect good in return. The only difference is that our good will be revealed in heaven, when we pass away from this life. Surely we will get good in return and good will be given to us in our every day life (like someone allowing you to enter a lane to get off the freeway in traffic, or letting you bum a cigarette), but that is not what our ultimate expectation should be.
Our final expectation shouldn't come from man. Because it comes from Christ.
Friday, October 12, 2007
jezebel.
I've been smoking more than I've been eating lately.
I want to quit, I think about quitting every night. I consider that it'd be easier to quit now, after only three months of casually smoking and two weeks of going half-a-pack to a pack a day, than trying to quit after a year or more. I consider that it's going to destroy my teeth, give me heart disease, destroy my lungs. Smoking will kill me, in essence.
So why do I smoke? This is an interesting quibble I've been dealing with ever since I started. Is it because I'm stressed out about school, life, the universe, and everything? No, I've been able to cope with that for awhile. Is it because I want to be more socially acceptable? No, I will never be socially acceptable except to a handful of people.
Then why do I smoke? Because I want to. I want to experience slow death. I want to experience all the worries. I want to see the world through the haze of the thin line of smoke rising from a burning end. If I didn't want to smoke, I wouldn't have started. If I didn't want to smoke, I wouldn't be smoking. It's that simple, I think.
I remember, about a year ago, I thought about picking it up, without anybody coaxing me into it, and of my own accord. I wanted something to make me feel better, the medication no longer working. But my mom talked me out of it.
So what then am I supposed to do with a terrible habit I wanted in the first place?
Quit, I guess. That would be the most logical thing to do.
The irony in all of this, though, comes from what I was reading in my psychology text book. A lot of the things they suggest to do instead of smoking-- like changing your patterns to avoid situations that encourage it, and to do something else instead--are eerily similar to the things I've been told by pastors about how to quit masturbating. They tell a congregation of young men to not get into situations that allow for you to masturbate, as if we don't go to bed at night.
But smoking is different in the way that it can be avoided, if I just leave them at home or simply throw them away. Think about my black lungs. Think about my poor teeth.
But, see, here's the rub: I have a problem with myself drinking or smoking pot or doing drugs because I see a moralistic problem with it, whereas with smoking, I see no moral problem. I see no grand retribution for it. It's not a sin. I'm not gonna go to hell because I smoke a pack a day.
And far too much of my perception of smoking is focused away from the obvious biological effects, and towards the non-effects it has on my soul. Smoking doesn't give you soul disease or soul cancer. It doesn't hinder you from self-awareness or seeking Christ. It just kills you.
But maybe it does disease my soul... maybe because of smoking, I won't be that girl, because she'll be appalled by my habit. If that's the case, though, then religion itself by narrowing the field of dating prospects down to one religion and one belief. Hmph.
It all seems to be one big clusterfuck. I should quit, there have been points whilst writing that this that I have resolved to quit, but, now I am just unsure. I pray that I make the right decision, whether to opt-out or commit. We'll see.
I want to quit, I think about quitting every night. I consider that it'd be easier to quit now, after only three months of casually smoking and two weeks of going half-a-pack to a pack a day, than trying to quit after a year or more. I consider that it's going to destroy my teeth, give me heart disease, destroy my lungs. Smoking will kill me, in essence.
So why do I smoke? This is an interesting quibble I've been dealing with ever since I started. Is it because I'm stressed out about school, life, the universe, and everything? No, I've been able to cope with that for awhile. Is it because I want to be more socially acceptable? No, I will never be socially acceptable except to a handful of people.
Then why do I smoke? Because I want to. I want to experience slow death. I want to experience all the worries. I want to see the world through the haze of the thin line of smoke rising from a burning end. If I didn't want to smoke, I wouldn't have started. If I didn't want to smoke, I wouldn't be smoking. It's that simple, I think.
I remember, about a year ago, I thought about picking it up, without anybody coaxing me into it, and of my own accord. I wanted something to make me feel better, the medication no longer working. But my mom talked me out of it.
So what then am I supposed to do with a terrible habit I wanted in the first place?
Quit, I guess. That would be the most logical thing to do.
The irony in all of this, though, comes from what I was reading in my psychology text book. A lot of the things they suggest to do instead of smoking-- like changing your patterns to avoid situations that encourage it, and to do something else instead--are eerily similar to the things I've been told by pastors about how to quit masturbating. They tell a congregation of young men to not get into situations that allow for you to masturbate, as if we don't go to bed at night.
But smoking is different in the way that it can be avoided, if I just leave them at home or simply throw them away. Think about my black lungs. Think about my poor teeth.
But, see, here's the rub: I have a problem with myself drinking or smoking pot or doing drugs because I see a moralistic problem with it, whereas with smoking, I see no moral problem. I see no grand retribution for it. It's not a sin. I'm not gonna go to hell because I smoke a pack a day.
And far too much of my perception of smoking is focused away from the obvious biological effects, and towards the non-effects it has on my soul. Smoking doesn't give you soul disease or soul cancer. It doesn't hinder you from self-awareness or seeking Christ. It just kills you.
But maybe it does disease my soul... maybe because of smoking, I won't be that girl, because she'll be appalled by my habit. If that's the case, though, then religion itself by narrowing the field of dating prospects down to one religion and one belief. Hmph.
It all seems to be one big clusterfuck. I should quit, there have been points whilst writing that this that I have resolved to quit, but, now I am just unsure. I pray that I make the right decision, whether to opt-out or commit. We'll see.
Some things i've realized this past week without my parents:
- Doubts that God exists are really proof that God exists. If we didn't have our doubts, we wouldn't have our wisdom. If everything was great all the damn time, we'd forget about it. Even though, in philosophy class, we shot down the idea that bad things happen so we know what good is, but I still believe in this. The doubts point out our faith. You can't have faith without doubts. Believe it.
- I'm not meant to ever, ever, ever live alone. I need people around me. At least one.
- Dogs aren't meant to be owned by insomniacs. They don't sleep until their owner sleeps. And I don't sleep. Hence, I probably shouldn't have dogs.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Please Don't Go.
I'm sorry Jasmine. i really am. I've been lying to you. Nothing's been okay. But for some reason I can't tell you shit sometimes. I just can't.
I wrote these to Kelley, and I'm writing them to you:
I'm stressing about housing at Humboldt. Apparently it's really impacted and I get second priority under the people already there (this makes sense, but it sucks cock that they don't have to worry and here I am worrying my face off and smoking myself stupid waiting for the package to arrive with my registration info and my housing info and my God). maybe I shouldn't go. I've actually begun enjoying Cal State San Bernardino lately. Seeing you and being late to work. Smoking and talking with Bradley (camaraderie in the cancer sticks). But maybe I'm not stressin about meeting people for once being I know I won't see'em ever again. I smoked almost a whole pack today. I'm beginning to feel depressed again. I'm really hungry. I want to hang myself with an extension cord from the rafters above my patio. I can't do it. I need to know I have purpose. I don't have one. Nothing to live for. All the good ones are taken. I don't know how much of this you're gonna get. I can't sleep, someone wake me up. I hope I'm not already dead.
