On Waterways

01/14/2007 3:16 PM – 3:39 PM

And there we are, in the infinite stream, dragging our fingers through the deep blue water of starlit being. Doesn’t matter. Let it go. The self is a delusion, the not-self a lie. We are what we are. Existence exists and we let it go and become someone’s father. There is air on the roof-tops and air in the basement and air the whole house through.

We are not what we were. We are not what we planned to be. Let it go. We are what we are. No man can say, “Jesus is Lord” except by the Holy Spirit. Jesus is Lord. We exist, consist and subsist on the Will that underlies and infuses all. None exist without it. None can escape it. We float on the boat of self together with our friends through the brackish flow wherein mingle the mortal and immortal. Who can ascend His holy hill? Where does the water end and the flesh begin? We are what we are. We will be what we will be. Is there any cruelty in God? You let it go. You cannot understand. You live your life believing in the blessing of the Eternal Will.

And when mix the finite and infinite, the water grows blurry and we cannot see the bottom anymore. So be it. And we wake up from our beds with a start and find the dawn not yet begun and the day yet in the egg. Close your eyes then and proceed to the deeper rest. Oh, Death, where is thy sting? Oh, Grave, where is your victory? Gone down to the waterside and drink the starlight from the tops of the rivers. We are not what we were. We are not what we planned to be. We are what we are by the grace of God. Forgetting the dead world of our own winning, we pursue the humble real. Where are you then? Where are the yellowed clouds and cheerful songs of robins and crickets? Only sleeping. This too is a gift of God. And so we open our hands and let go the ropes falling, eyes open into the unknown stillness. Dying before dead, we are alive while living. Open your hands and the day becomes its own and takes you with it into the quiet which knows only itself. There is this and you must eat it with your soul. Jesus is Lord. All is forgiven, come home, all is forgiven. And we return to eternity, alive while living, dragging our fingers through the light of stars.

On What Is True By Definition

01/09/2007 9:07 PM – 9:30 PM

And so what if you’re writing because it’s an episode of Veronica Mars that you’ve already seen? You’re writing. You’re here at your desk and you’re alright. You’re still chubby, but you’re alright. And there goes the twenty and it’s late at night again. Maybe something more. Maybe something to look forward too, and maybe is enough.

Out there, out the window, its snow dusted sidewalks and the snow is such a rarity that it’s still welcome. And there goes a salter. Which makes one think of a Psalter. And Christian children’s musicals. They were fun. I don’t regret them anymore. Everything from back then wasn’t shit. Far from it. Even some of their creepy-version-of-Christianity stuff was good. It is to exist and do good. It is enough to be at peace. It is enough to go through a day and not have the itchy flush of fear of fear. And one can be thankful. And one can be proud. But not too much so. And the fullness thereof. The intangible coats the surface of the fingers and we trace a parabolic design into the imaginary canvas, indicative of the function of love (never reaching zero).

There’s nothing there, just words in a bottle, shaken and stirred. We become ourselves only in forgetting ourselves. Looking up, we find ourselves outside the window, typing twenty feet above the snowy roof of the garage. It’s nothing you see. It’s just being and being where here is. Nothing remarkable. Nothing unfulfilled. There and here, the world remains in the embrace of the uncreated will. And so, letting go we forget what is unnecessary and exist as fingers on keys, as bodies in motion, as minds at rest. There is a world and there is this and tomorrow will arise and become the inevitable. Running full speed, we remain at rest. And how will it all turn out? And how will the story end? Well, of course. All stories are the one story and the story cannot help but end well. That is how existence is defined. It’s a leap of faith. But one can make it. And it’s more fun. Then you just lie back in your inner tube and paddle, the river carries you home. And you pull the tube up to the back door and grandma has ordered pizza and you drink milk and watch Mighty Ducks 2 and therein you exist knowing the intent of God in flesh as well as spirit. It was only a so-so episode of Veronica Mars. And Mac wasn’t in it. So this is enough. And full.

In Which the Rules For Knowing Are Proved to Be Wrong

01/08/2007 8:56 PM – 9:20 PM

And there it is then, that flush of it. There it is again. Fuck fear. I’m alive. What is the nature of a Spike? I don’t know. I thought I knew. What does it take to be human and alive? What is it again that I’m afraid of? Name it? Don’t name it? I don’t know. I want to be here and alive and not afraid. I want to be complex and yet simply happy.

Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moonlight, there is a drug for me. Oh, to exist in the constant awareness of the being that cannot help but be. Oh God, where are you now? There’s no other God who can raise the dead. But that’s not Merton, that’s Sufjan. Merton is the one that said something about delving into the deepest center of the soul to escape the soul and find the soul’s true origin. All of existence exists. I am writing at night instead of in the morning. I am awake. I am alive. Jesus loves me. This I know. For the Bible tells me so. And that is enough, because I know the rules of what it means to know and I can’t know anything. So the rules are wrong. I exist. Jesus loves me.

And what we are not will fall away. In a moment. In the twinkling of an eye. And we are here and then is just another part of now. And if it doesn’t fucking track, it doesn’t fucking track, because at the baseline of all claims is an unprovable assumption. I exist. Jesus loves me. Everything is gonna be alright. In the end, only three things remain: faith, hope and love, but the greatest of these is love. To find the center, you start with a word. It doesn’t even have to be a real word. It could be “kerfuzenpan.” Though that might be a bit too many syllables. All that it needs is meaning. All it needs is that thing that’s there at the start of it. All it needs is to be that One True Thing. And they can’t be proved. And I love a girl and she loves me but we don’t know it yet. And all things come. And this is enough. And the light that the hermits sought was the uncreated light of God, because love bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things, believes all things and God is love and love never fails. And that is better than the bullshit wisdom of the clever pessimist. Though he is funny. God is love and love never fails. And when I finally fall asleep tonight, I fall asleep beloved. And that is enough and that overflows and existence exists and it is better than I could ever imagine because fear is a myth and Jesus loves me and these three remain: faith, hope and love and the greatest of these of love.

Which Isn't Much But Exists

01/05/2007 5:33 AM – 5:57 AM

And the problem inherent in the self that has only self is that, when the self is crushed, all is lost, but if the self is grafted into a larger thing, crushing does not end it. “For if they fall, one will lift up the other.” And though it is by faith alone, these three remain: faith, hope, and love and the greatest of these is love.

There is still tenthousand things to do and I am not too old yet. There is still a place with warm and sunlight. There is still domesticity on a motorcycle and God is not the asshole one can make him out to be. It is to exist and do good. It is to forget fear and sadness and exist in this state of now. There is still a place with warm and sunlight and even this is a part of it. To move from, one must move toward. Let the old self die and turn to dust and the incorruptible self awaken in the morning. Work and be. Head towards. If there is one that exists well alone, godspeed, I am not always him, and so learning, the dust thickens and we move on.

The lesser things fall away and one becomes that which knows the One in One and All in All. The mystery of the world made manifest and the lesser thing forgets itself and we walk toward the open field and the joy of fearless being. The innumerable lines fall across the window and let us then let go and find the world in a shoebox. We are not our one true self, we are our own, bought with a price and then, grafted to the infinite Is, we forget ourselves and become the song of street lamp in the forest, its song heard only by the ears that, inherent to itself, belong to another. We are not alone. We cannot be. Even in the depths, exists that which is his own and, forgiving, forgets. There’s just that which we cannot defend against. Existence exists and we cannot express the whole in this little stream of yellow lit rain. Doesn’t matter. Let it go. We are and we cannot talk the mystery into being. It is and we will run on to the greater day. So let it go. And so we do. By faith alone and yet the greatest is love. All right. Love then.