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| june 2003 |
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| On Vacation | 12:02am saturday, 28th june |
I am going to Korea for a week, and then I will be back. I think I will really take it easy, and that includes not providing any updates here for that time. I have also turned off my email for now, so this is really a break from all of it, all the things I have going on. Look for the next entry on July 7th or 8th. I will leave you with the following mystery:
On a road in a forest (outside a deserted city) (in a destitute country) (on a weathered world), I stood staring at the trees, their gnarled bark deep with age and their green leaves half eaten away by tiny brown holes. Then I realized like I was remembering it that I was in a dream, and that I could do anything, be anywhere... but I just stood and stared at the trees, their broken branches and twisted trunks. A hundred years passed in thirty seconds, and the road was overgrown, the city crumbled to the ground, the country annexed into a neighboring, and the world a different world — but the trees: I still stood, staring at the trees, as the bark gnarled deeper, the leaves fell and sprouted a hundred times; branches broke off and grew back, trunks twisted up and out.... Then I realized like I was remembering that this dream would never end, that these immortal trees watched as this world became a different world a thousand times over. When I woke, I considered in my deepest voice these trees that never said a word, through the billion happenings of everything. And I wondered, what would it be like if the sole purpose of your life was to grow?
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| Folding | 12:15am friday, 27th june |
Folding the sky sixteen times, I put it in my pocket.
I have an ocean somewhere I distilled into a paper cup.
My universe construction kit is just a pen and paper.
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| Old | 12:24am thursday, 26th june |
I feel as if I am going down well-worn grooves, traveling time-beaten paths. Not roads that others have carved, but my own ways, my own footprints innumerably tread upon one another. I feel perhaps that I need a change, but even that is a tired feeling. I don't know what I want, it seems. I am taking a vacation soon, and maybe that will help — just to get away from everything, a grand shift in scenery — but is this deeper than that? Is it just that I am getting older, and these things I do, these habits... is it that living in itself is getting old? No, I have not had my fill of this life, I don't think (like that song "Circle of Life" says, there is more to do than can ever be done), but maybe I need to go a path I at this point am unaware of. Find something new, though that means just something new to me, something I have never before considered. I wonder what?
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| Be You | 2:25am tuesday, 24th june |
It is easy to lose yourself in the world — it is so big, and you are so small in comparison — it is easy to forget your "I am", become merely fragment of the "we are". It is actually good, sometimes, to think of the larger, to be a part of the collective voice; but when one wants to part from the will of a crowd, it is often difficult to stand still when a multitude presses against your back, or to move when a wall of people blocks your way. I think we must exercise it, your "I am", remember the individual one is, apart from the structure of dependencies on people of the collective "we". What are you? You are part of the world, part of your family, part of your circle of friends, part of your school or company. But what are you? You are unique. You are you. And sometimes, you may forget that.
There are enough categories of people that have been thought of in the reckoning of the world that yes, there is a slot for you, like it or not. For example, "individualist" — are you one of those? But the unique combination of genes and experiences that make you up — these, there are too many combinations and permutations to effectively collapse all of those into a niche wider than one. Yes, they have a name for people like you; don't ignore that, just... don't think that that is the last word on you. When someone has you down to a "t", surprise them. Surprise yourself. Be you. It is sometimes not easy to do that. But it is always worth it.
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| Caverns | 1:26am monday, 23rd june |
In the caverns of my mind
I have whispered ancient spells
that no one ever spoke before;
I have painted runes no one
ever understood, deep in the
dark places only traveled alone.
In the caverns of my mind
I have dreamed of cloudscapes
that I fell through in my journey
to the center of my heart; I
have wondered disbelieving
that there was anyone but me
in this whole big world — but
only sometimes. In the caverns
of my mind I stepped carefully
through the flowers of my
childhood; I wandered through
time before time ran out; I
crept below my unconscious
perceptions. What did I find,
there in the caverns of my
mind? There I was, standing
as if I would stand forever —
if only I turned around and
looked out of the darkness of
my solitude, I would have
seen a sky so blue I would have
cried to see it, out past anywhere
I could imagine on my own.