I don't know how much longer I can believe in God. He's been gone or I've been gone fro so long. According to my pastor, I should have a consistent place where I find God, but that's always been in the loving arms of another. And it's been so long. It's been so long. It's been so long. Please don't worry about me, I should be fine by morning (maybe sunrise, since it's already 430AM). I don't know if I'm gonna sleep tonight. Call it a watching. Call it a lost faith. I can't see myself believing that christdied for my sins. Every time I say it I feel dirty. Where has he gone where has he gone where has he gone. I'm going to have a smoke (I only got through half of it. Even the one shining light of nicotine that has given me strength for the past two weeks can't seem to push me away from the echelon I seem to be fading into.)
I don't want to die. Alone. I don't want to be alone. I can't seem to find God in anything I ever fucking do. He's no longer there when I pray, and the wisdom of the bible doesn't make any sense when it's all so linear and one-life-to-live while I've come to see everything as a cyclical still-life, where we churn on forever, seeing the same things recur and ebb and recur and ebb before we die to be reborn. The crux of the matter is what we don't remember from our first years. What seems to be the crux of the matter is what everyone thinks will happen when we die. I hate to say it, as a "Christian," but I just don't fucking know anymore. I have lost ten ounces of faith. And that's why, Kelley, I seem to be okay with liking you: I've lost what used to drag us apart. I've lost God. The tether seems to have been cut loose after I've been out among the waters for so long, trying to grab the rope and pull myself back. I can't find back. I can't find forward. I'm so goddam alone. The Weather Channel is on mute, I'm glad it's no longer hurricane season. I was at band camp when Katrina hit New Orleans. And now everyone forgets the devastation. Will everyone forget my devastation?
Where is God? Where is divinity? What is it, who is He but a figment of my imagination? Where am I to go but into the soil and churned back one day to be among the leaves. No matter dissolves. But maybe that ethereal idea of a soul does. God where are you I am here. God where are you. Did I come to the wrong address? I've been waiting out in the cold without a coat for a year now. Where are you where have you gone?
I feel more and more that my religion is more like The Cask of Amontillado than a faith. I am constantly drawing myself into the wine chambers with the thoughts of great Amontillado during carnival season, denouncing that my peer has any right to be judging such a great drink while all the while I am walking myself into the chasm where I will be buried alive with the bones of ancestors.
But this is Beckett. It starts over again, and we never really die. We just suffer and suffer and suffer and loathe and sulk and plea and deny and wonder where is GODot?!
Or this is Kafka. And we sink. And things get eternally worse. Things will get eternally worse.
Maybe I am already buried alive?
Maybe things are at their worst?
I am a liar, a scam, and a phony. I am alone in the most beligerant world. I want to one day be dust in a new star. What were visions of heaven but hallucinations? What was Revelation but a hallucination by an old man in exile? What was Christ but Criss Angel? I feel none of Christ's blood in me. The father and I are not one. Where is HE. I am here, and I was groping in the blinding darkness, but you've given me NOTHING. I have what I've always had. And now I'm growing tired of you giving me jack-fucking-shit but taking everything away from me.
Fuck you, I guess you can pray for me.
Fuck me, I guess I can--
Please Don't go. I'm sorry I didn't write. When I was supposed to. write. mi
xed message
s
broken
syllab
les
I'
m
growing
ti
re
d
Lay eyes on the Fa
ther
Ple
ase
don
tgo.
I wrote these to Kelley, and I'm writing them to you:
I'm stressing about housing at Humboldt. Apparently it's really impacted and I get second priority under the people already there (this makes sense, but it sucks cock that they don't have to worry and here I am worrying my face off and smoking myself stupid waiting for the package to arrive with my registration info and my housing info and my God). maybe I shouldn't go. I've actually begun enjoying Cal State San Bernardino lately. Seeing you and being late to work. Smoking and talking with Bradley (camaraderie in the cancer sticks). But maybe I'm not stressin about meeting people for once being I know I won't see'em ever again. I smoked almost a whole pack today. I'm beginning to feel depressed again. I'm really hungry. I want to hang myself with an extension cord from the rafters above my patio. I can't do it. I need to know I have purpose. I don't have one. Nothing to live for. All the good ones are taken. I don't know how much of this you're gonna get. I can't sleep, someone wake me up. I hope I'm not already dead.
I don't know how much longer I can believe in God. He's been gone or I've been gone fro so long. According to my pastor, I should have a consistent place where I find God, but that's always been in the loving arms of another. And it's been so long. It's been so long. It's been so long. Please don't worry about me, I should be fine by morning (maybe sunrise, since it's already 430AM). I don't know if I'm gonna sleep tonight. Call it a watching. Call it a lost faith. I can't see myself believing that christdied for my sins. Every time I say it I feel dirty. Where has he gone where has he gone where has he gone. I'm going to have a smoke (I only got through half of it. Even the one shining light of nicotine that has given me strength for the past two weeks can't seem to push me away from the echelon I seem to be fading into.)
I don't want to die. Alone. I don't want to be alone. I can't seem to find God in anything I ever fucking do. He's no longer there when I pray, and the wisdom of the bible doesn't make any sense when it's all so linear and one-life-to-live while I've come to see everything as a cyclical still-life, where we churn on forever, seeing the same things recur and ebb and recur and ebb before we die to be reborn. The crux of the matter is what we don't remember from our first years. What seems to be the crux of the matter is what everyone thinks will happen when we die. I hate to say it, as a "Christian," but I just don't fucking know anymore. I have lost ten ounces of faith. And that's why, Kelley, I seem to be okay with liking you: I've lost what used to drag us apart. I've lost God. The tether seems to have been cut loose after I've been out among the waters for so long, trying to grab the rope and pull myself back. I can't find back. I can't find forward. I'm so goddam alone. The Weather Channel is on mute, I'm glad it's no longer hurricane season. I was at band camp when Katrina hit New Orleans. And now everyone forgets the devastation. Will everyone forget my devastation?
Where is God? Where is divinity? What is it, who is He but a figment of my imagination? Where am I to go but into the soil and churned back one day to be among the leaves. No matter dissolves. But maybe that ethereal idea of a soul does. God where are you I am here. God where are you. Did I come to the wrong address? I've been waiting out in the cold without a coat for a year now. Where are you where have you gone?
I feel more and more that my religion is more like The Cask of Amontillado than a faith. I am constantly drawing myself into the wine chambers with the thoughts of great Amontillado during carnival season, denouncing that my peer has any right to be judging such a great drink while all the while I am walking myself into the chasm where I will be buried alive with the bones of ancestors.
But this is Beckett. It starts over again, and we never really die. We just suffer and suffer and suffer and loathe and sulk and plea and deny and wonder where is GODot?!
Or this is Kafka. And we sink. And things get eternally worse. Things will get eternally worse.
Maybe I am already buried alive?
Maybe things are at their worst?
I am a liar, a scam, and a phony. I am alone in the most beligerant world. I want to one day be dust in a new star. What were visions of heaven but hallucinations? What was Revelation but a hallucination by an old man in exile? What was Christ but Criss Angel? I feel none of Christ's blood in me. The father and I are not one. Where is HE. I am here, and I was groping in the blinding darkness, but you've given me NOTHING. I have what I've always had. And now I'm growing tired of you giving me jack-fucking-shit but taking everything away from me.
Fuck you, I guess you can pray for me.
Fuck me, I guess I can--
Please Don't go. I'm sorry I didn't write. When I was supposed to. write. mi
xed message
s
broken
syllab
les
I'
m
growing
ti
re
d
Lay eyes on the Fa
ther
Ple
ase
don
tgo.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Baby with a Cross to bear.
I told Kelley I was gonna quit. I want to. It doesn't circulate my blood right.
But at 145 this morning, not 4 hours after telling her I was done for good, I was sitting there with a Marlboro 27 burning into Che's face (a bad ass ash tray my sister got in Spain. I'm now using it to its orginal intent...). I hate it. But I have no accountability. No oneI see every day to smell me and say "You fucking dolt."
With each puff, I'm killing myself. With each puff, I'm degrading myself, changing my neurochemistry, making it harder for myself to quit when I inevitably have to in a few years so I can a good roll model.
I had the epiphany today, I'm going to be a youth pastor. And youth pastor don't kill themselves with Cancer Sticks. Shit shit shit. Youth pastors also don't curse.
Lauren tells me that tobacco is a terrible industry, that prides itself on killing people. But, if I'm to believe as Jasmine believes, that animals are equal with humans, then the tobacco industry is no worse than the Meat industry. And I've conceded to them my whole life. The vegetable industry is probably just as bad. And so is McDonald's. Eat that shit every day and it will kill you.
So you pick your battles. I'm a fucking idiot. This year has been a wash.
I started drinking January 1st, had my first drink on new year's eve. I had my first cigarette while drunk about four or five months ago. You see how this is all steamrolling?
But I've been stressed out over a girl. And the last time I was this in love and this scared of dying alone and this scared of never being with her, I stopped eating, dropped 50 pounds or so, and didn't get over it for two years. Which would I prefer? I ain't blamin' either of these girls for neither of my stupid-fucking-decisions.
(Both of you, and I think you both know who you are, know that I do not ever ever ever blame you for anything I ever did. They're my actions. I'm the Cunt.)
So who am I blaming if not them? Myself. I blame myself for taking a two-week high-school relationship too hard, I blame myself for taking on loving a girl who I had no hope with from the start. I blame myself.
And that makes me want to smoke even more. It makes me want to smoke two packs a day and never ever eat again. I hate myself and my weakness. I hate the fact that I am a weak-willed cunt who never has seen the light of day. I blame myself for hating myself. I hate how cyclical life is, manifesting itself again and again, I'm afraid I will be reborn into this life again, I am afraid that I won't remember any of my stupid fucking decisions in this life.
I want God back. I want him to come back. I've done all I can and he's nowhere near me anymore. I need God Back. DO YOU HEAR ME GOD!? This isn't the end. It gets worse.
I need to go to bed. I need God to find me. I'll keep plowing, but he will turn the soil. This is a drought, but I have faith that the RAIN will come. And everything will be okay.
But at 145 this morning, not 4 hours after telling her I was done for good, I was sitting there with a Marlboro 27 burning into Che's face (a bad ass ash tray my sister got in Spain. I'm now using it to its orginal intent...). I hate it. But I have no accountability. No oneI see every day to smell me and say "You fucking dolt."
With each puff, I'm killing myself. With each puff, I'm degrading myself, changing my neurochemistry, making it harder for myself to quit when I inevitably have to in a few years so I can a good roll model.
I had the epiphany today, I'm going to be a youth pastor. And youth pastor don't kill themselves with Cancer Sticks. Shit shit shit. Youth pastors also don't curse.
Lauren tells me that tobacco is a terrible industry, that prides itself on killing people. But, if I'm to believe as Jasmine believes, that animals are equal with humans, then the tobacco industry is no worse than the Meat industry. And I've conceded to them my whole life. The vegetable industry is probably just as bad. And so is McDonald's. Eat that shit every day and it will kill you.
So you pick your battles. I'm a fucking idiot. This year has been a wash.
I started drinking January 1st, had my first drink on new year's eve. I had my first cigarette while drunk about four or five months ago. You see how this is all steamrolling?
But I've been stressed out over a girl. And the last time I was this in love and this scared of dying alone and this scared of never being with her, I stopped eating, dropped 50 pounds or so, and didn't get over it for two years. Which would I prefer? I ain't blamin' either of these girls for neither of my stupid-fucking-decisions.
(Both of you, and I think you both know who you are, know that I do not ever ever ever blame you for anything I ever did. They're my actions. I'm the Cunt.)
So who am I blaming if not them? Myself. I blame myself for taking a two-week high-school relationship too hard, I blame myself for taking on loving a girl who I had no hope with from the start. I blame myself.
And that makes me want to smoke even more. It makes me want to smoke two packs a day and never ever eat again. I hate myself and my weakness. I hate the fact that I am a weak-willed cunt who never has seen the light of day. I blame myself for hating myself. I hate how cyclical life is, manifesting itself again and again, I'm afraid I will be reborn into this life again, I am afraid that I won't remember any of my stupid fucking decisions in this life.
I want God back. I want him to come back. I've done all I can and he's nowhere near me anymore. I need God Back. DO YOU HEAR ME GOD!? This isn't the end. It gets worse.
I need to go to bed. I need God to find me. I'll keep plowing, but he will turn the soil. This is a drought, but I have faith that the RAIN will come. And everything will be okay.
Friday, October 05, 2007
It only makes me cranky.
I shouldn't be dating right now, I'm leaving... but there always seem to be something that hinders my search to deny my seeking...
And it's generally a someone...
which is weird, on the whole, becaues I am very picky when it comes to women, I've decided, even though I'm not when it comes to how beautiful and wonderful they are as beings. I'm picky because of my two most important things: Sex and religion. I realized, with the help of Alycia, that I need a girl who's ontologically and theologically parallel to what I believe, so that instead of butting heads on the issues of divinity and sanctificaion every night before burning down into lustful, passionate hate-sex on our honeymoon, we can actually love each other. I believe that a relationship should exist within the scope and wingspan of God Almighty. If I were to be dating a non-christian girl, I realized (and should've known all along) that we would be away from Him. And I've been away from Him for far too long.
But Christians are so easy to come by, they're a quarter of the population of the Earth, apparently. And that's where the second standard comes into play, because if a girl is a Christian virgin, then that means she actually cherishes her beliefs and values her, well, values. Sex is the highest passion between two souls (Faith is the highest passion of a single soul), and I believe that it is a passion that can only be met between a man and a wife. I've been asked if it seems scary to do that, to have Sex with one woman for your entire life. And my response is, generally, "Yea, well, it's still Sex." And I'm willing to bet that the 1000th time with my future and always wife will be better than my 1000th woman (I'm looking at you, Gene Simmons, for confirmation) and the whole idea that that rests upon is love. The idea that love in the wingspan of God will be the solid bedrock of all nights of great Sex, disappointing Sex, average Sex, and baby-makin' Sex, instead of having the bedrock being lust-fulfillment and pleasure.
The problem I find with premarital Sex likes in the idea that once the penis goes in, it never really comes out. Once two bodies are made one, they're never really detached from that other person. Our souls are a little like fly paper in that, once that great region of love is reached with a person, we are stuck with them, onto them, within them. And, so, to escape that, you lose a leg. And so the next person you have sex with gets a one-legged fly. Continue this process, and you are eventually a decrepit soul with nothing but your genitals left. And no girl, really, just wants a penis. And guys think they just want a vagina. But we all really want emotions and passion and legs and arms and touch and taste and smell and full-bodied connection (I hope). Not just connection with the vulva or the testes or the clitoris.