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| Mystery of Hope | 12:40am saturday, 21st june |
The mystery of hope is in how fragile it is, yet how strong it may prove. The candle light of hope is sometimes snuffed by a single whisper, but it is also true that that light may outshine even death. How is it that this one gem of human existence has two facets so opposite? What makes one hope be so easily snuffed out, and another one live beyond the reach of ten generations? Of a hope's death, I understand that finite things have finite existence, but its remarkable persistence is another matter. Perhaps its power is more than just a human action; it smacks of something like a divine spark, that hope which endures past the deaths of many, and yet needs but one single soul to keep its flame. Perhaps, though, it is merely human after all, and speaks the best of us: though we are mortal, we touch on something more solemn than death, higher than time.... I have hope for hope. Keep that candle lit if you can, but let it go if you must — there will be hope again tomorrow.
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| Recollection 12 | 12:53am friday, 20th june |
How I longed for escape. Death, I remember, was always an inconsequential thing — if that was the only way to get out, that I was going to take it. When I first became mad, and thought the visions I was seeing were another plane of existence, I longed to swim out of this o too solid flesh and into that spirit world. I believed that once I was there, I would have powers that the mightiest angels would envy, even, perhaps, becoming like a god. (The real world around me I had no interest in, and I wanted nothing to do with the mundane things of mere survival. If my parents had not been around to take care of me, I would have surely landed out on the street.) Once, to try and pass into that other world, I took two handfuls of aspirin — but all that did was make me vomit the following morning. Earlier than that, my parents had tomato plants growing in the back yard, so I ate some of their leaves — which I had heard were poisonous — but nothing happened.
In all, I think I tried six or seven times to end it all. This was how badly I wanted out. Plus, there were my walks I sometimes went on, in which I had fantasies that I would just keep on walking, away, away, never turn back. Live on the street in the company of the angels in my head. Good thing those fantasies never worked out.... But you know, even though it was perhaps intensified by the madness, that longing to escape is not unheard of to many people, I think. Many of us have some part of our lives that we long to escape from, or even the whole thing of existence itself. I find it encouraging to my view of humanity that most of us keep pressing on, through the hard times, the hard lives. I have had the pleasure of many experiences since I recovered from my madness, glad to have kept my family and friends. I am glad I didn't escape like I wanted to. I shudder to think what would have happened if I had.
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| Canvas | 12:03am thursday, 19th june |
I dream of hills drawn in crayon, of watercolor skies.
I dream of forests colored in oils, deer sketched in magic marker.
I dream of a sun streaming down ink, and a whole world to paint.
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| Quiet Places | 12:01am tuesday, 17th june |
In the whispering breezes there is dreamed quiet places. No crash or symphony disturbs them, only calm and rest do they ever know.... Such is the fantasy, that exists in some magical clime a place where none have ever known the loud noises of life, or its blaring colors, and perhaps we could go there and forget everything but just there, just then. It is not a bad dream, I think, but it is missing something of what is vital in the world: sometimes it is in the harshness that we learn quickest, that we learn best — things that stick with us. It is nice to dream of quiet things, but to have a place totally quiet... that might not be life we are dreaming of, but death: and there will be time enough for such quiet when go. Sometimes in the loud is the only way we may hear. Life.
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| The Architect | 12:07am monday, 16th june |
The architect always planned for this one contingency, in any design he ever created. He could always imagine it: a boy or a girl, perhaps a teen, running away from as much of the world as they could, and needing just someplace, someplace where they could go and cry — somewhere alone, and sheltered from everything else. He would incorporate these secret spaces, and no one ever questioned them because it always worked with the design of everything else, a sort of side effect of the main construction. But if you made one turn, then another, and maybe a third, and you just kept going until you couldn't see any more windows pointing out from the building, you would find these places, where there was no one but you to see you — small and inconspicuous sanctuaries.