And that's what I want to give to my wife on my wedding night. I will give to her, lay down on her fly paper my arms and legs and feet and hands and head and tongue and heart and eyes and nose and mouth and teeth and lungs and kidneys. I will lay those at her feet and say, "I give you all of this. You caught me. I am wholly, and fully, yours."
And I really doubt that a non-virgin girl would understand that concept. And, even if she did,
I still wouldn't have all of her. She'd be missing a leg, while I would be whole, and there would be a gap between us. And I would feel intimidated. And we couldn't be together because I'd always wonder if I'm taking her places her other partner(s) have or taking her nowhere in comparison. And then that would probably cause perennial Whiskey Dick.
But, apparently, this is all pussy-talk and if I were a real 19-year-old college student, I would have at least gotten head by now. At least.
Don't be afraid of persecution, don't be afraid of despondency because you haven't found another who feels the same way. We'll all find that someone who will give themselves fully to us on our flypaper wedding bed. And it'll be "whoa baby...like Charles Bronson in the Great Escape."
And it's generally a someone...
which is weird, on the whole, becaues I am very picky when it comes to women, I've decided, even though I'm not when it comes to how beautiful and wonderful they are as beings. I'm picky because of my two most important things: Sex and religion. I realized, with the help of Alycia, that I need a girl who's ontologically and theologically parallel to what I believe, so that instead of butting heads on the issues of divinity and sanctificaion every night before burning down into lustful, passionate hate-sex on our honeymoon, we can actually love each other. I believe that a relationship should exist within the scope and wingspan of God Almighty. If I were to be dating a non-christian girl, I realized (and should've known all along) that we would be away from Him. And I've been away from Him for far too long.
But Christians are so easy to come by, they're a quarter of the population of the Earth, apparently. And that's where the second standard comes into play, because if a girl is a Christian virgin, then that means she actually cherishes her beliefs and values her, well, values. Sex is the highest passion between two souls (Faith is the highest passion of a single soul), and I believe that it is a passion that can only be met between a man and a wife. I've been asked if it seems scary to do that, to have Sex with one woman for your entire life. And my response is, generally, "Yea, well, it's still Sex." And I'm willing to bet that the 1000th time with my future and always wife will be better than my 1000th woman (I'm looking at you, Gene Simmons, for confirmation) and the whole idea that that rests upon is love. The idea that love in the wingspan of God will be the solid bedrock of all nights of great Sex, disappointing Sex, average Sex, and baby-makin' Sex, instead of having the bedrock being lust-fulfillment and pleasure.
The problem I find with premarital Sex likes in the idea that once the penis goes in, it never really comes out. Once two bodies are made one, they're never really detached from that other person. Our souls are a little like fly paper in that, once that great region of love is reached with a person, we are stuck with them, onto them, within them. And, so, to escape that, you lose a leg. And so the next person you have sex with gets a one-legged fly. Continue this process, and you are eventually a decrepit soul with nothing but your genitals left. And no girl, really, just wants a penis. And guys think they just want a vagina. But we all really want emotions and passion and legs and arms and touch and taste and smell and full-bodied connection (I hope). Not just connection with the vulva or the testes or the clitoris.
And that's what I want to give to my wife on my wedding night. I will give to her, lay down on her fly paper my arms and legs and feet and hands and head and tongue and heart and eyes and nose and mouth and teeth and lungs and kidneys. I will lay those at her feet and say, "I give you all of this. You caught me. I am wholly, and fully, yours."
And I really doubt that a non-virgin girl would understand that concept. And, even if she did,
I still wouldn't have all of her. She'd be missing a leg, while I would be whole, and there would be a gap between us. And I would feel intimidated. And we couldn't be together because I'd always wonder if I'm taking her places her other partner(s) have or taking her nowhere in comparison. And then that would probably cause perennial Whiskey Dick.
But, apparently, this is all pussy-talk and if I were a real 19-year-old college student, I would have at least gotten head by now. At least.
Don't be afraid of persecution, don't be afraid of despondency because you haven't found another who feels the same way. We'll all find that someone who will give themselves fully to us on our flypaper wedding bed. And it'll be "whoa baby...like Charles Bronson in the Great Escape."
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Selfish Manifesto
JP asked me to write him something explaining myself, this is what I came up with.
--
I was born and bred in the amniotic fluid of cynicism, liberalism and passivism. Taught to have an open mind and not to take anything at face value. Have no trust until your heart is completely within the idea and without doubt. Complete the theosophy only if it is completeable.
Christ is the center of everything I think of and every conjecture I pull out of my ass. Christ as the God of Man of God because I am a Man of God of Man. I and the Father are one. I really believe I am enlightened to point of non-existance. To the point that nihilistic malcontention actually makes sense. My parents bred all of these things in me.
I am crazy. I am bipolar. I credit this to being why I am fearless in thought, because you can't be afraid of bullet trains as a blind man. We are blind.
At the same time, I simply am. Perfectly forever, I am. I am I am I am iam. I think that what I was raised to do was love what I like and hate what I must but always have an open mind to different ideologies, theologies, and idiosyncrasies. Pull from everything for all things are beautiful since all things are from God. All the saddest things contain all the most beautiful things as well as all the most beautiful things contain the saddest things. Life is cyclical. I AM.
I try and guide my fucked-up self by this verse: "Therefore, go: get your countrymen in Exile and say to them, 'Thus Says the LORD,' whether they listen or fail to listen." Ezekiel 3:11. It's the OT equivalent of Christ's commission of Matthew 28. Making disciples. But you always must realize that there will be those who will never listen. And you must shake the dust from your feet. But you must push forth to get the exiles and turn them around from head to foot from heart to soul. Believe in God. Trust in God. Know in God. Be with God.
And music, be it secular or Christian, blasphemous or sodomous, is the sinew and the string that hold the ventricles of the heart together, that mend the souls irreparable parts, that tie the lobes together. Music creates the waves to make us feel human. Without music, there is no soul. Without rhythm (aleatoric or symphonic), there is no life, there is merely silence and stagnance. But... silence is its own music. We can't escape the beauty of our most sordid thoughts. Believe in God.
Have faith in Man but never trust it lest the aforementioned prerequisites are in place, of course. Souls are all connected, we are all connected, our sins are everyone's. Christ died for everyone's unifying sin. We are all serial killers and rapists and pedophiles and perverts and racists. We are all lovers and fighters and supporters. We are one. We are each other. Christ died for all of it so we could within the breadth and cover of his silver wings that protect us from Satan's ineffable savvy beckoning. We will all sin. We must all forgive.
We must be humble, we mustn't demand recognition. I was raised to do good whilst flying under the radar--create the tireless chugging ideology of goodness without recognition because being known destroys everything. Be without megalomania. Know yourself, know your God, may it be enough for enlightenment.
Believe in God. The universe tends to unfold as it should.
--
I was born and bred in the amniotic fluid of cynicism, liberalism and passivism. Taught to have an open mind and not to take anything at face value. Have no trust until your heart is completely within the idea and without doubt. Complete the theosophy only if it is completeable.
Christ is the center of everything I think of and every conjecture I pull out of my ass. Christ as the God of Man of God because I am a Man of God of Man. I and the Father are one. I really believe I am enlightened to point of non-existance. To the point that nihilistic malcontention actually makes sense. My parents bred all of these things in me.
I am crazy. I am bipolar. I credit this to being why I am fearless in thought, because you can't be afraid of bullet trains as a blind man. We are blind.
At the same time, I simply am. Perfectly forever, I am. I am I am I am iam. I think that what I was raised to do was love what I like and hate what I must but always have an open mind to different ideologies, theologies, and idiosyncrasies. Pull from everything for all things are beautiful since all things are from God. All the saddest things contain all the most beautiful things as well as all the most beautiful things contain the saddest things. Life is cyclical. I AM.
I try and guide my fucked-up self by this verse: "Therefore, go: get your countrymen in Exile and say to them, 'Thus Says the LORD,' whether they listen or fail to listen." Ezekiel 3:11. It's the OT equivalent of Christ's commission of Matthew 28. Making disciples. But you always must realize that there will be those who will never listen. And you must shake the dust from your feet. But you must push forth to get the exiles and turn them around from head to foot from heart to soul. Believe in God. Trust in God. Know in God. Be with God.
And music, be it secular or Christian, blasphemous or sodomous, is the sinew and the string that hold the ventricles of the heart together, that mend the souls irreparable parts, that tie the lobes together. Music creates the waves to make us feel human. Without music, there is no soul. Without rhythm (aleatoric or symphonic), there is no life, there is merely silence and stagnance. But... silence is its own music. We can't escape the beauty of our most sordid thoughts. Believe in God.
Have faith in Man but never trust it lest the aforementioned prerequisites are in place, of course. Souls are all connected, we are all connected, our sins are everyone's. Christ died for everyone's unifying sin. We are all serial killers and rapists and pedophiles and perverts and racists. We are all lovers and fighters and supporters. We are one. We are each other. Christ died for all of it so we could within the breadth and cover of his silver wings that protect us from Satan's ineffable savvy beckoning. We will all sin. We must all forgive.
We must be humble, we mustn't demand recognition. I was raised to do good whilst flying under the radar--create the tireless chugging ideology of goodness without recognition because being known destroys everything. Be without megalomania. Know yourself, know your God, may it be enough for enlightenment.
Believe in God. The universe tends to unfold as it should.
Monday, October 01, 2007
It's a birthday party!
I just completed the greatest weekend so far in my short and ill-remembered life. JP, Jasmine, Bradley and I hung out on Friday night, going to a hookah bar for no reason save to have somewhere to sit and talk for a few hours. Sitting there, sometimes smoking, and talking about Devendra Banhart and movies and music and how much the three boys hate Joy Division and JP's blossoming college experience, I was entranced with complete peace. I was completely at peace. This is a feeling that is rare within me because, as JP describes it, I am convinced that everything will turn out okay but, since it's not okay right now, I'm generally very negative involvling the temporal. So for me to be without negativity was something I wasn't expecting for awhile.
But it happened again the next night. We all went to Jasmine's house and then to a park where we sat around and talked about nothing for three hours. I just--it was the best weekend ever. It was reassuring and it was fun and it was interesting and it was loud and it was funny. I had a great weekend and I hope you all feel the same.
But it happened again the next night. We all went to Jasmine's house and then to a park where we sat around and talked about nothing for three hours. I just--it was the best weekend ever. It was reassuring and it was fun and it was interesting and it was loud and it was funny. I had a great weekend and I hope you all feel the same.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Nothing you can say can't be done.
My sister is in England, I am at home. And I am jealous. Of course I am. The only time I've ever been out of the ountry was when we trekked from Seattle up to Vancouver once when I was a freshman in High School. At the same time, I don't know if world travel affects me very much. I don't know if I really want to travel the world, if I really want to see it. I do but I don't for some reason. Maybe it's because I have a slight fear of flight.
I'm writing this without my glasses on, the screen is about three feet away, and I can't see a word of what I'm typing. I'm glad I learned how to instinct-type because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to write in this situation. It kind of sucks hwo bad my eyes are. Especially when I take my glsses off. It's so hard to find them again when everything blends together. I can't discern between colors at times, I can't see smaller objects within larger ones, so if my glasses were on a black shirt, I'd have a hard time seeing them. Everything kind of bleeds together. It's not the best.
I want to become something more. I want to be transformed. I was watching John Safran vs. God today and he, as a Jewish man, tried to join the KKK. That wasn't the interesting part, for me, though it was rather interesting how militant the group is. The interesting part to me was that, when they showed their altar, it had a bible open to Romans 12, a sword and an American Flag draped over it. Romans 12 is the chapter I memorized one summer during a summer camp. Funny how normal Christians and KKK Christians are under the same rules for living. Somehow, for some reason, I don't think they're following those rules very well. I mean, c'mon, they're a paramilitary racist group. And I'm just a dude, trying to offer my body as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.
find yourself.
--
So I just recently watched the movie I Heart Huckbees, a movie about existential detectives and Jude Law being an all around dick. I must say, it wasn't very good. It was billed as a comedy, and it had its moments, but it really wasn't very funny. At points, it seemed like it was trying to hard to be quirky what with all the choppy editing and funky pieces of screen floating around. Overall, though, it was just faux philosophical and didn't answer any questions the movie proposed. I don't know, maybe I'm jaded towards the whole idea of philosophy ever since the major didn't work out.
I'm writing this without my glasses on, the screen is about three feet away, and I can't see a word of what I'm typing. I'm glad I learned how to instinct-type because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to write in this situation. It kind of sucks hwo bad my eyes are. Especially when I take my glsses off. It's so hard to find them again when everything blends together. I can't discern between colors at times, I can't see smaller objects within larger ones, so if my glasses were on a black shirt, I'd have a hard time seeing them. Everything kind of bleeds together. It's not the best.
I want to become something more. I want to be transformed. I was watching John Safran vs. God today and he, as a Jewish man, tried to join the KKK. That wasn't the interesting part, for me, though it was rather interesting how militant the group is. The interesting part to me was that, when they showed their altar, it had a bible open to Romans 12, a sword and an American Flag draped over it. Romans 12 is the chapter I memorized one summer during a summer camp. Funny how normal Christians and KKK Christians are under the same rules for living. Somehow, for some reason, I don't think they're following those rules very well. I mean, c'mon, they're a paramilitary racist group. And I'm just a dude, trying to offer my body as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.
find yourself.
--
So I just recently watched the movie I Heart Huckbees, a movie about existential detectives and Jude Law being an all around dick. I must say, it wasn't very good. It was billed as a comedy, and it had its moments, but it really wasn't very funny. At points, it seemed like it was trying to hard to be quirky what with all the choppy editing and funky pieces of screen floating around. Overall, though, it was just faux philosophical and didn't answer any questions the movie proposed. I don't know, maybe I'm jaded towards the whole idea of philosophy ever since the major didn't work out.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Under the gun gun gun
I think it's getting better, but it has a cycle. I've been able to fall asleep at 11 or 12 the past few nights. The problem is that I tend to wake up again at about 215-245, struggling with two things: a deep hunger and a full bladder. I know that if I don't move, I could probably fall back asleep. However, I also know that I just may wet the bed. Totally not cool since I'm 19 (for the record, I haven't wet the bed since the fifth grade when I went through a rash of it that I thought were wet dreams.) and that's something for kids.
And I've never been able to sleep on an empty stomach. So I get up and I pee off my patio in the backyard since it's closer than the bathroom, and then I eat something. And then, oh shit, it's my morning ritual at 230 in the morning. I'm wide awake. I don't know what to do. I turn on the TV and try and sink way deep into the couch, letting whatever's on sooth me to sleep. But I just ate something. And it's digesting. So I can't sleep for at least twenty minutes. And after 20 minutes, I'm suddenly engaged with what's on the TV. Dammit.