The architect would never go into these places. He was always afraid that if he ever went, he would find that boy or girl running away, because these are they way things happen in this life — expect the unexpected, as it were. He had enough faith in the lines he drew, that the secret places would stay secret. His thanks was always that no one ever noticed them in the architecture, for he was a man of high craft, and delicate detail. Perhaps you know what I am talking about? Have you ever run away, and turned corners without thinking, to find yourself all alone in a perfect place to cry? Maybe you know what I am talking about, and the architect you now know did these things on purpose — give him silent thanks.
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| The Chance | 1:18am saturday, 14th june |
These are the dreams that conspire
to crack open the vaults of Heaven,
these are the visions conceived by
lightning crash. These are the wonders
unfathomed by mortal reckoning,
these are the plumes of desire on
wings of fire, these are the drives
of will wrought in silver passion.
The day that wanders through the
courses of its every moment conceives
death and eternity at each passing
breath. There is none that can say
they never had the chance, though
the chance is sometimes fleeting and
disguised as ordinary. Do not believe
that time is governed by the clocks,
do not believe that beauty imagines
differently the beat of a heart. Life
is more than just a memory, even
if it has passed — experience being a
treasure bought with ignorance, and
clothed in wisdom, and worth more
than the day's wages. This is all we
have of this world, this morning:
climb, struggle, do, be: the chance
is never without the risk, but sweeter
done the smaller the chance may be.
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| Draw | 2:02am friday, 13th june |
He drew on himself: strange symbols, lines leading nowhere, circles with no particular orientation. His pens were continually running dry of ink, and if he took a bath, the water stained a blackish tint, as if he were washing away sins. The patterns he drew were a mystery of asymmetry, an ode to chaos; these markings were a war paint to a battle long over, his side the defeated. No one ever asked him why he did this — there was a certain unknowable poetry to it, and people... people don't ask questions when they think they already know the answer: he was a sign that the universe was as senseless as they believed. But if they had asked him, "Why?", he would have answered, "This is what the whole world means — this is the way I see it. Each day the pattern changes, and when the old one washes away, I draw on myself what is new... like a reflection of it all that knows what it reflects, a world rewritten in abbreviations."
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| Quotations | 12:13am thursday, 12th june |
I've been very busy as of late, so, to take it a little bit easy today, here are a few quotations I obtained from Christian Quotation of the Day:
Very few people in the world would care to listen to the real defense of their own characters. The real defense, the defense which belongs to the Day of Judgment, would make such damaging admissions, would clear away so many artificial virtues, would tell such tragedies of weakness and failure, that a man would sooner be misunderstood and censured by the world than exposed to that awful and merciless eulogy.
- Gilbert Keith Chesterton
Make me what Thou wouldst have me. I bargain for nothing. I make no terms. I seek for no previous information whither Thou art taking me. I will be what Thou wilt make me, and all that Thou wilt make me. I say not, I will follow Thee whithersoever Thou goest, for I am weak, but I give myself to Thee, to lead me anywhither.
- John Henry Newman
... They haled him, trembling, to the Judgment Seat.
"O Lord, behold the man who made the nails that pierced Thy feet!"
The Master laid a thin, scarred hand upon the shame-bowed head.
"They were good nails," he said...
- Kenneth W. Porter
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| And | 1:30am tuesday, 10th june |
I am a stone thrown into the vast of ocean expanse.
I am a wave crashing on the rocks, never to be seen again.
I am a word that no one speaks, a dream that was never dreamed.
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| None | 12:07am monday, 9th june |
There is no strength in the words we say unless we live by them.
There is no power to love except that which we put into it.
There is no divine edict that excuses you from being a human being.
There is no time outside of now, and even dreams understand this.
There is no desire strong enough to achieve anything except that we make the effort.
There is no wealth to he who has sold his soul.
There is no life without a secret blessing — look for it.