I turn the TV off and go up to bed, by this time, 330, my dad's awake and is getting ready for work. We say a few words, so I really get into bed at around 345. I read a little bit from whatever book I'm trying to read but will probably never finish, then turn off the light and stare at the ceiling until about 5, at which point I'm fed up with the whole bloated concept of mystic war puppets (something I'm apt to think about), or worrying about my friends or worrying about meeting people.
I'll get over it. I'm gonna go back to staring at the ceiling.
--
Wild and virulent like the children of two manic children. The tome of a thousand aged caveats, all ignored, and now given merit vis-a-vis their proven rightness. Oh tired divinity, giveth me thy cross. Let me walk. Let me churn. It's always midnight in the Ozarks. If only time could stop for me. For only a moment. So I could gather myself, know your name, and press on towards you as my goal against whim and will and way.
Perhaps. But maybe not. I can't offer any certainty save that which has tightened my chest. I will pray for you often and think of you always.
And I've never been able to sleep on an empty stomach. So I get up and I pee off my patio in the backyard since it's closer than the bathroom, and then I eat something. And then, oh shit, it's my morning ritual at 230 in the morning. I'm wide awake. I don't know what to do. I turn on the TV and try and sink way deep into the couch, letting whatever's on sooth me to sleep. But I just ate something. And it's digesting. So I can't sleep for at least twenty minutes. And after 20 minutes, I'm suddenly engaged with what's on the TV. Dammit.
I turn the TV off and go up to bed, by this time, 330, my dad's awake and is getting ready for work. We say a few words, so I really get into bed at around 345. I read a little bit from whatever book I'm trying to read but will probably never finish, then turn off the light and stare at the ceiling until about 5, at which point I'm fed up with the whole bloated concept of mystic war puppets (something I'm apt to think about), or worrying about my friends or worrying about meeting people.
I'll get over it. I'm gonna go back to staring at the ceiling.
--
Wild and virulent like the children of two manic children. The tome of a thousand aged caveats, all ignored, and now given merit vis-a-vis their proven rightness. Oh tired divinity, giveth me thy cross. Let me walk. Let me churn. It's always midnight in the Ozarks. If only time could stop for me. For only a moment. So I could gather myself, know your name, and press on towards you as my goal against whim and will and way.
Perhaps. But maybe not. I can't offer any certainty save that which has tightened my chest. I will pray for you often and think of you always.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Brand New Waves of Sordid Oncology
It's 330. I just cleaned up dog shit in my dining room. This is probably the best time to do it, because you're only downstairs for a bowl of cereal when, bam!, you're shocked into having a ZipLoc baggy inside out on your hand while you hold stinky, warm, clay-paste. Then, next thing you know, you're grabbing your dog by the collar and stickin' her face in it. They know they've done something wrong and you have to shove them an inch from their sin. Next thing you know, your hands are clean, your happily stuffed full of mini wheats, and your dog loves you like you're a God again.
It's amazing how similar this situation is to how God is with our sin. Our conscience, AKA the holy spirit, shoves our nose in our dirty deeds (not done dirt cheap, ACDC), and tells us to not do it again, sternly, even though my conscience and I both know that it's a pit we fall into when we have no other options. And then we're both back to happily loving each. A dog can't hold its crap for 43 hours straight, we can't go 24 hours without doing something crappy. A dog's gotta deuce, we've gotta sin. We're inherently evil creatures.
And I think that's how God atones our sins: with an inside-out ZipLoc baggy that he tosses into the toilet, never to be seen again. And the cycle starts over. Luckily, there's no human pound where gods take their followers when they've been consistently bad and they just can't keep them in their temple. That would suck.
It's amazing how similar this situation is to how God is with our sin. Our conscience, AKA the holy spirit, shoves our nose in our dirty deeds (not done dirt cheap, ACDC), and tells us to not do it again, sternly, even though my conscience and I both know that it's a pit we fall into when we have no other options. And then we're both back to happily loving each. A dog can't hold its crap for 43 hours straight, we can't go 24 hours without doing something crappy. A dog's gotta deuce, we've gotta sin. We're inherently evil creatures.
And I think that's how God atones our sins: with an inside-out ZipLoc baggy that he tosses into the toilet, never to be seen again. And the cycle starts over. Luckily, there's no human pound where gods take their followers when they've been consistently bad and they just can't keep them in their temple. That would suck.
Monday, September 24, 2007
[A refrain from quoting Edie and the New Bohemians]
At some points, threre will always be doubt. At others, there will always be malice. I am awake, my feet are cold.
there seems to be some sort of erhereal disconnect between me and my inspiration. See, I know life is more well than unwell because i feel no underlying sense of worry or spite or unrequited love sick blues to drive these musings. All I've got is this:
I'm so insanely content with life right now I almost want to laugh in its face!
Except for the fact that the Dodgers aren't going to make the playoffs, but who didn't see that one coming?
there seems to be some sort of erhereal disconnect between me and my inspiration. See, I know life is more well than unwell because i feel no underlying sense of worry or spite or unrequited love sick blues to drive these musings. All I've got is this:
I'm so insanely content with life right now I almost want to laugh in its face!
Except for the fact that the Dodgers aren't going to make the playoffs, but who didn't see that one coming?
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Rain like Crickets, make the noise.
Complacency.
I feel stricken by the ghosts of seven different past lives, streaking across the sky until tomorrow's dawn. Having had written correspondence with Jesus Christ to boost my faith, I know this is true. I know you are true. I know that I need to read more than the occassional sports article and short story if I want to become a serious fiction writer. Maybe I'm not meant for fiction, I've hypothesized that before. I know: I was meant for the stage. That's the title of a Decemberists' song I don't ever remember hearing.
Contrition. Contention.
Deep down, glottal feelings in my throat. Real ugly nasty. Things will be okay. One can only hope for the best between two or more souls. We are one within the shells of many. That's what unity is.
We move out, we move upward. I am gone away from here, forewarned and unrequited. Take care of my sisters old boys.
My ears aren't ringing. You aren't thinking about me.
I feel stricken by the ghosts of seven different past lives, streaking across the sky until tomorrow's dawn. Having had written correspondence with Jesus Christ to boost my faith, I know this is true. I know you are true. I know that I need to read more than the occassional sports article and short story if I want to become a serious fiction writer. Maybe I'm not meant for fiction, I've hypothesized that before. I know: I was meant for the stage. That's the title of a Decemberists' song I don't ever remember hearing.
Contrition. Contention.
Deep down, glottal feelings in my throat. Real ugly nasty. Things will be okay. One can only hope for the best between two or more souls. We are one within the shells of many. That's what unity is.
We move out, we move upward. I am gone away from here, forewarned and unrequited. Take care of my sisters old boys.
My ears aren't ringing. You aren't thinking about me.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Those are my feet. Like Quentin Tarantino, but less into them, I like feet for some reason. I think for me, the attraction is within how ugly they are and how much people hate them even though they're in our top 10 necessary body parts (top four limbs, for sure.).
Anyway, I just wanted to play with uploading a picture. However, this post does differ from others in two ways: 1) I'm not laying in my bed, doing this from my laptop, falling asleep and letting the folly of thought overtake me; and 2) look at what time I posted this. Now, look at the times for the other posts. See something? This is the earliest one of the last ten or so. I start school tomorrow, I gotta get my whore ass ready to go to bed before 5AM. Don't call it insomnia, don't call it a worry, it's just me being me.
I burned my thumb on the iron the other day. It's a rough spot that's healing. If I had a picture of that, I'd post it too.
The Dodgers' playoff hopes are officially moot. Grady Little even said so himself, and that's just not allowed. You don't write off your own team until you've officially been knocked out. That's just not logical. That's just not nice to your players making a combined 100 million dollars. Give them some hope for their money.
I actually had a moment tonight where I had to tell myself that baseball is just a game. It was when Broxton, for the second night in a row, gave up a homerun to Matt Holliday, who, actually, is a great young player and I'm afraid of the Rockies in the years to come.
I switched my bio class with a photography class. Gonna take it easy this last quarter before I get my ass kicked in the cold. Go Lumberjacks!
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
I never loved nobody fully.
As I sit here, listening to my dog bark downstairs, waking up my sister, I can't help but reflect upon this great big collapse that I'm busy recovering from that happened throughout the last three years.
I think it started the moment Alycia broke up with me. I took it as if she had left me at the altar even though we had only been dating for two weeks. She left me in disarray for no apparent reason other than I was way too creepily into her and I couldn't understand that it was just plain weird for that to be.
That year, 2004, was a downward spiral. I was transmuting all of my feelings onto another girl, Katelyn Duffy, who I don't think I ever really liked. But, she was blonde and she was christian and I was crazy--she was my surrogate. And I could never understand why she didn't want to date me. Until the other day when the "Holy Shit, I never realized this even though it's so goddam obvious that I should have realized this" moment happened: what kind of girl would want to date a guy who's madly in love with another girl, of which she knows the ENTIRE situation and how crazy I am about her and about everything else. I am stupid. Or at least was. Hindsight is 20\20, right?
Anyway, by the end of 2004, I was diagnosed bi-polar.
(( and I know that all of this is shit you don't care to hear about, but whatever. I was on meds, finally, and was ready for my senior year. ))
My senior year was basically a plateau for this whole collapse. I had a girlfriend, so shit couldn't be too bad for me. But it was, all the same, because of my feelings for this girl in marching band. Because of Kailee, I couldn't ever fully commit to Kaitlyn. She's why I broke up with a girl who was mad about me on the day of prom (yea, I know, dick move on my part). I thought that I could regain some sort of relationship like Kailee and I had had near the end of 2004, right before I was diagnosed and medicated. The funny thing, here, too, is that, since I could never actually talk to Kailee (don't ask why, I had some sort of ultra-broke-down-sad-ass notion that she was way up in the echelon of sacred-goddesses, and thus could not be spoken to about anything. I think I just wanted to revere her), I always ended up transmuting those feelings onto her best friend, Christina, who I don't know if I ever really liked, but at least she was more human in my mind and thus easier to talk to. So the only girl I had actually expressed my feelings rightly to, and had success with it, was Kaitlyn.
And, by September 2006, I was using Kaitlyn for my own lust and private adoration. Trying to get my fill. I think that, when I realized this and broke up with her for the final time, was the edge and bottom of the collapse. Of my collapse.
And for about a year I floundered at the bottom, not doing much, not surrendering much, just kind of... at the bottom of this big cavernous valley which I had unwillingly, but divinely and unavoidably, climbed down into. And now I'm on the opposite side of this big great valley, having meandered across the bottom of it, climbing out the other end toward normality. I'm ready for it, I've seen the greatest of the lowest, and I'm working on getting my God and my sanity back.
The day I got my letter of acceptance from Humboldt was the first day I started up the opposite side of the valley, when things started looking up for me, y'know? I'm so tired of everyone knowing me. I've had my years of thick-headed, shit-for-brains, dense-ass, stupidity, and now I'm ready for my less-naive self to takehold of my feelings for one girl and actually use them on that same girl, and not on some other surrogate that's never quite the same because no two people are the same (we're like snowflakes, really. We all seem the same at the beginning, until you survey us under a microscope and we're really not all the same because I have a crevice and a turn where you have a dash and a point. Then you look a little deeper, and see atoms, and realize that we're really all the same, no matter where God folded me and cut me with scissors and paper [a vaguely worded allusion the those snowflakes we'd made as kids around Christmas time to decorate the classroom with]). We are all beautiful, we are all serial killers. Moby thinks we are all made of stars.
So, I'm climbing out, I guess. I know now that the stories I wrote in 2004 are shitty. I know now that I put Katelyn and David and everyone else who was ever close to me in 2004-early 2005 through way too much shit to even be apologized for, though I would in a heartbeat if I felt it were something that could actually be forgiven. It can't be forgiven. I can't be forgiven for what I've done to you. I can't be forgiven by you. It's too big for mortals to actually let go of all that crap. It's only for me and Jesus to sort out. And we've got a shit-ton to sort out, it seems. But we also have a lot of time to sort it out as He and I have this big long hike in front of us. I'm glad he can make rocks give us water because damn am I thirsty. But, yea, he's like the accountant that has to sort through a closet-full of unorganized paperwork to figure out why I got a $100,000 tax return even though I haven't paid my taxes in 6 years and 7 moons. Once again, another convoluted analogy.
Anyway, God is love and I am at Peace.
I think it started the moment Alycia broke up with me. I took it as if she had left me at the altar even though we had only been dating for two weeks. She left me in disarray for no apparent reason other than I was way too creepily into her and I couldn't understand that it was just plain weird for that to be.
That year, 2004, was a downward spiral. I was transmuting all of my feelings onto another girl, Katelyn Duffy, who I don't think I ever really liked. But, she was blonde and she was christian and I was crazy--she was my surrogate. And I could never understand why she didn't want to date me. Until the other day when the "Holy Shit, I never realized this even though it's so goddam obvious that I should have realized this" moment happened: what kind of girl would want to date a guy who's madly in love with another girl, of which she knows the ENTIRE situation and how crazy I am about her and about everything else. I am stupid. Or at least was. Hindsight is 20\20, right?
Anyway, by the end of 2004, I was diagnosed bi-polar.
(( and I know that all of this is shit you don't care to hear about, but whatever. I was on meds, finally, and was ready for my senior year. ))
My senior year was basically a plateau for this whole collapse. I had a girlfriend, so shit couldn't be too bad for me. But it was, all the same, because of my feelings for this girl in marching band. Because of Kailee, I couldn't ever fully commit to Kaitlyn. She's why I broke up with a girl who was mad about me on the day of prom (yea, I know, dick move on my part). I thought that I could regain some sort of relationship like Kailee and I had had near the end of 2004, right before I was diagnosed and medicated. The funny thing, here, too, is that, since I could never actually talk to Kailee (don't ask why, I had some sort of ultra-broke-down-sad-ass notion that she was way up in the echelon of sacred-goddesses, and thus could not be spoken to about anything. I think I just wanted to revere her), I always ended up transmuting those feelings onto her best friend, Christina, who I don't know if I ever really liked, but at least she was more human in my mind and thus easier to talk to. So the only girl I had actually expressed my feelings rightly to, and had success with it, was Kaitlyn.
And, by September 2006, I was using Kaitlyn for my own lust and private adoration. Trying to get my fill. I think that, when I realized this and broke up with her for the final time, was the edge and bottom of the collapse. Of my collapse.