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| A Letter | 1:29am saturday, 7th june |
This is my letter to the world who wrote me back often, in multicolored fonts or perfect penmanship, letters that lay on my floor scattered and unread. World, you tried to warn me sometimes about the roads that I traveled, but I was too busy doing nothing to comprehend any of it. You tried to tell me that I was worth it, but I shut my eyes to the words and more than once tried (stupidly) to leave you. And it seemed that you had changed sometimes, but perhaps it was more me that you — and it was more often I think for the worse than the better. I have a place now, with you, around you, within you, and I can write about it all at this point in my being, though I can remember all the times I shut you out, longing only for escape. I have learned a thing or two.
This is my letter to the world who took me back into your fold, even after I cursed you, abused you, and never said I was sorry. Some things I have done that cannot undo, but I might write this letter to you, world, and thank you for just being you. It took me a long time for me to get where I am, but you were always there with me, around me, within me — and I couldn’t have gotten here without you. This is a poor excuse for a letter, I know, but at least I have gotten to where I make the attempt, now, instead of letting you just slip away, and wonder where you might have gone. Write me back, and I know you will, and let me know how I've been doing with all this stuff of life. Eagerly awaiting your reply.
Love,
Stand
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| Angels' Song | 1:08am friday, 6th june |
We in the rhythms coursing
from the heart of all beginnings,
we from in the darkness who forge
a fire, we from the candlelight
kept through the storm, we
who dream when hope is lost:
we have always been here, and
we will go on when all things
become new; we drive on through
heartbreak and sorrow; we keep
faith when the strongest knee
has buckled. We are the children
older than the world, we are
the armor of heaven, we are the
timeless throughout all time,
we are the storm and the calm.
When we seek, we find; when
we knock, it is opened; when we
ask, it is given to us. Fear not:
what you have waited for will
come to pass, and you do not
travel through your days in vain.
Even time has an end, and you
will see the day when there is
no day, the night when there
is no night, and all will be one.
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| Hypnotized? | 12:02am thursday, 5th june |
We have been hypnotized, many of us. We believe all the things we are told, and we leave it at that — asking no questions. What is really going on? Perhaps no one knows, not even those on the high seats, those that have a deal of control over large and pressing issues. Many of us don't wonder much over why things are the way they are; some smooth talking takes some of the edge off reality, and we are content to be soothed by easy words... There are many secrets out there, I think, things no one is supposed to know; and some of these may affect you, your life. Not to be paranoid, but keep an eye out: watch if their actions fit their words, these power brokers of the world: I suspect you may see a thing or two about what's really happening if you just care to look.
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| Today, Now | 12:47am tuesday, 3rd june |
We need not wait. We can do something, right now. I don't know what it took in my life to realize this, but realize it I now do: none of us need be bystanders along the road of life: any little bit that we can accomplish is something. Even if there is no one around, we still have ourselves whom we can be kind to — and when was the last time we did that, give a little kindness to ourselves? This life will not come again, so I think we must give living a try; though we may make mistakes, let us not come to the end of it all and discover not that we have tried and failed, but never made the attempt. What is a life where we never take the plunge, to do something? I think perhaps many of us wait for the chance to be a hero, or a saint, some cosmic lottery doling out the easy win; but true heroes and saints know that the miracle lies in a life lived day to day, to do what one can with what we have at this moment, right now.
Be nice to someone, perhaps to someone you've never given a second glance to. When you're passing by a homeless person on the street — hey, why not give that person your spare change? Forgive someone, and I know you probably have at least one person whom you've had a grudge against for some time: you'll feel so much better if you let it go. We only have today; yesterday and tomorrow are only abstractions of memory and planning; today is the only time we're ever given to make something happen. What comprises what we are than the decisions we make? And how little will make up our soul if we let today slip by, always waiting for the miraculous break that never comes, not, instead, to make something of what we have? Take a chance. You might like it.
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| Days | 1:31am monday, 2nd june |
Not so long ago I thought that I would live forever:
days I lived like I was dreaming, I had all the time in the world...
Strange, I never thought to grow up until I had, already.
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