And for about a year I floundered at the bottom, not doing much, not surrendering much, just kind of... at the bottom of this big cavernous valley which I had unwillingly, but divinely and unavoidably, climbed down into. And now I'm on the opposite side of this big great valley, having meandered across the bottom of it, climbing out the other end toward normality. I'm ready for it, I've seen the greatest of the lowest, and I'm working on getting my God and my sanity back.
The day I got my letter of acceptance from Humboldt was the first day I started up the opposite side of the valley, when things started looking up for me, y'know? I'm so tired of everyone knowing me. I've had my years of thick-headed, shit-for-brains, dense-ass, stupidity, and now I'm ready for my less-naive self to takehold of my feelings for one girl and actually use them on that same girl, and not on some other surrogate that's never quite the same because no two people are the same (we're like snowflakes, really. We all seem the same at the beginning, until you survey us under a microscope and we're really not all the same because I have a crevice and a turn where you have a dash and a point. Then you look a little deeper, and see atoms, and realize that we're really all the same, no matter where God folded me and cut me with scissors and paper [a vaguely worded allusion the those snowflakes we'd made as kids around Christmas time to decorate the classroom with]). We are all beautiful, we are all serial killers. Moby thinks we are all made of stars.
So, I'm climbing out, I guess. I know now that the stories I wrote in 2004 are shitty. I know now that I put Katelyn and David and everyone else who was ever close to me in 2004-early 2005 through way too much shit to even be apologized for, though I would in a heartbeat if I felt it were something that could actually be forgiven. It can't be forgiven. I can't be forgiven for what I've done to you. I can't be forgiven by you. It's too big for mortals to actually let go of all that crap. It's only for me and Jesus to sort out. And we've got a shit-ton to sort out, it seems. But we also have a lot of time to sort it out as He and I have this big long hike in front of us. I'm glad he can make rocks give us water because damn am I thirsty. But, yea, he's like the accountant that has to sort through a closet-full of unorganized paperwork to figure out why I got a $100,000 tax return even though I haven't paid my taxes in 6 years and 7 moons. Once again, another convoluted analogy.
Anyway, God is love and I am at Peace.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Eyes were made to cry during her birthing a child.
I feel sick. My stomach feels "wrapped in bailing wire." I'm sick of my soul being sodomized by cynicism and irony. I want my G-D back. I believe in him yet he feels so far away... Like a deity that left and can't be grasped onto.
I'm sick of loneliness. With G-d and JP so far away, I feel like parts of my soul have up and gone away for the winter months amongst the southern flightless birds. It's not queer to miss my best friends. I still have Jasmine, and I love you to death, but I'm so scared of G-d or JP never coming back the same. Being different. Changing the good parts, the warm parts, the sacred parts. I know all of G-d is sacred.
Must I, really, be brave in these the waning months of autumnal change and discomfort?
Jesus is my G-d is my Holy Ghost that haunts the weeds behind my house to scare me awake amongst the night and to keep me safe.
I feel the anguished Autumnal blues coming on--and the season hasn't even started yet.
I'm sick of loneliness. With G-d and JP so far away, I feel like parts of my soul have up and gone away for the winter months amongst the southern flightless birds. It's not queer to miss my best friends. I still have Jasmine, and I love you to death, but I'm so scared of G-d or JP never coming back the same. Being different. Changing the good parts, the warm parts, the sacred parts. I know all of G-d is sacred.
Must I, really, be brave in these the waning months of autumnal change and discomfort?
Jesus is my G-d is my Holy Ghost that haunts the weeds behind my house to scare me awake amongst the night and to keep me safe.
I feel the anguished Autumnal blues coming on--and the season hasn't even started yet.
Friday, September 14, 2007
A Juggernaut heart. And a Japanese car.
This is something that I struggle with concerning Christianity: everything on Earth, all matter, never breaks down. It simply reappears in a new form, molds and becomes something else. Gets new life breathed into it. I was talking to someone about this once and they mentioned that any one of a trillion people could have a part of Abraham Lincoln in them. All matter is eternal. Is our eternal life to be recycled among the Earth going to from sand to sea to rock to ridge? If that is the case, then isn't this simply an Eastern thought of cyclical still-life reviving itself? How does that fit into the "one life to live?" Is it that our metaphysical, our souls, are singular and made of something other than matter? Or do our souls simply not exist? Is the soul simply a manifestation to give us hope that there's something not so evil inside of us? I don't know, that's why I'm asking you. If parts of me, one day, will be soaking in the dirt, becoming new parts of newer things--if my atoms and my electrons are constantly shifting--then how can I affirm that this is my one life, how can I affirm that I go to heaven and not simply begin sifting back through the dirt until I manifest again?
I've brought this up before, the lessons that God could teach a soul through reincarnation. For example, if a soul (not a person: a person is the soul's shell. Think of us as horseshoe crabs, I guess. We shed our shells and find a bigger one.) has problems with patience, wouldn't it be a great big beautiful exercise in patience if God made the soul come back as a Redwood tree, one that lives for a thousand years and is stagnant, unmoving, and simply reaching higher and higher? Or what if he wanted to teach vain souls a lesson by making them come back as pigs?
Are our souls eternal? If they are not, then how is there a heaven? If they are, then how is there a heaven beyond the eternal that is already on this Earth? Even when the Earth disintegrates, or gets consumed by the sun, or gets blown to bits by our own hands, the matter will still exist, and we will float all over space.
Oh my God, how can one life of a billion heartbeats be all there is?! I just don't understand!
I've brought this up before, the lessons that God could teach a soul through reincarnation. For example, if a soul (not a person: a person is the soul's shell. Think of us as horseshoe crabs, I guess. We shed our shells and find a bigger one.) has problems with patience, wouldn't it be a great big beautiful exercise in patience if God made the soul come back as a Redwood tree, one that lives for a thousand years and is stagnant, unmoving, and simply reaching higher and higher? Or what if he wanted to teach vain souls a lesson by making them come back as pigs?
Are our souls eternal? If they are not, then how is there a heaven? If they are, then how is there a heaven beyond the eternal that is already on this Earth? Even when the Earth disintegrates, or gets consumed by the sun, or gets blown to bits by our own hands, the matter will still exist, and we will float all over space.
Oh my God, how can one life of a billion heartbeats be all there is?! I just don't understand!
I went to bed. Read Matthew 11. Jumped ahead to 14. Started reading 6 parables starting with "The Kingdom of Heaven is like..." I caught a second wind. I made a new logo for this site, deciding that two logos both utilizing a sketch or painting by Salvador Dali were indicative of a bygone fetish. Reload enough and you'll see the new one. It was going to have a superimposed image of Charles Bukowski's ugly ass face. But I'm so goddam rusty at photoshopping that I couldn't get it right. I got frustrated. I made this one. I like it. It's got John Fahey driving a car towards hell. And the Daniel Johnston frog on his roof. And a lyric from a song that you should know. If you don't, ask me. Or type it into google. School has yet to start. I miss my friend Kelley. I haven't seen her in two weeks. I don't really miss JP yet. I should consider starting. I won't see him for at least a month or more. For the first time in two years. I applied for housing, I think I want to live in the Academic Area. In Cypress. They have some badass dorm setups, it seems. I'm gonna live in a suite, sharing a common area with 7-10 people, and a room with 1 person. That should be bitchin'. I want to be an underscore.
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